The field was a graveyard of bruised pride and broken steel.
Only two remained.
Brienne of Tarth stood tall, her armor dented, her braid half-loosed, her breath ragged but steady. Around her, the crowd had fallen into a hush not out of boredom, but anticipation. She had bested knights, sellswords, and bravos alike. She had fought with honor, never killing, always forcing her foes to yield. Her sword was stained, but not with blood.
Across from her, lounging on a broken spear like it were a tavern stool, stood Lysaro Waters.
He was grinning.
Of course he was.
His bronze armor was scuffed and streaked with dirt, his wire-gloves glinting in the sun. His curved dagger spun lazily in one hand, the wire already threaded through the hilt's hollow ring. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a feast, not a battlefield.
Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Are you going to fight?"
"I am fighting," he said, stepping lightly to the side. "You just haven't noticed yet."
She charged.
He danced.
Her blade came down in a clean arc he twisted, ducked, and rolled away, laughing as her steel bit only air. She followed with a shield bash, but he was already gone, slipping past her like smoke.
"You're mocking me," she growled.
"Never," he said, circling. "I'm admiring."
She swung again a horizontal slash meant to catch him mid-step. He leapt over it, landed in a crouch, and flicked his wrist. The wire snapped forward, wrapping around her sword arm. She yanked, hard, and nearly pulled him off his feet.
He let go just in time, tumbling backward and springing up with a flourish.
The crowd was laughing now not at her, but at the absurdity of it all. The towering knight and the dancing madman. The wall and the whip.
Brienne's frustration boiled. He wasn't taking this seriously. He was playing. And yet… she hadn't landed a single clean blow.
She adjusted her stance. Slower. Smarter.
Lysaro's smile twitched. "Ah. She learns."
He slid the wire back through the ring on his dagger and began to spin it wide, looping arcs that shimmered in the sunlight. The blade at the end whistled as it cut the air, a blur of bronze and silver. He moved with it, weaving around her, the wire lashing out like a serpent's tongue.
She blocked one strike, then another but the third wrapped around her shield. He yanked, and the shield flew from her arm.
She didn't flinch.
He came in low, the wire snapping toward her legs. She jumped, twisted, and brought her sword down only for him to catch it mid-swing with the wire, wrapping it tight.
He grinned.
She punched him.
Her gauntleted fist slammed into his chest with the force of a charging bull. He flew backward, landing hard on the dirt, the wind knocked from his lungs.
The crowd gasped.
Lysaro lay there for a moment, staring at the sky, blinking.
Then he laughed.
"Gods," he wheezed. "You hit like a falling tower."
Brienne stalked toward him, sword raised. "Get up."
He rolled to his feet, coughing, still smiling. "You're starting to understand."
"Understand what?"
He raised his dagger. "That madness is just another kind of rhythm."
They clashed again her strength against his speed, her fury against his unpredictability. He ducked, dodged, spun, and struck. She blocked, countered, and pressed. He wrapped her blade, she broke free. He feinted, she ignored it. He tried to trip her she stomped on his foot.
They were dancing now. Not a duel. A storm.
And for the first time, Lysaro Waters wasn't smiling out of arrogance.
He was smiling because he was thrilled.