( Oberyn POV )
"She's the enemy." Quentyn shrugged. "I doubt I can convince her to run away to Dorne with me so that I can use her to be my consort and bear my heirs while I love another woman that not only do I keep by my side, but who will likely be more of a princess than she."
Oberyn nodded simply.
...
"As you said, she's the enemy." Oberyn shrugged. "It would be a mercy."
"A woman who hates me, Dorne and our house as a whole." Quentyn's eyes narrowed. "You have truly wonderful ideas."
"I don't think she would ever hate you." Oberyn shook his head.
"I doubt that. Now let's get you a weapon and a sparring partner before I lose my patience." Quentyn swiftly stood up.
"Now?" Oberyn struggled to get up himself.
"Yes, now." Quentyn looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "The sooner we start, the sooner we can get you back into shape, uncle."
"I'm perfectly in shape." Oberyn stared down at his nephew while he walked out of the cell. "Probably in better shape than you."
Quentyn didn't even acknowledge the jape as he walked out of the cell. Oberyn, though, had to wait till two kingsguard came down the stairs to the Black cells, put themselves on either side of him, and escorted him back up the stairs.
Seeing the light again was welcome, it had been too long since he'd been closed off down there.
And as the kingsguard escort continued through the hallways of the keeps, he could feel the weight of the people's stares at him. Many stared on with contempt, others with fear and others with worry. Oberyn, though, paid them no mind. He wasn't going to let anyone judge him, after all, was he not innocent of all the charges pressed against him?
The sparring yard was still full of activity and full of Dornishmen for that matter. He felt the kingsguard next to him relax slightly, and half a dozen goldcloaks filled the room, blocking the exits and keeping a watchful eye on him.
Oberyn resisted the urge to laugh.
It wasn't going to be these pathetic little men in white or gold that would have stopped him from cutting his way out of this.
Although, he was not allowed any real weapon. Only blunted steel was allowed here, and he could see that the guards had confiscated every large weapon from the few Dornish in attendance. Of course, there were a few daggers likely lying around, quite a small prize and not really useful in an escape situation.
The kingsguard let him go, which meant Oberyn could free his legs a little. His gaze met Quentyn's, when suddenly, he felt a hug coming from the side.
"Father!" Nymeria's arms lunged at him. "I'm glad you are all right."
"I'm fine, my sweet." Oberyn smiled at her, returning the small hug.
"Quentyn explained everything to me." She looked at him with worry in her eyes. "I love and trust you, father, but you have to promise that you will win."
"Of course, Nym." Oberyn nodded back. "I promise."
He could feel his daughter, for all her martial demeanour and confident look, being stiff and uneasy. His words didn't seem to have the reassuring tone they once had.
"Nym, I won't let myself get killed." He tried to explain. "Everything will be just fine. Tell Ellaria that I've never been better."
Nymeria just nodded back, and let Oberyn step into a more appropriate dress. As he got ready, Quentyn approached him with something in his hand.
"What's that?" Oberyn asked.
"It's a helmet, uncle." Quentyn looked at him with slight disbelief. "You know, you wear it on your head…"
"Not needed, Quentyn." He waved him off.
Quentyn narrowed his look towards him, but sighed deeply.
"Suit yourself, uncle."
"Good." Oberyn smiled at his nephew, who also was in a sparring outfit, with some light armor and a sparring spear with him. "Now I suppose we should start, no?"
"Yes." Quentyn nodded. "But you won't be facing me."
"No?" Oberyn asked. "But you are a knight, are you not? It would be…"
"Pointless." Quentyn swiftly replied. "I am not a great swordsman, and I'm even worse with a spear. Nym is already a tough challenge for me, so I can't even believe I can measure up to you just yet."
"We've sparred before." Oberyn shrugged. "And while I agree that your martial abilities aren't the best, I can learn from it still."
