Spar one opponent long enough and it is their ghost you fight in every battle.

Lady Sandsfern's approach to battle is pounded into every one of Robena's thoughts and reflexes by endless repetition. They have dueled with swords, maces, bar stools and fists, on horseback and on foot. They have rehearsed the same forms under the gaze of Venitian swordmasters and embarrassed themselves in mounted archery before the same Turkic nomads. In each battle the instincts that guide Robena are those carved by Lady Sandsfern. In each battle she triumphs because her opponent is either a lesser version of her mistress or a lesser version of herself.

Robena fights as the mountain - reach and control and solidity and plate, the raw arithmetic of strength. Sandsfern fights as the fire, always in motion and always brilliant. They balance upon a knife edge, and with any balance that fine it is the simple, stupid trivialities that define victory. In this case it is that they are in a cramped tavern with no room for maneuver and so it is just a matter of time before Alitel runs out of space to retreat. 

To besiege a castle, though, is a brutal thing. Even with better resources and a stronger army one must beware constant sally, and each step of progress is paid for with sweat and blood. Each step is paid for with a kick, each falter in her block is paid for with a blow to the head, again and again she takes hits with nothing to show for it in return. Her arms ache and her head thrums and she's conscious of all the pain for she has to do all of this appallingly sober. There is no joy in this part of the fight. It is just pain on the promise of victory, and if that vision of victory wavers even for a moment then it is just pain - and will collapses.

But then the back of Alitel's foot touches the back wall and it is time for her to return a strike.

Her punch lashes out like a thunderbolt, just past Alitel's head and smashing into the wood of the tavern wall so hard that it makes the entire building lurch and the timbers splinter. Lady Sandsfern freezes in place with Robena's arm right by her head, smile holding as sweat trickles down her face. Robena, hand heavy on the wall next to her, looms down above. How could she be grim now? Blood is far too noisy to permit cold thoughts.

"Looks like you still need protection," said Robena, "my lady." 

[Great Labour: 8]