Blood of Dragons

Arm in arm, Marian Stark and her elder lady in waiting arrive at the tourney grounds with their attendants and guards. Moving to take up their appointed place in the stands, the tall Northwoman peers about with evident interest, searching among those already present in the audience and visible among the competitors’ pavilions.

From the city, the Dornish party arrives. What dornish party? The only one! .. wait, no. The Prince and his sister, at least, are arriving, together with a third Dornish knight and a large group of goldcloaks as well as one of the Targaryen house guards. They are all clad in fancy sandsilks and the usual stuff but trailing after them is Cadan’s squire along with a heavy-looking young man on a wagon who seems to be bringing all their necessary accessories.. armor, lances and so on.

Taking her seat beside Marian, Elyn leans close to tug on the other lady’s sleeve before indicating the arriving Dornish across the way. No words are exchanged, but a dark brow is arched expressively.

So too come the Lannisters.

The carriage that contains all the accoutrements of battle comes first—followed by a steed made fearsome by black armor and ridden by a man clad in the same manner. This lion’s helm has golden fangs and a leering maw—at least so much as the art of blacksmithing will allow.

Triston Templeton is already situated—in the stands with the audience. He’s glumly slumped on a far end of the fence partitioning field and seating. The knight is unarmored, unfavored, and thus not participating in the Joust for Love. He watches the crowds still filling the stands, frowning.

Moving slowly through the noble stands, Ammena Piper makes a way to a chair while scooping up a goblet of golden wine. She settles herself in the chair and takes in the field of competitor’s tents. Turning her head to a hovering Septa, she softly comments, “So the Maiden judges the Warrior today. How very interesting.”

Even in the hazy sun the russet silk of Alyce’s gown shimmers, only outdone by the garnet that hangs at her throat, the gem sparkling brilliantly now and again as light hits it. Her guard isn’t quiet as bright-eyed as she us but he follows along dutifully, giving her a thankful smile when she nods toward the Bar Emmon tent and a group of others whom he joins right away. The lady pauses and looks for the Stark contingent then smiles, seeing Marian and makes her way to the group.

Smiling warmly, Marian holds out a hand to welcome Alyce to her party. “My dear, have you been properly introduced to Elyn Ryswell yet? My dearest friend, and the rock upon which the success of the hospice has been built. Elyn - this is Alyce, Ryssa’s most beloved cousin, about whom I am sure you have heard her enthuse.”

And with the Lannisters? Lady Kellyn is actually riding! On a horse! No insisting on a carriage or anything. She pulls her mount up to an easy halt and waits for someone - servant or, dare one hope, maybe even her husband - in the entourage to step forward and help her dismount. Crimon and gold are the colors of the day this time, none of the ivories and off whites that have marked she has been so fond of as a lady in waiting. Today, she is a representative of her House. Then again, from the added height she can more easily scan the people gathered to attend.

The black steed draws nigh to the lady Kellyn’s horse and the knight in the black lion helm turns to look at the dimunitive woman. “My lady,” comes the rattling voice from within the lion’s maw—a voice properly hidden by the metal and lacquer. “Your husband has asked me to inform you that he will not attend this day.” The voice is grim, solemn—filled with tinny regrets.

“Ah, yes, I have indeed heard the name a time or two.” Elyn replies, the quirk of her mouth friendly. Her tone indicates it might’ve been more than a time or two, however. “Although Marian is far too generous in her praise.” Elyn gives Marian a sidelong look, then turns back to Alyce. “Would you care to join us?”

Alyce takes Marian’s hand with a warm squeeze and smiles to Elyn, “It’s nice to finally meet you and I’d be delighted.” Her eyes shift to the field and those arriving, pausing at the Dornish lot for a moment then moving to others, taking in those in attendance as she takes her place with the ladies.

Kellyn turns to look at the black lion knight as he approaches. The news is met by the biting of her lip. She turns her head away from him, the better to hide visible disappointment - at least from most people. After a few seconds, she turns back with her usual placid expression. “So be it,” she says formally and then gestures a servant forward to help her dismount. Before doing so, though, she asks, “Did he have any message for me?”

“He does,” the Black Lion says. Leaping from the steed, he lands with a clatter and takes the requisite step to the lady’s foot. “He wishes for me to champion you.” He sinks to his knees, taking the lady’s foot in his gauntleted hands.

“If you will have me,” he concludes, softer, raising his eyes to look upon the Lannister lady.

Chuckling, Marian shrugs slightly. “I only praise you as you deserve, my dear”, she protests mildly to Elyn, before darting a glance out over the field. “Not the most bustling field of activity thus far, unfortunately. Perhaps the joust for love might best have been held nearer the start of the week - this threatens to be a joust of endurance for many of our more active competitors.”

The Martells with their entourage all join up at their pavilions from the earlier days. Armor is unpacked, water containers are pulled out, lances are arranged and Cadan Nymeros Martell prepares for the jousting. This day, it seems he opts for the lighter armor - a breastplate with inlaid gold on bronze-polished steel, a fine scale mail and then gauntlets, greaves and a helm in red-shining bronze. The Sun and Spear of house Martell can be seen, repeated here and there as a common theme throughout the suit of armor. His steed is prepared as well, the yellow sandsteed given to him by the Dondarrions.

The sound of hooves is like a mutter of thunder, and a new knight appears. Unlike the knight in black, the identity of this particular champion is no mystery. A vision of chivalry in argent, crimson and silvery plate, with mother-of-pearl eagle’s wings at the temples of his helm, the griffins on the newcomer’s surcoat and barding identify him as Ser Almer Connington, victor of the first day. Those who know him cheer, and he canters his big grey destrier along the viewing stands in a gallant display to the crowd.

Bound to his wrist is a favour of white sandsilk bordered with seed pearls, and there is no doubt whose kerchief this is; the shy but beautiful Keira Sand, with Ser Almer’s sister Maenylla and various Connington householders, sits smiling as he salutes her.

Ammena sits up in her chair as the crowd finally cheers for someone. It is the Griffin. “Ah, the victor of the first day no?” she inquires to a nearby noblewoman. “But where are the others then?” She glances around at the tents and then to the noble stands. Spotting Triston, she comments, “Well there’s one… perhaps he and the others ride later in the day.”

Kellyn watches the Lion take a knee before her, her posture becoming quite formal. “He does, does he?” Cool as a cucumber, she appraises the man before shrugging her shoulder. “Let us see, then, if you can have as much devotion to your lady as you have to your lord in bearing his message.”

A maid opens a box brought for the day, curtseying before holding it up for Kellyn. A bolt of cloth of gold, what else for the Lannisters? is plucked out and stretched out over the knight. “May you do honor in his stead, young knight.”

Finally, the prince of Martell seems done, mounting up and riding out onto the field. He looks awfully tiny compared to many of the Westerosi knights.. and he does have a favor, a thin white linen cloth around his right arm with small blue tips visible. And there he waits, appraising the competition.

The black lion knight takes the lady’s favor swiftly.

“I will not shame you, as your husband has,” he says ere he turns back his steed and remounts. He ties the favor swiftly to a joint in his armor and turns his steed toward the field.

A Lannister guardsman, an iron-haired veteran, looks to the black lion with amusement and then moves to assist Lady Kellyn down from her mount.

A great black destrier approaches from the far pavillions in the east, and Seth Blackwood sits atop it uneasily. Though many still whisper excitedly of yesterday’s performance by the Weeping Knight, the Hammer of Hammerhall, and the Knight of Twilight, few speak of the performance of the young lancer of Blackwood—save perhaps in jest. Though he won his first three jousts, Seth was unseated by Ser Aidan Dayne in the first tilt, and the injuries he sustained the previous day from his bout with the famed Jaesin Lannister so encumbered him that he could not rise from his seat in the dirt. The Blackwood had to be carried from the field by attendants, and was seen that day no more.

Yet here he is again, and it cannot be said that he has not shown considerable persistence—if not unparalleled puissance. The destrier makes its laborious pace up to the stands where the Stark contingent sits, and the black lancer brings it to a halt. Removing his beaked bascinet, Seth’s solemn blue eyes seek out Lady Marian before he bows his head. His normally comely features are disfigured by swelling and bruising on his right profile, and his lower lip looks as if it has been recently bloodied. His speech is slow, resounding, and decidedly formal. “Some days past you awarded your favor to me, my lady of Stark, and it is worth more to me than any prize—save one. Today, I hope to show myself worthy of it, do honor to you… and prove the contents of my heart.”

The knight of Griffin’s Roost removes his helm, revealing his stern but handsome features. He speaks quiet words up to the Lady Keira, and she in return; their voices are lost in the crowd, but the warm smile she graces her knight with is eloquent. Ser Almer turns his horse before the viewing stands, cool and composed as ever. Behind him, the griffin banners snap in the breeze, and his kinsmen and friends call down encouragement and laughter.

“Personally, I would prefer the type of love that shows endurance, not brief fiery flashes given to guttering out under strain.” Elyn replies to Marian, mouth quirking further to one side. “Perhaps that is what we will see today.” The Ryswell falls silent as Seth approaches them, and his eloquence steals the smile from her face but for a wisp of it, which she turns on Marian.

Triston’s tale of woe disinterests his sudden confidante, the man finds a polite way to excuse himself. Left alone again, the Templeton turns to gaze at the stands. He tries to smile sweetly—though its soured by his mood—to a few of the young women in the stands, Ammena among them.

Alyce nods to Elyn’s comment briefly then too stills at Seth’s approach and upon hearing him speak she simply stares wide-eyed for a moment then a smile touches her lips as she looks to Marian.

Oh the things a wife never tires of hearing reminders of. Kellyn closes her eyes at the black lion’s words and then accepts the assistance, stepping onto the ground lightly enough. Once she is earthbound, everything becomes chaos once more - people are simply too tall and he tries to find her way towards the tents of the great houses.

Marian coughs in response to Elyn’s comment, turning her gaze away from her friend to murmur an aside to an attendant, sending a page in Stark livery hurrying off towards Ammena Piper. She looks around swiftly, however, as Seth’s heavy mount approaches - her cheeks colouring and chin ducking as she listens to him. After a moment, however, she peeps up and favours him with a very warm smile. “You have already done it honour, my lord of Blackwood”, she insists. “And I am confident that you will add to that today. Certainly, you shall ride with my whole-hearted support… and my deep affection.”

It would seen the black lion has chosen his first challenge.

Wheeling his mount about, he steers the beast unerringly—

Toward Ser Almer Connington!

Ammena sits up in her chair as the competitors make their entrances. “Why look there… that’s the Blackwood, he can’t surely be thinking of competing today, could he? After the battle he fought? And there the Griffin, my… such… wings. And who is that? Black lion… goodness.” She takes a sip of her wine and is startled by a Page in Stark livery. Listening closely to the page, she says, “Why certainly, twould be an honor to join the lady. Do lead the way then.” Leaving her goblet, she rises from her place. She, a sturdy Septa and a guard in Piper blue follow the Page.

As their favorite son is challenged, the griffins in the stands cheer. Lady Keira claps, but there is a look of concern on her delicate features; Maenylla Connington leans over to whisper reassurances to the young lady.

Almer merely nods to the strange knight in black, dons his helm, and then spurs his horse toward the lists. The sandsilk scarf on his wrist flutters in the breeze as he raises his hand in salute to his lady.

In a moment, the Griffin Knight has taken his place and awaits his foe’s charge.

The Black Lion takes a lance from a Lannister page, inspects it briefly, and then wheels his horse about looking for the Lady Kellyn. He finds her quickly enough, raising his lance high in salute.

The charger paws the ground, black gauntlets set the lance and shield, and with his heels the unknown lion knight begins his charge…

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

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 shatters.

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

That leaves one other combatant out there on the field, Seth Blackwood, for Cadan to face. The Martell prince first urges his steed to approach the northman. When he gets within hearing distance, he calls out: “I would like to challenge you, Seth Blackwood.. So we can both prove ourselves before our ladies and for our Gods.” He smiles a bit wryly at that, even if he turns to look at the result of the other joust.. and his eyes widen some. “As long as you won’t do .. that, to me.” A rather friendly smile appears.

There is, in the stands, a young Dornishman clad in robes of grey, whose faint scowl of tried patience suggests he would rather be anywhere else. But near him sit a pair of girls of tender years whose eyes are bright to watch the jousting and who chatter pleasantly between themselves. They cheer when Cadan challenges the Blackwood.

Winter’s pallor is diverted to the lists as the Griffin and the Lion take their places. Any admiration in that gaze is diverted, however, as lids squeeze shut and Elyn winces, turning a glance on Marian. “Then again, it’s often said we are made fools by love?” She mutters as the first challenger is unhorsed, then shakes her head with a sympathetic look.

Triston finds himself a seat, picking a random spot somewhere in the top left section.

Anders also finds himself a spot to sit and watch. His left side is still bandaged.

The snow and sanguine mantling on Ser Almer’s helm floats behind him in his passage, and the thunderous crack of his lance is ominous; he canters to the end of his course, turns his destrier, and drops the lance. Tapping the grey horse on the flank, he trots toward his fallen foe and lifts his visor, concerned.

“Are you hurt, ser?” he asks, ignoring the cheering crowd.

Seth turns his steed to face the Prince of Dorne and offers a courteous bow of the head. Sparing a glance towards the Griffon and Lion, the Blackwood cannot contain a slight wince. However, the lancer offers no assurances, and says simply, “I accept your challenge, my lord.”

Cadan makes his way back to the end of the lists, readying himself.. lowering his helm.. saluting the Blackwood in the distance with his lance. “For Love and Beauty!” And with that, he turns towards the ladies, raising his lance in a salute to them as well. And then, he wheels his steed around and gets ready to joust as soon as Seth is.

Looking up as Ammena arrives, Marian gestures an invitation to a vacant seat close by - then has her attention taken by the start of the jousting on the field. She blinks in some surprise, as the black lion is sent rattling across the ground. “That… was impressive. One might almost think it was the Blackheart himself in there, given the venom with which that blow was delivered”, she murmurs to her companions, before remembering her manners. “Lady Ammena Piper - the beauty to my left is my lady in waiting and most loyal friend, Elyn Ryswell. Here, we are honoured by the company of Alyce, of House Bar Emmmon, who is cousin to my other lady in waiting.”

The black lion’s lance dips uncertainly at the end—could it have been a ploy?—and then he is flung from the saddle with such force that the sliding of the metal digs a trough in the ground.

For a moment he lies there still as death…

Then with elbows shaking he props himself up. “The last beating you gave me was worse,” he says in a diminished voice up to the knight who had just so roughly unhorsed him. The Lannister squires and guardsmen seem for a moment ready to leap up and scoop up the fallen knight—yet something holds them back.

The Bar Emmon lady gives Marian a warm smile as she answers her knight then with the approach of Ammena to the group Alyce smiles yet wider. “Good day,” she says quietly as she gives the lady a gracious nod of her head, “it’s good to see you again.” Her head snaps around as the first joust begins and she winces as one man thunders to the ground.

Arriving to the Stark contingent, Ammena and her entourage follow the Page. On seeing Alyce sitting near Marian, she smile brightly and lifts a hand. She smiles warmly towards Marian Stark and says, “Good day Lady Stark. So nice to see you once more. Well met Lady Elyn. And Alyce, so nice to see you once again.” She takes the empty seat near the trio and gestures for a goblet of wine.

Satisfied that his opponent will rise under his own power, Ser Almer offers the Sable Lion a stiffly courteous nod. More words are spoken, but the cheers of the crowd drown them. He then salutes the Lady Keira, who along with the other Stormlanders, stands applauding their champion. And then, gallantly, the Connington knight salutes the Lion’s chosen lady, Kellyn Lannister of the gold cloth.

Almer whispers to Jonn, “Jonn Lannister, is it?”

The lancer of Blackwood walks his steed up to the edge of the field, still seeming altogether uneasy in his saddle. Turning the destrier slightly askew, he dips his lance towards the Stark seats and then brings it back around to face Cadan square and dip the lance again in salute. With a kick of his left leg the destrier leaps into a charge entirely at odds with its former pace.

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

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

“Thank you,” says Ammena to a servant. Taking a sip of the golden beverage, she smiles brightly to the other women and comments, “Those two, the Lion and the Griffin. Very well fought no? I wonder if they will go again. But what of these coming…” as she gestures to the Blackwood and the Dorne as they clash.

The black lion rolls slowly over on his side and attempts to regain his feet, but has to settle on one knee for the nonce. If he says anything further to the victorious Griffon, it is drowned out by the crowd.

Hist last a pair of household knights come to aid the Black Lion to his feet—though he at first waves them away.

Kellyn had just made it to the tent when the roar of the first joust reaches her ears. She is quick to turn and barely has time to see which two men are matched before the Black Lion is on his back with a sickening crash of metal and impact. Her hand shoots out for her maid’s arm, face paling before she composes herself. She only remembers to breathe again, though, when the lion sits up a bit and speaks.

Kellyn steps forward again, moving closer to the field for a better view. Her voice has a slight edge to it as she calls out, “Has my favor fallen so low already, good Ser? Or are you able to rise again to my defense?” It takes her a moment to even notice Almer’s salute, but she does remember to bow her head towards him.

Nodding politely to the newcomer, Elyn offers a smile and a ‘Well met’ of her own, before turning her gaze back to the field with clear concern.

Already off balance, Seth is rocked by a powerful from the Prince of Dorne. Though it seems he might fall clear off his saddle, the Blackwood throws his weight forward and preserves his seat with some difficulty. His destrier begins to slow immediately, falling into a trot up to the other edge of the field. Though the lance is only slightly damaged, a black liveried attendant walks briskly up to present Seth with another. He takes it, and a few moments to collect himself besides… and then charges again.

Jonn whispers: It is I. Well rode, cousin. Only Jaesin has done me worse.

Cadan’s jolted in his own saddle by the force of the impact, his lance shattering not far from his grip. The remaining bit is thrown aside, the Prince wheeling Sunstrider around to see the result. He shakes his head in disbelief before he urges his horse back to his squire, holding out his hand for another lance. Turning around yet another time, he signals that he’s prepared. “For love, then, if you will” he states, charging the Blackwood knight.

Marian gasps, swallowing nervously, before warmly applauding the dual break of lances….

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

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

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

Cadan is forced from the saddle as the Blackwood knight places a good strike. The fall seems quite mild, however, and the Dornish prince is quickly up on his feet again, holding up his arm with the favor tied to it for everyone to see. Then, he offers a bow to the victor of the meeting.

