GOT: Reborn as a Martell

As mid-afternoon came, and with it the scorching sun, it became clear why the tourney had been organized in the outer castle walls rather than outside in one of the many gardens of Sunspear. The palm trees aligned on the side of Sunspear Castle's slopes provided ample shade, and the towering figure of the hill atop of which the inner walls were located made it even cooler.

Only the tents were now exposed to the heat emanating from the sun's unmerciful rays, which brought the different contestants to breathe in the cooler shade of the terrain's edges rather than on the outskirts.

Soon enough though, he would have to leave the edges of the terrain, and make his way back to the centre of the field, to fight his most important battle yet.

So far, he'd easily dispatched his two previous opponents. One boy had likely been at his first tourney, and yielded after only a couple strikes, allowing him to rest. His next bout had been more of a challenge, but the Ladybright knight had eventually succumbed without ever coming close to beating him.

But now, he faced a different challenge entirely. Now he would have to face Quentyn Martell.

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have been much of a challenge. The prince had previously been rumoured to be physically unremarkable, and not much of a swordsman than the next. But he had seen him train along with the monster that was Archibald Yronwood, and that confidence had immediately drained.

The boy was skilful indeed, and proved no slouch in handling swords or spears. He seemed physically fit, and could very well be a challenge.

He winced, feeling the orange cloth attached to his arm. This challenge he needed to win.

To obtain the favor of the heir to Dorne was a great honor, especially for a bastard like him. Despite having been the Red Viper's squire, and bastards being respected in Dorne, there was still the sense of not really belonging with your family, especially since he and father had had their differences.

He had married a girl that was about Daemon's age, if not younger, and what was worse, is that he had married an Yronwood!

His father, as Arianne had told him, was one of Lord Anders' most stalwart allies now, and that house Allyrion was drifting towards her brother in the conspiracy to put him on the Sun throne.

He would not let that happen.

Daemon was loyal to Arianne. They were friends ever since they were children. They had shared so much, and experienced so much, he would not let her down now.

He knew about her other lovers, but he cared little. Didn't he have his as well? And he didn't have many hopes of marrying her either. Did he care for her? Of course. Did he love her? Mayhaps. Did he hold any hope of having her for himself? Never.

He never even considered the thought. She would marry a high dornish lord, or one from the Reach or the Free Cities, and rule Dorne with him. Daemon was merely a bastard, and bastards couldn't rise to become lord paramounts, even as a consort.

But Arianne could offer him something entirely. Something he had wanted his whole life. She could offer him a new name. Allyrion. Daemon of the house Allyrion, true heir to Godsgrace, and a loyal servant of house Martell. This alone would make him tear up with joy.

But for that, she needed to become the ruler of Dorne. And Quentyn Martell was in the way.

He knew that the second son had higher aspirations, who didn't?

The boy had rallied every single western dornish house bar the Daynes of High Hermitage and the Ullers into his camp. He had gained the support of most of the populace, and had seen his popularity rise in eastern Dorne as well.

And with his return to Sunspear, that popularity wouldn't cease to grow, he knew that. And with Quentyn's conspiracy growing, he knew that he had to do his part before Arianne came in harm's way.

Hurting him wasn't going to be enough. But it was a start. If he could show that the beloved prince was only but a coward, unskilled in arms, and crying in pain at the feet of a bastard, well that would start to make the populace second-guess themselves.

Should we really want him to rule Dorne? The prince that cried at the feet of a bastard?

He could feel the tension rise as he imagined the scene. But he knew that it would be far from easy.

Suddenly, the crier immediately took him out of his reverie.

"Next to take the field, Prince Quentyn Martell against Ser Daemon Sand!"

Daemon quickly sheathed his sword, put on his helmet, and ran to the centre of the field, where his opponent was waiting for him, arms crossed.

"Remember." The crier told them both. "There can be no hits with intention of hurting the face or removing any part of your opponent's body. The winner is declared either by disqualification of the opponent, or by forcing your opponent to yield."

The prince nodded, as did Daemon.

As they took their positions and unsheathed both of their swords, he noticed the armband on the prince's right arm, which had an uncanny similarity to his own.

