As the day passed, a shadow loomed over Dorne.
# The Red Mountains – The Boneway
"Run! Get into the tunnel!"
"Wait for me—"
On the steep cliffs, hundreds of Dornish soldiers armed with crossbows fled in utter panic, their cries filled with despair.
"Hiss—screech—"
A crimson dragon silhouette streaked across the sky, accompanied by a mature female voice:
"Dracarys!"
Meraxes struck like lightning, unleashing a torrent of dragonfire.
At that moment, another, slightly younger voice rang out:
"Dracarys!"
"Hiss—screech—"
A massive pale blue dragon dove down, releasing a cascade of orange flames tinged with light blue.
Helena's eyes were sharp and focused, executing her task with unwavering determination.
The two dragons circled and swooped multiple times, leaving the Dornish soldiers no chance to reach the tunnel before they were incinerated like roasted pigs.
Rhaenys, exhilarated, shouted loudly, "To Vaith! Burn their stronghold to the ground!"
With that, Meraxes let out a fierce roar and vanished into the horizon, leaving a red afterimage in her wake.
Helena refused to be left behind, urging Dreamfyre forward in close pursuit.
The aunt and niece were swift and decisive, leaving no room for hesitation.
---
Broken Arm Pass – Ghost Hill
A low sand-brick castle stood amidst a sprawling, chaotic town stretching for miles—the seat of House Toland.
At this moment—
"Hiss—screech—"
A deafening screech pierced the air, sharp enough to rupture eardrums.
"Dracarys!"
Daemon Targaryen, clad in black steel armor, gazed down at the town below with an air of arrogance.
Caraxes' slit-like pupils gleamed with cruelty as his serpent-like body descended upon the town, his maw spewing unrelenting torrents of dragonfire.
"No! Run for your lives!"
"The dragon is coming—"
The Dornish civilians of Ghost Hill wailed in terror, scrambling madly to escape the town, desperate to avoid being consumed by the flames.
"Haha."
Daemon chuckled at the sight, guiding his dragon effortlessly from above.
Ever since mastering the Binding Charm, he no longer needed to shout commands—his bond with Caraxes was absolute.
Caraxes slithered forward, his crimson wings like two massive scythes drenched in blood, harvesting Dornish lives with each passing second.
Dragons knew no mercy, and neither did Daemon.
Half a month ago, Sunspear had elected a new Prince, officially bringing Dorne under the rule of the Iron Throne.
With that, Rhaegar had issued a decree:
Those willing to submit would be relocated to the future strongholds of Starfall, Yronwood, and Sunspear.
The Iron Throne would provide food and shelter, consolidating the population for better control.
And those who resisted?
Every inch of Dornish land touched by dragon wings would be reduced to ashes—castles and villages alike obliterated.
"Hiss—screech—"
Caraxes bulldozed through the streets, while overhead, a hideous dragon with rotting scales soared past.
Aemond Targaryen, his left eye now healed and covered with an eyepatch, bellowed:
"Vhagar! Dracarys!"
The monstrous brown dragon, known as the "Sheepstealer," shot Aemond a glance before diving, unleashing a deluge of filth-colored flames.
Within moments, half of Ghost Hill was engulfed in smoke and ruin.
Aemond surveyed the destruction, adjusting his uncomfortable eyepatch.
The patch was entirely black, held in place by two simple straps tied behind his head.
One of the straps bore a small, delicate flower, embroidered in a serene shade of blue.
Aemond treasured it dearly, never leaving home without wearing it.
His sister had sewn it for him.
"Hiss—screech—"
Sheepstealer executed a rolling maneuver, gliding inches above the ground before soaring once more, his claws seizing a Dornish soldier. With a casual flick, the soldier was tossed into the air, only to be snapped in half with a single bite.
A sickening rip filled the air as blood and flesh splattered, drenching Aemond's face.
Unbothered, Aemond calmly wiped his face and said, "Dracarys."
He was a true Targaryen now—no longer one to bicker with dragons.
"Hiss—screech—"
Sheepstealer blinked in mild surprise, seemingly shocked by his rider's newfound maturity, but resumed his onslaught nonetheless.
Below, blood rained as chaos reigned.
Archers attempted to mount a counterattack against Caraxes, loosing volleys of arrows.
Thwack—thwack—thwack—
Caraxes shielded himself with a single wing before unleashing another searing inferno.
The archers' screams were short-lived, swallowed by the blaze.
"Hiss—screech—"
Finding the slaughter dull, Caraxes flapped his wings and ascended, his serpentine body weaving skyward.
Daemon, unhurried and composed, shouted to Aemond:
"Move quickly! We still have to burn down Tor Castle this afternoon."
Aemond's single eye flickered as he urged Sheepstealer to keep up the assault.
Daemon grinned and continued his rampage, setting fire to the fleeing Dornish with reckless abandon.
This nephew isn't bad—he suits his taste.
...
The South of Dorne, Hellgate Hall.
The sky was overcast, and fierce desert winds stirred up a dark sandstorm.
Rolling sand and gravel exposed broken, sun-bleached skeletons beneath the dunes.
As the wind howled stronger, the sky grew darker, and the air reeked of death.
Thud, thud…
A Dornish soldier with a sallow complexion burst out of the sandstorm, his face smeared with blood, his pupils dilated in terror.
Thud!
The exhausted soldier collapsed face-first onto the ground, sand quickly burying his nose and mouth.
His entire body trembled violently, his throat parched from dehydration.
He was on the brink of death.
"Monster… monster…"
He murmured in shock, his breath growing weaker, his eyes fixed wide open toward the direction he had come from.
He died with his eyes open.
As the view drew closer, through layers of swirling sand, a massive shadow loomed in the distance.
"Aaaah!"
"Don't kill me! Please—"
Screams of agony, desperate pleas, and the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart filled the air.
The desert was stained red with blood, severed limbs scattered about, exuding a nauseating stench.
A large flag lay half-buried in the sand—three black scorpions on a red field.
The House Qorgyle of Sandstone.
A treacherous and cunning noble house, infamous for its mastery of poisons, as deadly as the scorpions of the desert.
Roar…
A fierce wind blew, thickening the sandstorm, as a pitch-black figure tore through the haze.
Scales as dark as coal. Green, slit-pupiled eyes.
The Devourer was terrifying in appearance, his vertical pupils deep and abyss-like. His bloody maw still chewed on an unknown chunk of flesh.
With a single gulp, he swallowed it whole. Blood dripped from his fangs, trickling down his chin and neck.
His dragon jaws curled slightly, forming a sinister grin.
Rhaegar, astride the dragon, surveyed the carnage below and remarked, "This meat is filthy, yet you're still hungry."
Roar!
The Devourer's pupils shrank, his massive wings beating the dust away as he soared into the sky.
Before long, he returned to Hellgate Hall.
Screech!
Sunfire hovered in the sky, continuously spewing dragonfire.
Aegon looked exhausted, yawning lazily, leaving most of the work to his dragon.
At that moment, Mond Hightower stood outside the castle with his troops.
Hellgate Hall had been occupied for nearly a month, facing repeated assassination attempts, poisoning incidents, and other sabotage.
To the west, Sandstone. To the east, Vulture's Roost. Both had sent soldiers to harass them.
Finally, reinforcements had arrived.
Screeeech!
The Devourer descended from the sky, unleashing an eruption of ghostly green dragonfire as fierce as a volcanic explosion, striking Hellgate Hall's gates.
Sizzle…
The flames burned at an extreme temperature, their corrosive properties melting the gate before their eyes.
The Devourer repeated his assault, spewing dragonfire across most of Hellgate Hall.
No matter how the townspeople screamed and wailed, the entire reeking fortress was reduced to ashes.
By dusk—
The once-impenetrable Hellgate Hall had vanished without a trace, wiped from history.
By the banks of the Sulfur River, only solidified lava and glass-like scorched sand remained.
Mond stood frozen, his body rigid. He had just witnessed an entire castle and its people disappear before his very eyes. He was too terrified to move.
Rhaegar landed his dragon and cast him a casual glance.
Mond instantly stood at full attention, too frightened to display any emotion, pretending to be as motionless as a wooden dummy.
Rhaegar saw through him easily. He was afraid—afraid of his ruthlessness.
Rhaegar chuckled.
This is just the beginning.
He roused the drowsy Aegon and instructed Mond, "Burn Sandstone and Vulture's Roost to the ground. Make sure to send the remains of their nobles and knights to Yronwood."
"Yes, my prince!"
Mond shouted in response, not daring to delay for even a second.
Then, Rhaegar turned to Aegon and reprimanded him, "Tomorrow, we return to the Greenblood. The petty nobles along the river are eager to die."
Aegon shivered and snapped to attention. "Yes."
At this moment, he was truly afraid of Rhaegar.
Though Rhaegar still wore a gentle smile, his Dragon's Wrath was absolute.
