(121-03-05) First Night Not Right
First Night Not Right
Summary: The Knights go off in search of Visenya and discover some nobles practicing the tradition of first night.
Date: 03 05 2014
Related: Follows After the Play

Daevon's in his riding leathers, light armour, a plain brown palfrey, functional weapons. Nothing shiny or spectacular about him now. He's there at the gates as quickly as possible.

Aevander is kitted out in equally simple and functional garb, a sword at his belt. He has a black geldling whose flaring nostrils echoes the impatience of his rider.

Eonn doesn't take long. He returns mounted on his big white mare, an animal that's as much plow-horse as she is destrier, though she's clearly a good measure of both. He didn't change, he showed up for the play in his piecemeal fire-blacked armour. He has got old oiled leather saddlebags on the mare, though, something he doesn't always carry.

Laurent is armored in a coat of polished mail, and sits astride a snow white palfrey. His shield hangs behind him, sword at his side, and there is a brutal looking mace hung from the saddle as well. He reins in near Daevon, adding himself to the assembled party, nodding at the knights who are already present. "My apologies," he mutters as he reins the mare in, though in truth he was fairly quick about things.

Functional indeed describes the Riverlander who has accompanied the group on their journey. Although there is a nod to vanity. The warhorse Riderch is perched upon is as black as his cloak. Darkened maile-and-leather armor completes his ensemble as he rides along. He looks — invigorated. That's the best way to describe it.

It does not take long for Ser Jaremy Strickland to arrive either. He is kitted in mail armor, covered by dark surcoat. Helm on the head-and shield at his side the other knight comes on his own grey palfrey shortly after Laurent's arrival. There's no excuses on his part. Just a huff of breath and sickly smile to follow. He'll make sure to ride-boldly ride.

Abram is present as promised, shield with the fox-and-flowers blazon of the Florents slung at his ruddy-brown courser's flank as the knight rides along. "Hadn't expected to wait for the play," he comments off handedly, to whomever is beside him, which turns out to be the Blackwood.

It is a fine night to ride out for a maiden. The air is crisp without being overly cool, and the sky is clear and filled with stars and a large moon that illuminates the River Road. The party of Knights passes relatively few other travelers on the road to the Cockadrill Inn, which is situated on the Inchfield's lands, who are vassals to the Hightowers.

It is nearly midnight when the Knights arrive at the Cockadrill. Surprisingly, the yard of the inn is filled with people who seem to be in a festive mood. Smallfolk in their best clothes dance simple country dances to the beat of a drum and the clash of cymbols. It seems as if the Knights have stumbled across a wedding.

The look on Riderch's face is — serene. It's clear that he's been longing for something to drag him from the daily routine of city life, and this — well, this is what he feels he was born for. Even if it's a routine ranging.

Laurent reins in a stone's throw from the crowd, scowling at the merriment. "A damned wedding, of all things," he growls to no one in particular. He reaches up to pull the helm off his head, sweat making his short hair unruly. He runs a gloved hand through it, seemingly conscious of the fact, though his 'solution' makes the problem worse. His dark eyes scan from Arros to Daevon, even to Aevander, waiting for one of them to take the lead.

Eonn rides easily. He seems content enough. At some point along the way he eats an egg. Raw, and whole, crunching up even the shell. Once there, he simply reins in when the others do, and looks to Daevon.

"Oh.." comes a sound from over Abram's left, as the last of the pack as it were seems to speak up, as they come upon the Cockadrill. The exclamation is followed by an awkward silence before Ser Jaremy is speaking up once more. "I believe we've come to a party.." Or a Wedding, as the Tyrell points out. Leaning a bit in his saddle, the Strickland shifts his round shield a bit, before looking over towards the Florent. "I spect if there is a body still here, the Septon would have it.." he muses.

Daevon's the youngest of the knights here, with his slight build and that helmet concealing all of his silvered-gold hair he could easily pass as plain as his horse. He's had little time for chitchat being intent on the task at hand, keeping his ears open for any sign of danger. Riding ahead quite often. The sound of music takes him by surprise, and he slows his steed down to return to the rest of the group. He looks to his older brother first to see if he wants to take charge.

Aevander slows his gelding as the group come upon the inn and the festivities going on. "Huh," he muses quietly. He glances over at Daevon and arches a brow in a 'you want to start this off or shall I?' sort of expression. As Daevon looks right back with a somewhat similar expression, he nods and urges his horse a few steps closer tot he celebrating smallfolk. "Masters and mistresses!" Aevander calls, "We do not mean to intrude on your revelry, but we ride from Oldtown on a matter of great importance and must speak with the owner of this inn."

Abram turns a look and easy smile over his left shoulder to Jaremy, "Body's not the point, is it? Here to scare up a trail… Not that the hour is with us. In the end a party is good: every smallfolk for a good ways will be here, saves us time." He goes silent when Aevander speaks up.

Laurent stays a horse's length behind Aevander, and a similar distance to one side. His heavy brow is lowered as he looks over the merry gathering, his demeanor a contrast to Aevander's easy way with the smallfolk. He glares from one person to the next, meeting eyes when someone looks at him, staring until they look away. A brute, it seems, but he has his uses.

"If anyone saw anything — they would be here." Riderch states the obvious, slowing his mount behind the rest of the pack. He just hangs back. If Laurent is the grumpy knight, he is the smiling knight. The smile never leaves his lips as he in turn looks at the smallfolk too.

Eonn knees his big heavy mare to go stand near Daevon's light palfrey. He looks down, expressionless, at the revelers.

