The lords assembled around Tywin's table represented a cross-section of Western power—Lord Leffords, Ser Kevan Lannister, several Crakehall and Swyft representatives. And, surprisingly, a few Northern lords including the Greatjon himself, who'd apparently cleaned up quickly after his victory.
"Your Graces," the Greatjon said, bowing with more genuine respect than most southern lords managed. "Congratulations on being smart enough to help win wars without wasting men. Them chokepoint strategies at Fair Isle? Brilliant. Saved hundreds of lives on our side."
"Thank you, Lord Umber," Hadrian said carefully. "Though the strategies were just suggestions. Uncle Stannis and our father implemented them."
"Aye, but suggestions need to come from somewhere." The Greatjon's eyes were sharp. "Heard you boys came up with them floating siege platforms too. Worked a treat at Pyke—bombarded the walls from the sea while we came at them from land. Ironborn didn't know which way to defend."
"You were at Pyke?" Percy asked.
"Led the first assault on the eastern wall. Lost twelve men, but we breached the gate within a day." The Greatjon's voice was matter-of-fact. "Would've lost more without them platforms keeping the defenders' heads down. So yeah—you two might be southern princes, but you've got Northern practicality. I respect that."
"High praise from a Northman," Tywin observed dryly.
"Aye, well, we're not usually inclined to compliment southerners." The Greatjon grinned. "But smart is smart, regardless of which side of the Neck it comes from. And them boys are smart."
Hadrian felt something uncomfortable settle in his chest. He'd designed those siege platforms knowing they'd be used in war. But he hadn't really thought about the men who'd fight beside them, who'd survive because of his suggestions. Twelve men dead was terrible. But how many would have died without the platforms? Fifty? A hundred?
*War is numbers*, he thought. *We're learning that faster than we wanted to.*
"Lord Umber," Tywin said, his voice taking on that particular edge that meant business was about to be discussed, "I was hoping you might do me a service."
"Depends on the service."
"My grandsons need to understand Northern culture, Northern values. They'll be ruling the Seven Kingdoms eventually—that includes the North. I'd like them to have a proper perspective, not just southern assumptions."
The Greatjon studied Hadrian and Percy thoughtfully. "You want me to talk to them? Tell them about the North?"
"I want you to treat them as you would any young Northern lords. Honest assessment. No courtly flattery. The truth about what the North values, what it respects, what it needs from the Iron Throne."
"That's unusual," the Greatjon said slowly. "Most southern lords want me to bow and smile and pretend the North loves kneeling to King's Landing."
"I'm not most southern lords," Tywin said flatly. "And these boys aren't most princes. They need truth, not propaganda."
The Greatjon looked between Hadrian and Percy, assessing. Then he nodded.
"Alright. But not here—too many ears. Let me finish my ale, then we'll walk the grounds. Have a proper conversation away from all this southern politeness."
"Ser Gregor will accompany you," Tywin said.
"That mountain of murder? Why?"
"Security. The royal heirs don't travel unguarded."
"In the middle of a tourney full of loyal lords?" The Greatjon snorted. "Bit paranoid, aren't you?"
"Careful isn't paranoid," Tywin said coldly. "It's competent."
"Fair enough." The Greatjon drained his cup. "Come on then, Your Graces. Let's go see the real tourney—the one that happens between the official events, where knights actually talk honest instead of proper."
They left the pavilion, the Mountain following like a shadow.
---
# The Tourney Grounds - Between Events
The Greatjon walked with long strides that forced Hadrian and Percy to nearly jog to keep up. He led them past pavilions where knights were drinking, gambling, telling stories from the rebellion.
"Right," the Greatjon said, stopping near a quieter area. "Lord Tywin wants me to tell you about the North. So here's the truth, plain as I can make it: the North doesn't trust the Iron Throne."
"Because of the Mad King?" Hadrian asked.
"Because of every king before him. Because southern kings call us when they need our armies, then forget we exist when the fighting's done. Because southern lords think we're savages who worship trees and don't understand proper civilization." The Greatjon's voice was blunt. "Your father—King Robert—he's better than most. At least he fought alongside us, earned respect through his hammer instead of just his crown. But even he doesn't understand the North."
"What would help him understand?" Percy asked.
"Visiting. Actually coming North of the Neck, seeing how we live, understanding what we deal with." The Greatjon's expression was serious now. "The North is harsh. Winters last years, not months. We don't have your gold, your trade, your warm weather and easy harvests. We survive by being hard and loyal and practical. And we need a king who understands that—who doesn't waste Northern lives on southern politics."
"The chokepoint strategies," Hadrian said slowly. "They saved Northern lives at Fair Isle. Is that why you're willing to talk to us?"
"Part of it. But also—" The Greatjon studied them both. "—you're young enough to still learn. Your father's set in his ways, thinks might makes right because it always has for him. But you two? Maybe you can be taught to think different. To see the whole realm, not just the parts that look like King's Landing."
"What else should we understand about the North?" Percy asked.
"That we remember. Everything. Every slight, every broken promise, every time southern kings took and didn't give back. We're loyal—the Starks have our loyalty, and the Starks gave that loyalty to your father. But loyalty isn't infinite. It has to be earned. Maintained. Respected."
The Greatjon paused, looking directly at them now.
"When you're King—" He pointed at Hadrian. "—and when you're Lord of Storm's End—" He pointed at Percy. "—the North will be watching. Seeing if you're like the kings before, or if you learned something different. If you remember that the realm isn't just the south. That Northern blood matters just as much as Lannister gold or Tyrell roses."
"We'll remember," Hadrian promised quietly.
"See that you do. Because the North is hard, but we're also honest. We don't smile while plotting your murder. We don't flatter while scheming. If a Northman says he's your ally, he means it." The Greatjon's expression softened slightly. "And if you prove worthy, if you show you understand what the North needs and value what it offers—then you'll have allies who'll follow you through hell itself. Because that's what Northern loyalty means."
"Why are you telling us this?" Percy asked. "You barely know us."
"Because Lord Tywin's right—you need to understand more than just southern politics. And because your strategies at Pyke saved my men's lives. I owe you for that, even if you don't realize what you did." The Greatjon's voice was gruff now. "So I'm paying that debt. With honesty. With truth. With the kind of advice you won't get from lords who want something from you."
Behind them, the Mountain stood silent, watching.
"Thank you, Lord Umber," Hadrian said, and meant it. "We'll remember this conversation. And we'll remember what the North needs when we're in positions to help."
"Good lads." The Greatjon clapped them both on the shoulders—gently for him, but it still nearly knocked them over. "Now come on. The joust is starting soon, and I want to see if that Mormont boy is as good as they say."
---
# The Joust - Day One, Final Tilts
They returned to the royal box just as the final rounds of the joust were beginning. The earlier matches had eliminated most competitors, leaving only the genuinely skilled—or genuinely lucky.
"You missed it," Joffrey said smugly as they took their seats. "Ser Garlan Tyrell unhorsed three knights in a row. He was beautiful."
"I'm sure he was," Percy muttered.
"The Hound's still in," Tyrion noted, pointing to where a massive knight in gray armor with a distinctive dog-faced helm waited for his next opponent. "Sandor Clegane. Gregor's younger brother."
Hadrian glanced back at the Mountain, who stood impassive. Then at the Hound below. The size difference was notable—the Hound was tall and broad, but normal tall, not monstrous. And where Gregor's armor was plain, utilitarian, the Hound's was decorated with snarling dog heads.
"They don't get along," Tyrion added quietly. "Family issues. Rather severe ones."
The next match began—the Hound against a Frey knight whose name Hadrian didn't catch. The Hound won in a single pass, his lance striking with surgical precision. The Frey went down hard.
"Efficient," Hadrian observed.
"Brutal," Percy corrected. "Did you see where he aimed? Not center mass—shoulder, where the armor's weakest. He was trying to cause maximum damage."
"The Hound fights to hurt people," Tyrion said. "Not for glory or honor. Just to hurt them. It's what he does best."
"Sounds like someone we know," Percy muttered, glancing at the Mountain.
"Oh, Sandor is nothing like Gregor. He's vicious, yes, but controlled. Professional. Gregor is..." Tyrion paused. "Gregor is something else entirely. Something broken and mad and barely contained."
Several more matches passed. The field narrowed. And then—
"SER JORAH MORMONT!" the herald called. "Of Bear Island, in the service of House Stark!"
A knight rode out in dark green armor with a black bear on his shield. He was young—maybe twenty-five—with a lean build and careful movements.
"That's the Mormont boy the Greatjon mentioned," Cersei said. "Lord Jeor Mormont's son. Fought at Pyke alongside the Northern forces."
"He's good," Percy said, watching Jorah position himself. "Look at his seat—perfect balance. He knows exactly what he's doing."
The joust began.
Jorah Mormont proceeded to unhorse opponent after opponent with methodical precision. Not flashy like some knights. Not brutal like the Hound. Just... effective. Every pass calculated, every strike placed perfectly.
"He's going to win this," Hadrian said after Jorah's fourth consecutive victory.
"Bold prediction," Tyrion said. "There are still three matches left."
"He's going to win," Hadrian repeated.
And he did.
The final match was against a Reach knight who'd been favored to take the whole tournament. But Jorah caught him perfectly, lance striking shield dead center, and the Reach knight went flying from his saddle to land in an undignified heap.
The crowd erupted. Trumpets sounded. Jorah Mormont raised his lance in victory.
"WINNER!" the herald bellowed. "Ser Jorah Mormont, champion of the joust!"
Robert stood, applauding enthusiastically despite being visibly drunk. "Well fought! By the gods, Mormont, that was riding!"
Jorah removed his helm, revealing a lean face with a carefully groomed beard. He rode toward the royal box, stopped before it, and looked directly at—
"Oh no," Tyrion muttered.
—at a girl in the Hightower section. She couldn't have been older than thirteen, with blonde hair and delicate features. She looked stunned, frozen.
"My lady," Jorah called out, his voice carrying across the now-quiet grounds. "Might I have the honor of your name?"
"I—" The girl's voice was barely audible. "Lynesse. Lynesse Hightower, ser."
"Lady Lynesse Hightower." Jorah's voice was reverent now. "Would you grant me the honor of being named Queen of Love and Beauty?"
The girl looked at her father—Lord Leyton Hightower, who looked equally stunned. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"I would be... honored, Ser Jorah."
The crowd erupted again. Jorah rode to the Hightower section, leaned from his saddle, and placed a crown of flowers on Lynesse's auburn hair.
"That's disgusting," Percy said quietly in Greek. "She's thirteen. He's twenty-five. That's—"
"Completely normal here," Hadrian replied in the same language, his stomach churning. "Girls are betrothed at thirteen all the time. Married at fourteen or fifteen. It's how this world works."
"It's pedophilia. That's what it is. Legal pedophilia."
"Keep your voice down," Hadrian warned, switching back to Common Tongue. They were getting looks from nearby lords.
But Percy was right. Jorah Mormont had just publicly declared interest in a child. And everyone was *celebrating* it. Applauding. Seeing it as romantic.
"He's going to propose," Tyrion said, sounding resigned. "Watch. Within the hour."
"To a thirteen-year-old?" Cersei asked, frowning.
"To a Hightower. A prestigious match for a Northern lord's son. And she's clearly of age to be betrothed." Tyrion's voice was carefully neutral. "Though I agree it's... unfortunate timing."
"She's a *child*," Percy hissed.
"She's a noble daughter of an age to be contracted in marriage," Tyrion corrected. "That's how this works, nephew. I don't like it either, but—"
"SILENCE FOR THE KING!" a herald called.
Robert stood again, swaying slightly. "Ser Jorah! Hell of a ride! What reward can the Crown offer for such skill?"
Jorah Mormont looked at Lynesse Hightower, then back at the King.
"Your Grace, I would ask permission to court Lady Lynesse Hightower. To seek her hand in marriage with her lord father's blessing."
The crowd murmured. Lord Leyton Hightower looked uncomfortable—this was public now, hard to refuse without insult.
"Lord Hightower?" Robert called. "What say you? Will you hear Ser Jorah's suit?"
Lord Leyton stood slowly. He looked at his daughter—who was staring at Jorah with what might have been terrified infatuation or just pure shock—then at the King.
"I will... consider Ser Jorah's petition," he said finally. "If he can prove himself worthy of a daughter of Hightower."
"Prove myself?" Jorah asked.
"Win tomorrow's melee," Lord Leyton said. "If you can take the field against all challengers and stand victorious, I will grant permission for courtship."
It was a trap, Hadrian realized immediately. The melee was far more dangerous than the joust, and fighters like the Greatjon would be competing. Lord Leyton was hoping Jorah would lose—or better yet, get injured badly enough to end this uncomfortable situation.
But Jorah just nodded. "I accept, my lord. I will prove myself worthy."
The crowd loved it—romance and violence combined, the perfect Westerosi story.
