(121-03-23) Differences Resolved
Differences Resolved
Summary: In which Daevon is noble, Angharad kind, and Laurent a boor.
Date: 03/25/2014
Related: http://gobmush.wikidot.com/log:121-03-22-head-of-the-family
Players:
Angharad..Daevon..Laurent..

Daevon drops by the Tyrell manse, asking to speak with Ser Laurent.

No sooner does Ser Daevon present himself at the Garden Isle Manse than Lady Angharad comes hurrying in from the garden. Without so much as a 'hello' or 'by your leave' she takes the Maiden's Knight by the shoulders, looking him over with tender concern. "Laurent's coming — are you all right? You poor darling…" Look out! She's a hugger! And the poor fellow is subsequently hugged. "I heard about the falling out home, of course — it's all anyone's talking about. Do you need a place to stay?"

Daevon's eyes widen with surprise at Angharad's greeting. He nods. "I am well. I have rooms at the Hightower, somewhere." He lets her hug him, returns it awkwardly. "I had wished to speak with you and Ser Laurent."

The Thorn stalks in a moment behind his wife, dressed in dark colors and with no blazon showing — unusual for Laurent. His spirits are not as high. There's some color to his face, and it's rising by the moment. He slows to a stop just inside the door, and leans against the wall there, arms folded across his chest.

"Are you among friends, there?" frets Angharad, which is absurd because of course Ser Daevon has friends everywhere. But really. Are they taking care of him the way she would? She looks like she's about to pin him down and feed him soup. "You're welcome here. That's all. Isn't he, darling?" she asks, turning to address her lord husband.

"You are most kind," Daevon says to Angharad. "It would not be a wise move for me to stay here. The Hightower suits me fine." He turns to look at Laurent. "Ser Laurent. I wished to offer you my condolences, and to reassure you that I in no way condone what happened."

Laurent takes a moment to answer. He closes his eyes, might count to ten, breathes out slowly. "If it gets under his uncle's skin," he finally says without opening his eyes, "It's fine with me. I'll see to it with Garvin. No one ought to have to tolerate the Hightowers before lunch." His dark eyes open to meet Daevon's, though he doesn't budge from his place by the door, and he growls out, "You'll understand, I hope, if I don't give a damn for your condolences?"

Harry blinks rapidly at Daevon's words, looking between Laurent and Daevon in confusion. It seems that the very last thing she thinks of the Maiden's Knight is that he's a Targaryen. For whatever that's worth. "Oh," she says softly, frowning. She shakes her head. "Of course you don't — no one ever thought that." She looks back to Laurent. "My love… we're responsible to our families, but not for them. Why should his condolences be worth less than anyone else's? It's likely he feels them more than most."

Daevon nods. "I understand. He was exiled. None of us knew of his return, or sanctioned his behaviour until he strode into our manse with his slaves and the rest of his entourage. Aevander has a mind to keep him close so that he can keep him under control and prevent him from murdering anyone else. I've a mind to just gut him where he stands. Which would make me a kin slayer. I'll likely challenge him anyway, if the response from the King is not to my liking." He scowls. "He is a monster and he will be dealt with. Would you like to fight me? Vent some of that anger?" He shakes his head at Harry. "He has a right to be angry."

Laurent waves a hand at Daevon, though that gesture says most of what he feels. His actual words are few, and terse, as if to draw them out might invite him to boil over. "I want your uncle, Ser. Or those false souls who claimed to be my friends, that now harbor him." He clamps his teeth together, his jaw tensing visibly, and seethes silently a moment before he adds, "I'd not have you kill him, Ser. That's for me to do, once this is all said and done."

"And if he kills you, then what?" Daevon asks. "He will not fight with honour. And duel or not, exiled or not, he is a Targaryen and my family tends to frown on those who kill them. What do you want, vengeance or justice?"

"At him, not at you," says Harry to Daevon, gently. She lowers her lashes and takes a breath as Laurent once more states his intention to avenge his father. "You both have responsibilities to your families," she says to Laurent. "Yours is vengeance, Ser Daevon's is to make sure this terrible man does no more damage to his name. Perhaps it's better. And sooner done."

Daevon shakes his head. "I care less for the damage to my family name and more for the atrocities he has committed." He corrects Harry.

"Then I suppose that's the end of my troubles," Laurent snarls. Harry's reply might be reasonable, so much better for everyone involved, but it holds no comfort for the Thorn. He shakes his head, pushing away from the wall now, coming to join his wife and Ser Daevon. "Lucky for me, in his case, vengeance and justice look remarkably similar."

