The black cat purred like a stormcloud on Lysaro's lap, its tail flicking in time with the music drifting from the tourney tents. He lounged beneath a striped canopy of Arbor silk, one leg draped over the arm of a cushioned chair, a goblet of deep red wine in hand. His smile was lazy, but his eyes those clever, sun-dappled eyes were sharp as ever.
Across from him sat three minor lords of the Stormlands, their sigils stitched proudly into their cloaks: a broken wheel, a burning pine, and a boar with a crooked tusk. They were men of modest means and smaller minds, but they held land and land meant vineyards.
They didn't know it yet, but they were already halfway to signing.
"Lord Ronnel," Lysaro said, swirling his wine. "You say your grapes are too sour for Arbor blending. But that's the point. Sour is the soul of firewine. You tame it with honeyroot and age it in black oak. What you call a flaw, I call a signature."
Lord Ronnel frowned, scratching his beard. "Still tastes like piss."
Lysaro laughed, full and unashamed. "Then piss must be profitable, my lord. I sold three barrels of this very vintage to a Braavosi banker who claimed it cured his gout. He bought a fourth just to bathe in it."
The other two lords chuckled. Ronnel didn't, but he didn't walk away either.
The cat stretched, claws kneading into Lysaro's thigh. He didn't flinch. He scratched behind its ear and leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
"Let me build a still on your land," he said. "A small one. I'll bring the casks, the copper, the men. You provide the grapes and the space. We split the profits. You'll be richer than your liege, and twice as drunk."
Lord Harwyn of the burning pine narrowed his eyes. "And what do you get?"
Lysaro grinned. "I get to spread the gospel of the vine. And a cut, of course. But mostly, I get to prove that even the Stormlands can produce something worth drinking."
They scoffed, but not convincingly. He could see the gears turning. These were not men who dined with lords paramount. They were the kind who sat at the edge of feasts, hoping for scraps. Lysaro knew the type. He had been the fourth son once the overlooked one, the spare to the spare to the spare.
Now he was the one pouring the wine.
"You're mad," muttered Lord Cedric of the crooked boar.
"Undoubtedly," Lysaro said, raising his goblet. "But madness is just vision without a leash."
He let the silence hang, then gestured to the crowd beyond the tent. "Tomorrow, I enter the melee. I'll bleed for your amusement. But tonight, I offer you something better than blood. I offer you legacy. A wine that will outlive us all."
The cat leapt from his lap and slinked toward the edge of the tent. Lysaro watched it go, his smile never fading.
Lord Ronnel cleared his throat. "You'll send a man to draw up terms?"
"I'll send a poet," Lysaro said. "This is art, my lords. Not just business."
They left with furrowed brows and full cups, muttering to each other in low tones. Lysaro leaned back, exhaled, and let the night air wash over him.
He could feel the tiger stirring again not in the woods, but in his blood. The melee was tomorrow. The wine was flowing. The fools were dancing.
And the Mad Waters was just getting started.