|Summary:||Eyrian is a guest of Tower Hall.|
|Related Logs:||Tournament of Song|
|Isolde's Chamber - Tower Hall|
|A high headboard crowns the bed with carved flowers and vines at the top, a faded green velvet over blanket settled to decorate over the quilt beneath. A few pill pillows decorate the standard affair and a robe and dressing gown rest over the footboard. A chest is set at the side of the bed, open and showing a few personal items beneath folded blankets and robes. On the opposite side of the bed is the double slitted windows, a small table and chair set next to it with quill and scrolls rolled atop. Next to the chair and directly inward from the door is the hearth. Upon the mantle is strapped several dried bundles of lavender and rosemary that gives the room it's scent. An oval shaped rug of soft creams and greens decorates the main floor and the right wall holds the low chest of drawers.|
|Thur July 28, 288|
Igara accompanies Eyrian with girlish charm up to the Lady of Stonebridge's very chanber, where both of the Ladies are presently installed. She has cool wine and fresh water brought and served at table, and sees their guest settled into a seat before she takes her own, gesturing to the larger and smaller goblet set out for their guest. "Please. Drink. You must be parched." It remains to Eyrian, of course, to decide whether the wine is safe to drink.
Despite the gracious hospitality, Eyrian very much feels like a caged and cornered animal. Her dark eyes flicker to the cups motioned to, shifting in her seat with the lyre in her lap. She offers a faint smile and then dips a 'thank you m'lady'. Hesitation creeps through her as she sets the lyre upon the floor and reaches forward. Water would be the prudent option but the other half of her thought process takes hold of the wine goblet and sits back, sipping at it slowly.
Igara waits until the servants are out of the way, leaning forward just a little, drinking of her water once the minstrel's had something to drink, then taking a sip of wine, herself. "I really did like your song, you know," she speaks a little bit more frankly to this Lady Blackmane. "I told my cousin as much. I wish we might have given you the prize. Still, it was nice to be able to show there are no rough feelings for Terrick's Roost. At least none that would stand in the way of a fair competition."
The goblet is slowly drawn back from her lips as the Lady speaks and she cups the bottom with her other hand. A brow lifts and she smiles faintly, dipping her head. "My Lady is too kind." Play the roll of able and sound servant. "Political needs are first and foremost, there need not be any explanation to me. Besides, I am sure you could hardly gift the Lady Blackmane with anything. That would surely propose a bad image." Sip of the wine, she keeps her gaze on Igara's.
Igara lifts a shoulder quite apologetically. "You do understand, of course," she assents to the prognosis with a wide-eyed sympathy. "I did wish to give you a prize of my own, though, if you'll allow me to. I felt something nigh on kinship with you, as you sang, if your words were sung truly from your heart. Were they, so? Or was it only another mask?" she wonders, no judgement in the question— she knows well the value of a good mask. But she is curious.
"My Lady is true in speaking of masks, but we all have them." Eyrian says, dipping her head to still show respect. "But as for that song…I meant it. I was raised in Flint's Finger near the Flint Cliffs. The North is my home and often it gives me great joy to remember it in both thought and song." She does not look away, "But…as for Lady Blackmane, she was not invented by me…and when she was. I sought to sing a song of it.." Her voice trails and her brows furrow. "One man's bid to be humorous in defense of me turned on me in the end…"
"A man's word is sometimes all it takes for us to be ruined for good. I fear it is a woman's lot, in these lands, even if in the North she may fly free of them, as you have so beautifully sung," Igara gives a worn-sounding sigh, though she covers it in a smile and a sip of wine, then stands, "You will let me give you some token of my esteem for your talent, I hope."
The minstrel looks at her with a wounded depth to her eyes as she speaks of men, "Not just a word but by cruel actions too." She pauses and continues "My Lady, there is little I have need as long as I have the open air and road to walk. I do enjoy my travels, but I have lost much." Eyrian folds her hands over the goblet, dipping her head further forward. "You honor me…but there is no need to present me with such things. You have allowed me a comfort instead of what I was expecting."
"As I have said… I feel a sort of heart-kinship with you, and that which you have suffered here touches me deeply," Igara moves to where her wardrobe has been set up, "I don't have much with me, I fear, but do let me to give you something. I fear what comfort I can give you will be short-lived. But tonight you will stay here, with us, as our guest." She opens a box and smiles, drawing out a silver chain. "This will do nicely, I should think. Tonight you are our guest. On the morrow, or the next day, if the Ironers accept our offer to return, you will no longer be in our care, but in the care of the law." She returns to Eyrian's side. "I give you this as a token of my esteem. But do not think I will be angry if you find it pays your way out of some trouble along the line. Offer it to the Ironers. If they value it more than they do justice, you may well find yourself at liberty once more. Give me your arm." She means to fasten the jewelry to the woman.
Watching Igara stand and move to gather what she will, Eyrian tenses some. A guest for now and the minstrel gazes to the silver that starts to twist in the faint light of candles. She wets her lips, throat drying at the next words from the Lady. She pales some, dark eyes lowering for a mom,ent as she thinks over the prospect of being in the care of the ironborn. Lashes fall over her eyes and finally she lifts her left arm for the Lady, she plays the lyre with her right. "My Lady…the hand of the ironborn is rough and cruel..they take what they want and thought all mean are prone to this…they are more so. Brutal and savage…" There is something unsaid about her time as Maron Greyjoy's guest. "I would let the Law of the Riverlands see justice, but not them. I have no right to ask it, but not them."
Igara pauses, not fastening the jewelry yet to the young Miss' lower arm, but meeting her eyes. "Miss. I do for you what I can, in this," she gestures faintly with the silder, raising both of her brows. "You may accept such aid as I am able to give, or you may choose not to. It is, to large degree, out of my hands." She swallows, once, looking the woman over with an assessing stare. "I may… see if I may speak to my cousin once more, on the topic, and attempt to intercede on your behalf. But I will be quite overstepping my bounds as her Lady in Waiting and guest in this household, were I so to do. If I am able to secure you a trial under Riverland law…" she begins slowly, thoughtfully, "I would hope that my efforts on your behalf would be remembered well… by you… as well as by your champion, if I should ever find myself in need of service."
As the Lady hesitates, Eyrian widens her gaze at tidge. That gift dangling before her, the minstrel presses her lips together tightly and seems of the mind about to refuse. Such deals often do not end well and the commoner knows it. But the rough hand of the ironborn shakes the hesitation away and her hand lifts, extending it further to the Lady to allow her to attach what is nearly like a leash. "I will remember you Lady, fo your kindesses and offers. As for my champion, he dueled for his own ends and I can not speak for him. But I am sure, as you are a Noble Lady, he would not hesitate his services."
When the ornament is untangled and extended, it turns out to be a fairly intricate piece of jewelry, to be worn over the sleeve, clasped once around the wrist and once further up the arm, with a diamond shape of chain linking the two, the pointed edges of the diamond also clasping together into a pattened sleevelet of silver. "How fetching," she murmurs, seeing it on the woman. "Are you able to pen letters?" she wonders of the woman. "You might write to him, and ask after his loyalty. Only I should blush for him to bow to me, myself. Let it be this mythical Blackmane that he serves. Tell him she requests him to find his way once more under the banner of Terrick."
The piece of finery is given a wide eye, her arm drawing back to turn it before her. The sleeve of that blouse is tucked over it quickly. She might lose her hand just over that and she means to keep it from being seen. Eyrian looks up at the mention of penning, "No, my Lady…" she starts and then her lips part and her face falls. "Lady Blackmane..he knows it a tale. He used it to get his duel and I suffered for it greatly. My Lady he will need your name, not mine to believe anything that comes to him in writ." She swallows and rubs a hand over that hidden bracelet, so odd to find such a thing upon her person.
"A Lady does not bandy her name about in letters," Igara murmurs. Better never to leave a paper trail. "He knows it is not your name. Tell him that another has taken it up, and will contact him thus. It is a terrible name, all and all. Sounds like something a little boy would name his horse," she laughs brightly. "But there's no sense in it going to waste."
"My Lady, why would he trust a Lady Blackmane?" Eyrian is quick to ask. "He would not be fooled by it.." She frowns some but presses her lips together. She can not speak out or question her but the minstrel shifts that wine goblet about and sets it aside. "I can not write either way, m'lady." She says.
"I should hope him not foolish enough to think there is such a person," Igara returns. "Only that there is someone who thinks the name worth using." She looks at the woman askance, eyes narrowed. "You hesitate and make excuse. I should think you more eager to cooperate, in your current circumstance, Miss. But if that is not the case, we can cease talks as they stand. Do be so kind as to play for me again, dearest Miss."
"My Lady….I hesitate because the name has brought me naught but pain." Eyrian keeps her gaze on the Lady, sitting forward some and then presses her hands to her legs. Her gaze lowers. "I merely say I do not know how to write because who would write this letter for me otherwise?" Deeper holes are being dug and the minstrel gives a look to the dark night outside the window. Her head lifts and she waits for Igara, wetting her lips, "But I would be deeply honored to play for my lady again. I have a song of the sea or a song of wistful love.."
Igara wrinkles up her nose just a little bit at the notion of a song on wistful love, as if she were still at the age where a song on the threat of cooties might still better apply. "Sing me a song of the sea," she contents herself with taking up her embroidery and settling on a lounging couch nearby the door, curling her legs up to her side and starting up stitching, outwardly peaceful, but behind her eyes a deep river of thought is still churning away.
"As my Lady bids, so it shall be." Eyrian watches her carefully and then reaches down for her lyre. Moving to the edge of her seat so she can use the instrument, she tunes it slowly, the notes filling the room at first before she clears her throat. She hmmms a bit, stroking through the notes a moment before she finds it. Her gaze drifts and she begins to the slow introduction to the sone before the upbeat tune rises with some energy.
Our anchor we'll weigh,
And our sails we will set.
The friends we are leaving,
We leave with regret,
Hurrah, my boys, we're homeward bound.
We're homeward bound,
Oh joyful sound!
Come rally the capstan,
And run quick around.
Hurrah, my boys, we're homeward bound.