|Secret Admirer Of Your Corpse|
|Summary:||After sparring with Rowan, Gedeon receives an innocent gift that turns out to be anything but.|
|Related Logs:||Many Rivers To Cross, Sibling Rivalry, Follies And Lies,Troublesome Letters, Games Men Play, Sticks And Stones|
|Stonebridge Trainign Field (TP Room)|
|A field full of grass and sweaty men.|
|1 August 288|
The early morning is best for training, when the sun isn't yet so high as to beat down mercilessly, but even some early mornings carry relentless heat. Today, there is especial reason to train early, as, with the change in Tordane banners to ones that clearly announce their new alliance to the Naylands, the Terricks and their guests are preparing to go back home to more welcoming waters.
Coming out in the morning and seeing those new banners flapping, Gedeon Rivers stares for a long and quiet moment before he shakes his head, picks up his sword and walks out onto the training field. But Lord Valentin isn't about and sparring without a sparring partner is poor fun. So when, shortly after Gedeon takes to the field, the young squire Rowan Nayland appears, he's invited over to practice the 'Braavosi' move the knight showed him the day before. Practicing devolves into more general sparring with gasps of snappy banter back and forth as their energy allows. By the time they stop, the morning has nearly become midday, there is a small scattering of people watching the various knights and squires train and the heat has intensified. Gedeon is gasping, hair slicked to his sweaty face, as he makes his way off the field. "Enough, ser squire, enough. I think I'm bested. If not by you, than by the summer sun."
Laughing breathlessly, obviously equal-spent, Rowan shakes his head vigorously, sending a spray from his curls in all directions. "What? Already? En garde, you! A Nayland never says — !" He teeters and falls over, flopping flat onto his back. "Oh, fuck, it's hot." He heaves great breaths of air into his lungs, still laughing weakly. "Fucking, sodding balls of a leprous goat. I'm not moving from this spot. Leave me to die."
Gedeon laughs as he looks down at his fallen companion. He opens his mouth to reply when a boy, perhaps fourteen of so with a gap between his teeth that shows when he smiles, darts up with a full skin of wine. "From a lady admirer, sir," the lad says with a laugh, apparently tickled to be a go-between, or perhaps simply to deliver something to a knight. Gedeon laughs again, brows lifted as he looks around at those watchers gathered. He accepts the skin with a groan of anticipation. A drink! Uncapping it, he has a long, generous swallow. "Which lady?" But the boy, his duty fulfilled, has already darted off. With another small shake of his head, still smiling, Gedeon holds the skin out above Rowan, swaying it to and fro enticingly.
Rowan sits up and snatches at the skin. "Egads, it's like a fucking plague, these secret admirers." He pushes himself to his feet and shucks his surcoat. The shirt beneath is sweat-sodden, but of thick enough fabric that it remains opaque. "Ser Jarod's got one, too. Well, had one." He peers, grinning. "Well, come on. Read it out. Perhaps yours has the courage to sign her name."
"It seems my admirers aren't as witty as yours," Gedeon replies as he peels out of his own topcoat of clothing. "No letter at all. Just the wine." He squints towards those still watching the training, but nobody in particular seems to be peering back, flirting or flapping her kerchief. "Plague, indeed. At least it's one the bears gifts." He leaves the skin held out on offer.
The squire makes a second grab, this one successful, dark eyebrows conferring with his hairline. "What? No letter?" He pffts. "That's not nearly entertaining. Even if she can't write, she might've gotten someone to pen it for her. Poor form." He tsks, taking several thirsty swallows from the skin. He smacks his lips and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, after. "Good wine, though! Not that I'd know good from swill, but all wine's good wine, isn't it?"
"When it's this hot, swill is good wine," Gedeon answers, holding his hand out and twitching his fingers impatiently for the skin. "Perhaps she just plans to get me drunk and then have her wicked way with me," he suggests, leaning to the side to offer the squire a friend bump of shoulder to shoulder. "Shall we sit, or would you prefer to collapse on the ground, again?"
Rowan holds the skin close, smirking and taking another greedy swallow before relinquishing the wine. "Ha. She'd best be sure which one she's after, then, since 'terribly pretty and judgment impaired' may soon apply to us both." He returns the shoulder-bump with boisterous enthusiasm, competitive to his bones. "Right. Sitting might work. Somewhere out of the Seven forsaken sun."
