(121-03-20) Of Honor and Principles
Of Honor and Principles
Summary: In which Osric explains himself to Daevon.
Date: Date of play (03/20/2014)
Related: Logs tagged plot:wickhams_nest
Players:
Daevon..Osric..

White Stone Manse Starry Street

Thu Mar 20, 121 ((Thu Mar 20 09:23:10 2014))

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

This grand manse faces the prestigious Starry Street. The first story is protected by narrow high windows that stop people from seeing inside, but the big windows on the back wall and the four upper stories make the manse bright and airy over all.

The first floor's main hall is brightly lit with lamps to make up for the shortcomings of the street-facing windows. The white walls and polished white marble floors add to the effect, making it seem airy and bright. There's a grand dining room separated from the entry hall by broad doorway. The house is richly decorated and well-appointed, with luxurious furnishings.

There are sitting rooms up in the floors above, as well as bedchambers. Like almost all of the houses in Oldtown, it shares two walls with its neighbors on either side, but the servants quarters, kitchens, and servant's stairs buffer the house proper from any noise that could possibly leak through the thick stone walls.

There's a pleasant walled garden in the back, viewed from the windows in the back wall. The upper stories have balconies to overlook it.

Contents: Osric Daevon

Exits: [O] Starry Street

Ser Daevon Targaryen, the Maiden's Knight is dressed in light armour, sword at his side, shield and surcoat emblazoned with his own coat of arms. A violet feather plume cresting from his helmet. He's ornate, without being too impractical and there can be little doubt of who he is. He's accompanied by Targaryen guards, for once. He knocks on the door.

In what might seem a strange turn of events, it's the Sword of the Morning himself who answers the door. In a coat of polished mail and a bright purple tabard that bears his own arms, with the greatsword Dawn hung from a baldric that is slung crosswise from his shoulder to hip. His brow is slightly furrowed at the sight of the knight before him, but it only takes a moment before Osric steps back to invite the other knight in. "Ser Daevon Targaryen," he greets, in a voice that is not without warmth. "Please, come in. It is an honor to receive you, though I fear my hospitality may not meet your standards today." Indeed, from the entryway, one can not see another soul. No servants, no guardsmen, no one. Osric seems to be alone in the manse.

"Ser Osric Dayne," Daevon replies. "I had heard." He leaves his guards outside, stepping within and allowing for the door to be closed behind him. "Might I ask, why have you remained behind?"

"They're welcome inside," Osric says of the guards, and will hold the door for them if they're called. "The street is hot, as are the tempers of folk on it." Either way, he closes the door after a moment, and leads Daevon to a sitting room. "This is our home, Ser. I was given the choice — remain behind, or be arrested for a crime of which I am not guilty in the name of protection. I appreciate the gesture, and indeed advised my family to take advantage." It's with a slight frown that he adds, "But myself, I could not stomach it."

"Thank you," Daevon says, but the guards don't move, remaining outside. They're under orders it would seem. "What do you think will happen if you remain here?" He asks gently, taking a seat. There's a pause, and he asks. "You know the tale of my own stay in Dorne, do you not?"

"Princess Mariya is my goodsister," Osric says, taking a seat and suggesting with an open-handed gesture that Daevon take one as well. "I've heard most of your tales, Ser, and many more than once." That's said with an indulgent smile that speaks of a fondness for Mariya. "If I remain here? I can not say for certain, of course," he allows. "But I suspect that either the manse will eventually be overrun, or else Hightower will regain control of their city."

"Then you know I was in Dorne, escorting her back to safety," Daevon says. "When I was set upon by a party of Dornish knights? That I had a choice, that I could fight them, that I could negotiate with them, or I could lay down my weapons and surrender. Do you think they were at all kind to me? You know I was taken prisoner, though I committed no crime. And even when this was realised I was still held for months as a bargaining chip. So, I won't say I know what its' like for you, being Dornish in Oldtown. But I did know what it was to be a Targaryen, at Sunspear." He sighs. "What use is your presence here? What does your ladywife, and your children think of you remaining here, while they are held prisoner?"

"I hope they think me an honest man," Osric answers quickly enough. The tale is familiar to him, and there's a nod and a kind look for the younger knight once it's told. Gratitude in exchange for sympathy, perhaps. He leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees now, to add, "Your company is very welcome, Ser Daevon, and I'd not have you think otherwise. So you'll forgive, I hope, if I ask what has brought you?"

"A letter. I would have visited regardless," Daevon says. "I fear for your life, being here as you are. I fear for the street, as well, being your neighbour. If they torch this building, likely the whole row will go up. I would hope they'd be less inclined to do so if there are no people within. I can do nothing to protect the manse while you are here though. Not without it appearing political, for all that any looters breaking in here will also endanger the safety of my own family. They want a scapegoat, someone to punish. If the truth of the massacre is not revealed soon then they will kill you." He sighs. "And then the Dornish will once more retaliate in kind and we will be at war once more."

