The Next Day, at Dawn
The harbor was shrouded in smoke, and the wreckage of the shattered ships littered the sea.
"Roar..."
Caraxes circled the sky, twisting like a snake, patrolling the bay in the morning sun.
In the harbor, the garrison labored to remove the remains of the Braavos sailors.
Prince Reggio surveyed the scene in a daze, as if caught in a dream. Braavos's most powerful fleet of purple-harbor warships had been destroyed overnight.
Daemon strolled over, his black steel helmet under his arm and a smile on his lips. "Did you have a good dream last night, prince?"
Reggio, as if waking from a trance, hurried forward. "Prince Daemon, thank you for your help. You are as great as your ancestor, the Conqueror."
"Oh, it was nothing," Daemon replied, raising his chin, clearly pleased.
During the Century of Blood, the fleet of Volantis had occupied Lys and invaded Myr. When they attempted to conquer Tyrosh, they faced fierce resistance. Conqueror Aegon had ridden Balerion across the Narrow Sea, burning the Volantis fleet and turning the tide of the war. Daemon's rescue of Pentos was a similar feat.
Reggio took Daemon's hand, welcoming him warmly. "Please come to the Prince's Palace. I must treat you well."
"Just hospitality?" Daemon's smile didn't reach his eyes, his tone questioning.
Reggio slapped his forehead and quickly added, "Tyrosh has just regained its peace. I am willing to provide sufficient supplies to forge an unbreakable friendship between our cities."
Daemon's mouth curled up as he listened to Reggio's flattery. Both sides needed resources—one required armed protection, the other, supplies. They formed an alliance.
"Daemon!"
Rhaenys, clad in red armor, approached. After a night of mourning, her face was haggard, her expression downcast. The pain of losing her son was evident.
Daemon raised a hand, silencing Reggio, then turned to face her.
Rhaenys' eyes were red and swollen, but she forced a smile. "Braavos has been repelled. I must return to Westeros."
"Back to Westeros? Does my dear nephew know?" Daemon frowned. The three Free Cities had only just been recovered and remained unstable.
Rhaenys shook her head. "Laenor was killed, and Myr and Lys need you to look after them."
"You really have faith in me," Daemon muttered.
"You are a Targaryen. You will not disappoint Viserys' expectations," Rhaenys said, looking around at the devastation, her heart aching. "I have to find my child. I want to see him alive or at least find the body."
She still couldn't accept her son's death. Such a vibrant life, taken not in war, but by betrayal.
Daemon remained silent, uninterested in responding.
"It's settled then. You watch over The Disputed Lands," Rhaenys declared, ignoring his mood. She embraced Daemon, forcing a smile, then turned and walked away.
Meleys, on all fours, lowered its horned head for the rider to climb.
"Roar!"
Moments later, Meleys soared into the sky, disappearing swiftly over the vast ocean.
Daemon watched, his eyes dark and uncertain. It felt inhumane to be left alone beyond the Narrow Sea. He lowered his head, rubbing his blood-stained fingertips, and muttered, "Dorne rebels, Qoren..."
...
The Prince's Pass, Kingsgrave
Perched on a cliff with treacherous terrain, Kingsgrave stood isolated. At its base, a coalition army from The Reach had set up camp. The encampment stretched for a kilometer, with smoke rising from numerous cooking fires, sheltering no fewer than 5,000 troops.
Donald, heavily armored with a fierce gaze, patrolled back and forth. Since the conciliatory policy was announced the previous night, the commander of the coalition forces, Ormund, had been reduced to a figurehead, removed from the front line and tasked with aiding the refugees.
Thanks to Ormund's troops leading tens of thousands of refugees away, the army reached Kingsgrave without incident.
"Lord, a letter from Kingsgrave," a messenger reported urgently, handing Donald the letter.
Donald read it carefully. An hour earlier, the heir prince had sent terms of surrender to Kingsgrave. Anger flashed in Donald's eyes as he finished reading, cursing under his breath, "Dornish scum!"
The letter, written in clear, elegant handwriting, centered on the Iron Throne and The Reach, attempting to showcase Dornish qualities. Donald handed it back to the messenger with a stern order, "Give this to the Prince."
"Yes, my lord," the messenger replied and quickly left.
Soon after...
"Roar..."
"Roar..."
Two dragons roared repeatedly, their wings spread wide as they circled over Kingsgrave. The scorching sun cast shadows from the massive dragons onto the red cliffs below. One dragon was black, the other light blue, their silhouettes imposing.
Kingsgrave was under full martial law, with ravens dispatched in all directions. The crisis was imminent.
...
Dorne, Sunspear
Inside the Tower of the Sun, heated negotiations were underway. Qoren, crouched on the royal throne, his handsome face twisted in anger, demanded, "The Reach has invaded the Prince's Pass. Dorne needs more supplies."
In the palace of pale marble, a young man with luxuriant blond hair stood tall and calm. "Your army is useless, Prince. The Sealord has decided not to provide any more funds."
"Nonsense!" Qoren glared at him and pointed angrily. "Dorne has sent troops to the Stormlands and the Red Mountains, tying up the Iron Throne's forces."
"That won't help," the young man shrugged. The Sealord's decision was final.
Seeing the other man's hostility, Qoren controlled his temper and asked, "Who murdered the Lord of Highgarden? I gave no such order in Sunspear."
The young man thought for a moment and replied innocently, "It's not helpful to discuss this now."
Qoren's eyes grew cold. "The death of Lord Highgarden has set The Reach ablaze, and it has already reached Kingsgrave. Does Braavos expect to escape unscathed?"
His anger barely contained, Qoren reflected on his plan to use the Iron Throne to eliminate internal conflicts in Dorne, leveraging Braavos's support. Now, everything had gone awry. Braavos had assassinated Lord Highgarden, placing the blame unjustly on Dorne. The nobles of The Reach, convinced of Dorne's guilt, would not relent.
The young man's patience wore thin, and he retorted, "I received news this morning that the Purple Harbor fleet failed in their attack on Pentos and was burned to the ground by dragons. Do you think Braavos was just watching?"
The loss of 50 ships in one night was devastating, but Qoren remained unmoved. "Can't you see the losses Dorne has suffered? Don't you think Braavos is shameless for withdrawing its support at this time?"
The war had shifted from the Narrow Sea to Dorne, and now, in the midst of conflict, Braavos was pulling out, leaving Dorne to fend for itself.
The young man sneered, "Not only is Braavos no longer funding us, but the remnants of the Triarchy have decided to move their efforts to Slaver's Bay." He paused, adding mockingly, "If you are capable, you can get funding from Volantis."
After the war in the Narrow Sea, Volantis had begun to make subtle moves—first secretly contacting Dorne, then recruiting mercenaries.
Qoren fell silent. Volantis was no better, merely seeking to protect its interests against the Targaryens, using Dorne as a distraction. The same principle applied here. Qoren's war against the Iron Throne was driven by fear that the Iron Throne would unify the lower half of the Narrow Sea and turn its sights on Dorne.
But cunning plans had unraveled, and now, both Braavos and its secret allies were abandoning Dorne to its fate.
Qoren pondered for a moment and then asked quietly, "What does Braavos need?"
The forces beyond the Narrow Sea would not allow Dorne to fall; otherwise, the Iron Throne's Dragonfire would turn toward them next.
The young man replied, "Wait. The Sealord has a plan and is preparing an ultimate weapon."
"An ultimate weapon?" Qoren was taken aback. "What could that be?"
The young man shook his head. "I don't know either. The Sealord is keeping it a secret, causing dissatisfaction among the bankers at the Iron Bank."
The Sealord's secrecy had strained relations, and the Iron Bank had drastically reduced his war budget in protest.
Qoren waved his hand dismissively. "I understand. Dorne will defeat the Reach Alliance on its own, and we'll discuss funding afterward."
Ultimately, Dorne needed to prove its worth as a financial partner. Despite losing over 10,000 soldiers in the Stormlands, Dorne was far from a position where it would lose its funding. With the Red Mountains' natural defenses, the major nobles could easily block the Reach Alliance.
"Then I will take my leave," the young man said, departing the palace under the disapproving glances of the guards.
Once he was gone, Qoren slumped back against the throne, feeling the weight of his predicament. Braavos was clearly sending a warning to prevent him from taking their support for granted.
"Alas, a tough battle lies ahead," Qoren muttered helplessly.
Davos Dayne, the Prince's personal guard, spoke up, "Skyreach and Yronwood are easy to defend but hard to attack. They are supported by Hellholt and Sandstone."
Dorne has many powerful noble lords. In the Red Mountains, there are also House Blackmont and the Starfall, which are located in remote areas. As long as they sail into The Summer Sea and enter the mainland via Brimstone, you can join forces with Hellholt.
Qoren sighed sadly. "Tell Lord Uller to recruit soldiers and be ready to attack at any time. There are no regular troops, but we have many temporary recruits. The people of Dorne are fierce and tough. With the armor provided by Braavos, they are no worse than the seasoned soldiers of The Reach."
"Yes, Prince," Davos replied, nodding before leaving to carry out the order.
...
Time passed quickly.
The negotiations in Sunspear were over, and the Braavos merchant ship docked in Planky Town slowly sailed out of the harbor. The ship sailed down the river, along the estuary, into the Summer Sea.
The sun was scorching, and the sea breeze was salty and damp.
Suddenly, a warship flying the flag of the Seahorses appeared on the horizon.
The lookout on the deck of the merchant ship gasped and cried out in terror, "A warship! A warship of House Velaryon!"
But it was too late. A warship appeared, followed by a second, a third... until a dozen ships came into view, their decks filled with soldiers in full armor.
The Sea Snake, clad in silver-gray armor, stood at the bow of the lead ship, his expression solemn. "The ships are approaching. Attack!"
"Roar..."
As soon as the command was given, a golden dragon glided in, its pale pink wings flapping in the wind.
"Dracarys!"
(Word count: 1,770)