Page 338: Wine, a Woman, and Song
Wine, a Woman, and Song
Summary: Booze. Songs. Aborted gate-crashing by wimmenz. Good times in the bars of Seagard.
Date: 23/06/289
Related Logs: The Seagard Tourney logs in general, none specifically
Dmitry Garett Jac Jarod Kamron Kittridge Rowenna 
A Bar — Seagard
Wine and songs.
Sat Jun 23, 289

The Nest is an ale house not far from Seagard's castle, or the tourney grounds where so many of the nobles of the Riverlands - and beyond - have taken up residence these past two weeks. There are far more upscale winebars in the city, but it's not so bottom shelf that the nobility doesn't slum there on occasion. It's crowded tonight, as the dinner hour ends and the drinking hour begins. With so many of the official competitions over, the men have little to do before festivities draw to a close. So they're misspending whatever coin they've earned on wine, women and song.

Ser Jarod has staked out the bar. He's lounged there with his elbow on the hardwood, a drink already in hand. His left wrist is still bandaged up from his adventures in the melee but, fortunately, that's not his drinking arm. He's using the elaborate jeweled goblet, with the crests of Mallister and Redwyne, on it to gulp his ale out of. Gesturing broadly with it, as much to show it off as anything else.

There are smatterings of other gatherings of knights drifting in or already engaged in boozing, dicing, or charming the few ladies in the tavern (or paying for the company of the one of the whores). The night is young, so let's set the world on fire, and so forth.

Kittridge heads up to the bar, that giant chalice of Jarod's a helpful beacon showing the way to the party. "Ser Jarod," he greets him, "That's quite a vessel you've got there. Does it make the wine taste sweeter?" He grins, and leans against the counter, waving over one of the serving maids, eager enough to come help, and ordering a drink for himself before asking, "Are others here, that we know? I'd buy a round but I think I'd have to get it for the house, and it seems a bit early in the evening for that sort of thing."

Kamron comes into the bar with an "Ole, ole, ole, ole!" He's evidently had a drink or two already, but only enough to get him warmed up. He spots the big shiny goblet, and goes directly in that direction, "Cheers, Jarod. You're still showing that ugly-ass thing around?" He must just be jealous that it's nearly impossible to show off a giant cask of wine. He nods to Kittridge, offering up a slightly-tight smile, but it's still a smile of greeting.

Garett's a married man now! But he can't drink! Oh tragedy of tragedies! He's shed his wedding clothing for more standard fare and for once he's shaved that stubble off his face. The injuries he took during the melee, while not horrifying ones, has made him take up his cane again, even if he doesn't lean as heavily on it as he's used to. "Oh I think I'm going to have buying a few men some rounds." he hears coming up on Kitt and Jarod. "Sers. That's a fancy looking little cup you got there. Who's ass did you have to kiss to get your hands on that?" he grins, he himself carrying around cup of what looks to be some kind of juice. Damn you Muirenn, making him promise not to do anything stupid.

Jac has been resigned to a cane, though the maester who looked over his leg have promised him that he will heal with the same speed and accuracy of a man half his age. He is sure that the bastard is pulling his leg — pun not intended. He has settled into a seat, though he calls out to Kamron as he makes his appearance. "PAGE KAMRON. You are to fetch me my drinks!" He shouts to the man as he waves his cane about. "And don't forget the bread!" He grins toward the former Bracken page now knight, and he casts his melee partner a lopsided grin. "Half-Eagle… may I call you Half-Eagle? You throw such a lovely party."

"Ah, I see you have fulfilled at least one grand ambition this night, Jarod," comes Dmitry's inevitable remark as he drifts in. He is dressed in dark purple and it is difficult to tell at first glance whether he, too, has been pre-gaming, but it's possible.

The lady of the party — expected or not — arrives a bit late, and so makes an entrance. Resplendant in blood-orange silk that nips her waist to a hand-span and actually makes her look like she has something in the way of cleavage, Rowenna Nayland squares her shoulders, puts on a smile, and strides up to the bar. "Sers," she greets them all, warmly. "I hear there are pubs that need crawling through!"

"Haven't tried it with wine yet, but it makes the beer taste…" Jarod pauses before answering Kittridge's query. Drinks. Swishing the liquid around in his mouth, like a fine paleted taster. Then swallowing. "…sort of metal-y. I think it's meant to sit on a shelf, and I'm horribly misusing it at present. I wanted to take it out on the town before I tucked away in a lockbox, though. If a man can't abuse his winnings in a tavern, where can he abuse them?" It's a philosophical sort of question. Spotting the other men incoming, he waves everyone over to the bar with a broad, open-armed gesture. "I think you are at that, Ser…Westerling, aye?" He extends a hand to Garett, since the man offered to buy booze. "Ser Jarod the Half-Eagle, at your service and all that rot. The cup came from knocking men off horses. I've earned far dodgier things from kissing." Speaking of, he beams in Rowenna's direction.

"Metal-y?" Kittridge echoes and nods, "Like gold, probably. Must be a perk! Maybe that's what everything tastes like if you're a Lannister." He grins, greeting the others, "Ser Kamron, Ser Garett, Ser Jac, Ser Dmitry! Good to see you all. Ser Jarod recommends the ale, it seems. I'm about to give the wine a shot, we'll see what the specialty is." He grins, and then pauses, surprised. "Lady Rowenna," He greets her with a polite (though somewhat stiff) bow, and then turns to give Jarod a Look. "You've invited us to go carousing…with your lady wife?"

Kamron reaches out to clap Garett's shoulder — the one that's hurt the least — as he walks up, "Here comes Garett, the married man." He's already given his congratulations, but he's still laughing and grinning. Jac's greeting draws a snort, "That's what the serving ladies are for, Ser Jac. If you want me to get you drinks, you'll have to knock me down first…" The 'threat' is given with a laugh, one that stops as Rowenna approaches, his smile falling off his face. He too gives the Nayland a formal bow, "Lady Rowenna." He doesn't repeat Kittridge any further than that, but his frown provides a perfect echo in and of itself.

