Plans have changed and while the letters sent to all the knights of the Red Keep specified the joust would be in the evening, the Queen’s decree set it for the afternoon, so she might host a small banquet to honor the day’s riders. Though now that the day has come the mood is somewhat darker than anticipated with news from Dorne heavy on everyone’s mind. Still, the yard has been transformed from its usual muddy self into a proper tourney ground with two lists painted red and black running down its center and a canopied viewing box set where the plain wooden benches once sat. Everything is done in Targaryen colors, and dragon banners grace the corners of the box fluttering in the stiff autumn breeze. Across from the box, servants and other less illustrious hangers on, mingle and talk to one another, viewing the knights who have answered the challenge and whispering to one another about their chances.
A brazen trumpet call announces the arrival of the Queen and her royal kin. Daena leads the way under the watchful gaze of Ser Aleyn Florent, who walks a step behind her. The knight and his charge both are dressed in snowy white, though the queen has a thin band of gold set in her hair and the everpresent glint of her father’s dragon necklace around her throat. Behind her walks Princess Elaena clutching her golden striped dragon egg in one hand, and the hand of her cousin Little Daeron in the other. The little prince glances about stoicly and clutches a book with the same devotion as the princess clutches her egg.
The Queen and her companions take their seats and once settled, Daena nods to the master of the games. The man bows deeply then turning to the assembled crowd calls out. “By the decree of her Grace the Queen, may her champions come forward and the day’s sport begin.” A murmur ripples through the crowd as people take their seats eager for the games to begin.
As he’s making his way along the stands, Ethos pauses when he spots a familiar face. He climbs up to where Aurana is settling, a pleased smile upon his lips. “So the Castamere knight says that if he wins the day he’ll give me the purse. I wonder if I’m not hearing things.” He doesn’t sit down beside her, either waiting for courtesy’s sake or for other reasons.
“Does he now?” Aurana returns, grinning widely up at the Mertyns knight. “And what would you do with such coin?” the lady inquires as she gestures to the seat beside her. “I did enjoy the last tourney we watched together. If you do not have other plans already, I would see the event repeated.”
Once again Benedict wears his dull grey armor. His newly recognized house sigil proudly displayed on the plate across his chest. The armor seems without the beauty of other greater knights and lords, but it’s quality shouldn’t be questioned. His helm tucked comfortably under his arm as his attention to those around him. The light colored eyes passing a gentle gaze over the others gathered, he was eager to make a name for himself, eager to escape the clutches of his brothers shadow, and if running over those gathered here was the remedy, then so be it.
Alek is standing towards his area of the field as Albin works on equipping the knight’s armour, the red and gold of House Reyne resplendant across his chest, the red rampant lion gleaming slightly.
Albin steps back, smiling up at Alek. “Good luck, ser. I hope you win.” The knight chuckles. “Just remember to watch, lad. You might learn something. Either how to lose gracefully, or win.”
“I have… potential plans.” Ethos admits with a sly grin, “But I’ll join you for now.” He says, moving to sit next to the lady. “If I had such coin, I would spend it upon my son.” He says easily as he leans forward to watch the knights make their arrivals, taking stock of who is competing.
There is a murmur of surprise and mirth as the two summoned knights emerge from Inner Yard of the Keep. The first knight shines like silver in polished steel, with a surcoat of pure snowy white and adorned with three hearts one of blue, one of green and one of red, arranged in a triangle. The same device is on his shield and crest, and streams of the same shades ripple from his helm as he rides his sleek grey horse to reign in facing the royal party. He dips a snow white lance to the Queen, bowing in the saddle as he does. “Your Grace, the Knight of Hearts is at your service,” the first mystery knight says with lofty bow from his saddle, as he awaits the second knight to join him.
Jorian enters the yard on foot, already clad in his bronze-colored steel platemail enameled with black and gold, his squire and two pages on tow, carrying his helmet, shield, and lances. As he reaches the periphery of the lists, the Crakehall knight motions the boys to find a place to set his gear, while he continues on to salute his acquaintances, stopping first before the royals and bowing deeply to each in turn.
As one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, the Jewel of the Eyrie, is in attendance, trailing serenely after the royal family, pale, ethereal beauty for which she is famed accented today with pale blues and silver. The delicate young Lady of House Arryn glances about, her eyes taking note of who is present and who is not, before gathering her skirts and settling gracefully into a seat in a place designated for the Queen’s ladies and companions. She folds her slender hands in her lap, lifting her chin slightly as she gazes out over the lists. Her lips are curved into the faintest hint of a smile, a light of interest and curiosity touching her aqua gaze as she turns her attention to where the knights are just making their entrance.
“Ah yes. Your son. And how fares the child?” Aurana asks, shifting so that she can carry on conversation with the man and watch the field at the same time. “Is there no chance that she might have some change of heart and allow him to- Ooooo… The Knight of Hearts… A mystery knight?”
From the edges of the field, the black armored form of Ser Luthor Rivers sits upon his horse and watches the spectacle from within his closed helm. Beside Barion, his squire, smirks at the entry of the Knight of Hearts, quietly shaking his head.
Melissa moves up to the part of the seating reserved for the usual presence of the House of Lannister, carrying with her another small basket. She takes up her spot near the rail, watching a little less than eagerly, but more out of curiosity. As she hears the call of the Queen, she brightens a little, amused to see the pageantry and the knights that would battle these mystery foes. Somehow she seems to look interested and disinterested at the same time.
Alayne finds herself a spot where she could hopefully get a good look at either knight that gets himself popped out of his saddle. She searches for her father as she settles her cloak better about her, hoping he wouldn’t hurt himself again, before the Knights of Hearts show and she studies them, flecked green eyes keen.
The knight known as the Trickerster follows in closely behind the Knight of Hearts. The two could scarcely look less alike; while one is the embodiment of love, Ser Tyrnan embodies deception. His shield is split down the middle, one side black, the other white, each side with a fox head of the same colors but on opposite sides, ala the ying yang. His armor is much the same, cut down the middle, with either side not quite the reflection of the other. One shoulder is shaped as a running fox, the other a running weasel. His surcoat is again the fox heads, and he bears no other device. He in turn is followed by a small man dressed as a herald, who totters up alongside the knight. “Your Grace!” the small man announces, as Ser Tyrnan comes to a halt. “The Trickster is also at your service!” At which point, Ser Tyrnan’s horse rears back as the second mystery knight holds up his lance straight into the air, to the cheer (albeit a confused cheer) of some members of the crowd.
The Knight of Hearts? Benedict couldn’t help but wonder how that shiny armor will look with thick lance dents in it. The thought curved a light smirk to his lips. The smirk only spread as The Trickster made his entrance. Not a large man, but Benedict was sure he wasn’t called the The Trickster for no reason at all.
Ethos shakes his head, “That wench has no heart.” The knight mutters darkly, then looks on to take in these mystery knights. “I think I’ll keep my hopes on Reyne, given his generosity.” Mertyns says with another grin, and lets his eyes roam over the crowd that’s gathered. When he spots Melissa, he watches her from where he sits beside the Buckler lady, an amused, thoughtful expression on his face. “Tell me… do you know the Lannister woman, over there?” He asks of Aurana.
Aurana’s gaze follows Ethos, torn from the field briefly before she shakes her head. “I do not,” she murmurs. “I can ask Ser Farin after the tourney should you desire. No doubt he is aware of the lady. Truth to tell, I feel as though I hardly know anyone anymore. Save for a few good friends.” Her smile is warm as she looks to the man and then turns her attentions back towards the pageantry, muttering something quietly to the knight.
The Queen greets the two mystery knights with a smile from where she sits. “Well met,” she replies to their greetings with a courtly smile upon her lips. “Please take your places; we are eager for the day to begin.”
“Yes your Grace, may our skill be our offering to you, to love, and to chivalry,” says the Knight of Hearts with enthusasim bowing once more from his saddle before he nods his good wishes to his companion and rides to the end of the furthest list.
Melissa lets her eyes pass over the knights, but more interesting are the people around who are attending. Too new to match names to faces, she still graces each that meets her eyes with a pleasant and warm smile. But as she looks around, she makes note of people in certain places, who chats, who watches, who seems to be more interested than less. It’s the first time she’s had the opportunity to make the full appraisal. Sometimes the people watching was more entertaining than two men killing each other on the sand. Then as the mystery knights present themselves, she studies them as well…everywhere is her classroom these days.
Ser Tyrnan nods his back to his fellow mystery, riding to the same end of the next list over. “Ser Tyrnan dedicates his showing to all of that as well,” the tiny herald cries out, “But mostly to you.” Then he runs out to take his place between Ser Tyrnan and whoever is slated to tilt with him first.
“Your Grace.” Benedict says with a graceful step forward before he lowers to a knee, his head bowing lightly. “I ask for your permission to face this mystery knight first, allow my house to be known for unhorsing those who wish to challenge those gathered here.”
Ethos gives Aurana a smirk, murmuring something in return, lost under the noise of the crowd. “No.. Farin is’t necessary. I was only wondering if you knew her.” He lets his eyes go back to the gathering knights, “Is he riding today?”
His respects presented, Jorian slowly walks to the side of the yard where his squire is waiting. The two pages have run off toward the stables, so he’s off to wait, wondering how the thing is going to unravel. While waiting, the big knight assesses the two mystery knights, trying to recognize a distinctive feature, something that might give away their identity, so that he knows what to expect when he will clash with one of them.
Urron Greyjoy makes his way into the stands, sporting his customary black doublet with the golden kraken. He bumps into a few nobles without apology, making his way up and to Aurana, casually stepping on as many toes as are left out for him to step on. By now, hardly anyone is left who thinks that terrorizing the boy in response will actually produce any result. Once he finds the lady, he plops down on her other side without announcement. “Ser Bullhead regrets to inform you that he has been called to the wood today. Bandits, and the like,” he mutters. “He apologizes and whatnot, but he thanks you for the favor all the same.”
Aurana searches the men again, her forehead creasing slightly. As Urron arrives with the answer, the lady blinks. “Truly? That is… unfortunate. But duty is duty. I ever seem to find myself betrothed to men who do love duty,” she murmurs wryly. “Join us, Urron, if you would. You do know Ser Ethos, of course.”
Alayne watches as the two mystery knights ride to the other side. “Wonderfully polite, that Trickster fellow…” It’s really murmured to herself. She’s pleased to find herself sitting not on the way of the fellow who was knocking into and stepping on people.
A group of 12 goldcloaks join the less illustrious hangers-on across from the box. They begin to quietly mutter about those who are now on the field. “Who do ye think will win?” “I hear the Warden of the Kingswood is gonna ride, no one can stand against Ser Luthor Rivers.” “Ser Alek Reyne is older and more experienced, he’ll take the day.” “Nay, you are all fools, I’d wager 4 Stags on Ser Jorian Crakehall!” “Who is this new knight?” One goldcloak points to Ser Benedict Rogers, while another shakes his head to signify he doesn’t know. Noticing the mystery knights, some whisper “who do ye think they be?” “I’ll take wagers on guessing their identities!” “Aye, let’s do it, though we should wait for a joust or two so there’s something to go by.”
Ser Anton Piper continues to stand at the far end of the courtyard, near the bronze gates, where he watches the tourney with some mild interest. The goldcloaks on duty behind him watch the events with undisguised fascination.
If the Queen is affronted by Ser Benedict’s bold challenge, she gives no sign. She only looks to the Master of the Games, who gives her a slight bow, adjusting something on the list before him. “As you wish ser, you shall be among the first two knights to challenge her Grace’s champions.”
To that end, he turns and announces loudly. “The first challengers will be Ser Benedict Rogers, and Ser Alek Reyne, Deputy Warden of the Kingswood. Ser Benedict, your boldness has won you the first choice. Pick your opponent Ser, Ser Alek shall joust with the remaining champion.”
Alek smirks, straightening from his wall and walking to his charger. Albin helps the man climb on, as he trots forward, stopping before the royal party and bowing from his horse. “It would be my honour to joust these esteemed challengers, and for your honour, your grace.” He stands by, waiting for Benedict to choose.
“Thank you my Queen. I challenge the Knight of Hearts.” Standing Benedict quickly places the dull grey helm down over his head. Then turning he moves quickly for squire and horse. “Lance.” He says the young boy.
The boy lifts the lance to the knights hand, “I don’t know what to make of em. You sure it’s wise to ride first?”
“I won’t chance someone unhorsing them before me.” Benedict takes the lance without another word and rears his horse to the opposite end of the line.
Alayne sits up straighter, watching the jousting lane intently. “And luck to you, Father.” She mutters, watching him mount then wait.
Ethos glances away from the field to regard Urron, giving the boy a vicious smile. “Oh, we’ve met.” He says, then rises, resting a hand on Aurana’s shoulder briefly, “I’ll come back before the end. For now I must go chat with a lion.” Then the Stormlord makes his way down the stands and over toward the Lannister contingent.
Hanlon slips in silently into the yard, slipping thru the crowd to Ser Anton. “I am sorrry I was late good Ser. Have I missed anything of import?”
“Careful, Mertyns. Their claws are bigger’n yours,” Urron calls after him, fully content to make his stand today. Then he turns back to Aurana, and smirks up at the lady. “We’ve met a time or two.”
Ser Tyrnan trots over to where Alek begins lining up, and dips his lance to the ground, drawing a line in the dirt with the tip. The herald nearby chuckles. “The Trickster appears to be calling you out, ser,” he laughs, before Tyrnan rides back to his side of the post, ready for the tilt to begin.
Aurana laughs, shaking her head a bit at the banter between the two. “So I can see. I will speak with you another time good Ser Ethos.” Her gaze shifts towards Urron, an eyebrow arching somewhat. “It was kind of Farin to permit you to remain and keep me company. Tell me, Urron, who do you wager on?”
A rich laugh issues from beneath the helm of the Knight of Hearts, as Benedict so boldly moves to challenge him. Kicking his grey horse forward he takes his place at the head of the list. When all the challengers and champions are set, a trumpeter sounds his horn and the Knight of Hearts plunges forward setting his lance for Ser Benedict.
The goldcloaks mutter: “That young knight, Ser Benedict is taking the field first!” “He stands no chance!” “3 Stars on Ser Benedict!” “Ha, you wanna give your wealth away? I’ll take that bet.”
Knight_of_Hearts lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Benedict lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Melissa is still watching even as the Greyjoy makes his presence clear. She looks over with just the faintest amount of disdain at the clumsy behavior. When he finally takes his seat, she can take a breath and relax, shaking her head. As she does so whe notes Ser Ethos approaching, greeting his path with a nod of the head, though not seeking to raise her voice in greeting after the passing of Urron through the stands.
Luthor says, “No ser,” says Ser Luthor’s squire to Ser Hanlon, as the knight joins the festivities. “The joust has just begun, will you ride?” he asks.”
The Knight of Castamere watches Tyrnan approach and draw the line, the smirk constantly on his face as this happens. “It seems so. I won’t disappoint.”
He holds his hand out for his helm, the smirk reminiscent of a cat stalking a mouse. Albin hands the man his helm and Alek lowers the visor, then being handed his lance. He lowers the lance, saluting his opponent, before kicking the sides of his charger, urging the beast forward.
Benedict puts his heels to his horse as the mystery knight begins for him. The lance lowered and aimed for him, a shot square to him shifts Benedict in the saddle, but his muscles tense, and his body stays a top the horse. The lance broken, obviously a clean hit of his own, a smile forms beneath the helm. If he can be hit he can be unhorsed. Benedict reaches for another lance and readies to the line once again.
The Trickster’s mount bucks playfully a few times, sending Tyrnan to bouncing, but it makes for an effective way to build up momentum for a charge, the beast dashing forward as Tyrnan finds his seat again, lance pointed straight.
The goldcloaks watch both jousts with intense interest: “Ser Alek Reyne rides against the Trickerster!” “2 Stags on Ser Alek!” “Fool, the Trickster will trick him and win. 5 Stags on Ser Tyrnan!” “Oh look, the noble ladies. They’re so pretty.” “Who cares about women at a tourney.” “I always care about women.” “That’s why you have no money anymore.”
Ethos climbs to where Melissa is seated, offering the woman a smile and a more courteous greeting than when last they spoke, “Lady Melissa, good day to you. Are you finding the joust to your liking?” He questions.
The Knight of Hearts rounds the list with the broken stump of his lance and tosses it aside when he returns to his place. A man with dark skin, masked and in a heart strewn livery rushes forward with a fresh lance, placing it in his masters waiting hand. The mystery knight raises the weapon in salute to the Queen and then his foe, before couching it and charging once more down the lists.
Knight_of_Hearts makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Benedict strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Knight_of_Hearts just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.
Leaning against the fence, Jorian is watching intently as the first lances are broken without result. He has thrown an heavy fur cape upon his shoulders to keep himself warm. Behind him, the pages are waiting with a huge bay stallion which doesn’t seem to appreciate the cold any more than the knight.
The Knight of Hearts is nearly thrown from his seat by the power of Ser Benedict’s latest pass, and when he rights himself he laughs. “Well ridden,” he calls to his opponent as the pass on the way to their places. A moment later and with fresh lance in hand, the Knight of Hearts is charging again.
Melissa shrugs and says, “And to you, Ser Ethos. I must admit it has been too long since I attended a tournament. I would likely spend all of my time here, studying and learning and then regretting it was over without truly seeing the joust.” She looks at Ethos and says, “Are the lists not for you, then? Or have you brought your lyre to enhance the event with music?”
A good hit could always be felt, it was like a a sudden realization, you just knew you had your opponent. The rush quickly fades when Benedict realizes the Knight has not hit the dirt. He offers no reply to the compliment, instead he gains another lance and is once again riding to meet his opponent.
Knight_of_Hearts’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Benedict’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Alek delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Farin strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.
Farin is shaken in the saddle by the lance he’s received against him, but recovers well.
Splinters rain down on the far list as the Knight of Hearts and Ser Benedict cross lances once more. This time there is nothing much left of the lance the Knight of Heart holds, and he tosses the remains to the commons with a chuckle, watching as some of the boys from the kennels fight over the trophy. Then taking up a new lance he goes to his place and waits for his foe.
Alek curses under his breath as he reels back to the lists, managing to keep his seat against a blow. His lance intact. He prepares for his next tilt, eyes locking onto Tyrnan.
One goldcloak points at Melissa and Ser Ethos, “who’s that with Ser Ethos, I wonder?” “Looks like a lioness. Likely a Lannister lady!” I like lions.” “You like being eaten?” “Huh?” “Ignore him, he’s been drinking.” “Have not! 3 Stags on the Lion Lady! She’ll win!” “She can’t even joust you idiot.” “She’ll win because she’s so beautiful.” “Stop staring, you fool, before she sees!”
Ser Tyrnan’s trick did not appear to work, but that does not seem to stall him. He twirls his horse for the crowd (which cheers) as he rides off the the other end, takes his lance, and charges anew.
Alek delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Farin delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
The explosion before Benedict was nearly enough to throw him off, but by seer will he remained seated. A heavy cough brought blood up to his lips beneath the helm. A grunt of pain as he moves to lift a fresh lance, this wasn’t over yet and so Benedict moves back to the line ready for another rush.
Alek snarls as he canters back. “Next time…” He hisses, returning to his list, shifting his position and trying a different stance.
Ethos looks around, then up at the sky. “And such fine weather for it, milady.. truly fine.” He says in wry amusement of the cold misting air. “I wasn’t of a mood to participate in this tourney, the company is finer in the stands.” He gestures to the bench that Melissa warms, “Mind if I join you?”
Ser Tyrnan wheels about again, dancing with his horse all the more for how poor he does. The crowd apparently loves it, despite how atrocious both knights appear to be doing. There’s something about a show boat who doesn’t seem to care how badly the boat is being rocked that get the cheers going.
Knight_of_Hearts makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Benedict strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Knight_of_Hearts just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Knight_of_Hearts strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Benedict’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Knight_of_Hearts struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Alek lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Farin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Alayne watches her father joust. “.... Evidently the luck doesn’t seem to be doing too much good for you, father.”
Again, the knights strike evenly, and Ser Tyrnan could not be more pleased. He wheels about once more, catching a lance and twirling it before catching it in a couched position, ready to ride again. “Is that the best you can do!?” shouts the herald, but in the confusion, he looks both ways, addressing either knight, much to the delight of the patrons.
The goldcloak who was championing Ser Alek tries to blend into the background, but his companions won’t have it. “Ha, looks like old Ser Alek isn’t doing so well. Where’s my Stags?” “Tis not over yet!”
As the Knight of Hearts fall, one goldcloak states “that must be Ser Farin Prester, I be seeing him joust, and he not so good.” “Nay, ye be wrong, tis Ser Sarmion Baratheon, the big Stormbreaker fall against Ser Ethos once, he fall against anyone!”
Two tilts decide the contest between the Knight of Hearts and Ser Benedict. Unhorsed and his surcoat splattered with mud, the Knight of Hearts rises and makes his way towards the seating box, when he arrives he turns and calls out to Ser Benedict. “Ser, I am defeated, shall I keep my disguise or do you wish me to un-mask myself?”
Alek snarls again. “I’m only getting started!” He calls back, moving his horse back, again. He grabs another lance from Albin. “Again, when you will, ser!” He calls to Tyrnan.
Alek manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Farin makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Alek just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Alek lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Farin makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Farin is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.
Hanlon walk through the crowd and spots the lithe young woman who keeps speaking to no one in particular and wanders slightly over to her. “Lady Alayne?” He smiles and doffs his feathered cap.
Melissa shakes her head, “How can I mind?” She gestures to the bench, and waves over to one of the serving girls behind them, “Wine,” she says, her voice command as much as request. As there is a great clatter, Melissa applauds, as polite as it seems. “Fallen…how very sad. It appears we are losing the mysteries of the day already.” She looks at Ser Ethos and smirks, “The company is rather entertaining, no?” Peering a bit, she notices some across the way staring at her and offers a little bob of the head in that direction.
Another spectator in the stands, Pennei Massey looks ill at ease in the crowd. She sits with her family among the other Crownslander houses, wrapped snugly in a warm velvet cloak. Still, she manages a smile for her betrothed, among those who will tilt today.
Alayne blinks as she’s adressed, glancing away from the lanes. “Yes, ser?”
Alek raises the remainder of his lance, victorious, eventually. He trots around, hopping down near Tyrnan, holding out his hand to the knight. “Well played, ser.
Benedict’s teeth clench tightly as he puts his heels to his horse for yet another bout with the Knight of Hearts.The lance tucked tightly, the pain ignored, nothing but his opponent remained for the briefest of seconds. The three bouts were enough for him to learn what he needed, a gentle raise just before impact, a grunt of pains before it’s all over and he alone remains. A bloody grin once again spreads his lips. “A worthy challenger the Knight of Hearts.” Benedict guides his horse to face the Queen. “My Queen, shall we unveil our first mystery knight? I wish the choice yours.”
Ser Tyrnan picks himself up from the field, where he looks about wildly. Instead of shaking hands with Alek, he waits for the herald to pull up a flap from one of the banners covering the lower part of the stands. The Trickster salutes his opponent, then makes a mad dash for the hole under the flap, crawls inside, and disappears. His tiny herald follows suit, and the two are never seen again.
With the Trickster down, the goldcloaks start shouting over one another: “Ser Tyrnan must be Ser Farin Prester! Look at how he fell. I be see it many times before, I’ll wager 8 Stags on it.” “Fool, only a Lannister falls like that, I think tis Ser Jonn Lannister.”
The drunk goldcloak suddenly starts waving, “look, look! She nodded at me, the Lannister lady nodded at me! She likes me.” “She nodded at everyone you fool.” “No, it was me, she lurves me!”
Hanlon bows abit. “Forgive me. I am Hanlon Waynwood at your service. I didn’t mean to intrude but my curiousity got the better of me. Who are you talking to?”
Hanlon adds: “I am no ser.”
Alek frowns as the Trickster disappears. Shrugging it off, he moves towards the royal congregation, standing nearby to Ser Benedict, curious as to the identity of the Knight of Hearts.
Mertyns drops down onto the bench, smirking. “I’ve known many a fussy women that have minded many a thing.” He comments, his eyes going to the lists to see jousters falling from their horses. The man laughs, “It’s a modest field. That’s why I stayed out of it. And actually, I play the lute, not the lyre.” Then he follows her gaze to the gamblers… “The goldcloaks do seem to have relaxed a bit now that they’re not under Saltcliffe’s thumb.” His attention goes back to the Knight of Hearts.
Alayne covers her mouth slightly. “Oh.” She had been talking hadn’t she. She smiles slightly. “I apologize for leading your curiosity astray, I wasn’t talking to anyone. Voicing my thoughts aloud.” She turns her attention back to the lanes for a moment, then back to Hanlon. “My father wasn’t doing so well, and I had thought the luck he wished me to wish for had been the wrong kind.” She smiles a little wider. “Seems that it was just taking some time to work.”
Jorian applauds the victorious knights, though a faint disappointment shows on his face, he expected the mysteries to last longer. Now that the fighting has paused, he eyes toward the stands, taking notices of the ladies in attendance, his gaze finally stopping upon the queen, waiting for her answer to the stormland knight.
The Queen graciously passes off the decision to her cousin, and sister. The two young children confer a moment before Elaena presents their judgment, her legs swinging on her tall seat. “Unmask ser, and be recognized,” she says.
The Knight of Hearts bows deeply to the royal box and then with intentional deliberation, takes off his helm, revealing the smiling face of Ser Luthor Rivers. The bastard knight bows again, and then, turns to his foe. “Well ridden ser, you are a worthy champion.” Then turning back to the box, Ser Luthor grins and pulls the green heart from the crest of his helm. He passes it up through the master of the games to the Princess. “Your Grace,” he says with a smile, and then bows deeply once more but not before he offers a little smile to where his betrothed sits before clearing the field for the next challengers.
Alek laughs slightly, shaking his head. “Luthor, eh? That explains why my captain wasn’t around!” He heads to his list as one of the newest champions, saluting the royal congregation once more.
Melissa chuckles a little, “I don’t think any man can keep all the Goldcloaks away from coin and wagers, men do so enjoy the sport outside the field. Don’t you agree?” She laughs a little as the servants bring her wine, and one for Ethos as well, assuming she meant for both of them. “So then I will hope to hear your song at the feast later…oh, my. Ser Luthor…oh, poor Pennei will be horrified.” Though her sympathy sounds painfully thin.
Benedict nods a helmed head to Luthor. “Same to you good ser.” His gaze shifts to Alek. “Good to see you again ser. We’ve shared mead and ale in the tavern, perhaps we’ll share lance blows on the field.”
As the field is cleared the Master of the Games calls out: “Two new champions stand, Ser Alek Reyne and Ser Benedict Rogers, to challenge them, we call Ser Jorian Crakehall, Captain of the Warrior’s Sword, and Ser Galan Lannister, called The Green Lion.” There is much applause for the two westermen from both noble and commoner alike.
As the Knight of Hearts unmasks, shouts can be heard from the gathered goldcloaks: “Ha! I knew it, the Warden of the Kingswood. Pay up, 12 Stags.” “Nay, you say he be Ser Luthor River, this be Ser Luthor Rivers. You be wrong.” “What? You dare cheat me? I’ll break your nose!” As the two goldcloaks raise fists to knock on each other, one of their compatriots points out Ser Anton standing not too far away, watching the off duty watchmen with a flinty gaze. “Fine, here be your 12 Stags, I guess if he be one river, he be many rivers.”
Though not horrified, Pennei is surprised to see the Knight of Hearts unmasked as her betrothed. She meets his gaze from where she sits in the stands and gives him a sweet smile.
Luthor smiles up at Benedict before he departs the field extending his arm to the knight. “Stay on your horse long enough, and count on it, ser,” he says with laugh. “In the meantime your challengers await.”
Ethos takes the wine with a smile of appreciation, sipping slowly. He watches as Luthor reveals himself, chuckling. “Ahhh.. funny.” Then there’s a sidelong glance at Melissa, “I’ll leave the performaces at the feast for those scraping for recognition in the Red Keep.” He says with a laugh, shaking his head. “If you wish to hear a song, you’ll have to persuade me into a private audience.
While they’re speaking, a squire in the grey and white of Mistwood’s livery approaches, carrying what looks to be a wrapped bundle of cloth. “Ser…” The boy says, breathless. Ethos regards the squire, then asks Melissa, “Are you cold?”
Hanlon smiles: “Trusting luck has been a defect of mine. Glad to see someone else believes in it as well.”
Advancing a few steps toward the stands, Jorian bellows, “I challenge Ser Alek Reyne.”. That done, he smiles to the older knight, and gets on his horse with the help of his squire.
Ser Farin Prester rides onto the field, along with his retinue of foresters. Their armor is caked in the mud and grass of the wood, and it is apparent that they’ve come in from a long ride. The bull horned helm of the Prester knight looks to the goldcloaks, and he raises a fist in that direction, indicating that his men should join the gamblers. The knight himself wanders up and into the lists, unless anyone tells him otherwise.
Benedict takes Luthors arm in tight warrior fashioned grip. “Be well ser.” Then releasing him he rears his horse to head back to the line and his awaiting squire. &r “Well you got what you wanted.” The young boy says.
“What I want is another lance, fetch it.” The command sends the younger off returning with a fresh lance. Benedict then moves to await his next challenger.
The drunk goldcloak begins gesturing furiously, “that knight is trying to kidnap the Lannister Lioness! Call the guards, we must resuce her!” “Nay you fool, he be giving her a cloak.” “Nay! It be a tarp! He wants her for his nefarious purposes!” “Shut up you idiot, before you get us killed.” “We must save the lady! We must . . . oof.” One of his companions quietly hits the drunk man on the head and a few others carry him away in the direction of the barracks.
Turns and walks heavily a few steps towards the stands before calling out loudly, “I challenge Ser Benedict Rogers.” He raises a hand in salute to the knight.
Melissa hmms and says, “The chill has yet to affect me, and the wine may do part of the job. But if there’s cloak or blanket available, I would not refuse the offer.” She offers a polite smile to the squire. “Hmm, a private audience, you say. Such a call might be terribly misinterpreted, but I would like to hear how one with as…‘poetic’ as yourself might play. I’ve not seen, but is there a godswoods here? Some music might delight those old gods no one recalls.”
Urron groans, watching Farin enter. “I’d had my money on the hearts, but now with both of them gone, I guess it’ll be on whoever Ser Bullheaded is facing.”
Alek smiles as Jorian Crakehall takes his position. “Good luck to you, ser Jorian!” He calls over, taking his helm from Albin and taking his lance, readying himself in his list to await his charge.
Galan climbs onto a destrier with the help of a young squire, who passes up his helmet and lance. Settling comfortably into his saddle, the Green Lion, looks dead ahead.
Galan’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Benedict’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.
Benedict is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
“Ser Bullheaded. The Ironbrat…” Aurana chuckles as she shakes her head. “The love you two share for one another is truly heartwarming. I still say that though Farin is no tourney knight, he’s the one to wager on when it truly counts. But… I will exchange coin with you, Urron. I will wager on my betrothed and you may wager on his opponent, should you wish it.”
Once strongly seated upon his massive steed, the Crakehall knight dons his black helmet and straps his shield emblazoned with the brindled boar of his house on his left arm. Then he proceeds to his side of the list, taking the lance offered to him with which he salutes the royal stand and his opponent, before closing his visor and putting the spurs to his mount.
Ethos reaches to take the bundle from the squire and unwraps it, offering what turns out to be an oiled cloak with fur lining to Melissa. “Here, use this.” He says, his eyes going to the field again as he pays mind to who the next challengers are. “There’s a godswood.” He answers absently, then stands up abruptly when he sees Galan’s lance shatter. “Ha! That’s a fine one there. If it was more than just luck I’ll have to seek him out on the practice field sometime.”
Alek lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Jorian manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Jorian just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.
Alayne keeps her calm smile. “It’s something I like to call on after all has been prepaired for as best as possible. A little something extra to hope on.” She watches the next set of jousts start.
The quick end to the tilt between Ser Benedict and Ser Galan shocks the remaining goldcloaks into silence for a moment, before they begin shouting once again: “Ha, I knew it, the Lannister Green Lion wins! I wagered 8 Stags on him.” “I bet 3 Moons!” I lay 10 Stags!”
“So we all bet on the Green Lion?” “Aye!” “Then who be paying?” The goldcloaks look at one another for a moment, before returning their attention to the next joust.
As his adrenaline resided the pain grew, and Benedict did all he could to ignore it as he lifted the lance. Luthor’s blows had tolled to much for him though, the fresh knight easily found his opening and landed well. Benedict found himself on his back struggling to reach his feet. Grunting his hand reaches for the helm ripping it from his head and slamming it down to the dirt in frustration. A wince of pain before Benedict remembers those in attendence. “Well ridden ser.” He says to Galan a hand reaching for his rib beneath the plate.
Alek spurs his horse on, aiming his lance straight and true, the lance shattering as it impacts Jorian, but the Crakehall keeps his perch. As does Alek as he rounds around the lists and receives a new lance, preparing to tilt again.
Closing on his target, Jorian lowers his lance at the last moment, but falls short as the tip slides unto the Castamere’s shield without leaving a dent. His opponent strikes him square though, but not strongly enough, and Crakehall keeps his seat with clenched seat. “Nice aim, ser!”, he shouts to Alek, before getting ready for another round.
Alek makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Jorian strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Jorian just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Melissa hmms at the cloak and nods, in approval, “A very nice addition to the…oh my,” she pauses at the moment Ser Galen decimates his opponent. “Oh, my. My dear brother does make his presence felt on the field. As always,” she chuckles. She looks to Ethos, “I can see if you wish be his next quintain?”
Pulling free his helmet, the Green Lion shakes his long blonde hair from his eyes, “Poor luck, ser, I hope to meet you in the lists again someday when you are fresh.” Looking away, he throws a hand up, acknowledging the crowd and the stands, a wry smile on his face.
Alek strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Jorian delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Jorian is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Alek’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Jorian delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Jorian finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
Alek rounds around the lists, offering a hand to the Crakehall. “Well played ser!” He calls. “A good joust!”
“That is your brother?” Ethos asks, lowering to sit down again. “Ah, I see the resemblance now.” He remarks as Galan pulls off his helm. “We’ll see how he fares through the rest of the tourney before I throw away time facing him on a field.” He drinks deeply of the wine and watches Jorian fall, a quiet smile touching his face as he murmurs, “Well done, Reyne.”
The second pass goes barely better than the first, at least Jorian find a slightly better aim. On the third round, the big knight manages another clumsy blow, when his opponent hits true for the third time, and unhorses him.
Landing roughly to the ground, Jorian rolls in the mud before standing up. He lifts his visor and salutes his opponent, “You beat me fair and square, Ser Alek, congratulations”
The Prester lordling cheers for Alek, all things being equal between deputy wardens. Up in the stands, Urron shakes his head. “That means you’re betting against either Ser Alek the Old or Ser Galan the…giant hammer. Or whatever he goes by.”
The Queen and her kin applaud the champions and challengers alike as they clear the field. While some amoung the commons make their way to the gold cloaks, to quietly place wagers on both Ser Galan and the unstoppable Ser Alek. The Master of the Games calls out: “The next challengers are Ser Luthor Rivers, Warden of the Kingswood and Ser Farin Prester, Deputy Warden of the Kingswood.”
Luthor rides forth in the shiny armor of the Knight of Hearts, but his surcoat and shield are his own gold and brown. Visor raised, he takes a spot before Ser Galan and raises his lance. “I challenge the Green Lion,” he declares.
Benedict returns to his squire tossing him the helm and working his plate off. The boy was smart enough not to jest at the knights loss, and said nothing as he aided his ser. Soon enough Benedict stood off to the side with a wine skin and set to watch the remaining contenders.
Melissa chuckles and says, “I fear not for his success. He seems to have it in spades.” She nods and sips her wine, after hearing, “Ahh, are you a friend to Ser Alek? He was one of the first I’ve ever encountered in this keep. Seems to be doing well.” She nods and says, “So perhaps, we shall attend the godswood one day shortly so I might hear this other skill and talent of yours.”
Hanlon says, “It appears that all the “good luck"s have ended up causing the contrary milady.”“
Hanlon says, “Except apparently to you.”
“The Green Lion,” Aurana supplies. “They call him Galan the Green Lion. And that is Ser Jorian who is just now rising. A very good man and a sailor as well. You and he might find that you’ve things to discuss sometime.”
Farin rides forward next to Luthor, in his muddied but red armor, the bull horns on his helm gleaming in the light. “If that is Ser Luthor’s choice, I challenge Ser Alek!” he calls out. It might be fine to note that on his arm, for the first time in any tourney, Farin sports a favor: a blue ribbon, fastened in place by a small bronze buckle.
Reaching for his helm, The Green Lion’s perpetual grin seems to slip slightly as Ser Luthor challenges him. Donning his helm and with lance in hand, he shifts in his saddle a little before settling.
Alek takes his place at the list. He smiles as he’s matched against Farin. “Deputy against Deputy, ser!” He calls over. “I hope you put up more of a fight than Tyrnan!” Again, Albin replaces Alek’s helm and lance, the man digs his heels into his charger.
Hanlon says, “A comment on ironic luck of situation”
Pennei watches the joust, applauding for the victors. Seeing that her betrothed has challenged the Green Lion, the scarred girl leans forward in her seat to watch.
Alek makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Farin strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Alek just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.
Galan makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Luthor’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Galan is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
Alayne hmms a little, watching her father succeed then ride again. “Perhaps.” She agrees. “Perhaps. Although most of my luck was for Ser Alek not to injure himself, perhaps it will go for winning as well.”
Alek rounds on his horse, managing to keep his seat. He laughs out. “Someone’s been practicing!” He calls over as he takes his list. After a few more seconds, he pushes forward again.
Urron sighs. “There he goes again. Galan can have his Green Lions all he wants, my money’s on the cat.”
Down Below, Farin weathers Alek’s blow, pulling his horse around and giving a salute before he prepares another charge.
Alek’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Farin delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Farin is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
Hanlon says, “hmmmm. My observation was made too soon.”
Debate over this next joust soon rises amongst the goldcloaks and other servants and commoners who’ve gathered: “Tis Ser Farin versus Ser Alek and Ser Luthor against Ser Galan!” “But Ser Luthor already fought!” “Not as himself, as the Knight of Hearts.” “So he can fight again?” “Aye.” “So why don’t a knight just make up a hundred names for themselves and then they can fight a hundred times.” “Tis not chivalrous.” “Huh?” “Chivalry!” *Blank look* “Never mind.” As Ser Galan suddenly falls in the first tilt, people begin shouting “What happened?” “Changing his identity gave Ser Luthor greater powers!” Then, Ser Farin also falls. “Haha, I knew it, see how he falls! Ser Farin was Tyrnan the Trickster, I wager 12 stags on it!”
Mertyns has his eyes entirely on the tourney now, waving his squire away, “Go take the other thing I sent you for to Aurana.” He instructs, “And don’t get into any fights with that brat.” The boy nods and hurries off, making his way through the crowds.
Ethos mostly has his eyes on Farin and Alek, and when Alek almost falls from the saddle the Stormlord makes a disgusted sound. “I know Reyne. I wouldn’t say he’s a close friend. And there goes your brother. That’s a pity. I suppose I could pay a visit to the godswood, if you do not fear misinterpretation.” The second pass between Alek and Farin and the Mistwood knight suddenly yells, “Ha!! Keep at it, Reyne!”
Lying still for a moment on the floor, Ser Galan clambers to his feet, the slow movements trying to hide any unsteadiness in his rise. Pulling free his helmet, the Green Lion reveals a taut smile that does not quite reach the eyes, “Well ridden, Warden.”
Alek raises his broken lance once more to cheers. He then goes to help Farin up. “But you haven’t practiced enough, ser!”
“I have no need for it,” the knight declares, already standing. “I save my practice for the things that matter. See you in the wood, ser; good tilt.”
Luthor is as surprised as most people when his lance shatters, and he finds himself the only one of his pairing still mounted. Still he grins with satisfaction beneath his helm, as he rounds his horse and comes to stop near the downed Lannister knight. “Luck betrayed you ser,” he replies with a smile that matches the Green Lion’s own. “I shall see you soon no doubt,” he says before he rides around to the viewing box, saluting the Queen, then lingering by the Crownlanders. “My lady,” he calls up to his betrothed. “For you.” He plucks the red heart from his crest and tosses it up to Pennei, before riding back to his place.
Pennei can’t help wincing as Ser Galen takes a hard fall, but she beams a smile for Luthor when he gives her the token. She clutches it close, in spite of a rosy blush blooming in her cheeks.
Halyn reaches Aurana, steadfastly avoiding Urron’s gaze. He offers her a small paper-wrapped parcel, “From Ser Ethos, milady.” The squire says with a bow, and then he moves to sit down in the place his knight vacated earlier at her side.
“What did he find in the garbage today?” Urron asks, his voice pleasant, despite his words.
Melissa nods and sips at her wine, but as Galan falls, she shakes her head. “Poor Galan, after such a strong showing in one tilt.” She tsks and peers studying the winners and finding it quite amusing. “How entertaining. The very two met I met that very first day. It appears as if I was supposed to find one of them to cheer for.” She looks at Ser Ethos, understanding his enthusiasm. Things have gotten rather exciting.
Hanlon bows once more and says: “I say Farewell. I must leave for now. I thank you for sating my curiousity. I wish you, though this is old saying by now…luck. The good kind preferably.”
Hanlon leaves putting his cap on his head.
Alayne smiles at Hanlon. “Thank you. And may some of the good sort follow you as well.”
More applause follows the tilts, whispers from the commons speak of Alek being favored by Lord Loren, clearly for obvious reasons, and of Luthor’s father Beslon the Bad and his cousin the Oakshanks. There is a pause as the master of the Games receives word from some of the competitors. He nods to their messengers and then calls aloud. “Ser Jorian and Ser Benedict, respectfully withdraw their challenges,” there is applause for their efforts. “Leaving Ser Farin Prester, and Ser Galan Lannister, to challenge the remaining champions. The winners of these tilts shall fight one another for the prize of 49 dragons, and the Queen’s favor from her own hands.” Again more cheering as the challengers and champions take their places.
Seeming rather less charismatic in the face of his humiliating defeat, Ser Galan calls out, “I challenge Ser Alek,” and without observing a reaction begins to prepare, muttering as he pulls on his helm, “Hear Me Roar.”
Alek smirks. “And challenge me, you shall, my lion of Lannister!” He calls as he grabs another lance. He, again, spurrs his charger on, lance lowered for Galan’s chest.
Ser Farin cannot wait to hear his name called, exploding onto the lists, lance at the ready, just waiting to thwart whatever opponent is thrown his way. And now that it is finally his chance, his sights are on one man alone. “Ser Luthor Rivers!” he calls out, riding forth. “We have too long gone without testing against one another, Coz. Let us see who yet sits when this is done!”
Alek strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Galan lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Alek struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Once the tedious process of removing his steel platemail done, Jorian has wrapped himself in a warm cloak with the Targaryen sigil in the back. He strides toward the stand, noticing Aurana and smiling up at her. Moving cautiously between the ranks, he makes his way toward her during a pause in the lists.
As he reaches the Buckler lady, he notices the boy in Mertyns livery, and smiles warmly at him, “Hey cousin, I didn’t notice you! How are you, Halyn?”
Luthor is in good spirits when he faces off against his cousin Farin. He raises his lance in greeting. “Well whoever it is, may the gods smile on them in the next tilt,” he says before kicking his horse into a run and thundering down the field.
Luthor delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Farin manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.
Farin is roughly jolted in the saddle, struggling for a few moments to keep to his seat.
Ethos smirks, but says nothing in response this time. He’s focused upon the field, watching the remaining knights. When Alek falls from his horse, Mertyns swears sharply, “Shit!” Anger crosses his face for a moment, “Your brother is losing me coin, now.” He grumbles, glancing at Melissa.
Galan pulls away his helm, and despite his best efforts at sportsmanship appears hugely satisfied, “Misfortunate, ser. I would be pleased to tilt with you again sometime soon.” He once more turns to the crowd and offers a slightly more cautious wave.
As the tourney begins to wind down, the final wagers come in hard and strong: “10 Moons on Ser Farin.” “Idiot, Ser Farin will likely fall riding to the lists.” “7 Stags on Ser Alek!” “Ok, pay up, cause the old man just went down.” “What? I mean 7 Stags on Ser Galan!” “You said Ser Alek, no take backs!” “I meant Ser Galan, that be what counts.” “Liar!” “Idiot!”
Luthor shakes his head in disgust at his own performance as he passes Farin as they return to their places he calls out. “It’s a good thing the bandits don’t joust!” before he passes of his lance and takes another ready to meet his cousin’s charge.
Alayne winces as her father falls from his horse. “Oh dear. Seems that I can only wish luck on one person at a time…”
“Aye, I think I hit a tree on that one!” Farin calls back, wheeling around. His performance was thrice as poor as Luthor’s but he’s having a grand old time, at least.
Farin lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Luthor’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.
Farin is struck down as if by a hammerblow, tumbling from his saddle to the hard earth below.
Alek is struck square on the chest, falling to the ground with a resounding clang. The Lion of Castamere’s reign as champion ended by a Lion of Casterly Rock. He stands, coughing, nodding to Galan, winded at the moment. “S-Same to you, ser.” He says, moving out of the way of the lists. He heads to his squire, a smile still plastered over his face. “W-Well played, ser!” Albin calls, handing him a wineskin. Alek takes it, grinning.
Farin crawls. He can’t do a whole lot more than crawl, at this point. The field is a blur, and Urron sure isn’t running to help him. He crawls, and he crawls, and then he lays still for a little while, just to catch his breath. “Damn…fine showing…coz…”
Melissa claps for Galan as he completes his pass with victory. She is never one to cheer, but there is definitely a swelling pride here today. As Ethos speaks, she chuckles. “It just goes to show what happens when you bet against a Lannister.” She finishes her wine and holds out her goblet to await the serving girl to refill it. When she does, she says, “Then perhaps, Ser Ethos, we might take a wager on The Green Lion’s next trip down the rail, if that would ease your losses, knowing it was simply to me.”
Alek notices Farin being worse for wear. He runs off, Albin at his heels, grabbing the Prester Knight by the legs. “C’mon, ser. Lets get you out of the way, no?”
Luthor tosses away his lance and rides back to dismount near his cousin. “And you,” Luthor smiles seeing his cousin lives. “You survived.” He offers his cousin his arm and helps him to his feet if he is able.
Farin is propped by Luthor on one arm, and Alek by one foot. He has no strength left to fight, but the man cannot help but protest. “You sodding bastards! Let a man crawl away in peace! Have you no concern for a lord’s /dignity/!? Let go! Let go, you blasted fops!”
Mertyns settles down again, annoyance still on his face, but Melissa’s suggestion draws a smile from the man. “Alright. State your bet.” Ethos says, wincing when Farin is thrown to the ground. “That looked painful.”
Alek chuckles. “Looks like someone’s a bit of a poor loser.” Albin grabs the Prester Lordling’s other boot. “Come on, ser, there is no need to be so insulting. Especially to your captain.”
Again more applause, talk of the Green Lion’s prowess spurs heavy betting, as does Ser Luthor’s win over his cousin. There is a pause as the second rail is taken down and the ground is set for the final bout. When all is in readiness and Farin has crawled himself off the field, the Master of the Games comes forth to announce the final match. “Ser Luthor Rivers, Warden of the Kingswood, shall joust against Ser Galan Lannister, called the Green Lion, the winner shall be named champion of the joust and shall be awarded the prize. May the Seven smile on you both.”
Wincing as Farin hits the ground, The Green Lion sits passively on his horse watching the moderately damaged knight get led away before turning back and preparing for his next tilt.
Melissa nods in agreement and says, “There is nothing pleasant about watching a man hit the dirt so roughly, unless I suppose, you’re the other who put him there.” She shakes her head and takes a breath, and a sip of wine. “What shall we wager? Oh…this is not my forte, but perhaps…2 Dragons?” She chuckles, “If you wish something less expensive, perhaps a song?”
Ethos laughs, “A song sounds fine. Of course I will be betting on Luthor.” The knight says, emptying the last of his wine glass. “I hope you have a pleasant singing voice.”
Luthor makes his way to the lists again, taking lance in hand, and saluting the royal gallery, his betrothed and Ser Galan. That done he slams shut his visor and kicks his horse into a charge.
Luthor delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Galan delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Pennei holds tight to the little token given to her by Ser Luthor, watching the final tilt.
“I fear then, if you win, you still lose, Ser Ethos,” says Melissa with a chuckle. She sits back and watches, the first pass producing no results. She studies both men and their mounts, the clash, and the way the crowd seems to have fallen completely into the spell of the games around her.
Two poor blows make up the first tilt, and Luthor tosses aside his lance, and takes up a fresh one. He wheels his horse and when he finds his place in the lists waits for Galan to charge.
From deep within the armour of the Green Lion, a faint mutter of “A Lannister always pays his debts” can be heard as he grabs the next lance, and turning for the next tilt.
Luthor delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Galan makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Luthor just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
“Ser Galan for the win!” “Ser Luthor for the win!” Goldcloaks try their best to shout each other down. “The Lioness of Lannister for the win!” “When did you wake up?” “Huh?” *Whack* *Slump* *Unconscious body is dragged away*
“That was close,” Luthor murmurs as he strikes a poor blow to Galan’s better one. He steadies himself in his seat, rounds and takes a fresh lance after letting the old one drop. He waits.
Galan shifts comfortably on his saddle as he prepares for the next charge, “Hear Me Roar,” is once more uttered in the echoey depths of the Lannister’s helmet as he spurs forward.
Galan’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.
Luthor’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Galan finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
Ethos gives Melissa a glance, but his eyes are back on the lists after a breath. The knight scowls when Luthor nearly falls, swearing softly again. Then, in the final pass when Galan is defeated, Mertyns laughs and cheers. “Well.. Perhaps I will teach your brother a thing or two.” He muses.
Landing hard with a clang, the Green Lion rolls onto his front as he hits the floor. Pulling of his helmet, he struggles to rise as he pushes himself off the earth but eventually succeeds in standing. Looking up at the Warden with a faint glimmer in his eye, he says “Well tilted, ser… Congratulations.”
Luthor smiles as his lance shatters and he looks back to find Galan in the dirt. “I won,” he murmurs incredulously, before letting out a long rich laugh. He tosses the ruin of his lance to the commons again, then makes his way back to Galan. “And you, I shall look forward to our next meeting.” He doesn’t quite manage to keep the smile off his face. Though extends an arm to the Lannister knight all the same.
Pennei’s applause is lost in the roar of the crowd, but her smile is glorious. One of her cousins seated nearby makes an aside comment to the scarred girl, to which Pennei replies.
Ser Galan grasps his arm at the wrist momentarily, nodding at the knight, “Go enjoy your victory, Warden.” He turns and clunks off, throwing his helmet to the hapless squire as he leaves.
Melissa watches and seems to believe it is over before it actually ends. Then Galen falls and Melissa’s eyes close, shaking her head in disbelief, grinning as she bites her bottom lip looking off to absent gods. Then she turns back to Ser Ethos and says, “Oh, fear not, I shall have my vengeance in song. You, good Ser, are not one of the few who have survived my attempts as the performing arts. A matter my septa nearly slew herself over in my youth.” She chuckles, this time honesty winning out. “But have no fear, the debt shall be paid. I only pray my stage is not overly large.”
Ethos chuckles, shaking his head, “I suspect you’re only exaggerating, Lady Melissa. But if it is truly that horrid, you will indeed have your vengeance.” The man regards his empty wine glass, sighs, and sets it aside. “We’ll keep the stage small and the audience smaller.” He adds in consolation.
Alek walks up to where Alayne is sat, nearby to the Lannister host. “Well, what did you think, Ally?” Alek is still smiling broadly.
There is applause and the changing hands of coin in the wake of the final joust. After exchanging words and grips with Galan, Ser Luthor rides before the royal box, and dismounts, but not before flashing a triumphant smile in Pennei’s direction.
Once on his feet, the Master of the Games directs Luthor to where he should kneel, and the bastard knight takes a knee. The Queen nods and a servant comes forward with the purse of 49 gold dragons which are placed in Luthor’s waiting hands. Then the Queen rises, and with her defender ghosting her heels descends to present Luthor with a length of black and red silk, which she ties about his arm. “Well done, ser,” she offers with a nod. Luthor bows deeply for her Grace. “Thank you. I hope the day provided some diversion.” The Queen nods, and then making her way back up to the box she turns and nods to the Master of the Games. “The day’s sport is now complete, the blessings of the Seven upon the champion and all who rode. Now, with her Grace’s blessing, go and make merry at the banquet she has provided.” And with that the day’s jousting comes to a close.