DraekonGreycloak: Melee HYPE.

Mikle Silver: To be fair to Tyrion he has been drunk most of the time he's been wed to Sansa, and don't worry Arianne ain't gonna die any time soon

Saint River: She doesn't want to appear weak, a trait she shares with her father.

Silver crow: It's like an eye only different

danceegirl92: If I told you he asked about Arianne's moon blood would that sate your curiosity

Malyx Blackfyre: Next chapter I promise


The Lion vs. the Flower vs. the Red Viper

The tent erected for the Westerland's champions was twice as large as the others, about half the size of the Throne Room and twice as comfortable. It was decorated in roaring lions of bright gold woven into the darkened crimson field that made up the pavilions coverings. Inside of the great tent, a deep red hue hung over everything inside. Food and plenty of drink had been laid onto a table for the warriors as they readied themselves for combat.

Bruce could hear the final joust going on, as he fixed his breastplate in place. He was the first to arrive at the tent and thus far the only one to remain inside. Putting on his own armour was little trouble, he'd done it plenty of times before however the slight shake in his fingers unnerved him a little. It was here, finally it was here. His time for justice.

He nibbled on some salted pork and crackling as he fastened the strings to his greaves. Everyone would be watching, to see how I will pay back Tyrell. Bruce narrowed his eyes at that thought. How will I pay him back? The original plan had been to kill Loras but after this morning…

No. He wouldn't think of that. A promise was made and a goodbye said, no more no less, regardless of what the strain on the Young Lion's heart told him. Loras would live to see his justice and perhaps that was for the best, a living reminder would be better than a dead one; the dead could be forgotten.

Taking a few sips from his horn of ale, Bruce looked over to his armament. His longsword gave out a red glow as it reflected the scarlet aura from when the sun came through the pavilions cloth. A large ruby shined on the bottom of the blade and its hilt was the perfect alloy of gold and gilded steel. Finer work Bruce had not seen, a pity Gendry is no longer around to make more for me.

After giving the blade final wipe down, Bruce moved on to his hammer. The spike of it had been sharpened to as fine a point as could be and the stags head on the blunt edge looked angry, ready for the charge and longing for skulls to crack. A new strap had been fitted on the grip, stronger than the last. Made of brown, boiled leather and covering a small chain for extra strength, Tobho Mott had assured him no blade short of Valyrian steel could break through it. So as long as Joffrey does not take the field and get a one in a million strike it will be fine.

The Young Lion gave the hammer a few swings from his steel clad wrist to get a good feel for the weight of it. Heavier with the new strap, he felt, should definitely crack at least one skull. With the hammer still in one hand, Bruce picked up the ale filled horn and drained the rest of it. He never drunk before battle, Lord Tywin said it dulled the senses too much and you should always have your wits about you. His father had always drunk before a fight apparently, and Prince Oberyn said he took at least one cup before battle as well so he advised Bruce to have something before the melee to come.

Behind him, the opening of the tent rustled and Bruce recognized the tall, broad figure that walked in. "Daven!" He greeted, "good to see you." The lively hazel eyes of Bruce's cousin flashed with his usual joviality. "Aye. And the same to you as well, Brucey!" Boomed the knight behind his great beard.

It had been a good year since Bruce had seen one of his friends from his time at the Rock, far too long when regarding Ser Daven. His chin was still almost a double and his nose still had the piggish look about it, but the once freshly shaven knight now had long yellow hair, a thick moustache, side-whiskers as thick as a hedgerow and a beard that stretch to his midriff. The fact that Bruce now stood taller than his cousin came as a great shock, if a pleasant one, as they approached each other.

The two cousins shook hands and Bruce poured them both more ale. Ser Daven leaned back on table which Bruce's weapons were laid upon and scratched between his legs as he drank. "Too long since we drank together like this, young buck." Said the shorter of the two. Bruce nodded and took a sip, "When was the last time we drank like this, Dav?" scratching at the lobe of his ear. His cousin hummed in thought for a moment as he drank.

With a snap of his fingers Ser Daven recalled the occasion. "Raventree!" He exclaimed, "After you took the keep, almost on yer tod. The ground outside was knee high with arrows and twice as thick with 'em, but you came out of it not a scratch on yourself. Seven Hell! You should have seen the Old Lion's face when uncle Kevan told him! Ha Ha!" The two shared a long laugh and finished their drinks, before Ser Daven shifted from Bruce's station to find his own.

