(121-02-18) The Grandest Of Melees
The Grandest Of Melees
Summary: There are men. With weapons. Huzzah.
Date: 18/02/2014
Related: Dolphin tourney ones.

Tourney Grounds, Oldtown
The Tourney Grounds stand just outside of the walls of Oldtown. There is a raised platform of several levels for noble viewers, with space for comfortable chairs and little tables to be set in place, and tall posts for canopies to be hung to keep the sun off. Not far stands the great board where the lists are kept. On the far side of the grounds rough tiered benches are available for the smallfolk, and past them there's a flat field for the knights to erect their pavilions in the grass.

The long log rail for the jousts stands right before the Lords' and Ladies' platform, with the space for the melee just beyond it. The archery butts are mounded at the Southwest edge of the grounds, where a great meadow of purple-red fireweed spreads off into the distance. The rough little narrow road to Blackcrown cuts through it.

Wyl waits silently, a humble harness of oiled ring maile adding unneeded bulk to his large frame. His awkwardly proportioned lower face visible in a solemn frown beneath the nasal of a steel halfhelm and four of maile, the lowborn knight wears the white and red surcoat of a retainer of House Ball. His tall shield is unpainted oak, banded and studded with black iron, while a large right hand in a maile mitten grasps the handle of a ball and chain whose round head is scored and pitted from use.

Gwayne leaves Oldtown proper through the Tourney Gate in the city walls.

It's a fine day to pretend to kill the Hells out of your friends, or men you pretend to be your friends, or just others in general. Nervously fidgeting with his dark, blackened mail beneath his glove, one of the leaner knights on the field is Ser Riderch. He then hefts a tourney sword in his hand, getting accustomed to its weight and shifting his arm a little. Affixed to his other arm is a crimson red shield bearing a personal crest, reminiscent of that of his house. Painted upon the red background is a large, stylized black raven in motion.

Ser Daevon Targaryen gleams as bright as the sun itself in his highly polished armour. It's his dress outfit, flashy for tournaments, generally not used under any other circumstances. The suit of plate which his squires complain most about having to clean. But it does, at least, look good. Made by the finest armourers that Targaryen gold can buy, it shines of silver and gold. Upon his shield is a purple field, upon which is a maiden in silver and gold, offering a red dragons egg.

High up on the grand dais, far above the crowd, stands Lord Garvin Tyrell, decked out in all his finery, with the addition of real pansies woven in a ring around the crown of his absurd, wide-brimmed hat. He's smiling and waving to smallfolk below, many wearing pansies pinned to their clothes. Beside him is the small form of Kelinyx, dressed in her normal attire, rather than dolled up all fancylike. Garvin keeps smiling and patting her head, as though she actually belonged up there with all the nobles. He even plucks a purple pansy from his hat to offer to her. But when trumpets begin to sound, he straightens his shoulders and waits for the crowd to settle a bit. Then he takes a long, deep breath and shouts, "My lords and my ladies, good folk of Oldtown, the Grand Melee is about to begin! Knights, enter the field and take your sides!"

Joining Garvin on the grand dais is Lord Commander Gwayne Hightower who moves to have a seat next to the man, offering him only a quiet nod. Not a word is spoken to the Tyrell lord as Gwayne tug at his tunic in an effort to straighten it out. Needless to say, the Hightower lord's demeanor is not a happy one.

Kelinyx slinks quickly to the side of all those peeping eyes when the fanfare stops and the Lord's voice begins booming. She might even try hiding behind grownups near her with a deep lean, but she still has a big smile, and the pansy is set in her lips to hold as she begins making a small braid to hold it. She gives a shy but friendly wave to the nearby Gwayne, though.

Kelinyx sits down at Grand Dais.

Wyl steps forward when Lord Tyrell calls for the participants to ready themselves. Seeming rather shabby amidst the glittering nobility, the lowborn knight strides to the side of the field where he spies the blazons of his house's overlords, the Tyrells.

Emerging from his pavilion is Ser Arros Sand. The Dayne bastard wears a fine suit of plate mail. It is not as flashy or ornate as some, but the steel has been shined up nicely. His shield is painted white to bear the inverse colors of Dayne: A white field with a purple star and sword as opposed to a purple field with a white star and sword. He carries his helm under his arm as he approaches the tourney grounds, and walks by the stands to smile at the Maidens contained within. Dornish he may be, but with his indigo eyes and sable curls, Ser Arros is handsome enough to earn glances even from highborn maidens of the Reach.

Igdahn very nearly did not arrive, having nearly fainted away from fear during the last bout of swordsmanship she witnessed. But to-day her favour is flying at her cousin's side, and so she's come to add her bids of prayer for his well-being to the good luck she'd woven into the little strap of fabric. She sits among the privileged seating, her fingers all twisted up in one another to keep herself from chewing on them, planted hard into her lap.

Daevon's also wearing a favour from some very lucky lady. A field of tightly woven black embroidered with silver flowers with small knotted clusters of silver fringe hanging from the lower edge. A red and orange metallic thread had been used to embroider a series of tiny feathered dragons playing among the flowers, the red color shaded with orange to make the figures vivid and lifelike against the black. When he spots Arros he grins, broadly. "The knights are over here," he teases Arros. "Please, do let yourself get distracted during the fight, for I plan to win." Never mind if they're on the same side or not. "When that pretty face of yours gets scratched, there's going to be so many tears." Of course, Daevon himself is a fine one to talk, and it is just banter.

After seemingly only a moment of sitting in the stands, Lord Gwayne grips at the armrest of his chair and stands up before making his way down to the tournament grounds. A quick movement of his hand and several guardsmen find their ways to him, each clutching a piece of his guardsman armor. Rolling his shoulders, he pulls down the facemask and holds his hand out to receive his longsword, "Mind if I join the fray?" he asks of nobody in particular.

Daevon calls out to Gwayne. "Please do!"

Affixing his halfhelm now after briefly setting down the longsword, the Riverlander lord adjusts it - it is made of slightly dull metal, complete with a noseguard and cheekguards that circle underneath the black paint surrounding his eyes. Riderch grins absently as he then he strolls to enter the lineup on one side. If anyone were close enough to listen they could hear him — humming. There is a faint grin on his face as he hefts the weapon again, as if giving its weight and balance another test. "Bloody thing's been chewed by a whetstone I'll wager."

Arros laughs at Daevon's words, and tears himself away from the stands to wander over to where Daevon is. "You tease me, but you have a lovely favor to wear, and I've nothing of the sort. Alas, the maids of the Reach have no love for me. They shall surely cheer as my blood is spilled." That said, he moves to put his helm on, but leaves the visor up for now.

"Alas, poor Ser Arros, who none of the maidens favour, shall I seek you out a maid so that she might, offer you her luck?" Daevon asks. "Still you would break her heart I'm sure."

Ser Laurent Tyrell cuffs his young squire on the head, shooing the boy away. Resplendent in his full tournament plate, the brutish Tyrell seems a mountain of a man. His plate is dark metal worked with a motif of roses, chased with thorns. Over it he wears a tabard in Tyrell green bearing his personal arms, a golden rose featuring prominent thorns. Pinned to the tabard is a maiden's favor, a finely wrought brass key whose head is a rose in bloom. The stem of the rose, resplendent with thorns, winds down the key's shaft to where the thorns also form the teeth.

The brutish Tyrell knight takes a couple of tentative swings with his longsword — fully three and a half feet of blade — to limber himself up, then hefts his shield with his left hand before striding to join his team.

Kelinyx scans the people gathered and finishes her braid with the pansy resting at her temple. Seeing familiar and not so much nearby, she remains quiet, likely preferring not to be drawing attention of a crowd seething with veiled bloodlust and inrtigue. Sometimes being quiet is a proper choice.

Gwayne idly twirls the length of his sword as he joins the ranks with Riderch and Laurent. Tipping his visor back up, he gives each one of them a nod, "Frame rate for your favorite girl if we bring home a victory today." A brief smirk is offered to the rest of the knights standing alongside him, before is vanishes as quickly as it came and he turns toward the other team.

Angharad finds a place with Keyte and other, assorted Tyrells, fairly brimming with excitement. She pops out of her seat often, raising up on tiptoes to better see the field, then sits again — up and down like a curious prarie dog. "This should be a such a show! Look — look, there's Laurent! He's twice as big as all the others!" she declares with pride. Which may or may not be true, but he's certainly a giant in her eyes. Or, with all the time they've been spending together and a wedding in the near future, maybe she knows something everyone else doesn't.

To this, Riderch juts out his chin in an affirmative nod to the Reach Lord. "Hmmm. In that case I like these odds." There's a brief, mischievious grin on his face as he scans the contestants they are facing. It could be that the grin fades a little as he lingers over a few combatants. The Targaryen in particular. He's been around enough to hear a few things.

"They'll just think you mean for them to bear your favor, and be sorely disappointed when they realize it is me." Arros says good-naturedly to Daevon as he snaps his visor shut.

Daevon's eyeing up his opponents, not that this is obvious behind his helm. He's seeking out he looks the weakest, and who might be the strongest. He offers Riderch a slight nod. "Oh, how could any maiden be disappointed with you, Ser Arros? You'll just have to show them all your prowess with your sword and they will swoon."

Laurent's response is muffled by his helm, made entirely unintelligible, but his laughter comes through loud and clear. Searching the crowd is an ordeal — he can barely turn his head — so it's with a good bit of shifting and pivoting in place that he searches out the cluster of Tyrell women, his betrothed tucked away among them. Once he's found them he raises his sword high in salute, banging the blade heavily against his shield before he lets it come to rest casually at his side once again.

Wyl dips his head and lowers his eyes in a short bow when the Tyrell knight glances his way, voicing quietly, "My Lord Tyrell, is there one standing against you whom the Lord would bid me strike?"

Tyraxeus arrives in Oldtown and almost immediately heads to the tourney grounds, his dark armor both well-worn from frequent use and carefully maintained. His tabard is even darker, a deep black with a slash of forked purple lightning. Instead of sword and shield he carries a heavy spiked mace, which he swings from hand to hand before joining his team. He looks the other knights over, recognizing only Daevon for the moment, and offering a polite little bow to the Targaryen, his own helm closed as well.

Angharad squeaks delightedly and claps her hands madly for Laurent's clanging salute. Huzzah! It's all so delightfully savage.

Arros smirks under his helm at Wyl's words, and mimics a high voice under his helm, "My Lord Targaryen, is there one standing against you whom the Lord would bid me strike?" He bows to Daevon in a mocking manner, his movements made somewhat stiff by his full plate.

Igdahn's arms begin to tremble visibly as the gentlemen line up, and she bows her head, rising from her seat to stroll rather than sit, and, doing so, spotting Keyte and her company, lifting her hand to wave before betaking herself to sit closer by her, if she seems welcome.

Ser Laurent turns to Wyl when he's addressed so humbly, growling a response that vibrates out from behind his closed visor. "All of them!" More laughter to follow — the usually bellicose Thorn is in uncommonly good spirits, it seems — and he reaches up awkwardly with his shield hand to clap the ugly bastard on the shoulder. "Give them hell, Ser!"

