Arthur's pulse hammered in his ears as the banners of gold and crimson swayed over the battlefield in front of him. Dust rose in waves from hooves and boots, and the scent of sweat and oiled steel clung to the air.
Arthur saw Jaime Lannister, lithe and dangerous atop his mount, charging straight for Sandor, who braced for the hit afoot only with a blunted axe and a shield. Sandor grunted, half in rage, half in effort, and took the hit in his shield while also bringing the lion down from his mount.
Arthur rushed towards Sandor and helped him stand on his feet, "Go now, Stand with Oberyn!" he shouted, voice carrying over the din. "Leave Jaime to me."
Dust and sweat clung to him as Jaime Lannister stood up again, the clamor of the crowd and the clang of other combatants fading into a dull roar behind the focus of the fight.
Jaime's eyes glinted through the helm, a mixture of confidence and challenge, and his words were sharp, "Young Arthur, we meet again. This time you'll lose."
Arthur's lips curved beneath his own helm, a calm smile masking the tension coiled in his muscles. "May the gods be in your favor, ser," he replied, his voice steady, carrying over the chaos.
The young lion charged with all the fervor of his house's pride, his blade slicing through the air in a blur. Arthur dropped into a low guard, feet planted firmly, poleaxe angled to meet the edge of the blow. The impact reverberated up his arms, a shudder that ran from gauntlet to shoulder. Sparks flew where iron met iron, and Arthur felt the pulse of the strike run along his arms like lightning.
Jaime pressed, driving forward with aggressive feints, seeking to unsettle Arthur and catch him off guard. But Arthur's stance was practiced, deliberate, and measured. Every swing of his arms, every parry, every shift of his weight was as much instinctive as it was calculated.
Arthur saw the gaps in Jaime's approach, the slight overextensions born of pride and eagerness to repay the debt of the last defeat. Arthur knew Jaime would have fought like this with him. Had Sandor been here in his stead, the Kingslayer would have been calm, cold and invincible.
So Arthur began to guide the lion with subtle deflections, forcing him off-balance without overcommitting. Forcing him to the brink of desperation, while he stayed on the defensive.
Jaime gritted through the helm, the gold and red sigils blurring as he pressed. "Either you'll break, or I will!"
Arthur's boots dug into the churned earth, sending sprays of dirt and splinters of wood from the arena floor as he shifted his stance, a subtle pivot that changed the flow of the duel. Jaime's golden sword sliced through the air again, precise, fast, and dangerous, but Arthur was no longer waiting. He had read too much, anticipated too long, and now the initiative belonged to him.
With a sudden forward lunge, Arthur brought the haft of his poleaxe up, connecting with the flat of his helm against Jaime's face in a brutal headbutt. The sound of metal against metal echoed across the field. Jaime stumbled, a grunt escaping beneath the helm as the lion's footing faltered. Arthur pressed the advantage, each step aggressive yet each strike precise.
He drove the poleaxe downwards, striking at Jaime's knees, forcing the older knight to drop his blade lower, attempting to defend against the relentless assault. Arthur's movements were fluid, almost serpentine, switching grips and angles, from haft to shaft, from push to thrust, each strike testing, probing, weakening Jaime's guard.
Jaime swung desperately, the gold of his armor flashing in the sun, but Arthur's offensive had broken his rhythm, shattered the flow of attack he had cultivated so relentlessly. Every feint from Arthur had drawn Jaime into a misstep, a slight stagger, into the trap.
Arthur's breath came in shallow, controlled bursts, the sweat running down his brow stinging his eyes beneath the helm. The arena roared around them, yet the noise was distant, almost irrelevant. All that existed was Jaime, the weight of his golden armor, the thrust of the blunted sword. Suddenly, the jagged line of opportunity shifted again and the Kingslayer had seized it quickly.
Jaime's blade slipped past Arthur's guard and grazed the hollow beneath his arm. A sharp sting lanced through him, forcing his grip on the poleaxe to falter. At that moment, all of Arthur's instincts and training took over. With a forward rush, he collided with Jaime, the impact throwing both men off balance and without weapons.
Arthur twisted, quickly, using the momentum to pin Jaime beneath him in a grapple and pulled out his dagger. The blunted dagger found the hollow of Jaime's neck, pressing just enough to bring victory. Arthur's voice rang sharp, slicing through the din of the cheering crowd, "Yield, ser!"
Jaime's eyes widened beneath the helm, disbelief and frustration etched across his face. He struggled, muscles straining, yet Arthur's hold was unyielding. The heat of the moment, the clash of wills, seemed to still the world for a heartbeat.
