[b]King's Landing, Some Weeks Before the Gulltown Tourney[/b]

Willem's meeting place of choice was in a room on the ground levels of the Red Keep. It was his personal quarters that he had chosen as locale for the meeting, seeing as a clandestine rendez-vous with a man as notorious as the Lord Paramount of the Reach would be an impossibility. Spies and courtiers alike would know about the meeting, that was fine, Lord Morningwood thought. Lord Leos Tyrell was his former liegelord after all, and the specifics of the meeting would not be uncovered. Willem playing host to Leos was not unseemly.

A groom knocked on the door to announce Lord Leos' arrival, and ushered in the unconventional personality that was master of the Reach. The salon suddenly seemed smaller with three people in it, and the departure of the groom did little to alleviate Willem's sensation of suffocation. When he walked and bowed, his silver cane tapped the flagstones wherever they were bare, for he had only one carpet, and a bland one at that. It was nothing fancy like its Myrish or Dornish counterparts in the other rooms of the Red Keep. A simple carpet for a -Willem smirked- simple man.

"Welcome, my Lord Tyrell," he said, clearing his throat. A pitcher of Arbor wine stood on the dining table, little drops of condensation pearling on the silver reservoir. Two goblets rested beside, and Willem slowly poured two glasses of the cooled, crimson liquid. "How is Highgarden this time of year? How fares the Reach?"

The Lord of Highgarden stood stock still in the center of the room, his pale eyes dancing from the ceiling to the floor to Willem. 

"Hmm?" was the reply, "The Reach? Purple, absolutely purple this time of year. Come visit the next time you visit. You know, you really must do something with these chambers, Wiltingwood, it looks like a stable in here. Terribly drab, depressing even."

Tyrell tapped his pointed chin with a long slender finger, "But enough with the niceities and polite questions, don't you think? Chit-chat is absolutely [i]boring[/i]. If you even [i]think[/i] of mentioning the [i]weather[/i] I'll kick your cane out from under you and you can babble up at me from the floor. At the least that would add some drama to the situation, no? The stunted cripple, making conversation with a high lord while writhing on the ground? Much more colorful. No offense intended, of course, I have nothing but love for cripples, dwarves, bastards, that sort of thing."

Leos sighed, running a hand through his unkempt black hair, and slumped into one of Morningwood's chairs. He lazily motioned for the other man to sit.

Willem dragged his maimed body to the other chair and sighed with relief when he lowered his arse on the velvet cushions. At least now the searing pain from his up to his neck was alleviated slightly, his back no longer felt on fire, but it still burnt. "What use is a downed cripple? I am not fast on my feet, my Lord, but robbing a crippled man of his walking stick... tsk," he jibed. "That's not very gallant, while you said you hold love for a broken thing such as I." 

Willem Morningwood leered his smile as he offered the Lord Paramount the cup of Arbor wine.

"Broken things?" said Leos, "I like interesting ones." 

The Lord of Highgarden poured his goblet of wine onto Willem's carpet. "There, you have to get a new one. Something less hideous, I suggest. Now that [i]that's[/i] settled, I find myself wondering- all the time, not to mention wandering- but I do wonder about the Red Keep these days. I am, by all accounts, an important man, wouldn't you say? Lord Paramount, and all the rest of it. And terribly rich. Yet when I have my man request a clandestine meeting with the master of whispers, instead I am offered a decidedly [i]non[/i]clandestine meeting with the [i]master of coin's[/i] crippled [i]assistant[/i]. It does seem strange, Morninglog, don't you think? Not to mention the teensiest bit insulting."

After taking a sip from his own goblet, with the appropriate gusto, Willem nodded in answer to Leos' objections. "Undoubtedly it has occurred to your Lordship that meeting me is far less attractive, not just to yourself, but also to others. There is nothing strange in us talking, nothing out of the order. I operate as the Master of Whisperer's agent in this. So in fact, you are having a rendez-vous with Brynden Rivers -through myself-, in a [i]very[/i] clandestine way." Willem twirled his hand. "Hiding in plain sight and all that."

"I am familiar with the concept," Leos replied, giving Willem the merest ghost of a wink, "Quite a pair you are. Him one-eyed, you of the worthless leg. Almost a complete human being together- though I suppose you'd have some redundant bits if you were fused, eh Bloodwood?"

Leos chuckled at his own comment and poured himself a glass of wine, "So then, what are we going to do about this tourney the Arryn brat's throwing, hmmm? Your cyclopean master surely doesn't support the coming madness, unless this is all some elaborate plot to kill Bittersteel, in which case, is he behind it? It's not like him to be so obvious, but it does have a certain flair."

Willem was not knowledgeable to all of Bloodraven's plans and plots, and he told the Lord Paramount as much. "Bloodraven is a master of intrigue. I doubt his left hand knows what the right hand is doing most of the time." One-eyed the Great Bastard might be, but he usually saw everything, courtesy of his elaborate network. From what Morningwood had been told, and had been able to find out, this tourney and the underlying motive were discovered quite late. Forsooth, Bloodraven had not been involved with the conception of the idea... 

