[b][center]The Duel [/center][/b]

[b][center]Garin:[/center][/b]

By the time he reached the open field to the east of the camp, it seemed as though nearly everyone had arrived.  Formed around the green sward in a rough square, the crowd of mercenaries, smallfolk, travelers and townsfolk made a crude sort of tournament field.  Garin smiled grimly behind his visor, he’d fought in worse.

In the distance, he could make out the faint, but unmistakable shape of a dragon against the midday sky and it seemed as though fingers of icy fear had dug deep into his heart.  He was only a child then, but he still remembered the horror of the Hellholt and the King’s Wrath.  He’d once seen Maegor fly into Pentos, when his oldest was a small child.  Rylla had been awed by Balerion and even asked if she could go and pet the fearsome thing.  Garin had felt only terror and he was not ashamed to say so.  Only a fool would ever willingly go up against a dragon and he was thankful that so far, he’d been lucky enough to avoid such a thing.

Opposite his position, the crimson knight stood in a suit of gleaming plate that had been chased with gold and filigreed in silver around the edges of the different plates.  Perhaps not quite the mix of fine artwork and good armor that a Targaryen prince would have, but certainly a fine harness nonetheless.

In contrast, Garin looked almost drab as he turned his warhorse and sat waiting on the western side of the field.  A hulking figure in black armor, with an evil-eyed brute of a warhorse under him.  If this had been some puppet show, he’d have been the villain.

But this was Westeros and evil was often masked in beauty.  To Garin, it seemed that in Essos, you knew where you stood.  As a mercenary you could assume everyone wanted you dead.  But here?  Wanton cruelty was often carefully cloaked under fancy names and titles.  Though he’d long since lost any hope of a name and title himself.  His late father had taken an inordinate amount of delight in taking both of things from him.

Yet, if he had chosen duty and family over Martella, he would have never held Rylla in his arms for the first time, heard her first words or helped her to learn to walk.  Little Myrna would never had cried tears of joy over that thrice bedamned cat of hers.  Now he was here, as the Tyrells and Lord Tarly watched, with their retainers.  

Garin’s family smiled as their lord father and husband rode past, but they remained silent and dignified, in a way that even the scions of a great house would have been hard pressed to match.  Even little Myrna was very solemn, though she held her spotted cat close.  The kitten for its part, bore its mistress’ grip with the patience of a born saint.  Lady Vittoria, for her part, looked as grim and serious as any knight on the outset of battle.

More people, from the meanest peasant to great lords trickled in.  Garin supposed it had been a boring few days and people had nothing better to do.  The master of the lists droned on and some doddering old Septon croaked out a prayer.  All because some fool boy had made a joke about the wrong person. 

[i]Well, if a man only defends what he loved when convenient, then he doesn’t truly love, I suppose.[/i]  Garin thought.

The master of the lists stepped back and looked at the two knights, one clad in black and the other in darkest red.

“Garin Sands and Ser Jorin Upsley, I hereby give you one final chance to set aside your grievances and reconcile yourselves in the eyes of man and the Seven.”  He said.

As he spoke, a woman in a green and blue gown stepped forward and tied a red ribbon around Ser Jorin’s rerebrace, just below the crimson of his surcoat.  As she stepped back, Garin saw the hopeless look in her eyes as she stared his way before turning and stepping back into the onlookers.

Garin had seen that look before, usually in the eyes of a town’s citizens after his men had stormed the walls.  Unbidden, his thoughts turned to what Lady Vittoria said and he swore under his breath.  The Dornishman raised his visor and glanced at his onlooking family, where they stood next to the Tyrells.

“Milord, if Ser Jorin wishes to make peace, then I will not stand in his way.”  He said, his voice carrying on the gentle breeze.

Ser Jorin looked back at the woman who had gifted him her favor and then slammed his visor down and raised his lance to the gleaming steel of his cuisse.

[i]I imagined so[/i], Garin thought as he closed his visor and took his own lance.

The master of the lists raised a burly hand and brought it down with grim finality.

As one, the two opposing knights raked back their spurs and their warhorses exploded into motion, churning the black earth under their ironshod hooves.  The grass rippled in the wind and birds sang as they soared overhead, against a cloudless sky.  Surcoat and caparisons rippled back from armor as the warriors rode full tilt.  It was a beautiful moment, more so for the contrast against what came next.

