(121-05-25) A Triangle of Sorts
A Triangle of Sorts
Summary: In which Riderch, now, comes to Laurent to discuss Loryn's impropriety.
Date: 05/25/2014
Related: There's Something About Elionys

Set in the Little Bellhorn Holdfast, mostly in the Dining Hall

It is a cloudy evening hanging over the Holdfast, and one visitor has dressed as if anticipating rain. And a few other things, if one were to take a good look at Riderch Blackwood, who has come to Laurent Tyrell's holdfast. He has been here before, one would note, and had no real trouble finding the place.

While he wears the Weirwood-and-Ravens sigil of his ancestors along with that great raven-feathered cloak he likes to wave about, he is also clad in his armor. Burnished black brigadine. While not completely out of character for a knight, it's not every day he does this when just prancing around town. He will provide his name to the guards, as he lodges a request to see the man himself. Ser Laurent Tyrell. There's a tense look on his face and he's not particularly smiling here.

This cloudy evening sees Ser Laurent Tyrell stalking through the courtyard, a mousy looking man of a similar age at his side. In contrast to his martial surroundings, Laurent is dressed every inch the Tyrell lord — silk and brocade, sturdy trousers and high leather boots, a sword and dagger worn at his waist. He says something in a low, angry tone to the other man — also a lord, from the look of him — who nods and responds softly, a patient look seemingly carved into his features. At the response, Laurent slaps a piece of parchment into his companion's hand and turns.

Perhaps he meant to turn toward the dining hall, or his own quarters, but when the guards hail him from the gate he starts that way.

"Ho, Ser Riderch," he calls out, and neither is the Thorn in high spirits. When is he? Still, he waves the Riverlander into the courtyard and turns himself to lead the Blackwood heir away from the gate guards and perhaps toward a seat, and wine.

Oh, his sword and dagger are buckled on his belt, with him, too. Buckled at his side. Riderch's armor though would probably make the addition of the sort less pointed or notable. He silently accepts the call and nods at the guard in acknowledgement with pursed lips. His bootsteps echo against the stones. He's got a light dusting of stubble upon his cheeks, but Blackwood has never been something of an ardent shaver.

The Riverlander does accept the invite and passes further in, his hands tucked behind his back as Laurent unfurls his hospitality, grumpy Thorn or no. He patiently approaches Laurent. "Good — evening, Ser Laurent. If you have a few minutes. I wanted to speak with you? Before things became potentially messy." There's some measured tension there, but his tone is polite enough to the other Knight. He even manages a half-smile.

Laurent nods as he leads Riderch further into the yard, though his steps slow at the mention of a mess, and draw finally to a stop as he looks the Riverlander over. Armor. Sword. Forced smile. "The Stranger's Teeth, Ser," he swears, "But just come out with it." Frustration seethes in the Tyrell knight, and he shakes his head. "It looks as though things are messy already, doesn't it? Let's make straight for the point, rather than speaking around it."

"Relax, Ser Laurent. Relax." It's a funny enough statement coming from him, as Riderch waves his left hand slowly. "I — Maybe I was unsure of the impression I wanted to give. I was literally not going this way at all until my head cleared." His faint grin widens here in a vulpine sort of flash. "Occasionally a bad idea will give way to a better idea as you might know. I am no Stranger today."

With this, he idly leans his hand atop the back of a chair, shifting his weight upon it as he looks upon the Tyrell knight with a certain hesitation. "You know — I find you a respectable sort and not the type to heap nonsense on. So maybe this was a better choice. And I want to ask you something, plainly here if you will allow it." After a few moments, it does dawn on him that he's looking a little bit, well, ridiculous for a social call, and peers down at his armor. "I suppose this is not the proper way to do it…"

"Propriety be damned," Laurent says with a shake of his head, stalking to the sideboard where he busies himself pouring two glasses of wine. "And respectability with it. If you're going to ask me something, I would have you do it plainly." There's a rough sort of gratitude in his voice there, as the frustration starts to give way, leaving a general sort of untargeted irritation in its wake. "You're a man I might call a friend," he admits, "If I were pressed on the point. So you're in a fine place for airing bad ideas. Gods know that I have spoken some foul ones in this room," he tacks on with a bark of laughter.

