Water and Iron Equals Rust |
Summary: | A song for the Knight that unseated the Ironborn is interrupted by the Maron Greyjoy. Things end not so well. |
Date: | 23/07/2011 |
Related Logs: | Tourney at Stonebridge |
Players: |
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Crane's Crossing Inn - Stonebridge |
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While Crane's Crossing is technically an Inn, it caters to the traveling nobility almost exclusively. The floors around the heart are finely crafted stonework, as is the slate blocks that the firepit is constructed of. The rest of the floor is done in stained oak that matches the few long tables and the chairs. The rest of the main room is furnished with plush couches and seating to entice visitors to delay their leave. A full service kitchen provides food of all kinds as well as high quality ales and wines. Also available are several women to provide hospitality to the lonely or those in need, the quality of them to be beaten by but a few in the Riverlands. A hallway near the kitchen leads off to the rear of the building and several up-scale rooms. |
Sat July 24, 288 |
Still clad in his black armor, a sore Ser Kevan has apparently had enough of the saddle for one day, as he leads his horse by the reins on foot. Despite his quick defeat at the hands of Ser Andrey, the lowborn knight still walks with his head held high, as the day was not a total loss. As he leaves the tournament grounds and heads back to his lodgings, he's rejoined by his hawk, who swoops down to take her place on Kevan's outstretched arm.
The joust had drawn many and amongst them the Lady Blackmane as she is becoming known, but not by face, by story. Eyrian tosses a hand through her dark hair and catches sight of the black armor. A brow lofts above a dark eye and she pauses, lips drawing up into a quirk of a smile. The hawk also adds quite the contrast and she starts humming the beginning of a new song. "Knight of blackened armor deep…" Lyrics come to mind and she continue to hum it as she picks up her step, coming along the other side of his horse. She shhhhs it and places her hand against its side and runs up along it's side to soothe the animal to her presence. As she comes to front of the horse she tilts her head down to look at the knight on the other side. "Ser." She says, "Were you the one to unseat the Ironborn?" She asks, still from the other side of the horse.
Normally alert, Kevan fails to notice the woman's approach; startled, he draws to a stop when she addresses him. A hand reaches up automatically to reassure Leviathan, but it turns out the large horse already his reassurance in the form of Eyrian's hand along his side. The creature snorts, his ears twitching, but remains calm. For his part, Kevan's ice blue eyes study the woman and her colorful ensemble for a long moment before he nods. "Aye, 'twas I that had the honor," he replies curiously, his tone hoarse, but courteous enough. "What of it?"
Looking surprised, Eyrian smiles, "Ahhh but you underestimate the wealth of song and story that will come of this tourney. Mallister, Frey…Greyjoy. ANd you unhorsed their representative. Well done, Ser." She continue to brush her hand to the horses neck and then moves to get a better look of Kevan, coming about the horse fully. She shifts her lyre upon her back. "I think perhaps, your joust is worth writing about, riverman, unhorsing and ironborn. That will do fairly well I think.."
At Eyrian's congratulations, Kevan sketches a sardonic little bow, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I thank you. Ser Harras was… a worthy opponent." Several choice epithets for the ironborn come to mind, but none escape his lips. "A singer, are you? You should know that no gentle lord am I, dear woman, for men to cheer or women to swoon at my exploits." His smile widens slightly. "But I must confess the tilt against Ser Harras gave me no small pleasure, and it is not only the tales of lordly men that stirs a beating heart, hm? Go on, then, songstress, write your tale. I would be right pleased to hear it sung."
"Ahhh but legends are not always made by Lords and Ladies….the smallfolk love to hear of one of their own. It gives them heart.." Eyrian is fast to supply. She shifts before him and draws out her lyre, humming word as it slides from her shoulder. She strums a note or two. Then slowly she begins to piece something together. "Your name….I fear I do not remember it well..too far away to hear." A brow arches and the taps her foot a moment to a beat as she tunes the string.
The hedge knight grunts. "Ah, how rude of me. Ser Kevan Tierney, at your service, miss…" Kevan fishes for an introduction of his own as he sketches another little half-bow. He eases the hawk from one hand to the other as he watches Eyrian begin to pluck at her lyre. "Aye, perhaps you've the right of it," Kevan says with a nod to the woman. "You'd be like to know better than I, at any rate. I always did have a certain fondness for the tales of Ser Duncan the Tall, myself… started out a lowborn hedge knight, that one." He preens ever so slightly at that; after all, the legendary hero of the Kingsguard did hail from the same common background Kevan himself had.
"Exactly, it is the tales of those that are of the common make that give people the most purpose." Eyrian intones and then lowers her lyre as she sketches a deep bow, one hand flourishing downward. "Lady Blackmane to some, but then, that would be against the law." She grins and rises, "Eyrian of the North…" She offers. "Minstrel extraodrinare, no knighthood here, though I can't deny the chance to try would be something worth singing about." She beams and then shifts, "Come, we can talk more over a drink. That is if you are not headed for elsehwere."
