(121-06-11) First Sword of the Red Mountains Battles the Maiden Knight
irst Sword of the Red Mountains Battles the Maiden Knight
Summary: Ser Daevon targaryen and Lord Arnau Blackmont Fight a Duel
Date: Date of play (11/06/121)
Related: Related Logs None.
Players:
Daevon..Arnau..Yael..Malcolm..Visenya..Riderch..Tellur..Eonn..Laurent..Mariya..Kevyn..Kelinyx..Jaehaerys..Ellia..Elionys..Arrick..Alaryn..Alaeyna..Aenyse..

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.

Say what you want about the Targaryens: they know how to make an entrance. The three Westerosi royals in attendance ride at the head of a decently large group of attendants in a poised manner. Their movements seem poised and precise as the three, two maidens and an elderly Knight, dismount from their horses and approach the royalty box.

Despite the heat Princess Visenya is clad in a high-necked black gown that is decorated with red gems, and has a train with a dragon intricately embroidered in gold. Her silvery hair has been piled high, and she wears a gold diadem with sparkling rubies. She seems unbothered by the heat. Her head is held high as she lifts her skirts slightly to step into the box, and she takes a seat with rather concentrated poise. A hand if lifted to wave to her brother on the field.

Kelinyx somewhere amongs the gleaming armor and decorations, the fineries and lovely pale hair, there is a tiny shadow moving about. Indeed, at the feet of the Targaryens, is a slender, black-haired waif, her version of dressing up for the event being the black and green ribbons twined in with her fancy braids, though her bangs remain free. She is doing a good job of both keeping out of peoples' way and finding herself a path to the royalty seating area. She's smart enough to not help herself to a seat there, and instead snakes her way between railings so she can peek out and let her feet dangle.

Daevon's waiting in the field, still as a statue, sun baking down on him. There are flowers scattered around him, thrown by his many admirers in the stands.

"Very good Jeremiah," the elder 'knight' says as he dismounts. Jaehaerys gently pats a gauntleted hand on the neck of his noble steed, who is lead away by a servant. He is resplendant, today, in a simple cassock-style outfit made entirely of black silks, with a fist-sized embroidery of a three headed dragon upon his left breast. He steps up, two paces behind Kelinyx, to the royal awesome seating area of awesometastic awesomeness. Standing behind him, flanking him in his central seat, in fact, is his servant Tommis and his bodyguard Ser Theor. Tommis appears to have a stereotypical wicker picnic basket hanging from the crook of his arm.

Kevyn arrives with little fanfare and blends into the crowd, shouldering a way for himself as politely as possible amidst the spectators. Mostly Reach lords and ladies. He does some nominal cheering for the Targaryen royals as they take the field, and eyes sideways for signs of Dornes.

In a darker-clad section of the nobles' stands sits Ser Laurent Tyrell, the Thorn of Highgarden, surrounded by a small knot of men-at-arms and knights of lower birth. Though neither handsome nor graceful enough to truly look the part, he is nonetheless dressed in the finery of a Tyrell lord, even going so far as to wear a shapless green hat that sports a golden feather. The tall knight sits on the edge of his seat, alone among his peers, scowling out from beneath a heavy brow in silence as they chatter around him.

It's a warm afternoon, and it's about to get really, really crowded. Sitting in the stands is one man that figured he'd stake out a nice spot early. Or at least get the best pick of what the servants had to offer. Riderch Blackwood is here, clad in a finely-stitched tunic which hangs to mid-thigh, of a breathable black fabric. A massive silver outline of a a leafless Weirwood on red, surrounded by a flight of ravens is present on the front indicating his coat of arms. Black breeches and boots round out the ensemble, and his sword is buckled at his side but hanging out of his seat. For, erm, 'ceremonial purposes,' quite certainly.

Also, speaking of refreshments, he has already staked out a basket of roasted chicken which sits comfortably in his possession. Clearly the first casualty of the day. Some chilled, probably alcoholic beverage in a flagon accompanies it. He taps his foot anxiously while looking at the soon-to-ensue carnage on the field.

Heat? Even humid and partly overcast, muggy after a sunsoaked day, Oldtown has nothing on the Dornish sun— one of the two favored weapons of Nymeros Martell. A lesser scion of that house arrives in somewhat surprising fashion, garbed in a heavy suit of ornate plates fitted one to another in intricate tilework that leaves little room for weak points. A retainer follows allong behind him with a bundle of weapons in tow, most prominently three spears perhaps a foot taller than the lithe Martell himself, each wavy spearhead restrained on either side at the end of its shaft by grasping talons of a bird of prey. He saunters as much as strides not into the stands, but right out onto the field, and up to the waiting Targaryen, whom Alaryn leans in to whisper to, placing a half-gauntletted hand on the young Knight's pauldroned shoulder.

Only one step above a commoner (and only that because Angell Stark couldn't keep his hands to himself), Tellur Snow is down amongst the rabble, though angling around to get a better view. Unlike the poised others, the Northerer is sweating in the heat, glowering out from under the brim of his hat, and getting slowly and inexorably redder. Having no idea what sunburn is - though he certainly will by tonight - he has traded his heavy Northern clothes for a light sleeveless tunic and linen breeches. The new scarring across his left shoulder is a lurid and pocked purple. He jostles around, quite content to shove other people violently out of the way to get a better view.

No doubt like many others here, the Greyjoys enjoyed a section of the stands all of their own. At least, Aenyse Greyjoy did. Somber in dress - the woman wore a heavy coat so unsuited to the warm sun beating down on them, worn over a tunic and a long skirt - leggings of a sort worn beneath that. Everything she wore was grey and dark, the only ornamentation a twisting piece of golden jewelry of Essos design, worn on a chain about her neck. It no doubt caught the sun. Flanked by a handful of 'sailors', Aenyse's solemn eyes were tracking up and down the stands more than she was glancing towards the tourney grounds, at least, her eyes flickering over the others here.

Daevon's response is unseen to Alaryn's greeting, unheard too as it's lost to the din of the surrounding crowds and their anticipating.

Kevyn makes his way over to join Laurent's general section of the stands. Though his eyes may briefly turn toward the chicken. Just briefly. It's a duel, after all, so he's not that hungry. "My lord," he greets the Tyrell politely. "The gods did not favor the Blackmont lord on this field last time. Surprised to see him back."

Arriving quietly with a small entourage of guards, the older of the localized Martell Princesses makes her way on over to a set of benches to the northwest and takes a seat. Ellia straightens her posture for a moment as she peers around the grounds and other seated areas out of mild interest.

Dark eyes widen slightly as Alaryn strides onto the field, and Laurent leans forward slightly to scan the crowd — perhaps looking for Arnau? His gaze catches on someone else entirely, though, and lingers a moment before he leans back to exchange a few words with a pugnacious looking red-haired youth made to remain standing behind him — the boy that bears Ser Laurent's sword just now, while the knight is seated. At a growled command from the knight, young Willem Fossoway lays the sword into the hands of a nearby man-at-arms and springs away toward Aenyse.

That business attended to, the Tyrell lord's attention drifts to the young man that approaches him, and his wide mouth spreads into something resembling a grin, though on him it is a ghastly thing, and everyone is better off once it has faded. "Ser Kevyn," he acknowledges the young man with a heavy nod. "Your cousin might have ended Lord Arnau last time, had he a mind to," he agrees. "Mayhaps the Blackmont will fare better against the Maiden's Knight. Some men say that Ser Viggo is the finest swordsman in the Reach."

Adjusting his belt a bit, Riderch sits in his happy little corner of the Nobles' section, really not reacting to what's going on the field one way or another. He is apparently people-watching though, and leaning forward in his seat as he idly thumbs his basket of roast chicken and a thick napkin. Oh, he is people-watching, allright.

Plucking a leg from it, he lets his eyeballs drift two and fro, briefly lingering on Aenyse and her friends. He waves the chicken leg in the air. Maybe it's something of a greeting as his teeth flash in a smile.

There is a rift in the Dornish side, as it were. Though, normally Mariya would be sitting with the Dornish, the contest today involves her betrothed - Daevon Targaryen - and so it is with the dragons that she turns herself. The heat matters little to those of the South and her own style of dress leans more toward her homeland than of the Westerosi. Finding a place where she can see the fight, she makes room for the Dornishman following a few steps behind her - Arrick Gargalen. While she attempts to keep her face impassive, as she watches her brother speak to Daevon, she clutches her hands tightly in front of her.

It's with her relatives that Elionys arrives, amid all the pomp and circumstance, making her way with the others toward the royal box. Today the younger Targaryen of this little group is wearing a rich blue gown of light, breezy silk, sleeveless and trimmed with gold and glittering sapphires, and jewelery to match. Her gaze turns toward the crowd, smiling as a hand lifts to wave to a few people here and there.

The Martell prince searches the Targaryen knight's features for a long moment, stoic and neutral, but intent. Like he's looking for indicators not present in the murmurs that precede that scrutiny. Then there's a slow nod, and a second, metal-thumping pat to the armor the younger man wears, before Alaryn turns on one heel and makes his way gracefully towards the stands, sticking below the -Targaryen- contingent and his younger sister on the very outskirts of the field, his features darkening somewhat as he comes to a stop, and motions his arms-bearing retainer to take up position near him wordlessly.

Kelinyx produces from her tunic a small carved figure, painted in grays and blues to simulate the shine of high class armor. She clutches it in both of her little hands nervously, whispering something to it before holding it aloft in a wave on the off chance Daevon might spot her.

And Daevon's back to being a statue as he waits there, sword in hand, for Lord Arnau to arrive. He's paying absolutely no heed to anything else, focussed solely on the impending duel.
From afar, Ellia is backing you ten thousand percent here.

"Princess." Visenya says to Mariya as the Martell approaches with her contingent, and turns over her hand to hold it out for Mariya. An invitation to sit near her and Elionys, it seems.

Standing from his seat on the dais, and stepping forward, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen calls out to all that are gathered, "My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. I beg your attention, for a short moment." He rests his hands behind him, held in the small of his back as he looks out from the Dais, "I would like, with your permission," He glances around again, a small smile upon his features, before calling out in continuation "To offer prayer to the Seven that the outcome of this contest is true to Their divine will. That justice, in whatever form they deign required, is done this day."

A brief - and impressively _vile_ - series of curses in a mixture of Trade Tongue and common, and Tellur has secured himself a good view. He has a gangly pup at heel - though being a lurcher-hound related to the man-killing beasts used to hunt prisoners, it is a massive thing. Tellur settles down in the seats, and his thick-furred hunting-pup lols her head over his knees. At prayer to the Seven, his lips quirk in a sardonic expression, and his eyes focus out across the fields to some trees.

The poultry-slaughtering Heir of House Blackwood leans forward as the guests continue to pour in, and briefly his head turns towards the section where the royals women are sitting. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. That business of attention taken care of, he takes a huge bite out of the chicken leg and washes it down wish some kind of chilled wine.

As Jaehaerys talks of the Seven, he takes another ravenous bite. Fuck your gods, I'm eating.

There are no flowers thrown where the Blackmonts step. Not when minds are so easily swayed by talk and rumor, the House painted as villains in the minds of many. Lord Arnau Blackmont arrived at the field in slightly less splendor than which he arrived in Oldtown months ago now. Guards flanked him and his Lady, their armor polished to a shine and wearing the tabards of the house in brilliant yellow with a vulture carrying a baby emblazoned onto them. But they do not take to the field, but rather stay to the side of where the duel will be fought and accompany Yael.

Dressed for combat, Lord Arnau himself shines in the hot sun, it's light glinting off the planes and curves of plate, moving with a steady, firm footed gait as he goes, helmet carried for the moment. He makes for a tall and broad shouldered figure of dark skin and dark hair, as unlike the man he's challenged this day as night and day. He disentangles himself a little from his wife for a check of gear, one last time, out of habit more than necessity, eying the gathered crowd as much as his own kit.

Aenyse glances down as that squire approaches her, lifting her chin up as the eyes - and those of the men with her - snap to him. A few whispered words with the squire, and Aenyse's eyes snap up towards Laurent, her lips pursed tightly. Cutting her hand down and across, she rises to a stand as her men stand firm, the woman stepping from her place in the stands. "Well, lead on then," she tells the redhaired boy. The prayers were beginning, it seemed - and Aenyse shoots a dark look towards Jaehaerys as he calls for prayer. She would not be participating. But following the red-headed squire through the crowd, Aenyse ends up nearish Laurent, the woman picking up a booted foot to set on the edge of his stand, inclining her head towards him. "Your lad said you wanted to talk with me?" she asks, her voice low and a bit drawn out and lightly slurred with her accent.

What a delightful day to be Dornish! Some sit to one side, some to the other, and Alaeyna is among those in Ellia Martell's entourage, sitting close to the princess but elbowing someone out of the way to take the place at her side. She tilts her head to the widow's ear, that she might hold a private conference with her, sotto voce.

Daevon offers the slightest dips of his head in acknowledgement of Lord Arnau's presence and he waits for the duel to begin.

"There are few who can match Ser Viggo, no question," Kevyn replies to Laurent, with clear pride for his cousin. "Though the Maiden Knight is renowned himself. I'll not be sorry to see another black eye for the Blackmonts, I'll confess. And the Targaryens put on no small show." He nearly stands on his tip toes as the combatants approach each other, to get the best possible view.

Dark hair arranged in deep waves against the bronze of her skin, Yael compliments her husband, not in the colours of their house, but in cool silks of a green to match his eyes. They whisper along her skin, exposing the lines of her legs when caught in the right light, brightening the hue to a gold-shot hazel in a pretty trick. The golden twine of a snake even bands her arm, glinting as she shifts in the light. Before she allows her husband to disentangle to tend to his gear, she draws him close with a whisper and a kiss upon the lips. Only then does she turn her dark gaze on the crowd, sharp and cursory in its slide. The opponent, one Ser Daevon, is offered a slight smile and graceful tip of her head in acknowledgement as they come to face the duel that was promised at her return.

"You're a guest of my cousins," Laurent growls without introduction, at Aenyse's arrival. For his part, the often-blasphemous, ever crude knight was silent through the brief invocation, but is quick to speak after. "Or of my brother," he suggests. "I'm not entirely clear on the details. At any rate, I meant for my squire," here he shoots a dark look at the young man climbing back into the stands, "To invite you and your men to join us. We've wine and mead enough, I think." Reaching out to clap a hand on the shoulder of a young knight nearby, he makes an introduction. "Ser Kevyn Cockshaw, meet Lady Aenyse Greyjoy. Or is it Captain?" His broad shoulders shrug, and he shakes his head.

At the greeting, Mariya moves to sit by the two Targaryen princesses, glancing behind her to make sure that Arrick will follow. "Princess Visenya. Princess Elionys." She bobs her head to each in turn. Jaehaerys' wishes to call this a duel under the Seven causes her to automatically wince, recalling memories of the last time she was on the Tourney Grounds under the Seven's name on a clear, hot day. Immediately, she glances to Daevon in his shining armor before turning her attention back to them. "Thank you. I hope you do not mind if Ser Arrick joins us?"

The Raptor of Dorne pays heed to the combatants approaching one another on the field, not the pronouncements from the stands, though the attentive might note the armored prince murmuring softly to himself at the request for prayer, his eyes momentarily lidding as he speaks in near-silence to something also unseen. Justice seems too much to pray for, in these nights, but it's a fond enough thought nonetheless. There's a small, sad smile that punctuates the offering as Alaryn's eyes open anew and resume their scan as he paces lightly from side to side, as if more restless for the combat to begin than the men actually in the fray.

Ellia's eyes narrow pointedly as her gaze settles upon her sister in the company of the Dragons before slowly sliding her gaze back to the field as she leans in to speak quietly with the Lady Fowler at her side.

"Ser Arrick is welcomed." Visenya says with a brief glance to the Gargalen Knight before she bows her head at mention of a prayer. Her hands fold neatly into her lap, and squeeze tightly at the prayer.

Hey, wait. There's Riderch. Without the usual accoutrements of his House, it is possible that the Raven will not recognise the Wolf, but Tellur knows a man who always has wine somewhere. So he gets up, and without even a click of his fingers, his gigantic puppy sticks to his heel as he makes his way over. It takes time even for someone as free with his elbows as Tellur to make it through the crowd, but eventually he is there "Lord Blackwood," says Tellur Snow in a quiet voice "May I join you?"

Nodding his head as he retakes his seat, Jaehaerys intones gently, "He will do perfectly fine." He smiles and crosses his right leg over his left and looks out at the proceedings, "Soup, anyone?" He snaps his fingers and, from the basket, Tommis pulls a silk napkin. It is placed over Jae's lap, and a bowl and spoon is deposited into the Prince's waiting hands. Finally, from a large waterskin, warm chicken and corn soup is poured into the waiting bowl.

There is a small smile that appears on Arnau's rock-hewn features for his wife's whisper, nodding shallowly to her. Helmet still held instead of placed upon his head, he takes to the field proper by himself walking towards Ser Daevon and only stopping when he is within arm's reach, closer than a duel should begin. No doubt such an approach might be met with fearful whispers and whines about cheating Dornish. But all Arnau does is offer the Maiden's Knight a gauntleted hand, weapon still sheathed, ostenstensibly in a gesture of comradery.

For the moment, Riderch was all-too-keenly people watching. As he's done watching the royals pour in he was clearly making a show of looking at who's who, particularly giving a few sketchy looks in the direction of Kevyn and Laurent. Well, maybe not them per se, but warily following the little procession of Ironborn who headed up there and holding his slowly-depleting drumstick like it's some sort of weapon.

Tellur snaps him out of this though as he catches the Northerner's greeting. "Oh. Tellur Snow. Hullo." He begins after politely waiting to finish this mouthful and gesturing towards the man. He doesn't seem too poncy to sit with a bastard. "Of course." He then shoots the man a grin as he moves his little pile of belongings to one side. Including the flagon. He takes a sip, pointing at it and offering. Honeywine.

Ser Arrick, clad in bright silken colors of his homeland, looks to be following Princess Mariya wherever she goes. As an invite is sent her way and she is asked up to the grand dais, Arrick peeks over and waits to see if he's allowed to come along. Thankfully for Arrick, a silver-haired Princess speaks up, giving him passage. With appreciation spread across his face, the knight offers a bow of the head to Princess Visenya as he waits for Mari to pick her seat.

Perhaps it is a statue there after all and not a knight for Daevon remains still. At the point where it almost seems as if he'll refuse that gesture of comraderie he finally moves to return the gesture, clasping the offered arm and taking the opportunity to murmur something quietly.

It might be the first smile that many in the crowd have ever seen from Lord Arnau Blackmont. His wife offers him a wicked crook of one in turn. When he moves to offer Ser Daevon his hand, she removes herself from the field with an imperious gesture to the guards. Lifting a hand, she waves briefly to the gathered princesses, before taking a seat in the Dornish section near Ellia and Alaeyna. "My dear Alaeyna, Princess," she greets in turn.

Tellur's puppy begins to wag her shaggy brush of a tail as she spots Riderch's chicken, but the man clicks his fingers and she obeys, slinking to heel "Hot day for it, milord," says Carolis' Hound, as he starts to sizzle under the sun "I'm much obliged, you'll keep me on my feet." Honeywine, delicious. And then he eases himself down - though his gaze goes to Laurent as well, and then hardens suddenly into something rather wooden.

Daevon's voice is almost a sigh, resigned. "I can't yield, not when you call everything I am into question. Let's get on with this then."

"Lady is fine enough here," says Aenyse. "You could call me captain, but it wouldn't mean as much as it would without wood under my boot," says she, lifting her chin up a bit as her eyes shift back towards the young man. A beat then, and a little smile tugs up the corner of her lips. "Perhaps he knows the Ironborn thirst, and wished to save your mead enough so that he might have a taste," says Aenyse then, her eyes shifting towards Kevyn as he was introduced. A long moment, and the stormy eyes of the Greyjoy settle on Kevyn's, her smile fading away as her gaze lingers, taking stock of the man. Another moment, and Aenyse says, "How do you do?" before her eyes return to Laurent's. "It's true, though - until the negotiations are done, and I can get back to the sea, at least, I will be staying with your… relative. Do you live in town, or have you just come for the… show?" she asks, flicking her chin back towards the field.
Malcolm has arrived.

"They let you bring the dog in here, mm?" Riderch's brows go a little bit wide as he defensively clutches his food. He knows what's going on. And waits. Just a moment as his mouth spreads open in a tiny smirk as he peels a bit of the chicken off his piece and impulsively does something that Tellur might or might not appreciate, and thrusts it towards the beast. He's clearly not following the interaction between Laurent and Tellur here, if there even is any.

"I hope they get this nonsense done sooner rather than later." He grumbles.

Kevyn keeps his head bowed throughout the invocation, raising it when it's through. When Laurent introduces Aenyse, he sketches a slight half-bow to the Greyjoy lady. He might raise an eyebrow at an Ironborn, but he doesn't gawk overmuch. "My lady, an honor to meet you. I'm…err…Ser Kevyn Cockshaw, as Ser Laurent says." The term 'Captain' makes him very curious. "Have you a ship?"

When Yael comes to join them, Alaeyna greets her with kisses to each of her cheeks. "Come and sit between us, darling," she says to Blackmont's bride, making just the very spot available, that the three of them might sit knee to knee and have themselves a tete-a-tete.

Lord Blackmont waits, staring at Daevon with an intensity to his greet eyes on an otherwise stonily serious face, but he smiles when the other knight takes the hand. Opinions will differ as to weather the expression is genuine or cutting. The gesture remains just a shake, though, no knives or poison or anything else involved. Quiet words are returned, before Arnau turns on a heel to step a few paces back, sets his helm upon his head and unsheathes his sword.

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

Neither does Laurent catch the look from Tellur — his attention is focused on the woman at hand. "Mayhaps he did," the Thorn agrees, "And mayhaps I'll brain him for the presumption." He shoots a withering look at the squire, who seems to take it as a very real threat, and shrinks away. A shake of his head, and he answers the next question in turn. "I keep myself on Champion's Way, at the Little Bellhorn Holdfast. I'll likely set off North soon enough, for a time. You might call on me before that — we've need of good iron, and can see you paid. If I'm not about, Ser Kevyn can negotiate in my place," he adds with a nod at the Cockshaw knight. The ring of steel silences him though, and he slides aside to make room for Aenyse as his eyes snap to the field.

Ellia slides over a little upon the bench to make room for the Lady Yael as her own guards fan out a little more to provide the Dornish women with ample cover and shielding from their own perches. The Martellan Princess gives a faint bow of her head in greeting as her dark gaze slides back to the field in a moment of silence.

Old people love some soup. Visenya's nose wrinkles slightly. How can one think of eating when two men, one who happens to be her twin, are about to pummel each other with swords? "No thank you." She says in as gentle of a tone as she can manage to Jaehaerys before she looks to another servant. "Wine." She commands somewhat tersely. A goblet is promptly filled and handed to her, and she may take more than a sip in one swig. Her amethyst eyes turn upwards in annoyance at the servant, "Wine for everyone else as well! Why should I have to tell you this?" She clutches the goblet in her hand tightly as she watches the beginnings of the duel.

Sword in hand Daevon doesn't waste another breath, the moment the duel is called to begin he charges straight for Arnau, slashing hard with his blade.

Picking a seat nearby the Princesses, Mariya finally looks over the rest of the crowd. She gives a welcoming nod to her brother, nearby, and manages to catch Ellia's glare just in time to quickly look away. Perhaps she thought Mariya would be more politic and sit with the Dornish, but that is not in her nature when someone she cares for is threatened. While she gives a glance a Jaehaerys' food, she shakes her head at the offering. She would not be able to eat anything even if she were forced. Though she thinks this may be the time to start a conversation, there's no words that come to her that would not sound flippant. Then, the battle has started and she clutches her hands together again, eyes glued to the field.

"Grace has the manners of a Lady," Tellur says to Riderch, with a quirked lip "Better than mine, my Lord - she had to tell the guards I'd behave. But wine aside, I came to ask you what the nonsense was about - Southern politics are a mystery to me." The puppy's attention focuses on the chicken intently. So intently. So desperately. But she does not move an inch, while Tellur looks at Laurent, who undoubtably has more important things to concern him with than a Bastard. Finally, her Master lifts a finger, and she eagerly moves forward to delicately take the morsel with as much precision as a surgeon. The moment Daevon is moving, though, Tellur refocuses on him.

Malcolm arrives at the last minute in his best clothes looking grim. He slides in next to Tellur and gives Riderch and Ser Laurent a weak smile and a nod. He flashes Daevon an encouraging smile and settles in to study Lord Blackmont with a very focused intensity.

While Mariya looks swiftly clear of Ellia's disapproval, their brother actually grins as he meets that gaze. It's not a particularly humor-laced thing under the circumstances, but warm with the irony and futility of it all nonetheless. Alaryn's a laugh over cry sort of fellow. There's an even, steady look that's held to his twin for some moments after that whimsy fades and before the Raptor is distracted by the passage of that wine above him, rather insistently waving down one of the servants to bring him a goblet as well. Once this vintage is in hand, Aryn wastes no time tipping it back for a hearty draught that's worth two or three in polite company, punctuating it with a profoundly deep sigh and turning his attention back to the clash. He offers no cheers, only raised brows and intent eyes, as if he could deduce the flow of battle through the most minute detail of Arnau and Daevon's masterful motions.

Truth be told, it looks as though Riderch's focusing more on the little dog that he just fed than anything going on on the field. Only a more cursory glance, although he does wince a bit as he registers the strike on Lord Blackmont. "Dogs. Birds. My life is becoming a glorious little menagerie." He finally muses, looking back at the sullen, dog-bearing Snow.

"Well, I suppose Lord Blackmont had an issue with Lady Blackmont being held in the Targaryen Manse without his knowledge for a long while." He points lazily over at the Dornish contingent, with what's left of his depleted drumstick and focuses it on what might actually be Yael. "If it all unfolded the way I heard, I'd be a little bent over the whole thing too." Pausing again he breathes in a snort. "So it's understandable, really. I'm just here to people-watch." A nod to Malcolm as the little crowd around him grows. He also gestures to both the Bastards. "Eat. Drink up. There's plenty more if I can find the vendor."

Alaeyna's kisses are returned with a soft, thankful smile as Yael briefly presses her friend's hand. "Gladly," she answers, dipping in a delicate but respectful nod to Ellia as she takes a seat. Her own guards join the Dayne's in their fanning out behind them. Her fingers curl in her skirts as the duel begins, the Targaryen's blade singing through the air. "I wonder what was said," she muses, mouth pursed even after the blades have been unsheathed.

Jae waves the winebearer off with his spoon before eating another mouthful of the soup. He settles the bowl into his lap and snaps his fingers again. A goblet of his own is produced, and filled with an orange/pink beverage that smells like a very sweet juice of some kind. "Juice, or wine, Keli?" He glances down at the little girl and smiles, before his eyes again become focused on the combat at hand, "You should eat, my dear," he says to nobody in particular.

Aenyse's attention was arrested by Kevyn for a moment more. "I do have a ship. A trading vessel out of the Iron Islands. Right now, we trade words with greenlanders for food," she says, the edges of her lips pursed as she watches the knight just a few moments more. "The honor is mine, Ser Cockshaw," she says. "And what does your expert opinion say?" she asks, lifting a chin to gesture towards the duel. When motion begins on the field, her eyes are drawn to the Targaryean first, a snort of sorts leaving her. But it was to Laurent her attention drifts back towards Laurent, her attention upon him. "I might, at that. We mostly trade for food, as I said before - iron from the islands is a fair exchange for that." Eyes drawn down towards the space emptied, and Aenyse turns to lower herself into the seat there - shoulders slightly hunched forward, her brow furrowing as she watches the duel. "How'd this get started?" she asks, fetching a bit of wine for herself.

Arnau steps forward with strong steps, using superior strength and height to bring his blade down on the other knight's chest with a flash of steel in the sun and a clang in the air, though the armor does what it is supposed to and stops the attack. The Blackmont himself is not as lucky, though bruises are to be expected as the other blade slips past his guard.

<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Left Arm (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - Serious wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

"Animals are loyal, Lord Blackwood, and often better than men," Tellur says, with an odd note of melancholy in his voice. He shakes it away as Ser Malcolm whispers to him, and frowns, and then ruffles his puppy's ears as he listens to the story. Grace may only be a pup but she is already the size of many fully grown hounds - and she has a long way to go. After a moment, he says "The Dragon is very good, I have seen him fight before, though sometimes he seems. Very young to me. What a ruddy life Southern nobles have. It is so…complex and painful."

Arrick keeps quiet as the duel has started, he may want his fellow countryman to win, hell, he may want Daevon to teach that smug Blackmont a lesson, really he's just here to see a good fight. As the fight goes back and forth, the Blackmont lands a decent blow only to receive a more threanting blow to the chest, the Dornishman up on the grad dais peers towards the worried Princess at his side, finally breaking his silence and whispering a few calming words.

Drinking from his juice goblet, Jae's other hand waggles a small triangular pennant of black, bearing the red tri-headed dragon of the Targaryen family.

