(121-03-16) A Friendly Visit
A Friendly Visit
Summary: In which Abram and Laurent discuss matters Dornish.
Date: Date of play (03/16/2014)
Related: Logs tagged re:wickhamsnest .
Players:
Abram..Laurent..

Bones - Sunday, March 16, 2014, 9:22 AM

Grand Hall - Garden Isle Manse Sphinx Street

Sun Mar 16, 121 ((Sun Mar 16 09:20:21 2014))

It is a summer morning. The weather is warm and fair.

The first floor's main hall is grand, open room dominated by a massive fireplace and high-arched windows facing the street, protected by heavy iron bars. The white walls and polished white marble floors make it seem airy and bright. The starkness of the walls is softened by three long tapestries, depicting fantastical hunting scenes, while the marble floor is cushioned by rich Myrish rugs.

Down the center of the hall is a long, wide dining table, able to seat thirty comfortably. At the head of the table is an enormous chair of elaborately carved rosewood, with a door behind flanked by two high windows, giving a view of the sunlight gardens. Near the fireplace are smaller chairs, cushioned benches, and small tables for more intimate conversations.

Alcoves and doors at either side of the great hall lead to servants quarters, kitchens, and smaller sitting rooms. At the northwest and southeast corners of the building are square towers holding the stairs up to the floor above, where the bedchambers and other sitting rooms are found.

Contents: Laurent

Exits: [BC] Barrack Corridor - Garden [O] Garden Isle

[U] Upper Corridor - Garden Is [WG] Walled Garden - Garden Isl

Special: places - Special Places Available

Laurent is draped casually across a high-backed chair (though not at the head of the table) in the great hall of the Garden Isle Manse, a pair of men-at-arms seated across from him. One man-at-arms wears a purple cloak, while the other is in more traditional Tyrell colors. His squire is nearby as well, a nervous-looking lad who is currently employed sharpening a sword. The surly Tyrell knight is speaking is clearly agitated as he listens to the two men at arms, and his response is loud, and laden with foul language. It can be heard from afar as a series of curses and a demand that something or other be made ready more quickly.

Abram was admitted to the fine estate and directed to where Laurent could be found. As he approaches, the sounds of displeasure are heard before the Tyrell is seen, leaving Abram with a dry grin by the time he steps into sight, and speaks. "Shall I take it by the Ser's mood that you've heard what the Hightowers had to say to Ser Viggo? Or have I called at a poor time?"

"Ser Abram," Laurent says, his attention flashing to the entryway. "No," he says, shaking his head, though he doesn't immediately make it clear which question he's answering. Instead he turns back to the men-at-arms, dismissing them with a surly-sounding, "Go." Then, over his shoulder, an even more irritable, "Not you, damnit," to his squire — who might have been stirring to leave as well. "You'll need to hear this, won't you?"

That done, he gestures toward one of the recently emptied seats, and looks back to Abram. "Wine?" Without wating for an answer, he shouts it, "WINE," so that someone from the kitchens can hear. Still slouched almost bonelessly in his seat, he adds, "I've not heard anything. Ser Olyvar, was it, then?"

"And Lord Ormund," Abram affirms with a nod, sinking into the chair with a stiff exhale, drawing a breath to accept the offer of wine, but as Laurent summons it anyway, he voices instead, "Ormund, who chose the phrase 'lack of evidence', I am told. Orders to keep the peace in Oldtown, empty offers of sending men to help guard Cockshaw lands, but the clear implication that he wishes no part of aggression. Which did wonders for the good tempers of those present, I'm sure."

"The Hightowers be damned, then," Laurent says foully, shaking his head. "I've little use for any of them. My uncle will send men," he seems sure of it, "And we'll have justice. A Hightower died at Wickham's Nest too — let their failure to avenge him stain their name, I say." There may be a bit of bad blood there, it seems. Belatedly, and more calmly, he asks, "Viggo didn't stab him, did he? I might have done, in his shoes." He seems to think it a very real possibility.

"They even got the dead Hightower's name wrong," Abram summarizes with a shake of the head. A brief smile bends his expression at the latter request, "No stabbings." Almost against his will, the Florent chuckles. "Ser Laurent, I rather like you. You seem one of those rare Tyrells who speaks plainly and without misdirection. I trust that you are committed to justice in this, but I have doubts that Highgarden will answer and differently than did Hightower."

Laurent seems torn, here. It's rare that anyone says anything nice about him, so there must be some impetus to take the compliment well. But the suggestion that his family will react the same way as the Hightowers seems to offend him — no matter how realistic the prediction is. His mouth opens, his cheeks redden, and his jaw works in silence for a moment.

Thankfully, he's rescued by wine. A serving girl in Tyrell colors arrives with two flagons of wine on a tray, along with four goblets. She puts the flagons down between Abram and Laurent, red wine and gold, and pours the red for Laurent before waiting for Abram's direction on what he would like, then pours and vanishes into the background.

