(121-04-26) The Joust of Maidens
The Joust of Maidens
Summary: The First Day of the Dragon's Tourney. A day for mystery knights and maids.
Date: (26/04/121)
Related: http://gobmush.wikidot.com/log:121-04-27-the-melee-of-maidens
Players:
Aemon..Alyse..Angharad..Arrick..Daemond..Elionys..Fulk..Kaspar..Malcolm..Riderch..Saskia..Sera..Tironos..

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.

The summer sun is westering over the Honeywine and the tourney grounds are riot of color and pageantry. Where, only a week ago, there were naught but green fields, a hundred pavilions are spread athwart the west bank of the Honeywine. The flower of Reach chivalry has come to Oldtown for the Prince's Tourney. Other, more distant, houses populate the field: Estermont's green tortoise, the emaciated lips and grinning skulls of the Lonmouths, Blackwood's weirwood and ravens, house Caron's nightingales, and house Tarly's striding huntsman, the polychromatic arms of houses Strong of Harrenhal and Massey of Stonedance. A hundred knights, squires, and freeriders have come from across the realm to prove their valor and hazard the dangers of the lists for a prize sufficient to make a lord of a beggar.

Maelys Targaryen's pavilion, an elaborate affair of crimson and sable silk, is as far from the pavilions of the Lords of the Reach as possible. Though none have seen the Prince, a heavy Dothraki with a scarred chest stands watch beside the Prince's shield: a three headed dragon atop three shattered swords.

The tourney began in earnest an hour past dawn, with a benediction from a Septon from the Starry Sept. The snap of tourney lances filled the lists. Coronels fly! While destrier and knight fell. After three and ninety tilts, seven knights remain from a field of one hundred.

The Royal Herald calls a brief recess, servants rush forward with shovels to level hoof-churned earth. In the stands, a thousand royals look upon the seven who remain.

One of the seven remaining knights is a figure in dark slate colored armor. He isn't a very tall man but he stands with a solid back and high shoulders. His face has been covered throughout the tourney and nary a word has slipped past his lips. Dubbed the Silent Knight, he has done a decent job at ignoring taunts and posturing from those around him, his focus is on the field. His horse, a chestnut destrier that belongs to the House of Lannister, stands behind him, looking pretty awesome for a horse.

Ser Arrick Gargalen, fresh off a duel the previous day is hurting something fierce. He's been pushing himself to complete every match with vigor but after taking a mace to his offhand the previous day, the red and yellow shield of his house is getting heavier and heavier as this summer day wears on… Seated atop his horse, a rather brutish steed bought from a breeder outside Oldtown, Ser Arrick winces as he hands his shield off to this squire, motioning for a skin of wine and then to be left alone. This Dornishman plans to win this tournament, no matter the pain, no matter the trouble it'll cause. Arrick receives his wine and he looks on as a round commences.

There aren't that many Tyrells of Oldtown in attendance, today, however crowded the stand. Doubtless, this is due to the last-minute withdrawal of Ser Laurent, their champion. There is at least one, however — and, oddly enough, it's Ser Laurent's wife, Lady Angharad. She sits upon the noble platform, above the fray, accompanied by some ladies and lord of the Northern houses, her kin and cousins. Perhaps she just enjoys a good bloodletting. Those ladies of the colder climes are said to be rather savage.

Malcolm's riding a ridiculously pretty piebald war horse with fluffy feet. His shield bear the sigil of a black book bound in bronze on an azure field. His horse may be silly, but he takes the jousting seriously and watches other people tilt with a focused concentration. He has no reputation or sobriety, this being his fist tourney.

Still standing it would seem. For the first time Ser Tironos Tarly has made it into the top ten of a joust of this size. Dressed in full plate, his great helm removed till his next tilt, the giant of a man looks over his large, black destrier to ensure the stallion is still holding up well after the day’s event. Still lacking a squire of his own, he simply has a male servant on hand to provide him with his equipment as needed. For the first time ever there is a change to his dull gray armor, his cuirass has been recently lacquered green with a red striding huntsman on the breastplate. A cloak hangs from his shoulders, attached via simple metal clasps to the cuirass, bearing the green and red of House Tarly, Tironos was even introduced as Ser Tironos Tarly instead of just Ser Tironos, it seems his recent betrothal has inspired a bit of pride in his house that is atypical for the six foot eight man. His shield, a longsword, and his lances remain close-by at his tent being seen to by his servant. Giving his steed a firm pat after checking it over, the mocha eyes of the man with a shaved head scans the pavilions, stands, and competition silently, likely taking in just how many remain.

Sometimes luck carries you as far as skill — something that the Lord hair of Raventree Hall would be happy to tell one all about. While not a bad horseman, he is probably not as known for it as these more famed knights of the south. There's more than a bit of the First Men in him, which often manifests in Northern-like traits such as his rough manner of fighting.

Today, though, Riderch appears elated, if slightly winded while he gives his black courser a pat on the neck, gazing up into the summer sun.

Ser Kaspar Royce sits atop a campstool drinking from a skin. The heir to Runestone is arrayed in ancient bronze plate etched with the runes of the First Men. His cloak appurtenant to his armor, half a hundred long strings of stones threaded with spun steel. Each of these bears a single tiny glyph, like those etched upon his armor. His harness is old, though not so old as the armor of his Lord father. He looks about the field at the other six he might face. His face is stained with dirt and sweat, though he seems pleased by the course of events. Hedge knight and second sons? Yes, but how many men can boast of unhorsing four knights trained in the ways of war?

The most experienced, and the lowest born of the remaining contestants is something of a local favourite, old Ser Fulk the Subtle, a Reachman born and (just about) bred. Nonetheless, the hardened, canny, wiry one-time hedge-knight has appeared this day with all the panoply and retinue that befits a properly-maintained sworn sword of the royal house. A Crownlander squire, one of the Stokeworths by his livery, no more than fourteen, attends him with spare lances and a fresh horse that looks rather more formidable than the old grey courser Fulk is actually riding. He is used to Faithful, an intelligent and responsive beast, and, no doubt, Faithful to him. The Reach-knight's curious device of the Knifed Star is quartered on his caparison, though not his shield, with the three-headed dragon whose cause now feeds and shields him. Ser Fulk's visor is still up, the smile amid the grizzle mild but wary. The old stager of the lists is more than ready.

The absence of her lord husband in the lists hasn't diminished Lady Angharad's spirits in the least — again, that northern savagery at work. She cheers enough for a dozen ladies, far more lustily than is ladylike, and shouts some rather salty language in her endorsements and detractions, besides. Her favorites? She likes to pick winners, it seems. She cheers for Ser Riderch of Raventree Hall, Ser Malcom of the Stormlands… and Ser Arrick Gargalen of Dorne.

Seated in a small pavilion that is hardly as ostentatious as Maelys is Sera Florent. Her family and kin are also oddly absent but she is here to watch a good fight; can't miss an event that may be the talk of the town after all.

With no banners and no colors to hint at his fealty or his family name, the Silent Knight has been using the same slate grey, empty shield - just further adding to his lack of communication. He is definitely silent in all manners and ways. Reaching up, he strokes his horse's neck, patting him heavily before grabbing onto the saddle and launching himself up to the seat. A young teenaged boy, obviously not a squire, lifts up the shield for the slate knight but keeps the lance ready.

The Royal herald lifts a sheet of vellum and reads in a booming voice. "Let Ser Malcolm Storm ride against The Silent Knight! Let Ser Riderch of House Blackwood ride against Ser Fulk the Subtle!" A roar rises from the commons. The commons are fond of Hedge Knights and upstarts.

Riderch's armor is a well-kept affair and a mass of well-arranged plate and maile, bearing a blackened finish, as dark as the raven-feathered cloak thrown about his shoulders. His helmet is not enclosed, but bears a nasal guard and a pair of cheek guards which highlight a cheery, if slightly goofy grin as his name is called. He has apparently acknowledged the cheer (s) thrown in his direction, with a heft of his shield towards the seated spectators. Probably right where Angharad is sitting.
Scanning the field now, his attention is thrown eventually in the direction of the named Ser Fulk as his grin widens. A big man attends Blackwood's horse, serving as his squire before patting the beast lightly upon her hindquarters, and Riderch is off to the tilt.

As the herald announces names other than his own, Ser Arrick gently guides his horse to a different vantage point along the end of the stands. With a moment to spare the knight takes a long pull from his wine which he discards shortly after. As the knights called to the tilt ready themselves Arrick says to his squire, "Watch the silent one, see if he reminds you of anyone!" The Dalt boy pays close attention to the fight as Arrick reaches into his armor, pulling a small key on a chain into his hands. The knight turns the key over a few times and then he sticks it back into the armored plate. Sometimes, the strangest things happen for reasons unknown…

The Silent Knight glances towards Malcolm, his ice blue eyes the only real identifying mark. He nods his head towards the bastard born in acknowledgement and respect before he accepts the lance from the young teenager. Pulling up on his horse, he approaches the tilt and lowers his lance at a ready position.

Malcolm returns the Silent Knights nod respectfully, then salutes the ladies in their pavilions with a touch of his lance to the helm. He rides his silly horse to his end of the lists. The horse seems steady but spirited, but the jousting helm gives little away as to the knight's disposition. He lowers his lance and waits.

As the hound to the questing horn, as the lover to the lady's pirouette, as the soldier to the captain's trump…so the aging but game Ser Fulk responds happily to being amongst the first to be called, trotting forth with tangible enthusiasm to meet, and to greet, the Riverlands lordling who will be his next foe. "A pretty pair we make, m'lord," he calls in a loud voice with a slight crake to it. "My stabbed star 'gainst your dead tree. The gods will be puzzled who to strike first! Let's help 'em make their minds up!" With a further salute after he has lowered his visor, of helmed head and of lance, he spurs old Faithful and surges light-heartedly forth, come what may.

Tironos turns to the lists as the names are called, patting his destrier's neck as he watches, as though attempting to study the techniques of his opponents.

"Ser Malcolm of the Pretty Horse! Ser Riderch of the Balanced Books!" Angharad calls happily, voice pitched to carry, merry as the day is long. She applauds with vigor. "Get 'em, boys!"

"Shhh, Ser. Maybe the Gods merely sleeping today. We wouldn't want to disturb them with something so trivial." A laugh is returned and it's clear that Riderch is having a grand old time. At least so far. Or maybe he has just found Fulk /really/ amusing. In any case, there's a raise of his shield in salute to the older Knight and with that, he brings his black steed in line and rides forth.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=Riding Vs Riderch=Riding
< Fulk: Good Success Riderch: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Riding Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Success Malcolm: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=Blades Vs Riderch=Riding
< Fulk: Great Success Riderch: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=Blades Vs Fulk=Riding
< Riderch: Failure Fulk: Failure
< Net Result: Both Fail.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Blades Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Great Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Malcolm=Blades Vs Saskia=Riding
< Malcolm: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

Old Faithful still has plenty of vim about him, and his rider knows the drill well, how best to make use of his slight, spare frame and his collection of trick-riding manouevres. And so it is soon clear it is the old commoner, not the young Riverlord, who will strike the first atteint in their match this day. Fulk glides by with his lances primed for a good, straightforward impact on that weirwood; his lance shudders, but does not yet snap.

Kaspar Royce watches from the edge of the lists as the riders collide. The Vale knight winces as the hedge knight Ser Fulk and the heir to Raventree collide. The cacophony is deafening.

Malcolm is not the best of horsemen, though his hand is steady. The horse sidesteps throwing off his aim and the lance shatters without getting a proper touch.

Oh, this rich. As the elder Knight and the grinning Riverlord charge, there's a slight miscalculation on Riderch's part — a jumpy horse tends to make these things more interesting. As Fulk's lance 'thunks' it makes a slight but noticable impact, knocking the Blackwood off balance as his own lance is deflected away from the Hedge Knight's shield and goes awry, 'whiffing' through the air.
The fallout from this is slightly comical, as Riderch's horse is spooked and rears up in the air, coming to an abrupt stop and almost throwing her rider clear off her back. He holds on for dear life. "Oh shit!" It looks like Fulk's own steed was somehow knocked off-balance by this exchange too, and the two riders are suddenly held there, within arms' length of each other. This is awkward. There's some staring. And then suddenly the Riverlander bursts out laughing, at the situation, or at his opponent, it's unsure which. He's a strange guy.

Lady Angharad is on her feet as the knights make their first pass, all excitement and wide grin — until Ser Riderch is nearly thrown from his horse. Such things can be fatal — or worse — and the Tyrell lady cries out in dismay at the sight of it, clapping a hand to her heart when the danger is past a second later. She stares at the knights staring at each other, then bursts out laughing of her own. "Fight!" she shouts in encouragement. "Get down in the dirt, you lot!"

The nobleman's freehearted laugh is repayed by a wry smile from the veteran tourney knight. "It may be yer lady friend up there in the stands has a point, m'lord. If these bloody mare's sons insist on showin' us yella liver, how'd you fancy a little play on foot?" It's a rash offer from a man past his prime who has always been a more skilful lance than sword…but it's the kind of rashness that has endeared Fulk to the crowds for decades.

The commons explode with laughter at the antics of the Hedge Knight and the Riverman. Of course, there are a number of them boo and jeer, namely those malcontents and rapscallions who came to see blood. The herald, atop his perch stifle a laugh behind a doeskin glove and the tilt continues in earnest.

As Riderch and Fulk have a mishap in the middle of their charge, Sera lifts her hand up to cover her lips as she bursts out laughing. She tries to catch herself and her composure but she struggles to keep it in. Through her laughter Sera manages to add to the noise, "It's no time to hug and chat! Drinks are served after the tourney!"

Charging towards Malcolm and meeting him exactly half way, the Silent Knight lowers his head and steels himself behind his shield and lance. His lance slams solidly against Malcolm's shield, splintering the middle while his own shield twists in time to deflect the lance heading towards him. A savage grin crinkles the corners of his eyes up as his horse pulls past to the end of the tilt, tossing his lance away and reaching for a new one.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Riding Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Good Success Malcolm: Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Success Malcolm: Failure
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Malcolm=blades Vs Saskia=riding
< Malcolm: Good Success Saskia: Success
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Solid Victory

"I defer to your experience, Ser." Actually — no, this tone on Riderch's part is not mocking at all, even as he calms his jumpy mare. "Lil, just settle down!" He barks at his horse with quiet weariness. "Shall we?"

