Westeros, The Stormlands, Summerhall
Organised chaos. Perhaps an overused term, summed up the situation in the newly constructed Summerhall fairly perfectly. Kitchens that had never been used, feasting halls that had never been opened, suddenly found themselves with the task of providing for one of the most demanding of meets in recent Westerosi history. They would entertain and satisfy the nobility of the realm, while they all prepared for war.
Viserys had taken an active role in such affairs, throwing himself into the work as his mind processed the information neccesary for the war, perhaps not as vast a task as rebuilding the nation had been, but from an aggressive point of view, it was on a scale even he had not worked on before. He found himself, on occassion, wishing for a brain like his wife's, to come up with a thousand and one answers within a blink, but it was both a futile and unneccesary wish. Viserys' brain was built on struggle, not birth, and it was his experiences and triumphs which made him useful. Vittoria was amazing, but she hadn't defeated the Summer Isles, or escaped from the clutches of Myr, and that was the man his nephew needed.
As he moved through the halls, servants inclined their head at his passing. He'd managed to convince them to not outright bow. Summerhall had as much been an experiment to see what new styles he could bring to Westeros, as opposed to showing the world just quite how rich he could be, were he to call upon all favours, he didn't need a staff that revered him, he wanted one that would work.
Perhaps some kings would have waited out this part of the day, content to allowed their Hand to deal with the greetings and organisation of the arriving parties, but Daeron was awake, having sprung from the master quarters, usually assigned to Viserys but as tradition would merit, surrendered to the King upon his presence, and greeting all those who came to the main hall. Viserys strode through the hall, pausing to shake the hand of the odd familiar or important face, before coming to the King's side, just as he finished speaking to a newly arrived lord. The Hall was beginning to fill out, as the nobility of the realm mingled amongst itself, although for many they were simply waiting for their unofficial turn to greet the King.
"Impressive numbers, most should arrive before the end of the evening." Viserys lent, to speak privately to Daeron as they both watched the room. Some could argue like the largest wolves surveying their pack, but Targaryens were always like sharks among the sardines, and none rested easy beneath their gaze.
"They will, as I said they would, there is too much for them to lose, should they appear hesitant now." Daeron replied, just about remaining quiet enough for those around not to hear, the easy charisma of the King holding the room even when not addressing them. That, and the ornate armour he wore certainly helped to draw attention.
"Perhaps, but remember, these are proud men from proud families, many even think themselves to remember a time before they knelt before the dragon. Some tact nephew, I'd rather my house survive this call to arms of yours."
Off to the side, the Baratheon delegation sits small in three chairs - the black and brown haired male scions of the stag sit calmly, gazing across the room. As with any great meeting of the nobility of the realm, the seats were organized by kingdom. The Stormlands were located near the entrance, off to the right - far enough from the King's seat to hide politely as best they could.
It was for the best - Silas was in a mood today. "Charisma." The Lord Baratheon managed. He was tossing an apple in various arcs, always catching it on the fall, even if it required impolite contortions.
"My lord?" Ser Clyde said.
"Our liege-lord is possessed of that spark that puts a fire in your tiny little minds." Silas said. "Seems this war will be a right proper one." Grabbing a knife, Silas holds it calmly in his hand as the apple impales itself upon the blade.
"What of it?" Stevron replied, slowly munching on a small biscuit.
"An observation, Stevron." Silas said. "Need I make one about the deaths incurred?"
"Nay. Indeed, nephew, indeed." Clyde replied.
On the other side of the room, sitting between the northmen and the lords of the Vale, the Riverlords were gathered, numbering five in total: Jovial Lord Darry, helping himself to the fine wine; Lords Bracken and Blackwood, seated as far apart as could be possible and yet looking thouroughly unhappy; Ser Karyl Tully, brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and leader of the party; And of course his sullen nephew and squire Euson Tully, heir to the Riverlands, who simply stared angrily at nothing in particular.
Ser Karyl had taken care to impress on the boy that he was not to speak to any present unless spoken to, and it seemed Euson was angry about it. Better that he acts like a petulant child silenty than loudly, Ser Karyl thought.
His nephew was, of course, the worst possible squire to be had: Arrogant, quick to anger, foolish beyond measure, and without an ounce of sense. That Ser Karyl had managed to suffer fifteen years of this boy without becoming a kinslayer constantly amazed him. The boy was the only thing between his own son and a lordship... He knew better than to continue that line of thought. Instead, he leaned to the left, where Lord Bracken sat:
"My lord, you should be enjoying yourself. This might be the last time you attend a feast this grand, after-"
"I've agreed to sit at the same table as this tree worshiper, against my better judgement," Lord Bracken snapped, "I will not suffer to drink with him." He reached out for his flagon of wine.
Ser Karyl sighed wearily. Getting the two lords to be in the same room with each other had been a superhuman feat. Brackens and Blackwoods had hated and killed each other for millenia beyond counting, and that ancient loathing was revived not a moon's turn before Daeron's call. Three men sworn to House Blackwood had, in a drunken stupor, crossed the Red Fork and visited a small town.
Alas, the town was situated in Bracken territory. An argument broke out between themselves and some Blackwood men-at-arms at the tavern, which led to a brawl. Would that it had stayed a brawl, the whole situation might have been averted, yet some fool- Nobody was sure who- yelled out that another had a sword, and sure enough, swords were drawn. The Blackwood men were massacred, though not before killing a Bracken man.
