(121-05-29) Satisfaction
Summary: I can't get no… j/k. It's Sylas who can't get any.
Date: Date of play (29/05/2014)
Related: Trout vs Kraken: Where Thad and Sylas first meet. Likely more to come.

Admirable appearance by Wilmar of the Reach.

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.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle as the evening in Oldtown wears on, the heat of the day exchanged for the cool cover of night. Even so, the grounds outside the city proper aren't deserted; two men-at-arms slash in tandem against a leather-clad lass, who isn't doing an admirable job of holding them both back at once. Steel clinks on steel under the cloud-diffused moonlight, punctuated by the sucking squelch of boots in muddy puddles and the battle-grunts of the three. And the occasional jeer, from one curly-haired Bracken man to his crown-braided auburn lady, and aside to his peer. "That bastard'll get her good, aye?"

It is indeed a queer hour for a practise…unless one is perfecting the finer points of a night attack…or, at the very least, a manoeuvre during the onset of dusk. Suddenly the tourney grounds are richer by about a dozen heavily mailed men, and most of them pretty unkempt into the bargain, their accents a strange medley of the Reach, further afield, and most strident of all the harsh enunciation of the Iron Isles; but they have let rip with their scornful japes and exchanges only after an approach of admirable discretion. A few paces away stands their commander, much more richly adorned, though hardly the tallest or bulkiest looking among them. He concedes a thin smile through his own neatly proportionate little beard.

"Good. This rate, Ironborn or not, you might all last longer than the last batch did, after all…who have you caught at play, though? Good sers…?" His harsh, but slightly rhythmical tone takes on a definite sneer as he approaches nearer. "…my lady…?"

Clink, clink, squelch, clank, clunk, curse, clink — "Desist!" Elys commands her men with a shout as many more materialize about them, the fellows obeying quickly. "What in the name of…" she mutters breathy words to herself, mostly, turning her sword on the man approaching her, waving the blades of her sworn away. Stand down, boys, and stand down they do, albeit with a collective scowl. Squinting through the dim light at Sylas and his hodge-podge crew, the lady confirms: "Aye. What's all this, then?"

"All what?" the Ironborn leader replies in a timbre of enfuriating innocence. "Someone's been filling your head with the courting customs of my homeland, I fear. But given that I recognise the accent of a Rivermaid, that is, mayhaps, less than surprising. My men but come to hone their talents, and mine, as you and yours do. I have a crew sore in need of a lesson in quality, after certain losses against the wildlings." He gives a rueful toss of his lank-haired head. "But my courtesies seem to have succumbed to nightfall. I am Sylas, Lord of Volmark, presently in the employ of the Hightower."

Elys' jaw ticks as her teeth clench behind tightly closed, full lips. Even in the evening's light, her eyes are brightest blue, sore contrast to her dark auburn hair — she's indeed a Riverlander, even if her farmgirl accent didn't give her away. She keeps her sword up, ever vigilant, lifting her chin as she surveys the surprise party carefully. "Volmark," she repeats, tongue twisting around the syllables with typical distaste. Unladylike, she spits on the ground beside her boots, adding to the puddle collecting there before she trains her gaze back on the man. "Elys Bracken." Belatedly, she lowers her weapon. "You fought against the wildlings?"

The Ironborn lord seems to be settling into higher good humour by the minute, and seems amused in equal parts by her name and her question.

"Aye. Alongside many another. One knight of the alliance, in particular, is strongly brought to my mind by your warm reception. I take it you know Ser Riderch Blackwood?" Sylas's grin sharpens. "You have a certain amount in common, besides all that saga of family…exchanges. And I, as it happens, come of a line with…intimate…connections to both of yours. My grandsire's mother's father was your king, once upon a time. And what a time that was…"

It is no coincidence that she again turns to spit aside her boots at the mention of Ser Riderch Blackwood. "I were betrothed to that two-faced raven's ponce brother," Elys seethes, baring her teeth as the lines of her scowl pull deeper. It's a sensitive spot just now, apparently — though in the background, her two men bury the beginnings of laughter behind their hands. "An impressive line, my lord. And are you here to reclaim that, one Riverlander at a time?"

"I have business with regard to my own kin first. Hence your finding me here, and not ruling from any of my rightful seats," Sylas declares with haughty equanimity. "And what of you, my lady of Bracken? Are you hoping to take another suitor by force, after disarming him in the practice yard?"

"Ah," responds the lady, allowing for Sylas' declaration with a nod. Elys switches grip on her sword with a toss, planting the blade end in the mud with some force, distracted from the Volmark briefly as she does so. "I am not so well-descended," she explains as she looks back up, "And farm girls whose fathers tend in the disputed lands find themselves rather more likely to keep their heads, knowing their way around the pointy end of a sword, see."

"And yet, they say you Brackens, too, were kings once," Sylas points out with leisurely scorn. "And the Blackwoods cant of their royal blood, also. No doubt we all wear crowns in our hearts. But few of us shall know their kiss upon our brows. I shall be among that few. Some day that grows nearer with every warrior I gather and blow I strike in practice or in ire."

Drawing on a sudden, he verges to one side to take one of the warriors unawares - a Reachman, not an Ironman, previously standing easy.

<FS3> Sylas rolls Blades: Failure.

But the quick recruit has been paying attention after all, and the blow is competently parried. Lord Volmark's expression veers between satisfaction at the soldier's training and annoyance at drawing even a tourney sword in vain.

"A longer time ago than your — was it grandsire's mother's something? Father?" Elys fails total recall, prompting a half-hearted shrug. "I have no desire for a crown, my lord, but I am certain," his scorn mirrored back, perhaps a little less subtly, "That you will wear yours well." The woman all but snorts as the iron lord turns and is turned back by his man. "very well, indeed."

"Tully treason, and not mere time, brought about the end of Harren's days," Sylas scowls in return. "I taught a Tully a lesson he will remember yet, on this very ground. I enjoy teaching, and watching as my men are nurtured to strike fear to their foes. What of your men, my lady? What business keeps them, keeps you, lingering here, far from home, in your…your good-brother-that-would-have-been's little loved company? Did you tire out even the red horses, leave them winded and rapid and desperate to pack you off?"

"I don't doubt your prowess, Lord Volmark," Elys quips back, sincere in that much at least. She is still nursing the remains of her smirk, however, and the hilt of her sword planted in the ground. Her other arm she finally plants akimbo, fingers digging into the leather belt that binds her hips. "I was sent here on an errand for the betters of my family," she provides, vague, "And will remain until it is seen to. I assure you, Stone Hedge and the disputed lands have never seemed sweeter to me than the day I left for Oldtown."

"Aye, my lady, you seem just the sort to mourn your native soil," Sylas needles. "My people are less sentimental. Our home is on our decks and in our spirits, and it wanders where'er we venture forth, for blood and gold and glory. And where better, in these strange days, for such rewards than Oldtown, when the dragonlings themselves give such whole ear to Hightower counsel?"

"And what better for you, dispossessed as you find yourself, my lord. Some are cut for the sea and salt, some for the earth. Some for the counsel of high lords, and others to raise foals in the back end of nowhere. I am content with my lot — or I will be, just as soon as I can return to it," Elys reponds with a sermon of her own, sniffing on the defensive. She pulls her sword from the mud, holding it up idly for the light rain to speckle patterns in the earthstains along its blade.

The Volmark looks as if he has taken that last point, to a surprising degree. "You would not change it? Aye, and nor would I. That speaks well for our practice, at least! Stubbornness makes the fighter a true warrior. The ingenuity that comes with sticking to any lengths, so long as we fight on."

He gives the Rivermaid a curious, assessing look. "Come then. We cannot veer so near the brink and turn aside. Step a pace and a measure with me, for curiosity's sake. I'd see if you can surpass my latest vigilant hands…or if Hoare beats horse e'en yet, for a few blows, at least."

"Phah," scoffs Elys, watching as the droplets collect on her sword and trickle down in little rivulets. And then, out of nowhere, she wipes the blade clean in two swift strokes on the thigh of her pants, smearing mud there without a care. "Aye. She's blunted, but I'll parry your blows live or not, Volmark. Come, then." She plants her feet, one slightly behind the other, and raises her weapon to the ready. "Just you and I, yes?" No need to pit his dozen or so against her two as well, is there?

