(121-03-04) Moony Eyed Tyrells
Log Title
Summary: Garvin and Keyte stalk the Cockshaws. Laurent is his usual grouchy self.
Date: 4 March 2014
Related: whatev
Players:
Garvin..Laurent..Keyte..

The Terrace, Quill and Tankard Inn

The Quill and Tankard's terrace occupies the area of of the little island that is not filled by the tall, timbered, southward-leaning building itself. There are ragged little stacks of stone sticking up from the Earth around the island's banks, the remains of a wall that once kept drunkards from falling into the river but has now been knocked down and robbed of its stones enough that it better serves to trip them and make sure that they fall headlong into the Honeywine instead of merely walking in. They are rather picturesque. Tall torches stand along the ruined wall. They're lit at night, and in foggy weather.

There's a single, ancient apple tree in the middle of this area. The rest is grass, made sparse by the passage of too many feet, flagstone footpaths that help keep the guests from muddying their feet when it rains, and weathered tables and benches. Tall torches surround some, but not all, of the larger tables.


It's a cool summer evening, the sky clear of clouds for a change. Garvin has decided to sit on the terrace, at a table facing the river, and his small group of purple-cloaked guards are nearby sipping ale. Garvin himself has a flagon of Arbor gold, which he pours into a small goblet for a quick swallow, as he watches water taxies drifting by.

Laurent sits across from his cousin, back to the river. He too wears a splash of purple, in the form of a short cape that hangs from one shoulder down to his waist. He is otherwise clad in a suit of hard leather armor, well oiled and stamped with the arms of House Tyrell. He scowls into a pewter mug half full of the Quill and Tankard's famous cider as if something in it displeased him. "…How should I have known he was a Septon, anyway, is what I want to know?" He finishes the story with a growl and a shake of his head, just as he always does.

There are probably only a few reasons that bring Keyte to the Quill, although she does seem to be making something of a habit of frequenting the tavern lately. A certain hero-squire might reside here. That probably has nothing to do with it. Making her way up one of the flagstone footpaths, she's currently mid-argument with Orak, one of the Tyrell guards she's taken a liking to. "I still think it was safer to walk," she tells the man quite firmly, looking up at him with chastising eyes. Really.

Garvin looks over at Laurent, his expression blank. "I'm sorry, what about the Septon?" he asks, clearly distracted by something. Then he hears Keyte's voice, and he looks around until he spots her. Grinning and waving, he calls, "Cousin! Join us here on the terrace, won't you?"

"Well, he was…" Laurent's voice spikes, irritated at having to repeat himself, but then there's Keyte. His dark eyes drift from Garvin toward her, and he manages a nod — probably imperceptible at this distance, of course. And not as enthusiastic as the grinning and waving. "Coming to see the Cockshaw lad, I'll wager," he mutters to Garvin, but not in the tone one might expect from him.

"If my lady insists," resigns the guard, with a shake of his own head. He and Keyte both roll their eyes as they glance apart, the latter towards her cousins seated. She hurries forth, lifting her skirts to keep her delicately-shod toes clear of the tripping hazard. "Sweet cous! And Ser Thorn." The greeting is warm, and slightly less, though still kind enough. "What fortune to cross paths here, aye? I'm not interrupting?" Not that it would deter her if she was.

Garvin glances at Laurent, giving his brows a quick waggle. "Without a doubt," he whispers, then turns to greet Keyte with a brilliant grin. "Not at all, we were just enjoying the evening air. Come, have a seat, and I'll pour you a glass of wine." He grabs a clean goblet and fills it, pushing it toward Keyte's place. "I don't suppose you were looking for us. More likely a certain young and handsome squire, eh?" His grin turns wicked then, and he adds a wink.

"Should I talk to him?" Laurent manages to sound appropriately menacing this time as he scoots aside to make room for Keyte. "I'm good with squires. Ask Willem." Willem might claim otherwise. The Thorn waves Orak to the next table, where a few of his fellows sit, and then looks to Keyte for an outlandish tale.