"Spot on." Garett says, with a tap of his cane, other hand taking the one offered. "Garett Westerling, resident odd-man-out and second fiddle to…hey, Kamron!" he glances across the room. "You sing like shit, son!" he grins. But going back to Jarod, it's an easier smile. "Heard of you Ser Jarod, nothing bad, I promise. And if I didn't, it's like I don't recall it anyways." When Rowenna steps, he nods at the woman. "Ser Rowenna, Jarod's husband, right? Sorry, still trying to get names right around here." A greeting goes out to Kitt and Dmitry as well, but when Kam brings up his wedding, he rolls his eyes a bit. "You're going to keep bringing that up all night tonight, aren't you?"

Dmitry's eyebrows, instruments of commentary, bespeak him skeptical as he glances between Jarod and Rowenna, but he sketches her an elaborate bow anyway, his mouth tugged up at one corner with a distinct air of badly suppressed humor. "Well, I believe we should consider ourselves lucky he invited his wife and not her horse, all things considered."

Rowenna kisses her husband hello, taking the cup from him and giving the contents a sniff. "Ser Kittridge," she quips, drinking from the abused winning cup, "it's entirely possible, baby face that you've got there, I was a man longer than you've been." She glances at Kam, mirthfully. "Same goes for you, Ser Kamron. And congratulations, by the by." She beams at Garrett, laughing. "Oh, I like you." She reaches out to clasp the Westerling's forearm, heartily. "Who-the-hells ever you are. Pleasure."

Oh shit, there's a woman here. Jac immediately straightens up in his seat as he sets his cane smartly in front of him with both hands folded over the simple head. He bows from his seat, though he does cast Kamron a slightly sly smirk. "Then find me a serving wench, Ser Kamron," he manages to mutter to the man while the boys decide whether or not to let the dear lady pass the meat and veg test.

"She's buying the first round," is Jarod's only defense, accompanied by a smirk, of Rowenna's presence. Garett's use of the 'Ser' toward her gets a "Huh" of surprise. And vague approval, but the subject is touchy enough that he certainly isn't going to comment on it. Dmitry's bit about the horse gets a laugh. "Dragon's far stingier. But there's the point. I'd not have been able to joust at all without her fine steed." Having been stripped of his, as he was. "Anyhow! Belly up. Let us drink in friendship, or drink until we are friends, whichever comes first." He finishes off his current ale in a gulp, so his cup will be fresh.

Kamron snorts at Garett, "You haven't heard me sing drunk yet. And yes, I am." The reference to 'Ser Rowenna,' however, stills his mirth again, and he shakes his head. Turning away, he raises up a hand to get the attention of one of the passing maids, gesturing over to the sworn sword from Hollyholt, "My oldest friend, Ser Jac Caddock, wants a drink, and so do I." Apparently, he's not particularly interested in bantering with the lady Nayland, although he does bow his head to her, "Thank you Lady Rowenna. I'm best pleased by the match."

The lady interloper flashes Dmitriy a big grin for his flourish bow. "You're right about that. If they think a girl's uncomfortable, they should try spending time with nine feet of evil and disdain with balls larger than a man's head." She hoists herself up on the bar and leans over, using the ample cleavage her gown's created to get the attention of the barkeep. "Get all these fine men whatever they're drinking, please? Starting with him," she points at Garrett. He's her favorite of the moment. "I have their tab."

"Well, I'd hope so, my new wife had all sorts of good things to say about you during the melee" Garett replies, returning the gesture to Rowenna. "Lady Briallyn Haigh? Though I suppose it's Briallyn Westerling now." he notes, and no, he can't really help the stupid grin that spreads across his face the thought of his wife. "Oh, well, I'll have one. I promised Lady Muirenn that I wouldn't do anything drunken or stupid for the next few days. Since, you know, Kamron over there decided to use my head as a training dummy. But thanks."

"And if you'd kept playing at one, Lady Rowenna, then I'd have no objection, but you've chosen to return to the name and station of your birth," Kittridge points out, gesturing at the fine gown, "And I do not drink and wench with noble ladies. I'm sorry to spoil the fun, but." He shrugs, and shakes his head, and then glances sharply at Garett, almost in unison with Kamron, and this time it's his turn to mirror the Mallister's frown. "Congratulations, ser," he offers all the same, before stepping away, down the bar past Jac and Kamron, to take up the opposite end of the party from Jarod and Rowenna.

One of the older and wiser — if age equates wisdom — of the Knights, Jac Caddock clears his throat a bit and gives the butt of his cane a sharp rap against the floor. Ooh, he could get use to toting a cane around. It demands attention. "You will have to forgive them, Lady Rowenna. None of us were prepared to have a women in our ranks, and truth be told, you are fighting against what we has been beaten into our heads the moment we were pages." He offers her one of his bright white smiles, offset by the natural swath of dirt that seems to always settle on his skin. He does look toward the serving wenches. "I would care for sourwine in a beer flagon." And he demonstrates exactly how large he considers a flagon to be.

Jarod just nods to Kittridge, a little downcast, but not surprised by the man's reaction. He offers a shrug to Row. It's a 'Let is pass' sort of gesture. "It's a big ale house, room for any kind of party a man pleases," he says. "This one's always invited to mine, for better or worse." Occasionally the worse for him, but for all that he doesn't seem to mind. "Another ale for me, I think. Shall we start by drinking to your lady, Ser Garett? And yours, Kamron. The Lady Saffron's a fine catch. Must say, I'm surprised any girl managed to talk you into marriage, though."

"Ah," is all Rowenna has to say for Kit's dismissal. She glances at Kam, then shrugs at Garrett and puts enough coin for the first round on the bar. "Sorry, love. This was a bad idea," she says to Jarod, then clasps Garrett's forearm for a hearty shake again. "Congratulations, Westerling. My regards to your wife." She nods at Jac, smiling. "I appreciate the apology — it's kind, but not necessary." She dips a very proper curtsy. "Sers, good evening!"

"Is that what was meant to be beaten into my head when I was a page?" Dmitry rubs his hand over his beard, such as it is, and then leans on his elbow against the bar, ankles loosely crossed with an idle kind of insouciance.

When Rowenna curtsies, Kittridge turns back and steps away from the bar to bow. It's still stiff, unlike his usual grace, but low enough to be polite, and his tone is polite as well as he offers, "Good evening, Lady."

