Page 001: Ungrateful Bastards
Ungrateful Bastards
Summary: Jaremy admits to Jarod and Revyn of his predicament involving the shifting loyalties of the Tordanes and the ambitions of the Naylands.
Date: 07/13/2011
Related Logs: A Lady's Favor
Jarod Jaremy Revyn 
Four Eagles Tower — Kitchens
The kitchen is usually alive with activity but for the latest hours of the night. Stone counters with wooden tops line the interior except nearest the large brick ovens. Open fire pits in the center have iron bars across them for grilling as well, the hot surfaces on the other side of the room from the tables in the center used for final food preperation. Huge cabinets have been carved out of the walls to store the dishes and utensils for serving the meals to the House Lords and Ladies. The few exits lead towards the Servant's Quarters as well as the Throne Room and Entrance Hall.
Wed Jul 13, 288

Mid-day has come and the retinue of Lady Isolde and Lady Valda of Stonebridge has left not but four hours ago. Jaremy Terrick has been reported to be of a foul mood, doing his best to avoid lengthy conversations as he wears a path between his chambers and the maester's cell. Busy indeed, but with what? The question remains, but the servants of Four Eagles Tower, though quietly, have taken note.

Frustrated with his private work, Jaremy makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Speaking quietly with the head servant, she politely bids him to the corner table to sit and rest with some summerwine while she prepares him a snack. Jaremy does so, setting his sword and scabbard atop the square wooden table, dumping himself into a heavy wooden chair.

"Hard times, my dear lord brother?" comes Jarod's voice, not without a hint of gruff amusement, as Jaremy dumps himself in said chair. He likely went unnoticed during Jaremy's entrance, as he's slouched at a table wolfing some sort of fowl along with a mug of ale. As Captain of the Guard, he probably has something productive he could be *doing* right now. But he's eating and drinking at mid-day, and paying no little bit of attention to the skirts of the serving girls as they pass. "If there's wine left when you're through with it, I could do with a glass. Beer's not got quite the right taste for duck."

"Duck?" Jaremy looks over, spying the plate that Jarod eats from. He quickly glances over to the kitchen workers to see that some duck of his own is being prepared, and a look of relief crosses over his face. "Duck…sounds like something that'll hit the target." He leans back in his chair, slouching. He lowers his voice, leaning towards his half-brother. "I've just come into a large amount of news that isn't good news, and is sure to be something that'll set father aflame. Your squire isn't nearby, is he? This news involves the Naylands."

Jarod moves to flop down nearer to Jaremy, to aid the conversing. "Hunting good this season. Birds're nice and fat. We should go hawking. Been too damn long since I've had a good hunt." Again, he probably has responsibilities, but he doesn't seme to consider them terribly hard. He takes a gulp of his beer, actually taking the hint enough to lower his voice in kind. "Rowan? Nah. My sword needed sharpening, so I sent him off to the smith. Gave him some coin to visit the tavern while he was there, so I damn well /hope/ he'll take his damn time. Hoping one of these days one of the girls there gets him drunk enough to take pity on him and deflower him. Never a boy born that'd be better served by a good fuck than that one, I'll tell you. I feel like I'm failing him, letting him go on this long." Anyway. He steers back to the actual topic of import. "This something to do with him?" He sounds like he'd be surprised if it did. "For all that, the skinny little whelp's a good enough sort. Don't see him involved in much political."

As if two Terrick's weren't enough, Revyn decides that this would be the opportune time to break from whatever duties he was attending to and as he makes his way into the kitchen, there's a turn of his head towards one of the staff so as to offer the slightest of nods. The sound of voices and the mention of Naylands draws the man's attention and when his gaze sets upon Jaremy and Jarod, he's beginning to angle his way in their direction. "Nephews, why such … impolite talk at the table?" The words laced with humor and he's clearly referring to the mention of the Naylands. A shift of the sheathed sword at his waist and he's then lowering himself down into one of the seats, attention shifting to one of the servants with a lift of his hand to catch her attention, "The same for me." The hand motions to Jarod's plate and when the hand lowers, he's turning his attention back to the brothers.

