NOVEL NEXT Chapter 110: Chapter 110
Aegor had only come south from the Wall a few months ago. During his free time in King's Landing, he'd kept up with some basic training, often sparring with Arya for hours at a time. His technique hadn't improved much, but his physical fitness, muscle strength, reflexes, and endurance remained sharp.
Now, as his first thrust missed its target, he realized he'd won his gamble. He immediately shifted his grip, dropped his wrist, and bypassed Oberyn's spear tip. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he swung his lightweight one-handed sword in a swift, unexpected arc.
Oberyn twisted his spear in response, drawing a small circle in the air to dissolve the blow before countering with a sharp jab.
The blunt spear shot toward Aegor's chest with terrifying speed. Though it lacked a lethal tip, instinct screamed that it would pierce his heart. He reacted without thinking, twisting his torso and raising his shield just in time. The spear struck the shield with surprising force, sending a wave of numbness up his arm.
The prince hadn't even exerted full force. Aegor was certain of it. Still, he couldn't afford to hesitate. Clenching his teeth, he pushed closer and lunged again.
"Nice!"
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Everyone knew the saying: An inch longer, an inch stronger. A sword, by nature, was disadvantaged against a spear. The only viable tactic was to close the distance. Aegor's bold move, though more instinctive than strategic gave the illusion that he'd successfully forced Oberyn into close quarters, seemingly gaining the upper hand.
Had Brienne still been there, or if a true master like Ser Barristan Selmy or Jaime Lannister had been watching, they would've sneered at the crowd's naivety. They would've pointed out that Oberyn was humoring his opponent. Aegor's movements were riddled with flaws, his technique unpolished. But the Red Viper, rather than exploiting these weaknesses, was deliberately engaging Aegor at his strongest point: speed.
Some might call it reckless. Others would call it pride. Oberyn wanted to beat Aegor where he was strongest to prove that Dorne's spearmen were peerless in every sense.
"Ping!" "Bang!"
…
Even Aegor struggled to process what had just happened. One moment, he was mid-swing. The next, his shield and sword simultaneously absorbed powerful strikes that sent him staggering back half a step just beyond spear range.
The crowd, blissfully unaware of the gap in skill, roared with excitement. They thought they were witnessing a clash between masters. Aegor, on the other hand, was painfully aware of how one-sided the fight truly was.
"Come on, Night's Watchman!" Oberyn grinned, spreading his arms in mock invitation once again.
Aegor's head throbbed from the prince's lightning-quick counterattack. His original plan had been to find an excuse to surrender after a few moves, but Oberyn's teasing got under his skin. I can't back down now not this soon.
Gritting his teeth, he charged again.
Raising his shield horizontally to cover his chest and lifting the sword above his head, he sprinted forward and brought the blade down in a powerful overhead slash. The last time he'd used this move was against the White Walkers. It was an ill-suited tactic against an opponent with a spear, but Oberyn didn't seem inclined to hurt him. That fact gave Aegor just enough confidence to commit.
"Good!" Oberyn called, nimbly sidestepping the downward strike. As he retreated, his spear tip flicked the blade aside with contemptuous ease.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he thrust the blunt spear toward Aegor's face, stopping mere inches from his nose before tapping the shield again.
(If this spear were real, I'd have a hole through my skull right now.)
The realization sent a cold shiver down Aegor's spine. Oberyn hadn't merely dodged and counterattacked; he'd done so with deliberate flair, casually reminding his opponent how easily he could end the fight if he wished.
Despite exceeding his usual abilities, Aegor was being utterly outclassed. His plan to feign defeat? Laughable. Against someone this skilled, he couldn't even "lose" convincingly. Every time he tried to create an opportunity, the Red Viper shut him down with humiliating ease.
So this is what true mastery looks like.
He clenched his sword tighter. He'd always dismissed martial prowess as irrelevant compared to money, status, and strategy. But here, in this moment, it hit him: skill with a blade could be the difference between life and death between survival and slaughter.
I need to take my training seriously. I don't need to become a master, just good enough to defend myself.
The crowd's cheers continued, oblivious to Aegor's internal epiphany. They saw only the fearless Night's Watchman pressing the Prince of Dorne with relentless attacks. They cheered his "ferocity" and Oberyn's "graceful counters" without grasping the vast gulf between the two fighters.
