The Great Hall has been appropriated by House Tyrell this day, hung with the brilliant banners of dozens of Westeros houses and spread with fragrant rushes, through which have been strewn the golden petals of Highgarden roses. Upon a dais the High Table is set, the cloth itself stitched with the banners of the King—whose ornate chair sits in the place of honor—the Sealord’s own arms, and the green and gold of the Tyrell.
Every table is garlanded with those singular golden roses, the blooms woven thornless into ivy and white jessamine vines. The columns are hung with the same, and a single rose is laid at each place. The host, Ser Ardon, sits in Lord Tyrell’s place on the dais, to the right of the Sealord, who himself is placed to the right of the King in a chair only slightly less ornamented than the King’s own. The King’s place sits empty, should he choose to come. Ser Ardon’s sister and the feast’s hostess, Reyna Saltcliffe, sits further down the table to the right of Ardon, beside the representative from the Iron Bank.
Immediately below the dais is the table for the rest of House Tyrell, retainers and sworn swords and such bannermen as are not in the Reach or in Dorne. Other tables, each hung with the colors of other noble houses, great and lesser, are placed in order of precedence; Great houses are nearest the dais and so on. Servitors are everywhere, carrying jugs of wine and other drinks, or readying the platters that will be paraded along the carpet laid before the dais. And in the center of the hall is an open space for entertainments. Mummers, it is whispered, though none have come yet.
Amidst one of the other tables not far from the dais, at the table set aside for the Dornish hostages with the colors of House Martell strewn upon it, Ser Aidan Dayne drinks his wine and speaks pleasantries with his companions, sharing jests and good cheer. Occasionally they look to the high table, where the king and the Sealord and the Tyrell hosts hold court.
Raynard sat down the table aways from the Starks. He was dressed in his court livery, and grinning as he made a little idle chatter with the few other northern retainers present. He took a tankard of ale from one of the passing servitors, and placed it before him, drinking occasionally.
In pearls and silk and sweet delicate elegance, the fair-haired sister of Lord Lefford, aunt of Black Jonn, Orene Lefford sits poised at a table near her Lannister kin and not so far from the dais. She drinks from a golden cup, laughing at some jest made by another lady at her table. She herself is quieter, letting her eyes rove about the room to see the elegant folk.
As tends to be the case more often than not, Lady Aisling Ryswell and her step-sister, Lady Sylvina Serry, can be found where Lord Ryger’s household is seated. Though not formally guests of the Master of Laws, in practice they have come to be seen and treated as such during their stay in King’s Landing. Fair-haired Sylvina seems, as always, pleased with the arrangements, whereas raven-haired Aisling is ... of a different opinion. Not the least, or so it would appear, as the pair has found themselves accompanied by a few young knights eager to converse with them.
Chatting amiably with the dignitaries at the head table, Ardon Tyrell is finishing up an animated story about hunting. Noting a lull and taking up his glass, Lord Tyrell’s elegant younger brother rises. “My lords and ladies, esteemed guests,” he says in a clear voice. “I bid you welcome. We are graced by the presence of the Sealord of Braavos and his noble kindred, and their presence here does us great honor.” Ardon raises a glass to the Braavosi dignitaries in simple tribute. “My brother sends his best regards, and regrets that matters of the kingdom prevent him from attending. But he is hopeful that all of you will understand,” Ardon says with a smile.
“It is Highgarden’s wish that our friends from Braavos will be made to feel most welcome this day,” Ardon adds. “And that our humble repast will serve as a reminder of the good will of House Tyrell and of Westeros toward the people of Braavos.” He looks down the table to his sister Reyna, making a sign to the lady to begin.
The Braavosi—not all of whom understand the common tongue—do recognize the gesture, and raise their cups in acknowledgment. Except for the First Sword, Trello, whose crane-like frame is leaning against a wall not far from the Sealord, arms crossed. Others raise their cups as well, Dornish and riverlords, stormlords and westermen, and more in the old hall.
Many golden heads—and white—can be seen at the table reserved for the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. But one in particular is missing: that of the heir. Several of the older Lannister retainers frown as they look now and again toward the seat reserved for him. It should come as no surprise that Ser Jonn would—
But there! At the door: “Ah, just in time.” This Black Jonn says with a grin before abruptly turning to the two knights that follow slightly behind him. “Remember, you’re with me. If anyone asks, ignore them.” Another turn and he moves swiftly—a military stride does this Lannister have, not the grace of some of the other great nobles present—toward his table.
Lord Tyrell’s only sister is a blaze of green and gold today. There are emeralds in her hair and on her fingers, the afternoon sun and the light of the torches setting them alight. At Ardon’s word, Reyna looks around and nods to a person waiting for her signal. This person claps his hands once, and a stream of servitors emerge bearing laden platters of foods which the herald announces as the “Bounty of the North!” The first platter—and the greatest—is heaped with roasted meat, savory and fragrant. “Bear, roasted and sauced,” the herald booms. As the meat passes before the high table, the first of the mummers come into the center. One, a great fat man to judge by the size of him, wears the skin of a bear, dark and thick and heavy, the claws and teeth very real.
The bear snaps at a lady at one of the lower tables, eliciting a shriek from her. Now come the men in Stark colors, bearing spears and marching in solemn lockstep. A music strange and wild rises from the players at the foot of the hall, and the Stark hunters begin stalking the roaring bear who menaces knights and maidens alike. Even the parade of bear meat and other northern delicacies is interrupted, the servitors splitting and moving away in two directions.
Finally the hunters surround the bear and the music rises to a fever pitch, fey and somehow cold in sound. The spears rise and fall, rise and fall until the bear crashes to the ground with a cacophonous crashing of cymbals!
As the bear hits the ground a servitor places a heaped plate before each occupant of the high table, the plates clinking a carefully choreographed end to the display.
Ethos Mertyns is one of the knights entering with the Lannister heir, and he chuckles at the words from Jonn. He follows the man towards the table that holds the rest of the Casterly group, admiring the decoration as he crosses the hall.
“What wonders shall you feed us, Lady Reyna?” the elegant banker, Donalo Prestayn, asks the hostess with a charming smile and a notable accent blurred with the sound of the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities. And when it’s delivered… he chuckles, and remarks, “Magnificent. Though not a thing to serve in Norvos, do you know?”
“You provide an honorable welcome, Ser Ardon,” says the Sealord of Braavos, Ferro Antaryon, taking a sip from the goblet he had raised up at the Tyrell knight’s welcome.
The taller of the two knights trailing a step behind Jonn is Janden Melcolm - the young knight simply nods to Jonn’s words to follow - if he’s at all surprised, he doesn’t show it. While walking behind Jonn, he takes the chance to turn his gaze from side to side - taking note of those he knows and those he doesn’t.
Raynard raises his glass with the others. As the first course is brought in, he raises an eyebrow at the spectacle, somewhat bemused. His grin shifts in to a bit of a smirk as he waits for the plates to be delivered to the lesser houses, drinking the rest of his ale.
“I did -not- know,” Reyna exclaims to Donalo, looking away from the mummers. “You must educate me, my lord, so that I might serve Braavosi fare to my countrymen. I must confess,” she adds, lowering her voice, “that I have never tasted bear myself. Lady Aisling, who you see there—” and she points discreetly with a fork “—assured me that it is eaten in the North, and such a novelty was not to be missed.”
While the folk at the high table begin to eat, servitors hasten to fill each table with plates, and it is not long before the platters make it to the lowest tables.
The entry of Jonn Lannister draws some attention from the crowd, as they see him escorted in by two knights. A few whispers here and there follow in his wake. Aidan doesn’t whisper, but he does watch with a thoughtful expression. He turns to his companions at the Dornish table, and then rises and begins to move in the direction of the westermen.
Glasses raise in tribute, and Orene watches the Tyrell host with an attentive smile. The entrance of Jonn and the two knights behind him is not missed, however, and the lady’s expression gains a bit of the wry. Whatever her kinsman may be up to, she inclines her head to him in greeting. Taking a breath to answer a question asked from another at the table, the breath turns into a gasp at the entrance of the Northlands’ offering. She watches the serving in fascination, starting in on the dish even as the others do. “Bear, indeed?” she muses, and though she does taste of it, her attention is still more on the spectacle of the people than her meal.
Not at all, my lord,” Ardon replies to the Sealord. “It is a small thing, between friends.” He eyes the first course as it is served, taking a small bite and chasing it with wine. “And in these troubled times, good friends are a valuable commodity, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ardon glances over at where the First Sword stands, studying the man curiously.
“In Norvos, their holy days are observed very curiously,” Donalo remarks, smiling a charming smile and leaning just a little towards Reyna. He glances in the direction of Aisling Ryswell, eyes clearly appreciative of the lady’s looks—he’s that sort of man—but he returns, familiarly, to Reyna. “They have dancing bears, you see. And it is considered anathema to harm one.” And when he glances down to the performing mummer, “Or kill it and wear its skins, just so. Hah! It is amusing. But fortunately, the bearded priests are far and far away, and we can enjoy our meal, yes?”
The Lannister takes his seat swiftly upon reaching it, moving two men up and out from the seats to his left for Janden and Ethos with a casual look. His whole passage from door to high chair is lighted by the well-heated glare of his petite lady wife. His massive sellsword stands behind, his arms folded over his massive chest. Indeed, Lyam of Tyrosh seems more interested in the First Sword of Braavos than anyone else in attendance.
“Are we going to eat the bear, or charm its hide into dancing with pipes and trumpets?” he asks his aunt Orene with a smirk after he has settled himself.
Having tasted the unfamiliar meat, Essella—seated not far from Donalo—nods thoughtfully to herself as she considers the gamey flavour, then looks over to Lady Reyna with a wide smile. “It will be quite an adventure, this meal. Though I have heard of stranger and far more barbaric things than bear being eaten up in the North. There are even stories of cannibals, are there not?” The way she speaks is that of a woman voicing a mildly shocking secret among friends, expecting to her little gasps of horror, but there’s also a touch of wry amusement in her tone.
“Friendship is a rare coinage in the circles we travel, it is true,” the Sealord Ferro responds with a brief smile. He follows Ardon’s gaze to his First Sword. “Trello Romaris, he is called,” the Sealord says, manner mild as his hazel eyes turn to watch the mummers, and the crowd of lords and ladies beyond. “The finest waterdancer in Braavos. For now, in any case. A dangerous man to have on the wrong end of the sword.”
Trello, for that matter, pushes off from the wall when the Tyrell knight looks his wife. He bows, him in his bright garments and half-cape, with that narrow bravo’s sword at his hip carefully handled. But then, meeting the Sealord’s gaze and receiving his nod, he moves about the hall, his walk full of arrogance and a dancer’s grace despite the lanky frame.
Ethos takes the hastily vacated seat without much affair, greeting those he doesn’t know with polite formalities. His blue eyes find Orene last and he gives her a more familiar smile. “Good day, Lady Orene.” Then the knight is glancing around again, seeming to take stock of all that are in attendence and those that are not.
Reyna tastes a bite of the bear, listening to the Iron Banker with attentive quiet. “Hm, it tastes very strongly of the wild, does it not?” she inquires when he has finished. “I do hope we have given no offense, my lord.”
She smiles then at the courtesan on her other side. “I have not heard many of the northern tales, my lady, but they do say that all manner of barbaric things happen beyond the Wall. The Wildlings, you know. But you must ask a Northman for particulars.” She looks over the hall for everyone’s reaction to the strange and wild meat, then looks toward Ardon, eyes wide in inquiry.
“Have you brought pipes and trumpets?” Orene inquires, her wry smile pointed to her nephew. Ser Ethos and Ser Janden both receive warm smiles and murmurs of greeting, and to Kellyn she gives a kindly and entirely sympathetic look. She takes another nibble of bear: “I have never had the like,” she admits. “Though I might again. It tastes of… wildness.”
Before anyone can truly fill their bellies with the succulent bear, Reyna signals the herald. The servitors, once again acting in careful coordination, whisk the plates away from the high table and the herald calls out:“Bounty of the Vale!” The parade is this time lead by roast boar, apple in the mouth and all. Cheers rise from the tables as the gleaming beast is displayed to the dignitaries and their host, and the music that skirls up is light and airy, birdlike.
The mummer’s ‘boar’ is enormous when it comes snuffling along, sniffing at the platter holding its brother, and at the platters of vegetable dishes unique to the Vale. He snuffs under tables, and roots in the rushes, snorting. It is, predictably, Arryn hunters who come to track it, heavy boar spears well in hand. They are canny, these hunters, making use of tables and other furnishings of the hall to conceal themselves. Two climb up onto tables, acting as lookouts and one continuously consults the stuffed falcon on his shoulder.
Blue and silver costumes glitter in the light of sun and torch as the Arryn hunters make their move. There are gasps from the ladies as the boar fights back, goring here and slashing there with sharp tusks, blood-red streamers of silk playing at blood from the injured hunters. But at last, as the music rises like an eagle on the wind, the beast is vanquished; as before, the last note of music coincides with the placement of plates at the high table.
The glances directed at Aisling in the wake of Reyna’s comment go unnoticed at first; the lady is too busy ignoring her table companions by pretending to be greatly enthused by the dinner so far. When she does become aware of them, a hint of colour briefly touches pale cheeks, and then she’s quick to direct her attention elsewhere. Fortunately, it is time for the next course, and most everyone turns to look at what is being brought in now.
While he’s arguably better suited and considerably more comfortable in the field, Janden displays a fair grasp of courtly manners and does a decent job at acting like joining the Lannister’s table is a regular event. He exchanges a brief greeting with Kellyn upon arriving at the table, and then a smile for - “Lady Orene.” The red haired knight finds his place in the offered seat after he’s finished with his greetings, looking out across the room again.
Raynard eats his share of the bear meat. It is a new taste for him as well, and though the flavor is gamey, it isn’t unpleasent. He shrugs as the next display is put on. “Not the way I hunt boar, but it is the tradition I suppose.” He waits once more for the plates to be passed to the lesser houses, and looks about. Seeing Trello push off from the wall and strat moving about he smiles, apparently he isn’t the only one finding the pomp and circumstance a bit over done.
Trello finds his way to where Raynard Locke sits. “How now, ser?” the First Sword asks the man. “Has your horse spoken to you yet?” He cackles a quick laugh.
“He looks to be a hazardous man indeed,” Ardon replies to the Sealord with an admiring nod. “And that is a remarkable weapon he carries. Your steel must be very fine, to forge such a slender blade.” He leans back as the first course is replaced with a second, and his gaze wanders down the table to the courtesan, Essella. “The ladies of Braavos are as lovely as its swords,” Ardon remarks, laughing. “I hope that the lady is not too put off by our rustic fare. It gets better, I assure you, as we move toward the Reach.”
Jonn’s green eyes move from side to side, flicking from one table to the next. He watches Ser Aidan approach, intrigued. A furtive glance to Ethos and Janden, followed by an arched eyebrow. Whatever he is thinking remains behind his tongue, as he does not yet express it verbally.
“It’s a bit stringy,” he says of the bear meat with a frown. “But then how are we to know it is actually bear? Most like it’s deer and horse’s feet.” This draws more than a few chuckles from those at his table.
“And that is how I caught her,” he says after the charade with the boar is complete, jabbing one end of a knife toward his wife’s curly hair. She does not seem pleased to be mentioned in such a fashion.
Raynard grins broadly at the First Sword’s remark and joins him in laughing. “Aye First Sword, I just can’t understand a word of her neighing is all. And how does the day find you?” As the boar finally comes around he helps himself to a piece, and has his tankard refilled.
“Oh, no, no! No offense, dear lady! The ways of Norvos are not the ways of Braavos, of course,” says Donalo between bites of his meal, a few quick tastes and he decides that, yes, it’s rather gamey. “The bearded priests are tiresome, truly.” And then the next meal is brought forth, and he smiles even though it’s like to be as full of wild flavors.
A shrug and the Sealord says, “It is good steel, it is true. The Qohorik pretend to still recall some of the Valyrian lore, but what use is it? There is only so much Valyrian steel to be reforged, yes?” He seems to relish the bear meat more than did Donalo, and the boar seems to offer him no difficulty. And then, his attention drawn to the Daughter of the Sands. “Ah, my cousin! Be wary with her, ser; she might lay an enchantment on you.” A thin smile, and he lifts his glass to Essella.
“Ah, yes, the Wall. I have heard some tales of the lands beyond, many too strange to be credited. But I will take your advice, Lady Reyna, and find myself a Northman to speak to,” Essella replies, all charm and grace and smiles, and these qualities are most certainly preserved as she turns from Reyna to Ardon. “Oh, have no fear, Ser Ardon. I am not easily deterred, be it by bears or other matters.” She inclines her head to him, a tousled lock of dark hair falling forward to caress her cheek.
Reyna looks down at the boar meat with greater interest than she did the bear. “You will find that boar from the Vale is far less wild-tasting than our last course,” she remarks to both Donalo and Essella. “Try it with the stewed apples in the small dish there. One of my favorite dishes.”
Indeed, she seems very pleased with the taste. So much so that she pushes the plate away with a will and leans back in her chair to send a look behind the feasters at her brother.
Having had to step aside as harried servants cleared the table and placed the next course, Aidan’s finally at the Lannister table. To the others there, he bows his head in greeting, one nobleman to another. “My lords, my ladies,” he says. And then his violet eyes fix on the heir to Casterly Rock as he adds, “Ser Jonn. I thought to greet you, since we have rare cause to speak to one another.” His eyes shift to Orene Lefford, the young aunt of the Lannister heir, and he adds, “I hope the day finds you well?”
“Hah! You must speak to your maesters, to teach you the tongue of horses, maybe? I have heard they speak with ravens.” And Trello cackles again, obviously dubious of such things. The various meals passing by don’t seem to interest him in the least, as he stands with a hand resting lightly on his sword, hip cocked and manner insoucciant.
Ethos catches the object of Jonn’s attention only a moment before the Dornishman reaches the table. The knight of Mistwood sets down the fork with the bite of food he had yet to try as he’s suddenly without appetite. Cool blue eyes watch the Knight of Twilight, and Mertyns says nothing in response to the greeting.
“Ahh!” Orene looks pleased at the mummery with the boar, watching with almost girlish delight. “I did enjoy going out for hunts when I was a girl,” she adds, nodding her pleasure at the morsels added to her plate. She looks to the two young knights then: “I am glad to see you here, Ser Janden, Ser Ethos.”
But to Jonn’s comment that so irks his lady wife, she raises her eyes and seems to move just a little—a little, but sharply. Did she just kick her lord nephew under the table? If she did, it happened just as the Knight of Twilight approaches, and as she bows her head to the Dornishman her cheeks acquire a faint flush. Embarrassment at being caught out? A maidenly blush? Her response is softly spoken, regardless: “Ser Aidan, a pleasure to see you again! I am very well, and charmed to be here. Such a spectacle.”
Janden dips his head in a slight nod to the Knight of the Twilight when he arrives at the Lannister table, but doesn’t add any words - seeing that Aidan is there to speak to those that more properly belong at the table. He returns to the meal before him - commenting to Ethos, but really, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Horse hooves or not, I found the bear rather agreeable.” Turning at the last to hear Orene’s comment, he smiles - “I know I’m rather glad to be here, Lady Orene. It took a bit of convincing to get Ser Ethos here, but he gave in before long.” His grin indicates that the whole truth might be missing from his words.
The boar is delicious, but this is a feast of a full eight removes and it would never do to eat too much on the second course. A signal from Reyna and of a sudden there is unfurled through the center of the hall wide streamers of blue and red, rippling up and down like a river as the herald declares: “Bounty of the Riverlands!”
It is trout that comes, arranged on the platter as if the fish were still swimming the waters of the Trident. It smells of lemon and herbs, slices and leaves of which are arranged with the fish on the platter. There are murmurs of approbation at the pleasing display, and hardly anyone notices the mummers slipping fishlike among the rippling streamers over the floor. They do notice, however, the Tully-garbed fishermen that suddenly appear with their rods and hooks at the ready.
The music that accompanies this ripples like sun on water, Fishermen sit on table edges or crouch on their haunches, occasionally reeling in silvered ‘fish’ and dropping them into woven reed creels that hang at their sides. Then the music rises and one fisherman begins to struggle. Soon all of them are helping, one pulling on the man before him to help the first land his epic catch.
At last the greatest trout of them all is landed, a silver and gold-scaled monster that flops and finally goes still to the skirling finale from the musicians. A last tinkle of chimes and there are the fish-laden plates, ready for the feasting.
“I have always admired audacity, especially in a lady,” Ardon replies to Essella, raising his glass to her. “And if on my way home this evening I should run into bears, or any other perils, I shall be sure to send for your aid, my lady.” He offers her a languid smile, then glances over to Donalo Prestayn.
“I am none too fond of bear myself,” he offers. “Nor boar, either, save in the hunt. Perhaps fish is more to your liking.”
The sellsword Lyam’s lips purse as he marks the progression of the First Sword. “Waterdancers,” the Tyroshi says with distaste.
Jonn glances back him with an inquisitive expression—for the sellsword has long been his teacher on all matters relating to the Free Cities—but does not wait for an answer (nor ask the question) as he is greeted by the Knight of the Twilight. “Ah, Ser Aidan. I trust you are well?” A glance to his aunt now, for surely he both felt her boot digging into his foot and did not miss her blush.
Raynard shrugs his shoulders. “If they know it, though personally I’d just as soon not know. Last thing any many needs it to listen to a woman’s bitching while he’s riding her.” He flashes a grin at trello. He samples a little bit of each course as it comes along pass him.
Essella laughs at that, low and amused. “That is not usually why I am sent for, ser, but I have certainly received some curious invitations before.” She offers Ardon a wide smile, then turns her attention to the fish that was just served up. “Fish .. from the Riverlands? How strange, do House Tully’s arms not bear a trout? I would not expect to see King Daeron serve up a meal of dragon.”
Now, fish seems to suit all the Braavosi very well, and no wonder when their Free City is within the bountiful lagoon that has kept it safe from enemies for centuries. Appropriate sounds of appreciation follow the serving of the food from that quarter, and Donalo in particular seems taken with it. “Oh, a most excellent dish! What cook have you, my lord and lady of Highgarden? Perhaps I shall steal him away from you, eh?” the merchant-lord says, the smile making plain it’s a jest. Probably.
“I know, Ser Ardon, that the fleet of your brother’s vassals, the Redwynes, is as mighty as the king’s own,” the Sealord Ferro says to the knight, a knife swiftly slicing up the trout lain before him. “How is it that Highgarden does not have a fleet more directly under its control? It is strange to me. The king’s fleet, that I understand. The fleets of the Archon of Tyrosh, the Prince of Pentos, I understand these as well. But it would be strange as Sealord, to not command the Arsenal and the galleys it makes, to have to ask some other to approve their use.” And yet, his glance does turn to Donalo Prestayn as he says that, and the Iron Bank is recalled, and the fact that the great families of Antaryon and Prestayn have been and are rivals.
Ethos isn’t quite harboring a hostile expression for Aidan, but he certainly isn’t friendly. It’s more of a grudging acceptance that there’s nothing he can do. One might say there’s a dour look upon his face. He looks over to Janden and gives the man a smirk. “Is that the right of it, Ser Janden?”
“It is, Lady orene, and I am, Ser Jonn, I thank you.” Ser Aidan bows his head again, offering a carefully measured smile at that, though his gaze is inscrutable—he doesn’t seem to know what to make of the Lannister heir’s manners. A pause and then he goes on, the accents of Dorne coloring his speech, “Lady Orene kindly made some remarks the other day, regarding the tourney you would be hosting for the Sealord’s pleasure. I thought… perhaps I might ask about your plans for it, and how it will be conducted in accordance with past feats of chivalry.”
Ah. The Knight of the Twilight and tourneys go hand in hand. And yet he seems reticent to ask in the first place.
Reyna laughs at that and taps her nose. “A great secret all the great houses guard well is the identity of those who cook for them,” she remarks, clearly pleased. She smiles past him to Essella. “Nor would his grace think to,” she remarks. “I mean it as an honor, for the Tullys have mastered the art of making fish, and I am honored to have been entrusted with Lady Tully’s own favorite recipe.”
This is another dish she seems to enjoy. “And if you enjoy this, my lord, my lady…” she teases.
There are fish and then there are FISH. At Reyna’s subtle signal, the herald’s voice rises over the din of conversation: “Bounty of the Iron Isles!” There is a murmur of something like disapproval at this, for what good comes of the Iron Isles, so strange and foreign to most of Westeros?
Fruits of the sea, of course. The platter’s centerpiece is an octopus, whole and with tentacles dangling. But around it are the legs of crabs, golden with butter; rings of squid, breaded and fried until tender; mussels and oysters and flaky white fish baked with salt and sea-greens.
Even better is the great kraken that rises from the center of the hall! Clever mummers work the tentacles that wave and threaten, and clever mummers steer the miniature ships into the fray. Many a mast is shattered by the mighty monster of the sea to the tune of music that is as strange and unknowable as the sea itself. Harpoons unfurl their ropes time and again until finally a lucky cast pierces the kraken’s eye and the monster slowly deflates until it lies limp and pliable upon the floor of the hall. The pipers play a triumphant flourish that is both melodic and somehow harsh, sending a frisson of unease through the party—until the sea-heavy plates are laid and the bounty of the sea is consumed.
Would that Orene could teach lessons in speaking to her dear nephew! She looks delighted at the fish dish, sipping at her wine and nibbling at it with ladylike, dignified gusto. Amusement lights her eyes at Ser Janden’s comment and she gives Ethos a light smile: “Is that so? I hope that this is not such a worrying battle…” The seafood brought out by the kraken-mummers is received just as happily, and as Orene takes a bit of squid and fish she listens with interest to the Dornish knight’s questions. Her smile grows, but she says not a word.
“When we have need of a fleet, we could ask for none better or more loyal than Lord Redwyne’s,” Ardon answers Ferro simply. “When Highgarden calls upon the Arbor, it answers.” He pours a cup of Arbor wine to emphasize the point, following the Sealord’s glance toward Donalo. “As you know, it is a matter of loyalty,” he explains, “extending from the lowliest hedge knight up to His Grace the King. We are all of us links in the great chain, and we are all greater than the sum of our parts.”
The strange sea-feast does not linger on the tables, for Reyna does not let it. She nods to the herald who seems only too ready to boom: “Bounty of the Westerlands!”
Here is a strange offering. There are platters, groaning platters heaped with bounty—naught but gold. Gold in heaps and piles. Real gold in rocks that glitter in the sunlight, and golden food as well. There is mashed golden squash, dripping butter, and eggs whipped into soft-cooked golden mounds. Wheels of golden cheese accompany the arrival of the mummers, who are hung with red and gold. They twirl gold chains and jingle bags of dragons. Now and then they pause to dole out a copper with looks of smug superiority, occasionally flourish the golden-headed spears they carry. They hunt, but for what?
The answer is soon given, under music played in stately, almost regal tones. One of the Westermen stabs with his spear and comes up with… a great lump of gold! There is laughter and cheering as the man parades his find; as he raises it high in salute to the high table, the golden plates appear.
Janden enjoys his share of the food as it crosses his plate - and while the knight does eat with proper manners, he’s obviously enjoying the excellent and varried foods. “Well, it wasn’t such a battle to get him here.” Janden explains to Orene - “The reluctance was easily quelled.” The knight turns his attention back to Jonn and Aidan - interested about the tourny himself.
And this, this indeed is just what the Braavosi love best. Donalo fairly beams, and is silent for awhile as he tries the delicacies, remarking on the use of butter in this dish, the parsley in that. The squid, that’s aprticularly popular.
Ferro nods his head at that, and seems satisfied with the answer. “You in Westeros are strange to us, in many ways. The Andals are nothing but legend to us, the name of some hills beyond Pentos. Your Seven ... we have a sept in Braavos for them, as we have temples to many gods, and sailors and foreign men might worship there.” He shrugs his shoulders, and chews on a piece of fried squid, washing it down with wine. “But you have made your own kingdom, and your king seems a wise young man. Your brother, he is his right hand in Dorne, I believe. Has he remarked on trouble from the pirates on the Stepstones? The Princes oft complained of them, and sometimes hired sellsails—from Myr and Lys, of course—to deal with them.” And now, of course, the Prince of Dorne is in no position to do such a thing.
“It is open to all comers,” says Jonn to the Dornish knight. “I believe that the best man should win, Ser Aidan. And so there will be a bracket, and whoever emerges at the end will be the winner. Though for my part, I should like to see you match lances with my dear brother. It would be amusing to see him unhorsed by one other than the Dragonknight, wouldn’t you agree?” He starts off with an easy smile, as though he had expected this conversation sooner or later, and ends with a grin.
He watches the Tyrells now with eyes narrowed by malicious intent.
Reyna looks enormously pleased by the reactions to the fare thus far, though she looks more pleased to see the plattered octopus disappear. The plates of gold are lighter and the titter of laughter that ripples through the hall both make her smile. “I am glad you approved of the sea fare,” she remarks. Then she smiles sweetly at Jonn, waving her fingers. “There is Ser Jonn Lannister,” she says to Donalo and Essella. “I think you have met him before. I think gold is not to his taste today.”
His animosity can only replace his hunger for so long, and Ethos cannot deny taking bites of some of the various interesting meals that roll through. He listens with interest about the joust that Jonn is hosting, giving Orene a friendly smile in return to her own. Then a platter heaped in gold passes him by and his thin brows lift at the impressive display. He glances back to Jonn and doesn’t miss the dark expression on the man’s face. And what is this? Ethos Mertyns addresses the Knight of Twilight? “Ser Aiden, will you be attending Ser Jonn’s tourney?” The question is posed in a completely polite fashion, without a hint of scorn.
The First Sword grins at Raynard’s words, eyes turning towards some of the women about. “An amusing man, Ser Raynard, always has a place at the table, I’ve found.” And doubtless he’s thinking of himself, but the sword he’s resting his hand on is probably more of a reason why Trello Romaris is so honored by the Sealord. “Though in Braavos, many are jealous of such good humor. If you ever visit us, I suggest some wariness among my brothers among the bravos. They have ... what is the word? Humor!” And ... he cackles. He’s easily amused.
The course of gold is light and easy on the stomach and is soon dispatched. As the golden plates are whisked away and the wine cups refreshed, the herald makes his sixth announcement: “Bounty of the Stormlands!” he cries.
What else could it be but stag? The deer run freely over the fields in the Stormlands, and here is the finest of specimens, dressed in his own antlers and roasted to perfection. The smaller dishes include light seafoods from the coastal waters, fruits and greens. The hunters are clad in Baratheon red and black, somber and wary as they stalk the stag-mummer with its mighty antlers. They are grim in their pursuit, single-minded and heedless of the equally somber music that keeps their time.
When they strike, it is swift and the stag makes no more than a single bound before it is felled. A slow tempo winds down to the placement of the plates, and all the men bow to the high table before taking quiet leave.
The northern knight nods his head and grins broadly. “I’ll keep that in mind if ever i visit Braavos.”
Jonn’s explanation of his intentions for the tourney seems to interest Aidan, though perhaps more so for his suggesting Aidan enter himself than anything else. “Well, it is kind of you to inform me, Ser Jonn,” he starts to say, and then pauses, searching for something else. When Ethos interjects, the plain question seems to require some definite response. And it seems that with Ethos having asked, the Dornishman has a definite answer. “Well. I had said to Lady Orene that I did not think I could. But Ser Janden has remarked on your prowess in the lists, Ser Ethos.” A pause, and then he smiles. “I’ll avail myself of the opportunity to try you in the lists, if chance places us across from one another, ser.”
To Jonn, he turns back and offers a bow, “I look forward to riding in your tourney, ser. My thanks.”
There is a sense of anticipation, for the Tyrell are the lords of the Reach, and they alone remain in this feast of the Seven Kingdoms. The herald sounds triumphant when he cries out: “Bounty of… THE REACH!”
There are hardly words to describe the parade of goodness that comes pouring from the kitchens. Grouse and quail, some roasted in honey, others in butter. There are loaves of soft, golden bread, jars of honey with the combs overflowing, dishes of apples and tarts of the same. There is stewed rabbit in pastry, salads of many-colored greens and even flowers, fruits and vegetables enough to feed a city.
All this is accompanied by a shower of golden rose petals tossed by maids and lads dancing lightly to a whimsical air, beribboned and clad in green and gold. They do not hunt; the birds and game simply hop into their baskets, leaving their hands free for the dancing and the plucking of flowers. But all is not just games; among them come the fighting men, stalwart and sober with their arms presented in salute to the high table. Men and men and men march past the dancing maidens and their partners, the other true bounty of the Reach.
This time, however, the music and dancing continues once the plates—oh, so many plates!—are laid, and the feast goes on.
“My brother is not unaware of the threat that pirates pose to Dorne’s stability,” Ardon replies carefully to the Sealord. “Nor of the important role that Lys and Myr have played in keeping order in the southern seas,” adds the Tyrell knight amiably. “But I would be happy to remind Lord Garvys of this, and I have little doubt he would be receptive.”
Orene may well be impressed at Ethos’s good humor; certainly she does cast him a pleased look. The selection of cheeses seems to please her well enough, even if her nephew looks not delighted, and she takes little slivers of this and that. “At least they did not go hunting a lion?” she murmurs, nibbling a bit of rich hard cave-ripened cheese.
The further words of Aidan, though, bring a look of satisfied delight to her face. “That is wonderful! I shall hardly be able to sleep between now and the tourney knowing what sights I shall see. Ser Jonn, Ser Aidan, Ser Ethos… Ser Janden?” She looks hopefully at the other knight.
Over at her table, Aisling finishes off a piece of meat—the steady stream of new courses has not been easy to keep up with—and glances over to the Lannister table, her eyes falling upon the Dornish knight. She regards Ser Aidan almost thoughtfully, until the arrival of the final set of courses draws her attention away. She then glances down on her plate, as if considering whether she could possibly squeeze down anothet bite of food.
“Oh yes.” Janden replies after a bite of his meal. “I certainly need another chance to run against Ser Ethos. A good crowd would turn it in my favour, I’m certain!” The tall knight grins, glancing over to Ethos as he speaks.
“I will let the bitch have her fun,” says the Lannister to his aunt through his teeth. “But all know that the bounty of the Iron Islands is only that which they can plunder from my bannermen. Unless…” he glances at the octopus as it is drawn away. “One of them were to have the misfortune to bed a Tarbeck.”
“My gold would not be on your side in that encounter,” says Jonn to Ethos now, the thought of all the wagering at the joust lightening his mood. “And I will not be participating in any jousts for the foreseeable future, Orene. I learned long ago that my talents lie in other areas, and I do not like to lose. At anything.”
Ethos watches Aidan closely for an answer, and can’t keep the grin from his face when the Dornish knight agrees to attend the tourney. His distraction with the Knight of Twilight causes him to miss the presentation of the meal of the Stormlands, a shame, but the competative gleam to his eye is difficult to mistake. It’s obvious that this knight wants to tilt against the famous Dornish hostage.
Mertyns gives Jonn a smirk, but doesn’t comment when the man speaks his intentions to bet against him. “It should be fun, either way.” The knight says with a glance to Janden before he looks back to Aidan. “I hope that chance arises, ser.” Again, his tone is cooler, but at least he’s making the effort to be polite.
“Of course, ser. As the gods will.” And Aidan dips a brief bow to all and sundry, before taking his leave of the Lannister table. But he doesn’t wander over back to the Martell table. No, he winds his way to where Lord Ryger and his kindred sit.
“What a shame! But since I can hardly imagine you losing at anything, I suspect I shall simply need to live with it.” Orene is happy to take some bread and honey, taking tiny bites just as she has throughout each remove to avoid filling up on anything. “But the rest of you, yes. And perhaps Ser Jaesin as well? I seem to remember he is a fairly good jouster.” She muses then, drizzling the honey in a vague design over the surface of the bread. “And perhaps,” she murmurs, “I must work on a favor for someone to carry.”
Ethos watches Aidan leave, some measure of coldness returning to his face once the Dornishman’s back is turned, but Orene’s laugh draws his attention back from what are likely murderous thoughts. “What is the date of this tourney? I think I’ll be spending more time focusing my practice on the joust, now.” He begins eating with greater earnest.
