"Ser Daemon."
Karen nodded in greeting, his tone familiar.
They had worked together for years. They knew the "Bastard of Godsgrace" well, yet kept a certain respectful distance—not only because Oberyn trusted him deeply, but because of his sword.
Dorne was full of stories about this young sword prodigy who ended fights before his opponents could even read his next move. More men had died on his blade than Karen had faced in dozens of battles.
That was why Prince Oberyn had made an exception and taken him as a squire.
"The Prince is… still resting."
Karen glanced at the closed door. Right on cue, Oberyn's loud, theatrical laugh and the clatter of cups echoed from inside.
Mallos beside him managed a smile, though a flicker of envy showed in his young eyes as he looked at Daemon.
It wasn't envy over his bastard status—bastards in Dorne weren't exactly shameful, but they weren't particularly noble either. What Mallos envied was the sword talent the Prince constantly praised, the gift people called "Godsgrace given form."
"You're looking well today, Ser Daemon."
"Thank you, Mallos." Daemon smiled back, his gaze sweeping over their tired faces. "Door duty is the worst kind of grind. I understand."
He shifted slightly and gestured to the armored knight behind him. "This is Ser Dantzel Dart. He has urgent military business that requires an immediate audience with the Prince."
"Ser Dantzel Dart?"
Karen repeated the name, studying the silent knight.
Full plate, plain but well-maintained, with a bucket helm that had a nasal guard. The face was completely hidden. The build matched the rumors about the cheerful, sociable eldest son of House Dart. Karen remembered Oberyn mentioning the young man—good with a sword, quick-witted, someone to watch among Dorne's younger nobles.
Mallos was also sizing up "Ser Dantzel." He spoke without thinking, trying to fill the silence. "Ah, Ser Dart. We saw your brother a few times back in Sunspear. Andrey, right? He always kept to himself, barely said a word. Nothing like you."
He was just making conversation, anything to break the boredom of standing guard. "He's the quiet type, isn't he?"
The armored knight—Andrey Dart beneath the helm—gave no reaction. Not even a nod. He simply stood one step behind and to the side of Daemon, perfectly still.
An awkward beat passed.
Daemon smoothly took the thread. His smile never wavered. "Ser Andrey has a reserved nature, but his loyalty to Dorne is beyond question. Still, it's not polite to judge a man's brother to his face. We should break that habit."
Before either guard could reply, he turned to Karen, his voice turning serious. "This is urgent, Karen. I need to see the Prince right now."
Karen looked at Daemon, then at the silent "Ser Dantzel Dart."
Daemon was the Prince's most trusted man. If he vouched for someone and called it urgent military business, they had no real reason to refuse.
Karen stepped aside from the center of the door but kept his body angled to block it. That was his job.
"You know the rules, Ser Daemon. The Prince's rooms—especially at times like this…" He glanced at the door again.
"I understand." Daemon nodded, his smile turning understanding. "I'll go in alone and report. Ser Dart can wait out here. Once the Prince agrees, he can enter."
He turned and gave Andrey a small nod. "Ser, please wait here."
For the first time, "Ser Dantzel Dart" reacted.
He gave the tiniest nod. A low, muffled "Mm" came from inside the helm.
Then he stepped half a pace to the side and settled into position, hands hanging naturally near his sword hilt—standard, controlled, ready.
Karen and Mallos felt the last of their suspicion fade.
A knight who knew the rules.
Daemon raised his hand and knocked lightly on the ornate wooden door.
The noise inside paused for a moment.
Then Oberyn's voice came, lazy and irritated. "Who is it? I said no interruptions while I'm preparing for the fight."
"It's me, Daemon, Your Grace."
Daemon cleared his throat. "Urgent news. It can't wait."
A short silence.
Then reluctant muttering, the rustle of fabric, and soft female complaints.
After a while Oberyn's voice returned, sounding slightly more awake. "Come in, Daemon."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Daemon pushed the door open, slipped inside, and pulled it almost shut behind him—leaving a gap about two fingers wide.
The heavy smell of wine, perfume, and sex immediately drifted out through the crack.
Inside, Oberyn lounged on a wide bed piled with cushions, bare-chested, a thin silk sheet draped carelessly over his lower body. His black hair was damp, a few strands stuck to his sweat-slick forehead. His handsome face showed the marks of a hangover and excess, but those dark eyes remained sharp as poisoned daggers even through the haze.
Ellaria Sand curled against his side in a gown thin as spider silk, her curves barely hidden. She looked half-asleep, idly turning an empty wine cup in her fingers while watching Daemon with heavy-lidded eyes.
Two serving girls hurriedly gathered scattered clothes and slipped out a side door, heads down.
"My little viper."
Oberyn grabbed a half-full bottle of red wine from the low table and took a long pull straight from the neck. The crimson liquid ran down his sharp jaw and dripped onto his damp chest.
"It had better be important. I was just teaching Ellaria a new Lysene love song. We'd reached the best part."
As he spoke, his other hand wandered lazily across Ellaria's bare shoulder, drawing a languid hum from her.
Daemon stood in the center of the room, about ten paces from the bed.
His eyes quickly took in Oberyn's condition. Two straight days of debauchery would have left most men wrecked, but Oberyn Martell seemed to have the recovery of a wild animal.
There was blood in his eyes and wine on his breath, yet an odd, restless energy still ran through him. His muscles remained defined even in relaxation, ready to explode into violence at any moment.
Truly gifted.
Daemon had seen it countless times, yet he still felt a flicker of genuine admiration. Even as a sword prodigy himself, he could never match this kind of endurance.
It was one of the reasons a man past forty could still roam the Seven Kingdoms, make countless enemies, and remain untouched—Oberyn was clever, vicious, and possessed a body and vitality far beyond normal men. As he liked to say, "Women and wine give me endless energy. Sometimes men do too."
"Your Grace."
Daemon bowed slightly, respectful but with a straight back. "I'm sorry to disturb your… recreation. But this is urgent."
"Oh?"
Oberyn raised an eyebrow and set the bottle down, showing a little more interest while still looking completely relaxed and unguarded.
His trust in Daemon had been built over years—not just because of his talent and competence, but because of the Sand name and his long record of loyalty.
"Tell me. Has that old lion Tywin made another move? Or is my dull, proper brother in Sunspear complaining about me again?"
His tone was mocking. He clearly didn't take the "urgent" claim very seriously.
Daemon didn't answer right away. His gaze flicked, almost casually, toward the slightly open door.
Then he took two steps closer and lowered his voice, as if about to share something extremely confidential.
Out in the corridor, time crawled in silence.
The voices inside were too muffled to make out clearly—only Oberyn's occasional raised, teasing tone and women's laughter.
Andrey Dart stood like an iron statue in the shadows beside the door, motionless. Only his eyes, visible through the helm's slits, occasionally caught a cold glint when the sounds inside shifted.
Karen and Mallos, on the other hand, were bored out of their minds.
The worst part of guard duty was this kind of waiting. Time stretched like cold syrup. They tried to make small talk to pass the time and maybe build a little goodwill with this "Ser Dantzel Dart" the Prince apparently liked.
After all, Dornishmen were strangers in King's Landing. Connections between nobles were always useful.
Karen cleared his throat and offered the armored knight a friendly smile. "Ser Dart, how are you finding King's Landing so far? It's much cooler than Dorne, at least. Just… very damp. Sometimes I feel like the air itself is trying to choke me."
A vague "Mm" came from inside the helm.
Mallos, younger and less patient with silence, jumped in with a grin. "If you ask me, the only interesting part of King's Landing is the Street of Silk. Everywhere else? Filthy and stinking."
He winked, the kind of look men shared. "Have you visited the Hummingbird yet? The girls here are the best in the Seven Kingdoms."
The armored knight gave no reply. Not even another "Mm."
The silence grew awkward.
Karen tried again, steering toward something the man might actually care about. "You know, Ser Dart, we've all heard about you. The Prince often praises your swordwork and how clever and reliable you are."
He paused, struggling for anything else to say, then added without thinking, "Much better than your brother, honestly."
He meant it as a compliment, a way to build rapport. They had heard the gossip from other Dornishmen. The two Dart brothers: the elder, Dantzel—outgoing, good with people, skilled with a blade, well-liked by the Prince. The younger, Andrey—quiet, gloomy, a closed book who spent all his time polishing and training with his sword. Not very sociable. Not very likable.
"Yeah," Mallos agreed without much thought. "We saw your brother a few times in Sunspear too. Andrey, right? Always sitting alone, barely talking. At one banquet he just sat in the corner sharpening his sword the whole night. Wouldn't give anyone the time of day."
He smiled, trying to keep it light. "Good thing it's you who came this time. With your brother's personality, he probably wouldn't make many friends in King's Landing."
They were just chatting to kill time. There was no real malice in it—only the casual judgment people made from surface impressions. In Dorne, quiet, withdrawn men weren't rare. A little gossip wasn't a big deal.
But the moment Mallos finished speaking—
The iron statue in the shadows moved.
No warning.
The silent "Ser Dantzel Dart" became death itself.
Shing!
The longsword left its sheath in a short, vicious hiss. The blade flashed upward at a vicious angle, slicing straight toward Mallos's throat—the closer target.
The angle was vicious. The speed was unreal.
At the same instant, his left hand shot out like a striking viper and clamped around Karen's throat with crushing force. Gauntleted fingers found the windpipe with perfect accuracy.
Mallos's easy smile hadn't even fully faded.
His eyes flew wide. All he saw was the killing gleam rushing toward his face. He tried to jerk back, tried to draw his own blade, but his body was far too slow.
Too close. Too sudden.
Shlick.
Hot blood sprayed in a fan across the expensive carpet, the carved wall panels, and the discarded booklet by the door.
Mallos made a wet, gurgling sound like a punctured bellows. His curved Dornish blade was only half-drawn when his body went limp and slid down the wall, leaving a dark smear.
In the same heartbeat, Karen's throat was crushed in that iron grip.
The pressure cut off his air and any chance of a shout. His eyes bulged. He stared in disbelief at the expressionless helm inches from his face.
"Ghk… ghh—"
Karen's hands clawed uselessly at the gauntlet. His nails scraped against steel. His legs kicked and scraped against the carpet, but the strength difference was absolute. That hand might as well have been forged iron.
Andrey's right hand had already withdrawn the sword from Mallos's neck. Blood dripped from the tip.
Without even glancing at the dying Karen, he gave a small twist of the wrist and drove the blade smoothly between the plates of Karen's leather armor, straight into his heart.
Thump.
A soft, wet sound. The tip punched through leather and muscle and found the heart.
Karen's body jerked once, then went completely still. Andrey released him. The guard dropped like a sack of grain beside his still-twitching companion.
From first strike to double kill, the entire thing took less than three seconds.
Clean. Efficient. Two experienced Dornish guards never had a chance to mount any real resistance.
Andrey Dart slowly drew his sword back.
Blood ran down the fuller and dripped onto the carpet, blooming into dark red flowers.
He looked down at the two bodies with no expression at all, as if he had simply removed two inconvenient obstacles.
Then he spoke, voice low and calm from inside the helm.
"Don't casually judge people. It's a bad habit. You should break it."