Blood of Dragons

Inside the City: Baelor’s Sept

Grey daylight seeps in through gaps in timber, stretched awnings, and half-finished arches, falling across a broad confusion of marble blocks, scaffolds, ladders, buckets, and planks. What is meant to become Baelor’s Sept is still more ambition than sanctuary. Work goes on, though not with the vigor one might expect for so grand a royal design; too few laborers move about at any given time, and much stands waiting where coin or materials have plainly run thin. Dust lies over nearly everything, disturbed only by the shuffle of workers, the muttering of septons trying to preserve some dignity for the place, and the occasional drip of water from ill-fitted coverings overhead.

Great sections of worked marble stand beside heaps of lesser stone and timber, all arranged with more intention than order. Scaffolds climb toward incomplete walls and high arches that promise future splendor, while patched awnings have been stretched here and there in a losing effort to keep out sun and rain alike. Water still finds its way through when the weather turns wet, streaking stone, dampening wood, and leaving shallow puddles in the dust. Here and there are signs that the faithful have not entirely abandoned the site: a rough prayer corner, a candle guttering before a temporary icon, a septon speaking in low tones to one in need. Yet this is no true sept as of yet, only the costly, chaotic shell of one, advancing slower than so famous a project ought.

Grey light and damp air hang beneath the patched awnings of Baelor’s Sept, where the great work has been opened before its time for want of ceremony and need alike. Marble blocks stand in ordered stacks beside raw timber and scaffold, ropes creak overhead, and somewhere water still finds its way through, falling in a patient drip from canvas to stone. Dust lies over most everything until stirred by boots, hems, and the slow passage of septons and acolytes trying to keep some shape of holiness in a place that is still more chaotic worksite than sanctuary. Beyond the broad doors, the noise of King’s Landing gathers and swells without cease, for the heart of the plaza outside is to see trial by combat before the day is out, and much of the city has come to press in close as it dares for a look.

There has been no lack of talk with the crowd. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, some say, kept vigil with his Sworn Brothers in the royal sept, as was proper. But here, amid the dust and pale stone of the monument to Baleor the Blessed’s holy devotion, Ser Morgil Hastwyck has been granted leave to pray and prepare before he goes out into the sight of gods and men.

He is armored for it, his house’s cloak about him, a hard figure in dragon-embellished steel among scaffold shadows and candlelight.

Ser Oswyn Plumm stands in the sept some distance from the successor of his uncle’s jousting society with an awkward expression on his face. He is dressed in a surcoat emblazoned with a subtly stitched purple plum upon a field of gold, with a chain of alternating red and purple rondels of the Band adorning his neck.

Sullen and silent, the half-built Sept of Baelor appears to be the last place for the Plumm knight that he wanted to be today.

To one side of the praying man is another, dressed quite differently - Lord Prester is garbed for court, not for battle, his deep crimson velvets and their rich plum undertones clash dramatically with the greys and marbles of the surroundings. Farin has had an especially dour cast to his mien today, whether it is because of the dust swirling into his ermine, the suspended stonework that potentially threatens to fall or even just the act of being here to pray alongside a man he only owes cursory allegiance to, is anyone’s to guess - but here he is, as dutiful as he is cross.

Perhaps it is morbid curiosity, perhaps the love of gossip. Or so painfully politic a manner that compels some of the court to come cast stern looks on the Master of Horse as he readies to lock swords with a prince of the dragon’s blood, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Or some might yet be seeking to whisper caution, or a scheme, to the men of the Band that Ser Morgil has summoned, as their captain, to join him in his hour of need.

Lady Buckwell’s expression betrays, aptly, none of these causes or any other. If one judges by her roaming periwinkle gaze, she may have simply seized the chance to wander through the late, gentle king’s heart’s desire, for she liked him well enough as a liege woman ought and more still, while he lived. And he, in his graciousness, had once bestowed some small mark of favour on her.

Draped in a midnight blue cloak lined with wolf’s fur, two or three shades darker than her skirts, and paired with a silken grey veil that a simple steel headband holds in place against any tugging from the breeze’s. The cold, she’ll weather fine…the bloodshed, like all others, she;ll have to at least endure.

Though there are some who might say Ser Joffrey Caswell and the Master of the Horse do not consider one another friends, allies, or perhaps even equals, all the same the heir to Bitterbridge has come to pay honor to another knight. He wears his finest formal armor; a fine surcoat of pure white with yellow diamond quilting over chain with a single shoulder pauldron in chased iron to which a pale yellow sash of velvet is attached. His lady wife does not attend the knight’s vigil.

“... half the night in the Queen’s Ballroom, practicing with Fireball ...”

“... Aegon himself came to watch, I heard from Ball’s squire ...”

So are the whispers heard, among the band, those who were not invited to attend this closed training to help Ser Morgil prepare. Of course, there are other rumors, that Prince Aemon himself did not bother to train at all, feeling a vigil through the night was better… though others say untrue, that he must have practiced with his Sworn Brothers as well, readying himself. Whatever the truth, though, now is the moment of prayer, and Ser Morgil seems ready to at least make a show of it. He comes forward after speaking for a time with Fireball, eyeing those who came (and noting those who did not) to pray with him before the combat. “Brothers,” he says, loudly, giving every impression of confidence. “Shall we pray?”

There too at the head of the sept is a tall, spare figure in septon’s robes, standing before the Hastwyck knight and those who keep vigil with him. It is a stern look he bends upon Ser Morgil as the man comes forward before lifting his gaze to sweep it around the sept and those keeping the man company, disdaining to wave away the marble dust drifting about him.

Septon Elwood has spent from dusk to dawn upon his knees here inviting the Seven’s favour upon what must follow so very soon—but there is no hint of weariness in him. There is, indeed, a febrile light in his eyes and a flush upon his pale cheeks as if the night of prayer has sustained him in a manner beyond the reckoning of those less faithful.

He raises a hand:

“Yes. It is time, Ser Morgil. Come.”

And he raises his voice: “I see many here who would avoid even a sept’s shadow in other times.”

His gaze flickers to Lord Prester, then away to the others.

“Look into your hearts and search for the faith that dwells there! We meet here today in the eyes of the Seven for a sacred trial, not for your idle, wicked curiosity!”

Standing close to Morgil and other members of the Band is Othan Blackmane, wearing simple, practical clothes, riding leathers, buff jack and thick well made cloak of brown wool. Chain of Band of the Dragon is set askew and peeks through the fold of the cloak, itself loosely tied. He looks as if chewing on something. He simply grunts in approval of Morgil’s words and inclines his head slightly as if praying.

Joffrey sets a hand over his heart and bows his head as the call to prayer is made. He glances up at the stern septon at the admonishment but shows no sign of response. Stoic as even when outside the tourney grounds. As a member of the Fellows of the Dawn, and bearing their chain about his neck, he keeps away from Morgil’s society companions.

Oswyn nods in response and says nothing, joining the prayer in silence. Or at least it appears so, as the knight does little to visibly display his piety.

Morgil bows his head at the septon’s words, though not deeply, “Then let us be about it.” For all the confidence in his voice, Morgil does not waste words now. He squares his shoulders beneath the Hastwyck cloak and turns his face toward the makeshift altar, then drops to one knee with the rasp of steel. Whatever else may be said of him, he means to be seen doing this properly.

As Elwood’s eyes find Farin’s, the Counter’s lips curve into a small semblance of a smile, and he boys his head slowly; a silent nod to acknowledge his being called out by the septon in all but name. But then Morgil is blustering forward, and his attentions follow the head of the Band.

From outside comes the low hum of many voices, as if half the city has come to watch the spectacle of the trial.

The chastisement might give some pause, and make them school their miens away from awkwardness of annoyance. Lady Jannia herself slips into quiet contemplation and prayer easily, unaffected by the septon’s quip. When Elwood’s tongue almost ruled the hearts of kings, even, she was among the pious of the court, and to this day false faith is an accusation that may have landed on her doorstep, but has never taken root.

A cursory glance is spared for the Reachlord, quite literally wrapped in royal favour, but no more for the nonce.

“For His late Grace’s soul”, she murmurs to herself, and begins her prayers.

Another brother of the Band of the Dragon stands with the group: Ser Ryckon Westerling. Apart from the chain of the Band glinting around his neck, onyx and tourmaline linked together by gold, Ryckon is dressed simply and somberly in plain black - a rather discomfiting sight, perhaps, since the man he is dressed in mourning for is still alive and well beside him.

For a little while longer, at least.

Ryckon has a dour frown on his face. But then again, when does he not? His brow or raised with suspicion at the septon’s invocations.

Lord and Lady Bracken observe the goings-on from an unobtrusive position, for now. The Hand is stern-faced and serious, dressed in his typical court garb, and his wife, a deliberate half-step behind him, wears her most modest brown gown and a simple crystal star pendant. This matter is for the gods to decide, not the crown, though given some of the recent talk in the city one might wonder if Lord Bracken is there to ensure Ser Morgil does not run from the battle his own words have brought upon him. They make no move to join Ser Morgil or his comrades, though Halanna bends her head in quiet prayers of her own.

Another of the Brothers arrives to the vigil, the soft clicking of boots on stone announcing their approach. Adorned in the browns and gilt trim of his House, a cloak of his King’s colours drapped over one shoulder and clasped with a silver dragon, Ser Balon moves to stand with his Brothers.

The tall septon waits until Ser Morgil and his companions have knelt and the murmurs from those others gathered here have eased. Then, he takes a deep breath. The pale light slipping in through the leaded windows behind the altar splinters through the great crystal hanging before them and bathes him in a fractured rainbow blurred by the haze of dust.

And Elwood prays aloud, slow and deliberate, each word fierce with devotion:

“Father Above, judge us with clear eyes,
Grant us wisdom to know the just path and courage to walk it.
Mother Merciful, gather the weary with your gentle hands,
Give comfort to the sorrowing and warmth to the lost.
Lead us to rise in defence of the innocent and the weak.
Maiden Fair, keep alive the light of hope and joy,
Guide the young through the shadows of a wicked world.
Smith Righteous, temper our spirits as iron in the forge,
Grant us the strength to build, to mend, and to endure.
Crone Wise, lift high your lantern before us,
That we may see truth plainly and not wander into folly.
Stranger, whose face none may escape,
Teach us humility before the wonders of life and death,
And grant peace to those who pass beyond our reach.”

With head bowed and hand still over heart, Ser Joffrey listens silently to Elwood’s prays. When the Stranger is called upon he looks up in very mild surprise. But such a duel is no doubt going to fall to the last of the seven in the end.

Kneeling in pray with his companions, Oswyn glances briefly at Ser Ryckon, dressed all in black. Near exact year before, it was him who wore similar colors for the death of his lord uncle. When the prayer reaches the name of the Stranger, he peers with half-closed eyes at the head of the Band of the Dragon.

Behind them, behind the merry band, and knights others have laid all their hopes upon, stands Orson, dressed in tunics, and fabrics for a man of his House.

Blue eyes sharply look over Balon, his former squire, who kneels with his group.

They are not happy.

Prayers are spoken, to the skies and half-built sept, and scaffolds. Orson looks to Morgil himself, at the moment the Crone is called upon, and his gaze remains to the man, even past the moment where the Stranger is called.

Lady Fell lingers in her prayer for a moment longer than the rest. When she lifts her head, the set of her jaw hardens and thins her mouth into a grim, sorrowful frown. She pulls her cloak tighter as if a sudden chill takes her. Felwood’s Lord and Lady were among those who arrived last to this prayer, and seem poised as first to leave it, situated there near the drafty door.

Mylessa shares a glance with her lord husband, who bends to rumble some passing observation in her ear as her gaze then moves on and across the crowd. Her attention settles briefly on Lady Buckwell, and then longer on Lady Bracken in an effort to catch her eye.

