"So, talk. What the hell is so important it's worth interrupting my lesson?"
Daemon stood in the center of the room, about ten paces from Oberyn.
His eyes swept the space quickly. The windows were shut tight, heavy velvet curtains drawn. Only the side door led to the small room where the serving girls had slipped out.
And right there, leaning against the wall beside the bed, was Oberyn's famous Dornish spear. The shaft was polished gray wood. The head was forged steel shaped like a viper's fang, catching the candlelight with a cold blue gleam. Next to it lay a curved Dornish knife.
Both weapons were within easy reach.
But right now Oberyn only had a wine bottle in his hand.
Daemon took two steps closer.
"It's urgent, Your Grace," he said, voice low, worry carefully placed in his eyes. "It's about… Ilenwood."
The lazy look on Oberyn's face vanished.
He sat up slowly. The thin silk sheet slid down to his waist, baring the hard lines of his stomach and the deep V of muscle. Ellaria sat up too, her sheer gown slipping off one shoulder without her noticing.
"Ilenwood?"
Oberyn's voice turned cold. "What's Anders up to now? Still playing games on the Stone Way?"
Daemon didn't answer right away. He took another small step forward, calm on the surface.
"No, Your Grace. Not the Stone Way."
He licked his lips, the tiny movement making him look nervous. "It's about… what happened with Lord Edgar back then."
The room went quiet for a heartbeat.
Oberyn's eyes narrowed. He hadn't poisoned his blade in that duel. Edgar Ilenwood had been over sixty. The wound had simply gone bad. Bad luck. But the rest of Dorne had already decided Oberyn was guilty, and he'd never bothered explaining himself. He had his pride.
That pride had cost him years of dirty looks.
"Keep talking," Oberyn said, voice flat.
Daemon took a slow breath. "I got word from our eyes in Ilenwood. Lord Anders has been calling secret meetings with his knights and closest men. They're talking about revenge."
"Revenge?" Oberyn gave a short, cold laugh and leaned back against the cushions. There was no laziness left in him now, only tight readiness. "For Edgar? That was years ago. If Anders really wanted blood, he would've moved already."
"Because the timing is finally right, Your Grace," Daemon said, stepping closer again. "They think you're here in King's Landing instead of Dorne. You've got less than twenty guards with you. And the Ilenwood family…"
He lowered his voice. "They've made contact with certain allies here in the city."
Oberyn's fingers tapped slowly against his wine cup. His black eyes stayed locked on Daemon, reading every twitch. Candlelight threw shifting shadows across his handsome face.
Tywin? Possible.
Ellaria shifted beside him, suddenly uneasy. Her gown slipped further, but she didn't bother fixing it.
"Oberyn, maybe we should—"
"Should what?" Oberyn cut her off, smiling coldly. "Should be scared?"
"Sweetheart, I'm Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne. Fear isn't in my vocabulary."
He tipped his head back, drained the cup in one swallow, and slammed it down on the low table.
"Daemon," he said, looking at the knight he'd personally knighted. "Your timing's good. I appreciate it. But tell me what you actually want. Should I run back to Sunspear right now? Or go crying to Tywin Lannister that the big bad Ilenwoods are coming for me?"
The sarcasm was thick, but Daemon didn't flinch.
"No, Your Grace." He shook his head, face earnest. "I'm just saying you need to be careful. Especially these next few days, before the trial by combat. I'm worried they'll try something while you're distracted."
"Trial by combat…" Oberyn murmured, eyes going distant for a split second.
In that exact moment, Daemon moved.
He lunged forward like a bowstring snapping, not at Oberyn but straight for the spear leaning against the wall.
Oberyn's eyes widened. His body reacted on pure instinct, twisting hard to the left while his hand shot out for the wine bottle on the table.
But Daemon was faster.
His fingers closed around the spear shaft.
"Daemon!" Oberyn roared, shock and fury in his voice.
He never finished the sentence.
The heavy oak door exploded inward with a thunderous crash. Hinges screamed. A figure in full plate and a massive bucket helm charged into the room like a runaway warhorse.
Andrey Dart.
He held a two-handed sword, fresh blood still wet on the blade. Despite the heavy armor, he moved with terrifying speed. The sword point drove straight at Oberyn on the bed.
A trap.
A perfectly laid trap.
Oberyn understood everything in that single heartbeat.
"Ha!"
But he wasn't some ordinary man. He was the Red Viper of Dorne, a fighter who had survived twenty years of wars and duels across the Seven Kingdoms. Even drunk and freshly fucked, his body still knew how to fight.
Just before Andrey's sword could run him through, Oberyn twisted at an impossible angle. His upper body rolled hard to the left while his right hand grabbed the wine bottle and smashed it into Andrey's visor.
Bang!
The bottle exploded against the steel helm. Red wine and glass shards sprayed everywhere.
It didn't do real damage, but it blinded Andrey for a crucial second and threw off his rhythm.
Oberyn used the opening. He rolled off the far side of the bed, hit the carpet, came up already moving, and snatched the curved Dornish knife from beside the spear.
Steel whispered free of the sheath.
Cold light flashed.
"Daemon Sand!" Oberyn's voice was ice. Every trace of laziness or drunkenness was gone. "You ungrateful fucking dog!"
Daemon had already retreated to the far side of the room, spear in hand.
He didn't answer. He just leveled the point at Oberyn, eyes complicated—guilt mixed with cold resolve.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said at last, voice rough. "But I have my reasons."
"Reasons?" Oberyn laughed, short and bitter. "How many gold dragons did Ilenwood offer you? Or did he promise you Stonehelm itself?"
Daemon's mouth tightened into a hard line. He didn't answer.
Andrey had already recovered. He came in again, sword work sharper and more vicious this time. Every strike aimed to kill. The blade sang through the air. Candle flames danced wildly, throwing twisted shadows across the walls.
Oberyn met the attacks with the curved knife, but he gave ground. He was naked, no armor, and the long gash across his ribs from the first exchange was already bleeding freely.
"Ellaria, get out!" he shouted while parrying another blow.
Ellaria had snapped out of her shock. She didn't bother grabbing her gown. She snatched the heavy brass candlestick off the table instead, ready to use it as a weapon.
But Andrey's sword was already swinging again, a brutal horizontal cut aimed at Oberyn's waist.
Oberyn leapt backward. The blade kissed skin, leaving a shallow burning line across his stomach. He hissed through his teeth.
"Oberyn!" Ellaria started toward him.
"Go!" he roared. "Get help! Find the guards!"
Ellaria clenched her jaw and turned for the side door.
In that instant, Daemon moved.
He didn't attack Oberyn. He threw the spear.
It flashed across the room like gray lightning, aimed not at Oberyn but at the side door.
The spear slammed into the doorframe with a heavy thunk, blocking Ellaria's escape. She yelped and stumbled back.
"Nobody leaves," Daemon said coldly. He drew a long, thin stabbing sword from his belt. "What happens here tonight stays here. Lord Ilenwood's revenge plan can't get out."
Oberyn's stomach dropped.
He understood now. Daemon had been sent by the Ilenwoods. They weren't leaving witnesses. And they had chosen the perfect moment—Oberyn drunk and naked in a brothel with only two guards outside, his most trusted man already turned.
"Very thorough," Oberyn muttered, licking his lips. A wild, dangerous light burned in his eyes. "But you forgot one thing."
He settled into a fighting stance, curved knife low, naked body gleaming with sweat and blood in the candlelight.
"I, Oberyn Martell… have never been killed before."
Then he attacked.
Not Andrey in the heavy armor.
He went straight for Daemon.