The sunset was about to fall, dyeing the horizon where the sea met the sky into a bloody hue of molten gold.
A longship with elegant lines and a distinct Dornish style was gliding lightly over the crests of waves saturated by the afterglow.
This was not a warship built for raiding or charging, nor was it a merchant vessel laden with cargo.
The hull was coated in warm brown paint, its edges decorated with intricate gilded patterns; a silk canopy for shade was erected on the deck, and the air was filled with the light scent of spices and fruit wine, exuding comfort and pleasure at every turn.
The "Red Viper," Oberyn Nymeros Martell, reclined lazily on a cushioned lounge chair, his fingers idly toyed with a crystal wine glass.
The Summer Red, deep crimson like a gemstone, swirled slowly at the bottom of the glass, reflecting his sharp-angled face, characteristic of the Salty Dornishmen.
His eyes were half-closed, his gaze seemingly fixed on the distance, yet also appearing to see nothing at all.
His paramour, Ellaria Sand, sat quietly beside him, using a small silver knife inlaid with pearls to carefully peel sweet fruits from the Summer Islands, offering the translucent flesh to his lips.
Oberyn opened his mouth to eat, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the smooth surface of the wine glass.
The ship broke through the waves, sailing toward the northeast.
In the distance, the silhouette of an island rose from the deep sea like a crouching, sleeping ancient beast, lying silently across the horizon.
Rugged, steep black rock walls formed its torso, and towering, sharp spires were its jagged dorsal spines.
Dragonstone.
But what truly made one's gaze freeze and breath catch was the sea surrounding the island.
Ships. Countless ships.
They were not anchored haphazardly, but were arranged in a massive, orderly array of layers, with Dragonstone at its core.
Heavy galleys, like mobile black fortresses, clustered in the deep waters; smaller frigates and patrol boats cruised the periphery like a school of sharks swimming around a giant beast.
A dense forest of masts pierced the sunset-reddened sky, and countless black banners with red dragons danced wildly in the evening sea breeze, forming a silent, roaring tide that blotted out the sun.
This was Aegon Targaryen's Narrow Sea Fleet.
It was the force that had just crushed Stannis Baratheon's equally massive Fleet into powder in the waters of The Gullet.
Now, they were anchored here quietly, their silence itself a wordless declaration and deterrent, guarding Dragonstone so tightly that not even air could pass, and blockading any approach without permission.
Oberyn gazed at that solemn military display that made even the soul feel oppressed, a flicker of complex and inscrutable light passing through his deep black eyes. Suddenly, he let out a low, mocking laugh.
"Truly... spectacular."
He whispered to himself, his tone ethereal, making it impossible to tell if it was pure admiration or if something else was mixed in.
"Once the true dragon returns to its nest, even the unruly Narrow Sea must bow its head and offer up all its tides and shipping lanes."
Ellaria looked in the direction he was staring, also awed by the scale of the Fleet, and said softly: "Before we left Sunspear, the latest news said that this Prince Aegon had just completely defeated Stannis in the Battle of The Gullet."
"I didn't expect... seeing it with my own eyes is even more..." she weighed her words, "impressive than the rumors."
Oberyn took a sip of the cool wine, his eye color turning somewhat cold amidst the alcohol and the sunset's afterglow.
"That's why I said," his voice deepened, carrying a trace of barely perceptible mockery, "the one in the wheelchair at home chose the wrong direction from the very beginning."
Ellaria's hand peeling the fruit paused slightly, and she raised her charming eyes to look at him: "My dear, you mean... Prince Doran?"
"Who else could it be but my ever-deliberate brother," Oberyn sneered, his fingertips unconsciously tapping on the smooth teak deck with a rhythmic 'thud-thud,' as if he were knocking on Doran's overly cautious skull.
"From the first moment we caught wind of rumors that a boy claiming to be the son of Rhaegar had appeared across the Narrow Sea, all of Dorne—especially him—has been watching and waiting."
"He said he needed to investigate the truth, fearing it was a fake. Fine, that's being cautious, I won't say anything to that."
He curled a second finger: "Wait until that boy started making waves across the Narrow Sea, integrating mercenaries, taking over city-states, and his reputation began to spread like a summer wildfire. He still didn't move, saying he needed to further confirm his intentions and strength... Hah."
A third finger curled, and the tapping grew heavier: "Not until it was confirmed that the boy had truly taken Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, and had established a firm foothold on the western coast of Essos with real holdings and an army..."
"My dear brother finally acted as if his backside had been scorched by fire, hurriedly sending out an embassy led by my naive niece Arianne, crossing the sea to make contact and convey Dorne's greetings."
"And the result?" Oberyn gave a cold laugh, the mockery in his eyes almost overflowing. "The result is that while our embassy was still tossing about at sea, that boy pulled a brilliant maneuver, crossed the sea back to Dragonstone, and wiped out Stannis."
"Our embassy arrived at an empty nest and is probably now wandering aimlessly in some Port on the eastern coast of the Narrow Sea, or turning their ships around to rush back here?"
He set down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly, facing Ellaria—but also as if facing the absent Doran—analyzing the cold calculation of a ruler that he had long since seen through:
"I understand his little thoughts all too well. He separates the interests of Dorne and the ties of blood clearly and precisely."
"A nephew is a nephew, and Dorne is Dorne."
"He wants to find an absolutely secure, risk-free balance between the two. He wants to use blood ties to gain an advantage in any future cooperation, yet he's terrified of betting on the wrong horse and dragging Dorne into unnecessary risks, damaging his own feathers."
The disdain in his tone grew thicker and thicker:
"In his eyes, this bit of blood left behind by Elia, this bit of family affection... might not even be as important as a single stone in the walls of Sunspear."
"He never places a bet unless it's a sure thing. That's his style, and it's the reason why he's sat in that wheelchair for so many years while Dorne has become stagnant and lifeless."
Ellaria sighed softly and picked up the wine jug to refill his glass halfway with Summer Red: "The Prince is the Lord of Dorne, after all. The burden on his shoulders is heavy; every step involves the lives of countless Dornish people."
"Being cautious is also for the sake of Dorne, and for the long-term future of House Martell..."
"Dorne?"
Oberyn suddenly looked up, his gaze becoming as sharp as an unsheathed Dornish scimitar, filled with a surge of complex and unspeakable emotions...
There was disappointment in his brother, a longing for his sister, and a deep disapproval of Doran's way of always putting responsibility and calculation before family.
"So..."
He interrupted Ellaria, his voice clear and decisive:
"I haven't come this time representing Dorne, nor representing Doran."
He turned his head again, looking at the island surrounded by the Fleet in his field of vision, the silhouette of that silent and majestic castle.
"Let the Dornish embassy continue to drift slowly at sea and deliberate. As for me..."
He paused, drained the wine in his glass in one gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing, and the last trace of casual playfulness faded from his eyes.
"I am here as Elia's brother, as an uncle, to see the last bloodline my sister left in this world."
Oberyn gazed at the heavy black rock silhouette of Dragonstone and casually set the empty wine glass aside.
The sea breeze ruffled his black curly hair and tugged at his luxurious robes.
He came here not to forge an alliance, not to discuss state affairs, and not for any exchange of political stances.
Just to see that child.
Just to protect the last bit of remembrance Elia left in this world.
If anyone dares touch him...
In the depths of Oberyn's eyes, a cold and lethal glint suddenly flickered.
...He will make them vanish from this world, from flesh to bone, before they even have the chance to feel regret.
The sea was temporarily calm, and the Dornish pleasure boat rocked gently with the soothing waves.
The sunset sank a few more degrees, and the molten gold at the horizon was swallowed by deeper shades of violet and ink blue.
A moment later, from the stern, a tall and athletic black-haired girl with distinct features of the sandy lands—one of Oberyn's "Sand Snake" daughters.
She approached soundlessly and leaned down to whisper in her father's ear at a volume only the two of them could hear:
"Father, behind the stern to the right, a small flagless sailboat has been following us, drifting for a long time."
"It's been following us since we rounded the cape, acting very suspiciously."
Oberyn didn't seem surprised; he just slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping lazily in the direction his daughter indicated.
An inconspicuous small black sailboat, its hull old and devoid of any flags or sigils, floated alone on the darkening sea, keeping a subtle distance from the massive Dragonstone Fleet and their ornate Dornish longship.
It neither closed in nor drifted away, simply trailing them at a steady distance, like a silent, devious ghost upon the sea.
Oberyn's eyes turned slightly cold, and his fingers, which had been tapping the gunwale, came to a stop.
"Close in."
He spoke calmly, his voice devoid of emotion, but those who knew him understood this was a sign his interest was piqued or his killing intent was stirred.
"In these waters that now bear the name Targaryen, I want to see who is so ignorant of the rules, harboring shady thoughts and acting so sneakily here."
The order was given; the Dornish longship adjusted its sails, the hull carving an arc as it slowly approached the suspicious black skiff.
The gilded decorations reflected a dull luster in the fading light, forming a sharp contrast with the other vessel's worn and shabby appearance.
Waves gently lapped against the hulls of both ships; as the distance closed, the atmosphere tightened, the air seemingly becoming thick.
On the small black boat, a figure wrapped in a heavy black robe stiffened visibly and looked up slightly.
A large hood concealed most of his face, leaving only a pair of weather-beaten and weary eyes visible, flickering with caution and confusion in the shadows as they stared fixedly at the suddenly approaching Dornish longship.
The two ships met, close enough to see the grain of the wood on the gunwales and feel the faint presence of those on the other vessel.
Oberyn leaned against his ship's gunwale, elbows on the railing, his posture seemingly lazy and casual. However, his slightly narrowed eyes and the faint, mocking curve of his lips held the lethal danger of a viper locking onto its prey.
He sized up the other's tightly wrapped black robe, his voice like ice-quenched needles, clearly piercing the sound of the waves and entering the other's ears:
"These waters are no longer a backyard for random people to wander through."
