it had been a while since the youngest tully donned plate armor. it would be needed against the knights and fighters from westeros and their type of attacks, even though it felt a little more restrictive than they preferred. how many years had it been since attending a proper tourney, let alone participate in one? and even then, it'd mostly been other types of riding games they participated in like the quintain or simply riding at the rings. there was a type of nervousness and preemptive adrenaline, or rather anxiety, that buzzed beneath the surface. in the melee, their uncle, cousin, and ren would be among the participants, as well as some of the realm's finest fighters.

mayhaps it was lucky aila found themselves roped into grover's mischief in the past moon where their skills with a blade would not be the most rusty. they had yet to suit themselves up, taking the time to ground themselves before the added weight. out of their peripheral, aila catches a glimpse of lord edmure and suddenly they feel all of five-and-ten again.

"lord edmure!" they greet, walking over, eying the lord and the armor beside them. "do you need assistance?" the offer genuine but also gnawing at a place of nostalgia. familiar tasks always helped the mind calm when disobedient hands could fall into old routines. "i'll admit seeing so many experienced knights has shaken my resolve ever so slightly. it's an honor to be able to compete against everyone."

comfort comes easier to jocelyn when it does not bear the face of an immediate family member ─ making themselves useful by carrying ( not dragging, after the earful they had received from one of the healers ) basketfuls of clean linens to conceal their true purpose in the sickrooms ( watching over the unmoving figure of their stepmother as she floats in and out of the fever ) allows them to avoid their sisters and the vicious whispers that drag the death of their mother and the plague that had swept through the stormlands back to the forefronts of their thoughts. embarrassingly, they had spent the morning with their head on the sweat - soaked sheets of their stepmother's sickbed, hiding their tears against the mattress until the servants had called them out of the room ─ their tears were not ( only ) for helvis, but for the memory of their mother, too, and that guides their feet to the gardens, where a familiar face makes their feet quicken. ❝ fuck off. ❞ jocelyn does not care to see if they have offended the curious onlookers that drag their gazes over the baratheon and the arryn, finding dull vindication at the scurry of feet. they press their arm against steffon's, staring quietly at the shrubbery. ❝ ... how is your sister ? ❞ they do not specific which one, allowing steffon to spill his thoughts without restriction.