The knight returned not long after, with his greatsword balanced on the golden lion spaulder of Daven's left shoulder and his plain gold plate helm under the other arm. "When does this thing start then, young buck?" Asked the elder of the two. "Soon I should imagine. Were there many lined up outside when you came in?" Ser Daven nodded, his long sandy hair ruffling out across his shoulders. "Aye. Most of our lot. But some of them southerners too."

Bruce's jaw clenched. "Which southerners?" His cousin placed his helmet on his head with ease and gave a few knocks of it to hear how well it rung in his ears. "Them with the one who took me off my horse. Not one of the ones that killed it." Bruce sighed with a little relief. It wouldn't do well for Lord Tywin's bannermen to shed the blood of the Dornish before the melee started.

Turning from Ser Daven, the Young Lion fastened his sword and hammer to his belt, before picking up his own helm. His cousin gave a laugh when he saw the Crown Prince's helmet. Bruce frowned as the golden lion's head was snatched from him. "You're really not a stag anymore, are you?" Laughed Ser Daven, running a finger up the antlers of the helm in his hands, as he examined the roaring lion face they belonged to.

When Daven's finger was pricked open by the sharpened point of the antler, Bruce to back the helmet with his own laugh. "I have more than tooth and claw to fight with, ser. I doubt you'll find anyone more dangerous on the field." With that he strode from the tent, though Daven called after him; "Just mind the Viper's bite, will you. It stings believe me!"

The crowds were erupting in applause. Hundreds upon hundreds of Smallfolk and high Lords roared and stomped their feet for blood to be let on the arena's white sand. In the royal box sat the entirety of the royal family aside from the Young Lion and his Dornish wife, both absent since the jousting. While the Princess of Dorne was still being seen by a maester, the Lion with Antlers stood in behind one of the four wooden gates that penned the day's gladiators before they were released.

Bruce looked at his grandfather's bannermen chosen to fight. Each one of them were his more or less, all knew not to kill the Knight of Flowers but to funnel him straight to the centre of the field for Bruce to meet him. All the men had fought in a battle before and all were capable swords in their own right, yet only the best swords stood at the head of the column of men.

Naturally the Crown Prince was in the centre at the lead and on his left was cousin Devan and his right Addam Marbrand, next to ser Addam was the mute Ser Ilyn, his new sword worn across his back, and beside Ser Devan, a closer relation to Bruce, cousin Lancel. Of course Lancel had earned his position at the front by the merit granted to him by his last name and not the merit of his sword play, else he'd be second last.

Between the bars of the gate, they saw the king stand for his speech and Ser Lancel slammed the visor of his helm shut and brought his mace and shield up close to his face. "Do you know what you're doing with that?" Asked Ser Devan of his cousin. "Be glad you will not see me use it on you, ser." Retorted the cocky one, making half of them snigger. From behind Ser Addam the voice of Ser Bronn of the Blackwater said to those listening, "Ten stags he lasts as long as a virgin in a whorehouse."

More sniggering broke out, as did the crowd signalling an end to Joffrey's speech. Swords were drawn and armour rattled. Bruce unhooked his hammer and tapped it against his sword. "Remember: Any of you see Tyrell, he's mine." His eye was burning now as he starred out of his helm at the sand yet to be bloodied. All this waiting, and now it's time.

The first gate opened amidst the clinking of iron chains, and the Westermen could all see their Dornish cousins surge onto the field in cold copper plating and bright bronze disc workings. While the Dornishmen spread themselves about, giving the Red Viper plenty of room to manoeuvre with his long spear pointed at both ends, a second gate opened and out charged more knights.

These were the knights who were either from the Crownlands or not of the other great houses bannermen. At their head came the flapping white cloaks of the Kingsguard. They clashed with the Dornishmen, and the fight began. Any uproar of the crowd was tripled, when Prince Oberyn slashed his spear across the shoulder of Boros Blount. First blood was drawn and rivers more would follow.

Now it was their turn and time for justice. Iron chains creaked open and gate peaked open. The slaughter was plain to see. Crownlanders looked to be pigs before butchers as the Dornish trust with their spears and stabbed quickly with short swords or curved blades. Only once the gate was fully did the Westermen began to move. Keeping ranks behind their four leaders, they marched in calm control. They would win the crowd first and have the Dornish bleed themselves against the Tyrell's and Crownlanders, before swooping the remainder away.

