(121-04-12) In Blood, Truth
In Blood, Truth
Summary: A Trial of The Seven — combat to resolve certain accusations, with tragic results for the Dornish.
Date: 12/04/2014
Related: Wickham's Nest Plot

Tourney Grounds The Reach

Sat Apr 12, 121 ((Sat Apr 12 17:41:11 2014))

It is a summer day. The weather is warm and raining.

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.

Contents: Luckin Sera Ryzael Quillian Prospero Leire Laurent

Keyte Kevyn Johanna Arion Abram Brynden

Exits: [E] Champion's Way [SW] Blackcrown Road

Special: places - Special Places Available

A sturdy wooden railing has been built in a large square, central on the tournament field, hung with banners of the seven-pointed star amid garlands of fresh-cut greenery woven with wildflowers. The open field surrounding the fighting eric is crowded with smallfolk, while pavilions are pitched on opposite sides of the field for the combatants to arm themselves. Shields are placed before the varied pavilions; famed blazons among them: Hightower, Tyrell, Oakheart, Florent, a Storm, and two Cockshaws for the Accused. Blackmont, Dayne, Gargalen, Toland, and a pair of Sands for the Accusers, but the final Blackmont champion remains a mystery: the seventh shield is painted a plain grey.

In attendance to oversee the event are Lords and Ladies of Hightower and Tyrell, though all defer to the Crowns representative: the Queen That Never Was, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, bedecked in shining armor of bright steel and brass. At tables in front of the pavilions, the weapons of the knights are laid out for inspection by the opposing seconds, the bad blood that had sparked this feud still apparent in the suspicion with which each approaches the Trial. While smallfolk wager on everything from the victors to the identity of the final Blackmont champion, a flourish of trumpets blown by a dozen heralds summon the attentions of all to the noble dais.

There's a small party in Cockshaw colors - black with three feathers - on the edge of the square. A middle-aged man, square-faced and square-shouldered; a woman only a little younger with dust blonde hair and a pretty, if worn, face; and a man of about twenty years who's seated in a rolling cart rather than walking. Kevyn is confering with them quietly. He clasps the hands of both men, and embraces the woman, before going to take his place with Ser Viggo.

On the side of the green reserved for those men representing House Blackmont, Tameron Sand waits in full maile with a surcoat in the colors and crest of House Dayne across his chest. His blade is sheathed by his hip and he has opted to fight without a shield, though who knows if that will be a wise decision or a foolish one. His gaze moves over the field, the gather crowd and the other combatants.

There at his shield, clad in black plate and the green tabard with black oak leaves would be the Blackrood of Oakheart. Behind him his squire holds his helmet and poleaxe, while the knight stares out across to the Dornish banners. Ser Quillian does pause to spit once behind him, before he is shifting in the black steel plate he has donned for this occasion. An older man behind him, but by a few years leans in to whisper something, in which he chuckles. Turning the knight embraces the other before the elder moves to get back to the stands. Head bowed, and eyes closed, Quillian turns once more. Likely locked in some quiet bit of prayer.

Luckin stands at the edge of the Royal Dais. The kindly-old-man look that the archmaester so normally wears isn't there to day. Rather, he looks outright cross.

Ser Laurent Tyrell takes the field in a dark suit of full plate armor, its heavy pauldrons and full armet helm making the already tall knight seem larger still, a mountain of a man. It is worked through with a motif of roses and thorns. A long, slender dagger is belted at his waist, and next to the mercy blade hangs a favor. The favor is an ornate thing, a brass key whose head is a rose, and its teeth the thorns. At the edge of the field, his standard is borne by a pugnacious looking red-haired teen with a black eye, young Willem Fossoway. The Thorn himself stands alone near the pavillion set out for the Reachmen, his visor raised to reveal a scowling face.

Ser Osric Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, is arrayed in his war glory. A suit of burnished mail gleams in the light of the setting sun, its sheen almost silver. Over this he wears a tabard of vivid white bearing his personal arms. His helm is a simple barbute, and he wears a favor in the Martell colors. On the table for inspection lies the greatsword Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star. Its blade is pale as milkglass, and its edge sharp as Valyrian steel. He stands near where his shield is hung, though his violet eyes drift often to where the weapons are inspected.

Clad in full plate today, Ser Brynden Hightower looks around for a few moments, including one long look through the crowds, readying himself for what is to come. Stepping over to somewhere not too far from Laurent. "At least some things will be resolved on this day, one way or the other," he offers quietly to the man now, as he looks over at the people they will be fighting now.

Having spent the better part of the day with one of the Cockshaw accuseds, Lady Keyte now clings to her twin sister, concern written across her features quite plainly. She cranes her neck as they make their way to some appropriate seating, flanked by guards and servants alike, all looking to see the men of their House who stand to fight. The Blackrood, cousin Quill. That ass, Ser Thorn. And of course, Keyte's looking for the squire who should be wearing her favor.

With his circular shield hung nearby, Gargalen red and yellow spread across it in alternating fashion, Ser Arrick waits for his spear to be released from the inspection of poisons. With the scaled armor of a Dornish warrior spread across his body, cockatrice inlaid on the scales of the breast, the young Dornish knight is standing rather stoically, waiting and watching.

There is one sole figure sitting on the ground near the spot reservered for House Toland. Being the only Toland here is…meditating? His greatsword has been sent to examination and in that time, he just sits there, stone still. A slight movement of wind brushes against him. A hand reaches for the dirt of the ground beneathe him. A small handfull is taken up, rubbing it between his hands. Finally, as if coming out of a trance, he hefts himself to his feet.

Laurent turns to face Brynden when the knight speaks to him, nodding as he draws near. "We'll see the end of a few Dornishmen, Ser Brynden, if nothing else." the surly Tyrell knight remarks through a twist of the lips that just might be a grin. It's an ugly one, if it is. "His dark eyes drift across the field, and he nods absently. "We'll kill the bastards, and no doubt about it."

"Well, that's lovely, isn't it," Prospero Storm comments, rolling his shoulders with a mild clinking if pauldrons as he looks at the field laid out so nicely with garlands and shields to represent the sides. He adjusts the fittings of his armor, checking to make sure everything is indeed in place, and though he has no house colors to go with his last name, what cloth can be seen under maile and plate is a canary yellow color and blacks of House Caron. The Oncoming Storm nods, looking around to the other knights and combatants in attendance with an introspective gaze. If he's made his prayers, he's done so already. He does comments to Quillian companionably, "Hope that was heard."

"I hope so as well." Quillian remarks back towards Prospero. A smile give back to the other man, before his gauntleted hand pats at the back of the other. A motion shift and his helm is brought into the crook of his arm as he looks back over. "If not, well. Fuck all eh?" A half grin given before he is clearing his throat. "Was a red sun this morning, which means a red day." idly discussing the weather "So, when you hit Dornishmen, does lightly shoot from your eyes?"

Amidst the members of House Tyrell, near the twins, sits Laurent Tyrell's wife, Lady Angharad. She's dressed in Tyrell green with golden roses in her hair, a rather large, and somewhat gaudy, ornamental gold lock on a ribbon around her neck. The lock is entwined with a golden rose and thorns. She looks pale and grave, eyes intent on the field, one hand absently over her flat stomach.

Johanna Oakheart is one of those people along the sidelines, slightly hunched over one of the tables as she carefully inspects the weapons laid out and on display. There is a grim set to her lips as she performs the task, doing so as meticulously as she can in the allotted time.

Standing near the place reserved for House Florent is Arion. The squire watches the goings on around him with sharp eyes while keeping one eye out for his knight and cousin Abram in case he is needed. The young blonde Florent's green gaze scans over everything with a fairly calm stare. If he is nervous it doesn't show but from the way he stands he is quite tense all the same.

Ryzael walks slowly through the weapons displays of both teams, pausing to inspect them in some measure of detail. He does not touch the weapons with bare hands, instead handling them with thick leather gloves. A curious eye is given to each, and though seemingly without rancor or malice in his mein. When that is finished he signals nothing found and removes the gloves, tossing them into a nearby fire without touching the outside surface. Clasping his hands behind his back he moves then towards the area of the platform where his House is seated to join them.

"Harry," says Keyte, turning her eyes from the field and leaning aside to extend a hand to her cousin-by-marriage. "Come, sit a bit closer, let's hold hands?"

Brynden nods at Laurent's words, "True." He looks through the stands once more, nodding a little bit to himself as he does. He then turns to look at the other participants, expression unreadable as he studies them for the moment. Waiting for this to start now.

Placed in the area reserved for the Dornish nobility who watch the preparation of the historic spectacle is the young Oldtown woman who has been serving House Dayne, and who has become the lady's maid of Princess Mariya Martell. Embry wears the princess's house colours in a dress that would otherwise be modest and subdued if not for the vivid hues. Small purple and white flowers have been woven into her elegant dull blonde braids, as well, but are not flashy; she is no princess. She looks little more than a little girl with a role that's too big for her and a dress that pales her plain skin, staring across at the crowd of smallfolk ready to flinch away from familiar faces. She's so nervous she might flutter away in a stray breeze.

Prospero laughs, a short boom of a sound. "You'll sure know if it wasn't," he comments back to Quillian with a flash of a grin under his mustache, clapping the other man on the back with a clang of armor as he was just done. "Always a red day on a day like today. Just have to hope it's not an omen for you and keep going." As to the other, he smiles like he's keeping a secret. "Suppose you'll find out, hm?" Though that does sound painful for one's eyes.

It is here that Castor feels the most alone. But that isn't always a bad thing, is it? Far from home, involved in a conflict that he had nothing to do with and little knowledge, the Toland knight does what believes is the right thing to do. And yet, he looks to be at peace with himself. The last traces of dirt falls away from his fingers, then he claps his hands together. Another glance skyward, as if he's contemplating something. "I wish I could see the stars." he utters to himself, his voice as always sounds growly and gutteral.

Angharad manages a strained smile for Keyte, lacking neither in warmth, nor fear, nor sorrow. She nods and stands, moving to sit beside Keyte. "Thank you," she says to the dark-haired girl, taking and giving her hand a squeeze. "I do need a hand to hold. I am so glad of yours."

Laurent's eyes follow Brynden's toward the stands, and his uncharacteristic good humor stands. That wide mouth is twisted into a smile, which broadens when he finds the grouping of his cousins, and broadens further when he sees his wife, or at least fancies he does. He raises his gauntleted right hand, clenched into a fist, to bang it off his breastplate in a wordless salute.

The great-voiced herald of House Hightower calls aloud with uncommon volume, "Now are called to the field of honor, they who would hazard their lives upon truth in the eyes of the Gods! For the Accused: Ser Laurent Tyrell, of House Tyrell, called the Knight of Thorns! Ser Quillian Oakheart, of House Oakheart, called the Blackrood! Ser Viggo Cockshaw and Lord Kevyn Cockshaw, of House Cockshaw! Ser Abram Florent, of House Florent! Ser Brynden Hightower, of House Hightower! Ser Prospero Storm of Nightsong, called the Oncoming Storm!" Cheers raise from the smallfolk as each knight steps onto the field, a squire bearing aloft a banner behind their knight.

Osric moves among the Dornish champions now, offering an easy grin to men who meet his eye. He claps one gloved hand on the shoulder of Ser Tameron, nodding to the younger man. A tight and reassuring grip, though he remains silent as the herald begins to speak.

Leire stands among a modest contingent from the Starry Sept, all dressed in the robes of the priesthood. A male septon in her company bears a seven-sided crystal, refracting prismatic bands of rainbow light as it catches the sun. Young acolytes climb the stands, distributing colorful anemones to the highborn spectators, reciting blessings each time one is handed out.

Abram Florent steps onto the field when his name is called, muttering under his breath, "Fifth. Why do they always name me fifth?" The knight of Brightwater steps onto the field in polished steel from head to toe, a rounded houndskull visor obscuring his face, and a stout longaxe held in gauntleted hands. A white surcoat, spotted with ermine in the Florent fashion, is worn over his torso, a red fox embroidered over the heart.

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

Angharad lifts her free hand and kisses it to Laurent, so he might know it is indeed she. It's no ebullient gesture, but it's heartfelt.

"It is how I live my life Ser. The Stranger will come one day, till then I shan't worry about it." Quillian murmurs before he is looking back to the other man. A tug of his beard with his free hand before he yanks a grin in Prospero's direction. "Indeed I will. I'll be sure to watch with weathered eye." a sigh given as he squints. "Well I suspect we shall get it over with soon." a turn of his head away and he spits once more. "Ah, there we are." And with the summons, he is moving to follow his way out. Helm kept close. "Follow close Lewyn.." Quill adds to his squire, before the great helm is pulled on and secured. And then his Poleaxe is handed over. And off he moves.

Tameron glances over as Ser Osric rests his hand on his shoulder, and the young knight offers the Sword of the Morning a tight smile and a small nod. Then he, too, regards the field as the accused that their places on it.

"For the Accusers!" the herald calls out over the tumult. "Lord Arnau Blackmont, Lord of House Blackmont, Defender of the western Marches and First Sword of the Red Mountains! Ser Osric Dayne, Lord of Starfall, bearer of the Valyrian sword Dawn, called the Sword of Morning! Ser Arrick Gargalen, of House Gargalen, knight of the Boneway, Defender of Dorne and all that She stands for! Ser Castor Toland, of House Toland, called the Stargazer! Ser Arros Sand of Hellholt! Ser Tameron Sand, of Starfall! " The great-voiced herald goes silent after the sixth name, and steps backward, amid a hesitant buzz of curiosity as folk small and great double check the number announced.

Luckin mutters, "That sword is not Valyrian," in a distracted, ill-tempered sort of way.

The weapon Laurent picks up from the arming table is a heavy mace, two-handed, its head wickedly flanged. It is worked with the same pattern of roses and thorns as his armor, and hefts it in both hands before leading his squire onto the field. His visor is yet raised as he passes Abram, and he nods to the Florent. "First," is the single word that he growls, grinning.

When the seventh name is given, it comes from the lips of Lord Arnau Blackmonts personal crier: "Standing as seventh to the just cause of my Lord Blackmont is the Sorrow of Hesh! Champion of the Lhazar! Called the Prince of Ashes, Ser Maelys Targaryen!"

A giant in onyx plate tears across the field, atop a black destrier in a crimson and onyx caparison. The knight's head is encased in a helm wrought from a dragon's skull. His cloak is a tattered, fire-stained length of cloth, said to be the raiment of a Lhazaeeen godswives' robes. Long, curved black dragon teeth run down the back of his cuirass and along his pauldrons. He rides to the table where the challengers' weapons lie and lifts a huge great sword from off the table. The sword is fully four and a half feet long, with three long fullers running down the length of the blade. Round the knight's spaulder, a favor of red damask adorned with rubies. A Braavosi youth in a crimson doublet lifts the grey shield from off the last post, places a black shield bearing a three-headed red Dragon atop three broken swords, and directs a sardonic smile toward Ser Laurent, the Thorn of house Tyrell. The Prince of Ashes has taken the field.

He rides to the stands, halts before his aunt, The Queen who Never Was. He raises his sword in a severe salute. Honors tendered, Maelys rides to the edge of the field where Daynes, Blackmonts, Tolands, and their fellows prepare for the trial.

Keyte gives Angharad's hand a big ol' squeeze in response, not quite able to manage reassurance in the small smile she returns. She adds a wave of her own to the salutations given field-ward, and settles in her seat for what is going to be a long, nervous wait.

Alone in the stands, perhaps by choice, save for her nearby guardsmen, Valerity Redwyne stands and adjusts the folds of her blazing red gown. It makes her obvious, just for an instant — around the time Ser Abram Florent's name is called — before she sits once more. When the seventh champion of Blackmont is called, however, she's instantly on her feet again, pressing a hand over her breastbone, gone paler than pale in shock. "Oh, Seven," she whispers, slowly sinking to sit again. "Sweet Seven."

Abram glances sharply to his right as the name of Maelys Targaryen is announced, looking to Laurent. A no doubt cutting retort to his comment of 'First' is lost at the naming of the seventh enemy. "Well shit," is his low comment. "We had a plan. It was such a good plan." The words are directed to no one in particular, save whichever gods might be listening in.

Kevyn glances sidelong at the one called 'Oncoming Storm.' If nothing else, it's vaguely promising that he's on their side. The weapon he picks up from the arming table is a simple broadsword, paired with a shield bearing the sigil of his House rather than a knight's personal heraldry. He is, after all, no knight yet.

Osric lifts the greatsword Dawn from the table once it has been inspected, and nods to a sandy-haired Reachman who bears the banner of the Sword of the Morning. Following Lord Blackmont onto the field, his eyes drift from man to man among his team until Ser Maelys Targaryen makes his entrance. Then those violet eyes follow that great black destrier, and his serenity is broken by a frown.

Stepping onto the field with the others, Brynden puts on his helmet now, hiding his reaction to the newest champion of the Accusers. There are some words muttered rather quietly, though. Taking a few deep breaths as he looks around now, taking his sword and shield away from there now.

"The only way to live." Prospero cocks his head and side-eyes Quillian, expression gone serious for a moment. "Don't be keeping your eyes on me too much, lest one of those sand dwellers take advantage of it. And that'd be a damn shame." He nods once, slow and solemn, before the herald is calling names. The Oncoming Storm moves to his place with an easy sort of swagger, though each step he takes is firmly put—though not quite the sound of thunder on each of his steps, as stories have claimed. The vicious looking hammer he carries is given a twirl along with his name, the bludgeon glinting in the light. Then he waits, clearing his throat with a rustle of mustache and spitting. If it's timed to the appearance of the seventh champion for the Dornish, well, that's just coincidence.

Ser Tameron collects his own blade, a broadsword that is well-made, but no sort of flashy or signature weapon. He picks it up, feels the weight of the pommel in his palm and waits for his squire, bearing his banner, to fall into step behind him before he walks onto the field. Maelys Targaryen gets a regard that is quiet and curious as he steps past the Prince of Ashes.

Laurent's dark eyes are murderous when Maelys' name is announced, and he surges forward a single step at the sight of that black destrier and the imposing figure astride it. Even through the weight of armor, his shoulders can be seen to rise and fall with a heavy breath, and the face that he closes his visor on is red and furious. He turns away though, letting one hand fall from the heavy mace to clap Abram on the shoulder as he leans close to growl a few words to the other man.

Arion watches carefully as the knights step onto the field. He glances around briefly before his attention is drawn back to the knights. He bites his lower lip as the seventh champion of the accusers is named and there is a hint of apprehension in his green eyes now and his gaze darts back to Abram no longer quite calm but worried and nervous. He watches as Laurent claps his cousin on the shoulder and frowns slightly.

With all fourteen champions standing on the field of honor, a motion is made to the representative of the Faith to offer a blessing for the ritual combat. The warriors are called to kneel for the invocation by one of the most Holy.

Ser Tameron's squire is small. Might as well be a page. And — might as well come out with it — a girl. That, or the world's prettiest boy. Regardless, Magden Quick bears her knight's banner with shoulders imperial and chin held high.

At the motion to kneel, keeping his weapon upright, Quill quickly slides to one knee, and places a black fist over his heart, letting it hold there during the invocation. All practiced and fluid. Someone has had to do this likely before.

The greatsword that Castor picks up may not be anything special, besides being old and finely well-made. It is however a rather customized blade, a family heirloom called the Starblade. It is perhaps one of his few posessions he actually cares about. As with everyone else, he too begins to take the field, the Stargazer, like most other times, having very little to say. Not too many words for situations like this.

Ser Arrick heads to the arming table and takes hold of a pair of spears, depositing one into the dirt as the Gargalen is then handed his circular shield, red and yellow and waiting to be dented with blows in the coming battle.

Arriving back to the Dornish side of the field the young knight whispers with a laugh in his voice, "I think they may be shitting themselves on the far side of the field…" Ser Arrick has a light helm placed upon his head that hides the grin as twirls the weapon of the Dornish, the spear.

Kevyn kneels when bidden to, head bowing. And it'll stay bowed during the invocation of the Seven. He speaks no prayers aloud but his face, what little of it can be seen, is fixed intensely.

Rem enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Abram nods once to whatever the Tyrell beside him muttered, lowering himself to one knee as the Septa is called forward for the sanctification of the combat. The butt of his longaxe is planted in the turf underfoot, one hand resting atop the blade, holding it upright throughout the benediction.

Arion watches the knights kneel gripping the banner of House Florent in his hands until his knuckles are white. He glances briefly through the growing crowd and then his attention is focused one more on the coming battle. He lowers his head a moment whispering a quick prayer and then looks up at the scene once more.

The Prince lifts the fanged wyrm skull and spares a look to Lord Blackmont. "Remember our agreement, Arnau, the Thorn is mine." The Prince of Ashes lowers the fanged helm and draws his sword. He looks upon the Thorn directly. Laurent's murderous stare is met with a burning stare from the Prince.

Prospero presses the head of his hammer to the ground as he kneels with the others, seemingly groaning and creaking a little as he goes down. He bows his head, no throat clearing or other noise uttered during the invocation.

Tameron also sinks to his knee, once he takes the field, as that's what's expected. He casts his squire a quick, small smile before bowing his head to stare down at the ground and wait for the septa to get on with it.

Brynden kneels with the others, head bowed a little, but otherwise there does not seem to be too much reaction to their opponents at the moment. Keeping silent as he mutters a quick prayer under his breath.

With the weapons checked, Johanna makes her way from the tables to the place where Keyte and Angharad are seated, to claim a place beside them.

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

At the call for the invocation Laurent drops to one knee, the head of his mace in the dirt next to him. One hand is balled into a fist on the ground and the other holds his weapon. It's done fluidly enough for a man in armor. His head is raised, dark eyes focused on Leire from behind his visor.

Leire steps forward to address the crowd, raising her voice that all and the Seven might hear her speak. "The right to a Trial of Seven has been invoked. The accuser and the accused have both produced the requisite number of champions, and so let us offer a prayer of consecration to our ultimate arbiters of justice." Though they are assembled in the light of day, she holds a lantern in silent homage to the Crone, her eyes pointed upward as she leads the prayer. "As these champions prepare to do combat for their cause, may the Warrior imbue them with courage and fortitude and may the Smith guide their weapons so that they strike true. As the Father Above sits in judgment of their righteousness, may the Mother turn a compassionate eye upon her sons and may the Crone provide the counsel of her infinite wisdom. Above all, when it comes time that a verdict be had, may the Maiden vindicate the innocent and may the Stranger have mercy upon the guilty."

Ser Osric is quick to kneel at the behest of the Most Holy, his eyes closed and chin tucked toward his chest. His own lips move in a silent prayer before the Septa begins.

Maelys dismounts, he lowers the tip of his sword to the ground and raisers his visor, when Leire steps forward, the Prince—yes, he -actually- leers at the Septa.

Ser Arrick kneels to one knee, resting against the shaft of his spear, of which the pointed head is planted firmly into the dirt.

Angharad's free hand lifts to press against her mouth, her expression aghast, and her grip on Keyte's hand tightens to the point where it might very well be painful. She looks, as she watches Maelys on the field, like she might faint. "Oh Gods," she whispers, closing her eyes and willing herself not to shake.

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

With the blessings given and the ritual battle properly sanctified, another flourish of trumpets signals the non-combatants to leave the field, one by one the squires peel off and withdraw beyond the railings. Warriors rise, visors are lowered, weapons of war are hefted, and a collective held breath settles over the onlookers. With so many knights afield, no simple dropped scarf could be seen, so a roll of drums begins, ending with a stern look and sharp nod from Princess Rhaenys that signals a great blast of the trumpets signals the start to the terrible contest.

As the champions kneel and blessings are spoken, Keyte keeps a firm hold on Angharad's hand. She glances aside as Johanna joins them, offering a worried smile to the Oakheart girl. "Be strong," she whispers back to Harry, bearing the pain of her crush-hold with a wince. It's ok, though. Squeeze away. "Not only is he a Gods-forsaken brute, he fights for the wrong side. Laurent will smash him."

At the heraldic flourish that begins the contest, Abram starts across the field at a sprint, moving swiftly despite his heavy armor. Axe drawn back for a powerful swing, the Florent rushes with reckless abandon to strike at the dragon-skulled Prince of Ashes.

Ryzael rises from his seat as Maelys makes his entrance, a brief thin smile crossing his features. Glancing between the opposing sides he then slowly and deliberately makes his way over to the Dornish section of the stands, making a slight bow before finding a new seat there amongst them.

Laurent moves in tandem with Ser Abram, a rough yell echoing from within his helm as he goes headlong toward the villainous Targaryen. His mace is cocked back, held in both hands, ready to put his momentum into a terrible swing at the Prince of Ashes.

There is a raise of his poleaxe in the direction of Ser Osric, before Quillian is marching across the field in a normal bit of a rush to meet his signaled foe across. It appears the Sword of the Morning, will be meeting the Blackrood in this Trial. Legends on both sides of the borders. And when they would meet, The Poleaxe is swung to bring the hammer end for the man's shoulder.

The Prince of Ashes finishes conferring with the Lord of Blackmont and seems satisfied with the Lord's rejoinder. He hefts his greatsword after directing a final, approving look to the fair Septa. He smiles to his cousin and bellows across the field. "Have a Maester on hand and perchance fair Harry won't be a widow." Maelys moves directly for the Thorn, his eyes aflame, he does not halt when Ser Abram moves to intercept him but quickens charging for the Thorn, drawing back his sword, preparing a vicious cleaving slash.

Rosana along with what looks like a whole crew of sailors push thier way through the crowd of peasants so they might get a good look at the fight. The tall woman eyes each fighter with a smirk. "I still think we could take them all boys…" The rough looking men grin and shout nodding thier agreement. The female Captian with her golden hair looks to each knight and waits watching with a curious expression. Her hands rest at the hilts of her twin blades as she observes the men and thier skill standing as close as she can to watch.

Osric raises his blade in what is clearly a salute when he sees the Blackrood making for him, and strides toward the notorious Reachman, matching pace to meet him midfield. His sword is held high, his stance open, ready to flash a quick strike down at his opponent.

Kevyn takes to the field. He tries to stay at Ser Viggo's side but the stress of, well, mortality has him on edge, and in large part he just keeps his sword up in a defensive posture and swings it at the first thing that comes in his general vicinity.

Ser Tameron takes a moment as the field begins to erupt, gaze darting to each opponent. It's the one closest to his own age that he targets, moving with quick, sure steps towards the squire Kevyn Cockshaw.

Ser Arrick lifts his spear from the dirt and twirls it about as he moves forth with his shield leading the way. The Gargalen knight peers as the men pair off and chooses his target wisely, Ser Brynden, a man with a sword and shield and bright blue eyes showing from inside his helm. The Dornishmen aims to strike quickly with his spear, end this northron knight's day before it can begin.

Shutting his visor, Castor makes forward for Prospero, since the two seems to of targeted each other. He offers the other man a salute. "I wish you luck." he says simply. No more words from the Stargazer, preparing himself from the likely incoming attack, along with one of his own.

Taking a few moments to survey the opponents, Brynden hurries towards Arrick now, as he sees the man coming towards him. Raising his sword to try striking at the man's neck.

Lady Angharad's throat works in a swallow, her free hand a fist in her skirts, eyes huge and unblinking. "I'll kill him," she whispers. "I swear to all the gods, Keyte, if he — I'll kill him."

Elionys Targaryen is here as well, observing the trial from the place reserved for her family, expression angling towards impassive, but she can't quite hide the concern as the fighting begins.

Osric begins to slowly move 'round Quillian, keeping his stance open, moving with a shuffling step so that his feet do not cross. Dawn sweeps down in what he thinks is an opportune moment, but finds only air. The Blackrood is a canny opponent.

Both knights seem to dance around, as one tries with the Valyrian sword, while the swing of the poleaxe has the other dancing back. There's no laughter in the dance as he is quick to move from one strike to another. This time Quillian seeks to slash and bring his axe around to cut into the knight's fine mail.

Arion watches with slightly widened eyes as the fight starts. Seeing Abram taking a blow from Arros's blade his eyes widen further and he bites down on his bottom lip in worry.

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

Abram's aggression is deflected by both the blade of Ser Arros, and the skill of Ser Maelys. Undeterred by a blow to his right gauntlet, the Florent presses his attack against Maelys, at the expense of properly defending himself from Arros Sand.

"I'll help you," Keyte promises solemnly, leaning away from her twin to nudge shoulders with Angharad in a show of solidarity. Not that vicegrip hand holding isn't one, too. She clenches her teeth as the battle begins, eyes darting amongst her kin on the field. And Kevyn. She squeezes Harry's hand a little harder, if that's even possible?

Laurent's momentum carries him not toward Maelys Targaryen, but into him. He is screaming his rage as he goes, and it is his shoulder rather than his weapon that first finds the Targaryen knight. The clash of armor on armor is loud, and when the men rebound off one another the Thorn staggers back to launch a strike at his oppoent — a thrust of the mace's head, almost, rather than a swing, so short is its arc. It rebounds of the prince's cuirass, taking with it a dragon's tooth.

There is no sudden rush, no burst of speed sprinting from the start, as Prospero takes the field. He rolls in, gaining speed as he goes and Castor is able to see him coming before he gets there and there are no wishes of luck or waves to anyway, not even his own side. The closer he gets the louder his boot-falls grow, until he swings his hammer in a shining arc, bringing it down to clang against Castor's chest armor even as the other's sword does similar.

Aevander Targaryen is seated beside his cousin, Elionys, in the area reserved for Targaryens. His gaze skips briefly over Ryzael as the man moves to the Dornish side of things, swallows down a silent sigh, and returns his attention to the battle.

Tameron lifts his blade with both hands and brings it down on Kevyn Cockshaw. The motion manages to push the other lad's swing away as well as clack down onto Kevyn's arm, though it leaves nothing behind save a small scrape to the armor that protects it.

Ser Arrick takes a hard shot to the side of the neck and rolls with it, yelling out in pain as he comes to his knees. The Gargalen winces inside his helm as he feels a serious cut on the side of neck, scale pushed in and useless going forward. From his knee the Gargalen pushes his spear forward, aiming to strike Ser Brynden's abdomen from his lowered position.

Maelys cuts left ducks narrowly missing a potentially decapitating blow from Ser Abram. Maelys grunts and slashes wildly at the huge Tyrells hand. A second grunt as the Knight's mace smashes into his cuirass. A black dragon tooth snaps with a horrendous CRACK! The Prince pivots and darts left so that the Thorn and Ser Abram are before and between him. He lunges at Ser Laurent, aiming for the Thorn's midsection.

Kevyn takes a hard, semi-desperate swing at Tameron. It misses, whistling through the air, and leaves his own arm up in a position to connect with the Dornish bastard's blow. Fortunately, his armor deflects that, though it does make him back off into an (even more) defensive position.

Johanna scoots just a little bit closer to Angharad, a hand lifting to settle against her back in a quiet show of support for her as well. "They will prevail," she murmurs to the women beside her, only just loud enough that she might be heard.

Trying to step a bit to the side, as he sees the incoming spear, Brynden doesn't let the fact that he's got one good hit in stop him from continuing, as he raises his sword for another blow, while moving the shield to try blocking the incoming strike with that. No words coming from him, as he focuses on the fighting.

Not every swordsman has taken the field today. Riderch Blackwood can be seen, clutching an enmormous hunk of roast chicken in his hand, munching away as he settles into a seat, watching the carnage on the field. As he visits carnage on this poor chicken carcass.

There's a clang on both sides as Prospero's hammer and Castor's sword both stop on each other's chestplates. There's no giving of ground of one to the other, so the process starts again. The Toland knight redirects the bouncing of his blade off the other's armor to cut downward in a diangonal arc. Going to be a long day, likely.

Rosana watches the fight with amusement in her dark brown eyes. The woman is clearly unbothered by the fact they are fighting to the death in fact the aggression the men show only seems to spark her intrest more. Her head tilts her dark gaze mostly focused on the heated battle between Maelys and Laurent. She looks to one of her men. "I'm betting the dragon wins." The man eyes her and shakes his head. "I'm not taking that bet Captian. You'll win it as you always do." Rosana laughs and looks back to the fight her eyes shining.

The two most central figures to the challenge, Lords Arnau Blackmont and Viggo Cockshaw, test their skill and swords, and neither takes an immediate advantage in the thrust, parry and riposte of greatswords.

Abram shouts at the top of his lungs, "On your left!" as he ducks around Laurent's shield side, to dodge the block that Maelys' deft maneuver had placed before him. For all the animosity between their houses, the Florent and Tyrell fight fiercely together, as Abram's axe hooks onto the wicked greatsword of the Targaryen, fresh with Laurent's blood, hauling back with all of his might to foul the weapon. His own armor absorbs Ser Arros' blow across his back with nothing worse than a grunt.

As blades clash, his swing turns wide, leaving an opening for Ser Osric to catch him in the arm. The plate shudders and Quillian now laughs, as he moves to circle. His poleaxe bought back to bear as he takes a step back, eyes studying his opponent. "Fine hit, Ser." he comments, before he is moving again, this time a feint-and hopefully the opening he seeks comes out as the hammer is brought round.

Taking another serious blow, to the chest this time causes Ser Arrick to fall backwards after his own blow strikes shield and nothing more, the knight quickly rights himself but then finds the colored scales which formerly showed his house sigil to be slashed and ruined. The Dornish knight grunts at that and backs off, letting the northron come for him now, backpedaling to continue the fight, maybe tire the knight with small blows with the outstretched spear.

Chewing on a greasy gob of a chicken leg, Riderch produces a rag and watches the two sides clash in a furious melee, wiping some of the mess from his chin. Delightful. He gesticulates wildly with the leg and a bit of grease flies towards the field, sailing over the heads of an oblivious spectator or three. "What the bloody —"

Kevyn takes more bold swings that sing through the air, and fail to hit the Dornishman. He's more effective at blocking with his shield which - while it can't fend off every blow - at least sends some of them to less sensitive points on his armor.

With a growl through his teeth, Prospero swings his bludgeon up to bring it down again on Castor, stepping into the path of the other's sword as he does so. Again, the hammer comes down on the other chest, the noise of it connecting ringing out, though armor buffers the attack, and it looks worse than it actually is from the stands. The Oncoming Storm himself is not as lucky, the sword moving past his guard to strike broad chest.

Ser Osric continues to pace around his opponent, limping slightly from an old wound. He's quick to counter when Quill's attack sings past him, striking at the Blackrood's arms when he is a half-beat slow in retracting the weapon.

Nodding as his attack hits again, Brynden follows after the Gargalen Knight now, trying to not give the man the space to use that spear efficiently. Once more going for the neck area, keeping his attacks going wordlessly.

Tameron's own expression is calm, his motions fluid and confident as he takes another swing. This time, he manages to get beneath Kevyn's shield and leave a scrape between pieces of armor and against his chest. "Less fear," he advises gently. "You have the skill to be out here, you may as well use it."

The Prince feints, his slash is naught but a ruse. The wicked greatsword darts toward the Thorn. The blade bites at the Tyrell like the dragon wrought on its pommel. The Prince growls and seems ready to follow up his first strike with another, then Ser Abram Florent catches his sword upon the blade of his axe fouling it. The Thorn's flanged mace swings for his head. Maelys bellows with rage as the Tyrell's mace smashes into his dragon skull helm, blood sprays across his onyx armoor, leaving the Prince reeling and in pain. He pinwheels for a moment then rights himself, lunging for the Thorn, swining at him with a wide, deadly, slash.

Blood wells from the new rent in Laurent's armor, and his response to Abram's call is lost in a cry of pain as Maelys' blade finds its mark and bleeds the Tyrell knight. Still, he follows the Florent's plan, and when the Targaryen's blade is fouled Laurent's mace comes 'round in a wide arc to catch the Targaryen a solid blow. For a moment, the Prince of Ashes' face is lost in a spray of blood.

Arion watches with wide eyes now still gripping the banner of his house with white knuckled hands. He cannot tear his eyes away from his cousin his gaze both admiring and extremely nervous as well.

The 'First Sword of the Red Mountains' lands a light but palpable blow to Ser Viggo's helm, leaving a crease that briefly staggers the Cockshaw champion, though he recovers quickly, lashing back with a blow to Lord Blackmont's gauntlet, upraised to protect his neck.

Sapphyra and Daevon seem a little late, but it's clear by the expression on their faces that it's likely they've been watching from another area. Having spotted Elionys and Aevander in the Targaryen section, they relocate to join their cousins and siblings there.

Castor feels a sting in his chest as the protection of his armor only goes so far. His sword comes down in the arc he had been deflected, sensing it's cut through Prospero's defenses. Perhaps not as well as he would've liked, but he'll take what he can get. Resetting his postures, he tries to use the distance of his weapon to the advantage, while swinging in a horizontal slice to the midsection of his opponent.

Keyte flinches and jolts at every blow, still holding tight to Harry and yanking her along too. "They will," she agrees with Johanna, her voice strained. "They have to prevail." She yelps at the sight of Laurent's blood, only to cheer at the Thorn's retaliation, rallying, "Get him!"

Among the lesser Targaryen retainers, ill-at-ease but vigilant, there paces Princess Visenya's new sworn sword, Ser Fulk the Subtle. On his breast is his strange and disturbing sigil, the seven-pointed star stabbed through by a dagger; his bare head shows hair and beard neatly cut but much grizzled, and worried, well-disposed dark little eyes.

Angharad flinches and starts, the hand bunched in her skirts moving quickly to her belly again. She looks as though she might weep, but she remains silent. She lets Keyte do the shouting for both of them.

And there, his opening his found. The solid smack of his hammer is brought down rending into poor Osric. Still though being a canny foe, Quillian is planning his next move. Instead of a feint, the axe head he brought now to bear as he tries to rip into his Dornish foe, once more.

Lord Arnau's casual, precise method of duelling looks as though his movements could be engraved into a fencing manual, though in this exchange, it is the Cockshaw's armor which defends him from harm, and a sudden and violent thrust from Ser Viggo that sends Lord Blackmont staggering back, with the point of his enemy's sword piercing between faulds, just above the hip.

Kevyn grunts something intelligible at Tameron, as if he didn't terribly appreciate the advice. His posture does become marginally more aggressive, though, so perhaps he's taking it. In a way. For good or for ill, he's lost track of how the fight between Viggo and Lord Blackmont is going.

Osric stumbles back when Quillian's axe strikes home, a half-step and then a full as his old wound makes him slow to compensate. His tabard is rent, and its vivid white stained with blood. The Sword of the Morning's mouth is drawn into a grim line as Dawn finds a more guarded stance, now.

Ser Arrick keeps backpedaling, aiming his spear at the knight, taking a few glancing blows off his shield in the process. The Gargalen calls out over his battered shield, taunting the Hightower with, "Come on and get it Hightower!"

Laurent reels back from Maelys' blow, staggering, though he keeps his feet. His armor stops this blow, but it's a near thing. He roars a signal to his partner then, sweeping the mace downward and into Maelys' arms to drive that sword toward the ground.

Abram spots the opening his merry rival creates in the guard of the 'Sorrow of Hesh' and steps in deeply, following with a heavy chop that crashes painfully into Maelys' ribs. As he draws the Targaryen's attention, the Florent takes a further step past the Prince, seeking to pin his foeman between Florent and Tyrell.

Chomping down more chunks of chicken, Riderch turns to look for something to spice up his meal. An available flagon of ale. Quite openly, he can be seen eyeing the drinks of several of his neighbors. He hasn't quite descended to /that/ level yet, however. And off he goes to find a drink vendor, still eating what's left of the chicken leg.

Rosana watches the fight from her spot near the fron tof the crowd of smallfolk gathered to watch. The tall woman with her golden brown hair sighs softly and shakes her head as she watches the fight. "I have a feeling I'm the one that will be losing money today…" She eyes Maelys and the dornishmen critically her gaze sharp and asessing.

Keeping his shield in position for the moment, Brynden just shakes his head a little at Arrick's words. Once more swinging for the other man's neck, without pausing so far. Doing his best to take out this enemy now.

Tameron gives a faint nod as Kevyn uncurls a bit. The squire still doesn't manage to hit him, but this time Tameron misses Kevyn, too. Perhaps owed to the lad's improved blocking, or perhaps owed to the fact that he notices Ser Quillian manage a solid hit on Ser Osric.

As Mariya watches the fight with the Dornish, her hands are clenched in tight fists. She is wearing bright Martell colors, an orange flower tucked behind her ear. Horrified, yet unable to not watch, she does not scream, nor does she yell amongst all the clamor. Her face is pale. When Osric is strongly struck by Quillian's axe, she bolts upright, hands immediately reaching to grab for Embry.

The wound to his chest still fresh and stinging, Prospero takes advantage of the position he paid for in blood. Inside the Dornish man's guard, he sweeps his hammer again, keeping the momentum from his last blow as the weapon arcs through the air with a shine like lighting. The blunted head of it comes down on Castor's left arm at an angle, hard enough that armor may keep the arm from breaking, but if the other man isn't sure footed, he will be knocked over by the great blow.

Arion takes in a breath his eyes wide as Maelys turns his focus upon Abram. He bites his lower lip nevrously and watches that spot on the field intently waiting to see how his cousin will fare.

The Prince's sword strikes home, but it is a wild slash, blood still pours from his face and the blow pushes back the reach knight rather than wounding him. Laurent's rejoinder is a brutal slash to his left arm that elicits a sharp grunt. Abram is upon him, delivering a brutal blow to his chest. His armor holds, albeit barely, blood trickles from a shattered poleyn. Maelys is bloody of shoulder and face, but will not relent. Maelys grunts, a pained thing, though he will not relent. His sword is up, again. This time, he slashes for Ser Abram. Intent on preventing the Florent from thwarting his assaults upon Ser Laurent a third time.

There's an audible -crack- at Castor's left arm, and it makes him stagger back two steps but he's just barely able to keep on his feet. He's leaning heavily on his right arm, but his helmet shakes slowly. "You have broken my arm, Ser. I can no longer fight. I yeild, find someone else to give you the fight you so desire."

Ryzael 's eyes follow mainly Maelys in the whirlwind of the melee, sparing a glance here and there for the others. Some concern creeps into his features as the Dragon is struck a series of serious blows. He makes a a calming gesture to the nearby Mariya. "Be calm and attentive Princess. The battle is not over. These things can be deceptive in how they turn out in the end, judging from any given moment." he says. "Should things turn, you will want to remember their moments of glory."

The bristling old Ser Fulk looks as though he'd be more or less ready to step into the shoes of the recreant Dornish champion. His gnarled sword-hand twitches at his hilt.

A tiny gasp is captured in Embry's chest every time she espies one of the familiar Dornish faces get hit or miss; it's a wonder she's able to breathe at all. She's especially locked onto Ser Osric and Ser Quillian— no wonder that she bolts up along with her princess. She immediately grasps the young Dornishwoman's hand, holding tight; friends in a moment of tension, regardless of station. She points cautiously into the field, trying to see what's happened to the knight on their side she doesn't recognize, Ser Castor, but the maid is distracted by the Targaryen speaking to Mariya, who she stares at in what seems like fright; merely an echo of emotion left over from watching the battle.

A clang followed by a sickening crack. The bludgeon swings, but does not arc for Castor again. Stormy blue eyes flash, but Prospero does not bring his hammer down on on the broken Dornish, even if he looks as though he might. "Get off the field," he commands, for the other's own good. Stay here and be considered a target again. That said, he storms into the fray once more, stomping towards Osric.

Keyte's taking up the mantle of Team Crier, it seems, providing enough noise to compensate for Angharad's quiet. "Kill him!" She's not ashamed to call for the Prince of Ashes' life, urging her cousin and the Florent on loudly. Or is she cheering for Quillian, against the Sword of the Morning? "He yields! One for the Reach! One for the Reach!" It seems she's noticed Prospero's triumph, too.

Kevyn gets in closer to Tameron, though his shield and armor still do far more impressive work than the Cockshaw squire, in terms of keeping him from getting stabbed. He still fails to do any stabbing of his own, for his part. He dares to look up and over, to try and get a handle on how Viggo is faring, keeping his shield high.

Blood! Carnage! The crushing of opponents! None of this is happening between Ser Tameron Sand and the squire Kevyn Cockshaw, but both lads are holding their own. Well, more or less. Tameron's blade once again makes it past Kevyn's shield, but scrapes ineffectively against the armor beneath.

In a moment of sacrificing a shot, Quillian grimaces as the blow lands and blood can be felt down in it's hot red flow below his armor. However in doing so, the Dornish knight's left open for his axe to come cracking in. An advantage he takes, before he is pulling back. A slight incline of head is given to Prospero Storm, before he presses in the attack, A jab it seems with the pointed head of his poleaxe before he is swinging up to catch Osric's hip.

Laurent's mace whistles through air this time — even wounded, Maelys Targaryen is a savvy fighter, and is able to sidestep the flanking maneuver that the Thorn and his partner worked the prince into.

The Prince swings, but catches naught but air. Ser Abram and the Thorn's mace and axe collide with his cuirass, snapping off another wicked dragons tooth. The prince grunts and rounds upon the Thorn, charging him and slashing high.

Abram presses his ferocious attack on Maelys, armor creasing without injury to another of the Targaryen's blows. His own axe again cracks into steel and dragonbone, but without anything more than cosmetic effect. A blow to his back from Ser Arros staggers him again, though as Maelys turns, Abram again dashes after him, swinging forcefully at Maelys' back.

