Blood of Dragons

It is not the kind of day best suited to a joust; the morning sun has burnt away most of the dampness and the mist that covered King’s Landing through the night, but a hint of both remains. Banners hang limp outside the pavilions on the tourney field, stirring listlessly when the breeze picks up before drooping again. Squires are hard at work, using rags and oil and sand to ensure that the dampness doesn’t affect their knights’ accoutrements. And the knights themselves—those among them who are veterans of the joust, at least—grumble amongst themselves, for bruises and injuries taken in jousting always ache more in weather like this.

But none of that seems to have dampened the enthusiasm of the crowds that have gathered in the stands. For a tourney is grand entertainment indeed—especially one hosted by Lord Whalon Rosby—and not to be dampened by less-than-perfect weather. The din is growing louder as the time comes closer for the herald to announce the next jousts. The smallfolk watch the knights and the highborn watch the knights, each other—gossip and court rumours are common currency—and the royal box.

Farin Prester, grand Loser of the previous day, stands ready on the sidelines, amongst a slew of other patient knights. His scarlet surcoat is unblemished, despite its thorough dirt bath, and his armor is polished to an appropriately mirrored coating. Urron Greyjoy is not with him today, electing to watch from the stands this time, and wandering around them in an attempt to find the best possible vantage.

Tancred is at his pavilion, looking over his horse, his armor, hoping for a better result in the lists then he did the last time he rode. His eyes go to the crowds, to where the noble women are watching,, and frowns again at the absences of Obany. He shakes his head and concentrates on the task at hand. It was outside distractions that played a part in his poor performance the last time.

Elmer will be riding today too, the big knight finally having a chance to show off the magnificent gift he’s received from Lord Loren, a splendid suit of armor with crimson and gold inserts. He stands by a large black stallion, jesting with lannister men, a heavy Lannister cape on his choulders.

The damp weather has not dampened Luthor’s spirits in the least, and emrges from his pavillion with a smile on his face, and stretches, the blackened plate of his armor shifting easily. Glancing around the field, he spies Ser Farin, and saunters over. “Good morrow, ser,” he greets. “Ready for the day’s festivities?”

The crowd’s still abuzz at the famous victory of Ser Ethos against his former mentor, the Stormbreaker, and many wonder now at what surprises today’s event might bring. Lord Whalon himself seems reasonably animated despite a certain personal complaint has left him unable compete. He sits with his lady wife in the stands, but she busies herself with embroidery. The herald speaks with the lord for a time, as Rosby impatiently discusses the tourney’s start.

But it comes, in time. The herald steps away from the stands, and trumpets sound. “The Joust of the Golden Goose shall shortly begin,” the herald announces, voice projecting. The crowd grows quieter only fitfully, but the herald’s continuing silence hurries them to silence. “Ahem. Here before you: the prize” the herald says, and a page wearing the Rosby livery comes forward with a cloth-covered bundle. Theatrically, the herald whips it off, to reveal ... well. A golden goose, a construction of wood and leather, very like a knight’s crest, but covered all over in gilding, with semi-precious stones dotting the feathers and the eyes. “This to the winner, as well as a destrier of Lord Rosby’s choosing from his stud. For the second prize, a purse of 30 golden dragons!”

The crowd cheers at that, more in anticipation of the first jousts to be called…

... which they are. Some, however, courtiers, are busy whispering to one another, and looking at Lord Rosby curiously.

“Come forward, Ser Alek of House Reyne, to try your skill against Ser Bonifer of House Buckwell,” the herald announces, “and in the other list, let Ser Elmer of House Crakehall and Ser Harmon of House Massey try their lances!”

It is indeed an unpleasant day, and in the absence of her frail mistress, Reyna Saltcliffe sits not in the royal box, but with her kin and friends very near it. She wears a warm cloak over her splendid gown of green and gold, and is wrapped so snugly inside it that there is little of it to be seen. Her face, artfully draped in the velvet hood of her cloak, is a trifle pale against the dark green lining, but her cheeks are rosy and she smiles as she talks to those around her.

Towering among the other knights, Jorian is fully clad in a bronze tinctured steel platemail, adorned with black and gold enamel. His black helmet tucked under his arm, he exchanges greetings with his acquaintances, an eye surveying his horse, a massive bay stallion who is snorting under the guidance of two stable boys.

As the next matchups are announced, he gets closer to the lists to assess carefully the next jousters.

Ser Bonifer Buckwell swings into the saddle with a easy confidence and accepts a blue and white striped lance from his squire. Then, with a kick, he moves his horse up to the starting line, and salutes the royal box. Few cheer the castellan of the Antlers, remembering his treachery of the other day raising his lance at the last minute against Ser Ethos, and putting the unlikely champion’s life in peril.

Farin looks up as his cousin approaches. “Of course, Coz,” he responds jovially enough, though his eyes are not with the riverlands knight at all, but scanning the crowds instead. “It should be a grand show today, eh?”

Handsome as Targaryens are handsome, but dissolute, too much drink and too much whoring and too many late nights chipping away at that inhuman beauty. His long, curling hair is unruly, his fair face often flushed at the cheeks from wine, and his violet eyes are rather small amid heavy-lidded, unpleasant eyes.

His customary black armour marks out the tall man standing outside the pavilion bearing a silver serpent device; amidst the brave, colourful show the other knights make in their gilder, bright armour, the Iron Serpent is a grim figure. He is speaking desultorily to a companion standing beside him—a Riverlands knight, to judge by his device—helmless, raven hair whipped one way and another by the fickle breeze. But those watching him might notice that his gaze is drawn most often to the royal dragon device that flies above Prince Aegon’s pavilion.

With the help of the stable boys, the young Crakehall climbs atop his mount and sets his helmet on his head, before taking his shield bearing the crest of his house from a squire. Taking a few quick breathes in, Jorian grabs the jousting lance that is given to him, and presents himself at the end of the lists. He salutes toward the royal bow, before sending his horse into motion.

Tancred gives his shield a heft and prepares himself to enter the lists, watching the current tilt at hand, studying it and hoping to see any advantage he can use to his advantage. It has been a long while since Tancred has taste any meaningful success at a joust, and he wants this day to be the day his fortunes turn.

A bit late to the tourney today, Ser Ethos Mertyns, the knight that triumphed yesterday at the first joust, including toppling the Stormbreaker himself twice, is not riding in the second match (despite having told several people he planned to). The man is arriving with the lady, Aurana Buckler, cleaned up and looking noble in silks and that thick new ermine cloak he won yesterday. Ethos offers Aurana his arm as he approaches the stands, pale eyes skimming over the field to see who is riding today. “I hope my cousin does better today.”

Elmer watches the assembled company and he climbs up atop his horse. He raises his gauntleted fist towards Jorian. “Good luck today, coz!” He yells, and then as his squire brings his lance, he ties a long streamer in the Reyne colors, after all he has a fiancee now. His horse fidgets a bit, nervously.

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

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

“No doubt he will,” Aurana assures as Ethos guides her to their seats. Blue eyes dart over those gathered in the stands, a wry grin twisting her lips. “Unless, of course, there is one who is cheering for him.” She turns her gaze to the field, hearing Jorian’s name announced as well as his opponent. “Mayhap Ser Jorian will topple the Buckwell…”

Harmon Massey is mulling about his pavellion as well, the solidly-built brute of a man waiting for his turn to thrust a lance through someone else’s armor. His own is dignified, without too many ornaments, and he seems to strut and stop with a slight nervousness, despite his obvious refinement.

Reining his steed steadily toward his opponent, adjusts its target a bit late due to the fog, and his blow lacks strength to topple Ser Bonifer. The other knight seem to have the same trouble adjusting to the weather though, and Jorian continue riding toward the end of the list and take position for another round.

Luthor nods. “Should be,” the Riverlander agrees with a look at the opponents lining up on the lists. “This will be interesting,” he says crossing his arms. “I’d put my money on Crakehall across the board.”

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

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

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

“Truly?” Farins asks Luthor, though his gaze sweeps the stands and finds Ethos and Aurana. He cocks his head curiously at Ethos’ presence there, but smiles all the same. “I would have mine on Tancred. That is not a man to be denied often.”

Smelling blood, Ser Bonifer discards the shattered remains of his lance and quickly grabs another, rounding at the end of the list for another charge looking to build on his advantage and put the towering Crakehall knight in the dirt.

Ethos settles down into a seat, and his squire moves to join the pair, ready with a jug of warmed cider and a pair of cups. “Someone cheering for him? What do you mean?” He asks, watching the riders on the field with interest. “I hope Buckwell falls and breaks his neck.” The knight mutters, reaching for the mugs to hold while Halyn fills them.

Elmer laughs as his name is announced, and he rides to the end of his lists, his heavy shield bearing the boar of Crakehall. The resplendent knight with the heavy Lannister cloak looks in the ladies’ section, as if waiting for a smile, then he lowers his lance and rides his steed picking up speed as he aims his lance at Harmon.

“No, only in these two tilts,” Luthor explains. “With Ethos winning yesterday, I’d say any man’s got a chance at that golden goose.”

The Iron Serpent has turned away from watching the Targaryen prince’s pavilion, his attention now on the joust between Ser Jorian and the Buckwell knight. He shakes his head as the former is knocked askew in his saddle, making some remark to his companion.

Harmon Massey hears the call for his ride against Elmer Crakehall, and is off to his horse immediately. Up and on, latched in proper, he rides off towards the lists to find his intended location, trotting around languidly for the time being. All things change after the salute to the royal box is given; and the sudden burst of motion that is Harmon might be surprising for anyone who’d watched the knight as he entered.

Barely keeping his balance, Jorian grits his teeth and rectifies his position on his mount. Throwing his broken lance away, he accepts a new one and sets his horse into gallop toward the Buckwell knight.

Reyna waves amiably when she spies Aurana nearby, lifting her hand and smiling. She even appears to include Ethos in this, her face unreadably serene as she does. She draws her cloak still more snugly round her and gestures for a servant, who is busy with small braziers, to bring one nearer to her. “Ser Bonifer has a much better seat than he did when I first saw him joust,” she observes to a kinsman. The few Reachmen around her watch avidly, all of them—Reyna included—keen observers of the joust from birth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you met the lady Ammena Piper?” Aurana asks, chuckling softly as she gives Halyn a nod. “I must tell you of it later. It may be that part of your victory yesterday was due to her. Whomever she did cheer for lost. Every bout. Poor Tancred…” Catching sight of motion, she looks up and smiles warmly. Aurana returns the gesture. “He does not seem so keen on aiming for his opponent’s head today as he was during yesterday’s bout.”

A low growl comes from with Buckwell’s antlered helm. Why won’t the man go down! He tosses aside the stub of his lance and grabs another before surging back down the lists when Jorian is ready to make an end of this.

Elmer rides hard, his lance hitting the opponent but he’s shuddered by the strong impact of Ser Harmon’s hit, shards of wood flying around him. he gnashes his teeth, sober as of now, and turning his horse at the end of the lists, spurs his horse, aiming at his opponent’s chest as his lance lowers.

Harmon’s rocket charge does him some good, but little of it matters by the end of the ride, as Elmer managed to hang on. He mutters a muffled curse under his helm, deftly catches another lance, couches it with righteous defiance, and sends his horse into another reckless spur.

Luthor blinks as he sees his prediction is in danger of being proven false. “Seems my future good uncle has been practicing since the last tourney,” he observes with a bit of a frown as he watches Harmon almost knock Elmer into the dirt.

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

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

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

Sliding up his visor for a few seconds and muttering under his breath, Jorian takes another lance, and rides again toward Ser Bonifer Buckwell.

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

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

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

“Or not,” Luthor says mildly as he watches Harmon fall.

Farin nods. “Everyone seems to have gotten better but I. Perhaps some practicing is in orde-” he begins, until Harmon is knocked squarely on his rump. “What was it you were saying about it being anyone’s game, Coz?”

Ethos follows Aurana’s gaze to see whom she waves to. The knight only gives the Tyrell lady a bland look in return before shifting his eyes back to the field. “Crakehall is riding poorly or the gods truly are shaking things up.” He offers one of the mugs of cider to Aurana, then takes a sip from the other. “Let us see if he does better th-.. ah ha!! Well done, ser!!” He calls with enthusiasm when Elmer blasts Harmon from his saddle.

Buckwell is furious as he is forced to struggle to remain in his saddle. “Seven bloody hells!” he is heard to curse as he reaches the end of the lists and takes a new lance, before setting and charging with a fury at the Crakehall knight.

Elmer swears as he hasn’t shattered his lance but it seems he did have a good aim, so he rides to the end of the lists and as he dismounts waiting for the next round, he orders his squire to bring him some wine. “I ride miserably if I don’t drink.” he explains Luthor, as he watches Jorian engaged in an epic strugge.

Checking the marks in his shield before getting another new lance, Jorian bolsters his steed forward, targetting the center of his opponent’s shield.

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Aurana murmurs, accepting the cup. She watches Elmer make his ride and cheers as Harmon falls. One victory is quickly followed by another and the Buckler lady cheers even more loudly for Jorian as Bonifer finds the ground. “Some satisfaction there,” she mutters to Ethos.

Struggling wildly lance flying from his grip, Ser Bonnifer struggles to keep on his horse only to find himself fall back over it’s rump and landing with a crash in the dirt. Sadly however Ethos goes disapointed and the man rises, neck unbroken to wave to the box a little unsteadily before his squire helps him from the list.

Luthor claps Elmer on the shoulder. “Well ridden,” he says with a grin. “And if that’s miserable, I don’t want to face you when you’ve had some wine.” Then Jorian wins his bout, he grins all the wider. “Ha,” he says with a look towards Farin. “See, the Crakehalls bested them all.”

The cheers from the Reach are loud enough no matter who falls, though they are loudest when one of their own chances to ride. Reyna, having been waved to, resumes watching and cheering as well.

Having worn down his opponent in the previous rounds, Jorian’s fortitude finally pays off, and his precise blow send the other knight out his saddle. Patting his mount with the hand, the big Crakehall checks that Ser Bonifer is back on his feet and salutes him and the Targaryen’s princes before exiting the lists.

Mertyns laughs as Aurana points out Bonifer’s fall. “No less than that bastard deserves.” He says with continued lack of chivalry towards a fellow knight. “A shame Jorian didn’t hit him harder.”

Elmer takes a long swig of wine, then hands the skin to Luthor. “Ahh, my cousin did us all proud…Let’s see who comes up next.”

The Prester knight seems not to mind at all. If anything, there’s a new energy about him now, and he’s positively brimming with potential motion. “For now,” he responds, good naturedly, grinning to his cousin. “Well done, Ser!” he calls out to Elmer, despite his previous remark.

The dust clears, and two victors are cheered by the crowd! Men rush to help those who’ve fallen, and to clear the debris of shattered lances from the field, as the herald calls the next match: “Ser Luthor Rivers, Warden of the Kingswood, shall face Ser Tancred of House Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End in the first list. And in the second list, Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, the king’s cousin, shall ride against Ser Alek of House Reyne!”

“He hit him hard enough to shake him a bit,” Aurana replies, taking a sip of her drink and continuing to watch. An eyebrow lifts as the next pairing is announced. “How do you think Ser Alek will fare?” she inquires idly.

Ethos considers the next matchups, groaning a bit when Luthor and Tancred are to face each other. “If I were bettering, I would put my money on ... Aegon.. and Tancred.” He drinks deeply of the cider, “Though, with how my cousin was riding yesterday…” The knight shrugs.

The Iron Serpent shakes his head as the next jousts are called; frowning he glances at Aegon’s pavilion, gaze lingering for a long moment before finally turning away. Moving away, he saunters to where Jorian is resting after his joust. “Well ridden, ser,” he calls as he nears. “I thought you were all but gone after those first two passes.”

Elmer shakes his head. “Oh dear..prince Aegon is riding too?” Not that the targaryen prince is a tenth of the Dragonknight, but still, right now Elmer’s uncle to be…seems in a rather awkward position.

Farin Prester’s mood shifts for a moment, as he makes a small prayer to the seven for Alek, and a quick, “Good luck, coz. I’ll put my money on you instead.”

Luthor makes a face. “This will be interesting,” he says as his opponent is named. He removes himself from the company of his friends to find his squire, horse and helm. Though as he searches for them, he removes the small white stone star from beneath his breast plate and kisses it before tucking it away again. Then, finding all three waiting for him he attaches his helm and mounts up easily, taking a plain ashwood lance from his squire’s hand. Then, armed and ready, he rides forth to wait the signal to start, saluting the royal box and his opponent in turn.

Tancred heels his horse out when his name is called, getting to the front of the lists and raising his lance in salute to the royal box, then to Luthor. He lowers his visor, and heels his charger into a charge when the signal is given.

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

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

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

“Mayhap Lady Ammena is cheering for Tancred,” Aurana returns with a grin. “Luck for Luthor if she is.” Shushing, she settles in to watch the next runs. She winces as Luthor falls, shaking her head. “It seems that another has her attention today…”

Stepping from his pavillion, Prince Aegon is clad in the richest of armor, blackened steel that is more gold than anything else, embossed all over with vines and leaves that have been gilded over. He has a cup of wine in his gauntleted hand, a goblet encursted with gems that he drains before throwing it negligently to a squire. Another squire comes forward to help the knight finish arming, and to mount. His helm is lowered on his head, as the crowd gives a desultory, half-hearted cheer, and then he takes striped lance and shield up. Gilded spurs tap at his destrier’s sides, and the great black beast comes forward…

Behind his visor, there is a fierce smile, and Tancred can not help but raise the shattered end of his lance to the crowd, feeling vindicated from yesterday. It seems today he is riding with little distraction on his mind. He does turn his horse about and trots to Luthor’s fallen form. “Are you alright Ser Luthor?” He asks, seeing if the fallen knight needs assistance.

“Gods above. I would not have thought Tancred had it in him,” Reyna exclaims, blinking as her own choice for the matchup, Luthor, rolls into the dust. “He has improved greatly.” There is murmured discussion on the other match, and finally they all just shake their heads, one of them pronouncing: “Aegon. Of course it will be Aegon.” One of her cousins turns to grin at Reyna. “Will Dagur ride against him, coz? We’ve all been dying to see that run.”

Ethos cheers loudly for the Baratheon heir when he demolishes Luthor in the first pass, then laughs at Aurana’s words. “She was that influential, was she? I should have spoken with Ammena longer yesterday, but she was cooing over my cousin.” The knight says, snickering. His gaze finds Luthor with some sympathy on his face. “A shame for Luthor.”

Taking a sip of wine from a silver goblet, smiles to Dagur and inclines his head, “Thank you, Ser. I held hard, and prevailed. It was a close call, especiallly the second time, this Buckwell as a good aim but thankfully he lack a little strength.”

“That was a goodly blow!” Lord Whalon announces, applauding with child-like glee at the jousting, at all the trappings of pagaentry and chivalry, at the destriers snorting and the lances shattering. He’s pleased with the jousting, where so many great blows are delivered, so many knights sent tumbling to the earth. They might feel less well, for having lost, it must be said…

Elmer winces as Luthor is thrown down at the first pass, but since he’s on good terms with both men, he raises his fist in salute towards Tancred, while shaking his head. “I hope Luthor’s all right”, he says, moving to come close to Jorian. “And it seems we have an admiral who cna ride too, eh, coz?”

Luthor crashes to the earth in a clamor of clattering plates. When he at last stops rolling he staggers to a knee, and nods in response to Tancred’s question. “I’m fine,” he replies as he gets the rest of the way to his feet. “Well ridden,” he offers a touch grudgingly before inclining his head and making his way back to rejoin his companions. “That could have gone better,” he says when he joins them tossing aside his helm and wiping a bit of blood away from where he bit his lip in his fall.

Tancred inclines hoe had to Luthor. “Well rode indeed friend. If ti had been yesterday, it would be me on the field I assure you. Come, I hear there is ale and wine to wash the dust and blood from the mouth.” He rides back towards the Knight’s pavilions, raising a hand towards Elmer and other friends of his.

And there is no Ser Alek to be seen, it appears! A squire runs to the herald, while the crowd can see that a pair of grooms are arguing over something to do with the horse. The herald finally nods as the squire explains. “Ser Alek must forfeit this round, due to a cut girth on his saddle. Prince Aegon wins by default,” he announces! Aegon looks towards Reyne, and some could swear he laughs, but others are less sure; his helm is lowered, and none can say with a certainty, in any case.

“And so, Prince Aegon may face his next foe: Ser Farin of House Prester! And Ser Jorian of House Crakehall shall face Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe!”

Reyna clucks her tongue to see Luthor bleeding as he leaves the lists, and she commands a warm cloth sent to him. A page scurries to do so. But then Dagur is called, and her kin as carrying her forward to the rails as is ever her wont when her husband rides. She pushes her hood back to clear her vision, then lifts the black and silver streamer in her hand, giving it a wave to stir the listless air.

Ethos lifts his brows at the technicality that takes Alek out of the round, then frowns at the next opponent called for Aegon. “Hmm.” He says, eyes skimming the gathered knights until he finds Farin. “The Warrior be with Prestor..” Mertyns has little love for the Targaryen that tried to execute his wife.

As Farin’s name is called, the crimson knight finds his destrier, similarly barbed in red from neck to rump, with its blunted bull horn shaffron gleaming, despite the weather. The Prester lordling tries to look his best, but it’s a lost cause with the crowd clearly in favor of the black and red radience of the Dragon Knight. He takes his place in the lists, however, saluting the royal box, and then a slightly longer, more accented salute towards Aegon, before setting spurs to his horse and flying forward, lance couched low.

Luthor nods. “I’ll gladly share a cup of wine with you, after the day is done,” Luthor replies to Tancred’s offer. “The way I am riding today, I don’t want to piss away what’s left of my skill in a wine cup,” he says with a thin smile on his lips. Though as his squire appears with a water skin, he offers the first sip to Tancred to show there are no hard feelings, just a little bit of bruised pride.

“Aye, he did. Looks like you’re not just built like an aurochs, you hit as hard as one too,” the Iron Serpent replies with a half-smile—one that widens a touch when the other Crakehall knight comes over. “And another Crakehall. Ser Elmer. Perhaps we will—”

Whatever he means to say is cut short by the herald’s announcement; he raises his eyebrows, then claps the taller man’s shoulder, his steel gauntlet clanging on Jorian’s pauldron: “Looks like it will be you and me, then. Good fortune to you, ser.”

And with that, he is gone, striding back to his pavilion and mounting, taking up his serpent helm when his squire hands it up and settling it in place; then his shield and lance. His wife’s gold-green favour fluttering around his upper arm, he dips his lance to the royal box, his wife, then his opponent—and then, an ominous figure in his black armour, the silver bars of his snake-helm glinting, the Iron Serpent claps spurs to his steed and throws himself into a charge.

Tancred takes the waterskin and draws deep upon it. “But of course. I am sue there will be a glorious celebrations when the tournament is done. Be well till then, Ser Luthor.” Tancred heads off to his tent now, dismounting with his squire’s help, and as the horse and armor are tended to, watches the lists and the tilts going on.

After a quick nod and a smile to Elmer, Jorian points at Luthor who he’s exchanging words with Tancred, “Look, he’s back on his feet already. He has seen worse.”  Upon hearing the next announcement, the big Crakehall turns towards Dagur and grins broadly, “Indeed, good luck to you ser.” Handing his cup to a servant, he takes his helmet, and with a salute to his cousin he walks back toward his mount.

Getting ready quickly, Jorian mounts atop his massive steed, and plants the spurs strongly, riding at full gallop unto his opponent before lowering his lance at the last moment.

