“So, you’re the legendary ‘White Walker Slayer’? I’ve heard of your great name for quite some time!” Oberyn twirled his spear with practiced ease, then planted it firmly into the ground. His eyes swept up and down his new opponent. “Ah, it seems the rumors aren’t all fiction after all. You really aren’t from Westeros, are you?”

“I come from a place called Tsena, west of the Sunset Sea.”

Since he’d already been shoved into the arena, there was no point in turning tail and diving back into the crowd. Losing to Oberyn wouldn’t bring shame, but lacking the courage to face him would only further damage the Night’s Watch’s already tarnished reputation. Thinking quickly, Aegor decided to make the first move, at least verbally.

“Dorne’s spearmanship is the best in the world; I have no argument with that. But since I’m already here, I’d like to experience it firsthand… Do you have a blunt sword? The lighter, the better.”

“A blunt sword?” A Dornish soldier immediately sneered. “Hah! You’d be lucky just to touch the hem of my prince’s cloak!”

Oberyn, well into middle age and long past the hotheadedness of youth, merely shook his head. “Let the boy choose whatever weapons and armor suit him best. If there’s nothing here to his liking, he can send for his own gear. There’s no need to fret over a blunt sword.”

Well, Aegor did have a sword with him, though for someone of his meager skill, there wasn’t much difference between his own weapon and a standard practice blade. He gave a self-deprecating shrug.

“Your Highness, you may not know this, but the Night’s Watch mostly fights wildlings. In terms of martial prowess, they’re not much different from ordinary farmers. The only real challenge is their overwhelming numbers.”

…

The more you use your brain, the sharper it gets. After leaving the Wall and partnering with Tyrion in King’s Landing, Aegor had cultivated the habit of warming up his mental muscles daily. He’d trained himself not to panic or freeze when faced with unexpected situations. Standing in that circle, it took only a few seconds for several potential strategies to surface in his mind.

“One thousand Night’s Watch brothers must defend against nearly 200,000 wildlings beyond the Wall. On average, that’s two hundred foes for each of us.” He exaggerated the numbers slightly. “Almost every battle we fight is against overwhelming odds. That’s why our training focuses on offense over defense, only by swiftly dispatching the enemy before us can we assist our comrades or move to the next target. If we hesitate, we risk being surrounded.”

Technically, that wasn’t a complete lie. Most wildlings fled at the mere sight of rangers unless they set an ambush. Beyond the Wall, the Night’s Watch rarely bothered with wildling villages unless they posed a direct threat. In truth, occasional bartering for supplies wasn’t unheard of, though the common folk in the Seven Kingdoms imagined a constant, bloody conflict.

“So?” Oberyn cocked his head, intrigued. He knew little about the Night’s Watch; after all, no member of House Martell had ever been exiled to the Wall.

“So,” Aegor continued earnestly, “our combat style is more instinctive—wild, even. We’re always preparing for real war, not civilized duels. We don’t fight for honor; we fight to kill.” His tone was serious, despite the nonsense spilling from his mouth. “Of course, Your Highness’s martial skill is unmatched. You’re no wildling, and I’m merely a logistics officer. I wouldn’t dare boast about my chances with a real sword. I’m afraid if I get flustered, I might injure myself.”

It’s hard to strike a man who flatters you so openly. Aegor had deliberately softened his tone, conceding inferiority and appealing to Oberyn’s better nature. The Red Viper, who bore no particular grudge against the Night’s Watch, chuckled and nodded.

“Very well. Bring the man a blunt sword.”

…

With a flick of his wrist, Oberyn tossed his spear to a soldier standing at the edge of the crowd. The man quickly returned with a blunt practice spear. It was an unwritten rule: when one combatant opted for a dulled weapon, the other was expected to follow suit, a nod to chivalry, even here on the eve of war.

Though the realm was at war, the men here still adhered to certain codes.

Aegor accepted the practice sword and declined the offer of protective armor, opting instead for a small round shield just large enough to guard his vitals.

Facing an opponent as agile as Oberyn while weighed down with heavy armor would be pure folly. His sword skills were already mediocre; adding cumbersome gear would only worsen his odds. Besides, Oberyn wasn’t a bloodthirsty brute. As one of Dorne’s ruling elite, he had no reason to seriously harm a Night’s Watchman, especially in an informal duel like this.

