Arya had great natural talent for swordplay, but some things couldn’t be mastered through intelligence alone or by spending a few months training on a practice yard. The reason Aegor had recognized he was no match for the Red Viper within seconds was because he had sparred and fought countless times, against his brothers in the Night’s Watch, against wildlings beyond the Wall. His skill might not have been exceptional, but his experience and judgment served him well.

Arya, on the other hand, was still at the stage where she judged an opponent’s strength based on reputation, hearsay, and guesswork. She knew Oberyn was stronger than Aegor but how much stronger?

—

Without hesitation, Arya circled Oberyn in a half-arc, moving lightly on her feet. She feinted a small charge, then confidently lunged forward, aiming a precise stab at the prince’s abdomen with her wooden sword.

It was fast. Faster than Aegor had expected.

But for Oberyn Martell, it was no threat at all.

“Left shoulder,” he murmured, effortlessly flicking Arya’s sword aside before tapping her left shoulder with the rounded tip of his practice blade.

The girl had left herself completely unguarded. Oberyn found it a little awkward, he wasn’t fond of making a child look foolish but a hit was a hit. If an opponent didn’t feel the strike, they might not acknowledge it. And in a duel, ensuring no one was harmed was far more difficult than simply winning. Fortunately, Arya’s skill was far from polished.

“Ow!”

Arya recoiled as if stung, yelping in surprise and rubbing her shoulder. The speed at which the exchange had ended left the onlookers momentarily stunned. Margaery stiffened, momentarily worried—if something happened to Arya Stark here, it wouldn’t be a mere joke.

…

But Arya’s expression showed she was unharmed. The sting on her shoulder was nothing compared to her burning curiosity. How had he done that? How had he landed a hit at the exact moment of parrying?

It must have been a coincidence.

Unwilling to accept the result, she readjusted her stance. Ignoring the murmured warnings from the spectators, she attacked again. This time, she came at him directly, only to veer suddenly to the side, launching an angled strike at his flank.

Tsk. Two months away, and she’s improved.

Arya’s attack was well-executed—her speed, angle, even her form were commendable. If Aegor had been her opponent, he might have been caught off guard.

Oberyn didn’t even turn. He simply shifted his head to glance at her, his hand moving in a blur.

“Right shoulder,” he called, just as his practice sword struck hers twice in rapid succession.

The first impact sent a jolt up her arm. The second landed on her right shoulder.

“So fast.” Even Margaery, an amateur, let out a gasp of admiration.

None of them had seen Oberyn’s movements, only the results. All they could do was piece together what had happened from the sharp cracks of wood on wood. Aegor, having once been on the receiving end of such an attack, could vividly imagine Arya’s shock.

I didn’t expect him to go all out like that… and except for the force he held back at the last moment, he barely restrained himself.

—

“That was a fine display of Water Dancing, Lady Stark,” Oberyn remarked. He had spent time in the Free Cities, he recognized the style immediately. “It’s one of the best sword techniques for women. You’ve already grasped the fundamentals, but you need far more practice. Have you truly only trained for a few months? Who taught you?”

He turned his gaze to Aegor. Had this Night’s Watchman been holding back when they fought?

“I didn’t teach her. I only built her foundation,” Aegor admitted, not wanting the prince to overestimate him. He had no intention of being mistaken for a master swordsman. Without hesitation, he betrayed the real teacher. “It was Akun—one of my men. A swordsman from Lorath.”

Oberyn turned to Jaqen, scrutinizing him. But the face he saw was that of an ordinary man, unreadable and unfamiliar.

“How did you do that?” Arya demanded, drawing Oberyn’s attention back. “You said I’ve grasped the essence, so why could you still counter me so easily?”

“It’s simple. I’m faster than you.” Oberyn grinned. “Besides, grasping something is far from mastering it. Your foundation is solid, and you use your movements well. Holding your sword in your left hand is clever, it makes your attacks less predictable. But for now, you’re only imitating form. You haven’t yet made the technique yours. Fixed moves have their uses, but they’re also easier to counter.”

Arya frowned. She had improved significantly in the past two months—why did it still feel like there was a chasm between them? “Then what do I need to do to get better?”

“There’s no shortcut. More practice. More opponents of similar skill. Keep at it, and one day, you may be the finest Water Dancer and swordswoman in Westeros.” He paused, then his expression hardened slightly. “But I have no interest in being your sparring partner. If you challenge me again now, you’ll gain nothing but frustration. Do you still want to continue?”