Ser Kevan utters a chuckle at Eyrian's elaborate introduction. "Pleased to make your acquaintance… Lady Blackmane." There's a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he says the name. "And weary I may be, but I never turn down a chance to drink in such fair company. I'll take you up on that offer, songstress." He motions to the road. "Come, then. The Ironborn are paying for my drinks today." Defeating Ser Harras won him a nice purse in order for the iron knight to keep his armor and weapons. He doesn't mention having to ransom his own equipment back from Ser Andrey, but then a hedge knight's gear never commands as much gold as that of a nobler man. "I'll buy you a drink, and you can talk of my exploits, hm?" The blond man grins.
A cheerful laugh escapes her, "You flatter me good, Ser, but I shall take the compliment none the less..for a rainy day per chance." She touches the pouch on her side. "I never have a need or care during tournies such as this." She turns in place, keeping her pace to walking backwards to face him somewhat better, a grey stone necklace about her throat, it swings as she turns back about. "I will go inside and find a place, I am sure it is quite full." She tosses a look over her shoulder and re-slings the lyre over her shoulder, singing a few lyrics.
"I'm not going anywhere," Kevan says as Eyrian goes to find a tavern. He watches her go for a moment before turning back to attend to his horse and his bird. "Well, well," he murmurs, looking to the hawk as he eases her off his fist to rest on the horse's saddle. "That would be something, no? To hear minstrels and tavern singers one day singing our praises. I can think of poorer outcomes to such a life as this, eh?" The words are spoken softly, directed to no one but the bird and the horse. As he tends to travel alone, they tend to be his most common partners in conversation — even if they have little to say themselves.
Snaking her way through the tavern, Eyrian was not stopped truly by any, maybe a passing glance or two to the dark haired woman with white in her hair but nothing more. Managing to watch as a table vacates, she takes to it rather swift. Even as a few standing groan at her, she flashes them a big smile and gets comfortable at the table. The Inn is literally packed, the patronage brimming due to the tourney ands he has to literaly try to reach for a server and never quite succeeds. So the table is without drink for the moment and she sorely laments it.
Kevan enters the tavern not long after Eyrian; his horse is tied up outside, and the bird sent on her way to fly, or hunt, or whatever it is she does on the occasions Kevan must go indoors. Finding the minstrel after several seconds of searching the crowded room, he makes his way through the throng towards her table. It's slow work; though no one is foolish enough to block the way of an armed and armored man, the place is crowded almost beyond belief. Finally though, he reaches the table and sets himself down with a sigh. He notices the lack of drink rather quickly, and perhaps guessing Eyrian's difficulty, stands up long enough to corral a harried-looking serving girl by the arm. "An ale for me," he tells the startled-looking wench, "and for my companion…" His eyes switch to Eyrian, the question apparent in his eyes.
"A water.." She supplies quickly, "Wine and ale go to my head and I prefer to keep my wits about me. It is others I like to ply with drink so that my performances are received more grandly." Eyrian nods to the girl and shifts, getting comfortable in such a way to rest a leg beneath her other, hooking so that her skirts hike up to her knees. Shoes slide off and barefeet with rings glitter in the dim light of their chosen location. "So tell me, Ser..are you from the Riverlands?" She is tapping out a beat beneath the table and counting syllables on her fingers against her cheek. "Because it will change the tone of my song entirely if you are not…"
Kevan laughs, turning the serving girl loose and sending her on her way. "As you will, then." He reassumes his seat, a hand pushing the cloak off his shoulders. Leaning back in his seat, the knight stretches out his weary legs as he responds. "Aye, I'm a local product, though some say I don't look it." He's got the blond hair of a Westerman, and the fair skin of a Northman, though he's as much a Riverman as anyone else in the room. "I was given birth in a village off the Ironman's Bay, little less than a day's ride west of Oldstones. Ironborn raiders sacked it when I was but a teenaged apprentice, though, and I hear it's not been rebuilt since." He shrugs. "To speak truly, it was never much a place to look at when it still stood. It's doubtful Westeros will miss its lack."
Listening to his story, Eyrian is brushing her feet to the bottom of that worn and soiled floor without care. No lady herself, she is lucky. Her spirit is far too carefree to stay locked away as they do But her brows lift and she draws her head up from her hand, dark hair stirring about her face. "Oh but Ser, if your birthplace performed such graces as yourself, than it shall be missed." SHe smirks some, eyes glinting. "It seems then you unseating the Ironborn Knight was a blessing and a score well won for you. Hear hear!" She calls, tapping her fingers to the table. "All the more to sweeten the song…" SHe tests the song and leans her head into her hand, testing a few lines.