Kamron looks over to Garett again, "Not your head. I know that's too thick. It's the ribs that bend nicely." Shifting his attention over to Kittridge, he shrugs helplessly, looking a bit uncomfortable. Whatever he's going to say, however, is short-circuited by Jac's words, Jarod's, and Rowenna's. He nods slightly at Jac's words, "I'm quite willing to enjoy a drink or three with you, Lady Rowenna, if you would like to stay. It was just advertised as something different. But knights are to be adaptable and courteous. I am quite willing to have an evening of discussion instead. I might even invite my own betrothed." He collects his own drink and lifts it slightly to Jarod, "One lady at a time, Jarod. One lady at a time. And we can start with yours, since she is so kind as to buy the first round."

"Last I checked, ale doesn't discriminate. Hell, Briallyn wanted to come with until I told that there was going to be nothing but drinking. Then she got cold feet." Garett shrugs. "Total lightweight. I…think I got her drunk once by accident." There's another smirk at Kamron. "You know, that's not the first time I've heard that, but my concussion says differently." But another smile goes to Rowenna. "Thanks, I'm sure I'll live to regret it in few years, but by that point, I'm pretty sure she'll of beaten me into a good submission." The Westerling doesn't seem to care all too much for the looks tossed around, but considering he's going to be one of the few sober ones about, it wouldn't matter even if he was drunk.

Rowenna laughs merrily at Kittridge. "Ah, Ser Kittridge, fuck you as well," she says with all warmth, and blows a kiss as she goes. She shakes her head to Kamron. "No thank you, Ser Kamron. I would rather everyone enjoythemselves, and if it takes an absence of noble tits to make it so?" She arches a teasing eyebrow. "The ladies and I will drink elsewhere." And thus she departs.

Jarod winces some at Rowenna's departure, but he just nods in understanding as she makes her exit. "I think we're both still used to the way the world used to treat her when she wore trousers," he admits. "Didn't even think of it. It's weird." But, Jarod's life is weird. He offers a sheepish laugh to Kamron. "I did take her carousing when she was my squire but…she's not now, and it's tricky to work out the balance. She'll not be cross about it." Other things, perhaps, but he certainly won't dwell on those now, either. Distraction is required. "So! We need a toast. I feel like Ser Garett should get the first one, newly wed as he is."

Kittridge rubs his ribs as he straightens and shrugs at Rowenna's parting curse, leaning back on the bar and drinking deeply. He looks across to the others, rolling his eyes a bit at Jarod's explanation, but drinks some more and calls the barmaid over for a refill before nodding at the idea of toasts. "Aye, Ser Garett," he agrees, before asking, "Wait, this is a new wedding? Not one you've just re-discovered?" Too soon?

At least the husband is taking it well, Jac considers as he looks to Jarod and then to Garett. "Ah, Garett Westerling… my oldest friend. I am pleased to hear you have tied the knot. Did you make sure that it was doubled, or trippled? I hear a maester's knot is the best." Ah, and there's his mug of sourwine. He takes care not to gulp and guzzle, but he definitely whets his lips all the same. He glances over toward Kittridge, and he cannot help the slight bubbling of laughter he deposits into his mug, shaking his head. "Well, what's an extra wife?"

Kamron drinks to his own proposal even if no one else is going to. As Rowenna departs, he shrugs, although he also grimaces at her statement. The Mallister waves off Garett's words to him, then back to Jarod. He's about to comment, when Kittridge speaks up. Letting out a hiss of breath, Kam surprises himself with a laugh and a nod, "Just today, Ser Kittridge. If he'd just laid the hells down when we were left in the melee, he might be laying with his new wife right now." And then he raises up his glass and takes a swig.

"Toasts to newlyweds does seem particularly traditional," Dmitry agrees lightly from his lazy lean against the bar. Nursing his own wine, he holds it up and arches his eyebrows, laughter lighting his dark eyes as they flick toward Kittridge and then back to the others. Lightly, he points out: "Though traditionally the groom might have better things to be doing on his wedding night. Are you really spending it here?"

"Har har, laugh it up all you like, Ser Kittridge" Garett muses, apparently used to jokes about his own memory by this point. Though, it's not like half of those said jokes are said by himself. "Well, if my previous wife comes looking for me, just tell that this time I really did die at sea." he remarks, then looking sidelong to Jac. "You know, when anyone comes up to you with a line like that, I'm automatically dubious of wether or not it's true or not. Next thing I know you'll be hitting me with 'remember that one time with the person and the thing? Oh that was good times, wasn't it?'" Then he points over Kamron. "Right! That's the bastard that ruined my wedding night. I could have a beautiful straddling me, but instead Ser Kamron imprints his axe on my skull and now I get to look at all you cockers." he says with a laught. He raises his drink as well. "But thanks. Long road to get here, but I think it'll be more than worth. Briallyn is a good woman, she deserves better, but instead she got me. I guess I'm the one who lucked out, eh?" Going to Dmitry, he nods. "Oh, I'm sure I'll just have to make it up when my body can take the stress." Pause. "Repeatedly."

Jarod offers Kittridge a shrug that half-apologetic, though there's no real remorse in his expression. Just vague Awkward. Which, also somehow, is eased by the Groves man's amnesia joke. "Are you technically wed twice, if you do the second after folk say you've died?" He ponders this, with furrowed brow. "Anyhow." He raises his new fancy cup of new beer. "To Ser Westerling, and his new bride. Or old one. Whichever it is." Drink. "What did happen to you, Ser? I've heard all different tales. That you were dead. But you're plainly alive. That you can't remember a sevens damned thing. Which I figure is preferable to being at the Stranger's door, though still damn odd."

"Whichever it is," Kittridge says as he lifts his cup in toast, and then drinks. He grins a bit, clearly glad at his joke's reception, and then leans against the bar to listen as Ser Garett's tale is requested. "Swallowed by a sea monster for a month or so, wasn't it?" he asks, "That's what I heard. Took that long to saw your way out from the inside. That or you hit your head riding out of Stonebridge and spent a month thinking you were a pig-herder at a farm nearby," he adds, "Those're the two that stuck in my head, anyway."

Jac smiles mirthfully toward Garett. "Ser, I apologize… all are always my oldest friends. But I will say that we have not actually met, so let us properly introduce. I'm Ser Jac Caddock, the Songbird of Stone Hedge and sworn to Hollyholt." His chest rumbles with laughter, and he shakes his head. "Ser Kamron, have you no shame? Cause a man to forsake his wedding night, so you can be rewarded a Westerland Red. You are lucky that Ser Garett keeps your friendship."