"Ah, ye're on a mare, eh," Fulk mutters amusedly. "Couldna tell through yer fancy bardin'! Old eyes gettin' dim. But p'raps that explains it all. Old Faithful always is shy with the ladies. Unlike his rider." He grins, leaps lightly down to the ground, casts aside his light tourney lance and draws an old but serviceable sword!

Malcolm has no squire, but his servant runs out with replacement gear. He resettles and refocuses, the tiny slits meaning he has no idea what comedy is playing out in the neighboring lists. The second pass goes better and he makes his touch.

Charging back toward Malcolm with a fresh lance, the Silent Knight is first to hit this time, unfortunately his lance is barely splintered despite hitting Malcolm's shield. His own is smashed into however, the force of Malcolm's lance shattering against it nearly shoves him off the saddle. He sits heavy however and remains seated as he reaches the end of the tilt.

It could be that Riderch just likes the girls. But sometimes they don't like him back. Maybe a Bracken sold his people the horse. In any case, he /does/ calm his mare before his giant, bald squire makes his way into the tilt with a rather detached, world-weary manner and takes his mount to safety, along with the Blackwood's lance. His own trusty tournament longsword is drawn shortly thereafter, and takes the field on foot, slamming the hilt of his blade against a shield at Fulk in salute, and as a call to readiness.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Riding Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Good Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Riding Vs Malcolm=Blades
< Saskia: Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Blades Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Solid Victory

Tapping his own distinctly unflashy blunted brand on another shield in the most informal of casual acceptances, Fulk then jumps up with a limberness remarkable for his years, assisted perhaps by his relatively light, inexpensive old hauberk. He attacks with an eager confidence that is very likely in large part put on to improve the show by which he has made his name, aiming to catch his opponent unguarded through sheer quickness.

Ser Malcolm Storm's silly horse prances a couple steps before he turns her. Perhaps the horse is surprised to still have a rider. Down the list they charge again. Somehow, Ser Malcom manages to make another solid hit.

Riderch's own stance is cautious. There's an informal circle in the dirt here, and he edges about it, pacing with his drawn blade. A cursory glance would tell one thing, he probably relies on more agile movements and quick strikes than outright brute force. But into the fray he goes.

<COMBAT> Fulk attacks Riderch with Sword & Shield - Serious wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

<COMBAT> Riderch attacks Fulk with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Neck stops the attack!

<COMBAT> Riderch has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.

<COMBAT> Riderch has changed stance to banzai.

<COMBAT> Riderch will spend luck on attack this turn.

This time the Silent Knight barely made contact as Malcolm surges faster and hits his shield enough for a point. The slate knight's own lance hardly touches the Storm Knight's shield and a muttered curse of 'by the warrior's flaccid cock' cannot be heard by the crowd at all, thankfully.

<COMBAT> Fulk will spend luck on attack this turn.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=riding Vs Malcolm=Riding
< Saskia: Failure Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Solid Victory

Sera's eyes are on Riderch and Fulk, intent on watching the more intense, seemingly, fight. The Florent girl is most definitely cheering on Ser Fulk, encouraging the older man as she shouts out loud, "Yea! Go get him you old…old man!"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Malcolm=blades Vs Saskia=riding
< Malcolm: Success Saskia: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades Vs Malcolm=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Malcolm: Failure
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Solid Victory

One thing is clear here, — Fulk was clearly underestimated a bit by Riderch, and that was a mistake. Tourney fighting with blunted swords is often like this, as his own sword connects — maybe with a sharpened blade and a different armor situation, Fulk would be having a very bad day, but the sweep of the Riverlander's sword merely 'clinks' against the neck of Fulk's armor as he gets a more serious thump in the chest from the older knight. That will —- leave a bruise. Ouch. He grunts as he steps back, squaring his shield and preparing for a more direct strike.

And wouldn't you know it…sometimes a bluff becomes a reality, and the old man delivers a powerful thwack upon the Weirwood of Blackwood for the second time…but now the surcoat, not the shield! Ser Fulk is as game as the pluckiest of fighting cocks and shows no sign of letting up the pressure, careering on as he began, with a wild whoop of "Knifed Star! Knifed Star! Fire and Blood!"

<COMBAT> Riderch attacks Fulk with Sword & Shield - Moderate wound to Right Leg (Reduced by Armor).

<COMBAT> Fulk attacks Riderch with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Abdomen stops the attack!

<COMBAT> Riderch has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.

<COMBAT> Riderch will attack Fulk this turn. Options: called=right_leg

Okay, that's it, Slate Knight is mad. He twists the horse around a bit too abruptly as he snags his new lance. Narrowing his eyes at Malcolm, he charges, hard - unfortunately the horse has a different plan as he trips over his own hooves. The trip, however, came at a perfect timing as the knight's whole body twists away from Malcolm while his lance shatters beautifully against the other knight's shield.

Blows are exchanged again as the two unhorsed knights continue to wail on each other. "We all fight for the glory of the Dragons, Ser." Riderch yells after another exchange of swings is made. This time, the older knight takes a particularly vicious thump in the leg. And the bruises start to pile up.

The Hedge knight and the future Lord of Raventree Hall beat at each other with tourney blades in an epic duel and after four tilts, the Master of Games lifts a crestless gray pennant to signal the Silent Knight's victory. The Herald consults his sheet of vellum and announce the next tilt. "While Ser Fulk and Ser Riderch resolve their tilt, let Ser Tironos Tarly and Ser Kaspar Royce joust!"

<COMBAT> Fulk will attack Riderch this turn. Options: called=chest

<COMBAT> Riderch has changed stance to normal.

<COMBAT> Riderch attacks Fulk with Sword & Shield - Light wound to Right Leg (Reduced by Armor).

<COMBAT> Fulk attacks Riderch with Sword & Shield but MISSES!

<COMBAT> Riderch has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.

Perhaps the silly piebald was overconfident, as this time when Ser Malcolm charges the lance breaks again and his own fails to touch. He jars back hard in the saddle and the horse tries to make a break for it. He manages to draw it up, but well out of the lists.

Arrick bristles a bit while considering the fight, he looks down to his squire and says, "Pay close attention, think of what you've learned and apply it in your first tournament." Arrick points towards the grounded fighting and he adds, "Try not to spend yourself fighting on foot in a tournament, win with the lance." The Dalt boy nods up at Arrick as he watches closely.

As his name is called Tironos takes up his great helm, slipping it on increasing his height to nearly seven feet and mounts his large destrier making him tower even more than normal as his servant offers up his shield, then his lance as the giant of a man prepares and trots over to his place on the lists.

"Maybe so," the old knight rejoins, though through a grunt of pain this time, "but on'y one of us has the honour o' takin' their coin direct. Might be I'll get some rivery coin to join it soon enough, eh? HAHA!" And he launches himself once more against the Riverlord's torso, with all the ferocity of an undergrown, past-it, but persistent boar.

"You're a fast one." This is all that Riderch says, as he dances back, coughing out a gasp afterwards — that bruise to the chest may have knocked the wind out of him at all. Of course, this didn't stop another exchange of blows. The strikes continue as he hammers on knight's leg.

<COMBAT> Fulk attacks Riderch with Sword & Shield and MISSES!

<COMBAT> Riderch attacks Fulk with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Right Foot stops the attack!

<COMBAT> Riderch has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.

Speaking of Dragons, here is one now, or likely so judging by his pale hair (though it's tinted a little more gold than silver) and entitled gait (though it's as much like a sailor's as a prince's). He's not any of those known to be currently resident in Oldtown, but Aemon wanders up to the tourney grounds and takes the stairs into the lord's and ladies' bleachers two at a time, finding a spot where he can lounge back against an upper row. He shines an apple on the charcoal linen of his shirt and takes a bite before using it to gesture at the action on the field, commenting to whoever is nearby, "Who're all these, then?"

"SMITE HIM, BLACKWOOD!" shouts Lady Angharad, pumping a fist in the air as she cheers. A servant pouts her some more wine, because clearly that's precisely what she needs.

Kaspar takes his great helm from his squire Bertram and dons it then mounts his grey courser. He takes a lance from his page and rides toward the lists. He salutes the knight of House Tarly and charges!

<FS3> Tironos rolls Warcraft: Good Success.

Alyse arrives to the event a bit late and takes her place on the platform for nobles. She settles gracefully onto an empty seat near the front with her maid beside her. She folds her hands in her lap and watch as her guard’s position themselves nearby before she looks to what is happening on the field with a curious eye.

Tironos returns to salute by raising his lance silently, before cradling it quickly and spurring his destrier into a charge as well.

<COMBAT> Riderch will attack Fulk this turn. Options: called=right_arm

<COMBAT> Riderch has changed stance to banzai.

<COMBAT> Fulk has changed stance to evade.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=Blades Vs Kaspar=Riding
< Tironos: Success Kaspar: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

Arrick turns up towards the stands as a familiar Tyrell's voice rains down a few words onto the field. The Dornish knight smiles up towards the woman who is intently watching the joust. It's hard to believe that noble women thirst for blood just as much as noble men do. Then again, that is Ser Laurent's wife…
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=Blades Vs Tironos=Riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Tironos: Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Solid Victory

At last, for all his mail's solidity, Fulk seems to have learnt some caution from the younger Riverlord, and his movements become slyer, more calculating and sinuous, and distinctly versatile - hoping to see off his foe, having retreated from the hope of overwhelming him by quick and remorseless assault, through the tactical cunning which is his more usual hallmark.

Another series of blows are rained in the dance, as Riderch is noticeably quieter now, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Maybe smiting too. Maybe smiting (thanks for the suggestion, Harry!)

<COMBAT> Riderch attacks Fulk with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Right Arm stops the attack!

<COMBAT> Fulk attacks Riderch with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!

<COMBAT> Riderch has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=blades+2 Vs Kaspar=riding
< Tironos: Success Kaspar: Good Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Marginal Victory

<COMBAT> Fulk will attack Riderch this turn. Options: called=Right_Hand

<COMBAT> Riderch will attack Fulk this turn. Options: called=head

The Riverland and the Hedge Knight are enwrapped in a storm of slivers. The Royal Herald looks upon them, and thence to the crowd seething. The battle has taken on a life of its own amongst the mob of commonfolk. "Let Ser Fulk and Ser Riderch disperse and return to their pavilions! Both knights shall advance!" There is another stir amongst the common and a great many curses from the attendant Brackens

Tironos is has only taken part in tourneys, but with only four years of experience he is a bit behind most of the competition. Tironos manages to collide with his lance to Kaspar's armor, but fails to break his tip… The one time a guy actually wants to do so, while he takes a solid blow to his armor. If Tironos has a favor from his betrothed it’s tucked away and unseen.

"Those gods weary of our styles," Ser Fulk observes with a wit which is becoming muted by tiredness itself. The herald makes his announcement just as he launches into a new strike, and Fulk either chooses to ignore it for a moment, or is too far advanced to hold back - slashing at Riderch's sword hand in an attempt to disarm him.

Again, the herald's voice booms across the commons. "Let Ser Arrick Gargalen and the Silent Knight ride forth to prove their valor!"

Alyse watches the match with a calculating look in her grey eyes. She doesn't shout or scream and seems perfectly calm and composed as she watches with interest. She briefly looks to the excited Tyrell woman and lifts a brow looking at her curiously before she looks back to the fight below them. Ser Arrick is spotted when he looks up and she sends a small smile in the knight’s direction before the fight recaptures her attention once more. When it’s Arrick’s turn to fight she looks to him and then his opponent studying them both carefully.

"Did you hear something?" Riderch inquires as the melee rages on. He makes another, desperate strike at his opponent.

<COMBAT> Riderch attacks Fulk with Sword & Shield - ARMOR on Right Arm stops the attack!

<COMBAT> Fulk attacks Riderch with Sword & Shield and MISSES!

<COMBAT> Riderch has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.

As the herald finally announces his name, Ser Arrick Gargalen has his helm handed up to him, which he places upon his head, he then gets handed a bright yellow and red shield, cockatrice painted into its center. The Dornishman looks to adjust his shield a moment and then he rides forth and gets set at his end of the tilt. Arrick's squires come running with a lance, he hands it up to his knight master who aims it towards his rather silent competition. On this very field the seven judged Ser Arrick negatively before, today he shall be judged for the better. With a slight kick of his heels the knight moved forward, leaning into the lance and carefully arming his shield.

Kaspar's lance cracks hard against his foes shield, the coronel is blunted, and the Knight of house Tarly's lance slides off his shield. He reins his horse at the end of the lists and brings spurs to the flanks of his grey destrier, he crouches his lance and aims for his foe’s shield.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=riding Vs Kaspar=riding
< Tironos: Good Success Kaspar: Success
< Net Result: Tironos wins - Solid Victory

<COMBAT> Riderch has stopped the combat.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=blades Vs Kaspar=riding
< Tironos: Good Success Kaspar: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

"I heard a very solemn and wise commandment by the royal herald. I jus' heard it a little late. Age, y'know," Ser Fulk remarks with mock-resignation, as he recedes from the struggle, raising his visor. "Eager as I am to finish our dance, of course," he remarks with twinkling eyes, "I think ye'll agree the decision is fair. And," he adds too quietly for the crowd, "something t'our advantage. See you back asaddle, m'lord." He bows flamboyantly to the crowd before finally accepting the overtures of the whey-faced Stokeworth squire and leaving for the Targaryen pavilion.

