That night, the moon shone brightly amidst a sparsely starred sky.
Barrel Town, once a bustling port, now lay empty, illuminated only by the crimson glow of bonfires against the dark night.
Ser Quentyn led a company of Dornish soldiers clad in brown and yellow armor, gazing out at the vast sea, where countless lanterns flickered in the distance.
As far as the eye could see, a hundred warships sailed into the misty waters, resembling a swarm of desert scorpions swarming from their nest.
The Dornish were known for their boldness, always acting on impulse.
They had decided on war that very day, and by nightfall, they were already marching to battle.
Ser Quentyn stood with his hands behind his back, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Lys has recreated the Hundred Candles Battle, providing Dorne with an unprecedented opportunity."
The Narrow Sea was in turmoil, and the Iron Throne's main forces were engaged beyond its waters, leaving local garrisons without reinforcements.
The mad Daemon and the young prince were entangled in disputes across the disputed lands, while those Targaryens who remained in Westeros were little more than untested youths, women, and the elderly.
Braavos and other Free Cities would exert pressure on the Iron Throne.
Meanwhile, the refugees from Myr and Lys continued to rebel, keeping the Targaryen Queen Without a Crown and her young prince preoccupied.
As long as Tyrosh could withstand the siege without surrendering, Dornish forces would strike on three fronts, swiftly advancing into the Stormlands and the Reach.
At that point, whether the Iron Throne pressed its attack on Tyrosh or turned back to defend Westeros, it would be trapped in a predicament.
Ser Quentyn's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as he muttered, "Bambaro, oh Bambaro, your death was timely. If Lys had not fallen, Dorne would never have had this chance to strike."
The Iron Throne had crushed two Free Cities with overwhelming force, but in doing so, it had seized two burning hot coals.
The Nine Free Cities had once been colonies of ancient Valyria, enslaved and oppressed, yet their hold on their ports was astonishingly resilient.
Destroying their political structures and occupying their cities was one thing.
But as long as wealthy merchants and commoners resisted becoming colonies once more, the fight against the invaders would never cease.
Now was the perfect moment. With Dorne marching into the Stormlands and the Reach, the Iron Throne would be thrown into chaos.
This relentless spirit of "wound the enemy by a thousand, even if you suffer eight hundred in return" was precisely why Dorne had retained its independence after the First Conquest War.
"Father, my little brother is freezing! Let's go back inside," Arianne tugged at her father's sleeve, wrapped in a thick fur cloak.
Ser Quentyn looked down to see his daughter's indignant little face.
Behind her, a four or five-year-old boy with dark hair and tanned skin shivered violently, his face pale from the sea wind.
This was Ser Quentyn's eldest son, two years younger than Arianne.
He also had a younger daughter, barely three years old, too frail to be brought along.
"Prince, we should return," said a middle-aged man with dark hair and gray eyes.
He was tall and stout, his black curls thinning, his face covered in a thick beard, and his gray eyes glimmering with thought.
On his chest was a sigil of intertwined yellow and deep red flames—the crest of House Uller, one of Dorne's most infamous and ancient houses, rulers of Hellgate Hall.
Ser Quentyn playfully pinched his son's cheek and chuckled. "Olivier has already gone. We shall leave as well."
The corpulent Harmon Uller followed, grumbling as he walked. "My prince, Storm's End is only guarded by women and children. Sending Olivier to attack is handing him an easy victory."
Though the words were phrased as a mere inquiry, there was an undertone of resentment.
Before House Martell had united Dorne, House Yronwood had been the region's dominant power, known as the "Blood of the Nobility, Guardians of the Stone Road."
House Uller had long been sworn to House Yronwood.
When Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoynar, led her ten thousand ships westward, she wed Mors Martell and waged a campaign to conquer Dorne.
Mors Martell perished during the war, but Nymeria completed his conquest, capturing the King of House Yronwood.
At the onset of the war, House Uller betrayed its liege, House Yronwood, and inflicted a grievous blow upon them.
That betrayal still festered like an old wound. Even under Martell rule, the two houses remained bitter rivals.
Ser Quentyn's eyes darkened as he replied firmly, "We must think beyond Storm's End. Our battlefield extends far beyond Cape Wrath."
Harmon fell silent, wisely choosing to march without further complaint.
Prince Quentyn was already an ideal ruler in the eyes of his Dornish vassals.
He was brave, intelligent, and—most importantly—willing to heed the counsel of his bannermen, ensuring that Dorne's warrior spirit endured.
...
Cape Wrath, Coastal Cliffs
The sound of crashing waves echoed as three-masted warships sliced through the sea, their decks adorned with Dornish banners—the sunpierced spear of House Martell and the black portcullis of House Uller.
On the lead ship, Olivier, clad in iron armor, stood on the deck, his piercing blue eyes fixed on a lone watchtower atop the cliffs.
His gaze was cold, akin to a night owl lurking in the darkness.
"Commander, there is only a single watchtower on the cliff. We can scale it using grappling hooks," reported a young soldier with dark skin, his armor gleaming under the moonlight.
Olivier surveyed the foggy coastline. The mist allowed visibility for only about a mile.
They had bypassed House Swann's patrol ships, choosing not to attack from their harbor.
A frontal assault would only lead to needless casualties. Avoiding a direct clash was the wiser choice.
After reviewing his plan for the hundredth time, Olivier drew his curved blade and commanded, "Send our best men up the cliffs. Kill the sentries."
"Yes, sir!"
Several small boats glided silently toward the cliffs, their men throwing grappling hooks up the hundred-foot-high rock face.
Once secured, dozens of elite Dornish warriors began their ascent.
From a distance, Olivier could barely make out the flickering firelight inside the watchtower, shrouded by the thick fog.
