Chapter 124 – The Dreadfort's Lord of Terror
BANG!
"Aaaaah—!!!"
"That damned Kingsguard! I'll coat him in the most vicious poison in the world and make him watch his own flesh rot away while he dies in agony!"
Inside Oberyn's chambers, the sounds of smashing furniture and furious curses rang without pause.
A tall, beautiful woman dressed lightly stepped barefoot through the doorway.
A shattered bowl skidded across the floor, stopping just short of her feet—black medicinal liquid splashing everywhere, missing her skin by a hair's breadth.
She didn't seem annoyed in the slightest.
With a faintly raised brow, she continued forward, carrying a large cup filled with a milky-white liquid.
Turning her head, she saw the Red Viper in full fury—hurling anything he could grab. Several servants cowered in the corners, trembling, while only the elderly maester, white-haired and robed, carried on calmly as he bandaged Oberyn's injuries with professional focus.
"Anger will only slow your recovery, my prince,"
the maester said evenly as he wrapped linen around Oberyn's leg, his tone like that of a patient elder.
"You of all people should remember—these lessons were taught quite thoroughly at the Citadel."
"I know—I know! Stop lecturing me!"
Even in his rage, Oberyn dared not go too far with Maester Caleotte, who was older than his mother and had served Sunspear for decades—practically raising the Martell children himself.
Suppressing his fury, Oberyn's eyes slid toward the barefoot woman approaching him. A twisted grin crept across his face.
"Come here, Ellaria—my most shameless lover!"
He thrust out a hand in invitation.
Ellaria Sand pressed her lips together, pain flickering in her eyes as she took in Oberyn's wounds. With a sinuous sway of her slender waist, she walked toward him.
She knew exactly what he needed.
With a man as proud and volatile as Oberyn, concern and gentle words would only stoke the fire.
At times like this, nothing soothed the wounded body and pride of a viper better than a full-bodied clash.
"…Very well."
Watching Oberyn take the cup from Ellaria's hands and drain it without hesitation, Maester Caleotte's eyelid twitched.
He didn't need to smell it closely to know what it was.
Milk of the poppy—likely laced with something… stimulating.
As a seasoned and learned maester, he very much wanted to warn Oberyn that no matter how young and strong he was, such indulgence would come due eventually—one day leaving him much like the maester himself:
present, but unnoticed.
But after a moment's thought, he knew the stubborn Martell would never listen.
With a quiet sigh, Caleotte finished tying the last bandage. Before things progressed any further, he gathered his medical kit and hurriedly exited the chamber.
"Do you feel better now, my love?"
After an exhausting bout, Ellaria lay draped across Oberyn's chest, her voice soft with concern.
Oberyn was quite satisfied with her performance.
Though the exertion had tugged at his wounds—blood slowly seeping beneath the bandages—the numbing effects left him feeling nothing at all. In fact, the little viper that had only just relaxed seemed ready to rise again.
Youth truly was a terrifying thing.
Just as they were about to begin another round, crisp footsteps forced them to pause.
"Fuck… you really do have the worst timing imaginable."
Oberyn shot the newcomer a glance and cursed openly.
"I was just thinking the same thing,"
the pale man replied flatly, eyes flicking over the naked pair.
"Why is it that every time I see you, you're always busy with this sort of nonsense?"
As a member of House Martell and brother to Prince Doran, did Oberyn truly have nothing better to do than sow his seed across Dorne?
Though inwardly cursing Oberyn to hell and back, the man showed no trace of emotion on his face.
Some said the leeches had drained every ounce of passion from him—that what remained was endless calm. Even his voice was level and unhurried.
"You were the one who summoned me, Prince Oberyn."
"Was I?"
Rubbing his aching head, Oberyn finally remembered—yes, he had sent for this northern bastard.
Damn it… I should've drunk less.
As a model graduate of the Citadel, Oberyn knew full well the side effects of poppy milk.
But compared to supreme pleasure?
Utterly irrelevant.
"So," Oberyn said at last, eyes narrowing slightly,
"what you said that day—were you serious, Lord Roose Bolton?"
He drew in a deep breath. Only after his mind cleared slightly did Oberyn speak without the slightest restraint:
"Trade that damned Lord Commander of the Kingsguard… for Cersei Lannister."
Hearing him bellow it aloud—without the least concern for his lover's presence—the Lord of the Dreadfort frowned faintly.
Even though Oberyn had repeatedly sworn that this woman would never betray him under any circumstances, Roose Bolton still found the habit unsettling—this feeling of plotting loudly in front of others.
For someone raised in House Bolton, the rule was simple:
The living are poor keepers of secrets.
The flayed are far better.
Which was precisely why he had already ordered the deaths of the prostitutes who had entertained Oberyn earlier in the brothel.
Ah—and one male whore as well.
"The North's promise still stands, Your Highness."
Having already learned what had transpired in the Water Gardens earlier that day, Roose Bolton pressed his thin lips together slightly.
He raised his head, pale eyes locking onto Oberyn's face.
"Lord Stark was very clear.
The head of Lance Lot can be exchanged for everything we possess."
"And how exactly," Oberyn asked, curiosity sparking despite the pain, "do you intend to possess Cersei Lannister?"
He shifted his body toward Roose—but the drug's effects were fading. A sharp jolt of agony shot up his leg, forcing a hiss from between his teeth and deepening his hatred for that accursed Kingsguard captain.
"Tell me, Lord Bolton."
His pitch-black, venom-filled eyes fixed on Roose like a coiled viper.
"How do you plan to capture that Lannister daughter?"
---
"Hiss—"
When Anders Yronwood's armor was lifted away, a small patch of festering rot along the wound was immediately revealed.
Lowering his head and sniffing carefully, Ser Balman cursed aloud:
"Damn that Martell bastard—he definitely coated his blade with poison!"
"This is utterly disgraceful! A man like that doesn't deserve to be called a knight!"
His indignation burned hot. As a Crownlands knight who revered the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Balman despised poison and ambush above all else.
Just like what had happened to Brandon Stark.
"That man isn't a knight at all," Lance said calmly, shaking his head.
"He's nothing more than a Dornish viper striking from the shadows."
Unlike Balman's fury, Lance showed little concern.
He lowered his gaze to the ugly, rotting wound and asked evenly,
"Can it be treated, Maester Balman?"
"This poison only causes decay," Balman replied after a moment's inspection.
"It's not lethal—otherwise this lad would already be kneeling before the Seven."
He nodded as he spoke. Though he had never studied at the Citadel, years spent drinking with goldcloaks had given him plenty of experience dealing with dirty tricks and battlefield wounds.
"But…" he hesitated.
"Out with it!" Anders barked impatiently.
Despite the pain gnawing at him, the lord of Yronwood clenched his jaw and refused to cry out even once.
Swallowing hard, Balman spoke honestly:
"I'll need to cut away all the rotten flesh, then bind the wound and let new tissue grow."
"If we delay, the decay will spread. Even if it heals, the muscle will die—and you may never lift a sword properly again."
Anders' eyes hardened instantly.
"Then what are you waiting for?" he snapped.
"Cut."
"B–But we don't have any anesthetic!"
"You're telling me you want to carve it out raw?"
"What's there to fear?" Anders scoffed, pounding his chest.
"There isn't a coward in House Yronwood!"
As he moved, a fresh surge of foul fluid oozed from the wound.
Balman hesitated and instinctively looked toward Lance.
"What are you looking at me for?" Lance shrugged.
"Cut it. He's right—we can't have him losing his sword arm."
Besides, it wasn't his flesh being sliced.
In one world there was Guan Yu scraping poison from bone.
In this one, a lord endured surgery without anesthesia.
Men of iron, both.
With Lance's approval, "Maester" Balman finally nodded and began preparing his tools.
Unfortunately for Lord Yronwood—
he was no Raiden.
As the heated blade bit down, a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the room.
"…Is it really that painful?" Lance raised an eyebrow.
Watching the gore-soaked back-alley surgery, he made a silent vow:
Never—under any circumstances—
let Balman treat my wounds.
Absolutely not.