Attend one of the day's events.

The Valley Contests may have largely been an excuse for the men of Itheria and Beatha to feast, drink and wench together, but there were still many who took the actual games and tests of prowess seriously. Having spent more time north with Donald than you'd anticipated, you decided it would be prudent to show your face at one such display.

Rising from your bed, you hobble over to your clothes chest and find some less travel-worn attire, a velvet tunic and leggings to match, a silver belt fastened in place over them. Dressing as quickly as you can, you leave the warmth of your tent for the bracing air of the camp.

Sir Malcolm is outside, approaching you as soon as you alight within his vision.

"Your Majesty!" The young warrior exclaims. "I just wanted to apologise... yet again, for the events of last night."

"You are forgiven." You tell him. "Provided you never take such liberties again. We'll say no more on this now."

"Of course, Majesty." Malcolm nods, as he follows you towards the Contest grounds. "Now, if I may dare to ask, where have you been the last two days?"

"I rode north with the crown prince." You admit. "There's a stronghold to the north he wanted to show me. A place of great natural... beauty."

"You left the camp with Donald? Alone? Without informing anyone?" Sir Malcolm says, his bemusement clear even behind his mannered tone.

"We're allies, are we not?" You insist. "Besides, we weren't alone. His elf rode with us."

"I'm not sure that puts me at ease, Majesty." Malcolm tells you. "I find his arrangement with that she-elf rather queer, all told."

"It's not something you'd see in Itheria, true." You respond. "Still, she seems a trusty companion."

"You, however, were without guard or fellowship." Malcolm notes. "Please, Your Majesty, do not put yourself in such jeopardy again. And I would be more wary around the Beathans. You know well the barbarians haven't always seen eye to eye with us."

It was true. Though relations between your kingdom and Coinneach's had been increasingly warm for the past several decades, the last century had seen Beatha and Itheria on opposite sides of a battlefield more than once.

"Enough of this." You decide. "Do you know which event is taking place this morning?"

"The final bout of wrestling, Your Majesty." Malcolm informs you.

"Is Princess Kara still in contention?" You ask. Malcolm nods.

"She's outperformed every man she's clashed with. Including most of our competitors." your bodyguard notes, a note of disdain in his words. "Gods willing, Sir Wayne will be able to win a victory for Itheria."

Sir Wayne was one of your loyal vassals, and more pertinently, one of the largest men you'd ever laid eyes upon. If the princess managed to overcome him, she would be formidable indeed.

-

The space devoted to the wrestling event is sparse and simple, befitting the Beathan nature of the Contests. It's barely more a circle of earth, swept clean of snow, for the challengers to clash in, framed on either side by a few rows of wooden benches.

Donald is already seated there, amongst his fellow Beathans. As you approach, he nods his head in greeting. Daena is also close by his side, keeping an eye on events.

You take a seat yourself, Malcolm by your side. The overseers of the Contests stride out into the wrestling circle first, explaining the conditions of the bout, and the prize that's on offer, the honour of having won, as well as a small pouch of gold coins. That out of the way, Kara and Sir Wayne enter the ring, staring each other down.

You're startled by the difference in size between the two competitors. Princess Kara's taller than the average woman, and fierce-looking to boot, but Sir Wayne towers over her. At first glance, she has about as much chance of beating the older, larger, more muscular Itherian as you would dominating Jarl Hjordis.

But still, the Beathan seems confident enough.

"You'd better not go easy on me, just on account of my being a woman!" Kara declares, as the two of them face off.

"You'd better not go easy on him, dear sister, just on account of him being Itherian!" Donald calls out, meriting roars of laughter from his future subjects, and more than a couple of yours.

"Have no fear, Milady." Sir Wayne says, his chiselled, moustachioed face remaining implacable. "I know you're an opponent to be reckoned with."

That seemed to please the northern princess. Giving each other a respectful bow, the two wrestlers squared off. The rules were simple enough. Forcing the other competitor out of the circle earned that person a point. The first two three points would be victorious.