Blood of Dragons

There is a place along the coast north of King’s Landing, near to the Rosby lands though not quite within them, which is rough and rocky with swirling seas and high bluffs. There are many hidden coves here, the kind smugglers and pirates favor, with steep trails leading up the cliffs, and rocky shoals jutting out to sea. It is here, in one of these coves, that the Kingswood Company makes their last stand.

For they have taken one of these coves for their own, to have and to hold against the Crackclaw forces. And even now, the men arrayed against them are drawing up in the trees above the bluffs. Yet the do not attack. It would seem their leader, Ammon Massey, is up to one of his tricks.

At the battle on the hills, the Blackhand attacked aggressively. During the ambush in the Kingswood, the Blackhand held until the trap was sprung and then attacked aggressively. But now he waits, holding his forces out of bow shot. A few of his men have lit a bonfire upon the bluff.

Thick smoke billows into the air from the wet wood, trailing high into the clear, blue sky.

The Kingswood men have split their forces, for now: At the top of the bluff, Ser Orson Baratheon lies, hidden, in the foliage of the trees, bow in hand and joined by a handful of archers. Nearby, Sers Jan Marbrand and Cleyton Waxley lie hidden as well, but on the ground, so as to protect Orson and his men. The archers’ position gives them a decent vantage point not only over the top of the bluff but any approach to the coves, whether by land or sea, once the distance is close enough.

Inside one of the coves, Sers Ryckon Westerling, Dermett Corbray, and Josmyn Reyne stand guard with the rest of the men. The entrance to the cove is lined with discrete traps: covered nets laid over a shallow ditch. Some of the men have been pouring water down the path leading up to the cove, to make the trek up more difficult. And some hastily constructed barricades are also erected along the path, to shuttle any attackers into a single path of approach.

Atop the bluff, Jan sees the smoke; he holds one finger to his lips with his other arm raised in the air.

If Ser Dermett Corbray is still feeling the effects of his recent injury, he is not showing it. Dressed from head to heel in iron chainmail and plate - complete with a surcoat of white (the Corbray ravens resplendent upon it) - the man seems to be in good spirits; why, in keeping with the event, he has even braided his hair beneath his conical half-helm in the manner of those barbarous warriors in the east.

Limping around the Kingswood defences within the cove itself, he reaches down to take a drink from his wineskin. Those with a keen eye for such things, however, will know that Ser Dermett is inebriated with something a little more potent than ale or wine. He looks strangely, serenely happy as he paces around amongst the other Kingswood men, offering quiet words of encouragement and motivation.

The wineskin is returned to its place upon his belt and the Corbray pulls out the blunted blade he has brought especially for the event. Whereas his normal steel is of exquisite quality, this blade is of thick, cruel iron; heavier than his usual sword but wholly more intimidating to look upon.

He chuckles to himself as he replaces the thing back into his scabbard, then shifts to take up his shield from the floor. There are no painted arms across the front; the thick, oak wood is fresh from the armoury, complete with a studded, iron border. He pulls it on with a smirk and turns to Ser Ryckon and Ser Josmyn nearby, speaking to the two Westermen in hushed tones. “Let us be /mean/ to these Cracklaw cunts. Sounds like we are quite outnumbered and the odds of victory are heavily stacked against us; let Ser Dagur’s men leave these shores /knowing/ they have been in a fight, whether we are victorious today or not.”

Litle Pyp, ah, if ever there was a misnomer. Lttle Pyp—son of big Pyp is a third generation serjeant. At three inches above six feet, he towers above most of the men, indeed most of the knights of the Kingswood Company. Although Pyp is also quite thin indeed, he is a dirk of a man. At one-and-fifty years, his face is covered in gray stuble. He looks to the archers in the trees. Archery is the sport of young men with good eyes, though the aged serjeant still possesses broad shoulders and strong arms. In his left hand a scarred oak shield, in his right a wicked flanged mace the handle wrapped in sweat stained leather—he nods to his Commander Ser Jan of House Marbrand and hefts his mace with an arm that resmbles nothing so much as the knarled roots of an aged pine.

Resplendent in his fine armour and determined to prove himself with his new companions against his old is Ser Josmyn Reyne, who just so happens to find himself in close quarters with the young Westerling and the Corbray. “We will be victorious, Corbray.”, he assures the other man with a smirk, “They are swollen with false pride now and it will be their downfall. We should lure them into these traps and they’re out before the fight has even begun…” He points at the nearby traps they arranged in front of their hidey-hole.

Just like another hunt. Hidden in the foliage, with a bow in hand as he takes a blunted arrow off his quiver. The tip is wadded, so as to prevent any unfortunate incidents. Orson’s hair is pulled back. He’s only wearing chain mail. No helmet, no metal greaves, nothing except chain mail. He has to climb in and out of trees quickly as well as pick anyone off before they got to other archers. Orson told them that on Jan’s signal, they notch arrows. Quietly, he looks to the other trees and hopes that the rest of the archers do the same and they start getting ready. Upon Jan’s signal, they will notch and draw.

From above, Orson hears Ser Dermett say that he’s going to be mean to the Cracklaw, making Orson almost laugh, but he’s still looking out at the vantage point. The knight has a way of getting into good spirits as well as getting everyone else into it as well. Orson’s sight is good enough, looking down from the trees, and remains quiet.

Donnet looks like a common man of the Cracklaw Company. From head to toe he is a Crownlander, dark brown hair and deep blue eyes are easily found behind his conical helm. The man has an average height, but a rahter athletic build that shows some experience in battle, which is covered by a chain mail today.

He stands closer to his group, a smile on his face as he feels the incoming battle. The man has a gloved hand on a blunted sword, and eager eyes that scan the field in search of any sign of a Kingswood man.

A young lad of what looks to be ten and seven, Marc, baby-faced with a shaggy mop of black locks atop his head, hides out with the Kingswood men on top of the bluff. His sweaty forehead and nervous tittering belie that he must not have nearly as much experience as those who fight beside them. He reaches out to adjust his helm, a little too large for his head. He looks to Jan and nods with an overexcited vigor, wiping a sweaty palm upon his chain mail as he waits for the fighting to begin.

A spear is clutched in a white-knuckled hand that trembles ever so slightly. The man - boy, really- who clutches this spear is named Olin, until recently a dyer’s apprentice. His hands bear the signs of his craft- mottled red-and-green. His eyes are frightened, dancing wildly; he is only seven days a man. His hair hangs lank, obscuring his dull blue eyes. He joined the Crackclaw company for the glory and - yes, the wenches - not the battle. He is attired in soiled homespuns, his only armor a crudely made brigandine.
He stands close to the other men, as if seeking to absorb some of their experience, some of their bravery, through simple proximity, waiting, waiting.

An older man of the Crackclaw forces, present at the last two ‘friendly’ battles of the King’s forces, lingers next to his Massey officer, twirling a horn in one worn hand. Lennos has made something of a name for himself for his strong hand in the previous fights, taking down several of the Kingswood officers, including Jan Marbrand himself in a vicious and ungentlemanly brawl of a fight. He grins cheerfully, looking eager enough despite his age, though he is also patient as he waits for orders.

Not too far off, a young, green lad new to Ser Dagur’s forces is anxiously shifting from side to side with a frown on his face, eyes flicking from officer to officer as he tries and fails to find anything useful to do other than wait. For Robb has much to prove, as a new man to the company, and at the last battle he survived more on luck than anything resembling skill… and certainly not on his ability to ride.

A ship, a great war galley, comes into view around a point of land—the ‘Eye of the Storm.’ There was word that the Crackclaw Company had expanded, and these training exercises are proof of that. There was word that the Crackclaw Company was working closely with the Sea Watch and here, again, the proof was made plain.

The ship plows through the choppy waves, sending spray high into the air, and comes steadily closer. There is a cheer from some of the Crackclaw men, and another after a moment. Even at this distance, the eye can see movement on the deck as the ship’s longboats begin to be readied. There are armed men aboard the ‘Eye of the Storm,’ many of them—and they are coming.

But then, from the shelter of a neighboring cove, two smaller ships glide across the surface of Blackwater Bay. Their sails are black as pitch, save for a golden kraken emblazoned upon them. They are longships of the Iron Fleet, of the Iron Embassy, and they move with all haste to intercept the cumbersome Sea Watch Galley.

No help will come to the Crackclaw Company from that quarter, for the nonce.

Ammon Massey, standing as he is atop the bluff, watches impassively as the Ironborn descend upon the Sea Watch vessel. “When they are engaged, sound the advance,” he says to the scarred veteran beside him. That is done soon enough, and when it is the Blackhand dons his helm, his shield, draws his blunted sword, and moves to his place in the van.

Beside the Blackhand is a lad named Bors. He is green, and untrained in the arts of war—but his eyes are keen. For the sun has caught Orson’s chain, and given away his position. “There!” shouts Bors, pointing. “In the trees!”

Massey looks that way. “‘ware the trees, lads!” he shouts—but he and his men come on regardless.
Dagur has partially disconnected.

Ryckon Westerling is as young as the youngest warriors present, but not nearly so anxious. He is more experienced than any of them, and a knight at that, and he might seem almost relaxed were it not for his shoulders, already tensed and raised in preparation for battle. “Right. It wouldn’t take much more than standing in front of the traps and shouting at them to lure them in, I think, though if we… overdo it they might suspect something.”

“I hope Ser Ammon leads the assault this way; the man has a certain admirable talent for finding himself inside copious amounts of ‘hidey holes’. Today, that shall be his undoing.” Ser Dermett grins at the Reyne knight and gives him a playful slap on the back.

He turns to Ser Ryckon and nods, finding sense in his words. The movement of the ships off in the distance goes unremarked upon for the nonce. “My cousin is right,” the Corbray muses, while scratching at a sprouting of dark brown curls upon his chin. “Though I would wager if we all stand here doing nothing, they’ll suspect something too. Though we can’t really leave this position and go goading them back up towards the cove. If it’s a pain for them to climb, it will be a pain for us to climb. What do you think, Ser Josmyn?” he asks, hand shifting to the pommel of his blade.

Josmyn shrugs a little. “You could step outside and make some funny faces at them.”, he suggests to Dermett, “They might just take you for a lone nutter and once they advance upon you, Ryckon and I will move in. Either they will fall into the traps, or they will notice them and this will cause them to stop and figure out how to cross them. We can use that moment of surprise to our advantage and attack.”

Lennos raises the horn of the Crackclaw Company to his lips and sounds the charge, sending men around him again into battle with the Kingswood Company. “Onward, lads!” he calls to some of the new recuits, Robb included, as he exchanges horn for blade. “Remember, today they are smugglers- treat them like it!” And Lennos is off, following Ammon toward the imminent fray.

Pyp stands behind the knights in naught but aged albeit well kept mail. He looks to Ser Ryckon, then Ser Dermett, lastly to Ser Josmyn—keen gray eyes measure these highborn lords but he does not speak, rather he waits looking across the cove. His eyes squint as he makes out the crest of the Seawatch upon the Eye of the Storm. The grizzled serjeant supresses a shudder at the sight of the golden Kraken of House Greyjoy: a sight that has made many an seasoned knight and serjeant weak at the knees. “Mayhaps the Ironman will hold Ser Brynden and the Seawatch at bay.”

Jan locks eyes with Cleyton, and then Orson, holding his finger to his lips the entire time. But the silence of their hiding is broken not once, but twice. First, by the cheer of the Cracklaw men, and Jan swivels his head to see a ship approaching. Seeing it’s the Eye of the Storm, he curses ever-so-slightly under his breath. And then, even more alarmingly, he hears the voice of Massey. “Well, that’s that,” he says quietly, dropping his arm.

At that, the archers loose their bows, and the men atop the bluff emerge from the bushes, weapons raised alike. Jan finds the man who had the gall to ruin their best-laid trap, Massey, swinging his blunted sword at his ribs. Marc lets out a high-pitched yelp at the signal and charges forward, mirroring Jan but attacking the green-looking lad next to him with an awkward jab.

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Ryckon nods, keeping his eyes on the treeline. “Right. Sounds like a plan, I think. Let them be ambushed for once. Hopefully our archers up there will be taking care of it all the while, and if not… well, it is not as though we cannot fight them.” He gets into position and signals for Josmyn to do the same.

He sees the ships. House Greyjoy, with their kraken, will handle things with the Sea Watch. He sees them and the arrow is drawn. Orson is quiet. His hair is braided like a dothraki and his sight is dead set on a green knight; The same green knight that unhorsed him. He’s looking at him intently and when the arrows start flying, het lets him get a little closer. As he sees him down the arrow, Orson pulls back a little tighter due to the nature of the wadding and he fires his arrow, quickly getting another arrow before the other one landed.

Orson attacks Robb with his bow…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Ser Cleyton Waxley lies in wait in the trees at the top of the bluff near his cousin and commanding officer Jan Marbrand. Today he favors a suit of mail with a breastplate and visored helm. He shifts a bit in his saddle as he waits for the signal to spring the ambush, his hand flexing around the hilt of his blunted blade. He glances to his cousin when the Crackclaw men sound their advance and then slams down his visor and charges forward at the advancing Crackclaw men. He closes in on the horn-blower and takes a strong swing towards the man’s ribs. He makes no taunts or war cries, his focus solely on the task at hand.

Cleyton attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and sees his blow go wild!

The shrill voice of a horn startles Olin into nearly dropping his spear. His cheeks burn as he recovers the weapon, doing his best to look unperturbed and not succeeding. He changes his grip on his spear; once, twice, thrice. They’re marching now, the men, and he has no choice but to march with them, keeping well behind the man in front of him - a quite expansive fellow - so that the poor bastard can take any flying pointy bits that come their way. The cove; they’re going to the cove. He tries to crane his head around to the side to sea, but - no use. Only a wall of flesh.

“Being short’s a terrible burden,” He mumbles under his breath. Then his shield steps aside, leaving Olin exposed…and nearly walking into a rather unfriendly-looking trap. He cursed under his breath and took a quick sharp step back, trying to think of what to do and not quite succeeding.

The attack is joined! Screaming men rush down upon them! There is a moment of panic—but not from Ammon Massey. There is no war cry, no startled surprise. Jan swings, the rocks are slick, and Ammon is not quick enough to dodge the blow—so he lets the blunted blade strike mail and leather. He moves with the strike, as best he can, and swings his own blade down towards Jan’s shoulder.

Near to the Blackhand, Bors is less settled. He is visibly jumpy—but it works to his advantage. He slips, almost loses his feet, but it is enough that Marc only /just/ grazes him. Training takes over, and Bors cuts out with his own blunted blade.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and misses by a narrow margin!

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

As for the rest of the Crackclaw men, they follow the Blackhand’s orders and begin their descent. Amongst them is another young lad, green as so many of these new recruits are. He is Randyl, and he uses his spear to keep his balance as he descends the slick trail.

Donnet starts to move towards the cove, sword out of the scabbard as he walks, attentive eyes scan the area for any signal of the enemy. This young man is ready to engage anyone in his vicinity.

“Throwing me to the wolves, eh, Ser Josmyn?” Ser Dermett laughs, before turning and nodding in agreement with the nearby serjeant. But then there is a commotion above and the Corbray heir’s hand slips instinctively to his blade. “Right, let us make them bleed,” he growls, eyeing all about for a Cracklaw foe to make an appearance. He limps and skips around the entrance of the cove, looking ready to follow Ser Josmyn’s idea.

And then the foe make their appearance, a number of them almost falling into their traps. “Fuck, let us just hit the bastards,” Ser Dermett barks, launching himself down the hill towards a young looking lad with a spear, his cruel iron blade swinging hard at the man’s collarbone.

Dermett attacks Olin with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Little Pyp charges fast behind his Commander, Ser Jan. As the knight of Marbrand and Ammon Blackhand clash—he continues to charge, swinging at any foeman who pass him. Then he catches sght of the boy leaning heavily upon his spear. Pyp swings his flanged tourney mace at the youth in an effort to knock him into the dirt

Pyp attacks Randyl with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Josmyn laughs a little nervously at Dermett’s suggestion and nods in agreement. “Yea, let’s!”, he calls out and draws his sword out quickly to hurry after the Corbray, attacking whoever has the misfortune to be in his path. Which happens to be the lad called Jory.

Josmyn attacks Jory with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Robb’s attempt at a charge is paused by the sudden clip of an arrow against his arm, which cuts a neat divet into the protective leather there. “Auugghh.” He groans as he looks about the trees for his assailant, still for a long moment before regaining his composure and jogging after the other Crackclaw men on the bluff to offer them support.

A quick step back and a lean more agile than his years would suggest him capable of takes Lennos out of the path of Cleyton’s sword- and just in time, for it just barely clears the chainmail over his ribs. He clenches his teeth and heaves his own blade back at Cleyton, aiming for the shoulder of his shield arm.

Lennos attacks Cleyton with his spear…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Which connects with a sickening *THWAP*, much to young Olin’s detriment. The lad cries out in pain and takes a wheeling step back, a hand flying to his collarbone. Forgetting what scant training he has, he strikes out blind and wild with his spear.

Olin attacks Dermett with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

The lad’s wild blow scrapes swiftly across Ser Dermett’s exposed cheek, a slender scar marking itself upon his face. Blood creeps out and dribbles down to his chin. Ser Dermett merely laughs at this, gripping his shield tighter, before feinting forward and unleashing another heavy swing aimed at Olin’s wounded collarbone.

Dermett attacks Olin with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Olin is rocked back in the saddle by Dermett’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

To see the elder man bearing down on him is apparently the last thing young Randyl expected. Strange, that, being in a fight and all! The mace crashes down upon him, and is nearly his undoing, but he recovers. In a panic, he stabs out wildly with his spear!

Randyl attacks Pyp with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

Arrows hiss through the air as Jan lands his first blow, then nimbly sidesteps Massey’s counter. “Beware the ships, lads! They should be landing at some point!” But he has no chance to look behind and check their progress. “Have to get this over quickly, then,” Jan says, bringing his sword back to Ammon’s side, now exposed after his previous blow

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Marc is less fortunate, and Bors strikes him in the shoulder. Marc yelps and slips himself, which, fortuitously, sends him tumbling into Bors, almost resembling a purposeful attempt at tackling the Cracklaw lad.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

That connects again, just as hard as the first. Olin drops his spear, nearly falling; but he recovers, barely, kneeling swiftly to take up his fallen weapon and striking out at the Corbray with an upswing with his rising.

Olin attacks Dermett with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Ryckon follows behind his cousins Dermett and Josmyn and charges past the barricades at the approaching Crackclaw force. He swings his mace wide, fast, and hard at the first Crackclaw man he comes across, Donnet.

Ryckon attacks Donnet with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Cleyton’s just barely misses his foe, and he’s too slow on his recovery from the swing. The Crackclaw man’s sword strikes true upon Cleyton’s left shoulder drawing a loud grunt from the young knight. His retaliation comes quickly though, a feint to the head and then a downward strike to the sword arm.

Cleyton attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Jory follows his companions into the melee, though their formation doesn not last long. He is quite surprised when Ser Josmyn Reyne appears, swinging his weapon. The Crackclaw man is struck quite soundly in the ribs. “Ow! You are a right bastard, you are!” Jory complains, and though his return blow is likely slowed, he swings at Josmyn’s shoulder nonetheless.

Jory attacks Josmyn with his spear…
...and sees his blow go wild!

Seeing his commander hit with a truly hard blow, Robb picks up speed and heads for him. “Ser! Coming ser!” Surprise attacks have clearly not yet been part of his training, but he is there all the same, running up to Jan’s side and cleaving a plain mace toward the Marbrand’s hip.

Robb attacks Jan with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

The boy’s reply elicits a grunt from the aged serjeant, but Little Pyp’s does not relent. He raises his mace and swings down upon the boy’s helm making as if to ring it. “You are green as summer grass, lad! Welcome to the Stranger’s land!” The blow is swift, despite Pyp’s age and hard as a mason’s hammer strike.

Pyp attacks Randyl with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Randyl is driven from the saddle!

“Running somewhere?” Orson whispers as he notches the arrow and draws, aiming at the green knight once again. He feels like he’s chasing down a hare before killing it on just another hunt of his. He sees the young knight looking for him, but Orson smiles as he aims down the sight. Robb starts to jog, his armor slowing him down to his full speed. Orson aims down the arrow and takes slow, languid breaths. Just like the practice ring, he looses the arrow, watching it sail at what he hopes is Robb.

Orson attacks Robb with his bow…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Josmyn laughs into the face of the complaining youngster and manages to sidestep the attack on him. “You gotta do better than that, kid!”, he jeeres and steps around the trap to get a better chance for a frontal attack on Jory, swinging his sword to hit him in the side and ideally knock him over into the trap.

Josmyn attacks Jory with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Olin’s rising strike jabs Ser Dermett swiftly across the jaw, another bit of his face unprotected bit of flesh. Another bloody cut and the Corbray heir is eyeing his foe irritably. He feints once more and swings his thick iron blade hard at the lad’s cheek.

Dermett attacks Olin with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Olin is driven from the saddle!

Grizzled veteran or not, Cleyton’s blow earns a squealing grunt from Lennos as the man struggles to hang on to his sword. He almost drops to a knee out of the pain- but clearly he has been in such a position before, and simply dips to a lower stance that allows him to spring up from the knee and slam the hilt of his sword toward Cleyton’s chin.

Lennos attacks Cleyton with his spear…
...and misses by a narrow margin!

And Jan strikes again! Ammon lets his breath out in a grunt. Two precise strikes upon his ribs. The Blackhand lunges out with his shield, attempting to force Jan back and give himself some space.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Jan’s shield.

Bors lets out a cry as Marc hits him, and the two tumble together into the dirt—but Bors is no stranger to brawls. He brings his closed fist hurtling towards Marc’s forehead, the pommel of his sword aimed at the boy’s temple.

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

And Randyl? If he was surprised to be attacked by Pyp, he is doubly so to have his bell rung! With a great CLANG, the boy’s eyes roll up into his head, and he crumples to the dirt.

Donnet is caught by Ryckon, receiving a good blow on his upper back as he moves to get the man into his reach. The Cracklaw man attempts to slash the Westerling knight in a diagonal blow, starting from his left shoulder.

Donnet attacks Ryckon with his mass weapon…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

In the wild chaos of the melee, Donnet and Ryckon are carried apart from one another.

Jory is struck again, though he gives a little ground. “They said we weren’t trying to kill each other.” the lad complains again. Still, he tries to defend himself, swinging again at the Reyne knight’s right knee.

Jory attacks Josmyn with his spear…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

The full force of the strike catches Olin in his unprotected skull, and with the dull collision of steel and slesh his eyes glaze over and - after a stumbling step forward- he slumps bonelessly on the ground, his spear rolling ignobly away.

Ouch. Josmyn hops a little when he is suddenly hit in the knee like that. “Yea, well, don’t kill my knee, jackass!”, he hisses and needs a second before the red mist of pain is gone and he can attack again, swinging his sword with a load roar at Jory’s left shoulder.

Josmyn attacks Jory with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Jory is driven from the saddle!

Ryckon is not so far into Donnet’s reach that he cannot quickly leave it again. He takes a step back from the Crackclaw man and avoids his blow, and then charges forward once again with a swing at the center of his chest.

Ryckon attacks Donnet with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Donnet is driven from the saddle!

Cleyton’s blow strikes true on the opposing man’s sword arm. Lennos tries to slam him in the chin, but Cleyton manages to move out of the way just in time. Pressing his attack he swings low, trying to catch his opponent in the knee and make him lose his footing.

Cleyton attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

As his foe falls to the floor, Ser Dermett smirks, kicking a pile of dirt and sand and rocks after the lifeless lad in a show of utter contempt. “Be CRUEL, men; they want to take our fucking GOLD!” Clearly caught up in the theme of the contest, the heir to Heart’s Home gazes around him, eager to find a new opponent.

Donnet didn’t seem to expect that, Ryckon blow easily makes the man lose his balance and fall to the ground. He winces in pain as he touches the area damaged by the mace.

Jory stares dumbfounded a moment as he managed to strike such a fine blow on a fine knight. Unfortunately, in that moment Ser Josmyn responds with his own fine attack and Jory doesn’t defend himself. He is struck hard in the shoulder and pushed back into the trap the Reyne knight had intended to shepherd him into anyway. Jory falls in, and is still.

Little Pyp actually wnces when his blow rings the boy’s helm—he shakes his head “Get up, and perchance you will be a man, someday.” The aged serjeant looks about the field and spares Ser Ryck’s gallant son a grin as the man sends another of Ser Ammon Blackhand’s men sprawlng. His gray eyes cut across the cove looking for a man to smash with his mace. “Fight me!”

Lennos does loose his footing and actually drop to a knee this time, but again he tries to use the bend to his advantage even as his winces in pain. He swings from below and to the side at Cleyton’s knee in return- an eye for an eye, so it seems.

Lennos attacks Cleyton with his spear…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Cleyton is rocked back in the saddle by Lennos’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Jan absorbs a blow from Robb and, with gritted teeth, meets Ammon’s shield with his own. His longer reach allows him to make contact closer to Massey’s body than his own, and he hopes that that surprise leaves Ammon open to a swing of the sword with his other helm, at Ammon’s helm.

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

As for Marc, the two boys tumble in the dirt, and Bors strikes him the temple. Marc lets out another high-pitched yelp, and yanks on Bors’s hair, kneeing him in the stomach for good measure.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

“Fucking hells!” Robb shrieks as another arrow clips him. “I’m going to get that fucker.” But there is another he must clear from the way first, and Jan takes the brunt of the boy’s rage as he turns and swings like he’s wielding and anvil toward the back of the man’s thigh- and fortunate, too, as his commander seems locked in a hopeless struggle with the man.

Robb attacks Jan with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

“Sounds like they could use a hand up there,” Ser Dermett says, waving a hand above at the bluffs. “Serjeant, Ser Josmyn; remain here and secure the cove. Ser Ryckon and I shall climb to help the others.”

That said, Ser Dermett turns to begin a laboured ascent.

Josmyn frowns as the Corbray suddenly thinks he can take charge. “Seven Hells, Corbray, I’m not staying here like a coward!”, he barks and glares at the other man, following him and Ryckon up the rock, “Nobody here to steal anything anyway…”

But the Blackhand has settled into the fight now, the first few blows exchanged. He brings his blade up, deftly parries Jan’s, and reverses into a punch at Jan’s own helm.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Jan is driven from the saddle!

Bors is a slippery one! The hair pull hurts him for sure, how not when a tuft is left dangling from Marc’s fist, but he rolls aside from the knee. He brings his spear down towards his foe as if it were a club.

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…

...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Pyp looks up the hill and catches sight of Ser Cleyton Waxley smashing at another aged veteran, the Master-at-Arms, Ser Lennos. When the Bestan’s heir voices his command, The serjeant lifts his flanged tourney mace in a salute and takes up a defensive position with a handful of the men of the Kingswood. Pyp peers across the cove to the battle ocurring upon the decks of the Eye of the Storm. “We will be in for a fight if Brynden’s men best the Ironborn.”

Ryckon nods back at Pyp distractedly as he makes sure that Donnet is down, and blinks as he hears Dermett’s orders. “Shall we? I suppose so.” And so he follows Dermett up the hill to the rest of the men without bothering to look back at their previous position, which Josmyn is surely defending as per his orders.

With strange dexterity of a boy far younger than four and thirty, Orson jumps from one branch to a tree adjacent to it, and turns to see the green knight attack Ser Jan. Quietly he notches another arrow and he draws, seeing the green boy in full. “If you don’t go down from this, you’re getting a drink from me.” Orson whispers as he draws a bit tighter than usual and loosens the arrow.

Orson attacks Robb with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Cleyton’s blow drops his opponent to his knee, but he pushes in too eagerly this time and catches a blow to his own leg which brings him down to one knee as well with a sharp pained exclamation. He jams his shield into the other man’s face and swings his sword hard to his ribs.

Cleyton attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

“There’s fucking ships over yonder,” Ser Dermett grumbles as the Reyne knight opts to follow him. “If they land and take our gold, I’ll have your balls.” His tone is entirely playful as he climbs, eager for a fight.

Josmyn rolls his eyes at Dermett. “By the time the ships reached the shore, we’ll be down again easily. If you’re so worried about the gold, go and fucking guard it yourself, Corbray.”, he grunts as he climbs up the last bluff and tries to get an idea of what’s going on.
Elmer has connected.

“You! Fuck!” Another arrow drives Robb to fury, and this time there is no man between him and the archer menacing him. He marches toward the tree Orson is lurking in. “Get down here and fight like a man!” And, unaware of the troops approaching from below, he slams his mace into the tree to try and shake down the archer. “Get! Down!”

Seeing his fellow Valeknight Ser Cleyton Waxley having some difficulty with a Cracklaw man-at-arms, Ser Dermett charges forth. He raises his crude iron high above his head and swings it down hard towards Lennos’ head with a sickening ferocity.

Dermett attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Ryckon scowls as he arrives on the bluffs to see Jan fall, but then his scowl turns to a grin as he spies the opponent to whom he fell, Jan’s Crackclaw counterpart, open and (hopefully) off guard. He weaves through the trees as quickly as his admittedly lacking agility will allow and then charges out at Ammon, swinging for his shoulder.

Ryckon attacks Ammon with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Jan, so single-mindedly engaged with Ammon, lets his attention slip from Robb, which turns to be a crucial mistake. Robb strikes him hard in the thigh, causing his legs to buckle - and at the same time, Ammon unleashes a punch to the temple. Together, they combine to send Jan crashing to the ground, his head hitting a rock for good measure. He doesn’t get up.

Marc’s head meets Bors’s spear, causing yet another yelp to emit from the lad. He shakes his head, punch-drunk, and tries to swing his sword right at Bors’s face.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Bors is driven from the saddle!

Josmyn sees one of the Crackclaw men trying to shake their archer from the tree and runs over to where Robb is standing, sword drawn. “Hey, fight like a man!”, he yells and tries to stab his side lightly to get the man’s attention.

Josmyn attacks Robb with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Two blows this time, one pressing into his shield, and one scarcely parried with his sword, but still Lennos refuses to yield. Some low rumble is heard from the sea-worn area of his mouth, hidden by the safety of a battered helm, and then the tactics of knights are dropped entirely. He pushes up firmly from the legs and drives his helm into Cleyton’s own, hard head to hard head.

Lennos attacks Cleyton with his spear…
...and misses by a narrow margin!

Bors is over-extended, and cannot hope to protect himself from Marc’s attack. The flat of Marc’s blade catches him in square, bending the nose guard in and sending a torrent of blood over his lips and chin. With a grunt, Bors crumbles.

Jan falls at Ammon’s feet, felled by the punch to his helm, and Bors does as well. Ammon turns to Marc, sword raised over that man as he kneels in the dirt—and is caught in the shoulder by the Westerling knight! The Blackhand stumbles backwards, spins and catches himself with his outstretched hand. He teeters precariously upon the brink of that slick bluff, but his strength is enough. Ammon Massey does not fall.

Yet.

But he does come at Ryckon savagely, shield in front in an effort to force the young knight back. Room to move is needed here, and desperately!

Ammon attacks Ryckon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

“Urrraahgghh!” Robb is taken unawares by the Reyne knight and receives a mild prod with a sword for his lack of attention to the field. But, they say, this is how the green knights are meant to learn. And the young man is quite angry. He turns and swings his mace wildly toward Josmyn’s shoulder with the roar of a man not firmly in his manhood yet.

Robb attacks Josmyn with his mass weapon…
...and has his blow intercepted by Josmyn’s shield.

Orson grins as he sees the young man get riled up. “You’ll burst your heart out, lad!” Orson replies as he jumps to the tree where he was at first, slings his bow across his back and sees another knight makes his way to the green knight. His blow was meant to distract the knight and that was all that Orson needs. He takes his bow out and takes a deep breath. In a fluid motion, he notches an arrow, draws on it and lets it fly towards the green knight’s back. Let’s see if that would shut him up.

Orson attacks Robb with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Robb is driven from the saddle!

The roar is probably more of a squeak and Josmyn easily blocks the blow with his shield. And then there’s Orson, striking him down. “Sorry, kid!”, he grins, “But that’s how you learn, right?”

Cleyton manages to land his blow, and now Ser Dermett comes to his assistance, the tide may be turning against the Crackclaw man Lennos. The older man thrusts forward with a headbut which Cleyton narrowly avoids but is driven back a bit. As he stumbles back Cleyton swings an underhand strike towards his opponent’s groin.

Cleyton attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Lennos is driven from the saddle!

Ryckon is unable to move quickly enough and so he takes the full force of Ammon’s shield, and he grunts as he is forced back. Ammon has the room he needs now but Ryckon attempts to regain it quickly, charging forward again at an angle and swinging at his side—he is not trying to knock him off the bluff, after all, just knock him down.

Ryckon attacks Ammon with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Ammon is driven from the saddle!

From atop the hill the men of the Kingswood rush to relieve their comrades. Pyp and the men-at-arms below beside the cove lift spears, maces, and blades and uproarous cheer rises from the baseborn huntsmen, men-a-arms, and serjeants of Ser Farin’s company. They shout their commanders name at the top of their lungs drowning out the groans of Blackhands fallen men “MARBRAND!!!” Other scream “KINGSWOOD!!!” and slam their weapons gainst their shields.

“Seven hells,” Ser Dermett grumbles, edging around the conflict as Ser Cleyton and Lennos continue to fight. He looks ready to pounce with a strike of his own before a strike to the heirmaker is enough to bring Lennos to a sudden stop. He laughs at this, shaking his head at Ser Cleyton, before turning to survey the field. The Blackhand is down and Ser Dermett raises a victorious sword in the air.

Finally, Robb is driven to the ground with a yelp, as the arrow actually does lodge in the back of his chain- painful enough, even if the point does not penetrate the leather underneath.

Lennos, too, is finally felled, as Cleyton utilizes the same brutal tactic Lennos had himself employed against Jan just a sevenday prior. He makes a noise that sounds rather like “HURK,” before he falls, clutching on to his manhood.

The young Westerling has a reputation, and it is well deserved! He strikes Ammon with enough force to knock him to a knee, even as Lennos falls nearby. “Fall back!” shouts the Blackhand, voice carrying over the din. “To the top of the bluff, fall back!” And the Crackclaw company does, slowly, grudgingly. But beaten.

Such ferocity! Every inch of ground is contested, every water-slicked foot of rock. But the Kingswood Company will not be moved, and their defensive strategy is working! They hold their ground, and push the Crackclaw men back up the bluffs. And a lull fals upon the field, for a few moments at least; the battle has broken apart.

Men on both sides stand panting, staring at each other across the void between them. Breath smokes on the cold air and, while these weapons are blunted, more than one groan cuts through the strange stillness.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

A horn’s clarion call, pure and clear in the morning sky. And again:

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

With the blasts, the Crackclaw men draw up into ranks. Ammon Blackhand is not a man prone to flowery words, or praise, or hope. It might be expected that his hoarse shout of “One more push, lads, and we’ll have them! One more push!” would fall flat.

There is a cheer from one man. And from another. And another. And soon the gathered men of the company are cheering. For upon the swirling waters of Blackwater Bay, the ships of the Iron Fleet have been repulsed, have turned their tails and begun their retreat. And even now the longboats are in the water, and oars pull hard for land. In moments, the Kingswood men will be caught between the Crackclaw pincers.

And so the last push of the Crackclaw Company begins with cheers.

Ryckon grins down at Ammon as he is knocked down and sent retreating with his company. As victory seems certain, he begins to shout, “KINGSWOOD-” but as the Sea Watch proves victorious and begins to approach the cove his shout turns into another one. “—fuck!” He rushes over to Jan to help him up, and hisses urgently, “The Sea Watch is coming, ser. Any commands?”

Perhaps it is the horn’s call, or perhaps it is the cheer of hiw own name as the Kingswood men drive their opponents back to the beach, where their reinforcements await. He places a hand to his helm and grimaces, blinking and looking around at his companions. “well done lads. No thanks to me,” he says with a sheepish grin. But before he can fully collect himself, the Sea Watch have begun their landing. And Ryckon is at his side, urging him to give commands. “Well, the ambush has been spring, the traps have been set. There’s no commands left to give but to fight. KINGSWOOD! One final stand, men! We’ve done it once before, we can do it again!”

Marc stands up and looks at Bors in surprise as his opponent is dispatched. Trembling, he sidles close to Jan, Ryckon, Cleyton, any older officer with more experience, and clutches his sword until his knuckles are white.

Ser Dermett roars at Ser Jan’s words with his sword once more pointed skywards. “Bragging rights for months to come; let us not disappoint Ser Farin. Marbrand! Kingswood!” Ser Dermett calls, charging eagerly back towards the cove, his limp all but disappeared… for the moment, anyway.

Josmyn is already looking rather pleased with himself, but his expression changes to giddy excitement when the Sea Watch lands. “Finally I can show Victor how well he trained me!”, he says and draws his sword. “He’s mine! VICTOR!”, he yells out, “I’m coming to get you!” And the younger Reyne charges after Dermett to get back to the cove and ready for the attack.

Orson grins when Robb fell, and he climbs down from the tree when Ammon fell as well. He slings his bow across his back and he joins in teh chants and it’s when he sees the Sea Watch victorious, he takes his sword out. He looks around to his fellow men and he heads to the side of Ser Dermett, seeing that his limp went away momentarily. Orson starts charging as well, eager to seal the victory!

Time for Theonald to get in action. The Locke knight moves on the cove, blunted sword ready to advance against any Kingswood men that might come across his path. The Northman wears a chain mail and a helm with nose protection.

Small Pyp looks across the bay at the Eye of the Storm. “They thrashed the Ironborn.” The serjeant spares the masts of Brynden Tully’s war galley a long hard stare and hefts his flanged tourney mace. A look to the Crackclaw men regrouping by the bluffs. He turns to another of the serjeants, a grizzled old veteren—perchance twenty years older than even the venerable Pyp. “Guard he beach, I’ll take a group of men and cover our flank ‘twixt the hill and the bluffs.” Pyp moves through the press of men-at-arms and huntsmen clapping men on the shoudler as he singles them out. When Ser Jan and the highborn atop the hill scream in battlecreies in response to the Crackclaw’s warhorns, the screams of the men upon the shores of the cove rise to meet the battlecries of their fellows above. Pyp takes a position between hill and bluffs with a half-dozen handpicked men.

His privy coinpurse may be swole and aching, but Lennos leans on his sword, and with a creak in his knee he rises again. The grizzled man joins in the hoarse cheer of the rest of Ammon’s men, shaking his head as if to clear it before anyone else comes to damage his soft parts.

Not far away, Robb is rising as well, even as Orson’s arrow remains lodged in the chainmail of his back. He clenches his mace, knuckles turning white as he takes in the state of the field. With a breath, he readies himself to fight again.

“Row, you lazy bastards! Row!” Brynden Tully bellows from the landing boat he has come along in, conspicuious in his colorful brigandine. Though he wouldn’t say such things to knights and men on land, it seems he’s a different person as a ship’s captain. He leaps off the boat and splashes across the remaining surf as a man drags their craft onto the beach.

“We did well against the Ironborn, let’s do the same now. Stay together, we’ll defeat them in detail.” Of course, that plan didn’t work out the best the last time… “Form up, wait for the others.” He grins at Victor Reyne. “Glad to have joined up, ser? More interesting than a tournament, eh? If less profitable.”

Far below, the longboats scrape against the beach, and some score and a half of fresh Crackclaw troops leap the sides—or not so fresh. They have been hotly engaged by the Ironborn and more than one man looks exhausted. At their head is Ser Eon Hunter, and he leads the men deeper into the cove and up the hill.

And above, the Blackhand leads his men forward once more, and it may be they are even more exhausted than those coming off the boats. But this will make an end to it.

One last push, for good or ill.

Cleyton slowly drags himself back up to his feet with a groan. After a brief pause to catch his breath he goes over to see to his cousin Jan. Looking out over the lines of Crackclaw men at the top of the bluff and then down to those getting off the boats he lets out a heavy sigh. “Coz, I’ll head down to hold off the men landing on the shore. Fight well, I think we may win this day.” And then he heads down the path towards the beach.

Ser Victor stands like a watchdog at the Tully’s side, just as brightly attired in a brigandine striped red-and-white, his longsword adorned with red-and-white silk streamers. The normally jovial Reyne knight looks almost somber, amid the salt and sea-spray. He leaps off and wades to shore, grinning fiercely and raising a fist in reply to his brother’s shout. “More than glad,” He says sideways to Brynden, “And significantly more interesting than a tourney.”

“Tully is mine!” Ser Dermett barks as the men charge. “I’m going to slap his ass all the way back to his pretty little ship!” The longer he moves the more laboured his gait becomes, for no amount of wine or medicine is going to completely mask the injury to his ankle. He thumps his sword upon his shield as he charges, creating a drumming that pounds, pounds, pounds off across the shore.

Seemingly one of the first into the fray, Ser Dermett happens upon Ser Brynden leading his men out from the boats. Beside him stands Ser Victor Reyne, though there is only one target in mind for the heir to Heart’s Home. He swings his cruel blade hard at Ser Brynden’s face.

Dermett attacks Brynden with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Ryckon nods determinedly at Jan’s words, and when he sees a man rise he charges in his direction instinctively. As he reaches Robb he swings his mace at the other young man’s stomach.

Ryckon attacks Robb with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

As the men of the Crackclaw company move to attack, Pyp lifts his flanged mace and charges toward them. “Kingswood!’ A ragged cheer passes through the narrow line of Kingswood men as they leave their position upon the flank and charge at Lennos and his fellows, the aged Serjeant swings at Lennos as he passes beside the man, aiming a wicked blow just above the man-at-arm’s groin.

Pyp attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Josmyn grins when he hears his brother’s call and he is quick to run after Dermett who has his heart and mind set on the Tully apparently. “Victor!”, he roars and takes his sword in both hands to try and strike his older brother down with a well-aimed hit against his left side.

Josmyn attacks Victor with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Robb takes the blow in the stomach with a yelp, the new Crackclaw man not ready to fight again so soon. “Fuck you!” he breathes through clenched teeth, cleaving his own mace from the side toward Ryckon’s knee.

Robb attacks Ryckon with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Victor takes the blow in his side with a small gasp; he was not quick enough. He dances back, to the left, feigns a blow; then right again, his true strike comes, a sword-blow aimed for his brother’s collarbone.

Victor attacks Josmyn with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Ryckon grunts as his knee is hit and nearly makes the mistake of bending over to clutch at it, but fortunately he is able to stop himself. The knee is painful, but not damaged. He scowls in return at Robb and responds, “Get the fuck over it, then,” before swinging at his thigh.

Ryckon attacks Robb with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

And with that, Jan charges forward with the rest of the Kingswood men, leading the way for those still at the top of the bluff. With a howl of a warcry and the unmistakeable glint of the rush of war, even a mock war, in his eye, he raises his sword, ready to bring it down on the first Cracklaw man he sees. As fate would have it - and seems to time and time again - it brings him face to face with Massey, and his sword comes down near Ammon’s shoulder.

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Unsure of what to do, the timid Marc shuffles right behind Jan, unleashing his own warcry, if much less intimidating. He, however, goes straight for an opponent he knows he can beat - the young lad on the other side, Bors. He lowers his helm and rams into Bors’s chest excitedly, as if forgetting he even held a weapon.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

“Seven hells, are you all desperate for cock?” Lennos groans as he takes yet another blow close to his trouser dragon. He wheels about and slams down at the passing man’s back, toward the low part just above Pyp’s hip where organs are easily battered.

Lennos attacks Pyp with his spear…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Josmyn was mostly trained by his older brother for who he squired, so not surprisingly, he does know Victor’s modus operandi quite well. He cannot dodge his older brother’s hit to his collarbone, but at least he can lessen the impact a little bit. Gritting his teeth, he lashes out again, this time aiming higher for his brother’s right shoulder to disarm him.

Josmyn attacks Victor with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Brynden is still trying to dress lines when the Kingswood men appear unexpectantly from nowhere. His goodbrother, of all people rushes through the lines unabated and turns just in time to meet Dermett’s training sword with his skull. Of course he has a helm, but the blow rings in the air nonetheless. The sudden shock drives the Tully knight to a knee, but his training kicks in, he swings automaticly in response at the Corbray’s legs - if he’s lucky it will be the bad ankle.

Brynden attacks Dermett with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Dermett is driven from the saddle!

It connects, and the force of the blow quivers Victor’s arm, deadening his fingers, and his sword begins to slip- one finger loosens, then two, then - no! He recovers it, with a grin, solidifying his grip on the weapon and swinging up and around, his sword whistling through the salt wind, aimed for Josmyn’s head.

Victor attacks Josmyn with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Josmyn is driven from the saddle!

Robb cries out and drops to a knee, clutching the bruised thigh with one hand. He grimaces and slams out a hand to punch Ryckon in the stomach, much like the alley-way tactics of the boys in King’s Landing, where surely he has tried this trick before.

Robb attacks Ryckon with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

The men at arms exchange blows with Lennos landing the better strike. Pyp groans and falls to one knee at the force of Lennos’s strike at his back. He falls forward and throws out one hand to catch himself. His hand slides out from under him, but he manages, albeit narrowly, to land upon his side. Pyp’s eyes look upon the boots of the Master-at-arms. He swings at the man’s ankles with a one handed blow of his mace.

Pyp attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Lennos’s shield.

Orson sees a knight, and recognizes him from the center square. He was a man faithful to The Seven, but it would still be someone that Orson has to deal with. Orson ‘s sword is brought back, as his arm is reared from behind him and with a large motion and momentum, Orson brings it downm and does a hacking motion aimed at Theonald’s collarbone.

