(121-05-05) The Blackrood and the Prince of Ashes
The Blackrood and the Prince of Ashes
Summary: Quillian and Maelys duel over the disagreement between Ryzael and Johanna.
Date: May 5, 2014
Related: The Promise of Anguish to Come

Tourney Grounds — The Reach

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.

At the appointed time and hour, out along the tourney grounds stands one lone knight clad in dark armor, beside him with banner held high of house Oakheart, and the personal arms of the Blackrood-is his squire. Some poor Meadows lad that has been sequestered under said knight as his squire. In the knight's gauntlet fist is a long crow's beak hammer, the weapon picked by the Blackrood for this time.

Ser Quillian glances towards the Tourney Grounds entryway, apparently one can be patient with these sorts of things, nor is it like his opponent is actually late.

It's a fight that involves Targaryens, so of course Aevander is there to observe it. He sits in the stands in his usual black, watching as Ser Quillian awaits his opponent. His expression is somber and attentive as others gather to spectate the impending duel.

Stepping in from the outside, Brynden looks around rather thoughtfully as he moves in the direction of the stands. He comes to a stop for a few moments as his gaze falls on Quillian, offering the man a quiet nod now.

Some minutes before the appointed hour, two riders approach the edge of the tourney grounds. The one is a man of nine-and-ten, although he looks almost a boy with his slight, lissome frame. The bravo-turned-squire rides forward with the Prince of Ashes's banner. A dragon atop broken blades. The Prince's armor is black. All the dents have been hammered out of the spaulders and pauldrons. The cuirass looks new-forged and rather conspicious. So, too a few of the dragon's teeth. Glossy where their fellows show small chips and a weathered look. The Prince turns his dragon skull warhelm towards Quillian and dismounts.

The squire speaks with a Braavosi accent. "The champions shall fight until the one yields or is rendered incapable of fighting, just so."

Though this duel is of Westerosi in nature, the recently widowed Princess of Dorne makes her way towards the seating area - garbed head to toe in widow's black. With a few Dornian companions at her side, Ellia takes a seat in silence amongst those in the stands, gaze shifting to the field with a rather somber expression.

Visenya arrives, accompanied by her usual maids and two men-at-arms, on foot. As the evening is chill she wears a crimson cloak over a gown of black and red. She joins Aevander in the stands, and leans over to speak to him briefly.

Visenya whispers: Did you speak to Maelys?

For his look, The Prince is given an approving nod, before Quillian turns and offers his hammer out to Maely's second for inspection, Quillian's squire moving to stand close, during this process and keep a handle of his knight's weapon, lest any foul play be administered. Just as The Blackrood's own second will inspect Maelys' weapon to insure all is on the up and up. As to Maelys, the Oakheart knight raises a brow. before a brief nod is given the Squire.

"As agreed upon." comes the response from Quillian before a grin is given to the helmeted Targaryen. "A good day for it, rain and all has let up-and the pitch is fine." So no shenanigans there. "You can inspect if you wish."

Aevander offers a small smile to his sister as Visenya sits beside him. But for her question, there is a shake of his head.

Taking the rest of the steps up into the stands, Brynden offers a nod to Aevander now. "Ser Aevander," he greets the man, before he looks around at the others present as well. Noticing the Dornish Princess, Brynden hesitates for a few moments, before he slowly starts moving over in that general direction, although keeping a polite distance, at the moment.

Johanna arrived with her brother, and it's near him she remains for so long as she is able. Her expression is one of grim determination as she looks off at the Prince of Ashes, hands curling into fists, as though she might like to fight him herself.

The Prince spares Quillian Blackrod a brief grave nod. To Quillians remark, another grave nod. When Blackrod remarks upon the weather, the Prince looks skyward. "Indeed, I have seen men die upon damp grass. A fine day, for it, Ser." Maelys takes the hammer in hand and hefts it a look to the head and a nod. He returns the weapon to Quillian's hand. The bravo-turned-squire is silent until Maelys favors him with a nod. Maelys takes his greatsword from the Meadows ladthen moves into a position diagonal to blackrod. The prince ifts his his sword in a grave salute, to Ser Quillian.

The Bravo steps between them, a wry smile upon his lips. "Let your Seven favor the man whose cause is just."

"Worse for horses if they've not been put in their paces right." Quillian remarks affably. Greatsword is taken with care and inspected. Blade checked for any undo oils, beyond that which cleanse-and there's a glance given over to his sister and then to the Second. Once everything is in the clear-sword is given back and hammer is taken. There's a brief look given, before helm is secured over his pate and there the hammer is raised back in return, as he stations himself opposite to Maelys.

And once the seconds, squires and all move back-the dance will begin in earnest.

Ryzael rides onto the tourney grounds escorted by his usual small squad of Targaryen guardsmen. He seems in no great haste, though his eyes travel over the scene with no small curiosity. His eyes alight on Maelys in his new harness and he gives a thin smile and a wave, turning his horse to bring him near the stands before dismounting.

"Ser Brynden," Aevander greets the other knight with a courteous nod before the Hightower moves towards the Dornish princess. He returns his attention to the field as weapons are inspected and the duel seems set to begin in earnest.

Johanna steps nearer her brother as the blade is held up, checking in as thoroughly as she can in the allotted time. She exhales and looks up to Quillian, nodding slightly. "Everything appears to be in order." The smile that follows is tense but fierce, conveying support for her brother where words fail, then she turns to move away, not to the stands but off to the side to watch.

Ellia leans over to murmur something quietly to one of her Dornish companions, dipping her head as she seems to be speaking about the happenings on the field as the two knights prepare themselves. If she notices the approach of the Hightower, she does not acknowledge it.

