[center][b]The Skull[/b][/center]
[center][@MrDidact], [@kingkonrad], [@AtomicNut], Monochromatic Rainbow[/center]

Garlan looked to his side, Mirren being able to be back on the surface. She'd taken a few hits, the campaign in the caves and innards of the mountains clearly having an effect, not that he could see it past her mail and helm. He was impressed, knowing full well his aide that he'd put his trust into had put her part into the plan, at least saving them the embaressment and tactical fuck-up that would be being hit from the tunnels. She had fought well, and adapted to this situation. He knew he would have to offer her more work when she was finished, as she could make an excellent Master of Arms, on the money that Garlan could offer to her. Not a Knight of the Green Hand, but at the least, a senior member in Manderford's men at arms. A commander of the Reach, if she so desired it, or at the least, an aide to camp to House Tyrell in times of war. Someone like Ellion would get on well with her too, he almost saw something of him, albeit a little less interested in jousting and more interested in fighting against the odds, perhaps. 

And while he didn't know exactly her fighting capability, he knew that himself, he wouldn't be up to a fight in single combat. He might have a good chance, but one false move, and with his age, he wouldn't recover. Mirren was young, and would have at least the survivability to keep going toe to toe, as he looked to her, nodding. 

"I know you work for coin. But I think you can take him. You seem to fight with something none of us have." Garlan said to her, standing by the mercenary's side, his own helm removed, as he looked back at Beezel.
"A total disregard for anyone who stands in your fucking way. You've proven yourself one of the best warriors of this campaign thus far, to fight in a small platoon like that for so long. So, think you can extend that to him?"

Mirren was caught off guard by the suggestion that she be the one to engage the man in single combat. She was no stranger to it, for sure - she had almost lost count of the number of honor duels and trials by combat she had been commanded to fight in. This man however, seemed more than a blustering young noble offended at some cultural slight - he clearly knew how to fight. All the same, she was relatively confident that, even though she was tired from the campaign, by no means at her peak performance, she could take the man. 

Merrell Florent eyed the battlefield with reservation. He bit his lip somewhat, trying to relief the tension. The last pitch. And in a single combat. It could happen, just a little more and the warriors of the Reach would be home. And yet... Garlan was performing some strange request, to one of the sellswords that they had brought.

"Are you sure about this, my Liege? I've got half a mind of taking the chance myself and ending this once and for all." He looked at the mercenary, his thoughts ponderous. 

"I accept." she answered, after a moment's hesitation. "As many single combats as you wish if it means we get closer to having some proper food." Stepping forward, she addressed Ser Beezel. "Name your weapons, then."

Garlan looked back to Merrell, as Mirren accepted, Garlan happy with the response. He knew she could have turned it down, but would take it to get this over and done with, as he sighed, looking on at Merrell. Why did he have to do this? Now?
"I've got half a mind also....of telling you to shut the fuck up, Ser Merrell. Weigh it up, don't be a glory-seeking cunt or else I'll have to fucking stab you myself." Garlan barbed, no niceties needed, the tone of voice definitely telling him to keep quiet, and let Mirren get on with it.

Merrell eyed Garlan."The troops need a victory here so we can go home." He whispered back. "It doesn't matter who does it, as long as it is done. That's all there is, my liege." Merrell shrugged, finally getting his wineskin back and drinking a bit. 

Prince Oberyn piped up, full of youthful vigor, indeed he was the youngest in the present company, "It should be I. Dorne must rid itself of these Vultures and House Martell must finish the job of overthrowing House Dryland. I should complete what Nymeria started." 

Lady Brienne inclined her head, "The Prince speaks valiantly. But I would also be glad to take up the challenge. I have beaten numerous foes in single combat. And though Ser Ned may be a more skilled fighter than I, he is too wounded to fight. A knightly duel calls for knightly combatnants." 

Ned Dayne chuckled ruefully, "The Evenstar speaks truly. The wound I took yesterday will be too much of a hindrance. I suspect Lord Dickon may be too worn out as well." The Lord of Horn Hill only nodded in confirmation. 

The Lords Swann, Dondarrion, and Caron all spoke up to step forward, protesting the naming of a baseborn sellsword as the royal champion. Aegon, on top of Viserion, called out, "It should be I. It is my kinsman whom the Vultures offend, I must defend the honor of House Targaryen." 

Ser Beezel smirked, "So many stepping forward. Not you, Ser Gendry? I thought a Baratheon would be eager to fight one on one." 

Gendry spoke up, "All of you men and women are courageous and skilled. But Aegon, your dragon is too essential to risk you in this combat. Prince Oberyn, you are brave but inexperienced in duels fought in earnest. Lady Brienne, you are among our mightiest, but you are too valuable as a fighter and commander. The same goes for my lords. And you, Ser Beezel, I consider you unworthy to polish my latreen, much less sully my hammer with your traitor's blood. Mirren Sand will fight for the Iron Throne." 

The Vulture Knight smiled, "Very well. We will begin the duel ahorse and with spears and shields. You may choose your other weapons, in case of being dismounted or losing your spear, but there will be no ranged combat. If either party yields, it will be considered a win for the other combatnant. Otherwise, this is to the death. You will have an hour to prepare, then we will fight on this ground. Make your peace with your gods Mirren Sand, you shall meet them shortly." 

With a last mocking smirk at Gendry, Ser Beezel turned and spurred his horse away, the rest of his party following into the castle. 

Gendry watched them go and spit on the ground, he turned to Mirren, "It seems you'll be carrying the campaign, Mirren. Go prepare, you will have your pick of the armory and stables. Win, and you will be rewarded." 

He spurred his horse back to the vanguard and leaned in to Garlan whispering so none could hear, "I hope you know what you're doing, reccomending a sellsword to fight for us. If she fails, it's on you." He snapped the reins once more and he rode off, his entourage in tow. 

"Understood. But as you just said. This is no Knightly fight. This is survival." Garlan only replied in whisper, as Gendry left, looking on at Mirren.

Mirren stood silently, watching the lords and ladies assembled bicker amongst themselves. She made no move to defend herself - if they saw fit to nominate someone else to fight, she would make no objection. She had no knightly honor to defend, no womanly pride - she would do what she was paid for.

"I thank you, my lord." She murmured in reply to Gendry - there was a rift between them, but she would do her best to keep it from showing. Turning to Beezel, she narrowed her eyes. "I have no gods. You would do well to prepare to meet yours, however. I'll get there eventually - do tell if they were happy to see you, won't you?" She smirked, turning to leave.

_______________________

The hour had passed and the time of combat had come. Ser Gendry Baratheon sat atop his massive destrier, his antelered helm sitting atop his head while a yellow cloak draped over his black armor. Lady Brienne was seated next to him in her blue plate, a white star in the middle of her helm while the Just Maid was sheathed at her hip, a white cloak draped over one pauldron. Every other noble was similarly attired, even Aegon Targaryen who rode a white horse instead of his white dragon, with black dragon wings sprouting from his scaled armor. 

Across from them were the Vultures. A dozen knights with Vulture-feathered cloaks and helms wrought in the ravenous shape of a Vulture. The two groups faced off against each other. Behind the loyalist nobles stood a massive army, all in orderly formation. Elephants snorted while bearing the weight of towers and mounted weapons. Behind the Vultures, every free space on their castle was lined with an archer or crossbowman.  

The gates of the Skull opened and out rode Ser Beezel Dryland. He looked like a being of nightmare. Instead of a Vulture helm, his helmet featured a snarling demonic face with fangs, demon's horns sprouting from the top. A cloak of black leather flowed behind him, fitting with his crimson armor that was wrought in the shape of a scaled monster. He rode a sand steed as black as night and in his hands he held a black shield that showed a horned, winged demon wreathed in flame. In his other hand was a black trident with cruelly spiked tips. He rode ahead of his party and his red-eyed mount stamped the ground with one steel-shod hoof. 

The nobles of the Iron Throne parted to reveal their own mounted champion. 

Mirren rode out, bedecked in little of the splendor and extravagance of those who surrounded her. She had picked a lean, wiry steed, and rode with an ease that spoke of many hours in the saddle. She held with her a lance, its length reinforced by iron, a plain, utilitarian weapon designed only to kill. There was no glorious spectacle to behold, her armor was the same she wore at all times - chain, lamellar, a helmet that concealed her face in entirety sans two small holes through which she glared at her opponent. Her own shield, a well used, sturdy disc of steel, rested on her arm. She had left behind her bow, as per the restrictions laid out ahead of time. It would have suited her fine to pick the man off from twenty meters, but she held no qualms. 

"Are you ready, Beezel?" She called, purposefully neglecting the Ser in his title - she had never cared much for titles, and what little mind she paid to them faded when faced with the man before her. 

Beezel shouted back, and his voice seemed distorted by the helm, rougher, as if it were an effort to speak instead of growl, and it reveberated through the field with an eerie bass, "I'm ready to end your pitiable life, Sand. Yield and I'll only leave a scar. Otherwise, I will keep your head as a trophy." 

A knight herald rode from the royal party and positioned himself in the middle of the two combatnants, "In the presence of gods and men, we hold this single combat to determine the fate of countless lives. May all the gods look upon this duel and grant strength to the warriors and a just outcome. The terms of the duel have been agreed upon, it is a duel to the death if neither party yields, with the victor securing their side's terms. Do both champions understand and wish to continue?" 

Beezel inclined his head and the Herald watched as Mirren nodded. 

"The champions may make a final declaration." 

Ser Dryland spoke, his voice booming, "For the honor of House Dryland, for the justice of our cause, for my brother, the rightful King of these lands. I will slay this dog of the Iron Throne Tyrants, this traitor to our people, and pave the road for a better future for Dorne. Let the histories remember this day as the beginning of our freedom. There is no other way this ends." 

The herald waited for Mirren to speak. 

Mirren sighed, fixing Beezel with a tired glare. "I'm here to slay pompous braggarts so I can get back somewhere with a warm bed, and decent food. I intend to be eating raspberries with cream off a whore's chest by the end of the week. Good enough for you, oh high and mighty bandit king?" 

The Hell Knight snarled in reply, and it did not sound like it could have come from a man's throat. 

The Knight Herald pulled out a silver horn, "Combat shall commence on the first blast and not before. Go with the gods." The knight rode off to rejoin the royal party and lifted the horn in the air before blowing, a silvery clarion call ringing through the mountaintop. 

Beezel kicked his horse into motion, the steed whinnying as it began to charge, its rider practically roaring in challenge as the knight rode at Mirren. He sat on his seat well, his trident perfectly still and his shield held firmly in place as the horse charged forward. It was clear he had years of experience and skill in riding, and his weapon glinted in the sun as he came closer to Mirren. The royalists all quietly urged Mirren on.

For a few seconds, Mirren remained still, watching the man as though she were a statued, held fast with clamps of steel - as he neared, however, she spurred her own horse, no intention of facing a larger and heavier opponent in an environment that was his element - she had fought plenty of battles on foot, with sword and dagger - jousting was something in the realm of the highborn. Instead, she skirted around him, kicking her horse into a brief sprint, coming down to a canter off to his side. Her lance still sat comfortably in her grasp, and she shrugged her shoulders at Beezel. 

Beezel twisted in the seat, his shield out in case Mirren tried an attack. His horse came around and he sat facing Mirren again. He began to laugh, "What's wrong, Sand? Afraid? Not ready to become meat for the vultures? Face your death with honor." Gendry breathed out in relief, the rest of the royalists similarly thrilled at the dodge. Brienne smiled at the skill of the sellsword. 