"I fear so as well," Osric says with a tight frown. "It is my hope, and indeed my belief, that letters written to Princess Amarei by my wife and the princesses Mariya and Ashara will bear fruit in this, Ser." A lift of his brows, and he adds, "I've no wish to die here, Ser Daevon. I quite enjoy my life. But I suspect that the crowd might well burn the manse, were it unattended. I shall do my best to prevent that, at the least." He shakes his head, thoughtful, and adds, "I've no heart, and truly little mind, for politics. I hope this will be resolved quickly, and with no further trouble than it has caused your family."

"If you leave, I will be able to place Targaryen Guards outside," Daevon says. "I cannot do that now, for it will be seen as an act in support of the Dornish. I will be able to appeal to the city watch to station guards to protect the manse. If your home goes up, then so does ours. You are one man, there's little you can do against a mob. They won't listen to your words. They may listen to mine, and my brothers. But we can do little with you here." He sighs. "I am the same, I have little care for politics. I never indulge in it. But here I am, caught up in it, just as you are."

"Indeed," Osric says ruefully, nodding. "But I can not leave, Ser, though we might both wish it. If it is any comfort," he says with a wry grin, "This manse is heavy stone, and unlikely to burn well. Barring dragonfire, of course," he adds with a somewhat lighter grin — a joke meant for Daevon, of course, and not one at his expense.

Daevon sighs at Osric's response. His lips then twitch. "I could fight you. Drag you out, you know? Although that would likely not help anything at all. We Targaryen's are experts in what burns and what does not. Why do you remain?" he asks again. "And why did you send the others away?"

"You could try," Osric allows, nodding. It's not said to antagonize, and his tone holds none of that. "My head delivered to the mob might even sate them, for a time. I'd not think ill of you, Ser Daevon, if you chose that route." There is still sympathy in his violet eyes, recognition of the difficult choices that are forced on so many people, just now. "I stay because leaving would be a lie. I would face the Stranger with a clear conscience, Ser. Whether that be on this night or another."

"What of the others and their consciences?" Daevon asks. There was no real sincerity in that previous threat. "Did the others wish to leave?"

"They did, for their own reasons," Osric allows. "They did so with my blessing, indeed some of them did so at my urging. My wife would have remained at my side, but I know the danger in this. I urged her to go, and other men who might have stayed I asked — fairly begged some, if we are speaking frankly — to join her."

Daevon nods at Osric. "And yet you remain?" He shrugs. "I know that I cannot persuade you where they failed. You place your honour, your conscience above their own?"

"What sort of a man does not hold himself to a higher standard than those around him," Osric asks Daevon frankly. "Let us say, rather, that I see the world as it is, but will not bend for it. My wife, my son and daughter, are not the Sword of the Morning, Ser Daevon. And if a Dornish princess were to die here…" He trails off, shaking his head. "I could not live with that, Ser. I love each of them, in their own way. My bold wife, her innocent sister, their clever cousin. And any one of their deaths would light a fire along the border, I think."

"And you think that yours would not?" Daevon asks. "That the death of the Sword of the Morning would not have a similar impact. That it would not be considered unforgivable by your family?" He sighs.

"By my family?" Osric's nod says that Daevon is likely right. "But not by Dorne. House Dayne and House Hightower must both answer to their lieges, so let us hope that their cooler heads might prevail." His hand drops to rest against the greatsword where it leans, now, against the side of his chair — the baldric removed when he took his seat. "Might I presume to ask you a favor, Ser?"

"You can ask," Daevon says. "I can make no promises until I hear what it is though."

"Of course," Osric is quick to answer. "If I were to die here, Ser, it could be that my family would be unable to reach my body. Or to reach out to reclaim my blade," he says, turning to look at Dawn. "It must be returned to Starfall, if I should die."

Daevon nods. "You have my word that I will do everything within my power to ensure that, if you die, your blade is returned to Starfall."

"You have my thanks, Ser Daevon," Osric says, rising to offer the Targaryen knight his hand in gratitude. "I hope to live to repay your kindness. You can not know what that oath means to me."

Daevon rises to his feet. "I do wish you wouldn't insist on staying here." There's still that smile on his lips. "It does make things ever so much more difficult. Although I suppose neither of us would be the Knights we are if we sought the easy life. I will do all that I can regardless, despite these politics tying my hands." He briefly clasps the offered hand.

"My apologies," Osric says earnestly. His violet eyes hold regret and respect as he releases Daevon's hand. "If fewer knights sought the easy life, it would not be the world that it is. You seem a good man, Ser Daevon. Equal to your legend. I will commend you to my goodsister."

Daevon smiles. "Thank you. I shall leave you now." He turns and walks to the door, gathering up his guards once he's outside to return to the Targaryen manse.

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