Both lords demanded payment, Lord Blackwood for his dead men, Lord Bracken for the encroachment and the damage caused. The situation had escalated quickly, and both lords called their banners and sharpened their swords. Ser Karyl had been in the midst of controlling the situation when the call to arms came to him, much to his despair. The best solution he had found was to drag them both, along with their armies, south, to Summerhall, after forcing them to swear that neither would attack the lands of the other in his absence. To ensure that they kept their word, he had taken the levies they had graciously gathered as well.
Though tension was high in his host, at least he could keep an eye on his turbulent lords. And yet he could not help but think how the whole situation could have been resolved by now if now for the King and his ravens. Silently, he cursed the folly of boy-lords.
"Why are there no Starks here?" The Lord Baratheon asked. "I know they've had some issues with the royal family, but... when winter comes, it's my understanding that at least one wolf must lead the procession." There was silence at the Baratheon's table.
"...I'm, not actually certain." Ser Clyde said. He glanced around the room - taking special note of the Stark delegation. The Ice Bucket was there, big in size and bigger in stench, apparently giving the orders. That just... something wasn't right. Silas was certain of it. "Is it really our concern?"
"It is if we're going to war with the most competent Targaryen's in-laws hiding amongst the rabble. I can only guess to the purpose of hiding amongst them-" His eyes were darting through the assembled northmen. "-none fit any of Stark description."
"Why do you care?" Stevron asked his brother. Silas was standing, leaning against the table, glancing around. It drew a few looks from those who didn't know him - primarily non-stormlanders. "It's their business if a Stark is hiding here."
"It's ours if he dies, or is captured." Silas replied. "There's something to be said for petty conflicts - they'll tear this war asunder, and it'll be our house that burns for it. Nobody the Dornish hate more than our forebears."
"Aye." Clyde said. He took a sip of his flagon. "But is it our place to get involved?"
"Only if the Dornish take the young wolf that's part of the delegation." Silas replied. "It is undoubtedly a young one - the elders would be recognized, and men would whisper. Furthermore, he's a veteran - not the young one that was in racing circuits. That leaves... Br...something? Brodlin? Brody?" His eyes were darting between his two compatriots.
"You expect us to know Northman names?" Clyde asked. "When have either of us been so far north?"
Silas's eyes blinked once, then twice, and shut entirely, his head hanging forward limply. After a moment, he began to shake it side to side, with a small laugh. "You are such useless people!" He finally said. His finger poked Stevron in the head. "What do you fill that with? Drivel? How the weather was yesterday?"
"Hey!-" Stevron said, swiping away his brother's hand. "Calm yourself down, Silas, we're in public."
"My public!" Silas replied. "This is in ~my lands, technically." He finished. Silas stared at him a moment, nodding at the chair. Silas slumped his shoulders, rocking to his seat in a smooth motion and slumping in it. His eyes fixed on Viserys Targaryen - having seen him slink his way into their presence.
"Brodrik, the Stark that is, if your assumption is correct." Viserys had moved, rather inconspicuously, across the room. For someone with fairly distinctive features, he blended into the nobility, moving slowly, if steadily through the crowd, having caught onto the discussion in the Baratheon 'camp'. The Hand of the King lent on the back of an empty chair as he spoke, seemingly at ease despite talking to people he'd never met.
Silas smiled, glancing over to his brother and slapping him on the arm. "See? Useful people, Stevron. Try to be one." His eyes returned to the Hand of the King. "My lord hand." The Lord Baratheon nodded. "Your skills at discreet entry are something of a science, considering your visage."
"It's something you get used to, especially when you've had to do a lot of running." Viserys replied, with a slight smirk. Truth be told, it was something of a enigma even for the Hand himself, people were often a lot less observant than they thought they were being.
"There's almost certainly someone from the Stark family present, and Brodrik is the best guess, if that's the case, I'm sure we'll have nothing to worry about in regards to him being captured, far more worrying would be young Baratheons, I'm sure." It was evident it was a jest, although noble egoes had a habit of ignoring such tone, for once Viserys wasn't the one running the show, so he could, at least he felt, afford to be a little more candid.
"I'd say they'll acquit themselves fine enough, my lord." Ser Clyde said, taking another sip. "Why, you'd be lucky to see Silas do more than make some sort of grand plan and watch it play out from a hill somewhere." He chuckled. Silas didn't really react to it.
"Regardless." Silas said. "Lord Stark's childish attitude in evading actually appearing to be here is something of an irritant." The man reached down, taking a sip from his pitcher - boiled water, rather than alcohol. A man of practicality. "We've no time for petty lords and fool's errands in the midst of this conflict."
The quiet murmers of the hall were momentarily broken by a demand to halt from without the great doors, followed by an awkward pause. The door opened, but nobody stepped forward to make any formal introductions or announcements, and only a single person entered the great chamber.
The newcomer, on top of being unintroduced, appeared to be a foreigner with tanned skin and hair of some unnatural blue coloration. He was clad in a raiment of rough red material, faintly frayed and stained around the edges, and his expression was particularly dour as he calmly walked across the hall towards a lone seat set to the right and just above the Baratheon delegation. The seat has a small banner hung from rods jutting from its back that proclaimed his affiliation, and as he turned his back to the Baratheon delegation they got a clear look at the sigil emblazoned there a well before he sat down.
The symbol of the Alchemist's Guild from King's Landing.
From his table, Euson Tully noticed the man's entrance. Leaning over, he asked his uncle who the stranger was.
"A fool," the aged knight replied sharply, "Of an order without any real knowledge or authority. And more importantly, none of your buisness."
Wounded, the boy went back to his silence.
