Blood of Dragons

Ser Benedict’s armor is plain enough, but the Bastard’s son seems to have a hungry look after his defeat when he had won a place in the final four knights in the evening before. He comes forward on his destrier and dips his lance in salute. When the signal is given, he breaks slowly to begin with, but his mount steadily gains speed.

When the Iron Serpent rides out in the wake of the steward’s announcement, he receives—finally—a measure of almost healthy applause. Perhaps it is his showing thus far, perhaps the fact that he has unhorsed Dornishmen; whatever it is, he pays it as little notice as he did the booing. Lance at the ready, he waits for his opponent, then charges.

Benedict’s lance is broken into so many splinters as it delivers a tremendous blow to its opponent.

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

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

Seth Blackwood approaches the list field on his barded destrier. The lancer is clad head to toe in onyx-finished platemail which sports its share of nicks and dents after several days of tilting. The lordling’s steed seems no less spirited than in days past, snorting and stomping up dirt. Looking across the field at a foe who has already unhorsed him once in days past, Seth reaches for his lance and salutes the Dornish knight of Vaith. Then, with little fanfare, he charges.

Beneath the Dornish tent Ser Jossart finishes a skin of water and tosses it aside as his squire offers up his helm. There are a few words spoken to some of his fellow Dornishmen before the Vaith knight strides over to his horse. Once his helm is in place and he is in the saddle his squire is there to provide the lance. The squire begins to speak, but the knight kicks his heels into his large bay, giving the boy no answer as he heads to his end of the lists.

There is a bow to the Targaryen box and then a lesser one to his opponent before Ser Jossart strikes down his visor, readies his lance and charges towards the Blackwood.

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

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

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

The two broken lances from Rogers and Saltcliffe causes a roar—a great omen for the start of the contest! Rogers takes up a new lance, readies himself, and then his mount throws itself forward down the lists.

Pushed back until it seems he must fall off, the ironman nevertheless regains his seat. Taking a fresh lance, he brings his mount around; its tip drops steadily as he nears the other knight at a steady gallop.

Seth’s lance stays steady and true, and though it does not break—it gets the job done. His destrier carries him to the end of the field before the riverman turns it, saluting Jossart once more before he casts the cracked lance aside. “Well fought, Ser Jossart of Vaith,” he says simply, and rides away.

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

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

Benedict is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as it falls.

“Next in the lists, Lord Manfred Dondarrion shall meet Ser Janden of House Melcolm, and Ser Corrent of House Gargalen shall meet Ser Aberyn of House Crane!” Lord Manfred had distinguished himself previously by having defeated the Knight of the Twilight before being eliminated in the second day of jousting, while Ser Aberyn had briefly held the first place of a champion in the prior day.

From amidst her customary gathering of attendants, Marian Stark warmly applauds the success of the Blackwood lancer. Leaning over, she murmurs a smiling comment to Ryssa Watters, before refocusing upon Seth once more.

Ryssa adds her enthusiastic applause to Marian’s, and flashes a grin across the ring towards Seth Blackwood before she leans in to whisper back to her lady. A ruffled fan is clutched tightly in her hand, and she flutters it from time to time in a mostly-futile effort to find some cool amid the oppressive heat of the day.

The young cockatrice of Salt Shore seems a bit ill-recovered from the effects of a hard night of drinking and revelry - he yawns mightily, then rubs anxiously at the socket containing his false eye as he stumbles out of his pavilion. Cursing loudly as squires rush to arm him, he struggles atop his horse, receives shield and lance, and canters a little unsteadily to his end of the lists.

Crane’s shield still bears the scars of the previous day’s jousting, but he seems as determined as ever to win a victory. He rides up, his horse finely caprisoned in blue and gold, his lance similarly striped. He doesn’t bother to dip his lance to the Dornishman, instead barreling forward at the very instant of the charge. The smallfolk shout in favor of him, hoping to see the Gargalen fall.

With the slightest of nods from his visored helm, Corrent Gargalen couches his lance and sets spurs to his horse.

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

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

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

Ser Janden Melcolm rode to the lists with a sense of vigor that was lost from him two days ago. After a day’s rest, the young knight seemed ready to go again. When his opponent was announced, however, he began to become a little nervous. Although Ser Janden has had the greater finish in any tournament this week, the Lord of Dondarrion unseated the Knight of Twilight earlier. He would have to be on his game… Nodding, he lowers his visor and charges.

Lord Manfred watched the joust between the Blackwood and the Vaith from outside his tent, looking as if he was made of stone. Unlike the crowd he doesn’t cheer, in fact he doesn’t show much reaction at all as he dons his helm and mounts his horse. He lance is taken up without word and he offers a salute towards his lady wife as he rides past the Dondarrion banner among all the others. He offers a salute to the crown and one to Ser Janden before lowering his visor and setting his horse charging down the field towards the younger Valeman.

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

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

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

Ryssa lets out another burst of applause as her cousin Aberyn strikes a successful blow - perhaps not her closest relative, but kin is kin, and she gives Aberyn a warmly encouraging smile.

The Dornishman from Salt Shore wavers visibly in his saddle from the shock of the blow from Ser Aberyn and all can see as he struggles to stay atop his horse. When he finally does manage to retain his seat, he drops the unbroken lance from his hand and slowly guides his horse back into position.

Marian laughs softly, shaking her head as she joins in the applause. “It seems that even marrying a relative of yours is sufficient to make one a fearsome jouster - or is a pre-requisite for consideration?”, she teases Ryssa.

Ser Aberyn comes arond again, throwing aside his just barely broken lance, and takes up a new one from his squire. Setting the spurs to his horse, he hurries on to meet him.

Carmella rises in her seat as her father takes his first charge, her hands held to her mouth as the Lord of Blackhaven looks as if he might fall in this first joust.

But Manfred is a tougher man than that and while he struggles a bit, he does eventually regain his seat, forcing another round between him and Ser Janden. He checks his lance before once more charging down towards the Valeman.

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

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

Ser Janden may not have delivered his strongest blow, but he aimed with with precision he only sometimes has. He hears a small crack of the lance as the tip flies off close to the stands, and when he turns around he is disappointed to see the older lord still in his seat. He hands his lance to a servant and takes his new one before staring down his opponent once more.

A less than spectacular pass, with no result. Ser Aberyn might just barely be heard cursing within his greathelm, as he brings his steed around for another pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ser Janden charges and cracks his lance with his blow to the Dondarrion Lord. Satisfied by his blow, he feels confident of his chances for success when Manfred’s blow barely rattles the Melcolm knight in his saddle. And, as though, he turns around to find the lord on the ground. Waiting idly, Lord Manfred finally rises and Janden salutes before returning to the small Melcolm tent.

This time Carmella’s gasp turns to a cry of disappointment as her lord father tumbles to the ground. Lady Loreza, decked in the colors of her house, is on her feet as well as the Lord Dondarrion takes a long time to rise to his feet. There is movement, which is promising, but the events of this week are taking their toll and he requires assistance from his squire to finally get himself upright. Even then the man is unsteady on his feet, though he leans more on his horse than his squire, missing (or ignoring) the salute.

Ser Aberyn does better now, shattering his lance against the Dornishman’s shield, and setting him reeling in the saddle. He laughs this time, tasting victory as he takes up another lance and races off to finish the man once and for all.

2 attributes wiped.

No attributes wiped.

Corrent appears quite shaken still, but slowly his bearing and grip on his lance seem to improve as well. Swinging his horse around, he comes surging forward for another charge.

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

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

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

Ryssa holds her breath for a moment as her cousin’s opponent wavers yet again…then lets it out again in a disappointed sigh. Still, she joins in the applause, and gives another hopeful smile to Aberyn.

Marian winces, shooting a worried look towards the Dondarrion contingent, before calling out encouragement to the Bar Emmon knight as he closes once more upon his opponent… only to groan in disappointment as Corrent yet again, somehow, manages to retain his seat.

Again the knight from Red Lake breaks a lance, and again the Dornishman refuses to fall before him! He grows more and more determined as he takes up yet another new lance, and sets to against the Gargalen.

“Lord Manfred is defeated by Ser Janden of House Melcolm! Next in the lists, Ser Victor of House Reyne, heir to Castamere, shall meet Ser Halder of House Frey!”

Carmella remains standing, as does her mother and sister in the Dondarrion section, watching Manfred slowly make his way back towards his tent.

This time a laugh bursts from within the steely depths of the Dornish youth’s helm as they clash. After a brief moment of struggling, Corrent recovers his seat and canters to the end of the lists to accept a new lance. When he comes around this time to meet the knight from the Reach, Ser Corrent has his visor raised, baring his smiling expression for all to see.

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

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

From his tent, a helmet-less Janden can be seen clapping his hands at the competitive bout between his two prospective opponents. He takes a seat in a chair to watch Aberyn and Corrent before fully entering his tent.

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

Ryssa gasps, mouth dropping open in astonishment as her cousin falls. Her whimper of disappointment is nearly lost in the louder groans of the rest of the crowd, and she exchanges an unhappy look with Marian before turning back to offer a sympathetic wave to Aberyn across the field.

Ser Janden nods as the younger hostage wins his battle. So it will be Gargalen in the next round. He rises and enters his tent to prepare.

Ser Halder, one of the two Twins of the Crossing, comes forth with ribbons of silver and blue about his jousting lance. His armor is of good quality, but put to shame by the crimson and silvered steel that covers Reyne from head to toe. The two knights salute, and charge with vigor.

Marian sighs, shaking her head and murmuring sympathetically to Ryssa, eyes remaining upon Aberyn to watch for him rising.

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

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

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

Marian whispers to Ryssa.

As he successfully expels his opponent from the saddle, Corrent Gargalen tosses the ruined haft of his lance aside and pauses for a moment at the end of the lists. Raising a gauntlet-covered hand high into the air, he deliberately takes a few moments to wave to the disapproving crowds and flash his pearly whites before capping it off with a hoarse bark of laughter. He pulls of his helm, shakes his hair free, and nudges his steed slowly back to his pavilion area.

Ryssa whispers to Marian.

“Ser Halder of House Frey and Ser Aberyn of House Crane are each defeated!” the herald proclaims, as liveried men hurry to pick up the shattered remnants of lances. Ser Halder is fallen hard, and takes a good minute before he can be carried from the field to see if he might be revived enough to continue in the contest. “Next in the lists, Prince Aemon of House Targaryen, a knight of the Kingsguard, shall meet Ser Tamlyn of House Toland, while Ser Ondryn Waters shall meet Ser Jaesin of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock!”

Marian whispers to Ryssa.

Ryssa’s face lights up as she hears her brother’s name called, and she instantly brightens, craning her neck to peer above the crowd. If there is a hint of apprehension in her eyes at the thought of Ondryn facing Jaesin Lannister, is is well-suppressed for now - she beams bright encouragement at her brother, even as her hands twist anxiously in her lap.

And just as Janden was getting comfortable massaging his bruises, he hears the name of a Kingsguardman and the famous Jaesin Lannister both announced at the same time. Shaking his head, he walks out of his tent again. Something he can’t miss…

And so at last, beneath ten-thousand pairs of eyes and to the delight of many, Ser Jaesin Lannister will take to the lists! Riding astride a mighty white charger—well-known as his favorite steed—the glorious scion of Casterly Rock emerges at the southern end of the grassy jousting field.

Slowly he canters his mount past the viewing stand and under the watchful gazes of all assembled, a broad, confident grin on his handsome face. Waving to the crowd, Ser Jaesin bows his head as he passes beneath the royal box; soon he is past and across the length of the run, where he lifts his golden helm—fancifully crafted in the form of a roaring lion—and lowers it down over his mop of hair.

From his end of the lists, Ser Jaesin snaps off a jaunty but respectful salute to his opponent—Ondryn Waters? One wonders if the Lannister has even heard the name, before now—but he gives the man his due nonetheless.

Then the visor is lowered, that roaring lion replacing his calm and handsome face, his sharp blue eyes hid from view—and a lance is handed up to him.

There is a lot of whispering going on with the ladies of Daena’s household as the Dragonknight and the famed Lannister are both called forward to joust. Carmella leans in to speak with one of the ladies and both of them seem to be watching the other Targaryens, at least for now.

