Inside the City: Cobbler’s Square
Unsurprisingly, it is the cobblers who are prominent here. Those of the finest quality have their shops located around the outskirts of the square, with leather awnings shielding their patrons. Those unable to acquire building space have stalls set up in the square itself, having erected awnings of their own to shield the rays of the unrelenting sun. The air is imbued with the odour of this leather, as well as the sounds of shoemaking. Various begging brothers choose to wander the crowds before stopping to loudly pontificate on morality and sin, gathering many listeners to the chagrin of the cobblers.
The grandeur of the Street of Kings diminishes somewhat as it slowly shrinks as it makes its way from the Gate of the Gods towards the Red Keep, straight as an arrow. As the Street of Kings passes through both ends of Cobbler’s Square it is obvious that the commercial needs of the denizens of King’s Landing have led to a gradual encroachment onto the road. A less direct road also utters forth from the Gate of the Gods, the Street of Seed, winding in long turns through the square and ultimately towards the Red Square.
A herald steps forward onto the jousting field, where the sawdust and sand has been laid thick to provide some padding over the hard-packed earth of the Cobbler’s Square. Shards and splinters from the previous round of jousts have been cleared away, blood has been soaked up with additional sawdust, and the pockmarks of hoofbeats have been cleared away—all’s ready!
“Next in the lists, his grace, King Daeron the First of His Name, against Ser Andry Chester, in the first list! And in the second, Ser Urston Coldwater against Ser Sorin of Sevenstreams!” For the king, there’s always a roar of approval, loudest of all from the merchants, and perhaps—just perhaps—a little subdued among the smallfolk, but still quite obvious. Dressed in his fabulous armor of black plate chased with gold, a fan of scales across the shoulders and back, and his high helm with a gleaming golden crown, Daeron seems born for the joust as he comes forward; Ser Andry can hardly compare with that showing, and hardly tries to. As to Ser Urston’s foe, Ser Andry rode in convincing style in the first round, so who can say how it will go?
Ser Aidan Dayne sits in the stands; unusual, that, given his reputation as a jouster, and his shared victory with the Dragonknight. But in truth, almost none of the Dornish knights joined the tourney, and it’s whispered that those who did did so against the strong suggestion of the guildsmen who arranged the whole affair. The wound he took at the riot’s start is quite unnoticeable now—a fading scar at his temple, slipping into the line of his dark hair. He sits, as is his wont, with his cousin and squire Danyll Toland, and Danyll’s siblings the Toland twins.
Another fan, ruffled and pink, flutters swiftly away next to Marian Stark’s - Ryssa Waters is by her lady’s side as always, smiling eagerly and leaning in to catch what Marian is saying. There is an almost desperate air to Ryssa’s good cheer - not only is the fragile girl wilting in the heat, but after so many days of strain and exhaustion and work at the hospice, Ryssa is utterly determined to enjoy herself no matter what. She sets up enthusiastic applause for Daeron, along with the others -but also has some cheers for her friend Ser Andry.
It is a cross-looking Reyna Saltcliffe who reclines in the Tyrell box among her kin. Alone among them is she clad in black and silver, a gown of surpassing modesty. But her fan is bright with paint of green and gold, and there is no doubt that she is Tyrell from top to toe, for in the absence of her brothers, the rest of the house retainers treat her with great deference. When the King is named, they rise as one to make their courtesies; only when they have all bowed in respect do they join the applause.
Ser Sorin, the unheralded hedge knight, rides forward into the lists and dips his lance—of unpainted wood, no less—to his opponent, once Ser Urston is ready. It matches the movement between King Daeron and Ser Andry, a knight from the reach whose reputation blossomed in the Reach and during the war in Dorne.
With their colorful sandsilk robes and foreign features, the Dornish hostages are easily identified. Sitting among her countrymen, Joleta Gargalen applauds politely for the combatants in the next tilts. She murmurs something to one of her companions, smiling.
Seated in the Stark Box, Rosalind Hill is a lone blonde among the darker haired northmen. She has chosen to enjoy the festivities with her close companions, Marian Stark and Ryssa Waters. Though she laughs at jests and comments on the knights, but the bastard girl is distracted. Though it is not obvious to those who do not know her well, Rosalind’s thoughts linger somewhere other than the tourney.
The herald, confirming all the jousters are at the ready, raises a baton . . . and lowers it with a sharp motion.
The knights kick their steeds into motion, as the crowd cheers and wagers fly!
Daeron’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.
The horse kicks forward, dirt sprouting off from the heels as it dashes down the line. Ser Urston leans in slightly, lance in hand and shield in the other. The Gauntlents clench hard, his legs tighten, his back stiffens, and eyes squint. The shield slightly rises and is prepared to embrace for impact, as his cloak flutters from his shoulders in the charge in a mixture of red and blue.
The top of his head is protected by a simple fluted kettle helmet, the brim resting easily out over his forehead and relaxed, almost unconcerned looking brown eyes. The rest of his head, saving the space for him to see, is wrapped in chainmail, loosely defining a sharp jawline. From neck to boot he is armored in dark, dully glinting mail, over which sits a grey, beaten gambeson that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of swords, maces and spears, kept intact by the chestpiece of steel lamellar that descends down to his thighs. The only traditional piece of armor that Sorin seems able to afford is a pair of fine steel vambraces and greaves that seem overly ornate for the rest of his undecorated armor, covered with fine gildings that seem to bear a heron motiff.
Hanging at his belt is a simple one handed arming sword in a leather sheathe, its crossguard and pommel suggesting that it was forged in King’s Landing, the handle wrapped in white cloth bandage, an overly long strip hanging off near the pommel that flutters in a light breeze. A hammer that looks like it might have once been meant for stone carving but given a longer handle sits in a leather loop attached to his wraparound, heavy leather belt, and a kite shield hangs over one shoulder against his back, its device long since painted over and replaced by a simple iron boss.
Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as it delivers a tremendous blow to its opponent.
Urston makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Urston finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
Ser Raynard stood by his trustworthy mare in the arming area. He was clad if full plate, his helm’s visor was up, and he was clearly anticipating the coming action. Unlike the other knights present he was in the company of a pair of Gold Cloaks. They were to sccompany him onto the field as well. Though he found it being something of an affront to his honor, as with the feast afew nights ago, he could scarcely blame them for their caution.
