(121-03-28) A Sufficient Sword
A Sufficient Sword
Summary: Visenya gains a (sort of) sworn man. Fulk meets the dragonseed, Draea.
Date: (28/03/2014)
Related: The Dragon's Gorge

Dragon Door Manse

Princess Visenya has been keeping an ear to the ground, and when she hears rumor that Fulk the Subtle has finally arrived in Oldtown she sends him a cordial summons to dinner. When Fulk arrives he will be directed to a smaller dining hall where good cheeses, olives, and wine has been laid out. There is, however, no Princess.

Fulk is in the room for almost twenty minutes when the Targaryen maid arrives. "Oh, don't get up, Ser. Forgive me." Although impeccably garbed and coiffed, she still seems a smudge frazzled. "My half-sister, the Lady Draea Waters." She introduces the exotic young woman who trails her. She settles down into a seat diagonal from Fulk, "I hope you are well? What happened after I sent you for the horses? When there was no word I had thought something horrible had befallen you, ser."

Draea is everything that Visenya is not. She's short, dusky, curvy and dark. If not for her deep blue-violet eyes, one would never even think it possible that there's any relation. She's dressed well, though not so rich as her half-sister, and her clothes put comfort and ease of movement ahead of fashion. Her clumped braids of raven black are twisted and styled in a Dothraki approach, the majority back in what might resemble an ornately braided horse's tail. She gives a bob of her head in greeting but says nothing when introduced, standing beside Visenya's seat.

Ser Fulk is looking sprucer than when he first encountered the Princess by a long shot. She may recall having advanced him some gold, and he would appear to have put it to good use. Someone has repaired, oiled and cleaned his hauberk, and he has a fine new cambric surcoat, showing his peculiar knightly sigil of the Knifed Star. His greying hair and beard are combed, and rosewater almost overpowers the sweat of the ride - almost. He rises, bows low, and then tells his brisk account.

"I obeyed y'last commandment to the letter, y'Grace, though when there was word you had succeeded in tamin' the beast…I had some delay in th'implementation. I handed over two new mounts, a palfrey n' a gelding, 's well as my own Faithful, over to y'stable boy. But I doubt ye're so much in need o' horses now, m'lady, a' mean…princess…"

The old knight blushes slightly. "Fact is, I had ter go discreet in enterin' this fine city. I unhorsed a young Hightower who took it ill some years back…n' the Starry Sept ain't too friendly, neither. I made haste when the moment was…opportune, like. Pleasure, I'm sure, m'lady," he nods quickly to the outlandish-looking dragonseed attendant.

Visenya picks up her wine glass, and holds it up for a servant to fill. "Draea, there is a place sat at the table for you." She turns her head to give her sister a wan smile, but there is an edge of irritation behind it, "Now, sit so we can be served."

"Oh no, Ser. You must keep them, unless they are unsuited to your needs? I recall that you lost your horse and donkey on the trip?" She nods her head in understanding. "Think no more of it, Ser. You will remain in the city under the protection of my family." She has a swallow of her wine, "As for the Faith. Well, we won't worry overmuch about them."

"I'll be the judge of the horses," Draea says in a smooth wisp of a voice befitting her tiny stature. She may enjoy shocking the highborn with her savage style of hair, but she speaks like a well-educated young lady. There's Dothraki swagger in her posture and behind those Targaryen eyes, though. Those with eyes trained to notice such things might detect the presence of a short blade on the outside of each calf. "If you decide to keep them." When her sister declines them, she shrugs small shoulders and takes a seat as 'suggested' by Visenya. At the table she becomes more ladylike in pose.

The knight is evidently gratified by both the gift of the valuable horseflesh - suddenly transforming him into an owner of THREE mounts, perhaps even rich enough to take on a squire and maybe even a page - and the offer of much-needed protection. He had probably hinted at his desired reward when he suggested the Princess would have small need for horses now, but in any case he feigns delighted surprise. "Ye've been a bountiful mistress to me, milady…y'Grace. I don' regret any of my decisions on the road, after all." He smirks jaggedly through his beard. "If there stands any other service y'Grace might ask o' me…?"

He seems rather more unnerved by the notion of the bastard with the blades and the Essosi complexion and mien having anything to do with his new prizes. "I know well how to care for my steeds, with y'ladyship's respect," he replies stiffly, clearly as day inwardly forbidding the Lady Draea to even think about eating them.