If the prince genuinely wished him harm, armor wouldn’t make much difference anyway.

Still, caution was warranted. By pushing for blunt weapons and declaring his preference for offense over defense, Aegor hoped to provoke Oberyn into underestimating him. Masters like the Red Viper often grow arrogant in the face of amateurs. If he thinks I’m nothing more than an overeager novice, maybe… just maybe… he’ll leave an opening.

“The Night’s Watch trains for survival, not showmanship,” Aegor said, tightening his grip on the hilt. “We aim to kill, not fight fair. I look forward to seeing Dorne’s legendary spearmanship in action. Please go easy on me.”

The words were courteous, the tone humble but for the first time since being shoved into the arena, Aegor felt a spark of genuine resolve.

Admit you’re a coward, use your best moves, then find the right moment to lose or surrender.

That was Aegor’s entire plan.

It sounded simple, but executing it was far more difficult. After standing with his sword raised for only a few seconds, Aegor realized he had no idea how to attack.

Oberyn stood across from him, relaxed and casual, spinning his spear like a golden hoop as if he were performing for children. From the outside, his posture seemed riddled with openings but Aegor knew better. Every move was deliberate, every gap an illusion. He could already picture it: the moment he lunged, Oberyn’s counterattack would come with lightning speed, leaving him flailing like Brienne of Tarth had minutes earlier.

This is what it feels like to face a true master, Aegor thought. After less than ten seconds of facing the Red Viper, he felt like one of those doomed villains from a martial arts tale, a pawn confronting the story’s hero. His instincts screamed that any attack would be suicidal, while standing still only prolonged the inevitable. His grip tightened on his shield as beads of sweat trickled down his back, despite the summer warmth of the valley.

…

“Come on, White Walker Slayer!” shouted a voice from the crowd, someone eager to see blood spilled, as long as it wasn’t their own.

“Show that southerner what Northerners can do!” added another, this one clearly from the North. The Northmen always treated the black-clad brothers as their own.

“Stop dawdling and fight already!” complained a third voice, betraying complete ignorance of swordplay. Only amateurs dismissed the opening moments of a duel as mere time-wasting.

Oberyn, meanwhile, studied his opponent with a practiced eye. The boy had clearly received training, nothing extraordinary, but he wasn’t just flailing around either. The prince had crossed swords with mercenaries like him many times before. Still, there was something puzzling about him. The accent, the clothes… Where had he said he was from? West of the Sunset Sea?

Clean-cut, sharp eyes… Oberyn’s lips curved into a wicked smirk. He suddenly wondered if this so-called White Walker Slayer might be as adventurous in bed as he was on the battlefield.

He spread his arms wide, leaving his chest exposed in mock invitation. “Come on,” he called, voice low and smooth. “You take the first shot.”

Aegor had no inkling of the prince’s… personal intrigue. He only saw an opening finally, a genuine gap to exploit. If I hesitate now, he’ll grow bored and punish me for it.

You’re not here to win. Just attack and get it over with.

Planting his left foot into the dirt, Aegor launched himself forward, raising a small cloud of dust in his wake.

The sword in his hand was lighter than he expected, a fortunate choice by the tournament’s organizer. His custom-made black clothes, free of armor or leather, didn’t restrict his movements in the slightest. He moved with unexpected speed, his sword thrusting forward like a bolt of lightning.

…

Oberyn’s expression shifted from amusement to surprise. He hadn’t stepped into this ring solely for fun. He had hoped that by trouncing a few lesser knights, he might provoke one of the Lannisters into retaliating. If only Gregor Clegane would show himself, he thought darkly.

Yet the Lannisters in camp had grown scarce since the fights began. Instead, they’d sent this Night’s Watchman into the ring, an unknown man with an odd accent and surprising speed.

Oberyn pivoted instinctively, his body reacting before his mind caught up. The spear’s tip flicked toward the oncoming sword, intercepting the thrust with an effortless tap. His instincts screamed to counter with a sweep at the legs, an easy, humiliating move, but he hesitated.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep