(121-10-21) Craft Faire

It is a beautiful sunny day. Booths are set up along the Honeywine, showing off a variety of foods and crafts from Westeros and abroad. Various street musicians, jugglers, and other performers thrill the crowds. This is a day for the Small folk to shine, though nobles can be seen mingling with the crowds, and their is fierce competition between nobles ladies in the tapestry, embroidery, and even the botanical categories, where they are competing with smallfolk gardeners and even some Maesters. There is a festive air about, and many in the crowd are wearing masks and even full costume, though not as many as if this were a night time event. The main stage is being held by a band playing a country dance and people are doing as circle dance in the cleared space in front of it. City and Targaryen guards can be seen policing the crowd in an attempt to keep down theft and pickpocketting. People are picnicking along the river.

A large man dressed as a giant black and brown cock is drifting through the crowd, paying special attention to the food and brewing stalls.

Camillo has a few extra pouches hanging off his belt today, and a beaten bag over one shoulder. A slightly odd domino mask hangs on the back of his head, with a keyhole eye. It's a bit roughly done, but it isn't too bad. Camillo follows the flow of the crowd, looking at what's on display but never lingering long.

Bryn walks along through the stalls, taking a drink of juice he got from one of the stalls as he watches a smith show off his wares. He's not wearing a costume, unless you count the fact that he isn't wearing the robes of the Citadel for once. Instead he's dressed in clothes that would make him look of noble birth, except they're slightly too small and he's barefoot.

Maester Leandro is a genius, this is known. His paintings are absolutely exquisite, his carvings of a beauty that few ever reach. It's said there's nothing he turns to his hand to that doesn't come out perfect. Everything he dabbles in, including the making of wine, comes out gold. And so, it's with a certain amount of relief, certainly, that others note Maester Leandro's not entering, in fact he's wearing a judge's badge on top of his maester's robes. Flamboyant robes today, all red and gold. Well relief for everyone, save for the brewer whose wares he's sampling. "You call this ale? Are you sure you didn't just scoop out some of the honeywine water? It's insipid, flavourless, not fit for anything but bathing in."

The Rooster drifts close to the ale seller and bobs his head in agreement with the Maester. He has a judge's badge pinned to his chest and the mask leaves his mouth free for tasting. "Definitely nothing to be crowing about."

Camillo slides quietly through the crowd, but perhaps the oblique path he's making toward the brewer is deliberate. But he never seems to move against the crowd. It only carries him along like the tide.

"Now look here who's cock of the walk," Leandro says to the Rooster. "Do you know, hardly anyone's tried to bribe me to get better placed. It's so disappointing." He smirks at this. "As if a maester's integrity could be swayed by mere coin, and a year's supply of piss-poor ale. It would need to be two years, at least." He's liking joking, judging by that smile and he's already moving on to the next stall and the all on offer there. "It's a bit thick, are we meant to be eating this, or drinking it?" He sniffs at it next. "At least there's some substance here."

Bryn moves on from the smith, setting his cup aside at one of the areas collecting used cups and then zig-zags through the crowd as he makes his way towards the next stall that catches his interest. He's passing near Leandro, though, when he hears what the maester is saying and stops to glance up curiously.

The Cock giggles a slightly unhinged sounding giggle at Leandro's quip and trails after him. "It is good we are incorruptible when it comes to bad ale and worse food… I like a bit of body to my drink." The bass voice, large size, and childlike delivery make it fairly obvious who the big cock is today. He waves a winged arm at Bryn, "Keli's friend, isn't it?"

Camillo is soon not far at all from Leandro's group. He loiters near the corner of the ale stand, now out of the flow of traffic, but only a little more conspicuous now.

A Middle Aged Man Dressed as a Bravo lingers in the vicinity, sipping dark ale.

Bryn looks up to the rooster and smiles, nodding quickly. "Bryn," he adds. He glances around and then looks back, and asks, "Is Keli here? I was looking for her but haven't seen her."

"You can stand a spoon in this one," Leandro says. "But at least it doesn't smell like it would then dissolve." He takes a tentative sip, looking thoughtful. There's a glance down to Bryn. Then one over to Camillo's direction but he doesn't quite seem to notice him yet.

The Rooster shakes his head at Bryn, "I haven't seen her all festival, though I helped her come up with her costume. Too much free ale on offer, I suspect." He repeats "Bryn" to himself quietly several times, trying to fix it in his memory. He takes a sampling cup himself and tastes it, "Very nutritional, I expect."

A slender figure in a hood and domino inches towards the man dressed as a Bravo, trying to look casual.

Camillo lifts his chin slightly when Leandro's looking over his way. Maybe it'll attract the Maester's attention and maybe it won't.

Bryn blinks, "Keli has a costume?" He smiles and says, "Hope I get to see it. All I had were these old clothes from before I started at the Citadel." He glances towards thethe domino and Bravo a moment, but his attention is soon back on the rooster and maester.

