After that, Oberyn continued introducing the remaining members of the Citadel’s Conclave.
Noren oversaw diplomacy.
Theobold was responsible for culture.
Walgrave managed the ravens.
Vaellyn specialized in astronomy.
Perestan presided over history.
In total, there were twenty-one Archmaesters, each overseeing a different field of knowledge.
When the two of them once again took their places on opposite sides of the makeshift ring, Gawen asked,
“Out of all of them, who’s your favorite?”
“Garrison.”
“The one who teaches military strategy.”
Oberyn shrugged.
“The old man’s well past his prime.
He’s lost whatever strength he once had.”
“But his understanding of tactics and strategy…”
“…that’s worthy of the title of Archmaester.”
Gawen nodded thoughtfully.
“Perhaps I should attend some of his lectures.”
Military theory wasn’t something he had devoted much time to.
It wasn’t because he underestimated its importance.
Quite the opposite.
In his previous life, he’d loved strategy games.
He’d spent countless hours playing titles like Age of Empires and Civilization.
Those games had taught him a great deal—resource management, troop counters, battlefield positioning, and making the best use of terrain.
Even so…
He had never imagined himself as the kind of commander who remained inside a command tent directing armies from behind the lines.
His personality simply wasn’t suited for it.
He wanted to stand at the center of the battlefield—
Leading the charge at the very front—
And personally cut down his enemies.
“Yeah.”
“I figured as much.”
Oberyn flashed a savage grin.
“I’d rather settle things face-to-face with a good fight, too.”
Before the last word had fully left his mouth, his spear shot forward once again.
This time, however, he changed his approach.
The opening thrust missed as before.
But instead of withdrawing, he instantly flowed into another technique, sweeping the shaft in a broad horizontal arc that forced Gawen to give ground.
“Nice.”
Gawen offered an approving nod without rushing to counterattack.
Instead, he calmly analyzed his opponent’s weapon.
A standard spearhead excelled at thrusting.
It lacked the chopping efficiency of a glaive or halberd.
That meant Oberyn’s sweeping attacks served mainly to control space and force retreats rather than inflict decisive wounds.
A spear’s greatest strengths lay in reach and precision.
Its greatest weaknesses…
Were close-quarters combat and attacks from the flanks.
The two continued circling one another, each watching for the slightest movement.
After roughly a dozen seconds of observation, Gawen finally chose to seize the initiative.
He shifted into a classic fencing stance.
His right side angled forward.
His sword extended toward Oberyn, its tip leveled directly at his opponent.
It was a posture he’d first seen in films from his previous life.
A textbook rapier stance—
Designed for precise thrusts and quick parries.
Though normally associated with lighter blades, he suspected the same principles could work surprisingly well against a spear.
The change immediately caught Oberyn’s attention.
His expression sharpened.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, as though the stance reminded him of something.
Still…
He asked no questions.
Gawen moved first.
One step forward.
His blade deflected the incoming spear.
Another step.
Another clean parry.
The duel continued through another dozen exchanges.
Different angles.
Different approaches.
Yet, little by little, Oberyn found himself surrendering ground once more.
That irritated the Dornishman.
Unable to hold back any longer, he abandoned caution and launched a far more reckless assault.
He lunged forward with an even fiercer thrust.
Gawen knocked the spear aside again.
But this time, Oberyn didn’t resist the weapon’s momentum.
Instead, he redirected it.
Pivoting on his heel, he spun with the motion, sending the spearhead carving through the air in a wide arc toward Gawen’s legs.
Gawen reacted instantly.
He leaped.
The spear skimmed beneath the soles of his boots, missing his ankle by mere inches.
Without pausing, Oberyn seized the opening.
Both hands tightened on the shaft as a relentless storm of thrusts erupted.
One.
Two.
A spin.
A sweeping strike that covered nearly half the ring.
Then another thrust.
Forced to land while defending, Gawen’s rhythm faltered.
He had no choice but to retreat.
On the fifth strike of the combination, Oberyn feinted.
The deception pulled Gawen’s guard aside.
The spear stopped just a few inches from his throat.
“…All right.”
“You win this round.”
Gawen lowered his sword with an easy smile, conceding without complaint.
Despite possessing superior speed and reflexes…
He had lost.
The reason wasn’t physical.
It was psychological.
In both lives, Gawen had rarely experienced true life-and-death combat.
His previous world had been an era of peace.
Most of his battles had been fought across game boards and computer screens.