"We'll keep it all private and highborn and intimate, don't you fear, my lady," Sylas agrees easily. "Now, have a care!" And at a wink from his captain, one of the ironmen throws the Volmark a second sword. To that extent, it seems, he's determined to make it a fight of two against one, and now advances with a flamboyant, lightfooted style, culminating in a lunge from his left handed blade to the lady's right arm.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=blades Vs Elys=blades
< Sylas: Good Success Elys: Success
< Net Result: Sylas wins - Solid Victory

A second sword. Elys takes care, alright — perhaps a little too much, blinking in surprise as the iron lord lunges at her with two weapons in hand. She moves deftly, too, but not deftly enough in this instance; the blow lands solidly on her arm, prompting an embarrassingly girlish squeak from the lady. Pressed back a step, she tries to recover from the smarting injury, whipping her sword in a downward motion intended to draw his own two low.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=Blades Vs Elys=Blades
< Sylas: Good Success Elys: Great Success
< Net Result: Elys wins - Solid Victory

It is evening and one would assume a Tully heir would have better things to do than going for a stroll by the tourney grounds. A small number of Riverlands knights are swarming about him as usual, providing the perfect audience for any funny remark the Bull Fish might make. Wearing a light training armor and carrying a tourney sword of sorts, Thadeus seems somehow half inclined to engage in some sword practice it seems, although the slightly undecided look in his face makes that option seem more like a theoretical one.

Noticing activity, the group of Riverlanders will approach curiously. And after recognizing the unmistakeble visages of Ironmen he probably remembers from his own encounter with the Volmark, the Tully's face will take on a rather hard expression, as he leans there on his tourney sword for a moment, watching the exchange of clashes between Sylas - and a girl? Now that makes a slightly amused sparkle return to his handsome features.

Frustrated, though not actually scathed, by the Bracken maid's powerful defensive manoeuvre, drawing both his blades at once aside and earthwards, the Volmark's brow crinkles in annoyance. "First lesson, Lady Elys. Don't worry about my arms. Worry about me." And at that Sylas aims a solid kick at the Bracken girl's midriff to get her off balance again.

He is, incidentally, too absorbed to notice the new arrivals for the present…though some of his ironmen are not, which leads to a certain amount of hooting, jeering and evident bad feeling towards the Tully knights.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=brawl Vs Elys=brawl
< Sylas: Great Success Elys: Good Success
< Net Result: Sylas wins - Marginal Victory

Indeed, that is a girl engaged in swordplay with the Volmark lord. A Riverlander, too, auburn-haired and bright of blue eye that she is, clad in well-fitting leather over her sturdy, roughspun clothes. Elys' own men aren't shy to laugh at her misfortune, or her girly squeaks, edging back to give the lady room as she's knocked swiftly off-balance by Sylas' well-aimed kick. Through puddles she stumbles back a few steps, regaining her balance as she moves, and readying to charge forth again, aiming the tip of her sword at the ironer's chest with all her — not substantial, mind — weight behind it. Apparently she isn't the type to talk throughout these things, no verbal riposte delivered.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Elys=Blades Vs Sylas=Blades
< Elys: Great Success Sylas: Good Success
< Net Result: Elys wins - Marginal Victory

The jeering from the Irenmen will be met with a grumble from the Riverlanders, although the man in their midst does not seem to mind, at least not at the moment. His grey-blue eyes seem to be glued to the spectacle unfolding before him, he frowns a bit maybe when Sylas manages to kick the female warrior and get her off balance. Not the way, Thadeus is used to when dealing with women, as the light shake of his head, suggests. Now a hand goes up, not to those sparring there, but to his men. "Keep still. We won't let them provoke us, understood? After all, they are naught but iron born scum." The latter part added at a lower volume, and the Tully's attention turns back to Sylas and Elys.

As for Sylas, he grunts curtly but deeply as the Bracken blow connects. "You're a fast learner," he growls, "or I'm a better teacher than any maester in this town, or both. We shall…" He strikes with his right blade, but his target is still his adversary's rist, clearly still fighting to disarm, "…see!"

