Chapter 110

Aegor had only been south of the Wall for a few months, but he made a habit of keeping himself in shape during his time in King’s Landing. Training with Arya—a tireless ball of energy—for two or three hours at a stretch had done wonders for his reflexes and muscle tone, even if his technique remained lacking. When his first strike missed but left him unharmed, he realized he had gambled correctly. Without hesitation, he shifted his stance, using his right arm to drive his blade downwards, slipping past Oberyn’s spear tip. Swinging with all his strength, he launched a sharp lateral slash. Oberyn’s spear twisted in a smooth arc, deflecting the strike with ease before he countered with a quick jab.

The blunted spear hurtled towards Aegor, its speed and force conjuring an all-too-real sense of impending doom. Acting on instinct, he raised his shield and twisted his body, narrowly dodging the thrust. The tip of the spear tapped his shield with enough force to make his left arm tingle. Fully aware of his own limitations, Aegor misread Oberyn’s restraint as a deliberate kindness. Gritting his teeth, unwilling to stop after only a few exchanges, he closed the distance once more, letting out a sharp shout as he struck upward from close range.

“Well done!”

A single-handed sword was inherently disadvantaged against a spear, requiring proximity to stand a chance. While this strategy came to Aegor on instinct, it nevertheless drew cheers from the crowd. The ordinary soldiers and minor knights—most of them unskilled in the finer points of combat—couldn’t follow the intricate exchanges. All they saw was Aegor’s lightning-quick assault pushing inside Oberyn’s spear range, giving the impression that he was gaining the upper hand.

Had Brienne been present, or someone of Barristan Selmy or Jaime Lannister’s caliber, they would have scoffed at the scene. Oberyn had clearly gone easy on Aegor, overlooking countless openings in the Night’s Watchman’s wild and sloppy attacks. Instead, the Red Viper seemed intent on matching Aegor in speed, turning the duel into a contest of their opponent’s sole commendable trait.

Call it arrogance, or call it pride. As one of the greatest spearmen of his age, Oberyn wanted to crush Aegor in his strongest area, leaving the man utterly speechless.

“Clang!” “Thud!”

Even Aegor couldn’t quite process what had just happened. All he knew was that his shield and sword had both absorbed tremendous impacts in rapid succession, halting his attack and forcing him back half a step—just far enough to take him out of striking range. Oberyn’s flawless defense earned another round of cheers from the crowd, who, oblivious to the skill disparity on display, mistook the bout for a duel between equals. Their opinions of Aegor rose considerably.

“Come on, keep going!” Oberyn grinned, spreading his arms provocatively once again.

Dazed by the speed and precision of Oberyn’s counterattack, Aegor couldn’t immediately find an opportunity to stage a deliberate loss. His body had warmed up, and surrendering so quickly would feel unseemly. Clenching his teeth, he charged forward again.

Shield raised and sword poised overhead, Aegor struck with a powerful downward slash, a move he hadn’t used since facing a White Walker. It wasn’t suited for an opponent armed with a spear, but with Oberyn clearly pulling his punches, Aegor felt confident. The slash carried all the force he could muster.

“Well done!” Oberyn praised, effortlessly sidestepping the attack. As he retreated, his spear flicked forward to lightly tap Aegor’s sword, then darted snake-like toward his face, stopping just inches short before descending to tap his shield.

(Even with a blunt spear, Oberyn could’ve killed me just now.)

This was the level of a true master of arms. Not only had Oberyn dodged and countered in a single fluid motion, but he had also used the opportunity to flaunt his superiority, as if to say: If this were a real fight, you’d already be dead.

Even as he pushed himself to his limits, Aegor was hopelessly outmatched.

Perhaps it was time to surrender? Yet surrendering gracefully required a certain degree of skill, and if he couldn’t even follow his opponent’s movements, all the cunning in the world would be useless. Clutching his sword tightly, Aegor realized how laughable his earlier dismissal of “killing techniques” had been. Mastery of combat truly could reach a transformative level. No matter how successful he became in playing the “game of gold,” a foe like Oberyn could end him in an instant unless he was surrounded by a dozen Kingsguard. Even as a transmigrator, he was as fragile as any commoner or pawn.

(I should take swordsmanship and footwork more seriously—just enough for self-defense.) This newfound determination quickly replaced his earlier disdain for personal combat.

Meanwhile, the spectators continued to cheer for Aegor’s “ferocious offense” and Oberyn’s “elegant counters.” But in the circle, Aegor was at his wit’s end. He could see that Oberyn was toying with him, yet lacked the ability to exploit any of his opponent’s feigned openings. Even worse, if he couldn’t maintain a minimum standard of performance, the humiliation would only deepen.

The sheer gulf in skill brought an unexpected benefit: Aegor could give his all without fear of angering or injuring Oberyn.

The growing crowd, drawn by the clash of the “Red Viper” and the “White Walker Slayer,” spurred him on with their applause and shouts. Gritting his teeth, Aegor charged once more, using his shield to deflect the spear’s tip and pressing inside Oberyn’s range again.

The clash of weapons and the shouts of the crowd filled the air. Aegor’s attacks were deflected with ease, yet he remained unscathed. The burden on his mind lifted, and he attacked with abandon. His sword moved in a flurry of arcs, creating an illusion of speed and ferocity as Oberyn’s spear danced even faster, leaving the audience dazzled.

Strike. Breathe. Slash. Shield bash. Repeat.

It was an unrelenting rhythm of aggression, sacrificing all defense for speed. Such tactics risked losing control of the fight, but for someone like Aegor, who had already abandoned defense, it worked.

“Clang!” “Clang!” “Clang!”

The duel continued in a monotonous but intense pattern. Aegor lost track of time. Thirty seconds? A minute? Longer? He had cycled through every move he’d once taught Arya, but the gap in skill between him and Oberyn was far greater than between him and Arya. No matter how fast or unorthodox his attacks, Oberyn countered them with clinical precision, lightly tapping Aegor’s shield or blade with the spear tip or shaft, leaving faint marks without breaking his equipment.

The disparity was akin to a master sparring with a novice. Yet the crowd, unable to discern the finer details, only saw a dramatic back-and-forth, oblivious to how much Oberyn was holding back.

“Thud!”

Aegor was knocked back again, this time unable to continue. Panting heavily, he glanced at his shield, now covered in dents and scratches. If Oberyn hadn’t held back, most of those marks would have been fatal wounds.

Aegor’s left arm throbbed from the repeated impacts. He realized too late that he should’ve asked for gloves. Catching his breath, he prepared to face Oberyn again—only to see the prince give him a playful wink.

(What does that mean? Does he want me to surrender or keep fighting?) Aegor hesitated. He could keep throwing out the remaining moves he knew, but with his strength flagging and his best techniques exhausted, now seemed the time to retreat with dignity.

“Aegor! Where are you?”

The shout came from the edge of the crowd. Normally, losing focus during a fight was a death sentence, but for Aegor, it was the perfect excuse to escape. He let his arms drop and turned toward the voice, pretending to be distracted.

“Hm?” Oberyn followed his gaze. On a nearby hill, a black-cloaked figure approached the circle, led by a soldier from Storm’s End.

Even from a distance, Aegor recognized the newcomer: Yoren! Finally, the reinforcements he had been waiting for.

“Your Grace, your skill is unmatched. It has been an honor to witness it!” Aegor hastily removed his shield and handed it to a nearby soldier, fearing Oberyn might insist on continuing. “But the Night’s Watch has business in the south, and I must greet my comrade. I yield!”

For the first time, surrender felt like a sweet relief. Aegor stepped to the edge of the ring, returning the borrowed equipment.

“Since you have urgent matters, we’ll leave it here for today,” Oberyn said, leaning on his spear with a smile. “But when you have time, let’s continue our duel. Perhaps tonight? We can discuss the art of combat... and perhaps other matters as well.”