Knights crowded the training yard of the White Keep, eager to witness the bout between King Viserys III Targaryen and Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne.
Rhaenys and Daenerys watched from the high balcony of the King's Tower, observing the spectacle below.
A duel between top-tier fighters is always an art form.
The Red Viper was hailed as the "mightiest warrior in Dorne," and even in the wider context of the Seven Kingdoms and the Known World, he was a combatant of the highest caliber.
Viserys, though young, had already made a name for himself in Andalos for his fearlessness—a true Warrior Incarnate.
In Viserys's estimation, the current roster of super-elite fighters included only a handful of names: Robert Baratheon, the Red Viper, the Kingslayer, and Khal Drogo.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, hovered somewhere between elite and super-elite. His age was catching up to him, though his vast experience allowed him to crush lesser opponents. But stamina would eventually betray him against a younger master.
As for the rest of the Kingsguard, many were just glorified placeholders.
Below the super-elites were men like the Mountain, the Hound, Greatjon Umber, Garlan Tyrell, Lyn Corbray (who had a taste for young boys), and Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.
There were likely masters hidden in the corners of the world—Wildlings beyond the Wall, pit fighters in Meereen, Ironborn reavers, or bravos in the Free Cities—but Viserys lacked information on them.
The Red Viper entered the yard lightly armored. Aside from greaves, vambraces, a gorget, and a mail shirt with a armored skirt, he wore only soft leather and smooth silk.
Over his mail, he wore a tunic of gleaming copper scales, but even combined, his protection was less than a quarter of full plate. His helm was open-faced, stripped of visor.
This was the Dornish way. Their smaller horses and the blistering heat of their homeland dictated a reliance on light cavalry tactics rather than the heavy, lance-breaking charges of the Reach or the Westerlands.
Oberyn's round steel shield was polished to a mirror sheen, emblazoned with the sun-and-spear sigil of House Martell in a mix of red gold, yellow gold, white gold, and copper.
Viserys, in contrast, was clad in black heavy plate. The dark steel was etched with the image of three dragons, looking like the Long Night made manifest. Over his armor, he wore a surcoat of black with the red dragon.
He eschewed the flat-topped great helm, which limited vision, in favor of his winged dragon helm.
The Red Viper wielded a spear ten feet long—the weapon of choice for a Dornishman. It was similar to the one he would famously use (and die with) in his duel against the Mountain years later. The shaft was smooth, thick, and heavy ash wood, with the last two feet sheathed in steel.
The slender, leaf-shaped spearhead had been blunted into a rough ball for training. Were this a real fight, the point would be wicked sharp, capable of shaving a man's beard.
Viserys carried a blunted greatsword, thickened and widened for training. It looked incongruous with his slender build. His oak shield bore the roaring dragon, claws bared.
"Your sword and armor are too heavy, Your Grace. They will slow you down and drain your stamina," the Red Viper advised.
Oberyn was a veteran of many battlefields and had traveled Essos extensively. His combat experience was vast.
"I am facing the Red Viper. I must take every precaution," Viserys replied.
Oberyn shook his head. The young man was too confident. He sensed Viserys would be dragged down by the sheer weight of his gear.
Oberyn's hypothetical opponent had always been a behemoth like the Mountain. Viserys was clearly not a mountain of muscle like Clegane. He was built for speed and agility, not brute force. Wearing such heavy plate seemed like putting the cart before the horse.
But seeing Viserys's confidence, Oberyn said no more.
"I trained with master-at-arms in Dorne, rode with the Second Sons, and founded my own company," Oberyn said, spinning his spear casually.
"I trained under the Red Keep's master-at-arms, Ser Willem Darry, then Ser Rolly Duckfield, and the Water Dancer Moro, and the First Sword Syrio Forel," Viserys countered, limbering up.
A horn blasted, and the duel officially began.
When the distance closed to ten yards, the Red Viper struck.
His spear lashed out in a thrust. Viserys caught it on his shield, deflecting it to the side.
Then Viserys swung his greatsword, chopping down at Oberyn. The Red Viper evaded effortlessly, his spear stabbing out again.
Oberyn was testing Viserys's movements, gauging his strength and speed. He planned to end the match with a flurry of aggressive attacks; Viserys's heavy armor and sword would drain him quickly.
Watching Viserys move, Oberyn felt even more strongly that the boy's loadout was wrong. Viserys should have adopted a style like his own—high agility, fast attacks, supplemented by strength. No warrior is perfectly balanced.
Oberyn intended to win quickly with speed rather than attrition, which would also save the King some face.
The Red Viper retreated, then surged forward, his spear gliding across Viserys's breastplate at tricky angles. The blunted tip made dull thuds; had it been sharp, the sound would have been the screech of metal shearing.
Viserys watched him closely. The man was truly a master of the spear.
Robert had his warhammer, the Kingslayer his sword, and the Red Viper his spear. To improve, Viserys needed to fight opponents of this caliber—SSR-tier masters—rather than second-rate fighters who offered no challenge.
Viserys began his counterattack, his steps surprisingly light. The heavy blunted sword roared through the air, flashing with cold, dark light.
"This is a brawl, not an assassination," Oberyn said with a sigh. He felt Viserys's aggressive style was tactical suicide; he would lose his agility very soon.