Solemn holy words are spoken, noble somber faces gathered, if some less piously than others. A few even seem not to be here for the vigil itself. And one watches very carefully, hanging back near the edges, hidden mostly by the scaffolding and the typical highborn disinterest. Still, with methodical observation, a face is added to another, and another…

Mathin is among those gathered at Baelor’s Sept. He is dressed for the day not unlike that devout king for whom the unfinished hall is named: a hooded, ragged robe frames his body, more cream than white and stained with toil and dirt. His eyes bear themselves on Septon Elwood with rapt attention.

The septon’s voice carries strangely in the cavernous half-built sept, taken up by pale stone and timber scaffold and sent back thinner than it began. Outside, the sound of the waiting crowd rolls on without patience.

Morgil remains bowed for a beat after the prayer is done, then lifts his head, jaw set hard beneath the hush. Whatever comfort he sought here, he does not show much of it. Morgil rises with the heavy rasp of steel and plate, making no hurry of it. His glance goes first to his brothers, then toward the doors and the noise beyond them. “If you’ve wagered on me, you’ll owe me a cask of Arbor Gold,” he announces to the others of the band with a smug grin… or an attempt at one; perhaps nerves are starting to show. “And if you didn’t? Do not cry to me for your folly.” That last is said as his eyes find Ser Ryckon, and the grin turns into a passing scowl.

Each verse is repeated in a cadence barely above a whisper, almost mechanically so. It is quite likely the Lady Jannia has heard this prayer no less than Elwood’s services and sermons - therefore, a few times at the very least.

“...not wander into folly.” She tastes it on her tongue. “If only.” And carries on, with the rest.

She has company in her rhythm; as she shifts her footing, a soft jingle from under the folds of her cloak, sweet and muffled. Elaena’s keys, like a small second voice. Except whatever voice may be coming through this accoutrement likely spoke all she needed behind closed doors…before this day’s vigils, even.

And then, the Master of Horse rises, and his brave front is as sparkling as the dragons coiling on his armour. Jannia looks on emotionlessly.

Othan takes a glance at his brother and his wife, then turns back towards his fellow members of the Band. He scratches his stubble and continues to pretend to pray until matter is concluded. If he finds Morgil’s words amusing he doesn’t show it.

“Ser Ryckon’s mourning is surely for the Dragonknight, I take it?” the Lord of Feastfires asks, rising from his own kneeling. “If not, he should have mentioned he was amenable to a wager. I’d have taken him on it.”

Lady Bracken quietly sighs as Ser Morgil rises and immediately speaks of gambling and drink. A quick glance about the sept finds Lady Fell, to whom she gives a small nod. She touches her husband’s arm, speaking a soft word into his ear, and drifts closer to the Fells. “Cousin,” she murmurs.

Ryckon kneels as bid along with the rest of the Band, bowing his head, closing his eyes, and mouthing words silently - only the gods know what. Then Morgil rises, and he follows - just in time for the Master of Horse to scowl over at him. Ryckon raises a brow at him, and then at Farin. “I do not wager on matters so grave. Either way, the realm will lose one of its greatest knights today. There is no cause for celebration, or for…” He eyes his mentor’s ostentatious clothes. “...frippery.”

It’s only when Morgil meets Ryckon’s attire, that Orson pauses.

An amused snort that comes out of his mouth, half-covered by a cough and he looks around him, seeing the Sept’s suddenly full for this time of day.

“Likewise Ser.” The Selmy knight adds after the Westerling knight as he too rises, his expression grim.

His former squire’s words ellicit a few soft /tsks/. “Come now, Ser Ryckon, if you cannot afford a finer set, I would have lent you one.”

The silent heir to Bitterbridge looks at Morgil and offers a nod. Eyebrows faintly raise at Farin’s commentary. And then his green gaze turns to Ryckon. Like Farin, the Caswell has worn fine clothes for the solemn occasion. He makes no comment or retort and watches as fellow Reachknight maskes his way out of the partially finished sept.

For long moments after the prayer is done, Septon Elwood remains fixed where he stands, face taut with the intensity of his devotion.

Then, Ser Morgil’s brave jape ends his reverie.

His gaze upon the Hastwyck knight is stern, his thin mouth pinched. He turns to the altars and moves with slow, measured steps to take up a lighted taper set on the alter before the Father and light one of the many candles there. Moving from altar to altar, he lights a candle upon each in turn: Warrior, Maiden, Mother, Crone, Smith—

He does not stop there. Few light candles before the Stranger. Yet, there are many set there today, and he coaxes one to wavering life. For the Stranger shall have his due today of all days.

Then, Ser Morgil’s brave jape ends his reverie.

“Come now, all who wish to light a candle before the Seven.”

As Lady Bracken approaches, Mylessa slips her arm out from around her husband’s so that she might grasp her cousin’s hands with both of hers instead.

“My lady,” she murmurs quietly, “It eases my heart on this troubled day to share your company.”

The Hastwyck’s japes strain the polite smile already struggling to fix itself on Mylessa’s face. “Will you walk with me to light candles, cousin?”

Ser Oswyn looks between Lord Prester and Ser Ryckon. “Aye,” he says dryly without any further elaboration.

At Septon Elwood’s order, the knight does as he proceeds to light candles for the Seven, although his movements seem oddly sluggish.

Orson looks around, to Septon Elwood leading the group around in vigil. As people move to one side, Orson goes the other.

With his back turned to the Septon, and the vigils and preparations for the inevitable, Orson stands to Mathin’s left.

He leans slightly, and whispers something to Mathin.

Something serious, judging by the man’s tone

A candle is lit before each of the Seven, with Joffrey pausing before the Warrior’s shrine to offer a small quiet prayer. The candles light his handsome face with a solemn expression. The knight then bows to the Septon, nods to Morgil, and makes his departure to prepare for the bloody trial to come.

“The Mother speaks through our Queen,” mumbles Ser Mathin to himself, so at first perhaps only the Baratheon knight Orson can hear.

He says these words once, then again, then again, the volume rising with each successive chant until at last it is enough for all to hear.

“The Mother speaks…through our Queen!”

He lights no candle. He nods to Orson, he turns and he departs.

A sudden swell of voices breaks from the plaza outside, louder and sharper than before, enough to pull attention toward the open doors at once. Ser Morgil seems to hesitate, and consider lighting a candle, at least.

But a squire in Hastwyck colors hurries in, breath quick from the press beyond. “Ser—the King has arrived,” the youth says, explaining that sound. “The queen, too, under guard, and most of the princesses, and half the court besides.” Outside, the crowd surges again. The time draws very near. “And Prince Aemon as well,” the young man adds, sounding much more nervous than his master, “coming behind with his Sworn Brothers.”

That call, too, is heeded without ceremony. Gathering her steps, weaving her way through dusted, neglected floor and stacked stone, Jannia is before the Seven Who Are One. Others might dither, flock to the Father, or the Warrior or the Smith…or, nay, stop in their tracks to hear the feverish pledge of the white-draped lion. Jannia’s lips press into a line, her neck grows taut.

She forces herself to turn away before he has finished. And for all his…assurances, slowly, with deliberate movements, lights a candle to the Mother. If She is present, then she will extend mercy how, and to whom, she might - for before Jannia can make it to the Crone, the news.

Another pause, she resumes her step. Mercy achieves little where there’s no wisdom.

The Counter slips into line, and takes his turn lighting candles at each of the altars, and is halfway between them when the Flamewalker has his cresendoing outburst, and leaves. He is about to light the next candle, when the squire bursts in right after - and the Lord throws solemnity to the side, and hastily finishes lighting his line of wax before a third outburst can interrupt.

Ryckon rolls his eyes at his erstwhile master’s retort, and opens his mouth to shoot back a pithy comment of his own, but seems to think the better of it in all the solemnity of the occasion and merely grumbles instead.

His eyes flick over to Mathin as the singed lion starts suddenly yelling some nonsense, as is his wont, and rolls his eyes even more. He starts with his circuit of candles - but then Morgil is sent for, and he turns in that direction, and like Farin hastily finishes up to rush after him.

“Of course,” Halanna offers a comforting smile to Lady Fell as they move toward the Father’s altar. “May the will of the gods be done.” Her eyes flick toward Ser Morgil, then back to the statue. “And may their grant us truth through their wisdom.”

She is about bow her head when Mathin’s chant catches her ear, and though her brow furrows her expression otherwise does nothing to show if she agrees with the sentiment or not.

As Mathin moves to one direction, Orson goes to another.

To The Mother, of all facets.

He stares at the kindly figure. As the prayer is to leave his lips, the announcement comes.

He sighs in resignation, and moves ahead to the event.

Morgil’s gaze follows Mathin out only for a moment, his expression tightening at the interruption before smoothing back into something harder. At the squire’s news, Morgil gives a single sharp nod. The moment for kneeling has plainly run its course, and the momentary consideration of lighting a taper falls by the wayside. “Good,” he says loudly. “Then I will not keep them waiting.”

Inside the City: Before the Sept

Few visitors visit this small, cobbled plaza, and those that do all make their way into the sept to worship. The stones are kept clear of autumnal mud, since the seven must be respected, but this is facilitated by the scant attendance. Every so often, a septon or an acolyte might choose to exit or enter via the plaza, but little other livens up this location. A pool sits in the centre of the plaza, and the colours that swirl within its water have given it the name of the rainbow pool.

In the section of courtyard where the street ends, a pair of the old benches have been placed for the people of the city to watch the construction, which continues apace. The site is carefully guarded so no one can come too close to King Baelor’s grand design as it creeps ever skyward to the glory of the Seven.

The plaza before Baelor’s half-built sept has become a thing almost swallowed by people. Thousands have packed themselves into every bit of space that can be had, shoulder to shoulder and rank behind rank, held back from the broad center only by determined lines of gold cloaks with staves, curses, and hard shoves where needed. Even that is not enough for many. Men and women have climbed onto benches, walls, carts, and low roofs; boys cling like little monkeys to scaffolds and beams; and more than a few daring souls have hauled themselves up onto the unfinished marble plinth meant one day to bear some holy monument, all for the sake of a better look at the patch of open ground where judgment is soon to be sought in steel.

Raised above that waiting field are the platforms of the court. King Aegon sits upon the foremost of them, looking strangely nonchalant as he converses with Lord Butterwell, the royal steward.

Off to one side, apart and under guard of her own, sits Queen Naerys upon a separate platform with her ladies and companions near at hand. Beyond them is another platform crowded with the weight of court itself: near all the Targaryens, it seems, and no few others besides. Prince Daeron is there, late from Dragonstone, with his consort Mariah; the princesses Elaena and Daena too, the latter present despite her lying-in and despite what protests the maesters may have made. Rumor is already hard at work upon that, claiming she boxed one unfortunate maestersn’s ear and dared them all to stop her, not when her cousin fought this day for the queen’s life and thus his own. Princess Rhaena, however, is not present—whispers are that she has insisted on praying for her cousins at the royal sept.

Around and among them are the small council, great lords, ladies, sworn swords, favorites, whisperers, and all the long train of those who mean to be able, later, to say that they saw it with their own eyes.

Halanna can spy her husband, who is making his way to the King’s contingent, but she elects not to attempt to force her way through such a thick crowd and instead remains with the Fells and the other nobles who have spilled out of the sept. She blinks a bit at the sea of people, lips parted in surprise. “The entire city must be here.”

Elyse has been waiting outside with the court until joined by Ser Joffrey, and like her husband she wears a dress more formal than practical for such an occasion. She is true Reachlady today, in Caswell yellow silks with embroidered accents in gold and an underskirt in deep emerald green. The pair make reverances to the King and then to the Queen as they take their place, Elyse urging them closer to the Queen’s side than that of the King perhaps showing where her allegiances lie in this likely-to-be-tragic affair.

With his brothers about him and gold cloaks moving ahead to clear what little way can be cleared, Ser Morgil Hastwyck comes out from the half-built sept at last and begins his descent by the rough, incomplete steps of pale stone. At once the crowd surges, noise breaking over the plaza in a hard wave. Some shout for the queen, some for the Dragonknight, some only for blood, but much of it is against Hastwyck, including the jeers and curses flung up at him from behind the lines of the goldcloaks as he makes his way toward the waiting field.