"I thought of that as well." Unfortunately, Laurent's laugh is infections and whatever menace Blackwood may have been unconsciously trying to project diminishes somewhat in its presence. "And I think those were some splendid ideas in the right time and place. Ser Abram seemed bloody happy at that little reception." His teeth flash in a show of mirth that matches his eyes, at this very moment. He accepts the wine even, if offered, although he continues to lean on the chair.

Riderch just can't do glowering for very long in the face of such things, and it may have contributed something to his generally jovial reputation. Which makes the next words he chooses seem all the more strange.

"We've gotten a certain degree of mutual respect out of the way, which means I feel like coming here was a good choice." His tone is questioning though as he spits it out. "So I'm coming to you rather than going to your brother. As a man who's made his share of specifically bad choices, I think he's making a few of his own and — well." His shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug. "I think you'd be cross with me if I were to do what I set out to. That would be fucking unfortunate. For everyone."

Laurent does pass Riderch a glass, and then puts a hand on his sword so that it won't foul as he drops heavily into a chair at the same table where Riderch stands, slouching to take up more space than even his large form ought to. "Ser Abram. I don't know why I even tolerate the man's company," he growls. "Would that that night's words were the most foolish to grace this hall." He looks about the room, eyes lingering for a moment near the door, and shakes his head heavily.

"My gods damned brother," the Thorn growls when Riderch mentions Loryn, his jaw suddenly clenched. "I won't deny that he may deserve whatever it is you set out to do," he rumbles, with an eye now on the blade at Riderch's waist. He straightens in his chair, shifting to sit upright, a deep frown lining his already unattractive features. "What is it that you set out to do?" Not why. He should probably have asked why.

"An awful man, for awful times, I'm sure." This is said first in recognition of Ser Abram, and the glass is raised in the air. "To Ser Abram Florent of Derring Downs, may he know all the unhappiness a man of his reckoning deserves." His head lolls to the door as well as Laurent glance at it, but he then leans, taking a sip and continuing to study the Thorn of House Tyrell with a certain wariness, maybe just gauging the man's reaction before he continues.

His hand points to the sword at his side. "Oh, you know. Maybe give him a little lesson on appropriate behavior around others. With maybe a promise to shove this thing so far up his arsehole that it'd be as wide as any backstage mummer at that fucking thea—" He trails off. Yeah, Riderch. Nothing you could say here would make that statement go over even better, and he's said too much already. And immediately he counters with this. "Not that I would have actually done it. Just, you know - words." Right.

Laurent raises his glass as well, but counters, "May none of us ever get what we deserve." There is a toast he'll drink to, and he takes a healthy swallow before he snorts, "Derring Downs." Dismissive of the place, shaking his head.

His eyes narrow though as Riderch speaks of his plans where Loryn is concerned. He frowns. He rubs at his chin. His fingers drum on the tabletop, and at length he nods. "I had thought to do something of the sort myself, just recently," he admits. "Seven hells — or however many you believe in," he offers with a shrug of his broad shoulders, "But it might be better coming from you." He muses on this a moment, but in the end his chest fills with a deep breath, and he blows out a sigh. "But one never knows how Ser Brynden might respond, and it's my duty to see done, besides. Isn't it?" A man with many vile traits, Laurent is at the least dutiful toward his family. "The Father's balls, but I'd be happy to let it fall elsewhere." Only now, with a lift of his heavy brow, does he ask, "What did the boy do to offend you, Ser?"

"We never will." This to Laurent here. "Just the Ancestors, Ser." Well, that came out with it. "Which makes death a very crowded and unpleasant place for many people. I hope to see a few of them there." His smile flickers upwards, indicating a certain ruefulness to his take on the whole thing. He does drink a bit though, and seeing Laurent's immediate reaction, there's an ever-so-slight relaxation to his shoulder posture as he settles into a seat. Well, looks like for the time being, this table is not to be flipped and swords are not drawn, so he just eases into the conversation. "Family's a joy and a burden sometimes. I admit, I'm blessed. Which brings me to a portion of the matter." All the talk of Brynden Hightower and the duty itself that Laurent may have, is postponed.

