When young Monterys Velaryon informed Oberyn that he was requested to be present at supper with the king in the Great Hall, Oberyn expected the king to be surrounded by a cluster of Tyrells. To his mild surprise, the Great Hall was empty of courtiers with the exception of the king himself and Ser Rolly Duckfield, and it was at a long table the king was seated at, not the dais.

"Prince Oberyn," said the king, smiling when Oberyn entered the Great Hall. "I am delighted you can join me for supper. Please, sit."

"Your Grace," greeted Oberyn, sitting down opposite the king. "I am honoured to be invited to supper. Are we waiting for your other guests?"

The king shook his head. "It'll be only us, Prince Oberyn. Since my arrival here, we haven't yet had the chance to dine alone. There are all those council meetings, and the Tyrells have been insisting I sup with them almost every day. I'm pleased that they have accepted me so easily, but I do wish to know you and my Dornish relations a little better. You are my family after all."

Oberyn smiled. "We of House Martell will never abandon our family."

"I'm thankful you are here, Prince Oberyn. Spiced eggs? I hear they are quite a popular choice in Dorne."

"It is." Oberyn helped himself to a serving of spiced eggs and stuffed greens on flatbread. "When I was a child, my companions and I would challenge each other to eat spicy food. We'd start with your tolerant level of spice and then it would be a little spicier and so on. First to yield would be given a penalty. We'd all be quite red-faced afterwards." He chuckled at the fond memory. When he was a boy, he'd once challenged Doran to a spice contest. Doran had declined. Back then, Oberyn had thought Doran was a coward for refusing the challenge.

"Did my mother participate in these spice contests?"

Oberyn's smile grew reflective. "I would love to say she did, Your Grace, but it would be a lie. Your mother had fragile health and it was feared that if she joined us in our…raucous activities, she might die. However, I do recall Elia joining us in one spice contest with our cousins Mors and Manfrey and Ashara Dayne. We had tried very spicy fire peppers for the first time that day and all ended up splashing about in the pools in the Water Gardens to cool off from all that spicy heat! It was a good day, that one." He reached for his cup of Dornish strongwine and sipped it. He smacked his lips. The Dornish strongwine was good – sweet too. It was sweet as vengeance. Not that he had tasted the full sweetness of vengeance just yet. The sight of his nephew Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne was only the start.

"Did my father love my mother?"

"Yes." Oberyn did not hesitate in his answer. "They were happy…at first. They respected each other and Elia did her duty. Almost died, but she still did it." Rage boiled within him. Childbirth nearly killed Elia and what did Rhaegar do? It most certainly was not being satisfied with two children and caring for his wife.

"Lord Connington saw no wrong in my father," said the king quietly, as if he'd read Oberyn's angry thoughts. "He thought him a godsend angel."

"A lie!" Oberyn couldn't help spitting out.

"No one can be perfect," the king agreed, prodding his uneaten pigeon pie with his knife. He stared vaguely at his goblet. "Would my father do it?" he inquired in a sudden sort of way. "Would my father kill his hostages?"

Oberyn arched an eyebrow as he drank more Dornish red. "Are you bearing it in mind, Your Grace? Do you plan to kill your hostages?"

The king continued to poke his pie in such a manner that it reminded Oberyn of when one of daughters in their girlhood would try and steal a weapon or two from him without his knowledge, and feel guilty about it afterwards.

"I need to show Orys Baratheon that I'm not fooling with him," said the king, a minute or two later. "I want peace, but he must know that I'm the rightful king. If it comes to it, I plan to kill a hostage. What else are they for? Negotiations are not going anywhere and the longer we wait, the chances of the other lords swearing fealty to me lessens. Right now loyalties are wavering and I need their support. It is imperative. Absolutely imperative."

It was probably a Tyrell who influenced the king to think that way. Trust those Tyrells to do that. The Queen of Thorns must be very convinced in Aegon, Oberyn pondered. Perhaps she wants her Baratheon good-granddaughter dead now too, as any child she has would be a rival to her granddaughter's little Targaryens. Who knew what the wily Queen of Thorns wanted – with a claim, she could secure the Iron Throne for the Tyrells. Oberyn suppressed a glower. I'd rather have my eyes gauged out than swear commitment to a Tyrell king. A Tyrell queen was tolerable – for the sake of restoring and keeping Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne. The next Targaryen king will most certainly not wed a Reach maiden, Oberyn thought. I will make sure of that.

"Prince Oberyn?" The king was expecting an answer.

"Killing hostages will not bond you any closer to the people," said Oberyn with careful consideration in his words. "The people may view killing hostages as very cruel and think your victims as martyrs who died for the Baratheon cause. If you had a male hostage or two, wounding them and sending a limb or two can deliver a message, but as you only have women…" He allowed his voice to trail away.

"I have no desire to be seen as the most dishonourable man in Westeros," said the king flatly. He pushed his plate of pie away. "However, the stag loyalists need to know that I am not weak!"

The doors of the Great Hall creaked open and the Spider, smiling as usual, and the sour-faced Lord Celtigar entered. The king clicked his tongue in annoyance at the sudden interruption.

"What is it?" said the king testily.

"Your Grace." The eunuch bowed. "Prince Oberyn. We bring ah…bad news of a sort. As we are missing a grand maester, you gave me and Lord Celtigar the job of reading the letters sent by ravens. In the last day alone, we read about a dozen or so letters from lords of the Crownlands crying out for help. Apparently the Young Stag is tired of waiting and had sent his soldiers to attack the lands that belong to the lords of the Crownlands."

The king frowned. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"As a distraction?" Oberyn suggested. "Orys Baratheon isn't a fool. He learnt a great deal of military tactics from many good generals. He is desperate for a first victory to win over more men. He needs more time – what better way than throw a diversion at us?"

"If Baratheon wants more men, attacking the lords' lands isn't very wise." The king looked at Oberyn. "You are my Master of War, Prince Oberyn. What are your thoughts on our next move?"

It was indeed a clever move on Orys Baratheon's part. Attacking the lands that belong to lords of the Crownlands who just recently swore allegiance to the king of House Targaryen…quite clever indeed. If Aegon did naught, the lords would no doubt turn their coats to the stags in a matter of seconds. That would not do…but if the king sent troops to help the Crownlands lords, it would assure them that he did care for them – that was what Aegon needed. It would be a waste of men and resources, but it was unfortunately necessary if the king wished to remain on the Iron Throne for the rest of his life.

"Uncle?"

Oberyn snapped out of his thoughts sharply. Uncle? Since when did the young king start calling him uncle? "It's best to send some troops," said Oberyn, forcing himself to answer rather than dwell on matters of the heart. "If we abandon lords of the Crownlands, we lose a vital part of our defence. If the Crownlands turn to the side of the stags, all lands north of the Red Keep will be against us."

"We will fall into the stag's trap then," the king pointed out sceptically.

"Would it not be better to lose a few men trying than the whole region turning against you, Your Grace?"

The king nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Keep our best soldiers here. They will be more useful in an actual battle. Send some sellswords. Ensure they wear sigils of House Targaryen so the lords of the Crownlands are aware that I sent them."

"I will also send Tyrell soldiers," promised Oberyn, "and a few Dornish spears. It may also strengthen morale if you yourself is present, Your Grace. I don't want to put you in danger my king, but if you aren't there in the Crownlands, the lords will most likely think you do not care for them."

The king frowned. "We don't even know where Baratheon plans to fight. What do we do? Guess where the Stag King plans to attack next?"

"Predict, Your Grace." Oberyn smiled. "Give me the letters, a detailed map and an hour or two and I will find out where our Young Stag will send his men by the time of probably the next raid."


"You sounded very certain, my prince of Dorne." Varys the Spider's enigmatic voice flowed into Oberyn's chambers.

Oberyn chuckled, keeping his eyes on the map on the table. It wasn't the most updated map, but it was still quite detailed no doubt drawn by the steady hand of a patient or bored maester. In less than an hour, Oberyn had read and studied all the letters sent by frantic lords. At first it had seemed like the Stag King had sent his soldiers to attack lands without a care, but upon closer examination, a pattern emerged. Well, it might not even be a pattern, but it was one Oberyn had spotted. He dipped his quill into a pot of red ink and carefully marked out the places that the stag pretender had sent his men with small, clear circles. He almost smirked. If a maester caught him writing on an ancient map, the poor maester would be at a loss for furious words! What was the point of copying out maps if they weren't to be used for battle planning?

"Can you truly bring our dear king a guaranteed victory?" The Spider went on, rubbing his soft white hands together. "You are his only surviving uncle after all, but I doubt even that significant factor can save you from deep trouble if you fail to deliver him the victory he dearly wants."

Oberyn laughed. "You are a funny man, Lord Varys. Your words always makes your listener doubt himself."

The Spider tittered. "I am the Master of Whispers."

"Why are you here?" Oberyn appreciated a good banter like any man, but now was not the appropriate time for bantering. "Not to annoy me I hope."

"A little bird told me you wish to take our beloved king with you to battle. Not exactly the protective nature of a kind uncle, eh? Our king is probably excited for a battle, but would it not be safer to keep him here until our sweet queen births a dozen dragon babes?"

Oberyn scoffed. "Our king needs to prove to the people that he cares for them. Him merely showing up in the scene of the battlefield will do the trick. I will keep him safe of course."

"In the heat of battle, Prince Oberyn? With enemies surrounding you?"

Oberyn chose to ignore Varys the Spider's mild taunt. He gave one last look at the map of the Crownlands. Either Orys Baratheon took a castle for his own or in the Crownlands, there was a lord – or lords – still loyal to the stags. It was highly unlikely that Baratheon and his troops made camp in the Riverlands and made a gruelling journey to attack the Crownlands every day.

"Hayford Castle is already taken," Oberyn said aloud as Varys glanced down at the map with interest – genuine interest? "No resistance there I take it. Langward lands have also fallen to the stag as have Mallery Castle. One raven states that the stag has taken Lord Lothar Mallery and his family as his prisoners." He pointed at the red circles. "For some reason, young Baratheon is sending his men to raid the lands of that are closer to the borders. Both the Langward and Hayford lands are near Kingsroad and borders the Crownlands as does Mallery Castle."

"Excellent observation Prince Oberyn," said the Spider with a simpering smile. "Quite excellent indeed. You do not need to tax your mind about the locations of the next raids. My little birds have already sung the locations to me."

Oberyn sighed in exasperation. "Why did you not say that to begin with?"

The bloody eunuch tittered again. "I thought to dissuade you from taking King Aegon to the battlefield, but as you are intent on doing so, I might as well tell you what my little birds sang to me only ten minutes ago." He smiled. "The Baratheon pretender plans to meet up with his supporters – Crownlands supporters. I know for a fact that the Chytterings are still stag supporters. My little birds sang that in half a day, the Baratheon pretender will be laying siege to Duskendale and House Gaunt's lands. If both those lands fall-"

"Then Baratheon will have almost all of the Crownlands," finished Oberyn. "All of mainland Crownlands that is." He scratched his chin in thought. It was not that much of a surprise that Duskendale was the chosen target – a pity it was so soon. Castle Gaunt though? To Oberyn's knowledge, the Gaunts were loyal to whoever the ruling family was. Then again, so were the Hayfords and Mallerys.

Oberyn looked at the map for the final time before he said to the Spider, "I am grateful for your little birds' reports, Lord Varys. However, forgive me. I must tell the king and gather the soldiers."

Varys the Spider dipped his head. "Of course, my prince."


"You changed your tune, Uncle," the king commented as he rode up to Oberyn on his black destrier named Balerion. "Once you would have made snide remarks about my in-laws; you are silent now."

Oberyn smiled, though it seemed to be more like a smirk. "If I only trusted the spears of Dorne, we would have lost the Crownlands completely Your Grace. As a good number of Tyrell men are here, why not use them? They have sworn loyalty to you after all." Besides, if the Tyrells planned to complain, it would be seen that their allegiance to the king was not as true as they so often claimed. "The Tyrells are good soldiers too," Oberyn added grudgingly. It was time to accept the thorny roses of Highgarden as part of the family.

The king didn't comment. Oberyn slid a glance in his way. For a young man of twenty, Aegon Targaryen did not look worried or cocky. He looked…impassive. A trait he picked up from his life in Essos? Perhaps he is thinking of battle. It will be the first in which he spills blood. Many princes had fought in wars and skirmishes in the reigns of their fathers, but Aegon hadn't. I doubt Jon Connington would let the son of his dead best friend engage in any sort of physical combat with the single exception of training. Was it a wise move? Well, a lack of combat involvement on the streets of Pentos did keep Aegon alive to take the Iron Throne.

Closing his eyes for a second, Oberyn pushed those thoughts from his mind. As he, the king and troops of men consisting of Reachmen, sellswords and a portion – a small portion – of Dornishmen approached the Stokeworth lands, he changed his thoughts to the upcoming battle. The king needed a decisive victory. Without it, even the staunchest of supporters would no longer be so…loyal.

"Your Grace! Prince Oberyn!" A rider wearing a tunic emblazoned with a white lamb holding a golden goblet on a green field (the Stokeworth sigil) had spurred his horse towards the king and Oberyn. Behind him were a small force of soldiers, some on horses and some on foot.

"Yes?" Hope lit up in the king's eyes.

"I am Ser Manmore Stokeworth," the man introduced himself. "Cousin to Lady Stokeworth and commander of the Stokeworth army. Lady Stokeworth heard of the Baratheon forces laying siege to Rykker lands and sent me here with her men to aid you in the battle."

"I am grateful to Lady Stokeworth," the king acknowledged. "We will be on our way through Lady Stokeworth's lands as it's the quickest and most direct to Lord Rykker's lands."

Ser Manmore nodded. "Allow me and my men to lead you Your Grace."

The king smiled. "That will be greatly appreciated."

Oberyn gave a slight nod too. He did not know the Stokeworths very well, but to his knowledge, not many lords or ladies would willingly offer their own troops to a virtually unknown king unless it was out of fear or cowardice. In view of the Stokeworth lands being relatively close to Duskendale, perhaps it was the fear of losing Castle Stokeworth to the stag that led Lady Stokeworth to sending an army to the king. Yes, that must be the reason. Slightly cowardly behaviour, but troops from Lady Stokeworth was better than no help at all. It wouldn't hurt to show up in battle with Crownlands soldiers either.

"We are too slow," murmured the king, glancing at the clear sky. The sun had edged closer to the middle of the enormous canvas of blue. Oberyn agreed with a nod. They had left at dawn and only set foot in Stokeworth lands. It would take at least all afternoon and night to reach Duskendale, especially with all the soldiers, some of whom were on foot. "I want you to ride ahead with half the men," Aegon said quietly to Oberyn, "or as many as you determine will secure a victory or at a most, a stalemate in our favour."

Oberyn frowned. "You-"

"I'll be safe," the king cut in. "I can fight, and Ser Rolly Duckfield is here as well as my good-brother Ser Garlan. He is an excellent warrior and I don't believe he'll consider betraying me or leaving me for dead. Go! I trust you, Uncle."

Spotting the look of stubbornness in his nephew's violet eyes, Oberyn slowed down his steed and turned to the host of soldiers who rode behind him. "My good men," he announced. "We will be riding ahead on His Grace's command!" Naught more was needed to be said. Oberyn urged his horse into a canter and the chosen soldiers followed suit.

On impulse, Oberyn looked back. His nephew the king was staring ahead with no sign of nervousness or fear. It was like he wasn't afraid of dying in battle – it'd reminded Oberyn uneasily of Rhaegar Targaryen.


By the time the sun was kissing the highest branches of the distant trees in the woods ahead, Oberyn and his troops were close to the patch of woods that was a frequent source of dispute between Houses Follard, Rykker and Pyle.

"It's a good time to rest my prince," said Ser Manmore's brother Ser Elbar who had ridden alongside Oberyn. "No one will harm us here."

The second Ser Elbar finished speaking, Oberyn heard the sound of a whizzing arrow. "Down!" Oberyn shouted. Too late. The arrow hit Ser Elbar squarely in the chest. Ser Elbar's black horse neighed in fright and galloped wildly away with its master's body slumping back, blood seeping out from the arrow wound. Oberyn swore and ducked as arrows zoomed at him and his men from every direction in between the trees. He raised his steel round shield and felt at least three arrows smash into it. Oberyn swore again as he sensed his own horse shift fretfully. This was…unexpected. A bloody ambush…

Suddenly, the assault of arrows ceased.

Breathing heavily, Oberyn look around. A lot of men were shot down, a couple injured but many dead, surprised by the unexpected attack. However, there were still many alive and ready to fight.

"Who's there?" Oberyn dared to call out.

No response.

Oberyn yanked out the arrows stuck in his shield and threw them to the forest ground. He gripped his spear and shield and shouted, "Who's there?"

No response.

Oberyn gestured for the soldiers to dismount and ready an attack. Better to be on foot than fall from an injured horse. Taking a deep breath, Oberyn took a step forward and yelled, "In the name of King Aegon!" He raised his spear and pointed it in the direction of trees, aware of the sinking sunlight.

"Attack!"


I decided to write in the POV of Oberyn so we could understand his thoughts on Aegon and start an unexpected battle.

There might be a Tormund POV chapter in the future, but no promises there.

Merry Christmas to those who are celebrating Christmas today and I hope you had an awesome and splendid Christmas to those who have already celebrated Christmas! :D