"The young falcon has flown the nest earlier than expected, and Lord Bloodraven has been occupied with Baelor's death. He is very, very angry because he has been caught off-guard for the first time in... well I do not know." Willem paused, weighing his words for Leos the Loon. "Caught off-guard by a stripling boy and a zealot twat."

Willem continued on the topic of Baelor Breakspear's death. "Bloodraven and Baelor might not have seen," Morningwood chuckled, "eye-to-eye most of the time, but they had respected one another."

"Perhaps he has his claws in Jasper Arryn's plans, but it is practically impossible to be sure," Willem Morningwood said, returning from the tangent. "Jasper and his uncle are dangerously pious, which makes it difficult to keep them under control... Their loyalty is not meted out in coin, my Lord, nor land. They have a cause," Willem said calmly, observing his former liegelord. "So perhaps it is time we should take one up as well?" By the Seven, Willem loved politicking. He hoped, nay betted that this suggestion would rouse Leos's curiosity. Say one thing for Leos Tyrell, say he was mad but curious.

"Claws and coins and causes." Leos said, nodding sagely, "I do hope Bloodybird was not so blinded by his brother's death he missed all the gold trickling into the Vale, and so many ships being mysteriously contracted by the eastern lordlings. Then again, he only has one eye- one can loose perspective without all three. Causes though, and claws."

Leos' thin mouth broke out in a lopsided smile, "What's your cause, Earlytree? How firmly set are the raven's claws in you, hmmm? You interest me. A little lordling, crippled, hobbling around the Red Keep, counting fat old lord whats-his-name's coins for him."

"Lord Celtigar, though he's often called Lord Crab Patty for... obvious reasons," Willem admitted with a slight hint of a grin. "Not by me, of course, by staff. Your Lordship undoubtedly knows I sit on the Small Council. Sometimes in lieu of Lord Crab Patty, sometimes as his assistant. The truth is, the old crab is just a bag of wind. You may interpret that quite literally too." Willem nodded his head and then waved his hand in front of his face, pulled a look of disgust. Lord Sandor Celtigar suffered from indigestion and was incredibly flatulent as a result.

"As far as causes go," Willem said, "I find myself lacking one. My cause is my own, you might say. Nobody looks out for a cripple, my Lord, so I must, lest I be devoured by this world."

"You've climbed precipitously high, for a causeless, lonely, nearly nameless lameleg serving an old fat gasbag. Meeting High Lords in place of the terrible and great Brynden Rivers..." replied Leos.

Tyrell cocked his head to one side, regarding Willem like a bird watching a choice worm.

"Did you know there's currently no Hand of the King? Do they tell that sort of thing to assistant masters of coin? Why does His Good Graciousness dally and delay? Why not name one of his capable-if-creepy brothers to the position, I wonder? Old Bloodraven's practically drowning in his own drool he wants it so badly- we all know that. The fucking smallfolk talk about it, for the Stranger's sake."

"The smallfolk always talk. I am ever the butt of jokes myself, so I know. Didn't you know I'm called Lame Willie? Thinking up nicknames is a favourite pastime of people." He took another sip of the Arbor wine, rich and sweet like a noble's daughter. 

"The truth of the matter is," Willem continued sedately, "that it is a family affair. With Breakspear in the mud, both Brynden and Maekar covet his old position. King Daeron cannot be seen to favour one over the other, for choosing either will sow discord. In addition, as you have so eloquently mentioned, Brynden is a bastard with a reputation... Besides, he is already Master of Whisperers. On the other hand, Maekar is responsible for the death of Baelor. He is lucky he is not called kinslayer openly. Neither of them has an untarnished reputation, and they have both killed their brothers." Brynden Rivers had slain his elder brother Daemon Blackfyre years ago, after all. Willem Morningwood tapped a finger against his lips in a pensive gesture. "There are no other valid Targaryen applicants. This one is banished, the other a drunk, yet another a melancholic, still another too young,..." Willem sighed and put up his hands in a mock gesture of frustration. "Hence why I believe good King Daeron in his wisdom will seek to find a suitable candidate [i]outside[/i] of the royal family."

"The Small Council will be reorganised sooner rather than later," Willem said. Bloodraven wished to retain his position of power as Master of Whisperers. Now it was becoming increasingly clear that Daeron would not name him as Hand, the one-eyed bastard wanted to secure his fortune. "When that happens I hope to no longer have to circumvent the girth of Lord Crab Patty and become Master of Coin, while Lord Bloodraven wants to remain Master of Whisperers. Your support as Lord Paramount of the Reach in these endeavours is of course invaluable." The optimistically soon-to-be Master of Coin leaned forward, placing his two hands on the silver acorn-knob of his cane and whispered. "That still leaves the position of Hand of the King open. Perhaps we could pinpoint a suitably pliable candidate beneficial to the three of us?" Willem had to smirk. He might have been raised a knight, but he was born to be a politician.

[i]Sini/Flagg Collab[/i]