The training grounds of Firegrass Manor buzzed with energy as dawn's pale light spilled across the packed dirt. Two figures moved in the center of the field—The Red Viper of Dorne and Gendry, Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack Company. Both wore light leather armor, and both carried blunted training weapons. Yet even without sharp steel, the intensity between them felt real enough to draw every watching eye.
The Red Viper's armor bore the sigil of House Martell—a golden sun pierced by a spear—while Gendry carried the emblem of his Wolf Pack Company, a stylized pack of wolves in full charge. Around them, instructors, sellswords, Unsullied soldiers, and several of Firegrass Manor's stewards had gathered to witness the spar.
Oberyn Martell, famed across the Seven Kingdoms as the Red Viper, circled lightly on his feet, his long spear spinning and weaving through the air like a living creature. "Watch yourself, Commander-in-Chief!" he called with a teasing grin. The spear lunged forward—sharp, sudden, and precise—like the flicking tongue of a viper.
Gendry blocked with his heavy oak shield, the spear's point scraping as it redirected. Oberyn's next move was even faster. What first looked like a thrust toward Gendry's chest abruptly shifted downward to strike toward his groin. Gendry pivoted, hammer rising for a counterattack, but Oberyn spun away, spear darting forward again before retreating to a safe distance.
Though known for speed and cunning, Oberyn quickly realized that Gendry was no mere brute swinging a hammer. His movements were unexpectedly sharp, and every strike of his training hammer came with frightening precision.
"Black hair, blue eyes, tall… and strong," Oberyn muttered under his breath as he studied the young man. Something about Gendry's ferocity, his wild, storm-like momentum, felt oddly familiar. Yet he brushed the thought aside—for throughout history, common-born men had occasionally birthed monsters of strength like The Mountain or towering knights like Duncan the Tall. Though rare, prodigies had appeared from the lowest corners of Westeros.
Still, the Red Viper could not deny that Gendry fought with the unrestrained fury characteristic of soldiers from the North or the Stormlands.
And Gendry, for his part, was equally impressed. "He certainly lives up to his reputation," he thought as he deflected another rapid strike. Oberyn Martell—Dorne's most dangerous warrior—was no passing legend. Gendry had fought spearmen before, but none had Oberyn's experience, fluidity, or sheer unpredictability.
The spear snapped forward again, jabbing left, then twisting right before hammering against Gendry's oak shield. Even dulled, the force behind each strike stung fiercely. Sweat dripped down Gendry's forehead, yet rather than discouraging him, the pain seemed to awaken a storm inside his blood.
Suddenly, Oberyn's spear pierced straight through the shield's wooden plates.
Before Oberyn could yank it free, Gendry roared and swung his hammer downward in a crushing arc. The Red Viper abandoned the spear entirely and slid out of range, the hammer smashing into the dirt with explosive force.
"Seven hells," Oberyn exhaled inwardly. Even through the training weapons, the young man's power surged like a beast barely contained within a human frame. When their weapons met, Oberyn felt the shock through his arms—a rare sensation for a man of his expertise.
Recovering swiftly, Oberyn leapt back to retrieve the spear. He moved like a desert cat, feet barely touching the ground. With a quick twist, he freed the weapon from the ruined shield and resumed his stance, spear dancing again in measured circles.
"You endure the pain and still choose to attack?" Oberyn grinned. "Then I must raise my estimation of you!"
Gendry lunged again, swinging his hammer with his remaining strength. Oberyn met him head-on, using the wooden shaft to trap Gendry's torso and redirect the blow. A lesser man might have finished the spar then and there by striking the throat or ribs. Oberyn did not. He stepped back, lowering his spear in a gesture of conclusion.
Breathing hard, Gendry lowered his hammer. "I lost, Prince."
Outwardly, it seemed like a draw—but Gendry knew well that Oberyn held a dozen hidden tricks beyond mere physical skill. The Red Viper's knowledge of poisons, dark mixtures, and unconventional combat made him deadlier than most knights alive.
