Cersei's mouth dropped open in shock, and as her eyes flicked around the room, she could see similar reactions coming from other members of the court. Olenna Tyrell had rocked slightly back in her seat, even the old woman taken by surprise. Her grandson had recovered from his own shock and was even now grinning, no doubt excited in taking part in the first Trial of Seven in near a hundred years. A deep frown covered her brother's face, Tyrion already thinking of the myriad ways this could backfire and make the Crown come off worse.

Joffrey himself, to Cersei's shame, appeared utterly confused, and all the pride she had felt at her son learning how to act as a King vanished as he allowed the boy he still was to slip through. "Mother" he complained, "what is a Trial of Seven?"

Rather than answer him, Cersei did what a monarch should when asked about matters related to the gods, and allowed the expert to answer, turning her gaze to the High Septon. Though only a puppet bought by Lannister coin, the man still had at least a basic grasp on the duties required of his office, and after a moment, he cleared his throat and stepped forward into the morning light streaming from the window near his head. The rays played across his crystal crown and the prisms within did as intended, rainbows spraying across the hall amidst gasps and murmurs of wonder.

"It is a form of trial by combat, Your Grace" he proclaimed, spread as if to embrace the light like the messenger of the Gods he was said to be; "brought to these shores by the Andals over two thousand years ago. Not often called for, but still wholly within Lady Stark's rights to request. The usual practice" he stared at the red-haired Lady of Winterfell for a moment, "is for the defendant to call for trial by combat, and then by law either the accuser or accused may choose to demand the trial be a Trial of Seven instead, but I suppose Lady Stark merely wanted to waste no time.

It is much the same as a traditional trial by combat, Your Grace" the High Septon added with haste, sensing the King's growing impatience, "but instead of one champion, there are seven, one for each of the faces of god, and only knights may take part. This, the Andals felt, was the surest way to gain the attention of the gods, and thus the holiest way to determine the truth of matters such as the ones Lady Stark stands accused of."

"Seven?" Joffrey leaned forward on his throne, careful not to cut himself on the steel blades, still sharp after three hundred years, glancing between Catelyn and her husband, still in their chains. "So Lady Stark must face seven knights?"

"Not quite, Your Grace" corrected the High Septon, considering his words carefully. "The Crown, as the accuser, will choose seven knights. Lady Catelyn, as the accused, must then find seven knights to face your champions."

"And then it's a fight to the death" grinned Joffrey, eager at the prospect of seeing such a grand spectacle.

"Again, not quite, Your Grace". Crystal crown flashing as his head bobbed in thought, the High Septon at last thought he knew how to explain things to his King. "As this is still a trial, the primary purpose is to determine Lady Stark's guilt or innocence. As such, it can be ended in ways other than death." His left arm rose, and pointed straight at Joffrey. "Since you, yourself are too young to fight, Your Grace, you must name one of your champions to represent you. That man shall be the accuser, and should he be slain or withdraw his accusation by yielding, then the gods will have judged Lady Stark innocent."

His right arm shot out towards Catelyn, the High Septon now resembling a living scale as he turned his gaze towards the Lady of Winterfell. "And as a woman highborn, Lady Stark is doubtless unable to fight herself. Therefore, she may choose a champion just as you can, Your Grace, and they shall be the accused. Should they fall in battle or yield, thus admitting to the charges, the gods shall have judged Lady Stark guilty. Otherwise, yes. The trial continues until all of one side are dead or have yielded."

Joffrey frowned, but before he could speak Cersei cut in, wanting the High Septon to say one thing in front of witnesses, so none could say the Crown had treated Lady Catelyn unfairly when she fell victim to her own folly. "Your Holiness" she called, "what if seven champions cannot be found, by one side or the other?"

Face solemn, the High Septon folded his arms, his cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver robes flashing in the light. "The Andals believed that the only reason seven knights could not be found to fight for a cause, was if the cause was not worthy. If His Grace cannot find seven knights to prove Lady Stark's guilt, then the charges against her must be false. And if Lady Stark cannot find seven knights to prove her innocence by the appointed time." He paused for a moment to allow that to sink in before continuing, "then by law she will be considered to have been automatically found guilty of the charges laid against her and will face the penalty. Given the severity of the charges in question" he reminded the court, "such a penalty would no doubt be death."

Silent until now, Tyrion cleared his throat. "If I recall correctly, Your Holiness" he ventured, "the last Trial of Seven was Ser Duncan the Tall, at Ashford Meadow, accused of attacking Prince Aerion Targaryen. Near a hundred years ago now, but if I recall correctly the Prince demanded the trial take place that day. Is that customary, or was the Brightflame merely eager to have done with it?" He forbore mentioning what he knew was the true reason; that Aerion had wished to give Ser Duncan as little time as possible to find men to fight with him.

The High Septon hummed in thought for a moment. "In a way, I suppose both, my Lord Hand. Prince Aerion was famously short of patience, but the customs state that both accuser and accused must have a reasonable amount of time to find their champions. With much of the realm's chivalry gathered at Ashford Meadow for the tourney there, Ser Duncan needed but ride around the tents and seek aid.

With Lady Stark having called for her trial now" he trailed off for a moment as he considered the early hour and the people gathered in the city, "it would take moons for any champion she might summon from the North to arrive, but thousands of knights from the Reach still hold this city, and several lords of the Trident as well. My opinion, Your Grace" he announced, as if handing down a verdict from the gods themselves, "is that the Seven would have no issues with Lady Stark's trial being held today, so long as it was not before noon."

"Then so it shall be" Joffrey confirmed, arms spread wide to address the court. "The trial shall take place one hour after the noonday meal. That should give Lady Stark more than enough time to find her champions" his voice giving no doubt that he expected Catelyn to be grateful for the benevolence of the King, granting her an extra hour beyond what the High Septon had suggested. Given that it was currently four hours until noon, that gave her five hours.

"As for the Crown's own champions" he continued, voice powerful, "the Crown sees no reason to delay. Ser Loras Tyrell". Proudly, the young knight strode forward, white cloak swaying with his steps. "In the absence of your Lord Commander, you are the acting head of my Kingsguard. I name you my champion. In my stead, soon to be goodbrother" Joffrey asked, "bring this traitor to justice."

"Gladly, Your Grace" the Knight of Flowers promised, head bowed.

Joffrey smirked, and moved on, addressing the other Kingsguard members present in the court. "Ser Balon, Ser Meryn, Ser Osmund. Your King commands you to aid him in this matter." The White Swords gave various words of agreement, and Joffrey turned his attention to the gathered lords waiting to the sides of the court. "Lord Randyll Tarly." The Lord of Horn Hill slammed his fist to his breastplate in salute, waiting for his King's command. "It was the knights of the Reach that saved this city from the traitor Stannis, and none can doubt that House Tarly is the strong sword arm of the Reach." Lord Randyll seemed to stand a little taller at this praise. "The Crown asks your aid in this matter."

"It is given, Your Grace" Lord Tarly promised, hand brushing the hilt of his Valyrian greatsword.

With five champions already, Joffrey's gaze turned next to where Lord Walder Serrett, representing the Lords of the Westerlands, stood alone, none wanting to associate with the Frey turned Westerman. "Now has come the time to prove the loyalty of the West after their treason against my grandfather, Lord Serrett. I may not be a Lannister, but I heed the words of my lady mother's birth House. Fight for the Crown, and you shall be well rewarded." Eyes flashing with greed, Lord Serrett promised Joffrey his sword and that left the King just one man left to find.

Mouth twisting into a cruel smirk, his eyes moved over the Riverlords for a moment before alighting on Edmure Tully and he was just opening his mouth to command the Lord of the Riverlands to fight as his champion when a throat being cleared interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see his uncle Imp glaring at him with fury as hot as a forge, shaking his head with as much subtlety as he could. Realizing what his uncle was trying to point out, Joffrey relented, sure that Edmure Tully would refuse, for after all, one could not force a person to fight for them in such a trial, and not wanting the humiliation of having his will defied among his court. Still, it burned to be scolded by his uncle as if he were a child, instead of the King, and Joffrey's eyes flashed with rage.

"That leaves just one" he announced, as if nothing were wrong, "and that place should be filled by family. What say you, uncle? You fought Stannis' men on the Blackwater, this should be no trouble for you!"

Tyrion bowed his head, gesturing to the ugly scar marking his face, and his lack of nose. "And look how I ended up. I fear I was not made for battlefields, Your Grace" he replied politely, "but if you desire my representation, then I will name my own sworn sword, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater." He gestured towards a lanky, dangerous looking man just to the side of his chair. "During my own trial by combat at the Eyrie, Bronn slew the captain of Lady Arryn's guard and won my freedom, I've no doubt he'd serve Your Grace well."

The man grunted his acceptance, and Joffrey looked him over carefully. Uncle Imp may have ruined his fun by ducking out of it himself, but that was something Joffrey could happily forgive since it got him this hardened killer in return; one didn't get to be captain of a Great House's guard without a certain skill at arms. To slay them meant one had to be very good or very lucky. Either way, Joffrey would take him.

