|The Giant and the Ivy|
|Summary:||Lady Rosanna catches up her favorite sworn sword on the goings-on.|
|Date:||April 26, 2012|
|Related Logs:||Dibs and Pretty Words|
|Guest Chambers — Tordane Tower|
|A looking glass, vanity, and bed, at least.|
|April 26, 289|
Evening has fallen, and Rosanna has retired after yet another day of being a noble brat. She's sitting in front of a looking glass in the guest chamber of Tordane Tower appointed to her use, her handmaiden unplaiting her hair. The littlest Groves lady admires herself with a canted head and a thoughtful gaze, one hand lifting to twine a free curl about a finger. The mighty Barristan is curled in a ball of grey tabby fluff on her bed.
There is a knock on the door. One big, heavy fist pounding upon it as lightly as a man of Tommas Belte's size can manage. Whistling a bar of a tune that has long since been Rosanna's, the big man waits for his little lady to bid him to enter, rocking back on his heels.
Rosanna smiles, though it's not she that opens the door for him, but the handmaiden. She ducks away quick enough to allow him entry. "I was just talking about you today, Ser Tommas," the Groves lady tells him in an idle tone as she smooths back her auburn waves.
"Were you, my little lady?" Tommas wonders with a wide smile, nodding to the handmaiden as he enters — ducking down to not whack his head on the doorframe as he enters. "I can't imagine that made for an interesting bit of talk. Hello Barristan." He pauses mid speech to give the mighty sized cat a ruffle about the ears in greeting. "Not when you've all those fancy ladies to talk with."
"Oh, I was talking to Lord Rutger about the groves back home," Rosanna tells him. "Remember when you used to let me sit on your shoulders so I could pick apples?" Barristan stretches out and gives a loud, rumbling purr at Tommas's attentions.
Gently, gently, Tommas digs his fingers in through Barristan's fur to get the /just/ right spot beneath the big cat's jaw. "Aye, I remember that. You were the sweetest of the wee buds up in those branches, my lady. Your hair looked like one of the new fruits that time of the year," he notes fondly.
"My hair isn't that red," Rosanna says, wrinkling her nose and sounding as if this is a particularly stupid idea. Barristan just keeps purring, tipping his head up for better petting angles.
"Tis in the sunlight. Looks red and juicy, like one of them crisp apples," Tommas assures, the natural easy timbre of his voice does much to hide the tease — but she may still be able to pick it up. Barristan's shameless joy in the affection just leads to more, another big hand joins to first to offer the cat all over pets. "And what'd your fine Lord Rutger say about those groves?"
"He's not my Lord Rutger," Rosanna says with a rather exasperated sigh. "He's just Lord Rutger that I was speaking to. And he said that he was sure our groves must be lovely, and he gave me some ivy because Lord Patrek gave me some ivy." She plucks up the cutting of ivy with lavender flowers from where it sits on the vanity, twirling it between her fingers in a manner distinctly less delicate than how she handled it in front of its gifter.
"Of course, my lady," Tommas says, not sounding nearly as amused as her looks at her correction. "He's the one of the Mire, yeah? Not nearly so fine as the Lord Patrek Mallister, much farther from the Groves as well." He watches the ivy turn between Rosanna's fingers with a look of fond exasperation. "You best put that in sommat to keep fresh, m'lady. It won't grow back home no other way."
"Yes, he will inherit the Mire when Lord Rickart passes. I wonder what a castle in a swamp is like." Rosanna cants her head, continuing to turn the ivy over in her fingers thoughtfully. "He has been to King's Landing, though. I wish I could go." She sets the cutting back down on the vanity. "I do not think I have enough charms to turn Lord Patrek's head, Tommas."
"Likely full of bugs, lizards, fish and the like — sounds very promising. My ma always said that if you caught a lizard's tail it was good luck," Tommas opines, giving Barristan a final skritch before removing his hand. He clicks his tongue at Rosanna's thoughts on the Lord Patrek. "Nae, lass. That lad has just got his head in a scramble. You wait a year or so, give the lord proper time to mourn and all that — you'll turn all the heads in his court."
Rosanna huffs an impatient breath. "Maybe," she says. "His advisors will want him to make a more advantageous match, though." She makes the slightest gesture that somehow indicates to her handmaiden to begin brushing her hair. "If Ser Gedeon wins his duel, he will have every lady in the area sniffing about him." There is something smug in her smile when she tells him, "I gave him my favor so that he'll remember that I saw him before." Look how clever she is.
"His advisors just haven't met you. You're just as advantageous as any," Tommas denies loyally, straightening to his full height as he ceases his petting of Barristan. It is possible that the knight isn't quite aware of exactly what that means in regards to Noble matches, but his sentiments are honest. A rumbling chuckle works its way up from his chest as Rosanna confesses her cunning plan to snatch the newly made Tordane. "I doubt that he could forget you. He seems a good enough sort…I cleaned fish with him on the ilses, I think. Although it's a bit hard to tell some of those lads apart, covered in dirt as we were."
"Did you?" Rosanna watches Tommas mostly in her looking glass as the handmaiden brushes out her hair. "How did you find him? He is a bastard, which isn't terribly appealing, but I do like Stonebridge."
"Well enough. He seemed to hold himself well enough in a fight and /gods/ lady climbed like a squirrel after its nuts into a gorge at one point — pardon my tongue, Lady. It was impressive though," Tommas explains cheerfully, making spidery climbing gestures with his fingers in the air. "I can't say a bastard is right for you, lady. You don't even know his kin."
"Well, I can't very well know his father, can I?" Rosanna says, rolling her eyes at silly, commoner Tommas. "The King has said he's a Tordane, and if he survives the duel he'll be the Knight of Stonebridge."
"Death would make that rather difficult, my lady." Tommas looks thoughtful at that, lifting a hand to tug at his ear. "Aye. That is true if the King says it be. That is how Kings go, but my lady — he still isn't a Lordling, not like Lord Patrek. Word tells that the lad served at Oldstones."
"Well I wouldn't marry him before the duel." DUH, TOMMAS. "I'm not marrying anyone right now. I am only considering the possibilities at hand. It is the duty of a noblewoman to cultivate where she might."
Tommas…blinks rather dully. "I think Septa Day might be a wee bit better suited for this conversation than me, m'little lady."
"Probably," Rosanna agrees with a long-suffering sigh. "I do hope you're keeping my brother out of trouble, Tommas."
"M'Lord Kittridge? He wouldn't know the look of trouble, not even an eyelash of it." Tommas almost manages to get that out with a straight face, flashing Rosanna a conspiratorial grin.
Rosanna narrows her gaze on him in the mirror, looking skeptical. "I'm trusting you," she tells him in a manner a bit like giving him a royal edict.
The grin on his face fades a little at her skeptical look. "You know I'd put down my life before I'd see harm to your brother, my littlest lady," Tommas promises solemnly. More so, perhaps, than he would have been before the most recent war.
"Good," Rosanna declares with another sniff. "I have to get ready for bed now." It seems to be a directive.
At her direction, Tommas offers his best proper bow which is slower and stiffer than any of those of her elegant suitors. "Dearest dreams, Lady Rosanna," he bids. Then, he simply takes his leave.