As soon as Arthas finished speaking, Oberyn felt as if he had fallen into an ice cellar, and it seemed even his Soul was locked onto by the other party.
A strong sense of crisis made it impossible for him to even move half a step, his entire body's muscles feeling as if they were frozen solid.
"This... what on earth is going on?"
Oberyn was incredibly shocked. Originally, he hadn't intended to come to King's Landing for some bullshit King's Tourney, as he preferred to enjoy himself daily with his many paramours in Dorne.
The hatred between Lannister and Dorne from over a decade ago was something he and his kin had never let go of. However, because the Westerlands were at their peak under Tywin's rule, coupled with the marriage alliance between Lannister and Baratheon, those far away in Dorne could find no opportunity for revenge.
For years, Oberyn and his elder brother, Prince Doran Martell, had been secretly plotting to subvert Robert Baratheon's Dynasty and completely destroy House Lannister.
To this end, he had gone to Braavos to meet Ser Willem Darry, who had rescued and protected the three Targaryen Family whelps.
Under the witness of the Sealord of Braavos, they signed a secret marriage pact—when Viserys returned to claim the iron throne, Dorne would raise its banners for him, and Viserys would marry Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne as his queen.
Even though Oberyn didn't think much of the arrogant Viserys, at least it was a sliver of hope.
Over the years, he had been wandering Essos across the Narrow Sea, constantly honing his martial skills, while his brother Prince Doran, who suffered from gout and could not even stand, lay low in Dorne, gathering strength and waiting for the moment to strike Lannister a fatal blow.
But the news that came from across the Narrow Sea not long ago made Oberyn unable to sit still any longer—Viserys was dead!
Dead at the hands of his own younger sister and her husband.
This meant that even if the two Targaryen sisters counter-attacked Westeros in the future, it would have nothing to do with Dorne.
Furthermore, with a powerful figure emerging from the Lannisters who was hailed as the first knight of the seven kingdoms, Oberyn had rushed to King's Landing, taking this opportunity to test him.
But even though he was prepared to face a powerful opponent, Oberyn never imagined that a mere glance from the other party would completely strip him of his ability to move!
"This guy, what kind of monster is he!"
Oberyn screamed inwardly, biting his lip hard until blood flowed into his mouth. The intense pain allowed him to instantly regain control of his body.
"Give me my spear!"
With a loud roar, his paramour, hidden in the nearby alley, quickly tossed him a long spear.
Catching the strangely shaped spear, Oberyn instantly struck a defensive pose. Accustomed to coating his weapons with various toxins, the spearhead reflected a dark hue under the sunlight, like a venomous snake lurking in the shadows.
"Heh, interesting."
To think that under the suppression of his Undead Aura, this guy could actually find a way to regain control of his body; it seemed the title of the Red Viper wasn't just for show.
However, Arthas had no intention of taking action. The Lannisters had countless enemies; if he had to personally deal with every one that showed up, the queue would probably last until next year.
Holding Margaery's hand and completely ignoring Oberyn's dashing pose, the two walked straight past him with light steps.
"He... actually dares to ignore me!"
Even though the other party had displayed an Aura beyond that of ordinary men, Oberyn's strength was top-tier in both Dorne and Essos.
In every battle, his opponents fought with two hundred percent alertness; he had never been treated with such contempt.
"Don't you dare look down on me!"
The moment he brushed past Arthas, Oberyn let out a roar, twisting his waist as the spearhead, like a serpent's fang, lunged toward his back at a bizarre angle.
*Clang!*
Just as the spearhead was about to touch Arthas, it was instantly blocked by a uniquely shaped light rapier.
"Attacking from behind is not something a powerful warrior should do."
Retracting his spear and looking up, he saw a short, thin, bald man standing straight. The light sword that had just parried his attack was held before his chest. Despite his seemingly frail build, his unique stance made him appear like a towering giant, making it impossible to underestimate his strength.
"Syrio Forel!"
Oberyn's eyes narrowed as he cried out in surprise. Having spent many years in the Nine Free Cities, how could he not recognize this powerful Water Dancer?
"I never expected the esteemed First Sword of Braavos would willingly sell his life to the shameless House Lannister!"