"I… yield," Jaime muttered, his tone reluctant, edged with anger, and perhaps the first twinge of fear.
Arthur eased slightly, maintaining pressure, letting the knight feel the weight of his defeat. He did not smile; victory was not a jest today.
"Good show ser," he said, voice low and resolute.
As he released the hold, Arthur's gaze flicked across the field.
Dust hung in the air like a pale fog, stirred by hoofbeats and the fall of bodies, settling slowly upon the trampled earth. The roar of the crowd faded into a low, distant hum. Only four men remained in the vast expanse of the arena.
Arthur Manderly, Prince Oberyn Martell, Sandor Clegane… and the Mountain.
Gregor loomed above them all, a towering brute of iron and wrath, his greatsword gripped in gauntleted fists that looked forged for killing. Even blunted, the monstrosity was near the size of a grown man, and Gregor swung it as though it weighed nothing at all, a butcher's cleaver in the hand of a titan. Each arc of the blade whistled through the air, too fast for something so massive, too heavy for any man to survive whole.
The horn's blast still echoed when Gregor turned, helm swiveling, that void-dark eye-slit fixing upon Arthur and the two men beside him. He had carved through Arthur's retainers like wheat, leaving Robert Gale dazed in the dust, Orson Wells groaning from a blow to the ribs, and Kyle Condon lying nearby.
Sandor still stood tall, shoulders heaving with controlled fury. His eyes were fixed solely upon Gregor. Whatever else this melee had been, whatever crowns or glory or spectators watched, none of that mattered now. The Clegane brothers stood within the same field, and rage pulsed between them like a living thing.
Prince Oberyn's spear spun lightly in his grasp, the red viper poised, every line of his body taut as a drawn bow. His dark eyes burned with the memory of blood on stone, of Dorne's long thirst for justice.
Oberyn's voice cut through the dust-filled air like a poisoned blade.
"Do you know who I am?" he hissed, circling Gregor with a serpent's grace. "You butchered a princess and dashed her children against the wall. Do you remember their screams, Monster?!"
He struck as he spoke, the spear flickering in and out, scoring a line across Gregor's greave. The Mountain turned, but a little too slow and Oberyn was already elsewhere, sand spraying beneath his boots. The spearpoint darted again, raking across Gregor's pauldron. Each hit was measured, precise, which seemed to irritate rather than injure. That was their intention after all.
Yet Gregor did not give him the anger they desired… not yet. His helm turned only slightly, as though Oberyn were a fly buzzing too near the ear.
Then the Mountain found what he truly wanted.
Gregor's attention snapped to Sandor, his massive shoulders pivoting, greatsword rising in a terrible arc. He came at his brother like a falling tower, the great blade shuddering down toward Sandor's head. Sandor barely managed to bring his shield up in time. The impact rang out like a smith's hammer against an anvil, sending him stumbling back a step.
Gregor's voice was like grinding stones beneath his helm. "Do you think you can bite me, little puppy?"
Sandor spat, bracing himself again. "Fuck off."
Gregory swung again, one after another brutal, bone-shattering blows, for Sandor to barely stand. They still went on, relentless, drawn by long years of hate that no prayer could drown.
Arthur saw an opening, saw Gregor overreach, saw the exposed helm tilt as the man leaned into another murderous downswing. Arthur surged forward. With both hands on the haft, he leapt in and brought the heavy head of his poleaxe crashing against Gregor's steel visor.
The sound was like a bell tolling for war.
Gregor staggered, just a fraction, but for a man who seemed not to have ever staggered, that fraction was everything. He turned toward Arthur with slow, dreadful purpose, breath hissing through his helm like a bull preparing to gore.
There you go, Arthur thought. Just a bit angrier. Break the rules, you monster. Give me cause.
Behind him, Oberyn's spear darted once more, scraping along Gregor's cuisse. Sandor slashed low, forcing Gregor to pivot. Arthur readied his poleaxe again. Around them, the crowd roared, but Arthur heard only the rising fury in Gregor's ragged growls.
They circled him like hunters around a maddened aurochs, never lingering long enough to be caught beneath the weight of that immense fury. Every time Gregor swung, they scattered; every time he paused, Arthur struck again, sharp, solid blows with the poleaxe hammering against the Mountain's helm. Each impact rang through Arthur's arms, shaking bone and sinew, but it rattled Gregor more.
Not enough to bring him down but enough to drive him mad.
