The arena was one of the older stone buildings within King’s Landing, hardly a prestigious title, but still an example of how important both the martial arts of knighthood and the entertainment of the masses had been to the first dragon’s reign.
The stands surrounding the dust and dirt of the space were no less packed than they would be at the glorious heights of a tournament, but there was more of a somber note that held sway over the crowd. From rich to poor, landed or traveler, each knew that the history of the realm was about to be decided, and that blood was doubtlessly in that future.
It was almost a parody of a tourney, the two camps set up close by to allow the combatants to prepare, but there was none of the obvious jubilation from either side. Sanctimony against grim duty, before the great and terrible deeds were done.
Rhoelle found, for the first time in a while, she truly missed her brother. Rogar would know what to say to steady her nerves. No doubt some joke at her expense involving the suitor she had accidentally collected. Instead, her thoughts were all for her father. He was a bold warrior and still well within health, if not quite prime, but he was fighting alongside the most brutal warrior in all of Westeros, against the greatest blades in the faith. She settled among the comfortable seating of the greater members of court, one hand on the fluttering nerves of her stomach as she beheld the currently empty field of battle.
She tried to manage a prayer for victory, but instead all that passed her lips quietly were the words, “Seven save my father,” Over and over, nothing else mattered. She cared not for any great cause, just that it wouldn’t claim another Baratheon so soon after her grandfather and grandmother had left them. What would even be left?
What would be left if her husband fell? Alys stared across the sea of packed earth and bodies that would be her subjects if her husband and lord won thus day. He would, she thought with a desperate demand of the Seven she once spurned. Maegor could not lose. He was the sword while his brother had been the ineffectual hand of peace and prosperity. This land was still young under the Targaryen rule. It would need time to come to heed the bit of dragon fire.
Her son would see to that, a hand strayed to her womb. Had she caught Maegor’s babe within her? By the grace of the Mother she prayed it was so. A child soon after thus victory would be the favor the realm needed to see. The hand on the arm of the chair turned into a fist as she refused to look away from the dueling grounds. "He will be victorious, no warrior alive could match him. No, alive or dead there is no match for my husband." If he fell… her seat, her life, might well be claimed by the swirling tide of people below. Her lips thinned. "If I do not produce a child soon…" Yes, if not soon then she would give Maegor the witch for his dragon to feast upon. A child and a crown. It was all she needed.
"Bah," came the hewn chuckle of the one outlying warrior. Harlan had a sort of swagger to his step as he strode up, mail clashing against mail with every step as he drew a coif about his head. A smile grew across his face though, as he walked forth over to the King’s camp. Leaning back to one of his sailors who had accompanied him, a tall man from across the Narrow Sea with a hawk's nose and a bowman's limbs, he laughed as he spoke. "Misers, all these dead-faced misers. You'd think they were at a funeral. Whenever did men fight better with such grave natures."
Settling down among that side, or as among them as he could manage, soon enough the Ironborn son set about armoring and arming himself. A sallet soon covered his features, as well as gloves over his hands to match his white haubergeon, before taking up his round shield. The handful of axes stuck in his belt set him apart from the many knights, though his longsword did not. He soon found himself leaning about, waiting for the combat to begin, a glare fixed to the other camp.
The pious on the opposite side of the arena each bowed their heads as the priest intoned a prayer swinging the thurible slowly as the incense inside smoked gently drifting on the breeze. Dickon held his breath glad that the wind picked up. He’d never liked the smell of the stuff that the priests put in, what he considered, to be a waste of good chain and metal. He smirked as he thought of a mace with the stuff in it. Smoking while he swung it at the Ironborn. He might have imagined a few chunks falling into the hair of his opponent and the panic that would incite.
The priests finished with their prayer and seven men rose from kneeling. Seven men chosen for their faith in the belief that the unholy ways of the Targaryens died with Maegor. The thoughts of the pious might not have reflected this sentiment word for word but the gist of that belief was definitely echoed in the thoughts of the Warrior Sons and Faith Militant. They knew this may not have been the first breath that the movement took but they did recognise that win or lose, living or dead, that they made an impression today. Damon clapped Dickon on the back and nodded in camaraderie to the younger man. “Warrior favor your sword brother.”
They watched as Dickon rolled his neck and shoulders and drew his sword and shield. Being a bastard but a highborn one Dickon was lucky that he had found a place with the Warrior Sons. They had not asked much, just his faith in the belief that what was going on was unholy. He couldn’t agree more. Maegor should not be allowed to run through all the noble women to find one that he would be satisfied with. Aegon had already died righteously for marrying his sister as had the late King Aneys for marrying his son and daughter. It was unnatural. Feelings of attraction and wanting to breed a woman should not ever be something you kept in the family that closely.
The clamoring of the crowds and the chanting of the priests came to an end. The knights of the Seven may have knelt in prayer but the King's men had no such obvious uniformity. For many it was a chance for glory, for others a solemn duty, but already as matters approached the tone of commencement the royal party fanned out. Among their number stalked some of the most capable warriors in Westeros, spreading out around the arena. Predators in the water.
As the bells of the Septs tolled, the fighting began. It was not ritualized, but it was not the melee of battle either, not yet. The great and the good of Westeros traded blows in a manner that might have been mistaken for respect, were the stakes not so intolerably high. For all the clamor of piety, however, the faithful were the first to break from knightly tradition, two knights heading for the King, seeking to best the head of the snake swiftly, the decorum of knightly combat be damned. There were few warriors like Maegor, however, and what his assailants may have had in chivalric skill, he matched with pure brutality and athleticism, even as he was pushed back by the flurry of blows his own would turn their strikes aside with great force, each blow buying him half a second to react to the other.
It was the first banner bearer of House Targaryen which came first to the King's aid. The Stag surged to the side of the Dragon, and suddenly the momentum was turned. It was not pretty, but then, Orys had not taught his son to fight pretty. A shield bearing the proud rampant stag crashed into the side of a knight even as he looked to plunge a blow under the King's guard, dismissing the challenge before it could be completed. A grunt of acknowledgement was all that was shared between the two great Lords, before they parted, using the lull in the conflict to pull away from their faithful competitors.
The case of the King resolved, Durran turned to see where next he was needed. He turned the blade of his longsword over and over as he scanned around the dust covered ground on which the trial was occurring.
Osric was close to being down, that much was clear, one of the better blades of the Knights of the Seven seeking an early victory to reduce the numbers stacked against them. Before one of the foes could harry Durran and prevent his aid, he was moving. Surprisingly fast for a bulky man, made bulkier by the design of his armor, he was across the field in a blur of silver, black and yellow. He let out a roar of challenge as he did so, forsaking a split second of surprise in favor of giving his opponent the chivalric opportunity to respond. In the moment that it took, the Knight of the Seven had forced Osric to the ground, but had not yet had a chance to offer the knight to surrender, at least that is what Durran suspected. His eyes widened in shock beneath his helm, however, as the blade of the knight began to swing down towards the stricken figure.
Said blade didn't strike home, for a Baratheon blade interrupted it's path. The knight, so intent on capitalizing on his early victory, was stunned by the intervention, even more so by the slamming force of a shield rim which took him in the side of the helm, and cast him across the floor.
“Try to stay on your feet, our King still has need of us.” Durran spoke in a half teasing tone to Osric as he held a hand down to lift the man from the dirt. “But do not be too ashamed, they are fine blade and honorable m-”
The words the Lord of Storm's End was set to speak were never completed, interrupted by a ghastly sound of steel puncturing flesh, a blade pushed up through the arm pit of his now exposed arm stretched down. The great figure of the man seemed stunned, a shock which passed from the sands to the stands, perhaps even through the opposing Knights of the Seven as well.
The moment hung in the air, before Durran stumbled, his powerful frame fighting to keep itself aloft, before another moment passed, and he fell to the side, the silence broken both by the crashing of his armor and a singular howl of terror and grief from the stands watching the fighting.
