(121-03-17) Dubious Honor
Dubious Honor
Summary: In which everyone is very drunk, bad ideas seem like good ones, and a duel for Lord Pansy's honor commences.
Date: March 18, 2014
Related: Probably some

The sun has set hours past, dinners have come and gone and now is the hour of the drunk and the debauched. Aevander Targaryen is, if not the latter than at least hard at work on the former. He sits out on the terrace, under the apple tree, peering up at the moon and taking occasional swallows from a half-filled bottle of wine. Another bottle, empty, lies by his feet, so one can surmise he's been at the Quill and Tankard a while or, if not, he's made the most of the time he has been here.

The door from the tavern opens, and an armed man in a purple cloak steps out, holding the door for Lord Garvin Tyrell, who carries a large silver flagon and a goblet. Five other Tyrell men follow, all carrying tankards of ale. Lord Pansy has been drinking for some time himself, his face flushed and his grin rather goofy. "Fresh air!" he announces cheerfully, staggering a bit as he makes his way outside. "Fresh, clean, summer air, with a hint of breeze off the river. What could be better?" His men fan out, sitting two to a table, as Garvin continues to stumble about.

Aevander turns his head as Garvin and his entourage walk (or stumble) out. He's lazing under the apple tree, one leg straight and the other bent. He might go unnoticed save for the way the moonlight catches on his pale hair and the soft groan when he sees just who it is that's intruded on his quiet and peaceful inebriation.

Garvin pauses to drain the goblet in his hand, then refills it from the flagon — looks like a fine Arbor red. He takes a long, deep breath, looking out over the river, then turns to find a place to sit. That's when he catches sight of the moonlight on that silvery Targaryen hair. Moving closer and squinting, he says too loudly, "Ser Aevander, is that you? Why are you sitting on the paving stones, Ser?" The six Purple Cloaks sit at scattered tables, two apiece, surrounding the terrace, and go back to drinking their ale, while keeping an eye on Lord Pansy.

Aevander tilts his head to look over at Lord Garvin and nods. "Aye, aye, it's me," he agrees with a soft sigh. "I'm not sitting on the paving stones, Lord Garvin, I'm sitting under a tree. There is a difference." Clearly.

Nico slips rather quietly onto the terrace, quietly for him anyway. The yelling of an angry woman can be heard as the crimson haired man slips out of the tavern proper. He doesn't look worried though in fact he looks almost…proud of himself. He smirks and takes a few steps forward looking up at the moon as it falls across his blood red hair. He has a goblet in hand and takes a long drink from it as he glances around to see who else is here. The purple cloaked men get a look and then the man with silvery blonde hair that seems to glow in the moonlight. Finally he looks to Garvin head tilting and hair spilling over his shoulder as he takes another long drink.

"Is there must point in sitting beneath a tree when there is no sun to block?" Viggo wonders with a slur to his voice and a goblet of wine in his hand, voice rough and a little wry. He's looked…better. His dark hair is rumpled and moustache slightly askew as he strides forward with a leaning gait. "Lord Garvin, Ser Aevander…" The third man, gets a respectful nod.

Garvin cocks his head to one side, clearly not seeing the difference at all. But before he can say anything, he hears Viggo's voice, and his face lights up. Turning toward the knight with a grin, he says, cheerfully and too loudly, "Ser Viggo! How good to see you. Are you feeling better, Ser? I've not seen you since you returned from…you errand." The red-haired man catches his attention, and his eyes bug wide, his voice lowering. "I know that man from…somewhere."

"Well," Aevander shrugs, "I find it pleasant. Why does one do anything in an alehouse except because one wishes to do it?" Speaking of which, he has another swallow of wine. "Seeing the stars between the silhouette of the branches is nice."

The look he gets from Garvin causes a wicked little smirk to form on Nico's lips. The crimson haired man lowers his goblet and makes a show of running his tongue over his bottom lips as he eyes the Tyrell Lord his eyes shining with mischief. He overhears the words and chuckles softly. "You remember me then? This is good." He looks pleased and slowly starts in that direction with the grace of a cat stalking a mouse.

"No," Viggo says with honesty, mouth not quite managing any sort of a smile. "The wine is helping, however." Cause in point, he takes another draught of it peering at Aevander's tree-based position, coming to stand crookedly near Garvin. He offers an interesting sort of obstacle to any stalking with his weaving stance. "Fair enough, Ser. Fair enough."

"Oh, look," Aevander muses as the boy with red hair makes a show of licking his lips and stalking towards Lord Garvin, "You must have fucked that one, then. And here he comes to flirt with you when you're among your equals and betters, bold as brass." He smirks, giving a small shake of his head. "How do you do it, Lord Pansy? How do you manage to care so little for anything but yourself?" If the words are cutting, the tone in which they're spoken is almost envious.

Garvin eyes Nico warily, a quick shiver running through him when the man plays his tongue over his lower lip. "The Bard," he whispers to Viggo. "The Bawdy Bard, that's where I remember him from." He looks to the knight again, sadness in his eyes. "I wish there was some way I could help you, Lord Viggo. Your pain should be eased, somehow." He glances down at Aevander again, then up into the tree and to the sky beyond. "Stars, yes. They're up there, all right." His eyes return to the Targaryen. "Why are you drinking so heavily? Have to decided to become the new Lord Pansy?"

Garvin frowns suddenly, his brows drawing together. "How dare you make such an accusation, here in the open, where anyone might hear? If you were not my betrothed's own brother, I would challenge you, Ser. But I will accept your apology."

Nico pauses his strides to Garvin looking to Aevander with amusement. He chuckles softly and looks like he wants to comment but Garvin's angry words give him pause he takes another sip of his wine before he then adds his own peice to the conversation. "Now what on earth would make you think such dirty thoughts? What I do and who I fuck or even who fucks me is my business and its poor form to reveal such secrets." He replies looking to the blonde with a calm if slightly amused expression. He has an accent thick and rich and obviously Lysene for those who would know what that sounds like.

"Challenge whom to what?" it's a rasp of a voice that gives way to something dark in that's laying and prowling from the stairway up to the Terrace. Dressed in the blacks of his own heraldry, Ser Quillian Oakheart might not appear to be much, though, for those who know his reputation it fits him. One hand rests on his blade as he comes further to where the Tyrell and Targaryen. His hand moving up to pull of a plain black, white brimmed hat. Almost similar to what he wore to the Masque, though perhaps considerably smaller. "Sers..My Lord Cousin.." How's that for a Blackrood greeting?

That's an interesting thing to hear upon arrival, and that is, perhaps, the reason that Johanna hangs back just a touch as her brother goes on ahead. It's easier to duck flying tankards from a distance.

Aevander just laughs, his head tipping back. "Ah, no. I am drinking because I will never be a Lord Pansy, and every now and again, a little bit of excess makes the morning less daunting." Garvin's indignation only makes the Targaryen's mouth curl upwards in a half-smile. "I assure you, Lord Garvin, I say nothing that the whole of Oldtown does not already know, thanks to your own antics. Mm, but anyhow, it turns out that I am not. So you may challenge me if you like." Glancing over at Nico, he adds, "One does not always need words to reveal their secrets, lad. You have managed it with but a look."

"You there might consider holding your tongue lest it be stricken away," Viggo warns the redhead flatly, casting a glare his way. The Targaryen's words cause an already simmering temper to flare in defense of the Lord Pansy. "And yet he has the grace and manner to not voice them in public," he growls at Aevander. "He has not the blade to challenge, Ser. I do consider it, however." He sets aside his flagon pointedly — probably to one of Garvin's rather confused purple cloaked guards.