Concern intensifies as the Prince and the Blackwood circle around for a second charge - only to be wiped away completely by a cheer and a wide smile. Clapping, Elyn looks at Marian then, still beaming, and leans over to whisper something in her ear over the noise of the crowd.

Seth’s lance holds steady, and though it does not break… it certainly gets the job done. Momentum carries the destrier to the end of the field in short order, and the lancer turns the steed there to look back at his opponent. He offers a bow of his head in turn… and then another to the Stark seats.

After the exchange of words between the Griffin and the Lion, the former turns his horse from the field and trots back toward the grandstands. He removes his helm once again, short, fair hair plastered to his brow with sweat, and smiles up at the lady whose favour he bears today. His young squire, Rease Trant, hands him up a cup of water, and Almer turns to watch the match as Seth unhorses the Prince of Dorne.

Elyn whispers to Marian.

Leaning heavily upon one of the crimson clad Lannister guardsman, the Black Lion walks gingerly toward the lady whose favor he wears. “Faint-hearted lady!” he calls out to her as he nears. “I thought you were a Crakehall before Jonn Lannister stole you from me!” His voice cracks and he wobbles—clearly he needs a moment to catch his breath.

Marian can’t help but let out a rather girlish little giggle of delight as Seth emerges victorious from his second pass against Cadan - though she sighs in quiet relief as the Prince quickly rights himself and rises from the ground. She laughs sidelong, blushing happily at Elyn’s whispered comment, then formally inclines her head in acknowledgement of the lancer as he turns to her once more.

Ammena glances towards the Blackwood and the Dorne as they clash once more. As Seth Blackwood unhorses the Prince, she softly says, “Those two competing. Such endurance no? To battle after such trying earlier matches.” Looking about the fields, she comments, “But where is cousin Bonifer then? I was sure he would be here.”

And the next one? Cadan has quickly retreated to his pavilion and he receives a new lance as soon as he gets there. No dents in the armor and no weakness in his step, he mounts up once more and rides out. This time, he heads for the loser of the other battle, the black lion, and stops a polite distance away. And then, he lowers his lance in a challenge. “When you are ready, Ser, to defend your love like I will defend mine.”

And with those words, the Dornishman looks to Kellyn Lannister as well as up somewhere among the spectators but what ever expression he might be wearing is hidden behind his helm.

Giving Ammena a glance and a smile, Elyn nods. “I admire those fighting today all the more after what they have endured this week.” She comments. “As for Ser Bonifer…perhaps he could find no lady to give him her favor?” A slight cant of her dark-tressed head before the Northern girl adds, “He is your cousin, hmm?”

Wasting but a few moments to take in some water, Seth brings his steed over to the stands near Ser Almer Connington with helm in hand. The Blackwood faces the Griffin and says in even tones, “Ser Almer, if you’d do me the honor of a match.”

You aren’t carrying anything.

Marian winces again, rather nervously eyeing her champion as he goes up against the Black Griffin. “Seth can hardly walk”, she murmurs worriedly, before mustering an amused smile for Elyn. “All these Southrons are inter-related”, she says in a teasing tone. “Almost everyone seems to be everyone else’s cousin….”

Alyce keeps her eyes to the field for the most part but glances to Marian as she comments about Seth’s condition and her brows wrinkle slightly in supportive concern.

Kellyn steps up to the fence, still a bit pale. She can’t mask that. When the Black Lion approaches, she gestures for one of her personal guard to stand next to him. All a little surreptitious so he can be supported. “My heart faint? I should think not, Ser. My heart has ever been strong and resolute, and ever in the care of our Lord Jonn. Whatever care he has for it.” For all her words seem touched with chill and her body is still, there’s a little anxiety around the eyes.

She looks past the Lion towards the Dornishman, briefly frowning and then folds her hands in front of her waist. “Will you continue, then, Ser Lion, or must you forfeit your charge due to injury?”

Turning her gaze from the lists to respond to Elyn, Ammena replies, “Ah yes, Cousin Bonifer is my cousin on the Buckwell side of course. Aunt Taria speaks often of him she does. I was hoping to catch him jousting as he was so keen to compete these past days.” She chuckles softly at Marian’s words.

Handing down his cup to his squire, Almer nods courteously to Seth. “Very well.” He puts his helm back on, then takes up a fresh lance. He canters the big grey out toward the lists once more, and in the stands, Keira Sand seems unwilling to even watch this time. The Conningtons and Baratheons who surround her, though, cheer again; they must know of the regard in which their knight holds Seth’s kinsman, Balian.

When the Griffin is in place, he lowers his lance and awaits his opponent’s charge.

“No man is my lord,” the Black Lion informs the lady whose honor he protects. “But my heart has ever been in your hands, and so I will ride until you bid me otherwise!”

He leans heavily into the guardsman until he hears the Dornish challenge and perceives, at least in his mind’s eye, the lust with which the Dornishman gazes upon his lady.

“So be it!” he calls, slinging the guards off his shoulders and onto the ground. “At your leisure, Prince!”

He stalks to his horse and prepares himself for the next tilt.

“You speak the truth, Marian.” Elyn replies with a quiet laugh. “I’m having plenty of trouble keeping it all straight. But I’m glad to learn of another branch on the family tree.” The Northern girl adds to Ammena with a smile. “And I have it on good authority he plans to be here soon.”

Ammena comments, “Why even the Blackwood there… he’s my cous…” and stops short. “I’ve a growing reputation for diminishing my relative’s chances when I call them out,” she chuckles. “Best not do that again for Seth.”

Seth nods promptly and takes his place in turn and mirrors the Griffin in lowering his lance. With a glance in the direction of the stands he has looked to so often now, the Blackwood nods his head once more. Then it is all business as the lance is lifted and Seth kicks the great black destrier, who kicks up a flurry of dirt and muck as he gallops ahead.

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

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 shatters.

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

“And there we go,” Ammena sighs. “Truly some days I think myself cursed.” With a playful smile, she takes a sip of her wine.

Marian musters a nervous smile for Seth as he looks to her, then winces sharply as he falls. Taking a deep breath, she darts a glance to Ammena. “Three broken lances in three passes is no mean feat. I do not think that you can be blamed _over_ much for claiming him as a relative. The Blackwoods have been a noteworthy lineage for longer than most present houses have existed, and any should be honoured to claim connection…” Cutting off her absent-minded rambling, she bites her lower lip, focusing upon her champion once more.

“For true love and it’s pursuit,” Cadan states when the Black Lion accepts the challenge, his voice hollow behind the helm. Hard to be lustful from there, but then, isn’t that some desire in his voice? Hard to say.. “I am ready when you are.”

He looks out at the result of the last bout.. then, when it’s over and the cheers have died down, he puts his heels into the horse’s flanks. Bringing his steed around he sets it off at a high pace, around the jousting area, along the spectator boxes, raising his lance in a salute to all the ladies.. or just one among them, perhaps, who are seated there. As he comes around, he salutes the Black Lion as well as his lady, way over on the other side.. and charges, if the other man is ready.

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

Jonn’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.

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

The powerful crack of Ser Almer’s lance is counterpoint to the dull thud of his steed’s hooves on the turf. He tosses aside the ruined lance as cheers descend, and he turns his horse back toward his opponent. As before, the Griffin trots back to the center of the lists, to see to the welfare of his foe.

He stands in the stirrups to speak to Seth, but the crowd drowns his words once more.

Almer whispers to Seth, “That was well-ridden, Seth. Are you unhurt?”

Alyce casts a playful smile to Ammena and nods, “Gracious of you to take responsibility..though I doubt any of them would accept it..” she says. Again a man is driven to the ground and she winces, mouth quirked for a moment to see if he rises on his own.

As Almer’s lance shatters, so too does Seth break—from his steed at least. The Blackwood’s lance falls from his grip instantly and flies from his saddle, landing with a crash upon the ground. A few beats and he is slowly propping himself up on elbows, then hands to a full sitting. A few more long moments and it is one leg lifted at the knee. Looking up to Almer, Seth shakes his head quickly, and speaks low enough to pass largely unheard in the din of the crowd.

“I’m sure there have been falls as nasty as these, but for some reason…they seem worse.” Elyn murmurs to the ladies beside her. “Is it just my sensibilities? Or is it knowing that there are already bruises layered aplenty on them before they fall?”

Seth whispers: No, no, I’m fine. A… I could use support of an arm but briefly to rise, but after that all is well. A good match, Ser.

Kellyn hurries over to a herald, speaking low as she implores the man towards something. It means her back is turned on the field as The Lion and the sunburst prepare to do battle as she seeks a way to at least delay it. The herald nods and steps up, starting to call out, “MY LADIES, my Lady Kellyn has asked you to show with your applause whether it is more valiant for the Lion to lay down his lance that he might stand to love and live another day, or better to risk all in defense of ... ” Oh. It appears the men have made that decision for her. Seems to be the way of the men in her life. Kellyn turns and then feels the color drain from her cheeks. “It appears in the men’s view, the risk is the answer of the day. Perhaps they have forgotten that today it is your choice!”

Seeing to his satisfaction that the Blackwood lancer is not seriously hurt, Ser Almer climbs down from the saddle. He offers a steel-encased hand to Seth to help the man rise, a gesture of camaraderie which brings the crowd to its feet for the two gallant riders.

This time the Lannisters do not hesitate.

Within a moment they are out with the gurney, and they begin to load the fallen Black Lion into it. As soon as it is lifted by the guardsman, the Lion shoots bolt upright and grasps the arm of the nearest man! Heated words are exchanged and the Black Lion is sent at last to his tent.

Even Marian winces slightly as the lion-armoured figure is hammered into the ground. “If that is _not_ the Black-heart, he is certainly earning his pay riding in his lord’s place”, she murmurs. “And yes… there have been some blows as vicious, but not too many. Though the existing damage done to some of the riders…. I hope that the Prince of Dorne is not struck on his helm, for example, while if Seth were to land badly on his wounded leg….” She twists her hands together, then sighs in relief as Seth is helped upright once more.

Ammena nods softly towards Elyn, “They -do- seem worse. Surely these early competitors… such bravery to take to lists early when others seem still asleep or even fearful of ladies, fearful of jousting for love? I am very curious to see what the rest of the day brings.” She glances with concern towards the man unhorsed by the Prince of Dorne.

“I would have applauses in Lady Kellyn’s favor.” Elyn murmurs. “But men are always so headstrong. Even those who should not fall on their helms.” With a nod aside to Ammena, Elyn adds, “I, too, am curious. Although I almost wonder if I should’ve brought some extra medicines or a healer form the hospice with me.” She concludes, mouth twisting into a brief moue.

Seth comes to a rise with a heave and the helpful arm of Ser Almer Connington. Another courteous nod to Ser Almer as he disengages. “My thanks, Ser Almer,” he says and turns to his lingering destrier, taking it by the reins and trudging awkwardly away from the fields and further towards the pavillion, where Blackwood squires rush to meet him and begin the laborious task of seating him again.

Alyce quiets and returns to watching the contests, arching a brow at something then retaking her usual pleasant expression.

Remounting his destrier, Almer spurs back toward the viewing stands. He raises a hand to salute Lady Keira, and the Griffins cheer. And following his custom, he also salutes the Lady Marian Stark, whose favour Seth bears with such distinction. When he reaches the grandstand, he takes off his helm again and aims a smile at his lady and his sister.

Marian darts a glance over one shoulders. “I brought just the one… I did not expect to be needing to tend to anyone, and merely thought it wise to ensure that a little aid was on hand if required….” She chews her lip, clearly torn over some inner debate. “Do you think that I should send him to lady Kellyn? Her, at least, I would not wish to see unduly hurt, and that WAS a - oh…” Clearly surprised, she inclines her head to Almer, acknowledging his salute.

The Prince of Dorne seems shaken in his saddle, his arm trembling and the white and blue favor fluttering in the wind as he manages to stay upright and on horseback. When he looks back over his shoulder, he sees the black lion in the dust and the Lannisters already rushing out to meet with him, and he sets his horse at a fast canter down towards the spot where the Lion fell. It’s too late to help him but Cadan watches the servants as they handle the anonymous champion of Kellyn Lannister. “You fought well for your Lady,” he calls after him. And then, in a much lower voice, he says something more that disappears in the dim of the crowds.

When the man has been carried off, the Dornishman approaches Kellyn on horseback. “I apologize for not heeding your warning in time, My Lady, that I did not wait to couch my lance. I hope you will forgive me.” And thus, he lowers his head in submission, because that is the rule of the day.

“I leave that decision to you, Marian. You are, as always, the brains of this partnership.” Elyn remarks, although there is no laughter in her tone. “I am only glad that Seth was able to /walk/ from the field, unlike Lady Kellyn’s champion.”

Kellyn inclines her head to the Herald and then presses a hand to her abdomen to better project her voice. “Well, my Ladies, it appears my knight has Broken in the name of devotion. His heart, his head, or just his body we can not know! Do keep him in your thoughts, as I must now attend him to make certain my favor does not find itself soaked in blood!” She tries to put humor in her voice and then curtsies the the assembled before following to check on the Black Lion. Only hurrying, perhaps, a little bit. Then Cadan is there and she blinks, looking up at him in seeming confusion. “Prince ... please. Carry on the day for the honor of she whom you ride for. I fear duty calls me forward, though. I forgive all done for love and honor.” It’s all a bit distracted as diplomacy is beginning to falter before concern for her numbskull husband.

A cobalt gaze lands on the Dornish prince and then the man who lays in the settling dust and back to the prince. She takes a fan from her purse and Alyce sits back, sending a breeze upward against her face, all but her eyes hidden behind it as she waits to see if another contest will take place.

Cadan accepts Kellyn’s words, nodding his head in respect for her wishes. “I ride for love and honor,” he states calmly before he quickly brings his horse out to the field again. Accepting a new lance as he rides past his pavilion, he heads for the crowds once more. This time.. he raises his lance in dedication to someone who must be in Marian’s general direction. Or, he’s just saluting the Stark lady for Seth’s bravery, hard to know.. And then, he swings around: “Ser Almer Connington! I challenge you, for the Lady I joust for and her honor!” His voice is met some cheers from some of the Dornish but also a few lonely Westerosi.

Marian dithers briefly, then cranes around in her seat to beckon forward one member of her retinue - whom some might recognise as a man sent to visit the Blackwood pavilion after more than one of Seth’s previous jousting falls. Soon, he is en route to find Kellyn….

As the Prince of Martell makes his challenge, Lady Keira seems distraught; though her champion has done well, the strain of the matches is apparent in her eyes. The Stormlanders, however, cheer; perhaps they hope for revenge against the Prince who brought the Stormbreaker low! And even though the Griffin cannot win the prize today, they seem pleased nevertheless to see him ride so well.

Almer merely nods in acknowledgement of Cadan’s challenge, and donning his helm a final time, takes a lance from his squire and canters toward the lists. He salutes his lady-love again, the white sandsilk favor bright against his silvery armor. When in place, the Griffin dips his lance and awaits the charge.

And the charge comes as soon as the Dornish knight has returned to the starting point, wasting no time. He sets his horse off towards the Connington knight, couching his lance and prepares for the inevitable and painful impact.

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

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 shatters.

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

But various Lannister household knights and guardsmen have formed a ring around the tent. They will suffer no man or woman to enter save that of the Black Lion’s favored lady. Marian’s man is turned away sternly.

Anders stands up as if to applaud this feat of arms, but as he starts to move he winces and his face wrinkles in pain and he quietly sits down again.

Joining in the others cheering for the Griffin Knight, Elyn turns a glance to the ladies around her. “He is certainly making a stunning showing for his lady.” She comments, before turning a glance in the direction of the lady whose favor Almer bears.

And down he goes, as predictable. Honorable or not, the Dornish prince is sent to the ground in a cloud of dust. Good thing he didn’t wear all that heavy armor this day, but one that actually allows a fall. He tumbles around.. laying still for a while.. and a little while longer. This day, however, is not meant to be a repeat of the first day of tournament and thus.. the Martell knight slowly pushes himself up, taking his helm off ( that has completely messed up his dark curls. ). He attempts to stand.. falters, then he manages to get up.

He bows, once, to all the ladies in the audience..

Then, he collapses down onto one knee again as the painful charade continues. By that time, a few of the Dornish have gone out to meet him however, to help him back to his pavilion and rescue him from further.. humiliation or honor? The crowds decide.

A thunderous cheer goes up as the final challenger goes… down. The knight of Griffin’s Roost canters onward, streamers on his winged helm floating. He turns his horse admist the shards of ash and clumps of torn turf. After a moment’s pause, he trots the tall grey destrier toward the crumpled Prince and dismounts, removing his helm. The tumult drowns his voice.

“Prince Cadan. Are you unhurt?’ He stands a little apart, gazing steadily down at the Dornish Prince; surprisingly, he seems to take little joy in his victory. When the man struggles to rise, Almer moves to help. The Dornish helpers intervene first, though.

Cadan manages to reply, a bloodied smile in the Griffin Knight’s direction> “I’ll live, but today, you will not get the honor of saving me.” And he actually grins at the man before he settles with waiting for his countrymen.

Alyce gasps quietly behind her fan and it lowers as she sits up straighter, blinking, her gaze following the descending prince as he too is driven to the ground. She nods almost absently to Elyn’s comment, “The lances seem especially vicious this day..” she murmurs, watching the figure on the field rise and fall in painful motions. She begins to applaud the match as he is aided to rise and move from to his pavillion, what a contest!

Sipping from her goblet, Ammena shudders as yet another competitor is put to the ground. “Gods, before the day ends, there will be more bruises and hurts than all the past days combined,” she comments. Glancing towards the commonfolk crowd, she takes in the cheering masses. “A crowd favorite it would seem. The Finals shall be exciting indeed.”

Another wince as Cadan is sent tumbling in his turn, then Marian quirks a rueful smile at Elyn. “I am not convinced that she is appreciating his efforts. I suspect that she might prefer him not to participate at all….” Looking to Ammena, she chuckles. “He rides with style and flair - but that, at least in some fashion, is not what we are to judge. We already know who the most talented lances are - it is for us to assess other qualities, as best we can.”

Meanwhile, over at the pavilions, the Stark retainer obstinately stands his ground, insisting upon a message being carried inside to the lady Kellyn rather than accepting a dismissal from a guardsman. Some moments later, word is brought back out to him from within the tent - at which he politely bows and smiles, then turns to move on to the Blackwood pavilion.

Much buffeted by the cheering Stormlanders, who all wish to pat their congratulations upon her back, Keira is nonetheless beaming with pride at her knight. She cannot even muster more than a faint frown when the Prince of Dorne rebuffs his gallantry; she rides the wave of happiness to the rail and waits, her golden skin all but glowing in a beam of sunlight.

Seeing no other challengers, and his last foe ushered from the field, Ser Almer remounts his grey with easy grace. He lifts his hand, a final salute to the Lady Keira, and her ivory sandsilk favor is held high, almost in defiance. The Connington knight, bareheaded in the sunlight, taps his destrier and canters toward the stands amidst the acclaim.

Cadan stops on the way back to his pavilion, assisted by a Dornish knight along with his young squire. He stares over at the other pavilions.. slowly nods, then turns his gaze towards the crowds. And he smiles. Then, he’s brought into his pavilion more or less against his will.

As his Stormlander cousin offers his aid to the Dornishman, Ser Bonifer Buckwell comes striding out from the Buckwell pavillion. Behind him trails the big, dapple gray warhorse who’s been his constant companion these past days.

As they reach the edge of the field, the Crownlander surveys its occupants, holding his helm beneath one arm as he and the destrier shade themselves beneath a drifting cloud’s shadow.

With the bronze and black favor about his neck, he sees that his cousin is about to the exit the field and grins. Hauling himself into the saddle, he takes lance and shield from a squire and Tiny carries him on toward the Dark Griffin, “Cousin! You wouldn’t think to exit without doing me the honor?”

As Almer receives the latecome challenge of his kinsman Bonifer, the Stormlanders cheer and urge him to accept. He glances up at the Lady Keira, and then his supporters, and nods to the Buckwell knight.

“Very well, coz. If you are well enough to ride, I will accept.” Almer dons his helm again, and taking up a lance rides to the ready position to await the charge.

Elyn begins to sigh in disappointment as it appears things are winding down, but just then, the Buckwell knight approaches the field. It does appear there might be one more. And this one has Elyn pressing her hands together before her mouth as she fixes pale eyes on the field.

Wheeling his own mount around, Bonifer takes up at the opposite end, lifting his lance in salute to the Connington. Before he slaps down his visor, he gives a glance to the Stark box and raises his shield. Then he and Tiny are thundering down the lane to begin another day of exhilaration, pain and glory.

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

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

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

Marian giggles, reaching over to rest a hopefully reassuring hand on Elyn’s arm, smiling as she watches the Buckwell and Connington clash. She laughs, applauding happily as Bonifer manages to retain his seat.

As his lance shatters, the crowd erupts… but not because of another single-pass victory for the Griffin. Indeed, for the first time in this Tourney, a knight has weathered the first pass from Ser Almer!

The Connington knight drops his lance-haft and turns to see his kinsman-foe, as his squire trots out with a second spear.

With a gasp, Ammena watches as the Buckwell manages to stay in the saddle. Her goblet lowers and she gazes with renewed interest at the field.

Joining in Marian’s applause, Elyn’s mouth curves into a wide smile, though the tension has not left the set of her narrow shoulders just yet.

Keira keeps her place at the rail, buttressed by Almer’s sister Maenylla. It seems that the usually scowling woman has some genuine affection for the half-Dornish girl, because she smiles down at her now and then. But Keira has eyes only for the Griffin knight, who has jousted so brilliantly and all in her name.

The Griffin Knight pauses, lance at the ready, and the crowd holds its breath… and then, unexpectedly, he dips his lance in deference to Ser Bonifer. Among all the knights he has faced this Tourney, only the Buckwell has survived a pass. And, shockingly, Ser Almer turns his big grey from the lists and begins trotting from the field.

“He’s forfeited! He’s forfeited!” some in the crowd murmur in disbelief. “The Griffin forfeited to Ser Bonifer!”

If there is shock when Almer departs the field in forfeit, Keira Sand alone seems unsurprised. She clasps her hands together over her heart and smiles so brightly it would seem she lights the sun and not the other way ‘round. Maenylla scowls and shakes her head, muttering something under her breath and making a dismissive gesture.

Blinking thrice, Ammena simply says, “Now -that- is interesting indeed.” She takes a shallow sip of wine and settles in her chair. Again, she glances about the crowds both noble and common alike to catch their reactions.

Waving off a new lance, Ser Bonifer lifts his visor and lifts the weight of himself and his armor to a standing position in the stirrups.

Slapping his gauntleted fist to his chest, he shouts toward the Griffin as he makes his exit, “You honor me, coz.”

Grinning like a fool, the Buckwell reins his mount past the Stark seats to salute Lady Elyn before he heads back to his pavillion to rest after weathering a blow from Ser Almer.

“You speak true.” Elyn replies to Ammena, the ice-pallor of her gaze wide in surprise. And suddenly, the Ryswell lady is all smiles, and she nods in return to Bonifer’s salute.

Marian grins broadly at Bonifer as he rides past, raising a hand in greeting for the knight - before looking round to Elyn and giggling again.

Yet another company arrives, trailed by a wagon carrying arms and armour for the jousting—but this one sends a ripple of murmurs through those near enough to recognise it. For at the forefront rides the Iron Serpent with his Tyrell wife beside him and half a dozen of his Reavers behind.

The mercurial ironman to participate in these feats of chivalry? That would be a strange thing indeed.

Or perhaps not. For the man at his left hand—a fair-haired knight with laughing eyes—is the one in mail. “...fool notion, Osric,” Dagur can be heard saying to him, more amused than vexed. “Ride if you must but which dockside doxy did you cheat out of that favour?”

“A pox on you, ser,” the Vikary knight grins. “She is as nobleborn as your lady wife.”

At one end of the lists, another knight awaits challenge; he has been about today, but not prominently. The Weeping Knight, in his tormented helm of heartbreak and crystal tears, sits his horse in silence and seeming indifference, watching the jousters and available for challenge.

Ordering a round of drinks for herself and her companions, Marian settles back to watch the next series of bouts, her gaze occasionally wandering towards the Blackwood pavilion.

“Don’t tease him, Dagur,” chides Reyna, laughing as she reins in. “Not everyone is so scathing of chivalric deeds as you are; indeed, I see that Almer’s been out, for there is Lady Keira in the stands.”

With a soft and gracious smile Alyce takes a glass of wine, “Thank you,” she murmurs, then smiles at Marian in thanks as well. Her eyes turn to the field once more and she lifts her fan to waft a breeze upward, disturbing a few fiery strands that caress her face.

“The trouble with you greenlanders,” the ironman shakes his head as he dismounts near the stands and helps Reyna down, “is that you take chivalry for honour and words for deeds.” It has the ring of a well-worn argument.

He pauses upon overhearing a snippet of conversation from nearby and frowns, “Seth was hurt again. He will be pissing blood if he keeps this up.” A glance at the Blackwood pavilion across the field and another at the northwomen, “Your Stark woman. She will likely know more. Come.” And he sets off, leaving Osric and the others behind to prepare for the jousting.

There’s some movement down at the Martell pavilion and the Maester who has been tending to the hurt prince ( Surprise, huh ) comes out, exchanging a few words with a servant. The servant in turn speaks to Cadan’s squire and there’s some more talk back and forth among the people gathered there but nothing that suggests that the Prince is on the way back.

“Her name is Marian,” Reyna says on a laugh, skipping a step to keep up. “And it’s all a show, of course it is, but ladies love to feel that their knight would be willing to put himself in danger—relatively speaking—for her sake. It’s… well, it’s very sweet.”

She mounts the steps to the stands, and waves into the Stark box. “Marian! What news?” she asks, lingering just inside until invited to stay.

As Marian was engaged in another conversation with a lady beside them, Elyn is the one who raises her voice in answer. “Good day to you, Lady Reyna. Won’t you join us?” Gesturing to the other ladies with them, she asks, “Do you know Lady Alyce and Lady Ammena?” Offering quiet introductions where needed, the Ryswell presses on to say, “It’s been a very exciting day so far.” Looking to the others for confirmation, Elyn adds, “The Griffin Knight beat everyone in a single pass, save Bonifer, to whom he forfeited. The Dornish Prince, Seth Blackwood and others have been fighting valiantly, including a mysterious knight for Lady Kellyn, whom some of us believe might have been her lord husband.” Another glance to the field. “But the blows do seem to be nastier today than the whole week so far.”

After resting long enough for both horse and man to drink and cool off, Ser Bonifer comes wandering out of his tent. Once again, his squire follows him out as he looks over the available opponents in the lists.

Shock freezes his features as he catches sight of the Weeping Knight. Well aware of the display the mystery knight put on the previous day, he considers the possibility while idly fingering the favor at his neck.

An unmistakeable gleam of the purest alabaster causes yet another swell of murmuring from the stands. His cloak of gleaming white draped over his mount’s flanks, helm held upon his pommel, a Sworn Brother rides into the lists—Ser Osbert, the famed Breaker of Yronwood.

He takes a moment to glance around the field but his gaze is drawn unerringly to the mysterious Weeping Knight. Spurring his horse, he canters across, the favour around his arm fluttering in the breeze.

Drawing reign before the masked man, he bows his head, “I watched you best Ser Halbert yesterday, ser. It was bravely done. Will you accept my challenge now?”

Slapping his helmet onto his head, Bonifer takes hold of the saddle horn and drags himself into the saddle.

“Lance.” he says hollowly from beneath the visor. Taking the weapon in hand, he trots out into the lists, finding a clear corner to survey the field, as the Weeping Knight has already been issued a challenge.

That deathly mask of steel and sorrow stirs at Ser Osbert’s greeting. The blank face regards the Kingsguard for a moment, then inclines in assent. Masked squires hand up a grey-blue lance, and wordless, the Weeping Knight taps his horse’s flank and canters out to the lists.

Bound to his arm, enigmatically, is an unknown lady’s favor… a long, black sleeve. The mystery knight waits for his opponent to launch his attack.

Raising a hand in greeting towards Reyna, Ammena nods softly in agreement to Elyn. “Yes a -battering- excitement to say the least,” she adds. “The jousters seem more aggressive today. Or perhaps willing to take more risk.” She settles back in her chair and watches the coming matches. The Weeping Knight draws her attention and she softly comments, “Who -is- that knight then? Anyone hazard a guess?”

“Thank you, Elyn,” Reyna says, both to the invitation and the information. “And Ser Seth? Is he alright?” She slides into a seat, scooting along to make room for Dagur. “We had heard that he was hurt, and he took such an awful fall the other day. Hallo, Ammena! How are you enjoying King’s Landing?”

The Sworn Brother seems to expect no answer and he gets none; the wordless assent is enough and it brings a smile to his face. Returning to the other end of the lists where his pavilion has been set up, he dons his helm and adjusts the shield-straps. The lance handed up to him is as white as his armour and it gleams almost blindingly as he dips it in a salute to his opponent.

And, chivalry given its due, he launches into the charge, lance catching the light again as he lowers it.

Rosalind makes her way to the boxes, a parasol keeping the sun off her face. She pauses to watch the challenge at hand.

The Weeping Knight’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 lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

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

Smiling towards Reyna, Ammena replies, “Very much thank you. These past few days have been exhilarating to say the least.” She turns her head just in time to catch the crash of lance to shield rise above the rumble of hooves.

Marian looks around, chuckling softly at Reyna. “Seth took one heavy fall, at the hands of the Griffin. He was able to walk from the field, however. The rider in the black lion, armour, however, got flattened by Ser Almer and then again by Prince Cadan. There has been no sign of him since he was carried from the field - though he was moving, at least. I sent one of my healers to offer aid to Kellyn, but her champion for the day is apparently recuperating successfully.”

Driving on through the spray of splinters, the Weeping Knight turns his bleak mask back over his shoulder to see the Kingsguard’s fall. A gasp erupts from the crowd, and more than a few cheers, but also a few boos and hisses. It is not easy for the smallfolk to love a strange fellow like this. The mysterious knight tosses his broken lance to a satin-masked squire, then sits his horse patiently to see to his opponent’s fate.

There are cries of amazement from the stands amidst the cheers and booing. To best one Kingsguard may be fortune’s favour, but to do so again is surely a mark of surpassing skill. As for the Sworn Brother, he finds his feet slowly, then lowers his head and takes off his helm. There is a rueful smile on his face as he lifts a hand in acknowledgement to the Weeping Knight before returning to his pavilion.

The Weeping Knight acknowledges Ser Osbert’s salute, then trots his horse from the field with eerie calm.

“Oh, good to hear. Lady Kellyn must have been pleased to be so championed at last, after days of only watching.” Reyna smiles at Ammena as she speaks to Marian, then turns to watch the Kingsguard fall in one pass. “Good gods, but that knight is good. Dagur, who is he, d’you think? Because I can hazard no guess at all.”

Emerging from the vicinity of the pavilions, the Griffin Knight himself reappears; bathed and fresh after the morning’s feats of arms, his armor is put aside in favor of red and white linens. Accompanying Ser Almer are a few of his friends and a squire or two, and he ascends into the stands to join the Lady Keira and observe.

A foor up on the bench, arms crossed upon his knee, the ironman barely seems to hear the women, watching the clash between the Weeping Knight and the Kingsguard. As the Sworn Brother tumbles in the dust, Dagur’s breath hisses between his teeth and he leans forward, staring at the lists; there is a strange look in his eyes.

“Stranger take me if I can tell, my lady,” he replies absently to Reyna. “But the Seven smile on him. The man rides as well as any and better than most.”

Ammena taps a finger to her cheek and comments to those around her, “Practical enough to unseat a man, but then, I have seen a tree branch do the same. I cannot say if he compares to those we saw earlier. Why the Black Lion had more grace and passion I should say. And certainly the Blackwood with his proclamation before riding.”

Marian winces, eyeing the aftermath of the latest pass. “For myself, I have no idea who the mystery knight might be - though I think that Kellyn might have preferred her own champion not to ride, at least for the second pass. She was worried enough after his first fall. The second, so soon afterwards….” She shrugs slightly, then quirks a smile at Ammena. “I suspect that if the lion armour is seen again today, it will not be with Kellyn’s whole-hearted blessing. She looked even more worried than Ser Almer’s lady does when he rides - and with good cause, it seems.”

That contest resolved, Rosalind ascends the stands. She spots a gathering of familiar female faces and raises a hand in greeting.

Alyce smiles at Reyna and nods in greeting, “Well met,” then she too looks to the field and cringes slightly. She turns a smile to Marian, “The proclamation certainly bespoke the very heart of the day.”

“His eloquence was certainly unmatched.” Elyn agrees with Alyce. “Although the fact that he was in such shape and still mounted his horse today speaks even more than his words.”

A tremor arises from the Lannister pavilion.

A savvy ear can detect raised voices from within.

But the lion-helmed guards remain stoic, and all curious inquiries are firmly sent away.

“The Black Lion?” Reyna asks, brows raised in amusement as Marian and Ammena name the champion. “I am not at all surprised she didn’t want him to joust a second time. She tries to coddle him like a septa her charges.” She forebears to name ‘him,’ however; she is caught instead by the odd light in Dagur’s eyes. “I thought you found this event ridiculous, my lord,” she says, only half teasing.

The Jousting Lord is in fine form, moving from one knight to another to break at least one lance, or to send them tumbling, or—gods forfend!—sent tumbling in turn. But the old man always gets up gamely, and if his squire has to push his arse up onto the saddle a little more than normal, who gives a damn? He’s ready for jousting!

With his latest foe behind him, Whalon takes time for a swallow of wine from a cup, and then he’s looking for some knight to challenge. Golden antlers on blue and white catch his attention, and with his visor up he shouts, “You, ser! Come and break some lances, for the love of your lady—or is it your mother’s favor you wear?”

Those golden Antlers turn as Lord Whalon’s words penetrate the helm’s confines. Beneath the visor, Ser Bonifer’s teeth bare in a satisfied grin.

The smile is revealed as he lifts the faceguard and spurs his horse to settle beside the Jousting Lord.

“Very well, my Lord of Rosby.” the Buckwell knight replies, “Let us see if I’ve the skill to offer you a challenge.”

Trotting to the opposite end of the lists, Tiny and Bonifer explode down the lane no sooner than rounding the fence.

“It is,” the ironman replies half-heartedly, raising a hand to Almer in greeting; the main part of his attention is still on the field, however. “But gods, the man can ride.”

He seems to hear the other women belatedly and turns to them, “Black Lion? What is this now?”

“Ah look there! Lord Rosby challenges the Buckwell!” Ammena says brightly. Then at the words of the Jousting Lord’s challenge. “Ah, I expected more eloquence. But then.. perhaps the favor he wears is for Lady Joust herself?” She takes a sip of wine and watches the bout.

The Jousting Lord laughs aloud, “Well, good. Give your lady mother my greeting, eh?” And off he trots to the end of the lists, to take up the red-and-white striped lance his squire holds, matching the red-and-white of the favor he carries. “Hah!” he shouts, as he puts spurs to saddle.

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

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

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

Marian quirks a smile at Dagur, though her gaze returns to Bonifer and Whalon as they pair off against each other. “A “mystery” rider, clad in black lion armour, riding for Kellyn. Smashed to the ground by Ser Almer on the first pass, then again by Prince Cadan - though he did break his lance even as the Prince broke his own. Kellyn seemed not to wish him to ride the second pass, but he did so anyway… and was borne from the field. He was moving, and is apparently recovering… Oh!” She looks sharply over at Elyn, as the Ryswell’s champion slides slowly from his mount.

Though he acknowledges Dagur’s wave with a nod of his own, most of Almer’s attention is understandably devoted to the two women on either side of him; his sister Maenynlla on the one hand, and the stunner Keria Sand on the other. Both are uncharacteristically chatty after the morning’s performance, and are talking at once. So much so that they nearly miss the clash between the Jousting Lord and Ser Bonifer.

Wincing visibly, Elyn regards Bonifer’s slide to the ground with wide eyes, lifting her chin to see over the heads of those before her, hoping to see him rise on his own power.

“Oh, you must know who THAT is at least,” Reyna says to Dagur, laughing. “The Black Lion? Championing Kellyn Lannister?” She clucks her tongue. “Anyway, you’ve no need to ride today, my lord. It’s not as if Sarmion Baratheon were taking the field, the great bastard.” She sucks in her breath then to watch Bonifer unhorsed.

Another close call for Ser Bonifer, but somewhat too far it would seem. As he slides to the ground, he only pauses long enough to dwell on his defeat, pondering what he could have done better.

As he rises and Lord Rosby passes by to rearm, he raises a fist in salute and lifts his visor to say, “My mother will be honored to know you thought of her, Lord Rosby. It was an honor to test my mettle against you.”

The king and the court applaud the Jousting Lord, and there’s chuckles and amused remarks. As to the lady whose favor he bears, Lady Colianne is quite the contrast to her lord, quiet and not seemingly all that interested in jousting. She does glance up as he unseats the younger man, and then goes back to her embroidery with a quiet *tsk*.

“Gods, man, keep at your practice!” the Jousting Lord responds to Ser Bonifer, shaking his jowls at him. “You spent too long aboard one of those bloody ships. No place for a knight, you hear? And get the old harridan to sponsor a joust, it’s been years!” And with that he’s searching for the lists for another man to challenge. Seeing the Weeping Knight unmolested, he goes a-calling.

“Lackspur in the lists?” the ironman counters Marian and Reyna. “I would look to see the Warrior weep first. His brother is the one for jousting.” He glances down at his wife then, with a faint smile, “Did he ignore you again? Think yourself fortunate.”

“You, ser—are you a knight, even? Not one of these northmen in disguise, are you?” the Jousting Lord says. He sniffs the air. “No, no smell of fur and pinecones. Come on, then, lets see if we can break some lances, and resolve the mystery!”

If Lord Whalon is a blustery maelstrom, then the Weeping Knight is the eerie calm at the eye of the storm. Crystalline tears on cold steel cheeks glint dangerously as the mystery knight nods his silent assent to the challenge, and ingores the rough jest.

In a swirl of cloud-grey and dull silver, the Weeping Knight takes up his lance and canters to the lists, thence to face the charge of Rosby’s famous Jousting Lord. The black favor on his arm, a ladies sleeve that gives no hint to identity, flaps in the breeze.

Marian shrugs amiably to Dagur, clearly relieved at seeing Bonifer rise unhindered and jest with the Jousting Lord. “Who else would wear the armour, and carry Kellyn’s evident concern? Certainly, he seemed unused to taking blows, given the difficulty he had remaining in the saddle. Ooooh. Now _this_ pairing promises much…”

“He only ignores me in your presence,” Reyna says evasively, turning to the lists. “And why should Jonn not enter into competition? I am not the only one trying to prove my ability for fidelity, my lord, though no one goes ‘round implying things about -men-.” She glances almost furtively at Dagur, then fixes her attention MOST keenly on the pass.

Taking up another lance, Lord Whalon launches his horse forward. It starts slow and steady, and then picks up sudden speed!

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

The Weeping Knight manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.

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

Alyce sits, quietly sipping her wine, an interested gaze following the conversation around her as well as the jousts, widening slightly with each passing blow.

Rosalind waits for a few moments, then finds a place to sit and watch.

Gripping tightly with his knees, the Weeping Knight weathers the Jousting Lord’s rough treatment, but only just. He canters to the end of the course and turns, preparing for a second charge. When his foe is ready, he taps his spurs into the big horse’s flanks, and launches himself onward.

“The Jousting Lord, a man who enjoys the joust for jousting’s sake it. A man might love the joust but does he truly joust for love? Or are they one and the same? I’d wager for Ser Bonifer on that last take,” comments Ammena. The sudden sound of hooves and a crack draw her attention. “Well then, perhaps Lord Rosby truly does joust for Love. Love of the Joust that is.”

“Bah!” the Jousting Lord can just about be heard to call, his lance unbroken when he’s at the other end of the list’s. He brings his horse about—a bit clumsily—and then charges at the weepy fellow with vigor.

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

The Weeping Knight’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.

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

Triston has fallen asleep in the stands, despite the noise of people clapping and hooting. Finally, /finally/, a fly lands on his nose and that is what brings the man to wake as his own hand hits his face.

Riding from the eastern pavillions at a trot, Seth Blackwood seems to have found his second wind. His weirwood heater shield shows the heavy dent made by Ser Almer Connington this morn, and he holds his seat but gingerly, seeming altogether uneven in the saddle. The Blackwood makes a pass by the stands, putting up a hand to the woman whose silver favor he bears—the Lady Marian Stark. Lifting his beaked visor reveals only some of his bruised and battered visage, but enough to undo any dashing image of a black knight. Still, it’s damnably hard to speak through one of those things. “My lady of Stark, with your leave I shall enter the field again.”

Wincing once more at another titanic impact, Marian glances around - and belatedly spots Rosalind. She looks surprised for a moment, then cheerfully beckons the Hill over, to join Elyn, Ammena and Alyce seated with her, murmuring an aside to an attendant who duly makes room for an extra seat.

Looking back to the field, she beams happily at Seth, then laughs and inclines her head. “Try to make sure that you survive the day, my lord of Blackwood - but if you wish to further prove your valour, I shall not stand in your way. You ride with my warmest wishes.”

Another close call, and the Weeping Knight hangs on. Many cheer the display of horsemanship, but the mysterious knight ignores them; he discards his broken lance, giving no sign of emotion as he takes up another.

After a moment’s pause, and when Lord Whalon is prepared, he turns his unsettling visage on the crowd for a moment. And then, he spurs into a third charge.

“Hah. Nicely done, old man,” the ironman murmurs to himself, his attention drawn to the lists again. But something in Reyna’s tone catches him and he looks back at her after a moment with no more than than a distracted nod for Marian, “What is this now? Did he say some fool thing again?”

Another course, and now that lance is shattered to pieces! Lord Whalon laughs at that, and then looks back over his shoulder to see the Weeping Knight still ahorse. He’s likely grinning like a madman behind the visor. He grabs up a new lance, and rides out to try and unseat the mystery knight.

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

The Weeping Knight’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.

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

Giving his mount a once-over, Ser Bonifer’s eyes settle on the Blackwood as he looks after his lady’s blessing. Leading the destrier behind him, the Buckwell knight puts a gauntleted hand to his cheek in an effort to be heard over the crowd.

“Blackwood! How about a tilt with me? By the looks of things, I’ll be a good warm up for you.”

Lady Rosby looks up at the sound of a tumbling knight… Oh. She resumes the embroidery, after seeing her husband manage to clamber back up to his feet.

“Well fought, whoever you are!” he shouts with a wave, before putting a hand to his backplate and groaning as he stretches his abused back. His squire seems to ask something, and he cuffs him on the ear—gently, but still, with a gauntled hand—and says, “Help me into the saddle and keep quiet! I’ll beat that Rollingford if it kills me!” There’s a titter as it takes a few heaves from the squire and the knight both to get Lord Whalon in the saddle again.

Spotting Marian’s welcome out of the corner of her eye, Rosalind rises to join the ladies in the Stark box. “Good afternoon.” She smiles, “A grand day.’

Tossing aside his broken lance with eerie serenity, the Weeping Knight turns to regard his foe; the crowd is not acknowledged, save for a slight inclination of his head. The mystery knight trots from the lists and takes up his former station, silent as ever.

Triston wipes the sleepy grime from his eyes and mouth—the sun and a little wine had lulled him like a babe at the breast. He yawns, gives a stretch, then leans forward to attend the joustin gon the field. “Ah, the mystery knight is returned.”

Reyna blanches, looking guiltily back at Dagur and shrugging. “The usual sort of thing. Worse than usual, really, but what does it matter?” She turns resolutely back toward the lists, but her maid has arrived and she is only too happy to repeat the vile words.

“He said that my lady’s guards are there to prevent her spreading her legs for any buck who comes sniffing, then said instead that she must be showing her bubbies to Smiler, which he didn’t like much,” Amalia says, almost cheerfully, as she pours wine from a skin into two goblets. Then the Lyseni looks sheepishly up at the other ladies. “Begging your pardon, my ladies. Those were not suitable words, and I ought to not have said them.”

Alyce smiles at Rosalind, “Good afternoon, it’s been interesting to say the least, and good to see you again.”

Seth turns from his lady upon hearing Ser Bonifer’s call and cracks a half-grin. “That sounds like a fine match, Ser Bonifer. Either way, the North wins.” The lancer gives an ironic bow of the head to the Lady Marian and rides to the field, making ready to (try to) knock about her best friend’s favorite. He dips his lance once to the one-time captain before delivering a light kick to his black barded destrier, sending it into a charge.

Mounting up and accepting a lance from a Buckwell squire who comes running up, Ser Bonifer returns the salute before putting the boots to this own horse.

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

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

“And you as well, Lady Alyce.” Rosalind seats herself in the open space, smoothing her skirts. “How have the champions of love fared thus far?”

Lord Whalon waits for a couple of young knights to finish up, and then promptly arranges taking them on each in turn. For the love of his lady, ostensibly, and theirs.

The latest joust brings a gasp from Elyn, and a sidelong glance at Marian. “I swear, if Bonifer killed him…I’ll sic the marten on him.” She vows to the Stark, attempting to inject a bit of humor. And failing rather well.

“Good day,” Ammena says to Rosalind as she approaches and then at the resounding sound that splits the air she turns her head to the lists. “Gods… oh my,” she says as she stares at the downed Blackwood. A sturdy Septa moves to her and touches her arm. Ammena turns to the Septa who nods curtly to her. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” she says to the gathered company and moves off with her Septa who quietly whispers some words to her.

Alyce’s eyes go wide as Seth slams to the dirt and she shakes her head, “It seems the jousts today are more ferocious than any other, as if their already battered bodies needed MORE abuse,” she says in answer to Rosalind. The Bar Emmon lady swallows and watches the fallen knight, eyes flicking a glance to Marian briefly then back to the field.

Seth, already stiffened and lame from seven hard days of jousting, manages a decent strike upon Ser Bonifer’s lance, but his own awkward positioning and the force of Ser Bonifer’s powerful blow send him flying from his seat and onto the ground with another crash of metal. The last three days have been unkind to the Blackwood lordling, and it should come as no surprise to anyone that Seth does not rise. Wild applause at the success of Ser Bonifer fades and turns to an uneasy stillness.

Anders jumps up again when Seth falls down and stares intently onto the field. The fire in his eyes can be seen as he stares hard down towards the grounds. After a minute of staring down though, the Young Dondarrion touches the bandages on his left side and sits down again.

For a moment, there is frozen silence; the Iron Serpent’s hand rises almost unconsciously as if to silence the maid with a blow before he catches himself, fist clenched at his side.

Turning to his wife, he stares at her, the hard bones of his face stark against the skin. And then, with a wordless snarl, he pulls her linen veil free, turns, and stalks from the stands down to the field, pushing past Almer on the way. A single look at him is enough to move spectators from his path.

A raucous clanking can be heard from the vicinity of the Lannister pavilion—

And moments later the Black Lion emerges, standing with gauntlets upon his bearmored hips. It is the same armor, now dented and missing a few choice golden adornments—but the man himself seems renewed.

Halting at the end of the lane. Bonifer’s antler-crested head turns to look down and see to the Blackwood’s wellfare.

As moments pass and the man does not rise, the Buckwell knight spurs his horse and trots back down the lane. Tiny’s hooves throw up dust as Ser Bonifer reins him in roughly and drops from the saddle, teetering as the weight of his armor threatens to unbalance him in the hasty drop.

“Blackwood?” he ventures, dropping to one knee and reaching for the Riverlander’s visor.

The yanking of her veil from her head, despite what is happening on the lists, sends Reyna off balance and she stares after Dagur in dismay. Then she glares at Amalia and rises to follow Dagur partway, since it would seem there is no sympathy to be had among the Northwomen, and sits unhappily down with Almer and his harem instead, leaning unbidden against Maenylla’s shoulder as if for comfort.

Rosalind catches her breath as Seth takes a hard fall. “Mother have mercy.” She murmurs, watching anxiously for her distant cousin to move.

Rising to her feet, Elyn takes one glance at Marian and then dashes from the stands to fetch the healer they’d brought with them from the hospice, as well as the extra supplies, just in case.

Triston stands, leaving his seat and heading for a servant bearing more wine. The empty cup is exchanged for the full, there he stands to drink and watch and block a few views at the front of the stands.

Marian sighs, slowly and heavily, then musters a weak smile for Elyn. “I shall hold you to that”, she says dryly as the Ryswell departs, before shooting a worried glance at Rosalind. “I am _hoping_ that we shall not find ourselves working our arts the whole time hereafter.” She does not follow Elyn, remaining in place, hands tightly gripping the arms of her seat.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Maenylla seems anything but mean as she comforts Reyna. Keira leans over Almer, concerned, and the knight looks puzzled as he watches Dagur stomp down to the field.

Seth is unresponsive to any call from the Buckwell knight, and it is no wonder, for when Bonifer lifts his visor he finds the lordling with eyes closed. He was, at the very least, knocked clear unconscious in the tumbling fall.

Turning from her Septa, Ammena steps back as the Iron Serpent storms by her… then Elyn… and then several others from the stands. Her gaze is fixed across the lists, glancing to and fro across the silent mayhem ensuing.

The maid’s words are not completely lost on Alyce but her attention is somewhat glued to her cousin’s lady, and she reaches a gentle hand to Marian’s, grasping it. “He will have good care and have bruises to brag over..” she says with light reassurance, staring at the unhorsed knight.

Rosalind reaches over to pat Marian on the other hand. “If we need to, we will, yes?” She watches Elyn descend, but opts not to follow, as yet.

Anders looks around, then waves at a servant to bring him a goblet of wine. Thoughtfully he sips it, staring down at the motionless knight.

It is but a matter of heartbeats before Elyn returns, the healer in tow, her words coming fast and hushed as she gestures to the prone Blackwood.

“Amalia told Dagur what Sarmion said,” Reyna replies miserably, happy to place herself in Maeny’s care for a moment. “He was wanting to joust that Weeping Knight anyway, and now he’s angry at me, or at Sarmion or whomever.” She looks at Almer across Maenylla. “And you know how he is when he is truly angry.”

After the Jousting Lord defeats the first knight, and then after three courses allows the other one to call it quits, he goes a-hunting for someone else to joust. Only six more left to surpass Rollingford’s mark, though the Knight of the Fountain is half his age. And now there’s another mystery knight to face! He spurs his horse towards him, and reins in sharply. “Lost your way from Casterly Rock, have you, ser? If you’re lion enough not to turn tail, I’ll try three courses with you!”

The ironman vanishes inside Osric’s tent; raised voices can be heard from within before being abruptly silenced. And a brief while later, a knight emerges wearing armour fashioned in Vikary colours, grim-faced Reavers swirling around him; one to lead his charger forward, another to bring his shield and helm, a third, the lance.

But the man who means to ride is the Iron Serpent, not the Vikary knight.

Mounting in a fever of impatience, the very air around him heated by his rage, he levels his lance in challenge at the first knight his gaze falls upon—the Sworn Brother.

“He’d best watch himself. Anger may help in war, but in the lists it is just as often a handicap.” Almer’s cold grey eyes narrow, and he watches the proceedings below with an enigmatic expression. Keira and Maenylla ignore it and continue comforting Reyna.

Somewhat dazedly, Marian glances around - blinking rather vaguely at the empty air where Reyna had been standing a few moments ago, before taking another breath and mustering a smile for her companions. “He already has the scars of true warfare to prove his bravery”, she says ruefully. “I am hoping that I have not been the cause of him sustaining further grievous harm.”

Looking across the field to the Stark seats, mostly to see if Lady Marian is looking on, Ser Bonifer is relieved to see that Elyn has already fetched the healer.

“This man needs attention!” he shouts towards the stands, raising an arm to summon the help that seems to be sorely needed. Then he looks back down at Seth and removes his gauntlets to reach into the helm and place a hand upon the Riverlander’s cheek, “Blackwood. . .”

Amalia, left behind in the Northern box with a goblet of wine in each hand, looks bewildered for a moment. Then she turns to Marian and bobs a bit of a curtsy. “My lady would wish me to say that if there is anything you need, you must ask it,” she says unhappily, offering Marian the wine.

It takes a minute or two more for Kellyn Lannister to emerge from the Black Knight’s tent, wringing her hands together. “You daft ... ” She pushes her hands down into fists, glaring after the stubborn man. A little foot stomps against the ground and she crosses her arms over her waist to see what he is going to do next.

Triston watches the fallen Blackwood with interest, as do many others now standing at the fenceline. Several urge the healer on and call the knight’s name, encouraging him to rise.

The Black Lion looks up at the Jousting Lord.

“Rosby,” he growls from beneath the heavy steel of his helm. “Where is your woman? I have missed her nimble fingers!” A horse is brought and the unknown Lannister mounts swiftly, looking not at all like the man who had suffered two horrific falls early in the day.

Leading the healer forward, who is already bending over the Blackwood, Elyn glances up, briefly catching Bonifer’s eye. Her pale gaze flickers back to Marian, giving her a reassuring smile, and then she bends to aid the healer.

“Hmph! I didn’t know you liked it Dornish fashion, with the fingers up your arse! Well, maybe you’ll get my lance next, at no charge!” Face flushed, Lord Rosby shouts at his horse and kicks it into action, and rides to the other end of the lists. The old man’s hot under his armor, and has a hungry look to him as he kicks his horse into action.

Seemingly somewhat assured by Elyn’s smile, Marian manages to gather her wits sufficiently to offer Amalia a smile. “Thank you. Kellyn declined the aid of the healer I brought with me - so that is him out there with Elyn now. For your own part… can you not do something to keep your lady away from the Blackheart? The man’s vile humour is all too well-known to myself - among many others. Your lady goes beyond courage or a refusal to be cowed in continuing to risk association with him. Let him be the pariah he appears to wish to make himself.”

Seth does not respond to neither voice nor touch. Attendants flock to the scene, gathering around Elyn, Bonifer, and the healer. With a cursory inspection and some deliberation, the healer consents and allows him to be moved. Once again Seth Blackwood is carried from the field, prone and unconscious.

A hearty laugh emits from the Black Lion and he wheels his mount for the charge. “For Kellyn!” he roars as he puts heels into his horse’s flanks and begins the charge.

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

The Black Lion’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.

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

“The Blackheart?” Amalia looks more than bemused. “I will give her this advice, but who should I say you mean? She has never said of this black heart.”

