(121-02-20) At Odds
At Odds
Summary: When Trystan confides in the Lady Mormont's newly arrived aunt that he wishes to make peace, he gets the opportunity to say as such to Maera in person. Both women are less than warmed to the situation.
Date: 20/02/2014
Related: None (?)

This clean wynd does not contain any apple trees, only stone cobbles underfoot and stone houses on either side. It's wider than many, allowing the little manses to gain light and air through their broad windows. It also allows access for smaller types of wagons, and many of the residences have stable doors alongside their neatly kept entries. There's even a fountain in a wall at the end of this tidy alley, allowing the neighborhood easy access to water.

One of the most recent additions to the growing household presided over by Lady Mormont is on their way out, emerging onto Appletree Wynd. Dark hair, pale skin, tall; it's a description fit for more than one Mormont, but it so happens to be Lady Hellan Stark, absent any company despite the dark of evening and the unfamiliar city. She steps onto the cobbles under the shadow of the manse at her back, her gown just trailing the clean stones; the same hue as that in which she arrived to Oldtown in, this gown is simpler still, though its collar, however unembroidered, is just as regal. Focused on the road, she seems to have a purpose in mind.

Trystan wanders into the wynd, wearing what looks to be simple cloth clothes as opposed to his noble regalia. He still wears the crest of House Baneort, and it is the colors of his house, just not quite as regal. He seems to be thinking of something, something major. When he sees Lady Stark he stops, then sighs and continues on. "Evening, Lady Stark."

She marks him with her gaze before her head turns fully, then to lift in recognition — it takes a second longer than it might have, without his regalia, and in the dim light, but no more. "Lord Banefort, I didn't expect to see you again so soon," Hellan remarks on the factual side, only bearing the scarce breath of a pleasantry. Her next step brings a turn that puts her in the same stride as Trystan; it seems their wandering would take them in the same direction. "You seem to be in deep contemplation this night." The same could be said of Hellan; the usual firm set of her face could just as well account for her look of deep and dire thought, however.

Trystan smiles briefly to the Lady Stark, then nods. "I could say the same of you, m'lady." He walks with her, keeping a decent stride. "I am thinking of how to end the squabbling between myself and Lady Mormont. I am tired of us bickering, over what happened to a man who is now dead. I'm just sick of it, and wish for us to try to get along once more."

Hellan's gaze tends forward after that first assessment of the man. She walks with her hands clasped tightly together, half-hidden by the sleeves of her gown, at her mid-section. The very corner of her lips, furthest from Trystan, fights a half-hearted war against pulling down into a frown. She hardly seems wont to answer him at all until she does. "To be frank, I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

Trystan sighs and nods. "I suppose she had meant to not trouble you with such things. When we saw each other when you came into town, I had told you that Lady Mormont and I were not on the best of terms. That was due to…. something that happened a while back, that has no real relevance now. We've bickered at eash other since, and I just…. wish it to end." He looks serious about this, his eyes seeming to show him working it out in his head.

Just then, the gate is thrown open, and Maera steps out of it. She looks first to Hellan, and then to Trystan, and back again. Her brow lofts. "Lady Hellan." She says stiffly before adding, "Banefort."

"Have you told her as such," Hellan asks with the barest glance aside. Her posture becomes subtly more rigid as she strolls, making her ever-so-slightly taller, shoulders sharper. "If a thing continues to bother you seemingly without cause, there tends to, in fact, be a cause you haven't yet accepted," she tells him. Stern advice. She stops on Maera's voice, turns. "We seem to have a…" She looks from her niece to Trystan, choosing her definition with a vaguely questioning tone: "guest."

Trystan shakes his head. "No, because I had not thought of how I might try to…" He then looks to Maera, silent for a moment. He then bows, looking to her with a serious expression. "Lady Mormont."

Maera's eyes settle on Trystan, and remain there for a few moments. She will raise a brow slightly before pointing out, "I didn't realize you came to this part of town still, Banefort. I thought you'd try keeping friends closer to your area. You are, after all, so high and distinguished." The sarcasm drips from her words.

Hellan stares unflinchingly between the two figures at odds with one another. Now that she's stopped, she's still as a stone statue. She'd seem altogether impartial to the conversation if it weren't for the fact that she watches Maera with a more vested interest in her opinion's than that of Lord Banefort.

Trystan simply sighs. A tired, weary sigh, not one of ddisappointment, but one that says 'I'm done.' "Lady Mormont, I came here to attempt to put an end to this. I am sick of the bickering. Look at us. We're squabbling like children, and for what? The honor of a dead man?" He shakes his head. "I don't want us to be at odds like this anymore. I'm tired of us being at odds, and I would prefer if we weren't. I'm not saying we should just automatically be friends, but I don't think we should be enemies." He then stands straighter. "I'm sorry for what I had said to you. Of acusing you of blinding Vuk, and all the other manner of things I've said of you. I apologize for all the anger, for the lack of respect. Truly, I'm sorry." His words are truthful, his eyes showing conviction, as well as respect for the lady of Bear Island.

"You were never the one I had a problem with, Banefort." Maera says rather bluntly, "As far as I knew we did not have issue with each other after the situation where your wife stole my man-at-arms from me, began to spread rumors about me, and various other acts. You came and spoke to me." She shrugs, "The problem has and will always be your wife's lack of respect. I don't want your apology. I want one from her."

Hellan's dark brows lift partway upon the man's words to her kin; the topics within are all news to her ears, but at the very least, he heeded her advice. The older of the ladies continues to listen in stoic silence. Her first encounter with the ins and outs of feuds her in Oldtown and it shan't be the last; she holds a sigh in her chest.

Trystan sighs. "I was afraid of that. Unfortunately, I don't think that one is possible. I shall attempt, but I make no promises." He breathes in deeply and lets it out slowly. "Her beign with child won't make it easier." He ticks. "Still, it's good to know you don't have a problem with me. I do hope we can try to be friendlier with each other, and perhaps cut back on the sarcastic remarks."

"Then we've really nothing to discuss, do we?" Maera says with a faint shrug of her shoulder. "There is your problem, Banefort. Your wife believes everyone ought to cater to her and kiss her ass, and you encourage her behavior. Learn to control your wife or you will have bigger problems in the future than disagreements with me. As for her being with child, well, that has nothing to do with it. Breeding does not make one's brains turn to mush, and it does not make one no longer responsible for their actions. Now, undoubtably you will now call me rude or wonder how I do not thank the Old Gods for your gracious apology, but I've no time to entertain those thoughts with you. Good day."

That sigh lingering in Hellan's chest expands and releases. Stoic though she may be, she does not care to hold in the slight roll of her cool eyes upon Trystan's well-meant but ill-fated remark on sarcasm, anticipating Maera's response. After, she speaks lower to the man — not unkind nor otherwise — both quietly concurring with the Lady Mormont and attempting to stem any further words from Trystan, "I do think it is time you bid goodnight."

Trystan holds in a sigh, simply looking at Maera, his eyes cold as the North. He says nothing to her remark. When Lady Stark speaks to him, he then stands straight and bows. "Good day, Lady Mormont. Lady Stark." With that, he takes his leave, moving at a leisurely pace.

Maera watches Trystan for a moment before looking back to Hellan and wondering out loud, "I wonder what prompted that? I haven't had words with him or his wife in months, and he acts as if we are openly fighting in the streets."

Hellan strolls closer to the manse and Maera as Trystan's footsteps grow farther away. "I only came out for some air; instead, I found the heat of this Southern air and the concerns of Banefort," she remarks, just short of truly frustrated. "Krystan? Trystal? … I vaguely remember him from when he was a page for the Umbers. I met him coming into the city. Perhaps I got him thinking of you." Her expression sways from stiff to — nearly soft upon Maera. "He must hold you in high regard, fear you, or both, to be so concerned."

"Who knows? If I knew he was a clever man I'd think that he wanted something from me. However, I've never known him to be particularly clever." Maera says in her flat tone with her rather direct delivery, "He was a page of the Umbers? How'd he become so obsessed with manners, then?"

"Rich blood?" Hellan suggests, her voice lackluster. "I expect I have much to catch up on where the people of this city is concerned if I'm to stay for any length of time." She does not sound passionate about such business — or gossip — at the moment. She has her own concerns; enough to spur her to wander out this evening for air.

"Really it's not worth the bother." Maera says with a tight-lipped smile, "They are all similar to him. Too quick to take offense and such." She glances to Hellan, "Just avoid the Tyrells as much as you can."

Hellan replies with a smile, also tight, at the corner of her lips, raised brows and a slow, deep nod, slightly embellished — within the restraints of her hard posture. Ah. "Well noted." She turns a shoulder, pausing, "I'm going to walk to the fountain. With any luck there are no Tyrells hiding in it." Her own brand of good-naturedness can be found woven into the sarcasm, her smile finding fuller form for the mild joke although it's still as weary at the edges as it has been since her arrival.

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