"So be it." Lacking a hammer to pound, Joffrey slammed his foot into the Throne's side to emphasise his words. "And do you yet know who will stand for you, Lady Stark?"

"Me". Joffrey turned to see Eddard Stark push free of his guards despite his manacles, and stride forward to stand before the Iron Throne, Joffrey purpling at the sight of the Northman not bowing before his King. Before Joffrey could act, his mother stepped in, something he was grateful for later, as his instinct would have been to summon Ser Ilyn, something which would not have been received well; beheading the Lord of Winterfell without trial.

"You are a prisoner, Lord Stark" Cersei called out, lips drawn tight as she stared at the old wolf. "In the custody of the Crown, awaiting your own trial for treason at the King's pleasure. You have no right to take part in events such as this."

"Then let me fight, Your Grace" Stark called, steely eyes boring into Cersei's own green orbs. "What have you to fear?" Cersei's lips drew into a frown as Stark's message was received loud and clear. What did she have to fear? After all, Stark was a dead man come his own trial either way, and if he died fighting for his wife, none could claim he was killed to silence him.

Cersei lacked the ruthless pragmatism of her father, or the sparks of brilliance which had seen her brother come up with solutions to problems again and again during this war, but now and then she had her own strokes of genius; such as right now, when she had in the palm of her hand a way to allow Stark his request and yet see that the Northman and his dangerous knowledge ceased to be an issue.

"Very well, Lord Eddard" she replied after a few moments. "The Crown will release you to stand on behalf of Lady Catelyn, on the condition that you swear to resume your captivity and face your own trial once Lady Stark's guilt or innocence is determined." Despite knowing that his own trial surely meant his death, Lord Eddard gave his oath without a moment's thought, and Cersei smiled inside herself, for the trap had been set. "Lord Tarly" she called, the Lord of Horn Hill glancing up at the unexpected call. "Am I wrong to assume that you will be wielding Heartsbane?"

"No, Your Grace '' answered Tarly, confused as to why the Queen Regent would ask what to him sounded like an obvious question. As she addressed Stark again, however, Randyll's question was answered. "Then as it would be unjust to only have one side using Valyrian steel" Cersei explained to all listening, "the Crown shall see to it that the Stark greatsword is returned to Lord Eddard for the Trial. Should he and Lord Tarly seek each other out during the fighting, well then! Two Lords of powerful Houses wielding Valyrian greatswords duelling, imagine what the singers would make of that!"

Carefully keeping her gaze away from Lord Randyll, out of the corner of her eye Cersei noted the Lord of Horn Hill stroking his chin at the thought of such a ballad, and barely managed to hold back a wicked grin. The bait had been taken. Lord Randyll was one of the finest soldiers in Westeros, and Eddard Stark had spent the last year in prison without so much as touching a sword until last night's failed escape. The hunter would make short work of the wolf, and the truth about Cersei's children would die with Eddard Stark. Her mental celebrations were cut short however, when the High Septon cleared his throat.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Your Grace" the man ventured, "but I believe I was quite clear when I spoke before. Unlike a trial by combat, those participating in a Trial of Seven must be knights, dubbed in the light of the Seven. Lord Stark" the man wrinkled his nose at being forced to call the barbaric Northerner a lord, "is a follower of the Old Gods, not the Seven, and is no knight. He cannot fight."

"But I can." Edmure Tully stepped forward, bright mail shining in the rainbow light still given by the crystal crown. "I am not only Lord of Riverrun, Your Holiness, but an anointed knight and any knight can make another knight." Gasps rang throughout the court as Edmure Tully drew his sword, holding the blade up to the light, Cersei gesturing to Joffrey not to call for the Kingsguard to intervene yet. Tully had made no indication he would use the sword and having the Lord of Riverrun cut down in front of hundreds of witnesses would make the Crown look very bad indeed.

Striding over to where his goodbrother stood, still restricted by the manacles on his wrists, Lord Edmure halted, staring at the guards holding Eddard Stark by the arms. "Move" he commanded, and after glancing at Cersei for permission, which they received by way of a nod; after a moment the men complied, moving a step backward to allow Lord Tully to stand in front of Lord Stark. "Kneel, Lord Eddard" he commanded, any trace of his usual mirth gone from Edmure's face and a stunned Lord Eddard complied.

Laying the flat of his sword on his goodbrother's shoulder, Edmure Tully spoke in a loud, clear voice so that none could claim he had made a mistake. "In the name of the Warrior" he began, "I charge you to be brave." His sword moved to Eddard's other shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." The flat of the blade went back to the left shoulder. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young, and innocent." Right shoulder again. "In the name of the Maid" Edmure continued, with a look to his older sister, "I charge you to defend all women." Left shoulder. "In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise." Right again. "In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be steadfast." The blade moved to Eddard's right shoulder one last time. "And in the name of the Stranger" he concluded, "I charge you to be true to these vows until your death, no matter the cost." Edmure sheathed his blade, and stepped back. "Arise, Ser Eddard" he commanded, "a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Stark rose to his feet, and Tully glanced towards the Iron Throne. "Lord Eddard stands as my sister's first champion, Your Grace" he stated, "and I the second. House Tully does not abandon family." Spreading his arms, the Lord of Riverrun turned to his bannermen. "Who will stand with me?"

Without hesitation, Lord Jason Mallister stepped forward, winged helm covering his greying hair. "House Mallister has stood by House Tully for three hundred years" the Lord of Seagard proclaimed, "and we will do so again today." He glanced at Catelyn. "My sword is yours, my lady." Smiling in gratitude, Catelyn bowed her head towards Lord Jason, and Edmure turned back towards his vassals. "Who else?"

"Me". All eyes turned towards Alyssa Tully, who held her head high, ignoring the muttering spreading throughout the court at the thought of a woman of all people, fighting! "Catelyn's my sister too" she explained, "and I couldn't let her husband and brother risk their lives for her without doing the same."

"But my lady" objected the High Septon, "this isn't proper. Aside from the issue of a woman fighting, need I remind you again the requirement that all participants must be knights?"

Without reply, Alyssa deliberately turned her back on the High Septon, causing gasps at her disrespect for the gods, and addressed her brother. "Then knight me."

"Out of the question" Lord Randyll roared, fingers white on Heartsbane's hilt. "Knighting another woman... the Tarth girl was bad enough, but at least she showed she understands how a knight should act, hunting down Stannis to avenge her King. You though" Randyll shook his head, a sneer stretching across his features, and he fixed his gaze on Edmure. "Lord Tully, for the Trucebreaker, the Witch of Ashemark to be made a knight, it would disgrace all true knights, and doubly so the one who dubbed such a false knight; who broke her vows before she ever took them. You would be reviled by all good men for this."

"As Prince Rhaegar was for knighting Gregor Clegane?" Alyssa shot back and Lord Tarly glowered at that, for it was true. Despite his actions, Rhaegar Targaryen was still remembered fondly by much of Westeros and many tried to forget that it was the hand of the Silver Prince himself which anointed the Mountain who Rides with the seven oils, and Rhaegar's sword which dubbed him a knight.

"Do you think I care?" Hoster Tully's youngest daughter asked, tone making it clear that she thought such a notion was ludicrous. "I allowed my sister to be taken to this city, taken to what I knew would be her death" she snapped, "because the only other choice was to see the Riverlands burn, and tens of thousands of innocents die in her place. Now I have a golden opportunity to save her life, and you think I'd let some stupid notions like honor or chivalry stand in my way?" Despite the gathered courtiers crying out in disgust at her words, Alyssa Tully stared her brother straight in the eyes. "Nothing matters but Catelyn. Do it, Edmure" she commanded, bowing her head.

Edmure Tully glanced between his two sisters, mouth twisting in uncertainty before at last he drew his sword, despite calls for him not to do this, and laid the flat on his sister's shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior" he began, hesitating in unease, "I charge you to be brave." Slowly, still unsure of himself, he managed to get through the rest of the vows until at last he allowed his sword to drop to the ground. "Arise, Ser Alyssa" he said at last, glad to have it over and done with, "a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Alyssa Tully raised her head, uncaring of the voices screaming curses at her, and looked up at Joffrey. "Four" she said simply.

"Five". Alyssa turned to see Lord Karyl Vance stepping forward to stand by her side, and she smiled, for House Vance had supported her since the start of the war, and she would without hesitation name Lord Karyl as her closest ally today. "House Vance may not have the history with House Tully that House Mallister does" the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest stated proudly, "but my father died fighting by your side and you've led us to victory after victory all through this war. I trust you won't let us down now." He turned to face Catelyn. "I'll stand for you, my lady."

"As will I." Ser Walder Rivers stepped away from his brother's side, nodding at Edwyn before turning to glare at Lord Serrett who for his part, appeared utterly unaffected. "Riverrun and the Twins are joined by marriage" Rivers snarled, "but aside from that, Lady Alyssa gave you Silverhill to hold in the name of House Frey, yet you take it for yourself. You've betrayed Father twice over!" Hand on his sword hilt, he turned his head just enough to nod in Edmure's direction. "Someone has to uphold the honor of House Frey." Rivers glowered at his treacherous brother, who reached for his own sword, and Catelyn was left with the notion that the taboo against kinslaying wouldn't stay either man's hand come time of battle.