Low rolls the wind over the fields, and blue the sky above
A riverlands man he claim to be
And the land he truly love
Kevan laughs. "You flatter me, miss." Though, truth be told, he certainly won't turn away the praise. "As I said before, the Iron Knight was a worthy opponent, not like the wretched cravens who stalk the coasts in ships, looking for smallfolk to plunder and butcher. But iron is iron, and all iron rusts in the end. Unhorsing Ser Harras was but a fraction of the measure of revenge I hope to achieve, but I shall not deny that it came as a great satisfaction all the same." He quiets as she begins to sing.
SHe grins at something he says and Eyrian clears her throat hearkening a verse that is likely not to be the beginning of the song.
With strength in his shield and heart in his lance
Rode forth the ironborn to meet
Together they met like foes on a field
Each other to unseat.
Considering something, she taps her finger. "I may use your comment of iron rusts in the end, I do like it. In rusts in Riverland waters…" She grins further, an impish look crossing her face. "Oh what tale will stir the hearts of your people."
As the song continues, Kevan follows along with a smile. It's a catchy tune, sure enough, but what man ever disliked a song in which he was the main subject? "Use it as you will. It'll likely sound more impressive in your song than it did from my lips, anyway." Another laugh. "I'd be happier if it instilled fear in the hearts of my enemies, but I'll not tell a songstress how to work at her craft. And as you say, inspiration can be good for the soul."
"Oh dear Ser, one must be humble first. Much better to surprise one's enemy and I am hardly finished. What instills love for the subject is the relation people can take with it. Let them cheer you for a noble heart, not an hardened fist. Far too many of those, if you ask me." She says, folding her arms on the table and trilling her fingers along the worn wood. "Come, I shall sing you of silly iron lander who decided to love the sea. He waited for quite some time, but she never came to he…" She eyes him long and hard, grinning a bit more. "Though, you have a kind face. I think the song suit you. It is the stout of heart that are most loved….are you that, good Ser?"
Kevan inclines his head. "You speak wise, dear lady. As I say, I would not presume to tell you your craft, as you so clearly know your work far better than I. In truth, I do not disagree. I have known too many hard men in my time. The world could do with a few less of their ilk." The blond knight relaxes in his chair, reaching for the drink finally brought to him by the serving girl. "Stout enough, songstress. No man yet lives who has named me craven, at least." He raises his drinking horn. "Go on and sing, then. I shall drink to your skill."
Laughing softly, "Not craven I think…perhaps a few more jousts and tumbles of your horse will do it?" She asks him. Eyrian by nature is delighted at even the worst of time and so as he says to sing, she takes up her lyre. "Foolish ironborn, in love with their drowned god.." She makes a bit show of it, lifting her voice to catch the ear of more than a few. Her warm sultry sounding voice breaks out to tune her lyre to it. She tilts her head and the lively tune picks up, an intro that has her foot tapping and a few others as well as her body moves in her seat with it.
Oh-high, high rise the sea!
The water give way back in the lee
Oh-high, high rise the moon!
The bay hears the lone call of the loon.
Too-rah, the boats swing and sway.
The docks are full up all of the day
Too-rah, I wait here for you
And sing my sweet song in hopes for to woo
Sweet ladies at port they do not relent
For quick is my step and knees are unbent
They call out to me in hope and dismay
As I keep on walking, I will not delay.
The sun! The sun! It calls for to me
Sweet lady in blue, gem of the sea!
Wear no more bells, sing no more song!
For where you go runnin' I'll come along!
"I'll not fear a tumble," Kevan replies, but it's not said in the tone of an idle boast. "Every defeat holds inside it a lesson. If the lesson does not kill you in its teaching, the stronger you'll be in the end for it." He quiets again as Eyrian bursts into song once more, taking a long swig from his mug as the words spill from her mouth. His foot bobs in time with the music, and he finds himself humming along a few bars into the song.
She rises from her seat and turns about, facing a few of the other men listening and dancing. Eyrian is not just a singer, but prides in her performance as she turns back about, slinging behind Kevan's chair as the song bubbles out further. There is a steady thump taken in by the few near her, hands clamping our boots hit the floor. She laughs between verses and grins further as she edges about the crowd, barefoot with skirts gathered by a shash and layered, creating pockets but allowing it to flare when she spins. Once the beat picks up, she puts her lyre to her back and claps too.
Oh-high, high rise the sea!
The water give way back in the lee
Oh-high, high rise the moon!
The bay hears the lone call of the loon.
Too-rah, the boats swing and sway.
The docks are full up all of the day
Too-rah, I wait here for you
And sing my sweet song in hopes for to woo
Give all my fortunes and daily expense
For your hand alone there'd be no pretense
Beautiful Lady, I sing only for thee
My song yours alone, a desperate plea!
Love, love! The waves beat the tune!
Upon your white shores drenched by the moon.
There I will dance, hope and await
A sprite of the sea your soul for to sate.
Eyrian turns and comes about to Kevan's side and offers her hand. "Join me.." She asks of him over the sudden growing sound of a beat being hammered out by mugs on the bar and on tables, hands and feet.
Kevan hesitates, but only for a moment. Amidst the shouts of encouragement and delight from the other patrons at the impromptu performance, Ser Kevan rises to his feet and accepts the offered hand. He moves stiffly at first, surprised by the sudden attention, but makes no attempt to beg off. Joining her in the dance, he allows himself to relax, and his movements prove surprisingly limber for someone still wearing parts of his armor. "You continue to surprise me, dear lady," he says to Eyrian, admiration in his tone. The singer certainly has style, he'll readily admit.
"Surprise, no Ser…." Eyrian smiles some up at him and then steps back away, staying close as she the beat continues to be marched out by the throng. "Stick with me.." She kicks he feet a little, skippng from one to the other with the tune. The last verse is taken up.
Oh-high, high rise the sea!
The water give way back in the lee
Oh-high, high rise the moon!
The bay hears the lone call of the loon.
Too-rah, the boats swing and sway.
The docks are full up all of the day
Too-rah, I wait here for you
And sing my sweet song in hopes for to woo
The sailors they say I'm spent in my head
They do not know, without you I'm dead.
Lovesick they say, my heart for to break.
Your lips of wine red I will not forsake
Pearls, pearls! All through your long hair!
Shimmer like stars, my gaze to ensnare
Harness your charm, direct it to me
For I am your lover! A Lord of the sea!
The chorus is repeated once more as she turns to the hedge knight, flushed with her performance. By now several have picked up the words and half sing along, which means she need not sing out too much. As the song ends, she catches her breath and the cheers go up, some continuing to tap out the beat, even as they meander into different songs. "It is an easy thing, good knight…to get a tourney crowd going. Especially when there is drink to be had and fights to watch." She winks.
"Surprise, no Ser…." Eyrian smiles some up at him and then steps back away, staying close as she the beat continues to be marched out by the throng. "Stick with me.." She kicks he feet a little, skippng from one to the other with the tune. The last verse is taken up.
Oh-high, high rise the sea!
The water give way back in the lee
Oh-high, high rise the moon!
The bay hears the lone call of the loon.
Too-rah, the boats swing and sway.
The docks are full up all of the day
Too-rah, I wait here for you
And sing my sweet song in hopes for to woo
The sailors they say I'm spent in my head
They do not know, without you I'm dead.
Lovesick they say, my heart for to break.
Your lips of wine red I will not forsake
Pearls, pearls! All through your long hair!
Shimmer like stars, my gaze to ensnare
Harness your charm, direct it to me
For I am your lover! A Lord of the sea!
The chorus is repeated once more as she turns to the hedge knight, flushed with her performance. By now several have picked up the words and half sing along, which means she need not sing out too much. As the song ends, she catches her breath and the cheers go up, some continuing to tap out the beat, even as they meander into different songs. "It is an easy thing, good knight…to get a tourney crowd going. Especially when there is drink to be had and fights to watch." She winks.
His weariness forgotten, Kevan too is flushed and short on breath as the song finally ends. An adrenaline-fueled laugh escapes his lips, and he bows to Eyrian, an almost courtly bow that would not have looked out of place coming from a noble lord to his highborn dance partner. "As I can see plain, myself," he replies, brushing his cloak aside and wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "Speaking of drink…" The serving girl is moving through the crowd with several drinking horns in hand, and he intercepts her to grab one, taking a long pull. She squawks indignantly, but quiets once he shoves a pair of copper coins into her hand to replace the lost drink. "With my apologies to its intended," he explains, before drinking again.
As the chorus is picked up and repeated, the Crane's Crossing recieves a fresh row of ducklings. The doors swing open and in stagger a merry trio of fair haired, fair bearded Ironmen. "Lord of the Sea?" laughs one, ruddy face already well flushed with drink. "The Lords.. of the Sea, have arrived," he laughingly declares, slapping a hand on the countertop and calling for, "Ale for the Sea Lords!" to the laughs of his comrades.
The inn has grown rather loud now with all the singing that had gone on. Eyrian turns to reach for her water, stepping away from the knight. Shifting her lyre on her back, she brushes past a few people, shifting about. Yet as the proclamation is made, the minstrel lifts her head and gazes through the crowd with a lean of her head. She tries to get a look, lifting on her toes as she edges closer to the bar. A man nudges her, resting her towards the bar away from Kevan. "Another song, miss, another song." They protest another taking it up as she clings to the edge. She colors some, the grey stone beads swinging at her neck as she smiles, "Maybe another time.."
