Duel of the Princes

296 AC

Wylam:

"Does the Red Viper recoil at the presence of a Stag? I expected better." Were the words of the inflamed Prince, who had not ceased pacing on the flat, pale stone floor surrounded by the palace's majestic walls that cast a partial and growing shadow over the grounds. The sun, a hueing red colour that foretold blood would be spilt; bright red. Court members and off-duty guards and servants were beginning to filter in, two, then four, then twenty at a time. News had spread that the young and brash betrothed of Princess Arianne had challenged their Prince. While the Lords and Ladies took up places at the relatively comfortable rafters, some with wine in hand, others not. Servants watched elbow to elbow near the inns, alleys, armoury doors, stables and entrances. Guards would no doubt be required to keep the increasingly numerous spectators at bay for their own safety.

The yard was wide and big enough for fifty men to train at one time. Manoeuvrability would be no problem for the both of them.

"All come to see me fall, broken and humbled".

Wylam knew his words would reach Oberyn, which was what he wanted, to bait the prideful snake into the light. Even though he knew he was early, Wylam's energy and still burning temper was driving him to resort to these petty tactics. To fight the Prince was his sole obsession. While he was not his father, they still had their similarities: namely their capacity for anger. Wylam was not prone to giving into rage as his father was. But when he did, as he occasionally did during his drunken nights with his friends back in King's Landing or whenever he saw an injustice that he felt obligated to right, it rarely ended well for the one who had provoked him.

Arianne bust through the door to his room, as well as past both of his guards. This was the first he had seen her in over a week, yet his thoughts lingered elsewhere. Leaving no room to notice. Bronn was still adjusting the straps of his armour as she almost glided past, Bronn seemed to form some sort of sentence on his lips, but quickly decided to say nothing.

She stepped right in front of him. She looked as divine as ever, an orange dresses swayed, and left her bronze shoulder bare. Wylam hardly noticed though, more concerned with punishing her obnoxious Uncle.

"What are you doing? You seek to fight my family?"

"Your Uncle should learn to keep his mouth shut. If he itches for a fight, I'll give him one."

She stood her ground.

"You men and your urge to fight. Can this honestly not be resolved by other means?"

"We'll talk after."

"No. We'll talk here and now." It was clear by her tone; Arianne would not be placated. His guards stood awkwardly by the door, unsure of how to proceed. Manhandling the future ruling Princess inside her own palace was not an option and it was clear that he would not be leaving this room until the air was cleared. He sighed.

"Leave us. Bronn" he turned his head towards the two Baratheon men at arms, " you too" His bodyguard gave a curt nod and sidestepped Arianne, who he also nodded towards. The door shut; it was just them. Both awkward and unsure in a volatile situation that could very well see someone at risk of being seriously hurt or worse. These were not the ideal conditions he pictured that involved himself and Arianne Martell alone in his bedroom.

He gave a quick glance at his helm on the desk, gripping it by the T-shaped visor, made with fine Stormland, castle-forged steel, it was a prime work of art. As a Baratheon, it was made with the two holes on each side of the top: it would be here were a son of Storm's End would fix on two antlers. By tradition, it must be from a Stag the boy has hunted and killed himself, with a blood relative as witness, exceptions being if none are alive of course. He would have enjoyed having been offered to be accompanied to the wild forests outside Storms's End by his father, but he of course had never said anything. The arrogant prick that was his Uncle Renly never offered to go with him either. Stannis would be too busy. So as of now, he had yet to "mount his Antlers". If he lived past a year here. He hoped to get around to it somehow.

moved towards the window, the red sun dominating all as its overlord. He fiddled with his armour's straps and machinations, the yellow and black stag lay upon his chest. He continued Bronn's job of adjusting his couter and gauntlet of which now felt looser than they had before.

The Dornish Princess did not take kindly to this silent treatment. She folded her arms, the light rattle of her jewellery clinking.

"Well?"

"Your Uncle has a problem with me, he's been making it quite clear all week. What kind of a man will I be if I continue to let him undermine me in front of your future bannermen?"

"If you had consulted me, I would have spoken to him and gotten it resolved." Wylam turned from the grand view towards her, a sour look on his face.

