The day still shone young and fresh when their banners joined, south of Tumbleton, two hosts each mighty, and each built upon yesterdays' enmities.
Five riders approached, moving before long columns of men and wagons. Lord Franklyn Fowler, resplendent in blue armor, with long blue hawk feathers streaming from his great helm. Step behind him rode Blackmont lad, Perros, as the lord's new squire.
The Old hawk rode abreast to Baelor Hightower, whose standard bore his brother Humfrey, sporting thin chestnut beard on a face too square to be handsome. Baelor Breakwind in flesh and name, Oberyn hid a mocking grin, the last thing I need is to ruffle him. Out of proud habit, ser Baelor swiftly doffed his burgonet, letting a wavy hair catch the wind. A face too fair not to show, though, Oberyn marked a few grey strands staining the chestnut locks.
"Ser Baelor, long time no see", Oberyn called from afar, beholding the same comeliness Elia once fell for. Time had been kinder to him than to most men, he had not changed a whit, the white tower shields well. Until Oberyn's jest shattered Elia's maiden eyes, leaving the renown of Baelor Brightsmile to ridicule. The prince always had a gift for words, oft at the right moment, or wrong as Doran might chide. Elia never ceased to mock young Baelor after, he recalled, a loosened wind ruined a marriage offer. Neither of them was young any more and Elia... Elia would still breathe if she wed him, delighting in singers in his lofty tower, gazing at the world from the height she deserved.
"Ser Oberyn, the pleasure is mine", Baelor kept his courtesy, only for a glance, turning a noble head to his liege Willas Tyrell. "Nephew, you have my condolences. The Reach lost a valiant champion in ser Garlan. I hunted with him, feasted with him, my heart grieves to know I shall not again. Sobs are heard all over the Oldtown".
"Kind words, ser Baelor. My brother was better suited to lead this great host than most men. Let us honor him by winning." Sir Willas did not neglect Lord Franklyn, "Lord Fowler, it is great honor to meet your lordship, in your person."
Making a small bow, Lord Fowler returned his sympathies, "Never met the man, but good voice of his lance and blade preceded him. May he rest in all seven heavens."
The affair went smoother than Oberyn hoped, if the hour was not so dire, they would linger here, in the vast spreading camp, savoring the joys of soldiers' life. Eating good food, drinking good wine, fucking well desired women.
"Khmm, do you Westerosi Lords must make everything into a pageant, we are behindhand. By now, Tarly must be riding through the Kingswood", snarled Mertyn Otreyes, still with one foot of his charger on the Rose road. Upon his body, each knight of the Golden Company bore the wealth of service, gold and silver, cloaks in rich hues, yet when in the war sellswords kept unyielding discipline. Oberyn had little to relish in their part of the camp, too neat, too quiet. Nights were redolent with well-cooked food and dance, in the Reacher part, and ardent lust to savor the fruits of life in the Dornish one. Courtesans, fools, singers, cooks made well over a third of the camp. Now and then, swords left scabbard to reclaim whores stolen, casks of wine smashed and insults going so deep to the time Targaryen lords still bored themselves on the jagged crags of Dragonstone; whining for a home lost, dreaming of a new kingdom.
The Camp was to Oberyn's liking, bountiful to belly, melodious to ear and splendid to cock, but Elia's boy awaited him, hale and hearty. He must not be late, not this time. Cords deep in his heart leapt, when Willas told him, The king is awake. Then, the king is wed and last, the queen is with child. As rigid as Mertyn Otreyes was, he was right, Tarly must not reach the gates of King's Landing. And he would not.
Baelor, gazed at the men in gold armor and orange cloak with bewilderment, "Forgive me good ser, your name eludes me".
"I am no ser," Otreyes retorted, drawing a grin from Lord Franklyn.
"Captain Otreyes of the Golden Company", Gulian Qorgyle courteously introduced Otreyes, stepping in "and his officers ser Franklyn Flowers and ser Marq Mandrake". The Qorgyle heir was growing on Oberyn, having a diplomatic tongue to say things Oberyn's own tongue was too biting for.
