The cries of the dying pierced through the song of steel and ring of battle. The smell of shit and blood cooking on the hot sands overpowered the smell of his sweat trapped by his helm.
Battle was such a terrible sin of Man, but it could also be so glorious. The rainbow of colors that were dyed and interwoven into the surcoats and gambesons of the warriors, the shine of polished steel and other metals under the summer sun that would rival jewels.
For all the turmoil and conflict his heart felt, he felt oddly at peace in this battle. Perhaps it was some form of revenge that he drew such feelings of satisfaction and peace from. Revenge for his honor nearly being stolen from him. Revenge for the first kiss that should have belonged to Daena.
It was unchivalrous for a knight to feel such ill will towards a noble maiden, but said maiden had nearly stolen everything from him. His knighthood could never be stripped and only the gods or death could separate Wraith from him. But Winterfell, the Stark name, and Daena would have been forever denied to him if Daeron ever found out. Jon would never tolerate such dishonor towards his sisters, and Daeron did not seem to be any less fierce or devoted in his love for his sisters.
He cut down another Dornishman. The Dornishman's blood spraying across Jon's helm and cuirass. The face was young, almost girl-like in appearance. A squire certainly, but if Jon closed his eyes, he could see the woman who almost took everything from him.
For a moment an old memory of his boyhood came back to him. Some Valyrian legend that had been translated to the Common Tongue, Jon could hardly recall the title, but he did recall that it featured a Prince who was trapped on an island by a goddess who used every temptation of flesh to enslave him as her paramour and steal him from his wife who he loved dearly and was desperately trying to return to.
The Dornish were almost in a full rout now. Their attempted sortie was a complete failure. But it gave them a massive opportunity to take one of the three stone walls of Sunspear. By the gods, they would take it. They pushed forward. Arrows and bolts now raining on them despite the lack of any meaningful distance between their lines and the Dornish. Jon knew that meant the Dornish were truly getting desperate. Not caring about their own men who would be caught in the volleys but just trying to create enough distance so that they could close the gate they used to launch the sortie.
They wouldn't let the Dornish get such distance. Thus, they pushed forward. More Dornish ended up being slain by arrows, bolts, and the hooves of warhorses than by any weapon in the hands of the Westerosi. Yet for all the Dornish efforts, it was all for not. They lost the gate. With its loss, the Dornish began a massed route from the first wall. Which relieved them somewhat from the merciless hail of projectiles.
Their counterassault was progressing far better than what had been expected. Jon had known that most of House Martell's veteran forces had been used to foolishly hold Planky Town or repel Ironborn reavers, but he had expected some to be acting as the foundation for the levies fighting on the walls or leading a sortie. Jon surmised that House Martell must have lost more than their own reports had estimated and thus, House Martell was keeping to guard inner walls or at least the central keep.
Even with the routing Dornish forces, the winding streets and buildings within slowed the progress of the assault. Yet it was like throwing a stone into a creek. It would initially slow the flow of water, but eventually the water would build and go around the stone. So was it for the creek so it was for the battle. The fleeing smallfolk made it impossible for the Dornish to attempt any reformation of their men into battle lines.
Jon caught sight of his father again who was cutting down a Dornishmen attempting to make a pitiful stand with his spear.
Spurring his destrier forward Jon sought to fight by his father's side. Jon did not fancy finding himself alone to face a dangerous foe again. He had enough of sickbeds and trials to last a lifetime.
Father fought alongside son as they passed under another gatehouse. Jon could sense that Wraith was fighting alongside Garmyr, which brought the old family proverb to mind, "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives". Jon thought to himself, "I seemed to have been trying to test those words since we passed the Neck".
The fighting continued into the streets and squares that made up the area between the second and inner wall. Jon noticed something had changed. The Dornish were not running away as quickly as they had been before. More were gathering into small groups to continue fighting. Jon then heard the blare of trumpets.
After the blast of trumpets, Jon heard a yell, "THEY CLOSED THE BLOODY GATES"!
Followed by a massed volley of arrows, bolts, javelins, and stones falling like a hailstorm on them.
Chaos followed. What had seemed like a decisive victory turned into a panicked scramble for cover or to intercept the missiles with shields. Others took mad charges onto Dornish lines to die in a blaze of glory.
Jon did not care for the dying this day, Jon attempted to block or evade the incoming missiles but atop his warhorse, he was too big of a target. He took an arrow to his left shoulder blade but the coat of brigandine and the arming doublet underneath prevented the arrow from piercing his flesh. Another hit the meat of his thigh, but Jon could feel that it was not too deep. His horse did not fare as well though. Most of the missiles flying at Jon that did not catch his shield or person found its home in his warhorse. Bleeding and panicked. The horse threw Jon from his saddle.
Landing with a hard thump, the air was forced from Jon's chest. Struggling to catch his breath Jon lost all track of time. Only the bloody cries of the wounded and dying could pierce through Jon's disorientation, yet it made it so much worse.
Wraith found him and guarded him as Jon finally caught his breath. Now more aware of his surroundings he saw many dead Westerosi around him, Dead from the storm of missiles.
A voice cut through it all though. It was a voice that made him feel safe and like the world was his for the making. It was his father's voice.
His father yelled, "REFORM THE DAMN COLUMN! SHIELDS UP! OR DO YOU WANT TO BECOME A HEDGEHOG!
Men followed his commands. Even the Southerners who owed him no obedience or loyalty. Men still fell with their life blood pouring from the wounds caused by the missiles, but it was less than before. Jon raised his shield to intercept incoming missiles and rejoined the formation. They fought with their backs to each other and shields up. Forming an unbreakable stone against volleys of Dornish missiles.
Realizing their plan was faltering, the inner gate was opened once more and a wave of Dornish soldiers, men-at-arms, and knights charged forward. They crashed onto the schiltron like a wave on a rock. The fighting was bloody but the Dornish were losing more men.
Jon had once heard how men on death's ground would fight like men possessed. Now it was their turn to test its truth.
They fought like men possessed. Time itself seemed to both last an eternity and fly by in an instant. Dornishmen were cut down in droves. His father led the men over their corpses in a steady advance. Trodding over the corpses of the fallen.
They arrived before the inner gate.
Victory was in sight, as their stand broke the Dornish physically and mentally. But before the last gate, a single knight stood before them. Armed with a spear and clad in mail reinforced with segments of plate and wearing the sun and spear of Martell on his surcoat.
The knight bellowed, "Face me alone! Or does a Northern Barbarian know no honor"?!
Jon's father answered, "You southron bastards should know better than to question a Northman's honor"!
They came together separate from each other's own line. The opening strikes of their duel were as quick as lighting. Greatsword versus spear. The weapon of a professional soldier versus the weapon of a peasant.
Jon knew he was considered an excellent swordsman. The pride of Winterfell, but he wasn't fool enough to believe that his training was at an end. Seeing his father duel the Dornish Knight was the undeniable proof of that. His father moved as fast as lighting and as fierce as a direwolf protecting his pack. The Dornish Knight even with twirling his spear to build power for parry his father's greatsword was struggling to defend against his father.
The Dornishman was pushed back. Struggling to keep up with his father. Under such pressure the Dornish knight made a mistake.
Instead of parrying the greatsword as usual the Martell knight made the mistake holding his spear in a static overhead block to guard against his father's overhand chop. The mistake would cost him greatly. The spear was cut into two. The greatsword bit deep into the Martell Knight cutting through mail and gambeson to reach flesh and blood. Jon's father finished the cut and pulled his sword cutting flesh with the movement. The Martell Knight fell to his knees. Then backwards onto his side.
Jon's father said, "Yield and order your men to open the gates of the second wall; and I will call for my own maester to tend to your wounds".
The Knight said as he coughed up blood, "Help me to my feet and I shall".
His father moved to help the man and never saw the dirk.
Jon screamed as he saw the dirk, sun flashing off its oily blade.
The last clear thing Jon saw before his vision went red with rage was his father's body hitting the earth.
Author's Note: The battle was inspired by the Massacre of Beziers during the Albigensian Crusade.