| Tourney at Stonebridge |
| Summary: | The week long tournament begins with a joust, a kiss going to the winner. |
| Date: | 23/July/288 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Outskirts of Stonebridge - Stonebridge |
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| The roads are worn and well tended here and the fields on either side are lush and filled with wildflowers. The tournament tent is set up just north of the road and a grand pavilion rests to the central right of it, set with the colors of House Tordane. Knight's tents are being set up everywhere there is room and high ground. They dot the countryside and near the Tordane tent there is a cart of water and food, a small general area for the nobles to greet the hosts and partake in food to ease their journeys. |
| July 23, 288 |
The day of the tournament has dawned and the massed chivalry of the Riverlands have turned out in all their pageantry. Smallfolk have flocked to the field, ringing the tilting lanes in a merry throng as the knights in thier armor, with caprisions draping their steeds and a riot of heraldic color siezing the eye. Nobles sit on cushions upon the viewing stands, while heralds sound trumpets to usher the kngihts upon the field in order of precedence.
Seated beneath one of the long tents to shade those nobles that are watching on, Isolde is amongst them, standing while the others soon rise as well. No backed folded chairs are settled with cloths and cushions are in different colors, so many houses arrayed. The Lady of Stonebridge watches teh knights, her hair drawn back into a long braid wound with ribbons. In her hand she holds a white kerchief, her initials embroidered on it in green and golds. She steps forward, staying still beneath the tent as she smiles faintly. Several Freys in the mix and it seems Valda lifts her chin proudly for her bloodline.
First among the cavaliers is the bright Lord of Seagard, Jason Malister. His squire bearing aloft the tall spear with the indigo banner. Lord Jason's own silvered armor is polished to a bright sheen, wings spreading from the temples of his helm and a long purple ribbon spirals down the length of his upraised lance. The veteran of many tourneys, the Lord of Seagard guides his destrier down the length of the field, reining in to face the stands where their hosts sit, at the end of what shall become a long line as other knights follow.
Jarod is not riding today, but he's certainly come out of the show. He's among the crowd watching with a handful of men from the Terrick's guard. They laugh and joke among themselves as the heralds being to sound the trumpets. One of them jingles a sack, and the lot of them fish coppers (and the occasional glint of silver) from their own purses. Jarod puts a few stags on the line when he sees Jason Mallister take the field, eager grin splitting his face.
Noble as she might appear, Anneke Steward is still smallfolk as smallfolk come, so the castellan of Oldstones is in the crush of bodies ringing the lists on foot. That she's among her peers doesn't stop her from throwing her weight around, however — she gamely elbows and shoves and shin-scrapes her way to the fore, not satisfied with her view until she's belly up to the rail. Once she's achieved her goal, she drops her savage positioning tactics and smooths her hair into place, folding her hands prettily and lifting her chin, resuming her elegant posture. La! She has arrived. Oldstones may now commence to pwn.
Anton Valentin arrives with the other assembled competitors, heading onto the field just behind Jason Mallister. If the Lord of Seagard shines like a sun, the Knight of Oldstones is a black hole, his own armour as black as the massive destrier he rides in on, its caparison primarily sable as well, with minimal accents of dark red and grey. The only spot of brightness is the banner carried by his dark-clad, dark-haired squire, a white field charged with a grey portcullis, and atop it a bright red phoenix arising from mud-colored flames. It waves in the breeze as they come to a halt, taking up the second position in that line.
The next to follow is Ser Jaremy Terrick, heir to Terrick's Roost, bearing a tall spear with his own house's banner. His dappled gray destrier, Orvus, is dressed to match in silvered armor and yellow and purple cloth and saddelry. Ser Jaremy is armored to match, in shining armor complete with helm trailing purple dyed horse hair and yellow ribbons. He guides his horse in to rest next to Ser Valentin's, turning to face the line of nobles. Without a doubt, the mysterious favor, purple and yellow ribbons with a white hair tie, hangs from his wrist near his spiral-painted lance.
Jarod puts his fingers between his lips and whistles, loudly, as Ser Jaremy takes the field. "Knock 'em flat, brother!" he hollers, clapping.
Anneke calls out, "Oldstones, huzzah!" She glances sidelong at the Terrick men and their betting pool, a smile tugging her lips and mischief in her eyes. Unable to resist, at the last, she leans over and places a sack of coins among the others. "A hundred stags on Ser Anton Valentin."
Rygar Nayland is toward the middle of the field as the knights emerge in order of precedence. Visor raised, the stern and unsmiling knight sits straight backed and tall in the saddle of his ruddy brown destrier, lance painted in bands of orange and green held at rest. In posture and bearing, he might be upon parade before royalty.
Kevan is sometimes known as 'Ser Kevan the Black', and right now it's evident as to why. He's traded in riding leathers for his armor, a breastplate painted glossy black along with his helm and the other various accoutrements. His own banner, a red hawk on white over a copse of white trees against a black field, hangs from his lance along with a hastily added Terrick one. Leviathan wears his best saddle, and his swords Talon and Thorn have been shined and sharpened for the event, their bright blades the only specks of silver on an otherwise inky display. It's not as impressive an ensemble as that of the other black-clad knight in attendance, perhaps, but Kevan nonetheless cuts an imposing figure.
Once all are arrayed in their grandeur before the head tent of the nobles, Isolde of Stonebridge steps out into the sun, her eyes narrowing to keep her gaze somewhat shielded. Her gaze drifts a moment to Jaremy but then lifts her chin to regard Lord Mallister. "House Tordane of Stonebridge welcomes all our brave contenders." She pauses, smiling at a few of the men and lifts her voice to be heard by noble and smallfolk alike. "As all our knights are arrayed to show their strength and mettle, I ask you now, Lord Mallister, to make your challenge and begin this tourney's joust. May the Seven shine on all of you this day. To the winner goes a kiss from myself." She inclines her head, gold circle glinting as she does, the silk coif folded on her chair allows for the long incriate braid to be shown off. She steps back, giving him his leave to move and call out his match. The banners of the houses catch the breeze and flap, sharp snaps sounding as if they proclaim their own proud histories. The Lady stands at ready, kerchief in hand for Mallister and his chosen opponent to line at either end.
Once the orderly and regal procession has taken its place on the field, and the Lady of Stonebridge rises to address those gathered, the applause of the smallfolk fades in anticipation as Lord Jason Mallister dips his lance in salute to the Lady Isolde and guides his horse out of line to face his competitiors. The Lord of Seagard quickly passes Anton and Jaremy, wasting no time in touching his lance to the shield of Ser Ryman Frey. A herald declares, "Lord Ser Jason Mallister has challenged Ser Ryman Frey, Grand-heir to the Lord of the Crossing!" The first challenge is met with raised cheers.
The cheers are disrupted from the western end of the field as another knight rides out to a small collection of raucous accolades. Armed in pull plate upon a grey charger, the knight's visor is down, his shield quartering a scythe with a peacock. The unannounced knight rides to the end of the line, those nearest such as Kevan, might hear deep chuckling behind the knight's lowered visor. As this new knight takes the field, a slight commotion moves through the commons as rough shouts of "Make way for the Prince of Pyke," jostle a few commoners on the way toward the noble platform. A rowdy procession of large, fair haired men pass near to Anneke en route to the stands.
Apart from a few frowning looks at the developments, Jason Mallister and Ryman Frey- a thick knight, with a broad, fleshy face obscured by his lowered visor- have continued their paths to the opposite ends of the lists, couching lances and awaiting only the signal to begin.
The progress of the 'Prince of Pyke' slows at a deep voiced word from the tallest of the Ironborn company. Clean shaven, but long haired, the large muscular Ironman turns a knowing smile toward Anneke. Speaking slow, deep, and deliberate, the imposing man in rough linens and with a fur about his shoulders sets a hand to the pommel of a sword at his side and voices, "Did I hear an offer of a hundred stags?"
Already presented to the line of nobles, Ser Jaremy Terrick nods his helmeted head in the direction of his seated family and turns his horse, leading it out of the main jousting arena where he shall wait his turn.
Jarod cheers and hoots as Kevan takes the field as well, if not quite so loudly as he did for his lordling half-brother. He's watching from the commons for the moment, albeit thick in a group of Terrick soldiers who - likewise - don't consider them horsemen enough to try the jousting field. The call of a hundred stags raises his head as well, toward, Anneke, who receives a curious squint. Albeit not a particularly attentive one. His eyes are on the field as Jason Mallister takes it. This is a tilt he's eager to see.
