Tuesday, May 26, 2015
The Westeros Cup: The Fighting Races
"You're a long way from King's Landing."
Tyrion grunted: Jorah had a point.
"And entering the fighting race was your idea."
"Yes, but the alternative was death and castration - in that order. You can see how I was against the whole concept."
The starting horn sounded and Jorah tacked on the start line.
"Of course I usually sail with Jamie, double-handed, but that's where he'd fall short now, if you know what I mean."
Jorah said nothing, eyeing the opposition.
"They're on port, we're on starboard: do you think they'll give way?"
The two racing skiffs collided, and the slaver's prize fighters jumped across the gunwales, swords in one hand and knives in the other. Tyrion ran to the stern while Jorah kicked the feet away under one then stabbed in his right eye. He was about to tackle the other when the skiff accidentally gybed and the boom knocked him over-board.
"Shit" said Tyrion, as the prize fighter approached, grinning. Tyrion grabbed the tiller and pulled it across, forcing another gybe, but the fighter ducked under the boom, approaching closer. Tyrion retreated behind the back-stays and the fighters sword flashed, cutting it in two. The mast collapsed and the fighter was covered in the mainsail. Tyrion teetered on the edge of loosing his balance and falling overboard, but his foot was caught by the tiller and he flipped inwards, landing on the prize fighter.
He jumped up and ran to the bow, trying to hide under jib.
"Got you runt" said the prize fighter, moving forward sword in hand and grin on face.
"Bugger" said Tyrion. He looked left and right for escape but there was none: the other skiff was drifting away and he had no weapons.
Then an arm reached from out of the sea and grabbed the fighters foot dragging him over-board. There was a swirl of spray that turned bloody red, then Jorah Mormont crawled over the stern.
"We will take their boat and win this race."
Tyrion nodded, for once lost for words.