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

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

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

Luthor takes a sip from the skin when it is passed back, sloshes it about in his mouth and spits it out into the dirt. Unsurprisingly it’s tinged red with blood. Luthor shakes his head and is about to sit when a page comes forth with a bowl of steaming water and a cloth. He takes it with a nod, and when the boy mentions who its from he smiles in Reyna’s direction, and lopes off in the direction of the Reachlord’s portion of the box. “M’lady,” he says, cloth to his lip. “My thanks,” he grins as he makes his way to sit by and watch the next rounds.

The Targaryen prince, already at his end of the lists, gives the most cursory of salutes before putting spur to horse. The great destrier charges forward, its caparison all black and red moving with its great, heavy gait. The striped lance is lowered, and held steadily…

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

Farin manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.

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

Even after several rides against Ser Bonifer, Jorian is as fresh as before. His aim doesn’t falter, and he absorbs the impact of the blow on his shield without a word or a grunt, rectifying his balance and discarding his broken lance for a new one.

The Iron Serpent thunders past his opponent, steady in his saddle, deflecting Jorian’s lance with a cleverly angled shield. Twisting in his saddle as he nears the end of the course, he is just in turn to see the Crakehall knight manage to keep himself in the saddle. Raising his broken lance in acknowledgement, he tosses it away, then canters back to his place, takes the fresh one his squire hands up and couches it. A moment to steady himself, and then he throws himself into the next charge, lance steady, leaning forward in his saddle.

Jorian’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.

If Reyna is critical of other riders, she is even more so of her own husband. Her fellow Reach folk watch closely. “There, he is fortunate to have hit at all. He must tuck his elbow,” she says with a cluck of her tongue. One of the others calls this advice out to Dagur while Reyna turns to smile at Luthor. “Are you well?” she asks. “It is never nice to get knocked off one’s horse.”

Then she is harking to the thunder of hoovies, and she sucks in her breath as the lances crash and shatter, showering the lists with splinters. “There now!” she cries in approval, lifting the black and silver streamer high.

The Prester knight takes the the royal lance hard, swaying this way and that as he searches more for purchase to keep hold of his horse than any concern of how his blow landed on Aegon. Cursing, but ahorse, he swings around, waiting for someone to throw him another lance. His attention is not spared on who might be doing so. A lance appears, it is couched, and Farin sets his spurs again for another high speed charge.

Another pass, and two good strikes that shatter both lances and bring a roar from the crowd; the Iron Serpent is forced to take as good as he gives this time. And then, the same routine, tossing the lance stump away and taking a fresh one, couching it, taking a moment to breathe deep, then setting spurs to his steed again.

The prince’s lance breaks .... well, somewhat. Enough of a crack that he must replace the lance with a new one, and enough of one to make some of his partisans cheer as if he’s shattered it to splinters. And then he’s off again, barreling down at the Prester knight.

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

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

Weathering the powerful blows of the Iron Serpent, Jorian replies in kind, shattering his lance into the knight’s shield. He salutes Dagur with his gauntleted hand before taking another lance and riding forward under the cheers of the crowd.

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

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

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

Farin experience something he rarely ever does, riding in the lists: the picture perfect double break, both men ahorse and well, both lances cracked and counting as points. Refreshed, the Prester knight hardly has reason to vent his anger anymore, seeming to find his fit. For now. New lance couched, spurs set, horse thundering, aim taken.

Ethos leans forward, his attention focused on Farin as the Prestor knight faces Aegon once, and then again. “Ride well..” He mutters, having a private, vindictive desire to see Aegon fall.

“Just a little blood my lady,” he begins then jumps to his feet as both Jorian and Dagur weather the next pass in a shower of splinters. Smiling he sits again. “Nothing to worry about, but I thank you for your kindness,” he says raising the cloth. “Your husband rides well today,” he notes as he watches Dagur and Jorian ready themselves for the next pass. Then as they collide, and Jorian falls he adds. “Very well it seems.”

Then as Farin and Aegon tilt as well, the bastard knight watches it keenly, and as both men weather their blows he murmurs. “C’mon coz.”

Jolted in the saddle by Ser Farin’s blow, Prince Aegon still keeps his seat steady—and look at that, another lance to ostentatiously throw aside. He nearly hits a boy watching from the barrier separating the crowd from the lists as the lance tumbles, but he doesn’t even realize it. A new lance is in his hand, quick as you please, and his great horse turns sharply and then digs its hoofs into the dirt to charge down the course at the knight from the westerlands.

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

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

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

And this time, the Iron Serpent is successful; he seems to know it as soon as he feels the shock of the impact through his lance, for even before he reaches the end of the lists, he is pulling on the reins, drawing his steed around. Lifting the lance, he studies it; he seems to be irritated with himself for having struck a blow too weak to shatter his lance, for he shakes his head, then tosses it away before cantering back past where Jorian has fallen.

“Well ridden, ser,” he calls, his voice hollow and metallic from within his helm, raising a hand in acknowledgement.

A great cry goes up among the Iron Serpent’s supporters, and a few of Reyna’s companions even start singing something whose refrain sounds suspiciously like “There’s a serpent in the roses and we like it mighty fine!” They are interrupted by the shower of splinters from Aegon’s exploding lance, and this dulls their cheering for a time. But once he is past, they raise their voices again in Dagur’s direction.

As the lists are cleared of splinters, as Prince Aegon rides contemptuously past his fallen foe, the herald announces, “Ser Luthor Rivers, Warden of the Kingswood, shall face Ser Alek of House Reyne in the first list. In the second list, Ser Conrad of House Arryn, once Knight of the Bloody Gate, now the king’s Steward, shall face Ser Elmer of House Crakehall!”

One instant, Farin’s field of vision is focused on a quickly growing black mass, and in the next, it is watching the sky, a familiar daze of pain wracking his joints. He blinks once or twice, then forces himself to stand, and limps off the field with a familiar indifference.

Falling into a routine, Jorian strikes hard but the ironborn’s blow surprises him, and he can’t help losing his balance and falling to the ground. Getting on his knees first, he removes his helmet and shakes his head slowly, rolling his shoulders under his massive armor. Then he rises to his feet steadily, waving to the cheering crowds before returning Dagur’s salutes, “Congratulations, Ser. That was a well aimed blow.”

Elmer raises an eyebrow and grins. “Hmm, I never rode against Ser Conrad, this should be interesting.” he takes another long drink, but onlyw ashes his mouth with it, spitting the wine into the sands before he mounts up. He raises his lanc ein salute towards Conrad, the Reyne streamer on his lance proclaiming his allegiance to lady Fiona, before he lowers his lance and charges towards his opponent.

“Damnit!” Ethos swears, ignoring dirty looks from any ladies nearby at his less than civil tongue. “He had to fuck it up..” The knight mutters, shaking his head in disappointment when Farin falls. The Mistwood noble slumps back in his seat again, grumbling under his breath.

Luthor stands as Farin falls. “No!” he shouts, and shakes his head. Then, seeing his cousin limp away, he excuses himself from Reyna’s company, only to be called to the lists himself. He changes course for where his charger waits, taking out and kissing the little white star as he does before mounting, arming and taking his place, saluting the royal box and then Alek, before waiting for the trumpets to sound.

The Reach now comes out in support of Conrad Arryn, and there are any number of nudging elbows and comradely calls between denizens of those two houses. It is no secret that Reyna has been received by Lord Arryn of late, though no one yet knows why. Reyna bends her head in farewell to Luthor as she resumes her seat, clearly uninterested in watch Prince Aegon joust again. Ethos Mertyns is not the only one with a reason to loathe the man.

Farin notes Luthor’s coming and going as he is called, and gives the man a silent salute as he has to change course. He heads back to the sidelines rather than the stands, apparently prefering a lack of company in his loss.

Aurana appears disappointed as well but, as Ethos has his bout with tourrettes, she touches his arm. “Mayhap he’ll be called again,” the lady urges quietly, watching the Prester knight limp on. “But look… Ser Luthor’s being called.”

Finally, Ser Conrad’s name is called, and the cheer he receives is the loudest of any rider yet. And why not? For he is a famous champion in the lists, said to be one of the finest jousters in the Seven Realms—and with his fair hair gleaming golden in the sunlight and the bold sparkle of his rich silver and blue armour, he paints a pretty enough picture to be a maiden’s dream.

With a smile, he raises a clenched fist to the crowds, acknowledging them—but those who are near might see the hollowed cheeks and creased brow that his terrible journey through Dorne has left him with. Then, his helm is in place with its crest of a falcon in flight, flashing sapphires for eyes. Dipping his lance to the royal box and then to his opponent, he makes his mount dance sideways a few steps, bringing more cheers from the crowd. But then, it is down to business, lowering his lance and couching it, then setting his spurs and starting the charge.

Alek strides out from where he was getting prepared to climb atop his horse. In the corner, Maester Lucion can be seen with the man’s squire, Albin, looking most dissatisfied. Most likely because of something Alek did, or didn’t, do. The Reyne knight climbs atop his charger, taking his lance and his position. He follows suit, saluting to the Royal box and then in return to his opponent. He lowers his lance as the trumpets blare, charging forth.

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

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

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

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

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

Elmer seems to be having bad luck in his first rounds, and his shield bears the brunt of the powerful blow. Riding to the end of the lists he sighs. “Damn the Vale!” he raises his visor for a few seconds to take a long drink, then lowering it again, he spurs his horse. “Once again, ser!” he cries, the long silk streamer of silk tied to his lance fluttering in the wind as he charges towards Conrad.

One of Reyna’s companions sighs as Conrad rides the lists. “Ah, there’s a jouster,” he says almost rapturously. “You’d think he was Reach-born. Not one of your lumbering louts who relies on brute strength. Er… no offense, milady,” he hastens to add when Reyna gives him a look. Then they are cheering his successful run and shouting for another.

Luthor is jolted as Alek’s lance skitters off his armor and jolted further as his lance strikes but does not break. Riding past Alek, he tosses salutes his foe at the far end of the lists before tossing away the lance and taking a new one as he resets for the next charge.

The Arryn knight’s first blow is a good one, and he rides through a shower of splinters as his lance shatters. He is already reaching for a fresh one as he nears the end of the lists. But not for him the quick charge of his opponent; he takes a moment to settle himself and salute the crowds again before lowering his lance and starting forward, first at a canter, then thundering into a gallop.

Alek holds onto his horse, but just barely as he rounds back, scowling slightly as he takes his place at his end of the lists. He salutes Luthor, lifting his helm to take a drink of water before taking his lance once more. He sets, charging once more.

Conrad’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.

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

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

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

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

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

Ethos calms his ire as Aurana seeks to placate his mood with soft words. He turns his eyes to Luthor. “Hopefully the bastard will redeem himself, this time.” Mertyns says with a snicker, approval on his face as he seems to retain an upper hand over Alek. “Who do you favor? Alek or Luthor?”

Ammena is fashionably late from the tourney start, as is the priviledge of ladies, but does still get there, making her way to the spectator seats reserved for the noble women, slipping to a seat right next to Reyna in fact, as there apparently was a free spot there, giving the other woman a smile. “Good day.” she offers.

Elmer swears as he barely manages to remain in the saddle, the flying shards of lance hitting his armor. “God I feel like the Smith clobbered me with his hammer.” he says to his squire. “Get me a new lance, and a sturdier one this time, that Arryn is going down” he proclaims taking a long drink, until his eyes unclear, and again he charges.

Another blow as good as his previous one; Ser Conrad is struck a fair blow in return this time, but he seems to ride it well enough, steady in his saddle. Then, he is calling for another lance; this time, he is swifter to couch it, pausing only to roll his shoulders under those heavy pauldrons. And then, it is into the charge again.

“Better,” Luthor allows himself, as he reaches the end of the lists with a broken lance. He tosses the broken length of wood aside and takes up a fresh one. “But it seems Alek has glued himself to his saddle,” he says with a smile behind his visor, as he moves, and when the signal is given, charges.

Alek again finds himself barely hanging on. He swears lowly, taking his position at the end. He lifts his helm, smirking at Luthor. “Well played, ser! You’ll have to try better!” He grabs another lance and charges also.

