Yes, the eldest daughter of Lord Anders Yronwood, whom Oberyn spoke of, was indeed the wife of Daemon Sand's father, Roger Allyrion—her name was Ynys Yronwood.
And Daemon Sand was merely a bastard born to some unknown woman before Roger Allyrion married Ynys Yronwood.
But none of that mattered; what mattered was...
Had Lord Anders Yronwood been kicked in the head by a goat to agree to marry Ynys to Daemon Sand?
It wasn't that there was any ethical issue with it—after all, Dornishmen were notoriously unbothered by such ethics—but one had to remember that Roger was the heir to House Allyrion of Godsgrace, and he and Ynys already had two children!
Even if you, Anders, hated me, Oberyn, so much, surely you wouldn't risk offending House Allyrion just to break up a couple?
This was fucking madness!
No, this wouldn't do.
Although he couldn't make sense of it, the pain in his body and the loss of body heat from his bleeding kept reminding Oberyn that if things continued like this, he would truly die here.
Seeing Daemon Sand and Andre approaching him again with weapons, Oberyn swept his gaze across the room, then made a split-second decision; he spun around and slashed his curved blade fiercely at the window!
"Trying to run?!"
Daemon Sand barked sharply, his spear striking out like a viper's tongue, aiming straight for the center of Oberyn's back.
But Oberyn had already anticipated this strike. As he slashed at the window, he sidestepped, letting the spear tip graze his ribs and draw a line of blood.
Ignoring the pain, he kicked out at the already shattered window frame.
Crash!
The entire window, frame and glass alike, burst outward.
"Stop him!" Daemon Sand roared at Andre, while he himself suddenly spun around, sweeping his spear shaft across to block Ellaria and the three prostitutes who were trying to slip out the side door.
The shaft slammed heavily into the doorframe, missing Ellaria's face by a mere inch.
"Where do you think you're going?" Daemon Sand's voice was cold as ice. "Did I say you could leave?"
Ellaria's face went pale, but she straightened her back. "Daemon Sand, you're mad! Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"I know perfectly well." Daemon Sand's spear slowly lowered, the tip pressing against Ellaria's throat. "Perfectly well."
In that very instant, Oberyn had kicked away all the remaining wood and glass shards, half his body leaning out of the window.
The height of the third floor was dizzying; below lay the cobblestone ground of the alley behind the "Hummingbird," and further off, piles of trash cans and debris.
He glanced back.
This glance made him freeze.
Ellaria was being held at spearpoint by Daemon Sand, while the three prostitutes cowered behind her, trembling.
Andre was also stepping closer with long strides.
And the corners of Daemon Sand's mouth curled into a cruel, cold sneer.
"Jump, Prince. Go ahead and jump." Daemon Sand's voice was unnaturally clear in the quiet room. "But if you run away..."
He applied a slight pressure to his wrist, and the spear tip pierced the skin of Ellaria's neck, a bead of blood seeping out and sliding down her fair throat.
"I will kill your mistress."
"And then your guards, your attendants, everyone you know in King's Landing. You should know that I keep my word."
The room was deathly silent.
Only the wind blowing in through the broken window, making the curtains snap and flutter.
Oberyn's hands gripped the window sill, his knuckles white from the strain.
He looked out the window, then back at the despair in Ellaria's eyes.
To be honest, Oberyn never considered himself a noble man.
He had slept with countless other men's wives, killed countless people who stood in his way, betrayed allies, played with conspiracies, and was passionate about using poisons.
The Red Viper of Dorne was never a hero.
But...
Ellaria, this woman had been with him for twenty years, had borne him four daughters, traveled half the world with him, and never left his side even during his most absurd moments.
She was not one of those prostitutes that could be bought with money; in a sense, she had long since become his... partner.
"Oberyn..." Ellaria looked at him, her lips trembling, but her gaze was exceptionally firm. "Leave me, go!"
"Shut up!" Daemon Sand snapped, the spear tip digging in a fraction deeper.
"I said, jump!" Ellaria suddenly screamed, her voice filled with a near-manic resolve. "Do you want us both to die here? Do you want this ungrateful dog to get his way?"
"Jump! And live! Avenge me!"
Before the words had even faded, she did something that caught everyone by surprise.
The Dornish woman used all her strength and threw herself forward!
Squelch!
The tip of the spear pierced through the back of her neck, bringing out a spray of blood.
Ellaria's body stiffened, her eyes wide, staring at Oberyn, her lips moving, but no sound came out.
"Fuck!!!"
Oberyn's roar echoed throughout the room.
Watching helplessly as Ellaria's body slumped down, the spear slipped from Daemon Sand's hand, falling to the floor with her.
Blood quickly spread across the carpet like an eerie flower.
The three prostitutes let out shrill screams and fled in all directions.
Andre instinctively wanted to chase them, but Daemon Sand roared, "Forget them! Kill Oberyn first!"
But it was too late.
The moment Ellaria had thrown herself onto the spear tip, Oberyn had made his decision.
He took one last look at Ellaria lying on the floor, and then, he leaped out of the window.
"Damn it!" Daemon Sand rushed to the window.
He saw Oberyn's figure falling through the air. He did not fall straight down; instead, he twisted his body with all his might in mid-air, aiming his feet at the carved railing on the edge of the second-floor balcony.
Crack!
His left foot landed squarely on the railing, but the impact was too great. The railing snapped, and Oberyn lost his balance, his body spinning as he fell toward the ground floor.
He barely managed to adjust his posture, landing on his functional right shoulder and back, rolling several times on the cobblestone ground before coming to a stop.
Agonizing pain radiated from every part of his body.
The wound on his left shoulder burst open completely, blood gushing out, and a stabbing pain shot through his right ankle—clearly, he had sprained it when he broke the railing.
He didn't know how many ribs were broken; every breath felt like knives scraping against his lungs.
But... he was still alive.
Oberyn gritted his teeth, used his curved blade to support his body, and stood up shakily.
He looked up at the broken window on the third floor.
Daemon Sand and Andre were at the window, looking down.
Their eyes met.
Across the height of three stories, Oberyn silently mouthed: You are dead men.
Then he turned directly and, dragging his injured right foot, stumbled into the depths of the back alley.
In the third-floor room, Daemon Sand's face was livid. He truly hadn't expected Ellaria to choose suicide to save Oberyn.
"Pursue him!" Andre turned to rush out.
"Wait!" Daemon Sand grabbed him.
"Wait for what? He's wounded, he won't get far!"
"This is King's Landing, not Dorne!" Daemon Sand lowered his voice, speaking urgently. "Look down there!"
Hearing this, Andre looked out the window.
The commotion of Oberyn falling from the building had already attracted some attention; several pedestrians had stopped to watch, someone was poking their head out from a second-floor balcony, and in the distance, the footsteps of a City Watch patrol could even be heard.
"If we keep chasing, we'll be exposed." Daemon Sand analyzed quickly. "A blood-soaked Prince of Dorne being hunted in the streets—the City Watch won't stand idly by. If we're caught, all our plans are ruined."
Andre fell silent, his hand gripping his sword tightening and loosening—he was clearly struggling.
"But it doesn't matter." Daemon Sand took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Even if he doesn't die, House Yronwood will not be able to clear its name."
Having said that, he walked over to Ellaria's body, crouched down, and tore a silver necklace from her neck.
This was a token of love Oberyn had given her.
Daemon Sand held the necklace in his palm; the cold touch calmed him slightly.
"Garin and the others are lying in ambush in the street." He stood up. "According to the backup plan, if Oberyn escapes the 'Hummingbird,' they will take over."
"If they can't even deal with a heavily wounded man, then those guys are useless anyway."
Upon hearing this, Andre finally nodded. "What do we do next?"
"Leave King's Landing." Daemon Sand said decisively. "Immediately, right now. We have done what we needed to do. Whether he lives or dies, Dorne will be in chaos for a while. Our mission is complete."
After saying this, he took one last look at the room.
A mess everywhere: corpses, blood, broken wine bottles, and furniture.
It is just a pity that the target might still be alive.