"The Father's hanging cock," Laurent mutters, his dark eyes on the two men trading blows, "But I've no idea. I hope the bastards both leave their guts on the field." That's said low enough that Kevyn and Aenyse hear, perhaps a few more of the men-at-arms. Not because he's afraid to voice his opinion, but rather because he's intent on the duel. His right hand clenches into a fist as both men land ringing blows, and a sound that might be frustration rumbles out of his broad chest. Without taking his eyes off the action, he barks an order at this squire. "Mead, Willem. Damnit, Boy. For the three of us." And at that the lad sets off, to return momentarily with a servant bearing flagons for Laurent, Kevyn and Aenyse.

Daevon's utterly relentless in his attack, barely seeming to notice the blow he takes himself, and it does absolutely nothing to throw off his own aim. He rains down blows upon Arnau's chest with a wild ferocity.

Kelinyx looks to Prince Jaehaerys, shaking her head at the offer of food. The battle has her on edge, and she clutches her little carved figure tightly to her chest while chewing her bottom lip.

Kevyn offers Aenyse a small shrug when Laurent says he can negotiate in the Tyrell's place. "Of course, my lady. Food is one thing the Reach doesn't lack, at least, so you've come to the right place." His ears are more on Laurent's conversation with the Ironborn lady than anything else, even if he keeps his eyes on the duel. His serious expression comes very close to a smile. "I've no love for the Blackmont, and would be glad to see him felled again. But I can't say I know what the duel's over. Prince Daevon's marriage to the Dornish princess, perhaps? Though I can't quite figure how that would involve Lord Arnau…" He puzzles on his as he squints at the duellists.

Malcolm winces as Arnau's sword comes down. He exhales as the armour holds. He says quietly, 'The way I heard it, she was not a prisoner, but under their protection because of the troubles of late, but it is not my quarrel." he glances away from the match to tell Tellur Snow, "The Maiden Knight and I are of similar skill, if that is a help to you." He turns back to watch again.

With a rather — annoyed look, Riderch tries pouring himself a refill of his own mead and frowns. He sets the chicken on a napkin next to him and carefully away from the dog. "Hm. Well. He's got some natural talent, I will grant you that." states Blackwood. "Hrmph. I suppose I'd better trudge off and find some more." With that, he cranes his head around for a vendor. And then he counters to Malcolm suddenly. "Well, the details are the thing I suppose. Not a prisoner I would imagine, but — All I know is if I was married to a woman like that I'd probably be looking to take someone's fucking head off over her."

There is a wry smirk on his part now, Ser Riderch of House Blackwood. Sometimes he's just a simple Lord for a simpler time. "And start drinking from it like Quillian Oakheart seems to love doing. PFfft, that's a bit flashy and excessive, though."

The Blackmont sword slides away from armor, and jabs forward, the edge of the blade catching at Daevon's arm with satisfaction. Though it is not without cost, getting close enough that the other can rain blows down on him. Arnau roars a battlecry, even as he's been struck, and does not slow down for it either. His sword swings with a flash and a blur, hard to see for a moment.

<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Left Arm (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Abram has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.
<COMBAT> Arnau has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Arnau spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Arnau will attack Daevon this turn.
<COMBAT> Daevon will attack Arnau this turn.

Tellur says to Malcolm dryly "It's of help only in that, Ser Malcolm, the only way I could fight either of you is to shoot you in the back from a rooftop." He listens to both Malcolm and Riderch, and he finally says to Riderch "Here, let me get the supplies. You are a Lord." Up he gets, while his dog peers at him, then sneakily tries to put her head on Ser Malcolm's knee. But he pauses, noting the fight, and says "Even if one of them doesn't get his head off, they're both going to need healers."

Aenyse barks out a laugh at what Laurent says, the woman straightening her set and squaring her shoulders, the murmurings of the man belying his concentration. So Aenyse only spares him a moment's glance - her attention mostly upon the squire as he returns with the flagon. For a moment, Aenyse lets her eyes settle on that of the squire's, nodding her head to him once. She doubted he held her gaze. Taking a flagon, she straightens in her seat, swirling the flagon around idly like a wineglass as she listens to Kevyn's estimation. Opening her lips as if to say something, she instead pauses a moment and takes a sip of her mead, likewise falling into careful consideration. "Perhaps he wants her for himself?" she offers to Kevyn, bemusement rich in her tone.

Daevon's deathly silent, no cries from him, no yells, not even a gasp of pain. There's a precise efficiency to his movements, and while his grip does loosen slightly on his blade it does nothing to dampen the strength, and accuracy of his next blow as once again his sword slices into Lord Arnau's breastplate.

Malcolm smiles crookedly in response to the Blackwood, without taking his eyes from the action. "Fair enough. I've met neither man nor wife, though I'd like to hear her side of it. To my way of thinking, it is the Lady's opinion that ought matter most." He laughs softly at Tellur's comment about shooting him, "That is certainly wise, Tellur Snow." He absently pets the dog's head, "Best you stay close if healers are needed. Let us hope it comes to that and not the losing of heads."

Again, the greatsword hacks at Daevon's arm, seeking to instead his hold on the weapon, knowing how difficult it can be to a fight that rings with pain and works less well than it should, not matter what adrenaline tells. It falls how it should, piling injury atop injury. His own body is not left without marks. The Targeryen's sword pressed to his breastplate again to draw some blood. Off-balanced, it knocks the Arnau to a knee, his sword raised to block blows until he pushes himself up to stand again, tip of the sword pointed at Daevon's eyes.

"Gods' Blood, Snow, save it for when I'm crippled." Riderch insists towards Tellur as he offers to get up in his stead. "I need to stretch my legs. Besides, smells like fish around here." He rumbles under his breath before turning towards Malcolm as he eyes the other bastard thoughtfully. "In truth? I don't know for certain what happened, I just merely have an inkling of mens' hearts. But I've met all involved. They've been kind enough to me." He is sort of indicating something very basic here — a certain lack of passing judgment. He tosses the depleted chicken bone somewhere. Definitely not on his companions, as he lifts his empty flagon to go search for a refill.

<COMBAT> Daevon will spend luck on defense this turn.

Again, the greatsword hacks at Daevon's arm, seeking to instead his hold on the weapon, knowing how difficult it can be to a fight that rings with pain and works less well than it should, not matter what adrenaline tells. It falls how it should, piling injury atop injury. His own body is not left without marks. The Targeryen's sword pressed to his breastplate again to draw some blood. Off-balanced, it knocks the Arnau to a knee, his sword raised to block blows until he pushes himself up to stand again, tip of the sword pointed at Daevon's eyes.

"Gods' Blood, Snow, save it for when I'm crippled." Riderch insists towards Tellur as he offers to get up in his stead. "I need to stretch my legs. Besides, smells like fish around here." He rumbles under his breath before turning towards Malcolm as he eyes the other bastard thoughtfully. "In truth? I don't know for certain what happened, I just merely have an inkling of mens' hearts. But I've met all involved. They've been kind enough to me." He is sort of indicating something very basic here — a certain lack of passing judgment. He tosses the depleted chicken bone somewhere. Definitely not on his companions, as he lifts his empty flagon to go search for a refill.

<COMBAT> Daevon will spend luck on defense this turn.
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Light wound to Left Arm (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

Alternating between wine, soup and flagwaving, it is evident that Prince Jaehaerys needs an extra set of hands. These hands materialise from behind, in the form of the ever loyal Tommis, to take the proffered pennant and waving it with a restrained sense of purpose. Drinking deep from his goblet, Jae sighs contentedly, "Nothing like a good duel. Of course there should be dragons." In Jae's opinion there should always be dragons. Except at the dinner table, they tend to burn the furnishings.

Kevyn gets off a "Heh" sort of chuckle at Aenyse words as he takes his mead. "Perhaps, my lady. You know what they say about the Dornish." He winces as the swordsmen exchange blows, which makes him dip into his mead.

Rather than pressing his advantage, Daevon steps back when Arnau falls to his knees, he's not one to rain down blows on a fallen opponent, especially not in a duel of this sort. It's only once Arnau's standing again that Daevon charges in, hacking at Arnau's chest with a blade. His left-arm's hanging limp now, barely clasped on the hilt of his weapon, no strength in it or behind the blows.

Kelinyx squirms in unhappy anxiousness at the shifting of the battle. Again she holds aloft her little warrior figurine, her kind of praying, perhaps.

"Surely they turn their eyes when we cross on to this soil," Yael drawls with a sharp note of bitterness in her voice. "No deed, no word, no worth can sway them. We become as roaches on these shores." Her hands carefully unclench from her skirts as her husband rises, no noise made for his short fall but an intake of breath.

Laurent leans forward, grinning at what he sees on the field, fist tight and tense at his side. He seems content that Arnau should fall, but then leans back and pumps his fist when the Dornish lord rises again. An odd attitude, perhaps, from the Reachman. "Slippery little shit," Laurent grunts, shaking his head though his eyes never waver. Then, to Kevyn and Aenyse's theory, he nods. "A woman is a powerful motivation to spill blood, and we know Blackmont to be willing."

Tellur says "Alas, Ser Malcolm I don't think assassination is acceptable in duelling." He has paused, frozen in his mission to get food, watching the combat with a vaguely marvelling expression "It's like watching two young rams smashing themselves together until their horns splinter and their legs lame. I wonder if there men who call duels _just_ after ones like these, to be assured of a win…" Then Riderch is getting up, and Tellur suddenly colours, showing for a brief moment, his true age - a couple of years shy of twenty. He nods, before noting to Malcolm "I'm sure they have better healers than I around. Or, er, kinder ones. No one likes the way I set bones. _Gods_, don't any of them realise what kind of injury you get from a blow to a broken bone -"

Mariya takes a the wine glass offered to her numbly, barely acknowledging the servant. She glances over at Visenya with a serious expression to see how Daevon's twin is taking the fight. The hits are vicious and it is hard to make herself watch. The smile she gives Arrick for his words is genuine, but still a forced thing. No matter what happens, she will continue to worry until the whole thing is done.

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

It's almost like Arnau is trying to hack the other knight's arm off. He doesn't succeed, but he does land another sharp wound to the limb, relentlessly. His chest heaves, catching another swipe of Daevon's blade there, blood already seeping from previous wounds like thin crimson lines.

<COMBAT> Daevon has changed weapons to broadsword.
<COMBAT> Daevon will attack Arnau this turn.
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Broadsword and MISSES!
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Light wound to Right Hand (Reduced by Armor).

Malcolm's expression is grim as he watches the injuries get more serious. He nods in response to Riderch, and says affably enough, "It is a shame it came to blows when sense suggests words might have solved things more simply…. No, assassination is not an accepted form in a duel between knights, Tellur Snow."

Setting down his spoon in the bowl in his lap, Jae reaches out and gently pats his kinswoman, Visenya, on the arm, "He's doing fine, my dear. A few scrapes and bruises so far." Perhaps more than that, really, but what else is he going to say? I'm terribly sorry but your brother won't be using his wank… er… sword fighting arm anymore? Guh. Women. "He's putting on quite the show, at the very least." Good going, dickhead.

Daevon's forced to switch to using his longsword one-handed after that last blow to his arm. That doesn't help his accuracy at all and this time when he swings at Arnau, he misses.

After a moment, Riderch seems to catch something, and turns his head a little towards Snow and Storm both. And he smirks suddenly at Tellur. "Relax. Like you said, the ones liable to need treatment aren't here, they're probably down there." He points at the dueling area before he just gives Malcolm a hapless shrug. "Nobody ever said men were sensible over this sort of thing." Snorting a brief laugh, he carries off through the crowd with his flagon.

Alaryn's pacing ceased the moment the battle began, and the infamous Martell stands somewhat statuesque now, brow knitting tightly as the blood spatters and the steel clashes, his dark eyes leaving the combat only momentarily, now and again, to survey his own surroundings— particularly the flanks and the gathered crowd behind him, though little specific attention is discernible for any save Mariya. The younger princess garners a firm nod, and a steady look. As affirmation goes, it likely does little to ease the stress, but some things are matters of little more than gritted teeth and will. For his part, the Raptor remains on the borders of the battle, intent on its outcome… one way or the other.

Aenyse watches the bloodshed, the smile on her lips starting to fall down into a more grim look. Rolling her neck, she chases the look with a swig of her drink, considering what the two men say before she inclines her head once. "Although right now, I doubt women or glory is dancing at the backs of either of their minds," she says. "Right now - blood is enough. To spill more than the other one does before they slip into the dark, aye?" she asks.

When Daevon swings for him again, Arnau twists and blocks the Targaryen's blade with his own, the clang ringing through the air and vibrating down both weapons as the sharp edges stick to one another before he breaks their hold to push forward again.

Visenya is handling the fight by drinking copious amounts of wine. She has drained her first cup, and promptly holds up the cup to be refilled with a command of, "More wine." As the goblet is filled her eyes flick over to Jaehaerys before she says in a somewhat cool tone, "Thank you for your words of reassurance." More wine is downed from the goblet.

<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Broadsword - ARMOR on Left Arm stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword but Daevon DODGES!

Where Alaeyna sits in the stands, her face is impassive, though she watches intently between whispered words exchanged with Princess Ellia and the Lady Yael, in anticipation of some decisive action on the field.

The sight of the flower of nobility beating the living daylights out of one another seems to give rise to frustration for Tellur Snow. He nods to Riderch, but then his massive puppy climbs towards him, and Tellur puts an arm on her. He finally says to Malcolm, in response to a murmur "Then he's a fool. Look at this - we've a country full of raiders and killers to murder, and the two of them going at each other like young bucks. And it'll upset his sisters. What happens to their fire-beasts when they get upset, anyway?" Pagan.

Daevon's blow is a glancing one to Arnau's arm, with just the one hand on the blade, and that one stinging from the last hit he took he just doesn't have the strenth to be felt through the armour. He spins gracefully away, stepping back from Arnau's attack, adjusting his grip on his sword once more so both hands are in place, pushing through the pain.

<COMBAT> Daevon has changed weapons to greatsword.
<COMBAT> Daevon will attack Arnau this turn.

Laurent grunts his agreement, snorting a short laugh. "If they mean to survive the fight," he grumbles, nodding. The corners of his overly broad mouth are turned up in a grin now, and he barks another laugh as the Maiden's Knight spins clear of Arnau's swing. "A gods damned dancer," he says crossly. "Why doesn't Blackmont bull him over, and have at him on the ground?"

"Will it come to that, do you think?" Kevyn asks. Seemingly Aenyse and Laurent both. "Ser Arnau yielded when he lost the field to my cousin, and honorably so. More than we expected of him, I'll admit. Though, since I don't know quite the nature of their quarrel, I don't know how much either man would value mercy for the other. And if this is over a woman…well, one of them wouldn't be competition any more…" He trails off that line of speculation, drinking some more.

Malcolm winces as the Maiden Knight misses and winces again at the weakness of his next blow. "No, men are not. I know I am not sensible in matters of honor. It is a shame the more sensible sex was not consulted."

