|A Nayland Breakfast|
|Summary:||Tyroan and Rickart discuss the fallout after Rafferdy's Trial by Combat|
|Related Logs:||Trial By Combat|
|Great Hall, Fortress of the Sevens|
|It's a hall. There are tables. It's breakfast-time.|
|10 November, 289|
Tyroan is used to waking up with a stomach that's pretending it's on a ship at sea, but usually it's just from a day of constant drinking, rather than a serious, short term bout of getting pissed — and piss drunk. That hasn't stopped the Steward of Stonebridge from waking early, as is his habit, and going down from his borrowed chambers to the great hall to get breakfast. He hasn't been shouting at servants like his elder brother often does, but he's certainly been growling at them, and that growling has gotten him fried eggs, dark bread, and a healthy hair of the beer that bit him. Before going to bed, he did send a request to Rickart for a chance to speak with his Lord Brother, but he's evidently not expecting it to be right away, as he's tucking into a greasy, buttery, yolky egg splayed out on a hunk of bread.
It's a sad thing when one has become so accustomed to drinking kegs of ale that they can rise with the sun and still function, such is the case with the elder Nayland as he finally stomps his way into the great hall with a wave of his hand, "Bloody well forgot just how damned inconvenient it was always having people underfoot. You'd think they'd all fucking leave already." Rickart grumbles a little as he barks his breakfast order to the servants, drawing over towards his brother, before plopping into a chair beside him, "Rhia kept me up half the night bitching about that sweet wife of yours. Blasted woman's a nag and a half. If she hadn't popped out so many sons I'd have set her aside years ago. So, how's the head?" He reaches to pour himself a tankard full of ale before settling back rather relaxed in his chair.
Here in the company of just brother, servants, and guard - the Lord of the Mire can finally afford to be a bit more relaxed as he rubs his whiskered jaw, "I'm getting too bloody old for this damn shit."
Tyroan chews, swallows, works at his teeth with his tongue, swallows again, and nods to his brother. "Ana's been on fucking edge already. Something else shitty is going to happen." The Nayland may not believe in his wife's gods, but he's learned to trust her feelings and moods. The question that follows draws a snort and a dry smirk, "My head's fucking fine. It's my stomach that's trying to fucking crawl up my throat and piss on my plate." He looks around the hall, grunting once, "We may be getting old, but the next generation's got a long fucking way to go before they can take over." Maybe he's averaging the next generation out, maybe he's discounting his own children, or maybe he's insulting them too.
Rickart just shakes his head and lifts his tankard to take a swig of the bitter brew, "/If/ they ever take over. I've a mind to just live forever and deny every fucking one of them the seat." He declares, as if it were really within his power to do so, "Fuck, if the old Hag can still be kicking at whatever the fuck's age she is now. I figure you and I got a pretty fucking good chance of doing the same when we get to her age." Pausing he sighs, "Shit, Ty, were we ever this fucking bad? I know Toby's always been a feckless shit that'd sell either of us out to curry favor with the Hag… but I don't recall pulling half the shit they pull these days. Must have got all their fucked traits from Rhia - cause I know they didn't get them from me."
He eyes his brother closely, lowering his tankard to set back upon the table, "There's more eating at that stomach than last night's brew. Say your piece."
"Sounds good to me." Tyroan lifts up his tankard and takes a slug, letting out a sigh of relief, "Besides, we're fucking pickled enough." The mention of them being 'as bad' causes him to snort, "I ran off with Ana's family in the Rebellion and you shitcanned me for it." There's amusement behind the words, however, and apparently there are no hard feelings from his side at least. The call to speak, however, causes him to grimace, looking down at his meal and pushing a chunk of break through runny yolk before he looks his brother in the eye, "That fucking farce of a trial may have proved Rafferdy didn't hurt Stonebridge with his fuckery, but you know as godsdamned well as I do that he betrayed the fucking family. I can tell you right now he's not going to be fucking welcome in Stonebridge. I still don't think he should be fucking welcome in the family at all."
Sighing with a heavy weight on his shoulders, the Lord of the Mire nods, "Sevens be damned, Ty, I've no idea how they reached their judgment. I've started to think maybe I pissed them the fuck off somewhere and this is the payment. But they've spoken and I can't do shit to change it." He lifts a hand to rub the whiskers again in thought, "You want to keep the boy out of the 'bridge? Your call. Lord Frey chose you as Steward - if he's got issue with that, he can take it up with you. Not my call and you'd be justified in doing so. But you know's well as I, I can't kick him out of the family. Not once the Seven have spoken. The boy's a fuck up, like his other brothers, I know. But he's still my son and they found him innocent. Doesn't rightly matter what the fuck you and I think on the matter."
