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Sites of Interest
A Tourney of Love and Beauty Held in Celebration of a Betrothal
IC Date: Day 5 of Month 8, 163 AC.
RL Date: April 05, 2012.
Participants: Aegon Targaryen, Andred Stone, Andry Chester, Bessa Hunter, Brynden Tully, Daena Targaryen, Dagur Saltcliffe, Elmer Crakehall, Ermen Frey, Ethos Mertyns, Humfrey Westerling, Jace Rollingford, Janden Melcolm, Jannia Tully, Jonn Lannister, Kendros Goodbrook, Pennei Massey, Reyna Saltcliffe, and Sorin of Sevenstreams.
Locations: Outside the City: Tourney Field.
Comments: Puppets and Royal NCP's played by Dagur and Reyna.

Summary: A tourney of Love and Beauty was held for the betrothal of Ser Humfrey Westerling heir and knight of the Crag, and Lady Jannia Tully, third daughter of the Lady of Riverrun Lady Tinessa Tully. The Tully maiden had chosen three champions to defend her title, Ser Ermen Frey of the Twins, Ser Brynden Tully the lady's brother, and Ser Humfrey Westerling her betrothed. A splendid display of knighthood from knights all around the Seven Kingdoms. The tilt of the day held between Ser Kendros Goodbrook of the Riverlands and Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard; twelve passes were made before finding Ser Kendros unhorsed. Even though all three of Lady's champions were vanquished, not all was lost for the Lady Jannia. Chivalry reigned as the declared champion, Ser Jace Rollingford so called "The Knight of the Fountain," declared the Lady Jannia the Queen of Love and Beauty. Letting her keep her title even in the presence of the recently 'dethroned' princess, Daena Targaryen.

It is a bright sunny afternoon, though even with the sunshine the chill of autumn is still in the air; stiff breezes run through the lists, tumbling leaves as they go. Tents of many different colours scatter the tourney grounds as Hedge and Noble knights alike—even squires—from all around the Seven Kingdoms have shown up to take part in the Tourney of Love and Beauty. The purpose of the tourney, to celebrate the betrothal of one Ser Humfrey Westerling, knight and heir to the Crag, and Lady Jannia Tully, third daughter of Lady Tinessa Tully, Lady of Riverrun.

Many and more have gathered to witness the tourney and the champions that defend the lady’s title; highborn and smallfolk alike sit—or stand—wherever there is space. Small children sit upon their father’s shoulders to get a better view.

Ser Humfrey is one of the first knights to ride into the Western Outer Yard—arrayed for the Tourney. Ripples of sea foam white wash over a shore of pale, sandy gold; the beaches of the Crag painted, beaten, and folded into steel: the young knight’s tourney armor. Seven plumes of opalescent white silk descend from the crest of a rounded great helm with air holes and a slim eye slit. The knight’s roundels are white seashells. Mother-of-pearl inlay adorns breastplate, gorget, greaves, and gauntlets in intricate dune crest and seashell patterns.

Visible, betwixt joints, his mail is simple, double-linked steel enameled a sandy albeit marginally darker gold. The knight’s cloak is fashioned from small conchs, cockles, sand dollars, oysters; indeed a thousand tiny shells linked through infinitesimal holes threaded with spun silver, sewn into a cloak of plain, pale gold, sand silk. His left hand bears a heavy tourney shield, steel bound oak, painted with the ocean shore and seven seashells of house Westerling.

Tied to his right spaulder is one of three of Lady Jannia’s tourney favors—a ribbon of river blue—the others will be worn by her brother Brynden and the son of one of her mother’s bannermen—Ser Ermen. Westerling dismounts and seats himself upon a camp stool—doffing his helm, he takes a goblet and a small silver box from his squire Erton Florent. Westerling pulls a sprig of mint form the box chews on it then washes it down with wine. The Knight’s chestnut eyes and bronzed face look out upon the field—surveying his foes. He is nothing if not intent.

A column of crimson and gold follows not long behind Ser Humfrey. At its head is Black Jonn Lannister—the heir of Casterly Rock who leads the Lannister contingent to the tourney field. He has no squire with him, nor is he clad in mail. It is clear that he has no intention of participating in today’s tourney.

“Gods,” he calls out, as he spies Ser Humfrey’s tapestry of seashells that is meant to be armor. “What is that you are wearing, Humfrey?”

Elmer is already waiting by the Lannister tents, and it’s clear he does intend to ride. He’s wearing the gild inlaid armor gifted to him as a wedding present by Lord Loren of the Rock, and he raises a gauntleted hand towards Jonn. Strangely , around his left arm he doesn’t wear the usual favor of his wife, but a long, white silk streamer. Can that be a tribute to Princess Daena?

Ser Humfrey stands as the lions take the field. When he sees Ser Jonn, his future lord. Humfrey steps out from the shadow of his pavilion. “Ser—” Humfrey smiles and tugs at one corner of his cloak. “The Tyrells line their cloaks with flowers—so, I thought why not shells—we can’t allow the west to be upstaged—and shells provide a modicum of defense.”

A tall figure of muddy red and deep blue and shining silver, Ser Brynden Tully strikes a colorful figure as he appears on the field. His armor is plate made for the joust - more angles than armor made for war and reinforcement in places impractical for battles on foot. The fine steel is enameled, particolored in Tully colors - the right side rich red and the left all blue, silver mail in places that require ease of movement.

His great helm is all one piece, only a small slit to see from and a series of breathing holes mar its polished surface. He bears a shield, also divided red and blue, a silver trout leaping haurient rather than embowed as on his house’s sigil. His horse is a silvery-grey courser, its head and neck bared to deflect splinters, blinders to protect its eyes, its livery matching that of its master’s.

Ser Ermen Frey is not long in arriving after Jonn and Humfrey make their appearance. The Frey knight is dressed in armor polished until it shines like silver a cloak of smoke grey and deep blue is fixed upon his shoulders and slutters slightly in the breeze. Behind him his squire carries a heavy oaken shield with the bridged towers of the crossing in triplicate, marking him Lord Whalen’s third son. He makes his way to where his pavilion has been set and dismounts and takes a moment to make sure the plaited red and blue ribbon about his arm is in place before taking a seat on a camp stool while his squire prepares his weapons and arms for the event ahead.

The new Royal Huntsman is, of course, here for the joust. Janden Melcolm’s got his usual armor and courser, though in spite of the recent promotion he’s still got no squire. There’s help for those that need it, mind, and he gets some of that to make sure all is right with armor and the like. Helmet off for the moment, it’s tucked in against his side as he makes smalltalk with a few of the other knights he’s familiar with, some of which he’s gone up against before.

A shrug from the Lannister heir as he lifts a gloved hand in greeting to Ser Elmer, his longtime friend and onetime good-brother. “It’s your life,” he says, giving Humfrey a tentative pat on the back.

Elmer raises his vouce over the din. “Not riding today, brother?” he asks Jonn, his heavy crimson cloak showing clearly the allegaince of the Lannister captain of guards, even though his shield bears his own family’s brindled boar. The Crakehall surveys the field, watching to see who might enroll in the lists.

The sigil of Goodbrook shines, blue flecked paint on a field of golden canvas. Ser Kendros’ standard cracks as it whips in the breeze, and the Longaxe emerges from his pavilion in full plate. Lacking a squire, he is attended by a couple of older pages; though their sole use seems to be tightening the straps Ser Kendros has already fastened, for they are quite daft. Longaxe heads for the lists, whistling in a manner probably unbecoming.

Everyone is dressed in finery today. The only difference between knights and ladies is that ladies have much softer armor, and need not absolutely wear the colors of their house. Myleria Tyrell is dressed in pale gold sandsilk with white edging that accents her olive coloring without making her appear…yellow. Her dark hair is half pinned up, with curling tendrils snaking down her back. Her earrings are of pearl, and though they are larger they match the pearls studded through her hair.

Myleria has seated herself on a bench near the front, and settled a folded cloak down next to her, in the event that her cousin might want to sit by her. Myleria looks politely interested, though her posture, expression and composure are faultless. She sits straight backed, hands in her lap, skirts settled immaculately as she waits.

Ser Humfrey pales a bit—then glances at the hem of his cloak and all the jangling shells. “I don’t suppose any the white swords will take the field—do you think they might?”

Hovering about the Frey pavilion, waiting to present his good wishes in passing, is a threadbare little figure whose business is most definitely elsewhere, Maester Talbard, lately something of a new crony of the Frey knight’s. He looks sidelong at Mooton squire and knight of the Twins alike, and admires the heraldry of the differentiated shield, its six stern grey turrets on blue.

“If your lord father truly ruled that many towers and bridges, ser, I suppose you’d be fighting in gold-plate,” he jokes. “But be that as it may, I shall remember what you said when Ser Farin called your House the Reynes of the Riverlands. It will take a hard struggle to cheat the westermen of their prey this time…but you have my benedictions, if they’re any good to you.”

A shake of his golden head indicates his intentions to Elmer. “Not today, brother,” he says. “I figured to let you have this one tourney without me knocking you from your horse.” His lips curve into as good-natured a smile as a Lannister can make.

“I do not know about the whitecloaks,” he says to Humfrey. “Usually I will hear about it if they intend to, but my brother has been silent of late.”

Andred Stone enters the Tourney Fields donning armor devoid of all ostentation. His set of plate armor is only decorated by dents. It is not made of steel, but a crude form of iron, that gives it a dark grey coloring. Under his plate, jingles a chain mail made of a similar cheap metal. It sticks out awkwardly below his breastplate suggesting that it is a little too large on the boy.