"Six then" Edmure smiled, turning towards his bannermen. His eyes roved their ranks, searching for the most likely candidate. "Who'll be our seventh then? Lord Bracken? This is your chance to pay the Lannisters back for Stone Hedge!"

"Aye" rumbled the barrel-chested Lord, arms folded across the red stallion on his breastplate. "Lannisters took my seat, killed my people and stripped my land bare. Pigs, cows, grain, even horses, I've nothing left but a barren wasteland." His arm moved to point at Catelyn, finger outstretched like a spear. "And why? Because your sister, Lord Edmure, thought it was a good idea to capture the son of a man best known for his vengeance on those who cross him." Jonos Bracken shook his head, jaw set. "No, my lord, I will not stand with you. Let the headsman have her, I say, and it still won't pay for the lives lost through her folly. My garrison died fighting, to a man, in the war she started."

Smile dimming a fraction, Edmure moved on to the other likely candidate, who was likely to agree simply by virtue of the fact that Bracken had refused. "Lord Blackwood? Will you stand with me?"

The hook-nosed Lord of Raventree Hall shook his head and Edmure's heart sank. "I am a proud follower of the Old Gods, Lord Edmure" Tytos reminded his liege, "and were I to stand with you, I must first take knight's vows before the Seven." He appeared ready to spit at the very thought. "Before the gods whose followers tore down the weirwood trees and drove the First Men north. Lord Stark may be able to do that for his wife's sake, but Lady Catelyn is not my family. I'm sorry, my lord, but I won't do it."

Now worried, Edmure looked to his other vassals but one by one, they shook their heads or indicated their refusal. Blind Norbert Vance and old Lady Shella Whent he didn't even consider, but the Lords Paege and Hawick he had hoped to convince, only for them to reject his pleas. They had no hatred for Catelyn, but neither was a particularly skilled swordsman and the prospect of facing four of the Kingsguard, including the Knight of Flowers, was not one they relished.

Cowardly Lord Mooton stammered his excuses, while fat Lord Clement Piper pled his lack of fitness to take the field. Had his son, Ser Marq been present, Edmure knew his friend would have already agreed, but the heir to Pinkmaiden had remained to hold his family seat in his father's stead while his father rode to King's Landing to bend his knee to Joffrey. After Lord Goodbrook refused, Matthias Vypren, Lord of Greenwater Bound was Edmure's last hope; but the man shook his head, smirking as he did so. The massive amount of gold dragons given to him by House Tully had served as payment for Alyssa's folly at the Golden Tooth, and had bought his forgiveness, but that didn't change the fact that his brother and son both had died in the war Catelyn had inadvertently started.

Joffrey smirked, lips curving in delight. "It seems you are one short, Lady Stark" he crowed in triumph. "Fear not, you have some hours yet before the time of combat, else it seems you yourself must fight." Arya Tully took a step forward only for her aunt's iron hand to clamp down on her shoulder, Arya wincing in pain as her aunt's glare promised dire consequences were her heir fool enough to open her mouth. With no one else responding to Edmure's pleas, Joffrey dismissed the court and bade his champions ready themselves, while commanding the field be readied for the trial one hour after noon.

Catelyn was, at her family's request, released from her chains so as to prepare, as was Eddard Stark, who wrapped his wife in his arms, ignoring the Gold Cloak still watching him to ensure he did not run. Arya approached, and Catelyn released Ned long enough to clutch her daughter to her, scolding Arya for trying something so foolish as to volunteer to fight grown men of the Kingsguard's skill. Boots clicked on the stone, and Catelyn glanced up just long enough to nod at her sister in thanks for stopping Arya from volunteering, before Alyssa's hand rested on her shoulder.

"Come on" her younger sister urged, pulling Catelyn to her feet with surprising strength.

"Where are we going" Catelyn protested, Ned standing by her side in support.

Alyssa's eyes flashed in determination. "To get you fitted for armor."

"Armor" Catelyn sputtered, unable to even consider the idea. "Why would I need that?"

Alyssa glanced at Catelyn's husband, as if inviting him to explain the situation, and Lord Stark sighed, his gaze falling to the floor for a moment. "Because unless a miracle happens, Cat" he gripped her hand tenderly, "you must fight on your own behalf. Your brother's bannermen are either already on your side or have refused him, there are no Northmen in King's Landing and none would get here in time." He heaved a breath. "Edmure will do his best to find another champion for you, but it will be for naught. The Lords of the Reach and their knights are tied to Joffrey's cause, none of them will help us. Any freelance or sellsword we might tempt to our cause will refuse at the prospect of fighting Kingsguard."

Alyssa nodded grimly, already focusing on the task at hand. "So we have three hours or so to prepare you for battle." She glanced up and down her sister's body, frowning at Catelyn's slight build and long, flowing gown. "Have you ever held a sword before?"

Catelyn thought hard. "I might have held one once."

Alyssa placed her palm into her face and groaned for a long moment. When she took her hand away, her eyes were all business. "Right then. We've much work to do, and not much time to do it." Her eyes were distant as she faced the gargantuan task of preparing Catelyn to face knights of the Kingsguard's caliber within the space of hours. Her mouth tightened as she came up with the rudiments of a plan. "Lord Eddard" she began, only to be cut off by a raised hand.

"Just Eddard, Lady Alyssa" the Lord of Winterfell said with a smile, "we are family after all."

Alyssa nodded shortly, not having the time for pleasantries. "Eddard, then." She glanced around and ducked into an alcove, rummaging inside her armor for a few moments before she emerged, holding a thick ribbon marked with numbers. "Take this" she commanded, "take Catelyn somewhere private and measure her. Every part; arms, wrists, knees, waist, even teats."

Eddard's face darkened at Alyssa talking about his wife's body so casually, and he weighed the ribbon in his hand, noting with unease how warm it was, before a thought struck him.

"Do you always carry a measure with you?"

Watching from the side, Catelyn held back a smile as for a mere moment, her sister flushed as red as a maid caught kissing her first boy. "Armor gets damaged" her younger sister replied after a moment, regaining her control, "and blacksmiths have a tendency to get…" she hesitated for a moment, "close, when taking measurements. Eventually I just found it easier to learn how to do it myself. Quicker too, walk in with those numbers and the smith can start at once."

Alyssa pointed a finger at her sister's husband. "Make sure to write the measurements down, and for Catelyn's sake, be quick!"

Sparing time only for a nod, Ned went in search of a place where his wife could remove her gown in privacy, and after finding a small chamber off to the side of the Throne Room, he locked the door tight and set about his task, extending the ribbon along and around all areas of Catelyn's body. Resisting the urges that rose up at the sight of her naked form, he took the measurements and wrote the vital figures down. Blowing on the parchment, he gestured for Catelyn to dress again, and soon the two were back in the Hall, Alyssa tapped her foot in impatience as she waited for them.

Taking the precious parchment from Eddard, Alyssa scanned it for a moment, checking that all necessary areas had been covered before she handed it to her niece. "Arya, you know this city best. Run this down to the Street of Steel and find a blacksmith you can trust. Tell him we have a rush order" she winced at the bite this was going to take into her purse, "and we'll pay twenty gold dragons if he can have it finished and here by noon. The works; shield, sword, breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, visorless greathelm, a full set. We don't need new, he can resize existing stock as long as it will serve, and it needs no decoration. If he doesn't accept, try another smith until one does. Run!"

Her aunt's tone left it clear that she would brook no disagreement, and with a last glance at her mother, Arya took to her heels. The Street of Steel was an hour away by horse, but that was travelling slowly to allow the beast time to rest. Arya running could arrive in fifteen minutes, though she would be all but exhausted by the time she arrived.

Once Arya was gone, Catelyn turned on Alyssa, hands on her hips. "Plate? You wear ringmail, and I don't have anywhere near your skill, surely ringmail would be better and save you much coin." She knew how much a set of plate armor cost, having paid for Ned's last set as a nameday gift three years ago. To purchase one from a blacksmith in King's Landing along with a sword and shield...Catelyn cringed at the thought.

Alyssa sighed, not having the time to explain this to her sister right now. "You can't win" she said simply, and Catelyn raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

Alyssa folded her arms, tapping the hilt of her sword as if to remind her sister that she knew what she was talking about. "Three Kingsguard. Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, who unhorsed the Mountain. Lord Randyll Tarly, the only man to ever deal a defeat to Robert Baratheon in the field. Lord Walder Serrett, once 'Black Walder' Frey, and the man didn't get that name for the colour of his beard. He's a hardened killer, just like the sellsword turned knight Bronn." Alyssa stared her sister in the eyes, fully serious now. "Skilled fighters all, and you've never lifted a sword before."

"Exactly!" Catelyn exclaimed. "So should I not wear the same as you, boiled leather and ringmail? That would be lighter, give me the advantage in speed..."

