Hearing the sounds of fire rescue outside, everyone's hearts sank.
The Dornish weren't acting alone—this was an organized assassination.
Aemond's mind went blank. Clutching his father's sleeve in fear, he asked, "What do we do?"
Without his dragon by his side, he was just a ten-year-old boy.
Viserys, now mostly sober, stared in shock at the dozen assassins. He grabbed his son and reassured him, "Don't be afraid."
Despite sitting on the Iron Throne for years, this was the first time he had faced an assassination attempt.
He had no idea how to respond and could only instinctively comfort his son.
"Don't just stand there! Protect His Majesty!"
Ser Erryk's face twisted with rage as he swung his greatsword like a war god, deflecting incoming crossbow bolts.
As the guards used their bodies as shields, he hacked apart a solid wooden chair, grabbed a large chunk of wood, and ran toward the king.
"Your Majesty, the situation outside is unclear. You need to hide first."
Without waiting for a response, Erryk dragged the king behind one of the hall's stone pillars.
"Don't let them escape."
The only visible part of the Dornishmen was their cold, icy eyes as they skillfully fired their crossbows.
"Ahhh!"
The outnumbered guards were quickly overwhelmed, falling one after another.
In the blink of an eye, only five wounded guards remained.
Erryk, both furious and alarmed, knew that if this continued, they would all be captured. His eyes rapidly scanned the hall, searching for anything useful.
"Ser, we have to get outside."
Aemond's voice trembled, but he forced himself to think rationally. "There's a dragon outside."
As long as he could mount his dragon, everything would be resolved.
Viserys's eyes lit up with hope.
Outside, there wasn't just a dragon—there was also a well-equipped army.
Two pairs of violet eyes, one young and one old, locked onto Erryk. Under immense pressure, he fixed his gaze on the assassins. "There are fourteen crossbowmen upstairs. We won't make it to the main gate before we're turned into pincushions."
As he spoke, his gaze shifted to the remaining guards.
As royal protectors, their armor was sturdy.
The fallen guards had all been shot in the head or neck, killed instantly.
The ones still standing had only taken hits to their limbs and could still fight.
While the three of them discussed their escape plan, the Dornish assassins upstairs moved again.
Their leader, his face wrapped in a turban, had piercing gray eyes like a predatory wolf. His hoarse voice commanded, "Go downstairs. Leave no one alive."
Seven assassins slung their crossbows over their backs and charged down without hesitation.
The five remaining guards, eyes filled with terror, struggled to draw their swords in defense.
Thud! Thud!
The remaining crossbowmen maintained their suppressive fire, coordinating their attack with deadly precision.
"Damn it!"
Erryk's pupils contracted. Gritting his teeth, he made a decision. "Your Majesty, my brother Arryk is outside. If he hears the commotion, he'll come. I'll get you both out of here."
At least five guards were still alive, and with him, they had a fighting chance.
If they delayed any longer, the guards would be slaughtered.
Viserys yanked Aemond close and ran, shielding him under the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
"The King of the Iron Throne is there! Kill him!"
A cold shout echoed from above, followed by a volley of crossbow bolts.
Clang!
Erryk swung his sword frantically, knocking away the bolts. He kicked an approaching assassin and roared, "Run! Don't look back!"
Aemond's face was deathly pale as he watched the blood-soaked Kingsguard fight desperately. He curled up in his father's arms, trembling.
Without his dragon, helplessness filled his entire being.
Forget defending himself—he could barely lift a sword.
—
Meanwhile, fires broke out across the castle.
Starting from the granary and stables, the flames spread wildly with the night wind.
Soldiers shouted for water, rushing to put out the blaze, turning the scene into utter chaos.
"Hurry! His Majesty is in danger!"
Watching the turmoil unfold, Arryk's heart pounded. Leading a patrol squad, he sprinted toward the tower.
As a Kingsguard, protecting the king was his foremost duty.
The suspicious fires, the fact that they were in enemy territory—any fool could tell this was a conspiracy.
SCREEEEECH!!
