Again, this is a little gladiatorial. It is a fight scene, so there is mention of a bit of blood, but I hope that you will forgive me and enjoy.

"And to take on the great Se sȳndor morgho we present Jaggo the Dothraki, Sallar of Braavos, Ballag of the Mountain Clans of Westeros, and Xarar of the Summer Isles." The man on the podium announced with great bravado. Each man stepping into the pit as they were announced. The crowd cheering frantically. All of them waiting expectantly for the fight, for the blood that was to come.

"Well, I think ya can keep ya gold in ya purse. This Morgho don't stand a chance against that lot." Bronn sniffed, as he lent down on the wall.

"And what makes you say that Bronn?" Tyrion enquired. The little lord having a feeling that this fight wasn't going to be as one sided as the sellsword might think.

"Ya have eyes. Ya Se sȳndor morgho looks strong. Like he can handle himself. He wouldn't have lasted this long in tha pits if he couldn't. But the Dothraki and the Mountain man, make him in look small by comparison. The one from Summer Islands looks quick, like he has done this more than once. Like he can fight undda pressure. The only one that Morgho might stand a chance against, is tha one from Braavos. Looks like he's gonna piss himself if ya ask me." Bronn explained, as he studied each of the men.

"And is that your expert opinion?" Tyrion asked. A small smile pulling at his lips, as Bronn nodded.

"Aye. It is."

"Well then, you wouldn't mind having a little wager on the fight?" Tyrion continued. Bronn raising a questioning eyebrow, as he looked over at the little man by his side.

"What kinda wager?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just twenty gold dragons, and.............."

"And what?"

"And.........if Se sȳndor morgho wins, you won't complain and pout like a child when I go and buy him." Tyrion explained, with a small shrug.

"Fine! I don't mind takin ya gold off ya. And I'm sure that gold dragons would buy me more than one two whores around here." The sellsword scoffed. Bronn now not able to wait for the fight to begin.

"I wouldn't be too sure that you are going to win, Bronn. The Dothraki and Mountain man may be big, but I have always found that size is overrated. What really matters is the intelligence that Morgho might be hiding under that helmet. So, we will have to see." Tyrion countered, as he stood on his tiptoes to get a better view of the action to come.

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Se sȳndor morgho watched as each man entered the pit, sizing up their abilities and weaknesses. It wasn't the first time that the masked fighter had fought men like this. Wasn't the first time that they had had to kill men like this. And in truth, the faces of their opponents looked the same after all this time. All melded into just one more challenger that they had to vanquish. And just like death itself, the warrior cared not for who you were, what your name was, or where you hailed from. All they cared about, was today would be their rival's last day.

As the crowd cheered, the warrior watched. Morgho had survived this long not just because they were highly skilled, but because they used their brain. Whereas others relied on their size and strength, they had learned that a fight could be won even before a battle had begun. That if you studied your rivals, you could learn all you had to know before the first swords had clashed. And now was no different.

Morgho smiled as they watched the Dothraki and the Mountain man. They were large and looked slow. Too well built for their own good. Too confident in their abilities because of their sheer size. It was true that their bulk would make them harder to kill, but the warrior knew that they could use their size against them. Knowing that the more they made them work to kill them, the quicker they would wear themselves out, and it would slow them down.

The man from Braavos looked much quicker. He was taller and much slenderer than the other two. Yet Morgho could tell that he was a lot less experienced than the rest of them. That he was probably new to the pits. There was a nervousness about him which would make him second guess himself. And that would make him the first to fall.

The Islander on the other hand, was calmer than the others, less demonstrative. He was more like the warrior themselves, cool and relaxed despite the riot of noise and colour that surrounded them. Morgho taking note of each man's position in the pit, before the slaver on the podium spoke again.

"Se sȳndor morgho will take on the four challengers, to the death. And if death wins, you will all be given the chance to bid on the greatest of fighters. To bid for the opportunity to own the best that has ever stepped foot in a fighting pit." The slaver announced. And as another cheer of "MORGHO! MORGHO! MORGHO!" went up around the pit. The warrior raised their sword into the air and turned around slowly, saluting the throng, before the crowd suddenly went deafly quiet, as the fight began.

