"No, no. First the roast, then the quail," Everan declared as he strode into the common room. Behind him, a gaggle of men, all dressed in Lannister colors and scribbling notes upon leaves of paper.
"My Lord, what of the wine? Do you wish the 321 AC Gold first, or the 310 Red?" That question actually made Everan pause for a second, as if he were considering the difference between the two. He then furrowed his brow, turning to face the man who asked it.
"Wait. Why are you asking me? The wine selection is some Lannett's business. Go! Find him! Fast! We're burning daylight!" The man almost dropped his papers in surprise as Everan raised his voice, but gathered his composure before turning and sprinting out of the common room. Once the sound of his footsteps faded, Everan let out a hearty chuckle, looking at the other men. "Funny thing is, I'm a beer man," he declared, smiling as he turned around. The rest of them let out a hearty chuckle, though whether it was out of agreement or courtesy, he could not tell.
It was at this point that a familiar lilt of laughter fluttered across the room--almost music to his ears. Everan held a hand to cease the incessant babbling of his companions, following the sound to it sorts. Quickly, his eyes fixed upon Roslin and her drinking companion, Lynesse.
For a moment, he was torn. Duty and pleasure. His share of the preparations of the feast were not yet done. This was to be an affair to remember, and Everan did not wish the memories to be of failure rather than of success. That said, he could hardly resist the presence of beautiful women. He weighed the options for but a moment, as if there we actually a choice to be made, and then turned to his followers.
"Leave me. We will meet again in two hours at the entrance to the Red Keep. We shall continue anew then. Begin making the preparations I instructed," the men all bowed, offering some variation of, "Yes my Lord," before scurrying off. Everan's relief was almost palable.
Walking with a purpose, he approach the Reachwomen. He had not changed since his encounter with Rhaella Celtigar earlier in the day, and was still garbed in the red silk tunic and breeches, complimented by the lion fur trimmed crimson cloak. A sword belt, adorned by a buckle of a lion's head, sat upon his waist, keeping the tunic cinched tightly.
"My ladies!" he announced, bowing deeply before them. "I see that we have yet again found each other's company," he motioned to the table before them, "and this time with wine! How pertinent. You see, I didn't bring it up yesterday, because it was still in the air, but I can now declare with certainty that tomorrow night, a feast shall be held in the Westerlands encampment, in the honor of Lord Paramount Damion Lannister. It would mean the world to me if you were both in attendance. If it's of any help in the decision, I will be there," Everan tilted his head towards Lynesse. One might swear they could spot a subtle wink of the eye, as if begging a response.
"As for now, though, might I join you for a drink or two?" Everan motioned to the seat beside Lynesse, smiling broadly at her.
Assuming permission was granted, he spoke as he settled, removing the ornate sword that sat upon his hip so as to allow him to sit more comfortably. "My men and I were just discussing what sort of vintage we should serve at the feast tomorrow. Perhaps you ladies might have an opinion, biased as it might be: Arbor Gold, 321 Vintage, or Dornish Red, 310 Vintage? Truth be told, I can scarce appreciate the subtleties, so I must rely on the judgments you offer."