"You're prettier," Gedeon says, snatching the wine back when it's finally snatchable and having another few deep swallows, "but I think my judgement is worse. There," he nods towards a wide tree with perfect pleasant place to plunk down between its roots. The spot so discovered, Gedeon heads in that direction and then, with a glance towards Rowan and a grin, starts running in what could become an impromptu race if Rowan chooses to join in.
"Hah! Fuck you, Rivers. All those golden locks, you're practically a princess," retorts the squire, merrily. When the journey towards the Shady Spot turns into another competition — well, there's no way he can resist. It's just not in him. With a puppyish yip, Rowan takes off after Gedeon, arms pumping as he full-on sprints. Right. Might kill him? Quite worth it. The lad's joy in challenge and movement and wind and wine is nearly a visible aura.
"Longer legs, longer legs, longer legs!" Gedeon calls as he runs, announcing his own superiority if only in how far his feet reach. He's laughing (and gasping) as he goes, the near-empty wine-skin flopping in his fist.
Longer legs or not, Rowan's sprint simply eats up the distance. He draws neck and neck with the Oldstones knight, then passes him at the last with a sudden burst of speed. He collides with the tree, arms out to catch himself, wheezing laughter as he sags against the trunk. "Smaller!" he declares in gasping, doubled-over triumph. "Less… wind… resistance."
Gedeon's hot on his heels, but he's not fast enough, and he slows his running when the boy mashes into the tree. The blond knight drops down onto the roots, taking another gulp of wine before offering the last of it to Rowan. "Still prettier," he pants.
Gravity works and Rowan submits to it gladly, dropping like a stone beside Gedeon, still panting hard and fast. "Keep talking, Ser Princess," he retorts breathlessly, smirking as he takes the wine. "I do like watching your pretty mouth." The last of the wine is poured down his gullet, followed with a yeasty belch.
"Such words for your betters," Gedeon replies, somehow managing to be both breathless and scandalized at once. "Aren't squires meant to get the sass walloped out of them?" He leans back against the tree and sighs, smacking his lips together a couple of times a bit experimentally. "Huh," he murmurs. "Strange."
Rowan wrinkles his nose and smacks his lips, as well. "Mneh. Mint." He hands the empty skin back to Gedeon, smirking and stretching his legs out as he slides bonelessly down into the grass. "I'm afraid Jarod encourages — gleefully — all my worst habits. Outside of combat, that is." He flashes a lazy grin. "All bastard knights have sassy squires. You should look into getting one."
"I think my days are complicated enough already. I'm not sure I need a pretty pup of a squire nipping at my heels just yet." Gedeon sighs softly, leaning back against the tree and blinking up at the sky, the new banners sagging in the windless morning. "What do you make of all this?" He lifts a hand, gesturing towards the banners. "You are a Nayland serving under a Terrick. Where do you stand?"
"S'always reminded me of pumpkins, the orange and the green," opines the squire. He snorts at the question that follows, lacing his fingers over his middle. "F'you were anyone else, I'd take exception to that. But you being new to this whole drama — two houses, both alike in dignity and that rot — I'll tell you. I'm a loyal little hound," he says, keeping with the canine metaphors. "I hold with the house that's fed and clothed and trained and sheltered me — and most important, befriended me — all these years. I don't know my own kin half as well as I know the Terricks." He shrugs. "So be it. Some things are deeper than blood." Squinting at the banners thoughtfully, he adds, "My brother seems a nice enough sort. Maybe even a bit too nice. I'm not sure if he's overcompensating because of our father, or he's up to something. Probably the latter. House motto's Reach beyond thy grasp. And we're a graspy lot."
"I don't much know him, your brother," Gedeon murmurs, watching the banners, "I suppose that's good to hear. The house that raised you and the house turned away from you, you chose the former… for me, they just happen to be one in the same. I knew your Jarod growing up, did you realize that?"
"Hah! No," says Rowan, propping up on his elbows with some effort. That sprint well and truly did him in. "Do tell?" Was he a whore monger, even then?" It's an insult rendered, oddly, with affection. "I always rather expected he tried to — to…" The squire squints and rubs his eyes. "Give me a moment…" He lies back gingerly, taking deep, slow breaths. "I think the sun might've gotten to me, a bit…"
"Maybe a little," Gedeon laughs. "He, ah… he…" Gedeon falls silent so he can swallow sharply and then give his head a small shake. "Gotten to the both of us," he agrees. "Perhaps we'd better go to the tents. Rest a bit before we depart for the Roost."
