| Log Title |
| Summary: | Daevon is NPCed by Malcolm with consent |
| Date: | 17 December, 2015 |
| Related: | Then, the Feast |
| Players: |
 .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. |
It is the appointed day and time for the duel between Rhaegor Targaryen and Ser Desmond Snow, knighted in the wake of the chaotic happenings upon this very field not long past.
The Targaryen prince is attended by his once-squire, Vhaegor Targaryen, who today serves as his second. He takes the field, dressed for battle, save for his helm, and waits to be joined by his opponent. There are a passing fair number of observers assembled to watch the spectacle, coins changing hands as bets are laid as to who will emerge the victor. Rhaegor himself wears a black lace favor, and he adjusts it as he speaks with Vhaegor.
Desmond walks down the Tourney grounds toward the field, Giantsblade at his hip. He wears a suit of mismatched plate, some steel gleaming bright, some dully, but all of quality armor. A plain, open-faced, helm rests beneath his arm and he carries a shield on his left arm. It's a heavy oaken thing, and it looks to have been very recently painted, with the giants of House Umber quartered with longswords. A glance around at the crowd, and at his companions, and he steps onto the field with a smile. Politely, the giant Northman makes his leg to Rhaegor.
"Your Grace."
News of the duel had spread amongst the smallfolk, but not all can make the journey to the tourney-grounds to witness it on their own. So a gaggle of septa and several begging brothers in brown escort a taggle of orphan and urchin children in to witness.
One such septa stands out in her company for her unique look - she is about thirty years younger than the rest, and her garb is richly made of fine light wools dyed a gentle grey and even with a touch of embroidery on the hem. She helps wrangle the children to the best place they can to see the duel between the prince and the massive northman, holding the smallest of them in her arms so they can better catch a glimpse.
Two knights stride forth, one to either side of Ser Desmond: The Maiden Knight on his right hand, serving as Second; and The Twilight Storm on the left, in support. Ser Daevon's plate gleams in the sunlight; Ser Malcom's is his old fashioned and carefully patched battle plate painted fresh black and blue for the occation.
Bryn is there among the observers, though he doesn't take part in any betting. Most likely guess which way he would bet anyway, just based on his hair and eye colour, probably not realizing that the boy knows both of the competitors. In any case, Bryn has found a good place to watch, standing on his seat for a better view.
Vhaegor, as you'd expect of a second, is also dressed entirely in armor — a black steel number with a blood red dragon design on the chest and shoulders, the same armor he wore to the tourney. Like Rhaegor and Desmond, he elects to hold his helm rather than wear it. A dark expression overcasts his face as he listens and replies quickly to the elder Targaryen before he steps forward. "His Grace, Rhaegor Targaryen withdraws his claim to satisfaction in acknowledgment of Ser Desmond's bravery and service to the crown. In light of recent actions, he feels it is unnecessary to pursue this matter any further," he calls out, louder than is strictly necessary while speaking to a man standing only a few strides away — likely so the gathering crowd can hear his declaration.
Shielded from the sunshine by a golden canopy upon which a black dragon sports with a red, and surrounded by a phalanx of young dragonseed handmaidens each perhaps prettier than the last (more private bets are possibly being laid upon this subject by certain of the young men in the crowd), sits Princess Vhaerys Targaryen. She is attired this afternoon in a gown copied from an etching in a history of the Freehold of Valyria, a draped creation in deep red silk which leaves her arms bare but for a trio of looped golden chains, each lower than the last, gleaming against her pale skin; a ribbon in the same shade of red is woven through each of her white-golden braids.
Wine and fruit await her upon a small table to her left, on the other side of which there is a second chair the same as her own. Expecting a friend?
Desmond stares blankly at Vhaegor, as though he doesn't understand what he's hearing. A glance aside at Daevon, then at Malcolm, and he shakes his head faintly. The brutish Northerner, newly knighted, steps forward. "Your Grace," he calls to Rhaegor, a frown plastered across his features. "I wish to observe, Your Grace, with respect, that a blow was issued. You called me a maiden. And you struck me when I responded in kind." He glances to Malcolm and shakes his head faintly. "I apologize for my part in it, Your Grace. And I shall accept your apology as well, and with great good will."
Miranda leans down to explain to a small boy what they're discussing. She shakes her head, the septa's wimple flowing with the gesture. "No, I don't think they will fight," she says, answering his question as well as several of the others. The children do not look cheered by this prospect.
As the not an apology is offered, Ser Daevon and Malcolm aait Desmond's answer. Ser Daevon's face shows nothing under a half lowered visor. Ser Malcolm's more open design suggests a quizzical look, followed by approval as the Bastsrd of Umber speaks.
On the other hand, when Princess Vhaerys in her flame-embroidered red silk and waist-length war braids hears the northern bastard assert his potential contentment with an apology, she plucks an unconcerned grape from the bunch and prepares to enjoy the spectacle. Rhaegor Targaryen, apologise?
The crowd is, by and large, crestfallen by this turn of events. NO FIGHT? There are sounds of disappointment among the excited (and by turns, outraged) din of the crowd. But there is also a ripple of laughter when the new knight alleges he'd been called a maiden by the Targaryen prince, and it helps to alleviate some of the atmosphere.
When Desmond Snow speaks, Rhaegor listens in neutral silence. And when Vhaegor turns around to catch his eye, Rhaegor offers the dark-haired Targaryen a nod.
Upon hearing the word 'apology,' Vhaegor turns slightly to glance back towards Rhaegor, clearly waiting to see if everything was in order. Seeing the nod, he turns to face Desmond again and offer him a similar nod, "Then let all here be witness. The matter is officially settled in the eyes of the Seven." As he says this, he glances towards the gaggle of urchins lead by the Septa as if to further confirm the Seven were okay with the proceedings. Not really expecting a divine answer, he turns around and returns to Rhaegor's side.
The children take in the chance to stare at the royals - the elegant princess in crimson and gold, the handsome men in their fierce armor. But a fight is what they came for. A few of the older boys start chanting 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' even as Miranda and the other Faithful do their best to quiet them. "They met under the terms of the Warrior but the Father's wisdom guides them now, sssh. See?" Miranda bows her head as if giving an agreeable witness to their settlement.
There is one person in the crowd who is happy with the results. Even as the other children start chanting for a fight, Bryn is clapping. There's a look of real relief on his face as he hops down off the bench he was standing on.
Desmond looks a little bemused, standing alone in the circle of people. He tries again, calling after Rhaegor. "Your Grace! The matter is not settled, not for me. You mocked me and struck me. I have apologized for my part. I ask that you do the same." His teeth grit for a moment, the newly-minted knight's neck flushing red as he struggles to keep his temper. "Otherwise, Your Grace, /I/ request satisfaction for the blow. I mean no disrespect, but even the lowest man may request justice."
Ser Daevon and Ser Malcolm still stand expectant, no apology having been given on the other side for the insult and the blow.
This elicits more murmurs and speculation from the crowd, who had been quieted by the invocation of the Seven, but are now rendered once more uncertain when the bastard knight gainsays the prince of the blood.
Rhaegor Targaryen summons his second to his side with an incline of his head, and the pair engage in a quiet conference. Meanwhile, in the crowd, bets are now being taken as to what might happen next.
Miranda seems a bit worried when the large man continues to press for redress. She shifts the small toddler in her arms and frowns, conferring with the older septas in worried tones.
The street boys regain their cheer and go back to chanting 'Fight the giant! Fight the giant' before Miranda can flick their ears to subdue them. They glare at the young septa but murmur apologies.
There is a swell of support in some circles for the huge Northerner, commoners calling out for justice, for apologies, for Rhaegor to just 'kill the whoreson' — this last is drowned out by a chorus of boos from nearby. He stands stolidly, watching Vhaegor and Rhaegor, helm tucked under his arm, shield grounded at his side. His brutal features are red, and a vein emerges in his temple, but he maintains mastery of himself. "I am not a dog," the Northerner mutters, perhaps loud enough to be heard by some few in the crowd. He waits, absently grinding one heel into the dirt.
Ser Daevon Targaryen and Ser Malcolm Storm watch the conference between Ser Rhaegor and Vhaegor with a patient impassiveness, still as statues.
Vhaegor returns to his cousin's side at the summons, lowering his tone to speak with him quietly. After a few moments, the dark-haired Targaryen nods once, then twice before he strides back to his previous position, his lips downturned in a distasteful frown as he looks back towards Desmond and addresses him directly. "His Grace challenged /you/, Ser Desmond. He was willing to waive said challenge out of goodwill for your brave actions at the tourney. However, if you are insistent on pressing this just moments after the Seven recognized the matter being settled, Rhaegor accepts your new challenge. I, Vhaegor Targaryen, will be acting as his second." With that, he turns and strides back towards Rhaegor, hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade.
Bryn's shoulders slump as the fight is back on. He'd started to make his way out of the stands, but now he stops, coincidentally near the other children, and once again takes a position to watch.
Ser Daevon steps forward, "I, Ser Daevon Targaryen, will act as second for my sworn sword, Ser Desmond Snow.
Ser Malcolm's expression is grim in a way that suggests he expected as much from Ser Rhaegor.
Long distance to Vhaegor: Rhaegor literally never rped with Malcolm but ok ser
Desmond glances back at Daevon and Malcolm and nods his head gravely, indicating his own satisfaction. The gargantuan Northman looks back at Vhaegor. He seems about to answer, but then Daevon speaks. Hitching his shoulders in a tiny shrug, the Northern knight reaches to lower his helmet down onto his head, walking toward his end of the cleared space, there to await the duel. There is scattered cheering, and some booing as well. The betting is going strong. Desmond Snow, it must be said, does not seem to be the favorite. A number of smallfolk crowd to his end, shouting encouragement, but they seem to be an unwise minority. Even if others disagree, they won't be voicing that disagreement aloud. Not against the Scourge of Qarth. The huge man takes a knee, grasping at the dirt and murmuring something.
Miranda smiles at Bryn as if trying to console him.
The rest of the children seem excited, calling out to the Snow Giant and the Prince to beat one another silly. A few girls seem more obsessed with the Princess and her lovely attendants dresses.
It is decided. The crowd is once more thrilled. Rhaegor Targaryen crosses the field to where the first fringe of spectators have gathered, approaching the contingent from the sept. He takes a gallant knee before the septa, Miranda, withdrawing his sword and holding it balanced upon his palms in presentation to her. "May the father grant us the blessing of his infinite wisdom," he says in low prayer. The black lace favor he wears flutters occasionally in the breeze.
Ser Daevon approaches Vhaegor to work out terms. Ser Malcolm stands by Ser Desmond as the other bastard prays.
"And may the Warrior grant victory to the just," Miranda replies with formal severity, stretching her had over the blade in blessing. The fact that a Targaryen prince just knelt before her draws sighs and murmurs of awe from the small folk children.
Rhaegor flicks his gaze upward, exceptionally briefly, to meet Miranda's eye. He inclines his head to her graciously, rising from bended knee and shifting his hand to the hilt of his blessed blade. And then the Targaryen prince returns to his second, prepared to don his helm and hear the agreed-upon terms.
"The duel will be decided by yield," Vhaegor calls out to the crowd after a brief conference with Daevon that ended with quick nods from either side, "May the Seven watch over both combatants." With that said, he crosses whatever ground may yet remain between himself and Rhaegor, offering the Septa a courteous bow before he leans in to murmur quietly with the other Targaryen, his hand dropping a heavily on his shoulder with a subdued sound of metal meeting metal and a friendly grin, before he moves away and gives the other man a path forward to the dueling ground.
<COMBAT> Desmond has changed weapons to Giantsblade Greatsword.
<COMBAT> Desmond has changed armor to Full Plate & Shield.
A few of the older girls tug on Miranda's robes in excitement. "He looked at you! He's soooo tall," they gush. The youthful septa just smiles at them and hands one of the brothers the toddler in her arms. The boys take the chance to talk about the awesomeness of the dragon armor up close. All in all, Septa Miranda is winning the best septa ever award for the moment.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor has changed armor to Full Plate & Shield.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor has changed weapons to Greatsword.
Ser Daevon strides away. He clasps Ser Desmond's shoulder through the pauldron.
Ser Malcolm hcks Ser Desmond's clasps one last time.OOC Duels like this are real combat with real damage. yes.
Desmond smiles over his shoulder to something called out to him in the audience as Malcolm checks over his strap. He looks focused, though relaxed, walking to the center of the space and offering a grave bow toward Rhaegor. He looks back once more, seeking Daevon's face, and grins. Then he turns back to the Targaryen knight before him, raising his shield slightly.
The Targaryen acknowledges the terms with a nod. As Rhaegor passes his cousin, Vhaegor, the dragons exchange a few final words. Then he makes his approach to Desmond, not quite reciprocating the bow, but offering a duly respectful nod of the head. And then the duel begins.
<COMBAT> Desmond will attack Rhaegor this turn.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor will attack Desmond this turn.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor attacks Desmond with Greatsword - ARMOR on Right Hand stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword - ARMOR on Right Hand stops the attack!
Bryn gives a little smile back to the septa, though he still looks worried. That worry eases, however, when the combat is announced to be only to yield. Perhaps he was worried it would be to the death. Relaxing a bit more, he rolls his eyes as the girls go on about Rhaegor, but his attentions soon returns to the fight.
Manfryd has appeared in the crowd of spectators, with a few of his cronies to ensure that another riot doesn't break out - or at least with more numbers they look a bit more on the intimidating side. Manfryd is wearing armor and carries a few weapons in toe. Nothing which wasn't typical of the Dornish. He folds his arms across his chest as he regards the scene and the two men who are the combatants.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor attacks Desmond with Greatsword but Desmond DODGES!
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Desmond will attack Rhaegor this turn.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor will attack Desmond this turn. Options: called=abdomen
Miranda starts to look a little worried as the northman wields that thick blade. The toddler starts to cry again at the turmoil and reaches out for her. She holds the little boy close and rocks him, knowing it will do no good. The orphans all start to cheer and place bets with food and chores, which is shut down quickly by the rest of the septry.
Desmond gives the Targaryen prince plenty of space, circling wide and backward, using his superior reach to keep out of the skilled Knight's range. His own opening attacks are modest little cuts, testing strikes. His features are blank of emotion, rage or fear, but his eyes are keen and alert beneath the heavy nasal bar of his helm. At last, he sees an opening and steps quickly in, driving out with a surprisingly-deft thrust of his blade over the rim of his shield.
Back and forth, back and forth — the shouts of the crowd almost drowning out the strong and clear declarations of the seconds… Princess Vhaerys eats another grape; she leans over to utter some discreet remark to a handmaidens (I told you so?) but an astute observer with attention to spare for her may note that her own eyes in that moment seem to rest upon the dragon carved into the high back of the empty chair at her side. When she straightens her gaze returns to Prince Rhaegor and his dark shadow. Waiting. Expecting.
<COMBAT> Desmond will attack Rhaegor this turn. Options: called=chest
Rhaegor is intent on the combat, circling Desmond the way he himself is circled, two predators making marks of their prey. The Targaryen handily parries a series of strikes from the Snow bastard, but inexplicably leaves himself open for a blow to the chest that sees him recoiling from impact. A dramatic turn of events that positively thrills the spectators.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor will spend luck on attack this turn.
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Rhaegor attacks Desmond with Greatsword - Light wound to Abdomen (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Rhaegor has been KO'd!
<COMBAT> Rhaegor spends a luck point to keep fighting!
<COMBAT> Rhaegor has changed stance to evade.
Desmond circles again, then drives forward and thrusts upward with his huge longsword. At the last moment, he turns the strike into a downward slash that lacks most of its earlier force, but may manage to evade Rhaegor's skilled guard. His blade rasps along Rhaegor's armor as he receives a wound to his own gut. But the big man seems to be in fine fettle as he spins to the side, raising his longsword into a high-guard. "Yield!" he calls to the Targaryen.
Manfryd tenses as he watches the duel, regardless that his face looked a bit black and blue from the tournament and aftermath, yellowish bruises appearing under his eyes. As Desmond calls yield, there's some confusion perhaps. Manfryd grumbles, "The Bastard just called to yield-" but Rhaegor was the one that seemed in trouble. Let's make sure the Dornish stir up some shit. He booms louder, "The Bastard Knight yielded!"
Rhaegor buys the feint; the blow rocks him a second time, coming in such quick succession to the first landed on his chest, and his backward steps are quick and clumsy. The Rhaegor fans in the crowd are grievously disappointed by this turn of events, and they bellow all manner of things at the Targaryen prince in varying efforts to rally him and to deride him for falling prey to the newcomer knight's Giantsblade. It may seem, in fact, to onlookers that Rhaegor is briefly winded from the blow, and when Snow yells at him to yield, there is a second of doubt in which it seems he may just. But Rhaegor finds his second wind, and resumes a slow, cautious skirt around his opponent.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor passes.
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword - Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
Miranda gasps as the prince reels. The girls going to her again and the boys shout with even more vicious alarm. The septa turns her head and flinches as the northman bellows.
Vhaegor grimaces a bit as Rhaegor seems to be taking the majority of the hits, though as Desmond calls out 'Yield!' the dark-haired Targaryen is only momentarily surprised, realizing a moment later what was meant. When Manfryd calls out that Desmond yielded, he glances his way, recognizing him instantly before his face turns into a grimace and he looks back to the fight in silence, clearly torn as to how to proceed — that is, of course, until he sees Rhaegor intent on continuing.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor will attack Desmond this turn. Options: called=head
<COMBAT> Desmond will attack Rhaegor this turn. Options: called=chest
Malcolm glares at Manfryd, and booms out, "He was calling for the Prince to yeild!"
The shouting is wild and confused in the stands. Men, hearing Manfryd's shout, seem utterly confused. Some shout one way, some shout the other. But there is no confusion in the ring — not on Desmond's part and not, it seems, on Rhaegor's. As the Targaryen refuses to yield, the huge Northman does not give him time to catch his balance. He's rushing forward, shouting, smashing with his shield and ramming his sword forward to deliver another hefty strike. "You should yield, Your Grace!" he calls again. The Northman actually sounds concerned.
<COMBAT> Desmond will attack Rhaegor this turn. Options: called=chest
There are chuckles coming from the Dornish side of things, as they rib and call, whoot and hollar. Manfryd actually looks red in the face, before he smacks the one Dornish upside the head for a hollar made to mock the duel. Manfryd glances over toward the other calls from those in the audience watching, though he says something back toward his group. "Give that bastard the Seven Hells Rhaegor!" Surprised on lookers might actually find the Scorpion lifting his arm in support of the Prince Targaryen.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor has changed stance to banzai.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor will spend luck on defense this turn.
Rhaegor, perhaps still stunned from the initial quirk burst of blows he's suffered from the Snow knight, does not find ground to meet the next assault. It catches him further offguard, and he sustains another blow to the chest. But still, the dragon does not yet yield. Neither does he find words for Desmond. His remaining will and energy, both, are focused on the task at hand. Which may in fact be merely staying on his feet, at this point.
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword - ARMOR on Chest stops the attack!
<COMBAT> Rhaegor attacks Desmond with Greatsword - Light wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Desmond will attack Rhaegor this turn. Options: called=chest
<COMBAT> Rhaegor has changed stance to evade.
<COMBAT> Rhaegor will attack Desmond this turn. Options: called=neck
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword but Rhaegor DODGES!
<COMBAT> Rhaegor attacks Desmond with Greatsword but Desmond DODGES!