Anton looks to Isolde as she welcomes those gathered and opens the tournament, then watches the line as Mallister rides down, not that it is a long wait to see who he challenges. His gaze continues down the line for another moment as that last-minute addition arrive and his kinsmen make their way up to the stands, squinting briefly before turning back to watch the tilting begin.
At the commotion and appearance of another knight, the Lady of Stonebridge pauses, her lips parting. Isolde's brows furrow, yet Mallister and Frey continue to place themselves where they need to be. Her gaze flits over the fair haired men and then clears her throat. Stepping out when all is clear at least for the jousters, there is a whisper from the nobles as they eye this 'Prince of Pyke'. The Lady lifts her hand, draping the kerhief into the air at the center of the line."Knights at our ready!" She calls. She looks down the way to Mallister and then to Frey, nodding to each in turn. She hesitates and then her fingers reflex. The breezes catches the cloth, winding it downward delicately as she takes up her skirts and steps back to give room for the Knights.
Anneke has the look of the north about her — and ice in her veins, too, by the look of it. She turns to face the tall, deep-voiced lord, reclaiming her unanswered wager from the common pile. Her curtsy is appropriately deferential, but her posture remains regally perfect. "You did, my lord. One hundred stags on the Knight of Oldstones." She remains lowered, raising only her eyes — and a faint, but rather cheeky, smile. "Is the Prince of Pyke a betting man?"
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Frey=8
< Mallister: Good Success Frey: Good Success
< Net Result: Mallister wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Frey=8
< Mallister: Success Frey: Success
< Net Result: DRAW
Seated with the rest of the family, Lady Lucienne's hair is tucked neatly into a crown braid, her filmy violet veil secured behind it. She has, for the most part, been kept in quiet observation as the knights assemble, though the hullaballoo surrounding the 'Prince of Pyke' draws a lean between her and her mother; they discuss for a brief moment, before both returning upright, hands folded neatly in their laps.
As the kerchief drops, the facing knights spur toward each other at a full charge, lances gradually lowering as they gallop nearer. both lances break with a simultaneous *crack*, and the horses are past each other in an instant. The impact rocks Jason Mallister in his saddle, but he keeps it solidly. Despite solid horsemanship, this thick Ser Ryman's balance is too badly upset, and after a precarious moment of clinging to his horse's neck, the Frey tumbles to the ground to a rush of cheers.
Anneke's cheek draws a wide smile from the large Ironborn, who voices back in the same slow cadence, "As a rule, I wager only with steel. But, seeing as you are a woman.. If your knight matches Ser Harras-" a calloused hand is raised to point at the new knight of scythes and peacocks, "I will take that wager, on the condition you accompany me and mine to the stands."
Kevan wheels his horse around at the commotion caused by the new arrival. He raises his visor to get a better look at the chuckling man, and his expression sours when the calls of 'Prince of Pyke' are sounded. "Ironman," Kevan says derisively, spitting in a show of contempt. "You profane these grounds with your presence, rustborn dog." And then the first tilt is beginning, and a Frey is the first to fall, drawing a reserved cheer of satisfaction from the black-armored knight.
The mounted knight- of the scythes and peacocks shield- turns his head aside to regard Kevan's insults. The low laughter continues. "I am a knight born and sworn, little hedge man. If you like me not in these lists, you shall have your turn to try and chase me out."
Settling into place next to Ser Kevan Tierney, Jaremy raises his head to watch Lord Mallister's ride against Ser Ryman Frey. The lances splinter with a loud crack, and like many people, Jaremy leaaaaans to the side while trying to figure out if Ser Ryman will keep his balance. He does not, and as the rest of the crowd cheers, Ser Jaremy roars and raises a gauntleted fist to cheer on his liege lord, nodding deeply as Lord Mallister nears the end of the row. He then leads to the newly pledged knight of Terrick. "The lady he speaks to cheers for Oldstones." Jaremy nods up the row, towards Ser Anton Valentin. He glances to Ser Harras and then to Kevan, allowing Tierney to respond on his own terms.
The lady castellan lifts a hand that the Prince of Pyke might help her rise, just flirting with the edge of propriety. He did just elevate her status by his own invitation, after all. "Then we are agreed," Anneke replies with satisfaction. She glances somewhat disapprovingly at the hedge knight, but says nothing.
Jason Mallister reins his horse in at the end of the lane, and swings it about, having the bae courtesy to offer the downed Frey a salute with the broken lance, before tossing it aside and retaking his place in the challenge line. The herald raises his voice (where do they FIND peasant with lungs like that?) to call, "Next to challenge is Ser Anton Valentin, the Knight of Olstones!"
Jarod's cheer is anything but reserved when Lord Mallister is the victor. He even earns his silvers back and then some from the men he's betting with. It's not a big win, albeit. He put his money down on Jason Mallister without even bothering to see who the man was tilting against, and there were few who wanted to put their coin against the Lord of Seagard. "As Oldstones is next, put my wager in coppers there, for I like the look of their smallfolk," he says to the guardsmen who seems to be holding the purse for the group of men he's betting with, eyeing Anneke sidelong.
Isolde steps back, watching the Frey fall and her mother who has taken to her seat once more shift as she takes note too. Lifting a cheer, those who were attending the Lord Frey move out to help take him from the field. The Lady of Stonebridge now steps back to find a place just outside the shield of the tent but it is the hedge knight who speaks so of the ironborn that makes her head turn. Green eyes glance askance to him and she shifts, allowing her attention to return to the tourney. Her gaze narrows some and she dips her head as the next Knight is challenged by Lord Mallister. She draws the figurine out of her pouch, turning it in her hand as she takes note of the Knight of Oldstones. A soft smile presses her lips and she turns, making her way along the line of nobles to where Lucienne sits with the Lady Terrick, a warm smile pressing to her lips.
The 'Prince of Pyke' laughs quietly, deep in his chest as Anneke takes a hand is rising. A merry lot, these Ironborn. Resuming his procession toward the noble stands, Anneke finds herself in the company of a half dozen Iron Islanders, all but two wearing wealth above the right of peasantry, and all bearing swords or small axes. While few among the smallfolk look glad to see them, even fewer dare voicing their displeasure and the crowd parts quickly before them.
Anton watches as Mallister bests Frey, though barely, and claps gauntleted hands together in appreciation of the bout, though his is certainly more reserved than that shown by some. When his turn is called, he walks his horse out of the line and trots down it, passing Terrick by. He moves slowly past Charlton, and looks for a lingering beat at Crakehall's shield, shifting the lance in his grip in a misleading fashion. Still, he passes Strongboar by, and Frey and Nayland as well, though Hosteen and Rygar both get appraising glances. Past Tierney, past Bannon Rivers, letting the suspense build by and by before finally he reaches the very end of the row, and his lance lifts to send the shield of Ser Harras Harlaw clattering against its post. It has yet to stop ringing as the black-clad knight wheels his mount and gallops for the lists.
Dark eyebrows lift and bright green eyes laugh as Anneke sidelongs a glance back at Jarod. She doesn't grin, precisely, but there are shadowed hints of dimples on her cheeks. Just the faintest inclination of her head acknowledges his compliment. "You have an excellent eye," she approves. A beat. "For martial skill." Then she's off with the rowdy lot of Ironmen.
Kevan smiles wolfishly at the mystery knight. "If none here are up to the task of putting you down, ser, I shall gladly step to the mark," the former hedge knight says to the man. His grin becomes that much more unpleasant, though, when Anton's lance chooses the ironborn knight. "Though I fear I shall not have the chance." Addressed by Jaremy, he turns to face the young lord, scowling in surprise at the information. "Oldstones? Oldstones is an abandoned ruin." Given how long he's been away from the region though, his information is apparently out of date.
"The Knight of Oldstones has challened Ser Harras Harlaw, the Knight of Grey Garden!" the mysterious rider in black armor challenging the dramatically tardy Ironman? The smallfolk love it. Still chuckling behind his helm, Ser Harras spurs his horse toward one end of the line with a loud, "Hyah!" Staring down the tilting rail at each other for a long moment before the signal to charge is given.