Arnau presses forward, but while his strength is behind the swing of his sword, he is not fast enough to catch Daevon with it, the other man dodging away as it arcs towards him. Not able to dodge himself, the other sword glances off the armor of his arm. Pressing forward again with a short charge, he tries to take advantage of a weakened arm.

<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - ARMOR on Right Arm stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!

Daevon's blows lack the strength they previously did, clanging off armour, his aim thrown off by the next blow that hits his arm yet again.

Elionys has been quietly watching from the royal box since the start of the fight, but now, for some reason, she leans toward Visenya to whisper a few quick words, and then rises to make her way out of the box.

Kelinyx whimpers softly, whispering again to the wooden ear of her carved warring noble figurine. "Just focus, please, he's hurt and you still have your legs. Wear him out!"

Tameron sits beside the Princess Ellia, serving as one of her guards. He's totally been here the whole time, yep, just very quiet. And he remains quiet, still, as he watches the two men dueling below.

Left arm damaged already, Arnau stabs his blade forward, but as before it lands against armor, leaving a mark only on the metal and not the man.

<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Neck (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - ARMOR on Left Arm stops the attack!

Ellia continues to watch the duel, favoring silence for now as her gaze occasionally drifts to the side to glance upon her sister in the nest of Dragons before again returning to the field.

"You're telling me." Riderch says, barking an odd laugh at Malcolm as he saunters off into the stands. "Trust me, I should bloody well know." It takes a few minutes or so, but he accquires some refills. "Ho, SER LAURENT! SER KEVYN!" He waves. Bellows, and probably annoys someone who is focused more on this fight than him. He turns his head now, wincing at the action on the field appreciatively. Maybe he does care a little.

"It may, at that, it may. If one of them yields… well," Aenyse shifts in her seat, kinda stretching out her hands. "Dancing isn't so bad, in a fight," says Aenyse, a wicked grin dancing up onto her lips as she leans towards Laurent. "To duck and put a mast inbetween yourself and an attacker, or a door, perhaps. But on a field like this… it's foolishness," she says, chewing a bit on the inside of her cheek. A beat at the call, her eyes shifting towards Riderch, a little frown turning down the edges of her lips. "Friend of yours?" she asks Laurent, her eyes on the Blackwood.

Calling out from his seat, with a concerned look, Jae leans forward, "Aim for the legs, Dae! The legs!" He furrows his brow as he leans back and glances to Keli, "I usually say eyes, but at his height? Not a chance." He shakes his head slowly, "The target's too small," He sups more soup and frowns a little more, "I used to manage, when I was younger. I could bullseye swamp rats from my T-16." A pause, "That's a model of carriage."

Somewhere up above, a bird of some sort flies and splatters out a muddy defecation above the Royal box.

Daevon's looking far worse for the wear, staggering as Arnau's sword collides with his neck. It's just as well he has armour on, and his blade comes up to push Arnau back, as he tries to recover from this.

The Dayne knight steals a discreet glance over at the Lady he serves, and one of Tameron's hands moves to very lightly rest against her upper arm for a moment before it slips away again.

Gritting her teeth, Yael sits up straighter in her seat and reaches for Alaeyna's hand as Arnau lands a blow on the prince's neck. "It is remarkable a man so fine can withstand such force," she breaths of the Maiden's Knight.

Elionys makes her way up into the noble seating, offering polite nods here and there, but her goal is, apparently, the cluster of Dornish, attempting to take a seat either beside, or behind Yael.

Kelinyx gives her figurine a kiss for luck, it's all she can do, worry and fear written on her expressive features as she squirms and leans forward between posts of the railing, chewing her bottom lip raw as she stares on.

"That would be because the Seven look out for maidens, whether they wear dresses or armor as this case may be," Ellia comments quietly in return to her fellow Dornish companions, her body flinching a little at Tameron's light touch before relaxing a smidge.

Tellur glances towards Laurent and Riderch, and his puppy goes off, allowed now to find the chicken bone to break apart and chew on. He notes to Malcolm, his voice lightly mischievous "Look. We managed to get a seat with the nobility, because Blackwood is kindly when he is not being a madman." He looks down on the duel below, and says "But that isn't like field warfare, there is no moment's rest for the swordarm here. And in this heat? The longer they go, the worse even a survivor will fare."

"He is a champion of women, and women are ever more resilient than they appear," Alaeyna says to Yael, catching her hand and holding it in the gesture of solidarity the other woman seeks out.

Arnau's blow to Daevon's next pulls a gasp from Mariya. Unable to hold the goblet without fearing she would spill its contents, she passes it back to the servant completely untouched. Her hands again clench tightly together in her lap.

With another thundering roar into the hot air, Lord Blackmont winds up for his next attack, knocking past the other knight's blade and bringing his own to bare down hard with the full force of his body. The edge of his blade impacts into Daevon's neck, metal singing as it is pulled away again with a sharp swipe. Seeing the knight step back to recover, Arnau pushes forward with great steps to press any advantage he has.

<COMBAT> Daevon will spend luck on attack this turn.
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - ARMOR on Neck stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!

Oh, don't worry, Lady Greyjoy. Riderch has another wave and even a crooked, cheery smile for her and her entourage. He waits a moment before approaching them and pauses, frowning as though he has forgotten something. And he goes back down to deposit the flagon near Malcolm and Tellur. "Promises kept, men." He states, succintly as he sets the thing down and picks up his chicken basket. "I need to go attend something rather quickly but if you wish?" He gestures to it offering each of the men a piece, and a little smirk to the dog. "Please guard the wine. It's precious." He cranes his head about to the field again as more blows are exchanged.

Malcolm's face goes utterly blank as the action continues, though he whispers something aside to his fellow bastard. He pitches his voice normally next, "I am grateful for Ser Riderch's kindness and hospitality in this…. No it is not like the field. Remember the dents in my armour after I clashed with that Mountain of a Lannister? The melee is like this only with many knights attacking each other, sometimes two on one. It was such a blow to the neck guard that stole my breath on the field, Tellur."

Jae has apparently finished his soup, as he hands both soup bowl and goblet back to Tommis. He stands, slowly and uneasily, and steps forward to grip at the railing around the dais. He furrows his brow as he dabs, with his free hand, at his lips with the napkin before tossing it back - it being caught expertly by the waiting Tommis.

Daevon's tired perhaps, the ferocity's faded from his attacks and now he's being a little more measured. Another blade clangs off his neck, and again he raises his sword to try and fend off the attack, and his own blade glances off Arnau's armour.

"Ever more so than even men that claim it," Yael agrees, no tremple touching her voice although Alaeyna can feel the slightest quiver in her hand. At the sight of the Targaryen Princess shifting through the crowds, she offers Elionys the slightest of smiles. She can only withdraw her sharp gaze from the battle for moments.

The greatsword comes down on Daevon's neck again, this time without a bellow from the Blackmont, the sound of metal striking metal ringing into the air as the two swordsmen battle. But this time there is no wound for it, Arnau's blade pushed away as the other knight moves to defend himself after striking his opponent's breastplate.

That slight smile is answered by a faint one in return, the pale haired Targaryen moving past others in order to settle near the Blackmont Lady. Once settled her gaze returns to the fight, but she leans in close to murmur quietly to Yael.

Laurent grunts noncommittally at Aenyse's claim, his broad shoulders rising and falling slightly. "Never fought on a ship," he admits. "In a tavern though, or a tower…" He trails off, finally nodding his agreement, and some memory brings a fierce grin to his face. The moment of reverie is broken by a shout, though, and he tears his eyes away from the field to find… "HO, SER RIDERCH!" His expression is grim, now that he has turned from the field, but he greets the man nonetheless. "A friend," he muses at the question, and finally nods. "He is. Half mad, but a friend."

Ellia makes no effort to deny non-Dornish from joining their benches, should they so choose - her attentions too focuses upon the combatants upon the field. She stretches a little for a slightly better vantage point as the Blackmont's blade barrels down upon the Dragon's neck, only to be deflected.

Tellur says to Riderch dryly "With all the nobility in my skin, shall I guard the wine." His dog, having spotted a good thing accurately, wags her tail happily at Riderch, and then the bastard says to Ser Malcolm "Watch your own anger. It's clarity that wins the combat - even for weak wicked like mine - not justifiable rage. The Gods smile on the cunning and quick, in the end, and you have a Lord to serve. Still, nothing could convince me to go into such a melee. Maybe that is why I have no honour."

<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Moderate wound to Right Arm (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!

Daevon staggers back from yet another blow to his arm, his own attacks are laughing and strength and the accuracy he initially had. Try as he might he can't seem to get through Arnau's armour.

Tameron's gaze flicks over to the Targaryen princess as she sits down among them, and he offers her a silent nod in greeting before looking back down to the churned-up green.

"Have you fought pirates and the like?" Kevyn asks Aenyse. Sounding unsure whether to be scandalized or intrigued by this. He chuckles at the 'HO' to Riderch, raising a hand to offer a wave to the Blackwood. And a less high-volume, "Ser Riderch. Oi. He's a fine man. Has some odd customs, but I think that's a Riverlander trait."

Lifting the hand not claimed by Alaeyna, Yael does not immediately reply to the Targaryen Princess with her gaze so focused on the fight. Her fingers seach out Elionys' to squeeze that hand as well. Her answering whisper can be heard by women on the bench with her.

Arnau twists his blade, breaking the block Daevon had used to spare his neck more punishment. He presses it forward in a stabbing motion to the knight's arm, cutting past armor as the other blade falls against his chest with a clang and a bite into the metal where it connects, but nothing more.

<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).

Malcolm nods at Tellur's words without turning, his tone as flat as his expression. "I will not forget my duty, never fear. I still maintain there is more than one kind of honor. Mine is and must be that of a Knight, but there are other kinds, I think. Does not a Lady have honor who never takes the field. We each serve a Master in our own way, Tellur Snow, according too our talents and temperaments. Who am I to say your service does not come with it's own sort of honor?"

Aenyse nods her head once. The fierceness of Laurent's grin draws her attention briefly to him, lightening the expression on her face - although what he says about Riderch dashes her smile away, Aenyse turning her eyes towards the Blackwood, levelling her gaze on him. "Lord Blackwood - it is a pleasure to see you again," she asks. Another moment, and her eyes flicker back towards Kevyn. "I'll take your word for it," she states, flatly. But as for what she had done? "Trading is dangerous business sometimes. And in some transactions, you either take or are taken. I prefer the former," she says, a ghost of her grin returning to her lips.

As the duel rages on, Arrick notes to no one in particular, "Ser Daevon's arm is likely to be useless after this, it looks to be Blackmont's strategy." Arrick peers over towards Mari and then shuts his mouth, knowing she is seeing the same fight he is. "Wine.." Arrick takes an offered goblet of wine and drinks, knowing this fight isn't even close to ending, even as both fighters have tired.

<COMBAT> Daevon has changed stance to cautious.

Daevon's forced into the defensive as blow after blow hits him and his own have little effect. He studies Arnau, cautiously, trying to find an opening. Yet each time he swings his sword his attacks come to nothing.

The look from Tameron is noted, and Elionys answers it with a faint smile and nod in return, though her attention is swiftly back on the fight. She tilts her head towards Yael, listening and then offering a slight nod, before answering in a tone quiet enough to remain between them.

Leaving Snow and Storm to probably abscond with the wine, Riderch ambles up in the stands as he wheels about to again get a glimpse of a Dornishman and a Targaryen pound each other into something resembling pudding, he momentarily heads on up towards the little Tyrell/Cockshaw/Greyjoy gathering. With a basket of roast chicken under his arm. "Lady Greyjoy." He begins, smiling not-too-broadly, which is a good thing should he have anything stuck in his teeth. "If I recall correctly." And then a pause to the other two Knights he just greeted.

"Sers. I wish to humbly invite you over as guests for a very special — talk. A bit like the one Ser Laurent hosted. Although you'll understand why I am doing this when you get there. I'm sure all your burning questions will be answered." There are a couple of sidelong glances towards the Ironborn entourage as he busts out with another small piece of chicken and starts munching on it. Charming. "Oh, that's all, really." There is a merry sort of twinkle in his eye here as he pops the meat off the wing and is left with a small, greasy bone.

Arms and necks are spared for a round as blades clash and break and fall on chests, Arnau's swing landing a little harder than Daevon's own, though both hit their mark.

Kelinyx's nails are digging into her little trinket now, her mouth a tight, straight line across her increasingly pale face.

<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword - Light wound to Left Hand (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - ARMOR on Right Hand stops the attack!

Tellur just gives Malcolm a wolfish grin, intent, and with eyes clear, grey, and more fey than not. Still, he steps up to his feet and he gives a sudden whistle - intent and piercing, the noise he might use to cut through a battle "Strike his leg, Maiden's Knight!" he calls in a huntsman's bellow "Pin him to the ground!"

Daevon spots an opening and his sword flicks out to hit Arnau's left hand, rapping sharp enough to be felt.

"Either that or he plans to cut my brother's head off." Visenya comments in a flat tone to Arrick's observation. She takes a swallow of the wine, and lets out a small laugh that is tinged with despair. "Perhaps my brother will learn that it is better not to help those who lack any decency, but I doubt it. He's not particularly smart."

Malcolm joins his fellow bastard in shouting towards the combatants, "Move off the line! Off the line!" As if this is some sort of cheer or encouragement. He is taking no notice of the wine, leaving it to the other bastard to guard or steal.

Arnau's own weapon falls on Daevon's right hand, though the gauntlet protects his hand from being particularly battered. Close, he tries to shove the other blade away from him to break past the guard and strike.

<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Daevon attacks Arnau with Greatsword but Arnau DODGES!
<COMBAT> Daevon has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Daevon spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Daevon has changed stance to normal.

Someone shouts in the crowd, "BLOOD FOR BLACKMONT!" And another, "REMEMBER WICKHAM'S NEST!" It sounds like some commoners are getting rowdy. With each other. " "OSRIC DAYNE COULDN'T FIND HIS OWN COCK WITH BOTH HANDS!" "QUILLIAN OAKHEART POISONS HIS WEAPONS!!" And just like that, a few of the commoners stop paying attention to the duel enough that they start screaming at each other and landing blows. Looks like the guards are going to have some fun here.

If Laurent notices Aenyse's expression bloom, then wilt, he makes no show of it. His eyes have drifted back to the field, watching as more blows are traded, though he remains aware of Riderch's approach. "Sit down, Man, damnit," he offers by way of greeting. "Join us. There's…" He lurches forward in his seat, prompted by something on the field, and lets the sentence hang.

Behind Laurent, his squire chimes in to finish, "There's mead, Ser Riderch." The lad likes the Riverlands knight, apparently. At the very least, he prefers him over Laurent.

That next blow sends Daevon staggering to the ground, his head spinning, a cry of pain. He clambers to his feet, and then he spots the riot about to emerge from the stands. He mutters something, under his breath.

