Warrior of Westeros- Round 3
I—like everyone not named Molly Lambert (who I am convinced is the only person with an IQ above 55 who doesn’t like Game of Thrones)—have been jonesing ever since Tyrion and Arya sailed off into the distance…literally. I’ve got a little bit of help for you—the Tournament of Champions continues.
If you’re new to the tournament of the ages I would start here.
Just a Reminder of the Rules:
This is “Game of Thrones” not A Song of Ice and Fire. It also only concerns seasons 1-3 of Game of Thrones, so if characters don’t appear before this season, they don’t qualify.
All characters will be at “best form” throughout the three seasons, e.g.: Jaime with both hands.
All characters have any equipment or animals they need to be in “best form,” meaning Robb and Jon are accompanied by their wolves, Khal has his horse, and Barristan and others have armor.
How it’s done:
Every match up is best of 100, to the death. They meet on a plain old arena, think Final Destination.
And Round Three Beginninth:
Robb Stark vs Thoros of Myr
The Battle Scene:
The sun sets over the hills, casting a blood red hue over grassy landscape. The shadow of the kneeling man stretches far. Thoros looks up from his position on his knees at the sun as it disappears behind the last hill in the distance, “Today is not the day I die. The red god blesses me tonight.” Across the field a boy nearly a third the years of Thoros sits on a fallen tree. Next to him stands a beast the size of a man, with teeth the length of a grown man’s forearm.
Robb looks over at man praying, recalling that his father always told him to allow a man his last rights, regardless of who he was or what he’d done. Recent years had seen a diminution in Robb’s faith. The only ritual he took part in nowadays was cleaning his sword before battle. He looked down as he slid the rag up and down over the valyrian steel blade.
Thoros stands and turns and calls to the boy across the field, “I have made my peace.” The boy silently stands and sheaths his sword. The huge dog leaps to attention. The beast begins to pace back and forth before the boy baring his teeth silently. The boy runs his hand through the dog’s matted fur.
Robb’s heart was pounding at this point but he sneered, feigning confidence. His fingertips lay gently on Grey Wind’s back and he felt the rumble in the wolf’s chest as he growled. He kneels down next to the wolf’s ear and whispers, “Go, boy.” The wolf strides off slowly flanking the man to the left as Robb paces to the right. The man, now only a silhouette on the sun, draws his sword and stands ready for battle. Robb gestures with his left hand as he draws his sword from its sheath with his right. Grey Wind begins to run toward the man and leaps when he is within 15 feet. Robb attacks, swinging his sword. There is a clash of metal on metal and the sound of flesh being torn by sharp teeth and the man falls limply to the ground.
Outcome: 88 wins Robb
Daario Naharis vs Barristan Selmy
The Battle Scene:
Alora had run from her home on the other side of the city early this morning to make sure she was at the front of the crowd. The legend, Barristan Selmy, had been challenged by an unknown sell sword to a battle to the death. It was the biggest news that had made it this far east in her life; it had been the talk of the town for weeks now. News was the unknown man was an ex-commander in the Second Sons who had killed his co-captains and began travelling with the Mother of Dragons. It was true you didn’t become a Second Son without any skill but Barristan Selmy had taken the lives of more sons that the wars of old. Alora had grown up hearing tales of the legendary gold cloak – the man who now stood before the massive crowd in simple plate armor, stripped not two years back of his status. Even news of his fall from grace had not deterred Alora. She remembered the hours she and her friends spent running through the courtyards, swing sticks at each other playing the Battle of King’s Landing. Everyone wanted to be the Targaryens — they had dragons after all — but Alora always took the role of the old gold cloak, not nearly worn by years as much as the man who stood before her.
A rumble kept over the crowd. Alora was snapped from her daydream. She stared down from her vantage point, looking for the source of the commotion. She saw the man, the sell sword, enter the courtyard. He smiled, a beautiful smile. No one had told her the man had such an arresting visage. He looked up at the crowd, which was heckling and jeering him with boos, he smiled even wider and opened his arms as if to welcome the fury of the crowd. The motion enticed an even louder boo from the surrounding crowd to which he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, bathing in the ridicules thrown at him from the blood thirsty mob.
Barristan charged the man who seemed unaware of the advancing foe. As Selmy began to slash his blade down, intent on bringing the fight to swift end, the man lunged back. Selmy’s blade buried lamely in the ground and with a swift kick the man sent the long sword sliding across the dusty courtyard floor. He looked up directly into Alora’s eyes and winked and despite herself she grinned back. Selmy drew a shorter sword from his left hip and stood ready. Alora wondered if this could be the last pages of the legend’s story. He waited calmly, determined not to let the man best him again on an attack. What felt like an eternity passed as the two men stared at each other in the stone grey courtyard. Silence had fallen over the crowd and the air was palpable.
“Well, old man? Are you waiting for me to spread my legs?”
“Draw your sword.”
“When it is necessary,” the man whispered. The smile had left his voice now. There was no amusement for him or the crowd. The gravity of the situation, which hung so heavily over the proceedings now, had stifled the anticipation that filled the courtyard not two minutes ago.
Selmy began to circle the man, who stood still, not even rotating his head to track the warrior’s movement. With every step, Selmy was getting visibly more livid. The young man was insulting him now. He was not so slow that you would allow him to position himself behind you and expect to tell tale of it. But still. Alora looked on as Selmy rotated entirely behind the man, who still hadn’t moved or drawn his blade. His hands even seemed to hang limply at his sides. Barristan Selmy paused, struck dumb by the incongruity of the situation and confusion at the lack of movement from his opponent. He took a timid step forward, testing the man, and when there was no reaction, he pounced. But again, with a flash of movement, almost imperceptible until it was over, the man stood alongside Selmy with foot planted firmly in the crevice of his knee. Selmy swung his sword from his position on his knee forcing the man to leap back. “Draw!” Selmy shouted almost pleading the man.
“You will die. Why do you insist on bringing it on sooner?” he hissed at the old man who stumbled to his feet, weighed down by his heavy armor.
The man begins to draw his sword slowly. It does not gleam in the light like Selmy’s two blades, clearly not cared for like the old warrior’s sword. It was a tool, not a weapon; it had no name, that was clear. With two swift steps he closes the gap with Selmy, who raises his blade to block the strike. Their blades flash and clang, the metallic sound and heavy breathing fills the hollow courtyard. A chant rises from the crowd softly at first, too soft to hear, as it gets louder Alora can make it out, “Daario! Daario!” This must be the man’s name. “Daario” she whispers, testing it in her mouth like a fine wine. Then a cry arose shaking her once again from her daydream Daario had buried his blade deep in the shoulder of Barristan. He draws his second blade intending to bring an end to the fight when Barristan lashes out with a gauntlet covered fist striking the man in the abdomen. Daario doubles over pulling out the blade from Selmy’s shoulder. Lunging forward from his crippled position Daario stabs his blade into Barristan’s side. A death blow, she thought with baited breath. Daario was looking up at her again entwined with Selmy, a small smile on his face again. She smiles back, confident now that Daario had come out the better. Then with a shallow cough a stream of crimson liquid oozed from Daario’s mouth. “No!” someone screamed in her voice. She looked on in shock. Daario’s eyes hadn’t left hers yet he coughed again and this time a spray of red splattered down Selmy’s armor. With his final breath, Daario smiled at Alora and winked.
Barristan Selmy let Daario’s body slump to the ground and he turned exposing Daario’s blade buried in his armor inches above his heart; the blade pointed out parallel to the ground, pointing at the crowd—taunting them. With a swift swipe of the arm he breaks the blade off and the dull hilt chatters to the ground, echoing through the silent courtyard.
Outcome: Barristan Selmy 52 wins
Eddard Stark vs Jon Snow
The Battle Scene:
I don’t really have any idea how to write this one. Sorry. The truth is we decided on a neutral battle. Eddard would have the skill to kill Ghost without too much injury most of the time, then would be able to handle Jon one-on-one. It was a rather close vote and would probably make a fantastic story in the hands of a better writer than me.
Outcome: Eddard Stark 52 wins
Syrio Forel vs Anguy
The Battle Scene:
Anguy’s bow creaked as he drew taut the sinew. He breathed in as he pulled the birch rod back toward his left eye and centered the arrow point on the figure growing larger in the distance. With a deep breath, he pointed the arrow upwards until it was nearly perpendicular with the ground, seemingly aiming toward the orange glow of the sun. He released the arrow and pushed his breath through the space in his teeth at the same time. The arrow disappeared into the sun but Anguy wasn’t looking at the sun, he was watching the point in the distance, now almost recognizably a man running, but not quite. Anguy watched patiently and counted the beats as he tapped his thigh. One—the man was running at break neck speed and Anguy could make out his arms and legs. Two—the man drew his sword and held it above his head, screaming bloody murder. Three—Anguy could make out his expression now, a twisted look of fury and pain. Four—he was ten yards away from Anguy at this point, his footsteps throwing up dirt behind him. As his finger tapped out the fifth beat and the man drew within striking distance of Anguy, the arrow found its target, piercing the top of the man’s skull. Blood spurted out of the wound and the man’s face, not five feet from Anguy, was still twisted in that hideous expression as the life left the man’s eyes. The man’s muscles went limp all at once. His torso was pulled backward by the sword held limply above the man’s head, the hiss of the aborted swing still in the air. But his legs continued to pull his body forward at the break neck speed it had been moving. Anguy pivoted his body and the man fell forward, his torso folding back on itself as he slid past Anguy’s feet. Anguy looked down at the body twisted in an impossible position.
“That was a friend of mine,” said the man who had been sitting on the stump a few paces to his left.
“I’d apologize about that, but it did rather seem like he planned to kill me,” Anguy said, half smiling at the man who had stood up now. He was holding a thin sword and was about half a head shorter than Anguy.
“Yes, well, he was never a very nice man. But a friend nonetheless.”
“I’ve had a few friends like that.” The man was walking over to Anguy now twirling the sword in his hands. Anguy drew an arrow and held it softly between his index and middle finger and let it dangle by his side.
“You’re good with that bow. What was he — 80 yards distant?”
“Closer to 100.” The man whistled and continued to walk forward, very slowly.
“How you make that shot?”
“All about breathing.”
“All about breathing, ehh? That’s a good one,” he chuckled and swung his sword, “you know what they say about breath where I’m from.”
“Something about cherishing every one you get?” Anguy knocked the arrow onto his bow string but still let it hang unthreatening and useless by his thigh.
“No,” the man paused comically, seemingly in a deep thought, “that’s a good one though.” The man continued to laugh, which was unnerving Anguy, “No, where I’m from they say, ‘breath is the only bastion between life and death, and those that take breath are the most evil of us all.’ I always wondered what that meant.”
“Seems pretty self-explanatory to me. The only difference between life and death is breath and those that kill are the most evil people.”
“Ah, see but that isn’t what it says is it? It says, ‘those that take breath,’ we all take breath, we all must take breath.”
“Then maybe we are all evil,” Anguy responded having tired of this conversation before it even began.
“Yes, maybe we are.” The man was too close now. Anguy hadn’t remembered letting him get that close.
“Back up.” He drew the arrow back half taught and raised it slightly.
The man continued to walk forward slowly paying Anguy no mind, “But if we are all evil, are there degrees of evil? Are those that bring death still the most evil? Or is it a foregone conclusion?”
“I don’t want to have to kill you, back up!” Anguy was now getting antsy.
The man lunged forward swiping with the thin sword and Anguy shot the arrow piercing the man’s leg. He lunged again seemingly unfazed by the injury and Anguy blocked the thrusting blade with his bow. He moved with practiced speed and hitched another arrow to the bow, turning on his heel and taking three quick strides. He leaped over a fallen tree and looked over his shoulder. The man was far closer than he thought he’d be, moving faster than someone with a leg wound should. Before he landed to the ground he loosed another arrow into the man’s shoulder. This time the man stumbled and fell, sliding in the dirt until he came to a stop with a thud against the tree. Anguy got to his feet sprinting away from the man again and hitching another arrow. He turned, drawing the string to his right eye but jumped when he saw the man was only feet from him. His surprise upset his aim and the arrow buried itself in a tree to the man’s left, missing his head by inches.
Syrio caught the limp body of the archer as it fell toward him. “Death comes for us all one day, I’m sorry.”
I write this in protest because my vote very much went to Anguy. But alas, Syrio it is.
Outcome: Syrio Forel 68 wins
Qhorin Halfhand vs Brienne of Tarth
The Battle Scene:
Qhorin Halfhand trudged forward, the point of his blade dragging behind, leaving a pale red line in the freshly fallen snow. Trailing the final remnants of his fallen enemies in the fresh white powder behind him. Qhorin cursed the men who had deserted him under his breath, “cowardly fucking crows.” But he should have known better. When you form an army of bread thieves, rapists, and slavers, you are bound to come across more men willing to turn their backs on a few wildlings north of the wall than draw their blades and stand shoulder to shoulder with their fellow Night’s Watchmen, and die. He had got out by the skin of his teeth after his ranger team had stumbled across a camp of Hornfoots. Qhorin winced, possibly from his weakening knee but possibly from the thought of the final words of the Hornfoot leader, “Fuck you, do what you will, noting could be worse than the white death that follows us,” and with far less bite in his voice, “Burn us after.” It was irrelevant now because all that was left of the men was the blood that stretched back behind him for 200 yards, streaking vividly through the bright white landscape. Another step, less pain this time, but it was still a long walk now. They would suspect him dead, why go back now? His men had certainly not returned after deserting their captain. The punishment was beheading. None too bright in the bunch but none so unwise to take that risk.
Qhorin froze, sounds of heavy footsteps echoed through the dead forest. He shot to attention, bringing the blade, which had hung limply, point in the snow, not a moment before, rigid across his body. The light of the sun peeking through the thick leaves glinted on the wet blade. The footfalls approached closer now, a familiar sound of heavy metal boots crushing the soft snow into a solid frosty footprint.
