Wayne lifted the first glass cup from its wrapping; the Drunken Stag went silent again; clear glass caught the tavern's lamplight and threw it through the curved wall. Men close to the table leaned forward; those farther away stood on benches to see what had quieted everyone. Hammond reached it first.
"That is glass?"
"Yes." The tavernkeeper held it carefully between both hands. He had seen imported colored glass before, but this piece was clear enough that he could see the grain of the table through it.
"Where did you get this?"
"FireStorm."
Arlan took the cup back and poured Red Sun Flame into it. The clear liquid caught the lamplight through the equally clear vessel, turning a drink the room already wanted into a display no ordinary tavern cup could reproduce. Even the men uninterested in fine tableware understood that nobles paid for things other nobles could not easily obtain.
The transparent vessel made the liquor itself part of the display. Men who had just paid a silver stag for a small bottle now stared at the cup with the expression Arlan had hoped to see: not practical interest, but possession.
"Ten silver stags for a carved cup," he said. "Fifty for a set with a decanter and four cups."
The room erupted. Ten silver stags for a cup would have sounded absurd before anyone saw it; after seeing clear glass under the lamps, the number became an opening bid rather than a barrier. A buyer did not need to drink from it himself, and he could carry it to Storm's End, place it before a lord who had never seen its equal, and ask far more.
A silk-clad merchant shoved through two mercenaries and bowed rapidly. "My lord. Villen, cloth merchant. Sixty stags for the set. I want one hundred bottles of the spirit and fifty cups as well. Payment now."
"Seventy for the set," another merchant shouted. "And two hundred bottles." Someone from the back called for flat glass and asked Arlan to name a price.
Hammond swore under his breath as men began arguing over goods inside his tavern despite Gareth's prohibition. He still feared a smashed tavern, but fear now had to compete with the fact that every crowded table was ordering his food and ordinary ale while waiting for a turn at Arlan's display.
The arithmetic had changed faster than the fear. Villen's opening order alone represented more coin than many smallfolk households saw across years of ordinary trade, and other merchants could calculate what even a fraction of that resale might yield at Storm's End or along caravan routes.
A merchant who bought Red Sun Flame at one stag could resell it to mercenaries, ships, border garrisons, or nobles farther north for more. Clear glass carried an even larger margin because buyers had little basis for comparison and almost no local supply of similar quality.
House Caron could threaten one profitable transaction, but it was harder to frighten an entire room once every man believed the person beside him might take the profit instead. Morton opened the ledger and ruled separate lines for taverns, caravan captains, and private resellers. He staggered delivery dates and refused to place the whole shipment behind one name; no single shop would become the easy example that frightened every other buyer.
Orders began stacking on the table. Morton demanded names, quantities, and deposits while Wayne stationed two guards beside the money rather than beside Arlan; the display crate emptied piece by piece. Buyers who could not secure a full set asked for single cups; men who had arrived for liquor began bidding on glass; servants slipped out to summon masters with deeper purses.
Outside, the crowd thickened enough that traffic on the street slowed. News moved from tavern to shop, shop to market stall, and from there toward the minor houses whose stewards happened to be in Rainwood that day.
Within half an hour, more than half the goods brought into the tavern had buyers or promises attached to them, and the value of the orders had already climbed beyond three hundred silver stags. Morton had to open a second page in the ledger; the same people who had watched FireStorm's caravan expecting humiliation were now arguing over delivery priority. Men who had watched the caravan pass in the street came inside after hearing the shouting; minor landed men sent servants; other merchants arrived carrying coin rather than curiosity.
The Drunken Stag became too crowded for Hammond to complain about hosting anyone. News spread through Rainwood.
Red Sun Flame was stronger than ordinary wine and ale; FireStorm glass was clear enough to pass as a treasure from a far richer court. By the time one rumor reached the far end of the market, another had doubled the price somebody claimed a cup was worth.
***
Gareth Caron received the reports in a hall elsewhere in Rainwood, and he struck the table hard enough to spill his drink.
"I ordered every merchant in this town to leave him alone."
The guard reporting to him kept his head low. "They are buying anyway, ser. The tavern is full. Some say merchants are offering more than his asking price."
"Then clear the tavern." Gareth was already reaching for his sword belt when another man rushed into the room. The new guard had ridden hard.
"Ser Gareth. Lord Elton is at the gate. Five hundred household men and twenty knights." Gareth stopped. His father had come personally.
***
At the Drunken Stag, Arlan was examining a polished pane while Morton argued with three merchants over delivery dates. The reflection in the glass was imperfect but clear enough to show movement at the doorway before anyone shouted; armored men entered the street outside; the crowd around the tavern windows pulled back.
Wayne set down the crate lid and rested one hand on his sword.
"My lord." Arlan had already seen the nightingale banners. Twenty knights approached the tavern entrance in two files. Behind them came Elton Caron in a dark velvet robe, his face lean with age and his attention fixed on the building that had just turned his blockade into public entertainment.
Gareth followed close behind him; the tavern door opened hard; merchants who had been fighting for places at the table suddenly remembered every threat House Caron had made. Purses vanished beneath cloaks. Men stepped away from the goods without moving so far that another buyer could take their position.
Elton entered between his knights, and he was older than Gareth, leaner, and far less interested in performing anger for the room. The merchants stepped away because they recognized the difference between a son enforcing a threat and the lord whose authority made the threat dangerous in the first place.
Gareth looked almost pleased again now that his father stood beside him. Elton passed the liquor, the glass, and the silver on the table without a glance. His attention remained on Arlan.
"Your father knew how to bow when he came before Nightsong," Elton said. "Have the Ashenblades forgotten that much in one generation?" Arlan remained seated.
"My father also knew who ruled from Storm's End. I have not forgotten that either." Gareth's face reddened. Elton raised one hand without looking at him. The room stayed quiet. Arlan placed the Baratheon warrant on the table.
Beside it he set a Caron badge recovered from the raiders and a copy of Raymond Weil's signed confession. Elton's eyes dropped to the papers; for the first time since entering, he stopped speaking.