Yet, just as the dimming sunlight grazed the front of Bruce's greaves, the rank was broken. With a shout of, "Casterly Rock!" Lancel Lannister made head long for the ensuing melee. Stunned, his comrades merely looked on in amusement. The young knight did better than thought, he downed one of the Dornish and a famous hedge knight from somewhere, before a knight from house Yronwood had him on the back foot and retreating.

"Someone should help him." Said a smiling Addam Marbrand. Ser Daven elbowed Bruce in the ribs and lifted his greatsword from his shoulder. "Or put him out of his misery." They all laughed. So much for the plan, he thought. "I'll do it." Volunteered Bruce, grinning beneath his roaring lion helm.

Bruce stepped fully into the open and lifted his arms for the crowd to see him. Into the arena he marched, full of might as his armour shimmered the crowd in silver. High Lords rumbled in awe and the crowd cried in the glory of the Young Lion the further into the field he stepped. One fool knight of the Crownlands thought himself bold enough to try the Lion first. With a slash from his sword and the full force of his armoured head crashing against his skull sent the man down. My first blood, thought Bruce drawing closer to Ser Lancel who was now cornered by two men of Dorne.

As he despatched the men cornering his cousin the crowd cheered him for his heroism. Ser Lancel looked glad of the relief from behind the visor of his pale gold helm. "Thank You, ser. Much like the Blackwater, eh." Said Lancel tightening his grip about his mace. "Much." Gave Bruce, and swung hard with his hammer.

The boos of the crowd fell on deaf ears as his hammer smashed across Lancel's face, sending his helmet flying from him and splintering his teeth. After a second strike across the head, his cousin fell down looking about as handsome as the Hound as blood splurged from his nose and mouth.

By now the rest of Lord Tywin's bannermen were flooding the field, matching the Dornish blow for blow. It wouldn't take long for this to get ugly. Bruce moved around the edge of the ring, on the outskirts of the fighting, downing all who came at him with hammer and blade alike.

After yet another rattling of iron chain, barely audible over the clashing of steel and shouting men, the Reachmen took the field. "Tyrell!" snarled Bruce from under his helm. It wouldn't take long for Ser Loras to be herded to the centre of the field and he was unlikely to stay there for long. Giving a downward strike with his sword, followed by a single pounding from his hammer, Bruce felled the son of House Dalt and moved further into the field.

Men were falling down all about the place. Some were battling one on one while others formed alliances against petty rivals only to have them shattered once the rival was gone. Bruce never once stopped moving forward. Each time was charged, he swung first and downed the opponent. If his counter attack was broken, he dodged to the side and bludgeoned the bastard with his hammer or caught them in the back with the sharpened spike.

His eye was burning so badly, he felt as if his whole head were a flame. He's close now. Come out you bastard, he would have shouted had something struck the back of his head. The Lion whirled around sword raised for Tyrell, alas it was not. Another Dornishman, bastards swarmed him like flies.

This one wore had a, a blazing star bend ways surmounted by a sword on a purple field. The sigel to House Dayne. Its bearer had an open faced, domed, bronze helm and the typical disc work of the southern desert warriors. The man's face had an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. He was clean-shaven, with thick silver hair that fell to his collar like a silver glacier, divided by a streak of midnight black. The eyes were what drew Bruce in, they were black - dark and angry.

Still smiling, the man swung for Bruce's head but this time he caught it with his hammer and pushed back the curved blade. "I've been wondering when we might meet." Said the Dornishman as he started circling Bruce. Putting his hammer to his wrist, ready to start rotating it, Bruce matched the man in his circle making.

"Who might you be then?" Demanded the prowling lion. His foes' smile grew wider. It was a cruel one, far crueller than any Bruce had ever seen. "Men call me Darkstar, and I am of the night." He lunged at Bruce but the blow was cast off quickly. Bruce swung with his hammer spinning about his wrist, but this one was quicker that most men on the field and dodged it.

With his face now matching the look of the lion he had protecting his head, Bruce swung with his sword almost catching the bastard on the back foot. "I am the Lion with Antlers," growled Bruce, "Now, come and hear me roar." Blows went back and forth, from curved blade or spinning hammer. If it simply came down to swords, Bruce was certain it would have made for a longer and more difficult fight, but Bruce had his hammer, and his hammer had no patience for this.

