(121-03-06) Noble Quest Takes A Rest
Noble Quest Takes A Rest
Summary: In which we learn that a group of knights can gossip. A lot.
Date: 03/06/2014
Related: First Night Not Right
Players:
Aevander..Daevon..Jaremy..Laurent..Riderch..

They've been riding onward, Daevon scouting ahead with Arros for some time being, but eventually the horses need a break, as do the men it would seem. With supplies gathered from the inn it's not as if they're lacking in anything, well save for spare horses, and an actual plan. "Here looks as good a place as any to stop." Daevon calls out. "Unless you want to push on and see if there's somewhere habitable we can rest?"

"I'd rather stop where we are than keep on in the hopes of somewhere better," Aevander opines as Daevon rejoins them. He's looking tired, both from the long night and the way his saddle is wearing on his posterior.

"I know this land, fine enough." Ser Jaremy speaks up as he slows his horse, coming now to join up with the two Targaryens. "We're likely better here than tiring out the horses further." And here he reaches down to pat his grey's neck. "We push em harder, an I suspect we'll have a steed or two die on us." And there he looks back towards Aevander. "Your call though m'lords. It's your kin you're after."

"We're on horseback, they aren't," Daevon says. "And I would not kill any steed for a few hours extra pursuit. They have days on us, and we will not go faster if we have dead or injured mounts. We rest here then, for a while. If people wish to nap, they can, and we'll take up the trail again when we're feeling more rested."

"Wouldn't mind a bite to eat, either," Aevander notes as he brings his horse to a stop and climbs down off the saddle with a quietly suppressed groan. The black gelding gets a pat on the neck Before he's led to a narrow stream cutting in along the path.

"It's settled then." And there Jaremy turns and raises his hand to signal a further halt to the other riders, before he is moving to dismount. One hand is given to the reigns, before he is moving to follow on towards the stream, keeping on Aevander's heels. The groan noted, the young knight does offer a bit of a smirk before clearing his throat. "Been a while since you rode like that, Ser?"

Daevon's used to riding. He chuckles at Jaremy's words but he doesn't tease his brother. He takes his own horse to the stream as well, to let her drink her fill. "There's plenty to eat at least."

"Mmmf," Aevander agrees wryly, pressing a hand to the small of his back and tipping backwards to offer his cramped spine a stretch. "Most of my heroic chivalry was performed closer to home," he agrees. "Shall we start a fire?"

"When I was in Dorne we'd have to ride for bloody hours, moving between holds and then the messages I delivered." And there he shakes his head, before hands reac up to remove his helmet. Curly brown hair is shaken out before he is looking back to Aevander. "You get used to it." he offers the other Targaryen before he is moving to sit down while his horse drinks. An absent eye kept on the gelding.

"I wouldn't. Not that anyone is looking for us-just seems trouble."

"There's not much need," Daevon says. "The weather's warm enough and we're only planning to stay a few hours. We'll soon have you back in shape, brother." He looks at Jaremy. "You were in Dorne?"

There's a nod given. "Aye, I was-Ser." And there the Strickland heir looks back towards the Maiden's knight. "I was under the Tyrell command there, till things cooled down. I ran escort duties between Reach and Stormlander lines, and served as a Messanger between the commanders." Which means Jaremy was likely ambushed several times over in his stint in the Marches. "And now I am chasing down a Targaryen lass-instead of resting." A dry laugh there. "Truth be told, I had to get free of Oldtown for even a little bit."

"I like my shape just fine. We shouldn't all be heroes, or who would notice the heroes at all?" He fetches some hard cheese and a crust of bread out of his saddle bag, and drops down onto a fallen log so that he can stretch out his legs as he unwraps the little, makeshift meal. "I expect Oldtown doesn't compare to the excitement of racing between the lines in Dorne."

"I served on the border a few years back," Daevon says quietly. "I was very lucky." He pauses a moment. "Would you rather be resting? Are you injured?" His gaze filled with concern. He shakes his head at what his brother says in regards to excitement, his own expression troubled. He doesn't speak up though.