On his periphery, a man stepped through a break in the thick brush, nearly two heads taller than Qhorin, clad from top to toe in thick armor. Qhorin stopped short, peering through the thin slit in the armor helmet breathing steadily—it had been a long time now since he had been felt his heart quicken at the sight of a foe. But this was quite the foe. He towered above Halfhand, casting a daunting shadow across Qhorin’s full height. The gargantuan figure stopped short in the cramped clearing when he saw Qhorin motionless in front of him.
Qhorin stared unwavering through the slit still, looking for an inclining of humanity in the hollow armor. In the figure before him. “Ho!” the muffled voice bellowed from behind the face mask. A softer voice than expected.
“We have no quarrel here,” Qhorin assured the man before him. With a swift fluid movement the suit of armor drew a long sword, heavy, unmistakably made of folded valyrian steel. “Woah! Woah! That’s unnecessary.”
“Back.” Qhorin stared at the faceless figure before him. But refused to back down. The backs of his men flashed red in his mind. And then he saw it. A child, a girl of no more than 14 years, was standing behind the figure with a look of fear tempered by an unmistakable smile.
“Back—up.” Qhorin felt tired to his bones. There was no reason not to back up. No reason not to sheath his sword. There was no way the man before him clad in heavy armor could close the gap on him fast enough for it to make any difference. “No.” Why had he said that? Exhaustion was the only real answer. Not physical fatigue, he was wide awake now. Years of this insufferable snowy hell had drained him. “No, fuck you. And fuck your jester boy,” flicking his sword tip at the partly concealed child. Out of the corner of his eye—as he continued to stare into the black space where the man’s eyes must be—he saw the child chuckle to herself. Despite himself, Qhorin smiled.
“Back, or you die.” Qhorin sighed. “Fuck you.” With a motion, far too fast for the heavy blade and armor, the man leaped forward and slashed down. Qhorin stepped back lively but landed awkwardly on his lame leg and it gave way to the unexpected weight. He looked up and from his knee, saw the break in the armor and lunged. He heard the scrape of the blade as it slid through the opening in the armor and felt the soft give as it pierced flesh. From his kneeling position he didn’t have the strength to bury the blade as deep as he needed. After a furious tug that budged neither the blade nor the man in which it was buried, he tried once more to dislodge the blade from his adversary, this time less intent on freeing the blade than desiring to lengthen the few moments left before he saw the flash of the man’s heavy blade as it caught the ray of light that peeked through the thick brush. He heard the sound of metal cutting the air as it passed by his right ear and his hands fell limply by his side, no longer strong enough to even hold the immovable hilt.
Outcome: Brienne of Tarth 85 wins
Jaime Lannister vs Mero
The Battle Scene:
Jaime remembered the walk through the streets of Pentos. Spending most of his life in Casterly Rock and King’s Landing had not prepared him for a city so beautiful. The only colors more vivid than the flowers and the trees were the colors of the women’s garments, what little clothes they wore. Jaime, who had never been once to Little Finger’s brothel or any of whore houses that lined the roads in Westeros, was shocked by the outfits of the women walking gracefully through the Pentan streets. Jaime was no young boy, and was hardly innocent in the body of a woman — Cersei had seen to that. This was different. It was so casual, and the women here—maybe it was the clothes, they were all so modest in King’s Landing—but here the women seemed to glow. They shimmered like the spray off the coastal rocks. But he had not travelled here for beauty. Beauty was a fine thing, but it had never been enough to make him risk safety and abandon comfort to take on a herculean trip. No, he had ventured nearly five months through villages and hamlets he had never even wanted to hear about — much less visit — for the sake of beauty. Jaime was here to collect and now he was standing looking blankly at the door that stood between him and the name he came to collect, a perplexing feeling in his gut. Jaime had become legendary in his youth. As he won tournament after tournament and fought in countless battles, his sword had tasted its fair share of blood. He had killed boys and men alike. The singers always tell stories of the great men a legend kills but the truth is few great men go down much differently than worthless men, nameless men. “The King Slayer.” He had a moniker and he had been nearly killed a dozen times by men named Snow and Stone and Flowers and Waters and Storm. He had also been bled to within an inch of his life by men without names or songs or stories. “Ser Jaime Lannister” — the words were inscribed forever in the Book of Brothers. But now he stood here, his hand half raised, poised to knock on the door that held the name.
He was here to collect Mero.
He knocked on the door and heard heavy feet approaching. “I was wondering if you were ever going to fucking knock. I’ve been holding my breath shaking in the back hoping you would come in.” The man who had swung open the door was scarred and hardened from years of abuse and the smile he wore seemed unpracticed, like it had been lost and found itself on an unfamiliar face. To the man’s credit he looked like he had never shaken for any man and the quip did seem like an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come in. You’ve been standing out there long enough.”
