Chapter Text
Another night without a fire, another night of watching a hundred bright lights in the distance, flickering and dancing, waving him over.
He pulled his cloak closer around him. It was a simple lamb wool cloak, one that he bought as soon as he realised that the cold in the Reach could make any man without a warm fire fall ill. It snowed slightly, but only for an hour, and the white did not stay long enough to form a white blanket over the green. He found himself thinking of snow falling on the Dornish desert- the first time he saw that was when he was only three, and he remembered he and Elia screaming in the Gardens, chasing after the snowflakes and catching them before they could hit the ground.
Doran never joined their games, but he was always much too old for them, and not just because he was older than them. Doran was born with an old soul, their father told him once, and was always solemn and sober even as a boy. Of course, every once in a while, he would follow his passions; Mellario being an example of that, and had his tempers as any Dornish did, but Doran always kept them well hidden from view. It often amused Oberyn that they were blood brothers, and yet they were as different as night and day, the earth and the heavens.
Oberyn wondered if he and Doran would be the same people they are now if they were born with fewer years between them.
He blinked and lifted his gaze from to look upon the line of lights, longing for their warmth, and perhaps even the company of those who sat around them. Conversation with himself and his wits have grown stale two weeks ago, and he has stopped himself from pausing at any town or village, favouring of a swift journey to his sister to the kisses of a stranger. The Tyrells, if any of them are in that camp, will know his face and ask where he was going- and no doubt report it to the King- they have no reason not to, even after Willas had forgiven him a dozen times for that joust. The other ordinary men of the Reach will not look at him kindly and will be looking for the slightest reason to pick a fight with a Dornishman- and Oberyn was never good at avoiding fights. Lighting his own fire will alert the Tyrells of his prescence, and a rider will no doubt be sent to apprehend and question him.
Of course he could always turn away from following the Rose Road and travel straight through the forests and hills until he saw the Red Keep, but he preferred the Tyrells to bandits and the risk of losing himself amongst the trees. Tomorrow he will ride ahead of the host, and follow the road closer. Once on the road, and with fair weather and safe passage, he could reach the capital within the next ten days. He wasn't quite sure how he will meet Elia, much less how he will get her out and get her to Sunspear- but he never was one to plan and scheme. His entire life was built on whims and urges and short lived fancies, and his plans were always made as they happened.
Dawn soon came, the sun slowly rising to its throne at the centre of the sky before descending once more. He decided to keep riding through the night, urging his horses into a gallop whenever he felt that they had the energy to. He quickly left the Tyrell host behind and left the forest trails and returned to the Roseroad. The road was flat, wide and clear, without any forest flanking it that left the bandits with no place to hide and wait in ambush.
He switched horses every few hours, or at the first sign that the one he rode was tiring. He slowed into a walk whenever he needed to eat, and only allowed himself a few hours rest while they grazed and drank, before setting off again. He was sore and aching in his saddle but he refused to allow the pain to slow him, much less stop him. He was so close now, and the closer he got to the capital, the more he felt that he had less time.
By the time he reached the fringes of the Kingswood, his horses were ornery and refused to be bridled or saddled without fighting him. He knew that they were tired and wished that he could apologised to them, but the voice in his mind panicked at every minute wasted, at every minute not spent in travelling to Elia. He gave them a sugarcube each and promised them that they would have the rest of their lives to rest once this journey is done.
" One more day," He told them as he climbed onto Black's saddle, and gently steered her back onto the road, " I'll get you two sweet, juicy autumn apples, and you'll have a nice warm stable to sleep in at night. One more day, please,"
He fell asleep in the saddle that night, dreaming of shadows and wraiths. He dreamt of voices that made his very bones shudder and shake, and he dreamt of falling into a pit that swallowed and drowned him. Somewhere, he knew that it was nought but a dream, and he tried to shake away from it. But the darkness gripped him tight and melted into his lungs, filling them and choking him. He thought of Elia, and vowed that he would not die until she is safe, but the wraiths shoved their talons into his eyes and gauged them out, leaving him screaming.
He woke shaking, his clothes and hair clinging to his skin. He pulled Black to a halt and stumbled down from the saddle to find the nearest tree, his legs half collapsing under him. He pressed himself against the bark and forced himself to take a deep breath. He whispered to himself over and over that there was nothing to fear, but still the voice haunted him, whispering in his ear.
He forced himself back on his feet to find the saddle bags, rummaging for his water skin and taking a generous drink from it before washing his face with whatever that remained. His fingers clung to Red's rough mane and angrily scolded himself for letting a nightmare reduce him to a trembling leaf.
