The fog clung to the Braavosi streets like a mourner's shroud, the damp air pressing against Viserys's skin as he followed Ser Willem through the winding alleys. The city had a way of swallowing sound, making even the clatter of their boots seem distant.
They halted before a weathered door beneath a sign depicting a kraken wreathed in flames. The Scorched Kraken.
A burly man leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes, sharp and assessing, settled on Viserys.
"Bit young for this place, isn't he?" the guard remarked, a smirk playing on his lips.
Viserys squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. "We're here to see Prince Oberyn."
The guard's smirk faded, replaced by a nod of recognition. "Upstairs. He's expecting you."
Inside, the tavern was a stark contrast to the chill outside. Heat radiated from a roaring hearth, mingling with the scent of spiced wine, sweat, and something more primal. Laughter and music filled the air, accompanied by the clink of coins and murmured conversations.
Viserys's eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing a scene of revelry. Sailors and patrons filled the room, many with women draped over their laps or leading them by the hand. Some women wore little more than veils, others nothing at all. It was clear this was more than a tavern; it was a brothel.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Typical of Oberyn," he muttered.
Ser Willem's gaze swept the room, noting the subtle presence of armed men stationed at various points. They were discreet, blending into the background, but their eyes missed nothing.
A woman approached them, her dress clinging to her curves. She trailed a finger along Ser Willem's arm.
"Looking for company, ser? Or perhaps the boy needs a gentle introduction?"
Ser Willem stepped back, his expression stern. Touch me again, and you'll lose that hand," he said. His gaze flicked to Viserys, then back to the woman. "And if you lay a finger on the boy, you'll lose your head."
The woman pouted but retreated, disappearing into the crowd.
They ascended the stairs, the sounds of merriment fading behind them. At the top, they found Oberyn reclining on a plush couch, a goblet of Dornish red in hand. A man and a woman, both scantily clad, flanked him, feeding him grapes and whispering in his ears.
Ser Willem cleared his throat loudly.
Oberyn looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Ah, our young dragon and his faithful knight. Come, join me."
He waved a hand, and the companions beside him rose and left without a word.
"Let's speak somewhere more private," Oberyn suggested, leading them to a room at the end of the hall.
The room was lavish, with tapestries depicting Dornish landscapes and a table laden with fruits, cheeses, and more wine.
"So," Oberyn began, swirling his own goblet, "how fares your training, Viserys? Have you embraced the path of the warrior?"
Viserys met his gaze. "I have. Under Ser Willem's guidance, I've begun to understand the discipline required."
He leaned forward. "Tell me, Viserys, what do you know of Dorne's stance on the Iron Throne?"
Viserys chose his words carefully. "I know that House Martell has reasons to distrust the throne. But alliances can be forged anew."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Spoken like a diplomat."
Viserys thought of the future, of Jon Arryn's visit to Dorne, and how Oberyn would be swayed. The details eluded him, but the outcome was clear. Oberyn won't be a serious ally in the future, just like he wasn't in his previous life.
"The Sealord of Braavos has taken an interest in you," Oberyn said suddenly.
Ser Willem's eyes narrowed. "How does the Sealord know of our presence? I've taken every precaution."
Oberyn shrugged. "The Sealord has eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing escapes his notice."
Oberyn rose from his seat with the uncoiling grace of a cat stirred from a sunbeam, lean muscles shifting beneath his loose Dornish tunic. He looked Viserys up and down, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
"It's only been a week," he said, rolling a shoulder until it cracked, "and yet you're already more agile. Stronger. Not bad, for a boy drowning in exile."
He stepped into the center of the chamber, the wooden floor creaking under his bare feet. "But you've not yet seen how a true Dornishman fights." He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the empty space. "Come. Attack me. I'll not lift a blade. I'll only dodge."
Viserys took a breath, feeling the grain of the practice sword against his callused palms. Every muscle ached from a week of bruises and blisters, but he stepped forward, circling Oberyn warily. Then he lunged—fast and straight, his blade slicing toward the Dornish prince's ribs.
Oberyn moved like wind over dunes, the tip of the blade skimming empty air. Viserys pivoted, slashing again, but found only shadows. Thrusts followed, feints, sweeping arcs—all dodged with effortless elegance.
Oberyn's feet glided, never still, his body bending at impossible angles. "Combat," he said, ducking beneath a blow, "is not about brute strength or boiling rage. It's footwork." He spun away from a downward strike, his movements fluid as oil. "Balance. Flow. That's the secret."
Viserys grunted, sweat stinging his eyes, sword whistling through space where flesh should be. But Oberyn danced on, laughing now—not cruelly, but with a teasing glee.
"You'll never strike what moves like a serpent," he called, spinning past a reckless swing. "The blade is not your weapon—your body is."
The duel—or lesson—dragged on. Viserys's shirt clung to his back, soaked. His breath came ragged, his legs trembling under him. Oberyn, by contrast, moved lightly, barely winded, though a sheen of sweat now kissed his brow.
Minutes bled into an hour. At last, Oberyn held up a hand and stepped back, his chest rising slowly with breath.
"You've improved. Remarkably so, for seven days." He nodded, approving yet distant. "But not nearly enough to win back a crown. Not yet."
He crossed the room and picked up a wooden blade, balancing it on one hand like a juggler testing a knife's weight. His eyes gleamed—not with scorn, but with challenge.
"Now, your turn to dodge."
Viserys nodded, his legs still trembling, and raised his guard.
Oberyn advanced slowly, his attacks exaggerated—telegraphed swings, slow overhead cuts, lazy sweeps meant more for posture than pain. Viserys sidestepped, ducked, pivoted. His every muscle screamed for rest, but he forced himself to stay light, to move.
"Good," Oberyn murmured, his voice calm. "You've felt the rhythm. Now move with it."
A low sweep came—Viserys jumped it, barely. Another strike, then a feint, which he read in time. He was panting, the air in the room stifling with heat, the tang of spice and sweat heavy in his nostrils.
And then the shift.
Oberyn's footwork quickened. His shoulders dropped. The glint in his eye sharpened, and the slow grace turned predatory. The laughter faded.
"Stay light," he said, almost gently.
A lunge—Viserys dodged. A backhand sweep—he twisted under it.
"Again," Oberyn said.
Then came the smile. Not the charming grin, not the amused smirk—but something cold. A predator's grin.
"Let's see what you've truly learned."
He struck.
No warning. No exaggeration. Just a blur of muscle and intent. The blade whistled through the air, not wide, not slow—but fast. Accurate. Deadly. It came not at his chest, or shoulder, but straight for his throat.
And in that heartbeat, the world stilled.