Trial By CombatIndex | HomePage | GameLogs | HoldfastGameLogs | Trial By Combat With only the barest touches of his heels, the horse under Evan responded, charging to the fray. It had obviously done this before, which was more than could be said of its rider. The point of the lance wobbled up and down with every stride, and Evan struggled to get a steady look out of his visor, knowing full well he was never going to be able to put the lance anywhere near the Hardy crest blazoned on Ser Godfrey's shield. A joust was, for good reason, the greatest display of a mounted knight's skill at horsemanship and arms. It was a formal, technical duel, one where a combatant had to marry the strength and speed of his mount with the precision of his arm, to strike a small, moving target with the point of a lance over twelve feet long, while keeping his seat against blows of bone-crushing force. The balance, precision, and timing needed were exacting and unforgiving, and now that he was in the moment, as it were, Evan marveled not only that knights were able to do this again and again, but able to hit anyone at all doing this. It was all he could do just to keep the point of the lance forward, much less keep his balance and strike true with it. This was the highest test of martial and chivalric skill, and in this most testing moment, he knew he was going to be found sorely wanting. A joust was, however, only a superb display of horsemanship and valour; it was not, all things considered, a good way to kill a man. That was what the trial by combat required. And that, Evan knew he could do. He was surprised at how quickly the horses closed with each other, despite the huge distance apart they had started, and as Ser Godfrey approached, he gave up any pretense of trying to strike and instead hunched low in the saddle, under his shield. Ser Godfrey's lance powered home, glancing off the shield at the angle he held it, and though the lance exploded in a shower of splinters, rocking him to his bones, Evan gripped the saddle for all he was worth and hung on, using his arms where he could, anything to stay mounted. The horses passed each other at full gallop, and Evan let out a sigh of relief through clenched teeth to find he went with them, lifting himself carefully as they rounded the end of the lists to try again. There was a brief pause while Ser Godfrey took another lance, this time from Garyn, and ragged laughter rose from the crowd. Evan knew how comical he must have looked, missing his opponent by several feet, while folding up like a hedgehog in a desperate attempt to stay seated. That didn't matter, he told himself, but even his horse turned its head briefly, glaring at him with one yellow eye. "Don't you start," he muttered savagely, and spurred it forward. At the far end of the lists, Ser Godfrey lowered his lance precisely and charged, his every movement textbook perfection. This time, however, Evan was ready. He found himself hunching down again behind his shield, his body recoiling in the face of another massive impact, but that was okay. He had no idea of correct jousting posture, so no point in trying it. He relaxed, focusing on what he did know about a fight. Breathe deep, breathe even, and when in doubt, strike the nearest target. That wasn't so hard. That, he could do. Ser Godfrey's eyes widened behind his visor at this sudden, unexpected tactic, unseen on any tournament lists, but at the speed they were both moving, it was impossible to avoid. Evan's lance, aimed at the closest target, struck home first, and he wasn't sure which was the worse sound; the sickening crunch of the lance crashing into its target, or the scream of the horse that followed it. Evan's lance had hit around the base of its throat, splintering and driving through skin and cartilage in a mortal wound. Other splinters shredded the horse's neck and chest, turning it into a thick mat of wood and gore, and its legs went out from under it as it drove into the dusty earth of the tourney field. Evan tossed the broken remains of the lance aside as he thundered past, unscathed; Ser Godfrey's weakened blow was almost an afterthought, and easily shrugged off. He turned the horse at speed, hefting the mace from his belt, and ignoring the dismayed cries of the crowd as he charged again. Ser Godfrey had leapt free in an amazing display of skill as the horse was cut out from under him; a lesser man may have broken his leg or worse, but Ser Godfrey had managed to get clear and was even now struggling to his feet under the weight of his armour. He righted his helm quickly and went for his blade, reseating his shield in the process. At this point in an ordinary joust, his