"You didn't lose, boy!" Oberyn declared, patting Gendry's shoulder. "You've courage, strength, and discipline. All you lack is time and experience—advantages I possess only because I've lived far longer."
The crowd applauded. Steel Fist, Longspear, the Wolf Pack instructors, and even the disciplined Unsullied seemed impressed. Rarely did they see warriors of such caliber face off with such ferocity.
"How long has the Commander-in-Chief been training?" Oberyn asked afterward.
"A few years, I think," Gendry replied honestly. Much of his youth had been spent hammering iron in a blacksmith's shop. When he later joined the Wolf Pack Company, he received formal training, but his natural strength and instinct had always carried him far.
"Incredible," Oberyn said under his breath. "Truly incredible."
He stared at Gendry thoughtfully. "With talent like yours, had you been born into a great house, you'd already be famous throughout Westeros. So why cross the Narrow Sea to carve a place here? Unless… you were a commoner from Flea Bottom, with no way to rise."
Oberyn studied Gendry again—his height, his heavy build, his powerful blows, and surprising bursts of speed. "He's a bit shorter and slimmer than the great brutes like The Mountain," he thought, "but the strength inside him… if given time, he might surpass even me."
Aloud, he said, "Commander-in-Chief, this is the best fight I've had in years. If you don't mind, I'd like us to spar again."
Gendry smiled. "It would be my honor, Prince."
"Then perhaps we truly have a chance to cooperate." Oberyn extended a hand. "To friendship, in advance."
They shook hands warmly.
Later, as the sun climbed higher, the two walked along the rolling green hills surrounding Firegrass Manor. Fresh gunpowder herb sprouted in neat rows where the previous batch had been harvested—bright green plants swaying gently in the breeze.
"When I walk next to someone so young and strong," Oberyn sighed, "I cannot deny that age is catching up to me."
"Prince, you are still in your prime," Gendry replied. "You shouldn't speak as if you're old."
"There's no need for comfort," Oberyn laughed. "White hairs have already begun to appear. But that is not what pains me. What hurts most is that my desire remains unfulfilled."
Gendry understood. Oberyn's entire life had been driven by one burning wish: to avenge his sister Elia Martell, murdered brutally during the Sack of King's Landing by The Mountain—and by those who commanded him.
With House Lannister's power at its peak, such vengeance felt nearly impossible.
"People are always trapped by their desires," Gendry said quietly.
Oberyn nodded, eyes drifting toward the distant horizon. "When I was young, I loved traveling. One of my happiest memories was visiting Casterly Rock with my mother, her man, and my sister Elia. She had been frail since childhood, yet she found everything exciting. I, on the other hand, was a rude little monster who mocked her suitors." He smiled faintly. "I should have cut out my venomous tongue."
After a pause, he continued, "When she died, I regretted every moment of my youth. Every cruel joke. Every missed chance to protect her."
He sighed heavily. "I've waited year after year for justice. Yet the years pass, and nothing changes. Age creeps closer every day. And when I see young talents like you… I cannot help but feel the weight of time."
"If the old gods and the new watch over us," Gendry said, "may they help you achieve your desire, Prince."
Oberyn scoffed lightly. "I stopped believing in the Seven long ago. If they existed, it should have been me—not Doran—chosen to avenge my sister."
After a long silence, Oberyn turned. "Tell me, Commander-in-Chief… won't you speak of your past?"
"Those memories are distant," Gendry said softly. "I never had a father. I worked as a blacksmith in Flea Bottom until I joined the Wolf Pack Company. Their instructors trained me."
"A hero rising from Flea Bottom," Oberyn chuckled. "It's not unheard of. Duncan the Tall came from nothing as well."
"But the past is the past," Oberyn added. "What matters is the future. Doran once told me: A variable will appear. A change that will turn the tides. I waited years for this so-called variable. Yet it never came."
Now he stopped walking and faced Gendry squarely.
"Until now."
His eyes burned with conviction.
"Commander-in-Chief… you are that variable."
Oberyn's words hung heavily in the air, charged with possibility—danger—and destiny.
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