(121-06-20) Three Battle Island Challengers
Three Battle Island Challengers
Summary: Ser Laurent fights three challengers on Battle Island Bridge
Date: Date of play (20/06/121)
Related: Related Logs (None.)

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Malcolm..Laurent..Angharad..Elric..Faelyn..Visenya..Carolis..Alaryn] [[image log-icons/Johanna##white_icon.jpg link="Johanna_icon.jpg link="Alaryn]
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[[include LogIcon name=Johanna" height="200px"]]##white" height="200px"]]##white" height="200px"]]##white" height="200px"]]..

Battle Island sets in the Whispering Sound near to the mouth of the Honeywine. It has no banks nor beaches, only great basalt cliffs that tower a hundred feet or more above the water, depending on weather and tide. The only easy access is a wide arched bridge of white stone leading to the harbourside terminus of Hightower Street. It is guarded day and night by knights loyal to House Hightower.

The island is dominated by the Hightower itself, a stepped tower over eight hundred feet tall made of bright white stone. Its top tier houses a great beacon fire, visible for miles out to sea.

Except at the site where there are mule-powered pulleys to lift the wood for the beacon fires off the ships that bring it, there are little walls around the island's edges. They're white stone, and low, just enough to keep House Hightower's smallest members from venturing over the cliffs. Aside from the stable and one small guardhouse, the island is dedicated to gardens with flowers of many colours, fruit trees, pretty paths of white cobblestones, white fountains, and white stone pavilions.


It is a warm summer's day in Oldtown, made miserable by a persistent rain that soaks through fabric, slicks cobblestones and seems to seep into the bones. A pavilion tent stands at one end of the bridge to Battle Island, colored brightly in Tyrell green and gold. A rain-soaked banner hangs limp outside, its arms invisible, but they show on three shields hung nearby. Ser Laurent Tyrell, the man whose arms are displayed upon them, stands protected from the rain with a small cluster of lords and ladies. He is dressed in a suit of full plate armor in the darkest shade of metal, chased with a motif of roses and thorns. He holds a helm under one hand and stands scowling at the Hightower.

Nearby, in a smaller tent, are two fine warhorses and an unhappy looking red-haired squire.

Malcolm rides up on his ridiculously fluffy piebald. He is wearing his jousting armour. It is old and patched, but well fitted and cared for. His visor is up to display his distinctive multicolored braided Van Dyke. His sygil is a Black Book on azure. Behind him on a not particularly distinguished grey is his servant Blanchet with spare weapons and shields, as Ser Malcolm Storm has no squire and someone needs to do it.

Laurent pages Malcolm and Angharad: Could one of you log this? I can't on the tablet.

The scowling knight's lady, Angharad, emerges from the tent with a cup of in each hand, wearing a paler green than the Tyrell's frank emerald, though the sweeping silk gown is quite properly detailed with golden roses. She comes near her husband, offering him a drink from her hand. "You look so grim," she tells him, her smile warm. "Think how vexed the Hightowers must be. Surely that's something to be cheerful about?" She catches the puffy piebald and its rider out of the corner of her eye, turning to stare for a moment. "Hail, Ser Malcolm!" she calls, recalling herself quickly and smiling again. "What brings you?"

The sound of hooves on stone prompts a small flurry of activity within the tents. The poor squire sets to saddling a dun-colored beast of Dornish stock, while Laurent himself steps out into the rain with an ugly, wry grin to look over the challenger. "We've a taker," he says, his voice shot through with black humor. "But not from the Hightower." He takes a moment to sneer over his shoulder at that towering edifice, then turns back to address Malcolm. "I know you," he says, frowning as he tries to place the knight. "A Stormlands bastard, aren't you? A friend of Lord Garvin." With a grateful look to Harry, he takes the wine and nods heavily. "Ser Malcolm Storm," he agrees. "That's the man."

Carolis comes across the arching white stone bridge from Oldtown, passing the knights that guard the way.

Malcolm salutes them with his lance, his face utterly expressionless. His accent is barely gentry from the South Coast of the Stormlands. He speaks at a volume designed to carry. "I come to take up Ser Laurent Tyrell's challenge. If you wish, I could ride to the Hightower and back. Would that suit?" To Ser Laurent, "I am Ser Malcolm Storm, acknowledged of Kellington and sword man to the Starks of Winterfell, Bodyguard to Lord Carolis Stark and Lord Andolin Stark. We have met. I brought the strawberry cordial."

The doors to the Hightower swing open just then revealing Elric and a decent sized group of lords, ladies and thier servants. Elric has a calm expression as he steps forward with his squire just behind him. The tall Hightower knight is dressed in his dark steel brigandine with his greatsword strapped into place across his back. His eyes narrow a bit when he hears Laurent's words. "If you wish to challenge a Hightower then I would be glad to grant that wish. But it seems I will have to wait my turn. So unfortunate." Elric's tone is just as calm though with a hint of sarcasm in it towards the end. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches those present with a composed pale blue stare.

"First come, first served," Angharad declares, wide smile sweeping all three men. "Come, Lord Elric, and have some wine, ere you wait."

"Ser Malcolm Storm I might have forgotten," Laurent calls out with a bark of harsh laughter quick to follow, "But the strawberry cordial I recall, and fondly." That memory prompts him to taste his own wine — a healthy swallow, and then he tosses the half-full pewter goblet sidearm over the side of the bridge. He's on the point of saying more when Elric catches his attention, and he turns to offer him an ugly, too-broad grin. "I fear you have our roles reversed, Ser, though I'll gladly acceptyour challenge." He clearly has it in mind to make the bastard wait until Angharad speaks, and he nods. "Though you'll have to wait," he agrees, "Until I'm finished with Ser Malcolm, or he with me."

Malcolm waits impassively, though he studies the new challenger with some interest. Sounding bored he draws, "I await your convenience Ser Laurent." After te fi salute, he does not look at Lady Angharad.

Oh now if -this- isn't quite the intriguing spectacle. The tents, the knights, the lords and ladies— why, if one didn't know better, one would say that the approaching scion of Nymeros Martell is positively ecstatic to be here. Of course, a closer perusal would reveal that that grin barely touches the Crimson Raptor's eyes, which are cast hither and yon with a patiently intent curiousity for every feature from the intricacies of joined cobblestones to the arch of the bridge's railings to the warriors and their associates gathered at the checkpoint.

The Raptor of Dorne walks with Princess Visenya Targaryen, of all people, the pair of them sharing a parasol between them and speaking quietly on the approach, tailed closely by a pair of soldiers adorned with Targaryen livery. The Dornish prince is scarcely attired for battle— garbed in flowing silks with golden embroidery rather than armor, his only apparent weapon an agile Braavosi rapier worn at his hip, the sort no one would ever believe could challenge plate. He seems in no hurry to reach the camp set up for spectating the coming bouts, but when his eyes take in Ser Malcolm, his smile does shift subtle to a more sincere, warmer thing in that final approach.

A nod is given to Angharad as Elric and his group make thier way over to the tents. Laurent's remark has him raising a brow a small wicked little smirk playing on his lips. "Then I will wait." He says simply his eyes looking to Malcolm studying the man critically with an assessing gaze. He looks to the approching Dornishman and Princess and his lips twitch downwards like he wants to scowl or frown but he manages to keep his expression mostly unreadable looking back to watch the coming challenge with sharp assessing eyes.

Carolis arrives late, but better than never. He's flanked by two armed guards, his brother's men. They're a formidable pair, stone-faced and watchful. He wears no sword at is belt but rather a nasty looking dagger. It's not a warrior's weapon, but rather a vicious thing meant to harm without the pretense of sport. He offers Angharad a small, but warm smile as he takes a goblet of wine. "My lady," he says in a low tone. Then his attention turns to the field where his knight is preparing to fight.

Angharad pours a cup of wine for the Hightower lord, directing servants from the large tent as they set out trays of fruit and bread for the gathering nobility, beneath the wide canopy and out of the rain. She follows Elric's gaze to the Prince and Princess, bending the knee in a graceful curtsy of welcome. "Your grace. Please join us?" And then there's Carolis, who gets a quick flash of a smile — not without warmth, at all, but… distracted? That must be it, for her attention is quickly elsewhere. Oh, look! Lemon cakes!

The wine is accepted with a faint smile and a nod of Elric's head. "Thank you my lady." His tone is polite and he looks back to Malcolm and Laurent watching them both for a moment as he takes a slow sip of the wine. Carolis's arrival is noted too and the dagger the man carries is studied as well before those blue eyes drift away looking to Angharad as she suddenly seems distracted. He raises a brow but remains silent looking back to Malcolm and Laurent once more.

The hooded cloak that the Princess wears to repel the poor weather does not disguise her Valyrian features. However, the guards in black and red livery do little help obscure who she is, anyways. She walks closely to the Martell Prince under the pretense of remaining dry, but their hushed conversation seems to be the true purpose of such close proximity. As they near the bridge their murmurs stop. "Lord Carolis." She offers the Stark a brief bright smile before her attention turns to Angharad. "Thank you, my lady…?" She then glances to her Dornish counterpart and asks, "Shall we?"

Laurent turns on his heel to lumber toward his waiting horse, fitting the helm over his head as he goes. "Now is convenient," he calls out, taking the reins while his squire sees to the helm. The lad helps him into the saddle next, and he waits while a lance is brought to him, and then a shield bearing his personal arms — a green field bearing a golden rose surrounded by a ring of thorny vines. That done, he steers his horse away to out sufficient distance between himself and Ser Malcolm. He offers the Stormlander a wordless nod, then lowers his visor and, with it, the tip of his lance.

Malcolm spots the approaching royalty and salutes them with his lance, as he does Lord Carolis. He does flash a smile at each of the pairs, before focusing on the man he is to fight. He lowers his visor, salutes his opponent with the lance, and rides to face him.

"Tyrell, your grace," Angharad supplies to the princess, sending a servant back into the tent for more folding chairs. "We met at the Garden Isle, when you were in the company of our cousin, Garvin."

While the polite greeting is almost certainly largely a product of his Targaryen entourage, Alaryn nonetheless basks in its warmth, such as it is. A deep nod is offered to Angharad and— oh look, lemoncakes. The Raptor helps himself to one of the fine savories and takes that moment to introduce himself to the Lord Errant's wife by way of a winning, sly smile. "My Lady." He echoes the words offered by Visenya, in part, and then a similar smile is fixed on the Wolflord, "Lord Carolis." An inclination of the infamous Martell's head offers respect to each in turn as he collects two offered wine goblets and extends one to Visenya, taking up a position beside her as he turns to watch the conflict rather intently indeed.

Carolis's smile broadens when Angharad distracts herself. Only briefly. It's there and gone, and then he inclines his head to Visenya and says, "Princeess. It is ever a pleasure to see you." Then to her companion, "Prince Alaryn." He offers Elric a polite nod. The guards on either side of him don't loom or project menace. They merely watch their charge, bright and alert. For the most part, Carolis ignores the dagger at his side. It's there, but eh. He's got wine. He steps away, not far but enough to make room for people getting wine, and he turns his attention to the joust. Malcolm gets a small wave and a grin.

Visenya gives Angharad a closed-mouth smile, "Yes. I remember. You are Ser Laurent's wife." She takes the goblet from Alaryn, and has a small swallow from the wine, "It seems like a lifetime ago, really. I haven't had a reason to go to the Garden Isle of late." She doesn't punctuate her sentence with a thankfully, but it is heavily implied in her tone. She nods her head towards the beginning joust, "And what do you think of this, my Lady?"

Malcolm lowers his lance and kicks his excessively pretty horse into a gallop.

Laurent leans forward in the saddle, pulling the lance in tight as he touches spurs to the flanks of his Dornish steed. Hooves clatter on cobblestones and the Thorn grunts as he passes Malcolm, but neither knight strikes a telling blow.

Elric moves to one side of the tent out of the way as he sips his wine and watches as the joust begins. He smirks faintly watching with that calculating blue gaze as nethier man lands a hit at first. His squire is still standing beside him holding the Hightower knights helmet for when it becomes his turn to challenge Laurent.

Angharad watches the men charge one another, her hands clasped before her with white knuckles. "I am sure they will both do splendidly, your grace," she answers the princess, at length, looking apologetic for her distraction. "Who is the victor will be very much up to the gods."

Motley pounds towards Ser Laurent, aiming for his head, his lance sliding off that hard, hard metal. He gives a soft grunt as his arm is hit.

Johanna comes across the arching white stone bridge from Oldtown, passing the knights that guard the way.

Laurent wheels about for a second pass, his horse whickering loudly as it turns. He raises the tip of his lance again briefly, but drops it as he starts toward Malcolm once again. He lays the lance well, and even as he is rocked by a glancing blow to his helm he manages to catch Ser Malcolm with its tip.

The words at the sidelines are considered but scarcely observed as Alaryn watches the swift passes the heavily armored knights make at one another, sipping his wine thoughtfully in the wake of that vanishing lemon cake. He doesn't take one of the folding chairs, but instead remains standing by the Targaryen, a small smile playing across his lips. Angharad's answer to Visenya's query— or perhaps the princess' own words— only add to that apparent amusement as he lingers, alert but silent.

Faelyn comes across the arching white stone bridge from Oldtown, passing the knights that guard the way.

Malcolm pats his horse's neck before making his turn. Motley frisks a little before Ser Malcom gets her into position. Big hooves pound as he rattles towards Ser Laurent again. A very rude word in Braavosi can be heard as he misses him. He turns his horse one more time.

Again Laurent saws at the reins to bring his horse about, and again his destrier pounds across the bridge at his opponent. He raises his shield to foul the bastard's strike, but his own fails to land as well.

"The Seven reward hard work." Visenya says vaguely to Angharad's vague statement about the gods. She lowers the hood of her cloak so she may watch the joust more closely, and falls silent.

Coming across the bridge is the figure of what appears to be yet another knight. The knight is armored in gleaming half-plate with a longsword at thier belt and shield to match the armor with the crest of House Targaryen upon it. Other than the crest there is no hints as to who this might be and thier face is covered completely by the helmet they wear, the violet eyes of the Targaryens staring calmly out from the helmet being the only other clue. The figure strides confidently towards the bridge pausing a ways away to watch the joust. A pair of servants follow behind the knight. One carries a lance and other spare weapons and the other leads a saddled snow white courser. This knight has come prepared to make a challenge as well it seems.

Malcolm turns his charger and makes yet another run at Ser Laurent, hitting him solidly in the neck guard, but his horse startles as the bastard knight is taken in the chest, and he falls backwards over the horse's rear. The armour hinders his roll, but he does scramble to his feet, drawing his sword, ready to fight on.

Quillian comes across the arching white stone bridge from Oldtown, passing the knights that guard the way.

Laurent's head jerks aside, wrenched by Malcolm's blow taking him in the neckguard. It looks for a moment as though he might topple from the saddle, but he somehow rights himself as Malcolm clatters to the stone walkway. His horse slows as he brings it around, and though there is blood on his lips, the Thorn laughs as he raises his visor, casting his lance aside. "I think not, Ser," he calls when he sees Malcolm with sword in hand. "I am claimed by a knight of the Hightower."

Lory comes across the arching white stone bridge from Oldtown, passing the knights that guard the way.

When the joust ends Elric smirks faintly and hands his goblet of wine to his squire taking his helmet and strapping it on. He looks to Laurent with hard blue eyes. "Do you wish to fight on foot or would you like another joust?" Another servant has brought Elric's dark large grey horse out from the stables just in case. Elric steps forward eyeing the Tyrell with a calm expression waiting for him to set the terms.

Malcolm stands for a long moment, helm tilted in Laurent's direction. Blanchet runs to catch the wayward charger. He sheathes his sword and goes to meet Blanchet and the silly beast.

"Ser Laurent! I would like to issue a challenge after this one is finished if you will accept it." The mystery knight in thier shining steel armor calls out in a strong tone that is only slightly soft. They step forward watching calmly from behind thier helmet as the Hightower gets ready to fight Laurent.

Carolis watches, rather impassive for all that he's seen his knight get unhorsed. Mmn, maybe not entirely impassive. Untroubled, rather. He nurses the cup of wine terribly slowly, and it's still barely touched by the time the battle is over.

Laurent swings a leg over the back of his sword, dropping gracelessly to the ground. "My steed is tired," he calls out to Elric, Malcolm already forgotten. "I'll face you on foot if you prefer, Ser…" He lets the title trail off into a question, then closes his visor on a ringing laugh. Behind him, a pugnacious youth runs out to gather Laurent's horse back in and collect the discarded lance. Steel rings out as the tall Tyrell knight's blade clears the scabbard, but he pauses at the sound of yet another challenge. Though his response is made unintelligible by his helm, he nods in the Targaryen knight's direction.

Hearing about all the fighting going on at the Battle Island Lory of House Lannister wanders in here to watch and maybe even take part. He has his trustworthy Braavosi guard with him and a decorated rapier at his belt.

Angharad shoots the new challenger a look of annoyance. "How very brave. A tidy boast, if you win, I'm sure. Will you tell your cronies how he bore the wounds of two challengers before you, and you fresh as a daisy, when you stepped onto the field? I thought this was a festival of chivalry, not some fighting pit where opportunists look for the beaten and bleeding to pick over like crows."

A pavilion has been erected on Starry Street before the Starry Sept. It bears the Sigil of House Oakheart, though on a field of black. The Blackrood is effectively Claiming the Sept in the name of the Warrior. Likely challenging the Piety of those sworn to serve.

"My name is Ser Elric Hightower and I am fine facing you on foot." Elric steps forward lowers the visor of his helmet and drawing his greatsword from its sheath. He pays no attention to those around him now as he prepares to fight Laurent.

The unknown knight turns to Angharad and regards her a moment. "If Ser Laurent wishes to wait until he is rested to accept my challenge then I will gladly return to fight him another day." The knights tone is repectful and calm and whoever they are they seem to take no offense to the womans words.

Watching the unhorsing of Ser Malcolm, and the wounds exchanged between the Stormlander and Laurent Tyrell with no small interest, a rather pensive expression is brightened when Angharad joins the fray; in spirit, if not in body. The knight from the Hightower is the focus of the Raptor's consideration for a long moment, weighing this new combatant even as the men forego their horses and charge like freight trains into that clash. The only interruptions the Martell prince accomodates in his consumption of this spectacle are a periodic survey of his surroundings, regular sips of the fine wine on offer, and curiousity now and again passed to the seated Targaryen, taking stock of her own stoic study of the goings-ons.

Laurent laughs, the sound echoing out of his helm, and shakes his head at his wife. When he turns to face Elric again, he bangs his sword against his shield in an informal signal that he is prepared to begin, then leaps at his opponent straightaway with a belligerent roar. He raises his sword high, to arc downward at his foe. Though he stumbles when the greatsword strikes him in the neck, armor takes the worst of the blow, and he remains on his feet.

Elric charges Laurent a heavy swing aimed at the Tyrell's neck but the full plate the man wears is good protection. With a scraping sound the heavy greatsword strikes the armor but seems to do no real harm. This lack of caution has Elric taking a hit as well Lauren't blade striking his armored neck and he stumbles back the wound having dented his armor slightly. Still he doesn't seem dicouraged and charges back in swinging his blade in a deadly arch of steel aimed at Laurent.

"A knight will accept a challenge when the challenge is made," says Lady Angharad to the third challenger-du-jour. Her tone and expression are flat with displeasure. "You are clearly no knight." She turns her attention back to the melee with an air of dismissal, her shoulders set and posture stiff. Her nostrils flare with an intake of breath as Laurent lands his blows, shrugging off those of his opponents.

Laurent presses forward in an attempt to crowd Elric, using the length of the greatsword against him. His own longsword strikes low now, flashing toward his opponent's groin, but scoring a wound on the Hightower knight's leg instead.

Though it's a rare thing for Johanna to make her way to this particular part of the city, the unusual events of the day draw the Oakheart Lady over to observe. She keeps back though, along the edge of the gathered crowd to observe.

Elric takes another hit, this one to his right leg. This only serves to enrage the Hightower further though. He stumbles a bit and then charges right back in aiming another blow at the Tyrell backing up a bit and trying to stay out of the reach of the shorter blade.

Malcolm flips up his visor and says something quiet to Blanchet, who leads the horse out of the way. Malcolm clunks over to stand silently behind Lord Carolis.

Visenya has been silently watching the happenings next to Alaryn. The interaction between the unknown the the Targaryen crest and Angharad draws her attention. Her amethyst eyes turn from the combatants to the Tyrell wife, and one of her pale brows draws upwards. "Are you accusing a scion of House Targaryen of being unchivalrous, my Lady?"

The Thorn lashes out again, his sword glancing off Elric's right arm, then steps away at the same time as his opponent so that he is outside the greatsword's reach when it slices toward him. With a savage cry he steps forward again, back into the fray.

Carolis claps Malcolm on his armored shoulder and leans in to tell him quietly, "Duel him several times. Learn his weaknesses." He gives a small nod. This is wise advice, see. He glances to the conversation between Alaryn and Visenya, then to the field where Laurent and Elric start to fight. Their armor gleaming. The brute uttering a savage cry. It's repulsive. Yeah. That's the word.

The armored Targaryen watches Angharad from behind thier helmet. "And ladies are supposed to be respectful and courteous, you seem to be neither so one might say something similar about you not being a lady." The words are biting and then the armored figure looks away towards the combat watching in silence now.

Malcolm nods to Lord Carolis. He watches the women fight rather than the men, smiling crookedly.

Elric's armor is taking a beating but the knight still doesn't slow down. He advances swinging his blade forward with a brutal strength trying once again to hit Laurent. He is nothing if not determined.

Angharad looks the mystery-Targeryen up and down. "If that person is indeed a Targaryen, Your Grace," she says to Visenya. "Since it is obviously not your brother, the very soul of chivalry, I would be more conerned, where I you, that there's an impostor in our midst."

Laurent attacks this time with a cut from Elric's right side, the motion of the blade parallel to the surface of the bridge. The blow is robbed of force though when the greatsword comes in beneath The Thorn's shield and gouges through armor to draw blood. A clang of metal on metal and perhaps a dent in the Hightower's armor are all he achieves for now.

Visenya's head turns to give the armored Targaryen a narrow-eyed look. "It is unbecoming to insult a lady regardless of any insults she may have paid to you, cousin. I insist you apologize to Lady Angharad at once." There is a firmness to her tone that brooks no argument. She looks back to Angharad, "The penalty for impersonating a royal is very steep, my Lady." That said, she turns on her heel to walk towards the armored Targaryen, and says, "Lift your visor, Ser. I would see the face of my kin."

When the greatsword finds its mark Elric seems to get even more vicious. The hit from Laurent does dent his armor a little but it doesn't seem to faze him as he swing his blade in an arc towards the Tyrell once more.

Despite the bloodletting brutality on the bridge, it's difficult for Alaryn -not- to be drawn to the harsh words cast between the helmed Targaryen and Angharad, particularly once Visenya joins that proverbial fray. Aside from attention passed to both conflicts, one kept as clear on the periphery of the Raptor's vision as possible, he does not seek to interject, himself. Instead, a respectful nod is offered to Ser Malcolm, a sip of wine is taken, and he murmurs in a scantly audible tone, principally to himself, "-Scandalous-." If anyone /did/ hear him, it's unlikely the Prince of Dorne sounds particularly convincing.

Laurent growls a savage battlecry, leaning into his next strike, heedless of the blow Elric sends his way. His much-abused armor prevents any serious injury, but his own swing finds only air.

The Targaryen knight regards Visenya calmly. "I will remove my helmet after the challenge is done…you have my word cousin. I wish my identity to be a surprise of sorts. I hope you will permit this?" The last two parts of that are said more quietly. Intending only for the Princess to hear. It sounds like the knight is amused by something though and they look to the Tyrell lady once more their tone polite. "I will also offer the lady a formal apology after my helmet is removed if that is acceptable?"

Carolis's gaze is caught by Alaryn's nod to his Knight, and it's hard to tell if that raised Stark Brow (tm) is from the nod or if he overheard the man. While he does keep an ear on the conversation between the Targaryens, his gaze returns to the brutality on the bridge. Yes. So terrible.

Elric dodges back and to the side with surprising quickness. He charges back in not giving Laurent hardly any time to regroup between hits. He swings his greatsword forward and down in another attempted strike.

Malcolm nods to the Dornish Prince respectfully, a bow being right out in this sort of armour. The demand that the mystery knight lift his visor strikes him as very interesting to him as is the knight's reply.

Laurent meets Elric's charge, his own blade coming backhand across his body to ring wildly off his opponent's armor.

Lory raises an eyebrow as the unknown 'Targaryen' knight refuses to lift his helm, but returns his gaze to the fight mostly ignoring the qurrall between the women.

The greatsword strikes Laurent's right arm and in return Elric is hit on the chest. He staggers back but his armor stops the hit and takes another dent in the process. The Hightowers greatsword is then swung towards Laurent once again.

Angharad leaves the mysery Targaryen to Visenya's tender mercies, perhaps not having heard the armored one's offer. She is quite intent on the fight, after all. It's quite the grueling blow-for-blow.

"Prince Alaryn, a favor?" Visenya calls out to the Martell Prince as she remains standing in front of the mystery Knight. "You will reveal your identity to me, but no one else shall see. You must understand that I must confirm it for safety and security reasons. We cannot have potentially false royals running around, now can we?"

Elric's next hit glances off Laurent's armored chest. A grunt is heard as the broadsword hits and dents the Hightower knight in his helmet. He still gives no hestiation or pause as he aims another attack at the Tyrell.

Laurent stumbles backward as the weight of the greatsword impacts his chest, lashing out wildly with his own longsword. He is wrong-footed only briefly though, and quickly steadies himself, holding his position at the center of the bridge.

Polishing off his goblet of wine and setting it aside, Alaryn manages not to sigh -too- deeply when he's called into service, striding gracefully from his position on the sidelines towards Visenya and her kin, dark eyes doing a poorer job than his features of suppressing the amusement within. "Your wish, Princess?" He inquires, more curious than deferential.

"That is acceptable to me provided you are willing to keep your silence about who I am?" The unknown Targaryen knight looks from Visenya to the approching Prince Alaryn with a hint of curiousity as the knight waits to see if Viseyna will agree to thier terms.

Laurent takes a half-step forward to meet Elric, his shoulders heaving with each breath, and thrusts his blade forward to once again ring off a plate of Elric's armor.

Elric strikes another glancing blow on Laurent's chest. His armor is dented and there is a bit of blood pooling under his neck armor from where Laurent hit earlier. Still despite that the Hightower doesn't quit, he just keeps coming with a determined fury.

"I'll keep silent if you are as you say you are, Ser." Visenya says to the mystery Knight, an edge of amusement in her own voice. "If not I'll scream until all of these fine men have rushed to my aid. I think that's fair, don't you?" When Alaryn approaches she turns her head up to give the Dornish Prince a light twitch of her lips. "I am in need of your impressive hight, my Prince." She reaches over to tug on his sword belt until he is shifted into the position she wants, one that allows privacy for the Princess and potential Targaryen.

Again and again Laurent and Elric trade blows, matched for fury, though the Tyrell knight has begun to slow. They clash together, and as they break apart the greatsword rings off his breastplate. At the same time his own sword draws a near mirror-image of his opponent's strike.

Elric staggers back slightly as he is hit in the chest. He growls behind his helmet and charges forward with as much speed as he can muster swinging his greatsword in a downward and deadly arc. He too is slowing but its only a little his determination to win this still very strong.

Angharad blows out a long breath, closing her eyes a moment. She opens them again, turning to find a servant to refresh her cup, and spies Johanna on the edges of the crowd. "Lady Johanna!" she calls out, smiling. "There's a mystery afoot that I think demands your excellent wit. I, myself, am completely baffled."

When the privacy is offered and given the Targaryen knight nods and slowly reaches up to remove the helm once they are sure no one will see. As it is lowered the Princess Faelyn is revealed, obviously no imposter Targaryen but not really a knight either. Faelyn smiles slightly at Viseyna waiting to see what the other Princess will do now.

It's only when Johanna's name is called that she turns and spies Angharad, a small smile appearing for the Tyrell Lady. "A mystery?" she calls back, pushing her way through the crowd until she's standing nearby, dark brows lofted with curiosity.

The expression that crosses Alaryn's face as Visenya makes her will known is predominantly amused once more, easily shifted into position on the pair's flank as he watches the exchange with lingering curiousity, content enough to be in on the secret. One hand rests on the golden pommel of his rapier, a fingertip tracing the reaching arms of its stylized, sun-shaped hilt absently— or perhaps warily. If he expects trouble in any serious fashion, however, no other hint shows of it on his features or in his body language, just chuckling softly when the other princess is revealed.

Laurent staggers back, giving Elric the room needed to swing the greatsword properly. It seems a mistake, but his cry as he raises his shield to take the blow is a primal sound of victory. He drives the greatsword wide with the force of his block even as his right hand sweeps the longsword across to come at the Hightower knight from his left side.

Anghard nods. "Indeed a mystery," she says, glancing at the reveal that Alaryn's height is obscuring. "We have an anonymous Targaryen in our midst. You see the suit of armor standing over there?" She sips her wine. "Not tall enough to be Ser Maelys, I think. What say you?"

The greatsword is dropped the the ground with a loud clang as Elric is hit in his chest. The armor he wears does nothing to stop this blow and he drops onto his knees bleeding and breathing heavily. He lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Laurent raises his sword again as Elric drops to his knees. For one awful second it looks as though The Thorn might drive the blade home but, chest heaving with each ragged breath, he staggers a step backward and the tip of the blade drops to the cobblestones with a clang. He turns to start toward his pavilion, growling as he goes, "Someone see to his wounds."

"Oh cousin." Visenya exclaims as Faelyn's face is revealed. "You are so very…/handsome/!" She suppresses a light little laugh, and leans forward to kiss the mystery knight's cheek before closing the visor herself. "Good luck. I'm sure everyone will be astonished when your face is revealed." That said, she casts Alaryn an askance look along with a sporting little grin before moving to stand under the tent again. "A cousin recently arrived from King's Landing." She announces as she approaches. The end of combat gets but a cursory glance from her.

"There seems to be an awful lot of that going around lately," Johanna states in a bland tone, casting a look the way of the 'mystery knight' and groupies. "Is this one a woman too? That's what happened the last few times," she goes on, tone dry as she looks back to Angharad.

Faelyn smiles warmly at Viseyna before her idenity is once again hidden. Disguised once again the warrior lifts the shield they carry and steps forward to face Laurent waiting for him to approch them before the knight draws thier longsword and slips into a fighting stance.

Angharad squints speculatively at the mystery Targaryen. "Well, that leaves out most of the Targaryens we know, doesn't it? None are recently arrived. Save one." She glances at Johanna, affecting shock. "You can't possibly think so! Why… that would require there being a Targaryen princess who's recently arrived in Oldtown and is known to favor combat. One that trains and spars publically on the tournament green. Do we know of any such person?" She sips her wine, adding, "What. A scandal."

Elric looks up at Laurent without any trace of fear even as the blade is raised. His gaze is blank from behind his helmet. When the knight stalks off Elric struggles to his feet waving off any healers as he lets his squire help him back to the Hightower. There is a sound that sounds a bit like the Hightower is chuckling in amusment as he is led away to be healed.

Malcolm rolls his eyes at all the speculating and turns back to the fight in time to see the Hightower go down.

Laurent raises his visor as he passes Faelyn, blood staining his lips and teeth, which twist into a grin. "With you in a moment, Ser," he growls. Pausing a moment inside his tent, he takes a goblet of wine from a liveried Tyrell servant. He takes a single swallow of wine, swishes it around in his mouth and spits it back into his cup. With a look toward Angharad, something fierce and elated in his dark eyes, he trudges heavily back to the center if the bridge.

"Wouldn't that be simply absurd?" Alaryn inquires, his tone coached more neutral than the man's entertained expression might suggest— though it's equally clear that he sees little absurd in the possibility, regardless of the Targaryen warrior's level of subtlety. An easy smile is passed between the hypothesizing women as he takes a refreshed cup of wine from one of their servants, shaking his head and meandering back to his previous position with a smirk cast aside to Visenya. "That's two." He murmurs to himself, as if the tally were somehow important. Maybe he liked the idea of swooping in like a ravenous crow?

"I'm feeling scandalized just thinking about it," Johanna replies to Harry in a tone that indicates she isn't feeling that in the slightest. "Really, it would be more interesting if it were a male this time," she says, sighing. "At least it wouldn't be so Gods damned predictable."

"Perhaps it is a woman," says Angharad. "It would explain why she's so keen on fighting a badly wounded man after a grueling combat. I suppose we of the weaker sex must take our victories as we may."

"At least this one is willing to fight," Johanna states as she thumbs in the Mystery Faelyn's direction. "So that's something," she pauses, leaning in closer to Angharad. "Not all of them are so inclined to fight honorably. But you know that."

The Targaryen knight nods to Laurent waiting with a calm paitence for the Tyrell to be ready. That violet gaze is focused and the mystery knight seems ready to spring into action at any moment but remains still until the other knight is ready to face them.

Laurent reaches the center if the bridge, pausing only a moment to look himself over, then drops his visor again to cover a bloodstained, wild-eyed face. Raising his sword to beat against his shield a single time, he lunges forward almost immediately, shouting a drawn out monosyllabic obscenity as his blade flashes toward Faelyn.

Angharad chokes a laugh, drinking a hurried sip of wine. "Gods, I hope it's not a woman," she sighs, somewhat more sincerely. "They will say nothing but how we can only win fights with men who're half-dead. As though it isn't difficult enough to earn respect with a blade when you've got tits."

Faelyn's own blade quickly flashes forward arching up to strike at Laurents neck. In the process she takes a hit to her chest that has her stumbling backwards slightly. She holds her ground though and circles around before darting forward to strike once more.

Laurent's first strike rings off Faelyn's breastplate, and he staggers to his right when her blade rings off his damaged gorget. There is a low, angry sound from within his helm as he raises his shield between himself and the "mystery knight."

"It rather depends on who's respect one is after." The Dornish Prince observes simply, though he's watching the injured Laurent intently now, as the knight squares off fiercely with the semi-mysterious Targaryen, rather than those gossipping on the sidelines. There's a certain distaste apparent in the words, for one reason… or another.

Malcolm having sparred a certain Targaryon Princess for hours recently, he does not comment on the gender of the mystery knight, but simply watches the combatants square off. He does root for the Dragon.

"I suppose I am lucky that I need not worry about winning those sorts of fights," Johanna observes, gaze moving to the pair as the fighting begins. "But it's hardly a thing to brag on for anyone if they do manage to win at this point."

Carolis remains a quiet and attentive spectator. He's here for the fighting, honest. And the wine, though he's still nursing that one cup. Small sips, only once in awhile. It would be a lie to say he wasn't watching Faelyn fight without a certain amount of interest.

Visenya observes to Alaryn, "My brother Daevon seeks to challenge Ser Laurent as well, but how many more combatants can he take before he is spent for the rest of the festival?" She adds, in a tone that may have a touch of sarcasm to it, "Poor Ser Laurent. And Daevon was quite keen on it, too."

Laurent lashes out again as he regains his balance, his swing more ferocity than skill, and the nimble Targaryen avoids it deftly. His own damaged breastplate is scored again, and he grimaces unseen behind his visor.

Faelyn is quick, striking Laurent on his chest the blade glances off his armor without too much affect though. She steps back lifting her shield as she dodges that blow before trying to land another one of her own.

"I'm sure Ser Daevon will be noble enough, and brave enough, to wait until Ser Laurent is in full fighting form," Agharad says to Visenya. "Hopefully something of your brother will rub off on your newly arrived cousin."

Malcolm yells, "That's it! keep moving! stay off line!

Laurent steps forward, raising his shield and dropping his center of gravity as he strikes low. The tip of his blade flashes toward his opponent's center, but a blow to his own left arm sends the thrust low toward a leg.

Elric enters the Hightower.

"Fighting through such wounds can leave a mark beyond any festival." Alaryn observes more softly, turning his head to murmur downward to Visenya's ear. He manages to almost sound slightly concerned about that. Poor Ser Laurent, indeed. He lifts his glass, perhaps surprisingly, to Angharad with her newest words, "There is little sport in it, otherwise." The Raptor of Dorne does agree, if somewhat enigmatically, before sipping his drink.

Angharad gives Malcolm a flat look.

Malcolm gives Lady Angharad his brightest, sunniest, friendliest smile.

Faelyn stumbles nearly losing her balance as Laurent strikes her leg. She moves back quickly circling around and then charging back in aiming another controled hit at the knight.

Carolis shoots Malcolm a sidelong look of great dubiousness, but the Stark Lord is rocking that wintry aloofness today. If he's got an opinion, he's not saying it. The intricate dance of two people wailing on each other captures his attention once more.

Laurent is struck again in the chest, and this time his breastplate gives. A short line folds inward and Faelyn draws blood. Angry and wounded, Laurent swings wild, and again Faelyn is too quick for him.

"I don't see how Daevon could duel Ser Laurent, even if he has expressed a desire to do so." Visenya says rather frankly to Alaryn in a soft tone. "His arm is still injured from the duel with Blackmont."

Another quick strike is aimed and this one actually hits and then Faelyn is dodging out of the way. She stays moving continuing her pattern of dodging and striking quickly before getting out of the way.

Malcolm gives Lord Carolis his brightest, sunniest, friendliest smile also. He does give Princess Visenya, no really Visenya, a look of approval before yelling, "Get him! Press the advantage!"

At Malcolm's smile, he utters a quiet laugh, little more than a hitch of his shoulders, and he shakes his head. A little warmth melts the ice, though he doesn't crack a smile. Close. So close.

Laurent holds his position at the center of the bridge, panting and pivoting as his smaller opponent dances around him. He probes her defenses with another high strike, but finds no real opening.

After a while of dodging and striking Faelyn is hit heavily in the chest. She staggers backwards blood welling from under her armor just as she strikes the Tyrell's hand. She circles back around and then goes in for another strike.

"He could tie one of the arms behind his back." Alaryn suggests to Visenya with a wry twinkle in his eyes, clearly not -entirely- serious— but not entirely joking, either. "Now there would be some fine sport." Anyone who can't see Daevon trying doesn't know the Targaryen knight as well as they might, in the Raptor's estimation.

Though Faelyn is the nimbler, and fresher besides, Laurent is an experienced fighter and a tenacious opponent. He lets her circle and strike, keeping to his mark until finally he lets his shield slip wide. He cries out when Faelyn's blade catches in his left gauntlet, leaving the dark steel wet with his blood. At the same time, though, his own blade arcs brutally downward toward his smaller opponent to break through her breastplate.

Malcolm gives Lord Carolis a wink and a rather roguish grin. Then he is wincing as the Dragon is hit hard enough to bleed. "Don't let him rattle you!"

As Faelyn lunges in with another strike, Laurent brings the edge of his shield down on her blade to trap it against his armored thigh. His longsword, freshly wet with Targaryen blood, draws back and hammers down again, a fearsome swing targeting her fresh chest wound. His cry as the blow lands is hoarse and ragged.

"Please don't give him any ideas." Visenya says in a half-serious tone to Alaryn. She then winces as the Tyrell's sword cracks open the Targaryen's breastplate. "Stupid girl is going to get herself killed."

Angharad laughs out loud in surprise and delight as Laurent strikes down the Dragon. She downs her wine and tosses the goblet aside, hugging Lady Johanna and kissing her on the cheek. "Gods, but he is a brute," she sighs with admiration, before turning to bark, "HEALERS!" And then she, herself, is striding out into the rain and onto the bridge, sans parisol or any other nicety.

Johanna too laughs and turns, embracing Angharad in return and even giving the woman a peck on the cheek. "Well, that was entertaining," she says, and then she steps back, watching Harry stride off. The Oakhart lady does not move to follow.

There is a cry that sounds distinctly feminine as Faelyn goes staggering backwards. Falling backwards she lands on the bridge on her back her breastplate rent and blood seeping out of it heavily. She looks up at Laurent still clutching her shield in one arm her sword having been dropped when the blow landed. She stays there unable to move just yet.

Malcolm says quietly, "She needed heavier armour, I fear."

"YIELD," Laurent cries out over that feminine cry, rushing forward to hold his blade point down over the fallen Targaryen 'knight.' His upper body heaves with his labored breathing, but he has a bit of fight yet left in him.

Carolis glances to Malcolm, and he says quietly, "When it's over, you may go to her." His tone isn't without compassion, and he does give the woman a certain degree of admiration when he looks her way again. Not to mention concern.

A shaky hand reaches up pulling off the helmet she wears and Faelyn reveals herself to Laurent as he holds his blade over her. She meets his gaze defiantly not speaking just looking up at him with a stubborn gaze. Her breathing is heavy but she doesn't seem to want to speak let alone actually yield to this man.

At the edge of the bridge, Angharad pauses, watching Laurent exact formal surrender from his opponent. She turns looks at Lady Johanna, then slogs her way back through the rain. She offers a palm up to the Oakheart woman. "Come on, then."

Johanna watches Harry slog away and then back, and after a moment she reaches out a grab the offered hand. "Oh, alright then," she replies, flashing the Tyrell Lady a grin before preparing to trudge out into the rain with her.

Laurent's face twists with rage when sees Faelyn's face, and he spins to stalk back toward the pavilion and his wife. "The Maiden's lying cunt," he blasphemes hotly, "But it's a godsdamned lying woman." He fairly throws his shield to the cobblestones, thrusts his sword pommel-first into his hurrying squire's hands, and begins fumbling at his helm. He and Willem stumble over one another at first, so that by the time Angharad and Johanna reach them the visor is raised but the helm is not yet loose.

There's a moment's tension in Alaryn's stance, the way his fingers trace over his own weapon, like he might be considering actually acting as the dangerous confrontation lingers a few moments too long, and Faelyn refuses to yield the field officially. There's a low sigh, slightly relieved, when Laurent turns and angrily stalks off— a vision that brings a rich, amused smile back to the infamous Martell's bearded face.

"Tut, my love," says Angharad, gently shooing Willem away so she can tend to her husband's armor, herself. She makes room for Jo to help, if she wishes. "THAT woman is a godsdamned lying cunt. Let's not paint the whole sex."

Carolis watches Faelyn and Laurent intently now. The wine his quite forgotten and in fact mindlessly handed off to one of his guards. His hand comes to rest on the pommel of his dagger. Call it reflex. He visibly relaxes when Laurent stomps off. He watches the man go, and then turns to Malcolm. "Go to her if it pleases you, Ser."

Faelyn manages a weak smirk as the knight stalks off and the promptly falls back the rest of the way her head resting against the damp stones of the bridge. She takes a few slow breaths and then tries to get up but she can't even come close to manging it at this point. She is too injured to even move much and the blood from her wounds forms a small pool around her prone form.

Malcolm answers Lord Carolis without looking away from the terrible drama on the bridge, "It is not my place." He gives Lord Carolis a Look and raises his eyebrows at Ser Laurent's behavior. He looks to the Dornish Prince to guage his response, the touch to his hilt well noted. But then he sees how badly injured the Dragon Princess is and he pleads with Carol, "Come with me to help her? These suits are heavy and mine doesn't bend well."

Visenya exhales a held in breath as Laurent turns from Faelyn. And then a look of annoyance flashes across her face. She murmurs quietly to herself, "Little fool. Showing off is for men." Sucking in an annoyed breath she snaps her finger for her guards. "Take the Princess to the Citadel with Lord Carolis and Ser Malcolm." She then turns her head towards Alaryn, "Might I trouble you to walk me home, my Prince?"

"That woman is," Laurent snarls, offering his wife and her companion an ugly, incongruous grin. He turns to spit a mouthful of blood onto the bridge, then sways, suddenly unsteady on his feet. He curses again, under his breath this time, and reaches to support himself with a hand on his squire's shoulder. That shoulder is not where he expected it to be however, clever Willem having made his exit when Harry relieved him, and The Thorn stumbles a half-step before he catches himself. "Mayhaps I should sit."

"Your Lady wife is correct, we're not all liars," Johanna remarks to Laurent as she shoots a look in Faelyn's direction. "Just a few that don armor. You know," she turns back to Laurent and Angharad. "The Targaryen seem to send a rather lot of their family members to the citadel after they confront reachmen. Perhaps this time the lesson will stick?"

