Wife of the Wolf, Husband of the Sun
Chapter Eighty-Two
The scout walked into the tent, he had a limp and a streak of mud was smeared across his face and his chest was heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. Oberyn wanted to shake him and tell him to hurry up and get on with it, he wanted to be on the march as soon as possible. Patience had never been something that he had ever possessed in great abundance.
He knew that was something about himself that both his Mother and elder brother had despaired off often in the past but it was something he would not change about himself if he could. There was a time for patience, fair enough then. He had grown used to having that lesson hammered in, but surely at the same time there was such a thing as being too patient as well?
If there was, then his brother would surely be the one that everyone could point to as a man who has too much patience. Prince Doran was wise to be certain and every single move was well thought out, but what did that matter if everyone else who you were plotting against was already moving so fast ahead that the plans you prepared to stop them were old and useless.
Sometimes, you just needed to act. And that was why he had convinced the Lords that they needed to march on the capital as quickly as they could so they could make an end of this. Some of the lords of course wanted to wait for Ned to back down from the North with the rest of his men and to wait for the rest of Lord Arryn's Valemen to arrive.
Lord Arryn himself was the strongest voice when it came to waiting for them but Oberyn had been able to convince others that they needed to move. His arguments had found root with the Lord of Riverrun himself as well as his brother. Lord Hoster wanted this war to be over as quickly as possible, the crownlands and the King were closer to Riverrun after all and the thought of a King who burned his enemies alive, well, that would urge anyone on to action. The fact that one of his own lords had already declared for the King, well, that simply gave him more reason to move for a quicker end.
Ser Brynden had also sided with him, Oberyn wondered if he had gotten as sick and tired of the waiting as he had done but that was not his concern. What mattered was that he had another ally in marching on King's Landing and quite a few of the already gathered lords had agreed with the plan as well. If this was truly happening, then better to have it done.
Jon Arryn was still not happy but the old man clearly saw that he was not going to be able to convince them to wait. He did make clear that he would not order his own men to march with them as he intended to wait for Ned and Lord Royce to arrive but that was all for the good, it would not do well for them to commit their entire force if the King somehow managed to win out against them, a battle was not a war, after all.
So the forces were then divided up, of the ten thousand Dornish men that Oberyn had with him, he decided that only two thousand would ride into battle but the two thousand that he brought with him were all mounted on Sand Steeds, swift as any horse could be, ten thousand rivermen and ten thousand stormlanders made up the main body of the host and another two thousand vale men who Lord Jon had allowed to march, though most had chosen to remain behind and there was no standard bearing the falcon of House Arryn that day.
At that point, it was simply a matter of deciding their method of attack. King's Landing was not likely to fall easily after all, it's walls were thick and the City Watch was going be nuisance as well as they attempted to keep the city. King Aegon had been a conqueror and not a builder, but no one could deny that he had built strong.
King Aerys would also no doubt attempt to flee the city, as they had no power at sea they would not be able to stop him from doing so but even if he did flee, where was it that he could go? Dragonstone? One of the other miserable little piles of rock in the Narrow Sea that only a poor fool would call an island? What did that matter in the end?
He would be remembered as the King who abandoned his own seat, when was the last time that happened? When the dragons had danced with one another and Aegon had been forced to flee from his older sister and then Rhaenerya herself had to flee from the city she had claimed when the people of it turned against her and the both of them had ended up dead within the same year.
If Aerys fled, then it would might as well be the end of him. All his loyal lords would hear tales of how he fled from an army under the banner of the Young Stag and cowered on his island as his armies fought and died for their craven King. Yes, if they took the city now then it didn't truly matter if Aerys fled or didn't flee, the war would be all but won either way.
All that was needed now was for them to reach the city in order to take it. Which was why being crowded in this tent as they waited for the scout to speak was so unbearable to him. Their Father had once said that he and Doran were two sides of the same coin and that they needed one another, perhaps it would have been better if their Mother had only one son, who was a combination of the pair of them.
