The Prince of Bats:

"You're to teach me?" The smug boy asked of the older swordsman before him.

"Yes," Ser Barristan Selmy responded firmly as he raised his sword and slid into his stance.

Damian guessed the decrepit old fool had not fought a serious battle in decades. His mother had forced him since he was two to begin studying the world's greatest warriors and groups. The Kingsguard of Westoros had had many worthy, historic names in its long list of fallen knights. But they were all dead. Standing before him was Barristan the Bold, a knight Illyrio Mopatis had told Damian was unquestioningly the greatest fighter alive today. As Damian observed his silver haired, wrinkled opponent, Damian came to the conclusion that Illyrio's tales were but stories, of a man long ago. The old man before him was just the withered shell of that great knight, and was all that remained of him.

Scoffing, Damian spat, "I'll try not to make your defeat too embarrassing old man."

Ser Barristan replied with a small smile as he nodded. Damian lunged forward, clearly brandishing his sword in his right hand. The old knight took the bait and moved to defend from the right, but Damian flipped his sword to his left at the last minute before the strike and brought it down on the old man's side. To his surprise, his steel was met with steel, as Ser Barristan had changed tactics to Damian's ploy and moved to defend quickly.

Damian chimed with gnawed teeth, "You're rather spry for an old man."

"You should have seen me twenty years ago," Barristan replied as he spun his blade and swiftly brought it down on Damian. Damian was taken aback by the speed and barely had time to leap out of the blade's way.

He rolled, and was on his feet sword at the ready within two tumbles. He glared up at his opponent as he wryly japed, "I would have enjoyed that, you would have been more of a fight then than you are now as a decrepit old skeleton."

Ser Barristan chuckled, "Son, if there's one thing you learn as you get older is that your perception and definition of 'old' constantly lengthens with each year."

This time he sprinted at the man, and as Ser Barristan swung his sword down from the right, Damian leapt to the railing of the ship they dueled upon and pushed off poised to bring his sword down upon his opponent's exposed back. Before Damian could however, Ser Barristan had brought the butt of his sword back around, and drove it squarely into Damian's chest.

Damian flew to the ship's deck in a groaning, graceless wreck. He was on his back, gripping his chest in pain as his lungs struggled to regain their breath. As he struggled to get up, he felt the cold kiss of cold steel gently against his neck. He looked up, barely making out the old man's outline against the bright sunny sky.

"It would seem this old bag of bones can still take on a boy of five. I suppose that's something worth rejoicing," Barristan japed to himself as he withdrew his sword and sheathed it. "Our lesson is done for today."

That was the last time they spoke that day. Of their five days at sea thus far, Ser Barristan spent most of his time in his quarters or gazing out at the sea. Damian spent most days of his reading one of the many scrolls and tomes that his mother had sent with them or sparring with an imaginary opponent. Damian was determined to defeat the old knight the next day, but Barristan did not leave his quarters, nor the next day.

Finally, on the third day, Ser Barristan showed his face to the ship's deck. Damian was sharpening his blade, but immediately leapt to his feet at the ready.

The old man raised a hand, "Not today."

Damian's shoulders slumped. While Damian was irritated when mother had told him that he would be sent away with an exiled old knight, he was excited solely for the reason of dueling with someone other than one of mother's pathetic thugs.

"Come," Ser Barristan bid as they returned down below. The old man's quarters were barren, save for a cot with a wool sheet and a table set in the middle of the room. On the table was a cyvasse board ready for play.

"You're joking," Damian groaned.

Sitting with a sigh, Barristan gestured to the seat opposite. "No, your mother wished us to play a game a day. We've been at sea for a week, so we have seven games to play."

Damian's brow rose skeptically, but ultimately he sat and they played. "Are you good at the game?" He asked.

Ser Barristan shrugged his shoulders, "I haven't played in a few years, but we shall see if I can rid my mind of its dust to see if I can remember how to play."

Damian had learned from some of Essos' greatest minds how to play this and other tactical games. Within the past few months he had proven able to defeat all of them.

"Why did you leave Westoros?" He asked as he moved his crossbowmen after ten minutes of silent play.

The old man countered by moving his elephant to the right. "I was asked to step down as head of the Kingsguard by King Joffrey. He felt I was too old to properly defend him, and had proven incapable of performing my duties as two kings had been killed under my watch."

Damian captured the elephant with his dragon. "Two kings? Perhaps he was right. That's more kings than I've read died under any other's turn as head of the Kingsguard."

Barristan raised his pale blue eyes from the board to gaze into Damian's with a hardened gaze. "King Aerys was killed by the Kingslayer from behind. I can only protect the King on so many sides, but when one of his own guard takes his life so suddenly there is little anyone can do. And King Robert was slain by his love for the drink and doing foolish things while under its influence. The reason Joffrey is in the wrong is quite simple."

Damian shook his head. "Which is?"

Smirking, Barristan's fingers lowered to his dragon. "Joffrey, much as yourself, suffers from youth's great affliction."

Barristan raised the dragon and slowly brought it down upon Damian's, as the boy's eyes widened to at last see the elaborate trap that the old man had been setting since they began. "Arrogance."

Damian lost all seven games.

The Masked Demon:

"Oberyn Martell? This isn't Dorne, or are you lost? You're in the Reach, and unless you fail to notice, not your homeland. Leave now, and I'll allow you to live."

The Dornishman smirked. "Yes, these forests do not reflect the beauty of my home. And much to your misfortune, no force upon this earth will move my feet from this place. I am here to kill you, and I will do so with a heart that has burned for years with the all-consuming desire for vengeance. You see, Slade Wilson, right now, I would rather be nowhere else in this world."

"You won't be a part of it much longer," Slade grunted.

"Ah, a queer threat for you to make. I had heard that a maddened soul with a very pale complexion had sent you to the afterlife months ago. And yet here you stand before me. So tell me before I kill you, what force brought you back and who may I thank for giving me the joy of sending you back to the afterlife with my own two hands," the Red Viper replied with a grin as he switched his spear from hand to hand. Beginning to pace in a circle, the Dornishman began to spin his spear in his palms like it were a circus act.

The fool acts as if we are boys about to play with sticks.

"It seems the rumors of my death were greatly overblown. As you know, no one can return from the dead," Slade remarked, knowing his jape hit hard in the Dornishman's heart.

The grin faded from Oberyn's lips, but his face appeared tranquil, as if it were the calm before the storm. "So you accept the reason I wish to kill you. The first to do so. For that, I must applaud you for your truthfulness. Your master and his mad dog, the Mountain, refuse to take responsibility for their actions that night. The night when my sister and her children were brutally murdered at the hands of Ser Gregor Clegane the Mountain That Rides, and Slade Wilson, the Half-Mask, or more infamously, Deathstroke. I have waited many years for my chance for vengeance, and I must admit, after waiting so long, I have no better words to say other than, Slade Wilson, you killed my niece, a young girl of four, and soon you shall join her in the afterlife."

Slade smirked as he donned his helmet. Gazing out at his opponent through the lone slit in his helm he replied, "I've heard many rumors about you, Red Viper. They say you use poison, a woman's weapon, and coat your blades in it. They say you've fucked more women than the Mountain has killed men. That you're half-mad, and only one twice as mad would fight you."

As Oberyn drew took a step forward, twirling his spear as he quipped, "So Deathstroke, let us see if you're mad enough to duel with the Red Viper."

Slade spun his blade once in his hand. It had taken him many years to master fighting with a greatsword with one hand, but he had proven capable of the task. Feeling the weight shift as it spun around in his palm, the blood in his body beginning to boil in anticipation of the duel, knowing how skilled his opponent was, Slade almost felt excited.

He made the first move, dashing forward and thrusting his sword. Oberyn dodged to the left, and quickly brought his spear up in a replying thrust. Slade ducked, knocking the spear aside with his armored forearm as he brought his sword up in a slash. The Dornishman dodged, but a heartbeat too slow as a shallow cut slid up his shoulder.

"Seems I draw first blood in this little bout," Slade boasted as they continued parrying and attacking.

"True, but this is not a joust. The victor does not emerge victorious after a few moments of quick, strong steps. The victor emerges when their skin is coated in sweat, their foe's lungs quiver as they let loose their last breath, and their sword is bathed in a sea of their enemy's blood. This is a war condensed into a single battle, Slade Wilson, and it is a war I've been preparing many years for."

The Viper lunged forward with his spear, and Slade returned with another wound landed to the Dornishman's thigh.

Prince Oberyn chuckled as he looked down at the freshly bleeding gash. "Well struck, I thank you for making this dual interesting. If I had gone to such lengths to find you and killed you without any resistance I would feel as if I hadn't gained my revenge at all."

"You're bleeding from two different spots, and yet you boast as if you are winning. Am I fighting a child?" Slade grunted as he unleashed an angry flurry of strikes upon his opponent.

Actually, how did he find me… I'm in the middle of the bloody woods, leaving no trace of our travels.

On the last downswing, Oberyn ducked to the right, and brought his spear up along Slade's chest. At once, a searing fire lit from his belly to his collar as he fell back in pain. Gazing down, he could see that Oberyn had opened a cut along Slade's belly, but his chest armor had proven enough to prevent the wound from going any higher.

"I am winning, Slade. I am merely taking my time, and savoring each drop of your blood that falls," the prince replied. Oberyn made no move to advance, merely stood back, letting Deathstroke back on his feet.

"Your arrogance will be your downfall in this fight, fool."

Oberyn chuckled again, "Funny, I remember hearing people say that about your duel with Batman."

Slade growled and rushed forward with another furious bout of swings and strikes. Oberyn countered, pulling Slade in close to whisper, "Did I strike a nerve, Deathstroke?"

Blubbering fool, it'll only make your defeat more pathetic and rewarding. Slade said nothing as he continued his onslaught. They danced for what felt like hours as each gained wounds upon the other. Some moments one would clearly emerge the victor, but within the next breath they would be close to losing their footing.

At this moment, Slade had the upper hand, and as he brought his sword down, Oberyn spun, piercing his spear forward. The point caught Slade in the shoulder, pushing him back as his body seared in pain. At least half the blade's length was embedded in his flesh. Slade grunted as he gripped its base tightly. Not allowing the prince to retrieve it.

Oberyn smirked, "Embracing just how close to death you are, Slade?"

Slade let go a heavy breath as he sighed. Damn, and I wanted to wait to use this until I met Batman again.

He looked up at his arrogant opponent through the narrow slit in his helm. "I warned you, you were dealing with matters you shouldn't have." Slade gripped the end of the spear that wasn't embedded in his flesh, and began to bring his wrist down. Slowly, the metal's strength gave way to Slade's hand, and bent. As Slade stood, he continued to bend the metal until the wooden staff attached to it followed. Oberyn realized he must let go of his weapon, and did so as he took up the spare sword at his belt.

Slade smirked as he ripped the metal from his shoulder, savoring the look in the Dornishman's eyes. He stabbed his sword into the ground, and with both hands, bent the metal upon itself, until it finally snapped.

"It would seem, you returned to this world with a little more than when you left it," Oberyn remarked as he lowered his stance.

As if you have a chance.

"I was holding back until this point, but I've grown tired of this little begrudged duel. You haven't the faintest idea what you're up against, and what powers you dare cross."

Shortly after Slade had been resurrected by Vandal Savage and his red priestess, he had learned that he had returned with something more. He was stronger, and faster, in both mind and body. His reflexes were like lightning, and when he wished it, his strikes were like booming thunder. If anything, it was a testament to the Red Viper's skills that he could even land a blow on Slade.

"Ah, so you were merely playing before? You withheld your true strength until now. That is the strategy of a coward, Slade Wilson. At least, you finally let your true nature fall free from behind your menacing helm," Oberyn taunted.

Within two heartbeats Slade had dashed the eight paces between them and had the royal prince of Dorne on his ass in the dirt, his blade at the prince's neck. "Any last japes before I send you to join your ill-fated sister and her children in the afterlife?"

Oberyn smirked as he began to lightly chuckle, "Why yes I do in truth. You forget something Wilson, we aren't alone here."

Slade remembered the boy after it was already too late. The boy's feet landed on Slade's strong shoulders, and the last thing he saw was the boy's hand flash as he threw dirt into the sole eye slit in his helm. Slade grimaced and grunted as he swung his arm to bat the boy off, but he had already flipped away to safety. As Slade steadied himself and squinted to see his opponents, his body began to burn.

He roared in pain, "What is this? Damn you Viper and your poison!"

In a moment, the pain was gone. He rubbed his eye, both in irritation and in disbelief of what he saw. The forest was gone. Replaced by a dark, dimly lit dungeon. The stiff smell of dust and smoke was present in the air. He glanced down, noticing he stood at the center of some odd drawing. It was a large circle, with triangles at four separate points, and odd writing along its border.

A foot shuffled behind him. Slade spun in a heartbeat, his blade at the stranger's neck.

"Who are you?"

The stranger was unarmed, save for a queer object protruding from his lips. It was small, pale brown, and cylindrical . One end was in the stranger's mouth, the other end stuck out and was smoldering orange, illuminating his face. The man's hair was dirty blonde, and unkempt. His jaw was covered in unshaven scruff, as if the man hadn't seen a shaving blade in weeks. His skin was a paler shade than most, but his eyes, his eyes were piercing blue daggers.

He chuckled, "Ya know, damned thing this is." The man took the item from his mouth and exhaled a puff of smoke. "Tribe of mystics in a land a long ways from here came up with the idea. First ya dry the leaf, wrap it around the powder of some dried herbs, and light with a little fire, and Seven save ya, you have a nice little way to kill yourself."

Slade continued to stare at the stranger, his blade not dropping from the man's neck.

"Ya see, the smoke, gets into your lungs. Doesn't kill ya right away, takes time o'course. But in some odd amount of years, maybe five, maybe fifty, it'll get ya. It's funny ain't it? How a man's actions kill im'. For the mystics, it'll be the smoke, for Good ole' Dead Ned, it was his constant pissin' stream of honor. King Robert was the drink, well and the pig. For you, it was your pride. Eh, Wilson?"

Slade's grip on his blade tightened. "How do you know my name?"

The stranger feigned a cough and waved his hand in front of his face as if to blow away a fog. "You reek of dark magic there lad. Smell of rot's comin' off ya like stink offa' shit. Wasn't no ordinary spell brought you back."

Glancing down at the circle he stood within, Slade replied, "So that's what this spell is? Some other form of spell?"

"Aye, summoning spell. I do hate to use magic but can't have you go killin' the Red Viper before's time. You won't be needin this," the stranger tapped two fingers against the edge of Slade's sword.

Slade took his sword away from the man's neck, but still kept it gripped tight just in case.

The stranger walked into the light of the candle's glowing from the far wall. He was lean, and ragged. He wore a faded and torn white tunic with brown trousers beneath a dirty brown overcoat.

"So how's it feel? Bein' Vandal Savage's bitch? He says shake your dick, you say how hard right?" He mocked in a cynical tone.

"Carefuln fool, the only reason I haven't split your head from your neck is pure curiosity," Slade growled.

The stranger stepped back feigning shock. "The great Deathstroke, known for slitting throats and never askin' questions, staying his hand out of curiosity. Aye, great name by the way. I get the word play, beyond death's stroke. Must make your enemies piss their breaches." His face grew dark as his japing tone left him. "You feel it don't you. That empty hole in your chest. You can't see it, although on some nights I'm sure you've looked in a mirror or pool of water looking for it. That hole missing between your ribs, where you used to feel something. Your soul's missin Slade, aye Vandal and that witch Melisandre of his breathed life back into your husk, but they didn't give you back that which makes ya a man. A mortal man."

"And you're proposing you can help me get it back?" What angle is this fool playing?

"If you help me first. Vandal planned to use you for his errands like you was his lowly slave. I plan on paying you for your efforts with your soul. Best remember that."

Slade scoffed, "And you plan to do this with your magic?"

He was replied with a chuckle, "To answer your first question, name's John Constantine. Most people keep it to Constantine, if they live long enough. And no, not with magic. The funny trick to magic is, any cunt can do it."

I've gotten quite a few more followers since I last posted so I'd like to welcome all of you and thank you for following! Hopefully this chapter lived up to the daunting task of trying to give a worthwhile duel between Slade and Oberyn even if it didn't have a clear winner. I had two major pairings this week with Damian vs Barristan and then Oberyn vs Slade with a little Constantine thrown in and this was my first time writing with really any of these characters so hopefully I did a decent enough job! I've gotten a few reviews and PMs with comments about how they were surprised about the low number of reviews so all I can say is I appreciate and welcome all reviews of the story. Whether you thought I wrote a character well or horribly, anything you hope to see, whether you think the story sucks or it's awesome, I welcome it all!