to be a soldier must maintain composure at ease

[khaleesipls]

WHO: Dorian Gray, Haen Hithiel, Jorah Mormont, Rincewind, Daenerys, others pending.
WHERE: The Iron Throne
WHEN: August
WHAT: Making friends with Baelish's "friends" and other planned threads. Hit me up if you'd like me to bang out a starter for something.
WARNINGS: It's a strip club.

Comments

DORIAN GRAY - THE IRON THRONE

[khaleesipls]

[ When Lord Baelish is in the building, the brute he’s hired to follow him around in armor is rarely far behind. Jorah’s lined face is an increasingly familiar sight within The Iron Throne, for all that he doesn’t usually stop to make conversation. It’s always the same: he comes in, has a look around, and vanishes into the belly of the building at Petyr’s heel.

If he drinks, he drinks downstairs. If he flirts, he flirts off the floor.

Today is different.

Today he makes his way to the bar. ]

Water.

[ He hardly glances over the bar before he orders, keen to take his glass and move on. His hair is lank with sweat, and he the stink of stale horse hangs heavy in the air around him. His sword swings low at his side.

The other patrons would probably prefer that he be serviced and sent on. One or two are already glancing askance. ]

[brushoff]

[ Dorian, in contrast, smells like expensive cologne and is wearing a suit that costs more than what most people make in a day. As such, he straight up wrinkles his nose when horsey smelling armor wearing Jorah Mormont walks up to the bar. ]

And just who the hell are you?

[ He's getting the glass of water, though, despite his sarcasm and snottiness. ]

[khaleesipls]

None of your concern.

[ He can smell what Dorian’s wearing just fine through his own miasma -- for him the difference between cologne and expensive cologne is the difference between gargling soap and gargling expensive soap. He doesn’t have to rankle his nose for distaste to leech out into the clamp of his jaw.

Unruffled by Dorian’s attitude, he locks eyes instead with a local staring down the bar at him.

The local finds somewhere else to look. ]

[brushoff]

Considering I work here, it's entirely my concern. Baelish has an image to uphold, you know.

[ Still, Jorah's getting that water. Dorian slides the glass of water over towards Jorah, still wrinkling his nose at the man's...well, at the man's everything. Ergh, when was the last time he showered? ]

[khaleesipls]

[ It’s fresh stink and fresh dirt, for all the difference it makes -- the dust that clings in horse brushes and turns boogers black. ] Lord Baelish, [ he reminds, helpfully, and reaches to take up the glass for a drink.

His hands are filthy.

Cheers. ]

[brushoff]

[ Goddddd Dorian is going to have to clean the bar and that glass and that chair, the man smells horrific and his hands are dirty and he doesn't know a thing about hygiene, does he. ]

Very few people call him that. So again, who the hell are you?

[ and can he see if Baelish can ban this horrible smelly man from the bar. ]

[khaleesipls]

Ser Jorah Mormont. [ He’s thirsty enough to have missed a breath somewhere in draining half the glass. ] Of Bear Island. [ There’s a deep awareness of how little anyone cares to the way he says it. ]

I have a tab.

[ Dorian can bill him for the Febreeze. ]

RINCEWIND - THE IRON THRONE

[khaleesipls]

[ There are rooms in and beneath The Iron Throne designated for more private affairs than the dance floor allows for. Some of the rooms are stranger than others, within the medieval theme Baelish has fostered, here.

Currently this particular room is designated for waiting.

Jorah stands at a slight lean with his left hand at ease over the pommel of his sword, staring dimly into the middle distance. More museum display than man, he could easily be mistaken for part of the decor in the candlelight if not for the scruff, and the faint rasp of his armor when he breathes.

At some sound or shadow or maybe even a change in the air currents, he turns his head in search of the source.

There’s a closed door behind him. ]

[wizzardly]

[it's his own fault he's here in the first place. Rincewind has to remind himself of that as he enters the waiting room, looking like an unhappy scarecrow in tattered red robes. He's hunched under a broad-brimmed, pointed hat, upon which the word 'wizzard' has been stitched with silver sequins. Poorly.

