|Drinking with Royalty|
|Summary:||Nares and Prince Maron share a few drinks. Morvydd cameos.|
|Related Logs:||Westerosi invasion of the Iron Isles|
|Barrels. Lots of barrels.|
|Wed Mar 28, 289|
Within the castle Pyke, ill news has arrived. Lordsport- the only viable landing point for an enemy army on the entire island, has fallen after three days of fighting. Robert Baratheon and his armies have landed upon Pyke. King Balon is wroth, Prince Rodrik has set about organizing the landward defenses, and Prince Maron has gone to the larders to secure a fresh drink. "Bloody fucking Botleys," he grouses aloud.
Even Morvydd knows it's best to stay out of the way, when the King is displeased. And she's managed to do so for most of the day; tending to the few patients in the infirmary in need of herbs to aid their rest, or ferrying messages here and there between the towers. All in all, it's been a relatively 'peaceful' day. If one doesn't count the air of savage excitement that remains, following word of Baratheon's arrival. Who knows where she is off to now, but her gliding pace through the halls brings her, inadvertently, in a similar direction to that of Prince Maron. Not her master, technically. But still royalty. She affords him a respectful bow, drawing to a halt at a short distance in order to bend at the waist. But she doesn't intrude upon his task. Frankly, it'd be best she go unnoticed.
It had not taken many long to note Nares' restlessness about not being in the fighting on Harlaw, but since the news from Lordsport he's been fair itching fair itching for a fight. And not just venting on some poor bastard who didn't know when to shut up after a few beers either, a proper fight, one that involved introducing sharp bits of steel to the thoraxes of an enemy. Repeatedly. Followed, ideally, but a productive spot of looting, burning and the like. He's been stuck at the keep though, using his years of experience to patch-up and restore any and all suits of mail that can be found from only the Drowned One knows where, or drilling less experienced men in the art of making someone else die for their sodding king. He's done for now though and figures he's due a drink. The complaining voice is recognised before he gets within line of sight and as he rounds the corner of the larder he offers the other man a brief nod, seems he's had similar ideas. "Prince Maron" is all that’s said in greeting before he helps himself to a tankardfull and it's only when he turns back that Morvydd is spotted. Her presence is given a faintly questioning frown before he just gives her a brief nod too.
"Asvard," Maron grunts in greeting, before following Nares' blance to Morvydd, and cracking a forced grin at his brother's retainer. The Greyjoy's eye goes back to the raider as he leans a shoulder against one wall and draws a long draught of what smells like beer. "Didn't expect the old Horned King to manage so many bastards against us. Heh. Maybe its for the best we didn't take that tumbledown Terrick castle, eh?"
The silver-haired young woman offers a reflexive scowl in kind toward Nares, when his gaze falls upon her. She lives here. What's he think he's frowning at? But, given their present company, she offers no scathing remark, for once, to convey her displeasure at his presence. As for Maron.. well. He's the less predictable of the brothers. Honestly, that's far more discomfiting to the witch than the ire of Rodrik. Meeting his glance unsmilingly, she regards him for a long moment of contemplation, before simply venturing further into the larder, setting to rummaging through the shelves in search of something. Or maybe she just wants an excuse to linger and see what Nares has to say, following these opening words.
Taking a drink, Nares grimaces slightly, turns his head and spits out a load of sediment. Turning back he shrugs slightly to Maron before making another attempt to quench his thirst. Seemingly more successful this time he then answers, "I dunno, there's be a few less of the fuckers if we'd put them all to the sword that night." Or that morning, if the initial attack had made it through the portcullis. "Seagard would have been nice though. That would have given 'em pause for thought." Also, not losing the majority of the fleet, that would really have helped. A pause for another drink before he asks, straight up, "What are the plans?" He's doing his best to just ignore Morvydd for now, but she gets the occasional glance, mostly just to keep track for now.
Talk of Seagard draws a savoring "Oooooh," punctuated by Maron's chuckle. "That it would've. Course if Uncle Victarion hadn't been outwitted and lost the damned Fleet, that would've been nicer." A snorts, hawks, and spits to the side. He glances with a crooked grin back at Morvydd, to add, "Damn shame Euron didn't see that trick coming. Enough to make a soul think he might not have wanted Victarion to win another battle." He shakes his head and exhales sharply, in looking back to Nares. "With Lordsport fallen, they'll bring the fucking catapults overland. Start hammering at the walls. Once they'd knocked down enough, they'll send their infantry. We'll throw them back in a bloody mess, because Westerosi infantry are pure shit, but after enough pushes, they'll bleed us enough that the fucking knights will feel safe wandering in." He shrugs, and states with flippant ease, "Then we kill them."
