At dawn the next day.
The port was engulfed in smoke, with the wreckage of shattered ships strewn across the sea.
"Screech…"
The dragon Caraxes circled above, its serpentine body weaving through the sky as it patrolled the bay under the rising sun.
On the ground, the garrison soldiers toiled away, collecting the remains of the Braavosi sailors.
Prince Reggio stood in a daze, as if caught in a dream.
The mightiest fleet of the Braavosi Purple Sails had been utterly annihilated in a single night.
Daemon Targaryen strolled over leisurely, a black steel helmet tucked under his arm, a smirk playing at his lips.
"Prince, did you sleep well last night?"
Reggio snapped out of his daze and quickly stepped forward. "Prince Daemon, I cannot thank you enough for your invaluable assistance. You are as great as your ancestor, the Conqueror."
Daemon chuckled. "It was merely a trifling effort."
During the Blood Age, the Volantene fleet had occupied Lys, while their land forces invaded Myr.
But when they moved on to conquer Tyrosh, they faced fierce resistance.
It was then that Aegon the Conqueror flew across the Narrow Sea on Balerion and burned the Volantene fleet, marking a decisive moment in the war.
Now, Daemon had come to the aid of Pentos, echoing that legendary feat.
Reggio eagerly grasped Daemon's hand, treating him as though he were his own father. "Please, come to the palace, so I may host you properly."
"Just host me?"
Daemon's smile did not reach his eyes as he posed the question.
Reggio slapped his forehead and quickly added, "Tyrosh has only just stabilized. I am willing to provide ample supplies and establish an unbreakable friendship between our two sides."
Daemon's smirk widened as he listened to the flattery.
One lacked money and provisions.
The other lacked military protection.
It was a perfect match.
"Daemon!"
A voice called out.
Rhaenys Targaryen, clad in crimson armor, approached.
After a long night, the Uncrowned Queen looked exhausted, her expression bleak.
The grief of losing her son was beyond words.
Daemon turned at the sound of her voice, raising a hand to silence Reggio.
Rhaenys' eyes were red and swollen, but she forced herself to remain composed. "Braavos has been repelled. I am returning to Westeros."
"Returning to Westeros? Does my dear nephew know about this?"
Daemon frowned.
The three Free Cities had only just been reclaimed, and they were still far from being stable.
Rhaenys shook her head. "Lanneno was murdered. Myr and Lys are in your hands now."
"You trust me that much?"
"You are a Targaryen. You will not fail Viserys' expectations."
Rhaenys glanced around at the devastation, her heart aching. Then she continued, "I need to find my child. If he's alive, I must see him. If he's dead, I need his body."
She still refused to accept that her son had died.
Such a vibrant life—taken not by war, but by an assassin's dagger.
She needed justice.
Daemon remained silent, uninterested in answering.
"It's settled. You take care of the Disputed Lands."
Rhaenys didn't care about his reaction. She stepped forward, embracing him briefly, forcing a faint smile.
Then, she turned and left.
Meleys lay crouched on the ground, her crowned head lowered, allowing her rider to mount.
"Screech!"
Moments later, Meleys soared into the sky, vanishing swiftly over the vast sea.
Daemon watched her departure, his gaze unreadable.
Leaving him alone beyond the Narrow Sea—it was a bit heartless.
He lowered his head, rubbing his bloodstained fingers together, murmuring to himself, "Dorne's rebellion... Corlyn…"
---
Prince's Pass, Kingsgrave.
Perched atop a cliff, Kingsgrave was a solitary fortress—small in size but dangerously situated.
At this moment, a Riverlands coalition army camped beneath the cliffs.
Their camp stretched for nearly a mile, cooking fires sending smoke into the sky.
Their numbers exceeded five thousand.
Ser Donald, clad in heavy armor, patrolled the camp with a sharp gaze.
Since last night's order of appeasement, Lord Mond had become a mere figurehead.
He was reassigned from the front lines to providing relief for refugees.
It was thanks to Mond's efforts in leading thousands of displaced people away that this force of five thousand had reached Kingsgrave without trouble.
"My lord, a message from Kingsgrave."
A courier rushed forward.
Donald took the letter and read it carefully.
An hour earlier, the crown prince had sent a surrender offer to Kingsgrave.
As he finished reading, a flicker of anger flashed in his eyes. He cursed, "Dornish bastards!"
The handwriting was elegant, the words carefully chosen.
The letter centered around the Iron Throne, with the Riverlands as its focal point, meticulously displaying the supposed civility of a Dornishman.
Donald shoved the letter back at the courier. "Take this to the prince."
"Yes, my lord."
The messenger departed swiftly.
Moments later—
"Screech—"
"Screech…"
Two dragons roared, circling above Kingsgrave.
The sun blazed in the sky, their massive shadows darkening the rocky cliffs.
One black, one pale blue.
Kingsgrave went into full lockdown.
Ravens scattered in all directions.
A crisis was imminent.
Dorne, Sunspear.
Inside the Tower of the Sun, an intense negotiation was taking place.
Quentyn slouched on the princely throne, his handsome face slightly contorted with frustration as he scolded, "The Reach's coalition army has invaded the Prince's Pass. Dorne needs more supplies."
In the grand palace paved with pale marble, a lavishly dressed young man with golden hair and striking green eyes stood tall.
In response to Quentyn's demand, he replied calmly, "Prince, your army is useless. The Sealord has decided to cut off funding."
"Nonsense!"
Quentyn's eyes flashed with fury as he pointed a finger and snapped, "Dorne has deployed forces to both the Stormlands and the Red Mountains, tying up a significant portion of the Iron Throne's troops."
