Though the weather has been slightly overbearing at times, the tourney for the Dalt siblings has still continued throughout the day. The spectators sit on a hastily constructed stand—from which are hung banners of purple strewn with lemons—intently watching each tilt. A constant commotion from the crowd contests with the thundering of hooves and the, the crack as lance meets shield.
The newlywed couples are seated in a place of honour, the Knight of Lemonwood and his wife on either side. Other close relatives, including the Blackmonts and of course the Wyls and the Santagars are seated nearby, as well as personal friends and acquaintances.
At the start of the day, the field was full of knights and squires alike, but by now there are but four left—the famed Prince, Rhodry Martell, and the knights Sebaston Vaith, Gorlas Santagar, and Felix Sand.
As the trumpets are blown, the jousting is signalled to resume.
And now he waits in the shade of his pavilion, grooms and squires waiting on him and his fierce warhorse as he’s clad in his steel armor embellished with copper.
ARMOR, COURT, and ME
Sebaston’s done well to sail through the day. Perhaps it’s that not all better than he have made the trek to Lemonwood, but he’s never made it through to the semi-finals, and seems to be content and even slightly proud to have made it through the day. Having only joined the nuptials after rooting out smugglers from a nearby cove yesterday on behalf of the warden, he’s readied atop his sandsteed in scaled armour and a quickly prepared shield of yellow for both Blackmont and Vaith: though may very well have been borrowed from the Dalts. Nevertheless: the young man holds firm before the next ride commences.
Tall and burly and unlike any Dornish stock is Ser Felix Sand: a step-cousin of the Dalts born in scandal who’s nevertheless become the favourite to win the day for Lemonwood once all the other knights have been whittled down. Ready in armour that is more chainmail of beyond the Red Mountains than anything else, the russet-bearded bastard of Drinkwater but awaits the call to ride on.
A lone northerner is cramped into the high place of the Dalts, Santagars, and Wyls beside. Josella Mallister is pleased to have a sevenday away from her Riverlander kith and kin for her dear friend’s wedding, and further still to be watched over by young Alesia Dalt’s septa rather than her own ailing chaperone too frail to make the journey. In a lovely sandsilk dress of indigo that’s as much Dalt as Mallister, she smiles warmly besides the newly-wedded heir to Lemonwood and is content to simply enjoy a day freely talking with her friend more than watching the tournament.
Ravenna Dalt sits under the shade of the canopy of the stand, looking at the contestants curiously. A look of slight boredom is present on her face, and she sighs loudly. She looks up to where her cousin is, then back, and rests her head on her hands.
Gorlas Santagar flexes his fingers in his gauntlet, pacing the floor. Clearly past victories have given him some level of confidence, but on his face is a look of apprehension. He waves off a squire and halts, looking around at his opponents, and then begins to pace again.
The herald moves towards a raised platform, as the trumpets blow once more. Then, he announces, “For the first the final matches, we shall have Ser Sebaston Vaith against Ser Gorlas Santagar!”
Sebaston’s steed kicks up a cloud of dust behind him on the ground quickly readied for the tourney—but that does not startle him. A lance in the yellow and black of his wife’s house is raised as he spurs his horse faster. Gorlas is a cousin, and he has fallen to him before—but that means naught. With determination, he meets the Santagar.
Gorlas digs his spurs into his horse, urging it on, towards his cousin. He steadies the lance, levels it with Sebaston’s shield. As the horse pounds closer, he holds his breath, hoping for a swift victory.
Gorlas makes a solid impact against his opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.
Sebaston strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Gorlas finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
As his horse canters, Sebaston’s lance is the truest of the two knights. He does have to break a mask of hardenedness to wince as the man jolts off the saddle, but rides on ably enough and gives a small salute to his wife in the stands before it’s back to the pavillion.
Gorlas lands on the ground with a loud thump, cursing under his breath. After landing in the mud, he pushes himself to his feet. He mutters a few choice words beneath his breath and heads off to his pavilion.
The herald returns to announce the next match: “Prince Rhodry Martell, against Ser Felix Sand!”