But he opted to rest the night on solid ground, and so set himself about the task of gathering firewood and setting up camp. The tediousness of it calmed him and once he got a little fire going, he settled against the same tree and laid his cloak flat upon the earth and settled on his back. The dream had faded, and he prayed that he will not be visited by them again. He had suffered enough from those shades and from that voice to last him a lifetime. Perhaps he was foolish to believe that he had left that darkness in Essos, and that they will not follow him here. Perhaps all he wanted to do was to believe that he had not known and done the things he had known and done.
One of his horses nickered and snorted and Oberyn opened his eyes and sat up despite the protests of his body. He stayed like that, still and listening, for a minute, before he heard the faint mumble of voices.
He jumped to his feet and put out the fire. Then, carefully, he pulled his horses into tree line, into the shadows, before pulling a spearhead from Red's saddlebag and unfastening a long shaft of oak. Deftly, instinctively, his hands worked the secure the twisted blade to one end of the shaft.
The voices were growing louder, closer.
He pressed his back against another tree, his steps barely making a sound, even against the fallen and dried leaves. His mind went to bandits. The Kingswood once had a infamous bandit Brotherhood, the band that the Smiling Knight led. They had been as ruthless as their leader was insane, terrorising the Crownlands, kidnapping nobles and slaughtering peasants. Elia had written to him once a long time ago that her travelling party had been attacked by the Brotherhood, and she herself had only escaped because Ser Gerold Hightower had stayed behind to fend them off. He was well aware that the band had been wiped out several years past, but he also knew that in times of war, and bandits were like crows and vultures on a battle field.
One more day- he cannot allow himself to be captured by a rag tag group of bandits when he was so close to Elia.
He saw a torch fire flicker and dance through the darkness, and he counted a group of three. They were lightly armoured, likely sent to patrol the area. There is likely to be a camp nearby. There were two options open to him now, to kill this patrol before they could find him and alert the camp, race down the road and fight his way through should the camp be in his way, or to sneak away and find his way around the camp.
He almost laughed. Why did I even consider an alternative?
He hurried towards them, crouched low, moving easily from shadow to shadow. Their heavy boots made such a racket on the forest floor that it helped disguise his own approach. They were speaking with each other, and their voices were gruff and their accent was thick and strange to his ear. He then saw the device on their surcoats and on the shield one carried on his back.
And there, was the Stark Direwolf.
The Rebels were in the Kingswood- were they laying siege on King's Landing?
He breathed, feeling his heart rise to his throat- Elia.
He let the three men walk past him.
What if they had already sacked the city?
They were three paces from him.
Elia- Gods-
He hurried back to the horses, and vaulted onto Red's saddle. He urged her into a brisk trot, keeping to the shadows, but following the road. Black followed closely behind, but Oberyn did not think she would follow if he plunges into a fight, and leading her by her reins will only slow him down. There were new smells in the air; a proper war camp, he deemed, and soon he saw fires.
Spear still in hand, he gripped it tighter, his mind racing. He knew that it would be foolish to charge into the camp- He'll be surrounded and overpowered as soon as the alarm goes, and if he is captured, what good will he be to Elia.
If she still lived.
But if she wasn't- if Kings Landing had been sacked and she and her children killed- there would be nothing sweeter than killing those men who had a part in it, however small.
The thought made him grit his teeth and his stomach twist- and he had to remind himself that he didn't know Elia's fate, and he would be a fool to get himself killed over an assumption.
He steered around the camp, eyes warily watching the camp fires that littered the darkness. He saw tents and horses and men and boys. The camp was noisy, there was music and there were roaring and laughing- were they celebrating? Or was this simply a performance to lift morale?
" You there-!"
He turned his head and saw two soldiers standing not ten feet away. He saw their eyes in the torch light and saw their hands on their sword hilts.
" Who goes there?"
" A merchant," He answered almost too quickly, forgetting to mask his accent, " I do not wish for any trouble,"
" Do all Dornish merchants carry spears in their hands when they ride?" The other one asked, stepping towards him.
" These are dangerous times," He smiled, forcing his body to ease, " And it is not uncommon for one who has lived on the sands to know how to defend himself,"
" We will have to see your wares," Said the first one.
