Chapter 236 — The Dragonrider Heads West
A cold wind swept across Dorne, carrying its signature red-brown sand into the air.
Outside Sunspear, the vast battlefield lay silent.
Just days ago, this had been a crucible of steel and flesh—
a roaring inferno where Dorne's fate was decided.
Now, the noise was gone.
Only broken walls, fallen banners, and scars that could not speak remained.
In the distance, the towering triple-curved walls of Sunspear stood motionless beneath the sun, their battered surfaces reflecting a cold, weary light—like a giant that had survived, but not unscathed.
At the heart of that battlefield stood Lance Lot.
Regent. Dragonrider.
Clad in his signature white Kingsguard armor, his cloak billowed heavily in the wind. Strands of black hair slipped loose across his stern face, which now carried a grave, almost immovable expression.
Behind him stood two forces—distinct, divided, and deadly.
On one side—
Thousands of Unsullied.
Silent as stone.
Black-armored statues of war.
Only the occasional flicker of their eyes betrayed life.
On the other—
Nearly a hundred elite knights from the Crownlands.
Their armor bore different sigils, yet their expressions were the same—
Reverence. Loyalty.
At the front stood Brynden Tully, clad in white armor, hand resting on his sword.
Further away, half-hidden in the shadow of a burned-out wall—
Melisandre.
The red priestess stood apart from reality itself.
Her crimson robes were untouched by dust, her hood casting her face in shadow. Only the elegant line of her jaw and the faint, unreadable curve of her lips were visible.
Her red eyes… seemed to be watching something far beyond the present.
"You're leaving?"
Before Lance stood Jynessa Blackmont.
The newly crowned Princess of Dorne.
She wasn't dressed like royalty.
No silk. No jewels.
Only practical leather armor—
the sigil of House Blackmont emblazoned across her chest like a reborn banner.
Her flaxen hair whipped in the wind, slightly disheveled.
Her eyes—
No longer sharp with battlefield fury.
Now they were full of something far heavier.
Reluctance.
Loss.
Burden.
And something deeper… something she couldn't say.
She looked up at him, squinting slightly against the sunlight.
Lance's gaze shifted from the distant horizon back to her.
"I have to go."
Simple. Direct.
"Does it have to be so soon?"
She stepped closer, her voice tightening despite herself.
"We just…"
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Sunspear behind her—then back to him.
The rest of her words dissolved into silence.
They had just won a war that would be remembered in history.
She had just been raised to the peak of power in Dorne.
And yet—
Before she could even feel that victory…
Separation had already arrived.
"This city needs rebuilding. Order must be restored. And the debts Doran left with the Iron Bank—"
She stopped.
Her voice softened.
"We haven't even had time to… talk."
Now it wasn't a princess speaking.
Just a woman… trying not to hold someone back.
Lance's blue eyes flickered slightly.
For a moment—
There was something human there.
But it passed.
"The western fleet has been annihilated."
His voice turned firm again. Urgent.
"Tywin Lannister gathered everything he had—along with the Redwyne fleet. Over a hundred warships."
"Gone."
"In a single night."
Jynessa's expression changed.
"This wasn't a normal Ironborn raid."
"There's something else behind it. Something far worse."
His eyes darkened slightly.
"I need to find out."
"Euron Greyjoy…"
"I killed him once."
"And yet… he's back."
"Alive. Somewhere far away."
He paused.
And for the first time—
There was something colder beneath his voice.
"Whatever's behind him…"
"It may be more dangerous than Doran ever was."
"Dorne's victory isn't the end, Jynessa."
"It's the beginning of something bigger."
"A storm."
Her brows furrowed tightly, worry clouding her already exhausted face.
"But what can you do alone?"
"The sea is vast… unknown… dangerous…"
"You're walking into it alone—"
"Don't worry."
Lance's tone softened slightly.
A rare warmth.
"You're forgetting something."
He looked at her—
Calm. Certain.
"What I have."
Lance tilted his chin upward, his gaze sweeping across the sky.
Almost immediately, a deep, resonant roar answered from above.
High in the heavens, the massive form of Ilyrion drifted in and out of sight. Ash-gray scales shimmered faintly beneath the sun, its vast wings stretching wide, each slow beat stirring restless currents in the air.
It was power itself. The sovereign of the skies. A living war beacon.
"If anything goes wrong, I'll withdraw immediately."
Lance's voice remained calm.
