Chapter 65 + New Story Announcement

AN: Lots happened since covid. I don't know if I'll find the inspiration to get back to this story, but I'm hyped for the other one, which is a Harry Potter SI in a slightly altered universe. Please check that other out if you enjoy my writing. Thank you!

Oberyn II

He gave the command when the first line of riders reached the inn. The horn bearer attending him blew a long, deep note, and the ambush was sprung. Oberyn could barely hear the whistle of the missiles over the howling and hooting of the Mountain's men, though that didn't last long.

Ther joyous and hungry warcries were soon drowned by the keening of their horses dying under the hail of arrows and crossbow bolts. Men fell in waves. He had made sure to order his own men to aim for the animals. A downed man took a second to push himself to his feet, and that was enough for them to fire another round of arrows onto the Westerlanders.

Then Daemon and the dornishmen on the ground lept from their shelters and started the slaughter, and Oberyn allowed himself a grim smile.

The Mountain's men were hard warriors, he had known that from the start, cruel men long used to wielding cruel black iron in their hands. But he also knew they'd grown fat and complacent with their victories in the Riverlands, too used to slaughtering smallfolk like cattle.

After the king offered him Ser Gregor back in chataya's brothel, Oberyn had hunted down every refugee from the War of the Five Kings that made it into King's Landing, from the merchantfolk of Pinkmaiden and Stone Hedge and all the way to Darry, to farmers and herders who had their steadings pillaged. He'd spoken with every soldier who served with Lannisters or Starks or their own little lords in the war, and heard every rumour about the Mountain and their tactics.

The whole of the court thought he spent his days sampling in the brothels and whorehouses of the city, and he let them. Fool was the man who took his foes' words to heart. His reputation was a weapon as sharp as any spear; and sometimes, the best veil to hide behind. How many times had someone tagged him as just another whoremongering princeling, too taken with wine and women, before feeling the bite of his spear on their bleeding heart?

Obara and Nymeria shared a laugh at the sight in front of them and rushed past him, dashing across the inn's raised porch, spears and knives in hand.

The Mountain's men were dying in droves; only a handful had cobbled up a wall of shields to hide behind one street over, but Ser Daemon and fifteen other dornishman were already circling them, spears flickering at every gap. It would be over soon enough.

Yet Oberyn cared not a whit for it. Most of these men deserved to die a dozen times over, he was sure, but he only had eyes for the giant in the middle of the street, keeping three men at bay with great arching swings of his sword. The weapon was a slab of steel six feet long, meant to be wielded with both hands, but Ser Gregor Clegane hefted it easily with one hand while holding onto a round shield as wide as he was. His armor was a great monstrosity of black steel, dark as he was.

Exhaling a breath he'd been holding for twenty years, Oberyn slowly walked down the stairs of the inn's raised porch, feeling the blazing sun kissing at his skin. It was the sun of Dorne. An old friend of his. The symbol of his family. Elias's sun.

And he would be her spear.

xxxxx

Daemon II

The men beside him pulled at the blocking shield with the hook of his halberd, and Daemon went in for the kill. The spearhead scratched past the top of the raider's gorget and slid through his throat as easy as if it were carving a cake, cherry glaze dripping to the side.

The man dropped from his feet. Flicking the blood off the blade of the spear, Daemon allowed himself to breathe freely. That had been the last of them still standing. Some still lingered on the ground, bleeding from a dozen wounds, begging for the sword's mercy. Daemon ordered none be given.

He thought the prince would appreciate the deathly chorus.

Only one of the Westerlanders still fought. The Mountain stood square in the middle like a great beast cornered by its handlers. Five men had him surrounded, keeping him at bay with long pikes, but none of them made a move to injure him.

Prince Oberyn sauntered down the inn's stairs. "This was done on my name," he announced, a long spear whirling in his hands. Hearing the prince, the pikemen retreated. "Do you know who I am?"

Ser Gregor Clegane didn't seem to care. He looked around at the butchery of his men and growled, "I'll fucking kill you!" Then he rushed at the prince. His great sword looped down to cut the smaller man in half, but the prince had already spun away. Clegane turned to follow him, but had to quickly put his shield up as a spearhead jabbed at his head.

When the giant lowered his shield back down, Oberyn had already moved behind him again. One swing of Ser Gregor's sword could split three men in half, and he didn't swing it sparingly. He went at the prince like a bull, strong and unrelenting and stubborn, great sword always whistling inches from flesh before Oberyn slipped away.

But the prince lived up to his name; he darted in and out, spear flashing, like a viper cornering its prey. Daemon had seen the knight he'd squired for fight dozens of times, in sparring yards and honor duels and fighting pits, but never had he seen Oberyn move as quickly or as gracefully as he did now.

By Daemon's side, the two sand snakes fought with their father, each stab of his spear was shadowed by their own imagining of the duel. "Left, right, left, right," Obara said, and Nymeria had her knives cutting the air as if she could move the prince's hands.

"I am Oberyn Martell," he said, circling around Clegane again. The false knight trailed behind, but the narrow slit of his visor limited his vision as much as it protected him. "Elia's brother. Elia Martell!"

Oberyn's feet kicked off the ground and his long spear snapped forward. When the Mountain moved to block it, the prince revealed the feint and sliced at his side. The blade keened as it scratched off of plate. Clegane grunted, cursed, and cut empty air. "Stop running!" He whirled around. Oberyn lanced him twice by then, but he couldn't seem to find a chink on the steel armor.

"Elia of Dorne!" the prince roared. He slid around a wild slash from the great sword and whacked the butt of his spear against the Mountain's helmet. Clegane buckled and swayed, and Oberyn pressed him. Twice he drew blood, first a thrust under the unguarded armpit, then a clean slash on the back of a knee, cutting straight through mail and leather.

Clegane howled in pain, but the monster somehow managed to stay on his two feet.

Oberyn had stopped dancing around. "You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children!" His strikes intensified, spear whirling and poking and prodding, metal ringing on metal.

The Mountain snarled something indistinguishable each time he was hit. His voice had taken a gurgling wet note to it. Blood ran freely over his jet black armor, and his parries and blocks came slower as Oberyn prolonged the exchange.

"Say it!" A thrust to the visor. "Say her name!" A lunge at the gorget then a slash at the thigh. "Confess!" A twist under a sword hack, followed by three quick jabs; but they only met plate armor. Oberyn backed off for a moment.

The Mountain was heaving now, his great sword seeming limp in his hand, point digging into the ground; the earth around him had turned to red mud. The prince simply stood in front of him, arms open. "I won't end it, ser. I won't end it until you confess. Say it. You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Clegane fell to one knee; but when the prince approached to needle the giant again, the great sword lept. It was so quick Daemon nearly missed it, until fresh blood was spraying in the air, trailing the sword's arc like a painter's brush. Nymeria screamed beside him, and strong-willed Obara fell to her knees.

Every man watching clutched their weapons and leaned forward, ready to run the Mountain through in retribution for their prince. But Daemon saw that Oberyn was not quite done yet. The prince had ducked at the last second, and instead of his life, Clegane had only taken an eye and an ear. He rolled to the side then retreated some five paces back, one hand clutching at his head.

When the Sand Snakes got to their feet and made to sprint across the street, they heard a resounding, "No!" from Oberyn. The prince pointed them back, panting where he stood. He stood straight across the street from Daemon, with his back to the inn's raised porch and the sun in his single eye. Crimson covered the left side of his face, and his bloody hair clung to his brow.

Clegane was dumb, but he was a fighter born and bred. He saw his opportunity, grunted to stand, and charged, shield up and long blade pointing. His great bulk covered most of Daemon's view of the prince, but his eyes widened when he caught something peeking over the Mountain's shoulders. Oberyn had hefted his spear oved his head with one hand; then he pointed at the rushing Clegane, stepped up, and threw it with a harsh groan of effort.

The spear drilled the air, and the prince took off after it. Clegane tucked low and hid behind his large shield. Daemon hissed under his breath when the spear clanged off the shield's metal edge and flew over to stab head first into the ground. The great bulk of the Mountain rose and readied to continue his last charge.

That's when Daemon saw it. Oberyn was flying through the air, having leapt from his run; a slip of steel caught the sunlight between the prince's hands, and then he was on top of the Mountain.

The dagger slipped through the thin line of the visor's opening and stabbed straight into Ser Gregor Clegane's brain. For a moment that Daemon thought would last forever, the Mountain kept his feet, with a blade in his head and a prince on his shoulders. Until life slipped away from him all at once, and he tumbled to the ground.

The prince jumped and rolled off the falling Mountain, falling to his knees. Daemon and the others all stood in stunned silence, staring open-mouthed at the prince who clawed his revenge out with his bare hands, until a single name echoed into the air, from a voice as sorrowful and harrowing as death itself.

"Eliaaaaa!"