He does not seem to answer any of it. By the time he reaches the edge of the open ground under escort, he has only to shrug off his cloak and hand it back without looking. A squire steps in at once with his helm, polished metal crested high with red enamelled dragon scales, and sees it settled into place. Yet for all the armor and preparation, one thing is plain enough to any watching closely: there is still no sword in Morgil’s hand, nor shield brought forward after him.

Also present to witness the grim business of the day is Balian Blackwood. He is seated with his niece, the lady Desmona Corbray, and her son, Gwayne. Ravens of a different flock they may be, yet the three of them watch on together in silent contemplation. Desmona, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, rests a reassuring hand upon her son’s shoulder, a gesture that Balian does not fail to note. Perhaps this is the first time the boy will see one man claim another’s life.

“Watch now, boy,” Balian says to Gwayne, his voice low and steady. “Whatever happens, do not look away.”

“Am I late, husband?” A voice calls out from Orson when he steps out of the half-built sept. He turns to his right, and notices his lady wife, Ryone, arriving with her hands upon her skirts. Her seal dark hair in curls around her face, she casts her grey eyes to the commotion.

“No. They have announced their arrivals. The vigil just ended.” Orson offers his hand, and she links her arm to his.

“Such words. Was it true Ser Aemon means to be her champion?” Orson nods at the question. “Before the Sept? Can there be peace amongst them?” Orson shakes his head at the question.

“These things only end one way, Ryone.” Orson shrugs. She understands the sentence all too well.

“I understand, husband. We are no strangers to blood.”

“Let them, Ryone.” Orson points to their goodcousin. “We’ll be with Mylessa and cousin Aimery. There’s many people around.”

“I trust nothing save the king’s order would keep them away.” Jannia’s tone is of the usual courtly type, polite, controlled, but the frown settled on her brows all too evident. Barely has she finished her sentence ere the crowd’s eruption drowns her voice out.

If her royal mistress Elaena awaits, it would seem she is in no haste and thus her ladies may be afforded to tarry. She clasps her hands before her, tightly, a cursory glance moving from Lady Bracken to the countenances on the platforms. Then to Hastwyck, and back again.

Jon Roxton is here, in his goldcloak and black mail and plate. He moves through the crowd, accompanied by two escorts—Roxton reaches to one of his lieutenants and says something to the man. The officer departs to make one final pass of the lines of goldcloaks holding off the crowd with staves. Jon sees his sister and goodbrother and pushes his way through the throngs of nobles. “Sister, My Lord…” Jon meets Mylessa’s gaze and his his mien becomes as grim as his sister’s. He directs a half glance toward the court. “I wrote to our father—and… Lord Tyrell.” The last revelation is spoken with a weight and reticence very unlike Ser Jon, “I have never balked the protocols of rank of diplomacy—but, I thought our father and our father’s lord need to know of these events as soon as possible—and our sister…”

Prince Aemon comes forward to his side of the field. A squire in white attends close upon him, bearing the tall pale greathelm with its three-headed dragon crest and the knight’s white shield, while Dark Sister hangs at the prince’s hip, a harder note against the bright severity of Kingsguard white. Around him for a few moments are his Sworn Brothers, speaking low as they walk with him toward the field’s edge, their last words lost beneath the crowd’s noise.

Whatever counsel passes there is brief, but there are clasps of hands and nods before they part; whatever the king may think of the brother of his blood and flesh, they are his sworn brothers, and owe him that. Soon enough the white swords break away from him one by one, peeling off to array themselves upon the king’s dais as is their place.

Pretty in her dress of apricot damask and brocade of a deep pomegranate, Lady Arwen Westerling keeps near her mistress, her own husband beside the Prince of Dragonstone, as she tightens the fox-fur mantle round her to keep warm. The Western beauty seems to have adapted well to these new colors, Mariah’s pin at her breast in proud solitude.

Blue-green eyes scan the crowd, offering a polite smile or nod to those she knows. Unreadable as ever, her mask of perfect poise is well in place today. A particular look is offered to those exiting the unfinished Sept. Then all attention falls upon the Dragonknight.

The lord and lady of Felwood emerge from the sept some distance behind Ser Morgil and his Band of the Dragon companions. Aimery checks at the top of the steps, a rock around which the stream of nobles must part, looking out over the sea of those assembled, brows rising.

“Indeed,” he replies drily to Lady Bracken. “His Grace’s city does not mean to miss such a show. Come, my lady. Shall we see you to your lord husband? It is not safe to venture alone into such a press.”

He raises a hand to Jon Roxton as his goodbrother draws near, “A hard day for you, ser, seeing to this crowd. And aye, I have sent word to Storm’s End as well.”

“An entire city come to see a man die,” Raylan says to his aunt Halanna. He is seated with her and his Lord uncle, watching on as his father Blackmane accompanies Morgil Hastwyck from the sept. He leans forward, chin resting on his hands that are clasped, almost as if in prayer.

Calling out to the Dragonknight, Ser Joffrey allows himself a faint smile. “Ser, you are one of the few men who I can never best in battle. I have every faith in you and the Queen’s innocence, as the Gods will prove.” He makes a formal bow. His green gaze does not fall on the other combatant.

Lord Prester emerges from the sept not long after Morgil, and follows him down and into the throng. They make their way across to the open ground, and in the midst of the squire helping to affix his helm, Farin offers the knight a few whispered words, before settling back towards the edge of the line.

Ser Roland Hunter sits in the stands dressed for death, black velvet interrupted by a scattered field of silver arrows in embroidered couching. Around his shoulders is a heavy grey fur cloak against the the damp chill, but he prefers to go bare headed.

On his hand is the usual heavy silver ring displaying the sigil of House Hunter, prominent as he grips the head of a simple oaken cane. He sits alone, for the nonce, watching and listening to a day all gathered are sure to remember for the life.

“Strength, Ser Aemon!”

Orson nods to the Dragonknight while himself and Ryone pass through, towards Lord Fell.

“Cousin.” Orson raises an eyebrow to his cousin Aimery. “We have some knights in mourning, before a blow was struck. Never seen that before.”

Following Morgil and other brothers of the Band, Ser Oswyn stops behind Lord Prester, standing in silence. His gold and purple attire might remind some of his late uncle, the actual founder of the Band, dead in Princess Elaena’s bridal bed a year ago. If there are any who do care for his memory, they remain quiet, as does the nephew, surrounded by the cheers for the Dragonknight.

Otho is among the nobles observing, though he only has a stern expression for Morgil when the knight leaves the sept. The Dragonknight is given a deep node as he approaches the field, the Royce knight saying prayers quietly under his breath. The Vale knight is clad in his dark attire, but for the moment remains quiet.

Raylan Bracken is on his own at present, having not joined his kinsmen in the sept where Hastwyck had held his vigil. Nor is he with Ser Otho.

Instead, the boy has found a spot to watch proceedings from the scaffolding that surrounds the construction of the great sept. It is not so high that he places himself in any peril, but it does afford him a good view of the events to come.

He folds his arms, resting them on the wooden frame before him, as Hastwyck and the Dragonknight take to the field.

Pale as snow and coldly composed, Lady Aisling finds herself among the retinue of Prince Daeron and Princess Mariah, with her husband Ser Aidan at her side. Before the emergence of the combattants, her attention has gone several times to the heavily pregnant Princess Daena, though it seems most unlike her to be concerned about whether her presence is proper or not. However, once Prince Aemon and Ser Morgil appear from within the half-finished sept, her eyes settle upon the former. “It ought to be a foregone conclusion,” she remarks to her husband. “And yet…”

Prince Aemon gives Ser Joffrey and Ser Orson a raised hand in answer and thanks, brief and sure. On the other side of the field, as Farin leans in with his quiet last words, Morgil answers with only a small inclination of his helmeted head, as the puzzle of his lack of sword and shield is solved. A second squire appears, and what he bears is a different weapon entrely: a poleaxe, grim and warlike, its axe blade keen, its hammerhead squat and brutal opposite, and above them both a wicked thrusting spike fit to punch through plate or visor if well-driven. The upper stretch of the haft is shod in steel besides, a weapon made not for show but for the ugly close business of breaking a man in harness.

At the sight of it, more than one murmur stirs through the crowd.

“I have made sure to write to Lucelle, and will do so again this night,” Lady Fell says to her brother as he joins their side. She scans the crowd and listens to its swell as their cheers for the Dragonknight or the Hastwyck knight split unevenly.

She welcomes Ser Orson and his wife as they join them in finding safe passage to their seats amongst the nobles. But to her brother, Jon, she says in a spare, grim tone, “She will have scarcely read the last before the next must arrive. And I fear she will not welcome its news.”

On such occasion, celebration of justice and chivalry it is small wonder Omrys is dressed even finer than usual. Layers upon layers of costly fabrics dyed in all the rainbow colors as piety of the ceremony demands. He wears his sapphire chain, and his chain of Fellows of the Dawn. And his official reeve’s chain, something he usually doesn’t off duty. He is accompanied by his squire Lorence.

For all the piety of the occasion he missed the sept and arrived with royal party. He easily spots the nobles he was looking for, his cousin Aimery a hard man to miss. Omrys makes his way towards him, using his muscular bulk to his advantage in making way.

“Cousin! Jon!” he calls out in greetings as he joins them, “Lady Mylessa, enchanting as ever.” He adds, bowing courteously. “We shall witness some spectacle today, when was the last time Dragonknight fought in single combat.”

Luthor Rivers stands in his black mail, breastplate and golden cloak. He stands near the royal box watching his men and the crowd. Spotting Ser Jon, a nod is hiven as the knight passes on orders to his contingent.

As the combatants arrive Luthor passes word to his men in reserve reinforcong Ser Jon’s men and his own contingent by the royal box.

Ryckon follows behind Morgil and goes to stand beside his fellow brothers of the Band, and fellow Westermen, Ser Oswyn and Lord Prester. Unlike the latter, though, he offers no words to the combatant, instead simply watching with his typical impassive frown.

Mathin has worked his way through the crowds, jostling his way from the doors of Baelor’s Sept til he is upon the City Watch there to keep the peace. His robe has been grasped and pulled, now looking worse for wear than it was some moments before. Despite the manner of his dress, his face is known and the goldcloaks part to let him through.

It has been years since Aemon’s former squire has spoken to his once-knight, years that marked Mathin’s tragedy plain for all the court to see, years that have seen him accused and mocked and sent off to the squalor of Crackclaw Point. His steps bring him out into full view of the royal court and the denizens of King’s Landing and soon bring him aside the Dragonknight.

“Brother,” he calls him, so that only Aemon can hear. “The gods…are with you.”

He places a hand on the tall knight’s shoulder and lets it linger in faith and strength.

Halanna nods at Lady Buckwell’s words. Her fingers touch to the crystal pendant as she casts her gaze toward the royal party, and the Dragonknight. “For truth,” she murmurs, almost to herself. She glances across to her other side, where the Roxtons and the stormlanders seem to be gathering, but she simply listens, waiting for the duel to begin.

Newly arrived in King’s Landing, Ser Jorin Darry finds himself among a clutch of men bearing the colors and sigils of the Riverlands, occasionally exchanging quiet words with them. He wears a solemn expression, but it would be a lie to say there is no anticipation within him. However troubling the circumstance, and opportunity to witness perhaps the greatest Knight of his time in a true contest is not something to be missed. To that end he is also accompanied by a youthful squire, whom he occasionally reaches over to guide away from being jostled or overly separated from him in the crowd. As luck would have it, he is near enough where the retinues emerge from the Sept that he is able to edge closer to where he spots the genuinely familiar face of Jannia Buckwell, though his only words spoken are to keep that squire moving alongside him, even if they are delivered with a paternal grin as the boy practically gawks at the crowd, to say nothing of the procession of the combatants.

“A hard day, my Lord. But we do our duty.” Jon looks about the crowd and lift a hand to his friend Jofffrey Caswell as Joff utters words of encouragement to Prince Aemon.

He turns to his sister, “I only hope this doesn’t go badly for her…”

Jon steps forward. A beam of sunlight hits Roxton and the red dragons and gray stones on his Fellows of the Dawn chain glitters, When Roxton speaks, it is with the voice of a man who commanded men at Starfall and Godsgrace—a booming battlefield voice"Seven save you, my Prince—and our good queen!”

Balon follows along to stand with the others from the Band of the Dragon, folding his arms to watch in silence.

Joffrey comments to Elyse, “He fears the Dragonknight closing in. Thus a weapon of distance and reach. No pun meant, my lady.” He is stoic moreso than usual. “However, when Prince Aemon closes that gap, Ser Morgil shall be done for.” Elyse nods as if understanding all this martial speak.

Blackmane comes down at Morgil’s side, but let’s the man make his preparations without him. When Hastwyck goes on to face the Prince armed and ready, Blackmane comments. “Should’ve denied it.” he says bluntly to Band members near him “Kennoth gave him a chance to deny it.” He clears his throat “Poleaxe? He’s done if Dragonknight get’s inside it with that black bloody sword of his.” He hawks at the ground

Looking towards her fellow Royal companion, Arwen cannot help but softly hum in thought. “Mayhaps it is a blessing in disguise. Once the Dragonknight is victorious, it will be a clear and indisputable sign that all of this is simply slander and folly. Before the eyes of Gods and men, as it seems all of King’s Landing has come.” The beauty softly says, her surety in the Knight Commander completely unimpeachable.

There’s little greeting spared for Lord Aimery, but small smiles to the Baratheons and the Lady Mylessa does Jannia offer, whether caught in the shifting, jostling throng, gripped with anticipation, or not. It might be the crowded environs that stop her from reaching Ser Jon in time; whatever she meant to say or ask, she resigns to silence for he has allegiance to very clearly pledge.

And then, a presence. Turning, feeling eyes upon her, Jannia lightens for the first time this day. “Nephew”, she mouths. Expression swiftly cautioned back to neutrality, she beckons him close.

“Let us spare a prayer while we, and not the blades, still speak. Ser Morgil brought axe to sing against song.”

“Cousin Orson. Omrys,” Lord Felwood greets his Baratheon kinsmen—but absently, for he is intent upon the challenger and challenged now, studying them with the practiced eye of a connoisseur of the knightly arts. As the Hastwyck knight’s poleaxe is brought forward, he grunts in appreciation, smoothing his beard with his free hand, drawing his wife closer to his sheltering bulk with the other as the crowd thickens, “He will try to end this swiftly, Ser Morgil. It is his only chance. If he had tried to play the Dragonknight’s game and draw it out with measure and countermeasure, he would not have lasted long.”

He turns to his companions and nods towards the stands, “Come, we are to escort Lady Bracken to her lord husband.” And he forges ahead, shouldering his way through when he must, opening a path for the others.

“If one believes the Gods take a hand in these matters,” replies Aisling, who after all does not adhere to the Seven. “But yes, I suppose you are right that the outcome will govern public opinion.” She does not, it seems, wish to make any statements regarding the certainty of the Dragonknight’s victory. Indeed, looking at the two men again, she frowns. “I do not like that poleaxe.”

“Aunt Jannia.” Jorin greets in return, along with a deep nod of his head. His lips briefly shift to a familiar, polite smile, but return to a more serious mien but a moment later, as he turns to regard where the combatants make their preparations. “Aye. We’ll see how it serves him.” There is, perhaps, a touch of skepticism in his tone that it will be of much help for Ser Morgil. He does bow his head though, eyes lidding for a moment as he speaks more quietly, “May the Gods grant that justice is swift this day.”

Aemon turns his head to Ser Mathin, and gives him a soft smile, even at such a moment. “That is because they are with my sister, the Queen, ser. They know her innocence,” the Dragonknight says, with unquestionable certainty. Does his gaze turn then to Ser Morgil, on the opposite side of the cleared area? No… but they seem to find King Aegon, on the throne.

And then with a nod, he turns and murmurs to his squire. The greathelm with its white triple dragonhead crest and sweeping white wings he lowers on his head, the white shield he places on his arm. But he keeps his sword at bay, as he sees signs of the High Septon invoking the gods.

Plumm observes Morgil’s preparations with little reaction showing on his face. Trailing movements of the two fighters in the field, there is nonetheless some wariness in his eyes. Still, he remains silent.

The Caswell raises a hand back to the Roxton in greeting but it is brief. There is the bloody business ahead to attend to. As the High Septon looks as if he is to speak, Joffrey once more bows his head. Elyse, likewise, lowers her gaze and murmurs a prayer. “Mother, grant mercy to your servants. Father, grant justice against this false accusation,” she says softly.

in the crowd stands the heir of Honeyholt, dressed in a dark wool cloak over a humble brown vest and pants, held by a braided belt of seven colors. No other colors, no sigils. His face is stern, and his gaze seems fixed on some distant place.

Whispering, he repeats: “Father, be just ... Mother, have mercy ... Warrior, grant strength ... Stranger, embrace whoever comes to your door.”

For all the size of the crowd and all the noise it has made, a change begins to pass through it now, outward from the cleared ground like a ripple through deep water. Men crane for a better look, voices lower, and even those perched on scaffold, rooftop, and unfinished plinth seem to feel the moment drawing tight. On one side stands the Dragonknight with helm and shield made ready, on the other Ser Morgil with his grim long weapon in hand, and between them the open field waits beneath the eyes of gods, the court, and the city alike.

Lady Mylessa hews to her husband’s side in haste as the mood of the crowd shifts now that both combatants stand ready and afield. She may catch Lady Buckwell’s eye as the throng shifts around them, but the press does not permit more than a passing nod of greeting as they move on. The Lady of Felwood likewise looks to catch cousin Arwen’s eye though several rows and hundred of talking heads separate them.

Ryone and Orson make their way through the crowd as well, and Orson spares a look to Aemon and his sword, not unleashed for the world to see.

“Not unless Ser Aemon attacks first. He’s ferocious, the Dragonknight. Had half a mind to get Balon to train under the knight before.” He looks at Balon, by the group of the Band.

The Dragonknight and Ser Morgil exchange a last few words with their companions and well-wishers now before stepping forward, readying themselve.

The crowd’s murmur, an unceasing hum like to that of a great hive, rises at the sight, climbing to a feverish pitch.

And then easing as the stocky youth who is not yet a man grown and yet the High Septon steps forward from where he has been waiting before the King’s seat in the stands. His face, untried by life, is tense underneath an unconvincing facade of serenity.

He stands before both men, his mere presence bringing something like an expectant hush. His voice cracks as he raises it to fill that space:

“We gather here today to see justice done in the eyes of the Gods! May the Seven judge what happens here today and reveal to us the truth! May the Warrior strengthen your arms, ser, and the Mother ensure that there is no malice in your hearts in this hour!”

And as swiftly as that, it is done.

“It is said…the Mother is fiercest…when danger lies near her children.”

These words serve as his parting. Mathin’s arm is withdrawn from the Dragonknight’s shoulder before he makes his way from the field and dissolves into the crowd. He does not bother to watch.

Arwen nods along to Aisling’s words, brows knitting at mention of the poleaxe. She was far better used to battles of words, than arms, but her northern companion was much more learned in such things. Still, she calmed herself. “Skill and Valyrian steel shall make quick work of this, for certes.” She says quietly.

Then her attention is taken by her kin, a quick dip of her head in acknowledgment releasing a few stray golden curls from the jeweled net keeping her locks at bay. Then she catches sight of Lady Bracken, and then Buckwell, and the respective highborn men about them. And then the High Septon speaks and even Arwen cannot help but hold her breath for a moment.

Jon is watchful—yet despite the hush, and thw manner with which all eyes are drawn to the High Septon, Prince Aemon, and Ser Morgil—Jon’s eyes move about the crowd… as the crowd stills and falls silent, several more watchmen and watch officers move in—taking advantage of the momentary stillness to reinforce the contingent guarding the royal booth. “Half the city is here…” Jon looks about the crowd once more—nods to his sister and good brother as they escort Lady Bracken—then pushes through the crowd to take a place with his men—supporting the household guards—guarding the court.

Elaena’s gaze rests upon the High Septon with no visible change of expression, save perhaps the faintest downward press at one corner of her mouth when his voice betrays him. “His Grace chose him for an angel’s voice,” she sighs. “Nature, less devout, has remembered he was a boy.”

The invocation is done. The Dragonknight, having knelt for it, resting his shield on the ground, head bowed, now stands tall and straight. And now he loosens Dark Sister from its sheath.

Ser Morgil Hastwyck, too, rises up from having knelt—though some may have noticed that he did it belatedly, after seeing Prince Aemon do it.

What more is there to say? King Aegon knows: “Fight on!” he calls from his seat, voice raised. The crowd buzzes and shouts. The combatants come forward. Queen Naerys can be seen, hands clasped in prayer, lips moving, but her eyes are on her brother.

Falling in besides Aimery, Omrys moves through the throng on the stated mission of escorting Halanna. “Small chance for Hastwyck no matter the weapon.” He says to Orson. “Look at all of these people, it never bodes well to have such crowd, I should have worn armor as well.” He adds with a chuckle, though his face is less than jovial.

Despite the gravity of the situation, in overhearing Princess Elaena’s words, Aisling’s mouth briefly thins as she presses her lips together to keep a smirk away. Her eyes then linger on Elaena and her sister once more, before she turns back to her husband. “And so it begins,” she remarks, hearing the King’s command.

“Alas”, answers Jannia with a half-sigh to Jorin, tone low. “Fights answer to fortune too, I find, and that one is fickler a mistress than justice. If ever there was any doubt Ser Morgil dearly loves his life…those blades and that spike of the axe ought dispel it.”

From the distance she is at, she catches little and less of her own, royal mistress’s quip. But her bearing, it elicits a faint smile all the same.

“If only”, she continues, “the axeman were the one heedless man here today. Come, let’s move on, towards the platforms. The throng will soon get rowd-”. The king. Jannia urges Jorin on, and begins walking, pushing, elbowing.

The Princess Elaena’s comment soon reprieves the famed Western beauty of the seriousness that had beset her but a moment prior, as a smile reveals she is trying to conceal a chuckle at so astute an observation. If perhaps a bit harsh… well, Royal Prerogative and whatnot. Still, the brief respite is but that, for the day and events are yet to be played out. And then they ready to fight.

The High Septon’s proclamation carries up to Raylan in his elevated position just above the plaza, and the squire squeezes his fingers into a fist.

“Kill him, my prince,” he prays aloud, “let justice be done this day.”

There is no rush in either man at first. Prince Aemon comes on behind the white wall of his shield, Dark Sister low but ready in his right hand, each step measured. Across from him, Morgil advances with the poleaxe held in both gauntleted hands, the long haft giving him reach enough that none watching can mistake his intent: to keep the Dragonknight at the wrong end of the fight for as long as he can.

They close carefully, each testing the other’s line, until Morgil is first to truly commit. The poleaxe comes in with the beginning of a hard cut, enough to draw shield or sword toward the blade—but the motion turns sharp in his hands at the last instant, the cut checked and twisted into a straight thrust of the wicked top-spike, darting in for Prince Aemon through the narrowing space between them.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...Morgil and Aemon trade a furious flurry: Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, yet neither warrior can win through!

Jorin wastes no time in heeding Jannia’s advice, ushering his squire along and aiding Jannia in jostling through the press of the crowd, though he can but hope they arrive at a relatively peaceful place to watch the duel transpire before it is concluded.

“No chance of armor, cousin.” Orson points at Aemon, whom readies Dark Sister. “Not with that for all to see. Mayhaps it will be quick work.” Orson notices something. Something in the blade. Not quick enough to comment on it, as Morgil is one to strike first.

Morgil strikes first, the poleaxe darting, but Aemon meets him at once, shield and sword moving together, and the first hard clash rings out across the field as the crowd shouts. Then they are in motion properly. Morgil catches one stroke from Dark Sister on the steel-cladhaft and shoves off, Aemon pressing in behind shield and steel, but neither man finds the opening he wants in that first furious exchange. Then Aemon tries his own feint, the air whistling from the sharpness of the blade—and then his wrist twists and cuts back the other way isntead, driving at Hastwyck.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, yet neither warrior can win through!

The sharp sound of steel on steel wakes Arros from his trance. His eyes fix upon the dueling knights. He raises his right hand to his heart, tears glittering in his eyes. “May the truth be revealed!” he cries fervently.

Elyse claps as the dance begins, the white-clad knight and his crimson and ash opponent. “For the Queen,” she calls, eyes drifting to the pale face of Naerys and her maids.

“Ser Morgil was wise to choose the polearm. It is a weapon most knights do not train against, much to our folly,” Joffrey says, frowning in thought. “Perhaps I shall rectify this… But it does buy him more time, and time is essential in a duel of this gravity.”

Lord Felwood’s height makes his progress easy to mark through the crowd; he reaches the stands as the invocation ends and waits there for his companions. And when they reach him, he leads the way up again, this time to the Hand even as those the small group passes before crane to look past them.

A brief exchange between Kennoth and Aimery, and then the latter is stepping aside to allow Lady Bracken to take her place beside her husband.

The crowd’s din rises to a fever pitch; both men have donned their helms and advanced into the field now. And instead of trying to find some other place to watch the duel, Lord Felwood simply takes his place near Lord and Lady Bracken, holding out a hand to help Mylessa down beside him, calling to his kinsmen, “Swiftly now, sers. It begins—ah, that was cleverly done!”

And now the deadly dance is joined, and those who had easy confidence may start to wonder if their certainty about whom the gods would find just was misplaced, for Hastwyck is a skilled and brave knight, strong of body and sure of skill… and skill enough, it seems, to match Prince Aemon. King Aegon can be seen leaning forward in his seat, as the poleaxe checks another strike, and the two exchange another set of inconclusive, probing strikes. He moves left ward, tryign to open the smallest gap in the prince’s shield, when he now thrusts again.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...Morgil and Aemon trade a furious flurry: Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, Aemon catches a stroke on his shield, yet neither warrior can win through!

The clash of steel against steel is now matched by the sound of steel against wood, as the white-painted shield of the Lord Commander stops a blow. Then Aemon stabs out with Dark Sister as the poleaxe withdraws, chasing after Hastwyck.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...but Morgil strikes him with a hard blow!

Every clash and ring sends jolts about; none is unaffected. Jannia keeps glancing at the pair’s direction, white facing against the snarling red dragon, her form taut. She need pass by the royal box on her way, and drops in a curtsey as she does. None is likely to notice - her own eyes, however, take in a sight that leaves them peering.

On she goes, suddenly veering to squeeze her way near Luthor. She shan’t trouble him long.

Jannia whispers to Luthor, “Gods ... Hastwyck dies ... ... ... or ... crowd will…”

And at that, the Prince is struck. Jannia rather blanches, and withdraws sharply, eyes looking for Jorin so they may continue, with renewed urgency, to the princess’s side.

Jon Roxton’s eyes are set upon the dueling Prince Aemon and Ser Morgil—thrice they meet, and swing at each other—the clang and hiss of steel draws the eyes of many a young goldcloak, too. Boys and young men who have grown up on tales of the Dragonknight’s valor in Dorne. To look at the Prince now—he seems the very shape and form of a knight who would brave a viper pit to save his king.

Each clash is an explosion of tension, followed by relief, as Arwen carefully watches the duel unfold. And even on a day as grey as this, Dark Sister seams to glimmer as she catches every rare ray of sunlight barely straying through the canopy of clouds overhead. And then the two knights strike again, this time with a hit upon the Prince and a lily-white hand suddenly claps her mouth as a quiet gasp is stifled by the beauty.

Chasing too far, mayhaps—because with at wist of his hands, Hastwyck pushes the thrust out of line, and with the greater reach of his weapon punches back with his wickedly-spiked poleaxe, the point hitting a pauldron hard enough that enamel gives way and steel *CLANGS* at the force. There’s a gasp—but the Dragonknight does not stop or withdraw, stepping in to try and close as the poleaxe withdraws again, sword flashing.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, yet neither warrior can win through!

Ser Morgil backs in time, his axe now catching the blow again, between point and ax head. And now, emboldened, he plants his feet and tries a heavy cut!

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...Morgil and Aemon trade a furious flurry: steel rings and feet shift, yet neither warrior can win through!

“Gods.” This time, it is Ryone who is awed by the Valyrian blade. “You can hear the whistle through the noise of the crowd.”

Aemon is given a hard blow, causing Orson to wince. “Have any of you seen Ser Morgil in battle?” Ryone turns to her husband and goodkin. Orson shakes his head. “Not side by side, but Ser Aemon’s skill is incredible.”

Oswyn observes the duel attentively, the sword against the axe. The two seem well-matched but finally, it is Ser Morgil who gets a first clean hit. Plumm breaks his silence and gasps in surprise but cools down when he sees that the attack did not cleave through armor.

Eyebrows raise on the stoic Ser Joffrey as the first blow is struck by Morgil. “Wise indeed,” he repeats.

The ring of clashing steel is no longer drowned out—the initial surge of wild excitement now gives way to uneasy, stunned silence. This is a contest, well and true. The two knights fight boldly, giving no quarter, probing, slashing, attacking.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Aemon catches a stroke on his shield, Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, and Aemon strikes him with a grievous blow!

“He has already lasted longer than I thought,” says Lady Mylessa to her husband, now sat beside him here by the King’s Hand. “I wager he, too, must be surprised.”

She winces as the Dragonknight shows his might in the next flurry of blows. “I do not imagine Hastwyck will make any good use of whatever grace the gods afford his luck.”

Wyllis watches the exchange with the stillness of a statue, but his eyes shift between the two. He measures the angles, the timing, the choices each man executes on. The two seem well matched, and it is Morgil that lands the first true blow of the duel. His eyes widen as Aemon lands their own.

Loath to abandon a beacon of familiarity in a sea of strangers, Ser Jorin follows as closely behind Jannia as he can manage, dropping in a deep bow as they pass the Royal box and thankful his squire needs no instruction to do the same, even if he does require a moment of redirection from the contest to notice where he is. With the courtesies made, though, Jorin does give a brief nod to Ser Luthor, recognition on his face, but there’s little time to chat before Jannia is on her way again, her nephew following close behind, though sparing what attention he can towards the duel still in progress.

Aemon does not yield the next exchange either. Shield and sword work in concert, the white knight pressing back in at once, and though the poleaxe keeps him out for a few breaths more, Dark Sister finally finds its way through in the flurry, landing a grievous blow that draws the breath from the watching crowd as the blade cuts deep into the rich steel plate vambrace, the harness that King Aegon himself had had the royal smiths make as a gift for Hastwyck as one of his favorites. But deep enough to draw blood? Not by the looks of it, though Hastwyck flinches back with alacrity.

And now the Hastywck knight again becomes careful, the point of the poleaxe weaving well in front of him—before he thrusts again, seeking some opening.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...Morgil and Aemon trade a furious flurry: Aemon catches a stroke on his shield, yet neither warrior can win through!

Aemon keeps the press and makes Morgil yield ground.

As the Dragonknight takes the first blow and the combat intensifies, Princess Daena rises from her seat on the royal platform, only to have her sister Elaena place a hand on her shoulder and plainly direct her to sit back down. She does, and during that exchange neither sister looks away from the deadly dance down below.

Again Omrys follows his cousin’s lead and simply stays at the side of his and Mylessa “Some luck, most he can look forward to is staying alive to take the black. Dance of white brother and the black, how the singers will love it.” He responds to Mylessa without glancing toward her, transfixed by the combat. “Where he was even in battle?” he quips to Orson.

“Dark Sister strikes,” cries Elyse, claping heartily at Aemon’s heavy strike. “Husband, I do not think the Master of the Horse shall have his title for much longer.”

“Seven forbid the king offers it to me. A royal position almost seems a death sentence,” Joffrey replies with a frown to his lady wife. A warning not to repeat what she says, nor his own words. He gives a closed fist of success for the Prince pressing his opponent back. “Well done,” is all he offers.

The shield, white face now marred by multiple blows, catches that thrust as well. Prince Aemon steps right as if to cut at that side—then suddenly darts with nimble speed the opposite way, Dark Sister again biting out, sharp and deadly.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Aemon catches a stroke on his shield, Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, yet neither warrior can win through!

Aemon keeps Morgil on the back foot.

Otho’s stony expression breaks when the fight begins. His gaze is intent on the clash between the two knights and when Morgil lands a blow. But soon Aemon lands a mighty strike and Otho calls out in support of the Dragonknight, “Strike down the liar!”

The flood of fear is quickly dammed as Aemon Targaryen strikes Hastwyck with Dark Sister, though the intensity does elicit a small wince as she turns her head slightly. As such, she is then able to catch the eye of her Roxton-turned-Fell cousin from afar. The sight of kin is always one welcome to this Westerner, especially right now. Her attention is then stolen for a moment by the two Princesses, as she then turns her golden head back towards the fight.

Ser Morgil yields more ground, the poleaxe point still twitching before him as he gives back step after step. Prince Aemon keeps the press on, shield forward and Dark Sister alive behind it, walking the Hastwyck knight down without giving him the opening he wants. They come nearer and nearer the edge of the square, where goldcloaks with pikes and shields hold the crowd at bay.

The Hastwyck knight’s helm turns slightly, one side and then another, gauging just how far back they’ve gone. He yields, he yields… and then he plants his feet, suddenly, and chops down at Aemon, trying to catch him in a moment of imbalance.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Aemon catches a stroke on his shield, and Aemon turns the opening into a grievous blow!

Morgil gives a half-step under Aemon’s steel before setting his guard again.

Jon’s cold, Andal eyes look on as the Dragonknight and Hastwyck meet, again—He grits his teeth as Aemon catches the first blow on his shield. And Roxton hears the very wood of the shield bend and wine. And then the prince offers a reply. Steel crunches as dark sister cleaves fine plate—yet is thwarted in her efforts to sip Hastwayck’s blood.

The corner of her eye catches the princely onslaught, and it lets the air held in her lungs, out. Finding her way up, to the vicinity of the royal sisters, she curtseys, a mere half-step before Ser Jorin. And says nought, for it’s not needed, not now. Other familiar faces, like the ladies Aisling and Arwen, are offered the swiftest nods.

And Lady Buckwell, flanking blood royal and the heir to Darry, settles for watching the dance of death anew. The prince’s advance lifts spirits about oh so tangibly.

“Has he?”

Lord Felwood is leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees, intent upon the duel—but he finds a measure of indulgence for his wife even so, “I have ridden against him but the once, but Ser Morgil is skilled at arms from what I have heard, and both in full harness. It will not be over as easily as that, no matter that the Dragonknight may well be the finest sword in the Seven Realms. Even so—ah, there!”

That exclamation in his deep-chested voice carves through the uneasy hush punctuated by the clash of steel, “See now cousins, Prince Aemon has slipped within his poleaxe’s span. Ser Morgil can retreat only so far.”

*CRACK*

An ominous sound as the axe crashes into the Dragonknight’s shield, but the prince does not falter. It sticks, for just a moment, as Hastwyck tries to pull it out—and that’s when Prince Aemon lifts the shield high, the poleaxe lifting with it, opening up Ser Morgil for the bite of Dark Sister as he thrusts it hard. It lands just beneath the lip of the breastplate, at the red-enamelled scale skirt protecting his hips… and it bites deeper than that, punching through, making a gap, finding flesh. The dark Valyrian steel blade withdraws, blood on its tip, as Hastwyck falters back half a step. But he has only so much room, and so he moves sideways, trying to turn and find an opening. The poleaxe thrusts out again, point threatening.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Relief granted by having arrived at their destination, there’s little reason for Jorin to relax, as he offers another deep bow, not that anyone is likely paying attention. And speaking of attention, Jorin can now turn his attention fully to the contest taking place, watching intently as the Dragonknight presses Ser Morgil. Still, many might argue Ser Morgil has already performed better than many would have expected. Though no doubt those same many would attribute much of it to Ser Hastwyck’s choice of weapon. There is a sharp intake of breath as Ser Aemon slips beneath Morgil’s guard, but the Master of Horse quickly makes it clear the battle continues.

Arwen offers Jannia a greeting in return, her gaze momentarily settling on her friend’s new companion. By his colors alone he’d have to be a Crakehall, a Ryswell or a Darry, and she knew he was no Westerner, nor did his clothes look to be or Northron make or style. But just as quickly as those thought come, they are put to side for now, as the combatants clash again and again.

Another upon the Prince has Arwen clasp her hands in worry, though she does well to steady her face, her lovely visage unmarried by any sign of distress. Soon she is checking on her own Princess, making sure Mariah has all she may need. Perhaps the distraction of duty is simply a comforting one at present…

The thrust draws blood at last, and for a heartbeat it seems the edge of the square may become Ser Morgil’s end. But the Hastwyck knight is not done yet. As he slips sideways to steal room, the poleaxe lashes out in a quick answering strike that catches Prince Aemon on the harness and buys him the breath he needs.

No more than that, but enough. Morgil claws his way back from the very lip of the field, circling off the gold cloaks’ line and into wider ground again, the poleaxe point alive before him as the Dragonknight turns to keep after him.

Queen Naerys does not rise, nor cry out, but her clasped hands tighten hard enough to whiten at the knuckles. Whatever prayer is on her lips falters only once, at the sight of blood on Dark Sister and the answering blow that lets Ser Morgil win space.

But Hastwyck is no coward, it is a knight’s fate to bleed at times. He tries to make sure the Dragonknight remembers it, as he suddenly charges in when he thinks there’s an opening, the poleaxe darting to try and block a line of attack before he tries to bring the hammerhead down on the skull of Prince Aemon!

“Finer than I am I have no qualms says that, sword or lance, poleaxe isn’t even in question, but I am not Dragonknight either.” Omrys starts to defend his opinion, when Aemon slams his opponent grievously again, he quickly glances at Aimery with a grin, “Please don’t tell me you bet on Hastwyck.” He laughs “There will not be enough wood in Fellwood for that sort of behavior.”

But Hastwyck is no coward, it is a knight’s fate to bleed at times. He tries to make sure the Dragonknight remembers it, as he suddenly charges in when he thinks there’s an opening, the poleaxe darting to try and block a line of attack before he tries to bring the hammerhead down on the skull of Prince Aemon. Who manages to slip the blow, give back a pace, and then lash out with Dark Sister!

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Aemon catches a stroke on his shield, Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, yet neither warrior can win through!

Aemon crowds Morgil beneath the threat of steel.

A murmur rises from the line of stave-bearing goldcloaks. Jon stares on as if mesmerized—at the sight of darksister punching through steel as though it were naught but a provincial fool’s cornhusk harness. Dark sister—grows darker still. Jon murmurs a command to his men—“This will be at an end.. soon enough. Hold fast.”

“Ser Aemon’s skill was known, as far as King Baelor’s days.” Orson comments, witnessing the battle before him. Beside him, Ryone stares at Aemon and the blade with fabled intent.

This blow of Hastwyck’s struck falser than the last - is it enough to dissipate all worry? Not when no man’s strength seems sapped, at least to some. Jannia’s mien has gone from politic to icy. Where it not for the oblique glances, she’d look the statue, what with such stillness.

Her hands clasp together, at last, firmly more than with fear. Half a step towards Jorin, at last. “You are the fighter among us two, and others still, my lord of Darry. The prince’s vice…might Ser Morgil escape it.”

The tension in the crowd have got into the knight of house Plumm and he has finally abandoned his attempts in silence. “He bit into the fruit,” Oswyn notes when Aemon’s sword pierces Morgil’s armor.

Aemon slips it, gives back just the pace he must, and answers at once with Dark Sister. Steel flashes, shield turns another threatening stroke, and though Morgil bars the blade before it can bite home, the Hastwyck knight is crowded back under the Prince’s steady, disciplined march. His own steps are just a little slower now, a little halting—and the sharp-eyed can see the drip of blood trickling past the skirt and down into the armor at his thighs.

And so he tries again now, chancing more, suddenly holding his ground, thrusting with all his weight behind it.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...Morgil and Aemon trade a furious flurry: Aemon catches a stroke on his shield until it is battered out of use, but Morgil strikes him with a swift blow!

Aemon gives ground under the pressure, but keeps his line.

Arros stands shaken by this divine sign, his eyes wide with shock. He abruptly turns from the spectacle and makes his way through the crowd. “The shield is… broken,” he stutters, confused.

The shield *CRUNCHES*, the spike drives deep—so deep that the wood gives way, and suddenly with a grunt of effort it’s Ser Morgil who wrenches at the shield rather than letting the poleaxe be controlled, jamming the Dragonknight backwards, backwards—until he abandons the shield entirely, shaking it off!

The crowd gasps as the Dragonknight leaves the problem of the heavy shield for Hastwyck to solve, and instead dashes in, white cloak flowing behind him, one hand pushing at the haft to keep it down, as the other whips Dark Sister scything through the air.

“I wonder if the Dragonknight means to let Hastwyck tire himself out,” Lady Fell says in between the cracks of each blow the knights land against each other. She does not look to either her husband or his Baratheon cousins, transfixed as they are by the milieu below, but the idle question addresses them all equally.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Morgil and Aemon trade a furious flurry: Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, and Morgil strikes him with a swift blow!

The Reachlady lets out a gasp, Elyse drawing her hand to her mouth in shock as Aemon’s brutally set-upon shield finally breaks under the heavy weight of the polearm’s swing. Her husband lets out a gruff grunt of acknowledgment for Morgil’s skill.

“It would seem he has, My Lady of Buckwell. So long as he draws breath, a Knight always has a fighting chance, and Ser Morgil clearly does not lack for skill.” Jorin replies to Jannia, a fist clenching at his waist as for the moment, the advantage seems to turn back towards the Master of Horse.

None can question Hastwyck’s skill or courage, not in that moment when the storied sword—the same that slew the Hell-knight, ended Aemond above the Gods’ Eye, and saved the Conqueror—came sweeping down on him. He lifts the poleaxe’s haft as he twists his body, defeating Aemon’s effort, and blocks it—it bites into the hard wood, but not deep enough. And then Morgil slams the butt end into Prince Aemon’s helm, the steel *CLANG* loud in the plaza, knocking him back a step.

A shake of that helmed head, and Prince Aemon comes on again, undaunted, barely phased. He presses hard.

“I have made some poor wagers in my time,” Lord Felwood counters the Baratheon knight’s jape with a fleeting, distracted smile, half-hidden in his beard, “but never one as poor as that. Gods above, he is bold, Ser Morgil.”

He leans sideways to his wife and directs her gaze, “See there, the blood. If Hastwyck does not try and end this very soon, he is done for. The Dragonknight may have lost his shield but Ser Morgil is losing strength by the moment.”

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...but Aemon strikes him with a hard blow!

Aemon keeps Morgil hard beset.

Jon catches sight of two nobles in the crowd—on familiar—the Lady Buckwell, her mien ashen, and another. A young knight with auburn hair. Jon pushes through the press and halts before the Mistress of Keys and the young knight—not yet known to him. “Wellmet, Lady Buckwell—

She can only nod absent-mindedly and barely in agreement, the Lady Jannia; for all Prince Aemon’s boldness Hatwyck persists, and strikes well. The prince rebuts. A rather shaky breath escapes her lips.

She casts a troubled look to Elaena and Daena next to her, heavy with child, heavier still perhaps with worry. It extends to her peers in royal service…as if to ask a silent question. Pity that there might be no suitable answer.

To Jon, below, she gives a nod of forced firmness, and a tight smile, ere looking back to the field. “My lord of Roxton. One can only pray you are correct.”

“Could be, could be, it isn’t easy handling that shaft and the heavy head, Valyrian steel on the other hand, light as a feather.” Omrys says to Mylessa keeping his eyes on the fighting. He laughs at Aimery’s retort and nods along as he explains the situation

Morgil is bleeding now, and moving a little worse for it, but he does not abandon the poleaxe. He keeps the point working before him, stubbornly hunting one of the few gaps in the princely Kingsguard armor.

Then he darts in with a hard jab for a seam at joint or gap, trying to strike flesh.

Princess Daena has given over any pretense of calm by now. She leans forward upon the platform as if sheer attention might drag the fight one way or another, one hand braced hard against the swell of her belly and the other clenched at her side. Whether checked before by sister or maester matters little now; her gaze does not leave the field for so much as a blink.

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...but Aemon turns the opening into a shattering blow!

Aemon gives Morgil no respite beneath the steel.

One eye on her mistress, Arwen then looks towards the Princess Daena, as her own gaze is brought back to the field of battle before them. For how else would one describe what unfolding here?

Still, now the beauty had two Princesses to worry about, which thankfully took her attentions from the fight once more.

The blow lands like doom. Morgil reels under it, as Dark Sister finds that gashed vambrace and now bites deep enough to draw blood, blood soon dripping down his forearm. For a moment he seems at a loss, no doubt gritting his teeth in pain… but he is not one to give up; his life depends on it.

So he closes. Not to trade another measured set of blows, but to make a snare of the poleaxe itself. He jams the haft across and in, trying to catch Prince Aemon up with it and use sheer leverage, weight, and sudden nearness to wrench him off balance and throw him hard to the ground. There’s gasps and cries from the crowd.

Joffrey claps more forcefully now, gloved hands coming together. “Warrior’s favor be with you,” he calls out as Aemon once more strikes.

Elyse, pointing and clutching to Joffrey’s arm with her other hand, notes the blood and broken steel of Morgil’s enameled armor. “Look, the Dragonknight almost has him in twain!”

The Dragonknight sees the effort the instant before it ocmes, turns with it instead of against it, and denies Morgil the close press he needs. The haft is knocked off its line, the throw never comes, and the Dragonknight slips free of the snare before it can become a fall.

There is no pause in him after that. Aemon gives back just enough room to keep the poleaxe from mastering him, then comes on again at once, forcing Morgil back out of the grapple and into the kind of fight he no longer has much blood left to win. Dark Sister sings as it cuts through the air.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...and Aemon turns the opening into a grievous blow!

Again Aisling finds her attention divided between the royal platform and the two men locked in battle. Briefly, she leans in to her husband and tensely whispers something. Just then, the deadly beauty of the Valyrian steel blade cuts not only through air but the blow lands and it is a terrible one indeed.

Noise from the crowd alerts Lady Fell’s attention to where the defiant Princess Daena now stands—but before she can question the heavily pregnant woman’s wellbeing, another collective cry jerks her gaze back to the field. “It seems he has wits enough about him to follow your thoughts on the matter, my lord,” she notes to her husband.

But the Dragonknight seems well ready for that gap to close. “He’s hastened the end, to be sure.”

Without opportunity for introduction, the Heir to Darry offers a polite nod of greeting to Jon, tearing his gaze away from the battle for a moment to do so, before it swiftly turns back. “Ah, and the tide turns again, and more strongly in the Dragonknight’s favor.” But it is not over yet. Jorin recalls that many a fight has been won with a last, desperate effort, or at least so elder, more battle-worn knights have told him.

Dark Sister bites deep, and Morgil’s cry of pain can be heard as now the near-black blade cuts through the scale skirt into Morgil’s hip between breastplate and leg harness, and this time Prince Aemon does not press at once for the finish.