A deafening roar split the night, followed by a golden blaze erupting into the sky like a volcanic explosion.
Arryk's expression changed drastically. By the firelight, he spotted movement beyond the castle walls.
Under the dark sky, a massive bronze dragon lifted its head over the wall, its vertical pupils burning with near-mad fury.
RUMBLE!
Claws hooked onto the wall as the dragon slowly rose, its massive feet crushing entire buildings beneath it.
Baring its fangs, it opened its jaws, and golden flames flowed like molten lava.
"Vermithor!!"
Arryk's eyes widened in shock, his heart feeling like it had been struck by a battering ram.
A dragon—had gone berserk!
—
Outside the castle.
The desert stretched endlessly under the night sky.
A hideous, mud-covered dragon lay sprawled on a sand dune, its reptilian eyes staring blankly at a charred black mound.
It was a rotting mountain of corpses—thousands of dead cattle and sheep piled together.
Vermithor's flames hadn't been hot enough to incinerate everything, only charring the surface.
At that moment, a group of sheep thieves hesitated in frustration.
Staring at the scorched remains, they weighed their options.
The good news? There was still plenty of meat inside.
Bad news—the meat has rotted and is crawling with maggots.
Sometimes, deciding whether to eat or not can be a real dilemma.
The sheep thief shifted its body and idly swayed its tail.
A mighty dragon eating rotten mutton—what kind of dignity is that?
Boom!
Suddenly, an explosion echoed through the night sky.
"Hiss-gah?"
The sheep thief snapped its head around, its vertical pupils reflecting the sight of a castle engulfed in flames.
One second of hesitation. Then two…
"Hiss-gah!"
The sheep thief reacted abruptly, scrambling out of the sand pile in a flurry of limbs before launching into the night sky.
It moved with incredible speed and agility—so much so that it almost resembled a panicked, rolling tumble.
---
### Inside the Tower Hall
"Push! Harder!"
Aemond's face was flushed red with effort as he pressed his body against the massive doors, trying to shove them open.
Viserys let out a low growl, bracing himself against the shouts and clashing weapons behind them, pushing with all his might.
The solid wooden doors didn't budge an inch.
As per Westerosi tradition, castle gates were built to be as sturdy as possible.
These doors stood three meters tall and were twenty centimeters thick, reinforced with heavy iron plating—their sheer weight was unimaginable.
Father and son, one old and one young, used every ounce of strength they had, barely managing to pry open a small gap.
"Damn it! Why is this door heavier than the Red Keep's? Is something blocking it from the outside?"
Viserys was both furious and alarmed. The wound on his palm split open, and fresh blood began to seep from the numerous gashes on his body.
Thwack!
An arrow whistled through the air and embedded itself squarely in a guard's forehead.
The battle had barely begun, and there were already casualties.
"Your Grace, the front door won't budge—we have to take the back exit!"
Ser Erryk ran his sword through an assassin before shouting out the warning.
Viserys had already considered this. He grabbed his son and staggered toward the back.
He realized this was a carefully planned assassination attempt, targeting him specifically.
The Dornish had abandoned the castle, luring their forces inside in an open ploy—only to ambush them through secret passages.
"Father! There's a dragon's roar outside!"
Aemond, regaining his composure after the initial panic, heard the mighty bellow of a dragon beyond the tower.
It wasn't the sheep thief—that creature was impossible to find, always vanishing into thin air.
This roar was deep and full of fury. No doubt, it could only belong to Vermithor.
Thwip! Thwip!
Viserys had no time to respond before another wave of arrows came flying toward them.
"Run!"
Father and son ducked just in time, barely avoiding the deadly barrage.
One bolt nearly grazed Aemond's head, slicing off a strand of his silver-gold hair.
Viserys was completely rattled. He stumbled, nearly falling to the ground.
He recognized Vermithor's roar immediately.
It seemed the fire and chaos had provoked the bronze behemoth's infamous temper.
Their bond was still weak—nowhere near strong enough for Viserys to calm the dragon from afar.