Kamron snorts aloud at Garett's words, "I'll not take any blame. You could have yielded any time. Or, you know, not joined in a melee a few days before your wedding." His good humor appears to be back, however, as he's laughing as he says this. Jarod's toast draws a shake of his head and a laugh, "If you call Lady Briallyn an 'old' bride, I bet she hits you, Jarod." Still, he lifts it up, and takes a drink. The Mallister shakes his head at Jac, "You could let that giant fucking Westerman pound on you for a while if you'd like, but I'd rather dish it out than take it."

Kamron frowns in confusion at the last of Jac's words, "It was a Reach Red, Jac. Much better wine than Westerland Red."

"My life is series of images. Brief flashes of emotion that I can't recall where they came from or why I have them. Looking at a face in the mirror that I don't recognize." Garett starts, apparently the men looking to hear a story. "Sea creatures are more entertaining, sure, but I live in truths, as few of them as there are. I woke on a beach, my pouches being searched for coin. There were three of them, two hedge knights and a healer. Lorcan Bluekite, Farrell…I forget his last name, and Tamsyn Teller. They were looking through the debris that had washed ashore and I wasn't as dead yet, waking up with facial wound and a shattered knee." he says, pointing a hand down the larg, long scar that runs from his temple to his neck down the side of his face. "I didn't know my name for over a month, but I got the nickname Blondie and Carrot, so it's all as well. They healed my wounds when I was ready enough to move, took me to Stonebridge, where it was only then that I was recognized. But, during that time, I had dreams. Faces of people I knew, battlefields that I was apart, coversations I had. All it muffled, like trying to listen to two people on the other side of a door. Muted and fuzzy. I've slowly been remembering. I was born in the Crag, taken to Winterfell to train as a knight under Ser Tristan Stark. My best friend in the rebellion was a man named Ser Thanos Mallister. Everything else…" he shrugs, then drinks. "Ah, hell with it. Briallyn tells me I used to be a very bitter and angry man. Maybe this was the best thing that could happen to me. She said the events in Stonebridge had driven me to go see Lord Gawen. Whatever I was going to say? Well, doesn't matter now, I suppose."

Jarod falls quiet as Garett talks, drinking on his latest beer throughout the story. He lets out a long, low whistle. "Fucking hells. Here's to not dying, then." Bling-covered cup raised, and drained of the last. "I've never come that close myself, though there was one time in the underbelly of the Pyke I thought a squid had hit me mortal. Not quite, though, managed to get stitched up before I bled out anything too important. Was just some damn reaver, not of the like of Ser Harras Harlaw or anything. Damned strange how life can go." Something in Jac's words causes his green eyes to spark. Thoughtfully.

Jac gives Kamron a look, his dark brows raised purposefully. "I wasn't talking about the wine, boy…" He taps the head of his cane lightly against Kamron's head as if to knock his brain around a bit. Oh yes, he could get use to having a cane. Then he glances back around to the rest of the boys as he takes another mouthful of sour-red. He quiets as he also listens to Garett's words, and he releases a low whistle. "You have been reborn then, Ser Garett. Not all men can be that lucky."

"That's quite a story, ser," Kittridge nods to Garett, lifting his cup in salute before he drinks again, "Would be better with sea monsters, but really, what tale wouldn't?" He grins, and drinks some more, and nods at Jac's words, "Aye, doesn't sound so bad, really. Sounds like you're getting back the important bits and leaving behind the bad memories. Can't say that doesn't have its appeal."

Kamron listens attentively to Garett's story, frowning a bit, "Ser Farrell Keane? He helped with the rescue of the ladies." Otherwise, he does not interrupt. Instead, he waits until he's done, then chortles, "Mallisters always make the best friends." And then he raises his own cup at Jarod's toast, "To not dying!" Another swallow, and he reaches out to have his drink filled again by one of the serving women. Pointing up to the scar over his head, he adds in, "Same with me, Jarod. Ser Harras cannot stop you, and Rodrik Greyjoy can't stop me, but a random spear drops me and nearly does for me." He snorts, then looks to Jac, frowning for a long moment, batting at the cane as it retreats. And then there's a laugh, and he adds, "Ahhh…" Pointing a finger at the sworn sword, he adds, "I see how it is. Yes, but I like to think I would have won the Westerland Red even without a victory in the melee. But yes, I'd batter Garett about again if that's what it took to win her."

"Do they really call you the Songbird?" Jarod asks Jac with a grin, apparently ready to move on from matters of death. "I'll tell you what. I'll cover the next round, my good Ser, if you give us a pretty tune."

"So they tell me." Garett muses. "I guess I was that enraged with my sister's actions that I would go the Crag, I don't know. Whatever is left of the Old Garett doesn't recall her. If the memories returns, then they do, but if not, I'm happy with the man that I am now. Briallyn is happy with the man she has. You don't get many chances to marry out of love, and she wasn't doing any favors for herself by marrying a Westerling." Hey, he knows where his house sits on the food chain, why hide it? "But she did. So yeah, consider me a lucky bastard. I'm sure if I said I fought off a sea monster with nothing by my bare hands and length of chain you'd all be much more impressed. So, for sake of my pride, let's just say that's what happened, eh?" The story doesn't seem hurtful to recall, it's just another part of life, and his grin turns looking at Kamron. "Indeed they do. But if it takes you fighting through me to win your Lady's hand, then I'll challenge you every time that's needed when you need to prove yourself to her." A sigh is taken from the Westerling. "Okay, yeah, oi, barmaid, I think I actually need a drink after telling that story!"

"To fighting off sea monsters with your bare hands and a length of chain!" Ser Kittridge toasts, before he joins Jarod in looking to Jac, saying, "Aye, let's hear a tune, ser. I've heard you talk plenty, I wonder if you sing so prettily," he grins.

At the request of a song, the Songbird glances over toward Jarod with a lopsided smile. "I'm afraid it is not the most manly of bynames, Half-Eagle. It is not as boastful as 'Blacksword'," he says in gentle mockery to Alek, especially since he's no there to defend himself. "But, I can be encourage to sing if there's drink involved." He rubs his beard a bit before he hoists himself up a bit onto his feet, as if he sings better when not slumped over a flagon. Again, he finds a special use for his temporary cane, and he starts to pound a beat out on the floors with the cane's butt.

Kamron drinks another toast to Ser Kittridge's words, "Bare hands and a length of chain." He then looks back to Garett, "I think I've impressed her well enough, Garett. But if her gather starts to wonder if I'm good enough, I'll send you a courier." Chortling softly at Jac, he shakes his head, "I heard he's the Blacksword because of all the poxes he's caught." It's said with a grin, and apropos of nothing, but as the cane begins to tap, Kamron starts to stomp a foot in time as well.

Jarod snorts when Jac calls Blacksword manly, nodding to Kamron. "I've always figured Ser Alek earned that name in a whore house, after a bad dip of his wick." This is apparently the level of conversation he would've been totally fine with engaging in in front of his wife. "Give me Ser Bird any day, eagles or songs." He motions over the bartender, getting himself another ale. One of the darker brews, shipped in from the swampy Crannoglands. Another sourwine is ordered for Jac. That done, he helpfully slaps his palm on the bar, along with the beat of the cane.

"Sea monsters and chains indeed. You just let me know, I'll be more than happy to rough you up again." Garett winks over at Kamron The remarks of Alek, has him laughing. "That man's got a mouth on him." he notes, glancing over at Jarod. "I could've help but overhearing you two in your fight at the melee, doesn't seem to know when to shut up. Then again, I don't either I suppose." He sips the cup of ale brought to him, probably going to make that one drink last him all night.

"Never did quite understand the Black-something nicknaming thing," Kittridge admits, "He's the Blacksword, and Ser Quellyan Charlton's the Blackrood - nevermind I've no idea what a rood is meant to mean - and someone else… I swear there was a third, at least." He frowns, trying to call it to mind, and then shrugs, and drinks. It has totally been true the whole time, by the way, that two fingers on his drinking hand are splinted straight, the tips and ugly purple above the bandage. "Anyway, I never got it," he says, "What's so great about being the black-something? So many colors in the world, and that's the one you pick? Anyone need a drink?" he checks, as he orders for himself, and then shuts up to listen to Jac's song.

Apparently Jac has encouraged an audience before he starts singing, his warm baritone carrying easily through the Nest.

"If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you, son.

I got ninety-nine problems, but a wench ain't one!"

He earns a few laughs from the men, and a couple of saluting cheers before he continues on.

"Tip my hat to the sun in the west, feel the beat right in my chest.

At the crossroads a second time. make the Stranger change his mind.

Its a pound of flesh, but its really a ton.

Got ninety-nine problems, but a wench ain't one."

"Maybe it's…rude? He's scarily rude, on the field of battle?" Jarod suggests to Kittridge. "Enemies flee before his ill manners?" Talking doesn't stop him from keeping the beat, which he does with enthusiasm. He takes a long drink, and starts singing along. Apparently he knows the wench song. "If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you son, I got ninety-nine problems, And…" He trails off, to belch. Loudly. He doesn't have a bad voice, but that sort of breaks up the rhythm.

Kamron shrugs slightly at Kittridge's description of the other bynames, "I always figured Ser Quellyan's was for the same reason, although I didn't suppose he would be so happy to be called it if that were the case." He quiets down as Jac starts singing, and then immediately laughs as he recognizes the song. By the second verse, he's joining in, with a relatively good voice, too. "Got ninety-nine problems, but a wench ain't one!" Apparently, he doesn't see a difference between fond feelings for his betrothed and singing about not having problems with wenches.

Garett carry a tune, at least, but not much more than that. He's certainly no singer that much is for sure. And maybe for a moment he feels somewhat awkward about singing about wenches when, yes, just like Kamron you're put in a situation where you're betorthed. Or married. So does the Westerling look over at the door just to make sure some Lady Westerling isn't there staring at him with a whip in her hands? Yes. You bet your ass he looks. But he sings anways. What the hell, why not. And he's not even drunk.

Jac is keeping the beat pretty well with that cane butt, and he looks positive fueled by the joining of his compatriots and other patrons. He finishes up the song with the second verse, and he immediately bows in a dramatic, somewhat goofy bow to the Nest. He drops solidly into his seat then, beaming like a squire. "My drink, Ser Jarod!" He then settles into his seat, giving his still weak knee a small rub before he looks between the boys. "What were we talking about again? Right, Ser Alek's cock. I'm not sure if that's prized drinking conversation, but I did hear from a very reliable source that it has started to collapse in on itself."

Nursing slowly at his wine, Dmitry is notably quiescent on the topic of collapsible penises of any kind.

Kittridge sings along when they get to the chorus, not that his voice is likely to stand out in a crowd, for either good or ill. He laughs when Jarod breaks up the line with a burp, and snickers into his wine before he manages to stop to drink. He applauds Jac's performance when it finishes, somewhat awkwardly around his busted fingers but enthusiastically all the same. He laughs at Jac's 'news' and says, "Inevitable, I'm sure. But yeah, let's stop talking about Ser Alek and his cock, aren't there women to discuss instead? Oh! Westerlands Red!" He laughs, and says, very belatedly but not at all ashamed of it, "I get it. Very pretty girl, Ser Kamron, well done."

"Eh, I do better on Lord Jerold's Lament," Jarod says with a wave his jeweled goblet. Which he's still drinking out of. Hopefully it won't be devalued before he's done. "Classical ballad for our ages, that. I just need to make up a verse about my brother, Lord Justin, now that he's home." He hands Jac his new sourwine. "Bynames, but we figure Ser Alek earned his with an enflamed cock. But, aye, let's not talk about it. Blackens the mood. Your Lady Saffron, however, seems comely and charming. And you know what they say about ginger girls…" His brows actually waggle up and down.

Kamron shakes his head at Jac as the song trails to a halt, laughing at the words that follow, "No… not his cock. Ser Alek's rot." He chuckles as Kittridge trails a few verses behind him in getting the joke (not that everyone else didn't get it before Kamron himself), "She is that indeed." Jarod's joke draws a laugh to his lips, "I'll thank you not to think of where else my wife-to-be is ginger, you dirty bastard." There's no anger behind the words though, and a grin on his lips, "Lady Saffron has proven herself a passionate woman, for all that our conduct towards one another has been proper and will remain so." He laughs softly, ruefully, "But Stranger fuck me if I'm not looking forward to the wedding night." He gets another refill on his drink — how many is that now?

