Chapter 182 — Lance… Save Me!
"Slurp— slurp—"
Bent over the table, the woman devoured the steaming meat broth with almost desperate urgency. At last, some light returned to her pitch-black eyes—no longer dull, but faintly alive again.
It had been a very long time since she'd eaten anything this good.
Lance watched quietly as she changed into a silk gown, sat in the warm room, and cradled the bowl of soup in both hands. Her long black hair had been carefully tidied, and for a moment she almost looked like her former self again.
Almost.
Only her wolfish appetite betrayed just how close to starvation she'd been.
"You were really hungry," Lance remarked flatly.
Then he called her by name:
"—Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne."
That's right.
The woman whom the outside world believed to be "the Regent's woman" was none other than Prince Doran Martell's own sister.
When she had finally eaten her fill and leaned back against the chair, Lance spoke again.
"Now you can tell me what actually happened."
"You were supposed to be waiting at Storm's End to marry Robert Baratheon. And the people who abducted you—weren't they sent by Doran Martell? How did they dare treat you like this?"
Looking at how far the once-radiant Dornish princess had fallen, Lance couldn't help an internal snort.
Do you have some kind of 'kidnapping magnet' constitution?
Every time I see you, you're half-dead and thoroughly abused.
Thankfully, this wasn't her first abduction. Experience showed—she seemed… mostly fine.
At least mentally.
Elia finally opened her eyes. She wiped her mouth with elegant care, straightened, and met Lance's gaze.
"This is what happened…"
"After what you did at the Old Palace, House Martell's authority took a serious blow."
"And once the rumors spread that Doran and Oberyn Martell had violated guest right, the nobles who came for the coronation fled Sunspear like startled sand rats."
"Among them was Davos Dayne, Ashara's brother."
Her tone shifted ever so slightly when she mentioned Oberyn—but there was no hatred in it.
Elia understood all too well: with Oberyn's temperament, disaster was inevitable. She simply hadn't expected it so soon.
She studied Lance's face. Seeing no reaction, she continued.
"No one knew about your relationship with Ashara Dayne, so keeping her by my side was relatively safe. Doran needed a hostage—someone to pressure Starfall into sending troops."
"Until… that man appeared."
"That man?" Lance raised a brow. Fear clung faintly to Elia's scent. "Who was he?"
"I don't know."
She shook her head, eyes flickering with confusion and dread.
"I overheard them talking outside Doran's chambers. He was dressed plainly, his face unfamiliar—someone I'd never seen before."
"I only heard him say that Ashara… and the woman from Blackmont… had ties to you. And then—"
"And then Doran decided to secretly transport Ashara and Jynessa to King's Landing and execute them in front of all Seven Kingdoms," Lance finished coldly.
"To punish me."
Elia swallowed and nodded.
"Yes. But the woman from Blackmont had already returned to her lands, so…"
"…only Ashara remained."
Lance frowned deeply.
Who tipped Doran off?
That night involved only Ashara, Jynessa, Balman, and a handful of Crownlands knights. Those knights were all dead in the Old Palace. And Balman would never betray him.
Varys?
Possible—but the Spider had no reason to do this.
"Tch."
Lance let out a dismissive snort. "Your brother really does love targeting women and children."
"But you still haven't explained why you were taken to the Crownlands. And where Ashara is now."
Seeing his impatience, Elia spoke faster.
"Doran didn't know I'd overheard them. The next morning, he sent word saying Arthur Dayne was deeply concerned for his sister's safety and had dispatched family knights to escort her back to Starfall."
"Of course, that was a lie. At the same time, Robert Baratheon's envoy arrived in Sunspear, agreeing to the marriage."
"I… I had to help her."
Her voice hardened with desperate resolve.
"Ashara is kind. She's beautiful. She doesn't deserve to be crushed by the machinery of power."
"So…"
"I went to my uncle."
"Lewyn Martell?" Lance blinked, recalling the famously unkillable Dornish Kingsguard.
"Yes."
Elia nodded firmly, eyes unfocused as she remembered that day.