"Let me just say this. Say you are, well, courting an exceptional woman. And there happens to be one foolish, foolish man with a concern he should not have for the honor of this exceptional woman. Now, this foolish man," Riderch Blackwood gestures, with a slight looping of his own finger towards his chest narrowing down the list of potential suspects, "Also is blessed with an exceptional woman for a sister. Now, while courting the first exceptional woman, you feel the need to prance around this city spreading your admittedly harmless flirtations around, one of those falls upon that foolish man's exceptional sister in what admittedly again is a harmless, passing gesture? What is that foolish man supposed to think? For he is a very foolish man." He eyes Laurent flatly here, having done exactly the sort of thing the Thorn probably hates, present a simple issue in a ridiculous speech.

"The Crone's forgotten snatch." Laurent does hate that, and by the end of the presentation he is leaning in over his wineglass, glowering. "Elionys Targaryen, you mean," he guesses. "Princess," he adds after the fact. And though he certainly harbors a rancor for some of the Targaryen line, there's none of it in his voice when he speaks her name. "You might have passed her whoreson of a cousin as you came in. I just spoke to Ser Aevander on that matter," he complains, spitting Aevander's name like a curse. "And your sister, then," he growls. "There's no need to be so damnably…" He gestures with one open hand, unable to come up with a suitable word, and that frustrates him further still.

"Proud and foolish are not the same, Ser Riderch," Laurent opines, shaking his head. That has been a sticking point for him, of late, and the recollection heats his words. "You are offended at my brother's actions, and perhaps rightly so. Gods know my family has earned a repuatation for being indiscreet."

At the mention of Ser Aevander's name, Riderch's brows just go up. He looks towards the door. Whatever blood and misery he was ready to lay at Loryn's door doesn't seem to extend to the Prince. Or at least, he's clearly watching his own backside here. "Tchh. Eli — Princess." He does it too.

"Yes." comes his flat admission now. "And the worst part of it is, I realized I'm a fucking ponce, getting ready to lay out terrible threats over a woman. That's not how we are supposed to be." This bit of self-reflection visibly brings him down.

"Well, Aine can take care of herself, and I think were things different, your brother didn't do anything I'd take offense at towards her. All he did was invite her over to Garden Isle 'at some point.' /Had/ he done anything wrong I'm fairly certain she'd have just set that great falcon of hers on his backside and we'd have a lot of explaining to do. Not that I wouldn't burn down half a city that had wronged her." He smiles a bit in his cup and it's probably mischevious enough to indicate there is a very strong intent behind those words. "I just feel the implication here is this, if you're going to dedicate yourself to a woman you claim to honor, you should stick to it. And it's damn stupid to spread your games around to anyone else when proud, foolish men like me are watching. But that's beyond the point. I shouldn't be sticking my bloody nose in regarding the Princess, anyway." Oh, Riderch Blackwood. Making specifically bad choices indeed.

"Horse shit," Laurent counters flatly, to the lot of it. "If you've a mind to court a princess, then court her. To seven hells with the proper thing, and knowing your station." He seems to truly feel that, for all that he himself married somewhat beneath what he might have expected. "Call yourself a ponce, Ser, or whatever other foul name you might like. But gods know I've threatened men and more over women." He snorts a laugh into his wine glass as he raises it to his lips, and after a drink he adds, "I killed my first man over a woman. Over a whore." It's an amused recollection, more than an admission, for him. There's no guilt associated with the memory.

That brings a shake of his head, and another sigh. "My brother is nothing if not damnably stupid." After a moment's though he corrects himself with, "Save perhaps for fickle. Fickle as any woman I've met — moreso than most." That brings a sour look to his face, as he is forced to honestly consider for a moment whether Loryn is more fickle, or more stupid, in his mind. He's an overly cricitcal sort, so in his mind there's plenty of both in the young man. In the end, he shakes the question off. "At any rate, I wouldn't begrudge you violence in defense of your sister. Gods know I'd do the same in defense of my stupid, fickle brother. But know," he warns, meeting Riderch's eye, "That he is but a squire, and hardly more than a boy. And if he calls on me to stand for him in a duel, I could do no less than to oblige him."