Even though the two Stark children entered through a side door to the Great Hall, the tall beast of legend and story moving in shades of smoke and white with jaws slightly agap ensured a quiet stir began near the side door in which it entered. A quiet stir that quickly grew into the sound of conversations, and attention, being broken and redirected. The beast proceeded a tall, pale, dark headed man with a greatsword upon his back and riding leathers on: Lord Brodrik Stark, the Giantsbane. Behind came his sister, brown hair grown light in the sun of Summerhall falling in tumbles about her shoulders, shoulders exposed by the cut of her Targaryen red gown with black Myrish lace bodice and lined in silvery satin.
The two walked directly to Daeron, as the Princess smiled and introduced the Giantsbane to the Young Dragon, and vice versa. Her brother bowed his head, but little else. Had Lord Stark a less impressive name men called him than Giantsbane, it might have been an issue. As it was, after the introduction, Daeron immediately asked about the Valyrian greatsword on her brother's back: Ice. It was Vittoria's cue to leave the two, and go find her Prince.
When she found Viserys, she found another set of eyes intense and watchful in her direction: Silas Baratheon. She'd heard descriptions of each Baratheon, but they were unnecessary. The man's intellect and curiosity turned his eyes to smoulder, and Vittoria found herself holding onto her smile like a mother held onto a crying child as she approached, ignoring other sets of eyes she felt on her from other delegations, and just focusing on Viserys and the Baratheon brood, the direwolf at her heels. "We can all go home now, yes?"
It was a joke for her Prince, and it sounded it: something too good to actually come true, damn all their luck.
"If home is where the heart is, you seem to be." Silas replied, glancing at the Princess and back to her husband. "Good to see your brother has finally decided to make his appearance - hiding out in the camp is a rather poor showing of snubbing your King." He noted, watching the man converse with King Daeron with veiled disinterest.
"Princess." Stevron and Clyde both made their introductions, Silas' brow cocked in the air the whole time, remaining seated.
"No heart trees here." It was veiled, and indirect. Just how Princess Vittoria had to be. Her smile came to life as she nodded to Ser Clyde, "Ser, Lord Stevron." Clyde looked hardy and strong; the other two looked like lordlings still too green to do anything but appear bored. "Mm, my brother wanted to see me in private before announcing himself. Always trying to be humble. You know how Giantslayers can be."
She doubted they did, but it didn't matter. "I'll let him know you were concerned abou--stop that!" Her tone cracked like a whip, it's volume just barely kept to an immediate radius as the Princess found herself scowling at the Direwolf, who's snout was poking into the seated Baratheon, sniffing. "Do forgive Snow." It took Vittoria putting all her weight behind a hip check into the animal's shoulder to nudge the beast away from the Baratheon lordling. "She's lost her manners, it would seem."
Molten gold eyes only briefly looked up and back at Vittoria's own glaring brown eyes, before returning to sniffing at the air about the Baratheons. Little good the glare did. "Enjoying Summerhall?"
"Seems it's the only quiet place in all of the Stormlands." Stevron replied, shifting a bit as his eyes traced the direwolf. It wasn't nerves - more like interest. He glanced about a moment. "It's not like this is the first time we've seen the place, though. Sprung into quite a nice little villa."
Silas shrugged. "A truly dull visit." His voice twanged. "My father personally had us visit the site before this place was constructed - something about ensuring its value for the crown." He sipped at his glass. "Seems it was good enough, no?"
"The site is where the borders of Dorne, the Stormlands, and the Reach come together." A mild and mellow voice carrying the faint accent of bastard Valaryian intruded upon the conversation. The Alchemist has risen from his seat and had drawn several paces closer to the Baratheon delegation.
"The confluence of regions happens to be swampland, directly adjacent to the Boneway. Summerhall serves as a stronghold for the crown between the Reach and the Stormlands, as well as a crucial staging ground for mounting an assault through the Red Mountains or defending against attack - much in the same way as the marsh at the Neck of the North. The crown was well advised to choose such an otherwise desolate site." The man spoke flatly and calmly, his voice unwavering in tone and pitch.
Silas' neck cranes sideways to the man, raising a brow. His eyes snapped across the man's face, attire, and where he came from. "Lys. Your Valyrian lacks the roughness of Braavos or the prim trill of Volantis." He pauses, sniffing the air. "Alchemist. King's Landing, naturally - no others are worth a council of this value. That's still debatable. Working in... Lightning?" The Alchemist raised an eyebrow, a look of consideration crossing his face.
"Well you've got him going." Stevron manages to say.
"Your architectural study, though, is lacking. You state facts, don't formulate and express opinion. Indicative of poor social conditioning, as well - considering your choice to interrupt lords of the realm at conversation." The Lord Baratheon finishes. A Baratheon guard, standing nearby, approaches the man. "Leave him, Tavis."
The man gave Silas a flat look. He glanced momentarily at the guard as Silas waved him away, the first flicker of emotion flashing through his eyes in that instant - irritation. It vanished as he turned his gaze back to the Lord Baratheon.
"Correct on all counts. You have a discriminating nose to know the scent of lightning." The Alchemist said simply.
"Observation is my greatest asset. Utilizing such is my second greatest." Silas replied. "Now, if you please-" Silas pointed back off where the man had come from. Tavis began to approach again to guide the intruding Alchemist back to his seat if need be.
"Tavis," Vittoria's own voice came out lower than before, a tone cutting much closer to the Stark than the Targaryen Princess, her eyes nothing but ice...as she stared the Baratheon guard down. "Leave him, else I'm sure the King will want to know why one of his loyal servants is being harrassed by a house guard of a lower Lord."
Compared to the King, they were all lower Lords.
It was enough. Her Prince was smiling a forced smile, his attention suddenly back from the King and Brody, back to his wife, and those present as he noticed tension rise. "You're both incorrect:" that smile had returned to her pink lips; smaller than before, but far more alive. "Compared to the Neck, Summerhall and it's positioning is a little shack in a wide open plain. And I wouldn't call this," the Princess motioned around, to the palace around them. "a stronghold. It's a palace. An open dare to anyone who would do it, or it's royal owners, harm. Protected by dominion, and the ever vigilante eyes of the Marcher Lords, and House Baratheon--Great Lords closer to the Crown than near any other...by blood."
Speaking of. "I'd say your greatest asset, Lord Silas, is that noble blood. Elsewise the only thing you'd be deducing is how to make the best of a lowborn life. A hardship I fear no one in this Hall really knows much about...except for the guards, this Alchemist, and some Targaryen Prince who got lost across the Narrow Sea for a while." With that, the Princess leaned into the Prince, whispered something in a Valyrian tongue that sounded like High Valyrian...rearranged and altered in order to keep it's message between the Prince and his wife. The Prince smirked for a moment, before replying in kind, the twisted dialect hidden equally behind hushed tones. He finished with a grin, and the Princess paused to push some hair back behind her ear, over the faintest trace of a blush.
"We are both possessed of noble blood, my lady. Is interjecting it into this conversation intended to make me seem the villain?" Silas asked, staring hard into her eyes.
She smiled again, and nodded warmly to the black and gold members of the group. "Not everyone in this Hall has noble blood, but everyone present was invited to this Hall to take part in this council by the King. Alchemists included. The only villains today are Dornishmen--and nosy direwolves," a light hearted warning, aimed at the beast with a quick glance, before her eyes returned to the Baratheon men.
"I do not begrudge the man his right to sit in council. All men are the same at their basest level, my lady." Silas replied, nodding. His eyes shifted to the alchemist. "And all are subject to the same same rules, in that regard. Not all lords and ladies will state your visible backstory and profession. Invited guest or no - sowing seeds of respect shall garner you much."
Oh? You might try sowing some seeds, yourself. That made Vittoria chuckle a dangerous chuckle. "I have my doubts all Lords would agree to such a..." the word had to be chosen carefully, and she knew it: "progressive stance, Lord Silas, such as all men are equal at their base levels. But since not even the Archmaesters would likely all agree on such an...interesting theory, I'm afraid we'll have to leave it for another time."
"Indeed." Silas replied. "It is an opinion supported by my Maester after extensive studies. But don't let us detain you." The Lord Baratheon gestured away, his party making their goodbyes.
Like your Maester would be unwise enough to dare disagree. A thought the Princess knew best to keep to herself. "Ser Clyde, my Lords, best of luck on your campaign. Please return to Storm's End alive and in one piece. If you'll excuse us," She said, snaking her arm and Viserys' together, pulling him close, and looking down at the direwolf. "Come on. Leave the lordlings to their observation."
And then Vittoria turned, with her Prince...and stopped right into the chest of a mountain of a man. A mountain of a man with a thick mane of bushy orange red hair, and a beard that belonged to a wildling. Or a Clansman. "Uh, Ice Bucket."
"You need to change, Hen's daughter, and come with us to the sandy mountains." And so the Wull nodded his head, firm and absolute in his certainty of commanding Princess Vittoria to change and get into his merry band of murderers.
The order brought a smile to the Targaryen Prince and Hand, having remained silent throughout most of the exchange between the Baratheons and his wife, content to simply listen to her respond to the Stormlanders, and interessting lot if anything, he felt it prudent to reply himself, at least this time.
"Unfortunately, 'Ice Bucket' She has other plans. Well, I have plans for her, and she might just be feeling cooperative this time." While it had began a sincere response, he couldn't quite resist the slight joke, aimed at Vittoria, turning his eyes to her as he did so, before returing his focus to the clansman.
"We have many scouts well accustomed to the Red Mountains, if you need assistance, scouts who have spent their lives in those peaks and even with Hen's daughter, experience can top a memory, even one as remarkable as her's." He'd long ago learned to offer compromise as smoothly as possible. He would never let her go with them, that much was already clear in his mind, but their need for guidance was a worthy request. His response wasn't even entirely based on a selfish desire, as long as they communicated well, the guides they had available for said mountains would prove more useful than someone who had only studied maps, even if it was the sharpest mind in the kingdom.
The clansman stared and his arms crossed over his chest. For half a heart beat, Vittoria wasn't quite sure how the man that smelled of dust and road would react...and then she saw it; the slightest widening of his eyes--a tell-tale sign of a positive emotional response. Then he nodded, chuckled under his breath, and gave both Prince and Princess a 'gentle' tap on their shoulders before nodding at the direwolf. "Scouts don't gots a direwolf, but aye, well enough."
Then just as quickly as he'd appeared, the oversized clansman seemed to fade back into the crowd until his bright mane was seen back with the rest of the Northern contingency, who now counted Brodrik amongst them.
As Wull staggered Vittoria's exit, the alchemist addressed Silas once more.
"I am here at the king's request. I will not sow any seeds where they are unwanted." Knossos said in a flat tone, leveling a measured gaze - almost lazy in its complacency - at Silas. "If I intrude, I shall withdraw." He nodded faintly.
"You do not intrude." Silas said. "You did, however, enter the conversation in a wholly inappropriate fashion. I would chalk that to your rather extensive time spent out of the sunlight - as evidenced by your pallor." The Baratheon man undid a button on his doublet, reaching inside and withdrawing a sheaf of paper. "Now, you are an alchemist, yes? Can you create certain chemicals of... shall we say, personal effect?" Silas asked.
"I am uncertain of what you are inquiring after." The alchemist said with a complete deadpan.
"Drugs that heighten the senses, the mind? I require them to think, on occasion." Silas said. He knew the Free Cities were specialists in such things.
"Ah. Yes, the guild of alchemists is well versed in such poutices. Our guildhall in King's Landing regularly produces medicinals, spirits, and various anitropics." The alchemist nodded, recognition dawning. "Are you ill, perhaps, or have you acquired a dependency?"
"Neither. I'm simply cut off by my Maester."
"I see." The alchemist said simply, and then falling eerily silent and simply staring at the Baratheon.
"We'll talk. If you'd like a text on architecture, I believe I saw an excellent treatise by a Maester Tolmond in the library. Say it's for me if anyone gives you trouble acquiring it." Silas said. "Good day."
The alchemist blinked twice, but nodded and then turned to return to his seat.
Robert Ryswell’s demeanour was the same as it normally was outside of his own room back in Castle Storn, irritable and short tempered. The journey to Summerhall had done anything but raise his spirits and coming to the great doors he couldn’t help but sigh. Hopefully this would be the last pretentious meeting he would have to attend. Robert had brought his youngest son, Edward, with him and despite his father’s mood Edward could not help but become enthralled in the occasion, he had always found the events of state much more to his liking. As well as Edward, Robert had brought his daughter, Joanne, in an attempt to find an eligible lord for her to marry.
Joanne on the other hand had other ideas, the council at Summerhall was the perfect place for her to meet with a lot of the big players in the realm and she was not going to pass up on an opportunity to find extra support for her claim to the Rills, when her father finally stepped down in favour of one of her brothers she would need all the help she could get, Brodrik Stark in particular was one of the lords present with whom she wanted to speak. Finally the party of Ryswells was stood outside the great doors and one of the hundreds of orderlies they had already seen began to check through a long list and this in turn made Robert’s mood even sourer.
“Open the door you fool, House Ryswell, Banner of the Starks. We are on the list I have an invitation right here.”
Robert pulled the scroll out of his pocket and thrust it in the orderly’s face.
“Now are you going to let us in or not?”
Feeling incredibly conscious now the man simply nodded his head very quickly and gestured to the guards to let the family in. Once the doors had been opened enough Robert pushed his way through and began to look around for the other banners of the North. Joanna moved to leave the group however her father cut her short.
“You will stay with us until the Starks recognise our presence, then you may socialise as you wish. I will not have my family seen as one that does not stand united.”
“But father…”
Joanna’s voice was light however it almost seemed to hold a steely edge.
“Hush child! I will not hear it.”
Robert had raised his voice just enough that the closer lords looked over their shoulders quickly.
Finally spotting the tables of the North Robert walked slowly over, his head rotating to find the three chairs that would be left empty for himself and his family. Edward pulled out the middle chair for his father. Whilst Joanna simply sat herself down on her father’s left and after sitting his father down Edward took his place on his father’s right. A gesture from Robert and the drinks and foods were passed down to him. Edward and Joanna remained seated, not eating as their father began to devour a leg of chicken.
"RILL!" came like thunder across a stormy sky, the Wull shouting loud and bold as he like across the crowded Hall, waving one of his massive paws for the Ryswells to join with the Clansmen and the Stark son before anyone with 'jewelry' on their head started to talk about grand plans.
Smiling Robert almost laughed this bear of a man was possibly the most intimidating person Robert had ever met and yet here he was calling over such a frail old man and his children. Joanna and Edward, who too hadn't missed the calls of Ice Bucket stood up each offering a hand to Robert. He batted them both away. He was Lord of the Rills and a northman, the day he was to old to stand by himself was the day he was dead. Pushing his food away Robert stood and led his children over to the party of Clansmen and Brodrik Stark.
"Ice Bucket you behemoth, how have you been? You haven't blessed Castle Storn with your presence for years"
Joanna couldn't help but stare at the band of wildmen who surrounded her. Very little shocked her anymore yet seeing such an unruly rabble in the court of nobles was un heard of to her. Edward was not so dumb founded, Robert had taken him on a number of visits to other courts and he had seen the odd clansman around.
Pale Pate, near as tall as the Wull and as thin as the Wull was wide, grinned at the Rill's uncertain girl, other Clansmen enjoying a rabble of snickers at the moment. Ice Bucket himself was too busy with introducing himself to a large cup of black beer to notice, wiping his mouth with his arm as he finished, and nodding to the old Rill. "Busy fucking my woman and the Wildlings alike."
The Wull laughed, before a small burp, and relaxed himself into a chair nearly too small to fit his arse. "The King looks like a girl. His Hand much the same, offering me 'scouts'," he said, as if the word were some curse, "instead of the Hen's daughter."
Pale Pate snorted, "As if the scout brings a direwolf."
"Hmm, that was my thought. If we's to bloody these sandy mountains, just the same have a direwolf and a warg about us."
The low bass of Brodrik Stark's voice revealed itself in a hushed tone, interjecting. "My sister is no warg, Wull, I'm afraid to disappoint you."
Hmph, was Ice Bucket's initial response to that. "Mayhaps you've not seen a warg and their beast together before, Giantsbane. But that sister of yourn," the man nodded again, as if to underscore the certainty of his words, "she's a warg. Y'can tell by the by the way she and that beast are inseperable. Sniffed you out sure as snow, didn't it?"
That gave Lord Brodrik a rare, small, smile. "Point taken."
"Come to die a warrior, old Rill?"
For a Clansmen, that was small talk.
Robert chuckled at Ice Buckets remark. The warrior’s disposition always had a way of cheering him up, even if it was only because he brought a crude edge to the most formal of occasions. Seeing the other clansmen chuckle Robert looked round at his daughter and almost sighed. How was it that she always disappointed him, no matter what the situation.
“I’m afraid there will be no warrior’s death for me old friend, my time in the field was over years ago. If you are looking for a true warrior you should meet my son Roger, years he has spent training and fighting. I’m sure he could still learn a lot from seasoned killers like you though.”
Turning to the Stark boy Robert continued.
“My lord, it’s good to see you. How is your father? I meant to visit Winterfell a while back however bandits in and around my farms put off my trip.”
"My Lord father is..." Ill humored? Restless? Unamused by this campaign? "...well, Lord Ryswell. He wishes he could have gone in my place, but as ever a Stark needs to be in Winterfell."
Robert had played the game long enough to know that Dorrhen definitely wouldn't have wanted to be here, just as much as he did.
"Well next time you see him, tell him 'Only the Strong Prevails'. Further more boy I have business to discuss with you regarding my house. I would have prefered to speak of this with your father but I'm sure your judgment is just as wise. May we find somewhere more quiet to talk?"
Turing to his children Robert spoke to them.
"You may mingle as you wish now. Edward, I need you to locate someone to take a message back to Castle Storn."
"Yes father."
The boys voice was quite high for his age and it held a very pretentious undertone.
Karyl Tully sat idly in his chair, taking the occasional bite or sipping some wine, but his mind was elsewhere. He knew that his lordly brother's absence was noted, and worried that that might be taken as a sign of weakness. Leoric's... mental difficulties were well known, yet the realm still did not the full extent of his illness, or that without Karyl, the riverlands were in effect leaderless.
So far, he had succeeded in deflecting such questions, stating only that his brother was unwell. Yet he knew how word, true or false, spread amongst the nobility.
He noticed from the corner of his eye that his nephew was no longer at his seat. Irritated, he looked around to see where the fool boy had gotten himself to...
As it turned out, it was on a bench next to a pretty-looking serving girl. Euson said something indistinguishable, that arrogant cocksure smile on his face, and the girl laughed and blushed. The knight rose angrily from his seat. Fool!
When Euson saw his uncle approach, he laughed: "Uncle, find somewhere else for you to be, we're rather busy."
Karyl looked to the wench. "Leave me to my nephew, girl."
She hesitated, glancing at Euson nervously. "But, my lord-"
"No need, Minisa," Euson Tully said, cutting her off. "If my uncle has something to say, he can say it and get gone quickly. No need to interrupt our evening."
Ser Karyl's hatred for the boy grew even more, if such a thing were possible. They both knew Karyl could not make a scene, not here, not now. He grabbed the girl and escorted her away, before returning to his scowling nephew. "You will not meddle with whores in the midst of the highest lords of the realm, not while I still draw breath."
Euson smirked. "Come now, uncle, I've a great deal more experience in begetting bastards than you do. You're a bit misplaced to tell me how and when it's done."
At that, Ser Karyl called out for two Tully guardsmen. His voice was deadly cold. "Escort my nephew to his tent," he almost whispered, "And prevent him from leaving until I deign visit him in person. Be discreet about it."
As the men carried his nephew away, Karyl sat down once more at his place, his thoughts even more troubled than before. "Something has to be done about the boy," he muttered absent-mindedly.
Minor commotion at the doors preceded the announcement of yet another arrival, with those near the entrance perhaps hearing a muted argument between two men about proper respect. Shortly thereafter, both doors were drawn open and a scrawny man scurried forward, bedecked in a garish yellow tunic covered in little black birds. He cleared his throat and called out in a surprisingly deep voice, announcing his mistress as if this was an arrival at a ball. "The Lady of the Marches!" No name was given, a statement from the Lady Caron that all who mattered would know her by this title; arrogant though it was, the assumption was likely to be correct amongst a gathering of those ready to take war to Dorne.
The lanky fellow left the room as quickly as he had entered, and mere moments later the Lady of the Marches came striding imperiously in the fill the void, two armed and armored men trailing in her wake. Upon a cursory glance, one would be forgiven for thinking Cyrenna had indeed thought she was attending a ball, for her black and grey gown (with yellow embroidery to complete her House colors in the inverse) wouldn't be out of place in such an elegant gathering. The addition of some armor and a sword, however, would likely be seen as inappropriate for dancing. She wore what seemed to be the offspring of a breastplate and a corset, a dulled silver plate mail that started at her waist and went up to her chest, and a pair of bracers of a similar dulled metal; an experienced warrior would notice that they were not at all scarred or damage, but rather purposely treated to prevent the reflection of light, as one would do for their armor before embarking on a night assault. The sword hanging at her left hip was a similarly plain and serviceable thing that had clearly seen no actual use, just another accessory to aid in making the Lady Caron look ready for war, which she in fact was.