The Luggage follows behind him at a leisurely pace, and that does cheer the wizard some; for as much trouble as the box can cause, the wooden monstrosity makes for an admittedly able bodyguard. Not that this particular meeting should be any actual trouble, mind - he's only come to discuss Chilton's "surprise" celebration - but when in the den of an enemy, Rincewind would rather have it tagging along than not.

...But on the subject of bodyguards...

Rincewind stops a fair, safe distance away from the door, content to pace a rug rather than take one of the provided seats. He eyes Jorah with what he hopes is subtlety, tapping the fingers of one hand against the arm of another. Eventually, the wizard clears his throat, looking up at a painting he has no actual interest in.]

Couldn't help but notice that looks like a very real sword you've got there. The armor too. Doesn't exactly have the same shine the more costumed ones have. I thought, maybe another part of his whole - theme, I know he has the women dress up, but ah. Those look... used.

[Rincewind clears his throat.]

Are they? By you, I mean?

[khaleesipls]

[ Wizzard is just another badly-spelled word for warlock. From the moment those sequins catch the light, Rincewind has Jorah’s full attention.

The old knight draws himself upright, leather creaking under steel, and closes his grip on the hilt of his sword, more wary than curious. He hasn’t made a habit of over-analyzing the sort of riff-raff that blows through here “on business,” but this fellow is different. He looks like hell, to start. Tatty, hunched.

Red with sequins.

But it’s The Luggage that pushes things over the edge. Jorah tenses away from the scuttle of its many feet, recoil restrained into a lift at his chin and a harder slant to his shoulders. ]

They are, [ he says, a beat out of sync. The steel is chipped and the leather crisscrossed with scars. ]

Your trunk looks like it’s alive.

[ FYI.

He’s reluctant to look back to Rincewind from the thing following him. ]

[wizzardly]

Ah. [a slight nod.] Soldier then, are you?

[asked so breezily, with such polite interest, that you'd have to really look to see how immediately Rincewind has become ready to flee. One wrong move from the battle-worn knight at the door and Rincewind plans to be nothing more than a red blur. It's not that he has anything against soldiers in general, mind, it's just that they always seem to find something to hold against him.

Generally something pointy and unpleasant.

He's currently calculating the starting force needed to leap to the other end of the room and out into the main building when Jorah makes mention of the Luggage. Rincewind glances down as if startled to be reminded of its presence.]

Hm? Oh - yes, it's my Luggage. ...I don't know that alive is the best term, really, but I also can't think of a better one. It's made of a magical wood, you see - sapient pearwood. I've yet to meet someone else who knows what that is, however, so just imagine someone took a travel accessory and a great, murderous beast, and decided to combine the two for a laugh. Probably a short-lived laugh, but there you are.

[the Luggage knows it's being talked about. The Luggage knows it's being looked at. It turns in a slow, methodical motion, a hard, threatening stare emanating towards Jorah from somewhere in the vicinity of its golden keyhole. Maybe. It's difficult to tell these things with sentient joinery.]

...It has a marvelous ability to know when people are thinking of harming me. [Rincewind adds, helpfully. Unnecessary? Possibly. But he's always thought it better to make things clear, just in case the day comes that someone actually listens to him.]

[khaleesipls]

A knight.

[ Actually.

Whatever natural ego that drives the correction is steeped in hard-earned grit -- decades spent on horseback in the wind and sun, ramming through enemy lines and hacking skulls in half in the name of the king.

Or queen, as the case may be.

He just being helpful. Thinking it better to make things clear, even as he locks eyes (???) with the keyhole of Rincewind’s shambling nightmare of a chest. He only hears some of what the wizard has to say, on the subject of sapient pearwood and travel accessories, but he definitely catches that last bit. The part about its marvelous ability.

The fact that he nods his acknowledgement without seeming overly concerned is either reassuring, or very worrisome.

Either way, he hasn’t moved much. There’s no predatory prickle or edge about his person to counter fight or flight. Certainly nothing sudden. Even the slant of his brows is low key, when he finally does look back to Rincewind. ]

Just you?

