Chapter 110 — These Women… Don't Look Like They Came Here for Peace
The Prince's Pass.
Nestled in the Red Mountains, it had always been the primary overland route from the central continent into Dorne — jointly guarded by House Manwoody of Kingsgrave and House Fowler of Skyreach.
The only other land route farther east was the Boneway, commanded by House Yronwood, the "Wardens of the Stone Road."
Beyond these two roads, there was no way into Dorne by land. At least… not unless you counted Targaryens of two centuries ago flying dragons over the mountains and skipping the roads entirely.
And compared to the narrow Boneway, the broad Prince's Pass was the obvious choice — especially now that the Targaryens and the Martells had been at peace for generations.No one expected an ambush.
"Look — up there!"
The tall Dornish knight at the head of the column pointed up at the ridge, practically glowing with enthusiasm.
"When Daeron the Young Dragon invaded Dorne, Lord Lyonel Tyrell's army marched right through this pass — while the king himself took the goat paths over the Boneway to outflank the Dornish! See those bare cliffs? Right there!"
"They say the Reachmen under Tyrell saw the aftermath of old dragon wars — scorched stone from when Rhaenys flew Meraxes here long ago. Even today nothing grows there!"
The riders lifted their heads.
Sure enough, on the mountainside — a strip of barren stone stood out sharply among the dense green. The rock lay fully exposed to the sun, impossible to overlook.The sight left many knights quiet in awe.
Targaryen dragons truly were the strongest weapon ever born. Lance looked too — but his eyes narrowed, skepticism flickering behind them. A century had passed since the Young Dragon's war.
No matter how hot a dragon's flames burned, nature always took back what was scorched. Would nothing really grow here after a hundred years?
Even in his previous life, certain islands devastated by a small boy's button pushing incident had begun showing signs of recovery within decades.
More likely, Lance thought, the stone ridge was never fertile to begin with, and later generations had simply turned it into a dramatic legend.
Still, he didn't argue. He simply urged his horse forward to ride beside the Dornish knight.
"Your wounds aren't troubling you anymore, Prince Lewyn?"
"HAH! Not even a little, Ser Lance!"
Lewyn Martell laughed loudly, thumping his breastplate with his fist as if daring his ribs to complain.
"I haven't even thanked you properly! If you and your sworn brothers hadn't arrived when you did, those butchers would've carved us apart."
"Not that I'm afraid of dying — falling in battle is a proper death for any knight. But I promised Oberyn I'd keep Elia safe before we left. If I return home covered in bandages, that boy will absolutely take it out on me. I can already see the look on his face! HAHAHA!"
He sounded terrified of his nephew in sentiment — but his carefree laugh made it clear he didn't fear him in the slightest.
Lance couldn't help admiring him.
The bastard heals like a miracle.
When they rescued him from the outlaw den, Lewyn had been covered with sword cuts, at least half his bones were cracked, and three arrows were still sticking out of him.
Grand Maester Pycelle had shaken his head over the wounds and called it a miracle the man was even alive.
Yet now — two months later — the Dornish prince was riding ahead of the column like nothing had happened.
If Oberyn had this man's constitution, Clegane never would've popped his skull like a grape.
That thought was… darkly amusing.
And then Lance's attention shifted — to the massive six-horse carriage trailing behind the cavalry.
They had been on the road for five or six days now.
Three women rode inside that carriage.
And somehow… it had been silent the entire time.
Ridiculous.
Lance knew he had nothing to be guilty about — on paper.
But in that carriage sat three women, and two of them had already enjoyed quite intimate contact with him.
And the third — Princess Elia — looked at him every time they met like she was ready to melt on the spot.
And yet…
No whispering.
No arguments.
No daggers behind backs.
Just… silence.
Lance frowned.
That's not normal.
Three women who shouldn't get along… quietly cooperating in the same carriage?
He'd fought in wars, raided bandits' dens, and faced assassins — none of that terrified him.
But this…
This was disturbing.
Something is brewing, he thought.
Whatever was happening behind those curtains — it didn't smell like peace.
Those three weren't quiet because they had nothing to say.
They were quiet because they were planning something.
And for the first time since leaving King's Landing…
Lance subtly tightened his grip on the reins.
Something told him:
The dragons, the Martells, and the road ahead weren't the dangerous part of this journey…
the danger was sitting right there in that carriage.
That those three women had been riding together in the same carriage for nearly a week without so much as a whisper or an argument…
Lance simply could not make sense of it.
He shook his head.
If he couldn't figure it out — he wouldn't bother trying.
I'm a Kingsguard.
Marriage and women… that's a problem for another lifetime.
---
"Riders ahead!"
A knight in dark-green armor, bearing two silver axes on his chest, shouted the warning.
He had a head of long golden hair, curling slightly at the ends, with a clean-shaven jaw and a face so handsome he could have been carved by the Seven themselves. Even while marching he somehow kept those looks immaculate.
He was, in pure beauty, more handsome than Rhaegar — and only just a fraction behind Lance himself.
If not for the dark armor, that golden hair alone could have passed him for a Lannister.
"Easy, Ser Balman."
Seeing him draw steel and brace for battle, Lance clapped him on the shoulder.
"This is Prince Lewyn's homeland. With him here, no one in Dorne will dare try anything."
Balman froze, sheepish, and slid his sword back into its sheath.
The sight made Lance chuckle — the boy looked like a puppy scolded by its master.
Balman came from House Byrch of the Crownlands — son-in-law to Ser Manly Stokeworth. Manly had insisted on adding him to Lance's escort, swearing the young knight idolized the famous Kingsguard captain and simply wanted to "see the world."
Lance owed Manly a few favors, and the man had always been cooperative and never treacherous, so Lance agreed.
A young fellow seeing the world won't die from it.
---
"Franklyn! Franklyn Fowler!"
Lewyn's voice boomed with delight as the group approached the riders ahead. Without hesitation he spurred his horse and charged forward to embrace the man leading them.
Lance did not follow — instead, he slowed the column, keeping the royal carriage well behind him. He motioned for Balman and the others to advance only gradually.
"They're close," Balman murmured, watching Lewyn and the other knight laughing and embracing. "Your sworn brothers must be like that too, Ser — friendship that deep, right?"
Lance snorted, flashing a grin.
"Everyone expresses affection differently, Balman. But no — I do not greet my sworn brothers like that."
He jerked his chin toward the two Dornishmen.
"And they say Dorne is… very open-minded. Sometimes you can't tell who prefers men, who prefers women, or both. Who knows what history those two have."
Balman's spine stiffened.
"What—?!"
The poor boy suddenly couldn't look at Prince Lewyn the same way again.
---
"Come, let me introduce you!"
Lewyn waved them forward to meet the other man.
"This is Franklyn Fowler, Lord of Skyreach. For centuries his house has held the Prince's Pass on behalf of the Martells."
Lance dipped his head politely.
"Your loyalty does you great honor, Lord Fowler."
"You flatter me, Ser Lance."
Franklyn bowed slightly, his tone smooth and elegant.
"Your feats at Duskendale and against the Kingswood Brotherhood are known throughout Dorne. Compared to your valor, my watch on this pass is a very small contribution."
Clever old fox.
Even knowing the flattery was exaggerated, it washed down sweet enough that Lance offered him a warm smile.
Finally — a noble who speaks with sense, not someone who lifts his chin to the sky like Rhaegar or Brandon.
But then he noticed Balman.
The young knight wasn't listening to a single word — his eyes were fixed on the two identical girls standing behind Lord Fowler. Blonde, beautiful, same face, same curves — twins.
The boy was practically drooling.
"Focus, idiot."
Lance smacked him so hard his helmet nearly flew off.
Lady Tanda Stokeworth had warned Lance before they left:
their son-in-law had the self-control of a drunken peacock when it came to women.
Sure enough — the twins giggled brightly at Balman's humiliation, only fueling the boy's dazed stare.
But rather than shy away from the attention, the sisters turned their flirtation to Lance, offering him two synchronized, shameless winks.
Even Lord Fowler didn't scold them — merely folded his arms and looked on with amusement.
Dorne really is something else, Lance thought.
He turned subtly toward the royal carriage.
Behind the curtain, he could have sworn a pair of lilac-violet eyes — Rhaella Targaryen's eyes — were peeking at him in silence.
---
Then — thunder.
"Rrrrrrumble…!"
Hooves hammered the ground.
Dust filled the air.
More riders — a lot of them.
Franklyn squinted into the cloud of dirt.
"Must be Blackmont riders."
Through the haze of sand, the faint outline of a bright yellow vulture banner came into view. Franklyn Fowler lowered his voice, though it carried a weight that hadn't been there before.
A beat later, even Lewyn Martell's smile vanished. He muttered under his breath:
"She came?"
Hearing that, Lance raised an eyebrow. He subtly shifted in the saddle—just enough to free his giant sword in an instant if needed.
After all, when a host arrives at full gallop carrying their banner, there is rarely anything friendly about it.
And sure enough—
The riders burst from the dust like a wave. Dozens of mounted knights, their armor filmed with sand. The one at their head wore a headscarf and a veil across the face, but the build left little doubt:
A woman.
Her eyes were proud—too proud. Lance was suddenly reminded of his first, disastrous meeting with Rhaegar.
Only when the dust finally settled did the woman lift her veil.
A thin face. Sharp cheekbones. A beauty spoiled by bitterness and edge.
Her gaze swept past Lance without the slightest interest and landed squarely on Lord Franklyn.
Her voice cut the air like fingernails dragged slowly across slate—shrill, mocking, and designed to humiliate.
"So early? And you didn't think to warn me to leave sooner, Lord Franklyn?"
Her eyes narrowed in accusation.
"Or… were you afraid Blackmont might steal the glory of welcoming the Queen first?"
---