Instead he draws back half a pace, blade red at its edge, not presing his advantage. His voice booms out of his helm, carrying clear across the field : “Yield, Ser Morgil! Yield, and withdraw your false words against the Queen.”

The crowd surges and Jon turns from Jorin and Jannia. “He’s spilling his life’s blood down his leg—and… Seven, the Prnce is offering Morgil mercy!” Jon stares on at the Prince and Hastwyck, ‘Recant, Ser! Withdraw your accusation and take the black!”

“His wick hast indeed burned to the stump.” Omrys unthinkingly contributes to what he imagined was a word play on Mylessa’s end. He is taken out of the situation by sheer chivalry of Dragonknight’s offer and equally unthinkingly he yells “Yield!”

Otho watches intently as the Dragonknight and Dark Sister keep up the attack. When Aemon gives Morgil the chance to recant, the Royce knight glares towards the Hastwyck. Definitely curious to see the man’s response, a stern expression remains etched on his face.

Though her vanity ensure she does not look it, Arwen is still a mother of five, including twins and the youngest being born amid a riot. As such, the woman could not help but now devote most of her attention to the Royal Platform, sharing a quick look with the Lady Aisling. Still, Aemon speaking briefly steals her gaze, wincing at the blood before she is once more doing all she could there where she can be of more use.

Hearing his friend start the cry, Joffrey picks it up. “Take the black,” he echoes Jon, calling out in his deep bass tones.

It really is no news to one with a pair of eyes; but Jannia, allowed a small smidge of calm as the prince seems like to make the lordling buckle, leans forward oh so slightly, to catch Elaena’s ear. Aemon’s favour to grace over -or before ?- death stills her, however. If only for some moments. “The dishonour is washed off, Your Grace.” Does a woman like Elaena need the reassurance? Likely not, but her lady puts it forth all the same.

And stands up anew, glancing at Jorin, without stepping backwards. She leaves it to other to pledge for each cause.

*others

Roland remains seated, having shown little expression besides rapt attention throughout the duel. While others begin to shout for Morgil to save his own life, the Hunter says nothing.

Morgil answers only with a sharp shake of his helmed head. He looks once to the king, finds no comfort there as Aegon grimly looks on, and then charges the Dragonknight head-on!

Morgil attacks Aemon with his poleaxe…

...and strikes him with a hard blow!

“Finish it, my Prince!” Raylan cries from the scaffolding, punching a fist in the year. He is standing now, his lip curled in bloodlust…

...but then Morgil rallies, and strikes Prince Aemon with a hard blow of his poleaxe. Raylan places his hands behind his head in exasperation, certain the duel was about to end.

The ferocity of the charge—halting though his steps may be—catches Aemon out as his offer of mercy is rejected. He lurches back, out of the way, and the head of the poleaxe *CLANGS* against the scale-embossed breastplate, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Hastwyck follows that by trying to bowl him over, crowding, perhaps thinking to trip or throw him, but somehow he escapes it, a flurry of steel and white silk. Hastwyck chases after relentless, burning his reserves, the poleaxe thrusting, hammering, and Aemon gives way, gives way.

Until he doesn’t.

Aemon attacks Morgil with Dark Sister…

...Aemon and Morgil trade a furious flurry: Morgil bars a stroke with his poleaxe, but Aemon strikes him with a shattering blow!

Morgil is defeated!

Almost silent throughout it all, now Aisling gasps as Morgil refuses to yield and instead makes a last, ferocious attempt at saving his life, striking the Dragonknight with a wild blow from his poleaxe. Her pale skin somehow manages to lose even a little more colour as Aemon is pushed backwards.

Roxton catches sight of Lady Buckwell exchanging words with mistress, Princess Elaena. Jon catches only a bit of the conversation—yet the intent is clear. Where he and Joff seek to end this by calling upon their fellow Reachknight to yield and serve the realm on the Wall, Jannia seeks to use her influence and repute to win over her mistress—and mayhaps her mistress’s kin.

Then, Hastwyck rushed the Prince. “Roxton curses. Thrice-damned FOOL!” He pushes through the press to join his men once more. “If the crowd surges circle about the ladies and their ladies’ ladies… see them safely back to the Red Keep.”

Turning her head at the gasp, Arwen blanches along with Aisling, her own lily-white skin near pallid now. But then both shock and relief wash over her, returning a rosiness to her cheeks, as the Dragonknight strikes Morgil Hastwyck down, a relieved sigh, almost a soft cheer escaping the beauty’s lips. “It’s over…” She whispers softly, as the corners of her mouth pull slightly upward.

Aemon’s sword sweeps down to be checked. Morgil, spent and stubborn and still deadly, takes it, bringing the poleaxe across to bar the stroke. That is what the Dragonknight wanted. In the same instant, Prince Aemon’s free hand lashes out and catches the haft, and with a hard wrench he drags weapon and wielder in together, pulling Morgil off the weakening lead leg that can no longer save him.

Dark Sister does the rest. The near-black blade thrusts up into the smallest gap left him, between the lifted helm and the gorget beneath, punching through chain, leather, and the flesh they guard. It is a clean, terrible stroke, the sort that ends a fight at once. Morgil’s last charge breaks upon it, and the Master of Horse falls to his knees, a hand lifting to try and pull out the blade—and then drops, as the rest of him does.

A moment’s silence, and then a roar from the crowd.

“Gods, the man means to fight to the death.” Jorin shakes his head in mild disbelief. Even more so when Morgil rallies, seeming to press the Dragonknight, but only for a few more moments. And when Dark Sister sings the final note of this particular song, the heir to Darry gives a nod, “So it is finished. The Gods have rendered their judgment.” But while there is a certain finality in his words, his eyes are already turning away from the battle to watch the crowd, and one hand reaches to clasp his squire’s shoulder, speaking emphatically, “Stay close and be mindful.” He’s alert now, waiting to see how the crowd reacts, and looking to see where he might need to be to aid in seeing the ladies around him to safety.

“Aemon! The Dragonknight! The Queen!” Elyse calls, loud and proudly proclaiming her loyalties.

Joffrey claps once more for the Prince’s victory and the Queen’s innocence. “Well struck, my prince! The Warrior and Father favor you and Her Grace!”

“Should have denied it.” Othan hawks a gob at the ground again. He looks to the box where his brother is located and scratches his stubble yet again. “Come brothers, let us drink in memory of our fallen leader!” he sees Oswyn “Leaders! Let us celebrate them, and pity the next one.”

Jannia herself seems to have no need to add to the chorus, for the nonce. Her eyes follow Hastwyck, down, down. And then, briefly close. With a nod, perhaps to Jorin, perhaps to Arwen, mayhap simply to herself, she resumes her watch of the princesses, stealing glances at the king and queen.

“The Seven”, she offers at last, “have mercy on souls dark and astray.”

For the space of a heartbeat, King Aegon does not move. Then, as the roar rises up from the plaza and all eyes turn toward the royal platforms, he forces himself to his feet and throws up an arm in salute to his brother’s victory, his face set in a too-wide grin. If there is strain in it, the crowd is too loud and too hungry for signs to care; the king stands, and the realm is given its answer.

Queen Naerys has no such performance in her. Relief breaks over her all at once, tears spilling freely as her clasped hands rise to her mouth. For a few moments she can only weep there openly, before gods and court and city alike, while below her brother stands victorious. The brother who, almost gently, pulls Dark Sister from the fallen body of Ser Morgil Hastwyck, and lingers over it a moment, head bowed as if offering a prayer for the man who would have condemned him and his sister alike, before he turns and raises the bloodied sword in salute to Naerys.

Lady Bracken’s face is a little pale, at the end—-perhaps the fight was much closer than she thought it might be. She swallows, her hand delicately resting in her husband’s arm as though seeking a bit of protection from the fight behind his shoulder. “The Seven have affirmed Her Grace’s innocence and fidelity,” she says once she has her voice again. “And so too Prince Aemon’s sword.” She glances from the Hand over toward the King and his kin, gauging their responses, and smiling when she sees that the King is smiling—-whether or not he wants to.

The cheer of the crowd only reinforces what Arwen had been saying and helps to further calm her nerves, as tension is replaced with jubilation, the beauty shares a glance with Jannia and soon follows suit, seeing to Mariah and Daena to the best of her abilities, while keeping an eye on Their Graces.

Ryckon’s eyes widen at Aemon’s offer of mercy, and when Morgil rejects it and charges instead, Ryckon winces and inhales sharply, as if he had just pricked his finger. And when that charge proves to be the Master of Horse’s doom and the man falls and dies, he frowns and sighs but looks utterly unsurprised. “Should have denied it,” he agrees with Othan. “Should have taken the black, just now. Time and time again, he was offered a road back from ruin, and time and time again he refused it.”

Lady Mylessa does not join the cheers of the crowd, though she does not hesitate to speak well of the Dragonknight’s victory. “A fairer fight could not have been fought,” she says on the heels of Lady Bracken’s observation. “There can be no doubt the Seven’s will has been done today.”

Having wandered aimlessly while the crowd shouted around him, he does not know where his steps have led him. But when he raises his head, he finds himself facing the Lady Westerling.

“Is it over? Did the White Dragonknight execute only the man, or did he also bring an end to the lies he had spoken?”

Omrys looks upon the true mastery of the blade, and says not a word. King rises and Queen weeps and Omrys still only looks upon Dragonknight. As Aemon raises his sword blood glistening on black blade Omrys shouts from the top of his lungs “DRAGON! KNIGHT!” It is not for show or for the audience, he simply can’t control his emotions seeing such a bout of combat “DRAGON! KNIGHT! DRAGON! KNIGHT!”

Lord Prester, likewise, has no such performance as the King, in him. Those who look upon the Counter’s countenance will find no pity, no remorse, no cheer, and no despair. Only a quiet acceptance, and a tensing of his facial muscles that suggest that whatever the Lord finds of this result, he is loathe to share it with the city.

Princess Elaena shows her own relief at her cousins’ survival, in her own way, as she spies the king’s false face. “His Grace has mastered certain arts,” she remarks to Daena, “but not yet the difficult skill of looking genuinely pleased for his brother and sister.”

Daena, pale from the tension of the fight and her engagement, starts to laugh aloud—and then the sound is strangled by surprise, and only starts again after a moment. “Damn you, sister. You’ve broken my water with that one.” And then she winces, for a moment, and turns to the others. “Help me up and out. It’s time, it seems.”

From his vantage point, Raylan watches the killing blow fall. The hatred for Morgil that once consumed him drains away, as swiftly as the lifeblood spilling from the stricken knight onto the cobbles beneath the Dragonknight’s boots.

Raylan sees his father spit; a meagre judgment of Hastwyck?s bold display. He frowns at the gesture, absently tapping the wooden frame before him.

Then he begins his descent, moving to rejoin Ser Otho, who had watched the event from the ground below.

Allowing himself a moment of grim satisfaction when Prince Aemon prevails, Morgil’s body has barely hit the stones of the plaza when his focus shifts to the crowd and his men holding them back.

“Clear paths for the nobles to exit,” he calls to those of his men near the royal box, before leading a group himself pushing back the croud to open corridors out of the plaza.

Far off to the side, where she most certainly has been watching the happenings for a time, Nerys Hill merely lifts her brow at Morgil’s rejection of the Dragonknight’s offer. As the source—or at least, /a/ source—of the scandalous rumor surrounding the Queen is slain, the young maiden stands with a face that could be carved from marble for all the emotion it betrays. She neither cheers, nor faints, nor seems disgusted at the brutal slaying before one and all. The Prester bastard simply adjusts her inversely-colored fur mantle, which had begun to slip, and stares unblinkingly at the bloodshed for a long moment.

“No slander of royal blood,” Oswyn grumbles, seeing demise of Ser Morgil. “Aye, let’s drink.” The Plumm replies to Othan. “My lord cousin will have to hear about what happened today.”

“Cleverly done!”

