(122-12-13) Targaryen and Hightower Tourney
Targaryen and Hightower Tourney
Summary: The Joust and the Melee, at the latter of which dragons break loose and chaos ensues.
Date: 13/12/2015 (Date of RP)
Related: Other Targaryen/Hightower wedding logs.

Tourney Grounds - The Reach

The Tourney Grounds stand just outside of the walls of Oldtown. There is a raised platform of several levels for noble viewers, with space for comfortable chairs and little tables to be set in place, and tall posts for canopies to be hung to keep the sun off. Not far stands the great board where the lists are kept. On the far side of the grounds rough tiered benches are available for the smallfolk, and past them there's a flat field for the knights to erect their pavilions in the grass.

The long log rail for the jousts stands right before the Lords' and Ladies' platform, with the space for the melee just beyond it. The archery butts are mounded at the Southwest edge of the grounds, where a great meadow of purple-red fireweed spreads off into the distance. The rough little narrow road to Blackcrown cuts through it.

The tourney has not yet begun, and before her marriage Visenya was often a regular sight at these events. It seems that, at least for now, she shall remain so. The red and blacks of house Targaryen have been replaced with fine sand silks; today of a slightly heavier weight with a beautiful pattern of gold suns over the russet red that is more Martell than Targaryen. An intricate gold collar necklace with embedded rubies and a fine pattern of gold chains rest on her chest. A gold circlet in the Dornish fashion with hanging strands of chains with small rubies attached frames her face. Save for the traits that mark her as a Princess of the Blood; purple eyes, silvery blonde hair, and porcelain skin she looks every part a Martell Princess. Even her handmaidens are bronze skinned beauties from Sunspear.

She is strolling the fence that separates the list from the stands often taken up by the nobles when the interaction between Manfryd and Desmond occurs. It draws her closer in. "Master Desmond." She calls out, wholly ignoring Manfryd and the laughter from the man with him, "Would you ride today?"

Desmond hunches his shoulder into the laughter, the gargantuan man seeming to try to shrink. He casts a look around for allies, but there's no one nearby. "Aye, laugh," he growls, but it's nearly inaudible. He's speaking more to himself. "Punch me. Mock me. Dismiss me when you're through. I'll bloody show you." He rubs a hand across the purple bruise on his jaw. Louder, he calls back to Manfryd, "Easy to mock a man who can't touch you back, My Lord. But I do hope I'll have a chance to return the pleasure."

His northern accent grows thicker as he speaks, and this causes a few men in the stands to laugh as well. There are comments, one of them clearly audible: "We really ought to teach these Northerners to speak proper Common." Desmond whirls to search the stands, but he cannot spot the speaker.

And then Lady Visenya is before him, and he bows, his features still flushed. But his eyes are grateful as he straightens, meeting Visenya's gaze. "Aye, Lady. And to fight in the Swords Competition." Desmond has a busy day ahead of him. "I.. hope to please your brother, Your Grace, and bring honor to him, in the lists. I'd rather not shame my employer."

Loryn has preciously little to do while he stands and his squire puts bits of armor on him, fasting belts and buckles. So he has time to scan the audience for familiar faces, wave and blow a few kisses to blushing maidens. Siyu does indeed get a wave, but not a kiss.

Siyu chuckles and he waves back at Loryn, young man still in the commoner stands. The princess' arrival does bring his attention, as does her conversation with the knight on the field. Hm. Interesting. A simple word, but simple words carry much weight. Suddenly looking down at the pair, both Desmond and Visenya and attempting to pry the oyster open.

Manfryd has a lazy look about his features, as if belittling a sellsword was second nature and nothing to give him pause. His hand sweeps up the shaft of the spear as he leans his weight into it, regarding Desmond with a sneer, "What's that about then? You want to touch me? Hah, you'd be the last one I'd look for in that pleasure." He nods with those laughing, "Hear that? Something about wanting to pleasure himself with a touch." A few more smatterings of laughter fall in about the cocky eyed Dornish. He pays no heed to the fact that Visenya is giving the sellsword a pat to his bruised ego, in fact, it makes a few more comments switch back and forth between the men, sniggering between themselves.

Already decked out in his armor — a black affair with a blood red dragon design on the curaiss and a pair of dragons on the pauldrons — Vhaegor Targaryen stands apart from the rest of the knights, his helm nowhere to be seen for the moment. Calmly, he scans the crowd and the various knights in varied states of dress. It is, during this look, that he spots Desmond, Manfryd, and now Visenya as she approaches. For a moment, he only watches, barely able to make out the conversation from his distance over the noise of squires preparing horses and knights. The laughter is obvious, and when Desmond looks around, he can see the emotion in the large man's movements. With a grunt, the dark haired Targaryen approaches the pair, though unlike Visenya, he steers his approach towards the Dornish. "My Lords," he begins the moment he's within earshot, "The joust is set to begin soon. Surely you will need to prepare yourselves if you are to take part?" Unlike Visenya, he can not rely on his hair or eyes to mark him as a Targaryen — that's what the armor is for — but he still holds himself with a certain royal privilege as he looks towards the Dornish.

Manfryd regards the blood red dragon armor as he would regard the sellsword, that aloof cocky disinterested air that isn't cowed to any sign of Targaryen blood. "You're eyes are not so keen," Manfryd makes no hint of being apologetic for his comments, "If we're not prepared already for it, then that would be a good sign we are not competing." Fool. The tone says as he looks toward the sellsword, then back to Vhaegor, eyebrows lifting in a silent challenge. Was he getting challenged to ride the Joust?

"My brother does not ride today?" Visenya asks Desmond in a slightly surprised tone, and with an arch of her silvery brow. "No matter." She says, and then she smiles a closed-mouth smile that lifts one corner of her mouth. "My husband does not ride in tourneys." She tells Desmond in a tone that does not show a smidgen of embarrassment regarding this. "I had thought that it would be fitting for my favor to ride with one of my husband's men." She glances towards the Dornishmen, and there is a cold reproach in her amethyst colored eyes, "But my husband values honor, and I do not see any honor in a man who snickers but does not fight."

She produces a gold and orange streamer from her sleeve then, and takes a step towards Desmond. "So, my next choice would have been my brother as he has often carried my standard. But, as he does not ride, well…I think you are a suitable choice, Master Snow."

Desmond blinks in surprise at Visenya's offer. "He does intend to ride, I believe, Lady. But some matter or other is delaying him." But he will not refuse the token. Indeed, the huge northman seems to swell with pride. His mismatched platemail, and the unclasped gorget, are forgotten. The big man takes a knee before Visenya, bowing his head slightly. "I'll do my best, Lady, to make certain it does not get dirtied today."

Siyu hmmms a bit, he motions to one of the sellers of treats and he gets some meat on a stick, and a skin of wine. In one of the better merchant boxes for the tournament, he's going to at least eat and drink and see if anyone is going to get hurt. Ah yes, just spectacle, no politics or danger for him! Perhaps some betting? Wouldn't that be fun!

Loryn has earlier left a favour with a pretty young lady of a noble Reach family, a ribbon in Tyrell green-gold wrapped around the stem of a yellowish-golden rose. He's now mounting his horse and waits for the lists to be called.

As Manfryd replies to Vhaegor's question, his reaction makes it evident he was already aware that the Dornishman had no plans to participate. A not-entirely-convincing look of surprise comes across his face and he glances over to Desmond before looking back at Manfryd, "You do not? Forgive me, My Lord, I thought the Dornish were warriors with honor, but surely that would mean you would be participating and not making idle taunts to those who have the courage to do so." With a soft, indifferent shrug, followed by a slight bob of his head to Manfryd, Vhaegor breathes out a clearly insincere, "My apologies. If you'll excuse me?" With that, he turns, and begins to slowly approach Desmond and Visenya.

Whether or not Manfryd chooses to hear Visenya's remark of honour valued by her husband, he hears it, and he sees the exchange. The Scorpion rolls his eyes and wears clear disdain. He smacks another guy beside him in the girth of his armor, especially at the addition of Vhaegor's taunting. The group of them have gone quiet at the Targaryen's jabs. Manfryd nods toward the tents and a few of his lackies goes with him. Apparently there wasn't any jabs given in return, but there are scowls and barbed looks thrown that way.

The Twilight Storm rides up on his ridiclously pretty piebald Destrier. Ser Malcolm is in his bastard colours over his plain, well mended armour that is at least a generation out of style. Blanchet follows on a sensible riding mount with his other armour and spare weapons. Given his generousity at the Dolphin Tourney, the smallfolk are rather excited to see him. There is quite a it of cheering. The Bastard rides in front of the stands, and after some consideration, selects a grizzled haired grandmother of the artzan class, bowing and pointing to her with his jousting lance. To the cheers of her assembled kin, she tosses him a Blue ribbon to tie on as a favour. he waves to the crowd and heads for the lists.

There but not really there - that is what one could say about Lara Gargalen probably. Attired in one of her maddening sandsilk gowns of light blue color, her dark hair falling about her shoulders in an untamed manner, the Cockatrice sits somewhere in Visenya's vicinity, one leg crossed over the other, her dark eyes lingering on a particular handsome young knight who at the moment is still oblivious to the curious gaze of the Dornishwoman. The niggling remarks, exchanged between Targaryen and Dornish have not really managed to catch her attention, a fleeting glance shot in Manfryd Qorgyle's direction when he was smacking someone, a low 'tsk' leaving shapely lips as she shook her head, and had her gaze return to the current object of her interest that may evolve into something more.

"Well, he shall have to find a favor amongst the Maidens who so love him, then." Visenya says with another easy smile as she leans forward to tie the favor to the mismatched armor of the Northerner. "May the Old Gods and the New show you favor today, Master Snow. And if you get a chance to name the Queen of Love and Beauty you should name the bride Lady Marsei for there was never a fairer bride in Oldtown, and I think my reign has lasted long enough."

When Vhaegor approaches the Targaryen-turned-Martell Princess favors him with a fine smile. "Cousin." She says with a small nod of her head. And then she turns to depart towards the stands.

Siyu pulls out a notebook, one of those odd things he does. Someone carrying around a ledger book like a banker is probably unusual. But the merchant and scholar likes to take notes. Pulling a pencil from the spine he begins to make a few notes of the combatants. His observations, and his notations on what might be the fight. Perhaps a few observations about the noble interactions too. Why not. He is an outsider observing. He sips his wine and finishes scritching. Still in the commoner booths, up away from the groundlings, sipping on wine.

Desmond stares after Visenya, his eyes wide. He looks down at the token around his arm and smiles wide. The earlier humiliation seems to have been forgotten. When Desmond rises from his knee, he towers in his full height, and seems fair to bursting with pride. Belatedly, he calls, "I shall, Lady! I swear it!" He looks over at Vhaegor as the man approaches and makes a clumsy bow, recognizing the dragon on the other man's cuirass. "Your Grace." He seems to remember the gorget, still unfastened, in his hand and tries to conceal it behind his back.

A dark-haired Dornishwoman, small in stature and large in personality, given the way she already eyes the tournament preparations with a fiery anticipation, meets Manfryd, slipping from a tent door. "My Scorpion cousin, are you setting the dragons to flame again?" she asks with mischief in her voice, as if she hopes he is - despite the fact that she's set to marry one. Emira Martell looks dressed for battle in Dorne, not the tourney grounds of the Reach.

There is some excitement up at the judge's stand. There is the inevitable Elder Tyrell yelling at the helpful Judge about punctuality and "Has that man no respect for the sport at all?" The helpful judge is trying to calm him down. It is at that moment that a loud commotion comes from the stands closest to Champion's Way. Soon, targaryen house guards appear. With them the long suffering Flox leading a beautiful flower bedecked long horn bull, with a flower bedecked and still clearly drunk from the night before Prince Dhraegon sleepily waving to the crowds and giving one of his jibbering giggles. The Bull is very placid and moves with a dignified pace. The Prince sways along, smiling his goofy vacant smile.

Within that tent, Manfryd is slipping into his armor, a black decorative piece with the wrought golden scorpion hammered into the brest plate and trimming across all panels - tarnished by weather and certainly NOT shining. That's the appeal of the piece - or it's a hand me down. He has help to get into the armor and someone's already ran to include his heraldry into the lists. The anger is a slow boil underneath his dark eyes as Emira walks into his tent, turning about to meet her gaze with a curl of his lips, "It is so easy to do." He extends his arm to help with the gaunlets, "Should I give them a little sting today cousin? A bit of something to make their eyes water and their skin crawl?" He's talking about one thing - poison.

Siyu takes out his pouch and he pulls one gold dragon out. Looking over his list he nods, very softly, and calls over one of the bet takers. Since there's no one else in the commoner's stands. He pets a Dragon on Desmond for the joust Win. With another dragon on Malcolm to Place and finally one dragon for Vhaegor to show. He makes his notations, and snaps his book shut. Going back to the wine.

Vhaegor bows his head slightly to Visenya as she begins to depart, mirroring her greeting with a quiet, 'Cousin,' before turning his attention to Desmond. "The Dornish tongue is nearly as sharp as their spears," he mentions to the man with a soft smirk, "But it's rarely as accurate. Pay them no mind, Ser." He glances towards Desmond's hand, and though he can't quite see what he's up to, he can guess considering the context of the situation. "Have you no Squire?" he asks, and without waiting for a response, turns and finds his own — a young boy with a similar mane of dark hair to Vhaegor's — and gestures him over. "Willard, aid Ser…" he trails off as he realizes he doesn't know Desmonds name, and instead finishes with: "Aid him with his armor."

Forgive me, Ser, but I'm no knight." Desmond takes a knee to help the lad strap on his gorget. "Thank you for your kindness. I am Desmond Snow; I serve Ser Daevon as a sworn sword." The huge sellsword looks up at Vhaerys with a grateful expression as the gorget is clasped into place. "I'm afraid I do not rate a squire. And this armor is…" he gestures at the mismatched pieces of plate, "…A gift as well." He smiles wryly. "I'm grateful to your Family's kindness to me, Ser. I'll do my best not to embarrass you."

Emira's dark eyes — so vivid, for being so near black — creep toward the ceiling of the tent as if considering, and her lips curl in suit. Her jaw clamps down, then, and she strolls in front of her cousin as he prepares. Her pace is luxurious, even though something troubles at her brow, which is usually so carefree. "They would know," she says. The advisement is sharp from her mouth, spit out and regrettable. "Their King and Queen are here. Rhaegor would know. Torren would know." Her gaze turns curious, amused all of a sudden. "Would you not be cast out?"

