Chapter 168
"So," said Oberyn Martell, "what exactly was important enough to interrupt my lesson?"
Daemon Sand stood in the center of the room, roughly ten paces away from the prince.
His eyes swept across the chamber in a single quick motion.
All the windows were shut tight.
Heavy velvet curtains sealed out the outside world completely.
The only other exit was the side door the servant girls had used moments earlier.
And beside the bed—
within immediate reach—
rested Oberyn's famous Dornish spear.
The shaft was crafted from polished ash wood, smooth and pale gray beneath the candlelight.
Its steel spearhead resembled the fang of a venomous serpent, glimmering with a faint bluish sheen.
A curved Dornish blade leaned nearby as well.
Every weapon the prince needed was close at hand.
Yet at this very moment, the only thing in Oberyn's grip was a wine bottle.
Daemon stepped forward twice.
"It's something far more urgent, Your Highness."
He lowered his voice, allowing just enough tension to show in his expression.
"It concerns… House Yronwood."
The moment those words left his mouth, some of the laziness vanished from Oberyn's face.
Slowly, the prince straightened.
The silk blanket slid down to his waist, revealing the lean muscles of his abdomen and the sharp lines running toward his hips.
Beside him, Ellaria Sand also lost her carefree expression.
She sat upright without even noticing the gauzy robe slipping from one shoulder.
"Yronwood?"
Oberyn repeated the name, a trace of coldness entering his voice.
"What's Anders scheming now?"
"Causing trouble along the Stone Way again?"
Daemon did not answer immediately.
Instead, he moved one careful step closer.
"No, Your Highness."
"Not the Stone Way."
He wet his lips.
The tiny gesture made him appear genuinely uneasy.
"It's about… about what happened to Lord Edgar."
The room fell silent for a heartbeat.
Oberyn's eyes narrowed slightly.
That duel from years ago—
the duel that had ended with Edgar Yronwood dying from an infected wound—
was something Oberyn had never truly explained.
And truthfully, he had never poisoned the blade.
Edgar's death had simply been bad luck.
The old lord had already been well past sixty, and improperly treated wounds festered easily.
But when all of Dorne pointed accusing fingers at him, Oberyn never bothered defending himself.
With the reputation he carried, nobody would have believed him anyway.
And more importantly—
he had too much pride to waste time explaining himself.
Still, that silence had forced him to carry the infamy for years.
"Go on," Oberyn said calmly.
Daemon drew a slow breath.
"I received word from one of our informants inside Yronwood lands."
"Lord Anders has recently been gathering trusted knights and retainers for a series of secret meetings."
"They seem to be discussing… revenge."
"Revenge?"
Oberyn let out a scornful laugh and leaned back against the cushions once more.
But this time there was no laziness left in him.
Only tension.
The kind a coiled viper carried before striking.
"For Edgar?"
"That happened years ago."
"If Anders truly wanted revenge, he should have acted long before now."
"Why wait until today?"
"Because the timing is finally right, Your Highness."
Daemon took another step forward.
"They may believe you're vulnerable now."
"You're in King's Landing, not Dorne."
"Here, you have fewer than twenty guards at your side."
"And House Yronwood…"
He paused, lowering his voice even further.
"It seems they've made contact with certain allies here in King's Landing."
"Allies?"
Oberyn Martell frowned slightly.
His fingers slowly traced the rim of his wine cup as his dark eyes fixed on Daemon Sand.
He looked as though he were studying him.
Or perhaps calculating something.
Candlelight flickered across the prince's handsome face, casting shifting shadows that made his expression impossible to read.
Could it be Tywin Lannister?
Possible.
Oberyn himself showed little reaction, but beside him, Ellaria Sand suddenly looked uneasy.
Her robe slipped completely from her shoulder, yet she made no move to pull it back up.
"Oberyn… perhaps we should—"
"Should what?" Oberyn interrupted coldly, lips curling into a mocking smile.
"Be afraid?"
"My dear, I am Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne."
"There has never been a place for the word fear in my life."
With that, he tipped back the cup and drained it in one swallow before slamming it heavily onto the table.
"Daemon."
He turned toward the young knight he had personally raised up.
"Your information is timely, and I appreciate it."
"But what exactly do you expect me to do with it?"
"Flee back to Sunspear immediately?"
"Or crawl to the Tower of the Hand and cry to Tywin Lannister that I'm terrified of House Yronwood?"
His voice dripped with ridicule.
Yet Daemon did not retreat.
"No, Your Highness."
He shook his head earnestly.
"I only wanted to warn you to be careful."
"Especially over the next few days."
"Before the trial by combat begins… I fear they may choose to strike then."
"The trial by combat…"
Oberyn murmured softly, something unreadable flashing through his eyes.
And at that exact instant—
Daemon moved.
The moment Daemon moved, a second figure stepped inside.
Daemon did not attack Oberyn.
Instead, he hurled the spear in his hand toward the side door.
The weapon shot through the room like a bolt of gray lightning, grazing Ellaria's shoulder before slamming deep into the wooden frame with a thunderous crack.
The exit was sealed shut.
Ellaria cried out in shock and stumbled backward.
"No one leaves," Daemon said coldly as he drew a slender thrusting sword from his waist.
"What happens here tonight cannot be allowed to spread."
"No one can learn of House Yronwood's revenge."
The moment those words landed, Oberyn's heart sank.
Now he understood everything.
Daemon had come under orders from House Yronwood.
And they intended to leave no survivors.
They had chosen the perfect moment—
a night when Oberyn was deep in revelry inside a brothel, guarded by only two men outside the door.
And worst of all—
they had turned the man he trusted most.
A flawless assassination plan.
"Well thought out," Oberyn said slowly, licking blood-red wine from his lips.
Madness blazed in his eyes.
"But you seem to have forgotten one thing."
He lowered himself into a fighting stance.
His curved blade angled toward the floor while his bare body gleamed beneath the candlelight like a warrior's statue carved from bronze.
"I…"
"Oberyn Martell…"
"…have never been killed before."
The instant the words fell—
he attacked first.
Not toward Andrey Dalt.
Toward Daemon.
Andrey wore full plate armor, his swordsmanship steady and disciplined—the mark of a seasoned killer.
But Daemon, despite his monstrous talent, was still young.
Less experienced.
And more importantly—
Oberyn knew his style better than anyone alive.
Oberyn exploded forward.
His curved blade thrust directly at Daemon's throat.
Daemon raised his sword to block—
but midway through the strike, Oberyn abruptly changed direction, the slash turning toward Daemon's wrist instead.
Daemon was forced backward.
His thin sword flashed silver as he tried to drive Oberyn away.
But Oberyn advanced instead of retreating.
Ignoring the threat of the blade entirely, he slipped almost against the edge of the sword and crashed into Daemon's guard.
His left elbow slammed brutally into Daemon's chest.
Bang!
Daemon groaned and staggered backward.
The thrusting sword flew from his hand.
Oberyn immediately lunged to finish him—
A sharp whistle of steel tore through the air behind him.
Andrey's sword had arrived.
Oberyn abandoned the kill and threw himself into a roll.
The greatsword sliced past his back, severing several strands of black hair.
He rolled twice across the carpet and came up holding Daemon's fallen sword in his left hand.
Now he wielded two weapons.
Curved blade in the right.
Thrusting sword in the left.
"Come on," Oberyn grinned viciously, teeth gleaming white beneath the candlelight.
"Let me see how hard Yronwood's dogs can bite."
But Andrey said nothing.
He simply attacked again.
This time, Oberyn avoided direct clashes with the armored knight.
He used the furniture as cover, retreating while fighting.
Tables overturned.
Wine bottles shattered.
Soft chairs split apart.
Feathers burst through the room like drifting snow.
The fight moved from the bedside to the center chamber—
then toward the windows.
Oberyn's breathing gradually grew heavier.
He was still a man in his forties.
No matter how fearlessly he boasted, two straight days of drinking and debauchery had taken their toll.
And he wore no armor.
The wound across his abdomen continued bleeding, every movement sending sharp pain through his body.
Worse still—
Daemon had recovered the spear pinned in the doorway.
Now he and Andrey attacked together from opposite directions.
The spear controlled the middle distance.
The longsword pressured at close range.
Slowly, Oberyn began losing ground.
"You've improved, Daemon," Oberyn panted as he deflected one of Andrey's heavy blows.
"I remember teaching your swordsmanship myself."
He twisted aside and blocked another thrust from the spear.
"Looks like you learned well."
Daemon's face had gone pale, but his grip on the spear remained steady.
"Everything I learned…"
"…was for today, Your Highness."
"To kill me?" Oberyn sneered.
"Then at least give me a reason."
"Let me die understanding why."
This time, Daemon remained silent much longer.
Then he slowly raised his head.
"Lord Anders promised me his daughter's hand in marriage."
"…What?"
For the first time, genuine shock crossed Oberyn's face.
His reaction slowed for a fraction of a second.
Andrey seized the opening instantly.
The longsword smashed through Oberyn's defense and hacked deep into his left shoulder.
Slash!
Blood exploded outward.
Oberyn screamed.
The thrusting sword flew from his hand.
The wound cut nearly to the bone, blood pouring down half his body like a crimson waterfall.
Pain nearly drove him unconscious.
Still gritting his teeth, he swung desperately to force Andrey back before stumbling against the wall near the window.
"You… fucking idiot…" Oberyn gasped, face rapidly turning pale from blood loss.
"You betrayed me over a woman?"
"She's not even the eldest daughter!"
"Even if you married her, you'd never inherit House Yronwood!"
At those words, Daemon's expression grew even more conflicted.
But he did not stop.
The spear thrust forward again as he roared:
"The one I'm marrying…"
"…is the eldest daughter!"
Oberyn froze again, visibly stunned.
Even so, he barely managed to knock the spear aside with his curved blade.
But his strength was fading fast.
The spear tip scraped along his ribs, opening another bloody wound.
Yet even now, Oberyn still found enough breath to shout:
"Have you completely lost your mind?!"
"Ynys Yronwood?!"
"She's your father's wife!"
(THE ORDER ASKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT and LOYALTY. ARE YOU READY?)
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