The crowd roars as lances break and shatter, and the king comes through it still a-horse. And so, too, does Ser Andry. The two bold horsemen throw down their broken lances and take up new ones from waiting squires, while Ser Sorin of Sevenstreams makes little show after sending Coldwater tumbling to the earth. A moment’s pause, and then the king and Ser Andry are on one another once more.
Andry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, its lance.
Daeron lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Andry just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from its opponent.
Offering Rosalind the best encouraging smile she can muster while feeling as if she is on the verge of melting, Marian has her attention brought back to the lists by the thundering roll of the hooves. She lets out a yelp of surprise at the results and array of broken lances, applauding happily.
A burst of applause springs up from Ryssa, full of glee at seeing the king riding - but a different kind of smile lights her face when she sees Andry manage to withstand Daeron’s lance, and her hands fly even faster.
Strangely, wagers made on the king’s victory don’t seem to be taken—or perhaps not so strangely, for the young king is always favored, rightly or wrongly. The tipped lance is dropped again, and a new taken. His great destrier paws the earth, ready to go, but he waits for Ser Andry . . . and then the two barrel down the lists towards one another, lances lowered and shields fixed.
Andry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Daeron just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
“The king has a good seat,” says Ser Aidan to his cousins, as the contest goes on. “but so does Chester.” The crowd seems to discount Chester, however, even as it gasps as Daeron struggles to keep to his saddle. He drops the cracked lance to free a hand for the reins, and so he manages. There’s a little pause, as a halt is called while a girth is tightened on the king’s saddle. And then it starts once more, with pounding hoofs and steady lances.
Andry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Daeron lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Andry just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.
Andry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Andry is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
Though she follows the events on the field closely, and exchanged frequent enough comments about the merits of the participating knights with her uncle, Aisling Ryswell does not display the same enthusiasm as many of the other young ladies present. Such as her own step-sister, Lady Sylvina, as always the centre of a knot of highborn girls, all of whom can be seen and heard quite well from their prominent place in the stands. The King, of course, is paid particular attention.
Rosalind likewise applauds for the knights, the vanquished as well as the victorious. The bout between Daeron and Ser Andry grows more intense and she watches. As Chester is finally unhorsed, she claps anew. “Well fought!”
A great—and politic—roar goes up from the Tyrell stands, with all the women applauding and the men hanging over the rails with calls of “The Young Dragon!” all in celebration of Daeron’s last run in the lists.
“Too bad,” sharp-tempered and sharp-tongued Tanyth can be heard commenting as Ser Andry finally vacates his saddle. “I am only here because I would like to see a royal arse on the ground.” Her twin, Tamlyn, narrowly manages to disguise a burst of laughter as a cough. “Not true, sister, and you know it. You have been dreadfully bored of late.”
Astonishment grows in Ryssa’s eyes as she watches Andry withstand blow after blow from the king’s lance, and her applause is not alone, for there are always a few who cheer for the underdog. And so there is disappointment, but no surprise, when her friend finally falls. Ryssa leans forward, and honest enthusiasm breaks through her desperately resolute grin as she cheers Andry’s attempt along with the king’s success.
Marian adds her voice to those acclaiming Andry’s valiant effort - also leaning forward a touch to watch for signs of life from the fallen knight as she murmurs another comment to her companions. “I wonder if we shall be called upon to conduct anyone to the hospice….”
Daeron’s shield bears yet another scar or two, thanks to the solid blows Ser Andry gave him. The king’s shattered lance is discarded, and he lifts his visor as he rides past the fallen knights and lifts a hand to him. And as the crowd cheers, the beautiful young king turns his gaze to them, and lifts his hand higher in salute to their cheers.
Attendants rush out to clear the field of debris, as the herald calls forth the next challengers. “Ser Triston Templeton shall face Ser Osbert of the Kingsguard in the first list! In the second list, Ser Eben Bolling shall face Ser Lormon Buckler!” These matches draw some interest from the crowd, especially those who found their wish to wager unfulfilled by the previous matches. Ser Osbert is narrowly favored, it seems, over the young Valeknight who performed such wonders during the Grand Tourney, while Ser Lormon—an infamous knight, to some, despite his connection to the royal kin—was never known as a tourney knight.
Joleta chuckles at the Toland twins, bemused. “Dreadfully bored in the few days since we fled for our lives? Was that an entire week? You need a hobby, Lady Tanyth.” She applauds for the victors like a vetern spectator, but does give the fallen Ser Urston a wave from the stands.
Triston delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Osbert strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Triston is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
Rosalind replies to Marian, “I hope not!” She is about to say more, when her future good-father’s name is announced. It is with a smile that she applauds for Ser Lormon Buckler.
The top of his head is protected by a simple fluted kettle helmet, the brim resting easily out over his forehead and relaxed, almost unconcerned looking brown eyes. The rest of his head, saving the space for him to see, is wrapped in chainmail, loosely defining a sharp jawline. From neck to boot he is armored in dark, dully glinting mail, over which sits a grey, beaten gambeson that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of swords, maces and spears, kept intact by the chestpiece of steel lamellar that descends down to his thighs. The only traditional piece of armor that Sorin seems able to afford is a pair of fine steel vambraces and greaves that seem overly ornate for the rest of his undecorated armor, covered with fine gildings that seem to bear a heron motiff.
Hanging at his belt is a simple one handed arming sword in a leather sheathe, its crossguard and pommel suggesting that it was forged in King’s Landing, the handle wrapped in white cloth bandage, an overly long strip hanging off near the pommel that flutters in a light breeze. A hammer that looks like it might have once been meant for stone carving but given a longer handle sits in a leather loop attached to his wraparound, heavy leather belt, and a kite shield hangs over one shoulder against his back, its device long since painted over and replaced by a simple iron boss.
Sorry.
“Dreadfully bored considering the constraints following upon that damned mess, Lady Joleta,” replies Tanyth, lazily pushing back a few pitch-black curls from her face. “As for hobbies ... I am afraid all my favourite pastimes have suffered these last years. Too few chances to go hunting, or even just riding as I please. And lets not even talk about the lack of men…”
Ser Malon, called to the lists, wears the breastplate and golden cloak of the City Watch, but elsewise his arms bear the wheat stalks of the Selmys while his armor is otherwise plain and no different from that of any other knight of a good family. He faces Buckler, a fellow Stormlord, and dips his lance to him . . . and then the two hurtle towards one another, lances at the ready!
