(122-12-20) A Day of Light Contests
A Day of Light Contests
Summary: Having been rescheduled on account of riots and dragons, the lighter remainder of the contests from the tournament in honour of the Hightower and Targaryen wedding in Oldtown are held. This time, the drama is not so violent.
Date: 20/12/2015
Related: Targaryen and Hightower Tourney

Tourney Grounds

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 Start of the light events all comers tourney is announced with a fanfare. In the judges stand are three Septas, a young woman, a matronly one, and an elderly one, hereafter refered to as Maiden, Mother, and Crone. Apparently Elder Tyrell was not having it. Tables have been set up for the flower crown weaving, with assorted blooms the contestants might select. Many young girls are entered as well as women of marriagable age and a few matrons. There amoung them, massive and giggling is the Clown Prince himself in his first public appearance since the riot, resplendant in house colours and full of maidenly blushes as the women make polite japes.

Leandro's got to be at least somewhat drunk to even consider competing in a flower crown contest, but at some point he said he was the world's best at it, or at least bragged about his botanical skill, and one thing has lead to another, and now here he is, on the side that's not involved in sitting back and mocking the participants. Still, this is a most fortuitous occassion, because who would have thought it, so many girls competing. So here he is now, surrounded in pretty girls and selecting greenery. "So what are the rules for this? What are the categories a crown will be judged upon to see if it's a winning creation or not?"

There is a bunch of Tyrells in the stands, among them Elder Tyrell, Lady Josanne and young Ser Loryn, the latter with a face like thunder. It might have something to do with the fact that his mother is whispering at him in an urgent tone while pointing out a few pretty young maidens among the competitiors rather bluntly with her finger.

Desmond Snow, called the Snow Giant, is here. Today he is dressed in ugly brigadine, scarred and dented but perfectly serviceable. His heavy oak shield hangs at his back, and Giantsblade is at his hip. He lingers near the flower-weaving Prince, not in the way of the Ladies, but nearby. The huge Northman's gaze moves through the crowd, but he's smiling and trading jokes with a few Smallfolk nearby. He doesn't seem to be in the least wary.

Over in the smith's section, a certain man is laying out his tools, one by one, and inspecting them. He is short and thick, a belly rolling over powerful muscles. He has absolutely no hair on his head, including his eyebrows. His arms are covered in burn scars.

Siyu stretches a little bit, and he makes sure his arms are all worked out, and his shoulders are good and ready to go. He's dressed differently than most people would know. The pretty, exotic teenager is in leathers. Leather pants, leather shirt. With a heavy leather vest and gloves. His long hair is pulled back and done in a braid, making sure it's out of the way. Tucked into the back of his long leather apron. He appears to be a blacksmith! A pretty blacksmith but a blacksmith all the same. Having a basic understand of forging and working metals. He decided to compete since…why not. Most of the fighting already happened so there shouldn't be many knights or nobles wandering around right?

Among the maidens and matrons drifts Lady Marsei in her first public appearance since the riot as well, bright in swirling red and pink silks and tiny speckled white flowers tucked in her hair. She laughs, jests and shares kind words of encouragement with all those she passes until she arrives at the side of her new husband — the 'Clown Prince'. She lays a hand upon his shoulder and is poised to say something while reaching for a fine bit of greenery when she notices— is that Maester Leandro? "Maester, how lovely of you to participate! You must think of it as…" she brightens, "art! I don't believe there are categories," she looks to Dhraegon as the master of all things flowers, "are there?"

Janei is there among the other girls entered. She's even convinced her maid to join her in the event. The other girl, about a year younger than Janei, looks both excited and nervous as she sits ready to compete next to the Tyrell girl.

Desmond watches Marsei and Dhraegon idly, then turns to gaze off into the crowd. A tiny boy runs up to him and whacks him on a shin with a wooden sword. "I'm Rhaegor!" he pipes, "Fight me, Giant!" There is laughter from the cluster of smallfolk around Desmond as he crouches down ponderously and raises his hands, as if in surrender. "You've unmanned me!" he booms, so loud that the child shrinks back. "I yield to you, lad! You've won!" The boy's mother touches his shoulder and urges him forward again. "Can I have a Giant ride?"

The Herald announces that the flower weaving contest will be judged based on the Septa's best guess for crowd acclaim, aesthetics always being a matter of personal taste.

Prince Dhraegon smiles a bright goofy smile as his fair Flower approaches. His hair is drawn back from his face in two thin braids, tied together in the back threaded with red ribbons to hang down his back, the red contrasting with the loose fine hair that serves as a back drop for the beribboned braids. He takes her hand so he might lift it to his lips for the lightest of kisses to the knuckles, "I hope you win, My Zinnia!" He beams at Leandro and Janei, "I hope there are no baffing body parts in the art contest later!"

"Lady Marsei, what a pleasure," Leandro replies. "Ah. It is one of those contests then. Is there a prize for effort too, do you think? Or is the true prize for the girls to bestow their crown upon any handsome lords watching and thus offering him their favour?" This he says, loud enough to be heard by the girls surrounding, just in case any didn't realise it yet.

"I should not like to win, my prince," Marsei admits, all smiles. "Better another takes the victory." As she settles in beside Dhraegon, she's distracted — pleasantly — by catching the child out of the corner of her eye and watching the exchange with Desmond. She gives Leandro a quiet, good-natured laugh, then. "You think too hard, maester. They're only flower crowns. The whole fun is in the making." With that, she glances aside to shoot an encouraging smile toward Lady Janei and the other young maidens surrounding her.

A fanfare announces the weaving contest's start and Dhraegon makes his selection of red, white,and pinks, eshewing roses in favour of a mix of wild flowrs and rarer blooms. Dhraegon blushes and whispers so it will not carry far, "Everyone gets to keep the posies to bestow as they will and there is a participation prize as well, since all flowers are lovely and it would be a shame for…" He trails off blushing and gazes meaningfully at his lady, before getting to the serious business of weaving. If he spots the tiny Rhaegor and the northner giant, he gives no sign.

"Ah, then I'm sure that Lord over there," Leandro does gesture in what might be Loryn's direction, or that of any other number of Lords and young men in the audience. "Isn't waiting desperately to see if any of these lovely women will bestow their favour." Leandro seems to be picking just leaves, not flowers at all, missing the whole point of this exercise it would seem.

"A giant ride? You want a giant ride? Well.." Desmond glances up at the mother, who smiles and nods. He looks back down to the boy. "A giant ride it is!" And he surges to his feet, the child grasped up under his armpits, and very delicately sets the boy's feet on his shoulders. "Stand up on your own now," he encourages the boy, who's still clutching his tiny wooden sword.

The child squeaks in amazement at his flight, and then exclaims, pointing with his sword, "I can see the whole world!" Desmond gently dips and straightens, bouncing the boy about a bit, keeping a very careful grip. He nods toward Marsei and Dhraegon. "Do you see there, my lad? There's the Prince, and his Lady Wife!"

"The Clown Prince?" Out of the mouth of babes. Desmond cranes his head up and smiles, speaking gently. "You must never call him that. He's a good man. And it's a mean name."

Janei smiles back to Lady Marsei, and giggles at Dhraegon's comment, but she doesn't have much time to say anything as the competition is beginning. Janei is very much an artist, but not this kind of an artist. So, she's no better than most of the other girls at assembling the flowers, though perhaps she has a better sense of what colours to use. She does look up as Leandra points out Loryn, and giggles again.

Only smiling at Leandro (he's right, really), Marsei delicately weaves a snowy white bell-shaped flowers over a grapevine, plucking red and violet flowers here and there to add in a simple, elegant style. She looks up mid-arrangement, lifting a hand to wave happily at the child high upon Desmond's back. She looks at the gaze of the giant himself for a moment, silently grateful.

