I take off at once, seizing the initiative to storm into the arena like the distant ancestor who shares my name.

I'm pretty sure Ash would have found a way to make a "Storm's End" joke here, but I've never claimed to be the clever one in the family.

Quickly, I find Criston, giving him a smile as we immediately move to cover each other's weak spots.

We've been training together for years at this point, and all that teamwork is about to pay off.

"Ready, Cris?" I say, smiling as we move back to back.

He gives me an absolutely vicious smile. "Since we met, Dern."

The first opponent to approach us is a knight with the white star of House Karstark on his shield. He's about as old as we are, obviously nervous, and Criston manages to take him out alone with a few quick swipes of the blade.

The next opponent is a bit more daunting, a man in his twenties wearing the badger of House Lydden. "End a' the line boys" he says, unsheathing his sword in a fluid motion.

He leaps forward, lashing out with the characteristic short slashes of Westerlander styles. I block his first slash with the shaft of my hammer, and deflect straight into Criston's shield in a practiced maneuver.

The knight curses as he tries to withdraw the blade from where it's bitten into the oak, but it's too late, and Criston's blade is already at his neck.

I roll my eyes as the knight stomps off fuming. "Save some for me, would ya'?"

"Victory belongs to the swift, Dern!" he laughs as we scan the field, "that's two to your zero!".

I roll my eyes. "We're working as a team, dumbass."

"If I'm a dumbass, what does that make you? It wasn't me that got his mace trapped in between the bars of a jail cell."

I chuckle. "You're never letting that one go, are you. I was one and ten Cris, one and ten!"

"And that excuses stupidity?"

A boy approaches us then, probably about of age with us and wearing the red fort of the creatively-named House Redfort. I have to suppress a smile when he lashes out with the high downward slashes of Vale swordsmanship. Sorry buddy, but you've got nothing on a master of Ataru.

I dispatch him fairly quickly without any aid from Criston, leveraging my experience sparring against the freakishly tall Ashara to counter him before he can gain the momentum.

I toss his shield to the side, and spy our next opponent.

Oh, I actually recognize this one! Or well, I recognize the stylized auburn ram's-head helm he's wearing, one that I know Father commissions from Erryn for one of his old wartime friends.

Ser Ryam Rambton, the "Red Ram". A distant cousin to the main line, he's a somewhat famous knight-errant in the Crownlands, and happened to get assigned to my father's company during the War. According to my father, the fourth son of a fourth son of a fourth son proved a fantastic drinking companion, and immediately became one of his dearest friends.

I lunge forward with an aggressive swipe that was a staple of the style Ash had helped me create, but my opponent gives a laugh as he jumps back and dodges. He lashes back out with his sword, but I manage to parry using the metal pole of my warhammer, giving Criston an opportunity to strike which the knight catches on his shield.

"Hey, that armor… you're Bran the Bastard's boy, aintcha?"

My armour, of course, is probably the best in the tourney outside of the royals or Lords Paramount, being forged by my supremely talented older brother. Night black with a large white moth across the chestplate, and white moth-scales running up and down the arms, it looks like something out of a tale, which I suppose is the point. It's not nearly as fine as Ash's… but then again, I know I'm not going to get into the brackets, and I'm just going to outgrow this in a few years.

I nod, gesturing for Criston to fall back. I'm curious to see the man my father's told so many stories about. "Yes. Durran Blackmoth. You'd be the Red Ram then?"

"Yep. How old are ya?" he says, leaping forward with a surprisingly acrobatic thrust for a man of his age.

"Six and ten." I dodge with a spinning leap, almost twirling through the air, to his voiced shock. You wouldn't think that acrobatics could be the staple of a warhammer style, of all things, but as always Ash manages to excel in teaching.

"Hoh-lee shit boy. You sure you're Bran's boy with all that leapin' around like a damn squirrel?"

I raise an eyebrow in the way that seems almost genetic to my family. "Are you insinuating something about my mother, Ser?"

He gives a whooping laugh, as Criston groans from the sidelines. "Hah! Yep, yer his alright. That expression takes me right back to the Stepstones. Y'look like a little black-haired Bran."

I fall back with a magic-enhanced leap.

"You knew my father well then?" I point to his helmet. "You must be close, for him to give you some of my brother's work. Looks quality too, with colored steel and everything."

"Yeah, y'could say we were close. I was actually there when he frist took yer mother out drinkin', believe itter not. 'Show I got this armour."

His face grows a bit more serious. "Keep a careful watch on tha' brother'a yers. I know people'd kill to get someone banging out colored steel this good for'em."

I laugh. "I assure you, Ser Rambton, that he's in no danger. I honestly pity anyone who tries."

He looks skeptical, but his response gets cut off by another contestant joining our match.

"Haha! Mind if I join, boys?!"

He jumps in between the two of us, somehow managing to avoid both our weapons, and raises his blade in a post that looks like it could come straight out of a story.

Wait, why did he jump through the combat to the other side, couldn't he have…

Holy shit, is he playing to the crowd? Did he leap across active combat just so the spectators could see him better!?

I really, really want to kill this guy.

Criston rejoins the fight with this new entrant, and the three of us spend a few seconds raining blows onto the lithe figure, but it unfortunately seems that the buffoon has the skill to back up his pomp.

"Hah! You'll have to try harder than that, milords!"

He's pretty, almost obnoxiously so, with a delicate face and cascading brown hair. His form is lean, but not wiry, and I can see the fruit of thousands of hours of practice in the grace by which he moves.

I scowl.

Criston looks at me out of the side of his visor's slit. "Dern? You alright, my friend?"

"No" I say, eyes intense, "but I will be once I beat off- I mean beat down this pompous fool."

"…Uh huh."

As swift as many veteran knights, the newcomer flashes out with his blade, his style having the characteristic loping swishes and quick thrusts of Reach swordsmanship.

"Who are you then?" I ask, managing to deflect his blows without much effort by working with my partner.

I have to smother a grin as I see him start, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Ser Renfrey Flowers, my good Ser, but most call me Renfrey Rosecloak back in-"

I cut him off before he can finish, making him scowl as he dodges my hammer.

His smile falls from his face, and I can see the barest beginnings of frustration emerge in the clench of his jaw. "That was rather rude, good ser."

I snort, purposefully turning my head from him.

His eyes narrow, and he lets loose a lightning-quick slash. "You'd be wise not to dismiss me so easily."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" I say with a dismissive huff "just another person to pay attention to you, isn't that right?"

By the end of my statement I'm sneering. Gods, how does this man get under my skin so easily?

"And is attention a bad thing?" he says, matching my sneer, "Is there some reason you'd spurn a dozen maidens throwing themselves at you for your gallantry?"

"Maidens?" I say, raising my brows under my helm as he deflects my hammer with his shield.

He raises his in turn as he send out a few loping swishes. "Well, I'm not cuckold. That wouldn't be very knightly, would it?"

I scoff, sending a few strikes forward with my hammer that he evades with irritating grace, until I lock his blade with my shaft. "I wasn't questioning the marital status of those you deflower."

He snarls, and I smirk, reveling in my momentary position on top. Of the conversation. On top of the conversation, obviously.

His eyes narrow as he makes an elegant thrust that I'm hard-pressed to dodge. "You seem awfully concerned with my bed, little moth."

I growl, parrying his blade and moving into a blade-lock. "'Little' moth? Bold words, from the little flower boy with the sword a tenth as big as my hammer."

He practically snarls, leaning forward to put more pressure on my hammer. "Oh, I'll show you 'big', you idiotic lunk. Let's test my 'tiny' sword against that long hammer of yours, we'll see who ends up on top."

"Practically a concession!" I say with an derisive chuckle, voice straining as I lean in to put even more pressure on his blade, "With my shaft alone I could throw you into the dirt, never mind if I bring the head i-"

I'm cut off by a cough, and I abruptly remember that there are other combatants on the field. I whip my hammer away from Renfrey's blade, the two of us springing apart so quickly we almost trip each other.

Criston groans, his helmet in his hands. "By the gods Durran, here?!"

I blush, giving a self-conscious cough.

"This is a literal battlefield man, you can't find another time to do this!"

"G-Good Ser I believe that you-" / "Criston! That's the furthest thing from-"

The three of us are cut off by a loud belly laugh from the Red Ram. "Shit boy" he says, leaning on his knees with the force of his cackling, "you really are like your old man, ain'tcha?"

My brow furrows.

The seasoned warrior barrels on, heedless of our protests. "What? I told you I was there when your father first took your mother out drinking. You've met your parents, yeah? What'cha think happened afterwards?"

They'd have both been in their early twenties, and coming back from a war…

My face pales. Oh ew, ew!

He must see my disgusted expression on my face through my helm, because he lets out a cackle. "You know that's the same face Bran makes when he's 'bout to-"

I cut him off, face red. "R-Regardless of any familial entaglements-"

"Oh, we were 'entangled' all right, I was down on m'knees with my mouth around his-"

"Regardless" I say, very purposefully not thinking too hard on his words, "I believe words like this aren't suited to a public forum, My Lord."

He laughs again. "Boy, it's the melee. The crowd can't hear shit besides men grunting and mud splashing."

Renfrey cuts in "I don't think-"

"And speaking of men grunting and splashing" he barrels on, "let me tell you about the time the three of us all went drinking with Tristayne Vaith! Gods, he was a fun one. If there's one thing that people get right about the Dornish, it's that-"

I leap towards him, trying to cut off his words, and the battle resumes.

The melee is chaotic from there, devolving into a three-way brawl, but it doesn't last long.

Before I know it, Criston is disarmed, and I'm lying flat on my back with the Rosecloak crouched over me don't think about it don't think about it, sword to my neck.

I growl, trying to fight down my anger at the victorious glint in his eyes. "I yield."

He smirks. "Yes, you do."

It's only the thought of the dishonor it would bring my house that prevents me from leaping up and choking the miserable air out of his long, thin, dainty neck, with that irritatingly perfect skin.

I grumble as I pull myself up, walking off the field with Criston as I see Renfrey beating the Red Ram in the background.

"So…" my friend says, a smirk on his face, "you like the long, limber type, huh? I gotta say, I'm as normal as they come, and even I think that Reachman's pretty. Damn man looks more like a maiden than most maidens."

I sputter. "W-What! No, that's… No!"

Criston just smirks.

"It's not like that at all! I fucking hate that asshole, he's the most irritating, smug, arrogant son of a bitch I've met! I want to jab my fucking sword through his visor!"

"You want to jab your 'sword' somewhere in his face, alright."

I just throw my hands up in frustration.

Well, at least I made a good showing, we lost to someone who will undoubtedly enter the melee. He may be an give me a throbbing headache, but that Reachman, whatever his name is it's Renfrey you know it's Renfrey has a deft hand with his blade, so I know he won't embarrass us by getting tossed down to the grass and pounded by some no-name thug with a thick mace.

I just hope I can find him on the practice grounds, so I can handle him myself. I don't care how good your sword is flower-boy, we'll see who's smug once those eyes of yours are big and pleading from under my knees, begging to yield as I pound you into the dirt with the shaft of my hammer!

I'll have you pinned and begging for a release in under five minutes, that's a promise!

AN: Thoughts on my new favorite character pairing?

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