"Okay. -Okay-." Garett says once the song is finished. "One of you is going to have to tell me about this whole Westerlands Red thing. Is this some kind of drink? I mean because I've had a lot of drinks in my day, but hell if I can remember most of them, so you sers keep tossing at that phrase and I feel like I'm left out on a joke of some kind." The Westerling man is indeed either cluesless or just not getting the innuendo.

"Ah, Lord Jerold's Lament… I worried it would strike you too close to home, Half-Eagle," Jac comments, though he does not let this linger as he is certain all Jarod wants to talk about is his father. The Songbird does take his sourwine with joy and downs a quarter of it in a guzzling gulp. He breathes out in the wake of that, and glances over toward Kamron. "I still want to hear how a woman — ginger or not — managed to convince you to get married. Even as a squire, the thought of a wife turned you green." Jac looks over toward Garett. "Its the new name of his betrothed… Westerland for her kingdom, and Red for her hair." He has to rumble a bit with a laugh at Kamron's note of the wedding night.

Jarod winks at Kamron, not shrinking from the 'dirty bastard' label. He can't really. As for Lord Jerold's Lament, he just laughs. "My life is a fine joke in many respects, Ser Jac. Might as well laugh along with it. Besides, my part of the song is still damned entertaining." He clears his throat. And tries to sing again.

"Charming and comely,

He's up to his balls

In some pretty young thing

'Stead of manning the waaaaaaaaaaaalls…

Jarod holds the note longer than he strictly has the ability for, and it cracks - badly - at the end. He gets a chorus of "Shut up!" from the surrounding bar. One very drunken fellow tries to throw a chunk of bread at him. The aim is off, fortunately.

Kamron nods at Jac's explanation of the new nickname, "And one hopes that she gets all the finer with age, although I've no idea how that could happen." The Songbird's question draws a shake of his head, "Just had to find the right one, I suppose, Jac." Another swallow of drink finds its way down the man's throat, "She doesn't seem to mind my wandering about and doing what needs to be done. Hells, she's even shown interest in coming along on most anything that doesn't involve actually hitting someone in the face." And probably that too, but he's going to pretend that he can convince her otherwise. He laughs at Jarod's verse, shaking his head, "Just one pretty young thing now, Jarod." There's a moment's pause, and then he starts to drum his fingers on the table — Dun-dadadundun, Dun-dadadundun. It's a well-known song on the Cape, but not much of anywhere else, the start to The Recruiting Serjeant.

Dima watches the bread sail, humor bright in his narrowed eyes, and then rubs his face with the scrub of his hand. He still isn't singing, but he finishes off a cupfull and leans forward to draw the attention of the innkeep and obtain some more. "Terribly entertaining," he corrects lightly.

Jac starts to laugh at the poor Half-Eagle's plight, and he actually ducks his chortles into his cup as the warmth of sourwine flushes his dirt-swathed cheek. "By the Maiden, apparently the half of you that ain't eagle also can't sing," he has to tease the poor young knight before he looks over toward Kamron. "Oh, that one." He shakes his head a bit as he takes another quarter of his wine, proving that he is definitely looking to get gloriously trashed by the end of the night.

"Oh! Oooooh." Garett suddenly gets a bit enlightened. "Well, I guess I'm glad I said 'yeah, I chugged a bottle of Westerland Red'. Because, you know, that's just be awkward. But hell if you want to talk about women, you talk about Briallyn all you like, I don't mind." he says taking his hands and making an hourglass shape with them. "Eh?" he notes with a smirk, then looking at Jarod's singing, smiling badly at that last note. "Ser Jaord, you are a braver man than I. I think I'd need at least two more drinks in me before I even dared to attempt to serenade all of you."

Kittridge laughs at the singing and bread throwing, and buys a round for anyone who is out, drumming the counter along with the beat Kamron sets, absently. He drinks some more, and says, "So that's it about your fire— -haired ladylove, Ser Kamron?" he asks, a bit disappointed, "Honor's such a killjoy. I don't dare ask about yours, Ser Jarod," he says, "I think it likely to be very confusing. Ser Jac, you got a girl?"

"And for all her faults she's not blackened my sword," Jarod says with a grin. To Dmitry, he snorts. "What's your verse, cousin? If you haven't got one, we need to make one up for you. And a byname. The Black Terrick or Black Eagle something." Not that he does, just yet. He's going to sing along to 'The Recruiting Serjeant.' Well, whistle and hum. He's not carrying a tune all that far tonight. It gives him time to partake in the round Kittridge is buying, at least.

Jac looks over toward Kittridge, and he shakes his dirt-swathed head. "No, no… none to speak of. I'm afraid I've been a widowed man for too long." He idly touches the chain about his neck, though his fingers do not quite travel to the woman's ring that weighs the chain. He glances to the Groves knight. "I've damn near forgotten how to woo a woman, I'm sure I will bumble about like a green squire. If you ever need advice on how to calm an angry woman though, I will offer plenty in the ways of advice."

Kamron nods to Jac, "You know it, Songbird?" His fingers continue to drum, and he points to Jarod, "You can whistle the pipe's part, since you sing like shit tonight." He shrugs at Kittridge's words, "I'll steal a kiss or three, and let her do the same, but I'll not dishonor her." A quick laugh touches his lips, "That's for the wedding night, when it's an honor instead." Another few breaths, and then he raises his voice up, a little higher than his usual range:

Two recruiting serjeants came to the C. O. E.,

For the sons of the eagles, to join the Blue Fishies

So all hands enlisted, five hundred young men…

Enlist you Riverlanders and come follow me

They crossed the sandy Red Fork at the broad Mummer's Ford,

And at the Stony Sept, they entered into hell

And with those bloody bells, the first of them fell…

Enlist you Riverlanders and come follow me

As Kamron sings, others away from the table begin to take up the words, the song well known and well-loved in Seagard.

