'Tis meele a flesh wound

Swallow your pain, don't let them see. His outward appearance was one of confidence and almost regal decorum as he walked through the castle halls in his shiny armour, with his head raised high.

He was a lion, always has been and always will be.

And yet Jamie was hurt, a dangerous fissure going through his pride. His honour people doubted, many an old loyalist spewing bile about the 'Kingslayer', because how dare he killed a man he was sworn to protect. Yes, how dare he killed a man who burned people alive in his audience hall for fun? Indeed, how dare he stopped a man who wanted to torch the whole of King's Landing? No, people's perception of his honour did not play a part in Jamie's pride. He knew what they clapped for, so their hollers meant nothing to him.

His pride was baser than that. His pride was a primal one; martial prowess and physical beauty. No matter where he stepped, almost since the very day he laid hands on a sword and learned to comb his hair right, every man acknowledged him for his skill on the field and every woman acknowledged his handsome appearance. The recognition he wanted, the affirmation he needed, Jamie got in steady supply.

A supply that was coming to a hold.

As he walked through the castle halls, as he'd done a millions times, the nods and looks of the others started to feel hollow to him. Empty of the, in parts begrudging, admiration he was so used to receive.

This tourney so far was a nightmare for him. There were men who abstained from recreational battles, Ned Stark snidely remarking these would slim one's chances to best a foe in a real fight. There were men who took part for the jolly of it, Robert would have taken a lance to the face only to laugh and hop on his horse again to dive back into the spectacle. But Jamie was neither of these types.

He was a lion, always has been and always will be.

He needed to win, life owed him that much. Without that, what was all his pride about? He could see that question in the eyes of each of the castle guards when he passed them. He demanded men's respect through demonstration of his martial prowess, and without it, their respect was dimming out.

At least the women in the halls and yards still threw him lingering looks when he passed. He possessed beauty, his handsome looks no one could take from him. He told himself that and forced a sure little smirk on his lips, but the self-deception lasted only for the blink of an eye.

The women's looks on him didn't last long, not anymore. Their appraising stares had gotten shorter and shorter over the last years. It's not that Jamie had gotten old, his hair didn't grey, his skin didn't wrinkle. No, it was his competition that was draining away his own appeal.

Even the love of his life was among the admirers who were seemingly losing interest. It's been months since she had shown him that kind of affection, those hungry looks, the stolen moments, the warm, wet -

No. Things were about change again, for the better. For the way they used to be. For how they *ought* to be.

He was a lion, always has been and always will be.

Jamie knocked on the big doors of the royal chamber, before a groaned sound signaled his allowed access.

"Your majesty, I'm coming to-" Jamie started talking to his sister as he looked around the room for potential servants milling around. "Cersei, how are you dear sister?"

"Busy, Jamie, busy," the queen spoke to him without looking up. Jamie moved closer and saw clearly now what she was hunched over. Cersei Lannister was sewing.... sewing... sewing?!

"You're sowing?" he asked her, leaning over to see what exactly his sister, who apparently even can sew, is sewing.

"I'm creating a favour," Cersei said to him, an indulging smile forming on her lips, "for the big melee, you know?"

Jamie's heart started racing. This was exactly what he was coming for, hoping for, dreaming for. His sister putting him back into her good graces and giving him a sign of what he meant to her.

"Haha, well that's indeed an important part of it. Sure, a lot of people consider the jousting the main event of a tournament, but that is merely a fight against singular men, each of them separated. But the melee? Now that is a true test of a man's skill. Dozens of men armed with a variety of gear and coordinated for group tactics," Jamie hyped himself up for the melee. If his sister was sewing him a favour, he would make the most of it.

And now that he thought about that properly, it was indeed a great moment to remind everyone of what a man he was. His hair flowing in the wind while he stands atop the unconscious dregs of other warriors he has beaten, now that was a proper picture for the masses. The men would want to be him, the women would want to be with him.

"I'm glad we agree on that brother," Cersei answered him without turning her eyes from the cloth. "And now just imagine if someone were to win both."

A tremor ran through Jamie. He changed his angle to get a proper look at the fabrics his sister was handling and what exactly she was making.

A halved insignia, one side the roaring lion and the other the crowned stag.

"That would truly be something," Jamie answered her and politely left the room. His sister didn't stop him or even really acknowledged his leave. Jamie had matters to deal with.