Meanwhile, down the way, Reyna is recovered enough to be calm and composed again, though she seems content to be under Maenylla’s arm still. “Curse it, Griff,” she complains, watching the newest pass and wincing to see the Jousting Knight so easily defeated, “it will be like the duel with Jaesin all over again. He’ll not stop until he’s half dead, and then it will take Osric and a half dozen reavers to convince him.”

Assisting the healer and still conversing with him in quiet tones with a nod to Seth’s head, Elyn assists in carrying the Blackwood off the field and disappears into his tent with the others.

Passing the reins to his squire, and handing over his shield and helmet, Ser Bonifer follows the group of healers and the unconscious Riverlander.

He pauses outside the tent, however, and decides to have a seat outside. There, he begins removing his armor as he takes up his vigil.

“It’s just a joust, Reyna. He won’t die today.” Almer shrugs, his voice cool and emotionless. Keira Sand gives her knight a sharp look, but keeps her peace.

You aren’t carrying anything.

Glare glare glare, stomp stomp stomp. Kellyn watches the joust almost as if she could unseat the Black Lion with her eyes alone. Only to see the unthinkable happen and his opponent unhorsed. She ends up staring at the knight in the dirt and then back up at the Black Lion. Alright. So maybe her expressions are a tiny bit exaggerated.

Having overheard her husband’s remarks, Lady Rosby watches the proceedings with half an eye, and *tsks* again as he’s unhorsed. Those previously mentioned nimble fingers keep at her embroidery, though, after pausing just long enough for her attention to focus on whether he’s up again.

“Bah!” Lord Whalon spits out, after a few groans and clambering up to his knees. “Doesn’t matter anyways,” he mutters as his squire helps him up the res of the way. “She hasn’t done that in forty years, gods know she’d not do it for a man whose manhood is as pox-marked as his must be. Lions’ll stick it in anything.” He does not immediately mount his horse again, but limps along to his arming tent to take a seat for a minute or two, and recover. His helm is off, and the dull knot of a bruise can be seen rising on his brow. A maester tries to tend to him, and he shakes the man off, cursing and calling for some more wine.

Those at the stands edge watch the Blackwood taken away and are there to see the Jousting Lord’s unhorsing. Boos and cheers mingle and the crowd lingers.

Triston’s shoulder is tapped by an elder woman, accompanied by her graying husband. The two bear heraldry from the Vale and seem to recognize the man; their conversation revolves around his bare wrist. With a laugh, the woman retrieves a plain hankerchief from between her sagging breasts and offers it to the man.

Reyna is not so kind as Keira—she glares openly at Almer for being so uncaring. But not for long. She soon shifts her attention to the knight in Vikary armor with her dust-veil tied round his arm in a mockery of her more usual green-and-gold favour.

The… Black Lion allows his horse to continue to the end and then slowly wheels it around to see the Jousting Lord in the dirt. “Ha!” he bellows from underneath his helm, throwing the end of his shattered lance to the ground. “You should have learned your lesson thirty years ago, Rosby!” He trots back to his pavilion, for the first time today still riding in the saddle.

Ammena rejoins the Stark box and takes her seat. “Gods have mercy. I hope he will be well,” she says with a comforting look towards Marian. The sound of continuing jousters jars her and she catches her breath. “Goodness this day has turned to something altogether… ” she trails unable to find the words.

The Breaker of Yronwood, Ser Osbert Bettley, has the Princess Rhaena’s favor tied to the crest of his helm, an intricate construction featuring a broken black gate. With a few victories under his belt, and two or three defeats, he still seems set to joust more as he sits on a camp stool. When Ser Dagur comes before him, the knight with the fierce whiskers covering his cheeks calls to his squire, and rises up to don his helm, mount up, and then take on shield and lance.

Kellyn moves out of the way of the Black Lion’s return, looking up at him with bemusement. “Thirty years, Ser? Why that would have had to have been before you were even born,” she says dryly. She gives a pat to his charger’s whithers as he passes, shaking her head before drifting back into the tent.

As the moments pass, a young messenger is sent running up towards the Stark box to whisper something in Marian’s hearing, although there is no other stirring from the Blackwood’s tent.

Marian shoots Amalia a somewhat disbelieving look - then finds herself blinking across the field at the unexpected sight of the Jousting Lord picking himself off the ground. “It seems that Kellyn’s gifts in the arts of healing surpass those available to us at the hospice… or perhaps a substitute has been found to ride in the champion’s place…” Mustering another smile, she offers Ammena a grateful look. “Once I have regained my composure a little more, I shall make my way down to the pavilion. I do not wish to be seen running there as if he were about to die. There are malevolent gossips aplenty at court as it is, without providing them with a surfeit of ammunition with which to craft new jibes…”

Alyce nods somewhat distantly toward Ammena and her brows furrow slightly, her blue eyes trailing over to the field again. “I wonder if fatigue of some is playing into the fury with which they are hitting the ground..” she remarks, quietly.

The moment it is clear that Osbert is mounted and ready, the Iron Serpent sets his spurs and charges; there is no delay for chivalrous gestures or pleasing the crowds. His anger, so clearly seen not long before, is too great for that.

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.

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

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

Beggars can’t be choosers and Triston prefers a favor of pity than none at all. Even if it does not flap gallantly from his wrist so much as it hangs damply.

The husband smiles patiently at his wife as Triston offers them a deep bow. Then, long legs are sprinting towards the Vale tent.

Continuing to watch the match between Dagur and the Breaker of Yronwood impassively, Almer does his best to ignore the fluttering femininity as they fret and fuss over their chosen knights. Maenylla holds Reyna’s hand and looks sulky, while Keira whispers something in her Griffin Knight’s ear.

Amalia stares at Marian. “Your man is hurt and you worry about gossip? I think…” But she presses her lips together and shakes her head. “I must return to my lady. Her lord is so very angry, she will be distressed. I hope all is well with your man.” The Lyseni bobs Marian a curtsy and heads away for Reyna.

Said Reyna is watching rather tensely as Dagur thunders down the lists, gripping Maenylla’s hand and biting her lower lip. “It’s not a favor if you -steal- it,” she mutters.

Listing in his saddle, the ironman pulls himself upright swiftly enough. He does not spare even a glance for his opponent, riding back to rearm. The Reaver who brings him a fresh lance seems to be arguing with him but he may as well have been mute for all the attention Dagur spares him. Turning, he waits until the Sworn Brother is ready, then charges again; the cool deliberation seen in his earlier jousts is missing now.

Ser Osbert’s shattered lance is dropped to the ground almost immediately after the hit upon the Ironman. He does not look to see if his foe has fallen, instead rounding the lists and seeing then that the ironman is still up. He puts spurs to his horse, to hurry it to the end of the lists, and then charges forward again.

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.

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

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

Alyce turns somewhat wide eyes to Amalia and then she glances at Marian. Her gaze finds the Bar Emmon guard directing a stare at her and when she sees him he nods. “I must..” and she turns her head to see Dagur prevail then she regains her thoughts and smiles “I must away, ladies, it was..at least a pleasure to share your company if the contests proved rather more damaging today than the others.”

“I need to be out there and be bloody chivalrous!.. Let me go!” - A brief cut-scene into the Martell pavilion.

Having cocked her head to better hear the messenger’s murmurings, Marian quirks another smile at Amalia. “I know that Seth is alive, and like to remain that why. Why make a fool of him or me by tottering down there in a blind panic that will do no one any good? But please, do not let me further detain you.” She nods an acknowledgement of the departing maid, then looks to her companions. “The word is that he is not yet awake, but is breathing easily. Injured, but not grievously so, compared to many of those we have tended in the hospice. Or so it seems. I shall certainly check in on him once I am confident of walking so far unaided.”

The ironman’s fury is a bit more than that of the westerman, and he plunges from the saddle, landing hard and rolling to a stop. It takes a few long moments before he climbs up to his feet, his white cloak stained with dirt. His salute to the victor is brief, before he marches back up to his tent and stews for awhile, considering.

“It didn’t matter how old I was when you were popping out my heirs!” the Black Lion rumbles at the young lady at his feet. He watches the joust between the Iron Serpent and the Kingsguard for a moment.

“Jaesin nearly lost a duel to /that/?” This the Black Lion says of the victorious Saltcliffe, followed by a hearty chortle.

He has a favor, he has his armor, he has his squire-led horse. Two others trail behind them with plain metal-tipped lances carried between them.

Now all Triston Templeton needs is an opponent.

Tossing the shattered remains of his lance aside, the Iron Serpent lingers only the briefest moment—long enough to see Osbert gain his feet—before turning his horse in a circle, surveying the lists. The Vikary’s charger tosses its head, unused to this new rider; he curbs it with a heavy hand.

His gaze falls on the Black Lion next.

“You, ser!” he snarls. Without waiting to see if his challenge is accepted, he rides back for a fresh lance.

Rosalind nods to Marian, accepting her words without indicating whether Rosalind would do the same in her position. She watches the jousts and applauds the contests. Occasionally, her gaze drifts to the other pavillions, as though her thoughts drift elsewhere.

To say that Reyna disapproves of Dagur’s actions just now is an understatement. She neither rises to watch from the rail, nor makes any gesture of support whatsoever, despite having a black and silver sash tied around her waist. She just sits like stone and watches, face rather alarmingly pale.

Kellyn quietly reaches up, almost tugging at the favor on the knight’s arm before she remembers herself and begins tapping her foot. Her fingers drum against her opposite arm. “Oh, how you win the day for love,” she says dryly. When the Iron Serpent makes his challenge, though, Kellyn steps back and waves towards the man in question. “Do go find out how you measure up to the Serpent, by all means.” And that done, she steps back into the tent proper, voice rising to ... someone in there. “... as bad as ... must you always ... ” Some poor servant must be getting qutie the admonishment.

“SO BE IT, IRONBORN BLACKGUARD!” the Black Lion roars.

He is handed a fresh lance and stirs up a cloud of dust as he rides off to meet the challenger.

And the moment the Black Lion charges, so too does the ironman; he is as silent as the Lannister knight is loud, but the intent with which he levels his lance speaks volumes.

Waving farewell to the Bar Emmon lady, Ammena takes in a soft breath as she listens to Marian’s news. The continuing crash and chaos on the fields takes her aback and she drinks deeply from her goblet.

Better late than never, some might say, when the Knight of the Twilight—absent on account of his cousin having withdrawn her favor after some unknown disagreement between the two—makes his appearance. But he’s not come to spectate, dressed in court garments. He is armored head to toe in Dornish fashion, his robes are as clean as might be with any tears taken in the last days repaired. Behind him trails his squire, leading a mule with two bundles of spears tied to each side. And before him ... Holding the reins of his own horse, leading it behind her while she rides her own palfrey, is Aisling Ryswell. And the sharp-eyed might now notice that the young Dornish knight, helm carried under one arm, has a black ribbon threaded with bronze bound high upon that very limb. It seems he has found a lady to favor him in the joust for love.

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

The Black Lion lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

One would think it would be easy for the Templeton to find a willing man to tilt. It is not so; he sends his squires to inquire of a few others, who turn the boy down at the behest of their knights. Small reasons are given, poor excuses made, but Triston remains undaunted.

He passes the Stark pavillion and sees a familiar face: Ser Bonifer. “Crownlander—you stand idly by, counting leaves of grass? What knight is so recalcitrant when a Joust for Love is at stake?”

The broken lance is discarded and Dagur acquires another—but this time, before charging he stops a moment, the helm turning to the stands where his wife sits. And then, he wheels and thunders down the field again.

The Black Lion discards his lance and takes another. He seems to have done with all the yelling, and focuses now only upon the contest. The hooves of his steed are like thunder as he goes to meet his opponent.

The Black Lion lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

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

The Black Lion finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.

Looking up from the ground before Seth’s tent, Ser Bonifer is ripped from his thoughts as the Templeton knight hails him.

“Now’s not the time to try me, Templeton.” he states flatly as he crosses his arms where he sits upon the camp stool.

Well, it seems that something has happened in the Martell pavilion. Several hours have passed since the joust where the Martell prince was struck to the ground. No bones broken.. and here he is again! He strides forth from the opening, all fiery red and blazing orange, ready to face the day. His squire is there with his armor, his attendants are ready, he has a white linen cloth about his head that looks quite unflattering, but he seems to be strong enough to take part again!

Take part in watching, that is. He sinks down on a bench out of sight from the sidelines, sighing as he gets handed a cup of wine.

While Aisling’s mount—not the black Dornish beast she supposedly acquired some days ago, but rather the spirited grey mare upon which she won the riding at rings—seems to relish the attention, prancing and snorting, it is a different story when it comes to the lady herself. She looks sterner than usual, even, as she leads Ser Aidan’s horse by the reins into the lists. As they reach the area where the Dornish pavillions are setup, she turns her horse around and brings it close enough to pass the reins back to Aidan. “May your gods favour you in the lists, ser,” she tells him, somehow mustering a smile. She has no specific commands for her knight, it would appear.

The Black Lion slides from the side of his saddle and onto the ground. He is up in a flash and with a hand to his breast he concedes the victory with a bow of his head. His horse returns to him and he leads the beast back to his pavilion with a sort of skip in his step.

“Would that you could stay your saddle so well as you stay that seat, Buckwell.” There’s no stopping Triston once he’s started. “If you wish—stay there, I will still give you a lance. I could use warming up at the quintain.”

There’s no fanfare for Ser Aidan Dayne, nor any great clamor—he’s still Dornish, before all else. But the Dornishmen in the stands at least seem glad enough of his entry. As the lady finishes, he bows in the saddle. “I will ride as well as they allow, in your name, my lady,” he offers gallantly. He sees her off, and then dismounts while Danyll quickly goes about unpacking the lances and propping them all up against the racks. Then a spare shield, a small one of wood, is put up on a pole bearing the arms of Starfall, the falling star and sword against a lilac field. While his squire busys himself, he spots Prince Cadan and moves to address him. “I hope you’ve had fortune in the lists, my prince,” he says, eyes flicking over and past the linen that binds his head.

As Dagur fells the Black Lion, Almer watches not the victor, but the vanquished; he looks thoughtful, and more than a little annoyed. At Maenylla’s questioning glance, her brother sighs. “That’s a different man than the won I rode against this morning.”

Maeny frowns. “You’re sure?”

Cadan looks up as Ser Aidan rounds the pavilion where he sits behind. He offers the knight a quick nod, gesturing out onto the field: “I faced Seth Blackwood, the Black Lion of Lannister and Ser Almer.. all in all, I haven’t been fortunate. The last struck me down with a heavy blow that brought that fall right back.. But I am feeling better. If this goes on..” He leaves the rest unsaid but seems hopeful, and he does look quite strong again.

This time, the Iron Serpent does not even wait to see if the Lannister knight gains his feet. Again, that pause; again, his masked gaze raking the field, failing to find the man he seeks.

For now, other targets will have to suffice; it is the Jousting Lord who catches his eye.

And once again, that curt challenge—a lance levelled at Whalon.

“Very well, then, Templeton. To the lists.”

The Buckwell man grimly goes about donning his armor once more. The task is time consuming without a squire to assist him, but it is managed.

As he walks out onto the field his squire spots him. The young man had been looking over toward the Blackwood pavillion with some concern, but when he sees his knight take the field, he rushes out to provide him with both mount and equipment.

The Dornish contingent in the stands does, of course, cheer upon the arrival of Ser Aidan. Indeed, even the reason for his lateness, the Black Tempest, seems thrilled to see her cousin finally appear. “Well now,” she wryly notes to the ladies nearby, “it seems my cousin made a clever choice yesterday when he placed the crown in that northwoman’s lap.” She does not seem annoyed about the fact that he now carries someone else’s favour, merely amused at who it is.

Though he does not need much assistance from his own, Triston does not offer up the services of the squire at his side. They cross to the lists and the Templeton mounts his sleek charger, waiting for Bonifer and an open lane.

Having been roundly ignored by some of the later contestants—he’s too much man for them, obviously—at last someone gives Whalon the challenge. “Hah! Leave it to an ironman to show more balls than most of the rest of the babes in arms,” he tells his squire happily, draining a cup of wine before lurching up from the seat. “Give me a moment, ser, and we’ll try our lances against one another!” he says aloud, as he pulls on his helm. And under his breath: “I wish he had unmasked that bastard, rather than letting him go skulking back.” With his squire’s help, he’s up again. He’s a little round-shouldered and loose-jointed in the seat, but he doesn’t hesitate to take up the lance, and then to charge when the signal is given.

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

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

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

“By the Seven,” Reyna breathes in a sort of awed distress. “Would you still say his rage is not his servant now, Almer?” She looks at her cousin with a brow arched in her wan face.

“I would say it’s quite the other way around, Reyna,” Almer replies coldly.

Cadan sees something out there.. and something about Aidan’s arrival seems to have inspired him. He slowly gets up from his seat, offering a few quiet words to his squire and one of the stableboys that are lingering before he turns to Aidan to listen to his countryman’s response.

As a lane opens up for himself and the Templeton knight, Ser Bonifer reins his mount to a walk and takes his place at the opposite end from the younger man.

Without salute to anyone, the Buckwell silently awaits the charge.

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

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

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

Again, the Buckwell man holds his mount to a walk as they travel back to rearm. He takes his lance from his squire and the excited pawing of the ground from his horse is the only movement as he awaits his opponent’s move.

Triston rides nearly side-saddle until they reach the end of the lane, where he arights his seating and gallops the charger back for another lance. The exchange is made and the Templeton begins again for the Buckwell.

Anders gets up again, preparing to leave.

Triston’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.

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

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

Rosalind lifts both brows in mild surprise as Bonifer is unhorsed. “Ah, well done.” She murmurs, giving the Heir of Ninestars her applause.

“As you say,” Ser Aidan responds, nodding as he considers the names mentioned—especially this Black Lion. He notices, too, the Weeping Knight. He frowns at that, before Danyll comes up and lets him know that all’s ready for him to enter the lists. And with a brief parting word, Aidan turns to the task. His squire checks the straps and laces of his armor, to make sure all is right, and then Aidan’s on to his blood bay destrier. Yet he does not take his helm, shield, or lance with him as he rides. And the reason becomes clear, as he rides towards the stands rather than the lists

“Ladies, good day to you; and to my lords as well,” the Knight of the Twilight announces, unselfconscious as he addresses those who can hear him. “I am come in the name of courtesy, to accept the challenge any man who would joust for love of his lady, so that he might do honor in her name. But I have a wish to perform a feat of arms, to prove my own chivalry.” His horse fidgets and fusses as he keeps it still, and in the end he has to let it turn a brief circle as he tries to keep his face to those addressed. “I would ride three courses, and no more if there is no result, against any knight here who has defeated me in the lists since this tourney began.” His eyes shift to Almer, who he sees near his cousin, even as the crack of Triston’s lance makes one remember that there’s more than one man here who has defeated him.