He mocked disdainfully, though the grip on his spear tightened.
Although he had never crossed blades with the man, the title of first sword was hardly an empty one.
"Greetings, Prince Oberyn of Dorne."
Greeting him with a distinct Braavosi accent, Syrio's form was as sharp as a sword about to be unsheathed.
"I am no longer the First Sword of Braavos."
Explaining calmly, Syrio's tone carried a hint of mockery:
"I do not serve the Lannisters; I am merely handling matters for Lord Arthas in King's Landing."
"Furthermore, I see no shamelessness from the Lannisters, only a Dornish thief attacking from behind."
"You're asking for death!"
Syrio's words instantly enraged Oberyn because they were the truth.
The hot climate of Dorne was not barren. Although it possessed the only desert on the continent of Westeros, the areas with rivers were fertile, with enough rain even during the Long Summer.
These blessed conditions allowed Dorne to produce fruits and wines rare in other regions, and its grain production was also quite sufficient.
Logically, the crime rate of the Dornish, who lacked for nothing, should be low, but the opposite was true. Known for being hot-blooded and open, they were not content with honest labor.
In other words, most of these habitually lazy fellows only thought of getting something for nothing.
Thus, besides fruit and wine, unrestrained prostitutes and thieves became another "specialty" of Dorne, famous throughout Westeros.
Lies do not hurt, but the truth is a sharp blade. Stung by the truth, Oberyn roared, performing a magnificent spear flourish before swinging the spear like a staff down at Syrio.
Despite his anger, he wasn't stupid. Facing a former First Sword of Braavos, Oberyn knew these powerful swordsmen who called themselves Water Dancers were extremely agile; their only weakness was strength!
Syrio only offered a faint smile. As the spear was about to land on his head, he shifted his feet, dodging with graceful steps.
Simultaneously, his light sword lunged like lightning toward the other's vitals, forcing Oberyn to quickly pull back his spear and parry Syrio's blade with the butt of the weapon.
After two tentative exchanges, the two sides were nearly evenly matched, retreating to their respective positions to face off again.
"Are you sure you want to stand against me, Syrio?"
Narrowing his serpent-like eyes and hearing the receding footsteps of Arthas and his companion, Oberyn grew incredibly anxious.
Being over forty, he held no advantage in stamina, while his opponent was in the prime of his fighting years.
Coupled with consummate skill and swift reflexes, if Syrio was determined to block him, he likely wouldn't be able to deal with him before Arthas left.
"Forgive my bluntness, Prince Oberyn."
Mockingly mimicking Oberyn's flourish with a magnificent sword display of his own, Syrio's sharp eyes locked onto him:
"Your martial skills are not enough to threaten me."
Since it had come to this, Oberyn could only turn his gaze to the strangely colored spearhead, which was coated in a toxin that could paralyze movement.
He scrutinized Syrio, trying to find a flaw; if he could land just one hit, today's duel would be decided.
But the unique footwork of a top-tier Water Dancer covered his weaknesses flawlessly.
"No other choice."
Gripping his spear tightly, he pressed forward again. His only plan now was to wait for the opponent to reveal a flaw during the fight to deliver a fatal blow!
..."Do we really not need to worry about them, Al?"
"He is a Prince of Dorne, after all."
Hearing the constant sound of clashing weapons from the street behind them, Margaery, who had been led by the hand by Arthas as they strolled toward the end of the street, asked him with worry in her wide eyes.
It had to be said that this deep-thinking girl certainly had her ways. When Arthas took her hand, she had naturally pressed her whole body against him, and now she was even more naturally using a nickname for him.
"It's fine, Syrio can handle it."
Chuckling as he watched Margaery's feigned look of worry, he saw through her little schemes perfectly. Gently pulling Margaery into his arms, the two walked into the distance like a couple in love.
However, where no one could see, a faint, imperceptible energy drifted from Arthas's palm toward the two combatants.
The energy crossed the street and landed precisely on the shoulder of Oberyn, who was in the heat of battle with Syrio, completely unaware.
"Hey, Syrio!"
