Chapter 49: The Young Dragon III

Mid-Late 157 AC

The heat of the day was always an oppressive thing, bearing down on the men and horses even in wintertime. Then again, a Dornish winter was not like that of the rest of Westeros. The Grand Maester had warned him of this, his uncle Viserys had warned him of this, even the first Dornish they had subjugated had warned him of this, but Daeron did not care. Winter would be an easier time to conquer these people, as his original plans had been for summer, when the most men would be available for his armies. Now, with winter lessening the heat, far fewer men fell to sunstroke, and with every well under their control moving more water through their supply lines, all northern Dornish lands had now fallen to his mighty vision.

The Gates of Dorne greeted him, the last great bastion of natural defenses making up the Stone Way. Once through, the whole of Dorne would be laid out for him, with no similar mountains or steep hills to defend against his army. With the coasts secured, and the roads to his back clear of enemy forces, he would have no issues with acquiring more men, weapons, or supplies in his march towards Sunspear itself. As of now, his greatest challenge yet lay before him, with their backs to the only bridge across a great river. The army of the Yronwoods, and all the Dornish vassals that could gather under their banner in time. His spies and scouts put the enemy force at near eight thousand men, almost a quarter of the entirety of Dorne's known forces, against his own six and ten thousand. There were no reports of additional hosts of men in the area, but knowing the Dornish, they could pull men from everywhere should their needs be dire. If every green boy was given a spear, then perhaps fifty thousand might face his armies.

Not that it mattered. His original plan, of a three-pronged invasion, had been changed by the advent of a Dornish winter. In the east, to tie down whatever forces the Daynes of Starfall might try to send to Prince's Pass, a host under Loreon Lannister with a Greyjoy brother and several western Reach houses had made landfall and were securing the coasts, thereby bypassing the natural defenses of the western Red Mountains. With the Daynes and the western coastline distracted, Lord Tyrell and his great host moved through Prince's Pass, crushing any forces that managed to stand in their way. The late Northmen were following in his own wake, with the Stark heir routing any emerging threats and moving to join his forces for the final push to Sunspear. His admiral, Alyn Velayron, had just finished gathering his armada, and would be striking for the eastern coastline, to seize the Greenblood and split the country in twain with as many ships and men as could be mustered from the eastern shores, along with promises of lands and titles to any sellswords and their captains that distinguished themselves.

A great many men stood to gain from this grand plan, the support of which hinged on winning victories. Daeron knew his was the smallest combined army, especially with the Stark heir still nipping on his heels, but barring the counter invasion in the southern Stormlands, his forces had faced nothing but success after his arrival. His army also marched alongside the two most important people in his campaign; himself, and his brother and heir Baelor. They were of the house of dragons, and with their might, they would see this continent unified, and right the wrongs done to their founding ancestors.

So here he stood with his war council atop a small ridge, overlooking what would no doubt be the battlefield of the day. Great pastures smelling of clean mountain air sat to his northern rear, with the lower southern slopes lined with great forests of trees, many of them ironwood and whatever else grew in these lands. On the far side stood the Dornish host, their backs to the great Yronwater, a river named for the trees from which that great house derived their name. That they did now cower in the castle south of the river and instead sought to stop them from breaching the Gates of Dorne was a testament to their bravery and their knowledge of the land. Their commander no doubt knew that if the gates were breached, but the river held, Daeron could stay here forever, the waters nourishing his army while more and more men and supplies arrived by road or by ship. If that happened, then Daeron's other armies and the armada the Dornish had yet to prepare for would slash through what was left of their kingdom's men and relieve the standstill within only a few moons.

Yet if by some chance they turned him back here, they would pursue no doubt, attempting to kill or capture him and his brother, or perhaps destroy his host altogether. The Dornish had not the numbers to conquer, but they had the men and the training to give a hard fight, one that could spell disaster if the wrong decisions were to be made. Long had he studied the First Dornish War, and all those after it, and even several from before the coming of his house to these lands. Truly, there were perhaps few men who so thoroughly had studied the tactics and terrain of Dorne as he had outside of the Dornish themselves. As such, given the layout of the land, how best to take advantage of the terrain was every good commander's thought before a battle, and Daeron was no different. Among his men, with Lord Baratheon and his brother by his side, he surveyed the hilly slopes with a critical eye, gradually gazing down to the river valley where the Dornish camped.

"The emissaries?" he asked as Lord Buckler returned from seeing to his bowmen.

"Returned alive, somehow," the Stormlord replied. "Thought for sure the dogs would just riddle them with arrows and let us watch."

Daeron nodded. There were some in Dorne with honor, it seemed, but as a precaution, he had sent disposable lesser lords, just in case. "Of our terms?" At the lord's smile, he grinned as well. "I see."

"Refusing to lay down your arms to protect your lands is noble under certain circumstances," Lord Baratheon said. "Yet in the face of such overwhelming odds, and given the loss of lands and men they have already suffered, that nobility can turn to foolishness outright."

"Let no one say the Dornish are fools, my lord," Daeron replied, glancing to his brother. "Their resistance, while admirable in a way, will not stand to the might of my house and the men the kingdoms have mustered. We shall see to their submission in Sunspear itself, and with that, this continent will be as one land, under one faith, under one king." The mountain clans and the wildlings would learn that too, soon enough.

"The Seven do not hold sway over everyone," Baelor interjected. "In all the North, save for a vassal or two, and in lands such as the Riverlands, there are those that still hold true to the Old Gods. Doubtlessly there are those in Dorne that are the same, given how some descend from First Men petty kings."

"Yet that most of this land holds true to the Seven is a testament to the nature of change, brother. Though they bear arms against us now, in time the Dornish will join in the prosperous rule our forefathers have given these lands. By steel, by faith, by gold, or by your idea of… food, they will become loyal, as the others did for the Conqueror and his grandson alike."

Baelor's idea of supplanting how the Dornish fed themselves was ambitious, just as any dragon's plans should be, but Daeron saw little reason to coerce his lords to support such an endeavor. Treating the smallfolk well, imposing no tax on them to pay for this war, those he and Lord Baratheon agreed were worth implementing as the fair and just conqueror he would no doubt be remembered as, but as for feeding the masses? With winter here, no lord would donate or even sell the food that his smallfolk would need to survive until springtime. Even a small pittance from each lord would require more men and material to transport than the entirety of his vassals had at their disposal, or so others had told him. It would all have to arrive regularly, it would all have to be protected from bandits or greedy lords in every land it passed through, and he'd need even more men to guard and distribute it once it arrived in Dorne, to ensure it didn't fall into rebel hands.

No, the Dornish would need to feed themselves. Offering discounts on importing excess Westerosi grain to those that had surrendered willingly would be the closest thing he would consider, as it would no doubt be cheaper and quicker than importing from Essos. The Reach could handle such strain, surely. It was the least they could do to repay the damage caused by one of their own in creating the Dance.

"As it is," Daeron continued, "the enemy will not advance on our position. We have the high ground, and a trek uphill is always harder than one downhill."

"Yet the forests along the lower mountain slopes presents a problem, your grace," Lord Baratheon replied. "The forests are not as thick as, say, the Kingswood, but they could hide any number of men if they are not scouted well."

"That, and the Dornish are known for flanking their enemies at every opportunity," Lord Buckler added. "Hemming in the enemy is always the goal of one who has a smaller force, so that the larger army cannot bring its full might to bear. With those steeper mountain slopes and the forests, there are means the Dornish may use against us if we charge our men in blindly."

"Bah! A true charge is not blind, it is glorious," the Fossoway lord said, with most of the other Reach lords nodding in agreement. "Dornish spears cannot take a charge of long lances any more than they can stand up to men in even half plate. Save for the Daynes and few others, the Dornish wear little armor in battle, for even their steeds cannot handle it."

"Since the heat will roast a man inside just as easily as one would a chicken over a fire," Dickon Meadows replied. "The Reach knows well the price to be paid for assuming the Dornish will turn tail or just be trampled under hoof. House Manwoody only became a house after slaying a Gardener king in Prince's Pass long ago. If the lands are ill suited for armor, save for the cooler highlands or nearer the more temperate coastline, then we must assume the enemy will choose tactics that favor their lack of armor."