"It's a subject, if not the point." Jaremy replies back, before he is looking back towards the Smallfolk that are indeed rounded up and here for the wedding. "Though, if you saw a party of knights claiming to be from old town suddenly show up. I don't know how forthcoming one would be." A small frown there before he is looking at one of the folks. There's a bit of a smile given to some lass before he is looking back towards Laurent. "I'm sure there's a better way of doing this."

The sound of drum and cymbals fades as the smallfolks seem to all simultaneously notice the Knights. Some begin treading forward cautiously.

In the middle of the crowd the women are doing an unusual thing; they are crowding around the bride and trying to nonchalantly push her backwards and out of sight. It is somewhat difficult to hide the maid, however. A thick, big-boned girl with the plain, passingly pretty features of a smallfolk girl, it is her gown that catches attention. It consists of materials far too expensive for a girl of her standing to afford. It is haphazardly cobbled together with silk panels set into cheaper linen, and decorated with crystals that catch the light. On her head, under a garland of flowers, she wears a veil of expensive Myrish lace.

Daevon watches his brother, quietly. He himself looks around for the happy couple, or the parents thereof. He dismounts from his horse. "There will be no room with these festivities," he says. "Is there at least a place where our horses can rest, and drink if we cannot? We do not wish to disrupt these celebrations."

Even if one doesn't notice the dress' materials in the flickering light (and Laurent may, being a recent groom!), it's impossible to miss the slow surge of the crowd. "You there," he calls out in a rough baritone, pointing to the woman being gently ushered back and covered by her fellows, "Come into the light. Here," he waves toward an empty space before Aevander, letting his own horse take a couple of steps forward.

Aevander chooses to stay horsed, because being pale-haired and purple-eyed and flanked by a handful of other knights isn't enough intimidation. He glances to Laurent and then leans forward in the saddle to get a better look at what's caught the Thorn's interest.

Clop clop, clop clop. Riderch brings his mount forward. "We hear you." He calls out, raising an open hand.

Abram chuckles quietly to Jaremy's rejoinder, noting quietly, "Speaking of objects, not seen many smallfolk in silks. Keep an eye to the back, if any try to run."

An older woman with features similar to the bride steps forward. She looks at the Knights rather nervously before taking a step forward, "…M'Lords." She curtseys. Then Laurent calls for the bride, and a look of true alarm crosses her face. She bites on her bottom lip fretfully as the Bride comes forward. The groom will also come forward, a skinny tall lad with a freckled face and lank orange hair. The groom seems to be on edge. His free hand, the one not clutching his new wife's, is clenching and unclenching. The bride looks as if she may burst into tears.

"Ser," Daevon speaks up to Laurent. "Begging your pardon, but it might be feared that we've come to claim the right of the first night. No hand shall be lain upon any woman, that is not willingly asked for, and certainly not upon the bride on her wedding night. We intend no harm, just to ask a few questions of the innkeeper, and we certainly did not intend to disrupt things so. Is there any way we can make amends for this intrusion? Perhaps if you let us take the burden of the cost of these celebrations from your mind, so that you might return to enjoying them?"

Eonn frowns at what's being said. He edges his mare forward and looks to Laurent. "Let her alone, my lord," he says, quietly. Gravely.

"I'm not going to cut down some unarmed peasant.." Jaremy mumbles back before he is looking towards the back, and there he grips his reigns, as he maneuvers to get a better view. Though, his eyes are mainly on the crowd-and not so much on the silks. "Seven be merciful.." he mutters one last time before his other hand slides to his pommel. A shift in the saddle, as eyes flick to Laurent and the others. And given the Maiden Knight's caution there's a bit of a clearing of throat. And now he's calling out.

"We're not here to fuck anyone. Please all, keep calm." In the most cheerful voice he can muster.

Abram eyes Jaremy aside, muttering, "I meant cut th off, not cut them down. What kind of bloody minded maniac are you?" the Florent heats with a smile and shake of the head.

Laurent glances aside to Daevon, a look of true distaste flickering across his face at the suggestion that someone among them might be here to claim that ancient right. And when she steps forward, he even manages a calm nod Eonn's way. Still, hand on his sword, he lets his own steed begin to drift 'round one side of the gathering. He'll be the eye on the back of the crowd, then.

There is a brief moment, after Jaremy's announcement, where Aevander stares out at the darkened horizon, clenches his teeth, and fights the urge to press his face into his hands. The moment passes, and then he dismounts to regard the well-dressed bride and her terse groom. "Though the ser has put it crudely, he's right enough," he tells the pair gently, "As my brother said, we are only seeking information. I must know, though, how it is you came into the possession of such a fine wedding gown, little mistress."

"A smile from you is all a gracious Lord could ask for." Riderch chimes in, eyeing the woman who is apparently the bride. "We mean you no trouble." He is not contradicting the other knights. It's just a different turn of a phrase, that's all. He's smiling broadly.

Jaremy snorts in Abram's direction before he is looking back to the Florent. "Same thing in some instances, Ser." retort given he is looking back towards where the Targaryens are trying to get some answers. Likely his announcement helped immensely.

Eonn sighs, gently. He looks at Aevander. He doesn't seem pleased, but he's at peace with it. He looks back to the young couple.

At the crude announcement that no one had arrived to fuck anyone, the crowd seems to relax. The mother of the bride lets out an audible sigh, the groom slouches forward, and the bride lets out a nervous titter of relief at Riderch's words.

