Chapter 130 – Dawn That Cuts Through the Night
Inside the dungeon.
Standing amid the ruins, staring at the blackened, fire-scorched devastation, Doran Martell clenched his teeth. Emotions churned endlessly in his dark eyes.
Especially as they settled on the body lying silently on the ground—burned to charcoal, beyond recognition.
His brother.
Oberyn.
The intermittent sobbing echoed through the chamber, only adding to the storm in his mind.
"Stop crying."
His reprimand was calm but edged with irritation.
At his words, Ellaria Sand, who had been collapsed over the charred remains of the Red Viper, abruptly halted her sobbing. She turned and stared at him, eyes burning.
Though she had been "only" Oberyn's lover, Ellaria had never doubted that what they shared was real.
Even without children of their own, she had taken in the bastards Oberyn brought back—raising them as her own.
"I'll kill them."
She watched Doran for a long moment. When he remained silent, Ellaria stood abruptly and strode toward the exit.
As the bastard daughter of the Lord of Hellholt, she had never benefited from her father's name. She had grown up in a brothel in Planky Town alongside her mother, inheriting the trade after her first blood—becoming a courtesan herself, and eventually the most sought-after one.
In later years, Lord Harmen Uller had begun reaching out to her. But Ellaria understood all too well: that sudden paternal affection existed only because she had become Oberyn's paramour.
And now—
The man she loved lay dead before her.
"Wait."
Doran's voice stopped her.
Ellaria spun back, fury flaring.
"He was your brother! If you won't avenge him, then I will!"
"I have nothing to do with House Martell! If something happens to me, it won't matter to you!"
"That's not what I mean."
Doran did not raise his voice.
He spoke evenly, but for the first time, there was a tremor beneath the calm—like ripples disturbing still water.
He inhaled slowly, eyes drifting over the dozen burned corpses.
"Oberyn acted with my approval," he said coldly. "I never expected it to end like this."
At last, he met Ellaria's gaze directly.
"You are not to touch Queen Rhaella Targaryen or the prince. They are our leverage."
"As for that Kingsguard—he must be killed immediately. He cannot be allowed to leave Dorne alive."
"If that damned Lord Commander returns to King's Landing and tells the Iron Throne what truly happened here, we will be placed in an extremely dangerous position."
Ellaria stared at him in silence.
Then she bit her lip, turned away, and stormed out of the dungeon.
Doran watched her go and sighed softly—uncertain whether the weight in his chest came from the death of his brother, or from the collapse of a carefully laid plan.
"The men from the North," he said at last.
Turning to the tall, bearded man beside him, Doran issued another order.
"Warn them. Once the task is done, they are to leave Dorne immediately."
"Tell Roose Bolton that Lance Lot is no longer something they can take with them."
"If they refuse to leave, they may stay forever—alongside that man—in Sunspear."
"And make sure they erase every trace."
"Yes, my prince."
The bearded man bowed deeply and departed at once, leaving the dungeon steeped in smoke, silence, and the quiet certainty that dawn—when it came—would be soaked in blood.
When silence finally returned to the dungeon, Prince Doran stared at the shattered ruins before him, his expression as still as deep water.
"Everyone here was burned to death," he murmured to himself, voice low and heavy.
"And yet you walked away unscathed."
"How did you do it… Lance Lot?"
---
"Enough with the theatrics, Lance Lot!"
The black-armored knight who had been knocked to the ground staggered back to his feet, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat.
Staring at the white-armored knight standing proudly among more than a dozen soldiers, confusion flickered through his eyes—at the scorch marks on the armor, at the vanished white cloak—but he raised his sword regardless and barked an order.
At once, the soldiers spread out, reforming their encirclement.
"Not bad," Lance said calmly.
Holding his blades, he swept his gaze across them. Fear still lingered in their eyes, but their grips were steady. No trembling hands.
He nodded, almost approving.
Elite soldiers were more fun to cut down.
"Don't think you can scare me with cheap tricks!" the black-armored knight snapped.
Though his voice was loud, his feet edged subtly backward, placing two men between himself and Lance.
"Those ridiculous stories about you—just lies sung by minstrels trying to sell wine! Typical southern nonsense. Kill a few nobodies and suddenly you're a legend."
"Mm."
Lance chuckled softly.
"You northerners do love talking big right before you die. In that regard, you're just like Brandon Stark—the one I beheaded."
"Enough!" the knight barked. "Even if I don't know how you escaped the Martells, do you really think you can take all of us alone?"
"And once the Martells realize you're loose, they'll be hunting you already."
"You're right," Lance replied.
He twirled his sword once—smooth, practiced.
"Which means we should hurry."
He stepped forward.
The white greatsword swept through the air in a flawless arc.
A flash of white.
The nearest soldier froze—then a thin crimson line bloomed across his throat. Blood sprayed as he collapsed.
Only then did the others react.
Steel screamed as blades rushed toward Lance.
They didn't charge him directly.
Instead, they lunged for Balman, wounded and seated behind him.
Three swords thrust at once—mere inches from Balman's throat.
The white blade rose.
Clang.
The first sword was knocked aside.
A black flash followed—Valyrian steel slicing sideways, shearing through a man's knee in a spray of bone and blood.
The greatsword spun, its hilt smashing into the third attacker's throat. Cartilage shattered. He dropped without a sound.
Four dead in the space of a heartbeat.
"Shields forward!" the knight shouted.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but discipline won out. Round shields came up. The formation advanced, step by measured step.
"Think that'll help?" Lance smiled.
He glanced back at Balman, who stared at him in awe.
"Watch closely," Lance said, spinning Dawn once more.
"That's how this sword is used."
Then he lunged.
The ground cracked beneath his feet.
The white blade rose high—then fell like falling daylight.
Shield and arm were cleaved clean through.
The strike continued, smashing a second shield aside before finally halting.
Lance ducked low.
Black steel flashed—piercing an eye socket.
The greatsword spun, parried a strike from the left, then swept back—
A head flew.
Terror finally broke them.
Three soldiers dropped their weapons and ran.
They didn't get far.
Black and white blades flashed again. Three more bodies fell.
Lance exhaled slowly.
The rage smoldering since the dungeon finally eased.
Thunk.
The greatsword flew from his hands, impaling the fleeing black-armored knight and pinning him to the ground.
Lance turned.
Two soldiers had crept behind him, swords raised toward Balman.
"Don't move," Lance said coldly.
They froze.
Satisfied, Lance retrieved his blade, stepping onto the pinned knight's back.
The man screamed as the sword was slowly pulled free.
"Please—!" the knight sobbed, blood bubbling from his mouth.
"I'll tell you everything! My name's Steelshanks Walton—I serve Lord Roose Bolton! The Boltons and the Martells—they planned to take you north—"
"I don't care," Lance interrupted.
"Tell me where the queen and the prince are."
Hope flared—then died.
"I—I don't know! Lord Bolton never tells—"
The blade flashed.
The head flew.
"Ask more questions next life," Lance said mildly.
He turned to the last two soldiers, still frozen in terror.
"Thank you for being obedient," he smiled.
"As a reward—this will be quick."
Black and white blades crossed.
Blood slid down the star-etched grooves of the white greatsword, flowing onto the dark patterns of Valyrian steel.
Like dawn itself—
Quietly cutting through the night.