The melee had become a storm of limbs and steel, but Lysaro Waters was locked in a duel that silenced the chaos around him.
His opponent was a mountain in blackened plate Ser Varran of House Fell, a knight known across the Stormlands for his brutal efficiency and unyielding defense. His armor was thick, his strikes thunderous, and his reputation soaked in blood. He had once broken a man's spine through his shield. He had once fought five men and walked away with only a dented pauldron.
And now he was fighting Lysaro Waters.
The crowd had begun to notice. The clash of their duel drew eyes from the stands, murmurs from the lords, and gasps from the ladies. Even Brienne, locked in her own skirmish, glanced toward the center of the field where bronze danced against black.
Lysaro grinned as he ducked under a hammering blow that would have shattered his ribs. His wire snapped forward, catching the edge of Ser Varran's elbow joint a hiss of metal on metal, followed by a thin line of blood.
"Your armor's impressive," Lysaro said, circling. "But it's not perfect."
Ser Varran didn't answer. He simply advanced, shield raised, sword swinging in wide arcs meant to crush, not cut.
Lysaro darted in, his wire flicking like a serpent's tongue slicing at the gaps beneath the arm, behind the knee, under the gorget. Each strike was small, precise, and maddening. Blood welled in narrow lines, but Ser Varran kept coming.
He's not slowing, Lysaro thought. He's bleeding, but he's not slowing.
He spun, wire catching the knight's ankle. With a sharp tug, he yanked Ser Varran stumbled, one knee hitting the ground with a thunderous clang. The crowd roared.
But the knight surged up with terrifying speed, swinging his sword in a brutal arc. Lysaro barely leapt back in time, the blade grazing his shoulder and tearing a line through his bronze armor.
Pain flared. His smile didn't fade.
A sellsword charged from behind, blade raised. Without looking, Lysaro twisted, elbowed the man in the throat, and sent him sprawling. One motion. One breath.
He needed space.
He jumped back, landing in a crouch. Blood dripped from his shoulder. His wire was slick with sweat and red. He reached down, slid the wire through the hollow ring at the base of his dagger's hilt, and began to spin it.
The blade whirled in a wide arc, singing through the air like a wasp. The wire extended, taut and gleaming, controlled by the subtle flicks of his wrist. It was no longer a weapon it was a storm.
Ser Varran hesitated. Just for a moment.
Lysaro stepped forward, swinging the blade in a wide, looping figure-eight. The wire lashed out, wrapping around the knight's shield arm. A twist the shield dropped. Another flick the wire snapped toward the knight's helm, catching the edge and yanking it sideways.
The knight roared, swinging blind.
Lysaro ducked, rolled, and came up behind him. He wrapped the wire around the knight's leg again tighter this time and pulled with all his strength.
Ser Varran fell.
The ground shook.
Lysaro stood over him, dagger poised, wire coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
The crowd held its breath.
But Lysaro didn't strike.
He stepped back, bowed low, and said, "Yield, Ser. You've bled enough for one day."
Ser Varran stared up at him, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he nodded.
The crowd erupted.
Lysaro turned, bloodied and grinning, and walked back into the fray the wire still humming in his hand, the tiger in his blood still pacing.
The dance was not yet done.