Just as their figures were about to disappear at the end of the street, Arthas turned back. His golden eyes watched Oberyn's hands as they nimbly wielded the strangely shaped spear, seemingly showing a hint of interest.
"Keep it within bounds, and don't be too harsh. We wouldn't want Prince Doran to say we King's Landing nobles are bullying his foolish younger brother."
Arthas spoke kindly, his words asking Syrio to show mercy, but in the next moment, his tone shifted:
"Just cut off his hands."
"Waving a spear around constantly is quite detrimental to King's Landing's public appearance."
"Then, of the two Dornish princes, one will be unable to stand, and the other will have no hands."
"It will certainly be quite interesting."
...That night, inside the Red Keep.
Servants entered in an orderly procession carrying various plates. The table was laden with a dazzling array of food, the steaming dishes making one's mouth water.
Even more enticing than the food was Sansa Stark, dressed in a pale purple gown.
She sat straight at the table, her auburn hair falling naturally on both sides, her clear blue eyes shimmering as she looked at the incredibly handsome youth across from her.
Although she had agreed readily during the day, the girl had gone through an intense internal struggle afterward.
After all, everyone in King's Landing knew she was to marry Joffrey, the eldest son of the Baratheon royal family. Accepting a dinner invitation from her fiancé's uncle seemed somewhat improper.
But after a painful internal struggle, she came anyway. After all... Arthas was the most handsome youth she had ever seen.
"You look truly beautiful tonight, Miss Sansa."
Once the servers had finished setting out the food, only the two of them remained in the room.
Dressed in a red robe, Arthas stood up, picked up the wine carafe from the table, and walked slowly to Sansa, elegantly pouring her a small glass of wine.
The golden lion emblem on his chest gleamed under the lamplight, its sharp fangs seeming ready to open wide and swallow this little she-wolf from the North in one bite.
"You are truly a gentleman, Lord Arthas."
Looking at the handsome youth personally pouring wine for her, Sansa felt as if she were the heroine of every love story sung by the bards.
Even the last trace of guilt toward Joffrey in her heart was wiped away.
"To tell you the truth, I grew up in Winterfell and have never been to King's Landing before."
Looking at the youth before her, who was not much older than herself, Sansa's eyes held a very obvious look of admiration in addition to affection.
"But I heard from those around me that besides being very prosperous, King's Landing is always shrouded in a lingering stench."
"But after I arrived in King's Landing, I found the streets here to be very clean, even Flea Bottom, which is rumored to be teeming with paupers."
"I asked my father, and he said it was all thanks to you."
Sansa's sapphire-like large eyes, just like her mother's, flickered as she gazed at him; although Robert had a very poor opinion of Arthas, the upright Eddard saw things quite differently.
This afternoon, in order to attend tonight's banquet, Sansa had specifically gone to ask her father about Arthas's situation.
"A powerful warrior, wise as well as compassionate."
This was Eddard Stark's evaluation of Arthas, and he didn't even hide his appreciation for this Lannister youth in front of his two daughters.
Eddard's approval made the affection in Sansa's heart even stronger; after all, in the heart of an adolescent girl, her father's figure is always the tallest, and a man who could gain her father's approval must be quite reliable.
"Didn't I tell you? Call me Al."
Returning the girl's praise with an incredibly kind smile, he, already sunny and handsome, appeared even more dashing; compared to that impulsive and reckless fellow Joffrey, he seemed more like a prince.
"What you've mentioned are all just insignificant trifles."
He acted humble for a moment; a girl with a romantic heart is always easy to handle. Seeing that her eyes could hardly leave his face, Arthas smiled and raised his wine glass toward her.
"To our wonderful encounter, Sansa."
"To our wonderful encounter, Al."
She took the wine glass quite naturally and gulped down all the red wine; the girl in love had long since thrown her father's command not to drink to the back of her mind.
With one small glass of wine down her throat on an empty stomach, Sansa, who didn't have much of a tolerance for alcohol, turned red instantly, the charming flush spreading from her fair neck all the way to her collarbone.
Lifting his right hand to gently caress the girl's tender cheek, Arthas leaned down slightly and brought his head close to Sansa's ear, his soft words carrying a unique charm, like a lover's whisper:
"You know, Sansa."
