Amidst a chilling scream, a cluster of green flames ignited the yellow sand.
Flesh burned, armor melted, and life gave way to death.
"Hiss—Gah!"
The Devourer let out a fierce roar, its smoky, mist-like dragonfire sweeping evenly across the battlefield, like the true embodiment of death itself.
Rhaegar remained calm, idly twirling a silver-white dagger shaped like a dragon's horn in his hand.
Collected. Serene.
He watched as the once-mighty Prince of Dorne struggled and wailed, only to be reduced to a charred, broken corpse.
"Arrogant intelligence is merely an unclear form of foolishness."
Rhaegar surveyed the devastation around him and sighed.
Qoren had been intelligent.
He foresaw the Iron Throne's intent to wage war against Dorne and attempted to weaken its power by leveraging the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
But in the end, his cleverness became his downfall.
The moment the Three Daughters breached Dorne's defenses, its fate was sealed.
Gazing at the steel-solidified corpse, Rhaegar shook his head. "The Free Cities were never trustworthy. You chose the wrong allies from the very start."
The moment Dorne intervened, Braavos immediately withdrew, shifting the burden of war onto its so-called allies.
Qoren lost control over his noble vassals, hesitated, and failed to commit to an all-or-nothing battle.
During the First Dornish War, Dorne only managed to negotiate peace because of the Yellow Toad's relentless resistance.
Without the will to fight to the death, Dorne's military strength was inferior to the Reach's.
And even if they had fought with everything they had, they still wouldn't have been able to withstand the Targaryens at the height of their power.
Trapped in the desert, slow to develop—Dorne's fate was always limited by its geography.
"Hiss—Gah…"
Dreamfyre soared from afar, her sleek dragon body weaving through the clouds.
Upon seeing her, Rhaegar patted the Devourer's back.
The Devourer, well-trained, flapped its wings gently and descended.
Dreamfyre landed nearby, her hind legs sinking into the sand littered with charred corpses. She lowered herself, revealing her rider.
Helena's face was flushed with excitement as she announced, "Lord Corlys has taken Sunspear! He has secured control over the situation."
"And Dorne's army?"
Rhaegar's gaze shifted toward the tunnel from which Qoren had emerged.
Hundreds had already been burned alive, but Sunspear still had over a thousand standing soldiers.
"Aegon has sealed the exit. They won't escape."
Helena pointed to the tunnel before adding, "There's another group inside. Lord Corlys sent me to handle them."
"Oh?"
A flash of insight crossed Rhaegar's mind, and he urged the Devourer toward the tunnel entrance.
The opening was narrow, with sand constantly seeping in.
"Roar…"
The Devourer tilted its head, its green, slit-pupil eyes peering into the darkness.
Rustling sounds echoed from within.
A wave of scorching breath swept through the passage, instantly causing chaos inside.
Dragons were creatures of fire and blood.
Not only was their fire terrifying, but even the air they exhaled carried blistering heat.
As the Devourer grew, even the breath from its nostrils could scorch skin through clothing.
Rhaegar's expression darkened as he bellowed, "Come out!"
Qoren had three children—Rhaegar had already intercepted two. Only one heir remained.
"Roar…"
The Devourer let out a low growl, jaws widening as emerald flames gathered deep in its throat.
"We surrender! Please, spare the princess!"
Over a hundred Dornish soldiers scrambled out, a noble officer clutching a tear-streaked Arianne in his arms.
Having heard her father's agonized screams with her own ears, Arianne fully understood—he was gone forever.
Grief and hatred consumed her heart.
"Dragonfire!!"
The girl's voice rang out, cold and resolute.
"Hiss—Gah…"
Dreamfyre's eyes flashed with savage intent. A torrent of flame, half-orange and half-pale blue, erupted from her maw.
The fire streaked past the Devourer's snout, striking the gathered Dornish soldiers with pinpoint accuracy.
Along with the wide-eyed, frozen Arianne, they were all reduced to ashes.
Rhaegar's eyes widened as he turned to stare at Helena.
Helena met his gaze without flinching. "She hated you."
