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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 4, 2011 12:06:03 GMT -5
He gets a stare in reply. Another woman sidles up and answers. "I speak it. My aren't you handsome...Dornish, yes?" She is clearly not Westerosi, with dark-tinted skin and raven-black hair.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 4, 2011 13:05:58 GMT -5
"Indeed," Frances replied with a grin. "You are Volantene? I cannot say I know much about this city."
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 4, 2011 21:51:25 GMT -5
"Lysene. I came south to escape the cold." The tavern is increasingly crowded with people from all places as far as Frances can tell. The music is something he's never heard, a wood flute with some stringed instrument. His drink is cool and orange.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 4, 2011 22:48:04 GMT -5
Pol Greyjoy, like the other ambassadors, awaits the Volantene honor guard. They line up in two ranks of twenty, facing each other. Spears are lifted simultaneously in choreographed motion, forming a walkway underneath. The leader of the guards steps forward and bows before the five. "Greetings, lords and ladies of Westeros. I am Captain Yevaud Jirin. PLease, follow me." He turns and walks to the head of the small formation. One by one, the ambassadors follow.
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Post by Ser Pounce on Sept 4, 2011 22:55:23 GMT -5
Pol wondered if anything on this journey would be simple and practical. All the pomp was quite unnesecary. Lots of style and no substance was all he could report on so far. He had avoided fights as best he could. Admittedly Pol was probably out of place with his beard, somewhat tidy and his sea stained clothes. He could at least count on Blackwell to unleash hell if shit hit the fan.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 4, 2011 23:31:19 GMT -5
Blackwall is already of the ship exploring with the other Ironborn, men of violence not being welcomed by the Volantene honor guards. The ambassadors head into one of the palaces of Volantis, where they are given an hour to change into fresh clothes provided and bathe with hot water and lather. Prince Pol's clothes are well made but simple, white silk shirt and black leather pants, with a sturdy belt and a hat.
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Post by Ser Pounce on Sept 4, 2011 23:38:30 GMT -5
Pol grumbled, "Those are my lucky clothes," he said, while wondering what the hell was going on. It was all an elaborate scheme if they wanted them killed. But he'd kknown some crazy men in his short time alive so far. He was glad none of his mates were around to see how big a buffoon he looked. "Has to be some humiliation ceremony," he added to no one in particular. He waited around to be herded to the next location once he was dressed.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 4, 2011 23:47:20 GMT -5
After a short time, he and the other ambassadors, looking and feeling much more refreshed are escorted to a room overlooking the enormous port. Other than the ceiling and the side they arrived from, there is no wall to be had in the open-air room hundreds of feet above the waters. Three men sit on opulent chairs facing them, and rise as their guests arrive. Another few guardsmen stand stone-face in a circle bout the room. Five guards each pull out richly decorated thrones for the five attendees. The man in the center of the three spreads his hands and slightly bows his head. "Greetings, esteemed colleagues of Westeros. I am Lord Tristen Callar, and as the only one of the lords of Volantis who speaks Westerosi, I shall be our official representative as we discuss a matter of great import. Please, take seats, and if you have want of something, do not hesitate to ask." He claps his hands, and beautiful serving men and women bring in trays of meats, fruits, and wine.
Malryas Bolton, whom Pol had met several times, takes a handsome helping of everything and sits down to eat, but his icy eyes never leave the three lords. Lady Selyse Qorgyle has some fruits and wine, "Lord" Russ Hill has nothing, and Grand Admiral Jon Celtigar takes after Bolton and helps himself to everything.
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Post by Ser Pounce on Sept 4, 2011 23:56:06 GMT -5
Pol felt slightly offended they wouldn't offer ale, "Where's the ale?" He asked while seating himself and reaching out for some food. Discussing matters of any kind should never be done on an empty stomach, was what he heard once but he couldn't remember from where. He didn't want to offend the hosts by ruining the clothing that they had provided but it was an unfortunate risk he had to take when eating in abundance.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 5, 2011 0:02:18 GMT -5
A serving girl quickly runs off and returns a second later with a massive pitcher of thick black ale. Lord Callan lets the group eat a moment, then speaks with his colleagues, then says in Westerosi, "I thank you all for coming. It is, I fear, a time of great trouble and uncertainty for Essos and the Free Cities. As you probably saw, our fleet is mobilizing and our armies are training and stocking food for the coming campaign season."
"To what end, Lord Callan?" the voice of Grand Admiral Celtigar booms. As master of ships for King Baratheon his forces would naturally be the first to face the wrath of any Free Cities incursion into Westeros.