Once that short diversion is done, Laurent is… Perhaps not more composed, but has at least found his tongue. "Assuming you're right," he allows angrily, "Then what? I'll not see this go unpunished. Thirty men and more, dead. The heir to House Cockshaw among them? And others near as highborn as he."

"The gold," Abram notes to the wine, as his host struggles with composure. When Laurent finally speaks, "Then.. I imagine it will come down to challenges. That or more raids. Ser Quillian wants Blackmont heads, and I don't imagine he is alone. Your family should thank their stars that no Tarly was killed at Wickham's Nest." He starts to draw a taste of the wine before pausing and wondering with a note of worry, "We are sure no Tarly was killed, aren't we?"

"I'm not," Laurent says after a moment's thought. "The Warrior's hanging balls," he swears, "I'll send a raven myself saying there was, if you think it will call the banners." And again, it's said very earnestly. "Surely there's some cousin they can't account for." Because Laurent, redfaced, ignoring his wine for the moment, clearly wants to see the Blackmonts bleed for this as well. "Who would we challenge? Where would we even begin, Ser? And where would we finish? It would take lifetimes to kill enough Dornishmen that way."

"If one of theirs was killed, the Tarlys will take vengeance.. just look at their hatred for Ser Daevon," Abram notes. "But I'm of the view that a man should be honest wherever he can. If Blackmont men slew our people, then my laws of vassalage, Lord Blackmont is responsible. He may deliver them to us or defend them against us. As to where we finish?" A shrug, "I've sworn to seek justice for Ser Eryk. Whether others will be satisfied with that, I cannot say."

Laurent snorts at Abram's assertion that he ought to be honest, but his nod of agreement runs counter to that sentiment. He's driven toward honesty too, though he's frustrated by it. "So do we cut straight to the source? What if we were to challenge Lord Blackmont? I've never met the man," he says, frowning, "But I'll kill him all the same. Though one Dornish death hardly seems sufficient." His heavy brow furrows as he thinks on the problem, and one hand comes up to run slowly through his short, unruly hair.

Abram laughs knowingly, "It's a rare lord who can be killed without walking through his men first. As well, the Dornish are not a people suited to our ideas of chivalry. Deceit is simply part of who they are.". Abram draws a slow swallow of the golden wine, musing as he does so. Afterward, "If it comes to a raid, I am with you. Should your kin in Highgarden surprise us, I'll ride to war. Should it come to trial, I'll be sorely disappointed not to bloody my blade, as would you I expect." A raised brow predicts agreement.

Laurent's nod is as enthusiastic as it is expected. "So it will be a raid, you think?" Laurent's lips are curled into a frown, but it's thoughtful rather than disapproving. "We can must what, a dozen knights? At the most, I would think. And men-at-arms, though I can't be certain how many without Highgarden's approval. How many sellswords do you suppose there are in Oldtown?"

"A dozen Dornishmen laid waste to Wickham's Nest, Ser. A dozen knights could do worse still, Ser Thorn. But mustering armsmen and sellswords? Perhaps half a hundred men, but getting that number across the Red Mountains would be no small feat."

"Every good knight of the Reach is worth a pair of battle-ready Dornish knights," Laurent agrees confidently. "And I doubt that's what the Blackrood has in mind, hm?" His dark eyes suggest that he believes Quill will take the lead when it comes time for reprisal, and that he supports that choice. "So call it a dozen knights, perhaps less. And I'll have an eye out for sellswords with experience, who can handle themselves on the trail."

"You have an admirably forthright mind, Laurent," Abram notes with a wry smile. "When you are angry with a man, you would approach him, state so plainly to his face and arrange a duel, yes? When a Dornishman is angry, he will stand before you, smile to greet you, ask after your family, wish you health and leave. Do you know why?" A smile narrows his eyes. "Because he poisoned your drinking water two days ago."

"Clever bastards," Laurent says, his tone savage and surprised. This is a lesson, for him. "But it will do them no good. Let them poison my drinking water — it may kill me in a week. Does them no good if I kill them today." That thought satisfies the Thorn, short-sighted though it may be, and he finally straightens in his chair to reach for the goblet before him and down a long drink of Arbor red. "You know a great deal about them, Ser Abram," he allows, the words muffled as he wipes a bit of wine away from his lips with the back of his free hand. "What do you suggest, then?"

"Quill and I came to know them rather well, in days past," Abram notes with another small chuckle, before advising, "For now? I advise you do nothing that would damage you should Highgarden support Ser Viggo. But if you kin falter… Well, they won't, will they?"

"They won't," Laurent says, his tone taking on a challenging edge. "But if they should," he allows sourly, "Well, they've little enough love for me already. I'll ride, their opinions be damned."

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