Prince Masuma Martell sat atop a creamy palfrey, his honor guard flanking him to the left and right. His long russet linen tunic fluttered in the breeze. He swept his bangs out of his eyes, smoothing his hair back against the desert breeze. He wore no helmet, Masuma found it constricted his vision and slowed him down. He wore very little armor in general, only a simple scaled chest plate with embedded with coper disks and garnets. Around his nose, mouth, and neck was draped a wispy scarf of crimson silk. His sapphire eyes scanned the windswept landscape, dust billowing on the sides of the road.
"We are making good time, my prince," an old knight, Ser Deros Yronwood said. He sat on a muscled courser, armored in a tall bronze helm and a coat of scaled armor. He was sunburnt and weathered, with greying black hair and a close cropped beard. On the crook of his left arm rested the tall shimmering banner of House Martell, a sun and spear on an auburn feild.
"I only pray we make Blackmont by dusk for the rendezvous," Prince Masuma responded, his voice muffled by thin cloth, his blue eyes squinting in the harsh sunlight.
"I could use a bed and a strong drink. I tire of camping in this blasted desert," said the young man to his right.
Another knight, this man was the most recent incarnation of the Sword of the Morning, Icarys Dayne. An attractive youth little older than twenty, Icarys had the wavy pale hair and lilac eyes of his House. He had an angular, handsome face and a slim, graceful body armored in lightweight leathers bolstered with copper disks. Like his prince, he wore no helmet, his chin-length hair ruffling in the breeze. It was a wonder he wasn't charred in the sweltering heat of midday.
The column pressed on, passing dunes and cliffs. Besides Masuma's guardsmen, the party consisted of a score of mounted Dornish spearmen as well as near a hundred archers on foot. Each man wore a uniform pointed bronze helm wrapped in brightly colored linen, as well as scaled coats of copper and bronze. Each shield carried bore the sun and spear of House Martell, a terrifying sight on the field of battle. It was battle they sought.
As the sun began to set beyond the shimmering horizon, Masuma could make out his father's camp a mile or two ahead. Smoke rose from cookfires and the sounds of camp could be heard even from that distance. As the party drew closer, they could make out the bright colors of tents and the banners of the Dornish Houses: the crowned skull of Manwoody, the vulture of Blackmont, the falling star and sword of Dayne. The riot of colors and sounds were almost overwhelming. In the middle of the camp, surrounded by smaller tents, lay the great silken pavilion of Prince Matkha, Lord Paramount of Dorne.
Masuma dismounted from his palfrey and handed the reigns to a nearby servant. He then brushed the dirt off his tunic and stepped into his father's grand tent, followed by Icarys Dayne and Deros Yronwood.
The air inside the silk behemoth was hot and musky, heavy with the scent of incense and spices. The floor was entirely covered in soft mats, as such to keep the dust outside. To Masuma's right, behind a paper screen, was Prince Matkha's bed. A small group of knights surrounded a wooden table spread with maps and other parchments. Matkha Martell stood in their midst pointing at the map and strategizing in a low voice.
Masuma's father was a middle aged man with thick greying black hair and a pointed beard. His narrow eyes and sharp nose had not been passed to his son, but his olive skin and lean frame had been. Matkha was armored in a long coat of polished bronze disks and teal silk embroidered with maroon fringe.
When he caught sight of his son, Matkha stopped mid-speech and inclined his head.
"Masuma. Greetings. I trust your ride wasn't too harsh?" Matkha Martell asked, smiling at his son.
"Dry and hot perhaps, but nothing I couldn't handle. I bring a score of mounted warriors, as well as archers on foot, from the Water Gardens. What have we here?" Masuma asked.
"The combined forces of House Martell and all of our sworn men," Prince Matkha said nonchalantly.
Masuma had known the camps had been enormous, but he hadn't expected the aid of every Dornish noble House.
"We make for the Reach on the morrow. If we meet no Tyrell resistance, we will bypass Highgarden and her bannermen. If we can, we will make for King's Landing first, and worry about opposition later. By the months end, House Martell will be the ruling House of Westeros," Matkha Martell said triumphantly.
When night had finally fallen over the expansive camp, Masuma and his companions supped in the prince's own tent. Smaller than his fathers, yet still spacious, Masuma's tent was made of a shimmering beige silk and was roomy enough for a bed, a small ornate dining table with four stools, a dresser, and a reclining chair.
"When you said we would be meeting your father at Blackmont, I had assumed we would be staying at Blackmont, not in another camp," Icarys complained, though it was more jest.
"Once we take King's Landing, we shan't live in such mean conditions ever again," Masuma said, then sipped Dornish red from a slim silver flute.
"I'm certain the rest of Westeros will welcome us with open arms," Icarys said sarcastically. He knew better than most; while he was well loved and respected amongst Dornishmen, the rest of the world viewed the Sword of Morning as an uncouth womanizer and heavy drinker. Sure, he was comely and charming, but he had little love amongst foreigners.
"Oh, certainly! They shall drape Martell banners from their towers and throw as a grand feast!" Ser Yronwood declared, well into his cups. He held a rough tankard in one hand, which the servants graciously refilled after his every swig.
"To King's Landing!"
"To Conquest!" Icarys cheered.
"To Dorne!" Masuma added, standing and smiling brilliantly.
They met resistance first at Horn Hill. The lord of the castle, Lord Oswald Tarly, had enlisted the aid of the sell-sword captain known as the Bloody Rose, Gerralt Flowers. A maester turned mercenary, Gerralt was as intelligent as he was ruthless. A supposed bastard son of some lord in the Reach and a common whore, Gerralt had earned the respect of Westeros and the Free Cities on the battlefield.
Lord Oswald Tarly was no stranger to battle either, having aided in defeating House Greyjoy in their Second Rebellion. A renowned duelist and strategist, even his men-at-arms were fearless and organized.
They would be no match for the might of the united Dornish houses, but a bloody battle was in their future.
Prince Masuma rode his silk skirted palfrey. The young man himself wore his light scaled upper-chest armor sewn with bronze disks and encrusted with gleaming garnets, as well as leather bracers and grieves. Underneath of his protection Masuma wore a creamy rose tunic of wispy linen and light trousers of dark cotton. About his head and face was strewn a maroon veil bound by a golden circlet and embroidered with sprawling patterns like clinging vines. Only his unnatural, feline sapphire eyes could be seen, analyzing the columns and blocks of opposing soldiers. The huntsman of Tarly waved on a green field as the evenly regimented defenders stood and waited.
Prince Matkha had tried to negotiate safe passage the day before, attempting both honesty and bribery, but old Oswald Tarly was no fool. He had known such a large Martell force could only be bound for King's Landing. Lord Tarly claimed the Throne belonged to House Tyrell, this promptly ending any hope of peace. It mattered not, at least not to Masuma. Everyone knew Oswald Tarly made a grave mistake, and the Dornishmen would not be slighted.
"Masuma! Order your archers to commence firing," his father commanded from his large black charger, a heavily muscled warhorse draped in Martell heraldry.
Masuma urged his horse into a steady trot back to his own forces, some hundred and fifty desert bowman. The boy prince grinned slightly beneath his veil, beaming at the prospect of an easy battle.
"Archers, at the ready!" Masuma ordered. Row upon row of archers strung their arrows and drew back to their cheeks in a fluid, uniform movement.
"Aim... Fire!" The prince ordered.
A volley of brightly fletched arrows crossed over the sun like a flock of birds, before swiftly descending on their targets below. The Tarly men that were affected by the fire raised their shields, though only few were substantially protected. Already, the bodies of the wounded and dead lay strewn across the front lines of the Tarly soldiers.
"Fire at will!" Masuma commanded.
The opposing forces began advancing, a tide of men sweeping across the valley to reach the high ground upon which the Martells were situated. The enemy archers were too far out of range to return fire, Masuma observed. Prince Matkha strode in front of his column and gave a signal. Two score of Dornish spearmen clanged their weapons against their tarnished shields, then began their descent down the steep hill towards their adversaries. Both sides let out deep throated cries, shouts of battle and rage.
It would be a long day
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How'd you guys like it? I love House Martell and I really wanted to capture aspects of old Arabic and Persian military and culture as these are both influential to Dorne. Icarys is Kingslayer01's OC, and one of my favorites. Gerralt is the creation of Child-of-R'lyeh, another great OC who we will be seeing a lot more of later on. Please review and critique, and after the next chapter, submissions will be officially closed! Thanks.