The arena was a graveyard of groans and broken steel. The dust had begun to settle, but Aranji was still moving calm, fluid, untouched. His gray gi clung to his frame, streaked with dirt and blood that wasn't his.
No one dared challenge him now.
He moved through the chaos like a ghost, dispatching the last stragglers with eerie precision. A flick of the wrist. A palm to the chest. A man would drop, convulsing or unconscious, sometimes both. He kept count in his head.
Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine…
Then came the sixtieth.
A mercenary lunged at him, blade raised. Aranji's eyes narrowed. He stepped in, hands blurring in a storm of strikes—too fast for the eye to follow. The man's body seized mid-swing, then collapsed, unmoving.
Dead.
Aranji exhaled. "Sixty."
Across the field, Dagon Wythers was catching his breath, wiping blood from his cheek.
"I'm at twenty!" he called out, grinning.
"You mean twenty backs you stabbed," Aranji muttered, smirking.
"Still counts!"
The crowd had quieted. The chaos was dying. Only three men remained Dagon, a knight in white plate bearing the sigil of the Kingsguard, and Aranji.
Up in the stands, lords and ladies leaned forward, whispering.
"Who is he?"
"Where did he learn to fight like that?"
"Did you see what he did to that man's armor? With his hands?"
No one had answers.
In the royal box, Queen Alysanne watched with a furrowed brow. "He doesn't move like a knight. Or a sellsword."
King Jaehaerys's gaze was fixed on the field. "He's not armored. He's not armed. And yet…"
Daemon scoffed. "He's a trickster. A performer. That's all."
But even he didn't sound convinced.
Rhaenys said nothing. She leaned forward, eyes locked on the man in gray. She had seen something something strange. His hands had glowed, just for a moment. And when he struck, it was like the air itself cracked.
She didn't understand it.
But she wanted to.
The final three stood in a loose triangle.
Aranji stepped toward his sword, still sheathed in the earth. He pulled it free with a flick of his wrist.
"I might be a bit too much for you two," he said, voice light.
The Kingsguard Ser Addam Velaryon nodded once. "We'll see."
Aranji's gaze flicked to Dagon. His friend looked ragged, breathing hard, sword chipped. Aranji tilted his head, studying him. There was something off something about the way he moved. Sluggish. Disconnected.
He turned back to Ser Addam.
The knight charged.
Aranji met him with the scabbard of his blade, parrying the strike with a sharp crack. He flowed around the knight's guard, stepped behind him, and delivered a single, sharp blow to the back of the neck.
The Kingsguard dropped like a stone.
Dagon blinked. "Well, I guess two-on-one's off the table."
He raised his sword. "Could you at least do me the decent favor of using your blade?"
Aranji smiled. "You know what? Sure. I'll give you a gift. Since you're a good man. But I'm going to put you through the ringer."
He stepped into stance.
"This gift will let you access something. But I want to see how far you get without it."
The crowd leaned in, confused. What was he talking about?
Then Aranji vanished.
To Dagon, it was like time slowed. Aranji appeared in front of him, fist raised, aimed for his throat. Dagon twisted barely. The strike grazed his collarbone instead.
"What the fuck ! You nearly killed me, you asshole!" Dagon barked, half-laughing, half-panicked.
"I didn't say it'd be easy," Aranji said, grinning. "Now right. Left."
Dagon swung. Aranji blocked with the flat of his blade. The greatsword cracked in half.
Dagon cursed, dove for another weapon. Aranji let him.
He wanted to see it.
Dagon grabbed a longsword, forced something out of himself raw effort, desperation. His body tensed, his movements sharpened. He met Aranji's next strike, barely deflecting it.
But each time he grabbed a new weapon, Aranji cut it down.
The fight was one-sided. But Dagon refused to fall.
He landed a single blow barely a nick across Aranji's cheek.
Aranji's smile widened.
Then he ended it.
He stepped in, palm glowing faintly, and drove it into Dagon's chest.
The sound was like a thunderclap.
Dagon's armor shattered. He flew backward, crashing into the arena wall with a sickening crunch. He didn't move.
But he was breathing.
The crowd was silent.
Then the announcer stepped forward, raising Aranji's hand.
"The victor of the first wave the Iron Fist!"
The crowd erupted.
"Iron Fist! Iron Fist! Iron Fist!"
Aranji blinked. "Iron what?"
He looked around, confused, as the title echoed through the stands.
He was going to the final round.
Rhaenys said nothing.
She watched as Aranji walked to Dagon's side, helping the healers lift him onto a stretcher. His expression was unreadable. But his hands those strange, glowing hands still shimmered faintly.
She leaned back in her seat, heart pounding.
"I want to know everything about him," she whispered.
And for the first time in her life, the Princess of Dragonstone felt something she couldn't explain.