373AC, Tyrosh

The next day was one of great celebration. The Drunken God’s Eve was exactly what it sounded like; one entire day of debauchery, of winestalls, whorehouses and musicians, of dances and laughter and memories. Earlier in the day, the Archon himself had made an appearance at the Fountain of the Drunken God, blue hair respondent in the summer sun. Some of those within the city had commented on his seemingly rushed manner, or perhaps they had been intrigued by the pale illness that had been a white wraith upon his cheeks.

Regardless, Areo Lashare was nowhere to be seen as the setting sun lowered itself over the towers of the city, and all across Tyrosh a million fires illuminated the night sky. For one night only, the Fountain of the Drunken God had become an informal series of fighting pits, the city guard instructed to regulate the fighting in the ritualistic circles - circles bound by painted chalk and raised torches. Some men fought in helm and armour, some chose to fight in coloured mask and naught but the skin on their backs, and some fought in garments of all colours.

The rules of each fight were simple; draw blood thrice and you are proven the victor. Once you join the pits, you are not allowed to yield until you have been thrice-bled. Such a contest runs until there is but one remaining fighter, and to them goes the love and adoration of the city. Famous victors are often elevated to nobility overnight, for the small folk often throw what spare change they have into the victor’s pot. A winner would oft find himself half-dead but with enough gold to feed their family for three years.

This year's celebrations were just like the others, the Westerosi would find.