Half an hour later, the firelight vanished, replaced by two crossing torch signals.
The attack had succeeded.
Olivier's heart leaped with satisfaction, though he remained outwardly calm. Raising his blade, he commanded, "Scale the cliffs! We take Stonehelm by dawn!"
More than twenty warships approached the cliffs as thousands of Dornish soldiers began their ascent.
Meanwhile, the rest of the fleet set sail toward Stonehelm's docks.
An assault from both land and sea.
...
The Next Morning
Before dawn, Stonehelm's docks had fallen.
The land-based defenses were swiftly overrun.
The garrison, in complete disarray, retreated to Stonehelm itself, where House Swann prepared for a desperate defense against the relentless Dornish advance.
The Dornish had almost emptied their forces, launching a cunning surprise attack that the original defenses couldn't withstand.
In the end, over ten thousand Dornish soldiers converged from all directions, surrounding the stone-built Helmguard Castle so tightly that not even a drop of water could seep through.
Count Swann held the gates firmly, sending out over a dozen ravens for reinforcements.
---
Storm's End.
"Hisss—Gaaah..."
In the castle courtyard, an ugly, mud-brown dragon lay sprawled on the ground, its shriveled head turning from side to side.
"Baa~~"
A dozen goats bleated loudly, their plump bodies swaying as they were herded closer.
Aemond scowled, gripping a shepherd's whip in his hand as he grumbled at the dragon, "Eat up, you ugly thing."
"Hisss—Gaaah..."
The creature, known as the Sheepstealer, suddenly rose to its feet, stretching its mud-covered wings wide. Its long, dirt-encrusted neck extended forward.
Its vertical pupils glanced haughtily at the silver-haired boy before it opened its maw and unleashed dragonfire, roasting the entire herd in an instant.
With wings braced against the ground, it crawled forward slowly, lowering its head to tear into the charred meat.
Aemond pursed his lips and stepped closer, intending to touch its scales.
Sheepstealer's scales were not smooth; rather, they were rough and jagged like unpolished stone.
But he had no other dragon to touch, so he had to make do.
Smack!
Just as he approached, the dragon's thick tail whipped out, sending him flying.
Aemond saw a flash before his eyes—the bright blue sky filled his vision, and then he landed flat on his back with a smooth thud.
"Sheepstealer!!"
For a few seconds, the air was still. Then Aemond roared at the top of his lungs.
"Hisss—Gaaah..."
Sheepstealer shook its head and continued eating, completely ignoring the foolish silver-haired boy.
Receiving no response, Aemond scrambled to his feet, pointing at the ugly dragon, stammering in rage for a moment before storming back toward the castle.
So disobedient!
As soon as he stepped inside the castle doors, he nearly collided with Cassandra, who was dressed in a pink-and-white gown.
"Aemond, where are you going?"
"None of your business, stupid woman!"
"…"
Cassandra had barely opened her mouth before her fiancé's sharp words nearly knocked the breath out of her.
As they brushed past each other, Aemond stomped up the stairs, clearly unwilling to engage in conversation.
Cassandra turned to look at him, tears welling up in her eyes.
Prince Aegon Targaryen had been a philanderer who had no interest in marrying her or her sister.
She had thought things would be different with Aemond, who had seemed polite and charming—until the engagement was finalized.
Political marriages. Not a shred of real emotion in them.
---
Aemond went straight to his room and slammed the door shut with a loud bang.
He couldn't care less whether his so-called fiancée was upset or angry.
His task was to secure the marriage alliance—no one had ever said he needed to be a loving husband.
Besides, his bride was an insufferable, self-important fool, not even as sweet and simple-minded as her sister, Helaena.
He walked to his bed and flopped down onto the soft feather mattress.
The moment his pale neck touched the fabric, a damp chill seeped into his skin.
"Damn this wretched place!"
Aemond shifted onto his side, cursing in frustration.
King's Landing was also by the sea, but at least the Red Keep had been renovated by Maegor I and Jaehaerys I, making it grand and comfortable.
Storm's End, however, was an ancient fortress that had stood for a thousand years, perched over the raging sea.
Whenever it rained, even the fireplaces leaked, making the dampness unbearable.
After tossing and turning for a while, Aemond lay on his back again, staring blankly at the stone ceiling.
As a key strategic location, Storm's End received countless letters every day.
He had already read reports about the construction of Twin Castles on the Stepstones and how his brother Rhaegar was sweeping through Myr and Lys with unstoppable momentum.
At this rate, Tyrosh would soon fall under Rhaegar's control as well.
"I want to go to war…"
Aemond sighed in frustration. "Even Aegon has a castle, and I'm stuck guarding this miserable place."
His brother Rhaegar had built not just one, but two twin fortresses on Dragonstone.
He was beyond jealous!
Knock, knock…
A sudden knocking broke his thoughts, followed by the urgent voice of Maester Fitt outside the door:
"My prince, a distress message from Helmguard Castle."
Aemond's eyes lit up. He sprang up from the bed in one swift motion. "Come in, quickly!"
The door creaked open as the young maester entered, handing him the unsealed letter. "The Dornish have launched a large-scale invasion, and Helmguard Castle is under siege. The lady requests your immediate presence for a war council."
Aemond snatched the letter and scanned it with a deep frown.
It was Count Swann's plea for reinforcements, explaining how the Dornish had landed under the cover of night and were now threatening the castle. He urged Storm's End to send troops immediately.
"Heh…"
Aemond sneered. "So the Swann family finally knows fear?"
He hadn't forgotten that Count Swann had once supported a bastard's claim to power.
"My prince, you should join the lady in the great hall," Maester Fitt advised, tactfully avoiding the subject.
"Of course."
Aemond strode out with a grin, declaring smugly, "Finally, I have my chance to shine!"