|A Cold Steel Blade|
|Summary:||Emrys has an offer for Tyroan.|
|Related Logs:||Of Witches, Northmen & Blind Girls|
|Map Room, Tordane Tower|
|This room used to be the smallest of the guest rooms in Tordane Tower, but all of the previous furniture has been removed save a small side-table that holds two or three tankards and a pitcher of bitter Mire beer. Several other small tables have been added around the walls, holding a selection of books and parchments brought in from the library. Additionally, a standing table is centered in the room, surrounded by tall stool-like chairs built to its height. Atop that table is a large map of Stonebridge and its surrounding area, with colored blocks placed across it in the troop positions from the last Battle of Stonebridge.|
|13 November, 289|
Tyroan stands at his side-table, pouring himself a tankard of bitter Mire brew. It's not his first. He's sent for his goodbrother, and a faintly dry smirk touches his lips as he hesitates, then pours a second tankard. The pitcher is set back down, and Tyroan moves back to the large table, setting down both tankards, blowing out his breath and paging through a thick leather-bound ledger set alongside the military map.
Being sent for is not unusual for Emrys Flint. Not in the least, however he doesn't come like a dog, either. In his own time the Northman does show himself, escorted by a Nayland Armsman, who does reach out for the man's dagger that is worn at his side. For the arms man's trouble there is a look before he is reaching for a pouch and a copper is placed in the waiting hand before he is closing the door behind him. A roll of his shoulders and the leaner man looks to the older, a faint smile showing on his scarred face. Without word or a nod, Emrys stalks his way over to the large table, one hand catching one of the two tankards up without much ado-and he takes a sip.
Then, clearing his throat the northern lord looks back towards Tyroan. "This what keeps you alive?" a half smile there again given. "How do, brother?" the word feels foreign and so Emrys corrects, "Tyroan."
Tyroan eyes the exchange of coin, waving off the Northman's attempt to close the door, "Leave it open. They'll just fucking gossip harder if they can't hear what's going on." He pushes the second tankard across the table, "It lets me put up with all this bullshit." The revised greeting draws a smirk, "I fucking marry your sister, we bleed together, and you can't even call me 'brother?'" There's a beat-pause, and then he smirks harder, "Good to see you, Emrys."
A shrug as he looks back towards the door for a moment. Still there is an appreciative swallow of beer before he is looking back towards the other man. "I can." he adds with a bit of a laugh. "But, Tyroan suits you better. My older brothers are dead.." well not all of them. "I would not curse you with that." he adds from the rim of his mug. "It seems you've inherited quite the storm of shit here. A duel that went fucked, a war torn town and rebuilding." and there he lowers his mug to inspect the contents. "I would need to drink more of this."
Tyroan nods his agreement at the naming decision. "Thanks. I'd rather not die. I'd hate to see what the fuck Ana would do to whoever — or whatever — caused it." He nods again, acceptance at the description of his current situation. "I'll pay that shitstain Ashwood back. It'll take some fucking time, but I'll do it." The Steward lets out a bark of laughter, "Without breaking the war-torn, rebuilding town." He lifts up his own tankard, taking a solid slug of the bitter beer, "Not many people like it. Mire beer. Fucking mother's milk." He clears his throat, "Ana says you want to swear to Stonebridge."
"She'd curse them." Obviously despite the logic, Emrys believes his sister to be a witch-and perhaps that is where her power comes from. Simple belief than performing any sort of supernatural miracle. The Northman grimaces once before nodding. "It's fine and bitter. Cool, but I like it." he states before turning his tankard upside down once the heady drink is fully drained. As if Tyroan needed such a visual. "I suspect you will. I'd say murder his own son, but that's been done." or the babe died from other causes. "Did my sister tell you why I'd come looking for you?"
Tyroan waves off the logical response, "She'd do more than that." He takes another slug of beer, "No, I'm going to murder something he fucking likes a whole lot fucking more. I'm going to fucking murder his treasury." He gestures to one of the tall chairs, leaning against the edge of the table, "No. She didn't. She fucking thought you should tell me yourself."
Emrys takes the offered chair and moves ti sit himself down, before he is looking back towards his good brother- a reach across the table for the pitcher to pour himself some more drink, the Northman chuckles. "You're in the position to, here. Tax the hell out of him- doubtful he can get a better way through to the twins." And there he looks back up. "Very good then. I'm done with my service to the Boltons and with war over, I thought I'd find a Lord looking for a blade." And there he merely stares. "Preferably, someone I know."
Tyroan nods his head, "It's a matter of figuring out at what fucking point it gets cheaper to ship things over the ferry at Heronhurst, or overland to the Roost and then to his little shit kingdom." The bald Steward waves that point away, then focuses in on the matter at hand, taking another sip of his beer, "We can use another fucking sword. We can use another godsdamned good head here even more. Why down in the Riverlands though? Why not go up with fucking Lord Stark?" The curse, like most of his others, is not an insult, just an unthinking interjection.
"Then talk with the Erenfords and the Roost. I am sure they won't mind milking the wolf head dry. After all the Terricks were in poor straights when I was there, and I am sure the Erenfords do not care for the Ashwoods at all." Emrys states before he eyes his beer for a moment. "Because my kin remaining is down here. And though I have proven Loyal to Lord Stark and to all of the North, I feel it would do me good to see something else than snow and ice." he adds with a brief glance up. "Do you want it?" His sword, of course.
Tyroan nods his head, "I'm still trying to decide how fucking far I want to push this. I know Rafferdy's guilty as fuck. He godsdamned well admitted it himself. That's why I worded the damned charges the way I did. You know as well as I do that a fight can go any fucking way." Evidently, the Steward wasn't expecting the Seven to take a personal hand in the Trial by Combat. "And yes. I want smart, dedicated men willing to do what it fucking takes to make Stonebridge work. The problem is, I don't have coin. You'll have to live fucking lean."
"If he admitted it to you, then someone can kill him for other reasons."Emrys allows before he is looking back towards the bald steward with a grim smile. "Maybe he insults someone who is not so keen on letting him live.." and there he lets that drop. As to the other there is a brief pause before he nods. "I looted on the Islands. I do not mind living lean here." he adds. "I've lived lean before-this will not deter me." Clearly he has his reasons, whether or not fully shared.
Tyroan nods his head, "You swear to Stonebridge, you won't be swearing to me." He glances to the door, and leaves 'not yet' unsaid. "You'll be swearing to Lady Isolde Nayland, but I'll be taking your oath in her name." He drains off the last of his beer, then sets his tankard down. "Aeron could use a Northern man around." Not that his son isn't a man himself, already widowed once. "He'll never be a Riverlander, for all that he's a Nayland. So he could use someone to look up to besides Ana."
"That will be fine. But, should this Isolde Nayland do something to betray my trust, please know I will not suffer her." Emrys offers with a faint crack. There is a glance back to the door and then he nods for a moment more beer drained for such a thing. "Well then Lady Isolde will have my sword, and your son will grow his balls or lose em." Emrys adds with a faint smirk. "He is kin. I will do my best in those regards." He adds, before he is rising up. "I will bring my sword to swear to you on the morrow-Likely as I am now, I need to feed my gut with something other than beer."
Tyroan nods his head sharply, "I'm sure she'll release you of your oaths if she fucking pisses you off." He waves off the suggestion of his son losing his balls, "I'm not trying to fucking pass him off to you or anything like that. Just someone who might have some time to spend with him. He's taking me hunting soon." He nods again, "Do that. With the fucking sword." And then he flashes a tight smirk, "And don't drink all my beer, godsdamn it, Emrys."