Chapter 407: The Envoy

Boom!

The wooden palisades of the Dornish camp stood no chance against the charging war elephants. They shattered as if made of paper.

As for the so-called impenetrable shield-and-spear formation, it was a laughable effort.

When the lead elephant, carrying immense momentum, crashed into the hedgehog-like wall of shields, it splintered them instantly.

Countless Dornish soldiers, their bones snapping with nauseating sounds, were sent flying like ragdolls, blood spraying from their mouths.

Within moments, the elephants tore through the defensive lines like a hot knife through butter. Blood mist filled the air as row upon row of Dornish soldiers were trampled. Some were thrown aside with broken limbs, while others were crushed into unrecognizable pulp beneath the elephants' massive feet.

Wherever the elephants passed, chaos reigned. The battlefield looked like a hellish wasteland, littered with gore and shattered bodies.

"The Dornish are finished," Edmure Tully murmured atop the walls of Sunspear. His expression was a mix of relief and pity as he watched the carnage unfold below.

"They had no means to counter those elephants," added Ser Robar Royce. "So, Lord Edmure, have you made your decision? Caesar or Aegon?"

Edmure said nothing. His gaze lingered on the blood-soaked battlefield outside, growing distant and unfocused.

---

"The Dornish are finished!" Aegon exclaimed, standing atop a sand dune behind the battlefield, wildly waving his arms in excitement. "Charge, my elephants! Crush them! Flatten them!"

Tyrion Lannister glanced at the overly enthusiastic young prince and, for a fleeting moment, thought he saw a glimpse of his late nephew, Joffrey.

The resemblance was uncanny.

"Do you see, Tyrion?" Aegon turned back, laughing heartily. "My elephants are magnificent, aren't they?"

"They certainly are," Tyrion replied, offering a thumbs-up.

Though inwardly, he mused whether he should suggest to his father, Tywin, that they acquire some elephants from Essos.

But the thought quickly dissipated.

The elephants' effectiveness here owed much to the Yronwood forces' complete lack of preparation. If they had even a few scorpions, these massive, cumbersome beasts would have been easy targets.

And then, there were dragons.

Caesar had three of them. Burning these elephants into roasted meat would be child's play.

For now, though, the elephants were undeniably devastating.

The massive beasts easily shattered the Dornish defensive lines, with the Golden Company pouring through the gaps like a flood, leaving carnage in their wake.

It wasn't long before the Yronwood forces began to crumble.

Worth noting, the first to flee wasn't an ordinary soldier, but Ser Orifor Sand, the army's commander.

This opportunistic bastard, who had risen to prominence with the near-extinction of Yronwood's ruling line, wasted no time retreating once the battle turned sour.

Ambition and glory suddenly paled in comparison to the value of his own life.

As the commander's banner toppled sideways, the last vestiges of hope for the Yronwood forces vanished.

Their formation disintegrated into scattered groups of panicked soldiers fleeing in every direction.

The mercenaries of the Golden Company gave chase, reveling in the slaughter and venting their pent-up rage and bloodlust.

"The Dornish are nothing special," Aegon declared smugly.

"Dornishmen were never known for their prowess in open battle," Tyrion remarked. "Especially after years of near-constant warfare, which has drained the elite forces of every house. Their collapse was inevitable."

Although he knew the dwarf's analysis was accurate, Aegon bristled at what felt like an attempt to dampen his victory.

"Hmph." Aegon snorted coldly. "Lord Tyrion, since you're so clever, why don't you act as my envoy and go to Sunspear? By now, the Riverlands and Vale prisoners inside should know which way the wind is blowing."

I'm going to die because of my sharp tongue one day, Tyrion thought, wishing he could sew his mouth shut. Yet his instincts betrayed him, and he replied:

"Very well, Your Grace. I'll inform them that if they don't surrender immediately, you'll send in your elephants to smash down their walls and trample them all."

Detecting the sarcasm in Tyrion's words, Aegon's face darkened.

"Go. Now!"

"As you command." Tyrion turned and hurried off, cursing himself for always rubbing the young prince the wrong way.

The battle was still ongoing as two Golden Company soldiers escorted Tyrion across the battlefield toward the gates of Sunspear.

"I am Tyrion Lannister," he shouted repeatedly at the top of his lungs. "I come as an envoy of Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, to negotiate!"

After a few moments, a basket was lowered from the city walls.

"Well, good thing I'm a dwarf," Tyrion muttered as he squeezed himself into the cramped basket.

The soldiers atop the walls hoisted him up.

As he stepped onto the ramparts, Tyrion adjusted his footing and called out:

"Who's in charge here? Edmure Tully?"

"In here, each man answers only to himself," replied a young voice.

Tyrion turned to the speaker and smirked.

"I know you," he said. "Robar Royce, second son of Bronze Yohn. Am I right?"

"I'm flattered you've heard of me," Robar replied with a curt nod. "Come, the lords are waiting for you in the Old Palace."

Tyrion shuffled along, keeping pace with Robar's longer strides, his tongue as active as ever:

"I heard you fought alongside Caesar. Didn't your father gift him the family's ancestral bronze armor before he died?"

"Are you Aegon's envoy or Caesar's?"

"I'm a Lannister envoy."

Robar chuckled. "A word of advice, Lord Tyrion: we are all survivors who've clawed our way out of hell. We have no patience for your clever remarks. When you meet the lords, give them real terms—not empty words."

As they passed by soldiers lining the streets, Tyrion noticed their gaunt faces and tattered uniforms. Some lacked even proper weapons. A weight settled in his chest.

"I understand," he said quietly.

The two walked on in silence, navigating the labyrinthine streets of Sunspear until they arrived at the Old Palace, the ancestral seat of House Martell.

Suddenly, the sky darkened, and a shadow enveloped the area, blotting out the sun.

Tyrion froze, instinctively looking up.

A warm gust of wind tousled his hair as a powerful wingbeat filled the air.

"Dragon!"

Tyrion's heart raced as he watched a massive, ivory-white dragon circle above the palace. Its gleaming scales shimmered like pearls in the sunlight, while its blood-red eyes, horns, and spines radiated an ominous aura.

The dragon was enormous, its wingspan stretching over a hundred feet.

When it landed in the courtyard, the heat from its breath felt like a blast from a forge, nearly toppling Tyrion off his feet.

Dust and sand swirled in the air, stinging Tyrion's eyes and drawing tears. Yet he refused to look away, unable to tear his gaze from the magnificent creature.

The dragon, sensing his stare, turned its long neck toward him.

Tyrion could see the charred remains of flesh caught in its teeth and the fiery glow in its throat, poised to erupt at any moment.

His gaze drifted upward to the figure seated atop the dragon.

"Caesar!"

Samwell smiled down at him.

"Looks like I'm a little late. It's been a while, Tyrion."

(End of Chapter)