Blushing bright red, Keyte pulls out a chair and tucks herself into it quickly. "Shhh," she hisses, glancing around concernedly. "He might hear you!" Only when she's satisfied the herosquire isn't actually anywhere nearby does she return her attentions to the table, letting go of a short sigh. "It's a lovely evening to be out, isn't it? Did you stop hitting Willem, dear cous? How is your wife? — Oh, I'd love some wine, thankyou!"

Garvin glances at Laurent, frowning a bit. "Don't you go frightening the poor lad. He's very sweet and very handsome, and so brave as well.. If our cousin didn't fancy him so, I might fancy him myself." He grins then, taking a long sip of wine.

"Stopped hitting…" Laurent's brow quirks, as if the very concept were absurd. "He's still my squire, isn't he? But I've stopped hitting him in front of Harry, and I think you were right," he allows, lifting his cup in salute. "My wife is well, Cousin. Thank you. How's your Cockshaw lad, then?" His eyebrows raise as he turns toward Garvin, and that tilt of his head just might signify agreement.

"Oh, pardon? I didn't quite catch that," Keyte leans in, pretending to be hard of hearing. "You think I was…" Right? Her brows dance merrily high, smile dimpling. "I am sure he is well, cous. Probably out practicing with his knight, the Ser Viggo, so that he might earn his spurs, hmm? Isn't that what all good squires are doing right this moment?"

Garvin takes another long drink, then reaches for the flagon. "Well, my squire is more than likely cataloging my doublets for the twentieth time in the last week, waiting for me to come home, so he can go to bed." He shakes his head, suppressing a yawn. "Ser Viggo, there's a handsome knight." He turns to Laurent then. "Why don't we see more of him?"

"How should I know anything about good squires," Laurent complains into his mug. Another drink later, he's wiping a bit of cider away from his chin with the back of one hand, and shaking his head at Garvin. "If you want to see more of Ser Viggo, check the bottom of a bottle," he advises sourly. "I hear he crawled into one a few years back, and hasn't been out much since."

"Sometimes I wonder if your bed even has a right side to roll out of in the mornings," Keyte quips, all irritating amusement, at Laurent. She draws a long sip of wine, and sets her cup down gently on the table. "Mayhap if you sit here long enough, he will stumble across you, cous? Oh. Stumble's probably not the word I were looking for," she laments, shaking a hand about to try and erase it. "Wander."

Garvin shoots Laurent a glance, frowning poutishly. "Don't be mean, Cousin. I'm sure he has his reasons. Many men have reasons to drink heavily." And so saying, he drains his goblet, then refills it again. To Keyte, he grins then, eyes darting around the terrace. "One can hope!"

"It's a new bed," Laurent answers with a shrug, as if that question need an answer. And a surly sounding answer, at that. He takes a healthy sip of his own cider, then shoots a disapproving look at what's left of it before he goes on. "Is it mean to call the sky blue, or a ugly whore ugly? It doesn't do anyone any good to dress it up, does it?"

"You ought to try rolling out on Lady Harry's side, then," says Keyte. She beams her smile back across the table to Garvin, sharing in his glance about for the Cockshaw knight — only to squeak in peevish alarm at something else. "Laurent! Cousin, honestly." That's a glare she's giving, even if her eyes betray her, sparkling with mirth.

Garvin leans closer to give Launrent a light elbow. "Don't you have anything nice to say about him? Like how good he is with a sword, or how dreamy his eyes are?" He takes another drink, then gives Keyte another grin.

Laurent waves Keyte's admonition off without looking her way, instead answering Garvin. "Ser Viggo? He can swing a sword, to be sure. And the man wears a fearsome moustache." Here, he turns to Keyte, reaching up to scratch at his jaw as he ponders. "Do you suppose Kevyn will grow a similar one, once he's knighted?"