Rowan nods unsteadily, sheet white and breaking out in a fresh sweat. "I… ah… right. Water… might've been wiser than wine." He moves clumsily, legs wobbling as he attempts to stand. They give out from beneath him. "I… I can't feel my…" says the squire indistinctly, lips and tongue made of clay. "This s'bad… not good…"
Gedeon turns his head a little to blink Rowan, squint and blink again. He tries to lever his elbows up beneath him but they sort of slide out again and he slithers back down. "Ro…" he pauses, clearing his throat as if it might help, "Rowan. All right?"
He doesn't appear to be. On hands and knees, arms shaking like they're not long going to prevent him from face planting, Rowan shakes his head. He either can't reply, or it's too faint to hear. He collapses forward onto his elbows, then rolls onto his side. He's corpse grey, now — lips bluish, despite his rapid, shallow breathing. "Poison — " he finally manages, a croak. "The wi — " Wine? Yes. That revisits the scene in a great, dark gout as he vomits into the grass.
Gedeon blinks very slowly. "Oh," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Bloody stupid… stranger take me…" It's a trend, Rowan's started. The blond Rivers twitches to his side, so when his stomach empties itself, he at least manages not to breathe it back in.
It's late morning the day after the Lady Isolde was wed to Ryker Nyaland, and with the changes in Stonebridge banners, the Terricks and their guests have had their servants readying their things for departure to the Roost that afternoon. It's a hot, breezeless morning, the sun high enough now to go from 'uncomfortable' to 'merciless', and after several hours of sparring, the squire Rowan Nayland and the knight Gedeon Rivers have found rest and respite beneath a large tree off tot he side of the training field. At least, that's how it would appear at first. Save that, on closer inspection, one might notice that the pair of them are both resting at awkward angles (Rowan half-sitting and Gedeon rolled onto his side) and both have dark stains spreading out in the grass very near them.
Lucienne comes, her skirts held hovering above the grass by just fractions of an inch, swishing this way and that as they are often wont to do. Quite nervously, she tosses a glance over her shoulder, as if checking to see if she's being followed. She isn't - there's no sign of whomever she's trying to escape. Her shoulders relax visibly as her steps carry her ever closer to the very same tree that squire Rowan and Ser Gedeon rest under, though she hasn't yet spotted the two.
Jarod has been in some-or-other deep conversation with Jaremy for quite some time while the Terricks make their preparations to depart, that's kept both half-brothers apart from the rest of the camp. Jarod's back out wandering around now, however, face all of out-of-character frowny thoughtfulness that he's been wearing for the past day. Since the melee, so perhaps it's just his broken rib and loss to Ser Valentin that's making him frown. "Luci? Hullo." That's called as he jogs to catch up with his sister. He wasn't following her, though his wandering puts him more or less in proximity. "Something the matter? You look as if you're checking for grumpkins and snarks on your heels?" Despite the jokey phrasing there is some concern to the question. He hasn't spotted Gedeon and Rowan yet either, though like Lucienne he's wandering generally that way.
Josse is one of the commoners that have lingered in Stonebridge for some reason, likely to assist the senior septon with his services and packing. Dispatched to go find some thing that the higher brother lost somewhere, he sweats under the hood of his gray robe, which he'd pulled up over his face to shield it from the worst of the sun. His sandals brush grass and mud, a familiar enough feeling that it hardly bothers him. As he draws closer to the field from another direction that Lucienne he stops, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he spots people wandering. Terricks wandering. "Ser Jarod, my Lady Lucienne. Morning." The two on their feet distract him from the two on the ground as of now, though as soon as he greets he absently glances around the field.
Under the tree nearby, there's a strangled cry — and a sudden, violent flail of a human form in a rictus of agony. Rowan Nayland, corpse grey and bluish around the lips, seems… to be having some kind of attack. Near him lays Gedeon Rivers, shivering and soaked with sweat. They both appear only semi-conscious, and a shift in the wind wafts over a rather vile combination of sour vomit, strong wine, and… a strangely medicinal, almost minty something. Not that anyone's likely to stand and ponder the bouquet.
Lu very nearly jumps right out of her skin when Jarod calls her name: she'd only just checked for followers! Her shoulders tense again, and she stills, dropping her skirts into the grass underfoot. "Jarod!" The exclamation is soft, but an exclamation all the same. "Oh." And. "Septon." She surges a step forward, clearly intending on keeping moving as she speaks. "Nothing, no. I was just… out for a walk, before we leave. Join me?" Considering she's somehow evaded her sworn babysitters, it's probably wise to ask. It's not the movement that catches her attention, rather it's the cry that escapes Rowan that prompts her eyes t start wandering. She adds quite urgently as she sends a glace back between brother and Septon, "Did you hear that?" Hands reach down to twine nervously in those skirts of hers again.