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

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

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

“Grace is all well and good,” Reyna says to her kinsman, “but strength keeps you in the saddle. See how well Ser Elmer weathers the blows?” She points to where Elmer keeps his seat against Conrad. “And don’t forget luck as well,” she adds before the cheer goes up to congratulate Luthor Rivers. When the shouting quiets a bit, she goes on. “Sometimes people win who’ve no right even making it halfway through a tourney. Hallo, Lady Ammena,” she adds, smiling at the maid who comes to sit beside her.

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

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

Both riders weather the powerful blows and remain on horseback.

Luthor glances up as he reaches the list and finds his lance unbroken, but a glance behind him reveals Alek has been unhorsed all the same. Hardly a match for the singers. He tosses away the lance and rides back down the lists to Alek. Swinging down from his mount to offer his deputy a hand up. “Well ridden, my friend,” he smiles.

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

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

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

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

Elmer’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.

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

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

There is a breathless pause in which the crowd watches Elmer try to keep his seat, and a loud groan when he falls. Then there is a roaring cheer that is as much for Elmer as it is for Conrad.

Alek groans, flopping back onto his back. He has a silly grin on his face as he accepts Luthor’s hand. “And you, ser. Glad to see that there are knights still set in the old ways.” He groans as he stands

Elmer swears outloud as he struggles to his feet takes off his helmet and almost throws it at his squire. “Damn, and damn and damn!” Woe to whoever stand sin the armored knight’ path, his hair matted to his head.

Tancred winces as Elmer finally falls to the ground. He was sure the man was going to pull off the upset. Still, it was a good match with much drama and Tancred raises his fist in salute to the man. “Well rode man! Well rode indeed. Lady Fiona will surely be proud of you!”

Oh, what a contest! The crowd roars as the famed Ser Conrad, the darling of the Vale, the man who restored Blackfyre to the king and now serves him as his steward, rushes forward against the Crakehall knight ... who once and again matches him lance for lance! Lord Whalon is almost rapturous as the lances shatter and the knights rumble past, still in the saddle, shields and bodies battered. “Ah, there’s two jousters! Did you see, Colianne? Did you?!” he exclaims to his wife.

“Mmm-hmm,” the lady says, not even pretending to look upas she embroiders.

Ammena settles down at her seat, holding a folded fan at one hand that she mostly brought along to have something to fiddle with if she gets nervous rather than really expecting it to get that hot that she would need fanning. She listens to the conversation going on between Reyna and her friends while she looks down to see who are jousting at the moment. “It is good to see you again, Lady Reyna, how have you been?” she inquires. “Is Ser Tancred riding today as well?”

“I do not know how well Ser Alek- Oh! Well… Good for Luthor,” she murmurs as Luthor wins. Of course, Elmer falls to Conrad and Auran smiles. “He rode more than one pass against him… That is impressive…” Hands smooth over her skirts before taking up her cup again. Sipping idly at it, she spies Ammena’s entry and then turns her eyes back to the field.

Aurana whispers to Ethos.

It takes time for the field to be restored, with so many lances splintered and shattered, and so many divots taken out of the earth by the destriers. But once it’s all ready, the next contests are announced: “Prince Aegon of House Targaryen shall ride against Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe, Warden of the Kingswood, in the first list. In the second, Ser Harmon of House Massey will ride against Ser Jorian of House Crakehall!”

Luthor claps Alek on the back, and nods towards the edge of the lists. “Best go before they ride us down, but the ale’s on me tonight,” he grins, as he begins heading off the field with Alek, his horse towed along behind him.

Farin applauds the victors mildly, a short burst of applause that dies quickly, although nods of respect are tossed out to the men he would have put his money on.

When Luthor prevails, Ethos smiles in satisfaction, applauding the knight’s victory. His eyes move to the epic struggle between Conrad and Elmer next, cheering for a good match from both knights when the dust finally settles between the two. “Things are getting more exciting.” Mertyns says cheerfully, holding out his cup for his squire to refill. Then he laughs rather suddenly, looking at Aurana before skimming his eyes over the crowd. “Definitely more exciting.”

Reyna gives Ammena a queer look when the shouting for Conrad and Elmer has died down a bit. “Ser Tancred? Yes, but why…”

It dies on the Silver Rose’s lips when this bout is called, and the poor maid is left quite alone as Reyna rushes to the rail with the black and silver streamer in her hand. One of her companions pats Ammena’s hand. “It’s Ser Dagur and Prince Aegon,” she says soothingly. “Wait, you’re that girl… do cheer for the Prince, won’t you?” she asks anxiously.

Aurana grins at Ethos’s response and leans in to ocntinue the private conversation. Still, she does turn her gaze towards the field as the next bouts are announced, one eyebrow arching as Dagur is pitted against Aegon. “Gods… This should be interesting…” There is no groan, only true and sincere interest in how that bout will play.

And as soon as the next joust is called, the Iron Serpent is striding to his steed and mounting, seeming more eager than he has ever been in the lists. He brushes back the sweat-matted hair from his forehead with his steel-clad forearm before taking the serpent helm his squire hands up and settling it firmly in place, dark eyes gleaming in its shadows. Then, it is his lance and shield—and there is a murmur running through the highborn folk in the pavilion, for the tangle with Prince Aegon and the Iron Serpent’s wife some while ago is no secret.

The ironman dips his lance to the royal box and then his wife—and finally, after a brief pause, cursorily to Aegon. And then, he sets his spurs and charges.

Aurana whispers to Ethos.

Sipping a cup of wine, Jorian watches with attention the ongoing joust, hoping to learn a trick or two from a possible opponent. He cheers for Luthor as the knight unhorses Alek, and is captivated by the epic struggle between his cousin and Ser Conrad. He sighs as Elmer hits the ground, and yells “Better luck next time, coz!”, when his name is announced by the herald for the next matches.

Taking up helm and shield, he climbs unto his steed, as if he had not hit the ground earlier, and salutes the royal box and his opponent.

Alek nods. “Aye. It’s much appreciated, Captain.” Alek says, smiling at his friend. “Better I fall to you than some upstart.” He notices Ser Farin nearby and looks to Luthor. “If you don’t mind, I would like to have words with Ser Farin.” He takes his aleskin from Albin. “Unless you wish to join, ser? until your next bout.”

Harmon Massey approaches the field in much the same manner as before, quiet and dignified, especially after coming off of a loss like that. His target is Jorian Crakehall this time, and if he were nervous before, after witnessing the other events, he is now doubly so, as he salutes his opponent and begins his charge.

Ammena looks back to Reyna and opens her mouth to answer, when the lady suddenly gets distracted by the next bout, making Ammena to likewise turn her attention there to see what caught her attention, then upon hearing it is the womans husband she smiles softly at the enthusiasm, figuring the conversation is best continued after this one. Then at the other womans words towards her she arches a brow some, has she already got -that- bad reputation for bringing bad luck? “Well, isn’t it only proper to cheer for the prince?” she replies, if you have no personal interests in either contestant.

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

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

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

“No I shall take some rest, ser,” Luthor says to Alek. “But go on, and I shall see you later.” That said, the Rivers knight takes his place by his pavillion and takes a moment’s respite to watch the jousts with the interest of a true enthusiast.

Another cup of wine drunk as he waited a new turn, and then he’s called up ... against a man he knows rather too well. A sneer can be seen crossing Prince Aegon’s list. He takes his sweet time to prepare himself, checking over his horse, checking the straps of the shield, the purity of the lance… but no herald’s like to hurry him. And so Ser Dagur is made to wait.

In time, Prince Aegon does appear at the end of the lists. He shows off, making his destrier prance, its tack jingling with the motion. And then he spurs forward, salute apparently forgotten.

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

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

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

Tancred whispers to one of the squires about, and has wine and water skins sent to Elmer with Tancred compliments. He looks over the crowd again, studying, and his eyes linger in one place. He stares, shakes his head as he looks about the crowd again before he reaches beneath his tunic, and pulls out a fine scarf of white and blue. With care, he wraps it about his hand. He watches the battle going on in the lists now with interest.

Harmon swears under his breath again as yet another man manages to hold off his first charge. A new lance is taken, and flings his horse around to find the speed necessary to make the second charge work.

Ethos nods quietly, eyes on the field but gaze unfocused. “Perhaps I can do something…” He considers, shrugging a bit. “I’ll keep an eye on it, but I’m hardly worried.” He perks up a bit as he sees Aegon and Dagur meet on the field. “I am truly torn now…”

Reyna is absolutely fixed on the bout between Dagur and Aegon. Behind her, her companion shakes her head at Ammena. “Not -this- prince,” she says very quietly. Then she, too, is watching, groaning aloud when Aegon looks near to falling—then doesn’t.

Elmer is still furious, and sulks by the big crimson tent. “Where do these people keep coming from? Isn’t it enough that some people seem never to be thrown offf a saddle?” he looks towards the iron Serpent. “Now all kinds of people come in who hit like the Warrior himself.” he is clearly bruised, the brunt of his last joust having had an effect on his body.

Enduring yet another blow, Jorian remains in his saddle, pulling hard on the reins before returning to the end of the list. Dismissing the lance offered to him, he remarks to the squire, “With such a pitiful blow I’m sure the tip is not even marred”. And again, he put the spurs to his steed, riding hard toward Ser Harmon Massey.

Aurana chuckles at Ethos and sips at her cider again. She does not seem worried with the outcome of either joust at the moment, content to watch them both and see what comes of it.

Alek nods to his friend, walking over to Farin. He keeps an eye on the Iron Serpent’s joust with the prince. “Hail, ser.” He says, as he nears Farin’s position. “I feel I must apologise. If I had been able, you would have not fallen to the prince.” He says.

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

Jorian’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.

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

“T’was my own err in failing against the Prince,” Farin corrects of Alek. “Thought three rounds was a decent enough joust, to be sure.”

What a blow! And yet somehow the Targaryen princeling manages to hang on, tossing aside his long lance to free his hand to saw at the rein. It’s a chancy moment, but in the end he regains his balance. When a squire offers up a new lance, he grabs at it angrily, and then he’s rushing forward again at Saltcliffe.

Ammena glances back over to Reynas companion while opening her fan to start to idly fan herself when she looks back down to the arena. “Oh? What is so special in this prince then? I feel like I have missed on something important?” the Piper maiden inquires, seeing how Reyna herself is mesmerized by the fight she doesn’t ask questions directly from her for the moment

Hooves thundering, armour rattling, and the Iron Serpent and his royal opponent meet in the centre of the lists amidst a hailstorm of splinters. And the former rides out unaffacted, steady in his saddle, tossing the stump of his shattered lance aside. He does not bother glancing behind but accepts another lance from his squire; only then does he bring his steed around, then starts forward at a canter. Slowly, the lance swings down until it is pointed at the prince, steady as rock—and then, he explodes into a charge.

Angered but enthused, Harman takes it a little bit slower, in attempting to throw his opponent off. If the lad wants to make of a show of it, he’s going to have to fight to stay in. Another lance, another charge.

Luthor groans as Jorian is once again thrown askew. “C’mon,” he mutters quietly. Though when Elmer’s words reach him, he turns to regard the sulking knight with concern. “You rode well. Drink, ride again, and crush anyone who stands between you facing Ser Conrad and having your revenge,” he offers as advice.

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

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

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

This time, his lance find its mark without fail and explodes into splinters, but the other knight’s blow is even more powerful, and Jorian struggles to stay on his horse. Lifting his visor as he reaches the end of the yard, he accepts a new lance and asks around “Do we get a prize for the most lances broken without falling?”. And then, he claps his visor back and he’s gone, in a thundering of hooves and cheers.

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

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

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

“Have you been lost in Braavos without your memory?” Reyna’s companion asks, not unkindly. Voice lowered and one eye on the lists always, she explains quickly about the prince’s attempt to make a mistress of Reyna in her own home, of Reyna’s refusal, of the vile rumors that he had succeeded, and finally Reyna’s uncovering of the prince’s “wife” in the city and exposure of this to the Hand. “He is a very bad man,” the companion finally finishes, just in time to see Aegon land on his arse in the dust.

