The yard rang to the song of steel, and Marek was bearing down hard on his opponent. Clad in mail and plate with a sallet helm that narrowed his view, he still commanded the advantage. Like most mornings over the previous year, he was facing Jaremy Morrigen, a squire in service to Ser Willem Dalt. A quick and sly lad, he was determined to outfight and outfight Marek at every turn. Every morning, he was welcomed to try.

Turning away a thrust, Marek countercut and followed with a riposte but hit only air. He pivoted to meet what might have hamstrung him if the blades were real steel and danced away. Jaremy now pressed his attack and rained down blow after blow; right, left, upswing, overhand. Beneath his own helm, he saw that Jaremy was seething. Dancing around the yard, Marek deflected every blow and was striking out twice what he was receiving. Every match gave him a clearer picture of just what kind of swordsman young Jaremy was; skilled and strong but as temperate as a wild stallion. There was a pattern to his fighting but when that failed him, he resorted to brute strength which he had plenty of; he was tall and broad across the shoulders, muscled like an ox and stood a full head taller than Marek and his brother.

Then he sensed his opening and took it, turning the blade away and disarmed him, smashing his fingers. He shouted and recoiled, gripping his injured hand.

"Match! The day goes to young Marek. Well fought, lad." Said Ser Jared Santagar who had observed the fight from the side. He and the other knights and squires were gathered for the match as they were frequently were. In the year since arriving, Marek and Jason had become the promise of the yard. While he was here, his twin was off on the grounds training with his lance under the eye of Ser Lyle Hood.

"Yes, well fought. For a motherless westermen." Spat Jaremy, having removed his helm, a mop of shaggy brown hair matted by sweat clinging to his head.

"Were you suckled too much, Morrigen? You always seem to bring up mothers when you suffer defeat. I doubt very much your own mother would appreciate such talk." Marek replied, taking off his own helm and returning the blunted sword to the rack. The knights stifled laughter and turned away.

"Courtesies between foes is expected of knights, you two." Chided Ser Jared. The big knight was stern but fair and unrelenting in drilling the code and ethics of knighthood into his squires. Morrigen's face was dark but nodded silently. He stalked off to the rack and returned his sword and helm. As he walked past Marek, he whispered.

"You will answer for this slight, boy. That, I promise you." Then he was gone. Cold Sweat beaded down his head but Marek ignored it, his mind fixed on the threat by the defeated squire. It had not been the first time he had bested Morrigen but today had been different; it was his sixteenth name day and had swaggered into the yard full of himself. Marek had put an end to that. Silently, he had wished that Lord Criston and his daughter Ashara had been present for the match. However, they had taken the journey to King's Landing for the wedding of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen to the Princess Elia Martell of Sunspear. He remembered her and her brother Oberyn from the previous year, sharp tongued but likeable.

The basin was filled with cold water which Marek splashed on his face and neck, knowing the day was not yet. Ser Jared would be expecting him in the jousting yard before long so to the stables he went. There he found his mount, his trusted mount named Daemon, black as midnight with a mane of snow. Once he was saddled and readied, he sped off out of the stables for the tourney grounds. The wind was warm and the Dornish sun was a ball of molten gold which Marek had since become accustomed to.

The Westerlands were warm, true enough but it was nothing compared to the oft-told sun of Dorne that had helped defeat every invader in its history. Even the Red Mountains that rested in the backdrop of Starfall had a majesty all their own, one that he could never deny.

Starfall's tourney ground was large and expansive, flanked by great viewing stands on both sides. A dummy had been set in the center of the grounds, laden with sandbags and a heavy oaken shield. Jason was already there, mounted and armored. He raised the visor of his rounded greathelm.

"It seems you make friends wherever you go brother." He joked.

"You know me, Jason. Friendly and courteous to the bone." He replied. This elicited a chuckle from the gathered knights and squires. They were all known to him and well, for they had all sparred and rode together, hunted and hawked over the last year.

"If how you beat Morrigen is courtesy, I would hate to see your discourtesy." Joked Ser Manfrey Vaith, a knight a few years older than the boys.

"That, ser, I reserve for only—"

"SEVERUS! I CALL YOU OUT!" roared a voice behind them. Marek wheeled his mount to see Jaremy Morrigen racing at him at full gallop, his retinue of lickspittles close behind him. Even from a distance, Marek knew bared steel when he saw it.

"Your sword, ser." Marek said simply, looking at Manfrey. Wordlessly, he drew his longsword and passed it hilt first to Marek. Feeling the steel in his hands, Marek drew comfort from it and knew that so long he was armed, there was nothing this Jaremy Morrigen could do.

"Marek, this is stupid. We are all squires and we cannot duel to the death. Lord Criston would have us expelled." Jason warned, though Marek could tell otherwise. He too, had faced the bullying and scorn from the arrogant lad and wished to see him brought low. Still, Marek was forced to agree.

"So I won't kill him. Do you think he will be so accommodating?" he put the spurs to his mount and rode out to meet them, Jason and Manfrey in tow. Halfway across the field, the parties came to a halt.

"It is a good a time as any to make you answer, boy. Lord Criston is away in King's Landing and will not interfere. Neither will his knights." He glared at Manfrey who merely laughed.

"You are a fool, little man. But a brave one nonetheless. Very well, this shall be a duel to first blood drawn from the torso so honor will be satisfied, agreed?"

"Aye." Agreed both Marek and Jaremy. They dismounted and handed their reins off. Jason took the mount and led it off. Manfrey climbed off and removed his helm from his saddle. It was a rounded great helm with a narrow slit for vision, decorated with a yellow and orange flowing wreath. He handed it to Marek who accepted it gratefully. Next came a shield, made of soft pine that was ideal for catching an axe or a sword.

"You have fought him before; you know his strengths and weaknesses." Manfrey said, his voice low. Across the way, Morrigen was helmed and had his shield up waiting.

"Aye, and he knows mine." Replied Marek.

"No," replied the knight, a knowing smile on his face. "He doesn't."

Since they had first taken to the yard here, Ser Manfrey had kept a close watch on the boys. He noted their sword and footwork, their riding and jousting. He had been the only one to realize that Marek had not been fighting with his full potential; that is not to say he had been weak but that he was intentionally holding back.

"You let them dance and give them a show, but that is all it is. You hold a sword as if you were born with it. Your Master at Arms may have shown you one but you knew from the start how to swing it. A rare gift you have, lad. Use it well." He had said. Such a comment would have angered his father greatly. Gifts bestowed were ones that could be taken away but nonetheless, Marek took the comment well.

The blood was up in Marek, his first duel at hand. He understood the implications if he lost; honor was at stake and he would not lose a shred fighting Morrigen. As well, there was always the danger that this duel might go too far and one of them might up end a corpse.

He felt the excitement rise in him even more at the thought.

With sword and shield raised, Marek crossed the grass and met Jaremy who was already circling. Both were clad in mail and leather, steel greaves and armguards, which protected them but allowed for speed. As Marek knew he could, Morrigen attacked first with an overhead strike. Marek caught it on his shield and turned it away, countering with a thrust that Jaremy danced away from. Shield up, Marek pursued him and slashed sideways and overhand, each blow being stopped and countered. The blows jarred up Marek's arm but it only spurned him on; he truly loved nothin more than the dance of swords.

He drove him back with a series of thrusts and slashes, cuts and counters, until he had Morrigen breathing hard. Each swing of his slower but still managed to raise his shield to protect himself. With a roar, Marek splintered the shield and burst the bindings. Iron bandings and pine shards flew, but Jaremy would not relent.

Taking his longsword in a two handed grip, he summoned his strength and renewed the attack. Marek chucked his shield away and moved like a panther, graceful but savage. The steel kissed and rang out and Marek could not deny that Morrigen could fight even with an injured hand. Marek turned away a slash but was met with the crossguard of Jaremy's blade, cutting his cheek and the blood flowed. He staggered back, his face bloody.

Morrigen grinned and whirled his sword above his head. With a fury he did not know was in him, Marek roared and lunged, bringing his sword up in an underhanded strike. He knocked Morrigen's blade away and drove his shoulder into him. He followed with a sideways slash that opened his leather jerkin and split the chainmail beneath. Blood flowed from between the links and Jaremy dropped to the ground with a groan. He did not remember raising the blade again to finish him when the world went dark. A dull pain ached in the back of his head and faded away as the light went out in the world.