"Let's go."
The two no longer hesitated, quickly clearing away any traces that might reveal their identities, then left through the side door, disappearing into the intricate internal passages of "Hummingbird".
On the street, Oberyn stumbled, his right ankle sending bone-piercing pain with every step; it was highly likely broken.
The wound on his left shoulder was still bleeding, the warm liquid trickling down his arm and dripping onto the cobblestones. His ribs were broken, his breathing had become shallow and rapid, and every inhalation felt like needles stabbing into his lungs.
Even worse was the weakness brought on by blood loss.
His vision began to blur, his ears rang incessantly, and his limbs grew cold; he knew his body temperature was dropping and his consciousness was fading.
But he could not stop.
The look in Ellaria's eyes at the end lingered in his mind.
Revenge.
Yes, he must have his revenge.
Daemon Sand, Anders House Yronwood, everyone involved in this, not a single one could be spared!
Oberyn gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving.
He turned from the back alley into a slightly wider street; this must be the edge of Silk Street, where there were fewer shops and only sparse pedestrians.
A few drunks saw him and were so frightened they sobered up instantly, scrambling away in a panic.
A blood-soaked, half-naked man dragging a wounded leg and clutching a dripping scimitar—the sight was indeed terrifying.
But Oberyn did not care.
He simply continued walking in the direction fixed in his mind.
The direction of Flea Bottom.
Relying on hazy memory, he turned into an even narrower alley, and just then, several figures appeared at the alley entrance ahead.
They were not Gold Cloaks, but three men dressed as commoners, pushing a cart piled with burlap sacks, looking like peddlers delivering goods.
Oberyn's heart tightened, and he instinctively gripped his scimitar.
The three men clearly saw him too.
They stopped, seemingly surprised, whispered a few words to each other, and then continued pushing the cart forward, heading straight toward Oberyn.
The distance grew shorter and shorter.
Twenty paces.
Fifteen paces.
Ten paces.
Oberyn's muscles tensed; years of combat experience let him smell the danger.
They were nothing like ordinary peddlers, and their gazes kept scanning him, like hunters sizing up wounded prey.
Five paces.
The cart reached him.
"Make... make way." The man pushing the cart said with his head lowered, his voice muffled.
But Oberyn still recognized the thick Dornish accent.
Damn it.
Oberyn stepped aside nonchalantly, just at the moment the cart brushed past him.
The burlap sacks were suddenly thrown open!
Not goods, but people!
Two people wielding short blades erupted from beneath the sacks, their blades stabbing straight for Oberyn's chest and abdomen!
At the same time, the man pushing the cart drew a hand axe from the bottom of the cart and slashed toward his head!
Oberyn had anticipated this; he leaned back sharply, letting the two short blades graze his chest, cutting the skin but not reaching any internal organs.
At the same time, he flicked his right-hand scimitar upward, precisely parrying the descending hand axe.
Clang!
Sparks flew.
Meanwhile, the other three also drew weapons and attacked him.
Five men.
If it were Oberyn in his prime, he could absolutely have slaughtered them like cutting melons and vegetables.
But now, he was severely wounded, bleeding, broken-boned, and his consciousness was hazy.
A short spear stabbed into his right thigh, the sharp pain nearly causing him to faint.
"Aaaah!!!!"
Oberyn let out a bestial roar; it was not from pain, but from rage.
Extreme rage.
You want to kill me too?
Fine.
Then die together!
In his fury, the Dornish scimitar danced in his hand—no patterns, no technique, only the purest, most primal instinct for slaughter.
After a chaotic melee.
Only five corpses remained in the alley.
Oberyn leaned on the scimitar he had pulled from a corpse, panting heavily.
That burst of energy had exhausted his final strength; his vision went black, and he could barely stand.
The newly added wounds were bleeding, his right thigh was pierced, his left arm was beaten to the point of complete numbness, and two knife wounds on his chest were deep enough to see bone.
But he was still standing.
Tottering, yet still standing.
"Daemon..." Oberyn muttered, his voice hoarse beyond measure: "House Yronwood... Tywin... The Mountain... Everyone must die!"