He was a lion, always has been and always would be.

Lyonel paced around his room excitedly. It is the final day of the tourney, the climax of the week - long celebrations. This evening will be the melee, and once the final measurement of strength is achieved, a night long celebration will ensue. Tomorrow, everything will go back to everyday monotony... but not for Lyonel. This single week has irrevocably changed his life for... well it's hard to say for better. His life would has taken an unexpectedly pleasurable but extremely risky path. Nonetheless, he cannot help but be excited. If this entire week of tourney has made his life so much better, what would it yield in its final day?

Furthermore, King Robert is a man who puts great value in the melee. Being himself a former melee champion, Lyonel knew that he will expect his son to follow in his footsteps as well.

Hence, the hammer. It lay on his table now, large, black, bulky and dangerous, built in the same mold as his father's old war hammer. It was far from his weapon of choice, but Lyonel knew that his father (and the crowd) would approve the choice. Plus, a prince showing off how similar he is to the king is just good feudal politics.

With that in mind, Lyonel picked up the hammer and swung it around. Definitely bulky, but what it lacks in subtlety it will provide in damage. He could not help but think of the possibilities while swinging this hammer. With the joust already under his belt, if he wins the melee too, he would have done something almost unheard of. What glory it would give him!

Lyonel's fantasies were disrupted by a heavy knock on the door, followed by the unpleasant voice of Meryn Trant of the kingsguard rang out. "Your Grace?"

"Yes, Sir Trant?" Lyonel sighed, barely able to hold the distaste he had for the man, along with the host of other men who had dared to wear the white cloak without ever earning the right for it.

"The Lady Stark is here to meet you, Your Grace."

"Send her in," Lyonel said, turning around to meet his betrothed... only to see her little sister stepping into the room.

"Your Grace," Arya said with a somewhat stiff curtsy.

Lyonel felt almost as if he was hyperventilating. This was the first time he saw Arya since their... 'encounter' at the Godswood a day ago. However, he was able to maintain his composure. "My Lady," he said, reciprocating her gesture with a bow of his own.

With a sign from him, Trant left the room. Silence engulfed the room as the two stared at one another.

"After everything, you decide to be awkward around me now? Lyonel asked teasingly.

That broke the spell. Arya beamed and ran towards him, and the prince was able to barely stay on his feet as the short but thick girl collided onto him with full force. Reciprocating with equal passion, Lyonel lifted her off her feet, spinning her around while showering her with kisses.

Eventually he was forced to put her down and the two panted while grinning at each other like fools in love.

"I thought you would already be at the grounds," Lyonel exclaimed.

"Without giving my husband my favour?" Arya asked, taking a Stark grey handkerchief out of the folds of her dress. "How could I?"

The reminder of their illicit marriage in front of the Old Gods thrilled the prince, as he silently watched the woman who was bound to him by the old customs tie the grey cloth on the hilt of his handle.

"It's a beautiful weapon, is it not?" Lyonel inquired while walking behind Arya, as she stroke the smooth, dark surface.

"I've seen you wield better ones."

"Oh well, I'm more familiar with the sword, 'tis true-"

"I was thinking about your fearsome spear," Arya said coquettishly, casting her eyes downwards if her innuendo wasn't clear enough.

"That's a trite pun," Lyonel remarked, though he was already getting hard.

"Is the reigning champion challenging me?" Arya asked in a too - innocent voice, taking his manhood from his pants and stroking it.

"You've seen me on the field and know that resistance is futile," the prince retorted.

"We'll see," Arya said, slapping his dick and running away. "Catch me if you want me!"

Lyonel began his pursuit, while trying not to make much noise. Arya, however, had no such inhibitions. When he got too close to her, she crashed a chair right on his path.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" Trant's panicked voice came from outside.

"Yes, Ser, no need to worry yourself," Lyonel replied, glaring at Arya. She only stuck her tongue out.

The pursuit continued, and to get away from his clutches. Arya jumped on his table, and when he chased around it to catch her, she jumped on to his bed. However, his silk covers caused her foot to slip, making her fall on his bed.

Lyonel pounced at the opportunity. Literally. While Arya's head was lolling off the corner of his bed, mouth still open in shock, the prince was able to jam his cock deep down her throat. It was primeval, that thrusting of his, and she accepted it with primeval submission, a complete and utter surrender.

