The gate opened and Jon stepped out into the arena, it was raining, at least he wouldn't have to deal with the heat. Were it colder it would have been snow, but there was no snow here, not ever. He wasn't in The North anymore when the clouds open up and loosed their frosty payload. Here there was rain or there was sun, there was no in between. The noise in the arena was deafening as the crowds cheered for the match while Jon made his approach. He moved slowly, each step bringing him closer to the tempation of death. He remembered his first bout, how loud it was, how confusing he found it. He tried to refuse to fight, that way was taken from with a single swing of a sword. As he fought he struggled to keep the crowd out of his head, their cheering and clapping echoing off the insides of his skull. Now he was accustomed to it, their cheers for a good fight and their hisses after a dissapointment. He knew he wasn't a crowd favorite, they booed him more than not, not becuase he was a poor fighter but because he wasn't a blood thirsty one. Though this match was shaping up to give the crowd just what they wanted as Jon stared at the three men he was matched against.
Each man a head taller than Jon himself, thick with muscle and broad of chest. They threw brutes at him, he wondered who he'd angered to give him this pairing. He had little time to contemplate the match as his opponents advanced. Jon advanced as well, his shortsword in hand. He wished he had Long Claw with him, the large bastard sword made of Valyrian steel would allow him to keep his opponents at length while he cut them down one by one. The much shorter gladius would mean he'd need to get in close and pray he was quick enough.
The first man came at him with a trident, stabbing for his throat. Jon slapped the weapon away with the flat of his blade before kicking the man square in the gut, forcing him to back pedal. The other came for him, one weilding a mace, the other a sword. Jon had to move fast to keep from having his ribs smashed in or losing a limb. He kept pace with them parrying or evading until he was able to reach out with an attack of his own, all the while the crowd drank in the spectacle. The trident man came for him again, this time lunging at his feet, hoping to skewer his legs or trip him up. Jon stepped on the end of the weapon, driving the tip into the muddy dirt before lashing out with one clean swing of his sword, opening the man's throat. He fell back, gurgling on his own blood.
Jon was rewarded for the kill with a nasty blow to the back from the mace, dropping him to his knees with a curse of pain. The mace weilder loomed over Jon before kicking him in the teeth, putting him flat on his back. Jon groaned, opening his eyes just in time to see the sword coming for him. Jon rolled and reached out with his sword, acting on instinct alone. His sword tasted flesh, but only just, leaving a shallow gash in one mans calf. Jon was on his feet as the swordsman dove for him, ready to run him through. Jon caught his arm and slammed his elbow into the mans face before ripping the sword from his hands. Jon ducked to avoid a swing to the face from the mace and quickly brought his own sword up in an upward swing, tearing open the mans chest in a gory shower of blood and bone.
Jon turned on the last man, a blade in each hand. The fighter was still on his knees, clutching his face from the elbow he'd recieved. He looked up and his eyes went wide as Jon stood over him in the rain with both blades. He knew death was coming and took a shuddering breath. He hung his head, waiting for the death blow as the crowd worked themselves into a frenzy. Jon crossed the blades in an X over the mans neck, ready to take his head, his blood still pumping hard in his veins. It would have been too easy to end the man there and then. The crowd chanting "KILL! KILL! KILL!" as Jon gripped the pommels of the swords. He looked up, seeing the thirst for death on the faces of the crowd.
Jon Stark tossed the blades in the mud, glared at the crowd and spat on the ground. The entire arena erupted in a chorus of boos and hisses but Jon didn't care, he'd won the day and would see tomorrow, that was enough. He didn't fight for them, he fought for her, so he could see her again and that was all. Jon made his way back to the cells as the crowd cursed his name. He got a few nods of approval from the other fighters. He touched his lip, that had been split from the kick to the face and grumbled but it was his back that was really sore. That blow from the mace would bruise and forbid him much sleep for the next few weeks.
Jon rejoined Jack, rubbing the back of his neck as he winced in pain.
"There were three of them this time... someone doesn't like me."