Maelys’s young squire draws back, the prince turns and tenders a second salute to his niece and nephew in the stands. Then he looks directly to the Dornish contingent. He looks toward Princess Ellia and raises his sword in a final salute. The last of the seconds depart the field and the prince is circles Ser Quillian for a few seconds, then the Prince is moving, lunging at Quillian Blackrod with alarming speed, for a man encased in plate. His sword comes in high toward Quillian's gorget, then turns toward his left pauldron.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword and MISSES!

Both men seem to be quite canny in their movements and styles. As the great dragon lunges in, the Blackrood is quick to counter, turning deftly to let the blade skim close. However in doing so, his own swing of steel misses high, but allows for the knight to get his footing. No noise leaves the reach man, as he circles, his hammer held in the defensive. He feints, as much as one can with the Crow's beak, moving to hook open the man's plate with the 'beak' of his weapon at the right shoulder.

The Blackrod dodges, the sword's nader a mirror inch from his shoulder. Quillian swings, but is too high to crak against his greathelm. Maelys lifts one steel lobstered arm, in an effort to catch the hammer haft then swings, one handed at Quillian's neck.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword but MISSES!

Once afoot Ryzael lets one of his guardsmen tend his horse and lead it away as he makes his way into the stands. His eyes scan before he moves to seat himself next to Visenya and Aevander. Once there he seems to relax a bit, leaning back in his seat and watching the duel down below with some interest, though occasionally his eyes leave it to look towards either of his kin that are seated nearby.

Both men, seem to move and match each other. Quillian sees the hand come for his hammer after blow skims past, and he's jerking back hard and quick. A grimace hidden beneath the helm, Quill is quick to duck under the blow, pulling himself back for a moment. A roll of shoulders as composure shows through and again, another testing blow is aimed, but this time, hopefully in a opening at the Prince of Ashe's chest. to knock him back and keep such a maneuver from happening again.

Looking out onto the field again for a few moments, Brynden nods as things seems to start now. The lack of acknowledgement from Ellia doesn't seem to worry him very much at the moment, as he takes a few steps closer, before he greets the Dornish Princess. "Princess," he says, the word rather soft, before he lowers his voice to say the rest of what he has to say to the Princess now.

Blackrod catches sight of the Prince's arm and moves with the alacrity of a brvo, though the man's plate is enough to make most men stagger. Maelys curses under his breath, but does not relent. He strides toward Blackrod, as he gives ground. Then the Prince give ground and turns had to his left in an effort to dodge a potentially chest-crushing blow. He answer this with a low quick swing at the Quillian's right side.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Light wound to Left Hand (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword but MISSES!

Turning her own head at the Hightower greeting, dark eyes narrow a fraction upon Ser Brynden as Ellia studies him in brief. Her Dornish companions bristle visibly at the approach as they keep steady eye upon the Westerosi. She lowers her voice in response so as to not disrupt the spectation around her.

Certainly not a chest crushing blow, but it will ring true enough on the man's hand and hopefully lighten the grip on his Sword. A grunt is heard in the helmet, as Quillian is quick to dance off again, letting the massive sword blade kiss off again. But he doesn't seek to allow the Prince much time to recover, as he's coming back in with that wicked beak this time, looking to punch holes through the armor and find the flesh of the man beneath.

A painted growl rolls up from the Prince's Dragonhelm. He dodges the blow only to take the last of it upon his left hand. Maelys draws back three steps. Blood spills from a rent in his gauntlet, where the clawed hammer took a good deal of black lobstered steel and a bit of flesh. He moves to his right, in an effort to put his side to Quillian and present a smaller target. He hand is weeping blood, but he still manaages a rejoinder, swinging low high in an effort to strike Quillian's helm.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - ARMOR on Abdomen stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

The harness in which the Prince has clothed himself manages to deflect the Beak's puncture. Likely due to his own turn, which had the wicked point scour, but not much more. In doing so Quillian opens himself up for a shot, though thankfully being in as he is, it makes it harder to hit his helm, but dents a resounding catch into his breastplate, close to a weak bit of chain. Blood shows in red line and for his own good Quillian grunts as the two break a piece.

Each weapon favors length and the man's reach. Maelys has some considerable length there-and so Quill moves again, the Blackrood dancing back into position, before he's seeking another chance to hit the man's shoulder.

Brynden nods as he hears Ellia's words, offering her a polite smile now. "Thank you for your time," he offers, with a brief shrug, before he moves a bit away from the Dornish again, and finds himself a seat.

The sight of blood elicits a dark chuckle from the depths of the Prince's Warhelm. He steps to his right, in time with Quillian's deft, almost dancestep movements. His greatsword remains in a guard position ready for Quillian's retort. Maelys swings for the hammer haft, in an effort to block the brutal blow directed toward his pauldrons. Then slashes low, just above Quillian's groan in an effort to cut to carve a second red tributary into the Reach knight.

<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - ARMOR on Right Hand stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - ARMOR on Left Arm stops the attack!

Such tactics, get a shake of the Reachlord's head as he brings his hammer back with one hand, the other moving down in a parried movement, catching and batting away the blow, as armor holds true. Though the vibration rattles through his arm. There a bit of laughter comes as he sings out his hammer, and only knocks ineffectively at the other's arm. It seems two can play at this game, though instead of the beak coming low for that particular area to bleed out-it seems Quillian will look to smash and traumatize.

The Prince manages, albeit narrowly, to parry Quillian's blow, but once more, catches it upon a hand. Again, there is a pained growl. The end of his sword tips, but he manages to tighten his grip upon the weapon though it is now slick with princely blood. Maelys swings high for Quillian's left pauldron, this time, then moves to turn his side to Blackrod and bring the bloodslick up to parry any traumatizing blows from the wicked beaked hammer.

<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Moderate wound to Neck (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Maelys has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.
<COMBAT> Maelys has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Maelys spends a luck point to keep fighting!

And there in surprising maneuver, Quillian pulls back, causing the blade of his competitor to ring against his chest again, but in doing so, a window has been left open and there the Blackrood takes it, swinging his weight into the blow at Maelys' neck. As the resounding feel and ring his felt in his hands, the Blackrood allows a moment to see if the Prince will recover, before he is coming in again-swinging.

Riderch Blackwood was probably here the whole time as a bystander. "These turnips are fried." The Riverlander sits back in his makeshift festival seating, speaking to his squire as they both watch the carnage on the Tourney Grounds. The squire of course, a big man whose family has served his for generations, makes a face and wordlessly swaps out a piece of food from a basket between them.

"They fry turnips here. What in the name of the bloody Ancestors is /wrong/ with…" He trails off, staring as Quillian Oakheart strikes at Maelys Targaryen. "Damn."

As Quillian surges towards Maelys with his attacks, Sera widens her eyes as she moves to the sit at the very edge of her seat. Her lips are pulled back in a wild grin as her fingers entangle around one another to help hold herself back from yelling or jumping.

The Prince's blow misses his foes's pauldron, entirely, but rings upon Blackrod's breastplate. Maelys lifts his sword, but, he is laggardly in his ascent. Blackrod's hammer rings aloud it slams into hsi cuirass! "Arrrghh!" The pained gasp is audible and rather loud. The Prince falls to his knees, bled wells up from the mail under his cuirass. For a moment, he lies, knelt upon the mod, but swiftly rises. The Prince looks upon the Reach knight and launches into a bullrush, drawing back in a vicious swing for Quillian's chest. Globules of blood spil out from his gorget upon the tourney groounds as he charges.

Brynden nods a little as he watches the attacks now, unable to hold back a brief smile as he sees Quillian's strike. He keeps quiet as he watches, though.

Visenya lets out a gasp when Maelys is struck, and both of her hands come up to her mouth in horror. She keeps her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide in horror.

<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Left Arm (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

Ryzael's expression darkens, a frown creasing his features as he reaches out an arm around Visenya to comfort. He draws in a breath himself, seemingly relieved when Maelys rises to continue fighting, yet still seemingly in a much more darkened mood.

Dark eyes flicker from the duel grounds over to where the Targaryen contingency is seated. Ellia arches her brow a slight fraction before again returning her attentions to the two combatants.

"You know what, Tel?" Riderch says to his big squire.

"No, m'lord, but I am sure this condition will pass soon." The dry, dry tones from his sworn man are nontheless polite.

Riderch simply makes a face. It's a pained expression, if a little for show. "I don't think this is as shocking as it used to be." He points at the field. "I hope Ser Quillian and the Prince come to an accord, though. This is kind of a…waste."

Aevander's brows lift as Maelys falls, and at his sister's small sound of distress, he reaches over to curl his hand around hers. "They fight to surrender, dearest," he assures softly. "If both men honor their word, there will be no deaths today."

It is a crash of steel and bodies. Sparks kissing off of fine plate armor as both knights shudder into one another. Pauldron, spaders and greaves are dented in and blood is seeping from the Blackrood's arm as he comes back from his hit. His body wracked in pain as he staggers from the collision. With it comes laughter-the high of battle as crimson mingles with oaken green and deep black. Grip is tightened on his hammer-which he knows hit- somewhere.

Once pain clears, Quillian comes back-hammer swinging in, a test t- check his opponent and catch an opening.

Johanna remains standing off to the side of the field with her firsts clenched and pressed against her stomach. She doesn't cheer, or jeer, or do much at all save for watch the fighting men with wide eyes.

The Prince of ashes collides with Blackrod in a storm of steel. Sword and Warhammer clang for some seconds. When Blackrod draws back, the Prince is cluthing hsi chest. Blood spills from beneath his cuirass where Ser Quillian took him beneath his pauldron. The mail is torn and rent displaying a torn and bloodsoaked arming coat. Maelys looks to the commons and tears the helm from off his head. His eyes cut across the crowd to his fair niece, again, he lifts his sword, this time, one handed. His left arm hangs at his side after the terrible blow to his side. He looks upon Visenya, directly and favors her with sardonic, albeit strangely tender smile, then he's moving. A second mad bullrush at the Quillian Blackrod, draws back in a wicked swing aimed at Quillian's helm in an effort to ring the bell.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!

Again they batter one another, blow for blow traded in ragged means. The Blackrood wincing as his hammer is swung, but for that under the armor, his blow holds against fine plate-as does his cuirass prove might against the swing of the Prince of Ashes. Quillian grunts again, as he circles, before coming in, his hammer swinging low.

So, too the Prine's plate, though a pair of dragon's teeth are snapped by Blackrod's hammer. Maelys draws back, out of breath and draws two ragged lungfuls of air, then pressed the attack. He swings high in answer to Quillian's low hammer swing.

As Maelys does not seem ready to quit, Sera inhales sharply and this time actually rises to her feet. She follows the dark Prince's gaze towards Visenya and where she is seated before looking back down at the battle. There are no battle cries or insults from the redhead today, today's fight is serious business.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - Light wound to Right Hand (Reduced by Armor).

Both men again exchange blow for blow, though as it seems, their cautiousness weighs out. Maelys' maneuver deflects much of the blow's power, as it dings into dented chest plate-and Quillian's other hand is wracked in a bite, which brings some blood pooling out around the knuckles of his gauntlet. Blood, blood everywhere. And he Blackrood does not shrink-rather he pivots adjusting his stance to continue on with the wounded dragon.

Quillian's blow takes Maelys in the chest eliciting another pained grunt. He staggers back a bit, in the bloody churned earth. He turns toward Quillian, not bother to keep his swide to him, he swings with the full force of his good hand at Quillian once again.

<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Serious wound to Neck (Reduced by Armor).

Visenya lowers her hand from her face to take Aevander's, and squeezes it tightly. "There's so much blood." She murmurs quietly, "How can someone lose that much blood and still live?"

"Come on, finish it…" Brynden mutters as he watches the fight, nodding a little to himself now.

"Some men run on stubbornness alone," Aevander opines wryly. "I believe you are observing two of them."

"Fried turnips." Again. Riderch repeats to his squire. "I mean, I understand this — don't get me wrong. I have a sister. I would have done the same thing, but I don't even really now what this shit is about anymore."

"I know what it is, m'lord. It's about this." Tel the squire digs up some kind of oddity from the basket. A mushroom. "You'd think the cook would bloody /tell/ you what's in these things before you buy. 'Sides, I hate mushrooms." He hands it over to Riderch who apparently doesn't. The man eats like a fire, an this mushroom is his latest victim.

And there the plate rattles again before he is left with another opening of Maelys' neck-which the Blackrood takes. A massive blow of hammer to gorget again, as it seems the Oakheart is looking to knock the man's head clean from his neck-the wing gets a grunt, as the reach lord remains in the fight. he pivots again, moving into a new stance, as his hammer swings low-trying to end and take the dragon down. Finish this duel decisively.

Again, the Reach knight's armor rings, as Maelys' sword slams into lobstered steel. Then, Blackrod's hammer collides with his neck, again. This blow is more forceful than the last, blood sprays upward in answere to the hammer's kiss. When Maelys turns his head, seven only knows how his head is still attached to his neck, to the Blackrod, his face isn't spattered so much as plastered with blood and what isn't plastered in crimson is pale as a corpse. Maelys takes two steps toward Quillian and slashes at the reach knight's neck in answer to Quillian's brutal blow.

<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Serious wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Maelys has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Maelys spends a luck point to keep fighting!

Again The reach lord maneuvers catching the blade coming for his neck, and he deftly steps aside. There's almost a laugh there before the hammer of the Oakheart swings out and crashes into the back of Maelys' skull, sending him back down. Hard. A twist of his hammer in a bit of a grim salute, but the Blackrood doesn't seem to trust that the yield is coming. "Ser." a simple hollow word wringing out from the face mask of the Blackrood's helm-which in and of itself looks like a carved weir wood face. He'll wait for Maelys to rise before striking again.

"Oh! Now this is just getting bloody disgusting. Sit down, Prince." Even Riderch's getting in on the vicarious entertainment while spectating, chewing on some other crumb-covered fried…thing, reaching for some ale to wash it down.

Visenya's hand squeezes Aevander's again. Tightly. One wouldn't think her delicate little hands could possess such strength. She rounds on Ryzael, and her violet eyes flash, "Go apologize NOW" She releases Aevander's hand to jab a finger at Ryzael, "You're going to have to do it anyways, so go do it now and put an end to this before he bleeds to death!"

The Prince of Ashes falls, face first into the pool of blood and mud at his feet. He lies there still as corpse for some seconds. His head swimming with spinning dragons and oak leaves. The pain is crippling. Then one gauntleted hand moves, then an arm and a leg, slowly, he pushes himself up. His limbs bringing his torso, bloody skull and head up into a line parralel with the earth. How does he stand? Who can say. It's as though the Great Other has possessed him. He doesn't answer Quillian. His eyes are glassy, but his sword blows are deadly quick. The pain has ceased to be an impediment. He ignores all the calls, even the Blackwoods call to bring this appaling bloodbath to an end and his fair niece's calls for his nephew to yield, but rather slashes at blackrod's throat with a brutal two-handed swing.

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - ARMOR on Abdomen stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

My poor blood

Lips purse slightly from the direction of the Dornish Princess, Ellia's dark gaze narrowing at the continued bloody spectacle. Prince of Ashes? He looks more like the Prince of Blood and Muck at the moment. Her attentions tear from the field to glance back towards the Targaryens, more importantly the one rumored to have been the reason behind it all as she shakes her head silently. Once more she leans over to converse with her own companions, before letting her gaze slowly meander back to the field.

The Blackrood watches as the Dragon swings, though it's brutal it's not nigh as close as the Prince hopes. Again another soft part of the armor is opened up, and blood runs down the black cuirass where the gorget and mail failed to protect. Eyes widen slightly behind the Greathelm's slits-and for his part Quillian thrusts his hammer out to knock him back-though the rebuff doesn't take him down, rather just taps at his belly. "Yield Ser, I'd not kill a dragon.." voice ragged, but true.

If that doesn't sell it another swing will.

Aevander winces a little as Maelys falls again, and stands again, and he gives a small shake of his head. "Stubbornness? I think our Uncle must live on spit and audacity alone." Because, you know, it's pretty clearly not blood that keeps him going. All of that came out, already.

Ryzael's dark expression slowly draws itself up from the duel and focusses on Visenya. "The fight isn't over. And I don't take orders from you any more than I do from them, down there. Or have you forgotten what this was all about. Not that this farce was what I advised. Or undertook. Thank your lieing brother there next to you for this even happening, not me. I have ever been loyal to my kin." he says, smoothing his doublet with his hands with a distasteful expression on his features. "Be that as it may, I have mended him once, and will do so again it seems." he says, turning and beginning to make his way down through the stands towards the edge of the field.

The Prince grunts, but it sounds human and hollow. The sound of a man who hasn't grunted in a century trying to recall a grunt. Hi eyes are still glassy and give no indication of receit of the Reach Knight's enjoinder to surrender. He swings for Blackrod, once again, glassy eyed and at the edge of human endurance. His blow is laggardly, albeit brutal.

<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Light wound to Right Hand (Reduced by Armor).

Brynden nods a little as he watches now, before he turns and looks at the Targaryens in the stands, shaking his head a little bit now. Looking back to the duel on the field.

This time it seems the Prince of ashes catches the Blackrood just right, as a new jet of red slips out and sends the Blackrood to a knee. One hand moves to where the blade snagged and drug under plate and through mail. He will need new armor of this. A turn and he looks back towards where Maelys is. His hammer low, and should the Prince come in this tempting target, the Reach lord would spring his attack and bring the hammer low to high in sweeping strike.

Sera glances towards the Targaryens as well as she tears her eyes away from the struggling Maelys. She stares at the dragons with a frown, her fingers clenching and unclenching, as if waiting expectantly for something. When nothing comes she sighs and retakes her seat. It appears that the duel is not yet over. Well not since Maelys is back on the attack.

Said 'lying brother' watches as Ryzael stands and moves closer to the field. Looking over at Visenya, Aevander says, "You see there, dearest, the measure of our cousin's fealty. He will put the tatters of his pride before all, even the well-being of an Uncle he claims to love. I see little value in such 'familial loyalty' as he professes."

"I don't know. I think I've had my fill of —" More color commentary from Riderch. "Honor's a funny thing, isn't it?" He stuffs his face as they get t the bottom of the basket.

"Of course, M'Lord." The squire responds, glued to the fight on the field.

Indeed, the stricken Oakheart is too ripe a target for the Prince to defer. He takes hold of his greatsword in both of his bloodsoaked hands and charges sword raised high. As the Prince approaches Quillian Blackrod, the greatsword descends in a brutal blow. By the look of him, the blood soaked Prince is not trying to win a duel, but cleave an elephant in two. A wicked battle cry rises from the pit of his stomach, soundless, bellicose, mad. The blade is not steel so much as a grey formless blur when it descends toward Quillian.

"Look at you." Visenya sneers at Ryzael, "The high and mighty Ryzael who needs his Uncle to fight his battles. I promise you this; he will never fight your petty little battles again. He is not your whipping boy or your shield." And then Ryzael leaves, and she stands up to go to the edge of the stands to speak quietly to her maid and man-at-arms. Nods are shared, and they depart the tourney grounds.

She sits down and looks to Aevander, "You're right. I should have listened to you."

<COMBAT> Quillian attacks Maelys with Polearm - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Maelys attacks Quillian with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Maelys has been KO'd!

The cry is enough, and with deft measurement of time and space-Quillian rises. All of it seems almost to be in slow motion, and time is but a thing we clothe ourselves in, in order to feel secure of our place. But here? It holds no realm. Maelys' scream sounds dull and far off in Quillian's ear, as the hammer is switched-held in both hands as cuirass and prayers are counted on for the blade to not cleave him in two.

The sparks and crash is loud-as if two shield walls broke against each other. With the prince in close-the hammer is up, as sword is knocked away, easily. Body twists and the hammer slams into the man's chest-dead to center-which sends the great dragon reeling. A shudder rolls through the shoulders and Quillian steps to fallen foe-boot placed on the man's chest as the claw moves to the other's neck. A simple command: Yield.

To spectators-this happens in but a matter of seconds to minutes, and like that One stands, one is fallen.

Johanna almost seems to be holding her breath as the fight grows nearer to the end, glancing away only once to the stands in search of someone, but her gaze is quick to return to the men on the field. Knuckles go white with the force at which she clenches her fist, leaning forward slightly, straining to hear.

Loryn is standing beside Johanna, hoping to offer some moral support just by being there, as he watches the duel with wide eyes and no small amount of anxiety. He places a calming hand on Johanna's arm. There, there. Quill's made it.

Watching the happenings on the field now, Brynden lets out a breath as he nods. Looking around, both at those in the stands and those by the field. As he sees Loryn there with Johanna, he nods a little, but keeping quiet for the moment. Gaze going back to Quilian and Maelys again now.

As Quillian stands over Maelys, Sera lets out a low breath, relaxing back into her seat. She finally looks around herself, searching for some wine she could wrangle up after such an ordeal. Drinks are definitely in order, copious, and copious amounts of drink.

Aevander looks over at his sister and his eyes widen slightly for those last few words she offers. He blinks several times in silent surprise and reaches out to squeeze her hand once more. "You sent your servants for aide?" he asks Visenya as Maelys falls and remains fallen. "Go, then, when the duel is declared, and help Ryzael see to him. The Prince of Ashes fought well and with far more honor than I expected."

The Prince's blood streaked mane whips about his face like the locks of some alien Dothraki god. His sword descends and nearly reaches the top of Blackrod's helm. Then, notched hammer stave slams into the blade of his greatsword. The ugly weapon flies from his hands and Blackrod's hammer collides with his chest. The Prince does not fall, tumble. He is hurled to the ground, the breath from his lungs, smashed out from his lungs. Would he yield? If he lungs held breath would he withdraw his nephew's challenge? Who can say. His eyes are glassy, but the ire and malice has been knocked out of them and the Prince lies, beaten, comatose in the mud, at the mercy of Ser Quillian's hammer. The day is belongs to Quillian Blackrod.