Hadrian felt sick.
"We have to do something," Percy muttered in Greek.
"Like what?" Hadrian replied in the same language. "Stop a legal courtship between two people of age? We're seven. We have no authority. No one will listen."
"So we just watch a grown man pursue a child?"
"We watch. We remember. And when we have power—real power, not just titles—we change the laws so this doesn't happen to the next girl." Hadrian's voice was grim. "That's all we can do right now."
Percy looked like he wanted to argue. But he also knew Hadrian was right.
They were children themselves. Princes, yes, but children. They couldn't change the world yet.
But someday they would.
And this—this casual acceptance of grown men courting children—would be one of the first things they'd fix.
---
# That Evening - The Royal Apartments
Dinner was a tense affair. Cersei had banned talk of the Mormont-Hightower situation, sensing her sons' discomfort. Instead, conversation focused on tomorrow's events—the melee would be the main attraction, with the Greatjon participating.
After dinner, after Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen had been put to bed, Tywin arrived.
"A word," he said, looking at Hadrian and Percy. "Privately."
They followed him to a smaller solar, where he poured himself wine and studied them with those calculating green eyes.
"You were uncomfortable today," he observed. "During Ser Jorah's crowning of Lady Lynesse. Why?"
"She's thirteen," Hadrian said bluntly.
"A common age for betrothals."
"She's a child. He's a grown man. It's—" Hadrian stopped, choosing his words carefully. "It's not appropriate."
"Appropriate." Tywin's tone was neutral. "Define appropriate."
"A match between people of similar ages. Who have agency, choice, understanding of what they're agreeing to." Percy leaned forward. "Not a child being courted by someone twice her age who's using tournament victory as leverage."
"I see." Tywin sipped his wine. "And what would you have done differently? Forbidden the courtship? Insulted both families publicly?"
"We would have set a minimum age for marriage contracts," Hadrian said. "Sixteen, maybe. Old enough to actually understand what you're agreeing to."
"That would eliminate half the noble marriages in Westeros."
"Good."
Tywin actually smiled—not his cold political smile, but something that might have been genuine amusement.
"You have ideals," he said. "That's... not necessarily bad. Ideals give you direction. But governance requires pragmatism." He set down his wine cup. "Lady Lynesse is thirteen. In this culture, that makes her of age to be betrothed. Ser Jorah is twenty-five and has distinguished himself in war and tournament. The match has political and economic benefits for both families."
"It's still wrong," Percy insisted.
"Perhaps. But 'wrong' is subjective. To the Hightowers, it's pragmatic—a daughter married to a distinguished knight. To Ser Jorah, it's an opportunity—elevation through advantageous marriage. To Lady Lynesse—" He paused. "—we don't actually know what she thinks. She might be thrilled. She might be terrified. She might not have formed an opinion yet."
"Which is exactly the problem," Hadrian said. "She's not old enough to have informed opinions about marriage."
"And yet, if you're King and try to change these customs, you'll face opposition from every house in the realm. Marriage alliances are how noble families maintain power. Restricting them threatens that power structure." Tywin leaned forward. "So the question becomes: is this the battle you want to fight? Is reforming marriage law worth the political capital it will cost?"
"Yes," Percy said immediately.
"Then you'll need to be strategic about it. Not a blanket decree that insults tradition. Gradual reform. Incentivizing older marriages through tax benefits. Creating social pressure through example—marrying later yourselves, encouraging others to do the same." Tywin's eyes were sharp now. "Change through manipulation rather than force."
"You're teaching us how to enforce morality through underhanded tactics," Hadrian observed.
"I'm teaching you how to achieve your goals in a world that resists change. There's a difference." Tywin stood. "You're uncomfortable with Ser Jorah's courtship. That's understandable—even admirable. But discomfort without strategy is just impotent anger. If you want to change this world, you need to learn how to play the game long enough to rewrite the rules."
He moved toward the door, then paused.
"Tomorrow, the Hound will be competing in the melee. I'm offering him to you as your sworn shield after the tourney concludes."
"What?" Percy asked, startled.
"Sandor Clegane. The Hound. He's one of the most dangerous fighters in Westeros, loyal to House Lannister, and capable of protecting you from virtually any threat." Tywin's voice was matter-of-fact. "You need protection. Proper protection, not just ceremonial guards. The Hound can provide that."
"Why would you give him to us?" Hadrian asked carefully.
