(121-02-25) ...And a Feast to Come
(121-02-25) …And a Feast to Come
Summary: In which Laurent and Angharad fail to elope.
Date: 02/25/2014
Related: None spring to mind.
Players:
Angharad..Laurent..Garvin..Maera..Hellan..Trystan..Leof..

The Starry Sept is the seat of the Faith of the Seven. The High Septon resides here, as do any number of clergy who study here or attend him and the faithful. Seven domes and seven towers make up the structure, all of them richly decorated with seven-pointed stars, carved or inlaid or painted, or in mosaics of tiles.

The largest dome, the worship area, is a heptagon like all the others, but much wider. The seven-pointed star is inlaid into the white marble floor in massive slices of highly polished semi-precious stones: amethyst and rosy quartz, jade and lapis, onyx, cat-eye and garnet. The soaring domed roof is painted a deep blue with glittering sparkles of mica mixed in, and hundreds of seven-pointed stars picked out in gold and silver leaf.

Each of the seven walls holds a statue, larger than life, of one of the gods. The Father, The Mother, The Warrior, The Maiden, The Smith, The Crone, The Stranger. They are painted wood, beautifully and realistically carved by artists of great skill. Their gowns and robes are leafed in gold and set with jewels, and their eyes are alabaster and jet, with irises of sapphire or emerald or deep brown citrine. The exception is The Stranger. His or her statue is plain, almost stylized, the face hooded and the robes painted glossy black with minute flecks of black dragonglass that make it glitter very faintly, like the most distant of stars.

There is an ornately carved and inlaid altar before each statue, for the faithful to pray, and light their candles.

Angharad
Angharad’s desc – Worth including
Standing just slightly taller than the average girl, she's no great beauty — pleasant to look on, but lacking the enchantment to which other ladies may lay claim. Her cheeks are apple-round and her chin impishly pointed, her hazel eyes and fullsome mouth both with a tendency to be merry, whatever her actual mood. She's slender and graceful of limb, nipped in at the waist, charmingly round of bosom, hip, and backside. It's a milkmaid's prettiness she's got, and she's got it in spades, dimples on her cheeks, her hair a sumptuous tumble of amber and wheat.

Her gown is a cascade of white silk, layer upon gathered layer of skirts billowing from a boned brocade bodice like drifts of virgin snow. The bodice laces up the back, corset style, and puts a wicked cinch on her waist so that a large man could probably encircle it with his hands. Her shoulders and arms are bare, just the suggestion of sleeves created by a swag of chiffon and crystal beads at each shoulder, the beads interspersed with longer crystals that bring to mind icicles, hanging glittering from the eaves. More crystals, sewn cleverly into the dress from bodice to sweeping hemline, shimmer like delicate frost in the moonlight. She is a bride of the North, though there about her hints of spring — youth, beauty, and a crown of splendid white roses atop the simple, romantic upsweep of her golden hair.

Evening falls, at long last, the skies above the soaring domes of Starry Sept streaked with pink and orange, purple and gold. The first stars are just coming out. In the center of worship, before the altar, stands a handsome septon, bald and tanned with merry blue eyes, the Writ in his hands, ready to perform the sacrament of marriage. Guards in the livery of House Locke who've served, all this while, as the bride's guard and retinue stand just inside the huge main doors, two on either side… and then there's the bride. Lady Angharad Locke stands near the septon, gowned in radiant white and snowy roses, listening intently to the man speak, perhaps receiving some last minute instruction. The air is reverently still, lit with hundreds of candles; somewhere, not far off, some unseen brethren worship the Seven in song, chanting in High Valyrian, mystic and melancholy.

When the door opens again, Ser Laurent Tyrell is framed in the day's fading light. He is dressed formally, in a tight-fitting sleeveless jacket of green and gold brocade. The jacket's high collar reaches nearly to his chin, and its split tails hang almost to his knees, and it is held closed by a double row of golden clasps down his broad chest. The sleeves of a pale green tunic, worked with the slightest suggestion of a rose pattern in an even paler green, billow out from beneath the jacket. His trousers are tight-fitting and dark green, his boots high brown leather and obviously new. He wears a baldric of finely tooled leather that carries a sword, but not the dagger he customarily wears with it. Behind him is a very small retinue of Tyrell men — cousins, likely, and a half dozen men-at-arms who take their places beside the Locke men at the doors.