Swinging his sword down, in another attempt for Bruce's head, the Dornishman made his error and lost the duel. With sing of his hammer, Bruce caught the Darkstar's sword and pinned it to the dirt. Then slashed at his chest with his sword bringing his foe to his knees, as the blade tore through copper discs and boiled leather. This one may have been amongst the best of Dorne's men on the field, but they all fall as one before me, thought the Lion.

Sweat was running down his back and across his reddened face. Trickles of it stung at his eye and Bruce threw off his helm to wipe it away. Now, with a free head, it would be easier for him to find Tyrell and perhaps he would be able to see the foes as they came. Having only one eye hampering your vision with a helm was perhaps not the best idea. He looked about the field at the carnage surrounding him.

The field was thinning, of Crowlanders there were almost none to be had, only Balon Swann remained but even a Kingsguard could only withstand the Red Viper for so long. Westermen were the most bloodied it seemed, their alliances between each other fractured under the weight of their own greed, the lightening slashes from the men of Dorne and the thrust and parry of Reachmen.

Loras Tyrell was nowhere to be found on the field making Bruce growl, as he cracked open the breastplate of Horas Redwyne. Perhaps he was too craven to face me in the end, or Margaery talked him out of it. Then, as if on cue, as voice roared out from across the fighting pit. "LANNISTER!" Like a flash Bruce whirled round to find the Knight of Flowers standing ominously at the other end of the field, his cloak of three roses flapping behind him coated in its fair share of blood to match his sword, shield and armour.

It was his hated enemy that made the first move, stalking forward cutting down two of his fellow Reachmen trying to save him from himself and the Lion. Light of the mid-afternoon flashed off Ser Loras as he moved toward Bruce, calling for his own blood lust to be sated. Of all the horror and madness he had seen, naught could match what Bruce saw glaring at him behind the helm of the Trampled Rose. "I dare you!" Shouted Ser Loras, "Come on, You Coward! You and me! Hear and now!"

Gleaming like a star at mid night, Bruce advanced snarling as he came and hammer already swinging from his wrist. Seeing his challenge had been accepted, the Knight of Flowers charged head long, raging like a storm. With one eye narrowed and the other burning under its red and gold sheath, Bruce raised his sword and sprinted at break neck speed to Ser Loras.

Once the two were within arm's length Bruce swung down with his hammer, all the power and strength he could muster behind the blow. Ser Loras caught it on his shield, but the steel crumpled beneath the black iron stags head none the less and the head of the hammer crushed Tyrell's hand as it tightened about the shield's grip.

Screaming in agony, the Knight of Flowers pushed against the hammer as hard as he could. Bruce was flung back by the strength of Tyrell's push, and the loosened grip about his hammer sent it flying from him. Flailing his shield armour hurriedly to get the useless device away from him, Ser Loras readied his sword and advanced on his reeling opponent.

They were stood just out of arm's length now perfect distance to start hacking away at one another. Tyrell held his longsword with two hands above his head, whereas had his in both hands pointing out ward at his foe. Bruce knew this would be no easy fight, he would need his head and not his temper as Ser Loras would undoubtedly use.

When it came to a proper duel, Bruce always preferred to play on the defence over the attack, and he knew Tyrell had no preference and that he would take it in his stride. Perhaps that was why Ser Garlan would always be the better sword over his brother.

As expected, Ser Loras made the first strike. In a vicious downward thrust meant to slice at Bruce's head Tyrell stepped forward bringing his sword down. Bruce quickly brought his sword up and batted the strike away, but Loras was just as determined and brought the sword sideways. Deflecting the blow again, Bruce put a foot forward and struck back for the first time.

Tyrell jerked away and swatted the blow, but Bruce had feinted his attack and swung about for his foes' head. Flinging himself back hard Ser Loras just missed the blow but the point of the Crown Prince's sword did catch at his visor. Metal scraped on metal and the Knight of Flowers moved back onto his own footing.

Pressing an offensive, Bruce followed Tyrell. They clashed swords just shy of the Reachman's knee but, while he stood his ground to defend, Bruce kept moving. Finding himself with his enemy's unprotected rear, Bruce slashed once at his calf and made a go of his head. Tyrell yelled out at the attack on his leg but swung blind at his back, trying to swat at Bruce. In a stroke of, Tyrell's sword found Bruce's and just saved himself.