The first course arrives. It is a creamy delicate soup made from some sort of fish stock. Visenya picks up her spoon and has a small taste so the others may begin to eat. "If you'd like you could serve me, Ser Fulk. There would be no hurt in me taking on a sworn sword." She has another sip of her wine, and chases it down with another delicate little taste of the soup.

Draea narrows her already heavy-lidded gaze as she tries to puzzle out the Knight's reaction. Thick lips quirk in an amused smirk. "I've never crossed the Poisoned Sea, ser. I was born and raised here. Other than on special occasions I don't partake of horseflesh. I am, however, quite good at riding and training them." She then falls quiet, idly stirring her soup and letting the other two talk business.

Ser Fulk's suspicious countenance curdles into wry amusement. "Might be so, m'lady, but ye still name it Poisoned. Stranded on the wrong shore, mayhaps?" But belatedly remembering that this is a Princess's sister, of sorts, and not just some Essosi servant to be teased with impunity, he adds gruffly, "I don' doubt y'ladyship's capabilities. Nor that I shall have a chance to witness 'em soon enough."

Especially if he takes up Visenya's quiet offer, which seems to have thrown him into a genuine quandary. "Y'Grace…I've been a hedge knight for long years. Such folk as I, when we start out we may have some thought o' winning a place, but we come to love the windin' road, what it means. We're scarce cut out for the quarrels o' the Great Houses, or the sentry duties and ceremonies o' their servants. I…'d be loth to become yet another sword sworn to a throne made of 'em. But you, in person…I would gladly serve. I could even swear yer an oath, o'sorts."

Visenya only eats a little of her soup before she sits her spoon down and pushes the bowl off to the side for a servant to remove. "Draea is quite capable." She assures Fulk, but she says nothing more in regards to her half-Dothraki half-sister's capabilities. "You would serve me in person." She says, "And would be sworn to me. Not House Targaryen in general. Although I imagine serving a maid will be dull for a man used to excitement."

Draea remains silent, stirring her soup. Stirring, not eating. An occasional sideglance at Visenya seems to say, 'Really? Fish?' Not that there's much need for her while business is conducted.

Belatedly noticing the fishy broth, Ser Fulk falls to it with sudden enthusiasm. He eats like a soldier - surprisingly neatly, efficiently, and damned speedily. When the bowl is all but empty, he lays down his spoon and permits himself a raddled belly-laugh.

"Oh, aye, m'lady, it's been mighty tedious thus far. In any case, I'm not just o' use in the saddle, for all our…'quaintance…hitherto. I can read and write n' talk well enough, even if y'might fin' fault wi' my intonations." He smirks broadly, alluding to Visenya's reproach at his accent on the road. "If y'have a maester attached here, I could help him out betimes. If not…a' can fill in."

The second course arrives. It is a fine portion of capon basted in a honey lemon sauce. Visenya tucks into this with more enthusiasm than she did the fish broth, but ignores her dragonseed companion's questioning look. "Generally, when we've need of a maester, we just consult the Citadel. As this is a house filled with members of the royal family it seems our requests are always promptly filled by several more men in gray robes arriving then we actually need. "But, I trust you, Ser. I like to keep those that I trust near."

The second course at least seems to meet with more approval from the darker girl, though she's quite proper and ladylike as she eats. It makes for an interesting contrast, the savage and the refined. Draea still has nothing to say at this point.

Ser Fulk nods sagely at the Princess's concluding words, and his soft, brown gaze floats over quizzically again to the dragonseed. "So I see, y'Grace." He pauses for a moment, cutting into the capon with more care and deliberation, in line with his mood, a cunning, cautious aspect crossing his weathered, bearded face.

"In the Reach we have an oath for cases like these…just t'other side o' fealty. I'd swear to make y'foes mine, ter defend 'gainst, or avenge any slight or loss to y'possessions or yer person. Would that suffice, Princess?"

Visenya looks up from her meal to offer Fulk a practiced smile. As rehearsed as it is it's still effective, and lovely to behold. "That is sufficient, I believe, Ser." She has a swallow of wine, and lets out a little laugh. "And just like that, Draea, I've a Knight now."

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