The sands were silent. The sun burned without mercy.
Euron slowly drew his twin blades, the steel gleaming with a cold, predatory light under the desert sun. "It seems," he said, his voice devoid of anger or joy, holding only a deep, oceanic calm, "that words have failed us."
Ser Arthur Dayne held Dawn upright before him. The milky, pale blade seemed to breathe in the light. "Good," came the voice from within the great helm, cool and assessing. "Let us see if you are truly worthy of the title 'Blade of Justice,' and the champion's laurels you won at Harrenhal."
The threads of fate between them were tangled and heavy.
Euron was betrothed to Arthur's sister, Ashara Dayne of Starfall. In the eyes of gods and men, Arthur was soon to be his brother by law. Years ago, on the Iron Islands and Dragonstone, Euron had even received instruction in the sword from the Sword of the Morning himself. There was a bond of tutelage here, unfinished and bloody.
To the side, Eddard Stark's eyes were locked on Ser Gerold Hightower. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been the very image of knighthood to Ned in his youth—a paragon of martial prowess and honor. Now, duty forced them to cross steel.
Oberyn Martell let out a light, dangerous chuckle. His spear flicked out like a viper's tongue, pointing straight at Ser Oswell Whent.
"Old friend," Oberyn said, his tone dripping with that distinct Dornish blend of warmth and menace. "Do you remember the cups we drained in the halls of House Whent at the tourney? I fear today's reunion will be of a different sort."
Three pairs of shadows stretched out beneath the Tower of Joy. The curtain rose on the dance of death.
---
On the shifting sands, two figures blurred into motion!
Euron's twin blades carved two silver arcs through the air, striking like cobras from a basket—aiming for the side of Arthur's neck and the gap beneath his ribs. His style was ruthless, tricky, completely devoid of chivalrous convention, and utterly lethal.
But Dawn moved with supernatural grace.
The greatsword, heavy as it looked, was light as a feather in Arthur's hands. A simple horizontal cut—not a block, but an attack to intercept an attack—forced Euron to break his rhythm and leap back.
" You are faster than you were at Harrenhal," Arthur's steady voice echoed from his helm. "But your blade work has grown impatient."
Euron grinned. He rushed in again. This time, his blades became a wall of light, screaming through the air as he assaulted the white armor from every angle. He stopped trying to clash directly with the legendary greatsword. Instead, he used his unnatural agility to hunt for the joints in the armor, the blind spots in the visor.
Ser Arthur's footwork was immovable, as if he were rooted into the red rock itself. Dawn seemed to possess a life of its own, appearing exactly where it was needed to weave an impenetrable wall of milky light.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sparks showered the sand. The impact of the greatsword numbed Euron's wrists, but his superior agility allowed him to redirect the force and pivot before his guard could be broken.
After a particularly violent clash, they sprang apart, staring each other down across the sand. The sun blazed on the blade of Dawn, and the sword seemed to pulse, distorting the air around it with visible ripples of heat and magic.
"Is this the magic of Dawn?" Euron's eyes sharpened.
"It chooses those who are worthy," Arthur replied calmly. He lowered the point of the sword slightly, shifting into a stance that radiated overwhelming pressure. "Show me everything, Euron Greyjoy. Summon your thunder and your fire! Show me what makes you think you are worthy to wed my sister!"
Euron didn't use the Moon Walk or the Shave. He held back the techniques that defied physics. Instead, he licked his dry lips, a flicker of fanaticism in his eyes. He crossed his blades before his chest and crouched low, like a kraken coiling to strike.
Crackling arcs of azure lightning began to dance across his skin and along the edges of his blades.
"Come on then!"
---
Beneath the tower, another duel raged.
Ned Stark gripped the hilt of Ice with both hands, the Valyrian steel smoke-dark and rippled under the sun. His opponent was the White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower—a man he had once idolized.