The crowd’s roar swells loud enough that even Lord Felwood’s exclamation is lost in its tide. He stares at that tableau a moment longer—Ser Morgil fallen to his knees, then crumpling, his weight dragging him off Dark Sister, its near-black length crimson with blood, the dragon’s colours proclaiming the Dragon Queen’s innocence—as if to commit it to memory, and there is something almost wistful in that look.

Then, he stands, holding out a hand to his wife, “The Queen’s innocence is beyond doubt now. Come, my lady. Before the crowd becomes unmanageable. Seeing blood spilt can be a heady wine for many.”

He says it complacently enough; there is a certain self-assurance there that may well be foolish even for a man like him given the thousands gathered here.

Obeying his great-uncle to the end, Gwayne Corbray does not take his eyes from the contest; he watches intently as the white knight delivers the killing blow to the Queen’s accuser. Beside him, his mother Desmona gasps, then lowers her head in apparent prayer at Hastwyck’s demise.

By the Old Gods and the new, justice has been done this day.

Balian Blackwood gives a single nod before taking his niece gently by the arm.

“Come,” he says, “let us return you both to the Keep.”

This time - the first one today, the bloodshed be damned - Lady Buckwell can’t stifle a gasp. She moves forth, to offer the princess a hand, eyeing her and her royal sister for further instruction. “Make way, let us all who can’t aid make way. Ser Jorin, open our way, swiftly.”

Sharing a nod with her actual mistress and receiving permission from Mariah, Arwen goes to join and help with the Princess Daena’s labors, at least until the former Queen is brought back to the comfort of her chambers. The future Lady of the Crag nods and comes to help her friend as Jannia seizes control of the chaotic situation.

The commotion among the princesses that follows draws the attention of their kin, the Prince of Dragonstone and the Princess Mariah. It’s the latter who seems to realize what’s going on, first, and stands up. “We’ll have another cousin soon, my love,” she says, urging Daeron up. “We’ll send help.” And Daeron, once aware, having watched so intently the duel between Ser Morgil and Prince Aemon that he’d been quiet the entire time, is sharp and quick—an order sent to the nearest seargent to apprise the City Watch to get a palanquin ready and escorted through a way opened by them, to take her on to the Red Keep. And then Mariah adds to to two of her companions, “Aisling, Arwen, hurry on and offer your help. I must see to Naerys.”

Lady Fell comes to her feet quickly, hand in her husband’s. “I must write to my sister immedately,” she agrees in a quiet murmur that extends into gently spoken good-byes to Lady Bracken and the Baratheon cousins in their company.

Barely has the relief over the Dragonknight’s victory had time to register on Aisling’s face when she hears the way Princess Daena’s laughter cuts off. For a moment, her expression is bewildered, but then Mariah’s voice sets her in motion and she hurries along with Lady Arwen to join those offering their assistance.

Jon pushes through the crowd in an effort to catch his good brother and sister, he glances toward Morgil’s broken body once more—and issues commands to two of his men. “See that you secure his body—and his harness.” Jon glances to his man, Ser Karlan. “Karlan, ses that is is done. Whatever Hastwyck was—he was kin to my sister. See that the silent sisters take him into their care, and kill any man who tries to despoil or steal from his remains.”

Jorin catches the Princesses’ words, and blinks in only momentary shock. Still he is already in motion before the words have completely left Jannia’s lips, marking what he judges the swiftest route, and moving out ahead and shouting in a voice not-unaccustomed to command, “MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY FOR THE PRINCESS!” While he tries to minimize how much force he uses in moving people aside, the situation does not call for overmuch restraint, to his mind.

“One fewer false knight, and the world is richer for it,” Otho states grimly as he looks to the fallen form of Morgil. The commotion in the royal box catches his attention, the Valeman frowns, but looks to see Jorin, and is shocked to see the familiar face, “Jorin?!” he exclaims but jumps out of the way at the Darry knight’s call and works to help move people out of the way, utilizing his large frame if he must.

Caswell’s heir picks up the hue and cry. “MAKE WAY FOR THE PRINCESS,” Joffrey booms in his showman’s carried voice. He makes sure he and Elyse both clear away from any coming royalty.

“This crowd seems to fall around our ears!” Ryone admits, hands entwined with her husbands.

“Thank the Gods Ser Aemon wom. Imagine if he lost. Come” Ser Orson guides her across the crowds, past and away from the nobles.

Hearing the cry go up to make way for the princess, Luthor calls out “HERE! BRING HER HERE!” as his men push a path through the crowd to the open streets beyond.

Elaena rises without haste and without fluster, but her eyes are sharp now upon her sister and those rushing to aid her. If she feels any guilt for the jest that helped bring this on, she gives no sign of it; she is too practical for such things, helping Daena up with other hands, commanding courtiers out of the way.

As his lady wife departs at Princess Mariah’s behest, Ser Aidan Dayne remains with her and Prince Daeron, though there’s an anxiousness across his face that has been there since the trial began, and now has no reason to depart. “I will escort you to the queen,” he tells the royal pair, and is joined by otehrs of their household as Naerys and Aemon are now together. Inded, the queen openly hugs her armored brother, standing tall over her.

The king looks on, face reddening… and turns away, commanding his Kingsguard to escort him back to the Red Keep after the rest of the royal party.

“Our brothers have the right of it, ser,” Ryckon says to Farin. “Shall we drink off this disgraceful day and plot what is next for our merry little band?” But then his head turns to the commotion, and he hears the shouts to make way for the princess. “No, never mind that, something is happening.”

He rushes through the throngs to Luthor, goldcloaks making way for him when they see him. “Commander,” he greets by way of reporting for duty.

Now one of several ushering along, with what alacrity Princess Daena’s station and temperament even permit, Jannia is pleased enough - the dead Hastwyck, hovered over by goldcloaks now almost forgotten. The path does, indeed, clear with the speed it ought to.

“The Grand Maester will be easily fetched. Might we”, she begins quietly to Elaena “send word to the ladies Kera and Len-”. No, Ser Luthor’s call takes precedence, and the gift, almost, what with this tremendous crowd, of open space for the princess in her labours cannot be ignored. The House of the Dragon has left behind an indignity…by the day’s end, they might pair that pleasure with the joy of a babe.

With so many yelling to make way for the princess, even one who is decidedly not in the way may feel compelled to look over. Nerys glances at the entourage, but gives it little focus, as everyone seems well enough from where she stands. Of greater interest to her is the king’s reaction, followed closely by those of the Small Council, ending with her father’s face. She quirks an eyebrow, clearly expecting him to see her and understand her silent query.

She pays absolutely no heed to her dour septa, who stands behind the maiden with her face buried in her hands, praying loudly.

Bidding farewall to Fells and other Baratheons, Omrys bows very deeply to Halanna and her husband the Hand. “Lord Bracken, I am in need of your time for an official matter, send for me at your convenience.” He bows again and depart the box, telling to Lorence quite loudly, “Let’s see if your father and that commander of his have any need of our swords!”

Together with Aisling and Jannia, Arwen helps guide the Princess from the Royal Platform, carefully, and back towards the Red Keep. The cries of knights to make way cannot help but elicit some sense of chivalric romanticism even in so cynical a heart, but all that pales considerably to task at hand.

“Come now, my Princess. Your loyal knights make way for you, as does the cheering crowd.” She offers with a dazzling smile as she helps to keep the Royal upright and regal, as much as one can during childbirth, of course.

Jon, on hearing Luthor’s voice, pushes through the crowd and falls in beside Ryckong. “Ser Luthor. Should we fetch One-Link?”

As the rest of the court sees to the more pressing matter of a Princess’ labor, Lord Prester sets himself to the thankless task of seeing to Ser Morgil’s collection, standing over the fallen captain to ensure he is not pilfered in the great panic - before that task is taken over by goldcloks, at his cousin’s and Roxton’s commands. He ushers over a septon, instead, to remain close by for final rites.

Ryckon then addresses him, before rushing off himself - leaving Farin alone, to look down at Morgil’s fallen form. “How…wasteful,” he intones towards the figure, as if Morgil can still hear him.

“Otho!” Jorin catches his name, and recognizes the one calling it with a bit of relief in his eyes. As he pulls alongside the Valeman there is a brief glance towards him that speaks of disbelief and mild chagrin and likely a conversation to be had after more pressing matters are dealt with. Hearing Ser Luthor’s call, Jorin indicates the path to Ser Otho and subtly shifts his course to bring them to the Commander of the Goldcloaks. Thankfully, the crowd thins relatively obediently.

Ryckon then addresses him, before rushing off himself - leaving Farin alone, to look down at Morgil’s fallen form. “How…wasteful,” he intones towards the figure, as if Morgil can still hear him. A glance upward, and his eyes find his daughter’s, across some space. He holds it for a moment, and then shakes his head slightly - so little else can be communicated through the distance, but it is enough.

Turning to Ryckon, Luthor says, “Lead the royal party this way, I’ll gather the lancers to ride escort for them to the Red Keep.”

Hearing both Luthor and Jorin, Otho nods to the Darry heir, “Aye,” in the affirmative and calls out to the crowd, once more breaking out his old Goldcloak voice, “Clear the way!” nodding to Luthor and doing his best to help make the path safe to travel.

Arros says, “did i miss some official to directly state that the trial is over and some conclusive words?”

“Come, dear husband, let us travel to a safe place and offer prayers to the Mother. Both for her dear servant Naerys but for the babe to come.” Elyse touches Joffrey on the arm and they start to travel another direction to leave the pathways cleasr for the Princess.

The field begins to break apart at once: gold cloaks over the dead, royals in motion, and one princess hurried through the crowd while the city still roars for another’s victory. By the time paths are opened and the first nobles begin to withdraw, the plaza is already alive with a dozen versions of what has just happened and what must happen next.

The Hand acknowledges Omrys’s request with a nod, his hand on Halanna’s back as the pair turn to follow the King in low conversation with each other. Bracken guards fall in behind them, augmenting the rear of the royal procession—-and they seem relieved to do so, no doubt concerned that the crowd may yet become… overly boisterous.

Ryckon nods curtly and decisively to Luthor’s command. “Yes, ser.” After but a brief thought he adds, “Best have one ride ahead to the Keep too, that a place might be readied for her and the maesters prepared. You!” He turns to a goldcloak man-at-arms standing beside him, and commands him in turn, “give me your cloak.”

The bewildered man does as ordered, handing over his cloak, which Ryckon hastily fastens about his shoulders before trying to push his way through the commotion between the royal party and the space that has been cleared for them, looking to link up with any of the knights that might be at the head of that group. “THIS WAY, HIGHNESSES! THIS WAY TO THE WATCH!”

Nerys gives one small nod to her father’s silent response, then looks about for any familiar faces belonging to those who are not occupied with Very Important Business (TM).

Jon nods to Luthor and follows Ryckon’s lead. He listens to Ryckon, and then nods. “I’ll ride ahead and see that a place is readied and the Maesters are prepared, Ser! Leynerd! My Horse!” The boy finds a horse in short order. Jon pulls himself into his saddle and rides off at a breakneck pace, sending several commoners reeling as he races past them, his horse tearing down the hill.

As Jon races away and people rush in some kind of commotion Omrys rips his sword out for no particular reason and looks around “Lance, get the horses!” he yells as he sees bulk of the royal party leave in a hurry as well.

“The last stretch then.” By now, Jannia’s voice is schooled into steadiness. She may be of the adventurous sort, the defiant princess, but womanly fuss and terror have never featured overmuch in her household. “We’re counting moments to the palanquin and it’s departure.” When the city sees Her Grace again, she’ll be a mother twice over, to be sure, and they can all exult in her fortune, and wash the taste of Morgil Hastwyck’s blackened name off their tongues.

Mayhaps most lofty personages will seal the good fortune with their blessings…mayhaps. What mere vassal and liege man, high or low, can know what all will unfold within the walls of Maegor’s, in the gilded chambers of the dragons, masters of the land…and once more, today, punishers of treachery and folly.