The scout tried to speak then but a racking cough made his body shake and Oberyn had to try not to roll his eyes, get out of chair and slap him. This was some god's terrible idea of a jest. Before he lost his patience, a cup of wine was filled and pressed into the scouts hands and the man drained it in a handful of heartbeats.
"Thank you, my Lords." The scout said once he had placed the cup down and cleared his throat. "There is a a large host of men, gathered around in the middle of the Rosby Road. Most of them fly the banners of the Crownlands but I did see Jon Connington red and white griffons among them as well. I did not see any sign of any banners of any Westerland and Reach houses among them, however."
"Could it be then that the Westerlands and the Reach have abandoned him? That they knew this is a war that they cannot win?" Lord Tyron Bracken, the Lord of House Bracken and Stone Hedge, spoke. A dough man who looked like he was about to burst out of his armor at any moment, at least to Oberyn's eye. His words caused Oberyn to rest a hand on his forehead.
Thankfully, someone else had also noticed how stupid a thought that was indeed. Lord Samwell Blackwood was everything that Lord Bracken was not, tall where Lord Tyron was much more stout, thin where was fat, with a head full of raven black hair where as Lord Tyron was bald as a smoothed stone. "Come now Tyron, surely you are not that much of a fool? Are you? If Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister had thought to try and betray Mad Aerys, if he even suspected them of treason, do you think that he would allow them to breath for even a moment longer than he suspected them? Do you honestly think that he would allow them to leave King's Landing?"
"If Lord Mace and Lord Tywin still remain within the city is more or less irrelevant for the moment." Ser Brynden Tully spoke, sent by his brother to represent House Tully while his elder brother remained safely tucked up within the walls of Riverrun with his maiden daughter and old Jon Arryn. "Their armies are still in their homelands, at least we must hope so if the Dornishmen under the command of Lord Fowler and Lord Ladybright are causing a great deal of trouble for them."
"Even if they have not yet entered the Westerlands and the Golden Tooth is still under the control of House Lannister, it matters little. Any army that marches from there will not have an easy time in following us, my brother will ride out and stop them." He sounded certain, to Oberyn's ears. He hoped that he was right, they could not lay siege to the city if they had to worry of all the might of the west baring down them.
Lord Hoster would have the advantage of fighting in his own homeland, of course. He was sure to know it better than any man of the West. He could lay traps and commit raids on their foot and if it came to a battle then Oberyn hoped that Lord Hoster would drive them into one of the mighty rivers and drown them all and send the rest running back to the West with their tails between their legs.
Oh, what a sweet thought that was.
The Lords of the Reach were a separate problem as they could march up the roseroad in order to get to the capital but even if they were on their way right now, they would not make it in time to be of any aid. They might not make it at all, before being forced to turn back. The raids into the Reach had begun, their fields were burning, their supply trains were burning, their reinforcements were being whittled down to nothing. Any campaign outside of their home was unsustainable in those conditions.
He did wonder how Obara was doing, briefly. He had asked Fowler and Ladybright to let his daughter have command of a raiding party after he had assured them that he had trained her well and he had done so, with spear and shield and whip and sword and lance and bow and where was the best place to hide a knife on your person and how to conduct a raid. Fowler and Ladybright had agreed and sword that Obara would command one of the smaller parties.
Oberyn had asked that he be the one to compose the raiding party for her, his eldest daughter was well trained but all the same he wanted loyal men and women around her. Men and women that he knew would keep her safe and obey her commands and so he had chosen warriors, many of them either loved him or owed him something to be part of her party.
Obara was no fool, but she was a young girl and there were very few men who would obey her commands. So, he gave her people that he knew would follow them. But that was just in the start, by the time all this was done they would see what it is that he saw. That Obara would be one of the finest warriors that Dorne had ever seen, that was what he had been training her for after all.