Siyu is selecting steel billets. One thing he knows how to do is pick metals, he's traded enough of them, getting his selected steels, of the appropriate nature hot into the forges, and getting his tools set up. Mostly just fidgeting while he waits.

Loryn is busy facing down two girls who are argueing with each other about who'll get to bestow her favour on him. Catching sight of cousin Janei he gives her a pleading look, but the taller of the two girls has now sent the other scurrying off in tears after telling her that she looks fat in her dress. with a victorious smile she presents Loryn with her favour and hurries to join the competition.

Standing much further down from Loryn and his noble family, amid the smallfolk, is a woman with a hard-lined face and tightly pulled-back dark hair, dressed in a dull approximation of the Tyrell colours, a servant's dress; Viola watches the flowery contest, surrounded by a few others from Garden Isle's servants quarters who have been granted the time off to enjoy the light festivities. To say Viola is enjoying herself is a stretch, to look at her, but with solid nods and glances, she seems to be quietly encouraging a common maid in the competition who's all trembles with her posies, trying not to look at Janei lest she crumble under the pressure of competing against a Tyrell. She clearly missed the part where it should be for fun.

The Prince's toungue sticks out of his mouth as he concentrates. His big soft sausage fingers are surprisingly good at this task. Perhaps he's been practicing? His expression suggests this is very serious business and his eye for symetry is not bad at all. Right up until the moment it all goes terribly tragically wrong and starts coming apart rather. His face falls with obvious, childlike disappointment.

Desmond draws nearer to the flower-makers to give the child a better look, smiling back at Marsei. "You see? She waved to you." Very clearly, the boy has seen — he's waving back enthusiastically, bonking his sword into Desmond's head. And then the boy points his sword at Leandro and giggles. "Look at the pretty Maester! Why are all the women looking at him?" His voice is just a little too loud for Desmond to hide. "Alright, alright," he says. "That's time enough for the giant's ride." There's a screech of protest as he sets the boy down.

But perhaps Desmond's kind words have gotten through. The child eels away from his mother, rushing over to Dhraegon and attempting to hug his leg. "It's alright, Your Prince! We can fix it!" His mother claps her hands over her mouth, eyes widening. Desmond just watches, open-mouthed.

Flox is standing close by Siva, trying to make smalltalk about the fine points of flower weaving.

There's a collective tut from the Tyrell group when Janei drops flowers everywhere and some heated whispering among the female Tyrells about whose fault this may have been.

Siva is, meanwhile, standing still as a post and almost as silent as one, giving Flox a strange look as if wondering why he's talking at all.

Leandro is making an artistic statement, not a floral crown. His crown, is in fact bereft of even a single bloom. He crushes a leaf, sniffs it, and then adds it to his arrangement picking them as much for scent as aesthetic appeal it would seem. Mostly he's starting to look bored by it all. He looks to Dhraegon. "Sometimes less is more. You've a strong framework there that you built initially. It's not a race. You can take a little time." That's his teacher's voice.

Marsei has become quite focused on her task, although she is more contemplative than nervous as she winds stems and leaves. She's not so focused that she misses Dhraegon's struggle; she frees a hand from her work and lays it on his briefly just as the child flounces over. She bursts into a warm smile. "Yes!" she agrees, "it's still lovely." She looks past the boy to his mother, giving her a reassuring look that no accidental slight has been committed. She smiles agreeingly, too, at the maester, pausing momentarily to look curiously at what he's making. She's delayed by the time she gets back to her own flower crown, her attempt to add an additional white bell causing some of the other petals to flutter off. She only laughs softly, holding it up anyway.

It may be a surprise to some, though not to those who have seen her at her art, but Janei does not get frustrated as part of her crown falls apart. It was an experiment, it didn't work, time to move on. She reassembles the flowers in a new way, and soon has a wearable crown, ready for judging.

"Going to give 'erself a heart attack while she's still a maiden, that one," Viola says to one of the other servants while she watches their housemaid struggle with the task of breathing and creating a flower crown at the same time. Having glimpsed Janei's falter, she stopped altogether not wanting to do better than her lady, and now struggles all over again to keep up to task. There's a veritable warzone of petals around her.

Dhraegon looks up as the boy calls out, and gives him a determined nod, "We can! We can fix it!" He bends his snowy head over his work, a determined look on his face. Alas! It is all in vain! The crown comes apart in his hands. His look of dismay is transparent, and his eyes start to tear up. Seeing the boy arrive, he gives him a teary smile and lets him help. There is no chance of him winning now and he might as well let the child try.

Time is called. The various creations are held up to view one by one by four cute little Hightower girls, too young to compete, dressed in House colours. The crowd is not sure what to make of Leandro's leaf sculpture and the Septas can be seen whispering together as it is presented. Janei's artwork is a clear favourite with the crowd, and Marsei's is well recieved.Dhraegon simply gives his posies over to the yooung boy.

At the end, the Septas finish their conference. A Maiden of marriagable age comes in third and is given a fine purse. The Lady Marsei comes in second and wins a silver cloak pin. The Lady Janei Tyrell comes in first and earns a fine golden flower brooch and the winner's purse. The Maiden stands and anounces, "Maester Leandro wins a special award for most creative!" It turns out to be a small purse and a set of fiance hairpins, alsoi of a floral theme. What he will do with them is the cause of much amused speculation.

There's a big round of applause from the Tyrell camp when Janei is declared the winner and a bunch of females bustle down so they can hug her and cheer for her.

Desmond smiles down at Marsei, and turns to speak to the half-panicked mother. "It's alright," he says softly to the woman. He gestures toward Marsei and Dhraegon. "Lady Marsei shall make certain no one scolds him or treats him rough. Prince Dhraegon loves hugs." The woman doesn't seem reassured by the brutal-looking giant, but Marsei's smile calms her. "Seven bless you, Lady!" she calls, waving her hands. Desmond touches her gently on the arm, pointing. "See? The Prince has him."

The child sticks his tongue out as he tries to make a knot of the stems, looking up at Dhraegon. He sees the tears and reaches up with a tiny hand to try and dab at the Prince's face. "It's alright," he pipes. "I'm sorry, Your Prince. I have to go. Mama's waving." He tries to press a single posey into Dhraegon's hand before turning and running to his mother, who sweeps him up. The boy busies himself planting flowers in her hair.

Leandro's creation is just twisted vines, a verdant display of leaves of a variety of textures, bright, green and glossy. It smells every bit as green as it looks, vibrant, fresh and distinctly herbal with those scented leaves. There's mint, pine, something almost lemony. When a stray petal's blown towards his crown he brushes it aside. This is very definitely a no flower zone. As he's presented with his prize he almost scoffs, not a gracious loser? Hairpins. HAIRPINS???! He takes them, and his money, and a large mouthful from his flask. His creation remains where he left it.

Incidentally, while you could probably wear Leandro's creation on your head, it likely doesn't come under the definition of crown either. It's more a leafy helmet than a floral crown.

Marsei claps happily for Lady Janei, bouncing once where she sits. She turns soon after to bring a violet flower to Dhraegon's temple, fitting it in his pale locks in an attempt to brighten his spirits. Leandro is not left out of her benevolence, either; she smiles optimistically in the face of his bitter win. "Perhaps you can give them as a gift," she says of the hairpins.

The Tyrell housemaid cheers for Janei enthusiastically, but goes scurrying back to the servants in the stands trying not to cry. Viola begrudgingly puts a strong arm around the girl and mutters in her ear.

A certain hairless smith has come wandering over to peer at the artistry. He tosses a light hammer in his hand absently, catching it and shoving it into his apron. His sneer lights up his face, giving it a yellowish cast in the sunlight. "Lookit the Maester!" he calls out, to one of his friends. "He's made a war-helm out of twigs! Likely he'd make a sword-blade from flower petals!" He guffaws noisily and turns away. "No difficulty here, boys. Let the professionals set to their task."

Desmond is far off in the crowd, doing something or other.

Siyu hmmms slightly, looking up at the smith, and then back to Leandro, and to the other smith, he just shakes his head. "Bravado before the steel is struck? Hmph." he gives his comment as he waits by his tools.

Janei looks surprised as her creation wins, but very happy too. She's gracious as she accepts the prize, then turns to accept and return the hugs, laughing. She looks up to her cousin in the stands, as well, giving him a grin. Meanwhile, Bryn is in the smithing area, getting ready. Given he so tiny, he really doesn't look like a Smith, though there perhaps are apprentices his age in the competition, they are also likely bigger than him.

Dhraegon pats the young boys shoulder, giving him a goofy smile. All is sunshine again in Dhraegon land. Then he is beaming and clapping as the winners take her prizes. If he claps hardest for his lady wife, who can really blame him. The losers are each given a coin and allowed to keep their crowns, which many do try to deposit on the heads oif favoured lads. Others, wear their crowns, and a few of the older women bestow them on their children.

The forges are hot and the smiths begin hammering away. Meanwhile, the works of art already entered are being set up on the far side of the field and people are encouraged to come admire them while the smiths work.

"I am a Maester," Leandro replies to Marsei. "We're not even allowed to set eyes upon a woman, least she distract us from our studies, let alone having one as a friend so that she might wear them in her hair. The only way this could be less appropriate is if I was a bald blacksmith." Speaking of which, he replies to said Blacksmith. "Undoubtedly so, but my sword-stick would be sharper than any blade you could ever make." He stands up, and heads over to where the smiths are, and grabs himself an apron. At least he's not in his best clothes but still.

About to reply to Leandro, Marsei thinks better of it once he's caught up in the talk of the smith. "Shall we go look at the art?" she suggests to Dhraegon, ready to take his arm and stroll across the grounds, remaining blissfully unaware of any worries he might have about the contents of said art.

Siyu takes a deep breath as he pulls out the white hot steel, and he begins to gently flatten, and being to stretch out various strands of it, making small links, moving quickly, and delicately as he does so.

The smith booms laughter, waddling back to his place, rubbing a hand over his egg-bald scalp. "Oh, this'll be good." He kicks at one of his apprentices, but not hard, more playful. "Heat the steel," he commands the lad. And he draws out a heavy hammer and some long tongs as a long blank of steel is shoved into the coals, and the bellows worked. Soon the coals are glowing white — and the steel is bright yellow. The ugly smith draws it out and begins to hammer. Ting, /Ting, //Ting

The blade his is forging is clearly meant to be a dagger, its tang as long as the blade. The blade begins to assume a wide, leaf shape. "You. Grab the birch. Double-check the rivets." Another apprentice unwraps a leather bundle, looking down at two long birch scales, intended to be riveted onto the tang. They have been carved, delicately, with scrolling dragons.

Meanwhile, Desmond Snow loiters behind Marsei and Dhraegon discreetly — or as discreetly as he can.

Siyu continues to fold and work, he moves quickly, hammering the steel, taking a deep breath as he focuses his mind. He is not able to swing around large hunks of steel like some of the bulkier blacksmith, but he has intense concentration. Halfway through his work, it's very clear he's making some manner of small intense object. A blacksmith puzzle, though specifically one from Yi Ti. Involving a series of gates and semi mechanical locks. He twists, turns, and makes all of the pieces. Keeping an image how every piece fits. He keeps that picture as he finally finishes it up. Dousing all of the parts into the water. He pulls out a single gold dragon. Smirking he picks back up his puzzles pieces of fits them all together. Over two dozen locking into place, over the gold dragon, and firmly, and fantastically creating the puzzle. Silvery steel locking behind glittering gold.

People mill among the artwork peering at the paintings. A small, rather ribald crowd gathers around one particular painting. People also come to watch the Smiths work, kept from getting too close by a string of penants erected on poles and some squires.

Dhraegon offers his Lady Wife his arm and strolls in the direction of the art, "your wish is my command, My Talinium!"

Bryn works entirely by himself, since he hasn't got his smithing link yet to earn the right to have a novice help him. So, perhaps he's not as fast as other smiths, but he works hard. His dragons blood helps, as even with the heat he barely sweats. He's working on a dagger, as well, but focusing more on making it well than exceptionally pretty.

Leandro is not the worlds best blacksmith! It's never been anything more than a passing fancy for him, a brief hobby as many of the things he does are. His creation is exquisite to begin with, as he works the steel, teasing out delicate leaves oh so similar to that which he crafted before. He does have an artistic eye, an artistic touch, and an innate talent for this which must certainly be sickening for any actual blacksmiths to see. He smirks as he works, cocky as always and confident in his craftsmanship. It goes wrong, not in the creation itself, but the cooling, as he drops his delicate sculpture into the water too soon and the whole thing turns brittle.

The leaf-shaped blade is hammered out and quenched. The smith reverses it with his tongs and sticks the tang end into the coals, heating it to a burning-white. "Must keep the metal hot for this part, lads," he instructs his apprentices. He carefully draws the tongs out, and hands them off to one of his apprentices. "Keep it steady." He grabs up an awl and his heaviest hammer, setting the needle-point just above the steel. CLANG. A hole forms in the metal. CLANG. Another. CLANG. A third. He nods in satisfaction, dropping the tang into some oil with a bubbling hiss. When he draws it out, the steel gleams.

"Alright. Heat the rivets. Bring the scales." And carefully, delicately, he taps the cherry-red rivets into the rivet-holes. There is a little smoke as they scorch the wood, expanding as they cool. But — and this seems to be the smith's fear, he's sweating heavily — they do not crack. He breathes out in relief, and then waves his arm to catch a judge's attention.

Desmond continues to tail after Dhraegon and Marsei.

Siyu sets the puzzle down at his anvil and cleans up. He calls over the judges as well. The glittering little complex puzzle is an interesting example of skill. He doesn't want to do anything that flashy or heavy, but he manages to make an object he thinks shows his skill.

As the clangs and hisses of the blacksmithing competition fill the air, Marsei points toward the first piece of art she sees, easily pleased by any hint of colour, eager to see what people have done. She leans her head toward Dhraegon, looking to the people blocking their view of one painting and asks, seeming thus far oblivious to the indecorous nature of the crowd, "I wonder what that one is?"

The Yi Ti Dragon puzzle draws quite a bit of interest and comment. There is some teasing of the small acolyte until it comes clear that he does know what he is doing. The smallfolk seem well pleased with the bald man's work, "A proper Smith, he is!" Leandro's work gets many a compliment until it goes wrong, at which there are many scoffing "Measters!"

From the art exhibit, Maesters are much under discussion as well, though mostly there is talk of perversions and the defiling of the Maiden statue and the obscene entry in the Dolphin tourney contest. All this seems to worry Dhraegon and he looks to his Lady Wife for guidence in this crisis. He tries to see over the people crowding the painting but the angle isn't good, "It's hard to tell…." Then his eyes catch another work further on, being the tallest in that crowd and he looks amazed for a moment and he points that way, giving a delighted peeled of laughter.

Perhaps this is Desmond's cue to be useful. He hears the Princess's request and begins to walk forward. Not to threaten, not to shout or bluster, simply to move into the crowd in his ugly armor, brushing people out of the way. He doesn't need to bluster. People look up at him and make room. Like a breakwater, there is an eddy behind him. But when Desmond reaches the painting, his neck quickly goes red. He turns back, trying to wave off Marsei and Dhraegon, perhaps too late. But no. Bless Dhraegon, and his distractable nature.

Meanwhile, the fat smith is snickering and pointing over at Leandro. "See? Thinks he can do whatever his pretty little hands set to. No talent. No skill." But he does approach Bryn and offer out a hand. "Now that was smithing, my boy. Never seen the like. You're welcome at my forge anytime."

