(121-03-19) Stag Amid Smoke
Log Title
Summary: Amadys visits Visenya, following her brother's suggestion. Visenya is drunk, Daevon is worried, Aegon is jealous, and a fire outmatches a song.
Date: (19/03/2014)
Related: Follows The Queen of Sundown

"Only if they are all boys. Everyone knows a woman with a funny face is the saddest thing in the world!" Visenya is drunk. This much is certain by the slur of her words and the slight wobble of her step. And the fact that she is leaning against her funny-faced cousin. "You don't remember Aegon?" She asks Daevon. As if there aren't twenty Aegons at Dragonstone at this very minute.

"Can't see a face beneath a helmet," Daevon comments. "But what's wrong with yours?" No, he didn't mean it that way, only he doesn't correct himself. "Is my brother teaching you well?" He looks Aegon up and down and shakes his head. "No, I don't. Should I?"

Whenever it's possible to get a word in, a servant will inform one or other of the contending dragons that Lord Amadys Baratheon is waiting at the threshold. The young acolyte has shed every trimming of his scholastical status save his copper link ring, and is resplendent his finest garments of black, gold and dark azure. He wears no weapon save a small knife better fitted for the table than the field, but cradles an ornate mandolin under one arm. His youthful features are in equal part quizzical and nervous leaning terrified.

There's probably forty Aegon's at Dragonstone this very moment, but doubtful that any of them are as funny-faced as this one. He shrugs just the one shoulder to Daevon, the other busy with the wrap of his arm around Visenya. "I, uh, I mean, sure, yes. He's a, um. He's a great knight." And this Aegon is not the best liar, just this very moment. "There's ah, nothing — well. Visenya thinks I've got a funny face." And who is he to argue? The squire falls silent with expectation as Amadys is heralded.

"I do not think you have a funny face." Visenya intones rather seriously, "I know it to be a fact." Still, she pats Aegon's arm lightly in an attempt to comfort him. Obviously he needs comforting what with his funny face. At the Baratheon's announcement she blinks hazily down to the door before beeaking free from Aegon to take a clumsy step down. "You!" She calls out, "The…ah, the acolyte?"

"He's a good man," Daevon says. He doesn't mention his brother's knightly prowess. "And a better knight than he thinks he is. Make sure he teaches you everything you need to know." He sighs at his sister, and then looks towards Amadys.

"The very same," the stag stripling acknowledges with a wry attempt at bravado as he is shown into the somewhat chaotic atmosphere. "I am…delighted to have found you looking…so…so very well, my lady Visenya. Well, and passing fair. I wished to offer you my congratulations on a feat Oldtown will not soon forget…"

Amadys's voice is carrying, but a little strained and weary, and the brightness of his eyes and pallor of his face still hint at a fever not long thrown off. Still, who better for a convalescent to visit than a family reputed to be free from disease…?

Aegon is undoubtedly happy to (at the very least) humour Visenya, accepting her patting comfort graciously. It's pretty clear that he's ok with his face, though. "Caref- ah, careful!" He lets her go as she pleases, hand trailing out after her as she stumbles down the stairs. He glances to Daevon, nodding firmly. "That he is," says this Targaryen, before turning his critical gaze to the acolyte.

Visenya picks up her heavy skirts slightly to make her way down the stairs without tripping on them. In her drunken state, she has lost a measure of her properness, and manners. "Lord Amadys, you look exhausted." She says when she approaches the Stag, "But you, luckily enough, do not have a funny face. Please come sit down. I will have someone bring you something to drink."

Daevon was going down the stairs and so he continues doing so. "Lord Amadys, it's a pleasure. Have you met my cousin, Aegon? Aegon this is Lord Amadys Baratheon."

