The sun is still high in the west, with hours of daylight still left, but a few tradesmen and carters have mostly filled the Three Ballocks as locals call it. A smoky haze from a roasting pig fills the common room with the smell of pork, and mugs of beer and plates of meats and coarse bread are consumed with gusto as men talk and shout and laugh. Off to one side, alone at a table, is an older man dressed in plain but well-made garments suitable to a knight or a poor lordling. He nurses a mug of beer.
Politely deferring the entrance to one of the previously mentioned tradesmen, a knight in Buckwell blue and white slips across the threshold, temporarily interrupting the light breeze caught by the open door.
Pausing just inside the door, the big knight casts about until he sets eyes on the lone man at his table. Purposeful steps carry him towards otherwise empty table.
A swallow of beer, and the older man’s eyes turn towards the doorway to see Bonifer approaching. He sets the mug down and starts to rise from his bench as he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Good day to you, Ser Bonifer. At long last, a few moments to actually sit down and talk, eh? Sit yourself down, if you’d be so kind.” He indicates the opposite bench. Before he joins Bonifer at the table, however, he calls out for a serving girl—he knows her by name, seemingly—to deliver another mug of beer. Once seated, though, he pauses and then frowns. “Or should I have asked for wine, ser? The wine they stock is passable, but I prefer the beer, myself.”
The Buckwell knight bares his teeth in smile to lend his greeting a bit of warmth. “Henly.” he intones in his tenor, “An honor. And yes, time has been quite short, though I’m sure you’d know I’ve been eager to meet with you.”
Dropping gracefully into position opposite the North man, Bonifer nods at the proposition of a cool drink, “Beer would be excellent. In my travels to the Arbor, I seem to have been spoiled towards any other wine.”
“I never had sea legs, nor the wish to rove the ocean on a ship, for my part. The Arbor sounds as lovely as the tales tell, though. I certainly know the wine’s good,” Henly responds, chuckling. He takes another swallow of his beer, casting a glance to the doorway from which the serving girl will bring the requested mug; she’s not in sight. Then ... a slightly awkward silence, before he chuckles again, but awkwardly. “I fear I’ve no idea how to proceed with this. My lord brother asked me to give him a good, clear idea of the man who wants his niece for a bride, and it’s a heavy task to sum up any man in the words that can fit on a small parchment.”
The atmosphere is, indeed, more like a sparring match than a friendly meeting for drinks. Bonifer does his best to lend a more casual air to the conversation, “Perhaps, if you think of what you might want for your own daughter, it might be easier to assess the situation.” he suggests.
Despite his hopes to lighten the mood, the Buckwell’s verdant gaze drifts in search of the promise of beer as well.
“It was the sea that I loved.” Bonifer begins, returning his eyes to those of Rills’ Bastard, “I never saw my post as an opportunity to move up. I always felt that I might stay on my ship until I could no longer serve as her captain. That was when I thought my mother might force a match upon me. I’m sure you’ve heard tell of political aspirations.”
As the requested beer arrives, Bonifer tips the serving maid out of his own purse, taking a strong draw out of the mug before continuing. “As it is, I really have found something worth coming ashore for. Jarmon is young, as yet, and he relies upon my guidance for the time being. For now, I’m satisfied in knowing that my task is to produce a respectable lord that will lead House Buckwell as my brother Garett would have wanted.”
“A man who puts family first. That’s good,” Henly says, nodding his head with approval over his mug of beer. “So I suppose Elyn would be residing at the Antlers with you and yours, then, should you wed? Not a bad place for a young woman to be, bride to a castellan…” He takes a slow draught from the mug, and looks frankly at Bonifer, before he goes on with the questions. “You mentioned your lady mother. Lady Taria, a famous name. What’d she think of this wish of yours to wed a northwoman? Some southrons would be less than pleased to have a follower of the old gods in their houses.” It’s as frankly put as his gaze.