From the edge of the field, the Prince's squire steps forth. "The day is yours, Ser, permit me to tend to the Prince?"

The Dornish contingency watches, whispering amongst themselves throughout most of the duel. Yet when it appears that the Prince of Ashes falls again - this time to remain down? Ellia shakes her head, brows clearly marked with disdain - words softly spoken, "These Westerosi and their vanities, I shall never understand. To sacrifice one's own blood merely so that their own pride can remain intact? Such selfish actions are dishonorable. It is no wonder he was challenged to begin with." Her attentions follow the descent of Ryzael towards the edge for the field as she rises, followed by her companions. When one leans over to inquire something further, she nods slowly, "Yes, the Prince of Ashes has fallen in defense of the craven one… there," her head dips in direction towards the royal near the field as they prepare their leave.

A look is given the Braavosi, and with a nod, Quillian removes his foot and steps aside. Hurriedly his squire is coming over to aid, as now the Blackrood drops to his knee, his own blood mingled with the dragons on the muddy den of the tourney grounds. Using the hammer to keep himself propped up, there's a look given Lewyn Meadows-once the helm has come free. "Make sure to send word to Maester Jacsen at Garden Isle, I'll.." his words trail off as he slumps forward a little.

"I sent for the silver Archmaester." Visenya says to Aevander quietly, "I do not trust Ryzael with him. He may be banished, but he is still our Uncle. Last time he tended him…" Her lips press into a thin line before her voice lowers to whisper to her brother urgently. She squeezes his hand, and punctuates it with a, "Please, Aevander. I need your help."

Visenya whispers: He did /strange/ things. I don't like it, and I don't like the hold he has over him.

"I feel as though this is entirely too familiar." Riderch's voice is tired. And now the basket is empty. "All this could have been avoided if — ah well." The Riverlander likes to hear himself talk. He nudges his squire.

"Yes, but last time we were up /here/, m'lord, we weren't eating fried turnips."

"Point. Let's go remedy this sorry situation. Good on the Blackrood, though. His sister's amusing." Clapping his squire on the shoulder, the two troublemakers start to look for an exit.

Ryzael's steps carry him down to the edge of the field where he frowns as he watches the last few moments of the duel. His hands settle on his hips before he sighs, shaking his head. Gesturing to his own men-at-arms he gives quiet instructions for them to be ready to bring Maelys back to his pavilion after the duel where he can inspect his wounds immediately. They move to join the squire of Maelys. Then Ryzael turns back towards the scene with a dark glittering to his eyes as he walks slowly forward once again. His gaze travels around the field before settling on Johanna, whom he begins walking toward with a slow yet steady pace.

Aevander nods as Visenya says the Archmaester will come. "Good," he approves softly. He listens to his sister's murmurs and nods again. "I will speak to our uncle," he promises softly, "and do what I can." He falls quiet to watch as Ryzael approaches Johanna Oakheart.

As Ryzael makes his way towards Johanna, Sera watches intently with a little grin. "Oh this is going to be good," she murmurs with a touch of excitement, accepting the wine cup from one of the servants.

Visenya's servant and man-at-arms return, this time with the silver Archmaester in tow. The young girl and Targaryen man-at-arms lead the elderly healer out towards the field where the fallen Prince of Ashes lies.

As Ryzael approaches his sister, the knight looks up, his skin pale due to the bloodless, even as his second and Squire help him to his feet, a page in Tyrell colors is off running to the horses, likely to hail said Maester. However in this time he keeps his eyes on the Targaryen Prince as he moves, and tries to stay clear of the Targaryen men seeing to Maelys. Quillian's not that much of an asshole that he'd hassle them or gloat right now.

Johanna is at the edge of the field, looking relieved and taking hold of Loryn's hand in hers to clutch it tight a few moments. She shuffles forward a step, but as Ryzael comes into view, she stops, lips pressing into a line as she watches the approaching Targaryen.

Loryn gives Johanna's hand an encouraging squeeze when the Targaryen approaches, taking a step back to give them space. His eyes watchful, just in case the prince considers any sort of misstep.

Getting to his feet as he sees the duel having ended, Brynden starts to leave the stands, pausing as he sees Quillian slumping forward, and then again as he sees Ryzael making his way forward. Keeping his eyes on the happenings there now, he moves the rest of the way off the stands now.

Luckin comes along, not hurrying, though he moves more quickly than might be expected. He says, "Away, then, the lot of you, get out of the way. Bloody foolishness!" He's carrying his bag if medical supplies. "Get his armour off him, one of you's his squire, no?"

Visenya stands, and walks down the stairs as quickly as she can while still managing to look dignified. She walks out onto the field where Maelys is, and looks helplessly to Luckin before crouching down to help the exiled Prince's squire with his armor.

"You know what?" The greasy-fingered Riverlord asks his man as he manages to steal a drink from his vessel while walk through an excited crowd at the same time. "It's good. It's bloody good to be alive." For once, his squire smiles back at him too. They are in agreement, by all accounts. And then they depart to spread their cheer elsewhere.

Ryzael's steps bring him to within a few yards of Johanna before he stops. There for a long and silent moment he looks the woman in the eye, his expression measuring, appraising. Then he gives a half-bow, from the waist, as his arms splay self deprecatingly. "Before the gods, the 'truth' of 'our' matter has been settled it would appear." he says. "It appears I was quite wrong to take offense at your wishing death upon my kin even as I expressed concern for them in a time of worry. How very silly of me. It was most unseemly of me to take offense at your many insults and manly confrontational manner, unbefitting a noblewoman of your station. I was in the wrong, it would seem. Very wrong. I had most unrealistic expectations of you, as becomes apparent. And, after all, the 'many' faults I perceived have now been vindicated by your brother's 'hammer'. Very apt. The day is yours, 'Lady'. My apologies for … all of this. It certainly wasn't what I wanted." he says, his expression wry and half-amused. "Now, excuse me. I needs must attend my kinsman. I believe you know the one. You wished him dead not so long ago."

At Ryzael's apology, Sera just stares, eyes wide, cup in mouth. She is drinking and staring, staring and drinking. She can't seem to fathom the dragon's words nor his tone. Her teal eyes flick towards Johanna to see how she takes it.

Lingering around just long enough to witness the 'apology', Ellia shakes her head and murmurs softly to her companions as they take the way past the field to venture out, "Some dogs simply never learn… it is a pity." With that, the Dornish contingency moves further from the field.

"You're right," Johanna's mouth tightens at the corners at the not quite apology given from the Targaryen Prince. "You are very silly, and very wrong, and very bad at apologizing, but today I will be merciful of those obvious faults you have, and you may go attend the kinsman you are so fond of that you were willing to risk his life over the inability to speak a few words." She bows her head slightly to Ryzael, then turns to trudge onto the field as well, though it's in the direction of her brother.

Loryn glares at Ryzael at the half-baked apology and for one moment seems ready to offer an acid reply to the Targaryen. But he holds his temper, biting his lip, and waits until Johanna has spoken. When she makes her way over to her brother, he turns around as well and starts for the exit, shaking his head.

Luckin starts to look at the wounds on Maelys head and neck. He says, "Hmm, good one, interesting," in a distracted sort of tone as he works to staunch the flow of blood.

Brynden watches the exchange now, nodding a little bit as he sees things being resolved. Not quite leaving the field yet, he steps over to Loryn as he sees the young man about to leave. "On the morrow," he says to him, words kept quiet now.

"Tcccch. I don't — I just don't believe that." Riderch shrugs a little on his way out.

There's a snort-and winded laughter that trails behind Ryzael, from likely the wounded Blackrood, as he then looks over towards his sister. "Do not worry, they don't teach manners in wizard school-or whatever he claims to be." The matter was easily settled in front of the Seven and Men. "Let's go home and leave the little ones to collecting their broken toys.." A glance is given Maelys Targaryen, and a nod. Some sort of approval there. And so he will have his men help him so that the healing process can begin.

Loryn nods to Brynden when his new boss suddenly appears beside him. "Teach me to fight like the Blackrood.", he says quietly, but with determination. Big words for a light-weight teenager.

Aevander gives a small shake of his head and a small pinch to the bridge of his nose as he hears Ryzael's 'apology'. Then he stands and heads down the steps of the seating so that he might join Luckin and Visenya near the fallen prince.

Ryzael moves towards Maelys, his gaze passing over Quillian as he goes, yet he doesn't seem to bear any reaction to the man's taunts. Instead he focusses on the kinsman that is on the ground, moving to attend the man with obvious concern.

"If you are willing to put in the hard work, I will do so," Brynden replies to Loryn, before he offers nods to both the two Oakhearts, as well as Aevander now. "I should get back to the Hightower. My wife will be waiting." And with that, he offers one smile to his new squire, before heading off now.

"This is why I said they shouldn't let him outside," Johanna tells Quillian as she falls into step beside her brother, letting the others assist him, he's wearing armor, that stuff is heavy. She twists around to get one last look at the bloody Targaryen, then turns back to make her way off the field with the group.

Luckin looks up at Ryzael, his expression irritated. "Here," he says, "Hold this." He means the cloth he's got pressed to Maelys' neck.

The Prince groans a bit as his fair niece moves to remove his battered armor. He bleeds from half a dozen wounds. He mumbles only two words as they move him. The one, "Visenya", after meeting his niece's gaze and the other Maester, this twice, as he looks to his scholarly nephew Prince Ryzael and then the aged and wise Luckin. As Ryzael and Maester Luckin tend to his wounds, Maelys lifts his right hand in a salute to the battered Ser Quillian and favors the man with a smile red as mashed pomegranates.

Ryzael quirks a brow towards Luckin as he fishes a small vial of glittering powder from inside his doublet. One hand does as instructed however, even as he passes the vial to Luckin. "Here. It stops bleeding. Use it in small ammounts." he says quickly, as he then uses the newly free hand to begin tugging at armor releases.

Luckin doesn't take the phial. He moves to clean the wound on the Prince's head.

"I'm here." Visenya says to Maelys once he croaks out her name. She snaps her head up to glare at Ryzael, and hisses out in an icy tone, "This is your fault. Get away from him." She then says, louder, "Prince Maelys will be given into the custody of the Citadel for care."

"Perhaps, cousin," Aevander suggests gently to Ryzael, "we should leave the silver Archmaester to see to his trade and wait on the alchemical potives until Maelys is a bit more… steady." Glancing to Luckin and Visenya he adds, "Is there any way in which I might assist?"

"Wait a minute," suggests Luckin, shortly. Arrogant old man. "And help carry the stretcher when we're ready for that."

Ryzael frowns, some annoyance showing on his features, then begins to use the powder himself… interrupted by Visenya, his eyes assuming a cutting aspect for a brief moment. "You have no say. I'll not have my care and regard for this man casually pushed aside by you in a fit of temper. I regret his wounds no less than you, woman." he says, frowning. Aevander receives if anything a cooler expression. "Perhaps my least loyal and truthful kinsman would be better served by attending to matters that he has knowledge of. I wouldn't presume to tell you how to malign or lie." he says, though the lion's share of his attention returns to and remains with Maelys.

Luckin stops and glares at Ryzael. "Get him out of here!" he demands, angrily.

"But you do presume to ignore your kins' words as well as the instructions of an Archmaester, Ryzael," Aevander replies. He looks to Visenya's man-at-arms. "I will escort my sister home," he tells him. "You will escort Wisdom Ryzael back to the Manse and see he remains there until I return. At swordpoint, if need be."

Visenya smirks, and hooks a finger into her neckline to pull out a gold chain, smearing blood on her collarbone and the neckline of her dress in the process. Hanging from that gold chain is Maelys' signet ring. "Actually, I do have a say. More than you do. The Prince has given me authority over his matters." That said, she tilts her head down to continue assisting Luckin in any way he tells her to.

Ryzael straitens slowly, his hands refastening the container of powder in his hands and putting it away. Then his hands settle on his hips, a brief moment as his eyes travel about the field, then return to Aevander. "You have no authority for such an order." he says, his gaze mildly confused and disbelieving. Then he turns to Visenya, as he eyes the ring. A bemused expression crosses his features, before he backs away from Maelys then. His expression is amused, yet ruefully so. "Very well." he says, his tone at once civil with her before he turns back to Aevander. By then his own guardsmen, who had been assisting with Maelys, have disentangled themselves and are drawing about him with wary eyes. The Prince's gaze however is only for Aevander, as his thoughts seem to reorder themselves now that he has pulled them away from Maelys. "No wonder your brother dreams of getting away from you." he says, his tone betraying more of his incredulousness.

Luckin glares at Ryzael another long moment, then goes back to wrapping Maelys' head.

Aevander lifts one brow and offers no reply to Ryzael's jabs. "They are my guards, Ryzael," Aevander replies, his voice calm, steady and firm, "and I have more of them here in Oldtown than you do. Do you wish to start a fight, here, over the wounded body of our uncle? Go back to the manse, cousin, lick your wounds, and let the day be done."

"Aevander." Visenya says in a slightly exasperated tone, "…I think we need the guards to help carry him." By now the sleeves of her dress are damp with blood, and she's gotten some of it on her cheek. She looks a right mess.

"Somebody's got to," says Luckin, tying the bandage around Maelys' head. "And gently, now." He looks around, seeming to simply expect just anybody around to carry the Prince to the healer's hall.

Ryzael shakes his head once again. "You have a gift for misrepresentation. A true gift. I didn't threaten you, Aevander. You threatened me, to try and force me to do what you wanted. Now you ask if 'I' want to start a fight with you. What complete nonsense. If 'I' wanted to start a fight with 'you', Aevander, 'I' would have threatened 'you'… not the other way around. Your dexterity in wielding the truth is profound. So while I admire at times the way you turn or spin a word, I have no end of contempt for how you seem to put your words to field against your own kin, rather than for them. By all means, put your desire to be superior to me before our kinsman's well being. Oh, yes, the one you despise, as you told me? But no, 'I' am the one disregarding him, by what, trying to bind his wounds? What complete nonsense." he says, sighing and seeming all at once very weary in the face. He looks down at Maelys for a moment, his concern apparent, then over towards Visenya with a measuring eye before he nods to himself slowly. When he turns back towards Aevander he looks him in the eye, his own grown cold. "It is increasingly wearing to have good will returned so poorly. One begins to wonder how our family manages to stay together at all."

"As you find our company so tedious, Wisdom Ryzael, I welcome you to remove yourself from it," Aevander replies. Then he looks away from his cousin and over to the men who rode in with Maelys. "You!" he calls, bringing his fingers to his mouth to effect a sharp whistle. "Come here and do precisely as the Archmaester instructs." With a glance to Luckin and Visenya he nods. "I'll walk with you to the Citadel."

Visenya's head lifts to give Ryzael a disgusted shake of her head, "You let him get to this state. You saw he refused to give up. Knew he'd refuse to give up even as you saw that he would lose. You almost let him die." She touches Maelys' cheek with her bloodstained hand before calling out to the men Aevander summons, "Lift him, and carry him as gently as you can." As they pick him up Visenya watches helplessly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Thank you." She murmurs dully to Aevander.

Ryzael responds to Aevander, frowning. "No, just you, Aevander. Just you. I have more regard for blood than you, apparently." he says, beginning to turn away but pausing to speak to Visenya in softer tones. "There is no certainty to such things until they are finished." he says softly. "And he believed in the cause he was fighting for, Visenya. And it wasn't all about 'me' or my 'pride'. He knew he was fighting for all of us, and he did it willingly. I respect that in him, and wouldn't take it away from him. I have more regard for him than that. Regardless, I know you will have his interests at heart. I trust him with you." he says, then turning and beginning to depart as his retinue moves with him. He does not look back for the nonce.

Luckin starts to lead the men, and Maelys' stretcher, away toward the gates and the Citadel.

Aevander falls into step beside his sister, curling an arm gently around her shoulders if she'll allow it. He watches as Ryzael and his men leave the field before following after the stretcher and towards the Citadel.

"You say that now, but you didn't say it then." Visenya says to Ryzael. That said, she trails behind the men carrying Maelys, leaning her head on his shoulder as they walk.


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