"It. Won't. Matter." Alyssa ground out, irritated that Catelyn failed to grasp this. "Every one of those men could kill you with one hand behind their back and moving at half the pace. Against any one of them you wouldn't last one minute in a fair fight, so we need to stop thinking about fighting fair and do everything we can to keep you alive."

"And how do you mean to do that" interrupted Eddard, keeping pace behind the two women as they spoke. "By putting Cat in armor so heavy she can barely move?"

"Yes." Alyssa's answer took both Starks aback, and she quickened her pace, forcing them back to walk faster to keep up. "His Grace erred when he chose the Knight of Flowers as his champion" she explained, opening a door that led to the Red Keep's yard. "Ser Loras is young, and fool enough to believe in the code of chivalry and his knight's vows, including the Maid's command to protect women. We will use that." Alyssa's mouth curved into a cold smile, though the expression didn't reach her eyes. "You will ride against him, and when the boy sees your frightened face, sees how unsuited you are to battle, he may miss with his lance.

On foot you have the best chance" she continued, voice even as she discussed her sister's survival as if she were talking about the weather. "Be sure not to raise your shield too high. Block with your sword if he cuts at your head, or duck to the side, but keep looking him in the eye" she stressed. "That's the key. If he sees you as an enemy, as another knight facing him, he'll cut you down without a second thought. If, however, he sees a terrified noblewoman, unsuited for battle, his honour will make him hesitate to break his vow by striking a woman. He may hesitate. That will be your chance" finished Alyssa, "and it will be the only one you'll get.

I saw the Kingslayer's armor at Riverhold" she stated grimly, "and it was the best coin could buy. I doubt Olenna Tyrell will let her precious rose go out there without similar quality gear. Lobstered steel plates that no blade could pierce, pieces fitting so intricately together that only the best marksmen could find a joint, and even if they did, the blade would be foiled by ringmail under the plate and boiled leather and thick cloth under that." Her jaw was set. "But for all that, there's one spot in any suit of armor that's always vulnerable, no matter how well forged." Alyssa tapped her eyes with two fingers, and Catelyn's eyes widened as she realized what her sister intended.

"Thrust for the vision slit" Alyssa instructed, "shove the blade in with all your strength until you hear the point hit the back of his helm, and make sure that you wait until his shield is lowered, be careful to strike true, for you'll only have the one chance. Should you miss, or be too slow, the game'll be up and the boy'll know you're a threat. Once he starts taking you seriously…" Alyssa spread her hands, and Catelyn swallowed hard.

"You want me to kill him? What of Cersei's threat? She was right, Olenna Tyrell is the true ruler of the Reach, and she won't forgive the death of her grandson." Catelyn set her shoulders in defiance. "The very reason I called for a Trial of Seven, not a simple trial by combat was in the hope that I could somehow avoid the Knight of Flowers dying."

Alyssa cursed under her breath, accepting her sister's point. "Very well. Then play up your helplessness, and just try to stay alive. I'll come to help as soon as I can, as will any of our comrades." She strode over to a weapons rack by the edge of the yard, and ran her eye over it before selecting a blunted greatsword. Taking the weapon, she grunted at its weight before throwing it, hilt-first at Eddard. Startled, her goodbrother barely managed to catch the heavy sword a second before the pommel could break his nose.

Hefting the blade, Eddard frowned at her for a moment. "Trying to knock me out?"

"Trying to keep you alive" Alyssa retorted. "You've been a hostage this entire war. When was the last time you so much as lifted a greatsword, let alone swung one? Randyll Tarly will make minced meat of you if you go out there unprepared." She pulled a blunted longsword from the weapons rack, using the practice weapon to gesture towards the sparring dummies. "I have other ideas, I promise you, but for now we can't do anything until Catelyn's armor is ready, so spend the time practicing." She tossed the longsword to Catelyn, who, waiting for the trick, was ready for it and rather neatly if she did say so herself, snatched the blade from the air.

With an approving nod, Alyssa slid a shield towards Catelyn and then selected another longsword for herself, as well as a shorter blade that was near enough to her off hand weapon to satisfy her. Alyssa was no expert with sword and shield, but Brynden Tully had been, and Alyssa had sparred against him thousands of times over the years. You couldn't fight an expert that often without picking up a few tricks, and she carefully directed Catelyn how to raise her shield and hold her sword. Starting slow, she swung at Catelyn and was pleased to see her sister block the blow well enough.

Gradually increasing her speed, Alyssa struck at Catelyn's body, head and limbs with the blunted blade, her sister fending off a decent amount of the attacks and over the next few hours the daughters of Hoster Tully danced the warrior's reel while Eddard Stark swung his greatsword at the practice dummies as Alyssa threw her utmost into making sure that her sister would live to see another sunrise.

Just before the stroke of noon, Arya returned, accompanied by an exhausted looking man in a smith's apron, two burly apprentices pushing his cart.

"Best I could do on short notice, m'lady" he puffed, face red from exertion.

Unloading the contents in the yard, Alyssa briefly inspected the quality of the man's labor. It wasn't new, that was clear, her experienced eye noting points where a hammer had hurriedly altered the steel, but for all that it was fine work. If she had to guess, this had been commissioned by a knight around Catelyn's size and hurriedly reshaped to size when Arya arrived with her order. The longsword was of similar quality, razor-sharp and straight as an arrow, but plain and without adornment. The shield was heavy oak, banded by iron. Alyssa didn't doubt its ability to keep Catelyn safe, though she was unsure in her sister's ability to lift it.

Breastplate and shield both were without device, though before Alyssa could raise that point, the smith's apprentices had fetched several pots of paint and a length of blank cloth from the cart. "You didn't say what House this was for, m'lady" the man explained with a look to Arya, "so I thought I'd do the paintin' now. Which House is it I'm to be putting on it?"

"My sister is of House Stark, so the grey direwolf on white." Alyssa answered, and the man nodded, already turning when a voice came from behind him.

"No".

Alyssa whirled to see her sister staring at the smith, a determined look in her eye.

"I might be a Stark by marriage, but I'm a Tully by blood, and both sides of my family fight at my side today." Catelyn glanced over at the blacksmith. "Quarter the Tully trout and the Stark direwolf, I assume you can do that?"

"Of course, m'lady" the man reassured her, already gesturing for his apprentices to begin painting the shield and surcoat while he fitted the new armor to Catelyn. Promising payment upon completion and a bonus for his efforts, Alyssa left the man to his work and focused on the next duty on her list; readying her sister for battle. With Alyssa and Ned each carrying half the armor, they led Catelyn into an unoccupied chamber. Catelyn then let her gown fall, and her husband and sister set about the task of fitting her into the thick cloth worn under her armor.

Once the cloth was on, the smith was called back in and began the task of strapping the steel plates to Catelyn's body one by one, on occasion cursing and reaching for a knife to shorten a strap or cut a new hole in one. The work was near done when Arya arrived to inform her aunt that the smith's apprentices had finished with Catelyn's shield. As she entered the room her eyes widened without her control, both out of gratitude that she had not burst in on her mother naked as the day she was born, and amazement, at the sight of her dignified lady mother clad in steel from head to toe.

It wasn't a perfect fit by any means, clearly individual pieces taken from around the man's shop rather than a single suit, but on such short notice, Alyssa had expected nothing less. The gauntlets in particular were ill-fitting, as the smith had not been able to fit them onto Catelyn's hands while they were being made. At last the man stepped back, finished with his work, and held out his hand for his payment. Alyssa gladly obliged, paying not only the twenty dragons he was promised but an extra three, one for him and each of his apprentices, as gratitude for their fine work. As the men began packing up their tools, Alyssa decided to see how close Catelyn was to being ready.

By the looks of things, very close. The smith had attached most of her sister's plates already, her greaves and gauntlets in place and now all that was left were the final touches. These Alyssa could do herself and so she flicked her goodbrother away, reminding Eddard that he had yet to don his own arms, and the time of battle soon approached. Carefully, Alyssa bolted her sister's gorget down and pulled a padded cap over Catelyn's ears, to cushion the weight of her helm. Brushing long red hair out of the way, Alyssa picked up her sister's greathelm, and lowered it over her sister's head. Kneeling, she took Catelyn's sword belt and began to buckle it on. Though heavy with the weight of longsword and dagger, it was a weight Alyssa was well used to and she pulled the belt tight, stepping back to regard her sister with a critical eye. A knight stared back at her, though a knight whose eyes flashed with uncertainty.

"It's not perfect" she declared at last, "but it'll have to do." Taking the final piece, the oak and iron shield, she handed it to Catelyn, who struggled momentarily with its weight before lowering it to her side. Ignoring Catelyn's occasional wobble as she grew used to walking in the heavy steel, Alyssa began preparing herself for battle. As always, she was already in her boiled leather and ringmail, swords hanging from her waist, so it was a matter of mere seconds to pull on her half-helm and tighten the strap. Lord Eddard arrived minutes later in his own armor, direwolf helmet in hand, and met Alyssa's eye, nodding grimly to the water-clock in the corner. It was time. Taking his wife's hand, he led the way towards the stables.

