The Lannister Housewarming Ball

[Horas]

The name sounded familiar. "The King's Master of Coins, by chance? I did not realize I was in such high company. And your companion?"

[Tytos]

Antario smiled, "The King's Master of Whispers," He said, chuckling lightly. It never ceased to amuse him to see different people's reactions to his identity.

[Horas]

"Is that so?" Byron says, a note of confusion evident in his voice. He smiles sheepishly. "I was given to understand that the Master of Whisperers was, in fact, a woman. No slight intended, Lord...?"

[The Flint]

"Damn Antario, I was going to tell him I was Tyberion Lannister." Thatcher said. "I'm Thaddeus Thatcher, his grace's master of whisperers."

[Tytos]

Antario laughed, "And I'm sure he would have believed you. You look fiercely like a lion."

[The Flint]

Thatcher turned his head in profile, with a snicker, "I suppose I do."

[Horas]

Byron smiles good-humoredly. "I once read an essay which compared Whisperers to stableboys; they allow all the rest of us to walk without stepping in shit, but are rather underappreciated despite their crucial occupation." He cocks his head slightly. "I suppose that is because no matter how much the stableboy washes, he still must smell of shit himself. So I suppose I must offer both my thanks and condolences, Lord Thatcher."

[The Flint]

"I have been a stableboy, Ser Byron, and believe me, Master of Whisperers is the preferable position of employment." Thatcher said, with a rye smile. "But I suppose it is an apt description. Often others will hold their nose, when they deign to talk to you, but none would travel without stableboys to watch our horse's shit."

[Horas]

Byron attempts an innocent smile, but his grin leaks through. "Does the horse shit a lot, my lord?"

He coughs, then shakes his head. "I am sorry, I could not restrain myself. That was unkind, particularly since I intend to approach His Grace about employment."

[The Flint]

"And what position do you seek Ser Byron?"

[Horas]

"I have been told that while His Grace has a man who stands up on a platform and cuts off heads, he is lacking a proper King's Justice. Of course, I believe I have already proven that my information is sadly outdated at least once tonight."

[The Flint]

Thatcher gave a hmmmmmm sound and rested in his hand.

"Does such a position suit you, Ser Byron? Sitting around all day, waiting for someone to commit a treason worthy of death?"

[Tytos]

"And having to take care of a bunch of half-wit gaolers and wardens at that tower of the King's Justice, not to mention the prisoners." Antario chimed in.

[Horas]

Byron considers the question. "It was my duty at Old Oak," he says, "And I performed it well enough. Strange, I know," he shrugs, "But I seem to have an attunement for it. And I doubt that His Grace has any shortage of enemies. Kings never do."

[The Flint]

"Not this King anyway," Thaddeus confirmed, "Meet me at my chambers tomorrow morning. I would like to discuss this matter with you further."