"Thus, encirclement, raids, traps, ambushes, poison, and a whole host of other means remain at their disposal," Daeron said, motioning to the valley below. "We shall take as much advantage of the lands as we can, so that the Dornish may not. We must advance as one, lest they attempt to encircle portions and cut down the commanders, forcing a panic or even a rout." Motioning with his hands, he focused on the avenues his army would take advantage of. "On our left flank, Lord Baratheon and my brother shall lead half of the foot and cavalry of the Stormlands, with the foot in front to dispel any Dornish in the forests and make way for a cavalry charge from the flank, all the while the bowmen pelt the Dornish center with arrows. Ser Fossoway, you and the rest of your fellow Reach lords shall have the right flank, doing the same. In this way, with both flanks being pressed and center under fire, that same center shall be the focal point where we engage the Dornish host for all it is worth."

"Where shall you be, my king?" Lord Baratheon asked.

"I shall lead the center with the men from the Crownlands and the remaining Stormlords, surrounded by Kingsguard and sworn swords alike. With my banner, I shall be an irresistible lure to the Dornish, and they will seek to engage me above all else."

"Should they focus equally on all three spearheads, my king, there stands the chance one or both flanks are held at bay, and yours could be encircled."

Daeron dismissed the worrisome Buckler. "Fret not, my lord, no harm shall come to a dragon. Now, my lords, you have your orders, and await the flags. Today, we take the Gates of Dorne, and with it, their last true line of defense!"

Assembling the men was quicker than it might have been moons ago, but by now, the ebb and flow of war had filled every man with a readiness they had lacked not so long ago. Tents were packed, supplies carted up, and as the men moved into their respective columns, Daeron saw to the care of Baelor. Their plate was near matching, as was the sigil enameled across their breasts. Baelor wielded a bow, an odd weapon for horseback, but his brother would not be in the front and would instead see to the bowmen instead. In the event of… difficulties, for melee his brother also carried a long axe and a good shield, with Daeron wielding Blackfyre herself. Today, this famous sword would taste blood once more, and would know only victory.

"Brother," he said, the two of them embracing, perhaps one final time. It was unsaid, but this was war, and both knew the risks, even if this was their first true battle. "I'll see you after, there is much I wish to discuss."

"What about?" Baelor asked, looking fierce under his princely armor and the fine helmet the smiths of Kings Landing had crafted for him. His insistence of one had seen to Daeron's own, the visor resembling the maw of a dragon, with the brow vents resembling terrifying eyes. Truly, a visage fit for a conquering king!

Daeron smiled. "An idea of father's, one that I would have your opinion on. Only, for now, give it no mind. There is work to be done, and Dornish to conquer!"

Baelor lowered his visor, sealing his face from the Daeron's sight. "Good luck then, brother," was his muffled reply, as his grip on his arm tightened for a moment. Then without another word they parted ways, Baelor mounting alongside Lord Baratheon and moving off to the Stormlander left flank, Ser Thorne and his sworn swords trailing like shadows. A betrothal was not something to wear on a man's nerves, for even if they were both too young yet for most of Westeros, Daeron saw them both as men. Here, they would prove themselves as such, and perhaps then Baelor could know of his future.

"Nervous, my king?" Olyvar asked, his loud whisper easily lost in the din surrounding them.

"Of course not, Oly," he said with a wink. "No army will fell this dragon."

Soon, the column of dust behind him was as a great cloud, blocking out the sun as their men marched or rode down towards the Dornish. With the Targaryen standard held high by the Selmy heir, a great honor for the family, Daeron rode in a comfortable silence. With Olyvar and the other Kingsguard by his side, Daeron breathed in the sweet mountain air, relishing the chance to prove himself on a great battlefield. His brother had become the Fyrestorm for destroying a force of Dornish, perhaps he might become the Dornebreaker for this long-overdue conquest?

The Dornish host to his south moved from their camp to give battle, moving slowly up to a point on the slope. Good, they were holding a defensive line, though they had not dug any trenches or set up fortifications. Had they expected more time before his march? Or had they marched for battle, and not an extended siege? No matter, his men would deal with anything the Dornish threw at them, and with all the zeal they could muster.

From his perspective, the Dornish had formed themselves into a near line, bordering on a crescent moon in shape, with the center just slightly further back than the flanks, the rest swallowed up by the trees on either side. Did the fools think this could hold against the wave of men he had at his command? Or that they could somehow envelope his entire force to negate his superior numbers? His commanders would not fall for such tricks, and neither would he. With a mere wave of his hand, the banners dipped, ensuring the flanks engaged first, driving back any attempt at an encirclement, for if their center tried, it would face the hammer that was his own center.

Save for the occasional holler from a group of men to raise their spirits for the coming slaughter, the march was oddly silent, nothing like the stories he had heard from the men who had lived and fought in the Dance. Grim work, in killing another man, let alone a great force of them, but it was to be done, and with a comparable burst of speed, the flanks moved forward, clashing in the forests and along its outermost edges in a flurry of noise and flashing steel. Not long after, twin showers of arrows flew into the Dornish center from those two flanks, and after another moment, an eternity upon a battlefield, his own line met with the enemy, and all hells broke loose.

Blood sprayed through the air as men screamed in rage and agony, falling upon each other in droves. From the Dornish side, they held fast, their shields interlocked and spears repelling the advance of Daeron's men as best they could. His men, Crownlands and Stormlanders alike, continued to hammer upon their front line, spear facing axes and swords. When at a distance, a spear held its own against a foe, but in close is when it failed, and the Dornish knew this better than any. So, with men behind, every spear had another just behind it, ready to stab into anyone able to get close enough to kill the first spearmen. Only thing was, when enough men pressed such a line, even a great wall of spears would fail.

Over bodies of Dornish and bannermen alike Daeron watched his men advance, steel gleaming in the dim light of the dust-shielded sun. This was his moment, his war, and with it, the legacy of the Conqueror would be sealed, and his name would be sung of along the lines of the Conqueror and the Conciliator themselves.

Daeron basked in the glow of accomplishment as his tired men cheered his name along the banks of the great Yronwater, set on completing one final task before he retired for the day. It was a joyous roar over the lands, even with blood and dust mingling into mud under his feet and the light of day not yet diminishing into the late afternoon. The day was won, and what was left of the enemy army bowed before him in submission, segregated into their own former camp as prisoners. The Dornish had paid dearly for their defense of this land, for of their eight thousand men, near a third were dead, dying, or terribly wounded and unlikely ever to ably raise a blade again. The rest had surrendered once Lord Baratheon's flank had broken through, scattering their foes, and encircling the Dornish in a wall of steel. With their right flank gone, and the noose closing in on them, not even these Dornish lords were suicidal enough to fight to a bitter end, instead opting to live another day by raising the banners of truce. Now, with the river taken and the bridge being cleared for any traps or sabotage, Daeron knew it was time to accept the submission of those that had surrendered.

As their camp was set up along the banks of the river, further encircling the remaining Dornish, Daeron greedily drank from a flask, the mountain spring water yet cool from the covered barrels in their wagons. With his lords, brother and Kingsguard by his side in his kingly pavilion, he knew it was time for hostages to be taken of the Dornish nobles yet living and see to their total submission. Yet before that, the surrendered were stripped of their arms and taken as prisoners, or those worthy of such. The smallfolk who had survived were likewise deprived of their weapons and would soon be sent on their way, to spread the word of the defeat here and to unknowingly sow terror into the hearts of Dornishmen yet to kneel to the dragons.

"How is the army, my lords?" Daeron asked as the last of the Dornish prisoners assembled outside. He had ensured that a good number of guards surrounded them as a precaution, and more than a few of his own sworn swords and shields flanked the interior of the tent. Even his brother was armed, though that he still held his bow and was inspecting it was a bit odd. Surely he could at least put it away now that the battle had been won?

"The triage tents of Lord Wytch have been set up, and his medics are tending to as many men as fast as they can, as are those smallfolk they have been teaching," Lord Baratheon said, wincing as he rubbed that Stormlord's curiously strong alcohol over a small cut on his face. "They have taken to seeing the most grievously wounded first and will see to the rest afterwards, my king."

"Excellent, that will keep down the number of infirm men needed to be looked after in the next settlement and keep this army strong enough for its continued march to Sunspear," Daeron replied. "How well do these medics ply their craft?"

"Well enough, my king," Dickon Meadows replied, his shield arm in a sling but otherwise appearing unhurt. "They saved many men during the Great Raid years ago, and I've heard tales of them being near maesterly in their skills. They have my confidence, and that of my men."

"For smallfolk healers, they do… adequately," the Fossoway lord said with a soft scoff, gingerly picking at the bandage across his temple. "Of course, a maester can tend to far worse wounds and still see to the survival of a lord."

"Yet this army is not just lords, but a great many men from all walks of life," Baelor said softly. Other than the bruise upon his head from an arrow glancing off his helmet, and a strangely intense look in his eyes, Daeron was glad to see his brother otherwise unharmed. "I have spoken with yeomen and hedge knights, hunters and trackers, even merchants and town guards. No matter their life, they answered the call of my brother, our king, to war with Dorne, and those that will survive from Lord Wytch's medics will outnumber those saved by a maester a hundredfold. Not by lack of skill, but by the skill of numbers, for every maester taken as a healer for this army has no less than ten medics to compete with at any time, my lord."

"I mean no disrespect, my prince, for the work they manage to accomplish is needed," the Fossoway replied. "It is merely good fortune that such men can tend to the lessers among our ranks. A lord's time under the maester's care is more important than some farmer's or lowly hedge knight's."

"As it is," Daeron said, cutting off what would likely become just another heated argument, "the work any healers have done for this army will not go unrewarded. The more the maesters save, the more inclined I will be to giving the Citadel a generous donation from my own coffers. As for Lord Wytch's medics, we shall see. Now then," he said, looking around the room. "What are our casualties?"

"Lord Selmy's heir was grievously wounded, as are others," Lord Buckler said, unhurt but wearing heavily dented armor. "No Stormlords or their kin have died just yet, but the medics and maesters believe some to be perilously close to the Stranger's grasp."

Well, it wasn't his fault that the heir had thrown himself into the fray. Daeron had engaged only as the Dornish center collapsed, so that the men may see their king give battle and rouse any flagging spirits. Not that many knew what he looked like even in his armor, but his banners were unmistakable.

"Several of my fellow Reachmen may not live to see tomorrow, my king, for their wounds are grim," Ser Meadows added. "Most likely poison on the blades that wounded them, according to the maesters."

"I see," Daeron said. His own lords had lost a Bar Emmon cousin and a young Celtigar knight, with several others facing grievous wounds, but overall, the losses among his lords was yet light. "What of the others?"

Lord Buckler nodded. "As for the men, near a thousand Stormlanders are dead or soon to meet the Stranger, and perhaps twice that many with varying injuries. We've near five thousand still in fighting shape, including most of our bowmen."

"Our losses are similar, my king," a Reach lord added, a nasty gash along his face and a bloodied bandage upon a limp arm. "Our archers are intact, as our most of our knights, but many of our foot are either dead or injured. Were it not for the sellswords among us, I fear our losses would be much greater."

"Lord Massey, of our own?"

His sworn Crownlander lord bowed. "No more than three hundred dead and twice as many wounded, your grace. The sellswords hired in Kings Landing took the brunt of the Dornish counterattack near the end of the battle and stymied their attempted encirclement."

"Good, those that survive have earned themselves good lands along the Blackwater once the war is won," he replied. With a smile and a wave, two of his Kingsguard departed to fetch the first of the Dornish lords outside his tent. "We shall have to see to the Dornish losses as well, my lords, and that they are given proper rites. Let none say we are barbarous conquerors, we know of the rules of chivalry and conduct in war."

"We'll see if the Dornish honor that," Lord Buckler muttered, much to Daeron's hidden exasperation, as the first Dornish lord was brought before him.

The first, a taller man with First Men features and a black portcullis upon his armor stood proudly before them. He was no Martell, but he was undoubtedly not broken by this battle. "Lord Yronwood, I assume?" Daeron asked. "I would offer bread and salt, but as my prisoner, it is by my word as king that you will not be harmed, so long as you… cooperate."

"Aye, and I expected no less," the blonde man replied, his hateful blue eyes drifting over the armed men present. "Now what? You would have me grovel before you, dragon boy? Or will you take my head if I refuse, and return my bones to Yronwood?" he glanced over at Baelor. "Or have your brother burn me for my impudence?"

Daeron raised his hand to avert angry words from his gathered lords, especially his brother, though he saw Olyvar scowl fiercely under his white helmet and Baelor grow a bit pale. "Nothing of the sort, my lord. I ask not for your groveling, but for your simple submission. I intend to bring Dorne into the fold, finally joining this continent under one throne. I cannot do that with dead Dornish lords, nor with destroyed Dornish lands. Surely you can see why I would prefer this to be as bloodless as possible?"

"A boy king making up for the failures of his predecessors, no doubt. Even with dragons, House Targaryen never took Dorne."

That stung, but Daeron did not let it show. He had seen his father give a strong front and would do the same. "Yet a dragon is before you now, good ser, and I will see to Dorne's admission into the rule of my house regardless of past events. As a prominent house in these lands, to have you here before me is a sign of respect, is it not? That I would deign to speak with you in person, rather than through an intermediary?"

"As Bloodroyal, it is the least I am due. We Yronwoods were High Kings of Dorne long before the coming of the dragons, and even longer before the coming of the Rhoynar."

"That you were, that you were," was his reply, much to the man's quickly-hidden surprise. Good, the acknowledgement, the attention, it was there, but now to offer the bait. "Once this war is won, I will look to reward those who embrace this new era of unity and prosperity under the Iron Throne, especially should they see to it that integration proceeds… smoothly. I will require hostages, of course, guests in my courts to see to the cooperation of those less… willing to accept my rule."

Lord Yronwood was silent for a few moments, chewing his cheek in a likely combination of anger and intrigue. "What sort of rewards?" he asked, quieter this time, with much of his earlier bluster subdued. A mummer's farce, or genuine interest? Who could say with these Dornish?

"Surely you can see which way the winds are blowing, Lord Yronwood. Once I have marched on Sunspear and seen to the end of this war, Dorne will be a part of the realm, beholden to our shared laws, but also afforded the protections my house guarantees. Undoubtedly, there will be those troublesome few who think that rebellion will be the best course of action, to try and drive me out, as the Dornish have done with Stormlander and Reach kings in ages past. Should more loyal lords see to the dissuasion of these fools, or perhaps see them put in their place, why, a great number of honors could be bestowed upon them. Disputed lands, trade rights, access to the wealth and resources of an entire continent at a fraction the former cost, perhaps even… titles? Titles long overdue, or owed to those with a greater claim to them?"

It did not take long for a calculating gleam to enter the lord's gaze, and though he did not show it, Daeron inwardly chuckled with glee. These Dornish were not stupid, but their histories put them as cunning and as ambitious as any similar lord from another kingdom, perhaps even more so. Long had the Yronwoods laid claim to much, if not all of Dorne, with only the combined might of Martell and Nymeria actually conquering it all in the end. Such resentment in a family would run deep, and while no doubt he would plot to betray him when convenient, any infighting would only strengthen Daeron's vision, rather than weaken it.

"What are you saying, dragon king?"

"Why, once this war is won, should the Martells continue to resist my benevolent rule through malicious compliance, daggers in the dark, or fomenting unrest in these lands, why… perhaps a new ruling family will be needed for Dorne. A family with a history of it, a claim if you will, and with the power to see that my rule is embraced, even if begrudgingly, over all the sands and mountains of this ancient land. Dorne shall need a Lord Paramount and Warden, after all, as the other kingdoms have theirs."

Lord Yronwood was silent for a great length of time and were it not for the gleam in his eye, Daeron might have thought him stalling. Yet with the barest hint of a smile, the lord nodded slowly. "I believe I understand, dragon king. I will need time to ponder your… generous offer. An offer even as great as this cannot be accepted without lengthy consideration."

"Indeed, I would not expect an ancient and storied house such as Yronwood to blindly accept such terms. If it pleases you, Lord Yronwood, I shall grant you three days to come to your decision." More than long enough for his army to recover, and enough time for the released smallfolk to instill fear into whatever settlements lay beyond Yronwood itself. The less fighting he had to do, the better.

"A most gracious offer, Targaryen king. You shall have your answer by then."

With a wave, a trio of Daeron's guards escorted the Dornishman from the tent. Before his lords could begin to whisper, or worse openly argue amongst themselves, two more lords were brought in, one a rather swarthy man, almost Rhoynish in complexion, and another more Andalic, with fairer skin and reddish hair.

"My lords, welcome. I hope the guards did not handle you too roughly?"

Given the swarthier man had an arm in a sling and a bandage across his forehead, and the other a bandaged stump where a pair of fingers had been, the fact they were not seething at his light jest was surprising. Or perhaps they were simply better at hiding their emotions. Anything was possible with duplicitous Dornishmen.

"Nay, dragon king," the first replied. "Though was it by fault or by coincidence that a few of our other lords did not survive under their care?"

"Which lords, Lord…?"

"I am Lord Jordayne, boy king, and several of my comrades have fallen this day. All of Dorne will know of the sacrifices of Lords Wells and Drinkwater, and the deaths of heirs and spares of Houses Highlook, Gupps, and Lennox. Others may yet perish if they are not seen soon."

"The bones of the dead will be returned to their families, as is their right," Daeron replied. Settling debts over such losses would only encourage the Dornish to keep the peace once the war was won. "As for their survival, forgive me if I doubt the validity of such claims. There have been losses of lords and nobles on both sides, no matter the skills of maesters and medics alike. The Stranger calls many to his embrace this day, and on the honor of my house, the medics will see to your wounded, under guard of course, once they have finished their work with our own men."

"We shall see," the other man replied, his gaze even more hateful than Lord Yronwood's had been. "What now, boy king? Is it time to grovel as Yronwood did? Or did you offer him all of Dorne?"

"The esteemed lord did not, I offered him only time to think of how peace under my house will benefit his own, and I would not have you grovel either. With you as my prisoners, I've no need for that, but instead your submission to my rule. Dorne shall become one with the lands already under House Targaryen-,"

"Dorne will never become as slaves to the Valyrians!" the Andalic man proclaimed, causing several of the armed guards to nearly draw their swords. "Just as Nymeria fled their evil ways, so too will we resist them! We shall fight on and on, in the sun and sands, among the hills and valleys, an inexhaustible people in a land that you will never hold dominion over. Our land will sap your strength, turn your men to dried husks, and we will endure, as we always have."

"As it stands, my armies have crushed all opposition in their path. Your banners-,"

"Our strength is our land, our people! At every turn, they will resist, rebel, and tear you down. A death by a thousand stings, from every corner of Dorne! We are serpents and jackals and scorpions to you Targaryens and Reachmen and Stormlords, but what survives a desert better than they? Who will return to their rightful place once your armies have been desiccated by our sun, and have died of thirst as we take back our wells?"

His anger was going to get the better of him if this damned Dornishman did not just shut up. He had half a mind to have Olyvar remove his tongue, and from the hard gaze beneath that white helmet, his secret lover might just do that with the dullest knife he could find. Yet Daeron only sighed. "It would seem the heat of battle and the day has addled your mind, Lord Ladybright. Might I suggest you cool your Dornish temper with some water? I promise it is not poisoned."

"Lord Ladybright, calm yourself, your family needs you-," Lord Jordayne said, trying to place a hand on the man's shoulder, but he was rebuffed, angrily at that.

"Lord Yronwood may have fallen for your honeyed words, boy, but I will never submit to a dragon! For Dorne!" the man roared, and quick as a flash, drew an absolute sliver of a knife from between the folds of his clothes with his remaining good hand. The glistening blade, yet slick with something, shone in the light, and he made to throw it even as the guards rushed him, drawing their swords.

Daeron barely saw the white streak through the air even as he made to dodge out of the way, only to see a shower of blood erupt from the lord's throat. Choking in surprise, the man fell back as the guards reached him, the dagger falling from his grasp as he tried to pry the arrow from his throat. Lord Jordayne, his face covered in the sprayed blood, was forcefully shoved back and restrained, but offered no resistance, stunned at the sight before him.

Daeron turned to find his Baelor stiff as a board, wide-eyed, looking down upon the still-quivering bow in his hand as if it had appeared from nowhere. Without a word, his brother dropped the bow, but said nothing, merely staring at the dying man before them, blood pooling as the guards held their swords to him, in case he tried anything else. Lord Baratheon quickly sidled up next to the prince and, without a word, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Daeron knew he liked that man for more than his support in war.

Amid the gurgles, Olyvar picked up the fallen knife and looked it over. "Poison, my king," the Kingsguard said, holding it far from his person. "A Dornish stinger, the thinnest dagger they carry. Perfect for assassinations, due to their… ease of concealment."

"I see," Daeron said, just now realizing how hard his heart was beating in his chest. He would have to have strong… words with the guards who searched these men for weapons. A good flogging might remind them of the importance of thoroughness. "Remove him from my sight but see that his bones are preserved for his family. Lord Jordayne," he added, looking to the bloodied Dornishman. "Do you have anything to say?"

"I… I… I surrender to House Targaryen," the man said. "My men shall return to their homes, and I will see to the surrender of the Tor upon your arrival."

Daeron smiled despite the sliver of panic in his chest as the former Lord Ladybright was dragged out of the tent. "Good, good. Send in the next lords but ensure the guards check them over once more. I'd rather not have another attempt on my life this day."