Rhaegar removed his black robe and casually placed it on a stone bench, just as he would in the godswood of the Red Keep.
He looked at Mors, and Mors looked back at him.
Rhaegar's expression remained natural as he lifted his gaze and sized up his counterpart. "Lord Mors, is this how House Manwoody treats its guests? With such indifference?"
Mors' face was stiff, though inwardly, he was cursing up a storm.
Indifference? What a load of nonsense.
His children were in Rhaegar's hands, and a massive dragon loomed nearby, watching.
If he hadn't skipped breakfast, he might have already soiled himself in fear.
Clatter!
A unit of soldiers rushed in, armed with crossbows, surrounding the garden.
A quick glance suggested there were around fifty of them.
Mors regained a sliver of confidence and roared, "What exactly do you want? Dornishmen do not use children as leverage!"
The soldiers tensed, loading their crossbows.
Roar…
Before they could take further action, a deep, guttural growl reverberated through the air.
The Devourer stretched its long neck forward, its draconic head emerging near the willows. Cold, green eyes scanned the humans, one by one.
A swarm of insects—utterly insignificant.
Mors felt its gaze upon him, and cold sweat drenched his back.
"The Devourer, you're scaring them," Rhaegar said, glancing back at his dragon in a tone of mock admonishment.
The Devourer snorted heavily, then swung its tail, flattening a large section of the flowerbed. Petals danced in the air, scattering like rain.
Rhaegar smirked, then lifted the little girl sitting on his lap and set her down. "Lysa, go play over there."
Lysa landed on the ground, staring blankly at the floating petals, her tiny legs refusing to move.
Mors watched the scene unfold, his heart pounding in his throat.
Rhaegar spread his hands, feigning helplessness. "First of all, I was knighted this year—I wouldn't harm children or the elderly so lightly."
"Second, I came for peace. You should show a Targaryen guest some courtesy."
As he spoke, he patted Lysa on her small backside, urging her toward her family.
"Father…"
Lysa's voice was soft and syrupy. She looked back and forth—first at her father, then at the candy in Rhaegar's hand.
It was meant for her brother, but he hadn't taken it.
Mors pressed his lips together, hesitating to call his daughter back, fearing Rhaegar might go back on his word.
He glanced at his son beneath the willow tree, his expression growing darker.
They were completely at his mercy.
Rhaegar remained composed. "Surrender. For the sake of your children, don't resist needlessly."
"Never!" Mors bellowed in fury, pointing a finger at Rhaegar's face. "Do you think you're Visenya? I am no weak, sniveling woman of the Vale!"
During the War of Conquest, Queen Visenya had flown Vhagar to the Eyrie and single-handedly secured the Vale's surrender.
Her legendary feat was known by all.
Rhaegar frowned slightly, locking eyes with Mors' wavering gaze. He said evenly, "The Vale is my mother's homeland. Your words are crude, and I might not be able to restrain myself from killing you."
"…"
Mors fell silent, though his glare remained defiant.
Rhaegar sighed. "I already told you—I came for peace."
To show sincerity, he removed the Valyrian steel sword, Trueflame, from his waist and placed it atop his black robe.
The black robe was a symbol of war—he always wore it before battle.
By removing it, along with his sword, he was demonstrating his good faith.
Everyone held their breath, watching his every move.
Dickon's breathing hitched as he lowered his gaze to Trueflame.
He was only a few steps from the stone bench—if he lunged, he could seize the sword.
Rhaegar didn't spare him a glance, radiating complete confidence.
Mors' expression was grim as he gritted his teeth. "Even if you were the Conqueror reborn, or Visenya herself, King's Grave will never surrender!"
"Don't be so hasty," Rhaegar replied calmly. "What room do you have for resistance?"
He ruffled Lysa's hair and added, "House Martell can barely fend for itself. King's Grave is nothing more than a discarded pawn. Why sacrifice the Manwoody name for it?"
His tone was indifferent, as though stating a trivial fact.
He could have his dragon burn King's Grave to ashes.
But a better plan had just come to mind—subjugating House Manwoody was far more valuable than destroying it.
Mors gave no reply, but subtly signaled to someone.
Then, he shouted, "Lysa, come back to me!"
The next instant—
Dickon, who had remained silent, suddenly sprang into action, pouncing toward Trueflame like a starving wolf.
Click! Click!
The soldiers raised their crossbows, taking aim at the silver-haired boy beneath the willow tree.
Rhaegar's gaze remained tranquil, undisturbed by external forces.
Even if Dickon took Trueflame, he didn't care.
Lysa, startled by her father's yell, stood frozen, unsure of where to look.
Rhaegar gently turned her shoulders to face Mors and whispered, "Go to your father, little one."
Lysa hesitated before slowly moving forward.
Shing—!
Dickon drew Trueflame. The dark blade shimmered with starlike specks of light, its tip pointed directly at its original master.
Rhaegar smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping past the Manwoody father and son. With composure, he said, "There's something there, but not much."
"Roar..."
The Devourer let out a low growl, pressing its jaw against the crown of a willow tree. Green dragonfire gathered in its mouth.
Behind the thick willow, a dragon as massive as a coal mountain lay coiled, its spine towering high. Its shadow loomed over half the castle.
At that moment, Rhaegar slowly rose to his feet, the smile vanishing from his face.
He didn't attack immediately. Instead, he watched as Lysa clumsily made her way halfway across the distance.
Then, he whistled.
Zzzla!
The ruby at the hilt of the Trueflame sword flared with a crimson glow, and scorching flames surged from the handle to the blade's tip.
