A Squire's Joust

Maybe this time, Aerion Storm tells himself, trotting out on his trusty, mud-brown, rounsey.  Maybe this time 'Uncle' Harbert will call it good enough.

The bastard was wearing his heaviest mail with a sturdy breastplate over the top of it, a Baratheon-yellow surcoat over that, Ser Harbert's colors.  Ser Harbert's lances.  Ser Harbert's horse, and shoes, and sword, and shield.  Everything Storm had, had come from Ser Harbert;  including, however, his training in how to use all of it.

He just needed the damned spurs, now.  From Ser Harbert, or whoever the man would ask to knight Aerion in his stead;  any knight can make a knight, yet none had yet done so to Aerion.  

The helmet narrowed his field of view, but his focus did most of that work, not just the thin view-slit.  The other squire looked burly enough (Though smaller than me), and his horse seemed sleek and fine (He sits worse than I), and he had a fine, straight, lance (He couches it sloppily, though.  Hmmph).  Just another squire to knock in the mud.  Just another one to try and look fine against, another try to impress Ser Harbert, to do whatever it was it would take to be a knight, to show Ser Harbert whatever he was missing.  "Any day now," the knight always said.

Maybe this time.

[As with my other "back-fill" combat thread, this is also me learning/experimenting/discovering how much or little of the rules I really understand.  Shooting my maneuver to Reader, as I believe is forum norm.]

PR: 20
Health: 9/9
AR: 5
Tourney Lance Base Damage: 9

Joust!: 10d6k4+1 23
Stay In Saddle, If I'm Hit: 5d6+3 18

Placeholder.

Josef Frey was on the cusp of knighthood, that much was true. But he not yet quite a knight and several years Aerion's junior.

Nonetheless, the sandy haired squire raised his lance in salute before kicking his mount in to a charge, eyes fixed on his foe.

Sadly, his bravery is not matched by his skill, and the reckless young man topples from his mount.

Willum Royce, an athletic young squire reputed to be an excellent swordsman for his age and a competent tilter, shakes his head from the sidelines at the mismatch.

PR: 9
Health: 9/9
AR: 7
Eyes Fixed: 6d6k3+1 10 - Defeated by damage before reaching the stay in saddle roll.
[OOC: victory chooses consequences, including potential loss of an eye due to "Eyes fixed]

Aerion finishes his ride, slowing, then reining up, at the far end of the line. He wheels his mount, rounsey high-stepping as it turns quite tightly, and casts a long look at the younger squire as he staggers to his feet. Casting aside his shattered lance, Storm lifts his visor for a better look, then his gauntleted hand in a wave to the Frey.

"Well ridden, lad," Aerion guides his mare towards him, slowly. He stops near the center to talk to the boy, and to offer him an easy smile. "But mind your visor next time, aye? A man can wreck his face to a wayward shard, if he's not careful. Tilt your head just a bit before impact, there's no shame in keeping both eyes to serve with."

And then he's gone, trotting off back to his end of the line to recover his things and wait for the rolls to be updated.

ooc:

Countless foes come and go, but in truth few can stand before Aerion that day. He lacks the rank and experience to face the likes of Ser Bryndon Hightower and Ser Jon Roxton, even if he is near the equal with a lance.

As the day draws to a close quite a crowd has gathered, with onlookers rushing to observe this prodigy.

All that stands between him and victory is Willum Royce, the heir to Runestone.

He bears the bronze and black shield of his House competently, despite giving up several years to Aerion. He dips his lance in salute before kicking his mount in to a charge. He adopts a bold approach, standing high in his stirrups, perhaps hoping for a single decisive blow rather than a futile war of attrition against a superior foe.

PR: 12
Health: 9/9
AR: 10
Stance: High in the Saddle +2

Joust (defensive again, PR 22): 10d6k4+1 22
Fighting reroll, Blood of Andals (rerolling 1): 1d6 6
(err, rerolling a 2, not a 1, sorry;  either way, 6 5 5 5 becomes 6 6 5 5, for a 23 total to hit, 3 DoS vs. his Passive Ride)

Stay In Saddle, If I'm Hit: 5d6+3 21

High in the Saddle: 7d6k3+3 14
stay in the saddle: 3d6-2 8 - takes wounds to reduce damage from the lance hit, injuries to reduce the fall's impact to avoid Defeat.

