Chapter 109

“So, this is the legendary ‘White Walker Slayer.’ I’ve heard tales of your exploits!” Oberyn spun his spear in a casual flourish, planting it firmly on the ground as he smiled, scrutinizing the new opponent who had been shoved into the circle. “Hmm, it seems the rumors weren’t entirely exaggerated. You’re clearly not from Westeros, are you?”

“I hail from west of the Sunset Sea, a place called Tynna.” Since he had already been pushed forward, retreating into the crowd wasn’t an option. Losing to Oberyn Martell wasn’t shameful, but lacking the courage to face him would tarnish the Night’s Watch’s reputation even further. After a quick moment of thought, Aegor decided to speak boldly. “Dornish spears are unmatched in the world—I have no objections to that! But since I’m here, I’d naturally like to test myself. Do you have a blunted sword? The lighter, the better!”

“A blunted sword?” A nearby Dornish soldier sneered, thinking Aegor was showing off. “Try touching even the hem of my prince’s robes first!”

Oberyn, being well into middle age, had grown far less hot-blooded than his younger companions. He shook his head. “You can choose whatever weapon or armor suits you. If nothing here suffices, you’re welcome to fetch your own. But there’s no need to insist on a blunted sword.”

Not a chance. Aegor did have a sword, but as a half-trained swordsman, there wasn’t much difference to him between a weapon he had used a few times and a standard practice blade. “Your Grace, you may not know this, but the primary foes of the Night’s Watch are wildlings. In terms of skill, they’re barely better than farmers. Their only real advantage is their numbers.”

Quick thinking was a skill Aegor had honed since leaving the Wall to pursue ventures in King’s Landing with Tyrion. His mental discipline ensured he wouldn’t panic or freeze in unexpected situations. Standing in the circle for only a few seconds, he had already devised several ways to gracefully exit this unintended duel.

“A thousand brothers of the Night’s Watch must stand against nearly two hundred thousand wildlings beyond the Wall,” Aegor exaggerated the numbers slightly. “On average, each brother faces two hundred enemies. Nearly every skirmish is fought while heavily outnumbered. As a result, our training emphasizes aggression over defense—swiftly defeating the enemy before moving to aid our comrades or handle the next foe, lest we be surrounded.”

This wasn’t entirely false. However, in reality, most wildlings fled the moment they spotted rangers unless they had prepared an ambush. The Night’s Watch didn’t typically bother with slaughtering wildling villages either, as long as they stayed clear of the Wall. Contrary to the Seven Kingdoms’ imagination, there wasn’t constant warfare between the two sides; they even traded necessities from time to time.

“And?” Oberyn nodded, genuinely curious, as he knew little about the Night’s Watch. After all, no Martell had ever been forced to don the black.

“So, the fighting style of the Night’s Watch tends to be... straightforward. We are always in a state of war. Duels or sparring? Such concepts don’t exist for us. We only think about killing.” Aegor delivered the lie with utmost seriousness, confident that no one present truly understood the Watch. “Your Grace is a peerless warrior, far different from the wildlings we usually face. As a mere quartermaster, I fear that using a real sword might not only fail to threaten you but could lead to me injuring myself in my clumsiness, thus failing in my duties for His Grace, the King.”

Flattery mixed with humility—Aegor knew the way to disarm tension. Oberyn, having no grudge against the Night’s Watch, grinned and relented. “Bring him a blunted sword.”

The Dornish prince tossed his spear to a soldier, gesturing for a replacement. Soon, a blunted spear was thrown back into the ring—a customary rule for such duels. If one party chose an unsharpened weapon, the other was expected to follow suit. Such traditions embodied the chivalry of the age of steel.

Aegor accepted the sword but declined the offer of armor, opting instead for a small shield to protect his vital points as he took his place in the ring.

Against a nimble opponent like the Red Viper, donning heavy armor when already outclassed would only invite humiliation. And Oberyn, for all his nonchalant demeanor, was a shrewd and pragmatic leader. Aegor hadn’t killed his sister, nor was he aligned with the Lannisters. As the only Night’s Watchman present in the camp, Oberyn likely wouldn’t escalate this informal duel into something dangerous.

If Oberyn intended harm, no armor could save Aegor. Conversely, if he didn’t, a small shield would suffice. Still, Aegor had taken precautions—ensuring both sides wielded blunted weapons and setting expectations upfront. Now, it was time to gamble.

Aegor’s strategy was simple: avoid defense entirely. Against a master like Oberyn, attempting to use standard defensive techniques would only result in humiliation. Instead, he would lean into the prince’s pride, hoping his opponent wouldn’t exploit obvious openings.

“I merely wish to witness the renowned Dornish spearwork. Your Grace, please go easy on me!” Aegor gripped his sword and faced Oberyn, his polite words carrying a rare note of sincerity.

His plan was to feign a valiant attempt, exchange a few moves, and seize the first opportunity to surrender. Easier said than done. As he squared off against Oberyn, Aegor found himself at a loss. The prince stood there casually, twirling his spear as if performing a playful dance. Though he appeared to leave countless openings, none were truly vulnerable.

Aegor quickly realized that any attack—no matter the angle—would provoke a swift and overwhelming counter. Within seconds, he felt like a disposable villain squaring off against the hero in a martial arts tale. His palms grew sweaty, and his back prickled with unease. Summer it may have been, but Aegor felt a cold sweat forming.

“Come on, White Walker Slayer!” jeered someone in the crowd.

“Show that southerner what the North can do!” shouted a Northerner, likely mistaking Aegor for one of their own.

“Quit wasting time!” growled another voice, clearly impatient and ignorant of the intricacies of combat.

Oberyn, meanwhile, assessed Aegor with growing interest. The Night’s Watchman was trained—no mere amateur—but his skill level resembled that of a competent sellsword at best. What intrigued Oberyn, however, was his inability to place Aegor’s origins. Despite his vast travels, he couldn’t match the man’s features to any known region. Could he truly hail from beyond the Sunset Sea?

Oberyn’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Come on, strike first,” he said, spreading his arms wide as if inviting an embrace.

Unaware of the prince’s sudden, peculiar interest, Aegor only saw an apparent opening—a rare chance. If he hesitated now and Oberyn grew impatient, things could turn ugly.

He was here to lose, not to win. No more dithering. Go!

With a heavy step that kicked up a cloud of dust, Aegor launched himself forward, blade aimed at the prince.