All six of the Tyrell men are on their feet, though none have touched their swords yet. Garvin narrows his eyes darkly at Aevander, but Ser Quillian's arrival causes him to bite back whatever he was about to say. Instead, he turns to the Blackrood and lifts his chin. "This…Targaryen knight," he says, all but spitting the word, "has been saying the most slanderous lies just now. I've never f-fucked," (he trips over the word, but manages to get it out) "that man in my life." He nods then toward Nico, cheeks flushing with anger and too much wine.

Nico pouts a bit at Aevander's words and glances to Viggo with a frown. "I need my tongue…it has a great many uses many of which you Westerosi would blush to hear about." He smirks completely unfazed and takes a sip of his wine. "Besides contrary to handsome blonde's beliefs Lord Garvin is right…nothing happened between us…no fucking anyway." He looks a bit dissapointed at this though and his eyes wander over those here thoughtfully though they do linger on the Tyrell and the Targaryen the most.

"Well, I am quite drunk. Likely I will regret my words in the morning," Aevander allows, though he's still grinning as he addresses Ser Viggo and hardly seems repentant. Sitting up a little more properly, he holds up his wine bottle. As Viggo hands off his tankard, he sets his own drink squarely on the ground, as he has no purple-garbed guard to accept it. "Well, well, then Ser Viggo. Are you challenging me? Or shall it be the Blackrood? I've no doubt someone will step in for Lord Garvin, he is not a man to fight his own fights, is he?" He smirks wider, gesturing towards Nico as the boy also steps to Lord Garvin's defense in his way. he says nothing further though the widening of his grin more or less says 'You see?'

Technically, Viggo is borrowing his purple garbed guard or horribly insulting their position by using them as cupbearer. Either or. "No doubt more to you than others," he growls at the whore. He points at his eyes and then at the man. Watch it. His shoulders tense, spoiling for a fight as he grins at the Targaryen. "I just might be, Ser Aevander. No one else here is drunk enough to do it." He waves his hand in demonstration.

"I haven't decided Dragon, which I would rather do. Drink, or fuck your arse with a sword." Which would likely have any Targaryen men rising if they haven't-you know if they are present. Still Quillian turns slightly, as he looks back to Johanna. Clenching his jaw, the knight turns back and looks over towards Aevander. "Ser. I would kindly take it, if you would cease with whatever insult you wish to throw at my cousin. He's not your kin yet, to abuse." And there he cocks his hip in a stance to different. After all Viggo challenged first.

Garvin holds up his hands, which hold the goblet and flagon, frowning still. "Hold any challenging," he grumbles, looking between Viggo, Quillian, and Aevander. He even spares a glance for Nico, though he hasn't noticed Johanna yet. "I said I would accept an apology, and I'm sure that's just what Ser Aevander plans to do: apologize. Isn't that right, Ser?"

It's only when her brother looks back at her that Johanna abandons her position near the stairs and moves forward, in Quillian's direction. "What an interesting night this has turned out to be," she observes, though it's to no one in particular, gaze moving from person to person as she comes to a stop at her brother's side.

"Excellent," Aevander replies gleefully, pushing to his feet and taking a step towards Viggo. "I am certainly drunk enough. Swords or fists? I'm quite unimpressive at both." Grinning over at Quillian he adds, 'No, nooo. I am not the one who enjoys arsefucking, ser. You are confused." He squints a little, taking note of Johanna as she moves to stand beside the Blackrood. "Why, is that you, Lady Johanna? Is Ser Quillian your brother? How fine to see you, I hope you will forgive the idiocy that is likely about to unfold." So, perhaps he is not so keen to apologize after all.

"Doesn't sound like an apology," Viggo says, sounding almost cheerful at this fact. Almost. He strides forward loosely with a cruel smile, before pivoting on his foot to offer the Lady Johanna a flourishing bow. "Apologies, my lady for the violence I am about to commit. Such words should not be spoken in your presence." Validation. Rising, he smirks at Aevander. "Lest she protests. I believe it is to you to pick."

When its clear that there may be a fight Nico takes a slow step back eyeing the Lady a moment and frowning. "Gentlemen please! Surely there is no reason to fight in front of the lady." He looks to the Targaryen knight intently and sighs. "Is giving an apology so hard? Oh well its your fight." He shrugs slightly and turns to go back inside looking to Garvin breifly. "Please forgive me my lord for any trouble I may have given you. I hope to see you again sometime though." He winks and starts to head back inside.

Garvin raises his flagon and goblet even higher, shouting, "Hold hold hold! Have you all forgotten Lord Ormund's decree? No violence within the city. If you absolutely must fight, take it to the tourney grounds." He glances toward Nico with a raised brow, then notices Johanna standing near Quillian for the first time. "My lady," he says, offering a small bow, though he clearly has no clue who she is.

"Who said, I wanted you to enjoy it, Ser?" Quillian quips back, as his hand drops to his sword and grips. And there is Johanna again. Right older brother and all. A step back, so he can have drawing room, though-Viggo seems to be moving in which has him relax for a moment. And there the hand slides away, before he is looking to his Sister and then to Garvin. "Wait-what? We can't even fucking fight here?"

"It's not a fight, it's a duel. Very different. Fighting is lowly. dueling is very honorable. Ser Viggo fights to defend the honor of a lady. Or, well, Lord Garvin, but you know. Similar." Aevander taps a finger against the side of his jaw. "Swords, I think. They're more elegant, aren't they, than swinging fists? Here, clear a space! Everyone move back! Wouldn't wish to knock any drinks to the ground."

"I see no reason for apologies if what you are apologizing for is going to continue, you are clearly not that sorry," Johanna observes in a bland tone, looking first to Aevander, then to Viggo. When Aevander calls for room, she turns to move away, not back inside, but off to one side of the terrace, having no plans on missing the fight if there is going to be one.

"No no no!" Garvin shouts again, shaking his head. His men have moved closer to them, hands on their weapons, though still not drawn. "No violence of any sort within the city walls. The tourney grounds are the place for that, including duels. Didn't you see those two City Watchmen posted within the tavern? They'll arrest you both and drag you before…Well, whoever is acting as Lord of Hightower at the moment."

Victor strides out of the tavern for a breath of fresh air. He has a goblet of red wine in one hand and his raven is perched apon his shoulder napping. The knight glances around at the crowd taking in everyone with a measuring dark blue gaze and a slight frown. He steps off to one side into the shadows so he may watch and observe what is happening and hopefully remain unseen at the same time. He raises a brow at the mention of a fight but doesn't speak or move from his hiding spot just yet.

"A challenge, Ser. No need to kill a man over a slight this night when there has been enough blood already," Viggo agrees with a wave of his hand and a weave of his feet. No reason not to be gentlemen. "I defend the honor of those of my banner house." Tyrells, whut. "Very well, swords it is." He mutter sunder his breath at the stream of protests coming from the crowd. "Need we go to the grounds?" He slurs idly, raising his brows at Aevander.

"Well, your Lord's voice is getting shrill enough, the dogs will come running to him, soon. I am not sure there is a guard in Oldtown that would dare arrest a Targaryen, but they will not be as forgiving of a Cockshaw, so it seems we are banished. Come, then, Ser Viggo. Your Lord will miss the duel to his own honor, but I suppose that shows as well as anything what he thinks of said honor, eh? Ah, but, but, but…" Aevander steps away so he can return to the tree and pick up his half-drunk bottle of wine. He cannot forget that. He holds it high as one might a banner. "To the dueling grounds!" he calls, "For the Pansy's honoooor!"