There's a bit of a shrug given Aevander. "It's not the excitement." That could be part of it deep down, but Jaremy isn't in a searching mood. "There's an odd noise about Oldtown. Living and not-which..When you're used to Dorne.." And there he looks back over towards Daevon, as if he would understand. "Not visibly." And there a sad smile is shown before he is mussing with his hair again. "And no. I just would be stir crazy. I'm fine-really. Ser."

"An odd noise?" Aevander asks as he tears off a bit of cheese and places it on the bread. He bites and chews, glancing between Daevon and Jaremy before he swallows down the morsel and chases it with a little water from his canteen. "How so?"

Daevon nods sympathetically at Jaremy. He himself does not pry though. He pulls an apple from his saddlebag's much to his horse's interest. And slices it in half, the first given to his mount and the second he settles down to eat himself.

"A ringing in your ear. You've been in a tournament yes? Been clanged by a lance or a sword to the head?" And there Jaremy looks up, before he is removing his leather gauntlets. Both slapped to the dirt before he is rising and going to pull a bit of apple and cheese from his own saddlebag. "Combat-the Front. It's not all glory and glamour as you are lead to believe." And with that he is back down to sit in the dirt. "I mean, there is glory-sure. It's just." And there he fights for the word, before leaving it be entirely.

"There's no glamour," Daevon says. "The glory, it's soaked in blood. There's no black and white, it's all just shades of red. This is easier. Simpler. We're off in search of a Maiden. There's a dragon. Even that fight, back at the Inn. It was a clear case of right and wrong."

Aevander considers as he chews before tearing off another hunk of bread and cheese and offering it to Daevon. "I've been clouted in a tourney many a time," he agrees, "but I confess I've never heard such a ringing in Oldtown. For my part, I rather hope we'll find the maiden and not the dragon. I'm not sure we're much equipped to deal with such a creature."

Jaremy nods back towards Daevon. "Exactly." And there he takes a bite of cheese, letting the other knight speak, while he thinks. And chews. After a moment he looks back up. "With the Dornish, we're fighting over bloody land. Not to say there is no merit in it. It could be a place for our people, but we both lay claim to it. And old fights don't end with one battle. They're like a wound and they bleed. That's what the marches are like. A slow bleed." And that earns another bite-though this time apple. Jaremy continues to chew for a moment.

There's a laugh there before he is nodding. "Aye, well I don't know what kills a dragon." And likely-it'd be against the law to do so.

Daevon nods at Jaremy's words. He's nothing to add to it though. "Aevander, have faith. The two of us have the blood of the dragon. We have nothing to worry about from the dragon as long as we're not stupid. Besides, it's called the Whoremaster. I think we'd be safe on any level. We're not going to try and kill it."

The older Targaryen brother listens to this description of the Dornish marches, but he only gives a small nod. Chew, chew, ch-… "It's called the what?" Aevander asks as the dragon's name is revealed, doing his best to speak with food in his mouth before quickly swallowing it. "You cannot be serious."

Jaremy continues to eat, rather easily. Though hearing the Dragon's name, there is a blink from the knight before he is looking to Aevander. "Who comes up with a Dragon's name in the first place?" A serious question that. "So-does it only like whores?" A curious thought-that.

"The dragon flew over the city," Daevon says. "It completely ignored everyone on the streets, all the people, and horses, screaming and running. It swooped down upon a whore, and the man being intimate with her, in an alley. It ate her and dropped him in the sea. Then it flew away. So they call it the Whoremaster. I've tried looking for more information on a dragon that matches its description but no luck."

"I think it's the same way I became the Maiden Knight. People keep calling a thing by a name until that name sticks," Daevon says.

"Wouldn't Whore Eater make more sense?" Aevander asks, brows furrowed. "That sounds less like mastery and more like chewing."

Now there's a laugh. "I had not heard of that-I had heard a Dragon came over the city, but nothing more." Jaremy is snickering slightly as he chows down on more food, even pausing to choke and spit away as a laugh is wrestled free of his throat. "Well then we should be safe-none of us are whores." thankfully. And there he looks back towards Daevon. "How did you come about it? I never heard the tale."

