Sage: That's a stretch, but their friendship is clearly at an end.
Tyfli: Since you've actually done a pretty hefty post instead of posting just "the MC is a simp, im out" or "damn this is trash", I'll reply to your criticism.
First of all, the POV switch. Some like it, some don't, but I find it better if we get a the view of the characters interacting with the MC rather than the other way around. It also adds a shroud of mystery to the SI.
Second point: the SI's achievements. Well, no, they're very much in focus. The maps that were addressed in Ch.2 were addressed in Ch.90, for example. As for the medicine: it's always addressed, same thing for Dorne being richer, and their roads being better. Everything is addressed, but it switches from forefront (when it's invented) to background (when it's done). The Maron POV was the key one, since it showed how much life changed for the smallfolk.
Third point: It devolving into "typical GOT fanfiction". Well, yes, you can't avoid the politics, that's the whole reason ASOIAF is interesting in the first place. The goal is not only worldbuilding, it's to make a lively world, one where characters interact, and thus politics are key. Also, what original story? There wasn't really a driver in the first chapters, except maybe Quentyn trying to wrestle Dorne from Arianne? Sure, but then you have to go for another plot point to keep the story going, to drive it to an ending.
Fourth point: The pacing. Obviously I could've done 40 more chapters of worldbuilding. I chose not to. Why? Because it would be boring for the reader. I couldn't do an extra 100k words where nothing happens and we sit twidling our thumbs. That's exactly why I disagree on the pacing point. I'm aiming for 350k total words for this fanfic, which is ideal, and it allows us to have stuff happen while not missing out on some descriptions. If I did more, the story would have been slower, longer, more boring, and just not what I wanted. I'll maybe do "spin-offs" in the future to further worldbuild Dorne, but insofar we've had a lot of new places described: Starfall, Yronwood, Sandstone, Godsgrace, Ghost Hill, Lemonwood, Skyreach...all of it has added to the original work without dragging this story too long.
Final point: Quentyn always has been the MC, even in the most recent chapters. All of them revolve around him. Just because Quentyn isn't "in charge" anymore doesn't mean we don't see his actions and its consequences. Aegon and Daenerys are an extension of Quentyn's arc. Arianne was a main character and still is. The Northern arc merges with Arianne's storyline. Margaery's arc will eventually merge with another. Everything comes from Quentyn and goes back to him. He's still solidly the MC of this story, even if the spotlight is not necessarily on him at every chapter.
TLDR: The fic needed to be decently-sized and not drag on forever, and still address the plot points of canon.
Cadet: Allyria didn't mind Beric, not sure where you got that from. Cletus has been annoying for too long and Gerris has just had enough.
Cynic: Throw it to the grief of losing her brother and best friend so close, added to the fact that Ned married another and Allyria was frail. She chose to end her life rather than see another one of her family (her daughter) die (since Allyria was frail, she decided to take her own life, but Allyria lived ("a life for a life")).
kage: Thanks.
Oberyn
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.
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.