From the Dornish section there is a cheer as another Dornish contestant is announced, and it is enthusiastically lead by Tanyth, the knight’s twin sister. “Do me proud today, little brother!” she calls out with a laugh, and as Tamlyn rides out he laughs in turn and dips his lance in her direction. About his helmet he wears a golden-green favour; it would appear his dear sister has abandoned Ser Aidan for this joust and instead placed her faith in her brother.

But the loudest cheer, of course, is for his opponent. As the Dragonknight rides out, armoured all in white but with a white dragon crowning his greathelm to set him apart from his Sworn Brothers, the roar of the crowd is deafening. Prince Aemon salutes his cousin, the king, and spurs his white destrier onwards to face his opponent, who already is prepared for the charge as well.

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

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

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

If Ondryn Waters shows any apprehension at the identity of his opponent - or the fact that his entire family is watching - or that the eyes of everyone else are on the _other_ match - he hides it as well. He cannot match either the splendor of the Lannister knight’s armor or mount - his armor is practically unadorned, save for a few bits of blue and white paint here and there, and his brown charger, while powerful-looking, is still far from the finest horse in the stable. Ondryn reaches down to accept his lance from the squire, and offers a salute to the king before giving an answering one to his opponent, then rides forth into the lists.

Among those apparently not favourably impressed by the arrogant Lannister, the Stark contingent gives voluble support to his opponent - though the Dragonknight’s stylish victory receives warm acclamation as well.

Ser Jaesin sets a light spur to the flanks of his mount—barely a touch, a whisper of steel—and the mighty horse knows what to do.

For much of the crowd, this was the only possible outcome, and they almost begin cheering before Tamlyn hits the ground. Tanyth, of course, is of a different opinion, and as Tamlyn gets up from the ground—just in time to receieve and return the Dragonknights salute—she calls out to him, “A little better next time, brother, or I may have to return that favour to Aidan!” A little less loudly, but still audible for a good range around her, she adds, “Even if the chivalrous bastard wouldn’t accept his reward.”

Ser Aidan Dayne waits to be called to the lists, and looks across the field to where Ser Walder Frey consoles his twin. When his cousin Ser Tamlyn is called, however, he grows intent ... as much to see the Dragonknight ride in the lists proper, instead of against a quintain. The two meet, and both break lances, but the Dragonknight’s fair explodes and drives the Toland knight to the ground. But it’s the Black Tempest’s cry that makes him visibly wince.

He mounts his horse—a new one now, a bloody bay gelding that seems a little lighter and swifter than his previous mount—and dons his helm before riding into the lists as the herald cries, “Ser Tamlyn of House Toland is defeated. Next in the lists, Ser Aidan of House Dayne shall meet Ser Axell of House Farman!”

There’s a great deal of cheering for the Dragonknight and Carmella cheers right along with them, looking quite excited to see the Aemon’s performance.

Ondryn makes a solid impact against its opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

Jaesin’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.

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

Among those cheering loudly for the Dragonknight’s success, and seeming rather more enthused by the jousting than she has the previous days, is Aisling Ryswell. Back in the stands after her short time as a contestant herself yesterday, during the riding at rings for the ladies, she seems quite enthralled by the Prince’s performance.

Ser Jaesin completes the run, tossing the remnants of his lance aside with a lazy gesture; what’s left of the long, light wooden shaft lands forgotten in the trampled grass. He is quick to lift the lionhelm from his head with both hands, and steer his white steed about half-way again, back toward his fallen opponent.

Along the way he flashes a broad grin in the direction of the Dragonknight, but soon comes to where Ondryn was thrown from his horse.

Jaesn leans down from his saddle, stretching out an arm to offer his foe a hand up. “You rode well, lad,” he says softly, too soft for the crowd to hear. Let them think him arrogant—surely he loves it.

Janden remains very impressed as he watches the victories of both the Dragon and the Lion in their separate bouts. He hears the announcement of the next match, and he walks back into his tent. Aidan versus Axell has the potential for excitement, but he has seen both ride multiple times.

With that, the lane that Ondryn and Jaesin rode on is quickly tended to by servants, removing lance shards that might prove a danger to man or horse, and smoothing down places where the ground has been churned up by the beating hooves of the destriers. The herald holds calling the next round of bouts, as Ser Aidan and Ser Axell prepare to meet.

Over behind young Rhaena Targaryen, Lady Kellyn raises a cheer as her good-brother strikes a fierce blow, sending Ser Ondryn from his saddle.

Down goes Ondryn Waters with a heavy thump and a clatter of armor. He does not remain motionless for long, starting to struggle to his feet almost at once - but falters in his determined quest when he puts his weight on his right arm. It is only for a moment, though - and then his opponent’s hand is there to give him aid. Ondryn reaches his left hand up to grasp Jaesin’s, murmuring a gruff, “Thank you, ser. So did you.” And then he makes his way off the field…to face his father.

In the stands, a disappointed groan rises, in harmony, from Ondryn’s sister Ryssa and his mother who sits next to her.

In a box in close proximity to the royal hold—though a distinct box in its own right, for certain—the silver-haired Lord of Casterly Rock claps politely for his eldest son’s triumph. No raucous cheers, no gruff-voiced calls, but the fierce pride in his emerald eyes says all there is to say.

His weathered armor dimly reflecting the gently sinking sun, Ser Axell enters the field with a slow trot. His squire helps him with a last minute check on his armor before Axell rides to salute the king, then to the end of the lists.

The Farman knight lowers his lance in reverence to his opponent, then raises the lance again as he charges towards Ser Aidan.

Once readied, the Knight of the Twilight dips his lance to the westerland knight, and awaits the signal to charge. When it is given, the Dornishman lets his new steed, a heavy courser, start easily but then begins to gain momentum. Its stride is smooth enough, and he holds his lance as steady as may be, seemingly aiming for the leftmost of the three silver ships of Fair Isle.

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

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

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

There are always folks in the Tyrell box, but they are joined by one who today wears contrasting colors, guazy linen in black and silvery grey, sashed in gleaming black and silver silk. Reyna Saltcliffe speaks lazily to one of her kin, and manages applause for Ser Jaesin as he rides past, then settles in a chair nearest the rail to watch.

Soon beyond the lists once more, still on the back of his horse, Ser Jaesin keeps his seat and cranes his neck for a view of the next run; he seems intent on observing Aidan Dayne, and for good reason. The Young Lion applauds the broken lance as lustily as any commoner out for a day’s entertainment. “Well struck!”

Marian turns her gaze from the lists when she sees Ondryn starting to right himself, murmuring to Ondryn’s relatives for a few moments. When the thunder of hooeves announces the start of the next bout, however, she looks around in time to witness - and then applaud - Aidan’s expertise.

There’s cheering for the Knight of the Twilight from the Dornishmen (and women), of course, and despite her earlier complaints about the knight even the Black Tempest seems thrilled by his victory. “No indecisiveness there, cousin!” she calls out, sounding unmistakably amused.

With that last knight defeated, there is a few minutes pause before the next courses are called. “Ser Victor of House Reyne shall meet Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe, Seth of House Blackwood shall meet Ser Jaesin of House Lannister, Ser Janden of House Melcolm shall meet Ser Corrent of House Gargalen, and Lord Manfred of House Dondarrion shall meet Ser Aberyn of House Crane!”

Ser Jaesin at last steps down from the saddle, handing his helm over to Alaric Lantell, his squire, and motioning a page toward the Farman pavilion. “Go, take Ser Axell a goblet of our chilled water,” the son of Fair Isle’s liege-lord tells the lad. “We’ll help him keep his spirits up. Now let’s send Ser Victor on against that pirate, Saltcliffe!”

Though not quite so captivated by this tilt as when the Dragonknight rode, it is apparent that Lady Aisling does have some interest in the skill of Ser Aidan as well, and perhaps there is some truth to the rumours that the pair spoke for a time yesterday, having both expressed interest in the unmanageable Dornish horse that the lady so foolishly ended up purchasing.

Seated with the Lannisters and other Westerlanders, Rosalind applauds the victors.

Ser Victor is as confident as ever, mounted on his great horse and in his rich armor. Even the point of his lance is plated in silver. He gives the Iron Serpent a brief salute, and at the signal charges forward.

Emerging from his pavilion, the ironman mounts swiftly; helm, gauntlets, shield, lance and he is done with no time to spare save for a brief glance at the stands. The lance dips to the royal box and his glittering opponent—and then, he charges.

Victor’s lance is broken into so many splinters as it delivers a tremendous blow to its opponent.

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

During the space of time between his first match and this upcoming tilt against Ser Janden Melcolm, Corrent Gargalen has been busy keeping himself hydrated under the shade of his pavilion - even now, a waterskin sags emptily on the dusty ground near him as he guzzles straight from a tin drinking bowl given to him by a squire. When the Dornishman hears his name called however, he casts the half-full bowl aside and runs for his horse, splashing water into the parched ground around him as he arms himself for the joust.

Once ready, he slaps down his visor, couches his lance, and surges forward to meet Ser Janden.

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

With a Bar Emmon guard in tow Alyce makes her way to the tournament. The tall chaperone steps back as she reaches the Stark Pavillion and she gives him a nod, sending him on his way, though never letting her quite out of his sight. The lady smiles, seeing Marian and Ryssa and quietly moves into a seat amidst the cheering and applause. Her complexion is warmed with the kiss of sunshine and her eyes sparkle as she turns to the field taking her place as a spectator. “Good afternoon my lady of Stark, cousin,” she says with a smile.

Back in the saddle again—and quickly, vaulting up with the help of another squire—Ser Jaesin casts a shrewd smile up in his father’s direction. Seth of House Blackwood? The old man will surely find that ironic. Accepting his helm, he lowers the visor once more, and a new lance is given him as well.

“Ride well, Ser,” says Brion Lantell, grinning.

“As if you’d taught me any other way,” Jaesin laughs as he makes his way to the end of the lists.

Disappearing in a thunderous cloud of dust and splinters, Axell appears on the ground after the decisive blow from the knight of the Twilight. For a moment he appeared almost lifeless, but the Farman knight rolls to his side gently before standing up slowly. It seems that the Farman knight tried to give Ser Aidan a nod, but as his squire rushes over to help him off the field.

A great cheer goes up from the Lannisters and their retainers at the triumph of Victor Reyne! They seem as delighted at this triumph as they did at Ser Jaesin’s. Perhaps more.

Upon hearing the herald’s call, Seth brings his destrier from the sidelines to the edge of the list field. Looking altogether equanimitous as he lowers his visor, the young scion of Blackwood takes an ashwood lance from the row and raises it towards his cousin of Lannister in brief fsalute before kicking his steed into a charge.

Ser Aberyn Crane rides forward to meet the Marcher lord. Stung by defeat once, he plans not to be defeated again and charges at Lord Manfred.

Again Ser Jaesin’s white steed is touched by spur; again the mighty mount leaps forward, equal to the challenge.

It takes some time for Lord Manfred to emerge from his tent and when he does so he’s swatting angrily as his squire who seems to be begging him not to ride. “Earn som spurs and then I might allow you to think about lecturing me,” the lord spits as he shoves his helmet onto his head and mounts up. His squire stares up at him and for a moment there looks to be some defiance in the boy’s eyes before he finally hands over a lance. Lord Manfred growls something before heading off to his end. Acknowlegements are given, albeit a little unsteady before he lowers his visor and charges down towards the Crane.

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

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

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

Aberyn makes a solid impact against its opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

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

With the announcement of his name, Ser Janden puts his helmet back on an leaves his tent, only to face a younger man from Dorne. Steadily rising onto his steed, the Melcolm knight nods to his opponent as he is handed his lance. Staring down the man who was a literal enemy only several years ago, he readies and charges.

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

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

Another run; another triumph. Ser Jaesin completes this latest as he has so many before, tossing aside only splinters of wood with a casual disregard ere turning again, and riding to the aid of his fallen opponent. Flipping up his visor, he grins down at the Blackwood on reaching him. “Well done, Seth,” he says kindly. “You’ll fare better soon.”

