Creak—
The sound of rotten wood echoed through the dim space. Ashara turned her head toward the faint light, her gaze vacant.
But instead of the fair-skinned woman she had expected, a boyish yet handso face slowly ca into view as footsteps descended the stairs.
"Y-you... who are you..."
Her throat felt as dry as fire-scorched parchnt, every word coming out cracked and hoarse.
Though Wenda had brought food and water once a day to keep them alive, it was never enough — just barely enough to prevent them from dying before the ransom could be paid. Princess Elia, frail to begin with, had woken a few tis to eat but spent most of her ti unconscious.
"Heh..."
"My na is Ulr. Ulr Sand."
"Sand..."
Ashara's heart skipped a beat. "You're from Dorne!"
Just as "Snow" marked the bastards of the North and "Rivers" those of the Riverlands, "Sand" was the surna given to every Dornish noble's illegitimate child.
As for commoners?
They didn't have surnas at all.
"I forgot to ntion — I hail from Yronwood."
Ulr smiled faintly at her puzzled look, then bent at the waist to perform a perfectly precise courtly bow. His manners were impeccable, the kind only a scion of a great house could possess.
The Yronwoods were one of Dorne's oldest noble families, their lineage as storied as that of House Martell.
Yet Ulr's appearance hardly fit the image of a refined noble. A sword hung at his waist, and a crossbow was strapped across his back — more like a down-on-his-luck hedge knight out of a bard's song than a pampered scion of high birth.
"Yronwood or not, I've never heard your na!" Ashara's anger flared as she shouted, teeth clenched. "And as a Dornishman, you should be ashad to aid these villains — kidnapping a daughter of House Martell!"
Her voice trembled with fury as she struggled against the ropes.
"Neither the Old Gods nor the Mother will forgive you for this!" she cried. "Your soul will burn in the hells for a thousand — no, ten thousand years, never to find redemption!"
"Let us go!"
The coarse rope had already chafed her delicate wrists raw. With every movent, more blood sared across her skin, yet the sight only made her seem all the more fragile — a picture of pitiful, desperate beauty.
"Such a pity, Lady Ashara."
Ulr shook his head, unmoved by her pleas. In one smooth motion, he drew a dagger from his belt and strode toward her.
The most celebrated beauty in Dorne could not make him hesitate.
He shrugged and smiled wolfishly, his dagger gleaming in the dim light.
"Did you forget? I am Sand. I believe neither in the Mother nor the Old Gods. My soul will not go to any hell."
"And you, Ashara Dayne — you will die here. And that proud, beautiful face of yours will rot with you, forever."
With that, the dagger slashed down—
CLANG!
Ashara squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for pain.
But instead of agony, a sharp tallic clang rang out.
Forcing herself to look, she saw a face so familiar it nearly broke her heart.
"Prince Lewyn!"
Her cry ca out as a sob, tears streaming freely.
"I-I thought you were already—"
"I almost was, little Ashara."
Lewyn Martell tossed aside the iron rod in his hand, pinching his fingers together to make a tiny gap and chuckling.
"Missed by this much."
"They thought they could kill the great Prince Lewyn Martell — but they miscalculated! My body is clearly tougher than steel. They can hack and slash at all they want, yet—cough, cough!"
His boast was cut short by a violent fit of coughing. Blood seeped through his clothes, a stark reminder that he was far from unscathed.
"This isn't the ti for talk."
Seeing Ashara's worshipful gaze shift into worry, Lewyn quickly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, trying to look nonchalant. He grabbed a dagger from Ulr's body and cut the ropes binding Ashara.
"Princess Elia!"
Finally freed, Ashara ignored her own bleeding wrists and pointed frantically toward the unconscious girl lying nearby.
Lewyn staggered over, sliced through Elia's bonds, then slung his niece over his shoulder.
"You… you can barely stand, Prince Lewyn. Are you sure you're all right?" Ashara asked, her voice full of worry.
"Relax, little Ashara." Lewyn flashed what he thought was a rakish grin. "I am the great Prince Lewyn Martell! Even Oberyn can't beat — and you think a few thugs like these could? Hah!"
"But..." Ashara said softly, almost apologetically, "Princess Elia told you always snap Prince Oberyn's spear in two before your sparring matches."
"That is slander!" Lewyn nearly jumped in outrage. "He's lying about !"
"Oberyn learned every bit of his spearwork and swordplay from . Since when does a master lose to his student, hmm? Tell I'm wrong!"
"I… suppose not?" Ashara frowned, sensing a flaw in his argunt but unable to counter it.
Their progress was painfully slow, Lewyn nearly collapsing with every other step, until at last they reached the door leading out of the cellar.
Just as Lewyn was about to step outside—
Whizz—THUNK!
An arrow buried itself deep into the doorfra. Both of them spun around in shock.
Ulr — whom they thought unconscious — was dragging himself upright, blood running down his temple, already drawing another arrow to the string.
If his head weren't still swimming, that first shot might have been fatal.
"Damn… should've finished him off!"
Lewyn cursed inwardly but had no ti for regret. He quickly set Elia down and hurled himself at Ulr.
At the very sa mont —
Twang!
The bowstring snapped forward.
Thunk!
A cold, sharp pain blood in Lewyn's chest. He knew instantly that he had been hit.
But he didn't stop. Instead, he forced his body forward, determined to end Ulr's life even if it cost him his own.
Yet reality was cruel. Ulr was no re thug — in Yronwood he had shown more talent than many of his trueborn brothers. And Lewyn was running on nothing but fading willpower.
With grim inevitability, Ulr drew his sword and slashed hard.
The proud Prince of Dorne collapsed, this ti for good.
"I really thought you were dead…"
Ulr spat and kicked Lewyn's lifeless body aside, then turned his attention to the girl huddled against the door, her face pale with terror.
Grinning, he advanced step by step, the blood still dripping from his sword creating an eerie, almost graceful rhythm.
"My apologies for the poor hospitality earlier, Lady Ashara."
"No… no…"
Ashara's fear crested to the breaking point. She clawed at the wooden floor so hard her nails split and bled, yet she didn't even feel the pain — she just kept muttering, her voice cracking:
"Help… soone help …"
"Seven, Old Gods, Mother — I don't care who! Please… save !"
But no divine help ca.
Ulr stopped in front of her, raising his sword high with almost ceremonial flourish.
"Now then, let entertain you properly, Lady Ashara. Tonight, you'll be my honored guest."
"NO!"
Ashara's scream ripped through the night as Ulr brought the sword down—
At that exact instant, a deafening crash shattered the door beside her. Splintered wood slamd into Ulr, hurling him backward.
Moonlight poured through the broken fra.
A towering shadow filled the doorway, the sound of hooves echoing on the stone floor as a rider stepped into the light.
Ashara lifted her tear-streaked face.
A pair of piercing blue eyes glowed in the moonlight, locking onto her as if to confirm her identity.
Then the armored knight dismounted, extended a gauntleted hand, and spoke with calm gravity:
"Ser Lance Lot of the Kingsguard."
"It's an honor to et you, Lady Ashara."
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