Cregan's grip tightened around his sword, sweat slicking his palm as he shifted his feet in the sand. The weight of his shield felt heavier than it should have, his muscles taut with anticipation. His breathing was steady, but beneath that was something else—something he didn't want to acknowledge. Fear. He hated himself for it. He was a Stark. And yet, standing here, waiting for the cages to open, his body trembled with an anxious energy he despised.
He cast a glance around the arena, taking in the faces of the other competitors. Some looked just as nervous as he felt, their hands twitching around the hilts of their weapons, their eyes darting toward the cages that lined the perimeter. Others were eager, their grins sharp with anticipation, ready to revel in the violence about to unfold. One man, taller than any Cregan had ever seen, let out a guttural roar, lifting his massive axe into the air. He wore no helmet, only a thick mane of greasy black hair that stuck to his sweat-slicked forehead. His chest was broad, his arms like tree trunks. A man built for war.
Cregan swallowed.
This was a mistake.
He had known it before entering, but now he felt the full weight of his foolishness. He thought of Sara, the way she had pleaded with him not to enter. She had been furious, calling him an idiot, saying he had too much to lose. She was right. He was heir to Winterfell. He had responsibilities. If he died here, he would have thrown away everything, not just for himself, but for his family.
And yet, even knowing that, he couldn't bring himself to regret his decision.
Jace had surpassed him.
That thought festered in his mind like an open wound. He and Jace had trained together for months, and at first, they had been evenly matched. But as time went on, Jace had gotten better. Much better. It wasn't just that he was faster or stronger—he was sharper. More skilled. More relentless. Cregan had always prided himself on his skill with a blade, but now, whenever they sparred, he felt himself falling behind.
Jace was younger than him. A year ago, he had barely been anything more than a boy playing with swords. Now, he was a knight. The youngest knight in history. He had fought against trained killers and survived. He had faced men twice his size and walked away the victor.
Cregan had thought he was Jace's equal. Now he knew that was just a fantasy.
He grit his teeth, forcing himself to shove the feeling away. He had made up his mind. If he won this, if he came out of this arena alive, then he would have done something even Jace hadn't. He would have something that no one could take from him.
The herald's voice rang out over the growing murmur of the crowd.
"Competitors!"
Cregan turned his focus to the man standing on the raised platform above the arena. His voice carried over the sand, silencing the gathered fighters.
"You all know the rules of the Blood Melee!" the herald continued. "There will be no quarter given! There will be no stopping once the battle begins! If you yield, it is your responsibility to make it out of the arena alive!"
A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the crowd. A few of the more eager fighters grinned, shifting excitedly on their feet.
"The last man standing will claim victory and the prize of fifty thousand gold dragons!"
The roar from the stands was deafening. Cregan barely heard it.
"Fighters, take your positions!"
Cregan sucked in a harsh breath and rolled his shoulders hard, trying to loosen the knot of tension twisting his muscles as he stood in the arena's center, his boots sinking into the blood-soaked dirt. He tightened his fingers around his sword's hilt, the leather creaking under his grip, and shifted his feet wider, planting them firm against the ground while he stared at the cage doors ahead—iron bars rattling, ropes stretched tight as men hauled on them from the platforms above. His chest heaved once, twice, and he swallowed down the bile rising in his throat because he knew what was coming, knew the horns were about to scream and unleash hell. The air stank of piss and shit—likely from the city—and the crowd's roars pounded his skull like a war drum, but he kept his eyes locked forward, waiting.
The horn blasted—sharp, loud, splitting the air—and the cage doors crashed open with a clang that shook the earth. Beasts tore out, exploding into the open, all teeth and claws and starved rage: lions with matted manes, wolves snapping jaws that glistened with spit, bears lumbering forward with gouged-out patches of fur showing raw flesh, and a boar—huge, its tusks crusted with gore, its squeals piercing the chaos. Their ribs jutted under stretched skin, their eyes rolled wild and red, and they charged straight for anything alive, hooves and paws kicking up clots of mud and bone dust.
Screams ripped through the arena, men yelling and scrambling as the creatures hit them like a flood. Cregan watched the first man go down—a skinny bastard too slow to lift his spear—and a lion slammed into him, claws slashing through his chestplate, shredding steel and leather into strips that flapped loose. The man crashed onto his back, his scream choking into a wet rasp as the lion's jaws crunched down on his neck, teeth punching through skin and muscle, blood spraying out in thick arcs that splattered the dirt. His arms flailed, hands clawing at the beast's muzzle, but the lion shook its head hard, ripping his throat out in a pulpy mess—tendons snapping, bones cracking, red gushing down its chin as it chewed through him, leaving his head lolling on a stump of spine.