Kevan's present good spirits are dampened slightly when the three ironborn — and with those beards, they could be nothing else — enter the tavern. Cold blue eyes fixate on the rowdy trio as Kevan continues to work on his own drink. "Ironmen," he mutters with a sigh, before turning back to Eyrian and raising his mug to her. "Quite a performance, miss," he says, not shouting but still able to make himself heard over the din.
The most vocal of the Ironborn- the slightly shorter man with the broadsword at his belt- continues laughing, finding something tremendously funny in the goings-on. Of the others, one is more reserved, and silent, keeping an eye moving about the room, while the third lands somewhere in between. "Bah! You can't row to a tune like that!" he declares, to the fading melody lingering among the inn's patrons. "Did all the rhythm leave the Riverlands with Harren?" he asks, breaking into raucous humor again.
Bristled by the words of the ironmen, Kevan gets a nod and Eyrian begins to bolding push her way through the crowd. "Perhaps you can't row because you have no sense of rythmn, ser. Or maybe it's because you can't row at all." Soon she can be seen and the dark eyed woman tilts her head, studying the lords. "Let us here what you can do then, my Lord. Sing away, get us going." She waves her hand a bit and gives a faint bow to them.
Kevan snorts at the jeers of the ironborn. "You want rowing chanties," he calls out from his perch by the bar, "go to a harbor. You'll hear none such here. You're a long way from your own halls, ironmen." Casting an almost defiant glance at the three Iron Islanders, he drains the last of his mug, planting it on the bar in front of him with a solid thwock.
"Ha!" the ironman barks, turning his wide smile from the innkeep to the bold minstrel. "Here's a spot of luck- I just happen to have an oar for you to practice your rowing on," he snickers. Carrying his head forward at a crooked angle, unkept blond hair hanging half in front of his face. "You'll just love keeping time," the Islander promises, before his ear and eye are tugged toward Kevan. "Are we now? Half the halls in the Riverlands were raised by my kin- Heh.. and the other half were raised after my kin razed the first!" For some reason, the drunk Ironman finds the answer hilarious.
Letting out a long breath, Eyrian keeps her gaze narrowed. "Seems the guests to the Riverlands have left their manners upon their cold irons. I think your sense of humor has been lost to that drowned god of yours." The Minstrel does not back down and her gaze flits a moment over her shoulder towards Kevan and then forward again. "I heard your Knight got ousted by one of our own…fell right on his ass. He said the ground wasn't soft enough for his waterborn ass." Fingers curl at her hips and it is obvious she carries some dislike of the ironborn, that grey stone necklace swinging as she shifts, dark hair brushed back behind her ear.
For his part, Kevan bristles when the drunk islander talks of razing halls. He comes to his feet, standing tall; a sneer pulls at his lips, though for the most part his composure remains firmly in place. "And where are your kin now, eh? These halls of yours, I see no iron lords sitting in their thrones, no squid banners hanging from their ramparts. You huddle on your dreary islands, pleading to your watery squid god for luckier days, while better men now occupy your forefathers' halls." Kevan's own contempt for the ironmen is beginning to seep into his voice, concealed under a veneer of taunting pleasantness. "Perhaps you'd still hold them if your lords were made of sterner stuff. Your Prince of Pyke's creature, the inestimable Ser Harras, fell easily enough before my lance."
"Course he did- damn fool fought with the wrong lance," the ironman makes a suggestive tug at the belt. "Have a look, and you'll be begging to fall on your ass, heels in the air." A drunken swat at Eyrian's backside. But then Kevan has to intrude into a perfectly good spell of lechery. As the knight walks closer, the taller and silent one of the Ironmen shifts a hand to the haft of the hand axe thrust through his belt, eyes intent on the knight. But the shorter, louder ironman is more than happy to wave him off. "Oh, oh.. How could I forget the famous battles when the Rivermen won back their freedom? The great, brave uprising when- what's that?" a hand cupped behind one ear, as he leans in and glares up at Kevan. "That's right! Your menfolk would still be grabbing your ankles, and your women hiking up their skirts at the sight of an Ironman, if it weren't for the bloody dragons. And there ain't no more dragons left, old man," the swaggering drunk spits with a sneer.
The swat at her backside earns a soft sound of surprise and she drops her hands from her hip. She narrows her dark gaze and hmphs, "You even have anything under that belt? I thought you a lady. Forgive me." Eyrian says sharply and as Kevan steps in, she moves about, trying to slip to the side as she steps in closer to one of the lords, facing them. It is the one who is waving off Kevan that she gets near and she smiles warmly, "So now that I know…shall we test that theory….of your gender?" She trails a hand down his arm and towards his hip where his pouch rests. Her fingers flick across it and she smiles winningly up at him.
