Blood of Dragons

Trumpets sound, as King Daeron and the royal siblings arrive. Several knights of the Kingsguard escort them, while the rest share a great white pavilion where squires have been busily arming them for the tournament.

The tourney field is surrounded as far as the eye can see by pavilions great and small, and by a sea of smallfolk and other common people pushing and shoving for position to get a better view of the lists. Stands have been set up for the greater men of the city, the guildsmen and merchants, but the most magnificent stands—covered with a richly dyed red canopy—belong to the throng of nobility who watch. Noblewomen dominate, for so many gallant knights have chosen to take the field, but there are older lords and a few who have chosen to try their chance on some other day. At the center, above all the others, is a platform from which a carved series of thrones and a few small seats are placed for the pleasure of the Targaryens and their close companions.

Among the women seated in the stands is a small, slightly motley group consisting mostly of Northerners: the Stark household and associated others. Lady Marian Stark is at the center, her gown daringly low-cut and in rich shades of scarlet and black; Elyn Ryswell is close by, in the same black-and-red for her House. On the other side of Marian is Ryssa Waters, and on Ryssa’s other side is an elegantly mature woman with the same dark brown hair and high-cheekboned face as Ryssa, and the same meticulous attention to her appearance: her mother, Jeyna Sunderland. Ryssa is chattering eagerly away to both at once, her voice giddily high with excitement. When the trumpets sound, Jeyna puts her hand out, and Ryssa immediately falls into a properly reverent silence, turning to watch the entry of the royal party with wide eyes.

And beneath that red canopy, at the back of the stands, many banners have been hung, and cushions placed, “discreet” indicators of exactly which noble house scions are where. And the green and gold of House Tyrell is not to be missed. All her people are so clad, and they sit on said cushions and are shaded from behind by said banners. But unlike most houses, which sport only their own colors, the Tyrell lady who holds court here is backed by the black and silver banner of her own Saltcliffe husband.

Like so many of the ladies in the stands, Reyna Saltcliffe holds her favor in her hands, a long silken scarf of green and gold, but fringed in that same black and silver. Odd, or perhaps not, given the banner behind her.

Under the grand canopy sheltering the Targaryen group, a few ladies of the princess’ households are seated, Carmella among them. Dressed in a fine new gown of Dondarrion purple she looks eagerly to the lists as she gossips with Jyana, her dearest friend and fellow lady in waiting to Daena. Occasionally she points across the field or towards the stands, but unlike most of the ladies, her hands are empty, she appears to be carrying no favor.

Carmella is given a smile, Jyana wearing her new gown for the tournament and her aquamarine eyes alit with excitement. She has never been to a tournament before, has never witnessed one play out in front of her eyes. And she is seated in one of the best seats of the house. She looks eager, her eyes darting about, and she leans her head to Carmella as she points out something new to her, laughing in excitement, and adjusting her seat now and then. She is fidgety with all the activity, and like a little girl, she can’t seem to sit still.

In shining bronze and gold, Cadan Nymeros Martell entered the joustin as one of the sixty-four who participated in the grand tournament’s opening hours. Wearing considerably lighter armor than most others and looking awfully frail on his sunburst-yellow Dornish sandsteed, he still seemed to fare all right. A good rider and a decent lancer, he was hardly distinguished by his performance but rather through the fancy looks of his armor and the bronze-colored helm he wore. A few others among the Dornish fell from their saddles but the Martell prince seems to have fared well so far, staying in the tournament despite an attempt at his life ( or that’s what it seemed like, crashing into that huge knight ). Staying.. and surviving.

Now, the time has come for the Dornishman to ride again, and he’s seen getting ready, receiving a new lance and shield from a young squire where the Dornish are preparing. He is already mounted, his steed stepping around a little nervously.

Ser William Waxley, the royal steward, can be seen consulting with the handsome young king, and after a bow moves down the steps to speak to a herald on the ground below. And with that, it seems the tourney is to resume as the man announces, “For the next joust, Ser Bryon of House Waynwood will meet Prince Cadan of House Martell!” His voice carries, and the restive crowd now finds release as it cheers (or boos, for the Dornishmen have drawn a fair bit of enmity).

Kellyn stomps back towards the Targ tent after a brief spat with Him during the break. Not Jonn in this case, her brother. How he managed to get this far… The Lannister noble pauses outside, quickly smoothing her hair and composing herself before going in to join Rhaena’s ladies in waiting. If she has a favor with her, it certainly isn’t visible. But she may simply have that much faith it won’t be needed.

Elmer, meanwhile, is just a smirking presence amongst the knights waiting for their joust. His poor squire has the put upon look of a lad living a life of near bullying and exhaustion as he adjusts the Crakehall’s armor just a little.

With cheeks lightly flushed to echo the darker hues of her gown, Elyn Ryswell, seated with the Stark contingent, murmurs the occasional aside to Marian, but mostly, pale eyes are glued to the field. Catching sight of Cadan causes a brief moue of distaste, but she reaches over to tug Ryssa’s arm a moment later, the smile returning.

A faint gasp of astonishment rises up from Ryssa at the pairing of names. She exchanges a quick glance with Elyn, giving a slightly shaky smile in return, and her hands twine more tightly around the green silk scarf that she holds. Ryssa leans forward, peering eagerly through the crowd towards the field below, her eyes lighting with anticipation.

Jeyna notes the name as well, and angles her glance sideways at her daughter for a moment before turning back towards the field, eyes narrowing in critical consideration of the young knight.

Atop a small black sandsteed that might be familiar to those regular to the Keep, Ser Jossart watches silently as his prince is called against Ser Bryon. The Vaith knight hasn’t spoken to many throughout the morning’s events and his amber eyes have rarely strayed towards the crowd, save towards the royal family. Even then those glances are swift and only on occasion. He gives a nod to Cadan when the prince departs, but offers no words of encouragement.

Ser Bryon Waynwood, the Knight of Ironoaks, rides onto the tourney field atop his grey mare, a large stock breed that would never win in a race, but is built of the type that climbs up and down the mountains of the Vale. The beast’s barding bears the green and black of House Waynwood, as does the rider in the saddle. His armor is simple, yet elegant. The green enameled metal is chased in silver and a polished wheel in black steel adorns his breastplate. He bears a battered sheild with a wagon wheel as broken as his byname.

Ser Bryon’s riding skills have been his saving grace durning his last few jousts, though it is obvious that his skills are a bit lacking when it comes to handling a lance. He hefts his lance a bit awkwardly, but pulls his shield in deftly as he nods to the squire who is checking his reigns for the upcoming joust. Fluttering behind his helm is a long banner bearing the stylized form of a fish in the colors of Bar Emmon.

Night to the Dornish prince’s day, the Iron Serpent stands outside his pavilion of sable-and-silver near the lists; encased in black steel, he is a still, hard-faced oasis amidst the brightly coloured chaos of the pageantry. Tossing his gauntlets to a page, he accepts a waterskin and tilts his head back, near draining it in one go and splashing his face with the rest.

Flicking the water from his eyes, he narrows them against the glare, studying the two men who ride into the lists.

Cadan seems to have prepared enough and now makes his way out into the field, staring out through the slits in his helm at his foe way over there. The near-reflective shield is hoisted up and the Prince prepares for another run at it. Lance is readied.. And the joust begins.

Ser Bryon reigns in his horse to meet the challenger, his helmet coming down over his smiling face with a loud clang.

Cadan makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Bryon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Leading his great, gray mount back onto the field in front of his pavillion, Ser Bonifer removes his gauntlets to rub the beast down, allowing a young Buckwell squire to attend to the tack simply because his own strength is better saved for tilting.

As the pair of contestants are announced, his verdant gaze turns towards the lists just in time to see the initial charge.

A clangor of impact, and the crowd cheers as both knights remain unhorsed. Well, most of the crowd. Some curse and shout imprecations at the Dornishman, and encourage Bryon to do various anatomically impossible things with his lance in relation to the prince.

After the first impact, Cadan seems to be somewhat shaken and for the second go, he receives yet another new lance, sliding it down into his hand before he brings Sunstrider around again to ride once more.

Bryon keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Cadan makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

“Oh, now we are late, and what if someone has taken our places?” a voice can be heard complaining as a pair of ladies make their way back to the stands. “Have you no interest at all in seeing who the champion will be, Aisling?” The complaints come from pale-haired, exquisitely garbed Sylvina, who rolls her eyes at her step-sister as the two of them return to where they had previously been seated, watching the first rounds of jousting that whittled the field down to only sixteen knights. “Oh, look there,” the younger of the two exclaims as they reached their place just in time to watch Ser Bryon bite the dust. “I do not see why the king would allow those hostages to compete. I am sure they will not be very chivalric at all. Just look at that.”

Carmella rises a little in her chair to watch as the two knights meet and there’s a gasp from the Dondarrion girl as the sound reaches her ears. A sound that has rung out constantly all morning, but it still causes a reaction. She leans over and talks animatedly to Jyana as the Waynwood knight is pushed from the saddle and she is likely one of the few among the crowd that is looking pleased by the outcome.

Rising from the dust of the field, Ser Bryon takes of his helm and shakes his head, as if to clear it. The grimace on his face barely contains his contempt for his opponent, though he nods curtly at the Dornish Prince as he mutters under his breath.

His eyes scan the crowd for a moment, catching someone’s eyes for a brief instant, then he turns to the squire who has collected his horse, leading his mare off of the tourney field.

At the results of the second pass, Elyn winces noticeably and shoots a quick, worried glance at Ryssa before leaning over to speak to Marian.

At every crush of the lance, Jyana winces when Cadan’s lance strikes Bryon. She rises on her feet, looking towards the field wide-eyed to see if the young man was hurt. Given the crowd, she can’t see Ryssa, or her reaction. But she does chew on her bottom lip a little bit. “I hope he isn’t too injured….” she murmurs softly to Carmella.

Ryssa lets out another gasp, higher and sharper this time, and she nearly rises from her seat as she sees Bryon tumble out of his saddle. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, and she sits frozen in anxious tension. Only when Bryon rises, helm off and unharmed, does Ryssa let her breath out, and her eyes meet his - then close in a brief moment of gratitude. Jeyna reaches out to pat Ryssa’s arm soothingly, offering a few murmured words of sympathy to her daughter.

A hiss from the crowd, and mostly boos, is Cadan Martell’s reward for his victory. Even on the royal stands, a few of the nobility are more than happy to show their displeasure, and certainly no one seems intent on stopping them. As to the king, his grace does as he has done for most of the day’s jousting, give a hearty applause to show his pleasure and then gesture for the next competitors to be called.

“For the next joust, Ser Elmer of House Crakehall will meet Seth Blackwood!”

A pair of liveried servants hurry onto the field with wooden rakes, quickly smoothing out the dirt where the destriers trampled the earth.

Very unchivalrous of the Dornishman, sending one of the Home Team’s knights into the dust. Cadan is visibly shuddering when he brings Sunstrider to a stop, the hand holding the lance more than the rest of him. Then, when it seems that the Prince is half-broken from the two impacts he received in turn.. he raises his lance up into the air in a sign of victory. Any cheers from his countrymen are drowned out in the booing that ensues. Cadan makes his way over to where his squire and the other Dornish are located, collapsing down onto a crude bench to be covered in water and taken care of.

Elmer mounts up as the last charge begins, adjusting his seat and taking care of all those last moment preparations. The rather plain looking brown palfrey trots out onto the field when all is prepared. The knight pulls his mount up short in view of the royal stands and bows his head to the king in acknowledgement. Obeisance done, the horse trots back to the starting location. Elmer glance through the helm and attempts a wink, unseen as it may be, to the people sitting before the Lannister banner in the stands. His head lowers in acknowledgement of his opponent before lowering the lance to joust.

Seated in front of the banner for House Piper, Ammena gently touches a handkerchief to her neck. The Piper banner is a good distance away from the Royal stands, causing her to sit forward in her seat and crane her neck to see the clash of the competitors.

The sound of the crowd is enough to inform her who has come out as victor for the match.

“The Prince rode well,” Reyna remarks to one of her kinswomen, her fan moving air lazily over her face as she swishes it. Unlike most here today, she looks quite fresh and unweary—but she has just arrived, having eschewed the earlier contests in favor of this, with so many winnowed out already.”

The long figure of Triston Templetom watches from the tent that Arryn knights are sharing.

Seth Blackwood rides onto the opposite end of the field once it the way is cleared. The lancer is clad head to foot in solid steel, finely polished with an onyx finish. He wears a tightly padded scarlet jupon over his cuirass. Attached to one arm is a heater shield etched with a flock of ravens on scarlet surrounding a dead weirwood upon a black escutcheon. A bascinet tops the tourney-suit off, its conical visor vaguely suggesting the beak of the raven that is his family’s totem.

The young scion of Blackwood has fared well enough in the tourney so far through a combination of luck and those skills bequeathed to him through his training by one of his house’s most estimable fighters, the famed Balian. With ashen lance in arm, he stands ready for another tilt.

Elmer keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Seth keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Elmer strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, its lance.

Seth keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Seth is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.

Boars are tough creatures. The Blackwood knight’s blow hits, but not enough to unhorse Elmer. The large man just seems to absorb it, or at least give the appearance of such. Elmer wheels his horse at the end of the grounds and turns for a second round. A far more successful round that ends in a loud, “Hah!” from the knight - and a rather disappointed look from his sister in the stands.

The Boar turns to look back and bows his head to his opponent, a bit more gracious, perhaps, than he might have been had he faced one of the Dornish. “Well fought, Ser.”

As the two bold warriors come to grips, their lances make loud cracks against their respective shields, but do not break. It’s at the second charge in the lists that there’s a result, and the Blackwood esquire is driven to the ground. The crowd cheers, especially from among those knights and lords in the stands from the rich Westerlands.

The herald announces, “For the next joust, Ser Axell of House Farman and Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe!”

Stunned a good few moments by the fall, the Blackwood rolls and rises with some difficulty given the bulky armor. Not unused to losing a tilt or two, once he stands he makes a graceful bow to the still horsed Crakenhall. “An honor, ser,” he calls out with all the dignity and bravado he can muster. Assisted back into his saddle, Seth rides towards his family’s pavillion with nary another look to the crowd.

With another glance, this time at Marian, Elyn’s opinion on the latest tilt is clear from the concern and unhappiness drawing the corners of her mouth downward. Craning her neck, she searches out Seth’s form,

As the two bold warriors come to grips, their lances make loud cracks against their respective shields, but do not break. It’s at the second charge in the lists that there’s a result, and the Blackwood esquire is driven to the ground. The crowd cheers, especially from among those knights and lords in the stands from the rich Westerlands.

The herald announces, “For the next joust, Ser Axell of House Farman and Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe!”

Ryssa’s breathing is still a little unsteady, and her fingers still tangle in the fabric of the scarf, but now it is her turn to look towards Marian, offering a smile of encouragement to her lady who sits with her gaze fixed intently on Seth as he rides. When the Blackwood knight falls, Ryssa tenses once more, the anxiety on her face a smaller mirror of Marian’s expression, and both breathe a sigh of relief when Seth returns to his horse.

Trotting evenly to the sidelines is Ser Axell Farman in full plate armor. The silver glimmer from his armor contrasts sharply with the Farman deep sea blue, though not as much as it has in the morning after the last two rounds of narrow victory. Axell adjusts his helmet and waves the lance as he prepares for the upcoming match.

Tightening the straps of his breastplace, the ironman watches the Blackwood knight’s joust, turning away without comment as the man is unseated. But the grimace on his face in the last moment before he takes his serpent-fanged helm from the squire and dons it suggests that he is less than pleased with the result. Tugging on his gauntlets and mounting, he settles his shield and lance as they are handed up to him.

Riding to his end of the lists, he steadies himself there; a tilt of his lance to the royal box, a nod to the Tyrell pavilion and he waits, still as a rock.

With most of his armor on, Sir Janden Melcolm can be seen sitting on the sideline watching intently for the joust before his. Only being his second jousting tourney, Sir Janden remains ignorant of the styles of his opponents. As was evident in his long and grueling second joust of the day, Sir Janden still has knowledge left to gain in competition.

Before the joust begins, Sir Janden takes a quick look to see who has returned to the crowds after the break. A look of optimism can be seen on his face - he hope to make a bit of a name for himself this week.

Now Reyna takes more notice of things. She sits up straight in her seat and leaves off fanning her face, the better to see. “Frant, sit -down-,” she carps, then she bends her head in return as Dagur rides past. “Be still, all of you.”

Having shown a little more interest in this joust—Seth Blackwood is kin, after all—Aisling also shakes her head as the young man finds himself defeated by the Crakehall knight. “A tough draw, that, though he did well earlier,” she comments, to no one in particular as Sylvina is speaking to another young lady, deeply intent on pointing out various of the contestants to each other and debating their relative merits.

After picking out a lance, the Farman knight rides to the field and raises his lance towards Dagur in anticipation for the start.

“I need some heavier armor,” Cadan mutters where he’s preparing for the next round and shortly thereafter, a heavier padded gambeson is brought to him, even if he seems to be keeping the bronze-covered heavy scale mail that he wore for the last tilt. Lances are inspected and Sunstrider is being taken care of by his squire while the Prince is using every moment to rest, only showing the faintest interest in the other jousts.. at least when no Dornishmen are riding.

Ser Jossart watches as his prince is outfitted in weightier armor and offers a few muttered words, likely something akin to congratulations. But rather than spend time chatting with Cadan, his amber eyes are turned towards the lists, watching each bout in turn.

As Ser Dagur prepares to charge, a few eyes turn to his lady, wondering. Others still might lean over to make remarks to one another, and indeed one might see one of the king’s companions, a knight in his middle years, whispering some remark into his ear. The king nods briefly, smiling as he watches, and full of anticipation.

And as the herald’s booming announcement drowns under the tide of cheers, boos and wagers—the former, notably, coming for the Iron Serpent largely from the ranks of hard-bitten knights rather than the commons—he is still no longer.

Exploding into a charge, dust spraying from his mount’s hooves, he hurtles down the length of the field, his lance dropping level and across his body towards his opponent.

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

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

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

After checking his mount’s shoes, and having his squire see to his armor, Ser Bonifer watches with interest as the Saltcliffe and Farman square off. He applauds the Serpent’s performance, though his eyes following his teetering opponent sympathetically.

Cadan looks up towards the lists and the crowds there, especially to the area where the Greater houses are seated, his eyes searching through the throngs of people. His gaze remains there, even as the next two riders go at each other.

Tossing his lance aside as he slows to a halt at the other end of the lists, the Iron Serpent waits as a squire runs forward with a replacement; his mount tosses its head restlessly and whickers. Hefting his new lance, then, he turns the courser in a half-circle.

And once again, there is no pause, no warning—only the sudden charge, his lance swinging down with assured steadiness.

“Oh, well-ridden, my lord,” Reyna says, almost to herself as she claps her hands together once. Axell receives a rather derisive glance from this child of of the chivalric Reach; her eyes follow Dagur down to the other end of the lists. If she notices, the Rose of Highgarden, that she is being whispered about, she gives no indication.

Triston retreats back into the busy crowd underneath the Arryn-blue tarp. Amidst the running squires and befitted knightsmen, he disappears to no doubt ready himself for a joust.

Axell steadies himself as a squire rushes up with a skin of water. The Farman knight takes a large gulp before tossing it and re-arms himself.

Axell raises his lance once again, and charges forward.

Dagur makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Axell makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Unable to view much of the actual impact of the jousting knights, Ammena sits back in her chair. At the sound of the roaring crowd and subseqent -crack- of lance on shield, she touches two fingers to her temple and furrows a brow.

Dabbing her handkerchief once more to her neck, she turns to an attendant and asks, “No more wine. Just some water.” Taking a shallow sip of water, Ammena once more turns her gaze towards the lists, her eyes wandering across the sea of commoners and fields of nobility.

The crash of the lances brings cheers, as it always does, and even more as the knight from Fair Isle can be seen managing to stay in the saddle despite the well-placed blow from the ironman. And this is proved not to be a fluke, as the two now match one another blow for steady blow. The crowd cheers yet louder, and wagers begin to fly as perhaps a son of Fair Isle will beat a son of the Iron Islands ... though, one prays, in a less bloody way than in the ancient battles between reavers and westermen.

Dagur’s next blow draws gasps, but so does the one he takes, and no one gasps louder than his lady. She has half-risen before she recalls herself, when one of her cousins tugs on Reyna’s skirts. “It sounded very loud,” Reyna says a bit lamely, settling once more and unwinding the scarf that has tied itself about her hand.

Kellyn mills about the royal stands, moving towards the edges of her own group so she can catch Carmella and Jyana’s eye. Share a bit in their companionship as they watch the jousting below. She inclines her head and murmurs something to her friends before stepping forward again to stand near the princess.

The look of surprise in Carmella’s eyes as she turns to gossip with Jyana would likely suggest that she had expected the Iron Serpent to win quite easily. She shares a few words with the Jewel and lifts a hand to wave to Kellyn, catching the Lannister’s glance in their direction.

“I think it is best to see who performs well here today, before considering who to bestow any favours upon for the rest of the week. Do you not think so too, Aisling?” asks Sylvina with a sidelong glance at her step-sister, as if attempting to draw her into the conversation with the other young maidens. She barely waits at all for a response, however, before turning back to continue speaking with the others. Aisling, meanwhile, simply shakes her head at Sylvina, and looks back out onto the field.

As Kellyn approaches them, Jyana turns to look at her, smiling as she inclines her head to the field. “It’s rather exciting,” she murmurs. “I’ve never seen a tournament before so…” She pauses, blinking as Kellyn murmurs to the both of them, and then? She tosses her head back and laughs.

The ritual repeats itself. A moment’s adjustment to his shield-strap at the end of the lists—the Farman knight’s blow was a fair one—a brief pause as a new lance is brought, the turn and the charge.

Save that this time, in the instant before he spurs his horse, the Iron Serpent nods to his opponent whether the man sees it across the length of the field or no.

Axell tosses the lance down as a squire approaches him. Axell barks something at the teen and the squire passes a piece of cloth to Axell. Axell wipes some of the sweat around his eyes as he focuses his gaze on the Iron Serpent. He picks up a lance from the squire and rides toward his end of the list.

One of the squires from another Dornish knight is called up to the Prince, then he’s sent away again after a moment of quiet words. A minute later the boy returns, bringing with him two pieces of silk cloth - one scarlet red and one bright orange. Cadan has both tied to his arm in preparation for the next joust.

Dagur keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Axell keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

“The Gods must be angry with us,” Reyna groans as another pass does not result in an unseated knight. She resumes fanning, this time with agitated speed. “Come now, my lord, make me proud…” she urges under her breath, looking to Dagur’s end of the lists.

The crowd roars as the westerman holds the Iron Serpent at bay, yet again trading good blow for good blow. Yet more wagers are made, and some are paid for those who thought for certain it would not go beyond three passes.

Now the joust even draws the interest of some of the Dornish and Cadan, the favors tight about his arm, moves up to watch as the third bout still has the meeting undecided.

As the Iron Serpent draws rein and waits for yet another lance, it is not the squire who brings it this time but a green-eyed knight who bears more than a passing resemblance to the Lannisters. There is a quick exchange between them, lost in the crowd’s clamour; whatever the man says, it earns him a light rap on the head from Dagur. Laughing, the other knight tosses him an irreverent salute and steps back.

And, dark eyes, gleaming behind the silvered fangs that protect his face, the ironman readies and launches himself into the charge.

Axell adjusts himself on the horse once again as the same squire fetches a cloth and a skin of water. The Farman knight barely takes a sip, however. He checks his armor and lance twice before riding back.

Dagur’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 breaks.

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

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

Blue-green eyes widen, Jyana having stood up and approached the edge of the royal seats so she can watch as Axell unhorses Dagur. “I don’t believe it!” she murmurs softly to Carmella, her jaw hanging open. Someone out there is going to make bank on that bet, whoever managed to bet on Axell.

At the start of the pass, Reyna rises, and she flinches from the resounding cracking of lances. But she drops back into her seat in absolute disbelief at the sight of the Iron Serpent in the dust on his backside—and says nothing at all.

Janden claps looking impressed as he quickly leaves to his tent to prepare for his joust.

Unlady-like as it is, Elyn, too, is caught with a fly trap for a mouth - which she quickly clamps shut. Turning wide eyes to her companions, Marian and Ryssa are given arches of her brows. It seems to be all the lady needs.

The Dondarrion girl’s expression is a match for Jyana’s as she too cannot believe what she’s just seen. Carmella looks over at Kellyn, jaw slightly open as there seems to be a hush around them.

Kellyn is ... somewhat surprised by the outcome, but she presses her lips together firmly. She turns to look at Carmella and Jyana briefly, then goes to retrieve a drink for the young princess.

The roar is tremendous, as the three silver vessels of Fair Isle are carried successfully to the end of the list by Ser Axell, though much dented and scarred by the Iron Serpent’s skillful blows with the lance.

Ryssa is just as dumbfounded as Elyn, but she manages to keep her mouth closed even though her eyes widen just as sharply, and she holds out her hands in a bewildered little shrug. She shakes her head helplessly, and darts a worried glance over to where she has seen Reyna in the stands.

There is a bounce in the squire’s step as he approaches the Farman knight. As he raises his viser, Axell can be seen with a clear expression of disbelief. He turns his horse in the direction of Dagur and gives a light head bow, though he does not ride to the Iron Serpent, but instead rides off to his tent.

Elmer waits for his fellow Westerlander’s successful return to the tents and takes a brief detour to clap Almer on the back and offer a few words of praise in a deep resonant tone. That poor squire? Busy at work on the lance.

The cloud of splinters and dust clears—and finds the Iron Serpent on the ground. For a moment he merely lies there—and then, rolling to his side, he draws himself to his feet upon the broken shaft of the lance he yet holds.

Tossing it aside, he tugs off his helm, his jaw clenched; still, he returns the Farman knight’s nod civilly enough before returning to his pavilion.

The herald comes forward after the knights have cleared the field. “For the next joust, Ser Bonifer of House Buckwell, formerly captain of a royal galley, meets Ser Janden of House Melcolm!”

Ammena smiles politely towards some nearby noblemen who make a comment about the day’s events. At the resounding sound of the crash of the two lancers, she quickly turns her head to catch the clash. After a few moments of craning to see the outcome, she settles in her chair and gazes for a moment towards the Tyrell banner.

Tall on his rented horse, Ser Janden Melcolm rides in with determined posture. The horse resembles the simple type of mare that was used in the cavalry during the conquest of Dorne. His armor is simple and worn, but it fits the tall and skinny man well.

Her loyalty is, of course, to the Valemen. As Melcolm mounts up, the Jewel returns to her seat and starts clapping from where she is as the man is announced. This should be interesting, and she’s smiling from ear to ear. She’s loving this, she really is.

Ser Bryon Waynwood re-emerges from the pavilions of the knights of the Vale, his armour gone and his dress immaculate, uncharacteristic for one who had just had his turn at the joust. He watches as Ser Janden takes his place for the tilt, silent and sullen.

Nodding to his squire, Bonifer accepts his helm and throws his upon his head, then tugs on his gauntlets after hauling himself into the saddle.

As he rides to his end of the lists, he looks off to where the Iron Serpent has retreated and then down the lane to his own opponent.

Before throwing his visor shut, he looks to where the Stark household is gathered and gives a nod before raising his shield to close the visor with a snap.

The big gray upon which he sits is adorned in the same bright blue as his rider, and bears a pair of antlers upon his brow. Tossing his head with anticipation, the warhorse stamps the ground impatiently.

The announcement of the next joust is enough to wipe all but traces of surprise from Elyn’s face, replacing it with a mixture of expectation, concern and excitement. Turning back to the field, her fingers clasp together before her as pale eyes seek out one of the knights riding forward to tilt.

The young knight circles his horse and takes a lance from a young boy. He turns towards Ser Bonifer and salutes before settling in steadily on his horse. He then raises his lance while staring down his opponent attentively before the charge.

At the sound of the herald announcing her Buckwell cousin, Ammena edges herself towards the end of her seat and brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. She takes a deep gulp of water and waits.

Ser Janden, seeing Ser Bonifer charge, begins doing so himself. His ride is simple yet steady.

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

Janden makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

Ryssa darts a quick smile up at Elyn, encouraging and bright. Her eyes light even brighter as she catches sight of movement near the pavilion of the knights of the Vale - not Ser Janden leaving, but Ser Bryon arriving. She turns back to the joust, watching with eager curiosity.

The first pass earns a quiet gasp and an eager clap of Elyn’s hands, even as she casts Ryssa and Marian a sidelong glance before turning back to the field.

An unintelligible roar comes from The Waynwood Knight over the distance and voise of the tourney fields, clapping and urging on Ser Janden.

The thud of his opponent’s lance reverberates through the Buckwell’s body even as it directed away by the knight’s shield.

Reinging Tiny to a hault, Bonifer draws him about and accepts another lance from his squire. He raises lance in a salute to Ser Janden for a tilt well-ridden.

Reyna misses the first pass of the next joust, as she is sitting and glowering at some distant point in a manner that is decidedly sulky. “Cocky little whelp,” she mutters, not loudly enough to be heard by more than her immediate huddle. “I suppose he’ll be strutting and bragging now.” This last she adds while joining the crowd in absent-minded applause.

Without a good start at the charge, Ser Janden is unable to defend himself from a strong blow. After landing a decent hit of his own, the youth noticeably spends the rest of his energy staying onto his horse, needing to embrace the animal’s neck to stay on. Arriving at the other end, Ser Janden sits up again and shakes his head in disappointment. He then sees his opponent’s salute, and the man of Melcolm happily salutes in return.

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

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

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

Ser Bryon shouts his approval to the Valeman, his brow creased in lines of worry.

Another gasp and another clap of Elyn’s hands - but she’s clearly quite pleased by how this joust is turning out so far.

Reyna is not allowed her sulk for long. As the next pass rumbles past, one of her companions comes to the fore to lay a golden hand on her arm and murmur consolingly in her ear—and it is no kinswoman of hers, but the lady Keira Sand.

If anyone wanted to talk, it is good fodder; Reyna not only smiles at the lady, but keeps her at her right hand, ever a place of acceptance and equality. So not only is Almer Connington’s mistress sitting amongst the nobility, but she is sitting beside a Tyrell in full view of the court and anyone else who cares to see.

Cadan rises up after a long rest, slowly letting his squire remove his armor - seems the wait will be longer than expected. He dusts himself off and drinks copious amounts of water before walking over to a better position from where he can watch the jousting. If Corrent is nearby, the Martell slowly approaches him.

Flying down the lane upon Tiny’s back, Ser Janden’s blow glances off Bonifer’s shield and the Buckwell knight is able to place his own lance with expert precision.

Dropping the remains of his lance, Ser Bonifer is quite surprised to bring his mount around and find the other knight still has his seat. As he accepts another lance and a quick splash of water, he leaves his visor open long enough to nod down the lists to the Melcolm man.

Ser Janden had thought his first pass was bad, but he seemed entirely lost in his second. Failing to place a decent blow while simultaneously receiving the hardest hit of the hour, Ser Janden actually was lifted off of his horse before grabbing the ride’s mane franticly.

Jeyna Sunderland certainly notices the new appearance in the pavilion next to Lady Reyna. Her eyebrows arch up, and she leans in to murmur to her daughter, giving a significant glance across the stands at Keira Sand as she does. Ryssa nods to her mother, following Jeyna’s gaze with slightly worried curiosity as she listens. But most of her attention is on the field, and on Elyn.

Triston emerges from the Arryn tent fully armored save his helm. He stands at the edge between pole and post, watching the latest joust.

With a silent gasp at the clashing jousters, Ammena leans forward so far in her chair that she leaves it. Quickly standing to recover her balance, she slowly settles back down and glances between the young knight and her cousin.

Ser Bryon can be seen rechecking Ser Triston’s armour and speaking to him as he points at different knights up and down the field, seemingly giving him last minute advice.

At the other end, Ser Janden allows a boy to get him another lance in hope for some better luck. He looks exhausted and does not even notice his opponent’s nod at the other end of the lists before receiving his new lance. He then turns around and looks warily at the proven Ser Bonifer.

Bonifer makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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 breaks.

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

Triston stands still save for the jerking Ser Bryon’s adjustment cause. His eyes are trained to the field, face schooled to careful complacency, but he listens intently and nods now and then as the fellow knight speaks. Ser Janden’s upset bring’s Triston’s excitement to the fore and he points to the winner, “Good show!”

The Vale triumphs! If these were more modern times, Jyana would be leaping out from her chair waving a foam finger. However, since it is not, she instead claps enthusiastically at Jandren’s victory.

Ser Bryon yells happily in surprise, his civility lost as he cheers Ser Janden’s name along with the crowd.

For a long while, the Gargalen pavilion (a massive construct done in gaudy yellows and reds) has remained silent and uneventful. Now, as the tilt between the Buckwell and Melcolm knights draw to a close, the entrance to the gargantuan tent bursts open with a flourish and Ser Corrent Gargalen strides out, a beautifully silver-filigreed goblet in hand. As the Buckwell knight goes crashing down from his horse, a small smile twists his lips but it is soon covered behind the wide mouth of the goblet as he tilts his head back for a long drink.

Carmella cheers along with Jyana, supporting the Vale in this round for her friend’s benefit, though Jyana holds the lion’s share of then enthusiasm. “Well done,” she says to Jyana, still clapping. “I hope the entire tourney is as exciting as these last rounds have been!”

Somewhere, and busily prepping, the Jousting Lord, Whalon Rosby, glowers at his page as he rushes towards him and says something breathlessly. The roar that illicits is, thankfully, drowned out by the cheering crowd. Not for the ears of ladies, you know. He cuffs the younger man upside the head, and points back to a tent.

“It would seem that a steady seat is worth its weight in gold today,” notes Aisling to her uncle, Henly Snow, as he joins her and the Ryger contingent with which she is seated. “Perhaps you ought to have entered today? You ride well, if not as well as I do,” she adds, an unusual hint of good humour in her voice. It would seem the tournament is, after all, something of an enjoyable experience.

Jollied back into good humor, Reyna applauds Bonifer’s unseating politely, though she looks rather absently past them toward the Saltcliffe pavilion. “You don’t think he’s hurt, do you?” she asks her companion. “He looked alright when he left the lists…”

Ser Janden begins his ride quicker than the past two passes. Determined, he strikes his best blow of the tournament, completely shattering his lance. He finishes his ride with smile on his face, and then turns around happy to see his opponent falling off his horse. He waits for Ser Bonifer to rise, and then salutes him before raising his broken lance to cheers.

Putting the spurs to Tiny’s flanks, Bonifer and the big gray rush down the lane, the warhorse throwing clods of loosend dirt as he picks up speed.

As he focuses in on the Melcom knight’s chest, but as his own lance is impacting his opponent he is struck, throwing his own aim. He thinks to keep his seat for a moment, but as Tiny thunders on, he slips to the ground and rolls over a few times before stopping.

Looking skyward in disbelief, he hoists himself up and returns Janden’s salute before exiting, followed by his squire who leads the big gray.

After liveried men hurriedly clean up the field, including some young boys digging great shards of splintered lances from the earth, the herald announces the next contest. “In the next tilt, Ser Triston of House Templeton, the heir to Ninestars, meets Ser Corrent of House Gargalen!”

“I certainly hope so,” Jyana murmurs, her eyes scanning around for those she supports. “It’s bound to get more interesting. I hear Almer is competing today, and I’m proud of the current group thus far. The Vale has plenty of representation. It should please Uncle greatly.” She inclines her head over at Carmella, and she smiles. “Let’s play a game and see how many favors we can identify.”

Axell picks up his pace toward the field as he hears the roar from the crowd. Without his armor on, Axell stands on the sidelines in Farman blue as he asks a squire about the outcome and then nods.

Janden rides slowly back to his tent so the next joust can take place and so he can care for his wounds.

Triston just barely waits long enough for his helm to be fit to his head before he walks briskly to the awaiting mount; a fine horse, built for strength instead of speed. With small assistance, he seats himself upon the saddle and couches the lance with an experienced grasp.

Just as she settles onto her chair, the rush of the crowd and the crack of the lances cause Ammena to urgently rise to her feet. On seeing the outcome of the match, she lowers herself oh so slowly into her seat. Taking a sip from her goblet, her green eyes fix on the tent of the young knight who unseated Ser Bonifer.

“Go at them, Ser Corrent,” Cadan smirks, moving about with ease now that he’s not clad in all his armor and padded clothing. He has moved over to the Gargalen pavilion, his squire trailing behind. “I expect to have both you and Jossart with me into the eight who will be remaining.” A glance over at the Connington pavilion is followed by a rather doubtful look across the prince’s features, however.

Ser Bryon meets Janden at the pavilions with a clap on his shoulder and a congradulatory word. He waves his hand at some of his own retainers who scamper off to assist the knight while he turns to watch the next match, his face full of eager anticipation.

Looking positively stunned by the outcome of the joust, Elyn can but blink a moment. Craning her head, she heaves a sigh of relief when the unhorsed Buckwell rises and makes his way off the field, though she looks as if she would rather be following him than sitting.

A long tongue snakes out of young Gargalen’s mouth, wiping up the last drops of wine dotting his lips in a truly serpentine lick. With a toss of his head, he straightens out his body and reaches out with his arms, as his squires rush forward to armor him in the scarlet and gold of his House. When his horse is brought to him, he leaps upon it with explosive enthusiasm then lowers his left arm as one particularly young boy struggles with his great round shield. The lad gathers his strength in one final heave and manages to slide it over the Dornishman’s arm and a lance is soon placed in grasp of the other. With a tug of the reins, the Gargalen rides to his end of the field, then pauses a moment. With a grave formality, he lowers his lance in the direction of Prince Cadan.

Once more, Ryssa finds herself holding her breath, waiting to see if an unhorsed knight will rise again,and giving anxiously sympathetic glances towards her companions. Relief at the knight’s safety mingles with disappointment at his loss yet again as Bonifer makes his way off the field, and Ryssa offers a sad little smile over to Elyn.

The mount shows the eagerness the man atop does not, Triston’s horse stamps in place and lets out a whicker. The knight checks himself one final time and signals the ready. With a kick of his spurred boots, the pair start down the lane.

With a great whoop, the Gargalen knight sets heels to his horse and both mount and rider surge forward down the lane, eager to meet their adversary.

Triston strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.

Corrent keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

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

Carmella laughs and appeares delighted in the game as soon she and Jyana have their heads together as they scan the arms of the knights, looking for tell-tale colors. “I’m surprised she gave her favor so early, perhaps she is over-eager after all,” Carmella says, pointing towards the arm of one knight. But as Ser Triston and Ser Corrent are brought forward to face off her expression grows a little less jovial. “Damn that man,” she says as she, and everyone else, watches Ser Triston fall from his saddle.

The Waynwood Knight throws his hands up in the air, groaning at the tilt.

Yet again a Dornishman wins in the lists, and the crowd shows its displeasure with boos and catcalls. A few polite members of the nobility give half-hearted applause, save of course those hostages in the stands, who provide something like an exaggerated cheer in defiance of the imprecations.

There is nothing left to do but fall, and the Templeton knight does so with little grace. He’s ass over head in the instant his fingers leave the reigns. The horse gallops on as if nothing happened while Triston somersaults to a halt.

“Oh, now that will just put more swag in his swagger,” Reyna remarks of Corrent as the Gargalen’s opponent is unseated. “He’ll be even more insufferable now.” Keira nods quietly, forbearing to speak at all as she watches for the next combatants to appear.

She wisely says nothing, though her eyes look concerned for her cousin as he falls. “Triston proves himself a sturdy young man as ever,” Jyana says with a small laugh. “I remember vaguely when we were children, he would fall and get back up again as if it were nothing.” She claps for both combatants. “....at least I hope it’s the same in this case anyway,” she adds, hiding a quiet wince.

The Dornish knight’s celebration of victory is more muted than might be expected for one of his arrogance and bravado. Corrent tosses his lance aside and flicks open the visor of his helmet with an almost impatient jerk of his gauntlet-covered hand. A keen observer could see his lips opening wide to gulp in several breaths of fresh air before he leans waaaay back in his saddle and lets loose the wildest, sharpest cry possible for a post-adolescent man to achieve. The obnoxious yelp lingers in the air for a few moments, as if defying the displeasure of the crowd, before the Gargalen finishes it off with a loud laugh and a shake of his head. With a quick tap of his heels, he trots back to his pavilion and swings down in time to start on his next goblet of wine.

Cadan awaits Corrent’s return to the Dornish pavillions with a great smile across his features and he even cheers for the young lad through the booing from the lists. “One with me, just Ser Jossart left then.. and.. Is Ser Aidan still here?” He looks around, trying to spot the knight of the Twilight. “I did not miss his joust, did I? Or was he struck down earlier?” He frowns, sending his squire to try to find the man.

Interest sparks in Ryssa’s eyes as she sees Ser Triston ride forth - but he too falls, and another wave of disappointment is poised to rush out of Ryssa. But then Triston makes his unorthodox dismount, and a bright, startled laugh bubbles up from Ryssa at the sight of the somersault. “Well. Nobody can fault his style,” she murmurs.

“I believe he is still in the running, my prince,” answers Corrent, gesturing at his squire to offer some of the wine to Cadan.

Marian reaches to her left, gently taking hold of Elyn’s hand to give the Ryswell lady’s hand a reassuring squeeze, murmuring sotto voce to her before refocusing upon the action in the lists - joining Ryssa in smiling at Triston’s tumbling.

Axell nods and cheers for the winner as the match has been decided on the first pass, though he keeps on glancing back towards his pavillion every so often.

Triston picks himself up unsteadily—he banks left, then right, before the right way up is found. With angry force, he takes off the helm and heads back to the tent of his fellow men. Pale face is flushed bright read and he keeps his gaze on the ground. Not even the grace to congratulate his opponent on winning the tilt. The horse—a squire sees to that.

Once the heir to Ninestars departs the field, the herald steps forward to announce aloud in a voice just barely audible over the continuing shouts of anger at the Dornish victory. “For the next joust, Ser Almer of House Connington meets Ser Jossart of House Vaith!”

Ser Bryon points his friend in the direction of his tent, giving his a clap on the shoulder. He sends his own page to fetch Ser Triston some water before retiring to his own tent.

At the sharp cry from the victor of the latest match, Ammena puzzles a brow then shifts her gaze towards the Dornish tents. Quietly surveying the tents, she dabs her handkerchief to her brows and takes another sip of water.

Kellyn moves towards her friends again, drifting towards Carmella and Jyana so that she can join in on whatever I spy game they have. She inclines her head and asks, “Have you picked a favorite to win the final title yet?”

A cheer erupts from the Stormlords’ contingents as one of their favourite sons is called to meet the Dornish lordling. Not in red and white, but instead in mirrored silver and deep sable, Ser Almer Connington emerges in glittering splendor from behind the griffins and stags flapping in the breeze. He urges his fiery black warhorse into position with practiced ease, and more than a few of the smallfolk in the crowd shout for him.

The Vaith knight glances towards his prince but seems not to join in with the enthusiasm posed by the Gargalan knight. There’s a nod when Corrent returns but that is his only expression of congratulations. He has his own preparations to make and he is keenly focused at the task before him rather than the successes that have already come. With a final nod to Cadan, the Vaith knight takes a lance and rides his black steed out to his end, ignoring whatever shouts might come his way. As he takes his position he turns towards the royal box and bows deep in the saddle towards the King. The gesture is respectful, and likely surprising to some as well.

As the heir to Vaith enters the lists against a formidable opponent, the Gargalen takes a step forward to watch the imminent match more carefully.

Here’s something to pay heed to. Reyna sits up again, and seems to take interest in the next pass. Beside her, Keira looks much as she always does, composed and dignified, only her eyes moving to find Almer and drawing a faint smile to her lips. “-He- won’t be unseated,” Reyna says confidently.

Now -this- match should be interesting. Jyana looks over at Carmella and winks. “Care for a wager?” she teases her closest friend. In this match-up, they are bound to be in an impasse. She might as well make it interesting. To Kellyn’s dangerous inquiry, she laughs, and grins over at Kellyn. “I shan’t say anything for fear that it might not happen,” she goads. “You’ll just have to make your best guess, dear cousin.” Of course, she could always be pulling Kellyn’s leg. She might not have a favorite at all!

“Jossart, for Dorne..” Cadan calls to him just before the knight leaves to meet Almer. Not too loud to carry beyond the Dornish tents but the call is there. “You will be the third one with us!” He banishes all worry, instead raising a defiant fist in the air before the prince retreats back to his own pavillion, only now accepting the wine goblet from Corrent’s servant.

The so-called ‘Dark Griffin’ likewise tips his lance in gallant but cursory salute, first to the crowd, and then to the Heir to the Red Dunes. In a flash Ser Almer is cantering down the course toward the Vaith. The mysterious kerchief tied to his arm, ivory sandsilk by the looks of it, flutters in his tumultuous charge.

Carmella glances up towards Kellyn and shakes her head. “Oh Seven no, it is far too early for such things,” she says, but her attention is quickly brought back to the two men readying themselves. “Oh please, don’t hurt my horse,” she whispers, loud enough for Jyana and Kellyn to hear. Jyana’s request for a bet is ignored, or perhaps not heard.

Jossart makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

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

At the sight of the tilt, a stream of curses spews forth from Corrent’s mouth as he hurls his goblet in disgust at one of his own squires, a young man who couldn’t be more than a year younger than the youthful Dornish knight himself.

With the announcement of the next contest, Ser Aidan at last leaves his small arming tent away to one corner of the lists. The prince’s man found him, and seems now to have been drafted in assisting his young squire and his cousin Ser Tamlyn Toland in bringing him, his lances, and his destrier to the field. After two matches but then the long break between, the Knight of the Twilight seems fresh and fit beneath the airy robes and the lilac-and-white scales of his armor. Danyll carries his high helm, and Tamlyn the lances, while the prince’s man leads the horse which Aidan walks besides.

For a moment it looks as if the Dornishman might remain upright to demand a second run, but the strength of the Ser ALmer’s strike is enough to finally push the Vaith knight from his saddle. The black steed continues onward as Jossard tumbles to the ground in a mass of steel and sandsilk. He remains on the ground for a few moments in what could be a dramatic pause, long enough for a squire to rush out to help him. But the Dornishman does finally rise to his feet. Without dusting himself off he head not back to his tent but towards the royal box.

“Your Grace,” he says, bowing again to the King before he searches among Daena’s ladies. “Lady Carmella,” he says, calling her out. “Forgive me for losing your horse, I shall endeavor to gain him back,” he says before finally turning and heading back to the Dornish tend.

Tossing aside the sundered lance, the silver-and-black Griffin Knight turns his destrier’s head with unstudied grace; the roar of the crowd is met with a wave of his gauntleted hand. Ser Almer likewise acknowledges the fallen Vaith knight with a curt nod, his face hidden behind the impassive mask of his visor. He waits until Jossart rises, then guides his horse back toward Lord Connington’s pavilion.

Reyna and her kin all join in the raucous roar as Almer makes his pass and so effortlessly unseats the Dornishman. Only Keira sits still, her pride evident in the shining of her eyes and the sweet smile on her lips. So Reyna cheers enough for the both of them, lauding her cousin’s triumph.

In between his glances towards his pavillion, Axell witnessed Almer’s victory. He cheers briefly with the crowd before a squire interrupts him and he walks backs to the pavillion.

Kellyn reaches up absently, putting her hand on Carmella’s shoulder when she hears the worry in her friend’s voice. “I’m sure your horse will be fine.” As the joust comes to a quick end, he whistles softly. “See? The horse has surer feet than the rider’s seat.” She looks past her at Jyana and grins. “Well - congratulations on your cousin’s success, though. There is a bit of pride to be salvaged.” When Jossart remain on the ground for a few minutes, she murmurs to Carmella.

Cadan is finally moving over to his own pavilion again, ordering his squire and various other young men about. His armor is brought out again, his lances are inspected and the two favors that adorn his arm are readjusted. The result of the Joust between Joss and Almer is received by a clear wince, the prince’s eyes closing for a moment before he quickly resumes his preparations. He casts a casual eye at the field when the next pair is called up but he does not stop his own preparations.

“For the next tilt, Ser Aidan of House Dayne will meet Lord Whalon of Rosby!” the herald announces, and here the cheers quite drown the hisses and catcalls, for the Jousting Lord is a great favorite of the commons.

Ammena watches the latest clash as she holds her goblet to her lips. Upon revelation of the outcome, she then quickly shifts her eyes towards the Dornish Tents. Her gaze rises above the lip of the goblet to drink in the reaction.

Ryssa goes still when Aidan Dayne enters the field, save for the quickest of glances up at Marian. Ryssa’s attention is fixed on the Knight of the Twilight, eyes wide and eager smile barely suppressed - and she very carefully does _not_ look at her mother. She applauds along with the rest of the crowd, though, and watches with just as much enthusiasm as the others.

A most unladylike curse escapes the Black Tempest, seated among the other hostages who are not taking part in the actual jousting, as Jossart lands in the dust. But that displeasure is quickly exchanged for a dazzling smile as she spots Aidan emerging from his arming tent in the company of her twin, Ser Tamlyn. “You best do better than that, cousin dear, or I shall have to find someone else to carry my favour the rest of the week,” she calls out, no doubt considering these encouraging words.

Carmella gives the Dornish knight a nod. “You rode well, Ser Jossart,” she tells him, but the knight is already moving away and she allows her disappointment to show. “He’d better,” she murmurs to those near her. “Mother is going to kill me otherwise.”