"No. I'm telling you, they have this great big bloody /pie/. It's —" an upturned tone of voice intones, The owner of the voice is a casually-dressed Riderch Blackwood, ambling his way on to the terrace with a great big mug of ale, talking to the great big man behind him with an even greater mug of ale. "It's not a joke, it's — well, then." He stops, suddenly, eyeing the commotion on the terrace. He turns back to his squire, giving the man a curious, puzzled look.

"I wouldn't want to intrude on all this, Ser." The big man behind him states. "Agreed. This looks like a bad idea." Riderch finishes, looking back towards the door to the inn.

"I doubt we'd be dragged before a Hightower, they've other things to attend.," Viggo argues dryly, a snarl of a smile curling his moustache. He looks towards Garvin with a flat expression in his dark eyes, shaking his head. "Aye. Perhaps, but I am now commit to for wiping away your foul words, Ser." He eyes Aevander with amusement, swiping his wine back from the guard and downing it before handing back the tankard. Steps wandering he makes to follow the silver haired man.

"Yes, the tourney grounds," Garvin says, stepping in front of Viggo, trying to block his passage. "On the morrow, when you've both had the chance to sober up." He glances to Aevander, scowling then. "Hold your tongue, Ser. It's caused enough trouble for tonight."

"Careful, he might not believe you did it." Quillian quips to Viggo, before he is standing back, and one hand moving to grab his sister as he goes to pull her out of the way, but likely to a better viewing post. There's a look behind him back towards the city watchmen for a moment. "If not the tourney grounds. I do believe there is a yard close by we can use. I'll ask the Stable man."

True, he's definitely come in on the tail end of things, but Riderch's casual 'I'm looking at the players even though I don't know the game' sort of surveying of the people involved in the dispute, complete with obvious shows of recognition indicates one thing. That one thing is simple —

There's absolutely nothing good that can come of this. He turns away after a good long glance at Aevander and gives his Squire a sidelong turn of his head. The big Squire simply shakes his head. "Mmm, Ser." They step away from the altercation, retreating a bit towards their point of origin.
Kai has reconnected.

As Riderch looks back towards the inn's door, he would see Kai silently stepping through the door frame, hand lightly rested atop the pommel of the longer of the three blades that rest at his sides. Kai would slowly come to a stop as the door closes behind him, bright grey eyes slowly surveying the scene before him.

Victor remains silent watching from the shadows of the unoccupied part of the terrace. A slight frown crosses his features as he watches the group's exchange. He is tense yet the only movement he makes is the twitch of his hands that are ready to draw his blades in a flash if he deems it necessary. His eyes watch everyone carefully and yet he goes mostly unnoticed for now.

"So you are, so you are, ser. And I am committed to defending them. Someone needed to say them, you know. Man ought to get a chance to hear what everyone whispers now and again. It's only right," Aevander explains to Viggo with a pause to sip his wine. He frowns over at Garvin. "We are not waiting to be sober. Being drunk is entirely the point of the exercise."

"No." Viggo's answer to Garvin is short and quick, pushing the man back aside with an arm and stepping around him. "We'll finish this. A yard would do fine, Ser Quill. I needn't much room." He pats his sword as he glances towards Aevander with an obnoxiously courtly bow. "Please, lead on." Drunk is waiting.

Garvin lets out an exasperated sound, shaking his head. "Men!" he complains loudly, refilling his goblet one more time, then shoving the flagon at one of his men, who leaves it on a table, along with his own tankard. Garvin looks to Quillian and Johanna. "I suppose I'll have to go and watch them bashing at one another. Will you come as well, or stay here with the sane people?"

Johanna is easy to nab and finds herself pulled after Quillian, off to the better vantage point that he chooses. "Do they do this often?" she asks her brother, glacing up at him before looking back to the drunk, and angry men.

"By your leave." Riderch says, gallantly enough towards Kai as he brushes past the man, hefting his tankard. He turns to his big squire. "Come on, Tel." The big man just sighs and follows along.

Without any sense of grace, propriety, or particular amount of quiet the challengers stumble their way from the Quill & Tankard with anger on their brows and wine in the bellys. Viggo snagging an additional bottle of wine as they make their departure, the barmaids knowing him well enough at this point to put it on his tab. Now they match, really. Each he and the Targaryen armed with alcohol and a sword apiece as they reach the small, sparse ground nearby. "It's no damn tourney yard, but it'll work well enough," the Cockshaw declares, swinging his arm out in gesture and almost spilling some wine.

"We don't need a tourney yard, we're not jousting," Aevander points out pragmatically. Or, at least, as pragmatic as one can be when they list as they walk and are whooping and swooshing a bottle of wine around. "Terms! Terms! What are the terms! I don't want to kill you, ser, just for trying to be honorable over the Pansy." He pauses, frowning, "and I don't want to die for speaking plain."

There's a big, bald, square-jawed Squire with a tankard of ale. And that squire flanks the slightly shorter and definitely more finely built man who employs him behind him, also with a tankard. One would guess that Oldtown doesn't frown on carrying booze in public, as long as one doesn't cause too much of a disturbance. Riderch edges alongside the man, cautiously having made his way back into the fray and following the crowd. Curious. Curious, and wary. These are two good words to describe the Blackwood lord. "See, Tel. I don't think this is going to spill over. It has nothing to do with the Dornish mess. I think?"

Garvin follows the two knights, stumbling a bit from too much wine. Speaking of wine, he's got his goblet and flagon with him, and he sips frequently. "This is stupidity," he complains, scowling at the two men. "No fighting in Oldtown, by decree of his High-and-mighty-tower-ness. You're both going to be arrested."

"We're not. Unless you'd like to try to run at me with your sword like some kind of horse," Viggo suggests, gesturing loosely at Aevander with is bottle like — yes all of this. Horseness. He narrows his eyes at turns and takes a swig of one. "One, don't be a prat. Two! I promise not to kill you." Aevander's general-ness gets another fluid gesture. Not killing this. "Three! Mercy will be granted to who calls it?"

Keyte has neither wine nor ale nor cider, just her twin on her arm as they move about those gathered. They were already outside, guys. You are clearly crashing their party. "I don't think this bruise is going away," she complains as she rubs gingerly at the thick skirts covering her thighs.

Maera arrives, accompanied by two men-at-arms with the badge of Mormont on their breast. She spies the men in the clearing about to go about injuring each other, and shakes her head softly, her braids bouncing from the motion. "What is this all about?" She asks no one in particular.

"Well, and then I promise not to kill you, too," Aevander agrees with a nod that's a bit more exaggerated that it needs to be. Woo, spinny world. He staggers a step and has another sip of wine, as that will surely help. "I find your terms agreeable, ser. We duel until one of us is clearly bested or cries mercy."

"It's kind of refreshing seeing a dispute resolved in a way that doesn't involve getting shitehouse drunk and burning down your neighbor's hall." Riderch intones, aloud, having tagged along and finally inserting his nose into this whole conflict in a very public way. He grips his flagon firmly and tips his head back. He pauses a beat, turning his head to spy Maera Mormont with narrowed eyes. " Looks like Ser Viggo Cockshaw and Ser Aevander Targaryen are having a — disagreement." He looks to his big squire, who merely shrugs. He doesn't have any insights to offer.

Emilia is out, guards at her sides and behind her, having come upon this place to enjoy a lovely evening out, only to come upon a duel! The woman will blink, sidling in along with Keyte and her twin, "Excitement, it seems."

Yeah. Way to crash their party, guys. "That is there to remind you not to fall out of your saddle," Kesha tells her twin with a sideways look, then adds more compassionately. "It will go away eventually. It was surprisingly bad…maybe we should-" Who knows what that suggestion was going to be. She cuts off, and then tugs at her twin's arm. Look, look. "Oh, good, we could use some excitement." If you will crash their party, you have to perform.

Garvin finds something to lean against, out of the way, and refills his goblet. "The winner gets a kiss from me," he says, grinning impishly. "The loser gets a kiss with tongue. So have at it." He drinks deeply, eyes beginning to droop. "And if you fall down and break your legs, don't come running to me!"

Johanna wanders along with the group, quiet for the most part as she listens to the conversation taking place between the men about to duel. "Is that common?" she asks, turning enough to look at Riderch. "Burning down halls in revenge?"

"We both sporting men," Viggo agrees, setting his wine aside so he can draw his sword from the right side. Only before swapping it to his left hand with a grin. "I should hate to kill you. So, very well!" Although, his gaze slips from Aevander to inspect the crowd. "We seem to have gained an audience. Ladies…" Trailing off, he sketches a bow then looks towards Garvin at his proclamation. "No." There will be no kissing.

"Oh, because I do it on purpose," Keyte gripes back, with a roll of her eyes. Horseriding is hard, ok. She looks like she might complain some more, but her arm and attention is being tugged to the combatants. "Is that… Ser Viggo?" After a brief wide-eyed stare at the Cockshaw man, she's glancing around for you-know-who.

"A disagreement? And here I thought tonight was going to be very dull." Maera intones to Riderch in her monotone voice. She sits down at his table without invitation, and her eyes linger on the Blackwood a moment before flicking over to his squire. "…Aren't you big for your age?" A faint little smirk creeps up onto her lips as she says this.

Now's about the time where Riderch's 'which twin is it' looks start getting tossed about. Specifically at Kesha and Keyte. His smile is a little off-kilter and goofy, but there. "Hrmm." He begins, turning back as he suddenly catches Johanna's inquiry to study the unfamiliar woman. "Probably standard procedure for a blood feud. I personally consider it a little too simple for my tastes." He intones. "It's always, 'this Lord had designs on this other Lord's cattle. So many generations ago, some fool decided to do something stupid so now the victim's descendant wants to exact some kind of stupid revenge." He turns to his large squire for confirmation. Of course he gets it. The big man may be humoring him.

"By the seven!" Aevander shouts, one hand clapping over his eyes at Garvin's words, the hand with the wine bottle jabbing towards the Tyrell. "Why are we even dueling do you not hear him I am clearly right!" Ugh. He has a final sip, collects himself, sets down the bottle and draws his sword. "Well," he tells Viggo somberly, "I should hate to die."

Riderch amends, eyeing Maera with a goofy sort of half-grin. "Nothing is ever boring here. Is it?" Meanwhile, the big man who serves him smiles dryly and bows his head at Maera, offering her a very simple explanation. "I keep m'lord out of trouble. It is a job for men, not boys."

"I have spoken!" Garvin shouts, swaying more than a little. "It is thus decreed. Now are you going to fight one another or not?" He drains his goblet, then fills it yet again, bloodshot eyes scanning over the others who have gathered. "We should have done this at the theater. Then I could charge admission. Also, I have a cask of a most excellent Highgarden mead in my solar there."

"Sometimes I think you do," Kesha tells Keyte in return. Someone might be able to figure out who is who based on this snippet of conversation, but there isn't a lot to go on. "I do bot think that is as good of a reward as he thinks it is," she murmurs for her sister's ears, regarding Garvin's offered reward. "It seems that it is, indeed, Ser Viggo. It looks as though he is not the only one to have gotten deep in his cups, today."

"Of course, it makes perfect sense for a blood feud," Johanna replies, with an entirely straight face as she looks back at Riderch again. "This seems somewhat less serious than a full blood feud though, so if we're fortunate, we will avoid anything being burned." Her gaze rounds on Garvin and for a moment she seems about to say something, lips even parting to begin forming words, but just as she's about to speak, seems to think the better of it and purses her lips instead.

Emilia will fade off into the background, disappearing from the space.

"And we're not listening! Ladies, mind your cousin," Viggo growls, eying Aevander with annoyance. "I am honor bound," he says with great patience. Great. Great. Patience. "I'll take the mead, my Lord!"

"Get stuffed, Garvin Tyrell, you do not charge admission to a duel over your own honor. Have you no decency?" Aevander chastises with a disapproving sniff. He squints over at Viggo and nods. "But I suppose we'd better get on with it, Ser Viggo. Um." He squints a little further. "Whichever one of the three of you is actually Ser Viggo."

"Irritating? Yes. Annoying? Usually." Maera says to Riderch. "But boring? Ah, I would never call it that." She lifts a hand to wave a serving wench over, and receives a tankard of cider for her trouble. She is mid sip when the huge squire shares this wisdom, and it causes her to chuckle into her cup. "Your Knight is that much trouble?" She looks over Riderich again, "Ah, you jest."

"Well I don't," Keyte quips back, still distractedly darting her eyes about. "I don't see Kevyn anywhere," she mutters, rocking forwards up onto her tiptoes. Maybe she'll find him over the tops of peoples heads? "Hmm? Oh. Should we…" She spreads a glance between Kesha and Garvin. Intervention, or…?

Garvin snorts and drinks more wine, ignoring the knights as best he can now. After all, he has wine, and it doesn't seem to mind his lips.

Kevyn wanders in from…elsewhere. Wherever he keeps himself on his off time. He can initially make out little of the commotion, though he sees and hears enough of it to try and make his way toward it. A look of both great concern and great confusion on his features.

"It does — I'm fast approaching the days where I wonder if even a blood feud makes as much sense as they say it does." Riderch observes with a pronounced, world-weary sigh. There was some effort behind that sigh, definitely, shooting Johanna a hapless sort of look. "I'd have to be half-mad to take up a sword against a Targaryen, and I already know what Ser Viggo is capable of." Anyone who got wind of the recent Tournament would remember that Viggo was the man who actually bested Riderch in a contest of swordsmanship.

He finally turns to study Maera, his big squire smirking a little and simply bowing his head at the Mormont Lady. "Indeed, serving M'Lord is a calling." He states in a tone as diplomatic he can manage. "M'lady."

Riderch turns towards his big, shaven-headed Squire before eyeing the Northern Lady again, his face breaking into a wild grin as he is so often wont to do. "I prefer the direct approach, as opposed to some Lords. I was never supposed to be heir anyway."

"I am sure that if you make big moon eyes and look perfectly smitten enough, he will fall in," Kesha tells her twin with that cutting sort of sweetness, paired with a smile. Although in this case, looking for Kevyn isn't unreasonable, given Viggo's presence. With a sigh, she tugs on Keyte's arm. "I suppose we can continue to keep this family out of trouble." Isn't it lucky Katya isn't around to hear that stunning lie.

Eonn steps out from the tavern and comes, unhurried, to stand near Maera.

"The middle one, I think." Viggo blinks in confusion, pointing towards Aevander with his sword as he takes two skittering steps backwards. "Come at me, Ser Aevander."

"Middle one," Aevander murmurs as he settles, more or less, into a fighting stance, bringing his blade up before him. "Middle one. Okay, right." He draws in a breath and considers his opponent. And then he lunges forward, blade swinging, testing Ser Viggo's quick reflexes and his own impaired balance.

"I imagine you would have a hard time convincing those in the midst of blood feuds to agree that they're not worthwhile, but I need no convincing," Johanna remarks to Riderch as that straight-faced expression gives way to a smile. It fades somewhat as she looks back to Viggo and Aevander, moving well to one side so that she's out of the way of the fight.

Keyte falls back onto the flats of her feet to level a sideways glare at her twin. "I don't make moon eyes." She is drier than the deserts of Dorne, and I've heard that's the standard measurement of dry these days. Heaving a long-suffering sigh at those later words from her twin, Keyte rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't Katya be proud." (Probably not.)

