Blood of Dragons

The trumpets blare, and the crowd—smallfolk from the region about Storm’s End, men-at-arms and servants belonging to the many noble lords who have come for the wedding of Lord Baratheon’s daughter, and the knights and ladies and lords themselves who have chosen not to ride—is readied for the next round of the tourney. It is not the greatest tourney every thrown at Storm’s End—indeed, the scale is almost modest… but then, despite the festive occasion, the raw wound of the tragic murder of Ser Tancred, Lord Corwen’s heir, has still cast its shadow.

And so a field of just over fifty knights has winnowed down now in two successive rounds to the final dozen or so. And the first contests are to be announced by a herald wearing Baratheon livery, as Lord Corwen and the Baratheon family sit themselves with Lady Tully and the new bride in the grand stand, rings of lords and ladies raiding from them.“Ser Luthor Rivers shall face Ser Brynden Tully,” the man announces aloud when the crowd is quiet, “and Ser Jack Flowers shall face Ser Humfrey Westerling!”

Luthor is outfront of his plain pavillion when he hears he has the honour of fighting the new groom in the first bout of this round. He smiles and attends his ritual of producing the white stone star from under his armor, kissing it, and then mounting his horse. When he is armed and at the opening of the lists he dips his lance to his host and to his foe. “When you’re ready Tully!” he shouts good naturedly across the field.

Jan Marbrand sits with a squire in the relatively modest Marbrand tent, nearby the other Westerlanders. He wears simple but formidable armor featuring a mahogany breastplate adorned with the burning tree, the sigil of his House, and a cloak of red. He alternates between carefully tending to his ashen horse and contentedly surveying the crowd and other contestants, giving a friendly but subdued nod to those he counts as acquaintances. As the first tilts of the remaining rounds are called, Jan applauds before turning to watch with intrigue.

Brynden Tully emerges from his pavilion, already in his jousting armor and helmet, perhaps to not give his opponents any hint of weakness. His squire holds the reins of his black courser and he mounts. He hefts his new shield, is handed a lance and trots his horse to his sarting line. Once there, he salutes his mother, his good-parents and one for his new lady. Then he wheels about to face his opponent, he dips his lance in that direction and sets his horse in motion down the field.

Shifting in her seat as the day goes on and her velvet cushion finds her no relief, Jannia Tully, leans over to Sarya. “A lovely tourney to match a lovely wedding, my lady.” Jannia wiggles one more time in her chair before straightening her trout embroidered deep blue skirts, then poking at her silvered hair net. She perks up at the names called to the lists, shooting her mother a glance before turning to the joust.

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

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

Tents and pavilions have been set up since the arrival to Storm’s End thanks to the lack of space for everyone there, and Janden’s ready and waiting at his tent along with a servant to assist with his armor and needs. It’ll be the last tourney he’s in lacking a squire of his own. Once the first combatants are called to the lists for the third round, he rises to watch. It’s been good to ride again, feel the impact of lances.

Not far from the Baratheon grand stand, resplendent in its gold and sable, a more modest, but still spacious pavilion is situated, looking almost like a cloud settled among sward, in its grey and white. The colours mirror the shawl of Lady Leyne Baratheon, if any might notice; for this is the tent of House Mertyns of Mistwood.

Before its commodious opening, a tall knight is just swinging to the ground from his elaborately caparisoned horse, swaying rich decorations of grey, white…and blue. His squire has got rid of what remains of his lance, and his Owl-crested helm is removed to reveal a cheerful, if also somewhat sombre expression. He is in conversation with a much smaller man gowned in the robes of a Maester of the Citadel.

“Seem to have brushed myself free of your courtier friends for now,” Ser Elys Mertyns, heir to Mistwood, remarks companionably to his sort-of-cousin, Maester Talbard. “So we ought to have an njoyable time watching as yet…”

Ser Astos Corbray watches the ongoing tilts with attentive eyes, carefully studying the jousting style of the contestants and already considering where to place his lance should he ride against them. His armour lacks the splendour of knights of greater wealth and superior station. It is rather simple and made of dark grey steel, but obviously well kept, polished to shine as bright as seems possible given its material.

Astos wears a favour around his right arm, made of a thin white fabric with an alternating pattern of birds embroidered onto it, possibly nightingales and ravens. Tis the favour his wife gave him before the tournament began, and the Valeknight hopes that it will bring him luck today, as he rides to represent House Corbray at this wedding tourney, a House already connected in marriage to the bridegroom’s House of Tully. He watches intently as the bridegroom rides against Ser Luthor.

The heir to the Crag is arrayed in his cloak of many seashells and pale golden plate. Six white mother of pearl seashells decorate his golden cuirass. Sitting upon a campstool beside a pavillion of pale golden sandsilk, Humfrey hears his name called. “Flowers.” Humfrey grins, a formidable foe, to hear tell of the well-travelled knight. Humfrey mounts his white destirer and rides to the end of the lists. He dips his lance in a salute to Lord Corwen and Brynden’s bride, Lady Sarya—Humfrey salutes Ser Jack next—then he’s off. At the last moment he shifts in his seat, aiming his lance at the gap between Jack’s lance and shield.

Brynden is jolted in his seat as Luthor’s lance strikes true, but he is still seated as he makes his turn. “Lance.” he says, and his brother hands him another. “Pray for me.” He sends the horse hurtling towards Luthor again.

Alyce Bar Emmon is just one among the many in the stands, her handmaiden just behind her while her men-at-arms have settled themselves with the other Houses’ guards. She watches the field eagerly, an excited smile on her face when the next matches are announced. After tucking a lock of unruly red hair behind her ear, she leans forward in anticipation.

On the far side of the yard, Ser Jack is donning his armor with a small, homely child. Like the knight, this child is poorly dressed but it appears he is eager to help the knight. Glancing about the yard trying to catch glimpes of the knights he shall be facing, Jack’s face is contorted in a sort of grimace that is a mix of nervousness and excitement. He has much to prove on this day, this being his first joust in sometime, and his first in the company of such highly regarded lords. Then hearing his name called to the list, he sighs “Ser Humfrey it is…” taking his helmet in his hands he heads to find his horse.

“Ha!” Luthor says as his lance snaps and he feels the jolt of Brynden’s doing the same. Both men are still ahorse when they reach the end of the lists so he wheels and when he’s rearmed charges down the list once more.

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

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

Brynden’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.

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

Ser Jack’s lance explodes spraying a gout of slivers over Humfrey’s beautiful golden armor. He winces in pain as the force of the Reach Knight’s blow shakes his in his saddle. Humfrey takes a fresh lance from his squire dips it in salute to his skilled foe then charges the knight.

Sarya is seated, in the stands between her father and Lady Tully. She is dressed today in her signature color, blue, but instead of gold highlights she wears red and silver, her new house’s color. She shifts in her coushined seat and watches Brynden hit the ground on his first joust. An eyebrow is raised and she lightly lays her hands in her lap.

Garlan Hunter’s plate armour glistens even in the dull overcast conditions, hours of scrubbing and polishing have gone into ensuring this pristine attire. The plate is clean but not smooth- numerous dents from Lord Justyn’s early jousting career had seen to that. Garlan has an open bascinet one hand, his other hand is tucked firmly under his armpit to disguise it’s rigorous shaking. He is breathing heavily and unevenly as he tries to calm himself “Relax, just relax” He says to himself and sighs. It hasn’t helped.

r% He ambles goofily towards his horse. The courser is plain and black, now adorned by ribbons in silver and brown attached by his cousin, Bessa. Hunter pats the horse firmly hoping to instil a sense of confidence he does not possess. A Hunter servant passes him his shield “Calm yourself, boy” he says in a deep gruff voice “You’re a good rider, you have bested two already” Garlan grins, easily flattered and heads over to watch the lists where his host is unseated. He frowns.

Jack sits on the back of his horse and takes the lance from the boy and barrels towards Humfrey. When they meet their lances both aim true and Jack feels a shattering pain in his chest, but in his daze he is able to keep his saddle. Shaking his head he realizes that the joust is still on and retrieves a new lance from his serving boy. Then turning to face his opponent once more he begins to charge, his lance aimed once more at Humfrey.

Humfrey’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.

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

Elmer rides into the tourney area, the Crakehall knight resplendent in his gold chased armor, his short beard neatly combed, though the same cannot be said about his rather unruly hair. the heavy crimson cloak he wears betrays his Lannister allegiance. he stops by the Lannister tents and grins towards the squires. “No one calle dmy name yet , I hope!” he laughs and takes a wineskin drinking deeply.

Brynden’s reaction to Luthor’s resounding blow is a bit slower than usual, which is not a surprise. So, the Tully knight finds himself suddenly looking at the sky rather than on his horse. It takes him a moment to rise, but once he does he offers a wave to Luthor as he gets off the field. He keeps his helmet on until he disappears into his tent.

Although her rebellious, dark curls are well subdued by a silvery hairnet, the one or the other still nods next to her narrow face with every of Lady Bessa’s quick steps. Her cheeks are slightly blushed with exitement and their rosiness stands in a complimentary contrast to the linden green of her gown. A cloak of heavy, brown wool and a grey fox-pelt around her shoulders protects her from the chilly autumn winds and makes sure to represent the colours of House Hunter. A septa tries to hardly keep up with the curious Valelady, who hastens to get a seat next to other ladies she might have already met. “Greetings mylady!” she says to Lady Alyce with a bit of huskyness in her quiet, velvety voice. Following the knights with keen eyes and a tiny startled noise, as the first knight hits the ground

The impact of Brynden’s lance against Luthor’s shield drives him into the high back of his saddle but he stays in his seat. Through the narrow slit of his helm he sees his own lance has shattered and he lets it fall before turning around to find Brynden has been unhorsed. He returns the wave and then withdraws to his own tent where he removes his helm and has a sip of water from a waiting cup.

The dust settles, the lances shards are collected, and the herald calls the next contests: “Ser Astos Corbray shall face Ser Janden Melcolm,” the herald cries, “and Ser Elys Mertyns shall face Ser Ammon Massey!”

Another stabbing pain runs up Ser Humfrey’s shield arm as the Reach Knight’s lance hits the oak and iron shield with a sharp THUMP!!! The heir spits a curse as his lance shatters. Humfrey tosses the lance into a heap of broken lances at the end of the lists and rides out to the field where Jack has fallen. “You are quite skilled, Ser, thank you for the joust.”

While gnawing on a wedge of cheese, Ser Kendros sits outside his pavilion—one of the better-sited ones, where he has a decent view of the riders. He lounges in a canvas-backed chair with his feet on a stool. He is in full plate—tourney armor polished to a bright sheen and gleaming in the light of day. Ser Kendros lets out a loud laugh as the groom falls.

Jack slowly rises to his feet after receiving a heavy blow to the chest. Wheezing a bit he looks up at Ser Humfrey, “Thank you ser, you are quite the jouster. It was an honor riding against you.” Then turning he stumbles over to his tent so he can sit down and take a rest before he has to joust anytime soon.

Near the other ladies in the stands, Elrone Darklyn sits with her Septa just behind her and a pair of guards in Darklyn colors lurking near the back of the stands. She leans forwards as the next names are called, laughing when she hears that Ammon will be facing a Mertyns knight- though not -that- Mertyns knight, thank the Seven. She gives Ammon a wave from the stands as he takes the field.

Jan smiles and arches his eyebrows at Ser Brynden’s unhorsing, turning to his squire and saying, “I suppose Tully might still be a bit tired from last night.” He coughs and fidgets with his armor, anxiously waiting for his name to be called. He does, however, offer a word of encouragement to Ser Ammon. “Good luck, Massey,” he calls as the new riders file past, unsure if he can be heard over the din of the crowd.

As he hears his name being announced for the next round, the Corbray knight dons his tourney helmet of dark-grey steel and mounts his horse, impatiently calling for his servant to hand him the wooden tourney shield, painted with the Corbray sigil, and a fresh lance and urges his steed on towards his end of the list. He greets Ser Janden with a dip of his lance, remembering how this Valeknight managed to unhorse him in the Nameday Tourney. Muttering a prayer to the Warrior he lowers his visor and brings his dark brown courser to a gallop, the three ravens painted on his shield flying on to deflect his opponent’s lance tip.

Ammon Massey sits in a camp chair beside his ‘pavillion’—no more than a small tent pitched in the mud of the field, in truth—speaking softly with his squire, Benther, and pointing out this and that. His armor is well cared for, though old and worn, draped in a white surcoat bearing the arms of his house: a triple spiral, red, green and blue upon white. He rises as his name is called, mounts his horse and heads into the field.

First, he presents himself to the bride and her family, bowing low in the saddle before bringing his horse to his end of the lists. And there he faces his opponent. Ammon breathes deeply, sighing visibly, and offers Mertyns a salute with the lance. And then he gives his horse a taste of his spurs.

In truth, Ammon’s seat is not bad: he sits the horse with confidence, leaning into the charge—but the tip of his lance is anything but steady as he brings it down towards Elys’ chest.

Elmer shakes his head as he hears Marbrand. “I suppose..One must think lady Sarya was quite looking forward to this, it has been a very long betrothal.” He chuckles merrily as he talks to the other Westerman. He applauds Luthor’s victory, “Well done, Rivers!” he raises a gaunteleted fist in the air.

Janden gives Astos a brief acknowledgement as the two make their way onto the field for their tilt. The two met last time around and the Melcolm knight was got the better of the Corbray one, both of the Vale. Before charging toward his opponent, he pauses in front of Sarya and the rest gathered and salutes them with a smile, lowering his visor to turn and meet Astos.

Not far from Elrone, Alyce applauds and calls out her approval of Ser Luthor’s victory, then Ser Humfrey’s soon after. She looks over to her fellow redhead and grins. “How do you find the tourney, my lady of Darklyn?”

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

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

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

“It seems your words came just too swiftly to be wise, Ser Elys,” Talbard cuts right back with a grin. “Ser Ammon, eh? I have had some speech with him. Might as well be Stormland born as you are, ser coz, so hard and grim is his demeanour…yet they say he fights better on foot. Trat him sure, and treat him chivalrously; he has reason to dislike cousin Ethos, and I wouldn’t like him to detest your whole House…”

It’s hard to tell how much attention the celebrated heir to Mistwood pays to this series of admonitions, and he grins as he clambers back ahorse, transparently eager to go, a new lance shuttled into his preternaturally firm grip.

A short further canter, an elegant salute to his Baratheon kin and his Frey wife; ...and he’s away. Aiming for a precise atteint at the Blackhand’s shield, nothing too cruel, straightforward just as his maester cousin would like him to play, for now.

Jannia merrily watches the turn at the lists as Jack is slid to the ground and Humfrey is victorious she claps lightly. Though Jannia furrows her brow as Humfrey curses and tosses the lance to the ground. “Hmmm,” she says, “I wonder what… I hope he isn’t injured.” saying to no one in particular.

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

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

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

Sarya looks to Jannia and gives a smile, she too is not very comfortable in her seat, perhaps she… has other reasons to sit lightly. She shake her head at he good Sister and says, “Thank you Jannia, and please we’re sisters now, call me Sarya..” She looks to Humfrey and says, “Oh I’m sure he’s just fine he’s a good man, he can walk it off.”

Although a thing like that had to be expected, Astos is quite surprised by Janden’s skillful charge and he finds himself unhorsed, flying to the ground with a raven’s grace, sufficient enough to spare him from any serious injuries - but not from the bitterness of defeat.

Reyna Saltcliffe is come a bit late, having departed for a time after the first rounds and now returned. She is dressed in a woolen gown of deep blue over a dark gold kirtle, and her slender body is wrapped in a green mantle with elaborate embroidery. She sits now among the other women, a fold of her mantle drawn over her head against the chill.

Ser Humfrey dofs his helm and hands his shield to Erton before moving to the stands. He finds the ladies watching the tourney, wraptly. “Lady Jannia, Lady Alyce, my Lady of Barath . . . ah, Tully, my Lady of Darklyn, my Lady of Saltcliffe.” Humfrey bows to each of the noblewomen in turn. “How do you find the tourney?” Humfrey’s head whips around as Elys unhorses Ser Ammon. “Seven, he’s a beast.”

Janden makes good contact in passing Astos, very little felt in return from the Corbray knight’s lance. He looks over a shoulder before turning his mount to see the results, bringing him closer to acknowledge the man one more time. “You were close on that one, just not square enough. The best to you in your next tilt, ser.” He raises his right hand to wave to the crowd, leading Lancer off to the side again as he lifts his visor to look around at the different setting again. “It’s always nice to ride in different places,” he says to nobody in particular nearby.

Anyone in particular proximity to the Mertyns pavilion might be able to hear, and everyone else can see, an intriguing fact about Ser Elys Mertyns; Talbard bellows as best he can - “You forgot your helm!”

So it is all the more possible to see Elys swept up in the cheers of the largely Stormlander onlookers, half dazed and half solemn to the point of religious consecration, hair billowing wildly from a bare head.

Hee swallows down his hubris, hurls away his lance butt and offers his conquered foe a gauntlet.

“I gather you’re a fine man, Ser Ammon. I won’t pay your horsemanship any false compliments, but I’ll offer your chivalry true praise. On your feet, ser! And we can forget about a ransom, I think.”

“Of course Sarya, my apologies, it will take some getting used to.” Jannia nods, “Yes, I suppose you are right. Though, you would have to admit Sarya, he is a man and as a man he will tend to neglect injuries.” She smiles brightly to her new good-sister, “I am glad the weather has held these past few days. I held some reservations with the storm we had upon landing.” Jannia sends Reyna a light wave in greeting from her place with her new sister and mother after noticing the Saltcliffe woman’s arrival.

Elrone smiles to Lady Alyce, and Lady Bessa not that far away. “It should be an interesting day…” She applauds gently as Ser Janden and Ser Elys emerge victorious. “Lady Bessa, are you still interested in a wager? I see your cousin will be competing shortly.” She nods to Lady Reyna as she arrives, and Humfrey as well. “Lady Reyna, Ser Humfrey, a pleasant day to you.”

“I thank you, ser.” Astos replies to the other Valeknight, and he rises and watches as Janden rides off, grumbling displeasedly to himself, before he leads his horse to the side to wait for his next tilt.

....Or, perhaps, Ammon’s seat isn’t as settled as it first appeared. While Elys strikes squarely, it merely rocks Ammon back in the saddle—but then he is grasping for the reins, for the saddle pommel, and finally sliding off the back of the horse to stumble into the mud of the field. But he stands quickly enough, eschewing the offered hand and grumbling, and turning to Elys. “Forget nothing, ser. A ransom is owed—though if you let me keep my arms and armor until my next tilt, I’ll take it as a kindness.”

As the lists are cleared and men in Baratheon livery sweep broken shards of wood away, the herald comes forth. And when they are done, he calls in his deep, rolling voice, “The next to test their strength in arms against each other will be Ser Elmer Crakehall and Ser Jan Marbrand, as well as Ser Garlan Hunter and Ser Kendros Goodbrook.”

Sarya looks to Jannia with an odd look and says, “Storm? Oh yu mean that light drizzle we had?” She smiles and says, “It will storm before we leave. I hope, I do so miss the lovely storms we have here..” Her cheeks flush and she looks towards the lists, perhaps something came to mind.

Bessa rises her thin, white fingers to her mouth to nibble on her nails, for the spectactle seems to have captured not only her eyes, but also her courtly manners. Absently remembering them, she puts them back down, where they end up fumbling the linden green cloth of her gown. “A pleasant day!”, she greets with a lively smile “Oh, of course mylady of Darklyn, I bet he’ll come out as a noble winner and soon-to-be knight.”

“Hallo, Lady Elrone,” Reyna says amiably. She raises a hand to Jannia and Sarya as she settles, adjusting the folds of her mantle. She bends her head to Bessa politely, but without recognition. “Are we all enjoying the joust?”

Relieved to have someone, besides his equally anxious squire, to speak with before his tilt, Jan gives a friendly nod to Elmer. “Perhaps he is trying to get it over with quick so he can return to her. I wonder what she thinks about his participation.” As he finishes, he sees Ammon tumble the ground and winces, muttering to himself, “Seven, keep the lance straight, Massey.” When his name is called, though, Jan snaps to attention, flashing Elmer a smile and a quick, “Good luck to you, ser,” before quickly hopping on the ashen mare and calmly leading her towards the list. He gives a courteous tip of the lance to the hosts and his opponent, before taking a deep sigh and spurring the beast forward.

In a wine induced sleep, Andred oversleeps. He sleeps through the bustle of knights. He sleeps through the kicks to rouse him. He sleeps through even the breaking of lances. What he does not sleep through is the bucket of water tossed on his head by a few overly clever Arryn men-at-arms. Such a waking accounts for the dampness of his hair as he exits the Arryn Pavilion. But, apart from that, the bastard falcon looks strangely stunning. His hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail; no longer are his Andalian blue eyes obscured. The boy looks every bit an Arryn.

Over a freshly painted black breastplate is a new and fine surcoat bearing his bastard arms: a white falcon on a blue moon. The bird looks as if she is in flight as the fabric billows with the wind. Flanked Arryn Guardsmen, he enters the field exchanging jokes and kind words; the boy seems to be in good spirits even after such a wake up. In one hand, he carries the reins of his horse and the other his unvisored black great helm. A young, but eager squire dressed in Arryn livery follows the company as they make way towards the lists.

Elmer chuckles merrily as he hears his name called out. “It seems we’re matched, ser Jan!” he laughs and picks up a lance carrying a streamer of red and gold, his wife’s colors, Fiona is not here as she’s expecting their child, but he is honroting her as best he can. Taking another long drink of wine, he tosses the wineskin away, then lowers his visor. The big knight rides to the end of the lists and couches his lance as he spurs his gret gelding on, aiming his lance at Marbrand’s shield.

Humfrey turns from the lists to Lady Elrone. “A pleasant day to you, too, my Lady of Darklyn. My Ser Janden and Ser Luthor are certainly in fine form today. I hope one of them will make it to the final rounds.”

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

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

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

Noticing Humfrey’s arrival Jannia waves, “A good day to you too, ser. Pray tell, I hope you do not harbor an injury, Ser Humfrey. If so, you best get it looked at by a maester. Lest you wish it to get worse.” She smiles before turning back to Sarya, “I do love the sounds of storms, not so much the feel of them aboard a ship, but they do sound very lovely. I should hope you get your wish.” Jannia averts her eyes from the newly made Tully to nod to Reyna and then back to the lists as Elmer and Jan make a pass at each other.

Elmer feels his lance break, but as his opponent stays in the saddle, he rides to the end of the lists, picking up a new one and having his streamer tied to it. “None so fierce!” he challenges, and again he rides, his lance steady, aimed again at the shield as he puts his weight behind it.

Hearing his name, Ser Kendros rises, calling for helm and lance, and bounds upon his horse, a great destrier draped in a blue tabard bearing the yellow device of Goodbrook spattered here and there. He dons his helm and hefts his lance and rides for the field at a trot.

The Longaxe eyes his opponent down the other end of the field and lowers his helm’s visor, taking a breath or two and then giving his mount the spurs.

Jan’s lance strikes well, but Elmer’s is more true, and Jan briefly fumbles for the reigns as he slips to the side. Barely, though, he maintains his balance, unleashing a sigh of relief and calling, “Well struck, ser!” before wheeling the horse around for another go.

As Garlan Hunter hears his name being called for the third time today it is all he can do not to be sick. If he had had breakfast by now he certainly would have. Garlan Hunter’s palms are so slick with sweat he can barely hold the shield. “Gods” he whispers as he struggles to mount the nameless horse. Then it came to him. The infinite darkness of the horse’s hair, the petrified terror Hunter felt… “Night Terror” Garlan says to the servant “I’ll call her Night Terror” His heartbeat is racing and adrenaline surges through his veins. As he leaves the tent he hears the roar of the crowd, “How many are cheering for me” He wonders “few enough; maybe one or two rooting for the underdog” As he reaches the end of the list he turns “This is it” he tells himself, kicking Night Terror into action. Steaming towards his adversary, the ribbons flow from the horses mane and riders helm. Garlan lowers his lance to his opponents shield

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

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.

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

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

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

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

Elmer laughs as his lance shatters and he sees his opponent fall, but as he rides to the end of the lists, he checks to see if Jan is allright. raising his helmet he takes a long drink and dismounts to stand between Lannister men. “Good field today, boys, any wagers?” he sends his own squire to tend to Marbrand.

His silky brown locks flow down to about shoulder length. Often, stray locks will float before his face attempting to hide his shimmering deep-sea blue eyes, proof of his ancient Andal heritage. He is constantly pushing those aforementioned locks behind his ear. Sometimes, to reign in his wandering locks, he puts his hair into a short ponytail.

He has a baby face, devoid of blemish and facial hair. If you watch him closely, he touches the smoothness quite often searching in vain for a little peach fuzz. His lack of a beard highlights his handsome stone-cut square jaw and his high cheek bones. Above that resides his nose, once perfectly formed but now misaligned due to repeated breaks. His brow and forehead on most days glow from perspiration. Rarely, does he mind it though. However, his wayward brown locks do have an annoying tendency of sticking to his moist forehead on balmy summer days.

Andred’s body does not have the softness that comes from noble leisure, but rather it is formed of rock hard muscle gained only from a life of labor. His hands are rough and calloused. His back ripples with muscle; a great deal of it earned from late night rendezvouses with the practice dummy. A layer thick muscle covers his limbs making them bulky and many times, ungainly. His muscled form coupled with his broad shoulders make him an imposing sight to behold.

He wears the garb of a squire: a surcoat covering old iron chainmail. The surcoat sports the sigil of House Corbray: three ravens each carrying a heart on a white backdrop. The surcoat is rarely washed. It will often be colored with browns of dirt or the reds of blood. The old iron chainmail often announces his entrance into a room by rattling loudly. Almost whenever he moves, the iron rings can be heard shaking beneath his surcoat.

Again, Jan is caught unawares by the force of Elmer’s lance, and falls to the ground with a thud. Undeterred, he rises quickly and dusts himself off. “Seven, well struck again, ser. Best of luck to you,” he says before returning to his tent, mumbling something to his squire under his breath.

Two contests swiftly run and two displays of skill that have the smallfolk roaring and the nobles discussing the merits of the Crakehall’s seat and Longaxe’s powerful arm. Again, there is a delay as the lists are swept clear.

And then the herald calls, “Now, Ser Josmyn Reyna shall ride against the squire Andred Stone!”

There are murmurs at that among the highborn; a knight of such a noble house riding against a by-blow.

Elrone sighs as Jan and Garlan are both unhorsed and smirks to Bessa. “I think it’s lucky for both of us we did not wager on that one.” She smiles at Lady Reyna. “So far, yes, Lady Reyna. Have you met Lady Bessa Hunter?” She gestures to the hunter girl next to her, before responding to Humfrey. “I think you might be right on that Ser Humfrey- both Ser Luthor and Ser Janden should fare well.”

Ser Kendros rides right through his opponent, his lance shattering into how many splinters only the Stranger knows. He hurls the mottled stump to the ground as he reaches the end of the line, and turns to look back at Ser Garlan.

Longaxe raises the visor of his helmet now, offering the Hunter knight a disinterested shrug; for he has heard Ser Josmyn’s name called and he spits before riding back to wait for his next turn.

Josmyn has been there all along, getting ready and waiting for his turn. When he rides into the tourney ground, his beloved’s favour is clearly visible on his right arm. He bows to the happy couple and the hosts, then nudges his horse towards the far end to don his helmet and accept a lance from his squire.

Ser Humfrey brings his lonbstered steel gauntlets together as Elmer and Jan, two of his fellow Westerland knights, tilt. “The burning tree and the brindled boar!” When Jan falls, Ser Humfrey winces then turns to Elrond and Bessa. “I think that one could have gone either way, both men are fine jousters.” Humfrey looks up to the highest booth where Jannia and Sarya sit watching the joust. “I am quite alright, Lady Jannia.” Humfrey rotates his shield arm a bit to show Jannia—but winces a bit at the lingering soreness. “Quite alright.”

Alyce looks over to Bessa and Elrone with interest at talk of a wager. With a smirk, she notes, “Are you taking up the burden of arranging such matters in Lady Melissa’s absence, my lady?” As her betrothed’s name is called, her face alights and she looks back eagerly toward the field.

Looking to Jannia she sys softly, “Do you have such storms in the Riverlands?” She gently twists her ring that Bryn gave her at their wedding feast. She looks towards the lists to find her husband and sighs softly, “Seems I will have to make a new favor for him.”

The heir to Mistwood looks surprised at the Massey knight’s dour rejoinder. “As you say, of course, ser; no gentleman allows himself to linger upon vile lucre for more than a moment or so, after all,” he replies good naturedly, still seeming bemused; perhaps charging into an atteint bareheaded is advisable for the skull’s composition, or perhaps Ser Elys is just startled his foe loves him less than the crowd. In any case, he returns to his tent, and the irate reprimand of his maesterly cousin.

“You fool,” Talbard is declaiming, not for the first time, “one splinter could have blinded you, or worse…thank the gods you have a son, anyway…get this thing back on at once!” The maester waves the owlish helm in the air, with a somewhat comic appearance.

Bessa cheers out loud, as her cousin stays in the saddle against this skillfull knight and a noise of severe compassion slips out of her throat as he hits the ground. The cloth around her lap is already crinkled by her tight grip of her hands. She sighs to respond Lady Elrone “A pity, but there will be other times.” To Lady Reyna she addresses with a smile “We already had the honour, but it is a pleasure as ever.”

Garlan lets out a mighty wail as he tumbles from his horse landing square on his neck. His helm is twisted on his face, he is barely able to see. He can hear the commonfolk laugh though, he plucks the helm from his head and ushers his servant away “Well ridden ser” he concedes but struggles to conceal his anger at the chivalrous manner his foe conducted himself, kicking at the gravel he takes his horse by the reigns he trapes back to the pavilion, giving his cousin an embarrassed shrug on the way.

When Andred’s name is called, his company of companions give him a few good-hearted shoves and a few words. “Remember stay on the horse this time.” Andred shakes his head with a smile and jumps onto his old courser riding towards the lists. As he fixes his helm upon his head and gauntlets upon his hands, the bastard squire looks down the lists at his opponent ascertaining if he is ready or not. When the Arryn squire comes with his lance, the boy will kick his horse and with the fast plodding of hooves, he is off to victory or defeat.

“Are you hurt, Ser Humfrey?” inquires Reyna, watching him work his arm. “It is good to meet you,” she says then to Bessa, her smile warm. “I am Reyna Saltcliffe, daughter of the late Lord Loras Tyrell. My husband is Ser Dagur,” she adds, nodding toward the plain black pennon flying in the field of colorful arming tents.

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

Josmyn’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.

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

At her name being called Jannia reluctantly turns away from the lists as Josmyn’s name is called, knowing Kendros competes today as well. To her own betrothed, “Very good, Ser Humfrey. It would not be good to let a serious injury go untended.” She flashes a bright smile and turns back to Sarya, “Oh yes, Sarya. Though I might say not as eventful as the ones you will find here.” She pats the woman on the arm as she fiddles with her ring. “I suppose you could make him a new one, but the old one holds such sentimental value no? It is your choice, though do not ask me to help you. I am quite horrid at sewing.” She grins and watches as Andred hits the ground.

Elmer applauds as his brother in law wins, and his gauntleted hands clap. “Ser Josmyn seems in fine form today!” he laughs. “Reyne and Castamere!” his voice booms, in approval, and again he drinks? Everyone knows he jousts better when drunk, and indeed he says. “I neeed something stronger, get me brandy!” he says to the squire.

An easy warm up round for the Reyne it seems, for he has no trouble to unhorse the squire with a well-aimed blow. Josmyn reins his horse in to bow to the nobles on the dais, then pointedly looks towards where Alyce is and kisses the blue ribbon she’s given him before he steers his horse off the ground.

This joust too is swiftly done. And now the herald allows the knights a longer space to catch their breath before announcing, “On to the next round of contests! Ser Jack Flowers shall ride against Ser Astos Corbray—and Ser Dagur Saltcliffe shall ride against Ser Luthor Rivers!”

Jack hears his name called once more, by now he is able to breath easier even though he knows he shall have bruises tomorrow. Taking his helm he strides over to his mare and mounts her. Taking his lance from the serving boy, he rides over to take his place on his end of the field. Raising his lance high in a salute to Ser Astos he begins to ride forward, picking up speed as he goes. Trying to take careful aim he offers a prayer to the Seven. He needs to win this one.

Jannia leaves Sarya to her thoughts for a bit, again looking to her mother who is known to bore of jousts. Getting a good assessment and not feeling that as of yet she turns and claps lightly as Luthor and Astos’ names are called.

Barely has the heralf called his name than the Iron Serpent is mounted, armour black as sin, seeming to swallow the morning light rather than reflect it. The silvered fangs of his serpent-helm that form bars protecting his face glint as he sets it upon his head; then, he is bending to take the shield from his squire, Arros Beesbury, and settle it firmly before taking up his lance.

His lady wife’s favour fluttering about his upper arm, he dips his lance in salute to her and to his opponent—and then, sets his spurs and thunders into the change!

Humfrey turns to the lists, again and winces as Ser Josmyn unhorses young Andred Stone in the first pass. “Seven, Josmyn is deadly with that lance.” Here he turns to Reyna, Elrone, and Bessa. “Andred’s much better in the melee. Nearly as puissant as Ryckon, I’d wager.” Humfrey looks up to the stands and nods to Jannia. “I am fine, truly. Every knight ends the day’s joust a bit bru. . .” Then Lady Reyna inquires if he is hurt. Ser Humfrey turns to Reyna and blinks, genuinely taken aback. “I believe it is merely a bruise, my Lady of Saltcliffe, nothing serious.”

Then the next pair is called. The Warden of the Crackclaw Company and the former warden of the Kingswood. “Rivers!” Humfrey brings his lobstered steel gauntlets together.

As quick as it began, it is over. With an unsteady seat, Andred stands no chance to Josmyn’s skillfully placed lance and quickly finds himself in the dirt on and in a bed of splinters.

The boy rises from this uncomfortable bed, not bothering to wipe the dirt off his white surcoat. He allows the squire to fetch his horse as he mutters out a “Well struck” to Ser Josmyn. But, he intend does not intend to stick around and wallow in his own defeat. So, he exits the lists promptly.

“Show him how it’s done, Ser Dagur!” Janden calls out with a grin as the Iron Serpent is pitted against Luthor Rivers. The Smallwood bastard may be a friend of Janden’s now, but it’s also Company of the Lance vs. Brothers of the Battle.

As there is a short break in between tilts, the Corbray knight lets his gaze wander over the stands where the nobles have gathered to watch the spectacle, waving to his wife who sits there among the others, the expression on his face not as cheerful as he had wished it would be after his encounter with the Melcolm knight. Astos then gestures for a servant to water his dark brown courser before he is called to the next tilt, the fingers of his right hand drumming restlessly on the helmet he is holding in his hands.&r&rAnd then he frowns and winces in empathy, as Andred Stone is unhorsed by the Reyne knight. And then he quickly mounts his horse again, as he will face Ser Jack Flowers. This time he brings his steed to a halt before the royal box, greeting the bride and her family with a dip of his lance, urging his horse onward then to his end of the list. “Greetings, Ser Jack.” he calls to his opponent. “May the best knight win.” And with these words he lowers his visor, couches his lance and hurries on to unhorse the Flowers knight - at least he hopes to do so.

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

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

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

Reyna comes to her feet when she hears Dagur’s name, and lets unfurl a black and silver streamer she has had wound around her left hand. It flutters in the wind at the railing, which she holds lightly to—this has the ease of ritual about it, for it is her custom any time the Iron Serpent tilts.

As his squire tends to his wounds, Jan uncharacteristically calls for a cup of wine, as he usually waits for after the tourney to indulge himself. Clearly, though, Ser Elmer’s powerful blow has caused him some discomfort, and the wine can only dull the pain. As he overhears Elmer call for brandy, Jan raises his own cup and offers a weak smile. “Looks like you had the right idea all along, ser.”

Elrone looks surprised as Dagur’s name is announced, and she looks to Reyna. “Ser Dagur is riding? Lady Katla told me he almost never competes in these events.”

A fierce grin crosses Luthor’s lips when it’s announced he’s to fight Ser Dagur. He attends to his ritual then mounts quickly and when he’s armed he lines up at the list and charges putting the full force behind the lance aimed at Dagur’s serpent strewn shield.

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.

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

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

Alyce’s cheer is, perhaps, louder than is entirely appropriate when Josmyn unhorses the mountain of a squire. Yet her mirth is suddenly lessened as she glances toward the Longaxe. It is yet possible the two may face one another.

Jack takes a hard blow to the chest but he is able to keep his seat. Turning in his seat he looks back and realizes that his opponent did not get unhorsed either. “Damn!” Then turning his mare he gives it a swift kick and urges her towards Astos once more. He needs to win this, he wants to show himself as a fine warrior to these lords and ladies, he wants to be more than just a bastard!

Another fierce exchange that sees Luthor showered with lance shards and driven back hard against the high back of his saddle. Though when he looks back he sees Dagur is down. Luthor’s surprises is hidden by his visor but when he bring his horse by where Dagur has fallen he raises a hand in salute to the Ironborn knight.

Astos brings his steed to a halt and turns to see that Jack is still ahorse as well. He grabs a fresh lance from his servant and urges his courser on towards the bastard knight for a second time, muttering another quick prayer to the Warrior.

Jack’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.

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

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

Janden grimaces as wood splinters shower both Dagur and Luthor, resulting in the Iron Serpent slipping out of the saddle. “Now that ought to,” and here he pauses, nodding at the way the crowd shows its appreciation of such a powerful impact, “Yes, exactly that.” It’s tough for him to be disappointed in the outcome, given the quality of the lances struck. And, Luthor continues unbeaten. Upon hearing his own name called again along with Humfrey’s, a much more serious look takes hold of him as he returns to his preparations. He’s yet to unhorse the Westerling heir in a tourney yet, but perhaps this is the day. And, another tilt between members of different groups, Company vs. Brothers. “May we give them one to talk about, ser,” he says to Humfrey, visor down again as he settles in with lance to ride.

Down goes the Iron Serpent; three jousts won soundly come to naught as the Rivers knight’s blow proves better aimed than his own. He falls lightly enough and is on his feet swiftly. But for all of that, he looks irritated—perhaps with himself—as he makes his way back to his pavilion, although it doesn’t stop him from raising a hand to Luthor in acknowledgement.

Watching his lance break and shatter into a thousand pieces Jack smiles broadly but then when he gets to the end of the list his servant boy is trying to hand him another lance. “What is this for?” Then turning he realizes that somehow Astos kept his horse. “Damn this man, why wont he fall?” Then taking the lance he knows this is his last shot to unhorse the man, he starts to ride towards the man they call Ser Astos and tries once more to unhorse this stubborn opponent.

As Dagur is forced from his saddle Jannia winces, sitting up slightly to make sure he is alright. As he rises and Luthor she claps for Luthor’s victory. “Well done, I had not expected that.” She says to no one in particular.

“You have quite a steady lance, it seems.” Astos calls out the Jack, as he nearly is thrown from the saddle by the bastard knight’s blow. For a moment it seems that he will slide from his saddle, but the Warrior gives him sufficient strength to remain on horseback. Wheeling his horse about, he focusses all of his attention and strength, as he knows he will have to win this round to remain in the contest.

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

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

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

“Rivers!!!” Ser Humfrey looks like a seven-year-old boy watching a puppet show as Ser Luthor unhorses the potent and puissant Iron Serpent. When his name is called, Humfrey walks down from the stands, dons helm and mounts his white destrier. Taking a fresh lance and his scarred shield from his squire, Humfrey rides to the end of the lists. “Let us break enough lances to finance Luthor’s lumber mills through the winter, Ser Black Anchor.” The tone of Humfrey’s voice clearly betrays the smile on his face, obfuscated by his greathelm. The knight, of, and heir to the crag brings gilded spurs to the flanks of his mount and charges Janden, aiming for the anchor on his gallant foe’s shield.

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

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

The herald’s deep voice rolls over the stands, silencing smallfolk and highborn alike for a moment, “Now, Ser Ammon shall ride against Ser Jan Marbrand and Ser Humfrey Westerling shall ride against Ser Janden Melcolm.”

Ammon returns to his tent with his horse and his squire. He watches the jousting in relative silence, leaning forward in his seat during the Saltcliffe - Rivers tilt, though his reaction to the results is mixed. And it is only a short time before his name is called.

And so he returns to the lists to salute the bridal party. “Ride well and strike true, my friend,” he says to Jan before riding to his end of the field and accepting a new lance from his squire. After a quick salute to Marbrand, he spurs his horse on, aiming clumsily once more.

Jan can’t help but emit a smile when he hears he is matched with Massey. Snapping out his reverie, he again quickly hops on his mare and adjusts his armor. He gives the hosts and Ammon a dip of the lance. “You as well, Ammon. I say the winner owes the other a bottle of wine,” he says with a smile before taking his place at the lists. After lowering his visor, he spurs his mare forward, teeth gritted in concentration.

Janden’s first pass at Humfrey leaves debris where his lance had been, absorbing a solid impact of his own only to witness Humfrey remaining atop his mount. He smiles within the helmet, shaking the impact out of his hand as he grabs a second lance to try for a repeat, only better. “That’s one lance each!” he calls across to the other knight.

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

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

Jack feels weighless as he falls through the air to the ground with a loud thump. Gazing at a bird in the sky he takes his time getting up, then seeing his opponent not to far away he says, “We ridden ser, it was a close one.” Then getting up to his feet he salutes the knight who just beat him and grabs his horse as he makes his way to his tent for a nice drink and perhaps some food as well.

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

And finally, the Warrior has answered his prayers. Astos turns to see the bastard knight unhorsed, and he lets out a deep sigh of relief. Nonetheless he dismounts to see if Jack is alright, and even offers him a hand with a friendly smile. “Well fought, ser. You have proven quite a challenge.”

The force of Ser Ammon’s blow sends another jolt up Ser Humfrey’s arm to his shoulder. A storm of slivers and larger fragments of wood hit his armor like a hail storm. He is jolted in his saddle and struggles for a few moments to keep his seat, dropping his broken lance on the field—but manages to right himself, at the last moment. Humfrey takes a fresh lance from his squire, dips it in salute to Janden “Let us try to make it eight, Black Anchor!” Humfrey charges Ser Janden aiming the tip of his wooden finger for the knight’s shield.

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

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

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

Ammon is rocked in the saddle at Jan’s strike. Again he desperately clings to his horse—yet when he reaches the end of the list he is still ahorse! Muttered curses echo from his helm; he slaps himself against that steel dome several times; and -then- he accepts another lance from his squire and spurs his horse on.

Again the tourney catches Bessa’s eyes like a trap a wild animal in the woods. “And this is what the bards are singing about”, she mutters to herself as she listens to the sound of shattering lances, hoping not to notice the noise of splintering bones within. But, since the last note doesn’t seem to join the song of this tourney her excited smile remains on her lips.

Jan barely moves as Ammon’s lance skips off his armor, but his own lance manages a mediocre blow at best. He quickly switches out lances, grinning with the thrill of competition, and turns the horse sharply. Again, he sighs deeply before charging forward, lance aimed squarely at the Massey knight’s chest.

This time Janden is the one who takes the heavy impact, enough that it removes him from the saddle with a rough jolt. The sound of metal clanking on metal is heard as he lands with a thump, grimacing as his breath is momentarily knocked out of him. “Unhh..” A few seconds pass before he pushes himself to his hands and knees, getting a foot beneath. He’s seen to shake his head slowly.

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

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

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

Humfrey grimaces, again, as Janden’s blow hits his shield, scraping off no fewer than three of the white seashells on the golden dune of his house crest. Humfrey’s lance explodes in a storm of slivers, this time. After finishing the pass, Humfrey rides to where Janden is pushing himself up off the ground and dismounts to help his gallant foe to his feet. “Thank you for the tilt Ser Janden. I worry that some day we might meet on the field of battle with warlances and that I might not be so lucky.”

Ammon is finally warming up to it, it would seem. His lance breaks, he tosses it aside, and strikes himself in the helm with a fist -again-! His third lance is virtually snatched from young Benther’s grasp as Massey lets out a roar and charges towards Marbrand once more.

When Ammon and Jan are announced, Elrone leans forward intensely- two friends against each other is always difficult. She looks nervous as the first blow hits, placing a knuckle to her mouth, but neither are unseated. And then they go again- still no result. Her eyes flick back and forth between them.

Janden accepts the hand, though he says in a lower tone, “And you as well, but I admit I’m tiring of coming out the worst of the two of us each time. Hopefully I can win my way back to meet you again today.” And off to the side he goes, still breathing heavily from the impact.

This time, it is Ammon’s lance that is most true, and Jan, taken aback, jolts backwards before regaining his seat. He quickly switches out lances and turns around in time to see Massey bang on his helm and unleash an intimidating roar. Jan, though, remains silent and spurs his horse forward yet again, this time pushing the beast a bit harder.

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

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

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

As soon as the lists have been cleared, the herald calls, “Ser Elys Mertyns shall ride against Ser Elmer Crakehall, and Ser Garlan Hunter shall ride against the squire Andred Stone.”

After his loss, Andred broods near the Arryn Pavilion. He paces with an intense look on his face. All his features are contorted making him look older and meaner than he actual is. The man is alone in his exile: most others watch the jousts.

When his name is finally called, the bastard jumps on horse tied with him at his pavilion. With a purposeful kick to his horse’s flanks, the boy compels the animal to dash towards the lists. No looks are afforded to those in the stands; even to the Arryn men-at-arms who cheer for him. The only one who receives his stare is Garlan, his fellow squire and opponent.

His deadly stare does not leave his opponent even as he readies with gauntlet and helm. So intense is his stare that the bastard falcon grabs his lance without even looking at the squire who gives it. A strange almost animalistic sound escapes from his helm. Perhaps deep breathing or perhaps it is what it sounds like: a low growl. Whatever it is, the man behind it kicks his horse once more and thunders down the lists with a violent purpose.

Hearing the announcement that he would have to face the mammoth squire did nothing to stroke Garlan’s crushed ego and Straightening his helm and replacing it Garlan mounts his horse and returns to the lists and slams his bascinet shut determined he focuses his eyes and kicks the courser into action.

Andred’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.

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

Elmer is standing by the Lannister tents, the big knight having already defeated Jan Marbrand, and now his name is called again. “A Mertyns….Hmm, I wonder how they match up to ser Ethos.” he shakes his head and takes another long drink of brandy. His squire ties the streamer in his expecting wife’s colors on his lance, the same that he wore on the first jousts, then mounts up. He lowers his visor and salutes his opponent and Sarya’s box, before lowering his lance and charging towards Elys

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

Finally, Jan strikes a satisfying blow, and out of the corner of his eye sees Ammon tumble to the ground. He quickly sees to the knight and helps him to his feet, still a little breathless from the ride. “Well-ridden, Ammon,” he says, offering the knight a hand. “You are better on horse than you give yourself credit for.”

The knight of Mistwood is fully accoutred on this occasion; his grey stallion has been champing the field, bated for action, some long minutes past; his ceremonial helm secured, Ser Elys looks quite the predatory fowl of wisdom, and of the night. This time his maester cousin stays back, intimidated perhaps by his kinsman’s serious demeanour, his advice firmly kept to himself.

And then Ser Elys Mertyns wheels majestically into the lists. He avaunts his new, white, silver streaked shaft to the clouds. He couches it. And he rides to astonish.

A lively spark returns to Bessa’s eyes, as her keen ears notice the name of her cousin again. “I hope it will be this time I should have been wagering on him!”, she addresses to Lady Elrone. “The Warrior may bless him!”, she whispers as she turns her head back to the tourney grounds but only a heartbeat later her words are dried up and only her eyes remain concerned on the squire in the colours of her family.

The second tilt against Marbrand proves to be Ammon’s best. While he -does- strike his opponent, Jan’s strike is truer and Ammon finds himself tumbling to his back in the mud. He is helped up by his squire and Jan. “-That- is why I don’t ride in tourneys, boy,” he grumbles to Benther. He removes his helmet as he turns to Jan, his hair and scalp bloody—but he grins. “I am not, but I thank you for the sentiment. Well ridden and well struck. I will see you later about my ransom, and about the wine.” And with a clap on Jan’s back, Ammon moves back towards his tent, squire and horse in tow.

Elys 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.

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

“And now…”

The herald takes a breath; he knows his job well. Though his face may be impassive, the way he pauses just a little focuses the crowd’s attention, smallfolk and highborn alike. And then he finishes, “Ser Kendros Goodbrook, known as Longaxe, shall ride against Ser Josmyn Reyne!”

And he withdraws as the clamour builds, for the story of the feud between the Reynes and the Meadows—and their Goodbrook cousin—has spread far and wide.

Josmyn loudly cheers for Elmer when he brings the stranger down. But his cheer freezes on his lips when he hears his name being called… and his opponent. His face seems to be made of stone, when he mounts his horse again and returns into the tourney ground to bow to the dais - and to his opponent. Then he quickly dons his helmet and shuts the visor. Ready for a match he certainly hadn’t seen coming.

Alyce watches the matches bringing surprise after surprise, her blue eyes widening now and again. “How enjoyable!” Her declaration is aimed toward Elrone and Bessa before she asks, “Did I miss a wager or shall we begin now? The last few should beg-” Her words suddenly die in her throat as she hears the next announcement. The pale faces loses even the few degrees of color it had, lips shifting from a grin to a small ‘o’ of shock. Those cobalt eyes dart from the Reyne to the Goodbrook and back, at which time she forces a small smile of encouragement.

Ser Humfrey gapes as he hears the final match of the second round called. He directs a meaningful look to his squire and the boy discretely sets Humfrey’s white be-seashelled sword beside his camp stool. “Seven, I hope they don’t try to kill each other.”

A clap from the high viewing box as Humfrey unhorses Janden and others go after them, “Well done, sers. All very well done.” Jannia says lightly. Though the next two names called to the lists makes Jannia take a cautious air. She turns her head to her mother and shifts awkwardly in her chair. Turning back to the lists she mumbles, “This could end badly, who thought to pin the pair against each other, they should be flogged.” an unamused look falls to her usually merry appearance.

He rode to astonish…and in that last round, Ser Elys Mertyns certainly, at the very least, succeeded in astonishing himself, as well as his solid, and numerous Stormlander following, separated by lengthy, disgraceful yards from his prize destrier, for all his fine, artistic, destructive lanceplay.

“Crakehall,” the heir to Mistwood gasps dizzily. “...struck well. Let’s say…was for your sister…and my, and bride’s cos…”

He is halfway on his feet. The splendid owl helm is clipped a wing, as if in reproach that its rider has done better, so far, without it…

Elmer drops his shattered lance, and raises a gauntleted fist in triumph. As Josmyn’s name is called against Goodbrook, he cheers again. “Knock him down, brother!” his voice booms across the field as he’s taken off his lance. “Castamere!” he calls, his wife and his brother in law’s domain, his helmet off, his short beard running with a trickle of brandy

Janden doesn’t normally resort to this during a tourney, but he nurses the ‘wound’ of another loss to Humfrey by going for a wineskin. A couple sips come before he pauses and caps it again, attention grabbed by the announcement of Kendros against Josmyn. “Well, then.”

Behind couched lance and the strength of his arm, Andred rides to victory. As lance explodes upon Ser Garlan’s breastplate, the Arryn men-at-arms also explode in thunderous applause. Andred rises past his fallen opponent feigning chivalry as he mutters. “Hard fought.”

