Off-Season Event: Reaching

[Aerion Storm]

"We are on hostile ground, nephew.  Every bit as much as riding patrols in the Marches.  Mind yourself, we are among enemies and rivals here.  I am counting on you."

Grassy Vale certainly didn't look like hostile ground, nor near as dangerous as riding the border and searching for Dornish reavers.  The Reach never looked as dangerous as it was, though, in Aerion's experience;  gentle rolling hills, fields of green and gold as far as the eye could see, beautiful women, pretty men, gilded armor, silken ribbons.  It was always gorgeous, but hid threats.  The hills and fields were home to some of the finest-bred chargers in the kingdom, the women were distractions, the men were fine riders, the armor was still sturdy, and the ribbons were tied to strong, straight, lances.  

To a knight with Ser Harbert's renown -- and to the senior squire in his retinue -- the Reach was a war zone.  Grassfield Keep was to be their battle site, the tourney to celebrate Lord Meadows' second son was to be where armies clashed.  'Armies' being subjective, of course.  There would be preliminary skirmishes, as in other, larger, bloodier, wars.  There would be riding contests, there would be archery contests and melees.  But then the forces would truly clash;  the joust and the feast afterwards.  

"Aye, the feast," the Baratheon knight glared at all of his squires, Aerion included.  "It is a contest, as well, not merely the prize.  Don't busy yourself only with wine, pastries, and blushing maids, my lads.  The feast is a fight, same as any other.  Keep your wits about you.  Shield yourself with courtesy, arm yourself with your wits, and give as good as you get."

Aerion Storm had his work cut out for him.  Ser Harbert would not weary his horse or distract himself with the ride itself, nor risk injury in the melee -- knights such as he did not need to -- so he sent Storm in his place.  The Baratheon gold must still be seen on the field at such events, and if it was not Ser Harbert that would bear it, by the Seven, it would be his squire.  

On the first day, Aerion and his rounsey, Argella, did fine work slicing through the equestrian course.  They rounded the flower-draped posts, vaulted low rows of rose bushes grown just for the event, leapt over the narrow moat of wine -- wine, not water, a cheap Dornish red imported simply to be smugly poured into the ground -- without trouble.  Aerion and Argella put on a fine show, as they always did, and Ser Harbert rewarded his squire with a nod when he was done.

The melee came on the second day, and was a messier affair.  

"Use this, lad," Ser Harbert handed over his own old tourney sword with a sly smile.  It was a prettier thing that Aerion's broader blade, a Baratheon-blazoned longsword with hints of gold, and a crossguard fashioned to look like a stag's mighty horns.  Lighter and faster than Aerion's -- and far less likely to maim or kill than the bastard's usual blade -- he wielded it well and acquitted himself honorably enough.  It was an exhausting affair, as melees always were, that left him with bruises, cuts, mood and blood in his hair, in his boots, in his breeches, somehow, even...but he emerged, gilded Baratheon blade in hand. Bathing was easy. Honor was hard.

Dawn of the third day brought the true contests, though.  The glorious ones.  The ones that mattered the most, both to Reachmen and Storm Lords.  

While junior squires saw to Ser Harbert, strapping and buckling his armor and doing the same to his proud white destrier, Aerion saw to the tournament itself.  He watched the jousters, learn who had improved since their last tilt, watched for who had a new horse with a bit too much spirit, or a bit too little.  He saw who was nursing old wounds, or who gained fresh ones due to hard hits or unlucky falls.  He watched who couched their lance the smoothest, who flinched just before impact, who was riding too high and risking their balance to give a harder hit.  He watched, and he learned, and he reported back to Ser Harbert.  Aerion and his proud little rounsey raced through the fields of tourney tents as nimbly as they had the equestrian course days earlier, scouting and reporting, racing to bear witness then rushing to speak to his lord knight.  The information bore fruit as sweet and ripe as any peach or plum, and Ser Harbert was able to strike opponent after opponent square on the shield, while angling their own away;  blasting them from their saddle easily, keeping to his, and adding to his legend as a knight of renown.

The tilts continued for several days, but at the end of the tourney's seventh day -- one day for each of the true, new, gods -- came the last, and perhaps most dangerous, challenge of the tournament...and the one Aerion felt the least certain about.  

Grand feasts and grand melees were different only in how overt the violence.

Aerion went into it feeling naked without his armor, clad in rich velvets instead of his reassuring steel.  He felt helpless with only cutlery, no sword in his hand.  He felt slow on his own clumsily dancing feet, not sitting astride trusty Argella.  

He should not have worried so.

Dutiful as ever, and with his new beard found to be quite fetching by several blushing maidens, Aerion Storm proved every bit as apt in the feast hall as he had been slogging in the mud or leaping moats of sour Dornish wine.  The bastard deflected insults from jealous squires and jabbed back at their own liege lords, flirted with second and third-born daughters where offense was less likely, feigned humility over his performance with horse and sword. He was something of a darling to these juniors, the elder squires and hopeful pages, the maidens who matched them in age.  Aerion minded his manners, smiled more than he felt, drank less than he wished, and served his sworn lord better than he had hoped to.

Riding out on the eighth day -- every man, woman, and child nursing a hangover -- oversaw the rest of the retinue's preparations.  He cleaned and oiled the Baratheon melee blade, handed it back, and was gifted with another appreciative nod.

"Any day now, lad," Ser Harbert reassured him, speaking -- as always -- of the spurs that Aerion so wanted.  "You keep this up, and it will be any day now."

Animal Handling, diff 9: 5d6 23 [3 DoS]
Fighting, diff 9: 6d6k5 15
Fighting reroll, Blood of Andals (rerolling 1): 1d6 4 [18 after reroll, 2 DoS]

Status (Tourneys), diff 9: 6d6k3 15 [So 17 after using +2, 2 DoS]
Persuade(Charm), diff 9: 4d6k3 16 [19 after the +3, 3 DoS]

[So 5 DoS of goodies to buy, taking it to PMs or private threads to figure out what fabulous prizes Aerion will try and take home from this.]