Malon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Lormon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Malon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Lormon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Malon is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
“My sweet cousin prefers to chew on her complaints, than to partake of what pleasures there are to be had,” Ser Aidan remarks, grinning briefly. His eyes, however, are quite steadily on the jousting, weighing and watching each competitor. As Ser Malon tumbles before the knight with the three buckles on his shield, he asks, “Ser Lormon rides as fiercely as you’d imagine, doesn’t he?”
Rosalind jumps to her feet, applauding Ser Lormon’s victory. Smiling broadly, she waves at him from the Stark box.
and the glare of the sun seems to drain the color from the landscape.
The swift results as the sun slowly moves westwards seem to please the crowd well enough—the day is hot, and the haze lies like a pall over the city. Broken lances are taken away, and Ser Malon is helped from the field after lying stunned on the dirt for a few moments. Then the herald comes forward, “Next in the lists: Ser Astos Corbray shall face Raynard Locke, while Ser Durance Darklyn shall ride against Seth of House Blackwood!”
After applauding Ser Lormon’s victory, Marian laughs merrily at Rosalind’s enthusiams. “Yes, he does. The family history and reputation attracted my attention even before your connection renewed my interest….” Still smiling, she beckons over one of her servants and issues sotto voce instructions, prompting a brief flurry of activity. As one lays out more goblets, another opens a fresh bottle of wine, and a third moves to wend his way through the noble spectators to arrive at the Tyrrell box, there to request that the Lady Marian’s respects are conveyed to Lady Saltcliffe, along with an invitation to share in a just-opened bottle of a Highgarden vintage. Back in the Stark box, Marian’s attention is meanwhile jerked back to the lists, as her kinsman and champion both take to the field.
“Do give an account some day of the pleasures you have had here in King’s Landing, and I shall see if any of them might interest me, sweet cousin,” Tanyth replies with the tartness of a not-quite-ripe apple, and there’s a distinct edge to the smile she serves Aidan.
The soldier before you hardly looks like your typical knight, and more like a peasant who started collecting armor from the battlefield. His arms and armaments bear a slight Dornish look, although it would be as if a Dornishman were trying to dress himself in the manner of a knight, but with only Dornish armor. That said, he does prevent a relatively impressive, if unorthodox, sight of mercenary chivalry.
The top of his head is protected by a simple fluted kettle helmet, the brim resting easily out over his forehead and relaxed, almost unconcerned looking brown eyes. The rest of his head, saving the space for him to see, is wrapped in chainmail, loosely defining a sharp jawline. From neck to boot he is armored in dark, dully glinting mail, over which sits a grey, beaten gambeson that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of swords, maces and spears, kept intact by the chestpiece of steel lamellar that descends down to his thighs. The only traditional piece of armor that Sorin seems able to afford is a pair of fine steel vambraces and greaves that seem overly ornate for the rest of his undecorated armor, covered with fine gildings that seem to bear a heron motiff.
Hanging at his belt is a simple one handed arming sword in a leather sheathe, its crossguard and pommel suggesting that it was forged in King’s Landing, the handle wrapped in white cloth bandage, an overly long strip hanging off near the pommel that flutters in a light breeze. A hammer that looks like it might have once been meant for stone carving but given a longer handle sits in a leather loop attached to his wraparound, heavy leather belt, and a kite shield hangs over one shoulder against his back, its device long since painted over and replaced by a simple iron boss.
“Oh, aye,” Joleta agrees with Aidan, lifting her brows slightly in appreciation of the Buckler knight’s skill. “Didn’t he slay a dragon once? And his son turned robber knight?” She does give Tanyth a wicked grin, “Ah, well, I understand your dilemma. Perhaps you need a new hobby?
Ambitious young man searching for honor and glory outside of his dreary home in Duskendale. Hopes to follow in his cousin’s Ser Yohnen’s footsteps. Admires Ser Yohnen. Unsure of future goals. Aspires to become a knight of the Kingsguard.
The first thing one usually notices about Ser Harmon Massey is that he can be a very social creature. He dances well, laughs easily, speaks fairly nicely in spite of his stutter and the awkwardness it sometimes causes, and knows good jokes. But there is little substance in what he says: when he does the rounds at a social gathering he seems to be more fulfilling an obligatory role as the son of a lord and a knight than truly enjoying the spectacle. More than one person who has known him could comment on his ability to have a conversation with them for an hour and yet never say anything substantial. His natural reserve can be disconcerting to those who cannot penetrate it, and makes it difficult for him to make fast friends. He can also be quite self-conscious about his stutter: it is mostly under control, but one of the few ways to make him visibly angry is to politely finish a word for him when he’s stumbling over it.
That said, he also struggles to make fast enemies. He is circumspect in speech, graceful, humble, chivalrous, and intelligent enough to spy out trouble and avoid it. He is utterly inoffensive, and therefore utterly uninteresting. It must be said, in fairness, that most of his previous interactions have been either as a boy or as a knight who has often been abroad on various errands. Of late he has been more permenantly located in King’s Landing, and his natural reserve may well be simply ground down by time.
Astride a dappled grey courser decorated in his House colors, Ser Durance strikes a rather dashing figure. Pausing to raise his hand in salute to a group of pretty maidens, he guides the spirited animal in position, lowers the visor of his helm and sets his lance.
The arrival of the Stark retainer jolts Reyna out of a half-doze on the shoulder of her distant cousin, Frant. The poncing man in Tyrell colors makes a comment in her ear that draws her laughter; then she rises and follows the retainer to the Stark box, where she sits with an exclamation of gratitude for Marian.
“A dragon, or a king—or perhaps both, the way the songs tell it,” Aidan tells Joleta, eyeing Ser Lormon as he rides off to his small tent. The man looks angry once he takes his helmet off, and his hard eyes seem trained on one of the new entries into the lists. “A bad man to have as an enemy, I think.” As to Tanyth . . . as usual, he avoids responding to her sharper remarks.
Ser Harmon rides out, the triple spirals on his shield a whirl of red and blue and green. He salutes the young northman, and readies the charge.
Known more for his feats of endurance and resilience in the great King’s Tourney moreso than any acts of prowess, Seth Blackwood at the very least /looks/ the part of the formidable warrior as he trots onto the field atop his sleek black charger. The prior winner of the Joust for Love is clad in onyx-gilded plate with a bascinet fashioned into a raven’s head beak. Indeed, the only sign of color on the warrior is a slim white garter encircled around a jet-plated arm. A token of his betrothed, Lady Marian of House Stark.
Approaching the field, the Blackwood takes up a lance without fanfare and lifts it in salute.
Harmon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Raynard’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Harmon is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
Durance delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Seth strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Durance is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.
“The vintner’s agent assured me that this should taste of “apples and blooms in sunshine”, whatever that might mean”, Marian explains to her companions as herself, Rosa and Reyna are presented with goblets. Then her attention is entirely drawn to the lists - and after two sharp gasps of surprise, she is beaming and applauding enthusiastically.
Ser Durance recovers his feet, letting the squires chase down his spirited destrier. He raises a hand to salute Seth Blackwood, then makes his way off the field.
Raynard smiles, and salutes his opponent. “A good strike Ser Harmon.” Turning to the Stark boxes he salutes his liege as well, before guiding his horse from the lists.
The Blackwood hardly jolts in his seat as Darklyn’s meager blow skids off his shield. He rounds about to view his fallen foe and lifts his cracked lance in another gesture of salute. “Well fought!” he cries, before wheeling his horse around to approach the Stark seats—casting the useless weapon aside along the way for his attendant to remove from the field.
The crowd roars as knights crash together, and almost in unison two knights fall to the ground, and two victors are raised up on cheers! The Blackwood esquire seems fit to prove he won the Joust for Love for better reasons than mere obstinancy, and Ser Raynard deals Ser Harmon a shattering blow that bodes well for his future in the lists. Horses are captured, youths run to clear away shards and splinters, and a man busies himself with a bucket of sand and sawdust to fill up a spot where one of the fallen knights tore a gouge from the prepared field. Once that’s done, the herald goes forward.
“Next in the lists are Ser Doran Dondarrion and Lord Whalon Rosby!” he announces, and the crowd cheers lustily for the Jousting Lord, who takes it in as much stride as he over does; he whoops, and practically leaps to the saddle (with a bit of push at the end from a squire, that is). “And Ser Dagur Saltcliffe shall face Ser Raynard, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!”
Rosalind applauds the victors of the next round, Ser Raynard Locke and her distant cousin, Seth Blackwood. “Seth rides well,” she comments to Marian. “And it seems as though Ser Raynard is well recovered from his injuries.” The bastard girl takes the offered wine, giving Reyna a smile of greeting. Upon hearing the last call, she mumurs, “Oh, this will be a challenge for Ser Dagur!”
“A challenge indeed,” Reyna says, frowning as she moves to the rail. “But he has tilted better and come out of it, so we shall see what the Seven will for him.” She raises her hand to Dagur’s end of the lists, a black and silver streamer fluttering limply in the heat.
Night to the Lord Commander’s day, the Iron Serpent rides out, armoured in black from snake-helm to boots despite the searing heat. If he seems a touch stiff as he straightens after taking the lance his squire hands up, perhaps it is nothing more than the discomfort of being encased in rigid steel.
He seems to care nothing for the crowd’s reaction, pausing only to incline his helmed head to the woman standing in the Stark box, his face in shadow behind twin silvered fangs, and dip his lance to Ser Reynard; then he sets spurs to his destrier and thunders down the list.
Joleta sits up straighter, looking surprised that the Blackbolt is forced from the saddle by the aged Rosby knight. “Well.” she says, “That was unexpected.” She looks then to the next challenges.
Marian can’t help but laugh as the perpetually enthusiastic Rosby unseats his younger opponent - though she does spare a worried glance for her friend’s brother. Dagur receives a worried frown, gaze narrowing as she tries to assess his health through the barrier of the armour… but she bites her lip rather than comment.
Reynard’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Dagur strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Dagur just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
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 shatters.
Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.
Reynard lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Reynard is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Dagur makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Dagur just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.
Reynard lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
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 shatters.
Reynard delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Dagur lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Reynard struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Slowing as he nears the end of the list, the Iron Serpent curbs his destrier, tossing his ruined lance away. Riding back, he draws rein near the fallen Commander of the Kingsguard and leans from the saddle to speak with him. Nodding after a quick exchange, he straightens, raises a mailed fist in salute to the older man and rides back to his arming tent.
With each pass and each set of shattered lances, the crowd roars louder and louder. The Iron Serpent seems glued to his saddle, and Ser Reynard no less so. The wagers are shouted, swift and heady, as the two men seem evenly matched . . . and then at last a result, as a well-placed lance at an inopportune moment tips the scale and Caron’s brought to the ground. He rises up quickly enough, shaking off a squire who tries to help him, and pulls off his helm. The grizzled knight raises a hand to the Iron Serpent, ignoring the dirt staining his once-pristine white cloak.
And then it’s on to the next series of jousts! “His grace, King Daeron, shall face Ser Sorin of Sevenstreams while Ser Urston Coldwater shall face Ser Andry Chester!”
Reyna watches each pass in breathless silence, her face giving nothing away until the Lord Commander is on his arse in the dust and her husband is riding past, still in the saddle. Then she exhales and turns back to her companions, Marian and Rosalind. “He is a better lancer than he claims, I think, to do so well against such knights,” she says, sitting and reaching for wine. “This heat is beastly.”
Once defeated, Ser Andry seems determined not to have that happen again. He and his squire go over his destrier, checking every buckle and strap to make sure the saddle is firmly in its place before he mounts. His lance is carefully picked, striped in the Chester colors, and is then dipped to Ser Urston as he awaits the charge. His destrier frisks, head bobbing up and down as it paws the earth.
Marian musters a smile for Reyna, though she has completely drained her first goblet of the wine. “We saw him at the hospice, not too long ago. I am… impressed with the battering he took just now, without letting his injury affect him”, she says quietly.
“Dagur was there?” Reyna asks in surprise, disregarding the lists for a moment to look at Marian in surprise. “When was this?”
“A few days past,” Rosalind answers, “After the… problems in the city. I stitched his lasceration.” She sips the wine slowly.