"Which story would you like?" Daevon asks. "The one in which the Maiden came to me in a vision, in answer to my prayers for better health, and who granted my wish for as long as I acted to protect all maidens? That would be the one most people tell. Not the one of the young squire who…" he trails off. "I think I prefer the first version. Although I have never had such a vision. I did pray to her for health and that prayer was granted."

"I should hope not," Aevander agrees as to their party's potential whoredom. He polishes off the last of the bread and cheese, dusting off his hands and looking from Jaremy to Daevon. "It is a good story," he allows. "Better than wrestling a shark."

There's a brief nod and then he raises a brow. "A young squire who did what?" Clearly he's not in the know on these 'tales'. There's a glance over to Aevander, about to say something but he stops. Instead he takes this time to chomp down and finish his cheese. Jaremy glances back to Daevon finally. "Well, I am glad your prayer was answered."

Daevon's confused when Aevander mentions the shark. He's thoughtful at Jaremy's question. "There was a young squire, hardly fit for such work. He was much smaller than the other squires and not at all fit for martial pursuits. He was pretty though, they say, beautiful even. And they said it was clear that the only reason he'd become a Squire was because he was actually a maiden in disguise. So they called him the Maiden Knight. He fought them. He bloodied their noses and broke their bones and he lost so many fights. Until he took their name, and made it his own, so they couldn't use it against him any more."

Well, in truth, that's a new story to Aevander, as well, and he scratches his fingers lightly over his peach-fuzzy jaw. "And how close to the truth is that tale?" he asks, once Daevon finishes speaking.

"You know me, brother," Daevon smiles. "I'm absolutely terrible at making up stories. I've little creativity about me, unless it comes to how to stab someone with a sword."

"If it's true then it is a fine. Not as pretty as the other tale, but it has it's merit." Jaremy says thoughtfully after some time. And then he is looking back towards Aevander, and is quick to move along, less any uncomfortable truths be given, or forced out. "Have you seen combat Ser?" Curious about this other Targaryen he is breaking bread with.

"You should have written," is all Aevander says, quietly, to his brother before looking back over at Jaremy. "Ah, no. Nothing real. Only the sort of combat one finds at tourneys or in training fields."

Daevon smiles at Aevander. "There's some battles that need to be fought alone." He takes another bite from the apple. "Well, since we're stopped I'm going to sneak in a nap."

A slight whistle and a nod is given back to Aevander. "When you've seen it. Like Dorne? Then you'll get it." Meaning the ringing sound. Quietly, Jaremy lifts his apple and eyes it, before rubbing the red skin along his surcoat, not too present about the dirt he may have collected. There's a raise of his hand in Daevon's direction before he is looking back to the other Dragon still left. And with a bit of a lean he extends his hand.

"Jaremy Strickland."

The search has been paused to let the horses rest and drink from a shallow stream, and to let the knights stretch their legs and get something to eat from among the items given to them by the innkeeper. Aevander sits on a downed log, near Jaremy, with an open skin of water and a bit of cloth that used to contain bread and cheese. Nearby, Daevon has taken the chance for a short rest and is napping.

As Jaremy offers his hand, Aevander extends his own, clasping the other man's arm. "Aevander Targaryen," he returns the greeting. It's symbolic if not wholly necessary to offer his name, at this point.

Laurent chews at a tough crust of bread, standing at the edge of the stream. The day's ride has found in him a laconic companion, seemingly ill-at-ease but unwilling to speak of it.

Also having not had much to say (which is an odd thing for him) since the Inchfield Crisis is the Riverlander of the group. Riderch's found himself sprawled beneath a tree after having secured his black mare. His arms are stretched out behind his head, propping it up in the grass.

"A pleasure." Jaremy says, before he turns and nods his head towards Laurent. "There's the one they call Ser Thorn..Quite a party you've managed to assemble." He offers back to Aevander. "A broken knight, a maiden's knight. There's a Florent, the Thorn-and a Riverlander." He could be forgetting someone, and likely is. "Oh!" And there it dawns on him. "The Sand." the Dornish fellow. "Sort of things you hear sung about. Chasing a maiden and a dragon. With an assorted mummer's cast of characters."

Aevander looks in Laurent's direction as well and nods. "The Thorn and I were acquainted earlier at his cousin's play, speaking of a mummer's cast," he explains before letting his gaze travel over each of the men as Jaremy names them. "Suppose we are a little slap-dash, but only in background. We hardly seem lacking in skill."