He wears an armet helmet with the visor up as he enters the tourney field leading an old but large and reliable courser onto it. A surprisingly finely crafted warhammer, his only possession made of steel, bounces against his hip as he walks in, but it bears signs of heavy use. Everything Andred wears is meant not for show, but for war and in this case, “play” war.

One attendant follows him. He is a shaggy faced, unassuming, black haired man of average height wearing a black velvet doublet. He may pass for some low noble, but in fact, he is from Flea Bottom, paid a few silvers to squire for Andred. His clothes and everything he wears belongs to the bastard squire. The man carries all of the equipment that Andred does not carry for himself.

Andred greets no one as he proceeds into the field and has a rather stony expression on his face. He has come here not to socialize, but to break lances. In a far-flung corner of the grounds, he makes camp by setting down his gear and starting to stretch his arms by drawing them across his torso one at a time.

Lady Bessa cheeks are blushed with excitement as she takes her seat near the ladies and next to a smiling septa, who whispers the some of the names of the unknown faces to her. Her usually rebellious dark brown curls are well subdued by a silvery hairnet today. Her gown is of a fine, green cloth and richly adorned with silvery embroidery. A brown woolen cloak protects her against the chilly breeze. As a Hunter of Longbow Hall she also wears a soft, grey fur around her thin shoulders.

Ermen smiles as he is hailed by the maester. “Between your benedictions and my skill maester, it will be more than enough to win the day, you have my word on that,” the knight says confidently stretching in his camp stool. “Still I’m glad you’re here, I shall feel less guilty when I leave some of these knights in the dirt, knowing you will be here to tend them.” He reaches down beside his chair and offers the maester a wine skin.
“I would like to break lances with the White Lion, again. He knocked me in the mud when last we jousted. Seven—what a knight.”

Janden returns to his small camp to finish going through various exercises to limber up and keep loose, sipping from a waterskin a couple times. While he’s confident in his own abilities, he’s not exactly the sort to go around bragging overly much. A sarcastic word and a joke here and there, but for the moment he’s paying more attention to the preparations of things.

Brynden looks to his squire, his younger brother but now a man grown. He gives the young man a smile. “I should think this is one of the last times we will do this. I imagine that thrills you, eh?” He lifts his helm and puts in in place. “Pray for me, will you?” he says, but even his squire is unlikely to hear then.

A scoff is the Black Lion’s only answer to Ser Humfrey’s praise of his elder brother.

Lady Jannia Tully sits near the center of the bottom most row in the viewing box. Two maids stand in the corner nearest to her, one—older of the two—is Sarah, the other, a young yet oddly tall and gangly girl Jeyne, the newest addition to Jannia’s cadre. The lady herself is wearing her finest gown, naturally, in her house colours, richly hued mud red and blue damask in a paneled pattern. Her sigil embroidered largely on her bodice in silver thread, and a deep blue cloak sits about her shoulders with the same sigil scrawled across her back.. Her hair is down in a mass of deep auburn—nearly chestnut—curls; hands neatly in her lap with a cup of wine between them, idly she sips her wine.

She is late in coming, which is unusual, but Reyna Saltcliffe has arrived in splendid black and silver, her fitted veil a soft dove grey in compliment. She has a long streamer of black and silver wound round one hand as she comes to sit beside her cousin among the Tyrell kin and retainers. She settles in at once, a veteran of the joust, and takes a bit of sewing from her maid. “I haven’t missed anything, have I?” she asks Myleria.

“You speak kindly, ser,” Talbard replies in a voice not itself dripping with kindness, but rather anticipation, and speculation. “But I shall hope not to be called upon this day…in a professional regard. There are other brothers of my order present, and I’d like to watch my sport uninterrupted for once. Unless a really, ah, interesting wound happens to occur. Oh. Talking of which…”

He has gratefully accepted the wineskin and pours himself a generous vessel. From his point of view, one of the great strengths of tourneys lies in their vintages. He calls over a serving-boy wearing livery attaching him to the Grand Maester’s suite, and sends him off with a note, apparently written in advance.

Ser Humfrey stares at the Black Lion. Black and White. Were ever too brother more divergent in temperament? The scoff disarms him a bit, truth be told leaving Humfrey at a loss for words. “Ah, yes, well mayhaps I shall try your brother in Riverrun, at the wedding, then.” Humfrey turns to where Jannia is sitting. He spares his betrothed a smile then turns and looks at the pleated red and blue ribbon tied to his spaulder his gaze becomes intent and dark when he looks upon it. Then he turns, again, to the Black Lion. “There is a matter I must discuss with you, Ser, in private—perhaps after the joust? Or on the morrow—before the Brothers’ tourney?”

Myleria Tyrell turns that solemn expression on her cousin, and then offers a faint smile. “No, cousin. It is only the beginning.” She tells the older woman, smoothing her hands over the smooth sandsilk of her skirts. She has no knitting of her own; her skill with a needle is atrocious and not fit for public viewing. Instead her little hands remain clasped in her lap.

“I met a woman named Katla last night in the Solar. She offered to teach me weaving.” The teen admits, tucking a twining strand of brown hair behind her ear, from where it had escaped. She pauses for a moment, that rather thoughtful, solemn expression intensifying for a moment on her face; her brow puckers delicately, but smooths it again moments later. “I’m glad you’ve come to watch with me. I don’t know that I’ve ever been to a tourney like this before.”

“Well then, enjoy the wine and watch the days sport with the rest of us,” Ermen says to the maester with a smile. “And let your brothers deal with those who fall to my lance.” He nods for Rorran to fetch a new camp stool so that the maester has place to sit.

The herald appears, a grave, portly man. He bows deeply to the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty, Jannia Tully—and even more deeply to Princess Daena, incandescent in a gown of the black she favoured before her marriage, apparently in the lightest of moods today, bestowing her smiles freely and dazzling all with her charm and grace. He stands in silence for a few moments, then, until the din has subsided enough for him to be heard—and his powerful voice rolls out over the tourney lists, “The honour of the first jousts shall go to Ser Humfrey Westerling and Ser Brynden Tully. Ser Humfrey shall ride against Ser Andry Chester, and Ser Brynden shall ride against Ser Janden Melcolm.”

Looks like Janden will be helping kick things off, selected to go against Brynden. The two know each other to some extent and have got on well with each other, but the Valeknight’s intent is to send the man in red and blue down to the ground. Finalizing his preparations, he moves past Brynden on the way to his mount and taps him on the shoulder with the back of a hand. “Let’s give them a show, shall we?”

Elmer tips his head to Jonn. “I’ll try my best brother” he says, and has a squire bring him a wineskin to take a long drink as he watches the first match ups being settled. His large grey gelding is caparisoned and ready, but as his name hasn’t been called out yet, he waits. his unruly black hair shining in the sun

The Longaxe approaches the rail separating the pavilions from the lists, leaning forward and resting his forearms upon it. “I’ll lay ten stags on the blushing groom, and another ten on Melcolm.”

“My lady’s pearl? Ah, yes. Her gem. Yes.” Here Westerling clears his throat and glance at the favor—again the dark, brooding look crosses his features. A boy proffers Humfrey a scrap of a parchment. Not a moment after Westerling opens the folded scrap to read it he hears his name called. “Forgive me for being abrupt but I must take the field.” Westerling dons gauntlets and helm—then mounts his great white destrier. He takes a lance from Erton then rides to the end of the lists. When his foe, Ser Chester, rides to the opposite end he raises his lance in a salute, brings gilded spurs to the flanks of his horse and charges—shifting in his seat moments before they collide, to aim his lance at Ser Chester’s helm.

A smile forms on the Tully girls lips as she notes Reyna walk and sit nearby with Myleria, she dips her head to the ladies. “Lady Reyna, Lady Myleria it is a pleasure to see you both. Fine day for a tourney if not a bit cold, though I believe there is still mulled wine if you both care to have some?” Jannia turns back to look to the eldest maid who gives her a nod in answer.

Before turning back she scans the field for her champions, but not before the herald starts the joust. Smiling brightly she nods back to the herald, and bows her head deeply to Princess Daena. With courtesies over and first tilts announced, Jannia half watches the field and half listens for the Tyrell ladies reply.

From his seat in front of his pavillion, Ermen answers Kendros’ wager. “Done and done Ser Kendros. Ten stags.”

“You can learn with Rhiannyn, if you like,” Reyna says to her cousin. “She’s going to learn as well, though we are waiting for a new child’s loom. The one Lady Serry gave her was lost in the fire.” She turns a critical eye on the joust then and shrugs a little. “The jousts at Highgarden are much better, I’ll grant you. These are usually poor imitations, but they can be as exciting. Dagur is riding today,” she adds, her sewing still in her lap.

Reyna bends her head to Daena when the merry princess turns her way. “Come,” the princess calls. “Surely our jousts are as fine as Highgarden’s! You must watch carefully and give your opinion again at day’s end.” She smiles brightly at the lady’s before looking toward the herald.

Catching the Longaxe’s challenge, loud, shrewd, and in its way as menacing as any more overtly martial defiance, the maester rises from the stool he has just been granted. “Might I join the dispute and differ from you both, sers? I say the groom and the knight of the Trout. I expect him to be as hardy in the saddle as I have seen him swift to think and act on foot.”

“Ten stags?” the Lannister heir calls out. “What does a stag even look like?” He asks the lordlings and ladies gathered around him, some of whom snicker and others who try to explain what a stag is until Black Jonn’s eyes fall upon them. Then they can only blush.

Brynden lifts a gauntleted hand to acknowledge Ser Janden’s greeting, but as he already has his helm on, anything he might say is lost. He wastes no time in walking his horse back to where his squire stands, there to collect a lance. Then to their line horse and rider go, He salutes his sister and the princess-who-was-queen as he passes the stands.

