The Burrow

[Imry Willfyre]

Dondarrion shook his head and extended his arm to shake Hightower's hand again, "No there is not. A pleasure as always, Lord Hightower."

[The Flint]

"As always Lord Dondarrion. Enjoy the rest of the tourney, gods know it was expensive enough." Justin followed his guest out of the Solar, to where his men were waiting in the servant's quarters, finishing off a few stuffed capons. Goodbyes were said, and the Lord Hand and his men were shown out.

[Imry Willfyre]

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Lord Dondarrion arrives in the dead of night, alone on horseback. He immediately requests an audience, informing the guard that it is an urgent matter.

[The Flint]

"Beginning your pardon milord, but an audience with who? His lordship is in Oldtown on business at the moment. Is there anyone else you might be willing to speak to?" the guard calls from behind the arrow slit.

[Imry Willfyre]

"Fuck", Dondarrion cursed under his breath. "Who is next important here? Get me your most important man, and find me his master", Breck nearly shouted, obviously frustrated.

[The Flint]

After perhaps twenty minutes, a man in Hightower livery and a chain mail hauberk exits the small fortified house. He is perhaps forty-five years of age,and unruly black hair sticks out beneath a chainmail coif.

"Begging your pardon milordship. I'm Sergeant Alins, His Lordship named me to look after the Burrow while he's away. Can I be of service?"

[Imry Willfyre]

"Bring me Lord Hightower", Dondarrion said, frustrated, yet totally aware that this demand could not be met.

[The Flint]

"I can send him a message milord, but I doubt our raven would fly any faster than your own. Is there some ill news I should alert my lord too?" The sergeant's eyes were alert, and watched Dondarrion's expression carefully.

[Imry Willfyre]

"Find me ink and quill, Sergeant. And quickly, too."

[The Flint]

The Sergeant turned his head around, and yells up to the guardsmen, "Quill and pen for the Lord Hand, right now!"

A short while later another guard exits the building bringing both quill and ink.

"Turn around Schumer, let him write on your back." Alins helpfully suggests.

[Imry Willfyre]

Breck did not do so. Instead, after taking the quill and ink he takes a small piece of parchment from a pouch he had strapped onto a thick leather belt. "Please", he said to the other guardsmen, "just us two. Let us have privacy."

[The Flint]

"Schumer" looked at his Sergeant, who rapidly brushed him away, "Go'n get, Lord Hand wants privacy to write his message!" The other guard quickly retreated back into the Burrow.

"Sorry milord. He ain't no lordling type you know, so he don't think right all the time, go ahead."

[Imry Willfyre]

"Sergeant, the information you are about to see is absolutely confidential. After I write it on this parchment I will burn the paper, dispose of its ashes. Understood?" He didn't wait for an answer. He started writing quickly, dipping the quill in and out of the ink. When he was done he held it up to the Sergeant for a moment--letting the information sink in-- then took it into his hand and ripped it up, sticking those same portions in the pouch on his belt.

[The Flint]

"No shit." 'Sergeant' Alins exclaimed, before coughing excitedly,. " I mean, begging your pardon milord, I'll get this to Lord Hightower double quick. Is there aught else I should tell him?"

[Imry Willfyre]

"Nothing", Dondarrion said, before turning and finding his way out.