Another set of results, and the herald proclaims them, and then the next matches as well. “Prince Aemon of House Targaryen shall meet Ser Aidan of House Dayne, while Ser Benedict of House Rogers will face Ser Halder of House Frey!”

The Lord of Blackhaven again takes a long time to get up and requires further assistance. Two men in Dondarrion purple run out, leaving the squire to grab the horse to help their lord off the field.

This is not the first tumble Seth has taken by far in his career as a middling tourney lancer, but it is perhaps the hardest. And so it might come as no surprise that, even upon Ser Jaesin’s gracious call, the Blackwood does not rise.

The Gargalen and the Melcolm trade equal blows, each cracking their lances. Ser Janden, for his part, does not appear to take this result with emotion in any direction. He simply drops his lance for the servants, accepts a new one, and nods at opponent. Then he rides yet again.

The twelve-foot tourney lance cracks with a thundering sound as Gargalen and Melcolm drive into each other. As he charges past, Corrent flings his unbroken lance aside and gestures irritably for another one - this is clearly one knight who does not understand the term ‘waste management.’ Once he is armed again, the youthful knight readies himself and taps his mount with his spurs, sending the blood bay courser surging forward.

In Lord Loren’s box and below, at the end of the lists where Ser Jaesin’s men cluster, cheers that seem almost too satisfied go up for their lordling’s triumph. But they fall silent as Jaesin’s words to Seth go unheeded—they might guess at that, for soon they see the Young Lion dismount there, in the middle of the lists, and go down on a knee beside his cousin.

“A Maester,” he calls impatiently toward the viewing-stand!

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

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

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

Moving softly through the crowd, Ammena Piper gathers the hem of her gown and steps up to the section designated for the Riverlanders. As the Blackwood is thrown from his saddle, she softly frowns. Her eyes quickly gaze towards the fields to catch the latest match. She nonchalantly takes up a silver goblet of wine and takes a seat. When the Blackwood does not rise, she puts her goblet down and rises with widened eyes. “Was it that strong a hit? I missed the match.” she inquires to a nearby Riverlander.

Called to meet the man held to be the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, some might suppose that the Knight of the Twilight would meet it in trepedation. And perhaps there’s ice in the pit of his stomach, but the youthful knight does not show it on his face. Riding forward with his lance striped in hues of lilac and white, he faces down the long, long list the man who slew the Hell-knight, the man who gave him his knighthood. He dips his lance deep to Prince Aemon, and then puts spurs to his horse and comes down the lists fast, lowering his lance as he comes nearer and nearer. The Dragonknight, of course, does the same…

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

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

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

Rosalind begins her descent from Lord Loren’s box, even as her cousin calls for a maester. As quickly as possible, the Lannister bastard skirts toward her cousin, Jaesin, and the fallen Blackwood cousin, but does not impede any bona fide maesters along the way.

Ryssa gasps as she sees Seth fall, and her hand flies out to clasp Marian’s arm in a gesture half of fear and half reassurance. She stares with open mouth, her other hand rising to her chest as she waits to see the fate of her friend.

For a long moment, Corrent Gargalen teeters on the brink of his saddle and for a heartbeat it seems as if a stray gust of wind might send him sprawling in the dust. However, the moment passes and the Dornishman struggles valiantly back into position as he canters into the other end of the lists. Swinging his horse around, he affords himself a brief smile before readying himself for the third pass.

Ser Benedict and Ser Halder meet, charging at one another with great vigor.

Alyce sits up straighter for a moment when Seth doesn’t rise and her eyes flick to Marian in concern then to Ryssa and back to the field, waiting.

The Maesters rush out to help Seth Blackwood from the field; when he has assured that his cousin is hale enough to move away—if with help—Ser Jaesin does the same, as lances crash and lancers compete not far away. He turns in time to applaud the double-break, calling out, “That’s it, Aemon!”

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

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

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

Marian takes a long, slow, deep breath, mustering a wan smile for Ryssa, before nodding to one of her attendants - who hurries off to speak with the Blackwood lordling’s attendants down below….

This time, Ser Janden’s charge ends with the same type of blow that unseated Lord Manfred. When the Melcolm turns around, however, his opponent remains seated in his horse. Once again, Janden must replace his lance. Before getting his new weapon, he undoes his helmet for a quick gulp of water. After receiving it, he places his helm back on, closes the viser, and receives the lance. With a few kicks of his foot, the horse charges.

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

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

Corrent keeps the saddle skillfully despite his opponent’s blow.

Late, much late, does the Dornish prince arrive at the field. He does so alone and on horseback, riding Sunstrider, the steed that he rode into battle with the other days of the tournament. He first seems to be headed towards the entrance of the knights, far enough that he can be seen from the spectator boxes.. but also so he can pay a short visit to those Dornish knights that are participating. He leaves a few words with a squire there before he returns on horseback to the Martell box. Well there, he quickly makes his way up to his sisters side.

As he strides back to where his mount is kept waiting, Ser Jaesin flashes a laughing grin at a dragon-liveried functionary. The man, grim-faced and dour, can’t help but return a grudging smile. The Lannister gives him a comradely punch in the shoulder and a muttered exhortation as he moves past.

The man erupts in laughter, shaking his head and snorting in spite of himself as Jaesin passes.

Ser Aidan picks himself up readily enough, and raises a hand in salute to the Dragonknight, for whom the crowd cheers without surcrease. It goes on and on, even as Gargalen and Melcolm continue to trade blows.

Reyna is on her feet to watch her husband’s pass, and though she looks disappointed to see him thrown, she still cheers him faithfully. But Seth’s fall pales her cheeks, and she watches as eagerly as anyone to see if he will rise. Jaesin’s use of the Dragonknight’s first name makes her raises her brows in surprise. “So maybe it -is- true,” she notes to the cousin closest.

As a second Dornishman falls to the Dragonknight, the Black Tempest expresses her displeasure rather vocally, the wine in her cup nearly sloshing over to stain the flowing silks of gold and green that garbs her form. “Oh, pick yourself up, cousin!” Her ... encouraging words can always be relied upon, it would seem.

With yet another contest involving Prince Aemon, Aisling finds herself watching closely indeed. And, as he wins, she cheers quite profusely yet again, though she does cast a glance over at his opponent as well, not quite dismissing the young Dornish knight entirely.

“Ser Axell of House Farman shall meet Ser Tamlyn of House Toland!” the herald announces, as the other lanes of the lists that are as yet unused are cleaned up.

“So, too, shall Ser Jossart of House Vaith meet Ser Ondryn of House Waters!”

Anders finally arrives at the tournament grounds, his left shoulder heavily into bandages. He makes his ways into the stands, watching the passes and the jousting.

“Ah! A weak pass, that one!” Ser Janden can be heard by those nearby. Ready to get the weak blow past him, he pays no heed to the boy waiting to assist him as he turns around, steadies, and charges again.

Another pass, another tie - as the number of tilts rack up, Corrent appears to be quite tickled, his face split into a wide smile as he flicks open his visor to accept a drink of water from his squire. Closing his helmet once more, the Dornish youth adjusts a strap on his shield near the wrist before grasping another lance and cantering forth for the fourth contest.

Janden’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.

Well, there’s no time in this joust for Tanyth to dwell on past losses, it would seem. No sooner has her cousin, Ser Aidan, picked himself up from the ground before her brother, Ser Tamlyn, rides out again. The youth is as cheerful as before, still wearing his sister’s favour, and salutes her and the rest of the Dornish contingent before charging the Farman knight.

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Watching pass after pass, the flurry of splinters and hoof-spray keeps the fields awash in activity. Alyce leans forward at one pass then exhales and applauds with the crowds before finally settling down and opening her fan, pushing a breeze upward against her neck and face.

Axell returns to the field with a grim look and pale complexion, seemingly still feeling the after effects of the previous bout. Nevertheless, the Farman knight rides steadily to the end of the list with his lance up before speeding up to a gallop towards the Dornish knight.

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

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

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

Again the Vaith knight prepares for another joust, reaching for his helm as his squire brings forth his horse. It doesn’t take very long for him to mount up and head out to his end, offering proper acknowlegements before lowering his visor to charge down at Ser Ondryn.

There has been a quiet conversation taking place on the sidelines between Ondryn and Gueren Waters, as victorious father counsels struggling son, both faces serious and furrowed in earnest thought. Finally, Gueren reaches out to give his son a firm pat on the back, and sends him on his way. Ondryn swings back up into the saddle, flipping his visor down over his faintly apprehensive eyes, and reaches down to take a fresh lance from the waiting squire. He raises it in a careful salute to the king, and then to his opponent, and rides forth into the lists.

Among his men and his squires again at the end of the lists, Ser Jaesin is met by Brion Lantell, his captain-at-arms and longtime trainer. “You’re having a banner day,” Lantell gibes his protege, dry-voiced and grinning.

“Day? What day?” The Lannister smiles broadly, secure and confident, testing the flexibility of a lance handed over to him by Lantell’s son Alaric. “I don’t count it a day until Almer Connington’s told me that a tourney’s no match for a fun little war,” he quips.

Jaesin and the men about him share a chuckle, cheering for Axell Farman despite his loss.

This time both knights acquit themselves fairly well, but still no result has been rendered. The scarlet cockatrice emblazoned on the Dornish youth’s shield brilliantly reflects the light of the afternoon sun as the young knight brings his horse around for the fifth and hopefully final tilt.

Yet more results that the herald announces, as he then declares, “Ser Aidan of House Dayne shall face Ser Aberyn of House Crane, while Prince Aemon of House Targaryen will contest against Ser Victor of House Reyne, heir to Castamere!”

Once again trading equal blows, this run was the strongest for both riders. Ser Janden matches the wide smile that Corrent wore before the pass, and he quickly receives a new lance before readying again. Adrenaline rides high in this bout, and both men charge their horses again.

“Well men, I’ll have to back Prince Aemon against Ser Victor. My friend against Jonn’s,” Jaesin remarks as he mounts his saddle again. “Where -is- that rascal brother of mine, anyway? I’m winning him gold today. The least he could do is show out to lend his support.”

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

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

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

“Brilliant, Tamlyn!” shouts Tanyth for her twin. “Now you just need to drop a few more knights on their arses!” Never the most ladylike in her choice of words, the Black Tempest is getting into the spirit of things, it would seem.

Breathtaking. If the people of the north look for proof of the beauty of the Dornish men, they need look no further than Jossart Vaith. He is all dark grace, six feet of long limbs and lean, swift muscle, sharply defined on his slender form. The leopards of House Vaith are no housecats, and there’s something almost feral in the lines of his face, broad, high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose fading beneath the aegis of eyes of a bright feral amber. The tousled dark curls that escape from the clasp at his nape to frame his features do little to soften the sharp, angular line of his jaw, or the contrast between white teeth and dusky skin when full lips part in a predatory smile, and he moves with a smooth grace that disguises his strength, quiet confidence revealed in every step.%r%r%tRather than the fine sandsilk garments Dornishmen normally wear, Jossart has donned the armor common among the Dornish.  Layers of shining copper and gold-hued disks are overlayed on each other make up the scaled shirt over which is worn a sandsilk robe of brilliant orange, like a glorious sunset.  Plate protects his arms and legs as well, touched with the same colors in his scaled shirt.  Atop his dark head is a high helm, topped with the familiar Dornish sandsilk of lovely gold, more than enough to protect one from the heat of the Dornish sun.  Upon his round shield are the Vaith panthers, black painted over yellow and orange.%r

Ser Brion shouts, “Gods, Jaesin, that Dornish chicken-knight’s a good rider! That’s thrice now he’s kept his seat!”

Axell takes another blow and finds himself on the ground after facing the Dornish knight. While the seemed to be lighter than the one struck by the knight of the Twilight, Axell still took some time to rise to his feet. This time, however, he managed a salute before helped off the field again by his squire.

Ser Janden shakes his head as the result is none-existent after a fifth pass. To think that someone wills this much to joust Jaesin Lannister! But both men continue to ride hard and vigorously. Once again Janden stops for water. He receives a new lance. He nods and smiles again before charging. round 6.

