Ser Willem Darry had seen many duels in his day. In the Stepstones, in the streets of Lys, even in the alleys of Braavos where death came quick and quiet, like a whisper in the dark. But this was something else.
Oberyn Martell moved like a dancer, all fluid grace and sharp turns, his limbs loose as rope and just as deadly when taut. Viserys Targaryen, by contrast, was stiff, burning with effort, his silver hair damp with sweat, chest heaving with each swing of the wooden blade.
And yet... he kept going.
Ser Willem watched, arms crossed, leaning against the stone archway that framed the training room. The Dornishman had let the boy come at him for nearly an hour. Footwork, he kept saying. Footwork. As if that were the only truth worth knowing.
Then, something changed.
Willem saw it in the way Oberyn shifted his weight. His hips turned a hair too quick. His grin sharpened—gone was the jester's amusement. What remained was the glint of a serpent about to strike. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but to a knight who had seen a dozen men die with that same look in their eyes, it was enough.
He's going to strike. Truly strike.
Willem's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, old instinct flooding back. Too far, a part of him screamed. The Dornishman stood less than five paces from the boy, and Willem was across the chamber, the air thick with incense and heat and too much space. He would never reach them in time.
He drew his blade anyway.
"Viserys!" he shouted.
Too late.
—
Viserys had seen it too.
The moment Oberyn's smile changed, he knew. It was not in the words, nor even in the blade now held with both hands—it was in the eyes. A flash of cold fire. The grin of a man who had decided.
He's going to kill me.
Time twisted.
The world slowed to a crawl, sounds warping like a dream underwater. His heart thudded, too loud in his ears. The training hall disappeared, and in its place, a thousand memories unfurled like paper catching flame—flashes of heat, of fear, of rage.
A boy begging in Pentos. A man scorned and mocked in Myr. Hands shaking, crown slipping. The taste of bile. The scent of ashes. He saw it all—the death of his pride, the death of Rhaegar, the deaths still to come.
And he knew. Oberyn was not playing. There would be no last-second pull, no feint. The tip of that sword was aimed true, a viper's fang striking at the throat.
He would die, if he did not move.
Viserys didn't think. He moved.
A twist of the hips. A half-step back. He dropped his weight to one side, just like Oberyn had done again and again that past hour. Footwork. Not strength. Not rage.
Balance.
The wooden blade missed him by a breath.
Wind brushed his cheek, hot and close. The crack of impact echoed behind him—wood slamming against stone where his head had just been.
He staggered, breath catching, eyes wide.
Alive.
But only just.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Ser Willem crossed the room in long, thundering strides, sword drawn, fury etched into the deep lines of his face. Gone was the calm and faithful knight. In his place stood a man aflame with wrath, eyes locked on the Dornishman like a hawk to a snake.
"You tried to kill him," Ser Willem said, voice low and trembling, not with fear—but with rage. "You aimed for his throat."
Oberyn turned, one brow rising as if surprised by the outburst. He still held the wooden blade, loose in his fingers. His chest rose and fell with measured breath—just a trace of sweat glistening on his brow.
"It was a test," he said lightly. "And the boy passed."
Ser Willem advanced another step. The tip of his steel longsword hovered inches from Oberyn's chest. "You forget yourself, Prince of Dorne. I swore an oath to protect him, and I will not stand idle while you 'test' his reflexes by trying to open his throat like a butcher carves a goose."
Oberyn's smile remained, but something cold flickered in his eyes. "You would draw steel on me, ser knight?"
"If you try that again," Ser Willem said, dropping all pretense of deference, "I will strike you down. Prince or not."
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Then Oberyn gave a soft chuckle and stepped back, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Seven save me from dutiful knights and their sense of honor. Very well. I admit it—perhaps I was too bold. But the lad did dodge. You should be proud."
He turned, walked to a corner table, and picked up a thick leather pouch. With a casual toss, he sent it flying through the air. Ser Willem caught it by reflex. The weight was unmistakable.
Gold.
"A gift," Oberyn said. "For both of you. From the Sealord's coffers, passed through my hands. A reward for the week's progress. And Viserys—"
He glanced at the young prince, who had fallen to one knee, hand on the ground, chest still heaving. "—a bonus. You learned faster than most squires I've known. You moved like I taught you. Perhaps there's a warrior hiding beneath all that silver hair."
From the floor, Viserys lifted his head.
Sweat clung to his brow, and his shirt was soaked through. His fingers trembled with exhaustion, but his heart beat loud and triumphant.
He had survived.
Then, just at the edge of his vision, he saw it.
A shimmer. A flicker. A system notification.
New Skill Gained: Viper's DanceYou've learned the core principle of evasive footwork through real combat experience.
"To kill a viper, you must catch it. To catch it, you must move like one."
Agility +0.5
Half a point? Viserys blinked, stunned.
That was more than any stat had ever increased since this strange gift had awakened in him. Weeks of training had barely moved the needle. But now, with one brush with death, he had taken a leap forward.
He had felt it too—something shift inside him, as if his body finally understood what his mind had been trying to teach it. This was no ordinary growth. This was evolution.
And he would need every inch of it.
He stood on shaky legs as Oberyn approached a small chest on the shelf.
"But I have another gift," Oberyn said, his voice light again, as if nothing at all had happened.
He opened the chest with a flourish and withdrew a long, narrow box carved from black oak. Inside were tiny glass vials, carefully fitted in velvet grooves—clear, crimson, emerald, gold. Each held only a few drops of liquid.
"Poisons," Oberyn said.
Ser Willem's jaw clenched. "We are not assassins."
"No," Oberyn agreed, his tone serious now. "You're not. And nor is he. These are not for others—they are for him."
Viserys blinked. "Me?"
Oberyn nodded. "Do you know how many kings and princes die in Essos without a blade ever touching them? In their sleep. At their feasts. A drop in wine, a dusting in soup. Some poisons here are common, others are more rare—tears of Lys, Demon's dance, the Strangler. But in small doses, smaller than a breath, they can be used to train the body. Build resistance. One drop a day, from a needle tip. No more."
"And if the dose is too large?" Ser Willem asked, hand still hovering near his sword.
"Then he dies." Oberyn smiled, as if discussing wine pairings. "But I trust he is not a fool."
Viserys looked at the vials. Death in glass. But also… armor. Another layer between him and the grave.
"I'll be careful," he said. "Show me how to begin."
Oberyn gave him a curt nod, then clapped his hands together. "Good. Now that we've all danced with death and handed out presents, it's time for something pleasant. The Sealord has extended his hospitality. He has food, wine, and whores the likes of which even Lys can't match—"
Ser Willem's eyes narrowed.
"—and," Oberyn added quickly, raising a finger, "he wishes to serve as witness."
"Witness?" Willem asked.
"For the formal marriage pact, of course," Oberyn said with a grin, turning to Viserys. "Between you and my niece, Arianne. There is no better authority in this city than the Sealord of Braavos. He'll see it done properly."
Silence. Then Ser Willem and Viserys exchanged a look—shock plain on both faces.
Viserys opened his mouth.
But no words came.