Calmly floating upon his steed’s back, Bonifer places the tip of his lance right on Triston’s chest, but it snaps and passes without doing further damage.

Then he is struck himself, and slides backward from his saddle, only fortunate enough that his feet clear the stirrups and he is not dragged along behind Tiny.

Ammena looks at the arrival of the Twilight Knight to the field, leaving the Dornish Prince. As the sound of yet another crash resounds through the field, she turns to Rosalind and says, “And now even more to the challenge. How quickly the day turns.”

Cadan is not much worse and has actually gone to mount up, also without his armor, and he’s only a minute or so behind his Dornish comrade. So, when Aidan has spoken to the stands and to those who can hear him, the Dornish prince rides up to the same spot, waiting in silence for Aidan to finish speaking and for him to get his mandatory cheers.. or boos.

The crowd is beginning to notice the Iron Serpent’s wild charge, now. Questions are asked, wagers placed, but no answer is forthcoming. Not, at least, until the ironman chooses to give part of it himself.

He rips off his helm and stares at the pavilions; disappointment stokes the fire in his eyes higher and he snarls: “Give me the Stormbreaker. Give me that godless whoreson.”

It is loud; loud enough for many among the knights to hear it. But no giant in Baratheon colours rides forward to answer him. And so, it must be the Weeping Knight.

Tossing the helm away, Dagur throws his challenge at the mysterious man as he rides back to his tent. The Reaver who brings his lance does so reluctantly and seems unwilling to let it go; only a cuff from his captain convinces him. And then, the ironman charges again, bare face set against the Weeping Knight’s masked one.

Rosalind inquires of the ladies next to her, “The Stormbreaker? Perchance, I missed something.” The latter is a statement rather than a question and she looks to her companions to fill her in.

At the Knight of the Twilight’s flowery soliloquoy, the Stormlanders in particular hoot in good-natured derision. “That’d be a long list, ser!” one lout calls, to much laughter.

Ser Almer, however, seems less amused. He rises. “I have hazarded my body for love of my lady already, ser,” he calls to Aidan. “I have nothing else to prove. But, for the esteem in which I hold you and your skill at arms, I will consent to three passes, or less as the case may be.”

Celebrating his success is shortlived as Triston’s raised right fist reveals the favor is lost. The knight quickly dismounts to search the saddle, then the ground, the churned lane for the scrap of cloth. His squires are enlisted in the search; they take several minutes and hold up those waiting for that particular lane.

Finally, one of the boys spot a frayed end sticking up from a small pile of dirt. The thing is now ragged, stained beyond cleaning… but still a favor. They retreat from the field to make way for others.

The silent and fearsome Weeping Knight seems to have expected the fury of the Iron Serpent to find him. He merely nods is assent and, businesslike, reaches for a lance. When he is armed and ready, the mystery knight spurs his grey horse out to the lists to await the challenge.

Meanwhile, Ser Almer leaves the Stormlanders behind and heads down to his pavilion to arm himself.

Ser Aidan ignores the derision—barely. He nods his head to Almer, and says, “I thank you, ser. I shall await you in the lists.” And with that he rides back to his arming tent, and dismounts for the minutes it will take for Lord Connington’s son to arm himself. Danyll offers a cup of water, and takes a swallow.

There is such an enormous difference between the chivalry displayed by Ser Almer and whatever it is that the Iron Serpent is showing with his relentless passes against hard-tested Knights of equal or superior prowess. Reyna sits like a statue watching, and only goes a shade paler when Almer answers the Dayne’s challenge. For her own knight faces the Weeping Knight, and it is sure to be a short test.

Keira, meanwhile, looks resigned that Almer will joust again. She slides across his empty seat to sit on Maenylla’s other side, and the three women watch.

Having found her way to her place in the stands, once again with Lord Terin Ryger’s party, Aisling seats herself just in time to overhear Aidan speak. She stiffly ignores the looks she receives from Sylvina, though does have a slightly awkward smile for her uncle, Henly. “Has it been a good joust so far, uncle?” she asks of him. He gives her a slightly curious look, but nods to her words. “Jousting for the ladies seems to have spurred many a knight to great ... efforts, at the very least.”

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

The Weeping Knight lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.

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

Long minutes could be hours, but the long practice of haste in war must help. Before long, Almer emerges from his tent in his armor, and gracefully mounts. Cheers echo as the Griffin Knight rides out, lance in hand, to face the Knight of the Twilight.

As Aidan and Almer goes to do their bloody.. or at least violent work, Cadan looks up at the stands. When the cheers and japes have died down for but a moment, he rides forward to speak.

“I saw a mystery knight ride out earlier against the will of his lady.. I do not wish to do the same! It’s my wish to joust for the honor of my lady, if my lady will have me! .. If you do, give me a sign to joust, if not.. remain and do nothing.” He rides back and forth along the stands for a moment, his eyes scanning the rows of people. He might be hurt, but he sits well in the saddle still.

Rosalind looks curiously at Cadan, listening to his address. Likewise, she glances down the stands to see who his lady might be.

You aren’t carrying anything.

Reyna doesn’t so much as wince when Dagur hits the ground at last, though a great deal of the tension goes out of her body. She only waits to see will he rise, her eyes glancing over Cadan. “Oh, doesn’t he have a wife in Dorne?” she grumbles. “Who does he think will give him favor here?”

Thundering past his foe, the Weeping Knight manages to unseat his famous foe; the tip of his broken lance cartwheels through the air and imbeds itself in the turf. He turns his horse to look upon the Iron Serpent as a shout goes up.

Having missed all of the excitement lately, Elyn finally emerges from the Blackwood tent alone. Heaving a sigh, she brushes her hands on a rag and tosses it to the seat that Bonifer once occupied. Scanning the field, the Northern girl returns to the stands then, climbing the steps to take a seat next to Marian, leaning over to whisper to her lady.

Ammena glances to the Griffin and the Twilight Knight as they set to their combat. When the Prince of Dorne calls to the stands, she gazes in wonder. As the weary sun blazes the sky above the crushed splinters, bruised bodies, sweaty crowds, and trampled favors, she slowly stands, her hair blazing deep red in the hot sun, and lifts a goblet to the Prince of Dorne. She calls out, “You serve the Gods well Prince. At least one man remembers the Maiden today.”

At last, as it must, the Iron Serpent’s rage proves his undoing. Too fierce in his approach, too swift to level his lance, too careless of his own shield—he fails and falls. It is no great tumble but the man is helmless; when the dust clears, he lies unmoving in the lists. It is left to his cursing Reavers to bear him off it.

Like some surreal, implacable idol, the Weeping Knight watches his foe, motionless, as he is borne from the field. He turns his horse from the lists and canters back to his appointed place, unvanquished.

“STUPID man!” Reyna is on her feet now, and hastening from the stands with a swift buss on the cheek for Keira and Maenylla. And away she goes, to the pavilion of sable and silver with a face as grim as the Weeping Knight’s is tormented.

Up in the stands, in the royal box to be precise, one figure all in white—the Dragonknight himself—excuses himself from King Daeron’s side and proceeds to make his way down to the pavillions setup for knights to arm themselves for the lists. It would appear that something—or perhaps, someone—has prompted Prince Aemon to enter this joust, at least for a time.

As the Connington knight appears, Ser Aidan does not immediately mount as he watches Ser Dagur against the Weeping Knight. Nor does he mount when he is unhorsed, instead waiting ... And he frowns then, when he must be carried off. He turns to Danyll and tells him something, leading the squire to look in the direction of where the knight has been carried.

At last Ser Aidan mounts, taking up his helm, with its torse of lilac and white holding a mantle that spills down across his back. Next the shield, battered in many honorable conflicts, and like to see a few more dents before the tourney is out. And then the tall, twelve foot jousting lance with its simple, blunt coronel at its head. The blood bay gelding chews at the bit, a foam upon its mouth, before he lets it trot to the start. The lance dips, a salute ... and then when all is ready, the knight charges!

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 shatters.

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

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

Cadan stops as Ammena Piper rises up among the stands, near where Marian, Elyn and Alyce have been seated. The smile of the prince is bright and his bow is graceful. “I will go on and joust, then, for you my lady. For you, and for my loved ones in Dorne!” He announces that over the dim of the crowds, his voice carrying loud and clear for the first time in days: “I ride for my daughter, Leyla Nymeria Martell, most of all!” He wheels his horse around, watching Reyna rush down the stands.

“I thank you, for letting me go on! I also ride as an act of repentance, for my sins against ladies in the past..” And with those words, he spurs his horse towards his pavilion for his armor and lance.

“Repentence!” the Black Lion chortles. “That’s rich.” He has recently been joined by his kinsman Jonn Lannister, who watches the Saltcliffe drama with an inscrutable expression. Black Jonn—not to be confused with The Black Lion—leans noticeably to one side as he stands to watch.

Rosalind glances at Ammena, then her gaze follows Martell, speculative.

The blow is taken manfully, but it is a struggle for the Griffin to recover; he displays his horsemanship, though, and canters on to the end of the course. A gasp comes from the Stormlanders. Almer takes a fresh lance from his squire, then, lifting his hand whence the ivory sandsilk kerchief is bound, he salutes them, and his lady. He turns for a second pass, and charges.

The lance cracks and splinters fly, but Ser Almer holds to his saddle with great horsemanship. There is indeed a new dent in the round, metal-faced shield of the Dornishman, as Ser Aidan too is rocked in the saddle, but he takes it with more ease. Danyll eagerly hands him up another lance, and Ser Aidan charges down the lists again, lilac-and-white lance levelled.

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

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

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

Having exchanged a few more words with her uncle about the joust up until now—and having had the deeds of a few knights pointed out specifically to her, such as the Buckwell knight with his eye on her cousin—Aisling then finds herself distracted as her knight enters the lists. It would not do, after all, for a lady not to pay attention when her knight rides. Not even a lady of her reputation.

Keira half-rises from her seat, anxious when first Almer, then Aidan is knocked rocking in their saddles. She does not even tear her eyes away to look toward the Saltcliffe pavilion, for all she cried out in dismay when Reyna’s husband had to be carried out of the lists.

Galloping from the storm of kindling that erupts from the second course, Ser Almer glances over his shoulder to see if the Knight of Starfall yet rides… and he does. It is an amazing display, these last two courses. He exchanges the stub of lance for a new one from Rease. The wings on his helm glimmer fitfully in the sunlight as he turns his helmed head toward the stands. Another raised hand, a salute to the Lady Keira. And then, the final charge.

Though he manages to break his lance near the tip, it is nothing to compare to Ser Almer’s hammerblow that rends his lance to pieces. The jolt of impact is felt throughoutt the Knight of the Twilight’s body, as he strains to maintain his seat. With a wrench, he manages to hold on, and straighten his seat with some effort. He’s a little slow to take up the third lance, glancing down the lists to see Ser Almer’s progress as he does so. A long moment more, and then he spurs his horse for the third and final tilt.

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

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

Taking her chair, Ammena sips from her goblet and watches the field with cool green eyes. Taking a breath, she says, “And now the Dragonknight joins the fray. The wonders of this day will never cease to amaze me.”

The roar at the contest between Griffin and Twilight is deafening; a storybook display of chivalry if ever there was one. As two lances are broken in equal measure, Ser Almer finishes the course and reins in, then tosses the shattered weapon to Rease. He trots back toward Ser Aidan, raising his visor.

“Valiantly-ridden, ser,” he says to the famous champion of Starfall. “My compliments to your lady; her honor is secure.”

Cadan has quickly gotten help with putting on his armor, that scale-mail shirt, the breastplate, the gauntlets. All with a hint of red bronze glinting over their surfaces. A few dents can be seen here and there but they are minor. A blue and white favor is tied onto his arm but along with it is another one.. or two, a scarlet red and a fiery orange, matching the colors of his House. He slowly puts the helm in it’s place before taking a lance from his squire. Thus prepared, the Martell prince rides out to the lists.

Caught up in the excitement of the three even passes between Ser Aidan and Ser Almer, Aisling cheers rather more enthusiastically than before as the third and final joust between the two is concluded. “That was quite something, once again,” she says to her uncle, and follows her words by a good-sized gulp of wine. Perhaps it is that which is putting a bit of colour on her cheeks again?

The split of two lances causes a cheer from the crowd. “Five lances broken to no result!” one nobleman in the stands remarks to a companion. Ser Aidan himself seems pleased enough, though his helm hides his expression. He drops the lance as he turns the corner, and rides up to meet Ser Almer as he returns to his own side the lists. He slows to a stop then, and with his free hand now lifts his visor. “We are well-matched, my lord of Connington. I thank you for doing me the honor of riding again. Mayhaps on the morrow we shall face each other down the lists once more; the gods send we show such prowess then!” And with that, his horse moves on to his arming tent, where he dismounts. Danyll takes and puts aside the helm and shield, and then takes off at a run on his master’s errand to Saltcliffe’s pavilion.

Taking off his helm, Ser Almer rides bare-headed back toward the Connington tents, and waves to the crowd in acknowledgement of their accolades.

“You ser!” the call comes from the blue and gold knight behind his vair shield, “You have unhorsed the finest knights this field has offered. Allow me to stand among them, either as another to fall before you, or as one of the few to best you.”

Ser Bonifer’s gauntleted finger is leveled at the Weeping Knight.

Cadan stops his horse near the Targaryen arming tents where he waits, watching. Meanwhile, a few of his countrymen have gone out now that two of the Dornishmen are active and jousting, even if Aidan just returned. Also, with the afternoon here, or evening as it might be soon, more of the Dornish hostages have taken to the stands and their voices are sometimes heard, cheering for the champion of their land as well as their prince.

Danyll pulls to a stop well outside the tent—the Saltcliffe retainers seem a rough, unpleasant lot to the young Dornish noble’s eyes. But he’s bold enough, and no surprise given he’s one of the Toland siblings. After a mere hesitation, he marches up and announces, “My master, Ser Aidan, begs to know how Ser Dagur Saltcliffe fares.”

The tent flap is drawn up, and Reyna looks out, still looking drawn. “Ser Dagur is well. He is awake, and the maester says there is no lasting damage done. He will be well enough to ride on the morrow. Pray, thank Ser Aidan for his kind concern, and wish him luck in the rest of his jousts today.” Reyna smiles faintly, then drops the tent flap again.

Crystal tears glint and seem to flow as the eerie helm turns from tracking the Knight of the Twilight to regard Bonifer. As always, the Weeping Knight’s reply is no more than a faint inclination of his head and a gesture to his masked retainers. Soon, his steed is brought forth and he mounts; his lance dips in salute and he waits for the Buckwell knight’s charge before starting his own.

Seated beside Marian, Elyn continues to watch the jousting with a quiet, tense air. She refuses the wine offered her, and speaks few words, intent instead on the field.

Falling in opposite the mystery knight, Ser Bonifer and Tiny fly down the lane, the fresh lance spearing through the air as Bonifer lowers it progressively.

The Weeping Knight strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.

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

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

Cadan waits. Patient, steady, only staring up at the lists where the young lady sits, she who gave him the opportunity to joust this day.

Meanwhile, Ariana is still holding on to her own up in the Martell area of the stands, holding it in her hands while she scans the field below.

The crowd roars its approval as the Weeping Knight is unhorsed by Ser Bonifer, falling from the saddle in a tumble. He soon rights himself and gets up after a brief pause to clean away dirt from his weeping visor.

As the Prince of Dorne appears outside his arming tents, one of the Kingsguard outside greets him curtly. “Good day, Prince Cadan. If you’ve come for Prince Aemon, he is still arming within,” Ser Olyvar Oakheart says.

The clear concern that had tightened Elyn’s features is wiped away by a flood of surprise, and then pride. In an unlady-like move, she surges to her feet and applauds loudly, before remembering herself and sitting again, cheeks flushed. She continues to glow with pleasure, however, and her smile cannot be dimmed, even by the occasional cloud-shadow cast on the field.

Eventually, the figure of Triston Templeton shows up again. He stands at the rail, conversing with the elderly lady whose favor received so little care in his hands. The bedraggled thing is handed back to the old woman who is now the one to handle the filthy cloth gingerly.

With a sour expression on her face, she returns to her husband’s side and the young knight is again unworthy of favor.

“I see. Send him my greetings and my desire to have the honor of challenging him first of all our knights today, in the honor of my lady.” He inclines his head in the sort of respect he’d have for the prince himself, then settles back to wait once more.

“It seems Ser Bonifer wanted to make sure of that lasting impression of his prowess. Did you not say this Weeping Knight had done very well so far?” Aisling queries of Henly, who nods affirmatively. “An impressive feat, even though fortunes certainly have been anything but constant during this tourney.” Aisling nods in agreement, and casts a glance over at cousin, Lady Elyn.

Slapping the reins to barding at Tiny’s neck, Bonifer guides the destrier at a walk down where the Weeping Knight has fallen.

Dropping to the ground before the mystery knight and looking down upon his unsettling countenance, Ser Bonifer draws the sword at his waist.

“You’ve unhorsed knights far greater than I, ser. While I long to know who is under the mask, I am not worthy to make the decision. As I ride for the honor of Lady Elyn Ryswell, I leave the decision to her.” and the Buckwell knight looks to stands and lifts his voice, “My lady of Ryswell! What shall it be? Would you know the identity of this man?”

A collective pause hushes many in the crowd as they await Lady Elyn Ryswell’s word; Triston is among them, he switches his watchful gaze between knights and lady.

The Dragonknight comes forward, dressed in the intricate white scaled armor, chased with gold, of the Kingsguard. Under his arm is a greathelm bearing a white dragon crest. Informed of the Dornish prince’s challenge, he regards the man and then nods. “If it pleases you and your lady, ser, I must do as you ask,” Prince Aemon says. He turns to mount his horse, and makes all ready before riding to one end of the lists and awaiting the prince.

Sipping at her wine, Ammena makes a face at her goblet, shakes her head, and quietly says, “This has turned sour. The Blackwood is in Gods only know what kinds of pain, the Weeping Knight mourns for his dark lady, the others compete as if afevered, and the smallfolk drink it all. There -is- love here. Love for the Battle.” Even as another crack, fall, and deafening roar echo across the fields. She is startled as Elyn jumps to her feet amidst the cheering. She is further shocked when Ser Bonifer calls out to the stands with his inquiry and the crowds hush.