"Shame we couldn't borrow the Lannister's really," Nares retorts before just draining the rest of the tankard. The ships of the Golden Fleet would have been useful right about now after all. As for the plan, he mulls that over for a moment as she takes a refill, from a different ale this time then nods, "So a bit of a killing first followed by wholesale slaughter? I reckon thats simple enough to be able to stick to in the thick of things. Pointy end in Westerosi, repeat as required." A drink again, although slower this time, the worst of his thirst having been dealt with. "Nice of them to send the warm-up first though, I was starting to worry I might be a tad out of shape."
Maron barks out a short laugh, and gives a smile so keen that some have called it unsettling. "Never doubt the willingness of Westerosi lords to hide behind their peasants, Asvard. I just wonder if my dear brother will try his hand at single combat, again. Word is that Ser Harras' father beat the shit out of some Westerosi general, before they broke faith with him."
At the remark made about her beloved Euron, the young woman merely cuts Maron a level gaze in response, her expression at first betraying nothing. Until the ghost of a smirk tugs at one side of her mouth. Finding what she was looking for, apparently, she begins to unearth a small sack. Dried goods of some sort. Honestly, who knows what she might be concocting. Probably best not to imagine.
The news of Lord Rogr defeating a Westerosi, does not particularly surprise Nares, nor the news of the break of faith afterwards. What does surprise him though is the general fact that there has been word from Harlaw that he's somehow managed to miss. Damn it. Still, Maron seems to know. "He still holds the Garden?" he asks, tone somewhat more serious and inquiring. Morvydd is, for now at least, entirely discounted as a result.
"He holds the Keep, but not for long," Maron answers Nares. "The ditches, dykes, and lower city are taken by the Riverlords. The Mallisters lost command, some lesser lord is running the army now." A shake of his head. "Rogr Harlaw is as hard a Lord as any in the Isles, but even he can't hold out forever. Once the Grey Gardens fall, that will free up another host to come at us. Might want to steer clear of Harras, by the by-" he advises as an aside. "Having word like this from his home has put the Knight in a right foul temper."
Hefting the small sack into her arms and hugging it close, lest she spill any of the contents, Morvydd calmly makes her way past the two men without a glance, headed back out to the dark hallways and then.. who knows where.
As the Witch moves in his peripheral vision, Nares turns his head a fraction to track her progress. Once she's gone he turns back to Maron and takes a drink. "Fucking Riverlanders," is his thought out and elegant reply before he asks as well, "Ten Towers?" THat one's his home after all, if you don't count Ironman's Bay in general. "I can understand where he's coming from with that," he then admits, referring to Ser Harras. Still, it'll give him extra energy when the fight is brought here." Not that he's seen the knight lack for it, but still every little helps.
"Ten Towers won't last out the week. Artillery made a ruin of their walls; without relief from Grey Garden, they might have surrendered already," Maron spits with a shake of his head. "Not lost yet, Asvard, m'lad. But damned if this whole business didn't look a whole lot better a month ago, eh?"
"Fuck it," Nares replies, "we should've burnt them out and slaughtered their children in front of them." Children after all, being too young and weak to make efficient thralls. He takes another drink before tossing the now empty tankard to one side. "Fuel to the fire though, they'll pay dear coming in range of these walls." If he hasn’t been able to make a difference on Harlaw, then he figures he's damn well going to here. "We'll give the King something to be proud of yet," he adds, straightening a little, "he'll be able to bathe in Westerosi blood, should he choose."
"If I'd known my dear Uncles would fuck up our Fleet so badly, I would have," Maron scoffs with a toss of his head. "Every reverse up 'til now means nothing if we can kick Baratheon's backside back to the mainland, here. Our fates are resting in our own swordhands, and there's nothing more a man can ask than that, eh Asvard?"
Nares mimes an sword thrust and grins slightly, "pointed end goes in Westerosi. Yeah, I think we can manage that." He regrets, momentarily, discarding his tankard, but figures there'll be others around when he can be bothered to look. "A ship for Baratheon's head?" he asks, only half in jest, "I'd have gone for any of the Lords, but after your Uncles…."
Maron grins back at Asvard. "A ship for EVERY noble head, Asvard. But they've gotta be noble houses I've heard of- none of this 'Oh, he's the lord of House Butterball of Fuckface Hall' shit- I've heard it all," he quips with a snicker.
Nares straightens fully, squaring his shoulders. "Admiral Nares," he starts nodding his head in satisfaction as he does, "has a bit of a ring to it I think." He then glances back to Maron and adds, "just so long as you don't expect me to quote their ancestry as well, I'm not sure an entire fleet could make me give that much of a fuck about who shagged who centuries ago."
"Asvard, I dont give a shit about who I fucked hours ago, what makes you think I care half a whit for some reeking Westerosi?" Maron snickers. "We win here, my lad, and the world is ours for the taking, again."