Prince Oberyn's voice lashed across the yard. "Say it, bastard!" His spear danced at the edge of Gregor's sight. "Say the words!"
Gregor's reply thundered from inside his helm like a storm breaking against stone. "Shut your mouth, snake."
His helm snapped toward Sandor. "Come here, pup."
Gregor lunged, a mountain loosed from its moorings. Sandor raised his battered shield just in time. The greatsword slammed into it with a crack that sounded like breaking timber. Sandor was driven to one knee, shield trembling in his grip.
Arthur saw the opening and sprang once again, bringing the poleaxe down hard, crack, another blow to that already dented helm. Gregor roared. A wild animal sound.
He flung aside his blunted greatsword as though it were straw. With a brutal kick, he sent Sandor collapsing into the dirt, breath knocked clean from his lungs. Then Gregor turned, slow and monstrous, toward Arthur.
The ground shuddered beneath each step. Arthur dodged right, then left, each narrow escape the width of a breath. Dust flew around them. Gregor swung with his fists, gauntlets heavy enough to cave a helm. Arthur ducked under one strike, vaulted away from another.
The Mountain was impossibly fast for a man built like a fortress. Too fast. Arthur felt the rush of displaced air as a gauntleted fist slammed the earth where his head had been.
Gregor's voice tore across the yard, raw and feral, "SWORD!!!"
And like a well-trained dog, a trembling squire darted forward with a real greatsword, the steel dark and hungry in the sun. Gregor seized it from the boy's shaking hands with a grunt of satisfaction.
"I've had enough of you, rat," the Mountain growled, hefting the killing blade as though it weighed no more than a stick. "Now you die."
It worked, Arthur thought as terror surged beneath his ribs. It finally worked.
Arthur raised a hand, sharp, deliberate. Across the field, his squire Tom slid Nightfall free and hurled it in a perfect arc. He caught the blade with both hands. Its weight settled into him like an old friend. Arthur unsheathed the blade, its dark steel gleaming in the sun with cold hunger.
The herald's voice cracked across the melee ground. "Gregor Clegane, halt! Edged weapons are forbidden! You are disqualified!"
But Gregor Clegane had never been a man who heeded the law of men. His helm snapped toward Arthur, murder blazing behind the visor. Then the greatsword came screaming toward him, a long, brutal arc meant not to maim but to cleave a man in half.
Arthur leapt aside. Steel tore through the earth where he'd stood a heartbeat before.
Dodging, again. Jumping back, again. Never letting the Mountain set his feet. Never letting that monstrous strength land a killing blow. Arthur felt each near-miss like heat passing by his skin.
Strength would not save him here. Speed, wits, and purpose, those were his weapons.
"Stand still, you miserable wretch!" Gregor roared, charging after him with terrifying speed for such a huge man.
Arthur yielded ground, step by step, drawing Gregor out, keeping him exposed, letting that red fury blind him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw a flash of steel, Prince Oberyn, spear in hand, real and wickedly sharp now. And on the other side, Sandor Clegane, his greatsword slung over his shoulder, face pale with hate and dread both.
Arthur feinted left, forcing Gregor to twist toward him. The Mountain obliged, snarling, swinging down with terrifying strength, and Arthur slid away, light as a dancer, letting the killing blow crash uselessly into the dirt.
Sandor stepped into the opening, steel kissing daylight as he snarled. On the other flank, Oberyn's spear spun like a silver serpent. Gregor rounded on all three of them, armored chest heaving, murder thick in the air around him. The Mountain's focus now split into three again, but he charged again towards Arthur.
Instead of dodging this time, Arthur rushed towards him only to duck beneath the swing at the perfect moment. Arthur felt the mud cold against his knees as he slid across Gregor Clegane.
His blade angled and ready, Arthur slashed it sideways. Nightfall bit deep into Gregor's waist. It was a terrible place to strike a man, cruel even, but cruelty was all that would reach a monster like this. Gregor roared, the sound thick and animal, and toppled to one knee.
Oberyn streaked across the field with the smooth grace of a dancer. The Dornish prince's spear flashed like a tongue of fire, plunging clean into the Mountain's lower leg. Gregor spasmed, snarling, trying to rise.
Sandor Clegane arrived a heartbeat later, mace held in both hands. He brought it crashing down upon his brother's helm with such force the metal buckled inward. The strike rang through the yard, sending a shiver up Arthur's spine. Gregor reeled, staggered, but he did not fall.
"Say IT!" Oberyn screamed, voice cracking with fury. His spearpoint quivered as he wrenched it free, blood splattering the mud at his feet.