“This is a talk that Elyn and I have had at times.” the Buckwell man admits, peering into his mug as he thinks back on one or more of those talks, “To be honest, Henly, my mother disapproves of this match I’ve chosen. I know she wants someone closer to home, and I’m sure that Elyn’s upbringing is questionable as well. What I must point out, though, is that my lady mother has only ruled House Buckwell because my brother met his end far too soon. It’s taken me this long, but I’ve decided that the time has come for to relinquish her hold and allow Jarmon to decide Buckwell’s fate.”
Pausing only to slide his mug to one side, so that he might settle a level gaze upon Henly, “I know that it’s forward of me to impart this kind of knowledge to you, Henly. It’s just that I’m not a politician, and I know what it is to be deceived. I would never bring Elyn into my home if I thought she might come to harm, or that she might be unhappy. My mother will not be pleased with either myself or Jarmon, but she’s already lost a husband and a son. She’d not bring harm to me and mine. Jarmon has also pledged his total support for my marriage to Elyn.”
Henly considers that for a good while, sitting in silence, sipping at his beer. At last he offers a slightly ... dubious remark. “I’m sure the Lady Taria would not do anything to harm her, ser; what mother would do such a thing to her son? But .... Women can be hard and cold as ice at times. She may not do any harm, but will she welcome her once all is said and done? It’s a terrible thing, to be at odds with your good-mother.” He drains his mug then, and watches Bonifer closely after that.
The silence offers Bonifer a moment to take comfort in his own mug. The implications of his previous statements have set his heart to racing as it is. Couple that with what is at stake, and a beer is a solid comfort for any man.
“I can make no promises as to my mother’s behavior, only speculations. My gut tells me that after the initial discomfort has passed, my mother will only see that I have only done as I ever have. Besides, Lady Taria is a shrewd woman, and she will see the sense in befriending my wife rather than alienating her. I will be, after all, closest to Jarmon’s ear when all is said and done.”
Henly’s expression is hard to read as he takes that in. His mouth twists for a moment, nothing more, before he nods. “Well, if it’ll be as you say, ser, I doubt one need worry overmuch. And Elyn’s a grown woman, now. I’m sure she could take care of any difficulties. Her father has never been much for taking the easy way and backing down, and I doubt she’ll be any different.” He considers his empty mug, perhaps pondering getting another filling, but a hand pats his belly—flat and firm, despite his near fifty years of age—and he decides against it. “So ... Dorne. I suppose I should ask you of it, ser, seeing as I wasn’t there, and you were. You were with the fleet, I imagine? Oakenfist’s fleet?”
Bonifer’s mouth tightens momentarily, as he nods, “Yes. I was under Oakenfist’s command, though I never went south with him.”
The Buckwell knight also considers the bottom of his mug, but he opts in favor of a refill, raising his mug in an effort to flag down a serving girl. As he places the vessel back on the table, he looks back to Henly, “I was under orders to hold the shore near Yronwood. I spent equal parts escorting supplies on both land and sea. Nothing like the Dark Griffin, but we can’t all be heroes.” he chuckles at that.
“Gods, true enough,” says Henly, laughing. “I remember wanting to be a hero once, when I was half a boy. One grows out of such things. Putting yourself to useful work, fulfilling one’s duties—that’s a better mark of a man, I think.” And with that, he seems to decide the interview is done, pushing his empty mug nearer the middle of the table as if to signal it. “Well, ser. I’ll send word to my lord of my impressions. You understand, I can’t make the decision myself on the matter. I’m just to report to him. But I’ll let him know, I think you’re a good man and as worthy for Elyn’s hand as poor Ser Ecton was.”
Sliding his own mug out of the way, Bonifer extends his hand across the table, unable to hold back a grin, “I appreciate your words, Henly. They mean a lot coming from a man like yourself. I’m certain Elyn will be pleased to hear that we’re one step closer to being wed.”