Garvin leans on the railing, peering down at all the combatants preparing to beat each other senseless. Can anything be more exciting? A page, not his usual squire, is at his elbow, holding a wax pad and writing stylus, scribbling down names. Finally, he holds it for Garvin, who nods and begins to shout again. "And the sides have been chosen! On the Red Team, Ser Arros Sand of Dorne! Ser Daevon Targaryen of the Crownlands! Ser Tyraxeus Dondarrion of the Stormlands! Ser Jaym! Ser March! Ser Myles! And Ser Phylip! On the Green Team, Ser Gwayne Hightower of the Hightower! Ser Laurent Tyrell of Highgarden! Ser Wyl Flowers of Sacheland Tower! Ser Riderch Blackwood of the Riverlands! Ser Colin! Ser Daved! Ser Fortinbras! And Ser Jonah!"

The angry raven-marked shield is hefted by Riderch's gauntleted hand as his name is called, grinning like a fool. "And so, it begins."

The skinny little Keli watches all the men armoring up and taunting one another, grinning a bit wickedly while she prepares her mind for the chance at good combat or good gore - and for once she's not a in risk. She leans forward on the railing, chin on her folded forearms. The announcements, the excitements, the voices raising leaves her gleeful, entertained.

Daevon chuckles at Arros, and elbows him. "Enough of that, you rogue. Or on second thoughs, do continue, while they're all trying to hit you I shall stand in your shadow. Can you believe, they announced your name first, ahead of a Targaryen. It's a disgrace." He's teasing. He chuckles at Laurent's words. "Well said!"

Laurent raises his sword, levelling it at Daevon. It's a salute, but also a declaration of intent.

Gwayne grips his sword tightly as his name is called and flips his visor down, raising his shield and holding it out before him. For anyone close enough, they can hear slow, controlled breaths from beneath his helmet.

Tyraxeus's head pops up and turns as the teams are announced, leaning around the knights near him to get a look at Arros. He stays turned that way for a long moment, grip shifting on the mace in his hand, but in the end he lifts it into both hands and advances on the opposing team.

"Well, maybe they were announcing beauty before prestige." Arros snorts under his helm, and draws his sword. He smacks it against his sword, and when it is announced he rushes forward to swing his sword at Wyl.

Laurent trudges forward toward his target, shield held high. He and Daevon trade blows, but neither man finds an advantage, and in the end Laurent staggers back unsatisfied - for now.

With two of the best fighters going for him, Daevon doesn't stand a chance. He's focused on Laurent, swinging his shield up in order to fend off the attack. Unfortunately this leaves him open to the crack against his chest from Gwayne. Injured, he withdraws, disappointing his many fans quite surely.

Wyl steps toward the only for of equal station, and whirls his ball and chain overhead, swinging with great and silent force, though the Sands' skills and armor defend him well.

Gwayne quickly rushes forward, his longsword twirling about in his hand; his eyes firmly focused on Daevon. With a quick spin around Laurent's back and swinging a into Daevon's chest. Satisfied, he takes a few steps back, nodding to Laurent as he does so, but saying nothing.

Garvin shouts, "And Ser Riderch lands a blow to Ser March, who is leaving the field!"

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAA" A loud, bellowed war-cry comes from the Riverlander as he hefts his blade and makes no hesitation about charging into the fray alongside his fellow Knights. Twisting his body about, he steps aside, with as much quickness he can muster out of reach of Ser Jaym's strike and closes in on his target, bringing his blade around in a 'whooshing' swipe through the air towards Ser March — who almost, almost parries with his own sword. The Blackwood Lord's blade just hits underneath the crossbar of his opponents, hitting his hand with enough force that he'll be feeling /that/ tomorrow.

There's an enormous "Booo!" for Daevon's departure. People throw flowers at him anyway. The smallfolk are yelling, and the yelling is almost angry, since most of the warriors on the field are flailing to make great contact, and the clash of sword against sword isn't nearly so loud as it ought to be, with too many knights swinging and missing entirely.

Ser March, gracious, salutes Ridarch with his bloody hand and walks off the mock battlefield.

Riderch belatedly raises his chin to Ser March, though. There's no malice in this expression.

Igdahn has barely turned her veiled face back to the tourney when Daevon is stricken in the chest, and she clasps both hands together over her heart as if feeling the pain there herself. But for all that, she doesn't boo, nor shout out, and perhaps she is at some level relieved that he is withdrawing from the fighting with only a glancing blow. She lifts one hand to hail him proudly when he goes.

Tyraxeus seems as much or more concerned with his teammates as with his attacker, his swing easily throwing off Ser Colin's own strike but failing to land a blow of his own. The mace wooshes through the air with surprising speed for such a heavy-looking weapon, nimbly manuevered by the Stormlander. Daevon's exit is noted with disappointment.

Garvin bites his lower lip, placing a hand on Keli's shoulder. "Oh look, Ser Dae's been knocked out of the competition already. I wouldn't have expected that so soon. Well, the Maiden's Knight's real event is the joust, so we'll have to come back tomorrow and cheer for him then, hmm?"

Daevon raises his visor, and he is clearly smiling despite barely getting to participate in the melee. He waves at Igdahn, as flowers rain down upon him from the audience.

Keyte, having just accepted a goblet of wine for herself, hasn't a spare hand to clap and cheer. She tips it back, draining plenty to lessen the risk of spilling, and leans merrily against Angharad to remark aside, "Isn't it marvelous!"

Kelinyx sighs a bit and nods, patting Lord Garvin's hand once. "He will do wonderfully, I am sure. It is like a maelstrom out there." She smirks to him and adds, "You see why I will not be a soldier, though."