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

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

Drawn by Ser Brion’s exclamation, Jaesin Lannister takes note of Corrent Gargalen for perhaps the first time ever. Ice-blue eyes narrow thoughtfully, and he replies to his captain-at-arms, but the words are lost to the general din.

Ondryn just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from its opponent.

Alas, it was not to end on the fifth! Corrent seems quite startled from the impact of the clash, but manages to hold on for /just/ long enough to regain his position atop his horse. Dropping his lance, the youth slaps the top of his own helmet a few times, as if to knock some focus into himself before readying himself for the sixth tilt.

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

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

Corrent seems glued to the saddle despite his opponent’s blow.

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

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

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

“Father, I’m not sure he’s so much a good rider,” says Alaric Lantell to his father Brion, “as it is that they’re rather shoddy lancers.” At a glare from his sire, the lad snaps his mouth shut and turns beet-red.

“You seem rather more taken with the jousting today?” observes Sylvina of Aisling as the younger of the two women pauses in her conversation with some other ladies to take some note of her step-sister. “Is there, perhaps, a knight out there carrying your favour?” The blonde girl cannot quite hide the dry humour in her voice as she asks this, knowing full well that such a thing would be rather unlikely. And whether it is for that or some other cause, she receives a cold glance from Aisling, who them promptly looks back to the field. Perhaps because of the tilts that were announced to be upcoming next?

“Another poor pass!” and Janden’s smile fades from his disappointment in his last blow. At least he still remains in this thing. This time a serious look appears on his face, though. Enough with the smiles! Perhaps now a victor will arise.

As his fellow Dornishman continues against the Melcolm, Ser Aidan prepares to meet Ser Aberyn Crane. He does not take the man lightly, having witnessed his courageous efforts to hold on to a champion’s place, and dips his lance in salute. When the signal is given, both charge vigorously.

“Ugh… I never thought I’d say this… but perhaps one too many cups of wine last night, eh?” mutters Ser Corrent to his attending squire as he just barely survives the sixth pass. He slips off his horse and stands shakily on the ground for a moment before quickly undoing his helmet and pulling it off. Once he is bare-headed, he bends forward whereupon his squire promptly dumps an entire bowl of water all over his sweat-stained head. Shaking beads of water aside, Corrent grabs the reins of his horse with a renewed vigor, hoists himself aboard, and arms himself for the seventh exchange.

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

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

Corrent just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.

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

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

Aberyn is knocked from horseback, armor rattling as it falls.

Taking advantage of the lengthy bout betwixt the Chicken-Knight and Ser Janden Melcolm, Jaesin gladly accepts a goblet of water handed up to him by a squire. “This is actually quite intriguing,” he remarks to the Lantell pair. “This Gargalen’s not a bad rider; he’s simply got poor technique with the lance. See how he lets it slip a bit, instead of couching it just so? We could fix that easily enough.”

Another lance is broken by the Knight of the Twilight, and Ser Aberyn Crane falls before him after ill-luck in the saddle forced him to try and shift on the gallop to secure a better seat. Ser Aidan passes by, keeping his lance for a few moments as he slows and offers the Crane knight some courteous remarks. Aberyn does not seem to appreciate it, and answers with stiff courtesy at best, before Aidan rides on to prepare for his next challenge.

Ondryn lets the shattered end of his lance drop as he speeds out of the way - he has finally found his rhythm, it seems. He circles around, ready to head back off to prepare for the next match, but leans down to say, “Well fought,” to Jossart as he passes. And then he goes back to join his father on the sidelines, pulling off his helm to reveal disheveled blond hair and a broad grin. Gueren pulls Ondryn aside, and the two Waters knights withdraw to confer again before the next match.

Up in the stands, Ryssa lets out a cheer, much louder and more enthusiastic than the rest of the crowd, even though there are quite a few who will cheer and applaud to see any Dornish knight fall. Beside her, her mother applauds swiftly as well, beaming with pride at her son’s performance.

“Jaesin,” says a dour Ser Brion, “The last thing you need to be doing is teaching Dornishmen to joust.”

Ser Jaesin sighs. “I suppose you’re right, at that,” he grumbles good-naturedly as the bout stretches on and on.

Ser Janden nods as he delivers his seventh blow, obviously happy with the hit. Seeing his opponent still seated, however, he throws down his lance in anger. Then he pauses. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he takes another lance. He salutes his opponent. “This has been fun!” he shouts, not caring if anyone hears. He steadies his lance and charges again.

“Prince Aemon of House Targaryen shall meet Ser Victor of House Reyne, the heir to Castamere!” the herald announces, when all is ready.

Seven tilts and no winner yet! Corrent Gargalen’s face is hidden beneath the protruding visor of his high helm, but his mailed shoulders shake with a bit of self-deprecation. Yet, no self-pity can be seen as he rides up to his pavilion and hurls his unbroken lance at the nearest squire, sending the boy scurrying away before he can be impaled by the twelve-foot weapon. “Someone get me a new lance!”

A few more loud oaths and some frantic activity on the part of the squires… and the Dornish knight is ready for one more pass.

Corrent’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.

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

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

Gargalen has at last gone down to Ser Janden after all. There is much muttering and general hubbub in the Lannister box, and all around Lord Loren gold and silver coins can be seen to change hands with general good cheer.

In the stands, Ser Anders Dondarrion apllauds the jousting men, then qhispers something to his neighbours, drawing rough and loud laughs.

The white armour and the white cloak still gleams pristine in the sunlight as the Prince rides out yet again. As before, he salutes the king and the crowd, as well as his opponent, before reading himself for the tilt. The fiery destrier beneath him is guided with a steady seat into a swift canter, and as the lance dips down into position the animal picks up speed of his own volition, eagerly thundering down the lists.

Victor makes a solid impact against its opponent in the joust, though the lance remains unbroken.

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

Victor is pushed from the saddle by its opponent’s lance.

Marian warmly applauds Ondryn as he departs the field for the time being - then laughs aloud as the Gargalen is finally driven from his seat. More acclamation swiftly follows, as the Dragonknight once again demonstrates his skill.

Finally, a blow well-struck by the cockatrice knight, but the knight from the Vale does him one better, hurling the Dornishman from his saddle with his own strike. Corrent Gargalen veritably bounces back onto his feet from the fall, then crumples to one knee, as if he underestimated just how much shock his body has just absorbed. Not to worry however! The youth from Salt Shore climbs painstakingly onto both his feet, shakes his head and retires to his pavilion.

Alyce raises a brow then applauds Janden and Corrent’s match, eyes keened to the field for the remaining passes.

“Seth of House Blackwood cannot continue, and forfeits in favor of Ser Halder of House Frey!” the herald announces, after a servant bearing a raven on his doublet’s breast has spoken with him. And then seeing Ser Corrent falls, he announces, “Ser Corrent has been defeated, and will not continue! Ser Victor of House Reyne has met his first defeat, and will later contest again. Next in the lists, Ser Jaesin of House Lannister will meet Ser Janden of House Melcolm!”

On hearing the herald announce Prince Aemon, Ammena sits up in her chair to catch the match. As the riders crash and one falls to the ground, her gaze is drawn to the field just in time to see the Prince victorious. Applauding and cheering with the crowds, her gaze drifts to take in the other competing pavilions.

Janden Melcolm’s lance shatters loudly and the sound is immediately followed by a happy shout and a raising of the fist that are responded to by more cheers. He turns around with a very wide smile on his face to wait for the Dornishman to rise. When Corrent does, Janden proclaims, “Some very fine riding!” and salutes the Gargalen before riding to the end of the lists to prepare for the Lannister.

Gold cloak flaring out behind him, the gold and crimson of House Lannister make a fine show for the commons and gentles alike as Ser Jaesin rides out to the lists a third time. Ash in his hand, lion rampant on his breast—his own lion, a subtle difference from his father’s and forefathers’—he dips his lance to the King and his family. His eyes find Princess Daena’s, and she receives a bold wink before he is cantering off to resume his place.

“Alas for the rules,” he remarks to the herald of the joust as he rides past, “you know my brother would pay good silver to see me ride against Ser Corrent.” He grins and slams his visor shut, turning to address his opponent.

Ryssa reaches over to take Marian’s hand again, offering a gentle squeeze and a worried little grimace at the news about Seth. “I’m sure he’ll be all right,” she murmurs, pushing her smile up hopefully.

Cadan Martell, once he has gotten settled in at the box shared with his sister and their retinue.. does not seem to be very happy where he is. After a few bouts witnessed, he leans back in disinterest. A minute or two later, he has a servant retrieve his lute and that seems to have the prince captured for now. Only the most famous names or when his Dornish brethren ride seems to be able to make him look up.

Marian chuckles softly, mustering a lop-sided smile. “He is either dead or largely fine, since no further assistance has been requested. And I think that we would have noticed if a fatality had occurred…”

Still energized with excitement from the previous match, his smile slowly fades away at the announcement of his battle with the famed Lannister. This…wasn’t expected. For the first time in a while, Ser Janden readies himself to fight a man who became famed for his lance before the week began. He breathes deeply as he slowly takes his new lance. He salutes the king and royal family, and then he salutes the Lannister. Pausing more, he finally charges.

A grim salute to greet his opponent across the long lane, and now for a third time Ser Jaesin brushes spurs against the great white’s flanks; a third time the mighty charger leaps forward, gathering speed and momentum in rapidly accelerating strides.

Tha-THUM, tha-THUM, tha-THUM.

Gaze drifting across the lists, Ammena’s eye is caught by a certain golden House motif. Sipping slowly from her cup, she settles back in her chair to catch the coming bouts.

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

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

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

“Ser Janden of House Melcolm is defeated, and will continue on in the second contest!” the herald announces. “Next in the lists, Ser Corrent of House Gargalen shall face Ser Tamlyn of House Toland, and Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe shall face Ser Ondryn of House Waters!”

The wink to their princess certainly has the ladies behind Daena gossiping and a couple even giggle before all eyes turn to watch the Lannister knight dispose of yet another knight. There is a lot of clapping and cheering over the Lion’s newest conquest.

Apparently disgusted by his failure to unhorse an opponent in—for once—less than spectacular fashion, Ser Jaesin reaches the end of the lists and tosses his lance to the ground with a smirk. “Ah well,” he tells his men with a smile, and turns about to seek out and congratulate the vanquished Ser Janden.

Alyce looks to Ryssa and Marian and smiles, nodding, “What an exciting day,” and she fans herself once, looking back to the field.

The Iron Serpent stands on no ceremony. As soon as his name is called, he is ready, swinging onto his horse and holding out a gauntleted hand for a lance. He adjusts his helm, raises the lance, and he is off, charging down the lists toward Ondryn.

Receiving a blow, not on the shield, but in the chest, Ser Janden actually manages a fight to stay on his horse. But he cannot maintain with the pain, and he finally slides off. Coughing, it takes him a good half of a minute before he slowly rises. He coughs some more. Looking up at Ser Jaesin, he manages the best salute he can. It isn’t much of one, but it’s there.

Down goes Ondryn’s visor with a resolute clank, and up he goes onto the horse for his next run. He holds back for a moment as his father gives one last piece of earnest advice, then picks up his lance, wheels around, and heads onto the field to face the Iron Serpent.

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

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

“Oy, Ghost Hill! Steel yourself!” is Ser Corrent Gargalen’s friendly yell in the direction of the Toland heir as he swaggers out of his pavilion and climbs leisurely onto his steed. Strapping his shield into place and tucking his lance into position under his arm, the Gargalen knight urges his horse into position before digging in his spurs, sending the great beast leaping forward into a charge.

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

All golden and green in the sunlight, though the gilded dragon upon his shield did find itself a little chipped when faced with is distant relative in the shape of the Dragonknight, Tamlyn Toland rides out yet again. This time, however, he is facing another Dornishman, so the cheering from the other hostages is not just for him. His dear sister, however, is staunchly behind him. Well, mostly, anyway. “If you unhorse him, Corrent, perhaps I’ll have a reward for you instead!” she calls out, sounding much too amused as her brother prepares to charge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anticipating another lengthy pause whilst the field is whittled down, Ser Jaesin dismounts again for a quick drink of water—and another goblet, upended over his head by the kindly Ser Brion. His mop of shaggy golden hair goes darker with the sudden shower, and he laughs as the rivulets run off and down his forehead, into his eyes.