"A brawl indeed."
The tempo escalated. The Dornish spear danced around the greatsword, flickering in and out like a viper's tongue.
Viserys proved flexible and adaptable. Oberyn's spear struck his midsection, but Viserys's greatsword swung upward in return, landing a heavy blow on Oberyn's arm.
Both men were masters of feints. Oberyn utilized deceptive strikes—aiming low but thrusting high, using the spear to probe for gaps around the shield.
But Viserys was not the Mountain. He perceived Oberyn's attacks with sharp clarity. Tricking a master of Viserys's caliber was far more difficult.
"Careful!" Oberyn spun, thrust, retreated, constantly draining Viserys's energy.
"Thanks for the warning!" Viserys defended, dodged, and pressed forward with his greatsword, sticking close.
The spear was a forest of thrusts; the sword was a raging fire.
Oberyn gradually shed his arrogance. Viserys was not a giant, yet he possessed the strength of one, combined with extraordinary agility and resilience. For his age, this talent surpassed even Rhaegar's.
Rhaegar had been gifted, but he lacked the lust for battle.
Oberyn relied on reach and speed, while Viserys used his agility to close the distance, hounding Oberyn relentlessly.
The Dragon and the Viper whipped up a storm of steel. Their movements were as fast as butterflies threading through flowers, the clash of weapons ringing out in a heavy rhythm.
Feints, thrusts, parries—it was dazzling to behold, wave after wave of attacks.
The crowd cheered wildly, shouting their approval of the thrilling fight.
Viserys and Oberyn seemed cut from the same cloth—lithe, agile, and deadly. The fight possessed a lethal beauty.
"He is fourteen?" Oberyn, locked in combat, felt his surprise mounting with every exchange.
By all logic, Viserys's speed and attack rate should have dropped by now; his stamina should have failed under the weight of the armor. But Viserys was still as lively as a tiger, showing no signs of fatigue.
Oberyn had traveled many cities and fought many battles. He had never seen true balance. Even top masters had weaknesses. But Viserys seemed to have none.
Unless... unless Viserys was strong enough to surpass even the Sword of the Morning.
"Is he truly a prodigy?" Oberyn's spear whistled through the air, targeting Viserys's thighs, arms, chest.
Viserys dodged nimbly, evading the heavy blows while returning fire. The two circled the yard like prowling beasts.
Viserys's shield took a beating, the three-headed dragon nearly reduced to splinters. Finally, he discarded the ruined shield to face the final clash two-handed.
Viserys's greatsword swept forward like a millstone. Oberyn met him.
Just as it seemed Viserys's strike could be dodged, he changed the angle mid-swing.
The force crashed into Oberyn. Though he blocked with his shield, the impact shuddered through his bones.
"Good lad!" Oberyn praised, releasing his spear grip to leap backward.
He weathered the blow, and as Viserys moved to follow up, Oberyn spun, reclaiming his spear range. The spearhead smiled grimly like a poisonous fang, blurring into a shadow.
They fought until their armor was dented and scarred.
In the end, Oberyn's cunning spear and years of experience won the day. But it had been a close thing, and Viserys had fought in full plate with a greatsword.
After the match, Oberyn seemed humbled.
Fighting a teenager to a standstill for this long was, frankly, embarrassing for the Red Viper. This tactical setup was meant for the Mountain, not for sparring with a child.
The knights dispersed, still buzzing with excitement, leaving only Viserys and Oberyn in the yard.
"Honestly, Your Grace, how long have you trained?" Oberyn asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Since I was small, but formally? Since I was about fourteen until now," Viserys replied.
Oberyn sucked in a cold breath. "So, you've really only trained seriously for less than a year? Seven Hells... you are a monster. I heard the Kingslayer was a prodigy with the sword, but Tywin had him training with master-at-arms since he could walk. But you... this..."
Oberyn didn't look down on Rolly or Moro, but among Viserys's teachers, only Syrio Forel held real weight.
Viserys nodded, setting down his sword. That was satisfying. Fighting the number one SSR warrior of the Dorne server was exhilarating.
There's no help for it, Oberyn. It's all about the stats. My stats will eventually surpass everyone.
Oberyn dropped his spear and walked over to Viserys, a look of genuine appreciation in his eyes.
It wasn't courtly admiration, but the appreciation of one warrior for another's prowess.
"A thirty-something Red Viper can defeat a fourteen-year-old Viserys. But a fourteen-year-old Red Viper would have lost without a doubt. I thought Daemon Sand was the best of the younger generation in Dorne, but now I see he's only fit to carry your boots."
"It seems my tenure as your tutor won't last long," Oberyn quipped.
"At least until my spear skills match yours," Viserys decided to milk the free lessons for all they were worth.
Oberyn also filled the gap of a maester. Currently, Andalos was short on educated men. Oberyn had studied at the Citadel and forged six links of a chain before getting bored and quitting.
Weapons, poisons, knowledge, hidden tactics.
Among the super-elite fighters, the Red Viper was the most versatile. He was the most learned among the fighters, and the best fighter among the scholars.
"Years ago, you dueled old Lord Yronwood, and he died of his wounds shortly after. Was it intentional, or an accident?" Viserys asked.
"I didn't use poison," Oberyn replied with a shrug. "But I didn't intend for him to live, either."