Dhraegon giggles, bobbing his head feathers, "She does! I made sure. She helped me pick my costume. It's really hard thinking of the right thing." More seriously, "I thought that might have been your old skin.

A slender hand slides toward the likely not a real Bravo's purse.

Camillo can see that one stranger is about to be robbed by another, but he doesn't make any particular move to interrupt that, or let his gaze linger.

Bryn smiles and says to Dhraegon, "Your costume is fantastic." He blinks, then, "My skin?" He's completely clueless about the pickpocketting going on nearby, it seems.

Dhraegon giggles, "The clothes of your former life." He bobs his head embarrassed, "Maester garth helped me with the feathers. He's very clever." The Rooster seems to have noticed the man trying to catch Leandro's attention before Leandro wandered off, "Would you like to try some of this ale? It's rather… bracing."

Camillo seems not to know at first that he's being addressed. When he realizes, he flicks his eyes at the rooster and lifts his brows. "I? I can't tell good from bad," he claims in his usual soft voice.

Apparently, the man dressed like a Braavo has some skill at something as his hand whips up and grabs the wrist of hood and domino. He glares at the youth and the youth cowers away. He releases the wrist, and the youth flees. He goes back to sipping his ale.

Bryn ohs, and grins, "Sort of. These are my clothes when I lived with Lady Banefort. That wasn't very long. If I wore my clothes from before that, the guards'd think I was here to steal stuff," he adds with a giggle as well.

Dhraegon giggles along with Bryn, "So you are a man with a past…." He moves on to the next booth. "Would you both like to help me eat some pasties then? They've chicken, lamb, and beef."

Camillo lifts his eyebrows, looking a little surprised that he's being invited out of the blue, but he ducks his head gratefully and follows.

Bryn smiles brightly at the offer and nods quickly as he follows too, "Yes please!" Then, to the 'man with a past' he comments, "Everybody has one. Some pasts are just harder than others."

Dhraegon gestures them ahead with his wings, "You each pick a type and I'll take the third. That way we can compare quality." he does produce coins for their pasties, though his own is apparently free. "I have no past. It is always Now." More giggling. He asks the random stranger he is feeding, "Do you have a past? What do you think of the festival?"

The maybe braavosi lingers by the dark beer stall, trying to decide on whether he wants a refill or not.

A juggler in motley collects a small crowd, telling jokes as he tosses his balls about.

Camillo chooses lamb. "Thank you," he says, bobbing his head toward Dhraegon again. "A past?" he echoes. He seems to like to confirm what's being asked of him. "Isn't it…as the boy says? That we all have pasts? Whether…whether we think of them or not." He's a bit tentative on that, it seems. "The festival is…a fine change."

Bryn answers, "Chicken, please," still smiling. His attention turns to the juggler for a few moments then, and comments, "I heard some jugglers juggle flaming torches. Wonder if he'll do that?"

The rooster stares at Camillo, glass eyes and eye holes with presumably real eyes behind them both. "I don't. I hunt snails and play with boats." The Cock cocks his head, "Tell us your story while we eat these pasties." He bites into his tentatively, but as it really does taste like beef mixed with potatoes and onions, he eats with gusto. In response to Bryn's questiohn, he strolls over to the juggler and has a few words. Money changes hands, and the man puts away his balls and changes them for torches. His assistant borrows fire from the pasty seller.

"I have a past, but not a story," Camillo says, looking down at the food. "I used to be a servant. Now I am idle." He tucks into his pasty.

Bryn blinks, but then smiles happily, "Brilliant! Thank you!" Then he adds, "I can tell you mine. My mum moved to King's Landing for a while, where she met my dad, but I dunno who he is. Just a Targaryen, obviously. She came back here before I was born. My grandparents owned a tavern and my mum took it over when I was little. My grandparents got sick and died, and a few years later my mum was… was killed by a customer, a Tarly. Lived in my own for years until I met Lady Banefort, and then a couple months later I started learning at the Citadel." His voice gets more distracted as he gets near the end, as the jugglers have started and he seems almost hypnotized watching the flaming torches fly through the air.

The assistant starts tossing lighted torches to the juggler. The Rooster grins, "It is a good season for kind acts, I think." He cocks his head at Camillo, "If you haven't a story, how will you be measured?" At Bryn's story, he freezes, mouth slightly open and food patially chewed. Then he swallows and said, "I.. hadn't thought." He sighs, "It would be so much easier if babies grew on bushes, even if we would have to guard night and day against birds and slugs…. It's not me, you know. I… have no flowers." The Juggler is quite good. Once he gets a rhythm going he changes patterns.

Camillo glances at the jugglers, but doesn't seem as enraptured as Bryn. "I won't be measured," he tells the Rooster certainly. "There is no reason to measure me." He listens to Bryn's story quietly while he eats, but he shares no sympathy or other obvious reaction."

Several young girls run by with faces paionted like flowers and ribbons in their hair.

Hood and Domino starts creeping up on those watching the Juggler; the maybe Braavo catches the youth's eye and shakes his head. Hood and domino suddenly ha business elsewhere.

Bryn nods to the rooster and says, still distracted and staring intently at the flying flames, "I know. You didn't recognize my name. My dad knows my name, he sent my mum money sometimes, before she died." Finally, he tears his eyes from the flames he seems to find so beautiful, and says, smiling again, "'Sides, you're nicer than I think he must be."

Dhraegon cocks his head, the feather flopping about, "All men are measured in the end if not sooner." The big man kneels to be more on a level with Bryn, "I'd never leave a child in my care with no…guidance, and I'd not leave one I loved to die alone. I apologizes for my kinsman not being there when you and your mother needed him. If you are ever at loose ends again, you can find me in my garden."

Camillo shakes his head a little. "Important men are measured. Noble men are measured. Some men are forgotten," he asserts quietly. He pretends that he's completely uninvolved in the converstion regarding Bryn's sire.

Bryn smiles again and says, "Thank you. Is that at the Targaryen house in the city, where Ser Daevon lives? I visit him sometimes." His eyes soon turn back to the display of the juggling again and says to Camillo, "Who'd /want/ to be forgotten? I won't be forgotten. Someday I'll be an Archmaester, maybe even the Grand Maester, and nobody'll ever forget me."

Dhraegon says gently to Camillo, "The Seven never forget and we all pass through the hands of the Stranger and the father. Some of those men forgot were important. We all have more choices than we know." He giggles, "It is indeed where Ser Daevon lives, at least until they marry me off."

The Juggler's hands move very fast, he pretends to nearly drop a club to raise excitement, then does drop one, which he flips back in with his foot.

"It isn't wanting or not wanting," Camillo claims. "It is fate. Some people must be forgotten. Just as some facts must be forgotten." He glances at Dhraegon. "The Seven will remember me, but they don't need to be told my story."

Bryn grins at the catch with the foot, applauding excitedly for the juggler. Still, he looks more like someone watching a beautiful sunrise than an exciting display of skill. "Well, you won't be forgotten while I'm alive. I never forget anything. And facts shouldn't ever be forgotten, that's why the Citadel has such a huuuge library."

Dhraegon stands again, "As you wish. So what do you think of the pasties?" His beak turns back to Bryn sharply, "you never forget anything?"

Camillo gives Bryn a glance when he claims to remember everything. He's obviously thinking something about that. Or perhaps doubting it. But what he says is, "I think the lamb is very good."

Bryn answers, "The chicken is good too! But I really like chicken." Then he looks back up to Dhraegon again and says, "No, I never forget anything."

Dhraegon polishes off his pasty. "So we'll call this one good then. What would you like to try next? Cakes, perhaps?" He drops his voice, to address Bryn, "You and I should speak sometime."

Camillo perhaps assumes that Dhraegon is asking Bryn his preference, because he keeps silent.

Bryn smiles and nods quickly, "Yeah, cakes!" Then he blinks and then nods and says, "I'll go visit you soon, then, so we can talk, promise."

Dhraegon gives them both a big goofy smile and moves on to the cake sellers. He picks jam cakes from several tables for himself, "Pick ones you like and tell mew what is good." His tone seems to include them both.

Camillo seems almost embarrassed to be included, but he does pick one for himself, and doesn't delay in trying it.

Bryn smiles happily again and picks some cakes of his own, biting into one. After swallowing, "This is good!"

Dhraegon seems oblivious to embarrassment just generally. After all, he is proudly walking around dressed like a rooster. He gobbles the jam cakes up with pleasure, oblivious to the jam, icing, and whipped cream left on his chin. He ruffles Bryn's hair fondly, "It's hard to pick which is the best cake!" He cocks his head at Camillo, "have you a name?"

The Maybe Braavo is eating a pasty and watching a boat race on the Honeywine.

The juggler has moved on, his place taken by a woman with a Hurdy Gurdy.

Four acrobats put on a display for picnickers.

"Yes," Camillo agrees, still leaving off titles, since chicken costumes do tend to obscure one's rank. As will icing on the chin. "Camillo. And this is very good. There's a candied fruit inside."

Bryn nods in agreement with the rooster, smiling as he bites into a different cake. With the juggler gone, he seems much less distracted, though he does pay attention to the entertainment still. After his third cake, he says, "I liked the second one best, but they're all /very/ good!"

Dhraegon giggles, "I am Uncle Dhrae." He himself doesn't use the title, though from the conversation his title is likely obvious. "Have a selection, Camillo. Best we try as many as we can, and even I can't eat all the types of cake that are here." He freezes up, the way he tends to do when thinking, then starts collecting lemon and orange cakes to try from various dessert carts. "The second was best…."

"You've been very kind," Camillo says apologetically to Dhraegon. "But I'm unused to rich food. And I have business to attend to." He slips off into the crowd, in the vague direction that domino went.

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