Chapter 122 – The Kingsguard Brutally Dismantles the Red Viper!
Hearing the duel decided in just a few casual lines—without even the pretense of asking his opinion—
Oberyn Martell's expression darkened.
Though he had absolute confidence in his own swordsmanship, being brushed aside so casually, as if his will did not matter at all, filled the Prince of Dorne with cold fury.
"So this is what you've chosen."
He drained the last of his Dornish red in one swallow, then drew his blade without hesitation and strode forward.
Across from him, Lord Anders Yronwood, emboldened by the Queen's approval, rose at once.
He unsheathed his sword, flung the scabbard aside into the grass, and charged, eyes burning with hatred.
The clash was instantaneous.
The assembled lords instinctively retreated, opening a wide circle—no one wished to be caught by a stray blade between two men fighting with murder in their hearts.
"Say it, Oberyn Martell!"
Anders roared, hacking down toward Oberyn's head—only for the strike to be cleanly parried.
"Say it!"
"Say you coated your blade in poison!
Say you're a shameless, despicable coward!"
Though his first blow failed, Anders' sword never slowed.
He pressed the attack relentlessly, shouting with every swing:
"Say it!!!"
Both men were masters of the blade.
In the space of a breath, their swords collided more than a dozen times, steel screaming against steel.
Yet despite Anders' furious accusations, Oberyn offered not a single word in reply.
He merely defended—step by step, parry by parry—his dark eyes fixed on his opponent like a viper coiled in shadow, watching, waiting.
"Say it!!!"
Seeing Oberyn's silence only drove Anders deeper into rage.
His attacks grew faster, heavier, more reckless.
"Say you're guilty!"
"Say you're nothing but a poisoner who hides behind venom!"
"Say it!!!"
Blade after blade cut through empty air.
From the sidelines, Lance shook his head faintly.
There was no denying it—Anders Yronwood's swordsmanship was excellent.
For a great Dornish lord, second only to House Martell in power, his skill was already near the pinnacle.
In pure technique, he was scarcely inferior to Rhaegar Targaryen himself—at least, the Rhaegar who had never truly tasted battle.
But rage was clouding his judgment.
That desperate, do-or-die ferocity gave Anders overwhelming momentum at the outset—but such an advantage was never meant to last.
And Oberyn Martell knew it.
The Red Viper's life had been anything but ordinary.
He had studied at the Citadel, forging six links of his chain before abandoning it out of boredom.
He had fled Dorne, crossed the Narrow Sea, lived as a sellsword, even founded his own mercenary company.
His combat experience was vast—earned in blood, not training yards.
With such an eye, there was no way he hadn't noticed it.
Anders' stamina was draining rapidly.
That was precisely why Oberyn refused to attack.
He coiled himself into pure defense, like a true viper lurking in tall grass—
patiently eroding his prey's strength, his composure, his hope—
waiting for the instant when a single strike would end everything.
And when Anders' breathing finally turned ragged, when his arms grew heavy—
the Red Viper moved.
Under the gaze of the assembled lords, a flash of bright silver carved an eerie arc through the air.
The blade slipped past every possible line of defense, bypassing all of Lord Anders' guards—
and like a venomous serpent, it suddenly pierced the joint at the side of his light armor.
Thud!
As the sword was withdrawn, blood burst forth.
Lord Anders Yronwood stared down in disbelief at the wound in his side.
His body's instinctive self-preservation took over—he staggered backward several steps, collapsed onto the ground, and could no longer rise.
The outcome was decided.
Seeing Anders fall, many of the Dornish lords sighed inwardly—this was exactly as expected.
Though Oberyn Martell was infamous for his poisons and burdened with the unsavory nickname the Red Viper, his swordsmanship was universally acknowledged.
In all of Dorne, perhaps only the legendary Sword of the Morning, long stationed in King's Landing as a Kingsguard, could truly defeat him.
With Oberyn's victory assured, the crowd relaxed.
At least no one had died…
After all, on an occasion like this, no matter how unscrupulous Oberyn might be, surely he wouldn't dare coat his blade with poison beforehand… right?
House Yronwood had already lost one lord to an unnatural death.
If Anders were to die here as well—cut down by a Martell in full view of Sunspear—then even the most patient house would reach its breaking point.
War might follow.
And Dorne would be dragged into it.
Even Prince Doran let out a quiet breath of relief.