Lady Angharad appears well-pleased that, if Ser Riderch cannot be said to have won, at least he didn't lose. "Huzzah!" Then the next joust is called and she stands again, eager to see Ser Arrick and the Silent Knight. "Ser Arrick!" she shouts, putting her forefinger and thumb in her mouth to blow a piercing whistle. More wine, Harry? "Oh, thank you! Don't mind if I do," she smiles brightly at the servant who tops off her cup.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Tironos=riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Tironos: Failure
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Solid Victory

Finally, the drawn-out melee seems to wear a little thin on the Riverlander. His droopy countenance bears a sudden sad, forlorn look. And then a sharp laugh. "I must just be old before my time, ser. I'll see you again, though." He raises his sword and sheathes it, taking a deep breath as he looks for his big squire. "Oh — and well-fought, Ser. Well fought." He bounds off with a spring in his proverbial step.

Around again, this time Tironos misjudges as his lance deflects off Kaspar's shield to no benefit, as he takes another solid hit. Perhaps he is getting too old for this after only four years as a knight.

The Royal Herald looks upon the impudent Hedge Knight-turned-royal-retainer with a look evocative of an irate Maester. "Ahem, let Ser …" And then the list explodes with a storm of slivers as the Vale knight's lance explodes against his gallant foes’ shield! Kaspar rides to the end of the list, fetches a fresh lance and charges at Ser Tironos a third time. Just as the Silent knight crouches his lance and charges for the knight of House Gargalen.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=riding Vs Arrick=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Arrick: Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Arrick: Amazing Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=Riding Vs Arrick=Blades
< Saskia: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

Aemon lounges in the stands, taking up more space than most as he sprawls against the row behind him and eats an apple. He applauds lazily now and again, including now, apple held between his teeth so he can join the crowd in clapping for the jousting displays in progress. He swaps the fruit back into a broad, scarred palm and asks someone nearby, "Do we know who this Silent Knight fellow is?"

The Silent Knight approaches his next victim, I mean competitor. His ice-blue eyes narrow as he fixes them on Arrick. Grabbing his lance from his faux-squire as well as his shield, he settles low on his horse and readies the lance before charging forward. The mysterious knight manages to pull ahead and the slate grey colored knight smashes his lance into Arrick's shield. It hits but it doesn't splinter - Arrick's lance, however, crashes heavily into the Silent Knight's shield. It was a beautiful attack on Arrick's part and the only reason the Silent is still seated is due to his own tenacity.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=blades Vs Kaspar=riding
< Tironos: Success Kaspar: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Tironos=riding
< Kaspar: Great Success Tironos: Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Crushing Victory

Tironos charges once more, but doesn't seem to catch any luck, as his lance deflects once more off the shield of Kaspar as the giant goes down hard.

Kaspar rides past the fallen giant tossing aside his broken lance, he lifts a hand in salute to Tironos. "Thank you for the tilt, Ser. I hope you will fight your way back to me so you may try me again." The Vale Knight rides back to his campstool.

Though the event has already begun, Elionys is only just now arriving with a pair of guards in tow. She's just fashionably late, that's what she'll claim, anyway. She makes her way into the stands and for a seat, though something makes her stop and stare, and then she's pushing her way further along in order to claim an open space beside Aemon.

The Silent Knight approaches his next victim, I mean competitor. His ice-blue eyes narrow as he fixes them on Arrick. Grabbing his lance from his faux-squire as well as his shield, he settles low on his horse and readies the lance before charging forward. The mysterious knight manages to pull ahead and the slate grey colored knight attempts to smash his lance into Arrick's shield; however a fantastic display of maneuvering from the Dornish Knight avoids any hit. As for Arrick's lance, however, it is neatly, though far less spectacularly deflected by the Silent Knight's shield.

After light contact that doesn't splinter either lance Ser Arrick rides down to the end of the tilt and he grunts as he looks up at the unbroken lance, still useful lance. The knight turns about on his horse and he lowers the lance again, quickly making his way down, very much annoyed that he didn't make solid contact on the first go. Gritting his teeth the knight leans into the lance shot, looking to unhorse his opponent outright.

Again, the herald consults his vellum sheet. "Let Ser Malcolm Storm ride against Ser Tironos Tarly!"

Meanwhile, in the Blackwood pavilion — a couple men in black stand adjacent to the lounging Riverlord as he stands around lazily, inspecting his lance and chatting with his squire. Riderch has a rather finely worked horn plated with silver that he takes a stiff drink of — something from.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=Riding Vs Saskia=Riding
< Arrick: Great Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Blades=Arrick Vs Saskia=Riding
< Blades: Success Saskia: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

Tironos grunts as he impacts the ground, and after a bit of catching his breath he stands to his full height and nods respectfully to Kaspar and says, "We shall see." simply in a baritone that reverbs slightly in the helmet, as he looks to the announcer and remounts for his next match.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=riding Vs Malcolm=riding
< Tironos: Good Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=blades Vs Malcolm=riding
< Tironos: Good Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

Aemon shrugs and returns to eating his apple and watching the action, only looking up from the field as someone takes a seat beside him. He twists to look at Elionys and arch a brow at her, his mouth curling into a bit of a smirk. "Don't tell me. I'll get it." He makes a show of considering her face for a moment, and then lifts a finger from around the apple and points as he raises the fruit back to his mouth and names her: "Cousin."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Saskia=riding
< Arrick: Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

Elionys is just about to helpfully inform Aemon, though that consideration stalls the attempt and instead she just grins. "Oh, now, that's cheating," she tells him. "Not even a guess at my name?" She heaves a great sigh, but it lacks any genuine annoyance. "Yes, you're right. Cousin." She pauses to glance down at the field, but it's only with a passing interest. "I didn't know that you were coming to Oldtown. Have you only just arrived?"

"Does it end in '-ya'? Or '-ys'?" Aemon's smirk remains at his cousin's sigh, and he nods. "Aye, just. And look," he sweeps a hand across the scene, "Look how quickly they slapped together a tourney in my honor." He grins before polishing off the last of his apple and twisting onto his side to lob the core over the heads of the assembled nobles and into the grass.

After a drop of refreshment at the dragon pavilion, Ser Fulk the Subtle makes his way to mingle among his betters in the stands. He smiles genially at many of the noble beauties, reserving particular attention for the charming young Florent who cheered for him and the Northern beauty who encouraged his rival…though his admiration to both shows no recognition of this small difference! After all, it seems he got on well enough with his erstwhile Blackwood foe, too. It's obvious that if bidden over for conversation by either lady he would be delighted, but he knows his place and is as gently hesitant off the field as he was impetuous upon it!

Taking a glancing blow off his shield, which although no splinters were about, a definite crack was heard. Arrick rides down to the end of the tilt again annoyed with his lance, he throws the still unbroken and seemingly unlucky lance to the field and waves over a new one. A squire runs up quickly and places one into the Dornishman's opened armored hand. The knight bites his lip and rides forth, angry at his sudden misfortune and sure that he's going to crash through the other knight's shield this time for sure!

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Malcolm=riding Vs Tironos=riding
< Malcolm: Good Success Tironos: Failure
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Solid Victory

Thwack! No splinters but Silent got a point. With a grumble under his breath, he reaches the end of the tilt and throws his lance away. The young boy hurries with a new one, hefting it up for him to grab. Readying it under the crook of his arm, Silent turns back towards Arrick, gives him a nod in recognition of the Knight's power before readying for the next round.

Tironos charges his horse once again, and once again his lance deflects and he takes a solid blow. This doesn't seem to be his afternoon, perhaps the day’s events have tired the tall knight.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=Riding Vs Saskia=Riding
< Arrick: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Malcolm=blades Vs Tironos=riding
< Malcolm: Success Tironos: Good Success
< Net Result: Tironos wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=Blades Vs Saskia=Riding
< Arrick: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=blade Vs Malcolm=riding
< Tironos: Failure Malcolm: Success
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

"Ser — ah… Ser!" Lady Angharad calls cheerfully, seeing Ser Fulk perusing the crowd. She lifts her hand to wave. "Come, have some wine! Or do you ride again soon?"

Tironos turns about and charges again, making a slight correction at the last minute to finally land a blow against Ser Malcolm, however Malcolm lands a blow as well giving them each a point.

"Ser Fulk, m'lady, a sword sworn to Princess Visenya," the old-timer easily introduces himself with a jagged, grizzled grin as he veers over with immaculate obedience and obvious pleasure. "And, that's a secret o' the herald's, but a little wine never made a man less ready to leap asaddle, and 'd be much gladdened to make y'acquaintance. Ye're a friend to my last adversary, a'think, m'lady? A hard foe on horse or soil, with a queer wit about him. Hope to know him better ere long!"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tironos=blades Vs Malcolm=riding
< Tironos: Success Malcolm: Good Success
< Net Result: Malcolm wins - Marginal Victory

The lady stands to offer her hand while a servant, attentively taking cues from the conversation, makes ready another cup of wine. "Lady Angharad Tyrell. A pleasure to meet you, Ser Fulk." She cants her head, looking curious but ever-merry. "And you serve Princess Visenya. How absolutely interesting. I'm sure it's never dull."

Arrick comes down to his end of the tilt and looks up and sees that his lance is still terribly unbroken after another useless glancing blow. The Dornish knight then tosses the lance down and dismounts his horse, having lost without registering a point. This was a poor showing for Ser Arrick or just maybe there's something to fighting these tournaments with no voice to taunt with. Arrick peers down the tilt towards the silent knight and he waves a hand, offering only a moment of recognition before disappearing off the side of the field.

A charged attack but the Silent Knight fails to hit Arrick solidly enough for a decent blow, the Dornish man's shield deflects him by a hair. With a snarl on his lips (though hidden by his visor) he turns at the end of the tilt to face Arrick. Realizing that their match is already finished, he lifts up his head to look around finally before turning back to Arrick. He gives him a low nod considering the Knight's noble birth before turning to pull his horse away from the tilt. Two wins, it's a good thing no one can see the giddy and heady smile from behind the visor.

The Silent Knight and the Ser Arrick ride four passes and are well matched. Gold and silver pass between the nobles as they exchange wagers. After the fourth tilt. All the while, Ser Malcolm and Ser Tironos crack lances in the second lists, as closely matched as the Dornishman and the Mystery Knight. The Master of games raises a pennant bearing a red cockatrice. There is no end of grumbling and cavil from the Reach lords who bet against Dornishmen, as a matter of principle. The Royal Herald looks to his vellum sheet, again. "Let Ser Fulk the Subtle joust Ser Kaspar Royce!"

As Tironos suffers another defeat to Ser Malcolm, he salutes the man and rides over to the stands, making sure to keep the actual lists clear and pulls a cloth tucked away in his breastplate and returns a piece of cloth to Lady Jeyne and says softly, "My apologies my lady." through his great helm, then turns his horse back to his tent and dismounts and starts to remove his armor with his servant's aid.

"Y'could say that, m'lady…'twas a strange tale from the first…", and one that Ser Fulk is evidently more than willing to tell, when he is, indeed, hauled up for further exploits. "Whoreson might've let me start, savin' y'ladyship's presence," he jokes of the wine, "but a'know it'd be uncouth to down y'cup all in one. Save it for me, if y'would, m'lady, and we can have another drink on Ser Kaspar when I've ransomed him, eh?" He winks broadly and strolls, with a nonchalance sure to irk the herald, back to his pavilion to prepare once more.

Angharad smiles, graciously. "Of course, Ser Fulk. Good luck!" She drapes back into her chair, frowning as the Silent Knight and Ser Arrick quit the field. "Balls," she sighs, taking a healthy draught of wine.

Once more, the Vale knight dons his bronze war helm and rides to the end of the lists. He looks out upon the commons to the fair Lady, once of house Locke. Kaspar rides to the box where Angharad and her companions sit. He lifts his visor and looks upon the Hedge Knight and Lady Angharad. "My Lady of Tyrell, Blood of the First Men and, ah, the blood of, ah, well, I suppose if he's from the Hedges there must be a drop of old blood in his veins, though scarce more than a drop." Kaspar dips his lance in a salute to Fulk. He rides to the end of the lists and crouches his lance aiming for the elder knight's shield.

Again, the royal herald calls two of the seven champions to the lists. "Let Ser Riderch Blackwood ride against Ser Arrick Gargalen!"

After a short retreat to the Dornish tent, Ser Arrick arrives back out on the field where he mounts his waiting horse. The knight hears his name called and returns the helm to his head and the shield to his arm. The man heads to the secondary tilt and grunts loudly as a lance is handed up to him. Down the tilt the man aims the lance, looking to smash someone, this time Ser Riderch, off the back of his horse sooner rather than later.

As the tourney rages on, there's a peal of laughter from the Blackwood and his sworn men as they share some kind of joke, it comes in a sudden burst and fades almost as quickly as it came. He's doffed his helmet for the time being, short-hewn hair matted with sweat. One might note that it fades precisely after the herald calls his name. Shrugging a little bit, he's reseated his helmet and is taken to his horse before mounting the now-calm black mare and riding off towards the lists. "Ser Arrick. I should have /expected/ this, Dornishman!" It's at once a greeting and a challenge.

"When it comes to age, m'lord, a'make up for m'blood with m'self," Ser Fulk calls back merrily to Royce, apparently devoid of any grievance, though the dark little eyes set in his honest, lined face burn that little bit harder. Then he strolls on, and emerges with speedy address atop the fresh horse, a magnificent black courser loaned by House Targaryen for the occasion. Against an opponent of the Valelord's fell note, he needs every advantage he can get. His further salute is curt and functional, before he sets spurs to flanks and cranes for a hard atteint. "Weirwoods…runes…what'll I have to hit next, a grumpkin?" is his final complaint before he unleashes his own charge.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=Riding Vs Riderch=Riding
< Arrick: Good Success Riderch: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=Blades Vs Riderch=Riding
< Arrick: Great Success Riderch: Great Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Riderch: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Kaspar: Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Marginal Victory

At this, Angharad sits straight up, laughing. "Oh — balls!" Really, who does she cheer for, now? She downs the rest of her wine. "Huzzah… mostly everyone!" she cheers, then slouches back and smirks. "It's difficult to muster passion without specificity, isn't it?" she asks one of her Northern kin.

