The next day.
Stepstone Islands, western sea area. Located south of the Arm of Dorne and west of Grey Gallows Island, the vast sea stretched a hundred miles in radius.
A fleet had sailed from Sunspear, bypassing the Summer Sea and heading north, aiming straight for the center of the Stepstones. Under the orders of Prince Qoren, the Dornish fleet executed the plan precisely.
At this moment, twenty warships had entered the unnamed waters between Bloodstone Island and Grey Gallows Island.
"Head south and raid Grey Gallows Island."
A middle-aged nobleman in tan soft armor commanded. He had black hair and black eyes, sun-darkened skin, and bore the sigil of a golden hand on a red and black fan-shaped field. He was a Dornish noble—Ross Allyrion, Lord of Godsgrace, appointed by Prince Qoren as the commander of the Greenblood River fleet. Because the city of Godsgrace was located at the confluence of the Scourge and Vaith rivers, House Allyrion was one of the few noble families in Dorne with maritime experience.
Two thousand sailors received the order and sailed toward Grey Gallows Island. Among the Stepstones, only two large islands were suitable for long-term garrisons. Bloodstone Island was heavily defended, while Grey Gallows was relatively unguarded. Capturing even one of them would plant a nail in the region.
According to Prince Qoren's own words: The Triarchy were fools who could barely stop bickering long enough to tie their boots. Relying on them was like hoping for rainfall to turn Dorne's deserts into an oasis.
The Dornish had to act first, before the Iron Throne gained a foothold in the Narrow Sea and choked off Dorne's maritime lifeline.
"This will be a hard and bitter fight." Ross's eyes gleamed, his sun-tanned face full of resolve. If they succeeded, it would be a victory for Dorne.
The next moment—
The helmsman suddenly turned the rudder. The ship rocked violently.
"What's going on!?" Lord Ross snapped.
The lookout turned pale and stammered, "M-my lord, we're surrounded!"
Ross pushed his men aside and rushed to the side of the ship. In the blue sea ahead, a fleet appeared flying the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
"This..." He spun around toward the stern. There, on the waters from which they had just come, another fleet loomed with banners showing a three-pronged dragon-eagle sigil.
They were caught from both sides.
"Damn it..." Ross's face twisted in fear. "Prepare for battle!" A desperate fight might still offer a sliver of hope.
Boom—
The misty clouds above were suddenly torn apart by a thunderous roar as a massive beast emerged.
"Dracarys—Vermithor!"
A cold voice echoed through the skies. Ross barely had time to look up before he saw a majestic bronze dragon swoop low overhead.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor's eyes gleamed with disdain as he twisted his massive body. His enormous maw released flames bright as molten copper. It poured like burning metal, roaring down upon them.
"Dragon!!"
"No—run!"
The terrified screams barely started before the fleet erupted in fire and chaos. A medium-sized warship equipped with scorpion ballistae was instantly incinerated by Vermithor's flames. Flaming debris flew in all directions, setting several nearby ships ablaze. Within moments, fire had engulfed large and small ships alike, claiming hundreds of lives.
"Again!"
Aemon called with excitement.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor circled back and soared over the Dornish fleet. His flames swept across the ships like a firestorm.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Explosions echoed. The flames lit up the sea like a festival of destruction.
"Help!"
"It's too hot—I'm burning!"
Dornish sailors, aflame and screaming, leapt into the sea with desperate splashes—only to vanish beneath the waves. Worse still were those directly hit by the flames, who were reduced to ash on the spot.
"Hahaha..."
Watching Vermithor's newly evolved flame, Aemon couldn't help laughing. Its destructive power had grown a full level stronger. It was like having a mobile siege engine, crafted solely for war.
"Hiss—"
Just as the Dornish descended into despair, a second dragon arrived—a massive old beast of dark green.
Ross stood frozen by the rail, eyes blank and limbs trembling. This… this was the power of House Targaryen? One dragon was enough to destroy the fleet. Now there were two. The dream of victory shattered in an instant under brutal reality.
Vhagar flew overhead as Laena called out from the saddle, urging Aemon to stop.
Aemon heard her and pulled the saddle reins with a smile. Vermithor let out a final snort and ceased his attack. This battle was not meant for annihilation—it was a warning to Dorne.
The royal fleet and the Gulltown fleet closed in, capturing the surviving Dornish sailors.
By noon, Ross finally arrived at Grey Gallows Island—only with his hands bound, kneeling in the sand, soaked and broken.
