Chapter 182: The Spear

"Capture the Red Viper alive!"

"Capture the Red Viper alive!"

Lord Yohn Royce led his three hundred cavalry through the southern gate of Skyreach, pushing forward like an unstoppable force.

"Capture the Red Viper!" Samwell Caesar joined in the chant, but his eyes were fixed on the towering castle of House Fowler at the city's center, wondering just how many gold dragons it held.

After all, House Fowler guarded the Prince's Pass—it couldn't be as poor as House Qorgyle, will it?

But Samwell's thoughts of treasure were short-lived; something felt off.

The Dornish had initially seemed to be in disarray, with no coordinated resistance. But now, as they advanced, Dornish resistance was steadily increasing, and the defenders seemed to be gathering for a counterattack.

This wasn't how it should be.

"Something's wrong!" Yohn Royce reined in his horse, a frown on his face. "Was that… a retreat signal from the Crown's army?"

Samwell's expression darkened. He immediately sent his hawk northward to scout the gate.

The sight he beheld left him stunned.

The city had been breached, hadn't it?

Through the hawk's eyes, he'd clearly seen the northern walls and gate under Crown control. That was why he'd dared to enter the city himself, hoping to scavenge a little in the chaos.

But what was this now?

How could they lose control of the gate they'd already taken? What was the Crown's army doing? Or… had the Dornish somehow managed an unexpected rally?

Yet this wasn't the time to dwell on such questions. Right now, the priority was clear: escape.

"Lord Yohn, we need to retreat! The Dornish have retaken the northern wall and gate—Skyreach hasn't fallen yet!"

"We're too late," Yohn Royce replied, watching in alarm as the southern gate began to swing shut. His face paled with anger and disbelief.

He forced himself to stay calm, scanning the area. "We need a defensible location…"

Samwell glanced again at House Fowler's fortress but knew it was too far, and even if they could reach it, they'd never breach it.

"The sept!" Lucas Dayne pointed to the Seven's sept, standing atop a nearby hill. "We could fortify ourselves there."

After a brief look, Lord Royce nodded. "Everyone to the sept!"

---

"Lord Eddard, why are you so upset? Can't we just attack again?"

Queen Cersei dismissed the concern with a wave.

"Of course. I've taken Skyreach once, I'll do it again." King Joffrey chimed in, "And this time, I'll personally take the Red Viper's head! The faithless mongrel!"

Lord Eddard Stark, his arm wrapped in fresh bandages, looked utterly drained.

He opened his mouth but said nothing, as if he'd simply run out of words.

After a long silence, the Hand of the King removed his badge and dropped it before the mother and son, his voice unshaken yet resolute.

"Your Grace, I can no longer serve as your Hand. Find someone else to carry out your will. And from this moment on, the North answers no longer to the Iron Throne. We will continue to fight, but only to avenge Jon Arryn, not to fulfill the Crown's orders."

"What are you saying, Eddard Stark?" Cersei's face darkened, her tone ice-cold.

"Traitor! You're a traitor!" Joffrey yelled.

Eddard shot back, "Throwing away victory earned at the cost of soldiers' lives—that is the true treason."

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

"When you seek to kill all who stand against you, do not forget the fate of King Aerys." He turned on his heel and walked toward the tent's exit.

"Kill him! Kill the traitor!" Joffrey shrieked to the Kingsguard around him.

But none of the seven knights moved.

They weren't fools. Killing Eddard Stark here would mean open rebellion from the North.

And even they could not deny that the king's actions had chilled their loyalty.

This chaos had to stop.

So they all stood, silent, staring at the ground, statues of iron in their armor.

Cersei laid a hand on her son's arm. "Leave the stupid wolf be. If he wants to resign as Hand, that saves us the trouble. If he won't serve, someone else will."

As Eddard reached the tent's exit, he paused, as though something had just occurred to him. "Oh, one more thing—I withdraw my daughter Sansa's betrothal to your Grace. The engagement is void."

"I'll kill you, Eddard Stark! I'll kill you!" Joffrey's furious shouts echoed across the entire camp.

Outside, Stark found himself surrounded by a gathering of nobles, each more agitated than the last.

"We won't fight for such a king!"

"Joffrey Baratheon must atone for the lives he's wasted!"

"Enough is enough! We're pulling out!"

…

Before Eddard could respond, Ser Barristan Selmy, the captain of the Kingsguard, stepped out to join him.

"Noble lords," Barristan called, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Hear me."

Once a measure of quiet returned, he continued, "I understand your anger, and I know that the king's decisions have brought harm. I give you my word: it won't happen again."

Lord Mathis Rowan narrowed his eyes. "How will you guarantee that?"

In answer, Barristan drew his sword and gripped its edge with his left hand, running his fingers down its length—

Blood streamed down the blade.

"By the honor of the Kingsguard." He raised the bloodied sword. "If Joffrey commands another order in this war, let this sword drink from my throat."

The gathered lords fell into stunned silence.

Barristan had just staked his life on stripping King Joffrey of all command.

It was a tremendous gamble, though limited to the duration of the war. But the political risk he was accepting was monumental.

Lord Mathis Rowan looked long at Barristan Selmy, as though seeing an echo of Ser Criston Cole, the "Kingmaker."

Cole had once defied a king's will to back another claimant, sparking the Targaryen dynasty's most brutal civil war—the Dance of the Dragons.