But just as everyone assumed the matter was settled—
At the very instant Anders fell, Oberyn did not lower his blade.
Instead, he raised it again and stepped forward.
"Don't—Oberyn!"
Prince Doran cried out in alarm.
He knew his brother was wild and untamed, but even so, this was madness.
Yes, Anders had provoked him—but sparing the man now, in front of so many witnesses, would have ended the feud cleanly.
Martell and Yronwood could have walked away from this blood feud at last.
To press the attack now—was Oberyn trying to push House Yronwood into open hostility?
With all these lords watching, killing Anders outright would chill every heart present.
But though Doran shouted, it was already too late.
Oberyn's sword thrust straight toward Anders' throat.
Shock rippled through the crowd—some gasped, some cried out, others watched with barely concealed anticipation.
Only the Queen remained calm, her clear, moist eyes utterly unmoved.
When the towering Kingsguard Captain swung his blade and intercepted Oberyn's strike, the Queen's lips curved faintly upward.
After today, every Dornish lord would understand this clearly:
Martell may lack restraint—
but Targaryen… is the true kingly power.
---
"Step aside, Kingsguard!"
His blade halted mid-thrust, Oberyn snarled and looked up at the white-armored knight.
"He said it himself—to the death! I'm only honoring his wish!"
"Calm yourself, Prince Oberyn."
Facing the Red Viper's predatory glare, the Kingsguard merely raised an eyebrow, gripping the greatsword in one hand without yielding an inch.
With Dawn in his grasp and the blazing sun overhead, Lance was absolutely confident—
he could cut down this so-called viper within three exchanges.
But this was Sunspear.
Killing Prince Doran's brother in front of him would be an unmistakable provocation.
And besides—
Humiliating him would hurt far more than killing him.
"As the referee of this duel," Lance said evenly,
"I acknowledge that your swordsmanship is impressive."
Before anyone could react, the white-armored knight flicked his wrist.
With a casual motion, he knocked Oberyn's blade aside—forcing the Red Viper to stagger backward several steps!
"But winning—and then trying to take a man's life," Lance continued coldly,
"does that mean you don't take me, the Commander of the Kingsguard, seriously?"
His voice rang out, carrying to every corner of the grounds.
The ivory greatsword stood planted before him.
Under the blazing sun, man and blade seemed to merge into one—
radiating a brilliance so intense it was almost impossible to look at directly.
"Damn you…"
Oberyn clenched his teeth.
He had heard the rumors of Lance Lot, of course—but as a former sellsword, he knew better than anyone that most legends were exaggerations.
Among Dornish swordsmen, he believed himself second to none—
save for that damned boy from Starfall years ago.
A white greatsword doesn't make you the Sword of the Morning, he sneered inwardly.
Still…
that blade did look strangely familiar.
Licking his lips, ignoring Prince Doran's warning gaze, Oberyn lunged again.
He was the Red Viper of Dorne—
he would not swallow this humiliation.
Kingsguard or not.
Even if the Sword of the Morning stood before him, he would still strike.
His sword flashed forward with terrifying speed—
Only to be stopped once more by the ivory greatsword, perfectly positioned.
Over the broad blade, Oberyn met Lance's sapphire-blue eyes.
They were calm.
Amused.
Like a cat toying with a mouse.
"Damn it—!"
Rage exploded inside him as he attacked again.
But no matter what he tried—
even dirty sellsword tricks, low kicks, feints meant to cripple—
Every strike was effortlessly neutralized.
"You know nothing of power, Red Viper."
Before the stunned crowd, the greatsword locked Oberyn's blade in place.
The Kingsguard Captain grinned broadly.
"Watch closely—
this is real power!"
In the blink of an eye—
The massive blade slammed sideways into Oberyn's waist.
The impact launched him clean off his feet.
And before his body even hit the ground—
Lance stepped forward, faster than sight, and brought the greatsword down in a crushing arc—
smashing directly into Oberyn's leg bone.
Less than two seconds.
The once-arrogant Red Viper crashed into the ground, blood spraying from his mouth under the sheer force.
A white armored boot pressed down onto his chest.
The greatsword plunged into the earth—
its tip stopping less than an inch from Oberyn's head.
Lance looked up, smiling brilliantly as he surveyed the stunned crowd.
"I declare today's duel concluded."
"Any objections?"