Manfryd's dark eyes follow the sweep of her figure across the tent to come to face him, brow arched, dark smile curling upon his expression. "They would know, wouldn't they?" He seems to look disappointed by it, "Though you have to admit it would be an appealing sight to watch them withe and wither to something… that wouldn't phase me…" He has been training, slowly consuming poison over the years to acquire a resistence to it. The last is met with a wry humour, "Am I not already cast out cousin? I've been left in this shit hole for months without order or need of my services. Your Dragon has been the one to come to me with offer of work." He looks over his shoulder toward the tent flap, as his man came back to confirm he'd been added to the roster. He tightens the vambraces, eyes sparking with darkness, tone lowered, "Have they not cast all of us out, by allowing the Dragons to claim our realm?"

Once they manage to get the rather floppy Prince up on the dais and get him to stop trying to hug the patient Helpful Judge and the now furious Elder Tyrell, who is NOT having it, the Herald Anounces the start of the jousts. The first round will be Ser Brynden against Ser Loryn; Ser Vhaegor against Desmond Snow; and Ser Manfryd against Ser Malcolm.

Siyu ughs slightly as his Win and his Place comes up first, "Damn…." he says and slaps the table. "Ah well." he drinks his wine. Never bet money you were willing to lose after all. He's kept that advice, still, it feels nice to win. Going to find some more roasted meat on a stick to go with his wine. The pretty young man still up in the stands watching.

Since he's given up his original dreams of being a knight to dream of being a Maester, Bryn hasn't attended many tournaments. He's here today, though. This is one tournament he can't miss. He hasn't quite found a spot in the audience, still wandering and looking for his seat as the verse jousts are called.

Loryn smirks when his name is called against his former mentor who he served as a squire. He nudges his horse forward, grinning at Brynden. "Ready to see the pupil best the teacher, Brynden?", he calls out to the Hightower.

Above Dhraegon, King Viserys and Queen Alicent sit on high-backed chairs, shaded by a square violet tent, surrounded by their children and members of the royal court. The kingsguard remain close-by. The so recently wed Lady Marsei's entrance's is not so grand or strange or flowery as that of her new husband; she slips from the royal court to sit next to Dhraegon in her destined seat. To mark the first full day of marriage, she's clad in a beautiful silken gown of red.

As he hears the announcements, Brynden raises an eyebrow a bit lightly as he hears Loryn's call. "No," he replies with a grin. "Good luck." Moving to get ready and get into position now.

Desmond hears the announcement with a wry smile and stands to face Vhaegor, bowing slightly. "If I best you, Your Grace, I promise to set the ransom for your maile at a price you can afford." His smile is more genuine now, as he tries to take the sting of any insult from the words. He turns to hurry off toward a huge black charger.

One of Emira's bold brows flicks upward when Manfryd mentions Rhaegor. She steps closer to him, staring him straight in the eye as if he weren't taller than her in the slightest. Despite the inherent threat of the pose, there's nevertheless a playful bent to her lips; familiar, familial. "I know Rhaegor," her head tilts, snakelike, "Not defying him is in your best interests." A sudden, toothy smile appears and she pushes Manfryd's armored shoulder. "Go, you have a fight to win!" In other words: never mind the realm, stab people.

Vhaegor nods briefly when he hears of Desmond's patron and name, a look of understanding coming over his face. "I see," he replies, thoughtfully, before offering the man a ghost of a smile at the Herald's announcement. "It seems you are my first opponent. The Seven do have a sense of humor, it seems. Well then, goodman Desmond, I wish you good luck. May your lance strike true." Upon hearing the friendly jibe, however, he lets out a soft chuckle and nods once to Desmond, "I am grateful to hear that." When the larger man turns to head for his horse, he turns as well and follows his squire back to his own.

"I find defying Dragons a most interesting hobby—" he watches Emira's dark eyes and the approach. Then he's shoved. Manfryd laughs and lets a cocky smile hang on his features as he's pushed out of the tent, making the final adjustments to his vambraces as he swaggers on out of the tent, thrusting the tent flap aside and grabbing his helm as it's handed to him.

Siyu spots young Bryn down in the stands, he recognizes the youth, and as the jousts start he raises his hand, "Bryn! Come on up, have a seat, and a snack huh?" he chuckles, the merchant not minding inviting up an acquaintance's friends. He does have wine and some roasted meat. He ohs a bit at the various jousts as they start!

Prince Dhraegon is in Targaryen colours. He smiles in relief at the arrival of his Wife (WIFE!) and holds her hand.

Ser Malcolm takes his place in the lists. After sizing up the Dornishman, he salutes him with his lance, then lowers his visor and readies his lance, spurring the fluffy destrier forward. For all the knight's flamboyance and the ridiculous appearance of the destrier, the Twilight storm is all business in the lists. The horse is powerful; the aim is true. Ser Malcolm hits solidly and hard against the Scorpion. His focus on striking is such that perhaps his defense is weak, for off the back of his horse he flies.

The yellow dragon, Syrax, is no longer on top of the Astronomer's Spire, but down with the other three beasts, out on the fireweed field beyond the tourney grounds, making the horses nervous. The area has been used for this before, perhaps the very reason the bright pink flowers grow here instead of the usual wood.

Loryn and Brynden ride against each other and although Loryn manages to break his lance, his former knight still proves the better of them for he unhorses his former squire on the first ride. Loryn takes it good-naturedly and laughs at Brynden. "Alright, you win this one!"

Marsei smiles easily at Dhraegon. She has little vested interest in the lists, though she watches with concern for Brynden and Loryn until there's laughter. She seems curious about Malcolm and the Dornishman as they ride. Overall, the new bride is pensive, quiet.

While his opponent now is someone Brynden doesn't want to harm, business is business, right? Charging forward as the signal is given, he lowers his lance to land the hit, while taking that hit as well. Looking a bit worried as he turns to see how things are going for his former squire, he looks a bit relieved as he sees Loryn's reaction, offering some laughter in return. "Well, you were close to knocking me down too. Well fought," he offers in return.

Desmond 's charger is an exquisite animal, all black apart from a white crest. And it seems to be well-trained. The sellsword raises his lance in salute to Vhaegor before pressing his heels to the animal's flank. His lance comes down as the charger moves into a trot, then a canter, and then quickly into a gallop. Clods of earth fly up behind it. He is riding well, his lance firmly in position, slanted across his shield. The favor tied onto his right arm flutters in the wind. But Vhaegor's lance takes him full in the chest, even as his cracks on Vhaegor's shield. He rides on for a few strides, before toppling sideways out of the saddle and landing slowly onto the ground. He's quickly on his feet, however, saluting the Targaryen. "Well done, Your Grace!" The disappointment in his voice is clear even through his helmet.

A fine Dornish sand steed accompanies the Scorpion, a dark chestnut that is adorned with matching caparison for the Qorgyle's armor, golden tassels hanging down and flourishing in decoration with the sleek movements of the high prized beast beneath him. Manfryd's eyes, shadowed behind his helm that comes to a tapering point at the chin - like mandables of a scorpion, gazes with hatred and determination toward his opponent. The sleek beast paws at the earth. It may be accustomed to charges but it's been a while since the Qorgyle has taken the beast to tournament. Though like most Dornish, he prizes the animal better than he would a lover, turning his hand to stroke its neck to sooth the nervous energy rippling through the powerful muscles. No salute is returned, maybe because by the time Malcolm is charging, the Dornish isn't left with much of a chance to. He snaps his heels together and calls upon his steed to drive him forward.

The CLASH of lances and armor is resounding! It calls the attention of the audience as both opponents put their all into the attack and nothing into the defense. The weight of Malcolm's hit staggers him hard enough to yank on the reins in attempt to hold himself up, but it only causes his animal to squeal as both rider and horse go down. Manfryd has just enough time to slide his foot loose before the beast flips over, thrashing legs avoided, as he rolls up and draws his steel upon seeing his opponent knocked down as well. His stalking movements over toward Malcolm read: WILL NOT LOSE.

Riding a big, shaggy, black destrier, Vhaegor approaches the lists and takes his position opposite Desmond. With a nod and a salute, the Dragon readies his lance and waits for the signal to begin. When it's given, he puts spurs to his mount's flank and charges forward, lance lowered and true, as is proven when he puts it full into Desmond's chest, the Northerner's own lance landing hard on his shield and drawing forth a grunt of effort as he manages to maintain his balance. Vhaegor only lets out his pent in breath when he hears the crash of metal hitting turf and turns to see Desmond rising from the ground. Quickly, Vhaegor passes his lance to an approaching squire and removes his helm to give Desmond a nod and a grin. "Well fought, Desmond," he calls, before allowing his squire to lead the destrier away.

The crowds cheer wildly for the victors. The Herald announces Ser Bryndon Hightower and Ser Vaegor Targaryen as winners of their bouts. He then announces a bout between Ser Daevon Targaryen, the Maiden Knight and Ser Vaegor Targaryen. The elder Tyrell's foul mood is lightened by all the violence. He winces as Ser loryn falls. "Young Laurent is off his game!" The helpful judge is busy, sensibly tallying points. Prince Dharegon is too busy smiling at the Flower of Oldtown to pay attention tomuch else, though he does pout a bit on seeing Desmond Snow fall.

Ser Malcolm is up quickly given the constraints of the jousting armour. The Bastard of Kellington is known for his agility. his expression can't be seen through the visor, but on seeing the Scorpion stalk forward, he draws his greatsword and waits with it at ready, not a movement wasted.

Manfryd's sneering smile can be seen through the triangular opening in his Scorpion's helmet, when Malcolm gets up with steel drawn as well. A sword was not as flexible in the Dornish's fist as a spear, but he had to do what he had to do. His stalking never slowed. He went at Malcolm with an agressive style that is very much expected from the Qorgyle, after all, the House motto is 'No Middle Ground.'

Marsei winces a bit, witnessing the Scorpion's wrath approaching Malcolm; she presses her lips together, but distracts her thoughts by watching Vhaegor move off. She leans toward Dhraegon, covering her mouth with her hand at an angle politely as she asks quietly, "Who was that who rode against Desmond?" The names were announced, but that does not mean she can immediately place the Targaryen knight in the grand scheme of dragon blood.

Dhraegon squints at the men on the dreaded horses. luckily he is fine at this distance, much as he is in a cart. "He's too big for young Daevon and too small for Maelys…So many of us are here for the marriage…. Rhaegor or Vhaegor maybe? It's hard to hear over the cheering.

The Cockatrice rises from her seat, fingers moving absently over the maddeningly soft fabric of the sandsilk, that somehow rearranges itself about Lara Gargalen's form. And as if on cue, a sudden gust of wind enhances the play of light blue fabric on her shapely form, tears at the long tresses of almost black hair. Lara's lips curl ever-so-slightly, when the joust is over and the melee is next. A duel, little else stirs Dornish blood in a similar way, and a melee is in fact much to be preferred to the stupid playing with lances. So now as the conseuqence of a double unhorsing, Lara Gargalen is pleased, her dark gaze glued to the spectacle, cheeks rosy as she watches the deciding match between Ser Malcolm and the Scorpion.

Bryn smiles as he hears Siyu's call, making his way through the crowd to sit down by him. "Hello!" Said Leanne, he turns his attention to what's going on on the field.

Malcolm is a sudden flurry of action. he tries a testing swing for the scorpion's head, getting thumped in the breastplate for his trouble. he hits much harder on the reverse, not even noticing the tap on his leg through the heavy jousting armour. he is nothing near as graceful as he would be in normal armour, but the tall man keeps moving, trying to stay off the center line and relentlessly targetting Ser Manfryd's head whenever there is an opening, trading the occasional strike to arm or chest in the hopes of stunning the Dornishman. On and on it goes. Both men are clearly skilled. The Twilight storm occasionally feints or strikes lower, but he just keeps coming. Eventually though the attrition breaks him down and he drops after a good blow to the chest. he gasps out, "yeil."

Siyu nods his head, "Very good there young Bryn, how goes your studies?" he offers some of the Festival Meat and some of his wine, "Are you rooting for anyone in particular lad?" the strange outsider asks. "Myself I have no idea who ever to root for in these tournaments. It is still so strange to me."

On the field, Sunfyre lifts its glossy head and looks towards the sounds of the fight.

The action in the sands of the tournament grounds, with two horses straying nearby their riders, the Sandy Steed with ears flicking at the clash of steel. The Scorpion is quick, even in the heavier armor. The shield used for the charge in the joust now used in tandem with the sword to deflect blows. However, it's clear he's used to the reach of his spear as Malcolm whallops him over the head with that greatsword. One would assume he should've gone down to a knee at the clang of metal, but it only seems to make him more determined. And it's not that Manfryd is hitting hard, but he's hitting often enough to wear out the other man. Around and around in circles they go, testing and prodding. A clang off Manfryd's neck has him stagger back but return just as quickly. There's only one thing in the man's eyes and it reads: Win. Finally, after a considerably long bout between the equally skilled opponents, Malcolm gasps out the yield. Manfryd seems about to hit him again after this, but doesn't, instead with a gulp of breath, he stumbles back, triumphant. "That was for my horse …" he notes with a tired grunt to Malcolm, as if he didn't care about the joust, not really. But he turns toward the wandering beast and goes to grab it's reins, looking toward the lists to see where he's at in the standing and who is next on the agenda.

Desmond watches the fight until Malcolm yields, following each blow with keen attention. He is near the fence, standing before the commoners. He cheers every blow that Malcolm lands, and winces at every one he is dealt. When the Twilight Storm finally yields, Desmond Snow turns away from the lists, dismay and disgust evident on his features in equal measure. "I'll see him in the melee," he murmurs to himself.

Daevon was frowning disapproval the moment Manfryd's horse went down and he approached Malcolm, instead of seeing to the squealing creature. He's watching the melee between Malcolm and Manfryd intently, concentrating on every move. He's expressionless as Malcolm yields, and then his name's called, and it's time for his own joust.

Daevon's looking splendid in his sturdy jousting armor, all purple and shining silver, his symbol of the maiden holding a dragon egg emblazoned upon his shield. Atop a large chestnut horse, not his notoriously mean destrier that's been known to take chunks out of his opponents, much to the disappointment of some of the crowds. There's a pale ribbon, a plain thing tied around his arm, a favour from some young girl. His name is cheered as he's called, the crowds going wild. He raises his lance to Vhaegor as a salute, and then snaps his visor down. And then, the horses are charging, ground torn up beneath mighty hooves. Daevon's lance hits Vhaegor solidly, snapping, and he himself is dealt a glancing blow in return. He grabs a new lance, and wheels his horse around, for the second charge, and misses, his lance just sailing past his opponent. Third time lucky.

Eonn is here, on his big white mare, but he hasn't joined the lists. He's just sitting on the horse, watching. Or perhaps just looking at the dragons out past the grounds.

After his victory against Desmond, Vhaegor's riding light in his saddle — or at least as light as you can decked out in heavy armor. When it's announced his opponent is none other than the Maiden Knight, he glances down to his squire and nods once with a serious expression suddenly clouding his uplifted spirits. Donning his helm while he's lead to the lists, he scans the crowd briefly for… someone, but turns back to face Daevon on the opposite end of the line as he's handed his lance. With a salute and steadying breath, he waits for the bugle to announce the start and spurs his horse forward into a charge. With narrowed focus, he puts a bit too much effort into landing a hit, and lets his defense slip, opening a perfect opportunity for the skilled Maiden Knight to land a heavy blow on his chest. The hit breaks his concentration and his aim, and he ends up only barely managing to land a solid hit that fails to even crack his lance before he's ridden past. It's a struggle, his heavy armor ends up throwing his balance wildly off, but finally he manages to stabalize and remain upright on his destrier.

With a grunt, he wheels his horse around and takes up his new position for the next tilt, exchanging the unfortunately intact lance for a fresh one. With a nod across the lists to Daevon, and another salute of the lance, he listens for the signal and starts his charge upon hearing it. With dust flowing from the steady drum of his horse's hooves, he lowers his lance and takes aim, focused on the dead center of Daevon's chest while remembering, this time, to maintain his own defense. When the lances come within striking distance, he notes with some dread just where Daevon's point is about to land and he quickly shifts his shield, tilting it just so in a successful effort to deflect it away from his body and remain untouched, just as the same is done to his own lance. If there was tension before, it's certainly doubled by now as Vhaegor wheels his horse around for the third and final tilt, noticing with a calm sort of determination, that he's behind only by a single point, and that victory is still within his grasp.

Prince Dhraegon watches the increadibly long exchange between Scorpion and Storm, with wide eyed startlement. "That doesn't happen that often. I wonder why they are so angry with each other! that Dornishman reminds me of Ser Laurent a little. It is hard to tell from his tone whether that is a compliment or an insult… Wait, his horse?" The tipsy Prince shudders. The Herald declares Ser Manfryd the winner and announces his next joust to be against Ser Bryndon Hightower, to start when Ser Manfryd is ready.

Ser Malcolm stands and tilts in a way suggestive of a bow, more not being possible in jousting armour. "You fight very well, Ser." His tone is polite and there seems no rancor in it. He lifts his visor, the better to breath after his excertions. Waves to the crowd to show he is all right and with a salute to the Royal Dais and to the Maiden Knight is off to his tent to change into his melee armour.

On the dias, the King and Queen observe, sitting with their children, Lord Otto Hightower and Ormund Hightower in attendance, shaded from the sun with silk canopies and cooled with Arbor gold. Rhaenyra Targaryen is absent, though, as is Rhaenys.

"I think… perhaps…" Marsei begins to reply to Dhraegon quietly, with a sense of knowing, "he is always angry." When her gaze isn't on the men fighting for sport or spite, it's afar on the field of dragons; more often than not, it's on the dragons. At one movement from Sunfyre she tenses, unsettled though the beast belongs to one of her young nephews on the dias, and glances from the dragons to the Hightower and back again.

Having made sure to get himself something to drink while he waited, Brynden nods a bit as he hears the announcement, before he moves over to get ready, waiting for Manfryd to be ready for the next round. Offering the Dornishman a very brief nod.

Bryn nods quickly to Siyu, and points, "Ser Daevon, of course. He's the best." He says this was total conviction, even as the Maiden Knight seems to be meeting a challenging opponent.

After the two rounds Daevon's marginally in the lead. Oh it's not as dramatic as all this sending knights flying off their horses, and melees on the ground, of the previous rounds but certainly gripping none the less. The third tilt, Daevon adjusts his aim, but once more he's outmatched by Vhaegor's horsemanship, as his lance completely fails to hit its target, and he takes a splintering blow to his own shield. It's close, but he knows when he's loss. "Well fought!" he calls out, cheerily.

Once again, Desmond winces to see a friend defeated. But he seems to bear Vhaegor no ill will, even for his own defeat. He raises a fist in salute to the victorious Targaryen before making his way to one end of the lists, in hopes of meeting the defeated one.

Manfryd swings up onto the saddle of his steed after doing a thorough once over of the animal's legs, readusting the saddle, and generally calming the animal down. He even crossed the arena to watch the animal's legs before he got back on it. Patting the horse's neck once more, he looks toward the lists to find out the heraldry of the next he is to fight. A few of his Dornish lackies give him something to drink, a spicy drink that makes his insides writhe - but all the better for it. It'll help ignore the ringing in his ears. Not many could stand after getting pummeled over the head by a greatsword, but there he was, foolishly sitting in the saddle and waiting for his round.

Vhaegor's final tilt is something of a surprise even to him. As he rides hard and charges down along the lists, he manages to bring his lance point home on the Maiden Knight's shield while barely managing to avoid the return strike. As he slows his destrier to a stop at the end of the lists, Vhaegor pulls his helm free, and smiles down at the crack on his lance while he hands it off to his squire while leaning down to murmur, "Best save that one, boy. Not sure I'll beat a more challenging opponent than the Maiden Knight this day." He turns in his saddle after that and salutes Daevon from across the field, offering a nod and a, 'Well fought!' in return, before he returns to his tent to prepare himself for his next opponent.

Sunfyre is the smallest of the dragons present, but a good measure. It snorts and flaps its wings on the field, though, standing up to get a better look at the clash of arms.

And… charge! Brynden comes in fast, attempting to knock Manfryd out of his saddle. And his strike is good, the only problem is that the Dornishman struck even better. And so, Brynden is atop his horse at one moment, then on the ground the next. There's a bit of a groan as he rolls to his side, staying down for a few moments longer.

Blood was pumping hot and furious. Wouldn't it just be something if the Dornish could pull off a win here, in this tournament? The man's eyes are eager and as he sets himself up for the joust against the Hightower man, hardened and determined, fresh from victory over Malcolm. He spurs on the dark chestnut underneath him and sends the animal veering toward Brynden's mount. With a bellowing war cry, the Sandy Dornishmen proves to the doubters in the arena that spoke him to him about fearing to compete but mocking those who would. He delivers a hard punch against Brynden, satisfied with the sound of the other man falling to the dirt. He grins, despite the rasping breath - it's never nice to get hit by a lance, regardless of the armor worn. Lance shattered, opponent on the ground, he circles the fallen knight lying on the flat of his back, the sandy steed lifting up dust around the man. There's only the gleam of victory on his face for the groan, weighing the man and judging him silently, before he sends the steed to the opposite side of the arena. Won't Visenya just be thrilled to know her favourite Dornishman is in the finals?

"BOOOOO!" The crowd jeers at the Dornishman, as he knocks Ser Brynden Hightower from his horse. The Reach is not known for their fondness of the Dornish, and to see one of their own knocked from his horse it doesn't go down so well. And as the preparations for the final round are made, a chant begins to pick up in the stands. "VHAEGOR!! VHAEGOR!! VHAEGOR!!"

At least one person appears to be thrilled in the stands, Lara Gargalen following the proceedings in the lists with perhaps surprising interest, one hand toying with the pendant of her necklace, as her light-blue sand-silken gown becomes more and more the victim of a slight gust of wind. Not at all disturbed by the booing of the crowd, the Cockatrice is a quiet as a mouse, dark eyes staring at the Scorpion, hoping he will catch her gaze. And if he doesn't, well… she'll have to get a replacement to cool her heat for tonight, won't she?

There is a brief discussion between the helpful judge and the Tyrell Elder and the herald declares victory for Ser Vhaegor Targaryen. Prince Dhraegon looks terribly sad, "That is no way to live. I think he was the one who pushed me down at my Party… the Dornishmen, not the Stark bodyguard." For all his terror of horses up close, the dragon's don't alarm him at all. When his wife tenses, he gently squeezes her ahand and smiles at her encouragingly. Ser Daevon's loss earns a small sound of disappointment from the clown Prince. Apparently he is fond of his young kinsman.

The crowd is not best pleased to see one of their own Hightowers unseated by a Dornishman and there are some ugly cries reminiscent of the crowd's reaction to the duel between Ser Daevon and Lord Arnau Blackmont. Luckily the guards are able to stop the resulting figts in the stands. Once order is restored Ser Manfryd is declared victor and the third place purse awarded Ser Bryndon Hightower. The final bout is announced between Prince Vhaegor Targaryen and Ser Manfryd Qorgyle of Dorne. Prince Dhraegon whispers, "I hope there is not another riot. He peers at their escort and back at the Royals and the Hand. The angry crowd keeps chanting "VHAEGOR!! VHAEGOR!! VHAEGOR!!"

Eonn seems to have no reaction, he's just silent.

Desmond joins in the cries from where he stands near one end of the lists. "VHAEGOR! VHAEGOR! VHAEGOR!" His booming voice is meant for a battlefield, and it carries along with the others.

The jeering? It makes Manfryd laugh and GRIN like a ferocious beast. He looks up toward the whooting and hollaring of those in the stands, chanting for the Dragon. Manfryd eases back on his saddle, reaches down for another sip of wine, nods to his helpers, and takes the reins and another lance in hand. It's as he's scanning the crowds, looking for Visenya, that his eyes come across one who isn't jeering him. Lara. A tilt of his head to her, and then he's looking for Emira. One will find her as well as he settles back against the jeering, as if they were actually applauding him instead of booing. He relished the sounds, laughing further, "I should like to taste the blood of dragon again…" He murmurs down to his Dornish friends, nudging the dark chestnut ahead to meet this… Vhaegor.

Brynden has managed to get himself out of the way at least now, shaking his head a bit as he makes his way off the field. He's getting too old for this stuff.

Emira is tough to glimpse, peeking not from the stands but the tents and banners — but her voice, her voice certainly carries. "STING HIM! SCORPION, SCORPION!"

Sunfyre spits a little flame at the sky, and settles back down.

Worry rises on Marsei's face as Dhraegon mentions Manfryd being the one to push him. At least it distracts her from the dragons. As the Vhaegor and Manfryd are declared to go against each other, she whispers, "Oh no." She leans in again to tell him something, interrupted her little startle at the glimpse of flame in the distance.

Win. No middle ground. Win. Dark eyes glitter with the intent. The black and tarnished gold armor of Manfryd's seems to enable the wickedness of his aim and his determination to pound the other into the ground. Those jeers cannot drown out the fact that someone was SCREAMING for him to sting! Fellow Dornish! It resulted in another cocky round of laughter as he rides against the Dragon. "Your blood is mine this day Dragon!" Figuratively speaking! He manages to break lances on the other man, failing to send him from his horse. At least he'll have one good ransom to get from that Hightower fellow, as Malcolm unseated him and in doing so in return, they owed eachother nothing. Unfortunately, the dragon proves a bit harder to throw off the saddle. He does try but the days wearing events have strained him already much too far. Lance misses, deflects, hits, splinters …all the necessary things he needs to do to secure his victory. There was only the one pass in which he felt a glancing blow from his opponent, turning his sandy steed about with a heavy rein to note the flags going up on his side of the board.

The three passes had proved sufficient to win by points. The more dramatic part of the victory was the upset. He RELISHED the jeers now. AND JUST to rub it in a little, as he rides back to his side of the arena, one of his fellows tosses him a spear with the red banner of Qorgyle flapping at the top as he thrusts it into the air and makes a victory lap around the arena, standing on his stirrups. Whatever he's yelling gets lost in the jeers that likely follow him around the arena. But for those of keen ear, it'd be something about 'For Dorne - No Middle Ground.'

Even though Emira is the living embodiment of Middle Ground, given her betrothal to a Rhaegor Targaryen as decided by the Crown and Dorne, her voice is passionate in joining the few other Dornish ones echoing Manfryd, although she stays largely out of sight.

Surprised would be a good word to describe Vhaegor's reaction when the stands start cheering his name in unison. Luckily his helm hides his open-mouthed face and allows him to maintain some semblance of dignity as he turns to the crowd and offers them a stiff wave, unused to it as he is. When his turn at the lists comes up for the third and final time, he takes his place at one end and raises his lance in salute to the Dornishman. He hunches forward, clearly determined as his destrier tears down the lane, his lance aimed at his opponent's chest. Just as they're about to meet, Vhaegor brings his shield up and manages to turn Manfryd's blow aside, but ends up completely missing as the slippery Dornishman manages to avoid it entirely. The rest of the tilts follow in suite, Vhaegor only managing to land a hit in the final pass, and when he pulls up at the end of the lists having lost, he removes his helm to let air touch his sweat-soaked mane of dark hair. With a subdued smile to his clearly disappointed squire, he hands him his final lance and turns to congratulate his opponent. Though he's already making his victory lap, Vhaegor waits silently for the Dornishman to swing by near him, before he calls out, "Well fought, My Lord." There seems to be no heat or anger in his tone, though having said it, he turns and makes his way back to his tent to relieve himself of the heavy armor he wears, happy enough knowing he made it to the finals without having been unhorsed even once.

The Elder Tyrell spits on the ground in Disgust. The Helpful Judge calls over the Herald. The Herald looks very nervous as he announces, "Clear victory to Ser Manfryd Qorle, known as the Scorpion, on points!" he winces then ducks fast behind the judging stand in anticipation of rotten fruit.

The crowd are not at all happy with that decision. "BOOOOOOOOO!!!!" is the resounding roar as their five minute champion is defeated, and indeed fruit, and a number of stones, a few bones, and some things of an unquestionably foul nature are flung towards both the victor, and at the judges and at the Dornish tent. "FUCK DORNE!!!" someone yells, and for all the guard's work, it's a chant that's in danger of being picked up. "FUCK DORNE!"

There's definate displeasure from the crowd, and perhaps even the /crown/ at that call about dragon's blood belonging to Manfryd. Viserys is quiet, but young Prince Aemon get to his feet, snarling. The smallfolk take up the cue from the prince, and roar with increasing anger.

Out on the fireweed field, the dragons lift their heads. Including that of huge yellow Syrax, and Melys, the Red Queen. This time, Sunfyre doesn't just spit a bit of flame at the sky, he screams.

The Kingsguard and Targaryen House Guard move close around their various charges in case they must defend against rioters.

Prince Dhraegon, despite wine slowed reflexes attempts to simultaneously shield his lady with his body and pull her beneath the table for safety.

Daevon on the field, goes over to where Vhaegor is, murmuring something quietly to him.

Off to the side of the lists, Desmond watches the approaching riot with caution. He casts a glance around for someone of import, someone who will put a stop to this before it truly gets out of hand. His gaze moves to the Royal Stands, and he begins to shove his way through the smallfolk, making his way toward them. If this boiling pot bubbles over, the King and his children may need more than seven swords to defend them.

The roar of the crowd has Manfryd's grin grow wider. This is what he wants. His eyes snapping toward where the Princess Visenya is and the rest of the royal affair, wondering what their reactions are to the 'Fuck Dorne' sentiments. Wasn't their marriage supposed to invite peace? He dodges a few pieces of fruit thrown his way, holding up a hand to WAVE to them. Oh how they love him. The Scorpion chuckles as he reins up toward Vhaegor, "Next time, if you want to win, best to leave your taunts at home. You could've won this day had you not provoked me to ride." He nods to Vhaegor all the same, realizing that the crowd was starting to get out of hand - more CRAP lobbed his way. He draws up a shield to protect himself as he rides out before the riot can cease him entirely. It would not be good to gut commoners this day.

Malcolm emerges from his tent, hair wet and dressed for the melee at all the alarming noise. Spotting the maiden knight, he heads towards him and the strange Prince in hopes of being helpful.

Vhaegor doesn't even make it to the tents, it seems, before chaos ensues and a riot threatens to break out. He turns with a start to see the smallfolk throwing fruit and lets out a serious grunt before he looks at his squire and urges him to remain in the tent. Quickly, he turns his horse around, stopping briefly to exchange a quick word with Daevon.

Marsei is becoming progressively more unsettled, but she's nevertheless startled when Dhraegon's protective nature leads to trying to pull her under the table, trying to stay upright, albeit white-knuckled. "Ah— ! We're— it's all right, we'll— the kingsguard are here… b-but the dragons, Dhraegon, do you think they'll…"

A Reachlander squire at the tents is all too close to Emira's hearing when he picks up the chant of "FUCK DORNE!" She's at his shoulder in no time flat, a curse on her lips; he's not too young to be knocked to the ground. But just then the stir of dragons draws her attention sharply and she freezes, all of a sudden searching for something, someone, in the crowds of people. Or dragons.

And then Syrax also vocalizes, making a huge terrible roaring shriek that silences the calls of "FUCK DORNE" and replaces them with a stunned gasp. On the dias, King Viserys laughs, but he stands, too, getting to his feet with some effort to shout, "STOP THIS!"

The expression on Lara Gargalen's features is unreadable. She retreats to her seat, drawing a cloak about her form, perhaps anticipating a rather soon and hurried departure? Dark eyes come to linger on Visenya waiting for the sign or any reaction the Gargalen will meet with surprising calm - in the storm that is about to unleash.

Prince Dhraegon looks outright terrified, but does keep shielding the Flower of Oldtown, his long sleeves and wide back covered in rotten fruit and horse feces. he says rather tightly, "They are Very Angry, My Meadowsweet!"

Desmond In the sudden stillness, Desmond makes it to the Dais. He doesn't attempt to mount the steps, but turns, facing out into the crowd, his massive frame between the Royal Family and the smallfolk beneath. Mismatched plate mail glints in the sun, and the sellsword bears no shield. He swallows, his gaze sweeping through the crowds and tents, hunting for someone in the mayhem.

Daevon's gaze goes to the dragons as they roar. Then to The King as he tries to put an end to this. It's the judges stand that he walks towards though.

Siyu grunts a little bit, and he grabs Bryn, "Come on Bryn, let's move up a few in the stands, I think they're going to be emptying in a bit, no need to get involved." the pretty boy from Yi Ti tries to get up, away from the press of the crowed, "And I lost all my dragons, I suppose I am not a good judge of fighters. But come on boy, Keli would be very upset if you got trampled!"

As the crowd starts to go wild, Bryn nods quickly to Siyu and starts to follow. He starts to make his way out of the angry crowd, but he too pauses as the dragons roar. He can't help but smile at the sound.

"But not at us, surely— ?" Marsei asks, hurried and with a kind of sweet naivete, not clear whether she means the crowds or the dragons. She gives in to curling into the protection of Dhraegon's sleeve and width, slipping down slightly in her seat.

Vhaegor quickly rides out to the tilts, hoping to draw the crowd's attention after his quiet discourse with Daevon and Malcolm. When he reaches it, he's forced to ignore Manfryd's words if he has any hope of accomplishing what he's there to do, and with a calm face, rises in his saddle and shouts to be heard: "Enough! Listen to your King! Lord Manfryd has won a fair victory this day, and deserves not your scorn! Settle yourselves, for there will be other tourneys to prove the strength of our lances to our Dornish neighbors!"

Seeing that the king and his children are well-guarded, and seeing Dhraegon and Marsei somewhat more exposed, Desmond begins to fights through the crowd once more, trying to make his way to the huge Targaryen prince and his bride. "Out of my fuckin' way," he snarls, his barbaric Northern accent far more pronounced down here among the smallfolk. He has no qualms about using his bulk and armor as a breakwater.

Again, the dragons roar, this time in unison. King Viserys shakes his fist at the crowd, "Throw one more thing and you'll not have long to regret it!" he bellows.

Manfryd makes it back to his tents, the group of Dornish bristling with spears and shields to protect it from any rioters. One of them catches the sandy steed's reins while Manfryd dismounts, gripping a spear in his hand as he settles in the tight formation. At the dragons roar, Manfryd doesn't back down and prepares to go on the defense if some of these rowdy commoner's prove to go against their King's commands. Most of his fellow Dornishmen grin at him, clap him on the back, nod in his favour, wish him well for the victory, curse at the dragons and a mix of everything in between.

Siyu hears all of the dragons roar, "Oh by all the seven hells…dragon fire? Nope! Nope! Come on Bryn, how are you at jumping? Think you can make the jump over the edge of stands?" he tries to keep ahold of the boy as he's now rather convienced violence, if not an all out slaughter, is about to happen.

Ser Malcolm Storm's distinctive and colourful braided beard and mustachios are on display beneath the wide, sturdy nose guard of his helm and the Granny's ribbon favour is tied around his sword arm armour. his blue book on a black field is distinctive. The grand Champion of the Dolphin Tourney, distributer of milk and supplies with the Maiden knight in the Time of Plague hurries after Prince Vhaegor's destrier and stands beside him in the lists in support. he booms out, "Show them we are better than this!"

The two rather alarmed Targaryen house guards must recognise the Maiden Knight's sworn sword, as they let Desmond Snow in to help.

Young Prince Aemon moves as if to jump off the dias, but it seems the King, plump as he may be, isn't that slow. He catches the lad by the shoulder. It results in a small, royal scuffle.

Emira slips into Manfryd's tent, keeping astride of the door to keep an eye on the outside. She winks at him — dark, mishievous, approving, or perhaps not at all; something inscrutable lurks in that gaze. She's distracted, half in the shadow of the tent but very much paying attention to the dragons now more than the riot, frozen and tense as if waiting with an air of absolute expectation. Normally, in the face of such hate against her kin, she would be out there pushing, shoving, and having her voice heard and her fists felt, princess or not. Not today.

Desmond nods to the two guards curtly and moves to stand over Dhraegon and Marsei. Hand on his oversized oversized longsword, he stands and waits, eyeing the crowd with a hard gaze. He says nothing to the couple, but crouches down briefly to lay a hand on Dhraegon's shoulder and squeeze reassuringly.

Prince Dhraegon, famous for his cowardice and having hidden in a pillow firt throughout the plague while his young kinsman was out brinking milk and food to the sick stays firm in sheilding his new hightower wife instead of hiding, despite his squeaks of terror eachtime something splats his silks.

Mostly the throwing has stopped. Replaced, in part, by brawls as those who are paying more attention to King Viserys I chose to attempt to stop those who aren't from disobeying and throwing more things.

Manfryd slips back into the tent with a hand to flag the flap aside, seeing with some relief his cousin out of the throng of rioters and in a defendable position. "Cousin-" he says with an impish delight on his face with his eyes glittering darkly, "You're not out there pummeling anyone." It was more a statement than a question, as he turns back to look outside his tent, ensuring that his men have ensured most of the brawls are kept away from them. A few start up right in front, as one man is taken down by another, as the first had threatened to lob something vile at the Dornes. It only brings Manfryd to laugh, "So much for peace cousin! They need their dragons to stop this and only for a time will it. This will fester…" He pulls off his helm, his hair damp underneath, a lick of blood trickling down his brow - hair matted with it, from where Malcolm hit him earlier.

"HEY!" Daevon yells from the tourney field, projecting his voice. "You came here to watch us fight, not the other way around. I for one want to get back to the tourney. Do you all want to lose your bets." It may not be helpful but it's the truth. "Listen to the King."

Between the roaring of the dragons, the roaring of the king, and Ormund's dispatching of the city guard, things start to quiet down. Viserys shouts, "We will take an hour to clean up, and begin again, if the people can behave themselves!"

Desmond crouches down and calls, over the chaos of the crowd, into Dhraegon's ear. "You're doing very well, Your Grace." His plainly-borrowed platemail is smeared with rotten fruit and horsedung, and there is something disgusting smeared across his cheek. He tries to peer past Dhraegon to see whether Marsei is well. "Are you two alright, Your Grace?" A fight breaks out just below the Judge's Stand, and he frowns, half-straightening to make sure it doesn't spill past the Targaryen guards. And then it's over, and he's left standing there, rather sheepish.

The corners of Emira's eyes narrow, sharp and thin, as Manfryd points out her abberant behaviour. Beyond that, she gives no indication that she's listening at all, looking only outside, intensity rising … except it is not her usual temper. "No," she states, bold as she is obscure, and leaves abruptly, vanishing between the tents.

Marsei's own fright and worry about the chaotic eruption the stands have become and, more, the riled dragons, does not overtake her. She holds tight to Dhraegon's hand, trying to reassure him, as well. Seeing Desmond, she nods; though her smile may be meager, it's grateful. As things seem to calm, she tries to sit up straighter and get the lay of the land anew.

Siyu ahems a little bit as he pauses trying to jump off of the stands and finds a seat again, "Well this is…uh, just be ready to run, we might be able to get out of herel ike a normal person." he ahems.

Eonn remains on his big mare, who stamps with nervous irritation.

Dhraegon is crying openly, but when the riot calms he sys in a soft, distressed voice, "There is something in my hair. I would like a bath very much…."

Desmond smiles reassuringly down at Marsei. "It's calming," he explains to her, unnecessarily. He wraps one arm around Dhraegon's shoulder, offering his other hand to Marsei to help her to her feet, if she likes. "You did so well, My Prince," he murmurs soothingly into Dhraegon's ear. "You protected your Flower nobly. Better than any two of the Knights of the Realm. It takes such courage to hold, when you're afraid. You did very well." He just keeps repeating inanities as the guards and servants begin to clean the Field.

"He's right, you know, you were very valiant. Shall we leave, my prince?" Marsei asks softly, swiping her red sleeve under Dhraegon's eyes. They're still turned away, and besides, the crowd is rather distracted by disentangling themselves from brawls under the king's orders. She hesitates, briefly, and places her hand in Desmond's, light and airy. "I do not think anyone would mind terribly if we did."

The royals wander off to their own set of silk pavillions, Viserys giving Aemon a word or two as they go. A page runs over to Dhraegon and Marsei, saying, "His Grace offers a bath!"

Manfryd watches Emira depart, smirking at her backside before he goes inside his tent and enjoys a victory drink while the flames cool. He'll take a much needed breather before the melee - if the events aren't entirely scratched for the day.

Desmond straightens and smiles down at the page as he helps Marsei to her feet. "I think that Prince Dhraegon could certainly use a bath," he says to the page. Here, among the Royals, his accent is muted somewhat. His hand beneath Marsei's is perfectly gentle; he releases hers as soon as she's upright, bowing slightly and offering her a smile, somewhat bashful. "My Lady.. I hope you weren't too shaken." He seems aware that, for perfectly good reasons, Marsei might bear him a touch of ill-will.

Visenya and Torren are also seated in the royal box, and during the whole episode both have rather impassive looks on their faces. Is there a riot? Oh, fuck the Dornish? They both seem quite removed from it. Save for the slight tremble of Visenya's hand, and this stills when Torren leans over to take his wife's hand and whisper in her ear. Once the Targaryen royals clear out of the box Torren guides Visenya out as well towards a tent. Perhaps it will make the crowd calm more quickly if the heir to Dorne was not in their direct sight.

Siyu orders more wine and food. He tosses the vendor an extra Stag for the effort of bringing food and wine through the crowed. After all, have to keep those delivering you tasty treats happy. Also, a worker might now a quicker exit out of the place. Always good to be on that list.

Prince Dhraegon smiles through his tears at Desmond Snow and his fairest Flower as he is led away for cleaning. He ws brave! The Elder Tyrell is like a cranky bird with ruffled feathers, "In my day we didn't have riots! Something is wrong with the morals of young people today! Ought to be whipped through the twn, the lot of them!" The helpful judge emerges from beneath the table nearly unscathed and with a long suffering look. When the jusges return the tearful Prince has been replaced by an Elderly lesser hightower who was hear for the wedding. The Codger looks rather hungover and not pleased to be a target, but duty called and here he is.

The dragons have settled, though they have started a small wildfire in the meadow of flowers. It burns rather sullenly, as the weeds are green and lush.

Now that Dhraegor is safely off the field, and Marsei presumably comforting him, Desmond Snow has no place here in the Judge's Stand. He salutes the three Judges and answers Lord Tyrell, lips twitching. He's no youth, so perhaps he can get away with it. "My Lord, you are entirely right. I have noticed, ever since my youngest days, the degradation of morality." He bows and edges away, going to prepare himself for the melee.

Marsei accompanies Dhraegon; not for a bath, but to the relative safety of a pavilion and perhaps home, looking back the way she came frequently as if not convinced by the calm despite her usual optimism, all the way until they disappear from sight.

The royals return to their seats. The crowd has been thinned, though, what with the city watch sending the worst of the brawlers home, and others going of their own accord.

Daevon's here, preparing for the start of the melee.

Visenya and Torren also emerge back from the pavilions, and take their seats. Was their a riot that could have put them in some danger? It's hard to tell with the way the Princess laughs at something her husband says in her ear.

The Elder Tyrell glares at the Northerner, not sure if he is being mocked or not. He decides on a curt nod just in case he isn't. Hungover Hightower peers at the interloper with a jaundiced eye. Helpful Judge looks amused behind Elder Tyrell's back.

Desmond escapes the judges with nothing more than a shared look to the Helpful Judge, his lips again twitching. He makes his way down to where his horse awaits and spends some time tending to his charger, currying him and spoiling him with small carrots. "Good lad. Noble lad, Mammoth." He rests his forehead against the animal's, listening to the huge beast whicker. "Yes, I know, lad, I know. It wasn't your fault." He strokes the animal's neck. "Alright. This time, we'll be fine." And he resaddles the beast after laying down a blanket, tightening and double-checking the straps himself.

Mounted now, Desmond comes out into the cleared area for the melee. He's huge, riding a huge charger, and carrying a huge longsword. The blade is wider and heavier than the usual longsword, but he bears it with ease. He smiles widely beneath his helmet as he adjusts his shield, also huge. His gaze traverses the melee ground, searching for a particular opponent.

Manfryd stalks out onto the grounds again, silken robes underneath this layers of armor flipping with his swagger as he crosses the threshold to compete. There's no doubt he was going to face the odds this event, after upsetting the jouse. He clutches a spear and a shield, a whip was at his hip as a back up. The observations were made of his opponents, as several of them look his way with the intent to be the first at the Scorpion. Fortunately for them, he had been bruised and battered in the previous event and may not last long, but the damage was already done in the previous event. He was okay with that, not that he wouldn't give it his all and try to take one of the bastards out before he went down.

Daevon's waiting, amongst the many participants, for the melee to begin. Sword in hand, shield in the other, decked out in full plate.

As the melee is set to soon begin, who appears but another competitor from Dorne … and it is, no less, the Scorpion's own blood, but she bears no such sigil. Emira Martell of Dorne, niece of Princess Amarei Martell, has been glimpsed barely at all in Oldtown prior to the day before alongside Prince Rhaegor; even then she was something of an enigma. She'd been slippery on the tourney grounds, as well, despite her shouts to Manfryd. Now, however, as she steps out into the view of the crowd, the battleground under her feet, it as though she thinks she owns it. Her strong, dimpled chin; the way she strides with purpose, a whip coiled at her hip and a Dornish spear in hand. Small, she strikes no immediately threatening pose otherwise, not against the looming men, despite matching some of her Scorpion cousin's cockiness; she winks at him in passing. Her wild hair is tied back without artfulness, and now she wears leathers made tougher by burnished copper disks, sewn like scales, although not all over; it's nowhere near as elaborate as Manfryd's full plate, nor as complete, still bearing sandsilk of Martell red, orange, and gold.

Emira moves close enough across the grounds to address the royal dais, looking first at Torren; then her dark eyes move intensely to the king and queen. She nods her head, acknowledging. It is not a deep bow or a bend of the knee, but it is certainly something surprisingly well-meant from Emira Martell. But she is, afterall, marrying the Targaryen's Crown Diplomat to Dorne.

Malcolm is well rested from his tangle with Ser Manfryd and likely had a short nap and a stretch before returning to the field. His token ribbon is in place and he has a relaxed, easy going air about him.

Before the mellee starts they will try to deliver the second place purse to Prince Vhaegor and a fancy metal helmet to Ser Manfryd, but the usual fuss is not made of it for fear of more rioting.

Torren nods his head in return to Emira's nod. A nod of consent, it seems. He does not look to the Targaryen royals to bestow this consent on his cousin. Instead he sips from his goblet and turns his gaze to the field at large.

King Viserys simply waves a hand. He's well known for being easy-going, why should he mind a spear-maid on the field? Aemon seems less than pleased, though. Sulking, even.

Rhaegor Targaryen was notably absent from the tournament's earlier events, but he takes the field in advance of the melee, close enough to the wire to have allowed for speculation as to whether or not he would be making an appearance. Curious, perhaps that Emira of Dorne preceded him, rather than arriving at his side, but he goes directly to hers, coiling his palm about her neck and greeting her with a kiss.

Desmond charges right at Rhaegor and hacks with his big longsword, but it clatters off the Targaryen's armor. He's silent, intent, and focused.

Malcolm nods to the other Bastard, then stalks towards Manfred, sword at ready, with his characteristic efficient grace. His expression is calm, right up until the moment he flashes the Scorpion a delighted grin, feints to the leg and swings for the head. Again.

Vhaegor arrives a bit behind Rhaegor, still decked out in his fancy dragon plate mail, but this time he bares a longsword as opposed to a lance. As he comes up beside Rhaegor, he gives the other Targaryen a nod and a friendly tap on the shield with the point of his blade before taking up a more neutral position and scanning the field for his first target. It's really not a hard to decision to make, as it turns out, for Manfryd is well within range and when the signal is given to begin, Vhaegor charges forward and brings his sword around to hack at the armor covering the Dornishman's abdomen, barely noticing Malcolm's concerted attack until after he swings.

Siyu drinks his wine, "I hope they actually manage to win. If that Dorne does it twice there might very well be fire and sulfur…"

The remaining crowd gives a roar as the combatants meet.

Manfryd stalks forward, seeing those who are coming at him. He shakes his head at the odds stacking against him. He scowls underneath his helmet, gripping his spear in one hand and shield in the other. It all happens rather swiftly when they are given the signal to fight. Two are immediately after him. He swings his spear at Malcolm first and foremost, as if the man hadn't had enough of him the first time! In response, the coordinated attack of Vhaegor and Malcolm find the weakness in the Scorpion's weaponry. He gets nailed with a longswod to abdomen, that despite the armor, makes a great swoosh of air and winds the Dornish. Then, greatsword to his head. AGAIN. That almost takes him down. Vision abruptly blurry, he pulls himself into a defensive posture as he grunts, "Come on you craven cowards." He's seeing double, twirling the spear in his hand, pointing it at Malcolm.

Daevon finds himself face to face with Emira of all people in the melee, and that's something of a surprise. He's fast, in spite of the plate he's wearing, nimbly dodging her blade as he tests her defenses with his own.

Rhaegor tilts his head to his Targaryen kinsman when they meet in the moments preceding the start of the melee, but they diverge nigh immediately in favor of different targets. Rhaegor meets the Northron bastard's attack, and no surprise; their last meeting culminated in the declaration of intent to do battle. He parries Desmond's charge with his greatsword, but the bastard narrowly evades him. Rhaegor pivots, crisply. Prepared to strike again.

After returning Rhaegor's kiss with fierce indulgence heedless of the crowds, Emira slips on a small, partial coppery-red helm (with a grimace, as it happens, not liking the hindrance despite the protection to her skull). She charges off, her sharp-eyed sights set on Daevon — grinning wildly all the while. She in moves like lightning, the disks of her armour jingling to show for the strength of the effort, both hands on the spear she jabs toward the prince. A sharp-ended feint, really; she's poised at the ready to whirl away from his blade just the same as he did from hers.

Desmond drops back, using his reach on Rhaegor to his advantage, or trying to. He uses his shield like a blind, circling Rhaegor. But his gaze is attentive, circling left to right before he strikes again. This time, it's a straight thrust, but it is defeated quickly by Rhaegor's blow to his throat. And then they circle, and trade blows again. And again. It's hard to tell whether the Northerner is even hurting Rhaegor, or vice versa. But then he lands a striking blow to Rhaegor's sword-hand and leaves himself, in turn, exposed to a blow to his own chest.

One of the dragons sitting out on the field of fireweed, this time Dreamfyre, snorts loudly at the sound of the combat. This stirs Syrax, who tilts her head to peer up at the sky. Sunfyre follows her lead, also looking up. He screams, rearing up and flapping his wings.

Daevon's fast for all that he's more heavily armoured and as he gets the feel of the rhythym of this dance, Emira's fighting style, avoiding blows, some clattering off his armour ineffectually, he quickly strikes once, twice through her defences, a light blow to her chest. He too is smiling for all of this, the joy of battle, of an experienced opponent. The rest of the battlefield barely seems to matter, just this fight.

Malcolm moves better in his battle plate, but still hasn't the grace of leathers There is more carefully irregular footwork in an attempt to flank, using the Targaryen's attack on Manfry to his advantage. Still he strikes fast and often, looking to hit as much as he can in hopes of disorienting the Scorpion. he is not thinking of Dragons, only his dance with the Dornishman.

The two pronged attack keeps Manfryd whirling, sandsilks flipping around him as he parries many of the sword attacks that clatter and come for him. The unfortunate thing is, when odds are against ya, it's just a matter of time. His foot slips and he opens up his defense long enough for Vhaegor to strike him across the chest. That earns a growl from the Scorpion, as he ducks in time to only face a grazing of a greatsword across his neck. Though Vhaegor's press slams against his head, in that same spot that Malcolm hit. Talk about getting one's bell thoroughly rung! He stumbles back, getting tag teamed. It's a downward spiral. One hit lands after the other, doing his best to just stay on his feet. He yells suddenly, changing tactics, desperate. He surges at Vhaegor, eyes gleaming with rage as blood trickles down his face.

Vhaegor glances towards Malcolm briefly as the pair begin to hammer away at Manfryd's defenses. He doesn't know this man, is unused to his fighting, and is forced to occasionally guage Malcolm's approach against his own to have some semblance of teamwork. All the same, he manages to land blow after blow, most softened or stopped outright by shield and armor alike, until finally he recieves a spear thrust to the chest for his trouble. Thankfully, the majority of the blow crashes harmlessly against his armor, but he's still briefly set off balance, perhaps opening himself up to a new attack as he attempts to hit low while Malcolm aims high.

Rhaegor is just as intent on Desmond as the pair circle eachother, but he bristles at something, perhaps whatever it is that inspires restlessness in the royal wyrms. And so he draws back from Desmond, cautiously, sidestepping his opponent and looking to the sky. It seems to onlookers that the Targaryen prince may be preparing to yield. But he gives no other indication, and then he is rushing at Desmond once more.

"Our paths are entangled, yours and mine," Emira says in the midst of leaping deftly back away from Daevon; a glancing hit on his armor, her spear finds nowhere to penetrate or is it all just a game? The strikes she takes to the chest by his longsword clang on the Dornish armour and seem to inspire her passionate breathing, not cause it to falter. She steps backward, a hop; there's something acrobatic in the way the woman moves, even armoured, and she careens to one side with a new grip on her long spear, poised to aim upward.

Daevon's all silence, save for the sound of his breathing, utterly oblivious to all but this dance they're engaged in. He's fast, not fast enough though, and he just won't let he rback off, giving her the reach the spear needs as an advantage. He keeps pace, constantly lashing out with his blade, trying to hack past her guard, using his shield to deflect that spear when need be.

Siyu drinks his wine and eats his meat on a stick. No bets this time around, he doesn't want to jinx anything by putting gold on it. Just hoping to have a peaceful end to…well a fighting competition.

Again, Sunfyre screams at the sky. Syrax begins to pull against her chains, loosening the iron posts driven into the soft earth to secure them. She's much bigger than the lovely golden dragon, and her roar is deafening. King Viserys stands up in alarm as young Aemon leaps down from the dias.

Effective teamwork. With the numerous blows to the head, they wear the Scorpion down. By the end of it, he looks to be blindly swinging his spear at them in a circle to defend himself, as more blood seeps down from his brow. It only takes a light knock of that longsword snap the weapon itself, which had been strained to contain most of those sword hits from nailing him directly. With the two pointed blades drawn on him, the Scropion lets the shattered pieces of his spear fall to the dust at his feet, his hands coming up to gesture at them that he would yield. He doesn't say it, but by the wobble in his stance, it's likely he's too damn stubborn to give over unless beaten to the ground - or in this case, when his weapon was shattered on him. He starts to stumble toward the sides of the arena, his hand coming up to his brow.

As Daevon blocks her, Emira's eyes blaze. She leaps back and stands tall after the strike to her armor, and rolls a shoulder before sinking to the ground almost like she's going to roll; up goes the spear again, threatening close and fast. For all her grinning, there is also a certain lust behind the Martell's eyes; the lust of battle and blood, that is, and it thickens her voice with threat and boils over noticing the dragons as more than roaring in her ears until the last second, telling Daevon, "Perhaps I will entangle you with my whip, yet."

Rhaegor initially presses Desmond in the attack, but then there is the distant shriek of Sunfyre, and the Targaryen prince rips back to look once more to the sky. "Yield," he says, his head ringing with the force of Desmond's blow and the screech of the wyrm. "I yield." And without explanation he begins to wind his way from the field.

The cry of, "Fuck DORNE!" rises an instant after Manfryd's spear shatters, but it's weak. Some of the spectators are fleeing the stands, crowding toward the tourney gate.

Dragon cries? What dragon cries? Desmond is consumed with his battle - within his helm, he hears nothing but the ring of metal on metal, the scream of battle, and the blood pumping through his ears. But Rhaegor has yielded — and he hears that. He drops back a few steps, panting, clasping a hand to his ribs. "I accept your yield," he calls after Rhaegor. And then he turns, searching the melee for another opponent. There — Daevon still fights. He begins trundling toward Emira, moving slowly and breathing hard.

Siyu turns his head as he hears that, and he looks at Bryn, "oh, uh prehaps the original escape plane. I think we might have to make a jump for it, or at least a run, that doesn't sound encouraging…" still trying to somewhat protect the boy.

Malcolm's expression is generally entirely blank as he fights, making him hard to read. He flashes Vhaegor a friendly grin as the Scorpion drops his shattered spear under the the Prince's attack. "Excellent strike, Your Grace!" He gives a small bow, wary, then tries to sidestep towards Rhaegor, with his sword out and eyes keeping track of vhaegor in case he attacks, but just then the Prince yeilds, meaning he needn't come to the aid of the other bastard. He smiles at Vhaegor. "Shall we have at or split up, your Grace?" His stormlands lilt is cordial enough.

