A simple sentence.
Each word was spoken with increasing clarity, revealing an unshakable and icy resolve.
"The Wrath of the Dragon!?"
Rhaenys was dumbfounded, instinctively reaching for Dark Sister.
Helena quickly lowered her head, blood-soaked images flashing through her mind.
The Wrath of the Dragon!
It was more than just three words or a mere reference to an event.
During the First Dornish War, after Queen Rhaenys fell at Hellgate Hall, the Conqueror and Queen Visenya, devastated by the loss of their sister, unleashed a merciless and brutal slaughter.
The siblings, riding Balerion and Vhagar, launched an indiscriminate assault across Dorne, burning every castle and village to the ground.
Any resistance was reduced to ashes under dragonfire.
Whether the Dornish lived or died, every farm, well, and oasis was destroyed.
That wrath lasted for two entire years!
By the end, there wasn't a single intact castle left in Dorne, nor a single patch of land that could be cultivated.
The number of Dornish lives lost was incalculable.
"The Dornish dared to assassinate my father, their malice even greater than when Queen Rhaenys fell. If they wish to provoke another Wrath of the Dragon," Rhaegar said, his sharp gaze like that of a hawk, his tone indifferent, "then we shall give it to them. Let the world witness the glory of old Valyria once more."
"The Wrath of the Dragon..."
Daemon murmured, interest flickering in his eyes as a smirk spread across his face.
"If they want my brother's life, they should be prepared to pay with many more in return."
An eye for an eye, blood for blood.
That was Daemon's way.
Rhaegar glanced at him but said nothing.
"Daemon, stay quiet," Rhaenys reprimanded softly. She fixed her gaze on her nephew, who appeared unnervingly calm, and urged, "Rhaegar, this war against Dorne is to quell a rebellion. Don't forget its original purpose!"
At the root of it all was Corren's selfish ambition.
He had already faced his punishment—there was no need to expand the war further.
Rhaegar remained composed and replied, "Aunt, the war has lasted for months. Do you still remember why it started in the first place?"
Rhaenys responded immediately, "The Wild Dragon of the Smoking Sea, Moghul!"
The war had not begun because of Braavos, nor Dorne, nor because Rhaegar and Daemon sought to conquer new lands.
It had started when Lys captured Moghul and the Three Daughters launched their renewed invasion.
Rhaegar pressed on, "Then tell me, why did the battlefield extend into Dorne after the Three Daughters fell?"
Why?
Rhaenys was momentarily speechless before hesitantly answering, "Corren feared the expansion of Targaryen power. He had always maintained close ties with Braavos and the Three Daughters."
It was even rumored that Alysandra, who perished in Dreamfyre's flames, had been betrothed to the son of the Sealord of Braavos.
"No!" Rhaegar denied outright, shaking his head with a faint smile.
Rhaenys frowned in confusion, unsure of his reasoning.
A shadow flickered in Rhaegar's eyes as he chuckled, "Desire is like a boulder rolling downhill—once it starts, it cannot be stopped."
"The Three Daughters, the Sealord of Braavos, and Corren all coveted Targaryen power, seeking to crush the last remnants of the dragonlords."
Rhaegar continued, "The Three Daughters lusted after Moghul, Braavos secretly harbored dragon eggs, and Corren took the opportunity to invade the Stormlands and the Reach."
"They are like vultures, circling endlessly over House Targaryen, waiting for the dragons to weaken."
Daemon, watching closely, clapped his hands lightly in approval.
Though Rhaegar's words were many, as long as the conclusion was to slaughter those fools, Daemon was more than happy to support him.
Rhaenys shot Daemon a sharp glare before sighing deeply. "The Conqueror unleashed the Wrath of the Dragon, yet he still failed to conquer Dorne. All it brought was generations of hatred."
"The Iron Throne requires rule, not scorched earth."
At the end of the day, she did not support unleashing another Wrath of the Dragon.
Another campaign of devastation would drag the kingdom into a quagmire of war. Enough people had died already.
But Rhaegar's mind was made up. He simply smiled and said, "War is the only path to peace. Hatred exists only when power is insufficient."
He slowly rose to his feet and met her gaze. "Do not forget—Lannino fell in this war. How am I supposed to answer for his death, and for all the soldiers who have perished?"
"My son..."
Rhaenys flinched, her grip on her sword trembling.
Indeed, she could not accept her son's death.
She, too, harbored hatred for Dorne.
But the war had already moved from overseas to Dorne itself—it should not be expanded further.
Rhaegar walked to the window, gazing at the dragons circling above Yronwood. "The Conqueror had only three dragons. But we..."
Inside the chamber, the three others watched him closely.
Rhaegar's expression grew solemn, his words quickening. "We have Cannibal, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Meraxes, Sheepstealer, and Sunfyre—six battle-hardened dragons."
"Then there's Sea Smoke, unclaimed after losing its rider, and Vermithor, driven back to Dragonstone. Even Vhagar patrols the Gullet."
"In Dorne, the dragons at our disposal far outnumber those of the Conqueror. And all six leading dragons have seen battle."
He laid out their strength in one breath.
During the Conqueror's time, Balerion had been only slightly older than Cannibal, while Vhagar and Meraxes had been comparable to Caraxes and the others of the third generation.
With Cannibal leading the charge, supported by Dreamfyre, Sheepstealer, and three full-grown war dragons, their power already surpassed that of the original three.
Daemon's eyes gleamed with excitement—he was eager to begin the slaughter.
Rhaenys hesitated, weighing the consequences.
Knock, knock!
A firm rapping on the door.
Then it swung open.
Ser Cole entered, his expression dark as he handed over a letter. "A message from Blackhaven."
"Read it," Rhaegar ordered with a slight nod.
Cole swiftly tore open the envelope and scanned its contents.
"[Blackhaven's garrison of a thousand men was ambushed at night by House Wyl. The castle suffered heavy losses, with only one in ten soldiers surviving.]"
"What of Earl Symon?" Rhaegar asked.
Cole flipped to the next page, his expression relaxing slightly.
"Earl Symon was surrounded inside the castle but was saved when his guards arrived in time. He even managed to kill two Dornishmen himself."
For an old man who struggled to walk on normal days, he sure had plenty of strength when someone was trying to kill him.
Hearing this, Rhaegar shook his head and chuckled.
The Ambush of Yronwood and the Fall of Sunspear
Yronwood was ambushed. Blackhaven, left defenseless, naturally couldn't escape an attack.
If Count Simon could hold the line, it would be a cause for celebration.
Signaling Cole to withdraw, Rhaegar turned back to Rhaenys and said bluntly, "Aunt, what is there to hesitate about?"
The King, stationed at Yronwood, was nearly assassinated.
Blackhaven, guarding the Boneway, was almost lost.
You show mercy, yet the Dornish only seek to take your life.
Rhaenys wasn't a fool. She understood the stakes. Taking a deep breath, she said, "You're right. A man's desires are like boulders rolling down a mountain—we have no choice!"
Rhaegar pressed his lips together in a small smile.
Helena straightened up clumsily, wrapping her arms around his, and whispered, "I'll help you."
"Heh."
Daemon let out a cold chuckle, his eyes flashing with the light of vengeance.
Dorne, prepare to face the fury of dragons!
---
### One Week Later
Vermithor, without a rider, returned alone to Dragonstone to rest.
Viserys remained in a coma, heavily guarded on his way back to King's Landing.
The Cargyll brothers left with him, while Cole stayed behind to continue leading the troops.
Donald led fifteen thousand Riverlands troops to Yronwood, securing the town and sealing off the Boneway.
Everything proceeded in an orderly fashion.
---
### Sunspear
"Ssssshhhk… Ssssshhhk…"
Under the vast blue sky, six massive dragons soared, their fiery breath hotter than the peak of summer.
To the west of the Old Palace lay the Shadow City, teeming with people.
Tens of thousands of Dornish citizens gathered, their eyes harboring resentment as they huddled in the dirty, chaotic shadows.
At the center of everyone's gaze, a platform over ten feet high had been erected.
A steel cage. Dozens of spears.
Spears impaling heads with eyes still open in death. And inside the cage, a naked, one-armed man.
Harman Uller—the captured traitor.
His right arm had been burned away by dragonfire, leaving half of his body with severe burns.
After a week of imprisonment, his eyes were lifeless. He curled up on his side, shivering like a beaten dog in the cramped cage.
The cage was suspended from a gallows, ensuring that every Dornishman present could see it.
Daemon stood atop the platform, gesturing for the cage to be lowered. Soldiers dragged Harman Uller out like a dead dog.
"No! No!"
Harman, driven to the brink of madness, screamed like a lunatic, "I'm innocent! I'm innocent!"
His gray eyes flickered involuntarily to the severed heads impaled on spears.
Many of them had the same gray eyes—faces twisted in agony, their features frozen in bloodstained terror.
"Stay still!"
The soldiers kicked and punched him, yanking his hair to force him upright.
Daemon gazed down at the man who had nearly murdered his brother, forcing him to look at the heads. He sneered,
"Take a good look. Your fine sons, your Uller kin—they're all watching you."
House Uller had been nearly exterminated.
Only Harman Uller remained.
Harman shook his head wildly, his flabby flesh trembling as he raved incoherently, "I'm innocent! I'm a dragonslayer!"
He was supposed to be the one to restore his ancestors' glory.
The ones who suffered, the ones slaughtered before his eyes, they weren't his children.
They weren't his kin.
No. Absolutely not…
"Don't waste your breath. He's already dead inside."
Rhaegar ascended the platform, his eyes filled with cold resolve.
The soldiers straightened up in respect, dragging Harman Uller toward the gallows. The noose tightened around his neck.
Daemon chuckled and stepped aside, uninterested.
Accompanying Rhaegar onto the stage were Mors from Kingsgrave and little Quentyn Martell, just five years old.
Rhaegar looked down at the gathered Dornishmen and, in the name of the Iron Throne, declared Quentyn the new Prince of Dorne. House Martell would now bow to the Iron Throne.
Mors was appointed Regent of Sunspear, Guardian of the Dornish Desert, and Warden of the Prince's Pass in the Red Mountains.
From this day forward, Dorne was nominally under Targaryen rule.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Rhaegar said indifferently, "Your turn."
Quentyn's small face tensed. He hesitantly stepped forward, trembling as he announced, "In the name of the Prince of Dorne, I declare the rebellion over. Any noble or commoner who resists will be hunted down across the land."
Mors, embracing his new role as a "loyal vassal," raised the Martell spear high and shouted for peace.
The Dornish crowd remained silent, watching the scene unfold in stunned disbelief.
Especially at the sight of young Quentyn.
We were ready to fight to the death. Why has our Prince surrendered first?
Rhaegar remained calm. He knew the significance of this moment.
House Martell had ruled Dorne for a thousand years—their influence was deeply rooted.
Dorne could never defeat the Targaryens.
Especially with Sunspear fallen and House Martell in the hands of the Iron Throne.
Even if the Dornish lords and people wouldn't immediately surrender, at the very least, the Targaryens now held the moral high ground.
With a wave of his hand, Quentyn and Mors stepped back.
Aemond, his stitched-up eye barely healed, brought forth a warhammer and a silver dagger.
From now on, the dagger would be called One-Eye, a reminder of the price paid.
Rhaegar took the hammer and dagger and walked toward the hanging Harman Uller.
"No! No…"
Amidst his terrified wails, Rhaegar swung the war hammer high and brought it crashing down onto his chest.
Thud!
His entire ribcage shattered instantly, bones caving in on a massive scale, nearly splitting his body in two.
With a firm tug, the hammerhead remained embedded in the bones, refusing to come loose.
"Hhkk... hhkk..."
Harman Uller's face turned ashen as blood seeped from his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. His neck stiffened as he struggled to breathe.
With each breath, his fractured lungs wheezed, sending a stream of blood bubbles gurgling up from his chest.
"The Uller family is finished. I said so."
Rhaegar calmly wiped his hands, showing no sign of exhilaration from avenging his grudge. He then drew his one-eyed dagger and severed the noose from the gallows.
Thud—
Harman's body dropped suddenly, the rope tightening mercilessly around his neck, cutting off even the slightest breath.
In one final burst of desperation, his legs kicked violently.
Seconds later, his body hung limp.
Rhaegar observed the entire scene with composed indifference.
Buzz—
A faint, hazy glow emanated from the one-eyed dagger, as if a triumphant dragon's roar echoed from within.
Then, a streak of light shot forth, splitting in two before diving into the palms of both Rhaegar and Aemond.
Rhaegar scanned the onlookers—none seemed to have noticed.
He lifted his palm but found no marks or symbols.
If anything, his blood seemed to circulate faster, and his senses grew even keener to the scent of dragons.
Nodding to himself, Rhaegar casually tossed the dagger to Aemond. Ignoring the Dornish commoners who had just witnessed the execution, he turned away without hesitation.
"The Dornish nobility have rebelled. We accept Prince Quentyn's request—begin the campaign to restore order across the entire region!"
The moment his words fell—
Six dragons reared their heads and roared, baring their fangs as they soared together in a deadly dance.
(End of Chapter)