Mirren grinned, calling back at him, "No, matter of fact, I was waiting for you to come - you seem to have missed! Are you sure you don't want to give up, clearly not at the top of your game! No dishonor in conceding a fight you can't win, after all!" She mimed blowing a kiss at him, "Perhaps one of the whores will take pity on you and kiss your ouchies - not this whore though. This whore intends to have a nice meal."

Beezel laughed again, "You'll have one. When you dine with the worms!" 

The Hell Knight kicked his horse into action again, building up momentum with every moment as his steed charged at Mirren, it's red eyes glaring in the sun. He held completely steady, his trident on a clean angle at Mirren's chest, waiting until the last possible moment to make his move. His horse's black coat was complemented by black armor, his head, neck, and chest all covered in wicked plate, as the Hellgate standard adorned the side of the mount. 

Once again, Mirren waited until the last moment - her own lance held at the ready - Beezel's trident was a better melee weapon, but she couldn't help but wonder why the man would bring such a thing for mounted combat. Her own lance was more nimble in the hand, lighter, longer. She grinned, spurring her horse to the side once again - but she spared little time for trying to dodge him, she knew he would do his best to counter that. She wheeled, bringing her own steed around, and with all her might and the weight of her own mount behind the point, drove her lance into the unarmored belly of her opponent's steed. 

The horse shrieked in an almost human voice as it was pierced and it crashed to the side, Mirren's lance impaled into the beast. Gendry watched and was sure that Beezel would be crushed beneath the flailing horse. Instead, he watched in horrified amazement. The Hell Knight had twisted to face Mirren at the last moment, standing in the stirrups. Even when his own horse screamed in agony, he did not flounder. He shoved his shield at his opponent in a savage, quick, and unbelievably strong motion, the wood and steel shield becoming a projectile that launched at Mirren's chest. 

At the same time, Beezel somehow managed to kick his right foot from the stirrup, plant it on his crashing horse and he kicked off from the steed. As it crashed to the ground, he managed, in full plate, to leap up and back and land on his feet, his trident held before him. Gendry right then knew that though Beezel had a human face, he was no mere man. Oberyn gaped openly at the sight, and even Aegon Targaryen seemed perturbed, gripping the reins of his horse tight. Ned knit his brow in intense focus while Dickon openly cursed. Merell just took another sip of Arbor Red.

Mirren's eyes widened as the series of... frankly impossible events unfolded in front of her. And yet, there was no time to gawk, no time to cry out against the inhuman strength and speed of her foe - she instinctively brought up her shield, managing to deflect most of the impact of the impromptu projectile. She cantered off, heart pounding - she had fought and killed scores of men before, but this was something else. Taking a split second to breathe, she dismounted her own horse - the man still had his trident, and it would not do to be unhorsed before that monster. 

Her own lance was a shattered wreck, and she hissed, throwing the remnants of the weapon away and drawing her sword, content to let Beezel come to her. 

Beezel advanced slowly at first, his feet stepping into the dust with menace as he came at Mirren with his trident leveled at her. He spoke again, "Impressive. Most would be dead already. But now you know that you are laughably outmatched Sand." He flicked his hand to his belt and drew a cruelly curved dagger. He flung it with a lightning fast flick of his wrist. But it was not meant for Mirren. Instead it buried itself to the hilt in her horse's eye and the poor animal floundered, crying out in pain as it died next to Beezel's own mount. Brienne recoiled in shock at the ferocity and savagery of the move, watching with horrified fixation as blood seeped from the horses' eye. Harmen Dondarrion gulped, and nervously cracked his fist, a sizzle of lightning popping in the air with the gesture. 

Beezel twirled his trident lazily in one hand, stopping just out of range of either fighter in front of Mirren, "Yield. And I will allow you to live and tell others of what you saw today. After I brand you of course." He lowered his weapon and spread his feet apart in a lunging stance. 

Mirren stood easily, in her element now that she was on foot. "A tempting offer!" She called back, grinning under the chainmail, "But I got my fill of the branding business in Volantis. Nasty, unpleasant smell, you know how it goes. I think I'll have to pass you up on your kind offer. However, since I know you knights have a love for honor - you're still welcome to surrender!" She gave a small bow, "At your leisure, good Ser."

Beezel chuckled, "So confident. Well let's see if we can change that." Beezel leaped right at Mirren, crossing the distance in a single, impossibly quick bound with his trident extended right at the sellsword's chest. 

Mirren brought her shield up in a single, smooth motion, she had no doubt that this man was skilled - but on foot, she moved like she had been born to fight like this. Catching his trident on her shield, she brought her knee up, driving the metal plated limb into his groin with every ounce of strength she could muster. 

There was a dull ring of impact and an enraged snarl from Beezel as her armored knee collided with his codpiece, but the Hell Knight took the blow much better than expected. His leap faltered in range but he curled up his own legs and he leaned into his trident, driving Mirren to the ground under his inhuman strength. 

He landed on his feet, flailing for a moment to recover but stabbed right down again at Mirren on the ground and her shield, the prongs denting the steel right in front of her face. He stabbed again and then pulled on his trident, intending to wrench the shield from her hands and even possibly her arm from its socket with his monstrous strength. In the background, the Vultures on the battlements of the Skull began pounding their weapons and cheering his name. Gendry cursed under his breath, "Get up... get up." Oberyn started a ragged cheer, and the men behind them shouted their encouragement, urging Mirren to stand. 

Mirren gritted her teeth, keeping the shield close to her as she gritted her teeth before spitting a hot pepper laden wad of saliva into the knight's eyes. Taking advantage of the moment, she drove her knee into his groin a second time, gathering her strength and launching a blow with her elbow into his jaw. As fast as she could manage, she rolled over, taking hold of her sword and jumping to her feet. 

The spit clanked around the sockets of his demonic mask and he recoiled, pulling his trident back and wrenching Mirren's shield from her grasp as he did so. He twisted his hip, suspecting she would go for another sucker move, and her knee collided with his thigh. He grunted in pain and cursed venomously when her elbow smacked into his jaw. He stood back, quickly wiping away as much spit from his eyeholes as he could while stepping back, Mirren's shield pinned on his trident. 

Beezel laughed, "Childish tricks. You fight like a ten year old. I wonder if you scream like a child too." Beezel shoved Mirren's shield off his trident and twisted the shield in his arm, holding it overhand and throwing it full on at his opponent. 

"You really shouldn't ask a lady such things, it's unbecoming of a knight!" Mirren called, ducking at the dented and worn disc of metal came flying her way. "Really though, I can't help but think you only said I couldn't use a bow so this wouldn't be too easy for me!" She grinned, twirling her sword in her hands, "I'm still waiting."

"I've been too soft on you as it is. You want my blade? Have it!" He charged at her, going from a standing position to a dead on sprint in an instant and crossing the distance in a few breaths. He stabbed out with the trident again and again and again, the prongs hissing through the air at Mirren's chest or face before he pulled back and stabbed forward once more, every strike flying with unbelievable speed, every strike clean and precise, his movements almost impossible for Gendry and the other onlookers to track. Even Ned seemed daunted by the barrage. 

To Mirren, the rest of the world was a distant memory, a faded echo of another life - her mind was clear of all but battle, and it was the song of battle that sang through her body as she dodged, weaved, ducked, and parried with speed and grace even she would have been surprised to see. Her armor protected her from the worst of it, now and then a blow would land, and leave a nasty dent in the lamellar, another bruise to add to the collection - and yet she gave as good as she got, whirling and hacking, a force of nature unleashed upon the field of war. Beezel would leave himself exposed for a second too long, and Mirren would be in there, cutting, kicking, biting, and punching at every chink in the armor, every exposed bit of skin. 

An opening presented itself - Mirren didn't know if it was by sheer luck, carelessness on her opponent's part, or perhaps there was some god smiling down on her - but part of the Hell Knight's armor was loosening, Around his heel, she could see the straps on his armor had come loose - it was a golden opportunity if ever there was one. 

With speed rivaling her inhuman opponent, she lunged forward, sword at the ready as the cruel edge sped forward, driving into his exposed tendon with a sickening sound of metal parting flesh, a thrill went through her - blood! Real blood, at last. She dug in further, trying to cut as much as possible. 

The Hell Knight had managed to dodge or parry most of Mirren's blows up to that point, scoring and scratching her armor with his trident, inflicting many minor wounds and hits, while avoiding her sword as much as possible. But then she had cut into his heel and his howl of pain echoed through the battle ground. It became a low chuckle as Beezel snarled at her. She saw in that moment that his eyes were the bright orange of flame. His next words he spat at her, "Thank you." Gendry was beyond shocked, and all the others were as quiet as the grave. 

It was then when Mella Florent, the Red Priestess, broke her silence and flayed, her louds loud for everyone to hear. "No, that cannot be! Not that magic!" She muttered.

His blood boiled around the steel of her sword and he twisted his trident in his hands, the shaft snapping out at Mirren's chest with a thunderous crunch. Her breastplate was cracked, dented and she was sent flying through the air several paces away in a heap. Ribs had been broken for a certainty, and there might have been even more damage that she could not ascertain. The sellsword felt blood bubble up from her mouth as she lay on the ground. 

The Hell Knight cursed again, slipping a hand to his belt and retrieving a noxious material, some manner of black poultice that he irritably wrapped on his tendon, tightening the armor strap with obvious pain, "It has been some time since any has made me bleed. Congratulations. And thank you." 

He leaned on the trident for a moment, getting his bearings and watching the sellsword on the ground, "Stay down Sand. Without that armor, you'd be dead already. Yield. Now. Or I will rip your head off with my bare hands. [i] Yield [/i]." He collected himself, stood. He favored his other leg slightly, his movements were a shade more rigid. But he could obviously still fight. The men in the army kept cheering Mirren on, desperately urging her to fight on.

Mirren staggered to her feet, breathing heavily, but very much still able to fight. "Are you offering, or wishing?" She grimaced, coughing - this fight needed to end, soon, before more permanent damage was incurred. "Because I don't think you got the message - I'm eating whipped cream off a whore's tits by the end of the week, yielding doesn't involve that." 

Twirling her sword in hand once more, she took a deep breath, wincing, but straightening once more. "You fight well, though, tell you what - yield now, and we'll send two whores to take care of you afterwards. We can go up to three, but then I'd have to sacrifice some myself." 

"And of armor - where would you be without that infernal aid of yours? Here I am, matching you blow for blow with naught but mundane steel, and mundane muscle - is this all your Gods can give you? Something to make you fight on a level playing field with some sellsword bastard?" She shook her head, "Really, who's the one who should be scared?"

Beezel shook his head, "Mortal arrogance. It is charming at times, but now very grating. You make a mistake to think you are anywhere on the same field as I, o Mirren Sand. Your insolence will be remembered. No more chances for you. Once I am done with you, it is your father next. I will make him beg for death. For I have no need to cry out for gods for help." 

"I am one." He flipped his arm and threw the trident full on at Mirren, his most savage throw yet, aimed right in the center of her stomach. Dickon winced, certain that the trident would bury itself in her stomach. 

Mirren gritted her teeth, and dove to the side, the trident whizzing past her with malevolent speed - she wished to any gods that would listen that she had ignored Beezel's inane rules, and brought her bow from the start. And yet... she jumped to her feet again, perhaps a little slower than before, but still very much ready to fight. "Mortal arrogance, is it?" She called, restraining the urge to laugh, "From the man who calls himself a god!" She narrowed her eyes, turning her sword in her wrist again - the blade would soon taste more of his blood, she would make sure of that. 

"I've had enough of your words." While his trident flew through the air, he had retrieved another weapon. Now a whip was held in his hands, one that looked as if it was woven from condensed sinew with its crimson hue, and it snapped through the air, wrapping itself around Mirren's neck and pulling. He jerked the whip with an almost negligent motion, choking her and dragging her towards him while he pulled another cruelly carved knife from his belt, "Perhaps I should cut out your tongue first." Gendry bound his fists in impotent rage as he watched the demonic knight drag Mirren through the sand, the cheers of the men dying as they watched. 

Thinking quickly, Mirren brought up her own blade, pressing the wicked keen edge against the whip and sawing against with with an energy fueled by newfound anger and desperation. After a few moments, she severed the material, tearing it away from her neck. However, instead of retreating as she had before, she charged, driving her full armored bulk into the man, aiming a thrust with her sword at his neck as she drew her own dagger. 

Beezel dropped the whip and reversed the dagger in his grip. It would have been impossible for any man, yet he managed to block her blow with the dagger. He twisted at the other heel and met her charge, locking the sword in front of his face. One gauntleted fist came flying forward at the side of the blade and the steel shattered into jagged pieces. Beezel slashed out with his dagger, the blade scoring her chainmailed neck but not piercing, instead ripping open the rings then the steel of her helm and leaving a long bleeding gash across her face. He punched her straight in the jaw, doubtlessly knocking out a tooth, with his hand and stepped back, drawing another dagger with that same fist. During the whole exchange, each side had been shouting and cursing, urging both of their fighters to pound the other to pieces. 

He had long since stopped underestimating Mirren and watched her warily, getting into position with the two black knives, "Oh if I wasn't going to kill you, I could have taken you as a concubine. I can only imagine what kind of children you would have borne for me. Perhaps I will take you anyway, and kill you after. The child and I can have a bonding experience." 

Mirren raised an eyebrow, despite everything, she managed to grunt out, "Remind me never to visit one of your family picnics." She grimaced, pain coursing through her entire body, and yet she stood fast, bringing her knee into his groin yet again, and throwing herself into a full on bear grip, biting at any exposed skin on the man. Blood ran into her eyes, half blinding her, but she paid no heed - all that existed for her was this fight, all she lived for was to kill the man in front of her. She growled, a nearly inhuman sound that would have sounded at home coming from her own demonic opponent's throat, slamming open the visor of his helmet and bringing down a helmeted head once, then twice. She jabbed an armored gauntlet into his eyes, and held on for dear life against her monstrous opponent. 

Beezel twisted to protect his infernal loins, likely annoyed at the repeating tactic, and grunted as she threw herself at him. He shouted as she headbutted him and poked at his orange eyes, and he screamed, a sound that deafened even the onlooking nobles. With a roar of rage, he stabbed out with one dagger, burying the tip of the blade into the meat and stabbing several times in impatient and furious bloodlust, while he slashed and stabbed at her back. With one savage move, he left one dagger pierced into her leg and used the free arm to wrench one of Mirren's arms from him. Then he grabbed the wrist and twisted at the hip, his monstrous strength allowing him to slam Mirren into the ground. He planted his black boot on her chest and applied pressure. With a jerk, armor and all, the arm he held snapped. 

Then he leaned down and pressed the knife in her leg as far as it would go, kicking Mirren several times in the stomach, sparing no effort. With the other dagger, he stabbed the hand holding her dagger, "Now stay there for a moment." He limped for a few steps before collecting himself with some effort, walking to retrieve his trident with no great amount of hurry. The shouts and cheers of the Vultures on the battlements had been a constant hum all the while, as the royalists looked on, certain of Mirren's defeat and death. Gendry looked on. 

Mirren howled, pain searing through every fibre of her being. Nowhere didn't hurt, one arm hung useless, dislocated at least - her right arm, still clutching the dagger, bled profusely, her grip was weakened - but her armor had saved her hand from any true permanent damage. 

Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, letting out a stream of curses and grunts of pain as she hobbled after Beezel. "Get back here, dammit!" She bellowed, stumbling across the shattered remnants of his own shield, grabbing it from the ground and hurling it at him - once more, either luck, or the late blessing of some higher being intervened, and the splintered hunk of iron and wood smashed into the back of Beezel's head.

Beezel stopped in his tracks, his head knocking forward and he roared as he turned, ripped the trident from the ground and threw it right through the same leg that had already been stabbed. The prongs went through the meat of the calf and Mirren went down. Beezel was on her in an instant, pounding with feet and fists at every square inch of flesh he could reach. He ripped off the plating, grabbing one of his knives and slicing as much as he could. The chainmail did not give entirely, but now there was as much bloody gashes as rings. The whole time he shouted in rage and bloodrust and predatory satisfaction. All the nobles could do was watch while the Vultures cheered. 

"You could have joined us, and lived in the glory of the true Kings of Dorne. But you betrayed your people, and you will suffer a traitor's fate for it. Your entrails will feed the vultures, your bones will feed the wolves, your blood will be drunk to the last drop, and I'll mince up the rest for myself after I send the head to Sunspear and your father. With the mark of a traitor." 

He ripped off the rest of the helm, tore off his gauntlet to reveal a hand that was not the fair skin she had seen an hour ago, instead it was grey, like ash. He touched the hand to the gash on her face and the wound burned as if a brand had been pushed into it. Beezel laughed as she screamed. And then the laugh was in her mind, reaching into the deepest parts of her self. Even from his seat, Gendry felt the laughter press against his own mind and he shouted in pain at the infernal presence that he only felt. He couldn't imagine what was going on in Mirren's mind. 

"What do you fear most, Mirren Sand? What do you fear losing? Not your life, obviously. But all mortals fear. It is endemic to your race. I wish to know what you fear. Before I take your mind entirely." She felt a presence drive into her mind then, digging through her emotions and memories, her soul, all the while burning with mad laughter and snarling pleasure, the scent of burning flesh and brimstone accompanying them. 

