Chapter 641: The Sorrows of the Iron Islands
Sunspear
On a sunny afternoon, a flock of dragons circled above the Free Cities.
"Roar..."
The Cannibal, with its fierce green eyes, stood alone and imposing on the riverbank outside Sunspear, its aura like that of a demonic god. Above, several dragons of different colors scattered across the sky—a moss-colored elder, a dark green Vhagar, and a light blue Dreamfyre. On the high walls of Sunspear, two young dragons perched like vigilant gargoyles. One was black and red, the other pale gray.
With all six dragons in the air, the city below felt eerily empty. The streets were silent, the people frozen in fear. The memory of the Dragon's Wroth from just a few years prior still haunted them—the chaos of three dragons locked in a deadly melee.
But a closer look revealed the grim truth. Sunspear's walls were riddled with arrows, and the road leading to the Greenblood River was caked with dried blood.
...
By the riverbank, Rhaegar surveyed the scene. The once bustling docks had been reduced to scorched ruins, signs of destruction everywhere.
"Your Grace, the Ironborn didn't even spare the boats in the river," Prince Qyle said, his voice filled with grief and anger. A bloody bandage wrapped around his forehead. "The big ships have all sailed away, and the fishing boats and goods they couldn't loot have been burned."
"After the Ironborn looted the place, where did they go?" Rhaegar asked, narrowing his eyes, his voice cold as ice.
'These Ironborn never change,' he thought bitterly. 'Always believing that might makes right, with no regard for toil.'
"We've received word from Oldtown. The Iron Islands fleet passed through the Shield Islands and has now returned to the Iron Islands," Prince Qyle quickly replied.
The continent of Sothoryos, remote and hostile, was unsuited for the Ironborn. Its jungles and swamps, crawling with venomous creatures and poisonous mists, ensured only a sparse population lived there.
"The first thing King Dalton did upon his return was to muster his troops and set his sights on Lannister Harbour," Helaena said, her voice measured as she recounted the news.
She wore a blue gown, her demeanor calm. "Lord Jason has been taken captive in Slaver's Bay. With him gone, Lannisport is nothing more than a defenseless prize."
"Idiot," Rhaegar muttered under his breath. 'How could the House Lannister produce such an arrogant fool?' Jason had risked his life for a handful of gold, trusting blindly in his advisers and family to save him.
"Father, Oldtown and Seagard can still muster a fleet," Baelon said, his hand resting on the dragon's claw-shaped hilt of his sword. His expression was serious. "We can ride the dragons, launch a surprise attack, and coordinate with the fleet to catch the Ironborn off guard."
The Velaryon fleet, which he commanded, was stationed at Lys, always on alert, watching over the Summer Sea. Dalton's Ironborn fleet had exploited the defense of Volantis to slip past the Stepstones and raid Sunspear. After looting their fill, they brazenly sailed back to the Iron Islands. Now, their eyes were set on Lannisport, which lay poorly defended, ready to be seized.
Rhaegar smiled faintly and patted his eldest son's head. "Not a bad plan. We'll do it."
"Father, what about the Summer Sea?" Baelon asked, his eyes firm. "The Triarchy's pirates are growing bolder by the day. We can't leave ourselves unprepared."
"No rush," Rhaegar said, his gaze hard and unyielding. "We'll deal with them one by one. It's time they learned what it means to challenge the House of the Dragonlord."
Daemon and Aemond had already departed, while Corlys and Rhaenys led their fleet to Volantis. Once peace returned to the Seven Kingdoms, those Bastards who sought to restore their shattered realms would not escape justice.
"Your Grace, Sunspear has suffered heavy losses," Prince Qyle began hesitantly, testing the waters before offering his suggestion. "You also mentioned wanting Prince Maekar to make contact with my sister. Do you think that will happen after the war?"
The first part of his statement was trivial—everyone knew Dorne was impoverished. The second part, however, was crucial. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms was aware the king had recently lost a son, a dragon rider. The marriage alliance needed to be secured swiftly.
Rhaegar glanced at him, his mind already made up regarding the Greenblood River. "The harbor will be repaired at the expense of the royal treasury."
Prince Qyle's eyes lit up with hope.
But Rhaegar continued, "The royal family will also construct a Prince's Palace on the opposite bank of the Greenblood River, in what was once the Lemonwood Forest, to commemorate Prince Aemon. The palace will be funded by taxes collected from the port."
"Prince's Palace?" Prince Qyle was momentarily stunned. Cautiously, he asked, "How long will the taxes be collected?"
"Once the palace is completed, the taxes will naturally be handed back to House Martell," Rhaegar said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "But if you're in a hurry, you could always contribute some manpower to help speed things along."
Qyle was dumbfounded, standing there at a loss for words. The Prince's Palace at the ruins of Storm's End hadn't even begun construction—how could one rise across the Greenblood River so soon? Was it really a palace, or was this just a ploy to seize control of the docks and the taxes, a means of trampling over House Martell and humiliating them? Yet Rhaegar spoke as if it were no great imposition.
'A House that can barely hold onto the title of Prince,' Qyle thought bitterly, 'a House that couldn't even fend off the Ironborn invasion—how can it be trusted to govern Dorne?'
The Seven Kingdoms were still too loosely bound together, and the current system was fundamentally flawed. The Prince's Palace wasn't just a tribute; it was designed to oversee and manage regional political power. With House Baratheon gone from Storm's End, the throne would either reward an heir or install a minister. As for Dorne, with House Martell still nominally in power, the best strategy was to reduce them to figureheads, mere mascots. Real power should reside with the Prince's Palace, for easier control.
Especially since, until the palace was completed, the taxes from the Greenblood River wharf would be withheld. In less than a decade, House Martell would be reduced to third-rate nobility.
"Set up a puppet to appease the local nobility according to the circumstances," Rhaegar muttered to himself, thinking aloud.
Aemon's death had forced him to rethink many things. The stubborn nobility of the Seven Kingdoms couldn't be swayed by gentleness and diplomacy. Power and strategy were the sharp blades needed to cut through their resistance. House Martell may command the Dornish people, but the Iron Throne controlled House Martell. What happened within Dorne would not be the crown's responsibility—it would simply manipulate events behind the scenes.
With this policy in place, the Stormlands, Westerlands, and even the North could see Prince Palaces of their own.
The only question was whether these regions would heed the king's commands, and whether they could withstand the fire of the dragons.
Prince Qyle, quick-witted as ever, sensed that the situation was not in his favor.
Helaena leaned in and whispered, "Coryanne can come to King's Landing as a companion to Princess Visenya. The royal family will take good care of her."
"A companion?" Prince Qyle hesitated.
Helaena pressed on, "The war will be long, and a stay in the Red Keep will give her the chance to see the Seven Kingdoms."
As a hostage, she would also be a suitable candidate for marriage.
Sure enough, Qyle fell silent, weighing the pros and cons of both options. Rhaegar watched him indifferently, unaffected by the prince's deliberation.
Marriage into another family had never crossed his mind. After Aemon's death, his resolve to maintain Targaryen independence had only strengthened. House Targaryen, after all, was not of Westerosi blood. Daemon had left a lineage behind, as had Aegon. With Aemond, Daeron, and the next generation multiplying, the bloodline would grow, eventually spreading throughout the realm and absorbing everything within.
...
Three Days Later
The Iron Islands, Old Wyk
A low, haunting moan echoed across the ancient island.
"Ooohhhh..."
Dalton Greyjoy stood on the weathered platform of Nagga's ribs, an ancient and sacred site, holding the great horn to his lips. His summons reverberated through the air, calling forth the captains and sailors under his command.
From all corners of the Iron Islands, hundreds of ships converged like a vast fishing net drawn tight. More than 3,000 Ironborn gathered on the shores, armed with swords, axes, and spears, their salt-cured leather armor gleaming under the gray skies. Their faces were set in grim expressions, each man burning with deep resentment.
Their homes had been razed to the ground, their families slaughtered—old and young alike. When these men returned from their raids, they found nothing but scorched earth and charred ruins where their villages once stood.
"Ironborn, who has gathered you here?" Dalton's voice boomed from the highest point of the platform as he looked down at the assembled crowd.
The grief-stricken Ironborn raised their heads to gaze at their leader, Lord Dalton Greyjoy—the man who had led them to countless raids and plunder.