"You are the most beautiful Northern girl I have ever seen. Even my sister, the Queen, who was famous throughout Westeros many years ago and known as the first beauty of the Seven Kingdoms, doesn't have a ten-thousandth of your beauty."
The deep and magnetic voice rang in Sansa's ear, and the tone, like sweet nothings, made her heart bloom with joy, adding even more color to her already flushed face.
With the alcohol rushing to her head, under the dim candlelight, the girl felt as light as if she had stepped onto a cloud, and the handsome face and tall figure before her gradually began to produce double images.
"Sansa, I want to ask you for a favor."
Seeing that the timing was about right, Arthas spoke again, his voice carrying a hint of ghostly magical power, like an evil devil from the abyss slowly enticing an ignorant girl.
"Please... please just say it, Lord Arthas."
She looked up shyly; at this moment, she was even losing the strength to speak, answering Arthas's question only by her body's instinct.
"This matter might be very difficult and requires your complete cooperation."
"Are you... willing?"
"I... I am willing!"
Alcohol had clouded her mind, and with the added effect of a bit of Necromancy, the little she-wolf from the North was completely unable to offer any resistance, leaving her at the mercy of the lion king of the West.
"Very good..."
A slightly frivolous smile played at the corners of his mouth. Arthas put down his wine glass, and his right hand moved up along the girl's slender waist, passing over the budding peaks without stopping.
Finally, his broad palm gently covered the crown of her auburn hair.
A surge of clear, ghostly blue Necromancy energy poured in from the top of Sansa's head. The girl instantly took a long breath, her blue eyes rolling back until only the whites were visible.
"Catelyn Tully, let me see what exactly happened that day!"
...Rook's Rest.
This place was located in the northeast of the Crownlands, separated from Dragonstone by a stretch of water.
In a dim little room, a stunning beauty with long hair as red as a blazing flame was chanting under her breath, as if performing some kind of prayer ritual.
As her charming lips quickly recited the incantation, her beautiful naked body beneath the voluminous robes gradually began to emit a scorching light, like the sun shining into the world.
But just as the ritual reached its most critical moment, the dazzling light within her began to gradually dissipate, vanishing into nothingness in an instant.
"My Lord, is it still not working?"
As the light disappeared, a look of disappointment flashed in the emerald eyes of the Red Priestess Melisandre, and she murmured somewhat dejectedly as she looked at the ice sculpture lying quietly on the bed beside her.
A few days ago, she had heard a call from the lord of light she believed in, and at the Crossroads Inn in the Riverlands, she had discovered the Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Tully, frozen into a block of ice.
Under the guidance of the lord of light, Melisandre had tried to bring her back to life, but over several days and dozens of attempts, all had ended in failure.
They had tried everything they could think of, but not even a single shard of ice had fallen from her body.
"My Lord, please show me clearly, what exactly must I do to save her?"
Facing the empty room, Melisandre piously closed her eyes and placed her hands together before her magnificent chest, trying to get a response from the god she believed in.
But to her disappointment, since finding Catelyn that day, the lord of light seemed to have vanished, with no further message at all.
"Sigh..."
She let out a sigh of slight disappointment; recently, her connection with the lord of light had been getting weaker.
But just then, Melisandre keenly sensed an unusual energy erupting from within Catelyn's body.
"My Lord, is it you?"
She was instantly overjoyed and took two quick steps toward her, thinking her prayers had received a response from the lord of light.
But she soon sensed something was wrong; the Aura of this energy was completely different from the fiery and bright Aura of the Red God!
Evil, dark, death—all the negative words Melisandre could think of in an instant could not describe even a ten-thousandth of what this energy brought!
"You are not my Lord, who are you!"
At the very moment of her shock, another fiery red energy burst from her chest and followed into Catelyn's body.
It was the Aura of the lord of light!
Melisandre watched in disbelief as the two energies collided frantically within Catelyn. Her body, which had been frozen into an ice sculpture, slowly floated in mid-air, and the ice on her seemed to show signs of melting... "Who are you? Return this woman's Soul at once; she was not meant to die here!"
