The sun had barely crested the horizon when the silken curtains of Lysaro's pavilion were drawn back, letting in the salt-kissed breeze of Tarth's coast. The scent of sea and citrus mingled with the perfume of crushed grapes and rosewater that clung to the tent's interior. A soft rustle of feet on carpeted floors signaled the beginning of his ritual.
Nyra entered first, bearing a silver tray laden with chilled grapes, sliced figs, and honeyed oranges. Behind her came Vaela, balancing a platter of smoked boar, spiced lamb, and a wedge of blue-veined cheese. Saerys followed last, carrying a goblet of deep violet wine, its surface swirling with flecks of gold leaf.
Lysaro Waters stirred beneath his embroidered sheets, blinking against the morning light. His hair was a tousled halo of dirty gold, and his bare chest bore the faint red marks of wire calluses and old bruises. The black cat, ever faithful, was curled at his feet, purring softly.
"Is it morning already?" he murmured, voice thick with sleep and wine.
"It is the day of the melee," Nyra said, setting the tray beside him. "Time to be a lion among jackals."
He stretched, bones cracking, and reached for a grape. "Lions roar. I prefer to purr."
He ate slowly, savoring each bite like a king at his last feast. His body had always been strange sluggish with meat, sharp with fruit and wine. He claimed it was the blood of the Old Gods, or perhaps the tiger within him, that demanded such a diet. No one questioned it. Not anymore.
After breakfast, he rose and stood before the tall mirror of polished obsidian gifted to him by a Volantene magister. His armor awaited him — not the heavy steel of Westerosi knights, but something else entirely.
It was light, flexible, and gleamed like burnished bronze. The cuirass was molded to his torso, etched with curling vines and feline eyes. The greaves and vambraces were layered like fish scales, allowing for swift, fluid movement. A crimson sash wrapped around his waist, holding his curved dagger and the wire-gloves that had become his signature.
He didn't remember where the design had come from. One night in Lys, drunk on firemilk and dreaming of gods and ghosts, he had sketched it on a tavern wall with charcoal and wine. A smith from Myr had taken the design and forged it into reality. It fit him like a second skin.
He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. "Madness," he whispered. "But it works."
Outside, the horns of the tourney blared. Knights in gleaming plate, hedge warriors in patchwork mail, and sellswords from across the sea gathered in the field. Among them were men of the Second Sons, Golden Company stragglers, and Westerosi bravos eager for coin and glory.
Lysaro mounted his horse a sleek, sand-red destrier from the Dornish borderlands, its mane braided with silver thread. The beast was fast, proud, and just wild enough to match its rider.
As he rode toward the melee grounds, the crowd parted. Some jeered. Others cheered. Most simply stared.
There he was The Mad Waters, dressed like a Myrish prince, riding a red ghost of the desert, smiling as if the melee were a masquerade ball.
He passed Brienne of Tarth in the lineup, her armor plain but her eyes fierce. He gave her a nod not mocking, not flirtatious, but something stranger. Recognition, perhaps. Two misfits in a world of masks.
The melee was about to begin.
And Lysaro Waters was ready to dance.
The melee tents were a strange blend of sweat and splendor the scent of oiled leather and boiled onions mingled with the perfume of noble spectators drifting in from the pavilions. Outside, the crowd roared as the first horn sounded, signaling the final hour before the melee. Inside, warriors from across the realm and beyond prepared in their own ways: some prayed, some sharpened steel, others drank or gambled or simply sat in silence, staring at nothing.
Lysaro Waters strolled through the chaos like a man at a garden party.
His armor gleamed in the torchlight bronze and crimson, etched with curling vines and feline sigils. He wore no helm, letting his sun-kissed hair fall loose around his shoulders. His curved dagger hung at his hip, and the wire-gloves were already fitted, the thin strands coiled like silver veins around his fingers.
He passed a pair of knights from the Stormlands arguing over whether Ser Garlan Tyrell would make an appearance.
"He's not coming," one said. "Too busy polishing his brother's armor."
"Or his own reflection," the other muttered.
Further down, a sellsword from the Second Sons was boasting about how he once fought beside Daario Naharis in Meereen though no one believed him, least of all the Dornishman sharpening his spear nearby.
Lysaro grinned at the noise, the tension, the scent of blood not yet spilled. He thrived in this the edge of chaos, the moment before the storm.
And then he saw her.
She stood alone, adjusting the straps of her armor. It was plain, utilitarian, and utterly unremarkable save for the woman within it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that could have been carved from stone and eyes like stormlight. Her hair was bound back in a tight braid, and her sword was strapped across her back with the ease of long practice.
He didn't recognize her. Not yet.
But something about her pulled at him not her looks, which were far from the courtly ideal, but her presence. She stood like a knight, not a lady. And she looked at the world like she expected it to strike her.
He approached with a goblet in hand and a smile that had undone merchants, mercenaries, and minor lords alike.
"You look like someone who's either about to win this melee," he said, "or tear it down out of spite."
She turned, eyes narrowing. "I'm not here to flirt."
"Neither am I," he said, raising his hands. "I'm here to admire. There's a difference."
She studied him the armor, the wine, the smirk. "You're Lysaro Waters."
"Guilty," he said, offering a slight bow. "And you are…?"
"Brienne. Of Tarth."
He blinked. "Tarth? As in… this Tarth?"
She nodded. "My father is Lord Selwyn."
Lysaro's smile faltered, then returned softer this time. "Ah. The Evenstar's daughter. I'd heard he had one, but I expected… well, not this."
"I know what they say," she said, voice flat.
"I don't care what they say," he replied. "I prefer to see for myself."
She didn't answer, but her eyes flicked to his gloves. "You fight with wires?"
"I dance with them," he said. "It's a difference of philosophy."
"You'll lose a hand."
"Only if I'm careless. And I'm never careless. Just mad."
She almost smiled. Almost.
Around them, the tent buzzed with tension. A knight of House Swann was being fitted into blackened plate, his squire whispering prayers. A hulking man from the Westerlands Ser Harwin the Red was boasting about how he'd unhorsed a Greyjoy in the last tourney. A pair of Free City bravos were arguing over whether the melee rules allowed for poisoned blades. (They didn't. Not officially.)
Lysaro leaned closer. "You've got the look of someone with something to prove."
"I do," Brienne said.
"Good," he said. "So do I."
She looked at him again, this time with something like curiosity. "You don't seem like the type."
"I'm not. That's why it works."
The second horn sounded. The melee was minutes away.
Lysaro drained his goblet and handed it to a passing servant. "Well, Lady Brienne or should I say Ser? I look forward to seeing what you do out there."
"I'm not a knight," she said.
"Neither am I," he replied, grinning. "But I fight like one. And I suspect you do too."
He turned and walked away, his red horse waiting just beyond the tent flaps. The cat was already there, curled in the saddle, tail flicking.
Brienne watched him go, unsure whether to laugh or scowl.
The third horn sounded.
It was time.