POV: Oberyn Martell
Harrenhal, Riverlands.
The days following the grand opening of the Harrenhal tournament were a lively blur of events and spectators, yet Oberyn Martell found himself somewhat uninterested in the archery contests, axe-throwing displays, and horse races. These spectacles, though impressive to many, lacked the thrill of close combat, the tension of watching an opponent's every move and responding in kind. He observed only the mummer show, more for the amusement of his niece Rhaenys than his own, smiling as her eyes widened with delight at the actors' antics. It was a rare joy to spend time with her and Elia in such moments, sharing laughter amidst the fanfare. But today was different—today, he would make his debut in the melee, where his skill with the spear would finally come into play.
As he prepared in his tent, Ferran, his trusted guard and friend, stood at his side, helping Oberyn secure his armor. Ferran had kept a close watch on the competition, his sharp eyes noting which fighters showed promise. "It seems Robert Baratheon has already made a name for himself here," Ferran said, adjusting the vambraces on Oberyn's arms. "He's practically plowed through every opponent he's faced, that warhammer of his breaking shields like they're kindling."
Oberyn smirked, intrigued rather than intimidated. "Let's hope I meet him in the final, then. I'd like to see what this hammer can do against a Martell spear." Ferran chuckled, though there was a flicker of caution in his gaze. Robert Baratheon had a reputation—a mountain of a man with relentless energy and devastating strength, a reputation that seemed to live up to every boast. " Is he the mountain of Quentyn's prediction? Well... it's something I have to discuss with my brother when I get back".
As the first round of the melee began, Oberyn stepped into the dirt arena, spear in hand, his mind focused and sharp. His early opponents were skilled but not beyond his measure. He moved with the swift, precise grace of a serpent, evading sword strikes with ease and countering with quick, stinging thrusts from his spear. His speed and unpredictable movements bewildered his opponents, allowing him to dance around their defenses and defeat them one by one. Some fell with a single blow, others with a series of rapid strikes that left them staggering and stunned. In every match, Oberyn was met with applause from the crowd, who marveled at his fluid, deadly style—a sharp contrast to the heavier, brutish tactics of many other combatants.
Between rounds, he'd glance at Ferran, who kept him updated on Robert's progress through the melee. "The Storm Lord just took down three men one after the other," Ferran reported, his tone a mix of awe and disbelief. "He doesn't stop, Oberyn. It's like he has boundless energy, and that hammer… it's merciless."
Oberyn took this information in stride, his resolve hardening. It wasn't often he encountered opponents who could match him in intensity, and he looked forward to the challenge. Eventually, as the tournament progressed and the weaker contenders were weeded out, only two fighters remained in the final round of the melee: Oberyn Martell and Robert Baratheon.
The crowd surged with excitement, voices roaring in anticipation. Standing across from Robert, Oberyn took in the sight of the man—a towering figure, powerfully built, with a rough, determined face set in focus. Robert hefted his spiked iron warhammer with ease, his eyes glinting with fierce confidence. In contrast, Oberyn appeared almost slight, his lean frame seeming delicate beside the bulk of his opponent. But his gaze was sharp, and his spear rested lightly in his hands, a weapon he wielded like an extension of himself.
The two circled each other, each reading the other's movements. Robert lunged first, swinging his warhammer in a brutal arc that sent dirt flying as Oberyn deftly sidestepped, his spear slicing through the air to probe for an opening.
Robert grinned. "Is that spear just for show, or are you waiting to actually use it, Martell?"
Oberyn smirked, meeting Robert's taunt with ease. "Patience, Baratheon. It's not as heavy as that oversized hammer of yours—I don't need to swing it like a butcher."
Robert barked a laugh, the sound booming as he charged again, his hammer crashing down where Oberyn had stood only a heartbeat earlier. "Butcher or not, it's been doing its job."
Oberyn spun away, his spear flashing forward in a swift jab aimed at Robert's side. The spear met its mark, grazing the armor but failing to penetrate deeply. Robert grunted, more annoyed than injured, and countered with a backhanded swing. Oberyn ducked just in time, the wind from the hammer's passage brushing his face.
"Getting tired yet?" Oberyn taunted, his tone light but his mind focused. For a moment, he remembered the words Quentyn had spoken before he left Dorne, a warning shrouded in prophecy: The sun queen with her daughter, in flames of sorrow will be. A surge of protectiveness for his family filled him, sharpening his resolve. He wouldn't fall here.
As if sensing the shift in Oberyn's stance, Robert's smile faded slightly, and he nodded, his eyes sharpening. "Enough games, then." He advanced, each blow of his hammer driving Oberyn further back, the sheer force behind each strike forcing the Dornish prince to stay on his toes.
Oberyn felt the weight of each dodge, each movement, draining him more as the fight progressed. "Elia", he thought. "All my family depends on me staying strong, staying alive."
With a sudden burst of energy, Robert lunged again, his warhammer striking the ground with thunderous force. Oberyn sidestepped, darting in to slash at Robert's exposed side, only for Robert to twist, absorbing the blow with a grunt. He retaliated with a sweeping arc that Oberyn narrowly avoided, using his spear to parry, though the impact sent a painful jolt through his arms.
"Careful, Oberyn. If you're too slow, I might actually catch you," Robert called, breathing heavily but undeterred, sweat glistening on his brow.
Oh, I'm just warming up," Oberyn replied, though he, too, felt the strain. He glanced around at the watching crowd, catching the concerned gaze of his sister, Elia, standing beside Ellaria and Rhaenys. The sight steadied him. He raised his spear, allowing himself a smile.
With renewed vigor, he circled Robert, darting in and out, his spear moving with relentless precision, each thrust targeting the gaps in Robert's armor. Robert took the hits but retaliated in kind, forcing Oberyn to stay nimble. They danced around each other, their differing styles clashing as the audience's roars grew louder.
Just as Oberyn thought he was gaining the upper hand, Robert, as if sensing it, shifted tactics. He let out a thunderous cry and charged, his warhammer raised high. Oberyn met the charge head-on, feinting left before veering right, bringing his spear down in a quick thrust. But Robert anticipated the move, sidestepping and bringing his hammer in a brutal downward arc.
Oberyn twisted, managing to avoid a direct hit, but the hammer's spikes grazed his shoulder, tearing through his armor and sending a flare of pain down his arm. Gritting his teeth, Oberyn backed up, adjusting his grip on his spear. Robert loomed over him, breathing hard, a grin stretching across his face.
"Had enough yet, Prince?"
"Not nearly," Oberyn replied, gritting his teeth against the pain, thinking of the danger that lay ahead and the family counting on him to remain sharp, powerful. This would be the final clash; he could feel it.
With a final, desperate burst of energy, he feinted left again, then surged right, his spear darting toward Robert's exposed side. Robert swung wildly, trying to catch him off guard, but Oberyn's spear was faster, driving into the gap with a decisive thrust. Robert staggered, but his grip on the warhammer held firm, his expression twisting into a mixture of pain and admiration.
A grudging smile tugged at Robert's bloodied lip as he met Oberyn's gaze, lowering his warhammer with a final chuckle. "You fight like no one else, Martell."
Oberyn nodded, still catching his breath. "And you… fight like a storm given flesh."
They clasped hands, their respect for each other now undeniable. As Oberyn stepped back, he felt the weight of Quentyn's warning again but also a renewed sense of confidence. He had faced one of the mightiest contenders of the tourney and emerged victorious, proving not only his skill and speed but his resolve. Though this battle had ended, Oberyn knew the true fight was only beginning, with more at stake than his own pride.