"Mayhap there will be a play about us," Laurent chimes in dryly. He eyes what's left of the crust in his hand for a moment before tossing it sidearm into the small creek, then turns to walk back to where his horse — a snow white palfrey — is tied near Riderch's. Once there, he begins yet another inspection of his tack and harness. An entirely unnecessary one, but a man has to occupy his time. "There's plenty of mettle in this bunch," he says, with a glance at the reclining Riverlander near him. "Still. Doesn't mean we're destined for success."

A whinney and a stomping of hoof on the part of Riderch's black courser. Maybe she's gossiping with Laurent's mount in her own language. Who knows?

"Mmm. That's the thing." Riderch himself now interjects, wriggling a little until he has himself back against a tree, propped up and sighing a little before he rolls his arm out to grab his pack. Rummaging through it, He frowns absently. "I suppose this is one of those stories we will end up telling our grandchildren."

Jaremy looks back towards Laurent as he chimes in. "Please don't mistake me, I believe we have mettle." Even if he did not show it truly the night before. "I just find it like the beginning of an epic is all." And there the core of his apple is tossed to the stream before he is rising up, and making for a small but of shade. There he is sitting back down, and stretching out his legs. "We're destined for something." He says with a bit of a laugh before lying back, making a pillow of his hands. "Wake me, if something comes.." Jaremy murmurs, as eyes half close.

"No more than we are destined for failure, Ser Thorn," Aevander replies. "It hardly matters, either way. Or sister has gone, we can do no less than pursue and bring her home." Or, back to Oldtown, anyway. "Perhaps you can write a ballad of us, then, Ser Jaremy. Do you have a gift with the quill?"

"Seven save me from grandchildren," Laurent says sourly, with a glance at Riderch. His horse shuffles toward him as he tightens the saddle, and he takes a moment to soothe the mare as he goes on, nodding his agreement with Aevander. "Just so. We will ride, come what may. Perhaps we'll find your lady sister, after all." Frowning, he stops what he's doing to add, "I do hope so." In case there was any doubt. There may have been some doubt.

"Ha!" Riderch barks a sharp laugh as he finds his quarry — an apple. It looks like it hasn't gone to rot yet, either. And there are a few more in the pack by the looks of things. He holds the thing aloft to Laurent — and gestures with it around indicating the fruits are freely shared. He's not getting off his ass to take it to anyone else, though. There are limits to the man's generosity.

"I'm sure it would be fine. In my case, I'm sure it would be more rewarding than hobbling around on a walking stick cursing how damn fool the young were." His sandy eyebrows waggle mirthfully. "Not that I /won't/ be doing that either…"

One eye props open as the knight remains extended out, trying to find some slumber before they ride again. A sleepy enough chuff of laughter is given. "I was graced with talent, in many things..And I enjoy Calligraphy…but I am no bard. I could at least make a presentable document, though." and there with a half grin, the eye droops down to closure once more.

Soon enough, soft snores would follow.

"I think children are required for grandchildren," Aevander offers helpful, "so only remain single, Ser Thorn, and you shall be spared. Well, from legitimate ones, at any rate." He smirks over at Riderch as he crows over his apple. "You… are the fellow who proposed another duel with a dolphin, aren't you?"

Laurent comes 'round the front of his horse to take the offered apple, grumbling a thank you as he settles heavily next to the Blackwood knight. "If the gods are good, I'll be dead long before then," he says just before he crunches into the fruit. He shakes his head at Aevander's advice, wiping a drip of juice away from his chin with the back of one hand. "I'm married now, Ser. Just a week or so past."

"Well, if the Fish that is not a Fish decides to menace the land, one must do what one can." Riderch muses, stifling an even bigger grin than the one currently on his face as the apples are distributed. He bites into his own, lazily. "Mmm. Speaking of fish, if we stop near water soon…" He doesn't finish this observation though, chewing on the fruit and commenting on Laurent's new status. "It sounds like you've already been working on that, Ser. I suppose I'll have to worry about that myself." A heavy, dutiful sigh. "I mean, worry about it and actually /do/ something about it rather than simply worrying about it."