The swift moment of impact draws a wince across Lucienne's features, her eyes lidding closed for an exaggerated second. Sensitive little poppet! She's pleased to open them and note the success of her liege lord, though, lifting her hands in turn with the cheering crowd to clap primly. After an appropriate length, she returns her hands to her skirts, settled atop her knees to brace her lean forward as she peers after the next challengers. Isolde's movement catches in the corner of her gaze, prompting a tender smile of recognition as she straightens again.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Anton=body+spears Vs Harras=9
< Anton: Good Success Harras: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Harras=9 Vs Anton=body+animal Handling
< Harras: Good Success Anton: Good Success
< Net Result: Anton wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Anton=body+spears Vs Harras=9
< Anton: Good Success Harras: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Harras=9 Vs Anton=body+animal Handling
< Harras: Good Success Anton: Failure
< Net Result: Harras wins - Solid Victory
"I have an excellent eye for a lot of things, Mistress," Jarod replies to Anneke as she passes, flashing her a bright, boyish grin. His gaze lingers on her, though it roves slowly back to the jousting field.
As she draws closer to the two Terrick women, she makes certain not to block their view of what is to happen. Yet the cheering makes her pause to look back. Isolde lifts a brow and hmms to herself hurrying those last few steps as she dips a faint nod of her head. "My ladies.." She says softly and looks to the Lady Terrick first, and then Lucienne. "It is good to see you both, I hope you are well." The Lady looks up to watch the Knights square up and then she considers the Terrick daughter. "I do hope you will allow me the honor of sitting with you at the feast tonight. We have much to speak of and a week will go by too fast."
"You see, my lord, how the Knight of Oldstones recognizes a worthy opponent," Anneke says to the Prince of Pyke, eyes avidly on the field. As the knights tilt, her free hand curls into a quick fist of anticipation at her side and she briefly bites her bottom lip, holding her breath. It's not nerves that show in her face and form, but rather a (restrained and ladylike) savage delight.
In the first pass, the cheers build, and both lances crack sharply once again. Canny eyes in the stands will note that Ser Anton seemed to have slightly had the better of the first exchange, sitting his horse more solidly. The two gallop past, both still mounted and re-arm for the next tilt. The anticipation of the viewers is high, as the two come crashing together again. Only the most canny observers will notice a flaw in the second pass: Anton's charger steps into the divot left by the falling Ryman Frey earlier, and is caught ever so slightly flat in the saddle as Harras' lance strikes, in an ill turn of luck for the Valentin.
The Prince of Pyke nods once, voicing back to Anneke, "He does. And he rides well," is added after the first pass. The big Ironborn's eyes tick more narrow as the two gather up for the second pass. "Hrm," he grunts at the moment of impact, despite the fortuitous outcome for his friend. "A fine rider, but ill fortuned, your kngiht," he voices, turning a look sidelong to Anneke.
The ladies Terrick recieve Isolde with warm smiles and bobs of their heads, Lucienne shifting in her seat. "Lady Isolde," greets the daughter, a measure of relief showing in her voice for the distraction. "We thank you for your hospitality, what a splendid turnout. You must be pleased?" She pauses as the knights begin their pass, and in between, "Of course, I'd be honored."
Anneke is nothing if not a canny observer. She sees the flaw in Anton's pass before the strike lands, hissing and flinching at the inevitable. "Today, alas," she agrees of her knight's ill fortune, dangling her bag of coins a moment over the Prince of Pyke's palm. She can't quite suppress a grin as she offers, "Double or nothing?"
Ill-fortuned indeed as that small mis-step by his mount ends with Anton in the dirt. He picks up the broken handle of his lance as he rises, tossing it aside and striding out of the lists, no doubt headed toward his tent to collect his ransom now that he has been eliminated.
"It has been better than expected, but I have to say just as much as Lord Mallister's arrival was a surprise, the Prince of Pyke more so." Her gaze flits to the oncoming noble and the woman at his side. A brow lifts and she straightens some. "Speaking of which, it seems I will need to inform the servants of our new guests." Green eyes take in the approach and Valda even goes so far as to stand too further towards the center of the group of nobles. Frowning some, she lets a smile slip into place. "You are doing well?" she asks of Lucienne, reaching a hand out to rest on the lady's shoulder.
Ser Harras gallops to the end of the lane, turning a look back over his shoulder as he hears a clatter behind him. Angrily throwing his ruined lance aside, the Knight of Grey Garden is already dismounting as he reaches the end of the lane, calling toward Anton, "Continue afoot!" as he draws his sword. The rules of the lists however do not permit such in the tilt, and when a field marshal informes the Ironborn knight of this, his response is a angry, "Bah!" Remounting his steed looking almost sullen, despite the victory.
"Doesn't appear abandoned from this vantage point." Jaremy replies quietly to Kevan, reaching down to pat his horse affectionately. Leaning back, he turns to watch the display as Rodrick Greyjoy, the Prince of Pyke, steers Anneke closer to his family in the nobles box. The exchange from Jarod to Anneke is not heard, but he knows that face. Jaremy can't help but chuckle. He finds Lucienne, checking on her, and then settles in to watch the tilt. "Gods damned, Jarod…" He says under his breath.
"I have a score to settle with Nayland, but I have an eye to unhorse Harlaw." Jaremy says grimly, choosing not to applaud as Ser Anton Valentin is bested. "One door opens and another closes, aye Kevan? Best of luck to you, friend." With that…Jaremy rides his horse towards the tower of arms, wasting little time in making a show of it. The crowd, both noble and commoner alike, know what is about to happen. Jaremy's lance punches the Nayland shield, calling a challenge to Ser Rygar Nayland. Galloping past his family and smallfolk, the young knight moves into position.
Rygar nods sharply enough that he swings the visor of his helm into place with the acknowledgement of Jaremy's challenge. His countenance reduced to cold eyes and cold steel, he gallops his mount to the end of the lists opposite the Terrick lordling. Raising his lance once in sharp salute to the nobles at the center of the platform, he couches his lance and readies to charge at the signal.
Jarod surrenders his coppers after the Knight of Oldstones' loss, though he says to one of the guardsmen he's betting with, after another glance back at Anneke, "Entirely worth it. Pardon me a moment. I think it's time for me to mingle with my betters." He whistles again at Jaremy as his brother rides forth, heading up into the stands to join Lucienne. Any bets he made for Jaremy were likely not with Terrick men, and long-placed. "Mind if I join the cheering section, sweet sister?" he asks of her.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Jaremy=body+spears Vs Rygar=body+animal Handling
< Jaremy: Success Rygar: Great Success
< Net Result: Rygar wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Rygar=body+spears Vs Jaremy=body+animal Handling
< Rygar: Success Jaremy: Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Jaremy=body+spears Vs Rygar=body+animal Handling
< Jaremy: Success Rygar: Good Success
< Net Result: Rygar wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Rygar=body+spears Vs Jaremy=body+animal Handling
< Rygar: Success Jaremy: Good Success
< Net Result: Jaremy wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Jaremy=body+spears Vs Rygar=body+animal Handling
< Jaremy: Good Success Rygar: Failure
< Net Result: Jaremy wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Rygar=body+spears Vs Jaremy=body+animal Handling
< Rygar: Success Jaremy: Good Success
< Net Result: Jaremy wins - Solid Victory
"Aye, apparently not," muses Kevan, watching closely as Anton and Harras line up for the tilt. He chuckles at Jaremy's comment as the Knight of Oldstones is unhorsed. "I understand the feeling, indeed." The blond man nods as the young Terrick lord is called for his turn at the tilt. "And the best of luck to you as well, young lord," he calls as Jaremy rides off to challenge Rygar Nayland.
As Eagle and Harpy dash toward each other, the anticipation among the commons is palpable. In the first pass, both men sit strongly in the saddle, Rygar barely even stirring as Jaremy's lance explodes into a cloud of splinters. Passing off their sundered lances for fresh ones, the second pass is met with even greater anticipation. Again, both knights crash together and part the poorer for a pair of lances, but neither has stirred. Regarding his rival through a narrowed visor, Rygar again brandishes his lance in salute before they dash together a third time.
The impact is not the sharpcrash of before but the muted *thunk* of wood striking steel as Jaremy's lance strikes not on the Nayland shield, but upon his torso, sending Rygar sharply from the saddle, rolling to a stop moments later, and rising steadily to his feet.
Looking up as Jarod joins them, Isolde smiles and backs up a step to make room for him next to the Terrick ladies. "Ser Jarod…" But as she looks at him, there is movement and it is the colors of their very house. Her head lifts and she watches from the stands. Jaremy draws her attention quite thoroughly and she tilts her head. "Oh Seven.." She breathes as he challenges Rygar. Keeping herself silent, she shifts to find a place to watch at the edge of the crowd near the Terricks. The rounds go by like blurs and at one point there is worry on her face that Jaremy will be dehorsed. But the third tiring round starts up and she slips her hand to the pouch which holds the little cloaked figurine, gripping it tightly. Her breath holds and as lances meet, Rygar falling, Isolde lets out a soft cheer below her breath, a large smile pressing across her lips.