At Lord Ryger’s table, Lady Aisling seems to have decided that enough is enough, at least as far as the food goes. She has pushed the plate away from herself, and politely but firmly declined having it filled up by yet another course. She has kept a goblet of wine on hand, though, and is just lowering it back down to the table as she catches sight of Ser Aidan approaching the table. A smile seems on the verge of curving her lips, then she catches a sideways glance from her step-sister, and her expression settles into its usual mask.
The best for last, as they say, and many seem to indulge themselves with the bounty of the Reach, and the golden wine of the Arbor served with it. The entertainment causes sounds of surprise and pleasure, and many tongues wag at the extravagance of it all. The Braavosi seem ... if not impressed, than certainly appreciative, adn speak with their companions at length about whatever will while away the time.
At the Ryger table, Ser Aidan offers a brief bow to the Master of Laws, and his nieces as well. “A good day to you, my lord, my ladies,” he says, graciousness personified despite those brightly striped Dornish robes and that Dornish skin and that Dornish accent. Ryger acknowledges him with a very precise, and curt nod, knife and hand poised above his meal as he waits expectantly for whatever in the world would bring a hostage to his table. The young knight clears his throat and asks, “I thought ... perhaps, given the music, one of your nieces might care to dance?” And his eyes makes it clear who he means, but…
The question is met by a slight arching of his brows by Ryger, followed by a brief glance to the two young ladies. Before he can speak, however, fair-haired Sylvina preempts him. “Why, thank you for asking, ser, but I do not think it would be quite appropriate.” A quick smile, anything but sincere to its nature, and a glance back to her uncle.
For a moment, Aisling is taken aback both by the question and by Sylvina’s response, and her own answer is delayed. Then that tell-tale bit of colour settles on her cheeks again, and it is almost brusquely that she stands up from her place. “Thank you, ser. How kind of you to offer, and I do feel like I have been sitting here too long.” She’s pointedly ignoring any looks that may or may not be directed her way by Lord Ryger and Lady Sylvina, or anyone else for that matter.
Sylvina’s response does lead Aidan’s smile to falter ... but blooms back at Aisling’s acceptance. With another bow to Ryger and his niece, still polite despite the cool gazes, he follows Aisling to where couples turn and glide with elegant grace as they match court dances to the music the musicians are making with pipes and lutes. Aidan offers his hand, and once accepted, he jumps them into the swirling circle of dancers.
“I know you find it awkward to dance, my lady Aisling, as it’s not your favorite thing,” the Dornishman tells the northwoman. “Especially under your sister’s eye, I suppose, and Lord Ryger’s.” He pauses to concentrate, a passage in the dance requiring them to turn and switch hands. “But I thought, perhaps… perhaps.” He finishes awkwardly, not quite sure what he meant to say. The music carries them on through the steps, weaving amidst other couples.
It is a little stiffly that Aisling follows Aidan’s lead to join the other dancing couples, though once they enter the dance she moves well enough through the turns. That is, until Aidan speaks again, and she almost misses a step here, and a turn there. “Not precisely awkward, ser,” she replies. “Though why would you ask me to? What was it you thought?” Its almost the same kind of frankness that has deterred more than a few knights at court already, but it seems a little forced.
Because he’s intent on the dance, Ser Aidan doesn’t immediately reply ... or so, perhaps, he’d like Aisling to think. His expression is fixed, and his eyes are, perhaps, a trifle nervous. But then a lull in the dancing, a simple glide with so many others in a loop around the perimeter of the dancing area, and it’s not easy to pretend he must concentrate. “I was thinking, my lady, that since I had just been more or less invited to Ser Jonn’s tourney, that I had had great fortune carrying your favor in the lists,” the Dornishman says, as the two move with stately grace through the movements of the dance. “And as my cousin is still cross with me, that I could not very well ask her, and so… So I thought it’d be an honor, if you’d allow me to carry your favor once more, in this tourney, and in the wedding tourney as well.”
It was, quite clearly, not what Aisling had expected. Slim brows arch in surprise, accompanied by another blush of colour on her cheeks, if only for a moment. “If your cousin was not still cross with you, would you have asked her?” is what she finally says, after a few moments of awkward silence. The dance then demands her attention for a few more steps, though soon enough she is given another opportunity to speak. “Though, I suppose I cannot say other than that you did very well the other time.”
That last, Aidan latches on. “Indeed, Lady Aisling,” the knight says, an easy smile on his lips as he regards her a few moments before another spin and turn. “I had good fortune. Even if Tanyth were happier with me than she presently is… I would ask you first. Your favor gave strength to my arm.” His gaze remains on Aisling a touch too long, and nearly leads him to dancing right into the couple ahead of them just as the whole group is entering the final movements of the court dance. There’s an awkward jostle as he gets back into the pattern, and then he chuckles wanly. “Strength to my arm, yes; concentration on dancing, I fear, is not something that you give me with equal measure. Though I do enjoy it, my lady. You should dance more often.”
In spite of herself, Aisling does smile then. “I have my doubts, Ser Aidan. And what would you then say if you were to be unhorsed in the first tilt? If a lady’s favour is behind success, surely it is behind failure too?” She sounds as dubious of the trappings of chivalry as ever, though for once not in an entirely cynical manner. “As for dancing… It is a part of a game that I do not have any interest in playing, though I suppose it is enjoyable enough in its own right.” Certainly, the lack of recent practice is hardly evident now, as she moves through the last turns of the dance.