“Thank you.” Jaime walked into the house brushing past Mero who smelled of fresh flowers and sage. He took a bath for this? That was odd, men don’t usually bathe before death. Maybe he was confident he would make his dinner appointment.
“What?” Startled out of his train of thought.
“Would you like a drink?” Mero said, stretching out the each syllable like he was talking to a child.
“I’m thirsty? Are you thirsty?”
“No I mean why would—“
“I know what you mean, come have a drink with me. It’ll be good for the both of us.”
Mero led Jaime back to a balcony that looked over onto the ocean. The balcony was surrounded by lush green trees and clusters of flowers. In the middle of the balcony sat a table with two chairs on either side.
“Look I’m not here to talk. I’m not here to drink.”
“I know why you’re here. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“You don’t seem all that fucking smart to me. Most men would’ve stabbed me in the chest after they opened the door.”
“Most men wouldn’t have crossed the King Slayer and waited almost half a year for him to show up at their door fully armored and wearing his sword.”
“So, if you were me, would you think you were sitting in the home of a scholarly man?”
“I’ve never worried about the book learning a man had. I’ve never read the book I thought would stop a sword piercing your heart. Once I come across that literary gem, I’ll contemplate the scholarly nature of the man sitting across the table from me.
“Regardless I don’t want your fucking wine.”
Mero’s smile, despite looking as if it was his first ever, hadn’t slipped until that comment. Even then, it only faltered for a moment, then the man recovered. “As I’m going to be cleaning your blood off my boots tonight, the least you could do for that inconvenience is show me the courtesy of having a drink with me.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Jaime to react and when he refused to show any inkling he had heard him, Mero continued, “Florya!” He called to nowhere, his gaze and his smile never shifting from Jaime for an instant. A short girl came from the hallway they had just walked down, carrying a tray with two cups and a carafe. She leaned over, placing the tray on the table and Jaime’s eyes flicked for a moment to her cleavage.
“Have you ever been with a girl with tits like those?” Mero smiled, still unflinchingly staring into Jaime’s eyes.
The girl turned to leave and Mero’s arm darted out and grabbed the girl by her wrist, “Wait Florya. Our guest has never held a pair of tits like yours.” Jaime was sure most men could claim the same. Jaime wasn’t sure he had ever seen a chest like this girl’s. He looked up and then saw, to his horror, a tear forming in the girl’s eye.
“No, there’s no need for that.”
“First, you insult me by refusing my wine. Now you insult me again, I am a very forgiving man, King Slayer, but you are testing my patience.”
“I’m not going to touch this girl’s tits, now you can get them the fuck out of my face!”
“No, see, only a boy toucher wouldn’t want a piece of this. And from the stories I’ve heard about you, you’re certainly no boy toucher.” His smile was gone now, there was no pretense anymore. “That is unless all the stories of you were muddled as they crossed The Narrow Sea. Was it your brother not your sister?”
Jaime pulled his knife out and before Florya had even flinched, he slammed it on the table knocking over his cup and spilling the wine. Mero hadn’t budged an inch. He still held Florya tightly and stared piercingly into Jaime’s eyes. Jaime stared back and with venom in his voice he said, “There was once this boy I knew back at Casterly Rock. He was bigger than me and he loved to tease me. I remember one day, I was sitting in the courtyard one day and he came across me. I don’t remember what I was doing but it couldn’t have been anything too insulting, nothing that would justify what he did to me next.” Jaime turned his head and lifted the back of his hair revealing a scar near the base of his skull. “He picked up a rock and hit me over and over again. Then he laughed. And you know what the worst part about that was?”
“Not the blows to the back of the head, I’m assuming, or else I wouldn’t be sitting through this story.”
“No, no the rock hurt, it did. A lot at first actually, eventually it got peaceful, I was sure I was going to die, so I just let him do it. At least it would be over. No, the worst part was I was powerless to do anything. There were only two people I feared in the world, my father and this boy and I was afraid that if I went to my father, the boy would find out and it would only get worse. So I took it, and I cried. A few days later my sister came to me. She knew I hadn’t fallen off my horse, she could always tell when I was lying. It didn’t take her long to persuade the truth out of me. Do you know what she said to me?”
“I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”
“She told me, if we let people hurt our family, what is to stop them from taking everything from us? You protect your family at all costs, Jaime. You know what you have to do.’ Oh, and I knew, I was just too afraid. But then she held me, and she told me there was nothing to fear. I found that boy and I slit his throat from ear to ear and as he bled I leaned down and I whispered in his ear, ‘For family.’”
Mero paused and made a half-hearted attempt to revive his smile, “That’s fine and all, but I suggest you grab tight to these tits because you’re never going to make it home to that whore sister of yours.”