Viggo Cockshaw, Champion Swordsman of Oldtown, presses his momentary advantage over Arnau Blackmont, lunging after the Dornishman with barely restrained ferocity. Arnau parries and parries again, staggering backward in an impressive display of skill, though another downward cut from the Cockshaw elicits a cry of pain and sends the lord of Castle Blackmont the blood spattered grass underfoot. A gauntleted hand is raised to ward off a deathblow, the word of surrender called, and for a pregnant moment, Viggo's sword is poised, point leveled at the Dornishman's eyeslot. Will he strike or won't he?

Dawn finds its mark, bleeding the Blackrood, but Ser Osric pays for that small triumph when Quill's poleaxe connects with his right hand. His hand falls from the blade only for a moment, but in that moment his guard is open for the Oncoming Storm, and the heavy hammer drives the wind out of him as well.

Castor goes to sit on his chair near his little area, and slump down into it, resting Starblade on his leg. There's little else he could do. Injured for a problem that was never his, but yet he gets a front row seat to seeing his fellow Dornish get routed. He keeps his visor down, as the expression on his face isn't a pleasant one.

Luckin watches Castor leave the field, and makes his way over to the man, grimacing as he goes. He doesn't hurry, he's got an eye on the battle.

Ser Arrick takes a blade off his scaled wrist and grunts loudly, dropping the offending spear into the dirt as we trying to attack. With his primary weapon gone the Gargalen retreats across the field toward where he stowed his additional spear after it was inspected. The Gargalen takes hold of the spear and grimaces as the pain in his wrist shoots up his arm. The knight peers over his shoulder and spots the man he's been fighting with, Ser Brynden, the Gargalen raises his held and waits, pushing his spear towards the man, hoping to make contact.

"Hail, Blackrood!" Prospero greets with a thunderous roar, coming to to fight by Qullian's side. The Oncoming Storm doesn't stop as he approaches, swinging the hammer in his hands with all the momentum of his short jog at Osric. The bludgeon hits the Dornishm an in the chest with the rattle of maile and clang of metal, though the armor protects much of him.

With a large gulp of his newly-accquired flagon, Riderch weaves back into the crowd, carelessly tossing his depleted chicken leg aside. "Well, fuck me silly." He says, staring out at the tourney grounds.

Following after Arrick as he moves to get that other spear, Brynden waits until the man has gotten the new spear, before he strikes again, trying to knock his opponent down with his sword now.

The Prince barrels toward the Thorn, so bloody and wroth is he, that he does not see Lord Blackmont fall.

While Ryzael watches his kinsman, Mariya keeps a close eye on her own. "I admire your ability to detach yourself," she tells him. "However, I cannot. My concern is for the men more than for their glory." As Castor yields across the field, she frowns, but releases a breath when Prospero's hammer is held and he is allowed off the field. Keeping a tight grip on Embry, she winces when Osric takes another blow. She squeezes Embry harder when Arrick loses his weapon, but he seems to be alright. However, her attention is quickly drawn to the match between Viggo and Lord Arnau. The man falls and the sword is leveled at the man's eye slit. She can't help but hold her breath.

The holy contingent has diminished somewhat, one of the elders having disappeared with the acolytes to spare them from the grisly spectacle. Leire remains with a pair of septons, watching the scrimmage between Abram, Laurent and Maelys with keen interest.

Johanna doesn't cheer or shout encouragements at the field, leaving that all to Keyte, but she does lean forward in her seat, both hand clenching into fists as she watches Prospero join Quillian in the fight against Osric. "Come on," she hisses from behind clenched teeth, looking as though wants to climb over those in front of her to get at the field.

"Kill him!" Keyte's repeating her cry, though whether it's for Viggo's poised blade or the ugliest of her cousins is debatable. Maybe it's for both. (It's probably for the latter.) Eyes darting about the field furiously, she adds a rousing cheer: "Get him, Kevyn!"

Embry glances off toward the Tyrells upon Keyte's shouts and looks wounded. How easily she could have been cheering for another side, had Ser Osric not taken her in, but it is here she belongs now, and the girl does not question it, wearing her colours with conviction. A gasp turns into a hiccup as she witnesses more attacks on Osric, and the hand that isn't clutching Mariya grabs suddenly at the collar of her dress. "The Lord Blackmont— " Under the Cockshaw blade. "Does it carry on, as long as his champions still stand?"

"Well met my Oncoming Storm!" The Blackrood roars back, before he is turning his chest into the blow. His fine steel holding well against the Valayrian sword. A breath let out, as he allows Prospero the opening needed. With the strike from the other knight, Quillian seeks to press the attack.

Abram finally steps just a bit too predictably, and the sword of Ser Arros- which has dogged him since the melee's beginning- lands a more telling blow, drawing a fierce curse, and brief backward look as he rolls with the blow, coming back to his feet with a measure of dirt and grass marring his white surcoat. Still, he pursues the Dragon.

Osric's mangled hand returns to the hilt of his greatsword, and he grimaces as he backs off a step to put both of his opponents before him. He couples a sudden step forward then with a slice crossbody at Quillian, but even Dawn slides off the armor, and the impact shakes his injured hand free from the sword again to leave him open to Prospero's punishing hammer once again.

Kevyn is now half caught up in Viggo's match with the Blackmont lord. Not that it's hurting his aim, his blows still flying past Tameron. But it's at least a better reason to miss than he had previously. His breath catches.

As always, and even with a broken arm, Castor sit still as a statue in his chair, left arm hanging limply at his side. He does not enjoy watching this, but if he were to look away, it would be disrespecting the people he said he'd fight with. So he continues his vigil. As Luckin approaches he does turn his head, perhaps not expecting anyone to come near him.

Katya does not join in her sister's shouting, more inclined to intense observation like Johanna beside them. Her head tips and tilts with the movement on the field, gaze skipping back and forth between the pieces of the battle, the friends and kin presently engaged. She has a fist pressed to her lips and is all but biting on a knuckle as she watches, rapt.

There's a flash of crimson in the stands as Valerity Redwyne is once more on her feet, hands clutched around the seven-pointed pendant she wears. There's little expression on the lady's face — all the tension written in the white of her knuckles and the tendons of her throat. Those close by might notice the slow welling of blood between her hands; each drop vanishes as it hits her gown.

Ryzael, shifting his eyes and attention back to Mariya for a spare moment, seems amused. "If I did not care for the Prince who is a'field, I would not be present." he says, then shrugs slightly as he turns back to the fight. "And it seems my concern is well placed. If he survives I believe I will be mending him for some time." he says, his concern bleeding into a frown. "Not that I haven't done so before."

"Bloody hells," mutters Luckin. He comes up to Castor as if it's his business. After all, it is. "Idiot," he tells the man, distractedly. Then he starts to tend that broken arm, quite carefully removing armour.

Arion gasps in horror his eyes still wide as saucers as Arros lands a blow upon Abram. His hands clench as he watches the fight his eyes not leaving his cousin as he rushes back into the fray. There is admiration clear in those pale green eyes but also fear as well.

Perhaps Tameron is equally distracted, watching his former knight take a wallop. He barely avoids Kevyn's swing, and his own blade only thunks against the other man's shield.

Maelys swings, his sword cracks against Laurent's breastplate. The Thorn's armor absorbs the blow. Laurent's retort send a burning torrent of pain up his left side. Maelys's strength ebbs, for a moment, the tip of his sword falling low as he tries to cath his breath. With a mad exertion of will, he lifts the blade, again, and charges the Thorn. Maelys slashes at his chest, feints, and comes in at Laurent's left shoulder.

Rosana is still watching the fight between her crowd of cheering sailors. Some of them have procured flagons of drinks now and she accepts one as well taking a long drink from it. The woman is quiet for now her critical gaze watching everything on the field with that calm and caluclating dark stare of hers.

At the center of the field, Viggo Cockshaw's poised blade visibly shakes for the force of anger that grips the grieving knight's body. Both hands on his great sword, a surely mortal blow is poised… held.. and at last lowered with a curse. Arnau Blackmont's gauntleted hand falls back to his side and the Lord of House Blackmont exhales, helm thudding back to the earth beneath in relief and resignation.

Laurent staggers back as Maelys' blade finds his breastplate again, but it is at least somewhat affected. His footing is sure enough as his hands draw nearer together to let space and momentum carry the head of his mace once again into the Targaryen's breastplate. He is panting as well when the Targaryen backs off, though he takes that moment to flash a look toward Abram. He nods at what he sees though, and hefts his mace for another overhand swing.

"As is this entire charade." Castors answers, the sound his injured throat makes more servere than usual, given the lack of water he's had to drink since his part in the action ended. He winces as the armor on his left arm is removed. There's a pause. "Thank you." he adds after a moment. Stoic? Sure. But respectful? Definately.

And storm Prospero does. With Quillian giving him an opening as he contends with the Valayrian blade, the Stormlands knight swings his hammer up from the ground and over to slam the head of it into Osric's chest with as much strength as he can manage with a booming yell that echoes along with the sound of metal slamming into metal over flesh and bone like thunder.

Ser Arrick peers over through blood and sweat in his eyes and sees Lord Blackmont fallen and groans loudly as he pushes forward with his shield, angered that the Dornish Lord who brought him on this escapade has fallen to a northron wretch. As the blows come in, the Gargalen lets his shield fall away to the ground as another glancing shot comes from Ser Brynden. With a howl the Dornishman grips his spear tightly and aims for the head but would take the neck of his enemy in this battle of luck and skill and blood and sweat.

Osric tumbles at that blow, lifted briefly from the ground to land on his back, his heels in the air as he skids backward. Impossibly, the Sword of the Morning rolls onto his side almost as soon as he has come to a stop. He grimaces as he pushes himself to his feet, his ruined right hand fumbling at the chinstrap of his helm until it falls away to clear his vision. He coughs, and there is blood on his lips, but he raises his sword to salute his opponents as he steps back into the fray.

Glancing over to Viggo and the Blackmont lord very briefly, Brynden ducks a bit behind his shield at Arrick's charge, ducking down to try swinging for the man's abdomen. "You know, you could just yield," he remarks, lightly.

Luckin nods to Castor, in agreement. He does have water, though, a skin of it, in his kit-bag, and he draws it out and drops it into Castor's lap as he continues his work.

There's a moment when Kevyn thinks it might be over, when the Blackmont yields. It's not, though, and he's distracted enough that he doesn't have his shield properly in place when Tameron's next blow falls. "It's over…" he grunts at the other man. "It can be over. Just yield." Bold words, maybe, since it's not like he's fighting all that viciously.

With the salute and Osric coming back into the fight, The Blackrood returns his salute before charging into the other man, his pole axe swinging. His hope is that he will catch the badly mangled Dornishman off guard, and end this contest between greats.

Mariya can feel her entire body held as with Viggo's blade and she finally releases her held breath as he lowers his blade. Finally able to speak, she replies to Ryzael, "I'm sorry, I did not mean to imply that I you do not care at all. But, I would not watch for their glory and honor." Distracted, she doesn't quite pick up on his doctoring until a moment afterward, "He is lucky to have a kinsman able to tend to his wounds." Especially as he seems to court them. Her thoughts are cut off at the ringing blow between Prospero and Osric. As her goodbrother fights on wounded and bloody, then removes his helm, she whispers, "No. No Osric, no."

Abram grinds out through his visor at the pursuing Arros, as he rushes recklessly after the Prince of Ashes once again, "Hold just a moment, be right with you."

Again, the Prince's sword clangs on the Thorn's breastplate and the Thorn's blow strikes home! Maelys manages, through mad determination, or through shear madness, to keep his feet. He rounds upon Laurent and Abram and looks at the Florent, who has just risen. He charges Laurent and at the last second, cuts toward Abram in a bullrush.

It's only at this point that Castor drinks from the offered water, trying to ignore the pain in arm as it's fiddled with by whatever the Archmaester happens to be doing. Also, he probably doesn't want to see the lovely colors that're likely blooming on it. Not the most talkative knight in the world, this one.

Laurent continues to trade blows with Maelys, the cluster of combatants drifting toward midfield. He circles now, in an attempt to put the sun in the prince's eyes. His battered breastplate absorbs another of the prince's blows, and he gives one in return, a heavy push with his mace to try to create space between them.

"Not until I've cause to," Tameron replies as his sword manages a proper blow against Kevyn's sword and shield. He darts another glance at Osric, lips pressing together as the Sword of the Morning puts aside his helm. "Fuck…" he murmurs, jaw clenching.

Ser Arrick pushes forward with his spear, trying to strike Ser Brynden forcefully and only finds a slash at his lower half for the trouble. With that the Gargalen goes face first into the dirt, filling his helm with dirt, blood and sweat and breaking his second spear in the process. The knight goes to lift himself from the ground only to find that his right wrist has been ruined in the fight and fall. The knight turns himself over with his good arm and raises both his good and ruined hands offering through a mouthful of dirt and blood as he removes his helm, "Yield…I Yield."

Nodding a bit as he sees Arrick go down, and hears the words, Brynden offers the man another respectful nod. "Live to fight another day, Ser," he offers. "Bettter get that wrist tended to." And with that, he moves towards Arros this time, trying to take out that man as well.

Kevyn grunts, offering Tameron a salute that's close to knightly, and continues on the field, seeing as the match isn't about to abate.

"This is going to hurt," says Luckin to Castor, matter-of-factly. He doesn't really give the man time to object before he pulls that broken arm back straight and the way it ought to set to heal properly.

There is something to be honored about the warrior who will not yield his cause, not even with a ruined hand and other injuries, when worse surely awaits if one keeps fighting. Even if it could be considered foolish, it is a thing that Prospero respects, nodding solemnly at the bloodied Osric. But respect does not buy leniency. It does not court mercy. He swings his bludgeon at Osric as the Dornish man swings his sword at Quillian, again hitting the chest with a blow that glances off armor but not without leaving behind a sting.

As Osric wades back into the fight He is met clearly by two great forces of Westeros. The hammer of the Oncoming Storm, and the poleaxe of the Blackrood. Osric swings in, and Quillian easily side steps the blow, before swinging his axe right into the man's chest, adding for more ruin of the Dornish lord. Another step as he readies his bloody axe, before he is looking for the open hole again before pressing the attack once more.

Castor would've said something, but yes, he wasn't really given the oppurtunity to say he was ready or really, anything. There's something that passes as a grunt/growl that passes the man's lips and it might appear that for amoment, he would've blacked out from the amount of pain that one shot, which was likely worse that strike that broke it begin with.

Sword, Axe, and Mace cut through the air. Maelys and his foes hack and slash. Another Dragons tooth snaps, the Prince slashes wildly at Abram and lifts his free hand in an effort to shield the sun from his face. Blood runs from half a dozen wounds. His bronzed face is crimson from the effort of trying to draw breath into a chest protected by bruised ribs.

Abram dashes headlong into Maelys' bullrush, the Florent's helm rocking with a strike of the Ashen Prince's wicked weapon. Another heavy hewing blow of his longaxe crashes into the ebon armor, smashing away a measure more of the black enamel, but coming no closer to ending the fight. Defense is forgotten in favor of rearing back for another blow, and another after that.