The immediate silence seemed to stretch on, dread and shock suffusing the air, broken only by a shout of rage from the King.
“Treason! Kill them all!”
Then chaos broke, and the howling sob from one voice became a roar of noise from all around.
Regret grew around the edges of thoughts, insidious and dangerous as the melee began. His body hurt, every time the faith battered against his shield, every time his sword arm sought contact with an opponent, each time with a more frantic need to gain an advantage. Regret and doubt were killers, this was not Osric’s first melee but it quickly began to feel more like the feverish skirmishes fought against the hill tribes.
He found himself pushed back, pushed down. In that brief moment where suddenly everything around him moved as if through water, he saw Ser Lyle Bracken’s eyes. The knight of the Vale’s mouth grimaced against the assault, his eyes squeezed shut against all training, and he saw his death not submission, until suddenly the force was gone and Lord Baratheon held his hand out. Perhaps he had misjudged the intent, he looked at the Stormlander lord and his lips parted in a smile of relief, of gratitude.
Blood sprayed and it took too many seconds for Osric to understand what had happened. His reflexes betrayed him, his sword arm swung out with a guttural scream before he knew why or what had happened. Durran Baratheon dead before him and Lyle Bracken again pushing forward against Osric, his intent no longer a question. The king’s call to kill them all stirred the Arryn knight, broke him of his confusion.
He ignored the pain now, as if it was a distant memory. Flooded with adrenaline and rage he lunged at the Bracken man. His sword was deflected but his opponent was put off balance and stumbled back. His shield connected and dropped the Seven’s knight to his ass, his knees brought up to try and scramble backwards, now in retreat. It was too late, Osric was on him, slamming the shield blindly into metal and flesh. Blood sprayed again but this time it was a traitor’s.
He breathed heavily, the haze of rage receded and he looked around him at the outright chaos the melee had succumbed to. Osric heard a scream and swung his head around looking for the cause and saw the young, cocky, Harroway boy being pushed to a breaking point. The knight pushed himself off the mangled Bracken and stormed towards the knight intent on killing Horas.
The young Harroway had started strong, vigor and youth. The righteous fury for Lord and land fueled the young squire. Yet now that blood hazed the air, and the clang of the sword felt heavy in his hand the lad found himself distracted by the sudden pause. The hush that clung to the arena. Turning his dark brown hair, sweat beading across his brow, Horas saw the horror that lay across the packed dirt. The great Lord Baratheon was stabbed, a wound that did not look quite right to his young eyes. Yet even as a scream split the air, the King’s words called out in a ringing command.
Kill them. Yes, he could do that. He would do that. Swinging his sword at his opponent, he tried to take the offensive, but the man was far stronger and he found himself hammered back by a knight twice his size. For all his zeal, Horas was only a boy of fourteen years. Eager to prove himself. Blocking again with his shield he did not spy the Ser Osric coming up. So when he thrust his shield to the side, and tried an overhanded blow at the knight. He was unaware of whose path that enemy’s sword went into.
Osric was caught off guard, a tragic error in his approach. His armor took some of the blow but he felt it give way, a searing pain that shook him. He stared, wide-eyed, into the eyes of a boy. That stupid, fucking, boy. His head shook, in confusion or disbelief, he refused to look down to see how bad it was. But he didn’t need to, and as if to spare them the dishonor of falling to their own, Aegon Ambrose had regained his footing and advanced again.
The Arryn knight tried to raise his shield but his arm would not obey. He stumbled away from Horas, into Aegon’s approach. Breathing hurt, moving hurt. He had dropped his sword, too heavy and too slick with blood to grip. He was supposed to be the Warrior, that’s what his brother had always said. His head tilted up, an incoherent prayer on his lips. The Warrior’s son laughed and spit on him as he drove his sword through the gap at his neck and finished what Horas Harroway had begun.
