"Brother~"
Helena called out softly, trying to pull him out of his negative state.
Unlike her brother, who was deeply caught up in his emotions, she remained rational.
Perhaps it was due to her emotional detachment, or maybe she only cared about those she deemed worthy.
She had no desire to cloud her mind.
"Rhaenys…"
Rhaegar murmured, his face partially illuminated by the firelight, appearing strikingly handsome, while the other side was twisted in darkness.
The dragon scales of Meraxes.
A piece of Targaryen-style female armor found in Hellgate Hall.
Which Targaryen female warrior would have appeared at Hellgate Hall and left behind her broken armor?
The clues were almost undeniable.
Rhaegar suddenly stood up, his eyes flashing with cold fury, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"House Uller! That damned name!"
"Brother, calm down."
Helena took a step forward, gently trying to soothe him.
"Step back!"
Rhaegar snapped at her, his anger soaring.
Helena flinched in surprise and obediently retreated, giving him space to vent his emotions.
"Uller! A wretched breed that only knows provocation!"
Rhaegar, consumed by fury, drew his sword, Trueflame, and slashed at two pieces of armor.
At this moment, they were no longer relics in his eyes.
He only wanted to cut everything before him into dust, to burn it all to ash, to unleash the seething rage in his heart.
During the First Dornish War, Queen Rhaenys led Meraxes in the attack on Hellgate Hall, only for the great dragon to be struck in the eye by a scorpion bolt from the battlements.
Meraxes, writhing in agony, plummeted to the ground and died instantly.
This was the first and only time the Dornish had ever slain a dragon.
But—
Queen Rhaenys, who had been riding on Meraxes's back, was never found.
No one ever saw her remains.
Not even a charred corpse, not even a pool of unrecognizable flesh.
Some claimed that Queen Rhaenys had not died but had instead been gravely injured and imprisoned in the dungeons of Hellgate Hall, where she was subjected to unspeakable torment.
This theory was never proven, and few believed it.
After all, if Meraxes had perished from the fall, it was difficult to imagine her rider surviving.
Then came the year 13 AC.
The Dornish leader, Princess Meria Martell—known as the Yellow Toad—passed away.
Her successor, Nymor Martell, weary of war, sent his daughter, Princess Deria Martell, with an envoy to King's Landing to negotiate peace.
During the negotiations, she presented the skull of Meraxes as a gift to the king.
The discussions were tense, but eventually, they neared a conclusion.
The subjects of the Iron Throne cried out, "No submission, no peace!" while the Dornish insisted on negotiating as equals.
King Aegon the Conqueror was furious, scoffing at Princess Deria Martell's proposal.
But then, a letter changed everything.
Aegon opened it before the court and read its contents in silence.
When he finished, the Conqueror—usually composed and unshaken—showed a rare moment of turmoil.
No one knew what the letter contained.
But witnesses whispered among themselves.
They said that after reading it, Aegon clenched the parchment so tightly that his nails dug into his palm, drawing blood.
In the end, he agreed to the Dornish terms of peace.
That very night, some claimed to have seen Aegon ride Balerion back to Dragonstone, only to return before dawn.
And yet, no one knew what he did there.
Rumors spread like wildfire across King's Landing.
The two most widely believed theories were:
1. The letter was a threat.
If peace was not agreed upon, the Dornish would hire the Faceless Men to assassinate Aegon's heirs, forcing him to submit.
2. Queen Rhaenys had not died—she had been held captive in Hellgate Hall, suffering untold horrors.
If Aegon agreed to peace, the Dornish would put an end to her suffering and return her remains.
But in the end, rumors were just that—rumors. No one could prove the truth.
Now, in this moment—
As Rhaegar stared at Meraxes's scales and the remains of Rhaenys's armor…
He felt as if he had stepped beyond the written history books, bearing witness to a disgraceful compromise.
Queen Rhaenys did not die!
Her armor was found in Hellgate Hall.
House Uller had imprisoned her.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rhaegar swung his sword wildly, cursing furiously.
"Damn them!"