"Well met good sers," said Lord Fowler, "I concur with Captain Otreyes, better to march. I would still like to cross swords with Tarly, on the field, before King's Landing". Or before Andros Yronwood, just to prick rivalry with a bit of snake's venom. This one loathed Yronwood, almost as much as Yronwood loathed me.
"Better so, my Lords. A rider came yestermorn, the vanguard of Stannis Baratheon is already before the King's Landing," Willas cautioned. King's Landing was too grand a city to fall in a day or a moon's turn. If not for the populace, too vast to suffer hunger or plague, the Red Keep might stand for years. Nonetheless, Oberyn reckoned on elements of warfare most men did not. Stannis had lived in the capital for years, as dour and unhappy as men come, some might deem it fit to help him get in. Or mayhaps, he himself knew secret ways in and out.
Gulian went on to marshal two hosts conveying into one great army, almost sixty thousand strong. Large army fared as a pig walking on a rope, no road was wide enough nor swift enough.
At last, Willas and Oberyn were left alone, riding towards Oberyn's tent.
"You have a past quarrel with Ser Bealor," Willas queries, posing a half-question. The eldest Tyrell had a keen mind, inferring things most lacked wit to see.
"Not nearly as grave as my past with you. Once, he farted softly in front of me and my late sister, so I named him Baelor Breakwind. The stench of scorn still hangs between us."
Willas laughed so heartily, men at arms guarding the camp's edge peered at them, looking for trouble that was not there.
"Noble name, for a noble knight. It might be queer, as my mother stems from the House, but I never cared for these Hightowers, too secretive, too secluded. Sometimes I think they raised the High Tower just to be far off..."
"During my days at the Citadel, Lord Gunther deigned to leave his big looming Cock, and visited me. Any other lord would have summoned me just to flaunt their power, but not this one..."
"Mayhaps, he esteemed the brother of a Dornish prince...,"
"Or deemed I serve as a spy or seek mischief. Lords do not like me around, they tend to presume I wish to hatch some scheme, steal their paramours or seek vengeance. The Beacon of the south seemed different, he cast the spotlight on me, posed a few questions. All of them trifling, about my lodgings, is the food to my liking, then as a hunter, he loosed a she-hound to sniff me." Today Oberyn laughed, though even he felt chills in the presence of the Mad Maid. Brown eyes spied on him, probing deep down within his soul. The dragonglass candle never left her slender fingers, and she kept one eye ever on it.
"Aunt Malora," Willas answered at once, clearly acquainted with Hightower's daughter. "A hundred harvests gone since I last saw her. Strange woman, most lords conceal daughters of such, yet grandfather favored her the most." Tyrell recalled a queer day from his past. "She skulked behind bushes, as mad folk do, plainly visible, but somehow thinking we could not see her. For a while Garlan and I paid her no heed, playing the game of knights with wooden staves. Stirred by some glee, she emerged from her hiding place, 'Keep the staff close little boy', she spoke through dry voices, yet still maidenly and soft, 'it will follow you to the final day, when own shadows turn on men'".
"I consider myself, the men alive, too fast to bother of mistakes I do, many a man and woman, I've riled leaving them to boil in fury. The Past is too slow to haunt my dreams, but you do... Some mornings, I wish you had just knocked me flat on my arse that day..."
All but Elia, he left unsaid.
"That makes two of us," Willas showed some of the lordly pride he so oft hid behind the guise of calm demeanor.
Alas, they reached Oberyn's tent, one of the few ones still standing. Relentlessly, soldiers and servants prepared for the impending swift march. Wagons were laden, the men on foot stood in ranks, by the river the Golden Company men already waited by the horse lines. Otreyes is hard as nail, too impatient to be entrusted with a plan.