The youth stared in shock as Osric stumbled by him, intent on an enemy still as blood poured from a wound across his chest that let out what should be kept in. Slack jawed in horror and shock, unused to such terrible wounds. The lad barely got his sword up in time through the shock to block The Warrior’s Son’s blow. The metal slammed back into his face. Shrieking in agony, he felt another piercing of steel, then he knew nothing. His body fell to the ground as his head rolled away.
From the stands, no scream came. Sharp cries from Horas’s two sisters. Hanna’s hands clapped over her mouth and Jeyne’s fisted in her gown, her gaze wide in shock as tears began to roll from Hanna’s. Their brother beheaded. Dead. Behind them. Behind them their father stared out into the dusty field, his own thoughts behind a mask of steel. Even as he felt anger against this king who had allowed his son to fight grip his heart.
Dickon shook it off and faced the Ironborn. “What did he promise you that you could fuck all the fish you caught?” He taunted his opponent.
The man laughed his response away, cackling brief before shaking his head nice and slow. This one seemed younger, stupider in a want to taunt so simply, so quickly, yet that was the way of those damnable fools. They taunted without thinking of what would come next. His axe called to him in an easy enough way, to bury it in the Warrior Sons' skull and watch his brains bleed out and away. It would happen, he thought, and it would happen soon enough. "You are funny for a snake. I was promised what was given to me, what is here. Snakes to kill. Do you wish to be first to die by me, boy?"
Dickon stepped up determined to make a stand. “This snake strikes hard with truth to cut out the unholy.” A few feints back and forth to feel out the opposition. As they came together Dickon snarled. “I am not surprised that an Ironborn would back Maegor. You do not have to worry about him running through your women since you have none.”
Harlan stared down at the shorter man, cocking his head slow. Chainmail clashed gently against itself, his shield brought up just a fraction from the mud. When he spoke, the Ironborn twang lacked any of the grand humor which had before marked it, hard and simple as flint, and he spoke an honest statement. “You
will be the first, then.”
Tired of all talk and no action, the lack of a witty comeback, among other things. Dickon decided to instead lash out with his sword, a battle cry resounding from him as he swung. It was a steady crescent that was caught by the Ironborn’s shield as they traded blows. It was really only seconds but time seemed to slow for the combatants as it seemed like hours later when Dickon got through the Ironborn’s defense, and in a move born of frustration Dickon lunged.
Success!
Reveling in the feel of the sword glancing off the bone Dickon let his shield drop far enough that he was open to an attack. “Stranger take-!!” There was a gurgle at the end of the yell.
Harlan felt his sword sink into the Seven-worshiper’s jerkin and flesh, his blade thrust into the shallow space under his arm, between the breastplate. A harsh hiss from his lips at the exertion, the Iron Islander’s form compacted like a spring in that action, he suddenly felt supremely dissatisfied at it, at the whole of it. He shouldn’t have been taken by surprise by a damnable
mainlander of all things, by a Seven-worshiper of all things, and shouldn’t have let him so close. Fool was he to expect something else, fool, fool, fool.
He looked down at the choked knight through his slit-eye helm, almost considering how to best dispatch him as the man drew his bathed blade out. Jerking his head back with the rim of his shield, exposing the worshiper’s neck, a brutal swing came and went to nearly decapitate the man, his head held on by spine only. A deep breath out at it, Harlan took a step back, sheathing his sword in exchange for an axe. A taunting motion to the next; he would be ready this time.
“
Dogs! Come here, dogs! Meet your gods!”
A stocky man trundled forward with a battle ax in hand as well. Harys Horpe, or Death’s Head Harry, looked the Ironborn in the eye since they were of a size. Horpe was not much shorter than the Ironborn. He was barrel chested and held the battle ax like he knew what to do with it. While Dickon was overeager like a pup this man had seen battle before and was silent in the face of conflict. He planted his feet in a stance that allowed him to pivot and move quickly if needed.
