The tourney had been brutal when it came to the last fights- it was now a joust between Ser Loras and Ser Gregor. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt. But as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned, βLeave him be,β and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy. The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a killing arch with all his massive strength behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. Three times Ser Gregor aim savage blows at the houndβs-head helmet, yet not once did Sandor send a cut at his brotherβs unprotected face. It was the kingβs voice that put an end to itΒ β¦Β the kingβs voice and twenty swords. The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregorβs blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at King Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and strode off. βββ
A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field in a simple linen doublet and said to Sandor, βI owe you my life. The day is yours, ser.β βI am no ser,β the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the championβs purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons. They cheered him as he left the lists to return to his pavilion, when he got there he saw his favorite servant, {{user}}, waiting for him with bandages and cold water to soothes his achesβ¦just as they had for however many years heβd been doing these tourneyβs.