The Prince of Pyke eyes Anneke with amusement at her offer as his calloused fingers close around the offered coinpurse. "You can manage double, can you?" the big Ironborn wonders, eyes grinning with the proposition. "As you like, then," he notes, to a round of chuckles from his entourage. "Give me your name and in the next tilt name your choice." the words are spoken as they gain the wooden steps leading up to the platform, heedless of the distasteful looks given by the guards they pass.
"Nothing like a grand entrance," returns Lucienne in her quiet jovial manner. "Nothing bears complaint," she tells Isolde, brightening her smile reassuringly, lifting her own hand to settle atop the other lady's on her shoulder. "And you?" There's friendly concern in her tone, and her gaze wanders from Isolde only as Jarod approaches. "Of course!" She reaches a hand for her bastard brother to take, and indicates a spare seat. As Jaremy challenges, she breathes a nervous, "Seven be with him," and falls deadly silent to watch… and emit her first proper cheer of the tourney at his success.
Elation. After the third lance breaks off against Jaremy's shield, he comes to a stop near the end of the row to hear the cheering of the crowd. As he turns his horse, he can already see the Terrick smallfolk cheering, and that's all he needs to know. Behind the eye-slits of Jaremy's helm, his eyes lower to Ser Rygar, watching him pull himself from the ground. He nods with satisfaction, raising his favor-tied lance arm to salute the arena before he turns to offer his broken lance to a Terrick servant, inserting himself back into line beside Lord Mallister and Ser Kevan Tierney.
"Lady Isolde." There's a touch of surprise in Jarod's tone when Isolde greets him. Perhaps he didn't notice her there until he was actually near to joining Lucienne proper. Not that it's cause to bolt, he plops down into the seat beside his half-sister. Making a soft "Huh" sound as Jaremy goes to joust. "Ser Rygar's not the man I'd have picked first to go against," he notes. There's something resembling respect in his tone for the Nayland knight. Not that it dims his hooting, hollering and whistling for Jaremy as his brother rides forth, ending in a loud, "WOO!" and fist-pump in the air when Rygar is unhorsed. "Looks like they were with him well enough, Lu. That was nicely done."
Rygar climbs to his feet rather steadily, given the tumble he'd just taken, and draws himself upright, turning to eye the still-mounted Terrick. Adjusting the lie of his broadsword, which had been upset in the fall, he offers a short, sharp bow of the head and shoulders to the Terrick, before turning on a heel and making his way from the field, squire close beside.
As the cheers die down, the herald booms, "Next to challenge shall be Ser Andrey Charlton!" Strongboar manages a coarse, "Not you, too!" as Ser Andrey passes the dangerous Crakehall knight to challenge a free rider. "Ser Charlton challenges Ser Bannon Rivers!" The two knights move to square up.
Elation is shared within the Terrick host and vassals, cheering for the young lord. Isolde is amongst them and turns to regard Jarod and Lucienne. "He did well, but three lances. He has to be hurting. Let us hope his next round will be won with fewer broken." Once can hope. The Lady smiles warmly at Jarod and then to Lucienne, "Forgive me..I had to watch. I am doing as well as can be expected, Lady." She says warmly, now spirited due to the outcome of the last round.
The next round she doesn't worry about overly and instead watches her mother. Lady Valda steps towards the Prince of Pyke, dipping a bow to him. "My Lord." She says, showing politeness depsite her well hidden distaste. She flashes a look towards her daughter and the Lady of Stonebridge sighs. "I am going to hide here with you till I see Jaremy's next…" But Valda raises her voice, "My daughter is greeting some of the nobles visiting, please sith with Tordane, my lord," She says to the Ironborn.
"Anneke," the woman on the Prince of Pyke's arm gives her name — and a charming smile. "Anneke Steward, my lord." She glances down the platform at the Terricks, tilting her head and looking curious for a moment, but then turns her attention back to the field as the next match is called. "Charlton," she says, choosing her new champion. "Double or nothing." She dips into a low curtsy as Lady Valda approaches, remaining there as the nobility negotiate seating arrangements.
"Rodrik Greyjoy," the Prince of Pyke names himself to Valda, before naming in turn, "My brother Maron and Uncle Aeron, also of House Greyjoy." The last- Aeron- appears already drunk. Turning his eye from their hostess, to whom he pays only scant attention, to the two knights Anneke offers for a choice. "Ha! An easy choice. Do your mainland lords often avoid the more dangerous men?" Chuckling to himself again, he assents. "I will wager on this Riverlands bastard, with a free heart. Perhaps his father were an Ironman."
The sharp rise and fall of Lucienne's chest as she breathes heavily might suggest that she'd held all breath in during the rounds. She lifts a hand out of relief to settle there, and positively beams her grin at Jarod. "He did well," she agrees in exclamation with Isolde. Lu nods sweetly to the other lady, her expression one of sympathy. Her gaze follows over to Valda's carrying voice, lingering there for a moment.
Jarod's whistling is for Ser Bannon Rivers this time. Bastards represent and all that. "Ser Bannon's a free lance. If he does well, I might see if he's an interest of swearing his sword to our lord father, Lu. He's got me looking for good prospects from the lists." Lord Jerold definitely has reasons to build up his numbers of sworn swords of late. He watches the coming match with close attention.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Rivers=7
< Charlton: Good Success Rivers: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Rivers=7
< Charlton: Good Success Rivers: Failure
< Net Result: Charlton wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Rivers=7
< Charlton: Good Success Rivers: Good Success
< Net Result: Charlton wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Rivers=7
< Charlton: Good Success Rivers: Success
< Net Result: Charlton wins - Solid Victory
"Be welcome Lord Greyjoy, Lords.." Valda looks to the younger ones and then shoots her daughter a look. The widow then says, "Lady Valda Tordane of Stonebridge, please, seat yourselves." She indicates for the other two who are now distracted with the joust. Her smile remains as it is but Isolde touches Lucienne's arm lightly. "Forgive me, on second thought I should go attend my Lady Mother and our guests. I will see you both soon." She dips her head to the ladies of Terrick, "Ser" She intones to Jarod and then starts to slip swiftly down the line of nobles towards her mother. Drawing closer to the Lord Greyjoy, Anneke and her mother as well as the two younger Greyjoys, Isolde's smile fades some, but she dips a curtsey. "My Lords, welcome." Valda looks somewhat relieved, "This my Lords, is my daughter Lady Isolde."
With a fresh lance provided to him, Jaremy settles back in his saddle, doing his best to conceal the slight soreness in his shield arm. Fingers flexing against the reins. Once more, his eyes flit to the stands, spotting Isolde near his family, which brings a quiet smile to his face. Valda is busied with the Greyjoy prince, which he finds not one bit surprising. "You'll be up soon, Ser Kevan. Ride to win."
The Charlton knight (another Frey banner house) is clearly in the advantage against the young and bold, but outclassed Ser Bannon Rivers. Ser Andrey rocks his opponent with the first lance, which Ser Rivers fails to break, and re-arms himself for a second pass. Ser Rivers is not hurt by his overthrow in the second pass, but the match is decisively ended.
"Bah," Rodrik grunts, echoing his friend Ser Harras' comment of several tilts earlier. The pouch of silvers, not even tucked away yet, is handed back to Anneke as the Prince of Pyke gives an eye to Isolde as he claims his seat. "Lady. Quite the gathering you've managed here, hmm?" Maron Greyjoy settles in at his brother's left side (Anneke is at the right), while Aeron hollers about something to drink.
"Next to challenge is Ser Hosteen Frey!"
"At the feast, if not before," Lucienne assures Isolde, her attention brought back to the Lady at the brush of her hand. She watches the Lady of Stonebridge go for long moment, before returning her eyes to Ser Jarod. "Oh?" Her brows lift subtly, and upon the outcome of Rivers-Charlton, she seeks an opinion. "How do you think he went?"
With the holler for a drink, Valda tsks at a servant who stands near by. "Be gone, go fetch enough for eight.." Just in case. Lady Valda takes to her seat again, leaning in to a Frey noble to speak with her as Isolde is left to stand and be addressed by the Lord Greyjoy. Her head dips, gold circlet shining faintly before she offers Anneke a warm smile. "Quite, m'lord." She pauses and adds, "We were quite surprised by the arrival of Lord Jason Mallister, but more so by you. What brings you to the Riverlands?" She asks in veiled curiousity as she remains standing, hoping to not be blocking the view of those of the Greyjoy visitors. "Castellon." She finally utters with her gaze to Anneke.
Ser Hosteen Frey, a husky knight with a squarish face, settles his helmet into place (he had drawn it off to catch more air while waiting his turn), and accepts his lance fro the nearby squire. Whatever else he may be, this Frey is no coward, and promptly rides to challenge the man who overthrew his cousin: Jason Mallister.
"M'Lady," Jarod replies in kind to Isolde, watching her a beat as she goes, before fixing his gaze back on Lucienne. "Not well as I'd have liked, may pass on that one," Jarod says to Lucienne with a wince at the jousting Ser Rivers' performance. "Well, plenty of Rivers to hire out in the Riverlands. I can find a better example of my particular pedigree than that among the men fighting, I think. I'm looking forward to seeing Ser Kevan on the field. Hedge knight I managed to pluck for our lord father. Man fought at the Trident, and in the North, so he should put on a good show if nothing else."
Kevan's eyes are resting on Valda and the Greyjoy prince as well, but they linger only a moment as he turns his attention to the next tilt. He winces as Charlton takes down the bastard knight; how like a Frey's man to select an easier target. He nods once more to Jaremy, a certain gleam of anticipation evident in his eye. "Well, I certainly don't intend to ride to lose, m'lord." Kevan smirks, turning to watch the next tilt.
Anneke remains dipped low, showing Isolde the same respect as her mother, though she watches the tilt through her lashes. There's such a rush of visible relief at the outcome, such giddy joy… it's quite possible the woman could not afford double or nothing. In which case, she certainly did just bet her life. She murmurs something under her breath and touches her breastbone, some amulet worn beneath her gown. She rises to take her seat at Lord Greyjoy's right, accepting her purse back with a barely contained grin. "Good my lord," she accepts her victory pleasantly. And, finally noted by Lady Valda, she bows her head. "My lady."
The soreness in his arm dissipates, and Jaremy keeps his mind focused on the tourney ahead, though that doesn't keep him from continuing to scan the crowds for faces he recognizes. Finding purple-painted cheeks in the commoner's stands, as well as a few familiar faces from Terrick's Roost, namely that of Amelia of Seagard, he's distracted suddenly by the cheering at Ser Hosteen Frey's choice in opponents. "Fuck, he's going for revenge. Take his horse, M'Lord." Jaremy says loud enough for even his own Lord to hear, his head bobbing in esteem for Lord Mallister. "Well, Ser Kevan, you're to have the pick of the place, it seems. I'll be interested to see who you've got a target painted on. Don't tell me. I like surprises, as I'm sure mine was rather anticlimatic."
Rodrik keeps a bored eye on the jousting as the remaining Frey challenges Lord Mallister. His attention is divided beween amusement at Anneke's visible relief, and his answer to Isolde, given in the same deliberate manner of speech, "I had heard all the finest houses of the west were to be represented. It wouldn't do to let the collection go incomplete. I suspect you're done wagering for the day then, Oldstones?" he wonders wryly of Anneke.
"I didn't know that," Lucienne admits to Jarod, at his explanation of Ser Kevan. "Although I did see him sworn. He seems a good man," is her limited estimation, and she stops short of admitting interest in the joust, although perhaps she is. "Frey against Mallister," she murmurs, folding her hands in her lap again and tensing. Under her breath again, "Seven be with him."
Anneke laughs, nodding. "With great regret, my kind lord, I think I am." She takes a deep, content breath. "I have experienced both the agony of defeat and the thrill of victory — such passions are what games are for, no? So, replete as anyone well-feasted, I depart the table." She smiles. "Though I hope this does not mean I must also depart my lord's charming company."
"As is now proven to be true." Isolde says in regards to the finest houses. Her gaze shifts to Anneke and she smiles some, "Gone from rat killer to gambler. How many talents do you have, Castellon?" Shes ays in good humor. Though the next match up grabs her attention. Mother's house against her father's higher liege-lord. "Have you no more champions you would choose?" She asks of the other's choices. "Your choice, my Lord, is an obvious one."
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Frey=8 Vs Mallister=10
< Frey: Good Success Mallister: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
+roll Mallister=10 vs Frey=8
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Frey=8
< Mallister: Success Frey: Great Success
< Net Result: Frey wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Frey=8 Vs Mallister=10
< Frey: Good Success Mallister: Good Success
< Net Result: Frey wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Frey=8
< Mallister: Good Success Frey: Success
< Net Result: Mallister wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Frey=8 Vs Mallister=10
< Frey: Failure Mallister: Great Success
< Net Result: Mallister wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Frey=8
< Mallister: Amazing Success Frey: Good Success
< Net Result: Mallister wins - Crushing Victory
"Lord Mallister's men are bruisers, sweet sister. He might well knock that Frey back to the Twins," Jarod says to Lucienne with one of those broad, boyish grins. He'd cheer that quite loudly. "Lord Jason's brought his son Patrek with him. Might have more of his household down as well if you've friends among the ladies you want to look for, though I didn't see them the other night. Still, brought a bloody warship. Room for men to travel."
Hosteen Frey, solidly built as he is, proves more of a challenge than Lord Jason had initially anticipated, rocking the First Defender of the Riverlands and leaving Jason's own lance unbroken in their first pass. The second pass is more evenly matched, and both men break their lances. The third pass, however…
Lord Jason is too chivalrous to aim a lance at Hosteen's head, but the Mallister lord's temper is clearly up, even as Ser Hosteen begins to grow winded, and the opening the stout Frey leaves with his shield is exploited, Mallister's lance planting just underneath the armpit. Ser Hosteen careens sharply off his horse, landing with an uneven scream as one leg folds beneath him at an awkward angle.
Anneke chuckles. "I try to pull from my bag of tricks what suits the occasion, Lady Isolde," she replies of her talents. She winces, stifling a gasp of sympathetic pain as bones snap on the field. She's halfway to her feet before she remembers herself, sitting again, though her face is drawn. "Gods be good, poor fellow." She looks around. "Is there a healer on hand, lady?" she inquires of Isolde.
Rodrik Greyjoy laughs quietly under his breath as Anneke begs off further wagering. "You were another lost bet away from never departing my company, until Charlton overthrew Rivers." Bemused by the comment, he gives an eye to Isolde, nodding distractedly at her compliment. He doesnt flinch from the grisly result of the third pass, simply shaking his head. "The Lord of Seagard is a worthy opponent, it seems."
"A warship, indeed. That was amongst the first of the rumours spoken when we arrived," says Lucienne, ever so slightly amused beneath her pale face. "I promised to sit with Lady Isolde at the feast tonight," she muses between passes. Whatever else she had hoped to add is lost behind a gasp as Frey is knocked clear of his horse, knuckles whitening as her hands clasp tighter together in her lap. "Oh, my…"
Josse was slightly late to the joust, sidetracked as he gets by other duties. This is the first bout the septon gets to see — and what a time for it all to happen. So much for finding a place to lean against a wall. His arms unfold, shoulders nearly tensing to his ears as those horrible sounds filter through the mass of people in front of him and he exhales tightly, starting to try and push his way forward in the crowd.
Though Jaremy raises his gauntleted fist in a cheer, he can't help but wince as Hosteen Frey's leg is snapped. Groaning along with the rest of the crowd, he says a quiet prayer under his own breath that such a break, or worse, isn't in his future. As he does so, he starts to consider the remaining knights, seeing a rather lopsided view of shields in the lists…namely that of his allies.
<FS3> Josse rolls Chiurgeonry: Good Success.
Squires rush to the assistance of the stricken Ser Hosteen, who thrashes painfully on the churned up earth of the tilting lanes. A step behind them is the local Septon.
"Lord Jason Mallister is just that, yes. Fought for our King." Isolde furrows he brow at Anneke's question. "Always, Castellon. Always." But she turns and takes a step as if to go help attend the Lord, yet hesitates. "It does look a little hurried. I shall go direct them." She dips her head, excusing herself from the noble company to see if she can be of some aid to the few that are moving to aid. Josse amongst them. "Bring a stretcher.." She motions as she exits the overhang, waving her hand as a few of the servants do just that, the simple thing carried between them. They move towards Hosteen Frey to clear him from the lanes. She stays where she is, help enough, Josse noted is given a sigh of relief.
Jarod actually can't quite cheer the Mallister's victory, wincing. That looks like it hurt right there. "Don't worry, sister, the Septon will see to him. No man goes into a tournament to kill another." Though occasionally they come pretty close.
"Remind me never to get on the Lord Mallister's bad side," Ser Kevan murmurs to Jaremy, applauding slowly as the Lord of Seagard emerges victorious once more. He laughs, the sight of the battered and broken Frey lying on the ground moaning in pain as septons dash towards him apparently leaving him unmoved. But then, any seasoned warrior, as Kevan is, has likely seen far worse on the battlefield. "A veritable feast of potential opponents, aye, m'lord. I won't ruin the surprise, then."
"Get a stretcher. We'll move my Lord right over there." Josse nods to the local septon and squires, yanking the strap of his heavy bag further up onto his wiry shoulder. "Good to see you again, brother. I can give you a hand with his Lordship." Muttered, his blue eyes glancing behind him to see how long they have before more horses come charging down the lanes.
Josse will soon have another pair of skilled hands to assist him as Lord Mallister sends word for his personal physician to attend the wounded opponent, in addition to whomever the Tordanes have at hand. Whatever other ire may exist between the two houses, a death in the lists is not something sought after by either rival.
"Next to challenge is Ser Lyle Crakehall, of Crakehall Keep!" The big, brawny knight rather resembles his crest, that of a charging boar, as he claps his pig-faced visor into place and hollers jovially, "Mallister! Get your winged ass back on the field."
Anneke's sigh of relief comes in tandem with Isolde's, her tension easing as the septon takes the field. Help has arrived. She glances at Lord Greyjoy, asking, "So if I were unable to pay my debt, my lord," and she's not saying that would have been the case, now, "I would have been accompanying you back to the isles?" She looks more amused than threatened by the prospect. The more fool her. "Are you in need of a talented castellan?"
"Can never have too many talented women," Rodrik returns to Anneke, prompting a loud laugh and slapped knee from Aeron Greyjoy. The Prince of Pyke settles back comfortably in his borrowed seat eyeing the field as Hosteen Frey is borne off by squires and septons (and Jarod), to clear the field for the sport to carry on.
Mallister and the Strongboar line up opposite each other, the latter's shield painted with the heraldic arms and motto 'None So Fierce'.
Physicians, whomever. Josse isn't wasting time while waiting for the troops to arrive; he settles on his knees beside Frey and mutters quietly to the other septon as they inspect the nobleman's wounds. Not a drop of blood blooms on the dirt as armor and clothing shifts, though for those standing closest to the group the crackles of bone grating on bone is unmistakeable and sets even the strongest teeth on edge.
Lucienne doesn't say anything, and certainly doesn't clap. She does shift a hand to Jarod's arm, and expels a long breath gently through her nose. And then: "Mallister again."
Above the Rest versus None so Fierce…The trade of mottos isn't lost on Ser Jaremy Terrick. As they prepare, he chuckles quietly and looks to Kevan. "With the amount of carnage the upper list is doing to itself, Kevan, you're going into this one fresh." He speaks, watching the familiar face of Josse works with the other septons and Mallsiter's physician on the Frey's wounds. His eyes tilt to the Greyjoys, with Ser Anton's companion-of-sorts sitting with them. They're all leathers, furs, and weapons, seemingly a group of barbarians amongst polite company. Lady Valda, although dressed differently, is more one of them than she herself probably knows. Jaremy blinks and turns his eyes back to the joust. He must remain focused.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Mallister=10
< Crakehall: Great Success Mallister: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Crakehall=10
< Mallister: Great Success Crakehall: Great Success
< Net Result: Mallister wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Mallister=10
< Crakehall: Great Success Mallister: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Mallister=10 Vs Crakehall=10
< Mallister: Good Success Crakehall: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
"Crakehall thinks he can get Ser Jason off-balance after how that last go went," Jarod says to Lucienne, decidedly less jolly about what might come of this. "That is stupid. You do not want to bait a man who's likely pissed off." He watches with no small amount of tension.
Josse has Frey's broken bones tied as tightly against the man's body as they're going to get with what they have to work with — and with the man's personal physician there, the septon is more than willing to let that man take over. He gets back up to his feet slowly, mud clinging to his robes where his knees were against the ground, and turns back around to skim the crowd for familiar faces.
There are few who would bet against Jaso Mallister after the display of his two previous tilts, but whether from the wearing down of repeated lance blows, or whether the Strongboar is simply that powerful, Lord Jason is having clear difficulties with the larger, fresher Crakehall. The lance work of both knights is superb, and it is no shame of Lord Jason's that after riding a nearly flawless pair of passes, he finally loses his seat to the Strongboar. Hitting the ground in good form after losing his saddle, Lord Jason rises smoothly and offers a respectful salute.
"The next to challenge is Ser Kevan Tierney!"
"Oh, I can't quite agree, my lord," Anneke says to the Prince of Pyke, grinning at the jest. "You see, truly talented women have a troublesome way of knowing their worth. They change things, and not everyone likes change." She looks up at the announcement of the next match, eyes searching out the black knight. "This should be interesting…"
Jaremy breathes in deeply, watching as the lists dissipate to five knights left. Gratefully, he still has one friend left in this joust, and it's the man beside him. Though, the shame is that on the other side of his victory lies Ser Kevan Tierney, his sworn knight, the Strongboard of Crakehall, Ser Andrey Charlton, and the Prince of Pyke's good friend…Ser Harras Harlaw. Strong obstacles indeed.
Would that Lady Valda know that she had just been compared to a Greyjoy by Jaremy Terrick, she might very well have some more words for the Young Lord. But as Josse stands to scan the crowd, Isolde is doing much the same. When her green eyes flicker over him, she lifts the hand from her skirts to wave at her side to him. A nod of her head offered to the Septon. Unfamiliar with the next Knight, Isolde tilts her head in order to study him and her gaze rests upon Jaremy a moment. A long breath released, she averts her gaze back to Josse.
Despite his apparent composure, Kevan's getting a little restless just standing around and waiting to be challenged, or in this case, for his turn to challenge. The lowborn knight seems to have a certain sense of showmanship under his cool exterior; when his name is called, he spurs his horse forward, doing a little turn in place before galloping hard down the line. He raises his lance, giving a long look up and down the line of shields… but anyone who heard the earlier exchanges among the knights in the line are likely unsurprised when the former hedge knight's lance rings loudly against the shield of Ser Harras Harlaw. A dangerous opponent, but then Kevan has too much pride not to follow his earlier words with actions. "Come, ironborn," the black knight calls to Harlaw, closing his visor as he moves to one end of the jousting lane.
"Cmon, Kevan…come on." Jaremy murmurs under his breath, glancing up and down the row of knights, finding few remaining. The tourney is drawing to a close, forcing him to grip the favor around his wrist in silence as he watches.
Jarod regains his casual good humor in a blink when Lord Mallister's joust doesn't end in particularly bloody fashion. Not that he cheers the Crakehall's victory, his prejudice still more than not with the Mallister men. He *does* cheer when Ser Kevan takes the field, making more use of those wolf-whistles and fist-pumps-to-air.
And yet… Lucienne startles as Ser Jason is unseated, and rolls her shoulders back uneasily. She clears her throat, and offers to Jarod, "He did well, despite." Brown eyes shift to seek his opinion, before moving down toward the next called; Ser Kevan. "And here he is," she murmurs, stark contrast to her bastard brother's cheering.
The Knight of Grey Garden chuckles again behind his faceplate as the hedge knight in back taps his scythes and peacocks shield. Repeating his "Hyah!" to spur the charger toward the opposite side of the lanes as Kevan, the Ironborn knight is visibly anticipating the coming clash, as the knights square up.
While other passes had left him bored, when Ser Harras is challenged, Rodrik Greyjoy's attention is fixed on the field. "change comes and goes with the tide, lady," he muses off handedly to Anneke. "Only a fool seeks to hold back the rising tide."
Anneke smiles at the hedge knight's choice. "Now there's a man with some courage," she says to Rodrik Greyjoy. "You would wager on your kinsman, though, I'm sure." She watches the lists, biting her bottom lip speculatively. "Interesting, indeed."