When he unflapped the tent entrance, Darkstar and Deziel Dalt already awaited, both clad in new armor. In Florent plate, Gerold Dayne looked unfamiliar, concealing his face beneath silverish hair. Dalt had a flawless look, a charred black surcoat on rusted armor lacking a few pieces here and there. He would easily pass for a hedge knight or an outrider, or a sellsword from Essos.
"Hmm, you mean to go covert, to slay the Tarly", Willas in a flash put all pieces of the plan on the board. When the war is done, Oberyn had to show him Cyvasse. A perfect man for the perfect game.
Oberyn returned a thin smile, "Aye, and Perman the Purple, Bryan Fossoway, Jon Fossoway and every commander in the army if I must"
"We may as well kill them all, every man in the camp," remarked Gerold Dayne. Oberyn knew Darkstar was game for madness of this sort or more. Ideal man for a task, and quick to boast to everyone how he deserved the Dawn. Still, Oberyn could not fault him, as his blood ran hotter when he was Dayne's age, and still does.
"Just a few," Deziel amended, "when toppling the tower, pluck only a few stones and let the song of weight do the rest. Headless commander never led an army".
"Clever men," Willas praised the words. "I suppose I have a part to play in this ruse of yours."
Nodding, Oberyn unfurled the map, hurling his snake hilt dagger onto a spot, "Delay the march till the night. Breakwind and Fowler seemed to have forged a friendship, they are keen to attack. Horseman Otreyes has fire on his hooves. I am the last man to say, we need to be patient, but..."
"Like a viper in the grass", grinned Deziel Dalt, fastening cheap mail to his chin. Dayne could pass as a reacher, two of us could not. Though, we are used to cover our faces. Dornish wore so much cloth mask in the arid desert, it wouldn't be odd if they were born with it.
A point on the map gleamed under the emerald snake eye, where the tree line met the Blackwater "Bring the army here"
"That is three days of march, surely Tarly will slip by then", concern faintly tinged Willas's voice.
"Not if he is dead. That plain is the last fitting position before the Rose road plunges into the Kingswood. Tarly will rest his army there for a night or two, he is shrewd enough to know we are too far. But not too far for three men alone riding Sand steeds. By the late night I will be there ready to put my blade to good use".
"Headless army takes time to move. It is a rare knight who heeds command from a dead commander", Deziel slid his sword in an old scabbard. A golden bee on the pommel caught the light coming through the holes of the tent.
"Well then, I will hold the army here for a while. Does Qorgyle know?", Willas asked, traces of amusement shined on his bearded face.
"You will tell him...", Oberyn replied, shedding his shirt. Gulian was a good man to lead the field of battle, less so for dishonorable murder. Donning a mail shirt he chose a similar garb as Dez, rough and unorthodox, but most importantly light to bear, leaving much room for the body to breathe.
He swathed his face with brown bandages, placing a rusty halfhelm on his head. Glimpsing at himself in a small mirror, he saw only his lithe figure, the rest was shrouded in a veil of mystery. He plucked a dagger from the map, then drew a thin line across his palm, filling the furrow with blood. Willas's eyes trailed the scene uneasily, as if he did not foresee that from Oberyn. A faint smile was carved on the face of Gerold Dayne, while Oberyn daubed fresh blood on the bandages.
"If I were Tywin Lannister, I would fear you to the grave...," Willas muttered, gauging Oberyn. Aye, Oberyn agreed, pushing aside thoughts of tormenting the old lion.
"When a man has pride, you season it with humiliation. No... he will perish only when those golden lips confess the truth. Not a heartbeat sooner," he chuckled softly, with no mirth.
Saddled horses waited for them outside the tent. Oberyn's Black Devil, in the center, with a fiery red mane. They sped through the mire, racing towards the verdant fields, fleeing from the clamor of a thousand voices to the babble of the mighty Mander.
Turning eastward they spurred through fields of red autumn tulips, racing towards the sun, still brightening the world in unwavering light. The lush fields around them became a smear, swapping long fields, low hills and groves that speckled the fertile land of the Reach.
The sun fled behind them when they spotted the first traces of the other host on the move. And something that stoked fire of Oberyn's suspicion.
"They met a marching snag here, a clash of several lines," Deziel Dalt observed, pointing to the spot where several lesser roads joined with the Rose Road, on uneven ground. The furrowed earth showed that it cost them some time to escape the marching mire.
"One might well say, too bungling for Tarly," Oberyn smirked.
"He is no saint, so what if he bested Robert. Every fool prattles about how Tarly is a grand commander, no one mentions that Robert was tired with three battles, before he faced Tarly," Dayne growled the argument with a lilting voice.
"Spoken wisely," Dez sarcastically threw in, whereupon Dayne turned his head in annoyance.
Regardless, Oberyn voiced his doubts, "Or mayhaps this is not Tarly, mayhaps Tarly lies in a fever bed or is even dead. The beast we are tracking seems not to bite as hard ... Well, we shall see when we arrive."
"You mean that...," the sound of hooves in the distance cut off Dez's words. Swiftly, all three of them vanished behind the nearby crowns.
Four riders emerged on the horizon, without banners and clear markings. Outriders, Oberyn had no doubts, likely to measure the advance of the foe who was chasing them. With this, things looked better, Tarly had to be nearer than he thought.
Without a word, he gestured with a hand to his two fellows, to bide their time until the enemy passed, and then strike. A blink of an eye later, they flew into the fray. With a lifted spear, Oberyn skewered the first soldier under the arm. Blood spurted, stringing red roses on the dark mail. Taken aback, the outriders had no time to rally before the peril beset them. Gerold Dayne locked blades with a burly outrider, with broad brawny shoulders. Below the road, Dalt chased after one in flight, driving him into the deep muck.
The fourth outrider, with a high-held spear, charged towards Oberyn, aiming at his breast. Drawing a dagger from his belt, the prince waited for the horseman to come close and then, struck him in the face with precise force. The corpse tumbled from the swift steed. Plunging the sword into his throat, Dayne finally rid himself of the massive foe.
Stuck in the muck, the last outrider squirmed, spurring the horse to free itself from the snare. Soon they hemmed him in from all sides, making flight hopeless.
"Where is your camp now?" Oberyn demanded. "Speak and we will spare your life. I will know if you lie."
"You swear?" the voice of a commoner came out.
"On my honor,"
"Near Kingswood, by Yellow Stone," The outrider confirmed Oberyn's guess. Casting the sword into the mire, he yielded.
"Bind him," Oberyn commanded and Dayne swiftly coiled a rope around the outrider, pinning his arms.
"But you vowed," he wailed.
"And I keep my vow, we let you live," Oberyn chuckled.
They freed the trapped horse, and turned the rider back to the horse's head.
"Good fortune," Oberyn winked at him, spurring the horse into a gallop, towards Willas's camp. If he is fortunate, and does not stray, does not tumble from the saddle, mayhaps by dawn he will met the vanguard.
Knowing that the camp was near, they swapped the mounts, leaving the sand steeds hidden in the shadow of the trees. They had luck, else they would have to walk the last stretch of the road or risk leaving the sand steeds too close to the camp. The Spoils of war served them well.
The black night dimmed the world around them, and after a few hours of riding they glimpsed the lights of the campfires gleaming on the horizon, like stars in the dark sky.
Encampment by the Kingswood had some order to it, just not the martial Tarly order. Perimeter marked with a shallow ditch and palisade, sentries armed with spear, crossbow and blades paced on it. Besides, Oberyn could discern the clumsy nature, watchers absent or not vigilant, the blindspots in defense a decent foe could exploit to his advantage.
"Clumsy," Ser Gerold Dayne passed by a withered apple tree, giving a scorn to an enemy.
"Clumsy is good, if the foe is doing it." Oberyn tied the horse to a newly fell tree on the ground. The mare promptly began to graze on the dewy grass.
