Oberyn Martell's Courtyard
Bang!
A large shield emblazoned with two stallions reeled back as the slave warrior staggered under Oberyn's strike. Another shield-bearer lunged from behind, thrusting his spear—only to miss as Oberyn spun on his heel and kicked the large shield. But before he could regain his stance, a third man crashed into him, his shield slamming against Oberyn's chest, knocking him back.
The Dornish prince barely had time to react before the three slave warriors interlocked their spears around his head. His anger flared. With a sharp click of his tongue, he swept his spear low, striking one of the men's legs. The slave's balance faltered, and the tight formation wavered as the others instinctively stepped back.
The warriors circled Oberyn again, their movements cautious. They were former slaves, all of them. They fought with a fire in their chests, a desperation that screamed they would rather die than return to the mines. There were around fifty men watching the sparring match, some of them Dothraki. Among them were a pair of twins—bloodriders, if Oberyn had heard correctly.
One of them shouted something in Dothraki. The command was swift and sharp. The slave warriors instantly lowered their spears and stepped back, exiting the training ground. The other twin, the one missing a hand, cracked a whip and sauntered forward with a vicious grin.
Oberyn clenched his jaw.
The one-handed bloodrider began swinging the whip in tight arcs. It snapped through the air, erratic and unpredictable. Oberyn tried to dodge, but the damn thing changed direction mid-flight, slashing across his chin. Snarling, he adjusted his footing just as the whip coiled around the shaft of his spear.
He reacted instantly—twisting his body, yanking the bloodrider forward, thinking he finally had the upper hand. But the Dothraki warrior moved like a wild beast. Instead of resisting, he used the momentum, slamming his stump against Oberyn's spear, knocking it aside. Then, without warning, the bloodrider lunged and wrapped Oberyn in a crushing grip before sweeping his legs out from under him.
The world flipped.
Oberyn barely managed to tuck his chin and roll, landing cat-like on his feet. He growled and charged back on all fours, abandoning his spear. The bloodrider mirrored his movements, and the two tumbled into the dirt again, wrestling for control.
What kind of fighting style is this? Oberyn thought, frustrated.
The man fought like a cornered animal—like someone who had learned to survive through sheer desperation. Then it clicked. His hand. He wasn't using his dominant side. This wasn't his full strength.
Oberyn smirked despite himself.
Seeing they had drawn a crowd, and unwilling to drag this out any longer, he exhaled sharply. "I think I've had enough. I need a bath," he said, rolling his shoulders.
A slave girl nearby translated his words into Dothraki. The one-handed bloodrider gave a wicked grin before turning to his brother, who glared at Oberyn with barely concealed amusement. Even the Dothraki, it seemed, were capable of affection.
But Oberyn's thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the man who had offered his daughter. The man does not care what I think.
Khal Rohan's Perspective
"Prince Oberyn," I called, approaching the Dornishman as he wiped sweat from his bare chest.
Upon seeing me, Oberyn plastered a smile across his face—one that did little to hide his curiosity.
"Your spear is truly strong," I said, my tone even. "The man you just fought lost his arm to Khal Drogo in a battle alongside the Silver Prince. A pity the prince died."
Oberyn's eyes flickered with interest. "The Silver Prince? The boy fought Drogo and lived?"
I nodded. "Ah, yes. He fought on horseback for a while before being thrown off. He survived that fight, but stupidity is quite the warrior itself. In the end, he lost."
A chuckle escaped Oberyn. At least he understood my humor, despite my accent.
"Walk with me," I said, turning toward the palace gardens.
We strolled through the shaded pathways, the scent of citrus trees heavy in the air. "You see, Prince Oberyn," I began, "the Dothraki are a nomadic people. We must move to survive. When we stop, we die." I glanced at him. "At least, that is what most believe."
Oberyn listened, his expression unreadable.
I continued, "Right now, I am the closest thing to a Dothraki king. Yet even I am bound by our laws. Any man can challenge me for my seat of power. My braid is long, and my trophy wall is filled with skulls—but time will catch up with me. I do not fear death, but I refuse to let my people die with me. If I force them to change, using their own culture of subjugation, there will eventually be no land left to conquer. They will have no choice but to settle."
I met Oberyn's gaze. "I say this because I want you to understand—I will take Essos. And I will take Westeros. Your rules, your politics, they do not apply to me."
Oberyn arched a brow. "You know, Khal Rohan, my people have a saying: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. We of House Martell have survived dragons and marcher lords alike. Our house is storied. We were looked down upon for using poisons, for bedding as we please—but we remain. You are confident in your army, and we are confident in our ability to weather any storm."
I studied him carefully.
He does not believe his own words.
Not entirely. He wasn't afraid, no, but he didn't have the certainty of a man who believed his house was untouchable.
I smirked. "Mhm. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Strong words. Yet you are no kings. Strong words, yet a slight remains unresolved." I saw his jaw tense. Ah, so he knows what I mean.
"You are no fool, Prince Oberyn," I continued. "You likely believe there are a hundred ways to keep me from burning your homeland. But understand—gold is nice to have, yet I deal in life and death. I took this city because they thought I would overlook a slight. I did not. I killed them all and kept their craftsmen. Now they work not for gold, but to live. They are not slaves. They are the Horde."
I gestured to the city beyond. "There are no homeless in this city. Farmers farm. Blacksmiths forge. Not for coin, but for survival. Look at the people you call savages—look at us. If I take the rest of this continent, it will mean a world where innovations are shared, where all men fight and work for the betterment of something greater. You were born into wealth, Prince. To you, suffering is missing a morning meal. I have seen mothers abandon their children to survive. That no longer happens here. Perhaps I am asking for too much."
I exhaled, realizing I had spoken too much. My throat burned.
Oberyn remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking.
"Your strength speaks for you, Khal Rohan," he admitted. "But so does mine."
I chuckled. "I watched you fight my men. You did well—but you would die if you faced any of my bloodriders with a sword. Even the one-handed idiot who chose to use a whip against you."
Oberyn smirked but said nothing.
I looked beyond him, at the city I had taken, and felt something stir deep within me.
"I am the harbinger of death," I said softly. "Bringer of plague. A warmonger. A merchant of famine."
And the gods—whatever had blessed me—were watching.
And they were pleased.