Vhaegor takes yet another blow to the chest, but Manfryd appears so beaten down by the concerted attack that it barely halts the Dragon's own strike to the Dornishman's hand, snapping his spear and leaving the Scorpion apparently out of the melee. As he begins to stagger to the edge of the fight, Vhaegor turns to regard the rest of the melee before spying Rhaegor in battle with Desmond and Malcolm's approach, with a grunt he takes a quick step forward to follow. "We may as well," he replies with a ready grin, raising his sword and shield as he begins to circle the other knight.

Daevon hears the dragons, of course he does, and then sees Rhaegor charging that way, and he's distracted, briefly, a distraction you really can't afford in the battlefield. He doesn't waste breath on a response to Emira. As Desmond comes for Emira he scowls beneath that helmet, because he was enjoying this. "Go help Malcolm…" he mutters. It's not quite an order.

A shadow crosses the ground. Syrax screams again, leaping into the air and flapping against the chains.

Too late, Desmond hears the not-order to turn from Emira. He cannot pull his strike toward her neck, but he tries. It barely wings Emira, and he wheels to face Vhaegor, moving to assist Malcolm.

Bryn had been entirely wrapped up in the contest, so only now looks up towards the dragons. He frowns and says, "I don't think they're attacking, something's bothering them. Something.. Whoremaster?" This last is added as he sees the shadow, and he looks up into the sky.

There's no missing it, if you look up. On wide mustard wings, the steel blue scales sharp in the sunlight. Whoremaster.

Vhaegor manages a light, ineffectual blow to Malcolm's helm before he notices Desmond's approach and takes on a more cautious stance, switching his target, hopefully briefly, to the more bloodied Northerner in an attempt to even up the fight again. "Honestly," he mutters through his visor, clearly amused, "The seven have a true sense of humor."

WHUMP. Manfryd's back finds something to rest up against, sliding down as he drags his helmet off his head. Blood gushes profusely down his face, marking him like some wild face paint. Except it drips. Dizzy spells cause him to pitch his head back, blinking slowly then as he registers the blue steel scales of… a dragon. His eyes widen, rolling his head to look around at the other drama and the fact that some of the spectators are fleeing the stands. Gaze returns to Whoremaster. Erfm.

As her quick-moving battle with Daevon is interrupted by Desmond and her neck pays the price in passing, she gives the big man a blatant "who the fuck are you" look; she'd be more than thrilled to go after him, too, but the roaring of the dragons stops her. Stops her from sending her spearpoint at Daevon again, too. "Dragons," Emira says, and it first it sounds like a vicious mutter. "The dragons," she says again, more intensely, stepping back and daring a look away from the knight — up at the wings in the sky. She's never laid eyes on them before now, but she knows them well. Abruptly, the Dornishwoman goes running from the melee without bothering to yield (as if she would), straight for Rhaegor.

Desmond staggers closer, but he's clearly wary and not out of the fight — not yet. He does look hurt, however, after his long bout with Rhaegor. "They do, Ser," he calls back. "Bastards must hang together." He still does not seem to realize that something is happening, above.

Siyu gulps! Right time to go! He grabs Bryn, and tries to slide from the stands, looking for that shortcut! "Time to go boy, that's our cue!"

Malcolm is courtiously waiting for the response and does not react in time. He flashes the Prince another friendly grin and starts his dance with him. He doesn't look up. He is sizing up Ser Vhaegor instead. "They do, I think."

Rhaegor's squire runs after him doggedly as the Targaryen strides purposefully away from the melee, his eyes locked on the sky. Whoremaster. The prince sheds his helm and his sword, ripping off his armor piece by piece and discarding it in the field without second thought or care for its condition, down to the cloth layer beneath. It allows him to move quicker, and Emira has further distance to make up to catch him.

There's a clash of iron as yellow Syrax fights her bonds. The chains do not break, though, the posts that held them to the earth simply pull out of the soil. The jarring effect of it brings Syrax back down, but she leaps into the air an instant later.

That shadow… the panicked dragons, is it bad? The moment Daevon spots it in the sky, and yes he is later than others. He's charging, not after Emira but where Ormund is, also calling out. "Cease the melee." And then, just in case. "BRYN?!"

Visenya stands up in the stands as that flash of mustard yellow and steel blue. "Veraxion." She breathes put to the benefit of the other royals in the box. She cries out then in warning to those dragon riders, "She is wild! A danger to the others."

Bryn looks to Siyu like he's crazy, "Are you kidding? It's Veraxxion… Whoremaster! No way I'm leaving." He does start to run, but not away. He's running towards Daevon at his shout.

Lord Ormund, staring up at the sky, seems at a loss. There's not enough room at the gates to run, and what shelter is a silken pavillion? The King is yelling, more than a hint of panic in his voice, not that jolly bluster at all: "AEMON! NO!"

Malcolm fakes a strike to the head as he'd been using on Manfryd, but strikes to the arm instead. He heaves a sigh of frustration as he hears Deavon calling to stop the melee. He raises his eyebrows at Vhaegor, "Agree to stop with no loss of honor to either side?"

"Where's the flute?" Daevon practically demands of Ormund, he keeps his voice low though. "We need that flute."

"Rhaegor!" Emira shouts, growling through it. She runs with long strides for her height, with long legs, armoured but far from heavily as his. She flings her helmet as her head into the grass as she goes, clutching her chest either at a bruise or with the desire to rip the jangling armour off.

"In the tower," replies Ormund, without seeming to think about it. He's staring at the sky, where the big wild dragon executes a wide circle over the field.

Manfyrd tries to push to his feet but he just can't. The world was spinning on him. His motions are therefore slow and staggered. Dragons… "Fucking dragons…" he hisses out as his hand goes to his head, trying to clear his vision of the blood.

Belatedly, the call sinks in to Desmond. He cries impatiently toward Malcolm and Vhaegon both: "I yield!" Whether it comes to a loss in honor or not is nothing to him, in this moment. And the bastard sellsword flees the field, rushing after Daevon on unsteady legs, trying to catch the Maiden's Knight, his sword and shield still in hand. He finally looks upward and seems to realize that something is very much amiss.

Siyu grunts from the edge of the stand, glancing back at the mad panic at the gates and the inability to get through, "Seven hells…" he spits, and lurchs himself up to chase after Bryn, "Bat shit crazy Westrosi."

Vhaegor sidesteps Desmond's massive swing just in time to recieve a blow to the arm that drops his shield about a quarter of an inch. With a grunt, he continues to ignore Malcolm for the moment, sending a quick strike out towards Desmond that similarly cuts the air and little else. When Daevon's shout pierces through his battle focus, followed by Malcolm's offer, he nods once, grunting, "Aye," before he steps back, lowering the tip of his sword but keeping his shield raised against any last minute strikes tossed out in the heat of battle. When it's clear the fight is over, he turns and looks around at the panic, only to follow the many gazes to the airborne pair of dragons. "Seven help us," he breathes out, before looking to Malcolm. "Rhaegor. We must stop him," he grunts, noticing the distant figure of the man who knighted him, "Somehow…" And with that, he sets off at the fastest run he can manage, stripping off helm and shield alike.

Bryn's eyes are on the Dragon as he runs, so he almost plows right into Daevon. He stops maybe an inch from doing so, waving his arms a little to regain balance, and says to the knight, "I'm here!"

There's not time, is there, not even riding a horse to get there in time, to get the thing… Daevon looks to Bryn, there's a question there, but he's not going to make it an order… or even a request. And he's clearly calculating if it's worth trying to make the ride for the flute anyway, given the time it'll take. "Send someone for it. The fastest horse." he tells Ormund. "Just in case."

Rhaegor gives no sign of having heard Emira, but he does eventually come to a standstill in the middle of the open field. While spectators have fled the stands, he's done the opposite, charting a course that leaves him exposed to the wrath of the wild dragon from on high. He watches as it circles overhead, inadvertantly having lured Emira toward him in the process.

The judges are running away. Elder Tyrell and hungover hightower move remarkably well for crusty old codgers, but then they were Tourney rivals in their youths.

"The prince," says Ormund dully. Aemon is running headlong towards the dragons.

Visenya remains standing for a moment or two, her frame tense with indecision. Finally she leans down to kiss Torren rather fiercely before she tears off her circlet and drops it in her chair, and runs out of the box as well. "Visenya!" Torren calls out, but there's no stopping her now. To the field she runs along with everyone else stupid or mad with dragon fever. She takes the whip from her side and cries out, "Prince Aemon!"

Siyu is soon behind Bryn, the short, pretty boy teen from Yi Ti gives a faint pant, "Bryn! Come on we can't…oh." he blinks as he realizes who it is Bryn has run to. Great. He's right in the middle of this mess now

Desmond comes staggering to Daevon's side, clutching his ribs with his sword-arm. But he's still game. He looks down at Bryn with a forced smile, and to Daevon. "Ser," he says, tottering only a little, "What are your orders? How can I assist you?" He glances, wryly, at the fleeing judges. But then he sees Aemon, off in the distance, over the heads of the remaining crowd. "Fuck me with a goat's cock!" And the Northman is off again, without orders, without wisdom, running as hard as he can. Giantsblade and his shield both hit the dirt, in order to free his hands.

Malcolm looks up. Finally. And says some very, very rude things in fluent Braavosi. Then with a calm finality, he informs Desmond Snow. "We are all going to die." Then he is pounding after the Maiden knight, clearly intending to lend what aid he can to his friend.

Syrax's chains drag her down a little, or at least, don't let her take off as smoothly as she might otherwise. The iron posts that bound her to the ground swing low over the earth as her wings stir the air and fill it with the soot and sulpher and spice smell of dragon. They're quite a hazard, those posts, as the dragon flies low over the tourney ground and the swinging metal crashes into the fence at the western side of grounds, scattering some of the knights who were standing there.

There as so many fast horses here, for the expected horse races, now postponed.

Torren's voice ignites something in Manfryd. Pain is forgotten. He struggles through it as he finds the weapon wracks on the tourney field, grabs another spear, and starts to fight against people running away to find the Prince Martell. "Prince Torren!" He hollars, watching distractedly as Visenya is streaking somewhere. "Fuck…" he shakes his head and makes his duty to one person. His Prince. "Fuck the dragons…" he sluggishly climbs up to where Torren is.

Emira, her face hot and shining from battle and running, doesn't quite catch up to Rhaegor before she calls out. She does not shout, this time, as Whoremaster circles ominously overhead, but her voice is full of intensity, and it carries. Whether he'll hear her or not is another matter. "Rhaegor." Her purpose is unclear; she reaches for him sooner than she can actually touch him, grabbing for his elbow when she can, "I know she is in sight, and your time is near, but the other dragon…" She urgently eyes the beast trying to free herself from her post.

So, so many fast, easily "borrowed" race horses. Some of them jumpers.

Bryn looks around, and then nods to Daevon, "I'll get it!" He turns, running towards one of the horses. Yeah, it will be difficult to get out, maybe impossible, but he's going to try.

Horses! Vhaegor briefly toys with the idea of grabbing his destrier, but almost immediately dismisses it as folly. In the presence of a dragon, a horse would only slow him down. Running in full plate is a lesson in futility, unfortunately, and a brisk trot is all he can manage as he slowly but surely approaches the now thankfully still Rhaegor. "Rhaegor!" he calls out, showing less restraint than Emira who he is several yards behind still. With a gasp, he curses melees, jousts, and dragons all, and continues his steady approach.

Daevon looks at Desmond. "Don't you dare…" he grabs for Desmond's arm. "The boy's dragonsblood, he's a better chance than you. You don't want Veraxion eating you… stay back. Leave those with dragonsblood." He nods at Bryn.

Eonn is staring up. After a while he turns his own big white mare and starts down the Blackcrown road, quite the opposite direction from where everyone is trying to go, but at least it's clear and it's further away from here. He keeps the horse at a walk.

"Prince Torren—" Manfryd's voice is ragged. He had to climb so many steps and bat away someone who still dared to challenge him, he looks toward the Prince, then at the field where Visenya ran, "My Prince… we need to get out of here-" bleeding and staggered, he tries to find a voice to insist on the Prince's safety. "They will make sure… she is… safe-" winded, Torren should know who Manfryd was talking about. There would be other Targaryen's to oversee that foolish woman he loves!

Desmond sees one of the already-saddled horses and tries to lurch into it, but Daevon has his arm and he just can't move. Not when Daevon says no. He's already half-mounted, but he slides back off — and probably would have fallen, anyway. "But the boy," he says weakly. He doesn't look particularly hale anyway. "The Prince." He sounds despairing, gazing at Daevon, and then at the dragons.

Syrax gains altitude, finally, and roars again, then spits yellow fire up at Veraxion. The two dragons are far too distant from one another for the flame to hit, but some spark is visible in the wild monster's golden eye.

"Prince Torren—" Manfryd's voice is ragged. He had to climb so many steps and bat away someone who still dared to challenge him, he looks toward the Prince, then at the field where Visenya ran, "My Prince… we need to get out of here-" bleeding and staggered, he tries to find a voice to insist on the Prince's safety. "They will make sure… she is… safe-" winded, Torren should know who Manfryd was talking about. There would be other Targaryen's to oversee that foolish woman he loves!

Prince Aemon reaches his dragon, and hurriedly begins to try to unchain Sunfyre.

Daevon's frozen, staring at the dragons, for a moment and he seems to have forgotten Desmond. He's looking horrified as Aemon starts to unchain his dragon. He has to… he has to… move. And he's turning, charging after Bryn to acquire a horse for himself.

Siyu looks up at the dragons and the dragon fire, "Dragon's fire. No no…no…" he draws a deep breath and he reaches to his thumb and bites hard, getting the blood flowing. He concentrates, as the blood forms a droplet…and then flows. In an unnatural way. in a particular direction. He keeps following it, following it. Until he gets to a youngster, "You boy! Flute, whistle, what have you, give it here, unless you want to be burned! Anything!"

It's a good thing that Bryn hasn't forgotten the riding lessons he got from Aeron, back when he was wanting to be a Knight. Bryn bounds onto a horse, kicking it into action and running right for the way out. As he gets close, he doesn't even hesitate in giving the kick to try to get it to jump over the crowd in his way.