The blaze of fires glittered between tents and supply wagons. Utter perfection, scarce a man to dread an intruder, Oberyn thought, beholding the maze of narrow paths crammed with men sleeping around camp fires, after drinking first hours of the night.
Before Lord pavilion of some red Fossoway, a group of four sentries, savored cups of wine over a larger camp pyre. Gerold went around to slip into the tent, Oberyn and Dalt diverted the guards.
"Can we share fire," Deziel asked, poorly feigning a Volantene accent, only to end a quiet murmur of talk. Soldier in Fossoway surcoat, sporting long whiskers on unshaven face gauged both of them, eyeing bandages on Oberyn's face.
"Aye, but wine we do not share," he chuckled and the rest of them followed. Young boy, not older than thirteen sitting by an old shield with webber spider; one eyed Fossoway sentry, in threadbare surcoat, with color faded so much, you could not tell if apple is red or green. The last man might be a hedge knight, by lack of standard patch or decent mail. "These are Collin", he put hand on the webber boy, "one eyed fellow here is Pack, and smiling lad is Victer. I go by Serge". Hedge knight Victer smiled hearing his own name, showing shattered white teeth, once comely smile, ruined by a mace blow.
"Well met, My name is Dez," Deziel Dalt spoke the truth, "Dez of Volantis," the lie followed. "The comely friend of mine is Kassion, the war took his tongue I fear. Not sure, just, which war."
"Did not know we had sellsword company among our ranks?" Serge stroked his whiskers, masking distrust in words with a gesture.
"I am my own man," Dez said in a firm cold voice. "Few years past came to Oldtown, wandered around, serving merchants, lord household: Bulwer, Costayne, till Renly's camp. Too bored to stay at the same place for long."
"Have you fought in the Disputed Lands?" Collin asked in a faint voice.
"Any worthy sellsword has," Dez appeared affronted by query. "Oddly enough, once served in the Golden Company."
All faces around the fire were grave, scent of sweet wine wafted around the heat. Too sweet, too feeble for my taste. "Truly, why leave. Is there a better payroll?", Serge doubted Dez's words.
"Head still on my shoulders, for one. The Golden Company is unlike any other, their sword has only one edge, turned toward foe or their faithless contractor. Every man enlisted must fight, and fight well to live. They train every day, drill new tactics, push you to learn more skill than a hundred men need. Most other companies do not give a fig, you show on doorstep with a blade, you are in. If in battle, they keep distance, close enough to not lose reward if their payer wins, far enough to flee at first trouble. More often than not, instead of fleeing, they turn cloaks. The Golden Company never forsook a contract. Golden shields fight, golden shields prevail."
Dread crept under those words as men came to grasp, sooner than not, it was them on the other side of that edge. Well done Dalt, the dread is the strongest wine.
"Every folk be knowin' that," one-eyed Pack cried out raising his voice so much, Serge motioned him to quiet it down. "Sellswords broke 'em Lannisters."
"Nay, Dornish did. Lion of the Rock was to break the dragon king and his host, when Dornish charge turned the day. Treacherous Dornishmen, cravens I say, always striking a man from behind", Serge spat into the flame. Be careful old man.
"Lannisters a'e no bette'. Gods we'e half-asleep that day, at Redwood, by honest mercy they should have smote each other like those twin Kingsguard from 'em tales. Lions and dragons, bitten to death." Pack gnawed a hard saltbeef, somewhat defying the order of his captain.
"Gods or god?", Dalt rebutted, "Lord Stannis prays to the Red God".
"One, seven... All the same lot, they are. Old, new, fire—bugger 'em! I aint here for gods; only 'cause Loras fancied Renly's rear or cock. Then some other wench laid hands on Renly, and he right away croaked. So my noble lords of Cider Hall hopped onto a different boat. A year turned since King Robert kicked the bucket, the cunts still can't figure who should be the king."
"Quiet", Serge warned, "Lord Stannis is the one true king, champion of the one true god".