In this moment, the two Kingsguard captains' fates seemed to merge.

Lord Mathis squinted, a hint of foreboding entering his gaze.

Barristan continued. "The king will no longer interfere in the conduct of this war. So, I ask each of you to stand together, to take Skyreach."

The respect held for Barristan silenced the crowd.

He turned to Eddard Stark. "Lord Stark, you are our commander. Please resume your post."

Eddard held Barristan's gaze a moment before nodding.

Then Barristan faced Mace Tyrell. "Lord Tyrell, your thoughts?"

The Tyrell lord cleared his throat. "If the king does not meddle, I have no objections."

Barristan's gaze swept over the assembled nobles, each of whom nodded in turn.

In staking his honor and his life, the Kingsguard commander had held together an army on the verge of collapse.

And with this, command returned to Eddard Stark.

It seemed that order had been restored.

Once the other lords dispersed, Mace Tyrell recalled something he'd overheard earlier in the tent. He turned to his son, Garlan. "Write to Highgarden and have your sister come."

"But, Father, this is a battlefield. Why bring Margaery here?"

"Just do it. If the queen can be here, so can she."

Garlan hesitated but eventually nodded. "Very well."

---

"Hurry, everyone! Barricade all the doors and windows!"

Inside the sept's sanctuary, Lord Royce directed his soldiers to stack pews, tables, anything they could find, in front of the entrances and windows, trying to turn the drafty structure into a makeshift fortress.

"The Dornish won't hold for long!" he shouted, attempting to rally his men. "The Crown's army has breached the walls once already—they'll do so again. If we hold here for just a few days, victory will be ours!"

Samwell, straining with his monstrous strength, dragged a towering statue of the Father to block one of the doors. Not satisfied, he then eyed the statue of the Mother.

"Wait, please!" A septon who had yet to evacuate pleaded. "My lord, if you'll allow, I can go outside to negotiate! Those are holy statues—you mustn't desecrate them!"

"Desecrate?" Samwell replied innocently, "I'm only asking the Father and Mother to lend us a hand. Besides, if the Dornish break through with a battering ram, then that would be the real desecration. Remember to tell them that."

The septon was speechless as Samwell carried over statues of the Maiden, the Warrior, and the Smith, placing them all at the four entrances.

The sept's sanctuary had two levels. Once the doors were barricaded, the upper windows offered the soldiers firing positions, forming a crude but serviceable redoubt.

But honestly, if the Dornish launched a full assault, it wouldn't last long.

Their best hope was that the Dornish would hesitate to defile the statues of the Seven.

Samwell climbed the spiral stairs to the upper floor. From the windows, he could see the Dornish forces gathering below, numbering easily over a thousand.

Royce joined him. "The Dornish shouldn't trouble us for long," he said, trying to reassure either Samwell or perhaps himself. "The Iron Throne's forces will resume their assault on the northern wall, and these Dornish will have no choice but to return and defend it. We'll have little pressure on us here."

"Let's hope so," Samwell replied, though he felt far less optimistic. Something about the situation gnawed at him. He suspected that something had gone very wrong among the Crown's forces—why else would they retreat after breaching the city?

Could it be that they were dealing with infighting?

Knowing Joffrey, that seemed more than possible.

Reflecting on it, Samwell silently reproached himself for joining Royce in storming into the city. He'd underestimated Joffrey's talent for self-destruction.

Why hadn't "Yohn the Cautious" just stuck to his usual careful ways?

"The Red Viper is here," Royce's words interrupted his thoughts.

Samwell glanced back outside and saw a tall figure draped in a yellow-orange robe emerging from the Dornish ranks below. It was none other than the "Red Viper," Prince Oberyn Martell.

He held a spear in his right hand and a shield in his left, stopping about a hundred paces from the sept. He called out in a booming voice, "Is that Lord Royce and Lord Caesar up there?"

Royce responded, "It is, Prince Oberyn. We're here."

The Red Viper laughed. "So, are you planning to surrender peacefully, or will we have to come in and fetch you?"

Samwell pulled his captive, Obara Sand, to the window, letting her lean out so her father could see her clearly.

Sure enough, Oberyn's brash smile faltered as his gaze locked onto her.

"Obara…"

"Father!" Obara shouted down to him, her voice defiant. "Forget about me! Attack! Attack!"

Samwell quickly pulled her back, stuffing a cloth into her mouth to silence her. As he did, he felt an odd pang, as if he'd somehow become the villain in someone else's story.

He quickly brushed the thought aside, leaning out the window to shout down at Oberyn, "Prince Oberyn, you wouldn't want to see your daughter dead, would you? Why don't we call a truce—"

"Ha!" Oberyn interrupted with a bitter laugh, his voice as sharp as his spear. "There's no peace here, only fools believe in truce on the battlefield!"

Ignoring Samwell's response, he looked up at Obara and bellowed, "Do you remember the choice I gave you, Obara? Spear or tears?"

Though she couldn't speak, the fierce resolve in Obara's eyes said it all.

Oberyn understood.

He lifted his spear and, with a mighty throw, hurled it straight at his daughter.

Samwell, completely blindsided, instinctively flinched back, thinking the target was himself. But when he tried to pull Obara back in, he was a heartbeat too late.

The spear pierced Obara's chest, and a single tear trickled down her face.

"Attack!" Oberyn's voice roared from below, charged with grief and fury.

(End of Chapter)