|Sibling and Septa Rivalry|
|Summary:||Lady Rosanna behaves herself while Kittridge and Day show a wanton lack of propriety.|
|Date:||April 27, 289|
|Related Logs:||Good and Early Morn, plus Rosanna/Rutger and Rosanna/Gedeon logs.|
|Sitting Room — Tordane Tower|
|Nice and sunny.|
|April 27, 289|
Embroidery is not one of Rosanna's favorite pastimes, but when one gives away a favor, one ought to replace it. She is working on the handkerchief with a pale lavender thread and an attitude of bruised focus. "You know," she says as she works, "it's not as if any gentleman would ask me if I embroidered it myself if I were to grant them a favor. Ser Gedeon didn't."
Septa Day herself is truly wretched at embroidery, but glances up from the large tome in her lap as Rosanna speaks, smiling indulgently. "That's entirely possible. And yet, were a gentleman ever to ask, you'd want to be able to say yes. It makes the gesture more meaningful." She looks back down at the book, turning a page. "Is it Lord Tordane we've set our cap for now? I think I've lost track."
Kittridge wanders into the room and flops onto a chaise. He's an excellent lounger. "What's that?" he asks, "Rosie's got a new cap? Am I interrupting important haberdashery discussions?"
"Well, I could just as well say I did it myself," Rosanna reasons. She glances at Day with a hint of a frown. "You really ought not to call him that while we are still guests of the Naylands in their tower. It seems to be tempting unpleasant attention." Looking back to her embroidery, she says, "I rather like Stonebridge. If he wins his duel against Ser Rygar, every eligible noblewoman in the Riverlands will be looking here. He will better remember one who saw him before. And if he falls, it's no real matter." She frowns at Kittridge's sudden loungey entrance. "I do not have any caps," she sniffs.
"And you ought not to be giving your favor to bastards," counters Day mildly. "So we'll pretend the King's decree actually matters." Kitt's arrival is given an equally indulgent smile; she snorts mirthfully at his question. "Of course not. Caps are so last season."
"I just wanted to say 'haberdashery'," says Kit, "And now I've said it twice, so we can move on from caps." He shifts on the lounge, getting comfortable, propping his head on his fist. "Wait, who have you given your favor to?" he asks, frowning slightly, "Ser Gedeon?"
"The King says that Ser Gedeon is a nobleman," Rosanna points out, which is rather contrary to what she just said, but. She purses her lips innocently, gaze on her embroidery as she draws the needle out on a stitch, and does not answer her brother.
"It's somewhat less ambitious than Seagard," Day shrugs, glancing between brother and sister, "but it's not unwise for a young lady to keep her options open. So long as she does so discreetly."
"Hmm," Kittridge responds. He muses on that in silence for a moment, picking at a stray thread at his cuff. "I suppose it makes sense," he concedes, "But I would do so very discreetly. Since we are guests in this tower. And you seem so friendly with Ser Rutger," he points out, somewhat dryly.
"I am very discreet," Rosanna claims with another frown for her brother, this one a little indignant. Yes, that is the word for Rosanna. "Well, Ser Rutger stands to inherit the Mire," she points out in reasonable explanation for friendliness. She chews softly on her bottom lip as she takes another stitch. "He also has two heirs already."
Day's eyebrows shoot up to confer with her hairline. "Rosie!" she laughs, startled that her charge has been so… busy. "I've obviously been remiss in following you about. Are there any other open options I should know about?"
"Well. However discreet you think you're being, be more. Just in case." This is Kit's advice. He leans against the chair's back again, still fiddling with the loose thread, which he has managed to make triple in length already. "I think having two heirs would outweigh any benefit of him having a castle," he points out, "Not to mention the rumors about him. I don't think I like the idea."
"Oh, I don't think so," Rosanna says innocently to Day. "There are very few castles to be had." She turns another frown on Kittridge. "You don't like any ideas."
"Your brother's idea aversion aside," says Day, steepling her fingers against her lips in consideration. She shakes her head slightly. "There are the heirs… and he's not known for having treated his first wife well. It's unwise to consider such an entanglement when there's so little to gain."
"I like lots of ideas," Kittridge retorts, "You marrying Lord Patrek, I like that idea. Even the Lord of Stonebridge, whoever he may be. I think I could like that one. I don't like the idea of you marrying someone who's been rumored to've had a hand in his wife's death," he says, "However pleasant a fellow he may seem in company."
"He might not have," Rosanna says a bit stubbornly. "You don't know." She pricks herself in her attitude and pulls back her finger sharply. "I'd marry Lord Patrek if I could," she insists before sucking on it to staunch the blood.
"No one knows but Rutger Nayland and the ghost of his wife," agrees Day. "But reputation shouldn't be dismissed, Rosanna. Lord Patrek's reputation makes him the safer bet — and if he's a wolf in sheep's clothing, his inheritance makes the risk worthwhile. Lord Rutger is simply a bad bet, all around."
"'He might not have'?" Kittridge repeats this incredulously, "Listen to yourself, Rosanna. Even if a betrothal to Lord Patrek doesn't work out that doesn't meant you have to run straight to some maybe-murderer with a swamp castle and two sons. Seven."
Rosanna sucks on her injured finger and glares at both of them for a long moment in the familiar manner of a brat being denied the very idea of her way that is probably a terrible idea to begin with. Then she sniffs and resumes her embroidery.
Day dimples deeply, looking back down at her book until she's sure she won't laugh. "Honestly, Rosebud — you must stop obliging me to agree with your brother. It's unsettling."
"High unnatural," Kit agrees with a nod, "It makes my skin crawl. If you were a loving sister you'd change your behavior at once to make me feel better." He stretches for a bowl of fruit on a side table, snagging a piece and popping it into his mouth before commenting, "So that was the Lady Haigh and Ser Westerling all the gossip is about, in the garden earlier? Kind of anticlimactic."
"I can't think of a poorer reason to change my behavior," Rosanna huffs at her brother. She rolls her eyes at his next question, though. "She was complaining that the ladies are all too polite. I told her she ought to spend more time with the smallfolk if she felt it a problem." A small hint of a smile tugs on her lips.
The septa's foot creeps out to give Kit's ankle a good, solid nudge. Skin crawling, indeed. Day snorts, struggling not to grin, eyes still on her text. Rosanna's advice to Briallyn causes her to lose her battle with mirth; she laughs outright. "A wise suggestion, my darling." She shakes her head. "Honestly, if half what's said about that pair is true, I feel for Lady Westerling."
Kittridge glances up, and then over, and smirks, and gives Day a nudge back, tapping her foot with his, and then again. And then he waits a moment, and does it once more. Just to be obnoxious. "Which Lady Westerling?" he asks, with a yawn, "There are several and soon to be one more, it seems. The Lady Danae? She seemed nice, Rosie. The other two did as well," he adds, "Quiet, both of them, and Ser Garett's a bit…" he locks jaw and shoulders, doing a decent imitation of the Westerling knight's stiff posture, "But he seemed like he might loosen up a bit."
"The soon-to-be. Lady Briallyn. I rather like Lady Danae." Her finger now apparently given enough time to mend, Rosanna resumes her careful stitching. "I get so bored with ladies like Lady Haigh. As if they'll attract a husband by acting like one." Looking a bit put out, she remarks, "Well, I suppose she has, but of little note."
"Of exceedingly little note, letting others bleed on the Iron Isles in his stead," says Day, rather uncommonly judgy for the liberal-minded septa. She reaches over to flick Kit's ear without missing a beat of judginess. "Not ever a fishmonger's daughter would have him. Or so I'd have thought."
"Maybe they'll suit each other," Kit shrugs, "Ser Garett doesn't strike me as the sort of man who's going to be spending a lot of time at court, or at tea, doing lordly sorts of—oww!" he exclaims, not very lordly either. He twists and reaches over to pinch Day in retaliation, adding as he does, "Why wasn't he there, Rosanna, do you remember?" he asks, "I feel like somebody said. Was he injured or something?"
"I've certainly no idea," Rosanna says in an airy tone that can't be bothered with such matters. She looks up to judge both of them. "Stop that," she says. "It's very unseemly."
Day jumps as she's pinched, narrowing her eyes at Kit. "Well, my sweet, if we lower the bar, you get to appear all the seemlier," she tells Rosanna, blithely. See? They're actually helping. She pokes Kit sharply in the ribs.
"Your face is unseemly," says Kit as he tries to evade Day's poke, fails, and pokes her back instead. "Your fingers are so pointy," he complains, "Have you been sharpening them? Can you sew with those?"
"You know," Rosanna says, raising her voice just a touch over their /impropriety/, "this is why I never want to listen to either of you."