Yet even so, there was a part of him that worried for her. Obara would know to keep moving, to hit a target and inflict as much damage as she could and then fall back into safety. But even so a raid carried it's share of dangers, but that was war when it came to it and if Obara fell, he would grieve for her of course, but the retribution that he would pay against them would be like nothing the men of the Reach and the men of the West had ever seen.
"Then let us focus on the problem in front of us then." Lord Blackwood spoke and looked up at the scout. "Maidenpool's gates were shut to us, the castle looked lightly held. Were the banners of House Mooton among them, that you could see? It is a red salmon on a white field with a golden tressure around the fish."
"We did not see the sigil, my Lord." That got a muttering going up in the tent, House Mooton had already made it clear that they would support the King on the Iron Throne and indeed when they had rode past the great walled town, all the gates had been barred to them and there was not a whisper to be heard from inside nor no men on the walls.
There had been a great deal of debate and urging that they lay siege on Maidenpool, not just to deny the King an easy path into the Riverlands but as well to make an example to any other lords who were serving under the Lords who had chosen to rebel but in the end the decision was made to hurry on forward to the capital.
Men who had known Lord Mooton for their entire lives had claimed that the man had milk for blood and he would not bestir himself from behind his walls unless he was forced to. The lords who had claimed that looked very pleased indeed, but others looked concerned that such a man and his own forces were in their rear where he could fall on them.
"We will make our battle hear then." Maps were piled on the table and Brynden Tully moved forward. "I will not take the risk that Lord Mooton will suddenly find his courage, have the men dig pits and watch towers so that we might have sufficient warning if anyone comes behind us. We will need to leave a force to man it, as well."
Brynden looked back at the scout. "This large force of men, have you any estimation of their number? What of their own fortifications? Their layout?"
"They can not be fewer than ten thousand, but I would not put them at any greater than fifteen, my Lord." That news seemed to lighten the air in the tent a little, if nothing else they outnumbered them. "The fortifications are light, no moat or pits that I could see but a wall of wooden spikes has been put and we think that the heavy pike are being put forward."
"Which means a straight forward charge would be a fool's errand." Lord Samwell spoke as he stepped forward to take a closer look at the map. "Now, they had put Duskendale to the east of them, they are only truly denying us use of the Rosby Road to get to King's Landing, if we were to ride out further west we could avoid them."
"Now who is being a fool?" Lord Tyron asked and the lord was lucky that the others were there, as it seem that it was only their presence that would stop him from being struck in the face. "If we ride out west then we can avoid this army, here. But there will be other hosts at Stokeworth and at Rosby and I would bet at King's Landing as well. If we ride against them while leaving a host ten thousand strong in our rear, we will be caught between them."
"And if we fight them here and lose most of our men, we still have a day's worth of travel to get to the capital and, if as you say, there will be other hosts at Stokeworth and Rosby then surely the sensible thing to do is just ride past these fools and strike straight at the heart." Lord Blackwood countered.
"If we ride past them, they will harry at our foot and our supply train. That will make it harder to fight as well." Lord Braken responded, his teeth clenched tight together. "If it comes to it, I would much rather fight this host and bleed them here and then retreat back into the Riverlands. We may yet lose men but we will outnumber them and any victory for us will be a blow to Mad Aerys, that might matter more than some fool's hope of actually taking the capital."
"So, we marched all this way for nothing, that is what you suggest."
"A victory is not nothing, I agreed to march with all of you. But I have said time and time again that we may not have the numbers between us all to take the capital. I said that as soon as Jon Arryn refused to march with us." He clenched his teeth again. "I am of the opinion now, however, that we should fall back. Fall back and lay seige on Maidenpool, have Lord Mooton bend the knee to King Renly. That will be the better choice for all of us."
"No, we will not fall back. There is wisdom in what you say my Lord but I cannot and I will not turn back now." Brynden Tully spoke and there was a cheer of agreement through out the tent, and no man cheered louder then Samwell Blackwood even as Tyron Blackwood frowned. "If nothing else, we may yet be able to win Duskendale to our side and win the allegiance of those men."