Arrick tilts back to look towards Princess Visenya and he says in a tone equaling her's in flatness, "If he wished to see your brother's head roll by, I think he would have already done so. Yes? Is that not how this is supposed to work?" Arrick shrugs as he turns his attention back to the fight.

Daevon whispers: If we keep fighting there's going to be a riot.

Kelinyx clambers quickly up to stand on the railings, at least thoughtful enough not to directly block the view of royals behind her. She is almost like a bird perched there with perfect balance, whispering, chanting to her little symbolic noble knight. For all her tension, it looks like the child might be willing to leap in were she not keenly aware of the heavy tradition (and fearsome backlash) which would follow such interruptions.

Ellia's body stiffens as the murmurs in the crowd begin to escalate, her attentions turning from the duel to try and follow the sources of the outcries. The mention of her own husband inspires a deep breath as the Martellan Princess maintains her silence and tries to refocus her attentions upon the duel.

Kevyn grins at Riderch as the Blackwood approaches. "My lord. You brought chicken to the match?" He sounds unsure whether he approves or not, but he is more than a little envious. It did have the look of a tasty chicken. "Talk?" He's quite curious about this, and looks to Laurent before nodding. "That sounds…err, sounds very interesting if nothing else, Ser. I'd be quite honored. Though I, umm, can't say I have many burning questions." He frowns at some of the chanting from the crowd, not adding any of his own.

Tameron, too, remains still and well behaved, although the shouts from the rabble cause his eyes to narrow and one hand to move an inch closer to where his sword rests at his hip.

"What is supposed to happen," Jae says, his tone flatter than a pre-photoshop Kiera Knightly, "Is that men wouldn't be so stupid as to allow petty issues like a woman to distract him from reality." He does manage to flick his eyes away from the battle to look at Keli as she clambers up, actually eye-to-eye with the man, "Hullo," he intones gently, "You needn't fear. I'm sure Daevon will be fine." Yeah, sure as tomorrow will bring gold raining from the heavens and the invention of vodka. "It's too soon to really tell who will win. They've both taken falls."

Aenyse lets her attention linger a moment further on Riderch. "/Burning/ questions, Lord Blackwood?" she asks, her tone of voice lilting with a bit of a singsong. "Certainly such questions can be answered here - without interrupting the enjoyment of the match?" she asks again, the tone of her voice dropping a handful of degrees. A flicker of her glance back towards the other two, and Aenyse returns her attention to the match proper. "I feel it's about to end."

<COMBAT> Daevon has changed stance to cautious.

The stands are getting pretty riotous - and Tellur suddenly gives them a lonesome glance. For all of his commentary on duelling, apparently he thinks _brawling_ is hilarious fun. Still, he pets his hound's head, and then he says to Malcolm "I need a drink." Riderch's wine is there to raid.

Kelinyx helps herself to a bit of Jaehaerys's shoulder for clinging, hunkering down in a gargoyle squat as she peers in clear worry at the two men. "Something has to happen…before the crowd makes it happen."

Yael is out of hands, but offers Ellie a sympathetic look as the crowds begin to shout Hey Sanna Ho Sanna — or crude things about her past husband. Her own guards draw closer, keeping an eye out for any rabble that makes it near the Dornish nobles. One give Tameron an approving nod for his hand on his sword.

Tameron isn't the only one spurred to action when the Sword of the Morning's name is invoked by the smallfolk. Alaeyna's head whips to the section of the stands where the shouting originates, hissing through her teeth, her eyes scanning the faces she sees there in search of its source, even from her distance. Just when she thinks she's spotted the pleb responsible for the remark, her hand moving instinctively to her side, some other wretch collides into the one she'd set her sights on and she loses him in the exchange of blows.

"Oh, so my brother is completely in adept with a sword, and Lord Blackmont is just toying with him?" Visenya asks Arrick with a roll of her eyes. She takes another healthy swallow from her goblet, and holds it up yet again. "A toast." She says with a sneer as she recreates what is happening with the smallfolk in the royal dais, "To Dornish superiority. Thank the Seven you've come to /our/ lands to show us the way."

inept

"Yes. Absolutely burning. You know how it is, Lady Greyjoy." Riderch says as he sort of casually drops the chicken bone now onto the floor. Or maybe it slipped from his greasy fingers. It's really hard to say. He places his boot dow and carefully slides it out of the way, maybe oblivious to the grease that it's spreading. Smiling again he adds to Kevyn with an incredulous look. "Of course, Ser. Why wouldn't I? I mean — they serve fried turnips here." Which, if anyone is keeping score, is something he apparently doesn't like. This is — not normal.

"Thank you, Willem, but no! I have to return to mine before the dog steals it. And I'll stop diverting your attention, all of you, from this beautiful —" he gestures, fumbling for the word. "Thing of a match. But oh yes. Trust me, you'll know of which I speak soon." Nodding his head, he tosses them all grin, especially Laurent, and wheels about, stepping carefully as he heads back towards Malcolm and Tellur — where he originally made his seat.

Reaching up a little to clutch around the child's waist as a sort of combination seatbelt and backrest, Jae nods slowly, "The smallfolk are restless." He glances over his shoulder, "Sir Theor. If anyone tries to get up here without our permission, do see them safely away." He smiles thinly to the man and nods, "Safely for you and for us, that is." He turns back to the fight and scowls. "The Dor…" he pauses and sighs, "never mind."

For all of his size, the Blackmont Heir is nimble on his feet for a moment, dodging the Targaryen's attack and using the motion to swing his blade hard into the other man's side. Armor shields him from some of the blow, but not all of it, sending Daevon into the dirt for a moment before he clambers to his feet. Arnau does not give him quarter, nor advantage, pushing forward again for all that re replies to the other's muttering with words spoken quietly on heavy breath.

Arnau whispers: So yield for your people. There are always riots against Dorne.

"FUCKIN' TAKE HIS HEAD!" There's another yell from the Commoner's section. "WE DON'T NEED NO BLOODY SANDROACHES!" It looks like a beverage was just thrown, and several men are huddled together as fists fly. Guards go running. "THE MAIDEN'S KNIGHT? MORE LIKE THE NIGHT'S MAIDEN IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! HAHAHAHHAA -" thud

Arrick turns away from the proposed toast and whispers to Mari, keeping his thoughts between the two Dornish nobles who now seeming to be more out of place on the grand dais than first thought.

Daevon whispers: We can call this a draw, both put our differences and our prides aside, clasp hands and then work together to ensure that the crowd doesn't start trying to tear each-other apart. We're evenly matched and it could still go either way. Because just now, regardless of who wins, we both lose. Reachman will attack Dornishman and blood will be shed.

Malcolm simply thrusts Riderch's wine in Tellur's direction without turning away, though he does murmur something as he does so.

By this point Riderch might have a bit of a time getting back to his picnic, as the brawling is starting to spill out a little - everyone's emotions are running high, and the fact is? There are a lot more commoners than guards here.

Daevon's stopped fighting, he doesn't press any attack, he's holding his sword defensively as he mutters quietly to Arnau.

Tellur takes the wine from Malcolm, nodding at the murmurs, and shaking his head. And indeed, he is apparently distracted again by the awful, vicious combat below until a rock aimed at a supporter of Arnau makes it out over and scones him in the side of his head "WHO THREW THAT?" Tellur snarls suddenly, spinning around "I'LL HAVE YOU - YOU SCUM SUCKING SON OF A BITCH -"

<COMBAT> Daevon passes.
<COMBAT> Arnau attacks Daevon with Greatsword - ARMOR on Abdomen stops the attack!

The clamor, the shouting, the warlike fray that builds seems to be soaking into the tiny girl and her hands begin to nervously approach her daggers. "It has to stop…it's getting too loud," she seethes, mostly scared but somehow energized by the chaos, eyes suddenly flitting to any who approach the gathered, her fearful verve taking on a cornered-beast aspect.

With the rising clamor amongst the gathered crowds— noble and commoner alike— Alaryn turns his attention from watching the back and forth of the brutal exchange like the world's bloodiest tennis match first to one sister, and then the other. Tameron and Arrick are key notables in that search as well, confirming the location of those he trusts to defend the other Martells, and resting one hand on the sun-emblazoned pommel of the sidesword at his hip. There's no smile at these developments, only a morose and pensive light to the prince's dark eyes, his jaw set firm with focus— and wary alertness.

Kevyn turns to eye the crowd, offering a small nod to Aenyse. "Seems to be drawing to a close, my lady, aye. One way or another. Hope there's not more violence once it's done." He checks his swordbelt, as if to remind himself he's got a weapon there. He does. He also can't help but make a face at Riderch's mention of fried turnips. "Bringing your own food seems sensible, Ser, when you put it like that. Err, eat well. Or some such."

"You'd really put your own pride over…" Daevon's voice is raised slightly. He's still not attacking, just holding his sword defensively, fending off Arnau's attacks. "Of course you would."

Laurent misses Riderch's grin, but waves a hand in farewell. "Count on me, Ser. I will be there," he calls out without taking his eyes off the field. "We," he corrects, nodding at Kevyn. "We will be there." He tilts his head just slightly to say to Aenyse, "Ser Riderch has a mind for the dramatic — he might have made a fine Tyrell, mayhaps. He doesn't seem to…" Like you, Aenyse, but Laurent's words trail off before he can say it. The crowd is getting out of hand, and he can't help but turn his attention there. "The Stranger's bleeding arse, but this is a mess, isn't it," he growls, rising to his feet. "You men," he calls, reaching out to slap one of his handful of men-at-arms on the back of the head. "Wade in there and support the guards. Stay together, damn your eyes. If one of you is stabbed, I'll stab the rest of you lot myself." That said, he reaches out to snatch his own sword from Willem's hands, scabbard and all. He doesn't move from his position, but seems more comfortable holding the sheathed blade.

Patting the girl's hip gently, Jae sighs, "You'll be safe up here. Visenya will scold anyone that tries to attack us." He tilts a glance to the girl and grins, "You should see her in action. She once walked out in front of an army, told them all they were very naughty boys and to go home." He nods his head, as if stating an absolute fact, "And of course, they did. So imagine what she could do to a crowd of people like this."

Visenya puts down her goblet of wine with a good measure of force, and stands up rather abruptly to walk to the edge of the dais. She grips the railing with her hands until her knuckles are white. "I did." She says in agreement with Jaehaerys, her voice quivering slightly as she watches her brother be pummeled while he stands still. She hisses out, "Why does he do /nothing?/"

Tellur spots the man who threw the missile. Or, more accurately, the man he _thinks_ threw the missile. Grace has pulled herself up to her feet and is growling in tandem with him, though she remains as ordered by Malcolm. The Bastard himself, though, winks at Malcolm, and neatly grabs the edge of the stands and swings himself up into them, jumping into the nascent brawl. What can he do? A rock was thrown. He is not _deliberately_ making it worse. He is defending the wine!

With a glance to Ellia for her murmur, as the fighting among the smallfolk escalate, he replies, "As you wish, my lady." Still, he eases a little closer to Ellia and, though he remains seated, rests his weight more heavily on his feet. His hand does not come to rest on his sword's pommel, but neither does it retreat to relax at his side.

Malcolm does not turn his head as the Snow starts yelling at the commoners and vaults the railing. One of his hands grip the railing hard as he leans forward; the other hand pats the dog. He sighs at Lord Blackmount's response to the Prince.

Aenyse had her eyes on Riderch as he departs, a grim sound at the back of her throat. There was a bit of a pause to Aenyse when Kevyn speaks to her, before her attention snaps towards him. "What?" she asks Kevyn, kinda leaning back in her seat and looking towards the crowd of commoners. Pursing her lips tightly, she glances towards the stands she had abandoned, giving her head a shake as one of her 'sailors' catches her eyes as well. Pressing her hand against the side of her thigh briefly… Aenyse looks back towards Laurent. "Pity he had to be born in the Riverlands then. Lot of muck and grim sticks on the boots in that place," she grumbles, likewise starting to rise to a stand. Apparently, the feeling was mutual. "A riot?" she asks Laurent, briefly looking to the duel.

"You see, Tellur Snow, Ser Malcolm? Do you see why I sometimes bloody adore this place? Even if it burns my spirit and withers my soul at others?" To be fair, the Nobles' section looks mostly — allright. He throws his head back and laughs heartily. "Mind the little dog, will you?" He sets down the basket of chicken and reaches for the flagon to refill his own cup. "I —do hope one of them yields though. Killing like this is a waste." He observes only after he takes a sip. He's also oblivious to Tellur's trouble. Poor Bastard.

Arnau's sword arcs through the air and impacts into Daevon's side, but the other man does nothing to stop the attack, nor does he fight back in turn, appearing as though he has quit. Whatever has been said about Blackmont, he does not swing again immediately, though he does keep his stand ready, pointing his sword at the Targaryen. His words are not whispers, though they are not loud enough to be heard in full by the noisy crowd. Blood… Everything… Pride… Those words heard could mean anything.

Kevyn lets out another of those short "Heh" laughs. "Dramatic, aye, that's one way to put it. But I like him anyhow, I must admit." Though his mood turns more serious when Laurent sends his men out. He doesn't move either, but he gives his sword another pat. Yep, still there. Which is reassuring just now. "I hope it doesn't come to that, my lady, but the crowd seems excitable. And there's little love for the Dornish among some of our folk." Some. He doesn't look terribly fond of them himself, not that he puts it like that precisely.

Alaeyna is similarly dissatisfied by Ellia's instructions, and though she too resumes her seat, she looks displeased to be doing so. She peers across the stands to where Mariya is seated, and then at Elionys, offering the latter a fleeting look of thinly veiled disdain. Words are on the tip of her tongue, but the action on the field draws her attention there.

Kelinyx whimpers as she slips her noble warrior figurine back into her tunic and hugs around Jaehaerys's neck, watching Visenya's seething presence with a worried expression, but her eyes ultimately return to the battle, to the barked words from the Blackmont, her brows pinching together above her little nose.

Malcolm answers the Riverlander wryly, "The nobles or the riot?" He keeps his hand on the dog, presumably so he'll know if it lunges for the chicken. Through gritted teeth, "Death here would be a waste, yes."

One slender brow arches upward at that disdainful look, and for the moment, all of Elionys' focus is drawn from the field and to Alaeyna. "If you take issue with this, my lady, by all means, say so and I will hear your reasons why."

Tellur's trouble? Well, Tellur seems happy enough. His severe injuries from riding out against the Wildlings appear to have mostly mended - enough so that he can grab the man he spotted with the rock and…well. Tellur does not _do_ negotiation. His dog is intent on him, not the chicken right now, and makes little lunges here and there, though remains with Riderch and Malcolm, excited. She barks, loudly.

