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They fall on them in the middle of the night. Oberyn doesn’t think he’s lax in his duties, but the mission was supposed to be an easy one. A peaceful way to earn some gold and rest from the scuffle with the Dothraki the other month. The merchant, Maelis Vhorik, was moving from Mantarys to Volantis and needed a handful of visible guards to keep the road bandits away. Mott had sent four men, Oberyn among them.

He’s fumbling for his clothes and weapons, trying to think through a thought and failing, when Ryk slips into his tent. He’s as undressed as Oberyn is—and for the same reason—and his body is tense in an unfamiliar way. Oberyn has known the young mummer to be offensively cheerful. True, they met a handful of weeks ago, but he likes to think he’s gotten to know him quite well since.

An unwelcome niggle of suspicion forms—Is he—Is he a spy? A traitor sent to—But who would go after Oberyn—

Alright, that’s a ridiculous question. In his twenty-two years of life, he infuriated, insulted and sabotaged plenty of people. Most of them would be glad to hear of his death. Some might even take steps to arrange it. What purpose would a seduction serve? A man to boot? Oberyn has had plenty of casual lovers; he’s learned to watch what he says to whom and to be on guard against the dangerous opportunists. He could have sworn the boy was sincere in his appreciation. He didn’t even approach Oberyn. So why—

“Run,” Ryk hisses. “Here—” He pushes two knives in his hands. When—Whose are these? They’re beautiful—“Run.”

“Run where,” he hisses back. “We’re in a gorge, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Hide then. Quickly, now, before they find you.”

Oberyn takes the knives because they’re beautiful and he’s never refused beautiful things that were on offer in his life. “Me? Why would they be after me?”

“No, I’m sure they are after the tea merchant. Shut up.” Ryl spins around and Oberyn tenses. Stupid. He should have kept an ear out, and instead, he was stumbling around his tent, looking for his damn shoes—A man strides inside with long, intent steps, sword held in a business-like manner. Good weapons. Good armour. Calculating expression.

Oberyn barely has time to raise one of his newly gotten knives when Ryk shifts, glides sideways into the swordsman’s space and does—Something. Twists, reaches for him, leaning back to avoid his other arm, then push, kneel down—

Breaking the man’s neck on his knee.

Oberyn is still gaping at the stunning takedown. He didn’t have time to scream, that’s how graceful and quick the whole thing was.

“Run, lackwit,” Ryk spits. “Hide in the rocks if you must. You’re the only noble here.”

Oberyn does run, to his shame. Maybe shame. Second Sons are hardly a loyal band of brothers. Every man for himself was a tried and true maxim that was held to since their conception. His heart twinges a little at Ryk’s fate, but he shouldn’t be in any great danger. The boy is a mummer, a travelling entertainer doing tricks for coin. The attackers don’t seem to be mindless savages, either. He spots a few bodies on the ground, here and there, but Vhorik’s caravan is big, as it often is with these types of moves. Fifty people, all up. The attackers probably only harmed those who resisted. Which, grants, Ryk had, but nobody would believe it in a million years. No, the boy can look after himself. He’s ridiculously charming; Oberyn can’t even imagine the scale of trouble he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of.

Unfortunately, his luck holds, and both the way forward and the way back are guarded. He eyes the three men and thinks—I could take two. Maybe. Before I do, the third will raise the alarm. Maybe—Maybe if he sneaks back the other way, using the caravans as cover—

A couple of mercs come perilously close to his ridiculous hiding place behind two barrels and he curses. Rocks it is. If he keeps still and quiet, they’ll think he—There! He dives behind the rocks and wiggles further into the little gap, covered by bushes. Several startled snakes escape, hissing at him in outrage. Tough. It’s not a bad cover, shockingly. The cursed gorge has thick, thorny bushes on each side, that appear to grow out of sheer rock. It would be even better if he wasn’t naked from the waist up, but beggars can’t be choosers. He’s alive.

“Quiet,” snaps a loud, commanding voice. Oberyn drops down further, inching forward—The gap in the rocks is covered by a bush. It should cover him from view if anyone cared to look. There—If he just—A little more—Perfect. If only he was as good at running away as he was slithering on the ground like a worm.