<FS3> Fulk rolls Alertness: Success.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Kaspar=riding
< Fulk: Success Kaspar: Good Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Fulk=riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

The Valelord grunts as the Hedge Knight's coronel skips off the runes adorning his cuirass. Another dent to accompany those accumulated by his sire, grandsire, great grandsire, and so forth. The Vale Knight round at the end of the list and charges for the erstwhile hedge knight aiming for the man's cuirass, this time.

Arrick comes down to the end of the tilt and audibly yells after another missed opportunity, "What the fuck is wrong with these Reachmen lances?!?" He then throws the lance down, which trips up a squire trying to get out of the way. The knight waves over his own squire over who hands him a new lance. Arrick then angrily jerks his horse towards the tilt and with a hard pair of heel into its side heads down the beaten path to a hopeful crash of epic proportions.

The odd, daresay /archaic/ black helmet perched upon Riderch's head outlines features locked in obvious focus as the two riders close in on each other. The Riverlord's black courser has gotten over whatever problems she had with Fulk's mount prior even as she carries Blackwood to a certain lack of success. The man just shrugs as he watches Arrick keenly for a moment, ignoring the crowd's cheers and jeers for the time being. He's taking the Dornishman damn seriously. He keeps his lance ready, however.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Riderch=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Riderch: Failure
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

The Knifed Star, borne only by one rider but nonetheless for a good thirty odd years, gets that little bit more knifed, too. Ser Fulk is holding his own, but with evident effort, for all the little trick-riding twirls by which he continues to allure the mob onside. No further jolly barb accompanies his second pass - things are getting more…professional.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Riderch=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Riderch: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Riderch: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Kaspar=riding
< Fulk: Good Success Kaspar: Failure
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Fulk=riding
< Kaspar: Success Fulk: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

"Yes, one of those," Elionys answers Aemon with another of those vibrant smiles, gaze turning outward to the field once again. "They did, just for you. I wonder if any of them actually know that they did this for you, or if it's a surprise to them as well."

"My apologies, m'lord," Ser Fulk now hoots as he careens past for the second time, "'M only a hedge knight, and it seems my lances are dirt cheap and aspen shaky. Hope the point ain't messing up y'ancestors too hard." For indeed it has been a rather profound and stylish hit. But if the retainer-come-lately is risking insolence, he is nonetheless keenly avoiding complacence. He rides a third pass which is not cautious or defensive, though he only needs to stay ahorse to prevail; nay, he gallops as if he has every intention of bagging that fat Royce ransom this time.

Taking a deflection off the shield from the Blackwood rocks Arrick only slightly as he gets down to the end of the tilt, angrily tossing the broken lance away. The Dornishman then snatches the new lance from a Hightower squire and charges back down the field, angry as ever. He drops the lance as he moves past the wooden separation, ready to end this round with a BANG. It goes without saying that Arrick expected this tournament to go a little differently. His superior Dornish riding has helped him stay on his horse, but the fact of the matter is you still have to HIT someone!

"Dornish horses." This mutter is delivered by Riderch at the end of this recent tilt as his own strike is knocked off-center by a solid impact made by Arrick's lance, complete with a 'craaack' sound. He looks down at his own lance calmly. And then — he just shrugs, his features being overtaken by that familiar goofy grin of his. "Tel!" He shouts one final time for his squire, as the big man stoically brings him a replacement. It's like the sworn man read his mind. Maybe this one will be a bit more — lucky. "Again, Ser!"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Riderch=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Riderch: Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

Aemon taps a finger alongside his nose and winks at Elionys before turning back to the jousts, clapping lazily at the crack and crash of lances. "I'm sure they're all just wild with joy to have the chance to entertain me," he replies, "Don't take that away from them. Whoever they are." He gestures with fiddly fingers at the knot of matches taking place at once. "We've got… what. A Blackwood? And a— Valeman? Kind of them to come so far. They must have winged horses, to've beaten the Reach knights here."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Riderch=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Riderch: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Riderch: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Riderch wins - Marginal Victory

The beruned Vale Lord grunts. A dissonant crack fills the commons as the elder knight's lance smashes into his cuirass, slivers and kindling fly about the younger knight's face, and one very nearly flies into the slit of his visor. The Vale Knight's lance falls from his hand as he nearly falls from his destrier. Kaspar makes a wild grab for his mounts caparison and narrowly manages to right himself. "Old as the Old King and he hits like a trebuchet…." Yes, a few of the Royce's ancestors are rather battered after this last tilt. Undeterred, the younger knight takes a fresh lance from his young squire of house Pryor and charges headlong at the elder hedge knight. "My ancestors demand redress, Ser, I haven't weirwood, but Andal Aspen will suffice!"

Alyse has been watching the event with eager grey eyes since she arrived. The young Baratheon lady sits near the front of the noble's stands with her hands folded in her lap watching as Arrick and Riderch face off. Her head tilts as she watches with a calm expression though there is definitely a spark of interest in her eyes as well. Her maid leans in to whispers something and Alyse smiles faintly and nods not taking her eyes off the field.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so cruel as all that," Elionys assures Aemon with a merry little laugh. Her eyes narrow on the field again, considering. "There does seem to be a lack of them, doesn't there?" At this she leans in closer to murmur a few words to him, then straightens and looks ahead again.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

The Pair of knights come together again and there's a crack and a near deflection, one point to the Blackwood and two for the Gargalen. Ser Arrick pulls his horse around hard and heads back towards the defeated man and offers as he drops his lance to the ground, "You fight well with the lance, Ser!" Arrick points towards the man he bested and then waves to the crowd, wanting cheers for a great opponent. Arrick comes alongside the man and says now, "Riverlander, you fight better than most these creatures about."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades Vs Kaspar=riding
< Fulk: Good Success Kaspar: Good Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Kaspar=riding
< Fulk: Amazing Success Kaspar: Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Crushing Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Fulk=riding
< Kaspar: Great Success Fulk: Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Solid Victory

Losing his hand upon his lance, Riderch lets the object dangle towards the ground after bringing his mount to a halt. "Sometimes the Gods are listening. Sometimes they attend to other matters, Ser." He accepts the compliment all the same, defeated or no. Offering a raise of his shield to the Dornishman he admits, "This wasn't war, Ser. As such, it was an honor to lose to you. I'll be sure to see you on the field again during the Melee, eh?"

The future Lord of Runsetone does his ancestor's proud, his coronel flies from off his lance and the length of aspen splits splaying slivers in all directions. Then, so taken is he with his moment of triumph that he does not see the erstwhile hedge knight's lance until it smashes into knight, runes, and ancestor, not pushing so much as catapulting the young Royce from his horse! Kaspar lands in a heap, armor and stones jangling.

"Perhaps they're all to battle later," Aemon suggests, "Working our way up the lists." He props himself up on his elbows, a decidedly leisurely posture compared to all the keen straight-backed observers around them. He tips his head to Elionys's whisper and nods slowly. "Ahhh. May be. I heard a rumor he was in town. And killing reach knights left and right, if the stories are to be believed."

"Not left and right," Elionys murmurs to Aemon in return, shaking her head slightly. "Just one, so far as I know, at least recently, but it's entirely possible that number will grow." Again she straightens after those quiet words are relayed, certainly not taking up the relaxed posture of her cousin. That would just be scandalous.

Two titanic tilts and two heirs are bested. The commons roar and behind the undercurrent of the cheers are curses. Many have won, but many more have lost groats and pennies on the Knight of Runsetone and the Knight of Raventree Hall. "Let Ser Faulk the Subtle ride against the Silent Knight! Let Ser Riderch Blackwood ride against Ser Malcolm Storm!"

<FS3> Saskia rolls Alertness: Amazing Success.

That loaned black Targaryen courser is evidently worth every prized oat that has gone to sustaining it, and indeed every tantrum of Princess Visenya's which has gained Fulk its temporary possession. Only the horse's spirit and the old knight's grit straining together can keep Fulk on his steed, relatively exposed as he has allowed his stance to be, at the Vale noble's mighty impact…but then Fulk's risk pays off (quite literally) better than he himself had dreamed. In a few moments he is offering the heir to Runestone a hand - a free hand, his lance being evenly splintered all over the lists. "Well struck, m'lord. You know where to find me in the pavilion, for the needful. If y'father raises any objections t'my price, I'll gladly take the armour instead. Reckon those runes 'd suit me fine. Not so lucky, though, might be." For all his chaffing Fulk's expression is friendly and he pats his latest adversary broadly on the back.

Then he is interrupted by the herald and turns aside with a curse. "Bloody hells, it's a simple Fulk, man, none of y'fancy elongations here! Well, I'm ready for the next fella, whether he be silent or never so chatty."

<FS3> Fulk rolls Alertness: Success.

"Oh, well, if it's just the one." Aemon shrugs broad shoulders, "Who hasn't?" He grins, and eyes the latest pairing. "Ser Faulk the Subtle? Any notion who that is, Cousin Yes?" He lifts a hand to flutter it around at the general assemblage and request, "Who is who? Fill me in on our good citizens here."

Well he certainly is not chatty. Taking deep and measured breaths, the Silent Knight keeps his focus on Fulk - like eerily focused. Like laser sharp focused. Any more focused and he'd be focused out. Still, he readies his lance and he readies his shield. He gives a deep nod from atop of his horse to the older Knight, one with a heavy measure of respect before he readies for his charge.

Well, it wasn't as much of break as one would hope for, but Riderch Blackwood takes the field once again, with his 'lucky' lance as he studies his next opponent. All in a day's work, and if the recent setbacks he has suffered are piling on frustrations, it hasn't really shown. He's made it this far.

It is a dizzy and wobbly-headed young Lord, in a battered bronze helm who looks up to the elder knight from his recumbent position in the hoof-churned dirt. "Twasshhh an honor, Serhhh…" Yes, his voice is rather slurred, his eyes unsettlingly wide when the gallant hedge knight-turned-royal-swornsword claps him on the back "I have gold Shhher and wine…" Bertram and Ernarr rush forward and somehow the boys, small though they may be, carry the tall valeman to his campstool.

"Is that something that we're all supposed to do?" asks Elionys, smirking over at Aemon. "I had no idea, these are the sorts of things no one ever tells me." She looks back to the field, shaking her head slightly. "I don't know a thing about him, the only occasions I've seen him, he was with cousin Visenya. I should make a point of learning more about him though," she remarks. "I don't know the man he's up against at all either, I can't say as I've even seen him before. Maybe he's just arrived for this?" she suggests incorrectly. "That though," she makes a gesture. "That's Ser Riderch, and I do know him. I think you'd like him."

After a challenging if triumphant struggle, Ser Fulk himself looks to be flagging a little, but his excellent black horse is still all but fresh and mettlesome, and the acclaim of the crowd seems to revivify the old hedge knight to almost the same degree. "Cheer up, lad," he yells to the Silent Knight as he comes on, "Why so grave and glum? Today is a damn fine day! Soon ye'll be idling on the ground where you can enjoy it all the better…"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Fulk: Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades+3 Vs Fulk=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Saskia=riding
< Fulk: Success Saskia: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

Ser Malcolm Storm is an able horseman, but he's no /Prospero/ Storm. To be fair, few are. In this set of tilts, though, Malcolm is no Ser Riderch, who finally acquits himself in the eyes of the Gods and edges out a victory, his lance impacting on two out of three tilts. Looks like the First Men aren't going to be the Last Men today.

The Hedge Knight and the Silent Knight are evenly matched, for the nonce. After a hard-fought tilt, and three passes, a crimson and sable liveried servant hoists a pennant bearing Ser Riderch's Ravens and Weirwood. The Heir to Raventree advances. The Royal herald consults his vellum scroll, again. "Let Ser Arrick Gargalen ride against Riderch Blackwood!"

The Hedge Knight and the Silent Knight are evenly matched, for the nonce. After a hard fought tilt, and three passes, a crimson and sable liveried servant hoists a pennant bearing Ser Riderch's Ravens and Weirwood. The Heir to Raventree advances. The Royal herald consults his vellum scroll, again. "Let Ser Arrick Gargalen ride against Kaspar Royce!"

Ser Arrick rides back out to the tilt, not having shed any gear or taken on any new wine. He heads to his side of the field and takes hold of a lance, there's no sense of anger in the man this time, and it seems he's calmed himself enough to let the lance do the talking. Peering down the tilt he says aloud as he raises his lance, "For Dorne!!" The crowd throws a few insults down onto the man as he then charges forward, looking to down Ser Kaspar quickly and efficiently.
The knight of the pebbles and runes mounts his destrier, he is head is still swimming from his last tilt with the puissant Ser Faulk. He takes a fresh aspen lance and rides to the end of the lists. He dips the coronel in a salute to Ser Arrick, though his lance is a bit unsteady.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Kaspar=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Kaspar: Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Kaspar=riding
< Arrick: Amazing Success Kaspar: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

Fulk's latest boast rings hollow, and the first pass between him and the equestrian enigma is more notable for caution than drama, with not a lance tip even inconvenienced in sight. Just as he had against the Royce before, the old performer tones down his display and raillery in favour of devoted concentration…though that may be seeking to match his chilly eyed foe at…their…own game. He rides with one difference - at this atteint he aims ambitiously for the crest of his adversary's helm. Should all go exceptionally well…mayhaps the Silent One will be unmasked!

Aemon shrugs at Elionys, not deigning to sit up as he reaches to collect a cup of wine from a passing tray. "I'm sure any knight would do." His eyes narrow in keener attention as she speaks of those around them, naming at least a few. "Cousin Visenya," he says, over-enunciating the name, "Would that be…. Eh." Any attempt to guess precisely which cousin is quickly abandoned. "The Blackwood? And why is that?" He looks amused at her presumption.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=riding Vs Saskia=riding
< Fulk: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

His helmet off, the current tilt has Riderch's attention now as he lingers by his mount, resting his hand upon his saddle as he calls out a sudden hoot as Kaspar's name is sounded. Maybe he's a little bitter at Arrick /after all/.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Saskia=riding
< Fulk: Failure Saskia: Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades+3 Vs Fulk=riding
< Saskia: Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

The Silent Knight is unaware of the older Hedge Knight's intentions to unmask him. His efforts are purely focused on getting the old man off his horse. As they charge the Knight notices that the lance is aimed a bit too high to hit his shield. His own eyes widen and the focus is temporarily off Fulk as he shoves his shield higher up to deflect the blow, his own barely touching the Hedge Knight's shield.

If the first pass with no real impact had disappointed the onlookers, the second one, which heightens the suspense exponentially, does not. As Ser Fulk prepares for his third clash with the mystery knight, he rides heralded by speculative intakes of breath - not least his own. He persists in aiming for the hard but spectacular mark of the crest.

"Because he's impossible to dislike," Elionys replies, knowing full well that it's a lie, but delivering it cheerfully anyway. "You'll just have to wait and see once you meet him," she adds, glancing over at Aemon with a grin.

The Knight of Pebbles and Runes aims for the Dornish knight's shield, but find no purchase. Ser Arrick's strike is anything but facile, again, the Vale knight endures a withering blow. The Dornishman's lance slams into his shield splitting it! The remnants smash into his chest with the lion share of Arrick's lance, Kaspar nearly topples, but my some miracle clings to the crup of his horse. Half rids, half clings to his horse and retrieves another shield and lance, then lurches toward the Gargalen knight.

As the two knights come together the Gargalen knight deftly deflects his opponent's lance and feels the crash of his own lance breaking practically through Ser Kaspar. Riding a short distance from the collision Arrick drops the wooden stub rather quickly. Coming to the end of the tilt the man waves over a new one and peers back down the field, letting the point aim right towards the other knight's shield yet again. The Dornishman puts his heel into the horse's side and he rides forward, lance at the ready.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=riding Vs Arrick=riding
< Kaspar: Success Arrick: Great Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Kaspar=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Kaspar: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Kaspar: Great Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Saskia: Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Saskia=riding
< Fulk: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades+3 Vs Fulk=riding
< Saskia: Success Fulk: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

The Vale Knight's lance finds purchase and the Dornishman's lance skips off his shield, leaving a long gash. Kaspar round upon Arrick at the end of the lists and charges the Dornish knight, a wild mad glint in his brown eyes.

It seems Ser Fulk has met a more absolute match in the enigma than in the Vale heir; and he does not make thinks any easier by doggedly, and now openly, tilting for that helm, as if it has become an obsession in itself. Passes, and broken lances, and the wild crowd, all lose their opportance for the usually cannily sporting hedge knight. There is the only the helm, and his intense, unslakeable curiosity about who could hide within it.

Of course, Elionys' comment is far and away from Riderch's ears so it's not like he would interject the expected litany of names who would disagree with her. Chief among them though would be his sworn Squire, as he quietly squabbles with the Blackwood heir over some loose piece of tack. This issue is eventually resolved, however. And the unhelmeted knight dabs the sweat off his head with a towel.

"A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one," Aemon replies to Elionys around a sip of wine. He doesn't comment further, at least not right away, attention instead drawn to Ser Fulk's battle with the mystery knight. He laughs, "Aiming for the helm, is he? A somewhat ungallant move, but a good show. Is there no notion then who this Silent Knight is? A true Mystery knight is rare, in my experience."

Taking a glancing blow, Ser Arrick maintains his seat with a grunt and tightly held legs. Reaching the end of the wooden separation the knight takes a moment to collect himself atop his steed, finally he jerks the reins with his offhand and turns back with his still useful lance at the ready.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Saskia=riding
< Fulk: Great Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades+3 Vs Fulk=riding
< Saskia: Good Success Fulk: Great Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Solid Victory

"Isn't it?" asks Elionys with visible amusement plain across her face, though her focus moves from Aemon to the field once more. "If there is any notion as to who the knight is, I haven't heard it. Should we see if anyone else around us knows?" she suggests, and with that her eyes sweep the seats nearby, looking for someone else she might lure in.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=riding Vs Arrick=riding
< Kaspar: Failure Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

Aemon gestures grandly with his cup. "Do," he suggests, "Take some bets before they're revealed. Come!" he raises his voice to those in the stands nearby, "Who will wager a guess on the Silent Knight's identity before Ser Fulk finds it out for us?"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Kaspar=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Kaspar: Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kaspar=blades Vs Arrick=riding
< Kaspar: Good Success Arrick: Success
< Net Result: Kaspar wins - Solid Victory

And at last, the hedge knight and the whole crowd's question may be destined to be answered. Riding with as slippery a mostion as a lamprey, Ser Fulk entirely evades his foe's generally unerring lance and finally gains a purchase on the mystery contestant's helm! The lance shatters…the crest is walloped…gasps clot the air…and…

"Well, here we go again…" Riderch says before he elbows his Squire gently. "Would you bloody look at /that/?" He points at the combatants, as Ser Fulk /finally/ gains some kind of advantage in the tilt. And what an advantage.

It's a woman! Saskia's head snaps back from the force of the lance's blow, her helmet flings back and soars into the crowd. Dazed but still on the horse, remarkably, Saskia slowly brings her head back down as she blinks in the bright light of the sun. She freezes on top of the horse, barely breathing as she looks around her, sweat forcing her short black hair to cling to her brow as she swallows thickly. Slowly she looks back towards Fulk and offers him a nod as she pulls away from the tilt.

This last round walloped Ser Arrick who was laid back in the saddle after leveling his own lance into the shield of Ser Kaspar. The knight is taken down to the end of the tilt by his faithful steed and then slung forward by an abrupt halt. The Gargalen suddenly finds the neck of the horse just as valuable to hold onto as the horn or reigns. The Dornishman raises his shield arm and grunts loudly as a squire comes to retrieve said shield from the man.

"Well, fuck me with Hoster Bracken's greyscale-ridden cock. Would you look AT THAT?" Riderch's elbowing of his squire is more forceful now, as he loudly exclaims. "I see it, m'lord. I see it." his squire and sworn man responds, openmouthed. The big man is clearly as stunned as his Lord is. So much so that they're not paying attention to Kaspar's fate.

Oddly enough, Ser Fulk is not among the most surprised of the onlookers. He has led a life full of horses, lances, and women…enough to develop a faint suspicion when all three of these passions converge. He also now understands quite what mysterious instinct had made him so obsessed with that helmet. So his uncertain "…my lady…?" has a sigh more of comprehension than confoundment. "M'Princess will be interested when she hears o' this…"

She keeps her head straight, her shoulders back and she sits as proudly on top of that horse as any royalty full of pride can, staring straight ahead as she ignores the jeers, the rude comments and the snarls from the audience and other competitors alike. When Fulk addresses her, however, Saskia pauses before her shoulders drop. "I am not a lady," she tells him stiffly. "I have no name, just Saskia, a sellsword-…well, swornsword."

A crimson and sable liveried guardsman lifts the cockatrice banner, once more, as the Vale Knight Ser Kaspar salutes the Dornishman. The commons are abuzz, it is still any man's day! And then … the silent knight is unmasked! A clamor rises among the commons, but this a pale thing compared to the uproar in the high places where Oakhearts, Tyrells, Florents, and more look on at the girl in mannish armor. Yes, there are a mere handful of mannish women who don the raiment of war, but none, save perhaps the mad Lothstons or Mormonts would presume to joust amongst men. The herald glares at the girl, his expression livid! Though his look of scorn and distaste is a pale thing compared to the blue jeers of the commons. He speaks only a word to one of his men, soon a sable and crimson garbed squire approaches. "My Lady, you must need enter your name into the lists to progress. It is highly irregular for a maid to compete, but the Master of Games will relent if you but permit him to examine your roll of arms."

She keeps her head straight, her shoulders back and she sits as proudly on top of that horse as any royalty full of pride can, staring straight ahead as she ignores the jeers, the rude comments and the snarls from the audience and other competitors alike. When Fulk addresses her, however, Saskia pauses before her shoulders drop. "I am not a lady," she tells him stiffly. "I have no name, just a sellsword." She quickly shifts her attention back towards the herald as he addresses her, her cheeks flaming red as she does so. "I permit," she informs the squire in a loud and clear voice. "I am Saskia," she speaks so that her voice carries towards him. No last name either. /Commoner/.

"Maiden's tits," Aemon curses with a low whistle as Saskia is revealed, "Is that a maid?" As soon as he's said it, he snorts to himself, "Or at least a woman?" He polishes off the rest of his wine and sits up a little straighter, attention captured more in earnest now. "Everyone would have lost their coins if we'd made a bet on that." He lifts his chin to peer down at the joustetrix and the herald. "What do you reckon they'll do?"

Kaspar Royce is not so groggy, now. Battered, yes and no doubt a bit morose at the notion of paying out two ransoms and one to a Dornishman, no less. He merely gapes.
The Master of the games continues. "Let Ser Riderch Blackwood ride against Ser Arrick Gargalen!"

Elionys looks around to see if others have a guess, but any guesses that she might hear are not near so interesting as the truth once it's revealed. "A woman," she says, a sudden, bright smile growing as she leeeeaaans forward in her seat. "A common woman." This makes her laugh as she sits back again, glancing to the side at Aemon. "Yes, I think everyone would have lost their coin. It's good we didn't gamble."

"Huh. So, surprises every day. And it looks like I'm stuck with this Dornishman again." Riderch's voice is heavy as he sighs to his squire. "Let's see what kind of mess we can make out of this, mm?" The Raven Knight smiles ruefully again as he is brought into the saddle. Helmet and shield in place, he hefts his lance and rides off towards the tilt. Hopefully not for the last time.

"A common woman, even?" Aemon laughs at that as Elionys points it out, and suddenly he's on his feet. "This is far too entertaining to put a stop to now," he grins at her, "Don't you think?" He strides to the edge of the bleachers and vaults down, jogging to the sideline where he can find a squire to send out to the herald with a message. He'll be on the sideline acquiring another goblet of wine, ready to lift it in a wave if the man looks back to check.

Not even aware of the drama unfolding beside the herald, Ser Arrick is uprighted and returned to the field with his shield firmly tied to his arm and a new lance placed in his hand. He's worn, he's sweaty, he's taken a beating over the last two days and yet here he sits, nearly into the final rounds. With the call forward the knight from Dorne spurs his horse onward, aiming his lance at its destination, the center of the Blackwood's shield.

<FS3> Arrick rolls Alertness: Success.

<FS3> Riderch rolls Alertness: Good Success.

Casually walking in from the Blackcrown road, hands folded behind his back with a guard at his right hand side is Daemond. Looks like he has arrived to see Saskia and the distasteful reactions offered her way. "Tch." He lets out, his softer expression becoming more pissed off rather quickly. Not bothering to head over to the Dias, he brings himself over to reside near the southwest benches, gritting his teeth as those whom he can see giving less than polite reactions get a sharp glare from the man. That including Aemon, though it is more subtle to some of a lesser rank. Sighing in light annoyance, he looks off to the left as he seemingly tries to get his mind off brutally murdering each and every one of them in his head.

The Prince delivers a scrap of parchment to the Herald, the dour old man looks upon it then looks to his squire. "The Maid, it seems, is a retainer of House Targaryen, and shall advance!" The squire lifts a grey pennant.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Riderch=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Riderch: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades+1 Vs Riderch=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Riderch: Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Crushing Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Riderch=blades+2 Vs Arrick=riding
< Riderch: Good Success Arrick: Great Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

"Pleased to've met you, I'm sure," Ser Fulk remarks with amusement to the proudly defiant female free rider, or however else one might put it. "Seems we got a lot in common, missy Saskia. I didn' have so much of a roll of honour my first joust, either. N' back then I didn' give commons or nobles, neither, the like of the show you just bestowed on 'em." The Herald's perturbation provokes a raucous chuckle from the Subtle Knight. "Sworn ter a dragon? You too? Mayhaps we should get married, m'…Saskia, and round the whole joke off nicely."

Fulk's words seem to have caught Saskia off-guard. She stares at him for a long moment, wondering if there is a hidden agenda behind his words it seems. "I just wanted some coin," she murmurs towards him after a moment. "Honor doesn't mean much when I can barely afford to eat." When the Herald claims that she is a retainer for the Targaryens the shock on her features is evident enough that she wasn't expecting it. At least not the Targaryens! They're like, uber royalty! Saskia blinks towards them, looking both wary and relieved before she looks back towards Fulk, lowering her voice as she does so. "Do they usually collect random swords at tourney's?" she asks.

Aemon lingers on the sideline, grinning into his cup at the reaction Saskia's stunt and his own are causing. The herald gets a beatific smile from the prince, and Saskia gets his cup lifted to her in toast and a wink before he takes himself back up into the stands.

Another knight from an august house falls. The First Men have been decimated by the Dornish champion, and those that have escaped the Dornishman have fallen to the fair maid. The commons stills swills with foul curses, even the revelation that the maid serves the Dragon is does not still every tongue. Again, the herald calls knights to arms. "Let Ser Arrick Gargalen ride against Ser Faulk the subtle!"

Ser Arrick is tired and beaten terribly but he still has it within him to fight on and as he rides hard towards Ser Riderch. Coming to the center of the tilt he lowers his lance and BOOM smashes his lance directly into the man's shield, sending him sprawling to the dirt. As the man he's unseated is not an enemy the Dornishman turns about as he comes to end of the wooden separation. Dropping his shield and lance he rides back towards his fallen opponent. Coming upon the man the Gargalen peers down and offers to the crowd, as he did earlier, "Cheers for Ser Riderch!" The knight rides up and down the tilt a few times, maybe basking in the glory, or maybe slightly confused about where he needs to be given the blows taken today. After a few more passes he finds himself being reshielded and lanced for another go, now seemingly the Dornishman is being pointed towards Ser Fulk.

With heels planted firmly into his horse, the Gargalen charges forward lance at the ready.

