Longhorn

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Longhorn is a hamlet at the border of the Reach and the crownlands. It is poor and nowhere near the main roads, and few travellers ever stop there. There is only one, inn, The Boar's Horn, and it has three dirty rooms and an even dirtier main hall.

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A tall rider, cloaked in black, rode into the hamlet one night on an ill-tempered black courser. She made for the inn.

[The Flint]

Lord Francis Varner arrived at the Boar's horn, his black traveling cloak pulled tight around him, the hood up. A large burly man in a black tunic stood behind him, his cheek crossed with a wicked scar. Some said Francis Varner traveled with a mute murderer named Jarvis. If so, even money said the scarred man was him.
Francis surveyed the bar quickly looking for anything out of place.

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Aranya stabled the black courser herself, as he would knock over anyone else who came near, and strode into the Boar's Horn. She was a tall, lithe young woman, with grim and rather savage face. Perhaps it was her expression of ferocity. But when she strode up to Francis Varner, her eyes were calm and steady.

"My friend, we meet at last." Aranya was careful not to mention his name. She did not glance at his companion.

[The Flint]

"My lady, a pleasure, and your physical beauty some how exceeds your penmanship." He managed to smile, despite all. "I would that we had time for idle and social chatter. But we can still eat and drink while we speak, no?" Francis put on his best fake cheerfulness and gestured for Aranya to lead the way.

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"Do you want to eat at this place?" Aranya snorted. "Still, it might look suspicious if we don't." She led them to a table and sat down, and brusquely summoned for the innkeeper's grubby boy to serve them. A platter of greasy meat was laid out, with rock-hard bread and three smudged, broken wine goblets. Aranya took one sip and spat. "It tastes like horsepiss."

[The Flint]

Francis watched the gruff lady in quietly hidden fascination. How very different the valemen and their women were from the Reach. Francis stabbed at a piece of bread for a moment with a knife, but could not bring himself to risk a tooth on it.

"Well since warm food and good wine is out of the question, we shall have to suffice with pleasant or at any rate useful conversation. What would you tell me that is so secretive you can not risk a raven?"

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"Ravens are treacherous. They may be shot down in flight, eaten, and their letters burned for fire, or worse, read." Aranya cut a slice off the greasy roast - for all her disgust, it appeared that she was a bit hungry. "And I do not want my conversations with you to fall into the wrong hands.

"Simply put, we want you to sign the decree. Go over to Aaron Fossoway and declare yourself his man, and King Lyonel's man. He's a clever man, so we would have to make it look real. We might have to rob or fire your home, or at least burn your woods. Pretend your womenfolk were raped or something. And not just you, but we'll do it to some other lands as well, to make it look believable. It would look odd if we merely went after you. Perhaps we can pretend to kill a member of your family, but actually hide them away.

"Whatever it is, we will give you a reason to apparently hate us, enough to make Fossoway accept you. He is a shrewd and suspicious man."

[The Flint]

Francis nodded. Even the talk of raping the womenfolk did not raise his eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that. Poor Lord that I am, I owe the people protection, anyone firing our woods or homes will do it because I am already dead." Francis cut off a piece of meat, and held it near the pocket of his cloak. A small white head with beady black eyes popped out, tasted a morsel, and than disappeared back inside.

"That said I believe I should have the Lord Regent's trust. I have told him that I would write letters urging aid from other lords, and if i do, he will be sure that I am with him."

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Aranya's eyes flicked to the little animal in his cloak, but she made no comment.

"Well, you would know your fellow Reach lords better than I," she said, a little doubtfully. "But he must not suspect you. Are you sure you can convince him?"

[The Flint]

"Yes milady I believe so. he is desperate for support, and believes his situation much more comfortable than I believe it is. I have already raised some proposals to him during the course of this crisis, which he has accepted, so I believe he accepts my counsel as genuine."

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"Excellent," Aranya said briskly. "Then I will trust him to trust you. What I want you to do, is to relay vital information to us. His plans, his friends, where his generals are placed, which army has his most famed warriors, such as Edgar the White or Yorrel Serry. He will be fighting more than one battle simultaneously, I am sure, so we want to know his plans.

"But the second bit is more important. We want you to slowly and subtly win over his supporters. Not by telling them to support the Iron Throne - make them support you. I hear you have some gift with persuasion. Make them love you more than they love him."

[The Flint]

Francis coughed into his fist. "The Lord of Highgarden, or at any rate, the regent, has given many gifts away. It shall be hard to counter that. But I shall do what I can. Why, may I ask, do you expect me to do this? Do I appear given over to ambition?"

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"If you want funds, ask and we'll get them for you. Play one against the other. Create rivalries and then resolve them - make them see you as a man to be followed and respected. Resolve matters that Fossoway cannot - be amiable and peaceable when he loses his temper. You can even try turning Fossoway against some of the lords, but do it in a roundabout way - perhaps one of your secret servants can say something in Fossoway's hearing. Never incriminate yourself."

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"As for why we expect you to do this - well, why did you come here?"