Aegor, meanwhile, recognized his predicament. He saw Oberyn's playful smirk and understood the prince was toying with him. Yet, for all his awareness, he lacked the skill to punish that carelessness.
He was stuck. Unable to retreat without humiliation, incapable of surprising his opponent with brute force.
---
Ironically, the skill gap that doomed him also brought an unexpected advantage: there was no real risk of harming Oberyn.
The swelling crowd shouted louder and louder, drawn by the promise of a duel between the "Red Viper" and the "White Walker Slayer."
Aegor exhaled, steadied himself, and charged once more. His shield slammed into the oncoming spear, pushing it aside as he forced his way into close quarters.
The crisp clang of clashing weapons mixed with the shouts and jeers of the onlookers, creating a cacophony around the arena. Aegor's relentless attacks were deflected time and again without him suffering any real harm. With that weight lifted from his mind, he abandoned caution and swung his one-handed sword with full force, leaving faint afterimages in the air. Oberyn's spear moved even faster, weaving through the strikes like a serpent, dazzling the crowd.
Thrust—without pausing—then follow with a swift slash while catching his breath. Knock the spear aside with the shield and keep pushing forward. Few dared to fight this way. Such an aggressive, unyielding rhythm could easily cause one's stance to falter, exposing fatal gaps. But Aegor had committed fully to offense, discarding defense entirely. He didn't care about openings anymore, there was no plan to win, only to survive with some shred of dignity.
"Ping! Pang! Bang!"
The sharp, rhythmic sounds of steel meeting wood echoed through the circle. How long had it been? Thirty seconds? A minute? Longer? Aegor couldn't tell. He only knew he'd repeated every drill he'd once taught Arya, moves he'd demonstrated absentmindedly months ago in King's Landing.
But the difference between the Red Viper and himself was infinitely greater than that between himself and Arya. No matter how fast he attacked, no matter how unorthodox or desperate the strike, Oberyn intercepted each blow at the exact moment it reached its peak momentum. Then, with a casual flick, he would tap the edge of Aegor's shield with his spear. Just enough force to leave a visible dent, never enough to crack it or knock it from his grasp.
From a technical standpoint, the fight resembled a master toying with his apprentice. But the spectators, ignorant of the nuances only saw Aegor's dogged persistence and Oberyn's measured counters.
"Bang!"
Aegor staggered backward as another precise strike jarred his shield. When he regained his footing, his muscles screamed in protest. His stamina was spent; his arms burned from the effort. Glancing down, he saw the wooden shield riddled with pits and grooves. Those spear marks, he realized, represented the many times Oberyn had chosen not to hit his body.
His left forearm throbbed from countless glancing blows. The skin, scraped raw beneath the shield's straps, burned with every movement. I should've worn gloves.
Aegor sucked in a deep breath and raised his eyes. Oberyn stood across the circle, still composed, still smirking. And then the prince gave him a deliberate wink.
(What does that mean? Is he telling me to surrender? Or to keep going?)
Aegor hesitated. He'd exhausted his strongest moves, and his body was flagging. He could drag the fight out longer by cycling through every sword technique he knew, but what was the point? He'd gained enough face.
Time to surrender while I still have some dignity.
"Aegor! Where are you?"
The sudden call jolted Aegor from his thoughts. His first instinct was to ignore it, getting distracted during a duel was a surefire way to get killed. But then his mind caught up with the opportunity that had just fallen into his lap. A perfect excuse to bow out.
Feigning confusion, Aegor lowered his sword and turned toward the voice.
"Hmm?" Oberyn followed his gaze toward a nearby hill. A soldier was leading a figure dressed in black toward the ring.
Aegor squinted and immediately recognized the newcomer: Yoren. Finally.
The gods must be smiling on me today. He loosened the shield straps and let the battered wood drop to the ground. "Your Highness, your skill is unmatched, it's been a true honor." He bowed deeply. "But the Wall has sent a messenger south. It must be an important matter, and I need to receive my brother from Castle Black. I surrender."
For the first time in his life, Aegor found that surrendering could feel genuinely satisfying. He walked to the edge of the circle, handed the practice sword to the nearest attendant, and made a beeline for the approaching black-cloaked figure.
"Official duties must come first," Oberyn called after him, still leaning on his spear with that same lazy smile. "Perhaps we can pick up where we left off this evening? A little more spear-and-sword practice… and maybe a lively discussion about life while we're at it?"