Chapter 123: The Prince's Consort?
"Stop!"
Even though the white-armored knight had already shown clear intent to halt the fight, Prince Doran Martell, driven by concern for his brother, still stepped forward instinctively and shouted at Lance.
The instant his voice fell, a towering black-haired brute—well over six feet tall—strode out from beside him.
Gripping the haft of a massive axe that looked even more exaggerated than his own height, the man swung it down at Lance without hesitation.
A thunderous clash of metal echoed throughout the Water Gardens.
To everyone's renewed shock, the towering Commander of the Kingsguard caught the axe cleanly—both hands gripping his greatsword—holding it fast.
His arms were steady as stone.
There wasn't even the slightest tremor.
Such overwhelming strength made even the axe-wielding brute stare at him in disbelief.
He hadn't intended to kill—only to drive Lance back, to prevent further harm to Oberyn.
But he never imagined that an axe swung with nearly eighty percent of his strength would be stopped so effortlessly.
Impossible.
He was one of the finest of the Bearded Priests of Norvos—so gifted that at sixteen he had passed every trial and earned the right to brand the sacred axe upon his chest.
Since following Prince Doran's wife, Mellario, to Dorne, he had never encountered anyone capable of meeting his axe head-on.
Never.
And yet—here it was.
"Cough—!"
The violent transmission of force made Oberyn, still pinned beneath Lance's armored boot, spit out another mouthful of blood.
Lance glanced at the stubborn bearded giant, a playful glint flickering in his blue eyes.
"So," he said lightly, "are you planning to keep wrestling with me… or would you rather find someone to save this fellow?"
"Honestly, I don't mind either way—but this 'Red Viper' doesn't look like he has much time left."
"Release him."
The bearded man's voice was low and cold. He showed no anger—only warning.
Lance didn't retreat.
He met the man's gaze calmly, smiling—and subtly pressed his foot down just a little harder.
"Ugh—!"
Oberyn let out a weak, broken groan as pain tore through him.
The bearded warrior frowned and tightened his grip, about to swing again.
"Stand down, Areo!"
Prince Doran rushed forward and halted the pointless standoff.
His expression was grim as he fixed his dark eyes on the man, inwardly cursing him.
Areo was immensely strong, utterly loyal—but his judgment could be… lacking.
Another swing like that and Oberyn's injuries will only worsen, you fool.
Areo's behavior reminded Doran of an old tale his mother once told him:
A man befriended a brown bear.
One day, as the man napped, a fly landed on his nose.
Wishing not to wake his friend—and eager to help—the bear thoughtfully picked up a large stone… and smashed the man's head to pulp.
In Doran's eyes, Areo was no different from that well-meaning, idiotic bear.
Still—once given an order, his execution was flawless.
The moment Doran spoke, Areo stepped back without hesitation, resting the axe against the ground and standing guard at his lord's side.
Loyalty. Obedience. Protection.
That was the creed of the Bearded Priests.
Simple. Absolute.
Stepping up to Lance, Prince Doran met his gaze squarely.
"Sir Lance Lot, thank you for preventing further bloodshed," he said evenly.
"But I ask that you remove your foot from my brother. I believe he's in considerable pain."
Calm. Controlled. Exactly as Lance expected of a man famed for caution and restraint.
"Of course, Your Grace."
Lance lifted his heavy white boot from Oberyn's chest without delay—but his mouth remained sharp.
"That said, I wouldn't call myself very competent as a referee."
He glanced down at Oberyn's broken body.
"After all, I didn't exactly stop the bleeding."
The Red Viper's blood now frothed darkly—his leg twisted at an unnatural angle, pale bone faintly visible.
If the maester of Sunspear wasn't exceptional, Oberyn would be walking with a cane for the rest of his life.
Isn't he supposed to be brilliant, having studied at the Citadel?
Well—maybe he can try fixing himself.
I really am a genius.
"Take him to Maester Caleotte," Doran said through clenched teeth.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Areo lifted Oberyn carefully this time and carried him away.
As he turned, however, he nearly collided with a woman who had appeared silently behind him.
She stood there, hair bound in a neat knot, staring straight at him.
"My lady!"
Areo froze, then dropped to one knee.
"Kneel," she said flatly.
Her complexion was pale, her lips faintly bloodless, her voice hoarse and sharp—but utterly cold.
Areo obeyed at once.
"Go."
She spared Oberyn a single glance and spoke again—brief, decisive.
Areo rose and departed without hesitation.
"Why did you come out?" Doran asked gently once they were alone, supporting her arm.
"It's only the fourth day. The maester said you should rest."
"It's not my first childbirth," she snorted. "I know my limits."
She straightened.
"My husband's investiture—of course I would attend."
Doran smiled, genuinely.
She did not linger. Instead, she approached Queen Rhaella, inclining her head politely.
"After many years, Sunspear finally welcomes House Targaryen once more. Your arrival shines upon us like the sun itself."
"You're too kind, Lady Mellario."
The Queen took her hand warmly.
"Childbirth is no different from a knight entering battle—we fight alone.
When I bore Viserys, I nearly lost my life. Your strength commands my respect."
Mellario allowed herself a faint smile—then sighed.
"Sadly, family burdens never rest."
She released the Queen's hand and turned toward Lance, her tired eyes sharpening.
"I fail to understand," she said coldly, "why a Kingsguard would cripple a Martell in the Water Gardens."
Her voice was not loud—yet it carried clearly to every ear.
"Has the Crown decided that Dorne may now be crushed and humiliated at will?"
A formidable woman.
Lance studied her briefly—then laughed.
"I'm very sorry, my lady," he said, grinning broadly, "but this is simply how we do things."
He swept his gaze across the crowd.
"As everyone saw, Prince Oberyn struck first. Frankly, I've never seen anyone so arrogant."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Our Kingsguard hit hard—and I, Lance Lot, hit harder."
"That he's still alive is only because today marks Prince Doran's investiture. Otherwise…"
He smiled thinly.
"Feel free to ask around King's Landing what happened to Brandon Stark."
The message was unmistakable.
As his words fell, everyone present turned their gaze toward the towering Lord Commander of the Kingsguard with unmistakable admiration.
Although Lady Mellario hailed from Norvos, across the Narrow Sea, and was not a native Dornishwoman, the fact that she had married into the exalted House Martell as the heir's wife spoke volumes about her ability and resolve.
It was said that even when Prince Doran hesitated over a decision, he would first seek her counsel.
Thus, when people expected this formidable, sharp-tempered woman to unleash her fury—
her eyes suddenly lit up instead.
"You are Ser Lance Lot?"
For reasons unknown, her voice softened instantly—pleasant, gentle—every trace of its earlier sharp rasp gone.
In Lance's former life, there was only one way to describe it:
A full-on voice switch.
Seeing the light in her eyes, all the sharp retorts Lance had prepared died in his throat.
It felt like punching empty air.
"That's right, Lady Mellario."
Seeing his wife abruptly turn into an admirer, Prince Doran hastily stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her waist.
"This is the Commander of the Kingsguard—Ser Lance Lot."
He placed particular emphasis on Kingsguard, as though worried he might meet the same fate as old Lord Yronwood.
Mellario stepped closer, smiling faintly.
"Your deeds within the Kingsguard have spread throughout Dorne—no, even across the Narrow Sea," she said warmly.
"Minstrels sing of you there, Ser Lance."
"Indeed," Doran added at once, tightening his grip on her hand with solemn earnestness.
"Come to think of it, I still haven't properly thanked you for saving Elia's life."
…What is happening?
Lance couldn't help but think as the couple worked in perfect tandem, seemingly determined to hoist him onto a pedestal.
Before he could even respond, Prince Doran was already guiding his wife firmly toward the Old Palace, murmuring reminders about rest and recovery.
Mellario, meanwhile, looked back repeatedly and said loudly, almost pointedly:
"I warned you long ago—Oberyn's temperament is far too wild and undisciplined. He must be kept in check. See? One lapse, and disaster nearly followed."
In the midst of their back-and-forth, no one expected the hosts—the Martells themselves—to be the first to depart.
…What just happened?
Lance stood there, dumbfounded, watching their retreating figures.
Still, he didn't dwell on it.
After today, Oberyn was likely a crippled viper, and with Lance's temper, if that man dared cause trouble again—even in front of Doran—he'd cut him down without hesitation.
With the Martells gone, the gathering quickly devolved into a loose, unrestrained social affair.
Such was Dorne.
Before long, nobles paired off—some in couples, others in groups—wandering off to indulge themselves however they pleased.
The atmosphere grew so primal that even the Queen found it difficult to tolerate and summoned Lance to escort her back to her chambers.
Judging by her impatience, it was hard to say whether she intended to command the Lord Commander to attend her that night.
Soon, the Water Gardens grew quiet.
Only Lord Anders Yronwood remained—alone, clutching his wounded side, sitting on the ground.
He sighed and tried to rise.
Pain stopped him every time.
Then—
A broad shadow fell across him, blocking the sun.
Anders looked up to find that the towering Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had returned at some point, white armor gleaming in the light, a hand extended toward him.
"Up you go, my lord," Lance said calmly.
"Let me help."