"Now then, how do we beat them? The heavy pikes and the walls of spikes mean we can not charge straight forward with the cavalry, so. What is it that we do then?"
"If I may suggest something?" Oberyn had been quite for much of the council, more interested in observing the proceedings up to now than contributing. When Brynden gestured, he stood up and walked closer to the table. "I can not take all the credit for this idea, my Lord of Blackwood did plant the seed of it in my mind." Oberyn nodded to Samwell before he continued on.
"Now, all of my two thousand Dornishmen, we are all of us ahorse, yes? Now." A finger was jabbed on to the map. "What I propose is this, we cut our number in half. Instead of one group of two thousand, we make us two groups of one thousand. These two groups will ride out west until we are certain that we are out of sight of the enemy, at which point one group shall ride south to take position behind the host where the defenses should be weaker."
"At the same time, the other one thousand will ride back to attack them from the west. We can divide their attention on to us and as cause some chaos, if we use our bows from horseback and use fire arrows we can set alight some of their fortifications and cause their own horses to panic. At that point, you march forth on the northern defenses. I would say use the heavy cavalry then, the disorder in the ranks should cause them to lose formation, a charge should break through them."
Oberyn let his words sink in and then stepped back to watch as the lords debated it, some voiced their support for it while others pointed out flaws in it but in the end it seemed that Brynden Tully would decide on it. "You are aware that this will put your Dornish in a great deal of danger, there is only the two thousand of you and if our good scout is right then you are massively outnumbered, you will bare the blunt of their fury and retaliation."
"We will be fine, though my Lord's concern is well appreciated. Even the Sand Steed of the lowest breeding from the meanest stable in Dorne is capable of carrying of a grown man further and faster than any other horse in the realms. We will be well, just do not waste the moment that we provide you with." Lord Brynden nodded and it seemed that it had been decided then that his plan had been accepted.
After that it was just a matter of deciding the rest of the details, who would lead the vanguard and when the attack would commence and the like. Once it was done, Oberyn left the tent and went to go and find his own men. As he walked through the rows of tents, the smell took the air of the spices of Dorne, someone laughed at a filthy jest that their friend made, someone else was singing in a song in the sorrowful tones of the Rhoynish, enough to move even those with the hardest of hearts to tears.
Somewhere else a whore was moaning and someone else cursed as they lost something in a game of dice, there was life breathing in every single corner of the camp. Soon enough, that life would be lesser compared to the death. Oberyn was under no illusions of the fact that many of the Dornish men that he would ride out with would more than likely die, but no war was ever won bloodlessly and if this would get them closer to throwing that mad bastard down and making an end of him, then so be it.
Oberyn soon found his way to his tent, not as large as the main command one but still larger than all of those that surrounded it and once he walked into it, he found many of his brother's lords waiting for him. Fowler and Ladybright were within the Reach and Yronwood, who would not suffer to be place under his command after all that had happened between their families, had agreed to remain in the Riverlands with the rest of the Dornish force but there will still many great Dornish lords at his side.
Among them were Lord Harmen Uller of the Hellholt, a thin harsh featured man with eyes as black as sin. There was a saying in Dorne, all the Ullers were half mad and the other half were worse. Harmen was very much in the worst side of the choice but even then it was whispered that he was not had so bad as his elder sister who would have inherited the Hellholt if not for the actions of her Lady Mother who had disinherited her, no man would wed her either and the mad spinster was still said to remain within Hellholt.
According to some stories, Harmen had made her the castle's keeper of the keys, in charge of the dungeons and the care and torture of prisoners. If that was true, no one knew for certain. In Dorne, it was considered for the best to not ask any of the Ullers about the stories around their family, they had an unfortunate habit of reacting poorly, even the saner ones.
Doran had wanted him to have the Ullers in his host, their cruelty was well known and it would not be good for them to be part of the raiding parties. Their madness was better focused and just because Harmen was not as mad as his older sister, that did not mean that he was not capable great cruelty in his own right.
His younger brother, Ulwyck Uller, was as sane as any Uller could hope to be. He was also taller and broader in the shoulder than his brother, much more handsome as well. Oberyn might have taken him into his bed, but the man seemed to have no appetite when it came to matters such as that which was a shame indeed but by all accounts he was a fine warrior, though Oberyn had never seen him fight.
Then came the Manwoodys, Dagos Manwoody had only ascended to the lordship of Kingsgrave in the year past after his own father had gone to his rest after a long battle with a poison of the blood, as the maesters liked to term it. Dagos was a man who looked like a barrel, short and broad in the chest. He had the temper and the stubbornness of a bull, but Oberyn had also never known anyone be so loyal.
Lady Nymeria Toland of Ghost Hill was a beautiful woman, and had brought with her two thousand spears from Ghost Hill, a thousand of which had gone raiding into the reach under the command of her uncle while the other half had followed their lady into the Stormlands and up into the Riverlands, she had left five hundred of her men back at Riverrun and brought the other half with her.
It was Dagos who spoke to him once he walked into the tent, after he had swallowed the handful of olives that he held and chased it down with a bath of sour Dornish red. "Well then, my Prince? What is the lay of the land?"
He told them what had been planned and Nymeria was the one who spoke next, her hand coming up to move her long braid of her hair behind her shoulder as she reached to pick up her own glass with her free hand. "If this is the way it is to be, then I would like to take command of the riders going south. If my Lords have no arguments."
"I have no issue." Lord Harmen spoke, his voice calm and collected as he leaned back in his own chair before he turned his gaze on to Oberyn. "And my prince, I assume that you would be leading the riders that come in from the west?"
"You assume rightly." Oberyn had been patient long enough, it was time for his spear to be put to work and he would trust no one else with the task that his brother had entrusted to him. "Go to your men and ensure that they are ready, we have very little time as it is."
They all nodded and rose and left him and once he was alone, he beckoned his squire, a boy of House Wyl, to come and dress him for the battle to come. His armor was lighter than any knight of the north, being made of copper, in truth it would only offer protection to his arms and his legs, with a half helm of bronze to shield his head.
All the men of Dorne who went to fight would be so similarly attired, to ensure that they had the freedom of movement and so that their Sand Steeds could bare them. His squire then brought him his weapons, his yew bow that he had been gifted by his Uncle Lewyn for his fifteenth name day, a longsword that had been fresh forged for him the night he had ridden from Sunspear to war, his shield which he had his squire polish until he could see his reflection in it.
And finally there was the spear. It's haft was eight feet of elm wood with two foot of steel at the end of that which end in the leaf shaped blade. It was not the only spear he owned of course, no warrior of Dorne had only one spear, but it was the one that he liked to use the most, more so when he was on the back of a horse.
Soon enough, he was all attired and armed. He sent the boy to go and get horses for the pair of them and as the boy ran enough and he was left alone in the tent he sent down in the chair and began to tap his fingers against the table. This would be it then, the first true battle of this war. He would end it quickly and then they would march onward, he would have King's Landing fall to him or he would die in the taking of it.
His squire then returned with both horses for them and Oberyn mounted his horse, a black stallion that was larger than most Sand Steeds and with a mane that was like golden thread and was mean as sin and Oberyn had broken many a bone trying to tame, as his squire mounted his, a light chestnut stallion whose head only came up to Oberyn's stallion's neck.
The both of them rode to the top of the line of riders and once they had reached the top, the waited for the signal to move to come. The sky was still the light blue of midday and in the distance, Duskendale and the army that has massed near it was simply a black blob of mass. It cut through the air then, the hunting horn bellowing and then the thunder of the horses hooves filled the air as they rode.
They rode west and west and west again until the black blob and their own camp vanished into the distance, Lady Nymeria's group of riders split away from them and turned south while Oberyn's riders carried onward with him further west. He gave the order for them to stop and it echoed down the line and then the waiting started again.
He had to wait until Lady Nymeria had enough time to get into the perfect poistion, and so he counted his hearbeats. Once he had reached a hundred and fifty, he gave the next order and they began to ride back, not so quickly as they had ridden away as they did not wish to give away their position to any sentries who would be watching out for them and so it was more of a trot than it was a gallop.
Soon enough, they had come to a good distance where they could both get a good view of the host while at the same time were far enough away that they would avoid being seen. Oberyn stared at them, it was just as the scout had said. The red and white griffins of the Hand of the King were there but it seemed that his sigil was the only one that was not of the Crownlands and he could not help but smirk at that, lambs to the slaughter and such fat and tender ones as well.
The cry went up later and Oberyn's smirk only grew as he watched the ants being to scurry about in a panic, the wind carried to them their shouts of an enemy to the south and fires that were being set. The Young Hand did seem to have good command however, as soon as the attack had started and the panic had started to set in, the echoes of commands reached his ear and something resembling order began to reassert itself.
A Myrish far eye was pressed into in his hands and as Oberyn looked through it, he better understood what was happening. Connington was mounted as well and was bellowing his orders and gesturing with his blade as all around him his men rode in different directions. He could not see the tail end of the host from where he was, but a few thin fingers of smoke were drifting into the air from the south.
Now then, it was there turn. Oberyn held his hand in a clenched fist, and then brought it down. The horses thundered down on the host's west flank, like a wave of the angry sea crashing down on a beach.
Oberyn had his bow in hand by the time they had made half the distance, the arrow's ends were wrapped oil clothes and Oberyn brought out his flint and lit the end and he rested the bow with the notched arrow on his lap and then rose the bow and let the arrow flew, it hit the nearest sentry tower from which smoke was already starting to rise into the air.
His was the first arrow, but it was by no means the last. Two hundred orange stars blazed across the blue sky, some hit the wall of spikes, while others flew over it and into the host itself which drew screams both from man and from horse and others hit the other towers and soon all were as alit as the one that he had hit.
A weaker rider would have ridden his horse straight into the wall of spikes and gored himself and his mount on them but Oberyn Martell was not a weak rider, he had always been a strong rider, his Father had been the one to teach him and he had been half a horse himself, and he had been riding this stallion for so long that it almost felt like it was a part of his own body and so he was able to quickly turn and ride at a gallop alongside the spikes.
Dornishmen were often said to be the best riders, with only the horse lords across the Narrow Sea being better than them and thus those who had ridden with him managed to repeat his feat though for some, to be sure, it was closer than others. As more and more rode down, more arrows flew over the spiked walls and more shouts and cries and smoke began to fill the air.
The first wave of arrows had been instructed to go over the wall and to aim for the towers as well, the second was instructed to aim for the wall itself. Oberyn had his second arrow lit and ready and shot it at the wall, he did not stop to where in the wall it hand landed but soon dozens of others followed it, and hundreds more after that.
Soon enough, the wall of spikes on the west side was alight in a dozen different places and one of the sentry towers broke in the middle and fell on the already weakened wall and Oberyn grinned once again, the bow was useful to a point but he had never been one to fight and kill at range. When a man died by the hands of the Red Viper, he would see his eyes when he made the blow.
So he tossed the bow aside, not caring for where it was on the ground that it landed and drew his sword with his free hand and he urged his horse onward to the breach in the wall, making it jump over the embers and into the camp.
A Stokeworth man-at-arms with a leather cap on his head and a lamb stitched over his breast was the first to die, he had been running somewhere with a pike in his hand but once he saw Oberyn, he let out a roar and rushed at him. Oberyn had ridden around him and cut him down with a slash to his back that had almost cut him in half.
As more and more of his people rode through the breach and spread outwards, their spears bursting through the backs and chests of any man who stood against them, a knight in a blue surcoat with black warhammers on it rode up to him, his sword raised high. Oberyn and the knight circled one another, trading blows until he grow bored and drew a knife and slammed it into the thin eye slit of his helm.