"Nonsense." Quentyn shook his head. "When you'll be facing the Mountain, he will be taller than you, and likely in full armor with a greatsword. He won't have a small sword and shield and be half a head smaller than you, with ten times as less power in the swing."
"Unless you have Areo here, I fear that there is no one."
Quentyn smiled slightly, then whistled towards a door. Slowly, the door opened, shoving aside the goldcloak standing there, while a very tall man came out, clad in full armor and with a greatsword in hand.
"Have fun sparring with Arch, uncle," Quentyn tapped him on the chest and ran off towards Nymeria on the side of the sparring ground, leaving him alone against the Yronwood boy. "Act like your real trial by battle, if you may. You told me that you would show me how you would defeat the Mountain. Well, go right ahead."
Another good move, nephew.
Oberyn had almost forgotten Archibald Yronwood's existence, but yes, the man was imposing. Not as tall as the Mountain, but taller than any of the Dornish party. Although if he remembered correctly, Arch's strength wasn't with a sword, but a hammer. Although, the boy did wield a greatsword here…
"Ready, my prince?" came the cavernous voice inside the armor.
"Whenever you wish, Ser Archibald." Oberyn nodded.
The first swing caught Oberyn off guard. The greatsword, although made with blunted steel, nearly caught his spear right in the middle and out of his hands. Clearly, Quentyn had taught Archibald to stay as close to the Mountain's style as possible, that is, brute force your way through everything.
It was good practice, with Oberyn letting Ser Archibald exhaust himself with every swing, staying right out of range while he played with his distance, unleashing his spear once in a while.
To the Yronwood boy's credit, he did not budge. Standing his ground, he did not give in to Oberyn's tactic of leaving him an opening. However, with every parry, he could feel the giant tire more and more.
Finishing him off was quite easy then. All Oberyn had to do was wait till Ser Archibald's breathing started becoming quicker and louder, and then striking at him. Disarming him was easy, and so was shoving him to the ground.
"Well done, Ser Archibald." Oberyn grinned in front of the applause from the Dornish crowd. "Do you yield?"
"I do, my prince." Ser Archibald said between two deep breaths.
"Reassured, nephew?" Oberyn turned to Quentyn and Nymeria, who were both observing the scene with worried looks. Although Nymeria was now smiling too, Quentyn just stood there, arms crossed, frowning. "It takes a lot more to…aaaaah!"
Suddenly, he felt himself being swept off his feet. The ground came in at lightning speed, with him finishing first on his stomach, his head ringing as his cheek collided with the sand of the sparring ground.
Painfully, he tried to get back up, slowly rising, but he was kept from doing so by a massive weight dropping on his right side. Suddenly, he felt cold steel on his throat, and when his head started ringing, all he saw was the figure of Archibald Yronwood above him, his helmet still down, holding a small dagger to his throat.
"You're dead, my prince." Came the cavernous voice from within the helmet.
"What?" Oberyn looked at the knight, confused. "You yielded!"
"But I didn't confess, my prince." Ser Archibald's voice rang again as if taunting him.
"Confess?" Oberyn heard footsteps approaching him from behind, and everything started to become more apparent.
Ser Archibald pushed himself off of Oberyn, letting him recover, while he could make out Quentyn's silhouette approaching him.
His nephew said nothing and just threw the helmet at his feet.
"You truly never learn." Were Quentyn's only words as he turned heel.
Slowly, turning his back to Oberyn, he left towards Nymeria, who had now lost her smile, and was looking at him with a mixture of sadness and disappointment.
She had her fists clenched, and she made a point of staring at him for a long while, before taking Quentyn's arm and leaving the room with him. Neither spoke another word, leaving Oberyn shocked in the middle of the courtyard, feeling blood run down from his lips and with sand and gravel in his hair.
Yet when he finally got up, it wasn't the ringing that continued to sound through his ears while he was escorted back to the Black cells for another day in the dark, it was his nephew's voice.
You truly never learn.
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