Chapter 125 – Night Raid on Blackmont
"Hiss—AAAH—!"
When the blood-soaked surgery finally ended, Balman expertly wrapped the last roll of bandages around Anders, drawing another sharp grimace from the wounded lord.
To be fair, while he might not have matched legendary Raiden's endurance, the Lord of Yronwood was still very much a real man.
Under such extreme pain and blood loss, he hadn't passed out—not even once. His spirit remained strong, though his lips had gone slightly pale.
"That should do it," Balman said, wiping sweat from his brow as he admired his handiwork.
"Change the bandages regularly, keep them clean, and you should be fine."
Though he'd treated plenty of wounds before, he'd never performed surgery on this scale. A trace of pride crept in.
He chuckled—and, without thinking, reached out and gave Anders a friendly pat.
Instantly, the iron-willed lord let out a howl and shot Balman a murderous glare.
"Sorry—" Balman scratched his head sheepishly.
"Habit. Used to patting women on the backside."
To his surprise, Anders didn't explode.
Instead, he stood up, clenched his right fist, and struck it against his chest in a warrior's salute toward both Balman and Lance.
"You have my gratitude. Yronwood will never forget the kindness shown by the two of you."
Lance grinned and returned the gesture with a firm pat on Anders' shoulder.
"No need for thanks, Lord Anders. Knights should help one another—it's only right."
He paused, then added with mild curiosity:
"But I can't help wondering—why did you come to Sunspear alone? Not even a single servant or retainer."
"For the Lord of Yronwood, that seems… a bit austere."
Anders didn't dodge the question.
"Oberyn murdered my grandfather," he said flatly.
"My father died of grief not long after."
"As the eldest son, it was my duty to avenge them."
His jaw tightened.
"This was my decision—mine alone. If I had killed Oberyn here in Sunspear and Prince Doran chose to take offense, then the blame would fall on me, and me alone. I would not drag my house into it."
He exhaled slowly, then clenched his fist and struck the bench beside him.
"It's just a pity," he muttered,
"that my sword wasn't good enough."
A true man, Lance thought.
There was no posturing, no self-pity—just resolve.
Even knowing he would likely pay dearly even if he won, Anders had chosen to act anyway.
That kind of resolve was worthy of respect.
After a moment, Lance asked:
"Then why didn't you come with troops—force Prince Doran to hand Oberyn over?"
Balman, standing to the side, nodded in admiration. Then he frowned slightly and asked,
"With the strength of House Yronwood, you could've taken a harder line. If the Martells insisted on protecting Oberyn, you could've gone straight to King's Landing and asked His Grace to preside over the trial himself, couldn't you?"
"No, ser."
Anders' expression darkened at once, his tone turning solemn.
"House Yronwood has been sworn to House Martell since time immemorial—my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and generations before them. That oath is not something I can cast aside."
"Oberyn murdered my grandfather, yes—but that was his crime alone. I will not betray my liege because of it."
"Yronwood has never been a house that breaks its vows."
His voice rang out with quiet power. Even Lance couldn't help but nod.
The resolve was almost stubborn—perhaps even foolishly loyal—but within it lay something unmistakably honorable.
"Oh, right," Lance said after a brief pause, recalling something.
"The warning sent to Blackmont about House Fowler's plot—that was from you?"
"Yes," Anders nodded.
"More precisely, from my daughter—Ynys."
"She's only ten, but sharp as a blade. Sharper than me, at any rate. Somehow she learned of the Fowlers' scheme. I was ready to muster troops and march on Skyreach, but she stopped me—said a great many things I couldn't quite follow. I lost the argument."
He chuckled.
"In the end, I left all matters of the house in her hands before I set out. I trust her."
"Before I departed, she even tried to persuade me to stay and had all the gates sealed—but she didn't know I slipped out through the old tunnel under cover of night."
Anders laughed heartily, clearly pleased with himself.
To Lance, though, the smile looked… a little foolish.
Leaving an entire great lordship in the hands of a ten-year-old daughter and sneaking off alone to Sunspear to seek revenge?
That was the sort of thing heroes did in children's tales—Nezha, the Calabash Brothers—not grown men.
Still, the more Lance thought about it, the clearer it became: the warning to Blackmont hadn't been Anders' doing.
That kind of subtlety, that kind of timing—that had Ynys Yronwood written all over it.
Ten years old, and already capable of such calculation?
Even the Queen of Thorns might not have managed that at the same age.
Yet another thought nagged at him.
Would a child so clever truly allow her father to walk alone into Sunspear—fully prepared to die?
Lance didn't linger long with Anders. By the time he returned to his quarters, night had fallen.
He opened the door and let out a soft sigh.
Fate really did have a sense of humor.
In his previous life, he'd spent a lifetime as a blacksmith. The moment he'd finally saved enough to relax, he'd run headlong into disaster.
After transmigrating, he fought through fire and steel to save the king at Duskendale—only to enjoy precious little peace in King's Landing.
Hunting the Kingswood Brotherhood. Tourneys. Saving Prince Rhaegar.
If he wasn't killing, he was on his way to kill.
At this rate, he might actually end up with PTSD.
Shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile, Lance lit a candle, removed the greatsword from his back, and leaned it against the wall.
Then he turned—
And froze.
A flawless, half-clothed figure lay sprawled across his bed in a posture far too intimate to be innocent.
Damn it… the Queen again?
That was his first thought.
But then he frowned.
This was Sunspear—too many eyes, too many tongues. Even that queen wouldn't be so reckless here.
A familiar, crisp voice broke the silence.
"You're late, Ser Lance Lot."
His heart skipped.
In disbelief, he stared as the barely dressed eldest daughter of Blackmont rose from his bed and pressed herself lightly against his breastplate.
"You—why are you here…?"
The question left his mouth before his brain caught up.
Absurd, really—given her current state.
"Your performance today pleased me, ser," she said softly.
She leaned close, warm breath brushing his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.
"The Martell snake looks at me as though he wants to swallow me whole. I've never liked that."
"I told my mother more than once that I wanted to teach him a lesson—but she forbade it."
Her hand slid over the smooth white armor.
"I liked how you looked today—standing there in steel."
She stepped back, perched on the windowsill, legs crossed, chin lifted, eyes challenging.
"But now…"
"Take it off, Kingsguard."
"I want to see what's beneath the armor."
Lance's chest rose and fell.
When he'd seen someone on his bed, he'd imagined the Queen. Ashara. Even Princess Elia.
Not her.
Dorne truly was… open.
His gaze lingered on her sun-bronzed legs.
Well, he thought, I've already—
"Unwilling?" she asked coolly.
"I know your vows. No wife. No children. But I never said I wanted anything more."
"Think of it as one night in Sunspear. If you don't wish it, I'll leave."
"No."
A strong hand closed around her waist.
Years of sword training had left her core firm and toned, the lines of muscle elegant beneath warm skin.
The fire that the Queen had kindled over days of teasing surged back all at once.
Clang.
The straps came loose with practiced ease, and the white breastplate—symbol of purity—fell to the floor.
He'd fought enough.
It was time to enjoy something.
The night over Sunspear burned hot.
And the night… was still young.