When Maelys turns from him to attack Abram, Laurent bellows a challenge that begins as words, but ends as an incoherent roar. He swings the mace again, this time into his opponent's back as the Thorn circles behind him.

Frowning as his attack misses, and he isn't able to get up his shield in time to block Arros' attack, Brynden lets out a bit of a groan as he takes a wound to the chest. Stepping back a little, and moving in a bit more cautiously, he attacks the man again now.

A Gargalen man-at-arms appears on the field and helps Ser Arrick to his feet. After a brief glance back towards those still fighting, the Gargalen is ushered away from the fight, shedding bits of armor as he makes his way towards the medical tents, cursing the fates the entire walk as his wrist hangs limply by his side.

Tameron steps away from Kevyn with a curt nod, and perhaps he intends to make his way to Osric to assist him. But Ser Viggo finds him first, and the young Sand is suddenly fighting two opponents. His blow glances of Viggo's armor, and Viggo's does the same to his. Kevyn's strike he manages to rebuff before it makes it too close to torso or limbs.

Osric's tabard hangs bloodied, near to tearing free, bloodstained. The rent in the cloth shows a tear in his maile as well, bloodied by a blow from Quill's poleaxe. His swings are more sluggish now — his technique well practiced, but his body weary from blood loss and heavy breaths. He coughs as he staggers back from blow after blow, and now blood coats his chin and spatters onto his tabard. His violet eyes are narrow, but remain on his opponents. The Sword of the Morning means to fight on.

Embry's eyes have gone big and round and glistening. She's never seen such battle in the whole of her life, and never with such vested concern for who's involved. She presses her lips together 'til the blood in them is nearly chased away. "Seven protect," she says in youthful plea, fearing for Ser Osric but hoping — and hoping hard in her kind little heart. "Oh no— " Another yield, Ser Arrick. Embry stands taller, minutely, on her toes. Then— "Look, your grace. Ser Tameron." She sounds as enlivened as she does fearful.

With growing frustration as the battle continues for what seems like forever after the yielding of Lord Arnau, Keyte wriggles restlessly in her seat, watching the blows traded now between Tameron, Viggo and Kevyn.

Kevyn fights alongside Ser Viggo now. For whatever marginal good that does his knight. His strokes become more brazen, and he doesn't duck so much behind his shield, though his steel is still hardly the most fearsome on the field. He's trying, though.

Ser Tameron's small squire stands just outside the fighting, bright blue eyes tracking her knight's every move. There's been something like peace, or at least grim satisfaction, in the girl's aspect… until now. As he's double-teamed by Cockshaws, however, his squire's slender form trembles. One hand grips her weapon. It appears to be taking every ounce of control she possesses not to rush the field and add more blood — her own or someone elses, perhaps it doesn't matter — to the muck.

The flurry of movement by Arrick gets Mariya's attention. The princess grips Embry tighter. She had almost forgotten the others in the stand. She finally realizes the girl asked her a question. Despite the fact that it has already been answered - the battle still continues - she says with a tight voice, "Yes. It continues until all on one side yield." Or are killed and yield, but she refuses to say that. She waits anxiously to make sure that Arrick is alright, taking a deep breath when he yields and can be escorted off the field. He may be hurt - but at least he is alive. Her attention now turns to the tired and bloodied Osric, though it is snapped to Tameron at Embry's call. She watches them both with worried eyes, practically cutting off the circulation in her lady maid's hands.

Luckin bind's Castor's arm and splints it, using slim rods of green willow-wood that he cuts to size with a hook-shaped blade, neat. He watches the field as he works, glancing up frequently to do so.

Tameron does his best to shake the Cockshaws and manages to evade Kevyn, but this time, Viggo's blade crushes into the mail of his belly and his white surcoat gains a streak of read. Grunting, his own sword swings at Ser Quillian, managing to slice into the man's right leg, between the pieces of armor. "Sorry, Ser," he pants to Ser Osric as he falls into place beside him. "I brought Cockshaws."

Abram chops and chops away at Maelys, as though seeking to cut down a particularly deadly tree. Heedless of the Prince's cut that bites into the links of maille protecting the inside of his elbow, the Florent's blow lands neatly on the opposite side of the Targaryen's torso as that of Laurent.

Laurent works in tandem with Ser Abram, despite the rivalry between their houses. When Abram's blow rains down from the prince's left, Laurent's matches on the right, but The Burner is an implacable foe, and does not yield.

Lady Angharad blinks, her face still frozen in wide-eyed horror. She sucks in a sharp breath and makes a strangled noise, whispering, "Please…" as Laurent strikes what looks to be a felling blow. But no. The foul Prince Maelys fights on. She lifts her chin, steeling herself, and manages through numb lips, "Who is he, who fights at Laurent's side?"

As again Quillian tries to come in at the Sword of the Morning, he finds the Valyrian sword catching into his gorget, scouring a massive scar to the armor. But then there is a flash of pain to his leg as Tameron Sands joins in. There's a bit of laughter echoing inside the helmet. "Come now, Ser Osric. Let us finish this as we began it. On me?" he asks, as he sidles to the side, so as to have the knight come and join him.

The Prince's blow connects with Ser Abram, but within moments of slashing the Florent knight, mace and axe collide with his torso. The Prince falls in a heap, his breastplate and cuirass broken and bloodied. A ruby falls from the ornate golden scrollwork setting of his gorget to lie upon the mud. He rises slowly, pain writ upon his face. A trail of blood runs from the corner of his lip to accompany the twin streams descending from his shattered nose. He moves toward Laurent Tyrell not at a run, but at a plod. After two steps, he tears the dragon-skull helm from his head and lets it falls in the mud. He raises his sword slowly and swings putting the full force of his weight into clumsy strike.

Taking a blow to his chest now, Brynden stumbles backwards, sinking to his knees, taking a few moments to get up again, with his shield in front of him now. Making sure to keep the shield more between him and his enemy now, he swings for the man again.

Arion stands with the other squires of the Reach and watches with wide eyes. His bottom lip is slightly swollen now as he has been biting down on it in nervousness. He watches with bated breath and Abram and Laurent double team Maelys. There is both hope and pride visible in his gaze now.

Kevyn pursues Tameron as the young Dornishman turns his attention to Quillian, panting under the weight of the armor and weaponry - and still winded from the shallow wound to his chest - as he moves about the field. He does his best to track the movements of the other combatants, as much as he can in the continuing scrum.

Osric goes to one knee when Prospero's hammer crushes into his knee, and his thrust at Quill is a desperate one, though it scars the Blackrood's gorget. His eyes flash toward Tameron at the young knight's words, his breath wheezing as he searches for an answer. Finally, unable to find words, he waves Tameron off with his ruined right hand and pushes himself to standing, facing Quill once again.

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

All the while, it looks as though Riderch Blackwood has acquired more chicken. Watching lives end tragically is bound to whet a certain kind of man's appetite. He carelessly throws a clean-picked bone onto the field, discarding it.

Rosana watches as the fight becomes ever more violent. Her dark eyes almost glitter as she watches head tilting as she gaze across the feild at the remaining combatants. Unfortunately for Riderch one of her men lets out a yell of fury as a chicken bone lands atop his head. The tall swarthy skinned man turns to the Blackwood and advances on him likely to throw a punch and start a fight. Rosana though just glances over and shakes her head before looking back to the fight.

The hammer of the Oncoming Storm sweeps low this time, not at Osric's chest, but at his leg. The weight of the bludgeon is brought down on a diagonal swing, impacting on the Dornish man's knee with a sweep that's enough to unbalance the swordman's stand as he tangles with another to knock him to the ground again. Though this does not keep him down, still. Yet is is Tameron that earns Prospero's attentions as he swings his sword at the Blackrood. The Stormlands knight moves inter intercept, trying to defend Quillian.

Keyte's cheering under her breath now, repeating, "Go Kevyn, go Kevyn, go Kevyn," and holding Harry's hand. "Huh?" Her dark eyes dart back across the field to the battle surrounding Maelys, and she guesses, "I think it's the Florent knight. Ser Addam?" Nope. Close enough?

"Some of these blows are so cruel," Embry says to Mariya, her voice so tiny beneath the great clashes of metal, innocent and lamenting. The precise corners of her mouth twitch, unsure of what to say, what to do but watch, rapt and nervy. "Even that frightful-looking Prince of Ashes struggles."

Blackwood — Black/wood/, not Black/rood/, an entirely different sort of party guest, you understand, switches hands, now taking a swill from his flagon. As a dark-skinned sailor takes a few steps towards him, the Riverlander just gives the man a confused shrug, pointing at the melee on the field.

Luckin straightens up, having finished the last knot on Castor's new splint. He looks towards the field and shakes his head, as in pity.

Again the dance begins anew, as both men swing and test one another. Quillian careful of the wounded Dayne, tests with one swing, before he is nodding. Labored breath inside his helm is likely lost in the din of battle. A feint is given low, before he maneuvers into a new swing, his Axe head this time instead of the bloody brute force of the hammer. Though this blow is aimed higher on the man's chest.

"Again, thank you." Castor notes. He too goes back to looking at the combat. "Damn shame." he observes.

Osric leans away from Quillian's probing swing, answering it with one of his own. Dawn flashes out, but it's a tentative thing, judging distance and his opponent's energy more than a true attack.

Abram's shoulders heave with exertion as the axe is whipped back, swing around in a flashing arc and crashes again into Maelys' Targaryen's once-fine armor as the Prince of Ashes struggles back to his feet. "This dragon-" *swing* "Is running out teeth-" he mutters between breaths and blows.

Tameron is not willing to be shooed away, though he turns his attention to the Storm with the hammer. He slashes Prospero's chest, managing to bock or evade the Cockshaws as they swing at him. But Prospero's hammer gets him over the ribs, not hard but enough to send him off balance. He stumbles down to one knee and shoves to his feet again, still with fight enough left to remain in the fray. For now.

Still Laurent presses the attack on Ser Maelys Targaryen, stepping forward to bring the mace 'round again. This time the Prince of Ashes' greatsword catches his right leg and, while it does not tear through his fine armor, it puts him wrongfooted so that his own blow swings wild. He grunts in reply to Abram, wordless and bellicose.

Kevyn keeps on Tameron, though with the increasing number of Reach men - and the Storm - also doing that, the squire is probably the least of Tameron's concerns. "Yield!" he calls to the young Dornishman, though it's unclear how much that will register above the clanging of swords and other heavy, deadly objects. His eyes flicker around the field at the other men, Osric Dayne and the Oakheart and the Targaryen and all the others, but it's something of a blur at the moment to him.

The sailor is apparently not in a merciful mood he tosses the chicken bone back into Riderch's face and is about to throw a punch at him when suddenly a hand grips his wrist and twists it. Rosana is there glaring up at the her crewmen and shaking her head. "No starting brawls until after the battle is over. Now go on." The man glares at Riderch one final time a look that promises pain later before going back to watch the fight. Rosana eyes the man a moment and smirks. "Do be more carefull next time." And then she turns back to watch the fight.

Kevyn keeps on Tameron, though with the increasing number of Reach men - and the Storm - also doing that, the squire is probably the least of Tameron's concerns. "Yield!" he calls to the young Dornishman, though it's unclear how much that will register above the clanging of swords and other heavy, deadly objects. His eyes flicker around the field at the other men, Osric Dayne and the Oakheart and the Targaryen and all the others, but it's something of a blur at the moment to him.

Somehow, Maelys narrowly manages to duck a brutal axe blow from Ser Abram and yes, Ser Laurent takes another tooth from off his left pauldron as his mace cracks against his armor. Maelys's sword clangs harmlessly off of Laurent's armor, and he lunges for the Thorn intent on stabbing him and exploiting the Thorn's wrongfooted stance.

Stumbling backwards at yet another hit to his chest, Brynden grimace a bit beneath his helmet now. Once again trying to stay behind his shield as he swings for Arros, his movements are a bit slower now than they were when it was Arrick he fought.

Arros sidesteps the swing of Brynden Hightower's sword, and bashes his great sword into the Hightower's chest with his great sword. "Yield." He suggests to the Hightower.

Prospero puts himself in-between Tameron and Quillian, taking another wound to his chest in the process. He grits his teeth as blood wells anew, but the hammer is swung inside the other's guard, knocking him in the chest just enough to upset his balance for a moment. With chest heaving, he turns and swings his hammer as the other rises again.

It's one of those moments where Riderch would reach for a weapon, and even makes the motion of doing so, which is strangely at odds with the bemused look on his face. Too bad his hands are full. He just picks up the bone after it bounces off his face and smirks at the woman yanking the sailor's chain. "They really know how to roast these." He declares, simply, tossing the bone off onto the tourney grounds again. Somewhere empty. Hopefully.

In that moment three's a flash, as mail gives way, And the blow of the Blackrood goes damned deep. Dark red blood is soon to come following the sickening crush of the chest cavity. The head of his poleaxe buried deep within the Sword of the Morning. A grunt and the Blackrood looks down to the Dayne, and there his boot moves to press into the man's chest so as to kick him free. A killing blow. This Quillian knows, as he's seen it time and time again.

"I'll see you returned to your kin, Ser." A last salute before he will turn to see whom is next on the list.

Ser Osric Dayne crumples under the Blackrood's axe, dead almost before he hits the ground. His ruined right hand falls from the hilt of his greatsword, then his left. The prod of Quillian's boot rolls him onto his back to stare into the sky with lifeless, violet eyes.

Maelys's blade screeches, a terrible whining sound as the steel grates against the Thorn's breastplate. He presses the full weight of his body against the blade, and the weapon snaps! A sharp, high, pained note. The Thorn issues and rejoinder, so too Ser Abram. When the Prince of Ashes pulls away from the Thorn, his chest is a bloody ruin, the breastplate staved in. Abram's blow takes the spaulder off of his left arm. Maelys falls to his knees and stares at Laurent, rage writ upon his face. The Prince of Ashes begins to rise. His squire, the Braavosi youth takes a step toward him. He rises, slowly, takes one step toward Laurent, lifts his shattered sword, levels it at the Thorn, and then collapses in the mud, face first. Blood pools out from the terrible wounds.

Daevon's been watching everything silently, his expression blank. As Osric falls though his head dips down, a silent prayer offered, sorrow and regret washing over his features.

There is a clear and pained shriek from the Dornish side of the stands as Mariya watches the poleaxe spear Osric in the chest. The young Martell crumples.

Getting that hit to his arm now, it seems to push Brynden down to his knees. "Not over… yet…" Fighting himself to his feet, he swings towards the Dornish knight again now, with visible effort. Once more trying to keep his shield in place.

Lady Angharad is on her feet with a wild cry as the Prince of Ashes falls. There are tears, now, but the smile on her face is one of savage joy. She sees the Sword of the Morning fall to Ser Quillian and she turns, reaching for Johanna's hand with her free one. "It's over!" Then, to Keyte, laughing through tears, "It's over. Thank the Gods."

Chicken antics take second place in Riderch's attention right now as he stares out at Osric's fate, openmouthed. Any sort of grin he had fades — there is a look of sympathetic pain on his face. Or rather — respectful mourning. "Gods." He whispers.

"No!" Tameron cries, though whatever gods may hear the shout certainly don't heed it. The Sword of the Morning is dead, and Ser Tameron Sand aims his blade at the Blackrood that felled him.

Kevyn near forgets Tameron - near forgets everything - as he watches the last moments of Osric Dayne's life. Before Quillian ends him. The squire pales, unable to take his eyes from ti for a long moment.

Luckin has no joy. He steps towards the field as the men fall, but stops himself before he walks right out into the battle. He stands there, his pale blue eyes sharp with disgust.

Castor stands up at this latest affair, left arm bandaged. He seems to want to feel something, but there's nothing. "For all the causes to die for." his hoarse voice then sighs. "Foolish. No better than animals."

Johanna is so far forward in her seat she's barely even perched on the edge, hands clenched into fists so tight that her knuckles have gone white. It's not until Osric falls that she exhales a breath that she barely realized she was holding in a "YES!" just a little bit louder than she'd intended.

Oh, also, Tameron's chest got totally wailed on and his surcoat is more red than white, now. I totally forgot that bit.

Ser Tameron's squire stands frozen in shock and horror. She says, does, nothing — what are squires for, but to bear witness and clean up the mess? — until Tameron rushes the Blackrood. Then, her cry echoes his — but for different reasons. "NO!"

Embry's hand swings in Mariya's, but it's no game of whimsy; it's a sudden twist and wrenching of limbs. Her instinct's to cover her mouth in shock, to keep some cry in. Only one hand makes it, the other viced in the grip of the Martell princess, and she lowers in the stands with her. The lady's maid too stricken to blink; her tears sting when they arise. She tears her sights from the bloody field and bloody warriors onto Mariya, wrapping an arm around her. Her small voice is even more hoarse than usual, shaking but trying to be brave. "What's your House say, your grace. U-unbent, un— unbowed…"

Relentless, even as wounds sting and bleed, Prospero swings his hammer at Tameron again without pause. It strikes into his chest once more, keeping the Dornish man busy while Quillian finishes his long battle with Osric with finality. The Sword of the Morning will not be getting up again, his sunset has come.

Laurent steps back with a savage roar as Maelys staggers toward him, reaching out with a gauntleted hand to slap the broken blade aside. When Maelys falls, that hand finds the haft of his mace again, and he lifts it about his head with a savage cry, murder in the Thorn's eyes.

Abram is half carried a step forward with the force of the blow that he strikes to Maelys, leaving him half straddling the prone Targaryen. As the enraged Tyrell rears back again, the Florent hollers, "Laurent!" and brings his helm near to the Thorn's to share more quiet words over the felled dragon in black and blood.

Keyte gasps, as both Maelys and Osric look like going down, burying her face into her twin's shoulder to avoid the sight. But Harry's up, and she finds herself gulping back a giant lump in throat as she turns her face up to her. "Yes," she chimes, choking on the word as she nods furiously. "Almost."

Ryzael comes to his feet as Maelys falls, his hands clenched for a moment. Then he steps forward, walking down through the stands to the edge of the field. Once there he calls out to the combatants on the field. "I will ransom Ser Maelys!" he calls out towards Ser Laurent. "Name your blood-price, Thorn, and I will pay it." he says. "And if the Ser does not have the Honor to accept, any Knight who preserves the life of the Prince will earn my gratitude and be rewarded. On this you have my vow."

Arion's eyes are drawn to Osric and then he quickly looks away as the killing blow is struck the squire looks bit ill now and stares at the ground along moment trying to calm his uneven breathing.

Nika is quietly sitting in the stands, a healer nearby her as per her husbands demands. It was so difficult to watch and oft times, she is averting her gaze. Times when her husband is taking a blade against his armor or slashing through it, marring the flesh beneath. Her hands are knitted together, knuckles white, and her expression is as neutral as the young woman can make it. The shouts always bring her attention back to the field, hurriedly finding where Brynden is, assuring he is still standing before she drags her gaze away at another slash of a blade.

Daevon starts to rise to his feet at Mariya's cry, but a look from Aevander is all it takes for Daevon to hesitate. He's looking sickened by now, the roar from the crowd, the cheering for a good man's death and here he stands, just watching.

Brynden's swing doesn't even touch Arros. He whacks the Hightower in the wrist with his sword and repeats, "Yield, dammit!" Then he hears Tameron's cry, and his head turns just in time to see Osric's chest pulped by the Blackrood's axe. "Osric!"

Haywood Cockshaw has sat nearly still as a statue for the duration of the fray, but now he's on his feet, if only to get a better look at what's just happened. He isn't given to tension in this way very often, and doesn't realise that he's holding his breath as he waits to see if Laurent stays his hand.

Rosana watches with a shakes of her head and a frown as Osric goes down. There may be a hint of empathy in those dark eyes but its quickly pushed away. She steps forward to get a better look to see what will happen next.

As Osric and Maelys go down, the color drains further out of Sapphyra's already pale features and though her expression is mostly neutral, her eyes avert from the field for several moments.

Ser Arrick growls his way out of the medical tent after a long delay of getting his armor off, the knight, covered in blood, sand and bandages goes to a knee as he sees the carnage across the field, a silent prayer is said as the Gargalen spots what used to be the Sword of the Morning. "The seven have left us…" Ser Arrick then turns away and waves to be helped back to his feet and to the Dornish spectators who have all seemed to be turned to stone in disgust and despair.

Laurent lifts the mace high, his fists sliding together almost as if he were about to split wood. But at the last moment, Abram is there between him and his target. Is it the Florent, or Ryzael's shout that stops him? Perhaps even the sight of his ruined opponent. Something stays the Thorn's hand, and he rounds with a renewed vigor to search out another opponent, growling something made near inaudible through his helm.

Kevyn is jostled back to some semblance of action by Viggo, and the pair of them resume the press against Tameron. Kevyn hits naught by armor - which is slightly better than he was doing before - though his own blows matter little at this point against the poor man.

Quillian turns and with his freehand takes up Dawn. Getting a feel for it. He will move to have it taken to his banner and passed to his squire, lest nefarious hands walk off it. Though he hesitates and turns towards Brynden Hightower and Ser Arros Sands.

Abram nods his helmed head once to whatever Laurent growls, and scans the field. A few steps away from the felled Maelys, and he spots Arros as the lone Accuser. Once again, he joins the Tyrell in a dash toward the foe.

Tameron's swing goes wide because Viggo's sword slices into his belly. It's not the most fearsome of wounds by itself, but added to the damaged ribs and the slashes from earlier… something just gives. Whatever white remained on the lad's surcoat has vanished, and crimson drips from its ends, it's so saturated, now. The sword slips from his hand and the Sand sinks down to his knees, unable to rise. He is silent for a beat, perhaps he considers that he should die here, beside his friend. But then his head lifts to spot those Dornish in the stands he knows, and there, on the sidelines, his squire, and he offers, audible enough, "I yield."

All the trembling, violent tension goes out of Magden when Tameron yields. Her hand drops from the pommel of her blade. She sways for a moment, just slightly, but keeps her feet. Her shoulders sag.

Ryzael does not hesitate when Laurent moves on. He turns then commanding the Prince of Ashes own attendants, standing awe struck, into action. "Bring him in! I'll attend him myself. Move!" he exclaims, then turns and begins making his way towards Maelys tent at a brisk pace. He moves imperiously, yelling then to his own servants and commanding that his alchemical and medical equipment be brought to the tent at once.

The Oncoming Storm takes a breath and bellows like thunder as he swings his hammer violently through the air, spinning with more dexterity than his boulder-like frame would suggest. His weapon sweeps high through the air in a blur, aimed at Tameron like Prospero is trying to take his head off. The Dornish man keeps his head, but the heavy metal of the hammer does strike with a hard clang into the gorget protecting his neck. Between that and the wounds left by Viggo's sword, it's probably for the best the man yields, lest he end up like Osric.

Staying on hisfeet now, Brynden swings for the remaining Dornishman now. "Looks… Like it's… Only you…" Looking around as he hopes some of the others come in to help take out the good Ser Arros now.

Arros's attention is not on his Hightower opponent. It is on the body of the Sword of the Morning, and he sees when the Blackrood picks up the Dayne's ancestral blade. "Put it down, you fucking bastard!" Ironic words, coming from a bastard. He tries to back away from his opponents, and engage Quillian.

Mariya's face is buried in her hands - as well as Embry's hand - tears flowing free hotly. Unable to answer her lady maid, her head just shakes one way then another. Despite the words, despite the attempts, she can not muster the strength.

Clinging tight to Mariya, Embry looks up and just sees a blur of Dornish colours and distraught faces until she presses her eyes together hard and forces herself to focus. She almost daren't look out on the field again, but holds her chin high and does just that. "Ser Tameron lives," she says, shakily, "And Ser Arros…" There is an unfinished, trailing note to her words, holding back.

Kevyn lowers his sword instantly, for his part, when Tameron yields, with an audible sigh of relief. Not that he struck the blow that downed the Dornishman, so it's not his yield to take, but he seems glad enough that it came anyhow.

Quillian drops his axe in favor of Dawn as he turns to defend himself with the ancestral Dornish weapon.

Laurent rushes headlong across the field at Abram's side, chest heaving as he closes on the only Dornish champion still standing. The mace comes from overhead to crash into Arros' gorget, a heavy blow but not a lethal one.

Tameron collects his sword, using it to lever himself up, and then a bit as a cane so he can make his way off the field, his other hand pressed against his belly. He manages a glance towards the continued fighting, but the sight of Dawn in the Blackrood's hand causes his eyes to close and his head to turn away.

Luckin, gritting his teeth, takes up his satchel of healer's supplies and moves to meet Tameron at the edge of the field.

As another Sand comes after Quillian, Prospero is there once more. But his attack is slow, having paused for a breath after Tameron yielded, hands still ringing with the impact. The hammer hits Arros, but to no avail—it clangs harmlessly off his armored abdomen. Ser Storm grunts in disappointment, and his bludgeon gets a little heavier with the weight of hits shame for displeasing him.

Magden vaults the rail to meet Tameron halfway. Small but remarkably strong, she assists her knight from the field.

Swinging his blade once more, Brynden still doesn't connect with anything. He switches to a more normal stance now, as it seems he isn't the target of the remaining champion of the accusing side in this.

Daevon's sorrow is replaced with fury as Quillian picks up Osric's sword and then uses it against Arros. Driven by anger he takes a step forward only to find his brother's hand on his sleeve. He glares at Aevander, though that anger's not meant for him.

Arros lets out a snarl as he swings his great sword at Quillian's chest. The is a clank as his sword strikes the Oakheart's chest, but to no avail. Then the other's strike him. He grits his teeth as Laurent's poleax slashes his axe. The others' swords' make a clanging noise against his armor.

"Put your back into it, Storm!" The words leave Haywood's lips and he immediately regrets them. Who critiques Prospero Storm on the field of battle? The Cockshaw heir immediately sits down again, lest he be spotted.

Aevander looks up at Daevon and gives a small shake of his head, mouthing the words 'Not now'.

When it looks as if it is winding down, Nika hurriedly seeks out her husband who still seems to be on his feet and fighting to the finish despite the wounds he had taken previous. Though there is a dead body, she does not direct her attention to the man, unable to bring herself to. The healer beside her watches her with concern, the pale color, the furrowed brow. Leaning in to speak quietly to her charge, she urges her to stand so she can usher her out of the area. Nika is having none if it, determined to remain and watch until the end.

And Tameron leans rather heavily on his squire because… well… frakin' ow. He doesn't try to speak, however, his malformed gorget and the blossoming bruises beneath making words until for a little bit.

Daevon's actually listening to his brother, for once in so much as he doesn't go charging off into the crowd. He's loud when he wants to be, his voice carrying. "Ser Arros Sand! Don't let them befoul the Sword of Dawn any further with your blood and your death. Yield!" The anger's still there, burning, furious.

Luckin grimaces, trying now to ignore the fight and tend to Tameron's wounds, starting with getting the armour off him.

The resounding sound if the blow echoes through Quillians hell. His own blade cutting a gash into the Sands plate. gritting his teeth Dawn is brought to bear." If you don't yield, House Dayne will never see this blade from me." Quillian snarls out.

Daevon spends 1 luck points on Hey Arros! Listen!.

Magden supports her knight until he can be seated or lain down, somewhere. Once that's done, she's quick to work with the old man in removing Tameron's armor. Her hands are remarkably steady. "Tell me how to help," she says to Luckin.

His nemesis' defeat seems to fill Laurent with a new energy, and he continues to hammer at the last Dornish champion his mace this time ringing off Arros' breastplate. Another solid blow.

That's going to be a lot of 'fun' for Luckin, as the gorget's misshappeness is going to require some wiggling and tugging, and some of the maile links and fibers from the surcoat have imbedded themselves in Tameron's damaged flesh. He glances from his squire to the healer, but he allows himself to be set down (or laid out) and fussed over.

Who does critique Prospero Storm on the field of battle? No, seriously. Who was that? The knight gets distracted, hammer whiffing right by Arros. He turns and glares with darkened blue eyes into the spectators. "I'm going to put it into your back!" He roars at (or at least in the direction of) Haywood, pointing his hammer in that direction as well.

Once more swinging, Brynden pauses for a few moments as he actually managed to hit Arros this time. "Like you suggested to me, ser. Yield…" Ready to strike again if the man does not yield now.

Blood flows from Arros' neck, and stains the Dayne bastard's white armor. Perhaps it is Daevon's call. Or maybe it is Quillian's promise that the blade will not be returned. He flings his sword to the ground, and kneels. "I yield." He turns his head up to stare at Qullian with hot rage in his eyes, "But this is not over."

Abram manages a chuckle through the gasping breaths. "Actually, Ser," he quips to Arros, "That is exactly what it means." Turning toward the noble dais, the Florent raises his axe overhead, and calls at the top of his lungs, "Brightwater, and the REACH!" His helmed head scans over the nobles assembled to behold the contest slowly.

Perhaps the Oncoming Storm will appreciate the slightly muffled "Sorry!" shouted from the crowd? Haywood is keeping his head ducked as low as he can without actually crawling onto the ground.

Daevon sinks back down into his seat, breathing a sigh of relief as Arros yields.

"Help me," Luckin snaps at Tameron's squire. The old man is well prepared, really — aside from his odd hooked knife, which cuts the leather straps of armour very nicely, his kit includes a pair of snips that can handle the mail, one link at a time.

Quillian stares at Arros. "It is over." This said through hallowed helm. And as he yields he nods and lowers Dawn. "This blade belongs to Ser Osric's son. And it will be given to a worthy knight." a pause. "Not, you." And there Yield accepted, Quill seems to head in Tamerons direction.

Is Haywood anywhere near the Tyrell girls? Keyte flinches as Prospero points his hammer into the crowd, hopping to her feet as Arros yields. She's totally only up because Arros is yielding. Not trying to distance herself from Haywood at all. "THE REACH! THE REACH!" She cries, echoing Ser Addam.

"Worthy Knight?" Arros laughs bitterly, "Say that to me when you can lay me low without help, you piece of shit!"

In a moment of (perhaps ill-advised) elation, Laurent throws his mace to the ground and takes hold of Abram's wrist to lift it higher, joining him in his shout. "THE REACH!!!" The Thorn turns then to clap his arms 'round the Blackrood, then tears his helmet free and throws it to the ground as he stomps toward Brynden Hightower, and onward, embracing each of his fellow champions, or clapping them on the back, or shaking them by the shoulder.

"Done…" Brynden mutters, as he hears Arros' words, taking a few moments to simply drop his sword and shield to the ground. "Well fought, Ser…" And with that, he turns to look at the crowds, as he removes his helmet and drops that too. Looking for one particular face up there.

"The Reach." Riderch repeats from his place in the audience, his mouth full. He's off to find more slain chickens to prey upon.

Valerity Redwyne stands with those who cheer for the reach, silent and grave, perhaps simply to be seen. Her aspect is one of immense relief, though tinged with regret. Her Hightower guardsmen stand with her, as though to keep the lady from falling. One presumes to place a hand at her elbow, but she brushes it absently away. Shoo, fly.

The Queen Who Never Was rises from the seat of honor at the noble dais and raises an armored hand for silence. Once this is gained, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen declares aloud, "In the eyes of Gods and Men this dispute is thusly resolved. The Accused are found innocent of all wrongdoing." A deep, slow breath is drawn as the smallfolk cheer. "In an accord between the royal houses of Westeros and Dorne, to see this present spite buried, it is declared that a mutually agreeable marriage betwixt the houses of Cockshaw and Blackmont shall take place within one year of this day, to bury the present bloodshed. In like manner, to secure the peace between our Realms, it is hereby declared that marriage shall join the Houses of Targaryen and Martell, with Prince Daevon wedded to Princess Mariya, within one year of this day."

Magden pulls a knife from her boot and begins cutting away what she can of Tameron's armor and clothing while the maester works with the snips. She nods simply, humbly, at the old man's command. "Just tell me what to do," she repeats.

Well, and that's that, then. Aevander gives his brother a small nod for his shout and looks from those crowing on the battlefield over to Princess Rhaenys. The announcement she makes, however, gives him cause to hike up his brows and blink slowly. Well.

Castor just snorts.

Luckin pays no attention to the elation, or to the grand Princess' declaration. He's snipping mail off Tameron, and looking grouchy. He's an old man and an archmaester, he can get away with that sort of thing.

Arion is still trying to keep from losing his lunch until just now. Finally he looks up pale faced and vaugely ill looking and raises a brow. "We won?!" This seems to cheer him up. "We Won!" He actually jumps for joy and then looks down at his doublet with a broad grin. "And I'm not bloody at all." He grins wickedly and then falls silent as the Princess speaks.

Daevon stares, absolutely stunned at the Queen Who Never Was. His shock is so obvious and he's rendered speechless. Surely he misheard.

Tameron closes his eyes and breathes shallowly, though he can hear well enough when the cheering begins. He grimaces, but does his best not to flinch as the healer and his squire do their work.

Kevyn allows himself to relax when Arros yields, his shoulder sagging under weight of exhaustion he didn't evne know he felt until that moment. "It's over…Seven willing…" It's said low, no more than a whisper. And almost sounds more as if he's trying to convince himself of it, as anything else.

You will be healing tameron until they are fully healed or until you use +stopheal.

Seeing her husband seeking her out, Nika finally rises and with or without the healer, she vaults from the stands, intending to race over to him.. she is halted when the Queen rises, and so she stands her ground, waiting for the announcement. Wedding announcements? When she is finished speaking, she finishes her journey to her husband.

"Huh. What a wedding that'll be." Riderch says, shaking his head a little as he accosts a vendor again. His voice is incredibly dry.

Despite Embry's attempts, the only thing that seems to stir Mariya from her stupor is the cheering. People cheering over the death of Ser Osric. For the first time in what seems like the whole event, she lets go of Embry's hand. Cheeks streaked with tears, the young Martell does not care who she pushes past or who she offends as she attempts to flee from the stands. It is only when she hears her name called out by the Queen Who Never Was that she stops. Her own surprise at the words penetrates her grief and confusion, rooting her to her spot.

Rosana watches as everything ends and then moves to take her leave exchanging a few coins with her men to settle bets made as they all march out for the exit.

Lady Angharad turns to hug her Tyrell and Oakheart cousins, embracing each with warmth and relief, tears drying on her face. "Come," she says to them, softly. "Let's greet our victors."

Quillian is greeted by squire who takes his helm and rushes to get the man's axe. Eyes slide to Where Tameron lays and speaks. "You, Ser. You came to His aid, beset by three foes. You are of his House?" He will wait before dropping Dawn by Tameron's side. "Squire his boy and give him this. Be worthy, Bastard." A look to Magden, and Quillian clears his throat. "Give his widow my condolences. I won't keep his bones from her." A bow and the Blackrood limps off to join the others.

"Whew," Prospero huffs out, mustache bristling, hefting his hammer to rest it against his shoulder, not quite relaxed but not in a combat stance either. "That it is." Over. At least for the moment, with the last Dornish champion having yielded. He's no Reach knight, he doesn't join in the chanting, though he nods his head with a composure much more placid than a moment ago. Then he fixes Arros with a skeptical look. "Your mouth appears to still be running. Might want to look to that, son." Just a piece of friendly advice. He falls silent as Princess Rhaenys Targaryen speaks, brows rising up. "Royals're somethin' else. That'll be a big to-do."

Keyte's smiling, despite the death out there and the possible wrath of Prospero Storm, and she ceases cheering to hug Angharad tightly back. "Yes," she says, accompanied by an eager set of nods. "Let's!"

Embry chases after Mariya in concern, a task half-interrupted by the Queen Who Never Was, which has her tripping once over her soft shoes and leaving her further shellshocked and in place, a distant echo of her princess. The maid is upset, tears not yet dried on her face, but she knows this is all bigger for Mariya, and her heart goes out to the other girl. She regains her balance, slowly approaching the grieving Dornishwoman from behind. "P-princess…" Worry is contained in that one stuttering word, and something else, nervous and questioning. It's no time for excitement.

Abram sets his blood streaked axe to the ground and simply stares ahead at the dais, his faceless visor not betraying what holds his eye throughout the Targaryen Princess' declaration. A bow to the noble dais, his axe swept out to one side, and the Florent turns back toward his fellows.

Johanna's eyes squeeze shut for a moment as she returns the hug from Angharad, relief visible as she draws back. "Yes, let's do that."

Nothing left to gain and nothing to lose, Castor, as he has every time before in every city he has ventured and visited, simply gathers his things, and starts to move away. As always, the Stargazer is quiet.

Tameron's eyes open as he's addressed, and his hazy gaze snaps to Quillian. Unable to speak, he only offers a tight nod for the question, and then a second for the 'demands' the Blackrood lays down as he sets Dawn where he lies. Then Tameron gestures towards Madgen, and then towards Dawn. Can't just leave it lying there in the dust.

Pausing as he hears the Royal proclamation, Brynden looks towards Viggo and Kevyn first, at the part about the Cockshaws and Blackmonts, then blinking a bit at the words about the Prince and Princess. And then… Oh, there's Nika, coming over to him. "Hey…" he gets out, before he looks down at his chest. "I seem to be bleeding quite a bit…" Yes, good observational skills. Glancing over at his comrades in arms now, before looking back to Nika. "Told you it would be okay in the end…" he mutters, a bit weakly.

Elionys turns her wide eyes from Rhaenys to Daevon, brows creeping even higher as she sees the surprise writ there across is face. She leans in closer, almost over Aevander in an effort to murmur, "Smile, cousin. Look surpried later."

Ser Arrick peers up at the 'Queen Who Never Was' and the announcements made and turns to his nearby man-at-arms and simply says in a low, pained voice which barely pierces through the cheering of the crowd, "Get my horse and turn my armor over to a friendly smith, try at the ports as not to give a Reachmen the satisfaction of working Dornish scale."

Daevon's smile is a forced thing, it looks so completely false as Elionys commands him to smile. He's still surprised. He looks between Aevander and Elionys and then tries to seek Mariya out in the crowd.

Luckin starts to wash Tameron's wounds with boiled wine, saying, "Be still. Leave that sword be, it's not going anywhere."

"Now you can go to her," Aevander tells Daevon with a murmur, smiling himself, a bit more convincingly, as if the members of his immediately family totally knew all along that this was coming. Yep. Totally.

Laurent's dark eyes are fixed on the princess throughout her speech, his heavy brow furrowed as he listens to the proclamations. There's one there that draws a brief grin from him, and he turns to nod to his fellow accused. "We saw to the bastards," he says to no one in particular, his spirits high. Once he spots his young squire collecting his mace and helm from the field, the Thorn waves the boy over to hand off his gauntlets as well.

Magden stares a moment at the sword lying beside Tameron, her hands loath to leave the move important (in her mind) task of seeing to the living. She pulls off her tabbard and uses it to wrap the blade, a shroud with the blazon of House Dayne. That will keep it from the dust. Then she turns her attention back to assisting the maester as she can.

Riderch enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Tameron seems, perhaps not wholly satisfied with this arrangement, but it is good enough. There are no further protests from Tameron as Luckin and Madgen fuss over him.

Arros stands up from his kneeled position once Dawn is dropped at Tameron's side, and reaches for his great sword. Clutching it in his hand, he staggers over to the side of Osric, and plants the tip of his sword into ground near his cousin's body. It seems his vigil over the body has begun.

Mariya is quite hard to find in the crowds as she is no longer with the other Dornish. The young woman wobbles on her feet slightly, attempting to process all of her emotions at once. A hand reaches out to steady herself on Embry. The crowd is too loud, too crushed, too present. She can't bear to be around them any longer. "I—" She has no idea what to say at the arrangement, at Osric's death, at any of it any more. Looking toward the dais where Rhaenys and Daevon stand would bring her eyes too close to the field and she cannot handle that. She does not see Daevon searching her out, nor his own confusion that the announcement. "H-help me home."

Luckin leaves a bundle of clean rags and a flask of boiled wine with Magden and says, "Clean him up," before he steps out into the field, walking towards the fallen form of Maelys.

Keyte traipses down onto the field with her cousins, headed with Angharad to call on Laurent, as dutiful cousins do. She'll be wanting to see to her favourite cousin Quillian, as well, but she does spare a look toward the Cockshaws — "Kevyn," of course. All she has for the squire is a smile. (It's almost like getting laid?)

Daevon does as his brother tells him. He looks to the field, to those there and then starts searching for Mariya. He stands up and begins moving through the crowd.

"Yes, Learned One," murmurs Magden. Dilligently, she wets a cloth with boiled wine and tends to her wounded knight.

Luckin crouches down beside Maelys, touching the man to see if he's, well. Still alive.

You will be healing maelys until they are fully healed or until you use +stopheal.

As requested the man-at-arms comes along with Ser Arrick's horse which the young Dornish knight points towards Princess Mariya who has come from her seat in the stands. "However you need to get her and her maid back to the manse, make that happen." The Gargalen knight then turns away from the horse and begins limping towards the body of Ser Osric and his cousin Arros who is standing over the man. The young knight comes upon the scene and with much pain he bends down and retrieves his fallen spear and offers aloud from the knee he takes and then recover from, "I too will stand with you."

Maelys is alive, albeit barely. His chest has been caved in, and hs has a really nasty wound on his arm. His nose is also broken, his lip cut, and there are a number of other little wounds.

"Yes, your grace," Embry hurries in soft tones. "With your guards, your grace." She links her arm with Mariya's and attempts to gently guide her toward the men-at-arms directed to her by Ser Arrick.

Luckin cuts away Maelys' breastplate and pulls it off, prepared with a rag to stem the fresh flow of blood that this action creates.

The approach of a troupe of ladies Tyrell catches Laurent's eye, and he makes his way toward past his fellows to meet them partway. "Harry," he calls out as he goes, though it doesn't come out with the force he hoped for. Much yelling and sweating, and less drinking water. He clears his throat with a rumbled cough, and calls again. "Harry! Cousins," as he draws nearer the women, though he raises a hand to keep them at arm's length now. "Careful," he mutters, gesturing at the sharp edges of metal where his armor is ripped or cut.

Arion makes his way to Abram looking him over. "Are you okay Cousin? You took a few nasty hits…but you gave much better than you got. You will teach me yes?" He looks up at his knight hopefully and then wrinkles his nose at the blood. "We should get you home, tend you injuries and then you should bathe.."

Garvin has been here the whole time, but hidden in a plain cloak with a voluminous hood, keeping to the background. Even his Purple Cloaks have given him some space, rather than blow his cover by surrounding him. Now that the Trial is over, he slips quietly through the crowd, keeping hsi head down, heading not toward the victors, but toward the road back to Oldtown. His guards move that way as well, but continue to keep a small distance.

"Listen to how happy they sound." Arros snarls out as he stares down at Osric, his indigo colored eyes shining with rage and grief. His voice is thick with brief, "How they rejoice in his death. He was ten times the Knight of that their champions are."

"Yes, yes, I'll teach you," Abram answers Arion with the sound of a smile in his voice. "For now, just unfasten my visor, I'd like to get this helmet off, first." Once the steel head is removed from his body, the Florent sucks in a long lungful of air, and notes to his younger cousin, "Lets find Sera and be on our way. I've a letter or two to write."

Angharad looks beside herself as Laurent keeps her at arm's length, however much wisdom there is in not impaling herself on her husband. "Well — Warrior's wrinkled foreskin, take it off!" she laughs through fresh tears. She moves to do it herself, yelling, "Willem, get your arse over here now!"

As the Gargalen man-at-arms approaches, Mariya keeps her arms intwined with Embry. Wordlessly, she allows her maid and the guard to guide her one way or another without any resistance.

Kevyn vaguely hears his name and he looks over in the direction it came from, barely in a state to recognize the voice. When he sees Keyte, though, he smiles. It's a very tired smile, but he can't help but smile for the Tyrell girl. "Your prayers came in handy, my lady."

Luckin sighs, sitting on the bloody ground beside Maelys and tending the numerous wounds. It's that blow to the chest that he attends, struggling to undo the collapse as best as the wisdom of Maesters can manage.

Arion unfastens the visor from Abram and nods. "Lets go then." He looks around for his other cousin and once he spots her heads off in that direction he offers Abram a happy smile. "You did very well Cousin. I hope one day I can be at least half as good." He bites his lower lip but there seems to be true admiration in his eyes.

"The boy's useless," Laurent warns his wife, though this time it's said with no real malice. He's sweating, bleeding, panting, and smiling ever-so-slightly. "The Father's sweating balls, but we bled those bastards, didn't we?" His dark eyes drift about the field, catching on the kneeling Dornishmen, then travelling on. "There's Ser Osric Dayne, dead," he says with a snort that might be a laugh. And then, "What about Ser Maelys?"

Ser Arrick nods in a solemn manner and simply says to no one in particular as his wrist throbs, "They may have carried the day but there's still blood and fight left in us." The knight leans on the spear and adds to his words, "His fight is over but ours will continue."

"Wasn't my prayers," Keyte counters with a shake of her head. "Was your swords." Or hammers. Or poleaxes. Or probably shield, in Kevyn's case. But hey, DETAILS. She flashes the squire another smile, clearly glad he's alive, and steps in to help Harry help her cousin out of his armor. If she can find where to begin, or Willem doesn't step in to take over.

"I need a drink," Prospero announces, trudging off the field. By which he means: I'm getting a drink. Which really means: A drink better show up in my hand by the time I'm off this field. Either way, the battered and wounded old knight stands another day and he's going to celebrate such good fortune by drinking until he can't feel his injuries anymore. He'll toast to the victors…and to the fallen.