Inside the Red Keep, through the Soul resonance with Sansa, Arthas had successfully connected with Catelyn's Soul, but her Soul had already become tattered under the intense impact of Necromancy.
But fortunately, the memories from before her death were stored perfectly.
Just as he saw The Imp erupt with Necromancy and freeze everyone in the inn into ice sculptures, he felt a scorching energy mixed with a grand consciousness rush into Catelyn's body.
This feeling was completely different from the last time he had contested with that consciousness from beyond the North; its power was even greater.
Out of the instincts of the lich king, Arthas used his Soul power without reservation to engage in a fierce confrontation with it, but in the end, he was slightly at a disadvantage.
"Heh, another fellow hiding his head and tail."
"If you have the guts, come to King's Landing and find me!"
Accompanied by a roar, frostmourne appeared in his hand out of thin air, glowing with an eerie ghostly blue light.
He stared for a while but received no response. A cold smile played on the lich king's pale lips:
"I knew it, you lot only know how to hide in the shadows."
"Fine, since you don't dare come to me, I'll go to you!"
With the augmentation of the powerful undead Divine Artifact, Arthas's long golden hair instantly turned snow-white, and his gold eyes flickered with ghostly blue flames identical to those of frostmourne.
"Come, let me see you, you native deities of Westeros—how much power do you actually have!"
As soon as he finished speaking, a transparent blue phantom rose from above Arthas's head, like a Soul Emergence, and along with the Soul phantom of frostmourne, it streaked frantically toward the north... "Heretical evil god!"
Just as Melisandre was standing aside nervously watching the battle, she suddenly felt a cold breeze blowing in. Looking up, she saw a ghostly blue phantom holding a bizarre greatsword appear out of thin air.
This coldness mixed with the Aura of death made her cry out in alarm instantly, thinking a nemesis of the Lord she believed in had arrived, but no matter how hard Melisandre tried, she couldn't see the other party's face clearly.
"Hiding your head and tail, come out!"
Ignoring this weak woman, the blue phantom stood proudly in the air, and the giant sword shadow in its hand slashed down toward Catelyn.
At that moment, a scorching Aura instantly drilled out from within Catelyn, also transforming into a fiery red phantom, which forcibly intercepted this terrifying sword strike.
The red and blue energies collided, but they didn't make a sound; it was as if ice and snow were merging with a scorching sun, silently beginning to melt.
"You are not the god of cold, who are you!"
The red phantom felt this somewhat familiar dark and cold energy, but it was not the same as his old rival, the god of cold.
This energy was even more evil and dark, as if it wanted to turn all living things in this world into dead objects.
"Of course I'm not some god of cold."
Knowing the opponent was at the end of its rope, Arthas stood proudly in the Void Realm, his ancient and cold whisper accompanied by powerful Necromancy as it whistled through:
"My name is... the lich king—Arthas!"
"I am... The Scourge!"
..."Lord Arthas."
Inside the Red Keep, Syrio held an exquisite box in his hands and solemnly reported yesterday's results to Arthas, who was sitting in the high seat.
"As you ordered, Prince Oberyn's hands have been cut off by me. Please have a look."
Handing over the box with both hands, Arthas opened it casually and took a brief look. He saw a pair of blood-stained hands, severed cleanly from the wrists, lying quietly inside.
Turning to look at Lancel, who was waiting quietly nearby, he pointed his palm at the box and offered a compliment without stint:
"See, this is what you call professional."
Lancel nodded with deep feeling, looking at Syrio, who stood in a strange posture as if ready for battle at any moment, knowing that Arthas was very satisfied with the other party's efficiency.
To the praise of the two, Syrio did not show any sign of joy; after all, his goal would always be this almost invincible youth before him.
"Where is he?"
"I've already released him. He should be with Grand Maester Pycelle now, treating his injuries."
Syrio felt no guilt for cutting off Oberyn's hands in a head-on battle.
In Braavos, many people lose their lives in duels, let alone a shameless sneak attack. If one dares to strike from behind, they must be prepared for the consequences of defeat.
However, Oberyn's strength was indeed great. Even with his peak swordsmanship, it was only at the end of the battle that he precisely caught a sudden stiffening flaw in the opponent and cut off both his hands with one sword strike.
To receive timely treatment after having hands cut off is already a great mercy.
"Very good, Syrio."
"With this lesson, I think there will be far fewer fools overestimating themselves and trying to challenge me in the future."
Waving his hand in satisfaction to signal the other to withdraw, Arthas turned his gaze back to Lancel:
"Has Tyrion not woken up yet?"
"Yes, Lord Arthas."
Lancel was already familiar with Arthas's style—no wasting words or time, straight to the point.
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he felt some doubt. Even with the strong impact of Necromancy, The Imp should have woken up after so many days.
Recalling the magical shockwave released by The Imp at the end of Catelyn's memory, Arthas frowned slightly.
The magic seed he planted shouldn't have caused damage on such a scale.
The problem... was still with The Imp himself.
Perhaps he was naturally highly compatible with Necromancy, leading to an over-exhaustion of Mental Energy, thus remaining in a state of self-repair.
"Tyrion, you've really given me quite a problem."
Murmuring to himself, although The Imp accidentally killed Catelyn in self-defense, those barbarians in the North wouldn't listen to any Lannister explanation.
Especially since this guy was not favored by Tywin at all; it wouldn't be surprising if he were sacrificed to appease the North's anger.
Many days had passed; paper cannot wrap fire. The bodies of Ser Rodrik and The Mountain were laid out openly; someone must have already rushed to Winterfell to report to those wolf cubs.
Furthermore, Catelyn's soul was left in fragments after the magic shock, making resurrection impossible.
Even if forced back to life, she would likely be a mindless walking corpse like a ghoul.
After thinking for a while, he waved his hand to disperse Catelyn's remaining soul fragments. Arthas picked up a quill and began writing rapidly at his desk.
"Send this letter to Casterly Rock immediately. Make sure that old fellow Tywin opens it personally."
Rolling the letter into a scroll and sealing it with wax, he handed it to Lancel, who briskly left the office to find a raven.
"Regardless, Tywin."
After Lancel left, Arthas crossed his arms, a cold light in his eyes. Leaning back in his large chair, he muttered to himself:
"Tyrion is a Lannister after all. If you don't put in any effort in this matter..."
"Then I will be very disappointed."
Saying this, he slowly raised his right arm and rolled up his sleeve. A hideous scar was slowly writhing and healing, appearing to be caused by intense high-temperature burning.
Although he had a slight upper hand in the confrontation with that fiery will yesterday, that fellow was clearly no pushover. At the cost of having a small part of its Soul power frozen, it actually managed to leave some wounds on Arthas.
However... "Magic power is still too low."
Looking at the wound that was almost fully healed, the excitement in Arthas's eyes was hard to hide.
Since coming to this world, he had treated this life as a game—a game he had no interest in.
But now, whether it was the "Gods" appearing one after another or the familiar names from across the Narrow Sea, they all made Arthas's long-buried Battle Intent rise again.
"R'hllor, the King of Light, is it?"
His left hand's Necromancy lightly brushed over the scar on his arm. The hideous scar immediately became as good as new under the nourishment of pure magic energy.
"Now that I know your name, it won't be so easy the next time you try to run!"
...Grand Maester Pycelle's residence.
The room that should have been filled with the scent of powder was now a mix of herbal smells and nauseating blood.
Bloody bandages were scattered everywhere. Such a massive amount of blood loss had nearly exhausted Pycelle's usual emergency supplies.
"Prince Oberyn, drink this. It will make you feel better."
The eighty-year-old Pycelle was covered in sweat. Trembling, he held a bowl of milk of the poppy and handed it to Oberyn with some effort.
This time he wasn't faking. He was old, and although his health was good, treating Oberyn's injuries had consumed most of his strength. Being able to brew a bowl of numbing medicine was already quite an achievement.
Oberyn, whose hands were severed at the wrists, looked exceptionally dejected. He tried his best to use his stumps to catch the bowl filled with milk of the poppy.
But the moment the stumps touched the bowl, intense pain struck. With a "bang," it fell to the floor, and the milky white liquid splashed everywhere.
"fuck!"
Unable to accept reality, Oberyn roared and kicked the bowl on the ground until it was crushed. Exhausted from blood loss, he collapsed back onto the bed.
"Oberyn..."
Looking at Oberyn lying on the bed staring at the ceiling with a look of despair, his paramour Ellaria Sand was full of sorrow, her tears falling uncontrollably.
Unable to bear seeing her once elegant, robust, and skilled lover in such a pathetic state, she covered her face and ran out, her slender waist swaying.
As she went out, she brushed past a bald fat man with his hands tucked into his sleeves.
"How is your injury, Prince Oberyn?"
Varys, with his big bald head, still wore a compassionate expression, looking down at the man on the bed like a high god.
"I warned you when you entered the city that Lord Arthas is not someone who compromises easily."
"Moreover, almost all of King's Landing's defenses are now in his hands. Why did you think of looking for trouble with him at this juncture?"
"Don't pretend to be kind, you disgusting eunuch!"
Oberyn had no intention of accepting Varys's goodwill.
Although what the other said was true—this guy had indeed talked to him about Arthas when he entered the city—the arrogant Oberyn didn't think a fourteen-year-old boy could pose any threat to him.
Even if his title was the first knight of the seven kingdoms!
"When I return to Dorne, I will gather the soldiers of the entire realm to attack the Westerlands and fight to the death with those damned Lannisters!"
Despite his words of revenge, Varys could see that this powerful warrior, once known as the Red Viper, had lost all his spirit.
Without his hands, he was like a viper with its fangs pulled out, no longer a threat to anyone.
"Rather than speaking such angry words, Your Excellency."
Uncharacteristically taking his hand out of his sleeve to lightly touch his bald head, Varys's face showed an intriguing expression.
"I have a rather appropriate suggestion."
"fuck, just say it, you damned eunuch!"
Oberyn couldn't listen to anything right now; he just cursed Varys to vent some of the resentment in his heart.
Varys's expression didn't change at Oberyn's insults.
No matter where, a castrated man was almost the most unwelcome existence. Over the years, he had heard far worse things and was long accustomed to it.
"Since you two lords have matters to discuss, this old man will not disturb you."
The shrewd Pycelle didn't want to be involved in any power struggle. He only wanted to indulge in the pleasures of Silk Street every day and live peacefully until the day he died naturally.
Hunching his back, the old man left the room, gasping for breath every two steps.
"The Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Tully, is dead!"
Once Pycelle was gone, Varys went straight to the point, revealing shocking news that no one in King's Landing knew yet.
Seeing Oberyn's shocked expression, the well-informed Spider had a smile on his lips:
"In an inn in the Riverlands, my Little Birds found the bodies of Ser Rodrik and Catelyn. Along with them was the Mountain—the man you wanted to kill most—who died of blood loss from dozens of sword wounds!"
"This matter has everything to do with the Lannisters, and as of now, Lord Eddard Stark and his North do not yet know."
"If Dorne and the North can unite to pressure the Lannisters together, Tywin will surely recall Arthas to the Westerlands immediately to preserve his heir to Casterly Rock."
After finishing in one breath, he received no response. Varys looked at Oberyn in confusion, only to see him weeping bloody tears, staring blankly at his hands that would never return:
"You say... The Mountain is already dead!"
"You say I traveled thousands of miles to King's Landing and had my hands cut off, just to get revenge on a dead man!"
"I don't believe it!"
Resentfully pounding the bed with his stumps, blood began to seep from the freshly bandaged wounds.
Varys knew he just couldn't accept the truth for a moment and stood quietly by, watching him vent his emotions.
After a long while, Oberyn finally calmed down, panting heavily, his chest heaving. His low, raspy voice contained endless malice:
"I agree, Varys."
"But what good does this do for you?"
Varys slowly pushed open the door, sunlight reflecting off his bald head:
"Arthas is no longer suited to stay in King's Landing, Prince."
"His power is incredibly evil. Staying in King's Landing will only bring slaughter and death to the Seven Kingdoms."
Still with that compassionate expression, as if he were the savior of all Westeros:
"While these great figures are busy fighting for power and profit, someone must do something for this country."
"Don't you agree?"
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