At the rail, Reyna only puts her hands to her mouth when the Prince falls. As the cheer goes up, she looks toward Dagur and away form the fallen Aegon.

Tancred watches as an upset happens, and Ser Jorian knocks his opponent from his horse. Tancred is ready now, sure his name will be called soon. Still he raises his fist and bangs it against his breastplate in respect for the knight.

Ethos mostly has his attention fixated upon Dagur and Prince Aegon, because the knight has a particular dislike for both riders. When the Targaryen topples to the ground, the Stormlord chuckles. He leans over, nudging Aurana with his elbow, “Do you think I could convince Halyn to go weaken the straps on Dagur’s saddle? The boy is small and sneaky.”

Luthor smiles as Jorian wins, and when the Crakehall knight returns to his end of the lists the bastard knight rises and applauds. “Remind me never to underestimate you, ser. That’s twice you’ve snatched victory’s from the jaws of defeat.”

Harman, with dignity, picks himself up and salutes Jorian before dragging himself away from the field.

Ammena offers a slight shrug at the first question from the lady she is talking with, then arches a brow at the next part of what is being said, frowning in clear disapproval. “He did? What a scoundrel. Will have to take note of staying away from him then.” the maiden notes with one more glance towards the now felled prince, after which she turns her attention back towards Reyna who maybe returns back to the conversation now when her husband was victorious. “Ser Dagur is very skilled and brave, you are very lucky woman to be his lady.” the still unmarried piper maid offers to the other woman, perhaps just a touch envious, though in a positive way.

“And innocent and too eager to please,” Aurana replies, grinning despite herself. “And were he caught, his punishment would be hard. Too hard for such a devoted boy. No doubt you could convince him, but I know you well enough to know you wish no harm for the boy.” She resettles into her seat, leaning back now that the deed is done, awaiting the next group of knights to take their turn.

Steady in his saddle, Jorian rides fiercely, his massive steed running at full gallop. It seems to impress Harmon Massey, as the older knight misses his blow and opens himself to a well-aimed strike in the middle of his shield.

Reining in his mount, the Crakehall knight checks behind him to see his opponent standing up, his own horse running away. With a satisfied smile, he removes his helmet and salutes the knight and the kingslanders, and returns to the stands, grinning widely to Luthor, ‘You should know by now that Crakehalls are resilient, ser”.

An angry Prince Aegon drags at his horse’s reins after he’s up, having shaken off his squires. He glares needles at the Iron Serpent, and yet who is to blame? Lord Whalon certainly knows: “Hah! On his arse, again, for having drunk too much. I don’t hold with it, drinking unwatered wine before a tilt!”

The herald announces: “Ser Bonifer of House Buckwell, castellan of the Antlers, against Ser Elmer of House Crakehall, and Ser Conrad of House Arryn, the king’s steward, against Ser Tancred of House Baratheon!”

The Iron Serpent is not a man given to excessive displays of chivalry, and after the way he has ridden against the prince, it will be unlikely there is any this time. But—he draws rein before he reaches the end of the lists. And instead of riding away, he rides back to Aegon, tugging off his helm on the way, revealing his damp, matted hair and sweat-slick face. When he nears the prince, he leans down from his saddle and says something to the other man—and then, he does ride away, returning to his pavilion, twisting in his saddle to find Reyna in the stands and raise a hand to her.

Alek smiles. “I think it was a fine round.” A rock dings off Alek’s breastplate. A rather irate Maester Lucion beckons the Reyne Knight. Alek rolls his eyes. “Excuse me, ser. My maester craves my ear…” He wanders off against the backdrop of the crimson pavillion. “Ser Alek, I…” But, too late! Elmer’s irate words catch his ear and Alek smirks at Lucion. “Later, Maester. Later.” He moves away from Maester Lucion to watch his nephew-to-be joust against Ser Bonifer.

Elmer grabs a new lance and stalks furiously towards his horse. “Now, this would better be better, or else..” he threatens, the normally good natured knight in a rage, his eyes wild. He prances his horse at the end of the lists, waiting for Bonifer to come. He ties the streamer of silk carefully on it, and then he prepares to charge.

Tancred is already mounted, and heels his horse to the start of the list, the blue and white scarf tied about his gauntlet holding his lance. At the start of the lists, he raises his lance in salute to the royal box, then again to Ser Conrad. Once the signal is given, Tanced is silent, but heels his horse hard to run as hard and fast as he can, lance coming down and aimed right at Tancred’s target.

The Arryn knight is mounted and ready; the cheers start again, as loud for him as before, but this time for his opponent as well, for it is fine sport to see men of two of the greatest houses in the land riding against each other. There is the customary show for the folk in the stands; the clever way he makes his steed prance as he settles himself. Then, he salutes the royal box and his opponent, spurs his mount and couches his lance.

Ammena looks over towards the arena again now when the next pair is announced. “Oh its my cousin. I hope he will fare better today than yesterday, he was left third then, after downing the dishonorable nameless knight who felled Ser Tancred in the most unchivalric manner…” she explains, though then forgets her cousin when the second pair is announced, her attention fully focusing on the heir of Storm’s End as she smiles widely. “There is Ser Tancred now, he surely deserves to prevail today.” she explains enthusiastically without taking her eyes off of Ser Tancred, her fan snapped shut again as she squeezes on it nervously in anticipation.

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

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

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

Reyna, the black and silver streamer clutched in her fist, touches it to her lips in response to Dagur, then resumes her seat beside the glowing brazier, snuggling into her warm cloak beside it with a sigh of relief. “Oh, he is skilled enough, especially for a man not born to it,” Reyna allows in reply to Ammena, once the brazier has put some color into her pale cheeks, “but -that- was luck as much as skill there.”

Then she is giving Ammena that queer look again, before understanding dawns. “You do know he is betrothed,” she says slowly. She looks like she would say more, but someone has carried Ser Ethos’s jape to her ears, and she laughs. “He is welcome to try! Poor lad would never get past the Smiler.”

Aurana whispers to Ethos.

Ethos is trying to watch the joust, but suddenly bursts out laughing again at a rather random moment, doubling over. Maybe the man is losing his mind. After he regains control he looks at Aurana. “I’m glad you talked me into this. Far more entertaining.”

Tancred has no excuse really this time and despite his best efforts, he is unhorsed and he falls to the ground in a clatter of armor. It is not a hard spill and he gets up, walking over to make sure his horse is alright. He raises his hand in respect for Ser Conrad, but the Storm’s End heir is not happy at all to having been unhorsed for the third time is as many days. He storms off to the pavilion to reset his armor, and see if everything on his horse is right.

Another result, even as the next contest is readied. But a word with Lord Rosby, and the herald announces another contest after Ser Conrad accepts his acclamation for his swift victory. “Ser Farin of House Prester shall ride against Ser Jorian of House Crakehall!”

Delayed by something, Bonifer Buckwell at last makes his appearance at the lists and taking up his lance he makes ready, and when the signal is blown, charges.

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

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

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

As Farin’s name is called, the man pulls himself up, and trudges over to his destrier, his mood as unpolished as his armor now after his run against Prince Aegeon. He sweeps himself onto his horse, surprisingly light in his armor, despite his mood. A glance at the crowds lifts him for a moment, and he calls for his lance in another, swinging himself around to take his place in the lists. The knight sits stoically, though the shaffron gives his horse all the look of menace that might be required. The Prester knight bows to the royal box, salutes Jorian, and begins his charge, setting his spurs in a little harder than usual.

Ammena grits her teeth and balls her hands to fists tightly as she sees Ser Tancred being knocked off his horse. “Oh no, he is haunted with such poor luck.” the lady laments, for surely there could be no other reason for the heir of Storm’s End to so easily be felled off his horse. Then glancing back towards Reyna at her words and nods slowly. “Yes… I know that.” she replies a bit hesitantly, sounding like she knows more about the matter than just that also, but that is all that she says.

Leaving his horse in the cares of the stableboys, Jorian leans against the yard’s fences, watching the next knights competing in the joust. Keeping silent, he seems fully focused on his next match again. And when his name is called, he jolts into motion, going through the preparations with as much efficiency as he can muster. Saluting the Prester knight and the royals, he sets his horse to a canter first, rapidly gaining momentum as he goes.

Bonifer tosses aside the broken stub of his lance, and takes up a new one from his squire ready to take a second tilt with the Crakehall knight.

Elmer ‘s swearing can be heard all through the yard, as he rides to the end of the lists. He looks at his squire and sighs as he takes his helmet off for a moment. “I might just give up jousting, you know…” he says, disgruntedly, but he picks a new lance and then spurs his horse in a mad charge against ser Bonifer.

“I am pleased that you let me talk you into it,” Aurana returns. “It is good to have someone I can talk to.” She lifts her head as the next bout is called. “I believe I wish Ser Farin to win. He’s had such rotten luck. Of course, Ser Jorian is a good man, too.. What say you, Ethos? Who will claim the victory?”

Reyna watches Ammena closely, then narrows her eyes at Tancred as he falls. “Ammena,” she says slowly. “Is that -your- favor he carries? Those are not Lady Obany’s colors.” She pauses to cheer with the rest of the crowd, shouting her approval of Conrad Arryn and for Elmer Crakehall as well, then looks back at Ammena. “You had best be very sure of what you are doing. Obany is a dear friend, and a very good woman.”

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

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

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

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

Luthor watches the match between Jorian and Farin intently, as though he could will his cousin to victory. As good a man as Jorian is, blood is blood after all.

Farin is jolted by his unbroken lance, but has no difficulty keeping his seat. Beyond that, he makes no noise and offers the spectators no way of truly judging how he feelings about the matter. He simply reaches the end of the lists, receives a lance, turns, couches, and charges with a renewed vigor.

Elmer says nothing this time, what’s there to be said? He just turns his horse around and lowers his lance, pointing his tip towards the Castellan’s chest, his hors epicking up speed, hiss crimson cloak fluttering behind him.

Ser Bonifer glances back and curses when he sees Ser Elmer has kept his seat. He takes a fresh lance from his squire and makes ready to charge down the list once more against the Captain of the Lannister guard.

“I will put my imaginary coin upon Farin.” Ethos says, without hesitation. Not that he has reason to dislike Jorien, but he’s friends with Prestor. He lets his eyes stray towards Reyna and Ammena, lifts his voice, “Lady Ammena, would you care for some warm cider? As I have said, a friend of my cousin is a friend of mine. I never got that dance last night, I was waylaid by vast quanities of wine.”

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

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

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

Clenching his teeth at the incoming blow, Jorian is almost surprised at the lack of strength behind it. His strike though is not better, and as he returns to the end of the lists, he checks his lance before discarding it and taking a new one. Resuming his starting position, he acknowledges Farin’s readyness as well, and rides toward another blow.

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

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

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

Ammena watches her cousin jousting against Ser Elmer seemingly with better luck than what Ser Tancred had in his recent match, though it is not over yet. Then Reynas words draw her attention back towards the lady, her fan opening again to start fanning slowly. She nods to her words. “Yes, it is.” there is no point in denying it, it is the colors of her house after all, leaning a bit closer to the woman to continue in more hushed tone. “Do you see Lady Obany anywhere? I did not see her yesterday either.” she points out, not saying it directly, but the implications are fairly clear.

Again denied victory, Ser Bonifer curses and tosses his lance aside, sending it bouncing across the groud, then growling, he snatches up another and goes forth to bring an end to this fight.

Aurana cringes as Farin falls from his horse. “I cannot imagine that that ever becomes comfortable, no matter how many times you do it.” She tilts her head a bit, unable to keep herself from listening in. Her lips quiver a bit in mirth and then she returns her attention to Ethos.

“Bold jousters, these Crakehalls,” Lord Rosby announces, to no one in particular. “Not the best seats, I grant you, but they grip the saddle with their arses like devils!”

Aurana whispers to Ethos.

Reyna raises a brow. “I did not meet my first husband until the day we wed, for all we were betrothed for nearly a year,” she says—then leaves it at that. She clucks her tongue when Farin falls. “There is Farin Prester,” she says to Ammena, pointing. “He is a very good man, and quite taken with Aurana Buckler, unless I miss my guess. Another dear lady. I like her enormously, despite the company she occasionally keeps. Elmer Crakehall—have you met him?—is the most tenacious of jousters today. I do hope Lord Whalon will have something just for sheer refusal to go down.”

Reyna raises a brow. “I did not meet my first husband until the day we wed, for all we were betrothed for nearly a year,” she says—then leaves it at that. She clucks her tongue when Farin falls. “Ah, Ser Farin,” she says to Ammena, pointing. “He is a very good man. Do you see Aurana Buckler there? Another dear lady. I like her enormously, despite the company she occasionally keeps. Elmer Crakehall—have you met him?—is the most tenacious of jousters today. I do hope Lord Whalon will have something just for sheer refusal to go down.”

A good jab in the center of his opponent’s shield while absorbing the other’s blow stoically, Jorian is satisfied of his bout, and as he checks behind he notices with satisfaction that it has been enough. Directing his horse toward the fallen knight, he removes his helmet and offers a smile and a salute to Farin, “Well ridden, ser, but I have not endured all these blows to fall now!”

Ethos looks back to the field and scowls. “This is depressing. Clearly I need to practice with them in the yard more.” The knight is shaking his head. “You should have loaned your favor to Farin today.” He sighs heavily, glancing back towards Reyna again. Then he murmurs to the Buckler lady, grinning, “Reyna doesn’t like the company you keep… I wonder who she speaks of. Have you been consorting with vile men again? You really must stay away from those unchivalrous dogs.”

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

Elmer’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.

Ammena is momentarily distracted from her conversation with Reyna as Ethos calls for her, turning her attention to the man she smiles and nods. “I would love to, Ser Ethos!” she replies to the question about cider, before her attention returns back towards Lady Reyna. “No I have not met Ser Elmer.” she repies, though not quite sure of why the other lady is suddenly so keen on introducing her to all of the knights. “I do prefer to have a say in who is in my list of suitors. Ser Tancred is a very good man, and he is not happy with his current betrothal.” she explains, well surely the fact that he is the heir of Storm’s End has something to do with her interest in him as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aurana laughs at that, shaking her head. “I fear that I-” Her words are abruptly cut off and she covers by sippng deeply of her cider. A hand lifts, brushing back a lock of hair and she turns again towards Ethos.

Aurana whispers to Ethos, “Do ... ... you ... the ... will ... to ...”

It seems like it’s to be Ser Bonifer’s day, as he nearly unhorses the Crakehall knight in the fourth pass, lance splintering with the force of his blow. But somehow, Crakehall holds on. And in the fifth, they’re matched blow for blow. And in the sixth…

Defeat. The castellan of the Antlers falls, as the crowd roars. It’s not a great blow, not the truest either, but it does the job to send him off the saddle to kiss the dirt.

Once he picks himself up, he cedes the field, saluting to Crakehall as men rush in to clean up the mess of broken lances.

“Ser Jorian of House Crakehall shall face Ser Tancred of House Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End,” the herald announces, “while Ser Conrad of House Arryn shall face Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe!”

Reyna raises a brow at Ammena. “Since when do heirs of Great Houses have any right whatsoever to be happy with their betrothals?” she asks, entirely pragmatic. “He is fortunate Lord Baratheon allowed him to choose Lady Obany for himself. Most heirs have no voice at all in the matter.” And that, it seems, is that, for Reyna says no more about it. It is, after all, simply how things are. Then Dagur is called again, and she groans. “Ser Conrad is the best jouster in the lists today,” she says to Ammena as she rises. Then she has gone to the rail and lifted her streamer high, black and silver streamer dangling limply in the mist against the brilliant gold of her sleeve as her cloak slides down her arm.

Tancred would cheer for Elmer’s victory, but there is no time with his name called. He moves to the lists, gives the royal box the salute, then Jorian. He settles down on his horse, gripping it with his legs and heeling his charger hard when the signal is given.

Ethos gestures to his squire and the boy disappears for a few moments, fetching another mug. When he returns, the cup is filled and the boy carries it over to Ammena. The knight himself is momentarily distracted by Elmer’s victory on the field and he cheers for the Crakehall knight, then looks first at Aurana as she cuts off, then up at Ammena and Reyna, watching them intently for a long moment. He looks forward again without saying anything further, watching Tancred ride again, though he is muttering under his breath.

Ammena hears the master of the lists next announcement and her attention turns sharply towards the arena when Ser Tancred is called in again, watching him intently as she prays that he will defeat his opponent this time. It could be because of this distraction, or that she simply does not want to argue the point with Reyna, but she doesn’t reply either way to the topic about betrothals. Then she looks down at the boy who delivers the cider to her, offering a murmured “Thank you.” to him before she takes a sip from it, without taking her eyes off the contest.

There is a roar from the crowds as the herald announces the next round of jousts, and another one when Ser Conrad and the Iron Serpent ride out to face each other across the length of the lists. The anticipation in the stands is palpable; two famous knights riding against each other, and these two the ones who have won their jousts today with the most ease.

They make an odd pair as they dip their lances to the royal boxes and then to each other; the Valeknight with all his bold pageantry and the ironman in his grim armour of unrelieved black. And then, they are charging at each other, lances lowering.

Just enough time to refresh himself, and his name is called again, and against the Heir to Storm’s End, no less. BUt weariness has no hold on the Crakehalls, and Jorian goes back to his horse, running through the same ritual, helm, then shield, then lance. He salutes his opponent and the royals steadily, then waits for the horn to sound the charge.

Jorian’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.

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

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

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

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

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

Tancred is cursing himself but through sheer willpower alone remains upright. He tosses the crack lance aside and prances impatiently for a new one. Once he is given the lance he goes to the lists again, salute to the royal box, again to his opponent, and once more he heels his charger hard down the list, holding on hard.

As he closes on Tancred, Jorian spots an opening and crashes his lance into the Baratheon’s shield. But that’s not enough, the stormlander won’t fall so easily, and the big Crakehall replaces his broken lance with a fresh one, before taking position for another round. Returning the knight’s salute, he spurs his massive steed onward, his gaze riveted to his target.

Jorian manages only the poorest of blows, lance skittering ineffectually off the corner of a shield.

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

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

There is a groan from the stands before the cheers start again; the two famous knights have ridden a distinctly mediocre course, although the Valeknight has at least managed to break his lance. And the Iron Serpent’s seat is, somehow, unsteady enough on this run that the blow, by no means a tremendously powerful one, manages to unsettle him; he is jolted in his saddle, struggling for a few moments before coming upright again.

Both knights can be seen shaking their heads as they ride back to take up new lances; then it is into the charge again.

Elmer is still furious, even though he managed to scrape a win, the big knight is battered, and waits to see who he’ll come up against.

Ethos is watching the riding intently, but then the man lowers his head to stare down at the stands beneath him for a long moment, burying his fingers in his hair. He reaches to draw a handkerchief from a pocket, wiping his nose and murmuring. “I think all the wine is catching up to me finally..” He says weakly. “I’m going to see if I can walk it off.” He gives Aurana an apologetic look, then stands to move down from the stands to the ground, moving slowly, with extra care amidst the people watching that are sitting around them.

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

Ammena gasps out at the first charge when Tancred is nearly felled from the saddle, her hands moving up to cover her mouth as she watches on with keen interest, then as the Baratheon heir turns the tide and knocks his opponent off the saddle she smiles widely and squeezes her hands together front of her in excitement. “Did you see that?!” she gasps out towards Reyna. “I knew he would do it.”

It is a good blow, not great, not one that would normally win him a tilt, but it seems luck or other mysteries are on Tancred’s side as he forces Jorian off of his saddle and to the ground. He does not celebrate like he did against Luthor. He does ride about to offer his hand to the fallen knight. “Well rode Ser, you nearly had me at the first pass. I know I will think twice about my chances if I ever ride against you again.”

Aurana waves for Halyn’s attention, sending him after Ethos as the man makes his exit.

This time, it is a far better-run course; both lances explode in a storm of splinters as Ser Conrad and the Iron Serpent clash in the centre of the lists. And it ends with the ironman unseated, kicking his feet free of the stirrups as he inexorably slides to the ground. But he seems to be unhurt, for he rises swiftly enough, shaking his head before returning the Valeknight’s salute and returning to his pavilion.

Gasps from the crowd, as the Iron Serpent falls! The former Knight of the Bloody Gate is back to his finest form, after having had time to recuperate from the harrowing flight through the Boneway. There’s cheers and applause for the bold knight, and he salutes his fallen foe most chivalrously before giving up the field to the next contest:

“Ser Luthor Rivers, Warden of the Kingswood, shall ride against Ser Elmer of House Crakehall!”

The Crakehall’s lance seems aimed at the right angle, but a split second before the impact, Jorian’s steed wavers from his course, and the knight’s strike goes astray. The same can’t be told of his opponent’s blow, and Jorian is caught at a sharp angle and sent tumbling downward.

Standing slowly on his feet, the towering man removes his helmet, acknowledging Tancred’s words, “Thank you ser, you rode skillfully. Good luck to you for the rest of the joust.”

Elmer laughs softly. “Finally a man I know…” he says, and raises his fist towards Luthor. “And at least if he wins I can wish him good luck” he smils and more cheerful take s along drink of wine before climbing on his horse. Fiona’s favor flutters in the wind as he waits for Luthor to take his place then he roars. “None so fierce” as he lowers his lance and charges.

Reyna watches Dagur fall, hands to her mouth, and she does not move a muscle until he moves and rises. “Thank the Gods,” she says, touching the crystal at her throat and waving her streamer at him before she turns around. She blinks at Ammena in confusion for a moment, as she was not watching the other tilt, then smiles faintly. “He is a fair jouster, so it is hardly surprising that he should do well now and again.” She rises onto her toes, higher in the stands now, to assure herself of Dagur’s wellbeing before she settles beside the brazier again, holding her small hands out to its warmth.

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

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

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

Luthor lands with a crash in the mud, and laughs. “Gods,” he says as he sits up to watch his horse carry on down the lists without him. “Well that’s me done,” he says, and rises to his feet looking about for Elmer as he raises his visor.

Elmer rides to the end of the list taking off his helmet and grumbling. “Seven Gods! Why is it that the one time I ride well I do it against a friend?” he lifts his shattered lance towards Luthor, in a courteous salute. As the lists stand he’s due to joust Aegon. He hasn’t tilted against a Targaryen in a while.

Lord Rosby can be seen shaking his head at that result, as Ser Luthor and Ser Elmer clear the field. There’s a pause of a few minutes then, as the lists are tided, and Lord Rosby speaks with the Hand who sits at his side. Prince Viserys has been quiet through much of the jousting, watching impassively. But when the herald finally comes forward, and he announces, “Prince Aegon of House Targaryen shall ride against Ser Elmer of House Crakehall,” Viserys’s eyes narrow beneath his thick brows, and his expression turns towards a thin-lipped frown.

Luthor raises a gauntlet in return to Elmer’s salute, and seeing his squire has his horse, he turns and makes his way back to the pavilions passing Alek’s as he does.

There’s a pssting noise from the pavillion as Luthor passes it.

“Ser Luthor!” Alek’s voice hisses from the flap.

Tancred moves his charger back to his pavilion and watches the next list, knowing that the winner is who he will be facing next. Tancred has done so far to be a part of so many knights to be in the top four when all is said and done. Respectable, and much more so then the previous tournament. He sits high and ready on his saddle, his hand gripping the bit of scarf wrapped about his hand.

Luthor turns and looks with a raised brow in the direction of Ser Alek’s tent, and curiosity getting the better of him, he goes within. “Ser?” he asks with a note of hesitation in his voice.

Elmer rubs his chin, and picking up a new lance, tips it towards the King’s Hand, in salute towards the royal house, seeing as he’s about to joust one of them. He hasn’t dismounted yet, his thick crimson lannister cloak swirling in the wind, and his gorgeaous gold chased new armor bearing a few scars as he waits for Aegon.