"My lady," Amadys enthuses, perhaps more gamely than convincingly, "no weariness could long survive a glance of yours, a breath of your speech, an hour of your company. But yes, I…I would be most grateful for a cup of wine." He appears to be breathing in several of them in any case as he draws nearer to the lady. Targaryen knight and squire alike receive sweeping bows, "Well met, my lord Aegon. Your cousin is a pattern of knighthood for all to emulate." Not that it looks like Amadys is any hurry to do so.

Obediently sidling over to the chair Visenya had shown him, Amadys now slyly suggests, "I don't suppose you'd care for a little light music, my lady?"

Genuine surprise washes over Aegon's features, and his appraisal of Amadys is suddenly far more critical than before. "Oh, so," he stutter-mutters, chin tucking back toward his neck indignantly. "So, so his face is, and mine…" He turns disbelieving eyes upon Daevon, since that's who's making introductions. "Amadys Baratheon," he repeats, ditching propriety in his skepticism. That is all he has to say, just now.

The servants can hear Visenya offer their guest wine, and are quick to oblige. A goblet filled with arbor gold is placed in the Baratheon hands rather promptly and without obstruction. Those Targaryens are terrifying people to work for. All half-mad or fully mad. It's better to give them what they want, clean up their messes, and stay out of their way. Other servants can be heard cleaning up an adjoining room, and there is a distinctly burnt smell in the house.

Visenya seems to pay no note to the servants or the strange smell. Instead, she sits down in a chair across from Amadys with her hands folded as primly in her lap as the drunk lady can manage. "A song?" She smiles gently, "Do go on."

Daevon'd like to think he wasn't mad at all, of course others would beg to differ. He's handed some arbor gold too by the servants. His nose twitches at the smell of burning, and he can't help but go look through the door to see what caused it.

Amadys, on the other hand, is a little distracted by the fuming aroma. "What a…marvellous…savour…on the air, my lady. Is your cook preparing some splendid dish for a revel, a feast, a banquet…?"

He coughs slightly and drifts on. "Aye, my lady. A short ballade of our first meeting. I made it but yestereve; another singer I know well, curse his hide, now claims it, but, as your brother yonder will confirm, he lies. It is called…'The Queen of Sundown'." He takes a bolstering gulp of golden wine to refresh his throat ere its exercise.

Aegon doesn't want any damned Arbor gold, waving the servants away frustratedly. "Something sour," he demands, with a stomp of his dragonblooded foot. Where's a candle; a flame to soothe him? The bulky Targaryen lad follows after Daevon toward his doused handiwork, if only to pluck a tallow candle from a table in the adjoining room. "Aevander put it to waste," he mutters of the singed tapestry, glass shards from a nearby wall sconce scattered underfoot.

"Oh, cousin Aegon accidentally broke a lamp, and burned one of the tapestries." Visenya says this nonchalantly, as if burning half a room were an everyday occurrence. "So, I suppose you are smelling burnt wool?" She sniffs the air, "Or was it silk. Aegon, what was that tapestry?" She asks as her suddenly grumpy cousin passes by. Amadys' words catch her attention, however, and she looks back to the Baratheon, "You wrote a song about me?"

Daevon grimaces to see the mess. He ignores Aegon's comment, and decides to grasp onto the only shred of sanity in the room. Lucky Amadys. "Yes, the song was yours not his. I doubt he even met the Queen of Sundown."

"…Ah." The acolyte falls briefly silence(d), but Visenya's last enquiry puts heart and spirits back into him. "The archmaesters have taught us that all true art is a fable, my lady," Amadys qualifies carefully with a small smile. "So I shall say only that the song tells of a lonely scholar poet, upon the Honeywine Bridge at dusk, wrestling with old wounds and new verses, who is taken unawares by a vision like no other he has ever experienced. A dream, he is convinced it must be, a glamour, a reverie. But then she speaks. She appeals, in a voice softer than lutes…and all the while, as the river glints…"

Realising he has got just a little carried away, Amadys sighs and mutters, "perhaps I'll just cut to the chase, my lady." He starts to tune the mandolin with a piercing twang, then launches into the lyric, a dancing, light song of melancholy and hope. His voice failed him in capturing its deep emotions on the song's last outing…will this occasion be any better?