[wizzardly]

A knight. Right, sorry. [a title which actually makes no difference to Rincewind, who tends to lump those tasked with the job of killing other people in the same, dangerous category. But he's learned from a certain Lady Knight that the distinction apparently matters to those who wear it, and why make enemies of a man with a sword this quickly? The wizard can't think of a single good reason to.] I take it you're an imPort as well, then.

[Noticing the staring contest between the Luggage and Jorah, Rincewind carefully clears his throat and just as carefully finds a way to step back and behind it. The last time an old warrior gave his trunk that sort of considering look was right before the Disc's most ridiculous wrestling match took place. As far as first impressions go, Jorah doesn't seem as mad as Cohen, but the redhead has long since given up trying to determine which fighting sorts are sane enough to avoid pissing matches with murderous chests and which aren't. Much easier (and in his experience, far more accurate) to assume anyone eager to swing weapons around for a living has a few screws loose somewhere.

The Luggage, apparently of a similar, if more violent mind, makes a show of flexing its many calves in the manner of a prize fighter cricking their neck.]

I am technically its master. [although Jorah has every right to call that ownership into question, given Rincewind looks like he can barely maintain mastery over his own clothing, and knows it. But that's not something he's about to admit to in the face of worryingly suspicious questions.] So, yes. You might call it a built-in feature.

...So, how long is it you've been, er, working for Lord Baelish? I mean, I assume. Since you appear to be guarding his door and all.

DAENERYS - THE IRON THRONE

[jalan]

[ It's not so much that Daenerys has stepped foot inside these parlours before, but its decoration is still such that it invites familiarity that many of the interiors of this world do not. It makes her smile in a kind of dry, mirthless way, her gaze wandering over bare brick and wood and rug. Even these affectations cannot disguise innovative technology, however, with electrified lightsources, mysterious music thrumming from discreet corners, the shine of metal poles.

Likewise, modern dress can't quite disguise the Khaleesi, but it's not a matter of disguise so much as practicality. She wears Targaryen black, a formal wrap dress that doesn't quite hit the floor enough to conceal the flash of glossy heels, a single slit as far as one thigh. Her hair is pulled back in decorative braids, and a necklace from home, heavy and silver, curls around her neck.

She is looking for Jorah, but she is not here for Jorah, her footsteps polite and dainty. ]

[khaleesipls]

[ A flash of silver hair between servers is all it takes to turn Jorah’s head on a swivel from his station, idle conversation with a barback forgotten mid-sentence. He’s posted up at a narrow entranceway near the kitchen, attention rigid as a rabbit’s after a hawk’s shadow.

Poles, dancers, dancers on poles. A moment passes and his voice is in her ear -- ] Khaleesi, [ -- low and urgent and ground dense with all the grit the restraint involved in not packing her off out the door over his shoulder entails.

Even with her in heels, he has a way of looming that sections her off from the floor at large, armor broad and dark in the low light. Khaleesi pls. ]

[jalan]

[ Found him. Or: found her.

She turns in place to look up at him. For all that he still looms, subtle raise of her heel notwithstanding, she has practice in staring down those bigger than her, never mind that his broad-shouldered shadowing is more a message for everyone else than it is for her. Here, her challenge is only understated, calm, collected. ]

Ser, [ she replies, in kind, but doesn't ignore the urgency on its bridle, visible and audible. ] You needn't be so on guard. Your Lord has nothing to fear from me tonight.

[ She spent a lot of time in the desert. Of course her humour might be like this. ]

[khaleesipls]

[ There are a lot of eyes to take into consideration, even if the vast majority of them are fixed on the show. The people who work here and know him are wont to be more curious.

It’s rare for him to round on a customer -- nevermind making a scene in the middle of the venue.

Subtlety is a struggle.

At least he’s quiet, privacy maintained in aggravation driven down too low to be easily heard over the music. He hasn’t lifted a finger to her, either, bristle contained to his hovering proximity.