The crowd is too thick for the horse to clear, but it obeys Bryn's efforts and simply charges in, knocking people aside. It's far from the only horse thus engaged. There are screams.

"NO!" Desmond's shout is a battlecry, it echoes, almost rising above the crowds. He's running, trying to catch Daevon, but he's too slow, too injured. "My prince!" It's a pleading cry, but Desmond trips over his own longsword and absently grabs it up. Daevon's gone. He can't catch up, not easily. The huge man instead begins shoving through the crowd, making his way on foot. "Clear a fucking path!" And the Northerner begins trying to bodily barge anyone out of the way.

Rhaegor's eyes are pried from the sky, at least briefly, when Emira is suddenly upon him. Suddenly, by his reckoning, having been oblivious to the way that she chased him as he went. He heeds her words, but it is too late; Rhaenyra's mighty mount has ripped itself from the earth and taken wing to join the wild one in the sky. Rhaegor is bloodied and seething with sweat, his eyes feverish and bright with mania. While others are running to and fro chaotically, he is now stalk still. Waiting. Watching.

In the sky, Whoremaster hovers a moment, beating its wings but staying in place.

The youth Siyu has cornered is simply trying to dart through the crowd, and he cares for nothing more. He throws a cheap tin whistle at the YiTian, his eyes panicked.

Siyu uhhhhs…he looks dejected. Nope. That's not gonna work. He just let's it drop, awaiting his fate, at least not going to get trampled to death.

Malcolm puts a friendly hand on the northern Bastard's shoulder, "The lad's got the blood and we do not, Desmond. This is Targaryen business. All we'd do is get burned and eaten. I've seen what Dragons can do. That one in particular. you're wounded and we're too heavy for jumping horses…." And then Deavon is running and Malcolm is running. He's headed for Motley on the guess that a slower but stronger horse would carry him better.

Syrax climbs higher, screaming again. And high above, the storm-and-mustard dragon folds its wings and stoops like a falcon.

As the dragon fire and screaming spreads out across the sky, Emira's attention shoots upward. Her eyes turn to dark pools, so much wider than usual; awe plays out across her face. That, more than fright. If she is afraid, it translates into the intensity in which she moves and speaks; the urgency with which she studies Rhaegor. "What's next," she hisses at him. She puts a hand to her whip. "Tell me and I will do it, but I will not stand and burn with you."

She notices Vhaegor coming at a run and points her spear at him — once, for merely for a moment. Stay back.

"NO GODS DAMN YOU!" the king screams at his son. Aemon ignores him.

Torren had risen from his seat to follow after Visenya, and he gives Manfryd an annoyed look when the Scorpion gets in his way. He shoulders past him without a word towards Visenya.

Visenya has caught up with Aemon. She does not approach Sunfyre as the dragon is unfamiliar with her. "I hope you do not intend to fight her, Your Highness." She calls out, "She is very old and very fierce. Cunning, too. It would be prudent instead to ride her away from here."

Well, that didn't work. Bryn tries to guide the horse back out, not panicked like most of the others, and thus not afraid to back up. Of course, with everybody else panicking, the horse may not be able to get out. He's already looking, trying to figure out how to get past as quickly as possible.

Manfryd grunts as he's shoved aside. He isn't going to stop the man but he isn't going to leave him out there either. "Highness-" he trails after Torren, spear clutched in his hand, looking up at the dragons but fucking damnit, following Torren into this mess.

The prince look up at Visenya, tossing Sunfyre's shackles away. He seems about to snap back some answer, but whatever it is doesn't pass his lips, because looking up at his cousin gives him a prime view of the diving wild dragon.

Motley very much doesn't like Dragons and doesn't want to be here, but Tellur Snow's been improving his training now for a year and a half or more, so Ser Malcolm and Motley are lumbering after the maiden Knight at a good clip. Neither man nor beast want to be going that way, but Ser Daevon may need help if he catches the little Prince.

Syrax turns in the air to meet the falling Whoremaster. The wild beast does not flame, just falls with furious speed. The two enormous creatures meet mid-air with a tremendous clash.

Desmond is still anchored in the crowd, throwing men aside left and right, driving forward. "My prince!" The cry is almost a warcry, almost a warning cry. He keeps driving forward afoot. He isn't making much progress toward the gates.

Siyu wanders back over to the group of warriors, thumb still bleeding, he's already accepted meeting his ancestors, so he's not too disturbed, it's out of his control at the moment, unless the gates magically manage to clear and he can run, but given the crush and the panic, that is unlikely, so he simply stands with the nobles, dragon blooded or not and waits to see what happens.

Visenya turns around just in time to see the massive dragons collide as well. She sucks in a little breath just as Torren reaches her. He puts a hand on her arm and looks up into the sky as well for a moment before looking back at Visenya. "Come." He pulls gently on her before saying, "Visenya, we must secure your own dragons." This seems to snap the Princess out of her stupor, and she lets Torren begin to pull her away. The Prince of Dorne says to Manfryd, "Horses."

Before she is pulled away Visenya calls out to Aegon, "If you are not a fool you would ride your dragon to safety."

And… Bryn is stuck. Luckily, he's on top of a horse, and thus not crushed. For the moment, anyway. He gets a frightened look, as he realizes he's not getting out of the crowd, but he keeps his head. He stays on the horse, as long as he can, as he continues to look for a way to get out of the crowd.

King Viserys starts to run across the field. He is quite round, and not fast. And this would be comical, under other circumstances.

Thick in the crowd, Desmond stares in horror as the dragons collide. "Oh, fuck me with a goat's cock. Fuck me. Fuck me." And then he's wading forward again, on foot, trying to catch up to the Maiden's Knight. "GERROUTTAMYWAY!"

Above, the two dragons start to tumble, falling together, joined at their talons, hissing and smoking from their great jaws. They look like a giant pinwheel of wings, mustard-and-lemon.

"Right away-" Snappish and suddenly without that cockiness that is expected from the Dornish. There was no complaints, he twisted in his spot and raced for the string of horses that had been left abandoned or not on the field, probably tied for the race that was supposed to have happened. His head throbs like a son of a whore but he uses his spear to slice away the ropes securing them, any that aren't bucking and thrashing at the dragons above.

Young Aegon leaps onto Sunfyre's shoulders and shouts. Heleana Targaryen starts running after her father, and Queen Alicent also abandons the dias, chasing her daughter and husband.

Rhaegor wrests the whip from Emira's hand, when she hisses at him. "Go," he says, looking past her to Vhaegor. He meets the younger Targaryen in the middle, making up what ground is left between them and grabbing him by the neck, uttering a series of low instructions to his once-squire. In the mad chaos, royals and nobles are running here, there and everywhere, but though Emira demands to know what's next, Rhaegor seems disinclined to abandon his spectating of the battle overhead.

Manfryd fights with a few of the horses. He loses a couple of them before he manages to snag some that don't balk at his hand wrapping around their reins. A horse is a horse and his is thankfully not in the arena for eating! He leaps up on a saddle of a third horse, spear hooked across his back now as he nudges the horses forward, back toward Prince Torren and Princess Visenya, glancing up in the air to see the dragons clash.

"Highness!" Manfryd says as the dust clouds around the horse hooves, the animals scared witless, nostrils flaring, but for now under control. Nevermind that Manfryd was slouching forward in his saddle as he offered to hold the reins while the two mounted up.

Siyu looks around and takes stock. The Targs are running through open fields, like gazelle on the plains. That's not smart with dragons. The groundlings are crushing each other to death at the gate. That's not good either. He grabs some of the wineskins from the stands, a handful of them, and hops the fence. His fate is sealed one way or the other. He cannot run, he cannot hide, he can reduce his chances, but the die is cast. He presses himself up against the outer wall of the city. Looking up at the dragons, watching them…and drinking heavily.

The tumbling dragons shriek in the air, snapping at each other, their black teeth clashing. It seems as if they have no interest in halting their descent, and are likely come to earth, quite crushingly, atop the King, the Queen, and Princess Haelena.

Desmond gazes up at the crashing dragons and reverses course. It's probably far too late, but now he's rushing back toward the Royal Stands. He already seems to know he can't make it.

Vhaegor… does not know who Emira is. Even sort of. There's obviously some connection there between her and Rhaegor, but she doesn't /look/ Targaryen and she's likely in quite a bit more danger than either Rhaegor or himself. With that in mind, he doesn't really heed her implied threat with the spear and instead finally lumbers up to the pair, though he /does/ maintain a respectful distance. "Cousin, whether you are meant to ride Veraxion or not, it seems more likely that there is about to be a bout between dragons here. You will only be crushed." This is the only word of advice he gives the elder Targaryen before he's approached and given a set of commands, his eyes briefly turning to Emira before he nods several times in recognition and acceptance of Rhaegor's orders — just like old times.

Siyu waves to Desmond, "Hello! Snow! Come with me to the wall, wait and watch." he calls back to the other knightish person he bet on to win. Seeing if he'll join in his plan or not, but he waves with wineskins, that might work.

Still trying to get free of the crowd, Bryn looks back, towards the tourney grounds. Seeing the dragons fall towards the King, he stands up in his saddle and shouts, at the top of his lungs, in high Valyrian, "STOP!" Not that is likely the dragons will hear him, and definitely unlikely they will obey, but he has to try. He was stupid to try to get through the crowd, when he obviously should've stayed.

Emira seems disinclined to abandon Rhaegor, not now or not yet, and only eyes Vhaegor sidelong. She takes firm hold of Rhaegor arm, pulling it roughly and moving in to stare at his mania-driven eyes. "You will get out of the dragons' way, or you will get them out of the dragons' way," she says hotly, a command as much as an encouragement as she looks up to the battle in the sky and to the royal family under the shadow.

"//GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY!!" Desmond's roar is gargantuan, as big as the Northman himself. He yanks Giantsblade out of its sheath and waves it about, making an impression with bared steel where volume fails. "Let the Princes go! Get out of their way!" His shouts could be heard across a battlefield. He may not be able to protect Daevon OR the king, but he can at least make it easier for the man.

He hears Siyu's shout and looks blankly up at him, bloody and with steel bared. He makes no move to join the man, but he shouts up at him, "What's happening?!"

"We will ride north to the woods-" Torren begins when Manfryd rides over with the horses, but he just happens to glance up at the sky, and note where the King, his wife, and Princess Halaena are. "Seven damn it all!" He runs over to where the royal family are, probably expecting that Manfryd will follow him, and grabs the sleeve of King Viserys. A move that would probably get his arm chopped off by the Kingsguard. Except they aren't here right now, are they?

And now it's Visenya's turn to chase after Torren. She follows after him, "The dragons." She says urgently. "We must go. Now. There are horses…" She looks towards the three before saying, "Princess Halaena can ride with Prince Torren and I." Clearly no Queen or Princess will be forced to ride with Manfryd.

Alright. That was weird. Maybe it was Bryn's shout, but the two dragons break apart, spreading their wings. They're no more than fifteen feet above the ground when they catch themselves this way and arch back up into the sky. The wind of them knocks the king onto his face in the bloody grass, his daughter beside him. Oddly, Alicent keeps her feet, and stands there staring upward with the wind tangling her hair. And Sunfyre the golden, Aegon on his back, wings towards them, skimming low over the ground.

Manfryd watches where Torren sprints off to next, with a grumbling in Manfryd's chest. Fucking Princes - is likely what he said, but outloud enough. He definitely follows, trotting the animals after the one he was riding. There were only three, but suddenly the animals had to sport more than one rider each? He says nothing to the choices that are made, he simply looks to be trying to hold his head up. Damn Malcolm and Vhaegor. Thankfully the dazed look is hidden behind the helm he had slipped back on in efforts to get to Torren.

Siyu laughs at the man with steel, "Dragons…what else would be happening! Come my friend, death will chose you or not. But let's share a drink, and laugh at him. There's nothing else to do."

Of the two people who aren't him, Vhaegor seems to agree more with Emira. That said, he was given orders from Rhaegor. Not a hard decision. A sucky one, but not hard. "I do apologize," he grunts before reaching out to attempt to grab Emira about the abdomen and haul her away. Unfortunately for him, Emira is a lot faster than him, and would still be a lot faster than him even if he wasn't currently in plate mail. "My Lady, please. It's not safe here. We must get you to safety." Probably should have lead with the diplomacy, but it's too late for that now…

But Desmond is busy clearing the peasantry out of the gate and off the road. He cannot keep up with his Prince, or with any of the nobility, but he can do this! "There's plenty to do, you little fuck! Does Ser Daevon live?" Of course, he's lost track of Daevon in the chaos, and is busily kicking one particularly bold man between the legs and throwing him back. "Clear the Gods-Damned street!" He looks around, desperately, for allies. Where are the City Watch? Where are the Kingsguard? Injured as he is, bruised and battered, he cannot hold his small strip of clear ground forever.

Emira slips from Vhaerys like a fucking eel. "You do not touch me," she spits, "even under order of Rhaegor." The roll of her rrr in Rhaegor is almost spiteful, given the look she cuts him, but it's fleeting. The point of her spear is again directed at Vhaerys, but the rather extremely pressing matter of who's going where and when is delayed when the dragons shift; she tenses.

Siyu shrugs a little at Desmond then, he does not know either way, and the knight seems far too high strung to wait for death. So the young merchant leans against the city wall as planned and watches the dragons. Sipping noble wine.

Above, the dragons circle each other, climbing higher.

Emira has lots of good advice, but the trouble is that Rhaegor is too far distracted by the spectacle in the sky to heed any of it. First she bids him to intervene when Syrax begins to shirk her earthly shackles, and then she bids him intercede when the dragons crash perilously toward the royal family. While Emira and Vhaegor engage in a bit of a brawl, though, Rhaegor watches the dragons split apart, the jolt of the near-tragedy momentarily inspiring him with some clarity. He catches the roll of the r as Emira says his name, and despite having just previously given Vhaegor instructions to the contrary, says, "Leave her." And maybe he's finally prepared to abandon his folly, too.

Bryn slumps back into the saddle, letting out a breath of relief as the dragons veer off. Once again, probably no one will believe him, but he believes it was his shout. Fully accepting that he won't get to the Hightower, not in time at least, he starts trying to force his way back to the tourney grounds.

The bottleneck is starting to clear as more people make it through and run into the city. Princess Haelena gets to her feet and runs to Dreamfyre, preparing to mount as well. Aegon remains on Sunfyre as the beast stands over his parents, the King ponderously getting back to his feet.