With those words said, the intense squire rides towards the squire and the other Arryn men-at-arms for some water and possibly some wine. He drops from his horse allowing the squire to tend to it.

Astos watches the tilt between the squires Andred Stone and Garlan Hunter with mixed feelings, but applauds as the bastard squire manages to unhorse the other. “Well done, Andred! As I said yesterday, the Seven ride with you today!”

Garlan falls somewhat less heavy this time, flat on his back. The wind knocked out of him he stuggles to get back to his feet, his newly painted sheild has a giant crack in it, the hunter sigil split in two, and it feels like his ribs do too. He ignores Andred completely before struggling back on his horse and riding back, pride alone keeping him ahorse.

When Ser Kendros mounts his horse, a perceptive person would notice his leap has a bit more of a bounce to it; his lance slots into the crook of his arm a bit quicker than normal. His mount seems to take a cue from its master, and the trot to the list is a bit more of a canter, really. Ser Kendros acknowledges the gathered nobles, though he spares a few more seconds for some smallfolk partisans in the crowd, for the Longaxe has competed in the Stormlands many times before, and he is betrothed to a Buckler, after all.

Reaching the end of the field, Longaxe reins in his courser, eyeing the Reyne. He utters a few choice words lost in the din, lowers his visor, and digs the spurs into his horse so hard that the mount leaps and flies.

For whatever reason—perhaps it is a hitch in the courser’s quicker-than-usual gait—Ser Kendros’ lance bounces up higher than normal in the split second prior to impact.

Kendros’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.

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

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

Whatever Josmyn expected, he did not expect the Longaxe to play dirty and he gets the lance almost in his face. Yet somehow, by reflex or instinct, he manages to hang on to the horse’s reins and stay in the saddle. “You filthy cheating horsethief!”, he yells in outrage and tosses his broken lance down furiously, gesturing for his squire to get him a new one.

Ser Humfrey walks from his pavillion to the other end of the field where the pavilions of the Stormland knights are erected there, he catches sight of the knight with the chipped owl helm. “Ser Elys, would you join me for a cup of lemon water?” Humfrey walks toward the famous knight with two silver cups in hand and offers one to Ser ELys before turning to watch the tilt—then the heir gapes. “Maiden’s tits, his lance is too high, he couldn’t . . . he would’t” Then the lance explodes in Ser Josmyn’s face. “That one sets the bar for chivalry dangerously low.” Humfrey’s right hand falls upon the hilt of his sword.

Now with his leather water pouch in hand, Andred watches the joust while sating his thirst. Hearing Ser Astos’s words, the boy shakes his head in disagreement. “I thank you for your praise, ser, but I should think the Seven have much more important matters to tend to than the affairs of a bastard or even the pettiness of a tournament.” He speaks in a low whisper as not to offend the others. “Men win tournaments, not our deities, Ser Astos.” His eyes are drawn to the rather good match going on in the lists.

Alyce gasps loudly as the Longaxe seems out for Josmyn’s blood, bringing her hands to cover her mouth. Eyes seeming ready to pop out of their skull, the Bar Emmon cannot tear her gaze away. Her hands lower, wringing in her lap as she prays feverishly in a continuing whisper to the Warrior.

Upon witnessing the first pass and the subtle way in which Kendros lifts his lance, Janden’s eyes narrow. He’s close enough to Humfrey and now Elys to overhear and he adds in, “I don’t care what there is between them or their houses. That is not the way you joust. There ought to be something done about it.”

Elmer looks at the fight and shakes his head. “Goodbrook is dangerous, but it’s not forbidden…” he sighs, happy that Josmyn survived the blow. “Reyne! take him down!” he shouts, raising his wineskin, and thumping one of the Lannister squires on the back

Ser Kendros rides right through Ser Josmyn, though he fails to unhorse him. Reaching the end of the field, he casts aside his broken lance and takes up another. The gasp of the crowd dies down enough for those in earshot to catch Ser Josmyn’s accusation, and as they look back to Ser Kendros, he calls out, deadpan but dripping with scorn: “Go to hell, ser. I have it on good authority that accidents happen!”

Amid the reaction to this remark, he gives his spurs to the horse again, charging. Curiously, the trick—if it was indeed a trick—does not happen this time, though Longaxe certainly puts his all into the blow.

A shake of her head as she watches the display. “I knew this would happen.” Jannia turns to whisper something to her mother, likely explaining the noble crowd’s gasps. Lifting her brows she turns away and lets Tinessa digest those words and goes back to watching the joust. Jannia sends a thoughtful glance down to Alyce and sends a small prayer to the warrior herself for good measure.

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

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

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

“Oh, Ser Kendros, no,” sighs Reyna in disappointment, shaking her head and setting her unruly curls dancing around her face. When he does not raise his lance a second time, she exhales a held breath. This unhorsing was an honorable one.

For his part, Ammon only turns back towards the field at the roar of the crowd. But he sees Longaxe’s lance go high and holds his breath until it is obvious that Josmym is well. His hand drops to his sword hilt for a moment—but the second tilt seems clean. Still, Ammon stands in silence at the edge of the field.

Elrone looks startled at Alyce’s gasp- but she saw the lance lift too. She reaches a comforting hand over to the woman, offering her support as the Reyne knight is unhorsed.

Perhaps it is fear that paralyses him or the genuine wish to not make this feud or - or simply bad luck on this joust - but Josmyn can’t withstand another blow from the Longaxe and falls off his horse, tumbling into the sand. He takes a moment, before he rises to his feet and bows vaguely, before heading off quickly.

Not as an astute observer of the joust as the others, it takes a moment to pick up on what Ser Kendros is doing. It elicits a smile on Andred’s face, a cruel smile. “Ah, the moment play war that is called jousting becomes real the lords and ladies do not find it entertaining anymore.” He mutters rather loudly amongst the other knights and squires as he watches Ser Josmyn fall.

The Mertyns knight has been standing in what might be interpreted as a half-prophetic looking trance; the uncharitable might perhaps attribute this moment of deep spiritual tranquility to the tusk of the Black Boar. However, as becomes clear when he turns back to Ser Humfrey at last, his bright eyes disavow this. It is the legendary bout he has been following, with all a professional’s love and attention. There is an enthusiast’s fervour in his voice. “The most beautiful affray I have seen in long years…and the ugliest, too,” he comments, simply and reverently.

Bessa, whose eyes already lay fiercely on the Longaxe as he won against her cousin Garlan and treated him in a rather unchivalrous way and as the more as he rised his lance the few inches too much mutters quietly but with grim “This is no victory he should be allowed to be proud of”, she nods to Lady Alyce.

The Iron Serpent has watched the display standing outside his pavilion. What he thinks of it is difficult to say, for his face is impassive—but he gives the victorious Longaxe a long, speculative look before mounting his own horse.

For the herald, after allowing the crowd a few moments to savour the drama of that last tilt, has come forth to announce, “Ser Brynden Tully shall ride against Ser Josmyn Reyne and Ser Dagur Saltcliffe, known as the Iron Serpent, shall ride against the squire Andred Stone.”

Setting his helm in place and taking up his shield and lance, the ironman dips the latter in salute to his wife—and then, with perfunctory courtesy, to his opponent as is his wont, no shallower or deeper than he would to any knight.

And then, setting spurs, he charges.

Alyce does not glance over to Elrone, but she accepts the offered hand with a small squeeze as the second pass occurs. When Josmyn is unhorsed, but unhurt, she stops praying and exhales heavily with relief. After her champion leaves the field, she offers a small smile to the Darklyn. “Thank you, my lady.”

Astos hears Andred’s reply, the words of the squire do not reach him however, as his attention is fully engaged with watching Ser Josmyn joust with Ser Kendros, and he notices the unchivalrous jousting style of the latter as well as the obvious enmity between the two with a frown. Seeing the Reyne knight being unhorsed in the second pass does leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Longaxe unhorses Ser Josmyn in his second pass, casting aside the shattered lance and raising his visor as he turns to watch Josmyn’s retreat. A look of disdain follows Ser Josmyn, and Ser Kendros acknowledges the wedding party, heading for the pavilions.

Jan only shakes his head in disgust and spits at the high lance by Kendros. Angrily, he remarks to his squire, “The man should not try that move again, for his own safety,” glowering and gritting his teeth. Mostly though, he fidgets with a lance, testing its weight and waiting patiently.

Janden comments to Andred in passing, as the squire takes to the lists again, “It is because this is /not/ war, and there are certain codes good knights are expected to maintain for the show. We do this to knock the other man off his horse, not attempt to put a lance through the throat.”

And now against the bridegroom. Josmyn is really not blessed with luck at this joust. Still his honour is at stake now and he rides back onto the tourney ground, bowing to Brynden and the dais, ready for yet another bout.

Brynden glances up and sets down his cup as his name is called to the lists once more. Donning his helm and gaining a lance from his squire he dips his lance to the viewing box where his new bride Sarya and their families sit. Dipping his lance to his opponent Brynden takes heel to horse and thunders down the lists towards Josmyn Reyne.

When his name is called, Andred promptly jumps on his horse. The look of intensity returns to his face as he readies his helm and gauntlets. When he gets to the lists, he receives his lance and wastes no time to charge on as well.

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

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

Sarya has been quite in the stands her eyes shaded a little, perhaps the young bride has fallen asleep. But when she hears her husband’s name being called for the lists she lets her eyes flutter open and she shifts once more in her seat.

It seems that for once, Reyna is not inclined to carry out her ritual. This time, she keeps the black and silver streamer wrapped around her hand and only watches, wide-eyed, as her husband rides against the squire.

A middling blow from the Iron Serpent, and he can be seen to be shaking his head as he tosses the cracked length of wood away and rided back to take up a fresh one. And then, it is back into the fray, the lance swinging down smoothly as his horse picks up its pace, dust flying from under its hooves.

Ser Humfrey’s hand leaves his sword hilt. He stares at Ser Kendros with cold garnet eyes. There is an edge to his gaze, an edge sharper than any sword. “How ungallant.” Then he turns to Ser Elys and looks the man in the eye. Eyes that seem more like the eyes of an aged Maester than a knight in the prime of his life. “You phrased it quite aptly, Ser.” Humfrey lifts the second goblet of lemon water from the table beside Ely’s pavillion and offers it to the Stormland knight. “Will you do for the Longaxe, Ser?”

To the roar of hooves and the crowd, Andred thunders down the list. He couches his lance at the proper moment and he places it quite well. In response, he receives only a crack. His opponent strikes an equally well placed blow. A disappointed grunt echoes out from his helm as he turns the corner to charge on once more

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

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

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

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

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

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

It seems Josmyn has been able to recover from the clash with Kendros as he makes a decent showing against Brynden, though he fails to unhorse the man. It seems to be good for his confidence though, for he inhales deeply, asks for another lance and gets ready for a second round with the Tully knight.

And again a middling blow—save that this time, his opponent strikes a better one, hammering the edge of the Iron Serpent’s shield into his shoulder with enough force to twist him around in his saddle. For a moment, it seems that he must fall—but then, somehow, he manages to regain his seat with practised skill.

And then it is back for another lance and another charge.

Keeping his seat despite the unsteadiness of his lance and the rather skilled blow of Ser Josmyn, Brynden turns his horse back to the lists. “Lance” he hollers to his brother and squire, receiving it he goes towards the Reyne knight again.

“Do for the Longaxe?” Elys repeats, with a curious, ironical smile. “Myself? I doubt ‘twill be an honour, at this rate, that falls my way. Perhaps ‘twill be a chance gifted to that squire! He serves Ser Ingram’s conqueror nobly, no…? Who is he? Well, we shall see…”

And he gulps gratefully at the scented water Humfrey has proffered.

Again, Andred has surprisingly good form at the joust. Perhaps, the gods are watching him, but he doubts it. The Iron Serpent does not fall to the dirt despite the shards of Andred’s lance which do. The Ironman hits hard too. His middling blow elicits a soft grunt of pain. As he turns the corner, under his breath, the bastard mutters out a flurry of curses that for the sake of the womenfolk are contained to his helm.

Then, another charge.

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

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

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

“Young Andred?” Humfrey turns to watch the Iron Serpent and Stone tilt, a third time. He winces as Andred is forced from the saddle. “Ah, a shame. He will make a fine knight though, he’s much better at the melee than the joust. I think he has the makings to be a champion—like my cousin, young Ryckon.” Humfrey brings his steel gauntlets together is a cacophonous clapping “Well fought, Stone, Ser Dagur.”

Alyce seems impressed by the squire’s ability against the Warden of Crackclaw Point, her brow climbing. “Ladies, do you think Ser Dagur is going easy on the boy?” Ah, but then her knight rides again, this time against a far more honorable opponent. As the pair both remain asaddle, her smile shines.

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

Both jousters are driven from the saddle!

“Swords!” the herald calls, so that the squires might bring their masters their weapons. “The knights must fight afoot, until one yields or can fight no more!”

Ser Elys is approached by a page in Mertyns livery, muttering something about “your lord father”. His vague air of calm shatters, and he curses mightily, hurrying after the boy, yelling to Humfrey something to the effect that he hopes to be back in a moment.

A moment and Brynden finds himself on the ground, he stands and shakes the ringing out of his ears to find Josmyn off his horse too. “Toren! Sword!” He holds his hand out as the squire comes racing with a blunted tourney sword. Rushing toward Josmyn, Brynden aims for the knights side.

Josmyn finds himself unhorsed again, but notices that the Tully is down in the sand to. Knowing the rules, he is quick to gesture for his squire to toss him a sword and turn around to face Brynden who is already coming for him.

Janden comes to smile thinly as both Josmyn and the new husband are taken out of the saddle. “Ser Brynden ought to take care he doesn’t get used to this kind of thing after last night and now today.” As swords are called for to complete the contest, he moves off toward his tent again while keeping a curious eye on the two, a very curious one indeed.

Luthor rises to his feet when both Josmyn and Brynden are knocked from their saddles. When swords are called for Luthor grins broadly as the competitors are armed with blades. “Tully!” he shouts.

While it’s known that ser Albyn only participates the jousts for his wife Delanei, heir to Lord Harroway’s Town, his absence in today’s joust slightly might have been the result of the wedding feast itself. Although still a bit white in his face, the heir to Red Lake now arrives, taking place on the stands. His squire Haston Costayne quickly arrives as well, carrying a small waterskin. Handing his knight a cup of the water, he smiles mischievously before both turn their attention to the event.

The heir to the Crag arches a chestnut brow as Ser Elys rushes off then turns to see Tully and Reyne unhorsed in an avalanche of slivers. Humfrey stares on in shocked amaze “Swords!!!” And Lord Corwen gives his consent and the battle continues.

Ammon’s attention is drawn to the field once again as swords are called for. He finds himself somewhat close to Luthor, and he yells “Reyne!” even as his good-nephew calls for Ser Brynden. “Get him, Jos!” Ammon shouts, cupping his hands. “He’s right there!”

Jannia nearly jumps from her seat as her brother is unhorsed and her brother calls for a blade. She looks to Sarya, “No worries, Sarya. If I know Brynden he will be alright.” she smiles and pats the girls arm extending that smile to her mother who looks most pleased at the turn of events.

Ser Kendros watches the two knights unhorse each other—he is known not to be overly fond of either, and he takes the opportunity to enjoy the turn of events whilst gnawing on an apple. “This should be worth watching,” he muses, dropping into his camp chair to observe.

Luthor shoots an amused look in Ammon’s direction before he turns back to the lists. “Get him!” he calls to Brynden. “Tully and Riverrun!”

When Ser Dagur’s blow strikes him square in the chest, Andred finds himself forced back from the saddle and back to reality. The bastard mutters a “well struck” to Ser Dagur before promptly exiting the lists eliminated from the tourney. He offers a curt nod to Ser Humfrey’s compliments as he joins him and the other knights to watch the melee after the double unhorsing.

Brynden attacks Josmyn with its sword…

...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

Josmyn manages to half-sidestep Brynden’s attack and it hardly bothers him, giving him room to swing his own blunted sword in a wide arc and bring it down on the other man’s shoulder to try and disable him.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…

...and strikes it with a powerful blow!

As the requests for swords are made, the Crane smiles and a soft spot of colour runs back to his cheeks as he leans sidewards to his squire. ” One stag on the Tully. You’ll get it if you can analyse why he won…. or lost.” he adds with a slight frown as he sees the attack of the Reyne strike true.

The Bride straightens at the double unhorsing and she gasps, her hands grip tighter on her skirts, she gives a look to her father who goes ahead and acknowledges the melee. Sarya holds her breath as she mutters to herself, “Yes a new favor…”

A glancing strike is all he could offer for his advancement on Josmyn. As Brynden swings his sword back around his is slammed on the shoulder by Josmyn’s sword. A grunt as Brynden almost takes a knee to the powerful blow. Shaking it off he swings to Josmyn’s sword arm.

Jannia takes one of Sarya’s skirt gripping hands into hers and prays quietly to try and calm the girls fears. “All will be well, Sarya. Just you wait, you will see.” Jannia mumbles a few more prayers as Brynden is struck upon the shoulder.

