As a Prince of Dorne, Oberyn did not impress easily. It came with the territory -- from the moment of his birth, the height of luxury had been offered to him on hand and foot, with none of the expectations that came with being the heir. Wine, women, men… the finest tutors, more gold than he could spend in a hundred life times… respect, fear, adoration, and envy. All of it was his.
Unlike many of his peers, Oberyn had never shied away from indulging in the offered luxuries. It almost felt disrespectful not to. After all, the smallfolk would never dream of such things. Knights and merchants could, but knew that such luxury was simply beyond them. The lesser lords of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond looked on with envy, wishing that they had the ability to do the same. Yet, his peers were so rigid. So concerned with appearances, influence, and reputation.
So many had the means to sail the world, but they didn't. They had the opportunity to study at the Citadel, learn whatever suited their passion, and yet they refused. Worse, they looked upon him as if he were lesser merely because he took advantage of his station.
Oberyn did not impress easily because he was constantly surrounded by wondrous things, impressive people, and witnessed all the awe inspiring sites the world had to offer. So, the next words meant something.
“I am impressed, Lord Stark,” Oberyn admitted, looking upon the second son of the North. He was covered in blood, sand, and gore, seated upon a pile of corpses and calmly cleaned his blade with a rag. “Truly. The songs about you do you a disservice.”
Oberyn thought the Quiet Wolf mad when he presented his plan. It was a simple one. Rub some dirt in the Dothraki's eyes, flee to a more advantageous battlefield, and hope that they were so furious that they didn't notice the trap. Far more difficult to execute in reality. All the more mad to volunteer to act as the bait, if only to convince the Dothraki that the bait was worth taking.
“My thanks for the kind words, Prince Oberyn,” Eddard Stark replied with a rough gruffness. Polite but dismissive. He didn't care about praise in the slightest.
He had wondered how Ashara had fallen for such a dour man, but Oberyn could admit to seeing the appeal now.
Once his blade was clean, he sheathed it and stood up. For a moment, they gazed out at the battlefield. Calling it a slaughter was an understatement. Piles of corpses gathered taller than a man, blood flood over the stony shore in such volume that the tide was dyed red. There was an odd silence across the battlefield with the dying either too weak to cry out or knew better because of the cutthroats that finished them off. Their own wounded had already been carried off the field. All that was left was to clean up.
“Prisoners?” Eddard questioned.
Oberyn offered a small shake of his head. “It would seem our soldiers found their fervor once they felt like they were winning. The Dothraki are no wise masters, but they are slavers.”
Fear and power were a volatile combination. The men who rallied to carry out the will of the gods, when faced with their first obstacle, had faltered. Doubts creeped in, all the more so because their first battle would have no great spoils at the end of the day. Then, due to Eddard's frankly insane plan, they suddenly had the upper hand. With it they found their courage… and they unleashed their doubts and fears upon the Dothraki in a slaughter.
Eddard grunted unhappily, “They could have been valuable hostages… no matter. The khalasar camp can't be too far away. It would need to be secured, or at least chased off. I will not have the Disputed Lands suffering more in the name of petty revenge.” There was steel in his voice. Unyielding and uncompromising.
“My scouts are already carrying out the task.” Motivated primarily by spoils, be it wine, treasures, or women. Of course, he would give the North their due. They had certainly shed enough blood for it.
Eddard inclined his head in thanks, “That is a relief to hear. With the battle won, what shall be done? Shall we reinforce Prince Rhaegar?”
Oberyn would admit that he would be more comfortable asking that question than answering it. “I doubt that we could,” he admitted. “By the time we arrive… Prince Rhaegar will have either won his battle or lost it. Three cheers if it's the former. The latter, however? Well, I doubt that we would be able to bait them into such an expertly crafted trap a second time.”
The smile Eddard offered was downright wolfish, “I wouldn't say that, Prince Oberyn.” The words sent a chill down Oberyn's spine, and not in the good way. “But you are right that there is nothing we can do for them. We must simply have faith in their victory.”
Then the young Stark sighed, “I will admit, I'm more concerned with what will come after this victory. This was Volantis’ hands off method in dealing with us. This could embolden them to take greater action.”
A very real concern, Oberyn could admit. But he planned to be behind very tall walls by the time the sleeping tiger roused from its ancient slumber to go to war. Preferably in Westeros.
“After this, I imagine it would be either extremely difficult or easy to convince another khalasar to fight us again. I suppose time will tell,” Oberyn mused, offering a dismissive shrug. “Personally speaking, I'm more concerned what is next for you, dear Eddard.”
“Your meaning?” Eddard invited him to continue, and with a slight smile, Oberyn obliged him. After all, it wasn't as if he would ever refuse an invitation to speak.
“There has been a rather unique lack of vision for this invasion, wouldn't you agree?” Prince Oberyn began, looking past Eddard to the Reacher line. Somewhere, there was that useless lump Mace Tyrell that would soon arrive for his share of the glory despite the fact that he never stepped foot on the battlefield.
Eddard's gaze became guarded, understanding the weight of the conversation even if he didn't understand where Oberyn was going with it. “That is a generous way to say it. I would use a few stronger words, myself.”
“I'm sure our dear prince will have his say in things, provided that he still lives.” Oberyn couldn't say that he disliked Rhaegar, but he would confess that he didn't particularly like him either. As a king, at least, he was a better sight than Aerys or his second born son, Viserys. His brother, Doran, was of a different opinion -- Viserys was young and unwed, as was Oberyn's niece, Princess Arianne. As the original hopes to marry Elia to Rhaegar had been dashed, now Doran schemed to marry his daughter to a prince and make him the heir.
Messy business all around. Which was why Oberyn favored everything but politics.
“However, even should he live, we need direction. And you, Quiet Wolf, are one of the few in this army who has the right name and the right achievements.” There was a flicker of surprise in Eddard's eyes, along with a fair amount of suspicion. So, Oberyn smiled to put him at ease. “I, myself, have no interest in such a burden. And I would much rather see the position go to you than someone less… worthy.”
There could be little doubt who he meant by that when Mace Tyrell approached noisily. His armor was spotless and there was a large smile on his face. “My lords, we have won a great victory today!” Oberyn swallowed a reaction at the assessment.
He would be the very last to stand on ceremony, but he knew when he was being disrespected.
“We have chased off that rabble and the gods have made their will known!” Mace continued, coming to a stop alongside him and Eddard. “They'll be singing of this day, I'm certain of it!”
Some a bit more than others, Oberyn would ensure. Before he had the opportunity to reply, a fourth joined their number. Oberyn wouldn't have noticed him if it wasn't for Eddard raising his head and greeting him, “Paul. You are well? How were the losses?”
Oberyn shifted uneasily in the presence of Paul Atreides, the young man who hadn't even seen his twentieth year and was already the tried and tested greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. In the Melee of the Royal Wedding, Oberyn had been one of the several champions that Paul had defeated in single combat. Fighting Paul was an experience that Oberyn never wanted to repeat.
He was a man of passions. He fought with the spear because he loved it; it was just luck that he happened to be immensely talented with it. He never shied away from a duel because there were few moments when life was more vibrant than to be locked in mortal combat against another with only his wits, skills, and luck to keep him alive. When he fought Paul… Paul fought beautifully. Gracefully. He moved with a certainty beyond mere confidence.
His fighting was completely devoid of passion. Every defeated enemy, every strike or dodge or deflection -- it was as if the entire victory was a labor that Paul wanted to be over as quickly as possible. As if it were a chore. It was unnerving. Deeply so. Oberyn had long been of the opinion that to be the best at something, one couldn't just be talented, but they had to love it. Obsess over it. Until they could spend hours upon hours in a training field, honing their skills to perfection.
Paul disproved that belief because Oberyn felt it in their bout. Paul didn't give a damn about fighting. And if he had gotten as good as he was without that passion, then that meant he was a being of singular focus who could spend hours upon hours in the training years doing something he just didn't care about. That, more than his skill or elusive demeanor, was terrifying.
“Our casualties were light,” Paul answered. There was a spattering of blood on his gauntlets and face, telling all that he had been in the thick of the fighting. But the fact that he was still so clean made it all the more unnerving. “However, my scouts have sent a message, my lord. It's not good news.”
Eddard accepted the message from his vassal, his eyes following the lines written upon it. He didn't offer much of a reaction before muttering, “I see.”
“I would like to as well, if you feel like sharing,” Oberyn remarked. Eddard passed him the slip of paper, and upon reading it, every thought came to a grinding halt.
‘Myr mobilizing. 120 thousand strong. Arrival estimated in 3 days.’
It would seem Eddard had a gift for underreacting.
Folding the message, he then passed it to Mace before stepping away to drag a hand down his face. Mace had a more appropriate reaction, first cursing. Then demanding verification. Followed by a demand for answers, “Why? Why would they leave Myr? What do they gain by it?”
Fair questions, but Oberyn wanted to know how a single city had mustered such a vast army. Mercenaries played their part, he understood that much. Myr collected remnants of the shattered host with the downfall of Tyrosh and Lys. That could account for… tens of thousands. The rest would come from Myr itself -- militia, garrisons, personal guards…
A hundred and twenty thousand men.
“It would seem,” Paul answered, his tone of infinite patience and an ice cold calm, “That they thought it prudent. Lord Brandon made certain actions to indicate that he was reinforcing us with his full might. Perhaps the masters of Myr believed that after the battle against the Dothraki, our losses would be greater and our morale more fragile?” He phrased it as if it were a guess, but Oberyn couldn't shake the feeling that Paul was summarizing whatever came out of a good master's mouth.
“What actions,” Eddard began, an edge in his tone, “could be so convincing that Myr would abandon their walls to meet us on the field?”
“...by all accounts, Lord Bradon has withdrawn from Tyrosh,” Paul answered. Oberyn watched Eddard carefully, gauging his reaction to learning the truth of it. Brandon had developed a special kind of arrogance. For all that he had stomped his feet and complained about his marriage, his compliance hadn't humbled him. It was an arrogance made worse by taking Tryosh single-handedly.
Brandon had attempted to command them as if they were lessers who should be grateful for the chance to obey him. When they denied him, Brandon in turn denied them, leading to Eddard taking no small risk upon himself to fight the Dothraki.
For a moment, Oberyn wondered if it was simply a ploy. It wouldn't diminish Eddard's bravery on the field, but it would add a layer of guile to the action. Yet, what Oberyn saw was frigid anger.
“My brother said nothing to me about abandoning Tyrosh,” Eddard said, as if hearing his and Mace's thoughts. “Nor will I believe that he has so easily abandoned the war. This must be a maneuver. One to take Myr.”
To that, Paul inclined his head. “The greatest difficulty to taking Myr was their numbers behind the walls. A man on a wall is worth ten attacking it. Under ideal circumstances, we would need at least a hundred thousand men and a fleet to blockade the harbor for a siege. Something that would have taken years.”
Mace's face twisted as if he had bitten into something sour, “You cannot expect me to condone this… this behavior? We were used as bait!” Despite being an incredibly dull conversationalist, Mace wasn't without his wits and he summarized the truth of it quite succinctly. Brandon had used them as bait -- first by offering a paltry number of men to combat the Dothraki, and now they were facing more than a hundred thousand men.
It was cunning. A level of cunning that Oberyn wouldn't have expected from Brandon. As well as being more ruthless than Oberyn had given Brandon credit for.
Perhaps he hadn't known Eddard's role in the battle, but even without that knowledge, he still used his own brother as bait.