The Tyrell knight stops dead in the doorway at the sight of his lady, his jaw hanging slightly agape for a long moment. At a nudge from a helpful cousin, though, he recovers. Clearing his throat unnecessarily, Laurent begins a brisk walk down the aisle until he is even with Angharad. He greets the Septon with a nod, then turns to face his betrothed, offering her his hands palms-up.

Leof is quiet, entering to stand before the mother's statue. She seems curious but is dressed in a plain worn grey gown and even has her hair covered. She pauses, standing to rest her hand on her stomach. Her expression seems less than excited to see Tyrell men in the sept - a tiredness taking over her features.

Angharad turns at the sound of the door, her hand covering a delighted grin at her betrothed's slackjawed expression. She places her hands in his when he joins her at the altar, eyes alight with warmth and mirth and heady excitement. Like a thousand cliches of young love, those eyes are for Laurent alone. The statues of the Seven might come to life and do a gavotte — she probably wouldn't notice.

Laurent, by contrast, wears a slight frown as the ceremony commences. On most men it may signify unhappiness, but Lady Harry knows him well enough to see deep thought, concentration, and discomfort at being on display in his face rather than any displeasure. His eyes are small and dark, beneath a heavy brow. Those eyes, focused entirely on his lady, say more than words might. For a moment, his mouth works as if he might speak, but in the end he squeezes her hands lightly and awaits the Septon.

Trystan follows after Leof, wearing a simple set of clothes. When he notices the Tyrell men, he takes his wife by the arm, gently, moving to whisper to her.

Leof is quiet, setting her flowers down, praying quietly and waiting for a Septa. There isn't much fuss, just a simple blessing given to her belly. She smiles up at Trystan, curling against him as she gives another quiet prayer, hands together.

It's obviously to be a small ceremony — practically an elopement, save for the Tyrell cousins — and so without further ado, the septon begins. Greeting the faithful, an opening prayer, the time honored aspects of the ceremony unfolding like the petals of a rose. The bride is cloaked and taken under her husband's protection. And all the while she cannot — simply cannot — stop beaming. She tries, but soon the dimples appear and her smile once more breaks through. She releases one of the groom's hands for an instant, pressing hers to her lips as though she might laugh.

If at first Laurent is stiff, overly formal, uncomfortable under even these few eyes, it is his bride's sudden moment of joy that brings him out of it. Her hand rising to cover her mouth dashes his own frown, and his broad mouth is curled into a lopsided grin. When the time comes for them to say the words, he says them softly, but with a love that is obvious and profound. At their finish, he raises her left hand to press it briefly to his lips — a small but blatant breach of etiquette — but even as he does this, his eyes never leave hers.

Trystan smiles to his wife, setting down to pray with her, smiling all the while as he prays for his wife and his child to be healthy.

Leof leans, taking Trystan's free hand to press to her chest. Such small weddings are so unusual for noble houses of any rank. Her fingers take to twining with her husband's, weight shifting to rub his knuckles as she quietly watches, leaning to whisper to him gently.

If Angharad's smile got any wider, it might split her face in two. Laurent's answering smile tops off her joy and the bride — decorum be dashed today, it seems — bounces twice on the balls of her feet, as though she's going to break into a little jig at the altar. And then it's her turn to make her vows, and she says the words with every ounce of her heart in her eyes.

When the words are said, and the couple turn to face the small crowd, Laurent raises his bride's hand in what seems almost to be an acclamation of victory. He shakes that hand once, over her head, before leading her down the steps. Near their base, he steps down ahead of her, then lets go her hand to turn to face his bride. Beaming up at Angharad, a grin entirely too genuine to be painted across the Thorn's usually grim features, he bends at the waist to place one arm 'round the small of her back and the other behind her knees. When he rises, he sweeps the new Lady Tyrell (nee Locke) off of her feet and into his arms with a deep peal of laughter that rings through the Starry Sept. "My Lady Wife," he proclaims to the small crowd present. "Angharad Tyrell." There are words for her, too, but they're spoken more softly into her ear.

