Lord Dobraine Taborwin deplored Chop, in fact, he deplored any game of chance, and might well have been said to deplore games in general. Yet, he sat within his chambers in the Sun Palace, playing a ridiculous card game with one man he hated, one man he didn't trust, and one man he barely knew. And he was here, at the behest of yet another man he barely knew, and yet had sworn his sword, and the swords of his entire House.

Rand al'Thor was away again, had left two nights previous, probably to Andor this time, though the man was hardly forthcoming about his plans. And, as usual, he'd left instructions with Dobraine and the Lady Berelain. Some of those instructions were to watch men like these.

Lord Tedosian, a High Lord of Tear, sat to his right at the small lapis inlaid table, the man was sweating profusely. He had no head for gambling, and even less head for the unseasonable heat. He was the man he barely trusted. The fellow had fought willingly enough against the Shaido, and he wasn't one of those Lords who let others do their dirty work. Yet, he was a plotter, and while Dobraine himself was Cairhienien, and thus had Daes Dae'mar, the Great Game, in his blood, he still could not abide the man. What he sought to gain was why Dobraine was sharing a carafe of strong Tarabon Brown Rum with the man in the first place. The other man across from him was his fellow countryman, Tormund Delovinde, youngest brother of a certain Lord Talmanes. The man was really a boy, not much younger than the Dragon himself, but young enough to be enjoying his rum far too much. But the Dragon had wanted the boy watched, to be certain his elder brother was fitting company for his boyhood friend, the mysterious and laconic Matrim Cauthon. While Talmanes had a reputation as a soldier, and Dobraine had crossed swords with him during the Civil War, the younger brother was a bit of a mystery, having just returned from squiring with a House Carand, in Andor. Dobraine had never met the man before asking him to his chambers.

The man he despised was Lord Semaradrid. Taborwin had actively fought against House Riatin's claims to the Sun Throne, and had thrown its support behind Damodred, despite its unfortunate reputation. After all, an oath was an oath, and he had sworn an oath to King Galldrian, before the idiot went and gotten himself assassinated. House Maravin and Riatin were tied by a half dozen marriages over two hundred years, but it had been his support of Toram that made Semaradrid such a dangerous man. Though he could not tell Rand al'Thor precisely why, Dobraine believed him to be an oath breaker and a traitor.

"Ha! Chop! I said Chop!" Exhorted Tedosian, slightly slurring his words. The man was a lush, and it was remarkable that his liver even functioned at all with the amount of punishment it had received. Just one of the reasons the game of Chop was ludicrous, was because a winning hand was announced with just such an exclamation, and a downward motion with a stiff hand. Of course, Dobraine's neatly piled Cairhienien gold crowns, shook and nearly spilled from Tedosian's effort.

"Bloody hell," uttered the young Tormund, his eyes bleary, staring at his cards.

Semaradrid looked at Dobraine curiously, waiting for him to show his hand. The man had not come willingly, only Tedosian was of his rank here, and Tedosian was of a foreign land, not fit company for a man who earnestly believed he would be crowned King of Cairhien.

"Well, Dobraine? Will you show your hand? Or perhaps you're afraid we'd see the heron tattoo you've had inscribed there?"

It had been like this all night, barbs and digs from the man, from Tedosian as well, for all his own pledges of loyalty. Tormund guffawed.

"It's true then? The Dragon Reborn has birds tattooed on both his hands?" The boy asked.

Dobraine looked sharply at Semaradrid but spoke carefully. "The Dragon is a blademaster, and the Heron's on his palms were burned there." Dobraine laid out his hand, three kings, a prophet, and a councillor. Tormund sighed and laid his hand down, pushing three gold coins over to Tedosian, who laughed and gathered them. Semaradrid, looking at Dobraine, smiled the smile of a cold hearted killer, his cards, four kings, one of which was the High King, and the last, the Crystal Sword, defeated Dobraine's hand. Dobraine pushed two coins to Semaradrid, who then pushed them to Tedosian.

"The Crystal Sword, an interesting addition to the deck. And, a hard card to win. Given that you're firmly lodged up the Dragon's ass, I figured you'd be the first to play it." Semaradrid drawled, testing.

Tedosian laughed, "Hardly Semaradrid, Dobraine here is fit to clean the man's sword, dress him too, I'd wager."

Dobraine stared at Semaradrid, his deep set eyes searching. Semaradrid had virtually ignored his sallies into sensitive areas all night, preferring to bait the Lord of House Taborwin.

"Have you seen the Crystal Sword Tedosian? I've never been to Tear, they say only the High Lords can see it."

The boy had been Dobraine's only success for the night. He was feckless, and fairly innocent. His relationship with his eldest brother, one of undisguised admiration. And, as anyone associated with this so called Band of the Red Hand, devoted to Matrim Cauthon. Semaradrid had been very curious about the young man, carefully asking questions of the young Tormund, who was just pleased to be recognized by so high a lord as Semaradrid.

As for Tedosian, the man had arrived drunk, and his manservant would likely have to call a cart to get him back to his rent-a-palace.

"That sword, boy, for thousands of years, it was the center piece of the Great Hall of the Stone. Fitting decoration for the High Lords. And where it should have stayed."

Finally, Dobraine spoke, "but it did not, Tedosian, it did not. It was drawn as it had to have been, fulfilling hundreds of pages of prophecy. And the man who pulled it is your liege lord. Yours too, Semaradrid." He stood up and gathered the remaining coins in front of him. "Gentlemen, I must retire for the eve."

On those words, Morganfleed, his butler, opened the door to the servant's chamber, a small, almost invisible door. Four servants swept out, Semaradrid's and Tedosian's going to their respective lords.

"It's early!" Protested the young Delovinde.

"Right you are," slurred Tedosian, "why don't you come with me, you can regale me with tales of my son's bravery in this Band of the Red Shmand you're so proud of. Semaradrid, will you join us?"

"I think not, the Lord Dragon intends me to marshal his forces for the March to Illian, and I must prepare. Much glory there, eh Dobraine? Too bad you're trapped here playing head butler."

Dobraine ignored the sally, as he had ignored all the previous ones. Anyone who had been at Dumai's Wells would not be so blithe about tales of obtaining glory in the service of the Lord Dragon.

"Indeed, you have much to accomplish, keeping the High Lord Weiramon from boring you to death. I believe he is in command, yes?"

That satisfactorily wiped the smile from Semaradrid's face, while producing a guffaw from Tedosian. No one liked that pompous ass, Lord Weiramon. Moreover, the reminder, that the fool was in charge of the army, was an excellent swipe at Semaradrid.

Eventually, the men left, leaving Dobraine and Morganfleed alone in the drawing room.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Morganfleed?"

"Sir, you wish to retire for the night?"

Though the Lord hadn't drank as much rum as the other men, he felt an ache, an ache he'd felt since Dumai's Wells. And thoughts of what he'd seen there were always sobering. The new warfare. He sighed.

"No, set up my writing chamber, with fresh vellum, ink, and some Two Rivers tabac. Some tea as well, I think. The Red Bird Leaf, from Arad Doman."

The butler bowed and started calling for various servants. Lord Dobraine was not a man for light games, indeed, at his estates, he likely would have stayed up regardless. But his duties were pressing, and the Lord Dragon would expect a full report when he returned, two days, or two months from now.