GOT: Reborn as a Martell

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.

....

The battle was as thick as the rain drops which kept falling with no signs of slowing down.

Oberyn allowed himself a look behind him, to see Quentyn had already broken his spear, and was fighting with his Valyrian steel sword in hand.

Seeing that he was managing just as well on his own, Oberyn made to cut down a few more knights who fancied themselves heroes. One exceptionally brave soul bearing the sigil of House Wylde nearly managed to knock Oberyn off his horse before a footman's axe forced him to shift his attention elsewhere.

He wanted to urge himself forward, but a panicked neigh followed by an all too familiar cry made him turn his head immediately.

The white sand steed that his nephew rode had been struck by a lance, and he had had the unfortunate chance to be stuck under it, writhing in the mud and grass.

"PROTECT THE PRINCE!" Oberyn yelled behind him, hoping someone would hear, as he jumped off his horse to help Quentyn to his feet.

"Are you hurt?" Oberyn found the time to ask, seeing that Archibald Yronwood had also dismounted and given his help, quickly followed by the Drinkwater boy.

"My legs feel like they've been shaken but I can stand," Quentyn quickly reassured him, sword drawn, shield up and ready.

"Stand behind me, Quentyn," Oberyn warned as he saw a few dark figures approaching, readying his spear to welcome the first opponent.

They were on horseback, trying to cut through the sellswords like they were butter.

A simple slash of his spear between the horse's eyes sent the animal tumbling to the ground, blood gushing from its head.

Quentyn finished the job by jabbing his sword in the helm's visor, painting the knight's shield bright red.

The two others that came close behind were not luckier. Archibald's hammer got one, while a Golden Company knight victoriously fought the last one.

"Connington is coming, my prince!" the knight yelled at him. "Glory and victory await…"

He did not finish as an arrow struck his elbow, sending him tumbling off his horse and into the ground, where he was trampled by a riderless spooked horse, running through the thick mud that had become the battlefield.

Oberyn was now isolated, and all he could do now was hold and pray to the gods that Fowler's gamble had worked.

No horn had yet sounded the retreat, and there still were many men in golden armor before them. No reason to panic, yet. They could stand their ground, for now.

"Thank you, uncle." Oberyn felt Quentyn struggling to stand on the unstable ground, but he nodded.

"We'll talk later, now is the time to fight," Oberyn warned, pointing to a group of oncoming footmen.

Quentyn immediately raised his shield, parrying the blow of the first man's pike.

Oberyn realized they were only lightly armored, and some did not even have helms. Likely poorly trained levies, hastily given a weapon and some clothes.

No matter, they are trying to kill us and that's all that matters.

Five stood before them a few moments ago, none were left standing once the Martells had danced through them.

"Cavalry!"

A voice resonated through the ranks.

"Spears and shields, spears and shields!"

A horseman wearing a golden chestplate jolted through the ranks, encouraging men to stand up and raise their weapons.

"Be ready for shock!" The man cried as he went past everyone.

Oberyn understood. Tarly was throwing his last reserves into the battle, likely intended to finally break the center which was holding thanks to their intervention.

But it also meant that these were fresh troops, and that Fowler had nothing else to send.

Though, as if they were one mind, the men lined up in rows, raising their shields, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups and rows.

Oberyn pushed Quentyn behind him, standing with Gerris and another Dornish knight who had managed to rally them.

But if Oberyn expected the full shock of a cavalry charge, he was to be sorely disappointed.

Instead, knights came running one by one, or by groups of two or three, completely uncoordinated. There was no massive charge, just a flurry of small groups trying to break through.

Still, the shock was serious. There were not a lot of knights on horseback in this part of the battle, which made the fight risky and unequal.

More than once, Oberyn had to thank Archibald's hammer or Gerris' quick wits to save them from a serious beating. Or worse.

Oberyn laughed. Is this what the Reachers had prepared for us? A few pathetic riders?

He thanked the gods for not saying that out loud, else Quentyn might've just killed him then and there when a wave of horses charged, spears in hand.

The shock was the most cataclysmic of the night. Sparks of silver, red and gold flew across the field as Oberyn braced.

When he finally looked back, the battlefield was chaos once again. Everyone was fighting a furious melee. It wasn't about breaking through or managing to push back the enemy, it was all about survival.

Kill one enemy, wound another, maim another, repeat.

But this time, the golden helms and plates were becoming fickle.

The red armbands were disappearing and when combat was one on one before, it was now becoming seriously unequal.

Oberyn held two Reacher footmen at bay, expertly using his spear and shield to take out the both of them, but then realized he had strayed too far from his own nephew.

He turned around, and saw that they were nowhere to be seen. In the darkness, the red armbands had become lost, and all he could see were dark figures dancing around, waiting to be the next demon to come to try and seize him into the depths.

Panicked, Oberyn felt his heart race. Something which hadn't happened in twenty years.

He was late for Elia, he could not be late for Quentyn too.

Heart beating, he tried to retrace his steps. Every body, every mound of dirt became like a landmark to Oberyn as he rushed through the fighting to try and retrace his steps.

Nothing.

It is as if they vanished.

Suddenly, a sword raised itself upon him, and Oberyn did not have time to think about that anymore. He parried with his shield, and came face to face with his opponent.

"Drinkwater!" He exclaimed.

The knight stood shocked and then pointed to his right arm and helm.

In the chaos, Oberyn had lost his armband, and the rain had almost dyed out his helm, which now looked as if he were bleeding profusely instead of having it marked in the shape of a dragon.

Oberyn breathed a sigh of relief, and looked as Archibald and Quentyn fought off two attackers.

Quentyn's skill at arms was still evident, but the man he was fighting clearly had experience. Taller and bulkier, the Oakheart knight was trying to bully Quentyn into submission, until a cut across the elbow finally made him reconsider.

The Valyrian steel shattered the corner in the armor, making the knight wince in pain, allowing his nephew to finish him by driving the sword through his throat.

Oberyn quickly made his way back to him, seeing with horror that he was now only holding half a shield, the other half having been shattered by something.

"Quentyn! Stand behind me!" Oberyn ordered.

Quentyn obeyed, falling back with the Drinkwater knight as Oberyn struggled to hold back wave after wave of attacks.

Is it possible that we had miscounted? That there were more than thirty thousand men in Tarly's host? We are already fighting with uneven numbers, if there were more, the fight would be two-to-one.Oberyn began to consider the unthinkable.Should we retreat, try to make it back to our starting lines?

He immediately threw away that idea. In the dark, it was as good as trying to find one's way in the Shadow City with a blindfold on. No, all they could do was hold and hope someone sounded the retreat.

But the opponents kept coming, and soon, men got to Quentyn, who was defending himself fiercely, standing atop two bodies now.

Oberyn fought with vigour, desperate to protect his nephew, but with every opponent Oberyn seemed to vanquish, two more appeared.

He fought off a knight in Costayne colors, then another with the sigil of House Mertyns. Turning around, he saw Gerris Drinkwater fending off two knights, while Quentyn did the same on his side.

His nephew was fighting with just as much strength as he expected from a knight trained by the Yronwoods. His first opponent fell to the ground, screaming, and Oberyn cracked a smile.

However, Quentyn made the mistake of lowering his guard, and the Blackbar knight that he had successfully fought off till then pounced.

With rage, the Reacher shoved Quentyn to the ground, and brought his sword on Quentyn's already tested armor. Hit on the side, Quentyn winced in pain, allowing the Blackbar knight to get another hit, in the stomach.

"NO!" Oberyn let out a blood-curdling scream, sending his spear directly through the knight's helm, sending him to the ground.

Oberyn took a few moments to try to see if Quentyn was well, but the fight soon took its toll, and he had to fight off more enemies.

Glancing at his nephew, he saw that his body had gone limp, and blood was running along his face and belly.

No! No, I can't have failed, not again!

"PROTECT THE PRINCE!" Oberyn yelled in despair, as Gerris Drinkwater and Archibald Yronwood soon saw the tragedy that was happening before their eyes.

"No!" Gerris also let out as he rushed to his side. "Quentyn! Answer me!"

The Drinkwater knight had no more luck than Oberyn.

"It cannot end like this!" Archibald cried out; his voice broken.

Gerris was struck, and he, like Oberyn, felt rage in his veins.

He lunged forward, at a knight in front of him, cutting him to pieces.

Oberyn followed his example, but the exercise became difficult.

No one had rallied them, and who could blame them? Oberyn's shining armor was now brown with mud and red with the blood of friend and foe alike.

He pushed through, holding for dear life.

Quentyn isn't dead, he told himself. He's just knocked out. He had to be.

He ignored the blood mingling with the grass at his feet.

He would protect his prince.

Alongside Gerris Drinkwater, Oberyn snapped at every opponent, until pain caught his right side.

A footman had lodged his pike in his thigh.

It was the last thing he ever did, but now, Oberyn was hampered.

He did his best to not fall to the pain, to not let his vision be clouded, and a cry of pain was just what he needed.

Drinkwater had likely dispatched another man.

But when he turned his head, he saw the young Drinkwater boy holding his stomach, armor pierced, blood gushing out.

Archibald Yronwood caved the assailant's head in with his hammer, but Drinkwater fell, almost in Oberyn's arms.

He immediately raised his helm so the boy could breathe easier.

"I'm sorry…" Gerris Drinkwater coughed, blood staining his mail and armor, "I could not protect him…"

"Drinkwater, don't die on me as well!" Oberyn choked out, acknowledging the impossible, using another body to help the young boy's head relax.

"Tell Elinor I love her, please…" Drinkwater's voice was pained.

"You'll tell her yourself," Oberyn reassured him. "Play dead and wait out the battle."

"I fear I'm no great mummer," Gerris laughed, coughing up more blood, "but this is a part I can play quite easily tonight."

"Don't be stupid, boy!" Oberyn shook him, constantly watching if someone was not trying to kill him from behind.

"Please…" Drinkwater begged, "Elinor…"

"I'll tell her," Oberyn let out.

The boy didn't have time to say anything else as he went limp, blood covering his chin and spilling onto his chest. Did he hear him? He hoped. He prayed.

Suddenly, Archibald Yronwood's voice came as they had moved back, defending the two bodies on the ground as if they were guarding a king's treasure.

"My prince, take care to your left!"

Oberyn reacted and killed an adventurous footman.

"My prince, take care to your right!"

Another charge, this time from a Graceford man, who soon laid dead in a pool of mud and blood.

Archibald for his part swung his hammer wildly at anything and anyone that approached them, guarding the bodies of his friends, but he too was losing strength.

"My prince, it's been an honor fighting alongside you," Archibald let out.

"It has been my privilege to die alongside you, Yronwood," Oberyn acknowledged.

He would not run.

He would die here, with his family, and with his compatriots.

Three more men, panicked, lunged at him.

At the beginning of the battle, he would have had enough strength to push them back, but not now. Not anymore.

The first, he killed.

The second disarmed him.

The third drove his sword through his side.

Oberyn fell to the ground, watching Archibald fight off his attackers, and turning to him, saying something that he could not understand, gently removing his helm.

Oberyn just gazed at the night sky, which had now become red.

Was it blood? Or was it Dawn finally rising?

Drops fell on his now exposed face. Blood? Water? Is it still raining?

Oberyn didn't know.

He couldn't hear anymore. There were no sounds. The battle was something far away.

He blinked.

Archibald was towering over him, slapping his cheeks, whilst another man soon came behind him, wearing red and white.

Oberyn barely had the strength to point behind Arch, who turned around and reached for his hammer.

Too late.

Oberyn looked at the sky, avoiding the sight of another of the men that had stood by him being killed, and avoiding the sight of his dead nephew beside him.

"I've failed…" he managed to let out. "I'm so sorry, mother. I've failed again."

He saw red. Then white. Then nothing at all.

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