Making messes indeed. Riderch may have been a better seer than a horseman this day, as a mess is precisely what is made. The two riders guide their steeds admirably in the tilt, and the Riverlord angles his shoulder ever-so-slightly, slamming his lance into Arrick's shield. Slamming doesn't barely begin to describe what happens to the contact between the Dornishman's lance and Riderch, however, as the lance goes crashing into the Blackwood with such a purchase as he goes /flying/ off his horse, into the dirt. There is a loud, nasty 'thump.' as his horse runs off, clearly not wanting to share in her rider's shame. The man coughs. "Well…” It's a hoarse laugh from the man, down there on the dirt. "It is clearly time to say — 'fuck this.'" The words are delivered with a pained laugh as he lies there, dazed for a moment. Looking at his shield next to him, as his squire comes hustling up.

"Again. Well fought, Ser. I think this has been well —" another cough. "Decided."

Elionys remains in her seat when Aemon goes down to the edge of the field, and grins at him as he makes his way back. "Are you going to hire her, cousin?" she asks, cheerfully. "If you don't, I might try to."

"Couldn' rightly say, m'l…missy. I got collected an even odder way m'self, not so long back," Fulk mutters confidingly…but then something seems to catch his attention. And it's definitely not the herald.

"Random swords, you say…what of yours?" he asks suddenly. "Swear I seen that ol'pommel somewhere…" He's looking fixedly not at the maid's countenance, but at the weapon on her side. But time is short, and, resignedly, he prepares to face the tourney's most gruesomely capable contender yet with yet another mystery about the 'Silent Knight' unsolved…

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=riding Vs Arrick=riding
< Fulk: Good Success Arrick: Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Fulk rolls Alertness: Good Success.

<FS3> Arrick rolls Alertness: Failure.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Arrick=riding
< Fulk: Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Fulk=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

The declaration of Saskia being a Targaryen retainer prompts Daemond to raise his right brow. Frowning slightly, he shifts his weight over to his right leg, muttering to the man-at-arms at his right side, prompting the guard to develop a smile before lightly chuckling. Daemond drops down onto the bench besides him, lowering his brows in mild annoyance. "Now I have to deal with my guard being fucking stolen away from me." He growls to himself, raising his left leg to cross over his right. "Fuck Targaryens…”

When Fulk fixes his attention on the pommel of her old sword, Saskia blinks, looking towards him with widened eyes. She parts her lips, wanting to say something but the man is called forth for another round of jousting. Pulling back, she looks down at the teenager she had temporarily hired for this job, picking up the helmet he had retrieved for her and placing it over her head. People have seen enough of her face, for now.

Aemon laughs at Elionys's question as he retakes his seat, this time more upright but with a knee propped up so he can drape his cup-holding arm over it. "Of course not," he replies, "What would I do with a jousting sellsword lady on a ship?" But he grins and lifts a brow, "Shall I buy her for you, Cousin Yes?"

Kaspar watches from afar, both the Valelord, his squire, and his page cheer for Fulk. "Hedge Knight! Hedge Knight!" They raise a clamor for the gallant old swornsword as he rides at the Dornishman.

For the first time in this unusually satisfying day, Ser Fulk is put to the worst by the untouchable Dornishman; he doesn't seem unduly surprised, but, a common-born man from the Reach whose travels have not much opened his mind about the southerners, he is certainly irritated. There is a defiant fierceness to his carriage during the second pass, more than matched by that ferocious new black horse of his.

With his lance down and ready, the lordly knight went forward and knowing he's in for the joust of his life manages to take a glancing blow off his own shield and deliver a blow to his opponents. Arrick grunts as he comes to the end of the tilt, discarding the lance for a new one and yelling down the tilt, "Come on Reachmen! Put me down!" Arrick then rides forward, aiming to not let the hedge knight follow through.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Fulk=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Fulk: Great Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Arrick=riding
< Fulk: Good Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW

"You're not always on your ship," Elionys points out with a grin up at Aemon. "But if you don't want to, then I say yes, you should do that for me, because I don't spend much time at all on ships."

"I have no quarrel with yer, man to man, Dornishman. I can't say I much care for yer folk, but it wasn't only they who wept for the Sword o' the Mornin'", Ser Fulk announces with unusually grim dignity, in a loud, public voice for the crowd. "Ye're a damn fine rider, that the city's already seen. If I have the luck to break yours, well, that's all it'll be, luck. But I'll have a bloody mighty drink on it. For the Reach, and for Fire and Blood!" His little oration concluded, he kicks up speed and levels his lance with a whoop.

"Fuck this." Is Blackwood speak for "Let's get out of the helmet and acquire copious amounts of drink." Which is precisely what just went on here. Horse stowed, the Riverlander is a bit bruised from his fall but still moving more-or-less smoothly. That plated horn in his hand, he is eventually joined by his squire as they make their way towards the stands, looking for a place to make trouble, or people to make trouble with.

"Am I not?" Aemon looks about as if in momentary confusion to find himself on land, and then smiles. "As you wish, I gift her to her." And then he clicks his tongue against his teeth and shakes his head, "Ser Fulk needs to buck up, we can't have my tourney won by a fellow who isn't even our subject."

Riding hard down the tilt, Arrick drops his lance at the last moment and it's deflected away uselessly. Thankfully for Arrick his own shield did not fail as he's able to deflect a blow, without destroying Ser Fulk's lance. The Dornishman arrives at the opposite end of the tilt and can be seen breathing rather heavily under all that plate armor. He's hurting but with this crowd and with this soil beneath him, he absolutely must win. Arrick listens to the man's words but doesn't respond. This is for Dorne, for Ser Osric, for a Princess held hostage… The knight ushers his horse onward, lowering his lance and preparing for the final round of THIS round rather than of the tournament.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Fulk=riding
< Arrick: Failure Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Fulk wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Fulk=blades+2 Vs Arrick=riding
< Fulk: Failure Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades Vs Fulk=riding
< Arrick: Amazing Success Fulk: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Crushing Victory

"You're not now," Elionys points out with a smile, though her eyes remain upon the field. "I agree," she replies to Aemon, leaning forward again just slightly. "We should go meet this Ser Fulk once it's over, however it turns out."

<FS3> Riderch rolls Stealth: Good Success.

"We should," Aemon agrees, "And in the meantime I should meet your dear friend Ser Riderch." He lifts a hand to wave to the Blackwood currently making his way up the stands. "Ser! Come, have a cup. You fought well, and my cousin here speaks still weller of you." Yes, he knows it's not a word.

It can't be comfortable for a man of advancing, if not advanced, age, to take a full on tumble like that, but it is, alas, these days, more or less what Fulk is used to. He rises without aid from the dust, in evident, but far from overwhelming, pain. "Think I'll have that drink anyway, Ser, and at once. Might be I'll need it if we're to meet again." He concedes a twisted smile, and the field, loping off to rest among the gentlefolk for as long as he can contrive. Even the black horse looks distinctly disappointed.

The Hedge Knight falls to the Dornishman and the commons look fit to riot. To say the Dornish are not well loved in the Reach would be an egregious understatement. A gaggle of Tyrell and Targaryen guards press their way ‘gainst the edge of the commons to restrain irate smiths, merchants, and crofters. The Herald shouts the next pairing in a harried voice. "Let Ser Arrick Gargalen ride against the maid Saskia, swornsword to House Targaryen!"

It's been a long day, and there's only one way to celebrate the end of it. Well, two ways, one is with ale, the other with chicken. Which he just palmed from somewhere, glowering. The glowering ceases moments after a big hunk of chicken is acquired. His squire trails behind him with a basket with considerably /more/ chicken. Scanning the crowd for familiar faces, he notes — Angharad gets a wave but before he can do anything else he sees a hand of an unfamiliar sort. And a familiar sort too as he inspects exactly who Aemon is and what he wants. "Tel! Come on!" he beckons his chicken-laden squire to follow suit as he clomps through the stands. "Not bloody well enough, but — Cousin?" His eyes widen a little as he spies Elionys. "Well, Princess! And —" it dawns on him just what Aemon's surname might be. "Prince? I wouldn't agree. But I'd rather lose here than in war."

Meanwhile, for politeness' sake, the chicken is redeposited in his squire's basket as he bows.
When they call her a maid, Saskia flinches a bit, no longer the Silent Knight. Her visor up, she looks towards Arrick and her expression is apologetic, quite aware of what she would be putting him through if she were to win this joust. Sitting straight on her steed, she lowers her visor, picks up her lance and shield from her temporary squire and urges her horse towards the tilt. As she moves, her ice-blue eyes flick over towards Daemond, tilting her head at him before she readies herself before Arrick.

Arrick peers down towards the older hedge knight, happy that he's able to hobble off under his own power. As Arrick passes the grounded man he says nothing on his way to his end of the tilt. As he comes to a stop and he's handed a new lance, the same heavy breathing can be seen as the Dornishman sits atop his horse and waits patiently. A quick inspection of the Dornishman notes that his formerly yellow and red shield has been stripped of all color, it's now merely a blank piece of steel, no target for an opponent to bother with. As the herald finally announces the names Arrick lowers his lance and spurs his mount onward, looking to finish what he started.

Lady Angharad meets Ser Fulk as he mounts the noble dais, a cup of wine in her hand and a grin on her face. "Come, Ser, sit and drink quickly — one never can tell when one will be called again!"

Alyse is still present near the front of the noble stands. The maid present with her looks bored but the lady seems completely focused on the event before her. The Baratheon lady leans forward slightly her hand still folded neatly in her lap as the next match gets ready to begin.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Saskia=riding
< Arrick: Great Success Saskia: Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Arrick rolls Alertness: Good Success.

<FS3> Saskia rolls Alertness: Good Success.

Fulk has indeed meandered his way back to where Lady Angharad presides for the Tyrells, and his glance as he approaches is a little hangdog. "At least we can have that drink on the Valeman, m'lady, but it's a pity about this Dornishman. Let's hope the maid gives him a dusting. She's a decent sort…but she lacks the powerful weapon of mystery now. That blade which has ever aided knights and damsels alike." He has a singer's touch at times, does old Fulk.

Daemond digs his fingers into his arm, lowering his brows as he bares his teeth. "She's in service, to House Lannister… She's not even a fucking maid…" He growls as she's declared as both a maid and swornsword to House Targaryen. Taking note of the look of the crowd, his guard lowers his right hand to his swords pommel. "M'lord." The guard says, looking to Daemond, prompting Daemond to sigh, looking to the field. When Saskia looks towards, he mouths over towards her, 'Knock him on his ass', before watching with an intense gaze with a mixture of annoyance and focus.

"Ser Riderch," Elionys greets the man warmly, motioning to the seats near her and Aemon. "You did well, but you're right, if you must take a loss, let it be at a tournament and not at war. Are you going to fight tomorrow too?" she asks, the pauses to glance over at her cousin. "Oh, Ser Riderch, this is my cousin, Aemon Targaryen."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades+2 Vs Arrick=riding
< Saskia: Great Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades+2 Vs Saskia=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Marginal Victory

"Pity if he leaves this place without bein' given a good old helping o' every Dornishman's favourite food, sand," Fulk elaborates with an expressive grunt. "Aha! That's the spirit! More o' that, miz…" he cheers and dries his throat out to cheer some more with a good, vinous swig.

Did someone say her mystery is no longer part of her weaponry? Never forget, Saskia is a beast! Her eyes are honed in on Arrick with that same sharp focus as earlier. Leveling her breathing, she charges forward, eager to show her worth just to prove herself at least capable. Her horse is too slow in comparison to Arrick's charge as his lance strikes for her shield but she manages to deflect it. Instead her own lance smashes into his, splintering it lightly enough to call for a point.

"Last I checked," Aemon smiles at Riderch's guess at his title, "And a pleasure to watch, though I admit it's been ages since I last saw a joust, so perhaps my eye is off is that chicken?" He's easily distracted, pointing at the squire with the basket. "I'll keep you in wine if you share." He grins, though from a Targaryen it'd be hard to refuse no matter how he said it. His hunger is put off only momentarily by the need to clap for Saskia as she scores a hit on Arrick.

Alyse looks both combatants over and then leans to whisper to her maid. "I think I'm routing for the woman in this one. It would be highly amusing to me if she won not to mention proof that women can fight just as well as any man." The lady smirks and looks back towards the field watching eagerly to see what will happen.

"Hm," says Lady Angharad, sipping from her own cup and resuming her seat. "I must admit, I'm a little torn. My sex demands I cheer for the maid, for — especially as a woman of the North — I admire a lady of martial prowess enormously. But the Dornishman," she drinks, a pause giving the next words their full, scandalous weight, "carries my favor."

"Gods willing. I usually fare better there." Riderch answers Elionys sheepishly. "Prince Aemon." He repeats the bow of his head, as the big man behind him. "Tel — my squire." The big man with the chicken basket notes, afterwards, "Prince, Princess." With a deeper bow. "I'm going to go tend to Lil and make sure that shifty Qohorik ponce doesn't abscond with — Well, never mind. My apologies." The squire excuses himself. After palming a piece of chicken.

"There's enough here for all of us! Of course." Riderch sighs, relieved, as he downs what's already in his waning cup and sets it down near the Targaryens, after stripping a piece out himself. Before pointing to the action on the tilt. "Between you and me, I'm sort of glad that Dornishman might get his hindquarters handed to him by a woman. As a lot of knights probably have today." he barks out of a laugh. "Wonder how many big men are going to go home crying today because of her?"

Arrick spends 1 luck points on Need to win this joust!

That certainly shuts Fulk up for a space - but not a long one. It is not words he lets drop next, but resigned and protracted laughter. "Pretty mess this is, m'lady. I'm sworn to service with the niece of the man who killed yer good-father, and half the rest of yer adoptive House too if the tales have it right. You've given yer favour to the champion of the land yer husband just helped bereave of its most beloved knight. But I'm glad you have, in truth. It exclaims how the southern dastard contrived to beat me! A strip o' cloth from you, m'lady, and I'd swear I could send him packing as far as the Summer Isles…"

Arrick comes down his end of the tilt and is rocking a little in the saddle after a marginal blow. The man slowly looks up at his lance and notices he's still holding a rather useful piece of wood. The score is 1-0 and the Dornishman is looking tired as ever. As he sits at his end of the tilt the crowd rises for the woman at the other end. It's funny how the world works, a Dornish knight and follower of the seven, toils to jeers, below a sellsword woman. Pitiful these people… Arrick lowers his lance and moves forward, hoping to end this once and for all.