"That makes no difference."
The young man shrugged.
If the Sealord of Braavos had decided to halt funding, there was nothing he could do.
Realizing his counterpart had come with ill intentions, Quentyn suppressed his temper and demanded, "Who assassinated the Duke of Highgarden? I never issued such an order from Sunspear."
The young man thought for a moment, then replied innocently, "Discussing this now is pointless."
Quentyn's gaze grew cold as he said gravely, "The Duke's death has thrown the entire Reach into turmoil—they've already pushed their forces to King's Grove. And now Braavos wants to wash its hands of this?"
His anger was barely contained.
His plan had been to use the Iron Throne to his advantage—accepting Braavosi funding to quell Dorne's internal conflicts.
But now, things had taken a turn for the worse.
Braavos had assassinated the Duke of Highgarden, yet Dorne was taking the blame.
The nobles of the Reach were convinced Dorne was responsible and would not let the matter rest.
The young man, now irritated by the questioning, shot back, "I just received word this morning—our Purple Sails fleet's surprise attack on Pentos failed. The entire fleet was incinerated by dragonfire. Do you think Braavos is merely standing by?"
The Purple Sails fleet had consisted of fifty ships, and more than half had been lost overnight—a devastating blow.
But Quentyn couldn't care less. He pressed on, "And yet, can't you see Dorne's losses? Braavos withdrawing its support at this moment—is that not disgraceful?"
The war had spread from the Narrow Sea to Dorne, and now, midway through the fight, their funding was cut.
Braavos was clearly setting Dorne up as the sacrificial pawn.
The young man sneered, "Not only is Braavos pulling out, but so are the remnants of the Three Daughters. They've decided to shift their focus to Slaver's Bay."
After a pause, he added mockingly, "If you have the capability, perhaps you can seek funding from Volantis."
With the war across the Narrow Sea concluded, Volantis had begun making its own moves—covertly reaching out to Dorne while hiring mercenaries left and right.
Quentyn fell silent.
Volantis was useless.
They were merely trying to prevent the Targaryens from consolidating power over the three Free Cities by pushing Dorne forward as a distraction.
Similarly, Quentyn had waged war against the Iron Throne because he feared that once it unified the southern half of the Narrow Sea, it would turn its sights on Dorne.
Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one with ulterior motives.
Braavos and the other powers funding the war were just as cunning.
After a moment of contemplation, Quentyn asked gravely, "What does Braavos want?"
The foreign powers wouldn't allow Dorne to be completely defeated.
Otherwise, the dragonfire of the Iron Throne would soon turn on them.
The young man replied, "Patience. The Sealord has a plan—he is preparing a 'final weapon.'"
"Final weapon?"
Quentyn was taken aback.
What on earth could that be?
The young man shook his head. "I don't know. The Sealord is keeping it highly secretive—even the bankers of the Iron Bank are growing restless."
Whatever it was, it was being kept tightly under wraps.
With no clear answers, the Iron Bank had begun significantly cutting back on the Sealord's war funds.
Quentyn waved a hand in frustration. "I understand. Dorne will defeat the Reach's coalition on its own. We can revisit the funding discussion later."
It all boiled down to proving Dorne was still worth the investment.
Even after losing over ten thousand soldiers in the Stormlands, Dorne was far from collapsing without Braavosi funding.
If the noble houses pooled their resources, they could hold the line against the Reach's forces using the natural defenses of the Red Mountains.
"Then I will take my leave."
The young man did not linger. Under the hostile gazes of the Dornish guards, he strode confidently out of the palace.
Once his figure had disappeared, Quentyn leaned back into the princely throne with a sigh, abandoning all decorum.
So much for securing money and supplies.
He knew this was Braavos's way of warning him—ensuring he pulled his weight in the war.
"Sigh… a tough battle lies ahead."
Quentyn muttered to himself.
His sworn shield, Ser Davos Dayne, spoke up, "Skyreach and Yronwood are easily defensible, and we have support from Hellgate Hall and Sandstone."
Dorne had no shortage of powerful noble houses.
And deep within the Red Mountains, the lords of Blackmont and Starfall remained in relative safety.
If they sailed through the Summer Sea and entered inland via the Brimstone River, they could regroup with the forces at Hellgate Hall for a counterattack.
Quentyn hummed in acknowledgment before ordering, "Send word to Count Uller—recruit as many soldiers as possible. However many we can muster, we take them all."
Though the professional army was depleted, there was no shortage of able-bodied men to draft.
Dorne's people were fierce warriors—once armed with Braavosi steel, they would be more than a match for the pampered knights of the Reach.
"Yes, my prince."
Davos nodded and departed to carry out the command.
---
Time passed swiftly.
The negotiations in Sunspear concluded, and the Braavosi merchant ship docked at Planky Town slowly set sail.
Following the current, it made its way through the river mouth into the Summer Sea.
The sun blazed overhead, and the sea breeze carried a salty, humid tang.
Suddenly, a warship flying the banner of a seahorse approached from the horizon.
A lookout in the crow's nest widened his eyes in horror and shouted, "Warships! Velaryon warships!"
But it was too late.
One ship appeared, then a second, then a third…
Soon, a fleet of over a dozen warships spanned the waters, their decks brimming with fully armored soldiers.
At the prow of the lead vessel stood the legendary Sea Snake, clad in gleaming silver-gray armor, his expression solemn.
"Close in! Attack!" he commanded.
"Screeeeeeech—"
At that moment, a magnificent golden dragon soared overhead, its pale pink wings stirring up a mighty gust of wind.
"Dragonfire!"
(End of Chapter)