opponent would dismount to continue the battle on foot - a further test of skill at arms. Evan knew better, and he also knew better than to try to pass by his opponent and allow Ser Godfrey a chance to grapple or cut at him as he rode by. Evan urged his horse on, and in a flurry of limbs, hooves and steel, rode his opponent down, trampling him into the bloody tourney field to join his fallen horse. There followed a terrible hush, as a pall fell over the assembly. The only sounds were the last wheezing breaths of the fallen horse, whickering its last as it choked on its own blood, and the groan of twisted metal as Ser Godfrey tried to rise again. His shield had snapped in two under the impact, and his armour was bent and broken around him, but he was alive, and managed to push himself to his hands and knees, shaking his head to try and clear it. With agonizing slowness, he reached for his sword, before slumping face down again, clearly stunned and hurt. In the stands, Syndra began to tremble. It was occuring exactly as she had feared. Her father had fallen to a dishonorable blow. The rest occurred in slow motion, but all she could do was say "no no no" under her breath, as if willing the inevitable not to happen. Rhys stood. He looked at Syndra, wanting to tell her that everything was going to be fine, that her father would survive this, but he wasn't convinced of that himself and he wouldn't lie to her. He swung his satchel over his shoulder and stepped down to the edge of the field, pointedly not looking at Lady Celia in case she decided she wanted him back in the stands, and waited for the moment when he'd be allowed to attend to the injured. At a walk now, Evan turned his horse in the middle of the tourney field and slowly approached his fallen opponent. He wasn't sure if he was wounded - the adrenaline of combat had taken over, and the tang of blood was thick in the air. There would be time to find out later if any of it was his. It was obvious the battle was over, from this part at least, but he lifted his head and stared defiantly at the noble's section and Ser Godfrey's corner as he advanced, fully expecting that someone would try to intervene in what was supposed to be a single combat. Evan struggled to breathe evenly, despite the pounding of his heart. The combat was over - would he now get to leave? He tightened his grip on his mace as Ser Godfrey rolled over painfully, and set his jaw grimly. This was a trial by combat, and by the law, trials by combat ended only one way. Syndra screamed, a wild, feral cry, and bolted toward the field. With surprising, adrenaline-fueled strength, she shoved aside anyone that stood in her way. And considering that a shiny stiletto had suddenly appeared in her hand, only those who were not faint of heart were likely to try to stop her. Close as he was to her and knowing her better than he did himself, Corryn moved between Syndra and the field the instant the cry escaped her lips. However, the pure violence of her reaction surprised even him; much to his detriment. Five inches of steel in the gut could kill a man. Corryn had taught Syndra that. Maybe he remembered it instinctively. Maybe it was pure, dumb luck for a change. Either way, the blade sank into the meat of his forearm rather than his belly. He howled as the point skipped off the bone and exited the back of the limb. His free hand clasped for her beating fist. It was like trying to grasp a lamprey and equally as dangerous considering her nails. Fortunately, with her weapon temporarily sheathed in his flesh, Syndra had been delayed long enough for Rhys to reach them. Rhys turned and made a grab for her as she passed by, stiletto notwithstanding. "Syndra, no!" he cried. "Hold her, damnit," Corryn hissed. Scarlet blossomed beneath his tunic as the blade slid out of him. He pushed Syndra back forcibly into Rhys' arms, praying the young maester could react quickly enough to stop her before she recovered. If not, the Riverwolf would probably be buried beside his friend today. Rhys reached around Syndra and pulled her tight against him, trying to pin her arms to her sides. "Hold fast," he whispered into her ear. Rhys was close enough and Corryn had shoved hard enough that the wind was knocked out of Syndra when her back smashed flat into Rhys's chest. Her flailing subsided just long enough for Rhys to gain the upper hand. Corryn turned and ran toward the field's edge, screaming at Godfrey, "Yield, damn you! It's over. Yield!" Syndra continued to slash with the knife, but her blows were ineffective as Rhys had her arms pinned tightly at the elbows. The skirt of her dress was ripped and bloody at the limits of her reach from where she tried to lash out at her captor. She kicked and stomped, bruising Rhys's shins and toes, but still he held her in a crushing bear hug from behind. "Lemme go! LET ME GO!" she screeched over and over, her face drenched with tears and her voice raw. Godwyn stood unmoving, his face cold and hard as he watched Evan approach his fallen uncle. His hand touched his sword hilt, and his lips moved silently, but he took no step towards the fight, made no move to draw. His focus had narrowed, and he no longer seemed aware of anything save the drama occurring in front of him. Alone in the middle of the field, Evan slowed the horse to a stop, watching the commotion in the stands for a moment. Some among the commonfolk had found their voice, and various incoherences drifted to him, but Evan paid especial attention to where Ser Corryn was standing, shouting at the top of his lungs. And to where Ser Herys Bolton sat, his face scarlet and apoplectic with rage. Evan bent low in the saddle, leaning over the fallen Ser Godfrey. He sat there, unmoving, for what must have seemed like an eternity, before bending a little lower again, cocking his head. Finally, he rose and sat tall in the saddle, and lifted his visor, fixing Lady Celia with a cool gaze. "He says he yields," Evan pronounced in a clear voice. "Is this acceptable to the court?" Corryn only heard the first part of Evan's pronouncement before he was over the fence and rushing to his friend's aid. He half collapsed to his knees beside the fallen man. Gingerly, he removed Godfrey's helm, supporting the man's neck. By now his own wound had begun to bleed profusely, but it hardly showed against the crimson landscape of the field, already soaking into his clothes. He glanced up at Evan his eyes narrowing, but then returned his full attention to his friend. Godfrey's eyes opened - and Corryn saw the anger there. He stared up at Corryn and tried to struggle free of his hold - but it was clear that this was nearly beyond his strength - or perhaps someything had been broken ... Distantly, Corryn could hear Syndra screaming. But for now the only sound important to him was his friend's breathing. It was ragged, but present. He glanced up and yelled, "The trial is over." Even from across the field, the court could see the warning on Corryn's face, hear the resolve in his voice. Lady Celia had risen to her feet, her face pale as she stared over the field. Ser Herys had risen too and, in contrast, his face was a dull angry red as he glowered at his victorious disowned son. Rhys let go of Syndra and stepped back in case she was still trying to strike at him. A number of things to say to her crossed his mind, but he stayed silent. He rubbed his shins while he waited for her to run to Godfrey so he could follow behind—he didn't want to get between her and her father again. Godwyn shook his head in annoyance at everyone running out onto the field. And then his eyes narrowed, and he turned and walked off the field of combat, towards his father's wife and Herys Bolton. He could see Ser Herys jaw working furiously as though the man was unable to contain his rage. He grabbed at Lady Celia's sleeve, and Godwyn clearly saw the shock on her face; this was clearly no polite gesture from a guest - he had grabbed his hostess with sufficient force to hurt her. Godwyn began to run, his face showing anger. Whatever he thought of Lady Celia, no one manhandled the wife of a Hardy. As soon as Rhys released her, Syndra ran out onto the field without a backwards glance. She skidded into the dirt on the other side of her father from Corryn. Only then did she seem to see the bloody knife in her hand and her torn, blood-stained skirt. Trembling uncontrollably, she dropped the knife into the dirt in front of her and reached out to touch Godfrey's hair. "I'm here, Papa. I'm here. You stay with me. Hold fast, Papa. Hold fast," she whispered, again and again, as if talking to him would keep him from slipping away. Godfrey turned his head slightly and tried to smile, but even this slight gesture made him wince with pain. Rhys jogged out toward Ser Godfrey behind her, pausing a few feet away to look at Tamm. Setting personal considerations aside, Tamm wasn't visibly bleeding and he was alert and still sitting up on his horse, so Rhys turned his attention to Godfrey—and saw all the blood on Corryn's arm. Frowning mightily, Rhys reached into his satchel and pulled out a length of bandage and handed it to Corryn. "Bind that around your arm and I'll look at it in a moment. Syndra..." When she didn't respond, still whispering to her father, Rhys raised his voice to get her attention. "Syndra! Help Corryn bind up his arm. I