As Ser Urston and Ser Andry prepare to meet, the king is met with great cheers, while the hedge knight he faces is roundly booed and hissed by the commons; such a one could never hope to win their affection from the Young Dragon, despite—or perhaps as much because—of the recent happenings. The hedge knight from some misbegotten village in the riverlands seems to be deaf to it, as he readies himself. He dips his lance, and then charges boldly when the king starts his destrier forward.
Sorin’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Daeron strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Daeron just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Andry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Urston makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Urston just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
“Fancy that.” Reyna looks from Marian to Rosalind, and then off toward the end of the lists. “He never said. Usually Poxy cares for his hurts.” She is quiet while watching the King’s joust; the other run seems not to register with her at all.
Princess Daena, from her seat on the dais, half rises in shock when the hedge knight—some nobody from nowhere—shattes his lance against Daeron’s shield, and the king nearly falls to him. The crowd gasps aloud, and then bites its collective tongue in anticipation as Daeron manages to right himself and prepare for another charge. They cheer him on, as he hurtles down the lists, while the contest between Ser Urston and the famous Ser Andry is nearly forgotten.
Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Daeron’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Sorin is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Ser Andry seems to have to check the end of his lance as he slows at one end of the list, before determining the tip is broken. Dropping it to the ground, he takes a fresh one from his squire, and then wheels his horse about to start down the lists at Coldwater.
Sorin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Sorin finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
Down the way from the Starks, nearer the royals, the Tyrells again make with their roar of “The Young Dragon!” in approbation.
Marian shoots Reyna a worried, sidelong look amidst the jousting - but soon finds herself cheering the result of Daeron’s prolonged bout against Sorin. “I could see that hedge knight winning himself a few patrons today…”
The Knight slowly swerves, riding a bit past his young helper as he eyes on towards Ser Andry. “I can do this. I can do this.” The shield tightens up against him as he nods towards the youth, rallying the horse around as he keeps eyeing at Chester. “Charge hard. Just charge hard.” He remarks to himself, like a mantra.
There’s an instant’s hush as lances meet ... and then a roar, as Ser Andry falls before the king. The crowd’s well-pleased with the result, to say the least, and the king’s hailed as if he were Aegon the Conqueror himself. Daeron again salutes the crowd, before returning to his tent.
Andry’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Urston strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Urston just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Andry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Urston strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Urston just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Urston lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Urston just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Andry’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Urston delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Urston just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Andry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Urston’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Andry is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
“Next to the lists, Ser Triston Templeton faces Ser Malon Selmy, and Ser Raynard Locke faces Seth Blackwood!” the herald announces, as the crowd slowly settles from the excitement.
Marian groans quietly as it’s announced that the two people she most supports are to face off against each other… then gestures for her goblet to be refilled, trying not to look unduly worried.
Triston strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Malon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Triston is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.
Raynard rides out to the lists once more and smiling. He sees Seth on his mount and salutes him. Setting himself in place, he sets the lance he is given as he readies himself to score another victory, though he does not expect this one to go as easily as the last. “To the best man Blackwood.”
Seth dons his beaked helm once more at the herald’s call, and so it is entirely impossible to tell whether he senses the disquiet of his lady when he turns to salute her with an onyx gauntlet. But here he seems all business, spurring his steed towards the list field and hefting his lance upward. “And you, my lord.”
Seth manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Raynard’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Seth is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.
Templeton and Blackwood both take hard tumbles, and the crowd is cacophanous with it! The champions make their salutes, while the herald calls the next contests between Ser Harmon Massey and Ser Durance Darklyn, and Ser Osbert of the Kingsguard and Ser Lormon.
Harmon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Durance is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
Raynard salutes his opponent and nods to the Starks before wheeling his horse from the lists for the next bout.
Marian does her best to seem enthusistic for her cousin’s victory - though after she acknowledges Raynard’s salute, her gaze is largely fixed upon the dismounted Blackwood.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Osbert strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth Blackwood, well acquainted with being forced to his back now and again, takes his tumble with good humor. Struggling briefly to his feet in that clanky armor, he gets (quite literally) back up in the saddle. Dented shield and all. One can almost sense the rueful smile behind that beaked helm as he waves to his betrothed in the stands.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.
“It’s not his only wound,” Reyna says suddenly, looking around at Marian and Rosalind. “That Blackmont chit cut his leg open, too, and the back of his shield hand.” Perhaps that is why she looks so cross and out of sorts.
The long, hard-fought contest between Bettley and Buckler comes to an end, with much money changing hand as the infamous Ser Lormon is brought down in a clatter of armor by the Breaker of Yronwood. The knight throws up his fist and roars his fierce joy at the victory, before turning back to briefly raise his hand to Buckler in salute before returning to his place. Lances shards are gathered and cleared away as the herald announces, “Ser Doran Dondarrion shall face Ser Reynard, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, while Lord Whalon shall face Ser Dagur Saltcliffe!”
Having blown a kiss and smiled fondly at Seth, Marian looks sharply around at Reyna. “Two more wounds?” she asks softly, frown worried. “And still he rode like that? He shall earn himself a new byname, at this rate…”
The ironborn knight rides out again; he can be heard to laugh as he takes up his lance and watches his eager opponent. But there seems to be no mockery in his amusement for he dips the lance a touch lower than he did to the Commander of the Kingsguard; then he sets his spurs and is off.
Rosalind winces as Lormon Buckler is knocked from his mount, watching until she sees her betrothed’s father get back on his feet. Then she regards Reyna with surprise, “She… what? I’d heard something, when she was found and returned, but nothing about this.”
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 shatters.
Reynard lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Reynard is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
Rosby’s quick to the saddle again, finally getting his chance to joust for a third time, and against another famed opponent no less. His visor drops down with a *CLANG*, his lance is to hand, and then he’s off!
Whalon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Whalon is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
Reyna begins to answer Rosalind, but is instead caught in a gasp of shock. “He unseated Whalon Rosby!” she crows, sounding for a moment like a zealous squire. She waves her streamer over the rails at him, and when the hubbub has died down a bit, she resumes her seat and nods. “She did not wish to be found, it seems. But that is all I know, really, and all I care to know. She deserves spanking.”
The Jousting Lord starts quickly, and ends quickly. The old lord is stunned for a long moment, before he stirs. A squire helps him up, while he lifts his visor to spit out sand and sawdust that found its way in . . . and then he seems to guffaw, face red with exertion. “Bloody snake!” he shouts, but he lifts his hand is salute to the victorious Iron Serpent.