Marian momentarily shoots a quizzical glance at Ryssa, lips curling into a hint of a smile. Her head cocks slightly as she watches the Dayne enter the lists, a slight pensive frown creasing her brow.

Emerging from his tent stripped of armor, Ser Bonifer douses himself with a waterskin before he hears Lord Whalon’s name announced. Despite his desire to leave out and mend his wounded pride, the Buckwell decides to wait long enough to see the Jousting Lord tilt. His fingers drift unconsciously to the bear claws at his neck.

With the herald’s announcement, it’s time for Aidan to mount and make ready. He lifts himself into the saddle with practiced ease, despite the weight of his scaled armor, and Danyll offers up his high helmet which he dons. Though normally a mantle of white sandsilk with the arms of Starfall covers his helm, the torse now holds only a fluttering green kerchief embroidered with Ghost Hill’s golden dragon. The destrier snorts and paws the earth, and the knight takes a moment to check him and bring him under control; it is an unfamiliar steed, lent to him (for a fee, it’s said) by a local merchant who had it from another knight, and it does not seem to be either of the best or the worst quality.

Once settled in place, Aidan checks the girth on the saddle before he calls for the lance, which Tamlyn gives to him with a jest. Whether Aidan laughs cannot be seen, as his hand lifts to lower the visor of his helm.

Upon hearing the name of the Jousting Lord announced, Ser Janden emerges from his tent with light clothes and a cup of water to watch another ride or two before the next round.

“Blast it, for once in your life, fit this infernal thing the right way the first time!” Whalon growls from behind his visor.

“I’m sorry m’lord, I really am but…but…you’re getting f—”

“-What- did you say?”

“Robust, sir! You’re still as robust as ever!”

Grumbling, Rosby climbs on his horse, and spurs it on. He glowers at his man servant as he passes - but there is no time to go into those infamous rants Almer is well aware of. Instead, he spurs his horse, to get to his end. Seeing that he is facing off against young Dayne, he grins wickedly under his helmet, challenge in his eyes. Today was a good day for a tournament. He snaps a sharp salute towards his King, and then to the Dayne and issues his challenge.

Ignoring congratulations as he unlaces his helm, Almer tosses it to his squire, Rease, then turns to glance not at the lists, but at the crowd… he searches the faces for a long moment, then towels the sweat from his brow with a proffered cloth before climbing down from his big black warhorse to watch the next bout.

“This should prove an interesting match, from what I know of Lord Whalon and have seen of the Dornishman at practice,” comments Henly to Aisling as the next pair of jousters ready themselves. “There is no question of who is the better horseman, is there?” Aisling briefly glances away from the tourney field, nodding to her uncle. “No, there is not. Though Ser Jossart looked like a good horseman too.”

Dipping his lance in salute to the old jouster, Aidan readies himself. A moment, two ... and then he spurs the destrier forward. It begins with good speed, and goes faster still as the two barrelling horses close with one another. Progressively his lance lowers and lowers, aimed at his opponent’s shield…

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

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

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

Corrent lets loose a wild yell in approval of Ser Aidan’s awesome blow to the Jousting Lord, but the celebratory shout is cut short as he observes the portly Lord of Rosby retain his seat.

“Well done, Ser Aidan!” Tanyth calls out from the Dornish section as her cousin’s lance splinters. “But you will need to strike even harder, its a solid target you are facing!” Ever so tactful, the Black Tempest of Dorne.

Ser Janden nods looking very impressed. He then smiles at the fact that he is being allowed a rest, and he lets the wind blow through his red hair.

The sound of the blow causes Cadan to immediately turn around, looking at the result.. his fists tightens as Whalon is wavering in the saddle but when he remains seated, the Prince utters a quiet curse before he turns back to let his squire proceed with putting .. is that a breastplate? It seems that for the first time, Cadan has brought out a gilded breastplate to protect him in the jousting. Quite unlike his scale shirt that he wore for the earlier bouts.

Marian lets slip a rather girlish giggle, applauding happily (and shaking her head in apparent disbelief) as the impressively “robust” lord defeats the odds and retains his perch after receiving that mighty blow.

The lance cracks at the solid blow, but the young Dayne manages to shatter his lance into his shield. Whalon tips backwards at the force of it on his saddle, but manages to keep it. With a grunt, he spurs his horse to get back in position, tossing the cracked lance away to be fitted with another one. But he’s still grinning. If anyone could see him behind the helmet, he’s grinning despite the close call. Ah, he loved the joust.

As if no more difficult than riding at rings, Aidan’s point strikes precisely where he wishes it to, shattering his lance with a resounding blow against Lord Rosby’s already-scarred shield. Aidan throws the broken remnant away as he smartly curves his horse around and rides back to his part of the lists, where Tamlyn awaits with another lance and a ready remark. Over the cheers for Whalon, and the mutters and curses thrown at Aidan, Tamlyn can be heard to be making a jest about the substantial Lord Rosby being stuck in his high-backed saddle.

Taking the lance from Tamlyn, Aidan readies, dips it again in salute, and then charges once more when Whalon is ready.

After witnessing the match, Ammena looks towards the Rosby Banners. With a flick of her fingers, she summons a Piper servant to her side and commands, “Find out if Aunt Aleona is in attendance. I should like to meet with her and Ser Bolen later if they are.” The Piper servant hurriedly moves off.

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

Whalon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

This time, Cadan actually shouts, raising his own lance that he just got handed in a defiant and victorious gesture. “Ser Aidan Dayne! The Knight of the Twilight! Dorne!” Of course, that’s hardly heard over all the booing which usually follows, but hey.

“Hah!” cries the young knight from Salt Shore, nearly dancing in place as the Lord of Rosby goes crashing to the ground after a brief struggle to stay atop his saddle.

Ryssa bows her head, looking properly downcast amid all the disappointed booing that follows the fall of the Jousting Lord….but those next to her would see that she allows herself a very small smile, and her eyes are dancing.

Looking to the ground in disappointment. Ser Bonifer takes Lord Whalon’s loss in stride along with his own. With an apprehensive look to his horse, he pushes those thoughts from his mind and makes his way on toward the city.

Elmer growls slightly as yet another Dornishman wins. The surly boar begins to pace in his tent before he stops, composing himself. “Well, just more chance to knock a few Dornishmen down on their arses, right boy?” The meaty hand lands heavily on his squire’s back, knocking him forward a step or two. Then back to work.

As Lord Whalon slides to the ground, following the second pass against Aidan, Tanyth rises from her seat (along with others of the Dornish contingent) and cheers loudly for her cousin’s victory.

The Jousting Lord is unhorsed, his sturdy bulk slamming onto the ground. He wheezes a bit, breath knocked out of him. Easing upwards, he pulls his helmet off his head and smirks. He gives his head a solid shake, and after congratulating the victor, he turns to head back to his tent. When he gets there, he -groans- and rubs the small of his back. When people aren’t looking of course.

Aidan’s victory is met with simple pleasure on his part, a smile seen as he lifts his visor and raises a hand in salute to Lord Whalon. And then he’s away, back to his arming tent to keep in the shade and remain rested.

Canting a sidelong glance at Marian and Ryssa, Elyn has the merest echo of Ryssa’s own smile on her face, but it fades in the next breath as her eyes skim over the tents in the distance.

Jossart removes his helm as he returns to the tent. Is expression is stony, but it has been that way all day and speaks lttle towards his feelings one way of the other. He takes some water from a squire and drinks it all down before he approaches Cadan. There’s another nod before the knight leans over to whisper something to his prince. It takes only a moment before he stands back, amber gaze fixated on Cadan for some kind of confirmation.

Janden shakes his head after watching two straight powerful jousts by the Dornishman.

“Ser Endros of House Buckler will now meat Ser Olyvar of House Oakheart, a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard!” The crowd roars its pleasure, for the White Swords are always favorites when they enter the lists.

Cadan glances away from the result of the joust long enough to speak some quiet words to Jossart, then he stares back at the fallen Whalon and the.. very conservatively celebrating Aidan Dayne. When he does not go by Cadan, the Prince makes his own way towards the Dayne pavilion to exchange a few words with the knight. The Martell is already in his armor, so he is ready for his joust.. as ready as he can be, without his horse and lance, anyway. The last was left with his squire for now.

Marian quirks a wry smile, applauding the fallen lord - and his vanquisher - before murmuring a smiling comment to her companions.

Endros takes a long drawl from his mug and spits before slipping into his helm and swinging up onto his big brown stallion. The horse is drapped in Buckler blues and the knight himself has a long thin blue feather off the side of his helm. A man hands up his lance and he swings his mount around to take his place. A few words a are whispered to the mount before the charge.

In the uproar of the latest result, Ammena once more steals a glance towards the Dornish tents. Her gaze is interrupted as she spots her Buckwell cousin departing. After watching him leave, she lifts her handkerchief to her lips then glances for a moment towards the Targaryan section of the stands. Lowering her hands from her lips, she turns to watch the field.

Marian whispers to Elyn and Ryssa.

Carmella claps as Ser Olyvar is called forward to ride, eager to see yet another noteworthy knight take to the lists. She leans over to Jyana and whispers something, laughing as she does so, but her eyes don’t leave the field.

Garbed all in white, Ser Olyvar mounts his bay steed and takes a lance from his squire. He spurs his mount forward, then comes to a halt in front of the king to offer a salute. Turning about, he then gallops off to take up his position, and there dips his lance in a greeting for his opponent. With Ser Endros ready as well, the sworn brother urges his destrier forward, charging down the list with his lance ready.

Olyvar makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

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

It is always a thrill to see one of the Kingsguard unseated, and the Tyrell contingent applauds with the rest of the crowd. But some of the gloss seems to have worn thin, for Reyna sits back in her seat and looks a bit wistfully toward the royal box, and her friends seated there. Again Keira speaks quietly to her and she nods, but her smile has dimmed a little.

In response to Marian’s whisper, a sudden giggle bursts from Ryssa, and she hastily presses her fingers over her mouth to suppress it. Jeyna shoots a disapproving glance towards her daughter. But neither Ryssa’s good humor nor her mother’s bad lasts for long - both of them turn in astonishment to see the knight of the Kingsguard slide out of his saddle. Ryssa’s smile evaporates into an unhappy sigh, and she casts a sympathetic look down at the fallen Olyvar.

Elyn leans over and delivers a last comment to her companions before rising and slipping out of the stands, one of Stark guards following at her heels.

The Green Oak, a hero of the Dornish Conquest, who in the lists had conquered two knights well-known for their prowess to now… is now conquered in turn by the infamous Ser Lormon’s son. The cheers are muted, not least because a knight of the Kingsguard was defeated, but that he was defeated by the brother of a robber knight still cursed to this day by those who lost wealth and kin to his predations. Yet the king does not seem to notice, and he applauds as loudly as he’s done for everyone else, and even leans over to remark on the joust to Prince Viserys.

White cloak and white armour, it all lands upon the dusty ground as Ser Olyvar finds himself defeated in the third round. It takes the Sworn Brother a moment or two to rise again, but as he does he lifts his visor and offers a smile to the crowd as he bows to them and to his liege, then takes up the reins of his sensible bay steed who stopped not far from where his knight fell.

Endros somehow remains seated, steadying his mount as he suffers a hard blow to the chest and coming to a slow canter at the end of the list. He gives the king a humble close-eyed nod before focusing again on his foe.

Janden, who had seen the white knight fight in Dorne, looks shocked as he watches the quarter-finals come to a close. This was not something he had expected. Granted, neither was his own victory after two bad passes.

And so, with the last of the Kingsguard who entered the lists no longer in it, the herald announces the next round of the competition. “Prince Cadan of House Martell will meet Ser Elmer of House Crakehall,” he announces

Having nodded farewell to Elyn, Marian now leans over to murmur a comment to Ryssa, smile turning rather mischievous.

Elmer rides back out onto the tourney grounds, lance raised as he salutes the crowd. The brown horse tosses his head, getting a bit caught up in the spirit before he is turned about to face the joust. There’s an eager spirit there as the Boar prepares to face the Dornish prince, ready to charge. The Lannister contingent in the audience? Fired up and ready to go.

Marian whispers to Ryssa.

The Buckler doesn’t even look at the crowd as he rides off, he just hands whats left of his broken lance to a pair of stable boys, who gawk at it. He’s gone as quickly as he came.

At the herald’s announcement, Corrent exhales heavily and raises a hand to brush a lock of dark-black hair from his eyes. Though his posture is calm and composed, his hands are balled up into firm fists.