"Pity," Laurent agrees with a heavy nod of his head, stepping to the edge of the railing to look out over the crowd. His men are pushing and shoving their way down the stands, but haven't quite made it into the fray yet. He scowls as he tracks their progress, glances at the fracas, and then looks back to the field. "I've half a mind to cut a few of them down myself," he says sullenly, now that he's back to watching the duel. "A bit of blood will put a quick end to the chaos, I expect." His hand drifts to his sword, but for now he remains in the stands.

"Wine for the princess, Tommis," Jae says without looking, clutching the girl as tight as she needs, "It's not Daevon that the other fellow needs to worry about. It's Visenya with a pen. Or a loud voice." He chuckles softly and sighs, "I think they're taking a tea break…"

"I do not have any wine," Mariya responds absently and belatedly to Visenya, clearly not listening to the argument. There is a marked frown on her face, eyes flickering between the field and those starting a fight. There are words there that she does not like hearing on the lips of those about to cause trouble. She glances at Arrick, the frown deepening at his whispered words, but shakes her head. As Visenya stands, so does she, unable to keep her own nerves still. Her eyes search for her family and friends on the Dornish side of to reassure herself they are alright. "Perhaps he is attempting to get Lord Arnau to yield," she adds, suddenly more in the moment.

Daevon whispers: "I did not coerce your wife. I did not keep her. The Maiden sent me dreams to find her, to protect her. Your letter. I wish you hadn't sent it. I wish you'd challenged me with words spoken, not written. You have my blood. I have yours, and soon the blood of the Dornish will flow in the stands, mingling with that of those from the Reach. You weren't here at the last riot, at the lynchings and… accept the draw, please."

Daevon's not fighting. It's rather dull this not swinging swords at eachother. Instead he's holding his blade defensively as he speaks.

"I am not your lady, I am her lady, and she alone shall command me," says Alaeyna in reply to Elionys, her gaze flitting from the Targaryen princess to the Martell one by her side. When Mariya rises to her feet across the stands, the Lady Fowler looks to her again, her attention divided between she and the field. What are they even saying down there? She leans forward, as if that might do the trick.

The guards are actually manage to contain some rowdy commoners. And surprisingly there aren't that many men actively causing trouble at the core of the thing. A burly Reachman is pulled off a wiring Dornishman, who looks like he's about to throw a punch but both of them are restrained by some seriously heavy-duty guards. "FUCKING SANDROACHES!" Another man yells before he is grabbed by a steel-clad guard, a little like a mother cat grabbing a kitten by the scruff.

"No. The absolute lack of fucking caring." Riderch observes with a certain wry tone, to Malcolm. He starts to look down at the commoners, with his own hand on his sword now, shaking his head. "Do you think we should intervene?" He eyes the altercation, trying to gauge it, as he hesitates with his wine. "These people — you know this isn't about the duel, right?"

He pauses to gauge Tellur and the dog. "This is what they do instead of all-out war. I don't know what to think." He admits.

"If you seek to murder the smallfolk in this city, I will take issue with that, and you, my lady," Elionys replies in an abruptly firm, even tone. "Just as I am certain that you would, should I visit Dorne and attempt to do the same, regardless of what words had come out of their mouth before it happened."

Aenyse steps beside Laurent, her own eyes narrowing as she glances down over the fracas, fingers curling against the wood of the railing. "That would make sense, then, Ser Cockshaw," says Aenyse, grimacing more. A beat more - the duel seems to have halted as well. A sigh and breath out, and Aenyse rolls her neck. "I think that the guards will handle it well enough," she says, thwacking her hand against the wood before she steps away from the railing - moving to take a seat at a bench nearish Laurent.

Kevyn watches the rowdy commoners more than the duel itself for a moment, so it takes him a moment to realize the sword swinging has stopped. He squints at that, puzzled, and looks between Laurent and Aenyse. As if they might have some insight to this technique.

Malcolm says, presumably to the pup, as he strokes her despite her lunges, "When you are older, most likely. He must fight his battles alone 'til then." Riderch's words get his attention. He studies the man long and hard and touches his own hilt, "If there is a threat to the ladies, Kingdom or Dornish, I will stand with you in defense." He drops his voice as he continues.

"Perhaps." Visenya says to Mariya with a soft sigh. She declines the offer of wine from Jaehaerys' servant with a lift of her hand. She watches the two men parlay with a rather exhausted look on her face before asking, "…Where is Princess Elionys?"

Laurent's eyes roll at the lack of action on the pitch, and he curses foully. "They've lost their stomach for it," he complains, glancing to Kevyn. "I might have expected as much from Ser Daevon — if he were for a fight, he might have stood with us at the trial — but never from Blackmont. He's a bloody-minded bastard if ever I've seen one." His dark eyes drift from the disappointment on the field to where his men are just now reaching what remains of the brawl, but there's no joy to be had there either. He curses again, and settles heavily back onto the bench beside Aenyse, resting his chin on one hand. "A poor spectacle after all, isn't it?"

Tellur pauses, somewhere in the middle of the mess, hand on someone's collar. He is watching…the field? Instead of the brawl?

Feeling the eyes of the knight on her, Aenyse turns her eyes towards Kevyn first, quirking her face to one side in curiousity. Pursing her lips, she too glances to the field. "Yes - I'd imagine that Ser Laurent is right. Perhaps delivering their final little snits at each other before one or both of them yield," she says, drawing a gloved hand up her face to brush a wayward strand of hair behind an ear. "Poor indeed," she admits. "But hopefully whatever they were creating spectacle for is solved, lest they find themselves here again."

The slur against the Dornish causes Mariya to wince as it is yelled and carries among the people and moves back to reclaim her seat. She does not wish to watch the guards break up the unrest there. Instinctively, her eyes move to Arrick before returning to Visenya. "I believe I saw her with my sister and the other Dornish." In fact, she was just checking to make sure the fighting had not reached their platform. For now her attention is with Daevon and Arnau.

Arnau whispers: I did challenge you with words, Ser, when you called upon me. You would apologize with one breath, and deny I have any cause for grievance with the other, making your words hollow. I said I would cross swords, and thereafter, bear you no ill-will, as I had no intent to cause great harm or kill, and that is all the letter was for.

Arnau remains in a fight stance, sword pointed, but he does not strike forward and for a time, it makes for a very boring display as the two men speak to one another quietly. Then he turns his head slightly, to look at the crowd, and calls out loud for all to hear. "Lady Yael!" It is an abrupt bellow after so much quiet from the man. "Ser Daevon Targaryen maintains that you were never coerced by he or his House and that he has done you no wrong. Has enough blood of the dragon been spilled to satisfy you this day?"

Kevyn shakes his head. "I'd not believe it of either of them and yet…" Not that he finishes that thought. He's far too busy gawking into the stands, at the woman Arnau is yelling at. The name makes his head lift with recognition, and his eyes narrow to glare in that direction. He takes a deep breath, and waits rapt for a reply. He's probably not the only one.

Not the only one. Tellur still has someone by the collar, and waits for an answer before punching.

"COME ON THEN! COME ON!" Oof. Another rowdy commoner is taken down as a few troublemakers are bodily hauled off. "LOOK AT THAT PRANCIN' GIRL! SHE CAN'T EVEN KILL A DORNISHMAN!" Note that at this point, these outbursts have been decreased heavily as more guards haul more men away and things return to something of a semblance of normal.

Daevon whispers: That was not my intention. I wanted this duel, but not the fighting in the stands. I wanted the blood, both mine and yours and end to it finally. But if the price is more unrest in the city, then it's not worth it.

Daevon whispers something back to Arnau and then his gaze too goes towards Yael, to see her response.

Malcolm stands, "I will not wade in with swords against smallfolk unless it's unavoidable, but perhaps we might stand in better position for defence…." Then his head snaps around as the Dornish Knight calls to Lady Yael, and he freezes there, watching the Lady to hear her answer.

Arrick stays seated as Mariya rises and then sits again, he's not too interested in the happenings of the common folk either, no instead, Arrick has been watching the fight or as it stands now, Arnau Blackmont yelling towards his lady wife.

Kelinyx's deep blue eyes flit between the fighters and the royalty, she still hanging to Prince Jaehaerys by one arm while the unspent energy of her nervousness seems eager to explode. Somehow, the once-urchin keeps her control.

Laurent, too, is snared by that shouted name. "The Crone's dusty snatch," he says, as though a great mystery were just laid bare before him. His dark eyes search out the woman, and his grin at the sight of her is feral, vicious. "There would not be enough blood in seven kingdoms," he says, shaking his head, "Had Ser Daevon wronged my wife…"

"I'd hope it's not getting to that point." Riderch has his own hand on his swordhilt here but doesn't really do anything rash. He'd also have to put down his wine. He gives Malcolm a little look. "They're not the only ones." He says simply, with a slight narrowing of his eyes. One might note that he went from laughing like a madman to dead serious in just a matter of moments as he looks towards Tellur. "Oh come on. Is this really bloody necessary?"

The smallfolk and their cries are now a distant memory, and Alaeyna is instead moved to train her gaze on the Lady Yael, who sits at her side, when her husband calls out to her from the field. She watches the woman with the same anticipation as many others do, who turn their heads in her direction, awaiting her response.

Pacing across the front of the stands back towards the Dornish entourage, Alaryn Martell adds his own gaze to those fixed on Yael and her company, head canting slightly to the side as those orbs narrow intently. There's little apparent inclination to engage in the conflict amongst the onlookers— his blade would only complicate this matter, though those that know the prince could likely tell the slow simmer by the tightness of his jaw, the clenching and unclenching of his teeth.

"You look as though you know why this duel has been done," says Aenyse, her posture easy as she looks towards the man. "Daevon wronged his wife, I take it?" Another beat, and Aenyse grins a bit more. "But perhaps not if that pretty prince could make you bleed as well as he seemingly did Lord Blackmont," she says. "But I feel you might be made of sterner stuff than that."

"The Lady Yael is Lord Arnau's wife, aye," Kevyn says. There's a flatness to his tone as he says the woman's name. "I could easily believe a fight was over her. She is the sort who has a way of causing trouble, from all I know of her." He strains his ears to whatever might come of this.

Releasing the hands once held, Yael rises slowly but boldly enough that her presence can be marked in stands with her dark waves of hair and the sharp green of her gown. It renders her an easy target for the crowd, for glares or blows or scorn alike. She looks to none of it and none of them, only to her husband at the belowing notes of his voice. Her dark eyes slide from one man to the other, narrowing as she focuses on Daevon. When she speaks, her voice rings loud and clear, "Although you had me drawn back from the safety of our borders on the edges of blades, Ser Daevon Targaryen, I bear you no ill will. Blood enough has been spilled to satisfy me, Husband. You have seen well to my honor."

"They Lady Yael was kidnapped, a short time ago," Laurent explains, lips spread with black humor as he looks from the field to Aenyse. "It led to murder, and worse." He barks a laugh that is entirely bereft of humor, and glances at Kevyn. "My friend's family suffered," he says, reaching out to clap Kevyn on the shoulder, "As did Dorne. If Ser Daevon had a hand in it…" His voice trails off as Yael rises, and her words strike him like a hammer. His jaw drops, and a wordless sound of shock escapes him.

And when the lady says that, Tellur, for whatever reason, drops the man he was brawling with, and begins to sidle back out of the area. His puppy, Grace, has her hackles drop and she puts her head under Malcolm's fingers. And attempts to look moon-eyed at Riderch's chicken.

Visenya's eyes narrow into slits as she watches the interaction between husband and wife. She grips the railing of the dais briefly before she releases it, and turns to sit down. She picks up her forgotten goblet to take a swallow before turning to look pointedly to Mariya, "What do you think would have happened if the Reachmen had found Lady Blackmont before my brother, Princess?'

Riderch's grin bursts impossibly wide at the dog, sniffing at the chicken, probably because this simple animal's simple desires are something he can simply identify with here. He shakes his head at Malcolm. "I don't think we need to draw blood here. Not yet anyway." And he looks towards Tellur. "You can feed her, you know. If you want." Hand's off the sword and he takes a swill of his wine, looking finally towards the field. And his eyes widen a little at Yael's statement. Say whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

Kelinyx half-slumps against Jaehaerys, her tension bubbling off into confused exhaustion. Her eyes go back to Daevon, sympathy and worry mixing up on her creased brow.

Malcolm flashes Ser Riderch a bright smile. The Lady Yael's standing up, draws his attention back to the dais as he takes in her words. He gives a nod of approval at her response. He caresses the head of the pup with fondness and says quietly to Riderch, "As I said, it is the Lady's opinion of her treatment ought matter most."

The tension and annoyance in the mind of Prince Jaehaerys is evident, as the polished wood beneath his hand begins to creak in his grip. The white bearded man frowns and narrows his eyes at both Lady Yael, and his kinsman on the field of honour. He releases his gentle grip on Keli, "It's time you were getting down, child." Were his tone any cooler his words would crystalise in the air before him, though it doesn't appear to be aimed at the girl specifically. "Is your guardian here?" He doesn't look at her, nor anyone else but Yael and Daevon, his eyebrows knitting together. The conversation sparked up behind him draws his attention for a moment, "We all know perfectly well what any band of anyone would have done." When the child slumps onto him, however, his grip returns, to hold her steady, grandfatherliness infiltrating his all too stoic appearance, "It will be okay." I hope, he murmers inside his own head.

Daevon's expression can't be seen due to his helmet. His response to Yael's words, that insult to his honour, there's a shift in his stance, back to aggressive. A look to the stands. Is there still riotting or has that been curbed?

Eonn comes riding up on his big white mare, coming through the city gates at a hard run.

There were no glares given by Aenyse. A little snort, however, leaves her as the woman says what she does, the Greyjoy stretching as she rises to her feet. "Well. I guess the spectacle is over," she says then. "I should, perhaps, return to my men. The almost-trouble probably made them antsy," she says, rolling her neck a bit. "Thank you for the mead, and the company, Sers."

The rioting that Tellur may or may not have been encouraging seems mostly on pause right now. The Snow vaults back over to Blackwood and the other Snow and then says to Riderch "Thanks - we'd love some chicken." He shrugs a little bit at Ser Malcolm, as if to say 'It's over'.

Jaeherys's shifting mood seems to flow into troubled Keli, and she settles her hands on her daggers. "I will stay with you until he comes," she says of Eonn, more of that caged animal demeanor returning, though it's aimed outward, bristling to provide silent warning to any who would add to the mounting tension.

To be completely fair, Riderch has eaten his fill. So why not be generous with the leftovers? He smirks at Tellur and starts drinking again as he begins to pace a bit. Refilling his flagon first with a thin, wry smile.

"Oh I know, I know, Ser Malcolm, chivalry and all that, and the Lady is in fact always right. You know, I fell over her garden wall once and she gave me cheese." He points at Yael with a crook of his finger. This is Blackwood-speak for approval.

"Well then," Tameron Sand murmurs, with a look towards Lady Ellia, "that's an end to it. Perhaps we should go before the smallfolk become agitated again."

"Speaking of which -" Riderch smirks at the Stormlander Bastard, "I'm going to take a little walk."

Mariya glances at Yael as almost all on the grounds do. But, it is only for a moment before her eyes rest again on the Maiden's Knight. Yael's statement that the fight is over causes much of the tension to wash from her rigid posture and she finally unclenches her hands. Daevon lived. It takes her a moment to gather herself before replying, "Though it would certainly depend on the Reachman, I do not believe it would have gone well for her. Were it the Knights who fought in the Trial, I doubt we would have seen her alive again." She stands again and moves to get a better look, as if disbelieving both men survived.

"I wonder how much of that suffering was caused by the lady, Ser," Kevyn mutters to Laurent. Though, for the moment, he seems relieved that more blood won't be spilled today. "This is done, at least, it seems, with no more dead."

Eonn rides up to the edge of the grounds, where he brings the big heavy mare to a skidding stop and stares out at the armoured men.

"It's not over," Grandfather Jae says sourly and frowns deeper, causing the lines on his already lined face to develop small lines of their own, "It may officially be over, but there's an enmity here now. Stronger than before." He glances to the child and sighs, "It is at once fortunate and unfortunate that you have to learn of this so soon." His purple eyes return to the field and he shakes his head dejectedly, "The only thing to wash this stain, will be blood. Ours or theirs, the Gods don't care."

Malcolm nods agreement to Tellur. He is watching the new arrival ride up, still standing. He spares another smile for Riderch, "Hospitality for the lost and forlorn is indeed a good quality in anyone. Perhaps one day we will split a pot of paella…." He nods again as the Riverlander speaks of leaving, "It was kind of you to share your seats." He watches the Maiden knights betrothed with approval. He bows to Riderch, and starts to make his way towards Eonn, taking a little walk himself it seems.

Visenya nods gravely, "It probably would have not ended well for her. But, instead of being grateful, she has her husband threaten my brother's life. She has lied about my brother's character." As Mariya stands, so does Visenya. She follows the Dornishwoman towards the railing, "You know my brother to be a champion of women, Princess. He saved you, did he not? Sheltered and protected you at his own detriment, even." She pauses briefly, and turns her head to look to Mariya again, "These words this woman speaks are slander against my brother. Lies of the worst sort. I beg you." She reaches for one of Mariya's hands, "Do not let my brother's reputation be ruined when he sought to help /that/ woman. She is a liar."

Daevon wants to fight. Even though he's bleeding, his limbs are aching, the urge to just continue is coiled in every single muscle of his. He grips that sword, and really, he's hoping that Arnau won't listen to his wife. And just as thaat wash of rage comes over him it leaves and he lowers his blade.

Helms keep it nearly impossible to see the scowl on Arnau's face directed at Daevon, words muffled and softer, though a few are intelligible to the audience. "Persist… words dishonoring… good intention… Ser…. I would not be…" He cuts off as his wife stands in the crowd, turning to look at Yael with a heart still beating rapidly and full of restrained energy. Whatever he mutters next is too low for even Daevon to hear. Perhaps it is a prayer. Perhaps a curse. But his words to not bear the sour note of disappointment that would suggest the latter. "As my gracious wife is satisfied with the blood split for her honor this day, and Ser Daevon Targaryen no longer wishes to continue this fight, I will act by honor and not use this sword to draw violence down upon him again this day, should he also put aside his arms." Lord Blackmont finally lowers his blade that has been pointed at the Prince.

"I remember," Kelinyx says for Jaehaerys to hear. "Shame does not die as easy as men."

Eonn gazes at Daevon for a longish moment, watching as the man lowers his blade. Then he turns his head to seek out Yael. He fixes her with his bright blue eyes, intent though the rest of his face remains more or less blank.

"I suppose it is," Laurent agrees with a shake of his head. "We will see you soon, then." This he calls to Aenyse as she takes her leave, his tone making it somehow seem like a complaint. As his attention returns to the field, he takes a half-step to stand nearer to Kevyn. "More than a bit, I'd wager," he offers. "Were I in Lord Arnau's place, I might pursue this further, and my wife's wishes be damned."

Daevon's blade is lowered too, and he just nods at that whispered words.

Words said and the smallest of addresses given, Yael shifts to move from the stands. Her path carrying her down towards the field and to her husband, feet lightly bounding from one step to another. She pauses only briefly as Arnau speaks, before deciding that this has already been settled and joining the pair of them on the field. Her guards are left to trail somewhat helplessly after their lady. She pauses, gaze meeting Eonn's as she stalls at the edge of the field. It is but a moment, before she tosses her hair over her shoulder and continues towards the former combatants with her hands extended, "Husband." Daevon is offered a delicate nod of her head, almost a smile touching her lips.

Kelinyx struggles not to dash out to Eonn, but even she could surmise that any more twists in the already complicated event might lead to deeper troubles, still. She watches Eonn's face, taking in every aspect and hint of his thoughts she possibly could at such a distance.

Eonn unbuckles his sword, still in its sheath, from its belt. It's a pretty thing, with a silver gowned maiden on the pommel. He holds it up at Yael, not by the hilt but sideways, gripping it through its battered old leather sheath. Some communicative gesture.

"Where I in Lord Arnau's place…" But Kevyn doesn't finish that thought. With some effort, he stops glaring in the direction of Yael's voice and turns his attention back to the field. "Well, it's done. I should be heading home. I shall see you soon, Ser Laurent. Seven keep you."

"They have so far," Laurent says with rough-edged amusement. "I will see you soon, Ser Kevyn." He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the flagon of mead in his left hand all but forgotten, and settles in to watch as the spectacle winds down.

When Yael descends to the field, Elionys stands, amethyst gaze turning again on Alaeyna. "Let me be clear, my lady, I understand that you need not submit to my orders, but I will dearly hope that you will do so for your own Princess, and that this matter has been put to rest. I saw him as well, and should anything untoward occur, I will be forced to revisit an issue I should like to leave behind. Good evening, my lady. Princess. Ser." Both Ellia and Tameron are given a nod, and then the Targaryen Princess turns away, moving through the noble box once more.

There's a pensive frown at Yael's description of events, though Alaryn looks not to her, but upwards towards his younger sister, canting his head slightly towards Mariya. Not that he can do a great deal to read her face from his position, but there's clearly a moment's thought there. It's another, rather distinctive armed man near the Targaryen dais that draws the armored Martell's attention, and with a shifting clatter of metal and leather it's in Eonn's direction that the Raptor strides, pausing a polite span off and waiting his turn— or maybe he's just interested in the exchange with Yael.

Daevon stands there alone now, sticky with blood, sword still in hand. Where's a healer when you need one. With the adrenaline gone everything's starting to ache.

"You know I believe your brother of the highest character, Princess." Mariya is studying the pair on the field now, realizing that despite the fact that the fight is hopefully over, that what Visenya has said is true. "And I would never believe him to take her at sword point. I know she has the wrong idea of him. But, what would you have me do?" She does not refuse Visenya's hands, but the gesture surprises her. Another glance is given to the field and she sees Yael already making her way to Arnau. It is clear she wishes to go to Daevon.

Eonn is quite still, holding that sheathed sword and staring at Yael bleakly from the back of his big white mare.

Loryn Tyrell had been watching the duel from the fringes amid a gaggle of other youths, but as the crowd starts to disperse, he makes his way towards his brother, who seems to have been left alone. "Hey Laurent.", he greets lightly, "How about walking home together for a drink?"

Flagon in hand, Riderch mills through the noble area even as he glances idly at the field, just shaking his head now. His chest puffs up with a slight yawn.

"You are a Princess of Dorne." Visenya says to Mariya, "That woman is Dornish. You have an incredible amount of influence over her. Even if you don't realize it." She squeezes her hand lightly before releasing it. "Don't let this be about one side or the other. He will be your husband, and she has slandered him." That said, she turns to walk off the dais and towards the field proper.

Jae turns his head to look over his shoulder again and finds, alas, a small child in the way. He arcs his head up slightly to look at his kinswoman through the corner of his eye, "Go to him. Show unity, if not actual compassion. Arnau has his wife, Daevon requires his sister." His gaze would flick to Mariya, but it's impossible at this angle, "And anyone else that wishes to be there." His gaze returns to the two on the field, "Tommis, fetch Ser Theor. He is to escort my cousin to the field."

Alaeyna watches as Yael drifts off, her expression drawn in the wake of the duel's conclusion. When the Targaryen princess rises, she does too. "A fine speech. But for what? He is a distant memory to all but you, it would seem. Worry not for him. I shan't."

Kevyn enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Arrick finally stands as the fighting has ended and Princess Visenya has said what she needed, he then says rather pointedly, "Princess Mariya, if you wish to go down to the field, you should." Arrick's eyes move back down to the field and he then offers in passing, "I will not be joining you however." Arrick's eyes follow Princess Visenya as she heads in the direction they'll need to walk.

Keli, too, departs, mingling, slipping away between adult bodies and virtually disappearing. An impressively short time later, she looms behind Bottle, behind Eonn, mingled with their blended shadow and looking where he looks. Her face shows no judgment or anger or fear, it is the stare of the statue, of the fine painting, of the watcher, the observer, the learner.

"My memory is not so flighty as that, my lady," replies Elionys, looking back at the Lady Fowler. "I am quite focused when need be, but I am glad to hear it is unnecessary." A fleeting smile is given, there might even be some amusement present as she turns to continue off, moving toward Riderch.

"I already spoke with her husband. It did not go well." However, Mariya does not say that she will not speak to Yael about her words in public. There is time for that later. For now, she is merely glad that Daevon is alive. "Yes. I do." Mariya glances to Arrick and gives him a warm smile, finally able to now that she does not feel as if she is carrying the weight of the sky on her shoulders. "I understand." And with that, she's off the dais and making her way to the field, and Daevon. Her pace is too slow to be a run, but it is certainly not a measured walk.

Laurent is on his feet, alone in the stands, a flagon of mead in hand. His arms are folded across his broad chest, and he seems displeased with the result of the duel. He turns at the sound of Loryn's voice, glowering briefly at his younger brother, before he nods. "Willem," he calls to his squire, then lifts his arms to allow the boy to belt his sword around his waist. "See to my horse. I'll walk with my brother." That done, he starts down the stairs. "Did you see this sorry spectacle," he asks as he draws nearer.

Malcolm waits quietly near Eonn, watching to see what happens with Lady Yael and the sword. From his expression this is nearly as interesting as the duel. Nearly.

Lord Arnau Blackmont is as good as his word. He does not attack Daevon when he sees the man's weapon is lowered, nodding in return in agreement that this strife is over. "This duel is at an end, for concern for all the lives here today, both sides with strikes on the other for their satisfactions!" He steps away from the other knight, raising his blade. "Let it be known that with great hardship suffered at the hands of those in the Reach, the Lady Yael is alive and capable of graciousness and forgiveness still! Let it also be known that House Blackmont will not abide being wronged in silence!" As he sees his wife begin to leave the stands, he strides forward and off the field, holding his sword down as though it were a dagger instead and fumbling to take off his helm with one hand. Sweat sticks his short hair to his head and marks his lined brow. Lines of blood trail down his chest marking where hard blows landed on his person in lines of rich red. "Wife," he greets her.

"Yes, I did.", Loryn confirms and shrugs, "I believe this is more sensible than killing each other. Either one had been a sad loss. And it was an impressive fight. Remind me to never challenge either of them.", he jokes and looks up to his brother as he falls into step with him to walk off to the Holdfast. "How have you been?"

Grandpa Jae is finally allowed to be sour old man with a grudge and years of experience holding grudges, chips on shoulders and various other character flaws. He steps back a few steps and slumps into his chair. He snaps his fingers and a goblet of wine appears in his grip, by way of Tommis, the ever present valet. He sips from it and listens, carefully, to the pronouncement made by the gentleman in the armour. He lowers his goblet from his mouth and grips it in both hands while steepling his free fingers in front of him, "Nor do we, Lord Arnou. Nor do we."

As Mariya heads down to the field, Ser Arrick makes his move to take up residence among the Dornish, who look to be preparing to leave. Regardless of their need to get away, Arrick takes a seat and lets his eyes follow the youngest Martell Princess as she goes to meet her betrothed.

Loryn enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Visenya lets Mariya pass her on the way to Daevon. She hesitates a moment before turning to go back to the dais. Her eyes follow Arrick as he leaves it, and her own path is interrupted. Instead, she follows the Dornishman towards the stands. "You should apologize to me." She says to his back.

And it so happens that Riderch's walk has taken him towards a pillar near the edge of this seating area. He leans against it with a ope hand, staring out at the tourney field. His shoulders shrug again, indicating a silent resignation at all this mess. It's a single sigh that he utters, catching Elionys' approach only out of the corner of his eye, and his head whips about. "Hullo, Princess." He mutters audibly. "That could have gone..better, I suppose." His teeth briefly show i a smile though.

Laurent enters the city through the Tourney Gate.

Daevon murmurs a few words to Mariya before he's taken off by Grandpa Jae's men to the healers or whatever it is that they're doing.

At the sight of Eonn, Yael stalls at her bloodied husband's side with her hands lifting to remove his battered helm. It is just pulled down, before she turns towards Ser Daevon's man and the offered blade. "Put it away. I have not forgotten that you gave it to me to hold, Eonn," she says slowly, facing the man's recriminations without a flinch. Her dark eyes are hard in their own way, not so different from the woman he found in the woods. "I believe you, both of you, acted to aid me in your way." Turning she nods towards the reuniting Mariya and Daevon, hugging the dented helm. Her dark eyes lift to Arnau, "Need you a healer?"

As Arrick takes that seat his eyes go from a Martell Princess to a Targaryen one, who he says up to, "Apologize? For what? For not toasting you?" Arrick raises an imaginary goblet and says, "To you, Princess Viseyna!" Arrick smirks and then rises. "What is it? Do you have more to say about my brothers and sisters of Dorne?"

As Jaehaerys' men usher Daevon off the field, Mariya follows closely behind, relief plain on her face that the man is alive. She will not be brushed off so easily and she would see him rested and taken care of. Her own words to him are soft and reassuring as they move away.

Eonn has a skill for staying perfectly still. His horse shifts a little under him, though. Whatever he means with that gesture, well, he means it to be seen. His eyes do flick over to take in Alaryn's approach, and go back to Yael the instant she speaks to him. "I acted to aid you, My Lady," he tells her, "And defend you. I never turned the point of this sword at you. I would neither harm nor dishonour you, and I cannot see that I did either thing." He speaks over the sword, but then obeys, buckling it to his belt again. He looks away from the woman to do it.