"Hiss—"
"Hiss—"
Overhead, two dragons—bronze and green—circled in protest, their roars shaking the air. Thousands of Dornish prisoners collapsed on the beach, their eyes lifeless as they stared skyward.
Vhagar, aged and immense, radiated ancient might. Though old, she was still formidable. She carried the majesty of a queen. Vermithor was slightly smaller but far fiercer. His copper-hued eyes glinted like blades, exuding pressure like that of a war god. Even beside Vhagar, he did not pale.
Crunch, crunch, crunch...
Gravel shifted as several figures approached. Aemon walked forward, his hand resting on the sword Lady of Emptiness. Silver hair, black attire, red cloak. His hood hung loosely, two strands of silver-gold hair framing his face. He radiated nobility, every step calm and deliberate. Two Rune Guards flanked him. Behind them stood thousands of Second Sons mercenaries.
Ross could barely breathe as he gazed at the scene.
"Hello, everyone." Aemon greeted them warmly.
Stormlands, Shipbreaker Bay.
The sky hung dark and heavy with clouds.
"Hiss!"
A golden topaz dragon burst through the sky. Syrax's vertical pupils gleamed as she raced through the clouds, homing in on the castle of Storm's End. With a deep growl, she called out to her rider.
"Well done, Syrax!" Rhaenyra leaned over to look down at the towered keep and smiled with pride.
"Hiss!"
Syrax dived eagerly through the clouds. Moments later, she landed in Storm's End's front courtyard.
Bang!
Rhaenyra dismounted and caressed the dragon's neck, her fingers brushing over the fine scales. Syrax was a strong dragon, with powerful wings, smooth golden scales, and short, quick bursts of flame. Aemon once told her that her "good girl" wasn't made for war. She was more suited to guarding a home—or a throne room.
"Roar~~"
Syrax rumbled affectionately, nudging her rider. Rhaenyra staggered from the bump and laughed softly. "Wait here for me."
"Roar~~"
With their bond sealed, she turned as guards arrived.
"Feed her well—she wants a sheep."
Rhaenyra entered the dim hall of Storm's End, the torches and braziers casting flickering shadows. She was used to this gloom. As she arrived, people emerged from deeper within the keep.
"Your Highness?" Lord Bermund hurried down from the upper floor, surprise on his face.
"It's me, Lord Bermund." Rhaenyra stood calmly, hands behind her back.
"By the Seven—I didn't expect the king would send you." Bermund was stunned. He never thought the king would send his own heir. And a girl, no less.
After some formalities, they sat down to talk. Lord Borros and Lady Ellyn soon joined them.
"Your Highness, state your purpose." Lord Bermund sat in his high seat.
"Then I'll speak plainly." Rhaenyra met his gaze without flinching. "Are you siding with the Sea Snake and preparing to betray the Iron Throne?"
"This..." Bermund hesitated but gave no reply.
Rhaenyra pressed on. "My arrival is my father's final warning to House Baratheon."
Gasps filled the hall. Bermund's face darkened. "You must understand—House Baratheon once married into House Targaryen, now into House Velaryon. There's no betrayal in that."
Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes. She heard the dodge. But she had not come to start a war—only to deliver a warning. Her tone hardened. "Do you think the royal family is weak? Is that why you support the Sea Snake in occupying the Free Cities?"
"Disrespectful!" Lord Borros stood and shouted. "Do you think the Lord of Storm's End is some dog the Iron Throne can command at will!?"
Rhaenyra ignored him. Borros grew angrier. "You came with a sword—do you mean war?"
"A sword for peace," Rhaenyra replied coolly. "But I am not afraid of war, if that's what you want."
Borros froze.
Then—a thunderous dragon roar echoed through the castle. Even Bermund's expression trembled.
Rhaenyra lifted her chin. "If you think Sea Snakes will protect you from the Iron Throne..."
She paused.
"Then imagine the day war comes. Will Aemon and Daemon—two seasoned dragonriders—stand idle while traitors destroy their ancestors' legacy?"
Bermund furrowed his brow.
"Before I leave," Rhaenyra added, "my father said he must see you."
Her offer was part threat, part truth. She was the only royal dragonrider for now. But Aemon, as regent and future king's consort, would be the one to lead the fight. Daemon... If the family was involved—especially if Viserys was harmed—he would ride straight into the battle. Perhaps just to laugh at them. But in the end, he would destroy the rebellion.
Rhaenyra stood proud. Bermund's eyes reflected deep thought. All the realm knew Daemon and his son's reputation. One, wild and unpredictable. The other, bold and beloved by the king. Were it not for their feud, the nobles of Westeros might have suffered greatly.
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