From the time he turned six and was told by his brother Thedren that he was going to be sent to the red temple because he was an extra mouth their parents couldn't afford to feed, Thoros had never understood the appeal of religion. A strange thing for a man who had spent his life within the confines of a place all about faith: his childhood, education and life experiences all stepped in religious overtones and now followed that path in life to become a confirmed priest in the worship of a way of life he didn't hold any special understanding or want for. But as his exasperated teacher Gerat had once observed sourly:

"Where the others found their strength by believing in something greater than themselves, you managed to find yours by believing that nothing is greater than yourself."

It wasn't precisely accurate but Thoros honestly stopped being chuffed about trying to correct Gerat's ideas of what his acting out meant by the time he had reached nine years of age. And despite the disapproval of the red temple elders, he'd been served well by this distinctly selfish brand of faith. Where other boys had struggled to light a candle by themselves, Thoros had no issue flaring it to life. Where other boys had struggled to heat up the metal of a dagger, Thoros had ignited his sword on the third try.

Despite his talent however Thoros could never bring himself to believe it was a sign of favor from the higher power of R'hllor that the priests and priestesses preached at them in the temple. For what god saw fit to make slavery to a power they would never see or know a condition of living in the world?

Needless to say, it did not kindle any kind of sudden surge of belief within him when the elders of the temple known simply as the Scorched Hearts ordered him to Westeros. Ostensibly Thoros was supposed to be going in the hopes of courting support and eventual permission to openly preach from the ruling Targaryen dynasty that reigned as the kings over there. But considering that the smaller land had been staunchly considered territory of the now otherwise dead Faith of the Seven and whispers of King Aerys II being dubbed with the moniker of the Mad King, well it wasn't exactly hard to see what was really going on even if Thoros had gotten halfway to being blackout drunk.

Simply put: the elders wanted him gone. If his own personal brand of heretical madness managed to reach Aerys and get the worship of R'hllor a toehold in Westeros, great. If not, then his death by offending a crazy foreign king could not be said to be an unexpected outcome.

So Thoros did what the Scorched Hearts likely had never contemplated him doing and simply given up.

Oh, he still would tell anyone who bothered to ask what faith he was supposed to practice and spouted off a few of the token lines about the lord of light. But he had taken no prayer books with him when he left his life at the temple behind, he committed no ceremonies once he was living within Westeros and practiced no rituals save for greeting the dawn when he wasn't hungover or drunk and lighting his sword on fire if he were committed to enter battle.

For it was only in battle he could truly embrace his gift with both the fire and the blade and be allowed to stop thinking. One of his (many) qualities that prevented any who had taught him the magic of the temple from believing he could be worthy of joining the Fiery Hand; the thousand slave soldiers who were tattooed with the fires of R'hllor upon their hands as well as their face and even had ceremonial spears whose heads were in the shape of a flickering flame to represent their devotion to the Lord of Light.

They were said to be disciplined believers whose commitment was beyond questioning even by the temple elders. And inside the enclave of the Myrnish temple he'd heard rumors that within the Fiery Hand there was a secret unit that commanded the others in place of the elders. The Zalten Egrossa in Valyrian. The Burning Blades in the common tongue. The older boys spoke in hushed whispers about an agreement between the four Free Cities where the red temples held a place of prominence how twenty and five of each temple's best warriors were trained in secret arts of fire magic and martial skill that made them a power even beyond the other slaves of the Fiery Hand so that they could command them and know the will of their Lord directly in a way even the Scorched Hearts could not claim.

It was a nice fantasy: imagining that through being able to hit things hard enough and being dedicated to lighting them on fire in the process that they could at last escape the watchful gaze of the temple elders. But much like the prayers and invocations meant to draw the Lord of Light's attention, Thoros had never truly put any stock in those stories he'd been told.

Yet now…

Now as he stood the sole opponent upon a tourney field facing the new Hand of the King's bastard son in a one to one duel he was forced to reevaluate that idea. Thoros supposed he really should've known something was off from how brightly his sword burned when he'd first ignited it at the start of the melee. His sword was a bright fire, fueled as it was by a thin line of his blood applied along the blade to keep the fire tethered to his sword and control of it tethered to him. Some of the smallfolk had ignorantly thought he applied wildfyre to the blade in order to achieve the effect, apparently not knowing or caring about the fact that wildfyre flames were not only green but burned inextinguishably for days when brought to roaring life.

A bit of a waste for a melee or fight that wasn't going to be a grand days long siege or extended rotating battle.

But this time when it flared to life, Thoros could feel the heat radiating off it in a way he never had before. Like it was a torch being leant strength by being brought closer to a raging forest fire.

As per his usual habit however, once the swords started swinging Thoros had turned off all but his fighting instinct and his feel of the blade in his hand; the racing pulse in his ears and the strange rush of power through his sword lending him an almost alarming amount of clarity even through the second-rate wine he'd consumed before the melee began.

He could see every inch of the fight in a way he could never recall even from the frantic siege of Pyke during the Greyjoy rebellion when he'd been the first to charge through the walls of the Ironborn stronghold because he desperately needed a piss and had angrily vowed that no half-wit fish fucker was going to make him ruin his trousers with it.

And all had gone as per the usual melee style: with the fighters for the most part whittling down each other on the fringes while he remained at the center to take any comers who thought to try and challenge the mad priest before they were tired out by the others. Only to be abruptly reminded of a painful lesson only the simplest of fools needed to learn more than once:

Fire Hot, Ow.

Until of course another fighter casually upended the script of the battle and decided to piss on it in the process. All he'd heard to signal the change in routine was the voice behind him, its strength and sense of instruction so similar to the red priests he'd grown up around as a child that he'd instinctively answered its call:

"Behind to your right."

His sword hadn't hit the man who'd spoken to him, but the incoming sword that would have smashed into his left side from the back if he hadn't turned around to block the sword with his flaming blade.

Before he could even think to capitalize on his successful guard, the mystery fighter had hooked the crossguard of a tourney sword in his left hand around the man's neck and pulled him into a strike across the face from the blade another tourney sword he wielded in his right hand. As the man fell flat on his back from the blow, Thoros capitalized on his downed opponent's distracted holding of a bloodied and almost certainly broken nose to kick him in the head: thusly speeding him into the painless land of unconsciousness.

As he looked toward the one who had been at his back and warned him of the danger rather than attack him, he knew immediately that this was a Stark. Same face that looked destined to spend all but one hour of the day frowning or scowling with grey eyes the color of storm clouds or slushing snow. He should know what with having seen quite a bit of his sire before, during and after the Siege of Pyke. Not to mention his presence nearby the royal box in the stands even as they fought beneath the noonday sun.

His head cocked slightly to the right as if taking in all of Thoros and his burning sword before he spoke again.

"This'll be over much faster if we take them all together." He said.

Thoros couldn't help the raise of his eyebrows that answered the statement.

"You reckon so eh?" He challenged, grinning with amusement in spite of himself. It certainly was the most novel thing that'd ever happened in any melee he competed in before. Normally the competitors would try to cozy up to him the night before the fight to try and ply him with wine to make it more difficult for him to fight the next day or get him to take it easy on them. And once the fight began most of them shied away from his flaming sword due to the simple principle of pain avoidene he'd been teaching most of these competitors today.

But this Stark didn't seem to care about the fire.

In fact, after having glanced at the flaming sword for a few moments in his examination of Thoros, he hadn't paid it the slightest attention again.

"I do." He answered shortly, bringing the duel wielded tourney blades up as he turned to face the side of the field he'd just come from.

Thoros couldn't help the bellowing laugh that escaped him at this boy's audacity. He was so confident in Thoros complying with his suggestion that he was starting to turn his back on him; trusting that a priest not even close to being bound by the code of chivalry that dictated so much of the supposed behavior of the knights and soldiers in this land would not attempt to attack him.

Perhaps it was that unshakeable confidence in Thoros being inherently decent enough not to repay a man who had helped him on the battlefield by attacking him when his back was turned. Or perhaps it was the underlying sense that the flames dancing across the sword in Thoros' hand did not make it any more of a threat in the Stark's eyes than any other blade on this field that the unbelieving priest picked up on.

In any case it was enough to see him turning back to face where he just had: the back of his dirty red robe barely touching the back of the boy's brown leather tourney armor. And not a moment too soon either. For it seemed the boy's prediction had proved true in more than one sense. When the competitors saw that Thoros had evidently teamed up with someone, that seemed to flip an internal switch in most all of their remaining minds that designated him and the Stark as the greatest mutual threat on the field.

