Bronze and Blood! - Part 1

Sawane Botley, a figure of considerable girth and strength, stood poised in the duelling ground. Middle-aged but undeniably robust, Botley was encased in a suit of steel armour that protected his upper body and legs, glinting dully in the weak sunlight that struggled through the overcast sky. His arms, neck, and broad shoulders were sheathed in a layer of chainmail, providing a flexible defence that rattled softly with each movement he made.

Atop his head sat a helmet. It covered his entire head, leaving only his eyes visible through a narrow slit, while a separate piece shielded his nose. The helmet's design allowed for a small opening at the mouth, ensuring he could breathe and shout commands without hindrance. In his hands, he gripped a double-handed sword; its blade caught the light, hinting at the lethal sharpness it possessed.

Sawane didn't get to fight physically in the rebellion as he had been managing the defences of Lordsport. He threw arms and surrendered immediately when Tywin's forces reached his wooden castle. Therefore, he didn't have any injuries on his body that would hinder him in the battle. He looked quite eager to fight perhaps to regain some lost honour or something. 

But Damian ignored him and looked at his Fleet's captain, Sirius.

From the crowd, Sirius immediately advanced and extended a sword to Damian. This was a one-handed bronze sword, distinct with a dragon pommel and eyes of blue sapphire—the very sword discovered on a secluded isle near Lonely Light.

Damian received the weapon. The handle was chill to the touch, the sapphires within the dragon's eyes sparkling. He secured the sword within its sheath, tightly fastened to his left hip, the metal catching the light with each movement. Another short sword or long knife, also a bronze he found on the isle, was already fastened to his right hip. 

Additionally, Damian donned two bronze armguards that now snugly encased his forearms. Previously, these had been slightly loose, but they had since been adjusted to fit as if forged directly upon his flesh. These armaments, though minimal, were crucial; they promised some defence without compromising his agility. 

Damian Stark reached for his weapon. The moment he unsheathed his sword, a collective murmur swept through the crowd. The blade was not only distinctive but looked beautiful as well. The onlookers, including high lords such as Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, and Eddard Stark, looked on in surprise and curiosity.

As Damian Stark unsheathed his bronze sword, whispers and murmurs spread like wildfire through the crowd of spectators. The weapon, distinctive with its dragon pommel and sapphire eyes, drew everyone's attention not only for its beauty but also for its seemingly impractical material.

King Robert's brow furrowed deeply as he leaned toward Eddard Stark, his voice low, "That sword... where did he find such a piece?" His question echoed the crowd's curiosity, with many nobles craning their necks to get a better look at the unusual weapon.

Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed, his mind racing to assess not only the fighter but also the origins and implications of wielding such a distinctive yet archaic blade in a duel of this magnitude.

"Is that blade made of bronze?" Maege Mormont's sharp observation drew further scrutiny, highlighting the unusual colour of the metal that glinted differently than the typical steel.

"Is he an idiot? Why would he choose to fight with a weaker blade?" an incredulous whisper passed through the crowd, reflecting a mix of concern and disbelief.

Bronze, known for its beauty and historical value, was indeed softer and more prone to damage against the hardened steel of typical Ironborn weaponry. The murmurs grew louder, speculating on Damian's choice, which seemed to defy common sense given the stakes of the duel.

Sawane Botley, standing across from Damian, noticed the unusual sheen of the bronze sword and couldn't suppress a deep, mocking laugh. "A fine antique you've got there, lad," he taunted, his voice booming across the duelling ground. "It'll make a lovely ornament on my wall," he added, sneering at the blade with evident scorn.

"Talk less, old man," Damian retorted sharply, his voice cool and even.

Sawane's face reddened at the rebuke, and he growled, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. With a bellow that matched the ferocity of the sea winds, he launched into an assault, his swings powerful but predictable. Poised and calm, Damian dodged each with the grace of a dancer, his body moving fluidly.

Sawane unleashed a series of brutal, sweeping strikes but still couldn't get his opponent. To the onlookers, it appeared that Sawane was a mere child being toyed with by a far superior adversary. Damian's approach was almost dismissive; he did not raise his sword to strike. Instead, he merely shifted his position, effortlessly circling around Sawane, who grew increasingly frustrated and reckless with each passing moment.

With the agility and precision of a seasoned acrobat, Damian dipped and weaved through the violent arcs of Sawane's sword. Each heavy swing cut through the air, missing Damian by mere inches as he rolled, dodged, and leapt with the rhythm and precision of a traceur. The heavy blade whistled past, each miss driving Sawane to increase his assault, his movements becoming more wild and desperate.

It wasn't merely his parkour skill at play; Damian's enhanced speed and reaction times, boosted by the subtle magic coursing through his veins and eyes, made everything seem slower to him. To Damian, it seemed like Sawane was moving through molasses, each of his attacks telegraphed and sluggish.

As Sawane lifted his sword for a particularly forceful overhead strike, his muscles straining and his expression twisted with effort, Damian identified his moment to strike. Sawane's sword came crashing down with deadly intent, but Damian was no longer in its path; he had sprung to the side in a swift, fluid motion, his body coiled and ready.

The heavy sword slammed into the earth, embedding itself momentarily in the ground, and Sawane struggled to free it, now off-balance and exposed. Damian, seizing the moment, pivoted on the balls of his feet, moving behind Sawane with a blur of bronze and leather.

Before the crowd could fully grasp the swift turn of events, Damian had closed the distance, his own sword drawn and gleaming dully against the overcast sky. Damian drove his bronze sword into the vulnerable gap beneath Sawane's raised arm with a precise and calculated thrust. The impact was silent yet fatal, the blade sliding smoothly into flesh and piercing the heart.

*AGHHh!!* 

Sawane's eyes widened in shock and realization as he felt the cold bite of the metal. He staggered back, his sword dropping to the ground with a clatter that echoed ominously across the duelling ground.

The crowd gasped collectively, the sound rippling through the onlookers as they witnessed the swift wolf bringing a swift end to Lord Botley's life. Sawane clutched at the wound, his face contorted in pain as he stumbled and fell. Ultimately, whether Damian's sword was made of bronze did not matter. Any sharp blade would win against flesh.

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