Wyl sees the Tyrell faction gain an early advantage and presses his attack on Arros recklessly, grunting with exertion through clenched teeth as he hauls the ball and chain down at the Dornishman.

Arros lifts his shield to deflect Wyl's ball and chain as it is thrown at his head. He turns slightly to swipe his sword at the Tyrell bastard, "This is supposed to be a tourney for the mother, and you ask the Tyrell's who they need you to beat?" He lets out a laugh, "You, Ser, are a tool."

Garvin shouts again, "Ser Tyraxeus attacks Ser Colin with his Polearm…oh, good blow, Ser Colin's out!"

"Well f—" Riderch swallows whatever oath he was muttering as he rushes back at the previously attacking Ser Jaym. There is a whistle in the air as Ser Jaym decides to simply not be where the Raven's sword was a second ago.

Spending far too much time stepping out of the way of Ser Phylip's attack, Gwayne's own attack doesn't have quite the force that it might usually have. There's a soft huff out from the helmet as the Lord Commander begins to circle the man, preparing to attack again.

Wyls weapon slams into the turf underfoot, but his for dodged. Ripping the ball and chain loose, he takes the Dornishman's blow on his shield and lashes out with a backhanded blow, grunting in return, "In the Reach we call such men obedient vassals, Ser."

Laurent presses forward, shield held high, using his size and reach to ward enemies away not just from himself, but from Gwayne as well. Their teamwork has served them well thus far, and the imposing Tyrell bellows a wordless battlecry as he presses the advantage. When he is faced with the white badger on the shiled of Ser Myles Lydden, Laurent uses size to his advantage. He swings his sword like a club, battering the shield down with two heavy overhand swings. It takes an amount of control that is frightening to see in such a large man to turn the next strike into a thrust, lunging forward with all of his weight, but Ser Myles' breastplate absorbs the blow, leaving the two men still facing one another.

Kelinyx has her fingers gripping the edge of the structure as she leans forward, leering at the wily chaos, not even dodging as clods of dirt go sailing up under the mighty warriors charging like bulls and blades dance lightly in the hands of more dextrous combatants.

Daevon's watching the fighting, transfixed. He may no longer be participating but at least he can see how the others fight.

This time Tyraxeus pays his business more attention, feinting around Ser Colin's blow, and delivering a heavy blow to the Reach knight's gut. The mace clangs off armor, and as Ser Colin makes to leave the field the Dondarrion steps back to salute his opponent before choosing his next.

There's a roar from the smallfolk crowd, and the squires, as the fight becomes increasingly disorganzed, with knights breaking their lines to clash more and more randomly.

Ser Colin grimaces in pain as he starts off the field. His squire runs to take his weapons and relieve him of at least that amount of weight.

"Oh!" Angharad gasps as Laurent lands his blow on Ser Myles. "Gods! The way Laurent strikes, I keep thinking he's going to cleave his target in 'twain!" She puts her hands over her mouth so that only her wide eyes convey the pitch of her emotion. Maybe someone will think she's ladylike horrified by the violence instead of grinning like a loon.

Garvin grips the railing tightly, trying to follow his cousin on the field. "Ser Thorn, Ser Thorn!" he shouts.

"A Knight is smart enough to know when such orders are needed." Aross says as he and Wyl exchange blows, and their armor absorbs them, "If you want to be a dumb cunt why don't you go compete with the free riders?"

Riderch continues to tangle with his own personal demon on the field, Ser Jaym. Unfortunately, his opponent is well-trained in the art of mob combat. Riderch's sword clangs off the man's armor.

As he moves to swing a blow towards Ser Myles' shoulder, Lord Commander Gwayne has foolishly left himself open to Jaym who catches him in the arm. After a soft curse escapes his lips, the young Hightower makes his way off of the field to stand near Daevon with a nod.

Kelinyx isn't really ready to clap or cheer or boo, she's just absorbing the whirlwind and seeming to put together the tiers of skill among those still whirling in the fray.

Finesse forgotten, Laurent steps in to crowd Ser Miles, pressing his shield to the Westerlander's sword arm. He brings the hilt of his own sword down heavily atop his foe's head, staggering the man, then steps back to deliver a more telling blow that spins the knight's helm partway around to block his vision.

Keyte can't help but to giggle at Angharad's reaction, her own cheeks flushed with excitement. And wine. Whatever. Her attention is only briefly on the other lady, before the melee grabs her gaze again. She doesn't bother to hide her own grin, sitting a little straighter and cradling her cup in her lap as she informs: "He always was a little bit savage." She's part smug, laying claim to her cousin's prowess with a dimpling of her smile. "I say, did you see that!"

Ser Myles doesn't take his defeat so lightly. For one, he just got smacked in the head. For two, he was trying to defend against Fortinbras as it happens. He casts a furious look at Laurent as he leaves the field, dragging his helm off.

Wyl returns to Arros, "I am not so proud to seek my betters' will, Ser. A knight must obey." The opinion is accompanied by another overhead blow of his weapon.

Daevon offers Gwayne a nod of his own. He's smiling, no hard feelings it would seem. "Well fought." He says. "Much better than sitting up there on the fancy chair, huh?" He looks back at the fighting.

Igdahn slips past the rest of the seating, stepping down into the grass so as to come to her cousin's side. "I fear my weaving has failed you, gentle cous," she tells him, voice merry and bright enough to give the jest away, though there's a touch of true apology behind it, as well. She doesn't address Gwayne, but lowers herself into a demure little curtsey.

Garvin shouts, "And things are really confusing out there, folks. The Red Team still has Ser Arros, Ser Tyraseus, Ser Jaym, and Ser Phylip! On the Green Team, Ser Riderch, Ser Wyl, Ser Daved, Ser Fortinbras, Ser Jonah, and Ser Laurent the Thorn!"

Gwayne slides his helmet off and sets it down on the ground before offering Daevon's arm a pat, "Indeed. I think a little bit of tournament is just what I needed today." He offers a brief smile to the man and goes about loosening his gauntlet a bit.

Angharad saw that! She squeaks and bounces in her seat. "SER LAURENT!" she shouts, hands cupped over her mouth. "Huzzah for Ser Laurent!" She falls back into her chair, breathless and flushed without a drop of wine. "Oh, he's so marvelous." She fans herself with her hands, dimples deep. Be still her heart.

Riderch is not alone this time in his endless quest for the defeat of Ser Jaym. Although he doesn't strike the decisive blow, he looks pretty entertained, all things considered, when Ser Daved actually connects. "That was something" he shouts, hefting his weaponry to pick another target.

Arros laughs from behind his visor. He puts up his shield to deflect the blow from Ser Jonah, and ducks to avoid Wyl's ball. He swings his sword at Wyl's leg, and smiles broadly under his visor.

The knights who've left the combat are yelling names, of their friends and not necessarily their teammates, who are still on the field. A lot of women among the smallfolk, and no small number of men, are still yelling, "Ser Daevon!"

Daevon shakes his head at Igdahn. "Oh certainly not, sweet cousin. I shall treasure it for always. Perhaps it saved me from worse injuries out there, who can tell. I was bested by the better fighter." He looks at Gwayne. "Although I will hope for a rematch." He grins at Gwayne's words, nodding. "A pity there wasn't more of it for us." He offers a wave to those who're cheering for him. "Go team red!" he calls out.

Wyl does not even stagger as his opponent lands a light blow to his leg. It is met with a quiet, "Well struck, Ser." He bends his large frame to touch one knee to the earth and withdraws.

"Come, ser!" Tyraxeus shouts across to Wyl as he dodges a blow from Ser Fortinbras, "That was not even a scratch, surely you can continue!" He misses his opponent this time, too busy dodging and butting in where he's neither needed nor wanted, but whatever.

"Together, eh?!" Comes Riderch's shout as he looks between the dwindling ranks of the opponents and then towards Laurent. This seems to have worked well so far.

Garvin joyously shouts, "And the Red Team is shrinking, but there's still Ser Arros, Ser Tyraseus, and Ser Phylip! On the Green Team side of the field, Ser Riderch, Ser Daved, Ser Fortinbras, Ser Jonah, and Ser Thorn!"

"Ser Laurent, huzzah!" Keyte chimes in along with Lady Harry, raising her glass instead of jumping to her feet. "Team Green! Tyrell! For the Mother! To dolphins!" Now she's just blabbering, dissolving into a fit of giggles as Angharad re-seats herself.

Laurent turns on the next opponent now, another savage howl leaving the Tyrell knight as he bowls bodily into his opponent. He strikes a wild blow as the two careen apart, but Ser Phylip is unphased.

Arros exchanges blows with Ser Daved that bounce off of each other's armor.

Angharad bursts into a fit of giggles along with Keyte, sitting up to pump a fist in the air. "FOR THE DOLPHINS!"

Riderch enters a slow dance with Ser Phylip where weapons whiff and/or clang, but not much is done. It sure looks pretty though.

Things are starting to get intense, in spite of the misses. Fighting in plate is hard work.

It's too much! Keyte forces her goblet of wine off to whoever's sitting on the other side of her, one hand pressed tightly to her belly as she continues to laugh. "THE DOLPHINS!" Her cry is punctuated by a series of high-pitched giggles. "Oh, lady. Look, look! There he goes again! Ser Thorn! Aye, Ser Thorn! Huzzah!"

Kelinyx finds snacks near enough to reach and helps herself to a few as the warriors begin leaving the field, and any she might know will get a smile and wave from her should they look her way.

Garvin joyously shouts, "And the Red Team is down to Ser Tyraneus and Ser Phylip! The Green Team is still going strong, with Ser Riderch, Ser Daved, Ser Fortinbras, Ser Jonah, and Ser Laurent!"

As the advantage of numbers swings more heavily toward the Green side, Ser Laurent Tyrell seems to find some hidden reserve of energy. He's not fresh — far from it — but he moves with a renewed vigor. Ser Phylip is a steadfast defender, but Laurent is testing him sorely now, swing his sword with no regard for his own safety.

Ser Fortinbras proves a more difficult opponent than Ser Colin, and Tyraxeus trades blows with the Reach knight. His mace scrapes across his foe's breastplate, making a hideous noise but not doing enough damage to remove the fellow from combat. He dodges the knight's strike himself, and the force of their blows turns them about. Rather than gang up on Fortinbras, he turns his attention to Ser Jonah.

Arros receives a good gash on the arm from Ser Daved, and turns to walk off of the field. He sheathes his sword, and begins unbuckling his gauntlet as he goes. It's rather bloody.

Garvin joyously shouts, "And the Red Team is down to Ser Tyraxeus and Ser Phylip! The Green Team is still going strong, with Ser Riderch, Ser Daved, Ser Fortinbras, Ser Jonah, and Ser Thorn!"

Angharad is back on her feet as Ser Laurent presses his attack. Each blow he lands makes her gasp and cry out — "Oh! OH! Oh my… OH!" — tension building until her hands are over her face and she's watching through her fingers. At one point she grows so excited she swings her fists in the air, shouting, "KNOCK HIM FROM HERE TO WINTER, LAURENT!"

