Chapter 167: Never Corner Someone Casually
"Ser Daemon."
Kallen nodded in greeting, his tone respectful and familiar.
They had worked together for years.
Everyone in the prince's retinue knew the man before them well enough, yet still kept a certain distance from him.
Partly because Daemon Sand enjoyed tremendous favor with Oberyn Martell.
But mostly because of his sword.
Too many stories circulated through Dorne about the "Bastard of Godsgrace" defeating opponents before they even understood how they had lost.
The number of men who had died beneath Daemon's blade likely surpassed even Kallen's own tally from decades of battle.
That was precisely why Oberyn had made an exception and taken him as a personal squire.
"His Highness is… still resting."
Kallen glanced toward the tightly shut door.
As if on cue, loud laughter burst from inside, followed by the sound of cups and plates clattering together.
Beside him, Maros forced a smile, a trace of envy flashing across the younger guard's eyes.
Not envy over Daemon's bastard birth—bastards in Dorne were hardly considered shameful, but neither were they particularly noble.
No.
What Maros envied was the swordsmanship talent the prince himself constantly praised as "a gift from the gods."
"Ser Daemon, you seem in excellent spirits today."
"Thank you, Maros."
Daemon smiled warmly, his gaze sweeping across the two guards' tired expressions.
"Guard duty like this wears a man down. I understand."
As he spoke, he stepped slightly aside and gestured toward the armored knight standing behind him.
"This is Ser Deziel Dalt."
"He carries urgent military business that must be reported to the prince immediately."
"Ser Deziel Dalt?"
Kallen repeated the name while carefully studying the silent knight.
The man wore full plate armor.
Simple in style, but exceptionally well maintained.
A heavy barrel helm concealed his face entirely behind a nasal guard.
His build did resemble the rumors surrounding the eldest son of House Dalt—a sociable young noble with decent swordsmanship and a quick mind.
Kallen vaguely remembered Oberyn once mentioning the young man approvingly.
Maros also looked the armored knight over before casually adding,
"So you're Ser Deziel. We met your younger brother several times back in Sunspear… Andrey, right?"
Trying to ease the boredom of guard duty, he continued chatting.
"He always kept to himself. Barely talked. Completely different from you."
The armored knight—
who was in fact Andrey Dalt beneath the helm—
did not react at all.
He neither nodded nor spoke.
He simply stood half a step behind Daemon's shoulder in absolute silence.
The atmosphere turned awkward for a brief moment.
Fortunately, Daemon smoothly took over the conversation, his smile never wavering.
"Ser Andrey's personality is somewhat gloomy," he said lightly.
"But his loyalty to Dorne is unquestionable."
Then he looked directly at Maros.
"And don't casually comment on another man's brother in front of him."
"That's a bad habit."
"You should fix it."
Without giving them time to respond, his tone immediately shifted into something more serious.
"The matter is urgent, Kallen."
"I need to see the prince at once."
Kallen looked at Daemon.
Then at the silent "Ser Deziel."
Daemon was the prince's trusted personal attendant.
And the man he brought supposedly carried urgent military business.
There was no reasonable excuse to stop them.
Still, Kallen stepped only partially aside, his body remaining positioned to block the doorway if necessary.
That was his duty.
"You know the rules, Ser Daemon."
"The prince's chambers… especially at times like this…"
His eyes flicked once more toward the closed door.
"I understand."
Daemon nodded, his smile now carrying a hint of sympathy.
"I'll enter alone and report first."
"Ser Deziel can wait outside until the prince permits him to enter."
Then he turned slightly toward Andrey and inclined his head.
"Please wait here for a moment, ser."
At last, "Ser Deziel" reacted.
He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
A muffled "Mm" echoed from beneath the helmet.
Then he stepped half a pace to the side and stood still.
Hands relaxed naturally at his sides.
Close enough to reach his sword instantly.
Far enough not to appear threatening.
A textbook knight's waiting posture.
The final traces of suspicion vanished from Kallen and Maros.
Clearly, the man understood protocol.
Daemon then raised a hand and knocked softly on the ornate wooden door.
The noise inside briefly quieted.
A moment later came Oberyn's voice, lazy and irritated.
"Who is it? Didn't I say not to disturb me while I'm preparing for battle?"
"Your Highness, it's me. Daemon."
Daemon cleared his throat awkwardly.
"There's an urgent matter that requires immediate attention."
Silence followed.
Then came reluctant grumbling, rustling clothes, and the faint complaints of women.
Only after quite a while did Oberyn speak again, sounding somewhat more awake.
"Come in, Daemon."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Daemon pushed open the door and slipped inside.
He gently pulled it nearly shut behind him—
but intentionally left a narrow gap about two fingers wide.
At once, the heavy scent of wine, perfume, and lust spilled out through the crack.
Inside, the Dornish prince lounged sideways upon a massive bed piled high with cushions.
His upper body was bare, while only a thin silk blanket loosely covered his lower half.
His black hair was damp, several strands clinging to his sweat-covered forehead.
The handsome face bore the marks of drunkenness and indulgence.
Yet beneath that seemingly relaxed exterior, his black eyes remained as sharp and dangerous as poisoned daggers.
Ellaria Sand rested lazily beside him, draped only in a nearly transparent veil of fabric that revealed more than it concealed.
Half-asleep, she idly toyed with an empty wine cup while gazing at Daemon through unfocused eyes.
Two servant girls hurriedly cleaned the room's chaos before lowering their heads and slipping out through a side door.
Oberyn grabbed a half-empty bottle of red wine from a nearby table and drank straight from it.
Crimson liquid slid down his elegant jawline, dripping across his sweat-slick chest.
"You'd better have a real emergency."
"You know I was teaching Ellaria a new Lysene love song."
"I'd just reached the important part."
As he spoke, his free hand wandered lazily across Ellaria's smooth shoulder, drawing a soft hum from her lips.
Daemon stood in the center of the room, roughly ten paces from the bed.
His gaze carefully assessed Oberyn's condition.
After two consecutive days of debauchery, most men would have collapsed from exhaustion.
But Oberyn Martell seemed to possess the recovery ability of a wild beast.
There were bloodshot veins in his eyes.
The smell of alcohol hung heavily on his breath.
Yet strangely enough, his body radiated a feverish energy.
Even in a relaxed state, the lines of his muscles remained sleek and dangerous, as though terrifying force could erupt from him at any moment.
Truly gifted.
Despite seeing it countless times before, Daemon still couldn't help admiring it inwardly.
Even he—hailed throughout Dorne as a swordsmanship prodigy—could never achieve such monstrous stamina.
And that, perhaps more than anything else, explained how a man over forty years old could continue roaming the Seven Kingdoms freely, making enemies everywhere while remaining utterly untouchable.
He was not only intelligent and ruthless, but possessed stamina and vitality far beyond ordinary men.
As Oberyn himself often liked to say:
[Women and wine provide me with endless energy.
Sometimes men too.]
"Your Highness."
Daemon Sand bowed slightly, respectful yet perfectly straight-backed.
"My apologies for interrupting your enjoyment, but the matter is urgent."
"Oh?"
Oberyn arched a brow and set down the wine bottle, interest flickering across his face though his posture remained utterly relaxed.
He trusted Daemon completely.
That trust had been built over many years—not only because of the young man's swordsmanship and competence, but also because Daemon was a Sand and had proven his loyalty time and again.
"So tell me."
Oberyn's tone carried lazy amusement.
"Has old lion Tywin made another move?"
"Or is my dreary brother in Sunspear whining about me again?"
Clearly, he was not taking this so-called emergency very seriously.
Daemon did not answer immediately.
Instead, his gaze casually drifted toward the door.
Toward the narrow gap left intentionally unsealed.
Then he stepped forward twice and lowered his voice, as though preparing to share some tremendous secret.
Outside in the corridor, time dragged on slowly.
The muffled conversation from inside remained indistinct.
Andrey Dalt still stood motionless in the shadows beside the wall like a statue of iron.
Only the eyes hidden beneath the helmet occasionally flashed with cold light whenever voices rose inside the room.
Meanwhile, Kallen and Maros had grown visibly bored.
Guard duty was always worst during long waits.
Time stretched like cooling syrup.
Eventually, they tried making conversation to ease the silence—and perhaps curry favor with this supposedly well-liked "Ser Deziel."
After all, Dornishmen in King's Landing were outsiders.
Connections between nobles were always useful.
"Ahem."
Kallen cleared his throat and offered the armored knight a friendly smile.
"Ser Deziel, how are you finding King's Landing?"
"It's cooler than Dorne at least."
"Though the damp weather here can practically choke a man."