"Oh, don't be so dainty," Day pffts at Kit's whining. Without looking away from her target or ceasing her assault, she corrects Rosanna, "No, my darling, that's because you're oppositional and contrary."
"I'll show you dainty," Kit growls, picking up the pillow from behind him and swinging at Day, heedless of her work. "You're just jealous of how wise we are," he says, not very convincingly given the pillow-fighting.
That CROSSES THE LINE. Rosanna stands up, as imperious as a girl her size can be, and hisses, "Stop it this instant! We are guests here, and we are supposed to be making a good impression!"
Giggling like a girl, Day snatches the pillow from Kit's hands — effectively disarming the little skirmish for now. "Rosie, sweeting," she says, attempting to appear serious. "It's not as though we're doing something scandalous. Goodness! We're not we flirting with our host's eldest son, twice our age, while slipping his sworn enemy our favor under his nose."
Kittridge bats at the pillow after Day snatches it away, shoving it at her in a 'stop hitting yourself' kind of way, though he doesn't actually say that. Yet. "Yeah," he agrees with the septa, giving his little sister a look, "Who would do something like that?"
"You are absolutely behaving in a manner unfit for either of your stations in a place that anybody could walk into." Rosanna flushes red at Day's rather pointed counter. "I am being friendly," she claims. "As any proper lady should. And besides, it's our host's brother. Lord Riordan is Regent of Stonebridge." That makes it all better.
Day snatches back the pillow again as Kit continues to press his attack, thwacking him soundly with it. "Stop it," she tells him, primly. "You're upsetting your sister." She almost manages to scold him with a straight face.
"Then flirt with Lord Riordan," Kit suggests, not quite pulling a face at Rosanna, though he seems to stop just short, "He might have a much better castle, and he doesn't have any kids, and I've never heard anyone claim he likes to strangle pretty girls. Promise to be careful with Ser Rutger or I'm going to find another pillow and chase Day around the room," he threatens.
"It doesn't matter what you think, anyways," Rosanna claims haughtily, lifting her chin. "If someone wants to marry me, they'll break with father, not you."
"And you don't think your father will listen to your brother's counsel?" asks Day, lifting her eyebrows at Rosanna a bit. She sits on the pillow so it can't be used against her again. She hrmphs at Kit.
"Father will care what I— what Day said," Kittridge breaks off as he and the septa speak over each other as they answer. He frowns when she sits on the pillow, and settles for another pinch, stepping back and saying, more seriously, "Just be smart, Rosanna, that's all we're saying. Being heir to something and knowing how to string a compliment together isn't everything, you know that. It's not like there's a rush, you're ten years from spinsterhood and doesn't Day make that look fun anyway?" he jokes.
"Day is not a spinster," Rosanna says with prim precision, "she is a septa. It's different." She tosses her hair, her eyes a bit suspiciously wet with the frustration the tease, and then moves to take up her embroidery and sit back down. Angled away from her brother.
"I am not a — what Rosie said," Day wrinkles her nose at Kit. She rises and goes to Rosanna — but takes the pillow with her. "Sweetheart," she coaxes gently, kneeling and looking up at her charge. "Your brother is an oaf, but he's an oaf that loves you."
Kittridge waves a hand dismissively. "Well, that's always an option too. You do like telling people what to do, after all. Maybe you should teach." He rolls his eyes as his sister sulks and Day goes to console her, picking up another piece of fruit and wandering back over to thump once more onto the chaise. He digs a notebook out of a pocket and begins to read, ignoring the girls.
Rosanna shoots Kittridge a furious look for the suggestion — the very idea — but manages to hold her tongue enough not to respond. "That hardly makes him less of an oaf."
Day chuckles and leans up to kiss Rosanna's forehead. "Not a whit less oafy, I agree," she says tenderly, then hurls the pillow at Kit's face.
Kittridge snatches the pillow out of the air and sighs, getting up. He sets the pillow back on the chair and heads for the door, pointing out as he goes, "I want you both to notice how light on my feet I am. Not oafy at all." So there. Out he goes.
Rosanna does not dignify Kittridge's parting words with a response. She sniffs instead, looking somewhat — somewhat — mollified by Day's attentions. "I don't know why he has to be so difficult," she whines.
Swallowing a grin and glancing sidelong at Kit's exit, Day kisses Rosanna's forehead once more before letting the girl resume her embroidery. "I suspect it runs in the family," she postulates with warmth, then settles to take up her book again.