will look after your father, but I need you to go help Ser Corryn!" he said, wanting to get her away from Godfrey while he examined him. But before Syndra could reply, a voice rang out. Lady Celia. "The challenge is ov ... " Her voice cut out in a muffled cry. Godwyn could see how Ser Herys had clamped a broad hand over her mouth, stifling her. "Get him!" he roared - and he threw Lady Hardy aside as though she had been no more than a rag doll. Edlyn, clearly ignoring the pain it caused her ankle, dived forward from her seat towards her mother. But Ser Herys was pointing now - to the mounted Evan Tamm. "Get him!" he roared again. "Kill him ... Kill! Kill!" The Bolton troops, around the field, looked at each other in shock - and then began to run forward, drawing their weapons. And Godwyn howled, his voice a mixture of anger and triumph. "Kill them! " He shouted. "Kill the Boltons! Oathbreakers and traitors!" He drew his sword and charged for Herys. Syndra had started to rise once Rhys got her attention, but the fast-breaking events froze her in her tracks. Her eyes widened in fear, but a different sort than before. This was the look of a green young soldier in the midst of his first battle. She was a Hardy and Holdfast was under attack. She snatched her knife up in her left hand and her father's fallen sword in her right and planted herself squarely in front of her crippled father and the maester who would help him. Gazing around at the encroaching Boltons, she shouted to Evan, "We're done with you, Tamm, but they're not. It's your choice." She looked him in the eyes as she stood ready for battle, clearly preparing herself for the worst. Atop his mount, Evan fixed Ser Herys with an arch expression, and his lip curled a little in a look of profound disappointment. Calmly, he glanced across the approaching men in Bolton livery. Too many winters, or too few - drunkards, callow striplings, and desperate old fools all. Several of them were already looking apprehensively at the restive Holdfast crowd and obviously wishing they were anywhere but here, but Ser Herys was not a man to be questioned, and his wrath spurred them forward. Evan looked down then, at the cluster over Ser Godfrey, and his lips twisted in a dry smile. "Planning on defending me, Lady Syndra?" he drawled. "I'm touched. You shouldn't have." He regarded her combat crouch appraisingly, but made no other move, despite the chaos beginning to erupt around him as the Hardy soldiers responded to Godwyn's call to arms. "You know, that's a full-sized battle blade you have there. Look at you - you can barely get the point off the ground. These might be sad excuses for soldiers, but I guarantee you they can deal with a young girl in a skirt, even one playing with swords. Just what did you plan on doing with that?" Syndra defiantly ignored Evan's attempts to rattle her. Yes, the sword was heavy, but she'd trained enough with Godfrey, Godwyn and Corryn to know that she could indeed use it if she had to. They had all taught her a bit more than "stick him with the pointy end." Rhys stepped forward and glared at Tamm. "Did the Gods give you no sense? You're astride a horse," he growled at him. "In the name of the Seven leave now, before there's more bloodshed, you self-important ass." "Unless you plan on riding down a girl and a maester too," Syndra spat contemptuously. Evan Tamm could be cut down where he stood for all Corryn cared. Any man daft enough to play the fool during a melee had no use for his head. Let the Boltons have it and be done with this. But seeing Celia and Edlyn in peril, the Riverwolf sprang to his feet instinctively, drawing his sword and dirk. The pain in his arm had disappeared beneath a rush of adrenaline and cool rage. The only words he had were for Rhys. "Enough banter. Get Syndra out of here now!" Syndra's jaw set at Corryn's words, but she did not move. Corryn moved with feral speed toward the stands, meeting two of Herys' men midfield. Their quarrel may have been with Evan, but they were in Corryn's path. He used their confusion to his advantage, dispatching the first with his thrown blade before they could hardly react. The man went to his knees, clawing at the handle protruding from his throat futilely. Seeing his friend slain, the other Bolton leapt at Corryn and swung wildly. The Riverwolf let him come, appearing to feint, only to strike with ruthless precision. As his opponent's axe went up, his sword went down and across the back of the man's knee; effectively hamstringing him. An unscrupulous move, not worthy of a knight, but this was not a time for niceties. When the footman's leg collapsed under his weight, Corryn ended his misery with a swift strike across the back of his neck. Without further interruption, he continued on toward Herys. But he was not the first to reach him. Godwyn's impetuous charge had carried him forward even up the steps into the stand where Ser Herys had sat with Lady Celia (and Rhys and Edlyn). Ser Herys became aware of him almost at the last minute and turned to fight, drawing his own sword in turn ... But it was hard for him to turn in the narrow, confined space between the benches. He seemed to realise his danger for he took three quick steps backward, struggling to retain his balance. Godwyn knew that Herys was a better swordsman than he was, but he was also confident that he was stronger and tougher than the old man. He was determined to try to use the surprise of his attack to his advantage, and bull through the man's defences with pure muscle, making up for his lesser degree of training with ferocity and speed. So, it was pure attack, fueled by fury, almost completely ignoring defence, concentrating on killing Herys as quickly as possible. Herys fell back before the onslaught, but he was too wily a fighter not to be aware of Godwyn's inexperience. He fell back before the blows and back again - once Godwyn landed a blow against his side that made him swear as the chain mail he wore was compressed into his flesh, and Godwyn saw the bloody stain of the wound show on the surcoat, darker red against the Bolton scarlet. And all the time, Herys was moving back ... Until suddenly he leapt aside, with a dexterity Godwyn would not have suspected, and Godwyn realised just how close to the edge of the eight foot platform Herys had lured him ... Godwyn spun, trying to maintain his balance while appearing to be wavering on the very edge of the platform. He let his eyes go wide, and he shouted, "No!" as he windmilled his arms up into the air, and leaned back, leaving himself exposed to an attack and looking like easy pickings. He was counting on Herys being overconfidant, remembering how contemptuous the older man had been of "the boy" ever since arriving at Holdfast. And he was right, for Herys came charging towards him ... Godwyn waited for the attack until the very last minute before spinning to the side as it came in, dropping an arm to grab Herys, and pulling both of them off the platform. Herys was taken by surprise, but Godwyn was able to spin as they fell, landing with his full weight on his enemy. Herys let out an "OUF!" But his left mailed hand reached up to grab Godwyn's throat in an attempt to choke the life out of him, while his right hand scrabbled for his sword to make a swifter end of his opponent. Godwyn dropped his sword, knowing the steel would be useless to him in such close quarters. With his left hand he grabbed for Herys' right wrist, trying to keep the man from reaching his steel. He ignored the hand at his bull-like throat for the moment, confident that he would end the battle before Herys was able to choke him. He pulled back his right hand and smashed his fist down, with all his strength, directly into Herys face, trying to drive his fist as far into the man's head as he could. And he intended to do it again. And again. And again. The features beneath his mailed fist seemed to blur, until he was no longer sure whether the readdened mass was what remained of Herys's face, or whether it was a mist behind his eyes ... He was conscious that the Bolton's hand had slipped from his throat and that there was a strange whistling sound coming from beneath him - as Herys tried to breath through what was left of his nose, his mouth ... He smashed his fist into Herys' face again. "For Syndra," he snarled. And again. "For Limosa." Once more. "For Gavrin." The snarl became a strangely calm smile, and he paused, then drew his dagger and brought it to the ruin of Herys' face. "And for Kenrith...." Corryn, meanwhile, had found the steps to the right side of the platform closest to him. He had swung around the corner to rush up impetuously ... until a sudden scream stopped him. It was Edlyn, sitting on the steps with Lady Celia cradled in her arms. Lady Celia had an ugly bruise on her forehead, which was bleeding sluggishly. At the very least she appeared to be deeply unconscious. Edlyn looked up at Corryn, terror clear on her face. "I ... I think she's dead!" If Corryn cursed, it was under his breath. One glance he cast upward, towards where the clash of swords told him that Godwyn and Herys were locked in deadly combat. But ... he too was a knight, and the vows he had sworn had their own hold upon his nature. He dropped to one knee. "Let me look at her," he said. She moved so that he could see her mother more clearly - and the