(121-03-20) Cousins Conference
Cousins Conference
Summary: Laurent and Keyte discuss… a good few things.
Date: Date of play (20/03/2014)
Related: Wickham's Nest Ones and others.

Grand Hall - Garden Isle Manse



Back from the Hightower for less than two hours, and he's looking for Keyte already. There have been servants enlisted in the search, and Francys the stableboy has been threatened with violence, but to no avail. And so Laurent, a plate of finger-foods in one hand and a flagon of wine in the other, with a pair of glasses tucked under his arm, opts for shouting. "KEYTE," he calls out, crumbs flying as he yells around a mouthful of bread and cheese. "LADY KEYTE TYRELL!" He stalks into the grand hall through the kitchen doors, this time, searching for his cousin.

Who could say where Keyte's been hiding? More to the point — would they say it to Laurent, even if they knew? He need not look for much longer, a torrent of tinkling laughter ringing in the stairwell leading up to the second level. It is unmistakably Keyte's, that impossibly light and airy sound she makes when she's amused. She doesn't step into the larger room just yet, instead calling from the stairwell: "SER LAURENT?"

"Damnit, Girl." A short pause, and then Laurent's boots are loud on the stairs. He, by contrast, is neither light nor airy. Heavy and earthy, perhaps. Dour and unfriendly, more like. "I've been looking for you," he growls as he nears the top of the stairs. "Nearly brained your stableboy," he admits, unashamed. "Thought you were playing your hiding game with him."

"I know," says Keyte, skipping down a few steps to meet Laurent a few from the top. Her smile is… well. Dimpled. Tickled, she is. "Oh, but you should be nicer to Francys, lest he starve your horses mad, aye? What is it, cous?"

"He well knows I'd kill him," Laurent says, with no hint of irony in his tone. "I've been to see Ser Olyvar," he says, making it sound like a complaint. He eyes the plate in his hand, frowning, then turns that frown on his cousin. "Upstairs, or down? I need to put this down." Because his hands are full, and then some.

"You couldn't kill him if you were already dead yourself, thrown and trampled by a mad-starved horse," Keyte points out, unaware that she's practically toying with the poor stableboy's life in doing so. Ah, dear. "Well I was on my way down," says she, gesturing down the steps with a grand sweep of her hand. "Shall we? Unless, of course, his news was more sensitive than all that?"

"Sensitive enough," Laurent says, though he's contrary in that he turns to stomp back down the stairs. "Take the glasses," he adds, nodding vaguely toward the two wine glasses tucked under his left arm. "Red for you, right?" He lifts the flagon slightly, to say that's what's in it, either way. Without missing a beat, he's back to the meeting, not waiting for an answer. "Ser Olyvar seems level-headed enough to me. I asked him both of your questions," he finishes, smirking.

"You are so well-mannered," Keyte snarks with a roll of her eyes for that instruction, though she follows it anyway. One glass, two, she plucks from Laurent's grasp, holding them out obligingly to be filled. A nod says red will suffice. "Oh? So plain as all that, you just asked him? He must be a reasonable man, if he didn't have you cut to ribbons. What did he say?"

Laurent does pour, two glasses full, one for each of them. Then the flagon's on the table, he reaches for a glass, and settles into a chair. He raises the plate of finger-foods too, to offer her a snack, before putting it down between himself and where he guess she'll sit. "I did," he agrees with a nod, "And he allowed that the sickness might have robbed Ormund of his wits, at least for a time. And that the evidence brought to the Hightower was enough for him, but he doubted anything short of a tearful confession from Lord Blackmont would be enough for his nephew."

In exchange for a grape from the plate, Keyte settles one of the glasses down for Laurent and seats herself in the chair he's backhandedly chosen for her with the other. "Huh," is all she says at first, taking a long sip of wine as she gets comfortable. "Well that's… do know any forgerers?" It's a joke, delivered with a twinkle in her eye, and chased by a short laugh. "But seriously. The Dornish have been taken in by Hightower now, did you know? Perhaps Lord Ormund is worried the sandrats will spill his secrets if they're left to their own devices, hmm?"

Laurent barks a short, harsh laugh at the jest, but nods at the news — he apparently did know. "Could be," he says with a shrug. "A bit late now though, isn't it? We were letting them have a raven out now and then, when our men were confining them to their house. If they have half a brain between them," which Laurent seems skeptical of, "They will have let their secrets fly with them."

"Maybe," Keyte allows, leaning forwards to abandon her glass and pinch another grape from the plate. "Still, it's all very troubling, I heard that men were killed in the procession from the manse to the Hightower. So what now? Is there word from Highgarden yet? Any word from Dorne?"

"A cease and desist from Hightower," Laurent growls, a sore spot for him. "It doesn't make any damned sense, Keyte." He pounds the heel of his hand on the table to punctuate the statement. "The crown doesn't wish war with Dorne, so we're to help 'defuse tensions with Blackmont.' And he took Garvin to task for 'rabble rousing.' In a letter, Cousin! It could have been read by anyone!" He's more and more irate, the longer he speaks on it, until by the end he is red in the face.

"What?!" Keyte's mouth drops, her grape falling to the table as her fingers splay in shock. "Vassals are giving you orders? Is Garvin wroth? What is… what are you going to do?"

Laurent looks confused at the outburst, then snorts a laugh. Which seems to hurt, as he raises his hand to his nose, and lets his wine glass down onto the table. He curses foully, under his breath, then laughs again. "Highgarden, I meant to say, Cousin. No, if that were from Lord Ormund, you'd be talking to my unhandsome corpse, wouldn't you?"

Why is Laurent laughing? Keyte looks confused, too. Her brows are sinking lower and lower, until — "Oh." Relieved, she lounges against the back of her chair, making it a stretch to reach her wine. But reach she does, tossing back a gulp from the glass after a short sigh. "Don't go dying, Laurent. We need your help. They're our friends, for Seven's sake, someone's got to do something. And as for Garvin, I don't even know what to say. Did you know he was," she pauses, shifting a quick mindful glance around for their better-born cousin. "Did you know he was at that inn the other eve? There was a challenge, Ser Viggo and Ser Aevander, and he was saying some awfully inappropriate things."

"Damnit all," Laurent fairly shouts, his fist coming down hard on the table. So he didn't know. "I ought to cut out his fucking tongue. It's not as if we're asking him to leave off fucking other men," he growls. "Is a bit of discretion so very much to want?" He pounds the table again, spilling a bit of his wine, which prompts him to snatch the glass up from the table and drink it nearly dry. "What in the seven hells are we going to do about him? Now, when there is so much at stake."

Keyte flinches as her cousin raises his voice, wine sloshing about her glass with the jerky movement. "Language, cous," she half-warns, half-complains, shaking her head to try and settle her strained nerves. "I just… I don't know. It's not as if he's utterly incompetent, I think he did marvelously sitting in Ormund's stead. But we can't keep — it's difficult, rather, to have to keep interjecting in social situations to save his…" Arse? "Self. I think Visenya Targaryen properly hates him, Laurent. Are they really to be wed?"

"So far as I know," Laurent says, entirely unapologetic. "Wouldn't you hate him, were you his betrothed rather than his cousin?" It's a rhetorical question, and has him shaking his head. "I've half a mind to…" The thought trails off, and there's a note of pleading in his eyes as he repeats his question more softly. "What are we going to do about him?" Laurent's love for Garvin is obvious, and runs deep. He's at a loss.

"He is pretty and funny, and kind where kindness is deserved," Keyte defends weakly, eyes shifting to her cup. She sighs, a long weary thing, her shoulders drooping dramatically. "I honestly don't know," she admits, lifting her gray-blue eyes to meet Laurent's gaze helplessly. "Stage a household intervention? Tie him to his bed, tell the world he's ill. Maybe we could talk to him, I really don't know."

Laurent nods impatiently, adding a muttered, "…And where it isn't," to the list. "I know his virtues as well as anyone, damnit. Better than most, I daresay." He finishes his wine with another short gulp, and leans forward toward Keyte as he puts the glass down. "Do you think he would listen? I've told him often enough before."

Keyte just shrugs, a tired sort of gesture. "I don't know. It must be an awfully hard thing to hear? We expect those who love us so well to sing of our praises, not to point out our flaws. But… something has to give, honestly. I don't mind who he entertains in private, and I wish his every happiness, but I certainly don't like being cursed at over his behavior by Visenya-hipocrite-Targaryen."

"You're right," Laurent says glumly. "On all counts, you're right. I'll speak to him again — we all could, if you think it might help? But perhaps it would only put him on the defensive, I don't know." He's genuinely searching, with no answers at all. "He is hurting your marriage prospects, Cousin. And making a fool of me, besides. Perhaps if I threaten to leave my post as the captain of his guard. I'd damned well do it, too, if I thought it might help."

Keyte smiles a little, because of course she's right. And she sure loves to hear about it. She is firm, however, when she says: "That's not a problem, because I don't want to be married." Hmph. "Don't threaten him, Laurent! How would you feel, if you were he? We should be kind about it, but… firm, I suppose. I don't know. You want me to talk to him, don't you?"

"Keyte," Laurent says, leaning forward heavily so that his elbows are on his knees, his empty wine glass hanging in both hands between them. "I love Garvin. More than my own brothers, I love that man. More than any part of our family — but not more than our entire family. And I think it would cheapen my love for him, were I to let him become a stain on our family's honor." He stares down into his empty cup, clearly uncomfortable with this turn of conversation. "I'd take the black, and be glad of it, if it meant I could see Garvin clear of what's troubling him. But…" He looks up to her again here, still bemused. "I don't know," he says, and earnestly. "Would it be easier, coming from you? The Gods know I've had small success in the past."

Keyte's eyes wander up to the ceiling as Laurent professes his love for their cousin, another sigh escaping her. She tilts her head toward her shoulder, one cheek dimpling as her mouth slants. "You want me to talk to him," she concludes frankly, drawing her eyes back to the Thorn. "You won't have to go to the Wall, or anything so dramatic as that. He's not an imbecile, incapable of fixing things himself. I will talk to him. If Alaura can't rein him in, I highly doubt I can, but I will talk to him." She shakes her head wearily, bending to retrieve her earlier dropped grape and toss it at Laurent. "You'd best protest with that shouty voice of yours if anyone comes asking to marry me, you know."

"I'll not have it," Laurent says in agreement. "I need you close at hand. I can hardly be expected to think for myself." His eyes are narrow, beady even, over his frown. "Though, what if it's your Cockshaw lad that comes calling? Am I to shout him down as well?" His heavy brow raises comically, a well-intentioned but confused caveman for a moment. Then it falls again as he sets about refilling his wine glass, and he's only Laurent again. He offers to top Keyte's off as well, before he puts the flagon back down. "Honestly, Cousin, I thank you. Even if you have no more success in this than I have. We need as few distractions as possible, just now. He must understand that. Viggo moreso than anyone, and Garvin forced the man to fight on his behalf."

Keyte can't help but to giggle, though her laughter is cut short with a snort at the mention of Cockshaw lads. She eyes the Thorn, wide, and leans forward. "What?! Did he say something? Surely not — Laurent!" Miffed at her own reaction, and him, she plucks up another grape to toss his way with an emphatic, "Ugh." The least he can do is refill her glass, which she nudges over. "I don't think Viggo were upset for having to take up his sword, mind. If it weren't for Garvin, he'd have found something else. But still; I will talk to him."

"Nothing I've heard," Laurent says with a shrug, flinching comically when another grape comes his way. The wine sloshes in the flagon, but doesn't spill. Once she's refilled, it's back on the table. "But if he does say anything, I'll have his tongue out of his head, just as you wish." He nods, as if he were doing her some great favor. His entire opinion on Viggo, Garvin, Aevander, and looking for a fight is summed up in just one word. "Still."

"Any excuse to take a tongue from someone's head," Keyte scolds, taking back her cup to drain a good thorough mouthful of wine from it. "You are truly horrible, Laurent. I'll talk to Garvin! But tell me, something else I've been meaning to ask. Why did you wed Lady Harry so quick, hmm? I've been waiting to hear that she's with child, but no-one's yet said a word."

Laurent looks surprised by the question, head jerking slightly, eyes narrowing. "Because I couldn't wait to bed her, of course," he says, straightforward. "Have you seen the woman? Gods." That last word alone speaks volumes. "Imagine the frustration, would you? Not that you have that problem. Ordering your maids to your bed, as you told me." He at least has the good grace to laugh as he says it. If that, in fact, is a sign of good grace. It's very crass humor, so it may not be possible to soften the edges of it.

"You stop that," orders Keyte, affronted by Laurent's laughter. "I have Kesha in my bed, no maids, you hear? Nothing untoward goes on in my bed. Nothing!" She's frowning, but another good sip of wine will fix that. Or soften it, at the least. "And I don't want to hear about yours, either. The timing was awful, you know. Perhaps Garvin's not the only Tyrell could use some work on his graces?"

"It was you as said it," Laurent says, shrugging. "I had never heard such a thing before." Another sip to match hers, and there he is again looking confused. And being confused makes Laurent angry. "What? The timing of our wedding? No one gives a damn about the wedding of Ser Laurent Tyrell, Cousin. Save when it provides something to needle me about."

"Of course they do," Keyte counters matter-of-factly. "It's not as scandalous as a naked Targaryen on a dragon, or massacre at the hands of Dorne, but people talk. And they talked about that." So there, says her tone. She gestures with her glass toward the stairwell. "Anyway. I should go see to finding Garvin, hmm? And you should… see to… something. Mete some justice, or I don't know. Light a candle in the Sept for the Cockshaws."

"Right," Laurent snorts, coming to his feet with a grunt. "I'll do one of those." He glances down at the table, and after a moment's thought trades his glass for the flagon. "I'll see you soon, then, Cousin."

Keyte will leave her glass behind, for someone else to clean up. "Of course you will," she bids as farewell, curtsying playfully before skipping off toward the stairs.