Not even Willum, the pick of the other squires present, can stand before Aerion. The brave young man staggers to his feet, the crowd cheering at his fortitude as he bows to his conqueror despite what Maester Medrick will later determine is a cracked rib. The smallfolk and nobles alike cheer even louder for the bastard, murmurs spreading that Ser Harbert had found a worthy heir outside his own blood.

Aerion's visor snaps up again, a broad smile splitting his new beard -- without malice, just joy at a contest well-won -- as he turns to salute the young Royce with the remnants of his lance.

"Well fought, Willum!" He trots over and reaches down to offer the other squire a hand; up, if he'll take it, to help him make the long walk to someplace to sit...a friendly smack on the plate-mailed shoulder, if not.

"I don't doubt you'll best me next time." There's no sarcasm there, no mockery. He knows he's good, maybe even great, but he knows there are better, and knows any given tilt can surprise.

If there is a next time, Warrior, I pray, let it be as knights. He tries not to let the bitterness creep in, he does his level best to enjoy the smallfolk's cheer, to savor his victory, to make the most of the nobles' praise. He doesn't want to be a bully, battering smaller squires into submission, picking on them like so many of them did the pages; he wanted his spurs for many reasons, and this was one of them.

He casts a look towards the Baratheon livery on display there, where his uncle roars and cheers with the rest of them.

Maybe this time.

"Well fought to you as well, it will not be long before men call you Ser," offers Willum without rancour, and with an heir's misplaced confidence that merit will swiftly be rewarded with spurs. He winces as he takes Aerion's hand however, and clutches at his side.

Ser Harbert applauds, but Aerion is back to scouring mail the next day, with Ser Harbert praising his performance "You have not fallen short of your potential, too many men do so". No mention is made of knighthood or vigils in septs - poorer men have been knighted for lesser deeds, that much is true. But those are poorer men with better names. With family names.

But Ser Harbert is no sadist. Two days hence he speaks up as he rides alongside his squire.

"Your knighthood will come in time, and when it comes, it must be on the back of deeds that blot out your father's appetites. I will not see you diminished by a knighthood won knocking green boys off draft horses."

How can I be made to account for my father's appetites, when none even know who the man is or was? He wants to ask it, wants to shout it, but daren't.

"Aye, milord," he says instead, tiredly. Resignedly. He hopes, prays, that his patience will be rewarded. His dutiful obedience. His understanding. He prays that it's not the Warrior's cruel jest at him, that it's not some outburst of temper -- Ours Is The Fury -- that they're waiting for, that they're expecting from him, that will mark him a man and a knight. The gods could not be so mean, he hoped. Not so mean as men, to set up so impossible a test, demanding loyalty and ferocity was already difficult, requiring insubordination as well would be unreal.

"I'll do what's needed, and do it well, Ser."

"Though that last horse, Royce's ride, was a fine little rounsey," he says with a hint of a smile. He tried to accept his lot, and good humor, he hoped, would go a long way towards improving that lot. Though the smile is for his lord knight, there is warmth in his voice as he gives his old brown mare a gentle pat, "Though not so fine as mine."

"Some men do not name their horses, for fear of grief should one pass."

"Such a stance sounds stoic and hardy, but is the opposite. A brave man accepts the possibility of loss and weathers like Storm's end itself."

"Best to form a bond. A horse is as much a weapon as an axe or lance, and one you utilise than knights with twice your experience. You should always name your mount, and have the heart to see her fall and the will to bear the loss."

"Argella," he says, almost immediately. He's had her named for ages, then, and just never been asked. Ser Harbert knows the boy can't lie for shit, and also doubts he'd be so quick to think up a name out of the blue. Still, the name perhaps isn't the greatest surprise. Aerion's always had a soft spot for the stories about Orys Baratheon.

"I, ah, I think I'll call her Argella, Ser, if you're sure naming her is the right thing to do."

[OOC: /scene, as we abandon the rest of Dragon's Dance for a Dunk & Egg precursor or Western pastiche, with Aerion and his mentor travelling Westeros].