“Give us Martell and we will let you live,” the man says. “Refuse, and we kill you one by one. As a demonstration—” He makes a signal, and a man to his right stabs a young man straight through the throat, following it up with a proficient slash to the right, and then left. The youth falls, dead before he touched the ground. “So. Where is he? My men found his tent.”

What in Seven Hells is going on? What do they want him for? Well, to kill him, obviously, but why?

“Please, I don’t—I don’t know who you mean,” Vhorik sobs. “I will, of course, comply, but we—We don’t have a Martell. I am a humble merchant. I—”

“The guard,” the man says. He’s calm is the thing. It’s what makes this so dangerous. This is not personal; it’s a job, like any other. Oberyn can’t count on him making any dumb mistakes. “One of the Second Sons you hired. Where is he, merchant?”

“I—” Vhorik’s voice thins further with hysteria. “He was right there—He—No—No, please—Ask his friends. Right there—”

“Very well. Ardyn, bring me the sell-swords.” He pauses, presumably to give his men time to obey the order. “You know, if you’re lying to me, things will not go well for you.”

Vhorik looks like he will pass out from fright, but he manages to find some semblance of calm. “I don’t know who he is. Please—I was simply moving. They are sell-swords. I don’t know any of their names.”

“We will see soon enough. Well, Second Sons? Are you going to be foolish about this?”

“Last I saw him, he was fucking the boy.” That’s Nyri. Cursed fucking—Oberyn was one thing, but why drag Ryk into this?

“Yes.” Yllario. “We don’t keep watch for jobs like these. The boy was last with him. He will know.”

The enemy leader sighs, lips thinning into an unhappy line. “You are trying my patience. What boy?”

Vhorik makes a high noise of terror. “The mummer. The—He—Rykard. Blue eyes, bronze skin. Black hair. Has—things woven in it. Coins and beads and—Tattoos. Tattoos on his arms and chest. You can’t mistake him, please—”

Oberyn swallows, craning his head. How many are there? Two—Four—Six—Eight. Only eight? That’s not—

Except they’re armed, armoured and ready. Therys is already dead, only two are left, and Oberyn doesn’t even have a shirt, much less armour.

Ryk is dragged to the enemy commander. He found some time to dress in his favoured outfit. Skin-tight leggings tucked into soft leather boots, shirt left untucked, chest on full display. Oberyn can still see the love bites he left around his collarbones. What—Can he watch Ryk die? Beautiful, funny Ryk with a wicked mouth and kind eyes—Die, right in front of him? He doesn’t even know Oberyn, doesn’t even know his name.

He doesn’t look scared, he notes, ears buzzing with dread. He acquired a bruise somewhere along the way and his lip is bleeding sluggishly, but he looks whole enough. Maybe—Maybe he will lie convincingly enough?

“Are you Martell’s, then?”

Ryk shrugs and inclines his head, lips tilted into an easy smile. “I did spend many a fine night with him if that’s what you’re asking. He is a generous lover. I can recommend the experience.”

What are you doing you foolish, foolish boy? Lie!

“Noted,” the commander says. His tone lightens with humour. This is the first sign of a personality he’s seen from the man. He must appreciate courage. And beauty, of course. Maybe—Maybe, if he’s clever, Ryk can use his interest? In Westeros, this would hardly be an option, but the commander is clearly Essosi, with long, salt-and-pepper hair, and characteristic dark skin. “Finding out one way or another cuts against my mission objective, but it’s good that you enjoyed yourself. What’s your name, boy?”

“Rykard.” He tilts his head and gives the man an obvious once-over. “And yours?”

The man barks a laugh. A little bit of the dread in Oberyn’s stomach loosens. Maybe—

“A bold little thing, aren’t you? I am Belicho Vhassar. A pleasure to meet you. I hadn’t thought to find courage tonight—Martell aside. Then again, he isn’t here, so my expectations are met on a technicality.”

“Charmed,” Ryk says, adding in an overdone simper. “I wish we had met in better circumstances. You could have joined us for a proper party.”

“I’d say I don’t mix business with pleasure, but that would be a lie,” the man, Vhassar, says. “But, a mission is a mission. Bring me Martell and I won’t harm a hair on your pretty head. Lie and die.”

“Dull,” Ryk says, adding in a pout. A pout. “I had him run when I first heard you arrive. He should be a long way away by now.”

Vhassar’s face blanks. “And why would you do so?”

Why did he do so?

“I’m a light sleeper, and I sleep on top of the caravan,” Ryk says. Oberyn’s heart squeezes at the memory. One of them is not going to survive the night. He will never again see Ryk curled up in the colourful nest he builds at the highest surface he can find, or watch him spin outrageous, theatrical lies with a straight face. He had told him a dozen versions of his backstory, each one more fantastical than the last. “I saw you coming. You would charge more for this job than the wares are worth.”

“Say I believe you. Are you from Sunspear? A discrete guard sent to guard the Prince?”

“Hardly,” Ryk says, grinning wide. “He’s a Prince, is he? Funny. I thought he was a thrill-seeking noble. He doesn’t hide his origins as well as he thinks, the lamb.” He makes a flighty, what-can-you-do gesture. “I am but a humble street rat from all around. Volantis, primarily.”

“Right,” Vhassar says and sighs. “I could just kill you now, you know? I probably will, as appealing as you are.”

Ryk shrugs, face still relaxed. If not for the two men holding him on each side and the steadily purpling cheekbone, you’d think he was on the market, haggling over pomegranates. “We will all do what we think we must. I try to be philosophical about these things.”

Vhassar makes another, aggrieved sigh. “Lead me to him, then,” he says. “I will let you go. Find him and keep him in place.” He rolls his eyes, hand rotating at the wrist in an and so forth manner. “I’m sure a resourceful boy like yourself can find a way to keep him occupied for half an hour.”

“Ah,” Ryk says and shifts his expression into something vaguely regretful. “I’m afraid not. I am not blind to the fact your offer is, in a way, exceedingly generous, but—” He bends back in a truly improbable way, arms going in a wide circle. Not expecting their captive to put up a fight at all, much less move in that direction, the men stumble. Ryk’s arms cross, hands dipping into his shirt—

Several confusing moments later, both guards are on the ground with their throats cut, and Ryk has safely dived for the dubious safety of the caravan.

“Grab him,” the Vhassar barks. “Archers—“

A scream for the side possibly accounts for at least one archer. Oberyn counted eight, without archers. This brings them down to six, not counting the three guarding the road. Maybe—

Another scream. This one, Oberyn sees. The little monster is perched on top of the caravan, carrying an unfamiliar crossbow. Pilfered, then—

Nyra and Yllario rear up, capitalising on the chaos. They’re both competent fighters. In a different situation, he wouldn’t have counted them out easily, but, like this—

“Useless fucking—” Vhassar slams a helmet on his head and grabs a short sword in each hand. “You could have lived, boy,” he calls. “Now you can only pray for a quick death.”

“Oh, I don’t know—” Oberyn’s heart leaps in his throat. He should have—He had a clear out. He could have run. “A quick death doesn’t have too much going for it. Death in general, in fact.” A man falls, not two meters from the commander with a knife in his head. The camp is truly in chaos, by now. Without the armoured sell swords to keep them in line, the merchant and his people bolt, stampeding back the way they came. One more of Vhassar’s men falls, trampled. That’s three left.

“You slimy little—”

Tricks or not, the sight of Vhassar, armoured and furious, rounding on Ryk, barely clothed, with only a throwing knife in his hand, makes Oberyn’s stomach turn. He’s diving out of the thicket before he knows what he’s doing.

“Wha—Alleras?” Ryk gapes at him for a long moment. Too long. The battlefield is no place for distractions. Oberyn’s shout breaks him out just in time to avoid a deadly blow. As it is, a line of red blooms on his chest, from collarbone to hip. Oberyn sends a quick prayer it’s not deep and throws himself into a roll. He times it right, ending up close to the two men Ryk killed, grabs a sword and jumps up—

“—rude, you know,” Ryk is telling Vhassar, white teeth bared in a smile. He doesn’t look so tame anymore, not with blood smeared across his chest, crouched slightly into a light stance, shoulders turned inwards.

“Not my fault you looked away,” Vhassar says, swords to the ready. Whoever made his armour deserves a temple made in their name. Oberyn can’t spot a single space into which to easily slide his blade. It’s probably why the man is still alive, he thinks; what with Ryk’s aim. “And you brought me Martell, too. What a good boy you ended up being. I will be sad about killing you, I can tell.”

“Bold words,” Ryk says, crouches down and—Goes right and back, leaping Oberyn’s way. He blinks and spins around. What—Ah. A man is dead, right behind him. He should have figured. “Pay attention, you fool,” Ryk hisses. “Bad enough you didn’t run. Go. Put your back on a hard surface. God.”

He—Alright, so Oberyn is a bit scatterbrained, he will admit. He surely has an excuse—

An arrow zips by his head and he spins and runs, Ryk following. That’s something. He didn’t stay to fight the mountain of menace that is Vhassar, even bigger than he appears from afar.

“I tried to run,” he hisses. “He has guards in the gorge. I hid.”

“You did very well sweetheart,” Ryk says, with far too much sarcasm for the occasion. “Now duck. Down, down, to the ground—Now under—”

Ryk bullies him under a cart. Oberyn never crawled faster in his life.

“Alright, now wait here. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right back.” He reaches out and grabs one of the many ropes crisscrossing the cart. The cursed tea, Oberyn remembers. Oh. He’s climbing up. Makes sense. Ryk, he is learning, is always more comfortable above ground than on it.

Oberyn takes stock. Alright. What do you have? No shirt. No shoes. One sword, two knives. A mild hangover. Hardly ideal circumstances for a fight to the death—

A man with blood on his teeth round on him from around the corner, and his mind empties for anything except the fight. Against all reason, he calms down. He knows this. He’s been doing little but fighting for most of his adult life.

“Down,” Ryk says, some time later, after he has dropped from the roof of the cart, down to his opponent’s head, thereby allowing him to bury his sword into his chest. “Crouch and move. There are only two left. Move.”

Oberyn moves. It’s simpler, now. He has his orders. Keep your steps light, and keep away from clear lines of sight.

Ryk curses and jumps sideways, avoiding an arrow. “I’ll deal with this. Find cover. Avoid Ardyn.”

Who—Vhassar? When did he become Ardyn? Does Ryk know him? Didn’t seem like it, and the man did his best to murder him just then. But maybe—Never mind that. Keep your head in the game. You’re hardly well off. Nyra and Yllario are dead. It’s just you and Ryk left.

He’s almost successful. He stays out of sight and even finds a spear which he immediately loses in the stomach of the enemy. Ryk had said two. Did he mean two including Vhassar, or—Probably not, he thinks, stomach tightening as he jumps back just quickly enough to avoid the man in question. Probably two and Vhassar.

Not looking so calm anymore, he thinks, leaping to the side again. There is no blocking or redirecting those blows. If you stop one arm, the other one will gut you in a flash. So weave. Duck. And mind your fucking footwork—

He almost made it. He would have if not for the damn cart. As his back slams into the wood and he meets the enraged brown eyes of Vhassar, the only thing he can think of is what a waste. They were so close. This would have been a fantastic song.

“Alright,” Ryk’s voice rings out. Oberyn’s heart skips. “So, if you step one foot closer to him, I will kill you on the spot. I’ve killed twelve of your men, tonight. You know I am able.”

“Do I know that?”

Oberyn squints. Vhassar’s face is set in a tense expression, shoulders tight and almost shivering.

“You should. So, I suggest we all take a deep breath and have a good, hard think about this situation. Currently, there are three living people in this campsite. There is no reason this number must fall to one.”

“So confident, boy,” says Vhassar, voice flat.

“I am, yes. If you had a ranged weapon, maybe I’d worry, but I’m a pretty good shot. And I have the high ground.” For some reason, this makes him huff. Is—What can possibly be funny here? “So, you know, consider stepping back.”

“If you are so confident, you’d have shot me down by now.”

“I can’t kill you before you can kill Alleras. Or whatever his name is. I can kill you after. You can’t catch me, and I have a crossbow; I can afford to make a few mistakes.”

He probably can at that. Oberyn has never seen a man fight so flashy and so streamlined at the same time. In Dorne—or, worse, Westeros—people think he is flashy. Hah. If they somehow survive this, he will enjoy throwing Ryk at them and seeing how correct he had been all along. A few spear-spins are nothing.

“But I get to kill him,” Vhassar says. “I die either way.”

“Nope,” Rays. “You don’t die. I’m comfortable with three people leaving this place. I always liked the number. It’s got a nice roundness to it.”

Oberyn blinks. He can’t possibly mean—The man would have—He killed—He—

“Sure.”

Hearing the scepticism in Vhassar’s tone and seeing it on his face doesn’t help the sinking feeling in his chest or the slow, cautious bubble of hope. He means it. The lunatic means it.

“I am telling the truth. You were doing your job. No job is worth more than your life, I’m sure. So why don’t you step back? Al, be a dear and drop the sword? It won’t help you any if Ardyn decides his job is worth more, and I’ll avenge you either way.”

Oberyn finds himself smiling. It’s sincere, too, if dazed. He vaguely feels like he has a concussion. He might have one, at that. He did a lot of dropping and rolling today. “Anything you say, dear,” he says and drops his sword. He follows it up with both his knives and thrusts his arms to the side. “Fully unarmed,” he says, grin widening. “And, well—” He looks around. He can hardly believe anything that happened. “I am tempted by the idea of no more death,” he says. “Whatever I did—” Hold on. “What did I do?”

“The guy you fucked in Qohor? He was set to be the High Priest of his district,” Vhassar says. His expression has cleared of some of the fury and left behind a curious blankness. He’s still in a ready stance and Obryn doesn’t doubt he can kill him as easily as anything, especially now that he doesn’t have a spoonful of steel on him, but he’s listening. “Supposed to be celibate.”

“Do you mind narrowing things down some,” Oberyn says and smiles. “I am not exaggerating. I had a few lovers in Qohor. None of them had any traits or behaviours of the spiritually inclined.”

Vhassar rolls his eyes. “I don’t insist on knowing the particulars, typically. Qohor’s Divinarchs paid me enough gold not to ask, and some more to make sure.”

Yikes. The Divinarchs typically don’t involve themselves in the day-to-day workings of Qohor. If Vhassar is telling the truth, and he probably is—

“These priests are not of your religion,” Ryk asks.

Oberyn chokes on a laugh. he can just imagine the bull-chested sell-sword among the spindly, bald-headed goat-priests. Hysterically, he finds himself exchanging a look with Vhassar. Imagine.

“Most definitely not,” Oberyn says. “I can tell that much.”

“Excellent, so you don’t have any loyalty to him. So—stop. You don’t care about killing Alleras—”

“Oberyn,” Oberyn supplies. “Oberyn Martell. Sorry, kitten. You know how it is.”

“Oberyn,” Ryk continues smoothly, like there was no interruption. Vhassar rolls his eyes. “You don’t care about killing Oberyn. So—Calm down, and put the blade down. I’ll even throw in a drink; I have a stash around here somewhere.”

He can see Vhassar is near. He just needs a small push.

“I can claim you as a Martell cousin,” he says generously. “If you want to change your name. You certainly weren’t born Vhassar.”

“Obviously,” Vhassar says, rolling his eyes again. “Nobody around these parts uses their real name.”

“I do.”

“Nobody except pretty boys with demon hands,” Vhassar corrects. “That’s what I meant.”

“It’s not a bad deal,” Oberyn says. “There is some gold around in this caravan. Nobody from the caravan saw me. They all think I’ve run away a while back. We grab what we need and set this cursed place on fire. They’ll hardly know what to think.”

“Some sort of complicated, noble plot,” Ryk supplies. Oberyn notes that, as friendly as he sounds, he hasn’t made any move to come out of his hiding spot. Not before he’s certain they’re in the clear. “Point is, they’ll think you and me are dead, and Obi’s reputation grows. I assume you were paid a portion of your fee in advance.”

“Obviously.”

“There we go. Half the prize from Qohor, whatever you can find from the wreck, and you get to share a drink with me and Obi when we’re all done and this place has gone up in flames.”

Oberyn laughs. It comes out a little hysterical, but it’s more sincere than he’d like. “A princely offer.”