" Why? So you can rob me and call it tax?" He replied, keeping an amiable tone, " I sell jewellery and gems, and forgive me for being cautious, but many an inspector have wronged me so,"
" There is none to purchase such wares from here on, good ser," The second one lifted the torch a little higher so to throw more light around them, " You will find better luck selling them jewels to the lords in the camp; many have ladies and brides to go home to,"
He swallowed, venturing, " The Ladies and Queens of Kings Landing have always been my loyal customers,"
" I'm sorry, the city isn't...,"
The first one took another step towards him, " The city has been sacked," He said, finishing his friend's sentence, " I suggest you turn back or be brought to Lord Arryn. There is no one in the city to buy your wares at this time,"
" Sacked?" He set his teeth, renewing his grip of his spear, before asking," And the Princess Elia? Any news of her? "
" I hear she was killed,"
" Oh," He breathed, gently urging Red towards the two men, " By whom?"
" The Lannisters, I suppose," Said one of them- it didn't matter to him now, " When they sacked the city,"
" And her children? The little Prince and Princess?" Closer, closer.
" Killed too," The man smiled; a proud smile, " We won this war, we did,"
" Yes, it would seem so," Oberyn could hear his own heart beating in his ears, " I would like to have a meeting with Lord Arryn, please,"
" Of course, if you would- Agh!" His scream was gargled and muffled as bubbles of blood rose from the gaping hole in his neck.
There was a cry for help followed by a sharp gasp and groan.
The blade of his spear was red.
He kicked his horse forward and raced into the camp.
There was a boy, no older than fourteen, who saw him with wide frightened eyes.
A man, taking a piss, who saw him through his squinted eyes.
A lordling, in his chain shirt, who saw him through confused eyes.
He killed them all.
Before his world turned into a flurry of blood and flame.
All he heard was the drumming of his own heart, deafening.
All he saw was Elia- still, broken, and dead.
And all he felt was the pain in his chest, maddening, threatening to split him open and rip him apart.
Elia.
Somehow, he found his hands chained in front of him, and he was dragged forward. Like a wild horse, he tugged and he pulled and he bellowed curses- and if he had two more legs, he was sure he would buck and kick.
Something was hammering mercilessly against the insides of his skull and he tasted rust in his mouth. His hair was matted against his forehead and his shoulder burnt and seared, as something hot ran slowly down his arm and side, soaking his shirt.
There was noise, so much noise, so many voices around him. Shouts, jeers, he cant make them out, there was a ringing in his ears.
Someone kicked his knees from under him and he crumpled to the ground, but he will not yell out in pain for them, " You killed her!" He heard himself snarl and roar, " You killed her and her children! You fucking sons of whores! "
There was an old man who arrived in front of him, with snow white hair and broad shoulders. He stood straight and tall, and Oberyn knew immediately that he was faced with a Lord, and he knew that it must be Jon Arryn.
The chains bit into his wrists.
" What is your name?" The Lord Arryn asked.
And he replied, growling, " I am Oberyn Nymeros Martell,"
At that, silence fell around him, and the quiet anger faded from Arryn's face to be replaced by surprise.
When none spoke, Oberyn pushed himself to his feet and continued, " I demand to see my sister's body, the Princess Elia, and that of her children, Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. I demand all those who were involved in their murder be brought to justice. I demand death for death,"
" You killed ten of my men," Arryn found his voice once again, " Like you, i wish justice for their deaths,"
He spat, blood on his lips, " Unless they were the ones who killed Princess Elia and her children, their deaths mean nothing to me. They were soldiers, my sister and her babes were not. Your men were killed, my sister and her babes were murdered,"
Arryn stared at him, lips pursed thin, " Bring him to my pavilion," he ordered, " Your status requires that we speak when you are not half in mud and half in blood," the old man then turned his back and marched up a slope.
A northerner, by the looks of him, tugged on Oberyn's chains and led him forward to follow the old Lord Arryn. To spite him, Oberyn went slowly, glaring and scowling. The crowd that had gathered around him were jeering but they were so many voices that he heard none of them.
Elia, he thought again, and his heart twisted in his chest and he wanted to fall and sob- but another jerk gnawed sharply at his wrists and his pain was replaced by anger.
Anger hurt less.
It hurt less than grief; than guilt.
The pavilion was warm, filled with chairs with plush cushions of rich design, coloured sky blue and white. There was a table at the centre, by the fire, where rolls of maps and parchment lay. The old man stood by the table, and ordered Oberyn to be released and commanded his guards to step outside. His men went hesitantly, and one even quietly expressed his concerns, to which the old man replied with, " I may have more white than grey in my hair, but i am not defenceless,"
Once they were alone, Lord Arryn beckoned him to the table as he sat, " I understand your rage, Prince Oberyn," His expression was grim, and with the fire light, there seemed to be more lines on his face, ageing him, " We did not mean Princess Elia and her children to be killed,"
He found Lord Arryn's eyes and held his gaze, " Who killed them then, and who is we?"
" It was ... the Lannisters, and we, meaning myself and the rebel high command, played no part in their murder," Arryn's words were careful, and Oberyn thought that he spoke like Doran, " As you may already know, the Lannisters have remained neutral throughout this war, and remained as aloof to us as they were to the King.
" You expect me to think that Baratheon had no part in this?" Oberyn set his jaw, " Robert Baratheon wanted the throne, and my niece and nephew were obstacles to that end,"
" No," Arryn said, " Robert had no wish to be king, not when he is true and sober, anyway. He simply wanted Lyanna Stark back and the end to the Mad King's rule and injustice. He... he would never order the deaths of innocent babes,"
Oberyn shook his head, and clenched his fist, leaning forward, " Fine," He said, his voice snarling, " Which Lion killed my sister and her babes? I am sure Lord Tywin had ordered it if he did not do it himself. I want the heads of every single man- even woman- responsible for this. No- I want them in chains, even the mighty Lord Tywin. I will take the pleasure of killing them myself,"
" No one knows who did it,"
" Lord Tywin knows,"
" It may not have happened under his orders, it could have been something that-,"
" Bullshit!" He slammed his fist onto the table, " That's fucking bullshit, and you know it,"
" No, Prince Oberyn," Arryn replied, calm, " I do not know,"
" I want death for death, Lord Arryn," He said, " Three deaths for three lives stolen,"
" I promise you, once peace has settled, you, and all of Dorne, will get their justice," the old man put his hands together, " I wish i knew of the Lannister's intent, truly i do. I... I have had an agreement with your brother to ensure your sister's and her children's safety for cooperation and support from Dorne. And they were babes... and... ," Lines grew across his brow, pausing for a beat, " I have been tasked to travel to Sunspear to deliver their bones... along with those of your Uncle. Yes, you will see them tonight,"
Silence fell between them.
" I'm sorry," the old man finally said, his voice quiet, " I truly am,"
Oberyn swallowed, " Give us Tywin Lannister, and those involved in this murder, and Dorne will stay in the fold. So long as my sister's spirit remains in unrest, Dorne will be in rebellion. This, I promise you,"
" Your brother said as much in his messages," The old man almost sounded tired, before raising his voice, " Ronnett, bring Prince Oberyn to a tent of his own, and give him a maester to tend to his wounds,"
Oberyn almost spat that he did not need a maester- but he was weary and his stomach felt sick, and so he kept his silence and pushed through the tent flaps.
A guard grunted and mumbled at him and he took it as a request to follow, and soon, Oberyn found himself in a little tent that was much too cold for him. A maester arrived soon after and nervously asked him to sit, and so he did. Oberyn peeled his doublet off and then his tunic. He saw that he had been cut deep at shoulder, but he didn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything.
The maester cleaned the cut and the bruise on his head, before stitching the cut close and bandaging both of them. As soon as he was done, Oberyn dismissed him and once again he was alone.
He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers, and thinking if he had his spear, or even his poisons, he would poison every single man in this camp; starting with Lord Arryn.
Then, a draft of cool air stirred him and he saw that seven shades had entered, standing in a line. Three held a large wooden box, while two held a smaller one, while the remaining two held a little box each. And they stood there.
He sat up, and blinked, when he realised that they were only Silent Sisters.
And his eyes fell once more to the boxes and said, " Leave my family here,"
Carefully, the Sisters set the boxes down in a line, turned and left.
He wanted nothing but to sleep and forget, but he stood and stepped to the boxes. The first he opened was his Uncle Lewyn, that much was clear, though it was not him. Just bones, a white cloak, a broken breastplate, and a bright sword. He saw that the breastplate was shattered in many places, and knew that his Uncle died fighting, even when he could no longer.
Oberyn mumbled an old prayer and moved to the next box, but his hands would not move to remove the cover.
Elia.
Gods- I'm sorry-
His eyes and nose stung as he held his tears in.
I owe it to her, to look upon her once more.
And slowly, the wooden panel moved, but he stopped half way when he saw her skull.
It was my fault.
He tasted salt on his lips and he quickly closed the casket.
He turned his head, and saw the two little boxes beside him.
He did not open them.
I'm sorry.