The silver-scaled armor was reduced to scraps, the remnants of a woman's armor now marked by deep gashes.
He stared intensely at the shattered armor, his heart overflowing with an indescribable fury.
For over a hundred years, House Uller had preserved Queen Rhaenys's armor.
Not only that—they had even crafted armor from Meraxes's scales.
All this time, they had hidden the truth, never daring to let a word slip.
But today, they had thrown these pieces into a dungeon like mere trash.
And not just any dungeon—a foul-smelling torture chamber.
Everything about this felt like provocation to Rhaegar.
A vile, shameless, merciless provocation!
"House Uller!"
Rhaegar's face twisted with rage, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he cursed through gritted teeth:
"I will slaughter every last one of you. I will break the neck of the last Uller and erase that name from existence."
He was a Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
But beyond those titles, Queen Rhaenys's blood ran through his veins.
She was his great-great-great-grandmother.
Every living Targaryen carried the blood of Rhaenys and Aegon the Conqueror.
Having vented his fury, Rhaegar finally stopped shaking with rage. He leaned on Trueflame, panting heavily.
In the dark corner of the room, the two already-battered sets of armor lay in ruins.
His gaze unfocused, he muttered to himself:
"Mercy is not for everyone… Then let them witness the wrath of the sleeping dragon."
Even when dealing with the treacherous Sealord of Braavos or the devious intentions of the Three Daughters in imprisoning Mogul, he had maintained his composure.
But House Uller…
House Uller had truly lived up to its name—madmen and bastards, through and through.
Not a single word. Not a single appearance.
Casually discarding two pieces of armor deeply agitated Rega's nerves.
Anger burned in his heart, leaving him parched and restless.
Suddenly, a warm embrace wrapped around him from behind, delicate arms beneath sheer white gauze locking firmly around his waist.
For a moment, Rega was dazed.
A firm yet soft sensation pressed against his back, accompanied by a gentle and composed voice persuading him, "Don't let anger cloud your judgment. You are a true dragon—they are mere crawlers."
"Helena…"
Rega murmured her name, his tense body relaxing.
The voice behind him carried the youthful innocence of a girl, tinged with a slight husky concern—like a lotus flower rising pure from the mud.
Rega sniffed the air, seemingly catching a faint, refreshing fragrance.
"What are you smelling?"
Helena blinked, slipping her small hand under her brother's black robe as she whispered, "I changed my perfume. It covers up the dragon's scent."
Rega: …
With that little distraction, his anger dissipated.
The girl certainly held grudges—one casual joke from him, and she had waited all this time for a little revenge.
"Don't be mad. The angrier you get, the more pleased Ulle will be," Helena softly consoled him.
Rega turned to study her familiar, delicate face.
Her eyes were clear, her cheeks adorable.
If it weren't for those small hands sneaking under his clothes, roaming and pinching, he might have believed she was some sacred maiden descended from the Seven Gods.
"Take your hands out."
Rega's expression darkened.
"Oh~"
Helena gave him an innocent look, but before withdrawing her hands, she playfully squeezed his lower abdomen.
Rega rolled his eyes and picked up the scattered pieces of women's armor and silver-white dragon scales.
As his palm touched one of the dragon scales, a system panel appeared:
[Mirasis' Scale]
Exploration Progress: 0.8% (Ongoing)
Rega stashed away the armor and dragon scales, keeping just one in his pocket to maintain the exploration progress. Inwardly, he mused, I hope I can uncover an offensive relic—one I can use to personally slaughter every last Ulle.
In his eyes, anyone bearing the Ulle surname was an enemy.
Having cleaned up the mess, Rega looked at Helena, who seemed a bit disheartened, and sighed. "Come with me. Once Mond handles Prison Gate Keep, we'll leave."
"Sun Lance City?" Helena asked.
"Yes." Rega's eyes flashed coldly. "If we can't find Ulle, we'll burn Sun Lance City to the ground."
Someone had to pay the price in blood and fire.
"Let's go."
"Alright."
