Twenty two years old, Percy shuffled his feet across the dusty ground, circling slowly.
His sword was in his hand. The one that Oberyn commissioned for him when he first became a squire had turned into a familiar weight. It wasn't as perfect as Riptide. Percy didn't believe any sword could be. But this was a fine blade, more than usable.
Overhead, the sun was just low enough to still see by, while avoiding the worst of the day's heat. It was still hot. Sweat made Percy's sleeves stick to his arms. Pools had formed beneath his leather armor, a discomfort he ignored with practiced ease. Not for the first time, Percy wished for the relative coolness of Oberyn's training room, the usual setting for their bouts. Tonight, they were contesting each other in the middle of the main courtyard, ringed by everyone from knights to serving girls, a crowd which had only grown as the rounds increased.
Oberyn walked in a circle like Percy, carrying his spear with the tip pointed groundward, dressed in the same armor and covered in an extra layer of dust to go with his sweat.
He came at Percy without warning. His spear lashed out, living up to his viper epithet. Percy's blade slapped away stabs, each clash giving off a clang!
Oberyn was as fast as the first time they fought. Wasted movements Percy once took advantage of had disappeared one at a time, grinded out of his style month by month — year by year — under the pressure of Percy's blade. The minor openings that once existed were gone, leaving a spear that lashed out as fast as a harpy's talons.
None hit. Percy deflected strike after strike, struggling against Oberyn's range. When he ducked past a stab, Oberyn backed up just as fast, replacing the spearpoint between them. Percy hit it with his sword, swinging hard to blow apart Oberyn's guard. Oberyn spun with the blow, bringing his spear all the way around, and Percy's charge was halted again.
They fell into another lull, circling slowly while their eyes flickered and their brains raced.
Twice more, the two of them came together and clashed weapons, neither leaving a mark on the other. The crowd was murmuring. They were exceptionally quiet, almost in a trance.
Percy sprung forward.
He refused to be denied this time. Each blow that came at him was bashed aside. Percy drove Oberyn into a longer retreat, making the prince move into the crowd who hastily scattered. Percy sought the wall, looking to trap Oberyn against something.
When they got there, Oberyn didn't collide with the stone. He stopped just shy of it, watched Percy slash at him, and jumped.
Over time, Percy had learned that Oberyn didn't fight like the image he had of knights. Reliance on armor and strength was the way of the other kingdoms. Dornish warriors weren't afraid to dress lighter, move quicker, and strike in ways that would shock a formal knight. No one exemplified this style better than Oberyn Martell.
He kicked off of the wall, flipping forward over Percy's head. When he was directly above Percy, he stabbed straight down, aiming for the head. Percy rolled diagonally. Instead of creating distance, he used where he roughly knew Oberyn would be landing, aiming to get closer.
Percy popped up on one knee, stabbing his sword and stopping just shy of Oberyn's throat.
He felt a cool weight under his own chin.
Oberyn's spear was in the same position as Percy's sword, a few inches off of spilling blood.
The audience they'd gathered split in cheers.
Without a word, Oberyn and Percy removed their weapons. Percy rose to his feet, while Oberyn leaned his spear on his shoulder.
"A draw," Oberyn said, voice sour as Dornish wine. "I was certain that one would go to me."
"I thought the same thing," Percy muttered. He touched the spot under his chin where Oberyn's spear touched. "You got better again."
"And you are as frightening as ever," Oberyn said. "What does that make?"
It was one of those in the crowd who answered. "Seven wins to two, with a draw between you!"
Oberyn clicked his tongue at his losing record, while at the same time nodding in thanks to the household knight that answered him. Percy wondered what he was playing at. There was no way Oberyn wasn't keeping score. He wasn't the kind of man who could stop himself.
"Let me ask you, then!" Oberyn was suddenly yelling. "Are there any amongst you who can say, after seeing this man fight, that I should stay my hand? Any who would call into question his skills? Perseus is of good temperament! If you hold doubts, speak them without fear!"
Crickets. Ever since Oberyn told him they would be sparring here instead of his room, Percy knew that he was building toward something. It was starting to become clear what that might be.
The crowd opened again, like it had when Percy and Oberyn came through clashing weapons. This time, two women stepped forward. Nymeria was dressed in purple with golden hairpins in her hair. Obara was in armor. Each of them carried a sword.
Nymeria held the one she carried out to her father, bowing her head in the process. She didn't say anything. Oberyn took the sword by the hilt, raising it before pulling it from its sheath. With her hands free, Nymeria took his spear from him, stepping back. The crowd was moving closer again, forming a semicircle to see what would happen, although none dared to come too near.
Oberyn looked around one more time, drinking in the baited silence.
"It seems they approve of you," he told Percy. "As they should. Character, intelligence, or power, I've found no fault in them. Take the knee, Perseus. The time has come."
Percy glanced around. He caught Obara's proud look, as well as Nymeria's easy smirk. He saw faces in the crowd, from nostalgic old knights recalling their own special day, to a boy of ten years watching with almost feral excitement in his purple eyes.
Percy sank to one knee.
Oberyn looked at the sword he was holding for a moment, then addressed the crowd one more time.
"Perseus comes from afar, well beyond the seas we know. He has drunk from our culture as well as any could ask. In return, he asked just one thing. An oath adapted to his own gods. A fair request, all considered."
Oberyn wasn't religious. Nymeria told Percy as much. When the prince prayed, it was because he ought to, not because he felt it in his heart. That matched what Oberyn first told Percy, the night they sparred and drank beside a creek in the Stormlands. Oberyn believed that gods both existed and meant nothing. He saw them as something far off, meaningless because you never reached it, and it never reached you, like a coastline without a port.
Not everyone in Dorne shared his thoughts, but many did, at least compared to what Percy had heard of other kingdoms. There was a reason Dornish customs remained so peculiar. The Orphans of the Greenblood, remnants of Nymeria's initial fleet, still worshipped the Mother Rhoyne, a goddess who was once patron of their fallen Essosi cities. Some regions of the kingdom had more followers of R'hllor, an eastern deity for fire and life, than they had followers of the Seven. An altered oath would be scandalous elsewhere. Here, most shrugged and moved on.
Percy exhaled, closing his eyes. He felt Oberyn touch the sword to his shoulder. Everything else went so quiet it was like it didn't exist. The only thing he heard was Oberyn's voice.
"In the name of the Warriors, I charge you to be brave."
A small change. To Percy, there were two warriors. Ares was brash, reckless, arrogant, but the last thing he could be called was a coward. When war arrived, he would be there. Athena always kept her composure. She would only charge if it was the right choice. Sometimes, bravery meant making the smart decision, to trick the enemy or retreat and live another day.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
This line was no different. The only change was what Percy pictured. He didn't see his own father, or Zeus, the king of the gods. Olympians were always biased. Poseidon did everything he could to protect Percy, because Percy was his son. Zeus was happy to destroy him. If Percy had been born to the other one, they would have reacted the opposite way. He loved his father, even if their relationship was complex. But he couldn't call him just.
He pictured Chiron. The surrogate father to so many heroes over an immense number of years. He trained everyone, from Percy down to the youngest daughter of Aphrodite, with the same goal: ensuring that child would live. He didn't play favorites. If anyone represented what it meant to be just, it was Chiron.
"In the name of Hearth, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."
Hestia. Who else could represent innocence? Of all the Olympians, she was the only one Percy never felt nervous around. The hearth was home. The hearth was where family gathered. It was the one place violence and blood should never reach.
"In the name of the Hunter, I charge you to protect all women."
Artemis. She and Percy had their ups and they had their downs. She could be aggressive, but when it came to protecting women, there was no one who would fight harder by your side.
"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be patient."
Hephaestus was nothing if not patient. Even when he laid traps for Aphrodite and Ares, he never rushed. The smith struck Percy as somber when they met, lonely with his creations, surrounded by a distant family who turned their backs on him. Yet he was the god who visited Percy on Ogygia. He imparted what wisdom he could, explained things without taking offense, and offered Percy advice. Then he returned to his forge and continued to work. Whether it was blows from his hammer, or walking with his lame leg, Hephaestus went at his own pace. No one could rush him.
"In the name of the Owl, I charge you to be wise."
It should have been Athena, right? But that's not who Percy pictured. He could only think of a girl with gray eyes and the most beautiful blond hair. Seaweed Brain. Percy shivered for the first time in the ceremony. He smiled, his stomach filling with something bittersweet. When it came to wisdom, who else could he picture?
That left one.
"In the name of the Shadows, I charge you to remember the weight of death."
Percy's eyes snapped open. He looked up at Oberyn, meeting the prince's eyes. Something in Percy's gaze made Oberyn pause for a moment. Although Oberyn couldn't know it, he was looking at someone who had seen the underworld. Percy had spoken to the god of death in Alaska, looking upon his handsome face. He had escaped from the palace of the dead, where Hades lurked in the dark. From the hollow Fields of Asphodel to the burning pit of Tartarus, Percy knew what it meant to die better than anyone alive.
"Rise," Oberyn said. "Ser Perseus Jackson."
When Percy stood, it was Obara's turn to step forward. She held out the sword she was carrying. When Percy caught her gaze, she licked her lips.
"I can't have it said I am ungenerous," Oberyn said. "Your current sword is fitting for my squire. For a knight I've trained, better is due."
Percy took the new sword from Obara, setting the one he'd used aside. This sword was slightly heavier, the same length, and sat comfortably in his palm. Percy turned it right to left inside the scabbard. When he unsheathed it, his own reflection glistened beautifully.
"Congratulations," Oberyn said. "A knight has been born."
O-O-O
"Hah… Hah… Hah…!"
Arianne's shoulder blades stabbed out, digging into the bed, lifting her breasts. Under the force of gravity they hung to either side, though their firmness kept their shape admirably.
Between her legs, Percy pressed his lips onto her mound. His tongue turned right to left inside of her, moving similarly to the way he'd turned his sword over in the courtyard.
"That… damn… tongue!" Arianne moaned. "Percy!"
She dug hands into his hair, pulling as if to make him go deeper. He neither would nor had to. His tongue was deep enough. He found Arianne's weakest places, bullying or teasing them depending on the mood. Arianne continued to gasp for breath until the moment her flower spread its sticky pollen.
Percy lifted his head, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He got between Arianne's legs, which promptly wrapped around him, and leaned down. Seconds later he was inside of her, driving a gasp out of her lips.
"My cousins are going to be cross!" Arianne said. "I've monopolized this celebration!"
Beneath him, the gorgeous princess smiled her beautiful smile, older and even more beautiful than when they met. Her skin reminded him of the dusky sky he'd been knighted beneath. His cock speared in again, striking something soft and wet inside of Arianne which set her lashes fluttering.
"They'll live," Percy said.
"Mm," Arianne agreed. "But there will be—" she sucked in a breath "—tantrums."
Percy leaned forward, touching the tips of their noses. "Let them complain. The princess comes first."
"Your tongue saw to that," Arianne joked.
Percy kissed her smart mouth. He ran one of his hands up and down the outside her soft thigh, brushing his fingers across her delicate skin. Arianne wasn't so gentle when she jabbed her ankles into his lower back. Her legs were locked around him, clenching as her lower body spasmed. Arianne had to cum twice more, and Percy once, before her grasp on him loosened.
They paused, taking a rest for Arianne to catch her breath. Together, they sat against the headboard. Percy's back was propped on the bed's luxurious pillows, his legs spread enough that Arianne could sit between them, leaning directly against his body. Percy's arms were around his waist. She was stroking one of his muscular thighs. Paying him back, perhaps, for his doing the same while they had sex.
"A knight," Arianne said. "Everyone knew you would become one. Uncle could have made you one the day you met, and you'd have been well worth the title. Yet…"
"It feels strange to think of me as one?"
"Only that I must remind myself it's true." Arianne twisted her neck, looking back at him, pouty lips smiling. "You have always been my knight."
Percy kissed her on the forehead. She decided she liked that and leaned back, burying the upper half of her face against his neck.
"What will you do now?"
"Whatever you need," Percy said, only half-joking. "Oberyn already arranged for armor and weapons." Percy's new sword was in the room with them, leaning against the wall by the door. "I'll train, as I have been. It's not my job to take care of Oberyn's chores anymore. My free time is going to go up. At least when I'm not attending tourneys."
"Will you be going to many?" Arianne asked against his chest.
"I don't know yet. I'm not sure what to expect from them. I'll be going to one, at least."
"The Harvest Tourney."
"That one."
Oberyn raised the idea almost immediately after knighting Percy. Looking back, Percy realized Oberyn had this in his head for a while. He'd been dropping hints, mentioning this tourney for the last two weeks. Percy thought he meant to go himself, just to stir up trouble, but now it all made a lot more sense.
Reluctantly, Arianne turned back around, un-burying her face from Percy's body so she could speak more easily. "Where is it being held this year?"
"Uplands," Percy said.
The Harvest Tourney was a recent occurrence. Inspired — or goaded, depending on who you asked — by King's Landing's constant tournaments with grand prizes and lavish guests, the Reach started holding their own. It happened annually, held in conjunction with the harvest, the source of its name. Different lords hosted the event, overseen by the Tyrells themselves. So far it had been held at Bitterbridge, Old Oak, Horn Hill, and Blackcrown. This year the setting was Uplands, seat of House Mullendore, one of the chief lords sworn to the Hightowers. Uplands lay a brief trip east of Oldtown.
"If Obara asks to go, tell her she's not allowed. If she complains, tell her I commanded it. If she still complains, tell her it's father's order," Arianne said. "She hates Oldtown the way a ship captain hates storms. She's like to do something unwise and impetuous, for which you'll be burdened by the consequences."
Arianne caught Percy gazing at her and furrowed her brow. "What?"
"I was wondering when you became the mature one."
"Sitting in on three years of council meetings is bound to have an effect," Arianne said, snorting. "Even I think about these things now."
Percy thought he'd embarrassed her, because she buried her face against his neck again, but he soon felt the jab of her teeth against his skin. That bite had mostly likely been his admonishment. He tightened his hands around her waist.
Since they returned from Ghost Hill, Arianne's routine had changed more than Percy's. Doran kept her at his side for meetings with Sunspear's council. At first, she was only there to listen. After a year, he started giving her small tasks. Taking notes, applying a seal, or finding the error in a document. A year after that, he kept her after the meetings, asking her questions. In the last year, three years after she started attending, he directly asked her for her input. In addition to these meetings there were lessons, with Doran or with other officials. These days, Percy suspected she was doing a portion of the work Doran would have otherwise handled. A welcome respite for the prince, given that each time Percy saw him he was struggling a bit more to move.
Neither Arianne nor Doran mentioned their old conflict. Arianne ignored the letter she once found to Quentyn, believing it to be left in the past. Doran never called more suitors. They worked like a lord and his heir, burying the storm that had blown between them. Percy wouldn't say they were as close as the stories Arianne told of her youth. The love was absent. But they worked together seamlessly.
"Take Tyene," Arianne said. "Her mother is of the Reach, as you know. She has been at least three times before. She knows her way and understands the houses there. Nymeria would be useful, I'm sure—"
"But she can't go."
"Yes," Arianne agreed sadly.
When Nymeria came of age, she had a fair number of suitors. She was beautiful, and while a bastard, her noble half caught certain eyes. Among those were House Mullendore, the hosts of the tourney, whose third son came of age at the same time as Nymeria. While not the most prestigious of the suitors, they were the most dogged. His son being rejected by a bastard wasn't accepted easily by Lord Mullendore, who pursued a match for almost two years when most gave up after the first letter.
Seeing Nymeria stroll into a tourney on their lands would be a pure provocation. Unlike Obara, Nymeria had the good sense to avoid such things. Even if Percy begged her she wouldn't go, which he wasn't about to do in the first place.
"I wish I could go," Arianne said. "How long has it been since we traveled together?"
"Six months," Percy said, thinking for a moment. "We visited the Water Gardens with Teora and your father."
"The Water Gardens are hardly a trip. It's practically Sunspear." Arianne tapped her head, rhythmically, against Percy's shoulder. "I want to go to Essos. We could visit Myr and buy new tapestries from the source. We'd wander Braavos at night, where you could fight a duel for my honor."
"This sounds like it's getting dangerous."
Arianne giggled. "Let's go to Yi Ti. I hear they have an entire city made from jade, that queer green rock Nymeria has a necklace of. We could watch the sunrise over the city… and of course make love to the view!"
Gasping, Arianne found herself flipped over. With the speed of a beast, Percy had gotten her beneath him again. She shuddered as her breasts were pressed flat by his chest.
"I can't do anything about the view, but I can fulfill half of that fantasy, Princess."
"Mmmm. My knight," Arianne said, linking her hands behind his head.
Soon enough, she was moaning into his mouth, getting a taste of the pleasures that home held.