"Ah!!"
Dickon screamed in agony, his hand nearly burned through. The Trueflame sword clattered to the ground.
At the critical moment—
Rhaegar reached for his waist with his right hand, and in a flash of black light, a whip snapped toward Mors with lightning speed.
Crack!
The jet-black dragonwhip coiled around Mors' neck, tightening relentlessly before yanking him backward.
Mors was like a fish caught on a hook, dragged back at blinding speed by an expert fisherman.
"Come!"
Rhaegar called out, lifting his right foot.
Mors crashed heavily to the ground, landing right beneath his boot.
"Stop!"
"Let go of the lord!"
Dickon's face turned pale with shock as soldiers cried out in alarm.
"Hisss—gahh!"
The Devourer's green eyes flashed with a sinister light as it unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, engulfing every soldier in the garden.
Their screams echoed for only a moment before being abruptly cut off.
Immediately after, a loud wail rang out.
"Waaah waah waah…"
Three-year-old Lysa, terrified, burst into tears and ran back on her tiny legs.
Rhaegar stepped on Mors, tightening the dragonwhip as he lamented, "Look at what you've done."
He had already taken off his black cloak—he hadn't planned to kill anyone.
Mors, utterly terrified but still stubborn, spat out, "I will never surrender! Stop wasting your time!"
At that moment, he finally understood why the Vale had surrendered to Visenya.
A massive dragon had landed in his backyard. Its master was holding his child.
If he resisted, the dragon would burn his soldiers to ashes in a single breath.
The most absurd part? He couldn't even defeat the dragon's master.
He had been captured like livestock.
Rhaegar grinned.
He loosened the tightening dragonwhip and reattached it to his waist.
Ignoring Dickon's furious, hateful glare, he picked up the fallen Trueflame sword.
Finally—
With one hand, he lifted his black cloak, and with the other, he cradled the wailing Lysa. Gazing down at Mors, he said:
"No one can help you. Think of your children. They still have a bright future ahead."
He was giving Mors a choice.
His black cloak—or his daughter?
Mors struggled to his feet, trembling. "What do you want? I am a noble of Dorne. I have my own liege lord—I cannot swear fealty to the Iron Throne."
"Corren? You call him a liege lord? He's just using this war to drain the strength of you Dornish nobles."
Rhaegar cut straight to the truth, then offered his terms: "Swear allegiance to the Iron Throne, and I will grant you the title of marquis and expand House Manwoody's lands."
He reached out and pinched Lysa's nose gently, smiling. "Fight for the Iron Throne, and your son can become my squire. Your daughter can be sent to Dragonstone as a companion to the Targaryen princess."
A generous offer.
Mors hesitated for a moment, unable to believe it. "Are you certain? Why would you do this?"
He didn't believe in getting something for nothing.
If Dorne submitted to the Iron Throne, they would be shamed, ostracized by the Reach and their other long-time enemies. They would gain nothing and lose everything.
Rhaegar answered honestly, "My child will be born soon. Who knows? Perhaps I'll have a daughter."
Half-truth, half-lie—but spoken with sincerity.
Mors looked at his son and daughter, then at the terrifying, pitch-black dragon.
His heart sank.
He had no strength left to resist.
Gritting his teeth, he asked, "Will you keep your word?"
"Of course."
"I will not kneel to the Iron Throne—but I will swear loyalty to you."
"Why?"
Rhaegar frowned slightly.
Mors replied, "When I look at you, I see the Conqueror from a hundred years ago—calm and composed, decisive yet merciful. I wish only to pledge my loyalty to you."
Rhaegar's gaze sharpened.
In other words, Mors did not trust the Iron Throne. He was willing to follow Rhaegar personally but would not recognize the throne's authority over him.
Rhaegar chuckled.
"Then swear your oath."
He was the future king. The Manwoody family would still be subjects of the Iron Throne.
All of Dorne would bow at his feet.
Thud—
Mors dropped to one knee, lowering the once-proud head of House Manwoody. His expression was solemn as he declared:
"I swear by the Old Gods and the New to serve Rhaegar of House Targaryen, to honor him, to revere him, and to carry out his commands at any cost!"
Oaths are sacred and unbreakable, Mors declared in one breath.
Rhaegar remained calm, his expression indifferent as he gripped the hilt of the Trueflame sword. Turning the scabbard toward Dickon, he said, "Take it. Hold this sword."
Dickon lowered his head and, despite his burned hands, obediently grasped the scabbard.
Shing!
The Trueflame was unsheathed, its cold, gleaming blade flashing in the air.
Holding Lyssa in one arm, Rhaegar rested the sword lightly on Mors' shoulder and said calmly, "I swear by the Old Gods and the New to accept your allegiance. You shall be the summer breeze, the oar that guides the voyage."
"You will uphold honor and remain untainted by corruption."
"By my hearth, there will always be a place for you—today, and every day to come."
With those words, the dark blade lightly touched both of Mors' shoulders.
Clack! The sword returned to its scabbard.
Mors took a deep breath. Pledging loyalty to a Targaryen was a weighty decision, one that filled him with both trepidation and a hint of excitement. Rising, he bowed and said, "My prince, Kingsgrave will fight for you. Give the order."
Rhaegar glanced back, his tone firm. "Open the gates. Kingsgrave will serve as the army's staging ground."
Mors clenched his teeth. "Yes, my prince!"
Without hesitation, he strode outside and ordered the soldiers to open the gates of the formidable fortress.
Beneath the cliffs, the Riverlands coalition had been waiting for a long time.
(End of Chapter)