"Beg your pardon, septon, didn't reckon it was you," Pack japed sparking the laugh from the rest of them.
"Speak once more and he won't be the only one tongueless here," Serge pointed his finger at Oberyn, making Pack scowl, dropping his head. "The same holds for the rest of you."
From the corner of his eye, Oberyn glimpsed a shadow, Dayne was creeping behind the tent. The deed was done. He waved his hand to Dalt to follow.
"See you lads, thanks for the fire," Dalt rose and bid farewell to the company.
"Take care...," young Collin was the only one who bothered to reply courteously. The others sent them off in silence.
Now it was Oberyn's turn to dispatch the commander. He slid between large crates, dodging the guards in front of the tent. With swift motions of a dagger, he parted the thick cloth, biting a small chunk of red apple, slipping inside like a serpent.
Cold breeze swept in the tent along with him, snuffing out seven of eight candles. The last candle flickered like a wheat branch in storm defying the cold.
Frosty air roused the slumber of Tanton Fossoway, cocooned in thick layers of soft furs.
"Cersei! Play for me. To hell with the damn pirate," the lad's words turned into a puff of cold air. Smiling, Oberyn loomed as the Stranger above the knight's head, a sharp knife in hand. The final sweet dream.
"What?", the lordling mumbled as Oberyn's hand clamped on his mouth, stifling a scream in his throat. Death was swift, one clean cut of the dagger. The scent of fresh blood replaced the rich aroma of melting candle wax.
Quietly, he left the pavilion, nearing the dark corner, where the others awaited him.
"I saw to it that Tarly's guards got well-spiced wine," Dalt whispered.
"Well done, then we have a rendezvous with the great lord," Oberyn replied, wiping the blood from the blade.
Randyll Tarly's pavilion was twice as large, ringed by guards on all sides and well lit. Three Dornishmen, like wraiths, slipped by the drugged guards, who seemed drunk, clutching their spears tightly, not to fall from their feet.
"I did not think you would come before The hour of the nightingale," an old woman's voice said when they entered. From his Tourney days, Oberyn knew Lady Oakheart, now, clad in scanty silk, with a glittering ruby that blazed from the golden necklace.
Tarly has some hunger for women. Older women.
Oakheart shrieked, and Dalt jumped and palm her mouth, toppling her on the cushions.
"Lady Arwyn, please be cooperative. Our aim is to hurt Lord Tarly, not you..." Oberyn calmed her. Unless, we have to.
"Her banners turned cloak, as well," Darkstar reminded him, pointing the tip of his blade, along the length of the room, at the hapless lady.
Still trying to restrain her, Dalt glanced at Oberyn, "I hope none heard her. How she shrieked, hardly so."
"If the guards do not stir, none else will," Oberyn said convincingly. "We must bide our time for Tarly to come."
The pavilion was made of two tents joined into one, forming a vast hall, so spacious that lesser lords could not claim the same, in their small stone keeps. Silk, cashmere, velvet were strewn everywhere; golden goblets lay on the floor, and Tarly's armor hung next to a huge looking glass.
"Ser," Dayne hailed him from the other end of the pavilion, eyeing a large chest that was faintly trembling. Opening the chest, Darkstar was astonished to behold another likeness of Lady Oakheart, with blue bruises, parched and weary face, tousled hair, but clearly recognizable.
"Am I blind or the leaf bitch has a twin?", hissed Dayne, glancing at two elderly women, one in silk and roses, the other gagged, with skin dry from too much darkness.
"Your eyes do not deceive you," Deziel stated in a voice akin to a healer, assuring a delirious man, the mad imagery was true.
Gagged Lady Oakheart muffed and grunted beneath the cloth. "The Nice Lady wants to speak, unbind her," Oberyn said.
Dayne removed the hindrance to voice, and Lady of Leaves first drew a deep breath, as if just emerged from a long dive below waters amid coral reefs by Lemonwood.
