Hoofbeats, and then the sound of a lance striking a shield, the sharp resounding noise of oak being battered. The quintain creaks as it whirls . . . and there are laughs, as it strikes the jouster as he passes. The padded mace nearly knocks him from his horse, which he sits with moderate but not especial skill. Perhaps the jouster curses, but if so, it’s in his native tongue.
Armored in the finest pieces to be found from the royal armory that fit him, and riding one of the finest destriers in the royal stables, the Sealord of Braavos looks almost a sworn and anointed knight. But only almost—he’s not born and bred to the saddle, or to such weight of armor. He throws some remark to his First Sword, he watches from where he leans, lazily, against a nearby fence.
Ethos approaches the practice yard, not armed beyond his sword hanging at his side. The knight is looking a little scruffier than usual. He hasn’t shaven in a few days and his shirt has the wrinkled look of having been slept in. The yawn that Mertyns is covering with a hand lends to the idea that he was napping, or rolling out of bed very late in the afternoon.
When Ethos spots the man at the joust his eyes widen for a moment before a grin crosses his face. He glances around, then moves over to where the First Sword stands to join in watching the practice, sizing up what skill the Sealord has learned in the last couple of weeks.
Entering the Bronze Gates is a small mounted party led by a younger man, though his carriage proclaims his nobility, two women, one younger than the other, and a retinue of knights and packhorses. From the dust on their clothes and their weary seating, it would seem they have returned from a long journey.
Upon seeing the scene before her, the younger girl’s posture straightens abruptly and she shares an eager word with her mistress. The older, though by no means old, companion waves her hand, touches her forehead, as if to indicate a headache, and rides on, leaving Soranna Hawick to approach the scene curiously, but slowly on horseback.
A babble in the bastard Valyrian of Braavos, as the Sealord throws some remark to his watching companions, some of them guards in his livery. Seeing the the master-at-arms is deep in some conversation with no lesser figure than Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, the Sealord Ferro decides to take a break. He gives his lance over to one person, and dismounts only a little clumsily. Then it’s off with his helm, and he seems to call for wine, for a cup is brought to him..
“You there,” Ferro says, the accents of Braavos plain in how he speaks the common tongue of Westeros as he directs his attention to Ethos. “Ser knight. How seems my jousting, eh? But two days for the tourney, and I am thinking I am as ready that may be, yes?” As he swallows his wine, his attention turns to the new arrivals while one of his men pats his brow with a kerchief for him.
When the Braavos lord rides their way, Ethos lifts his brows, letting the amused grin fade from his face to a very respectful expression. “Good day, Sealord.” He hazards for a title, then gives a rather frank assessment, “It’s good for the time you’ve had, but you might want to get more practice in over the next day and a half if you’re planning to compete seriously.. ah.. Lord Ferro.” He spares a glance for the arriving nobility, but doesn’t let his attention wander from the Sealord for long.
In spite of the noise of the yard, Soranna catches the Stormlander’s words. Her eyes grow to the size of small saucers as her attention turns to the Bravosi. “The Sealord!” she whispers, in awe, though, now that her party has left, no one is close enough to hear her. Seeing Prince Aemon as well, she wipes the childish expression from her face, sits a little straighter, and surruptiously tries to wipe the dust from her riding dress and hide the strands of hair that have come loose during her ride. She remains a small distance off, not wanting to intrude or hinder the knights at their practice.
“You think so?” the Sealord asks, with a thin smile on his lips. He regards Ethos more closely, before turning to make some remark to Trello Romaris. The man replies with a chuckle, then nods a brief greeting to the knight. “You are Ser Ethos, my lazy First Sword is saying. A pleasure. Though you seem detained from a bath, yes? You do not have baths such as we have in Braavos, I have noticed. So small, your little tubs.” He *tsks*, but his gaze has turned to Soranna. He seems amused. He pitches his voice to carry and asks, “And who are you, charming lady? You are new here, yes?” He seems a gregarious and agreeable fellow, by his manner.
“Your progress is remarkable in such a short time.” Ethos answers carefully, and gives the man a short bow at the somewhat indirect introduction. “You as well, Lord Ferro.” The talk of baths is met with a bit of a smirk, “I don’t know anything about the baths in Braavos, I’m afraid.” The knight admits, and as the foreign lord turns his attention to Soranna, Ethos does as well. Mertyns lifts his brows, curious about the stranger arriving in court.
Upon being addressed, Soranna dismounts her horse gracefully and approaches the two men with reins in hand. She dips a rather deep curtsy and introduces herself. “I am Soranna of House Hawick, my Lord. I’ve been at court several months, but only just now returned from a visit to the Saltpans.” She rises as she continues, eyes still downcast, whether timid or respectful is uncertain. “So I suppose in your eyes, I /am/ new here. It is a true pleasure to meet you both,” she says with a small smile for each.
“You are just in time for the tourney,” the Sealord tells Soranna, stating the obvious, but with an easy smile. “I am readying to take part. So this—” he says, knocking a fist against the black steel of his breastplate, “—is suitable to such, yes? Or so I am told, as I practice.” A look to Ethos, but he takes another sip of wine and hands the cup to the attendant bravo before he comments, “And you, Ser—will you ride in the tourney?”