"Because you're my grandsons. Because you'll be King and Lord of Storm's End. Because I want you alive to inherit your positions." Tywin's expression was unreadable. "And because Sandor serves me out of obligation. He could serve you out of choice. That's more valuable."
"We'll consider it," Hadrian said, not wanting to commit.
"Do that. But decide quickly. Tomorrow's melee will determine if he's even available—he could be injured or worse." Tywin opened the door. "Sleep well, grandsons. Tomorrow will be... educational."
He left.
Hadrian and Percy looked at each other.
"The Hound as our sworn shield," Percy said slowly. "A man who fights to hurt people. Who serves the Lannisters. Who'd report everything we do back to Tywin."
"Also a man who's proven effective, who's survived years of combat, who'd be legitimately dangerous to anyone who threatened us." Hadrian moved to the window. "It's a tactical decision. Do we want independence or security?"
"Can't we have both?"
"Not with Tywin offering the protection. There's always a price with him." Hadrian stared out at the torches burning across Lannisport. "But he's not wrong that we need better guards. Especially as we get older. As we become more valuable targets."
"I hate that he's right."
"Me too." Hadrian turned back. "Let's sleep on it. See how tomorrow's melee goes. If the Hound survives, if he distinguishes himself—maybe we consider it."
"And if he doesn't survive?"
"Then Tywin offers us someone else. He always has a backup plan."
They prepared for bed, both lost in thought.
Tomorrow would bring more violence, more politics, more compromises between ideals and reality.
But tonight, for a few hours, they could just be children.
Even if this world insisted on making that impossible.
---
# Lannisport, 290 AC - The Tourney Grounds, Day Two
The morning air was thick with anticipation and the smell of horses and sweat. Hadrian stood with Percy at the edge of the melee grounds, watching as over sixty knights prepared for organized violence.
"This is going to be brutal," Percy muttered, watching the Greatjon test his greatsword with practice swings that looked like they could fell trees. "Like, actually brutal. People are going to get seriously hurt."
"That's the point," Joffrey said from behind them, his voice eager. "Mother says melees are where real warriors prove themselves. Not like jousting where you just knock someone off a horse. This is *fighting*."
"You sound excited about watching people get maimed," Hadrian observed.
"I'm excited about seeing real combat! Uncle Jaime says a knight needs to understand violence if he's going to command it." Joffrey moved closer to the railing. "The Hound's down there. And the Mountain. And that Northern savage who won yesterday."
"The Greatjon isn't a savage," Percy said flatly. "He's a lord. Show some respect."
"He fights like a savage. Screaming and swinging that huge sword around like a—"
"Like an experienced warrior using his physical advantages strategically," Hadrian interrupted. "Which is exactly what he should be doing."
Joffrey scowled but subsided into sullen silence.
Below, the competitors were taking their positions. The melee would be fought in rounds—multiple fighters in the ring at once, last man standing advancing. The final round would be all previous winners together.
"Your Graces," the Mountain's deep voice rumbled from behind them. "Lord Tywin requests you join him in his pavilion for the opening matches. He wishes to provide... commentary."
"Educational commentary," Percy muttered in Greek. "Of course he does."
"Stop speaking that foreign tongue," Gregor said sharply. "Lord Tywin's orders."
They followed the Mountain to Tywin's pavilion, which had been positioned for optimal viewing. Their grandfather sat with several other Western lords, a cup of wine untouched at his elbow—Tywin Lannister never drank during business, and apparently teaching his grandsons counted as business.
"Ah. Good." Tywin gestured to seats beside him. "The first round is about to begin. Watch carefully. I want you to identify which fighters are competent and which are merely fortunate."
"How do we tell the difference?" Hadrian asked.
"Competent fighters control their space. They're aware of threats from multiple directions. They conserve energy, choosing when to press and when to defend. Fortune-blessed fighters rely on chaos—they swing wildly and hope superior strength or luck carries them through."
The horn sounded. Twenty knights charged into the center of the ring.
Chaos indeed.
Hadrian watched as knights clashed in a confused melee of steel on steel. Some fought in pairs, watching each other's backs. Others went alone, aggressive, trying to take down as many opponents as possible. Within two minutes, five knights were down, unconscious or yielding.
"There," Tywin said, pointing to a knight in Crakehall colors. "Ser Lyle Crakehall. Notice how he positions himself near the edge? He's letting others exhaust themselves in the center, only engaging when necessary."
"Cowardly," Joffrey said.
"Strategic," Tywin corrected coldly. "Cowardice would be fleeing. Strategy is recognizing that the winner isn't necessarily the one who fights most, but the one who survives longest."
Another knight went down—a Frey who'd gotten overconfident and turned his back on a Lefford. The Lefford's mace took him in the helm and he dropped like a stone.
"Dead?" Percy asked, horrified.
"Unconscious," Tyrion said, appearing with his usual cup of wine. "Probably. Maybe dead. Melees are dangerous, nephew. That's why they're exciting."
"That's barbaric."
"Welcome to Westeros." Tyrion took a long drink. "Where we solve disputes by hitting each other with swords and call it honorable."
The first round ended with Ser Lyle Crakehall standing victorious, barely winded. The second round began immediately—another twenty knights, including several Hadrian recognized from yesterday's joust.
"Watch the one in gray," Tywin said, pointing. "That's Sandor Clegane. My brother's man, but I'm considering reassigning him."
The Hound fought differently than the others. Where most knights met attacks head-on, trusting armor and strength, the Hound *moved*. He dodged, deflected, counterattacked with brutal efficiency. His sword was a longsword, not a greatsword like the Greatjon's, but he wielded it with surgical precision.
"He's good," Hadrian said, watching the Hound disarm one opponent and kick another in the knee hard enough that the man's leg bent wrong.
"He's *efficient*," Tywin corrected. "Good implies honor, fair play, measured response. Sandor fights to win by any means necessary. That's more valuable than good."
The Hound took down three more knights in quick succession. One tried to yield; the Hound hit him anyway, and the man went down hard.
"That's excessive," Percy said.
"That's *certain*," Tywin replied. "A yielded man can still attack if you turn your back. Sandor ensures his opponents stay down. Harsh, but effective."
The second round ended with the Hound standing alone, breathing hard but visibly fine.
"He'll be in the final round," Tyrion observed. "Along with the Greatjon, Ser Lyle, and whoever wins the next two rounds."
The third round featured several knights from the Reach—Tyrells, Hightowers, Redwynes. They fought with more flourish than the Western knights, all practiced moves and tournament polish.
"They're showing off," Hadrian realized. "Fighting for the crowd more than for victory."
"Precisely." Tywin's voice held approval. "That's the difference between knights who train for tournaments and knights who train for war. Tourneys reward style. War rewards survival."
A Tyrell knight won the third round—barely, and only because his final opponent slipped in blood and gave him an opening. The fourth round went to a Western knight whose name Hadrian didn't catch but who fought with grim determination.
Then came the fifth round.
And Ser Jorah Mormont.
---
# The Fifth Round
Jorah Mormont entered the ring in his dark green armor, the black bear of House Mormont on his shield. He moved with the careful confidence of someone who knew exactly how dangerous this was going to be.
"He's trying to prove himself," Cersei said, having joined them in the pavilion. "Lord Hightower's challenge. Win the melee, win permission to court his daughter."
"Courting a thirteen-year-old," Percy muttered. "Still disgusting."
"Still legal," Tyrion corrected. "And honestly, Jorah's got a rough road. The melee is significantly more dangerous than the joust. Jousting is about precision. Melees are about surviving chaos."
The horn sounded.
Jorah fought smart. He didn't rush to the center like some of the younger knights. He circled, letting others engage, looking for openings. When he struck, it was precise—shield bash to stagger, sword strike to disable. Not flashy, but devastatingly effective.
"He's competent," Tywin observed. "Not brilliant, but competent. He understands his limitations and fights within them."
Jorah took down three knights in succession. The fourth—a massive Westerman—nearly got him with a warhammer, but Jorah rolled under the strike and came up inside the man's guard. His sword found the gap between breastplate and helmet, and the Westerman went down choking.
"Is he—" Hadrian started.
"Dying," Tyrion said flatly. "Probably. That was a kill strike, not a disable."
Percy's hands clenched on the railing.
The round continued. Jorah was bleeding now—a cut across his sword arm where someone had gotten through his guard—but still fighting. Two knights remained. Then one.
Then Jorah stood alone, breathing hard, his armor dented and bloody.
The crowd erupted. In the Hightower section, Lynesse Hightower stood with her hands over her mouth, looking equal parts thrilled and terrified.
"He did it," Joffrey breathed. "He actually did it. Now he gets to marry the Hightower girl!"