Josse nearly misses Isolde's wave to him, as two small children careen past his sandaled feet and nearly trip a woman coming the other way. The back of his hand rubs over his nose to cover his smirking, then lifts as he spots Isolde across the way. A small smile flashed to the noblewoman, then his attention goes to the charging about to occur, hands burying themselves for the moment inside his sleeves. Across the way, Jarod's enthusiastic cheering for Kevan makes the septon's blue eyes narrow — not in suspicion but pure curiosity at the man about to joust.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kevan=body+spears Vs Harras=9
< Kevan: Success Harras: Great Success
< Net Result: Harras wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Harras=9 Vs Kevan=body+animal Handling
< Harras: Great Success Kevan: Great Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kevan=body+spears Vs Harras=9
< Kevan: Good Success Harras: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Harras=9 Vs Kevan=body+animal Handling
< Harras: Good Success Kevan: Great Success
< Net Result: Kevan wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kevan=body+spears Vs Harras=9
< Kevan: Good Success Harras: Good Success
< Net Result: Kevan wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Harras=9 Vs Kevan=body+animal Handling
< Harras: Good Success Kevan: Great Success
< Net Result: Kevan wins - Marginal Victory
For all his scorn of the Ironborn, when Kevan and Harras dash together, the contest is more evenly matched than the attire of the two knights would indicate. Ser Harras looks to take the slight upper hand in a close first pass, as both knights break their lances in all three tilts. The third tilt, however, although Kevan Tierney sits solidly in the saddel the sheer size his horse lacks over the destrier of his opponent makes the hedge knight's mount nearly stumble.
His opponent, however, is knocked cleanly from his own saddle. On instinct as Harras Harlaw regains his feet, he draws the sword again, before pausing, and laughing toward the noble stand, "They probably won't let me use it this time, either?" the sword is sheathed again, and an armored fist raised toward Kevan.
On a cushion, under the canopy, Rodrik Greyjoy calls back to Ser Harras, "No, they won't!" with a chuckle stirring in his chest. Belatedly he comments to Anneke, "In a fight to the death, there are none but my uncle I would choose over Ser Harras. In this prety sport?" he goes on, indicating the pageantry of the joust. "Each pass is any man's to win."
"I bought him for us!" Jarod hollers, beaming as Ser Kevan bruises his way to victory against the Ironborn. With no small amount of pride. Like that was totally his doing. Or, if nothing else, vindication that the hedge knight wasn't a *bad* investment for the Terrick coffers.
When the Greyjoy Knight is defeated, Isolde can not help but clap and cheer, a faint bob to her head to Kevan as he stays astride his horse. A hand cups to the side of her mouth and she cheers out again for the besting of the Ironborn. "Well done Ser! Well done!" Three rounds again. The men were being brutal today. The Lady is offered a goblet by a servant who scurries up then to offer the rest to the Greyjoy contingent. She sips at her summerwine, smiling faintly as her eyes flicker to those that are left.
It's a damned fine match — one that likely has many holding their breath, Anneke among them. She gasps as the Ironborn man is unhorsed, her hand flying to her mouth, bright eyes wide. "Gods be good!" She laughs at Harras' question to the stands and applauds vigorously. "Well done, gentlemen!" she cries. Well, probably not so gentle. But men. And certainly well done.
"Next to challenge is Ser Jaremy Terrick!"
Cheering as Ser Kevan unhorses Ser Harras, Jaremy looks up and down the line. Bravery or strategy becomes his question. Either way, he would have to either face Ser Kevan or the Strongboar should he win the tourney, which leaves the question of strategy. Should he ride against one, he would have to ride against the victor against Ser Andrey Charlton. Whispering a prayer to the Seven, Jaremy raises an arm in salute to Ser Kevan as he heads towards the tower of painted crests. He clenches his teeth…and punches the shield of Ser Lyle "The Strongboar" of Crakehall.
What Ser Kevan may lack in fancy armor, he makes up for in sheer determination. Once, twice, three times he's hammered hard by the ironman's lance, but does not yield — which is one too many times for his unfortunate opponent. When Ser Harras hits the ground, Kevan wheels his horse about, flipping up the visor with a flushed, and rather self-satisfied, expression on his face. A fist is raised to the iron knight in a grudging gesture of respect before Kevan rides back to the line, offering a much more enthusiastic salute to Jaremy Tarrick. "Take him, my lord," he grunts to the young lord as he passes.
"HA!" comes the Strongboar's greeting. "Finally a bird with some claws!" The big cavalier spurs his destrier toward the opposite side of the lines raising his lance in salute to Jaremy's bravery, as the two knights square up, a fresh lance passed into Lyle Crakehall's gauntleted hand.
Josse's brows both shoot upwards as Harras is the one lying on the ground at the end of that match. Though the look is fleeting and is gone in a moment, replaced with a smile that curls up one side of his mouth. When Jaremy is the one now called up against Crakehill his hands come out from his sleeves and his arms fold instead, his thumb idly flicking against the 7-pointed crystal pendant hung round his neck.
"Well done," Lucienne voices through a smile that's surfaced, though whether it's to Ser Kevan or Ser Jarod at her side is unclear. She's clapping for the success, either way, having winced her way through the passes. The cry for the next to challenge stills her breath again, after a quick murmur of, "Come on, Jaremy." Instead of folding her hands, they ball fists atop her skirts.
Jaremy's choice for an opponent causes the Lady of Stonebridge to tense, the goblet in her hand lowering. A great deal of passing concern crosses her face as she watches him line up, that favor on his arm catching her eye. Her hand grips the goblet tighter and her lips move, a silent prayer to the Seven as she finds it hard to breathe. She whispers a litany, "Strike him well, Jaremy.." She encourages him below her breath. Isolde remains where she is, standing and glad of it as she grows anxious with every passing moment.
Jarod gets a laugh as Jaremy calls out Crakehall, wolf-whistling again. "That's bold, right there." He approves, of course, though he does wince some. "Well, about time Jaremy took a few hits. Only way you give them better." He cups his hands around his mouth like a loud-speaker and yells, "KNOCK HIM ON HIS ARSE, TERRICK!" After he's done fist-pumping again, he reaches over to clasp Lucienne's hand. Since this could maybe get kind of ugly.
The tension can be cut with a knife. Jaremy's favor dangles from his lance arm, carried on a prayer, as eveyrone knows by now what Jaremy is fighting for. First Jaremy unhorsed a Nayland, and now he pits revenge against the very LARGE man that unhorsed his liege lord. Jaremy has to bare his teeth beneath his visor to keep from shaking. His fingers clench around his lance. "ROOOST!" He calls out, spurring Orvus, his destrier, to charge.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Jaremy=body+spears Vs Crakehall=10
< Jaremy: Good Success Crakehall: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Jaremy=body+animal Handling
< Crakehall: Good Success Jaremy: Great Success
< Net Result: Jaremy wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Jaremy=body+spears Vs Crakehall=10
< Jaremy: Good Success Crakehall: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Jaremy=body+animal Handling
< Crakehall: Success Jaremy: Great Success
< Net Result: Jaremy wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Jaremy=body+spears Vs Crakehall=10
< Jaremy: Failure Crakehall: Great Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Jaremy=body+animal Handling
< Crakehall: Great Success Jaremy: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Solid Victory
The Strongboar is aptly named. The big, powerful knight in full plate, riding the heavy destrier bedecked in the browns of his house rides right through Ser Jaremy's lances. The Terrick knight's horsemanship is excellent, allowing his to weather repeated blows from Ser Lyle, but in the third pass- Jaremy's sixth of the day- he is overthrown.
There's a cloud of dust as Jeremy feels his back slam against the hard-packed dirt of the tourney grounds. In truth, it takes Jaremy a second to realize what has just happened. On his third round…he was defeated. His body aches of the repeated blows from the Strongboar's lance, and for a moment he simply lay there, breathing a cloud of dust upwards. Then…he turns, planting one gauntleted fist into the dirt beside him. Up from the ground he rises to pull off his helm, letting his sweaty hair hang as he lifts his fist, favor and all, in a salute to the rider that bested him. With but a single glance to the stands, he turns and strides to leave the field.
Her breath held for a moment of each pass, she cringes at some, but the young lord does well on his first several passes, yet neither fall. Isolde swallows and on the third, she is gripping the goblet even more tightly. The Lady tenses, the lance crack, shatter and unhorsed is the Young Lord. There is an unvocalized no and then worry spreads across her face. Deep lines press into her brow and she looks to Josse. SHe says, trying to stay as calm as possible. A heaviness enters her chest and she swallows, letting out a breath through her nose as her eyes fall a moment. Best not to make a scene, she stays where she is but she seems a little less invested in the tourney. Her head lifts a little, watching him stride from the field, She shifts, distantly moving to take up her original seat near the front with a Lady of Bracken.
The only reaction on the young septon's face is a tightening around the edges of his eyes, a slight lift of his chin. Josse watches the field, staying quite still until Jaremy gets to his feet on his own — his eyes flicker Isolde's way and then back to the defeated Terrick.