The clang of steel put Bruce's ear ringing, as it must have done Tyrell's. Wheeling about on his heels in the sand, Ser Loras was now facing the Crown Prince again. Striking twice at his legs and both times being blocked, Tyrell moved back. He would not have the speed in this fight, his armour was too cumbersome and his cloak too heavy. The boy's attempts to look pretty had done him no favours.

More strikes were traded and even to the crowd it became apparent who was the better swordsman. Tyrell only seemed to be staying alive by the skin of his teeth. His temper was beginning to get the better of him as his strikes against the Young Lion became more and more erratic and clumsy, only aiming for head, leg or striking back at the sword that had almost carved him up.

Yet again the ringing of steel went out and the two swords were locked together with the heads of their master's only inches apart. "You're doing well, Loras." Mocked the Antlered Lion. "Better than my uncle." Bruce had meant his uncle Jaime, but Loras, still over whelmed by grief, lashed out at the thought of his now dead lover. The fist of the Knight of Flowers was sent ramming into his opponents jaw. Bruce reeled from the attack, roaring curses as he hit the floor face down.

His foe now stunned in the bloodied sand before him, Tyrell took his chance. He slashed down at the fallen lion with his sword, eyes full of hate and longing for blood. If only he had seen the glint of copper first.

Another ring of steel went out and Bruce flinched at the sound. It had not been his own sword, he felt no vibration. It had not been his armour, he felt no thud of the other man's sword. Rolling onto his back he looked up and swore at both of the men above him.

Prince Oberyn looked down at the husband of his niece and smiled, still holding the Reachman at bay with his long ashwood spear. "Good afternoon." He greeted them both, before darting away from the slash Ser Loras tried to throw at him. Bruce took the distraction as a chance to move back on his feet. He scrambled away and swept up to his fist tightening about his sword. Tyrell tried to cut him as he went away, but the steel only grazed the silver paint work of the Lion's armour.

"You'll have to do better than that." Chimed Bruce trying to bait in his true enemy. Alas Tyrell stood his ground, keeping a careful eye on Prince Oberyn. This was a needless complication. Bruce was happy to ride the bloodied body of Tyrell up and down the field, but the Red Viper would not make it an easy thing to do.

Bruce looked at Prince Oberyn and growled. Any speed he had over Ser Loras had just been surrendered to the Red Viper. The man was lightly armoured; copper chain mail and copper scales with greaves, vambraces, spaulders and a steel cod piece. Elsewhere the Dornishman was clad in boiled leather and flowing silks.

Oberyn wore no helm, his lined face with thin eyebrows, black eyes and a sharp nose visible for all to see. He kept his ash spear close to himself. It was coated in melted copper, about eight foot long and spiked at one end, while the other had a steel blade that took up at least a foot of the spears total length. Best to keep away from that thing, Bruce said to himself remembering why the Red Viper was called so.

From the way Ser Loras was quick to abandon Bruce and get to grips with the Prince of Dorne, he obviously didn't care for being poisoned. The six yards between the two of them quickly vanished as Tyrell charged the man who crippled his brother. What a stroke of luck it would for Tyrell, to kill both the man who killed Renly and the man who knackered Willas' leg, thought Bruce as he hung back from the two of them. A pity it would never happen, he added moving close behind Tyrell.

Ser Loras moved for the first strike, much the same as he had done with the now forgotten Bruce. His quarrel slid sideways out of reach, but then jabbed back with his long spear. The point grazed the side of Ser Loras' helm causing the knight to hack back at it clumsily. Enraged, Tyrell balled back at the Dornishman, but Prince Oberyn spun away untouched.

Seeing the chance to bring the battle back to him Bruce shouted, "Have you forgotten about me, ser? Or is Willas more important to you than Renly?" His longsword flashing in the sunlight, Tyrell swung backwards in a wide arch. Unfortunate for him, Bruce was beyond his swords reach still and the blade did no harm to him. Bruce quickly lunged forward, swiping across Loras' chest but he did not cut through the plated steel.

Without letting up the Lion continued his attack. Laying the flat of his sword on Tyrell's helm and ducking under his out held arm Bruce had the Reachman's back again. This time he shoved him with his shoulder and sent the Knight of Flowers sprawling into the dirt, flat on his back and the great cloak of gold and green now marred by sand, grim and blood. A pity, mused Bruce, I was enjoying this.

Approaching the fallen Ser Loras, Bruce kicked at his head. The knight's helm was sent flying away from his by Bruce's armoured foot and he looked up dazed and insulted by the ease of his defeat. Rolling his sword in his hand, Bruce knew, looking down on his foes' broken face, how he would have his vengeance. He lifted his sword high in the air and slashed down on the side of Tyrell's head.

A twang of metal striking metal went out, and Bruce mentally cursed all Dornishmen. Again Prince Oberyn stood holding a sword at bay from another man's face. "Whose side are you on?" Demanded Bruce, pushing down hard against the steel point holding off his own. "Dorne's, of course." Laughed the Red Viper, pulling his blade back and quickly thrusting it at Bruce's head before his strike on Ser Loras' head could be followed through.

Bruce flung himself away from the point of the Viper's spear, occasionally hacking at it as he was driven back. After one ill-fated slash at Martell's spear missed the point of it, Oberyn snapped it back and thrust again. Metal screamed on metal, with the blade of the ash spear drawing across the Crown Prince's breastplate. Across the Crowned Stag that guarded Bruce's chest was left a long bright scratch. If he keeps going on like this I'm a dead man. One nick of that blade and I am dead.

By now Ser Loras was back on his feet and unlike Bruce who hung back was charging straight in for the fight. The Young Lion saw this, and moved to the side just out stepping the reach of Prince Oberyn's spear. Between to foes the Red Viper found himself caught yet it made no difference. Whereas before only the blade of the spear was his weapon, now the entire thing became a deadly thing.

He caught blows from both parties along the copper and ash wood shaft, while throwing them back with the blade or spiked end. Tyrell and Bruce only grazed slashes a few times as defending themselves from Prince Oberyn became a first priority. The Lion had hoped to keep the Reachman occupied with the Dornishman alone so that, he might move in while the other was too engrossed to pay mind of the goings on around him. Yet every time he made a move to disengage himself from the fight, the Knight of Flowers struck at him and kept him in the fight.

Now he knows he can't win alone, he means to use the Red Viper against me, you bloody fool Loras. As the battle moved more and more against the Red Viper the more and more he tried to force an opening. He found it while he was betwixt Bruce and Ser Loras fending both off with either end of his spear. With a sharply angled kick to the Crown Prince's head, that yet again sent him to the floor, Prince Oberyn then vaulted him landing some feet away.

Keen to have the fight moving on his own terms, Ser Loras followed the Viper, though not without adding a vengeful kick to Bruce's head as he ran passed. Prince Oberyn continued to back away from the Knight of Flowers, but continued to add thrust and controlled blocks to counter Tyrell's wild slashes and thrusts.

Reeling on the floor, Bruce sat up and looked at the two as they continued to go at it. Damn you, Tyrell. He thought as he watched them. He's better than us both. He knows it, I know it, but you don't care to look. While the two much younger men were both red faced and clearly sweating and panting, the older was still looking as if he was in his prime the small amount of sweat he had built up only adding to the slickening in his hair. You don't control this fight, Loras, he does. We may be the ones pushing him but he knows where we're taking him and you're bloody fool enough to not notice.

Picking himself up from the floor Bruce knew that he needed to oust Prince Oberyn from the fight. He tighten his steel clad grip about his longswords hilt and joined back the fight with a sprint, at the two. Tyrell saw this and slashed immediately at his true foe. Prince Oberyn to saw this and thrust also so that all the three men's blades clashed against one another with a clang that sent vibrations down all of their bodies and into the ground.

Before the other two could pull back from the lock, Bruce immediately threw his leg up between Prince Oberyn's legs and caught him there with an armoured boot. The Red Viper went down for the first time hissing like the snake he was. Just as the spear went sliding away Bruce yanked back from the lock, as did Ser Loras.

"Just you and I now, old friend." Taunted the Antlered Lion, bouncing on the balls of his feet his sword hanging in just one hand now. Tyrell bit down on his lip as he looked down at the downed Viper and his butchered plan. "You don't fight with honour." He retorted meekly, causing Bruce to throw his head back laughing. "No more than you or he."

The Knight of Flowers didn't take the bait, so for once Bruce opened first. He ran forward and clutched the longsword close as he leapt at Ser Loras. Tyrell caught the blow but the ferociousness of his attacker's onslaught would have been too much even for the Red Viper. High, low, leg, head, arm, groin, shoulder, thigh, ear, eye, neck, foot. Each strike came faster than lightening and with its very own curse. "Bastard. Craven. Liar. Pillow biter. Cockless wonder. Boyfucker. Coward."