Ser Gerold's white cloak was stained with dust, but his posture was regal. He wielded a heavy knightly longsword with a style that was solid, unpretentious, and forged from decades of experience.
Ned struck first, Ice singing a mournful song as it swept in a horizontal cut. Gerold didn't meet the Valyrian steel head-on. He stepped half a pace to the side, his longsword striking the flat of the greatsword, deflecting the heavy blow with precise leverage. The sound of metal on metal was deafening. Ned felt the shock run up his arms. The Lord Commander is old, he thought, but his strength hasn't faded a whit.
Gerold shifted from defense to offense, his attacks coming in relentless waves. Ned was forced to use Ice like a shield wall. The greatsword was heavy, but in Ned's hands, it was an impregnable barrier. Sparks flew as he parried, retreated, and waited for a gap in the old knight's form. It was a battle of patience.
"Yield, Ser!" Ned roared between parries. "Rhaegar is dead! Your watch has lost its meaning! Is it worth dying for a ghost?"
Ser Gerold didn't slow down. His voice came through his visor, iron-hard. "Lord Stark, the meaning of a vow is not found in the survival of the one you serve, but in the soul of the one who swore it. The Kingsguard does not flee!"
Before the words had faded, Gerold launched a brilliant thrust that nearly pierced Ned's defense. Cold sweat broke out on Ned's back as he barely knocked the blade aside. He realized then that words would never break this loyalty.
---
Oberyn Martell's spear traced lethal circles in the air, while Ser Oswell Whent held his shield high, a rock in the storm.
Oberyn moved like a sand scorpion, his spear a blur as he stabbed at Oswell's face, the back of his knee, his wrist—anywhere the armor had a gap. But Oswell's great shield was always there, meeting the viper's fangs with dull, heavy thuds. His counterattacks were simple and brutal, his broadsword chopping down with massive force whenever the spear retracted, forcing Oberyn to leap away.
"Ser Oswell!" Oberyn shouted as he dodged a slash. "Remember the feast at Harrenhal? You claimed Dornish gold wine was superior to all the mead in the Riverlands!"
Oswell silently battered a spear thrust away from his ribs. Finally, he spoke, his breath coming heavy. "I remember, Oberyn. But now... there is only the vow."
"The vow?" Oberyn laughed, his spear tip tapping against the rim of the shield, looking for leverage. "Is a vow heavier than the wine we shared? Than friendship?"
Oswell answered with a shield bash. Oberyn side-stepped gracefully, his red robes swirling like a dust devil.
The fight was a stalemate. Oberyn had the reach and speed, but Oswell was a fortress. Oberyn, the hunter, began to circle. He stopped throwing power shots. Instead, he peppered Oswell with lightning-fast jabs from awkward angles, testing the knight's stamina, looking for the tiniest flaw in that wall of steel. Sweat soaked Oswell's white tunic. His breathing grew ragged.
Finally, after a successful feint, Oberyn baited Oswell into raising his shield high.
In that split second—when the old energy was spent and the new had not yet risen—Oberyn twisted his wrist. The spear moved like a living thing, sliding under the rim of the shield and driving accurately, ruthlessly, into the gap of Oswell's thigh armor.
"Urgh!"
Ser Oswell grunted, dropping to one knee. He drove his broadsword into the sand to hold himself up as blood quickly darkened his white breeches.
Oberyn didn't finish him. He pulled the spear back, a single drop of dark red blood falling from the tip to the sand. The playful smile vanished from the Red Viper's face, replaced by a complex, almost sorrowful look.
"It seems..." Oberyn said softly, "the wine from Harrenhal is finally finished. Come back to Dorne with me. I promise you, the vintage there is no worse than the swill the Greyjoys drink."
Ser Oswell looked up. Pain and sweat twisted his face, but there was no hatred in his eyes as he looked at Oberyn. Only the relief of a duty finally ending.
The desert wind blew, kicking up the red dust, blurring the line between the victor and the defeated.