“You were right, Brion,” he laughs. “This -is- a good day. Maybe the gods will send I’ll meet the pirate—and this time, there’ll be no doubts about the victor.”

As Dagur emerges victorious in his pass against Ondryn, Reyna cheers unabashedly. “Oh, how I should LOVE to see him put Jaesin Lannister on his gilded backside,” she says unkindly, her eyes narrowed a trifle as her husband rides by and salutes in her direction.

Immediately arriving at his tent, Ser Janden’s breastplate is immediately undone by the servant as he throws of his helmet. The servant then runs for one of the many maesters, and one eventually comes to the tent to attend to Ser Janden, who has not yet been eliminated.

A poor blow, for all the talk, but Corrent Gargalen manages an expansive smile from under his steely visor as he canters into the end of the lane and tugs on his reins, bringing the horse around. Before accepting a new lance however, the youth from Salt Shore eases up from his saddle and half-stands precariously on his stilts, bringing his sword hand around to gently rub at his bottom before settling himself back onto his steed. It is only then that he takes another lance and readies himself for another charge.

“You would betray me, sister dear?” Tamlyn calls out, in a mock-wounded voice, as he finishes the first pass against Corrent. “I suppose I shall have to show Ser Corrent I mean business, then!” he shouts, wheeling his charger about for the second tilt.

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

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

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

Ondryn lets out a hoarse cry of triumph as his first lance shatters, and wheels swiftly around to get a second, hardly missing a beat as he circles around the ring and back out for a second pass. But the power of the first blow has shaken him, it seems - Ondryn’s next blow is much weaker, his arm faltering under the weight of the lance and slipping aside. Down he goes with another painful thump. Still, he is struggling to his feet almost at once, and offers a slightly choked, if perfectly respectful, “Well fought, ser,” to Ser Dagur before he trudges off the field. To face his father. Again.

Beads of sweat as large as raindrops sprout all along Corrent’s brow, but their cause is not the warmth of the sun nor is it the stifling heat of his armor - it is from the intense struggle in the Dornishman’s nether regions as he battles to stay in his saddle, a conflict from which he emerges the victor. With a slow sigh of relief, he readies himself for the third pass.

As Ser Corrent and Ser Tamlyn struggle on, the herald announces, “Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe shall meet Ser Aidan of House Dayne, while Ser Jaesin of House Lannister shall meet Prince Aemon of House Targaryen!”

Having warmly applauded Ondryn’s bold showing, she laughs, sighs, and offers her sympathies to his family - while applauding him and Dagur from the field.

Another good blow from Tamlyn, but that persistent cockatrice remains in the saddle. “Hah! You cling on to the saddle like a jilted girl who refuses to give up!” the Toland knight calls out, swiftly turning his horse around to meet yet another charge from his fellow Dornishman.

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

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

Tamlyn just manages to keep to the saddle after weathering a good blow from his opponent.

Ryssa’s face crumples with disappointment - and quite a bit of worry, as well - as her brother is thrown from his horse again. Her shoulders slump, and she exchanges an unhappy look with her mother - even though Jeyna Sunderland’s reactions are much more subdued than her daughter’s, the disappointment and concern are still plain on her face as she watches Ondryn’s painful journey off the field. “I’ll go,” she murmurs to her daughter. “I didn’t like the look of that fall….” Murmuring polite “pardon me"s to those she passes, she makes her way out of the stands and down towards her son.

At last! The moment of truth! Lannister against Targaryen, friend against friend, boon companion against boon companion. So too, the gossiping hags might say, lover versus lover? Hardly.

But Ser Jaesin takes to the match with relish, spring up into the saddle with a renewed energy. Again he rides below and along the viewing stands, this time singling out Ammena Piper with a jaunty wave, before snapping his visor shut and taking his place at the lists’ far end, lance in hand.

“This jilted girl still hits twice as hard as you, Toland!” is the Gargalen youth’s reply as they exchange blows in their third pass. This time, Corrent chooses to retain his lance as he swings around for the fourth tilt.

“Oooh, not bad, Ser Corrent! Though I have had girls hit me harder!” Tamlyn jests as he resettles himself in the saddle. From the stands, another Dornishman calls out. “Yeah, your sweet sister, I bet!” Tamlyn can only laugh, though he has to cut it short and once again ready himself for a tilt, as the contest is not yet over.”

As his cousin continues against Ser Corrent, Aidan Dayne makes final preparations to face his next foe ... who is made clear when Ondryn Waters is forced from his saddle by the Iron Serpent. Anyone watching him as he holds his horse’s headstall and rubs its nose briefly might see him smile. As the herald announces that it is his turn again, he mounts and Danyll Toland—distracted by his brother’s efforts, and often shouting aloud to cheer him on—hands up his helmet, and then a fresh lance. His blood bay gelding prances as he brings it forward, and it takes a few moments to settle it before he is on his mark. He looks across the field to the ironman, and dips his lance deep in salute.

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

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

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

“Should you not exchange favors, first?” A Dornishman calls out before the upcoming battle between Jaesin and Aemon.. It would make sense, wouldn’t it?

Without dismounting, the Iron Serpent waits fohis next joust. The helm masks his expression but there is is something in the manner he straightens on hearing the steward that betrays his eagerness. Lance in hand, he yet waits a moment to watch the other joust—the one that sets the crowds to cheering—a moment.

Watching the bouts with interest, the Piper maiden catches the wave from the Lion and cannot help but softly smile with a quirk of her brow. She leans forward in her chair to watch the match. Dancing green eyes watch the Dragon and Lion with increasing interest.

But only a moment—and then, his lance dips as deeply as the Donishman’s; he has accoded no other knight such coutesy. And with that, he charges.

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

Both jousters are driven from the saddle!

Rising to her feet, Marian laughs in sheer delight as she adds her voice and applause to the crowd’s response to the remarkable meeting of Serpent and Twilight.

From his vantage near the end of the lists, where he prepares for his own run against the Dragonknight, Ser Jaesin looks on with a purist’s fascination as Dayne and Saltcliffe meet as equals—and are hurled apart as equals. “To swords,” he cries gleefully, and only half in jest! “To swords!”

The Dornish adversaries clash… and then pass each other, both still unscathed from their contest. Corrent Gargalen urges his steed towards his pavilion, then drops his lance and gestures urgently with his hand, calling for, “Wine… I need wine.” When a squire brings him an oversize skin, the youth grabs it with both hands and squeezes a firm jet of dark purple straight onto the parched area of his tongue. For several heartbeats, he maintains this pose, all the while gulping madly at the stream of wine, before giving the skin back with a loud, satisfied smack of his lips. Gathering himself once more, he couches a new lance and comes charging down the lane toward Tamlyn.

Shattered lance bits fly everywhere when the Dayne knight and the Iron Serpent clash; one of them even flies far enough to settle in Reyna’s hair. But she doesn’t notice, too fixed is she on staring at both doughty knights in the dirt of the lists.

Called now to contest against his friend, the Dragonknight lowers his crested greathelm upon his head and moves to mount his white-caprisoned steed. One of his brothers in the Kingsguard, Ser Olyvar, hands him his white-painted lance before he rides to his place at one end of the lists. The crowd is roaring and cheering, it is impossible to be heard over the din, not least when the Iron Serpent and the Knight of the Twilight drive one another from the saddle.

Ryssa bursts into incredulous laughter as she stares at the field, and follows her lady to her feet a moment later, applauding wildly along with the crowd at the sight of a double unhorsing.

Cadan suddenly puts his lute away, seeing the latest result between Corrent and Tamlyn.. and then he’s hurrying down from his box, barely offering a single word to his sister. The prince makes his way towards the Dornish pavilions, nearly crossing the field to get there before the jousting is over between the two. But, alas, Corrent has already finished his wine drinking and the prince ends up standing alone at the end of the field where they ride, his sandsilks billowing even in the very light breeze. Behind him, his squire can be seen rushing in and out of the pavilion that the Dornish prince had used the days before.

Taking the opportunity for a break as Corrent take one, Tamlyn too calls for wine and drinks a good deal of it, then asks for water which is poured over his head before the greathelm is replaced. Water is fed to his mount as well, and poured over its neck to cool it off some. Then he takes up a lance again, and soon he charges down the lists for another pass.

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

Tamlyn’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.

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

Alyce is up on her feet and applauding, eyes wide, “My goodness!” she chirps.

Fo a long, breathless moment, the Ion Serpent lies still in the dust. And then, slowly, he levers himself up on arm, then both. And as he gains his knees, he looks across the field and sees his opponent in the dust.

He pauses.

And throwing back his head, then, he laughs a laugh that can be heard even above the crowd’s clamour.

The Dornish prince first curses, then cheers and applauds for the other Dornishman who -did- win the meeting between the two. But, whatever he came there for seems to have been made unattainable and he retreats back into the preparation area of the Dornishmen. As he walks backwards, he applauds calmly for .. well, everything that is going on out there.

Tanyth’s cheering for her brother is enthusiastic, but even in the midst of his victory she finds herself distracted by the joust that went down a little before Tamlyn’s, namely that between Ser Aidan and the Iron Serpent. It was a most spectacular event, after all, and now she—and much of the crowd—waits to see what will happen.

A loud cheer goes up from the lists’ south end, where the Lannister men—despite the absence of their lord Jaesin, who waits across the long lane for the signal to ride—cheer the prospect of swords with gusto! “Dayne,” they cry aloud, making their own opinions known without care. “Dayne and the Morning! DAYNE!”

Finally, a result! Corrent feels himself being propelled from the saddle and into the air, where he hangs for a moment before striking the dusty ground with teeth-rattling impact. He lies there for several minutes, breathing heavily underneath all his armor, but finally the youth climbs to his feet and sends a cheerful wave in Tamlyn’s direction before walking towards his pavilion to watch the results of the double-fall between Ser Aidan and Ser Dagur.

Third time pays for all, it was said. Mayhaps. Certainly, when both knights full of prowess come charging at one another with such vigor, their lances held steady, their bodies set to take the impact of their blows… And then the lances shatter to pieces, one and two, and a knight falls ... one, and two. The roar is magnificent, the crowd near in pandemonium, and even the impending contest between the Dragonknight and the lion from the westerlands is forgotten.

Aidan’s breath blows hot in his helm, as he rolls onto his back. Dirt plugs the breaths of his bellows visor, and he lifts it up after a few moments to see the hazy blue sky before finally climbing to his feet. He’s a little shaky as he does so, rising nigh at the same time as the Iron Serpent does, and he grins. His lip is bloody, from where it has split in the fall, but he doesn’t seem to notice it.

The herald shouts, barely to be heard, “Ser Dagur and Ser Aidan must fight on with tourney weapons until one yields!” Danyll Toland, wide eyed, runs into the Knight of the Twilight’s arming tent and comes back out with a bare sword, its edges blunted.

When the shouts from the Dornishmen start forming into a chant, Ariana Martell isn’t going to be any worse and she takes up the call: “Dayne! Dayne and the Morning!” And thus, it spreads to others among their countrymen, down to where the prince is standing who takes the call up as well.

“DAYNE AND THE MORNING!”

While Westerosi knights call for Dornish ones, there are plenty who supports those who have fought for the King from the first call. A mighty cry, lead by the Tyrell and their lady, goes up for:

“THE IRON SERPENT!”

Cheers go up across the stands, the shouts of Dayne came first but as the Tyrell group shouts, some join into their chorus. In the Targaryen box Carmella, like many of the ladies, are on their feet and the Dondarrion lifts her voice to join, oddly, with the Lannisters. “DAYNE!”

Anders is on his feet now, smiling and cheering on, “Dayne! Dayne and the Morning!”

In the Lannister box high above the proceedings and the commons alike, Lord Loren smiles a thin, bloodless smile as he watches the carnage unfold beneath him. “Desert devil or honorless pirate? I wonder,” he remarks to the men around him.

“That’s the Saltcliffe bastard,” Ser Galan the Green tells his uncle helpfully.

Thus reminded of his son Jonn’s dishonor at Dagur’s hands, Lord Loren’s smile broadens—if only a faction. “Very well,” he replies in short, clipped tones. “The Dayne it is, then!”

1]

Once Danyll gets up to Aidan and gives him the sword, the squire pulls back and out of the lists. All eyes are on the Dornishman and the ironman, and Aidan approaches the Iron Serpent with surprising openness. None but Dagur can hear him over the din, as he says, “Third time pays for all, you said, ser. It seems the gods heard you. Shall we try and see that these feats of arms are worthy of our knighthoods, and of song?”

No such attribute to reset.

Ammena raises her goblet to her lips but stops short as the crowds around her jump to their feet at the call from the herald. Wide-eyed at the news of a battle, she too rises to catch the coming bout. Her gaze quickly takes in the cheering noble and commonfolk crowds before settling on the two combatants.

Astride his great white charger, Ser Jaesin forgets his opponent for the nonce and simply settles in under the sun, watching this duel with interest. He has crossed swords with Dagur Saltcliffe himself, to no real resolution—despite the cheers of his retainers and family, one can only wonder what the man himself is thinking.

Alyce’s eyes grow wide as she stares down at the knights then her gaze shifts to the left and right, taking in the reactions of others as they watch the scene unfold. Slowly her gaze finds the unmounted combatants and she inhales, waiting as well.

As the two champions prepare to fight on foot, the herald manages to announce, “Ser Halder of House Frey shall meet Ser Tamlyn of House Toland!”

“Ah, bugger, I’ll have to watch Aidan while I joust,” Tamlyn dryly quips as he gets ready for his next bout, having managed to get a bit of rest after his several runs against Ser Corrent. The greathelm is lowered again, the lance is hefted, and he gallops out to meet the Frey knight in the list. Ser Halder, who has had a longer break, is already prepared, and charges towards the Dornishman.

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

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

“So I did.”

And as his squire emerges from the dust, the Iron Serpent waves him back and sets his shield down. And he bares his face then, lifting the massive helm to reveal a trickle of blood and a smile to match it.

“The Stranger take minstrels and crowds, ser. I mean to take your measure today.”

“And mine.”

And as he wears the helm and takes up shield and sword, he laughs again, hollow and echoing, “I remember the Blind well. By the gods, I have faced but one other man who has ever beaten me back.”

And he steps back, raising his sword a salute no less courteous than any greenland knight’s: “Come.”

Whether or not Tamlyn actually did look at Aidan rather than at his opponent in the joust, the young knight gave well and took an equally powerful blow while remaining steady in his seat. With no time to loose, both he and Halder quickly turn their mounts about yet again, and with fresh lances in their hands mount another charge.

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

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

Black on black, a tall, looming figure encased entirely in steel, here is a knight menacing enough to be the Stranger given flesh. From pauldrons to greaves, from breastplate to boots, his armour is dark as deepest night; of the finest workmanship, it is yet utterly devoid of any embellishment. The only concession is the swordbelt of supple leather, finely tooled with serpents, the silvered buckle formed of a linked pair. The scabbard is worked in a similar fashion, the sword in it—like the rest of the knight’s accoutrements—castle-forged but plain.

His helm is no less fearsome, a serpent’s head with bared fangs forming twin silvered bars that protect his face. It frames cold, cruel eyes and the hard lines of mouth and jaw.

Here, then, is no gilded tourney knight, no chivalrous champion of the lists, but a warrior honed to the keenest edge for only one purpose—battle and death.

“Move, fool boy!” he calls to his squire who has tarried a moment too long to watch the spectacle. Disengaging, the ironman falls back a step and circles to Aidan’s unshielded side.

In the stands high above his beloved firstborn son, Lord Loren folds his arms across his chest. A glance is thrown toward the royal box, hawkish and imperial. As the Kings of the Rock might once have looked upon their rivals.

But below, there is only respect. Ser Jaesin gives his steed the cue, raising the lance to set—and with a lurch the long run begins, beat by beat by thrumming, mounting beat….

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

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

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

Aidan’s footsteps are light, for all that he wears armor, and as Dagur circles he matches the movement, deep blue eyes watchful. They flicker away, for an instant, when they see something—and then he launches himself forward again, a whirlwind of sword blows that pause only when he can use his tourney blade to turn one from Dagur, or when he must needs bring his shield to the fore to stop the ironman from getting through his defenses. It becomes clear from the start that Ser Aidan’s lightness and swiftness, all aided by his Dornish armor, might give him the advantage as he pressed Dagur and tries to force him back and back.

Staggered in the saddle, Jaesin Lannister strives to keep his seat—and finally, manfully does so. At the lists’ end, he lifts his visor briefly, exhaling—and grinning, impressed by his friend’s skill. Wordlessly, he tosses aside the fractured weapon and accepts the next lance handed up with a confident look.

Again he lowers his visor, and again his steed sets off for the fateful collision of men and friends and allies.

In the first pass, the knight all in splendid white has the advantage, jolting his friend in the saddle. But fortunes change swiftly in the lists sometimes, even for Princes, and there’s no mistaking the seriousness of Prince Aemon—his visor lifted briefly—as he takes up a second lance and turns his destrier around for a second pass. Again the tip of the lance is lowered in a salute, before the signal is given to his mount to gallop down the lists.

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

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

And the Dornishman does indeed gain the advantage—but it ebbs and flows, not yet a tide. The ironman is not named a serpent without reason; he moves as swiftly as one, his blade flickering in the space between the two men, blocking, cutting, trapping.

But his heavier armour costs him a second in every counter, every thrust—and so, with a shrewd, looping cut, he takes another step back, then another.

Another pass, another fruitless blow; when Ser Jaesin returns to the far end of the lists, it is with a professional’s cool demeanor that he discards the lance’s failed haft, and is handed a third—

Once more Jaesin Lannister turns to face the Dragonknight, his rampant lion sigil roaring silent defiance.

Once more he dips his lance in respectful salute.

Once more the crowd roars in anticipation, approval, excitement—those who can tear themselves from the duel afoot, at least—

And once more Ser Jaesin is off, bearing down against the Targaryen champion.

This time, the performance of the two knights almost mirror each other, with their seats remaining steady and both lances needing to be replaced. And so the ritual repeats itself again; a brief pause to catch one’s breath, a new lance delivered by his squire, and then Prince Aemon is ready for the third charge against his companion. Will there be a decision now?

Every swing, every clang makes the face of the Serpent’s wife a little paler, though she is weathering the duel very well. Reyna stands at the rail, leaning a little out and watching with wide eyes as Dagur seems to retreat, her mouth moving in silent encouragement.

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

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

That looping cut would have taken a hand off, were the blade sharp and Aidan’s arm left undefended. As it is, it’s a stinging blow that the Knight of the Twilight ignores with clearly gritted teeth, as he cuts forward with a will. Every time he cuts, he strives to push the knight backwards another step… and for those watching, the target becomes clearer: he is trying to force Ser Dagur against the barrier separating the jousting lanes. The racket and clangor of blows, the pounding of the wooden shield and the metal, the song of steel when the tourney blades screech together, is punctuated by the crack of splintering lances as Lannister and Targaryen charge one another again and again in a show of prowess.

Shaken, Ser Jaesin keeps his seat, unaware of his rival’s struggle to do the same; the shards of his lance are thrown off to the side before ever he reaches the lists’ end, this time. Now he draws his mount to a pause, lifts his visor, and signals for water. It is there before he can mouth the words.

His thirst quenched, a fourth ashen lance is set firmly in his gauntleted grip by young Alaric Lantell. Again it is dipped in salute. Again his mount lurches forward.

If the crowd was virtually at the boiling point before, it is well beyond it now. An epic duel on foot between the Ironman and the Dornishman is matched by an epic joust between Prince Aemon and Ser Jaesin. What else could they possibly ask for?

Indeed, Prince Aemon seems to enjoy the results himself, as he smiles—and briefly glances up to where the other royals sit, catching the eye of his sister Naerys—when offered water to drink while a new lance is fetched for him. But then, as the visor is lowered again, his expression is one of concentration on the task at hand. And so he salutes again, and charges onwards.

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

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

The crowd may gauge the Donishman’s plan or it may not; the ironman surely does. For those who can read the tale written by the flashing blades, it is plain to see in the ferocity with which he fights for every pace. But still he must concede, driven by a stroke against his armoured shoulder or a cut at the exposed joint of his knee.

There is a moment in which his sword slips through, finding a gap—and then he pulls it back to block a swing at his flank, his shield driven aside by the previous attack. There is no curse from him; no sound save hoarse breathing as he falls back again.

Another run, another broken lance—five apiece? If Ser Jaesin is counting, it would seem out of character. Indeed, he is all grins as he lifts his visor once more, surrounded by his squires all a-hurry to equip him again. “Seven help me, Aemon!” he calls aloud—though his voice must be lost in the roar of the crowd ere it ever could reach his friend. “It’s Highgarden all over again!”

And with a laugh, the Young Lion sets himself again, steels himself again, and lunges forward on the back of his surging white steed.

It seems impossible to separate these two! And yet again, new lances are needed. Epic, truly, is the word for this match. This time, as the Prince receives a new lance, his steed is cooled off with some water, but only a little time is given for such things. Soon enough, but not until his friend’s words have left another smile on his lips, he has to lower his visor once more, and his mount still responds with high spirit to the command to charge forward.

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

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

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

The battle continues, and any time the ironman attempts to win his way to the side, Aidan’s sword and shield is there to try and block him. In the end he has him to the very barrier itself, the whitewashed wood at his back, and now Aidan tries to whittle away at the ironman, feinting and pressing at him, sword slashing from seemingly all directions as he attempts to wear him down and force him to yield. The Dornishmen in the crowd are cheering him on lustily, and for the most part the catcalls and boos are forgotten as the crowd is caught up in the two simultaneous battles.

Cadan’s eyes are nowhere near the joust but is instead focused on the battle on foot. His face is expressionless, concentrated, the white scarf hanging undisturbed around his neck and his arms are folded across his chest. Watching, waiting. The cheers of the crowd might still go on, but the prince isn’t part of them anymore.

The crowd gasps as the Prince is almost unhorsed, but Aemon himself—once his seat is regained—sounds pleased as he calls out, “A close call, Jaesin! But it looks like we are not done quite yet.” This time, as he pauses down at his end of the lists, his eyes go again to where Princess Naerys sits, and as he hefts a new lance in his hand dips it briefly in her direction. Then, he mounts the charge again.

Jaesin Lannister is not a man to revel in a hair-split ‘advantage’; so little sets these knights apart that the chance of a blow struck but slightly better is hardly a point of pride, to him. So it is that he flips up his visor and laughs instead, long and loud, at Aemon’s call. “There will always be another run, Aemon,” he replies, his mount slowing to a pause and more water for horse and rider alike.

“Jonn is clutching his purse to his chest just now, I’d imagine,” Jaesin quips to his squire, keeping the mood light as a sixth lance is set in his hand. Oddly, he touches his chest with his shield-hand for a brief moment, closing his eyes; he whispers something to himself and opens them then, searching the viewstand in vain for… something.

Then the visor clangs shut and he is off once again.

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

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Holding the Dornishman at bay with cold skill that never falters even as his situation grows more dire, the Iron Serpent battles to win a single moment’s respite.

He does not succeed.

Aidan’s blade licks at his knee again, his gut—and finally, his wrist. And the ironman’s sword slips from nerveless fingers.

The crowd gasps. And, as swiftly as if he wore no armour at all, Dagur falls to a knee, catching it before it can touch the ground—and he surges up with a backhanded blow, not with the retrieved weapon but his shield, that must seem brutal even from the stands.

Ammena looks from one battle to another, unsure where to keep her gaze. The Serpent meets the Twilight? Or the Lion and the Dragon? She rises on tiptoe in an attempt to catch either. Her petite stature does nothing to aid her. “Out of the way, girl!” she commands to a cheeky goose-necked serving wench who blocks her view. The goose stares at her. The Piper clarifies, “MOVE… YOUR… HEAD or I shall move it for you.” The wench blinks, grabs her slattern skirts and waddles to the back of the stands. Ammena glares at the goosegirl for a moment then turns her attention back to the field in time to catch the Lion and Dragon shatter their claws. “Gods! I’m missing the best of it!” she complains.

The strain of weathering the Dragonknight’s thunderous, well-placed strikes is for Jaesin offset only by the sheer exultation of returning them, blow-for-blow, with his own. Tiring a bit, he pauses this time to dip his lance to the commons, acknowledging their cheers for both himself and his opponent. And then it is on once more.

Water, and a new lance, waits for the Dragonknight as he reaches the end of the lists, and a few moment’s rest is once again given the two knights engaged in this too close to call contest. “I think we may run out of lances, Jaesin!” Prince Aemon calls out this time, just before he asks his mount to give a little more and let him charge his friend yet again.

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

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

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

Unprepared for that, Ser Aidan is caught mid-blow full upon his own shield, and nearly lifted off his feet as the ironman charges at him with a bullrush. He barely keeps his feet, cat-quick as he finds his feet and tries to plant them. He braces, trying to hold off Ser Dagur’s rush, to find some room to take advantage of the fact he still has a blade. He pushes, attempting to bear the ironman back, and then plunges back a step to open a space and try to hack awkwardly at the battle-scarred shield.

And on the seventh pass, Ser Jaesin is struck by his friend’s own lance—a fraction of moments before his own lance can hit, thrown off-balance, and his blow goes astray. Again he struggles to maintain his seat, but at last he succumbs to gravity and the Dragonknight’s greater skill, sliding from the saddle.

Unwilling to rest or show weakness, Ser Jaesin is quick to pull himself back to his feet. A trifle unbalanced at first, he regains his footing swiftly and removes his helm, searching out Prince Aemon.

The roar from the crowd is as tremendous as that final blow of Aemon’s as the contest between the Prince and Ser Jaesin is decided. For his own part, the Prince is quick to rid himself of the shattered lance, then trots briskly back down the lists to where the other knight fell. “Well fought, as always, Jaesin,” he says, having lifted his visor once more. “I will be thoroughly bruised tomorrow.”

But now that he has the advantage, the Iron Serpent will not give it up easily. The first blow is awkward, hampered by his wrist, and the second. But the third gains in strength and the fourth is a hammerblow.

Not for a moment does he let Aidan win free again; step by step he keeps upon him with ruthless, battering cuts.

“I’ll have one bruise more, though,” replies Ser Jaesin to the Dragonknight, grinning and brushing back sweat-drenched golden curls as they fall inevitably into his eyes. “I’ll win that contest, at least. Well struck, Aemon.”

And with a bow to the grandstand and the royal box, he moves as quickly as he may around toward the lists’ end and a remounting. All is not yet decided, though the champion surely is as good as known, now.

Sucking in air, sweat glistening upon his face, Aidan is desperate to hold back the ruthless, brutal blows. For a moment here, a moment there, he seems to win a beat, a chance to recover the momentum at least, to stem the tide—but Ser Dagur fights like a man possessed now, like a man who will not know defeat. *CRASH* the sword scythes against his metal shield, *CRASH* again, *CLANG* as Aidan stumbles back and wildly parries a blow, *CRASH* as he falls back again and takes a blow on his shield, *CRASH* again, *CRASH* *CLANG*—

The last noise is the strange, soft clatter of one sword hammering aside another so that it falls, and then cutting back to slam into the Knight of the Twilight’s armored chest. Ser Aidan falls, driven to his knees by the blow.

“I yield!”

What Ser Halder and Ser Victor might think, all their glory stolen by such famous knights, none might know. They ride furiously at one another as the crowd has its eyes on the climaxes of two great battles that are surely a match for all the feats of arms so far performed.

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

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

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

The cry is taken up by those Westerosi who are not compatriots of the Lannisters, and by no few commons as well: THE IRON SERPENT! Reyna stands in the midst of the roaring, clapping quietly and smiling with obvious pride.

As the shout goes up from the fallen Dornishman it is as if the wind has been knocked from many sails, Carmella included. She had been joining in with the shouts for Dayne, but when the knight fell she paused and when he called out she groaned and sank down into her chair.

Watching blow after blow, sometimes wincing and leaning even as the combatants do, Alyce gasps then exhales when Aidan falls, her eyes there just a moment before a falling jouster catches her eye and she simply applauds, both contests well deserving.

For a moment, it seems the Dornish knight’s cry has gone unheard in the sudden roar from the crowd. The ironman raises his sword high, glittering against the sky—and then, at the apex of the swing, he pauses.

Only to drive the blade down again.

But the blow is wide; he drives the blade into the dusty ground, jamming it upright. Removing his helm, he tosses it aside; it is a long moment before he can speak, gasping for breath. And then:

“So be it.” And he holds out a gauntleted hand to pull Aidan to his feet.

Cadan looks out at Dagur, his lips tight. Then, he turns around, pointing at a servant: “You.. take that bucket and have it ready when the Knight of the Twilight returns.. he will need water. And get a Maester here.” His dark eyes return to the field just in time to see the Ironman offer his gauntlet to the Dornishman.

“Oh, bugger!” Tanyth calls out as her cousin yields, no doubt expressing the sentiments of the rest of the Dornish contingent. Still, credit has to be given for that performance. “But well fought, cousin!”

Elsewhere in the stands, a ravenhaired northwoman sinks down a little in her seat, having sat as if on pins and needles for a long time now. Between that epic joust between the Dragonknight and Ser Jaesin and the contest on foot between Ser Aidan and Ser Dagur, Aisling was kept thoroughly focused on the field for what seemed like forever, and now that both conclusions have been reached she seems rather taken by all the tension. Indeed, her pale features are touched by an almost hectic blush on the cheeks.

Legs shaky, his breath almost gone after that shout, Aidan accepts the hand gratefully and is pulled to his feet. He promptly leans over, a hand on his knees, gasping for breath as if through a straw. Between gasps he manages, “By the Seven ... third time paid for all, Ser Dagur! The gods give you victory this day!” And with that he straightens, and offers his hand again, looking the taller man in the eye as he does so, a link from his suit of scales hanging perilously loose by one of the rivets.

The lull betwixt matches suits the Lannister champion well. Dismounted for the nonce, Ser Jaesin sits upon a bench some distance from the viewstand and the lists, a makeshift, shaded pavilion hastily erected to shield him from the sun. Sipping at a goblet, he watches closely to see who will emerge from the remaining challengers to call him back from his idles.

“Prince Aemon and Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe are victorious!” the herald announces, and with obvious excitement in his voice for the first time; he’s as caught up as everyone else, as the cheering rolls on; Halder and Victor, alas, are indeed all forgotten. “There will be a pause, to allow the knights to recover, before Ser Dagur faces Ser Janden Melcolm in the lists!”

As his name is called by the Herald, Ser Janden finally walks out of his tent; no upper body armor on. The maester leaves the tent, too; and the two confer. The maester then gives some orders to Janden’s servant, and the boy begins helping Janden with his armor. He clearly does not feel he is injured enough to finish. The helm he then places on his head is different than the earlier one—a simple helm without an anchor attached. As he mounts his horse and is handed his lance, the servant relays the tourney’s past events to the Melcolm knight. Janden shakes his head and wonders how he might have a chance. “Seven help me,” he mutters before giving a nod to the Iron Serpent. He has trouble settling his lance, but when he finally does he charges.

“I will call my score settled,” the ironman concedes. There is no breath left for more but his smile sits easily upon that hard, lean face. And he grasps Aidan’s hand again as it is offered before glancing around the stands as if noticing the crowds for the first time.

Shaking his head, he turns away, his squire arriving at a run to take his discarded helm and shield. But pausing again half-a-dozen paces away, he calls over his shoulder, “Nicely done, ser,” as he had once before. With that, he returns to his pavilion.

With no more than a brief respite, the Iron Serpent returns to the lists again, helmed and armed. His charger stamps restlessly as Dagur stretches his shoulders under the weight of the armour—and then, he is off.

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

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

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

Dragging himself upright, the ironman shakes his head sharply once; no more than that. Then he is arming himself again, settling the familiar weight of the lance in the crook of his arm before charging.

No respite for the knight, and none for his lady; Reyna’s nails are surely leaving marks in the wooden railing as she grips it and watches, the rush-by of the horses setting her black skirts to fluttering. Beyond that, she does not react. Her face is set in grim attention.

The Melcolm knight’s lance shatters, and as he undoes his veil on the other side, a look of shock can be seen in his eyes. “Warrior, thank you,” he mutters, “continue lifting me!”

With some renewed vigor, Ser Janden receives a new lance from the boy. He barely notices his wounds now, and charges again after lowering his veil.

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

Janden’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.

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

And yet again the Iron Serpent is nearly battered from his saddle. He will nurse his bruises on the morrow, no doubt—but for now, he merely rides back to rearm and charge again without even that shake of his head to betray his thoughts.

Ser Janden’s lance cracks loudly and he quickly drinks some water before getting a new one. Those real close to him can tell he is still really surprised, but he soon steadies his horse and concentrates. Grabbing a third lance, he charges at the similarly bruised knight on the other side.

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

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

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

Sharp-eyed Ser Jaesin seems pleased by the results thus far, drawing a query from his man, Brion Lantell. In response, the Lannister coolly replies, “I want that pirate, Brion. He’s played at being a knight for far too long. Ironmen are the worst sort of rapists and plunderers; it’s in his nature and I’m tired of his charade. It’s time someone sent him back to his rotten little islands.”

With Danyll’s assistance in recovering his sword, Aidan walks away with head held high towards his arming tent, which he enters ... and where, unseen by most, he collapses into a camp chair with the exhaustion of a man who’s gone through a mighty trial. The surge of excitement that can move limbs with superlative speed in the midst of battle is gone, and he must recoup his strength; there are jousts yet to try, a victory on the day still beckoning.

Ser Tamlyn arrives, and others are present to congratulate or commiserate, to marvel or to report for him on Ser Dagur’s contest against the Melcolm knight. A maester comes, sent by the prince, and he takes a ladel of water gratefully enough as Danyll begins to unlace his suit of scales.

Alyce leans forward, intent on the joust, her fan dangling from her wrist swaying now and again, the rest of her frozen in the moment at complete attention to the field.

And yet again! And this time, there is a reaction. The ironman can be heard to laugh as he passes the Melcom knight on his way back, weary and dry. He raises the cracked lance in a casual salute to the other man before tossing it away. And then, it is into the charge again.

With a third quality pass, Ser Janden slowly begins to believe himself. Not yet, though. Still somewhat unsure of how his elimination has not yet come, he grabs a fourth lance. “My god, 3 broken lances and 3 tries against this man? Who woulda thunk it?” he says to those nearby him. The Melcolm shakes his head, breathes steadily, and then charges again.

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

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

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

It’s worked in the past: Reyna unties the sash around her waist and lets an end flutter in the wind as she wraps it around her wrist. But she looks a trifle anxious about the eyes now as the Iron Serpent rocks in his saddle again and again, and she can be seen uttering prayers to the Seven under her breath.

Cadan had his attention at Aidan as the knight was returning but after he’s done so, something draws the prince’s attention. He looks to his left, like he heard something, and moves towards the area where Jaesin is seated. Coming around the ‘corner’ of a tent, he sees the man and his eyebrows perk up in surprise.

“I can think of a few who are worse, but.. I’ll be glad to see him fall, as well.” His voice is kept just high enough to be heard in the dim of the crowds, spoken to the Lannister directly. “Like he’s done a few times,” he adds, his smile a wickedly amused one.

And he know he would have to struggle at some point. The latest hit reverberating against the place where the Lannister knight put a wound, Ser Janden struggles mightily to keep his seat. Well, his senses are back to normal senses, at least. He gets a fifth lance and then salutes his opponent. Charge again.

Men of the Vale now have their chance to cheer, as Ser Janden Melcolm shows his second place on the first day was no fluke; he is one to watch for, a champion in the making. The king is near hoarse with his own roars and cheers; he has seen much to please him this day, and every man who performs well under his eyes has new prospects potentially blooming. The Young Dragon loves the gods, and the realm, and deeds of arms—but not necessarily in that order.