"In that case, Ser Thorn, your doom is assured. I'd begin preparing your best angry old man voice, now. Grandchildren are inevitable," Aevander opines, somber and sage. Of Riderch, he asks, "Are you worrying about marrying or not marrying?"

"I highly recommend finding a lady of House Locke for yourself then, Ser Riderch," the Thorn says through a mouthful of apple. "My own wife is everything a man could ask for, and more." He says it, though, as if it were a source of frustration to him. Of great frustration, in fact. "Or are you in Oldtown with an eye toward a lady of the Reach?" To Aevander, he says in a grim tone, "Perhaps they are, but surviving to meet them isn't."

"Both, Ser." The Blackwood lord admits to the Targaryen with a certain hint of resignation in his voice. He further comments on this as he responds to Laurent now, chewing on his apple. At least he only talks between bites. "From what I've seen of your situation, Ser, that might be something of an improvement, maybe? It's always Freys, Freys, Freys. There was a Terrick too, she hated me even more than I detested her." Snickering slightly, he observes, "I think that is another reason my father sent me here. Economic and state affairs were just a convenient cover." Riderch intones. "Of course now I ran into my late brother's betrothed, and I assure you that was /no/ coincidence." His nostrils flare in a bit of a snort, in the manner of his own horse.

Finally though, he gives the Reach knight a level gaze. "I don't know — you're doing all right so far. I mean, the whole 'survival' thing."

"It hardly seems a way to honor such an ideal wife," Aevander notes after Riderch, "to plan to get yourself killed and leave her a widow. With children, no less." The Targaryen tuts his disapproval, smirking faintly. But the riverlander's comment has him asking, with a laugh, "Oh, have you, now? And is it her design, then, to become your betrothed?"

"I say find a homely wife, whom you detest, and make do with whores as the gods intended," Laurent opines, ever contrary. "It's more natural, isn't it?" He looks from Riderch to Aevander here, sure that at least one of them will support him in this. At the very least, he seems to expect they'll appreciate a bit of coarse humor as he adds, "I 'honor' my wife thorougly, and often enough, Ser Aevander."

"Her design probably involves my head on a stick." Riderch says, his animated face suddenly wrinkling and contorting into an almost-comical grimace. "Her original betrothal was designed to be one of those marriages that solves problems and puts a salve on old wounds. I don't know how you can keep doing the same thing over and over for centuries and expect it to /work." The sour look fades a little as he takes another bite of the apple.

"You sound like someone I know, all right. Not the first time I've had that advice." And like that, the sour turns the corner to laughter. "I'm sure this story's been told over and over again throughout history. The Second Son becomes the heir that none expected."

"Don't ask me for marriage advice," Aevander replies with a shake of his head. "I'm a Dragon, we marry our siblings half the time." He glances over at his dozing brother before adding, wryly, "Or, anyway, we're supposed to." His brows lift a little as he blinks over at Riderch. "Is that your story, then? Sudden heir?"

"I'll be damned," said softly, is Laurent's take on Riderch's story. "And there's trouble brewing with your late brother's betrothed, hm? Don't suppose you can just…" He trails off, drawing a thumb across his throat to a gruesome, wet sound effect. His tone is surely as wry as Aevander's as he adds, "Must be simpler that way."

"I pity the poor bastard who's stuck with my sister. After she's done with him." It's clear though that the Riverlander is speaking out of fondness for the woman, a bit of soft, rumbled laughter hammers this home. "But my story? Yes. That's part of it. It's probably the most exciting part." Comes Riderch's admission. He taps his foot a little bit on the ground as he cuts out a piece of brown apple flesh with his finger and discards it with a flick.

"Believe me — the topic has probably come up before but I think it will cause more problems than it will solve. Besides — I just don't know how culpable she is in all this. Brackens are Brackens, of course, but.." He draws in a breath — "My brother wasn't much of a warrior and he decided to lead men to deal with an incursion of — raiders? There were things that were all wrong about this. He took a wound that went rotten and died of a fever. Conveniently after his betrothal feast."