Jaime stood up and kicked over the table. He stabbed at Mero with his blade. Mero kicked up into Jaime’s abdomen, which slid his chair back three feet. He hadn’t let go of Florya yet. Instead he pulled her toward him and ran his hand up her inner thigh. He still was staring directly at Jaime, but this time with a look Jaime recognized – hatred. Jaime had seen that look in men’s eyes before; men named Snow and Stone and Flowers and Waters and Storm, men without names or songs or stories.
He pushed Florya to the side and then picked up his ax. “I never got the pleasure from a woman I do from seeing the look in a man’s eyes when he knows it’s over.”
“That is one thing we can agree on.” Jaime spit at the floor as he tried to catch his breath.
“Not so impressive a statement in your case as in mine. Unless your sister is the painted whore that the stories would suggest.” Jaime grimaced at the man standing across from him in mock amusement.
“My long journey no longer seems like such a waste; I’m going to thoroughly enjoy killing you.”
Mero lunged forward, faster than Jaime would have believed possible, and brought the ax down on Jaime’s left shoulder. Jaime just managed to get his blade up in time and deflected the blow. The majority of the damage was avoided but the heavy blade still cut a deep gash in the side of Jaime’s arm. Their blades now entangled, the two men stood with their faces inches apart. Mero whispered through his scarred lips, his hot breath smothering Jaime, “Everyone thinks you’re the greatest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms. What a fitting death to sail to the free lands and die covered in blood in the house of a sell sword. Maybe they will write songs of my conquest of the King Slayer.” On the last syllable to punctuate his point Mero landed a swift blow into the Jaime’s chin with his shoulder. Jaime stumbled back and Mero darted forward swiping again with the ax this time from below. Jaime managed to avoid the ax entirely, swiping his sword at the heavy handle as he leaped back sending the blow off target to the right and Mero off balance.
Jaime seized his opportunity and thrust his blade stabbing at the man’s exposed abdomen. Just as Jaime felt the thrill realization that came with inevitable victory, Mero pulled a short dirk out of his left side holster with his off hand and parried the thrust.
“Close, very close King Slayer.”
With a laugh Mero darted again, this time not at Jaime but to his left, in an attempt to flank him to his off hand. Jaime was familiar with this move, being a favorite of his, it normally threw opponents off. Jaime whipped around the opposite direction, swinging his blade high to catch Mero at shoulder level. The move was risky, it momentarily exposed Jaime’s back, but normally a flanking opponent didn’t expect an attack at that juncture. Unfortunately, Mero was no normal opponent. Seizing his opportunity, Mero lashed out, kicking Jaime in his unprotected back and sending him face first into the upturned table.
Jaime was dazed. Moving slowly to his feet, he recognized the all too familiar sensations of a broken nose and the hot trickle of fresh blood down his chin. “I’ve never understood the infamy you garnered from stabbing that king in his back,” Mero offered up, toying with Jaime because he could have easily finished off the man as he staggered to his feet, still getting his bearings. “Wasn’t he the mad king?” Didn’t all the people that scorn you to this day wish to see his head mounted?” Jaime spat a stream of blood onto the floor in derision. “Or maybe they object to the manner of his death, stabbed from behind, by a cowardly, disloyal scum. That is something is something I have always been curious about.” He paused twirling his weapons idly in his hands—the silence almost demanded a response.
“What?” Jaime conceded.
“How it must be to be hated more than the most hated man in the world. People have hated me, no doubt more than have loved me. But I can’t say I have ever been the most hated.”
“I can’t say you’re too far from the top of my list,” Jaime hissed through his teeth, the blood still spilling from his nose.
This time, maybe for the first time since Jaime had entered his house, Mero’s smile was genuine. He even let out a raucous laugh that sounded much too much like enjoyment for Jaime’s peace of mind. Mero wasted little time launching his attack again when he saw Jaime was firmly on his feet, swinging furiously with the heavy ax then his dirk. Jaime was breathing heavily, the effort of keeping the man at bay tiring him out more than he would have expected. Then he felt the cold hard press of the wall on his back as he realized he had been cornered. Mero taking advantage of the upper hand stabbed forward with his dirk aiming for Jaime’s heart. Jaime quickly slid sideways bringing his sword down, more out of desperation than anything. The blade connected shooting a stream of dark red liquid on the pale tan bricks.
Jaime reacted out of instinct intending not to let Mero gain his footing again. He brought his sword down on the heavy ax knocking it to the ground and sending Mero off balance. Before even the sound of the ax hitting the hard ground had finished echoing through the veranda, Jaime was on him, striking at his shoulders and knees and before long Mero was on his knees before Jaime, his weapons scattered helplessly throughout the room. Jaime raised his blade to finish the man off and collect his name.
“Killed by a golden haired asshole in fucking Pentos,” Mero chuckled, letting out a spray of blood, “fitting.”
Jaime plunged the blade into the man’s collar, “For family.”