"It is I, Dalton Greyjoy!" His face was a mask of rage as he addressed them. "Someone has burned our homes, someone has murdered our women. What are we going to do about it?"
Silence fell over the crowd. The Ironborn clenched their fists, the thrill of past plunder drowned by the pain of their loss.
"Who burned our homes? Who killed our women?" Dalton roared, drawing his long sword in a swift, dramatic motion. "What is dead may never die!"
The sword in his hand gleamed—a silvery-white Valyrian steel blade, its surface etched with dark, star-like patterns. The edge rippled like water, sharp and deadly. Its name was Nightfall, and in the hands of Lord Dalton, it was soaked in blood.
The Ironborn gazed at their leader, their eyes drawn to the infamous sword. The pain of their losses mixed with the savage instinct of their kind, and vengeance flared hot in their hearts. The ruthlessness with which they had plundered the weak now fueled their hunger for retribution.
"What is dead may never die!" Dalton's rallying cry resounded across the shore.
One voice echoed it, then another. Soon, the entire crowd of Ironborn, eyes red with fury and throats hoarse, shouted in unison, "What is dead may never die!"
Dalton grinned, his face twisted with hate. "Destitute scum, follow me to plunder Lannister Harbour! Use iron to buy more houses, more women!"
With that, he leaped from the platform, Nightfallgleaming in his grip. The Ironborn surged forward, jumping into the sea like a wave of fury, scrambling onto their ships, raising their sails, and preparing for war.
On the vast, open ocean, a fleet of thousands of ships advanced, their sails full and their prows cutting through the water. Leading them was a mighty three-masted ship flying the golden Kraken banner, with a massive scorpion crossbow mounted high on the deck.
As the ships surged forward, one of the Ironborn began to sing a looting song. His voice was soon joined by others, until the whole fleet was roaring the grim tune of pillage and death.
In their minds, Lannisport was already theirs—an offering of blood and fire, waiting to be taken.
"Haha, the wind is just right today!" Dalton exclaimed, perched atop the lookout pole. His eyes gleamed with excitement at the thought of gold and slaughter ahead.
His ship, a grand vessel built in the Basilisk Isles, was manned by a crew of hardened sailors he had gathered with care. Before raiding Sunspear, they had sacked the Isle of Tears, plundering the allies of the Triarchy and even stealing a Valyrian steel sword in secret. This was the Ironborn way: no iron could not be taken by force.
But suddenly, the wind shifted.
"Roar..."
A black dragon, as dark as coal, tore through the clouds, its massive wings blotting out the sky and sea. Its fierce, predatory gaze locked onto the Ironborn fleet.
Dalton's face paled, and his voice rang out in urgency, "Dragon! Prepare the scorpion crossbow!"
But even as his words carried over the wind, another roar echoed through the air. A second dragon, moss-colored and immense, appeared in the sky, its cavernous mouth opening wide as it began to gather fire.
The Ironborn, who had been singing their looting songs moments earlier, fell silent. Fear overtook them as their faces turned ashen.
Whoosh—
From the sky, the Cannibal plunged downward, a black shadow of death.
Upon its broad back, a rider came into view, clutching a massive horn. It was Rhaegar. His eyes glinted with a fierce light as he lifted the horn to his lips and played the Dance of Blood—a song not heard in years.
The eerie, ancient melody echoed across the sea, stirring something primal in his blood. The sound vibrated through the air, even shaking the thin clouds that floated overhead.
"Roar!"
Vhagar, the great dragon, bellowed in rage, its mighty wings cutting through the sky like a falling star. The wound in its side only fueled its fury.
"Roar!"
Behind them, more dragons surged forward—Dreamfyre, Iragaxys, Grey Ghost—all charging in with the unstoppable force of wildfire sweeping across a plain.
"No... no!" Dalton stood frozen, utterly stunned, his mind blanking as he forgot to give the command for the scorpion crossbow.
The dragons had arrived in full force, a display of power unlike anything seen even in the Battle of the Stepstones. The sky itself seemed to tremble under the weight of their wings.
Whoosh—
As the final note of his song faded, Rhaegar lowered the massive horn, a gleaming relic that took the strength of two men to hold, and calmly uttered a single word:
"Dracarys."
(Word count: 2,331)