Also what a nice dress but no this is serious. ]

Please. You could meet with him anywhere.

[ No give. No humor. The only flash of his teeth is to underline his italics. ]

[jalan]

[ Her next inward breath seems to be a draw for patience as much as for oxygen, her hands relaxed at her sides and her posture impeccable. She is minimally aware of the attention drawn on them, a different sort of interested than the distraction of topless women, and Daenerys' stillness is more about giving little away than it is about paying Jorah's words serious heed.

She is here. They've been noticed. These are facts that cannot be taken back. ]

In his ambassadorial chambers, [ she agrees. ] Or perhaps his gambling den. Or neutral territory of my choosing. None of which more tempting than an establishment named for my throne.

[ It's out of mercy that she withdraws that edge. A hand rises, is placed low on Jorah's shoulder. Coarse seams, scarred leather, a dull pressure behind her palm. ]

Take me to him. He is not expecting me.

[khaleesipls]

[ Jorah mirrors the breath she takes in, slower, deeper. Dumb worry creases in between his brows before he can stifle it, unease compounded by displacement in time and space. But he’s seen enough to work out whatever remaining fears he fosters on his own, and she has her hand on his shoulder.

The discussion is over.

He wrings out eye contact for a moment longer before dull pressure is enough to lean him back with ease, From there he turns to lead the way deeper into Littlefinger’s den, palm curled at the pommel of sword out of old habit. ]

THE LATEST OF THE LATES

[alcheregis]

[ As Baelish's more-oft-than-not companion, this wasn't the first time Haen and Jorah had met, inasmuch as they were in the same room together and knew each other's name. With things having calmed down for the moment(and no one, presumably, trying to murder Baelish if they took their eyes off them for a moment, they were voluntold to get to know each other a little better. If only to make sure neither was overstepping their bounds, of course.

She doesn't seem bothered at all by their surroundings, neither embarrassed nor disdainful of the girls, the outfits (or lack thereof), the shamelessness of it. If anything, she was turning a speculative eye on some of them, and sliding a couple of them a business card. "Come and see me after your shift, dear, you'd look gorgeous with a bit of colour marbling on those breasts!" ]

So! Now I've met two Westerosi men, and one smirks and one scowls. Variety isn't the spice of life there?

http://66.media.tumblr.com/371155da259245063647c31ce3394b34/tumblr_mnh759oVjI1qfm4ivo2_250.gif

[khaleesipls]

Sounds like variety to me.

[ Jorah has his arm curled around half a glass of brandy at the bar, sober as a stone and about as sociable. He looks, when she draws girls in near enough to pass them a card -- he’s not dead -- but he doesn’t let his eyes linger, and he doesn’t engage them on his own.

Cavorting with the goods isn’t in his job description.

He’s a dour man in Baelish’s shadow, and he’s dour when he drinks. Talk of breast marbling doesn’t phase him. Most things don’t. It helps that his mind is usually elsewhere.

Right now, for example, he seems very interested in the craftsmanship of this reproduction Westerosi snifter. ]

What sort of expression would you prefer?

so accurate it hurts

[alcheregis]

[ Haen laughs a little at the question. ]

It's not quite as simple, dear! How am I supposed to answer that when I know so little about you? Won't you tell me something about yourself?

[khaleesipls]

I’m on my fourth exile.

[ Jorah offers, dry after a taking a moment to consider a list of fun facts about Ser Jorah Mormont. ]

Fifth if we’re counting the Porter’s work. [ He watches brandy cling to the crystal of his glass as it tilts. ] What about you?

[alcheregis]

Fourth? Are you trying for some kind of record breaking?

[ She's teasing. Mostly. ]

Ah, I see. Information has its prices, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Very well, I don't mind breaking this ice, although if you were polite, you'd at least get me a drink first! What did you want to know?

[khaleesipls]

No.

[ Plainly asked and plainly answered, whether she’s teasing or not. Just the one exile would’ve been plenty.

He gestures for another drink to be brought without much spirit.

As she wishes. ]

How long have you been at Lord Baelish's side?