(121-04-24) Walls
Walls
Summary: Wylliam speaks to his mother, particularly about his betrothed.
Date: 24/04/2014
Related: None
Players:
Hellan..Wylliam..

Walled Garden - Sailmaker's Manse Appletree Wynd

This small garden is walled in dusty-brown coloured stone. Grape vines and runner-beans and peas grow up the walls, and alongside them there are vegetable and herb patches. Near the door to the manse is a water-barrel, collecting from the downspout. A couple of apple trees grow here, old and twisted but still able to bear fruit. Under and between them is enough space for practice at arms. There's a single heavy wooden bench situated to provide an observer a good view of any combatants.

The back garden wall is the wall of a house the next wynd over, and its windows and those of the surrounding residences might offer a view of the garden, but no access.


Lady Hellan has taken to sitting outside in the garden this day, though her leisure seems to serve no purpose, as she has been largely unaccompanied and seems to draw little relaxation from the act of sitting on the bench under the twisting fruit trees. Her back is poised stiffly, and she sits not unlike a statue, giving the garden the stone decoration it lacks. It's cool outside, though perhaps fair compared to what the Northern residents of the manse are used to — yet her skin seems paler, chilled. A cup from inside is clutched in one hand, on the heavy wood of the bench, but it's empty, and she passes the time staring rather absently at the vines on the wall. Even her empty stare looks like it could cut rock.

Footsteps are heard crunching though the short grass and kicking up rocks as the steps drag along inside the garden. Young Wylliam turns the corner along the thick and durable manse and he notices his mother, he's shirtless and barefoot - only wearing some short trousers which are still above his knee. He's dragging along a large sack behind him filled with rocks, the reason unknown. Wylliam's grip goes loose as he notices his mother perched upon the bench.. "Hello, Mother.." he says with a faint smile upon his face.. standing still look at her with a bag of rocks infront of his feet.

At first, his mother is utterly unresponsive. She does nothing but stare, unmoving, at the wall throughout her son's entire approach. It's only after blank delay that she jerks her chin up neatly, taking in a fast, then held, breath of cool air. There's another pause before she moves her gaze directly to the young Stark. "Wylliam," she greets, in a manner; it's warm only in contrast to her previous frozen statue of a pose, which she has not entirely melted from. She notices his odd luggage and judges it questioningly, a crease forming between her dark eyebrows. "By the gods. What are you doing?"

Wylliam gazes down at the sack of rocks, regrabbing a peice of loose sack as a handle to lug it around.. he turns back towards his mother and without skipping a beat he says, "I was goin' to build a rock house.." he raises his other hand and chews on his thumbnail, the rest of his fingernails already jagged looking like he chewed them off. "I could ask you the same thing," he nicely retorts, "I didn't think that wall was so interesting.." he holds his tounge from speaking any further though, not wanting a red mark with five fingers engraved into it visible on his face for the rest of the day. He advances further towards her direction, dragging the rocks along aswell.

"A rock house? Do you mean to sleep outside, like a dog?" Hellan responds, flippant but dull beneath the natural edge of her voice. She shifts ever-so-slightly on the bench, the stiffness of her back unchanging, and says nothing about her bout of staring at the wall which, as it turns out, unless one is particularly interested in botany, is not that interesting.

Wylliam shakes his head, and lets out a deep sigh.. not wanting to spend the time to explain his intentions, "You'll see.." he says in a foreshadowing manner. He slings the rocks to the side and looks towards the bench, inviting himself.. it is his mother afterall. He plops his rear down beside her on the bench, and sits quietly next to her for the longest time until he leans over after he notices she takes no sip from her cup.. finding that it is empty. He raises an eyebrow, but quickly wipes it from his face with the shake of his head, "Mother, I went over and talked with Carolis and Andy yesterday." he says with a hopeful smile, anything to stop the awkward silence.

Hellan appears summarily uninterested by her son's suspicious activity, except to deign it suspicious. If an awkward silence goes on, she is immune to it, as she so often is; so often slipping into ambiguous, difficult-to-read silences. She follows Wylliam's gaze to her cup, her precise lips downturning at the reminder that it's empty. "Who?" she sighs out. "Carolis," she repeats, "That's right, he's here as well. I encountered his messenger, that stable boy, the Snow. What did you speak on?" Her interest rises, if slightly, although she sounds more suspicious, again, than conversational.

Wylliam leans over while digging into his bag of rocks, talking to his mother. "Not much, we spoke about that betrothal that's going on with that Targaryen.. and then I ate an apple, and listened to both of'em speak." he shrugs his words off, not really seeing them as important.. but he arises a new matter, one that is infact important - "I met my betrothed two or three days ago, she arrived her at the manse with a guard and maid.. she's quite attractive, nice teeth, hair.. and she's just a joy to speak with." He scoots closer to his mother, "Will you meet with her?" he asks, looking up towards Hellan.

Also viewing her son's conversation with the others as largely unimportant, she lifts her head slowly higher, regal, as he brings about the more important words. "Yes… that," she responds, serious, only for her brows to raise and a hint of amusement to strike her voice. "Nice teeth." The things that are important to boys. Though, giving it a moment's consideration, tips her head to one side in some manner of agreement. "So she has been well-kept and polished, the Golden Key." Hellan's bears forth some faint mockery for her son's betrothed's moniker. "I suppose we shall receive her properly since she has come all this way."

Wylliam takes hold of a small multi-coloured rock in his palm, placing his fingers over it. He slides his arm out of the back and listens to his mother make a mockery of him, but in good taste. He lights up when his mothers response is exactly what he wanted to hear, his betrothed will get a proper introduction! Wylliam leans over towards his mother and gives her a kiss on the cheek, and then a hug from the side - "Thank you, mother!" he says joyfully. He stands up out of the bench and disregards his rocks, extending his hand towards the cup.. "Let me refill that for you." he's in the mood now!

Hellan cannot go any more still than she already is, but she seems to become impermeable as Wylliam kisses her, hugs her; her cheeks are razors that threaten to cut him, her cold shoulder to freeze him. Yet she lifts a hand as he begins to move off, touching and holding his forearm as he stands up, before he's fully parted, and regards her son with a narrowed gaze, studying. "You are an excited child about this girl," she notes, ambiguous, yet seems to store the information away for consideration. Quieter, she delivers, "Thank you," low but appreciative as she hands him the empty cup.

Wylliam swallows hard as he is abruptly grabbed, he gazes into his mothers sharp eyes.. and he nods, not giving off a reply.. quite choked up. He rubs his wrist against his hip when he's let go, nodding.. he grasps her cup and slowly backs into the manse, going to grab her drink.

When she's focused — paying attention — she's keenly observant. Hellan watches Wylliam leave with her cup, grey gaze marked on his back, considering his silence, considering him. Even to the empty garden her thoughts are locked in, face showing little; she does blink as if dismissing thought, however, and extends a foot to idly give the bag of rocks an exploratory, if innately annoyed, kick.

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