Lyonel's hands groped around her dress and roughly squeezed her tits until they popped out of her dress. His balls roughly slapped her chin, while ropes of pre - cum covered saliva streamed down her face, through her nose, forehead and cheeks, before mixing in with her dark hair.

When he cummed, her cheeks elongated exaggeratedly, but he was able to swallow it down expertly.

Lyonel fell down on his bed beside Arya, and she slowly cuddled up to him, chewing on her cum stained hair.

"Do we have to fight before every time we have sex?" Lyonel asked, looking down at Arya as she lay her head on his arm.

"Just a couple more times... husband," Arya said sweetly.

"Hear, hear, people of King's Landing! The drafters are closing down, no further entry is permitted! Dispel at once and be content, as you are in luck. The battleground's grandstands have been extended by command of his gracious majesty. As of this announcement, there is still vacant space!"

The orderlies yelled at the quelling masses of soldiers of fortune, adventurers and half-armoured peasants chasing glory. Well, at those and the drunken brawlers in way over their heads. The Grand Melee of the tournament had developed into another peak of entertainment. Chivalrous displays and the grand sums for the melee's final remaining fighters had drawn both an excited audience as well as apparently every man able to hold a sword as a contestant.

Lyonel heard the commotion outside his tent and paced back and forth, calming his own nerves. He wasn't too worried about his own skill in battle. He was strong and agile, got good balance and heavy hits. He could stand his ground. But the melee simulated an all out battlefield. Not even a clear frontline with two sides, but rather a wild commotion in which your enemies surround you on all sides. The hammer had indeed been a good choice for the occasion. It might not have the range of the spear or the speed of a sword, but a good swing of this would not only give him some room to breath, but do some massive damage to anyone trying to get to him.

At that thought Lyonel had to chuckle. A good chunk of his fights since he had come to this world were against warrior women, who after they had been bested, really got to him. Be it the wildling redhead he turned into his servant or the northern wolf that he tamed, warrior women definitely were his type. Or well, one of them at least. The ranks of onlookers today would hopefully be filled with pristine ladies like his betrothed, his sister and Highgarden's most fragrant of flowers.

Lyonel moved his shoulders in slow circles, did some calming breaths and got his head back in the game. If you get lost in the prize, you'll never win the challenge in the first place. There stand a horde of fighters between him and any glory today. Compared to the jousting, the melee really did offer a high amount of glory to the six runners up to the actual winner but compared to the jousting there would also be more than ten times the contestants. So Lyonel knew not to underestimate the challenge.

He put on his helmet, adorned with the antler crown his father blessed their family line with, grabbed the heavy war hammer, a mix between beautiful craftsmanship and the rawest and most primal concept of swinging a boulder down on your enemies' head to crush not only him, but shake the very ground beneath. He left his tent and marched to one of the seven gates of entry.

The circular design of the battlefield meant that the contestants had to be separated into groups and couldn't all access the arena from the same point. The organizers orchestrating this planned for the fighters to gather in groups at their assigned access points, wait for the signal, entering the arena through the now opening gates and then spread out left and right, so that the battlefield would become circled on its rim with fighters standing at the ready. Then, at the second signal, the melee would begin and fighters would be allowed to move into the battlefield proper.... or start fighting their opponents right on the rim, directly in front of the cheering crowd.

Lyonel entered the antechamber of his entry gate, right beneath the grandstand four. The gate of the Warrior. He made an effort to arrive last, lest he be beset by admirers and draw a commotion. There were already around forty people squeezed together, some talking strategy and some already boasting and trying to intimidate their closest adversaries. At the arrival of the prince, both types quit their banter for a second to nod at him in recognition and certainly also to seize up their new main target.

Winning the melee sure is the most prestigious honour to gain today but being the one that bested such a highly acclaimed fighter like the crown prince, a member of the Kingsguard or another famous knight would be a story any hedge knight would tell till the day he dies.

So Lyonel knew he had to watch his back from the very start of the melee.

"Don't worry about those your Grace," an unfamiliar voice softly told him from the side. "As much as they want to knock you out, I doubt any of them would risk actually hurting you. You might not be known for vengefulness, but the last thing any of them wants is to have royal blood on their hands."