As they rode out onto the tourney grounds, cheers and shouts from the crowd greeted them, for thousands had gathered to witness this historic event, the first Trial of Seven held for nearly a century. High above the arena, in the royal box, King Joffrey watched in glee, sure the traitors and their allies would soon receive their just desserts. Beside him, Margaery Tyrell fixed her eyes on her brother with worry, her grandmother silently watching from her own chair. On the King's other side, Cersei Lannister stared down at Eddard Stark, unable to relax until the old wolf breathed no more, while her brother Tyrion twirled a glass of wine in his fingers, watching in interest.

Catelyn noticed her brother approaching her in his bright mail, and for a moment dared to hope that Edmure might have come through for her at the last minute, only for him to shake his head sadly. Catelyn's heart sank. No one was coming to save her. The trumpets sounded and Catelyn felt sick as she watched the accusers take their places in line on the other side of the grounds. Lord Randyll Tarly, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Osmund Kettleblack, Lord Walder Serrett, the sellsword knight Bronn of the Blackwater and in the centre of them all; Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.

Banner point shaking in her fear, Catelyn tapped her heels into the side of her horse, trying to control her trembling, and moved towards her place opposite Ser Loras. Those among the crowd eager for the soon to be spectacle felt cold stones of guilt in their bellies at the sight. The lady's helm had no visor, allowing all to see the terror on her face at the sight of her opponents. Unlike her sister, who wore her armor as if she had been born in it and whose face showed nothing but cold determination, Lady Stark struggled with the weight of banner and shield, and sat her horse poorly, as if unused to riding astride. Near the edge of the crowd, blue eyes narrowed. This was wrong.

Before she could join the line of waiting knights, Edmure blocked her path, gesturing for her to dismount, and Catelyn complied, confused, while to the side, her sister slapped a gloved hand across her own face as she realised that she had forgotten one crucial step in this whole process. Smiling as if to encourage his sister, knowing that this may be the last time he could do so, Edmure drew his sword. "Kneel, Lady Catelyn" he said gently, and with stiff, awkward movements, grace hindered by the unfamiliar armor, Catelyn did so. "In the name of the Warrior" he began, only for a shout to cut him off there.

"Stop!"

Every eye in the arena turned to a large knight in brilliant blue plate, and even before the visor was raised, Tyrion Lannister knew it was Brienne of Tarth.

"What are you doing, Ser Brienne" Cersei called in fury, glaring down at the larger woman. "Your King made you a knight, and now you repay him by standing with traitors?"

"I am a knight" the Maid of Tarth declared, head held high as she stared up at the royal box. "And I swore to be just, and to defend the innocent. To force an untrained noblewoman to face Kingsguard and veteran knights?" She shook her head in disgust. "That is not justice, that is cruelty." She raised her voice again, pitching her words so that all the crowd could hear them. "If Lady Stark requires seven knights to prove her innocence, then so be it! I will be her seventh, and we will let the gods decide the truth of it!"

The crowd cheered, both at Brienne's selfless act and the prospect of a far more interesting fight, after all, the large woman looked like she could handle herself far better than the red-haired lady who appeared to barely know how to use a sword. Bowing towards the King, Brienne turned and marched across the field, nodding to Catelyn before sending the noblewoman's mare back to the stables, instead calling for her own stallion. By the time the steeds had been changed and Brienne had mounted, the hour had just reached twelve.

The High Septon stepped onto the ground, rainbow crystal held high as he beseeched the gods to judge the matter justly, while Brienne nudged her horse into the centre of the line. Squires approached, carrying weapons for their masters and taking away their banners in exchange. Brienne, noting Loras Tyrell's helm pointing in her direction, waved away the lance Catelyn had meant to use, sending her own squire instead for her morningstar which she raised deliberately in the air for Ser Loras to see.

Her visor still raised, she looked straight across the field to where the boy sat on his own white stallion, the boy lifting his own visor after a moment to lock gazes with her, before he grinned in anticipation and set his own lance aside, calling for his longaxe, the same one he had used at Bitterbridge. It was clear the Knight of Flowers had not forgotten that melee, and now he meant to have his rematch, though the stakes were now higher as both the longaxe's edge and the morningstar's spikes were not blunted, but razor-sharp and very lethal.

Risking a glance sideways, Brienne noted in surprise that some of her fellow champions were bearing lances that appeared longer than usual, but she had no time to think on it, as the High Septon finished speaking, returning his crystal to its bag and retreating from the stands. A barrel-chested herald moistened his lips and raised his trumpet, Brienne reaching up and slamming her visor down at the sight. They now but awaited the King's word to begin, and gripping her reins so tightly the leather scraped against her gauntlet, Brienne of Tarth knew that all eyes were now on the royal box, though her attention was on the Knight of Flowers as she waited for the signal, every muscle in her body tensed in suspense.

The trumpet sounded and Brienne reacted instantly, clapping her spurs into her stallion's side, she whirled her morningstar around her head as the beast thundered towards Loras Tyrell, raising her shield in time to take his first swing. The blow shook her in her saddle, but only slightly, and the spikes of her morningstar slammed into the rose shield in return. She dared one swift glance around to see how the wider battle was going but the narrow slit on her helm restricted her vision and all she could see was brief moments of chaos before Ser Loras' longaxe slammed down again and she was forced to divert her attention back to her own fight lest her helm be caved in. Watching from the crowd however, vision unobscured by the helm she had already removed and having a better vantage point, Catelyn saw the first charge far more clearly.

Having not so much as held a lance in over a year, Lord Eddard Stark had elected not to use the knightly weapon, instead fighting with his ancestral greatsword in hand. Queen Cersei had been as good as her word, and Ser Balon Swann had returned the weapon to Eddard with a smile upon his entry to the tourney grounds, wishing the Northman luck before the Kingsguard knight left to take his place. Ned may not have wielded a sword properly since his arrest, but Ice was as familiar to his as his own arm, and it swung easily in his hands as Lord Randyll Tarly's horse rushed toward him, deadly lance point held out in front and gleaming.

A single downward chop of his family blade had Lord Randyll's lance reduced to half its length in a moment, the Valyrian steel slicing hardened ash like butter and removing the steel point, turning the lance to a mere stick. Before the Lord of Horn Hill could drop the useless hunk of wood and draw his own sword, Eddard's backhanded cut brought Ice back up into Lord Tarly's chest with all the strength of his arms behind it. Randyll brought his shield up in time to save his chest from the fatal blow, but the force behind Eddard's upward swing knocked him out of his seat, and Lord Randyll had barely enough time to kick free of his stirrups before the weight of his armor had him toppling from his saddle.

Though Lord Eddard had gained an early advantage over his foe, the others were not all so fortunate. Ever since she was a girl, Alyssa Tully had enjoyed tales of battles long past, and one of her favourites had been of the tourney at Ashford Meadow, and of the Trial of Seven Ser Duncan the Tall fought for defending the puppeteer Tanselle from Prince Aerion Targaryen. Thinking of that now brought her sorrow, as it reminded her of her uncle, who had died in the same manner as Prince Baelor, but what she had not forgotten, was the trick Prince Baelor had used to deliver his side victory. Not only had the Prince ridden directly at the three Kingsguard fighting for his brother, knowing that their vows forbade them from laying a hand on any of the Blood Royal, but he had instructed his team to arm themselves with tourney lances.

Tourney lances were oak instead of solid ash, were slimmer and designed to shatter on contact with a shield and of course, lacked the iron point designed to drive through plate and shield with the weight of an armoured knight and warhorse behind it. It did however, have one distinct advantage, and that was reach. A tourney lance was twelve feet long compared to the eight feet of a war lance, and the extra four feet meant that as long as your lance struck true, you could unhorse your opponent before they unhorsed you. Simple logic really, if two people run at each other, each holding out a stick and one person's is longer, the person with the shorter stick will get hit first.

That strategy however, was risky. First of all, unlike a war lance, a tourney lance was blunted to cause no real harm, and so would do no real good striking a person's breastplate, and certainly none by shattering on the shield. A hit to the helm was the only real chance one had of doing damage, and that was a small target, requiring a skilled jouster to hit. There was a reason why most people aimed for shield or breastplate in tourneys. Secondly, the extra length meant that one had to be even more precise than with a war lance. The long pole meant that even the tiniest movements would see the point sway dramatically, and so it was not a choice one should make if they were not confident in their skill with a lance. To put it bluntly, choosing a tourney lance wouldn't make up for having poor aim, it would make your aim worse. Catelyn's champions had each considered long and hard before making their choices, therefore, and so the results were different for each.

Lord Edmure Tully may have been an anointed knight, but he had also been injured early on in the war, and had remained at Riverrun even after his recovery. He too, like Eddard, had not fought seriously in nearly a year, but unlike the Lord of Winterfell, Edmure was confident enough in his own ability to take advantage of his sister's advice and choose a tourney lance, confident the extra reach would allow him to overcome Ser Meryn Trant with ease.

The choice proved a costly one. Had Edmure chosen a war lance his thrust would have been true to the mark, running the iron point clean through Ser Meryn's helm, but the long wooden pole wavered and foiled his aim, his strike landing not on the Kingsguard's helm but his shield, shattering as intended and leaving only a broken handle in Edmure's grip.

