GOT: Reborn as a Martell

( Edric POV )

Edric felt elation as he removed his helm.

Elation at the thought of having won the battle, but also elation at the fact that it was finally over.

He had been worried, charging into the night, under the rain, that they'd just run into a wall of Stormlander spears.

Instead, the Dayne and Connington charge completely dislocated the right wing of Tarly's device. They had completely massacred the infantry standing in their way, routed the cavalry, and managed to flank the Reachers from behind, forcing them to try to break out towards the pass in a desperate attempt to counter the encirclement.

But Dorne and the Golden Company had stood. They had not let Tarly pass, and preferred to stand their ground, even if it meant dying where they stood.

Edric himself had spotted the old commander, even though, in the heat of the battle, he did not know who he had been facing.

Sword in hand, he faced off against Lord Tarly, and slew him in personal combat, taking the prized Valyrian steel blade 'Heartsbane' as his own, as a war prize.

It is thus that Edric found himself in the middle of the ruins, making his way back to camp, looking around at the death and desolation on the battlefield.

If the Reachers suffered a catastrophic defeat here, it seems that the Dornish left and center were bled dry.

Slowly, the feeling of elation left Edric. They had won, yes, but at what cost?

The rain had stopped, but the grey skies looked as if they were bringing more in a few moments.

Edric felt like he had been soaked enough for today, and urged his horse forward, towards the Dornish quarters.

He had no difficulty in finding his tent, closely guarded by a few Dayne men who had been left behind to defend the camp in case of a flanking manoeuvre by the Reachers towards their rear, and it now became apparent just how badly the battle went for those who did not charge with him.

Stretchers littered the camp, with men moaning and crying in pain. Some did not speak anymore, their bodies taken by the Silent Sisters, or having a septon mumble the last rites over their cold bodies before moving on to the next.

A sinister spectacle, and one that completely erased Edric's victorious feeling as he descended from his horse.

He spared a look towards the Golden Company's camp, where, even in the dim light of the early morning, he could see the piles of golden plates and helms.

How many of the Company had died? Probably more than the Dornishmen.

If only they had the elephants ready!

But speed was key, and the slow-moving animals were left behind, not due to arrive for another five days, taking their time in these tortuous passes of the Marches. And the Marches did not have the wide, paved, roads of Dorne.

Edric entered his tent and breathed a sigh of relief, placing Heartsbane down alongside his own sword.

Had he made his family proud? Certainly.

But that did not bring him any joy.

His mind moving slowly, he removed his armor, and passed water on his face, removing the mud, blood and sweat that had stuck to it for so much of the night and morning.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he could see that he looked like absolute shit.

His blond hair was a mess, his eyes were heavy and yearned for rest, while his mouth was rugged with dead skin and blood.

Edric's muscles felt heavy, and he collapsed on his chair, doing his best not to close his eyes. There were still things to be done: rest would wait.

At least, I am unharmed.

That's what he told himself. Unharmed and still able to fight another day.

Although, after today, he wondered if he wished to fight at all.

Sighing, he took Heartsbane, strapped it to his back, with difficulty, and went outside. He had to find where Connington was.

After all, if they had triumphed today, it was also because of the Old Griffin's great leadership in holding the right flank as a coherent force, and tempering the ardor of the Dornish cavalry.

It wasn't hard to find the red-haired man, his red and white sigil being recognizable from afar.

Stepping towards him, Edric tried to regain his composure, and called him out.

"Lord Connington!"

"Lord Dayne," Connington acknowledged him without emotion.

"I wished to thank you for your leadership today. If the day was ours, it is thanks to you." Edric bowed.

The Old Griffin stared at him blankly for a moment, but nodded.

"Thank you for your compliments, Lord Dayne, you did not do so badly yourself, but there is something you must see."

Connington motioned him to follow in his footsteps, leading the way through the mess of horses, men, maesters and septons.

They reached a large, green tent. One reserved for the dead and wounded.

Connington led him to an area which was cluttered with men, their helms by their side, all watching in silence.

The Old Griffin dispersed them with a few words, and they approached two makeshift beds, made of nothing more than hastily drawn sheets.

Edric felt the color drain from his face as he recognized the two men lying there, the life drained from their body.

The first was Gerris.

Comely, loyal and dutiful Gerris, who had travelled half the world with him, now lay dead, his eyes fixed towards the sky, a gaping wound in his chest clearly showing how he had died.

The second was Prince Oberyn.

The Red Viper lay in a similar position, with his eyes fixed towards the sky. Though, unlike Gerris, he had suffered much more, his face having numerous cuts, and his body twice as many.

"I was late," Connington finally spoke, looking over the body of the Red Viper. "If my charge had broken through a few moments earlier, he would still be alive."

Edric said nothing, instead staring into the lifeless eyes of Prince Oberyn, a sudden realization gripping his soul.

"Prince Quentyn…" he finally made out, his voice pained with grief.

"Come," Connington told him, and so he followed, feeling like he was just moving behind a funerary procession.

"I was late for the Viper, but came at the right time for the young one, or at least, I thought as much."

Connington pointed to a bed where Edric immediately recognized Prince Quentyn, or, well enough, anyways.

At his side was Archibald, his eyes heavy with fatigue, watching over his friend.

Connington just left him there, and Edric felt pain grip his heart.

Should I have stayed with Quentyn instead of pursuing my own glory? After all, it was Quentyn who took him as his squire, made him discover the world and helped him become a Lord, a warrior and a friend, all the while helping House Dayne to soar to new heights.

Where had he been when he needed him, though? Chasing dreams of a glory that everyone will have forgotten in a few moons?

Edric did not dare move forward. He did not want to face the consequences of his arrogance. But yet, his feet commanded him to move, and so he did.

Quentyn's figure became clearer. He had been stripped of his top, bandages covering his entire body, as well as half of his face.

Red and black still covered some of the skin that appeared to him, his arms completely banded in white, such that Edric was worried he'd been amputated of both arms for a brief moment.

Archibald finally looked up at him, and sighed.

"Ned." He nodded. "Congratulations on your victory."

"What is a victory if I failed to protect my prince and my friend?" Edric asked in return.

"A sounding defeat." Arch turned his eyes towards Quentyn.

It is only now that Edric noticed that the prince's eyes were closed, as if he had gone into a peaceful slumber.

"Is…" Edric choked out, "is he…"

"Dead?" Archibald inquired. "No, not according to the maesters. But he has suffered numerous wounds, and lost a lot of blood. The maester tried to revive him, but to no avail."

"When will he wake up?"

"Days, moons, months, mayhaps never." Arch sighed. "The maester said that if he did not wake up after three days, then all hope might just be lost."

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