"Yeah, wedding night." Garett grouses in good humor to Kamron. "I would -love- to be enjoying my wedding night now." No, he's not going to let the Mallister forget that. Not for awhile yet. But, he does carrying along with the song, tapping his cane against the floor in rythmn to the song.

Jac pipes in with the Mallister knight, picking up at the chorus. Unfortunately, this particular knight is a bit of a showboat when it comes to belting it. "And its over the rivers, over the plains. Come brave Riverlanders and join the Blue Fishies. You'll fight the Drag'n at the Bells, and at the Trident, see. Enlist you Riverlanders, and come follow me!" And he takes another slam of his sourwine, shouting out gloriously. "EVERYBODY!"

"Ah," Kittridge says to Jac, "Sorry," He drinks, and then chuckles at the last and nods, "I'll keep that in mind. Though I've spent plenty of time learning to calm an angry sister, so…" He tips his cup to her and drinks again, and then lifts a brow at Garett, "Why aren't you enjoying it, then, Ser Garett? Get home and get to it! If you can stand, you can fuck, I say."

"Sometimes I don't even think you need to stand," is Dmitry's totally helpful contribution at this point. He waggles his cup significantly in Garett's direction.

Kamron waves off Garett's griping, now fully into the song,

The call came from Riverrun, for the last bloody drive

"To the van with the levies, prepare yourselves to die"

The roll call next morning, just a handful survived.

Enlist you Riverlanders and come follow me

He repeats the chorus that Jac brought in, then continues with the final verse,

The dock men on Water Street still cry for the day

When the pride of this city went marching away

A thousand men slaughtered, to hear the Tully say

Enlist you Riverlanders and come follow me.

Kamron finishes with one more rendition of the chorus, singing lustily despite the generally anti-war message of the song. He lets the singing die out to just more tapping of his fingers, then takes a long swig of his drink, proclaiming, "I do love that one."

"Let her be on top. I rather enjoy that!" Jarod observes with a grin to Garett, in that enthusiastically lazy sort of way of someone who has had a comfortable amount to drink. And he might not so chipperly admit that if he were entirely sober. He drinks deep as the song comes to the part about Stony Sept, growing a little more somber. It's something of a silent toast. But he manages to pick up the song as it winds it's way to the finish, albeit low enough that any notes he misses are safely drowned by the larger bar.

Jac finishes off the last of the sourwine, though he has to laugh broadly at Jarod's words. "You can always teach her the Dothraki way," the Songbird points out before he calls for another filling of his cup. He is warm and relaxed, and he swears that there is a small shadow collapsing around the edge of his vision. He does clap Kamron solidly on his shoulder as the song comes to an end.

"You know what, Ser Kittridge…" Garett trials off, snapping a look at the barkeep. "You there! What's that over there? Is it a hard drink? Good, toss me one of those!" It's poured and slide over his way, caught by the free hand that doesn't hold his cane. "Here's blood in your eye, mates!" It smells…well, it smells like it might ignite if a candle came near. And he downs the small glass in four swallows making this wincing face, followed by a whoop. "You're absolutely right!" he finishes to Kitt. Then looking back at the barkeep, he guestures at the men around him. Injuries be damned he's going to go see Briallyn. "If you'll excuse me my fine friends, I'm going to back my tent and fuck my wife! Twice! Maybe more. You all get nice an sloppy drunk, enjoy the whores, whatever you plan on doing." He pulls away another bar. "No, wait! Another one, give me another!" he goes back to the bar, the pouring, drinking, and whooping is repeated. "Gods damned, where do you store this stuff? Alright! I can do this!" Giving off waves, he's off, most likely do the job meant for the Amnesia Knight himself. "To you, Sers! Enjoy the night!" And he heads for the door.

Kittridge points at Dmitry as he drinks in a 'yeah, that, what he said' way. He finishes downing a good portion of his drink, and then looks up as Garett says his name, "Huh?" He laughs when Garett clarifies, and grins, "There you go!" he says, laughing and drumming his good hand on the bar as the Westerling downs his shots. He cheers along, and says, "A good night to you, Ser Garett! Give Lady Ser Garett one from us!" he laughs some more, and orders another round for the group.

"Does that involve a horse?" Jarod asks Jac, when he mentions the 'Dothraki way.' "I hear there're shows in Lannisport where girls do that sort of thing with mules. Didn't strike me as something I wanted to pay coin to watch, though." Drink. He offers departing Garett a wave. "Enjoy your girl! So long as it doesn't involve mules."

"Three cheers for that," Dmitry avers firmly, raising his glass. He takes a swallow, and then slams it back to the surface of the bar as with great enthusiasm. "Fuck your wife, Ser!"

Kamron looks over to Jarod at his suggestion, chuckling softly, although Jac's suggestion draws a laugh, "I'll say, I had a whore back in King's Landing that showed me that way." He whistles softly, "I do declare I enjoyed it." Garett's declaration draws a laugh, and he leans over to clap the Westerlander on the shoulder, "I wish you well." Dmitry's cheer draws another laugh, and he nods his agreement, "I suppose that'll have to do in lieu of a bedding, although I have to say I feel a bit cheated." Waving off the Westerling, he looks back to Jarod, "No… the girl's on her hands and knees, and you come up behind her…"

Jac chokes a bit on his drink at the idea of there being horses involved. "That's not the Dothraki way I was shown! No… you see, Half-Eagle…" And then he points meaningfully at Kamron. "That is the Dothraki way I've heard of… none of which has a mule nor horse involved. Thank the Seven for that."

Kittridge laughs, "No, no animals, it's… yeah, that," Kittridge nods at Kamron. He drinks and offers helpfully, "It's a good one." More drinking, and he asks, "Was that a bit of a song, Ser Kamron, or have you really had a whore in King's Landing show you the way? It sounded like lyrics for a second there."

"Ah…" Jarod nods to Kamron and Kittridge, for their illumination. "The whores at the Rockcliff called that dog style." He assures quickly, "It didn't involve dogs there, either." He takes another drink. "Since you brought up bynames, Ser Kittridge, I was wondering. What do they call on the field of battle? Black Spear? Black Apple? Black…Hair? I mean, not the color, but its dark legend throughout the land…something."

Kamron glances over to Kittridge, offering the man a bit of a smile and a shrug, "Probably is, but it's not one I've heard. It actually was a whore in King's Landing." Shrugging again, he adds, "Before Storm's End." He lets that sit without additional comment, leaning over onto the table to study the Groves man for his response to Jarod's question.