It is the mother of the bride who steps forward, "M'lord." She curtseys again. "There was a silver-haired lady who willed it to my Beth when she heard she was gettin' married. …The lady died in me inn."

Beth's hands shuffle together nervously as her mother speaks. She glances down at the ground.

Daevon sighs and looks at all of the Knights, then up at Eonn. He glances at the mother of the bride when she responds to Aevander.

To this, Riderch squares up his horse and relaxes his shoulders a little, scanning the perimiter in an obvious glance. "Silver—haired?"

Eonn looks down to the bride from the back of his tall mare. He says, "Woman, do you believe that someone is coming here tonight, to trouble your bedding?"

As the crowd relaxes, Jaremy shifts once more in the saddle- eyes being kept on the crowd in general. Apparently Ser Strickland knows the right bit of common speak to reach the nervous everyman-that likely started fretting the moment armored riders bloody well appeared out of no where. Given the woman's words the knight glances over to Riderch. "You s'pose the body is still here?" This is most certainly mused aloud.

Perhaps there's a quiet uneasiness with the crowd-and with this here declaration. Either way Jaremy edges his horse forward, moving from formation.

Laurent continues to skirt the crowd as he rides around to where he has a good view of the back, to ensure that no one slips away. His mare is steady and calm, a contrast to the black destrier that he's more prone to riding. His left hand rests idly on the hilt of his sword, his right on his horse's reins as he scowls out at the crowd, ready to call out at anyone who tries to slip away.

Abram leans back, paying more attention to the silks and lace of the bride's gown than the ongoing discussion. Half to himself, he muses, "Hmm. If she died.." Raising his voice enough to be heard, he wonders aloud, "Where is the Lady's horse?"

"Customs in the Reach? It's hard to say." Riderch observes, looking back towards Ser Strickland looking a bit nonplussed. Apparently he didn't have a specific plan other than 'be the nice guy.' Abram's obvious statement does earn an 'mmmm' from the Blackwood, however.

Daevon's out of his element in so much as he usually travels and works alone. Certainly not in as big a group. He sighs again, and goes to lead his horse to the water trough.

Aevander listens, his eyes moving from the bride to the groom to the innkeeper as she tells her tale. "Mistress," he begins, quiet and calm, "as you may observe, my brother also has silver hair. The Lady in question was our sister, and we know she has not died. So, were I you," his focus moves over to young Beth, "I should think very hard on what it means, when a person has silver hair and violet eyes, and I should consider if such a person is one you'd dare lie to. The girl who gave you this gown. Where has she gone?"

Daevon's hair is tucked all away beneath his helm today. There's little obviously Targaryen about him in this dark light. He's listening though, for all that he's separated himself from the proceedings.

"Outlawed. Though you'll find some minor lords still do it. The larger ones should know better." Jaremy replies to Riderch, before he is looking back in the crowd. To Abram's question there's a shrug, before he is moving to edge and keep a few men from slipping away. Whistling softly, the Strickland knight looks back towards Riderch. "They practice that where you're from, Ser?" curious as one never knows all the customs of the seven kingdoms. "I spect they still do on the Iron Isles.." he adds softly-before looking to Aevander. Well this is about to get interesting enough.

"The Lady arrived with a Septon and Silent Sister. They tended to her until she passed, poor thing, and the Silent Sister boiled her bones to take them…ah, East perhaps?" Beth's mother clarifies when asked where the lady's horse was. "She did not have her own horse." She looks to Aevander and stammers out, "A-Apologies, My Lord." She sinks down to the ground quickly, "We knew not. We were told the Lady was Dragon's seed, and not Blood of the Dragon." The threat from the Targaryen seems to loosen her tongue. "…The truth of the matter is the l-lady /is/ the Silent Sister."

Laurent doesn't react visibly as the story unfolds. Its growing complexity seems lost on the surly Tyrell knight as he continues to prowl about the crowd's edge, hemming in any stragglers and leaving others to do the talking.

"My lands have too many problems to waste time on an idiot's whim like that." Riderch admits to Jaramey, rather bluntly. "About the only thing I'd practice on the Iron Isles involves burning pitch." He doesn't comment further, however, as he looks to the Smallfolk while they spill the story of the missing Lady.

Eonn pays little attention to the story. He stares down at Beth in her bridal gown, and her new husband of the clenching hands and the red hair and freckles. Not unlike Eonn's own.

Abram laughs under his breath at Riderch's commentary on the Islands, a grinning glance given to the Blackwood, before his eye goes back to the proceedings. The answer to his query is not commented upon, as the deeper details unfolding make it moot.

Beth is silent at Eonn's question. It is her husband who speaks, "M'Lord." Eonn is in armor and amongst lords, he must be one too! "…It is a risk, out here. That they might take Bethy." He doesn't clarify who the 'they' is.

"That's better," Aevander approves with a small nod as the innkeeper comes clean, "You may rise. Now, the septon and this 'silent sister'. Where did they go, when they left your inn?"

"I don't think 'they' will be doing anything but picking up what's left of their own bollocks when we're done here." Riderch offers, reassuringly. Yeah. That's really reassuring, dude. "If they are up to no good."

"T-They didn't say." The innkeeper stammers out.

There is the sound of a group of approaching horses riding towards the Inn.

"I am no lord," says Eonn. He bends, offering his hand. "Ride with me. Both of you."

Jaremy snorts, given Riderch's words. And there he is shifting once more in the saddle. A look is given back towards the smallfolk-before now he is looking off to the horizon. Likely now curious as to whom would be coming to a wedding this late. Sadly in his scanning and then with the stammering the knight doesn't catch up on the incoming riders-even though he is looking for them.

"Horses!" Daevon calls out with an authorative tone he was previously lacking. He leaps up onto his own horse, and moves it around to put himself between the crowd, and wherever the riders are coming from.

Abram turns a look in the direction of the approaching riders- must be those big ears of his- instinctively tugging on the reins to turn his horse to face in the same direction. "Strickland-" he states to catch Jaremy's attention, directing his eye the, "Other way."

The rider's are singing/shouting out the words to a bawdy song as they ride towards the Inn. They are all quite obviously drunk. They come into view. There are twelve men in total, men-at-arms flanking two young lordlings dressed in fancy tunics.

"I hear them." Riderch intones, throwing his hand immediately towards his sword-hilt has he tugs on the reins. Just as a precaution, of course. The hand lingers there but the weapon is not drawn.

Laurent, too, wheels his horse at the sound of riders approaching. Perhaps he won't be cutting down any fleeing, unarmed smallfolk after all. He trots the palfrey back toward the cluster of knights until he's alongside the Blackwood lord, and when he catches sight of the approaching party he shoots Riderch a savage looking grin. It's as if he can feel something on the air now, and it has changed his mood entirely.

"Bugger and fuck." comes the cursed reply. And there he is turning his horse about, as his free hand moves to his sword. It may be a bit early for it, but the blade is yanked free with a slight ring of metal. And there he turns his horse a bit as the blade is lowered and kept hidden by virtue of the Horse's body. "Right." Jaremy says, briefly as he catches now the men in their livery. "Look noble enough.." Might have jumped the bow there.

"Come on," hisses Eonn, to the bride.

Aevander hisses out a sharp breath as men come riding, and he climbs back up on his gelding, reaching for his sword and shield. He looks to Daevon and gives a curt nod, giving the lead to the Maiden's Knight, now the lot of them are looking at a fight rather than bullying smallfolk.

Daevon glances over at Eonn and the bride. He'll ensure that he's covering their escape. Let one of the others greet these lords.

"Looks like — Inchfields? Tyrell Bannermen?" Riderch finally intones, half-sounding as though he's guessing and saying this aloud for confirmation. "What in the bloody Hells is going on /here/?" He brings his horse forward a few paces.

Laurent lets gives his horse a kick, letting it step slightly ahead of his fellows. He'll greet them if no one else will, in a voice that is cheerful, though there's a mocking edge beneath the baritone. "Good evening to you," he booms, reaching behind him to pull his shield forward. Pays to be cautious, after all. "Where are you bound, Lords?"

"C'mon Beth." The groom says to the bride as he bends forward to form a step with his hand. Beth puts her foot in his hand, and tries to hoist herself up onto the back of Eonn's horse. It's difficult with all of those thick skirts. Beth slips and falls backwards, flattening her thin groom.

Abram confirms Riderch's guess with a word, "Aye." When Laurent edges his horse ahead of the others, the Florent eyes the back of the Tyrell's head and edges his own steed even with the Thorn knight's.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," says Eonn, dropping out of his saddle to help right the young woman and boost her, unceremoniously, onto the big mare's back. His mount doesn't seem battle-fierce like a destrier ought, and she's not young either. But she has some advantages. For one, she's patient, and stands quite still. For two, she's enormous.

Daevon's immediately off his horse in order to lend Beth a hand and help her up, even as Eonn's doing the same. He's quick and agile, and today he looks like the least important of all the men. There's not even a sign that he's a knight upon him. "Are you all right?" he asks her, concerned.

"Oh, I wondered what those were.." Jaremy says now his eyes squinting in the night's light before he is moving if ever to come and protect Eonn's side, while he takes time to boost the big woman into his saddle. So, the northman would see he already has drawn steel-though hopefully concealing it from the incoming riders. With Laurent as the diplomat-what could go wrong? As to answer Riderch's question. "Nothing good, I warrant you."

"Gemma Cockadrill!!" The lead lordling will call out in a singsongy voice, his words slurring. "Where is that fat little daaaauuugghtter of yours?! I've come to wet my wick with her maiden's head!" Then the party of Knights from Oldtown are spotted, and he glares at them, "Who tha' fuck are you!? This sure as hell ain't your land or your business!"

If they're Tyrell bannermen, then Aevander leaves it to the Tyrells of the party to set this lot straight. He keeps his horse in check and his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, however, in case some additional persuasion becomes necessary.

Laurent lets his shield hang behind him, though his horse's caparison bears the arms of his house. He lets his horse continue to wander idly forward as he speaks to the men, still with that too-friendly tone. "Come to claim the right of first night, have you, My Lord?" The normally boorish knight goes on without introducing himself. "It's my understand that was outlawed. Is that not so?"

Daevon turns as soon as the lead lordling yells out. "Lord Inchcock, how dare you speak to any woman in such a way. I demand you apologise, right this instant, for any insult you have caused these fine women. Shame on you!"

Abram laughs a bit at the Inchfield man's choice of words, the sound stirring his throat for a moment. "Need to open the mouth a bit further to fit your boot wholly inside, friend," he advises the Inchfield, on the heels of Laurent's rhetorical question.

"No. It's not. Ravens do not mourn the dead, /friend/."House words are uttered in a sinister fashion. Riderch's grin is still there, but now it is entirely unfriendly. His sigh that follows is one of pure exasperation. "Are you really going to interrupt our Dragon friends here? Or your liege?" There is a nod to Laurent.

Jaremy spits once before he is laughing ever so slightly. "I think this time, My Lord, it might be his." The triskelion on his shield is not hidden-so easily of all the people long here, the Strickland is likely one of the furthest out of line to call a foul here. Eyes slide from the Lordling, to the men with him and there he straightens in his seat. "You fellas, might wish to back up a wee bit. In case your Lord's bitten off-" And then Daevon is railing on him.

"Right. That."

Beth lets out a little squeak as she is rather unceremoniously picked up and put on the back of Eonn's horse. She gives Daevon a murmured thank you before crying out to her groom, "Romy!" The groom picks himself up from the ground, and leans forward to kiss Beth's lips. "You'll be faster without me. I love you." Beth lets out a little sound of despair before saying, "I love you, too!" Goodbye's made, she is ready to be carried off by Eonn.

Eonn eyes Romy irritably, mounts his big mare, and rides off, turning the corner around the Inn's wall.

Lord Inchcock is too drunk to pay attention to the warning signs. "Like fuck I fucking will! You are trespassing on my families' land!" The lordling sways in his saddle drunkenly as he calls out to his men, "See these fucks taken care of, and bring me that fat little bitch!"

Laurent swings out of the saddle with an ease that speaks more of training than natural grace, and as his sword comes free of the scabbard he uses its flat to see the untested palfrey on her way. He raises his shield, pointing with his blade toward the drunken lordling. "I am Ser Laurent Tyrell, of Highgarden," he calls out with a wolfish grin. "And I will have your head for this, Boy!"

Aevander's mouth curls up in a dry half smile, and he gives a small shake of his head. Deeper and deeper, these Inchfields bury themselves, figuratively and, possibly, literally.

"You remind me of my cousin. He's a Mallister." Riderch says as an aside to Jaremy, his face contorted in a gleeful smirk. As if that would explain everything. As the Reach lordling lets loose with his last few words, the Riverlander turns his head. "I'm — not going to get in trouble for this, I hope?" His hand flies to his swordhilt and there is a 'shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiink' sound as steel is ripped from its sheath. "Just who are you talking to, you toadlicking southern ponce? You wouldn't last five minutes in a Bracken whorehouse."

"Wet your dick in that," Daevon spits on the ground. "You'll scarcely need any more, Inchcock. Your mother would be ashamed of you. You are a disgrace to your family name. Lord Incock, do you ask your men to fuck for you, just as they fight for you? If stories of your lack of prowess and size are to believed, I suppose you must." He holds up a hand to the other men. "Before you attack, I suggest you think very carefully, and reconsider Lord Inchcock's orders. He may be stupid, but are you too? Do you recognise the shields of those who stand before you, or do you need introductions to be made before you engage in yet more grave stupidity?" He snorts at Laurent. "I hope you mean the head he keeps in his trousers, for I suppose the one in his skull is even smaller than his inchcock."

Eonn's big mare isn't fast, but he still doesn't ride as fast as she'll run, perhaps for fear of the girl losing her seat. Still, he manages to keep the bulk of the inn between them and the altercation, at least until he crests over the next hill.

Abram remains ahorse, gauntleted hand only now drawing his longsword free of its scabbard, waiting only long enough to see if the Inchfield's men stand down or step up before spurring his charger forward. Even as focus sharpens his regard, the smile doesnt wholly fade from the Florent's face.

"Well..I guess now it won't be his family's land for long.." And as Lordling Inchfield gives the cry, Jaremy Strickland whistles and brings his blade up. With it already drawn there's no real need to unsheathe, he can move quick. Nudging his steed forward he'll move to intercept the first man at arms that breaks. Blade is pointed out, apparently target picked. "I've done this before.." he notes to no one. "Mail's easy to break as scale.."

To Riderch there is a shrug. "I doubt it. You're ridin' under a Dragon's banner." or in this case the Rose of Tyrell. "I hope they're not stupid.." But-likely they will be.

"You ain't a Tyrell!" Lord Inchcock says rather confidently to Laurent, "Tyrells are pretty! You look like your mother fuck-OW!" The other Lordling smacks Lord Inchcock right across the face. "You fool!" He hisses out, "Shut the hell up and let me do the talking!" The other Lordling, Lord Reasonable, clears his throat. "Forgive me, My Lord. My brother just wanted to have some fun is all."

Lord Inchcock seethes on his horse. Daevon's words only cause him to seethe more. "Who the hell is that?!" He yells out. This earns another smack from his brother

"Oh, I know." Riderch says, sidelong at Jaremy with that weird, wildling-worthy grin on his face. "I can't believe they'd step up to a fucking /Targaryen/ like that." There's that emphasis in his voice when he mentions the house, bordering on reverence.

Luckily, the Inchfield men-at-arms do not inch forward any further.

"Why don't you come here and find out," Daevon taunts. "Or is your courage as big as your cock?" He'll leave the reasonable brother to Laurent.

"The Stranger's bleeding arse, he did," Laurent growls, stalking forward toward the pair of Inchfield lords. He passes into the reach of the men-at-arms without slowing, shield at the ready, but still horribly exposed if a dozen men should decide to turn on him. "Your names. Both of you." As he comes closer, it looks as if he might take hold of the drunken lord's reins with his shield hand. (re for Daevon)

Aevander draws his own sword, his other hand curling around his horse's reins. There, now they all look armed and threatening. Tyrells and Targaryens! Heroes of the smallfolk! (re)

"Well, when you're drunk you'll do anything once." Jaremy muses as he keeps his sword drawn and pointed at one of the men at arms in classic pose. Still he doesn't move further as he looks towards the Inchfields. "I surmise their surname is Inchfield.." he adds aloud over to Tyrell. As for first names-he doesn't have that down.