"You would think that, wouldn't you," Aevander sighs for the simplicity of simply marrying one's kin. "It doesn't always prove that way." His fingers drum idly on his knee. "You suspect these raiders were something else?" he asks. "Your brother's death was only convenient if you suppose his betrothed wished him ill. In which case, what is she doing in Oldtown, tailing after you?"

"It does muddy things some," Laurent agrees glumly. "Has she spoken to you? Here in Oldtown, I mean?" Finishing his apple, he tosses the core over onto the ground near his horse, then reclines in the gross to prop his weight on one elbow. "You suspect that the raiders weren't Ironborn at all, then. Or were Ironborn paid by the Brackens, perhaps?"

"Well, the Reach is a trade hub. But it's quite conceivable she was 'told' to go here." Riderch muses. "Not everyone is as good at shirking family duty as I was. Although like I said, I think those days are long gone." Finishing the apple down to the shabby core, he gives it a careless heave in the distance and it lands in a pile of grass, probably as a waiting treat for some hungry rodent. Wiping his hand on the grass, he lets out a large sigh. "I don't know if 'spoke' is the correct word for what transpired, but I'm going to abuse the hospitality of the Tyrells —" He catches himself "Well, House Hightower by fighting in the streets. And Ironborn? I don't know. Ironborn, Brackens in disguise. Hired scum paid to abuse our smallfolk and burn and kill, they deserve the same fate. But it is quite conceivable."

"It's also only supposition. If you suspect, you should investigate, but you shouldn't simply presume," Aevander opines. "Not with such a weighty concern. If your brother was slain through duplicity, you must avenge him. And if he was not, you must release your suspicions and make a better peace for the future of your family."

"Sure enough is sure enough," Laurent counters with a shrug of his shoulders. His tone is more sullen than combative, though. He's not looking for an argument. "Someone ought to hang for it." His heavy brow furrows deep, and he looks up at Riderch to add, "It's a wonder they let you so far from home, with trouble brewing — or brewed. They're missing your sword, I'll warrant. Or they will be."

"There was plenty of killing in reprisal — just no proof of anything greater than what it appeared to be on the surface — evil men being stopped by a man who probably should not have been in command. And the Tullys have been balancing a fine peace between our two Houses ever since Harren the Black was delivered his due — so the moment anything is brought to them they'll probably roll their eyes." Riderch notes, in a languid manner as he stretches out under the tree.

"I think, actually, I might be here in part because of that possibility. My father his Master-At-Arms have things in hand for the time being. But you are quite right, Ser Targaryen." He nods towards Aevander. "We are still investigating. Quietly. This is actually a welcome change of pace. Although I don't think my father would approve of me going on this little expedition." There's a coldness to his tone.

"No, I expect not if there's risk of a dragon and he's already lost one son," Aevander replies pragmatically. "Luckily, I'm one of a passel, so I might risk my hide and hair as I like" He flashes a quick, bright grin for such freedom, "not that the risk is very great with my brother alongside us." The violet-eyed man gives a shake of his head as he replies to the Thorn, "Sure enough is not sure enough when it comes to a blood feud, Ser Laurent. Such generational grudges are made large and endless by such thinking."

Laurent barks out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Those feuds are endless already, Ser Aevander. Best to bleed them now and again — takes the pressure off." His voice actually holds a note of amused sympathy as he tells Riderch, "It's the lot of sons to disappoint their fathers, isn't it? The Father knows I've been no end of a nuisance for mine." He says it with no grudge, at least. He has accepted that his father doesn't care for him, apparently, and is content to serve anyway.

"What a glorious place Westeros would be if House Bracken could stop sharpening knives behind their backs and join hands with us." Riderch's sputters out a half-laugh. "Then we could raise our swords together and join with our neighbors the next time the Ironmen rise — and believe me they /will/ rise — salt those miserable piles of rock where they come from and send them all to their Squid-god. It'd be doing all the world a favor." The laughter subsides now though as his mirthful grin is replaced by a more sober, balanced look.

"From what I've seen of Targaryen competence in my life, I've learned to believe the stories. We shall be fine. But my father — he is a stubborn man, set in his ways, and sometimes I think the Old Blood in him is more than just hereditary. It's only because he's learned to listen to my mother that I didn't get shipped off to the Citadel. Or worse. I wonder what little Benjicot is going to grow up to be like."