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…

...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Josmyn: Engaged by Brynden

Brynden: On the offensive

The Tully’s next blow makes Josmyn stagger slightly, but he grits his teeth and remains on his legs without dropping his sword. He needs a moment before he can lash out again, aiming low for the unprotected bit beneath the breastplate to knock the wind out of Brynden.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…

...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Brynden is rocked back in the saddle by Josmyn’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Elrone’s attention wavered after smiling to Alyce once her betrothed cleared the Longaxe- but now so soon again the Reyne knight is back on the field and onto swords no less. She glances over to the newly-wedded bride. “This cannot be easy on her,” she murmurs quietly. But then the Tully knight is struck soundly and Elrone blinks. “That looked like it hurt.”

The blow delivered to Josmyn sends a vibration up Brynden’s arm and to his tender shoulder. He inhales sharply gasping for breath as Josmyn hits his breastplate succeeding in knocking the wind from him. Rotating his shoulder and regaining his breath, Brynden sweeps his sword low with the goal of knocking Josmyn off his feet.

Ser Humfrey stares on in quiet amaze as each of the knights land bonebreaking blow after bonebreaking blow. “Seven, how are they still standing?”

As Brynden is knocked back by Josmyn’s sword Luthor clenches his fists and shouts. “Come on Brynden! Keep your shield up and hit him back!”

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…

...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Elmer is torn, as normally he would be cheering for Josmyn, but brynden is the bridegroom and it would be unchivalrous to cheer against him, so Elmer does the easier thing and dimply drinks, lifting his glass of brandy towards the combatants.

And Ammon is there beside Luthor, hands cupped to his mouth to aid his shouting. “Get him Jos! Hit him again! Again!”

Alyce winces at the forces of these blows, sending an apologetic glance toward Sarya. As her gaze returns to the field, she mutters, loud enough for Elrone and possibly Bessa to hear, “Our new lady of Tully will be most displeased. I will string Josmyn up if he jousts at our wedding tourney.

The impact of the blow is not enough to send Josmyn sprawling. He steps back and grits his teeth to move in for the final kill, trying to swing his sword in a wide arc against Brynden’s shoulder to send him off-balance.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…

...with no result as the two warriors battle!

The Corbray knight watches as Andred is riding against Ser Dagur and is surprised to find the squire doing actually quite well until he is forced from the saddle in the third pass. And then, as the bridegroom and the Reyne knight unhorse each other simultaneously and the winner will be decided in a fight with swords, Astos watches the ensuing spectacle intently, wincing each time the bridegroom takes a hit.

As Josmyn’s blow doesn’t connect Luthor grins to Ammon. “Yell louder, it seems your man’s not hearing you.”

Growing tired quickly Brynden struggles to keep his shield up with a tender shoulder. He breathes a sigh of relief when Josmyn’s next blow holds no purchase and comes back as swiftly as possible, swinging again for his leg. (repose)

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…

...and strikes him with a swift blow!

Ammon returns the grin. “And it seems the lovely bride has taken all of the fight from yours, ser. I’ve heard that beddings weaken a man’s legs, but I’ve heard nothing of arms.”

Josmyn mutters a curse when his blow fails but he manages to almost side-step the next blow by the Tully man again and it barely taps his leg. He tries once again to move in for a final heavy blow. And, perhaps in consideration for the bride, merely goes for Brynden’s sword arm to try and make him drop the sword.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…

...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Brynden is rocked back in the saddle by Josmyn’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Ammon is lucky that he’s sitting allllll the way over there cause he’d be getting a very very cold look from Sarya. The bride looks to Jannia and says softly, “He and I will be having a word if he makes it out of there..”

“They might be the most noble knight, but the day after the wedding might be the only day in their whole chivalrous knights to consider sitting back and watching…” Bessa agrees before the melee catches her attention again. “And they are still fighting!”, she says admiringly with surprise.

Labored breathing comes from the Tully knight as Josmyn comes at him again. A hard blow hits Brynden’s arm and he drops his sword arm as pain the shoots up it. Not having time to rub the pain away he swings haphazardly towards the Reyne knights side.

“This can’t go on much longer,” Janden observes, shaking his head though looking impressed at the display between the two.

Elrone snickers at Alyce’s words. “I think I should do much the same, when I am in your position, Lady Alyce.” She echoes Lady Bessa. “How are they still going?”

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…

...and misses by a narrow margin!

This time Josmyn sees the blow coming early enough to sidestep it completely and he whirls around to land a blow to Brynden’s back with the aim to topple him over.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…

...and has his blow intercepted by Brynden’s shield.

“What stamina!” Alyce declares in delighted surprise at the continuing struggle. Without looking away, she asks the two ladies near her, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“Still has some fight in him yet!” Luthor crows as Brynden his yet again but still does not go down. “The bride is a lucky woman, she has a knight with some stamina,” he jests but the jest turns into a curse as Brynden’s sword cuts nothing but air. “Seven bloody hells!” Then as Brynden blocks the next swing Luthor shouts. “Get him Brynden! Get him!”

Whether by the will of the warrior or sheer dumb luck Brynden lifts his shield in time to stop Josmyn’s finishing blow. With shield still intercepting the Reyne’s sword Brynden swings with the goal of taking down his sword arm.

Jan’s eyes widen with each swing, and now he cheers along unabashedly with the rest of the crowd. Noticing his squire fiddling with his tunic, he raps the lad on the back of the head. “Pay attention, boy! It’s not every day you see a melee as closely-fought as this!”

“Lady Alyce has done well for herself as well, ser,” Ammon grins again. But soon all of his attention is on the finish. “Get him Jos! Just one more!”

Brynden attacks Josmyn with his sword…

...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Humfrey is genuinely agape. Such valor, such swordsmanship. “Tully! Reyne and the Red Lion!” His steel gauntlets pound as he beats them together beneath the tumult of blades on oak and iron.

“Sarya, do not be to hard on him. He was so overjoyed at being your husband he wanted all of the Stormlands to know what a wonderful gift he has been given. See how he fights for you now?” Jannia smiles trying to calm the grumpy bride.

” It seems to be a good fight and even the Crane is slightly excited as he add his shouts to the many that swarms over the yard. ” Come on Tully! Hit him!”

Despite the blow to his arm, Josmyn is still standing. Perhaps he is egged on by the encouraging shouts from the stands, but he grits his teeth and moves in once more, swinging his sword against Tully’s shoulder once again to disarm him.

Josmyn attacks Brynden with his sword…

...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Brynden is driven from the saddle!

Andred finds himself a place leaning up against the stands amongst the other knights who are cheering. His eyes disinterested wander from the melee. Normally, he would be enjoying the melee with the rest of them, but he finds more joy in a skin of dornish red passed to him by an Arryn Man-at-arms. “You almost had that bloody ironborn.” The man says reassuringly, but Andred seems to be having none of that as he shakes his head. As the melee drags on though, the squire watches entralled with the rest of them, but with his wine close at hand and mouth.

Sarya looks to Jannia wit her sapphire eyes as hard as the gems they resemble and she says, “If that were true good Sister then he’d be here next to me, rather then down there..” She turns to look towards the field as Brynden goes down, and she shakes her head. Sighing she keeps her seat, and asks a servant for a cup of wine.

With the last hit Brynden takes a knee and raises a hand, out of fight and sore. Nearly out of breath. “It would seem, Ser Josmyn. You have bested me. A worthy fight I should say, though I can bet my lady-wife none to happy. My thanks ser for being a worthy opponent.” Brynden chances a glance to the viewing box before making his way off the field.

“Not like this-” Elrone begins to say, but cuts herself off when Brynden finally makes contact with the ground. “Lady Alyce, your betrothed is a fierce fighter.” She grins. “Well done to you.”

Josmyn lifts his arms to the skies in a victorious pose - more out of sheer relief after this epic victory, then he is quick to offer Brynden a hand. “Well fought, Ser! It was a honor. I hope your lady-wife will forgive me.”, he winks. Then he turns to bow to everyone in the stands, blows Alyce a kiss and staggers off to collapse somewhere.

Once the dust settles and the field is repaired—fresh sand to cover up places where blood may have spilled, men collecting shards of lances and splinters of shields, divots filled—there is a pause before the herald consults. And then he calls the next contests: “Ser Jan Marbrand shall face Ser Janden Melcolm, and Ser Elys Mertyns shall face Ser Astos Corbray!”

Still applauding for the melee, Jan barely hears his name called, but when he does, he quickly dons his helm and climbs atop the horse. “Well, that sure is a tough act to follow,” he says to the squire as he takes the lance. He trots the horse out to the lists and bows towards the bridal party and Ser Janden. “Good luck, ser,” he calls to Janden, simultaneously kicking his horse forward.

A beaming smile is given to the encouraging Elrone. The moment overtakes the girl from Sharp Point and Alyce launches upward, cheering and applauding as loudly as she can when her betrothed finally becomes the victor. The blown kiss is caught in her hand and returned. Only once he exits the field does she look around, specifically toward the bride, and realize her impropriety. Blushing furiously, the Bar Emmon dips a curtsey to Sarya and retakes her seat, thoroughly embarrassed my her own behavior.

Luthor sighs as Brynden is bested. “Well fought Tully!” he calls out. “You too Reyne!” then voice hoarse from shouting he turns back to Ammon. “Seems your man proved to be the better one,” he says as he summons a man-at-arms to bring him some wine.

“If there is one thing I could tell you about the Tully family, Sarya. It is that we do not give up, we fight, we tend to like to earn our pride.” She smiles and gestures for wine herself. “Brynden is a simpler man. Always has been, but the kindest of heart. Go a bit easy on him will you.” Gaining her cup from her eldest servant Sarah she looks to her mother, who despite Brynden’s loss seems pleased to have seen at least -one- melee.

Elmer ‘s gaunteleted hands raise to applaud the superb fight, and he cheers Josmyn, glad for his brother in law’s triumph. “Way to go, Reyne!” the Crakehall knight booms, and he drinks deeply. He looks at the field, wondering who he’ll get to fight next

Janden gives suitable applause to the high quality of the contest between Brynden and Josmyn, but his name is heard and it’s time to ride again. “And to you, ser,” he responds to Jan, moving his courser out into position after climbing into the saddle. “I don’t know that we can duplicate /that/ feat,” he says to those in the box, “But here’s to the effort.” In spite of the previous situation with Kendros and Josmyn, he’s focused again on keeping himself in the tourney as he rides on toward the Marbrand knight.

” Damned. ” Albyn whispers as the Tully surrenders. Raising an eyebrow he looks sidewards to his squire who seems to hide his ignorance with a frown and a stare into nothing. Amused, Albyn lets his squire boil a little bit in his discomfort and returns his attention to the field.

Ser Humfrey applauds as the last blow is struck. He runs to the edge of the field and claps both men on the shoulder as they depart. “Sers, if ever I have grandchildren I shall tell them of this duel. I have never seen its like not in all the tourneys I have ridden in, truly the Warrior has blessed this day and your Wedding, Ser Brynden.”

Meticulous preparation did not serve Ser Elys at all well before, so perhaps it is better fortune for him that he now enters the list disshevelled, his cheeks red and impatient ere he lowers his visor, his movements relatively inelegant and cursory. In short, the knight of Mertyns looks like a man who has just done a good deal of shouting. Aggression he prepares as he couches his lance to take out upon the innocent Valeknight, newly wed, too, not that Ser Elys cares much just at this moment…

“Mistwood!” he bellows, but his shout has more dangerous bitterness than jollity about it.

Sarya slips into silence giving a mere nod to Jannia, she merely sips her wine, no the Tully knight’s Lady wife is /not/ happy.

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

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

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

And then his name is called - again. It is Ser Elys Mertyns this time, whom Astos saw with Maester Talbard a few moments before - a close relation maybe? The Cobray knight takes his time, mounting his horse, grabbing both a fresh lance and his shield that starts showing slight wear from the contest, while he focusses himself for the upcoming tilt, muttering a long prayer to the Warrior. He rides to his end of the list and greets his opponent with a dip of his lance noting the other knight’s aggressive manner with a frown, before he lowers his visor and charges him with all his might.

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

Jannia almost chuckles to herself at Sarya’s unhappiness. She whispers to the girl, hoping to lift her spirits and gain at least a small chuckle from the Baratheon lady.

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

The tip of Jan’s lance lands square on Janden’s chest, but he remains seated. Jan breathes another sigh as he steals himself for another tilt, and switches out lances with the squire. “Looks like another tough one,” he says to the boy before turning and charging again.

Janden takes a shot that shakes him a good bit, balance regained in the nick of time before the weight of his armor and momentum of his shift claims him - this time. Settling himself, he takes pause to inspect the lance and, upon finding it’s still all in one solid piece, he keeps hold of it to use again as he heels Lancer forward, steading the length of wood.

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

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

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

Jannia whispers to Sarya, “... ... ... other side of ... ... Sarya. Make sure ... learns ... be ... ... ... past ... ... ... ... no ... ... what I ... ... do ... ... use ... they ... ... ... ... ... puts a hand ... ... mouth.*”

Elrone smiles to Lady Alyce, and then winks to Lady Bessa. “I hope we both are so lucky as she, hmm, Lady Bessa?” And then she turns to the field, calling out. “Well struck Ser Jan!”

“Your fish can fight, though,” Ammon says, his own voice hoarse, to Luthor once more as the excitement of the melee subsides. “And it’s a small comfort that at least my friends are doing well today.” And then Ammon moves back to his own tent to watch the rest of the day’s events.

Ever determined, Jan’s lance disintegrates in his hand in a flurry of splinters. Smiling, Jan reaches the end of the list and turns…to see his opponent still seated. Surprised, he motions his squire over for another lance before calling out, “You ride well, ser,” sounding a touch bewildered. Again, for the last turn, it seems like he asks a bit more from his horse, spurring her forward with just slightly more speed than before.

Ser Humfrey looks on, wincing as Ser Elys unhorses Ser Astos. He claps his gauntleted hands together. “Well fought Ser, well fought.” Then, turning to the second lane of the lists, Humfrey watches on as Janden and Jan shatter lances against each other. “Ashmark!” He claps for his fellow Westerman—then for Ser Janden, who he has tilted with at many a tourney. “Black Anchor!”

The second time, Janden really feels it as splinters rain down behind him from Jan’s lance, the Melcolm knight leaning like a ship with a sprunk leak before he somehow plants himself back in place again. “I need to hit you harder,” he answers Jan with a grimace, almost heard behind the helmet. New lance this time, and a third pass.

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

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

“This was… I never have seen something like that. I’m sure soon the bards will spread the song of this fight, of the glory of those knights” apparently Bessa is carried away by the spectacle she has watched and still in thoughts about what the first verse of such a song might be. Lady Elrone’s words make her chuckle. ” Oh I hope we’ll find such noble knights to wear our favour when the time has come!”

The lances strike nearly simultaneously, but Jan keeps his seat rarely comfortably. Slight frustration showing on his face, Jan switches out lances with nary a word before initating the next tilt.

Alyce immediately assures the other ladies, “I am certain the Seven will bless you with knights just as honorable and valorous in battle.” After a beat, she adds with a giggle, “And very nearly as handsome.”

Two snapped lances, neither knight gaining any advantage over the other this time. Janden rolls his neck side to side in the limited manner he can with the protection in place, grabbing another lance for the fourth charge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there he flies again - the raven being forced from his saddle by an owl. Astos lands on the ground rather ungracefully, his armour clattering about him, the pain from the impact numbing him for a moment. But… he has been lucky, again, as he is able to rise to his feet - without the help of others - and to address Ser Elys with a slightly strained voice: “Well done, ser. Another lesson learned to improve my skills. Thank you, ser.” And with these words he grabs the reigns of his horse to lead it towards the Corbray pavillion with a slight limp.

On the seventh pass, Jan shatters his third lance, letting out a whoop in relief. Quickly, he approaches the fallen knight. “Well, we might not have lived up to the melee, but we gave them a good show nonetheless. Well ridden, ser,” he says, extending out a hand.

Finally, in the seventh pass, after a couple more that saw Janden take harder blows including one in which by all accounts he should have eaten dirt, the Melcolm knight finally goes down after being unable to jar Jan from his saddle even once. The man will be sore after this one, evident already in him struggling back to his feet slowly. “Yes, indeed..you are very strong in your saddle, ser.” The hand is taken briefly, but Janden’s day is done and his head hangs a bit in spite of the good show given to the crowd.

The crowd roars at a shattered lance and a fallen knight—it’s a tourney worth making songs of, so far! After the cheers grow quieter, the herald announces: “Ser Luthor Rivers shall ride against Ser Humfrey Westerling, while Ser Elmer Crakehall shall ride against Ser Kendros Goodbrook!”

Elmer has been drinking heavily, his eyes now blood shot, and he looks up as he hears his name called. Longaxe is a tough fighter and he downed Josmyn earlier. he mounts up and raises his shield, before lowering his visor. The big knight looks determined, making his grey gelding dance in the lists. Then he looks at the other man, and spurs his horse forward. No courtesies this time, as his lance is aimed at the other man’s chest, all the wight out behind the lance

Elrone cups her hands, shouting louder toward Jan. “Well done Ser Jan!” She looks pleased at the result and laughs at Alyce’s words. “Indeed, Seven help us all with that.” She tilts her head as the next pairs are announced. “My cousin Ser Elmer fares well today… I wish I knew him a bit better.”

