Chapter 137

Arya undeniably possessed exceptional talent for swordsmanship, but there were some skills that could not be acquired through intelligence or a short period of training on the practice field. Aegor could hold his own against the Red Viper for a few seconds because of his extensive experience sparring with countless brothers of the Night’s Watch and wildlings beyond the Wall. While his skill level wasn’t extraordinary, he had enough practical experience and instinct to recognize the immense gap between himself and Oberyn Martell.

Arya, however, was still far from understanding how to gauge an opponent’s ability. Her perception remained rooted in notions like reputation, hearsay, and guesswork. She knew Oberyn was stronger than Aegor—but how much stronger? She had no idea.

…

Without much hesitation, Arya mimicked the movements she’d seen during her training sessions. She circled Oberyn in a wide arc, taking light and measured steps. After feinting a small lunge, she darted forward with confidence, thrusting her wooden sword toward Oberyn’s abdomen.

It was surprisingly fast, enough to make Aegor raise an eyebrow.

Fast, yes—but to the Red Viper, it posed no threat.

“Left shoulder,” Oberyn said casually. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he deflected Arya’s sword with his wooden stick and tapped her left shoulder with its rounded tip.

Oberyn found the lack of protective gear on the girl troublesome. Still, a sparring match wasn’t complete unless contact was made—just enough for the opponent to understand they’d been hit, without causing harm. Ensuring someone left a duel entirely unscathed was far harder than merely winning.

Arya yelped in surprise, retreating swiftly as if she’d been stung. Standing still, she rubbed her left shoulder with her right hand, her face contorted with confusion. The gathered spectators tensed nervously—Arya Stark was no ordinary child. If she were hurt, it wouldn’t be a small matter.

…

The girl’s expression soon reassured everyone that she was fine. The spot where she’d been struck stung, but it didn’t hinder her movement. What occupied Arya’s mind more than the pain was how Oberyn had managed to deflect her attack and counter with such ease. How had he tapped her shoulder in the same motion?

It had to be a fluke.

Unconvinced, Arya reset her stance, ignoring the concerned murmurs of the onlookers. This time, she advanced directly toward Oberyn, sidestepped mid-charge, and aimed her strike from his flank.

Not bad. Aegor couldn’t help but feel impressed. Arya’s speed, angles, and overall execution were far better than before. If he were the target, he might’ve been caught off guard. But Oberyn didn’t even bother to turn his body. He glanced sideways at Arya, parried her thrust effortlessly, and declared, “Right shoulder.”

There was no mistaking the intent behind his words. Arya instinctively raised her wooden sword to block, twisting her body to shield the shoulder he had called out. But no matter how focused or wide-eyed she was, she still couldn’t follow his movements. With two crisp strikes—thwack, thwack—her sword was struck twice, her arm trembled from the force, and she felt a now-familiar sting on her right shoulder.

“Impressive speed,” even Margaery, a complete novice, couldn’t help but murmur in admiration.

None of the spectators had managed to see Oberyn’s counterattacks. The rapidity of his strikes, paired with Arya’s astonished reaction, was all the proof they needed of his prowess. Aegor, who had experienced Oberyn’s skill firsthand, could only shake his head silently.

(Who would’ve thought Oberyn was not only this good with a sword but also willing to hold back just enough to avoid seriously injuring Arya?)

…

“A beautiful display of water dancing, Miss Stark,” Oberyn remarked. He had traveled through the Free Cities and immediately recognized Arya’s style. “It’s one of the most suitable sword techniques for women, and you’ve already grasped its essence. Have you really only been practicing for a few months? Who taught you?”

The Red Viper turned toward Aegor, suspicion flashing across his face. Could it be that this Night’s Watchman had been hiding his true abilities?

“It wasn’t me,” Aegor denied the notion immediately, unwilling to draw Oberyn’s attention. He pointed decisively at Jaqen H’ghar. “It was one of my employees, a swordsman from Lorath named Aqoon.”

Oberyn glanced at Jaqen, who wore the plain, unassuming face of a man few would notice.

“How did you do that?” Arya interrupted indignantly, dragging Oberyn’s attention back. “You said I’ve grasped the essence of water dancing, so why was it so easy for you to counter me?”

“It’s simple—I’m faster,” Oberyn said with a grin. “And grasping the essence is still far from mastering it. Your fundamentals are solid, your movements are fluid, and using your left hand gives you an edge. But for now, you’re still imitating the ‘form.’ You haven’t made it your own yet. Fixed patterns might be effective, but they’re also predictable.”

Frustrated by his criticism, Arya pouted. “Then how do I improve?”

“There’s no shortcut,” Oberyn said bluntly. “Practice more. Face opponents of similar skill levels. Persevere, and one day, you’ll become Westeros’s finest water dancer and swordswoman.” He paused, his smile fading slightly. “But I have no interest in being your sparring partner. Fighting me now will only hurt your confidence and yield little else. Do you still want to continue?”

Jaqen, usually tight-lipped, spoke up from the sidelines. “Arya, finding a sparring partner doesn’t mean choosing someone far out of your league. Concede before you hurt yourself further.”

“One more round!” Arya puffed her cheeks defiantly. “But this time, slow down so I can see what you’re doing! And stop poking my shoulders—it hurts!”

…

The Dornish women among the spectators giggled at her demands. Oberyn had already refused to be her sparring partner, and now she was asking him to slow down and stop hitting her shoulders. How was the match supposed to proceed?

“Very well. I’ll slow down.” Oberyn chuckled, entertained by her honesty. “Next time, I’ll aim for your feet instead. You’re wearing shoes, so it shouldn’t hurt as much.”

“Arya,” Aegor interjected, his tone serious. Unlike Margaery and Oberyn, he lacked the social standing to brush off any accidents involving the young Stark girl. “Didn’t you hear what the prince said? Stop being stubborn and surrender!”

“Just one more try!” Arya ignored him and charged at Oberyn again. This time, she was determined to avoid being poked in the shoulders. Instead of rushing to attack his body, she focused on his sword, keeping her eyes locked on it. After confirming it was within her view, she spun gracefully to avoid his reach, attempting to strike him from behind.

“Learning quickly, but water dancing isn’t meant to be used that way.” Oberyn’s comment was almost dismissive. This time, he didn’t rely on speed or experience to overwhelm her. Standing still like a training dummy, he parried two of her strikes before finally shifting his position.

…

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, was not only one of the greatest fighters in Westeros but also a prince of Dorne and a key figure in House Martell’s political ambitions. Though making friends with Arya Stark might prove useful one day, he had little interest in the Tyrells’ habit of scattering seeds indiscriminately and hoping some would bear fruit. He wasn’t here to waste his time.

Slowing down his movements as Arya requested, Oberyn made his strikes clear and deliberate, allowing everyone to see the exchange. Despite the reduced pace, Arya still struggled. She was quickly engulfed in what felt like a whirlwind of wood, the constant clash of swords ringing out in rapid succession. Before long, Oberyn called out again.

“Left foot!”

Panicking, Arya instinctively pulled her left foot back. But before she could recover, Oberyn barked another command.

“Right foot!”

Flustered, she pulled her right foot back as well, throwing herself off balance. She stumbled forward awkwardly, barely stopping herself from falling face-first when Oberyn grabbed the back of her collar, holding her upright.

“Head,” he said at last, making Arya instinctively cover her head with her arms. Chuckling, Oberyn pried the wooden sword from her grip and helped her stand. “By the rules, unless you’ve hidden another weapon, this match is over.”

It wasn’t luck. Arya finally realized the vast gulf in skill between them and accepted that Oberyn had no interest in being her sparring partner. Pouting, she muttered, “Fine, I concede.”

“If you’re so eager to learn from me, talk to your father, Eddard Stark. Marry into Dorne, and we’ll have plenty of time to train.” Oberyn released her and laughed. “My brother has two fine sons, Quentyn and Trystane, either of whom would be a good match for you.”

“Ugh, we’ll see.” Arya groaned, annoyed at the mention of marriage. Her experience with Joffrey had left her with a lasting disdain for princes. Huffing, she ran back to Aegor, looking at him pleadingly. “Master, the Red Viper didn’t go easy on me! You train with me instead!”

“Oh, so I’m good enough now that someone else has knocked you down a peg?” Aegor raised an eyebrow at her. “Check your shoulder first. If you’re not injured, go eat lunch!”

Though he maintained the stern demeanor of a master, inwardly, Aegor was relieved. Oberyn’s sparring had been a blessing, humbling Arya’s growing arrogance. Still, he couldn’t help but worry—if her skills kept improving at this rate, what would he do when even he could no longer match her in a few months?