Chapter 128 – Burning the Red Viper
"Stand aside, Martell!"
Faced with dozens of gleaming spearheads, the Queen showed not the slightest fear. Instead, she lifted her skirts and stepped forward, her expression haughty as she pointed at Oberyn in his wheelchair and barked coldly:
"I, Rhaella Targaryen, in the name of the Queen, command you to lower your weapons at once!
Fail to comply, and every one of you will be charged with treason!"
"This isn't your comfortable Red Keep, Targaryen."
The Red Viper's eyes were sharp, his lips curling into a twisted smile as he mocked her openly.
"Put away your queenly airs. You'll only make things more complicated."
"You—!"
Stung by his undisguised contempt, the Queen flushed with anger and snapped back:
"I am a guest of House Martell!
Do you Dornish intend to trample the sacred rights of guests?"
"Oh, no, no… my dear Queen."
Oberyn wagged a finger lightly, that same mocking smile returning.
"I have no intention of harming you or the young prince. I've made that very clear.
All I want is that Kingsguard—nothing more."
"As for you…"
He narrowed his eyes, amusement dancing within them.
"House Martell has always been hospitable. Such distinguished guests as the Queen and the Prince should, of course, remain in Sunspear a little longer. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Tch."
At that point, Lance snorted softly, no longer bothering to argue.
Guest right or not, such things depended entirely on one's conscience—and on who held power. The law forbade hosts and guests from harming one another under a shared roof, but Oberyn's "protective custody," despicable as it was, did not technically violate that rule.
"Speaking of coincidences," Oberyn continued with a widening grin,
"when I returned to my chambers last night, I discovered a blood-red ruby—bought at great cost from Braavos—had gone missing."
"So," he said mockingly,
"why don't you remove that ugly armor of yours, here and now, and let us take a proper look?"
His laughter rang harsh and sharp.
Yet in the face of such blatant accusation, the white-armored knight showed no anger at all.
"Very well."
Before everyone present, Lance spoke calmly. Surrounded by spearpoints, he stood straight-backed and resolute.
"I submit to your will—on one condition."
His gaze locked onto Oberyn.
"You will not harm the Queen or the Prince. Swear it, Oberyn Martell."
"And if you break your word…"
Though the sun blazed overhead, his voice was colder than winter.
"I swear by the Seven—every member of House Martell. Every last one.
Will suffer my eternal vengeance."
"I, Lance Lot, will become the only nightmare you know for the rest of your lives."
---
Night
Nearly six hours had passed since Lance's capture.
Sitting atop a pile of straw in the dungeons of Sunspear, he idly counted blades of hay, one by one, a strange sense of nostalgia washing over him.
Back in Duskendale, it had been much the same—locked in a cell, meeting that mad old man who would later make him a Kingsguard.
Years had slipped by since then.
Lance had not resisted Oberyn's ambush. With the Queen and Viserys beside him—and without his greatsword—fighting would have risked their lives. Against dozens of spears, even he would struggle.
Besides, alive, the Queen and Prince were far more valuable than dead.
All he needed… was an opportunity.
Rolling a piece of straw between his fingers, Lance smiled faintly.
You brought this on yourself, Red Viper.
Graaak—
The iron door screeched open.
Lance glanced back as Oberyn was wheeled in, flanked by a dozen guards.
"I thought you'd be in a hurry to torture me," Lance said lazily, leaning against the bars with his back to Oberyn.
"Seems you're more patient than I expected."
Cautious, that one—nothing like the reckless madman of the stories. But then again, with a broken leg and having witnessed Lance's strength firsthand, caution made sense.
"You don't seem afraid at all, Lance Lot," Oberyn remarked, studying him.
"I'm just pondering something."
"Oh?"
Oberyn raised a brow, intrigued, content to savor the moment like a cat with a mouse.
At last, Lance turned his head and smiled faintly.
"What made you so desperate that you'd dare detain the Queen here in Sunspear?"
"If this is merely revenge against me, then House Martell is nothing but a den of fools."
"Save your provocation, Kingsguard."
Oberyn dismissed the attempt with a tap of his fingers against the armrest. With help, he rose from the wheelchair and limped forward.
"Detaining the Queen? No. We're protecting House Targaryen."
Leaning closer, he whispered so only Lance could hear:
"We'll never bear the stain of harming guests—because the ones who strike… won't be us."
Lance's pupils shrank.
"This will be a very long night, Lance Lot."
Oberyn licked his lips, savoring the moment.
"Sunspear has welcomed many visitors lately. Suppose some ill-intentioned guests were to act under cover of darkness—commit something truly… vile."
"And we Martells, in the interest of safety, keep the Queen and Prince here under strict 'protection.'
Perfectly reasonable, wouldn't you say?"
"Red Viper…"
The killing intent in Lance's blue eyes flared.
"You really are… fucking deserving of death."
He had never wanted to kill someone this badly—not even Brandon Stark compared to this venomous bastard.
"You're wasting time."
A broad-shouldered knight shoved his way forward impatiently.
"I'm taking the Kingsguard now. Our lord is waiting."
"Relax."
Oberyn grinned viciously.
"You're here for revenge anyway. Why not make it sweeter?"
He gestured sharply to the guards.
"Break his legs."
Two spear-wielding soldiers stepped forward to unlock the cell—
When suddenly, a sharp, acrid smell filled the air.
The smell of burning.
"What did you do, Lance Lot?"
Seeing the straw behind Lance suddenly ignite, thick smoke billowing upward, Oberyn shouted in shock:
"What—?!"
"You made one fatal mistake, Red Viper," Lance said calmly.
"You didn't search me properly before throwing me in here."
The tall Kingsguard grinned broadly, spreading his arms as if welcoming death itself. Behind him, the flames surged higher, crawling up the hem of his white cloak and licking toward his shoulders.
"You were never going to get a living Lance Lot," he laughed madly.
"Ha—ha—ha—!"
Before anyone could react, Lance took step after step backward—
and walked straight into the fire.
"Quick! Get him out!"
The unfamiliar, towering knight shouted in panic—far more frantic than Oberyn himself.
His task was to deliver a living Lance Lot. If the man burned to ash, even hauling a head back north would be useless—no one would recognize it.
"Hurry! If he dies, you gain nothing!"
Only then did Oberyn snap out of his stupor. He gestured sharply, and several leather-armored guards rushed forward, unlocking the cell door.
But once inside, faced with the raging inferno, not a single man dared step forward.
They could only watch as the tall white figure was slowly swallowed by flame.
"There's nothing we can do, my prince," a loyal guard said grimly at Oberyn's side.
"No one survives a fire like that."
"We must withdraw. The blaze is spreading—this entire section will burn."
Oberyn stared at the roaring flames, teeth clenched so tightly they ground together.
"…Go."
After a moment's hesitation, he spat the word in fury and turned away.
But then—something felt wrong.
So much time had passed… yet there had been no screams.
No howls of agony.
Not a single cry.
That wasn't normal.
Had Lance's will truly grown strong enough to endure fire itself?
Before Oberyn could dwell on it further, a scream finally rang out—
But it did not belong to Lance Lot.
It was the shriek of a Martell guard in yellow leather armor.
The men stared back toward the cell in horror—just in time to see a burning arm reach out from the flames, seize one of the guards, and drag him bodily inside.
Fire clung to leather like a living curse. In seconds, the man was engulfed.
"This—this is impossible!"
Before anyone could recover, the burning body was hurled back out of the cell, flames spilling beyond the doorway.
Then—
A towering figure wreathed in fire burst forth from the inferno, spear in hand, like a god of flame made flesh.
The spear thrusts were swift, precise, merciless.
Faced with something that bordered on the divine, the guards inside the dungeon collapsed in terror. Resistance never even formed.
Within mere heartbeats, they were slaughtered.
The blazing figure surged out of the cell.
The guards before Oberyn were the first to react, spears snapping into formation—but Lance ignored them entirely.
He strode to the iron door and slammed it shut with a thunderous crash, sealing it behind him.
Before all eyes, the flames slowly died away as the last of the burning cloth and straw was consumed.
What remained was a tall man standing unbroken.
His face bore light scorch marks—but was otherwise intact.
Still handsome.
Still terrifying.
"How… how is this possible…?"
Staring at him, Oberyn felt a chill crawl up his spine.
In his travels across Essos, he had once heard legends—whispers of a body spoken of only in myth, never witnessed with his own eyes.
He screamed the word aloud:
"Unburnt!!!"
"Heh…"
A cold laugh escaped Lance's lips as he surveyed what remained—seven spear-wielding guards and one broad-shouldered knight who had drawn his sword, terror and resolve warring in his eyes.
Before them all, the Kingsguard captain planted the blood-soaked spear into the stone floor.
His once-pure white armor was now stained with blood and scorched black by fire—but it only made him look more murderous.
Then he raised the spear with one hand, the tip leveling straight at Oberyn in his wheelchair.
His voice echoed through the narrow dungeon, heavy with killing intent:
"The Seven grant every man the right to choose how he dies."
"But they denied you that mercy."
"Come," Lance said softly, almost kindly.
"Burn with me.
Let the flames cleanse that filthy soul of yours, Red Viper."