And so, they answered their collective charges with blades flaming and plain, their attacker's shields barely even a nuisance.

At one point, a mace struck out at Thoros' right side, only to be answered by being caught in the cross of two swords that held it at bay whilst Thoros brought his right foot into the man's side. Without missing a beat, the Stark boy capitalized on his winded opponent by yanking the mace out of his hands by pulling it away with a spin towards the man's left side. Thoros deftly moved out of the Stark's path as the mace went sailing into the path of a shielded man who'd sought to attack them from behind, who instinctively brought it up to block the heavy headed weapon sailing straight at him.

While the Stark finished his spin by bringing both tourney swords across the back of the now disarmed fighter's head, Thoros had charged the other attacker with his flaming sword and timed his strike upon the shielded man's right side just after he'd raised the shield in his left hand to block the flying mace. The impact of the flying mace managed to push him back a step. The feel of the heat from Thoros' blade caused him to drop his own. The abrupt strike of Thoros' left heel upon his right foot caused him to lose his balance before Thoros' right hand holding the still burning sword cracked him across his stupid looking face, putting him down in the dirt.

In almost no time, Thoros lost all sense of the crowd screaming itself hoarse. Or the continued neighing of the uniformly rider-less horses and could only see each fight as it came before him: the coordination between himself and the Stark boy something he'd have never have believed if someone had told him it would happen the day before.

But now they stood facing each other: the last two remaining contestants.

Much as they'd worked well together, Thoros knew that the time had come to bring this to an end. His broad grin felt like it could outshine the blistering sun above them.

"I can't remember the last time I had such fun boy!" He called merrily.

That Stark face remained as stoic and unchanged as ever save for a small narrowing in the eyes and the slightest hint of a competitive uptick to the corners of his lips.

"You say that as if your victory were a foregone conclusion Jelmbagon Qelitsos." He answered, his voice muted by the roar of the crowd.

Thoros' felt his eyes widen somewhat and a small shiver made itself known at the base of his spine. Many a time before he'd heard that specific bit of Valyrian fall from the lips of the old curmudgeon Gerat. When he'd asked one of the other older priests of the Myrnish Red Temple, they said it was a sign of how traditionally minded Gerat was that he still tended to use the Valyrian terms when referring to students: in this case, calling Thoros by a title that translated into common as a "windswept candle." A derogatory phrase meaning to imply a smaller flame whose flickering uncertainty was a sign of it surely burning out soon in the face of greater pressure or forces.

But how could the Stark boy have known that term or what it would mean within the Red Temples?

Instantly Thoros brought his sword to bear, unwilling to show how much Stark's challenge had rattled him. In the blink of an eye, they were upon each other: Stark's swords clashing against Thoros's fiery sword. Thoros swung harder than he could remember doing in any tournament, his determination to banish the creeping doubts that the Hand of the King's progeny had awoken in him lending new strength to his swings and hacks. As he brought the sword down in an overhead strike, Stark caught the blade by crossing the swords in an ex shape and arresting its momentum. Then he moved slightly closer to the locked swords, putting the weight of his body behind the push to throw back Thoros's sword. And it was in the moments following this that Thoros knew he was facing something that was perhaps close to what the boys in the temple spoke of when they speculated about the existence of the Zalten Egrossa.

As he pushed Thoros' sword back, his own blades briefly ground against Thoros' own before both tourney swords erupted into fiery blades similar and yet somehow brighter than his own. For the first time since he could remember being introduced to the magic of the Red Temples, Thoros knew what it was to be at once awed and afraid. Awed for the magic that had just been performed before his eyes. Afraid for the fact that the magic that had just been done was said to be impossible by all the rules of R'hllor's magic he had spent years learning.

Thoros knew for a fact that the fire may catch upon flammable material if he struck it with his sword and that the blood he'd drawn to bind the flame to the blade's edge was what kept it from raging out of control and consuming the sword entirely. It was one of the fundamentals of magic. In order to maintain control of something, you had to be capable of tying it to yourself in some way: weather via blood or flesh or hair or…more intimate secretions. It was why it was so rare to find magic users who could control anything outside of a primary element with any degree of success. And even that was limited as the control of the magic was often tied directly to the will and control of the caster themselves.

So, for this boy to be able to draw his blades along Thoros' own and ignite them simply by using the fire magic imbued within the blades and bound to Thoros himself…that was power and control over fire on a magnitude Thoros had never known any short of a Scorched Heart to be said to possess, let alone seemingly do so without a second thought in the heat of battle.

In the face of this, it seemed almost quaint to think that he would've been frightened or wary of Thoros' flaming sword trick.

But this boy, as powerful as he may have been, had evidently not been instructed as to why the blood was a necessary component to the binding of the flame. Thoros attacked, intending to see if what he thought would prove true. As he did, the fire between the swords flared brighter. And past the near unbearable glow of the flames, he could already see the swords warping and buckling under the pressure of the power the Stark boy was bringing to bear. He quickly renewed his attack, emboldened by what he'd seen within the flames.

Back and forth they danced, the Stark boy's swords flashing so quickly and nimbly they almost seemed to be in three places at once, even as Thoros himself brought all his strength and power to bear against an opponent whom he'd stand no chance against had they the slightest inclination toward true control over the power they were showing here.

But at long last it happened.

One final strike from Thoros shattered the tourney blades. He brought the sword toward the Stark boy's chest in a quick follow-up, intent on not allowing the boy to try and disarm him. Seemingly caught off-guard, all the Stark boy could do was hastily toss the useless handles of the tourney swords to the side as the blade entered his left shoulder.

Thoros hadn't expected that to happen at all. It was only when the boy's naked hands grabbed the blade to prevent it from penetrating further that Thoros began to realize he might've made a colossal error in judgement. In less than the blink of an eye after gripping the burning sword with both hands, the Stark boy had let out a shout of what sounded to be combined rage and exertion before the fire flared brightly enough that Thoros had to close his eyes least he be blinded by looking directly at it. When he did, there was a sound of warping and shattering metal and before he knew it something solid as a skull was smashing into his face before he could open his eyes: his right hand still gripping the handle of his now blown to pieces sword. Instinctively he brought his left hand up to block and caught what felt like a forearm in his grip: an almost insidious heat radiating from a bit further up it where he thought the hand might be.

A knee to his gut. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he was flipped onto his back and there was a weight on his chest and at last he could bring his eyes to open. Above him was the Stark boy: left shoulder of his leather armor smoking and burned at the edges of the hole punctured in it by his blade. His left hand was gripping the handle of the shattered sword in Thoros' right and bringing the blackened ragged edge of the metal that remained ever closer to the left side of his neck. In his right hand was a lump of obsidian colored metal that smoked and seemed to radiate an angry heat that Thoros could feel curling the hairs of his beard even as it inched closer and closer to the right side of Thoros' neck. He was trapped beneath Stark. Unable to get any leverage in his legs, torso weighted down by the full weight of Stark's body and arms in a cross position just below his own neck trying in vain to prevent the boy from bringing the blades to a meeting point within his throat.

Thoros looked directly into those unyielding grey eyes as he angrily growled only one word as the blackened metals came ever closer to ending him.

"Submit!"

Thoros did so without hesitation.

Immediately the Stark boy collapsed off him to Thoros' right side, breathing heavily from the exertion of their contest. The faithless red priest couldn't help but feel simultaneously relieved and overwhelmed by all that had happened just now. Never had he met such a capable opponent. And one who could fight him even within the admittedly limited realms of magic practice he had traversed.

Stark stood up to the now rapturously whooping and screaming crowd, whose presence Thoros was only now starting to regain awareness of. As he stood above Thoros, straight backed and clear eyed, he extended his right hand in an offer of helping him up even as his left arm stayed limp at his side.

When his right hand grasped the Stark boy's own, Thoros again felt the rush of power he'd sensed earlier and knew in the same way he knew the feel of his own magic, that this Stark boy held an intimate connection to the red faith Thoros himself had always scoffed at. As he was brought to his feet alongside his opponent, he couldn't help but wonder if the Stark boy would be up for a drink after all this.

A/N: Even though it usually takes a while to get right, I always enjoy imagining and then writing the fight scenes. Absolutely one of my favorite parts of the story thus far. -Mx4