“Ser Malon Selmy shall face Seth Blackwood, while his grace King Daeron shall face Ser Osbert Bettley!” the herald announces, and here’s a contest the crowd is much excited to see: the king against one of his own White Swords.
No attributes wiped.
Ser Malon Selmy takes his place at one in the list, his gaily striped lance held high and at the ready. When the Blackwood esquire appears, he dips his lance in salute.
Though briefly distracted by Ser Dagur’s triumphant bout against the Jousting Lord, Seth Blackwood has spent the majority of his time readying himself for his own next match. The reinforced kiteshield he bears -does- look a touch cracked, a jagged edge cleaving the white weirwood at it’s center at a diagonal. His armor, caked as it is with dirt, is not nearly so polished and gleaming. Still, he approaches in good spirits and takes up his fourth lance of the day. A salute to Ser Malon, and he’s off!
“Perhaps next time, old man,” the Iron Serpent calls back as he rides to his end of the lists again, returning the salute. “Third time pays for all.”
The fearsome helm turns to the Stark box as he rides past and he raises a hand to Reyna as well before returning; this time he does not bother to retire. His squire arms him again as the number of riders is whittled down and the contest grows fiercer.
Daeron strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Osbert’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Daeron is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
Malon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Seth strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Seth is shaken in the saddle by the lance he’s received against him, but recovers well.
No attributes wiped.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Malon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Seth strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Malon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Malon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Seth strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Seth is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Malon delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Malon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Malon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Malon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Seth strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Malon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Seth’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Malon is ripped from the saddle by a mighty blow and falls to the earth with a bone-shaking rattle.
The crowd gasps aloud as the Breaker of Yronwood lives up to his name, and smashes his lance to so many cinders against the shield of the Young Dragon. Daeron crashes to the earth, his horse nearly falling with him as he’s pressed back and over his high saddle. Viserys himself rises up from his seat, and Daena with him.
But the king moves, rolling from his side to his back for a moment, and then back over to his front as attendants rush to him. The king shakes them off—a little shakily, but none the less—as he gets up to his feet by his own strength. Making a motion, a squire helps unfasten helm from gorget so that the king can lift it up and off his head.
“Well ridden, Ser Osbert!” he shouts, and the crowd takes it as leave to cheer on the White Sword, who bows deeply from the saddle to his king.
Marian is struggling not to hide behind her hands and fan by the time that Seth rides his last course in the bout - and instead finds herself gaping at the startlingly decisive victory. Finding her feet and voice at the same time, she cheers lustily, only half registering the defeat of the king.
That one was a bitch. Seth Blackwood is panting for breath by the time his charger leads the Blackwood to the other end of the field in his victory stretch, and his jet-black plate has more than a few new nicks. Spinning around he lifts his visor to spy his fallen opponent, and then lifts the hand further to give Ser Malon a salute. “An honor, ser,” the riverman shouts in tones both weary and earnest. He rounds about then to a canter and brings the sable steed back towards the Stark seats.
“Ser Raynard Locke shall face Ser Dagur Saltcliffe, while Ser Harmon Massey faces Ser Lormon Buckler!” the herald announces, after a long pause in which courtiers and attendants seem to be running back and forth between the raised dais where Viserys sits, his face a grim mask, and where Daeron takes his ease on a seat. The young king can be seen talking lightly at first ... and then seeming less light, to say the least. Eventually, with a wave of his hand, he ends this stream of visitors.
Harmon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Lormon delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Lormon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Harmon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Lormon delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Lormon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Spurring forward as the herald announces his name, the Iron Serpent watches his opponent for a moment before finally dipping his lance in perfunctory salute. Then, he couches it, settles his shield and charges.
Reyna moves from her companions to the rail again, the streamer dangling from her hand and there she stays; watching, breathless, without expression as she watches her husband joust the man she has been heard to name heretic.
Raynard rides out once more. He smiles to the iron knight before lowering his visor and giving him a salute. He takes his position in the lists, and awaits his opponent. receiving his lance he swallowed. He’d had good luck thus far, but he wasn’t about to lose focus. not with his currnt opponent. Couching his own lance, he charged his mare forward, intent on victory.
Raynard delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Dagur lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Raynard finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
Harmon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Lormon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Harmon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Harmon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Harmon is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
No such attribute to copy from.
No such attribute to copy from.
Raynard finding himself square on his back blinked afew times, before rolling to pick himself up. Once on his feet he salutes the iron man. “Well done Ser Dagur.” Taking his horses reins, he smiled, and led her to the end of the lists to await his next bout.
“For the Seven!” Reyna calls as the applause sounds for Dagur’s unhorsing of the Locke knight in one run. She turns round with a relieved sigh, smiling broadly despite the sweat on her face. “A decisive victory for the Faith,” she says, settling back in her seat.
The Iron Serpent is not a man known for displays of chivalry. But even so, there is a murmur when he rides back without saluting him as he had his other rivals or answering his call.
Buckler rides in ferocious style, shattering several lances before driving Massey from the saddle! The crowd is relatively muted, preferring to see the Iron Serpent’s victory as something more worthy of cheering about. Coppers and stags, and even a dragon or three change hands on the results. There’s a brief pause as the field is put to order, and then it’s on to the next contests. “Lord Whalon Rosby shall face Ser Urston Coldwater, while Ser Osbert Bettley shall face Ser Dagur Saltcliffe!”
Having waited to assure herself of Raynard’s apparent good health, Marian shoots Reyna an amused look, but is distracted from voicing a reply by Dagur’s unusual lack of acknowledgement of Raynard’s words.
Buckler rides in ferocious style, shattering several lances before driving Massey from the saddle! The crowd is relatively muted, preferring to see the Iron Serpent’s victory as something more worthy of cheering about. Coppers and stags, and even a dragon or three change hands on the results. There’s a brief pause as the field is put to order, and then it’s on to the next contests. “Lord Whalon Rosby shall face Ser Urston Coldwater, while Ser Doran Dondarrion will face Ser Sorin of Sevenstreams!”
Whalon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Urston manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Urston struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Doran’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Sorin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Sorin just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Doran lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Sorin’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Doran just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Sorin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Sorin just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Doran strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Sorin’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Reyna watches without surprise, then looks back at Marian. “My lord is devout, and Ser Raynard’s heresies do not please him,” she says to the Stark.
