Chapter 169 – Demon (Double Length)
Yes.
The eldest daughter of House Yronwood that Oberyn Martell had mentioned was indeed the wife of Daemon's father, Ryon Allyrion.
Her name was Ynys Yronwood.
And Daemon himself?
He was merely a bastard Ryon Allyrion had fathered with some unknown woman before marrying Ynys.
But none of that was the important part.
The important part was—
had Anders Yronwood been kicked in the head by a goat?
Why in the seven hells would he agree to marry Ynys to Daemon?
It wasn't even about morality.
The Dornish famously cared little for such things.
But Ryon Allyrion was the heir of Godsgrace, and he and Ynys already had two children together.
No matter how much Anders hated Oberyn, there was no reason to risk offending House Allyrion just to tear apart his daughter's marriage.
It made absolutely no sense.
But there was no time left to think about it.
The agony ripping through his wounds and the blood steadily draining from his body kept reminding Oberyn of one brutal truth—
if this continued, he really would die here.
Seeing Daemon and Andrey Dalt closing in again with weapons drawn, Oberyn's eyes swept across the room.
Then he made his decision instantly.
He spun and charged for the window.
"Trying to run?!"
Daemon roared.
The spear shot forward like a striking viper, aimed straight for Oberyn's back.
But Oberyn had anticipated it.
Even as he slashed at the window with his curved blade, his body twisted sharply aside.
The spear tip scraped across his ribs, drawing a spray of blood.
Ignoring the pain entirely, he drove his boot into the shattered frame.
Crash!
The entire window exploded outward, frame and glass hurtling into the alley below.
"Stop him!" Daemon shouted toward Andrey.
But instead of pursuing, Daemon suddenly pivoted and swept the spear sideways, blocking the side door where Ellaria Sand and the three prostitutes had been trying to flee.
Bang!
The shaft smashed against the doorway barely an inch from Ellaria's face.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Daemon's voice had turned icy.
"Did I say you could leave?"
Ellaria's face turned pale, but she still straightened her back defiantly.
"Daemon, you've gone mad!"
"Do you even understand what you're doing?"
"I understand perfectly."
The spear slowly lowered until its tip rested against her throat.
"Perfectly."
At that same moment, Oberyn had already kicked away the last splinters of wood and glass and leaned halfway out the broken window.
The drop from the third floor was dizzying.
Below lay the cobblestone alley behind the Hummingbird brothel, littered with refuse bins and scattered junk.
Then Oberyn glanced back.
And froze.
Ellaria stood pinned beneath Daemon's spear.
The three prostitutes trembled behind her like frightened animals.
Andrey was advancing steadily as well.
Meanwhile, a cruel smile slowly spread across Daemon's face.
"Go ahead and jump, Your Highness."
His voice echoed clearly through the ruined chamber.
"Please."
"But if you run…"
He twisted the spear slightly.
The point pierced Ellaria's skin.
A single bead of blood rolled down the pale curve of her neck.
"…then I'll kill your lover."
"Then your guards."
"Then your attendants."
"Then everyone in King's Landing who's ever known you."
"You know I keep my promises."
Silence swallowed the room.
Only the wind screamed through the shattered window, whipping the curtains wildly through the air.
Oberyn's hands clenched the window ledge so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He stared outside—
then back at the despair in Ellaria's eyes.
Truthfully, Oberyn had never considered himself a good man.
He had slept with countless married women.
Killed countless enemies.
Betrayed allies.
Manipulated schemes.
Used poison without hesitation.
The Red Viper of Dorne had never been a hero.
But…
Ellaria Sand had followed him for twenty years.
She had borne him four daughters.
Crossed half the world beside him.
Even during his most reckless, self-destructive moments, she had never abandoned him.
She wasn't some prostitute bought with gold.
In many ways—
she had long since become his true companion.
"Oberyn…"
Ellaria's lips trembled, yet her gaze remained fiercely steady.
"Don't worry about me."
"Go!"
"Shut up!" Daemon barked, pressing the spear deeper.
"I said JUMP!"
Ellaria suddenly screamed, her voice filled with near-hysterical resolve.
"Do you want all of us to die here?!"
"Do you want this ungrateful dog to win?!"
"Jump!"
"Live!"
"And avenge me!"
Before anyone could react, Ellaria did something none of them expected.
The Dornish woman threw herself forward with every ounce of strength she had.
Thrust!
The spearhead burst out through the back of her neck in a spray of blood.
Her body froze.
Her eyes widened as she stared at Oberyn Martell, lips trembling soundlessly.
Then Oberyn roared.
The scream shook the entire room.
Ellaria's body collapsed limply to the floor, dragging the spear from Daemon's grip as she fell.
Blood spread rapidly across the carpet like a blooming crimson flower.
The three prostitutes shrieked in terror and scattered in every direction.
Andrey instinctively moved to pursue them, but Daemon barked:
"Forget them! Kill Oberyn first!"
Too late.
The moment Ellaria impaled herself, Oberyn had already made his decision.
He gave her one final look—
then leapt through the shattered window.
"Damn it!"
Daemon rushed to the opening.
Below, Oberyn's body plummeted through the air.
But he didn't fall straight down.
Midair, he twisted desperately, aiming both feet toward the decorative railing of the second-floor balcony.
Crunch!
His left foot struck the railing perfectly—
but the impact shattered it instantly.
Oberyn lost balance and spun violently before crashing toward the ground below.
At the last second, he twisted again, landing on his shoulder and back instead of his skull.
He rolled several times across the cobblestones before finally stopping.
Pain exploded through his entire body.
The wound in his left shoulder tore fully open, blood pouring out in torrents.
His right ankle screamed in agony—probably twisted or broken when the railing collapsed.
Several ribs were almost certainly shattered.
Every breath felt like knives scraping across his lungs.
But…
he was alive.
Grinding his teeth together, Oberyn forced himself upright using his curved blade as support.
Then he looked back toward the broken third-floor window.
Daemon and Andrey stood there staring down at him.
Their eyes met.
Across three floors of open air, Oberyn silently mouthed:
You're dead.
Then he turned and limped into the depths of the alley.
Upstairs, Daemon's face had gone pale with fury.
He truly hadn't expected Ellaria to choose death just to save Oberyn.
"After him!"
Andrey spun toward the door—
"Wait!"
Daemon grabbed his arm sharply.
"What are you waiting for? He's wounded! He can't get far!"
"This is King's Landing, not Dorne!"
Daemon lowered his voice urgently.
"Look down there!"
Andrey glanced outside.
Oberyn's fall had already drawn attention.
Several pedestrians had stopped to stare.
Someone on the second-floor balcony had poked their head out.
Farther away, the sound of approaching Gold Cloaks could already be heard.
"If we keep chasing him, we'll expose ourselves."
Daemon's mind raced as he analyzed the situation.
"A bleeding Dornish prince being hunted through the streets? The City Watch won't ignore that. If we get caught, the entire plan is ruined."
Andrey fell silent.
His grip on the sword tightened and loosened again.
He was struggling with the decision.
"But it doesn't matter."
Daemon inhaled deeply, forcing himself calm.
"Even if he survives, House Yronwood will never escape suspicion now."
He crouched beside Ellaria's corpse and tore a silver necklace from her neck.
A token Oberyn had once given her.
The cold metal steadied him slightly.
"Garin and the others are waiting in the streets," he said while standing.
"We proceed with the backup plan. If Oberyn escapes the Hummingbird, they finish the job."
"And if they can't kill a heavily wounded man…"
A cold smile crossed his face.
"…then those idiots are useless anyway."
At last, Andrey nodded.
"What now?"
"We leave King's Landing."
Daemon answered without hesitation.
"Immediately."
"We've already done what we came here to do. Whether Oberyn dies or not, Dorne will descend into chaos."
"Our mission is complete."
He cast one last glance around the room.
Broken furniture.
Blood.
Corpses.
Shattered wine bottles.
A massacre.
Only the target might still be alive.
Without another word, the two men quickly erased whatever traces they could and slipped out through the side door, disappearing into the maze-like corridors of the Hummingbird.
Meanwhile, Oberyn staggered through the streets below.
Every step sent agonizing pain through his right ankle.
His left shoulder still poured blood, warm streams running down his arm and dripping onto the cobblestones.
His ribs were broken.
His breathing had become shallow and ragged.
Every inhale felt like needles stabbing into his lungs.
Worst of all was the blood loss.
His vision blurred.
A shrill ringing echoed in his ears.
His limbs were turning cold.
He could feel consciousness slipping away.
But he could not stop.
Ellaria's final expression would not leave his mind.
Revenge.
Yes.
He would have revenge.
Daemon Sand.
Anders Yronwood.
Every single person involved in this—
none of them would be spared.
Grinding his teeth, Oberyn forced himself onward.
He stumbled from the alley into a slightly wider street near the edge of Silk Street.
There were fewer shops here, fewer people.
A few drunkards saw him and sobered instantly, scrambling out of his path in terror.
A half-naked man drenched in blood, dragging an injured leg while carrying a bloody curved blade—
it was a horrifying sight.
Oberyn ignored them.
He continued toward the one destination fixed in his mind.
Flea Bottom.
Turning into another narrow alley from pure instinct and fading memory, he suddenly spotted several figures ahead.
Not Gold Cloaks.
Three men dressed like common peddlers pushing a wooden cart loaded with burlap sacks.
At first glance, they looked harmless.
But Oberyn's heart tightened instantly.
The men had noticed him too.
They paused briefly, exchanged a few whispers, then continued forward directly toward him.
Closer.
Twenty steps.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Oberyn's muscles tensed.
Years of battle experience screamed danger.
These were no merchants.
Their eyes kept studying him the way hunters examined wounded prey.
Five steps.
The cart reached him.
"M-Move aside…"
The man pushing the cart spoke with lowered head.
But Oberyn still caught the heavy Dornish accent.
Damn it.
He shifted sideways casually—
and at that exact moment—
the sacks burst open.
Not cargo.
Men.
Two assassins exploded upward from beneath the burlap, daggers stabbing toward Oberyn's chest and stomach.
At the same instant, the cart-pusher yanked a hand axe from beneath the cart and hacked downward.
But Oberyn had anticipated the ambush.
He leaned sharply backward, both daggers slicing across his chest without penetrating deeply.
At the same time, his curved blade swept upward and caught the descending axe perfectly.
Sparks erupted.
Three more attackers drew weapons and charged.
Five against one.
At full strength, Oberyn could have butchered them like livestock.
But now?
He was grievously wounded.
Bleeding out.
Half-conscious.
A short spear plunged into his right thigh.
The pain nearly made him black out.
"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!"
Oberyn roared like a wounded beast.
Not from pain.
From fury.
Pure, absolute fury.
You want to kill me too?
Fine.
Then die with me!
Driven by rage, the Dornish curved blade became a whirlwind in his hands.
No technique.
No elegance.
Only savage killing instinct.
When the chaos finally ended—
five corpses lay scattered through the alley.
Oberyn stood alone among them, leaning heavily on a blood-soaked blade ripped from one of the dead men's hands.
He was barely breathing.
That final burst had exhausted everything left inside him.
Fresh wounds covered his body.
His right thigh had been pierced clean through.
His left arm hung numb and useless.
Two deep cuts across his chest exposed bone.
But he was still standing.
Barely.
Yet standing.
"Daemon…" he rasped hoarsely.
"Yronwood… Tywin… Gregor…"
"Every last one of you will die…"
Dragging his ruined body forward, he continued walking, leaving bloody footprints behind him.
Eventually the alley opened into a broader street near the southern end of Silk Street.
It was nearly deserted.
A few beggars huddled against the walls.
An old woman selling roasted chestnuts was packing her cart.
When she saw Oberyn, she screamed and fled immediately.
The beggars reacted differently.
Some shrank away in fear.
Others stared greedily.
A dying nobleman might still carry valuables.
Oberyn ignored them all.
Only one thought remained in his head.
Survive.
Take revenge.
Then—
"Ser! Ser, you're hurt!"
A voice called from the side.
Oberyn turned.
A man in roughspun clothes hurried toward him carrying a small basket as though returning home from the market.
Concern covered his face.
"Let me help you! I'll take you somewhere safe!"
He reached out to support Oberyn.
Under normal circumstances, Oberyn would never allow a stranger close enough to touch him.
But blood loss had dulled his senses.
And somehow…
the man looked vaguely familiar.
Then steel flashed.
Too close.
Too fast.
Thrust!
The dagger buried itself to the hilt in Oberyn's chest.
His body froze.
Slowly, he looked down at the dagger protruding from his heart.
The absurdity of it almost made him laugh.
Him.
Oberyn Martell.
The Red Viper of Dorne.
A warrior undefeated across the Seven Kingdoms for twenty years.
And this…
this was how he died?
What a fucking joke.
No.
This could not be his ending.
"You…"
Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
The man leaned close to his ear, voice dripping with mockery.
"You always looked down on me, didn't you, Red Viper?"
"So what do you think now?"
"Never imagined you'd die by my hand, huh?"
He laughed triumphantly and prepared to pull the dagger free—
then suddenly realized a blood-covered hand had clamped around his wrist.
Garin looked up.
And met a pair of eyes.
Not human eyes.
Those cold, venomous pupils reminded him of the deadliest desert vipers of Dorne.
"You…"
A chill crawled up his spine.
"Come with me…"
Oberyn's voice was barely more than a whisper.
"…to hell."
Using the last of his strength, Oberyn slammed his forehead into Garin's skull.
Crack!
Garin reeled backward in shock.
But even as Oberyn collapsed, his hand still clung desperately to Garin's wrist, dragging the assassin down with him.
One was a dying beast making its final stand.
The other a panicked killer.
They rolled across the ground, grappling wildly.
Garin tried to break free.
Tried to stab him again.
But Oberyn's strength had become terrifying, as though every remaining drop of life had erupted all at once.
The dagger still protruded from his chest.
Each movement tore the wound wider.
Yet he no longer seemed capable of feeling pain.
He clawed.
Bit.
Headbutted.
Pummeled Garin with his remaining arm.
Like a beast.
No—
like a madman.
"Let go! Let go of me!"
Garin screamed in terror, utterly unable to comprehend how a man stabbed through the heart could still fight like this.
Then footsteps echoed from nearby.
Someone had heard the commotion.
Panic exploded inside Garin.
He needed to escape immediately.
The mission was already complete.
Oberyn was dead either way.
There was no reason to stay.
After a frantic struggle, he finally tore himself free and stumbled to his feet—
only for an enormous hand to seize his entire skull.
The grip was impossibly powerful.
Like iron chains crushing inward.
As if his head might burst apart at any second.
But what terrified Garin most—
was the face staring back at him through those thick fingers.
Burn scars twisted the flesh beyond recognition.
It looked less like a human face—
and more like some demon clawing its way out of the seventh hell.
"L-Let—"
Garin tried to shout.
But the burned man slowly raised one finger to his lips.
"Shhhhh…"
"Don't scream."
"Or I'll pry your skull open… scoop out your eyes…"
"Then eat them together with your brains."
(Next Chapter: Chapter 170 – You're Late)
(KEEP SUPPORTING OUR ODIN)
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