Carmella glances back towards Kellyn, her features still wearing her disapproval of the last round as her friend’s brother rides to face the prince. “How do you imagine your brother will fare, Kellyn?” she asks.

She watches the men on the lists, Jyana remaining quiet for now. Her eyes drift through the crowd, trying to spot familiar faces amidst the masses. She cranes her neck, her brows furrowed a touch.

Kellyn leans in to whisper her response to Carmella, eyes on the match below with rather avid interest. But with no love lost between the siblings? She’s going to keep this answer quiet.

“The Prince rode well in the first pass,” Reyna remarks to her quieter companion. “But the Crakehall is much bigger. This will be most interesting.”

Cadan mounts up a little late, finally getting his lance handed to him. He has his squire check on the red and orange silk favors that are tied to his arm and after he nods in approval, he slowly guides his yellow sandsteed out onto the field. He lowers his lance in a brief salute to the other knight then lowers his helm and gets ready.

As soon as his opponent seems prepared, the Martell prince charges, couching his lance. Again, looking quite frail on that small horse.

Kellyn whispers to Carmella.

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

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

Cadan is struck down as if by a hammerblow, tumbling from his saddle to the hard earth below.

Ryssa whispers back to Marian, with a matching flash of mischief in her eyes. Her mother shoots a sharp look over at her, though, and Ryssa’s expression swiftly smoothes out - and she leans in to whisper another comment, slightly gentler than before, to Marian. Then comes the thunderous sound of Cadan hitting the ground, and Ryssa gasps, attention snapping back towards the field.

Ser Janden shakes his head as he leaves to prepare for his bout.

The enormous force behind that lance is only somewhat mitigated by the fact that Cadan did hit his foe with quite some force as well, but that hardly helps the Dornish prince. He’s thrown from his steed with the force of an avalanche and when the Prince hits the ground in a cloud of dust and pebbles.. he does not rise. In fact, he remains there even as the dust settles, cracked lance and cracked shield.

There’s a great clamor from the commons as the Dornish princeling is at last defeated, and in powerful style by the Crakehall knight. It mutes just a little bit when the prince does not rise, and Prince Viserys can be seen shouting for men to tend to him. Liveried servants come out, as do Dornishmen to see how the prince fares.

Marian’s smile at Ryssa fades as she’s distracted by the meeting of the knights - and disappears entirely as she winces, leaning forward in her seat to peer at the still form of the Dornishman.

Ammena settles back into her chair and watches the Dornish Tents without so much as turning her chin to see the match. The sound of the crash informs her of the outcome. She takes a sip of water.

There’s a gasp from the Targaryen contingent as Carmella rises swiftly to her feet as the prince is thrown to the ground. Her eyes are wide and she goes pale when the prince doesn’t look to be rising. There’s a brief glance back to Kellyn and for a moment, a flicker of a second, there is a look of anger.

Jyana rises from her chair, her eyes wide with alarm when she sees one of the combatants….not get up. “Carmella,” she murmurs, already flagging a nearby page to get healers - but it looks like Prince Viserys has done that already. Still she’s off her chair and peering forward to see if the man is still alive. There is horror on her face, the day’s prior enjoyment gone for the moment.

Kellyn moves to the front of the stands after squeezing Carmlela’s hand, not quite sure which man fell. Once she’s there, she tries to catch her brother’s gaze when he removes the helm - maybe she can stare him into not being an ass from a distance. It’s the sheer will of being a knight that keeps his triumph a wordless roar as he rides past his Westerland peers. But at least he refrains from trash talk. Until he’s in his own tent.

Reyna cheers with the rest, but the cheers all dull when the Prince does not rise. “Dammit,” she says to no one in particular. “Dorne will go up in flames if that man dies in our lists. Get up, man, before we all think you are of your brother’s persuasion.”

Though Jossart’s Vaith’s fall was greeted by cursing from the Gargalen knight, the Martell prince’s demise is answered with silence and a grim shake of his head. Corrent’s expression is a blend of concern and disappointment as he watches Cadan lie still on the field. As the moments pass and the prince does not rise, the Gargalen knight starts forward onto the field, screaming at the prince’s squires in his trademark anger.

“What are you fools about? Help him!”

If one’s gaze could burn, then Elmer would be ash by the look in Ser Jossart’s eyes. He takes a few long strides forward, intent on seeing to his friend and prince, but another knight grabs his arm and hold him back. A few heated words are shared between the countrymen before Jossart relents and hangs back.

Cadan is not moving even as the servants and attendants help him onto a stretcher, his head rolling about without any muscle effort keeping his neck straight. Not a broken neck, but the force of the collision seems to have knocked the prince out completely. And for those who watch from afar, there’s no telling if he’s even alive. The Prince’s squires are up there as well, trying to help out and they soon take over, accompanied by whoever is in charge of tending to those who are badly hurt at the tournament. They set him down in front of his pavilion to have the water close at hand.

Once the prince is helped off the field, the herald announces the next contest. “Ser Axell of House Farman will meet Ser Janden of House Melcolm!” the herald proclaims.

Ryssa swallows hard as she watches the Prince of Dorne carried from the field, her face pale, and she leans in to whisper to Marian once more.

“Perhaps we ought to definitely hide you in one of our rooms, Kellyn, after this,” Jyana murmurs, trying to make a weak jest despite what she is witnessing. She looks over at Carmella and attempts to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, squeezing when she makes contact. At the next bout, she returns to her seat, her eyes on Jandren.

Returning to the fields, Axell reaches the sidelines slowly in his beat up armor. Althought it is visible that some work has been done on the armor between the last time Axell was wearing it in public, it is equally clear that the multiple passes with the Iron Serpent have left their mark.

Marian whispers to Ryssa.

With some murmurs of apology offered to Princess Daena, Carmella rises and departs the royal canopy and once her destination is known there is a maester in her company. It takes a great deal of effort on Carmella’s part, even with Ser Giles attempting to make room for her and the maester the way from the royal canopy to the Dornish pavilion is a long and hard fought one.

Ser Janden rides onto the field lighter than earlier today, even though his armor shows a couple marks from the previous round. Happy to make it this far, he is no longer worried about proving his worth. He believes he has reached it, and now he hopes to reach farther. He was impressed by Ser Axell in the opponent’s previous bout, though, and looking at his opponent alone reminds him of his opponent’s ability. Raising his lance, Janden finally concentrates and readies to charge.

Ammena attempts to peer beyond the crowd of onlookers with little success. As she sees the mass near the downed jouster move away and the field clear, she softly whispers a prayer to the Seven.

Seeing Ser Janden on the field, Axell lowers his lance first and then raises it before charging forth.

Janden manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.

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

Janden is shaken in the saddle by the lance he’s received against him, but recovers well.

Ser Bryon Waynwood comes out of his tent in time to watch Ser Janden and Ser Axell in the tilt

Axell hands his lance to his squire as he receives a skin of water. He takes a couple of gulps before arming himself again and rides to the end of the list.

Janden lowers his lance after his poor blow and loses his loosness. Obviously, rigid concentration works better for him.

Reyna watches Cadan as he’s borne off the field, chewing her lip. “He’d better not have died,” she says as she sits again, watching Axell ride past again absently. “I didn’t think he’d hit the ground so hard, but it is not unheard of…” But Keira is looking down for a new glimpse of the next combatants.

Axell turns around, raises his lance, and nods to his opponent. Both knights know that the bad pass is not worth more than such from either.

Cadan is still on the stretcher and people are looking after him, but no maester has reached them yet and they are mainly checking if the Prince is even alive. One of the squires notice that someone is approaching and rushes to meet up with Carmella and the Maester there, helping them reach the Martell.

Triston is on the heels of Ser Bryon as they both leave the Arryn men’s tent. He’s still garbed in pieces of his armor, arm and leg braces, but the upper coverings are gone for now. Arms folded, he watches the field with a sour expression on his face.

Janden keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Axell keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

The burning gaze from the Vaith to the Crakehall is now delivered to the arriving Dondarrion as she hurries to check on Cadan’s condition. She pushes the maester ahead of her and offers the squire some hurried thanks before she glances up to find Jossart glaring at her. “This is not the time,” she tells him with a huff but he still appears angry over her presence right now.

Ser Janden rides to the other end after an even match with Ser Axell, and he gives a squire his lance in return for a chug of water. There have still be no real good blows in this match, and Janden knows it might go on for a while. He then examines his lance and deems it worthy for another pass.

After the first terrible pass, Axell seems much more satisfied with the second one judging by his expression. He wipes some dirt and sweat from his face, then lowers the viser again and trots back to the list with a fresh lance.

Amidst the Lannisters and their cronies Black Jonn is seated. He watches with disinterest, though at the unseating of the Martell a momentary flicker of a smile creases his lips.

The crowd cheers aloud as the two knights improve on their performance, and trade blow for blow with equal skill and cunning. A few wagers are made, although now anticipation is building to the next match featuring a Dornishman in hopes he’ll get as much as his prince received.

Oblivious to the tilt taking place, Corrent stands a couple of paces away from the inert Cadan, watching the maesters tend to him with a grim expression. The fury is clear in the rigid set of his mouth and the light in his living eye, but the Gargalen appears to have mastered his temper well to all outer respects. His pose is calm and non-threatening, and he speaks no words.

Things are a rocking in the Lannister section of the stands. Albeit it did become a touch more subdued when the prince doesn’t seem to be returning to his feet anytime soon. Elmer moves into the tent and closes the flaps behind him. More than one former veteran friend from the war in Dorne finds their way over to that tent, though, with more than a little alcohol.

Kellyn frowns a bit, now distracted from watching the match. She settles down near the princess, a bit ill at ease after seeing the serious injury.

It seems that Cadan must have hit his head quite hard when he fell, but the Maesters quickly conclude that.. yes, he’s unconscious but he’s recovering. Whatever they say, it doesn’t show on the Prince himself, who still lies still without moving the slightest bit. But yes, he is about to wake up, one of the maesters ensure the others around him. His squire is biting his nails, watching with eyes wide open.

Jeyna watches the match intently, studying each move with an expertly critical gaze. Ryssa still darts a few worried looks over to the tent where the Prince of Dorne has been taken, but she, like her mother, is gradually beginning to be caught up in the rhythm of the contest.

Mounting and guiding his horse over toward the stands, Almer pauses a moment to watch the onslaught. He seems indifferent to the match, as he has to the previous bouts, including the wreck of Cadan Martell; perhaps a symptom of a lifetime of war and tourney, or natural antipathy to the Prince’s rebel house. He sits silent, dark, glittering in the sunlight, bareheaded and biding his time.

Janden strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.

Axell strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.

Ser Janden shakes his head at both another below-average hit and the evenness of this match. He remembers, however, that because of the first pass, Ser Axell has fared a bit better. He steadies himself on the other end, quickly nods, and readies himself for a fourth ride.

Axell tosses the lance on the ground as he picks up another right before circling back directly without pausing to adjust himself.

Carmella paces beneath the Dornish tent, pausing as the maesters offer some answers. She still looks pale but a bloom of relief starts to spread across her face and she murmurs some thanks to the maesters. Catching another glare from the Vaith knight, Carmella relents, dips her head to him and moves off to the side and then eventually departs to slowly work her way back to her seat with Ser Giles again attempting to clear a path for her.

Janden keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Axell strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.

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

“The sun.. It must have.. stung my eyes. Damn sand.. You know.. Don’t let them come after me..” Cadan wakes up with a few carefully chosen words. “She must have been watching, I know it.. In my door, too.” He sits up straight, then gets more or less pushed down by two maesters who both reprimand him and hush him, telling him to stay completely still and rest.

Axell steadies himself before pausing at the sidelines to adjust the straps. He takes another sip of water and then readies himself at the end of the list once more.

The westerman holds on to his saddle, and there’s some curses from a guildsman who’d bet heavily that he’d win the pass this time around. As he starts to hand over his coppers, he pauses, and then suggests double or nothing. His wily opponent eyes the two knights, and then nods his agreement.

Happy with his best joust of the match, Janden receives another cup of water before readying himself for another pass. He knows this still might have a while to go.

Janden makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

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

The rhythm of the frantic motion around the Dornish prince has changed, and something in the changing pattern catches Ryssa’s eye. She looks away from the joust, narrowing her eyes to peer across the distance, then reaches out to touch her mother and her lady lightly on the arm, drawing their attention to it as well. Ryssa lets out a soft sigh of relief, and turns towards the joust again with renewed focus.

Ammena glances towards the jousting knights and carefully watches. Leaning forward in her chair, she cranes her neck to catch sight of the commonfolk crowd. After a few moments, she returns her gaze to study the competitors.

Axell drops his lance as he holds on and re-center himself. Once more the Farman knight took some time to adjust his armor before returning for another pass.

There’s one disappointed guildsman in the crowd, at least. The crowd applauds at the knock of lance against shield, though nothing quite matches the crack of a broken lance and the tumble of a knight in clattering armor.

Triston watches the Melcolm knight, his fellow Valemen, stand good ground on the jousting field. He rocks back and forth on the heels of his feet, that sour expression still on his face.

“Really, someone fall already,” Reyna says boredly, hiding a yawn behind her fan. “Preferably you, Farman.” She slouches back in her seat and accepts a cup of iced wine with her free hand against the still heat.

Janden turns around to look at his opponent, and he finds himself slightly annoyed that this match still has much time to go. He had a second round like this, and he remains afraid that he won’t be so lucky at the end of this one. He quickly exchanges lances and then steadies himself yet again.

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

Axell keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Janden keeps the saddle skillfully despite his opponent’s blow.

At the prompting of her lady in waiting, Marian also turns her attention away from the lists and toward the Dornish prince. She peers quizzically for some few moments, then looks around and matches Ryssa’s smile with one of her own.

“Come on, Janden! Unhorse him, already!” Ser Bryon cups his hands around his mouth and shouts onto the tourney field, his brow creased in consternation.

Exchanging the lance for a skin of water, the Farman knight takes a couple of sips before rearming himself for another pass.

Golden beard is parted in a grand yawn. “Perhaps I was overhasty in knighting Ser Axell,” Black Jonn tells one of the blonde cronies hanging around at his elbow. The other man cracks a fawning smile.

Janden shakes his head. Blow for blow…and blow for blow… He gets some more water, and he then prepares yet again.

Axell makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

Janden is shaken in the saddle by the lance he’s received against him, but recovers well.

“I really need to practice my jousting

Janden says, “I really need to practice my jousting…” Janden mutters to himself before raising his lance another time.”

Axell 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 breaks.

Ryssa can’t help but shake her head in sympathy for the knights who labor on, pass after pass, in the oppressive humidity. The heat is starting to take its toll on her as well - she waves her hand in a surreptitious gesture, fanning her flushed cheeks discreetly.

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

Something else catches Reyna’s ear, rather than the unending matchup before her. “Jonn Lannister, d’you mean to tell me that you are responsible for that upstart who unseated Dagur? Remind me to do something nasty to you sometime.”

Marian reaches over to pat-pat Ryssa’s hand sympathetically - only to find herself immediately applauding instead, as the bout abruptly comes to an end in a sudden display of skilled competence.

Green eyes flicker to the box across the way, and for the first time a smile

The battle between the Valeman and the westerman, though not the height of jousting technique, shows endurance and determination worthy of a pair of knights and the crowd cheers both participants alike even if one has been defeated. The king even shouts a brief cheer, seemingly invested in the contest between the two young knights.

“That’s the way!” Ser Bryon yells as Ser Janden returns from his tilt.

The herald comes forward, once the lists are clear. “Ser Almer of House Connington shall now face Ser Corrent of House Gargalen!”

With one last lingering look at his prince, Corrent Gargalen turns sharply on his heel and walks in long, hurried strides back to his pavilion. His voice frayed from all the previous yelling and cursing, the Dornishman can only manage a hoarse command to his squires - it is enough, however, to send them scurrying for his shield and helmet. When his horse is brought to him, a temperamental roan stallion barded in gold, the young knight pulls himself aboard without his customary flourish. Flicking his visor down, he accepts a fresh lance from one of his squires and swiftly trots towards his end of the lists.

Saluting the crowd, the Griffin’s gaze lingers there for a moment; he seems resigned, somehow, rather than energized by their shouts. Sunlight sparkles on silver and jet, and Almer takes up his place. He spurs his black horse and thunders toward the Gargalen, his lance lowering for the blow.

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

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

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

A fierce blow from the Griffin knight sends the Dornishman rolling in the dust, but a moment later the youth is up on his feet, seemingly uninjured save for a few dents in his helm. With a shake of his head and a snort of disgust, Corrent stomps over to his pavilion, jerking off his helm by the plumes and casting it peevishly into the far end of his pavilion. Bareheaded, the rapidly-forming bruises on his face are clear to see. He coughs, then spits out a glob of saliva and blood before calling out for wine wine wine.

It takes quite a while but Carmella eventually makes it back to her seat, just in time to miss the strike that finally unhorses Ser Axell. She settles into her seat quietly and doesn’t offer up any information, she focuses on the next contest.

Concerned eyes fall on Carmella, though Jyana says nothing. Instead, she focuses on the next bout - and for some reason there is tension lining her shoulders. When Almer unseats Corrent, she lifts her hands to applaud, just as she has done in every other match so far.

As Ser Janden thrusts his most powerful blow in what seems like many seasons, he receives a tough blow, too. However, after recovering, he turns to see his opponent unhorsed. He raises his broken lance triumphantly before saluting Ser Axell. “A steady and strong match, sir!” he shouts.

“He did it,” a ringing clap is Triston’s applause for Janden’s hard-earned victory. “Now that’s proving something, eh.” The herald’s call brings an abrupt end to clapping and smiling. Blue eyes cut to the fields where the Dornishman meets a quick dismount. “/Nice/.”

Ryssa brightens, distracted out of her growing weariness as she blinks in astonishment at the suddenness with which both jousts end. She and her mother add their applause to the appreciation of the rest of the crowd, and then Ryssa leans in towards Marian again, whispering to her lady.

Having dropped the shield and lance as he loses his balance, Axell attemped to brace himself for the fall, but still landed hard on his side. He manages to stand as he heards Janden, and returns a slight head bow without making a response.

With so much anticipation placed on seeing a Dornishman again defeated as Prince Cadan was, the result seems nearly anticlimatic. The cheers are loud enough, however, as is the laughter in the face of the vaunting Corrent’s defeat. The king can be seen shouting again, cheering on the Connington’s victory, though as Corrent picks himself up from the ground the Young Dragon leads a loud applause among his companions.

There is a fresh round of rejoicing in the tent housing Elmer Crankehall as one of the ruffians slips out, only to return with a rather buxom and not too costly woman or two to serve the drinks. Don’t mind them. One can only hope the Boar is not partaking as yet. He still has work to do after all.

The Lannister seems on the verge of retort, but instead watches with amusement as yet another Dornishman is knocked from the saddle…

A second course, a second cracked lance, and a second Dornishman down… Ser Almer turns his mount to see if Corrent is hurt or no. The crowd’s roar goes unacknowledged for a moment, for even among former enemies, the dictates of chivalry must govern. He waits patiently, ignoring the congratulations of the squires and men-at-arms nearby, until Gargelen is up. And then, once again, he retires to the Connington pavilion.

Marian blinks, raising one brow as she turns her attention to Ryssa, quirking a wry smile as she murmurs a response.

“The superior jousters are prevailing at last,” Reyna notes smugly, watching Corrent take his fall. But the roaring will make it hard to hear in the Lannister box; even Keira rises to her feet for a moment to applaud her knight.

Seated with the Lannisters, Rosalind watches the bouts intently, applauding for the victors. The bastard girl seems to be enjoying herself.

Oh, look! Elmer’s up. A little straightening of the armor and then he’s trotting out on his horse again. The Boar lifts his lance towards the Lannister contingent and then sets himself to beat his opponent.

Triston lets his applause for the Connington knight last a little longer than the rest. Arms fold and he squares himself straight to watch the rest of the jousting.

Ser Janden returns tall on his horse. He is not yet fully recovered from his previous jousts with Ser Axell, but that gives him even more reason to concentrate on this semi-final bout. He raises his lance and charges.

Elmer keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

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

After the herald announces Ser Elmer’s contest against Ser Janden, liveried servants are again cleaning up the field, smoothing out the hollows made by hooves and falling bodies.

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

Quiet before, Carmella now rises to her feet to applaud the quick word done by Ser Janden. She’s even smiling a little as she watches the Crakehall in the dirt. “Well done!” she calls out, enthusiasm overcoming concern.

Ryssa’s smile slips askew, and she darts a quick glance over towards her mother before whispering back to Marian. Her expression eases a little as she listens to her lady’s response, and her smile catches some of its good humor again. Then she straightens up, hand waving in another attempt at subtly fanning herself against the heat. Ryssa brightens even more at the sight of Janden’s skillful pass through the lists, breaking into cheerful applause.

“Excellent! Most excellent!” Jyana says enthusiastically. Yay Vale! Go Vale! She looks over at Kellyn and winks at her as she continues applauding.

Cadan’s incoherent speech has made a few of the maesters concerned but soon enough, he seems to have recovered enough to be carried inside his pavilion, once again on the stretcher. And thus it marks the Prince’s departure from the public at this tournament.. at least this day of the tournament.

Well that didn’t go nearly as well as expected. Maybe if Elmer had been /watching/ Janden intead of watching pretty girls with pretty bubbies… but the next thing the overconfident Boar knows, he’s on his back and mildly dazed. He sits up, leaning on his elbows and smirks at Janden. “Well at least you’re not a Dornishman. Think you might want the prince’s horse over my old nag?”

The Lannister shakes his head sadly as Elmer is unseated. Yet, “All this is unnecessary. Just crown my brother already,” he says across to Reyna once the tumult has died down.

Ser Janden obviously still felt the adrenaline from his bouts against Axell. He rode hard and gave a good blow, finishing his opponent quicker than any other time this tournament. He turns around, waits for the opponent to rise, and then salutes Ser Elmer before raising his lance to loud cheers.

As Elmer passes and asks his question, he responds, “Well, ser; I’m sure the Prince’s horse would fetch me more coin.”

After the Ser Almer’s victory, the herald calls for Ser Aidan of House Dayne to meet Ser Endros of House Buckler. The two knights, armed and readier on their destriers, take up their lances. The Knight of the Twilight lowers the visor on his helm, though the darkness of the early evening begins to make seeing hard enough as it is, and then he spurs his horse forward.

Triston barks a laugh and shouts, “To the Vale!” for Ser Janden’s most recent win.

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

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

The two knights trade even blows, knocking shields briefly askew but otherwise to no result. They round the lists and ride back to their positions, and then launch their steeds forward again.

Aidan’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 breaks.

Endros keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

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

Ser Bryon seconds the chant, his smile bright.

“Oh, come. If a knight of my lord’s prowess can be unseated, even the mighty Ser Jaesin might fall,” Reyna replies, her eyes laughing and giving the jape. “There’s a fair blow by Ser Aidan. He’s the last of the Dornish on the field, and he’ll have to face Almer now.”

Finally returned from removing his armor in his pavillion, Axell returns to the fields in time to see the match between Elmer and Janden.

Corrent Gargalen watches the Knight of the Twilight triumph with a small smile on his face, but soon thereafter, he turns and enters his pavilion, gently closing the flap so as to bar visibility for those outside.

Ryssa straightens swiftly up as the next two combatants enter the ring, and watches in intent silence through two passes. As Endros falls, a sudden smile lights her face - but she quickly ducks her head, schooling her expression back to something smooth and blank. Still, her mother gives her a suspicious sidelong look, and it is all that Ryssa can do to maintain innocent neutrality.

Another broken lance or the Knight of the Twilight, who throws it aside as the crowd makes its displeasure known. One might expect he is unphased by it, but as he rides back to the end of the lists to dismount and await the results of the next contest, his helmeted head turns briefly to regard the crowd.

The herald announces, “Ser Almer of House Connington will meet Ser Aidan of House Dayne!” The crowd cheers very loudly indeed, for the Connington knight who has ridden with such skill and seems fair to win the whole competition if he can only bring the Dornishman down.

Carmella’s enthusiasm continues, though she takes her seat as the Dornishman unseats Ser Endros. Her smile turns to a smirk, she looks positively delighted in that outcome. “That’ll teach him,” she murmurs to Jyana with a knowing look.

Kellyn breathes deep when her brother falls, but doesn’t seem in any hurry to go visit him. Elmer returns to his tent and to somewhat less restrained revels. When the boar is a rocking, sis doesn’t go knocking. Instead she rises again and walks over to Carmella and Jyana. “I still think he will be insufferable,” she murmurs.

Dark Griffin and Twilight Knight… one must fall, it seems. Almer, for his part, trots forward with silent resolve; the trot becomes a canter, and his black lance lowers toward the mark. Silver sparkles fitfully in the failing light, and yet another course is run.

“Oh I’m sure he will,” Jyana says with a laugh, though when Ser Endros is unhorsed, her face is as ever serene, clapping at Ser Aidan’s victory. She hears Carmella’s murmur, and it’s all she can do to keep from breaking out into a laugh. Instead, she says nothing, but answers her dearest friend with a wink.