He dragged his broken body and continued to walk forward, leaving bloody footprints on the ground with every step.
The alley reached its end; ahead was a slightly wider street.
This was already the southern end of Silk Street; the street was empty, save for a few vagrants huddled in the corners and an old woman selling roasted chestnuts packing up her stall.
Oberyn's appearance drew attention.
The old woman saw him, screamed in fright, and pushed her cart away as she ran.
The vagrants widened their eyes; some shrank back, while others had a strange glint in their eyes—a severely wounded noble might have something valuable on him.
Oberyn ignored them and continued walking forward; he had only one thought now: survive, and have his revenge.
Just then—
"My lord! My lord, you're hurt!"
A voice came from the side.
Oberyn turned his head and saw a man running over, wearing rough cloth clothes, with a look of concern on his face.
He was also carrying a small basket, as if he had just finished shopping and was returning home.
"Let me help you! I'll help you get to treatment!" The man said, reaching out to support him.
In normal times, Oberyn would never let a stranger get close, but right now he had lost too much blood, his consciousness was hazy, and yet he inexplicably felt this man looked somewhat familiar.
Then, a cold glint flashed.
The distance was too close, the speed too fast; Oberyn had no time to react.
Pfft!
The dagger plunged into his chest up to the hilt.
Oberyn's body stiffened.
He looked down at the hilt of the dagger embedded in his heart, feeling only absurd.
He, Prince Oberyn Martell, The Red Viper of Dorne, a warrior who had traversed The Seven Kingdoms for twenty years without a single defeat, would end up dying in a place like this?
How fucking ironic.
No.
This should not be his ending!
"You..." Oberyn opened his mouth, blood gushing from the corners.
The man leaned into his ear, his voice filled with mockery: "You always looked down on me, didn't you, The Red Viper?"
"What, didn't think you'd die at my hands one day, did you? Hahaha!"
He laughed triumphantly and was about to pull out the dagger, but suddenly discovered that a blood-stained hand had tightly gripped his wrist holding the blade.
Garin looked up and met a pair of eyes.
They were not eyes that a human should have; that cold gaze reminded Garin of the most venomous viper in the Dornish desert.
"You..." A chill rose up Garin's spine.
"Let's..." Oberyn's voice was as light as a sigh: "go to hell together."
He used his final strength to slam his head into Garin's forehead!
Bang!
The dull thud of skulls colliding; Garin was hit so hard he saw stars and stumbled backward.
Oberyn fell backward, but his hand still tightly gripped Garin's wrist, dragging him down to the ground as well.
One was a trapped beast fighting back in its death throes, the other a panicked assassin.
The two rolled and grappled on the ground.
Garin wanted to break free, to finish him off, but Oberyn's strength was astonishing, as if all his potential had erupted in his final moments of life.
The dagger was still stuck in his chest, and every movement churned the wound, but Oberyn seemed not to feel the pain; he just gripped Garin tightly, headbutting, biting, and pounding with his still-functional right hand.
Like a beast.
More like a madman.
"Let go! Let go of me!" Garin screamed in terror, clearly not expecting someone with a dagger in their heart to still have such strength.
Just then, footsteps came from afar; it seemed someone had been alarmed by the commotion here.
Garin panicked.
He had to break free immediately, to leave at once.
The mission was already accomplished; Oberyn had been stabbed in the chest and was undoubtedly dying; there was no need to stay here and tangle.
He struggled frantically and managed with great difficulty to break free from Oberyn's grip, but just as he turned around...
A massive palm grabbed his head!
The strength was too great.
It was as if he had been clamped tight by iron chains; his head felt like it would burst the next second!
What terrified Garin even more was that through the gaps in the fingers, he saw—a face... covered in burn scars, as hideous as a demon crawling out of the seventh layer of hell!
"Let..."
"Shhh~~~~~~" Garin just wanted to shout and intimidate the other, but he saw that person put their other hand to their lips.
"Don't speak, or I will pry your head open, gouge out your eyes, and then eat your eyeballs dipped in your brains!"