Garvin joyously shouts, "And now the Red Team is down to just one knight, Ser Tyraxeus! The Green Team is looking pretty good, with Ser Riderch, Ser Daved, Ser Fortinbras, and Ser Laurent of House Tyrell!"

Keeping in a line with Sir Laurent, Riderch's red shield still dares wave in the field as they hammer on the seemingly immortal Ser Philyp. Suddenly, his sword impacts hard against the man's chest plate for him to notice. and he jams his boot into the ground to pull the blade back. He stares at the knight he just hit for a moment. "Ser — Are you — " Catching his breath one moment, he hesitates, saluting the man. "Well fought."

he gives a loud gLetting out a quick, loud bellow, he suddenly leaps free from the melee and peels around to somewhat opportunistically engage Tyraxeus.

Tyraxeus strikes Ser Jonah hard enough to rattle his arm and send him out of the competition, but as he looks about for his next opponent he finds himself with quite an array of choices. A laugh echoes from within his helm, and he twirls the heavy mace between his hands, taking up a defensive posture as he faces them down. "Come, sers! Let's have done with this!" Riderch leaps for him, and he lashes out that way first.

Laurent hammers at Ser Phylips red shield, driving it wide to his opponent's left. Though he is unable to land a telling blow himself, his teammate finds an opening and sees the stalwart Ser Phylip off.

Daevon cheers for Tyraxeus as he manages to take on all four of them.

And now there's mad screaming from the crowds, as four tired knights work together to attack one man. They shout for him. Underdogs, even foreign ones, are beloved of smallfolk. "Pole-ARM! Pole-ARM!"

Arros joins in the smallfolk's chanting as his arm is wrapped by a maester.

Panting now, Laurent engages the Stormlander knight alongside his fellows. When his first lunge glances off Tyraxeus' armor, he raises his shield high again, circling the other knight now as he tries to find an opening.

Keyte continues to laugh along, her eyes glued to the field. "Ah! Oh, my. Look! Lady Look, locke! Ah, lady look Locke… what? No! Ser Laurent!!"

Garvin's page offers him a goblet of wine, but for once, he's too distracted to drink. His eyes are locked on the field, and he's chewing his lower lip. "Come on, Thorn," he says in a low voice, rapping his knuckles against the railing. He shouts, "Ser Tyraxeus is still standing, against Ser Laurent, Ser Daved, and Ser Fortinbras!"

Riderch's plan of methodically, err, as they would say in another time and another place 'bum rushing' his foe falls flat. The Polearm-wielding man definitely took advantage of a weapon with greater reach and crowd control, and it slips by his shield. The Raven just wasn't quite fast enough this time, and is knocked firmly on his arse with a sharp impact to the chest. Riderch gets up for a second, frowning, and looks like he is about ready to keep on going. Instead, he raises his sword stiffly in salute. "Well fought, Ser." He says, laughing. Breathlessly.

Laurent continues to circle Tyraxeus, raining blows on the Stormlander knight, though they rebound off first his left arm and then his right.

There's just screaming, "Pole-Arm! Pole-Arm!" as the tired combatants close in small tight bundle on the field, clashing steel.

Tyraxeus takes advantage of Riderch's spontaneity, jabbing a blow to the Riverlander's body and then using his nearness as a brief barrier and aid to dodging the blows of the other three knights, Ser Laurent's missing so narrowly it slices his tabard, but nothing else. Her tips Ser Riderch the briefest of salutes, unable to spare more attention than that as he parries and dodges and returns a flurry of blows from his three opponents. Finally Ser Laurent manages a strike hard enough to send him reeling back a step and, after a moment in which he clearly contemplates continuing, he lifts his mace in salute, and leaves the field.

Daevon's cheering Tyraxeus, not the team who actually won. Of course in the eyes of much of the audience the man who stood up against four knights and bravely fought on, Ser Polearm as he's now been dubbed, is the real victor.

The crowd seems to agree with Daevon. They're on their feet, yelling for Tyraxeus, in paroxysms of delight over the man.

Laurent surges a half-step forward in the moment Tyraxeus spends contemplating fighting on, but as soon as his opponent raises a salute the Thorn stops to raise both sword and shield above his head. His victory cry is wordless, and leaves him panting. He can't remove his shield quickly enough, though when he finally does get it free, he drops it to the mud. By that time his squire has reached him, and he and young Willem confound one another's efforts at the helm for a moment before it comes free as well. That done, he's sheathing his sword as he stalks toward his teammates, clapping backs and pulling men close to growl words of celebration into their ears.

Garvin leans far over the railing, holding his breath, until Tyraxeus yields and starts off the field. "And the Green Team clears the field of all opponents, as the last knight, Ser Tyraxeus Dondarrion is forced at last to surrender! But he put up a good fight, my lords and ladies, a true champion to the end. Hurrah!"

Angharad emits a girlish shriek of triumph and elation as Laurent lands the 'killing' blow, grabbing Keyte in a hug and jumping up and down. "HE WON, he won, HUZZAH!" MUAH! Cheek kisses! Eeee! Bounce, bounce!

Tyraxeus bows to the victors and then cedes, removing his helm as he steps off the field. He pushes back his hood, ruffling a hand through sweaty black curls before lifting it to give a wave to the cheering crowd, laughing merrily at their reaction.

And the crowd goes wild! The smallfolk might be cheering for Tyraxeus, and even the nobility, but Keyte is right here with Angharad, springing to her feet in delight for her cousin's team's victory. "Huzzah! Team Green! Tyrell, Ser Laurent, FOR THE DOLPHINS!" The last, she cups her hands beside her mouth to amplify.