Doran just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Doran’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Sorin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Sorin is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
The tenacious hedge knight gives the famed Black Bolt a hard-fought match, and the crowd’s ecstatic at the display of courage and steady skill as lances shatter to left and to right; against the king, of course, they’d not be so pleased, but there’s only one king after all. In the end, Dondarrion drives the hedge knight from the saddle, ending his run. Then it’s the herald up again, to announce the next jousts, “Lord Whalon Rosby shall face Seth Blackwood, and Ser Osbert Bettley of the Kingsguard shall face Ser Dagur Saltcliffe!”
At that, Reyna rises again, and there is once more a frown between her eyes. As she has before, she moves to the rail and lifts her hand with the black and silver streamer in silent support.
Despite his years and the several jousts so far this day, Lord Whalon doesn’t seem to need any encouragement to get back into the saddle; if it takes two men, instead of one, to help him into it, well, he’s not a spring chicken any longer. He laughs it off, and takes his lance striped in white and black and red in his hand, and dips it to the Blackwood.
The crowd’s roar rises a notch as the white-clad Sworn Brother and the ironman in black ride out at opposite ends of the list. There is a long, watchful moment as they are armed—not a few among those watching remember the last time the two knights rode against each other—and then they are ready.
Ser Osbert dips his lance to his king and then to his opponent; Dagur does likewise to his wife and the Breaker of Yronwood. And they they set their spurs and charge.
Seemingly recovered after that last brutal but ultimately victorious bout, Seth Blackwood rides out to the list to face the legendary jousting lord with equanimity. He dips his lance in salute and kicks his steed to a gallop.
Whalon’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Seth makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Whalon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Seth strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Seth strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Whalon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Whalon is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Whalon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Whalon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Seth strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Seth delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Seth lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Seth’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Seth just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Whalon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Seth makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Seth struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Lormon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Both jousters are driven from the saddle!
The contests have kept the crowd on edge, and the feats of arms have certainly earned admiration and approval, among them being Seth Blackwoods dogged refusal to fall before the Jousting Lord. In the end, fate overtakes him and he’s driven from the saddle, but not without a great cheer on his behalf as he makes his way from the field. And then it’s Doran and Lormon, and ... a double-unhorsing! The two men manage to roll up—though Ser Doran seems the slower of the two to rise. But the herald is quick to announce, “Sers, remount and joust again!”
Doran lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Doran just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Doran’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Lormon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Doran lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Lormon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Doran lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Doran’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Doran just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Lormon’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Doran struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
It’s a mighty contest between the two knights, and Ser Doran clearly has the crowd on his side against the infamous royal kinsman ... but it’s not to be, as Ser Lormon at last gets the better of the Black Bolt from the Marches. Yet Ser Lormon seems hardly pleased by it, and indeed his attention seems turned more and more towards his next opponent ... Ser Raynard.
But first, the herald announces, “Lord Whalon Rosby shall face his grace, King Daeron!”
Whalon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Whalon makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Daeron lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Whalon just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
“Well fallen, Ser Weaksmile,” Reyna remarks in Doran’s direction, though she does not raise her voice. Indeed, she has been talking to herself for quite some time now.
Daeron’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.
Whalon lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Whalon is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
Not even the much-loved Whalon Rosby can get the crowd to roar for him as loudly as they do for the Young Dragon, as he conqueors another foe. The king rides past, basking in the victory and the adulation and the glory, before circling round again to pause near the fallen lord, who’s helped back onto his feet. The two exchange words, and as Daeron lifts his visor it can be seen that he smiles and japes with the doughty old Jousting Lord. In the end, he withdraws to his tent, awaiting the result of the next contest.
“Ser Raynard Locke shall face Ser Lormon Buckler!” Buckler seems practically eager this time, and doesn’t dip his lance at all as he faces Locke. Nor does he wait very long at all to put the spurs to his horse.
Raynard makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Lormon strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Raynard is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Raynard delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Lormon’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Raynard struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Rosalind notes Ser Lormon’s reaction toward jousting Ser Raynard. She falls silent, watching intently.
The bold northman finally succumbs to Ser Lormon’s ungentle blows, and the crowd is muted in its praise—there’s a quiet curse or two, here or there. Ser Lormon drops his shattered lance and then, in turning back ... stops, and dismounts as he shouts. “Sword!” His squire, as if waiting for this moment, already has a bare blade out and ready to pass to his knight. Buckler strides towards the fallen Ser Raynard, struggling to get up, as he is heard growling, “What have you done with my son?”
It happens swiftly, and the crowd is gasping and shouting, and Viserys is up on his feet pointing at Buckler as gold cloaks start to spring to action.
Marian looks rather stunned, shooting a worried, quizzical look at Rosalind as if her friend might be able to provide some insight into Lormon’s notorious temper.
This is certainly interesting. Leaving the comments and gossip with her fellow Dornishmen for a moment, Joleta gets to her feet to get a better look at these events.
Pale and distraught, Rosalind rises to her feet. Both hands are pressed to her mouth and her green eyes wide with shock, she focuses completely on Ser Lormon and Ser Raynard. If she says something, it is lost in the shouts and comments of the crowd.
Daeron strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Daeron lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Osbert strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Daeron just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.
Osbert lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Osbert struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
“Where is my son?!” Buckler can be heard to shout, nearly on Ser Raynard, as one watchman, and then another pounce on him and pull him back, grappling with his arms. He tries to shake him off, when a voice roars, “PUT UP YOUR STEEL!” It’s the king, armored for his next joust and astride his destrier, but with his helmet hastily pulled off. Buckler’s struggles stop almost instantly, but he quivers with tension as he glares at the northman. “ENOUGH!” the king adds. “Ser, away with you—I will deal with you later.” His voice is implacable, and in the end the infamous Buckler—who, in his way, lead to Daeron being king—drops his sword before being escorted away.
After that, it seems Ser Lormon is considered to have forfeited his place in the tourney, and no wonder. So the herald announces the last joust, but one: “His grace, King Daeron, shall face Ser Osbert Bettley of the Kingsguard!”