Rosalind leans closer to Ammena, “Indeed. Love of battle or love of applause. But I would see if Lady Elyn wants this Weeping Knight unmasked.” She looks over at the Ryswell lady, curious.

When the Dragonknight arrives, it’s the meeting of one in white scales and white clothing and one in red bronze scales over orange and black clothing, both of them with gold in their armor. One of them of light and fair Targaryen blood, the other with the blood of the Rhoynar and the desert. Cadan salutes the famous knight with his lance, rearranging his helm on his shoulders. “It pleases my lady first and foremost and I am but her lance and her will this day.” He wheels his horse around to raise his lance to Ammena, then he holds it up as the two favors flutter in the breeze, unaware of the words spoken up there.

With that, the Dragonknight charges, the embroidered favor of his sister the Princess Naerys about his arm. As the crowd finds itself transfixed by this contest, and the decision left in a lady’s hands as to the fate of the mystery knight, few might notice the arrival—with some pomp and circumstance—of another prince. Armored in black armor chased with gold, with the additional adornment of dragon scales, comes Prince Aegon Targaryen on a tall destrier. About him are attendants dressed in the black and red of House Targaryen, and to one side rides a lady veiled against the sun, a lady with olive skin and dark, dark hair: his mistress, Cassella Vaith. Tied to his helm is a long, trailing sleeve, orange on the outside, with yellow sandsilk for its lining.

Ammena’s comment might have earned a reply from the Ryswell seated beside her, but at that moment, her name is called by the Buckwell knight, leaving Elyn wide-eyed and blinking.

“Um.” Such eloquence. Did ever a lady speak more honeyed words? “That is…” Elyn pauses again, looking from one knight to another. And as pale eyes fall on the Weeping Knight, her gaze falls. When she does finally speak again, it is with cold, quiet clarity.

“I have known grief myself, and it hugged it to me for far too long, my only companion. My mask of grief was finally torn away by Ser Bonifer, and since then I have known joy.” Elyn says, gaze flickering to the Buckwell and around the field again. “I would have it that he could do the same for this other brave knight. But grief cannot be cast aside until one is ready. For that reason…I would give him another chance to decide that for himself. Let them fight in single combat. With sword.” The lady concludes, and sits down again, cheeks ablaze in crimson.

Aemon’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.

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

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

The collective pause is over as soon as Elyn’s decision is made. Triston loses interest in the speculaton of what will be done for the unique situation.

What does pique—the arrival of a couple of royal knights, namely the Dragonknight. Aemon’s unseating of Prince Cadan is cause for the slender man to hoot, “You might have to do it again—that one learns his lessons the hard way.” The smile on his face is as self-satisfying as if the lance had been his own.

Cadan manages better than many others against the Dragonknight and a cheer goes up from more than just a few when he manages to remain seated. The cheers join with those that rise up at Elyn’s decision, creating a crescendo as the Dornish prince slides out of the saddle from what seemed to be a secure seat. Even then, the Dornish prince is quickly up on his legs, bowing to the dragonknight and tossing his cracked lance aside. “I salute you my lord, you and your lady!” He looks over at Ammena, holding up a hand to show that he’s alive and well.

As the decision is finally made by her cousin, Aisling arches a slim brow and gives Elyn a thoughtful look. It seems it was not quite what she had expected from her kinswoman. “This is proving to be another most memorable day. Another contest on foot, it is sure to please the crowds, at least.” Her own interest does then stray, however, her gaze first seeking out the Dragonknight and then her own knight in this joust, Ser Aidan. There is some chance the pair will meet again, after all.

The mystery knight looks with his weeping face, the crystal tears upon it, from Ser Bonifer to his lady and then back. And when she declares her desire, he draws forth the sword at his own belt with a slow, purposeful movement. He lifts the shield he bears, scarred by his many contests. The sword is lifted, and then without warning he plunges forward, whipping the sword in a scything blow.

Ammena looks with concern towards Elyn as the lady takes her seat. Unsure of what to do, she gestures towards a liveried servant, “A goblet. Water.” Her eyes just catch the end of the joust between the Dragonknight and the Dornish Prince. Receiving the goblet of water, she offers it to Elyn.

The broken lance is dropped, and the Dragonknight turns his horse smartly. As he passes the fallen prince, he slows briefly to salute him, “Well fought, Prince Cadan,” and then go on to his tent to prepare for the next challenge. He can be seen looking towards Aidan Dayne’s tent, before disappearing into his own. Ser Aidan, for his part, seems intent on what will become of the Weeping Knight.

“Arrgh!” the alarmed shout pierces the air between the Buckwell knight and his enigmatic opponent. The Buckwell knight stumbles back and parris the blow, buying time to slap his visor down with the edge of his shield.

In strange silence, the Weeping Knight presses what advantage he has. Flesh and bone drive his tourney blade forward in what seems to be a hacking cut, before a flick of a wrist turns it into a thrust directly at Buckwell’s visored face!

Triston walks the fencline, behind it with the rest of the audience, to bypass a larger crowd gathered and watching the armed combat. He finds a less congested spot and worms his way to the front, eyes trained on the field. Still favorless, but it seems to have been forgotten for the moment as the Buckwell meets steel with the Weeping Knight.

Rosalind applauds for the Dragonknight and Prince Cadan, but her attention is quickly taken by the swords combat between Ser Bonifer and the Weeping Knight.

“Cadan!” The prince is pulled away by someone calling him by his name without title or anything else, a voice that is completely lost in the shouting around him. Still, something about that voice is deeply rooted in the Prince’s mind and he turns towards his sister. Ariana is beckoning for him and the Dornish prince makes his quick way to the stands. Leaning over, he seems to try to both watch the combat on foot as well as listen to his sister. A few moments later, her message seems to have been delivered and the Dornish knight turns to look around.

Cadan watches the ongoing struggle while he moves to his pavilion, sending a squire running with what appears to be a spoken message.

While the drama with Ser Bonifer and the Weeping Knight capturing the crowd’s imagination, Prince Aegon seems less than pleased. He can be seen making some remark to one of his attendants, who laughs at it. His mistress, Cassella Vaith, is led away by another attendant to join the courtiers in the stands, and indeed sits not too far away from the royal kin are located. What the king—who has been watching it all with avid interest, and a great deal of cheering along with everyone else—thinks of it, none can say; he hardly deigns to notice her.

Green eyes hold the foe that stands without the antlered helm firmly in their grasp. As the Weeping Knight goes on the attack once more, he throws his shield up from beneath the redirected feint, hoping to knock his opponent off balance and create an opening for sideways slash he aims at the gap between backplate and chestpiece.

Heart in her throat, Elyn nods once, stiffly, to Ammena, managing a tight smile, but the goblet she accepts goes undrunk. Winter’s pallor is riveted instead to the field, where the mysterious Weepking Knight and Ser Bonifer dance in a most deadly fashion.

Finally, Cadan seems to have come to a decision and mounts up once more. Not satisfied with watching two others take to swords, he rides over to.. the Targaryen tents again. This time, it is Prince Aegon he calls for, for the Prince to repeat his brother’s feat and that Cadan might fight for his lady’s honor.

Steel whistles through the air, and the Weeping Knight finds his strike has gone astray, foiled skilfully by Bonifer’s quick movements. The silent stranger interposes his shield just in time to catch his foe’s counterattack on its corner. Most men would grunt at such an effort, but not this man. Relentlessly, the Weeping Knight presses his attack, using his momentum from the block to bring a sizzling roundhouse slash down, aimed for Bonifer’s shoulder.

Returning to her prior place in the stands after having slipped away to spend some time in the Blackwood pavilion, Marian arches a brow at Elyn, reaching over to pat her hand before focusing her attention upon the duelling swordsmen.

Bored with the contest on foot, Prince Aegon goes seeking some knight to challenge, his black destrier in its black and gold capraison making a fine showing. He soon finds someone’s shield to knock against—that of Ser Victor Reyne, heir to Castamere, who carries the favor of his lady wife, Lia of House Hightower. As the two knights take their places at the ends of the lists, Aegon offers some jest to an attendant before slamming down his visor and kicking his horse into action.

Victor lance strikes square upon its opponent and breaks near the tip.

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

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

With his weapon having glanced harmlessly off his foe’s shield, Bonifer surges forward to throw his weight behind his shield and into the Weeping Knight, placing his helmet beneath the streaking length of steel.

“Uhn. . .” a golden antler is thrown across the field, though the Buckwell sloped helmet deflects most of the blow’s impact.

There’s applause and cheers for the Targaryen prince, despite not having done markedly well in that tilt. For the smallfolk, he’s something of a favorite, if not such a knight as his younger brother is. He comes back round to his end of the ists, and then charges down the lists again!

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

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

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

Lady Cassella’s favor, in the Vaith colors, flaps from Prince Aegon’s helm as he sends his opponent to kiss the dirt. He lifts the lance up, charged with victory, before he dumps it to the ground. He rides to the end of the lists, slows to take the turn, and then roars back up the field. The smallfolk love the showmanship well enough, but it’s hard to tear one’s eyes away from Buckwell’s contest against the Weeping Knight!

Steel, shield and muscle surge like a battering ram; the Weeping Knight, however, does not charge to meet it. Instead, in a canny move intended to use his enemy’s strength against him, the mystery knight side-steps and crouches. As he does so, he brings his blunted blade around in a desperate back-handed cut aimed for the rear of his opponent’s helmed head!

If anything, the sight of Cassella Vaith’s favor on top of the Targaryen Prince’s helm makes the Dornish prince all the more eager. His sandsteed is skittish where he waits, patient yet growing more impatient by the moment. “Squire! Get me water!” The hollow voice resounds from within the fiery bronze-colored helm as Cadan martell waits for his time.

A few laughs shared with his attendants, and Prince Aegon dismounts only long enough to have a drink of wine from a skin when a young knight, Ser Benedict Rogers, comes up to challenge him. Though the son of the Bastard, his challenge is quite courteous, all considered. The prince doesn’t seem best pleased by Rogers’s challenge, but he consents and mounts again. The pure black of his long lance fair gleams in the light as he takes his place. The other knight salutes, while he himself gives the briefest of dips before kicking his big horse forward.

Benedict lance strikes square upon its opponent and breaks near the tip.

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

Benedict is driven off the saddle by its opponent’s skillful charge.

Steel crashes against steel, ripping through the blue enamel before digging in and ripping the helm completely from the Crownlander’s head.

The great helm rolls across the ground and Ser Bonifer is hard pressed to keep his feet, though he does. He instictly squares off with the Weeping Knight once more, preparing for the next attack with a shake of the head to clear his stunned wits.

And yet another time, Cadan remains where he is, letting the others go ahead before him. The Prince sits silent on Sunstrider with the favors fluttering from his arm.

As the Weeping Knight’s masterful strike chimes off of Bonifer’s antlered helm, the crowd gasps. He makes a series of lazy figure-eights with the sword, now notched, and watches the Buckwell knight with those awful, blank eyes. Though strange and silent, this Weeping Knight must be chivalrous, for he straightens a moment to let Bonifer recover his helm, and his senses.

There’s a cheer for Prince Aegon as he tears Ser Benedict from the saddle, shattering his lance in the process. Again the prince is jubilant, and makes no effort to restrain his celebration, nor does he fail to put on a show as he leads his well-trained destrier through its paces by having it prance a few steps as he offers the dazed Rogers some brief remark. And then he’s on to share a few more jokes, and to shake his head as Buckwell and the mystery man continue to ponce about. He sneers at it, and turns to his wine, but is hardly given his chance to enjoy it when someone else decides he’d be just perfect as as his twenty-sixth opponent.

“Well met, your grace! Would you give an old man the pleasure of a tilt? I’ll wager we’ll break a lance or six, eh?” Lord Whalon Rosby proclaims. He’s looking quite the worse for wear, his jowls seemingly droopier than normal, but there’s a bright spark in his eye and he smiles his gap-tooth smile none the less.

Rosalind applauds Ser Benedict Rogers in solidarity for those who bear (or one bore) a bastard name. “Well fought, Ser.” She smiles.

As Bonifer’s helm is ripped from his head, the goblet Elyn holds shivers enough to spill several sparkling droplets down the side, glinting not unlike the crystal tears on the helm of the Buckwell’s opponent. The lady says naught, but her face seems even paler than usual, if possible.

A swallow of wine, draining it, and Aegon tosses the cup back over his shoulder; it hits one of his attendants in the chest, drops of wine spattering his tunic, but the fellow seems used to it and doesn’t say a thing.

“We’ll see, Lord Rosby, we’ll see,” the prince says insouciantly, as he lowers his dark helm over his head. “The gods might send I upend you arse over head in the first tilt, after all.” Rosby laughs at the suggestion, and trots back to his end of the lists while Aegon makes his preparations.

Quickly retrieving his helm, Bonifer throws it back on his head, the dent digging through his arming cap.

After banging sword to shield to signal his readiness, the Buckwell launches forward, feigning and overhand slash before bringing his shield around in a wicked arc aimed for that depressing mask.

Cadan finally gives up on the Prince, letting him have his fun. Instead, the Dornishman spurs his horse towards his sister once more who sends a servant down, giving something to the prince. Turning away once more, Cadan now seeks out Triston Templeton at a rapid canter, pointing at him with the lance.

“I challenge you, Ser Triston, for my lady’s honor as well as my sister’s. She wishes to see you break yet another lance against my shield, I think.” And with those words, the prince extends his shield hand.. and in it, a bright orange favor rests. “This much, in fact.”

At the moment, it is the wrong prince who is active in the lists, so Aisling finds herself watching (and occasionally debating, with her uncle) the contest on foot between her cousin’s knight, Ser Bonifer, and the Weeping Knight. But from time to time, her gaze seeks out a pair of knights not currently jousting; Prince Aemon and Ser Aidan.

Aegon doesn’t wait very long to send his horse forward in the charge, racing down the lists towards Rosby, who approaches in turn. Nearer and nearer they come…

Nervously biting her lip, Marian looks from Buckwell to Ryswell then back again, delivering what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze to Elyn’s arm, frowning worriedly at the resumption of the contest between Bonifer and his redoubtable mystery opponent.

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

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

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

The Weeping Knight had held Carmella’s interest a great deal the day before and today proves to be no different. She watches, speaking occasionally to the other ladies she sits with, but her eyes are focused on the fight between him and Ser Bonifer. She has barely taken time to watch Prince Aegon’s runs, though when she does her gaze hardens a little and she glances back towards where Cassella is seated.

Perhaps the Weeping Knight misjudged his foe, for the ferocity of Ser Bonifer’s swift response takes him aback. The Buckwell’s shield, and not his sword, is the locus of his attack, and the mystery knight takes the bait. Anticipating the blade with his own, the Weeping Knight is out of position when the rim of Bonifer’s shield takes him square in the tormented steel of his sobbing face. There is a sickening clang, and the Weeping Knight stumbles back a pace or two; once of the crystal tears is knocked loose and falls to the dirt; those close by might see the speckles of blood that surround it.

“Oof!” Lord Rosby says, as breath is forced from his body as he takes the heavy blow on his much-marked shield. Indeed, a piece of it cracks straight through and falls to the ground as it’s owner is rocked in the saddle. But somehow he keeps his seat. He’s slow to turn his horse around, and doesn’t make his way up the lists very quickly, but he gamely charges down the lists once more. Aegon, impatient, started a few beats before him.

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.

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

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

Triston is causing no one any trouble, surprisingly, standing with arms crossed as he watches the fight between Buckwell and the mystery knight.

So why must the little princess pick on him? “/Excuse/ me?” Templeton stutters, so much more hesitant to accept this favor than the sweat-dampened one of an old lady. But… it is a day of unexpected circumstances.

The favor is plucked from its place, tied to his wrist, and to Ariana he bows. “Well, my thanks are in order, Princess, that you would allow me to fight in your honor on this most auspicious day.” Now, that was decent enough. The knight then spares no time—already partially armored from earlier—in making his way to the Vale pavillion to finish dressing.

Lord Whalon manages to break his lance cleanly against Prince Aegon then, and chuckles as he passes the prince—he does raise his hand in salute, though. Taking up a fresh lance, he makes one more try of it. This is his third mount so far in the contest, and seems fresh enough, but surely cannot match Aegon’s.

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

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

The crowd is starting to become distracted, as the mad old Jousting Lord makes a match of it with Prince Aegon. The Targaryen prince can be heard cursing by those of the commoners on the near side, and not mildly as he throws his lance down with force. He doesn’t acknowledge Lord Whalon as he roars past him, and nearly knocks over one of his attendants as he pulls his steed for a stop just long enough to tear a lance from his grasp and have to at the old curmudgeon.

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

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

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

Cadan brings his horse past the two combatants on foot as well as the lists where the epic struggle between the Jousting Lord and Prince Aegon is taking place. Still, the Dornish prince is not there to joust for the crowds and he has already saluted the two ladies whom he fight for. He rides up to the secondary jousting list, waiting for Triston to be ready.

Ariana raises her dainty hand in response to the salute from her brother, her eyes searching out wherever her ‘champion’ Triston went.

Pressing his sudden advantage, Ser Bonifer aims another high blow at the Weeping Knight, bringing the blade of his sword down diagnolly towards his opponent’s sword shoulder. Without worrying over whether he connects or not, the Crownlander’s brings his shield around once more, this time dead-centered on the mystery knight’s chest.

Though her concern had supposedly been for the Buckwell knight fighting with her favor, it is the Weeping Knight who garners the sympathetic hiss of breath from Elyn as he goes down. Finally, she thinks to take a drink from her goblet, and drains half of it.

The crowd cheers again, caught up in the contest between the several knights! Not least when the Weeping Knight is left reeling by Buckwell’s blow, and perhaps may have won an opening against the mystery man. At the same time, Lord Whalon clings to the saddle like a burr, weathering Prince Aegon’s next attempt. Back he goes for another lance, raising his hand in salute again as he passes the Targaryen prince, who roundly ignores him and just snatches up another lance. Then off they go, barrelling down the lists…

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.