ugly bruise forming that showed she had hit her head badly when she fell. Corryn smiled faintly at Edlyn, "Hold her very still, Edlyn." He knelt beside Celia and touched the side of her neck, seeking a pulse. He'd seen enough head injuries in his day and knew they were both dangerous and problematic. Even the slightest blow to the head could kill, but not even wound was necessarily grievous. The trick was to discover if Celia had been simply stunned or there were more serious issues at work. His hazel eyes met Edlyn's; his free hand seeking hers and squeezing it. "She'll be fine, my dear." He prayed he was right. But the ugly grey color that her skin was taking on, and the ragged shallowness of her breathing suggested that she needed medical attention swiftly. At this moment, a trumpet sounded from the end of the lists nearest the castle - and then a great roar. "To me, Holdfast!" It was Ser Anders, with a good fifteen of the Holdfast guards behind him. Clearly, his response to potential treachery had been to gather the most lethal force that he could in order to take action if needed. Now they were charging with full force on those Boltons who had attempted to take to the field on Ser Herys' orders, and to kill Evan Tamm. However, it was possible that the charge would roll right over where Ser Godfrey lay prone although Ser Anders, seeing the danger, was attempting to steer his men past them ... It all made for a hideous melee ... Some of the Boltons, seeing their danger, attempted to flee, but civilians in the crowd, with a roar of anger, were setting about them. Several grabbed women or children in an attempt to protect their own lives with hostages ... Rhys cursed in Dornish. He reached down and grabbed Godfrey under the armpits and started to drag him off the field and out of the way. "Syndra, come with me!" he called out. Syndra's determination was wholly to protect her father. In pulling Ser Godfrey away, Rhys was in actual fact taking the best possible action in removing Syndra from the field too. Neither of them looked at Evan Tamm, still so close on his horse, as inch by inch Rhys began to drag Ser Godfrey's broken body away. Syndra dared not leave her defensive posture to help - she was the only protection that her father and the Maester had ... And then a man in Bolton livery ran at her. Doubtless he had obeyed Ser Herys' orders to attack Evan Tamm, but given the choice between an armed man on a horse who had already proved his ruthless readiness to attack, and a young girl with a large sword she could barely heft, perhaps it was not really so surprising that he decided to dispatch her first. Seeing him, Syndra grasped the sword, raising it as high as she could. She knew that she would only be able to swing it once ... and so she must make that blow tell. Holding it firm and waiting as the man rushed screaming at her, waiting ... just waiting ... She wanted so badly just to close her eyes and blindly swing, but if she did that, she might miss her moment, so she must stand there steady, she must hold fast and wait, even though she could see his greasy hair and the great hairy wart on his chin, and the teeth broken in his yelling mouth ... closer ... And then, amazingly, that head seemed to explode with a great THUNK! into a bloody rain of red and green and bits of long straggly black hair. The body though ... horribly, that still continued towards her, sagging at the knees, and she brought the sword round in a great sweep that almost tore her arms from their sockets, but the body collapsed at last, with blood spurting not just from the neck but from the great slash she had made across the belly. And Evan Tamm was wheeling his horse, his mace bloody from where he had used it to kill the Bolton in order to protect her, but his eyes fixed on her, unsmiling. Syndra looked back at him, and then gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. Rhys's heart came up into his throat as he watched the Bolton guard descend upon Syndra, his head smashed, and Syndra strike at his torso, all in the space of only a handful of heartbeats. He stared in shock at Tamm staring at Syndra, took in Tamm's bloody mace, saw Syndra's white but determined face, saw the Bolton men running on foot and the Holdfast men racing on horseback (although several had, by now, fallen off) to engage each other right where they were standing... "Syndra!" he shouted again, and with a mighty effort born of fear and adrenaline, began to drag Godfrey from the field as fast as he could. Syndra looked around quickly. There seemed to be no Boltons in the immediate vicinity - and Rhys, although stronger than he looked, was only hauling Ser Godfrey