Trystan smiles to his wife, then looks at the newlyweds, whispering back to her, softly. He then beams at them and nods to them.

Garvin's grin beams sunshine through the Sept, and he nods to two young pages in Tyrell livery. The boys hurry forward, tossing yellow rose petals from the baskets they carry onto the path of the bride and groom.

Leof spots Garvin and grows uncomfortable, taking Trystan's hand, tugging it and heads out, holding her stomach. "Trystan, hankerchief. Please?" she whispers, covering her mouth and going just slightly green. Morning sickness, it is such a pain. "We've stolen enough of their moment." she mumbles

Angharad yelps and bursts into laughter, as well, as she's swept up in Laurent's arms. She raises a hand and waves gamely at the small contingent — Hi, there! — as she's introduced, a new lady. A lady wife. And so Laurent Tyrell's lady wife wraps her arms around his neck and leans in to whisper back to him, lips against his ear, kissing him with her smile.

Ser Laurent turns to press a kiss to his wife, then. And it is not the kiss one might expect to see in a wedding ceremony. It blows past any notions of 'sept tongue,' and presses beyond the proper until the small handful of onlookers begin to politely look away. When it breaks, it leaves him breathless and redfaced, but still he doesn't put her down. Rather, he nods — the sort of nod that says 'well, that's done, then' — and starts down the path of rose petals with Angharad still cradled in his arms.

Trystan nods, handing his wife a handkerchief. "Indeed." he does not look anymore to the Tyrells, focusing on helping his wife however he can.

Garvin does not seem to notice Lord and Lady Banefort, his grin never faltering, as he waits for his cousin and new good-cousin to reach the place where he waits. "So now you're Lady Thorn," he says cheerfully to Angharad, as the pages continue scattering rose petals. "And such a small ceremony. This will be a greater scandal than anything I could hope to do. We must have a huge feast as soon as it can be arranged."

If they're well-matched in no other way — and it seems they might be, in many — Angharad and her husband seem to be… well… equally improper. She returns the kiss with ardent abandon, laughing again as Laurent opts to continue carrying her about. Whee! She beams at Garvin, leaning a bit out so she can kiss her new cousin on the cheek. "I'm so glad you came," she tells him, and seems sincere in it.

Laurent pauses near the door so that Angharad can lay a kiss on Garvin's cheek, and for his part endures the congratulatory claps on the back from those few that accompanied him here. "With the weddings looming, Cousin — yours, Ser Daevon's, Lady Mormont's — we thought ours would hardly be missed. Though you're right about the feast, of course. It's cause for celebration." He looks again to his wife, and it's obvious he believes the words. It is a cause for celebration, indeed.

Garvin kisses Angharad's cheek in return, then claps Laurent on the shoulder. "I would not miss this for all the golden roses in Highgarden," he says, still beaming joyously. "Though I had rather hoped we'd all be married on the same day, so Laurent could be close by if I fainted. Or tried to escape. So a proper feast will take days to plan. What say we go to the Quill and Tankard tonight and clear out their kitchen and pantries?"

Leof is quiet, heading for the exits. Quietly, leaving a dragon in the donation jar on her way out. She looks out of it.

Angharad shakes her head at Garvin's idea he might faint, smiling still. "Nonsense. He'll be close at hand, nevertheless — we both will — but you'll be splendid, Garvin. Pagaentry and pomp is all very might in your purview. Just keep your mind in the moment and don't think too far ahead." As for the invitation to the tavern, she glances at Laurent for the answer.

"What say we do that tomorrow, Cousin?" Laurent practically leers at his bride — his intentions couldn't be more clear if he stated them aloud. There are other things on his mind at the moment. "I believe Lady Angharad and I will take our dinner in our suite at the manse. Likely our breakfast as well." Canting his head slightly to the side, he adds, "Lunch tomorrow, too, and perhaps dinner."