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

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

Oh! More cheers from the crowd at that, even if it’s Prince Aegon—more than thirty years the junior of the Jousting lord, and more than twenty matches behind him on the day—who takes the worst of it. Cautious wagers about who shall win begin to increase in number, as it seems Lord Whalon might well end his heroic run in victory. The two knights race at each other again, lances levelled, to see what result may come to pass.

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

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

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

It is not long at all before Triston Templeton emerges, making his way to the lists—still buckling his breastplate to the backpiece. Once finished, he mounts and readies a lance. He even remembers to tip it in salute for both the Dorne siblings. Then, it’s time to charge.

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

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

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

Already on his heels, the weary Weeping Knight cannot withstand the bigger man’s brute strength. Though he manages a rattling parry of Bonifer’s sword with his own notched blade, the blunted steel is of no temper to withstand such force; it shatters with a peal like a sept’s bells, and a dozen silver shards go flying, like tears.

At the same time, the heavy impact of shield on breastplate jams the Weeping Knight back, off-kilter, until he goes down hard on his side with a resounding crunch. The broken hilts of his blade spin lazily through the air, and his tormented mask, dented and mud-stained, is bent with the force of his fall.

The clatter as Lord Whalon falls is quite loud, and the crowd groans aloud as victory is snatched from him. But then in the stands they applaud the doughty old lord, and cheer him as he gets up… Well, after three of his men heft him from the ground and manhandle him unsteadily onto his feet. One of them gets the helmet off of him, and he grins blearily at the crowd. Then he spits out a tooth.

As he’s helped off the field, Prince Aegon drags at his horse’s reins to pull it to a painful stop at his end of the lists. Dismounting quickly, he tosses his helm to one of his men before disappearing into his tent.

“The Jousting Lord is down!” squeals one of the ladies near Carmella, forcing the Dondarrion to look away from Bonifer and the Weeping Knight in time to see the Rosby lord on the ground. She shares a few words with the woman to her left while her dark eyes track Prince Aegon.

“And so is the Weeping Knight! Ser Bonifer’s done it!” someone else cries, and there’s more for the crowd to cheer for. Now the call comes up, “Unmask him! Unmask him!”

Completely overshadowed by the joust between the Jousting Lord and Aegon, Cadan manages for once to place a good strike with the lance against Triston Templeton, the knight who unhorsed him the first day. The Dornish prince looks up at the crowds but when there isn’t even a boo or jest thrown at him, he proceeds to the other knight where he fell.

Somewhere, someone might notice the quiet salute that is given to Ammena Piper, but it’s unlikely when the foot combat seems to have reached an end. Cadan extends a friendly hand to Triston.

There’s a muttered curse from Carmella as she’s missed the Weeping Knight’s defeat. It draws a few looks in her direction but she offers no apologies. Getting her her feet she watches Ser Bonifer and begins to join in with the chanting to unmask the knight.

As the contests go on, the herald begins to send out men to give the warning that the final jousts of the day are drawing nearer. “Ladies of the court,” he addresses those in the stands, “soon we shall tally up the votes, and determine which champion has best pleased you in the lists!”

Ammena glances distractedly between the lady sitting near her, the double lists barrelling down the field, and the stumbling Weeping Knight. Her eyes catch the young heir to Ninestars fall just as the crowd cheers for the outcome of the melee. The turmoil on the fields is too much for her and she closes her eyes to whisper a soft prayer.

Though she refrains from chanting - the entire affair has somehow made Elyn more than a little somber - the Northern girl does rise to her feet, if only because the ladies before her do and she has no choice. Craning her neck, pale eyes sweep the field, resting briefly on the downed Jousting Lord and then the Weeping Knight.

Even Ser Almer, normally reserved, calls for the mystery knight’s identity. The squires in griffin livery at his pavilion join in, good-naturedly, as they cheer their kinsman Ser Bonifer’s hard-fought victory over the stranger.

Triston’s fall from the saddle is much less intriguing than the Jousting Lord’s or the Weeping Knight. He still tumbles a pace, but the young man recovers quickly.

With the visor up, the Valeman’s face is clearly skewed with annoyance. It turns skeptical at Cadan’s offered hand. However, the mood of the day calls for a modicum of grace and so the knight is helped to his feet by the Dorne Prince. “Good tilt.”

With no need to inquire as to whether or not his foe has yielded, Ser Bonifer drops his shield and advances to where the man in the mutilated mask lies.

Removing his helm, the Buckwell man holds his sword point leveled at his opponent until he sees the blood under the mask.

“Are you well, ser?” he ventures, raising his own voice over the calls for unmasking.

Somewhat reluctantly, Marian also moves to her feet, to regain her height advantage and peer over the heads of those before her. She casts a worried glance at the praying Ammena, then briefly joins in the applause for the trio of victors.

Rosalind does not call for the unmasking, but she does lean forward in her seat to watch, avidly interested. She does applaud the victors, however.

Ammena whispers to herself, “... Crone ... ... Mother mercy. May ... favor ... ... ... Warrior ... The ... ... bones, ... us. And Stranger”

Kellyn has at last abandoned the Lannister pavilion and whatever the Black Lion has been up to there. Oh, but the woman looks tired as she trudges out! She turns to the maid waiting outside and murmurs a question. The young woman curtsies and then blazes a path forward to bring Kellyn over to Carmella Dondarrion. “Well, yet another day of jousting that I’ve missed the most of,” she says wryly after dropping down near her friend. “Remind me to go seek out Lady Marian later. She was most kind earlier when ... my champion fell, and I wished to give her my thanks. Anything exciting to report?” The blonde maid who led the way (certainly seemed to know where Carmella would be found rather easily!) quietly drops to the side and folds her hands in front of her.

The sound of harsh breathing echoes from the fallen man’s helm. A long moment, and he turns, and pulls the damned thing off. “Well enough, ser,” the knight manages, curling hair a lighter shade of brown than his eyes. “I yield to you by my right name: I’ve the honor of being Ser Ardon Tyrell. Now give me a hand, if you’d be kind; I’ve also the honor of being on my backside, and it’s rather embarassing.”

Having helped Triston up, Cadan removes himself from the area to seek out Aegon Targaryen. This time, it’s hardly darkness and light as the Dornish prince approaches, raising his lance in salute. “My Lord Prince..” That is all he says before lowering his lance in a challenge..” The unmasking is barely noted, or if it is, he makes nothing of it.

Ser Aidan, seeing that the lists will soon come to a close, finds it hard to tear himself away from the Weeping Knight’s contest with Ser Bonifer. And when a knight that he doesn’t recognize is helped to his feet by Buckwell, well, it doesn’t help. It takes a bit for word to get around, and Ardon Tyrell to be proclaimed. What he thinks of that, only he can say as he pulls his helmet on and determines to challenge someone. Looking down the lists to where Prince Cadan challenges Prince Aegon, he seems to take inspiration and moves on to the Dragonknight. “Ser, if you would do me the honor of jousting three courses, if there is no result, I would be graceful,” the Knight of the Twilight tells Prince Aemon. Aemon entered the lists only after Ser Aidan made his intentions known, so it is no surprise when he consents.

“I -knew- it!” exclaims Almer, laughing as his friend and kinsman is revealed to be the Weeping Knight. The squires near him look shocked, and the cheer all the more.

“Did you really know it, my lord?” young Rease Trant is heard to ask the Griffin Knight.

“Yes. Well… no. But I thought there was something familiar about the way he sat his horse.” Almer laughs again, then tosses his helm to the squire.

An attendant informs Aegon of the challenge. He glances out from his tent, and then says, “As you will. I’ll be a long in a moment.” It’s a rather long moment before he deigns to step out from the tent, black helmet on his head. Once mounted, his shield with the three-headed dragon is upon his arm, and his tall black lance is there as well. When the signal is given, he charges the Dornish prince with a will.

Extending the requested hand, Ser Bonifer chuckles mirthfully at Ser Ardon’s jest, “My apologies, good ser, but it was for my lady’s honor. I’m sure you understand.”

As the former mystery knight gains his feet, Ser Bonifer sheathes his sword and holds his hand out toward the Tyrell man, “The Weeping Knight!”

Then, with a look to where Lady Elyn sits, the Buckwell offers Ardon assistance off the field.

Carmella lets out a sound that’s a blend of a gasp and a laugh as the Weeping Knight announces himself and she joins in with the applause. But already her gaze is wandering the field and then up towards the stand, searching out various ladies. There is voting to be done and she must make a decision where to throw her vote.

Cadan waits until Aegon emerges before he rides to the end of the lists, saluting his lady as well as in the direction of the King and the opponent’s lady, Cassella Vaith. Then, wheeling around, he charges the prince, couching his lance.

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

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

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

The faintest of smiles rises to curve Elyn’s mouth before the lady retakes her seat and finished off the water in her goblet. Any emotion in her is tightly contained, but she seems much more at ease. Understandably.

Ser Aidan turns back to ride to his end of the lists, and takes up the tall lance that Danyll offers him. As the crowd groans and boos at Prince Aegon’s defeat, the Dragonknight seems briefly distracted, before he dips his lance in salute to his opponent. And then both knights are off, charging at one another in what may well be the last contest of the day.

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 shatters.

Aemon’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.

Marian plants a kiss on Elyn’s cheek as she reclaims her own seat, before laughing in surprised disbelief as Cadan stylishly dismounts Aegon. Applauding warmly, she shakes her head - then grins at the meeting between Aidan and the Dragonknight. “So… can I impress upon any of my companions the desirability of casting your votes for poor Seth? Or have you already made up your minds?”

As one Prince falls to another, a third enters the lists, and now there’s no question about where Aisling’s attention is directed. The contest between the Dragonknight and the Knight of the Twilight, bearing her favour, even has her coming to her feet to see better, and as the first pass ends in a powerful strike from each jouster, she joins in the crowd’s cheering.

Prince Aegon tumbles to the ground and groans, and then turns himself over as his attendants run down to see how he fares. As they start to help him up, he shakes them off, and pounds a gauntlted fist into the dirt. “Fucking Dornishman!” some might hear him shout, over the report of the broken lances that the Dragonknight and the Knight of the Twilight shatter against one another’s shields.

Their quick run at the lane over, Triston watches the Prince of Dorne walk off for a moment before he turns to the lists. His squire, and two more, await him as he sheds armor right there. The news makes its rounds as to the identity of the Weeping Knight. The Templeton knight seems unimpressed with the result, and so disappears into the Vale tent to wait for the call of results.

Ammena gasps as she sees the revelation of the Weeping Knight. She tries to spot the squires and attendants of the Weeping Knight, but is distracted by the sudden unhorsing of Prince Aegon.

There are those of the Dornish contigent among the crowd; some younger, some older, and many of the female persuasion. But more than one lets out a loud cheer as their darling Prince Cadan knocks Aegon to the ground at first go. That moment will be told and retold in the Dornish Tower tonight.

Cadan can’t help but throw the splintered remnant of his lance up into the air and shout out all his frustrations and pains in a victory roar, a defiant scream that threatens to rise above the booing and groaning from the crowds and the cheers from the second joust. Finally! His shield is thrown aside, his helm picked up and tossed down onto the ground, the golden colors glittering in the setting evening sun.

“FOR LEYLA! FOR LOVE!” And with those words he sends his sandsteed stallion thundering down the lists towards his pavilion.

Weathering the blow, and surviving his first pass with the Dragonknight, the Knight of the Twilight hurriedly takes up a lance from Danyll, reining in his horse to look down the long lists. He’s distracted enough, too, to see the Dornish prince proclaim his own victory. Does it hearten him? He launches his destrier forward, and aims his lance at the oncoming White Sword…

One of the Dornish onlookers, though she is seated with the Targaryen royals rather than with her kinsmen and kinswomen, is .. ambivalent about the results. Indeed, at first Cassella’s reaction seems to be to cheer for Cadan’s victory, but she catches herself and adopts a restrained, unreadable expression.

Within the gathered crowd it’s easy to miss Irena, especially since the Marbrand lady is so far back in the crowd it’s unlike that she can see any of jousting at all. Whenever an impact sound Irena winces. It is only when a major cheer goes up that she attempts to peer through the crowd with her height insuring that she fails unless she is very lucky.

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

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

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Prince Aegon tumbles to the ground and groans, and then turns himself over as his attendants run down to see how he fares. As they start to help him up, he shakes them off, and pounds a gauntlted fist into the dirt. “Fucking Dornishman!” some might hear him shout, over the report of the broken lances that the Dragonknight and the Knight of the Twilight shatter against one another’s shields.

Aegon doesn’t quite stalk off. After his outburst, by force of will he forces a smile on his lips, and even raises a hand to the prince in salute. The crowd takes that as a good sign, and cheers him again as he turns to wave at them, and then mounts up. He rides tall and straightbacked under their eye, giving them nothing but a good show to cheer on. That brief outburst is easily forgotten ... easily indeed, when so many are turning their eyes to his younger brother, the heart and soul of chivalry.

The Knight of the Twilight keeps his seat through a second pass, though not without an effort that requires deft balance and skilled horsemanship. His horse nearly loses its footing in the process, and jolts him hard enough to almost knock him loose again, but the two recover. Shaken, Dayne pauses a moment, and says something to his squire, before taking up his third and final lance against Prince Aemon. The Dragonknight out of courtesy waited at his end of the lists, and once the two men dip their lances, they’re off!

As the second pass between Ser Aidan and Prince Aemon ends in much the same way as the first, Aisling remains on her feet. There’s an blush of excitement on her cheeks, or perhaps it does have something to do with the wine that is quickly disappearing from her goblet as she watches intently.

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 shatters.

Aemon’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.

Carmella cheers at Prince Cadan’s success, but she remains restrained about it, there is no loud whooping or jumping, but she does clap and smile with a wave should he look in their direction. She glances over at Kellyn and grins, dipping her head in close to whisper to her friend.

Carmella continues to whisper to Kellyn and makes a gesture towards where Marian and Elyn are seated.

Marian looks around the assortment of ladies seated with her. “Ladies..?”, she asks with a smile. “I think it is safe to say that my own vote is already decided - but are yours?”

Ammena smiles towards Marian, “Indeed. The days events have truly been breathtaking.”

“Unbelievable, even.” Elyn remarks then, finally tearing her gaze from the field and looking at the ladies around her. “So many unexpected twists. And so many knights who have accounted well for themselves and the ladies whose favor they bear.”

Carmella frowns a little and continues to whisper to the Lannister lady as her eyes sweep over the field. She seems to be searching for someone else now, her attention from the northern contingent.

An explosion of lances, and the Dragonknight and Ser Aidan come out of it with both their seats intact! The crowd cheers on the Dragonknight, though it’s plain they’d have preferred it if they put the Dornishman down in revenge for his brother’s defeat. The two knights move to pass each other, and pause. Lifting the visor of his helm, Ser Aidan says, “My thanks to you, ser!” Prince Aemon waves the thanks away, and salutes the Dornishman, before departing to his tent.

Though there are several ladies seated in her vicinity, Aisling—now seated once again, as the splendid contest between Ser Aidan and the Dragonknight is done with—does not approach them to discuss the matter of whom to vote for. Some of them have had knights carrying favours for them, and all of them have in common that they would have little interest in her opinions on the matter.

Marian’s smile twists a little, and she darts a glance towards the pavilions - but she musters a chuckle. “I… certainly had not anticipated events unfolding as they have. I confess that I had anticipated a rather more sedate affair, with many seeking to rest before the more overtly martial contest tomorrow…”

Admist the whispered converstaions of deliberating ladies Irena heads towards the gathering around Lady Marion. She’s closer to them than then many of the other groups she’s aquainted with, and the tall Northerner is difficult to miss.

Cadan slowly rides across the lists towards his pavilions but he stops near them, dismounting. Sinking down to one knee, he spends a few moments praying before he salutes his lady for the last time, but not only her.. Once.. Twice.. Three times more does he salute someone with his raised shield.. Four individuals among all those up at the stands.

Marian flashes a smile in welcome as she notices the Marbrand, holding out a hand to her. “Irena! Please, do join us - and let me bend your ear about voting in support of my own poor champion. I fear that you might not have seen him ride, before he was rendered unconscious…”

Marian glances around, laughing and poking her tongue out at Elyn.

Ser Ardon, finding his way to the stands, is now in his Tyrell finery. Someone asks, “Whose favor were you carrying, ser?”

“What? No one’s, it’s one of my own sleeves,” he replies, all innocence. “No one ever asks the mystery knight, you see.”

Irena takes the hand with a smile, although she does pale a little at the mention of the injury. “I did not arrive until after that happened. I hope that he’s alright.” She adds after a moment, “But, to earn your endorsement, he surely deserves to win.”

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.

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

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

As ladies bicker and discuss and make their intentions known, the herald dutifully take down notes. The calls for this name and that—Lord Whalon, pipes up the heretofore unintersted Lady Rosby, before she finishes up a stitch; Prince Aegon’s named is mentioned, not just by Cassella Vaith but by the daughters and wives of certain knights and lords; Aemon, of course, but not with any great vigor after just two jousts; and more—makes it hard for anyone to tell who might win. It takes a good, and lively, while for it to be done, and then the herald an assistant are kept busy counting them once, twice, and thrice to make sure. Then he takes the result to Ser William Waxley and the king, so that they might oversee it.

At last, there is a result to be announced. “The victor of the joust, as declared by the ladies of the court, is Seth of House Blackwood! He takes the prize of a thousand dragons, and wins a place as champion in the grand final on the morrow, as well as the right to crown a queen of love and beauty for the day!”

Triston is not there to hear the victor named. He does not return to the little Dorne princess at all. If anyone’s looking for him, he’s drunkenly passed out beneath a table in the Vale tent. It was quite the exciting day.

Some further deliberation follows, and then the herald announces, “Due to his injuries, my lord of Blackwood cannot discharge his right to crown the queen at this time. The rose crown will be given to him, to bestow as he sees fit when is able.” There’s a sound of disappointment from the crowd at that.

Cadan is watching from afar, drinking copious amounts of water with shaking hands. He still hasn’t quite recovered from his victory over Aegon and it’s obvious, even then he gives his best attempt at applauding the victor when his name is announced.. and then falls silent at the second announcement.

While Aisling’s vote was cast on someone else, Seth is a kinsman on her mother’s side, and she cheers for the young Blackwood with the rest of the crowd. “A brave young fellow,” Henly notes, as his niece arrived too late to see anything of Seth’s performance in the lists, “though I daresay he will not be able to compete tomorrow. But I have found that a few injuries is not a bad way to attract the attention of the ladies,” he concludes, a little wryly.