Keyte wrinkles her nose, glancing between Laurent and her cup and swiftly deciding to drink again. "I should hope not," she says, sharing a look of distaste with Garvin before indulging her taste for wine. "How fares the theater, sweet cous?"

Garvin brightens at once, sitting up a little straighter. "It's going very well! The stage is all dressed for the play, Janei has the curtain all painted for the background, and rehearsals are going very well. Naturally, I've already memorized my part, since I wrote it in the first place."

Laurent arches his eyebrows at talk of the theater, doing his best to look dutifully interested. He's a Tyrell, after all. "It will be a fine show," he says once Garvin has finished, and there's a note of pride in the knight's voice at his cousin's accomplishments.

"Of course," agrees Keyte with her own twinge of pride for Garvin's accomplishments. "I'm so very excited for the performance! Is it terribly long? What happens if someone forgets what they're meant to say? My, but wouldn't that be a horrid turn. I'm sure nobody will," she rushes to assure, hands sneaking out across the table.

Garvin chuckles a bit, taking another sip. "Well, there'll be a man just under the stage, below the trap door, so if anyone forgets their lines, he'll whisper it to them. But so far, everyone's been remembering their lines. I'm so excited! I can't wait for tomorrow night. Oh, that reminds me. Laurent, Joss wants to be sure he has the evening free, so he can attend as well. I promised him I'd clear it with you, of course, but I know you'll say yes."

"Someone else can stand for him," Laurent agrees with a nod of his head. "Wouldn't do for him to miss it." He doesn't sound pleased about the idea, but when does he sound pleased? Rarely. "Will there be something afterward? A celebration?"

"Ohhh." Keyte is rather surprised to learn of the tricksy trapdoor man, her eyes widening for a moment before her smile blooms again. "How clever!" Delightfully so, apparently. She glances aside to Laurent as his question, and back to Garvin, bobbing her head. Will there be?

Garvin nods quickly, his eyes alight. "Naturally! I plan to bring everyone here to celebrate. The barman has already laid in a goodly supply of mead and good Arbor wines, set aside just for us." He takes another drink, then sits back. "It should be an excellent evening all around."

"Damn it all," Laurent says, pounding his fist on the table at the news. He downs the rest of his cider in a gulp, and leaves the mug in its place as he stands. "I need to see to it that there are enough men sober and able-bodied, then. If you'll both excuse me?" He points at the purple cloaks at the next table over, stopping for a moment of conversation with them before he stalks to — and through — the door.

"It sounds wonderful," Keyte enthuses, nodding again and picking up her cup. "Do — oh. Well. Excused, dear cousin," she bids to Laurent over the rim of her goblet, about to take a sip. That done, she swallows and wonders a little shyly, "Do you think the lord Kevyn would sit by me? At the play? Or — maybe that's not very proper."

Garvin lifts his goblet to Laurent as the man leaves, then looks to Keyte. "I don't see why it wouldn't be proper. It's only a play, after all. It isn't as though he were taking you to one of those filthy shows at the Bawdy Bard." He blushes a touch, quickly taking a long sip to hide behind his goblet.

Keyte practically chokes on a mouthful of wine, coughing and spluttering. A hand darts up to cover her mouth, her cup set shakily down as she spits across the table, "A what now at where?!" This, followed by a peal of laughter. "Gracious."

Garvin continues blushing, giving his cousin a sheepish grin. "The Bawdy Bard, it has a stage where mummers perform…shows. Shows that aren't fit to be discussed with a lady, if you take my meaning."

Keyte gasps again, flapping her hands across the table helplessly. "Shhh, shhh! Someone will hear," she gigglesnorts, unable to keep her composure. "Oh my goodness, Garvin. Oh." She is so very amused.