"Martell favor." Daemon noted, as prince Quentyn put his helmet on. "Did you find no lady willing to give you her favor?"

"No." The prince shrugged. "Just payback."

A trumpet sounded before Daemon could even think about what that meant.

Both combatants faced each other, neither daring to make the first move.

Finally, it was the prince that gave into frustration first, and made a move to strike. Daemon easily parried as he could hear the prince mutter something under his breath.

It was his turn to strike, but his opponent reacted in time, gently blocking Daemon's sword with his own.

This dance of swords went on for what felt like ages, as neither could find a way to destabilize the other. The taunting and jeering from Daemon had no effect on the prince, who kept attacking and defending whilst repeating the same cryptic message.

Daemon was running out of time.

If this continued on, then the prince could play the card of having been tired and depleted after a long and even fight. No, he needed to end this, and fast.

Looking at his opponent, he tried to find a weak spot. Something, anything that could let him get the upper hand and at the very least disarm him.

Meanwhile, the prince's muffles had become clearer. So clear in fact, that he could make them out.

"Hail Mary, full of grace."

What?

The prince's sword clashed with his, and the dance continued.

"Hail Mary, full of grace." The prince repeated, under his breath.

Their swords collided again, and Daemon took a step back. And the crowd cheered.

No. He couldn't fail. Not now.

Daemon took another step forward, and it was the prince's turn to be pushed back.

"Hail Mary, full of grace." The prince muttered as he rose his shield to parry. Under the force of Daemon's blow, the shield broke in two.

Finally, some good news.

Daemon roared and lunged forwards, expecting to finish the prince then and there. It was his mistake.

With an unmatched agility, the prince dodged, which sent Daemon sprawling towards the ground. He quickly gained his composure, but the prince had time to kick his shield away.

It was down to swords now.

Daemon lunged forwards once more. And the prince parried with his own, muttering the same words over and over again.

Slowly, but surely, Daemon was losing patience and strength. Every time he had tried to strike, it had been repulsed, and with every slash or block, the crowd had cheered for the prince.

He couldn't lose. He needed to do something now.

Blinded by rage, he took his sword, and aimed high.

Straight for the prince's neck.

The crowd went silent as prince Quentyn's helmet struck the ground, a gash on its right side.

Daemon looked in front of him as a vision from the seven hells greeted him. He had missed prince Quentyn's neck completely, and instead his sword had dug into the prince's face and right next to the prince's right eye.

And yet, covered in blood, and muttering the same phrase, the prince struck again.

"Hail Mary, full of grace."

Daemon was stunned, he couldn't do anything as the prince kept the blows coming.

The field and audience was likewise silent, as the only thing that could be heard was the sound of clashing steel.

"Hail Mary, full of grace."

And Daemon kept retreating, falling to the ground under the prince's repeated strikes.

His hands were shaking, to the point where he finally let go off his sword, the prince rising his for another strike.

He's going to kill me. Forgive me, Arianne, I have failed you.

Daemon waited for a blow that never came. Instead, the prince kicked Daemon's sword away and pointed his sword at Daemon's throat.

"Do you yield?" he asked, almost calmly.

Daemon trembled like a leaf.

"I…I yield."

The prince then sheathed his sword, blood dripping onto his right arm as he did so. The prince raised an eyebrow, and touched his right cheek, which by now was soaked in his own blood.

"Damn." The prince said calmly. "That's a lot of blood."

And with these words, prince Quentyn collapsed on the ground. Gasps came from the field as a few men rushed to the prince's side.

Daemon tried to stand up, but as he tried to do so, he noticed the presence of a tree frog on his chest.

The frog looked at him straight in the eyes, as if judging him, and then Daemon's vision faded to black.

===================

For those who wonder how Daemon lost this: Daemon was under a fuckton of pressure while Quentyn wasn't.

As to why Quentyn keeps fighting while bloodied? He's on a serious dose of adrenalin, whilst Daemon basically realized he just attempted murder on what is royalty for the Dornish. In a normal match, Daemon would have exhausted Quentyn and won.