Carolis nods to Malcolm and says, "Of course." When he starts toward the injured woman, his guards move to follow and he gives them each a look. "Oh, honestly," he says to them. One of the guards says, "We're not to let you out of our sight, my Lord." The other adds, "Not even for a second." It's not a battle Carolis feels like fighting today, so he tries the 'ignore them and they'll go away' route. Visenya gets a bow from him, and he says, "Of course, Princess." Then he helps Ser Malcolm over to Faelyn. "I can't imagine fighting in that steel trap," he says.

Angharad sets her smile in place, slipping a slender arm around her lord husband, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "Come along, then, my lord, and let Jo see to your wounds. You fought well today."

For a moment, Alaryn seems entirely distracted watching Laurent stagger and snarl, that little smirk playing on his face suggesting it may have been the best part of the outing. After that moment hangs in the air, a somewhat dangerous light creeping into the infamous Martell's sable gaze, he murmurs simply, "Showing off is always foolish without another purpose." Theatricality and deception can be powerful tools. Apparently, he -was- paying attention. Those dark eyes track Carolis and Malcolm for a moment as Visenya's guards are bidden to aid them, and the Raptor's expression warms. The rather less bloodied Targaryen princess' parasol is flipped upright in his grip once more and extended with a graceful flourish as he steps in beside her and offers an arm in wordless acquiescence.

Faelyn is still her eyes fluttering closed and then open again as she fights to stay awake despite the loss of blood. Her head turns slowly spotting Malcolm and Carolis along with the guards heading towards her. She heaves forward trying to sit up and she manges to get halfway there before she falls backwards again. She winces in pain and she goes still once more having no choice but to be helped off the bridge. Malcolm gets a small pained smile before her eyes flutter closed.

Malcolm nods to the royalty, bowing being right out in jousting plate. He takes the long way, so he might lead his good tempered destrier out to the bridge. When they reach the wounded woman he answers his Lord, "I would much rather fight in leathers with my favorite sword, but it's suicide against someone in full plate. You have to be too precise with the point…. We will need to be very careful, helping her on to the horse. Who knows what is broken." He adresses the downed Princess gently, "I know it is not seemly, but it might be best if we helped you shed your armour."

Carolis does cast the Dornish Prince a sidelong glance, perhaps catching the man's own at least briefly before the guard of his brother's House steps between them incidentally. It's anyone's guess what part of that gets the disapproving look. He picks up his pace to close the distance between himself and Faelyn. "My Lady," he says quietly. "Try not to move." To the others, he says, "Hold." Because then going for the straps on her armor with the intent of removing it. His impassive countenance warms a touch when he tells her, "You're going to be all right."

Laurent, allow himself to be supported by a woman? Preposterous. Also, in this moment, not entirely up to him. She's able to take a bit of his considerable weight as she leads him from the bridge back to the pavilion and out of the rain. "My thanks, Lady," he growls at rhe compliment, gathering Anghard close. Then, to Johanna, "I'm afraid I'm a bit of a mess."

Johanna's shoulders gather into a shrug as she turns to follow along, moving around to Laurent's other side. "That is hardly a shock to me, I've tended my brother after his fights." She doesn't attempt to help yet, but she's there in case additional support is needed. "

Visenya lets out a light laugh at Johanna's words. "Only the truly arrogant put themselves above their betters. There is a reason a Targaryen sits the Iron Throne, and not a Reachman." That said she gives the assembled Tyrells and Oakhearts a broad smile, one corner quirked above the other. "Thank you for the wine." That said, she takes the parasol from Alaryn's hand, rests it on her shoulder, and allows the Martell Prince to escort her away.

"Because a Reachman has better sense than to sit on his fucking sword," mutters Angharad. Then, pitching her voice to be heard, "It was our honor, Your Grace!" She waves. BYE NOW. Then, to Johanna, simply and honestly, "I'd rather have him in your hands than any Maester, Jo."

Faelyn's eyes open slowly and she regards Malcolm a moment trying to process his words. But then Carolis is hovering over her and removing her armor before she can protest. "I'm…fine…really. I'll live." The words are weak but there is true stubborn determination in her eyes. She looks to Malcolm and then to Carolis her gaze softening. "Thank you..thank you both."

Laurent's heavy brow lifts curiosly, but he doesn't voice a question. Instead he lets loose a brief chuckle at Angharad's words. "I'm unpopular with the Citadel," he growls, with an air of confidence shared. "There might even be maesters as would rather see me dead." There's a note of black humor in his voice at the admission, and his broad shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.

Malcolm gives her the best approximation of a bow he can manage without over balancing, which in this case is a tilt and nod. "My Princess, do you feel up to riding, or ought I handle the horse while you rest? I would not take liberties, but those were some rather heavy strikes and you might be fatigued."

"I've no doubt," Carolis tells Faelyn, "You're as tough as they come, my Lady, but it will give me peace of mind to help. You would be doing me a service." He winks at her, and for all that he's pretty much undressing her on the field, he's a gentleman about it. Not exposing anything that doesn't need exposed, and anything that does need exposed, he's blocking the view of. Those guards might as well do /something/ besides babysit him. His quick eyes take in the extent of her injuries, and then he sets to work. That lovely doublet he's wearing with the fine linen shirt? That gets torn into strips along the hem for ad hoc bandages for the worst of the wounds.

"Is it now thought of as arrogant to point out facts?" asks Johanna with an amused look shot Visenya's way. "That explains a rather lot, doesn't it?" She turns away at that, continuing to move with Laurent and Angharad. "You know I am glad to help however I can," she tells both Tyrells.

There's a shift hither and fro at all the hate being cast back and forth between the various parties in the wake of the clash, and once more… Alaryn Martell seems more entertained by it all than bothered. The Kingdoms folk are certainly seldom a -dull- lot. "I never knew so much could be determined by a few passes of steel…" Aryn murmurs aside to Visenya, wasting no time in guiding their step away from the bridge. He's seen what he came here to see, and learned what he came here to learn.

"It's -incredible- that more hasn't been resolved with such a simple alchemical formula." The Raptor clearly thinks the world of every conclusion being drawn- if one can get past the dripping sarcasm. Of course, some measure of it is directed Visenya's way, as well, "Does the Iron Throne light up when the proper ass is planted in it?" He inquires, words low enough not to carry. Despite the amusement playing all over his tone.

Laurent goes across the arching white stone bridge, returning to the city proper.

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