Oberyn reacted instantly.
He withdrew his spear in a smooth motion, retreating as the spearhead swept low in an attempt to hook Gawen’s leg.
Gawen simply turned his blade, knocking the spear aside with ease before pressing forward again.
Not a single step backward.
The easygoing smile vanished from Oberyn’s face.
In its place came complete concentration—and a faintly grim expression.
For someone who was almost always laughing and joking, the sudden change was strangely amusing.
The two remained locked in a tense standoff.
Neither could fully break through the other’s defenses.
Neither was willing to surrender the initiative.
The stubbornness both warriors possessed—like two rams refusing to yield—was on full display, even in what was meant to be nothing more than a friendly spar.
Gawen knew full well that if he used his druidic abilities, the duel could have ended long ago.
He could have subtly enhanced himself without Oberyn ever noticing.
Or simply boosted his speed and strength beyond anything his opponent could react to.
But that wasn’t why he had agreed to this match.
He possessed a warrior’s sense of honor.
Especially in a friendly duel.
This wasn’t about overwhelming someone with supernatural power.
It was about pure weapon skill.
Technique over raw stats.
Gawen also wanted to use this opportunity to sharpen his own swordsmanship.
He still wasn’t fully accustomed to fighting with a single sword.
At the same time, however, he had begun exploring new possibilities—
Two-handed grips.
More powerful strikes.
Different transitions between offense and defense.
All of it required real combat experience.
Oberyn was a worthy opponent.
And from the look in the Dornishman’s eyes, he was enjoying the duel just as much, using it to refine his own fighting style.
His technique still has room to grow.
The thought crossed Gawen’s mind.
A truly accomplished spearman would willingly allow an opponent to close the distance—
Only to smash them away with the butt of the spear like a quarterstaff before striking again.
Oberyn was still young.
Even though his current skill already surpassed that of most warriors, his mastery of the spear had yet to reach its full potential.
But Gawen possessed one advantage that could never be switched off.
The druid’s body granted him superhuman endurance.
Physical exhaustion barely existed for him.
It was like fighting with infinite stamina while everyone else slowly emptied their energy bar.
Eventually…
Oberyn’s movements began to slow.
Gawen seized the opening.
He stepped inside the spear’s reach in a single fluid motion.
His blade rose—
And stopped at Oberyn’s throat.
The spear in the Dornishman’s remaining hand was swept harmlessly aside.
Oberyn slowly raised his free hand in surrender.
“Phew…”
“I concede.”
He let out a long breath and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Gawen lowered his sword and returned it to its scabbard.
“You’re really something.”
Oberyn said with complete satisfaction.
For the first time since arriving in this dreary, gray city, he found himself looking forward to the days ahead.
Oldtown no longer seemed nearly so dull.
Not now that someone like Gawen had arrived.
Before meeting Gawen, Oberyn had little to occupy his time besides wine, taverns, and prostitutes.
“You weren’t bad yourself,” Gawen replied with a smile, equally satisfied with the duel.
“I suppose we should introduce ourselves properly.”
He bowed with the respect one offered an equal.
“My name is Gawen Rowan.”
“Pfft.”
“You think I’m going to bow back?”
“Keep dreaming.”
Oberyn snorted, though he did offer his own name in return.
“Oberyn Martell.”
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Gawen showed no sign of offense.
Oberyn waved dismissively.
“I never imagined I’d hear someone from the Reach speak to a Dornishman like that.”
“Well…
unless we’re talking about romantic escapades.” The source of this chapter is g.com.
“Consider me an exception.”
Gawen chuckled.
“Besides, back on the northern frontier of the Reach, the people we dislike even more are the Westermen…
and, to some extent, certain Riverlords.”
Long ago, the Westerlands and the Reach had been separate kingdoms.
Sometimes they traded peacefully.
More often…
They went to war.
Only after the Targaryens united the Seven Kingdoms did the northern frontier gradually lose its strategic importance.
It was also during that era that the once-great House Osgrey declined.
A chain of misfortunes reduced them from powerful Marshals of the Northmarch, ruling several domains, to little more than landed knights with a single holding.
And even that holding was no true castle—
Merely a tower.
Now they served as bannermen to House Rowan.
“I hope you’ll stay here for a long time.”
Oberyn burst into laughter and slapped Gawen firmly on the shoulder.
“If I end up addicted to sparring with you, every woman in Oldtown won’t be enough to make up for all the time I’ll lose!”
“I’ll be here for several years.”
Gawen revealed a little of his plans.