<COMBAT> Rhaegor attacks Desmond with Greatsword - Light wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Desmond attacks Rhaegor with Giantsblade Greatsword - Serious wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
Desmond circles around Rhaegor, taking a few light strikes and, for a time, giving nothing in return. He's actively pleading with the Prince now. "Ser! Ser, please, you must yield!" He takes a blow on his shield, another cutting across his chest, then one that slashes into his helmet, leaving a long silvery gash in the burnished metal. Stumbling back, the Northman scowls. "So be it." When the Northern giant moves, it is with a surprising burst of speed for such a huge man. His shield smashes out, sending Rhaegor's wide. And his foot comes up, slamming into the Prince's chest, sending him backward. And the huge Northman steps forward, eyes the Prince clinically, and -smashes- him in the chest with Giantsblade.
A shocked hush sets in after the Snow knight sends the Targaryen prince hurtling backward, delivering him a cruel, rending blow with his Giantsblade. Rhaegor positively sprawls in the wake of the devastating hit, but there is no word of a yield, even now. Some speculate that the Dragon must be dazed by the Northron knight's assault. Others murmur that he prepares to rise again. Rhaegor, indeed, is moving. It merely remains to be scene whether his opponent will give him the opportunity to regain his feet.
The Targaryen princess beneath the canopy sits as though carved from marble, albeit with an occasional breeze ruffling her light silken draperies. One arm is stretched the length of the chair's arm beneath, her fingertips curved round its carved dragon-claws. Her other hand is in her lap, idle, tensed into a fist with two rings uppermost. A golden dragon coiled about her wedding finger, biting its own tail; and a vast amethyst the very hue of those cool Valyrian eyes trained upon her cousin lying in the dust.
"Rhaegor Targaryen yields," Vhaegor calls out in his best battlefield voice, hoping to cut through to Desmond in case he's caught up in the fight. Just in case he can't, he's striding forward, sword still sheathed, ready to put himself between his cousin and the monster greatsword wielded by the Northron knight if necessary. His face, as usual it seems, is overcast as he stares at Desmond, waiting to see what the other man will do, but his hand is on the hilt of his longsword. "Stand down and declare this matter settled, ser," he says, this time quieter, closer to conversational levels.
"With the greatest pleasure, Ser," answers Desmond softly, in response to Vhaegor. "I could not have struck him again." He turns to the stands. "Someone go and fetch a Maester!" His voice booms out, commanding. He cleans Giantsblade on his cloak, sheathes it, and crouches, speaking to Rhaegor. "Your Grace, I have rarely fought a braver man."
Standing, the Northman turns and makes his way back to his Seconds, speaking softly. After a moment, Malcolm Storm steps out of the small cluster and raises his voice. "Desmond Snow declares that his honor is satisfied, and that His Grace Prince Rhaegor is as valiant as any man in the Seven Kingdoms."
Manfryd doesn't look satisfied by the outcome. He spits down as OTHERs force Rhaegor to yield. That's whe the Scorpion leaves. Thankfully he doesn't hit anyone as he pushed through the crowd.
As soon as Desmond makes it clear he's not about to keep on slashing at Rhaegor until he personally yields, Vhaegor immediately crouches beside his cousin and calmly draws a shorter blade. With a few deft cuts, he slashes his blood red cloak into ribbons and starts using them to bind whatever wounds he can, stripping armor away from those he can reach, and leaving it to staunch the bleeding where he can't make any headway with makeshift bandages alone. Through out the process his expression is near emotionless as he murmurs down to his elder cousin, "Before you say anything, had I let you continue, you would likely have bled to death before we could get you to a Maester, even if you miraculously managed to defeat Ser Desmond. You may have my head later, or whatever else you find fitting without any complaint from me later, but for now you will lay still until someone more practiced in this than I can see to your wounds."
Bryn watches to fight, nervous as rigour keeps going without surrendering, but relaxes a little when the surrender finally comes. He hops over the railing then, running out onto the field, flashing a smile to Desmond, but then saying to Vhaegor, "I can help, until a full Maester gets here."