Ammena sits back down at her seat clearly happy at Tancreds victory over his opponent, sipping her sider slowly while idly fanning herself with her fan held at her other hand. “I hope he will win today.” she notes in reply to Reyna, likely referring to Ser Tancred, and as if to clarify the point, she adds towards the other woman. “With no disrespect towards your husbands formidable skills, Lady Reyna.”

As Crakehall readies himself, Prince Aegon seems to take this contest with the same, desultory manner as he did his first jousts. He seems sure of himself, to say the least, as he blows a kiss toward the royal stands—Princess Naerys is, to say the least, _not_ present, but a number of the court’s women are—before bringing his helm down. Taking up a lance, he moves into the lists, and dips his lance towards Ser Elmer before he sets his great destrier into motion.

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

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

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

Elmer remains steayd in the saddle, his shield taking the brunt of the impact. As he picks up a new lance he’s wise enough not to yell anything insulting, only saluting the prince at the other end of the lists before lowering his lance and spurring his horse into a gallop.

The crowd cheers as the two knights barrel down towards one another, but it must be said, more sound as if they’re cheering for the westerman than they are for the prince. Sawing at the reins, the prince recovers well after Ser Elmer’s blow, and his squire can hear him cursing as he whirls the horse around—sendinh the youth sprawling as the beast’s flank slams into him—and then he’s off again!

Elmer’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.

Alek is sitting down with his leg up on a stool. “Ah. Apologies for startling you, ser.” He says. “I didn’t wish to unveil my position to those who would test my patience.”

Elmer rides therough the flying shard, and shakes his head. if this goes on much longer he win;t have any more lances. He laughs softly and nods towards the Targaryen prince as he picks up another lance and without a word he charges down the lists.

“Oh-ho! They’ve some fight left in them, do they not, m’lord prince?” Lord Rosby can heard to remark. Viserys makes some non-commital remark, as he watches his son manage to keep his seat after breaking his lance, and having a lance broken upon him. And then the third pass comes, the prince in gilded black plate against the Crakehall knight who has won renown as captain of Lord Lannister’s guard…

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

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

“Eh?” the bastard knight says as he takes a seat, glancing about the pavillion. “I’d say your position is well marked,” his lips curl in a wry grin. “Anyhow, who is it that tests your patience?” Outside he can hear the splintering of lances and the cheers of the crowd, and he glances towards the flap, to see what can be seen of the day’s progress.

Elmer rides to the end of the lists, past the Lannister pavilion down to the Baratheon one. “May I borrow a lance, ser?” he asks Tancred before he charges

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

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

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

“Jousting is not my lord’s best skill,” Reyna laughs to Ammena. “He is happiest with his sword in his hand and his boots on hard earth. He wins now and again, but I often think he only jousts for my sake, because I love to watch it.”

Alek smirks. “I’d say not, ser. People do not expect someone like me to hide in plain sight.” He glances around. “Why it is old Maester Lucion. He has it out for me, ser.” He says, in mock distress. “Maester Lucion knows me more than my own father. He knows that I would not hide in such an obvious place.”

Tancred raises his hand in salute to Elmer, knowing he has battled the hardest during this tournament so far, and a frown comes across his face as he knows he must face against the knight, his friend. Their times against one another in the past always ended with Tancred the victor, but today he is uncertain. Tancred can only hope that after so many hard fought tilts the man might be tiring, and giving Tancred the edge. He starts to make his way, not yet entering the lists, wanting to be a good man and give his friend some rest before having to joust again.

Elmer takes note of what Tancred does and as he has already borrowed a lance from the man he grins. He nods his head towards Prince Viserys. He’s managed to last this long but this time it’s different. The Baratheon heir is a champion, and it won;t be easy. He takes a long drink and then couches his lance, spurring his foaming destrier forward

“I know the trial of maester’s well,” he says. “Just be glad your wife isn’t here to add to the harping,” he says, then with a glance towards the flap. “Let us go truly hide in plain sight before your pavillion, and should your persistant maester find you,” he smiles. “You will have my sword to defend you. Though, at a price, a flagon of your best ale, for I have a thirst.”

The fourth pass decides it: the ferocious rush of the Crakehall knight slams the prince from the saddle, bringing him down with a rattle of armor. He lies prone a few long moments, and only with a groan does he start to move as squires rush up. Too dazed to curse or complain, he is helped from the field as the crowd cheers on Ser Elmer. Viserys’s expression is impassive, as he watches his son carried away.

A few minutes later, the next contest is called, “Ser Elmer of House Crakehall shall ride again, against Ser Tancred of House Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End!”

Seeing Elmer bring his horse forward, and does the same. He gives the royal box a respectful salute, and then gives Elmer one, also say. “Best of luck to your friends. I fear though I will be needing it more then you. Let us remembers when the spirits tilt at the night, eh?” Tancred lowers his visor and settles in, waiting for the signal, and when it is given, heels his horse hard, bringing his lance down in line, focusing his strength and skill to unseat his friend.

Ammena gives a nod to Reyna at her words regarding her husbands area of expertise, though then when Ser Tancred returns to the fray her attention immediately turns towards the knight that is carrying her favor, the blue and white colors of House Piper. “If he wins this one then there is only one more opponent left, right?” she asks, having somewhat lost track of who all are still in the contest, sipping from her cider as she leans forward against the railing to watch intently.

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

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

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

Elmer feels the jolt in the saddle and another lance is discarded. His seat in the saddle is solid despite the constant drinking, and he laughs to himself, the boar on his shield quite mangled though. He waits as his squire ties the favor to the new lance and he charges, the big knight trying to put all his weight behind his lanc eto unhorse his lighter opponent.

Tancred manages to keep on his saddle, his horse’s gait throwing him off enough for him to miss his mark. His notices his lance is still intact, and does not change it out. He again moves to the list, raises again in salute to the royal box, and again to Elmer. The signal is given and once more the tow friends race towards one another.

Reyna cocks her head, watching as she computes things in her head. “No,” she says slowly after a moment, when the cheers have settled and Tancred is still mounted. “No, Dagur still has to ride again, and Aegon. And Conrad,” she adds, frowning and actually appearing to count on her fingers. “I never can keep things straight. But Dagur and Aegon have both… no, Aegon’s fallen twice. So there’s Dagur with a tilt left, and Conrad as well.” She looks as if this is making her head ache, and she throws up her hands. “Let’s see, shall we?”

Alek smirks. “But of course, ser. Forgive me for not offering beforehand.” He reaches forward, grabbing a flagon and handing it to his friend before getting to his feet. “My pavillion is my home, ser.” He leads his way outside, watching the joust between Elmer and Tacred.

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

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

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

Luthor smiles as the ale is passed to him and he takes a greedy swig of it before stepping outside. His eyes fix on the contest being fought in the lists before him and he smiles when he sees Elmer keep his seat. “It’d take a giant to unhorse Ser Elmer today,” he says with pleased shake of his head.

Ammena blinks at Reynas words. “Did they change the rules? Yesterday it was out from the second fall.” she replies to her friend without taking her eyes off of the contest going on, biting her lower lip nervously as Ser Tancred seems to be having trouble against his opponent.

Elmer swears as he’s totally botched that one, barely managing to keep in the saddle. This time he doesn’t need a replacement and he simply turns around, aims at Baratheon’s shield and charges.

This time the pass was more to Tancred’s advantage, and he turns, to expect to see Elmer on the ground, and is shocked when he is not. The man has fire in him indeed. If Tancred were a better man, a more noble man, he would forfeit his next tilt to the knight in honor of his bravery and tenacity. Tancred however, is not such a person. He claims a new lance and moves to the list, salutes given, then when the signal is given, rides and rides hard, sensing that the knight might be faltering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tancred’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.

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

“Dagur and Conrad have each only fallen once,” Reyna says without looking around. “Gods, but Ser Elmer rides very well today! He is betrothed to Fiona Reyne, a very good match for them both. I do like Fiona.” Then she sucks in her breath and sighs. “Ah, there goes Ser Elmer. It looks as if you may well have your wish for Ser Tancred, Lady Ammena.”

Alek nods. “Aye. I find it hard when I have to root for my family, or my family-to-be.” He comments, then winces as Elmer takes a fall.

Elmer falls to the ground, but he’s up quickly, amazingly laughing. He takes off his hemet as he salutes Tancred. The big knight seems in good spirits and he lips towards Alek and Luthor. “Ahh, good day, sers.”

Five passes it took, two more cracked lances, and finally, a shattering blow that is the undoing of Elmer and Tancred knows this time he is victorious. He is not happy about it though, knowing if the situation was revered, Tancred would be hard pressed to keep in the saddle. He knees his horse over to Elmer, his shattered lance up in salute of respect. “Well rode ser, no matter what happens, you were the far better knight today then I was.”

“You rode well,” Luthor greets offering the ale skin as Elmer approaches. Then hearing Tancred’s comment, Luthor adds. “You were certainly the better knight than I was,” laughing as he says it.

Ammena lets out the breath she had been holding without even realizing it once Tancred dismounts his opponent at the third pass, a happy smile spreading to her lips quickly before she sits back down and sighs longingly. Then looks to Reyna and nods. “Oh I certainly hope so, Lady Reyna. He was so unlucky yesterday that he deserves it. I have not met a more fascinating man.” she explains enthusiastically.

Elmer chuckles. “Oh, I’ll need a bath, I’m all bruised up..and that was just a bit of luck..” He tells Luthor. “But this should be an epic contest”, he says watching Dagur and Tancred. “All we’re missing is the Knight of Twilight.”

Alek nods at both Tancred and Elmer. “Aye. Glad to see the young ones out-performing their elders, sers.” He claps a hand on Elmer’s shoulder. “I’m proud to call you my nephew, ser.”

There’s another break, as the liveried servants clean up the field, while the crowd cheers and takes in the latest victory for Lord Baratheon’s heir, champion of a hastilude at Storm’s End. But after the time is passed, the next contest is called: “Ser Tancred of House Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End, shall face Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe, Warden of Crackclaw Point! The victor shall face Ser Conrad of House Arryn to determine the champion of the Joust of the Golden Goose!”

Tancred knows there is not much rest for him. Now it is indeed his turn to be in Elmer’s boots. He drains a waterskin, then picks up a new lance and moves to the start of the lists to face off against the Iron Serpent. Tancred has unhorsed the man before, but only once, and he was inspired that day, riding before his people at Storm’s End. This is not Storm’s End, and there are fewer people routing for him. He steels himself and approaches the lists, giving the salutes of respect, the waiting for the signal, and praying this day he has enough strength, heart, and skill to do what his cousin did the other day, the unthinkable.

Having finished the tourney with more wins than losses, Jorian is in good mood nod, leaning against a fence, drinking from a wineskin while enjoying the show. He has removed his gauntlets and replaced them with fur gloves, and his braid is now swaying idly on his back. His battered shield at his feet bears the marks of the ferocious blows he had to withstand. As the duel between Elmer and Tancred ends in the victory of the later, he cheers enthusiastically for both jousters, taking a good sip of wine in their honor.

Reyna gives her young companion a dry glance. “I can assure you that there are any number of eligible men who are equally or even more fascinating. Ser Conrad is delightful, for instance, and others who are very witty to hold conversation with. Then again, the Baratheons do not speak to -me- at all, so perhaps he is as wonderful as you say.”

She leaves Ammena quite behind now, for her husband’s name is called and she seems quite set in her ways—to the railing with the streamer in Dagur’s colors goes the Silver Rose, and she is looking with quiet pride to his end of the lists.

The Iron Serpent has been watching this last tilt from atop his mount, for he is already ready. Tilting his head back, he squirts a stream of water from a waterskin into his mouth, then stoppers it and tosses it down to his squire when he sees the Crakehall knight finally fall. And again, it is the old routine; settling his helmet in place, then slipping his left arm through his shield’s straps, flexing his fist to make sure his grip is secure and finally the lance.