Garvin huffs a bit, pouting out his lower lip. "What, without even a proper bedding? People will say you're not even married. This is the greatest scandal of them all. What would your dear mother say, Laurent? I know what mine would say, though I'll not repeat it within the holy walls of a sept."

This is, it seems, the tail end of a (failed) elopement! Success in the marriage aspect, failure in the stealth. Laurent, with a few random Tyrell retainers and his cousin, Garvin, is standing near the doors of the sept with Angharad, gowned in white and cloaked in Tyrell green, carried in his arms. Angharad laughs, pink in the cheeks, and assures Garvin, "I have no doubt whatsoever that my husband means to bed me proper, cous."

The rather unusual sight of Maera Mormont and Hellan Stark nee Mormont appears on the grand steps of the Starry Sept. Unusual because both women are known to keep the Old Gods. Maera crosses her arms over her chest, and shakes her head softly.

An altogether new face to the city, it is easy to tell Maera's accompaniment is both a Northerner and a relation. The older of the two dark-haired women is caught up in more critique of the unfamiliar, elaborate, sparkling sept than paying mind to those undergoing an important moment within it, although, with her strong features, any expression may seem to lay judgment on anything Lady Hellan Mormont casts her grey eyes upon.

"Time and again," Laurent assures Garvin, with a wink at Harry. "You're welcome to listen at the door, if you'd like. But I'll not have a bedding, no. It wouldn't do for me to stab a man on my wedding night." He starts out the doors and down the stairs, but draws up short at the sight of the Northern contingent facing them. There is still a hint of a grin on his face as he looks down the steps on their apparent disapproval.

Garvin trails behind the couple, shaking his head in disappointment. But when his cousin stops, Garvin looks down the steps as well, eyes widening in horror. His left hand goes to his side, hoping for the comfort of his trusty-never-rusty sword, but it's not there. One doesn't attend a wedding in the Starry Sept armed to the teeth, after all. His gaze darts past the two Northern ladies to the men in purple cloaks milling around in the street, waiting to surround the wedding party on their way home.

Angharad's eyes widen a little to see Maera — then she grins, just slightly a grimace, and laughs ruefully. "Hello, Cousin Maera!" She calls out, waving. "So, here I am. Failing at eloping. I'm not sure how any of this all got so out of hand, but — huzzah!" She perks up, unable to avoid good cheer as she confirms, "I'm married, however lacking in stealth!"

"I thought the point of eloping was to marry someone you weren't supposed to marry?" Maera calls out to Angharad as she takes another few steps up the stairs to the Starry Sept. She is unarmed save for a dagger on her girdle, and dressed in a green gown instead of a leather jerkin. Not precisely threatening. Garvin's obvious distress earns a rather pronounced eye roll from her and a disgusted little huff before she looks back to Angharad and Laurent, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit disappointed that you didn't bother telling me, but congratulations all the same. I'm sure you have your reasons."

With less vested interest in the arrangement, the cheer of young lady Angaharad warms the chill of Hellan's poise — if only slightly — and she smiles to the newlyweds from the very corners of her mouth. She keeps near to Lady Mormont — like the other woman, her gown is green, in a duller shade, with a fur-trimmed hood about her shoulders to fend off the city's warm rains, and she is even less armed. Silent, she nods her head to those present — a gaze hesitates calculatingly on Garvin; perhaps for something Maera said; something about avoiding the Tyrells.

"We thank you for your congratulations, Lady Mormont," Laurent says with a nod of his head. "And… My Lady." Perhaps odd for a man being married, Laurent is wearing a sword. It's rare to catch him without one. Though it's worn more as a sign of his station, or a badge, than a weapon today — it's peace bonded by a strip of purple ribbon, and he wears no dagger alongside it as he normally does. "There will of course be a feast," he adds, "And soon. To which you will both be invited."

"We weren't going to tell anyone," says Angharad, apologetically, climbing down from her husband's arms to approach her Mormont cousin. She reaches for Maera's hands. "I'm afraid even Lord Garvin wouldn't be here, save Laurent was ambushed on his way to meet me here. We just wanted to have it over and done, and then plan the celebration at leisure."