<FS3> Amadys rolls Poetry: Success.
<FS3> Amadys rolls Singing: Success.
<FS3> Amadys rolls Music: Success.
<FS3> Aegon rolls Pyromancy: Success.

Fate plays queer tricks, and while Amadys has mastered his voice enough for a fairly competent rendition of the song, his playing, even his cadences lack the sharp, inspired freshness of its first attempt. But perhaps Visenya is not to know this. All the while, the smell of smoke is only getting more powerful…

"Probably just another long-nosed Rhaenys and Meraxes weave," mutters Aegon in the other room, ignoring the ruin of his handiwork and snatching up a candle. He rejoins the larger room, flame flicker and trailing as he walks. "Softer than lutes," he scoffs, making a face at Amadys as he claims a chair nearer to Visenya than the acolyte. He settles his candle in his lap, only to duck a hand into some pocket or other to retrieve a pinch of something, which he tosses at the wick. Little silver sparks ensue, and the squire is, for at least a brief moment, smiling again.

Daevon's not seated, in fact he's looking concerned by now. He says nothing, he just listens.

Visenya claps for Amadys' song. Hey, even if it isn't the most moving of songs, he wrote it for her, didn't he? Still, her clapping trails off as she watches Aegon's trick with the candle. "Oh, how lovely!" She tilts her head slightly, and her long silvery locks curtain over one amethyst eye. She pushes her curtain of silky hair back with a hand to ask, "Aegon, how did you do that?"

For his part, Amadys only looks alarmed, as if one of those silver sparks might give off yet more sparks and float altogether too near to his hair and eyes, but he maintains his place, his courtesies, and, for a moment, his peace, only drinking that golden wine down at a slightly quicker pace.

Aegon's fingers sweep out, perfectly timed to look as though he's stopping the little spray of sparkles with a touch of his skin to the flame. (It's something he's practiced long and hard at, no doubt.) They die, of course, burned out not long after their birth, and the squire turns his smile — a little smug, mind — to Visenya. "The sparks? They, ah. It's just a thing I learned." His fingers dart back and forth absently through the candle's flame, his eyes occupied elsewhere.

Daevon drains his wine, silently.

"A Pyromancer's trick," Amadys remarks with much relief and just a little superciliousness. "Long ago, the Wisdoms of the Pyromancers' Guild were maintained by every lord worth his title. Now they are forgotten and receding, their influence supplanted by the order I may one day join, the Maesters of the Citadel. How is that you came to study their art, Lord Aegon?"

"You will teach me later." Visenya informs Aegon in her bossy tone. She then forces her attention to Amadys again, "My Lord, what a lovely song you have written. I am touched by it." She illustrates how touched she is by touching the place where her heart is with her fingertips. His question to Aegon is met with a smile, "We are blood of the dragon, Lord Amadys. We've many secrets." There's a pause, "I hope you'll allow me to show you the gardens sometime?"

Amadys pales still further, almost as if it is his heart Visenya has seized, sharper and deeper, with fingernails of steel. "It is a mere nothing, my lady Visenya. There will be other days, other songs. And yes, when I have next evaded my duties, I should be most honoured to see your gardens." The cough he suppresses may hint at his private fear they're likely to contain more ash than earth…but in any case, he rises now, bows his leave, and retires, for the present, from this disconcerting house.

"Their influence," are the words that Aegon chooses to repeat, out of all those spoken before him. It's mostly another scoff, and he digs in his pocket even as he's rising from his chair with his candle. He flicks another little pinch of whatever that is into the flame, sparks flying again as he tells Visenya, "If you'd like, yeah, yes. Yeah." To the servants, he's a little surer, calling out for them to hear, "Bring the sours to my quarters!" That is the bulk of his goodbye; he's not much for pleasantries, even less so at this time of night, though he does think to tack on as he departs, "Sleep well, cousins."

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