Blood pooled fast, soaking the ground black, and Cregan froze, his boots rooted as he gripped his sword tighter, staring at the carnage unfolding twenty paces away. Wolves tore into another man's legs, fangs sinking deep and dragging him down while he shrieked, his hands swinging a mace that clanged uselessly off their skulls—then one bit into his gut, ripping out a coil of intestines that steamed in the cold air, pink and slick, and the man's cries turned to gargles as blood bubbled from his mouth. A bear roared nearby, swiping a paw that smashed a fighter's skull open, brains spilling out like porridge, gray and wet, mixing with the crimson mud while the body twitched once and went still. The boar squealed and charged a third man, tusks goring his thigh, tearing meat from bone in a spray of shredded flesh, and he fell howling, clutching the stump as blood pissed out in spurts.
Cregan's stomach churned, his breath hitching, and he stood there—sword in one hand, shield in the other—watching the beasts rip men apart, unsure whether to run or swing or just stand and die. His eyes darted, taking in the wolves gnawing through ribs, cracking them open to get at the lungs, the lion shaking its prey's arm free from its socket with a wet pop, blood and spit flying as it gnawed the limb down to bone. He couldn't move, couldn't think, his mind blank with the stink of death and the screams drilling into his ears—but then a bellow cut through it all, and his choice vanished.
A man charged him, screaming, his face twisted and wild, swinging a mace high over his head while he held a dented shield in his other hand. Cregan snapped out of it, raising his own shield fast and stepping back as the mace crashed down, slamming into the wood with a thud that jarred his arm to the shoulder. The man pressed in, grunting and swinging again, the mace whistling past Cregan's ear as he ducked and brought his sword up, slashing at the man's side—but the bastard blocked it with his shield, metal scraping metal, and shoved forward, trying to bash Cregan off balance. He was fast, aggressive, spitting curses as he swung the mace in tight arcs, aiming for Cregan's head, his chest, his legs, but Cregan kept his footing, parrying with his blade and catching the blows on his shield, each hit ringing out sharp and loud. The man lunged, roaring, and Cregan sidestepped, driving his sword into the gap under the man's arm, slicing through leather and skin, blood welling up dark and thick—but it wasn't deep, and the man spun back, snarling, swinging harder.
Cregan stayed calm, watching the man's moves, timing his swings—he was stronger, surer, and when the mace came down again, he caught it full on his shield, twisted his wrist, and thrust his sword straight into the man's thigh, steel punching through muscle and grating on bone. The man staggered, yelling, blood streaming down his leg, but he didn't stop, raising the mace one more time—until a blur of black fur launched from the side, slamming into his back. A shadow cat, lean and vicious, sank its claws into his shoulders, and Cregan stumbled backward, tripping over a rock and hitting the ground hard, his sword clattering beside him as he stared up in shock.
The cat's jaws clamped onto the man's neck, teeth ripping through flesh with a wet crunch, blood spurting out in jets as it shook its head, tearing skin and muscle free in ragged chunks. The man screamed—a high, broken sound—flailing his arms, dropping the mace as the cat's claws dug deeper, slashing down his spine, peeling his back open like a butcher's cut, red meat and white bone gleaming wet under the sun. Blood poured, soaking the dirt, and the man's legs kicked wildly as the cat bit again, crunching through his shoulder, ripping the arm half off—tendons snapping, flesh hanging in strips—while its paws raked his gut, claws hooking into his belly and yanking out loops of intestine that spilled out steaming, pink and slimy. The man gurgled, choking on his own blood, his face going slack as the cat tore into his chest, cracking ribs with a snap, pulling out a lung in its jaws—dark and slick—and chewing through it while the man twitched once, twice, then went still, his eyes staring blank at the sky, blood pooling under him in a spreading lake.
Cregan scrambled back, grabbing his sword and pushing to his feet, his hands shaking as he gripped the hilt, staring at the shadow cat hunched over the corpse, its muzzle buried in the man's guts, slurping up blood and meat with growls that vibrated through the air. He sucked air through his teeth and tightened his grip on his sword, planting his boots in the bloody muck as he spun around, scanning the arena while the shadow cat ripped into the dead man's guts behind him, its jaws crunching through bone and slurping up ropes of intestine that dangled from its teeth. He opened his helmet and wiped sweat off his brow with his sleeve, smearing blood across his face from his soaked glove, and forced his legs to move, stumbling forward through the chaos—lions roaring, wolves snarling, men screaming as claws and fangs tore them open. He kept his shield up, his eyes darting to every corner because he knew standing still meant dying, and he wasn't ready to bleed out in this pit like the others. Twenty paces off, a man swung an axe at a wolf, hacking its shoulder open—blood spurting, fur splitting—but another leaped from the side, sinking teeth into his calf and dragging him down while another wolf joined it, together ripping his leg free at the knee with a wet snap, meat and tendon flapping loose as he shrieked and clawed the dirt, only to choke silent when the first wolf bit through his throat, crushing his windpipe and spraying red across its snout.
Cregan kept moving, stepping over a corpse with its chest caved in—ribs smashed inward, lungs leaking out in a pulpy mess—and glanced right where a bear swiped a man's face off, claws gouging through skin and muscle, peeling his jaw free in a dripping strip that hung by a thread of gristle while blood pissed down his chest and he staggered blind, gurgling until the bear bit down, crunching his skull like an egg, brains oozing between its teeth. He didn't stop to watch, didn't have time, because the crowd's roar shifted—sharper, wilder—and he turned just as the boar charged him, its tusks glinting with crusted gore, its hooves pounding the ground, kicking up clots of mud and bone. He braced his shield, digging his heels in, and swung his sword up, aiming for its snout, but the beast slammed into him full force, knocking him back, he only avoided being tramped when he threw himself to the side, his shield cracking under the hit and his arm screaming as the tusk scraped past, slicing a gash through his thigh—deep, hot, blood pouring down his leg in a thick stream that soaked his breeches and pooled in his boot.
He grunted, stumbling but staying up, and swung his sword again, catching the boar's flank, steel biting through hide and fat, carving a line that bled dark and sluggish as it squealed and spun, charging him once more. Cregan ducked low, rolling to the side, and came up swinging, driving his blade into its shoulder—metal grating on bone, blood welling up—but the boar kept coming, tusks slashing at his shin, ripping skin and muscle free in a wet flap that dangled as he yelled and hopped back, pain shooting up his leg. He gritted his teeth, raised his shield, and bashed it down on the boar's head, wood splintering as he smashed again and again, then thrust his sword straight into its eye—pushing hard, feeling the pop of the socket give way, blood and jelly squirting out over his hand while the beast thrashed, squealing, its legs kicking wild. He twisted the blade deeper, grinding it through skull until the boar shuddered and dropped, blood gushing from its head, pooling black around its twitching corpse as he yanked his sword free, panting, his leg throbbing and his arm numb from the shield's weight.
Around him, the melee raged on—men fighting to live, dying fast and ugly. Ten paces left, a fighter stabbed a lion in the gut with a spear, twisting it until blood gushed out—red, slimy, steaming in the air—but the lion lunged anyway, jaws clamping his arm, tearing it off at the elbow with a crunch, blood jetting as the man screamed and fell, clutching the stump while the beast chewed his hand down, bones snapping between its teeth. Behind Cregan, another fighter swung a mace at a bear, cracking its jaw—teeth flying, blood dripping—but the bear roared and charged, slamming him flat, claws ripping his chest open, heart bursting out in a red splash as it bit down, chewing through his ribs while he wheezed his last breath.
Cregan limped forward, dragging his bleeding leg, and wiped his sword on his sleeve, smearing more blood as he scanned for the next threat, his breath ragged but steady because he wasn't dead yet and he'd be damned if he went down easy. He saw a man wrestling a shadow cat—knife in hand, stabbing its side, blood pouring—but the cat raked his face, claws slicing through eyes and nose, peeling skin off in bloody ribbons, and bit his throat out, swallowing the lump whole as the man flopped limp, blood bubbling from the hole. Cregan kept his shield raised, stepping over a severed arm—fingers still curled—and heard the crowd roar louder, their cheers pounding his ears as he turned, catching sight of a lion stalking another fighter who swung a sword wild, missing, then screamed when the lion pounced, jaws locking on his head, crushing his skull with a wet crack—blood and brains spilling down its mane while the body jerked and went still.
He didn't linger, couldn't, because a snarl sounded close—too close—and he spun, raising his sword just as a wolf leaped at him, jaws wide, spit flying. He smashed his shield into its face, knocking it back, and slashed down, cutting through its neck—blood spurting, head half off, dangling by sinew as it collapsed, twitching. He stepped over it, chest heaving, and looked around, seeing fewer men standing now—most down, torn apart, guts and limbs scattered across the dirt while the beasts prowled, sniffing for more. His leg burned, blood still leaking, but he gripped his sword tighter, hobbling toward the arena's edge because he needed a wall at his back, needed a second to breathe and figure out how to live through this slaughter pit.
...
Jace sat stiff beside Princess Aliandra, his hands clenched on his knees, staring down at the Blood Melee as the crowd roared and the beasts tore through men like rags, blood spraying across the dirt while screams echoed off the stone walls. Aliandra shifted closer, her thigh pressing against his, and leaned in, her breath brushing his ear as she spoke over the melee. "This is brutal," she said, her voice low and thick, "I've never seen anything like it, men ripped apart, guts spilling out, blood soaking everything—I thought Dorne knew violence, but this..." She trailed off, her chest rising faster, and Jace caught her biting her lip, her tongue darting out to wet it as her fingers gripped the edge of her seat, knuckles whitening. Her eyes locked on the carnage—wolves gnawing through a man's ribs, a bear smashing another's skull into pulp—and she squirmed, crossing her legs tight, her dress riding up slightly as her breathing hitched and she pressed her hip harder against him, heat rolling off her in waves. "It's savage," she murmured, almost to herself, "makes my blood burn watching them fight, claw, bleed like that."
Jace barely heard her, his eyes fixed on Cregan down below, limping through the gore with his sword dripping red, his leg torn open from the boar he'd just killed—blood streaming down his calf, soaking the ground as he staggered away from the twitching corpse. Jace's stomach twisted because Cregan looked half-dead already, his shield cracked and his steps uneven, and if a lion or bear turned on him now, he'd be meat before he could swing. He pushed to his feet, turning to Aliandra, keeping his voice level. "I have matters to attend," he said, stepping back from her, but she giggled and stood too, closing the gap fast, her hand brushing his arm. "Oh no, I'm not letting you go that easy," she said, her lips curling as she matched his stance, refusing to sit back down.
Jace growled low in his throat but bit his tongue, spinning on his heel and striding toward his grandfather, King Viserys, who sat at the box's head, watching the fight with a faint smile. Jace stopped in front of him, bowing his head slightly. "Grandfather," he said, "the princess and I want a closer view, so we're going to the fence." Viserys's face lit up, his hands clapping together once as he nodded quick, clearly pleased, and waved a hand toward the Kingsguard standing nearby. "Good, good," he said, "take Ser Erryk and Ser Steffon with you, they'll keep you safe." Jace dipped his head again, glancing at his mother Rhaenyra who sat beside Viserys, her brow creased and her mouth tight, but he offered her a small smile, before turning to the corner where he'd left his sword earlier. He grabbed Starfyre, the Valyrian steel gleaming white, its hilt set with a gemstone glowing blue and swirling faintly, and tied it to his belt, feeling the weight settle against his hip. Then he faced Aliandra, who watched him with that damn smirk, and held out his arm—stiff, reluctant—because he had no choice with her sticking to him like a shadow.
She took it, her fingers curling around his forearm, and they stepped out of the box together, Ser Erryk and Ser Steffon falling in behind them as they descended the stairs, boots clacking on stone while the crowd's cheers thundered louder. Aliandra tilted her head as they walked, her grip tightening. "What are you really doing, Jace?" she asked, her voice teasing but sharp, probing, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring her, focusing on the fence line below and scanning the faces pressed against it. He spotted Sara quick—her dark hair tangled, her hands gripping the bars—and steered toward her, Aliandra still clinging to his arm. When the princess saw Sara, her smirk widened, and she leaned in close. "Naughty boy," she said, giggling soft, "sneaking off to meet another woman right under my nose." Jace shot her a look, his jaw clenching. "Be quiet," he said and kept moving, dragging her along as her laughter trailed behind him.