Lucienne is tense, and can't help but to squeeze Jarod's hand fiercely as she watches Jaremy, unblinking. That is, until he falls. She winces hard, fingers tightening on Jarod's grip, and emits a small 'oh' that is easy to confuse with a 'no'. Is he getting up? He's getting up. The breath that escapes her is far from relieved, though.
"Next to challenge is Ser Andrey Charlton!"
Anneke winces deeply as the Young Lord hits the earth, also waiting with bated breath for him to move. She sighs when he does, putting her hands together in solemn applause for a noble effort. She smiles faintly at the next name. "Ah, my unwitting champion. I shall have to find some way to thank him."
"Damn." After handling himself quite well through the first two tilts, Jaremy is roughly unhorsed on the third, and Kevan utters a mild oath as the young lord's armor clangs against the ground. His attention focuses back on the other knights as the next challenger is named, though, and Kevan turns his light blue eyes on Ser Andrey, waiting for the noble knight's choice.
Ser Andry- heedless of Anneke's gratitude- watches the tilt between Strongboar and Terrick without surpsise. Turning aside to Kevan, he voices, "Shall we give Ser Crakehall a moment to catch his breath, Ser?" Should the meaning be missed, he will still touch his lance to Kevan Tierney's shield, taking idle note of the previously unfamiliar hawk blazon, before making his way to the end of the lane.
"Three passes is as much as Lord Mallister managed against that one. Not bad at all," Jarod says to Lucienne, letting go of her hand and standing once it's clear Jaremy is not permanently plastered to the dirt. "I think I'll go make sure our fair lord brother hasn't bruised anything vital. Come along if you like. The entertainment's liable to not be near so interesting after this, so less importance of good seats. With Lord Mallister out, all smart money's on the Crakehall. I'll be interested to see where Ser Kevan ends up at the end of the day, however."
Kevan smirks, flashing his teeth at Ser Andrey. "As long as you fear not the prospect of being unhorsed by a baseborn, good ser," he returns to the other knight, before closing his black visor with a flourish and riding to the side opposite Ser Andrey. Accepting a lance from one of the pages, as Ser Kevan lacks a squire of his own, he stares down the lane at his opponent, steeling himself for the tilt.
The movement at the Terrick end of the platform catches Anneke's attention for a moment. She watches Jarod, smiling as she does, until the hedge knight takes the field once more. "Oh, my," she remarks at the pairing, grinning. "This should be good, as well. I hardly know who to back."
Rodrik Greyjoy idly regards the two knights as they line up. "Even in a game, I must go with the man who unhorsed Harras. I say the hedge knight in three passes.," the Prince of Pyke hazards, as he props up one boot on the railing.
Josse makes his way idly closer to Jaremy, giving the knight a surreptitious glance-over for odd limping or blood tracking behind him. Wouldn't do to have a Terrick suddenly collapse right off the field. He clears his throat to stifle a yawn, eyes lifting as Kevan prepares to go back out and do his jousting duty.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Kevan=body+spears Vs Charlton=8
< Kevan: Good Success Charlton: Great Success
< Net Result: Charlton wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Kevan=body+animal Handling
< Charlton: Amazing Success Kevan: Good Success
< Net Result: Charlton wins - Solid Victory
A series of small nods indicates that she feels similarly about Jaremy's efforts, and she allows Jarod his hand back so that they both can draw to a stand. "I think I will," agrees Lucienne easily, clearly pleased for the opportunity to step away from spectating the vicious sport. She smooths her hands over the skirts of her dress, and excuses herself from the rest of the Terricks politely to follow.
Andry charlton's choice of the easier match in the first round may have obscured the knight's still at the tilt. As Kevan Tierney- all in blacks and bold smiles- spurs into the charge, the Charlton knight leans through Kevan's broken lance, and lands a masterful blow of his own. There was nothing Tierney had done wrong, yet his opponent's looping lance knocks him squarely from the saddle in the opening pass.
So goes down the champion of the lowborn stock. Josse's half-smile and slight squinch of his right eye is, for a brief moment, rueful. The clapping and shouting around him in the common'er standing pits obscure any sounds his own hands make while giving a second or two obligatory applause for the victor.
For all his determination, and all his skill with the blade, Ser Kevan is far from Westeros' best jouster. He might have caught Ser Harras off guard, but Ser Andrey is a different matter. One moment, Kevan feels the heavy impact of lance upon shield, and the next, he's staring up into the sky with a sore back. Any apprehension that the lowborn knight might be wounded is put to rest briefly thereafter, however, when Kevan leaps to his feet amongst a storm of curses. His left hand is curled tightly around the pommel of the shortsword Thorn, but unlike Harras, he restrains himself from actually drawing steel. Offering a curt salute to the victor, Kevan retrieves his shield and stiffly makes his way off the jousting grounds.
Jarod offers Lucienne his arm as he heads down, though he's a somewhat wandering escort. Catching that look from Anneke, he cranes his neck to flash her a grin and wink. His eyes linger on the woman and less so on the path before him, and he bumps into a commoner man as he winds his way through the crowd. "Oh, pardons, goodman," he says, paying slightly more attention to navigating after that. He doesn't have the best view of the match between Kevan and Charlton, but he can't miss the outcome. Wince. "Field's getting thin now."
And then there were two. Neither of the surviving jousters are local to the area, although Andry Charlton- hailing from the far side of the Green Fork- is a Riverman. Strongboar replaces his helmet, Charlton is already armed and armored, and the two opponents line up to settle the day between them.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Charlton=8
< Crakehall: Good Success Charlton: Good Success
< Net Result: DRAW
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Crakehall=10
< Charlton: Success Crakehall: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Charlton=8
< Crakehall: Great Success Charlton: Failure
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Crushing Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Crakehall=10
< Charlton: Good Success Crakehall: Good Success
< Net Result: Charlton wins - Marginal Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Crakehall=10 Vs Charlton=8
< Crakehall: Great Success Charlton: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Solid Victory
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Charlton=8 Vs Crakehall=10
< Charlton: Success Crakehall: Good Success
< Net Result: Crakehall wins - Solid Victory
Anneke bites her bottom lip as Ser Kevan falls. "Alas," she sighs faintly. She applauds the victor — he who earlier saved her from a life of indenture on the Iron Islands — of course. Still. "It seems fortune is a fickle friend to us today, my lord," she says to the Prince of Pyke.
Rodrik Greyjoy comments aside to Anneke as the finalists line up, "Fortune is never fickle. It will always betray you, given the chance," the Ironman states with a smile.
Sers Andry and Lyle crash together, and after two passes- Ser Andry only barely managing to keep his horse in the second, the third tilt is enough to overthrow the Riverman, met by a great booming laugh from the Westerman. Raising the broken lance in salute, before tossing it aside, Strongboar guides his destrier toward the noble platform, unhinging his visor and drawing off jousting helm, as he stands in his stirrups to bow beofre the Ladies Tordane. "M'ladies!"
Lucienne will wander on Jarod's arm, stepping back as needed, giving quiet commentary where warranted, laughing at his jokes when nobody else does, smiling at the smallfolk he bowls over to soothe them, doing all those lovely sister things a good sister does. It's a shame, that about Ser Kevan, she agrees with a grave nod. Nothing for it, says her shrug.
The win holds nothing for her now and Isolde stands to the victor along with many others. A breathe is released and she forces a smile. Strongboar. She claps her hands and the stands are filled with calls and cheers for the victor while others are muted because of previous losses. The Lady of Stonebridge stands and her mother two. Valda speaks with a smile, "Well fought and well won, Ser Andry. To you, the jousting purse goes." There had been hope once, but now it is just a polite step forward as Isolde draws up a rose from the Tordane gardens. "For you my Lord, from our gardens. I do believe I owe you a kiss."
Jarod will manage to find his brother eventually, with his sister smoothing over any feelings he ruffles while somewhat bowling through the crowd. A glance is cast back at Anneke of Old Stones, but whatever's he's thinking in that direction shall wait for another time.
"Finest prize in the West, lady," Strongboar boasts back, his bearded face flushed as he tugs off a gauntlet, tossing it aside (a squire will get it later), to accept the offered flower, before smiling broadly at the promised kiss.
"Well won, Ser." Isolde steps to the edge of the pavilion and gves the rose over. Once the flower is taken, the Lady presses a hand to the railing. Leaning over it, she tilts her head to offer a kiss for his cheek. Her weight balanced there, as she means to keep the gift simple and plain.