The rematch between the king and his Kingsguard is met with anticipation—it was a well-fought match before, and promises to be even better a second time. The excitement of Ser Lormon’s near-assault upon Ser Raynard is faded by the time all is ready, and the king and the Breaker square off. The two dip their lances, and charge once, twice, thrice—and it’s the fourth time that makes the decision, as Daeron snatches victory from the jaws of defeat after three merely competent passes against the White Sword. The crowd roars and cheers, as the Young Dragon seems on the verge of being crowned a champion in the lists.
All that waits is ... “Ser Dagur Saltcliffe shall now face his grace King Daeron for the final prize!”
During the display on the lists, Reyna has grown tired of talking to herself and returned to the Tyrell box, passing the royal box and making the Hand a curtsy. “Dear gods,” she remarks to her kinsmen, who bear her to rail on a wave of shouting. “Do we cheer for His Grace or my lord?”
And the Iron Serpent, still in the saddle as he waits, straightens as the Sworn Brother falls. The ghost of a smile can be glimpsed on his lean face as he calls for his helm; then all that can be seen is the bloody flash of the twin fangs barring his face as they catch the light of the westering sun.
His squire hands up a fresh lance and he waits patiently, not needing even to curb his mount; its excess fire burned away by a long afternoon of jousting, it bides its time as its master does.
Having been rather distracted for some time by directing medical assistance to the Blackwood and Locke pavilions, Marian returns to her seat just in time to hear the announcement. She glances around worriedly, then attempts to look as if she is contentedly enjoying herself… albeit while nursing another goblet of wine in her hands.
Daeron takes up his lance and readies himself. Facing the Iron Serpent at the other end of the lists, he dips it low to the ironborn knight ... and then starts the charge, moving steadily—and then swiftly, and then seemingly unstoppably—down the lists towards Ser Dagur. His lance, aimed square at the knight’s shield, swings in and up at the last moment to try and slip past and find the knight’s breastplate.
Flanked on all sides by kin, Reyna Saltcliffe soon finds that there are a pair of Reavers beside her. “Tilting at the King,” Ser Edmund says as the lances are dipped. “Bad business, that.”
As the King dips his lance, so too does the ironborn knight, matching it—and then he is into the charge, a fraction after Daeron perhaps, but picking up speed swiftly. Unlike his opponent, his lance, couched early, remains unmoving; it is only his shield that shifts to try and block the King’s strike.
Daeron strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Dagur lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Daeron is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
The crowd roars in expectation . . . and then is, it must be said, a bit disappointed at the result. There are cheers still, though muted, until Daeron clambers onto his feet. The cheers get louder then, as one of his squires helps him take off his crowned helm. Beneath the arming cap, a sweat-soaked lock of silver-gold hair has escaped, and there’s a flush to his cheeks, but otherwise he seems hale enough—another reason to cheer. He salutes the Iron Serpent. “Well ridden, ser!” the young king shouts.
Reyna’s hands fly to her mouth and she watches in breathlessness for the King to rise. Only when it is clear that Daeron is unharmed does she give voice to her cheer, buffeted on all sides by kin and Reavers alike, all cheering for the Iron Serpent. A bit of breeze skirls through the square, carrying the black and silvery streamer out of her hand and into the air.
Tossing away his lance, the Iron Serpent canters back, fumbling off his helm; sweat drips down his face and plasters hair to his brow. “And you, your grace,” he calls back in a rare politic moment. “I should thank you for taking care of Ser Osbert. He might not been best pleased if I had to ride against him again.”
Then, he tugs off his gauntlets as well and tosses them to his squire who arrives at a run even as the herald steps forward.
Marian releases a long, slow breath once the king rises and demonstrates his good health, darting a sidelong glance at Rosalind. “It seems that this day has passed without disaster”, she murmurs.
Rosalind has barely paid attention to the final bout, clearly distraught by the earlier actions. Marian’s words to reach her, a bit belatedly, and she nods. “Yes.” She says simply.
The Young Dragon smiles briefly, looking back over his shoulder to where Ser Osbert stands. “As you say, ser. Well, the gods were with you, ser, and gave you the steadier lance. Enjoy the day!” And with that, King Daeron vacates the field, leaving it for Ser Dagur alone. The crowd cheers the gracious young king, and for the victorious Iron Serpent. Several guild masters come forward then, with an attendant bearing a rope-like necklace of gold and gemstones on a pillow.
“You have the prize, Ser Dagur!” one of them announces, and the attendant comes forward to present the necklace to the knight.
Incling his head as the King leaves, Dagur dismounts, visibly more stiffly now, as the guildmasters reach him. There is a brief exchange—although it is clear they would like to prolong their moment in the lists—and then he takes the politely proffered necklace and raises it to the light.
If ever there was an ironman, it is him in this moment, gold and jewels flashing as they hang from his fist, a ruddy light limning his armour. Then, he laughs abruptly and mounts again, spurring towards the stands and the Tyrell box.
Reyna gasps when the necklace is carried out, and her kinsmen start to tease her. “That will look pretty round -your- neck, lady,” Frant gushes from his place at her elbow. “It might even look pretty round your husband’s, were he to wear one of those open-necked—”
At that point, someone behind the sycophantic buggerer claps a hand over his mouth. And the lady in question? She only watches the knight riding toward her, glowing with pride.
Marian finds the energy to applaud, though she is thinking longingly of cool water and gentle shade beyond the sun’s reach, mustering a smile for the Ironborn knight’s accomplishment.
The night is warm and sultry, and dark clouds hide the stars in patches.
Elsewhere they shine brightly. Dew forms on the ground.
Joleta applauds lazily for the victor. “Well, you got what you wanted,” she comments dryly to the Black Temptress.
Drawing rein under the Tyrell box, the Iron Serpent stands in his stirrups as if to speak to his wife—and instead, stretches up, catches her arm and pulls her over the railing instead.
Catching her as she descends in a flurry of skirts, he settles her in the saddle before him. And now he can be seen to be laughing openly, unabated as he spurs his horse away and out of the lists, battle won, gold and woman in hand as befits an ironman.
Having lost interest in the tourney and any sort of end celebration, Rosalind quietly thanks Marian for the hospitality of the Stark box and departs.
Joleta lingers for a little while, gossiping about the events and the results with her countrymen before making her way back to the safety of the Dornish Tower.
Marian offers her friend a gentle pat on the shoulder rather than the hug it looks as if she might have favoured in cooler times, before turning her attention once more to directing medicinal efforts….