Ser Felix has at least lived longer than some of the greener knights on the pitch to at least better hide being fazed at facing off against the infamous prince. But he’s faced worse foes, and gives the Martell a curt nod from across the field when their names are called out. Onwards, the Dalt sworn sword rides until he and the royal scion are at one another.
Ravenna takes a sip of wine from a goblet, watching intently as the lances shatter and Gorlas falls from his horse. She turns to watch as Ser Sebaston rides back to his pavilion, and listens as the Herald shouts out the next match. Her face still shows boredom, but she looks a bit more interested now than she did before.
Applause and the changing of hands of wagers follow the result as Vaith sends Santagar tumbling in the dry, dusty heat of the day. “Vaith looks as hungry as those leopards on his shield,” opines one old knight can be heard remarking to his wife, and then turns to make a wager on the victor. But the day’s not decided, not yet, and when called Prince Rhodry ... takes his time, finishing his cup of wine (what else could it be?) before he rises to mount his horse, place the burnish helm upon his head, and take up the long lance and round shield.
His steed, black as sin, snorts and shakes his mane as he prances to the head of the lists. The prince’s lance dips down curtly, in salute to ... someone—it’s neither aimed at Ser Felix nor at the stands—and then he’s off, charging down the lists toward the bastard knight.
Felix is owned by Sebaston
Felix’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Rhodry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Rhodry struggles to keep to the saddle for a few instants, before finally succumbing and sliding to the ground.
Felix’s bright eyes seem to be surprised for a second once the prince succumbs to his blow, to many rounds of applause and cheer from the many scions of House Dalt in the stands. Humbly, he brushes off their attention, and rides around again away from last minute betters making their gamble—and others wailing at the prince’s fall.
With spear or sword, there are few better than this riotous prince of Dorne… but with the lance? There’s a number better. And, today, it seems Ser Felix numbers among them. There’s a gasp from the crowd at the thunderous splintering of the lance, and the rattle as the prince struggles in his saddle, flinging away his own unbroken lance to try and get a hold of the reins… but to no avail, for all his skill. He falls, and rolls in the dirt, and there’s a few cheers, and rather more applause as well as some very-pleased seeming men and women who’ve won good wagers on this unexpected outcome.
Helped up, only the prince’s pride and vanity seems harmed, and as he lifts his visor the brows are beetled and the mouth tight. He shakes off a squire who tries to help him walk away, and marches off on his own power.
“The losers of the past two rounds will face each other again!” The herald announces.
Ravenna watches in unsurprised. Although the prince is reputed to be an excellent fighter, she has never actually seen him joust before, or Ser Felix, and so does not really know what to think. It is obvious how the viewers feel, though, as a shout goes up.
Gorlas, still armoured, emerges from his pavilion, pulling on a gauntlet as he watches the victor ride off. He looks at the Prince, too, the look on his face still apprehensive and now slightly worried.
It takes a few minutes for the prince’s horse to be collected—it took a lap or two about the course, to the laughter and cheers of the commoners at the margins of the square watching the entertainment—and the prince to have sufficiently cursed his assistants, Ser Felix, the damnable Dalts, and the gods themselves before he felt ready to mount the horse again and take up a fresh lance. The horse tries again to act out, shaking its mane, trumpeting, but with a sharp pull at the reins and the pinch of the bit, it quiets suddenly. The prince is angry, and that does not bode well.
He comes forward, and there’s no salute this time, only angry purpose. When Ser Gorlas charges, so does the prince, red lance level and steady and fire in his eyes.
Gorlas mounts his horse, and presses his spurs into it. He levels his lance, aiming it at the Prince’s shield. Hoping that he may somehow redeem himself, he urges the horse forward quickly.
Gorlas’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Rhodry strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Rhodry just barely manages to keep himself in the saddle after his opponent’s blow knocks him askew.
Gorlas wheels about, looking at the Prince. He urges his horse back to where a Squire waits with a new lance, and takes it. He wheels the horse around and levels the lance once more. He puts his spurs into the horse, urging it onto the Prince’s shield.
Perhaps the first jousts were flukes—though, then again, two of them were not easy contests—for the prince is nearly knocked off his horse again, and his lance slides away uselessly from Santagar’s shield. It only makes him angrier, as he rides back around, throwing his lance down as to almost hit a young squire, and taking a fresh one. He hardly waits before he spurs at the horse again, and charges down the lists once more.
Gorlas lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Rhodry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Better, for the prince ... but not good enough, to say the least, for Prince Rhodry. With a growl unheard for the helm he wears, he angrily drops his lance again as he rides back down the lists, with hardly a glance to Ser Gorlas. He can be heard to say something to his attendants as he rejects one lance and takes another up before charging once more.
Surprised, Gorlas turns his mount round once more. He urges his horse towards where his squire is waiting with a new lance, and takes it in his hand. He then turns the horse back around, and urges it towards the Prince, once again. He levels his shield, hoping to hit square and knock him from his horse once and for all.
Gorlas strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Rhodry’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Gorlas is driven off the saddle by his opponent’s skillful charge.
Gorlas falls of his saddle quickly, driven off by the powerful blow. Swearing under his breath he pushes himself to his feet and rips his helm off. Without a word he strides off towards his pavilion.
The angry charge down the lists, the lean forward in the final instant, the booming crack and splintering of the lance—Prince Rhodry’s anger seems to make him joust the better. At least on this occasion. Santagar falls, and his run in the lists is ended, and Rhodry advances on to face his next foe. He hardly seems pleased by the result, the way he hurries back to his pavilion, calling for more wine even as he dismounts.
The herald returns once more. “For the next match, the first winners of the final rounds—Ser Sebaston Vaith, against Ser Felix Sand!”
Sebaston does have to bite his lip at the man who just bested Prince Rhodry, but he allays his fears for the now. The day’s gone by smoothly enough for him so far and he’s already come far enough to beat his record against other knights of a similar standing. He brings his horse to a canter and drives his lance with vigour.
Felix is the elder of the two fair-skinned knights, though is serene enough not to let that get the best of him. He meets his equally courteous opponent with dignity; of the sort that warrants trying to best the man with tremendous force.
Felix strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
Sebaston strikes a good blow that cracks, but does not break, his lance.
The two men are equals, it appears. Sebaston rides around with a salute that’s exchanged only briefly by Ser Felix, with both seemingly a bit miffed that their attempts came to nothing. Vaith and Sand ride harder this time as they face each other off.
Felix’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Sebaston delivers a mediocre blow of the lance, failing to find any purchase with which to unseat his opponent.
Sebaston is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as he falls.
Sebaston gives a quick yelp and flushes as he falls to the ground every which way. He’s perhaps grazed a knee; nothing too poor to disqualify him from the next round, apart from perhaps that round being against the prince. Abashed, he gives a quick bow to the Blackmont relatives of Lady Dalt in the crowd before skirting off.
The herald makes his next announcement. “Ser Sebaston will ride again, this time against Prince Rhodry!”
Felix takes his win in stride but without letting it get the better of himself. Dalt crowds cheer at the man who’s made the finals, and better yet, the only man of the day not to be unseated, before he readies himself for the final tilt.
Sebaston always seems to forget the losers’ bracket, but here he is: and at last it’s to qualify for the finals. He’s already third place and has won a chest of golden suns for his wife’s household but could yet still win and keeps his eye on a certain flower crown and his wife as he readies himself. But there is his foe, the man who killed the Young Dragon himself, and the Vaith can only brace himself as he rides against the prince.
There’s a chance to reach the final, if only he can ride… well, better. But the prince, stewing at the near-defeat, and the defeat before that, may not be in the right frame of mind. In the time that Sand and Vaith rode, and the time in which Vaith needs to be ready, he has drained two more goblets of wine and in this heat it’s hardly advisable. Still, when the herald calls, he comes forth, hungry as any leopard might be; mayhaps even more so. When Vaith is ready, he spurs forward—there’s no salute.
Sebaston strikes a poor blow after the lance dips unsteadily in the final moment before impact.
Rhodry’s lance is broken into so many splinters as he delivers a tremendous blow to his opponent.
Sebaston finds himself forced from the saddle by his opponent’s charge.
Sebaston tries to keep to the saddle, but to no avail as splinters fly across his face. He falls flat to the floor firmly in third place. Not bad, but the Vaith always had idealistic notions, and so gives another shy smile to the crowd that he knows won’t completely please one particular heiress even if he has performed better than usual and even more than his famed tilt against Farien Yronwood for the Manwoody wedding.
Another resounding unhorsing, to cheers from the crowd as the ferocity of the prince’s jousting bodes well, well indeed, for the final contest of the day. Rhodry flings the remnant of his lance up into the air, whirling to fall behind him with a clatter. And back to his pavilion he goes, with hardly a glance or a word for Vaith, or indeed anyone else. But for once he does not refresh himself with another goblet of wine, as he waits with anxious energy for the next tilt.
Once that round is over, the herald announces the next match. “Prince Rhodry will now ride against Ser Felix Sand!”
Against the prince once more, and yet he is the only man not to have fallen again. If it’s not just the hint of pride it’s confidence that gives a certain swell to Ser Felix’s fine demeanour. He speaks a few words of gallantry across the field when he’s mounted up for his final round before, with ease, he rides to Martell again.
A squire tries to say something to the prince, but some curt words make him redden and fall silent, and he joins a groom in double- and triple-checking the horse’s saddle and girth and bridle, while the prince paces. When he’s called to the lists, his gauntleted hands move to check his armor, and to turn the helm an attendant hands to him back and forth to be sure all is as it should be. Then it’s back into the man’s custody as the prince mounts the fierce stallion, which trumpets as it feels his weight settle on his back. Now the helm, now the shield, and then the lance—the prince is ready.
He rides forward, his horse making a ferocious show as it senses another contest, black mane tossing, hoofs kicking up sand as the crowds surge with excitement.
“Up his arse!” someone shouts, and there’s ribald laughter at that. The prince hardly acknowledges it, and when Sand charges, so too does he charge down the lists.
Felix’s steady lance and solid seat on his steed leads to a powerful blow. The list resounds with the crack of his lance as it shatters.
Rhodry lance strikes square upon his opponent and breaks near the tip.
Rhodry is pushed from the saddle by his opponent’s lance.
A collective in-take of air—and then a roar at the bastard knight taking the day, and knocking the prince on his own narrow arse.
“The red bastard did it!” “The prince’ll feel that one for a fortnight!” “Well done! Well done!”
The prince may have his followers, but few indeed are truly so partisan for him, at least when it comes to other, less irreputable Dornishmen. And so he’s left to slap the ground angrily, and shake off his attendants as he gets up—rather shakily, it must be said, his helmed head shaking back and forth as to clear the cobwebs—as he’s led away from the lists. If it were not for the helm, and the cheers, and the applause, a few curses would no doubt be heard.
“Ser Felix Sand is the champion!” The herald announces.
Felix does have to stifle what begins to turn into the briefest of smiles in winning the day of what’s sure to be the finest tourney Lemonwood has had in a decade. Dalts cheer from the stands, apparently forgetting any bets on the prince, any japes on the man’s parentage. Riding forth, he discards his shattered lance and his squire young Harry offers up a ceremonial lance in swirling yellow and purple.
He lifts a crown of woven primroses of shimmering gold from the stands. “You are the queens of this tourney,” he addresses Selara and Muriel: “And you,” he turns to the heiress specifically. “Shall be my lady liege. And thus Queen of Love and Beauty you shall remain,” he declares, to the contentedness of the Dalts in the act being from one of their own men rather than an empty gesture.
Selara looks pleased at the results, especially when the bastard knight names her—as well as her new good-sister—Queens of Love and Beauty (and perhaps more so that he focuses more on her). Along with Muriel, she accepts the crown.