(121-03-21) Invitation to Treason
Invitation to Treason
Summary: In which Abram and Laurent speak of a secret meeting
Date: 03/21/2014
Related: Logs tagged plot:wickhams_nest

It's a warm summer morning, and the Garden Isle Manse's walled garden is a beautiful place to spend it. That beauty is lost on Ser Laurent Tyrell, however. He stands in a corner of the garden, wearing a suit of mail that doesn't look well suited to the parade ground, looming over a half-dozen men at arms and his squire. Each of them holds a sword, straight-armed, away from their body at shoulder level. "Up, you bastard," the Thorn shouts as one of the swords wavers toward the ground. He stalks down the line, growling criticism, never encouragement. And when it's his squire that wavers, he has a stick in hand to punish the boy more firmly with a strike to one leg or the other.

Abram is drawn once again to the presence of Laurent by angry shouting. The Florent does spare a moment to appreciate the surroundings as unhurried steps carry him toward the review underway. "Never saw why folk would plant ivy on a wall.. Breaks down the mortar and gives the rats a place to lair. Quite the cost for a bit of greenery surrounding your.. other greenery."

"Damnit, I said…" Laurent's attention is drawn by Abram's voice, and the Tyrell knight takes a step away from the small group of men being… What? Trained or punished, it seems. "Walls are cheap," he growls, "And the ivy makes it look…" He waves a hand vaguely at the way it looks, his voice trailing off, before he glances over his shoulder to shout again, "Keep those swords up, or by the Father's sagging balls I'll have your hands off!" He turns back again, as if the outburst had never happened, and folds his arms across his broad chest. "What brings you to the Garden Isle?"

Abram turns an easy smile toward the glowering Tyrell. "Curiosity, I suppose, Ser. Wondering whether you've had word from your kin, and whether they also judge tranquil decoration more worthy than strong walls?"

"Are Oldtown's walls not enough to protect us, then?" The question comes in a tone that makes Laurent's opinion — a resounding 'no' — all too clear. He glances over his shoulder, then nods that Abram ought to accompany him to another part of the garden. A sitting area off to one side, and made to seem private by a wall of well-crafted rose bushes. "They'll figure it out," he says of the men he has left behind, "Or not, and wish they had, won't they?" His chuckle at the thought is not a pleasant sound, and holds no recognizable mirth.

Abram's chuckle is of a distinctly less menacing character as he steps in the indicated direction. He spares a look for the artfully crafted hedge of roses as the Florent answers, "They will or they won't. Indeed, those are the possibilities; like unto Highgarden faced with the south: will they, or will they not?"

"They won't," Laurent says, scowling. He stares at a hedge for a moment, red-faced, looking as if he might swing a fist at it. Or tear into it. Or do it some sort of violence. His face is suddenly red, his chest heaving slightly with his breath, and it is a moment before he speaks again. "Highgarden follows the crown," he finally growls, loyally, "And King's Landing has no wish to disturb the peace." He can't bring himself to meet Abram's eye as he says it — he was so confident of the opposite reaction, and apparently does not handle embarrassment with good grace.

Whether for courtesy or another cause, Abram keeps his eye on the rose hedge, tilting his head to a curious angle as Laurent grapples with anger and embarrassment. "None of us will think any less of you for obeying your kin, Laurent. Even the ugliest rose wilts if its cut off from the vine. "I'm unsure how much more I should say, as it might be best for all of us the less you know."

"I swore myself to Ser Viggo in this," Laurent says, rounding on Abram, his dark eyes burning hot with anger — though it may not be anger at Abram. "I will not lay that oath aside, Ser." He shakes his head in silence, teeth grinding, and adds, "If Viggo rides, I ride. I have hired such men as I could find. Men who are at home in the saddle, comfortable on the trail, and can be counted on to hold their tongues."

The Florent knight raises his brows and looks back to face the angry Tyrell. Hen affects a small smile and nods, "So be it, then. A number of us are to gather at a tavern called the Stranger's Cup. Do you know the place?"

"I know the place," Laurent says sourly, the answer coming almost on top of the question. In the background, a tired voice can be heard dismissing the men-at-arms, but Laurent pays it no mind. "When," he bites out the one-word question, starting to pace in front of the marble bench.

"Tomorrow," Abram returns, "At the hour of the second night's watch." He glances idly in the direction of the falling out armsmen, but his eye is drawn back to the Thorn knight. "How many men have you gathered? I know not when, but we will be moving soon. Within days."

Laurent has the answer ready, at the tip of his tongue. "Six good sellswords and Ser Kaspar Royce. You know of him? As fine a swordsman as any man I know, and out of favor with his lord father." A situation that Laurent well understands. He makes a mental note of the meeting's time, but adds a low warning. "If I'm not there, I couldn't get free of my cousins. Send word to me."

Abram nods to the last, sniffing in sharp humor at the word of being out of favor. "I'll call you an honorary Florent if it helps. You're more one of us than a Tyrell anyhow." A drawn breath and he adds, "Brightwater Keep is half a day's ride north, there are a few trustworthy swords I can call upon to join us if needs be."

Laurent's eyes narrow as he searches Abram's face for some sign of whether or not he's being mocked. In the end, he must be satisfied with what he sees, because rather than lashing out he counters with a surly, "The hells I am." He too takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, letting Abram's words draw his own eyes to the north, as if he might see the keep from here. "I might bring a man or two from the guard here, as well," he allows with a nod of his head.

Abram cracks a brief chuckle at Laurent's denial, but is back to the business at hand in the next breath. "We'll bring a hammer heavy enough to make Blackmont rue the blood he's drawn," the Florent states in the voice of a promise.

"Would that we were the hammer set to crack his skull," Laurent laments roughly, "But it doesn't seem that way. Still. We'll take blood for blood," he says, offering Ser Abram his hand, "And more, until Viggo is satisfied."

"If all Tyrells were resolute as you, we would," Abram mutters to the skull-cracking talk. He accepts the offered hand in a firm clasp and nods sharply, "Blood for blood, until justice is had, or Blackmont is done bleeding."

There is no good way to take that, if you're Laurent Tyrell. So he takes it angry, red-faced, and in silence. A single pump of Abram's hand, and he mutters, "Tomorrow, then." A frown, and he adds, "If you see Ser Viggo, tell him I would speak with him of my conversation with Ser Olyvar Hightower."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License