Mirren screamed, instinctively lashing out, with her mind, with her body, with everything she could muster. Essos had exposed her to magics that many in Westeros could scarce comprehend - this was something else. Something uniquely torturous and horrible. 

She kicked out, the power of pure terror, pain, and desperation fueling her, and Beezel broke contact, stumbling for just a moment. He looked at her with burning eyes, empty of anything even resembling human emotion. He reached a hand toward her again.

Mirren gasped, scrambling to her feet, frenzied and wild - for the first time, she had the strength and speed, manic energy pushing her beyond the limits of normal humanity - seizing her dagger, she rushed forward as fast as she could, almost falling upon her opponent - before he could mount a defense, before he could bring that monstrous, inhuman strength to bear once more, she drove her dagger into his eye, and the brain behind it. Again and again, the sickening squelch of flesh parting before steel filled the air. Beezel didn't scream, his hand wrenching around her throat and tightening. His one eye locked with hers as she stabbed him, and she felt the air leave her throat, the darkness pressing on her. All the while, she felt fire, smelled brimestone. And heard his voice though his lips didn't move. 

"We're going to have so much fun together Mirren." And right before the life would have left her entirely, Ser Beezel Dryland, the Hell Knight, Prince of the Hellgate Hall, brother to the Vulture King, dropped to the ground with a thud of finality. 

She stood for a moment, holding the bloody dagger. A second later, she collapsed, unconscious. As she did, a voice whispered her to sleep.

Gendry kicked his horse into motion, the steed flying to the battleground as he dismounted his horse and checked Mirren. He stripped the rest of her armor off of her. She was a bloody mess. And yet she was somehow alive. Hanging on by a thread, but alive. And she wouldn't be alive for long if she didn't get help immediately. 

He watched in horror as some of the wounds started to blacken and a putrid smell arose, "By the gods." Gendry turned his head and shouted to one of his knights who rode up, picking her up easily and placing her on the horse, "Get her to the sorcerers! Now! Some foul magic is infecting these wounds!" 

The man kicked off without further delay. Gendry turned and watched as the Vulture Knights rode forward. They dismounted and regarded Beezel, their expressions difficult to examine behind the masks. Gendry snarled, his hammer in one hand as he grabbed the lead knight by the collar, "That was no fair duel! That man employed magic! He was inhuman!" 

The Vulture calmly replied, "No agreement was made that it would not be so. The Hell Prince was well within his rights." 

Gendry slammed the man to the ground, "Rights. I ought to crack your skull right here." 

"And yet you made an agreement." 

He spat, "I did. You have an hour to get your men to throw down their arms and open the gates of the castle. Or I will pull that castle down around your ears."  

"We will abide by our Prince's word. We simply ask that you allow us to retrieve his body. Preparations must be made." 

Gendry snarled, "We're not savages. Take the Hell Knight and go. Leave his infernal weapon. It belongs to Mirren Sand." 

"If she lives." With that the Vultures took the prone form of Ser Beezel and departed back to the Skull. 

Gendry called for a squire to retrieve the trident. The man gingerly picked it up, wrapping it in a cloth before leaving. The knight called out to his officers, "Lady Brienne, wait one hour. If they don't come out, tear the castle down and damn the rest." Brienne nodded. 

"The rest of you, to your stations. Squire, send a raven to Jon. Tell him we took the Skull." As Gendry mounted his horse, he saw one of their giant vultures take wing from the keep and fly off into the distance, likely to inform the Vulture King of what happened. He watched it go, and a sense of immeasurable dread filled him. 


---------

Merrell had watched the entire fight, without saying a word. He had contemplated it with his reins as the duel went on. "A woman, huh." He said, ponderous, as he breathed deep. The spectacle of these last years had brought memories of the War for Spring. And not the most pleasant ones.

"Mella, get any priest that knows how to counter that kind of poison down there, quickly!" He yelled as he dismounted, and ran towards the downed combatant, trying to help her to carry her to safety."We can't have this person die here, not after the service she has done to the Reach!". He paused, eyeing the woman. Normally she would be brazenly replying to his quips, but she was staring wide eyed. She had been like this a while. "Mella!"

"No, they can't be. They couldn't pull a corpse from the crypts and use the kiss of Life on them so they may live again... such a thing..." She mumbled, before snapping hurredly and surprisingly obeying Merrell without a word.

Garlan only watched from his horseback mount. horrified at the sight. This was the most fucked up thing he'd probably seen so far, and he'd seen many a fucked up thing. He felt guilt, certainly, he felt horror inside him. He didn't doubt her ability, she went toe to toe like a hero, one that could fight and hold her own. And she had won. Just. 

Nobody could have won that, he mused to himself. Not once that beast's true nature was shown. Gendry would have been far too brutal and underestimating, and slipped up. He would have done the same, and been dead by the end of it all too. So would anyone. That was not honourable. That was devastating. But she had survived. And yet was laying unconcious, not dead yet wounded and hurt. Whatever he knew he was paying her, he made a mental note to ask Gendry to triple it, now. And find her a new suit of armour. And a fucking estate in the Reach. Not that money would matter. He stayed back, knowing he couldn't heal those wounds, that was in the hands of the other healers that were rushing to her. Somehow, he knew his faith had been right in her, but this wasn't exactly what he expected, not like this. Whatever the hell was going on, her fate was in the balance. But he had to keep his head. Keep his mind. And stay focussed on the tactical matter at hand. 

-------------------

Garlan rode to Gendry's side, looking on.
"Like we've said said. This is not a Knightly fight, none of this is." Garlan mused, rather unsympathetically, a litle hardened in his voice in that he wasn't exactly feeling triumphant either, watching the vulture fly, as he shook his head.

"They just played us and bought time. The Vulture King knows our entire capacity for war, from our armies to our best individuals...that was not a simple combat, that was a ruse. And wherever he is, he'll know to double his defenses unless we stand on his neck. My best scout and our best fighter is lying there wounded, all for just one castle. That man she fought, fuck even knows, is going to maybe live...that wasn't human and what isn't human can be made alive again, from past experiences. They're going to unleash hell upon us if we don't fight smarter. This was meant to tell us that we are mere dumb, stupid mortals who are toying with the deepest hell of the Seven's animals. Send that raven and give Jon the good news. It'll be a lie and you know full well we need more than just this to win a war against these fucking hellspawn. We need something better...or we are fucked, Gendry." Garlan added, sighing.

"I'm running out of ideas. That mercenary was my best one there, and I don't think I'll get a chance to use that idea again, not in this campaign. The only one I can think of is to strike at the Hellgate Hall with all we have, before they have a chance to respond with all the shock and awe we can throw at them, or to prepare ourselves for a long siege of the other baileys in the mountains and get hacked away, platoon by platoon, while we do it. We go all in, or not." 

Gendry and Garlan were the only two left, the others having long left. The Storm Bull grit his teeth and said, "You're right. That single combat was just a play. We'll have to watch those prisoners attentively. Some of them may be creatures or sorcerers themselves. And Beezel... I don't think that's the last we've seen of the Hell Knight. I'm not even sure if Mirren truly killed him the first time. You saw how he moved even with a knife in the eye. He had been toying with her for most of the fight, before the end. Nine out of ten champions we could've chosen would have fallen for it. And be definitely dead instead of probably going to die." 

He cursed and continued, "We took the Spine, I expect to hear word of the Vulture's Roost and it's fall soon. We hold the advantage for the moment, but that could very well change. A second raven, with a coded message, is being sent to the King and the rest of the Small Council, informing them of the true extent of the campaign. It wouldn't do to let anyone else, even on our side, intercept the truth." 

Gendry looked off the side of the mountain at the army that rested at it's base, at the mountain range surrounding them, "I'll call for reinforcements from the rest of the Stormlander Houses and the Dornishmen. As much as can be spared while maintaining defenses against the Stepstones. Enough to replace our losses and more. But you're right. If we don't press this advantage, they will wittle at us and poke us like every other army that has marched into these mountains. Patrols and isolated companies as well as supply trains have been constantly ambushed. Night raids on garrisons. Light casaulties so far, a minor annoyance, but I suspect the intensity of these attacks will increase in the wake of this. They were feeling us out. Now they know about us. And who knows what monsters will fight with them? Luckily for the moment, we have disrupted their supply network and coordination of their attacks, but that will not last long if we don't act." 

The Master of War pondered the possible horrors for a moment before shaking his head, "Tonight we'll call a war council in the Skull. Someone will be left in charge to oversee the fortress and the other castles on this mountain, with this position, we hold the key to this mountain range. I expect confirmation of the Vulture's Roost and it's fall by then. We press the assault while we have the chance. Leave a few thousand men here to hold the mountain and every man we can spare will march on Hellgate Hall. Our intelligence agents finally managed to peace together a location from the prisoners and letters we captured. We plan the attack tonight, we leave at first light. Ready your men for a hard march and the hardest fight of their lives Garlan." 

Garlan nodded, looking at the castle.
"The only thing that came of this is perhaps the men are not spent, but ready still to fight. I imagine they're sick of going uphill." Garlan chuckled, as he nodded, looking at the imposing fortress ahead.
"I can call upon more Reachmen to anchor themselves into the valleys, where they can replenish troop numbers and continue to keep the vice held tight. We will weather like the rock here if we don't seize the chance to press it home. I am glad you're hearing me out, Gendry. Perhaps not a voice you wanted to hear when we have our victory, but I never said I'd be that...but we need to keep our heads screwed on and the strategic aim in view. As for our men, they will be ready to go at your command. We can end this here in haste, rather than continue in complacent and slow warfare, as they may think we intend to continue. Their traps won't work if we're ahead of them." Garlan added, as he adjusted his seat, looking on at the fortress, wiping the dust from his face.

"I'm going to need somebody else to do Mirren's reconaissance, Gendry. It was invaluable in finding those tunnels. And possibly, it needs to be as soon as tonight to tell that we aren't about to throw ourselves into a world of pain. Does anyone from your party ring a bell?" 

Gendry nodded, "Aye, one of Yronwoods has a young knight who knows the range well. He can take up Mirren's duties and scout the tunnels and passes, lead the irregulars to counter the Vulture guerillas. As for Mirren, she will need to stay here, on the mountain as the healers tend to her. She will be in no shape to fight for quite some time, if she does recover. Once she's strong enough, we can have her moved somewhere more comfortable." 

"And we need to find something that will help us counter the power the Vultures wield. Our sorcers can do for theirs. Our men can handle their beasts. But they have vast power besides. Power that perhaps even a dragon-rider cannot overcome by himself. Garlan, what I am about to tell you is never to be repeated to anyone else. Until now it is a secret that has been known to nobody outside of the King, Queen, the royal twins, and the Small Council. It is a secret that could be worth your life. Can I count on your discretion?"  

"I swear it by the Seven, Gendry. On my honour be it." Garlan replied, looking at Gendry, nodding.
"You have my word." 

"You probably know that magic has been returning to the world for decades now. There are sorcerers, others with abilities. Special bloodlines and powers of all varities and intensities. But we have been looking for individuals who are close to gods in their strength. Vast power they command. Ser Beezel may have been one of them, if a weak one in comparison. Some mages are strong enough to be considered such, but the only one on our side is entangled in other matters. Lord Brandon is another... but troubles in the North have occupied his attention. The Night's King was one, and you remember what it was like to fight him. We need to find more. You know the tales of Garth Greenhand and Durran Godsgrief, I presume?" 

