The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the tourney grounds. The lists had paired Euron Greyjoy against a peculiar sort of warrior for the next bout—Thoros of Myr.
Thoros's life had begun with an offering.
While still a babe, he had been given by his family to the Red Temple, pledged to the service of the Lord of Light. Yet, the crimson robes of the clergy could never truly constrain a soul that yearned for earthly pleasures. A lust for battle, a thirst for strong drink, and a weakness for soft flesh flowed through his veins far stronger than any pious devotion to a distant, ethereal god.
Thoros was a priest, yes, but first and foremost, he was a man of vice and violence.
Years ago, the priesthood had sent him to King's Landing as a pawn, hoping to sway the Mad King Aerys II—who was obsessed with fire—toward the worship of the Lord of Light.
It was a mission doomed to fail.
Though the King harbored an unnatural fever for flame, asking him to forsake the Faith of the Seven—a tradition rooted in the land for thousands of years—to openly embrace a foreign god from the East was political suicide. It touched the very bedrock of royal authority.
The Seven Kingdoms were divided: the Iron Islands held to the Drowned God, the North kept the Old Gods, but the rest of the realm knelt before the Seven. To force a change in state religion would have shattered the Iron Throne's already fragile hold on the people.
And so, Thoros had failed. He remained in King's Landing, a somewhat awkward fixture—a bad priest in a red robe, waving a flaming sword, found more often in taverns and tourneys than in any temple.
Now, he stood opposite Euron Greyjoy, his crimson vestments blazing bright against the drab sands of the arena.
The heat radiating from the ground was suffocating. Thoros, large and paunchy, looked like a moving totem of heat in his loose robes.
The horn blasted.
Thoros offered no knightly salute. Instead, he gripped his hilt with both hands, muttering a low prayer in High Valyrian.
Whoosh!
With a sudden, explosive sound, his longsword erupted into roaring flames! Tongues of fire licked along the steel, dancing and twisting, warping the air around the blade with intense heat.
The crowd in the stands gasped at the display of magic, fear mingling with awe.
Euron, however, didn't flinch. Instead, his lips curled into a grin that was equal parts mockery and delight.
"Interesting," his voice cut through the shimmering heat waves. "Playing with fire? What a coincidence. I know a trick or two myself."
Before his words even settled, a completely different presence—one born of the abyss—began to seep from his body. The air above his shoulder twisted violently, as if invisible souls were screaming and converging.
The power of the Soul-Soul Fruit awakened.
A small but blindingly bright sphere of fire—Apollo—leaped from his shoulder. This was no natural combustion; it looked like a miniature sun, a concentrated essence of living flame.
As if possessing a mind of its own, the fireball split in two, instantly latching onto the twin sabers in Euron's hands. In a heartbeat, the steel blades were transformed into roaring edges of destruction. Unlike the alchemical fire coating Thoros's sword, the flames on Euron's blades were condensed and violent, radiating a terrifying pressure—as if two angry elemental spirits had been shackled to the metal.
The combatants hadn't even crossed swords yet, but the clash of their burning auras was already making it hard for the front row of spectators to breathe.
Then, they charged.
Boom!
Euron's dual fire-blades met Thoros's flaming sword. Every collision rang out with the deafening shriek of metal and sent showers of sparks raining down like meteors. Burning embers scattered in all directions, sizzling as they hit the sand.
One spectator, leaning too far over the railing, wasn't quick enough to dodge. A stray spark landed precisely on his leather jerkin.
Fwoosh.
With a soft sound, the cured leather caught fire instantly.
"Argh!" A bloodcurdling scream tore through the cheers. The man became a thrashing ball of fire, collapsing onto the ground and rolling frantically in the dirt.
The acrid stench of burning leather and hair filled the air. Terrified, the surrounding crowd scrambled backward, clearing a wide circle around the thrashing man. It wasn't until a few brave souls rushed forward, ripping the burning straps and tearing the smoking armor off his body, that the man collapsed, gasping for air, his chest blackened with soot and burns.
The tragedy in the stands did nothing to slow the duel in the pit.
Euron's bladework was eerie and lethal, a seamless fusion of the assassination arts of the Sorrowful Men and the fluid, deadly grace of a Braavosi Water Dancer. His dual blades moved like roaring fire dragons, striking from impossible angles in a relentless storm of steel and flame.
Thoros, relying on brute strength and the wild, sweeping arcs of his flaming sword, struggled to hold his ground. The hem of his red robe was already scorched away. It was a breathtaking, terrifying dance of death.
Finally, Euron saw his opening.
During a heavy, downward cleave, the flames on his left blade suddenly detached from the steel. Like a cannon blast compressed to its limit, the fire shot straight into Thoros's face.
Thoros's eyes went wide with terror. He scrambled backward, losing all composure. Euron gave him no quarter. His twin blades pursued with a high-pitched whistle, tearing through the air. A storm of slashes shattered Thoros's balance completely.
Euron raised his right hand for the final blow, putting his entire weight behind the strike. Thoros desperately raised his sword to block—
CLANG!
A massive impact echoed through the arena. Thoros's flaming sword was blasted from his grip. His massive, heavy body was launched backward as if struck by a trebuchet, crashing into the dirt outside the combat circle. Dust billowed up around him.
He struggled to rise, but his face and arms were covered in shocking burns, and his red robes hung in charred tatters. He had nothing left to give.
The horn blew again, declaring Euron the victor while the embers of the battle still glowed on the sand. He had secured his place in the final of the single combat, to be held on the morrow.
His opponent would be decided in the next match: "The Mountain" Gregor Clegane versus an elite mercenary from the Golden Company, a man renowned for his technical skill.
But the semifinal that followed was less a duel and more a brutal display of absolute force.
Gregor Clegane's inhumanly massive frame was like a moving fortress. The greatsword he wielded was so large it defied imagination—less a weapon and more a battering ram designed to shatter castle gates.
The Golden Company mercenary was skilled; his footwork was nimble, his strikes precise and tricky. But in the face of the Mountain's absolute power, technique was meaningless.
After dodging several clumsy swings, the Mountain let out a beast-like roar. He swung his greatsword in a wide, horizontal arc with enough force to generate a wind that buffeted the nearby crowd.
The mercenary had nowhere to run. He was forced to block with his own blade.
CRACK.
A sickening snap echoed through the silence. The mercenary's longsword shattered on impact. The man himself was swatted away like a ragdoll, lifted off his feet by the irresistible force and hurled out of the ring. He hit the ground hard, clutching his chest and vomiting blood.
The roster for the final battle was set.
Euron Greyjoy stood at the edge of the field, his cold gaze cutting across the sand to meet Gregor Clegane, who had just finished his demolition.
Beneath the Mountain's heavy visor, eyes filled with bloodlust and a desire for destruction stared back. In Euron's eyes, however, burned the maniacal excitement of a hunter who had finally found worthy prey.
The air seemed to freeze in the silent exchange between the two monsters. The suffocating scent of blood, promising the violence of tomorrow's finale, already hung heavy over the arena.
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