"Fathers… can be demanding," is all Aevander offers on that particular topic. He smirks over at the riverlander before confessing, "if you could manage that, ser, it would make my own family's job that much less agitating. Dragons can devour squids, but they leave a very foul taste."

Daevon's breathing becomes more regular and he cracks an eye open. He's awake, although far too comfortable for now to move.

"The Ironmen worship a squid?" Laurent seems equal parts amused and repulsed by the idea. "Gods, there's no end to their wrongheadedness. But aye, it's all well and good to wish for peace with our rivals. Best keep our shields held high though, while we do the wishing, hadn't we?"

"Well they try to make it more grandiose than it really is. Squid. Kraken. It all smells the same." Riderch lets the note of disgust ride out his speech a moment more. "And Ser Laurent — that's precisely what I'd say." Bemused, he does offer the Targaryen an aside, "I'd consider it a just service. It'd be a nice idea, wouldn't it?"

"A very fine idea," Aevander agrees. "There's nothing wrong with keeping your shields lifted. It's the saber rattling I protest." He notices as his brother's breath shifts from 'sleeping' to 'not quite', and he pucks up a small pebble, tossing it in Daevon's direction. "Up with you, then. The horses have had water and rest. We should be on our way, again, soon."

Daevon sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his gaze going to the sky to guess what time it is. He stands up soon after, stretching out his limbs. "Hmm." He blinks a few times.
You paged Daevon with 'log up! http://gobmush.wikidot.com/log:121-03-04-comings-and-goings'

"Hardly worth carrying a shield," Laurent mutters, "If you don't have a sword to go with it." But then he's grunting as he sits up, and it's hands on his knees and unfolding to stand up. He yawns as he raises his arms high above his head and then out wide to his sides. The stretches serve to make the already tall and broad Tyrell knight seem to loom even larger for a moment, but then he settles and wanders toward the creek.

"Probably wise. All of it." As Daevon stirs, Riderch himself ambles to his feet, from being seated under a rather comfortable-looking shady tree. He appears relieved now to have somebody else's problems to focus on — other than his own.

Helmet, on. Check his horses gear, ensuring that the straps are all firmly buckled. Whisper a few words of friendship to the creature. "You do all know what the stories say happen when we discover a lost maiden?" Daevon asks, goodnaturedly.

Aevander pushes to his own feet, indulging in a long stretch that causes something, somewhere in his bone structure to *pop*. He grunts and walks over to the black gelding to collect his reins and check his saddle. "What, then?" he asks of his brother.

Laurent kneels at the stream, cupping his hands and leaning forward first to drink a bit of the cool water, then to splash his face with it. He shakes his head as he blows out through his mouth to make a wet sound, then turns to walk back toward his horse, waiting for Daevon's answer.

"One of you, is going to fall madly in love with her and marry her," Daevon says. "Not me though. I shall be well and truly at the back of the party. At least that's how it will go in the play, won't it? And not Ser Laurent either, for he's married now."

"If that's the case, I ought to push you right to the front, you brat," Aevander chides, laughing as he speaks. "It would save me from father's tirades every time he thinks on the subject. Otherwise, I suppose it will have to be Ser Riderch, though I do not think father would abide a betrothal to a bannerman house. I'm not sure if Ser Jaremy is yet wed, but his standing is no better."

"You and I have been listening to very different stories, Ser Daevon," Laurent says with a chuckle. Mild though it is, it may be an inappropriate joke, as the maid they're searching for is the Targaryens' sister. Such never even seems to occur to the boorish Tyrell. He shrugs as he stands, looking sidelong at Aevander as he suggests, "Ser Arros, then? Everyone seems to love the Dornish bastard." He says it without animosity, but without much enthusiasm, either.

Daevon laughs at Aevander. "Oh no, you're the eldest. I think you should go first." He shakes his head. "No, I don't think he'd approve of a bannerman, or in fact anyone but a match he's set up himself." He shakes his head at Laurent. "He wouldn't consent to me marrying a Dornish Princess, I doubt that he'd let my sister marry a Dornish Bastard."