“Condone? I would never ask that of you, Lord Tyrell. However, it cannot be denied that taking Myr before the end of the decade has become a viable possibility.” Paul's retort made Mace's lips press into a thin line. He looked to Eddard to admonish his vassal, but Eddard's eyes were cold.
“Can it be done then?” Eddard questioned sharply, prompting Paul to tilt his head, as if asking permission for something. Eddard granted permission with a small nod.
“My agents within the city are in place,” Paul admitted, his tone factual and dull. “With the army removed from Myr, the odds of a successful assault increase dramatically. Lord Stark could take the city.”
Paul waged war as he fought -- cold calculated risk, and only accepting fights he had already won.
“I hear a but coming,” Oberyn remarked, smiling to hide what he felt. The development was unwelcome. While he was unsure how far this ‘Exalted March’ would go, both he and Doran expected that Lys and Tyrosh would remain in the Seven Kingdoms' possession. Thus far, Eddard had taken Lys with the help of Prince Rhaegar and Robert Baratheon -- it was the North that provided the men to make the conquest possible, and everyone knew it, even if they did praise the prince.
Brandon had taken Tryosh with a pure Northern host. Now he intended to take Myr on his own, using them as bait. All the while, the Stepstones had been first garrisoned by the North before the rest of the kingdoms had rallied.
Oberyn knew as well as any other that once the dust had settled, a question of stewardship would arise. As of right now, the answer to who would be that steward was overwhelmingly the North. Something that Doran would not abide. Not when the Stepstones were essentially an extension of the Dornish border.
“But,” Paul indulged him without any warmth. “That success is conditional on the army being engaged while Lord Stark can make the assault. The army is not so far away that it cannot reinforce the city when they realize the need. Reinforcements they will be less likely to send if they are pressed by our combined host.”
There was a very loud silence between the four of them. Each of them was asking whether they were willing to play the part of the sacrificial fool for another to succeed… yet it would be a great benefit to the war. The last of the Daughters falling, the Disputed Lands secured. There was little doubt what the king would want. But the king was also a madman who could only rape his wife after he burned someone alive, so his wants and desires were of little worth to Oberyn.
Predictively, Eddard broke the silence, “They outnumber us, but the majority of the force are ill-trained militia. The veterans they do have are mercenaries, and they will quit the field when they realize they won't get paid. Or they'll offer their services when they understand we possess Myr's coffers.” All perfectly valid reasons. However, they were hardly convincing enough to feed his men into that meat grinder. “What do we know of this force?”
“As you say, they mostly consist of militia that have been trained over the past year. Some eighty thousand infantry, fifteen thousand cavalry, with the remaining twenty-five thousand archers. Primarily crossbowmen.” The composition of the army was a damning assessment of their odds. “The army itself is divided under the commanders -- one is Titus, an experienced mercenary who commands the core of the mercenaries within the army. The other two are both masters, Yusuf and Dannari.”
There was something resembling a smirk that tugged at one edge of Paul’s lips, “Yusuf is a young man. Hot-blooded. One eager for reckless revenge against us, as he lost kin in the slave uprisings, which he blames on us.” Rightly so, Oberyn thought. “Dannari is an older woman. Calmer. Wiser. Between her and Titus, Yusuf is firmly kept in check.”
A proposition lurked in Paul's words, and for a moment, the four of them shared a glance. It was enough to rouse Oberyn’s interest. “You speak as if we can win.”
It wasn’t Paul who answered.
“We can,” Eddard spoke, an unspoken challenge in his voice. “I understand your hesitation, lord Tyrell and Prince Martell. I also understand that you will require proof that such a force can be defeated on our own.” His gray eyes seemed to darken, and now… now, Oberyn understood why Ashara was so taken with him. “Which is why I will take five thousand men to serve as a vanguard. We will harass and lure our enemy into a battlefield of our choosing… and once more, I ask that your armies will be prepared for the battle that follows.”
Well, when he put it like that, Oberyn could hardly refuse, now could he?