Paces away, the Ironmen are more than a little ruffled, but even more so is the competent Reachman who so effortlessly parried his new captain minutes earlier. "We ain't all Islanders here, m'lord. I and some o' the others joined up yesterday on Hightower orders. Replacin' losses to the wildlings." He delivers no firmer rebuke to the nobleman, but his stare is hard and affronted.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=blades Vs Elys=blades
< Sylas: Success Elys: Good Success
< Net Result: Elys wins - Solid Victory

"Ugh," or is it, "Argh," or both, from the lady-sword as her blow connects, not without expending a great deal of effort. Perhaps Sylas is a good teacher, that much she will surely concede, drawing her wrist out of the path of his sword and meeting steel with steel instead in a glancing defensive strike. The curly-haired one of her men, the more vocal by far, guffaws loudly at the sight of it all, until his counterpart on the sidelines elbows him sharply in the ribs. There's Tully's here, man. Meanwhile, Elys aims her blade studiously at Sylas' right forearm, hoping in kind to disarm him.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Elys=Blades Vs Sylas=Blades
< Elys: Good Success Sylas: Failure
< Net Result: Elys wins - Solid Victory

The retort of the Reachman does in fact make the Tully heir turn and cast the man a glance. "Forgive me, ser.", he replies evenly. "I didn't mean any offense. Nor insult to you." He chuckles softly. "Hightower orders, hmm?" A sympathetic glance is shot in the man's direction. "Seems odd, considering… the notorious lack of honour in the conduct of this fine Ironborn Krakenshit over there." And his gaze shifts to Sylas, very pointedly in a way, with a flicker in his grey-blue eyes. Then shifting his attention to Elys, studying her style of fighting with curious fascinaction.

The motley retinue from the Maw seem to have simmered down too, the Reachman and his fellows refusing to be drawn into rash further exchanges with the heir to a great house, the Ironmen, if anything, seeming to find Thadeus's aggrieved allusion to honour quietly rather amusing. But soon the crew are treated to a sight to rouse them from their torpor. Their captain's main hand being denuded of a tourney sword which flies, comic like, through the air as Sylas bites his cheek to cancel out the bruising pain…

Instinctively, the Ironborn lord's now free main hand floats to his dirk - but this time he does not forget him self, shrugs, and silently swaps his remaining sword to his right - and then suddenly swaps it back for what he seems to hope will be a wholly unexpected and powerful lunge to Elys's left side.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=blades Vs Elys=blades
< Sylas: Good Success Elys: Great Success
< Net Result: Elys wins - Marginal Victory

There is a brief moment of satisfaction for the maid, as one of those swords is lost. Elys might even smile, a lopsided, tight little thing. She draws a quick breath, chest heaving as Sylas reaches for his dirk, canting her head aside peevishly — and then righting it in relief as he thinks the better of that action. She sighs loudly, and there is no doubt that the lunge at her left is somewhat unexpected, surprised grunt escaping her as she dodges a jump to the right to hopefully let him sail past, that she might turn and face him back the other way. No slash at the back from the Bracken.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Elys=Blades Vs Sylas=Blades
< Elys: Good Success Sylas: Success
< Net Result: Elys wins - Marginal Victory

A low snort comes from Thadeus, when he notices Sylas' hand moves to the dirk, his own hand suddenly grabbing the hilt of his tourney sword as he raises it from the ground, a slightly concerned expression on his face, that turns into that of relief when the Ironman - for once - chooses to play fair, at least kind of. A wide grin will appear however, when Sylas' move does not bring the success the Ironman would have wished for. "Well done, my lady!" Called over the field with a hearty chuckle. "Now, seems you're being bested by a lady, Ser Krakenshit." And one that knows how to fight honourably obviously, as well!

Slightly overwrought by the failure of his latest barrage, Sylas is easily skipped around by the (even) lighter built maid, his breaths coming rapid and ragged, though her forbearance spares him a bruise she could easily have exacted. In such a state does an inveterate foe rear up to his attention, and the Volmark's eyes narrow. "Aye, she's good. On the Isles we respect womenfolk who can carve their way. The Drowned God alone knows what she'd make of a foppish lummox such as you are, my lord of Tully."

He does not press any attack or seek vengeance now; with a personal enemy around, it seems he has little desire to carry on wearing himself out against the Rivermaid the cut of whose jib he has, despite himself, come rather to approve of during this eve.

And so Elys stands, then, with her sword still up and ready for the next blow. Her breaths are as labored as her would-be foe's, shoulders heaving with each one. "That's some feat," she observes of Sylas, short on the consonants for all her energy spent. "Two swords." And finally, trusting no further attack is forthcoming, she glances aside to the new-come spectators, searching for some identifying heraldry or such amongst their attire. Over by the way, curly-haired Bracken is clapping and hooting, whilst the other man is hanging his head in shame beside him.