Desmond continues to hold the road between the gates and the tourney ground. He can do nothing but that. When Bryn comes hurtling by again, the big Northman screams after him, "Daevon?? Where is Daevon?" But his voice is probably lost in the crowd as he moves forward, threatening with Giantsblade to force another wave of scared Smallfolk back. "Stay back!" His voice has begun to sound desperate, rather than confident. "Back! Back!"

Vhaegor was told to do something. If that meant getting himself impaled on a dornish spear, damnit, he was going to do it regardless. Thankfully, it doesn't come to that, however. Just as he seems ready to attempt to take advantage of Emira's momentary distraction to deflect the spear and make a new grab for her, he recieves new, thankfully updated orders from Rhaegor. Happily, he complies, standing down instantly as he turns to regard first the man who knighted him, then the dragons. After a moment of considering the rising duo, he grunts and asks, "What now?"

Daevon's given up on pushing through the crowds. He instead stoops down to sweep up a fallen child and helps her back into the arms of her family before she's trampled by the mobs. There's no getting through the gates, no time either, and nothing he can do about the dragons. So he's mostly just doing his best to see that nobody's injured on their escape from the terror. Horse-riding crowd control.

The dragons meet in the sky again, gripping talons and tumbling. Now they're more likely to just fall to the fireweed, if they should fall so far. They're high up again. Neither flames.

Since Torren and Visenya had just rushed over to King Viserys, Queen Alicent, and Princess Halaena they are also in the path of the strong winds from the dragon's wings. Visenya falls to the ground while Torren manages to keep his feet. He pulls his wife up before coming over to help Viserys up and off of the ground.

Malcolm does what he can to help with the people not getting trampled part.

The horses shrill at the strong gusts of winds. Manfryd SHOUTS across the distance toward them, "Highness!! Get on the horses!" Before the reins are ripped out of his hands. He was struggling to keep the one he was riding from not bucking him off while holding the other two, who were thrashing their heads and stomping. It takes all he has to keep them, but he's losing ground from where his Prince is, "Fucccckk…" Nope, those horses aren't liking it one bit.

"Thank you," the King says to Torren. He shouts something in High Valyrian to his daughter as she runs for Dreamfyre.

Siyu drinks rich a one. Well that IS a good vintage. He's glad he raided the noble stands before fleeing. Back to the city wall. Watching it all.

Others are helping him now. Order is beginning to emerge, though the chaos above continues. Desmond is no longer confronted by a fear-maddened mob — he sets out toward the King and his family, gesturing smallfolk toward the Gates where Malcolm and Daevon await to organize their escape. The huge Northman bulls his way to where the chaos is occuring with the royal family. He's striving to reach Alicent and Halaena, struggling against the winds.

"Fate," Emira states. A lofty thought from an otherwise blunt woman not prone to such words, it sounds like the right thing in the moment as she stares at the dragons hurdling toward the fireweed. ".. but maybeee— not now," she adds an addendum, reaching up to Rhaegor's face to turn it toward her, her black brows set hard. "We should go somewhere, away. Somewhere to watch them." The Dornishwoman's voice dips. "You will not lose her this time."

"Leave them." Torren calls out to Manfryd. He and Visenya remain close to the King and Queen. Their position under Sunfyre may be safer than previously thought. Still, the Prince of Dorne gives Viserys an expectant look, as if to say that he will accompany him where he needs to go.

And so Rhaegor proves himself not utterly impervious to logic, in his manic state. Emira forces him to meet her stare, and he does, her suggestion taking root in his mind. Slowly, he nods, glancing sidelong at Vhaegor and firming his resolve. "Yes," he says, his knuckles still death-white on the handle of Emira's whip, held at his side. He offers it back to her, at last, a gesture of his submission to the Dornishwoman's will. The question of somewhere has him looking, at last, elsewhere but the sky, taking fresh account of what was previously utter chaos.

Desmond finally breaks out from the crowd and comes surging toward the Royal Family, halting before the King and Torren. "How can I be of assistance, Your Grace?" His voice is hoarse, his armor is battered, his posture is hurt, but Desmond Snow stands tall. He grips Giantsblade in his hand, looming over the Royal Family and Torren, and looking suddenly awkward — a bastard Northerner suddenly in a place he'd never expected to reach. The question he's asked is inane, but he seems in such disarray from fighting the mob that he is unaware of how stupid he sounds, before his King.

"We should get to cover," says the King. The twelve year old princess, mounted on silver winged Dreamfyre, flies off to the north, low over the ground, as the big dragons above break apart, rise, and clash again.

There's still no fire above. The meeting of the dragons is graceful. A dance, more than a battle?

Wouldn't you know it? Just as Torren calls out for Manfryd to leave him, the two horses wheel and thrash in a fashion that hauls on his arm too painfully to keep with. The third animal goes the other way. Abruptly his hand is caught in the reins of one and he's tumbling into the dirt, landing HARD before he's dragged a short distance that it takes for him to get his hand unwound from the reins of the now spooking horses. His form goes rolling in a heap and lands up against the arena wall, striking his head again. His form goes stationary. He could be dead, but he's certainly unconscious now.

Now clear of the crowd, Bryn stops to watch the dragons above. This, likely, doesn't make his horse happy, of course. But, he has to see, has to know what happens.

Desmond locks eyes with Torren, seeking the Dornish Prince's understanding. He looks gravely at Viserys, blood running from an unfelt cut in his forehead. "We'll get you to safety, Your Grace," he vows. The huge northman moves to shield the Royals, his sword in hand, his shield somewhere back in the blood and dust of the wild panic behind them. And then the big Northron pauses for a moment, looking around. "…Where?"

Viserys starts to walk towards the gates, taking Alicent's hand. They move out of the shadow of Sunfyre, such as it is — the pretty golden dragon is the smallest present, hardly bigger than an elephant. Prince Aegon stays on his mount, but taps the shining scales with his whip, and the beast walks, awkward on the ground like a bird or a bat, staying close to the king and queen.

"Clear the way for the King if need be." Prince Torren suggests to Desmond before he nods his head towards the mostly cleared gate with the royal family and Visenya in tow. Not that there will be much of a need of clearing. Sunfyre will frighten away any who decide to make an attempt on the King or even impede him.

Vhaegor is, admittedly, terribly distracted by the 'combat' taking place in the sky to really take heed of Emira's admittedly deep response. He does, however, note the conversation taking place between Rhaegor and his soon-to-be-bride and nods to the former before turning and bowing his head low to the latter. "My apologies, My Lady, for my earlier actions. I wished only to get you to safety. I do hope to make a better second impression on you at a later date, but I believe I am required elsewhere. I'm sure the City Watch will be glad of another hand to keep the peace after this spectacle." It's always good to be able to recognize when you've become a third wheel. "Cousin," he grunts, looking now to Rhaegor, "We will have to catch up later. You missed my tilts. I made it to the finals and nearly caused a riot with my loss. It was quite a scene." With that and a brief grin, he nods to both again before turning and striding towards the bulk of the crowds.

Apart from the injured, who are being helped into the city by Daevon and his companions, the gate is mostly clear. Of course, the houses and shops just inside might be crammed with people hiding from the dragons, but at least one can get into the city.

Desmond moves just ahead of the king and queen, his steel bared. He looks over his shoulder periodically to check the Royal Family's progress. But he has his orders from Prince Torren, and he bulls his way toward the crowd. "Make way!" But a few smallfolk are slow to learn. "MAKE WAY!" The crowd absolutely melts before him, and he looks about with a gratified expression. Then he looks up and sees Aegon and Sunfyre, and understands why the masses are panicked. He just slows, sword lowering, looking stupid. Blood continues to run down his face. "Oh," he says softly.

Above, the dragons circle each other, catch one another by their feet, and spiral about. It's pretty. Magnificent.

Siyu continues to sip the wine he managed to recover, "Well. I suppose this isn't going to be a forgotten wedding…"

Torren smirks as Desmond begins shouting for smallfolk to make way for the King, and when he turns and sees the dragon behind him his smirk widens into a wry smile.

Visenya also looks up and over her shoulder, and the beautiful sight in the sky causes her to gasp. Torren grabs her arm and pulls her along gently before she stops in the street and is stepped on by Dreamfyre.

The display continues above, getting higher and higher in the air and drifting eastwards.

Despite the dragon making his job irrelevant, Desmond continues to lead the way. Duty is important. He has a duty. He staggers, briefly, coming over a cobblestone. But he carries on. Torren's smirk, the Royal Family's indifference — these things do not matter. His King has said to clear a way to cover, and Desmond plods on, just ahead of the Royal family, ready to challenge anyone who tries to stop them. His face is blanched, wan. Every few steps, a bead or two of crimson falls onto the ground beneath his feet.

The Royal couple stay beside Torren. Soon white cloaked kingsguards manage to find them, leading nervous horses.

Aegon turns Sunfyre and takes to the air once the Kingsguard are at his parent's side. The golden dragon wings away, following Dreamfyre's course. Above, the dancing dragons are reduced to thumbnail size by their altitude.

Once the Royal Family is handed off to the Kingsguard Torren is joined by his own contingent of Martell men-at-arms who see the Prince and his consort off to the Hightower. A few are dispatched to see to Manfryd Qorgyle as well.

Daevon's riding after smallfolk, making sure everybody's okay, keeping an eye on everything, trying to instill order.

Desmond sees that the road — which he cleared — is empty of opposition. He sees the Kingsguard emerging — now, when it's peaceful — with horses. He turns back to Torren and the Royal Family and smiles hugely. And then he topples to one knee, barely keeping a grip on his oversized longsword. "I'm not a pet," the big Northman utters, but it's unlikely anyone can hear him. "I'm a soldier." He gazes toward the Royalty, being escorted away by their Kingsguard, and stumbles on to the gate. Spotting Daevon, Desmond makes his unsteady way toward the mounted knight. He's oozing blood from the melee, and more from holding back the mob, and he slides to one knee near the Maiden Knight's horse. "The king is safe," he manages, gasping for air. The huge Northman seems exhausted, perhaps wounded. "The king is safe."

The king is safe. Mostly, the chaos is contained. Sort of. There's a mess. Blown over pavillions. Loose horses running about. Missing people. Broken toes. But it's calm. Sort of. The dragons are high above, not so threatening, and the only 'tame' one left is Melys, the Red Queen, who watches the two in the air rather laconically.

Daevon's immediately off his horse, to see to Desmond. "Yes. The King's safe." He agrees. "Are you hurt?" stupid question, with all the blood. "Water." He calls out, just expecting someone to bring some.

Malcolm does his best to use his horse to clear the way for Royalty. Eyeing Desmond Storm he says, "Best we get him to a healer I could use stitches myself."

Desmond smiles up at Daevon, reaching a hand toward the man. "I'm very tired," he admits. He pulls his helmet off, revealing a long but shallow gash on his scalp. A rock, a stick, something, somewhere, has caused blood to practically sheet down. It's only been the helmet that keeps it in place. "Are you hurt?" Desmond tries, clumsily, to rise. "Did I shame you?" This second question seems far more anxious. He looks over at Malcolm and, with gravity, eyes the man. "Yes," he says, "You could use a Maester." And then he falls back to one knee.

The dragons above disappear into cloud.

Daevon stares at all that blood, at the gaping wound in Desmond's head. It must be fatal! Surely. He looks aorund, almost panicked. "Malcolm!" he says with relief. "We need a Maester. You're not going to die!" he tells Desmond. "No dying." But there's no way he's going to be able to help the giant atop a horse alone. "Where's Mammoth?"

Malcolm says firmly, "Get him up on the horse. We'll take him to Tellur. The quiet will be better for him in any case."

Siyu blinks a little bit as he stands and walks on over, "What's this? Someone needs healing?" he's sort of half following the crowed. "I know enough to do a rough stich if you wanted a quick one and had the needle and thread…."

Desmond beams up at Malcolm and Daevon, his frame sagging with fatigue beneath the plate mail. "I have to duel Rhaegor," he reminds them both. "Just give me a minute." But the blood from his scalp wound keeps running, and he does look ghastly. Likely, once it's stitched, he'll be fine in a day or so — or so any healer would recognize. "Am I dying?" he blinks up at Daevon tiredly. "I don't think I'm dying."

Daevon doesn't like the sound of rough-stitching. "He doesn't need sewing rough." He belatedly adds a "thankyou. Can you fetch some water." He nods at Malcolm. "Tellur. I'll need a hand. He's too heavy. Where's Mammoth?" he starts searching for the horse. "No, you're fine." He says to Desmond, his tone wavers though, as if that's a lie.

Siyu ehs, "Field stich would be the more correct term. I am a brown trader, caravan, any injury we had to take care of ourselves. Cleanse with distillate of grain, stich tight, and make sure it doesn't' run with pus. Of course I don't have any tonics for pain or anything like that." he shrugs, but he offers a skin of water.

Malcolm dismounts and comes to the aid of the Prince and the massive northerner. he himself is showing some blood hear and there from his first duel with the Scorpion, but wasn't even bruised in the melee and is moving well enough.

"Mammoth's…by your tent. I left him staked." Desmond tries to focus, blinking hard. His eyes don't seem to dilate properly, the sign of a minor concussion. "I protected the king," he mutters. "The dragons did too, but I did. I cleared the road. I did." He reaches out to grasp Daevon's wrist with surprising strength. "I protected the king." And then his gaze falls on Siyu. "You," he says softly. "You. I remember you. You were on the walls.." Desmond blinks groggily at Siyu. "You wanted me to sit down."

Daevon goes off to fetch Mammoth, returning shortly after with the creature, and his own horses too. He'll let someone else give the water to Desmond, if need be.

The tourney grounds are completely trashed by the riot and panicked stampede of those fleeing the dragons. There is trash everywhere and bits of equipment. Loose horses runned free. the crowd has mostly escaped, and most of the dragons are gone, except for the Red Queen, still staked in the fireweed field and the occationalt glimpse of the mating pair far away. The crowds are gone.

Daevon, Malcolm, and Siyu are trying to help the collapsed and bloddy Desmond snow.

Someone has been off summoning healers from wherever they could be found, which means that up comes Tellur on a very, very ugly yellow mare. She has a golden foal at hoof on a light tether, and the man who lives at the Weirwood has a number of packs on the back of his beast "Ay," he says, with disapproval, eyeing the entire wrecked scene "Gah!" is added as he spots the dragons.

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