Jarod falls into step next to his half-sister, his own gaze going behind her. Peering. "Aye. I can come along. I'll be a bit longer, anyhow. I have to wait until the wagons are packed. I'm not supposed to ride for a couple of weeks, so I'm being ferried back to the supplies. And here's the culprit of that. Hullo, Jos." He seems about to say more to the septon, when the same cry that Lucienne hears reaches him. "Aye. I did." He draws his sword and marches in the direction of strangled crying.
Josse smiles a little at Lucienne's jumpiness. He too is about to say something, either to Jarod or to the Lady, when the sounds and the sudden change of mood draw a sharp frown to his face. "What in…" It's not even sight that hits him first but that odd scent, carried on a gasp of a breeze. He could easily have ignored it if the next thing he was aware of weren't the shapes on the ground. "Oh my gods. Jarod!" He calls to the man with the sword, quickly starting after him. "That smell, it's just like…pennyroyal."
"…help…" It's barely audible, pressed from the squire's lungs with a pathetic squeak. Rowan jerks and curls into the fetal position, groaning loudly. "…oh, gods…" He's also sweating profusely, though he seems — for all his pain — slightly more 'with it' than Gedeon. "Josse… Jarod… wine — hrrrrrghhh!" His lips pull back from his teeth as another spasm lances him with pain. He's breathing fast and shallow — but from the blue tinge of his skin, it doesn't look like breathing's doing him much good at all.
The blond knight laid out beside Rowan still has an empty wineskin slightly clutched in one hand. He's slicked with sweat and blinking hard as if trying to clear his eyes. Now and again, the arm under him moves as if he'd like to push himself upright, but it slides out from him again each time and he thumps back down with a soft groan.
Lucienne hesitates, then follows after the men. Her nose wrinkles at the smell and she's compelled to lift one hand to her face to try and block it from offending her any further. "Seven above," she murmurs as she draws within a closer distance to the two. Wineskin. Noted. "They've been drinking. Is that…" Whoever or whatever she was about to identify is saved by the breeze, which carried that godsawful scent to the lady once more and sees her dry-wretching behind her hand.
Jarod blinks at Josse. Pennywhatnow? No herbalist is Ser Rivers, so the import is lost on him. Gag-worthy as the smell is. Rowan and Gedeon are of greater concern to him anyhow. It's Rowan he goes to first, worse shape as Gedeon is in or no. He kneels by the squire, reaching out to lay a hand on his back and pat it, somewhat roughly. "Rowan? Who gave you…s'alright, lad, Josse'll get you fixed up." He looks up at the septon all 'get on that, will you?'
"…poison," grunts Rowan, twitching and grabbing at the grass. "Fuckcan'tfeelmylegs…" His voice is weak and small, but there's no mistaking the panic the young man's in. His eyes roll like those of a terrified horse… and then roll back in his head.
Gedeon lifts his head a little, managing to direct his gaze more properly towards Rowan and the others gathering around him. "How is he?" he asks, his voice rough and shaky.
"Pennyroyal…?" Lucienne is deep in a frown by now, pondering the Septon's words as she looks for a vomit-free spot to kneel in beside Gedeon. "He's…" the answer she begins to the blond is reconsidered swiftly, and replaced with a concerned, "How are you?"
"Rowan!?" Jarod tries to get the squire by the shoulders and prop him up against a tree. He has knelt in vomit by this point, alas for his trousers, but he lives in a state of frequent messiness in some regard anyhow. So it goes unnoticed. "Poison?" That's a word he knows. "This smells of Lady Valda." How he came to that conclusion is not entirely clear, but he sounds damn sure of it.
Rowan seems to have slipped into some sort of fugue, eyes still rolled back, lashes fluttering over the whites. He flinches away from something, then rolls over into the grass and vomits again. It seems he managed to bring up everything that was in his stomach already, so the cramping and nausea leave him wracked with wretched, uncontrollable dry heaves. He shudders and curls up in a ball again.
"I…" Gedeon blinks a few more times, "Not at my very best, Lady," he tries, cracking a very weak smile at that equally weak attempt at humor. But it vanishes as his pale face goes a shade grayer. "Oh, Lady, please move…" It's all the warning Lucienne gets before the knight twitches and takes his turn vomiting up what wine still remained in his stomach.
Touched as she is by that weak smile, Lucienne reaches to lay the back of a hand gently atop Gedeon's forehead as she turns a worried look to her brother. "Lady Valda?" The pitch of her words speaks more. Please explain. Perhaps it's her own fault, then, that as Gedeon heaves up the rest of that vile-smelling concoction she fails to shuffle back far enough to keep clear. Lightning-fast, her hand retracts to her mouth, pressing down there firmly as though to keep herself from vomiting. Oh, that's… lovely. There's a squeak caught in the trap of her throat.
Jarod is hurrying back to the grouping of tents, hauling Rowan Nayland as gently as possible along with him. The heavier form of Gedeon has been left for Josse and Lucienne to haul, lucky them. His boots are a mess, but he's a veteran of many long bar crawls with the boys through Terrick's Roost, so it's probably not the worst they've seen.
Josse has Geodeon over both his shoulders, an arduous but necessary way to carry the man's weight. There's a slight struggle to stand but once he's on his feet he trudges without complaint, following Jarod steadily and quickly towards the tents. Jarod has probably suffered this treatment himself when flat out drunk.
Which leaves Lucienne to… well, follow along, incessantly asking if Josse is alright with the weight or if there's anything she can do and peering past the Septon to Jarod and Rowan and… girl, take a breath. Her dress is still wet with the contents of Gedeon's stomach, and she alters between gingerly holding her skirts out and letting them drop. As they draw towards the tents, she beckons to one in particular and rushes forward to draw back the curtained entrance. "In here."
The young knight of Oldstones must have had prouder moments. Certainly, being carried like a rather unwieldly sack of stones, after upending his stomach on a Lady's skirts, is not any man's dream of glory. So, perhaps the faint groans Gedeon produces now and again have as much to do with humiliation as discomfort. But beyond that, he makes no further complaint and, certainly, no struggle. He's boneless as the septon carries him and just as boneless once he's set down in the tent.
"Easy does it, lad, there you go," Jarod says, setting Rowan down once they're inside the tents. "Josse, what's the matter with them? You said this was…pennyroyal?" He has no idea what that is. "You can fix it, right?" There's actual fear in his green eyes as he asks it. He doesn't do well with enemies he can't hit.
"Thank you, m'Lady…" Josse can barely grunt out the words as he stumbles slightly into the tent. He lets Gedeon's heavy frame down onto a bedroll just as his knees threaten to buckle, almost tumbling him down right on top of the sour-smelling man. Skidding a knee under himself, he coughs and looks up at Jarod and Lucienne. "It's a plant," he says, regaining his breath as he can. "They use it for colds, but these two have had far too much. By grace of gods, if they'd taken enough to kill them they'd be dead already, so I expect they'll live. We'll need lots of water…and things for them to purge in."
The tent curtain closes, and Lucienne shifts inside after the rest. It's Jarod that her gaze seeks out first, still stuck on his words from before. Her brows arc down, heavy with the weight of concern that surfaces in the deep lines of a frown as well. She wrings her hands together as Josse speaks, then lays them both atop her chest, one over the other, and nods. "Bowls. There should be bowls about here somewhere. I can fetch… I can have someone bring barrels of water. Will that be all, or…?"
Gedeon shifts a little, settling from his back to his side; a better position for throwing up. His half-lidded eyes lift and flick to the septon as he gives his pronouncement. "Then we won't…" the knight breathes out a small sigh of relief. "I can think of far nobler ways to die."
"They shouldn't stay in Stonebridge, if we can move them," Jarod says, rolling Rowan so the lad won't choke on his own vomit should he start with that again. "Gedeon especially. Lady Valda…" He seems about to say something, then stops himself. "…it's not safe for him here, or likely his lord. You think they were poisoned, then?" He doesn't sound unsure himself, though he is looking for the septon's sureness. "You could swear to it under law, if it came to it?"
Josse's blue eyes meet Jarod's. Sweat stings his eyes, his arm lifting to swipe his coarse sleeve across his brow. There's something in his eyes that's hard to read, so many things he wants to say. But the septon settles for: "We can bring them to the sept in the Roost. Nobody will question the ill staying there for a night or two. Tonight I shall look at their cups and whatever else was with them…I can determine better that way as to how this happened." He looks down at Gedeon. "You will not die, Ser. You may wish you had in a few hours, but I shall stay with you until you are strong again." Then looking up at Lucienne, "That will be perfect, my Lady. Time and prayer, these will be the best we can give them. I will keep vigil and you are most welcome to remain."
"Stranger take me," Gedeon groans, letting his eyes close again, "it gets worse?" He shudders, lifting a heavy arm so that he can fumblingly wipe sweat from his face. "So hot…"
Lucienne's eyes shift between Josse and Jarod, several times and her hands shift down from her heart. Her fingers lace together in front of her, and she takes a short step backward as she processes what is said, and what is left unsaid. Finally, she bobs obediently. "I see. I… will be required to take dinner with our guests, when we return home. After the meal…" The groan from the young knight prompts a wince, and she changes tack. "I'll see about the water right away, and some cloth to wipe their faces."
"Aye, the sept would do for them tonight. Probably safer there than even the castle," Jarod says. "Gedeon and his lord will like as be welcome at Terrick's Roost on the morrow. I should tell Jaremy about this as soon as we're back home, as well." Jaremy, not 'my father,' Lucienne in particular might note. To Lucienne, he nods reluctantly. "Aye. It'll look odd if we're away from dinner, and I'm not sure we want word of this spreading too far yet. Could I look in on Rowan after, Jos?"
"Please do, Jarod. With gods' blessing he will be sleeping." Not a bad thing, by the sound of Josse's voice. "I shall let them know to let you in. Be certain and find me." The words have a little weight. He gives Lucienne a thin-lipped smile of gratitude, then looks back down at Gedeon. "I know, ser. I can't lie to you and say it will be pleasant but we will get you through it. Water will be here shortly." A slight pause, then: "I want you to try and rest, but tell me one thing before you do. The skin you and Rowan drank from — where did it come from?"
The Oldstones knight exhales slowly and clenches his jaw. Steeling himself for the trials ahead. "Thank you. Water would help greatly." For the skin of wine, he lowers his lashes and shakes his head. "As training finished, a boy delivered it. He told me it was from a secret admirer, I assumed a Lady that had been watching us train. Such flirtations happen, on occasion, I thought nothing of it."
Lucienne dips out of the tent to organise said barrels of water, cloth, et cetera at great speed. The water will arrive well before she does, carried by two of those sworn to Terrick. Accompanied by a few cloths and two large bowls, all personal items of the lady's - the quickest way to rally such without any question, of course. It can be assumed that she's changing her clothes before returning.
"Secret admirer up at Stonebridge, I'll wager, who would most like to admire your corpse. Lady Valda must've seen you in the lists, whatever else she knows, and she might've guessed more than competition brought you home." Cryptic Jarod is cryptic to Gedeon. He nods to Josse. He'll like as need to change as well before hopping a cart back to the Roost, lest somebody wander about the vomit. Or perhaps not. He did his share of drinking the night before, so at least he'd have an excuse.
Josse exhales quietly. The septon's silence is conflicted as he looks at Gedeon and Rowan, no comment made on Valda or otherwise. "I shall look more closely at the skin itself tonight." He nods slightly. "For now, try to rest. You'll have cool cloths and fresh water shortly." Settling between Gedeon and Rowan, he starts to dig through his heavy bag, and glances up at Jarod. "Go, see to your family. I will see them to the sept."
"It would have been a fine and handsome corpse, though I'll keep on breathing if I've my way," Gedeon murmurs. He shifts again, leaning up against the wall so he can shimmy himself more properly upright as he looks to Jarod. "Do you truly think it so, ser? Lady Valda has her share of cruelty, but poison? Murder?" Even as he asks, his own expression suggests the idea is growing in plausibility in his own mind. A look towards Josse, his own conflict writ visible on his face, causes Gedeon to frown a little. "Septon?" he asks. "Have you thoughts you would share on this?"
"Lady Valda seems to have the most to gain by it, don't you think, kinsman in Stonebridge?" Jarod inquires pointedly to Gedeon. "Which we should talk on more at the Roost. Or at least away from this land, I'm feeling a right bit less welcome here than I have in better days. I should go clean myself up again before we're off for home." Though he does linger a moment beside Rowan, giving the squire a gruff pat on the shoulder, before standing.
"I do not know Lady Valda," Josse replies, still rummaging through his bag. Which is a sincere enough answer, if clearly being diplomatic. Septons walk these kinds of lines, what with how many confidences they have to balance on any given day. "There is nothing I can judge as truth under the eyes of the gods. Not yet." Another nod to Jarod as he goes, watching the last exchange between the Ser and the unconscious squire.
Gedeon is quiet for Jarod's words and then, slowly, nods his head in wordless understanding. He watches the other knight depart before leaning back and closing his eyes. "Thank you, septon," he murmurs, "I understand. I think I may try to sleep, now, if sleep is possible."