"I was not intended to be heir, either." Maera admits to Riderch as her eyes turn towards the Targaryen and Cockshaw Knights as they prepare. "Had two strapping brothers who were supposed to fill that role. One stabbed in the back, and the other took a wildling arrow." Her tone becomes more flat as she watches the fight, "You'll be fine."

"Aye. Right here between the two ugly guys," Viggo offers almost cheerfully, swish-swishing his sword. The Cockshaw's knight's reflexes are not all that quick, waiting until the dead-last moment to turn away Aevander's blade and parry him in turn.

Kevyn finally gets through enough to see Viggo squaring off with the Targaryen. "By the Seven, what the fuck…" he mutters to himself. With no small amount of urgency. He does not spot the Tyrell twins, and so does not pause to make moon eyes at one or both of them. Just now. Perhaps later. He does find himself adjacent to Riderch and Maera's table, and pauses there to sputter. "Umm…pardon me…but…what the Seven is going on?"

"Ooop!" Aevander makes a noise as their swords clash a second time. This time there's a sort of screechy sound as metal slides on metal, the tip of Viggo's sword snagging the sleeve of Aevander's shirt. He manages to push the other knight away with only that for damage and he scowls faintly. "Not bad, not bad. You're no Maiden's Knight, but you handle a blade well when drunk off your arse, ser." He steps in again, this time aiming his swing a little lower and tighter.

"What are they on about?" asks Eonn, raising an eyebrow at the two men and their fight.

Kesha just smiles at that dryness, weathering the blustery Dornish sands. "I will draw you some time with your moon eyes. Then you will see." No she won't. "So proud." No she wouldn't be. "Well…they are managing something like a duel. I feel like we should be taking bets on who accidentally stabs the other one first though. The accidental is important. It cannot be a purposeful strike. Though it is somewhat amazing if they manage any of those they way they intend."

Garvin continues to drink heavily, watching the fight through half-lidded, bloodshot eyes. "Mead," he grumbles to himself. "Mead for the winner. Loser gets…What does the loser get?"

"What do you suppose are the odds that one of them stabs himself?" asks Johanna as she edges nearer the twins, only glancing over at them briefly before her gaze returns to the fight.

"And so fate chose to laugh at both of us, Lady Mormont." Riderch's flagon rises vaguely in the direction of Maera as he grimaces. "It's a flawed system, isn't it?" "Mm, Tel?" He adds to his squire, who simply sighs and nods.

"I would love to see," Keyte laughs about the drawings and the betting, and turns her attentions back to the duel for a moment. Her smile fades again as quickly as it came, and on a much more serious note she decides: "Kevyn won't be happy about this. Perhaps we should go fetch Katya."

Riderch amends now to Johanna, "My people have some challenges to overcome." It's as dry and honest as the man can muster.

"Lad, I was born drunk," Viggo slurs cheerfully, slicing through the shirt with a grin. Or at least he functions drunk. Still with his left hand, he steps forward to twist away Aevander's blade in a whirl of motion that sweeps it upward. Stepping around the man, he makes to make a short blow higher to forceh im defensive. "You're less of a layabout than expected."

"I do not think any of them need more mead, cousin, though I am sure they would prefer it to other things," Kesha…advises? Garvin. It's a little less than helpful. "You could go see if you can find Katya…though you will miss out on the show if you do," she tells Keyte, because she's full of advice. "I think the odds are very good, really," she answers Johanna, awfully cheerful for someone talking about stabbing. "Ooh. That was a close one."

"Your mother must have been so proud!" Aevander replies with a laugh. The lift of Viggo's blade nearly knocks Aevander's sword from his own hands, and there's a clumsy moment of grabbity-grabbity to keep from losing the pommel all together. He recovers himself just in time for his blade to clash squarely against Viggo's when the other man strikes, the neither of them gaining much over the other. For the compliment, such as it is, he flashes a quick smile. "Why, thank you. I do try." As he does now, with his next swing.

"What people don't?" Johanna asks of Riderch, and as with the others, she only steals a glance in his direction before looking back to the fight. A faint smirk appears as she hears Kesha's answer, and it's followed by a swift nod. "I think you're probably right. Do you suppose it counts against them if they do cause their own injury, or is it just a reason for mockery later?"

"It involves Lord Pansy." Maera notes to Eonn with a roll of her eyes and a shrug of her shoulder, "So, who knows?" To Johanna she says, "These Southern knights have a thousand rules for combat. I fear for them if they ever have to face actual combat, and realize that their rules don't mean shit." Riderch earns a wry smile, and she lifts her tankard to him in return before drinking deeply.

"Bloody hell, man. She was merely tired," Viggo says with the edge of a growl as he nearly knocks the blade from Aevander's hands. His next slash is blocked as the other man manages to get a hold on his weapon, the sound of steel ringing out in the night air. "Only try." The words are half a warning as the Cockshaw knight pushes forward, lashing out again at the Targaryen with a solid blow. It is hard enough to know the man off his feet, leaving him with a blade pointed at his throat. "Yield."

"No, it's stupid because I know enough of both of these men to understand one thing. They're both honorable and both decent. And both better than whatever led to this exchange." Riderch admits finally to Johanna, a tired note to his voice. He grins widely to the Northern Lady though, lifting his own vessel in tribute to the woman.

Eonn smiles wryly at Maera, and nods. He looks back to the conflict.

Kevyn can do little but join the crowd of gawkers as the little match goes on, standing open-mouthed amongst the crowd. Though at least Viggo is winning.

Kesha considers the question for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. "It certainly would not make the task of succeeding easier, and perhaps that is enough of a count gainst them," she answers Johanna after. "But I do not think, should they do themselves injury, they should not live it down. At least for a little while." Although it seems as though they will both be spared such an indignity. "Oh. Well. That was something."

And down the Targaryen goes, right on his royally-blooded posterior. Oof! Aevander rests his weight on his hands and blinks up at Viggo as the tip of a blade is pointed at his throat. With a soft sigh, his shoulders shrug. "I yield. Well, that's that, then. Have you won mead? Will you share a cup?"

Garvin is in the midst of a yawn when Aevander yields, and this snaps him back awake. "Hold! Are you forgetting something, Targaryen?" He hops off whatever he's been sitting on and stumbles closer to the pair.

"Honorable and decent can sometimes slip when one is well in their cups," Johanna remarks, brows furrowing now. "As they both are. I'm sure this would have gone very differently were they sober, or at least slightly less drunk." She says this first, and then turns her gaze to Maera, studying her a few moments. "Not all sourthern knights are untested, and know very well what real combat is like." Her lips press into a purse, rather than curve into a frown, though it doesn't leave her looking particularly pleased either. When the fight reaches it's end, she exhales in something like relief, though that's cut off and she has to bite back a groan as Garvin saunters out.

"And that, right there, is what I do not bloody understand." Riderch admits, sipping from his cup again, drawing in a deep breath as he studies the yield, and probably weighs the implications of this action.

"Oh, Lord Garvin," Aevander sighs, his head tipping back and his eyes closing. "I really don't think your demanding a kiss-with-tongue from me is the most politic move you could make just now, considering the circumstances."

The blade is withdrawn from Aevander's throat as he yields, cleanly and swiftly set back in Viggo's sheath. "Very well." His gaze narrows as Garvin approaches, brows lifting as the Tyrell approaches. "Enough," he scowls at the pair of men. "The matter has been resolved, apologize for impuning the Lord's honor. Any man can manage that himself." NO KISSING. Shaking his head, he scuffs off towards his wine bottle. Rassafrassa.