With just the Devourer alone, he had burned three castles to the ground, destroying countless farmlands in the process.
Rhaegar merely smiled, even reaching out to ruffle Aegon's hair.
He, Rhaenys, and Daemon had split into three forces, each taking a younger sibling to accelerate the Dragon's Wrath while ensuring no mishaps occurred.
Rebellion was rising across Dorne, with countless supporters rallying to the cause.
Yet, not a single one of their castles or villages would be spared.
The Sea Snake controlled the Greenblood River and the lower half of the Narrow Sea, cutting off any overseas supplies from Braavos and beyond.
The Prince's Pass was completely sealed, temporarily placed under the governance of the Reach.
The Boneway still had House Wyl stirring trouble, but Rhaenys and Helena would see to its pacification.
With their blockade in place, Dorne was completely cut off from the outside world.
The Wrath of Dragons Destroys Everything, Trapping the Dornish Rabble Completely
Anyone who dares to resist—die!
…
In the blink of an eye, a month had passed.
"Screech..."
"Screech..."
Six colossal dragons soared through the skies, weaving and twisting around each other.
Below them, the confluence of the Wrath River and Vance River flowed through the half-ruined city of Sungrace.
Amidst the crumbling walls and shattered remnants, Count Arian stood in a daze, barely conscious as two of his men supported him.
He was the lord of Sungrace City, but all that remained under his rule was a pile of ruins.
"Screech!"
Caraxes dived down like a crimson blade, its razor-sharp tail slicing over the heads of the three men—cleanly beheading them, their expressions frozen in bewilderment.
"Dracarys," Daemon commanded lazily.
Caraxes eagerly obeyed, as if it had an endless supply of dragonfire. Flames engulfed the three corpses, reducing them to ashes.
"Screech—"
"Screech..."
The other five dragons reveled in the sky, hunting down fleeing Dornishmen and unleashing their fiery wrath upon them.
Rhaegar, his gaze dark and menacing, focused on razing the riverside farmlands and docks.
The Wrath of Dragons had begun. The Arian family of Sungrace City was the first to surrender, bowing to the Iron Throne.
A few days prior, Count Arian had secretly sent grain to the Dornish rebels hiding in the desert and had covertly contacted Quentyn Martell of Sunspear.
Such actions, of course, did not escape the notice of those with keen eyes.
Tormund and Ser Silas were intelligence experts, and the Sea Snake was just as capable. They thoroughly uncovered Count Arian's treachery.
Coincidentally, after completing their first wave of Wrath of Dragons, Rhaegar and his men had returned to Yronwood to regroup.
The Arian family of Sungrace walked straight into the storm.
Thus, they became the first family in Westerosi history to suffer an assault from six dragons at once.
In some twisted way, their utter destruction was almost an honor.
After clearing out the ruins of Sungrace City, the corpses of Count Arian and his knights were gathered and taken away.
Rhaegar commanded his dragon, Glutton, to burn Sungrace City into smoldering rock before joining Daemon and the others in flying toward Yronwood.
Two months had passed, and Yronwood had undergone a drastic transformation.
All civilians had been relocated, leaving behind an empty, desolate fortress.
The crumbling walls remained unattended, now buried under an even greater heap of rubble.
The stones were piled into towering mounds, clustered together.
As Rhaegar landed atop his dragon, he spotted Ser Cole directing soldiers to transport corpses into the city, stacking them beside the stone piles.
There were no shortage of bodies—at least a thousand.
Some had been cut down, others burned beyond recognition.
Rhaenys frowned and asked, "Rhaegar, what do you intend to do with these noble and knightly corpses?"
She feared that her nephew was dabbling in some sinister blood magic.
Daemon, Helaena, and the others also fixed their eyes on Rhaegar, curiosity gleaming in their gazes.
Rhaegar did not hide his intentions. He spoke matter-of-factly: "I am creating a new dragonmount. Transporting dragon dung from Dragonstone would be too troublesome. These noble corpses will do just fine."
A Dragonstone's foundation required the essence of dragons—even their dung.
In its absence, sacrifices of flesh and blood would serve as an acceptable substitute.
Dorne had been claimed under Targaryen rule, and it was only fitting that the land bore a symbol of House Targaryen's presence.
And nothing was more meaningful than the creation of a Dragonmount.
Especially one infused with the blood and bones of the Dornish nobles who dared to resist Targaryen rule.
Rhaegar intended for all of Dorne to remember how they were conquered by House Targaryen.
And what fate awaited those who dared to resist.
(End of Chapter)