Garvin giggles a little, feeling the effects of all that wine he's been chugging. "It's just awful," he whispers, eyes gleaming with amusement. "If I were a lady, I'd borrow some of my cousin's clothes, disguise myself as a boy, and sneak in some time to watch one of the shows. But I'd insist my cousin come with as well, to protect my virtue."

Both her hands reach up to press at her mouth, as if the very touch might stay her giggling. It does not. Keyte darts a look to either side of her, perhaps worried about eavesdroppers. "You are so terrible, cous," she scolds on the breath of another laugh, attention shifting back to Garvin. "I'd never pass for a boy!"

Garvin gives a small shrug of one shoulder, then leans over the table to whisper, "You might if you wore a man's hat and a cloak with a big hood."

"Oh, stop," insists Keyte, her grin a wide and warm thing. She takes up her cup again, satisfied that she can hold it without spilling for the shake of laughter. She is still laughing, mind. "A big cloak with a hood, hmm? Well, if you were a lady, you might just need to procure one, cous. It is the kind of thing every lady ought to own, is it not?"

Garvin chuckles then, sitting back. "Well, if I were a lady," he says, taking another sip, "I'd have my own seamstress, who could make me a hundred cloaks."

"If you were a lady," Keyte agrees, tilting her cup toward Garvin and then drinking from it. "I'm curious, cous," she continues, eyes alight, "What other things would you do, were you a lady?"

Garvin wrinkles his nose then, head shaking. "I shouldn't like to be a lady," he says, taking another sip. "Too many heavy shirts to wear, which would hide my legs. I rather like showing off my legs." Grinning, he leans sideways and extends one leg.

"Ah, but of course," Keyte replies, curving her spine to the back of her chair. "It simply isn't seemly, for a lady to show off her legs. Our dear Thorn did advise me that a lady is wise to keep her ankles hid from lecherous lords. Or was it the other way around?" She affects a frown, drawing another sip from her cup. "I can't quite remember. Either way, I like my long skirts, if it please you!"

Garvin giggles then, dropping his foot back to the ground and sitting up. "Well, you can keep your skirts, and I'll keep my hose. Joreth, the boy who plays the Noble Lady, I don't know how he can stand wearing all those heavy gowns and skirts." He shakes his head and has another gulp. "He does look good though, as a lady, I mean."

"Granted, some of the gowns those stuffy Northern ladies wear look terribly uncomfortable." Let's get a bit more fashion-serious here, shall we? Keyte passes judgment easily, especially when it comes to clothes. "But our silks and brocades are much lighter, easier to wear, cous. I shouldn't like to have pants chafing at my thighs, you know. Some of the gowns the lady Emilia wears… oh my. Dornish fashion is so… delicious, isn't it?" As for this Joreth lad, she stifles another laugh. "I'm sure, I'm sure. And I shall see, soon enough!"

Garvin shrugs one shoulder, taking a long sip. "Well, between my blouse, doublet, jerkin, hose, trunks, codpiece, shoes, simarre, and hat, it takes long enough to get dressed every day. I can't imagine skirts and overskirts and sideless surcoats and all the rest you women have to put up with."

Keyte bobs her head as each item of apparel is named, shaking away a feigned dizziness at the conclusion. She sighs, staccato short, and shrugs herself. "Not to mention our hair, cous. Half the day is spent just making ourselves presentable, aye? Oh, but it's better than trotting around looking beastly, I should say."

Garvin's eyes dart back and forth, and he leans forward to whisper, "Like a certain fish-wife who used to bake in our kitchens, you mean?" He wrinkles his nose again, sitting back. "Wait, fish-wife isn't right. What is it Peri called herself?"

Keyte leans in to receive said whisper, and leans back with a laugh. "Oh, but she's terribly pretty, save that headstrong streak of hers. Wasn't it salt-wife? I thought they were like thralls, or like the slaves of the East? But Miss Peri insists she were treated quite well." Unsure if she believes such, she adds: "I can hardly imagine an Iron lord treating one of his thousand captured wife-whatevers well, though, can you?"