Siyu grins and claps at Bryn, "Good show lad good show, didn't even break a sweat." he laughs some, a good chime of it. He looks at Leandro, recognizing him from the tower, and simply giving him a sympathetic nod. Though of course the braggadocios smith doesn't get much comment from him.

The Septas circulate to see the finished product of the smithing, then retire to confer. The Bald man is given the third place purse and an offer of purchase buy Flox right afterwards. The second place prize of a fine set of new tools goes to Acolyte Bryn. The first prize of small silver and gold bars and a purse goes to the gentleman from YiTi.

People are starting to shove to try to get closer to the controversial painting. City guards and squires start moving in to disperse the crowds. They carefully avoid bothering the quality such as the Prince and his new wife. Desmond, being with the Quality is left alone.

Leandro swears as he stares down at his now imperfect creation, scowling darkly at the metal that dared defy his genius. It's not perfect, not the piece he wanted to make. "I'm still a better smith with a day's training than you'll ever be." That Maester's smithing link of his, mind you, would say he's had a bit more than a day. But amongst all the other glittery links who's to know which is which. "It bores me though. There's little intellectual challenge there, and who wants to be stuck in a burning hot forge all day?" He takes a swig from his flask and stalks off towards the paintings to see what everyone else is looking at.

Bryn does better than Leandro in the end, as his dagger cool successfully. He's not quite done yet, however, as with some tools and a tiny bit of acid he etches a decorative dragon on the blade. Nothing that would hurt the effectiveness of the weapon, but just a little decoration. He sets it out for judging, and smiles happily to Siyu. He shakes the smith's hand, as well, "Thank you!"o

Siyu chuckles and bows his head, gratefully accepting the prize. He sets the puzzle box upon the table. "The first to open it gets the dragon inside…and of course, if they return the pieces intact I shall give them another." he grins, offering a challenge.

Bits and pieces of conversation drift Marsei's way, immediately painting her own face in a worried light. "What-" she says quietly, "Certainly not these maester rumours again." Why they would arise here seems beyond her at the moment. She's eager — granted, with trepidations — to follow Desmond when Dhraegon becomes distracted. His laugh brings her a fond smile, but with city guards even becoming involved, she looks up at the Snow Giant and asks him directly, "What is it?"

Murmurings in the crowd. Guards moving in. Desmond Snow looms protectively over Marsei, glaring at the smallfolk. His affability seems to have vanished, just in case someone tries to shove Marsei and Dhraegon. He leans forward to murmur into Marsei's ear. "It's…er…feet. Very, very, loving, painting of feet. Come on, Lady. Let's move on before someone acts a fool." The riots are, perhaps, too fresh in his mind.

The smith smiles hugely as he sells Flox his dagger, sniffing at Leandro and beginning to pack up.

Flox takes the dagger and tucks it away, before heading quickly to where his Prince is, likely the riots fresh in his mind as well.

The crowd clears enoght to see the controversial artwork. It is… Feet, glorious feet, rendered in exquisite, loving detail. These are the feet of a dancer, graceful, strong, caught mid-step in some frenetic dance. Beautiful feet with their powerful curves and ten oh so perfect toes.

Meanwhile the Prince is headed towards an entirely different piece: A scene of pastoral bliss, in pastel shades. A flower filled meadow, with butterflies fluttering between the blossoms. A blue sky with puffs of cloud, and centre of it all is a bull. But not just any bull, this Bull is the gentlest long-horn bull there ever was, even with its huge expanse of horns, and muscular form. Such a sweet, noble beast. Its deep brown eyes, filled with warmth, so thoughtful, kind. And as if proclaiming the goodness, innocence, and purity of the creature, around its neck is a garland of pure white roses.

"I don't understand," Marsei expresses, beginning to narrow her eyes with perplexity and determination bound together. She begins to wind her way around the tall Ser Desmond, set upon getting a glimpse of the painting that's caused a stir. When it's revealed to her eyes, she tilts her head to one side, studying it; a bit unsettled, certainly, but not nearly to the point of blush. "What a strange thing to paint," she says instead — perhaps to Demsond, perhaps to Siva who has appeared at her side, having left Flox to his weaponry earlier. The handmaiden draws her attention to Dhraegon and the much more pastoral painting. Marsei's face alights. She joins Dhraegon, leaving the dancing feet behind. "Is that Rose?"

Bryn smiles happily again as he is given the second-place award, taking his new tools as well as the dagger and moving away happily. Meanwhile, Janei is standing over by her painting. It's a view from near the Hightower, with the Royal Pavilion approaching and, in the sky, the four Royal dragons approaching. She likely spent the whole week since the wedding working on it, perhaps rushing a little too much.
Bryn has disconnected.

Desmond clears his throat uncomfortably. "Some men like feet," he ventures. "Quite a lot. Not me, though." As if that matters. He looks infinitely relieved when Siva gestures them toward Dhraegon, and moves through the clearing crowd with a smile. This is more like it. Nice, safe. A bull. He looks around at the crowd and breathes out, perhaps relaxing. But his hand is gripping Giantsblade, white-knuckled. He forces himself to unclench his grasp.

"Feet again," Leandro scowls, as if the existence of the painting itself offends him. He doesn't linger, instead he moves on to hear what people are saying about the bull picture. And swigs some more from his flask. For what it's worth, he's been doing his very best to present as NOT-DORNISH today. His accent's been almost non-existent, and he is dressed as a Maester, a little flashy perhaps, but definitely Maester, and he's submitted his painting as Maester Leandro. For all that these contests aren't anywhere near as important as the martial ones are, he doesn't want any ugliness.

Two Targaryen house Guards accompany the Septas as they make their rounds just in case. The Crone and Mother stare for a good long moment at the Feet, then hustle the protesting Maiden away quickly. The Maiden can be heard complaining, "I don't get it! Why is there so much fuss being made about feet?" The older women try to shush her and distract her with the excellent dragons and the really astonishing bull, trying to engage her in a discussion of symbolism.

Dhraegon, seeing his Lady wanting to examine the feet, obediently goes along with. "I don't know. No one explained properly last time either. Someone entered the mother's feet at the Dolphin crafts faire. Just the feet I mean. It's something to do with some Maester? I think?" he blushes, "I… learned a new word, but not for feet. I don't understand the fuss at all… Oh look, Dragons! And come see my Rosebud!"

"The Mother's?" Marsei looks suddenly uncertain and slightly aghast, looking to the septas as if for answer as to whether this is allowed, but she hurries to cast her gaze again upon the painting of the bull again. "It's beautiful, he is beautiful," she says in sincere adoration of the lovely art. "Dragons— ? I recognize the royal pavilion. Oh, it's Lady Janei's!"

Desmond gazes at the paintings without much appreciation, though he does seem fascinated by the dragons. But then he turns and looks through the crowd, humming quietly. He seems to have stepped down from his earlier war-time footing, but there's still alertness in him. He leans down briefly to speak to Flox. "Is there going to be trouble over the feet?" The huge man seems dubious that /feet/, Mother's or not, could start trouble. But then, he's of the Old Gods. What does he know?

Janei looks to the painting with Rose, and nods quickly, "It's beautiful, Prince Dhraegon." The fact of the other painting is better than hers doesn't bother her much, it seems. A little, but not much. She smiles to Marsei, and says, "I hope you like it."

Dhraegon nods, "It was very pretty. It came in second." His tone still suggests bafflement, "I do not think feet look like…" He drops his voice, "A lady's… bodice area, but I am told for some men it is much the same." The Prince beams at Janei, "you really did capture the light on the scales. It is lovely." The older Septas are doing everything in their power to distract the younger one, so not much help there.

Flox says softly, "The guards seem to be forcing the crowd to thin in that area. The real danger was of a brawl breaking out as the crowd pushed in. If they keep people moving, it will likely be fine."

Leandro's barely given a glance to any of the other paintings. Just enough to be certain that no one comes even close to his talent, although that the crowd are around the feet, and not his majestic bull, seems to be irritating him.

Dhraegon's explanation, combined with Desmond's earlier comment on the matter, set in, and Marsei tries very hard, and very admirably, her jaw tensing and managing to barricade against a blush, to not respond at all. She stares only at the Tyrell's piece of art. "It's wonderful, Lady Janei. You've captured it beautifully. I should like for my sister to see it," she tells the young lady warmly, a twinkle in her eye.

Desmond nods appreciatively to Flox. "Good thinking, mate." He smiles lopsidedly as he glances at Marsei and Janei, just ensuring where they are. He smiles at Dhraegon, too, perhaps humored by the big Prince's explanation. He gazes around the crowd casually, then remarks down to Flox. "When the archery begins, I'll leave them. Not for long. I shan't win." He pauses. "I know you're better at all this than I am, anyhow."

The Septas retire to confer. The Crone is rather vehement about something and the Mother is backing her up. In a bit the tone looks more congenial and soon the winners are declared. The third place post goes to an artizan who painted a rather idealized portrait of Lady Marsei in a flower crown and a rather more lace bedecked gown than she would wear in life, The second place prize, a set of rare pigments is awarded to the Lady Janei Tyrell. The first place prize of a purse and a set of rare pigments twice the size including lapis blue is awarded Maester Leandro. There continues to be murmuring about the feet and the sexual perversions of M aesters, but the choice of winners goes over well enough, especially given the subjects being chosen to compliment the Targaryens and the Hightowers, particularly in light of the events the previous week.

Dhraegon seems struck by Marsei's comment, "Flox! Go around and offer to buy all three winners. I should like Rosebud and my Snapdragon for my rooms and we might give the Dragons to the Queen as a gift! might we buy your painting, Janei? It really is quite good!"

Flox demurs at Desmond's comment, "I am but a simple helper and companion to my Prince, nothing so extraordinary." Then he is off to do his master's bidding, offering to buy the painting from Leandro first, him being the winner.

Leandro's somewhat satisfied as he's announced the winner. Not that it comes as a surprise. He accepts his prize with a satisfied smile, and then turns to Dhraegon and Marsei. "Prince Dhraegon, I would like to present you with this painting as a gift." It does oh so pain him to turn down the money offered by Flox. Sooooo much. Almost as much as the fact they're praising a girl less than half his age, far more than any compliments he's getting. Of course he did draw a cow, Rose, very specifically to cater to but one man's tastes.

Janei practically beams at Marsei's answer, "I'd be honoured." Then the winners are announced, and she curtsies and accepts her second place prize, "Thank you." She blinks in surprise, but curtsies again to Dhraegon, "Of course, your Grace." Then, she says to Leandro, "Your painting is beautiful, Maester!"

Marsei glimpses the painting of herself for the first time when it's announced in third place. "Oh, is that— oh, is that me?" she queries to Siva and Dhraegon, overwhelmed in an instant. No vanity for the Flower of Oldtown; she looks altogether surprised and almost uncomfortably demure to have been the subject of a painting, pressing a hand to her collarbones. Her attention is drawn back to the painting of the bull by Leandro. "It was yours, Maester Leandro? Of course — a fine choice, and so finely done," she smiles knowingly, part in jest, "Much better suited than riding into battle. How kind of you." She recalls the third place winner and presses her hand briefly to Dhraegon's elbow. "I ought to go thank the artist," she says hurriedly, as if she already feels late. She and Siva take a wide berth around the mystery painting to go pay accolades to the other artist.

Desmond tenses again as the winners are announced, frowning around, but he relaxes as the crowd seems to be…pleased. The huge northman looks a little bewildered. But he's pleased. He smiles after Flox and shakes his head, muttering "Strange little man," under his breath. He's still smiling as he moves toward the archery butts. Some of the smallfolk archers competing come up around him, making jokes. A few of the jokes are rather snarky. He returns them with good faith, joking and nudging the men until one murmurs, perhaps too loudly, about Marsei's feet. The joking stops. Desmond doesn't say a word, but the expression on his face is perhaps more terrifying than any threat. Carefully, one of the other sellswords steps between them. "Easy, Des. Easy, big lad. Too much ale, that's all."

Finally, with someone appreciating his genius, other than the judges, Leandro smiles at Janei. "It is, isn't it?" To Marsei he says. "Yes, painted for your husband. You wanted an example of my art-work and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to present one."

Dhraegon beams at Marsei, "No painting could do your smile justice, My Alstrmeria!" The Prince is effusive in his praise, "This is the best painting ever, Leandro! You are the only one I know besides Tellur who really understands Rose!" He tries to hug the Maester in his excitement.

Flox sets about fixing a price with Lady Jamei and the artizan.

Leandro's about to get hugged and he's not skilled enough at avoiding such things. He manages a forced smile. "I am glad that you appreciate it. I had hoped to speak to you later about a small matter. But I must go, for now."

Desmond looks as though he's about to flatten the sellsword who dared speak about a Princess's feet, perhaps even knife him. He looks as though he's forgotten he's a knight now. He looks like the brutal thug that some whisper he is. But there's another man between them now, and it gives him a moment to cool down. "Of course," he says, a little hoarsely. "Let's just loose some arrows." He turns and stalks away from the group, shoulders hunching and relaxing, hunching and relaxing, until he seems calm again. Archery. Right.

The crowd is herded back to their seats as the Archery contest is announced. People start placing bets. Dhraegon murmers agreement to Leandro before freeing him. The Septas retire and their places are taken by Elder Tyrell, Helpful Judge, and No Longer Hungover Hightower. It seems Prince Dhraegon is not quite up to judging after all the recent excitement. He retires to the noble stands with his lady and is soon eating candied nuts which he shares with her if she is so minded.

A diminutive man of Dornish and Summer Islander heritage, very thin and at least two feet shorter than Desmond, takes his place comically next to Desmond at the line with his hunting bow. His tiny braids are angles upwards to make a wide strip of cascading braids like a horse's main, and his colorful caftan hides his form. Still too thin, his complexion looks healthier and he is starting to get his looks back, a year after his release from the Maester's care.

Ser Daevon Targaryen, the Maiden's Knight, is looking stunning in his lightweight silver and gold armor. He shimmers. He sparkles. The Perfect Knight! Although it's a bow he has in hand, not a sword. He moves to join the other archers, lining up. Madrighal's given a concerned look, which will be replaced with a smile if he looks this way.

While the art judging was going on the Flower tables and forges were cleared away to make a place for the archery buts. They are now carrying away the art and stands.

Desmond looks down at Madhrigal and gives him a quick, easy, smile. And then he waves over to Daevon, more enthusiastically. The glittering Prince holds his attention, and he calls over "Shall I just throw my bow down and have done, My Prince?" But his voice is perfectly good-natured.

Janei let Flox have the painting for a very small price, just enough to cover expenses really. Then, she's off, retrieving her bow and some arrows and quickly making her way over to join those at the archery area. Her eyes widen as she sees Daevon, though.

Tellur arrives, late, on an astonishingly ugly Northron horse. Loathely is done up in pretty ribbons, all red and woven into her shaggy mane. He has groomed her to within an inch of her life, but she still only gave birth about three or four weeks ago and is a little pudgy. Nonetheless, she seems in fine spirits - someone else has the foal for the day! The thick, ungainly thing has bells around her hooves as she comes up to join the others. Tellur's bow is a massive, brutal Northron thing, a huge laminated wooden mess. He is wearing Northron clothing, and swearing in it - and his taste runs to Wildling.

Daevon smiles at Desmond. "Certainly not for my sake." He raises a hand to greet Tellur. "For his though, perhaps? But you never struck me as the sort to give up, Ser Desmond."

Madrighal smiles one of his dazzlingly smiles at the Maiden Knight and the late arriving Tellur. He gives a friendly enough smile to the Man Mountain beside him. He nods politely to the Lady, not being entirely sure if they met before.

The gargantuan Northman in his scarred mail, so different from Daevon's gorgeous plate, throws back his head and laughs. "Only when ordered, Your Grace." He waves cheerfully to Tellur, as well. "Tellur Snow! is that a proper Northern longbow I see?" He grins hugely at the sight, seeming to have been restored to his usual fine spirits.

Daevon's not in his plate today. He's in his archery and horse-riding/racing outfit, which is an awful lot lighter, but no less finely made. He aims at the target, focusing intently, draws back the bow and unleashes ana rrow that solidly htis the target.

Tellur pauses, and he gives Daevon a sudden grin. Tellur's life of recent has been more than a little brutal, and the kindness evidently goes a long way. Then he says to the other Northron "When I said I had a taste for combat fronm five hundred yards away, I meant it!" He adds "With my ability to dodge - or not - it's simply a wiser proposition, Ser Desmond." He draws his own heavy bow and the arrow at the tip is a nasty, barbed thing. This is no fine hunting arrow, but a ring-puncher, meant for getting through raider jerkins. He hits his own target as well, and eyes Daevon's shot "Balls," he mutters.

Desmond draws back his bow and looses quickly, hardly seeming to dare looking. The look of ludicrous pleasure on his face, when the arrow lands solidly within the rings, may be enough to amuse folks in the audience. But if it's not, the way he pumps his borrowed longbow over his head and cheers should likely do it. He reaches into a pouch that hangs around his neck, touching something there, and grins over at Daevon and Tellur. "Well shot!"

Janei is usually so confident in her own abilities. But there, not far away from her, stands the Maiden Knight. So, as she raises her own bow and light up her shot, she's a little shakier than usual. Her arrow flies in, still hitting the target but nowhere near as dead Centre as the others. She looks down, taking a few deep breaths to try to steady herself.

Madrighal's two feet shorter than the Northern Knight and his bow is not much larger, still, his concentration is just fine and he strikes as well as the others. He seems pleased enough with his own shot

While many contenders are eliminated after the first round, The Maiden Knight, Lady Janei Tyrell, Ser Desmond Snow, Tellur Snow, and Madrighal Sand are directed to step back to the second round line.

Tellur draws again, and that heavy, multi-spiked arrow goes through the very edge of the target "Nhg," he mutters, disappointed in himself. Over his shoulder, Loathely puts her ugly face against his, and he smiles again.

Daevon concentrates on the target, unleashing a second arrow that hits the bullseye easily. He's focusing on his own target, not at what anyone else is doing.

Desmond throws back his head and laughs as his arrow goes soaring far, far, above his target. He doesn't seem to mind his defeat, and even stays to cheer Daevon's shot. But as he exits the butts, he begins fiddling with straps on his armor, making his way toward where a huge, ebony, charger is waiting. He turns and calls to a passing squire. "Help me out of this, lad." He's wearing plain woolens underneath, and a quilted jerkin. "A stag to watch this," he tells the young man. "After my race."

Janei steps back to the second round line, and draws her bow again. This time, she's steadier, but the greater distance makes it more difficult. Once again, she hits the target, but not near the centre.

Madrighal's armstrength may not be what it ought to be. The second time he draws back the bow there is subtle shaking to his draw and the sarrow goes wide.

Tellur is given the third place purse. Ser Daevon Targaryen and Lady Janei Tyrell advance to the third round.

Tellur does seem rather delighted with his purse, it has to be said. He is going to spend it on horse tack, undoubtably, and various ointments for his menagerie of beasts. He stays to watch the Targaryen and the Tyrell, though, leaning on his unpromising yellow mare and idly braiding yet more of her scraggly mane into the confection of delicate braiding that should be on a mighty warhorse "Heh," he says, to himself.

Daevon's third shot, hits the outer ring of the target. It's only then that he looks around to see how everybody else is done.

Janei steps back again, lining up her third shot. This one again hits the target, but once again isn't near the centre. She steps back, lowering her bow and looking towards the judges.

Daevon's pleasantly surprised to see Janei still competing. "You've a true aim." He compliments as he waits for them to measure who shot closest.

After a brief deliberation, the second prize of a small Qorish tapestry depicting a strange forest and stranger beasts is awarded to Lady Janei. A small Myrish tapestry featuring birds and butterflies is awarded along with the first prize purse to Ser Daevon targaryen, the Maiden's Knight.

Daevon is gracious as he receives his prize, offering thanks, and words of praise to all of his competitors. Someone from the Targaryen household will likely carry that prize home for him. With the archery done, he goes off to get his horse. She's an absolutely stunning, Dornish sand-steed that matches her rider perfectly. Her coat glistening silver-gold, her eyes an oh so pale shade of purple, eerie in a horse. She practically prances beneath him, revelling in the attention of the crowds.

"I like my prize," says Tellur, satisfied with his coin, though he does eye the tapestries. He is probably wondering if he could make nests for his ravens out of them.

Unarmored, Desmond spends his time with Mammoth, caressing the animal with a horse-brush, scratching under his saddle-blanket, and eventually leading him to the race's starting line. He strokes the animal's nose, blowing into his nostrils and being blown back upon. Resting his forehead into the huge charger's neck, the big man murmurs something into his ear. The two are clearly besotted with one another.

Madrighal cheers for the winners both, then goes off to see to Whiskey, his sand coloured stallion. The beast has fine haunches and a delicate neck. Though not a sandsteed, odds are he has a bit of the blood back in his lineage. The slender Dornishman seems more comfortable ahorse.

The Herald anounces the horse race, and riders line up at the outer ring while squires clear the buts and set up a dragon and tower themed course with targets. This contest is still only practiced here in Oldtown, a tribute to Ser daevon Targaryen and Ser Loryn Tyrell who popularized the sport, though it is now much talked of in the Reach.

Janei beams again to Daevon's compliment, "Thank you." Then, after accepting her prize, she leaves it in the hands of Tyrell servants as she runs to get her horse.

The penant drops and they are off!

Whiskey fairly flies, seeming not to even feel the tiny Dornishman on his back. The horse runs like he was born for this.

Tellur has gotten on top of Loathely and headed to the start line. His ugly yellow horse watches the penant - and quite without Tellur having to even kick her, she strikes out with a very odd gait. A five-way pattern designed for running on ice. It is not the same sort of gait as Madrighal's horse, but it is horribly fast, and seems to take very little energy. Tellur leans in on the neck of his horse, whispering to her. And not in the common tongue, either.

Mammoth and Desmond are not fast off the starting line; the huge charger is magnificent, with his pounding hooves and white blaze across his crest, but he is not a racing stallion. In the middle ground, what little hope they had of keeping up with the main pack is lost — Desmond is just too big, and Mammoth is not built for this sort of thing. He tries, the noble horse tries, and Desmond Snow is shouting encouragement — together, they rally in the last fifty yards or so. Mammoth is panting, tossing his head, but the noble effort is no use. The pair cross the finish line lengths and lengths behind anyone else.

Desmond swings out of his saddle, hurriedly, and begins to wipe his noble charger down. "Good lad. My brave little lad." The animal nuzzles at him, his flanks slick with sweat. "I know, my darling boy. I'm too fat. It wasn't your fault." He leans the horse off, toward a water trough.

Daevon's sandsteed, Sunshine's fast at the start, just not quite fast enough. Daevon and Janei right neck a neck for the first three rounds.

As soon as the race starts, Janei kicks her horse into a fast run. It's not fast enough, Janei still inexperienced compared to her competition. Still, she tries, racing as hard as she can even as she finds herself competing for third place.

While who crossed third is almost too close to call, Daevon declares Janei to have won out of them, and he may even be telling the truth, that she was indeed a nose ahead. The Maiden's Knight not going to run off against her, nor split the purse.

Tellur cannot outstrip Madrighal, though Gods knows, he is trying. His horse just manages to get past Sunshine, and then Loathely is tossing her head instead of focusing, incredibly proud of herself. She streaks past larger horses, but struggles with carrying a heavier rider. When she comes in second, she slows, then blows out her nose, her sides heaving, while Tellur laughs, and sits up "Not bad!" he tells the beast, who fixes him with her dark eyes. Then Tellur sits up to cast a horseman's eye over everyone's steeds. Mmm. He _is_ going to breed the Ultimate Horse. Just watch him.

Neither Whiskey nor Madrighal look back to see the beautiful purebred or the…lets say unusual but surprisingly swift Loathley, though there is no doubt the beast and rider must know all the horses are there. The Dornishman's expression is one of pure delight in the speed of the beast, the strong muscles carrying him forward across the finish line.

There is a murmuring in the crowd, which is not best pleased after the events at the joust, but the Night Thrush is no Ser Manfryd, being a well known and popular entertainer at the Whimsey and the Quill. He also is a good sport riding back to congradulate Tellur and Janei, once he's slowed his horse back to a walk. Whiskey seems pleased to see Loathley know the business of the race is done.

The maiden's Knight's word is instantly taken as the final one. The third place purse goes to Lady Janei Tyrell; a fine set of tack with ornaments goes to Tellur Snow, Master of Beasts for House Stark; and to Madrighal Sand, the Night Thrush of the Whimsey, goes the winner's purse and a fine black mare.

The fine tack, well, that is nothing to sneeze at. Tellur is delighted, and indeed, since he has no squire, and folk are taking a little bit of a break? He decorates his shaggy Northren horse (not a pony! He declares she is not!) up with it. One may as well be gilding a a piglet. But Tellur does not seem to care, and although Loathely is unpretty, she does seem to be in good shape.

Jurian arrives just now, not having bothered to watch the other events, on a glossy black mount with a custom-made saddle and matching silver-chased bridle and other appointments. A servant or squire follows behind bearing other equipment. Jurian looks as haughty as ever, of course, and joins the group readying for the horse archery.

Desmond is busily getting Mammoth back into condition for the next event, brushing him down, feeding him an apple bite by bite. The big charger seems ashamed; he keeps dropping his ears, and his tail is hardly flicking at all. But Desmond patiently murmurs in his ear, crouching down to check the animal's legs, scraping out his hooves.

Nearby, Daevon is likewise tending to Sunshine. The gorgeous Dornish sandsteed is prancing and tossing her head, clearly relishing all this attention.

Marsei has been quietly enjoying the last couple of events where she sits alongside Dhraegon, keeping him occupied with chatter through the horse race. She points out how pretty some of them look — and how "interesting" Loathely and Tellur look today, and "why does he dress in that way?", although it is likely to no avail to her prince husband who thinks the horses are monstrous beasts. She goes quiet when Jurian rides up.

There is a bit of a delay to let the horses rest and for the squires to finish the elaborate set up for the horse archer event. It is not just a matter of getting the fancy jumps in place, but the setting up of the target pendulums and the beribboned racing route in Targaryen and Hightower colours. The Prince himself seems to be fine at this distance from the horses and is happily munching away on his candied nuts and offering the best tidbits to his Lady Wife. "He is a Northerner. He is a good man and kind to beasts… Isn't it nice young Janei is doing so well?" he drops his voice to murmur in her ear.

Whiskey keeps wanting to whuffle at Loathley as Madrighal settles the new horse and brushes Whiskey down and checks his straps for the next race. Madrighal does slip away to admire Sunshine and say a few words to the Maiden's Knight before coming back to line up for the horror that is the horse archery contest.

Tellur keeps the pretty bridle for this event, but after eyeing the jumps, crouches down to the rest of his tack and takes out a very thin saddle, which has fine leather strapping, and padding only where his tailbone would touch Loathely's spine - it is designed to distribute his weight. He even reaches in to change the bit out for no bit at all, just a guidance bridle.

Desmond tuts and whispers softly to Mammoth. He seems to have no other saddle, no equipment at all. Even his bow is borrowed. The Northerner may be a knight, but he is not a wealthy one. He leads the big charger back to the line.

Daevon looks up and smiles at Madrighal, gesturing to the other man's horse with a smile. But Sunshine doesn't like being slighted - she nudges him at his shoulder until the Maiden's Knight steps aside and properly introduces the Dornish musician to the Dornish steed.

Jurian's man passes him up a bow of dark wood that the prince looks over thoughtfully. He probably wouldn't have to confirm its shape so closely if he didn't so often throw it in rage or disgust.

Desmond swings into the saddle, holding his bow awkwardly across his knees. He seems in good spirits, though he clearly expects to win no prizes today.

Daevon, on the other hand, practically dances to the line, commanding Sunshine with his knees, his magnificent armor gleaming in the sun. He raises a hand to the other competitors. "Good luck to you all. May the best archer win."

"I'm so pleased for her," Marsei agrees brightly before her head tips to the side just so to listen to Dhraegon's murmur. They talk quietly amongst themselves.

Tellur clucks under his tongue, and Loathely prances - prances, like a purebred! - up to next to the others. He has his huge Northron bow in his hands and a grin on his face that shows all his teeth.

Madrighal holds out a hand to Sunshine, not offering a treat lest questions be asked later. Still, he murmurs many fine praises for the beast.

Then they are calling for riders to line up. Madrighal swings lightly up into the saddle and takes up his hunting bow. Really, he hasn't much choice but to do things lightly.

Janei has been taking care of her own horse, in between events. As contestants are called, she quickly saddles up, taking her bow from a servant, and then rides her horse up to the beginning line of the race/contest.

The pennant drops and off they go towards a jump deigned to invoke the red Keep in the uprights. The pendulum target set to swinging.

Miranda hurries to a place to see the final event. The septa seems to be hurrying, one hand on her wimple to keep it in place. She manages to find a decent spot in the crowds by virtue of her office- smallfolk deferring to her and murmuring blessings.

Marsei's gaze settles on Prince Jurian upon his horse, thoughtful, until she's distracted away by giving Dhraegon a bit of a funny look in the midst of their conversation. Then the pennant drops, and she watches every rider intently as she can, eager to watch the horses jump, only drifting from spectating to notice the arrival of the septa, as though her senses are fine-tuned to the arrival of the faith.

Madrighal is fast right from the start again, Whiskey in a hurry to avoid the tangle going over the jump. The tiny Dornishman trust the horse and lets fly the shot, hitting well enough as whiskey flies over the bar.

Desmond looks entirely out of place up on his huge charger, among these graceful people and graceful horses. And Tellur. Perhaps Tellur makes him feel at home, for he waves cheerily over at the other Northerner. And then they're off. Mammoth does better this time, or perhaps his rider does. He manages to keep up with the rest of the riders, and keep his saddle after the jump, but when he rises out of his saddle to loose an arrow, it's a clear miss.

Daevon, on the other hand, is in his element. He rides like a centaur. Sunshine seems to soar over the jump, though the animal has not broken out of the main press yet. The Maiden's Knight rises in his saddle and lets fly, scoring a fine hit.

Loathely kicks off and makes the first jump with ease. She has terribly light feet for what she is. As she jumps, Tellur pulls up and fires his massive bow, squarely in the ring. Now this explains why he is sent to go fight raiders, sometimes. His stocky little horse shows her true mettle here - she is very sound in the feet, and built for leaping and poor ground. She moves like a finnicky little dancer.

