(122-12-15) Three Invitations
Three Invitations
Summary: In short order, Sir Loryn Tyrell invites Lady Hastwyck to call upon him at the Garden Isle Manse, to attend a soiree within those esteemed walls at a later date, and to dance with him into the bargain.
Date: 15-16/12/2015
Related: Makes reference to their first meeting at the wedding of Dhraegon Targaryen and Marsei Fossoway.

Three days after so precipitously making the acquaintance of Ser Loryn Tyrell at the wedding of the Clown Prince and the Flower of Oldtown, the widowed Lady Hastwyck takes him up on his invitation to call upon him at the Garden Isle Manse and see the solar of which he spoke in such glowing terms as the most comfortable chamber in Oldtown, with a view of the spires of the Starry Sept.

Glowing terms might aptly be applied to the lady herself this afternoon. Swathed in sea-green Dornish sandsilk and almost as many pearls as she wore to the wedding, with her wild dark red curls half-up and half-down and aiming as ever to wind up all the way down, she is shown in by one of the manse's upper servants trailing her own dour-faced maidservant and a cloud of that heady, spicy fragrance which fell upon Sir Loryn practically out of heaven the other day. Her habitual small smile becomes a much broader one as her eyes alight upon him: "Why, Sir Loryn!" she exclaims. "You see I am as good as my word, or am I even better—? For I think I've come a little sooner than I said; I hadn't a thing to do today and I found I could wait no longer to hear the rest of what you were going to tell me about your next production… It was too bad of that uncle of yours to keep interrupting with his war stories, when he knew I was so interested."

Loryn Tyrell hasn't done much since the wedding… and the ill-fated joust. Servants would show the lady to the solar, where he's found most of the time at the moment, surrounded by trays on which only crumbs are left and emptied cups. He's dressed down as he always is at home, in a lose white shirt and grey pants. He is used to having male visitors barge in on him, but the arrival of the lady catches him by surprise. "Seven.", he groans and gets to his feet when she steps in, so he can offer her a bow. "Lady Joyeuse, what a surprise. Do come in. Some refreshments will be brought presently." He pauses to run a hand through his messy hair. "How are you?"

His bow is answered with just the merest suggestion of a curtsey, during which Lady Joy's fan never ceases its lazy fluttering. "I'm marvelously well, and I trust you are too," she answers gaily, proceeding through the tray-strewn landscape to the windows with a short sandsilk train shimmering about her feet. "Oh, you're quite right," and she beams over her shoulder at him, "the prospect is delightful, it really is. Of course from the Hightower one can see all sorts of things, but to have a view so splendid framed within one's windows right down here in the city — why, it's only what one would expect of House Tyrell, but to see it is still a treat. Thank you for inviting me, dear Sir Loryn — you really are too kind," and this time, leaning one hand lightly upon the windowsill, framing herself in the delightful prospect, she turns to face him directly, "especially to a lady who tried to squash you flat!" Her laughter rings out, low and rich and genuinely pleased.

"I may not look it, but I'd rather sturdy.", Loryn assures the lady with a light grin, "You were quite welcome to sit on my lap. I have a rather nice from my private balcony as well but it would feel wrong to invite you to my chambers at this stage of our acquaintance." Is he actually flirting? The moment gets interrupted by the servant who brings a fresh tray with savory sandwiches and sweet cakes as well as a cup of wine for the lady. He replaces the empty trays on the table with the new one in silence and disappears again. "It's been quite a wedding, wasn't it?", he smiles, "Though I admit I sometimes thought I could feel the yoke around my neck."

Whether he be flirting or merely solicitous for a lady's reputation, his new acquaintance's reaction is the same — a fond smile, another soft chuckle as she steps daintily across to the table where the promised refreshments have already been set out. Her maid meanwhile has retreated into the farthest corner of the solar and produced a grim-looking piece of knitting.

"The Yellow Wedding, they're calling it," pouts Lady Joy; "though I'm afraid I missed all the fun, I simply couldn't coax my head off my pillow the morning after the feast…" She lowers her voice to confide, "Princess Rhaenyra's firewine." Which experience doesn't seem to have put her off drink; she snaps shut her fan and exchanges it gladly for the cup provided for her, and adds, "Oh, but there are yokes and yokes, Sir Loryn, and some of them aren't so disagreeable, I promise you. You've an elder brother, haven't you? Perhaps your parents won't be in such a hurry," she suggests soothingly, "and you might even have the opportunity to suggest a girl you like."

"Ah, quite possibly, but my mother emerges here from Highgarden from time to time to complain about everything from the state of the house to my lack of betrothed. I dread the day she turns up in Oldtown with some dimwitted damsel in tow whose only adornment is the name of some important house.", he sighs, "The last girl they tried to foist upon me did not like the theatre. You can imagine how that did not last long.", he smirks and reaches for his own wine cup, still standing on a small side table beside the couch on which he had lounged. "You are happily married then?"

Wine in hand Lady Joyeuse perches upon the edge a chair drawn out by the servant before he departs; and this time she doesn't laugh but sighs and shakes her head, dislodging another curl from the prison of a pearl-tipped pin. "Ah, but I was," she explains, "until my Lord Hastwyck passed away from me, almost two years ago." Another tiny shake, a lift of her eyes, to express her incredulity at where the time could have gone. "… Not the name of an important house," she winks, "but the dearest creature in the world to me all the while I knew him, though my mother was a Tully and my father a Florent. I was always," she confides, sandsilk rippling as she inclines toward her young host, "taught to abhor Tyrells; but I'm afraid I can't find it in me to think anything bad of a Tyrell who put on The Pirates of Pentos."

Loryn wanders over to the window to look down into the street while he listens to her tale. On her last remark, he turns around with a somewhat theatrical flourish and places a hand on his chest. "To abhor Tyrells! But why indeed, Mylady? We are gentle creatures, tilling the bountiful lands of the Reach and relish in the beauty of nature. We don't keep oversized wolves or flying flamethrowers for pets after all!" His hand drops away as he becomes serious again: "I'm sorry to hear about your husband."

"And I'm sorry to hear about your lady mother," the lady jests, brightly under the circumstances, but with recourse to her wine, "and the disappointment of her tenderly cherished hopes for you—! This life is full of ups and downs for all of us, isn't it? It's only that very nature you Tyrells relish. And so I thank you for your sympathy, Sir Loryn, but I promise you I'm well enough." The subject of their talk has tempered her smile and yet she appears hardly in danger of putting to use the handkerchief spilling out of one silky sleeve.

"So you've come to Oldtown for a new harvest?", Loryn asks curiously, sticking with the crummy gardening metaphors for a bit, "I believe it can be fairly bountiful, especially with so many guests still in town from the wedding. Though I always find myself astonished at the pairings it yields. Poor Lady Marsei. Do you think she married him of her own volition?", he can't help wondering.

The answer Lady Joy has for her host is perhaps, if he is paying close attention to her eyes whilst he inquires into her plans, slightly ambiguous. "Why, I've come as always to seek the consolation of friendship! And to attend my cousin's wedding— now, how can you say such a thing?" she demands with gentle pique. "Of course the choice was her own, and I don't see why so many people who don't know the first thing and aren't the least bit concerned must take it upon themselves to question her. She knows her own mind."

"I see.", is Loryn's vague answer to both of her comments, though he doesn't look the least convinced. So he decides to change the subject. "Lady Joyeuse, you are new to Oldtown, so you may not be aware of the musical soirees I regularly host here at Garden Isle. Would you do me the honour to attend my next one? It shall have a Dornish theme."

The lady's reddened lips form a pleased little 'O'. "I think I should like that above all things, Sir Loryn…" she confides. "You know, I've heard tell of these soirees of yours, in honour of so many different lands — but last year I had never the honour of an invitation…" Her smile deepens into a smirk, almost as though to imply they were both missing out on a treat. "What good fortune for me, then, to return to Oldtown in time for what can only be the most colourful. I lived in Dorne for many years; I'm fond still of— oh, Dornish food, and sandsilk for the summer," she smooths her gleaming skirts, "and those wonderfully sharp wines… Though I can't say I haven't a liking also for this," she lifts her cup, "rich, earthy sweetness. I should think your soirees have encompassed so many enviable tastes!"

Loryn seems surprised to hear that she wasn't invited. "Oh, what an oversight, I apologize, Mylady. Do let me make it up to you with this Dornish soirees. There will be spicy Dornish food, music and dance, and of course plentiful Dornish wine. WHo knows, I might fill the Garden pool with it and let people bathe in it. That sounds like a very Dornish thing to do, don't you think?", he grins.

Her low laughter fills the solar, more amused than scandalised; "Oh, I can think of many Dornish I used to know who might have done just that, had someone only bet them they wouldn't," she teases. "Oh, thank you, Sir Loryn, you're too diverting… Only name the day and the hour, and I'll come and sit beside your pool of wine and see if I can remember the words to any Dornish drinking songs. I'm sure I can't — it's been so long! — but I feel I ought to return something for your hospitality if only I can."

"There'll be plenty of Dornish guests who will be only too happy to jog your memory.", Loryn promises and smiles warmly. "I shall make sure you receive an invitation. And don't worry. Your charming presence shall be reward enough for my hospitality. If you look for a more personal return of favour, perhaps you'll even do me the honour of a dance?"

Oh, my, what a nice boy he is. So well-brought up, Tyrell though he may be. "I look forward to it; and I'll save you any dance you wish, as a host's prerogative, though I fear it will only place me further in your debt," chuckles Lady Joy, smiling benevolently despite how little wine seems to be remaining in her cup. "I'm certain that as an actor and a knight, you'll prove not at all inclined to step on my toes."

"I shall try my best not to.", Loryn assures her. He also notices the nearly empty cup and gallantly steps forward to pick up the jug and refill the lady's cup with a little smile.

And two people so determined to be agreeable each to the other, get on famously well for another quarter of an hour and two cups of wine, as long really as propriety permits, before Lady Joy makes her excuses and a dainty curtsey and steps out again to see about a spot of shopping. What's she going to buy? Well, how can she tell you that till she's had a look?

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