He waits until the herald has called his name and until his opponent has readied himself. And then he rides out, dipping his lance, as always, to the Hand, Reyna, and his opponent before setting spurs and launching himself into a charge.

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

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

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

Ammena looks back towards Reyna, arching a brow some at her words. “There is something wrong between their house and you, Lady Reyna?” she asks, though then mirrors her companions enthusiasm to get to the railing right next to her, although obviously she is rooting for the other knight. “Oh, well one of us will be disappointed after this one.” she admits to Lady Reyna as her eyes follow the contest below intensely, gasping as Tancred is nearly felled at the first charge, her hands gripping the railing tightly.

“Oh, yes,” Reyna says cheerfully as the knights resettle themselves. “I am a liar and dangerously mad, you know.” She laughs and watches Dagur with shining eyes. “It’s ridiculous, really. Ardon manages them and I am left in peace. I am quite happy with the arrangement.”

Tancred is hit as near as hard as he has ever been hit. How he manages to stay on the saddle is beyond him, perhaps an act of desperation. He straightens and then mutters to himself. “No great skill with the lance, but neither does an anvil, and he hits a fair sight better then one.” He straightens up as best as he can and gets a new lance, going to the lists again, the salutes, then the ride forward, his hand clenched hard upon the scrap of silk in his hand and he faces off against the impossible again.

The Iron Serpent’s lance breaks on his opponent like a thunderbolt; slivers and shards of wood clatter off his helm and breastplate, one managing to fly through the silvered serpent fangs that bar his face to draw a thin trickle of blood from his cheekbone. But it is not enough to unseat the Baratheon heir; the ironman seems surprised to see him still in the saddle when he turns at the end of the lists. It brings a nod of acknowledgement from him before he takes up another lance, sets himself and charges.

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

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

The second tilt is a more equal one; both knights break their lances with fair blows and the Iron Serpent takes his with a solid seat. He can be seen to shake his head as he rides back to take another lance, but whatever he is thinking, it is set aside when he brings his mount around, couches the lance and charges.

Ammena holds up a scarf of matching colors to the one wrapped around Tancreds hand as she stands against the railing, encouraging the Baratheon knight to recover from the initial blow and turn the tide against the Iron Serpent. “That sounds like a ludicrous claim, Lady Reyna. I imagine it must be some sort of misunderstanding.” she notes, but doesn’t really pursue the subject further, her attention obviously mostly on the epic battle going on between the two mounted knights. “Stay strong Ser Tancred, you can do it.” she repeats though its barely above a whisper to whether anyone else can hear is up to debate.

Tancred thsi time adopts a defensive and more conservative posture in the saddle. It costs him his chance to unseat the Iron Serpent, but Tancred keeps his saddle as well. He gets a new lance and the routine goes on again, a third tilt against the imposing and intimidating knight. Tancred again draws strength and courage, and when the signale is given, he charges out, and prays.

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

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

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

Courage and hope are not enough, and Tancred falls at the third tilt, unable to keep his saddle after tying to go for the unhorsing. Still, it is a respectable showing, third standing among all those jousting, and having lost only to those that are jousting for the champion’s claim. He stands and raises a hand in salute to the Iron Serpent, giving the knight his due.

Elmer grins towards Alek, staggering at the clap. He’s been hit hard today and he shakes his head. “I still lost twice today, Ser….there’s no much achievement in that.”

“Oh, do ask Ser Sarmion sometime, if you don’t believe me,” Reyna says to Ammena, quite seriously now. But then Dagur has prevailed and she is shouting and cheering with her kinsmen, waving the black and silver streamer in great acclaim.

This time when the Iron Serpent twists in his saddle to look back at the lists, he sees what he expects to see and nods to himself. Tugging off his helm as he rides back and pushing back sweat-matted hair from his forehead, he nods again to Tancred as he passes him with a brief call: “Well-ridden, ser.”

Then, he is back outside his pavilion, taking that waterskin again his squire and squirting water into his open mouth and over his face, washing away the trickle of blood, waiting for the final joust to be announced.

What a victory! How boldly Ser Tancred rode, and with what skill Ser Dagur unhorsed him! The crowd is abuzz with the final contest when it is called some minutes later. “Ser Conrad of House Arryn, the king’s steward, shall ride against Ser Dagur of House Saltcliffe to determine the champion!”

Ammena gasps out with her hands moving up to cover her mouth and her eyes widening as Ser Tancred is knocked off from the saddle by the Iron Serpent, sighing then as her shoulders slump and she simply sits back at her seat, picking her fan again and starting to fan herself just to have something to do. Giving a glance over towards Reyna then and wincing at the mention of Sarmion. “Uh… I much rather prefer to talk with him as little as possible. He scares me.” she admits, whether it is because of the imposing size of the Stormbreaker, or his charming personality, is not specified.

Alek smiles. “The true matter isn’t weither you win or lose.” He pulls Elmer into a rough hug. “You fought with honour and with my colours tied to your lance. Fiona would be as proud as I, ser.”

Elmer shakes his head as Tancred falls too and he raises his hand in salute. Although the man will probably go to the woman whose colours he wore. he nods towards Alek…“I’m glad I did not shame those colors.|

Reyna shivers and draws her cloak snugly around her arms as she watches Dagur, and indeed, she does look cold. “Then ask Tancred or Ethos Mertyns. I am sure they will tell you as well. It’s best you decide quickly. It quite ruins an entire fortnight when someone I’ve come to call a friend decides otherwise after all.” She is looking down the lists now, and looks very anxious.

Tancred moves and stays at his pavilion to remove some of his armor, and to dunk his head in a barrel of rain water to cool him. He first moves about to the other knights, this time with a wineskin under hand, and he walks towards Elmer and the rest, handing Elmer the skin. “You rode inspired today Ser, indeed your lady betrothed should be proud and do you right with a kiss or two. Here, have a drink on me, best wine in the Stormreach.”

The knight with the moon-and-falcon of the Eyrie on his shield comes forward, seeming as fresh now as he was when he started the tourney. He has had the opportunity to rest through these several tilts, and to watch Ser Dagur fight his way back into the contest. Now, he is ready. The crowd cheers him: steward to the king who is away to Dorne, once Knight of the Bloody Gate for his brother, survivor of the last king’s disasterous campaign in Dorne and the flight across the Boneway. He has seen much, he has lived much. This? A stepping stone, to greater glory and worldly fame.

Ser Conrad salutes elegantly to the stands, the pennon on his blue-and-white lance dipping low, almost brushing the dirt. And then again, to Ser Dagur. And then, after a pregnant pause, he spurs his horse on, gaits silky-smooth, his lance lowered and aimed with care….

Ammena turns her attention towards Reyna again, her fan stopping mid motion. “Lady Reyna, you -are- my friend, I do not care what anyone else says, I know that you are not crazy… well not in a bad way at least.” she replies jokingly with a light laugh to attempt to lighten the mood. Then looking down to the last joust about to start, she smiles to the other lady. “Well, now with my champion out of the joust, I do wish that your husband will prevail in this last challenge as well.”

“Others have sworn so,” Reyna replies, and there is a fleeting moment of pain in her eyes as she turns toward the lists. Then she is still as stone, watching as if all is played out before her in slow motion, each hoofbeat open to interpretation.

There is no such cheer for the ironman when he rides forth, all cold steel and sable armour, relieved only by the silver serpent coiling on his shield. But there is a certain respect at least—he has won that much at sword’s edge in Dorne over four bloody years, and by his deeds in the King’s service—and even cries of approval from certain parts of the stands. And like his opponent, although with less elegance, he salutes the royal box, then his wife, and last, the Arryn knight.

And lowering his lance, he spurs his mount forward, smoothly moving into a gallop, coiled power in the way he keeps his seat.

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

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

There is no sign on Reyna’s face that she is disappointed. When Dagur is on his feet, she is calling his name and holding her arms out to him. There is nothing but pride on her face, and a certain disregard for the man who has won the day. “Dagur!” she calls again, trying to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

The crowd roars as the two knights come forward in such an anticipated contest. It is almost anti-climactic, though—Ser Conrad’s lance seems charmed. Great cheers are sent his way, and the salute between the two knights is particularly hailed as a fine show of chivalry. A lap of victory ensues, and then the Arryn knight stops before the stand, where Lord Whalon and Prince Viserys stands. Though Rosby wears a slightly pained expression, he is effusive in his praise as the Golden Goose, the costly prize of the joust, is given over to the famed knight.

The crowds roar, on their feet now; their favourite has won the day. And the Iron Serpent can be seen levering himself to his feet—unhurt as before—shaking his head ruefully as he tugs off his helm and holds it up in salute to the Valeknight, the silvered fangs gleaming like liquid fire as they catch the sunlight. And then, he is returning to his pavilion—or beginning to, for he seems to hear his wife calling to him as he passes the stands, and turns aside, stopping below them to call up to her, whatever he is saying lost in the crowd’s din.

Elmer shakes his head, after all he’s broken several lance against the Knight from the Vale, and he drinks deeply. “Well, that’s unexpected..but it;s stiil the Iron Serpent and Tancred Baratheon that I’d have by my side in a battle…especially against a foe like that Martell snake,”

Tancred gives one last clap on Elmer’s shoulders. “One day friend, in the not so distance future. That will be us. We are still young, and heads and shoulders above others that have done this for half their lives. Mark me in less then two years times, it will be me and you giving them the match to match all matches, twenty lances broken at least before one of us finally falls.”

After a moment bending double over the railing to hear what her husband is saying, Reyna laughs. “Directly then, my lord,” she says to him, straightening and rapping a knuckle on the serpent helm. “And this must go to Jyck!” she calls after him. “You’ve dented it again!” She turns then with a happy sigh and straightens her clothing before tightening the dragon clasp on her cloak and waving to her kin. “I must away myself,” she says to Ammena. “My lord is in need of tending, and I am anxious to be home. Rhiannyn has an earache.” Then she too is gone, borne through the crowd by her kinsmen, all of them in good cheer and happy to make her way for her.

Elmer looks at Tancred and smiles. “At least you had a very pretty supporter, my LOrd.” hr grins and takes a long drink. “There are always compensatiins. He wishes people would stop clapping him on the shoulder, he’s all bruised up after the many hits he’s taken, some from Tancred himself.

Tancred turns his head and does indeed see the Lady Ammena making her way down from the stands. “Indeed, it certainly was not a distraction today to say the least. We were the top four knights my friend, a feat worthy of celebration.” Tancred tosses the man a small purse of silver. “Go and enjoy yourself on me my friend, I will not hear otherwise.”

Ammena searches for Ser Tancred with her gaze as she makes her way over towards the Baratheon pavillion, and it does not take long until she does spot him talking with another knight. The lady smiles towards him as she makes her way over to the pair. “Well fought today, my lord.” she congratulates him once she gets to within conversational distance, as third place in such a large tourney is no small feat.

Tancred turns to Ammena. “Lady Ammena, I had feared you would not be present for today. Well met, well met indeed. This is Ser Elmer Crakehall, a good friend of mine.”

Elmer bows as far as he can in armor. “A pleasure to meet you Lady Ammena…Lord Baratheon fought valiantly today, an dI do not doubt it was in part due to your gallant cheering.: he smiles broadly from behind his short beard.

Ammena laughs softly at his words and shakes her head. “It would be terribly rude of me to not come to see your contest, my lord, when you are carrying my colors. I am sure that next time you will do even better and win the whole contest.” the lady replies with a wide smile towards the Baratheon knight, before her attention turns towards his companion when he is introduced, offering a curtsey to him. “It is an honor to meet you, Ser Elmer. I am Lady Ammena Piper. A friend of Sir Tancreds is also a friend of mine.” she introduces herself more fully in return, even if her house could have probably been deciphered already from the colors in her favor.

Tancred chuckles and then says. “The lady is too kind.” He turns to her and says. “I however right now smell of horse, swear, old armor, and blood. I shall see you at the feast shortly m’lady, after I have been restored to a presentable state.”