A muffled "Mm" came from beneath the helmet.
Nothing more.
Maros was younger and far less patient with silence.
Grinning, he joined in.
"If you ask me, Silk Street's the only worthwhile place in this whole city."
"The rest?"
He clicked his tongue.
"Dirty and stinking."
He winked knowingly.
"You visited the Hummingbird yet? The girls here are among the finest in all Seven Kingdoms."
But despite their attempts at friendliness, the armored knight remained silent.
This time he did not even bother with a grunt.
The atmosphere became awkward.
Trying to recover, Kallen shifted the topic toward something the knight might prefer discussing.
"Speaking of which, Ser Deziel, we've all heard stories about you."
"The prince praises your swordsmanship often. Says you're clever and dependable."
He paused, struggling to think of something else to say.
Then casually added:
"Much better than your younger brother."
The remark was meant as a compliment.
An attempt at familiarity.
After all, they had heard rumors from other Dornish retainers before.
The Dalt brothers were supposedly opposites.
Deziel was outgoing and sociable.
Andrey, meanwhile, was withdrawn and gloomy—a man who spent all day polishing his sword and practicing alone, never fitting in with others.
"Exactly."
Maros nodded absentmindedly.
"We met your brother a few times back in Sunspear. Andrey, right?"
"He always sat alone and barely talked."
"There was one banquet where he spent the entire night in a corner cleaning his sword. Ignored everyone who tried speaking to him."
Chuckling lightly, Maros tried to keep the mood casual.
"Good thing you're the one here this time. With your brother's personality, he probably wouldn't make any friends in King's Landing."
Neither of them meant genuine malice.
It was idle chatter.
Surface-level judgments made in passing.
In Dorne, eccentric and solitary men were common enough.
A few comments hardly seemed offensive.
And yet—
the instant Maros finished speaking—
the iron statue in the shadows moved.
Without warning.
Without hesitation.
The silent "Ser Deziel" transformed into a killer.
The sound of steel leaving its sheath was sharp and vicious.
A flash of swordlight slashed upward from an impossibly vicious angle straight toward Maros's throat.
The strike was horrifyingly fast.
At the same time, his left hand shot toward Kallen's neck like a striking viper.
Five armored fingers clamped precisely around the man's windpipe.
Maros's smile had not even fully disappeared from his face yet.
His pupils shrank violently.
All he saw was that expanding streak of fatal steel.
Instinct screamed at him to lean back.
To draw his blade.
But thought moved slower than death.
Too close.
Too sudden.
Slash.
The blade cut through flesh.
Warm blood burst outward in a fan-shaped spray, splattering across the luxurious carpet, carved wall panels, and the discarded booklet lying near the doorway.
Maros's eyes bulged wide.
A wet choking sound escaped his ruined throat like air leaking from a broken bellows.
His curved Dornish blade made it only halfway from its scabbard before all strength abandoned his body.
He collapsed backward against the wall with a dull thud.
At nearly the same moment, Kallen's throat remained crushed beneath that armored hand.
The monstrous grip instantly cut off both breath and sound.
His eyes bulged in disbelief as he stared into the helmet inches away.
His hands clawed frantically at the gauntlet, nails screeching uselessly against steel.
His boots scraped wildly against the carpet.
But the difference in strength was overwhelming.
That hand felt forged from iron itself.
The knight's bloodied sword withdrew from Maros's neck.
Without even glancing toward the dying guard, the killer smoothly reversed his grip and thrust the blade through the gap beneath Kallen's leather armor.
Straight into the heart.
Thk.
A soft, ugly sound.
Steel piercing leather.
Muscle.
Heart.
Kallen's body jerked violently—
then all resistance ceased.
Andrey released him.
The guard crumpled beside his still-twitching companion like a sack of grain.
From the instant the attack began to the moment both men lay dead—
less than three seconds had passed.
Efficient.
Fluid.
Merciless.
Two experienced Dornish guards had died outside a brothel room in a foreign city without managing even the slightest real resistance.
Andrey Dalt slowly withdrew his sword.
Blood rolled down the fuller and dripped onto the carpet, blooming into dark crimson flowers.
He glanced downward once.
His eyes remained utterly emotionless.
As though he had merely removed two inconvenient obstacles from his path.
Then he spoke calmly.
"Don't casually judge other people."
"That's a bad habit."
"You should correct it."
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