(121-04-23) Accord
Summary: Angharad and Laurent come to a painful accord — but it's better than war.
Date: Date of play (22/04/2014)
Related: Everything Harry and Laurent, ever.

It's a bright, beautiful summer morning, the kind that makes even Laurent and Angharad's slowly emptying bedchamber look cheerful. The shutters and curtains are thrown wide, letting the light and the gentle breeze off the river in. Harry is seated at the writing table, poring over some dreadfully tedious-looking document, some kind of domestic inventory. She's scratching out figures on a scrap of paper to the side, her hair tied up in a hasty knot to keep it out of her face as she works. Her fingers are ink-stained, though her pretty, lavender silk dress has so far escaped the same fate. She's kicked off her slippers and works barefoot, one leg tucked up girlishly beneath her.

"I need my arming coat," is as much announcement of Laurent's entrance as his heavy, booted footsteps. He comes briskly into the room, making straightaway for a chest near an armor stand, and kneels to dig within. His dark eyes are for his destination, and a flush of red in his cheeks speaks to irritation.

She doesn't look up from her work. "Laurent. Good. I need to speak with you about some things."

Laurent's reply is a grunt that might be acknowledgement, without looking up from the chest. That coat is quickly found, and he holds the thick garment up for inspection, frowning as he looks it over.

"The last shipment from Highgarden — the masonry to rebuild the fireplaces in the third floor suites? Was half missing. One of the mantle pieces was entirely smashed. I sent a strongly worded letter to the Master Garn, the stonemason, but while we dicker about how he's going to give our money back, we'll need to buy new from another quarry." Angharad still doesn't look up from her documents. "If we want the manse habitable in time. It will even out, in the end, but I wanted you to be aware."

"The Seven saw fit to bless the small fortune I brought back from the Red Rookery," he says, folding the coat over one arm as he stands. "Use that, unless you fancy a set of gaudy golden plates and cups. Truly, I don't care either way." With that he turns and starts toward the door.

"I'm not done," says Angharad, tonelessly. "I was wondering if you'd be good enough to stop fucking noble ladies in my house."

Laurent stops with his hand on the door, but still doesn't look at Harry. "I shall fuck whom I please, and where. Highborn or small, ladies or, seven hells, men if I take a fancy. Will there be anything else, My Lady?"

"Yes," says Harry, turning and resting her arm on the back of her chair, looking nothing more than tired. "I don't contest it's your right to fuck whomever you choose, wherever you choose. But taking the chance of fathering bastards and enraging families is stupid. If you insist on being stupid, do it somewhere more discreet. However, I strongly recommend you stick to whores and scullery maids. Do you think you can do that?"

"Not likely," Laurent admits with a rough chuckle. "I've never fancied scullery maids. It's their hands." He shrugs, still without turning, but the smile on his face is in his voice, too.

"All right," says Harry, with a breath. She turns back to her work. "Thank you for being honest. I shall be equally honest in telling you that as I find out about them — and I shall, as I already have — I will take what action I feel appropriate. You may very soon find yourself fucked out of your alliances with — oh… just about everyone." She makes a notation on her scrap of paper. "So at least pace yourself."

There is rage in his voice now, sudden and hot. "You traitorous cunt," he snarls. "I might have expected you to turn on me, but what few friends I have are as important to you, and moreso to our child. To burn those bridges for the sake of your wounded pride…" He quivers a moment, his knuckles white where they grip the doorknob, but holds his voice steady as he adds, "You've made it clear we're not to be friends, Harry. Don't make an enemy of me. I'm a poor one to have."

"You did this, Laurent," says Harry, flatly. "And don't forget it. We argued — and I admit, it was quite a row — but we could have repaired it. I was actually — " she breathes a bitter laugh, " — I was actually looking forward to it. That you couldn't wait a day to mount another woman — " she laughs again, bowing and shaking her head. "My gods, it took my breath away. Love. You and I against the world. You destroyed that. Deliberately. You wanted this. And now you have it." She snorts. "Don't threaten me, you undisciplined, faithless, abominable wretch. Your words mean nothing. If you can't eat it, fuck it, or kill it, you're helpless. And I am smarter than you are."

Laurent's laugh is bitter, and when he finally looks over his shoulder his dark eyes are full of hurt. "Love," he sneers. "You never loved me, Harry, though you made a good show of it. I'll give you that you're a crafty liar," he says sourly, "But I can do any of those three things to you, can't I? So mind your tongue, keep my house, and build our name. We're better suited to be allies, so I'll offer you this. Stay out of my business, bear my son, and you need never worry for me fucking any woman under a roof we share."

Harry takes a slow, deep breath. She lowers her lashes. "I loved you better than you ever deserved," she whispers. But… she nods. "We have an accord, then. Let us be civil allies."

"Good." For all his arrogance and brutish, bullying vanity, even Ser Laurent Tyrell doesn't have the gall to contest that soft assertion. So instead he pushes through the door and is gone.


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