The sun hung low now, casting long shadows across the blood-streaked field. The melee had dwindled to silence. The crowd, once roaring, now held its breath.
Only two remained.
Brienne of Tarth stood tall, her chest heaving, her sword heavy in her hand. Her armor was battered, her braid nearly undone, her knuckles raw and red. She had fought through knights, mercenaries, and monsters in steel. And now, at the end of it all, she faced the strangest opponent of them all.
Lysaro Waters.
He stood across from her, swaying slightly, his bronze armor cracked and streaked with dust and blood. His wire-gloves hung loose at his sides, the dagger still spinning lazily in his fingers. His smile was faint now not mocking, not smug. Just tired. And alive.
They circled each other, the crowd forgotten.
Brienne struck first.
He dodged, of course. He always did. He ducked under her blade, rolled past her shield, and flicked his wire toward her legs. She jumped, twisted, and came down with a slash that nearly caught his shoulder. He spun away, laughing breathlessly.
"You're relentless," he said.
"You're annoying," she snapped.
He grinned. "That's fair."
She pressed him hard. Her strikes came faster now, more precise. She wasn't just swinging. She was learning. She anticipated his dodges, cut off his angles, forced him to retreat. He tried to wrap her blade again, but she twisted free. He tried to trip her she stomped his foot.
He winced. "Ow."
She punched him again this time in the ribs. He stumbled back, coughing.
"Okay," he wheezed. "That one hurt."
He backed away, wire coiling in his hand. He slid it through the ring of his dagger and began to spin it again wide, sweeping arcs that shimmered in the light. The blade at the end sang through the air like a whip, striking at her from impossible angles.
But she was ready.
She blocked, dodged, and advanced. The wire snapped toward her she caught it on her shield and yanked. He stumbled. She closed the distance.
He tried to spin away she caught him with a shoulder check that sent him sprawling.
The crowd gasped.
Lysaro hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. He rolled onto his back, blinking up at the sky.
Brienne stood over him, sword raised.
He looked up at her and smiled.
"Yield," she said.
He coughed, then laughed. "Gods, you're magnificent."
"Lysaro"
"I yield," he said, raising his hands. "I yield, Lady Brienne. Or Ser Brienne. Or whatever title you damn well please."
The crowd erupted.
Brienne lowered her sword, breathing hard. She offered him a hand.
He took it.
She pulled him to his feet, and for a moment, they stood there two warriors, bruised and bloodied, bound not by victory or defeat, but by the fight itself.
"You weren't fighting seriously," she said, still catching her breath.
"I was," he replied. "That's just how I fight."
She frowned. "You were playing."
"I always play," he said. "But I never play lightly."
He looked at her, eyes sharp despite the bruises. "You made me fight harder than anyone ever has. You made me earn this loss."
She blinked. "You're not angry?"
"Angry?" He laughed. "Brienne, I've never been more delighted. You beat me. Fair and clean. And you didn't even kill me. That's rare."
She looked at him, unsure what to say.
He bowed low and theatrical, but not mocking. "You are a storm in steel, my lady. And I am honored to have been broken by you."
The crowd was still cheering. Lords and ladies leaned forward, whispering. Some clapped. Others simply stared.
Brienne turned to them, sword raised.
The cheers grew louder.
Lysaro leaned in, voice low. "They'll remember this. You know that, don't you?"
"I don't care."
"You should," he said. "Because this is how legends begin."
She looked at him really looked and for the first time, she saw past the madness. Past the smirk and the wine and the wire. She saw the man beneath it all.
And he saw her.
Not as a joke. Not as a curiosity.
As a knight.