Black brows thick and furrowed pulled together over eyes that were the deepest gray of the clouds over the Stormlands. Horpe’s beard was full and trimmed neatly and defined his jawline. He watched the blood run down the Ironborn’s arm showing no emotion besides cold fury as the pair waited. They waited while people pulled away Dickon’s corpse. Horpe rolled his neck as the smear of blood was sprinkled with a mix of sand and wood shavings to soak up the puddle then brushed away with a stiff broom.
Circling Harry sized up the Ironborn and decided to bash with the shield and swing the ax to lop off the arm that Dickon had already injured. It looked like Dickon had hit well since it was steadily, if slowly dripping blood. The shields met with the force of a thunderclap. The fury poured off Harry in waves like a living thing; his emotions seemed to batter his opponent as much as his weapons.
Shifting slightly Harry struck with the ax the same arm that Dickon had injured already. He didn’t have the leverage he wanted to take the arm off in one swing so he hacked at it. The first swing took him just below the original injury and only half way through as he felt the bone splinter under the swing. The second swing landed above the original injury and again Harry didn’t have the leverage to fully take the arm with that swing. However the third time he connected with the injury that Dickon left and the only thing keeping the arm on was a small piece of muscle.
Harlan hissed like steam as he felt his arm go. Hot pain and blood, that’s all there was there, as he pushed back again with his shield to stagger the foe
just enough. Letting go of that center hold, his hand found his belt as quick as lightning, drawing out a throwing axe. Wrong hand, that was true enough, but he didn’t have much of a choice. His foe was right there,
right there, and he threw the axe with all his body. It was a lank throw, no care on the proper form for it, though his foe was close enough that it didn’t matter anymore. It found his face, right there to cut into, though…he’d seen men walk away from that before.
No.
No.. His hand found that sheathed longsword, drew it as one draws a dirk with the blade to the earth.
A staggered step forward, then another, as Harry drew out the axe from his face with a free hand, blood pouring out to cover his face before Harlan drunkenly stabbed down into the man, down at his collarbone and just above the breastplate. He heaved it in with all his weight, almost falling into the other, letting go to stagger away. His breath came in a struggle, wheezing under his sallet, wheezing in and out hot against the metal.
The sailor who had accompanied him, the hawk’s nose bowman, surged forward to catch him, letting him lean against as the pair walked off the battlefield.
Dick Bean dropped to his knee with a grunt. No knight, no squire, he’d been nothing. He was alive though, cut and bruised, but alive. In the beginning he’d watched as the Faith’s men had converged on his king and the high-born fighters. Now though, he wasn’t sure who all had died but there were two knights against him and all that had kept him alive so far was backing away again and again until they were distracted by that Ironborn man quitting the field. Dick was beyond angry at the sight of it, but it gave him a moment’s reprieve as both of the knights who’d caught him in their sights paused as if deciding whether or not to pursue the injured man.
He was too far in the distance it seemed, and they were back to him before he could right himself and ready another defense. Suddenly to his right the Lothston knight appeared. He’d lost his helmet and sword, blood stained his chest plate and arms, but he was there. Dick pushed himself to his feet. Beyond him he could see his king, hear his king. Maybe this was nearly decided.
The two men pushed forward together against Aegon Ambrose. Ser Garibald had broken away from his approach, eager to aid the two who had yet to corner Maegor. Ser Ambrose faltered in his first attack, sword meeting nothing but air then the dirt of the ground. It was enough room for Dick Bean to lunge and completely throw him off balance. Aegon brought up his shield and caught Bean against the face. Dick fell back again, profusely bleeding across his face. His hand instinctively groped at it and to his horror he found his cheek pulled away from bone. He screamed even as Ser Guy took the advantage and plunged his sword into the knight. Aegon dropped, a gurgling noise and bubbles of blood from his mouth. Dick stared at him, both men surprised and confused at their circumstance, but it was Aegon who slumped forward, face first to the ground.
It was enough to stop Ser Garibald and send him back towards Maegor’s last two men. Ser Lothston put himself between the injured Dick Bean and the approaching sword. He was no match for the man he came at him with every bit of his strength. Guy deflected the first attack with his sword only to lose the weapon, sent flying from his hand to the dirt some feet away. Garibald smiled an ugly, bloody grin, and brought his sword down to split the knight’s head.