And one little Blackwood, far away from home. Not that the smallfolk here have a bloody clue who Riderch is. But it doesn't seem like he cares all that much. He inches his horse forward a a pace or two. "My father always said you could do anything once." He observes, idly. His sword is still out. Now he's looking to Laurent, — it

And one little Blackwood, far away from home. Not that the smallfolk here have a bloody clue who Riderch is. But it doesn't seem like he cares all that much. He inches his horse forward a a pace or two. "My father always said you could do anything once." He observes, idly. His sword is still out. Now he's looking to Laurent, — it's a familiar gesture — a man in the field looking to his commander.

"Petyr, My Lord. And this here is my brother Cragar." Petyr, the reasonable Inchfield tells Laurent. Poor Petyr looks like he may faint. He moves to dismount from his horse.

Cragar dismounts when Laurent reaches for his reins, but it seems like Lord Inchcock has no intentions of behaving. Instead, he shouts at Daevon, "Fuck you! I'll fight you all day long!" He reaches for the pommel of his sword.

Beth holds on to Eonn's waist for dear life. "Oh, what if they are all being slaughtered now?" She frets needlessly.

"They're not," Eonn replies to the bride. "That is the Maiden's Knight."

"I doubt," Aevander replies as Cragar goes for his sword, "you'll last more than a minute, let alone a day." He stays where he is, looking confidently over at Daevon. It's hardly as if the Maiden's Knight will need help dispatching one drunk and idiotic lordling.

"Lord Crapper Inchdick?" Daevon replies. "How appropriate." He draws his own blade, and waits. "There will be no fucking happening here today, we already promised that."

"This is a bloody waste of time," Abram calls back over one shoulder as Daevon resumes taunting. "We've better business to be about than slaughtering this lot, Sers. Remember what we came to find. Get this drunken asshole out of the way, or take him and be done with it!"

Laurent's eyes narrow, but he catches the look from Riderch, and gives the man a single, slow nod. Wait for it, the gesture says. Then his eyes turn up to Petyr, and says with what seems to be genuine merriment in his voice, "Ser Daevon Targaryen is going to kill your brother." His head jerks back toward the Maiden's Knight, and he smiles wolfishly. "He's a pleasure to watch. I think you'll enjoy this."

"The Maiden's Knight?" Beth murmurs in wonder. She them beams brilliantly. "The Maiden's Knight saved me!" No mention of Eonn doing the majority of the saving, of course.

"I think we found the smart one." Riderch intones as he cranes his head at an angle, identifying Petyr. "Are you the smart one, Petyr Inchfield?" He points with his free hand, the finger lazily arcs through the air as it levels in the direction of Cragar. "Because I think we found the dumb one." Abram's protest is answered with a slight sigh. "Forgive me, Ser. I'm a stranger here. Ironborn normally don't give these sorts of florid introductions before we leave their bones for the fucking crows."

"Lord Inchfield. I beg of you to talk sense into your brother-and both of you surrender your swords." There's a glance to Daevon as Jaremy tries to edge forward on his horse a little more. "Please. There needs to be no death-none right now. Surrender and we'll escort you to your keep. Likely you will face Tyrell justice.." Whatever that is. As Riderch speaks up there's a bit of a laugh. "Normally here, we do not as well-though these are one of those times.."

"That he did," agrees Eonn, dryly. He stops his mare and turns her about, listening.

Abram calls back to Riderch, but voice is pitched to be clearly heard by the Inchfield men, "Thats because these are not Ironborn, but men of the Reach, Ser. Loyal men who have no intention of raising hands against the Blood of the Dragon."

"Cragar, stop!" Petyr cries out as Cragar lets out a whoop, and goes running towards Daevon with his sword waving above his head rather sloppily. Even sober it's likely that Lord Inchcock isn't much of a Knight. His form is not enviable in the least.

"A pity," Laurent says as he steps aside to clear a path for Cragar, finally taking hold of his horse, "I thought you might try to kill me. Now you're always going to be Lord Petyr Inchfield, who watched his brother die without lifting a hand. I'll be sure to mention that, when I inform Lord Hightower that you accompanied him on the way to claim First Night. He's a lenient sort, isn't he?"

"Have a little faith in the Maiden's Knight," Daevon calls out to the others. There's an icy glint in his eyes, a strange smile upon his lips. Oh he's looking forward to this so much, hoping beyond hope that the drunk man doesn't put down his weapon. He dodges aside the blow intended for him, and soundly thwaps Cragar with the flat of his sword blade. It takes every bit as much skill to not cut the man. "Inchcock, you are a fool. I expect you to apologise to these women, and never, ever consider taking advantage of any of them, again. You should beg for their forgiveness, and then for that of both the mother and the maiden. If you pray long enough, hard enough, you may be able to make amends." Daevon dances gracefully around him, raining blow after blow upon him, enough to bruise, but never with the edge nor with enough force to break anything.

"Thank the Gods for that." Riderch intones to Abram. That might grate on some loyal followers of the Seven, for sure. He lets out an odd laugh, with a backwards glance at Eonn. Maybe he's acknowledging the guy doing the heavy lifting. Literally. And then Petyr does his little charge. And he winces a little. It all happens a little too fast to react to but he has his sword raised. "Don't take this the wrong way, but maybe you arseholes should all go home. /Now./"

Eonn is out of sight, now, in spite of his white mare's colour. He's near enough to hear some ghost of the conflict from over the hill, though.

