GOT: Reborn as a Martell

( Oberyn POV )

Cold, rain and mud.

These were the three things that continued to wear down the Royal host as their progression north continued, even in the middle of the night.

Well, better these than enemies.

Indeed, thanks to Blackhaven's quick fall, they had been able to push quite quickly past Summerhall and into the valleys leading to King's Landing.

There were no more narrow passes and long winding roads through the hills. Only straight roads, forests and rivers that sometimes overflowed.

But something that worried Oberyn to no end was the weather. Ever since they left Blackhaven, almost a moon ago, the sky had not cleared. Rain and fog succeeded one another, which had not left much room for the dragons to take flight.

Instead, outriders and scouts were sent, and that is precisely why Oberyn was awake at this hour.

He hurriedly donned his armor and rushed towards his nephew's tent.

To his surprise, he found Quentyn dressed, pacing inside his tent like a lion in a cage.

"Nephew, I'm surprised to find you awake," Oberyn said as he nodded to him.

"I'm too nervous to sleep, I must admit," Quentyn replied with a thinly disguised tiredness in his voice, "battle is likely almost upon us."

"You presume well, nephew." Oberyn nodded. "Yronwood's outriders clashed with Tarly's cavalry not far away from here, at a place called Kinrock."

"That's right beyond the woods, a terrain that suits Tarly well," Quentyn reacted, "but if we are to have battle tomorrow, why are you awake?"

"Because Tarly is progressing towards us, and fast. Thirty thousand strong. He means to give battle tonight, before dawn."

Quentyn looked shocked.

"Then why haven't the trumpets been sounded?" Quentyn asked, confused.

"They will soon, I just wished for you to be the first to be informed."

Almost as soon as the words left Oberyn's lips, trumpets sounded outside, and a large rumble began to be heard. Even in the dark of night, everyone was at the ready.

"What does Tarly mean to do? Catch us unaware?" Quentyn asked his uncle, now not hiding his worries.

"Mayhaps." Oberyn nodded in turn. "And then throw us against the pass from whence we came. If we are in disarray, we would lose a good portion of our forces there."

"I assume Yronwood and Connington have taken their positions?" Quentyn's eyes drifted outside.

"Runners are on their way. Now, come, and start donning your armor." Oberyn looked around the tent. "Where is Nym?"

Quentyn's reply was quick, "With the Queen. She's preparing her for battle, and how to use her dragon to support our troops without having to take flight."

"She'll be staying with her, then?" Oberyn almost breathed a sigh of relief, remembering when Nym had asked him to participate in the battle, something neither he nor Quentyn, in agreement, wanted to give.

"Yes, throughout the battle, she'll stay with her and Ser Barristan," Quentyn confirmed.

Oberyn smiled. At least, Nym would be kept away from the thick of the fighting, and even if some would come to her, Drogon would have burnt them to a crisp, with the survivors finding Ser Barristan's blade.

He let Quentyn prepare himself with his new squire, Vincent Toland, for Ned Dayne was now knighted, by Ser Barristan's blade, no less, after his success at Blackhaven. And now the young lord was to command the Dornish contingent of Connington's cavalry forces, that is to say, almost two thirds of it.

When Quentyn joined him outside the tent, it was in full battle armor, his Valyrian steel sword at his side, with Vincent Toland hurrying along, carrying his shield.

Under the helm, Oberyn could see that Quentyn's breathing was erratic, and his hands shook, likely in fright.

"You're nervous," Oberyn noted.

"Thank you for your astute observation, Uncle," Quentyn's voice resounded through his helm. It was a bit more confident than before, but he knew of his nephew's tendency to use sarcasm as a way of distracting himself.

"We shall be fine," Oberyn tried to reassure him. "We are to be in the reserves, and if everything goes well, they shall not be committed. Yronwood can handle that old man, Orton Merryweather, and Connington is a much more skilled commander than Arstan Selmy or Richard Morrigen."

Quentyn's retort was quick, "You know nothing ever goes perfectly to plan, Uncle."

"True, but even if we are to give battle, I've seen your prowess with a blade." Oberyn put his own helm on and saddled his horse. "You defeated Gerold Dayne, which is no small feat, and you beat Ned Dayne and Archibald Yronwood too."

Quentyn looked at him, his eyes likely narrowing through his helm, as Vincent helped Quentyn saddle his horse, giving him his shield.

"I beat Gerold because my blade was laced with poison, hardly a fair fight," Quentyn finally replied as he turned his horse forward, following the dim glow of the torches in the distance, while his horse waded in the mud that had begun to accumulate. "I can no longer beat Ned and Arch just lets me win. And even then, battle is not the same as single combat."

Oberyn had no answer to that. He knew all too well that the chaos of battle was something that nothing, not even the best training, could prepare you for.

"Stay by my side, and I promise nothing will happen to you," Oberyn replied, feeling the rain fall on his helm.

Quentyn turned to him and just nodded, urging his horse forward.

He and Oberyn did not take long to find the main force of the reserves. Archibald Yronwood, Gerris Drinkwater and Gulian Qorgyle were already waiting for him, by Franklyn Fowler. Cletus Yronwood would not participate in the battle with them, his father having chosen to keep his son with him.

Oberyn could hardly blame him. Aren't I trying to keep my nephew safe as well?

In the dark, Oberyn noted that the Golden Company shone bright in front of them, leading the way forward.

Golden banners, golden helms and golden shields almost gave the enemy a tempting target, and it seemed like this was the plan.

Let the enemy break itself on the sellswords, and deliver the killing blow once he has been exhausted. Tarly will not resist such an offering.

Other banners fluttered in the wind, to the left and right. Dornish banners, these ones, but a few others too. Velaryon, Baratheon, Bar Emmon, Massey and Celtigar could be found alongside Connington's, on the right, while the banners of a few Essosi sellswords and slaves could be find with Yronwood, on the left.

"The dragons are in position, Lord Fowler."

A runner had come to announce the news, to which the Old Hawk nodded.

King Aegon's dragon had been placed on the right, to avoid any flanking from the woods, while Queen Daenerys' dragon had been placed to the left, to stop any maneuverer from hitting the reserves in the back.

As for the wild dragon, the Queen had thought it best to leave it at the pass with a dozen Unsullied, in case some outriders tried to seize it to cut off a potential retreat.

A horn sounded and Oberyn noticed through the curtain of rain that Yronwood had launched a charge onto the enemy left flank, trying to break through Tarly's light cavalry screen.

Another horn was heard, this time to the right, with Connington mimicking the movement, Dayne banners floating alongside the two griffins.

"Ah, the boldness of youth!" Lord Franklyn boomed, right next to Quentyn.

Perhaps not the best choice of words, as his nephew did not immediately respond.

"It must be good, to be young again!" Lord Fowler continued, "the unstoppable youth of Dorne will avenge us tonight, my prince. You shall be proud of them!"

Quentyn chose not to answer for a few moments, then, still through his helm, in a soft voice, let out a few words that stunned Lord Fowler.

"Youth…aye. And some will have it granted eternally today. The Stranger will ensure that they shall never grow old."

"And the rest, well, they will become old tonight," came Gerris Drinkwater's voice.

Oberyn did not need to be a wise man to know that the Drinkwater – or was it Dayne, now? – had subtly said 'the rest' instead of 'the living'.

Lord Fowler chose to wisely not answer.

For the Old Hawk, it was his moment of glory, of finally avenging the affront of the Trident.

But for Quentyn, this would be war. And as Quentyn had told him, in the words of Lady Catelyn Stark, War would make them all old.

The rain kept pouring on them, and a few flashes of lightning could be seen in the distance. Silence and apprehension had settled as the view of the battle became chaotic, only being broken with a few runners bringing news of the advance.

Suddenly, riders approached in the distance, to the left.

Another runner?

Oberyn squinted, trying to get a look at the banners, when realization struck him like a lance striking his shield in a joust.

"MULLENDORE!"

Oberyn screamed at the top of his lungs when he finally saw that the brown dots on the shields were not the black ones of the Coles of the Golden Company.

"Our left must have been routed!" Fowler cried out, trying to get his words across the rain, "Why didn't Yronwood warn us?"

Oberyn watched helplessly as a contingent of two hundred knights slammed into the Golden Company's left flank, now deprived of Yronwood's support.

"They can hold!" Trebor Jordayne cried out. "They can get a few men out of the line and…"

Suddenly, before them, in the distance, a large flash of silver appeared out of the dark.

Oberyn's first thought was that lightning must've struck in the corner of his eye, and close, striking down a tree. But then Fowler's words brought him to his senses.

"They're charging!"

Indeed, in a few moments, he heard a gigantic crunch and a large series of cries. Tarly had slammed his line into the Golden Company, their center. With Yronwood routed, nothing could stop whoever was in charge of the left, Merryweather or otherwise, from collapsing into them and potentially creating a rout…

A flash of yellow flame in the distance brought the attention back to the left.

The first Westerosi dead to a dragon in nearly two hundred years…

"They're trying to outflank us, Yronwood is beaten!" Quentyn's voice was clearly panicked, but Fowler kept calm, quickly turning his head to Lord Jordayne.

"Trebor, take half our reserves and break that flanking attempt! And find a runner that can get Yronwood and ask him what the devil is going on!"

Oberyn did not hear what Lord Jordayne heard, but soon enough, the entire left of the reserves came down like one man, charging towards where the Reacher cavalry was last seen.

Another shock was heard, and a lot of cries, once again.

Before them, the fighting was chaotic. The rain, clouds and night had obscured almost everything. All they could see was flashes of light, silver and gold, and the sounds of a massive fight going on just a few paces in front of them.

"Lord Fowler!" A messenger cried out. "The Golden Company says that they're being swarmed by the numbers! The Reachers have committed everything they have, they have struck their left unopposed and have no news from Connington! He requests help to stop Tarly from breaking through to the pass!"

"My lord!" Another messenger arrived before Fowler could issue anything. "Yronwood is sorry for the slight delay, but his charge got bogged down and mostly cut to pieces by the Reacher cavalry. He is trying to reform in the woods, but will not be ready to regain his position for another hour."

"Damn that fool!" Franklyn Fowler cursed. "If not for him, I wouldn't have needed to commit Jordayne so early, and I've got only myself to offer the sellswords!"

The realization dawned on Oberyn. This was it. After their five thousand men, there was nothing to stop Tarly from breaking through and potentially annihilating their army. They needed to be pushed back before sunrise.

"Ser Desmond, order our remaining foot to reinforce Strickland's," Fowler said to a knight on his right, "we will wait a few moments to charge ourselves."

"Well, then, we shall bloody our swords tonight." Franklyn Fowler turned to Oberyn as he lowered his helm. "Be careful where you strike."

Oberyn nodded and lowered his own helm. Impatience had gradually taken over, and silence loomed once again over the row of horsemen, ready to charge into the unknown.

"Is it too late to go take a piss?" Quentyn asked, his voice trembling.

A chuckle went through the ranks closest to him, but Oberyn knew it was likely not a jest.

"FOR DORNE AND THE DRAGONS!" Lord Fowler finally raised his sword in the air, seeing the Golden Company's line come dangerously close to them, with some Reacher banners now being able to be seen despite the dense curtain of rain.

Oberyn urged his horse forward, following Lord Fowler's lead, a cry resonating behind him.

The shock wasn't as brutal as he thought, but with such low visibility, precautions were to be taken if the sellswords had managed to turn the tide.

The Reacher cavalry felt the shock as Oberyn's spear cut through two knights in quick succession. Thank the gods for the golden helms and armor of the sellswords, even in this light, they are visible.

And with the battle happening at night, all the royalists had worn both a red armband and had a red streak in the shape of a dragon painted on their helm and armor. It reduced the chances of accidents, though some poor sods would likely be killed by their own friends anyway.

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