(121-03-17) A Thing Called Honor Part 1
A Thing Called Honor Part 1
Summary: Garvin's is insulted, two knights prepare to duel, plenty spectate.
Date: 17 March 2014
Related: Continues: A Thing Called Honor Part 2

Terrace - Quill and Tankard

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

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

The sun has set hours past, dinners have come and gone and now is the hour of the drunk and the debauched. Aevander Targaryen is, if not the latter than at least hard at work on the former. He sits out on the terrace, under the apple tree, peering up at the moon and taking occasional swallows from a half-filled bottle of wine. Another bottle, empty, lies by his feet, so one can surmise he's been at the Quill and Tankard a while or, if not, he's made the most of the time he has been here.

The door from the tavern opens, and an armed man in a purple cloak steps out, holding the door for Lord Garvin Tyrell, who carries a large silver flagon and a goblet. Five other Tyrell men follow, all carrying tankards of ale. Lord Pansy has been drinking for some time himself, his face flushed and his grin rather goofy. "Fresh air!" he announces cheerfully, staggering a bit as he makes his way outside. "Fresh, clean, summer air, with a hint of breeze off the river. What could be better?" His men fan out, sitting two to a table, as Garvin continues to stumble about.

Aevander turns his head as Garvin and his entourage walk (or stumble) out. He's lazing under the apple tree, one leg straight and the other bent. He might go unnoticed save for the way the moonlight catches on his pale hair and the soft groan when he sees just who it is that's intruded on his quiet and peaceful inebriation.

Garvin pauses to drain the goblet in his hand, then refills it from the flagon — looks like a fine Arbor red. He takes a long, deep breath, looking out over the river, then turns to find a place to sit. That's when he catches sight of the moonlight on that silvery Targaryen hair. Moving closer and squinting, he says too loudly, "Ser Aevander, is that you? Why are you sitting on the paving stones, Ser?" The six Purple Cloaks sit at scattered tables, two apiece, surrounding the terrace, and go back to drinking their ale, while keeping an eye on Lord Pansy.

Aevander tilts his head to look over at Lord Garvin and nods. "Aye, aye, it's me," he agrees with a soft sigh. "I'm not sitting on the paving stones, Lord Garvin, I'm sitting under a tree. There is a difference." Clearly.

Nico slips rather quietly onto the terrace, quietly for him anyway. The yelling of an angry woman can be heard as the crimson haired man slips out of the tavern proper. He doesn't look worried though in fact he looks almost…proud of himself. He smirks and takes a few steps forward looking up at the moon as it falls across his blood red hair. He has a goblet in hand and takes a long drink from it as he glances around to see who else is here. The purple cloaked men get a look and then the man with silvery blonde hair that seems to glow in the moonlight. Finally he looks to Garvin head tilting and hair spilling over his shoulder as he takes another long drink.

"Is there must point in sitting beneath a tree when there is no sun to block?" Viggo wonders with a slur to his voice and a goblet of wine in his hand, voice rough and a little wry. He's looked…better. His dark hair is rumpled and moustache slightly askew as he strides forward with a leaning gait. "Lord Garvin, Ser Aevander…" The third man, clearly a Targaryen gets a respectful nod.

"Is there must point in sitting beneath a tree when there is no sun to block?" Viggo wonders with a slur to his voice and a goblet of wine in his hand, voice rough and a little wry. He's looked…better. His dark hair is rumpled and moustache slightly askew as he strides forward with a leaning gait. "Lord Garvin, Ser Aevander…" The third man, gets a respectful nod.*edit

Garvin cocks his head to one side, clearly not seeing the difference at all. But before he can say anything, he hears Viggo's voice, and his face lights up. Turning toward the knight with a grin, he says, cheerfully and too loudly, "Ser Viggo! How good to see you. Are you feeling better, Ser? I've not seen you since you returned from…you errand." The red-haired man catches his attention, and his eyes bug wide, his voice lowering. "I know that man from…somewhere."

"Well," Aevander shrugs, "I find it pleasant. Why does one do anything in an alehouse except because one wishes to do it?" Speaking of which, he has another swallow of wine. "Seeing the stars between the silhouette of the branches is nice."

The look he gets from Garvin causes a wicked little smirk to form on Nico's lips. The crimson haired man lowers his goblet and makes a show of running his tongue over his bottom lips as he eyes the Tyrell Lord his eyes shining with mischief. He overhears the words and chuckles softly. "You remember me then? This is good." He looks pleased and slowly starts in that direction with the grace of a cat stalking a mouse.

"No," Viggo says with honesty, mouth not quite managing any sort of a smile. "The wine is helping, however." Cause in point, he takes another draught of it peering at Aevander's tree-based position, coming to stand crookedly near Garvin. He offers an interesting sort of obstacle to any stalking with his weaving stance. "Fair enough, Ser. Fair enough."

"Oh, look," Aevander muses as the boy with red hair makes a show of licking his lips and stalking towards Lord Garvin, "You must have fucked that one, then. And here he comes to flirt with you when you're among your equals and betters, bold as brass." He smirks, giving a small shake of his head. "How do you do it, Lord Pansy? How do you manage to care so little for anything but yourself?" If the words are cutting, the tone in which they're spoken is almost envious.

Garvin eyes Nico warily, a quick shiver running through him when the man plays his tongue over his lower lip. "The Bard," he whispers to Viggo. "The Bawdy Bard, that's where I remember him from." He looks to the knight again, sadness in his eyes. "I wish there was some way I could help you, Lord Viggo. Your pain should be eased, somehow." He glances down at Aevander again, then up into the tree and to the sky beyond. "Stars, yes. They're up there, all right." His eyes return to the Targaryen. "Why are you drinking so heavily? Have to decided to become the new Lord Pansy?" Garvin frowns suddenly, his brows drawing together. "How dare you make such an accusation, here in the open, where anyone might hear? If you were not my betrothed's own brother, I would challenge you, Ser. But I will accept your apology."

Nico puases his strides to Garvin looking to Aevander with amusement. He chuckles softly and looks like he wants to comment but Garvin's angry words give him pause he takes another sip of his wine before he then adds his own peice to the conversation. "Now what on earth would make you think such dirty thoughts? What I do and who I fuck or even who fucks me is my business and its poor form to reveal such secrets." He replies looking to the blonde with a calm if slightly amused expression. He has an accent thick and rich and obviously Lysene for those who would know what that sounds like.

"Challenge whom to what?" it's a rasp of a voice that gives way to something dark in that's laying and prowling from the stairway up to the Terrace. Dressed in the blacks of his own heraldry, Ser Quillian Oakheart might not appear to be much, though, for those who know his reputation it fits him. One hand rests on his blade as he comes further to where the Tyrell and Targaryen. His hand moving up to pull of a plain black, white brimmed hat. Almost similar to what he wore to the Masque, though perhaps considerably smaller. "Sers…My Lord Cousin…." How's that for a Blackrood greeting?

That's an interesting thing to hear upon arrival, and that is, perhaps, the reason that Johanna hangs back just a touch as her brother goes on ahead. It's easier to duck flying tankards from a distance.

Aevander just laughs, his head tipping back. "Ah, no. I am drinking because I will never be a Lord Pansy, and every now and again, a little bit of excess makes the morning less daunting." Garvin's indignation only makes the Targaryen's mouth curl upwards in a half-smile. "I assure you, Lord Garvin, I say nothing that the whole of Oldtown does not already know, thanks to your own antics. Mm, but anyhow, it turns out that I am not. So you may challenge me if you like." Glancing over at Nico, he adds, "One does not always need words to reveal their secrets, lad. You have managed it with but a look."

"You there might consider holding yout tongue lest it be stricken away," Viggo warns the redhead flatly, casting a glare his way. The Targaryen's words cause an already simmering temper to flare in defense of the Lord Pansy. "And yet he has the grace and manner to not voice them in public," he growls at Aevander. "He has not the blade to challenge, Ser. I do consider it, however." He sets aside his flagon pointedly — probably to one of Garvin's rather confused purple cloaked guards.

All six of the Tyrell men are on their feet, though none have touched their swords yet. Garvin narrows his eyes darkly at Aevander, but Ser Quillian's arrival causes him to bite back whatever he was about to say. Instead, he turns to the Blackrood and lifts his chin. "This…Targaryen knight," he says, all but spitting the word, "has been saying the most slanderous lies just now. I've never f-fucked," (he trips over the word, but manages to get it out) "that man in my life." He nods then toward Nico, cheeks flushing with anger and too much wine.

Nico pouts a bit at Aevander's words and glances to Viggo with a frown. "I need my tongue…it has a great many uses many of which you Westerosi would blush to hear about." He smirks completely unfazed and takes a sip of his wine. "Besides contrary to handsome blonde's beliefs Lord Garvin is right…nothing happened between us…no fucking anyway." He looks a bit dissapointed at this though and his eyes wander over those here thoughtfully though they do linger on the Tyrell and the Targaryen the most.

"Well, I am quite drunk. Likely I will regret my words in the morning," Aevander allows, though he's still grinning as he addresses Ser Viggo and hardly seems repentant. Sitting up a little more properly, he holds up his wine bottle. As Viggo hands off his tankard, he sets his own drink squarely on the ground, as he has no purple-garbed guard to accept it. "Well, well, then Ser Viggo. Are you challenging me? Or shall it be the Blackrood? I've no doubt someone will step in for Lord Garvin, he is not a man to fight his own fights, is he?" He smirks wider, gesturing towards Nico as the boy also steps to Lord Garvin's defense in his way. he says nothing further though the widening of his grin more or less says 'You see?'

Technically, Viggo is borrowing his purple garbed guard or horribly insulting their position by using them as cupbearer. Either or. "No doubt more to you than others," he growls at the whore. He points at his eyes and then at the man. Watch it. His shoulders tense, spoiling for a fight as he grins at the Targaryen. "I just might be, Ser Aevander. No one else here is drunk enough to do it." He waves his hand in demonstration.

"I haven't decided, Dragon, which I would rather do. Drink, or fuck your arse with a sword." Which would likely have any Targaryen men rising if they haven't-you know if they are present. Still Quillian turns slightly, as he looks back to Johanna. Clenching his jaw, the knight turns back and looks over towards Aevander. "Ser. I would kindly take it, if you would cease with whatever insult you wish to throw at my cousin. He's not your kin yet, to abuse." And there he cocks his hip in a stance to different. After all Viggo challenged first.

Garvin holds up his hands, which hold the goblet and flagon, frowning still. "Hold any challenging," he grumbles, looking between Viggo, Quillian, and Aevander. He even spares a glance for Nico, though he hasn't noticed Johanna yet. "I said I would accept an apology, and I'm sure that's just what Ser Aevander plans to do: apologize. Isn't that right, Ser?"

It's only when her brother looks back at her that Johanna abandons her position near the stairs and moves forward, in Quillian's direction. "What an interesting night this has turned out to be," she observes, though it's to no one in particular, gaze moving from person to person as she comes to a stop at her brother's side.

"Excellent," Aevander replies gleefully, pushing to his feet and taking a step towards Viggo. "I am certainly drunk enough. Swords or fists? I'm quite unimpressive at both." Grinning over at Quillian he adds, 'No, nooo. I am not the one who enjoys arsefucking, ser. You are confused." He squints a little, taking note of Johanna as she moves to stand beside the Blackrood. "Why, is that you, Lady Johanna? Is Ser Quillian your brother? How fine to see you, I hope you will forgive the idiocy that is likely about to unfold." So, perhaps he is not so keen to apologize after all.

"Doesn't sound like an apology," Viggo says, sounding almost cheerful at this fact. Almost. He strides forward loosely with a cruel smile, before pivoting on his foot to offer the Lady Johanna a flourishing bow. "Apologies, my lady for the violence I am about to commit. Such words should not be spoken in your presence." Validation. Rising, he smirks at Aevander. "Lest she protests. I believe it is to you to pick."

When its clear that there may be a fight Nico takes a slow step back eyeing the Lady a moment and frowning. "Gentlemen please! Surely there is no reason to fight in front of the lady." He looks to the Targaryen knight intently and sighs. "Is giving an apology so hard? Oh well its your fight." He shrugs slightly and turns to go back inside looking to Garvin breifly. "Please forgive me my lord for any trouble I may have given you. I hope to see you again sometime though." He winks and starts to head back inside.

Garvin raises his flagon and goblet even higher, shouting, "Hold hold hold! Have you all forgotten Lord Ormund's decree? No violence within the city. If you absolutely must fight, take it to the tourney grounds." He glances toward Nico with a raised brow, then notices Johanna standing near Quillian for the first time. "My lady," he says, offering a small bow, though he clearly has no clue who she is.

"Who said, I wanted you to enjoy it, Ser?" Quillian quips back, as his hand drops to his sword and grips. And there is Johanna again. Right older brother and all. A step back, so he can have drawing room, though-Viggo seems to be moving in which has him relax for a moment. And there the hand slides away, before he is looking to his Sister and then to Garvin. "Wait-what? We can't even fucking fight here?"

"It's not a fight, it's a duel. Very different. Fighting is lowly. dueling is very honorable. Ser Viggo fights to defend the honor of a lady. Or, well, Lord Garvin, but you know. Similar." Aevander taps a finger against the side of his jaw. "Swords, I think. They're more elegant, aren't they, than swinging fists? Here, clear a space! Everyone move back! Wouldn't wish to knock any drinks to the ground."

"I see no reason for apologies if what you are apologizing for is going to continue, you are clearly not that sorry," Johanna observes in a bland tone, looking first to Aevander, then to Viggo. When Aevander calls for room, she turns to move away, not back inside, but off to one side of the terrace, having no plans on missing the fight if there is going to be one.

"No no no!" Garvin shouts again, shaking his head. His men have moved closer to them, hands on their weapons, though still not drawn. "No violence of any sort within the city walls. The tourney grounds are the place for that, including duels. Didn't you see those two City Watchmen posted within the tavern? They'll arrest you both and drag you before…Well, whoever is acting as Lord of Hightower at the moment."

Victor strides out of the tavern for a breath of fresh air. He has a goblet of red wine in one hand and his raven is perched apon his shoulder napping. The knight glances around at the crowd taking in everyone with a measuring dark blue gaze and a slight frown. He steps off to one side into the shadows so he may watch and observe what is happening and hopefully remain unseen at the same time. He raises a brow at the mention of a fight but doesn't speak or move from his hiding spot just yet.

"A challenge, Ser. No need to kill a man over a slight this night when there has been enough blood already," Viggo agrees with a wave of his hand and a weave of his feet. No reason not to be gentlemen. "I defend the honor of those of my banner house." Tyrells, whut. "Very well, swords it is." He mutter sunder his breath at the stream of protests coming from the crowd. "Need we go to the grounds?" He slurs idly, raising his brows at Aevander.

"Well, your Lord's voice is getting shrill enough, the dogs will come running to him, soon. I am not sure there is a guard in Oldtown that would dare arrest a Targaryen, but they will not be as forgiving of a Cockshaw, so it seems we are banished. Come, then, Ser Viggo. Your Lord will miss the duel to his own honor, but I suppose that shows as well as anything what he thinks of said honor, eh? Ah, but, but, but…" Aevander steps away so he can return to the tree and pick up his half-drunk bottle of wine. He cannot forget that. He holds it high as one might a banner. "To the dueling grounds!" he calls, "For the Pansy's honoooor!"

"No. I'm telling you, they have this great big bloody /pie/. It's —" an upturned tone of voice intones, The owner of the voice is a casually-dressed Riderch Blackwood, ambling his way on to the terrace with a great big mug of ale, talking to the great big man behind him with an even greater mug of ale. "It's not a joke, it's — well, then." He stops, suddenly, eyeing the commotion on the terrace. He turns back to his squire, giving the man a curious, puzzled look.

"I wouldn't want to intrude on all this, Ser." The big man behind him states. "Agreed. This looks like a bad idea." Riderch finishes, looking back towards the door to the inn.

"I doubt we'd be dragged before a Hightower, they've other things to attend," Viggo argues dryly, a snarl of a smile curling his moustache. He looks towards Garvin with a flat expression in his dark eyes, shaking his head. "Aye. Perhaps, but I am now commit to for wiping away your foul words, Ser." He eyes Aevander with amusement, swiping his wine back from the guard and downing it before handing back the tankard. Steps wandering he makes to follow the silver haired man.

"Yes, the tourney grounds," Garvin says, stepping in front of Viggo, trying to block his passage. "On the morrow, when you've both had the chance to sober up." He glances to Aevander, scowling then. "Hold your tongue, Ser. It's caused enough trouble for tonight."

"Careful, he might not believe you did it." Quillian quips to Viggo, before he is standing back, and one hand moving to grab his sister as he goes to pull her out of the way, but likely to a better viewing post. There's a look behind him back towards the city watchmen for a moment. "If not the tourney grounds. I do believe there is a yard close by we can use. I'll ask the Stable man."

True, he's definitely come in on the tail end of things, but Riderch's casual 'I'm looking at the players even though I don't know the game' sort of surveying of the people involved in the dispute, complete with obvious shows of recognition indicates one thing. That one thing is simple —

There's absolutely nothing good that can come of this. He turns away after a good long glance at Aevander and gives his Squire a sidelong turn of his head. The big Squire simply shakes his head. "Mmm, Ser." They step away from the altercation, retreating a bit towards their point of origin.

As Riderch looks back towards the inn's door, he would see Kai silently stepping through the door frame, hand lightly rested atop the pommel of the longer of the three blades that rest at his sides. Kai would slowly come to a stop as the door closes behind him, bright grey eyes slowly surveying the scene before him.

Victor remains silent watching from the shadows of the unoccupied part of the terrace. A slight frown crosses his features as he watches the group's exchange. He is tense yet the only movement he makes is the twitch of his hands that are ready to draw his blades ina flash if he deems it necessary. His eyes watch everyone carefully and yet he goes mostly unnoticed for now.

"So you are, so you are, ser. And I am committed to defending them. Someone needed to say them, you know. Man ought to get a chance to hear what everyone whispers now and again. It's only right," Aevander explains to Viggo with a pause to sip his wine. He frowns over at Garvin. "We are not waiting to be sober. Being drunk is entirely the point of the exercise."

"No." Viggo's answer to Garvin is short and quick, pushing the man back aside with an arm and stepping around him. "We'll finish this. A yard would do fine, Ser Quill. I needn't much room." He pats his sword as he glances towards Aevander with an obnoxiously courtly bow. "Please, lead on." Drunk is waiting.

Garvin lets out an exasperated sound, shaking his head. "Men!" he complains loudly, refilling his goblet one more time, then shoving the flagon at one of his men, who leaves it on a table, along with his own tankard. Garvin looks to Quillian and Johanna. "I suppose I'll have to go and watch them bashing at one another. Will you come as well, or stay here with the sane people?"

Scene continues!

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