Eyes widening, the Lord of Riverrun raised his shield just in time to meet Ser Meryn's own thrust, and the lance intended to run through his heart instead deflected into the shoulder of his shield arm. With the weight of Ser Meryn, his armor, warhorse and barding as well as the speed of the charge behind the blow, the lance ran deep into Edmure's flesh and snapped off, the Lord of Riverrun roaring in pain even as the impact threw him from his saddle.

Rising to his feet, teeth gritted in pain, Edmure chanced a look at his shoulder, burning with agony and flinched at the sight of two feet of broken lance still sticking from it. Slowly, only his right arm working properly he drew his sword, before a thundering of hooves alerted him just in time for something to slam into the side of his greathelm and ring his head like a bell, knocking him to his knees. Groggy, Edmure rose, field of vision hindered by his helm as he searched for the source of the blow, before another one slammed into his backplate. Giving up the search as a bad job, he fumbled with the buckles and pulled the trout-crested steel free of his head, hurling it into the mud. Eyes now clear, he glanced over to see Ser Meryn, still mounted, sword now drawn and charging down on him again.

On instinct, Edmure tried to raise his shield but he had dropped it in his fall and his left arm was barely working in any case. With no other choice, he parried with his longsword, wincing at the shock that ran up his arm, and kept his eyes on Ser Meryn as the other man rode past, before turning his horse about for another charge. "Sorry Cat" he muttered, raising his blade to block yet another stroke. "Looks like I won't be much help at the moment." The plan was for Ser Brienne to keep Ser Loras at bay long enough for Catelyn's other champions to deal with their opponents and come to her aid; overwhelming the Knight of Flowers with sheer weight of numbers, but at the moment Edmure was in no position to help Ser Brienne. As a matter of fact, he wouldn't last much longer unless he had help himself.

Lord Jason Mallister was known for his honor, but the Lord of Seagard was also a noted jouster, having fought in many tournaments over the years, including the Hand's tourney, unhorsed eventually by none other than the Hound himself, who eventually went on to claim the champion's purse. When Lady Alyssa presented her idea to use tourney lances, Jason spat at the notion, for a true knight needed no such tricks to win. Fortunate then, that Jason's opponent, Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, though burly and tall, was a man who shared his sense of honor. Both men thundered towards the other, lances raised, both so skilled that their points were aimed straight at their opponent's chests, and both combatants angled their shields perfectly so that their opponent's thrust was redirected away from their bodies.

Rather than try to bring his unwieldy lance back up for another pass, as his horse raced past Ser Balon's, Lord Jason tossed the weapon to the ground and drew his longsword, wheeling his mount to bring the weapon down on Ser Balon's back. Ser Balon rocked in his saddle from the blow, but he was quick to recover, discarding his own lance and pulling his spiked morningstar from his saddle bow, he spurred towards Jason and the two men began hammering at each other furiously, longsword and morningstar flashing, neither able to gain the advantage. Though tempted by the noise all around them, both men were tempted to take a quick peek to the side, but kept their attention firmly on their own battle, knowing that against an opponent of such skill, even a second of inattention could be fatal.

Like Edmure Tully, Lord Karyl Vance had chosen to fight with a tourney lance, but unlike his liege lord, Lord Karyl had the skill to use it. His lance went exactly where he wanted it to go and the wooden pole smashed into Ser Osmund Kettleblack's helm with punishing force, the White Sword not so much jolted as thrown from his saddle, slamming into the ground headfirst. Lord Karyl discarded his broken lance and nudged his horse a pace closer, looking down at the motionless Kettleblack, waiting for the man to rise, but he did not move. Karyl hesitated, expecting a trick but after a minute or so, Ser Osmund still lay still as the dead.

He doubted the man was actually dead, there was no blood showing and the angle of his head made the possibility of a broken neck fairly low, but he was almost surely stunned after a fall like that. Though his first instinct was to aid Ser Brienne against Ser Loras as previously agreed, the sound of steel clashing on steel caught his attention, and Lord Karyl

looked over the other side of the field to see Lord Edmure Tully, unhorsed and wounded sore, fending off attacks from Ser Meryn Trant, the mounted Kingsguard clearly having the advantage. The Lord of Wayfarer's Rest would have had to have been blind not to see that his liege lord was in desperate need of help, and so seizing Ser Osmund's fallen lance, still jutting out of the ground, Karyl spurred his horse and raced to Edmure's aid.

Ser Walder Rivers had heeded the lesson of Ashford Meadow as well, though he was not as quite as successful as Ser Karyl. His lance struck on his trueborn brother's breastplate, not helm and though Lord Serrett eventually tumbled from his saddle, he retained his seat long enough to drive his lance home. The blow had shaken him though, and his aim was off, resulting in his point piercing not Ser Walder but the neck of his horse, and the beast collapsed to its knees, throwing the bastard knight off almost at the same moment as his brother finally lost his seat.

Rising from the ground amidst curses and clanking of armor, the two Freys drew their swords and set upon each other without any hesitation. Black Walder was the stronger, his savage blows denting his brother's steel and pushing him back, but Walder Rivers was wise enough to give ground, returning cuts just often enough to keep his brother from stealing all the momentum and gaining advantage. River's raised shield fended off blow after blow, the twin towers soon dented and chipped from the impacts, largely due to the fact that Lord Serrett had discarded his own peacock shield in order to grip his longsword in two hands, thus adding power to his swings. Skill and tactics were forgotten here, this was a simple race to see who would tire first, the reward for the victor being death.

Owing to her upbringing and time at war, Alyssa Tully was a talented horsewoman. She wasn't of the caliber of Lyanna Stark, who many said rode as if she were half a centaur, but Alyssa fought on horseback near as well as she did on foot. Many forgot that it was her who led the final charge at Riverhold, her knights smashing through the Kingslayer's flank and destroying his formations. Despite that, however, she had next to zero skill with a lance. As a matter of fact, she despised the weapon, feeling it long, clumsy and good only for one attack, after which the user wasted precious seconds drawing his sword or axe; time in which the foe could be upon him.

It was for that reason that as the sellsword turned knight charged towards her, Alyssa tossed her lance to the ground in disdain, focusing all her attention on the oncoming threat, judging distance with an expert eye. When the sellsword's horse was only twenty feet away, she acted; kicking free of her stirrups, she yanked hard on her horse's reins, bringing her mare to a halt even as she leapt off to the left, rolling to break her fall. The lance may be a fearsome weapon in a charge, but it was also an awkward one. The way to use it was to couch it under your right arm, steadying your thrust and helping soak up the impact of your strike. The problem was, turning to the right with a couched lance was near impossible, as the butt stuck out and could catch on your side as you turned.

With Alyssa having leapt to his right, Bronn couldn't turn quickly enough to strike her and had just enough time to realise what was about to happen as he saw steel appear in her hands, cursing to himself and bracing for the pain. Everything happened in a rush after that. Bronn's lance drove deep into the belly of Alyssa's mare, and the faithful steed fell to the ground screaming in agony. Alyssa spared a moment of grief for the horse that had carried her through this war, before she brought her swords up and hacked at the legs of the sellsword's horse as he passed with all her might, severing its two right legs just below the knee.

The sudden loss of balance had the horse pitching over instantly, and the abrupt change in angle and pace; going from full gallop to dead stop, had Bronn flung from his saddle, landing in the dust a dozen paces away with a cat's grace, rising from the ground as if he had merely tripped and not taken a fall that would have killed other men. Narrowing her eyes, Alyssa spared one single second to thrust her sword down and end her faithful mare's suffering, the mare falling silent as Alyssa's blade found its heart, before she pulled her sword free and moved to meet Bronn, who unsheathed his own longsword and stood ready to face her.

Both were garbed similarly, ringmail shirt over leather, and had the speed of cats, though Bronn stood a full head taller than Alyssa, it was clear to both that she had the advantage in agility. Knowing that he could not match the nimble Lady, having seen her dexterity in that leap, Bronn took a two-handed grip on his sword and swung down, aiming to overpower her defences with sheer force. His powerful chop knocked River's Edge aside, but before he could strike, Alyssa struck high with her shortsword at his left side and Bronn was forced to bring his sword up to defend himself. With his sword now out of position, River's Edge slashed low at his ankles and the sellsword hurried to move the blade back down.

High and low, left and right, Alyssa's blades lashed out like two deadly steel tongues, licking in and out and always seeking the weak spots in Bronn's defence. The sellsword parried mayhaps two dozen blows before he was at last able to slam Alyssa's shortsword aside and retake the offensive, Alyssa giving ground before the sellsword's blows. Allowing the man to vent his frustration, Alyssa ducked and weaved around his attacks before she seized an opening, leaping over a low cut and slashing her shorter blade at his throat. The man hurriedly backed away to avoid the blow and Alyssa pressed her advantage, keeping up the momentum of her attacks and closing on the sellsword with every step, eyes scanning the ground behind him even as her weapons flashed and twirled.