Harry reaches out a hand to her husband, though she remains near Daevon. "The deed may be done, but it's the end of no one's troubles. We'll all carry sorrow from this. So let's be friends here. We're on the same side."

Daevon shakes his head at what Laurent says, then nods it at Angharads words.

"Are we?" Laurent takes his wife's hand readily enough, coming to stand at her side. "I don't think Ser Daevon and I see this from the same side at all, Harry," he says, lifting his thick brow as he looks to the Maiden's Knight. "He doesn't care that Ser Maelys killed my father and Ser Gyles, only for the awful things he's done," the choleric Tyrell knight explains. "And I don't give a damn for those other awful things, only that two of Lord Tyrell's brothers lie dead at his hands, one desecrated and the other little better than murdered."

Daevon nods at what Laurent says. "We do. Your father's death was the result of a duel, and taking revenge on someone who engaged in a duel to the death is not something I'd sanction. Your Uncle's was declared a tournament accident. So yes, we do see things differently."

Harry sighs, looking between the two men who could not be more different if the gods had devised them specifically so. "Still," says the former Locke, gently, "There's no reason for us to be at odds. You are both good men."

Laurent barks a cold laugh, taking a half-step forward to point a finger at Daevon. "It was declared an accident," he says, his temper flaring, "And your uncle was exiled for that accident. Were he not a Targaryen, I think that might have happened differently," he sneers. "And as to my father — the duel was legal, that much is true. But did Ser Maelys not then cleave the head from his body and take it for his plaything? This is cause for you to challenge him, but not his own son? Because you are as far outside of the rules as he, are you, Ser Daevon?"

Daevon did choose those words deliberately. He nods at what Laurent says. "True." He nods. "He needs to pay for what he did to your father, but I would not challenge him over that. You have just cause to challenge him. I do not wish to see him kill you and do the same to you, because if that happens then the Tyrell blood will not stop flowing. Your brothers will seek to avenge your death, as your father tried to avenge his. Maelys will not fight fair. You're a good swordsman, but he headed up a mercenary company for twenty years."

Angharad takes her husband's arm. "This conversation is pointless. Your anger — both of you — is misplaced here. Why make more enemies when we could be allies in this? Ser Daevon has done you no wrong, Laurent, my love."

"This is pointless," Laurent snarls, rounding to look down on Harry. "You heard him," he says, with a jerk of his head toward Daevon. "This man is not my friend, Ser Daevon, Harry. This is some other man, self-righteous, who cares nothing for us." He looks slightly over his shoulder at Daevon, his teeth flashing in a feral grin. "I'll not challenge him today, Ser Daevon. So kill him, if you must. But if you do, you're no friend of mine."

Sweet Harry is just about at the end of her temper, as well. "Warrior's swollen balls, Laurent, what the fuck does it matter who kills him? Let him die before he does more harm! And let it be done by some hand other than yours, so yours remains here where it's needed!"

Daevon sighs and doesn't argue with Laurent. "You're right. You're my friend, I don't want you dead, and you've a right for revenge as well as justice. I won't do anything then." He sighs. "Unless you ask it of me."

Fuck! No! Harry gives Daevon a look — that's not the answer she wanted.

"It matters," Laurent says, his voice softer now, but no less heated. "It matters to him," he says, nodding to Daevon. "And it matters to me. It matters to my uncles, and to every man with the Tyrell name. And to every man whose banner serves them." Laurent looks over his shoulder to give Daevon a 'look' of his own, but his is less distraught. "Thank you," he manages, gruffly.

Daevon sighs. "I should be gone. I do not wish to make you any angrier."

Angharad throws up her hands. "No, no, by all means — stay. Have a drink. You've resolved your differences, it seems. Huzzah." Here she was pleading for accord between them, you'd think she'd be happy…? But no. Women. Go figure. She turns and stalks toward the stair.

Laurent looks from Daevon to Angharad, eyes following her toward the stair. He looks back to Daevon, angry and confused. His head shakes slightly in bewilderment — he may not even realize he's doing it. He is completely at a loss.

Daevon watches Angharad leave and sighs. "Go after her." He says. "And if you want any practice with your blade come find me." He then heads out.

Harry hurries up the stairs without saying goodbye. There's hospitality for you.

"Go after her," Laurent grumbles. A single shake of his head, he sets his jaw as if about to charge into the lists and follows after his wife.

Up the stairs — both flights — to the newlywed's chamber on the third floor goes Harry. And slams the door. Glowers at it. That doesn't much satisfy, so she opens and slams it again. And again for good measure. Poor door.

"Damnit, Harry," Laurent shouts from the head of the stairs, as he hears that third slam, "I'm on my way. I hear you." He's walking as he's talking, long quick steps, so that he's shouting the last from just outside the door. And then, if it's not barred or held closed by that time, he pushes it open.

The door opens — no bar, no hysterical woman throwing her weight to counter it. Harry's gone to the window, seated in the window seat with her hands clasped tight in her lap. She's breathing deeply and deliberately. Perhaps also counting to ten. "I didn't slam the door to summon you," she points out, as though this were important. "I slammed it because — I felt like slamming something."

"Gods, I know that feeling," Laurent growls, stopping halfway into the room. "Have you ever taken an axe to an endtable? We have both." He nods toward a rack in the corner which holds a very serviceable axe, two-handed with a long beard, and shrugs. "It helps."

Angharad looks somewhat longingly at the axe, then something about the suggestion strikes her funny bone. She snerks and muffles a laugh against her hands as she scrubs them over her face. "Maybe later."

"Won't feel as good later," Laurent says, with a shrug that silently says 'suit yourself.' His brow furrows deeply at her laughter, but after a moment he takes it as an invitation to cross the rest of the room toward his wife.

Her eyes, when she lifts them to his, are deeply unhappy. "So," she says, after a moment of simply looking. "You're going to do this."

"Not now," Laurent says with a shake of his head. "Not just now, now. But when it's done?" He frowns, nodding his head. "It needs to be me as does it. You see that." It's not a question, he just assumes that's true.

"Not now," echoes Harry. "When, then? When our child's born? What difference will that possibly make?"

"I don't know," Laurent admits, shrugging. "Some. Lord Tyrell might look more on it more kindly, if there's a bit of time in between. And it could be that if we give him time, Ser Maelys will make a mistake. The Father's sweaty beard, Harry, the man is an exile. In a month's time, it might be that a warrant comes from King's Landing for his head, and I'll be doing the crown a favor in killing him."

She turns her face away, looking out the lead-paned window. "Why are you so confident you will kill him? Are you a better swordsman? Formidable as you are, my love, no one seems to think so. So you'll just — die. And there's nothing — I can't be a good enough wife, I can't even be pregnant enough — you're just going to die. And I lose you, and then eventually our son, as well, when they have to avenge YOU."

"Either way, Ser Maelys Targaryen will be dead before our son can lift a sword," Laurent says, laying a hand on her shoulder. It ought to be some comofort, at least, in his mind. Right? "I don't know if I'm a better swordsman. I might be — the man is past his prime. But I do know I'm the best shot our family has at killing that whoreson, and it has to be our family that does it."

"What an excellent legacy to leave your children," says Harry, bitterly. "You think if you're killed, that will be the end? He dies of old age or in some other battle? But that's not justice, is it? Justice still needs to be done, so it will be his son, or some other Targaryen madman. Tyrell and Targaryen will shed each other's blood in continued retaliation — there is no end unless he's done in by his own."

Laurent nods, frowning, at her prediction. "Maybe you're right," he allows. "Probably, you're right. You've a better mind for this than I do, gods know. Doesn't change the way of things though, does it?" He squeezes her shoulder, voice rough as he goes on, "If a Tyrell doesn't see this thing done, then the banner houses start to wonder, Love. And maybe our son, a generation from now, swears fealty to Lord Hightower. I won't live in that world."

Harry swallows hard, silent for a time, still not looking at him. She clears her throat. "A glorious death is your first love, isn't it?" she says softly. It's not really a question. "I was so stupid to think you could love me as much."

"My family is my first love," Laurent says fiercely, sliding his arm around Angharad's middle as he comes to stand suddenly close behind her, "And damn anyone who says otherwise. And you and that baby are my family, Harry. I would die for my family, or live for them. Whatever served them better."

"Pretty words," whispers Angharad, closing her eyes and taking a slow breath. "But you know full well which would serve us better. And yet, here we are."

"I do know," Laurent growls in her hear. "You're pretending you don't. House Tyrell does not rule the Reach because we have the prettiest gardens, or the finest wines." His other arm snakes around her as well to pull her close, though there's nothing soft in his voice. "House Tyrell rules the Reach because we have the power to. And men like Ser Maelys Targaryen make our vassals question that power. It can be no one else who answers that question."

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