"Black Apple sounds terrible and rotten," Dmitry opines. His tongue is a little slurry, but the quality of his jokes does not appear to have gone up due to liquor.

"Ah," Kittridge nods at Kamron's explanation, "Never been to King's Landing, but all the stories say they're the best outside Essos. True or false?" To Jarod, he laughs. "Usually they call me Ser Kittridge. Or Ser Groves. Sometimes Ser Kit, if they're feeling friendly." He shrugs, "I haven't got a fancy byname, I'm afraid. Black Spear seems to fit the trend."

"Black Spear at least sounds less rotten, and more menacing," Jarod says with a shrug. "Maybe that's why everyone wants to be the black…whatever. What about you, Kamron?" His brow furrows, and he drinks as he considers. "The Black Eagle, perhaps? I'd love to see King's Landing one day, for my part. At least with this, I've something to sell if I need to get gold for a trip." He idly swirls his drink in his cup. For all that he doesn't seem serious, he does seem to take some comfort in this.

"Black Apple does sound terrible and rotten," Kit agrees, nodding, "In a poison way or… rotten," he repeats, and shrugs, "Not really in a fighting way."

Kamron shakes his head helplessly at Kittridge's question, "Better than the few I've had in Stone Hedge and Seagard, if you're willing to pay — and you will if you want what they're selling." He nods to Dmitry, then adds to Kittridge, "I bet Blackspear would draw the same rumors as Blacksword. You'd think it'd be Greenspear, for the Groves, or Redspear, if you were feeling bloodthirsty." Jarod's query for him draws a helpless shrug, "Haven't picked one up yet. If I have a choice, I think I'll avoid the Black anything, but most likely it'll be up to you fuckers what they call me. Wouldn't mind the Knight of the Talon, although unless I do something shit-hot to get appointed to hold Talon Point after my father, that's a shortlived byname."

"Let one of your compatriots name you," says the Songbird with a mirthful grin. "That's what I did." And we can all see how that turned out. Though he does chortle a bit into his sourwine, completely content with his name regardless. He glances toward Kamron at his minor plight, and he shrugs. "Ser Arvan has done well at Talon Point, and as your father's son, I see no reason why you wouldn't be expected to take up his duties once he passes. I imagine should Lord Jason Mallister, Seven rest his bones, had not fallen, he would know this and expect you to do as your father. Young Patrek may just need more time to see this." He offers Kamron a half-grin. Then he looks to Half-Eagle. "So, we do we expect a wee Quarter-Eagle to pop out?"

"Oh fuck." Jarod drinks. And laughs. A lot. "Not sure the world's quite ready for that. No time soon. Lord Patrek can people the Cape on my behalf with his pretty Reach girl, and I will salute him toward it." He raises his cup and drinks the remainder, to little Lord Patrek's peopling abilities.

Kittridge nods, "Yeah, I suppose they'd cost. Supposedly worth it? Might find out if I'm ever there, but, eh. Not really my style, most of the time, paying for it." He laughs at the other suggested nicknames, shaking his head. "Greenspear makes me sound like a virgin," he replies to Kamron, "And Redspear… I don't know, no ring to it." He shrugs, "I'm not really much for battlefield exploits, to be honest. I'm just as happy not earning a byname at this point." He leans against the bar and drinks, listening to the bits about Talon Point, and then snorts at the idea of Jarod having children. Or more likely at the idea of Jarod's wife having children.

Kamron waves his cup expansively at Jac's suggestion, at least two sheets to the wind if not fully three. He has been drinking rather constantly, after all, and he adds another swallow at Jarod's toast and holds his cup out for a refill, "Father's done well, but it's not a hereditary holding." The latter two words are spoken with extremely careful precision. "And Lord Mallister… for all the good will he's shown with the betrothal, well I bet he still sees a debit to be wiped clean after Harlaw." And he drinks again, nodding to Kittridge, "I prefer not to pay myself, but it's certainly quicker if you're passing through." He shrugs at the commentary on the available bynames, "Can't say I didn't try. but the song-writer's over there," he points across to Jac, "Not here," and then he points at himself.

"How about He Who Must Not Be Named?" Jac offers toward Kittridge. "Or The Knight of No Names? The Nameless Knight." He pauses. "Though I suppose yesterday's mystery knight takes that byname a bit more earnestly." Jac does look toward Kamron, and he waves off the Mallister's worry. "Give him time, let him see that you are an honorable man of good raising and a true heart. And if he wants a reference, have him write to the Bracken. I'll even ask my father not to mention you pissing in the pig sty." He does glance toward Jarod with a fatherly sort of smile. "Don't wait too long now… you'll want to be able to chase after them without having to catch your breath."

Jarod has no comment on the mystery knights. Drink, drink, drink. He doesn't have any further comment on kids of his own, either, though he does laugh some more. All he says is, "I'd best settle on a surname first. I think I'll just keep styling myself Half-Eagle for now. Works better than any of the alternatives at present. But, aye." A small nod to Kittridge. "I hope there'll be less chances at earning bynames now that the adventure on the Iron Isles is done. As for your honor, Kamron, you seem to've done a job of repairing it. Besides, would Lord Patrek rather have Ser Martyn dead? I think not!"

Kamron frowns at the mention of the mystery knights, speaking up then, "There were a shit-ton of mystery knights this tourney. Anyone know who in the seven hells any of them were?" He puzzles silently for a moment, then goes with, "Someone… was interested in the Knight of Thorns in particular. No raggedy ass maile on him, but real armor." Jarod's words cause him to lift his drink in salute, "Thank you, Jarod." There's a delay, and then eventually he notes, "Sometimes, I think he'd just as fuck have Martyn dead as think Mallister honor'd been wronged." Well, he must be pretty damned drunk to say that.

Something about Kamron's words draws a frown onto Jac's lips, and the older knight grips the younger's shoulders. "Half-Eagle, Ser Kittridge of No Names," Jac says to the pair. "I believe I'm going to take this young Bracken squire out to dunk his head in the trough and then walk him back to the tents. I think he's had his fill for the night." And he squeezes Kamron's shoulder to draw him up to his feet.