Sour Apple
Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
Predictably you do not have long to wait until the ill favored Ser Alfryd finds you, still in the company of Ser Leygood and a few other knights of lesser Houses, though Lord Ashford himself had departed, perhaps either to seek answers from the fey, a drink to dull his frustrations or both.
"Still licking the scraps of your betters are you?" the knight practically hisses in rage. "Trying to find someone who'll pay you better to kiss their asses than a ragged hedge knight?"
"That's a mighty strong shade of red you've turned," you point out with mock-gravity. "I wonder if that means you've finally matured enough to put up a fight or if thine callow words mark you unripe?"
"A fight?" he sneers. "What do you know of fights you sniveling little shit. I should have you beaten for your impudence and tossed out on your ear or else put in the stocks so you can finally put on a show worth seeing."
"As it happens, someone did put down my name for the melee, doubtless as a jest, but if you would cross blades with me while I record good Ser Geralt's deeds I would welcome the... diversion," you proclaim before sweeping away into the crowds. You would have liked to taunt him more, but the look on Ser Richard's face makes you worry the idiot might find himself missing half his teeth if the confrontation continues any longer.
From the sounds of it the fool's friends manage to restrain him before he can follow you, though you can feel his murderous look burning in the back of your neck. No doubt he is consoling himself with fond images of the melee to come. Alas for him they will not last long in the harsh light of reality.
***
The melee of Ashford does not resemble the structured fighting of the Circle of Battle and not without cause. The knights and squires gathered around the field weapons and shields in hand are doing more than competing for gold and glory, they are preparing for battle. You wonder how many of them realize it is the sort of battle that is ever more unlikely to be fought in this age of sorcery and skirmishes in the sky as the legions prepare to march across the face of Westeros.
You shake off the thought. Buttercup the bard would not be pondering the changing nature of war.
"So do you think I should compete?" Dany asks silently, glancing over the assembled growing crowd of warriors with a considering eye. "I look almost old enough to be a squire, right?"
"You look old enough to be a page, barely," you counter.
"I realize we haven't been very circumspect today, but having you trounce half the knights in attendance is a step too far even so."
"You're no fun..." she begins pouting. The thought cuts off as something behind draws her attention. "Is that Randyl Tarly? I didn't know he was even here, much less that he was on the list for the melee."
"Trying to forge connections in these trying times, I imagine," you can feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Somehow I do not think he will enjoy my company or jests." The idea of trouncing the Lord of Horn Hill does not have the same appeal as the idiot you humiliated earlier, but recalling Samwell accounts of his father you can't say you'd regret the chance to meet him out on the field.
You notice a few more notable shields among the knights preparing for the melee, you see the seals of Blackbar, Costayne, Merryweather and Rowan. All but the last are reasonably removed from the succession, uncles and cousins, but the Rowan heir is upon the field this day. Before you can ponder the matter any deeper, the horns sound clear and sharp over the din of the field. The time had come to face the melee.
"Good luck Ser," you call to Ser Richard. "I hope you will not sweep me from the field ere I can attest to your deeds."
"Good fortune be with you," the knight replies, the briefest smile flashing upon his lips for he knows as well as you do that fortune has little to do with your success upon the field this day, not with all the spells you you have woven unseen but not unfelt around you.
"A melee?" Dark Sister sounds amused as you draw her, though not displeased. She tastes the air with senses beyond flesh a wave of anticipation singing though you as your own.
"I know this place, I know this dance well indeed."
To his credit Alfryd Fossoway finds you quickly once again, thinking to avenge himself upon the singer covered in naught but light chain, before moving on to more difficult fare. "No one to hide behind now, little weasel!" He shouts as his sword comes sweeping down left to right in a blow that might have taken your arm at the shoulder... if it was there, at least.
Twisting aside you call: "Come now Ser, no one likes a sour apple." Seeing as he has overextended himself that badly, you may as well take advantage of it. Dark Sister presses his blade further along its path until it is buried in the dirt, then you sweep it out to cut a thin line of blood along his cheek. "You should not worry so about your loss, I've heard told that many men fail to perform the first time with a woman!"
The last taunt sets a Blackbar knight close at hand laughing so hard he ends up disarmed by Lord Ashford, not that anger seems to improve your opponent's blade form any.
He probably shouldn't be trying to decapitate you either. Ser Richard might notice and take it amiss.
"Tsk, Tsk... Still
wormed by today's events I see," you call out, earning a sort of mental grating from Dark Sister you only later realize is a groan.
"You're definitely his kin." The flash of a smiling silver haired man in your mind makes you pause and it takes you only a moment to realize it's prince Daemon. You are not sure if you aught to be insulted or offended.
Ser Alfryd attempts to toss dust in your eyes, though without any more luck and in one more clang of steel against steel you twist the blade out of his hand. "I've got you over a barrel now Ser!" you laugh "Yield, there will be chances
apple-nty after this!"
Perhaps you shouldn't have ended on a pun, you think as the enraged knight charges you as though to grapple you to the ground. With strength born of sorcery and skill half dreamed, half drilled by Ser Richard's sparring, you strike him about the head with the flat of the blade, once, twice, thrice, until he collapses in the dirt.
You have certainly made Buttercup's reputation today and from the looks of things Ser Richard is well on his way to winning the melee, having already dispatched three fey knights and currently fighting his way to Lord Tarly.
What do you do next?
[] Earn a few more victories for Buttercup
[] Stay close to Ser Richard to watch his progress, only engaging anyone who gets close
[] Fight a particular opponent
-[] Write in
OOC: I couldn't work in all the puns, but hopefully the ones I did flow well enough. Like I said I'm not very experienced with them. Not yet edited.