Stepping over mud and rocks with ease, Bronn met every one of Alyssa's attacks with his own blade, allowing her to spend her energy and waiting for her to tire. Then his next step had his heel slamming into something and he stumbled back over the corpse of Alyssa's fallen mare, unable to prevent himself from tumbling over, tossing away his sword so as not to impale himself in his fall. He recovered quickly, rolling over to seize his weapon again a heartbeat before Alyssa's boot would have stamped down upon it. He cut at her exposed leg but her own longsword met his and then her shortsword came up on the other side, trapping his blade.

Muscles strained as Alyssa used the leverage given by the two blades to force the sellsword's arms up over his head, stepping closer to maintain her lock; the two now near enough that they could have kissed had they wished it. Strangely, the sellsword took his left hand from his sword's hilt and Alyssa realised too late what he was up to as Bronn shot his hand out, hurling the fistful of dirt he had snatched up during his fall directly into her face. Alyssa cried out in pain, eyes burning but retained her senses and a heartbeat later she returned the favor, her right leg snapping out and striking the sellsword cleanly between the legs; boot slamming into his groin with punishing force.

A cry of pure agony met Alyssa's ears, and the sound of footsteps stumbling back made her smile, before she turned her attention to restoring her sight. Against any other opponent, the sellsword's trick would have been a decisive one. Dirt in one's eyes was a common move by lowborn and children, and was normally rather easy to wipe away after a little time. When one's hands were covered in gauntlets however, and held sword and shield, that became far more difficult, the victim risking permanent blindness if the steel finger of a gauntlet scratched their eye.

Had Alyssa been clad in full plate like her sister had worn, she never could have cleared her eyes in time, and the sellsword would have taken full advantage of her blindness, resulting in a swift defeat and like as not equally swift death. Her fingerless gloves, on the other hand, offered far greater dexterity than steel gauntlets, the very reason she favored them, and it was the work of a few seconds to clear her left eye well enough that she could see again, though her vision was faint and watery. Ignoring the pain, she kept that eye firmly fixed on her opponent, watching for any sign that Bronn intended to attack her while she wiped her right, though it seemed that the sellsword's attention was focused on his own suffering.

By the time he had managed to stumble back towards her, Alyssa's eyes were as clear as they could be without water and a cloth, and the two weary fighters moved towards each other again. This was not the determined charge of before, but rather a resigned walk as the two prepared to continue their struggle. Steel rang on steel and long and short swords clashed with Bronn's own as the lady and the sellsword continued their deadly dance where a single misstep meant death and one false move could be your undoing.

When the dust had cleared, Catelyn watched with a frown as her husband dismounted to meet Lord Randyll Tarly on even ground, the Lord of Horn Hill reaching up to his back to where his own Valyrian greatsword was sheathed and unsheathing Heartsbane. Proud as she was of Ned's sense of honour, she wished that it had not come into play at this very moment, when her husband was fighting for her life, and his. The two lords came together, sparks flying from their Valyrian steel and Ned came on, Ice swinging, Catelyn narrowed her eyes. Something felt wrong. She watched for mayhaps a minute more before she saw it.

Though Catelyn was no fighter herself, she had seen many a tourney in her years, and passed by the sparring yard on more than a few occasions. She'd seen men fight, and Ned had even taken her aside on occasion and described the fighters skill and techniques to her, pointing out weaknesses. When she stared once at an obvious gap in a man's defence Ned had pointed out to her and asked him why the man did not correct it, her husband had simply smiled and informed her that those watching a battle could often see things the fighters themselves missed.

Those words rang inside her head now as she watched her husband circling Lord Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill turning just enough to keep Ned in his sights. A wolf circling his prey, some would have said at first glance, given the Stark sigil, but Catelyn saw differently. Unlike Ned, who was swinging Ice with all his might and pressing his opponent hard, Lord Tarly was calm as he blocked or dodged Ned's attacks, striking back only just enough to force Ned to keep up his pace, and content to allow her husband to waste his strength before he struck. Ned might be a wolf, but the Tarly sigil was a huntsman and watching with her heart in her mouth, Catelyn knew Lord Randyll was dealing with her husband the way he would a beast; tire it and then kill it.

Down on the tourney grounds, sweat running down his brow, Eddard Stark knew it too. He tried to ease off, slow the pace of his attacks and conserve his stamina, but Tarly lashed out, Heartsbane sweeping clean, precise arcs towards Ned's neck and chest. Meeting each of the blows with Ice, Ned swung back, forced to disrupt Tarly's momentum and then he wearily went on the offensive once again, breath now coming in rasps. He was out of practice, he knew, the year of confinement having not only taken its toll on his skill, but his body as well. He held up well enough against the sparring dummies, but in a fight such as this, against an opponent of Lord Randyll's skill, he was badly outmatched, and from the grim smile on his face, the Lord of Horn Hill knew it too.

Taking a chance, he increased the pace of his attacks, stepping wide and trying to flank the other lord, Ice snapping out to take Tarly in the neck or side. Randyll parried every blow without so much as flinching. The old wolf circled the huntsman, fangs snapping but the hunter stayed patient, biding his time and each strike came a fraction slower than the last. His foe was tiring, he knew, and now the moment had come. For the first time since he had drawn the blade, Randyll Tarly slashed Heartsbane down with deadly intent. Ned parried, but not in time and the Valyrian blade sank an inch into his shoulder, cleaving plate, ring and flesh with ease.

Grunting in pain, Ned backed off a pace or two, ignoring the horrified cry that came from his wife's lips at the sight of his wound and holding Ice ready to repel any attack. Lord Tarly didn't pursue, instead holding Heartsbane in a guard position, waiting for Ned's next move. Wincing, Ned rolled his shoulder to test its motion before he grimaced. Tarly's blade had found its mark well, and he found it difficult to move the arm. Not his sword hand, thank the gods, but when fighting with a greatsword both arms were near equally as important. He would be at a disadvantage now, even more so than before.

Closing his eyes in pain for a bare heartbeat, not daring to take his attention from his opponent for longer than that, Eddard Stark was forced to face the painful truth. He had lost. He had failed his wife, and his failure meant not only his own death, but once the Lord of Horn Hill turned his Valyrian greatsword on Ser Brienne, Catelyn's as well. Glancing out of the corner of his eye to where Catelyn stood, guarded by Gold Cloaks lest she try to flee, Ned Stark felt his resolve harden. Even if he survived this battle, he'd pledged to appear for his own trial, and Cersei would be sure to have him beheaded the moment that farce was over. He was a dead man either way, but he could at least see that Catelyn lived.

Hefting his greatsword over his shoulder, Eddard Stark breathed deeply, summoning what reserves of strength he had left, before he broke into a run, racing full sprint at Lord Randyll with Ice held over his head. To his credit, the Lord of Horn Hill reacted immediately, turning his body to face Ned with Heartsbane pulled back to his shoulder, ready to lunge the moment the Lord of Winterfell was in range. Sending a last prayer to the Old Gods in his mind, Eddard Stark increased his pace and leapt towards his opponent, sword raised. This was considered a near suicidal move unless you were much faster than your opponent, as one was unable to maneuver in midair and so became a sitting duck for an opponent's lethal counter.

Eyes locked on the approaching Eddard, Lord Randyll Tarly gripped the hilt of his family blade tightly, waiting for the airborne Northman to come into range. At last the moment was right, and he thrust Heartsbane forward, tip aimed, fittingly, right at Eddard's heart. An instant before it hit, Eddard slashed Ice down with all his might. A beat later, Heartsbane proved true to its name yet again and Eddard Stark slumped to the ground with the ancient blade transfixing his chest, Catelyn's horrified screams ringing in his ears as Ice fell from his fingers. In the next breath, Lord Randyll Tarly's head fell from his shoulders in a rush of crimson and the Lord of Horn Hill toppled over, the two lords laying next to each other in a pool of their own mingled blood as Eddard breathed his last.

Ser Meryn Trant grinned inside his helm as he wheeled his horse again and again, raining blows on the wounded Edmure Tully. The red bearded knight brought his sword down once more, smirking at the sound it made striking into Tully's pauldron. The Tully lord was slowing, and growing tired, and Meryn knew it would not be long before he faltered. Then Meryn could move on to a more challenging opponent. He tugged on his reins again, bringing his horse around for yet another pass, when the sound of pounding hooves thundering towards him from behind reached his ears. Trant tried to turn, but the slit in his helm restricted his view, and he only just managed to turn his horse towards the oncoming rider before a point burst through his breastplate and Ser Meryn Trant slumped over in his saddle, pierced clean through by a war lance, the iron point having punched through plate, mail, leather, flesh and bone.

Leaning on his longsword as if it were a cane, weary to his bones, Edmure Tully lifted his visor, sucking in the cool air gratefully. "Lord Karyl. Your timing is perfect, my lord. My thanks."

"None are needed, my lord." Karyl Vance raised his own faceplate, the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest taking this opportunity to scan the battlefield.