Orson attacks Theonald with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Theonald’s shield.

Josmyn is still fluffed with pride about getting a good blow in against his brother and of course this is promptly punished. His brother’s strike against his head makes him see double briefly and he drops to his knees amid a string of expletives. “Seven Hells, bro!”

Ryckon is hit with more speed that he can avoid, but a punch to the stomach is not particularly intimidating for someone wearing armor. Painful, certainly, and he frowns at the impact, but not enough to stop him, and he swings at Robb’s shoulder.

Ryckon attacks Robb with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Robb is driven from the saddle!

A bolt of pain shoots through Ser Dermett’s body… a moment later he is face down in the surf, eyes scanning for the surface. Everything is dark and murky and the Corbray heir flails in his iron armour. Only after several awkward moments does the man rise from the sea, gasping for air. His shield has gone, yet white knuckles are still somehow wrapped around his iron sword. He retreats into a pocket of space, gasping, not wanting to meet the eye of any man until he has regained his composure.

Victor just smiles, saying nothing. “Better luck next time, /baby brother,” he says as he turns away, seeking for a new opponent, flexing his fingers. There; Ryckon Westerling, the young knight. He makes his way towards the man, stepping over fallen bodies as he goes.
The fates have indeed brought Marbrand and Massey together: in the Red Keep, on the fields of Pennytree, and thrice when the companies have faced each other—and this will make the fourth. The Blackhand laughs with excitement and joy! The thrill of battle is upon him. And he embraces it!

As Jan comes forward and swings, Ammon darts into the blow. He catches Jan’s forearm upon his shoulder, rather than the full weight of steel, and jabs towards Marbrand’s belly with the pommel of his own sword.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Jan’s shield.

Blood still stains the flesh beneath Bors’ broken nose, though it is drying grotesquely—but he sidesteps, and Marc’s lazy tackle misses. Bors sticks his foot out in an attempt to catch Marc’s, and brings his spear down upon him once more.

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Marc is rocked back in the saddle by Bors’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Josmyn staggers back to his feet, his hand still clutching his sword. “WAIT!”, he calls out after Victor, “I’m not done with you yet, Victor! Come back!”

Lennos may have put Pyp to the ground, but the man does not seem to be out of the fight yet. He quickly angles his own sword down to parry the man’s mace, and instead of putting blade toward the down man- which, perhaps, may be too ungentlemanly even for Lennos- he aims a swift kick of an armored foot toward the man’s stomach.

Lennos attacks Pyp with his spear…
...and has his blow intercepted by Pyp’s shield.

Making his way down the path, Cleyton reaches the beach to join the other Kingswood men defending it. He scans the attackers and his eyes fix on the man leading it, a friend of his, the bookish knight Ser Eon Hunter. He rushes towards the man and takes a swing to his ribs under the other man’s shield.

Cleyton attacks Eon with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

Victor almost doesn’t slow down, ignoring his brother…but then he turns, heaving an impatient sigh. “Fine, then,” He calls, returning to the scene of battle. “One more chance, Jos. Do better this time?” He suggests as he assumes a defensive stance.

Ryckon nods in satisfaction as his opponent falls and turns to fight Victor or to descend down to the cove… and he trips. “Fuck!” He begins to tumble down the hill, continuing to swear as he rolls. “Shit! Seven hells!” And finally he falls into one of the traps set by his very own team, and it does not seem that he will be emerging soon.

The plain, light armor Robb wears simply crumples under the force of Ryckon’s blow. This time, the young man is felled for good by the knight his own age, and he falls groaning into the side of a nearby tree, no longer able to like his mace.

Josmyn smirks at Victor. “Come on, brother, you have not walked away victorious yet!”, he says and brushes some wet hair from his face. There’s a short interruption when Ryckon makes a not too impressive roll down the hill suddenly, then he shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”, he decides and lifts his sword again, “Come on, Victor!” And without taking another breath, he swings his sword high, bringing it down on Victor’s shoulder if he can.

Josmyn attacks Victor with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

Eon closes with Cleyton quickly, and manages to bring his shield down just in time. The Hunter knight doesn’t catch Cleyton’s blade fully, but pushes it down and to the side. Instead of cracking him in the ribs, the blade merely scrapes against his hip. And Eon counters, bringing his blade around in a glistening arc. Water splashes as the men move about in the shallows.

Eon attacks Cleyton with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Cleyton is driven from the saddle!

Pyp parries, albeit barely, Lennos’s foot connects not with his stomach but with the serjeants iron bracers—and the man rolls onto his stomach. When, at last, he rises he is covered in brine and sand. “Time to bleed, boy.” As soon as Pyp is upon both feet he lurches into a bullrush swinging for Lennos as he charges—at the man’s midsection.

Pyp attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and misses by a narrow margin!

Fully aware that, by now, Ammon is a formidable opponent, Jan is prepared should his opening gambit fail; he maneuvers his shield below, meeting Ammon’s sword and thrusting it to the side. Hoping his opponent is off-balance, he raises the shield a few inches and bashes it against Ammon’s face.

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Marc flails widly at Bors, and even more wildly when Bors merely steps aside and sends his spear against the back of his head. Really, he should fall - but instead, he runs straight into a tree which, though painful, keeps him on his feet. He quickly turns and charges at Bors once more; this time, he remembers to use his sword, slashing at his opponent’s shield shoulder.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...and misses by a narrow margin!

Theonald quickly raise his left arm to block the incoming blow. The Locke knight takes a step foward and intends to swing his blunted sword at the ribs of Orson, a smile on his face as he moves.

Theonald attacks Orson with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

“Boy?” Lennos scoffs as sidesteps Pyp’s rush with more agility than one would expect of someone his age. “Going blind, are you?” He asks as he steps around and takes a swing square at Pyp’s ass with the flat of his blade, left undefended by the other man’s failed charge.

Lennos attacks Pyp with his spear…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Dermett down, Brynden turns to see who else might need hitting. Nearby, Victor Reyne has dropped his brother but turns back to fight again. So, with no other targets, Brynden moves to possibly assist his new second. “Hit him, Ser Victor!” he says to encourage the other man. He finds himself close enough, so he swings his sword at the younger Reyne as well - the back of his knee.

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Easing to his feet, Ser Dermett sees Ser Cleyton fall to his sister’s new friend Ser Eon across the field. Opting against a rematch with the Tully knight so soon after his recent fall, Ser Dermett wades through the shallows up to where the future Lord Hunter stands.

“Hunter,” he growls, respecting the man enough to give him warning of his approach. Nothing more is said; Ser Dermett feints, then swings his blade hard at the man’s head.

Dermett attacks Eon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

What’s with everyoen going for his knees today? At least Josmyn can see the Tully coming out of the corner of his eye and the man’s blow doesn’t make much of an impact. Swinging around, he uses his own momentum to lay into Brynden’s side with his sword to throw him over.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Brynden is rocked back in the saddle by Josmyn’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

The pain is sharp, felt through his ribs as he falls to his knee. The sword took the most of the attack, but it still rang true as Orson grits his teeth. “Good blow, Ser.” Orson replies as he stands back up, his breath starting to get ragged and he brings his sword in as side motion towards Ser Theonald’s ribs, to repay Ser Theonald in kind.

Orson attacks Theonald with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Cleyton’s blow is mostly deflected by Eon’s shield. And Eon’s return blow catches him full in the chest before he can move his own shield into place. He grunts and falls into the shallow water. He’s able to get his head up above the water, he won’t drown today. But for now he’s still down.

Perchance he is going blind—Pyp does not see the movement of Lennos’s foot in preperation for his his sidestep. He realizes a retort is coming but too late to turn, pivot, or parry. When Lennos strikes his arse, the serjeant goes down falling to his knees his cheeks throbbing with the force of the blow. He roars “Arrrrgh!” A bellicose cry more fit for a beast than a man. Once more, the serjeant swings for Lennos’s legs in a one handed strike intent on taking him from off his feet with the long stave of his mace.

Pyp attacks Lennos with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Lennos is driven from the saddle!

Ammon’s sword is blocked, forced wide, and he luckily ducks his face away to take the brunt of Jan’s shield upon the helm. A near thing, else his nose surely would have broken—but not the best thing, perhaps. Ammon is rocked backwards, shakes his head to clear it, but comes on again with a backhand slash to Jan’s collarbone.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Bors steps aside again! And if the trip worked once, might it work a second time? But there is no way to know—Bors jabs the blunted edge of his spear towards Marc’s gut as he passes.

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Eon looks up from the fallen Cleyton as his name is spoken. Such a quick attack from the Corbray, and Eon falls for the feint! He raises his sword to block a blow that never comes, taking the full force of Dermett’s strong right arm upon his temple. He, like his comrade on the bluff, is rocked. Eon splashes into the shallow water, catches his balance on the slick, sharp rockes, and lunges towards the heir to Heart’s Home with a quick slash to the ribs.

Eon attacks Dermett with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Marc is driven from the saddle!

“Nice try, brother,” Victor allows as Josmyn’s blow proves innefectual, “But not nice enough.” He steps to the side and strikes, aiming, again, for Josmyn’s head.

Victor attacks Josmyn with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Theonald grumbles as the blow reaches him, “You are quite strong, no surprise for a Baratheon.” He says with a smirk, moving to strike the man on his left side.

Theonald attacks Orson with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

“Not my head again!”, Josmyn growls at Victor as he turns back from Brynden Tully to his own brother, realizing suddenly, he’s stuck with two of the realm’s great warriors. Ah well, the bigger the glory later. Or so he thinks, as he lashes out at Victor, going for his sword arm to try and disarm his brother.

Josmyn attacks Victor with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Victor is driven from the saddle!

Brynden catches Josmyn’s strike on his shield but the angle is such that the trainign sword slides across and scores a hit on his ribs nonetheless. The Tully knight gasps a moment, but the pain isn’t enough to stop him. Back to the attack - Victor attacks high, Brynden attacks low, again.

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Josmyn is driven from the saddle!

Orson takes a step back, and as he places his feet down, there’s that pain in his ribs. “We’re hardy men, I’ll grant you. Especially when we’re mad. Ours is the fury. And let me tell you, this got me a bit mad.” Orson takes a step forward and he returns the favor with an attack towards Ser Theonald’s left side.

Orson attacks Theonald with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

With no plate protecting his ribs, Ser Eon’s powerful blow leaves more than a mark on the Corbray heir. He winces as Ser Eon’s strike hits hard and true at his ribs but he does not hesitate. When Ser Eon retreats from his own blow, Ser Dermett lunges forward, the tip of his blunted blade aimed at Ser Eon’s face.

Dermett attacks Eon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

This time, Pyp’s try is a success, and Lennos’s legs fly out from under him. The worn, older man drives an armor-sized divet into the dirt, landing soundly enough to ensure that for today, his fight is over.

Josmyn cheers when he brings his brother down, though he quickly adds “Now we’re even, brother!”, to Victor. And of course talking is wrong in the middle of a heated battle, for he gets whacked by Brynden again and he stumbles, finally falling down to the ground with a grunt. “Fuck it to all seven hells and back!”, he curses.

This time, it worked; Victor’s sword slips from deadened fingers. His eyes widen; he gasps; clearly, he wasn’t expecting this. “I yield!” He declares, raising his hands in supplication- only for Josmyn to be felled by Ser Brynden. “I suppose we /are/ even now, brother,” He allows, taking a seat on the ground beside his brother, whistling a merry little tune.

Jan spins away from Ammon’s sword, such that it only glances his collarbone. It smarts, but not enough to deter Jan from pressing onwards. The spin finds himself at Ammon’s side, and this time, it’s his turn to drive the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s side - the same side he favored in their first meeting of the day.