Janden, once atop his courser, is on the plain side given the lack of fanciful decorations or colors in his armor and shield, just the basics. Riding past the box he pauses to bow and salute those gathered, pausing a moment longer on now-Princess Daena to give her a respectful look. Following that, acknowledgments are given across the lists and he rides en route to a violent encounter with Ser Brynden Tully, lance at the ready.

Janden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Brynden strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Brynden just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

“It’s your money to lose, my lord,” Kendros replies. “Frey money spends as good as any other and… well, maester money too, I suppose. I don’t know what lord squirted you out.”

Jonn Lannister’s query elicits a smallish chuckle. “It’s like a dragon, but colored strange, my lord.”

At a passing glance, one might mistake Andred for an ordained knight, even if that be only a poor one. He has the stature along with the build of one. His armor hides most of his youthful qualities and features save one. His youthful baby face not yet concealed by his visor tells the truth of his age and to a lesser extent, his lowly position as a knight’s glorified servant. But, alas, he serves no knight today. Today, the squire rides with his betters: he rides with knights. But, he must wait for his turn.

In the meantime, he slowly descends in full plate to sit upon the ground. The moist earth muddies his already sullied armor, but he cares not. Looks never won anyone a joust. Under the weight of his greaves, his feet move slowly to meet together in front of him so he can stretch out his groin. As he stretches, he watches the other jousts and waits in utter silence for his own name to be called. His look is intense, almost unblinking, a far cry from the jovial drunken squire he is at feasts. His attendant asks him if he wishes for water and receives only a sharp reply from the bastard. “Do not speak.”

Myleria Tyrell is not a maiden given to smiling overly much. She is a serious, solemn, and thoughtful girl, but she appears genuinely pleased with her cousin’s offer, looking down into her clasped hands, a smile curving her lips prettily. “I would love to be included. I’ve always wanted to learn.” She says quietly, and then looks up, eyes eager, bright, sharp as knives on the goings on.

The fingers of her left hand stroke over the fingers of her right absently. She does not flinch at the loud noises, lips curving. “I believe the ser of Frey will be the victor.” she whispers quietly. “I saw them in the yard yesterday.” She remembers how he had treated that poor bastard. “He is a beast in the saddle.” Her slight frown says she is thinking of something unpleasant.

Elmer does not bet yet, his dark eyes watching the jousting and rubbing his cheek. He’s faced some of these knights, but some of them are unknown to him, so the experienced jouster takes in their stance on a horse, the way their lances hold. He drinks deeply from the wine, some of it flowing in his short cut beard.

“It’s kind of you to assume my birth is high at all, my lord,” Talbard responds to the heir to Goodbrook, with whom he has never heretofore exchanged a word. “Kind, but not, perhaps, perceptive. I am born of the marriage of Lord Mertyns’s natural son to a noblewoman. Not that it matters now, or, most likely, ever did. Now let us see if my maester-money continues to appear so frail.” He takes a fortifying gulp of hearty red grape.

Reyna gives Daena a slightly self-deprecating bend of the head that speaks of having known the princess for many years, her smile faintly mocking. “As you say, Your Grace,” she says before turning back to Myleria. “You’ve met Lady Jannia, then?” she asks, nodding toward the younger woman. “You look very pretty today, Jannia. Does it feel strange to be the center of so much attention?”

But she frowns suddenly and cocks her head. “A beast, did you say?” she asks, smile and frown warring for dominance on her face. “A strange way to describe him. Has he been ungallant to you?”

Brynden’s horse thunders across the way, hooves pounding the packed earth. His strike is true, but something about his blow is not as perfect as it might be. Ser Janden’s is better, Brynden almost falls after this first pass, but manages to remain mounted. If he his cursing ‘neath his helm, who can hear? He tosses his cracked lance aside at the far end, his brother handing him another lance. He turns the horse and moves to the line again. He dips his lance to his opponent and then sets his beast in motion towards the other knight.

Janden destroys one lance already, landing a strike most would be satisfied with if only the opposing rider was removed from his seat. Instead, Brynden keeps up enough for another pass. Janden gestures toward the crowd with his lance hand and exhorts them to be heard, smiling behind the helmet before that hand is filled again with another lance. Like the old Jousting Lord, here is one of those places Janden feels at home. Hooves beat against the ground as he surges forward again.

Brynden delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Janden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Brynden is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.

Elmer applauds at Janden’s victory, and smiles as he sees Brynden Tully down, shaking his head. “Too bad, he’s a fine ridder…but a misstep can always happen.” he gives a carrot to his gelding. “You run true, you hear?” he looks towards the stands where Princess Daena laughs and he nods. He drinks again, watching what matchups will come up

As Brynden is struck Jannia tilts her head up a bit, but lets out a small exhale as he remains on the saddle. Turning to Reyna she gives her a crooked smile, “Yes my lady, I had the pleasure of meeting your cousin in the yard last eve’” she smiles at Myleria and answers Reyna’s question. “The attention? Oh, well,” Jannia speaks lowly, “in truth my lady? I try not to put a thought to it, I am not used to it at all, but I suppose I should learn no?”

She leans back and holds her wine goblet out to the younger of the maids, “I think I would prefer the Mulled Jeyne, that is, if it is still remotely warm.” She smiles to the tall, thin, and very shy girl. Jannia turns her head as another crack of a lance is heard and wincing slightly as she sees her brother fall to the ground, bested by Ser Janden.

The Warrior has not smiled on Brynden today, Jaden’s blow was even better the second time, the shaft shattering into a shower of spinters. The impact shoves the Tully knight back and he has no chance to stay on his mount… he falls and ends up on his back. He is there a moment and then he drags himself to his feet. He moves off the field, out of the way. His helmet stays on for now as he moves for his pavillion while his squire collects the courser.

Ah, that one felt right. Janden glances over a shoulder as the second lance he takes isn’t quite as good as the first one Brynden struck him with, and the result after his strikes just as true is Tully down, Melcolm up. He lingers just long enough to ensure Brynden is well and good before saluting the crowd as he turns his courser in a couple circles, tossing the remains of his lance aside before flipping up the visor of his helm. The horse is led back to the waiting area as he waits for others to take their turns, watching and studying.

Myleria tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and turns to look at Jannia, offering a smile. “You do look lovely.” She tells the other woman, smile gentle. And rightly so, after all, the tourney is in celebration of Jannia’s upcoming nuptuals. How could she look anything but radiant today? Reyna’s question surprises Myleria and she looks down into her lap. “Not as such, cousin. Though he was rather cruel to one of the boys that…I suppose is to be his opponent today.” Clearly the teen had not been impressed.

Reyna looks from Jannia to her maid in confusion. “You call her Mulled Jeyne?” she asks. “Has she been warmed and spiced?” She smiles at the girl encouragingly before taking up her sewing. It looks to be a child’s tunic, simple in cut and needing only hemming around the bottom edge of fine linen. “It is best not to judge cruelty in a man until one knows him better,” she says after a moment. “It may have been an especially stupid squire, or someone equally deserving of his ire.”

Turning back to the two knights in consternation, the maester murmurs glumly, “The word in the crowd is that that thrice-cursed mead-bellied herald mangled his lines. It’s Andred Stone who’s to fight Ser Humfrey, not Ser Andry Chester. I’d be grateful, Ser Kendros, if you’d accept my betting on him instead of Westerling, now. I think the boy has a certain…sense of commitment…that could serve him well at this juncture. Oh - and these are your prior winnings,” Talbard concludes mournfully.

Kendros eyes Talbard momentarily, before at length taking his money. “Many thanks. If truly you misheard, then I will let you out of the bet. I will not, however, take the side of a knight I do not believe in.”

Janden had thought Humfrey was supposed to ride against the Chester man, instead the Vale bastard is the one to go? Interesting. Perhaps his misheard something from the herald. Having dismounted, he keeps one hand around his courser’s reins as he watches the other tilt start slightly late, curious to see how the squire handles himself.

With the herald’s mix up, it leaves little time for Andred to prepare himself. As fast as the extra weight of plate allows, he jumps up upon his old warhorse. He trots his horse to the end of the list and his low-born attendant seems not to have noticed. The man has taken to drink a little too early. In a bellow, he beckons him. “Lance!” The man spills wine all over his front and scurries across the yard with a lance.

As he waits for his incompetent man, he inclines his head first to Jannia, then Princess Daena, and lastly to any other ladies of the court. Then, he lowers his visor while muttering to his horse some final words of encouragement. “Let’s give him hell.” When Ser Humfrey looks ready and his man has given him his lance, he spurs his horse onward and the horse responds by lumbering down the list at his opponent.

The maester shrugs and pockets the rest of the change required for the speculation. “Have it your own way then, my lord. Perhaps it is better that I am preserved from reminding myself, once again, not to gamble. And, more importantly, not to lose.”

Humfrey strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Andred makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Andred is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.

The Knight and Heir to the Crag feels his lance crack sharply. A soft curse slips from his lips as Andred’s lance takes him in the shield scarring the bright seashells and dunes of his shield. Wheeling round the lists Humfrey stops at the far end and waits for Andred to take his place. Gilded spurs bit into his destrier’s flanks. The massive white horse charges. Westerling crouches his lance bringing it in line with Andred’s gorget.

Andred’s lance does not lower right away; he keeps it slightly raised. Then at the very last moment, he couches on his arte and aims not for the head, but at Ser Humfrey’s right breast. He strikes a solid blow, but sacrifices his own seat when Ser Humfrey strikes a good blow.

He struggles for a moment muttering obscenities in his helm as he attempts to regain his always delicate balance. The man regains his seat in time and wheels around the list for another round. He kicks his horse a bit harder and the beast runs a bit faster down the list with Andred hoping for a harder impact on Ser Humfrey.