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Tyrion and Bronn watched in disbelief, as Morgho moved. The warrior sprinting over and taking the legs of the man from Braavos out from under him, causing him to fall backwards. The black clad fighter quickly pouncing on the prone man and thrusting their sword into the large muscles in his legs. Causing him to scream out in pain. The tall, lean man writhing in agony, as the Dothraki rushed over, hoping to use his bulk to knock Morgho from their feet. The warrior dodging out of his way and bringing their elbow to the back of his head causing him to stumble and fall heavily to the ground, face first. Tyrion finding himself cheering along with the rest of the crowd, as the helmeted fighter raced over to him, and plunged their sword into his skull. The little lion sure that he could hear the bone drag against the blade, as it was removed from the wound. The youngest Lannister feeling the surge from the crowd, as the open wound drenched Morgho in blood.

"Look out!" Tyrion shouted out over the noise of the crowd, as the Mountain man pushed the islander out of the way. The huge, lumbering creature swing his sword wildly at the warrior's head. Forcing them to back away. Tyrion gripping onto the wall, as he watched the prized fighter, duck under the large man's arms and run past the islander, forcing him with all their might to the ground. The thundering sound of the huge man attempting to chase after the quicker warrior filling the little man's ears. It obvious to both Tyrion and Bronn, that the Mountain man's breathing was becoming laboured. That his bulky frame was causing him problems.

"Do you want to double the bet?" Tyrion called out to Bronn with a laugh. The sellsword watching in amazement, as Morgho ran up to the wall surrounding the pit. The fighter leaping up onto it, using it to help them springboard over their attacker. Morgho coming down and digging their sword into the neck of their rival, severing the artery. The lumbering beast falling to the floor with Morgho on top of him. All watching as they pulled out a dagger from their belt and thrust it into the motionless man's heart. An almighty bloodlust filled cheer filling the air, as the limbs of the warrior gladiator, became drenched in blood, as the warm crimson liquid squirted from the defeated foe's neck. The crowd screaming again in delight, as the blood seeped into the sand covered floor.

"Watch this." Tyrion said excitedly to Bronn, as he saw the warrior slowly make their way back over to the prone man from Braavos. The fighter's eyes never leaving the form of the islander, as they crouched down behind the stricken man. Morgho putting their sword to the throat or the crying male, and with one smooth motion moved the blade to dispatch him. Morgho picking up the Braavos man's sword and twirling the two blades in their hands.

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"Just you and me now Islander, and I can assure you that I don't intend to lose to you." Morgho growled over to commotion of the crowd, to the man before them. The dark skinned man pulling off his helmet. His deep brown eyes staring into those of the one that they called death. The two final combatants circling one another.

"I've heard of you Se sȳndor morgho. The slavers say that you are the best that there has ever been. The best that there ever will be. That you will cost a buyer much gold. It is just a shame that you will not get to find out!" The islander bellowed, as he thrust his sword as the dark warrior's head. The blade gliding across the cheek of Morgho's helmet. The islander's own energy carrying him forward. Morgho sidestepping the thrust and cracking the back of his skull with the flat of their sword with force. The warrior chuckling to themselves, as the islander regained his balance and turned back around.

"You'll have to do better than that islander." Morgho called, smiling as they saw the look of anger in the man's eyes. An anger that would make the man make mistakes.

"DEATH TO DEATH!" The dark man screamed out, as he rushed forward swinging wildly. His sword flying from side to side. Morgho deciding it was time to show a buyer just what they were going to get. The warrior throwing themselves backwards, flipping over and over from feet to hands, from hands to feet. The audience cheering enthusiastically at the athleticism, as the islander stood frozen to the spot, momentarily taken aback by his opponent's movements. Morgho landing on their feet and finding themselves by the Dothraki's arakh which they picked up and hurled at the islander. The blade spinning around in the air. Yet, as he ducked to dodge the blade, his stance became wide, wide enough for someone to just slide through. Morgho running at full speed towards their opponent, dropping down and sliding between the islander's legs slicing through his femoral artery as they went. The man dropping to his knees, a gasp going up from the crowd, as Morgho looked up at the man on the podium for approval for their final kill. And with a nod of his head, two swords were thrust into the islander's chest. The body now limp.

Morgho stood in the middle of the pit desperately trying to control their breathing. Their eyes stinging as blood and sweat pooled in them. The chant beggining to rise from the crowd, now louder than ever. "MORGHO! MORGHO! MORGHO" The shadow of death turning, and slowly making their way out of the pits, back into the darkness beyond.

"Now! Who will start the bidding?" The smug looking slaver called out. Disembodied voices from the crowd shouting out with their best offers for the great fighter.