"No bastards," Aevander agrees, "and I've observed Ser Arros. I would be well surprised if he hasn't already made a handful of bastards of his own. He's not for Visenya." He sighs, considering. "Perhaps it shall have to be Lord Pansy after all."

"I wouldn't presume to even make a joke about that sort of thing." Riderch finally chimes in. "Although my father would likely swallow every disapproving glance he'd ever shot me in my entire life the moment a Targaryen stepped into Raventree Hall." He continues to dust himself off as he makes his way to his coal-black courser, the mare kicks her hoof at the dirt as he inspects his tack.

"Hells, I'm pretty sure a simple smile from your House would make things as right as rain." His smile is slightly rueful.

Daevon shakes his head at Aevander. "Arros would not. He's far more responsible in such ways than he gives the impression. But he is certainly not for our sister." He smiles at Riderch. "Well perhaps, once my sister is safely returned, and our business here is settled I might take a trip to your home, and tell him about what a wonderful son he has. How he was brave and bold in seeking out my sister with no expectation of reward."

"I'll go first then, and perhaps she'll fall in something resembling contentment with my cousin," Laurent says glumly. "In truth, the lady as marries him will be afforded freedoms that some women would find agreeable, I should think." He rises from the side of the creek to walk back to his own horse, and takes a critical look at tack and harness while he waits.

"Take a step towards a truce with the Brackens," Aevander tells Riderch as he gives the neck of his horse a soft pat, "and perhaps a smile can be arranged." He glances over and a faintly frowns at Daevon for his far more generous offer. Don't give it away for free! Aevander climbs into the saddle and considers Laurent's words. "Visenya is a very intelligent woman," he replies. "If she extended the offer to wed your cousin, she won't have done it lightly. Though I shall warn you, Ser Thorn, I will not allow my sister to be shamed or humiliated by the actions or inactions of her future husband. Your cousin must learn a thing or two about discretion."

Daevon's puzzled by Aevander's frown. Of course he's an oddity, their father's teachings missing the mark completely with Daevon, the son who's always been an embarassment. He mounts up his horse as well, ready to ride on.

Daevon's statement has Riderch a little flummoxed. "Ser Daevon — I wasn't honestly fishing for — bah. You know what i mean." He does, Riderch hopes. This also is one of those rare, interesting cases where the Blackwood is taken quite a bit off-guard. "But you and your kin are always welcome." He finally offers, just letting the issue drop. That was a bit ackward.

Aevander does however get a curious, sidelong glance. And then a thoughtful half-nod as he finishes readying his horse. "There. We go. Easy, girl."

"She seems it," Laurent allows with a nod. "And I believe we've seen to my cousin's indiscretions, Ser Aevander." The Thorn bristles a bit at the subject, though it's not unexpected, and the Targaryen knight isn't wrong to bring it up. One foot in the stirrup, and the surly knight swings into the saddle, taking the reins to calm his mare. "But if you hear word of more, bring it to me. I'll see it dealt with, Ser."

"I know," Daevon says. "Still, I like travelling, and you are helping rescue my sister. I'm I have call to travel that way, I will certainly be paying you a visit." He looks relieved at Laurent's words. "That is good news indeed. I hope that the theatre is going to prove a worthy place for him to channel his energies."

"Be assured, Ser Thorn, I shall," Aevander replies. He clicks his tongue and urges the gelding to take a few steps forward, looking back to make sure the rest of the party is equally ready and mounted. With a nod to Daevon, he adds, "Let us hope that's indeed the case."

Also notable is Riderch's processing of the conversation about Laurent's coousin. Or rather, his utter avoidance at commenting. There are some eyebrows raised, but it is one of those 'I thought about what he said one minute after he said it.' No mention of oatcakes here, as he enters the saddle, patting the horse's flank.

Laurent urges the palfrey forward into a steady pace, taking the road back up. He rides well, as a knight should. His helm and shield are slung behind him, along with a wicked looking mace, while his sword hangs from a baldric at his side.

Daevon's wearing his helmet, and it once more conceals his hair. He's ready to go ahead once more.

Aevander is on his horse, so pretty much good to go. Up(lands)wards and onwards!

And Riderch rides along, bringing his mount in line with the others.

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