"ENOUGH!" Never before had the world seen a display and the entire crowd, king and commoner alike could only look on in wonder as Tyrell was beaten down. Further and further back stepped Tyrell and further and further was his already poor guard breaking. Bruce was now scoring hits wherever he chose regardless of the sword that was meant be stopping him. None of the strikes were cutting into the armour of the Reachman but the pain they caused would be enough to drain the knight into submission.

In his final act of desperation, Tyrell swung his sword out in a wide arch but it was too slow and lazy. Bruce simply outstepped the blade with three wide side steps and had Ser Loras' back at his front again. With a shove Loras was on his knees and his sword fell from his grip. He whimpered like a wounded animal, biting back the tears from his failed ploy of vengeance for Renly and the welts now brewing all across his battered body.

The Trampled Rose was now at the mercy of the Lion with Antlers, and it brought every man, woman and child to silence. Not a bird tweeting nor the groans of the dying could be heard now. The desolation, the carnage all of it now seemed to come to its final conclusion. The quiet was gaunt and unendurable, as they all watched on waiting to see how the Lion would claim his revenge.

With a kick from Bruce, Tyrell went completely flat his stomach and his sword arm now laid on his blade. Bruce prowled round his fallen foe to where his head lay in the sand, waiting for the killing strike. Bruce starred down at Tyrell, looming above him.


It would be so easy to kill him and have done with it now. You had him like this before remember, here in this city. Don't you remember?

I do.

And you remember what you did?

I spared him then, too.

Look what that got you, you blind fool.

I'm not blind!

You wouldn't be if you'd have killed him then. Why didn't you?

Stop it!

Struck a nerve?

Go away!

Or what? You'll kill me as well?

I'm not going to kill him.

Because you promised Margaery. Pah! You are pathetic aren't you? Still fawning over her. Another man's wife, your king's wife. She's moved up in the world and you've just gone further down in it. You make me sick, scum.

I know your voice.

Kill him. Kill him now.

No, I remember the last time I killed for you.

Do it.

NO!

Then what is the point in a lion with no claws, teeth or antlers. It's not only kings who should act boldly.

I lost my eye for you, Joffrey. You'll not take my soul as well.


With final swing of his sword it was all over. The breath of every person in the whole arena left them as they saw Ser Loras' ear fly from his head. Tyrell seemed unfazed by it, only shuddering as the blade sliced through his left ear. "An eye for an ear." He whispered against the grains of sand that pillowed his face, fingers finding the grip of his sword.

Looking down at the severed ear Bruce sighed and dropped his sword into the sand. "It's over." He said to himself, feeling rather empty. With a shake of his head he turned from the fallen knight and went to walk away. Only when the tip of Tyrell's sword punctured through the back of his thigh did Bruce give any thought to the Reachmen himself.

He crumpled and fell into the sand clutching the back of his leg wincing. "It's not over, yet." Spat the Trampled Rose, picking himself from the dirt. You should have killed him when you had the chance, you blind fool. It didn't matter now. Even as the sword punched through his shoulder, splintering bones and shredding muscle Bruce didn't make a sound. I should have known better, this would have always killed one of us.

Only when he felt the edge of the blade touch at his throat did the Young Lion see his killer. His eyes were still lifeless and brimming with hate. Hair bloodied as it leaked out the side of his head. Even if he managed to leave this arena, that man wouldn't be Loras Tyrell, I killed him when I killed Renly. This was a strange, neither living nor dead simply existing for the purpose of killing one person. Me.

The blade began to cut into the flesh of his neck and Bruce whispered a silent prayer to himself. "Arianne," it went, "I love you." When he said it he never hoped for it to be answered, perhaps that's why it was. Copper flashed in the autumn sun and the Red Viper's spear left his hand, headed straight for Tyrell. The foot long steel edge glittered in the sun, sending flashes all around and dazzling everyone who was watching it.

Tyrell took the spear to shoulder and his sword went flying away from his hand and the Lion's throat. Bruce stumbled forward but caught himself on his hands. Blood trickled down his left arm and he knew he was bleeding dangerously bad beneath his silver painted plate. He looked up awe struck and saw the sun. The sun of Dorne.