“Arya, I told you to find practice partners, not opponents this far beyond your level,” Jaqen muttered, rarely speaking. “Surrender now, or you will only suffer further.”

“One more time!” Arya ignored them all, frustration brimming in her voice. “Slow down! I can’t even see what you’re doing!” She crossed her arms and scowled. “And stop poking my shoulder—it hurts!”

…

Ellaria Sand, who had been watching from the sidelines, suddenly burst into laughter.

“He says he won’t be your sparring partner, and yet you’re telling him to go slower and stop hitting you? How is he supposed to fight, little wolf?”

Oberyn chuckled. “Alright, I’ll slow down. Next time, I’ll tap your foot instead. Your shoes should cushion the blow.”

“Arya.” Aegor sighed. He wasn’t a noble like Margaery or Oberyn—if something happened to Arya here, he would be the one held responsible. “Did you not hear what the prince just said? Why not admit defeat with some dignity?”

“Just one more time!” Arya refused to listen, already lunging forward again. This time, wary of another hit to her shoulder, she focused her eyes solely on Oberyn’s sword, keeping track of its movements. She shifted her footwork, avoiding his range, and spun behind him for a strike at his back.

“You learn quickly.” Oberyn tilted his head slightly, showing a flicker of approval. “But Water Dancing wasn’t meant for this kind of attack.”

This time, he didn’t use his full speed or experience to overwhelm her. He stood still and allowed her to land two strikes before he finally moved.

…

Oberyn Martell was not just the Red Viper, one of the greatest warriors in Westeros. He was a prince of Dorne, brother to the ruling Lord of Sunspear, and one of the few people who could influence the future of House Martell. He had far too much to do.

He had already wasted much of his day following Margaery to observe the Night’s Watch industries and offices. Befriending a Stark girl might be a smart move, but casting a wide net and hoping someone useful swam into it? That was a Tyrell tactic, and one he had little interest in.

Still, he humored Arya’s request. He slowed his attacks as promised.

For the first time, the onlookers could actually see the details of the exchange. Arya was no longer being caught off guard, but she was far from relieved. The relentless crack of wooden swords filled the yard. She wasn’t being struck anymore, but she was barely holding on, struggling just to keep up.

“Left foot!”

Hearing his call, Arya instinctively pulled her left foot back.

“Right foot!”

She flinched and retracted her right foot as well—without stepping back. Her rhythm shattered.

With a startled cry from Margaery, Arya lost her balance.

“Aahhh—!”

But before she could hit the ground, a firm hand caught her by the collar, lifting her half off the ground.

She dangled there in Oberyn’s grasp, completely at his mercy.

“Head.”

The Red Viper finally spoke, making Arya flinch. She instinctively raised her arms to shield herself, only for Oberyn to smoothly pluck the wooden sword from her grasp. With a bemused smile, he helped her back onto her feet.

“Tsk. By the rules, unless you’ve got another weapon hidden on you, that means you lose.”

This was no fluke.

At last, Arya fully grasped the vast difference between them. More importantly, she realized that Oberyn had never intended to spar with her in the first place. Pouting, she admitted defeat. “Fine, I surrender.”

“If you truly wish to practice with me, go home and speak to your father, Eddard Stark. Marry into Dorne, and everything will be much easier.” Oberyn sheathed his practice sword, letting her go with a smirk. “My brother has two sons—Prince Quentyn and Prince Trystane. Both are fine boys.”

“Hmph! That… we’ll talk about it later.” Arya scowled. The mere mention of princes irritated her, Joffrey had left an awful impression. All princes had to be insufferable.

Frustrated, she turned and ran back to Aegor, tugging at his sleeve with pleading eyes. “Master, the Red Viper doesn’t even know how to go easy on me! You should spar with me instead!”

“Oh? You just said I wasn’t as good as him, and now you come running back after getting schooled?” Aegor arched a brow, unimpressed. “Check if your shoulder is bruised, then go have lunch!”

Though he kept up the stern demeanor of a master, inwardly, he was relieved. Good. Oberyn taught her a lesson today—that should curb her arrogance for now.

But what about in a few months, when her skill improved so much that even he couldn’t keep up with her?

…Now that was a problem for future Aegor.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep