(122-11-09) The Merry Wives of Winter
The Merry Wives of Winter
Summary: Camillo and Ser Malcolm Storm chew the fat.
Date: Date of play (09/11/122)
Related: None

Things are fairly quiet at the Manse today. Guards will send any inquirers indoors, where ser Malcolm is giving the servants directions about a simple supper while polishing a pair of greaves. He looks up at Camillo's arrival, curious and a touch wary. "Is ought amiss?"?

Malcom isn't the highest-ranking person with whom Camillo interacts in his duties, yet he seems especially deferential. Is it the import of his mission? He seems embarrassed to have been sent inside in the first place and mostly regards the floor as he removes a folded missive from his bag. "A special wedding invitation for the Lord Carolis Stark," he answers. "His presence is much desired and it would be well if I could come away with assurances of his attendance."

Malcolm gives him a rather regretful look, "I fear your Prince will be disappointed. My Lord has not yet returned from Winterfell though we expect him any day now. I will make sure he sees it if he arrives in time if that is any help."

Indeed, The Prince was having one of his anxious days when he handed Camillo the missive, as if he though cCarolis stark were some sort of cure for wedding jitters.

Camillo shifts his weight a little, but holds the letter out. "Is…there danger that he will not return in time for the wedding?" he asks, obviously apprehensive that he might have to try to explain all that to Dhraegon without sending him into a pillow fort or under a bush.

Malcolm must have some idea of the apprehension Camillo is suffering from. "I can not promise you one way or another. There are too many things could delay him, outlaws, diplomacy, hospitality…. I will do my best to turn him out dressed and full of charm if he arrives in time, but I can not speed his horses." A woman comes grumbling past with what look suspiciously like soiled undergarments in a pail. Ser Malcolm sighs, "Is he eating today, Mistress." She rolls her eyes, "He has the shakes awful bad and keeps making that sound that means he wants drink and not porridge." Ser Malcolm sighs, "Do your best, Mistress. we're to try to keep him breathing until Lord Carolis comes."

"Of course," Camillo murmurs, nodding once. He loks up at the woman comes out with the pail. "There's…illness here?" he hazards.

Malcolm sighs, "An old man dying upstairs. He was sick from drink to begin with and then had some sort of fit and now can't talk or move very well. A quick death would be a kindness, though he doesn't deserve it, but Tellur's determined Lord Carolis ought to see him before the stranger takes him.

Camillo grunts quietly. "I see," he says. "But…that sort of hope could be in vain," he mentions, looking toward the ceiling. "We cannot often choose the times…"

Malcolm rubs his forehead, "Oh, I know, but it means so much to Tellur. It's his prisoner, you see."

Camillo is silent for a little while, thoughtful. "You're…giving him something to lessen the pain, already?"

Malcolm shrugs, "I think Tellur's been giving him carefully rationed brandy, as taking away the drink entirely could kill him more quickly than the drink is doing. that likely takes the edge off the pain, though honestly, there isn't enough pain in the world to punish him to my way of thinking." Though his tone is deliberately casual, underneath is a fury and contempt he can't quite contain.

"He might be less trouble to you if he did not feel the pain, or if he slept," Camillo mentions, sneaking a look at Malcolm.

There is not even a drop of sympathy in his tone. "He troubles the maids because he soils himself and they must clean him. He's in no condition to escape and even when he was, odds are we'd have found him begging for drinks at the nearest tavern. All he does is sleep and beg for more drink on waking."

Camillo nods slowly. "Then I suppose I can offer little help," he says with a faintly apologetic tone, dipping his head. "I will return another day to…inquire whether Lord Carolis has arrived."

Malcolm says, "Oh you're welcome to see him if you like. Just don't expect much sense…." He sighs again, "But I have been inhospitable. Are you thirsty or hungry? It is a shame you came this way to find my Lord not at home.""

Camillo shakes his head a little. "If he already sleeps and has little pain, there's nothing more I—" He seems startled by the offer of hospitality. "No, I… It's not for you to…it isn't so far and it is only my duty, Ser."

Malcolm gives him a little half smile, "We don't stand much on ceremony here, except when Lady Hellan is about. Starks are… they take their duties to the people who do them service seriously, and are not much for pomp as a group. The ale is cool and we've fine bread and cheese and apples if you like. I like to keep plenty of cheese on hand in case my Lord comes."

Camillo seems very quietly flustered. "I…Briefly, then," he decides with apparent effort, "But then I must return to my duties. There is much to be done."

Malcolm signals and a platter is brought with warm brown bread and two kinds of cheese and apples. The ale is indeed chilled and very fresh. Mal sets aside his work to slice himself some apple to eat with his bread. "How go things at the tower with all the excitement? How does lord Ormund? I fought him once, you know. he seemed very gentlemanly and everything a knight should be."

Camillo nods several times. He doesn't seem to know what exactly to do so he stays standing where he is. "It is very busy," he says. "All the public areas must be thoroughly scrubbed so that they will look their best on the day, and…and there are events beforehand as well." He glances up. "You…fought Lord Ormund?" he asks. "Why?"

Malcolm guestures to a chair, "Sit! Eat! Help yourself! The cheese with the veins is very strong, but the white one on the left is mild." He laughs softly, "Jousted him, actually and landed on my ass if memory serves. It was back during the festival of Chivalry. A formal fight like in a tourney then, and not a… rebellion or an impertinence. He's very good ahorse."

Camillo moves toward someplace he can sit that won't be too obtrusive, and does manage to help himself to some food. "Ah," he says, as if he'd forgotten about all that noble honor-fighting stuff. "Of course. Yes. He…is a good master. He has allowed me to improve my lot with him." He doesn't manage to find the right moment to eat, but instead thinks of the right thing to say. "Er…I think he will be pleased with…with the events," he says vaguely. "But it is quite something, having a Prince come into the tower to stay."

Malcolm must read the tone as he lowers his voice to intimate, "My starks think I and all us Southron knights are quite mad, you know. They understand training and fighting in war, but the business of play fighting makes no sense to them. They are kind enough to indulge this eccentricity of mine and patch me up when I tangle with folks like Lady Maera Mormont or Prince Maelys…. Will it be very different, having a Prince in residence? Will they get on well? I've not met either the Lady nor her Prince that I can remember off hand."

"I…do not know," Camillo admits after swallowing down a mouthful of bread and cheese. "I have only seen them together on public occasions. His Grace is kindhearted but…" There's a long pause while he finds the word: "Eccentric. But Lord Ormund keeps to himself so perhaps they will not clash."

Malcolm nods understandingly at eccentric, "I hope that means he's not one of the scary ones."

Camillo shakes his head again. "I would not say so, no," he replies. "He is…" He looks at the food. "He has a reputation for being simple-minded."

Malcolm crunches a bit of green apple with a bit of veiny cheese thoughtfully, "They say that about Tellur sometimes, but he's not. He knows his letters much better than I and is clever, just… different. Simple can mean all sorts of things."

Camillo does not seem put off by the stronger cheese, either. "I suppose it can," he allows. "It is not for me to judge. But I think I can say safely that Lady Marsei would not choose poorly."

Malcolm looks genuinely relieved at this, "That is good to hear…. I mean, I do not know her. It's just, I should hate to see any lady grieved by her family's choice of husband."

"Many are," Camillo observes quietly. "But I think in this case the choice was Lady Marsei's."

Malcolm raises his eyebrows at this, but his expression is one of approval, "That is good to hear. I hate to see a good womamarried off to some brute against her will. Better she have a say in it…. So it is a love match then?"

"I believe it is," Camillo says, "Though…love is complicated. We can only guess, that is, what… Well, we do not know what another person feels. But I think there is closeness between them." He's forgotten about eating, again.

Malcolm grins, "Eat! Eat! Odds are you've been scrubbing your fingers to the bone and skipping meals with all the excitement." More seriously he says, "Love is indeed complicated. If they are pleased with the match, who are we to quibble. If two people can find happiness together ten that is all to the good. So few find it at all in this world.

Camillo is a little surprised by the command but ducks his head and goes back to it. It isn't that he doesn't like the food. "They are very lucky in their way," he agrees. "I have known people to be very unhappy in marriage."

Malcolm nods, "We worry much here about the choice of brides Lord stark and his brother might make. The wrong bride for either and all of Winterfell would sorrow come Winter."

Camillo makes a quiet sound of contemplation. "Is either…prone to choosing…unwisely?" he wonders.

Malcolm says, "I do not know Lord Stark's taste in women, though there was a time we thought… but the Princess has married her Dornishman instead. I know my Lord Carolis' taste in women better. The question with any bride of his is how she might adapt when Winter comes. The Seven know, my starks are half convinced I'll desert them when the first flake falls, though a Stormcoast Winter is nothing to sneeze at either and I'd rather cut off my sword hand than do anything disloyal. I am one of these eccentric Southrons, after all.' he says this last with a fond smile."

Camillo nods vaguely, but it's possible he doesn't understand all of this entirely, since he does not seem like a widely-traveled man. "I suppose that is a strange thing to keep in consideration."

Malcolm eyes him with some amusement, "My eccentricity or what would make a good wife to a stark?"

Camillo's brows loft. "Oh, uh. …A wife's capacity to endure winters," he replies.

Malcolm nods, "It's the sort of thing we think about back home too, Winter's being what they are and us all shut up together months at a time. It's not just a matter of standing the cold and wet for us. It's a matter of temperament. How long can a person be locked up in a tower with too many other people before a stabbing occurs. I've not seen the Wintercity up North, but I'm guessing it's like that for them too. A hot temper might make for fine bedding, but it could end in blood and tears after being couped up to long together. A certain kind of patience is essential."

Camillo nods gently. "I suppose that stands to reason," he agrees, chewing quietly over some apple. "It must be difficult. I am lucky to have my own cell at the Hightower. Living very closely must be difficult in times of siege or poor weather."

Malcolm says, "Back home we take in the village and all the people in the hamlets round about. We turn no one away. In a bad winter it can get very rough, but our walls are thick and our roof is sturdy. A bad hurricane often destroys houses, so they all pile in with goods and beasts and we make do."

"I suppose…it will come around again. Before very long," Camillo guesses, but he doesn't seem certain of his reckoning.

Malcolm says, "They've already had the first blow of the season back home. It'll come soon enough, I expect."

Camillo frowns a little. "I suppose…times are always difficult in one way or another." He seems to have had enough to eat, now. "I came to town about the time of the plague, here."

Malcolm nods, "Things were busier before. Many of the great fled and never returned. My Stark stayed. I stayed."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License