Garvin wrinkles his nose again, giving his head a shake. "It's disgraceful, if you ask me," he says, leaning back to have another sip. "But she is very pretty, I'll give her that. Headstrong and stubborn as an ox, but pretty."

"Even the highest born ladies don't suit stubbornness," opines Keyte in regretful tones for poor Peri. "She has sailed round the Doom, did you know? Or so she told me, one time. I didn't think people came back from sailing 'round the Doom."

Garvin frowns then, brows drawing together. "They don't," he says firmly, pressing his lips in a thin line. "My maester told me, no ship that ever sails the Burning Sea ever returns to tell the tale. She's either mistaken or was having a jest at your expense."

"Oh." Keyte pauses. "That's what I thought," she adds, still puzzling over the tale. "She tells the tale as though it were true, mind. The skies are red, she said, and the winds fierce. Men go mad from fright." Her face twists with the graveness of such a thing.

Garvin nods slowly, sipping once more, then refilling the goblet. "Could be she sailed near old Valyria, near enough to see the Burning Sea. That's dangerous too, of course, but men have returned from doing that. So I suppose that would be possible. Perhaps that's what she meant?"

"Mayhap it is," Keyte allows easily enough, with another shrug. "It were a grand story, nonetheless. She's a good storyteller. — Oh, speaking of stories," the Tyrell girl perks up, wriggling her bottom in her seat to sit straighter. "Did I tell you about the Shadowcat, cous?"

Garvin frowns a bit, eyes narrowing. "What shadowcat? You didn't go running off to the Vale with Kevyn Cockshaw, looking for shadowcats, did you?"

"Really, Garvin," Keyte responds rather dryly. "I'm sitting right here, how could I be run off to the Vale? I should like to see one for real and true, though. But nay!" Reigning herself in from actual-cat-tangents, she continues, "I mean the woman, cous! She lives on the roofs of the buildings down near the docks."

Garvin cocks his head to one side, nose wrinkling in confustion. "What are you talking about? A woman or a shadowcat?"

"A woman," Keyte responds patiently, containing her excitement as best she can. "She were more shadow than woman, though. I were down at the docks, and an urchin ran past and pilfered my good beaded purse, aye? And the Shadowcat — that's what she calls herself, the Shadowcat — she must have magicked it right out of the little lad's hands, and returned it to me!"

Garvin scowls then, narrowing his eyes once more. "Just what were you doing wandering the docks without a proper guard? You could have been killed! Instead of simply robbed, which you were. And this Shadowcat woman, she returned your purse? Did you check to make sure all your coins were still inside?"

"Orak was with me," Keyte bristles, mimicking Garvin's expression back to him. "He went a-chase after the purse, too. Only the Shadowcat was quicker. Gina was there too! All my coins were intact, cous. It's a grand thing, see? She scaled the buildings with a great hook, up, up and away!"

Garvin's head tilts to the side again, nose wrinkling so hard, his upper lip curls. "She scaled a building with a hook?" he asks, disbelieving. "What manner of woman does such a thing? Anyone could look right up her skirts!"

"With a hook," confirms the lady, still almost disbelieving it herself. Keyte shakes her head in wonder, and again in humour. "I don't think she were worried about that, see. It were amazing to watch! I wish I could climb so, don't you?"

Garvin quickly shakes his head. "Certainly not!" he insists firmly. "That's not a proper activity for a lord or a lady. A hook is likely how Kai climbed up into my window. Remember how horrified you were to learn of that? The very thought of my dear, sweet cousin, scaling buildings and dashing across rooftops, it's scandalous!"

"Well I wouldn't climb in to anyone's manse," Keyte protests, her frown resurfacing. "Maybe mine own. Except not. Because I don't have a hook." This is quite a dismaying fact, her lack of hooks, but at least she has a cup of wine, which she seeks to drain this very moment. With an empty cup, she announces, "It is scandalous, is why it's such a good story! What if it were a story about some lord who woke one morn and took his breakfast and said hello to his lady and took some lunch and… oh, ugh. Nobody likes a boring story, cous."

