Silver hates politics. Really and truly, and this is pretty much the most political thing he's had to do--he's thankful the other gets up to get him his drink, Silver himself already comfortable and not wanting to get up. The cold in London bites at his horrid stump of a leg, he's never been more acutely aware of it, not since he first lost it all that time ago.

He smirks.

"Perhaps not. I've had the liberty of hearing the talk among London's docks." He'd never heard something that made him both laugh and get angry at the absurdity until eating at the inn garnered him questions for a curious table maid. Jack had warned him, and he'd assumed the other was being grandoise about things, as per usual. How wrong he was.