They reached the fence, and Sara turned, her eyes widening when she saw Jace—then her face crumpled, tears spilling fast as she lunged forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. She grabbed fistfuls of his tunic, shaking, and Jace froze for a second before wrapping one arm around her shoulders, holding her steady while she sobbed against him. "Jace, thank the gods you're here," she choked out, her voice raw and cracking, "Cregan's hurt bad, that boar ripped his leg open, and he's still out there—they're gonna kill him, we have to stop it, please, you have to do something." She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her cheeks streaked wet, her breath hitching as she begged, and Jace nodded once, firm. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't let him die." She grabbed him tighter, pressing her face back into his chest, her arms locking around his waist, and he rested his hand on her back, rubbing slow circles while murmuring low, "It's alright, I've got this," until her shaking eased a fraction.
Behind him, Aliandra stood watching, her arms crossed and her lips pursed tight, her eyes flicking between Jace and Sara with a glare she didn't bother hiding. She shifted her weight, tapping her foot once, and let out a small huff, but Jace didn't look at her—kept his focus on Sara, who finally loosened her grip and stepped back, wiping her face with her sleeve, still trembling but calmer now. He glanced out at the arena, spotting Cregan near the edge, leaning against the wall with his sword in hand, blood pooling under his leg as a wolf prowled closer, sniffing the air.
Cregan limped backward through the blood-soaked dirt and muttered under his breath, cursing himself as he dragged his torn leg, the gash from the boar still leaking red down his calf while he gripped his sword in one hand and his cracked shield in the other. "Fool," he hissed to himself, "stupid bastard, signing up for this butchery, thinking you'd walk out whole," and he kept his eyes on the lone wolf stalking him—its muzzle dripping with gore, its teeth bared as it growled low and paced forward, sniffing the trail of blood he left behind. He shifted his weight, wincing as pain stabbed through his thigh, and raised his shield higher, ready to swing if it lunged, but before the wolf could spring, a bellow cut through the air, and the huge man he'd seen earlier charged in, swinging a massive axe that hacked the beast clean in half—spine snapping, guts spilling out in a wet heap, blood spraying across the ground as the two pieces flopped apart, twitching.
The man straightened up, wiping his face with a meaty hand, and grinned wide, showing cracked teeth as he turned to Cregan, his chest heaving under a dented breastplate caked with mud and blood. He stood a head taller than anyone else left, his arms thick as tree trunks, and he hefted the axe over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, bellowing loud enough to drown the crowd. "Gorvox kills wolf!" he shouted, thumping his chest with his fist. "Gorvox strongest in pit! You little man, Gorvox smash you next!" He laughed, a dumb, guttural sound, and scratched his matted beard before pointing the axe at Cregan. "Gorvox see you bleed, make you bleed more!" Cregan didn't answer, just stepped back quick, but Gorvox roared and charged, swinging the axe down hard, and Cregan threw himself sideways, hitting the ground as his leg throbbed sharp and hot, blood pulsing faster from the wound while he rolled to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Gorvox swung again, the axe whistling past Cregan's head, and he ducked, bringing his shield up, but the blow crashed into it full force—wood splintering, his arm jarring back—and he stumbled, knowing he couldn't block head-on because the brute's strength would snap his bones like twigs. He darted left, slashing at Gorvox's side with his sword, steel biting through leather and skin, drawing a thin line of blood, but Gorvox just grunted and swung back, forcing Cregan to weave and dodge, his leg slowing him down as it burned and buckled with every step. "Gorvox crush you!" the man yelled, spit flying from his mouth, and he lunged, swinging wild, but Cregan kept moving, circling, his eyes flicking to the bear across the arena—its muzzle buried in a corpse, tearing off chunks of flesh—and he started edging that way, weaving through the gore-strewn dirt while Gorvox stomped after him, swinging and missing, his axe thudding into the ground and kicking up clots of mud.
Cregan's breath rasped hard, his leg screaming as he limped faster, leading Gorvox closer to the bear, and when the brute charged again—roaring, "Gorvox break your skull!"—Cregan waited until the last second, then dove aside, hitting the dirt as Gorvox barreled past him and slammed straight into the bear's flank, knocking it off the corpse with a wet thud. The bear reared up, roaring loud enough to shake the air, and Gorvox roared back, raising his axe as they crashed together—claws slashing, steel swinging, blood flying fast. The bear swiped first, raking Gorvox's chest, claws ripping through armor and flesh, peeling skin back in bloody flaps that dangled loose while red poured down his front, and Gorvox yelled, swinging his axe into the bear's shoulder—blade sinking deep, cracking bone, blood gushing out—but the bear bit down on his arm, teeth crunching through muscle and snapping the forearm clean, the hand flopping useless as Gorvox howled and punched its snout with his other fist.
They thrashed together, the bear clawing Gorvox's gut, dragging out loops of intestine—pink and slick, steaming in the cold—while Gorvox sank his teeth into the bear's neck, biting hard, tearing fur and meat free, blood dripping from his chin as he chewed and stabbed with a dagger he yanked from his belt, driving it into the bear's side over and over, steel punching through ribs, red spurting with each thrust. The bear roared again, rearing back, and smashed its paw into Gorvox's face—nose caving in, teeth shattering, blood spraying as his jaw broke and hung slack—but Gorvox kept fighting, stabbing the bear's throat, slicing it open, blood jetting out in arcs while the beast gurgled and clawed his chest deeper, ripping muscle from bone, exposing white ribs that cracked under the next swipe. They staggered, locked together, and the bear bit Gorvox's shoulder, shaking him hard—flesh tearing, blood pooling fast—until Gorvox drove the dagger up under its jaw, pushing through soft meat and into its brain, and the bear shuddered, collapsing atop him, crushing him down as he gasped and twitched, his own blood mixing with the beast's in a thick puddle.
Cregan backed away, his shield slipping from his numb fingers and hitting the ground with a dull thump as he watched them die—Gorvox's legs kicking once, then stilling, the bear's chest heaving its last breath—and he leaned against the arena wall, his sword trembling in his grip while strength drained from his arms, his leg throbbing worse now, blood soaking his boot and leaving a trail behind him. Cregan sucked in a ragged breath and stumbled back from the wall, his shield already gone—slipped from his fingers and thudding into the dirt—as he glanced around the arena, spotting only one other man still alive, perched atop a cage thirty paces off, swinging a spear down at a lion that clawed at the bars, roaring and snapping its jaws while the man stabbed at its face, blood dripping from its muzzle where he'd landed a hit. Cregan gripped his sword tighter, using it like a cane, and hobbled toward the fence, his wounded leg dragging behind him—blood oozing from the gash, soaking his breeches and squelching in his boot—as he leaned hard against the wooden slats, resting his shoulder there to take the weight off his thigh while he watched the man fight. The lion swiped up, missing once, twice, but then lunged higher, catching the man's leg in its teeth—crunching through bone, tearing muscle free in a wet rip—and the man yelled, slipping off the cage, crashing down into the dirt where the lion pounced, biting his chest, ribs snapping loud as blood sprayed out and he gurgled, flailing until the beast shook him dead.
Had he won?
The herald hadn't announced anything, should he escape?
Cregan pushed off the fence, his heart pounding, and started backing away, but a growl rumbled low behind him, cutting through the crowd's cheers, and he twisted just as a shadow cat leaped—claws out, jaws wide—forcing him to jump aside, landing hard on his good knee while his bad leg buckled, pain shooting up his spine as he hit the ground. He scrambled back, dragging himself through the mud with his elbows, and swung his sword up at the cat prowling closer, its eyes locked on him, but it darted left, dodging the blade, and swiped its paw fast—claws smashing into the steel, knocking the sword from his hand with a clang that sent it skittering across the dirt ten paces away. Cregan cursed, scooting back faster, his hands slipping in the gore as the cat stalked forward, growling deep in its throat, and he grabbed for anything—a rock, a bone—but found nothing, his breath hitching while he stared at the beast closing in.
...
Jace stood at the fence gripping the bars and watching the Blood Melee unfold, his eyes tracking every move as the last man atop the cage stabbed down at the lion clawing up at him, but the beast caught his leg in its jaws—crunching bone, tearing flesh free in a bloody strip—and yanked him off, slamming him into the dirt where it bit his throat out, blood spurting as the crowd roared and Jace pumped his fist, shouting, "He's done it, he's won!" Sara grabbed his arm, jumping beside him, her voice cracking with excitement as she yelled, "Cregan's the last one, he's got it!" But then Jace frowned, glancing around, and muttered, "Why aren't they calling it, why no winner?" Aliandra giggled beside him, leaning in close, her breath brushing his neck as she pointed across the arena and said, "Not everyone's dead yet, look at that big oaf dragging himself from the bear." Jace followed her finger, spotting Gorvox's corpse sprawled under the bear, but then his gaze snapped to Cregan—crawling back, hands slipping in the gore, the shadow cat prowling toward him—and his stomach dropped when the cat swiped, knocking Cregan's sword away, leaving him defenseless as it growled and crouched to pounce.