"Oh really? That would have been difficult, considering I've barely seen you for a week."

"I was busy! It is not my fault that my Father feels an urge to drown me in these meetings and spending time with my Lords and Ladies. I've been as frustrated about it as you."

"Who told you about this duel?"

"Tyene. She seemed very excited about the prospect." Wylam managed to muster an amused smirk at that.

"I'm sure she was. You should tell her, she's not as convincing as she thinks she is in her role."

"She and I disagree on excessive violence. Probably one of the few things we do not agree on, truth be told. Word has also reached my Father of course, yet for some reason, it seems he will let thia happen."

Wylam looked at her, his lips made a movement that suggested he would say something but decided otherwise. With a huff he moved to sit on his bed. He stared blanky at the wall.

"I only have myself here. I'm no true man if I need my betrothed to stand up for me. If he hates me, fine, but it can't go unanswered."

The Princess huffed and stormed towards the bed also and sat down on the left side.

"I love my Uncle, I've found myself looking up to him more than my own Father. We're more alike, me and my Uncle. In House Martell, its said a member is either hot or cold. Brash, passionate and impulsive, or meticulous, pragmatic and reasonable. I, my cousins and Uncle the former, while my Father, other Uncles and brothers have been the later. A stupid concept really."

A silence followed. Neither knowing what else to say. But it was Wylam who spoke first, rubbing his head and ignoring his fatigue from his training in the hot sun, of which he was still unused to. Arianne

"It is said all of us Baratheons are born with the capacity for great passion… and hate."

Arianne took his armoured shoulder in her ringed hands.

"Hate doesn't substitute for experience."
He looked in her direction.

"You think I'll lose." It was not a question.

"Yes" she stated plainly. He did not blame her of course. In being honest with himself, he was not confident himself. But of course, that was not the point. Oberyn Martell was not some gutter rat pickpocket of some slum gang in Flea Bottom, or a pirate slaver. This was a man renown for his skill as a warrior. One whom despite his own growing skill, was above any calibre of opponent he had ever faced – sparring sessions with Ser Barristen Selmy and your Uncle Jaime notwithstanding.

"Yeah… I don't blame you. All the same, this has to happen now." He went to stand up, but Arianne did not let go of her grip on his arm, and so he remained seated.

"Look… Arianne. If I don't do this, I'll never live it down with myself. Those men and women down there, they'll take every opportunity to watch me be defamed."

He huffed and rubbed a calloused hand through his dark hair.

"I didn't ask for this. Truth was I was in a fucking whorehouse when I was dragged in front of court, and told I was marrying you. If we weren't here now. I'd still be Chataya's. Pissed out of my mind and gone out looking for a fight later. If this is how it is, fine, but I'm not living on my knees for however long my life will be. Your Uncle has a problem. We can settle this like men."
Arianne said nothing, but her grip loosened, and Wylam took the opportunity to walk out the room. Doing up his armour as he went. As he pushed open the door, he turned back to her.

"I'm sorry." He said, clear and concise.

She said nothing.

Here and now, he could only pace. He felt the sweet temptation of fatigue but managed to stow it with his burning desire for this confrontation. He had been here not longer than an hour now, yet he felt the sweat drop down all over his body. In the hot summer sunset, his heavy armour felt like being trapped in a baker's oven.

He focused solely on the large entranceway that Oberyn and his posse had left through hours ago. Nevertheless, he looked up at the floors of the palace that now acted as spectator stands, he noticed Lords and Ladies, some he recognised and knew the names, of others, he could not recall.

Lady Alyse Ladybright, as well as her younger daughter, Jayne, sat upon the top level, Lady Alyse with what looked like a glass of wine, while Jayne drank a lemon water. The young Lady Jayne blushed as she saw him turn to face her direction ever briefly.

He spotted the Old Hawk, Lord Franklyn Fowler of Skyreach, along with his twin daughters. A serious frown adorned his weathered and tanned face. He could not tell the two girls from another. They were older than him, older than Arianne even. His interaction with them had been limited. The Lord himself seeming to barely hold back his contempt. The two girls remaining sickeningly sweet in theirs.

He saw guardsman with the three-scorpion insignia from house Qorgyle, some snacked-on dragon peppers, while some shared a flagon of wine. Even amongst the growing crowd, he heard a few sniggers about him.

"This boy stands no chance. I tell you now, he will fall before it even becomes a true fight."

"If the Red Viper beats him down, do you think Prince Doran will send him away?"

"Most likely. He will be lucky if Prince Oberyn won't do what he did to Lord Yronwood. A child for a child, for Princess Elia."

"At least this boy has the chance to a fair fight. Princess Elia and her children did not get that privilege."

To the right balcony, he spotted Lady Larra Blackmont, holding the hand of her Lady lover, Clara Toland, with her daughter and heir, Jynessa, and young son, Perros. The Blackmont party dressed in their customary gold and black.

They were one of the few houses who had warmly received him in their interactions. With Perros, particularly seeming to be determined to make an impression in his recitation of House Baratheon's history, all the way back to the Durrandons. His memory and attention to detail would have impressed even the most pedantic of Maesters. It surprised him to know how the young boy knew to favour his Baratheon side, but he did not waste the opportunity and made sure to treat them each with respect.

Looking on, he saw most of the banners of Dorne's houses around: Allyrion, Wyl, Manwoody and Dalt; Minus House Yronwood, he was sure that all of Dorne was watching.

"Remember, its only the whole of Dorne." Came the voice of Bronn, also looking around the impressive party that had gathered, hand resting on the palm of his sword.

"Fuck you." Was Wylam's only reply.

Above by the western side of the structure, he spotted the four women he knew to expect:

Princess Arianne, looking down, the look of concern in her lovely, deep, brown eyes was as clear as the snow of the North. They both made eye contact for no more than seconds before breaking off. This was happening now; nothing could stop it.

The Lady next to her was her cousin, Lady Tyene. Her usual blue was replaced by a golden samite, matching her golden hair, a septagram necklace across her pale neck. It put him off ever slightly, while no doubt she looked beautiful, it reminded him too much of his mother. In contrast to her cousin, she seemed to be enjoying the event. Whether she looked forward to the possibility of her Father maiming him, he could not tell. She clutched her cousin, in an apparent attempt at comfort.

Lady Ellaria, his opponent's paramour, also looked down. Her usual happy and warm expression she always had in her lover's presence was gone, concern was written all over her face and body language.

Lady Nymeria stood opposite Ellaria. In contrast, she appeared bored, she rested against the iron railings, playing with one of her two main daggers. Her most notable feature being her golden viper earrings, that shined in the light. Her lips, almost blood red, turned to a smile, as she seemingly exchanged words with Lady Ellaria, of which he could not make out.

For some time, the area was at peak capacity. Wylam smiled to himself, not a week had gone, and here he was about to fight the ruling Prince's famous brother.

"At least this will be one for the Maesters to write about…"

Then, the Door to the western entrance finally opened.

Oberyn Martell walked through as if he were attending a banquet in his own honour: no fear or hesitation.

To his left flank was Sers Arron Qorgyle and Daemon Sand. To his right were Obara Sand, Lord Tremond Gargalen and Lord Dagos Manwoody. Arron, holding the Prince's decorated spear, Obara his helm; a carving of a serpent edged into it.

Oberyn himself wore all red armour, the blazing sun at the centrepiece, mostly tough leather and silk; light and mobile. His usual swagger and arrogance as clear as the night sky. The two began circling each other. Wylam clutched his sword harder.

"Brave of you, boy. I honestly did not think you would come."

"Projecting, Prince Oberyn?"

Oberyn gave a laugh at that.

"Amusing. Seems like I will have to humble you after all."

Wylam only gave a pause, with his glare not leaving his opponent.

"One of us will be."

Oberyn stopped, putting on his helm, then, reaching out with his right hand, and catching his spear from Ser Arron. Obara walked up, her icy glare not leaving him, as she handed her father his helm.