The Tully seems to be in good spirits. It will take more than that weak taunt of the Volmark to ruffle his feathers. The remark has Thadeus shift his attention to Elys for a moment, assessing her in way before he shakes his head with an amused smile. Being of quite impressive stature himself, a rather tall and muscular fellow, and what is more important to him, a man. A knight who has given many a bandit a beating. He may not wear the Tully sigil at the moment, but the knights in his retinue are wearing the red and blue of House Tully, of course. Noticing that glance from Elys, Thadeus will incline his head in greeting. "Well met. And you are…?"

"A Bracken, so of better and older stock by far than your own," Sylas cuts in, not nearly so willing, apparently, to let everything slip aside as his enemy. "When we last spoke, Ser Thadeus, you were full of demands for satisfaction. Well, as you can see, I am scarce fresh, but I am more than willing to meet you on the spot, with live steel in hand and, quite evidently, a noblewoman as witness."

Red and blue. Red and blue. Gules and azure — Elys is drawn from her measuring Thadeus' men by his own address, even, opening her mouth to answer as Sylas does so for her, instead. She claps her trap shut, then, lowering her sword for the mention of the Tully's name. "Elys," she supplies, quickly and quietly, with a somewhat deferent nod. And for Sylas, an extra. She will bear witness.

"Oh?" Thadeus turns his head and shoots Elys a glance when she's introduced in part by the Volmark and herself. "Well met, Lady Elys Bracken." He offers a bow to her, as she is surprisingly to him after all nobility of the Riverlands. Now, that next remark of Sylas is not as easily waved off. The Tully nods and drops the blunted blade he had been carrying around. "Satisfaction, aye. After you tried to kill me in a 'friendly spar', I suppose you need a lesson in manners." The reply is offered coldly. "Live steel, and no armor.", he adds after a moment, eyeing the chainmail of the Ironborn, as he already starts to take his lighter training armor off.

"That sounds like the sort of friendliness I appreciate from fish," Lord Sylas agrees with a feral grin that gives even his neatly combed beard a momentarily savage aspect. "Wilmar of the Reach. You will disarm me to fight this usurper of Harren's kingdom, steel against flesh." The zealous Reach soldier hesitates, but cannot at this stage defy his captain's order. As he busies himself unstrapping the hauberk, he mutters something in the exiled lord's ear. Sylas nods carelessly, and the Reach soldier takes his leave, mounting a rounsey and departing with some speed. But by then the Lord of Volmark is more than ready. "Germund. My father's sword."

He stands ready to react or to leap upon an opportunity, as a broadsword, rarely seen, ornately hilted, a foot longer than his usual arming blade, is placed in his main hand, and he draws that hated dirk in his left. "Now let us discover the meanings of friendliness and treason."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=alertness Vs Thadeus=alertness
< Sylas: Great Success Thadeus: Good Success
< Net Result: Sylas wins - Solid Victory

Noblewoman by name, perhaps, not so much by nature. Elys wipes the sweat (and rain) from her brow as Thadeus bows to her, a little taken aback by the polite gesture. In return, she offers the most awkward curtsy ever seen in Westeros, a clunky, wobbly movement of her sturdy frame, sword still in hand. "And you, my lord," she supposes, a little late. Thank the gods for being able to retreat to the relative safety of her two sworn men, the three of them giving the duelers a wide berth. Is there some official witnessing thing she needs to be doing? Perhaps this is the hushed whisper she shares, that prompts another laugh from her curly-haired companion.

Thadeus is accepts a longsword from one of his bannermen, giving it a few swings before he nods. "It will do. At least for Ser Krakenshit." His grey-blue eyes shift to Elys and he offers her a confident smile. His attention soon returning to the Volmark, watching him as he prepares himself. A faint smirk when he sees the dirk beng drawn. "Time to receive your lesson in manners and honour, ser.", he mutters, as he prepares himself mentally for the fight.

"You will die an insolent man and a foolish man, but, I grant you, a man of some kind, at the least," Sylas declares generously, before leaping forth with the Volmark broadsword surged to the knight's throat, the dirk biting lower for the belly. Surely something has to connect!