a few feet. Syndra shoved the knife in the waistband of her skirt and moved to help him. Evan circled around them, not making any move to help, but clearly ready to deflect any further attacks. And then the mounted men of Holdfast were riding down the Boltons in the field, and Rhys and Syndra between them had hauled Ser Godfrey just beyond the fighting (unless the line changed ... ) A small figure came racing down the lists towards them - Garyn, Evan Tamm's squire. He glanced up at Evan Tamm, and then joined Rhys and Syndra in hauling Ser Godfrey away. Syndra became aware of him by their side, and turned to him quickly. "Go to the guard tower!" she ordered. "Ring the alarm bell - we need Kenrith back here now!" Garyn looked at her, his mouth at half-cock, then turned and raced away towards the guard tower. But it was clear that the visible Boltons had all been slain by the Holdfast guards or the citizens (three of whom also seemed to be dead, including one young woman who had been seized as an attempted hostage). And Ser Herys? He had vanished from the platform - as had Lady Hardy and Edlyn. And there was no sign of Corryn or Godwyn at all ... Evan had seen the young woman taken hostage by a Bolton, but she was dead almost as soon as he looked at her. The Bolton who had taken her hostage was threatening to slit her throat, but it was a clumsy blow from a Holdfast pike that killed her, as an inexperienced villager tried to strike past her to hit her captor - and failed. Now the battle seemed over - and no-one was to be seen on the stands ... Although the mass of the Holdfast force were between him and the stand, Evan Tamm seemed to be turning his horse in that direction. The wretched gaggle of men Ser Herys had brought with him were not the kind to fight to the last, and across the bloody, dusty field, a few wounded Bolton men were falling to their knees in an attempt to surrender. It was to no avail; their opponents were clearly not interested in anything of the sort, and their cries of surrender were quickly and permanently cut off. Much of the crowd of Holdfast smallfolk had fled, but those who had stayed and fought were still moving about restlessly, gathering their wounded and dead, almost as if unsure whether or not to continue the battle in some fashion. From atop his horse, Evan cast a critical eye out across the field, and pressed his lips into a thin line. The battle was over, though, and he let the gore-covered mace hang loosely from his hand as he turned the horse and walked it over to the stands. A few of the surviving Holdfast men looked askance at him, as if wondering whether he should be next. But they gave him a wide berth for the moment, and Evan paid them no heed, rounding the back of the platform to where Herys gurgled, fitfully and feebly, with Godwyn Hardy atop him. Syndra and Rhys found themselves in a quieter part of the field now. Holding back an urge to vomit over the bloody bits of Bolton that had splattered upon her, Syndra laid her father's sword by his side and began tearing at the buckles and straps on his armour. She worked quickly, but carefully, relieving him first of the pieces that looked the least damaged. She tried to judge the injuries that lay beneath by the condition of the armour shell. For the most damaged parts, her fingers slowed, and she looked to Rhys for help. She understood armour, but wounds were his forte and Syndra did not wish to make them worse. Rhys nodded encouragingly at Syndra when she faltered, trying to ignore the gore on her face and dress so he didn't draw her attention to it. "You know already to jostle him as little as possible, but all the armour has to come off one way or another. You're doing fine." He moved to help her if needed it but otherwise worked on his own side in an effort to get the armour off as quickly as possible. He glanced up and around regularly, keeping an eye on events around them as they worked. The battle was fading now ... and Ser Anders had dismounted; he seemed to be directing mopping up operations. The armour pulled free - and Ser Godfrey gave a long moan of pain. His right hip seemed shattered ... and the ribs on his left side too had been driven in so that his breathing was coming with a wet, bubbling sound. Syndra let out a gasp when the full nature of her father's injuries was revealed. She sat back onto her heels and closed her eyes, breathing deeply to control the rushing torrent of emotions that welled up inside her. And then the alarm bell began to peel out ... Godwyn: continued in Improving Herys' Looks Corryn: continued in The Trouble with Tollets Rhys and Syndra continued in Saving Godfrey Evan continued in Loose Ends |