Miranda seems to have an eye for this event. She looks at the horses and riders with more than a casual appraisal, nodding appreciatively for the finer steeds. Also the archery form- she seems to wince at Desmond's poor aim. The septa seems almost wistful as they ride.

Jurian's horse, which happens to be called Blackfire, but whom Jurian rarely addresses by name, is coursing and jumping well, and at the very least Jurian hits the target. His attention is soon on the next target.

Janei has been practising since last time. Not that it's that apparent, given that she's up against much stiffer competition this time. She manages to keep up with the pack, though, and his the swinging target well. Smiling, she leans forward for the next stage of the race.

Desmond is riding neck and neck with Daevon as they approach the next jump, Desmond's huge charger towering over the Maiden Knight's graceful sandsteed.

But just as they approach the jump, Mammoth turns his head — Desmond can't control him in time — and nips at Sunshine's ear. The small sandsteed whinnies in protest and rears, bumping into Mammoth in revenge. Desmond's stirrup comes up into the air, his boot comes free, and he goes toppling ear-over-arse to the dirt.

The Maiden Knight, however, keeps his seat, reining in Sunshine. Beast and man seem to be in perfect accord as Daevon rises up in his saddle, his expression intent and clear, and looses an arrow solidly into the target.

"I always like the races a good deal better," Marsei confesses to Dhraegon as she winces slightly at the fly of an arrow and yet more as she watches Ser Desmond's fall.

It does not actually seem to matter that Tellur is behind, because Loathely is so careful that she leaps graciously, which means that Tellur can jump up on _top_ of his saddle in a crouch to fire _over_ people's heads and not risk them. It is, however, an incrediably dirty move.

Prince Dhraegon has his face buried in his diminutive wife's shoulder, "I am so happy I don't have to judge this anymore!"

Desmond lands with a bone-cracking thump onto the ground, rolling and rolling. Mammoth comes to a halt in the middle of the track, perhaps causing confusion as he rears and whinnies, crying for his master. The huge Northman groans and rolls over, pressing to his knees. He shakes his head vigorously and lifts a hand to show that he's alive, struggling to collar his charger's bridle.

Miranda claps for Madrighal. "Good speed, good style," she comments - more to herself than the crowds around her. Unlike most women, the menfolk jostling and cheering actually apologize when they bump in to her. She winces sympathetically for Desmond's fall.

No one can seem to touch Whiskey today for speed, likely it helps that the fast horse is carrying such a light and experienced rider. Alas he is not as good with bow as with beast and just barely strikes the target.

Jurian was luckily out ahead of Desmond and so need not navigate around the fall. He heels his mount the harder, and the horse keeps its strong pace, staying for second, though it is lagging far behind Whiskey. He is still just barely making his targets, but making them.

Janei frowns a bit as she finds herself falling further behind, but she races as hard as she can still. Once again, she's neck and neck with Daevon. She keeps focus, however, and as she sails over the jump she lets another arrow fly, hitting her target once more.

Madrighal looks like he's tiring a bit even if horse is still ahead. He just barely hit the target, and the horse carries him over the finish, the rider barely hanging on.

Desmond finally manages to regain his feet and hustle off the field, practically dragging Mammoth behind him. The horse watnts to stay and play some more, but the Northerner can see trouble brewing in the form of his former competitors. They make it out of the way.

Daevon manages to close the gap slightly with Jurian, enough so that when they cross the finish line, the two seem to be tied on points. He waves to the crowd, smiling.

Tellur actually rallies…but too late, really, and no manner of tricks in riding nor wicked smiles is going to help him this time. In he comes with Janei, tied, and notes that he thinks she might have been a hair ahead. She is lighter than he, by a good deal, and most horses are larger than Loathely is.

Jurian seems less than pleased when he is told that his fine, famous cousin managed to catch up enough in the end that they are tied for points. But he doesn't throw anything. He slows his horse after the finish line.

Janei shoots her final arrow, and soon crosses the finish line. She slows her horse, laughing despite being quite obviously out of the running. Once the final scores are announced, she waves to Tellur with a smile, then rides back to the Tyrell area to dismount.

There is a lot of conferring at the judges stand. The Elder Tyrell waves his arms and rants. The Not Hungover Hightower looks grim faced and stubbornly fails to back down to his once upon a time tourney rival. The helpful judge is consillatory and trying to compromise. Eventually a runner is sent to fetch extra prizes and end the arguing. The helpful jude's good cheer and patience are fraying around the edges. Normally second place tie means no third place prize, but it is a wedding celebration and the crowd is restless about yet another Dornish win, so…..

The Lady Janei Tyrell and Tellur Snow acknowledged of Starks each get a purse. A fine black colt and filly are led out, one hastily brought from the stables, are presented to Prince Jurian and Ser Daevon, the filly for the Maiden's Knight, obviously. The Grand Prise of a beautiful roan Stallion going to a rather baffled Madrighal who is not sure what he can possibly do with two extra horses in the city.
Desmond loads up his armor onto his charger and goes to lead him off the field. He doesn't look as though he's too offended at being roundly defeated in every single category — the Snow Giant was here to have fun, and fun has been had. It's not as though his armor was on the line.

Daevon accepts the filly graciously, waving to the crowd. Sunshine isn't sure what to make of her new friend, but they haven't killed one another by the time the Maiden's Knight heads off for the stables.

Jurian puts on a sharp smile and waves to the crowd. At least tying Daevon means not being beaten by him. He has one of his men take the colt's lead. A servant waves a Targaryen banner.

Hawking takes a very long time. The contestants ride out and fly the birds while various musicians, jugglers, tumblers and the like entertain the crowd. There is dancing for the common folk, and the Prince has ordered food and drink for the revelers. in the meantimes.

Tellur waves back to Janei - he does not mind what happens, with prizes. The contest that holds his full interest is coming up. The hawking. Tellur flips open a saddlebag and takes out his equipment, which is apparently a very heavily padded guard for his hand, and a thick leather hood that he settles on himself. He even has a lure in his hand, it looks like a furry piece of rabbit, the skin still red raw on the outside. He looks weird.

Madrighal disappears into his tent for a rest and barely leaves in time. he looks rather limp, but determined as he and whiskey trot off.

With a hawk, of course.

Once the falconers ride off, Prince Dhraegon turns to Marsei, "Did you want to dance? Or we could eat?"

Tellur heads off on Loathely to the hawking area, as well. His large, white owl is already there. Barn owls are not exactly usual hawking animals - they are too small to be very brave - but they can see in the day and their hearing is exceptional, even if they are gorgeously…stupid.

The free refreshments are good fresh ale, fresh baked bread, a hearty stew with real meat and vegetables in is and small honey cake. Nobles can, of course buy or have brought better from home.

"Dance!" Marsei repeats, but it a fond, entertained laugh, not a decision. She watches the competitors go off toward the hawking area with some admiration for the birds they carry, but seems to have no intent to follow. "Food does sound wonderful, actually. It's been hours." Dhraegon's snacks notwithstanding.

Flox brings out a fine feast of things thatPrince Dhraegon and his Lady might dip flat bread into and a cool mild cider. Dhraegon giggles, "food, then dancing then.

Madrighal rides back hollow eyed and exhausted with a pair of small birds in his game bag. Clearly the day has been a bit much for the frail musician.

Tellur's owl is small - and owls are slow - but it has a rather violent and possibly surreal tenacity. Tellur has his lure, but he does not bother to use it to return the bird - after he notices Madrighal's success, he just sighs, and stands there silently. His owl takes the birds only clumsily in the air, but it moves eerily quietly while Tellur watches from within his deep hood. It drops each bird at his feet, then moves to strike again, requiring no encouragement. On another day it would fail, but today? Tellur succeeds.

The riders come back and display their game. Tellur has taken by far the most quantity and weight and so is awarded a lovely Gyrfalcon. And the winner's purse.

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