He saw that Eddard Stark was dead, and spared one moment of sorrow for Lady Catelyn, now a widow, before his gaze moved on. Jason Mallister and Balon Swann were still dueling, neither man appearing to have the advantage there. The two Walders were also locked in a stalemate, though they both appeared to have been unhorsed at some point, though fought no less fiercely regardless, Serrett's blade sending splinters flying from his brother's shield with every swing. Lady Alyssa seemed to be dealing with the sellsword Bronn well enough, deflecting the man's blows yet unable to land a hit herself. She would need aid eventually, but for now she was holding her own.

Then Karyl's gaze moved to the centre of the field, where Ser Brienne was even now keeping Ser Loras Tyrell at bay, and his eyes narrowed. Every ounce of him wanted to gallop to the Tarth knight's aid, but he was unsure about leaving his liege lord and friend alone and badly wounded in the midst of the battle. Against his will, his eyes flicked to Edmure and the Lord of Riverrun instantly divined the course of his friend's thoughts. "I'll be fine, Karyl" he implored the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest. "I'm not helpless, I can still defend myself. You go help Lady Brienne, I'll make my own way over and join you soon." Hesitating a moment longer, Karyl Vance nodded shortly before he slapped his visor back down and put spurs to his horse, racing to assist in the battle against the Knight of Flowers.

For Brienne of Tarth, assistance would be welcome. Despite her best efforts, Ser Loras Tyrell was gradually gaining the upper hand, his longaxe more often than not finding her plate instead of her shield now. Though choosing to fight with the same weapon as Bitterbridge had served to remove the threat of the boy's lance, the cost of that choice was now becoming clear. Loras' longaxe was a better weapon for fighting on horseback than Brienne's morningstar, the extra reach of the long handled axe allowing Loras many strikes without receiving a blow in return. Brienne's shield was quickly becoming a ruin, while Loras' own was still intact.

Lord Karyl's intervention came none too soon, the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest bringing his horse to a halt on Loras' left side, and smashing his longsword into the boy's breastplate. Aware that they could not kill the boy without risking his father's wrath, Karyl didn't even try aiming for the gaps in the flower decorated plate armor, instead using his longsword as he would a stick, slamming it against the steel; Ser Loras grunting at the force of the impact. Now given room to breathe, Brienne closed on Ser Loras from the other side and the two hammered at the heir of Highgarden from both sides, the Knight of Flowers doing his best to parry the blows as he twisted and turned in his saddle, the ones he failed to block with shield or longaxe landing on his plate and doing no real harm.

Cradling his injured arm, Edmure Tully's breath came in heavy gasps as he watched the furious fighting raging all around him. Alyssa had the sellsword Bronn handled for the moment, and Lord Jason's duel with Ser Balon Swann was shaping up to be one for the songs. His eyes fell upon the bodies of Eddard Stark and Randyll Tarly and he gasped, turning his gaze to the stands and sending his sister a look of deepest sympathy.

Gasps came from the crowd and Edmure whirled as quickly as he could without further injuring his left arm, mouth opening in horror as he saw Ser Walder Rivers fall to the ground, throat a red ruin after having been opened by his kinsman's longsword. Ten years older than his trueborn kin, Ser Walder's strength had been sapped bit by bit as he deflected the vicious attacks until he simply had no strength left to defend himself. What remained of the bastard's shield lay at his feet in a jumble of wooden splinters, his own sword notched and struck from his hand by the force of a two-handed blow.

Without pausing, Serrett glanced about the field, grinned and grasped the reins of his brother's riderless horse as it cantered by. Swinging himself up into the saddle, the Lord of Silverhill clapped his spurs into the animal's side and charged straight towards the closest ally of his, Ser Balon Swann, still dueling Lord Jason Mallister. Time slowed as Edmure's thoughts whirled about his head like leaves tossed by a current. Ser Balon was already Lord Jason's match, with Lord Serrett joining in the two men would soon have the Lord of Seagard overwhelmed.

Once that happened, Edmure knew, things would take a turn for the decidedly worse. Swann and Serrett would be free to interfere in any other battles they chose. Alyssa had her hands full already, she certainly couldn't deal with another opponent on top of the one she already had, and once she was down the sellsword would join the other two in aiding Ser Loras, turning the battle into a three on two melee, with Joffrey's side having the advantage. But one hope remained for them to achieve victory. Ser Loras must be forced to yield, and quickly.

That however, was easier said than done. Despite being outnumbered two to one, the Knight of Flowers fought on gamely, refusing to yield an inch; longaxe flashing as he made sure to give as good as he got. The Maid of Tarth and the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest had the boy trapped from both sides, horses pressing against his own purebred white stallion and preventing him from retreating so much as a foot, but they were still unable to land a decisive blow. The finely worked plate armor absorbed what blows the oaken shield did not, and even when Lord Karyl stooped so low as to aim for Ser Loras' horse, the steel barding covering its chest and neck deflected his strike. With a growl, Lord Karyl aimed again but Edmure knew it was no good.

The barding covered all attacks from above, the only vulnerable point was the underside of the horse's throat; a place one would have to be standing practically under the horse's nose to reach, and Lord Karyl didn't have the time to so much as scratch his nose right now, let alone dismount. Not to mention as soon as he did, Ser Loras would flee… It was then Edmure Tully saw what he had to do. Cursing under his breath as the Lord of Seagard was rocked by Lord Serrett's longsword slamming into his shoulder, causing him to miss his block and allowing Ser Balon's morningstar to take him in the chest, Edmure Tully gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm and started to run.

As it was, Ser Loras would have been able to hold his own against the two attackers, though his body would have been a battered mess of bruises on the morrow, but for Edmure Tully's intervention. The Lord of Riverrun, left arm still hanging useless and unable to mount a horse, reached the combat after some minutes and immediately took in the situation. Lady Brienne and Lord Karyl had the Knight of Flowers surrounded, and though the boy tried more than once to spur his stallion and break out of the trap, they were pressing him too tightly, denying his horse the room it needed to move and he was unable to win his way free. There was no room left for Edmure to join the fight, and even if he did, with his arm the way it was, he'd only get in the way.

With that in mind, Edmure Tully chose another option, one he would normally despise as a honorless trick, but with his sister's life at stake, he was willing to put his principles aside just this once. Pulling his dagger from his right hip with his good right hand, awkwardly as the weapon was intended to be drawn by the left hand, Edmure gripped the hilt and approached Ser Loras' horse. The Knight of Flowers saw him of course, in an open field there was no way the boy would not, but his attackers pressed him harder and neither he nor his horse could spare the time to deal with Edmure. Reaching up under the horse's neck, where the protective steel barding ended, Edmure gripped his dagger and in a smooth motion drew it across the stallion's white throat, as if he were a butcher preparing an animal for the pot.

Blood jetted out in a crimson spray, and the Highgarden trained stallion sank to its knees. Even as it was falling, a loud crash met Edmure's ears, sound not muffled by any kind of helm and he looked over the neck of the stricken horse to see Lord Jason Mallister topple from his saddle with the spiked ball of Ser Balon Swann's morningstar stuck into his winged helm. The Lord of Seagard's fingers opened and his longsword dropped into the mud, immediately followed by Ser Balon's morningstar, released by its owner rather than have Lord Jason's weight take him off his own mount. Without waiting for a signal, Lord Serrett turned his horse towards Ser Loras even as Ser Balon drew his sword and Loras' horse breathed its last gasp.

Lady Brienne and Lord Vance backed their horses off to allow the beast room to fall, and Ser Loras swung out of his saddle before his stallion could collapse on him, discarding the unwieldy longaxe to do so. Standing defiantly before his three foes, he reached to his belt for his longsword, but discarding her own weapon, Brienne hurled herself at him with a determined cry, wrapping her armored arms around the young Tyrell and bringing him to the ground, adding insult to injury, in a repeat of his defeat at Bitterbridge.

Before he could rise, Brienne had ripped open his visor, while Karyl Vance rested the blade of his longsword just above the seam between the armor plates guarding Ser Loras' groin. Instinctively, the Knight of Flowers tried to rise, only for Brienne to kneel on his chest, resting her full weight on the boy and holding him in place. Edmure Tully knelt down, ignoring his still injured arm, and held the point of his dagger just below the youth's eye, pricking into his skin just enough to draw a single drop of blood. Ser Balon and Lord Serrett froze in their tracks at the sight, unwilling to risk the safety of the heir to Highgarden. "Yield, Ser" the Lord of Riverrun commanded, glancing up at the royal box.

King Joffrey was red with rage, furious at his side's defeat, while the soon-to-be Queen Margaery was in tears, pleading with him not to let her brother die. Cersei Lannister was watching intently, while her brother's gaze constantly switched back and forth between Lady Margaery and her brother. Olenna Tyrell at last heaved herself out of her chair, the tiny woman supporting herself on her stick as she hobbled forward. Bending down, the Queen of Thorns said a few, quiet words into the King's ear. Whirling in shock, Joffrey saw the old woman's face set in utter resolve, and knew no words of his could change her mind. With a snarl he rose, and signalled to the herald. The trumpets sounded again, and the people fell silent, waiting for their King's words.

"The Crown withdraws its accusations against Lady Catelyn Stark" Joffrey called, hiding his rage as best he could. "You are an innocent woman, Lady Stark, and free."