Garvin gives his eyes a roll. "It's all well and good for women to behave scandalously in stories," he says, reaching for the flagon to refill Keyte's goblet, then his own. "So long as certain cousins don't take it in their heads to begin immitating such scandalous ladies."

Keyte feigns shock, tilting her head just so. She's not the best actor, or perhaps that how she intends it? "Certain cousins don't have an army of smiths in their employ, to fashion climbing hooks for them," she snips back childishly, her smile peeking through at the corners. "I wonder what she does when it rains."

Garvin snorts and gives his head a shake. "Gets wet, most likely. And it serves her right, behaving in such a manner. I'm sure you wouldn't find it so amusing if I were the one tossing hooks up to rooftops and scaling walls, like a common criminal. I hope at least you informed the City Watch to keep an eye out for this miscreate woman. Who knows what sort of mischief she's up to?"

"Or slip and fall to her demise," supplies Keyte as an alternative. "Oh, but of course, cous," she reassures a little distractedly about the City Watch, glancing over her shoulder. "Was that Ser Viggo I just saw out the corners of my eyes?"

Garvin quickly looks up and around, eyes wide. "Where?" he asks excitedly. Then his shoulders slump, his lower lip pouting out. "No, that's not him at all. Not tall enough."

Keyte cranes her neck a bit, turning her shoulders as much as she can to look after the fellow, but no. It is sadly not the Cockshaw knight. "Bother," she murmurs, twisting back around with an apologetic look across the table. "Though I'm sure if we simply sit here long enough, he'll happen by, aye?"

Garvin shrugs one shoulder, pouting still. "Unless he's already inside," he mopes. "I checked inside when we first arrived, but we've been out here a few hours, and I don't know that he wasn't upstairs to begin with. Him and Kevyn both, I imagine."

"We could —" Keyte is about to suggest something, but stops herself dead short. "Ay me, but look at us," she declares instead. "It ought to be they, pacing past the manse's bridge in the hopes that we peek our heads out, cous! I think mayhap they do, and we simply don't tarry long enough outside to notice it, aye?"

Garvin chuckles softly, eyes lighting with amusement. "Do you suppose they do? Well, I'm certain Kevyn does. He's quite smitten, I can tell. I'm not certain Ser Viggo even knows I'm alive." This causes him to pout a bit, letting out a sigh. "I'm not certain anyone knows I'm alive."

Keyte's brows loft, lights dancing in her moony eyes. And then she blinks, blinking whatever fancies they were away promptly. "Oh, sweetest cous," she mourns with Garvin, reaching a hand across the table in sympathy. "Don't talk so, hmm? There must be many a lord who admires you as one admires the sun; from afar, for he is too hot to touch. And ladies lining up with their hands ready, aye?"

Garvin chuckles then, giving his cousin's hand a light squeeze. "I'm sure you're right. After all, I'm the renowned Lord Pansy, am I not? And everyone loves Lord Pansy." He finishes his wine, then pushes himself to his feet. "But you're right about one thing: we shouldn't be sitting here awaiting them. They should be mooning over us. I don't know about you, but I intend to go straight home and watch for all those lords and ladies from my window. If I lean out, I can just see the bridge from my room."

"Everyone loves Lord Pansy," Keyte confirms with utmost conviction, fervor in her voice. She rises when Garvin does, abandoning her goblet to the table. "That sounds a splendid idea, cous! Perhaps you'd be good enough to lend me your arm for the walk home? I should be quite proud to parade through Oldtown's streets on the arm of the most wonderful Lord Pansy!"

Garvin can't help but giggle, as he offers Keyte his arm. "I should be honored to escort you, my lady," he says, as the men-at-arms quickly finish their ales and prepare to surround the pair.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License