Humfrey strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Andred lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Humfrey struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

Ser Humfrey feels the the force of Andred’s lance as it takes him full in the chest—cracking solidly against his cuirass—and taking with it one of the lovely mother-of-pearl seashells from off his cuirass. Westerling struggles to maintain his seat before lacing in a loud tumble of mail and plate.

The Knight and heir stuggles to his feet and scoops up the broken seashell. He walks a few yards to take the reigns of his horse in hand until his squire Erton rushes forward and takes them from him. Humfrey turns then and walks to the young man, Andred and hands him the shattered seashell. “Well fought, Stone. You’ll make a fine knight.”

The old courser proves his worth as he barrels down the list. Again, Andred keeps his lance loose until the very last moment. He lowers it and couches it aiming at the dazzling sea shells on the Westerling Knight’s armor. They prove to be a good target as he strikes one cracking it. Splinters from a broken lance follow the sea shell down to the dirt and a little bit after that Andred watches as Ser Humfrey follows as well.

When he reaches the end of the list, he pulls up on his reins stopping the old reliable horse and turns him around. He drops the broken lance to the dirt assuming it will be cleaned up by someone. In a walk, his horse approaches the felled knight. He raises his visor, showing a vibrant and youthful smile. He holds his hand out receiving the sea shell. As the knight speaks, he says while rotating his shoulder. “I thank you for your kind words, ser. You yourself hit like fucking auroch.” He rotates his sore throbbing shoulder as he speaks about the knight’s strength.” I thought you had me on the first tilt.”

Jannia blushes at the compliments from the ladies, “My thanks Lady Reyna, Lady Myleria, it is one I have had for awhile, though I find it far more elegant than anything I usually wear. I fear getting it the slightest bit sullied. Though I suppose mud red and blue will not be my formal colours for much longer.” Jeyne hands her a cup of mulled wine, and Jannia nods to her with a smile.

Reyna’s words brings a small chuckle from Jannia, “No my lady, I merely was distracted and misspoke. Though I suppose after I recieved her and had her cleaned up, she could have been thought to be comparable to mulled wine. Is that not right Jeyne?” The young girl of no more than ten nods quickly, with a blush at her cheeks her eyes glancing up from the planks of the viewing box to the smiling Saltcliffe lady, she quickly smiles and returns her gaze downward.

Jannia smiles softly to Humfrey and Andred, watching intently as the rumble down the lists. After the sound of breaking lance Jannia winces as the second of her two champions falls to the ground.

“I hope he is not so easily unhorsed in all his endeavours,” says Black Jonn Lannister as he watches the Westerling heir pushed from his saddle.

The Knights are looking Princess Daena’s way today as the former queen and unbedded bride throws her dazzling smile this way and that. For every eye she catches, she has a smile, and every smile is designed to draw yet another’s eye toward her. She is the coquette today, the merry maiden released from the tedium of Queenship in her black gown.

Elmer watches more attentive knight, familiar with Humphrey, having met the Westerling knight several time in jousts, the honors equally divided. And this is a time to measure up the competition. As things are going rather slow he makes a decision and he mounts up. Picking up a lance, he moves towards the royal stands, the knights’s left arm tied with a white streamer instead of his wife’s colors. Helmetless he inclines his lance towards Daena.

“Your Highness. I had the honor once to be your annointed Champion. Will you grace me to wear your colors? To defend your honor and pride? Fire and Blood!” he roars, after all he did defend her name in the banquet hall too, when Prince Aegon’s cronies were jesting improperly.

Maester Talbard’s wild hair begins to smooth at the brow with chilly sweat as he realises his narrow escape; musing, typically, on how he could have left the old bet running, rather than how his judgment could have secured him the cash after all. But the intellectual side to the matter does please him, and he smiles as he half-breathes out, “You see, sers. I did warn you. The Stone boy’s as granitically tough a bastard as I’ve ever noticed.”

In spite of himself, the Melcolm knight lets out a single whoop when Andred knocks Humfrey from his mount. Janden may have fostered far from home, as far as his father could send him, but he’s still a knight of the Vale.

“Heh,” Ermen says when the bastard wins. “The boy is tough, I’ll give him that,” he admits grudgingly as he shifts in his seat eager to take try his own lance in the lists.

“Would you have me choose so swiftly, Ser Elmer?” Daena calls merrily back. “You beg it of me always, and you -are- a most splendid knight, but there are so many fine knights to choose from…” The white streamer draws the slightest frown to her brow, and she waves at it. “Not white, Ser. I am done with white forever. So ride, good ser, and I shall declare my choice of champion soon enough.” She gives him a flash of her smile, then turns to look in the direction of her lady’s pointing finger, to exclaim at the most recent bout and crash.

“But still a bastard,” Longaxe remarks, a profound observation if ever there was one. “The Westerling must have some sin in his heart, to be thrown down by such a one.”

The herald waits until the the detritus is cleared—the stands are abuzz, for both brother and betrothed of the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty have been unhorsed—until coming forth again. “Now,” he calls, distinctly ad carefully, “Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard shall ride against Ser Dagur Saltcliffe. And Prince Aegon shall ride against Ser Triston Templeton!”

There are roars of approval, for there are names there of great interest. And in the stands, not too far from Daena and Reyna Saltcliffe, a wit is heard to remark, “Ah, the battle of the sellswords!” It earns him laughter, but disapproving looks too.

Elmer ‘s booming laugh resound through the stands. “That is how a Queen should speak! I rode at King Daeron’s side, and you remind me of him, Your Grace. I take your challenge and shall endeavour to show myself proud of it.” He inclines his lance deeply as one does to royalty and then he gasps. “The Dragonknight.” Yes he’s star struck. He whirls his gelding around, waiting for his name to be called.

They ride out at the other end of the lists, the black knight and the white—the Iron Serpent in his armour dark as night and his terrible serpent’s head helm, and the Kingsguard in his pristine harness, white as snow; its alchemy has made him as noble as any knight here, no matter his humble beginnings. They make their salutes, then; the Kingsguard dips his lance reverently to the dazzling Daena, and then to his opponent. And the Iron Serpent, for his part, salutes the queen—but the deeper one is for his lady wife before he finally dips his lance to Sorin as well.

And then they are off, the hooves of their mounts like thunder, raising plumes of dust, lances swinging down until they are centred on each other!

Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Dagur lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Dagur struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

Reyna nods indulgently at Jannia, and is about to reply when the wit makes his jape; then her cheeks flame red and her brown eyes flash with ire. She rises, however, to raise the silver and black streamer wrapped round her hand, letting it unfurl for Dagur to see as she stands at the rail as she has ever done when her husband rides.

The Princess, however, is none so reticent. “For shame!” she calls, only half-teasing while her violet eyes spark and flash. “Impugning my good kingsguard!” She glares toward the man a moment longer, then shakes her head and settles to tell Elmer: “I am no queen!” It takes but a moment, however, for her good humor to return, and she is as blithe and gay as ever.

When Dagur falls, Reyna winces, and watches anxiously to see him rise.

A chuckle as the princess speaks, then claps lightly as the next names are listed. She raises a brow when Aegon’s name is called, looking back at Reyna when her husband is also added to the lists. “Best of luck to your husband Ser Dagur my lady, may the warrior smile upon him.” She smiles brightly to Reyna as the lady walks to the rail, turning her gaze to watch as he rides down the lists, wincing and taking a sharp breath when he falls to the ground. She shoots his lady a sympathetic glance before she too look to make sure the Iron Serpent rises.

“Ha!” Jonn, the Lannister heir crows, as his longtime nemesis is defeated.

Events are now moving too rapidly to admit of much further betting, for which Talbard is in the timorous part of his character quite grateful, but having watched Ser Sorin’s last stand towards the end of the White Tourney, he is scarcely very alarmed by the result - if, like most of the crowd, thrilled to the core by its rapidity.

from beside his pavillion, Ser Humfrey watches as Dagur, the Iron Serpent, is vanquished by Ser Soren. “Seven, that one is a killer.”

Elmer used to hate Dagur, but not since the man saved his life in Dorne, he gained even more respect for the man since then. He looks at Reyna and shakes his head. “We’ll see the Iron Serpent ride again, my Lady..” he makes his gelding dance and watches the field. Who’s left to ride against him. At least not a Prince and not a Kingsguard..

Ermen watches Ser Sorin prevail and makes a face. “Bah, bastards and smallfolk are prevailing over all,” he murmurs and produces a flask of wine for himself and drinks deeply of it. “Let us see some real knights ride.”

And the jousts are done with swiftly—for Ser Sorin, riding for the first time in the white armour, seems to have had his arm strengthened by it. Down goes the Iron Serpent, to cheers of acclaim from among the smallfolk, for here is one of their own raised to the highest honour in the land and showing why he earned it. The ironman, for his part, seems unhurt, for he is on his feet quickly enough, raising a hand in acknowledgement to the Kingsguard, who returns it.

And not far away, at that exact moment there is another explosion of splinters. This time it is Prince Aegon who emerges the victor, riding in fine style, magnificent in his rich harness with the dragon mounted on his helm as he holds aloft the stump of his broken lance, not caring to look behind at his fallen opponent.

Once Ser Triston has been aided from the field by his squire, the herald comes forth again to announce, “Ser Kendros Goodbrook shall ride against Ser Jace Rollingford, and Ser Elmer Crakehall shall ride against Ser Andry Chester!”

Ser Humfrey claps the lads on left pauldron. “I used to hit like a dove—so my Uncle said—it took a great many months of practice to get to the point where I could hit hard enough to knock a man down. First tilt? No, no you joust better than half the grown knights I know—your ought to consider speaking with Ser Farin—we have need of good swords in the Kingswood company, Andred. Are you better with sword or lance?”

Clearly, Westerling speaks true. His frame is slight compared to that of most knights. The commotion of the Knight of Ninestars falling draws Humfrey’s gaze. “Seven, Prince Aegon looks to have rolled over the man like a Ballista with bad breaks!” Turning then to Andred, Humfrey stares at the squire. “Did you see the hit, Andred? Warrior, Prince Aegon is a beast—he may well be the champion.”

His fingers rung through his courser’s black mane petting and congratulating him on a good run. The animal seems content not to move after his previous tilt. The stonefaced squire seems to have a smile now etched in the stone of his features.

“Neither, ser. My skill lies with my warhammer. When I get my knighthood, I will certainly consider offering my warhammer to Ser Farin.”

His attention diverges from the Westerling Knight momentarily. He flashes his youthful smile at Ser Janden as the man offers his congratulations, but then his gaze is drawn to the hail of splinters in the many jousts going on., so many he can barely keep up. But, he sees the dragon prince ride. “Indeed, I did, ser. Days where fields were set ablaze may be long gone, but our own royal dragons still breathe fire. I would certainly place my few dragons on Aegon, if I happen to be eliminated early. ” Confidence exudes from his tone as he speaks of his chances.

His Horse starts to walk off as he says to Ser Humfrey. “I must give my old horse a rest, ser. Best of luck in the rest of the tourney and in your upcoming marriage.”

“On Aegon?” the Lannister heir wonders aloud, incredulous, “Are you all mad? He was lucky, nothing more.”

Ser Humfrey lifts one lobstered steel gauntlet in a salute to Andred as the lad walks off to tend his horse. Turning to the Lannister pavillion, Westerling shouts across to Jonn. “Who, then Ser? Perhaps the Knight of Sevenstreams? Those Hedge Knights are puissant warriors.”

“My dragons are still on Ser Elmer,” says Jonn fiercely back to Humfrey. “He lost the first one on purpose, I’m thinking. A trick he learned during his time at Casterly Rock, no doubt.”

The next one draws more of Janden’s interest; he was unhorsed by Sorin en route to the man earning the white cloak and all the prestige and responsibility that goes with it. When he knocks Dagur down on the first pass, he whistles softly to himself. Along the way he looks toward Andred if the squire comes near, seeking to give him a word of congratulations for a strong tilt.

“There you have one, Ser Ermen,” Talbard points out in a tone leaded with bitterness as the prince’s tilt takes its own speedy course. “The prowest knight of the realm - and a Dragon to boot - glorying in victory, just to keep your spirits up.” He is no admirer of the Prince’s and takes a consolatory draught of wine, deep and smooth.

Once again, there are cheers, for there again are names of great worth.

When she is assured of Dagur’s fitness, Reyna resumes her seat and winds the streamer back around her hand before taking up her needle again. “He will ride again, in any case,” she remarks to Jannia, being too far now to hear Elmer’s assurance. “And Ser Humfrey as well.” She makes a face when Aegon is victorious, but ventures no remark about his ride. “I wonder if Dagur could do with a new charger. Did this one not look a bit uneven, do you think?” She is a critical watcher of jousting, the Silver Rose.

Letting out a sigh of relief as Dagur rises Jannia claps as Prince Aegon is victorious and she hears another Riverland knight’s name come to the lists. Turning and smiling at Lady Reyna before turning back to the field, “Ser Dagur seems to be well my lady, aye the horse seemed a bit off.” she watches intently as Elmer and Andry, and Kendros and Jace rumble down the lists.

Ser Kendros frowns as the herald calls his name, for he knows the Knight of the Fountain well; he tromps off to mount his horse and take up his lance.

Scant moments pass before he canters into the lists atop a chestnut courser, and a swift one by the look of him. His polished plate gleams in the sunlight as the Longaxe stares across the field at his opponent.

For his part, Ser Jace Rollingford appears every bit the Knight of the Fountain; intricate filigree adorns his plate, depicting fountains of gold on silvery steel, and the top of his helm is wrought in the form of cascading water.

The two wait for the appropriate signal before giving spurs to their mounts and charging each other, the smallfolk roaring.

Jace’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Kendros strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Kendros is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.

Ser Jace and Ser Kendros shatter their lances; Ser Jace has the better of it, but Ser Kendros is not so easily unhorsed. They reach the end of the rail and wheel their mounts. Both seem to have their blood up, perhaps fueled by the cheers of the crowd; they throw their shattered lances to the ground and take up replacements and charge again.

Jace’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Kendros lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Kendros struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

“Where fountains strive with brooks,” the maester muses, “it would seem we must learn to expect fire. That’ll be news at the Citadel.”

The Longaxe lands a solid blow, but it cannot find enough purchase on Ser Jace’s armor to unhorse him. The Knight of the Fountains’ lance shatters on impact, knocking Ser Kendros back and sending him grasping for the pommel. He manages to hang on for a few seconds before falling to the ground, ceding victory to Rollingford, albeit unwillingly.

Standing quickly to his feet, Kendros offers a bow to Ser Jace and quits the field to wait to be called.

Elmer laughs. “Ah, finally.” he takes another long drink from his wineskin, the Crakehall knight’s propensity for drinking during tourneys is well known. And he rides to the end of the lists, taking his helmet from his squire. He’s wearing a Lannister cloak but his shield bears the brindled boar. “None so fierce!” he shouts his battlecry.

The Chester knight comes to the other end , inclining his lance and saluting the Crakehall. Then he spurs on riding towards Elmer.

Elmer lowers his visor and charges, couching his lance, and aiming it at the Chester knight’s shield, picking up speed, the huge knight putting his weight behind the lance.

Andry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Elmer lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Elmer feels his lance break and the rough challenge of his opponent. he rides to the end of the lists, picking up a new one and he doesn’t wait , not wasting any time, turning sharply and charging again, dust kicking from his grey charger’s hooves. Again he acts chivalrous, aiming at the shield, not at body or head.

And so does Andry Chester, the knight’s new lance lowered and aimed towards Elmer’s massive bulk, until the two knights meet again

Andry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Elmer lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Elmer breaks another lane, but his opponent stands valiantly in the saddle. With the corner of his eyes he sees Longaxe fall. In a melee that might not have happened, but as is, he only cares about his own honor. “Will you place a bet on me, brother?” he asks luaghing as he raises his visor for a second, towards Jonn. Then lowering it and picking up a new lance , he charges again. And so dows Andry Chester, lances aimed at each other, horses picking up speed. But this time Elmer leans even more against his lance, the weight of him and his charger behind the ten feet of wood

Andry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Elmer lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Andry is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.

Andry’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Elmer strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Elmer just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Andry’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Elmer delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.

Elmer just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Andry’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Elmer lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Andry is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Elmer is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.

It takes several bouts, and Elmer loses concentration, and then he’s down in the dirt. he rises, raising his helm and watching Andry. he spits and moves to the Lannister tents. “Brandy.” he growls.

The crowd is roaring, for the Crakehall and the Chester knights have given them the joust of the day so far; both are cheered as they depart the lists. And after the plentiful shards of wood have been cleared and the ground smoothed again, the herald announces, “Ser Ermen Frey shall ride against Ser Ethos Mertyns!”

Ermen smiles when his name is called and the knight rises from his seat and puts on his helm. “At least he’s noble born,” he says to Talbard before the helm is strapped in place. That done, he mounts and arms and with a kick of his heel moves his charger forward to the lists where he brings it to a halt and dips his lance to those he means to honour and his foe and then he waits for the signal to charge.

Maester Talbard, youngest and only living son of the Bastard of Mistwood, and therefore cousin to Ser Ethos Mertyns, spits out his remaining wine in an unexpectedly impressive arc when he hears his kinsman’s name announced against his new friend’s. Seeming to shudder from head to foot, he mutters back, “You go and beat him bloody, Ser Ermen. I…have never much cared for Ser Ethos.”

A shiver as a stiff wind blows right past her, Jannia watches as Kendros and Elmer are pushed from their saddles and promptly they find their feet. She turns towards the princess, “How do you find the joust thus far, Your Grace?” She asks politely with a bright smile and a bow of her head. Turning eyes to the lists briefly as one of her champions is called.

Janden arches a brow as Ethos takes his place in the lists. Some time has gone by since either of them have spoken much, and this effort against the Frey knight bears further attention on top of the jousts just recently completed.

“That’s because he’s a bleeding traitor, Ser Kendros observes, clomping back towards his pavilion and leading his courser. His steps happened to bring him close enough to hear Talbard.

Longaxe ties the reins to the railing and proceeds to fiddle with the bridle, waiting on the next round.

Ethos for his part stomps out to his waiting horse held by his faithful squire and mounts and once at the opening of the lists dips his lance briefly to the stands and then his foe before kicking his horse and thundering down the list leveling his lance at Ermen as the Frey knight charges in return.

Ethos’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Ermen’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

The maester turns to the Longaxe - already a picture of unconcern - in surprise, confusion, anything in fact but righteous anger; it seems the diagnosis of Ser Ethos sounds sensible to him, but he is curious as to precisely why it has been levelled. But before he can match a query to his glance, the tilt’s first scene is enacted, a stalemate of majestic, almost chilling, power. Talbard rises and projects his hoarse voice with care, “For the Twins!” It may be hurting him that he cannot cry ‘Mistwood’, in good conscience, but if so he suppresses any such emotion.

Ethos’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Ermen delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.

Ermen is ripped from the saddle by a mighty blow and falls to the earth with a bone-shaking rattle.

“It is most diverting, Lady Jannia,” the princess replies once one of her ladies has drawn her attention to Jannia’s question. She treats the lady of honor with a smile before turning her attention back to the contest—or rather, to the knights in the contest. She clucks her tongue at Ermen’s fall, and it is clear he has fallen out of contention for her favor.

“Well then,” Janden may be heard to say when Ermen Frey goes down, and hard. “That was emphatic.”

Elmer chuckles as he drinks at his brandy. “Ser Ethos hasn’t been the same since I…had to knock him out in Dorne.” he drinks like a fevered man, his eyes glowing red. “The man doesn’t ride half badly though.”

“Ha!” Ethos crows as Ermen is thrown to the dirt. The knight simply rides on to the end of the lists to dismount and shed his helm before sinking into his camp chair for some wine. Ermen for his part struggles to rise but when he does he pulls his helm free and spits blood into the wood chips at his feet. “Seven bloody hells!” he curses and then he storms his way back to his tent and ducks inside, wroth with his performance.

Clambering from his seat, Maester Talbard immediately shatters his stated intention not to exercise his own skills this day, scrambling to attend upon the fallen Frey. “A gallant way to handle your kin by marriage,” the Stormlander comments acidly to his victorious, still mounted cousin, before following Ermen back to the Frey pavilion to check upon his hurt.

“Seven!” Humfrey’s oath fills his side of the tourney grounds at the sight of Frey talling in a heap of armor. “Is he dead?”

A nod to the princess as her attention is drawn completely to the lists. Jannia watches as her third champion puts up a fair showing; her brow creases as he spits blood to the dirt. Giving a look of approval as Talbard goes after the Frey seemingly to check on his health.

Ser Ermen’s joust takes Andred’s interest as he slides from his horse and grabs the reins leading it to his makeshift camp where his foolish low-born attendant is indulging in all of the Dornish Red. Too fixated on the epic joust, he does not scold the man yet. Then, Ermen falls, and falls hard. The hit causes Andred to grit his teeth, but Ser Ermen’s loss causes his smile to grow even wider than it already is.

When at his camp, the bastard squire does not bask victory for long. As the second round approaches, his smile fades and his stoniness returns to him. He occupies himself with brushing his horse, but in the whites of his knuckles around the brush, his intensity can be seen.

And so all of Jannia Tully’s champions have fallen! A bad omen, some in the stands mutter, whether in malice or not. Eventually, after the knights have had a chance to catch their breath, the herald returns, “Ser Janden shall ride against Prince Aegon! And Ser Andry shall ride against Andred Stone!”

Andred hears his name called once more and his rest is cut short. He remounts his reliable beast. “Once more, Boulder. Once more.” He says with a soft rasp into his courser’s ear. Kind words are spared only on the horse. “On me!” He says in a commander’s voice that he picked up from his famous cousin and liege lord, Lord Jonothor Arryn.

The slightly drunk low-born man scurries after Andred with a lance as Boulder, the courser, approaches the list in a walk. Ser Andry Chester approaches the opposite list. When at the list, Andred focuses not on the crowd, but his opponent. Lowering his visor, he readies himself.

With lances now in hand, both men charge on. Andred couches his lance in his arte at the moment aiming for the “sweet spot” where the shoulder meets the chest. Ser Andry aims for a similar place.

Andry’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Andred makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Andred is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.

In a mist of splinters, Andred falls to the dirt. His cheap armor chatters rather loudly as he falls to the dirt. Belatedly, his attendant scurries over to retrieve his lost horse. Slow, but sore, Andred steadily finds his feet receiving help not from anyone. Ser Andry approaches him and with downcast eyes, Andred mutters. “Good tilt, ser. I was not ready for that.” It is said fast, as Andred is a little embarrassed at such a poor showing in the second round. He walks swiftly back to his makeshift to ready himself for round three and hopefully a better showing.

Janden against Prince Aegon? Surely this will be one of the Melcolm knight’s stiffest test. Remounting and preparing himself, the Valeknight passes by the box again and briefly makes eye contact with Princess Daena. Back in another time when wounds were still fresh from losing his betrothed, he jousted very well in the Joust of Love and later received a reward from her in spite of him not truly winning the event overall.

He’s never forgotten that gesture, and now his life is in a better place. The Prince seems quite confident in his chances as the two riders thunder down the lists toward impact, Melcolm black sheep, Company of the Lance, against the Prince, Brothers of the Battle.

Aegon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Janden lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Aegon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Aegon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Janden lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Aegon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Janden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Aegon struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

After Ermen falls and the next names are called Jannia is fully aware that all of her Champions have fallen. She glances back to Reyna and Myleria, “At least they get another tilt, right?” Jannia having already set down her cup wrings her hands as she turns back and watches Janden put up a good show and takes Prince Aegon off his horse.

Down goes the glittering prince—less glittering once he has risen, his armour covered with dust. And he is as ungracious a loser as he has ever been, tearing off his helm, his handsome face made less so with a look of flushed, frustrated anger. Bellowing for his squire, not sparing even a glance for the victor, he stalks from the lists.

Three passes, one in his favor, one even, and one leaving Janden Melcolm atop his horse with the Prince in the dirt. Not that he can’t believe it, but let’s just say riding against Prince Aegon is not something most are likely to come away as the better. And yet, so far today Janden’s lance has been as true as ever. He casts aside the busted length of wood as the crowd gasps and breaks into a fit of noise over the unexpected result, especially after Aegon’s first tilt, and behind the helm Janden wears a wide grin as he takes it in prior to leaving for the next riders, and his eventual third round.

As Prince Aegon falls, Ser Humfrey slams his gauntleted hands together for the Prince-Feller. “Melcolm! Well rode, Ser!”

Jonn Lannister’s cheers are perhaps loudest as Ser Janden fells the Prince. Strange, considering that the heir of Casterly Rock has no connection to the man…

As the crowd subsides somewhat as men go about the work of clearing the lists, the herald announces, “Ser Brynden Tully shall ride against Ser Dagur Saltcliffe! And Ser Kendros Goodbrook shall ride against Ser Elmer Crakehall!”

Again the Iron Serpent rides forth, and again those salutes with dipped lance. There is nothing graceful about them; they are rough courtesies, nothing more. And then, he takes a moment to stare at his opponent across the lists as if gauging him—then spurs his steed, his lance swinging down smoothly, shield covering his chest.

Brynden takes to his horse again, then accepts his helm from his squire. “This should be interesting. Eh, I might need some wine here in a bit.” He settles his helmet again and then takes a lance. He salutes the Iron Serpent in return and sets his horse thundering again.

Dagur lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Brynden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Dagur struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

Jannia claps as the herald calls for her brother and Ser Kendros to ride again, she glances back at Reyna. “Best of luck my lady.” No sooner do the words slide past her lips does Dagur fall, Jannia watches and waits to make sure he rises without issue.

The Tully knight and his mount charge towards the Saltcliffe man. Though his opponent strikes a good blow, Bryndne easily keeps his seat and continues on. He turns, tossing the remains of his shattered lance aside and holding out his hand for another, but his brother points down the field. “I hope we will meet on the morrow, Warden!” he shouts as he removes his helm and dismounts to clear the field.

Reyna, as she always does, rises with the black and silver streamer in her hand to watch Dagur ride from the railing. When he falls again, she shakes her head and smiles. “Alas, not his day,” she remarks, quite sanguine about it all. She settles back into her place while the Princess calls her approbation to Brynden Tully.

The Iron Serpent is not long on getting to his feet; there is a wry look on his face when he removes his helm. He acknowledges Brynden with a raised hand and a laconic, “Perhaps, ser,” before making his way from the field.

Ser Humfrey watches the next bout and open gapes as Ser Brynden unhorses the Iron Serpent. “Well fought, Ser. Mayhaps you’ll fight your way back intot he winners bracket.”

Elmer raises his gauntleted fist in the air. He’s once asked for the honor to meet Kendros in single combat and his wife’s uncle’s denial is still hanging between the two men. He takes nother long drink of brandy before mounding up to ride against Longaxe. He leads his gelding to the lists, picks up a lance and salutes. “None so fierce.” he cries before setting on his helmet, couching his lance and charging, no more chivalry, this is about winning, hislance aimed at Kendros’ chest

Back on horseback, Ser Kendros returns to the lists. This time he rides against Ser Elmer; there is little love lost. Couching his lance, he gives his courser the spurs.

Kendros’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Elmer lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Elmer is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.

Elmer slides from the saddle and shakes his head. Not his day, it seems, but there’s always tomorrow. he laughs and bows towards Kendros, not bearing any malice towards Goodbrook. he shakes his head at the squires, smiling. “More drink fellows, at least I’ll drink to Lady Jannia.”

Ser Kendros dispatches Ser Elmer, barely acknowledging the bow from the Crakehall. He plays for the crowd a moment before retiring to his pavilion.

And as the other joust ends as well, the herald calls, “Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard shall ride against Ser Jace Rollingford, and Ser Humfrey Westerling shall ride against Ser Ermen Frey!”

Hearing his name called—and hearing that he is paired with the Knight of House Frey—Westerling looks toward the Frey Knight’s pavillion and spares the man a hard, garent eyed glare. Taking helm and gauntlets form his squire he mounts and rides to the end of the lists. Humfrey raises his lance in a salute to Lady Jannia, then another to his gallant foe. As he charges toward Frey, he aims his lance for the crest of the knight’s helm

At the sound of his name Ermen emerges from his tent, his cheeks flushed with drink but soon he has his helmet on and he remounts his horse and makes his way to the lists. He dips his lance to his foe and then makes ready for the charge.

Humfrey’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Ermen makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Ermen struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

Ser Humfrey feels a jolt run up his lance as it hit and explodes in a shower of slivers and kindling. He grunts as Frey’s lance clips his shield leaving another long gaunge in the oak. After he rides round to his foe and dismounts. “My thanks for the joust, Ser.”

Ermen picks himself off the ground and removes his helm once more wiping his lips with his gauntleted hand. “Bah,” he says and he nods his head to Humfrey. “See your betrothed’s title is maintained, ser,” he calls to the other knight before he stalks from the field to once again brood in his tent.

Quirking a brow as two of her champions are pitted against each other, Jannia smiles as Humfrey raises his lance in salute. Quick as they rode down the lists the two clash and as Humfrey’s lance breaks apart it is Ermen she sees fall to the ground. She waits for the Frey to rise before relaxing into a smile and clapping lightly for her champion and betrothed.

Janden keeps off to one side with other knights waiting for the next round, and there are some that come over to congratulate him on unhorsing the Prince. For his part, he credits a steady lance and the Seven, making an effort to put it behind him. There’s another knight to face again soon as other results come to pass, some getting more of a look of interest from him than others.

Even as Ser Ermen succumbs, the Kingsguard and the Knight of the Fountain meet in an avalanche of steel and horseflesh—and again and again. It’s four passes of shattered lances before Ser Jace finally proves the victor, to the acclaim of the crowd. He is a gallant one, saluting Ser Sorin graciously and stopping to exchange words with him before riding off.

Last of all, the herald calls for Ser Ethos Mertyns to ride against Ser Triston Templeton—and it is over almost before it has begun. The Mertyns knight—called mad by some, a traitor by others—all but rips the hapless Templeton knight from his saddle, laughing in triumph as he rides on, leaving his opponent to be carried to the maesters.

Again, the knights are given a little while to rest before the herald comes forth to announce, “By Princess Daena’s will, Ser Jace Rollingford shall advance to the next round uncontested for his bold showing so far. Ser Janden Melcolm shall ride against Ser Andry Chester and Ser Brynden Tully shall ride against Ser Humfrey Westerling!”

When Ser Jace’s name is called, the Princess seems more than willing for him to advance. Indeed, she waves her favor at him gaily, and smiles her most brilliant smile—and it is remarked upon by any number of people.

Janden steps up for his next opponent, a fellow member of the Company of the Lance in Andry Chester, who’s jousted well in his own right this day. The two look primed to have a clean tilt against each other, no evidence apparent when it comes to any ill will between either of them. More eyes follow Janden with interest in the wake of his last tilt, likely wondering how long he’ll be able to ride out his hot streak. Their horses close the
distance swiftly and impact is imminent.

Andry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Janden’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Andry finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.

A quick one this time, as Janden again lands a near-perfect blow while taking a quality one of his own, sending Andry to the ground. Another salute follows to the crowd as the Melcolm knight makes it three straight, a very good day so far. Back to the side he goes, feeling that rush of adrenaline sticking around.

Humfrey chuckles as his name is called. It would seem the Herald has a mind to test all of the champions of his betrothed against each other. He dons his helm then rides to the end of the lists and salutes Ser Brynden. “I pray one of us advances to the final round, brother—the honor of my future lady wife and your lady sister is at stake.” With that gilded spurs bite into the flanks of his horsepp again and he crouches his lance aiming for the gap between lance and shield.

Taking to his horse again, Brynden collects a lance and moves to his end of the lists. He salutes the princess and his sister in turn, then his future good-brother across the way. The niceties done, he launches his horse down the way.

Humfrey strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Brynden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Humfrey just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Again two of her champions are pitted against each other, Jannia stands for the last tilt, smiling brightly. At least one of her champions will go through. She claps as she thinks the princess has chosen her champion, nodding her head in her direction. “Fine choice Your Grace.” She says before turning back to the field and watch her brother and betrothed go down the lists. Janden takes down Ser Andry and Humfrey barely manages to stay in his saddle her hands grip the rail, white at the knuckle.

Ser Humfrey is hit, seemingly by a small battering ram, he rides back to the list nearly ide saddle rights himself. “You hit like a demon, Ser.” Westerling rides at his future brother-in-law aiming for his his helm this time.

Horse and rider thunder down the course, lance blows exchanged. For his part, the strike on Brynden’s shield is good, but it does nto shift his seat. A lance is replaced by his squire and he sets his courser in motion again.

Humfrey delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Brynden’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Humfrey struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

The force of Brynden’s blow smashes Humfrey’s shield into kindling! A storm of slivers—Humfrey’s shield and Brynden’s lance fills the air round Humfrey as his lance harmlessly skids off his foe. Humfrey struggles, valiantly, to keep his seat before succumbing and falling heavily in the mud—he rises a moment later and retrieves his horse. “You are fine form today, Ser. I pray you square off with the white sword in the last tilt.”

His other pass, and Brynden is happy once more that the holes in his helmet are too small for most lance-splinters. He turns his horse to see what effect it might have had, as the Westerling’s blow seems to have skittered off his shield. He dismounts and hands the reins to his brother and then removes his helm, the better to see that Hunfrey rises. “Good ride, ser!” he calls. Humfrey is up and talking, so Brynden steps from the field to collect a cup at his place while he waits.

“Prince Aegon shall ride against Andred Stone,” calls the herald once the lists have been cleared, “and Ser Kendros Goodbrook shall ride against Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard!”

Wrenching her fingers from their grip on the rail as Humfrey falls, if Jannia is at all disappointed she doesn’t show it. Jannia straightens her red and blue damask skirts before giving a clap. Releasing the furrow in her brow after Humfrey rises and she sees he is alright. She takes her seat once more lifting her glass of wine to her lips and takes a drink as she watches the next contenders on the field.

Ser Kendros and the Kingsguard face off in the lists, taking a few moments to play for the crowd before taking places at opposite ends of the field. A few seconds pass, milked for dramatic effect, and then they charge.

Sorin’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Kendros strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Kendros just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Kendros lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Sorin is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.

Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Kendros’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Kendros strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Sorin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Kendros’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Sorin is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.

Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Kendros’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Sorin just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Kendros lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Sorin just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.

Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Kendros strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his
lance.

Sorin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Kendros lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Sorin’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Kendros’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Kendros’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Sorin just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Kendros lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Kendros finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.

Truly an epic bout. Lances splinter on both sides, and by the time the twelfth round comes, both men are fatigued and ragged. At long last, Ser Kendros is unhorsed by Ser Sorin. The kingsguard salutes the Longaxe as he is helped to his feet by squires and helped from the field.

In his self-imposed exile, succeeding his defeat, Andred sits a chest quietly staring at the dirt with a little too intensity than mere dirt deserves. The action-packed jousts of the second round pass him by in a flash of splinter and dust. Finally, as the third round begins, he rises placing a hand on his horses jugular petting him in silence as he preps and hopes for a better showing in the next round.

Hearing his name and his opponent, his eyes widen. He faces the Prince. Eagerly, the boy mounts his horse and rides off to the lists. In his eagerness, he forgets his courtesies and lowers his visor without inclining his head to the booth. He does with his helm on which causes his armor and make much unnecessary noise. Then without any further ado and to hide his blunder, he receives his lance and charges on bound to meet Aegon at the middle of the list.

Aegon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Andred delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.

Andred is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.

Janden watches the tilt between Sorin and Kendros with increasing excitement the longer it goes on. There was one he had with Tancred Baratheon that went on a while but this surpassed it. Much applause follows after several near-falls lead to one finally left in the dirt, shaking his head at the quality of it. “Well done!”

Twelve tilts were ridden between Ser Kendros and Ser Sorin, each pass gaining a small gasp from Jannia. Finally though one of the knights falls from his saddle, sadly it was Ser Kendros. Even so, Jannia stands and claps loudly for the impressive show, “You do not see that often, well done.“said gleefully to no one in particular.

This time, a long while passes before the crowd subsides. For Ser Sorin to have the worst of it and yet somehow win against the famed Longaxe has clearly cemented the Kingsguard as their favourite this day. As for the man himself, he seems a touch bemused by the uproar, wearily, dismounting before his white pavilion to rest on a camp stool and drink from the waterskin his squire brings him.

The herald wisely takes his time in coming forward again. When he does, he announces, “Ser Janden Melcolm shall ride against Ser Jace Rollingford! And Ser Brynden Tully shall ride against Prince Aegon!”

Andred’s eagerness defeats him as he never gets a good seat on the horse nor does he even couch his lance. The Prince’s lance however makes good enough contact to push Andred clean off his saddle. His horse runs off as Andred wallows in the dirt and his common attendant has disappeared into the crowd with all the boy’s Dornish Red and a few stolen silvers from Andred’s purse.

The sore and defeated bastard squire pushes himself off the dirt and corrals his horse with some haste. A jog in his armor causes quite a bit of noise attracting laughter from the crowd of smallfolk. When he finally grabs his horse, the boy slowly makes his way towards his makeshift camp with downcast forlorn eyes of extreme disappointment in his showing.

Jannia does not make a mockery of Andred’s misfortune instead she glares at those who do. Silly as the clanking sounds of a man running in armor may be, it is unkind to laugh at such misfortune. After the herald announces the next tilts Jannia stands as her brother is to face the Prince.

Princess Daena eyes the field, her gaze skipping from one knight to the next. Finally they rest on Aegon and she shrugs. “Family,” she remarks to one of her ladies, then raises her voice in his support.

After that excitement, a little break is surely needed for others to rest, splintered lances to be cleaned up, and the next tilts readied. Next for Janden is another knight who’s had a couple strong efforts, good enough to skip the third round while Janden dispatched Andry on the first pass. That’s good for him but paired against that twelve-round battle between Sorin and Kendros it’s obvious which makes the crowd roar the most.