In a matter of seconds, the situation had shifted again.
The Dornish attackers upstairs had exhausted their crossbow bolts and were now descending to join the melee.
The leader of the assassins charged straight at Ser Erryk, who was fighting valiantly. The assassin's blade struck his chest plate, sending sparks flying but leaving only a shallow mark.
"Hah!"
Ser Erryk slashed open an attacker's throat, standing his ground against the assault.
His Kingsguard armor was among the finest in all of Westeros.
Without it, he would've been overwhelmed by now.
The assassin leader's eyes darkened. He signaled two of his men.
"Go—eliminate the target first."
"Yes!"
At the command, the assassins abandoned the struggling guards and bolted toward the Targaryen father and son.
"Father, we have to move!"
Seeing the killers approach, Aemond shoved his father forward, urging him to pick up speed.
They had no dragons at their side. Their guards were too few.
Only he could protect his father now.
Aemond glanced at Viserys.
His father was drenched in cold sweat, his face contorted in pain, his body barely holding together—but he refused to collapse.
"Kill them!"
The assassins lunged, blades raised.
"Get lost!"
Aemond, small in stature but fearless, grabbed a chair leg and hurled it at them before pulling his father away in a sprint.
The assassins gave chase.
Father and son ran.
The back exit was blocked.
Aemond had no choice but to drag his father back toward the main doors.
Fortunately, the assassins had used up all their crossbow bolts.
"Don't worry about being struck by a hidden arrow."
The price for that relief was two relentless assassins, their curved blades stabbing wildly just behind him.
A single slash tore across his back, shredding his green cloak.
Aemond's heart leaped into his throat, and he instinctively clenched his muscles.
These Dornishmen must have lost their minds to dare an open assassination attempt on him and his father.
If anything happened to his father tonight, his eldest brother, Rhaegar, would ascend the Iron Throne by morning.
And with his brother's all-embracing, egalitarian nature, did Dorne really think they would come out of this unscathed?
Had they forgotten what happened after Queen Rhaenys' death—the years of the Dragon's Wrath that followed?
The Dornish, however, seemed unconcerned.
The assassins had their faces covered, leaving only their eyes visible—eyes filled with frenzied determination as they pursued their target.
The war had already begun. Who cared about consequences anymore?
To assassinate a king—Dorne would forever remember their "great achievement."
Thud—
Just as they reached the main hall, Viserys stumbled, his dazed mind failing him as he crashed onto the floor.
"Father!" Aemond cried out in alarm.
"One each."
The two assassins exchanged a glance before raising their blades to strike down father and son.
"Stop!"
At the critical moment, Ser Erryk lunged forward, slamming into one of the assassins.
Aemond sucked in a sharp breath. His hand instinctively reached for his father's belt, grasping something solid.
Shing—
A dark gleam flashed—Blackfyre had left its scabbard.
The blade did not slice through the assassin's throat, nor did it pierce his chest.
With a swift motion, Aemond merely deflected the curved dagger—buying himself a single precious moment.
"Aemond, leave me! Run upstairs!"
Viserys lay limp on the ground, dizziness overwhelming him. The wine, coupled with the shock, had drained what little strength he had left—he could not run any longer.
At this life-or-death moment, all he wanted was for his third son to survive.
"Father..."
Hearing his words, Aemond's vision blurred with unshed tears.
All this time, he had thought his father only cared for his eldest brother, never sparing much attention for the son who stood somewhere in between.
Viserys urged desperately, "Run! Find your brother—Rhaegar will avenge me!"
Nowhere in the entire castle of Yronwood was safe.
He needed his third son to mount his dragon and seek refuge immediately.
"No one's getting away."
The assassin sneered at their heartfelt exchange before swinging his blade once more.
Just a few steps away, Ser Erryk was locked in combat with the other assassin.
It took all his effort to snap his opponent's neck—but before he could even catch his breath, more assassins surged forward, having already slaughtered the remaining guards.
"Targaryen, die!"
One of the assassins roared.