"But I need to understand what our enemy is truly capable of. Otherwise… the entire continent will be in danger."
Jynessa looked into his eyes and saw that iron resolve—unshakable, immovable. Every word of protest she had died before reaching her lips. She understood his duty. Just as she had her own.
Suddenly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him.
Her cheek pressed against the cold steel of his armor, the hardness biting into her skin, yet beneath it she could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart.
"Promise me."
Her voice was muffled against his chest.
"You'll come back safely."
"You said you'd marry me."
Lance's body stiffened slightly. Even through the armor, he could feel her warmth, her reliance. Slowly, his hand rose and covered hers, a quiet strength passing between them.
"Of course."
His voice was low, resolute.
"I, Lance Lot, do not break my word."
The moment lingered only briefly. It had to end.
Lance lifted his head and turned toward Brynden Tully.
"Ser Tully."
"Your Grace!"
Brynden straightened instantly, hand pressed to his chest.
"I'll go ahead to the western coast."
Lance's tone sharpened, all warmth gone.
"You will lead the Unsullied and all Crownlands knights. Depart immediately. Advance west along the Rose Road at full speed—no delays."
"Requisition supplies along the way. I'll authorize it in the name of the regency. House Tyrell will support you."
His gaze seemed to pass through Brynden, stretching toward the uncertain west.
"I have a very bad feeling about this. Our enemy may not be just the Ironborn."
"Understood, Your Grace."
Brynden answered without hesitation. The usual irreverence was gone, replaced by absolute obedience.
Lance nodded, then shifted his gaze again, locking onto a streak of crimson in the shadows—Melisandre.
"And one more thing."
His voice carried a sharp edge.
"Keep an eye on that woman. Don't let her receive any 'visions' or do anything reckless during the march."
A brief pause.
"If you encounter something beyond understanding—curses, dark magic—you may use her power."
"Use it. Don't trust it."
"Don't rely on it."
"Understood."
Brynden inclined his head again, expression unchanged, though his eyes reflected the weight of the task.
Everything had been arranged.
Every order given.
Every burden placed.
Lance lowered his gaze. Jynessa looked up at him.
For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent. The wind, the banners, the distant sounds—all faded into nothing.
A faint smile touched his lips. His fingers lifted her chin gently.
Then he leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't long, but it was firm, certain, real.
When they parted, his eyes lingered on her lips, a rare softness flickering through them.
"I'm going."
He added lightly, almost teasing.
"Don't miss me too much."
Jynessa straightened stubbornly, forcing herself back into the role of Princess of Dorne, her voice regaining its strength.
"That's not up to you."
"If I start missing you too much… I might just ride west and drag you back myself."
They both laughed. The sound echoed across the empty battlefield, scattering the heaviness of parting. For a brief moment, they were not rulers, but simply two young people who understood each other.
Then reality returned.
"Unify Dorne quickly."
Lance's tone hardened once more.
"Stabilize everything. Crush any remaining unrest. Then gather all the forces you can and march north."
His gaze swept across everyone before fixing on the distant northern horizon.
"The Long Night is not a myth. The true enemy lies beyond the Wall. When it comes, all our internal struggles will seem laughably small."
"No one survives this alone, Jynessa."
"The only hope is unity."
"All of Westeros must stand together."
Jynessa's expression shifted, her softness replaced by the same resolve reflected in his eyes. She drew in a breath and nodded firmly.
"I understand."
"Dorne will be ready. Wherever you need us."
No more words were necessary.
Everything had already been said.
High above, Ilyrion let out a sharp, echoing roar.
Lance released her and stepped back. Then, without hesitation, he leapt.
His white cloak flared behind him like wings.
A massive shadow swallowed the sunlight as the dragon plunged downward. Lance landed steadily upon its back, needing no adjustment, no balance—man and dragon moving as one.
He stood tall upon the dragon's spine, overlooking the battlefield.
One last glance.
At her.
No farewell. No gesture.
The dragon roared, its wings crashing downward with immense force. In an instant, they shot into the sky.
The red sands of Dorne, the broken walls of Sunspear, the figures below—all shrank, blurred, and vanished.
Lance fixed his gaze northwest.
Toward the drowned fleets.
Toward the unknown.
Toward Euron Greyjoy.
Cold air rushed into his lungs, but his expression did not change.
Far ahead, the western skies were swallowed by a dense, unnatural fog.
And the dragonrider's arrival would be the first lightning to tear it apart.