"To slay a dragon, Admiral Celtigar." Callan waves, and two servants carry in what appears to be a massive claw, six or seven feet long. "To slay a dragon."
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Post by Ser Pounce on Sept 5, 2011 0:13:58 GMT -5
Pol sucked down the black ale as soon as he got it and when Lord Callan began to speak he set down the tankard and left his food alone for a moment. Pol rubbed his mouth when they had brought out some sort of claw thing, the likes of which he had never seen. It looked like a dried up tentacle perhaps, even still, if it was only one claw that was so big, the creature itself must have been massive. He contemplated these facts and tried to conjure a picture of the beast in his head but couldn't yet. Pol reached for his tankard and drank some more ale while observing the reactions of the other representatives in the room. Obviously they would want help in slaying the thing, dragon so they called it. He waited for the man to present the rest of the facts and the incentive for fighting for them.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 5, 2011 0:22:58 GMT -5
Even Bolton looks a bit shocked at the enormous claw. Lord Callan nodded slowly. "Indeed, this was taken from the smaller of the Slaver's Bay dragons, not a year past. Each city got a talon as a 'gift' from the Ghiscari Hegemon when they finally slew it. Supposedly it took thirty thousand men and treachery to get even that done." As the talon is set onto the table, the five see it's glossy green with yellowing highlights. "The King of New Valyria is said to have another dragon, even larger than this beast. The Ghiscari call it Nightfall, though I've heard the Targaryen has another name for it. Before you go to Slaver's Bay, I ask you hear our proposal. As I'm sure you can guess, this creature presents a danger to the whole world. We have allied with the Hegemon to destroy it and their masters once and for all. R'hlorr himself, our god, has blessed this endeavor. Unfortunately, Braavos and some of the other cities are proving recalcitrant and threaten our shipping lanes whilst we save them from the terrors of a new Valyrian Empire. We request the aid of the Five Kingdoms to free our hands to do what must be done."
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Post by Ser Pounce on Sept 5, 2011 0:29:15 GMT -5
Prince Greyjoy soaked in what the man was saying. Considering the task that he was proposing would largely hinge on the support of the Iron Islands and the other naval powers of the other kingdoms any one of them not supporting the idea would make the entire endeavor a shit storm. Pol clasped his hands on the table. He wondered if someone would ask why the Free Cities couldn't just pay off the other cities or simply kill off the thorns in their side. He looked around at the variety of expressions, "Why can't you just pay off the trouble makers, or remove them?"
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 5, 2011 2:53:45 GMT -5
Lord Callan nodded slowly. "Too many to buy off or fight for just the three of us joining against our common threat. And, regrettably, this dragon king has proven competent enough to hold off both the Hegemon and the khalasars of the Dothraki Sea. Until our battle fleet arrives to seal him off, we fear a bloody and costly stalemate will ensue." He stands once more. "I understand you are commanded to make it to both New Ghis and Meereen, but remember, you are King Targaryen's last chance at victory. If you convince him the Five Kingdoms will not intervene on his behalf, then he'll have no choice but to surrender himself and his abomination."
Malryas looked calm, while Admiral Celtigar nodded agreement with Callan. Qorgyle and Hill's expressions couldn't be read. After a moment of silence, Malryas said finally, "You bring up many excellent points, Lord Callan, and I shall be sure to inform my king as to the seriousness of your situation. As you said, however, for the nonce my orders are to continue on to Meereen to speak with this king myself."
Admiral Celtigar, a noted follower of the Red God, looked distasteful at the thought of continuing on, but his orders were presumably the same. The others continued remaining silent for the moment. Pol could use a quick calculation to determine that, if ordered to battle the powerful and world-famed fleet of Braavos, even the Iron Islands would need some of the large battle-galleys of the Arbor or Dragonstone in order to prevail. Greyjoy had, in fact, read High Admiral Faol's numerous works on naval strategy and tactics himself, and his dismantling of Volantis, Pentos and Myr's combined fleets at Coldwater Sound was the stuff of legend.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 5, 2011 8:10:35 GMT -5
"Lysene. I came south to escape the cold." The tavern is increasingly crowded with people from all places as far as Frances can tell. The music is something he's never heard, a wood flute with some stringed instrument. His drink is cool and orange. "Then this seems like as good a place as any," Frances replied with a wink. "Though I do not understand this music they play. I myself am adept at the harp and yet... this makes no sense." He studied the musicians with a slight scowl.
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