Jaremy quiets as a plate of food is set before him, as well as a pitcher of summerwine. Without asking, Jaremy steals Jarod's mug of beer. While tilting it back to down its contents, he sets his empty mug in front of his brother. The trade is made.

"Fuck I wish it were that simple, but there's no doubt that this might end up affecting him. That squire of yours has thin wrists, but at least he pays attention. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be an asset, but he's yours to do with…" He pauses as another empty mug is set down, keeping the servants out of their lordly business. "…regardless."

Waiting for a bit of quiet, Jaremy turns to look at his brother. "Jarod, remember how father promised Lady Isolde of Stonebridge and myself to eachother? Well…in your brother's infinite wisdom too much time has passed, and Isolde has informed me that her mother seeks to wed her to one of the Naylands…" He scowls, shaking his head from side to side. "If this happens the Naylands will be on our doorstep, taxing the balls off of everything between here and Pike from their newly acquired seat at Stonebridge. I'm trying to find written evidence of father and Lord Stonebridge's promise, but I'm coming up with shit."

"Isolde with a Nayland sod?" Jarod snorts at this, though it does seem to give him some pause. "She agreeable to that?" He sounds doubtful, and like that'd rather surprise him. Still, this is cause for him to reach for his beer…which he finds pilfered. Without missing a beat, he chuckles and pours himself some wine and gets to making short work of that instead. "She sure of this? Father must have something of that writ down somewhere. Can't imagine he'd have let it go this long without it." At Revyn's approach, he makes some (somewhat unsuccessful) effort to sit up straighter. "Lord Uncle."

The mug of beer is the first thing to be delivered and it garners a quick nod of thanks from Revyn before he's turning his attention back to the conversation at hand. The mention of the Tordane's marrying into the Naylands seems to be an interesting fact, at least judging by the slight lift of his right brow, "I'd heard rumors that her mother was considering .. other alternatives." His hand curls around the mug, lifting it upwards so that a healthy drink can be taken and when it comes to be lowered, he's offering to no one in particular, "You do realize, Jaremy, that your father is most certainly not going to be happy if this news reaches him?"

"Oh, he's going to go through the fucking roof." Jaremy replies, looking to Revyn with an ashamed pair of flattened lips. He shakes his head at his own disappointment and reaches for the picture of summerwine. He tips it over to pour himself a mug. "They aren't rumors, this I've learned from the Lady Isolde herself. There's still time, however. So I was just telling Jarod that perhaps in the maester's records there's writ from her father about the promise, perhaps this would be turned around." He takes a long pull from the cup, reaching into his pocket. Up he comes with a strand of Isolde's dark hair wrapped in yellow and gold. "She's asked me to ask her hand at the tourney and win in her name, wearing her favor. So no…she does not want to marry into that house of swine."

"Seems like the sort've place where they'd keep that kind of thing, aye," Jarod concurs, though how much his opinion is worth on the matter is questionable. The young man did not even spend that much time in the maester's study when he was obligated to as a boy. Bookish, he is not. He gulps some more wine, nodding firmly. The whole tournament thing clearly a more immediate prospect to wrap his mind around. "Well, there you go, then. Knock their asses flat with a lance and claim her hand in front of everybody, and fuck whatever back-door deal those Nayland fuckers've cooked up. You do that and nobody's going to be able to stop it." In Jarod Rivers' mind, at least. It may not be the most political plan available.

Revyn's free hand lifts to allow a single finger to extend upwards as he casts his eyes in Jarod's direction, "Well, nobody except my brother." A turn of his hand and he's now pointing that finger at Jaremy while looking back to the older brother, "When you tell him that you're entering the tournament and the joust, be sure to let me know. I would like to see the expression on his face and to watch him turn that lovely shade of red." The hand lowers back to the table as lips curve into the hints of a smirk, "You get his approval and I've got little doubt that you'll win. Alternatively and in the mean time .." He lets that trail off for the mug is returned to his lips, it's contents now drained in that sitting and when it comes to lower, he's setting it off to the side, "Your aunt has need to visit her family and I may accompany her. I'm sure she'd speak to Lady Valda about the state of things."

"I'm going to ask him today, alongside…telling him about this." Jaremy says with a tilt of his head, knowing well that doing so would be like going to war. To emphasize his words, he breaks some meat free from the duck's thigh, bringing a morsel to his lips. "I know mother didn't want me to go into the lists as I've yet to secure an heir for Four Eagles Tower, but this situation is going to end up a necessity. A damn messed I've caused and I intend to get us out of it at the end of a lance if I have to."

"So…say what you will but I'm very, very aware of the fool I've been about this, and how it will tax the both of you. I don't believe that Lady Valda is aware, but Lady Isolde prays to the seven for our mission to be a success." He glances between the two of them. "Tread carefully, though, as Isolde is afraid that one word of this reaching her ears and she'll be a Nayland by the end of the week."

"Don't see why he shouldn't," Jarod responds to Revyn's finger. "Jaremy's a knight, same as any of the sods who'll be riding out there. Including me." He grins crookedly. "Though it's the melee I'm looking forward to. Not so much glory as the joust, but you get to knock the heads of some of the best swords in the Seven Kingdoms." He seems quite gleeful about the prospect. "Besides, he'd be riding for the honor of Terrick's Roost. Seems like a bloody fine thing to do, to my mind." At that last, he shrugs. "You're a damned fool for not marrying her years ago, you want my opinion." Well, he'll get it either way. "You're lucky our lord father hasn't forced some old, rich, withered up Westerlands widow on you by now. Or a Frey. Lord Frey's got no shortage of daughters. I tell you about the time I got one of his bastard girls alone in a hayloft…" He winces. "Blotchy, that. Anyway, I had a point. Right. You're an idiot. You can't do better than Lady Isolde, so you might as well get it done."

To Jaremy, Revyn merely gives a slight chuckle and a quick nod of his head before offering, "Oh, I don't think you have need to worry of this reaching Valda's ears. I certainly won't be mentioning this little .. arrangement. It's about time that you smartened up and are finally focusing on getting your own family together. Do me a favor and just don't get yourself killed in the joust. -That- would really ruin my day." Now, his attention begins to flit in the direction of Jarod as his lips curve into a grid, "Dear nephew, didn't you know that we were saving the daughters of Lord Frey for -you-?" A jest, cleary, and it's then washed away with a slight wave of his head, "Only one sword you need to worry about in the melee, Jarod, and that's mine. We're Terrick's, the rest can't compete."

"Aren't few Waldas that I'm sure Lord Frey himself hasn't had in a hayloft." Jaremy replies very, very, very quietly, lest their own kitchen staff hear. Walda is the known name for all of Walder Frey's daughters, as Walder is the name of his sons, even the bastards. He rolls his eyes, sighing as he stuffs some duck into his mouth. "Well yes…I am a damned fool. Isolde's a goddess and the only thing that would change with Stonebridge being a holding of our own family would be the banner that flies there. Our people are close with theirs. Fuck! Even their own smallfolk would like to cheer for our banner just as much as theirs at the tourney."

Jaremy nudges Jarod in the ribs hard, laughing aloud as he reaches for his mug. "I will be there to watch you two in the grand melee, so to limit only one event so that I'm not some target of the Naylands. Though while that's taking place I'll also be at Father's side, paying attention to the houses. You're right, Uncle, I can't be on the fence anymore. It's damned time that I got involved in our family affairs and made my place. Let's hope that this calms father some." He leans back, downing the last of the contents of his mug, turning to hurry with his food. "Just in case…I'd better speed on this final meal of mine."

Jarod barks a laugh at the idea of being 'saved' for a Frey. "I don't think Father dislikes me quite *that* much today. Though there's always tomorrow." A grin at Revyn. "I'm looking forward to it, my Lord Uncle." And that's actually sincere, and said with respect. And of course he ruins it with, "Though how many years has it been since you've seen a tournament? They've changed since dragons roamed the lands and man discovered steel, you know." To Jaremy he just nods, though the look he offers his brother is half-sympathetic. And then buried in a long drink from his flagon.