Some of his own men began to fall, but Oberyn had expected that. They were only one thousand and they had cut into a host of over ten at the very least. But with Lady Toland attacking from the south, and their fortifications burning all around them, the chaos ensured that they had not been able to bring their full strength to bare on just one of them.
An Uller man took a pike to his gut and fell from his horse and two other men-at-arms rushed at Oberyn with their own pikes drawn, he made his steed rear back into the air and checked the blow from one pike with his blade before opening the man from neck to naval as his horse brought his hooves down on the other man, crushing him.
The battle was starting to turn against them, however. More and more of his men and began to fall from their horses, pulled down and having their limbs cut off or their heads smashed in and Oberyn began to frown. Something had gone wrong, very wrong. The plan was for Brynden Tully and the rest of their forces to march on the host's northern front as soon as they saw the smoke, they should have been here by now. Where were they?
"My Prince!" Lord Uller's squire rode through the breach, his dark eyes wide. "My lord sent me, you must come!" The boy did not wait for a reply and instead turned and rode and so Oberyn followed him through the breach in the wall and after the squire who was riding to the North where Harmen Uller and fifty of his men were waiting. Uller said nothing, and merely handed him his own far eye.
The host in the distance was battling with someone, and it was a bloody mess and he could tell that without the far eye. They had been fallen on by a host of large number and Oberyn wanted to curse and spit and scream his rage when he saw the striding huntsman of House Tarly. Where had he come from, how he had gotten here so quickly.
They had all been caught unawares and now they were praying the price for it, the host of the Hand was moving northward now to meet with Lord Tarly's as it was attacking Brynden's and they would be caught and now Oberyn's raiders were being cut down in an even greater number than before, the defeat, for what else could it be called, sank in his gut like a stone.
"My prince." Harmen's voice sounded far away, the rage made his blood pound into his ears like they were war drums. "What do you command?"
"We need to fall back. Back into the Riverlands, Harmen sound the retreat. You will lead it."
"My Prince, Lady Nymeria-"
"Is dead, or dying, or captive or has sounded her own retreat or it waiting for us to sound it, she will have noticed that something has gone wrong either way and we can do nothing for her. Sound the retreat, I will ride and attempt to bleed Lord Tarly's edges and to cover the retreat, at least the losses of our main force may not be as bad as they could be." Oberyn did not wait for the reply, he turned and rode back to the breach. Behind him, the horn sounded out.
He was able to gather a hundred men to his side, most of them were Martell men but that was all for the good. That was how he wanted it to be. His Squire, the Wyl boy, was with him as well. He tried to send him off, but the stubborn boy would not listen. He rode, he pushed his stallion faster and further then he ever had done before and a roar escaped his lips as the striding huntsman grew closer and closer and closer, his men roared with him.
A sharp pain burst through his gut, and then it happened again high up in his chest. His sword slipped out of his nerveless fingers and when Oberyn looked down, he saw a pair of arrows. One in his chest, and one in his stomach.
Oh.
Oberyn tilted forward and collapsed on on the back of his horse, the world turning black and the agony was everlasting.
End of Chapter Eighty-Two
Well. That happened.
Okay so, first of all, if there was ever a chapter that I would ever want constructive criticism off then it is this one as I have never written a large scale battle before, to be fair this wasn't typical of Westerosi combat and most of this was mixed up with a Dornish raid but all the same I hope that it was okay and well done and if you think of any way I could have done it better, then please let me know.
Also, Randyll Tarly. Now, you may remember from Obara's chapter that he was meant to be hunting after the Dornish Raiders in the Reach. This is not a mistake, I promise and there is a reason for it. Keep reading to find out what is.
As of this chapter, this story has over 430,000 words, over a million views, 1,869, followers, 1,635 favorites, 1,205 reviews and it's own TV Tropes page, there are not words for how grateful I am for all of that.
Anywho, that aside. Thank you so much for reading and please consider leaving a review, a follow and a favorite. A ton of love,
DiscordantSymphony