(121-03-21) Tyrell Fathers and Sons
Tyrell Fathers and Sons
Summary: Garvin delivers some grave news to Laurent, but Angharad's news is far more pleasant.
Date: 21 March 2014
Related: none


Walled Garden - Garden Isle Manse

This large garden is a wonderland of splendor. Small trees and exotic flowers are in bloom, their aromas permeating the area. The entire garden is enclosed a high wall, covered in vines and ivy. There is an area where fresh herbs are growing, and another for roses of red, white, and of course, Tyrell gold. Other beds have daffodils, tulips, lilies, and pansies. Spread out and mingled amongst the rest of the plants are a variety of wildflowers. The two far corners are dominated by massive oak trees, which spread shade over the area. The luscious scents and beauty add to the natural feel of the atmosphere here.

Stone benches of polished marble surround a long pool, also of marble. There's a statue of a small dolphin above one end, spouting water from its snout. The pool isn't very deep, only about three feet, and small, colorful fish dart about playfully. Luxuriously soft towels are folded and placed on some of the benches. To one side is a lounging area, with outdoor furniture which comfortably seats six.

Laurent stands off near his corner of the garden, the one that's usually dead, speaking in heated tones to his wife. He's red in the face, and talking with his hands, wearing a suit of hard leather armor that doesn't bear any arms at all. In fact, there's no sign of a blazon on him anywhere. "Well, we don't have a wall between the Reach and Dorne," he says, his tone continuing to move toward something more neutral. "More's the pity." He nods, as if she had suddenly understood something precisely, and reaches out his hands toward her tentatively. Laurent's corner of the garden is teeming with life — briars, daisies, all sorts of hearty plants. Weeds, to the eyes of some, but a beautiful and wild display of flora when looked at another way.

Angharad doesn't look very happy. She's a bit dirty and even has a smudge across her nose from mucking about in the garden, but that doesn't seem to be of immediate concern. Whatever is troubling her has left her crestfallen, and her expression crumbles. "Well — fuck!" she says in frustration and surrender, leaning into Laurent as her reaches for her. "I'm — so sorry. I'm such an ass."

"You couldn't have known," Laurent says, shaking his head as one hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, pulling her against his broad chest. It's a tender moment between the Thorn and his love, one that might tarnish his reputation, were they caught at it. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to her brow, managing in that second to look not at all unhappy.

Garvin comes into the garden through the postern gate, leading Ser Daffodil on leash and looking rather tired. Once the gate is closed again, he unhooks the leash, and the dog scampers off, tail wagging. As he's winding the leash up around his hand, Garvin notices Laurent and his bride over in the Thorny Corner, so he heads in that direction. "What…It's green! Laurent, your garden is blooming! Hello, Lady Harry. Have you been helping Laurent with his garden?"

Harry shakes her head, closing her eyes as she accepts the kiss on the forehead, then tucking herself beneath her husband's chin, close in his arms. "It's — I keep forgetting how different it is, here. Maybe — maybe I couldn't have known, but I certainly could have given you the benefit of the doubt. I'll — I'll try to do better." She wipes at her cheeks and clears her throat as Garvin calls out to them. There might have been a few tears, because the smudge of dirt on her face is now a smudgier smudge of mud. "Hello, cousin." She looks back at the formerly barren plot. "I… it was something to do as he's been needed elsewhere, of late."

"You did your best," Laurent allows, though he's not particularly gracious about it. "I'd have nothing else from you, Harry." Another kiss on her brow, and then he pulls away to lift a hand toward her tear-streaked face. But then there's Garvin, and he freezes mid-reach. "Cousin," he says, in a tone no more foul than before Garvin's arrival. "She's a fine hand at it, isn't she?" His dark eyes drift back to the flower bed, and his hand falls to rest at Angharad's hip.

Garvin squints just a bit as he looks over the flowerbeds, giving a nod of approval. "You're a Tyrell already," he says to Angharad, giving her a smile. But then the smile fades, his eyes showing pain. "There's something I need to tell you, Cousin, and it's not pleasant news. Maybe we should have some wine first." He turns to peer around the garden, but the only other being he can see is the dog, sniffing around the marigolds.

Harry lifts her head, looking concerned, though she remains tucked close against Laurent. "It's so bad we need wine, is it?" she wonders, slipping an arm around her husband in a way that's almost protective, comic as that may seem.

"Dorne?" There's one thing on Laurent's mind these days, and it's straight there that he jumps when Garvin turns serious. He sees the pain in his cousin's eyes, and reaches out to put a hand on Lord Pansy's shoulder as he follows. The other remains wrapped around his wife, pulling her tight to him. "Should I send for Viggo?" And quick on the heels of that, his frown deepens, and he adds, "It's not…" He trails off, waiting for an answer.

Garvin flinches slightly at the touch, then forces himself to relax again. "No, not Dorne. It's worse than Dorne, much worse." He sinks onto a bench near the pool, chewing at his lower lip. "Perhaps you should sit down. Both of you. It's…it's about Uncle Corey." He glances to Angharad. "Ser Corey Tyrell, my uncle and Laurent's father. My father's brother." He adds that last point needlessly, but he's intent on drawing this out, filling the space with unnecessary facts. But he can only avoid spilling the news for so long, his eyes returning to Laurent. "There was a raven. Uncle Corey is…he's gone."

Harry sucks in a soft breath, her arm tightening around Laurent — but she says nothing, immediately. The news is for Laurent, and her focus is on him, the grief that suddenly constricts her throat for him, as well.

"Damn, and I'm not yet ready to," Laurent starts, the beginning of an incongruous grin showing at the corners of his mouth. 'Ride,' is the word on his lips, and in his mind there is an image of banners called, and the Reach marching on Dorne. But that image dies behind his eyes — it can be seen burning there, as quickly as it sprung up. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, and he mouths the word, 'Where.' He clears his throat, looks away a moment toward the pond, and when he musters words his voice is surprisingly steady. "How," he asks, in that familiar baritone growl.

Garvin squirms on the bench, chewing nervously at his lower lip. "On the road from Highgarden," he says, unable to meet Laurent's eyes. "He'd ridden south because he was seeking…someone. It was a duel, fought with my lord father's approval, or so the letter said." He squirms a little more, then finally blurts out, "Maelys of House Targaryen is the man he sought. And found." He winces then, as if bracing for an attack.

"Letter from whom? Who sent this news?" Angharad whispers. She keeps a tight hold on Laurent, as though she could keep whatever wounds he suffers closed thus.

A deep breath in, a slow exhale. A vein at Laurent's temple throbs in time with his heart. "Ser Maelys Targaryen," the Thorn corrects his cousin, the words soft. Almost a whisper. It's said without thought, his eyes somewhere far off as he speaks. His left hand clenches the pommel of his sword, worn at his left hip, while his right is tight against Angharad — tighter than he realizes. "Ser Maelys Targaryen," he says again, his voice rising now, taking on heat. "Isn't he the one that killed Ser Gyles?" That, too, is a well known tale, at least among those close to the ruling line of House Tyrell.

Garvin bites his lower lip, saying to Angharad, "The letter was in my father's own hand," he says softly. "He doesn't write things himself very often, so I knew it was important." He looks to Laurent again, nodding. "The very same. That was years ago though, at a tourney. They say it was an accident. I didn't even know Ser Maelys was still alive. Someone should have done for him ages ago." He sucks in a breath, eyes widening when he realizes what he's said. "Don't get any ideas of doing it yourself, Laurent. It was a legal duel, and House Tyrell cannot risk the throne's ire. You know how the Targaryens are. Father wants me to impress upon you how important it is you keep your temper in check. With the possibility of war brewing with Dorne, we can't afford to be seeking vengeance without legal cause."

If he's hurting her, Harry doesn't protest. Her own grip on Laurent is white-knuckled, though he's less likely to feel it through hard leather and mail. She draws a breath to speak, perhaps to second Garvin's words, but whatever she was about to say, she swallows. Her eyes close and she presses her forehead against Laurent's shoulder. Her lips move, but there's no sound. Perhaps she's praying. It's a brief prayer, if so.

"Don't get any," Laurent starts, his voice still level, though he's starting to fray. "Impress upon… War with Dorne my bleeding arse; no one believes a word of that," he whispers venomously. "I will hang that man by his guts," the Thorn seethes, "From THE BRIDGE!" Suddenly he is shouting, letting go of Angharad to fling his right hand wide toward the bridge between Oldtown proper and the Garden Isle. "And I don't give a damn how many of those silver-haired cunts I have to carve through to do it!"

Garvin flinches again, more visibly than before, and his right hand opens and closes, desperate for the feeling of a goblet's weight. "Laurent, please," he says softly, rising to his feet again. "This must be the end of it. Don't you see? Maelys kills our uncle, so his brother tries to kill him, but instead is killed himself. Now his son would challenge the Targaryen, and though I have no doubt you'd win, don't you see? Another dragon will sprout up to challenge you, and then another and another, like dandelions in summer. They'll keep coming until you're dead, and then what? It will fall to your son to avenge you, or gods forbid, me. It needs to end, here and now, with you. It was a fair and legal duel. You must let it go."

Standing apart now, Harry wraps the arm that was holding Laurent about herself, her other hand pressed in a fist against her mouth. Her expression is pale and drawn with misery. She looks — hopeless, in that moment. And bereft. What can anyone say in the face of such loss, such grief — and such righteous anger?

Laurent stalks two short paces toward the bridge, then turns on his heel to storm back to Harry's side. "It will end with me, Cousin," Laurent shouts, his voice already edging toward hoarse with the force of his shouting. "A fair and legal duel," he sneers, shaking his head. "Let them sprout up," Laurent says, flinging both arms wide. "Let them come. LET THEM COME," he cries, pounding on his chest with his balled right fist. "Men, women, and tiny violet-eyed babes. I'll kill every one of them," he promises, tasting blood as his voice rasps in his throat, "Until they don't have the stomach to come on any longer."

Garvin raises his voice, but just a little. "And how will that help your lady mother?" he asks. "Or your brothers and sisters? Will it bring your father back to them? Will it give them even one more minute in his arms? Will the death of Maelys Targaryen restore him to life again? You are blinded by your rage, Cousin. What if your blindness allows Ser Maelys to kill you? Who will comfort your poor mother then? Would you have your youngest brother take up a sword to avenge you?"

Angharad sinks to sit where she stands, knees giving in a kind of sick despair. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, nodding along with Garvin, as though to herself. You go, Garvin. For once, Harry not only agrees with you. She does have but one thing to add — barely audibly. "And what about me?" She shakes her head. "I've always known I could lose you, Laurent, but not this way. Will you kill me, too?"

"Don't be absurd!" Laurent's demand could be aimed at either or both of them, his eyes flash between the pair, but settle again on Garvin. "You well know that if I were to die tonight, Cousin, my mother would not shed a single tear in my name." He laughs, a bitter, caustic sound, and then says, "Had I died this time last week, she might not have noticed!" He turns away, his left hand back on the pommel of his sword, his right clenching and unclenching at his side. "My lady mother has sons enough to see to her. Daughters too."

"And Lady Harry?" Garvin asks, thrusting his hands to his hips, like some stern Septon chastizing a child. "Who will see to her? Where are her sons and daughters? And what of me? You well know I can't look after myself. Who's going to make certain I don't do something rash in a drunken stupor? And let's not forget the bloody Dornish. Who's going to ride at Ser Viggo's side to avenge the death of his brother?" He drops his fists to his side and straightens his shoulders. "Fuck the Targaryens." His cheeks color a bit, though maybe it's more anger than embarrassment. "Fuck the whole lot of them, bloody dragons and all. You have duties and responsibilities to the rest of us, Laurent. If your father were here now, he'd say the same, and you know it."

"He's right," Anghard says, unhappily. "Laurent, my love, he's — so very, uncommonly right." She manages a twitch of gallows mirth, a gentle and bleak jest at how she and Garvin have disagreed in the past. But she is quite in earnest, and achingly so, when she asks, "Don't make me a widow yet, Laurent. Not when we've just found each other. Value your life as you value mine — for they're far more entwined that just words spoken to a Septon. You cannot imagine the mortal wound you'd be dealing me, if you died."

"Damn the Dornish," Laurent says savagely. "Damn the Targaryens, and damn my father," he follows. It's meant to be a shout, but he hasn't the voice left for it. "You don't care for a word I say," he accuses Garvin, unkind in his anger, "And Ser Viggo will do without me." Looming over Harry, he stares down to add, "And you." And suddenly stops, furious, but at a loss. His right arm twitches, his hand still balled into a fist until he throws his head back to stare at the sky. Both hands uncurl then, fingers splayed, shaking as shouts wordless anger at the summer sky.

Garvin's brows suddenly draw together, and he lifts his chin in indignation. "That's not true, I care about every word you say, and I heed your advice more than you know. Just last night, I did just as you said and left the tavern only a few minutes after you did. I didn't even go back inside, for fear I'd lose my resolve." He falls silent again, biting his lower lip. He looks from Laurent to Angharad, his eyes pleading for her to say something more to keep Laurent from acting too rashly.

"And me," Angharad echoes, her own hands curling to fists in her lap as Laurent howls. "Do I make this complicated? Good." She takes a deep breath, not raising her voice. It's clear, though it trembles. "I'll give you even more to think on, then. Will you make your wife a widow and your son fatherless in one stroke?"

The words come impatiently, angrily, as Laurent turns back to his family. "I'd not be cut down in one stroke," he claims, his lips drawn back from his teeth to lend him a feral aspect. His dark eyes narrow, and at first rather than smile, Laurent takes a moment to wonder whether or not he's being toyed with. "My son," he asks, suspiciously. He glances to Garvin, as if to look for help, before his eyes fall again on Angharad. A pair of long strides and he's looming tall over her, staring down, dumbfounded.

Garvin's eyes bug wide, his jaw dropping open. He stares for a long moment in stunned silence, before he suddenly squeals, "You're with child!" He hurries to Harry's side, throwing his arms around her in a hug and squeezing her close, before he remembers himself and quickly steps back. "Congratulations," he says, somewhat more subdued, as he looks to Laurent. "To both of you."

"Are you really so surprised?" Angharad asks on a mirthless laugh. "We got in plenty of quality, conjugal time, my love, ere you were called away." She rolls her eyes and looks away from him. "I didn't want to say anything until I'd seen a midwife and was absolutely certain, but I'm a good week la — " Then Garvin his hugging her and she laughs again, just a short sob — maybe it is a sob. It's certainly wet-ish. "Thank you, cousin."

"It's the sort of news that takes a man by surprise," Laurent says, his voice still raw and harsh. "Even if he doesn't hear it like this," he adds, with a sweeping gesture to include the entire scene. It's his turn to crouch next to Harry now, though he does so more slowly than Garvin. "I will ride to Dorne," he finally says, reaching out to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I will look after you," he says, with a glance to Garvin. "I will love my wife, and see my son born." At that, his hand falls from Angharad's shoulder to her stomach, to lay flat against her. "And one day, I will see Ser Maelys Targaryen dead."

Garvin grins brightly for Angharad. "I always wanted to be an uncle? Are you certain it's a boy? Because I don't want to be an aunt." He sobers again when Laurent speaks, trying to appear more solemn. "One day, Cousin. But not today. Promise me you'll hold both your sword and your tongue where the Targaryens are concerned. It may still be that I have to marry one of them one day. Most likely the one who rides naked upon a dragon." He shudders at the thought, wrapping his arms around himself.

"I'm… not sure the whole uncle/aunt thing works that way," Harry ventures, dryly. "I would like it to be a boy. I don't know that there's a sure way to tell, despite all the wive's tales." She puts a hand over Laurent's, over her still-flat belly.

Laurent looks up to Garvin from where he crouches, and his dark eyes are serious. "Best that I don't," he says with a shake of his head. "I'd not be dead, inconvenient and an oathbreaker. Not if I could help it." There's a grin that speaks volumes of the strain on his self-control, and he shakes his head again. "But I shall do my utmost, Cousin, to hold both. For now."

Garvin gives Laurent another smile, his eyes showing great affection. "You will be a good father," he says, rubbing his arms as if chilled. "Kind and patient, and you'll teach your son to fight and hunt and all about chivalry. And I shall teach him to play the harp and lute." He grins suddenly, looking at Angharad. "And Lady Harry, you can teach him how to work a garden."

Angharad smiles wanly at Garvin — though there's affection there, as well, she's exhausted. "I'll teach him to ride and shoot from horseback," she says. "Between the three of us, he will be quite formidable." A dimple shadows her cheek. "And terribly confused."

"I doubt that very much," Laurent opines, of his odds at being a kind and patient father. He frowns as he sees the tightness around Angharad's eyes, the slight slouch to her shoulders, and it prompts him to stand. "I ought to see my wife to bed," he says, with a nod to Garvin. "This day has not been easy for her. You'll excuse us?" His own eyes are red-rimmed and glassy as well, though that may be from stress rather than exhaustion.

Garvin grins to Angharad again, his eyes alight. "He won't be confused for long," he says. "How can he be, when he'll be far smarter than I ever was." When Laurent stands, Garvin rushes in to give him a tight hug, before the man can stop him. He holds his cousin for several moments, whispering, "It will all work out…somehow." He steps back then, his own eyes beginning to water.

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