"Rip the necklace!", she bellowed in fury, "Rip the necklace!"
The necklace, why? The words left even Oberyn baffled, until the sharp ruby caught his eyes again. Nimbly he slashed the golden chain with the edge of his blade, so finely he did not spill the blood. Quick as lightning flash the first Lady Oakheart vanished, and a woman before them, barely grown to womanhood. Instead of grays she wore long blond locks, in place of wrinkled one, her face was straight as a banner on a strong wind.
"Let me go," she screamed in a high pitched scream, "Erren shall slay you all, you'll see"
"Pinch me, am I dreaming," Deziel Dalt had eyes wide open, scanning both women.
For once, Gerold Dayne looked at a loss for words, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
"Sorcery of some sort," Dayne muttered eager to withdraw fingers from women he deemed as witches. Stannis does have red priests of R'hllor in service. They use potions and powders to deceive believers, this is much more, beyond mere tricks for sight.
Himself seeking answers, Oberyn once more eyed captive Lady Oakheart.
"I cannot tell you what it is, but the enemy wields vile magic. When Randyll came from Storm's End, he acted queer, proposing alliance for Stannis Baratheon. The way he walked and spoke, nothing seemed as the stern man I knew. Nor is Randyll so soft of heart to break an oath to Tyrells. I spurned him, so they coerced me. A pinch of blood, a strand of hair, turning Florent's wench into me."
"Tarly is also replaced," Oberyn continued.
"Aye. I am not certain, only a feeling in my old bones, but Erren Florent took Tarly's face. You must not kill him, not before my men and Tarly's see the truth. Bring my son here, and a few of Tarly's own; Cronin, Hunt, Denison."
"Good thing, we did not slay your son, my Lady," Oberyn said pensively. Entering this tent, the world grew more splendid and queer. I once craved for that. Now he did not know what to make of it.
"Oh, fret not Prince Oberyn, I'll kill that knave myself," the Lady drank wine, as if she had never before touched a cup.
Dayne and Dalt went to seek people, heeding Lady Oakheart's directions, calling them to a large gathering.
Suddenly, noises began outside, someone was shouting at the guards.
"Are you mad," the voice bellowed, then dashing inside. Erren Florent wore the same ruby on his doublet, anxiously looking at his lover bound to the post.
"Rhelna, what's happening...", he froze when he beheld Lady Oakheart in the corner, then Oberyn struck him in the head from behind, casting him into unconsciousness.
Lady Oakheart hastened to the young beauty, restoring the necklace to her neck. Again, the maiden in a snapp of fingers reclaimed another thirty years of life.
"I was not sure if this would work. Unfortunately, I am no witch, but it is worth a try ... it will be easier to explain," she said in a soft voice.
"I do not condemn," Oberyn smiled thoughtfully.
Half an hour later, a dozen men entered the tent and all looked bewildered at the sight of two women of the same likeness.
"Mother," the balding Oakheart uttered oddly, looking at the two bound bodies and his mother.
"What is the meaning of this?", one of the Tarly men roared, drawing swords to liberate his lord, only to be hushed when Oberyn removed the necklace, unveiling the face of Erren Florent.
"The only meaning I have to say to all of you is that you are damned fools," Lady Oakheart chided the men in a thin voice, expounding the situation again. A restless murmur arose among the group.
Darwin Oakheart was wholly absent-minded, looking at the blond-haired girl as at a demon.
"There is only an hour before dawn, we must seize the camp. Eight hundred blades shall do," Oberyn ordered.
"We will not take orders from a Dornishman," one Tarly knight said.
"Yes, you will," Lady Oakheart retorted sharply.
When the sun rose, the camp was in their hands, all Florents and Fossoways were taken and disarmed.
Tarly's bannermen wanted to hang the young Florent, who wore his face, but Oberyn knew that not all grieved for their lord, as much as they were beguiled and made fools.
Two days later, Willas's host arrived, bringing tidings that the battle for King's Landing was over.