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=blades Vs Thadeus=blades
< Sylas: Good Success Thadeus: Good Success
< Net Result: Thadeus wins - Marginal Victory

And to the side, Elys bears witness, with a flush on her cheeks for whatever utterance her men have responded her.

That borrowed blade goes up and parries the dirk just in time, due to the Tully's reflexes, while he shifts to evade the thrust for his throat, thereby managing to avoid a hit by both blades. The look on Thadeus face is displeased, there is even contempt in his gaze as he swings his sword in a wide arc and aims at the ribcage of the Ironborn, with all his might and ire. "You'll die just being what you are. Kraken shit."

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Thadeus=Blades Vs Sylas=Blades
< Thadeus: Great Success Sylas: Good Success
< Net Result: Thadeus wins - Solid Victory

And so it is that the hastily assembled watchmen, a patrol of them not far off as nightfall nears in a precinct where, for all its grandeur, martial tempers run high, emerge onto the scene to find the Lord of Volmark bleeding profusely at the chest, his men behind him putting their hands to their hilts, restrained only by the white-hot anger in their captain's dark glance from any rash intervention. "Peace!" the watch captain cries. "Put up your swords, gentlemen!" The prudent Wilmar, however, is nowhere to be seen.

In the midst of the commotion, Sylas manages another whirl of his father's sword, though in truth its great arcs are probably scarcely ideal for his slight build - he has sacrificed practicality to ceremony. Nonetheless, he will slice the Tully across his waist if he can.

Sylas spends 1 luck points on add +5 to blades against Thadeus.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Sylas=blades+5 Vs Thadeus=blades
< Sylas: Amazing Success Thadeus: Amazing Success
< Net Result: DRAW

As a Riverlander, the sway of her support should naturally fall to her overlord, but strangely Elys finds herself wincing as Sylas' crafty double-blades both fail to nick at skin. Something about grudging respect won, mayhap. Still, as she drives her swordpoint into the soft, muddy earth beside her feet, the twitches of her expression favour Thadeus in his attack all the same. Her men, well. One is vocal, as his is way, hooting for the Tully, and the other just… hangs his head, muttering.

And then the Watch arrives. The Bracken lady look most peeved, her expression twisting as she throws her hands up.

Cold anger flashes in Thadeus' eyes, seeing the sword hit home and dealing Sylas a ghastly wound to the chest does much to improve his temper, and so, when the guards arrive he will glare at them, quite displeased by the intervention, but giving in to reason - and the request to lower the blade. He intends to toss it aside, but then he parries that unexpected dirty trick of the Ironman - this time again due to instinct and a reflex that comes just in time; after all he has sparred with the man before, and so he is on his guard. "Seize that Ironborn bastard!" he shouts in indignation to the guards. "He has as much honour as a rat."

"You dare name me bastard, traitor!" Sylas is bellowing, obviously indifferent to and possibly even unaware of the fortuitous arrival of the watchmen in his temper. "You dare…" And sword and dirk alike slip from his hands as he slumps to the sand in a stupor of blood loss, totally insensible.

"T'were a duel," Elys protests, as the witness-type here. She seems conflicted about arguing with Thadeus estimation, for what it's worth, but argue she does regardless. Sylas is down anyway, and she steps forward from her two, calling, "Collect your lord and have him seen to, aye?"

"You are the traitor here," the Tully heir retorts, glaring at Sylas as he falls to his knees. "A piece of filth without honour, disregarding the simplest rules of chivalry. No,… you're no bastard, but worse than that. To call you a bastard would be an insult to bastards!" Escpecially if one has happened to father a number of them already. Then the borrowed sword is dropped as well, and both hands are raised to signal to the guards he is unarmed and refraining from any more blood letting.

Though Sylas is unquestionably unconscious, his sword hand twitches alarmingly as if in ghoulish response to the Tully's outburst, but certainly not enough so to reach any hilt, only spattering itself in the midst of the blood still pouring from the wound. One of the Ironmen begins to tie up a makeshift bandage, but he does not have to make do for long, as the day's true exemplar of matchless chivalry, Wilmar of the Reach, turns up with a maester in tow. The mixed seaworthy retinue move off, the Reachman shooting the Bracken maid a last weary look in parting, somewhere betwixt exasperation and apology.

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