Kevan unexpectedly laughs when the most obnoxious of the three labels him an old man. Thirty-two name days isn't that old, is it? "Better an old man than a young fool," he retorts. "You roar like a man, but you make excuses like a eunuch." A watchful eye catches the quieter ironman reaching for his axe, and Kevan utters another bark of laughter. "What then, rustlord? You'd have your hireling fight your battles for you? Perhaps that is why your forebears lost the Riverlands, then. The ironlords all turned to cravens, and their seed made nothing but more little cravens in the bellies of their saltwives. Aye, a vicious cycle, that."
Kevan's laughing retort twists the shorter, drunker Ironman's sneer into the sort of smile that is an instant away from a fight breaking out. But then Eyrian sidles up to him, and nothing takes the edge off of a hedge knight's insults than the pretty girl getting cozy. "This in one man you'll thank your seven fool Gods for sparing you a thrashing, old man."
And for an instant it looks like Eyrian might get away with it. But then, the watchful silent one moves. His hand pulls clear of the axe haft, and closes a grip around Eyrian's wrist, twisting it painfully as he is suddenly less quiet. "Thief!"
The carved knife she was grasping for is nearly free of it's sheath, making eyes still at the noble. Her head tilts and as she is about to say something, she yelps. Eyrian's wrist burns as she is turned about the the twist, the dagger clattering ot the floor. She gasps and grunts, nearly hitting the bar with her head as she is facing partially down as she made so by the twist of her wrist. Bent over some, she growls and winces, trying not to move. "Let me go…I am no thief!" She hisses, trying to see if there is any room for movement. Cursing below her breath, she moves her foot and tries to step harshly down on the man's insole.
Kevan's indolent expression vanishes, turning deadly serious when the heretofore quiet ironman explodes into action and grabs Eyrian's arm. He manages to catch a glance at the dagger before it falls to the ground, particularly at the kraken image engraved into it. Narrowing his eyes at the dagger, then at the drunken, finely dressed man who'd held it, he takes a guess. "The pride of House Greyjoy you must be indeed, ironman, to stumble in drunk and have your underlings rough up the clientele. I suggest you bid your dog unhand her, ser, and consider finding another place to drink while you're at it." And that's about when Eyrian tries to take matters into her own hands. Stomp stomp.
Despite Eyrian's loud protests that she is no thief, the damning word has already been shouted, and drawn several eyes toward the unfolding scene. Eyrian thrashing kick at the foot of her captor does dig into the big ironman's boot, but achieves little more than to deepen the bearded man's scowl, the blow robbed of force by Eyrian's captured wrist being forced up over her head, dragging the mintrel onto her toes.
The third ironman, silent apart from his laughs at the jokes of his chief, has stilled his cackles and stoops to recover the fallen ivory handled knife. For once Kevan's slights are the lesser of the insults offered to the rowdy nobleman, whose face darkens as the kraken engraved knife is returned to him. "Unless your masters want a fight, go fuck your horse old man," he growls back to Kevan before turning a no longer cheerful eye on the minstrel. "Steal from me, will you? ME? I could have your HAND for that!" he yells, before raising a hand of his own- the one without the knife- to send a backhanded slap toward the singer.
Cursing deeply beneath her breath, Eyrian grimaces further as her arm is wrenched up higher. Kevan's words are barely heard over the rush of blood to her head and the pain suddenly stabbing through her appendage. Her face starts to turn red with the exertion and she bites at her lip, straining to life her weight further up to her toes.
Exhaling abruptly, she starts to lift her head and bite at her lip as her eyes open just to see the slap, the raised voice drawing a shudder of concern down her spine. Unable to shrink back, the blow dazes her, sending her head sideways as it causes her to cry softly, her arm bending oddly with the whip of her head. Blood trickles down her lip where teeth had bitten in. "My Lord, I was only…wishing…to look.." Her head lifts, the sway of her necklaces sounding as they hit each other. One made of coral and the other of grey stones.
"I'd rather fuck your toothless old hag of a mother, rustman," Kevan jeers, as he continues to approach the trio of Islanders, "or at least I would if all of Westeros hadn't stretched her out already." His sneer grows wider. "A fight? You don't have the stomach for a proper fight, otherwise you'd not be trifling with the singer." He spits at the Ironman's boot.
The still unnamed Greyjoy glares at the dangling Eyrian, his scowling blue stare catching on the clatter of beads around her neck. The knife in his hand is raised up to slip between the minstrel's skin and necklaces, not cutting them loose, but raising the ornaments on the flat for closer inspection. "Where'd you get these, then?" the Ironborn wonders, breath heavy with the scent of mead. Kevan's insults draw an irritated sidelong glance and the words, "Svarta, if that sheep fucker sets so much as hand to hilt you cut it off, hear?"