"…She did," Rhaegar muttered, his eyelids twitching.
He had considered keeping Arianne alive to aid in the governance of Dorne.
Helena lowered her gaze, nervous as she murmured, "I am a girl… but I am also your Visenya, the one who eliminates the obstacles you hesitate to remove."
That Dornish girl—she would never have been loyal.
Rhaegar's expression softened. "You're right. Besides, we still have two Martells left."
Helena looked up, her eyes searching his.
Their gazes met—and they smiled.
"Let's go."
Rhaegar patted his dragon's back, speaking with determination. "With House Martell's rule shattered, Dorne will descend into chaos. The hidden vipers will soon crawl out."
He needed to ride to Sunspear to claim dominion—and then move on to Yronwood.
The Dornish lords of the Boneway were a tough breed. They would require his full force to subdue.
---
Yronwood
"Hiss—Gah!"
The bronze dragon dove from the sky, its tail smashing the peak off a tower before landing in the castle's courtyard.
"Your Grace…"
The Cargyll brothers stepped forward to greet him, clad in silver armor and white cloaks, looking every bit the mighty Kingsguard.
"Mm." Viserys carefully climbed down from the dragon's back and cautioned, "Rhaegar sent me a letter. Today, he and Lord Corlys are besieging Sunspear. We need to be vigilant on our end."
Ser Erryk's expression was solemn as he replied, "Rest assured, Your Grace. Ser Cole is leading three thousand soldiers to take over the city's defenses. The castle, inside and out, is under our control."
Ser Arryk, ever tactful, added, "We will ensure your safety at all times."
Hearing this, Viserys nodded, feeling somewhat reassured.
Like Weeping Town, Yronwood was similarly deserted.
In line with the strategic objective of controlling the Boneway, three thousand soldiers from Blackhaven, Bitterbridge, and Greenstone had been assembled under his command to seize Yronwood, the key gateway to the Boneway.
Viserys shifted uncomfortably. His armor was so heavy that walking was a struggle. Impatiently, he headed toward the tower.
"Scree—!"
Suddenly, a strange and eerie screech pierced the air.
Viserys' heart skipped a beat as he turned around in surprise.
A muddy brown dragon came into view—its head was gaunt, its eye sockets sunken, and its vertical pupils gleamed with a cunning light.
"Aemond!"
Viserys gasped, his eyes immediately locking onto the silver-haired boy on the dragon's back.
"Father, I'm here!"
Aemond beamed with excitement, waving his arms enthusiastically.
It had been over a month since he left the Red Keep, and at last, he could see his father again.
"Scree—!"
The dragon, Sheepstealer, flicked his slit-pupiled eyes mischievously and suddenly dove, only to pull up at the last moment.
Aemond's smile froze.
Caught off guard, he lost his balance, his upper body pitching forward. His freckled face smacked hard against the dragon's dry, scaly hide with a thud.
When he lifted his head again, a thin stream of blood trickled from his nose.
"Oh, Seven hells!"
Viserys had never seen such a sight before. His heart clenched with distress.
"Sheepstealer, that was too much!"
Aemond yelled in frustration, wiping his nose with practiced ease.
Seeing his third son still had the energy to shout, Viserys let out a relieved sigh and joked, "That's a dragon with a mind of its own—just as peculiar as its hideous appearance."
It wasn't an insult.
Aemond had spent time roaming the Stormlands, and the ragged-looking dragon had protected him well.
Before long, Sheepstealer lazily descended, letting out a low growl toward the wary Cargyll brothers.
"Your Grace, be careful!"
Ser Erryk gripped the hilt of his sword, positioning himself protectively in front of the king.
"No need to worry, White Knight."
Aemond dismounted and lifted his chin proudly. "He's just acting up. Give him two goats, and he'll be satisfied."
"Scree—!"
Sheepstealer's eyes brightened, his long, thin neck swaying as he sniffed the air for his meal.
He picked up the scent of goat—stale, as if it had been rotting for days.
His sense of smell was sharp.