A faint sneer of distaste marred Cyrenna's previously placid face as she noted that the Stormland lords were by the doors. Perhaps the fool Baratheons and their lapdogs were fit for such a lowly spot, but the Marcher lords, and most especially the Lady of the Marches, deserved a place of honor by the King's side. They had been at war with the Dornish scum for years, ages if you counted their long history of conflict (which Lady Caron most certainly did), so any council concerning war with the desert snakes should treat the Marcher lords with respect befitting that history. Alas, there was naught to be done at this moment without causing unnecessary and inconvenient tension among the lords gathered, so Lady Cyrenna made her way to the seats among the Stormland lords that were closest to the front of the room.
The two armored men, who just so happened to be Ser Bryce Caron, the haughty Lady's son, and Ser Leo Storm, House Caron's Commander of the Guard, followed along in her wake. They shared quiet greetings with those they passed nearby, making sure to show a level of added respect to Lord Baratheon with deep nods that constituted moving bows as they hurried to keep pace with Cyrenna; the Lady herself kept her eyes forward and lips sealed, not deigning to notice the lesser lords (or those of equal or greater standing, for that matter) she passed by. As they reached their seats and took them, Bryce Caron and Ser Leo picked up in the middle of a previous conversation about supply and tactics for the upcoming campaign, but Lady Cyrenna paid them no mind. The Lady of the Marches held her attention squarely on the young King of Westeros, unashamedly sizing him up with eyes more befitting a hawk than the nightingales of the Caron sigil.
After a long minute of this staring examination, she allowed herself a slight smirk and relaxed in her chair. She spoke without bothering to quiet her voice, haughtiness practically dripping from the word. "Acceptable." The two men halted their discussion and turned their attentions to Lady Caron, quietly awaiting an explanation to follow. "He's young, but he'll do well enough. The nightingale flies with the dragon, as always." Bryce and Ser Leo took this in stride, unbothered by the bold political statement made out in the open, as was fairly common from their Lady, nodding and giving their own murmured approval. Lady Cyrenna gave them none of her attention, instead looking around the room to see how others would react to her statement, the smirk remaining on her lips and a merry twinkle in her eye.
"Until it's bitten by the snake, that is!" Lord Darry shouted as jumped to his feet, quite drunk. A chuckle swept through the hall. Ser Karyl Tully gave the man an angry stare as he sat back down.
Bryce Caron looked to the drunken lord with a bemused smile. After waiting a moment to see if his mother would bother to dignify him with a response, which of course was beneath her, he took the task upon himself, speaking in a wholly matter-of-fact tone of voice. "You seem to forget that we have been fighting the snakes for generations, and Nightsong stands strong. The nightingale flies far out of reach of vipers, while I fear the ankles of a plowman make a delicious target." Bryce shrugged a shoulder. "Of course, nobody expects lords of the Riverlands to know much about fighting the Dornish, so your ignorance comes as no surprise. Just stay hidden behind the experienced men and you'll do fine, my lord."
Lord Darry reddened, though now from anger rather than the wine. "I'll have you know my family is ancient... and noble..." He would likely have continued blustering if he hadn't tripped over his own chair in his rush to stand to his feet, falling headfirst into the ground. The room resonnated with laughter as the drunken lord's sons carried him away.
Ser Karyl aproached the Caron table after the commotion died down. "I must apologize for Lord Darry," he said only, nodding to Lord Darry's empty chair. "He is not the finest the Riverlands have to offer, I'm afraid."
"Glad to hear it." Bryce paused, looking contemplative for a few seconds. "I meant no offense with the comment about Riverlands lords, by the way. Simple fact, no barbs intended. I look forward to fighting alongside you and your less inebriated Riverlands men."
"Alas, good fighting men are rare these days, I've found. My army is made up of boys who do nothing but drink and feast, drunk of dreams of glory... and of wine. Discipline is difficult to maintain. Only a week ago, my rivermen were plowing their fields; needless to say they have not been drilled, and know nought of the value of obedience."
" Your people may be used to war, but mine have lived in prosperity for generations, even through the Dragon War. They have grown weak. And the other lords' hosts fare no better, I've seen. When battle comes, those that do not die in the first clash will flee for their lives. Mark my words."
The Westermen had longer to go than the others, excepting the Starks, with their own lord at the head, making the arduous journey along the Gold Road and then down into the Stormlands with teeth gritted; Valyrian steel cleaved through much, and the axe that did him those near three decades ago on a battlefield near Silverhill left an everlasting reminder of that. The wound was a ghastly thing made when Donnel Lannister's weapon sheared through armor skin and muscle, and left its mark on Steffon Lannister, once known as the Blackmane. A cripple emerged from the fire and blood of the Dance in the Westerlands, but a wiser man, one that mended his realm, threw himself into the stewardship of the lordship he'd taken on the battlefield. He rode in pain that left him able to do little more than hobble, though he stood, with assistance, as he came into the hall.
His procession to Summerhall befitted a great lord of the realm coming to do homage to the King, and in that, Lannister pride ruled as much as Lannister pragmatism -- a strong retinue kept others along the roads ready to allow them to pass unmolested. That was, of course, if the banner of gold on crimson didn't grant them immediate deference by any chance-met upon the road. The Westerlands bled harder than the rest of the realm during the fighting between Aegon and Rhaenrya and the men that arrived, Lord Steffon Lannister, Lord Hugor Brax of Hornvale and Lord Jon Serrett of Silverhill, the brother-in-law of Lord Steffon, were all men who'd come through those harsh years of blood that ran red down the hills. These were men with gray in their hair, not the tokens expected of the Lame Lion, a man considered quite wary of the war. These were all Lords of influence in the Westerlands, and they came reluctantly to this table.