Outcome: Jaime Lannister 65 wins
Khal Drogo vs Gregor Clegane
The Battle Scene:
It was surprising to the Aggo how little words had been exchanged between the two mountains masquerading as men. It couldn’t be, but it certainly seemed as if Aggo had turned around and the two men had been brawling. It couldn’t be the case because the giant identifying himself as Clegane had walked into their camp not an hour or more ago. Aggo was not easily scared, at least not for a long time, not since his braid was cut the first time. He remembered, kneeling in front of his father, blood from his mangled face caking in the dirt below him, his father raised his knife and with a swift motion cut the braid, no more than 5 inches at that point. Since he saw the look on his father’s face, he had never feared anything. But this man, this Clegane was a fearsome specimen. A full head taller than any man Aggo had ever seen and twice as broad; his sword was the same height and breadth of a Dothraki boy and the man swung it with such ease it may have weighed as much as a feather.
Drogo kicked out at the man knocking him off balance then swung his sword. It caught the mountain on the side of the face and the man fell putting his hand up to his ear as it bled profusely. Drogo went in with his curved blade to finish the man off but Clegane struck Drogo with his heavy plated hand in the chest. He slid back nearly three feet but remained standing. He was hurt, that was obvious, and he tried to catch his breath because the meaty hand had winded him. It was of no consequence because the nearly 200 pounds of armor was preventing the giant from moving with any speed to his feet.
Aggo was sure five minutes ago that he would have never seen a man that could defeat Drogo. Just as he was sure 15 years ago he could beat that boy. He didn’t remember his name or even his face anymore. But he certainly remembered the pounding of his fists. Covered with dirt and blood and tears, the boy pounded his fists into Aggo’s face until he begged for mercy. He was half the size of Aggo. There was no reason he should have been able to overpower him, but he was small but wily and he had Aggo on his back with his arms pinned in under a minute.
Drogo was bleeding now, a deep crimson gash across his chest, spilled blood onto his feet. Clegane charged toward the injured man bringing down his sword hard at his shoulders. Drogo, far more nimbly than his injury would suggest possible, leaped to the left avoiding the blade and slashed at Clegane catching a chink in his armor Drogo buried the blade deep in Clegane’s thigh. He cried out in paid and flailed his arm. The chance swipe caught Drogo right on the chin and propelled him onto his back. There was a cry from the surrounding crowd, “No!” Aggo echoed their horror but was too dumbstruck to make a sound. Clegane dragged his lame leg over to the man who lay prostrate and immobile on the ground propping himself up with the gargantuan on the way. The trip seemed to take ages. But the time it took him to make the journey was nothing compared to the time it seemed for him to bring the point of his blade down into the Khal’s chest. With that all sound left the world, he looked around and saw screaming faces but couldn’t make heads or tails of it all. What had just happened? What was to follow?
Outcome: Gregor Clegane 76 wins
Sandor Clegane vs Daenerys Targaryen
The Battle Scene:
“Fuck your fucking laws,” the man spat in a gruff voice barely as excitable as his words would suggest. “Do I look like I come from fucking Yunkai?” He had a point, regardless of his vulgarity. He certainly didn’t look as if he came from Yunkai. His heavy black armor was not suited to this climate, as was evidenced by the beads of sweat running down his face. And his face—the side was scarred nearly beyond recognition. No, this man was from the west.
“Well, where do you come from?”
“Hardly seems relevant. You brought me in here.”
“We brought you in here because you were caught pillaging on the outskirts of town.”
“Pillaging?” The man shot back with a tone of such derision as to make Daenerys second guess her statement, “I don’t call taking from those who don’t deserve to have, pillaging. I was doing them a kindness.”
Dany recovered before she let any evidence show she had been fazed, “And when you slit their throats? Was that doing them a kindness?” The members of her court found this compelling, or so it seemed from their enthusiastic agreement.
“Winter is coming. Better to die quickly at the hands of my steel than slowly at the cold touch of winter.”
“Winter does not come to Yunkai.”
“Oh, you stupid bitch…”
“I am the mother of dragons and you will address me with respect.”
“My lady stupid bitch—winter comes for us all.” Daenerys made a slight motion with her hands and a whip struck his back.
“Respect, sir, or you will find you have a much harder time in Essos than you would have wished.”
“I have served under some real scumbags,” the man said, a twinge of pain from the lashing in his voice. “You think you and your fruity desert people scare me?”
“Maybe not, you do seem like an accomplished warrior.” She heard it had taken six men, four now dead to bring in the man, who stood a head taller than her tallest Unsullied. “Yet even someone like yourself has not seen the likes of a dragon in many years.” With that, the doors to the court opened and her three dragons were let in, chains dragging behind them.
