Night Song City, the ancient seat of House Caron, rose solemnly against the darkening sky. Perched in the Dornish Marches at the southwestern edge of the Stormlands, it guarded the northern mouth of the Prince's Pass, where the Red Mountains descended like jagged teeth toward the lowlands. The castle was famed for its tall, hollow towers, which sang eerily when the wind swept through them—hence its name. For centuries, House Caron had sworn fealty to House Baratheon of Storm's End, standing as one of the Stormlands' shields against Dorne.
Yet on this day, no one had gathered to listen to the wind-song of the towers.
The banners outside Night Song City did not belong to the Stormlands.
Arrayed across the valley stood an army that darkened the earth—Dornish spears glittering beneath a heavy sky, banners snapping in the wind, their numbers stretching beyond the eye's easy count. Ten thousand men, at least, disciplined and silent, waited in ordered ranks.
Opposite them, blocking the narrow road north, stood a far smaller force.
At its head rode Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.
Lord Tarly sat astride his warhorse like a statue carved from iron. He wore fine plate armor polished to a silver sheen, its surface unblemished and severe. Over it lay a green surcoat bearing the sigil of House Tarly: a striding huntsman cloaked in red, spear in hand. Unlike many commanders, he did not wear his helmet. His bald head was exposed to the overcast sky, and his thick, grizzled beard framed a face as hard and unyielding as the steel he wore.
His cold eyes never left the army before him.
"Randyll Tarly," a voice called out, smooth and mocking, "why do you block my path?"
Prince Oberyn Martell rode forward from the Dornish lines on a white warhorse, its mane braided with red and gold ribbons. He wore light armor, practical yet elegant, and at his side hung a spear stained faintly brown by old blood. A crooked smile played on his lips, sharp and dangerous, like the grin of a viper preparing to strike.
Lord Randyll did not answer immediately.
He studied the fluttering banners of Dorne—sun and spear blazing defiantly—before turning his gaze to the prince. His expression did not change. There was no anger, no fear, not even disdain. Only resolve.
"This is Night Song City," Lord Tarly said at last, his voice calm and blunt. "If the Dornish army advances another step, it will be trespassing illegally into the lands of the Reach."
"Illegal?" Oberyn echoed, bursting into laughter as though he had heard the finest jest in years. "Forgive me, Lord Tarly, but I fear I do not understand your meaning."
He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, black eyes glittering.
"Perhaps Horn Hill is so remote that news travels slowly. Or perhaps you struggle with your letters. In either case, I would be happy to have a maester read aloud the orders issued by the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
He lingered pointedly on the title, dripping sarcasm, and made a show of waving a hand, as if summoning someone to present a royal decree.
Lord Randyll's face remained impassive.
"My duty," he said evenly, "is to keep you and your army in Dorne. The Reach is not where you belong."
He paused, then added, "You may choose another road."
The meaning was unmistakable. There would be no negotiation.
Oberyn's smile slowly faded. The humor drained from his face, replaced by something colder, sharper.
"There is only one place I am going," he said quietly, "and you know it as well as I do."
Lord Randyll did not move.
"Where you are going is of no concern to me, Prince Oberyn," he replied. "I concern myself only with where you may not go."
He gestured faintly at the road behind him.
"I am not stopping you. You have choices. But if you intend to pass through here, I will tell you this plainly—change direction."
"This road is closed."
The words fell like a drawn blade.
Oberyn straightened, his eyes dark as venom.
"Lord Tarly, as you yourself said, this is Night Song City—Stormlands territory. You have no authority to stand here and lecture me."
"Neither legally," he continued, "nor by force."
He raised a hand, gesturing back toward the Dornish host, thousands of spears glinting in unison.
"By law, I act under Robert Baratheon's will. Perhaps he has not yet informed you that he does not wish for you to interfere."
"And by strength—" Oberyn scoffed. "Well, the numbers speak for themselves."
Yet Lord Randyll Tarly did not flinch.
"Perhaps," he said calmly, "the king would like even less to see the armies of House Martell marching freely beyond Dorne."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then Oberyn's expression hardened completely. A faint killing intent radiated from him like heat from a forge.
"Perhaps," the Red Viper hissed, "someone believes Dornish spears have grown dull."
He slowly drew his spear from its place beside the saddle, the metal whispering softly as it cleared the clasp.
At that moment, Lord Randyll's gaze softened—not with fear, but with something closer to patience.
He lifted his hand and pushed aside the cloak at his shoulder, pointing northward.
"Turn north," he said. "Toward the Crownlands. If you believe yourself strong enough, there is a road for you there."
Then his eyes sharpened once more.
"But if you insist on crossing the Reach and threatening our lands, I will meet you beneath the Red Mountains. And there, I will give you my answer—with Heartsbane."
With that, Lord Randyll turned his horse.
His purpose had been fulfilled.
As a sworn vassal of House Tyrell and one of the most formidable commanders in Westeros, it was his duty to block the Dornish advance—not to provoke a war, but to ensure that none crossed into the Reach unchecked.
After all, beyond him lay Highgarden itself.
That was a line he would never allow to be crossed.
As Lord Randyll Tarly rode away, Oberyn Martell watched in silence. His eyes were cold, but beneath the fury lay hesitation.
Casterly Rock remained his destination. That much had been agreed upon with Prince Doran. Meanwhile, another Dornish force—smaller, quieter—sailed north from Ghost Hill toward King's Landing, carrying Quentyn and Arianne Martell. They were not meant to fight, only to test the waters.
Yet Tywin Lannister's sudden maneuvers had upset every calculation.
The Reach was prepared. More than prepared.
"Father," Obara Sand said, stepping forward. "He dares to insult you. Let me deal with him."
Tall and fierce, the eldest Sand Snake gripped her spear and whip, her eyes blazing with anger. Born of Oberyn and a whore from Oldtown, Obara was all sharp edges and barely restrained violence.
Oberyn raised a hand, stopping her.
"Your uncle is right," he said quietly. "You should learn from him."
Obara stared at him in disbelief.
"Then what do we do?" she shouted. "I never thought you would be a coward!"
The slap came swiftly.
Oberyn's voice followed, cold and final.
"Remember our purpose."
"And Lord Randyll Tarly," he added, "is right."
The Dornish army remained where it stood.
For now.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)