As soon as Vhaegor intercedes on his behalf and forces him to yield, Rhaegor rips off his helm with such force as to send it spinning across the ground, having immediate need for the fresh stream of air. He permits the triage of his most grievous wounds for practical purposes, but he is hardly about to linger overlong on the ground. As soon as Vhaegor has addressed the worst of them, he says something stern in High Valyrian and then rises, perhaps inelegantly, to his feet, so that the crowd may at least see that he is not so far devastated as to be beyond mobility. Sure, it may take a death grip on Vhaegor's shoulder for him to make the initial rise, but once he's up, he seems solid enough, even in spite of the blood. He addresses Desmond directly. "Well fought, ser. I am glad that our cause is a common one." Service to the Crown. Presumably. His black favor is wet with blood, no doubt to the disappointment of its bestower.
Desmond rips off his helmet and shakes his head vigorously. There is sweat and blood both in the spray that goes flying. A wound on his scalp, previously stitched shut, has been reopened by Rhaegor's last blow. He winces, fingering it, and flashes a guilty look over at Daevon. But as Bryn runs out, the Northman moves to make his way back over to the Targaryen side. Without his helm, the Northman's brutal features are rather gentle. His scarred face twitches as he smiles at Vhaegor and Bryn, then gazes at Rhaegor, worriedly smiling. "And I, Your Grace. I should enjoy fighting beside you in service to the Crown." Absently, he presses a hand beneath his breastplate. One lobstered finger comes away red, but he doesn't seem concerned.
Vhaegor looks up as Bryn approaches, recognizing instantly the obviously Targaryen youth from the tourney. For a moment, he looks doubtful, but remembering his actions from that day he eventually nods and turns the care of Rhaegor over to the younger boy. That is, of course, until he insists on rising. Despite his earlier demand that Rhaegor stay immobile, the dark-haired Targaryen folds instantly and helps his elder to his feet without a word of protest.
Siyu hmmms and observes from the back of the stands, he wasn't looking to interfere, at least not anymore since the last time he was frog marched away from the wounded, but he waits to see if a field medic is needed or if one shows up. He figures the odds are good given it's a Dragon on the field.
Rhaegor similarly forestalls Bryn. "Thank you," he tells the Dragonseed, "But Vhaegor has seen to me well enough." But then, even though it's rather a random time and place for it, he tells the boy, "I have a matter that requires your assistance. Will you come to the manse to discuss it?" Not now, of course. He leaves it to the boy to find the opportunity to otherwise shirk his Citadel duties and find the occasion to make such a visit. And Desmond Snow? He is given a cordial nod, upon his words. Offering a clear show of reconciliation between them for those still watching on.
Bryn is, technically, what one might call a 'field medic'. He's an acolyte with silver link, which means he's a qualified healer, if an inexperienced one. Still, a full Maester would be better. He starts a step forward, but then pauses as Rhaegor stands up. He says, softly, "You should still go to the Citadel, and see a Maester." Then, however, he nods to the request and says, "I will."
Desmond goes further than a cordial nod; he raises a fist to his chest in clear salute to the defeated Targaryen. "I had best go and see to my own injuries, Your Grace." He nods amiably to Vhaegor and Bryn, apparently bearing them no ill will and expecting none in return. He looks back over the field, at the men waiting at the far end, and smiles. It seems to be dawning on him, belatedly, that he has won. And so he quickly takes himself away, and exits the tourney grounds, before his expression of triumph can be painful to the defeated Targaryen's wounded pride.
By now the golden dragon canopy flaps forlornly over two empty chairs, which servants in Targaryen livery are even now are approaching to remove. The four blonde heads of Princess Vhaerys and her dragonseed girls have disappeared from the tourney grounds, for there's nothing left to see.
Vhaegor nods briefly to Desmond in return before attempting to move off the field with Rhaegor leaning heavily on him. As he walks, he does his best to look as if the other Targaryen is barely even putting his weight on his shoulder, and even chuckles and grins with the more obviously Dragon Blooded man while presumably offering and recieving amusing comments on the fight. Still, he seems to be making a beeline for the Dragon Manse, at best, talking with anyone who approaches as he walks, and at worst, flat out ignoring them.