Without a word, Karl El dismounted.
The clatter of his boots against the ground echoed faintly in the tense, suffocating silence outside the brothel. His expression remained unreadable—cold, composed, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
He reached down, picked up a fallen spear, and strode forward.
Straight into the Red Viper's brothel.
Behind him, Barristan Selmy froze for the briefest moment.
He had not expected this.
The King—personally entering the battlefield?
Even for someone like Barristan, who had served under multiple kings, such a decision was rare… and dangerous.
But hesitation lasted only a heartbeat.
Drawing his longsword in one smooth motion, Barristan stepped forward, positioning himself ahead of Karl El as both shield and blade.
"Protect His Majesty!" he ordered sharply.
The remaining guards followed immediately.
The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit them.
Blood.
Thick. Metallic. Suffocating.
The interior of the brothel had been transformed into a slaughterhouse.
Dark stains spread across the wooden floorboards, some still wet and glistening. Bodies lay scattered everywhere—Dornish soldiers sprawled in unnatural positions, their lifeblood pooling beneath them.
Some were already dead.
Others clung weakly to life, their breaths shallow, their limbs trembling.
None wore proper armor.
Some were half-naked.
Others were completely bare.
Their weapons—short swords, daggers, crude blades—lay discarded nearby, as if they had been forced into battle without preparation.
It was chaos.
Violent.
Sudden.
And absolute.
In stark contrast, the prostitutes of the brothel huddled together in corners, trembling like frightened animals. Their eyes were wide with terror, hands pressed over their mouths to stifle screams.
They had not expected this.
None of them had.
Yet, miraculously, they were unharmed.
The violence had been precise.
Targeted.
Every man in the brothel had been dealt with.
Not a single unnecessary life taken.
Karl El walked forward without speaking.
His footsteps were steady.
Measured.
As though he already knew what awaited him deeper inside.
Broken doors hung from shattered hinges. Silk curtains lay torn and trampled underfoot. Expensive glass ornaments had been smashed, their fragments crunching beneath boots.
Everywhere—
Destruction.
And death.
Barristan and the others advanced cautiously, scanning every corner, every shadow.
But Karl El?
He did not hesitate.
He moved with purpose.
As though following a trail only he could see.
The deeper they went, the louder the sounds became.
Clashing steel.
Labored breathing.
The dull thud of impact.
They ascended a narrow staircase, emerging into a high tower room overlooking the rear courtyard.
Here, the scene changed.
The number of Dornish corpses dwindled.
In their place lay the fallen members of the City Watch—the Gold Cloaks.
Unlike the Dornishmen, these soldiers wore armor.
And yet, they too had been cut down.
Effortlessly.
Cleanly.
Barristan's grip tightened on his sword.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And then—
"Stop."
Karl El's voice rang out.
Instantly, everyone froze.
Barristan turned, confusion flickering across his face.
Karl El had dropped to one knee beside a fallen Gold Cloak.
Slowly, he removed the man's helmet.
The wound was precise.
A thrust through the eye.
The blade had pierced straight through the skull.
Clean.
Efficient.
Deadly.
"Your Majesty?" Barristan asked, puzzled.
Karl El raised a hand.
"Wait."
He stood and moved to another body.
This one still lived—barely.
A spear had pierced upward through the soldier's armpit, driving deep into his chest.
The man's body convulsed.
His fingers clawed desperately at his breastplate, scratching, tearing—
His nails broke.
Split.
Fell away.
Yet he kept scratching, as if trying to rip something out from within.
His veins bulged beneath his skin.
Dark.
Discolored.
Black and purple.
The next moment—
He died.
Eyes wide.
Frozen in agony.
"It's poison."
Barristan stepped closer, his expression grim.
"The work of the Oberyn Martell… the Red Viper."
Karl El said nothing.
But he nodded.
His gaze lingered on the corpse—on the unnatural discoloration of the veins, on the twisted expression of pain.
Then he stood.
"Let's go."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"Let's meet the Prince of Dorne… who dares resist."
They moved again.
This time, faster.
More deliberate.
The sounds of battle grew louder.
Until—
They reached it.
A wide chamber.
And inside—
Chaos.
A man stood at the center.
Tall.
Bare-chested.
His long black hair clung to his shoulders, damp with sweat and blood.
In his hands—
A spear.
With fluid grace, he drove it forward, piercing the throat of a Kingsguard.
Blood sprayed.
Bright.
Hot.
The white cloak turned crimson.
The body collapsed.
The spear withdrew.
And the man stood ready.
Unshaken.
Unstoppable.
The Red Viper.
Around him lay bodies.
Gold Cloaks.
Kingsguard.
All fallen.
Of the four Kingsguard who had entered—
Only one remained standing.
Arys Oakheart.
Barely.
He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, blood soaking his armor.
His strength was nearly gone.
"Stand down."
Karl El's voice cut through the tension.
"Ser Arys Oakheart… you are no match for him."
He tossed a small vial.
"Take it."
An antidote.
The only reason Arys still lived.
Barristan stared.
The others hesitated.
But the command was clear.
They withdrew.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Leaving the battlefield—
To two men.
Karl El stepped forward.
Over bodies.
Through blood.
His spear inverted in his grip.
His gaze fixed.
Unwavering.
Opposite him, Oberyn Martell shifted slightly.
Protecting.
Behind him stood a woman—terrified, silent.
Oberyn's stance changed subtly.
Defensive.
Guarded.
"Your Majesty—" Barristan began.
A raised hand stopped him.
Silence.
"Karl El…"
Oberyn's voice was calm.
But no longer careless.
"I thought we were friends."
His black eyes—sharp, dangerous—locked onto the man before him.
"I didn't expect you to be the one who came to kill me."
His grip tightened on his spear.
"Tell me… why?"
"And are you not afraid… of Dorne's wrath?"
Karl El did not answer.
Not immediately.
Instead, his gaze shifted.
To the bodies.
The naked corpses.
The slain guards.
The aftermath of violence.
Then—
He spoke.
"Do you know…?"
His voice was steady.
"Robert Baratheon died yesterday."
Oberyn blinked.
Just once.
Surprise flickered across his face.
Then—
A smile.
Cold.
Amused.
"Is that so?"
"Good news."
"I should inform Doran Martell."
His eyes narrowed.
"And that's why he calls you 'Your Majesty'?"
Realization dawned.
"Ah…"
"So that's it."
The smile widened.
"You've taken the throne."
"A bastard king."
"Enough!"
Barristan stepped forward, anger rising.
But again—
Karl El stopped him.
This time, Barristan hesitated.
Confusion.
Doubt.
Why…?
Karl El ignored him.
His eyes remained fixed on Oberyn.
"Do you know… how Robert died?"
Oberyn frowned.
"Drank himself to death?"
He paused.
Then—
Understanding struck.
"…You think I killed him?"
Laughter.
Sharp.
Mocking.
"A boar killed him," Karl El said calmly.
Silence fell.
Then—
Oberyn laughed harder.
"A boar?"
"How absurd."
"Before he died," Karl El continued, "his wine steward gave him strongwine."
"Three skins."
"And afterward—"
He stepped closer.
"The steward died."
Oberyn's smile faded.
Slightly.
"Poison?"
Karl El nodded.
"My maester identified it."
A pause.
Then—
"The Strangler."
The air changed.
Subtly.
Dangerously.
Oberyn understood.
Everything.
Why the guards came.
Why he was targeted.
Why he would die.
He laughed again.
But this time—
There was bitterness.
"So…"
"I'm the perfect culprit."
"No one better in all of King's Landing."
His grip tightened.
He knew.
He would not leave alive.
Not against Karl El.
Not today.
But he would not die easily.
Karl El watched him.
Silent.
Observing.
Waiting.
Time passed.
Neither moved.
Sweat formed on Oberyn's brow.
Karl El remained still.
Unshaken.
Finally—
"What?"
Oberyn snapped.
"Afraid?"
"I don't have time to wait!"
Then—
Karl El moved.
The spear in his hand dropped.
Driving into the ground with a heavy thud.
He stepped forward.
Empty-handed.
Closer.
"My maester told me about that poison," he said quietly.
"Perhaps you've heard of it."
Oberyn's eyes narrowed.
"What is it?"
Karl El stopped.
Just within striking distance.
"The Strangler."
And in that moment—
The tension snapped.
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