Chapter 70 — Ravaging Dorne
The battlements of Sunspear groaned under the weight of tension and heat.
Prince Enrik Martell gripped the sun-warmed stone, staring in horror as Caraxes and Meleys descended upon Shadow City like twin storms.
The armory erupted first—its roof lifted by dragonfire before collapsing into a molten heap. Flames leapt from building to building, consuming the stables, granaries, and mustering yards. Plumes of smoke rose high enough to stain the sky.
Enrik's face flushed crimson.
> "Ser Orson Cogger!" he barked. "Take every archer and march to Shadow City. I want those dragons killed!"
Ser Orson Cogger—silver-haired, broad-shouldered, armor still scorched from earlier fighting—froze. Sweat trickled down his temples despite the desert heat.
> "Your Grace… ordinary bows cannot bring down dragons. Only scorpions or heavy engines might slow them."
Enrik's fury sharpened.
> "Your mother was an Uller of Hellgate Hall. Her arrow struck down Princess Rhaenys's Meleys decades ago. Or so every Uller claims. Are you her son or some craven impostor?"
Orson swallowed hard.
He wanted to speak truth—that the tale was half legend, half boast—but fear smothered his voice.
Prince Qoren Martell, calm even amidst rising smoke, stepped forward.
> "Father, if you send the archers out, they will die before they loose a second volley. Keep them here. Let them support the scorpions. Shadow City is already lost."
Enrik slammed his fist against the stone.
> "Shadow City is ours! They will go, or I'll strip every one of them of rank and name."
There was nothing left to argue.
Under the weight of an impossible order, Ser Orson bowed stiffly.
> "As you command, Prince."
Two hundred archers marched reluctantly from Sunspear's gates toward the smoking ruins to the west.
---
The Fate of the Archers
Daemon circled high above, Caraxes's shadow writhing on the ground like a living flame.
Below, Princess Rhaenys guided Meleys with a veteran's precision.
They saw the Dornish column the instant it emerged.
Caraxes hissed, nostrils flaring.
Rhaenys's voice carried across the wind.
> "They're moving to reinforce. Shall we?"
Daemon grinned.
> "Burn them."
Caraxes and Meleys climbed, wings cutting through the heated air.
The first volley of Dornish arrows arced upward—dozens of shafts, pointless against dragons who darted aside with contemptuous ease.
Ser Orson drew breath to order a second volley.
He never spoke the words.
Caraxes dropped like a falling star.
His roar tore through the ruined streets an instant before the fire came.
A torrent of pale-yellow flame engulfed the archers, armor glowing red-hot before collapsing into molten pools. The screams were short—a handful of heartbeats—and then swallowed by fire.
Ser Orson staggered back, cloak ablaze, and fled with the few survivors.
On Sunspear's walls, Enrik stared, dumbstruck.
> "Impossible… How could they be wiped out so quickly?"
Qoren's voice was ice.
> "Because you sent them to die."
---
The Second Assault on Sunspear
Rhaenys and Daemon turned as one, soaring toward Sunspear.
The defenses had been crippled—few archers remained, only scattered scorpions and ballistas slowly pivoting to aim at the sky.
Too slowly.
Meleys shrieked, diving. Her first breath of fire devoured a cluster of scorpions, their wooden frames exploding into cinders. Soldiers, aflame, flung themselves from the walls.
Caraxes raked the Triple Gate with fire. The great doors blackened, cracked—and began to slump inward, warped by heat.
Qoren grabbed his father's arm.
> "We must withdraw!"
Enrik at last yielded, stumbling down the stairwell as Meleys's second pass ignited Spear Tower. Windows belched flame. Curtains and tapestries inside burned like tinder.
Sunstone Tower fared no better—Caraxes struck its windows with lance-like jets of fire, the stone blackening but refusing to fall. The tower held, but the men inside did not.
The defenders scrambled to recover weapons from the palace armories. Qoren organized them with precision—bows, crossbows, anything that could reach the sky.
The volley from Sunspear rose in a desperate hail.
Most bounced harmlessly off dragon scale.
The dragons, satisfied, pulled away—vanishing momentarily into the blinding southern sky.
Enrik slumped with relief.
> "They flee… at last."
Qoren did not relax.
> "No. They are repositioning. Dragons never retreat so easily."
And then—
A sound rolled from the north.
Low. Thunderous. Ancient.
Enrik stiffened.
> "From the north? How—Caraxes and Meleys flew south!"
Qoren whispered:
> "This is another dragon."
---
Vhagar Descends
She emerged from the clouds like a mountain with wings—
Vhagar, last of the Conqueror's trio, her scales pale green and cracked with age.
On her back sat Prince Baelon Targaryen, heir to Dragonstone, his grey armor glinting like tempered steel.
He had tracked a Myrish fleet through the Narrow Sea and arrived at Sunspear in time to witness the battle. Cautious by nature, he kept Vhagar hidden in the clouds until the moment was right.
Now she roared—an earth-shaking sound that made even veteran soldiers falter.
Caraxes and Meleys answered from the south, banking sharply to join her.
Three dragons—closing in.
Sunspear shuddered beneath the weight of dread.
Enrik paled.
> "The Field of Fire… the stories were true…"
Qoren nodded.
> "We face the same storm today."
---
Three Dragons, One Sky
Vhagar descended first, her breath a rolling wall of orange flame. Entire rows of ballistas vanished beneath it, their crews incinerated.
Caraxes swept along the Triple Gate, finishing what his earlier pass had begun.
The gate collapsed inward with a thunderous groan.
Meleys spiraled around Sandship Tower, her flames painting it red, siege engines exploding beneath her wings.
A Lysene fleet, summoned to aid Dorne, approached from the coast. Their painted ships opened fire with heavy crossbows.
The dragons turned on them with predatory coordination.
Three jets of flame leapt across the sea.
By the time the dragons wheeled away, half the Lysene ships were burning wrecks.
---
Aftermath in the Warlords' Tent
Daemon, Baelon, and Rhaenys returned to Bone Island as the sun set behind them, casting the sea in blood-red light.
Sea Snake Corlys Velaryon greeted them, satisfaction in his sharp eyes.
Baelon dismounted first.
> "Father sent Vhagar to remind our enemies what true power looks like."
Corlys gestured toward Sunspear's distant glow.
> "Let us finish it. Reduce Sunspear to ash—Dorne will kneel as Harrenhal did."
Daemon shook his head.
> "No. Burn Sunspear, and they will scatter to the deserts. The Martells thrive there.
The Rhoynar resisted dragons for centuries. Fire alone cannot break them."
He tapped the map—desert wells, oases, trade routes.
> "We strike their lifeblood. Burn the wells. Take the water. Shatter the oases. Without it, Dorne bleeds."
Rhaenys nodded.
> "War is not won by fire alone—but by strangling the land that feeds it."
---
The Ravaging of Dorne
Enrik fled Sunspear that same night with his household, soldiers, and thousands of terrified smallfolk.
All along the coast, refugees streamed inland.
They found no safety.
Caraxes, Meleys, and Vhagar descended upon the oases, the watchtowers, the tent-cities that sheltered wells.
The dragons spared no water source.
Lemonwood, Plankytown, Olive Grove—all burned.
The desert became a wasteland of charred palms and boiling sand.
Water grew scarce.
The people cursed the Triarchy, cursed Craghas Drahar, cursed Prince Enrik himself.
---
The Council with Craghas Drahar
The meeting took place on a barren isle off the Dornish coast.
Prince Enrik's voice was ragged.
> "Craghas Drahar—you promised us victory! Instead your fleets crumble and your promises turn to dust!"
Craghas's pale, ruined face did not flinch.
> "I did not foresee Vhagar. Few could. But we still have options."
Enrik scoffed.
> "Braavos will not help you. They despise slavers."
Craghas smirked thinly.
> "True. Yet they despise something more—a united Westeros controlling the Stepstones.
If the Iron Throne takes them, Braavos loses the Narrow Sea."
Qoren frowned.
> "You think fear of dragons will sway them?"
Craghas's voice dropped.
> "Dragons terrify kings. Even more so bankers."
The Dornish princes exchanged uneasy looks.
War had only just begun.
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