"Ashara and I have similar builds, similar hair. So we swapped clothes."
"And I asked Uncle Lewyn—when they 'escorted Ashara' out of the city—to switch us."
"…You can just do that?!"
Lance was genuinely taken aback.
After all, two completely different people were usually easy to tell apart. And yet—those men led by Quinta Shard hadn't noticed anything amiss the entire way?
"I didn't say a single word the whole journey."
As if sensing Lance's confusion, Elia Martell gave an awkward smile.
"No matter what they said to me, I just kept my head down and stayed silent."
"I figured that if my identity was exposed too early, they'd immediately send me back to Dorne—and then kidnap Ashara all over again. So I endured it, waiting until I had absolutely no other choice…"
She paused, then added with quiet confidence:
"You know this, Lance… Your Grace. I'm a Dornish princess. The moment I reveal who I am, they wouldn't dare lay a finger on me."
She even smiled—self-assured, almost proud.
At that, realization finally dawned on Lance. He lifted a hand and covered his face with a sigh.
How should he put this…
The Martells were impossible to understand.
One Red Viper. One Doran. Both absolute madmen—willing to violate guest right just to detain royalty.
As for Lewyn Martell, he'd once charged headlong into a bandit den without asking for help, nearly dying in the Kingswood if Lance hadn't arrived in time.
And now there was Elia Martell too.
In Lance's mind, this entire family resembled some unholy fusion of Nezha and the Calabash Brothers.
What sane adult does this kind of thing?
Still… Elia's intentions were good.
From her family's perspective, she was a clear traitor.
But from his perspective, Lance simply couldn't bring himself to scold her.
After all, House Martell and the Iron Throne were already at a point of no return.
"Thank you," Lance said at last, drawing a deep breath and rising to bow slightly.
"For what you did for Ashara, Princess Elia."
She must have suffered greatly along the way—enduring everything in silence just to keep her identity hidden.
Granted, Quinta and his men were spectacularly dense… but still.
To go this far for a close friend—
This, he thought, is what a real best friend looks like.
Seeing Lance bow, Elia quickly stood and returned the gesture with perfect courtesy.
"You're too kind, Your Grace."
Her cheeks flushed faintly at his gratitude.
Truth be told, she hadn't done it only for Ashara.
First—she had no desire whatsoever to marry the Lord of Storm's End.
And second…
She glanced at Lance's handsome face and shyly lowered her head.
"Now there's just one last question, Princess," Lance said.
He tapped his knuckles against the table, blue eyes locked onto her.
"Ashara…"
"Where is she right now?"
---
Storm's End
The Tower
A slender figure sat alone on the stone bench by the window.
Icy sea wind poured in, sharp and briny, tugging at her long black hair.
Her violet eyes were hollow and distant, fixed on the north as she murmured to herself.
She was humming a Dornish song—normally passionate and bright—yet from her lips it sounded mournful beyond words.
Click.
The heavy wooden door opened.
Lewyn Martell entered, clad in thick armor, carrying a tray of steaming food.
Seeing the girl once again sitting by the window, he frowned deeply, strode over, and shut it tight, sealing the cold wind outside.
"This isn't a place to linger," he said sternly.
He set the tray down beside her.
"Eat something, Princess."
"I'm not a princess, Ser Lewyn."
Ashara Dayne spoke softly, her voice fragile but firm.
"Elia is."
"You shouldn't have agreed to her dangerous request… forcing me into her wedding carriage."
Lewyn fell silent. His hard jaw tightened slightly.
"Elia will be fine."
After a long moment, he spoke with conviction.
"She's a Dornish princess. Even if those fools realize they took the wrong woman, none of them would dare harm her."
"This was her choice. Her resolve protected you—and for now, herself."
"She refuses to be bound by a Stormlands marriage."
"But—"
Ashara bit her lip, fingers twisting the hem of her dress.
"This is madness!"
"What if Lord Robert Baratheon finds out?"
"And the alliance between Dorne and the Stormlands…"
Worry gnawed at her. Away from Starfall for so long, loneliness and fear overwhelmed her—and in spite of herself, she thought of that towering knight in white armor.
"No but."
Lewyn raised his voice.
"I am Princess Elia's uncle—House Martell's representative, Prince of Dorne. Here, if I say you are Elia Martell, then you are Elia Martell."
"Remember this, Ashara. You are the Dornish princess now. And you must marry Robert Baratheon."
"It's the only way to save you—and Elia."
---
Before the words had even settled—
A violent pounding shook the door.
Then a drunken, slurred shout rang out:
"Open up!"
"Open the fucking door! Where's my bride—let me have a good look! Tonight I take her to bed!"
Ashara screamed silently, clutching her head as her body shook uncontrollably.
Lewyn's expression turned to ice.
He clenched his fist and strode for the door.
The pounding grew louder, the curses fouler.
Lewyn inhaled deeply, forcing down the rage boiling in his chest.
Thank the gods Elia isn't really here…
Creak—
The door opened inward, causing Robert Baratheon to stumble forward.
"Well then—let me see my bride!"
His coat hung open, muscular chest bare. He ignored Lewyn completely, green eyes searching the dim room like a predator.
"You should not be here, Lord Baratheon," Lewyn said coldly, blocking the doorway.
"By Dornish custom, bride and groom must not meet before the wedding—lest it bring ill fortune and offend the Seven."
"Bullshit!"
Already drunk, Robert flew into a rage, stepping forward until his nose nearly touched Lewyn's.
"I've never heard of this shit! I'm the Lord of Storm's End—the man who'll take the Dornish princess to bed!"
"These are the rules, Lord," Lewyn replied without flinching.
"Rules?" Robert laughed drunkenly.
"My rules are the rules!"
He shoved forward, strength like a charging bull.
"In the Stormlands, a warrior tests his bride before the wedding—makes sure she knows how to serve her strong husband!"
"Move, Martell, or I'll toss you into the sea to feed the crabs!"
He shoved again.
Steel sang.
Lewyn's sword cleared its sheath and leveled at Robert's throat.
"I am here by Prince Doran's command, as escort to Princess Elia Martell. The rules here are mine."
"One more step, Lord Baratheon, and I swear this blade will pierce your throat."
"And Dorne and the Stormlands will become eternal enemies. Are you prepared to bear that responsibility?"
Robert snarled, chest thrust forward.
"Come on, you weak bastard! Let me see how sharp a Dornish sword really is!"
The air snapped tight.
Two enraged bulls locked horns in a narrow doorway—the fate of two realms hanging by a thread.
"Enough!"
A sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension.
Stannis Baratheon had appeared behind Robert.
He grabbed his brother's arm and dragged him back.
"That's enough, Robert. You've had too much to drink."
Robert glared, but the cold clarity in Stannis's eyes sobered him slightly.
"Let go of me, you stone-hearted busybody."
He shook free, stumbling away.
Yet even as he left, he roared back:
"When I march on King's Landing and hang the Targaryens' heads on the Red Keep walls, the first one I'll deal with is you, Dornishman!"
"Ten days! Just ten days!"
"Wait for me, my little princess—ten days from now I'll show you what a true Stormlands warrior is!"
"Wait for me… Lyanna!!!"
He was drunk enough to shout the name of a woman who did not belong in the south.
After he left, Stannis turned stiffly to Lewyn.
"Apologies, Prince. We've just received word—Nightsong has fallen to Randyll Tarly. His mood isn't… ideal."
Lewyn said nothing. He sheathed his sword and slammed the door shut, leaving Stannis scowling outside.
Silence returned—broken only by the hearth's faint crackle.
Lewyn leaned against the door, exhaustion finally catching up to him. His muscles trembled, his hand still resting on the hilt.
Across the chamber, Ashara's composure shattered.
She collapsed inward, trembling violently, hot tears spilling down her pale face like broken pearls.
She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
"Lance…"
Her sob broke free at last.
"Save me!!!"