Maera lets out a faint little snort to Johanna without looking at the woman, "I've thrown enough of your fine Southern Knights onto their arses to see how well tested they are." She takes a swallow of the cider, and sits it down on the table.

"What?" Garvin shouts, clearly shocked at the suggestion. "I'd sooner kiss a Wildling. You gravely insulted my honor, Ser, and you've lost the duel. I believe I'd owned an apology, and you'd best make it sincere." He refills his goblet again, standing over Aevander with a scowl on his face.

"Uh…" Kevyn starts edging through the crowd again, with many a muttered "Pardon me," toward Viggo when the knight lets the Targaryen go. An returns victorious to his wine. "Are…are you all right, Ser?" Though he still looks more confused than anything else. "What the…what happened?"

Aevander rolls his neck and stretches his legs before pushing to his feet. He sheathes his own blade and takes a moment to dust dirt and grass from his clothes before looking blandly over at Garvin Tyrell. When standing, the pair of men are eye-to-eye. "I am sorry I have insulted your honor, Lord Garvin. You do it well enough all on your own, and I should not have intervened." He offers the Tyrell a small bow before turning to see to his wine.

A particularly sandy eyebrow on Riderch's part arcs in the air as it studies Maera. "I don't doubt that." He observes," his tone as diplomatic as possible. "Well, at least I'm not the only one to fall before the pure skill of Serv Viggo Cockshaw." At this point, he strides forward, his flagon still in hand as he eyes the two now-post-combatants. "Oh come on. Can't you at least solve this contest in a more noble fashion?" He bellows. "Can you drink your way out of this?" Riderch clearly has a head-start on the drinking part.

"I am sure you're the expert," Johanna replies to Maera in a bland tone, her gaze turning to rest on the Mormont woman, brows knitting as she gives her quick study. When it's concluded, she turns away, a few steps carrying her closer to Keyte and Kesha.

"And lo, the dragon falls, but not without throwing such shade as to block out the sun, and cast midnight on one individual in particular" Kesha comments in High Valyrian from the crowd with a poetic twist on events, lips twisting with a shake of her head.

Eonn smiles. It's a wise-acre sort of sly smile.

Garvin narrows his eyes, upper lip curled in an unflattering snarl. "That was hardly sincere, Ser. I say you're the one without honor."

Collecting his wine, Viggo offers his squire a crooked smile as he slugs back at a drink. "Just fine, lad. He barely knows what to do with that blade of his." Pity. "I stood to defend honor and apparently it can besmirch itself publicly." His voice is quite as he speaks to his squire, glancing back over his shoulder by the pair. He lifts his bottle to salute Aevander.

Maera ignores Johanna's words.She says to Riderch, "I will grant that Ser Viggo is a skilled warrior, and very formidable." Then Garvin snarls, and she cannot contain herself. "I'd say a man who refuses to fight his own battles is the one without honor." Maera calls out quite loudly.

"Do you think maybe it's time to have some water, Ser?" Kevyn asks Viggo, in a nudging sort of way. "Or…or take your rest, perhaps? It's plainly been a long day." A long, wine-filled one. He watches Garvin and Aevander. The latter warily. As if expecting him to sprout wings or some other such dragon-y thing.

"He threw me on my arse. I haven't dealt with the like of that in a while." Riderch says sidelong to Maera, pointing rather indelicately at Viggo. "It was refreshing, to be honest. Thing about these Southern knights is, push comes to shove, they are not all pomp and proverbial circumstance." Again, the weird grin is painted on the Blackwood Lord's face. "Water, is a splendid idea. Too bad I have none."

"Go ahead and say it, then," Aevander replies to Garvin with a dismissive flick of his hand. He bends down to pick up his wine, and then his head lifts as he hears High Valyrian spoken and blinks, looking around the little crowd that has gathered to witness the whole debacle. His bottle distractedly lifts in turn to salute Ser Viggo, and then he smiles for Maera's words. When he lifts his wine bottle in her direction as well, he seems to notice the twins for the first time and laughs. "Why Lady Kesha. Lady Keyte. Hello to you both."

Katya slips in, pushing back the hood on her cloak as she manuevers through the crowd toward her sisters and Johanna beside them. "What is going on? I was headed back to the manse and a servant told me there was some commotion here?"

"Kevyn!" The Cosckshaw knight drapes his arm around the younger man with a sloppy grin, leaning on his squire. "I suppose. There is wine left, though." Viggo shakes the bottle pointedly, tilting his head to the side as he watches Aevander saunter towards the twins. "That can't be good." Well. "None of this is good." Speaking of, "Katya!"

Garvin snorts then, turning his back on the Targaryen and muttering, "Craven arse." He downs his wine again, but when he goes to refill it, he finds the flagon empty. So he drops both on the ground and moves toward Viggo and Kevyn. "You did well, Ser Viggo, and I thank you. I shall send a cask of mead to your manse…er, to your rooms at the tavern. Unless you'd like to come drink it now." He looks around, seeing his cousins at last, though he has to squint to get them into focus.

"And just how, I ask you Ser, do you know that there are two of us?" Kesha asks Aevander as he saunters over in their direction, with a swift smile. "I dare to suggest, in your state, you can hardly be sure…Why, there were three Ser Viggo's but a few moments ago." Maybe Katya will save you the wondering. Which speaking of, the answer she gets to her question is, "The men have gotten into the wine." That explains it all right?

"Yes, yes there were," Aevander agrees with a small stiff, "and only one managed to beat me." His brows lift as he regards the twins and nods slowly. Impressive, right? Aren't you impressed? "But even drunk, I know the pair of you. A man does not forget his merry boyhood tormentors, whatever his state."

"I don't doubt it. I think he won the melee for the Knights, did he not?" Maera asks with another swallow of her cider. "It was a pity I could not participate. My first opponent in the Freerider's contest was some braggart with a bravos blade who howled at facing a woman, and then howled when he could not get past my armor. It rather soured the whole contest for me."

"Wine, and insults, which meant that they must use swords," Johanna adds to the simpler explanation given by Kesha. "I only see one of them," She voices as she steps nearer the twins, and Katya, smiling innocently at the intoxicated Targaryen. "Are you sure that they're both here right now, ser?"

"Not much," Kevyn mutters about the wine, wrinkling his nose when Viggo drapes over him. That is more wine-fragrance than the squire really wants to deal with. The call of 'Katya!' makes up look up, and over at the Ball woman. With a rather pleading gaze. Help?

Not really. Katya lifts a brow at Kesha, and then at Aevander approaching and Viggo calling her name beyond. "That could explain any evening. Any midday, even." Brows rise further at Aevander's words and then Johanna's helpful explanation. "Ser Viggo and Ser Aevander were dueling? Seven help us." She rolls her eyes, and then touches her Oakheart cousin's arm and says, "Excuse me a moment," before heading towards the Cockshaws. "Dueling, Viggo? Really?"

"Mmmm…" hums Aevander, reaching a hand out to press it onto Kesha's head and then onto Keyte's, if he can so manage it. "Yes, yeeees, I do think so. Certain Cockshaws only come in sets." He tuts softly at Johanna. "Well, it turned out well enough, didn't it? No one killed and no feelings hurt in the end? A bit of tempered brutality can do wonders for the soul, my lady."

It is part of Kevyn's squirely duty, really. It also isn't new, although tonight's intoxication is at least somewhat more jovial than the prior. Viggo brightens at the sight of Katya as she approaches, handing his squire his wine so that he can extend a hand to her. "Lady Katya," he greets with warm slur. "It wasn't much a duel, more of a challenge. I was attempting to defend your family's honor."

"Well, the test of the Sword. The Reach is an odd place." Riderch says to Maera, his shoulders shrugging in a lopsided manner and off-kilter. "Personally, after I saw the fool with the warhammer I was wondering if all bets were off. I heard good things about your performance though." The man finishes, a wide grim shot at the Mormont Lady. "The Melee was another matter." He fumbles at the pommel of the sword at his side and finally just downs the rest of his flagon. Finally, he strides forth to eye Aevander with an incline of his head. "I'm not sure who lost, but I'm sure we all won, Ser Dragon."

"Tormentors. You make it sound so dire. It was all a spot of fun…" Evil, evil fun. "See?" Kesha nods towards Johanna, for the addition to her explanation, sure, but mostly because of the support in her fun. Of course it's all good fun until there are drunken head-pats. "Ser," she says to Aevander, all shocked and affronted, "You have had quite enough wine, pawing and ladies in public." That isn't entirely exaggeration or anything.

"With the Targaryen, my lady. I'm not sure what the cause of it was," Kevyn says to Katya, with a chin-nod toward Aevander. He edges away from Viggo enough to stand and give her a quick bow. It's as much of an excuse to get some fresh air as a courtesy.

"Of course." Johanna gives Katya a small smile before her gaze shifts back to Aevander, a hand lifting to hide her mouth behind her fingers as the pawing occurs. "I think, ser," the hand drops, "that I should wait to answer that question until tomorrow morning. The answer might be a different one."

Keyte perks up again, patted on the head so. "Why, are you sure there's two of us, Ser? Perhaps you're just seeing double," she taunts, tilting her head away from Aevander's scruffing. Those braids take hours, buddy.

"Do I want to know?" Katya addresses this to Kevyn and then sighs as Viggo's opponent is named. But priorities: "Who won?" To Viggo she looks again and shakes her head. "I'm sure it was stupifyingly gallant of you. Time to retire and rest on your laurels, perhaps?"

Maera stands up from the table once Riderch leaves. She casts the assembled crowd one last look before turning on her heel to walk out.

"You can it fun. I call it…" Aevander squints, "…some other thing. Some witty thing." His hand drops back to his side. "Do forgive me, Lady Kesha. I am a brute, I admit it." He looks over as Riderch approaches and he laughs easily. "Most kind, ser, most kind. It was a fine night all around, was it not?" The bottle is offered to the Blackwood as he says to Johanna, with a smile, "Well worth the dues that will need to be paid in the morning."

Looking over at Lady Keyte, Aevander considers. "If you are not Lady Keyte, you must just be Lady Kesha again. In which case you don't need your own apology, since I've already given it. So there."

"I think everyone has a night like this." Riderch narrates, after a long, drawn-out sigh.
Riderch has disconnected.

Eonn follows Maera, unhurried.

"He was being an insulting cur," Viggo supplies readily, taking his bottle back from his squire as the lad slips away. Priorities. "I did, Ser Aevander apologized. Mostly. Your cousin does suffer an unfortunate habit of stepping on his own heels." As if remembering he was spoken to earlier, he calls to Garvin, "Anywhere'll be fine. Not quite necessary." Then he looks to Katya and tips hips head with a frown. "I did." Of course. REALLY. "Perhaps. I have… there is more to drink and plan. Did you hear about the Hightowers?" The sudden shift to his modo is abrupt and dark, like the clouds covering the sun.

"I will do my best to imagine you have said the most witty thing. In turn, you can imagine my laughing at it," Kesha replies with a cheeky sort of sweetness with any actual laughter. "A witty brute, it is how you are surely known." Except not. She pats at her hair, supposedly fixing the damage he's done. "At least you did not land on your own sword. Those does would not be worth it, although perhaps someone would have won a bet." Not them. Naturally. Ahem.

"O-ho!" Keyte shoots back rather amusedly to Aevander for his 'so there'ing. She makes up for Kesha's lack of laughter with her own, sweeping hands carefully over her braids to fix them back in place. "This is surely the mouthy squire we remember, aye?" She elbows her twin gently at the mention of gambling. Ixnay on the etbay!

"I'm sure you're right, ser Aevander," Johanna assures him without sounding at all convinced, but it's said with a smile that looks almost convincing. "That," she looks to Kesha, "would have been just terrible." This is spoken with a solemn air, but another smile follows it to be terribly convincing. Not that she seems concerned. "If you all will excuse me, I should be going back to the manse. Once I find where my brother has gone."

"I'm sure he was," Kevyn mutters as Viggo slurs about how insulting Aevander was. He nods along with Katya. "Yes. Time to retire. Best leave…err…some for tomorrow. The drink, I mean. We can talk about the Hightowers later."

"I should go find an Ironman to bloody stab." Riderch observes, to no-one now. Perhaps it's for the best. The man is nonplussed. "I'll never bloody understand this place." He says to his long-suffering squire.

"Through all of the seven kingdoms, I am thusly known," Aevander agrees somberly. Except not. He grins over at Keyte, drunk enough to simply enjoy her laughter. "I wasn't mouthy. I just stood up to the pair of you hellions. Hellions who would bet coins on a man's life. Shameful. Shaaaameful." Stands up to. Or sinks to their level. Whichever. "My lady," he says to Johanna, offering her a small bow. "A pleasant evening to you."

Katya nods at Viggo, nodding along mostly, and then with a snort. "I assume we're speaking of Garvin. True enough. What is he getting you anywhere?" She is suddenly super-skeptical and waves it off, lifting a hand to brush hair back behind her ear. "Why do we not walk back to your lodgings," she suggests, "And you can tell me about the Hightowers when we arrive." She gives Kevyn a sympathetic little smile. Poor kid.

There is a bit of a commotion at the door when four men-at-arms dressed in Targaryen livery come out onto the terrace, followed by Visenya Targaryen. She has a scowl on her face, and the smooth skin of her brow is furrowed with worry. "Aevander?" She calls out, and stalks over, hands reaching down to pick up her heavy skirts so she may move faster.

"Well, he offered a kiss for the champion. I suppose were technically fighting over his honor but not like that and I had said, what did I say. Mead was better. Not that much is good," Viggo finishes with a listing scowl. "Ah. Yes." He offers Katya his arm with all the gallantness he can muster, swapping hands on the wine bottle. Back to the lodgings they'll go.

"Are you trying to insult all of the Tyrells in one evening, ser?" Kesha huffs at Aevander, tilting her chin into the air and putting a hand on her hip. "Suggesting that we would place mere coins on a mans life in earnest, perhaps even hoping for dire injury. If you are not careful, you will find yourself in another duel." Tut-tut. She playfull tsks him. Johanna is given a much brighter look and a wave. "Farewell!"

"Well, it's a worthy goal, isn't it? Every man needs a goal," Aevander replies. He's standing and speaking with Kesha and Keyte Tyrell, holding a half-empty bottle of wine and looking rather like he's drunk considerably more than that. The left sleeve of his shirt has a tear in it, and he looks over as Visenya and the men-at-arms arrive. His brows lift as his sister calls his name. "Yes, Visenya? What bring you out here at such an hour?"

"Good eve, lady," Keyte adds on the heels of her twin's farewell, to Johanna. She has somehow managed to mirror Kesha's hand-on-hip stance, presenting a (long-dreaded) united front to the Targaryen. "Surely you can do better for a goal than that," she retorts, with a wrinkle of her nose and a glance toward the interruption.

"A walk sounds like a very fine idea, my lady," Kevyn says, all supportive of this suggestion from Katya. "Would you…umm…like me to carry anything of yours, Ser?" he asks Viggo. Perhaps the knight himself. Though he doesn't say that.

"Hearing that you'd gotten yourself into a drunken brawl, perhaps?" Visenya crosses her arms over her chest and gives Aevander a rather stern frown. "You look well enough so I suppose all is well." She gives the Tyrell twins a cool sweep of her amethyst eyes.

"They always are, Ser Dragon." Riderch's grin is infectious as it's shot in Aevander's direction, the man strolls lazily towards his erstwhile, if indirect liege. "I've seen worse nights. And worse knights."

"It wasn't a brawl, it was a challenge. Don't be crass, sister," Aevander informs Visenya with a soft tut-tut. Looking back to the twins he replies, "Well, perhaps I shall devise a better goal tomorrow, now I've achieved this one." Riderch gets another smirk and Aevander taps his finger to his nose. "Ahhh… clever ser. I see what you did, there."

"Carry the wine," Viggo instructs, handing Kevyn the bottle and spilling a little on his squire for good measure. Onward.

"You would think," Kesha asides to her twin, regarding Aevander's goals. Her brows lift slightly at Visenya, then backs up Aevander (who would have thought it would happen) by saying. "There are certainly worse things he could be doing, my lady. He is still fully clothed, at least." To Aevander himself she says, "See to it that you devise a goal a little less easy to achieve. You would not want to add 'lazy' to 'witty brute'."

Riderch says, "I'm glad someone could." Riderch chortles. "I worked hard on that one, as you might understand. I'm glad this all ened in an acceptable way." He's all smiles now, and the breath that he lets loose was clearly drawn hard."

Kevyn sighs. And carries Viggo's wine. Dutifully.

Where Visenya is cool, Keyte is warm, smile genuinely sweet in the brief moment it is turned upon her. "Just so," she adds in support of — well, whoever is being supported here, whether it's Kesha or Aevander. This twin is quickly distracted, chirping brightly at the Riverlander's interjection: "Ser Riderch! Fancy seeing you here."

"You had better watch your mouth when you address me, Lady." Visenya snaps to Kesha, "I realize that you Tyrells think that you are royalty, but it is my brother and I who are blood of the dragon."

"Oh, Visenya, enough," Aevander sighs softly. "You come here to chastise me on public displays less than a week after riding a dragon to town in nothing but your small clothes? What else did you expect? The Ladies Kesha and Keyte are old acquaintances, and we are catching up. You are more than welcome to join us, my dear, but keep a civil tongue about you. We have the blood of dragons, there's no need to have the manners of one."

"Would you believe I've been here this whole time?" Riderch's grin is infectious, here.

"Were you drawn by the excitement too?" Kesha asks Riderch after her twin greets him, less cheerfully, but still pleasant. Then her gaze slides slowly over to Visenya, followed by a few blinks that are all wide-eyed innocence. "I will be sure to do that, my lady." She doesn't argue, she lets Aevander do that instead, keeping up appearances by smoothing her skirt and fixing her hair again. Hmhm.

Keyte presses her smile as thin as she can, trying so very desperately to keep it from bubbling over into a giggle. She tucks in a little closer to her twin for solidarity, blinking back at Riderch. "Surely not," says she, with a quick shake of her head. "I am convinced you just wink into existence wherever I happen to be misbehaving, Ser. You certainly have a knack for it!"

"I did not come to chastise you. I came to make sure you were uninjured and well." Visenya says to Aevander, her mouth set into a thin line, "But, since you seem determined to allow me to be belittled, and join in on the belittling, have a lovely time with that." That said she turns to be away from her brother and the Tyrell twins, and nearly crashes into Riderch. She stares at the Riverlander a moment before asking rather bluntly, "What do you do to your eyes to get them like that?"

"I am both uninjured and well," Aevander assures as Visenya turns to stalk off… and then doesn't. For her question he laughs and leans over to plant a kiss on his sister's pale hair, despite the indignation and disapproval she showed moments earlier. "Does he have that knack?" he asks of Keyte. "What a handy knack. Perhaps I shall make that my next goal."

Visenya looks grumpy. As if she may push Aevander away. And then he doesn't. Instead, she drapes an arm around his neck. "Why did you duel?" She asks curiously.

Kesha bumps Keyte in a friendly way, silently encouraging her not to giggle, yet inwardly amused herself. It's a lot of communication for a little nudge, but, you know. Twins. At least she's behaving herself for a second. Mostly. Well, at least she isn't speaking.

"He has," Keyte assures Aevander, narrowing her eyes a little at the Targaryen knight. "But don't you dare! Besides, if you couldn't keep track of us at Highgarden, I don't know how you propose to do so in Oldtown." She jostles her twin back, mostly because that giggle is still threatening to erupt and the movement hides the shake of her shoulders.

"Oldtown is a very different beast," Aevander replies, staying a little bent so Visenya can keep her arm about him and he can drape an arm around her in turn. "I have spies everywhere, here." Which may be a total lie. "I was dueling because I insulted Lord Garvin's honor and as one of the families who owe fealty to the Tyrell's, Ser Viggo felt obliged to defend him. And because we both wanted to stab at something for reasons unrelated to the Pansy."

Visenya it must be a lie because Visenya lifts her other hand up to stifle a laugh, and leans over to bury her face into her brother's shoulders. Her own shake from stifled giggles. She lifts her face to ask, "Lord Garvin has honor?"

Kesha snorts softly, and tilts a skeptical look at Aevander. That can't be true. "Your spies must get very bored, then, with nothing to report but for Targaryen mouths running away with themselves with the need to insult my family. I dare say that Garvin has made less of a spectacle of himself than others of late." Not that it says exactly great things about Garvin, but oh well.

"Not that I have seen, my dear, but he believes he has, and that was what mattered for a duel," Aevander replies with a smirk. "We were both very drunk, but I probably would have lost to Ser Viggo even if we'd gone at it sober. I suppose, now I've a squire, I ought to put more effort into being a decent swordsman." Woe. Sigh. For that last bit, however, Kesha gets a glance from Aevander that is none too impressed. "Once is clever, Lady Kesha. Twice is just spiteful."

Keyte arcs a brow in Aevander's direction, unconvinced. Visenya's reaction doesn't help his case. She shares a look over to Kesha, offering another nudge. "Lord Garvin has as much honor as any," she offers up a little tensely in support, quickly changing the subject to: "You have a squire of your own?"

"Lord Garvin honors nothing." Visenya says with a frown. "But himself. And he thinks Aevander ought to kiss his arse." She leaves her arm around Aevander's neck, but stands up more straight. "But I realize it is a problem with your whole family. Forgetting who your betters are. If it were not for House Targaryen the Reach would still be ruled by Gardeners, and Tyrell would be nothing but a minor house."

"I merely think Lord Garvin's name has been dragged around the mud enough for one evening, whatever the reason," Kesha replies, rolling her eyes in the direction of wherever he even wandered off too. "But I grow weary of this petty bullying from great dragons who need to go around kicking those they feel are so beneath them just to make themselves feel important. Come Keyte." She tugs at her twin in a way that brooks no argument. We're going. "We have to go find our betters. Good evening, Ser and Lady. May the rest of your evening be worthy of your splendor." She turns, she exits.

"Visenya," Aevander groans, closing his eyes and shaking his head "please. Can we not all have a pleasant conversation without all these jabs and pricks?" But off the two Tyrell ladies go and he sighs and straightens, considering his bottle of wine. "I suppose it couldn't last. I guess I'll finish the rest of this back at the manse."

Keyte starts to blink very rapidly at the tumble of such crass language from Visenya's tongue. "Uh-ah…" Of course, Kesha has words aplenty for them both, and it's safe to say that this twin won't be arguing with the other. In her shock, Keyte doesn't even have an apologetic look to toss over her shoulder. She exits with her sister, sharing a whisper as they go.

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