But supporting the older man, thick bodied, though once as stout a fighter in the realm as any, was the reason House Lannister brought such a strong showing, albeit with great reluctance, to the field; if the father was the odd genetic anomaly of the family, with a thick mane of dark hair since run to gray, his son was the more archetypical Lannister; a proud, strapping lad of seventeen blessed with the vigor, health and beauty of House Lannister, golden haired and slender-strong, where his old man was black-haired and bullish, the son of a Crakehall mother. Ser Martyn Lannister, a close friend of the young king, fostered in King's Landing. The lad was as eager as any young man of seventeen newly knighted to cover himself with glory in battle, and perhaps the key to why the Lame Lion bestirred himself from the Rock.
It certainly wasn't for love of war -- the Westermen had their fill of blood, and spent decades rebuilding the ruin of their lands during the reign of Aegon the Dragonsbane, whom the Lame Lion served, at one point, as Hand of the King, before Viserys' star ascended, and the Lame Lion dutifully stepped aside.
"Father, are you sure you will not take something for the pain?" Ser Martyn inquired, muttered really, as he helped his father into the chair set aside for him with the greatest as care the boy is too innocent for this, his solicitiousness makes me look weak and old to the onlooker. and this was no time to seem like a weary old man whining that he was tired. His son sought to demonstrate his love of his own father, who was maligned in the royal circles for preferring a bountiful peace to wracking the realm with more war, but the boy played into discrediting the position of the father, however unwittingly.
"Wine and nothing more," he told the lad,with an amused pat on the boy's forearm, we all look ancient to our children, he mused, with a degree of sadness. It was true that he was growing old, and a widower at that, and that the wheel turned once more -- and here, to his own sorrow and that of Aegon, were he here to see it, they came to see the beauty of Summerhall and the undoing decades of life's work, Aegon's and his among others, to rebuild a frayed realm. Once upon a time, he'd been as eager as his son to dance to the song of battle. The impetuous man that went to the Dance wasn't the same man that emerged from the Dance, a better but warier dancer. I've had my toes stepped on one too many times... he thought to himself, with a bit of a self-deprecating smile. But it was dark humor that curdled quickly. They had a boy king on the throne, eager to start the dance anew.
The noteworthy nature of the Lannister arrival drew many eyes from around the room, but none was quicker to greet them than the King himself. Daeron approached both the elderly, maimed lord of the Rock and his son with a rather unformal smile across his face. While a King was oft meant to remain aloof, the matter of fact he was King, he would greet whoever he pleased, personally.
"Lord Steffon, Martyn, a pleasure that you could both make it. We are indeed blessed that the Lord of the Rock himself has travelled all this way. Perhaps your wise council will be the tipping point to our great victory." He didn't need to mention that many would be suprised that Lord Lannister himself, despite his disability and pains, would travel so far, there was no need to patronize the elder man so.
"There will be at least some resemblance of order soon, there are just a few more key arrivals before we begin the real reason for this gathering, rather than just a social call." Daeron continued, a somewhat contemptuos look going the way of Lord Darry's now empty chair.
"That said, if you require for any particular wine, I am sure the servants can accomidate. We may be serious, but that doesn't mean we must all sit with parched throats."
Arron Dayne, barely a knight much less a Lord or even an heir, stalked a small bit of space. His presence here had so far gone largely unnoticed. For the moment he was far below most of those gathered, though he was reminded again how easily he could pretend to be a long lost cousin of the King's. He had thought about introducing himself as such, just to see the Westerosi lords sweat a little.
Instead, he had contented himself to keeping away from those arriving at the splendor of this palace. It was different from most Westerosi keeps, and he was certain a Dornish architect must have had a hand in its design.
The time of waiting was over, as far as Arron was concerned. He slipped into the great hall where so many had gathered. He recognized few, other than King Daeron, his uncle and Hand Viserys. He was certain Viserys did not care much for him, but Daeron, well there was potential there. Especially if Arron got everything he wanted.
He brooded over just how he would be introduced to these Lords, some men whom his people had fought for ages. Would they cringe to know he was to be their savior...their guide? He would lead them where they had never been able to succeed before. With a silent laugh, his lips tugged upwards at the thought. Lords Baratheon and Tyrell, and their underlings, would surely find themselves most displeased. And if the raiding needed to end, at least he would have that satisfaction.
As the last of the major guests arrived, leaving only a few seats vacant that were already accounted for, Daeron left the Lannisters, once again exchanging greetings with the House he knew better than most of his banners. At such grand occassions it was usual to have a high table, where the greatest lord and his family would sit. The room did not lack for great lords, but at a feast called by the Targaryens, there was a Royal Table. None would ever sit equal to them, unless expressly invited. The seat awaiting Daeron was not the Iron Throne, indeed something remarkably more comfy, but it was above the rest, the back rising hiher above with detail marked out in gold and red. Traditional the current heir would at least sit with the King, if old enough to understand the detail, but no one had felt the need to bring Baelor along. Instead to the King's left sat the Master of Ships and Coin, simply for ease of communication. To his right, Vittoria and then Viserys. It was not the most conventional of Royal tables, perhaps some of the higher lords might have railed at being deemed lesser than the members of the Small Council, but this was a meeting of war, such petty grudges would only get people killed, if adhered to. For one, a usual feast would never wait so long to provide more than wine, no, this was as much business as was conducted in the halls of the nobility.
Daeron stood from his seat to address the hall, the motion rather succesfully calming most of the grand room's inhabitants, aside from a few who required an elbowed limb or dirty look to realise what was occuring.
"My loyal bannermen...we have a war to plan."