Ethos sketches another ungraceful bow for the woman. “Ethos Mertyns of Mistwood.” The knight offers, giving her a friendly enough smile before his gaze returns to the Sealord. “Yes, Lord Ferro, I am rather looking forward to the tourney. It should be very exciting.” The Stormland answers with some enthusiasm, his grin widening. “Do you have any similar events or competitions in Braavos?”
“Unfortunately, I’ve missed most everything else,” Soranna responds sadly, but she brightens as her thoughts shift back to the upcoming tourney, “but the armor suits you, my Lord. Very fine work.” She curtsies again for Ser Ethos, a less formal, more friendly gesture than her first. Her eyes find her feet again as she tries to hide a smile. “Unless I’m mistaken, this is a tourney for love. I do hope you both have ladies to compete for.”
“There are pageants, and masques, and racing of snake-boats,” the Sealord replies casually, “but of tourneys, none. I have had cause to use the long spear, to hunt or to war. Yes, just so. But we do not make a sport or art of it, as you Westerosi do, eh?” He shakes his head at that, with a bemused grin on his lips—though he’s taken an interest in it, he seems to consider it somehow absurd. When Soranna remarks on the armor, he offers, “It is from your gracious king’s armory, lady. So too the horse. He is very generous. As to a lady’s favor . . . I am fortunate to have such a thing. It is very charming, this custom.”
“I am also quite lucky to have a lady’s favor to look forward to.” The knight answers, a fond smile slipping onto his face as he thinks of the woman he’s been spending much of his time with. “She has given me quite the challenge to live up to, as well.”
“Snake.. boats?” Ethos asks with more curiosity in his tone. “I have never heard of that, Lord Ferro. Is it dangerous? How do you win the affections of ladies if not through reckless, violent competition?”
Soranna listens quietly, nodding at the comparison between this land and Braavos, surely remembering some of her early years in Lys. She smiles with Ser Ethos as he thinks of the favor he’ll carry and laughs at his final question. “Have you never heard the stories, good Ser? You must take her for rides on your dragon and conquer whole nations in her name, compose poetry that doesn’t begin to describe her beauty and travel the world for the rarest gems for her hair.” Clearly, Soranna’s suggestions aren’t meant to be serious, but a hint in her voice belies her mockery. It is often said she cares too much for stories.
“They are boats such as we have in Braavos. Long and narrow, to navigate the canals,” Ferro Antaryon responds. “But as to the affections of our fine ladies in Braavos, what can I say? A man of wit is always appreciated, yes? Wit, and appreciation for beauty and learning, and wealth never hurts. Fortunately, I am blessed with all three.” He chuckles, but it’s a fatuous thing, just this side of smug. Then again, he’s the most powerful man in the Free Cities, so perhaps it’s not undeserved. The laughter ends as Soranna describes the responsibilities of carrying a lady’s favor, and he merely smiles pleasantly. “Of conquest and journeys and gems, I have in plenty. Dragons ... perhaps such a one as was had for the wedding I could make, yes? But poetry, that I leave to singers. I have a dozen at my palace, one of them must do for my own lady, yes?”
Ethos listens, grinning at the varying opinions on the subject. He says nothing as the Sealord goes on to share his ample privledges and self-opinion. “Poetry is a vice of mine as well.” He says with a wry smile, “And I don’t think I have the resources to conjure a marvel such as that dragon was at the wedding feast. That was remarkable.” Mertyns has honest respect for that feat of craftmanship.
“So there are not any unique practices, or places to sneak a lady off to in Braavos? I always thought it was more exotic..” The knight contemplates.
Soranna does her best to hide a frown as the Sealord’s words and tone deviate from the makings of stories. “Wit and learning most of all, at least by my way of thinking. I have not met your lady, my Lord, but I am sure she can’t help but be most pleased with you.” She turns her attention to Ser Ethos as he speaks, again with a look that says she’s not quite sure that his question’s insinuations are entirely honorable.
still.
“One may hope so, lady,” the Sealord Ferro says, eyes bright with his amusement. It’s in the same vein that he responds to Ethos, “Places to ... sneak? At the yearly festival, when the wine flows freely and all are masked, well… what happens, happens, yes? It is as the gods will. There is nothing so romantic as a snake-boat ride with one’s lady amidst the canals, some would say.”
It’s then that Trello, the First Sword of the Sealord, makes some remark in the Valyrian of Braavos just as Ferro takes a breath to continue. He seems rather bold, this first among bodyguards, to interrupt his employer; yet Ferro merely grins, and replies in kind. And so he turns back and remarks, “My lazy First Sword, he is saying that if I wish to get out of this armor in time for a dinner with your lord Hand, I had best start now. Such a pleasure, ser, lady, to speak with you. Perhaps we shall see one another at the tourney, yes?”
Ethos is still grinning, perhaps missing the disapproval Soranna shows for the way the topic is shifting. The knight chuckles as the Braavos lord offers his opinion, then nods in a good-natured fashion as the man explains his need to leave. “I appreciate your time to teach me a bit about Braavos, Sealord. I look forward to seeing who you challenge at the tourney.”
Ethos looks back to Soranna, “Lady Orene has a strong interest in the Free Cities, so I thought I might learn a thing or two to surprise her with.” He offers as a sort of explanation.
“Of course my Lord,” Soranna says, giving a small curtsey for farewell. “I look forward to it.” She smiles to Ser Ethos, as if to indicate no need for explanation and pats the neck of the horse whose reins she still holds.