"Alone, no flag, no sigil, hiding your head and tail... are you a lost fisherman, or..." He paused, his smile deepening and the chill intensifying, "a rat that shuns the light?"
The black-robed man's body tensed imperceptibly, seemingly completely unexpected to be intercepted and questioned by such an out-of-place Dornish ship on the vast sea.
He remained silent, his gaze peering through the shadows of the hood, carefully studying Oberyn's iconic Dornish features, seemingly finally recognizing the newcomer's identity.
After a moment's hesitation, the black-robed man slowly raised his hand, untied the knot under his chin, and then removed the large hood that concealed his face.
White hair like snow, an aged face lined with furrows, recording long years of wind, frost, and battle, yet his features remained hard and upright, like steel forged a thousand times.
Especially those eyes, calm and deep, like the deepest sea after a storm, seemingly peaceful but harboring immeasurable power and experience within.
Barristan Selmy.
'Barristan the Bold.' Former Kingsguard of the Targaryens, the exemplar of a white knight, survivor of the Battle of the Trident, and later... Kingsguard to Robert Baratheon, Kingsguard to Joffrey.
The smile on Oberyn Martell's face vanished without a trace the moment he saw the other's face clearly.
His pupils suddenly constricted into dangerous pinpoints.
It was him.
It was actually him.
Barristan Selmy. The 'Bold' who had once luckily defeated him in a tournament.
The one who had sworn to protect the Targaryen royalty with his life, yet after the dynasty fell, turned to swear fealty to the usurper Robert as a white knight.
And now...
This Kingsguard, who theoretically should be in King's Landing protecting that Joffrey, had actually cast off his white cloak, hidden his identity, and was alone, piloting a broken boat, sneakily navigating the outer waters of Dragonstone.
Lingering on the edge of the waters now completely controlled by Aegon Targaryen.
What did he want to do?
The answer leaped into Oberyn's mind almost instantly, carrying a bloody chill.
An assassin.
An assassin sent from King's Landing.
A butcher sent by Cersei Lannister, or that little king, to take Aegon Targaryen's life.
Knowing their armies couldn't openly withstand dragons and Fleets, they used such sinister means, sending this 'white knight' whose martial skills and experience remained legendary despite his age.
He had come to kill Elia's son.
This realization was like a bucket of ice water mixed with boiling oil, suddenly poured over Oberyn Martell's heart.
Cold was the killing intent; boiling was the rage instantly ignited to avenge his sister and protect her only bloodline.
All laziness, all cynicism, all the masks belonging to the debauched prince were completely torn away and evaporated in this moment.
Oberyn's gaze was cold enough to crack bone and pierce the thickest armor.
He was no longer just a Prince of Dorne; at this moment, he was Elia's brother, a 'Red Viper' whose reverse scale had been touched, his mind set on the kill.
"Barristan Selmy."
He spoke the name word by word, each syllable like poison quenched on the tip of his tongue, slowly ground out.
"The usurper's watchdog, Robert's loyal hound, and now an old thing wagging its tail at the feet of a lion cub..."
He straightened up slightly, his hand already silently pressing against the cold shaft of the Dornish spear leaning against the gunwale.
"You hide your head and tail, sneaking here like a rat in a gutter... are you here on your new master's orders to kill Elia's son?"
Barristan's expression changed suddenly, his lips moving as if he wanted to explain something.
He clearly hadn't expected to meet Oberyn Martell here in this manner, let alone that the other would instantly make the worst and most fatal misjudgment.
But Oberyn Martell never gave enemies a chance to explain.
In his world, when the intent to kill is set, words are the most useless burden.
Especially when facing an enemy who had once betrayed his oath and now appeared here suspiciously.
"How dare you touch him..."
Oberyn's voice suddenly rose, full of ruthlessness. Before the last word was fully out, his body had already leaped from the deck of the ornate pleasure boat like a leopard that had been gathering strength!
Stepping off the gunwale, he used the momentum to turn into a swift shadow, holding that specially made Dornish spear, carrying the force of a thunderbolt and overwhelming killing intent as he lunged straight at the old knight on the shabby skiff!
"...You'll leave your life in these waters today!"
The words and his figure arrived almost simultaneously!
Barristan's pupils constricted; the instincts honed through a hundred battles overrode everything.
He didn't even have time to fully draw his sword; he could only hastily parry upward with his knight's longsword still in its scabbard!
"Clang——————!!!"
The sound of clashing metal suddenly exploded, tearing through the relative silence of the twilight sea.
The sharp tip of the spear slammed hard into the junction where the half-drawn blade met the scabbard!
Immense force surged from the spear; Barristan grunted, his arm going numb, but he ultimately relied on his well-tempered foundation and experience to firmly block this sudden and vicious strike.
Oberyn flipped in mid-air and landed steadily on the other end of the skiff. With a flick of his spear, he performed a deadly flourish, his viper-like eyes locked onto Barristan. Without any pause, a more intense offensive poured out like a storm!
No testing, no shouting, no extra words.
A life-and-death struggle born of a fatal misunderstanding suddenly erupted on the sea outside Dragonstone, in the last rays of the setting sun!
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