(121-03-20) To the Point
To the Point
Summary: In which Olyvar and Laurent compete to be more blunt than one another.
Date: Date of play (03/20/2014)
Related: Those tagged plot:wickhams_nest

The day is fine and the air coming through the windows in the higher teirs are welcomed, given how the humidty in Oldtown has been. Luckily the rain is clear out, allowing for a fine summer day without the oppressive heat that comes with the rain. Currently the room that has been selected is bare, save for a long table where wine and cups are kept, as well as several bits of parchment, that are dusted an lain to dry. The soft scribbling of some paper can be heard as the older knight works, clearly though he is waiting for someone.

Ser Olyvar himself is not much to look at. A short and stocky man with equal parts mass and muscle which has been covered in clothing that is tailored to fit, giving him a polished look. The chains of his station hang where they are visible, and his own grey eyes seem focused on the writing below.

A young Hightower page is through the door first, to announce Ser Olyvar's visitor. "Ser Laurent Tyrell!"

On his heels, though, and walking quickly, is Ser Laurent himself, whose rough voice drowns out the boy's. "What's this I hear about a lack of evidence?" His long-legged stride carries him quickly to the end of the table opposite Ser Olyvar, where he stops. His expression is as sour as his voice, and he shuffles in place with an abundance of frustrated energy.

"Oh the Thorn." Olyvar says without looking up, A hand raises and the page is dismissed before the bushy bearded man is looking up briefly and blankly enough. Given the words and expression he sees, the Master of Laws sets down his quill before motioning to the chair before him. "Sit, Ser."

Rising, Olyvar reaches to pour drinks. It is likely needed. "My nephew has a way with words does he not?"

"It would seem so, Ser," Laurent growls, dropping into the proffered chair, where he slouches. "So what's the game, then?" His dark eyes narrow as he scans Ser Olyvar, who at first blush seems to be of a like mind with the Thorn himself. He's taken aback, but suspicious.

"The game is my nephews are overwhelmed. One is sick, and barely on his feet. Like a fucking green fawn. And the other is trying to keep a city from murdering every foreigner within our walls." A wry smile given there, before he takes a sip of his wine first, and eyes drop back down. "I believe Ormund doesn't want us in a war with Dorne, given that poor Jon died, but that is nothing-right now. I am sure Ser Brynden feels his death more keenly. He was a bright boy-what little I saw of him." And there Olyvar looks up. "The game right now is control. We could step out from Tyrell and handle this, however my family has been pinching your toes of late what with Lord Garvin and those posters?" He tests the Thorn there before he nods at his own handiwork. "So, first order. Quell civil unrest and move the Dornish to the Tower. I am arresting them on Wednesday after your Lord moves his men."

"If he's not equal to the task," Laurent says crossly, "Then someone else ought to sit the chair until he is." As if it were that simple. In Laurent's mind, at least, it is. "I've seen more grief on the face of men who never met young Jon Hightower than I've heard from his family, Ser, but that's neither here nor there, is it?" He drums his fingertips on the tabletop a moment, bristling at the talk of Garvin and Gwayne, but bites something back for the moment. "Arrest them, then. But what do we do about Blackmont, Ser? I ask you that. There is sufficient evidence, so give Ser Viggo at least the comfort of hearing those words."

And there he stares at Laurent. "I am certain he is equal when he is well." And there the discussion seems ended on Olyvar's part. "You'll find we keep our emotions and our motives close to breast, Ser Laurent. We grieve, but we dare not show it." And there he watches the man's finger tips as a small frown shows. "Jothon will be missed." clearly Jon is a pet name.

"And I agree that there is sufficent evidence that House Blackmont did indeed commit this heinous raid. I've written to my nephews my report and have stated that we should send word to the Blackmonts and then have our men stationed at the border. We demand blood price for our dead and the heads of those responsible. When the answer comes back, it'll depend if we slip over to collect it ourselves. So far, Gwayne is in favor. But, I need the voice to agree before I move on it."

"The Father's flaccid meat, Ser," Laurent swears softly, "But at least tell Ser Viggo as much. Or I shall," he adds, though with no hint of a threat. It's rather more of a question, whether that might be preferable. So Ser Olyvar has earned a bit of respect from the Thorn, at the least. "I had thought to wonder if Lord Ormund's illness might have robbed him of his sense." He leans forward, his fingers clenched into a fist on the table, as he adds, "I mean to ask, Ser. What more evidence might any man ask for?"

"A signed letter from house Blackmont and likely a tearful confession." Olyvar jests before he is shaking his head. "I believe your story and Ser Viggo's. You may tell him that and better yet tell him, I would meet with him again. Not a summons, but on his own accord." And there he leans back. "It may have. My House has been cautious in these things. War and what have you. And though I may not agree with that cautiousness right now, I will follow it, as my nephew is my Lord." And there his jaw tightens. "I would see this done right Ser. And I hope I can continue to count on House Tyrell to see it done right as well. Within the Law."

"I will tell him," Laurent agrees, though it sounds more savage than an agreement ought to. "I have sworn myself to Ser Viggo in this, Ser. I will see it, and him, done right." He doesn't say it, but as his dark eyes meet Olyvar's there can be no doubt that he means lawfully, or otherwise. He rises from his seat, then, his heavy brow lifting, to ask, "If that is all, Ser?"

Olyvar rises and offers his hand. "It is. I thank you for coming, and hope next time we meet, we will be collaberating for a good cause." The hand remains extended for Laurent to take. He'd get a good pump before he would be free to go. "Seven speed your quest, Ser. And Seven keep Ser Viggo." his bit of condolences there. Support. All of it in one.

The Thorn takes Olyvar's offered hand, pumping it once, and then steps back. "I will see you again soon, Ser," Laurent says, this much more lightly. With the air of a secret confided, almost. "There is another matter that I would have your mind on." And then he turns on his heel and stalks out the door.

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