"That — well, that's a problem for a different time." Riderch says, noncommittally. "And that problem is mine and mine alone." He clams up a little after this admission to Laurent, now. "I already got into a dustup with her cousin in a bloody sausage house, comandeered my cousin's ship to show her a pleasant afternoon and ended up showing her a pile of fucking corpses, and now I'm running around this city like a mooning idiot threatening her suitors?" He smiles wryly here as he hides it in the cup. "Well, I suppose that we are what we are." He doesn't pry about Laurent's bloody history. But he doesn't need to.

"My sister didn't need defense. She's just not some p — his consolation or target of idle amusement and he'd better well be a man and understand that." As Laurent mentions a duel though, this gets to the very heart of the matter.

"This is, really, what I wanted to ask you about. I know what the logical end of this would be if I ended up pursuing some kind of vendetta against him. And I'll have you know, I'm not sure who would win if I stood against you, Ser. But I think we both would lose." He stares at the big man now. "So maybe you will have a word with him? Tell him to keep his eyes in his head and his cock in his trousers if he is serious about the Princess. That means no dallying, hand-kissing, poncy flirtation with strange Ladies he just met. Because a lot of beautiful Ladies have stupid, proud brothers that would look for an excuse to do something terrible. Like I did." And with that, he just lets the matter rest.

Laurent smiles a brief, ugly smile at Riderch's romantic tale of fistfights and ghost ships. But it's a shared mirth, or so he figures, rather than a mocking one. "It might have worked with my wife," he offers, shrugging. "But she's a rare sort, isn't she?" He doesn't even scowl as he mentions Harry. Maybe they're patching things up.

The Thorn frowns at Riderch's assessment of the possible outcome of a duel, but apparently he can live with it. He nods. "I already meant to speak to him on the matter," he admits sullenly. "Seven hells, I might end up gutting him myself. Then won't I feel a fool for not having let you do it?" That draws another brief, humorless laugh from the tall Tyrell knight. "He'll keep his cock in his trousers, Ser. Or in a whore, or in a pouch around his neck as a reminder." From the look in his dark eyes, that might not even be an idle claim.

"Rare? Northron women are a different breed." Riderch admits, chewing on his words here as his lips are pursed and Harry is brought up. "They're my blood, you know. We just — my family are just the last Northerners below the Neck." Well, there are the Brackens, some would say, but it is well-known what he would say on that. "I know a little something about that, I'm afraid. If I were a smart man, I'd not even be thinking about any of this." But he's already said that, many, many times over.

He smirks ever-so-slightly. "I wish you both well in that." He's not touching the issue of the man's marriage any further. Nope. Nope.

"Well, if you feel the need to have him receive a beating I suppose I could relax my better instincts, but that would defeat the whole purpose of this little trip. And now that I've come here, drank your wine, and told you a tinker's wagon full of shit that I shouldn't have, I rather like it here." And he flashes wine-stained teeth at Laurent's promise regarding his brother. "You should come visit one of these days. I'm right near the Mormonts. Although I don't go there, really." He clears his throat and just falls silent as the wine is drunk down. "I need to get this armor oiled anyway." He winces as he stands, and extends his hand. "Do we have an accord? Nobody's head is going to be split open over this..without further discussion?"

Laurent stands too, grunting as he pushes out from the table. He's done talking about Harry, and most likely it's better that way, though he does manage an ungrateful-looking nod for Riderch's well-wishes.

"Mayhaps I will visit, then," Laurent agrees. "And you are of course welcome here. We have an accord." With that, he reaches out to clasp hands with the Riverlander. "We will discuss it further before anyone is truly harmed, in this."

And on this hastily-decided meeting, the matter is solved. At least for now.


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