Luthor mounts quickly when his name is called slapping the visor closed on his lusterless black helm when he is settled in his saddle. Then armed by his squire he advances towards the lists where he salutes the wedding party and then his opponent. “Luck to you Westerling!” he shouts across the field then, when the signal is sounded he charges aiming his plain wooden lance square in the center of Humfrey’s chest.

His name called yet again, Ser Kendros rides from the pavilions to face Ser Elmer this time. He has no quarrel with this knight, but controversey seems to follow him about, and the crowd knows it: they are all a-tittering.

Longaxe hefts shield and lance and lowers his visor as he approaches the field. Then, couching his lance, he charges.

The heir to Mistwood just gives abrupt glances at first his beaten, if honourable seeming, adversary, and then the Corbray’s shield lying, cracked, to one side. He scans the number of ravens and hearts on the device. “Younger son, eh? Lucky for you, ser. Farewell.” Then he turns his still fresh second horse to retreat to his pavilion at one side, till his next call. An anxious looking Maester Talbard is batted off with a scathing glance. Whatever has just passed between Ser Elys and his father, no victory redeems it.

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

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

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

The knight of, and heir to, the Crag jangles as he mounts his white destrier his seashells clicking and clacking. He takes a fresh lance from young Ertton and his scarred shield. Humfrey dips his lance to the wedding party then to his gallant foe Ser Luthor. “Let us give them a show, Luthor.” Humfrey spurs his mount and aims his wooden finger at the point of Luthor’s cuirass between lance and chield.

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

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

The crack of lances shattering resounds loudly and out of the splinters rides Elmer, hurning his head for a moment to see his opponent fall. His shoulder has been rocked by Kendros’ own powerful blow, but his gauntleted hand raises the remains of his lance victoriously in the air, and as he raises his visor the Lannister squires and knights cheer him on.

Disappointingly, Ser Kendros is unable to make short work of Ser Elmer like the others. The Crakehall’s lance catches him perfectly, knocking the breath out of him and dazing him; the Longaxe slides from the saddle, falling to the ground with a clatter of armor; a few seconds pass as he collects himself and staggers to his feet, raising his visor and looking down at the Crakehall; he offers the slightest of bows and then leaves to wait for his chance at redemption, a squired leading his mount by the bridle.

Suddenly, Alyce’s smile falls as she watches ELmer and the Longaxe. A twisted grin curves her lips for a moment when Kendros falls, but she notes with quiet vehemence, “Too bad he didn’t land on his head.”

Josmyn cheers for Elmer. “Well done coz!”, he calls out from the sidelines, looking oddly smug now and very satisfied.

Luthor curbs his horse at the far end of the lists to survey his work. Seeing Humfrey on the ground he tosses aside his lance and bring himself back down the lists in the other knight’s direction. He raises his visor and nods. “Luck to you in your next bout ser,” he says then, with a tap of his spurs sends his horse off down the lists and dismounts among the Smallwood men to wait for his next joust.

On his way back to the tent, Jan hears an encouraging word from the stands and turns to see Elrone. Squinting, he grins and waves in acknowledgement before turning around and entering his tent again. He stretches out his right shoulder, still smarting from the powerful blow Ser Elmer landed in his first tilt, but he looks unbothered and less anxious than before. As Humfrey falls, he arches an eyebrow in surprise, and whispers some words to his squire.

The defeat of the Westerling knight wins cheers and applause… but it’s Longaxe’s fall that causes a roar, as Elmer Crakehall defeats two famed jousters one after the other. Wagers start to flow in the Crakehall knight’s direction, now, even as the herald calls the next contests: “Ser Dagur Saltcliffe shall face Ser Jan Marbrand, and Ser Josmyn Reyne shall meet Ser Elys Mertyns!”

After getting out of his armor, Janden retreats to his tent with a full wineskin. The flap closes and remains that way for some time.

Ser Humfrey literally flies from the saddle landing in a heap. He stares at the skies above for a moment, before struggling to his feet. Humfrey lifts his lance to salute Ser Luthor then walks back to his pavillion where his squire Erton behind to help him wipe the mud and dirt from off his armor.

Josmyn is all sore, but he makes a surpreme effort to get back into the saddle once more to face Ser Elys, the one he heard Maester Talbard praise earlier. He smirks a little at the convenient pairing and nudges his horse back into the tourney ground.

Finally lifting the flap of his tent, Ser Jack Flowers makes his way out of the tent. It is obvious that he is not in his right mind, he is carrying his sword and yelling “I could take any of you bastards! I tell you! Any of you!” He staggers his way towards the stands and spots the spectators, “Who wants to see me beat a man bloody with my sword! I will! I ain’t scared of you all!! Uuugh…” Running behind him is the poor serving boy who squired for him earlier, “Ser what are you doing?!” Then yelling to anyone. “There is something wrong with Ser Jack!”

A noncommittal tilt of the head is Elrone’s response to Alyce- but her brows go up when it is announced that Jan will next be against Dagur. “Oh- this should be good.” She leans forward, looking mischievious. “I will put a dragon on Ser Jan, any takers?”

Tossing the waterskin he is drinking from to his squire—who hastily corks it and puts it aside before hurrying to help his knight arm—the Iron Serpent crosses to where his black mount is waiting impatiently and mounts, perhaps a touch slower now than he was at the beginning of the jousting. Then, Arros is there, handing up his helm, then his shield and lance.

The ironman takes a moment to turn his head and spit between the bars—then, those salutes, and he is into the charge.

Jannia turns to her mother and smiles, though that look of boredom has set itself back upon her Lady-mother’s face. With a sigh Jannia turns back from her ever stoic mother to the lists, she claps as the bout between Humfrey and Luthor finds Luthor the victor. “Well done sers.” She says just a touch loudly, though not unseemly so.

“I cannot, in clear conscience, bet against a fellow Westerman, Lady Alyce.” Humfrey steps into the stands and stops a short distance from the Lady of House BAr Emmon—most of the mud is no longer on his pale golden armor. “Although the serpent has a hungry look upon him.” Humfrey looks up to the box above and bows to Jannia and Tinessa. “Luthor is a formidable foe, I hope he makes it to the final tilt.”

“Go easy, coz,” Talbard pleads, obviously both diagnosing and seeking to allay his elder kinsman’s black mood, in moments like these one reminiscent of another member of the House of the Owl. “He has a very sweet-natured betrothed to get back to…”

“His betrothed be obliterated, and him too, horse, armour, and all,” Ser Elys growls directly back. As he has not even dismounted, he is very soon spurred back into the lists. He neglects to saltute the bride or Lord Corwen before he rides to strike, and strike hard, only once and briefly shirking up his lance towards his wife, Lady Olyria.

But for all the grudging nature of this gesture, it is richly rewarded, as the lady throws down a silver ribbon decorated with tiny sapphires, that trips neatly over the point in a loop, and down the shaft.

“Mistwood and the Twins!” Ser Elys yells with decision, and plunges for’ard.

Alyce purses her lips. “For a -stag- I will take your wager. Ser Dagur is due to win.” As though that has anything to do with who is victorious. After a moment, she beams, “But I shall offer a dragon on Ser Josmyn, if either of you will take it.”

With barely a chance to catch his breath, Jan climbs astride for another tilt, this time versus the Saltcliffe knight. Perspiration now dripping from his face, Jan offers a courteous, but obviously tired, bow to the bridal party and Ser Dagur again, before urging on his horse.

Josmyn’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.

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

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

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

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

Bessa’s smile stays on her lips while she watches the next oponnents and widens as she sees the Longaxe fall to the ground. “The Seven have blessed the most honourable men, as I see.”, she nods with pleasure. “A dragon? Pray, I haven’t met both of these knights mylady, so I won’t be able to decide.” she says to Lady Elrone with her eyebrows apologetically raised, before she throws a pityful look at the raging Ser Jack back at the tents.

Josmyn lands a good blow against the stranger, but doesn’t bring him down. After the epic bout with Brynden, it seems that he is still not fully back to his usual energy. But he turns his horse again, yells for another lance and gets ready for another round.

The shock of such a wholesomely even impact seems to have mellowed Ser Elys’s mood remarkably. This time he salutes the grand stand properly, and the Stormlands crowd gives out a cheer as he prepares to return with a new lance and an old, favoured, elegant manouevre - aiming for the small, but stylish target constituted by Ser Josmyn’s crest.

Jan’s weariness shows in his riding, and Dagur lands a resounding blow on the first pass, sending Jan flying to the ground. He stays there, face down, for a few awkward, uncomfortable seconds, before struggling to his feet. “Well struck, ser,” he manages, dirt still caked on his face, before he turns and trudges back towards the tent, hastily grabbing a cup of wine and downing it in one gulp.

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

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

Elrone watches Ser Jan hit the dirt with a slight frown, then laughs. “I owe you a stag then, Lady Alyce, but I do not think I will be betting against your betrothed today. The Warrior is in his blood.” Her gaze starts drifting toward the commotion by the tents and her brow goes up. “Is that Ser Jack?”

A steady course, a well-placed blow, and the Iron Serpent rides through a storm of splinters, his opponent fallen behind him. He reins in at the end of the lists, bringing his horse around in a wide loop, looking towards the fallen knight.

Or beginning to before the commotion near the stands draws his attention. That cruel serpent helm turns towards the raving, armed knight; he stares for a moment, then calls something to the Baratheon guards nearby. Whatever it is he says, it’s likely not even needed.

For within moments, half-a-dozen Baratheon guardsmen have begun to converge on Jack Flowers, spears and naked blades at the ready.

“Ser, you must sheathe your blade! You insult Lord Corwen’s hospitality!” the foremost among them calls grimly.

Alyce laughs good-naturedly to the nearby ladies and nods. “Indeed, he is!” Her own gaze belatedly turns toward the raving knight, nose wrinkling. “Too much drink can turn any man into… that.”

Ser Humfrey follows Lady Elrone’s gaze and the knight’s expression darkens—he literally runs down the stands, armor and seashell cloak jangling. At the edge of the pavilions he shouts. “Ser Jack, Ser, what is the matter, Ser. Sheath your blade and come have a cup of wine at my pavillion.” Humfrey turns to the Baratheon guards and looks at them then in his Lord’s voice. “Stand back and let me handle this.” His voice booms across the lists, so at odds with his habitually calm, deferring tone.

Elmer turns his head towards the commotion. “There’s always one..” he says, shrugging and not overly concerned, the big knight seemingly amused, it’s not his business after all. He looks at the tilts, wanting to see who he might encounter next. Only dangerous foes left though

The Stormlands tourney knight seems almost ...weary… of this struggle with some wet-eared, new betrothed Reyne. He pauses to remove his helm and wipe his brow, before replacing that accoutrement and accepting a third lance, his wife’s favour long since gifted to the dirt.

Jack notices the guardsmen moving towards him and he makes off balance swing at the one nearest him. He hears the crowd start jeering at him and he turns on them. “Shut your mouths! Damn you! I am not afraid of these boys!” Then turning he notices Ser Humfrey nearby, “You ser! You answer meh challenheehd…...” His last words are slurred together and he falls to the ground and starts convulsing and foaming at the mouth. The young boy is now crying and yelling, “Please someone help him! He started acting this way after I gave him some dreamwine for the ribs he broke! Its all my fault! Its all my fault! I shouldnt of bought it from that peddler! I knew the price was too good to be true!” He continues wailing like he is a babe again.

Elys’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.

Drowning himself with wine after his defeat, Andred becomes interested in the commotion revolving around Jack Flowers. As the Baratheon guardsmen rush to cease the man, the bastard falcon snorts in derisive laughter. “Blood always tells.” A bitterly ironic statement as Andred is a bastard himself. The man having enough of the day’s festivities strides past the commotion to his own pavilion for some much needed sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

Josmyn’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.

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

Jannia chances a look to her mother and Lord Baratheon as the bastard knight makes quite the scene. She winces as a voice known to her hollers over the Baratheon guards. Opening her eyes to see if her mother, or perhaps the lord will have anything to say about it. Amusement dances about her mother’s eyes though one cannot deem to guess what the Baratheon lord is thinking. With a shrug she turns back to the lists hoping the situation will be defused soon.

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

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

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

“It is nothing but…sad.” Bessa comments again on the inebriated bastard knight, before she looks genuinely concerned as she notices the foam at the corners of his mouth. Hastily her search for a maester, after she heard the anxious words of the boy.

After an epic bout of eight tilts Josmyn finally brings Elys down, but he’s too tired now to even cheer much. First Brynden, now this. The man looks bone-weary as he staggers off.

Humfrey reaches for his sword as Jack seems ready to attack him in a fit of bellicose, drunken rage. Then—when the man has an attack Humfrey rushed toward him and crouches beside the stricken knight. Quickly, Westerling moves to shift the man onto his side—less he should drown on his own vomit. Humfrey’s Lords voice booms across the field his garnet eyes lock upon one of the guardsmen. “You! Boy, fetch Maester Talbard!”

Westerling’s reaches towards the man’s mouth in order to open it and clear it of obstructions then his dirk is free of its sheeth, the handle placed in the man’s mouth atop his tongue—to prevent him from biting it off.

Ser Elys Mertyns is a jouster known for his style, but none of it remains by the end of this particular, murky, slogging wrestle of a bout. Even his fall is undramatic, but blood shines crimson when his helm is unlaced - his lip is split. He calls for his cousin, the maester on the spot…but Talbard has already answered another summons.

“Ser Humfrey. What a shame, I know Flowers for a good boy,” the maester is at that moment muttering softly. “Shall I administer an emetic?”

Steel rings on steel, a Baratheon guardsman stumbles back swearing—for they have ignored Humfrey and ringed the raving knight—and Jack Flowers has committed violence against his host’s sworn man.

“Enough!”

Tall and stern, Lord Corwen himself stands there where he has descended from his place at the heart of the stands for the highborn. A faint look of distaste crosses his face as the knight falls and begins to convulse, and he gestures to the guards, “Get him to his pavilion and have the maester see to him. When he is recovered, take him to the keep under guard. And you, ser—”

He turns his attention to the Westerling heir for the first time, regarding him coolly before saying, “This is done with. You may return to your jousting now.” And with that, he turns and begins to make his way away.

As for the guards, they shift the unconscious knight onto a litter—for one has arrived swiftly, meant for knights wounded in the jousting—and begin to take him back to his pavilion, brushing past Humfrey.

Jannia lets out a sigh of relief as Lord Baratheon makes his way off the stands and towards the irate knight. She nods as he handles the situation swiftly and tells those around to return to the merriment of the day. “Thank the Seven that is done with.” She sighs once more glancing to Sarya then back to the lists.

The crowd’s attention is as much on the drama being played out in the stands as on the jousting, and so it is that the herald allows a longer pause than usual before coming forth—the other matter now safely settled—to announce, “Ser Luthor Rivers shall now ride against Ser Elmer Crakehall!”

Meanwhile, Ser Elys shrugs when his Citadel cousin is nowhere to be found, swallows the blood on his mouth, and extends his mailed right hand to Josmyn. “Wherever that coz of mine got to, you should know, Reyne, he said your lady was most sweet-natured. As she overcame my own lady wife’s favour, she must be pretty enough, too, I’ll be bound. Your lance helped too, though. You use it like a Tyroshi painter. I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

Following the litter with Jack on it, the serving boy is still crying, but he seems to have collected himself a bit. “Please sers, he is not well. I think I may of poisoned him on accident.” A look of fear comes over his face, as if he is scared they shall arrest him for saying that. Then turning to Maester Talbard, “Will he be okay?” His questions is accompanied by Jack severely beginning to shake and he is making loud incoherent moaning noises.

Elmer raises his head as his name is called, this time against a friend. He raises his fist to salute Luthor. “Good chance, Rivers!” he shouts, clearly no rancor in his vocie. He mounts up and makes sure tha favor of his wife is securely tied around his lance before he lowers the visor. Then he brings his big grey gelding to the lists. he watches Jack’s drama unfold, though it does happen at such tourneys. Only then does he lower his lance and charges towards Luthor, lance aimed at Rivers’ shield,

Luthor is grinning as he attends to his ritual then pulls on his helm. Shortly he is mounted and armed and when he reaches the lists he salutes Lord Corwen, the bride, and lastly Ser Elmer. “Ready Crakehall!” he shouts and when the trumpets sound he piints his lance at Ser Elmer’s shield as his mount thunders smoothly down the lists.

“May the Seven help him.” Bessa mutters softly “Or at least Maester Talbard.”, she says, slightly shaking her head before she looks absently back to the herold.

Josmyn takes Elys’ hand with a clank of mail on mail and gives it a firm shake, his grin cheeky. “My luck always prevails while I wear my beloved’s favor, ser. I’m certain your own lady wife is quite the beauty. Still, you fought well indeed! I look forward to meeting you in the lists again.” With a respectful dip of his head, the Reyne steps back to watch the next tilt.”

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

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

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

The maester, taller, but not significantly, than the overwraught boy, and considerably slighter, makes an awkward attempt at an avuncular tap on his shoulder. “Sweet poison, boy, Lord Corwen’s best vintage…he shall be quite alright, once I’ve added an appetising little drink of my own to the unholy cauldron in Ser Jack Flowers’s exotic bowels.”

Alyce shakes her head at Jack as the mess is dealt with. “A shame.” Then her attention is back upon the field as Luthor and Elmer battle it out. With reason to cheer for both men, she keeps silent and grins brightly.