---
Sun Lance City – The Old Palace
The palace stood grand and imposing, featuring both the Spear Tower and the Sun Tower, along with numerous lavish halls.
Inside the prince's study, Cooren sat slouched over his desk, his expression unusually grim as he pored over records of the First Dornish War.
The latest reports had arrived.
Sky Reach had fallen. The Reach's army had pushed deep into Dorne's heartland.
Vulture's Roost's cities, Vulture's Nest and Yronwood, had been abandoned one after another. Their earls had retreated into hiding with their soldiers, preparing for an ambush.
Meanwhile, Earl Ulle of Prison Gate Keep had defied orders. Instead of waiting for reinforcements from Bremond and Starfall, he had recklessly led his forces into the desert, heading straight for Yronwood.
With no other choice, Bremond and Starfall's fleets altered their course in the Summer Sea, attempting to break through Greenstone Island's defenses and sack the Reach from Oldtown.
The war had fully ignited, and all of Dorne was in chaos.
Cooren's plans had collapsed one after another. His vassals had abandoned Sun Lance City, each prioritizing their own interests.
Yes, the Dornish nobles had left the capital to its fate.
Generations of hatred had erupted—Dornish lords weren't considering the consequences; they were hellbent on fighting the Iron Throne to the bitter end.
They wanted their liege to join them, to recreate Dorne's historic resistance against the Iron Throne's invasion.
"Idiots. A bunch of brainless fools."
Cooren's face darkened, cursing them from the depths of his heart.
The truth of Aegon's conquest and Dorne's past dealings with the Targaryens remained elusive, but as a prince, he knew more than most.
Times had changed.
The Targaryens were at their peak, fielding no fewer than six dragons in battle.
The king commanded Bronze Fury, and the crown prince rode Death's Wing—both full-grown dragons rivaling the legendary Black Dread of old.
If Dorne had allies from Braavos or beyond the Narrow Sea, perhaps they could stand a chance.
But Braavos was sitting back, watching.
On their own, what did the Dornish have to fight with?
Cooren felt a tightness in his chest, his mind drifting to the swift fall of the Three Daughters.
He and the Sealord of Braavos had shared the same strategy—let the Three Daughters exhaust the Iron Throne before swooping in to claim the spoils.
But the Targaryens had too many dragons. They had held those three cities firmly, giving no opportunity for intervention.
Now that dragonfire had reached Dorne, Cooren finally understood the Three Daughters' helplessness.
Regret gnawed at him. He hadn't supported them enough.
With a sharp bang, Cooren slammed his book shut and sneered, "Braavos stands by and watches. If Dorne truly falls, do you think you can stop the dragons?"
He tossed the book aside and called toward the door, "Daevos Dayne."
Creak—
The door swung open from the outside, revealing Daevos, his greatsword Dawn strapped to his back.
"My prince, what are your orders?"
"Notify the troops in City to abandon all defenses and leave the city gates after nightfall."
Daivos was momentarily stunned before speaking solemnly, "Are we following past experience and retreating into the desert for a prolonged battle?"
This strategy was favorable to the radicals—it was simply a fight to the death.
But for the conservatives, it meant abandoning everything and preparing to return to the state of negotiations before the Iron Throne's treaty.
Kaolen swiftly leaped off the table, his eyes flashing with defiance. With a serious expression, he declared, "Yes and no. The main army will take a detour—we're heading to Ironwood."
"What about Her Highness and the others?"
Daivos asked.
The prince had three children: besides his eldest daughter, Princess Arianne, he also had a son and another daughter.
Kaolen's gaze deepened. Clenching his jaw, he said, "Arianne will travel with the army. Quellon will be sent to Braavos, and Coleanne to Volantis."
The eldest daughter was the heir—she had to remain in Dorne to hold the line. That was her duty.
The son and youngest daughter would be sent across the Narrow Sea, ensuring the survival of House Martell's bloodline.
"Understood, my prince," Daivos nodded and quickly left the room.
He was in a hurry.
Because he realized that the situation in Dorne was dire—the prince was making a last-ditch gamble.