Svarta- the big silent one apparently, releases Eyrian's wrenched wrist, considering the knife near her throat enough to keep her from doing anything stupid. Thus freed, the big bearded Ironman steps between his lord and the sneering Kevan.
"Good Ser…" Eyrian swallows, her chin lifting to stay clear of the blade as she keeps her gaze on the noble. "It is best you do not do anything foolish for one as me." Though there sound humor in her voice, her gaze glitters fear as she lets her offended limb lower, letting out a sigh. Yet there is no other movement, not wanting to draw the edge of the blade towards her. "My Lord.." She starts, gazing down as her chin remains lifted, "They were my mothers…" She says, her brows furrowing some. "The man who raised me…who I thought to be my father…sent them to me upon his death…" She searches his gaze, looking at the blade and necklaces. A faint tremble enters her body and she makes no move to wipe the blood that drips down her chin from her lip.
Kevan freezes, caught off guard by this latest development. His brow creases in a slight scowl as he watches the interplay between Eyrian and the Greyjoy for a moment, before looking back to the hulking Svarta. His scowl deepening, his hand inches towards his hilt but doesn't touch it, staring at Svarta as he does so, as if daring the hulking bodyguard to do something about it. "I'm not so old I can't skewer you like a fish, ironborn," he reminds the bearded man. "Take up that axe and there'll be blood on the floor, and it won't be mine."
"Don't call me 'Ser'," the Ironman sneers back at Eyrian. "Your seven gods never had any oaths from me." At the demi-warning not to do anything foolish, the Ironborn snorts. Turning a look aisde to his cackling companion, he orders, "She wants a look at my knife, eh? Bring her. She'll answer for this theft.. and then I'm coming back to break the teeth from that one's face!" he hollers throwing a distracted motion of his free hand toward Kevan.
As for Svarta, the big islander regards Kevan with stony calm. It's a familiar look to the hedge knight, he is well acquainted with the stare of a killer. "Might be," the big Ironborn returns. "You'd best kill with the first blow," he advises in the classic debate of sword versus axe.
A chill rush runs up her spine and Eyrian her's the words 'bring her' and 'answer for this theft'. The Minstrel panics a moment, finding it hard to breathe. "No my Lord…" She tries to say, feeling her body grow numb with the slow realization of what might come. She shifts, the knife still holding her necklaces and rather close to her throat. He's drunk too and his depth perception is probably shit she thinks. Her things…her horse. That instinct to take a back step starts and the crowd is watching, whispers running through the crowd as none are so bold to challenge the Lord, even if he is ironborn.
The brush of her foot backwards starts and she can feel the bar behind her, stopping her short with a sudden bump that jerks upright by the small of her back.
Kevan's only response to Svarta is a long leer that seems to suggest the one blow part wouldn't be a problem. Then his head snaps back over to Eyrian and the Greyjoy, his expression turning to one of alarm as the ironborn start dragging her away. "Enough of this!" Kevan snaps. He isn't shouting, but his voice carries throughout the entire place nonetheless. He points a hand at the Greyjoy. "There is law in these lands, ser. By rights, any accused is entitled to a trial by combat. I will stand as this woman's champion." He doesn't know much of the particulars of the king's law, but that is one aspect that Kevan, like most knights, is familiar with. "Which one of your lackeys will you send to face my blade, Greyjoy?"
The third ironman takes firm hold of Eyrian's arm starting to drag Eyrian toward the door. Maron Greyjoy turns as if to follow behindslipping the point of the knife clear of the coral stones with the rasp of steel on stone, before a hand of his own propels the back of the woman's shoulder. Kevan's words catch his ear, though, hauling the ruddy faced Ironman about with a smile of affected curiosity. "What's that, hedge knight?" again one hand is cupped behind his ear theatrically to aid his hearing. "Trial by combat? Oh aye- any NOBLE accused has that right. If the bitch were a noble shecould.. What about you, old man? Is the blood I'd spill on this floor noble? Is there land and title to back up your breath? Or are you just another lowborn son of a Riverlands whore who'd do better to keep his teeth together than spend breath at his betters?"
Turning her head about at Kevan's call for King's Law and right to champion her, Eyrian's brows shoot up. "Ser Kevan.." She intons, staring at him as she struggles against the hand on her arm. As Maron pokes and prods at Kevan with jeers and barbs, her face falls some. She swallows, knowing well the pain it may cause and how the whispers run the crowd. Noble parading over commonborns, it steals the heart and spirit and with the ironmen causing it, there is some anger too. "He is foolish to say he will champion for me…" She speaks to Maron, "My Lord…he meant it not. The taste of iron runs deep in these lands and he yet feels the ire of it's presence." SHe tries at words, her dark eyes flickering up towards the Riverlands Knight, pleading with him. A shake of her head is given.
