Chapter 121 – A Fight with No Retreat
The next day.
A magnificent Golden Ship sailed upriver along the Greenblood and arrived at Sunspear, perfectly reenacting the legendary moment when Queen Nymeria first landed in Dorne with the Rhoynar.
Before the eyes of all, the new Prince of Dorne ascended the Spear Tower, spear in hand. Step by step, he climbed to its summit and, under the witness of every Dornish lord, personally pierced the bronze disc of the crimson sun—proclaiming to all of Dorne that a new ruler had risen.
Within the Water Gardens, Prince Doran Martell walked barefoot across the grass, advancing slowly as he raised a silver-gilded lemon branch above his head with both hands.
Upon the high seat stood the Queen, clad in Targaryen black, a delicate golden circlet resting on her brow, inset with clear crystals that caught the sunlight and shimmered with quiet majesty.
Rhaella Targaryen extended her hand, accepted the lemon branch, and lifted it high.
The gardens erupted in cheers.
Relations between House Targaryen and House Martell had never truly been hostile—but Princess Elia's abduction by the Kingswood Brotherhood, followed by the Queen's own ambush within Dornish lands, had left the lords of Dorne deeply uneasy.
After decades of peace, the thought of being dragged back into war was enough to chill any ambition.
Now, seeing the Queen raise the symbol of friendship, many finally allowed themselves to breathe again.
"Whew—!"
Among the most visibly excited was Prince Doran's younger brother, Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper himself, who even whistled aloud in approval.
Though he rarely spoke at length with his quiet, reserved brother, Oberyn understood better than most that Doran was like an ancient tree rooted deep in Dornish soil—its branches shielding the family from scorching sun and sudden storm alike.
Without Doran's support, Oberyn would likely have been butchered by enraged Yronwood men long ago for the sins he committed in their lands.
Seeing his brother ascend at last, Oberyn felt genuine pride—so much so that even their mother's recent death seemed momentarily distant.
"What a troublesome fool…"
Hearing the whistle, Doran cast a sidelong glance toward his brother—and caught him shamelessly winking at the Targaryen Queen.
With so many eyes watching, Doran suppressed the urge to scold him publicly, resolving instead to address the matter after the feast.
Unfortunately, that gaze did not escape the Queen either.
"That man's eyes are like a viper's," Rhaella murmured coolly to the towering Kingsguard beside her.
"I don't like it."
Her voice dropped further.
"Find an opportunity to teach him a lesson. That kind of look—I only enjoy it when it comes from you."
…Here we go again.
Lance nearly rolled his eyes.
Ever since entering Sunspear, the Queen seemed to have awakened some new and dangerous enthusiasm, constantly provoking him in public.
Fortunately, surrounded by Martell eyes and ears, even she dared not push things too far—
saving Lance from another frantic dash to change his trousers like on the day of their arrival.
"Yes, Your Grace," he replied evenly.
Truth be told, he didn't like the damned viper either.
Not when Oberyn's winks were aimed not only at the Queen—but at him as well.
The memory of certain… deeply unpleasant experiences from his early days after transmigration resurfaced.
Damn that old glass cannon…
Lance clenched his jaw, suppressing the urge to draw steel on the spot.
No matter how handsome Oberyn might be, Lance was the same man who once beat the living daylights out of Duskendale's most famous male courtesan without hesitation.
"Now what excuse should I use…?"
As Lance narrowed his eyes and assessed Oberyn from afar, a sharp voice suddenly shattered the calm.
"OBERYN MARTELL!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
A tall, powerfully built man strode forward, golden hair gleaming beneath the sun, sapphire eyes burning with naked hatred as they locked onto Oberyn.
Upon his chest was the sigil of a black gate upon golden sands.
"It's Anders Yronwood, Lord of Yronwood!"
"Seven save us—why now? Today of all days, with the Prince's ascension and the Queen present!"
"Gods grant he doesn't do something reckless…"
Every great Dornish house knew the blood feud between Yronwood and Oberyn.
Truth be told, infidelity was hardly rare in Dorne. Though Oberyn's reputation was infamous, old Lord Yronwood's temper had been equally fierce.
What truly soured matters was that the lord did not die in the duel itself—but lingered for days afterward, his wound festering, screaming in agony until death finally took him.
"Well, well," Oberyn drawled, unfazed.
"Isn't this our dear Lord Yronwood?"
He smiled lazily.
"I hear your father died of illness recently. If I were you, I'd worry about inherited weakness. Best drink deeply, enjoy life, and leave behind a few heirs while you still can."
Raising his goblet, Oberyn drank deliberately, then licked the wine from his lips like a serpent tasting blood.
Anders Yronwood's chest heaved with restrained fury.
Yet he did not strike.
Instead, he strode past Oberyn and halted before Queen Rhaella and Prince Doran. He unbuckled his sword, planted it point-down into the earth, and dropped to one knee.
"Your Grace!"
His voice boomed with resolve.
"Though today marks Prince Doran's ascension, as Lord of Yronwood I must speak."
He pointed toward Oberyn.
"That man murdered my grandfather with poison and fled across the Narrow Sea, denying us justice!"
"And though I know it is cruel to ask a brother to judge his own blood, Prince Doran—"
He raised his head, eyes blazing.
"Today, before the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and all the lords of Dorne, I beseech Rhaella Targaryen, Queen of Westeros, to render judgment!"
The gardens fell deathly silent.
The Queen looked down at him.
"And what judgment do you seek, Lord Yronwood?"
As Queen, Rhaella knew that stepping in before Prince Doran carried a hint of overreach.
But since matters had already reached this point, she was more than happy to go with the flow and lend a hand.
After all—who told that viper to forget his place?
"I ask your leave to challenge that dishonorable wretch to single combat,"
Lord Anders Yronwood declared before all, his eyes blazing with fury and murderous resolve.
"To the death, if need be."
He pressed his brow to the pommel of his sword, voice solemn and resolute.
"I have two children. Before coming here, I set my affairs in order.
Should I fall in Sunspear, the lordship of Yronwood shall pass to my eldest daughter, Ynys."
"After this duel—regardless of the outcome—the feud between House Yronwood and House Martell shall end here.
We will remain the most loyal of Martell bannermen."
His words were final, his resolve unmistakable.
He had already prepared for death before ever setting foot in Sunspear.
Even Prince Doran could not help but look at him anew.
At Anders's final declaration, Doran let out a quiet sigh.
For years, the rift between Yronwood and Martell had been a thorn in his side.
More than once he had urged his mother to seek reconciliation—but the strong-willed Princess Nymeria had instead answered provocation with provocation, deepening the wound.
That Anders would now seek to end it through such a means was, in truth, the simplest solution.
Though it might cost a life.
"Your Grace…"
After a moment's thought, Doran was about to advise the Queen to refuse.
As Prince of Dorne, he could not allow Sunspear to become a spectacle, exposing the fractures among his own vassals.
But before he could speak, the Queen's cool voice cut in.
"I believe it is an excellent proposal."
Doran stared, startled.
Crowned in gold, the Targaryen Queen smiled faintly, clearly intrigued by the coming contest.
She reached out and tapped twice against the pommel of Anders's sword.
"In the Crownlands, disputes between lords and knights are often settled by combat," she said calmly.
"We even possess the tradition of trial by combat, by which the Seven themselves are said to judge right from wrong."
"Even the gravest disputes may be resolved thus.
It is a right granted to us by the Seven."
She turned to Doran, chin lifted in quiet authority.
"Therefore, I find this proposal most fitting, Prince Doran."
Then she glanced over her shoulder and called out confidently:
"Ser Lance Lot!"
"Your Grace."
The white-cloaked knight stepped forward at once.
"As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you are fully qualified to serve as judge of this duel.
Given that today marks Prince Doran's ascension, I expect you to ensure that these two brave men do not lose their lives."
"Once the victor is clear, you are to stop the fight immediately—
by whatever means necessary."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Lance answered at once, voice firm, the image of dutiful obedience.
His broad white cloak fell still behind him as, under the watchful eyes of the court, the Kingsguard commander methodically unbuckled the greatsword from his back and planted it upright before him.
His expression was solemn.
His gaze, unwavering.
He looked every inch the impartial arbiter, ready to carry out the Queen's will without hesitation.
Only Lance himself knew the truth.
Given the Queen's temperament, there was only one outcome in which he would be forced to sigh regretfully and say—
"Such a fast blade… I simply couldn't stop it in time."
And then—
Eat your food. Why are you all staring at me?