Ser Fulk… has a point. Several of them. And by the end of his observations, the Tyrell lady is laughing, her smile wide — if a little wry. "You have the right of it. Add to that, this knight of Dorne handed my husband his ass in a duel yesterday, and you have the full, twisted tapestry unfurled before us." She drinks, then holds out her cup for a servant to fill again.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=riding Vs Saskia=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Saskia: Good Success
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Marginal Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arrick=blades+2 Vs Saskia=riding
< Arrick: Good Success Saskia: Failure
< Net Result: Arrick wins - Solid Victory

"I'm certain that you will," Elionys assures Riderch, sounding as though she genuinely believes it." She glances at the field, those upon it, and grins. "It would be awfully interesting if he did, wouldn't it? I've met him, Ser Arrick, he-…" she weighs her words for a moment, considering. "He seems awfully attached to Princess Mariya."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Saskia=blades+2 Vs Arrick=riding
< Saskia: Amazing Success Arrick: Good Success
< Net Result: Saskia wins - Crushing Victory

"Excellent!" says Aemon about the chicken, because let's keep our priorities straight here. Chicken: high on the list. He drinks and sits up to help himself to a wing, gnawing it down to the bone with easy manners. "Quite a few," he grins at Riderch, "Hopefully the Dornishman among them. I'm all for peace with our southern neighbors but it wouldn't do for one to win a tourney in my family's honor, would it? And she's amusing," he says of Saskia, jerking his chin her way, "Do you know aught of her?"

"Not quite the whole," Ser Fulk ripostes to Lady Angharad through a grin like an axe blade. "The…maid…who just handed yer…champion…his arse in turn, m'lady…is wearing the armour, n' bearing the black-pommeled blade, of an ol', defunct, friend o' mine…and why…I have not a Stranger-cursed glimpse of a notion why. But it all adds up. Somehow…"

Lady Angharad glances at Ser Fulk, tilting her head at his numerous dramatic pauses. Or perhaps that's age making him search for his words. "Perhaps you would like to sit, Ser Fulk?" He's been, after all, a long while in the sun.

"The Dornishman? I sparred with him the other evening to something of a painful, messy draw. He's good, on foot, but relies on this excessive greatsword and I think he might have openings if one knows where to look." It's clear though from Riderch's tone that he /does/ firmly respect the man's fighting prowess. He finally declares this to Elionys. He's even polite enough to speak to her /before/ he stuffs his face. Aww, how polite. "Everyone's attached to Princess Mariya. She's a sweet little girl who's betrothed to a great foreign Prince who is guaranteed not to mistreat her. Which we can all agree on — your cousin, that sort of malice is not in his nature."

His smile returns as he carefully sizes up Aemon. As if trying to figure out what /not/ to say. Finally, he digs into his own chicken along with the man. "I have never seen nor heard of her before, actually. Who knows /how/ many helmets she wears, though? And — look at /that/!" He points at Saskia's latest handiwork.

A new lance and Saskia is ready for another charge. Her jaws are clenched and her eyes are narrowed to thin slits. Her hot breath is blocked by the visor and her armor lays heavy on her shoulders, uncomfortable and mannish on her body. Still, she slides her eyes shut in one final call to the gods before she opens them and charges. Her horse is strong, her lance is held true and a roar rips out of the woman's throat as she is no longer held to her silence. When her lance smashes into Arrick's shield it bursts into a thousand pieces from the monstrosity of the impact.

Arrick comes to into the tilt full speed and breaks his lance upon the woman's shield, the return however is epic. Beyond epic. Ser Arrick is violently thrown from his horse and he falls backwards as the horse continues on. The knight suddenly finds himself in the sand, a place he played as a child long ago in Salt Shore. As the childhood memories flow away the knight goes to rise from his sandy memories only to fall back down to the ground, Reachmen cheers ringing through his head as he is dragged away by pair of Dornish squires. Hopefully this Dornishman can be mended, maybe put back together after this long day of fight.

The maid fells the Dornishman and the commons is stunned into silence. The future Lord of Runestone drops his wineskin and his squires spill runed armor across the grass before his pavilion. The Herald actually stammers for an instant. "Let Ser -FAULK- ride against -LADY- Saskia." It is difficult to tell which name he pronounces with more disdain. The Herald huffs and tosses his scrap of vellum to his squire, then stalks off to his tent. The boy spares a sheepish look to the royal box, then runs off.

"I'll be sittin' soon enough, m'lady," Fulk replies as he dashes back the dregs of the gorgeous, bejeweled Tyrell wine-cup. "On a bloody saddle. I need to ask that young lady some questions."

Angharad is on her feet as Ser Arrick is unhorsed, crying out in distress. "Fuck!" Well. That's ladylike. She presses her knuckles to her lips, then nods absently at Ser Fulk’s words. "Indeed," she agrees. "Do pardon me." Perhaps the lady means to check on the well-being of her felled champion.

Alyse cheers happily at that last hit. She smiles brightly clapping her hands together for Saskia's victory. The Baratheon lady shifts eagerly in her seat but the cry from the Tyrell lady has her glancing that way with a frown. She looks to Ser Arrick as he is dragged off the field. There is a hint of empathy in her eyes but then she is quickly distracted by the announcement of the next match.

Daemond watches intently, his eyes carefully pinned on Saskia and her lance as he charges towards Arrick whilst he does the same. When both collide and their lances shatters, his brows raise as his eyes trail Arrick as he is thrown off his steed and into the sand. He stares for a moment before a smile plays on his lips as he turns his head to look over to his guard, "This is why I hire women as guards!" He outbursts, probably not realizing just how loud he is and how what he said came out as a shout. Though he doesn't seem to care as he looks back, lowering his brows slightly. "Why can't such cool stuff happen back at home?"

As Arrick is knocked off his horse and Saskia rides onwards, she rears her steed to a solid stop before turning to watch the fallen Knight. It isn't pride on her features, nor gloating or happiness; it is pure confusion colored with the look of utter helplessness that she just may have gotten well in over her head. She snaps her eyes towards the Herald and lets out a sharp snort in his direction (hopefully he can't hear it under her visor.) Her eyes then turn towards Fulk.

"He does appear to be skilled," Elionys allows that much, though her favor of the Dornishman appears not to go much beyond that. "Princess Mariya does seem very sweet though, I've only spoken to her once, but I enjoyed the visit. I plan on going back again soon," she rattles off, though her eyes frequently go back to the field. She doesn't do anything as unladylike as cheer, but she does grin abruptly as Arrick is unhorsed.

There is an uncharacteristically sombre air about Ser Fulk - for all his evident delight in the Dornishman's discomfiture - as he stalks down from the height of the Tyrell dais, for all that he has just swallowed a belly-laugh at Lady Harry's latest courtesies. He has serious business in hand now. He does not return to his pavilion and the waiting, high-blooded black courser, but strides into the lists on foot, his right hand resting on a sword - an unblunted one. "Miz Saskia," he calls aloft in a carrying cry, "tell me where you got your sword and armour. Answer falsely and you won't ever answer more."

Aemon nods to Riderch at his lack of information, and focuses on his chicken as the talk turns to people with whom he's even less familiar. He looks to Elionys and back to the Blackwood, "She's a Martell princess, I take it? Which cousin of mine is this that's to marry her?"

Oh, my. Lady Angharad is coming down from the noble dais, but pauses abruptly on the stairs, hearing Ser Fulk's challenge to the warrior maid. She watches with wide eyes and her lips parted.

Also what is going on? Aemon is even less interested in inter-kingdom marriages when Ser Fulk starts shouting instead of jousting.

Kaspar Royce, his squire Burton Redfort, and page Ernarr Grafton look on in stunned silence as the Hedge Knight approaches the armored maid and tenders the question to her. Then he touches his sword. Ernarr, young and precocious, at eleven speaks first. "Maiden's teats, Ser, he's going to kilt her, if she speaks false." Kaspar's reply is a blue stream. He draws a dagger, and hold it by the blade in his right hand and moves toward the Hedge knight like a shadowcat on the prowl.

She was waiting for Fulk to get on the horse, but when he calls out to her instead, in front of everyone, her face pales as he forces even more attention on her. She narrows her eyes at Fulk, giving him an accusatory look before she glances towards the Herald. Oh now he shuts up. Her hand reaches down to place it over the pommel of her old and beloved sword. "It belonged to a man who taught me how to fight, a father by every means but in name. The Empty Knight, Ser Sol. Knight of Nothing." A wandering Hedge Knight that is known for his prowess and his eccentric nature, preferring the hedges to any land, title or woman.

"Prince Daevon." Riderch bites into his own chicken now before taking a swig of ale. He does also work to take Aemon up on his offer of booze as his vessel runs empty. "And she's — well. I think you said it more elegantly than I could, Princess. But that is hardly anything new." The Blackwood shoots Elionys a goofy smile before he too ratches back the gossip now — There's a show going on and a grand one at that. He stares at Ser Fulk's challenge. "Is this some kind of Southron thing that we poor simpletons just don't understand?"

The call from Daemond about hiring female guards has Alyse looking over her shoulder at the man. Her expression is curious and she raises a brow at him smiling faintly. She inclines her head with her approval for that comment visible before she looks back to Ser Fulk who is shouting at Saskia. She blinks watching the interaction intently.

Riderch clearly points at himself with a spare thumb as he says 'we.'

The commons are still, but for the a few murmurs and the cries of two infants, even the remnants of the royal entourage make no move. Will there be blood? Or is this just the Hedge Knight's effort at an overture?

Daemond lowers his brows, frowning lightly. He watches Ser Fulk as he shouts out towards her. Growling, he brings himself to his feet, his pale violet eyes looking over towards his guard, "Be ready for any potential blood." He commands. The man-at-arms glances to Daemond before looking back over. "Right." The guard says, reaching across and grabbing the hilt of his blade, stepping forward with his right foot as he prepares himself in case he needs to fuck shit up. Daemond stares at Fulk, with a great deal of annoyance in his eyes.

The commons are still, but for the a few murmurs and the cries of two infants, even the lion share of the noble entourages make no move. Will there be blood? Or is this just the Hedge Knight's effort at an overture? The tourney grounds are still, quiescent to the point where the groans of the hedge knight from the Fingers can be heard from his pavilion, though these are low, indeed.

"Old Stormbrew," Fulk yells in delighted recognition, simultaneously brushing what looks like a possible tear from an eye along with sweat from his brow with his left hand. The right, contrarywise, tosses away his sword. "The field and the prize are yours, Miz Saskia. Take my hand in fellowship, for good old Sol's sake. And then, I think I have some use for my sword, after all."

"Whose son is he?" Aemon looks to Elionys for this answer, before smiling at Riderch, "I believe it's a challenge, Ser. Your poor Northern brains must be half melted in this heat." It's an easy tease, no malice in it, and only a quick aside as his attention remains on the field, except for when it roams in search of others reacting to it. Daemond's preparations are noted, and Kaspar nearer to the scene, but then Fulk is conceding and he applauds even as he admits, "I've no idea what just happened but it seems everything is well settled."

Huh. Isn't all that singular? Lady Angharad cants her head as she watches the words exchanged between head knight and warrior maid, then seems to recall her original intention. She hurries of in the direction of the healer's tents.

Elionys' attention too is drawn away from the conversation and to the drama that's brewing, leaning forward in her seat again as she looks from Fulk to Saskia, then back again. When Fulk casts aside his sword, her brows jump and she looks to the hedge knight with increased curiosity. "Hmm? Oh, Daevon? Oh, his father is Aevarys," she answers. "Aevander and Visenya are both here as well."

Okay she was not expecting that. Saskia's eyes widen at Fulk, fully expecting him to charge at her until he seems to recognize her mentor. "You…You know of him?" she manages. And then Fulk tosses his sword away and Saskia stares at him in open confusion before she looks towards the Targaryens then the nobles before falling across the rest of the crowd. Well hey, if Fulk can do it, so can she. With that she swings her leg over the horse and dismounts lightly despite her heavy armor before making her way towards the older Hedge Knight. "But-…" she murmurs towards Fulk before her shoulders drop and she lets out a laugh; a wild manic laugh of relief and utter disbelief at just what happened. As she laughs she bows low to Fulk, a bow reserved to royalty and the King. "A friend of Sol will always be a friend of mine, Ser Fulk. But…" she lifts her head up and stands straight. "I don't think they'll like that you're tossin' away the tourney for a pair of tits…"

Kaspar Royce stops dead step. His shoulders and arms relax. The look of relief upon the young Vale Lord's face is palpable. Ransom, or no, he looks relieved now that he no longer has to hazard fighting Ser Fulk with a dagger. The battered vale knight returns to his campstool.

The commons is awash with murmurs, then some sedate applause and shouts. There is, of course, more cursing and unchivalrous catcalls at the fair champion.

"Never mind. I /am/ a simpleton." Riderch laughs at the sudden, unfolding gesture of camaraderie that Fulk delivers to Saskia. "I understand perfectly, now." There's a sudden applause from the Riverlord as he then shoots Aemon a cautiously petulant gaze. "You understand that this was the plague of the First Men. We all weren't born in Fire, you understand. The further south we get, the more addled we become, until we're but merely beasts. The next time you see a wild boar gone mad, ask which Gods he once worshipped. I'm halfway to beast myself apparently." He says, before demonstrating this by tearing up a piece of chicken.
"Would I astonish you both by declaring I am not sure who I wish to win this?"

As cheers of some sort go off from the stands, Ser Arrick is laid out upon a healer's table, grumbling rather loudly about something incoherent. A Maester is standing over him, trying to soothe the young man but he's failing miserably. Finally, after a few choice curses the Dornishman reaches up and removes his helm, which apparently was bent onto his neck. As the man's face is revealed, there’s dried blood on his eyebrows, still fresh blood coming from his mouth and a rather angered look upon this salty Dornishman's face. He lost, he knows it, that's all there is to it…

"Ye're wrong there, sworn maiden of House Targaryen," Ser Fulk teases. "I'm a-throwin' the tourney for summat more than that. Someone, at that. Boy! My sword!" The Stokeworth youth, puzzled and reddening, obeys and retrieves the unblunted blade. "Kneel, Miz Saskia. I don't think either o' us care to spend time waitin' on a vigil n' a sept."

The Hedge Knight yields to the fair maid in mannish raiment of war, those who are sharp of eye might notice a lissome Bravo slip from the lower stands to the black pavilion far from the Reach pavilions. Some moments later, a tail of rough men, Tyroshi, Pentosi, and a scarred Dothraki emerge from the vast tent carrying a heavy chest. "Lady Saskia, Ser Fulk, Ser Arrick! The Prince bids you come forward and claim your spoils!"

"Wait a bloody moment," Ser Fulk sneers over his shoulder at the unsavoury crew of foreigners, and as if it wasn't already obvious enough, "Tell His Grace I'm just a little…how'd the maesters put it…preoccupied, right now."

Aemon nods with slow recognition, "Ah, Aevarys. The girls are twins? I'm not sure I've seen them since they were children." He drinks and then grins at Riderch, saying quite gravely, "One more reason you must never go to Dorne, Ser. I shudder to think." He acquires another chicken wing and sets to.

When asked to kneel, especially in front of all of these people who are more than willing to jeer at her and toss out crude remarks whenever they could, Saskia hesitates before her lips curve up into a savage little grin. Fuck'em. She finally lowers herself to kneel before Ser Fulk as requested.

Aemon's brows arch as Saskia kneels and after a moment he figures out what's going on (presumably not what the commons are largely suggesting). "Do you think I will have to pay more for her, now?" he wonders. He seems largely unconcerned by this development, but then he's not a knight.

Daemond continues watching, lowering his brows as far as they can go as his frown grows. The young lion watches as the woman kneels, tossing a glance to his guard, who looks over and shrugs. "Don't let them get killed." he says to the guard, raising his brows as he sighs, sitting back down onto the bench. "Look like she's going to be fighting for dragons now… A shamed, I liked her." he mutters, canting his head to the left as the guard takes a few steps out towards them, but stops a long-ish distance away as he watches around. Making sure the people in the stands /don't/ jump down and tear them apart.

The question from Aemon makes Elionys laugh just a little bit, and then clear her throat as she glances aside at her cousin. "Daevon and Visenya are twins." She smiles but says nothing else on that subject, instead looking and leaning in a little closer to Riderch. "To be honest, I wasn't sure either, but this is all very exciting, isn't it? Far more than I expected when I decided to attend." Another grin blossoms at Aemon's next question, shoulders gathering in a slight shrug. "It might be that you have to, cous, but she appears to be worth it. We have to talk to her too. Maybe we should hold a banquet after all of this is over?"

Just as he was about to return to his campstool and nurse his bruises with a skin of Arbor gold, the young knight of Runestone hears the Hedge Knight's voice boom across the common. He turns and nearly spills his wine again. "Seven Hells. A maid? He's going to knight a maid?" Ernarr and Burton stare on in amaze. "Girls can't be nights", Ernarr opines. Burton, the young, willful straw-haired bow promptly kicks his cousin in the shin.

And so, at last, Ser Fulk gets to beat up his tourney rival, for a hedge knighting is no gentle tap. WHAM descends the flat of his sword, right shoulder, left shoulder, and all over again. "In the name o' the Warrior, flee naught. In the name o' the Father, lie naught. In the name o' the Maid, remember who y'are, in the name o' the Mother, defend those who canna tell. In the name of the Smith, never retreat, in the name o' the Crone, never forget." At the last he slaps her on the face, fairly mildly. "Traditional detail, m'lady Saskia, but if I'd done it much harder I'da infringed my own vows…arise, and call yersel' whatever y'bloody like. I should think ye've some prizes to garner."

"Knighting isn't quite what it used to be." Riderch observes aloud, bemused. "Considering they occasionally let a few heathens slip through, I suppose the standards have loosened." The weight applied to 'heathens' is clearly mocking. And it probably doesn't take many guesses as to who or what he's referring to. Particularly since a thumb was jabbed towards his own chest.

"And you said it, Princess. This is the best show I've seen in the Reach." He gives Aemon a curious sidelong glance at the whole 'pay more' statement but he doesn't give it much heed. Dragons need not be concerned with how their activities mystify mere mortals. And at least this mere mortal probably assumes it's something sufficiently entertaining. "Oh, speaking of banquets — my household has moved. I am finally in a place where I can show proper hospitality to guests."

A young squire presents himself in rather clean armor bearing the sigil of a bright yellow lemon, this is none other than Ser Arrick Gargalen's squire, Felix Dalt. The teenaged boy looks concerned as he moves up beside Ser Fulk, who in this young Dalt's opinion may be losing his mind/lost that mind with his recent actions. The Dalt moves to before the main dais and waits patiently.

Indeed, the catcalls and oaths grow oppressively loud, when the hedge knight swings the sword and dubs another hedge knight, and this one a maid, no less, but these are consumed by the cheers of maidens, mother, and aged mothers. It takes several moments for the absent herald's cronies to restore order. Then, the Bravo finally speaks "Lady Saskia, Ser Fulk, Ser Arrick, come claim your spoils."

The Bravo throws wide the chest. He takes two pouches. Each of these is silk sew with thread of gold, therein are jewels stolen from Lhazar idols and the treasuries of the Bight Banners: onyx and opals, tiger's eyes and tourmaline, rubies, amethyst, sapphires, emeralds, jet and jade, the one also contains a pink diamond, and its fellow a black pearl. Each of the small satchels is easily worth five hundred dragons.

For the champion, the maid, the Bravo and four of his fellow lift a heavy silver idol from the chest. Her aspect is weathered, but the shape of her form if definitely feminine. The gems that adorn her, or rather the gems that remain, are chipped and worn smooth, but none of the gems in the satchels can match the others in size and luster. The idol is a Prince's ransom easily worth a thousand dragons.

"I owe Ser Arrick a ransom, he's in m'lady Saskia's debt, and she's equally in mine," Ser Fulk quips. "Mayhaps we should pick up these fine gifts, don blindfolds and play pass-the-parcel for a spell…"

A young squire presents himself in clean armor bearing the sigil of a bright yellow lemon, this is none other than Ser Arrick Gargalen's squire, Felix Dalt. The teenaged boy looks concerned as he moves up beside Ser Fulk, who in this young Dalt's opinion may be losing his mind/lost that mind. The Dalt moves to before the main dais and waits patiently. When Ser Arrick is nowhere to be found, the Bravo tender the second gem satchel to the boy of Lemonwood.

Aemon shrugs at Elionys. "Close enough. And he did take quite a few blows today, perhaps a few too many were to the head?" he suggests to Riderch, "Though as you say, it's always been a bit overrated, in my opinion." As for the prizes, he eyes Maelys's assistants more curiously than his fortune, remarking only, "My cousin's done rather well for himself in his absence, it seems."

As he smacks her heavily on her shoulders, Saskia keeps her head bowed so the wincing doesn't show. Her body shifts under the weight of it and she lifts her head in time to get smacked across the face with the sword. She remains there even after Fulk is done, staring at him with her ice-blue eyes. She isn't quite sure she believes what is happening, at least not yet. "This…this isn't a farce?" She finally murmurs, low enough for only the old man to hear. "This isn't a mockery?" But then there are satchels of gold given out and slowly Saskia rises to take hers with hungry fingers, feeling the weight of it with such complete relish. Ahem. "Call myself?" Well fuck, she didn't even think of that. "…What the fuck should I call myself?" She asks him before the Bravo suddenly attracts her attention as he produces the main gift. Saskia's jaw drops open, a girl who has never seen much in terms of coin is suddenly drenched in it. She reaches out to take the idol before Fulk speaks up about passing the parcel. Flashing him a narrow eyed look, she mutters towards him, "Hey, you gave up fair and square," besides the statue is a woman! Fit for a woman! Ahem.
"Your home is done, maybe we can host a feast there," Elionys suggests brightly to Riderch, suddenly attempting to foist that duty off on him. The 'request' is followed by a sweet smile, the sort that says 'pleeeaaaaaase' without actually speaking the word out loud.

"I did it as an excuse to eventually wheedle my way out of becoming trapped at Raventree. Unfortunately I don't know that it all worked out the way I expected. But it never /does/, does it?" Riderch responds to Aemon, cheerfully enough.

Elionys' request though is sort of received with a slightly gobsmacked expression of surprise. “— Princess. I mean, I suppose technically you wouldn't need to /ask/. But I'm glad you did. Uhh, the answer is 'yes'." And so the Raven Knight stands here looking rather nonplussed. "But maybe you would like to /see/ it first before deeming it uhh, suitable." Still, the floor show on the Tourney Grounds is the main event, and so he stands wondering aloud. "I wonder too —" He jabs the chicken leg towards the field in response to Saskia's question. "What /shall/ she call herself?"

Daemond yawns, raising his right hand to wave his guard over as he brings himself to his feet. Walking off, with a light grin, he tilts his head to the right as he mutters to his guard, "Well that was pretty fun to watch.” He offers a glances to Saskia and Fulk before shifting his gaze to not-so subtly glare at Aemon for a few seconds before walking off. "All my dragon cousins do is take my toys." he huffs shortly before him and his guard exit the tourney grounds, heading eastward into Champion's Way.

Elionys looks entirely pleased by the stunned expression from Riderch, grinning all the brighter at the Raven Knight. "Very well, I will come by later today and have a look around, yes? Then we can decide for certain whether or not we want to hold it there, and if not, where we'll choose instead." Yes, she said we. You're not getting out of this one, Rids.

"Excellent!" is Aemon's reaction to Riderch acquiescing to Elionys's thinly-veiled wheedling. And then shrugs, "I've no idea, perhaps we should ask her." He's on his feet again, dropping chicken bones into the grass and wiping a hand on his trousers, "I'd quite like to meet my new sworn sword, and invite our champions to this banquet. Ser; cousin." He takes his leave that quickly, but with a smile, tromping down the bleachers to approach Saskia at whatever edge of the field she's made her way to by now.
Fulk has disconnected.

As Daemond gets up to leave, Saskia watches him for a moment, ready to go after him until Riderch picks up her question. She stops and her eyes settle on him as her lips twitch faintly at the corners. Saskia keeps the pouch with her, but the idol is a bit more difficult to manage. "Uh," well, this is embarrassing, she has no lodgings. "Keep it uh…Take it um…" Fuck. Thankfully Aemon's arrival is quick to distract her and Saskia bows down before her him. She is immediately silenced.

"You're — quite welcome, your Grace." Riderch actually isn't quite sure of Aemon's exact identity. Other than 'he's up there' and treats him accordingly, but he's somewhat warmed to the man already. He watches Saskia a moment as Aemon approaches now, thankful to cling to something to change the subject for the moment until he absolutely has to address it.

"He turns to Elionys, chicken in hand, and now suddenly looks at what's left of said chicken leg. Takes a bite. Swallows. "It'd be an honor, Princess." He says. Thankfully again without his mouth full.

Onlookers could get the clear sense that if she asked him to jump off a bridge he'd consider the request carefully.

"Is there a problem, miss?" Aemon wonders, catching the tail end of Saskia's confusion before she's bowing and quiet. He gestures for her to rise with a hand, one callused and rough and not at all princely. "You put on quite a show today."

Elionys looks entirely pleased when the Raven Knight agrees to help, letting him go on his way without further harassment or requests. Instead she turns to make her way down to the field, to wherever Aemon and Saskia presently are.

At his urging to rise, she lifts her head up to look at him squarely in the eyes before she remembers herself and averts her gaze to the space above his left shoulder - that is how she catches sight of Elionys' approach. "I don't have a place to put it," she finally admits as she looks towards the statue. "I will sell it as soon as I get to the market," comes her final decision. What use does she have of idols and statues? Especially those you can't carry. She then glances towards Aemon once more as she continues with a very careful and neutral tone. "Thank you, for your support. I have been brought here to fight on Lord Daemond's behalf. It is a Lannister horse I rode and this is armor bought with his coin that I wear. However, it is your words that has allowed me to stay and win." Conundrum. Her lips quirk wryly at that. "And your swornsword that has given me the championship."

Aemon smiles, because he's amused at her quickly-averted gaze and because he's prone to smiling, judging by the fine lines around his mouth. "It sounds as if you have entirely different problems than you did this morning," he suggests, "And you are quite welcome. I very much enjoyed your display today. So let me solve a few more of these difficulties for you, if I might? Return the horse and armor with your thanks, unless you've some attachment to them now. I will buy the idol from you; no merchant in the market has the coin to give you even half its value in gold. And if you'll allow me, I can safeguard your winnings for you until you have found a place to do so yourself. In return, I'd ask just two simple things in return. That you swear your sword to the protection of my lady cousin, and that you join us at a banquet to be thrown… soon in honor of the tourney."

Elionys meets the gaze of the newly minted knight over the shoulder of her cousin, smiling at Saskia as she reaches Aemon's side. She doesn't offer greeting, or say anything else to interrupt Aemon, instead listening to his list of offers and requests, and then looking to Saskia for an answer.

The mention of no merchant having enough money to buy the idol curls Saskia's lips upwards in a wicked smile. Her problems did indeed change. But then there is this new offer and Saskia blinks at Aemon before she looks towards Elionys; the young woman is studied intently, even as she stands a few inches above Saskia's height. "I thank you for your offer, your highnesses," she murmurs carefully. "I will have to speak to Lord Daemond first as I am obligated to him; he saw my potential when no one else did." She then quickly looks back to Elionys, "Not that I don't wish to protect your princess-ship," yea, she is not one for court. "But I am loyal too, a trait I hope you'd soon come to appreciate." The mention of keeping her holding forces the new Knight to tighten her grip around the pouch, an instinctive gesture of one who never had much and didn't trust what she did have around anybody. "I will sell you the idol, but I need the pouch. My old horse needs to be put to pasture immediately and I am in debt with the Tooth and Nail."

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