Lyonel turned around and was met with the joyful face of a round man dressed in red. Yes, this was Thoros of Myr, no doubt. He might be chubby and his beard was starting to grey, but he was not to be trifled with. In the original timeline, Lyonel knew all too well, this priest of R'hllor was the one who, with the help of his flaming sword, had won the melee.

"I would be surprised if-" a loud horn drowned out their budding conversation before Lyonel could wisecrack further. The rustling of metal and the enthusiastic hollers around him joined as the starting sign and as the gate in front of them opened, Lyonel was basically shoved into the arena through the wave of contestants.

As they entered the field proper, they spread out to the sides and took position on the circular sideline, right under the ranks. From his position roughly in the middle from his original gate to the gate of the Stranger, he could see fighters all around the circle and straight ahead of him too. The second sound of the horn ended the pompous speech of the festival's official announcing the melee and in turn it could now fully begin.

A fast hit from the side jammed into Lyonel's left flank before he could even react. But the would-be attacker, who had noticed Lyonel's distraction and aimed for an easy first knockout, had either underestimated Lyonel's armor, his balance or both. Because the broadsword's impact did merely notify the prince of his own first target. As if by instinct he swung his hammer at the opponent, like you'd swat a fly.

His hammer made impact, lifted the surprised warrior off his feet and smashed him against the wooden wall lining the battlefield. The man's own armor was deeply indented with the relief of Lyonel's hammer and the wooden planks splintered where the man was squashed into them. As soon as Lyonel withdrew the hammer, nothing held the man upward anymore and he fell to the ground.

Silence from the people directly above them.

Followed by thunderous applause.

The masses screamed and hollered for every man losing consciousness, doubly so if it was questionable for them to regain it. Before long chaos started raining and while the man to Lyonel's right nearly fell from how fast he ran away when Lyonel knocked out the guy from his left. Others were bolder.

With the swordsmen Lyonel didn't have much trouble, most were not used to fully armoured targets and his movements were too fluent to get at the few openings his armor left for cuts. Clubs and flails would have dented him indeed, but the men carrying those were brutish and clumsy, clearly more inclined for the work on fields and in mines. The spears and an odd one out with a poleaxe, those were indeed tricky, as they were the ones who actually outclassed Lyonel when it came to reach. A strong factor in a chaotic field situation in which you have to keep focus on opponents all around you.

The battle raged all around him and Lyonel couldn't tell if seconds or days had passed. For every hit he took, he dashed out two or three and his were the ones, that didn't need a follow-up. Before he knew it, the fight was centered in the middle of the arena and hardly two score fighters were left, as far as Lyonel could tell. Maybe a few less, his eyes were doubling some of what he saw after an especially mean hit from a morningstar.

Knock-out followed knock-out and through the now dented eye slits of his helmet, Lyonel saw the figures around him fall. He had just bested the last man in front of him, that he heard a voice cut through the indecipherable yells and shouts of the audience.

"There are no men like me."

The voice was dripping with malice, so as Lyonel turned around, his massive hammer was already mid-swing before it was finished.

But his own hit never connected, as something hit the back of his head and the exhaustion of all the other ones came crashing down on him, seemingly at once. And as he fell down, his head turned to the figure on their way upward they saw a blade, clean and shining, aimed at his crumbling form.

"There's only m-" CLACK

A loud metallic sound interrupted the man, sending crumbling himself, falling into the mud, headfirst. Now as Lyonel's eyes continued their slow movement upward, the figure behind his assailant became visible. That could only be described as a muscle mommy. Ahem, as an amazonian Aphrodite. Ahem, ahem, as a woman of war.

The figure that took up his increasingly blurry vision seemed to be even taller than him, as far as he could gauge from his crumbling position. The dented steel armour was pressed into shape in a way, that pronounced her proportions prominently. Sure, she was not as buxom or bodacious as some of them other women in his life, but her general size meant that even a proportionally small butt would leave ample space for his palms. But what really drew his attention was not at his current eye-height, but rather above it.

Above him, considering her size her head might as well have been the whole arena's distance away, and yet right in his focus was her wide mouth and those plump and swollen lips. They invited the most impure of thoughts in his cloudy head. Her face was framed by hints of raggedy blond hair, hidden almost fully under a helmet that didn't quite match her armor. When her deep and beautiful blue eyes met his, her former non expressive lips were pressed together and her stoic nod in his direction was his sign to lose consciousness. He was safe now, now that she stood with him.

Brienne of Tarth.