Sara gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and started screaming, "No, Cregan, no!" before lunging for the fence, trying to climb it, but Jace grabbed her waist fast, pulling her back, and nodded at Ser Steffon who stepped in, wrapping his arms around her to hold her still while she thrashed, swearing loud, "Let me go, you bastards, I'll kill you, let me go!" She swung her fists, punching Ser Steffon chest, and kicked at his shins, but he held firm, grunting as he pinned her arms, while Aliandra watched, giggling, her voice cutting through the noise as she murmured, "Such a shame, if he'd lasted a minute more he'd have won, poor thing." Jace ignored her, turning back to Cregan, his fists clenching tight, he knew what he was about to do was dumb—knew he shouldn't—but his legs moved before his head caught up, and he hauled himself over the fence, scaling it in two seconds despite the ache in his muscles, landing hard on the other side where he unsheathed Starfyre, dragging the blade through the blood-soaked dirt, the white steel drinking it in, glowing brighter with every step as the gemstone at the hilt pulsed blue.
The shadow cat growled deep, leaping at Cregan—claws out, jaws wide—but Jace sprinted forward, swinging Starfyre up in a clean arc, slicing through its neck midair, the head spinning off with a spray of blood while the body crashed down, slamming onto Cregan who grunted under the weight, and the crowd erupted, chanting, "Warrior! Warrior!" as Jace dropped to his knees, shoving the headless cat off with both hands, blood smearing his arms before he grabbed Cregan's shoulders, hauling him up with a groan—his injured body screaming, Cregan's dead weight dragging—but he pulled him back toward the fence where Ser Erryk had kicked through a panel, sword drawn, standing guard. Jace stumbled, dragging Cregan through the gap, and collapsed against the fence, panting as Ser Erryk sheathed his blade and knelt beside them, checking Cregan's leg where blood still poured from the boar's gash. Then the herald's voice boomed out, shouting, "Due to outside interference, the Mystery Knight is disqualified, the victor is the fallen warrior Gorvox!" and Jace glanced back, seeing Gorvox's corpse under the bear, already stiffening, but he didn't care—turned to Ser Erryk instead, barking, "Get him to a maester, now," and the knight hesitated, frowning, before nodding and scooping Cregan up, carrying him off through the crowd.
Jace pushed to his feet, sheathing Starfyre as Sara broke free from Ser Steffonsgrip and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, squeezing tight while she mumbled into his chest, "Thank you, Jace, thank you, I thought he was gone," her voice shaking as she pressed closer, and he hugged her back, patting her shoulder, saying, "It's fine, follow Ser Erryk, he's taking him to the maester." She nodded, pulling away, and ran after the knight, leaving Jace standing there, catching his breath, his chest heaving from the effort until he felt eyes on him and turned, seeing Aliandra still there, staring at him, her lips parted and her gaze fixed, not even trying to hide the heat in it. She stepped closer, leaning in, her voice a husky whisper against his ear, "My smallclothes are soaked," and before he could react, she grabbed his hand, guiding it under her skirt, pressing his fingers against the damp fabric between her thighs—warm, wet—until he yanked his hand back, stepping away, snapping, "Control yourself," while she smirked, licking her lips slow.
Ser Steffon cleared his throat behind them, shifting his weight, and said, "We should head back to the royal box, the crowd's swarming us now," and Jace nodded, turning to the people pressing in—hands reaching, voices shouting his name—and he lifted his arm, waving once, forcing a smile as he clasped a few outstretched hands, shaking them quick while he walked, Aliandra sticking close and Ser Steffon guiding them through. They climbed the stairs back to the box, stepping inside, and Jace stopped short, feeling every pair of eyes snap to him—Viserys sitting forward, Rhaenyra gripping the armrests, Helaena twisting her hands in her lap, Daella and Maris whispering to each other—all staring, none smiling, their faces tight and hard.
He swallowed, muttering under his breath. "Ah, fuck."
(AN: So the Blood Melee is over and Cregan survived it. I tried to make it as realistic as possible but I also made it low fantasy, cause otherwise it would be kinda boring. It's more exciting watching men achieve things that are beyond their limits. Now I'm not saying I could fight a bear... but I could definitely fuck up a black bear. I'm just saying a gorilla could beat a grizzly, and I'm a less powerful gorilla and a black bear is a weaker grizzly. Anyway hope you enjoyed it.)
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