A low laugh begins to escape Revyn's lips as he gives only the simplest of nods to Jaremy, "Good enough. See to it that you do. I really hate when your father is insufferable with anger." He's been there and done that and still reaps the 'rewards' of such things. All hints of humor fade from his face at Jarod's comments and there's a slow shift of his head so as to look at the younger man. His body leans forward, forearms coming to settle on the table and with an ever so slight narrowing of his eyes, he's offering, "Oh, is that so?" A shift of his wrist and his fingers come to tap idly on the top of the wooden table, a soft drumming sound that carries on for a moment as he lets the question linger for only a moment before continuing with, "Tomorrow morning. Training yard. We'll see if you still whistle that tune when your face first in the dirt."

Jaremy continues to stuff his face with the well-cooked duck and apple slices, pausing between bites to shift his eyes to either side of the table. Sensing that he's sitting on the center of a demarcation point that very well could be a royal (pun intended) ass-kicking, his eyes widen. His lips bulge with the mouthful of food, tightening into a wide grin as he leans back down to his plate. The sounds of his subdued chuckling can be heard as he chews. Swallowing down the food, he refills his glass of wine. "Oh now you've done in, brother." Yes…brother. All facts aside, Jarod is often referred to as this by Jaremy. "Some of that fire he's breathing from his nostrils is going to light his sword, and you're going to be fighting two Red Priests in that tourney."

Jarod has to put down his wine flagon at that. Not quite the response he was expecting. But, after a moment's thought, he grins. "You're on. Tomorrow morning it is. I'll try not to severe anything overly important. We still need to show those Nayland fuckers up at the melee, after all." He doesn't lack for confidence. But then, he rarely does…outwardly. Hard to tell how much of it's pure bluster. "And no fire. That's just flashy nonsense."

Jarod's grin is answered with only the slightest of smiles from Revyn, though there's something devilish to the expression considering his eyes are still narrowed a touch, "I'm glad to hear it. Just do me a favor, my dear nephew? Don't forget your armor. You're going to need it." Now, there's a quirk of his lips to a grin and as his forearms lift from the table and he settles back into the chair, he's looking over towards Jaremy once more. "If you're not careful, it won't be my fire breathing that you need to worry about."

The empty plate is pushed forward and Jaremy is left to finish his mug of summerwine. Keeping the mug in one hand, he leans back in the chair, slouching, and turns his attention to his uncle. "You're talking about things far more tangible, like Nayland ambition backed by Walder Frey and all of the power he musters?" He replies quietly, nodding his head. Already he's forseen just how much trouble this can become. Once more he shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. "This could have been so simple. Now if this fails, which…it had damned well better not, Father, Mother, and I will have to scramble to find me a bride that will protect us or stave off Nayland taxation and encroachment, less the Naylands back the fuck off since one of their own is squiring under…" He tilts a thumb in Jarod's direction. "…Jarod here. Rowan's going to cry foul if we cut off his access to the rookery, though maybe we should."

"Leave Rowan out of this until there's a reason not to," Jarod says, tone a little less light. "Doubt he knows a damn thing about anything his family's up to, in any case. If they're relying on him to get them information, the Naylands are fucked anyway, so there's naught to worry. Besides, only Nayland he writes all that often is that sister of his who ran off to be a mummer." He smirks and chuckles. Amusing, he finds that story. "Anyway, Brother, I wish you all the best luck with Father, but if you want my opinion you're over-thinking all this." From a man who's likely never over-thought anything in his life. "The way I see, it's simple. Win her hand in the tourney, and any man would be shamed to say you couldn't have it. Simple as that."

Another chuckle escapes Revyn's lips as he gives a slight shake of his head towards Jaremy, "Actually, I simply meant that you'd have to deal with your father and we all know that he can breath fire far better then I." Now, a hand lifts to motion towards Jarod, "He does speak the truth though. Win the joust and Lady Valda will be hard pressed to refuse such a thing." Hands come to rest flat on the table as he begins to lift himself from his chair and once he's standing, he's moving to grab his plate. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my meal and try to remember which end of that piece of steel I'm supposed to hold. After all, if I recall, it's much more difficult then simply bashing with a rock." There's a flit of his eyes to Jarod and a quick smile before he's offering both of them a nod of his head before turning towards the exit.

"Be well, Uncle." Jaremy replies, saluting his mentor and trainer with his mug of wine. "If you can hear father yelling from the throne room…well…then that will save you from having to ask me how it went. He's meeting with his small council now, but I will be heading his way within the hour." With that, he sets the glass down and turns to Jarod. "Jarod…" He laughs, shaking his head. "One of these days he's going to literally brand your ass so that you never forget one of his famous beatings. Seven help him the day you actually defeat him."

"See you tomorrow, my Lord Uncle," Jarod says in farewell to Revyn, raising his wine flagon and 'toasting' him off. "We can use rocks, if that'll make you more comfortable. I'm not picky. Just no dragons." As Revyn is getting closer to the exit, he turns back to Jaremy and laughs. "Not my fault the man's got no sense of humor, and a stick up his ass the size of a weirwood besides. Anyhow, should be fun. I'm not some thirteen-year-old whelp he can flatten around the practice yard anymore, you know." He sounds like he's looking forward to it, Seven help him.

"You're damned right, we're both anointed knights now so both family and in service to Terrick's Roost he'll just have to put up with us." Jaremy replies, eyes glassing over a little as the collected elements of the beer and wine have given him more courage to face his father. "In truth, though, I think that he appreciates it. He's right. I need to focus on my station, and with you constantly dragging him into the yard and the fact that I appreciate his advising in the ways of Lordship…we keep him from being bored." He pauses to sip from his mug. "You think you can take him this time?"

"No fucking clue, really," is Jarod's reply. Now that Revyn is gone, of course, he can say it. Admitting it makes him laugh again. "There might be a few who could equal him with a blade in the Roost, but I'd be pressed to call anyone better. I guess we'll see, won't we? It's been too long since I've gotten to show my good Lord Uncle what I can do with a sword, anyhow." He almost sounds like he's got something to prove by it. But, then, he generally seems to think he does, though he'll rarely admit it. "You going to see Father right now?"

"Well, if anything, brother, training against the best will make both of us better with the blade. Then if we were to take to the team melee in a grander tourney we'd be all the more prepared." Sighing, Jaremy downs the last of his mug and rises, reaching for his sword. Securing it into the swordfrog attached to his belt, he nods his head up and down. "Yes. I'm of a mind to find my helmet before I do this, but yes…I'm going to go do this now. Are you going to keep back your regular twenty paces to snicker?"

"Aye, it'll be good practice for the melee, at any rate," Jarod agrees to that. "Well, good luck to you in that, Brother. And no. I somehow doubt I'd help your case much with Father. He'll put more stock in whatever you bring him than anything I could say. Tell me how it goes, though. The tourney won't be half so fun if Father talks you into sitting it out. And remember, you aren't a thirteen-year-old boy anymore, either. You've got as much a right to compete as any man, whatever game the Naylands are playing."

"Right. My mother will protest because I've yet to find a wife and she wouldn't wish me harmed, but even father's seen the way I joust. I'm fairly confident that they won't refuse me. I will, however, have to be careful, because if Nayland senses I'm a threat to their plans they may try to see me harmed. I wouldn't put it against them." Jaremy claps an arm onto his brother's shoulder and steps away from the tables. "I'll track you down after it's over to give you the result. After you're licking your wounds tomorrow in post-training bliss I may call on you for some more training with the lance. Care to set the dummy up for me?"

"Fucking games…" Jarod mutters, with no small amount of distaste. "I don't envy you any of that shit, brother. Tourneys shouldn't be any place for back-biting politics. Man comes with his sword and his lance and his bow and he earns what he earns. Far as that goes, I think you'll do all right." He returns the clap to Jaremy's arm as his brother goes. He'll linger at the table to finish his wine, and then some. "Aye, I think I'll be able to manage that."

"I'll hold you to that, because starting tomorrow I'm fighting for our eastern borders and for the love of a woman. Call the minstrels." Jaremy's eyes narrow and he laughs, calling the situation for what it is. Pulling his hair back into a ponytail, he lashes it with a cord and hops into the stairwell, on his way up to the main hall to speak with his father.