Swallowing the last of his wine, Jae releases his grip on his goblet into the capable and battery-like hands of Tommis. Battery like? Get it? Cause their ever ready. Yeah, yeah, roll your eyes all you want, I've had a long day. I need the XP to boost my own "pun making" skill, alright? Ugh. Anyway, Jae stands slowly from his seat and heads towards the stairs… trying to figure out where his damn horse has been stabled.

Malcolm bares his teeth at Lord Arnau's words and frowns at Yael's, but says nothing, it not being his place. He watches Daevon and Mariya leave with concern, but stays nearly as still as Eonn as he does.

"Hello," Elionys replies to Riderch, a faint smile curving her lips as she nears the Riverlander. "I was hoping to speak with yo—" the words trail off as the loud toast goes up for her cousin, gaze drawn around to Visenya and Arrick. "Ah. With you," she concludes, quieter and sounding a touch distracted. "If you have the time?"

"Oh. I forgot. It's completely acceptable for you and your lot to consistently slander my people, but Seven forbid we say /anything/ in regards to you. While you routinely insult us on our land, and speak lies about our brother's and anyone else we care about!" Visenya snaps back, "Do you have ANY idea how insufferable you are?!"

Perhaps then Keli will be in Eonn's sight, and if seen she will quietly approach Bottle's side, but not interject or interrupt. Her still presence is her show of solidarity, proof of her loyalty, and it is to Eonn, whatever that might lead to.

"So when you say the edges of blades…" Alaryn considers, stepping around the mounted Eonn's flank whilst giving the powerful horse ample space, eyes going from that blade to the Dornishwoman, "You mean one that was in your hands?" The tone is neutral— almost too neutral. The Martell's head tilts subtly, and one eyebrow arches quizzically. There's a moment when a sidelong glance meets Eonn's consideration of him with an almost identical flit on the periphery of his vision. There's a beat, and a golden coin goes arcing through the air towards the sellsword, flicked in a languid, easy to intercept course. The Raptor's teeth clench, more profoundly than with the tension of the earlier violence, and it takes several breaths to calm his breathing properly, "At least I picked the right cause to offer a second. You should know that it is also my sister's tale, and urging, that you diminish. A Princess of Dorne, and scion of Nymeros Martell." He seems to have no more to say, turning harshly and approaching Daevon and said sister.

"Ask your sister, my Prince," says Eonn to Alaryn, "Who's hands held my blade." His expression is sad now. It seems he won't bother about the tumbling coin, letting it glitter in the air for a moment, but his hand flicks out and snatches it out of space at the last instant.

There's a little lightening of Riderch's countenance here as he lifts the flagon towards her. He seems rather alert and focused, perhaps he actually didn't have that much to drink after all. He looks towards Elionys with a slight tilt of his head, also cutting himself off as he looks towards the — erm, issue that Arrick and Visenya seem to be having. "Time? I have nothing but time right now, I think." His smile is genuine, but a little tense with what's going on. "Need a drink? I think somebody does." His tone is wry. So. Wry.

"You did act to aid nor did you lift your blade to harm," Yael replies, hands tighteing around her husband's helm as she takes a brisk step forward. Her eyes are dark with emotion, face turned up towards him and well within the point of his sword as she stands on the field. "What you do not see, good sir, is that at no time did you or your Prince leave me with a choice. I was taken from the woods, were I had escaped by my own virtues alone, again by men whom I did not know… To a city where the Prince himself confessed might seek to end my life. And," she pauses, held tilting and cocked like a raptor. "It is shocking that I might have feared you? That my husband would find fault with these actions and seek to make it clear that I was not dishonoured to one and all, by blood and under the light of the gods?" Her voice never rises, remaining calm in but for the rush of emotions in her sharp gaze. "What husband of good stead and dignity would not seek to leave all bad blood on the grounds of a tournament, so that we could instead regard the good of your deeds?"

Arrick's smirk doesn't leave his face as he rises, "I did not do anything of the sort! You are more than welcome to take this up with the person who in fact has done exactly as you've said!" Arrick points down to the field where Lady Yael stands and he says, "There she is, go do what you need to do or say what you need to say!" Arrick then through gritted teeth says, "Good day Princee Visenya." The Dornishman then turns about and follows those brothers and sisters of Dorne to the exits.

Malcolm listens to Prince Alaryn with real attention and some visible admiration. His face goes blank again at Yael's words.OOC Throwing. Sorry.

Elionys' gaze follows Arrick as he strides away, and only then does she look back to Riderch, tension easing as the smile returns. "I am not sure," she admits, shaking her head. "Which means that I just might. Should we go elsewhere? It's a bit mad here right now, and I think I am starting to get a headache from it all."

Visenya's eyes flash with anger as Arrick turns his back on her. She rather impulsively reaches down for the half-empty wooden cup that someone has left on the stand, and hurls it at the back of Arrick's head.

"I did all I could to ease your fear," says Eonn morosely. "And gave you my sword to show you your choice. You did not command I leave you alone in those woods, my lady, you commanded that you hold my sword, and you rode willingly with me. I am no kidnapper." There's no vitriol in his tone, and no challenge.

Helm removed, it is easier to see the way Arnau's expression tightens as Eonn rides up, and the Blackmont steps a little closer and in front of his wife, though neither expression nor action are personal, just protective. One cannot be to careless of men riding up armed. He lets his wife speak for herself at first, before he does. "Being kidnapped and harried, to say the least, by strange men for a month does not lend a person towards trusting another strange man. A fact which no one seems to be willing to even take the time to think about before denials fall from lips." And which is largely the crux of a lot of this. "I will need a healer," he answers Yael with a slight nod.

"I have spoken with Mari." Of course he has. Aryn's step pauses with a forceful dislodging of dirt and grass courtesy of one armored boot. "She told the same story— that Lord Arnau was captive, and his wife secreted from those who would do either of them harm until his release." He seems about to add something entirely different than the amendment he finally settles on, mouth opening once then closing, clenching, before he looks back over one shoulder, eyes flaring despite their dark depths. "In fact, she said it was she who urged those actions. A very different scenario than being accomplish to abduction, -whatever- one's emotions feared in the moment." That gaze settles on Yael, momentarily, "That it occurred, -caused- bloodshed out of efforts to prevent it, -and- was then misrepresented as a violent act against you does /nothing/ to clean your honor."

It looks as though Riderch's shrug is matter-of-fact. "Some things just don't bloody die. Don't I know that, though?" He observes, as vague as man in his position could possibly be. Setting the flagon and the cup down though, it is clear what his thoughts are in response to Elionys' request. "Might want to watch your step, though, Princess. This wasn't exactly the best crowd. And I'm not talking about those fools throwing punches and whatever else they could get their hands around. But let's." He flickers a tight smile towards her, even as he again shoots glances about the embers of whatever burning argument the Dornish and the Royals were having. Well, the other royals.

The goblet goes past the Dornishman's head and he turns about rather suddenly, calling back to the angered Princess with his own bit of angered words, "You missed! Trust that I'll be more weary when I turn my back on you and your ilk from now on!" Arrick then turns about as before, keeping to his word though he keeps an eye over his shoulder as he heads off.

"Very true," Elionys' gaze turns from the Knight beside her to the ground, nose crinkling slightly. "It did get a bit out of hand here tonight," she agrees, reaching a hand out to take his arm, and carefully make her way toward the road. "There is something I need to ask of you…" she begins, glancing back at the group behind them only once.

Eonn's gaze flicks to that thrown cup, then goes to Arnau. He says, "What would you have had me do, my lord?"

"Maybe you should just GO HOME!" Visenya retorts to Arrick's back before she turns rather abruptly to head in the opposite direction. One of her maids approaches the enraged Princess to hold out a cloth. The girl begins, "Princess-"

"Oh, shut up, Pansy!" Visenya snaps as she wipes off her sticky fingers before she snatches up her palfrey's reins, and begins leading the mount towards the road proper.

As Elionys loops her arm, Blackwood straightens his back a little. It's a little formal thing and he tries not to grin a little too much as he walks. "Out of hand? You can say that"I had a civil conversation with a Greyjoy that didn't involve anyone bleeding to death." Riderch observes, his voice a little incredulous. He looks back over his shoulder as the chaos is still erupting behind them, flying cups, the like. And all he does is shrug with a slight shake of his head. "Well, here I am, ready to be asked this thing. Let's get out of here before this place burns, mmm?"

Malcolm quietly steps to the opposite side of Eonn's horse from Kelinyx. His hands are well away from his hilt, and his body language casual. His gaze is respectfully lowered his expression especially intent and respectful when the Dornish Prince speaks. He freezes again as Eonn speaks.

Kelinyx is but a still shadow with sapphires inset for eyes.

"If House Martell will continue to speak with their lips pressed to Dragon ass, instead of standing by their own people, they can kindly refrain from doing so around me or my wife." Bruised and bloody, with patience in short supply, Arnau is blunt towards Alaryn. "The honor of my wife is not your concern and as your family clearly has no interest in the welfare of my House I have no interest in you or your opinions. Especially as you have never even bothered to ask us what happened." Though his blood boils, he is markedly more polite to Eonn. "All I have asked for is recognition of mistake without excuses and apology. This duel never needed to happen had such words been sincerely spoken."

Gesturing sharply at one of the guards, Yael indicates that they are to fetch that self-same healer. Go. She moves closer to the protective stance of her husband, curling one arm around the helmet and using the other to support him. There is no care taken for her gown, arm wrapping around his plated waist so that he might lean on her. It rather reduces the effectiveness of his protective stance. Her expression hardens as she looks to regard Alaryn. "Be it well, then. That it is not you who tends to my honor, Ser. A slight was seen and has been laid to rest." Her words are soft, echoing her husband's. When she regard's Eonn it is with a softer gaze than hawk-shapr eyes. Decidedly, she promps, "Come husband. We'll get you seen to. Good day, sir and Ser."

Eonn nods to Arnau, and then looks back to Yael. He dismounts from his tall white mare and walks towards her.

A proper squire would take the horse and keep her steady. Keli is no squire, and instead she shifts, finally, a few steps forward, eyes like a night owl, ears like a bat, recording every moment of this with unusual stillness given her earlier demeanor.

"Your wife effectively called my sister a liar in front of a crowd, Lord Arnau." The words are dangerous, low. And lead swiftly into a laugh with no warmth. "/I/ should be making the issue here. These men tried to save your wife, while your own life was in danger— whether she would have lived on her own is immaterial. My interest is the welfare of Dorne. Not Blackmont. Not solely Martell. If you think taking offense to those who help you, bleeding them for doing it improperly and.." he chuckles again, shaking his head, "Not apologizing to you for it afterwards is showing the solidarity of and securing the future of our people, you're right— this is not worth my time. A Martell did speak to you, a Martell did try to explain and prevent this. That you did not take her word is not my responsibility. Seething insults to my entire -House- might be worthy of offense… from another source." An appreciative nod is cast to the retreating Eonn, a smile and a bow to those looking on, and then he returns to his initial course— pursuing Mariya.

"Maybe your sister should not keep secrets and only speak to one person present in a situation before making up her mind as to what happened. It is a token of wisdom you seem to be lacking as well." Lord Arnau is not, in the least, impressed by low dangerous words. "Allow me to further educate you, as your tutors have been sadly lacking: Blackmont and the Red Mountains the castle sits in are part of Dorne. House Blackmont guards part of the northern and western borders of Dorne, against both the Stormlands and the Reach, of a kindgom that has tried to conquer our own and will likely try again. If you, as you claim, are interested in the welfare of Dorne, then you should be interested in the welfare of all its Houses." He turns away from Alaryn and towards Eonn instead with raise brows for the man's approach and no shortage of tension, courtesy of others.

"Apparently… you failed to grasp that I just said that." Alaryn smiles, though without turning around, it's hard to see the genuine amusement, this time. "I shouldn't be surprised. Let me try to be simpler: it's about more than either of our Houses. Though please, tell me more about wisdom. I'm eager to hear all the good you've done here…" The words trail off— since he hasn't stopped walking away.

"I did no such thing." Alaryn's dangerous claims are dismissed with a lift of Yael's brows, mouth quirking in the corners as her husband continues. They are not married yet, that she might cut the husband by besmirching the wife. As the man walks off, she dismisses him and turns her full attention to Eonn's approach. Her head cocks in query, helmet shifted iner hands.

Eonn doesn't come too close to Yael. She's still out of reach, even of his big bastardsword if he should draw it, when he drops to one knee in front of her. "My lady," he says. "I frightened you. It is a harm, and I am grieved and sorry for it."

One of Keli's little hands come to her mouth, fingers touching her lips.

"When — no, I do you too much credit where you deserve none — when you pull your head from where it is lodged so far up your own ass that you can hear my wisdom, I will be happy to share it. Since you believe House Martell is Dorne alone, and owes nothing to the Houses that give it strength, this House has nothing more to say to you." Arnau is done talking to Alaryn. His attention goes fully to Eonn, some of the ready tension easing out of his shoulders.

At Eonn's words, Yael releases her husband for the moment when she is certain he can steady himself and sets his helm to the ground. Taking a step froward, outside his protective stance, she extends her hand to man kneeling before her. "Rise, sir. You frightened me and I have but lived in fear since my escape from capativity for horrors I cannot put to a face," she says gently, desert husk thickening her words. "I forgive your harm and with the whole of my heart accept your understanding as you now understand my terror."

Eonn stands, obedient. He lifts his gaze to look at Yael's face a moment, then looks down again. He's silent.

Arnau is steady enough, feet planted firmly on the ground. As it is an apology to his wife, she is the one who should speak to it, and he keeps his peace, watching his wife and taking some cues from her. "I thank you, for your apology. And for what you did do right." And probably no one will believe he thanked anyone.

Kelinyx looks up to the patient mare of white, to Malcolm, then to the Blackmont warrior and his wife. Of all the events this evening, this may be the one that she, at least, will remember most clearly.

At some point, Ser Malcolm took the horse's reins. He is not a squire, but he was one once. His face is blank as he listens, though as the girl Kelinyx looks at him, he meets her gaze and winks.

Eonn nods deeply to Arnau, and stays silent.

"You have my thanks as well," Yael says, voice remaining soft enough that it touches the ears that are none beyond those gathered. "Your Lord has them as well, he has heard them although he may have forgotten. I have not. Any matter of claim or blame is settled now." Her voice sounds tired, she shifts back to her husband's side and lift's his helm from the soil. "Let's see you to a healer." Tipping her head in a regal nod, she moves to guide her husband from thefield.

Kelinyx inches closer to Bottle, now that she is under Malcolm's guidance, still absorbing the strange play before her.

With nothing left to say and no one left to fight, Arnau nods, then turns and leaves the field with an arm around his wife to see that needed healer.

Eonn takes a step backwards, then turns away from the Blackmonts to return to his big white mare, and Kelinyx.

Kelinyx quietly makes her way to Eonn and tries to hug his forearm to her chest, relief and exhaustion touching her face, her posture.

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