Kevan cackles mockingly. "You know not who it is you have clutched to your pasty breast? That is the Lady Blackmane, ser, of the House Blackmane. If you knew her kin, you'd not speak of their prodigal daughter so lightly. I'm sure you've been hearing some of the tales about town." Kevan sees Eyrian's gestures, but pays them no heed. He's taken things too far to back down now, even if he wasn't enjoying himself in a perverse sort of way. "Your modesty does you credit, m'lady, but it's no use keeping up the charade now." Kevan is, of course, talking completely out of his ass, but he's doing it with conviction. "As for me, ser, I am a knight blooded and honorably made. That should be your only concern." Normally he's cavalier enough about discussing his lowborn origins, but he'll be damned if he'll give this strutting ironlord something else to jape about.
Kevan's retort hauls back the rowdy Ironlord's eye and for a flicker of an instant as he eyes the hedge knight, the unfocused mannerisms and loud, brash gestures pause. A sharp look toward Eyrian, up and down, before turning back to Kevan.
The highest compliment to Kevan's rebuttal is that Svarta's frowning expression alters slightly, one blond brow climbing slightly, even as his eye stays fixed on Ser Kevan Tierney. For a long instant it is quiet.
The silence is broken by an appraising look from Maron to Kevan, and the low word, "Horseshit." A raucous laugh follows as Maron throws back his head in a forced, boorish laugh. "Call her banners, bring her knights! They can have her back tomorrow."
Her eyes nearly bug out of her head and her mouth drops open. She recovers quickly though, cursing the knight under her breath. Dark eyes stare at him, heart twisting and chest tightening. This is going to end very poorly. Dirty barefeet, bangles on her ankles, rings on her toes. Her hair down and loose like a free maid. Not even speaking of her brightly hued clothes, loud to draw attention. She smells of earth and sandalwood and nothing like the soaps a Lady uses.
Her cheeks flush in embarrassment and she for the first time in many years is blushing. It may be anger and fear that brings that color, but the Minstrel has every right to be fearful. But the laughter ensues and bluff called, she trembles a bit more. Laws. To parade as a noble. It had been done once to fool commoners, never to fool a Noble himself.
"And do you think any loyal sworn worth their salt would simply let such an insult pass?" Kevan laughs again, and spits in contempt. "No, ser, House Greyjoy will pay, as sure as I stand here, if so much as a hair on the lady's head is harmed. Either set her loose, or allow your chosen to face me. You have no other option that does not label you honorless or craven, the son of a whore from a people of cravens."
Maron Greyjoy is not smiling by the time Kevan finishes those last insults- slights distinctly above the level of 'your mother'. The inn has gone dead quiet, apart from the sound of a few smallfolk fleeing, whether to spread word or for their own safety. "Who dares speak so to Maron Greyjoy?" are the words spoken. "Name yourself."
Nobles have a way of skinning the flesh right off of commoners that pretend to be Nobles. Eyrian much rather likes her skin intact and so as fued escalates, some of those at the bar back away, giving room as Maron grows deathly upset. Swallowing, her throat suddenly dry, she kicks her feet to the ground and tries to break free. If Kevan was going to commit to this, so would she. "Kick the ironborn in their teeth, send em back in their boats to suckle from their mother's tits because they won't be able to chew anymore!"
Kevan's pulse is pounding, now that he's got the ironmen where he wants them… or thought he'd wanted them. Can't back down now, though. "Ser Kevan Tierney," he introduces himself, his voice resolute as he archly inclines his head. "You've already met Lady Blackmane." A smirk. "Well, my lord of Greyjoy, I still do not have your answer."
Eyrian earns another slap, this time from the cackler, with the sneering words, "Quiet, yer ladyship. Less you wanna be Lady Blackeye." Maron, however, doesn't laugh this time. "Ser Kevan Tierney," the Ironman echoes, lip curling into a smiling sneer. "You'll have your fight. Here's for your lord, as payment for the man he's about to lose-" a few silver coins are fished out and flung to clatter at Kevan's feet. "Tomorrow, old man. To the death."
For what Kevan has won, it is saved for tomorrow and Eyrian is no less free. Her head rings and rolls back a bit. The slap starts to prickle it's presence across her skin, lingering. She grimaces a moment and blinks, focusing again as she lets out a long breath. The silver is noted as it hits the floor and she looks up from where it settles to the Knight. Her lips is starting to swell and she offers him a faint and weary smile. "Carve em good for me…and don't forget my things and lyre…treat them well." Intones the minstrel, but there is a stark taste of fear in her gaze.
Kevan looks down at the coins, and then back up at Maron. "A few silver? You should have kept it, my lord, your saltwives will need caring for once you're gone." He nods one last time to the ironlord, a haughty, prideful gesture that would do any high lord proud. "Tomorrow." Another nod, this one to Eyrian. Her things will be attended to.