Outside the city, a mountain of livestock corpses lay rotting, half-burned by Vermithor's dragonfire.
"My son, come here and let your father take a good look at you."
Viserys pulled Aemond close, gripping his shoulders as he examined him. With satisfaction, he remarked, "You've grown strong—you look like your brother did at your age."
Squeezing Aemond's arm, he felt the firmness of muscle.
Aemond lowered his head bashfully, sneaking a glance at his father with admiration.
It had been so long since he last received his father's praise.
He longed for his parents' attention.
"Let's head back to the castle. I'll have the cooks prepare a proper feast to welcome you."
Viserys draped an arm around his son's shoulders, then teased, "Though you'll have to ignore the taste—the army's cooks bake bread so hard it could crack a skull."
"Heh."
Aemond simply grinned, obediently following along.
He had rushed to see his father as soon as he finished clearing out the Stormlands' remnants.
Father and son walked ahead, while the Cargyll brothers followed behind.
Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk exchanged a glance before the latter spoke. "Since it's a feast for the prince, I'll inform Ser Cole to tighten patrols tonight."
"Good idea."
Erryk had the same thought. "I'll guard the king. Keep an eye on the kitchen and the well."
The Dornish were known for using poison. In this unfamiliar castle, they had to be extra cautious.
The brothers shared an unspoken understanding and went about their respective duties.
---
With Aemond's arrival, the heavy atmosphere in Yronwood lifted.
Soldiers grew even busier, not daring to slack off.
Night fell in the blink of an eye.
The tower loomed tall, its windows glowing with torchlight.
Inside the spacious hall, Viserys and Aemond dined together.
Outside, patrols continued, their torches illuminating the night.
Everything seemed normal—even the evening breeze carried a gentle touch.
And yet…
Beneath the fire's glow, shadows lurked.
The kitchen, the cellar, the stables, the dried-up well…
One after another, faint sounds stirred in these inconspicuous places.
First, the Kitchen.
The kitchen belonged to the cooks. Once dinner was prepared at dusk, it was locked up tight.
Bang! Bang!
The muffled sounds started softly but grew louder, breaking the silence of the night.
The noise didn't come from the walls or the floor but from beneath the brick-built stove.
Bang!
A dull thud echoed from the stove's fire hole, sending ash swirling chaotically through the air, landing on the flour sacks in the kitchen.
Before long, a dark silhouette emerged from the pitch-black opening—a Dornishman wearing a scarf on his head.
More and more figures crawled out, hacking through the door lock and slipping out stealthily.
The same scene was unfolding in other inconspicuous corners of the castle.
Under the flickering torchlight, venomous snakes bared their fangs.
---
Late into the Night.
Viserys was overjoyed at his son's return and drank himself into a drunken stupor.
Aemond took a few sips as well but choked on the strong liquor, coughing violently, which made his father burst into laughter.
"Father, let me help you back to bed."
After a while, noticing his father's bleary, intoxicated gaze, Aemond obediently suggested.
He cherished these rare moments of intimacy with his father.
"Alright, I'm feeling sleepy anyway."
Viserys, pleased by the offer, swayed as he struggled to his feet.
Aemond, still young, struggled to support his father's bulky frame.
"Help them!"
Ser Erryk, standing nearby, quickly called for the guards in the hall to assist.
Suddenly—
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Several crossbow bolts shot through the air, flying straight toward Viserys and Aemond.
Thud!
The guards rushed forward just in time, throwing themselves in front of the king and his son. The bolts pierced their backs, and they coughed up blood.
"Assassins!"
Ser Erryk's expression changed drastically as he swiftly drew his longsword.
Aemond, panicked, looked up to see more than a dozen Dornishmen clad in brownish-yellow leather armor standing on the staircase, crossbows in hand, their eyes filled with murderous intent.
"Protect the King! Retreat!"
Aemond's heart pounded as he grabbed his father and pulled him backward.
His training in the Stormlands had sharpened his instincts—he instinctively moved away from danger.
Just then, a chaotic shout rang out from outside the tower.
"Fire!"
"The barn is on fire! We need help!"