Spear and sword clashed frantically on the narrow skiff, each collision erupting in a piercing metallic ring that tore through the salty sea breeze, drowning out the wailing of the waves.
There were no probing feints, no room for restraint.
This was a life-and-death struggle between two of Westeros' top warriors; every move was cunning and lethal, and every parry was fraught with danger.
The dilapidated small boat rocked and pitched violently under the intense exchange of offense and defense, creaking as if it might disintegrate at any moment.
With a flick of Oberyn's spear, the tip transformed into a point of faint blue starlight, moving so fast it was almost impossible to track, striking straight for Barristan's throat like a viper's tongue!
At the critical moment, the Old Knight lowered his center and spun, dodging by a hair's breadth. The poisoned spear tip plunged deep into the wooden mast behind him with a 'thud,' sinking inches into the wood!
Oberyn suddenly applied force to his wrist, twisting the spear shaft fiercely within the wooden mast!
"Crack!"
A slight splintering sound rang out as several fine cracks bloomed on the surface of the slender mast, wood chips flying in every direction.
Seizing the moment while the other's spear was caught and his movement stalled, Barristan retracted his sword. Taking a deep breath with a furrowed brow, he tried once more to clarify this deadly misunderstanding:
"I..."
However, how could the Red Viper give him the chance?
Oberyn gave a cold snort and violently yanked back his spear, following through with a vicious horizontal sweep. The shaft, accompanied by a foul wind, smashed toward Barristan's waist!
The Old Knight could only swallow the words at the tip of his tongue and raise his sword to block!
"Clang—!"
Spear and sword collided violently again. Barristan was shaken by the savage force, stumbling back half a step. His chest heaved slightly, and a clear sensation of numbness spread through his sword arm.
There was no way to deflect the force on the narrow boat; taking such heavy blows head-on was a burden for his no-longer-young body.
"Heh, Barristan," Oberyn said, a cold and playful smile playing on his lips. His footsteps moved as light as a dance, constantly shifting angles to find an opportunity for the next lethal strike. "After all these years, your old bones—the ones that keep watch for the usurper—aren't as sturdy as they were back at the Harrenhal tourney grounds."
"Does time show no mercy, or is it... a guilty conscience that has dulled your blade?"
Barristan suppressed his churning blood and frustration, steadying himself. His deep blue eyes were filled with urgency and helplessness. He tried to speak again, his voice somewhat raspy from the fight and the stifled air:
"Listen to me..."
Before he could finish, a cold light flashed in Oberyn's eyes. The spear lunged again like a venomous dragon emerging from its hole, striking straight for his heart!
Forced to swallow his words, Barristan concentrated all his focus on blocking with his sword!
"Clang!" Another tooth-gritting metallic ring.
Barristan's arm shook again, and the webbing of his thumb went numb.
"Listen to you what?" Oberyn pressed on relentlessly, his spear strikes continuous, his smile growing increasingly sharp and cold. "At your age, with your white hair, you should have been dozing by a hearth in King's Landing waiting to die, or repenting the rest of your life while guarding your empty White Cloak shell!"
"How dare you sneak into the waters of Dragonstone, hiding your head and showing your tail, to act against Elia's only son left in this world? Who sent you? Cersei? Or that little mad king?"
Barristan's chest heaved violently, half from the intense exertion and half from the frustration brought by this undeniable misunderstanding.
He gritted his teeth and squeezed out a voice from his throat for the third time:
"Mis..."
"Mis?" Oberyn sneered, his laughter filled with mockery and murderous intent. Seizing the moment when Barristan's breathing was unsteady and his mind was slightly distracted by his haste to explain, he suddenly raised his spear high and smashed it down with the force of splitting a mountain!
It was no longer a nimble thrust, but a crushing display of pure power!
Barristan's pupils constricted. Unable to dodge in time, he could only let out a low shout, gripping his sword with both hands to block upward with all his might!
"Boom—!"
A dull thud rang out as the spear shaft smashed heavily onto the blade.
Barristan felt a massive force like a mountain pressing down, and his legs buckled abruptly.
His entire weathered face turned flushed from the excessive effort and the agitation in his heart, veins bulging at his temples.
Whether it was exhaustion, frustration, or shame, even he could not tell.
"Look at you," Oberyn said, watching his struggle with cold eyes, his voice laced with venom. "Flushed and panting like a bull after just a few of my strikes."
"Why do your old bones, which should have been buried in the dirt long ago, still insist on holding onto a breath of life, coming out to sea to make a fool of yourself and do such dirty work for your new master?"
"Why don't I send you on your way, so you can go to the Seven Hells early to repent to Aerys, to Rhaella, to Rhaegar, to Elia and her children!"
Barristan looked up sharply, his eyes flashing with humiliation and anger, but more so with a deep, profound sorrow.
He knew that any words would be pale and powerless before the current rage of the Red Viper.
Defense was useless; explanation was impossible.
He took a deep breath, suppressing his churning emotions and all the words he had tried to speak back into the depths of his heart.
He closed his mouth, leaving only the focus and determination of a warrior in his deep blue eyes.
Applying force to his arms, he let out a roar and violently parried the spear upward. Immediately, his sword light surged; he no longer focused solely on defense and blocking, but turned to take the initiative!
His swordplay was steady and seasoned. Though it lacked the eerie lethality of Oberyn's, it carried the precision and weight honed through a hundred battles, each strike aimed directly at the gaps in Oberyn's spear transitions.
The two once again became entangled in a struggle on the violently rocking skiff. Spear shadows and sword light wove into a storm of death, the small skiff like a leaf in a tempest, liable to be torn apart or submerged at any moment.
Just as this life-and-death struggle reached a fever pitch.
"Ooooh— Ooooh—"
The low, majestic sound of horns suddenly drifted from different directions across the sea, piercing through the clashing of metal!
Several patrol ships of the Narrow Sea Fleet, flying the black-and-red dragon flags, closed in rapidly from the twilight-shrouded waters like sharks scenting blood.
The decks were lined with archers, arrows notched and aimed in unison at the two men fighting on the skiff.
A powerful roar came across the water:
"You on the skiff, listen! Drop your weapons immediately! Cease your fighting! Those who disobey will be executed on the spot!"
The slight sound of bowstrings tightening joined together, and an atmosphere of slaughter instantly enveloped this stretch of sea.
Oberyn's lunging spear suddenly halted, stopping in mid-air.
He did not retract it, but merely tilted his head slightly, his peripheral vision coldly scanning the surrounding black-sailed warships, the Soldiers standing ready, and the glinting arrowheads and crossbow bolts.
There was no trace of fear on his face. Instead, he raised his chin, his voice arrogant and clear, carrying across the sea breeze even amidst the surrounding warships:
"Hold your hands."
His gaze swept over the officer who appeared to be the squad leader, and he spoke word for word with an indisputable declaration of identity:
"I am Oberyn Martell. I have come to meet my nephew... Aegon Targaryen."
He paused slightly, adding the most crucial line that would best dispel any hostility:
"I am his uncle."
As his words fell, a brief, dead silence descended upon the surrounding warships.
All the Soldiers, including the captain who had shouted the order, were visibly stunned.
The archers subconsciously relaxed their taut bowstrings, looking at one another with faces full of uncertainty and shock.
The captain's expression tightened, his gaze darting between Oberyn's obviously expensive Dornish attire, his defiant temperament, and the earth-shattering identity he had just claimed.
Uncle? Prince Aegon's uncle? Then that would be... the brother of the late Dornish Princess Elia Martell? The prince of dorne?
Cold sweat instantly broke out on the captain's forehead.
If this man truly was from Dorne, and a blood relative of the Prince... their recent drawing of swords and threats of death...
"Lower all arrows! Do not be disrespectful!" the captain ordered immediately. He turned to Oberyn and bowed, hand over his chest. "We did not know it was Prince Martell's arrival. We have caused offense! Please... please wait a moment, we shall escort you to Dragonstone to see the Prince at once!"
He then looked toward Barristan, who had silently sheathed his sword with a complex expression, and asked hesitantly, "And this is...?"
Oberyn gave a cold snort and did not answer, merely flicking nonexistent blood from his spear with an arrogant posture.
Barristan lowered his hands wearily and shook his head, saying hoarsely, "Just... a lost old man. Everything will be explained once we see Prince Aegon."
The captain dared not ask more and quickly directed the sailors to lower a boat, respectfully inviting the two onto the patrol ship, then ordered the Fleet to turn and head toward Dragonstone Port.
They left the nearly disintegrated old skiff to drift with the waves in the deepening twilight.
...
Dragonstone, Stone Drum Tower Throne Room.
Torches in the alcoves lit the hall in semi-darkness, the massive black stone throne casting a majestic and heavy shadow in the flickering light.
Aegon sat upon the throne in simple black attire, his silver hair unburdened and draped casually over his shoulders. His expression was calm, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the cold armrest as he listened to a patrol captain kneeling on one knee, giving a slightly nervous report.
"...Prince, the patrol Fleet discovered two suspicious vessels about ten miles off the southwest coast of Dragonstone."
"One was a gilded longship in the Dornish style, the other an old-fashioned small sailboat without a flag. The people on the two boats were fighting fiercely, with a very high level of combat skill."
"After we surrounded and stopped them, the one on the Dornish longship, who wields a spear, claimed... claimed to be Oberyn Martell, and stated he is your uncle, here specifically to seek an audience."
"The other is an old man in a black robe, alone. He did not resist, nor did he reveal his identity, only saying he wished to see you to present his case. Because it involves... involves your kin, your subordinate did not dare act on his own authority and has brought them both here. They are currently waiting outside the hall."
After the captain finished speaking, he bowed his head deeply, not daring to look at the reaction on the throne.
Aegon's fingertip tapping paused slightly.
Oberyn Martell?
The 'Red Viper' famous in Dorne for his wild unruliness, his poisons, and his spear-work?
That he would come to Dragonstone alone, and make such an entrance... fighting another unknown master at sea, only to be caught by his own patrol?
A very faint look of amusement and scrutiny passed through Aegon's violet eyes.
This 'uncle' of his certainly acted just like the rumors—reckless and disregarding convention.
Only, why had he come now? On behalf of Dorne? Or just for himself? And what was that old fox Doran Martell planning?
And that old man in the black robe... to be able to fight Oberyn Martell at sea without being at a disadvantage, he was certainly no ordinary person.
Identity unknown, requesting an audience to explain...
"Bring them in," Aegon said faintly, his voice echoing in the empty hall.
"Yes, Prince!" The captain felt as if he had been granted a great reprieve, quickly rising and striding toward the heavy hall doors.
The heavy black oak doors were slowly pushed open, letting out a long creak.
The light from the corridor torches and the sea breeze flooded in together.
Oberyn Martell stepped in first.
He was still wearing his practical casual clothes, his collar slightly open, his long hair a bit messy, and there was even a thin sweat on his brow from the intense exertion. Yet his posture was upright, his stride leisurely, and his face showed no trace of confusion. Instead, it carried his habitual, nonchalant yet subtly sharp air of distraction.
He even still carried that ornately decorated spear, its tip shimmering with a faint blue light.
Barristan Selmy followed a step behind him with his head bowed.
His white hair was messy, his black robe old, and his entire being radiated the exhaustion of long travel and recent fierce combat.
Though his head was lowered, his back remained habitually straight, but his figure seemed somewhat lonely and heavy compared to the grand Throne Room and the proudly standing prince of dorne before him.
Deep shame and complex, unspeakable emotions enveloped him.
Oberyn walked to the center of the hall, his gaze casually sweeping over the Bloodsworn knights standing at attention on both sides, the ancient Targaryen sigils on the walls, and finally, directly and without evasion, it met the figure upon the throne...
That young, calm figure with silver hair and violet eyes.
Aegon Targaryen.
With just one look.
Oberyn's gaze suddenly froze, as if seized by invisible iron pincers.
His leisurely pace faltered for an imperceptible fraction of a second, and his fingers gripping the spear suddenly tightened, his knuckles turning white.
He looks like him.
Too much like him.
That high, straight bridge of the nose, that clearly defined and slightly cold jawline, that curve when his lips were slightly pursed... every bit of it was a carbon copy of the man in his memories!
The man who had once captured the hearts of countless maidens, whom knights admired, yet who ultimately dragged everything into the abyss of destruction... Rhaegar Targaryen.
This face instantly awakened the venomous fire and hatred buried deep in his soul for sixteen years, which had never truly been extinguished for a single moment.
It was the father of the owner of this face who had failed his sister, who for the sake of another woman had sparked a rebellion, ultimately leading to the fall of the dynasty and causing his beautiful, gentle sister Elia, along with her young children, to die in the most tragic way possible!
A violent impulse suddenly surged into his heart, scorching his reason.
He looks too much like him...
So much so that he wanted to rush forward and smash a fist into that face so similar to Rhaegar's!
He wanted to tear apart that cold calm with his nails! He wanted to interrogate him, to roar, to pour out all his pain and resentment!
However, just as that explosive force was about to break free from its restraints...
His gaze involuntarily fell upon the corners of Aegon's eyes and brows.
That slight upward tilt of the eye, that very faint, seemingly innate gentle curve... that was not Rhaegar.
Rhaegar's gaze was always melancholy and distant.
This was... Elia.
It was the spirit of Elia Martell, his sister who was as gentle as water and whose smile could melt the hottest sands of Dorne.
Especially when he stared calmly, that inadvertent hint of resilience between his brows almost overlapped with the memory of the resilience his sister showed when she suffered from her illnesses.
Hatred, rage, and the impulse to tear everything apart were suddenly struck and shattered by a surging, extremely bitter yet incredibly soft and complex emotion.
His heart felt as if it were being squeezed tightly by an invisible hand, aching and stinging so much he could hardly breathe.
The hatred was real. The pain was real.
Every day and night for sixteen years gnawed by nightmares and the flames of revenge was real.
But the blood flowing through this young man's veins was not just the blood of that hateful man, but also the blood of his only sister.
He was the last mark Elia had left in this world, her last continuation. The blood kin protected in the deepest part of his heart, whom he would allow no one to touch or harm, was also real.
Oberyn's Adam's apple bobbed violently, as if he were swallowing countless bursts of venom and flame that were about to erupt.
The muscles in his face tightened, remaining as cold and hard as the red rocks of Dorne, and he even deliberately pursed his lips into his habitual curve of mockery and detachment.
But deep within those eyes that usually shimmered with cynicism or cold murderous intent, a tempest was now raging. All sorts of extreme and contradictory emotions—hatred, pain, the tenderness of memory, the tremor of suddenly seeing a relative, the sorrow he could not let go of, and a nearly instinctive protective urge—tore and crashed into each other, nearly ripping him apart.
He stood where he was, holding his spear, like a statue suddenly swept up in a storm yet forcibly maintaining a still surface.
Only his slightly trembling fingertips betrayed the tsunami within his heart that no one could see, yet which was enough to shatter heaven and earth.
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