He turned his head and then skirted back, falling over his chains and onto his back in his hurry to get away from them. “Ah,” she said a triumphant feeling that she was unable to hide in her voice coming over her, “so you fear my dragons. You think they might burn the other side of your face?”
The dragons climbed the stairs to her throne, passed her court attendants and advisors and draped themselves over their mother –two over her legs one rested with his wing laying on her shoulder. She stroked them as she looked down on the man smiling, “Well? I asked you a question.”
He still looked on in horror as though he had just seen a ghost, not meeting her gaze, his eyes instead following the motion of Drogon’s tail as it swayed back and forth across Dany’s chest. With a start he came to his senses, fear in his eyes. “Oh no,” he answered his voice too calm and flat for a man that looked as if the life had been scared out of him. “The one who did this to me is much worse than your little baby shit dragons. I’ve taken shits that would outweigh any one of those fuckers.”
“You will speak to the mother of dragons with respect or you will—“
He yelled over the cries of contempt from the crowd in her court, “Fuck your respect! Fuck your dragons! Fuck your little shit city! Fuck your laws! And most importantly,” he spit on the marble floor before he lowered his voice, the sound of his shouts still echoing through the hollow hall, looked directly into Daenerys’s eyes and whispered so only she could hear it, spitting words at her like a cobra’s venom, “and most importantly—fuck you.”
Daenerys leaped to her feet, fury getting the best of her now, “Kill him!” Turning to the man kneeling in chains below her, “you will not talk to me like that in my own court.”
“We could talk about it in your chambers.” He spat back, still with the tone of a deadly black adder.
She pointed her finger shaking with fury, “If he says another fucking word, I will have every one of you hung from the city walls!”
Jeor Mormont approaches, drawing his blade, but to Dany’s horror, the man stood, and with a sickening snap kicked Jeor’s front leg, bending it in a manner that seemed hardly possible. With a cry, Jeor dropped to the ground, his sword clattering down the stone steps. The hideous man fell upon him, bashing his skull with his chains until they and the man were covered in blood. An Unsullied charged from the crowd but before she could hope this was the end of it, the man, standing a full three feet above the guard, grabbed the spear and snapped off the tip and in one swift motion stabbed it through the approaching soldier’s face mask.
“Wait!” she cried out, not exactly sure why herself, she just knew she would not watch this man dispatch anymore of her kin. “Dracarys!” she shouts almost unthinking. And with a flap of wings and whirlwind the three dragons fly off the throne and breathed three jets of fire at the man who falls back down the stairs. The dragons land and begin to advance on the man who scrambled back into the corner, much like a small, scared child.
“No! No! Please, not the fire! Please, brother! I only wanted to play with them! I was going to give them back!” His voice reached a register that was unsettling, as high and harried as a small child. “Noo!” He completed the piteous picture with a heart churning shriek.
He was whimpering in the corner, the point of the spear clutched to his chest like a child’s toy. The dragons begin to encircle him, toying with their prey, hissing and darting forward. Drogon, the leader, spitted a jet of flame that falls just short of the cowering man. “Enough! Kill him!” A sick feeling in her stomach, she turned away from the scene to walk back up to her throne when she heard a gasp and turned.
The man was running toward the stairs now. Behind him lay Rhaegal, a spear through his throat. For a brief horrific moment she thought the man intended to attack her but then he reached Jeor’s fallen sword and dived to grab it, just evading Drogon’s jet of flame.
He was right, she saw it now, too late, the fear washing over her. These were not the dragons of legend, not yet, they were hardly bigger than dogs. “Guards!” she screamed but the cry caught in her throat as the man dropped Viserion with a well-placed swipe and advanced on Drogon. Drogon was bigger than the other two but even with his wings extended, intending to frighten his predator, he only came up to the man’s waist. Drogon fired another jet of fire at the man who dodges but not so carefully this time and his pant leg catches a flame. He drops his sword and begins to shriek, high pitched and unexpected. He drops the sword and begins to pat furiously at the flames beating them back into submission. Daenerys looks around at her court, two guards and a band of academics, all of whom looked on in horror. “Guards!”
They advanced on the man but too late. He had his blade again, having dispatched the flame. He made quick work of the guards. But as he cut the last man down, Drogon landed on his back beating around his head with his wings and clamping down on his collar. “Ah! Fucking flying rats!” he cried out and stabbed through Drogon’s wing and slammed the dragon to the ground, tossing him around like a sack of laundry. Dany looked away unable to watch the end of the battle.
“Fuck your dragons. Fuck your guards,” he wiped the stream of blood off his shoulder from Drogon’s bite as he walked slowly up the stairs, “Fuck your respect. Fuck your people.” With each new hissing statement, he took another step. “Fuck—your—shit—city. But most importantly,” he stood three steps below her, but looked directly into her eyes, “Fuck—you.”
Outcome: Sandor Clegane 89 wins