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HIS FIST CLASHED LIKE THUNDER in a pit of clouds as the man's blood splattered like rain against his skin.
"Say it again!" Marcyl's yell echoed throughout the busy tavern. He grabbed a hold of the drunk man's collar, forcing his back against the wooden table again. He didn't wait for an answer before his fist made contact with the man's wounded face, splattering more blood from his mouth. "Don't you ever mutter her name in such a way again!"
The men and women gathered around the gruesome scene, many placing bets while others left, afraid they would be struck by the boy next.
Marcyl may have only stood two inches shorter than the whole six foot the man stood at, but he surpassed him and others in strength.
Their exchange, although mostly his, was finally stopped after a minute when large hands pulled him away. Yet for those seconds as his fists retracted from his face, his leg swung for a final kick.
The Knight of Flowers was sure that he would have killed the drunken man if Ser Harrold had arrived seconds later.
"Gods be good," Ser Harrold muttered, starring down at the man's face, which was left unrecognizable. His lip was torn, eyelids swollen shut, and the cuts on his face oozed out crimson red.
He and the rest of King's Landing knights always deemed young Marcyl as a timid type of character. Although he often received teasing from some knights, he never stepped out of line. In fact, he never acknowledged the things whispered about him . . . except when they involved Viserra's name.
"You'll eventually drain yourself pale if you continue to act so aggressively." He voice was but a whisper as he roughly grabbed the boy by his arm, guiding him out of the tavern. The two received glances of passing common folk, the young knight more than the other.
Marcyl said nothing. He only let out small whimpers and grunts as he felt his newly bruised cheek begin to sore. The drunken man had managed to strike him once before he was punched against the table to receive the punch back. Still, his young face remained as handsome as ever. Not that it mattered to him anyways.
Once the two reached a tall walls of the Red Keep, Ser Harrold turned to face the young knight. His words were a secret between them when he muttered, "Don't let your companionship with the Princess seem like that of a paramour's." Marcyl stared up at him. Ser Harrold continued, "Although, now you've given them more of a reason to whisper, son."
"There are no fucking actions to be whispered about!" Marcyl dared defiantly, the frustration seeping through his words like venom. It sounded unfamiliar and unpleasant. He was always gentle; his words poised. "The Prince holds the heart of Viserra tightly! Why would I interfere in that?"