Elmer ‘s luck is in tonight, and the Crakehall knight sees his lance break while his opponent is downed. yet this time his celebrations are muted, and he turns around knowing the hit wasn’t too hard, but making sure Luthor is well. The Lannister tenst applaud fiercely and he barely reaches them when he’s handed a new wineskin

Compared to the exploding lances of previous exchanges Luthor’s lance remains unbroken as it slides off Elmer’s shild. Elmer’s though proves enough to knock Luthor from his saddle. The Riverlands bastard slips to the earth and rolls twice before he gets to his feet. He raises a hand to Elmer to show he’s unhurt then retreats from the lists to let others get about their business.

Sarya is drinking glass after glass of wine, so when her father stands and moves out of the viewing stand to deal with the madman she looks to her daddy and gives him a loving smile before she goes back to her wine, it’s helping with her… upsetedness (new word) at her new husband.

“And now,” the herald announces, “Ser Dagur Saltcliffe, the Iron Serpent, shall ride against Ser Kendros Goodbrook, known as Longaxe. And Ser Humfrey Westerling shall ride against Ser Josmyn Reyne!”

There is a rising clamour from the crowd at that, for it is a fine treat to see two famed knights ride against each other.

And here comes one of them; the Iron Serpent all in black, dipping his lance to salute his wife, her token fluttering about his arm. But he doesn’t extend the courtesy to Longaxe, simply setting his lance, waiting until the other man is ready, then spurring his mount into the charge.

Longaxe, in his turn, rides into the lists. He acknowledges the wedding party and little else, choosing rather to take his place and immediately charge Ser Dagur.

Dagur’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.

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

Hearing his name called, again, Ser Humfrey rises from his campstool and mounts his white destrier. He takes a fresh lance from Erton and his scarred shield, now bereft of three seashells. Humfrey rides to the end of the lists and dips his lance in salute to the wedding party, then to his friend and gallant doe, Ser Josmyn Reyne. Although, his stance is stoic and intent. Humfrey whispers a prayer to the maid and warrior then brings gilded spurs to his mount’s flanks. He aims his wooden finger at Josmyn’s shield, then—at the very last second shifts in his seat and aims for Josmyn’s upper cuirass, just below his gorget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both jousters are driven from the saddle!

Alyceo rest for the weary. Josmyn hears his name again and gulps the rest of his wine before passing it off to his squire. After climbing back atop his mount, he accepts a lance, tips it toward Humfrey, and slams down his helm to ride toward his friend.

No rest for the weary. Josmyn hears his name again and gulps the rest of his wine before passing it off to his squire. After climbing back atop his mount, he accepts a lance, tips it toward Humfrey, and slams down his helm to ride toward his friend.

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

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

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

The crowd is on its feet now, roaring—for the two famous knights have not just ridden against each other in a storm of steel and splintered wood, but ended it in a way that promises even more entertainment, both driven from their saddles by perfect strikes.

The herald appears, raising his hands for calm before declaring, “They shall fight on foot until one yields, is disarmed or can fight no longer!”

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

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

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

The young boy looks at Talbard confused then offers some more information, “But ser, he hasn’t had any wine to drink? All he had was some water and then he made me go get him some dreamwine for his pain. But I think there was something wrong with it! I bought it from this man over there.” He is pointing off in the distance to a small group of smallfolk. Then scurrying along to keep up with the litter he tries to look at Jack one more time.

Turning his head, he spits blood—a split lip or bitten tongue, perhaps—and then, waiting until his opponent has armed himself, he advances on the other man. There is no testing, no trying to gauge his opponent, for Longaxe’s reputation is well known. There is, instead, only a feint to one side, and then a flat, whistling cut to the other.

An evenly matched bout between two powerful and famed foes is, predictably, quite an event. Four passes they go, shattering lances left and right—the sand is littered with shards. The last pass sees the both of them thrown down.

The Longaxe rolls with his fall; he is not one to give anyone the advantage, much less the Iron Serpent. Throwing aside his lance and unlashing his shield, he tosses it. “Squire!” he calls. “Bring my axe!”

Hurrying down the lists, a boy of fourteen in Goodbrook colors holds out the weapon to Lady Ellenei’s heir, and he walks towards Ser Dagur, brandishing the axehead.

Suddenly the maester stops the kindly, reassuring act and starts listening to what the serving lad is actually saying. Then he nods firmly, puts a thin finger to thinner lips, and strides smartly to the serjeant in charge of the litter, muttering in his ear.

Dagur attacks Kendros with his sword…

...and sees his blow go astray!

“Again the swords!” Bessa is obviously surprised by the outcoming of that last jousting, as both opponents hit the ground. With a short movement of her hand she rejects a wineskin of a servant “Water, please. I have to see this with my mind clear… I will tell my grandchildren of this tourney, I have to make sure my memory is reliable.”

Dagur: On the offensive

Kendros: Engaged by Dagur

The Longaxe backs up a step and dips the haft of his axe, allowing the Iron Serpent’s blade to swing in front of him harmlessly. The visor on his helmet has been pushed back, and some blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, but he appears otherwise hale. His retaliation is swift; jumping forward, he jabs the dague at the Iron Serpent’s dull black breastplate.

Kendros attacks Dagur with his polearm…

...and strikes him with a powerful blow!

Dagur: Engaged by Kendros

Kendros: On the offensive

Elrone glances sideways at Lady Reyna as the warriors move for new weapons. But then she looks back at the field, breathless at the strength of the opponents. “Seven,” she says quietly as the skirmish begins.

Ser Humfrey goes flying from his saddle and lands in a heap in the second list. His eyes roll back in his head and a low groan escaps his lips. “Seven, Well struck, Ser, Well Struck.”

Alyce nods to Bessa, although her own excitement is mollified by one of the parties involved in the battle. She even seems a bit worried for Dagur, eyeing that axe warily.

Talbard whispers to Damphair, “This knight’s ... ... put him ... grave ... the ... ... ... quack brew…that ... of six, there. ... held ... ...”

Talbard whispers to Damphair, “The ... know ... ... himself, ... ... when ...”

And Longaxe strikes too. The ironman overbalances with his blow; he begins to raise his shield, but he is too slow. He manages to turn enough to take that blow at an angle—but even so, it is enough to drive him sideways and make the breath hiss from him.

In the moment that it takes him to regain his balance, he swings a wide, backhanded blow at the Goodbrook knight—more, from the looks of it, to make him keep his distance than to do any harm.

Dagur attacks Kendros with his sword…

...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

Jannia dips her head to the Lord Baratheon, Corwen, out of respect and thanks for seeing the matter handled quickly when he returns to the stands. She turns back just as Humfrey is thrown from his saddle. She winces but claps lightly as he seems to be alright.

Perhaps it was the glance toward the Longaxe before charging or the euphoria of victories already attained, but Ser Josmyn hits the heir to the Crag with a powerful blow. When his opponent falls, the Reyne dismounts and lifts his helm, offering that haughty grin which has earned him as many grimaces as smiles in the past. “You’ve done well this day, Ser Humfrey. Just like practice, eh?” He extends his hand to help the man up.

Longaxe hits home. Ser Dagur’s response is swift if weak, and he is not able to avoid it, though it does little but smack against the plates protecting his arms. He shrugs it off and presses the attack, lowering the haft, Ser Kendros attempts to hook the beak around Dagur’s leg and bring him off his footing.

Kendros attacks Dagur with his polearm…

...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Dagur is rocked back in the saddle by Kendros’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!

Down goes the Iron Serpent—almost.

For the Longaxe’s ploy works; even as the ironman regains his balance, he finds a foot trapped by the poleaxe’s beak, twisting it out from under him. Only cat-quick reflexes save him from measuring his length on the ground. Instead, he is down on a knee, shield raised overhead, driving up under it with his blade in hard, straight thrust, trying urgently to win space.

Dagur attacks Kendros with his sword…

...and strikes him with a hard blow!

Seeing the Reyne is victorious, Alyce again cheers. Yet she cannot help but return her gaze to the sword-on-axe action. “Grind his axe into the ground, Ser Dagur,” she says too softly for her to mean the Warden to hear it, although her companions likely can.

Luthor’s squire fixes the straps on Luthor’s armor while Luthor himself watches Dagur and Kendros exchange blows on the field. “Seven hells that axe is a deadly weapon,” the Riverlands bastard remarks quietly as Dagur nearly goes down.

Jannia finishes the cup of wine she has been sipping at slowly; though noting the rate at which the once Baratheon now Tully lady drinks she decides to finish the one she has in hand at least and gain herself a new one. “Is everything alright Lady Sarya?” Jannia shakes her head, “My apologies. Sarya.” She sends her good-sister a warm smile.

The maester, the stricken knight, the disconsolate servant lad, the soldiers and the litter all pass quietly on without much further incident, but among the knot of guards are scattered the frightened visages of six commoners being brought along, also…

Elrone nods to Lady Alyce’s words, and then gasps as the Longaxe goes for Dagur’s leg. “Is that allowed? What a brutal weapon…”

Ser Kendros presses his advantage, but gets a poke in the ribs for his trouble. The blade finds a joint in the plate; it is small, so it doesn’t go far, but it is enough for the point to penetrate, and the shield catches him in the chest, staggering the Longaxe back. He switches his dominant leg to present the queue and tries to whack Dagur in the head with the wooden haft to win some space and get away from that damned sword.

Kendros attacks Dagur with his polearm…

...and has his blow intercepted by Dagur’s shield.

Humfrey watch the Longaxe and the Iron Serpent battle hacking, slashing, parrying, retorting. When Kendros goes for Dagur’s leg, the Westerland knight gapes. “Seven Hells does he mean to cripple the man?”

Jannia looks down to Alyce and Elrone as the melee continues, “It is a blunted weapon my Lady Elrone. Lady Alyce, is that angst you feel for a Riverlander?” Jannia bristles a little and looks back to her mother who seems to engrossed in the second melee of the day. So engrossed as to not worry about what the other ladies are saying.

This time, the Iron Serpent is swift enough. He doesn’t try to block the blow fully; not when the other man has the advantage of standing over him, and with that axe’s momentum. Instead, he angles his shield just so, letting the blow scrape off.

And surges to his feet in the same movement—too rashly, perhaps—trying to close the distance so that the man with the bigger weapon has less space to use it effectively, punching brutally at Kendros’ helm with the hilt of his blade.

Dagur attacks Kendros with his sword…

...and strikes him with a hard blow!

“For a brutal man,” Alyce nods to Elrone. “I once thought he was misguided, but had honor. I even admired what I thought to be his genuine piety. Today, I have seen he is truly a fiend.” After a moment, she looks over to the other redhead. “That poor Buckler lady.”

“Not only the weapon is brutal at that fight.”, Bessa adds quietly as her eyes wander over the fighting man. The expression on her face oscillates between worries and excitement and her pale cheeks are still red. Nervously her fingers search one of her curls to fumble it while watching this ferocious fight.

Dagur catches Kendros full in the face with the hilt of his sword, drawing a mess of blood as Longaxe staggers back. A few precious seconds elapse as the two face off; Kendros spits blood on the ground at his feet and laughs in that way he does, his eye twitching now.

Charging in, the Longaxe swings the pollaxe to catch Dagur in his swordarm with the pointed croix—luckily it’s a blunted weapon, because there is enough force behind it to crumple most plate.

Reyna sits very quietly near Alyce and Elrone, watching the fighting. “A brutal man may still make a very fine husband,” she says, her voice almost too low to hear. And she would know, wed as she is to a man who is often—indeed, at this very moment, is—brutal in a fight.

Kendros attacks Dagur with his polearm…

...and has his blow intercepted by Dagur’s shield.

Elmer watches the fight, admiring both fighters, and he does hear Reyna’s words, giving her a smile. His eyes are also studying the two men, since he might meet the victor soon, trying to gauge weaknesses and strengths to be avoided.

“With all due respect, Lady Reyna, not a man who is brutal for brutality’s sake… on and off the field of combat. Not a man who moves to harm in situations which do not warrant it.” Alyce’s words are softly spoken, but her tone is one of irritation. “He is out for blood. He did not get the one he wanted, so he will draw it where he may. It is well your lord husband is so skilled a fighter.”

The Iron Serpent allows Longaxe a few moments—not out of chivalry but it seems that he himself needs to regain his breath, mirroring the man as he spits out blood from the jousting fall. And as the other man laughs, there is that smile in reply again—wolfish and fierce, and he is driving forward with it, not trying to deflect the blow this time but hammering his shield backhanded at it, trying to drive it wide and open Longaxe to retaliation. And he attacks at the same time, a high overhead blow that arcs down upon Kendros’ helm to ring it hard if it should land.

Dagur attacks Kendros with his sword…

...and has his blow intercepted by Kendros’s shield.

“They are both-” Elrone’s breath catches as the Longaxe spits blood upon the ground. “-quite strong.” Her eyes flick up to Jannia, then back and forth between Reyna and Alyce, before she decides not to stick her hand into what may turn into a different sort of sparring in the stands. Following Bessa’s lead, she wraps a copper lock of hair around her finger and keeps her eyes on the field.

His attack turned aside, Longaxe sees the riposte coming and chooses to turn with the parry; this carries him so that Dagur’s overhanded strike misses him by about a half a foot. Ser Kendros turns swiftly, completing a full circle so that he is back facing the Iron Serpent, and lunges forward to drive the pointed queue into his breastplate.

Kendros attacks Dagur with his polearm…

...and merely strikes a glancing blow!

“Do not be so quick to judge my husband dissimilar,” Reyna says dryly, her gaze very intent on the melee. “If you think he does not thrill with every blow, or seek Ser Kendros’s blood for the sake of it—look how he smiles.” She nods toward her husband. “I do not defend Ser Kendros; neither do I deride him. I find him a man very like my own husband. He is honorable in all things, save that which touches him close to the heart. It is better for him to work off his bloodlust thus, than on Ser Josmyn, don’t you think?”

Gasping with every other blew of the swords Bessa listens closely to Lady Reyna’s advocacy to ferocious fighters. “Their movements while fighting aren’t hinting at a gentle heart underneath their armor, I must admit. I, for myself can only judge by their fighting and the way Ser Kendors treated Ser Josmyn and even Garlan wasn’t the way a gentle heart should treat anybody, mylady”, she says with a quiet voice herself, still fumbling her curl and slightly smiling at the coppery one in Lady Elrone’s hands.

“I have seen ghosts of kindness in your husband, Lady Reyna. Never have I caught so much as a glimmer of the same in Ser Kendros.” Alyce sighs as she replies, still watching the fight. “And if his bloodlust would truly be temporary, something to leave once this match were done, I would be relieved. But you know even better than I that will not happen. His hatred knows no bounds, my lady.”

If it is possible to be graceful in full plate, these men are. Longaxe turns in a full circle, letting that overhand blow whistle past him harmlessly, coming out of it perfecly placed to drive the point into the Iron Serpent’s chest.

Save that the ironman hasn’t tried to pull back from the blow but allowed the momentum to carry him forward, pulling him into a pivot on the foot nearest his opponent so that he is turning in a half-circle with the man, the point scraping off his breastplate. And he finishes it by throwing all the momentum of that pivot into a backhanded cut at Kendros’ shoulder.

Dagur attacks Kendros with his sword…

...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Ser Dagur lands a blow on Ser Kendros deftly, a hard one too. He is knocked off balance and staggers to the left, his right knee buckling; the part of his face below his mouth is a mask of red now, and his formerly gleaming plate is dulled by flecks of dull red. He spits again and, regaining his balance, attacks Ser Dagur’s leg with the hooked beak again, trying to bring him down.

Kendros attacks Dagur with his polearm…

...and strikes him with a shattering blow!

Dagur is driven from the saddle!

Jannia looks pleased at Kendros’ win though sends a nod and a smile to Reyna. “Your husband showed very well my lady.” Jannia turns back to her mother who seems more than delighted to see a Riverlander win the melee. But with Tinessa a guess is all that can be afforded and Jannia turns away from her and stands to give a bit of supportive applause before taking her seat and finishing her cup.

Elmer has watched the fight with sharp eyes, the two men truly fighting like their life depended on that. He drinks deeply and now his face is fierce, the bearded Crakehall knight slapping a squire on the back, forgettting that he had gauntlets on

As Longaxe stumbles aside, the Iron Serpent follows him, plainly eager to finish it off. Follows him too closely as it happens, for when the man tries the trick with the beak again, Dagur has no space to avoid it. The hook fits neatly around the back of his ankle—and the pull yanks his foot out from under him, sending him stumbling back, trying desperately to regain his balance.

But to no avail, for he falls on his back, then, the impact jarring the blade from his hand.

And instantly, the herald, watching eagle-eyed, comes forward to announce over the crowd’s clamour, “Ser Kendros Goodbrook is the victor!”

As for the Iron Serpent, he is on his feet swiftly enough. But he lingers a moment to gaze at the fallen sword as if contemplating something. He looks up, then—and after a moment, nods once to Longaxe. Then, he is back to his pavilion.

As Dagur stands up to face him again, Kendros is ready to continue pressing the attack. He even makes a move, though the herald’s call stops him, and he stands there, heaving threateningly for a moment before it registers. He returns the nod from Ser Dagur and turns to quit the field. “Bring me a gods-damned Maester, squire,” he orders, drawins his gauntlet across his bleeding mouth.

“I have had both kindness and honor at Ser Kendros’s hands,” Reyna replies. “You are betrothed to his rival, so you can hardly expect him to love you. The seeds of his hatred run too deeply to be easily resolved.” She does not sound happy at this; indeed, she sounds profoundly sad. “Nor,” she adds, now wry as she looks at the other ladies, “did I suggest either of them hides a gentle heart ‘neath their breastplates. It is for women to be gentle and kind, and not to judge men by our own understanding.”

Reyna winces when she sees Dagur defeated. “I hope he is pleased with that,” she says, frowning. “I do think he fought well.” She nods absently to Jannia, but she is watching Dagur, and seems only to breathe when he is up and on his feet. And when he pauses as he passes, and jerks his chin at her… she turns crimson red, a shade so dark as to be nearly purple. “I believe he wants me for… something,” she says, rising as the man disappears down the lists to hasten out of the stands. A moment later, her skirts flash blue as she follows him into his pavilion.

The Harold comes out after a short break, and to wait for the crowd to die down a bit, the last tilt has sent the crowd into an all out jovial frenzy. “My lords and ladies, I should like to present the next tilt Ser Kendros Goodbrook, against Ser Josmyn Reyne. To which the winner will go against Ser Luthor Rivers” He backs away with a bow and allows the knights to take their places.

An epic duel with a great many Dragons lost by those who bet on the Iron Serpent the Royal Herald waits until all are listening for effect.

“Ser Josmyn Reyne shall joust against Ser Kendros Longaxe!”

“Of course, Lady Reyna,” Alyce concedes without emotion. When the Saltcliffe woman colors so, the Bar Emmon cants her head, seeming quite confused. Even as the blue-skirted woman heads off to her husband’s tent, the pale maiden asks Bessa and Elrone, “Should I see to her? Perhaps she is not well…”

Ser Humfrey emerges from his pavillion armorless and dressed in pale golden padded leggings and a pale golden arming coat he ascends to the box where Jannia sits with Tinessa and Sarya. “Lady Tully, Lady Jannia, Lady Sarya—truly the most exciting joust in memory. Rivers? Goodbrook, Reyne, or Crakehall?”

Ser Kendros appears from the pavilions, his face grim this time. His armor has been wiped clean, though it no longer gleams so brightly—rather, it bears the scars of lance- and sword-strikes. His bleeding has stopped, though his jaw sports a delightful bruise. His horse appears none the worse for wear.

Fatigue, perhaps, has attenuated his scorn, for the look that Ser Kendros gives to Ser Josmyn is fatigued rather than baleful. He acknowledges the wedding party once more and takes his place before couching his lance and charging the Reyne.

Josmyn’s nostrils flare when Kendros wins. He knows well who his next opponent shall be. Mouth pressed into a grim line, he again readies himself for a tilt. The herald’s announcement does not spur him; he moves not until he is sure the Longaxe is ready. Then the lance is steadied and he meets the charge full on.

Elrone’s lip quirks up at Alyce’s question, and she bites the inside of her lip to stop a potential laugh. “No, no… she is seeing to Ser Dagur’s… ah.. hurts. I believe.” She clears her throat and gestures back to the field. “Seven, they are against each other again?”

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

Kendros’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.

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

Ser Kendros rides straight through Ser Josmyn and throws his lance aside. Raising his visor, he turns his horse to look back; he does not salute. He stares thoughtfully at the other for a few seconds before riding straight back to his pavilion.

After a prolonged absence, Jan emerges from his tent, still smarting from defeat. However, he appears in good spirits, perhaps because he looks at least 4 or 5 cups of wine in since his elimination. He leans up against the rafters with the rest of the cheering knights, cup in hand, clapping occasionally. As Ser Josmyn is finally unhorsed, Jan claps at the horsemanship from Ser Kendrs, but frowns at his chivalry.

The Royal Herald’s voice booms across the lists. “My Lords, my Ladies let Ser Kendros called Longaxe, heir to Goodbrook ride against Ser Luthor Rivers former Warden of the Kingswood!”

The Royal Herald’s voice booms across the commons. Such a startling turn. Two knights both commanders of men and heroes of the conquest one tilt away from victory! Coin changes as bets are made on Crakehall and Rivers.

“Let Ser Elmer and Ser Luthor joust once more to determine who will be the champion!”

Luthor rides to Elmer’s side. “That only makes us even ser, one loss for one loss, lets have one more go,” he says grinning through his open visor. The herald’s announcement confirms it and with another grin thrown Elmer’s way he moves off to the end of the list to make ready for the final bout.

Elmer has been heading towards the tents, the half-drunken knight rather dejected, and he misses the herald’s announcement. “Ser, ser, your horse.” COmes a Lannister squire. “Are you daft, boy?” he looks in incomprehension. Then Luthor rides at his side and he shakes his head. “I must be drunk. More brandy!” he orders and drinks half a wineskin in one long gulp. He climbs on top of the horse, needing help this time, but his lance is straight as they come. He takes a long breath before lowering his visor and charging at Luthor, again, aiming at Rivers’ shield.

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

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

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

Jannia claps as the second of the jousts between Elmer and Luthor are announced. She smiles to her mother who seems slightly interested. Jannia then looks to Kendros who joins the stands and sends him a slight nod, then turns back to the lists as Elmer struggles in his seat.

Elmer is clearly drunk, his lance wavering a little, but fortunately this time he does not fall, instead he turns at the end of the lists, picking up a new lance and charging again, the massive knight’s lance couched, struggling not to make any more mistakes this time

Ser Humfrey winces as Elmer is jolted roughly in his saddle. “Well struck Ser Luthor! Give them a show, Sers!” Humfrey’s steel gauntlets ring as the champions square off.

Luthor feels his lance snap and the strong jolt of Elmer’s lance striking his shield then the knights pass each other and he grins. “Still with me? Good!” he shouts as he passes Elmer on the way back to his end of the lists where he takes a fresh lance and waits for the signal to once again thunder down the lists.

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.

Luthor whoops with raw excitement as he rides through lance fragments as his and Elmer’s lances explode around him. Eyes shining through the thin slit of his helm he tosess the lance aside and rides to fetch a new one from his squire and charge down at Elmer once again.

Elmer rides through the flying shards, to the end of the lists. He raises his visor and leans in to gab a wineskin, threatening to fall over, but happily he manages to stay on. he drinks again, brandy running through his beard before he picks a new lance and lowering his visor charges at Luthor, lance surprisingly steady.

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

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

Brynden looks at Sarya, somewhat concerned. He sits carefully. “This will be finished soon, then we can go. You had too much, you say?” Brynden asks, rubbing his forehead. “I hope to catch up to you in that race soon.”

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

The tourney is certainly exciting, the ending no less so than the matches leading up to it. And yet, Alyce seems distracted and agitated. After a moment, she grabs her skirts and rises. “I will speak with you fine ladies later.” Quickly, she slides through the stands, flicking her wrist to move her skirts out of people’s way as she makes her way toward the pavilions. It so happens Kendros is along her path toward the Reyne tent and the worried look on her handmaiden’s face speaks to her lady’s intention.

Elmer ‘s lance breaks and as he rides past, he sees Luthor fall. he dismounts quickly, and though his steps are a bit wobbly he goes to the other knight, offering a hand. “valiantly fought, Rivers!” he smiles, taking off his helmet. “You almost had me there!’

Bessa immediatly jumps up to applaud to the winner of the tourney and joins the cheering voices. “I’ll be watching them at the tourney grounds and join your wagering at the next tourney, I promise!”, she says with excitement in her voice after coming to her breath again and remaining with a quizzical look which soon becomes a concerned one, as she watches Lady Alyce head in this special direction. “I hope she will be fine…”, she mutters quietly, searching the eyes of Lady Elrone and Lady Alyce’s handmaid.

Having a word with a young Riverlands knight and sipping from a wineskin, Ser Kendros pays no note to Alyce’s approach.

Defeated, bruised and on his back in the dirt, Luthor laughs. Then after a moment he groans and grabs hold of Elmer’s hand to get back up to his feet. “You too,” he says clapping the man on the shoulder. “-That- was a fight.” Then jerking his head towards the stands he says. “Shall we?”

Still standing Jannia claps loudly—as most people are—to the results of the final tourney. She stops for a moment and finishes her cup and hands it off to her maid to continue clapping. She curtsies to Lord and Lady Baratheon and her mother. “A lovely joust my Lord and Lady Baratheon, Lady-Mother.” Her smile is bright as she looks to her brother and Lady Sarya. “I hope you both have enjoyed yourselves. It was a grand affair.” With that she straightens her skirts and sits.

Knowing the lady’s temper to, at times, be as fiery as her hair, Alyce’s men-at-arms begin to move, along with the maid. The Prester man grumbles to his Bar Emmon counterpart, the words “hopeless,” “not again,” and “ever learn” audible as they pass Bessa and Elrone. The roar of the crowd covers all else.

Despite everything, Alyce politely waits for a lull in Kendros’ conversation with the other knight. Still, she has halted directly in the Longaxe’s line of sight, making her desire for an audience with the heir to Goodbrook known.

Sarya looks back to her husband and rises to clap her hands and then looks to Jannia, giving her a nod, “It was interesting to say the least.” Seems the bride is still a bit upset!

The commons and the royal boxes explode with loud applause and screams. There are curses too, while those who bet upon the gallant Ser Elmer reap in heaps of silver and gold—those who bet upon his equally heroic foe are left to grumble and curse at their losses.

Lord Corwen stares on, plainly quite pleased. Such a tourney, such upsets, such drama, and not one but two double unhorsings and impromptu melees.

Only after nearly two minutes of applause for the gallant champions does the din die down enough for the Royal Herald to speak pages in the Crimson and ONyx livery of House Targaryen and the gold and onyx of house Baratheon step forward bearing prizes.

“Ser Luthor for your valor and fortitude One Hundred gold Dragons.” Here a yougn Targaryen page opens wide a black chest and the dragons sparkle in the waning sunlight.

“And for you our champion Ser Elmer, “A destrier from Lord Baratheon’s own stud, with harness and fittings” Here the magnificent horse if brought out a huge black stallion in silver chased barding.”

Two boys follow with a large “A suite of castle forged weapons from Lord Corwens own armorer.” Here the boys open the chest. The weapons are freshly wrought and resplendant. A Hunting bow, LOngsword, Battleaxe, dagger, and mace.”

“And Lastly silvered tourney plate to be wrought by Lord Baratheon’s own armorer to your spefications!”

Elmer puts an arm around Luthor’s shoulder and walks with him towards the stands. his hair is wild and unruly, but the boar knight smiles as he takes to one knee in front of Sarya and Brynden. “It was an honor to fihgt at your wedding, my Lord, my Lady.” he smiles, truly happy for them, almost forgetting he was the winner. When his prizes are announced, he bows his head again. “You honour me, and I thank you.”

The commons explodes with another torrent of cheering for the gallant champions. Ser Elmer Crakehall and Ser Luthor Rivers—Lord Corwen rises to applaud the knights—champions of the Greatest tourney Storm’s End has ever seen.

Ser Kendros catches sight of Alyce, and almost certainly purposely continues on with a story about the necessity of rotating crops and letting fields lie fallow every few seasons for a full minute before looking to her. “Lady Alyce,” he greets.

He claps for the naming of the champion, and though he frowns to know the prize is not his, he has done well enough in ransoms from this tournament to last him a while.

Luthor joins Elmer in taking a knee but lets the champion speak. When his gift is presented he grins broadly and takes the chest and bows his head. “My thanks my lord,” he intones solemnly and then smiles when Elmer’s prizes are presented. “There would need to be three of you to use it all,” he says quietly to the Crakehall knight, still smiling.

Then when the fanfare dies down, Luthor rises and with the small chest cradled under one arm he slips away to find his wife and celebrate his share of the day’s success.

Though this is Lord Baratheon’s tournament, Brynden motions to Elmer as the Crakehall knoght bends the knee. “Get up, ser. You should not kneel to anyone but your lord and your king. Well done, though. Very well done.” Then to Luthor. “You too. Get up.”

Dagur Saltcliffe’s pavilion is near to Kendros’s, and when the crowd begins to roar with the end of the tourney, the Silver Rose emerges, her hair drawn over one shoulder in a fresh plait. Once in the air, she swirls her long mantle around her shoulders, then around again against the chill in the air. Her cheeks are flushed prettily—with exertion, perhaps—and she smiles at some of the men lingering nearby, enduring their good-natured japing. Then she turns and spies the Bar Emmon waiting for Kendros. “Hallo, Lady Alyce,” she says as she approaches. “Are you looking for Ser Josmyn?”

Elmer raises at Brynden’s words and raises his fist in the air. “Three cheers for Lord brynden and lady Sarya!” his voice booms, happiness on his face

Brynden whispers to Sarya, “... ... is it? Was ... ... ...”

Despite knowing full well the Goodbrook is purposely keeping her waiting, as he is wont to do, Alyce waits patiently for the riveting conversation regarding basic agriculture to end. Once addressed, she curtsies to the Longaxe, her movements sharper than usual. “Ser Kendros. I wish I could say you fought honorably, but we both know that to be false. I am sorry I was foolish enough to believe your love of the Seven, particularly of the Warrior, to be true. Your actions today have made it plain your own bloodlust comes before all else in your life. Not that you care, but I am sorely disappointed you choose not to live up to the man you could be.”

“Lady Reyna,” Kendros offers a perfunctory greeting. He notes her flushed complexion, but either chooses not to say anything or does not have time to before Alyce begins her diatribe.

In response, Kendros only stares at Alyce for a few seconds. “Are you done? Who the seven hells are you talk to the heir of Goodbrook in such a manner, woman?” the knight queries. “Clearly your father did not beat you enough. Find a man to say things to me so that I may beat him in your stead.”

“Peace, Lady Alyce,” Reyna says soothingly. “In one tilt, Ser Kendros was unchivalrous, yes, but it is not our place to berate him for it. Come, let us go back to the Keep and see if there is anything to eat. I’m half starved, I swear it.” She bends her head to Kendros. “You fought well against Dagur, Ser Kendros. He is quite pleased with your little fight.”

Whatever Alyce may have retorted to Kendros is silenced by Reyna’s words. Well, winnowed down to a lame, “I did not wish to remain silent while -this- betrothed also courts the Stranger.” After taking a calming breath, she shakes her head. “I will meet you there after I have spoken with Ser Josmyn, my lady. Thank you.” Although she curtsies, her eyes do not so much as glance again toward Kendros before she continues on her way to the Reyne pavilion.

Elmer laughs gently as he sees Reyna appear, but even drunk he has better self preservation than to comment on what he guesses. “Anyone who wishes a drink, courtesy of Lord Loren of the Rock there is Arbor gold and Dornish red at the Lannister tents!”

“Unchivalrous?” Kendros queries, frowning. “This amuses me. A Meadows is killed and it’s an accident. A Reyne gets hit with a stray lance blow and it’s unchivalrous. Get out of my sight, you vile shrew.”

These last words are delivered to Alyce’s back. He turns now to Reyna, still annoyed. “My thanks. And the same to Ser Dagur. It was… enjoyable, though I fear it denied me the day. I console myself with the idea he would have been in a similar state, were the roles reversed. You seem in decent spirits.”

“Here, I said it was unchivalrous, and I meant that little lift of your lance in your first tilt,” Reyna says chidingly to Kendros, but without heat. She does indeed seem to be in good spirits, and she gives the Goodbrook a smile. “Yes, I am quite content with the world just now, though I fear I, ah, missed your last tilts. Who won?” She looks toward the lists, as if she might see it writ on the sky.

Once the tourney is over, Sarya turns toward Brynden and then looks to her maid, “Please have a pot of hot water sent to our chambers..” She gives her father a kiss on the cheek and a hug and the same for her mother before she turns to offer her arm to her husband, “I think perhaps I should go lay down, I’ve had a touch more wine then normal.”

Reyna bends her head to Alyce. “Then I will see you there later. Pray give my greetings to Ser Josmyn, won’t you?”

Jannia has broken conversation with her mother to see Brynden and Sarya off. “Well done brother, and sweet sister rest easy it has been a long day.” She smiles to them both and turns back to her conversation with her mother.

“Ser Elmer won in the end against Ser Luthor,” Longaxe replies. “I do not care who said it. The lance slipped, and everyone assumes the worst. I will note that Ser Josmyn and Ser Alek received more courtesy at Highgarden. If that woman sees fit to open her mouth to me again, I will shut it for her. You should warn her of that.”

Elmer steps towards Longaxe. “You fought valiantly, Ser…I haven’t seen anyone face the Iron serpent with a weaon i hand in that manner. I must confess I do not think I could have done it.” Yes, he’s married to a Reyne and he opposes Kendros’ feud, but..there can be no denying at the way the two fought.

Brynden rises, though he does wince. He takes Sarya’s arm, at least he smiles. “I think I shall join you, and I hope we will find some wine along the way for me, at least.” He starts to lead her from the stands. “You looked beautiful even from where I was on the field.” he tells his new wife, as if that will mollify her.

“Of course, Lady Reyna,” Alyce replies to the woman pleasantly before walking out of earshot. Kendros’ last words did not reach her, although worse has been spoken by him to her in the past. After a few moments, she and her little retinue disappear into the Reyne pavilion.

Sarya gives a bit of a smile to Jannia and says, “Thank you.” Giving a curtsey to the Lady Tully she looks to her husband, her eyes a touch cold before she turns and heads into the keep.