As this occurred, everyone stopped and turned to another balcony, this one directly connected to the Sunspear palace tower. It was higher than all the overlooking balconies. This one unoccupied area was suddenly home to Prince Doran, pushed along in his wheelchair by a small guard, flanked to the left, the towering Norvoshi, Areo Hotah, as usual with his giant blade in hand. Always surveying everyone and everything as usual. The Prince had yet to give word as to his reaction to the announced duel. No messenger or guard had come to him or as far as he knew, Oberyn, on orders this was not to take place.

"I do not understand. I half expected some resistance. Yet only Arianne had tried."

The Prince said nothing for what felt like a long time. The people beneath likely resembling small toys to the solitary elder Martell. Both himself and Oberyn, looking to him, looking for unsaid permission to begin. This truly was a surprise; Doran had practically been a ghost since the welcome feast. Only making a rare appearance, only talking with a few direct people.

Yet here he was.

He staired down, his eyes, even from a distance, held a distant, bleak serenity. It was then, that he stood up, slowly reaching the edge of the balcony, and nodded. Allowing the fight to go ahead. Some light cheers and clapping arising.

Wylam turned for a few moments to where Arianne was. Her face remained neutral.

With the ruling Prince's approval. It was time to begin.

"As a guest, and a much younger fellow, I give you the option to decide how this end, first blood, or until one of us yields?"

Wylam stood and thought for a second. He knew if it were based on skill and experience, the Red Viper had him beat, but he felt he had a chance if it went through willpower alone.

"A Stormlander will always beat a Dornishman." He repeated in his head as a mantra.

"Until one of us yields then."

The sick smile of the viper was taken over by the leather and iron of the Martell helm, now in a fighting stance with the spear pointed directly at him.

He did the same. Bringing his sword into a fighting stance.

Taking the initiative, Wylam struck first. The crowd cheered and booed.

The Prince twirled and almost danced away. Wylam hacked again, trying to knock away the spear, but the Red Viper only slid back as if on ice. Keeping up the momentum, Wylam aggressively hacked and slashed, trying to land a blow at the knees. The tip of the Viper's spear missing his face by inches.

"There's no way of knowing what's on that spear. If he's coated it with something. All it'll take is one cut."

The thought paled him, underneath the helm.

He slightly leapt back, panting heavily. The safe distance between them at least six or seven feet. While Wylam kept up his defensive posture, Oberyn lazily dropped his.

"Aggressive. I must say, it does suit you. But how does your defence hold up?"

Almost like an arrow at high speed, the Dornishman spun his weapon, side to side, like a dozen swords at once coming in his direction. He rushed back. Now off centre.

The Manoeuvre stopped, and Oberyn jabbed his spear, aiming for the young Prince's belly, who was only just able to move away. Now at the exposed right flank, Wylam took a charged swing, but the Red Viper was fast, incredibly fast. He jumped back, while swinging the outreached spear directly at Wylam's legs. He was only just able to narrowly miss the edge of the blade nicking his ankle.

Wylam took the offensive and began trying to hack at the knees of the Red Viper, but again, his opponent fluidly and effortlessly jumped and kept well out of reach, occasionally sweeping away his sword strikes with the tip of the spear.

"Its like a dance to him. He isn't concerned in the slightest."

This drove them all the way to the right side of the crowd, who's hollers, and boos turned to panic as the two warriors came into their space, barely making way as Oberyn was pressured against the back of the wall.

"You don't hold anything back. Typical."

Oberyn used Wylam's forward momentum to quickly dodge to the side, just as he was about to be held against the stone itself.

For what seemed to be the next few minutes, Oberyn just dodged and parried away. Not engaging or striking himself, this dance led them back to the centre where they started.

Oberyn suddenly dropped his fighting stance. Breathing in and out only slightly. Wylam himself kept in his stance. Ready for the Viper to strike. By now, the Sun felt as if it burned right through him. His muscles and legs were burning, his back and front were drenched in sweat like in a monsoon. He steadied himself, as he wheezed, managing to regain some semblance of control of over his breathing. Doubtless this was the Red Viper's strategy from the beginning.

"Come, come my Prince. Are you too tired to continue? What happened to the son of Demon of the Trident, who won the war almost singlehandedly?" he said as he gestured with both hands openly, spear in his right hand. Inviting him to strike.

Wylam took it, and tried to take a sideways slash at Oberyn, but he only grazed the front plate, caught off balance by the thrust, Oberyn extended and kicked his boot into Wylam's helmed face, who fell onto the floor.

He grunted, while his head buzzed as if his head was being shaken. The crowd cheered all around, he heard some laughs, a few feet away, Oberyn basked in the crowd's support, bowing and pointing his spear in the sky.

He was not sure what made him angrier: That kick or the crowd.

You fuckers want a show. Fine

He tore off his helmet off with just one hand. It seemed Oberyn was too caught up with the adoration of the crowd to notice him come up behind him. Only turning at the last possible moment.

Wylam clenched his fist and struck Oberyn into his face. The helm the Red Viper wore was like his armour, leather mostly, and steel only in certain areas, with a golden sun at the centre. Yet behind his own gloved hand, he landed a strike that made the Viper fall back. As he tried to take advantage of the downed Viper, his opponent quickly leaped back to his feet.

"Crude, but effective."Came the rushed but still smooth voice.

"Do you ever shut up?" barked Wylam.

"Never"

The two's movements became sluggish. Even Oberyn, fully used to his native climate and agility to wear down his opponents was beginning to slow, but only to a point where it still made little difference to Wylam.

By this point, everything burned in him. He was losing his sight and ability to breath as normal. It seemed the Dornish Prince's plan had worked. He felt tempted, oh so tempted to drop his blade, abandon the fight and get his armour off, as it clung and itched everywhere with rashes and burns.

That would be a sight and story.

Wylam the stripped. Or Wylam the stripper

He gave a breathless chuckle, that seemingly went unnoticed. Just holding his blade in a fighting stance ached every muscle in his body.

As Wylam struck again, now with everything he had.

Thrusts, strikes to the centre, right, left and to the legs, it was all useless. Prince Oberyn used his wide-ranging spear to constantly keep Wylam at least a few feet away. His spear acted as a seemingly impenetrable shield, never letting up.

By now, Wylam felt he the effects which he knew from experience, was probably a dislocated jaw, a body that felt ready to give up, a desperation that was retreating from him, as fatigue and doubt began to cloud him. All he seemed to have given to his opponent in turn, was a bloodied mouth.

He now saw himself as thought from outside his own body; he was getting sloppy, reckless and leaving himself more open.

As he tried to get back into the right state of mind, Prince Oberyn, who had maintained a purely defensive stance the whole time, now turned and began to strike at will.

The young Prince realised; he could neither hold off efficiently, nor strike back, the Viper had been playing him like this before the first blow was struck. Now, all he could do was dig in and wait for the inevitable.

His thigh was struck first. He felt the warmth and stinging, yet it was soon replaced by the strike that hit him on the left shoulder.

"Not enough to be fatal." He realised. "But enough that I'll be recuperating for at least a week or two… or maybe more."

Brought to one knee, he managed to block one more slash as his armed dropped, before the next thing he felt was the armoured knee of Oberyn Martell smashing into his face.

For a moment, he heard only the approving roar of the crowd and some yells in horror. Then, that was replaced by a ringing in his ears, and after that. A blankness, loosing all sense of himself and his surroundings. His thoughts drifted to nothing, but the now warm red sun, and the hot stone where his head lay. Then, nothing.

Author's notes

Shit. So that was my attempt at a fight scene. Hope it worked well.

In case anyone didn't notice. I'm rewriting to remove the title of "Rogue Prince" from Wylam's name. I've been doing some thinking of where I want the story to go, and I no longer think it suits him, in terms of Wylam as a character. In the far-off future, maybe I write a character and story where a parallel to Daemon occurs, but it isn't now. So yeah, Wylam is just Wylam, or whatever other name he becomes known by the future.

As well as that, I'll be periodically adding, deleting or re-writing bits and pieces I like and don't like in hindsight. Some you may not notice, some you might.

As always, reviews help me find motivation. As for some individuals demanding I update more regularly, it may surprise you to know I have a life and responsibilities. If you want me to work on this full-time and update more often, I'd be happy to be paid or compensated, even if it would most probably get me an Email or phone call from Mr Martin's lawyer.

Big event happening next chapter. That is all I'm going to say.