The squire is waiting with a fresh lance as the ironman approaches; there is a swift exchange between the two as he hands it up. Whatever is said, the youth lingers a moment before withdrawing—and his knight wheels, checks a moment as he sees that flutter of silver and black in the stands, and charges again.

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

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

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

Surprised at the emergence of a new voice—and a Dornish one—to his side, Ser Jaesin eyes Prince Cadan Martell with a lazy regard. His handsome face turns up in a faint half-smile. “Some say the enemies of one’s enemies are one’s friends,” the Lannister tells the Dornish heir, “but I have never put much stock in such sooths. Still, your regard is welcome. I have no love for that serpent, as you seem to have heard.”

And Ser Janden Melcolm is finally unhorsed. He rises to his feet slowly, but much quicker than the previous time. All smiles, he gives a salute to the Iron Serpent, to the King and his fellow royalty, and then to the crowd who has been amazingly loud for quite some time now. Taking off his helm, he smiles and walks back towards his tent.

“Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe will go on to joust against Ser Halder of House Frey!” the herald announces after Ser Janden is defeated, the crowd cheering at the result, and then many in the commons applauding him off the field. It was a bold showing, and gave the Iron Serpent a test to show him his bruising day was not yet done.

“It would mean that I’d have to like all too many men, since I dislike some awful fellows,” Cadan agrees with a chuckle, moving a step closer now that he’s been acknowledged. “And I wager they are hated by half the world.” He looks out to the field as the roar announces a winner of the joust. “It seems.. that you might get the chance to unhorse him after all. Seems he brought the Vale-knight down into the dust..” He stops to listen to the announcement before noting quietly: “Just one more, then.”

Standing to applaud Ser Janden’s showing—and, one might guess, Ser Dagur’s continued success—Jaesin Lannister begins to pull on his gauntlets once more. “One more run, men,” he says, echoing Cadan to his squires and men-at-arms around him. “One more run. Let’s get this done.”

Taking heart from their young lord’s confidence, the boys and men in Lannister crimson spring to life, preparing horse and rider alike for the coming conflict. Meanwhile, Jaesin himself regards Cadan curiously. “Will I have the backing of the Dornish if I ride against Saltcliffe, then? What an odd world the Young Dragon’s made.”

Reyna puts her face in her hands for a moment when Janden hits the ground, and the cheers swell around her. And when she looks up, she shakes her head that he must run another pass. But gamely, and with no fear in her eyes, she raises her hand and proudly lets fly the Saltcliffe colors.

Marian adds her congratulations and applause to those greeting the Ironborn’s victory, laughing softly at some comment from among her companions.

Nodding to the unhorsed knight, the Iron Serpent rides back to his pavilion. His squire hands up a waterskin; the knight drains it in two deep draughts. Then, lowering his helm, he gestures for a fresh lance and awaits the steward’s announcement.

And as it is made, he waits for his opponent, then sets spurs to his charger.

Tensions run high with expectation in the Lannister box—there is not a man nor woman present who does not share the Young Lion’s hopes for his next opponent. Will it be the Saltcliffe sellsword? Casterly Rock has a long memory….

Far from as wearied as his opponent, Halder is ready well ahead of time as the Iron Serpent charges, and spurs his own charger down the list with determination. Perhaps he thinks his chances are good, in light of what Dagur already has been through?

“Just like the Knight of the Twilight had the cheers of the Lannisters, you will have ours.” Cadan says with an amused tone to his voice before he moves off. “May the Warrior guide your lance.”

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

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

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

Loud swearing erupts from several frustrated Lanninsters!

A gasp and then a cringe and Alyce grins, seeing Janden get back to his feet. She applauds him as much as the victor then shakes her head as the next round is so quickly announced, no time for wounds it seems.

“Damned,” can be heard from just beyond the tent as Cadan notices the result.

Disappointed to be facing some Frey and not the redoubtable Dagur Saltcliffe, still Ser Jaesin climbs back astride his white charger. It is with some stiffness—Aemon Targaryen struck him sorely, and more than once—but not without that famous, brilliant smile. He guides his mount toward the lists, awaiting the official announcent.

The Lannisters and the Dornish may groan, but the Serpent’s Rose is relieved. Reyna sits with a thud on the seat behind her and absently uses the end of her sash to dab her face. “Gods, I’m glad that’s over,” she says, still watching keenly to ensure Dagur rises again.

Well, it seems Halder was right to show some optimism. The Iron Serpent is defeated, but then the Frey Knight has to ready himself for an even more impressive foe; Ser Jaesin Lannister. Does he think the Lannister’s tough match against the Prince will give him a chance this time too? He certainly prepares himself with confidence, hefting a lance in a large hand and getting ready to charge.

At last Ser Jaesin lowers his visor once more, its lion-faced motif roaring his challenge to the Towers that face him across the long lists. He dips his lance once, and briefly, in respectful salute before that brief touch of spurs—always deft, never heavy-handed, is the pride of Casterly Rock—and he is off once again, bearing down upon the last, final obstacle betwixt himself and a rematch with the Dragonknight.

And at last, the Iron Serpent’s charge comes to an end. His lance explodes, his shield is driven into his chest by the force of Halder’s blow—and slowly, struggling to stay in the saddle until the last moment, he falls.

A long moment passes as he lies there, and another. But finally, he comes to his feet, taking off his helm with a slow fumbling. But that is all the sign of weariness that can be seen as he finally returns to his pavilion.

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

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

The report to Ser Aidan of Dagur’s downfall is met with a groan, and then a ruthful laugh. It would have been too much, perhaps, to hope that both men who had bested him would strive to win the day. Ser Almer, Ser Triston, Ser Gueren—each could add his name to the tally of knights they have overborne in the lists, but they took the prize in the end, so it was a small matter. “The gods give, and the gods take,” he says. He stands, as Danyll helps him pull the scale shirt off his shoulders and over his head, and then to remove the arming doublet beneath with its mail gussets. It is a matter all of a few minutes, but when he is disarmed and changed to fresh garments, he leaves the tent to watch the penultimate joust.

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

It seems the long layoff, and preceding multiple blows at Aemon’s hand, have left Ser Jaesin the worse for wear; his aim is noticeably off as he fails to drive Halder from the saddle. Still, it is with the same easy confidence that he tosses his old lance aside and accepts a new. Then it is around and back at the charge again—

Well, if Halder had any ideas about this being easy, those are soon dismisssed by a solid blow from Ser Jaesin. Tossing his cracked lance aside and accepting a fresh one, the Frey wheel his mount around again and charges once more.

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

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Surprise shows on the Lannister’s face as he lifts his visor in the wake of a thunderous clash. With a newfound respect for his opponent, he accepts the third lance and nods grimly across the long lane before steeling himself once more. His lack of speech, to his men, speaks loudly of weariness. And again, the spurs, the thrumming, the ground shakes….

The sturdy Frey knight is clearly no pushover, and it is boldly that he takes up yet another new lance, turns his charger about and spurs it into a fast gallop down the lists.

Ammena lends her cheer along with the other Riverlanders as A Twin of the Crossing battles the Lion. Her eyes glance uncertainly from one opponent to the other. She eyes the Twin and blinks. Eyes the Lion and blinks. Taking a deep swallow of wine, she bites her bottom lip, watches, and waits. The crash and clash of riders jar her with each strike.

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

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

More relieved than elated by his triumph, Ser Jaesin hurls aside his shield and lance alike as he reaches the end of the lists. Turning about, he sends his horse at a gallop toward the center of the lane and draws to a halt, the beast rearing on its hind legs in a show of horsemanship, beneath the royal box.

Calming the mount, the Lannister lifts his lionhelm from his shoulders and tosses it aside. Shaking out his dark, sweat-drenched golden hair, he stares up at the King and lifts his face as if to speak….

“Your Majesty, the gods have favored you this day with a tourney that will live on forever in song,” Jaesin Lannister calls upward, addressing King Daeron Targaryen. For the most part, the crowd falls silent to allow him his word.

“And I will not see it spoiled. Prince Aemon the dragonknight has already proven his worth; he has bested me once this day. He is the better man.”

A pause.

“I forfeit my right to challenge him again; I have not earned it. Let Aemon be your victor, without challenge from me—his lance is the most deserving.”

The Dragonknight is prepared, his battered shield replaced with a fresh one from one of his Sworn Brothers, his white lance held by Ser Olyvar. He holds his helm in his hand, grinning across the way, seeming to want to say something to Ser Jaesin before they begin the trial for a last time. But then Ser Jaesin turns his attention to King Daeron, and the smile becomes less certain, and then he can be seen to shake his head and laugh a little as he tells the Green Oak something.

The king waits for the joust to begin, and becomes attentive when Jaesin speaks. A long pause, as the crowd falls silent in amazement… and then they cheer, as the king nods his head, a bright smile upon his lips.

The crowd roars into life, cheering as the Dragonknight hands his helmet down to Oakheart, and rides his horse towards Jaesin Lannister.

Ser Jaesin bows his head in gratitude at King Daeron’s judgement, or the judgement of the crowd; are not the king and the mob the two halves of the realm, in any case? He turns his mount slightly aside to await the Dragonknight’s coming, a broad grin blossoming on his handsome face.

“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight is the victor of the fifth tourney!” the herald announces. No one hears. No one cares. It’s done, and already the stories are growing, of the son of the Red Lion unseating Saltcliffe, to send him to his destined battle with the Knight of the Twilight; of two Dornishmen refusing to yield to one another, clinging to their horses with devilish strength; of the son of the golden lion breaking more than a dozen lances against the White Sword; of the Twin, and the and the Vale knight with the anchor upon his shield, and of the Dragonknight. Him, most of all.

What the Dragonknight and the heir to Casterly Rock say to one another, who knows? They part friends, it’s clear enough, as they always were. Everything else is anticlimax, from his receiving the heavy purse and the king’s praise in turn. Only the bestowal of the crown for the queen of love and beauty is in question, and that was never a question. Aemon does what he always does: he accepts it with bowed head on the end of his lance, and moves his caprisoned destrier a little down the royal gallery before pausing before Naerys. The crown is rested, gently, upon her lap.

The crowd cheers loudly as Prince Aemon crowns his sister, Princess Naerys, as the Queen of Love and Beauty. At her side, her husband and brother does perhaps not cheer all that loudly, though he does clap dutifully and smiles at her, before turning back to say something to Cassella Vaith, seated on his other side.

Marian leads the Stark contingent in applauding the day’s victor, and his choice of Queen, chatting happily to Ryssa and her attendants.

Reyna watches fondly as Princess Naerys receives the crown, clapping and cheering her former mistress with the rest of the spectators. But a few moments later, she slips out of the stands and makes for Dagur’s pavilion, fighting her way through squires, retreating ladies, weary horses and broken lances.

The Dornish, naturally, are ignoring Cassella Vaith’s presence entirely. But then, she’s far off, and there are other things to tend to.. Like, celebrating for Aidan, drinking wine.. Cadan, meanwhile has moved out to the jousting area and is looking up towards the crowds where all those spectators are. It’s him and a bunch of stablehands and squires who are cleaning up, so he stands out well enough. The crowds are getting up, the cheering does not seem to be ending anytime soon.. and the Prince seems to be looking for someone, or something, among all those faces.

Aisling cheers for the victorious Prince Aemon with the rest of the crowd, though as he bestows the crown upon Princess Naerys, a little sigh does perhaps escape her. But a more appropriate choice could hardly be made by one of the Kingsguard, all considered. And so, as the day’s thrilling joust is concluded, she rises from her seat and prepares to move away, in the company of her step-sister and uncle as well as a considerable Ryger contingent.

Alyce is already standing, and she watches the ceremonious ending to the days competitions with a smile, her applause joining that of the rest of the crowd.

Kellyn stands up from her seat near Rhaena, laughing warmly at something the youngster said. There are applause from her Ladies at Aemon’s choice. But there are other demands to be met during the Tourney, and with her Princess’ leave, Kellyn makes her way over to the Lannister stands - if she makes it that far uninterrupted.