They /love/ the marathons!

Watching Andred Stone’s quick fall, Janden waits for the squire to come closer before offering a hand at the shoulder and a few words of encouragement. Then it’s back to business as the two knights yet to be defeated meet up to decide which one will stay that way. Something happened with Ethos Mertyns, taking himself out of the running over something to do with not getting Princess Daena’s favor.

Andred mutters an inaudible murmur of gratitude to Ser Janden’s words with his visor still down. He keeps his visor down as his cheeks have turned bright red in embarrassment over his two quick losses and the crowd’s now subsiding laughter which now wanes in no small part due to Lady Jannia Tully’s glare. However, all the action is lost to Andred as he wanders back to his far flung camp to only find it ransacked by friend from Flea Bottom.

Jace’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Janden strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Janden struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.

And just like that, another one-pass tilt and Janden’s the one who wavers from a blow too strong to allow him to keep his balance, slipping down for the first time to skid a few feet upon impact. Jace maintains his perfect record on the day so far, to the increasing enjoyment of the crowd. They do like winners.

Brynden tucks his helm under one arm as he hears his name called. He bows his head for a moment in muttered prayers, then mounts his horse once more. He replaces his helmet and collects a spear, then is once more on his starting place. The ladies again are saulted and then a dip for his opponent. He waits a moment to see if the courtesy is returned, then he spurs his horse to a charge.

Aegon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Brynden lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Brynden just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Aegon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Brynden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Aegon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Aegon manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Brynden’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.

Aegon is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.

The princess makes a sound of disappointment to see her uncle fall—but there is a note of something in it that might be mockery. Perhaps she knows of the Prince’s recent remarks about her. She cheers instead for Ser Brynden, and smiles brightly at Jace’s success as well.

Jannia mutters a prayer as well as her brother makes a few passes at the Prince, she nearly jumps when he is unhorsed. Curtsying to the Princess before she takes her seat, speaking up for her to hear, “Fine tilt Your Grace, your champion, His Grace, did very well.” She smiles brightly as she takes her seat and exhales as if she was holding it in for a while.

Three passes are made, the first seems as if it will be Brynden’s end, as the prince’s lance shatters on his shield, but he keeps his seat. The second reverses the fortune and though Aegon strikes him well it leads to nothing. The last leads to a poor hit by the prince, perhaps the Tully’s second hurt the prince in some minor way? Brynden makes a quick turn and sees His Grace on the ground. “Praise the Warrior!”

The crowd roars when the Tully knight and the prince clash—and roars again, loud and long, when the Tully knight proves the victor. The fallen prince finds his feet—and this time, there is no petulance, no display of rage. He takes off his helm slowly and looks at Ser Brynden long and hard, the dragon’s fire bright in his eyes. It is a chilling look, and then, without a word said, he turns and stalks from the field.

Again, the knights are given time to rest; ther are only four of them left now. And then the herald returns to call their names, “Ser Janden Melcolm shall ride against Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard! And Ser Brynden Tully shall ride against Ser Jace Rollingford!”

“My uncle was not my champion,” Daena says dismissively to Jannia. “I have yet to choose one, and I can hardly steal yours now, can I?” She smiles at the Tully, reaching without looking for the cup to be pressed into her hand, filled with wine—and so it appears there. “Ah, we are very close to the end now!”

“My apologies Your Grace, I have been so enrapt with the excitement I had thought you bestowed your favor.” Jannia blushes for her inattention as she speaks up to the princess, “I suppose it would not be advantageous for both of us to have the same Champion. Though, Ser Jace is doing very well, mayhaps he will bring your favor honor, Ser Janden as well Your Grace.” Jannia smiles brightly washing the red from her cheeks and turns to watch her brother go against Ser Jace.

One loss means there’s still a chance, but as the final four are called back out to the lists, Janden learns he will ride against the man that knocked him out of the White Tourney, one of the two who went on to earn the white cloak, Sorin - now of the Kingsguard. He’d hoped for a chance to meet lances with Sorin again, determined to put up a better showing. Again passing by the ladies, he salutes those gathered before another general one follows to the crowd, lance grabbed and couched, courser led down the line as the man in white races to match him. The crowd watches in anticipation.

Sorin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Janden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Sorin just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Janden strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Janden just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Janden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Janden finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.

One pass rocks Sorin in the saddle. Another does the same to Janden. The third is one of those connections on both sides that leaves big and small pieces of wood all over the place but the same as the last time, Sorin’s just barely the better man and Janden falls before rolling to a stop. He stays down for a few extra seconds, realizing that the true reward of making it to the final two won’t be his, then he climbs back to his feet and waves around to those gathered to show he’s well and good, once more taking a moment to bow toward the box, Jannia and Princess Daena, and the Valeknight leaves the field.

Brynden mounts again, of course it is more difficult each time. Still, the ransoms will be sweet. Helm and lance are once more secured and couched. Another muttered prayer and he’s ready to salute his sister and the princess. The Rollingford too, then the silver courser is called to serve its master once more.

Jace strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Brynden’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.

Jace just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.

Jace lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Brynden lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

Jace’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Brynden strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

Brynden is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.

The joust against Ser Jace begins so well, Brynden shatters a lance on the first pass and almost unseats his opponent. But it is the other rider’s day… after an inconclusive pass Ser Jace strikes Brynden a mighty blow and it is the Tully knight that goes down. Still, he rises and pulls off his helm. “May the Warrior see you theough, ser.” he offers his opponent.

Jannia nods to the newly defeated Janden’s courtesies, smiling warmly and watches as her third and final champion and brother, Brynden, is bested by Ser Jace, a sigh as he rises and she sees he is alright. She turns away from the field to take her seat, with a smile she shrugs off the loss and watches the last match.

Fine contests indeed, and the crowds show their approval for both victors and those who must leave the field. And finally, the herald comes forth to announce, “Ser Jace Rollingford and Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard shall ride against each other again for the victory! May the Seven favour their lances!”

And both champions ride forth, still making a bold show after the day’s hard riding. The smallfolk roar, torn between the man they see as one of their own and the gallant Knight of the Fountain. And then the thunder of hooves rises above that roar. It has begun.

And it is a contest fit to crown the day’s deeds. Again and again they ride at each other, sore and battered but refusing to fall. Shattered lances are tossed aside and fresh ones taken, dented shields adjusted. Until finally, on the seventh pass—a good omen, surely—it is the Rollingford knight who again emerges the victor. And the day’s champion.

Janden watches a final joust that proves the two in it are well worthy of reaching the final, though he looks frustrated at coming so close. Still, getting to the point he did with some of the knights that took part, that’s not bad at all. By the time it’s over, hearty applause comes from the man.

Brynden gets out of his armor as quickly as he can, his brother entering the pavillion to help once the knight’s horse is secured. Brynden adds a tabard over his arming doublet as he exits to watch the prizes awared that his lady-mother and the Westerlings have provided.

And so it draws to a close. Weary and with hair plastered to his brow by sweat, Ser Jace Rollingford rides to the high box where Princess Daena sits and Jannia Tully, the woman named Queen of Love and Beauty at the beginning of the joust.

And there the herald waits for him—and Ser Sorin, a little behind him. When the crowd has still somewhat, that splendid voice rolls over the field again, “With his victory today, Ser Jace Rollingfod has won fine prizes indeed—a silver-maned colt from the Westerling stables and a suit of armour commissioned by Lady Tully herself!”

And indeed, the colt can be seen, held by a Westerling retainer, its mane ablaze in the dying light; the buzz of interest and judicious estimations of the prize’s worth almost drown out the herald’s announcement of gold plate as a prize for Ser Sorin. But silence returns as he announces, “And now Ser Jace, you must choose the new Queen of Love and Beauty!”

And there stands Daena, a smile on her face, certain in her beauty, eyes glittering, her dress flattering her just so. It is clear what she expects. But as he looks up at her and inclines his brow, his smile is troubled, and he looks away again swiftly.

Indeed, he carries no lance for the wreath—and then he calls up, the very image of courtesy, “It would be ill done if I named another Queen of Love and Beauty when the joust is in honour of Lady Jannia Tully’s betrothal. Were my lady wife here, I may well have been tempted to be so ungracious”—that brings laughter—“but in her absence, I cannot be so unchivalrous. My lady…”

He bows his head to Jannia, “You were Queen of Love and Beauty, and so you shall remain!”

The crowd shows its approval—but among the highborn, many are watching Daena—many but not the Rollingford knight who is careful not to look at her. As for the princess herself herself, that brilliant smile turns brittle—and then she turns away, laughing gaily and speaking with her ladies as if nothing had happened.

Ser Humfrey Westerling smiles as his squire Erton leads the colt—a beautiful silver,—onto the field. One of the progeny of the Mare he rode as a boy. When Ser Jace proffers the crown of roses to Jannia his hands slam together. Such chivalry. “Bravo, Ser. Maiden bless you.”

Shock is quickly replaced by gratitude as the champion of the day let Jannia keep her ‘crown,’ a rising blush that starts at her neck and fills her cheeks quickly as she is not used to all the attention. She smiles as the crown is set upon her head. “My thanks ser, even though you bested my champions, you rode with honour, I could ask for no more.”

By the time all the ceremony starts, Andred has once more brought order to the disorder of his ransacked camp. As he sorts through the rubble, he finds nothing apart from wine and few stags have been stolen. The only valuables he owns are ransoms which he has yet to collect.

With defeat sting wearing off just a little, the young squire removes his helm and watches as the champion crowns Lady Jannia Queen of Love and Beauty. He claps with all the rest, and as such he is doing his best to forget the negative and focus on the positive of the day and its great tourney, before he has to pack up and prepare for tomorrow’s events.

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