Few might see it, but when Almer name is announced again, Keira Sand clutches Reyna’s pale hand tightly in her golden one, her eyes fixed on the lists. So Reyna is diverted from her witty discourse with the Lannister; she too watches avidly as her cousin begins his run.

After the Buckler knight falls, Rosalind watches him carefully until Ser Endros is afoot and retired off the field. Then, she turns her attention to the next bout.

Ser Aidan’s lance starts true and steady as he spurs his destrier down the lists, riding inexorably towards Ser Almer.

Almer’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 breaks.

Aidan makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

Her horsemanship tutor, of course, gets enthusiastic applause and even an energetic whoop from the Jewel, bounding on her feet and clapping as Ser Aidan is unhorsed and Ser Almer wins the bout.

The Knight of the Twilight’s lance was steady enough ... but only enough to make a good blow, but nothing worthwhile, while his opponent broke his lance cleanly against his own shield. It jars him hard enough that in mid-gallop he begins to slide from the saddle ... and is unable, despite dropping his lance and trying to grasp for the horse’s mane, to keep on. He lands on his feet, but at such speed that he’s immediately tumbled to the earth, rolling on a few revolutions before coming to a stop.

The crowd is very pleased, and explodes with joy as the last of the Dornishmen is defeated. Ser Aidan stands up gamely enough, after a long pause to catch his breath, and lifts his visor before raising a hand in salute to his vanquisher.

Ryssa lets out an astonished gasp as the Knight of Twilight falls, and a ripple of disappointment crosses her face that only eases a little when she sees him rise unhurt. But she joins in the general applause for the victorious Ser Almer, smile slipping right back into place as she looks back towards the field.

Ammena watches the match between Griffin and Twilight with interest. As Ser Aidan falls, she takes care to see the reaction from the commonfolk.

Tossing aside the shattered haft of his lance, Almer returns the vaunted Dayne knight’s salute with cool courtesy. He then inclines his head to the royal box, and waves to the smallfolk in the stands before matter-of-factly taking up another lance from his squire.

Triston is only interested in the match’s end, to see who will face his fellow countryman. A thin brow lifts at Ser Almer’s win. He converses quietly with a few other knights watching nearby.

Tanyth curses in a rather unladylike way at that result, and glowers—there is no secret to why she’s the Black Tempest. Tamlyn and Danyll hurry out to help Aidan, but he seems unharmed, and instead they help corral his horse before decamping from the lists.

It’s after a brief break, as Ser William consults with the king and then with the herald, that at last the final contest is announced. “Ser Janden of House Melcolm shall meet Ser Almer of House Connington! To the victor will be given the crown for the queen of love and beauty, to dispose of as he wishes, a purse of five-thousand gold dragons, and a place in the final grand tourney!” The crowd roars at this largess.

Marian applauds politely - though, chuckling, most of her attention turns to Ryssa, preceding a quiet comment and a gentle smile.

The Tyrell cheer until they are hoarse, but Keira Sand remains sitting, holding Reyna’s hand. They speak to one another quietly, and it would seem that Reyna is consoling the younger woman, but they both look sufficiently anxious for the last run to be over.

Axell nods and applauds lights as the herald announces the grand finale to the day. Although he is out of his armor, there is still visible dirt and sweat from the jousting earlier.

Ammena turns to a neighboring Riverlander and says, “The Anchor and The Griffin… will it be the Anchor holds strong and exhausts the Griffin? Or the Griffin flies and moves the Anchor?” Straightening up in her chair, she requests a refill of cooling water and keenly watches the field.

This time it is the end. Ser Almer turns his horse amidst the cacophany from the crowd, silent and serene, and his eyes fully on knight he must face. He takes his time, calming his restive steed with a low voice, letting the gentle breeze stir the black mantling of his helm, his surcoat, the white kerchief on his arm. And he casts one final, wordless look toward the stands. Then, as the herald gives the word and all is in readiness, he lowers his lance and puts spurs to the destrier’s flanks.

Ser Janden Melcolm rides tall to his side of the lists, but he is nervous. To reach the final bout on the opening day of this week of grand celebrations is surely a mighty accomplishment, but it also brings Janden in front of a crowd he is not at all used to. At least, he thinks to himself, he is off to a fine start for this stay in King’s Landing. Perhaps he will meet a beautiful lady or a powerful lord after this event.

Still nervous, Ser Janden looks to the crowd towards the seat of the king. The king, however, is not the one he is looking for. Finally he eyes the man who knighted him in Dorne and gives Ser Osbert Bettley a small salute. He now smiles and becomes reassured.

Finally ready, Ser Janden raises his lance, stares his opponent, and charges.

Almer’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 breaks.

Janden keeps the lance steady enough to deliver a fair blow.

Janden is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.

There is silence, utter silence among the Tyrell, and between Reyna and Keira. Silence as the hooves thunder down the lists, silence as the lances crack together, and silence even as the cheers swell upon Janden’s unhorsing. Only when it is all over do the two women release their breath, Reyna to shout with everyone else, and Keira to sit quietly with pride writ all over her face.

Triston still cheers, “Ser Janden Melcolm—good show!” The applause is swallowed by the rest of the crowd’s but hearty nonetheless.

Ser Janden gives a decent blow, but he is no match for Ser Almer. He gets up slowly, but he is happy to get this far. He salutes and then walks to his tent.

Clattering to a halt, Ser Almer tosses aside the final broken lance, and then takes up another. It is only then that he turns and finds that he is the victor; that, and the roar from the crowd. He trots back to the lists to await Ser Janden’s rising, and then, satisfied, canters toward the stands… the smallfolk cheer as he salutes them, and he reins up before the royal box as flowers descend.

Carmella applauds and cheers with the rest of the crowd as Ser Almer wins the day. “A triumph for the Stormlands!” she grins as her voice is nearly lost in the cheering around them. “And Ser Janden rode well, I am sure his name will be talked about quite a bit after this,” she adds to her friends.

A roar from the crowd, as Ser Almer Connington wins the field and vanquishes his final foe. Ser Janden, too, receives a cheer of approval at his gracious salute, leavng the field to Almer alone. It’s from King Daeron’s hand that he’ll receive the queen of love and beauty’s crown, to deliver to whom he might wish, while Ser William Waxley carries a heavy bag likely containing the generous prize.

Jyana is up like everyone else, cheering enthusiastically for Almer, she is grinning from ear to ear as this day’s winner is declared on the lists. Her gaze casts to the side, at the Targaryen contingent near her, and she nudges Carmella a little bit. Her aquamarine eyes are alit still, with excitement. The Jewel is, indeed, enjoying her very first tourney. “Indeed,” she says to Carmella. “A Valeman to the finals for todays matches and a dear friend to win today’s title. I’m….just absolutely -loving- this!” She laughs, her head tossing back a touch. “Oh if I knew I would’ve stowed away in the backs of caravans -ages- ago to see one.”

Removing his helm and inclining his head to the King and his party, Ser Almer -finally- smiles a little. He dips his lance in salute to the Young Dragon, the court, and the cheering throng, and actually seems to be enjoying his victory, for once. A number of griffin-liveried men, along with some Baratheon stags, rush out to congratulate him, and he mouths something to them that sets them to laughing.

The crowd are on their feet, cheering still, and waiting to see who the victorious knight will name his Queen of Love and Beauty. Will it be one of his beauteous cousins? Lady Jyana is right there in the King’s box, after all, and accounted fairer than most anyone. Or will he act randomly, crowning a beauty who might otherwise be overlooked? Or will he do the unthinkable…

Ammena cheers and applauds along with the crowd. A Piper servant returns and whispers in her ear. Without a reaction to the servant, she continues to cheer for today’s champion.

“So where do we eat?” Jyana asks Carmella and Kellyn with a laugh, turning her eyes to her friends. “We have absolutely -no- shortage of soirees to attend after this.” She pulls out a list, and unfurls it proudly for the other ladies to see. “I would recommend a few, but not without input, and I’m certainly not attending any of these if neither of you two are.”

The Young Dragon rises and lifts a hand for quiet; it is heeded, barely, though the words the King speaks are lost in the murmur. In his hand is a crown of golden leaves and flowers, and he puts it upon the outstretched point of Ser Almer’s lance. The knight turns his horse then, riding slowly along the grandstands, the gilded crown dangling temptingly over the upturned faces of the ladies…

Rosalind begins gathering her things, a light shawl and a parasol, but does not seem ready to depart the stands until the bulk of the crowd has passed. She exchanges a few words with a maid sitting near her.

Triston watches to see which lady is chosen by the successful knight. He turns to chime in agreement to a local comment on the Valeman’s steadfast skill on the field today.

Carmella glances briefly towards the handing over of the crown, but soon she is involved in the list Jyana has produced. She doesn’t look to be one of the maids eager of the sight of the crown and what it represents. “Oh no, not this one,” she murmurs to Jyana, keeping her voice low, “You would not believe what I heard about him,” she tells her with a tsk tsk tone in her voice.

The maesters and servants have still not left the pavilion where the prince was brought, but now, one after another leaves but far from all of them seem to be departing.

As the ladies in the crowd all laughingly vie for the Griffin’s attention, one seems to hang back. Indeed, it seems that she and Reyna are arguing quietly, with Reyna urging her to stay, and Keira seeming anxious to leave. “Let him bestow it on a princess,” she murmurs, managing to retreat a few steps. “It is right…” but the rest is lost to the crowd.

Marian also appears to hold no visible hope of the crown being delivered to her, turning to murmur another comment to Ryssa.

Kellyn turns towards Carmella and Jyana, though her attention does at least follow the movements of the crown with an idle interest. One never knows if there will be a surprise. “I would look in on my brother, but I think my sensibilities would be shocked at what I would likely see. I do hope the Prince is not too injured. I find myelf a bit anxious over that, lest tensions build up again. I really had not thought about where to dine. Wait, who is this Carmella?” She leans in a bit closer, murmuring to the dark haired woman this time.

Kellyn whispers to Carmella.

Settling in her chair, Ammena watches the flurry of activity about the Tourney Fields. As the gilded crown floats over perfumed heads, she scans the crowds with curiousity.

The smallfolk seem to love the game, shouting their suggestions (or proffering their maidenly attributes) in order to garner Ser Almer’s attention. He singles out the beauteous young lady in white, the one purported to be his paramour; but something in her eye gives him pause, and his expression changes subtly. He rides on, turning back toward the royal box.

The Dark Griffin’s lance dips again, and the glittering crown descends, until it rests in the lap of none other than little Princess Rhaena Targaryen. The crowd, predictably, explodes in joy at the gallant choice, and the Princess, for her part, positively glows.

Ryssa is just as curious as the others, but there is nothing even approaching expectation in her eyes as she follows the crown around the ring. Now that the excitement of the tournament is starting to wear off, humidity and weariness are starting to weigh down even more heavily on Ryssa, and she holds herself upright with ever increasing effort. The sight of the crown being bestowed on the little princess brings a smile of warm sincerity to Ryssa’s face, and a burst of renewed energy to her applause.

Carmella looks up to Kellyn as faint lines of worry appear. She doesn’t say anything to Kellyn but she does give her a brief nod and a forced smile as the triumphant knight’s shadow falls back over them. There is surprise in Carmella’s eyes as the crown is set in the young princess’s lap. In an instant the worry and concern is gone and Carmella laughs, clapping for the young Rhaena’s gift. “How gallant!” she exclaims, though there is a glance in the direction of where Reyna and Keira are seated.

Marian laughs and applauds, as the crown is duly delivered.

Jonn Lannister watches unblinking for a moment and then removes himself toward the tent where his friend Ser Elmer has his revels. The tumult within increases as the Black Lion makes his presence known.

Triston smiles a little, and applauds for the chivalric choice. “Well, no one will be bitter for that,” he states with a chuckle.

Kellyn’s attention is distracted as the princess she serves is crowned once more. Rhaena glows and Kellyn’s expression warms. She looks past the young girl to the knight that has delivered her such an honor and bows her head in respect, even if it is one of many doing the same thing. “Oh, that is so perfect. She is so often in the shadows as the quiet one. It is good that all the city should see her for the delight she is!” It’s almost enough for her to miss seeing Jonn’s progress into the tent.

The crown is given. Keira, prevented from leaving, smiles and smiles and smiles, beaming at the little princess and at the knight triumphant, and at Reyna—and as soon as all their backs are turned, she slips away from the stands and is gone, leaving Reyna looking bemusedly around for her.