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Ammon is rocked back in the saddle by Jan’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Marc is eager, but too eager, and the same trick works again, to more disastrous effect this time. He flails forward again, but Bors’s spear knocks all the breath out of him, sending him to the ground. He tumbles for several feet and desperately tries to regain his breath.

Slowly Ser Cleyton Waxley brings himself back to his feet, his armor dripping with water. His former foe now engaged by Ser Dermett, he scans about the beach for a new one as he catches his breath.

Slowly, the serjeant of Ser Farin’s company rises from the brine and sand. His arse still feels as though it is aflame—as though he’d had wildfire for breakfast. All about him, he fellows smash at Ser Ammon’s men with tourney spears and tourney blades. He looks about for another foe then lurches toward the sand at cove’s edge.

Theonald smirks and pants as the sword find his body precisely, “You have been lucky, that’s all.” He says, starting to move for another blow, this time a thrust on the man guts.

Theonald attacks Orson with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Orson’s shield.

The two Reynes down before him, Brynden looks them over a moment, they’re both still moving. “Longaxe will be so disappointed.” he mutters, then turns to move through the last of the water onto the beach to look for another opponent.

Orson brings up his sword to block the strike. He can still feel the sting on his ribs “Let’s see then.” Ser Orson replies as he takes a swing at Ser Theonald’s face. The sword, being blunted, will merely knock out the knight should it ring true.

Orson attacks Theonald with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Theonald is driven from the saddle!

Eon jerks his head back and to the side just in time; Dermett’s blunted blade scrapes across the side of his helm. He is spared any lasting damage, and moves forward to attack again, and swiftly. His blade comes low-to-high, aimed for Dermett’s exposed armpit.

Eon attacks Dermett with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!

This time, there /is/ a gasp of pain from Ammon as all Jan’s force hits him in the same spot, on the same rib, once again. Perhaps there is a slight cracking sound, perhaps not, but the Blackhand is quick to drop his right elbow down to protect that side. “Fucker!” shouts the knight not known for speaking during battle. His backhanded swing toward’s Jan’s neck is likely less powerful than normal as he attempts to protect his battered ribs.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

This will hurt when he wakes up, but for now Theonald falls to the ground in an uncouncious state. A small bruise can be seen under the Northman’s helmet.

Ser Eon’s strike does indeed catch Ser Dermett in the armpit; it is swift and true, but not nearly powerful enough. A moment of inspiration strikes the Corbray heir; using a combination of his great dexterity and strength, he catches Ser Eon’s blade in his armpit, the steel clutched tight by the chain links of Ser Dermett’s armour. Then he lunges forth, his own ironclad head aimed square at Ser Eon’s face.

Dermett attacks Eon with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

In the wild chaos of the melee, Dermett and Eon are carried apart from one another.
Corbray’s inspiration is frightening indeed! But the notary is both book -and- street-smart. His sword is well and truly caught, and a headbutt is coming! But Eon’s shield drives forward at Dermett’s own nose!

Eon attacks Dermett with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Dermett’s shield.

Jan doesn’t react to Ammon’s expletive, but he does react to the one he gives with his sword, wincing and dropping his sword to the ground. “Oh, fuck,” he says, echoing Ammon. There is a brief moment of panic as he stands there without a weapon. But weapon or no, he knows Ammon’s weakness. He feints a punch to the Cracklaw commander’s overprotected ribs, but his true attack is to bring his shield back up to Ammon’s face, again.

Jan attacks Ammon with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

Gasping for air, Marc does make it to his feet, albeit slowly, awkwardly. His overly large helm is skewed to the side, and he takes a few steps before realizing it and reaching up and straightening it. Being able to see now, he clutches his sword with both hands and looks for someone to fight.

From a windswept outcropping of a bluff—dotted with patches of lichen and gull shit—a little distance from the whirling din of the fight, a man watches, seated on a rock worn smooth by time. Arms crossed on his breast, clad all in black, he is still as if carved from stone himself, save for dark hair stirred by the wind. Nearby, a horse is tethered to a stunted, bare-branched tree.

In what is swiftly becoming more of a brawl than a duel, Ser Dermett catches Ser Eon’s shield strike hard across his own shield arm; for, of course, the Corbray heir lost his own shield after falling to Ser Brynden. The man takes a few paces back, holding his sword out in defence. Once a good footing has been found he lunges forth and swings down hard at Ser Eon’s collarbone.

Dermett attacks Eon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Eon is driven from the saddle!

Scanning the beach for a new opponent, Cleyton finds the captain of the Eye of the Storm and charges him. “Tully!” He shouts to give the man a warning about his coming attack. And then his blade flashes out, in an upward swing into the Tully knight’s armpit.

Cleyton attacks Brynden with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

Pyp moves about the shoals sore and bruised from his battle with Lennos as Ser Eon falls to Ser Dermett a cheer rises from the ranks of bruised and bloodied Kingswood men. “Cobray! Kingswood.” Then the eyes of the squire beside him turn to the stone bluffs. A knight in black looks on at the melee. Pyp looks toward the bluff and the Ironman. “He can’t be pleased. We will have them, soon.”

Ammon has begun to chuckle. It is an eerie sound, echoing from the depths of his helm, soft, and faint—but growing in volume and intensity. Still soft, mind, but growing. He sees Jan’s shield coming, the eyeslits show /that/ at least—and he steps into it! He catches it upon both forearms, leaving his battered ribs exposed for just a moment, turns it aside, and aims a backward’s elbow at Jan’s temple.

Ammon attacks Jan with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

Seeing his foe rising to his feet, the bloodied and battered Bors moves slowly around him. He does not give Marc much time to ready himself—he was trained by the Blackhand, after all—and aims a kick at the lad’s knee.

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Eon’s own footing is made worse by the slick rocks in these shallow waters. Nevermind the waves, striking him about the knees. So it is no surprise that he tumbles into the surf as Dermett connects with his collarbone.

Ser Dermett giggles as his blow seems to do the trick. He paces away slowly from Ser Eon, sword held outstretched at pointed at the Hunter knight, a smirk crossing Ser Dermett’s salty lips. A jape seems to come to mind, his mouth agape and ready to utter it, though at the last he changes his mind. He turns to seek out a fresh foe.

Brynden is finally out of the water and on to (semi) dry land as Cleyton fins his way out of the melee and charges him. Luckily, the Tully captain is quick, he sidesteps and that takes most of the force from the other knight’s blow. He is immediately launching his own attack - Cleyton’s shoulder on the sword side is his target.

Brynden attacks Cleyton with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Orson watches the knight fall onto the ground, and he takes a deep breath. “Sorry about that, Ser. Should have lifted more carts in your time.” Orson turns around and sees a familiar figure. He remembers the dagger. He remembers his words as he yielded. Orson takes a deep breath and he starts walking towards him. “Ammon!” Ser Orson calls out as he remembers the dagger. Ser Jan was hurt. Lady Elrone was sad. But the dagger to his throat was the freshest thought of them all. His ribs could withstand another battle. He was a Baratheon. He was a stag! Getting closer to Ammon, he brings his sword sideways at Ser Ammon’s ribs.

Orson attacks Ammon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Ammon is driven from the saddle!

Instinctively, Jan whips his head backwards, ducking the elbow which manages only to graze his helm. It is enough to knock Jan’s head to the side - where his eyes lay to rest on Ammon’s now-exposed side. He goes with the only logical option - another pommel to Ammon’s ribs. But Orson beats him to it, hitting the same spot just moments before. He looks up in surprise and shouts with some anger, “Ser Orson! He was mine!” before collecting himself. “I mean, well done! Onto the next!” he shouts, looking for a free opponent.

“Hey!” Marc cries, and he draws up his leg, hopping around on the other. “Don’t do that!” he shouts, and when he finally feels comfortable enough to place his other foot on the ground, he swings his sword at Bors, and opts to return the favor, aiming for /his/ knees.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

Cleyton’s strike proves mostly fruitless but Brynden’s counter strikes true on the Waxley knight’s right shoulder. He grunts with pain and almost loses hold of his sword. He barely manages to keep it however. To regain the initiative he charges forward to slam Brynden with his shield while aiming his sword for the Tully’s leg.

Cleyton attacks Brynden with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Brynden is rocked back in the saddle by Cleyton’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

“Sorry about that.” Ser Orson grits his teeth as he takes a deep breath. “Can’t get the thought about the fact I yielded to him.” Orson admits as he takes a deep breath, but his knuckles are white, holding the sword’s hilt tightly. He looks around the field and tries to look for a fresh opponent as well.

Wading through the shallows, Ser Dermett heads back in the direction of the ‘Eye of the Storm’, in case Ser Cleyton is unsuccessful in his duel with Ser Brynden. His hand clenches tight across the grip of his blade while the rest of his body shivers, fighting against the cold.

In the chaos of the battle, men fighting all around, grunting all around, screaming all around, it is an easy thing to miss a man slipping unnoticed through the crowd. So it is with Orson—but Ammon looks up at the call of his name, brings his blade up to parry—but that exposes his ribs once more. And this time there is no mistaking the breaking of bones.

Ammon crumbles to the ground, still chuckling. He is still a moment as he catches his breath, mutters “Still alive.”

Bors has come a long way during these past few exercises, and Marc’s attack is telegraphed. Bors catches it upon his spear, and flicks the haft upwards towards Marc’s chin as if it was a quarterstaff.

Bors attacks Marc with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

Brynden hits the Waxley, but perhaps the jarring also makes him feel Dermett’s helm-hit earlier? The Tully knight shakes her head a bit, distracted as Cleyton slams into his own shield, pinning it to Brynden’s chest while a blow from the other man’s training sword strikes him below the knee, almost buckling the leg. “Arrgh!” He shoves back with his shield, looking for a bit of space to use his speed. He lashes out with his own weapon at the same time, meaning to hit his foe in the same shoulder as before.

Brynden attacks Cleyton with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Orson notices that Bors and Marc are evenly matches, but it might as well be a matter of time. Orson runs over to the two. “You!” Orson yells out as he swings his sword at Bors’ head. THough the sword being blunted, there’s no certain chance of death, merely getting knocked out. That’s what Orson hopes, after all.

Orson attacks Bors with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

As the battle rages and men of the Crackclaw company fall the Serjeant Pyp moves to ascend the hill, intent on bringing an end to the small Crackclaw force holding out against the Kingswood Company.

Cleyton’s attack is mostly successful, although he doesn’t cause Brynden to fall as he hoped. But then comes Brynden’s counter attack and he lands another solid hit on the same should he had hit earlier. “Gah!” Cleyton cries out in pain as he loses hold of his blunt sword and it splashes into the water. He swings his shield at his opponent’s head in an attempt to knock him back so he can recover his sword.

Cleyton attacks Brynden with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

Jan rushes to the edge of the bluff to oversee the rest of the battle. Far below, he sees his cousin engaged with Brynden, and cups his hands around his mouth. “Finish him, cousin! KINGSWOOD! We’ve almost done it! Don’t drop your guard for a second and let’s finish this!” With that, he zeroes in on another Cracklaw on top of the bluff: Bors, engaged with Orson and Marc. As the man is distracted by the other two, he steps behind him and brings the pommel of his sword down on his head.

Jan attacks Bors with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Marc slips again, and this time it’s a lucky one, as he whirls away from Bors’s spear. He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of a more experienced, skilled men by his side, and jabs a sword into Bors’s stomach just as Jan attacks from behind.

Marc attacks Bors with his mass weapon…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!

Space is made between the two warriors, then Brynden’s opponent loses his weapon. The Tully knight ducks Cleyton’s shield and then lunges - meaning to thrust his sword in his foe’s ribs when space opens. “Just go down!” he shouts.

Brynden attacks Cleyton with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Cleyton is rocked back in the saddle by Brynden’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Bors finds himself in a bad place: his comrades have been pushed back, his commanding officer felled, and he stands betwixt a triangle of armed, angry, scabby men. But there is only one thing for it, when the weapons are blunted and dull. He attacks! Lunging at Jan and aiming a stab of his spear to Marbrand’s face.

Bors attacks Jan with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Jan is rocked back in the saddle by Bors’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
Cleyton’s shield misses but he does open some room between the two men, he reaches into the water and fumbles about for his sword. Luckily he manages to grab hold of it and stands back up just in time to receive a thrust to the ribs. Still he manages to stay up and return with a high strike towards the other man’s helm.

Cleyton attacks Brynden with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Brynden is driven from the saddle!

Orson sees the knight strike at Orson, watching him strike at Ser Jan. He keeps his space and once again, as Bors lunges towards Ser Jan, Orson brings up his sword and aims towards the back of Bors’ head. “Go down already!”

Orson attacks Bors with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Jan lurches backward as Bors’s spear finds the face of his helm, knocking it askew and nearly sending him to the ground. He reaches up to readjust it, scowls, and this time brings the blunted blade of his sword, not the pommel, at the man’s head.

Encouraged by his companions, Marc lets out a joyful warcry of his own and charges for another go - but slips yet again on a stone, crashing into a nearby tree. From the ground, he looks up woozily to see how the rest of the fight with Bors progresses.

Jan attacks Bors with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Bors is rocked back in the saddle by Jan’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
Bors is in a bad way, worse than before, worse than ever in his young life most likely. Bloody, battered, bruised, and barely able to stand. But he has some little strength left, some small measure. Jan’s strike takes him in the head, forces him to his knees. He stabs out one final time with his spear, desperate.

Bors attacks Jan with his sword…
...and misses by a narrow margin!

Orson sees his chance as the young knight moves to attack Ser Jan. “Oh, seven hells!” Orson says as his strike, which he hopes true, aims at Bors’ head. He just hopes that this is the last strike of the battle.

Brynden’s poor head has been a target for the whole day - smashing it on the deck when an Ironborn lept on his shield and bore him down to the deck earlier, Dermett’s blow, and two from Cleyton… the last being more than his bidy can bear. The strike smites him heavily, sending him sprawling. When he falls finally, he is still - helm dented in two places.

Orson attacks Bors with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Bors is driven from the saddle!

Despite the Crackclaw reinforcements, the Kingswood defenses hold strong. It was a near thing, at times, and closely contested. But, had the swords been sharp and the stakes higher, the butcher’s bill would fall in favor of the Kingswood Company. And so the men tire, and injuries mount, and the combat begins to peter out.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The final call of a horn, to call and end to things. And such an end! Victory for Kingswood again, defeat for Crackclaw. The ride back to King’s Landing will likely be a long, tiring, sore one for the companies. For those injured too badly to walk, on either side, the ‘Eye of the Storm’ still waits at anchor.

But for the rest? The long, lonely road.

And at the end of it, a feast to toast the victors—in a few days, of course, to let bruises and egos heal.

Cleyton’s blow lands perfectly and knocks the Tully knight low. As Brynden falls into the surf, Cleyton rushes over to him and lifts him so his head is out of the water and checks him for any permanent damage before he starts to drag him up to the beach where he’s not in danger of drowning.

Jan dodges the spear and raises his sword to reply - but again, Orson strikes first. This time, Jan is more gracious, grinning and saying, “That’s twice you beat me to it, ser - not to mention your skill with the bow. Seems I owe you a drink when we get back.” And, after a few more scattered skirmishes, the horn is sounded, and Jan makes his way back to the bluff. He raises a sword and, with one more shout of Kingswood, begins to gather his men for the trek back - making sure to promise them plenty of wine on the trip back.

The black-clad man watching from that bluff has finally stirred—rising and striding to his tethered horse, working the reins free and mounting. But instead of riding towards the men of both companies where they start now, finally, to put blunted weapons down, he turns his mount onto a narrow, steep path leading down from the bluff to the shore.

There, in the distance, there is something happening around the Eye of the Storm. But the blinding reflection of sunlight on the waves makes it difficult to see what exactly it is.

From his seat upon the bluff, Ammon catches sight of movement—the Iron Serpent, moving down the path to the beach. As the Blackhand’s eye tracks him, Ammon catches sight of the ‘Eye of the Storm’ in the distance, and he pauses. With a clatter, the helm tumbles to the rocks, and Ammon forces himself to his feet. A slow process, favoring that rib, but it is soon done.

The black-clad man watching from that bluff has finally stirred—rising and striding to his tethered horse, working the reins free and mounting. But instead of riding towards the men of both companies where they start now, finally, to put blunted weapons down, he turns his mount onto a narrow, steep path leading down from the bluff to the shore.

There, in the distance, there is something happening around the Eye of the Storm. But the blinding reflection of sunlight on the waves makes it difficult to see what exactly it is.

From his seat upon the bluff, Ammon catches sight of movement—the Iron Serpent, moving down the path to the beach. As the Blackhand’s eye tracks him, Ammon catches sight of the ‘Eye of the Storm’ in the distance, and he pauses. With a clatter, the helm tumbles to the rocks, and Ammon forces himself to his feet. A slow process, favoring that rib, but it is soon done. ( repose )

With a smile and repeated claps on the back to his men, Jan is prepared to head back to the city. But before he does, he spies Ammon standing, solitary, looking at something asea. He arches an eyebrow and slowly makes his way over. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear it now, but - well fought, Ammon,” Jan offers with a nod. But his words are quickly forgotten when he, too, sees /something/ afoot near the Eye of the Storm. “What…what’s happening over there?”

Brynden comes to after a bit, finding himself up on the beach and safely out of the surf. He moans as he sits up, struggling to get his dented helm off. That done, he holds his head a moment. “Ohh.” But he does notice the Warden suddenly down by the water’s edge. “What’s he on about?” Brynden’s training sword is near, he uses that to help himself stand, then he shakily moves towards Dagur.

Ser Dermett lays back in the sand, his helm to his side and his hair now hung loose around his shoulders. He turns his head to where Ser Jan is speaking of, though does not say anything for the nonce. He merely sits and watches, a hand held over his eyes to block out the rays of sunlight.

Taking deep breaths, Orson nods at the fellow officers and as he’s about to make his way towards the city, he sees Ser Ammon stand up, very impressive of him to do so and he sees something stirring near the Eye of the Storm. Orson puts his sword back in the scabbard and he remains intent, watching.

Packed sand churns beneath the black horse’s hooves as the Iron Serpent canters along the waterline; his eyes are narrowed in a distant mariner’s gaze, fixed out to sea. So it is that he nearly rides the Tully knight down—would have, perhaps, save that his horse snorts and tosses its head, slanting to one side of him.

With an oath, Dagur draws rein, bringing his mount around alongside the other man: “Ser Brynden. Your guess is as good as mine.”

But there is something more to be seen there, now—a boat rounding the ship, making for shore. And seated in it, two men rowing as if all the hounds of the seven hells are after them, calling to shore, their voices high and strained, drifting upon the wind.

But Ammon does not answer Jan; his eyes are upon the sea—and the faint hint of a smile creases his lips. His words are a whisper, only Jan is close enough to hear them. “He is come, Jan. He has taken the bait. I had hoped he would, and he is yet to disappoint me.”

The Blackhand claps his ruined hand upon Marbrand’s shoulder. “Saan, Jan. It must be—but come.” And Ammon shouts up the bluff, to where a crowd of squires have gathered while their knights made mock of war, “Benther! My sword!”

But Ammon does not wait. He begins moving down the trail as quickly as he can on the wet rocks, with bruised ribs. His pains and hurts are forgotten for the nonce.

The aged serjeant Pyp crests the hill but the battle is at an end. As he descends he sees all eyes, Kingswood and Crackclaw, turned to the boat. Small Pyp turns to one of the squires of the Company and claps the boy on the shoulder. “My eyes can’t make out more than the men at the oars. Is there a stave, a banner perchance.” The serjeant squints at the boat looking for some clue as to the ship from which it originated.

Ser Cleyton Waxley makes his way over to his cousin groaning slightly, his helm now held under his arm. “We carry the day coz. But it was hard fought. What’s all this then.” He blinks a few times and looks out towards the ship as the others are, not quite grasping what’s going on yet. But Ammon then speaks an ominous name. “What? Saan? Here? Shit, I need a sharp sword now.”

The Tully knight holds the back of his abused skull though the chain coif and padding he still wears. “Warden.” he greets wearily. He turns his head to note Ammon rushing down as well, though he could hardly have heard the man’s words. “They must have seen something. Is one of the Ironborn ships taking on water? Is the galley?”

Jan’s eyes widen at Ammon’s whispered words, and he stands alone on the bluff after Ammon rushes off. Peering over the ledge, he sees the incoming ship and rubs his beard, a worried crease upon his forehead. And then he turns to head down the trail himself, finding his cousin and Orson on the way.

“Indeed, coz, but it looks there’s no time to celebrate, not yet. Ser Orson! Find a sharpened blade and make your way down the path to the shore, and quickly. And tell the boys to quit drinking and do the same. Have them bring extra blades, to hand to the knights below.” He skips down the trail quickly, even digging in his heels and sliding down sections of the steep path.

Hot on the heels of Benther Estermont is Ser Dermett’s own squire Almyn Upcliff. The lad hands his master his castle-forged blade without even the need to be summoned. “Oh, seven hells,” Ser Dermett grumbles, affixing his blade to his sword-belt. Without a moment’s hesitation he is soon ambling down the shore in pursuit of Sers Jan and Orson… and Ammon.

“No,” replies the Iron Serpent absently, staring at the boat from his vantage point on the horse. “No, your ship is riding high in the water. This is something else.” Dismounting, he drops the reins; the horse is well-trained enough that it doesn’t wander more than a few steps away. Crossing his arms on his chest again, he waits beside the Tully knight, watching as that boat grows larger, closer; it seems to be an ordinary fishing boat.

The two men rowing it resolve through the haze of sunlight upon water—bent almost double in their urgency, oars churning the water, saving their breath instead of calling now.

And then they are close to shore and they ship the oars, slipping over the sides to draw the boat to shore—too far out still, as if eager to get away from whatever is in that boat, one of them foundering before coming to the surface again.

Without a word, the Iron Serpent wades out into the water to meet them.

Moving quickly now, preceded by loose gravel, falling once, twice, thrice, but always back on his feet, Ammon makes the rocky beach—and he is running, as fast as he can as tired as he is, as battered. Soon enough, he is at the water’s edge, near to Brynden—and beyond, splashing into the waves to come up close behind the warden.

Above, Benther Estermont is making his way down the path.

In due time, Jan makes it to the shore, sharpened blade in hand. But he stands some distance away from where sea meets land, and holds up a hand for any Kingswood men to do the same. Instead, he waits patiently as Dagur, Ammon, and Brynden deal with whatever news the men bring. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword the entire time, though. “Might be nothing, lads. But best to be ready just in case.”

Brynden shades his eyes with a hand. “I cannot see… oh, perhaps it is the blows? I think I see two of her anyway.” Then he spies the fishing boat, coming closer. “What’s this? Fishermen?” he asks, looking to Dagur. But then the Saltcliffe knight is moving towards the incoming boat and he follows a heartbeat or two later, tossing his helm further up the beach to free his hands.