"By the seven," Aevander sighs as Cragan gets smacked about and taunted. "Daevon. Sort him and let's send these man packing. We've more important matters to be getting on with."

Abram raises his non-swordbearing hand to rub at his eyes as Cragar makes his fool's charge. Shoulders lower with a long, slow exhale as it becomes clear that the Inchfield men are not going to do anything stupid on their lord's behalf. A shake of the head as he shares a dry chuckle at Riderch's offered thanks, a sardonic turn of his gaze toward the dozen armsmen, and the remaining Inchfield brother. A 'shooing' motion is made toward the baker's dozen.

"I…I'm just a squire, ser." Petyr stutters out as he watches his brother be pummeled by the flat of Daevon's sword. He actually begins to get weepy, and cries out, "Cragar, stop!"

Cragar lets out a series of groans and grunts as he is beaten by Daevon's sword. He doesn't land one hit. Instead, he is beaten rather soundly. After he is assuredly black and blue in color, he collapses onto his knees, "I'm sorry!" He cries out, blood and spit dripping onto the ground. "Shooo shoooo sorry!"

Beth is no longer afraid. Now she is excited, a flush coloring her pink cheeks, "Oh, can we go watch?!"

Laurent's shoulders, too, sag in what certainly looks like defeat — at least, from his expression. "The Warrior's shrivelled cod," he curses under his breath. "It looks like he's going to live after all, doesn't it?" He shakes his head, entirely disapproving, as he watches the skillful exhibition of swordsmanship.

"You should have been the fucking /knight/. Now I know how Tel feels every time I get a fool idea in my head." Riderch spits after Petyr's outburst, sighing in complete and utter exasperation. "I hope we don't piss away the night on these amateurs. I was hoping for outlaws. You know, somebody no-one would miss."

Daevon pulls off his helmet, silver-gold hair spilling out, shining in the moonlight, those eyes of his now oh so obviously amethyst. "I am Ser Daevon Targaryen, the Maiden's Knight. I serve the Maiden. I will have your sworn word, that you shall learn from this mistake and never, ever, try to force a maiden against her wishes again. You will not abuse your birthright, or make a mockery of any vows you have taken. Do you understand me, Lord Craggar Inchfield. This is your chance at redemption."

"Don't look so glum, Ser," Abram dryly advises Laurent, with a wan grin curling one corner of his lip, "A dumb man of the Reach is still better than a dead one. Dumb folk can still learn."

"And continue to make very bad decisions," Aevander tacks onto Abram's comment. "Sometimes, the dead are tidier."

Eonn sighs a little, turning in the saddle to look at the woman behind him. "That," he says, "Is not a good idea. Wait. Be quiet."

"Not in my experience," Laurent counters with a shake of his head. "Still, it could be that Lord Hightower's justice will yet claim one head or the other." This prospect, at least, seems to brighten him somewhat. There's a nod of his head and a gesture toward Aevander, as if to say he has the right of it without actually voicing the words.

Abram chuckles, commenting without a shred of rancor, "Damn me, but I'm in amongst a dire lot tonight." He does dip his head toward the Targaryen as Aevander makes his point and Laurent offers emphasis to it. "No dispute."

Cragar lets out a whimper, and drops his sword. The drunk Inchfield blubbers out, "I se-swear." He spits more blood onto the ground. "N-No more with the brides or the having fun with smallfolk girls." then, he crumples up into a little ball on the ground, and begins to whimper.

"What, any of you think you're going to do better? I've seen chunks of meal in her shit" there's a careless gesture at his own horse's rear end "that were more useful than the whole lot of you were." Riderch glowers at the Inchcock (because that's totally the name we will forever use) men-at-arms. "I hope you thought you were having fun, because I am sure as the Hells am not."

The Inchfield men-at-arms are silent to Riderch's taunts. They do not get paid enough to tangle with Tyrells and Targaryens.

"It is not fun for them," Daevon says. "No more. If I hear that you have laid hands upon another woman against her wishes, and I will, the Maiden sees all, I will show up, in the middle of the night, and rip your cock and balls off and turn you into a woman yourself. Do you understand? Now get out of my sight."

Aevander smirks over at Abram. "Afraid you are," he agrees. "There was revelry and a pub on offer, if I recall correctly. Could be, you chose the wrong party, ser." Looking back to his brother and the cowering, sobbing Inchfield, he underscores Daevon's sentiment with a barked, "On your horse, you blubbering fool. Get yourself and your men out of our sight!"

Aevander smirks over at Abram. "Afraid you are," he agrees. "There was revelry and a pub on offer, if I recall correctly. Could be, you chose the wrong party, ser." Looking back to his brother and the cowering, sobbing Inchfield, he underscores Daevon's sentiment with a barked, "On your horse, you blubbering fool. Get yourself and your men gone!"

And here, Riderch looks flat-out disappointed. He may have been looking at Laurent like a general, but here he looks at Daevon like the man is a bloody king. His sword-arm lowers, even though the blade is still out. It is apparent that cooler heads will prevail. Thank the Gods. Strangely, there's a vulpine grin on his face yet again. He just does that.

Petyr tries to pick his brother up from the ground. Cragar is bawling drunkenly. The two brother's mount up, and ride off.

Daevon looks up at Laurent once they've ridden off. "You'll see to it that this is reported? If they've done that before then it needs to be investigated and proper punishments dished out. And, well, you're the Tyrell." He sheathes his sword and sighs. "Okay. Let's find out what happened to Visenya."

"Of course," Laurent says, sheathing his own sword as he looks about for his horse. "With any luck, that one will be killed anyway," he says with a gesture after Cragar. His palfrey is too far off to go chasing after at the moment, but satisfied that she's still nearby, he starts off on foot back toward the inn's yard. "Let's," he grunts, with a nod to Daevon.

In the darkness over the hill, Eonn waits a little longer, listening to the hoofbeats.

"What a waste." Riderch notes, sheathing his sword, slumping a little in his saddle. "I apologize for being a little too — earger. I just don't feel right letting threats to the Dragon go unanswered."

"Thank you, m'Lord!" Gemma, the bride's mother, says as she rushes forward to meet Daevon. "All of you may stay at the Inn if you'd like whenever you'd like, and drink on us!" That said, she looks to the Targaryen men, "Forgive me. I don't know what direction they went off in, but she's in the company of a Hedge Knight by tha' name of Ser Fulk the Subtle."

Beth listens as well as the horses ride off. She bites her bottom lip, and frets rather dramatically, "What if they come back?"

Aevander tucks his sword back into his scabbard and turns his own horse around to return to where the smallfolks are still gathered. He nods to Gemma before raising his voice to address the crowd. "There will be no more Inchfields coming to claim your brides," he calls, "The Maiden's Knight has taught them a lesson that won't be soon forgotten. But we have come here in search of a hedge knight dressed as a septon and a woman disguised as a silent sister who left this inn a few days ago. Any who know where they have headed, come forth and speak plain."

Abram comments aside to Riderch, "A waste indeed." The apology is met with a shrug of armored shoulders, "Were it a genuine threat, I'd be no less eager, Ser," as he sheathes his longsword. "That lot? Worst threat to us was that we might fall out of the saddle laughing and injure ourselves." He turns an eye to the ongoing discussion, adding aside to the Blackwood, "At worst, we'll need to split up and fan out in all directions. Least we know what they're travelling as, now."

"That man deserved to die," Laurent agrees, looking up to Riderch. "Deserves. He broke the law, and he raised arms against a lord — and a Targaryen, no less." This draws a shake of his head, and a look of anger that seems directed inward.

Daevon shakes his head. "Thank you most kindly for the offer, but we cannot stay." He looks relieved at Gemma's words. "It lifts my heart to know that my sister is well, and that you felt enough loyalty to her to try and protect her. If we had been lords such as those intent on her ravishment, then your words would have protected Visenya, as much as our actions protected your daughter. Did she speak of what she intended? Did she seem willing to be in this Knight's company?"

"Do you suppose they will?" Eonn asks Beth, urging his horse into a slow walk for the ride back to the Inn.

One of the wedding guests steps forward, "Northeast, m'Lord. They went Northeast towards the Uplands."

"I know Ser Fulk. He's not the sort of man to harm a woman, much less a lady." Gemma tells Daevon. "He dressed her as a Silent Sister because he was afraid of her being assaulted on the road. Figured no one would try and rape a Stranger's Wife."

"I wouldn't presume to interpret the law in your land, Ser." Riderch intones to Laurent, but there's a rumble in his tone that indicates obvious agreement. "But yes."

Abram's words earn another shrug. "You're entirely right, I'm afraid. I don't get it. Put a sword in a man's hand and a flagon in his other and he becomes four times as stupid. Clearly I don't understand the mathematics lessons I was given."

He straightens in his saddle. "The Subtle. There's a name. Well, we certainly didn't meet anyone subtle so far."

Eonn and Beth come back over the hill on the big white mare, and around towards the Inn.

"They say the Dragon Lords outlawed it, but they don't care any." Beth says to Eonn as they round the Hill.

Aevander observes the wedding guest for a moment of silence before he smiles. "The Uplands in the northeast." He repeats the direction and location a second time, loud enough to make sure all the others in the party have heard it. To the smallfolk who offered the information he adds, "Give me your name, and if your word proves true, I'll see you rewarded."

Abram barks out a short laugh at Riderch's summary of subtlety. "True, Blackwood. Too true." A breath drawn and let out, as he comments, "We're off to butterfly country, Ser."

"Do they not care, or do they not know?" asks Eonn. Once he's had a look about, as much as the darkness allows, he urges his mare to lengthen her stride and walk faster.

"Tobias, m'Lord." The wedding guest tells Aevander, "And I don't know for sure, but from what Ser Fulk was sayin', that's the direction they were heading. I watered his horse while he talked about it to the Sister."

"I don't know." Beth says softly, "Aren't Lords supposed to know everything?"

"Northeast," Daevon speaks quietly, looking in what he presumes is that direction. "There will be others arriving here to investigate what the Inchfield's have done. I would suggest speaking the truth to them, for all that it might require much bravery to speak out against such. There will be no others coming here to do such a thing."

Laurent pickes a smallfolk from the crowd who looks young and spry, pointing to the lad as he growls, "Fetch my horse." That so he can stay close and listen to the conversation. "How long ago did they leave," he asks Tobias as he draws nearer.

"Maybe they are supposed to," says Eonn, "But it depends on who is doing the supposing. They don't." He stops the mare, not far from the crowd, and turns in the saddle to give Beth his hand to help her slide down.

"Must have been about five days ago…" Tobias says, "But Ser Fulk is getting up there in years. And if tha Sister is the Silver-Haired Maid…well, she didn't sit a horse so well. I can't imagine they are traveling very fast."

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