That was the truth.
The eldest daughter of Lord Anders Ilenwood was indeed the wife of Daemon's father, Rogar Allyrion. Her name was Ilensa Ilenwood.
Daemon himself was just a bastard Rogar had fathered with some woman before he married Ilensa.
None of that mattered right now.
What mattered was this: had Anders Ilenwood lost his fucking mind? Promising to give his own daughter to Daemon?
It wasn't about morals. Dorne didn't give a shit about that. But Rogar was the eldest son of House Allyrion of Godsgrace. He and Ilensa already had two children together.
Even if Anders hated Oberyn down to his bones, why the hell would he risk pissing off House Allyrion just to hook Daemon up with his wife?
It made zero fucking sense.
Oberyn didn't have time to figure it out.
The pain in his body and the blood leaking out of him were draining his heat fast. If he stayed here much longer, he really was going to die.
Daemon and Andrey were closing in again, weapons ready.
Oberyn's eyes swept the room. He made his choice in a heartbeat.
He spun and smashed the curved knife into the window with everything he had left.
Glass and wood exploded outward.
"Going somewhere?!" Daemon snarled.
He thrust the spear straight at Oberyn's back.
Oberyn had already seen it coming. He twisted aside as he broke the window. The spear tip grazed his ribs and drew a line of blood.
He ignored the pain and kicked the rest of the shattered frame out.
Crash!
The whole window blew out into the night.
"Stop him!" Daemon shouted at Andrey.
Then he spun around and swung the spear shaft hard, blocking Ellaria and the three whores as they tried to bolt through the side door.
The shaft slammed into the doorframe an inch from Ellaria's face.
"Where do you think you're going?" Daemon's voice was ice. "Did I say you could leave?"
Ellaria's face went white, but she straightened her back. "Daemon, you've lost your mind. Do you even know what you're doing?"
"I know exactly what I'm doing." Daemon lowered the spear until the point rested against her throat. "Very clearly."
At that same moment, Oberyn finished kicking the last of the broken wood and glass out of the frame. He shoved half his body through the opening.
Three floors up.
The drop was dizzying. Below was the cobblestone alley behind the Hummingbird, with trash bins and junk piled against the walls.
He glanced back inside.
What he saw made him freeze.
Ellaria stood with the spear tip at her throat. The three whores huddled behind her, shaking. Andrey was already moving toward them with heavy steps. Daemon's mouth curved into a cold, cruel smile.
"Go ahead and jump, Your Grace," Daemon said, voice clear in the quiet room. "Jump if you want. But if you run…"
He pressed the spear forward just a little. The point broke skin. A single drop of blood rolled down Ellaria's pale neck.
"I'll kill your whore. Then I'll kill every guard and servant you have in this city. Every person you know here. And I always keep my word."
The room went dead silent.
Only the wind blew in through the broken window, making the curtains snap.
Oberyn's hands gripped the windowsill so hard his knuckles turned white.
He looked down at the drop, then back at Ellaria's eyes.
She was terrified, but there was something fierce in her gaze.
Oberyn had never pretended to be a good man. He'd fucked other men's wives, killed anyone who got in his way, betrayed allies, played dirty, and loved using poison.
The Red Viper of Dorne had never been a hero.
But Ellaria Sand…
She'd been with him for twenty years. She'd given him four daughters. She'd followed him across half the world and never left, even when he was at his worst.
She wasn't some whore he paid for the night. In every way that mattered, she was his partner.
"Oberyn…" Ellaria's voice shook, but her eyes were steady. "Don't worry about me. Go."
"Shut your mouth," Daemon snapped. The spear dug deeper.
Ellaria suddenly screamed, voice raw with desperate fury. "Jump! Just fucking jump! You want us all to die here? You want this ungrateful bastard to win?"
"Jump and live! Avenge me!"
Before anyone could react, she threw herself forward with every ounce of strength she had.
The spear punched straight through the back of her neck and out the front.
Blood sprayed.
Ellaria's body went rigid. Her eyes locked on Oberyn, wide and shocked. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Fuck!" Oberyn roared.
He watched her body go limp and slide off the spear. It clattered to the floor with her.
Blood spread fast across the carpet like some ugly flower blooming.
The three whores screamed and scattered.
Andrey started after them, but Daemon shouted, "Forget them! Kill Oberyn first!"
It was already too late.
The second Ellaria threw herself onto the spear, Oberyn made his choice.
He looked at her body one last time.
Then he jumped.
"Shit!" Daemon lunged to the window.
Oberyn fell through the air. He didn't just drop straight down. He twisted hard, feet aimed at the carved railing of the second-floor balcony.
Crack!
His left foot hit the railing, but the impact was too much. The wood snapped. Oberyn spun out of control and slammed into the ground floor.
He hit hard on his right shoulder and back, rolled across the cobblestones, and finally came to a stop.
Pain exploded everywhere.
The wound in his left shoulder tore wider. Blood poured out. His right ankle screamed—probably broken from the railing. His ribs were definitely cracked. Every breath felt like knives in his lungs.
But he was still alive.
Oberyn gritted his teeth, used the curved knife to push himself up, and staggered to his feet.
He looked up at the broken window on the third floor.
Daemon and Andrey stared down at him.
Their eyes met across three stories.
Oberyn mouthed the words without sound: You're both dead.
Then he turned and limped into the dark alley, dragging his ruined right foot behind him and leaving bloody footprints on the stones.
Up in the room, Daemon's face was stone. He hadn't expected Ellaria to kill herself just to give Oberyn a chance.
"After him!" Andrey turned for the door.
"Wait!" Daemon grabbed his arm.
"Wait for what? He's hurt! He won't get far!"
"This is King's Landing, not Dorne!" Daemon kept his voice low and urgent. "Look outside!"
Andrey looked.
The noise from Oberyn's fall had already drawn attention. A few people on the street were staring. Someone on the second-floor balcony leaned out. In the distance they could hear the heavy tread of Gold Cloaks.
"If we chase him now, we'll get noticed," Daemon said fast. "A half-naked, bleeding Dornish prince getting hunted through the streets? The City Watch won't ignore that. If they catch us, the whole plan falls apart."
Andrey's hand tightened on his sword, clearly torn.
"But it doesn't matter," Daemon said, forcing himself calm. "Even if he lives, House Ilenwood still looks guilty as hell."
He walked over to Ellaria's body, crouched, and yanked the silver necklace from around her neck.
It was the gift Oberyn had given her. A token of love.
Daemon closed his fist around it. The cold metal helped steady him.
"Gelin and the others are waiting in the street," he said, standing up. "Backup plan. If Oberyn makes it out of the Hummingbird, they take over."
"If they can't even handle one badly wounded man, they're useless anyway."
Andrey finally nodded. "What now?"
"We leave King's Landing," Daemon said without hesitation. "Right now. We did what we came to do. Whether he dies or not, Dorne's going to be in chaos for a while. Our job's finished."
He took one last look around the wrecked room—blood, bodies, broken furniture and glass.
Shame the target might still be breathing.
"Let's go."
They moved fast, wiped down anything that could tie them to the scene, and slipped out through the side door into the maze of hallways inside the Hummingbird.
Out in the alley, Oberyn stumbled forward.
Every step sent white-hot pain shooting up his right leg. The ankle was definitely broken. His left shoulder was still bleeding heavily. Warm blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the cobblestones. His ribs grated with every breath. The blood loss was making him dizzy and cold.
But he kept moving.
Ellaria's last look stayed burned into his mind.
Avenge me.
Yes.
Daemon Sand. Anders Ilenwood. Everyone who had a hand in this. Every single one of them was going to die.
Oberyn bared his teeth and forced himself onward.
He turned out of the back alley onto a slightly wider street near the edge of the Street of Silk. Shops were fewer here. Only a couple of drunk men and an old woman packing up a chestnut stand.
People noticed him.
The old woman saw the blood-covered, half-naked man dragging a ruined leg with a bloody knife in his hand and screamed. She shoved her cart and ran.
The drunks stared, some backing away, others eyeing him like maybe a dying highborn still had something worth stealing.
Oberyn didn't care.
He just kept walking toward Flea Bottom.
He turned into a narrower side street.
That was when he saw them.
Three men pushing a handcart loaded with sacks. They looked like ordinary vendors at first glance.
Oberyn's gut tightened. He gripped the knife tighter.
They saw him too.
They stopped, muttered to each other, then started pushing the cart straight toward him.
Twenty paces.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Oberyn's muscles coiled. Years of fighting told him these weren't normal peddlers. Their eyes never left him.
Five paces.
The cart reached him.
"Make way… make way," one of them mumbled, head down.
But Oberyn caught the thick Dornish accent.
Fuck.
He shifted sideways.
The second the cart brushed past him, the sacks flew open.
Two men burst out from under them, short knives flashing toward his chest and stomach.
At the same time, the man pushing the cart yanked a hand axe from underneath and swung it at Oberyn's head.
Oberyn had already been ready.
He threw himself backward. The two knives sliced shallow lines across his chest instead of going deep. At the same time he brought the curved knife up and caught the axe with a ringing clash of steel.
Sparks flew.
The other three men drew weapons and rushed him.
Five on one.
In his prime, Oberyn would have butchered them like pigs.
But he was half-dead already. Blood loss. Broken bones. Head swimming.
A short spear drove into his right thigh.
He screamed—not from the pain, but from pure, blinding rage.
You bastards want me dead too?
Fine.
Then we all fucking die.
In that moment of white-hot fury, the curved knife became an extension of his killing instinct. No technique. Just raw, savage violence.
When it was over, five bodies lay in the alley.
Oberyn leaned on the knife he'd pulled from one of the corpses, breathing hard.
That last explosion of strength had used up everything he had left. His vision went dark at the edges. He almost fell.
New wounds bled freely. His right thigh was punctured. His left arm was numb from a heavy blow. Two deep knife cuts across his chest showed bone.
But he was still standing.
Barely.
Shaking, but standing.
"Daemon…" Oberyn rasped, voice hoarse. "Ilenwood… Tywin… the Mountain… all of you are going to die."
He dragged himself forward again, leaving bloody footprints behind him.
The alley ended. Ahead was a wider street.
This was the southern end of the Street of Silk. It was mostly empty. A few vagrants huddled in doorways. An old woman was closing up a roasted chestnut stand.
Oberyn's appearance drew stares.
The old woman took one look at the bloody, half-naked man and screamed. She shoved her cart and fled.
The vagrants watched him with wide eyes. Some shrank back. Others looked like they were calculating whether a dying noble might still have gold or jewels worth taking.
Oberyn ignored them all.
He just kept walking.
That was when a voice called out from the side.
"My lord! My lord, you're hurt!"
Oberyn turned his head.
A man in rough clothes was jogging toward him, face full of concern. He carried a small basket like he'd just finished shopping.
"I'll help you! Let me get you somewhere safe to treat those wounds!"
Under normal circumstances Oberyn would never let a stranger get close.
But right now he was dizzy from blood loss, and something about the man's face felt vaguely familiar.
Then cold steel flashed.
Too close. Too fast.
Oberyn never had time to react.
The dagger sank hilt-deep into his chest.
Right over his heart.
Oberyn's body locked up.
He looked down at the knife handle sticking out of him.
This was how it ended?
Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, the man who had never lost a fight in twenty years across the Seven Kingdoms…
Dying in some back alley like this?
What a fucking joke.
No.
This wasn't supposed to be his ending.
"You…" Oberyn tried to speak. Blood bubbled from his mouth.
The man leaned in close, voice mocking. "You always looked down on me, didn't you, Red Viper? Bet you never thought you'd die by my hand. Hahahaha!"
He laughed, already reaching to pull the dagger free.
But Oberyn's blood-slick hand shot out and clamped around the man's wrist like an iron shackle.
Gelin looked up.
And met a pair of eyes that didn't belong to any normal man.
Cold. Reptilian. The eyes of the deadliest viper in the Dornish desert.
"You…" A chill ran down Gelin's spine.
"Together…" Oberyn's voice was barely a whisper. "We're going to hell."
With the last of his strength, he slammed his forehead into Gelin's with everything he had.
Crunch.
Gelin's head snapped back. Stars exploded across his vision. He stumbled.
Oberyn went down with him, still gripping the wrist, dragging the assassin to the ground.
One was a dying beast making its last stand.
The other was a panicked killer who suddenly realized he'd fucked up.
They rolled and fought in the dirt.
Gelin tried to break free, tried to finish the job, but Oberyn's grip was terrifying. Like he'd found some final reserve of strength from pure, animal rage.
The dagger was still buried in his chest. Every movement tore the wound wider. But Oberyn didn't seem to feel it. He just kept fighting—headbutting, biting, hammering with his one working arm.
Like a wild animal.
Worse—like a madman.
"Let go! Let go of me!" Gelin screamed, voice cracking with fear.
He hadn't expected a man with a knife in his heart to still be this strong.
Footsteps echoed from somewhere nearby. Someone had heard the fight.
Gelin panicked.
He had to get out. Right now.
The job was done. Oberyn had a knife in the heart. He was finished. No reason to stay and get caught.
Gelin thrashed wildly and finally tore his arm free.
He started to scramble up—
A huge hand clamped around his skull.
The grip was crushing.
Like his head was caught in an iron vise. Like his skull was about to split open.
And through the fingers, Gelin saw the face.
Burned. Scarred. Twisted into something straight out of the deepest pit of hell.
A demon's face.
"Le—"
"Shhh~"
The burned man put a finger to his own lips.
"Don't say a word. Or I'll crack your skull open, dig out your eyes, and eat them with your brains."