This was no ordered duel or joust with all the pageantry and splendor of a regulated tournament.  Both men rode well, and it seemed to all present that master and steed moved as one.  But that skill was not there for spectacle or to please the crowd.  It was a moment that would have fit seamlessly into the most brutal battle.  There was no chivalry to be found on that field.  Just two grim killers doing what they had been trained since childhood.

Ser Jorin set his lance into place at the last moment and Garin, in a feat of great strength, rolled the heavy length of ash up and over Jorin’s own.  But Jorin was no novice and he’d learned his brutal craft in a school as unforgiving as Garin’s.  At a touch of his knee, his warhorse side-stepped mid-gallop as he leveled his lance at the eyeslit of Garin’s helm.

There was a breathless pause.

The two knights slammed together with force that bordered on divine wrath.  Both the heavy war lances bent and then shattered into clouds of splinters.  Garin reeled from the shock, stretched almost prone over the high cantle of his saddle.  

Ser Jorin was knocked to the side, so that at one point, his helm was almost level with his stirrups, as he flailed and scrabbled for purchase.  The shattered crest of his helm went arcing into the crowd and landed in the plump hands of a very surprised merchant, who had been trying to protect his face more than anything else.

It might have almost been comical, had the two not been fighting in deadly earnest.  But this was no tourney, where a man might ride to the end of the lists and reset for the next pass.  Their destriers bugled in fury as they spun on their hooves and then reared, striking with their teeth and hooves against flesh and barding.  Their ears lay flat against the steel of their chanfrons and their nostrils flared crimson, as they fought with the same unrelenting brutality of their masters.

Despite the tremendous impact, both knights were veterans of many such clashes and hauled themselves back into their seat.  Garin ignored the roiling pain in his skull with the skill of long practice and caught up his warhammer from his saddle.  He pushed against his stirrups and leaned forward as his mount reared again, screaming in rage.

As Ser Jorin’s bay leapt to meet the attack, Garin brought his warhammer up and over, seeking to crush Jorin’s helm.  To all present, it seemed like a whirlwind of steel and horse.  Sparks flew from clashing weapons and dented armor.  Torn caparisons and surcoats whirled as knight and rider fought with no mercy asked or given.  In the blink of an eye, both men had given, parried and dodged nearly a dozen different blows.

Neither one showed any kind of restraint, warhorse and warrior alike were struck where the opportunity presented itself.  At one point, Garin’s dagger flashed in the sun as he grappled in the saddle with Jorin.  For a moment, it seemed like the fight would be over as quickly as it had begun.

But then, Jorin snagged the cuff of Garin’s gauntlet and whether by luck of skill, was able to break the Dornishman’s hold and had nearly dragged his foe from the saddle.  Garin, for his part, pushed off his own saddle with his free leg and hauled Jorin over the right side of his bay horse and into the churned up earth.

Their warhorses continued on, snapping and striking at each other with their hooves like a man might box.  The crowd rippled back as the two destriers almost barreled into them.  Unable to keep a hold on Jorin, Garin rolled away from his enemy and to his feet.  Jorin had leapt upright and charged, his dagger clutched in a reverse grip.  Garin, dagger and hammer lost, drew his longsword and struck in one smooth motion.

Jorin might have died right there, but his left foot slipped out from under him on the slick grass.  Garin’s blade rang off his helm, in a shower of sparks, instead of piercing the eyeslit.  Jorin surged upright again as Garin set his shield and sprinted to meet his enemy’s charge.

Garin nearly fell, as Jorin levered his shield up and nearly upended him, before Garin kicked his legs and regained his balance.  His shield lost to him, Garin reversed his grip on his blade.  Holding the gleaming steel of the longsword halfway down the blade in a gauntleted hand, he struck like a Dornish adder and managed to foul Jorins next attack.

By then his lungs were burning, every muscle in his body had moved past feeling as though it was on fire and to the point where they felt like they belonged to someone else.  Garin planted his feet, as Jorin grappled with him.  With all his might, he lifted the armored bulk of the red knight with a titanic roar.  As the dagger nicked his eyelid, Garin took a breath and exerted one last burst of the battle fury that still gripped him.

Even for a younger man it would have been a tremendous strength, though he only lifted the crimson-clad warrior a handbreadth into the air, it was enough that he was able to lever and then throw the armored bulk of his foe.  Jorin landed with a crash of steel, his dagger pinwheeling away into the crowd where people frantically dodged the falling blade.  Garin half-straddled, half-fell over his enemy and wrenched the man’s visor open.

Jorin’s face was pale and at some point, the exertion of the fight had caused blood to run from his eyes, nose and eyes.  Garin placed his gauntleted thumbs next to the red knight’s eyes.

“I have strength enough left, to crush your head, lad.”  He said with surprising gentleness.

Jorin blinked and then set his jaw, clearly expecting the worst.

Garin nodded shortly.  There was time, he would have never have even thought about what to do next.  He’d certainly done far worse.  From the corner of his eye he could see that the two warhorses, their rage spent, had wandered off to different ends of the field and were quietly grazing on the thick grass.

“But if you yield, you can see the woman who gave you that favor again.

“You fought well, no one here can deny that.  Let’s leave it at that and we can go our ways.”  He said.

Jorin blinked and then nodded slowly.  “I yield.”  He rasped.

The red knight rolled to his feet and slowly limped to the woman who waited for him.  She took his armored arm over her shoulder and if his plate-clad bulk caused her any pain, she showed no sign of it as she helped her man to their pavilion.

Garin stood up slowly and then tottered over to his family, while his squire led his exhausted warhorse.  The master of the lists pronounced the matter settled, but Garin didn’t hear him.  Not wishing to injure them, with his armor, he carefully patted his wife and daughters on the shoulder.  Myrna smiled and then tottered off with his great helm on her head, where it rested on her shoulders.  Though it had been a solemn day, he couldn’t help but laugh at such an absurdly delightful sight, the damn thing was nearly as tall as she was.  Even Rylla smiled, before she ran to help her sister extricate herself from the helm, when she walked into someone.

Martella simply nodded, her expression both relieved and . . . pleased?  Proud?  It was hard to say really. 

Garin set aside his gauntlets, ran an aching hand through his sweat-plastered hair and bowed slightly to the Tyrells.

Lord Theo said a quick word to his eldest daughter, before nodding to the men around him, and departing the field under the accompaniment of men-at-arms. Vittoria Tyrell wore no armor, only the green wool dress with the high collar and the full-length arms, the skirt of it falling to her booted ankles. Next to Lord Theo had been Vittoria, Davos Baratheon, Thaddeus Rowan, Dennet Tarly, Ryam Redwyne, Lord Elmo and Garrett Tyrell.

But they hadn’t been the main focal point of the little group. Even most of the eyes assembled that looked to their group weren’t on Theo, but Vaera Balaerys. At one-point Vaera had put a hand on Vittoria’s shoulder, and leaned in to say, “Breathe, Lady.”
Vittoria chuckled at Vaera’s gentle jape, but there was seriousness to it, Vittoria would admit. Plate armor might have made her appear more comfortable than she currently felt watching the stupid, silly, childish affair. 

Towards the end, all she heard was, “Ow,” though that came from Davos Baratheon, whose arm she had taken and started to dig fingers unknowingly into out of the stress of the moment.

When it was over, a wind of relief exhaled from her body, and her shoulders visibly relaxed, “Thank the Seven that madness is over.”
Vittoria walked over and spent some time speaking with Ser Jorin and his people, who to her surprise, actually wanted to speak with her in a matter that was almost pleasant, given the circumstances of the moment. It was only after that did Vittoria make her away across and greet Garin and his family.

“Myrna, caution being a girl who puts on armor—it tends to stick with you longer than it probably ought to,” she gave Martella a tiny hint of a smile before giving large, exaggerated, eyes of relief to Rylla, “This was fun,” she said to the woman her junior, but not far behind her, “let’s not do that again.”

Before she left she leaned closer to Garin, and whispered something short, before taking a few steps away only to turn back, remembering something else, “Sunset. My father’s pavilion,” she made sure to inform him, before continuing on to find Lord Elmo, and proceed to the Citadel, while Rowan and Tarly went to gather the rest of the Order and get them out of Oldtown.