Garvin stays close to Laurent, as Angharad slips from her groom's arms and approaches her cousins. He watches with wariness, but has just enough wisdom to keep his mouth shut, at least for the moment.

Maera's head turns to exchange looks with Hellan before she looks back to Angharad and Laurent. "You have my best wishes." She says to both of them, and when Harry approaches she lets her cousin take her hands. "You need not provide me with an explanation, Harry. I had just heard nothing in regards to it, and was worried for you." She leans her head in slightly to whisper to her cousin.

Angharad tilts her head to listen, kissing her cousin's cheek before replying just as low. Whispering women. When has that ever boded ill?

"Congratulations," Hellan adds her well wishes, as is polite. If there is pause in her words, it is in consideration of the arena in which this pair bonded with a glance to the Starry Sept's walls. Easily imagined. She steps ahead ever-so-slightly as Maera and Angaharad whisper, laying a palm to her chest, "Lady Hellan Stark," she explains to those for whom her face is less known, particularly the newly married Laurent. There's a proper pleasantry laced through the woman's strong, even voice. "I expect I will see more of your faces in the times to come."

"No doubt," Laurent agrees with a nod. "I am Ser Laurent Tyrell," he responds, and steps slightly to the side as he introduces, "And my cousin, Lord Garvin Tyrell." He waves an open hand at the smaller man, and then inclines his head in either a deep nod or a shallow bow. But that done, he won't be long parted from his bride. He follows her down the steps to stand near her, placing a hand at the small of her back. Not suspicious, nor protective. Simply a man on his wedding day, wishing to be close to his bride.

Angharad releases her Mormont cousin's hands with a squeeze, then dips a curtsy to the lady of House Stark. "Milady," she says with a warm, wide smile for Hellan. "You are most welcome. I hope you'll be able to join us when we celebrate this union properly."

Maera looks satisfied with whatever Angharad has told her, and straightens up. She leans forward to kiss the young woman's cheek before she lets out a little sigh, "Oh Harry. How proud your mother would have been to see this. I shall write her and your father assuring that there was nothing untowards happening in this. Undoubtably, there will be rumors. But, they will fade in time." A pause, "Ah, I've been rude. Lady Hellan is my Aunt. But…we'll catch up on it later. You've got things to do!"

"Certainly, I would love to, Lady … " Hellan pauses notably mid-way through her polite smile to Angarahad, smiling a touch further as she looks from the young woman to Laurent and back once more. " — have you taken your knight's name, then?" She steps aside as she speaks, theoretically making way for the bride, groom and their accompaniment on their busy day.

Garvin gives a small bow to the ladies as he's introduced, then keeps pace with Laurent, half a step behind and to his left. "An honor, Lady Stark. Lady Mormont," he mumbles, not making eye contact with either Hellan or Maera. He read somewhere that eye contact only enrages bears. Or maybe it was wolves? Either way, he's being nice and meek and, most of all, non-threatening today. It really isn't a difficult task for him to pull off.

"A thing," Laurent agrees, with a grin in Maera's direction that couldn't be called polite, even at a stretch. Enthusiastic, yes. But not well-mannered. He lets his lady set the pace, content to loom a step behind her.

"I have, my lady," says Angharad, with just a touch of homesick melancholy at the edges of her joy. "And so it is Lady Angharad Tyrell, now. But we are family!" She glances at Maera. Right? "I'd have to see a geneaological chart, but I'm fairly sure that's so. Somehow. So!" She grins. "Call me Harry, please." She glances up at Laurent, leaning comfortably and affectionately against his side.

"Oh, I hope it isn't just one thing. That would surely be a disappointment." Maera retorts with a little shake of her head to Laurent, and even a small laugh. She takes a step out of the way, and calls out, "Have yourselves a lovely evening." Garvin is given a cooler glance, and she gives him a soft nod of the head, "Lord Garvin." She says rather crisply.

"Indeed, Lady Harry," Hellan commits to memory, seeming approving or amused by her chosen name, and intends to see them off with: "And as family I know you will show your new husband the ways of it being married to a woman with Northern blood." Folding her hands in front of her, she gives a slightly belated "Lord Garvin," to the other man, less crisp than her niece but giving him a further considering look for Maera's tone.

Garvin remains at Laurent's side, glancing hopefully toward the horses being held by the Purple Cloaks.

"We'll have ourselves a lovely evening," Laurent agrees, "And night. And a lovely morning after that, I should think." When the Northern ladies step aside, he starts again. A slow pace, so as not to end the conversation if it's not wanted, but still moving them toward toward the Garden Isle. He raises his hand to wave at a squire who stands nearby, ready with a pair of palfreys for the bride and groom. The horses are both purest white, and their tack and harness are the green and gold of House Tyrell. They step high and lively, led by the squire to walk along behind the couple for the moment.

"Oh, Laurent…!" Harry breathes, all caught up in the show of the pretty, pretty horses. She goes to one, lifting a hand up to its muzzle to introduce her scent. "They're gorgeous!" She beams at her husband, giddily excited as a little girl getting nameday gifts. "Is one for me?"

Maera turns to walk down the steps in the other direction, and pauses to glance to Hellan, "We could go in if you'd like. Normally Septs are rather the same, but this one is lovely enough to see for the sake of seeing it."

Garvin keeps up with Laurent, at least until they've arrived at the street. Then he breaks off to go to his own palfrey, Snowdrop, being held by one of the Tyrell guards, rather than his absent squire. He can't help overhearing Maera's comment though, and he glances over again with another look of horror.

"I do admit my curiosity, it is an … elaborate structure," Hellan confesses to Maera, voice lowering a pitch when she adds, "I suppose I couldn't possibly be more out of place in than out."

"Of course," Laurent laughs — a rough sound, unpleasant, and seldom heard. He nods to Willem, the squire, as he comes alongside the one that is saddled with a sidesaddle. He knows Lady Harry to be more than a proficient equestrian, but she's in a wedding dress. So sidesaddle it is, or such was the train of thought that led them here. Once young Willem has the palfrey standing still, Laurent is there to offer Angharad his help into the saddle. "And the other is mine, My Lady, which makes both of them yours, doesn't it?"

"Oh, the Southerners love their garish displays of wealth. It's almost obscene, really." Maera says to Hellan, "And usually rather tacky. But the Starry Sept is actually quite tasteful for the amount of decoration it has." That said, she turns to walk up the stairs.

Angharad laughs and leans down to kiss her kneeling husband before accepting his boost into the saddle. Side saddle it shall be, for indeed she's ill-costumed to ride astride, at the moment. She seems comfortable enough in the adjusted seat — and delighted with her wedding gift, stroking the beast's mane and neck. "She's simply breathtaking. What an extraordinary gift…"

With only an agreeing raise of her eyebrows, Hellan carries on up the stairs to the sept with Maera. Odd sight, again, the two Northern women headed into the Starry Sept, but the greater sight is surely the beautiful horses, cheery couple, and beplumed Tyrell at their backs.

"From my…," Laurent begins, then stops to correct himself. "From our cousin," he finishes, with a grateful nod to Garvin. Once Angharad is safely into her saddle, The Thorn crosses in front of her horse to mount his own. He's an accomplished horseman as well, though perhaps not as natural at it as his lady wife. Still, he mounts smoothly and sits tall in the saddle, riding at her side.

Maera doesn't look back at the happy couple or the plumed Lord Garvin. "There is a wierwood at the Citadel. The old scholars keep it near their ravens when it ought to be given a proper grove. But, it is there still, and I know Archmaester Thane well enough to be able to pray there when the mood strikes me." The ornate doors of the Starry Sept open smoothly on oiled hinges, and she falls quiet as they step into the building proper.

Garvin smiles to Angharad, flashing his perfect teeth and inclining his head a little. "I searched far and wide to find two such perfectly white palfreys," he said. "They're still young and a bit spirited, but I've no doubt they'll serve you well, Lady Harry."

Angharad turns to blink, then smile heartfelt gratitude at Garvin. "Cousin," she says to him, placing a hand over her heart. "I am so touched. They're beautiful beyond words. They'll be treasured, I promise."

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