Ammon rushes past him, into the surf. “Steady now, Massey! Come back!” But he follows the other men towards the boat.

After receiving a sharp blade, Cleyton again makes the trek down the bluff to the rocky beach below. He stops near his cousin panting a bit. “Just what’s going on here? What’s the state of the Eye of the Storm? And what of the Longships of the Iron Fleet? Surely if there is some danger from the sea they’d be seeing to it?”

“I hope they’ve come to bring us wine,” Ser Dermett muses, sidling up alongside the other Kingswood men. “I could really, really use a drink.” He peers down at his feet as his boots sink into the soft sand, before once more peering off in the distance. His hand once more rests over his eyes as to block out the sun, watching as the Iron Serpent wades out to parley with the rowers.

“Oh, dammit!” Orson mutters as he watches Ser Marbrand pass him by. “Balon! Bring me the quiver and sword! Tell the others to do the same and arm up. We’re heading down!” Balon, from afar, nods and readily takes the quiver and sword, discarding the blunt sword to the ground. “Arm the knights and tell them to meet at the shore. Make them sharp!” Balon obeys and starts handing down quivers and replacing the blunt swords with the sharp ones. Orson walks down the path steadily, as he replaced the wadded arrows with his real quiver, ready to put some arrows in between the eyes of some fools. “Quick, men!” Orson yells out as he, without tripping, makes his way down to the shore and walks up beside Ser Jan, as well as the other knights, ready and armed for battle.

The boat grounds on a sloping shelf under the water. The two men—plainly seen now for crewmen from the Eye of the Storm—strain uselessly, trying to pull it closer to shore, then give up when they see the ironman wading towards them, and the others following. One of them stumbles forward to catch his arm, saying something low-pitched and urgent, turning to follow Dagur as he moves past him.

And then, the Iron Serpent has reached the boat and stopped as turned to stone, looking down at whatever is in it.

The other crewman wades towards Ammon and Brynden, calling to the latter, almost babbling, “My lord! My lord, the lookout saw it drifting, coming in towards the shore with the tide! We went into the water to have a look when it came close and—”

A shriek rends the air—an animal crying in torment beyond imagining. The Iron Serpent straightens, lifting something from within the boat—a child, thrashing wilding, bucking and writhing, making that unearthly sound, shrieking and shrieking and shrieking again.

He turns towards the men who have followed him into the water and his face is carved of stone, his dark eyes glittering. There is something wrong, something strange about the child he is holding, the head too big, the body strangely—

And then he begins to wade towards the shore, somehow holding onto that writhing creature, and it’s not a child after all. A man full grown, naked, arms chopped off at the elbows, legs taken off at the knees, gelded, wounds sealed with fire and hot steel, burnt flesh and skin cracking now, releasing rivulets of blood and stinking pus.

Ammon pauses as Dagur lifts the remnants of the man from the boat, watches as the Iron Serpent approaches. The Blackhand wades forward, eyes upon the monster in his friend’s arms. “Can—” he begins, clears his throat. “Can he speak?”

Brynden squints as he peers at the men. “Those are…” then sure enough, a man he recognizes draws near. “Steady man, slower. Breathe. What came close? The boat…” and his eyes go wider as the wailing begins. “Oh, Gods, what is that sound?” But Dagur reveals the source, bringing the tortured creature from the boat. “Does he have a tongue?” Brynden asks after a moment of revulsion. “Put it out of its misery, Ser Dagur. He must have been out there for days like that.”

Jan grimaces at the sight of the man, and turns his head to avert his eyes. He retches a handful of times but manages to hold back any vomit. “He’s right…that looks like Saan’s work…” Jan replies to Cleyton, shaking his head. “Not sure I’m in the mood for a drink anymore, Ser Dermett,” he mutters. He brings himself to look back at the wounded man and draws his sword. “No use having him suffer so. Someone should put him out of his misery, once he tells us what he knows,” he says softly, voice tinged with empathy.

Ser Dermett winces, the hand above his eyes now passing his mouth instead. “Gods,” he mumbles, not sure whether to laugh or throw-up. “They should cut the poor bastard’s throat and be done with it.” He cranes his head to hear the chatter amongst the men out in the surf, unable to eye the abomination in the Iron Serpent’s grasp. “Aye,” is all he says to Ser Jan, in agreement.

Cleyton nods grimly. “Yes, that has to be Saan. I don’t know who else would do something that brutal. This must be his way of sending a message. Spreading fear, letting us all know he’s around. He probably won’t attack now, he’s probably far out to sea by now.” He spits onto the beach. “The question I have now is who is this poor bastard?”

But the screams won’t stop, shredding every thought, drowning every word. Ignoring Ammon and Brynden both, the Iron Serpent bears that tortured creature to shore; barely heard under that screaming, he is repeating to the remnant of a man, “King’s men. King’s men.”

Whether the creature hears him or simply runs out of the strength pain and fear had given him, he subsides into sobbing moans that wrack his entire body. The garbled sounds he makes answer both Massey and Tully plainly enough.

“Back. Step back,” Dagur says savagely to the men standing before him when he comes out of the water; in that moment, his fury slips its leash. Then, he has it leashed again, kneeling to lay the man down.

Something glitters in the sunlight; he reaches down to brush the man’s hair aside. His earlobe is crusted with blood—and punched through it, a sapphire earring, sparkling as blue as the bluest of eyes.

Orson winces as well as he tries to stomach the sight before him. He takes deep breaths as the contents of his stomach attempt to climb up. He tries to be brave and look at the sight of the poor soul before him, but he cannot. He turns his back on them. “Seven hells.” Orson whispers as he turns his head to look at the Marbrand knight. “That poor fellow won’t say an—” He hears the noises made by the fellow and his nauseating moment fades away and he turns to see the Iron Serpent take a closer look at the man. “If it’s Saan, I’m going to put an arrow between that fucker’s eyes.” Orson whispers again and tries his best to not look at the mutilated body and retch whatever he has in his stomach.&R&R
Ammon follows them to shore, but does as he is bid. He stands in silence as Dagur places the man upon the beach, his eyes widening as they catch sight of that glittering sapphire earring. The Blackhand looks up to meet Jan’s eyes, and he nods once, drawing his dagger from his belt. This blade is not blunted.

“I will put an end to it, ser,” Ammon says.

Ser Dermett turns back towards the cove, when he meets the gaze of his young squire Almyn. The boy’s face is drained of colour; for while most blooded knights of the court may be able to keep a stern face at such brutality, a lad of three-and-ten, so untested in war, must be forgiven for being aghast. “Get back to the cove, boy,” Ser Dermett says to him, shooing him off with a wave of the hand. “Naught to be done here now.”

“Saan it is,” Jan says under his breath, spying the sapphire earring. He looks back up to the rest of the men, Ammon in particular, gauging his reaction. He returns Ammon’s nod with a grim one of his own. “You can try, Ser Orson, and you should. But I’m guessing Massey will beat you to it, or die trying.” Hand still on his blade, he looks away from the man until the mercy killing is completed.

Brynden recoils before the visage of the tortured man and Dagur’s whipcrack command. He takes a step back and out of the Warden’s path. “Give him some water, at least.” He turns back to look at his crewmen that brought the boat to shore. “Did they see anything else? It was just afloat?” He asks, motioning to the craft. “No sails? No… even he wouldn’t come half this far into the Bay.”
Ryckon Westerling regained consciousness a while ago, and he has spent the time since then attempting to pull himself up out of the ditch dug as a trap from the approaching Crackclaw men. When he finally succeeds in clawing himself up he begins to frown at his colleagues. “Did any of you ever think of trying to help—” And then he stops talking. His face turns white and his eyes widen as he catches sight of the mutilated man, and he quickly turns away. “Oh, seven fucking hells.”

Perhaps, even in his torment, the man hears Ammon. His head lolls, turning towards him. The stump of his right arm moves as if he has forgotten what he is now and tried to grab Dagur’s hand. His mouth opens, the raw stub of his tongue visible, and a garbled, strangled sound comes out of it: “Kirrrhh mee.”

And again, louder, “Kirrrhh mee.”

The Iron Serpent is still, crouching there on the balls of his feet. And then, he stirs: “I’ll do it.” He draws the dagger at his belt, steel gilded gold by sunlight; bowing his head, he murmurs something. And then, laying a hand flat over the man’s heart, fingers spread, he places the point of his blade between two of them.

“Stranger gather you gently.” he says low-voiced and slides the blade home.

The man jerks once—and then, with a long sigh, he dies.

Sliding the dagger out, he stands, bloody steel in hand: “Ser Brynden. Have your ship raise anchor. Stand ready. Ammon, find cloth. Have the body wrapped. We’ll take it back to the city, the Silent Sisters.

And with that, he is pushing through the men, the hard planes of his face set, eyes wintry, mounting his horse and turning it towards the bulk of companies still gathered some distance away.

Orson grunts as he watches Ammon draw his dagger. He watches Ryckon arrive and his face turns white. “Yeah.” Orson nods as he thinks of the fact that Saan arrived. “Gods help us, this man is mad.” Orson mutters as he turns around and takes a deep breath, the fact that he’s not looking at the body helps. He feels better, his stomach not doing as many flips as it was before. He turns around and watches the Iron Serpent head this way. His bow was slung against his back, itching to be used and let some arrows go.

Farther up on the bluff, the grizzled veteran Lennos corrals a group of the young Crackclaw recruits gawking at the scene, even as he still holds one arm bent and slung to his side. “It’s a hard thing, lads, a hard thing to do. But the Warrior will ask hard things of you too- here, your Warden has granted mercy, as the Seven will it. Think on that mercy, as you gather your things, and remember it is not just pirates and smugglers we must send on to the Stranger.”

He lets them contemplate that a moment longer before he waves his good arm down the slope toward the road. “Now pack your horses, go on. It is a long road back.”

The horror of Saan’s missive leaves the aged Serjeant, Small Pyp, staring fisheyed at the man who is naught but a gelded torso. As Ser Dagur gives him the gift of mercy, he turns to his fellows but says not a word. He shoulder past the squires, and greenest of the green master-at-arms who stare on in shock. Upon reaching the beach, the serjeant falls to one knee and sets to scouring his mace clean.

Brynden turns back to the Warden and the thing that was once a man before his crewmen can speak, whatever they were meaning to say is then cut off when the tortured soul begs for release from his misery… which Saltcliffe does.

The Tully knight nods as the Warden makes his will known. “Aye.” he responds. Brynden looks back to his men. “Help to see that the wounded get on board double-quick. I am going back on board.” And so he makes his way to where the other boats wait.

Ammon watches the last moments of that poor soul’s life in unblinking stillness, nodding only when it is done and the warden has given him a task. He sets about it, finding Lennos amongst the crowd men with orders to form the rest of the men up and get them ready to move, taking his sword from Benther, setting about finding the cloth and preparing the body for travel himself. There is work to be done here, and a journey to make. Saan will keep.

For now.

Cleyton shakes his head and turns away. “Such cruelty just to send us a message. The world will be better off when Saan is put down like the mad dog he is. But he’s long gone by now. It’s best that we just pack up and head home. I guess this does show us why we’re doing this job. We’re here to protect the realm from this kind of madness.” He heads off to go pack, this new discovery drowning any celebratory mood he may have had.

With no imminent threat near, only a distant one, Jan sheathes his sword. He motions for the Kingswood men to pack up again and began their return yet again, though obviously with much less fanfare and celebration than before. He gives a solemn nod in agreement to his cousin and spends the rest of the trek up the bluff deep in thought.