“Though I suspect I’ll spend most of that time buried in the Citadel’s library.”
Oberyn sighed dramatically.
“Well…”
“Compared to everything else, that’s a sacrifice I can live with.”
He didn’t truly dislike reading.
“Let’s rest for a bit.”
“Then we go again.”
“This time…”
“I’m winning.”
“We’ll see.”
Gawen smiled faintly before glancing back at the heart tree.
A stronger breeze swept through its dying canopy.
Its sparse crimson leaves rustled softly.
[Nature’s Guardian detected Heart Tree energy fluctuation.]
[Proficiency +2]
As they rested, Gawen asked curiously,
“So…
what’s the situation with the Archmaesters?”
“You mean who oversees what?”
Oberyn leaned lazily against a stone and thought for a moment.
“Let’s see…”
“Right now, Ryam is the Seneschal.”
“He handles economics and mathematics.”
“He’s obsessed with numbers.”
“Lately he’s been researching something called numerology.”
“Honestly, I like to think I’m not stupid…”
“…but I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s supposed to be or why anyone would care.”
Gawen fell into thought.
In his previous world’s fantasy traditions, numerology also existed as a branch of the occult.
It was closely related to ritual magic, using numbers in place of symbols or written sigils.
Still…
It was only a small corner of an otherwise obscure discipline.
“As for the next one…”
Oberyn continued.
“Ebrose.”
“He’s relatively new.”
“He took over the healing chain a few years ago after the previous Archmaester died.”
“You’ll usually find him in the tower…”
“…or down in the vaults.”
“Every seven days he performs a corpse dissection.”
“The whole thing is absolutely disgusting.”
“Is a battlefield full of corpses somehow less disgusting?”
Gawen asked with an amused smile.
“You don’t understand.”
“It’s completely different!”
Oberyn protested dramatically.
“He does it coldly.”
“No passion.”
“He calmly explains every cut while answering questions.”
“On the battlefield…” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“I just stab someone through the heart…”
“…and happily go home afterward.”
“Yes…”
Gawen replied dryly.
“Completely different.”
His sarcasm was unmistakable.
For some reason, the conversation reminded him of a druid novel he’d once read.
The protagonist had encountered a necromancer.
Back then, the young druid had discovered just how violently opposing magical traditions could clash.
Fire and water weren’t true opposites.
Nature magic and necromancy…
Those were fundamentally irreconcilable.
Even so, the protagonist had been forced to tolerate it.
“Anyway…”
Oberyn continued.
“Let’s talk about Marwyn.”
His expression grew even more disdainful.
“That man ought to have his own stall in a stable.”
“I can’t stand him.”
“Everyone calls him ‘the Mage.'”
“He came back from an expedition to Essos about a year ago.”
“They say he traveled as far as Asshai…”
“Maybe even reached the Great Empire of the Dawn.”
“The stubborn old boar.”
“You’ve probably heard of him.”
“He wears a Valyrian steel link.”
“His field is all those…
‘higher mysteries.'”
Oberyn made exaggerated quotation marks with his fingers, dripping with mockery.
Gawen’s interest immediately sharpened.
Asshai…
The legendary city of shadow.
A place whispered to be the center of magic and ancient mysteries.
If Marwyn had truly been there…
Then he undoubtedly knew things few others in Westeros did.
“Marwyn…”
Gawen silently repeated the name.
Just as in the original story, the Citadel truly did have an Archmaester known as Marwyn the Mage.
He wore the Valyrian steel link.
He studied the occult.
He had traveled to Asshai.
If the rumors were true…
He might well be the only man in the Citadel who viewed magic with an open mind.
“What did he do to you?”
Gawen asked.
“Nothing.”
Oberyn shrugged.
“I just can’t stand that look on his face.”
“The one that says…”
‘I know things none of you know.’
“He’s even more irritating than the rest of the Citadel.”
“So what exactly does he study?”
“Who knows?”
“Dragons.”
“Valyria.”
“The Children of the Forest.”
“Glass candles.”
“All sorts of ridiculous things.”
“Half of it sounds like fairy tales…”
“…but he talks about them as though they’re absolute fact.”
Oberyn took a drink of water.
“Most people in the Citadel can’t stand him.”
“Even the other Archmaesters keep their distance.”
Gawen nodded thoughtfully.
Perhaps…
I should find an opportunity to meet Marwyn.
A man who devoted his life to studying magic—
Even if only from a theoretical perspective—
Might possess knowledge too valuable to ignore.
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