Rickart considers the matter a bit further, "I can't kick him out, but I can shackle his prick to one fucking filly. Maybe if he gets himself a wife to seed, he'll grow the fuck up and stop mooning after the Haigh whore. Sevens be damned, Old Haystacks will do whatever the fuck he can to bring us down. What I wouldn't give to shove my sword up his ass and gut him from within, but wouldn't solve a damnable thing."
Tyroan shakes his head at the first statement, "The Seven are fucking busy. Anything can happen in a fucking fight. That's why I put the charge how I did, godsdamn it, Rickart. The Seven said he didn't hurt Stonebridge." And as he continues, his voice rises just a bit, "He fucking admitted to selling us the fuck out, and he chose that fucking shitstain of an Ashwood to defend him." He quiets as Rickart considers, however, grinding his teeth and swallowing his anger with a swig of beer. Pushing the half-full tankard away, he eyes his brother, "You think giving him just one girl to dip his fucking wick in is going to make him not a pissant fuckwit?" The Steward shakes his bald head, looking as if his stomach is rebelling again, "Here's fucking hoping." And not really believing, if his tone is any indication.
"Not just any girl. We give him an Ashwood," Rickart declares before taking another swig, eyes still fixed upon his surly brother, "Don't be underestimating the power of tail to keep my boys in line. Not that I'd tap any Ashwood keg myself, but well - boy's already made his choice. Way I see it, we're going to eventually have to make a marriage with them down the line so might as well be Raff for the offering." The Lord of the Mire looks up as a plate of boiled eggs is deposited before him, reaching for the salt as he continues, "He saw fit to defend my boy in the eyes of the Seven which pulls his right to object to the boy being unfit for one of the women of his house. Raff's not going to net a match from any other house and Seven's be damned if Aleister thinks he's going to be able to find many willing to marry the bitches of his house. We make the offer, get a dowry in return we can use to offer for the marriage of others. Not likely going to get much for marriage to the boy, but something's better than nothing. He'd still be a Nayland, but not your problem. Can't do anymore damage there and gives him a chance to redeem himself if he wants it."
Tyroan's mouth drops open at the declaration. It takes a good deal to surprise the Boothleather Harpy, but that seems to do it. It takes a moment for him to recover, and even then, it's not his steadiest effort, "Are you fucking kidding me, Rickart?" He plants both hands on the table, rising up to his feet, "I don't know what the fuck's happened to you. I know he's your fucking son, but he betrayed," he pauses between each of the next words, "the. fucking. family. to. the. Ashwoods." He shakes his head, "What the fuck ever." Rising to his feet, he adds, "I've lost my fucking appetite."
"It's not a reward, Ty," Rickart rises in mirror of his brother, "Raff made his bed and he'll be buried within it. I can't fucking boot him from the family any more than I can toss any one of the others. Just because you spoke the words all fancy and careful doesn't mean shit to the Seven. He betrayed the family, yes, and for that he's going to be marrying the fucking enemy and spending the rest of his days in their lands. You want him gone? This is how it's done. You don't have to fucking like it." His tone begins to get a bit surlier as he continues, "You'll have the dowry from the marriage and Raff will be kept out of Stonebridge. Beggars can't be choosers, Tyroan, and we're pretty fucking close to beggars right now. You wanted him gone - it's done. I'll send you word when the contracts are signed. Until then go find someone else to punch or piss all over, you're ruining my damned breakfast. Now, get your family and get the fuck off my Island before I change my mind."
Tyroan snorts loudly at the response, "Don't get all fucking preachy on me." He holds up his hands then, brushing them off and tossing them away from one another in a 'washing my hands of this' gesture. "You're Lord of Hag's Mire, brother. I haven't forgotten." Stepping back from the table, he half-turns away, but cannot resist adding in, "Even Jerold fucking Terrick could let go of a son who had fucked up." And then he turns the rest of the way around, looking to depart the Hall.
"Fuck," really is the only word that comes to mind for the elder Nayland as he simply lets his brother go and settles back into his chair to take another hearty pull from his tankard — attentions turning back towards the cooling eggs with a scowl, "Great fucking way to spend a morning."