Igdahn isn't cheering for anyone; not out of a dearth of appreciation, but out of a sense of propriety, as hollering out loud hardly seems maidenly. But she claps her hands together in a demurely appreciative fashion by her cousin's side.

Daevon will get healed up later. For now he's just standing back, watching the various goings on.

To his credit, Riderch looks like he won himself, even though it was indeed Laurent. The Riverlander's a team player. Pulling his helmet off now, his sparse hair is drenched with sweat and he has discarded his arms. The Stormlander may have lost, but he gets another salute from the man who was knocked out by him towards the end. The Raven finally turns back to Ser Laurent and flashes him another quick grin before scanning the crowd.

Gwayne offers a clapping of his hands in celebration of his teams victory; the metal of his gauntlets clanging together as he does so. It's not often that the man smiles, but this instance he decides to break tradition. His hands move to rest on his hips and he looks over to Daevon, "Your team fought well. And don't worry, my lord; you will have your rematch."

"Oh, the mighty dolphins!" cries Angharad, swooning and enraptured and laughing. She cheers until she's hoarse, then kisses Keyte's cheek again in temporary farewell. "I must go down — you see, dolphins ARE good luck!" And she hurries down from the stands to the rail around the combat.

Tyraxeus pulls off gauntlets and drops them into his helm, passing it and his weapon off to the squire he's borrowed for the occasion. When that is done he drops to a knee, head bowed in a brief moment of prayer before he rises again and goes about shaking the hands of several other combatants standing about, ending up nearby enough to say to Daevon, "Bad luck, Ser, I had looked forward to seeing you in action."

Garvin shouts once again, "A cheer for all those on the Red Team: Ser Daevon Targaryen the Maiden's Knight! Ser Arros Sand of Dorne! Ser Jaym! Ser Myles! Ser March! Ser Phylip! And Ser Tyranxeus Dondarrion of the Stormlands! A brave team of gallant knights, all." He pauses for some cheering, then shouts some more, "A cheer for all those on the Green Team, who took the field! Ser Gwayne Hightower of the Hightower! Ser Laurent Tyrell the Thorn of Highgarden! Ser Wyl Flowers of Sacheland Tower! Ser Riderch Blackwood of the Riverlands! Ser Colin! Ser Daved! Ser Fortinbras! and Ser Jonah!"

"Yes," breathes Keyte, still aflush. "Go, go to him! Ay, me." The Tyrell girl sends Angharad off with an extra squeeze, and re-takes her seat. And probably her wine.

Daevon smiles at Gwayne. "I'll look forward to it. I don't suppose you want to go now?" He's oh so hopeful. "I barely got to raise my sword let alone hit anyone." He shakes his head at Tyr. "It was not luck, it was skill. I'm sure you'll see me in action. I'd love to try my hand against you. A man who can hold of four knights on his own is certainly a skilled fighter."

The crowd roars back. Somebody shouts, somehow managing to get it between the huzzahs, "A cheer for oat cakes! A cheer for the Pansy!"

"Well fought, Ser," Laurent says, pulling riderch close if the Riverlander will allow it. The Tyrell knight radiates a savage glee that is almost unheard of in the joyless Thorn. Then he's plodding heavily toward the rail, his dark eyes searching out a familiar form. And when he sees Angharad, his pace quickens, and it's to her that he goes. Sweating, dirty, smelling of oil and metal and perspiration, he reaches over the rail toward his betrothed with no thought at all toward propriety.

Riderch says towards Laurent with an aside, "looks like you made /someone/'s day, Ser." There's that same crooked, mischevious grin. "I suppose it's time for — you know, post fight medicine." Lifting his head in celebration, he claps his teammate on the shoulder as Angharad approaches, he simply bows his head once before plodding off to find a maester or two. Or maybe the wine tent. Maybe they're next to each other.

Propriety? What's that? Angharad seems to have temporarily forgotten. She hops the bloody rail and then straight up into Ser Laurent's reaching arms. "You were wonderful!" she breathes, beaming at him.

"Perhaps after the jousts tomorrow? A sort of cherry on top for the onlookers." Gwayne addresses Daevon as he slides his gauntlets off, passing them to a member of the city watch along with his helmet.

"After the jousts," Daevon laughs. "If we're both in one piece then. Jousting can be brutal sometimes, don't you think and if people don't come out of it black and blue it's being done wrong. I'd planned for a long hot bath after the jousting. But sure, I suppose if we can both stand we can both fight. I don't want to get soft with all of these city luxuries."

Laurent stifles further compliments with a sudden (and scandalously thorough) kiss. He pulls her to him with no mind for her discomfort — being held so tight against a man in full plate is no doubt uncomfortable for a slip of a noblewoman in a dress — and holds her there for seconds that draw out until they're over a minute, and when he finally pulls fractionally away he's still panting, unable to answer her praise with anything other than a grin.

"Well, then it is a shame you met a fellow with such skill so early," Ty smiles at Daevon, and then laughs, "If you like I am sure we can find a time, though if it came to blades I think you might make quicker work of me, Ser. The Warrior weighted my mace today, and that's sure." He nods politely to Gwayne at Daevon's side, "Well fought, Ser. Congratulations on your team's victory."

"Congratulations to yourself, Ser. It's no small feat holding out against those odds. If you're ever looking for a position in the Watch, we'd gladly take you," Gwayne responds to Tyraxeus, sounding as business as usual.

"Two of them," Daevon smiles. "They ganged up on me, and unlike you, Ser Polearm, I was ill prepared to fight them both off." He nods. "Perhaps, but it need not come to blades, need it.

Angharad laughs against Ser Laurent's mouth before returning the kiss in earnest. Quite, quite scandlous. But they are to be married, after all, and marriage will certainly put an end to all this affection nonsense.

Garvin swoops Kelinyx up in his arms, and sits her on his right shoulder, as his page begins pushing through the crowd to make way. It's a little awkward, as Garvin isn't exactly the most broad-shouldered man, but somehow, he manages not to drop the girl, as he makes his way to the field. "Ser Laurent!" he cries with a brilliant grin, as he approaches his cousin and Lady Locke. "Champion of the field! The Thorn of Highgarden's Roses!"

Keli is surprised, laughing and squealing as she is lifted, and soon she can't help but start yelling woo and yeah along with the crowd when the celebration and release of all the crowd's tension starts to flood into idiotic merriment among many, perhaps even including the girl. She is otherwise a pleasant little accessory, perhaps too overstimulated to do more than greet and laugh and make a swipe at nearby eats.

Well, it looks like Riderch found the 'medicine.' Smirking, if grimacing a little, the First Raven of House Blackwood hefts a goblet of wine as he walks by, waving a little at the stands in a manner that basically says 'I love you guys', even though it's probably a bit showy and ostentatious.

"Ah, I thank you, Ser," Ty replies to Gwayne with a polite smile still, "It's a kind offer, but I have my duties to my house already. And I'd be pleased to face you with whatever arms you choose, Ser Daevon," he adds, "I will be some time in Oldtown, I believe, so at your convenience."

"I'm going to get out of this armour and then get a drink," Daevon says. "Everyone's welcome to join me, winners and losers. First round's on me. I'm thinking the Quill."

"Cousin," Laurent calls out to Garvin, his voice rasping from his throat. It is with a visible effort that he tears his eyes from the lady Locke to find Garvin, though when he does, they are still eyes flushed with the thrill of victory. "Tyrell!" He calls out, pumping one fist into the air in answer, "And Highgarden!" He clutches Angharad to his side as he turns to face the younger Tyrell Lord, and in his high spirits even offers Kelinyx a grin of greeting as well."

"And the second's on me!" Garvin shouts in answer to Daevon's announcement. "And every round after that. When Lord Pansy pays, everyone drinks!"

Gwayne nods to Ty before turning his attention to Daevon, "That sounds to me like an idea with merit." Without further comment, Gwayne is stripped of his armor by more members of the Watch and he begins to make his way to alcohol.

Angharad leans against Laurent's side, smiling proudly. There are no words for Garvin, but her nod if pleasant enough and her smile undiminished. The waif on Lord Pansy's shoulder gets a big, nose-scrunching grin — who wouldn't be charmed by such an ornament — and a dimpled wink.

Arros's arm is bandaged, and he heads off for his pavilion.

Wyl is one of many to echo the call of "Tyrell!" before lapsing back into comfortable silence, stepping from the field to disarm.

Daevon's got squires to take care of the armour, and once he's changed he heads for the tavern.

Daevon enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

the Targareyn's offer definitely ropes in the lone Riverlands Knight as Riderch already has finished the small pour that was in his goblet. Setting it down, he gets to work changing into something a little more comfortable. (No, not like that).

Gwayne enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Garvin looks around at the shout of Tyrell, searching for the source. "Cousin, who is that knight?" he asks, nodding toward Wyl. "Is he one of our men?"

"Wyl!" Rather than telling Garvin the knight's identity, Ser Laurent is calling out to Wyl, waving him over with a free hand. "Wyl Flowers!" He shifts slightly so that he and Angharad are now facing the imposing Reach knight as well, and says unabashedly, "Lord Ball's bastard, aren't you?" It's said genially enough — a rare thing for any word from the Thorn — and then he sweeps a hand at his companions. "My Lord Cousin, Garvin Tyrell. And my betrothed Lady, Angharad Locke."

Garvin gives Lady Angharad a small bow, then turns to watch Wyl approach, both brows shooting up. "That's Ser Wyl Flowers?" he whispers, shifting Keli a bit on his shoulder. "He didn't look quite so big from up in the stands."

Wyl turns at the call, looking back over a mailed shoulder, and stepping back toward the summons. "I am, Lord," he confirms as to his parentage. "The late Lord Ball." At the introductions, he bends his large frame in deep bow, first to "Lord Tyrell," and a second bow to, "Lady Locke."

Tyraxeus is seen to by a maester and then wanders back out in time to spot Wyl, recognizing the size and the armor of the fellow at least. He heads his way, semi-unintentionally joining the other Tyrells as he raises a hand to greet the bastard just named, "Ser Flowers! Well fought."

Garvin looks up, up, up at Wyl, his breath catching for a few moments. Finally, he manages a sheepish grin. "It's an honor to meet you, Ser Wyl. I hope you'll join us at the Quill and Tankard." And not accidently step on me! "And Ser Tyraxeus! The final Red Knight on the field, who held off four others for so long. You too are welcome, of course."

Wyl's armor marks him as much as his size in such company, a humble harness of ring maile as the baseborn knight bows a third time to "Ser Dondarrion is courteous to say so." At Garvin's invitation, he rumbles quietly, "I shall, Lord."

"Well fought, Ser," Laurent tells Tyraxeus as the Stormlander approaches. It's a heartfelt congratulation, if not a particularly effusive one. And then he's nodding again at Garvin, and at Wyl, and agreeing. "The Quill and Tankarad. Of course he'll join us." He turns a half-grin on Wyl when the hulking bastard agrees, and excuses both himself and his lady. "First, I must see myself into something more suitable, and see my lady safely home." Stalking off, he calls out above the din. "Willem! Nyran! Damnit, where is that boy?"

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