The sword would not give way, no matter how Garibald pulled or twisted. Dick Bean found his last reserve of strength and will to scurry around and attack from the side. He swung wildly, blinded by pain and fatigue but the Seven must surely have been on his side as Garibald screamed with new agony. Dick Bean had found a fleshy gap, a loosened strap on the knight’s breastplate and his sword was there still, plunged into the man’s body. Unthinking, he pulled back, his hands wet with sweat and his own blood.
He crumpled to the ground, his face fire, but with sickening joy attempted a smile at seeing the Warrior’s Son froth bloody at the mouth. He took solace in the crackling, gurgling noise as the man dropped beside him. He closed his eyes never to open again.
Battle and blood, it was not for her though the world demanded it. It fed off the blood that watered crops. Tucking her slim fingers through the folds of her gown Elayne stared at the headless body as she shrank in the shadow of the Lord Balaerys. Horas was dead. Kin to her, and a sickening feeling spread through her belly. Terror. The Lord of Harrenhal would be in a fury. As it was, she could spy the stony look on Alys's face. It was a good thing she had been asked to join Lord Vhandyr Balaerys. Asked, the man was as tall, ferocious and just as set as any Targaryen. Perhaps it was something in the Valyrian blood. Stubbornness that let them ride their dragon. Though he was a kind man, who had spoken to her with words that still touched her though they were most likely naught but passing pleasantries. Still the blood flowed and she felt ill at the thought of returning to their rooms. “Horas….” A fool, but one whose death would bring wrath upon them all.
The scope had narrowed. Now there was just the King and two blades drawn against him. Ser Damon and Ser Willam may have began to the trial as the beacons of piety they were championed to be, but now all three remaining fighters bore the blood and dirt of the quagmire around them. The King had lost his shield, and more pressingly, his helm, ripped free after a glancing blow from a mace had caved in the face plate and rendered him blind had he kept it on. Valyrian blood ran freely from the centre of his face, although not broken, something had certainly burst from the impact within his nose.
The two knights circled him now, prepared to take stock, take their time, wait for the opportunity to strike and kill. The King was a larger man though, with a finer blade, and they were weary of his reach. Maegor’s rage was next to legendary, but for now he did not snarl or yell, he did not lash out. His fury at seeing his loyal swords cut down had simmered into cold fury. Outnumbered, his window to act was shrinking, he didn’t have time for rage.
Perhaps the greatest lie of the great tales and stories was that strength and bulk came at the cost of speed and agility, for when the King struck it was to see a mountain in motion. He had determined that Willam was the more injured of the two, favouring his off-side to step. Before the pair of knights could complete their surrounding of him, Maegor rushed to the Knight’s weak side, hearing the sharp exhalation of pain as he tried to plant on the off-foot to react. He was more than a competent blade, but fractional hesitation was all Maegor needed.
The King collided with Willam’s shield, only half planted on one foot; he didn't have the balance to swing, stab, or even remain standing. Cast to the ground, Willam contacted the bloodied sand with a crash of metal. He barely had the time to recall where he was before Blackfyre plunged through his face plate, traditional steel holding nothing against the Valyrian counterpart. Maegor wrenched the blade forwards, splitting the knight’s skull rather than attempting to wrench it free. It was necessary, for only had he just whirled around and brought Blackfyre up in a crossguard that Damon was upon him, rushing a fraction too late to the aid of his stricken brother.
The ensuring crash of swords was fluid and fierce. If Damon was weakened in a way similar to Willam he was a better warrior for not showing it. Damon, in fact, was likely the best sword to have walked afield this morning. Maegor may have had size, but not by much, and Damon did not have the distractions of Kingdom to contend with. He was a Knight, and this was how a knight fought, unceasing training across decades.
For the first time in the course of the trial, it seemed that Maegor was being pushed back, brutality met martial prowess and began to weaken, to tire. Maegor had barreled, struck and battered his way through all competition but that approach was a tiring one, the King was clearly slowing faster than this opponent. It was fractional, but that’s all it had to be.
Then came the feint, a strike for Maegor’s torso redirected at the last moment, instead bringing the blade into contact with the King’s right gauntlet. Finally, the howl of pain and rage was unleashed as the action threw Maegor’s grip open, and Blackfyre struck the ground. It was all the exhausted King could do to throw himself backwards as it did so, narrowly avoiding the killing strike.
Damon had timed his final sally well. The fighters had pulled clear of where the other stricken fighters lay, no easy weapon or shield to claim from the dirtied sand. The Knight paused his advance, keeping space between himself and the King, blade artfully turning over and over in his hand as he watched Maegor, unwilling to hand the element of surprise back to him even without blade. Shock was once again rippling through the crowd, early signs of jubilation from some, pensive horror in others. This seemed to buoy Damon somewhat, sure enough of victory.
“Surrender, Abomination, and perhaps the Seven will weigh this against your misdeeds when I send you to the Stranger.” One did not have to see the Knight’s helm-covered features to hear the pious arrogance. When the King didn’t reply, enraged eyes simply gazing back, as if they might bore through the helm itself, that is when Damon moved in for the kill.
It was a simple strike, well aimed. It did not have to be anything fancy, the King was unarmed.
Valyrian steel was rare, blades of its make might number in the dozens across Westeros, more exotic weapons even less still. Valyrian Steel armour was all but unknown across Westeros, the manner of its making, even reforging, largely lost to time.
Maegor had fought for Volantis, earned a King’s ransom in tribute from the city that would otherwise have felt the wrath of a Khalasar. He had taken no gold, or slaves. He had taken something priceless. Maegor’s left gauntlet was Valyrian steel.
Had the disarming of the King rippled shock through those watching, the reaction was more audible as the King caught the blade, the ring of steel on steel sounding even louder than the initial clash of force as palm reached up to clasp around the blade. The armour prevented the cutting edge, but the force still almost burst the hand within the gauntlet, but Maegor did not cry out or roar this time, this was no Dothraki wretch seeking a last grasp at glory, this was a foe he had to kill now or die himself.
Damon staggered back, unable to quite comprehend the situation he had found himself in, but the King and Knight were now bound by the shared grip on the blade. Then Maegor acted, wrenching the sword free and casting it aside, even as he was doing so, he arched low, a half crouch before spearing upwards, casting both fighters down on the sand.
The knight recovered some sense, flailing strikes to the King atop him, but one hand was still bound in his shield, and the King’s were both free. One mailed fist cusped under the edge of Damon’s helmet, ripping it free, even as the other struck the knight's punches away.
“Tell your Stranger, if he wants to kill me, to send better men to try.” Maegor spat on the desperate features of Damon as they appeared from behind their metal shell. If the Knight had anything further to say, they were silenced as the same Valyrian steel gauntlet that had doomed the knight plunged into his open mouth, teeth shattering on impact. Muffled noises became obscured screams, as the King pulled. Jaw, bone and tongue came away in the King’s grip, taloned fingers ripping and rending, leaving the gaping pit of what had been Ser Damon’s face behind to choke on the remains of what had been him.
With a heave of effort, Maegor stood. Savagery was written across his features, blood still torrenting from his nose, he staggered away from the convulsing soon-to-be corpse of Damon. Finally, the tide of anger, pain and victory collapsed across the dam of his resolution, and the King let out a roar, a great cry which put all of that and more simply into noise. With the last of his strength, the King heaved the trophy of the traitor’s tongue into the crowd.
What cheers or cries of horror, the King did not notice, for then his strength began to finally fail. Maegor pitched forwards onto his knees, the world swimming around him. He muttered, to no one in particular, as he was sure the talons of death reached up to claim him, his voice barely a whisper.
“Rha…Rhae….Burn them a-” And then King Maegor, First of his name, and winner of his own trial, collapsed into the sand and pain gave away to annihilation.
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