"Two men of the Reach and Stormlands. Mystical figures, almost. House Tyrell assumes direct linage from Garth Greenhand himself....the effect of greenhand blood is minimal, if it exists at all. It has some in Alerie and Ellion, perhaps at most, their tolerances to flowers is one. House Baratheon has some linage from the Durrandons, so I assume the same. The stories are blurred....after all, they are mostly tales we tell to our children." Garlan replied, listening carefully. 

Gendry nodded, "Well the tales are more than that. Brandon looked back into the ancient past. The tales were true. Those men and their children were demigods, Garlan. Beings of massive power. Somewhere between mortal and immortal. Many of the noble houses of Westeros can trace their lineage back to one legendary figure or another. When Durran Godsgrief mated with Elenei, daughter of the sea and wind, his firstborn son had the strength of a hundred men. Other abilities manifested. They waned over the years, as they did in every noble house descended from a similar figure, but some trace remains." 

"Now the godlings have returned again. Brandon saw it. Daenyra saw it. Children of the gods and others with power like them walk among us. Perhaps one out of a thousand men or women have an ability. And one out of a thousand of them have powers that are more potent. And only a fraction of those have the power they speak of in legends and myths. But they exist. And we need them now, to fight the Vulture King and others like him. I have no doubt that the Vulture King is such an individual, not with what I just witnessed. Well, now we need to find another to counter him. We need to find our own godling, Garlan. Or else, we might all be marching to our death." 

"Seven Hells, Mirren won't be able to hold her shit together when she finds out she killed someone of that nature." Garlan shook his head, as he looked on, blank in thought, before he turned back to Gendry.

"Whoever they are, if they are Gardeners, or Durrandons, they pose a threat to our rule. All of our Kingdoms. If they were to aquire that power over the common folk, that would be the end of the Seven Kingdoms. Finding them and convincing them to fight with us will be difficult, Gendry. You're asking someone with blood from a figure stepped in history and folklore to fight for us...and what if they can't be bought?" Garlan added, a questioning thought, as he knew that it was worth raising.
"Perhaps, you are right. We can find them, and bring them as a counter. Find a trace stronger than what we see already." 

Gendry shook his head, "None must know. Not even Mirren. If this knowledge circulates among the kingdom, every noble will be searching among their family or their subjects, looking for a living weapon. It'll become an arms race that could threaten the stability of the kingdom, even the world. Brandon and Daenyra have not been able to identify any of these individuals yet. We've found dozens of somewhat more managable power, but not the kind of earth-shattering power we saw the Night's King wield." 

"I don't think the Gardeners or Durrandons have found one either. But we suspect they know of them as well. That's why we believe they have allied with the Vulture King. Rest assured, they want one as much as we do. An individual that could stand up to a full-grown dragon and its rider by themselves, that's the kind of strength we're talking about. And we need to do everything we can to secure them for the kingdom." 

Gendry continued, "Your brother is privy to this, and he's probably been combing the Reach, searching for another seed of Garth Greenhand. Jon has been searching in the North. And I have been searching the Stormlands. I believe we found a bead on one as well. I will send agents to find him, and they'll doubtless come into conflict with Durrandon agents in doing so. Perhaps with time, Harmen Dondarrion's powers will grow. But we have no time to wait for that. We need one now. But we march on despite that, or else we risk losing everything we fought to win. I'm telling you know so you know the kind of power we face, and the kind of power we might need to face it. You're my top general, and you need your eyes open on this. But nothing else has changed. Do you understand?" 

"Understood. This doesn't travel beyond us. So you have someone from the Stormlands, willing to fight? If you're saying there's people willing to fight dragons....Seven Hells, I'd call you mad before, but I know what I just saw. Perhaps we have reason to think that." Garlan asked, as he nodded.
"It won't change the fact of what we saw. It adds up to what happened in King's Landing. It's far more extraordinary than can be fathomed. An unimaginable reality." Garlan added, listening to Gendry attentively.  

Gendry nodded, "That's why once, we're done here, you can help your brother keep up the search in the Reach. If the best works out, the godling in the Stormlands can come to our side. Otherwise, we have to hope that Aegon and Viserion with those mages will be enough to fight the Vulture King. Our men will fight with the monsters and foot soldiers, but without a godling, the campaign rests on Viserion, the Red Mages, the Alchemists, the Water Mages, and the Lightning Lord. We must plan accordingly." 

Garlan nodded, shaking his head a little, knowing Gendry was confident, but it was literally playing with fire. What he was suggesting was incredibly dangerous, and even his mind, beyond a military one, knew that it had enormous repercussions for every house in the Realm, the fundemental reshasping of power as anyone knew it.
"If the worst, you have a mortal with the power of a God running around your Kingdom. That would be incredibly dangerous, if the commoners even hear, that's it. Rule has been enforced by pure will and the established status quo...not Godlings or those who are born as mortals above our station. We will need to plan accordingly, but that is a risky move. I will need to look in the Reach when this war ends, but no doubt, it could be territory that is unsettling." The Reachman added, as he knew that this had a serious implication, even if it didn't change much of the battleplan. 

"Now you know the stakes. We can't count of the Stormling to help us. But I will need you in the fight if we are to survive without that help. Prepare your men to fight a man with as much devilish power as the King of the Others himself. Abilities we can't even guess the full extent of. Are you ready for this?" 

"Against the unknown....seems like I might as well see how this story ends now we're this far. They'll be ready, and we'll fuck them up. For the Seven Kingdoms, and for all our losses. We'll get that bastard.." Garlan chuckled, putting his hand out to meet Gendry's, a firm hand raised to grip.

Gendry nodded, a grim smile on his face, "Aye. You and I. We took down one Lord of Darkness, we can do it again. Together." He gripped Garlan's hand and the two watched as the gates of the Skull opened, Brienne's vanguard entering the castle to take the garrison into custory and the castle into their posession. The sun began to set that day, and hopefully, their bloody campaign would soon be over.