"If he survives the final round," Tywin said. "Don't celebrate prematurely."
---
# The Final Round
The finals featured six champions: the Greatjon Umber, Sandor Clegane, Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Tyrell knight whose name was Ser Robar, the anonymous Westerman who turned out to be Ser Addam Marbrand, and Ser Jorah Mormont.
"This is going to be carnage," Tyrion said, refilling his cup. "Six of the deadliest fighters in the tourney, all in one ring. Someone's dying today."
"Don't say that," Cersei snapped.
"I'm not wishing it. I'm predicting it. There's a difference."
The horn sounded.
The fighters didn't rush each other immediately. They circled, assessing, looking for alliances or weaknesses. The Greatjon stood in the center, greatsword resting on his shoulder, grinning like this was the best day of his life.
"Come on then!" he roared. "Let's see what you southern knights are made of!"
Ser Robar took the bait, charging with his sword high. The Greatjon met him head-on, and the clash was thunderous. Steel rang against steel, both men putting their full weight behind every strike.
While they fought, the others moved.
Sandor Clegane went for Ser Lyle Crakehall—strategy, taking out the cautious fighter first. Their fight was brutal, clinical, two professionals trying to hurt each other as efficiently as possible.
That left Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Jorah Mormont circling each other.
"Jorah's exhausted," Percy observed. "He's already fought a full round. The others are relatively fresh."
"Which means he needs to end his fight quickly," Hadrian said. "Before exhaustion makes him sloppy."
Jorah seemed to realize this too. He feinted left, then struck right, his blade catching Ser Addam in the shoulder joint. Addam's sword arm dropped, and Jorah followed up with a shield bash that sent the Western knight sprawling.
One down.
But now Jorah was completely spent, breathing in gasps, barely keeping his guard up.
The Greatjon had dispatched Ser Robar—the Tyrell knight lay on his back, his helmet caved in, possibly dead. The Greatjon turned, saw Jorah struggling, and grinned.
"You fought well, Mormont! But you're done!"
He charged.
Jorah tried to dodge, but exhaustion made him slow. The Greatjon's greatsword caught his shield and *shattered* it, splinters exploding across the ring. The next strike took Jorah in the side, and even through armor Hadrian heard ribs crack.
Jorah went down.
The Greatjon stood over him, greatsword raised. "Yield!"
"I yield," Jorah gasped. "I yield, my lord."
The Greatjon lowered his blade and offered a hand, pulling Jorah to his feet. "Good fight, boy. You've got sand. But next time, don't enter two events in two days. Even Northern endurance has limits."
That left three: the Greatjon, the Hound, and Ser Lyle Crakehall.
The Hound and Ser Lyle were still engaged, neither gaining advantage. They fought like mirror images—both cautious, both looking for openings, both refusing to make mistakes.
The Greatjon watched for a moment, then shrugged and waded in.
"Enough dancing! Let's end this!"
What followed was chaos. Three fighters, all dangerous, all exhausted, all determined. Steel rang like bells. Blood flew. The crowd was on its feet, screaming.
Ser Lyle went down first—the Hound caught him with a pommel strike to the head that sent him reeling, then the Greatjon's boot took him in the chest and he was *out*, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Now it was just the Greatjon and the Hound.
North versus West. Greatsword versus longsword. Raw power versus brutal efficiency.
They circled each other.
"You're good, Clegane!" the Greatjon called. "Better than I expected from a southern knight!"
The Hound didn't respond. Didn't banter. He just watched, looking for openings.
The Greatjon attacked first—a massive overhead strike that would have split a horse. The Hound rolled aside, came up striking at the Greatjon's exposed side. But the Greatjon's armor held, and he spun faster than a man that size should be able to move.
They traded blows. Neither giving ground. Neither making mistakes.
Then the Hound did something unexpected.
He threw dirt in the Greatjon's face.
"OI!" the Greatjon roared, blinking furiously. "That's—"
The Hound's blade took him in the knee—not hard enough to cripple, but hard enough to buckle the joint. The Greatjon went down on one leg.
"Fucking southern tricks!" he bellowed, but he was laughing even as he yielded. "Alright, alright! You win, you cheating bastard! I yield!"
The Hound lowered his sword, breathing hard.
The crowd was divided—some cheering, some booing the dirty tactic. But the result was clear.
"WINNER!" the herald called. "Sandor Clegane, the Hound of House Lannister!"
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