"He lives," says Harry, deftly working the straps of Laurent's armor free. "For now, anyways." She shakes her head a bit, wondering as she works, "Why did you spare him?" She smiles warmly at Keyte, "Here, like this…" she demonstrates with a buckle.

Luckin looks up from his task and says to Ser Arrick, not so far away from him, "Come here."

"Fight for what?" Arros asks quietly, his voice tight. "This was never our fucking fight. It was never Osric's fight. He died for /nothing/." His hands tremble on the hilt of his greatsword. The blood from his neck wound has begun to dry on his armor, and turn rusty brown.

"See there," Laurent says, sparing a moment of his grin for Keyte, "I told you Harry could teach you a thing or two, didn't I?" He lifts his arms as the women work, and soon enough Willem joins them, so it's only a moment before the badly damaged breastplate can be lifted away (along with several other pieces of the armor) and lain aside. Then Laurent is quick to wrap his arms around both wife and cousin, to pull them into a sweating, stinking embrace.

Johanna stands nearby, waiting as her brother is tended to, looking down at the fallen form of Osric. A faint frown settles on her lips as she looks then to Arros. "He thought it was for something, surely, or else he'd not have fought. You devalue his sacrifice by claiming it was worthless, Ser."

Arion enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Ser Arrick grinds the spear he's using to stand further into the ground and he says in response to Ser Arros rather angerily, "You know as well as I do that he was not fighting for Lord Blackmont or for finding Blackmont's wife. He fought for Dorne as I did and you did and Ser Tameron and every other Dornishman on the Boneway and in the Prince's Pass." Ser Arrick huffs up and then feels cracked, dry blood on his neck as he turns his head towards the call of Archmaester Luckin, the knight's eyebrows furrow as he points for the maester to come to him.

Keyte follows Harry's instructions with a grateful look for the help, and it's not long before Laurent's out of his armor. As she's pulled into his arms, though, she wrinkles her nose at the smell. "You did," she agrees easily enough, but it's chased by a horrified, "You're digusting. My gown's going to be ruined now." Regarding Maelys, she cranes her neck to peer around Laurent at his wife instead, and says, "He might yet not." Live, that is.

"Come here," repeats Luckin, "And let me look at those wounds." He doesn't seem the least amused, and he's still pressing a rag against the wound on Maelys' chest.

"If he were dead, the Maester wouldn't be dallying with him," says Harry, less complaining about Laurent's sweat and stink. She's pretty used to it. Might even like it. (GROSS!) "Though he may not last the night. One can so rarely tell, with these things."

Luckin looks over at Angharad and says, "Do not speak ill of his chances, lest he hear you and die for lack of hope." He looks down at Maelys and informs the still form, "You are going to live, you stupid cocksucker." He sounds disgusted, but not a bit doubtful.

"Well, I'd hate to break it to you, Ser, but Dorne lost." Arros says hotly. He lifts his head to stare hotly at Johanna before he says, "Someday, I am going to bury my sword inside of your brother's fucking throat." His lip curls up into a sneer, "Black is slimming. So, at least you will have that to console you."

Then the Silent Sisters arrive to take Osric's body, and Arros turns to follow.

Johanna's eyes narrow on Arros slightly as the threat is issued, chin lifting subtly. "Better men than you have tried," she makes a gesture to Osric. "And failed." When the Silent Sisters arrive, she turns away, moving nearer to Laurent, Keyte and Angharad.

Ser Arrick doesn't respond to Arros, he's right, but in the end this is merely a battle of a war that's been waging for many years. As the silent sisters arrive Ser Arrick turns away from their work and he heads over to the archmaester for a quick one over. "Archmaester, if you'd please make this quick…"

"If he were that easy to kill," Laurent calls back to the aged maester, "I wouldn't have had to hammer at him for so long, would I? Still, I'll hope for his death anyway, and see if it kills him." He turns back to the women in his arms, snorting a laugh, and lets Keyte go. Harry, though, he pulls in tight. He's on the point of saying something further when he the exchange between Arros and Johanna catches his attention, and he turns his head that way. "Lady Johanna," he calls out, surprisingly cheerful, "Did that bastard give you offense? I've still enough fight in me to stand for your honor."

"Hold this rag," commands Luckin, meaning the one he's got pressed to Maelys' still-bleeding chest.

Ser Arrick quirks a blood-crusted eyebrow and then takes the rag with his good hand and presses against the still-bleeding chest.

Luckin nods approvingly and starts to go over Arrick's wounds, quick and neat with his rags and boiled wine and bandages.

You will be healing arrick until they are fully healed or until you use +stopheal.

"All by yourself, Tyrell?" Arros smiles viciously as he turns around on his heel, "I don't believe it. I thought you needed at least several of your bannermen for aide." He turns his head about theatrically, "I don't see any here."

He looks to Keyte, "I'll be sure to tell my cousin's wife and children that, my Lady. I am sure they will be consoled."

Angharad looks chastened at Luckin's rebuke, murmuring an apology, and sighs then elaborately at Laurent's complete lack of couth. She might even nudge him near a wound — carefully not to make things worse, mind, but it only takes a little to cause pain. Where there's pain there's attention. "I could stand for her honor — against any one of you, the state you're all in. Leave it be — at least until you're all well enough to go at it again properly."

Laurent winces at Angharad's prodding, but grins wide as he disentangles himself from her. "All by myself, Sand," he says, stepping away from the knot of women. "I'd have killed you on the field, had you not yielded. You're the Blackrood's property now, but I wager he'll not mind one more dead Dornishman." Sweating and bleeding, the Thorn is nonetheless ready for a fight.

"As I recall it, Ser, there were several of your kinsmen with you as well," Johanna points out to Arros with a bland smile as her arm links with Keyte's. "If you wish to complain about how you stood alone, speak to those who decided to yield." She looks around to Laurent with a smile then. "There is no need for that tonight, he is bitter over his loss. We can save it for another day." She gives Keyte's arm a sqeeze, nodding to the soft words before leaning in to murmur quietly in return.

"Oh, both of you go home and go to bed," snaps Luckin at Laurent and Arros, sounding every bit like an exasperated and ill-tempered father.

Lady Harry steps in between the two men, gown dragging through the blood and the muck. She draws breath to speak — but Johanna and the Archmaester put it all very well. Still, she'll stand there, a very put-out physical barrier, glaring at each knight in turn.

"I am bitter over the death of a good man." Arros snaps at Johanna, "And I am appalled that his killer's sister have the nerve to comment on my cousin's death."

"Blackrood has my ransom. Ah, I wasn't sure if all seven of you cunts would divide it between you." He cracks his neck, "Let's dance then, Tyrell. Unless you're going to let your wife stop you?

Luckin stands up abruptly. "Both of you stop this absurd rubbish this instant," he roars. "Todays bloodshed is DONE!"

"Hardly," Laurent says, grinning at the Dornishman over his wife, with no eye for either of the women. "I'd be happy to put an end to your bitterness, Ser Arros." He glances toward the Silent Sisters and the body of Ser Osric, and shakes his head. "If your cousin didn't want women commenting on the manner of his death, mayhaps he ought not to have died." His heavy brow lifts, and he reaches out to gesture at his squire, a 'bring me my sword, ho!' sort of wave of the fingers. But the boy is cowed by Luckin's sudden shout, and the maester's cry draws Laurent's dark eyes as well, though his are narrow and angry as opposed to Willem's wide-eyed nervousness.

Keyte meets Arros' look with a scowl all her own, waiting out the responses of her cousins to the Sand knight before she speaks. "You were so quick with a smile for me, once. And now, scorn because I call your kinsman brave? You're —" She might have said mad, but Luckin's making an impressive show. Instead, she quips quietly to Johanna, "You and me both," and tugs on her cousin's arm. Must be time for them to stalk off.

"Go home before I crack your heads together!" roars Luckin, pointing at them with his old-man walking-stave, his pale blue eyes furious.

Arros spits on the ground, and glares fiercely at the Tyrell contingent before calling out, "You know where to find me, Tyrell." That said, he turns on his heel to follow the Silent Sisters.

Johanna looks as though she would very much like to continue right on speaking, though the roar from Luckin interrupts first, and then the tugging on her arm by Keyte stalls it further. She goes, but unless her cousin truly drags her along, she moves slow, twisting around to look back at Laurent and Arros.

Arros enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

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

Laurent lets loose a laugh, loud and mocking, at Arros' retreating form. A shake of his head, and he turns back to his wife and cousins, all ugly good-cheer for once. He reaches out to Harry again, chuckling as his dark eyes search out his squire. "Listen to a trembling old man when I call for my sword, Boy, and you'll be the next one I use it on. Understand?" For his part, Willem looks between Luckin and Laurent, nodding mutely.

Luckin starts to stalk towards Laurent, his face gone hawkish with anger.

Keyte's not dragging Johanna, but she is guiding her. It's ok to gawp over your shoulder, but let's not argue with them anymore?

Hah! Lady Harry may love her husband, and she may stand between him and a surly Dornish bastard, but when Luckin comes stalking over… she takes a judicious step back. Get 'im, Archmaester.

But arguing is fun! Oh, fine. Johanna gawps, but doesn't actively resist being led away by her cousin. She can save the rest of her barbs for another day.

Laurent, by contrast to his wife, is anything but cowed by the furious maester. He turns to face Luckin as he approaches, holding his ground with hands on his hips. "I wouldn't, old man," he growls in a warning tone. "It's not your place."

Visenya arrives on horseback, flanked by men-at-arms in Targaryen colors. She dismounts without aide before her guards do, and rushes towards the sand of the tourney ground, "Is he dead?!" She cries out, her tone one of stricken grief.

The furious Maester is, for his part, fearless. "It is now," he says. "Go home." He looks as if he's very likely just about to crack Laurent on the head with that staff.

Arguing is super fun, but Kesha's somewhere back there waiting to tear into her twin for all those precious smiles and 'go Kevyn go Kevyn's. Much more fun. (Unless you're Keyte.) Also, The Blackrood. Just sayin'. (But watching over your shoulder while Laurent and Luckin come to words is ok.)

Angharad looks deeply worried, apparently rethinking her decision to step back. She goes to Laurent and takes his arm, pleading softly, "My love, look at me. Please."

"It is not," Laurent growls back, and if he were amused by it a moment ago, that amusement is waning. Color is rising again to his cheeks as he takes another step toward Luckin, his voice low and words heated. "If you've a mind to swing that staff at me, old man, I invite it. I am a lord of the Reach, and you a doddering old…" His dark eyes do flit to Angharad when she takes his arm, but he shrugs her off. "No, Harry. No. I'll not stand for it." His right hand balls into a fist, knuckles white as he looks back to the fearless maester.

"A dottering old man who can assure with a word, or a lack of one, that you never see the inside of a healer's chamber unless it's that of a witch with a handful of mud," says Luckin, "And that your children never learn to read unless a strutting /young/ man such as yourself should teach them! Heed me and go home, I have work to do here. Did you see me trying to undo yours before you were finished with it?!"

"And I am a Princess of Westeros, and I say ENOUGH." Visenya tearily roars as Luckin and Laurent appear to be engaging in an altercation before she demands, "Is Maelys Targaryen dead?"

"Laurent." Angharad's voice is low and intent. "He is old, he is wise, and he is right. This day is done and you — a knight and a Great Lord — are threatening an old man and embarrassing me."

"Then be about your business, Old Man, and out of mine," Laurent growls, looming over the maester. "Or speak your word, if it please you, but I've no mind to bear your threats and bluster." His dark eyes flash toward Visenya, and he shakes his head. "The Stranger willing, he will have died while the maester thought to leave him in the hands of a wounded knight and come to the rescue of brave Ser Arros Sand." His heavy brow lifts as he looks back from Visenya to Luckin, and his tone is no less rough when he turns it back to his wife. "If you are embarrassed, Angharad, that I'll not bear his insults then I suggest you be on your way. I'll be along when I am ready."

Angharad throws up her hands. "As I should have been, the moment this was over. However many times you manage to escape death, you'll never be a better man for it." She turns and mucks her way off the field.

"Laurent!" Keyte's apparently breaking that concern she'd wrought for herself and Johanna, wresting free of the Oakheart as she turns herself fully around. Kesha will wait. "You great big brute, don't you dare speak to lady Harry so! Willem," she appeals, flashing half a smile to her cousin's squire, with whom she's shared a few stolen glances in their time. "Come, we're going home. So's my cousin."

Luckin snorts, "Bluster!" he declares. He spins on his heel, quicker than it seemed he could move, a moment ago, and turns his back on Laurent, fearless of that as well. He says to Visenya, "No, Princess. Perhaps your men will help me carry him back to the citadel." He stalks back to Maelys, and says to Arrick, "And you can come, too."

"You did not cut his head off in retaliation? Or molest his body?" Visenya asks, her tone one of equal parts relief and astonishment. And then she begins to weep outright, and the next words that pour out of her mouth are astonishing: "Thank you, Ser. You've no idea what my uncle's life means to me." She wipes tears from her red-rimmed, amethyst eyes before motioning for her men to come help carry Maelys.

When Luckin turns his back, it's as if he vanishes from Laurent's sight. In fact, many things do. He's suddenly bemused by Visenya's mood, and stops where he stands to consider the princess. "With any luck, he'll be dead by morning," the Thorn growls. "But if he survives, then he is hostage to Ser Abram Florent, Princess." He does not seem of a mind to join Keyte on her way back to the Garden Isle, though his squire is obviously drawn to. Willem looks from Laurent to Keyte, to Laurent again and, seeing the Thorn distracted, quietly leaves his sword with the rest of his kit on the ground and makes to disappear with the women.

"Seven help me, I will ride to tell our good Uncle Lorant of your ills myself if you don't move that ugly, brutish, somehow-Gods-unforsaken self of yours home with us, Laurent," calls Keyte, welcoming Angharad and Willem both into the fold of Tyrells moving off. AND YOU KNOW HOW BAD A RIDER SHE IS, SER THORN.

Johanna finds her arm released and turns with Keyte to look back at the goings on without having to near twist her head all the way around. "You are going to get that boy beaten," she remarks under her breath to Keyte, after the appeal to the squire. With her arm freed as it is, she slips away, moving in Laurent's direction again.

"Ser Abram will be made quite rich then, I imagine." Visenya says with a teary, happy little laugh. She stops to look at Laurent, "…Why didn't you kill him when you had the chance? He would have killed you."

Visenya's guards follow Luckin to Maelys' crumbled form, and pick up the disinherited Prince as per the maester's instructions.

"See that he is," Laurent growls, waving his hand to dismiss the subject. "I thought he was dead already." To anyone how saw what happened on the field the lie is an obvious one, but he has the look of a man who won't be budged from it. He gives the prince, who is hopefully dying, a last lingering look before turning away to nearly walk into Johanna. "Lady Johanna," he says with a nod of his head, then offers the Blackrood's sister his arm. "There's nothing more to be done here, I think. I'm for the Garden Isle."

Luckin helps the guards lift Maelys, cautioning them on technique, and binding the man's chest for the journey to the citadel. He doesn't wait for Visenya, or Arrick, but starts into the city, expecting them to follow.

Visenya mounts her horse, and trots off to follow the maester and company to the Citadel.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License