In this life, as the heir of House Rowan, nearly every duel had been training or friendly sparring.
He wasn’t here to overwhelm opponents with overwhelming strength or Druidic magic.
He wanted to sharpen his swordsmanship.
The overwhelming power…
He would save for dragons and White Walkers.
Across Westeros, every region possessed its own martial traditions.
The North favored brutal practicality.
Heavy axes.
Longswords.
Shield walls.
No unnecessary flourishes.
The Ironborn were masters of boarding actions.
Hand axes, round shields, and long knives turned ship decks into killing grounds.
The Westerlands were famous for heavily armored cavalry.
Their devastating charges shattered formations, though individually their techniques often relied more on armor and horses than finesse.
The Riverlands lacked a unified style.
Their strength lay in swift light cavalry skilled at scouting and hit-and-run warfare.
The Vale specialized in lances and mountain combat, fitting for knights raised beneath the shadow of the impregnable Eyrie.
The Stormlands, led by House Baratheon, favored warhammers and heavily armored infantry, fighting with overwhelming aggression regardless of casualties.
Dorne…
Dorne was the birthplace of guerrilla warfare.
Spears.
Javelins.
Curved blades.
Fast desert riders who refused to meet superior forces head-on.
As for the Reach…
Gawen’s own homeland…
Its traditions were the most diverse.
There was the elegant Highgarden school, emphasizing refined swordplay, precision, and graceful technique.
Then there was the rugged frontier style of the borderlands, where armored cavalry and disciplined infantry valued practicality above beauty.
House Rowan’s Oakleaf Defensive Sword belonged firmly to that latter tradition.
Steady.
Patient.
Defensive.
Counterattack only when victory was certain.
Never gamble on an uncertain fight.
Oberyn let out a long breath before collapsing against a boulder.
“Where the hell do you get all that stamina?”
he asked in disbelief.
He stared at Gawen.
The young Rowan hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Gawen chuckled.
“Enough to keep fighting for the rest of my life.”
He sat down on a smaller rock opposite him.
The two continued sparring until sunset.
Only after the ever-energetic Dornishman had soaked through yet another shirt with sweat did they finally call it a day.
First, they spent half an hour soaking in the public baths, washing away the grime of battle.
Gawen’s body functioned differently from that of ordinary people.
He hadn’t actually perspired much at all.
Still, he went anyway.
There was something satisfying about feeling warm water run across his skin.
Far more pleasant than ending everything with a simple Purification Spell.
Afterward, they headed back to The Feather and Goblet, the tavern where they’d first met.
“I’ve lived here for a year.”
“So trust my professional opinion.”
Oberyn declared with exaggerated seriousness, winking at a passing serving girl.
The young woman immediately blushed and hurried away.
He grinned.
“This place serves the best food in all of Oldtown.”
“And that’s definitely not because of that shy little beauty.”
“I’ve been eating here for two straight months.”
“When you’re surrounded by beautiful women every day…”
“How’s a man supposed to resist?”
“I understand.”
Gawen smiled faintly, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“Let’s sit over there.”
He pointed toward a table tucked into the corner.
“Perfect.”
Oberyn immediately claimed the seat with his back to the wall, where he could watch the entire tavern.
“I noticed.”
He smirked.
“You’re cautious.”
“And just a little paranoid.”
“A healthy amount of paranoia is what keeps paranoid people healthy.”
Gawen replied with complete seriousness.
Oberyn nodded solemnly.
“I’m writing that one down.”
The serving girl approached timidly.
“W-What would you gentlemen like to order?”
The moment she saw Oberyn’s mischievous grin, she stumbled over her words and instinctively shifted her attention to the calmer, more composed Reachman.
“A jug of wine.”
“And a hearty stew.”
Gawen didn’t spend much time studying the menu.
This wasn’t some luxurious restaurant from his previous life where every dish resembled a work of art.
The food here was simple.
Honest.
Comforting.
“I’ll have the same stew.”
“And add a salad.”
Oberyn answered before nodding to himself.
“One jug should be enough for us.”
“Yes, my lovely lady—that’ll do.”
“R-Right away!”
The serving girl fled almost as if escaping a predator.
Gawen watched her leave with an amused smile.
“You really are a terrible influence on young women.”
“A terrible influence?”
Oberyn placed a hand dramatically against his chest.
“They’re the terrible influence on me!”
Gawen simply raised his cup and took another sip of wine.
Oldtown’s night…
…was only just beginning.
Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier.