In the late eighth year of the Conquest...
The invention of paper and the rise of printing in the New Citadel swept through like a spring breeze, further enriching its academic climate and accelerating the spread of the only officially recognized discipline: law.
Several legal texts co-authored by the Law School and King Aegon became bestsellers within the Citadel. Works like The Rule of Law Under the Great Upheaval, The Power of Heresy, and Justice in the Round were especially popular among apprentices.
As the founding monarch, Aegon's overwhelming authority had, in some ways, reshaped the academic aspirations of both noble heirs and aspiring Maesters.
At the same time, the New Citadel's second officially sanctioned discipline—mathematics—was steadily coming into its own.
Mathematics, the foundation of all things, was vital to nearly every aspect of the Dornish conquest: from population tallies and immigration logistics, to the number of soldiers, supplies, rations, warhorses, weapons, and daily front-line consumption of resources.
The management of the Dragonlord's treasury and the empire's fiscal budget also depended heavily on mathematics.
Aegon introduced the concept of Arabic numerals, taught the multiplication table, the four basic operations, and how to create statistical charts. These innovations simplified complex calculations, lightened workloads, and increased accuracy.
He understood clearly that everything—administration, warfare, policy—was ultimately bound to numbers.
Though the level of mathematics in the world of ice and fire was not low, it remained in the hands of the elite. Foundational education was lacking, and there were no accessible entry-level materials.
To remedy this, Aegon introduced simplified formulas and mnemonic devices that significantly lowered the barrier to learning mathematics.
Over several years, the old methods of calculation gradually merged with Aegon's new system. By this year, a new mathematical discipline had finally taken shape—mature enough to begin admitting students from the general population.
Aegon then established an Accounting Administration under the oversight of the Master of Coin.
Every math-trained Maester was eligible to take the official Targaryen accounting exam. Those who passed received a certificate and could serve in the empire's accounting department.
The department was tasked with compiling national tax data, drafting region-specific tax policies based on economic conditions and classifications, and managing disbursements and financial records for the Dragonlord's treasury.
Though the mathematics faculty remained short-staffed, Aegon already had plans for a future Bureau of Statistics.
At present, the Crownlands still lacked precise population data; most figures were speculative, drawn from indirect sources. This greatly displeased Aegon.
He viewed mathematics as one of the cornerstones of the future Targaryen Empire. For low-ranking officials, it was the most essential skill of all.
To promote the discipline, Aegon personally appeared at the Citadel and awarded honorary medals to several senior scholars in mathematics, encouraging apprentices to take the subject seriously.
...
With Citadel affairs in order, Aegon turned his gaze eastward—toward the scorched deserts of Dorne.
In the latter half of the eighth conquest year, the Targaryen dynasty pressed its offensive against the Kingdom of Dorne, steadily wearing down its remaining forces.
By now, Dorne resembled a land laid to waste—ravaged by famine, plague, and drought. It had become a living hell.
Slave hunters from Volantis had taken to calling it "the Cursed Land," yet House Martell still clung defiantly to their family motto: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.
A captured Dornish knight swore before Aegon that Meria Martell would rather see all her people dead than allow them to become slaves of House Targaryen.
Aegon's response was ice-cold: he'd be happy to help her fulfill that "wish."
To him, the Dornish were maddeningly stubborn. Even with the war all but won, they still shouted their defiance. Their proud, unyielding spirit struck Aegon as both laughable and pitiful.
Within the Crownlands, the growing Dornish population had become a frequent source of unrest. Most crimes reported by the vassals seemed to involve Dornishmen.
Aegon had a clear vision for the Crownlands: he wanted the Valyrian descendants to become the dominant ethnic group. Anything else would jeopardize the stability of the Targaryen regime.
To that end, he regularly wrote to Aerion, urging the Free City Council to send more slaves.
The Targaryen dynasty also issued generous resettlement offers to Valyrians on the continent of Essos, inviting them to return to Westeros and serve once again under the Dragonlord's banner.
...
Meanwhile, assassination attempts against the royal family had not ceased.
Aegon and his father, Aerion, jointly pressured the House of Black and White in Braavos. They issued a stark warning: if the Faceless Men made another attempt on the Targaryen bloodline, the dynasty would unleash its full wrath—the Dragon's Fury—upon the Free City.
Though Braavos was the strongest of the Free Cities, even it did not dare challenge the Targaryens head-on. From that point forward, the Faceless Men withdrew from any involvement in plots against the Targaryen royal house.
...
The Dorne campaign was marked by bloodshed, but the most infamous atrocity came in the opening months of the ninth year.
Wyl of Wyl—infamously known as the "The Widow-lover"—forced his way into the wedding of Ser Jon Cavell, heir to the fief of Little Stag, and Lady Arya Oakheart, daughter of the Lord of Old Oak.
Wyl had bribed a lowly servant to sneak in through a side entrance.
He and his men butchered Lord Oakheart and most of the wedding guests. Then, in front of the bride, he castrated the groom.
Lady Arya and her maids were gang-raped, abducted, and later sold to slavers in Myr.
The atrocity enraged Aegon. No longer willing to tolerate delays, he ordered Orys to launch the final conquest of Dorne.
...
Even Aegon's youngest son, Garth—just over three years old—took part in the campaign.
His sparrows became a vital tool for reconnaissance, helping the Targaryen army avoid hidden dangers in the Red Desert.
Orys led the forces across the burning sands without issue, the army sweeping toward Vaith like an unrelenting tide.
Outside the walls of Vaith, countless Dornish refugees lay dead. Starved and too weak to cross the desert to Hellholt and surrender, they had no choice but to wait for death at the city's gates.
With tens of thousands of Targaryen soldiers at their gates, the nobles of Vaith Castle had already fled in a panic, leaving behind only a mass of desperate refugees.
The refugees fell to their knees, pleading with Orys for food to ease their hunger.
Orys had little Garth seated before him on horseback. Garth's eyes were wide as he stared at the corpses lining the roadside. The sight of the starving and dead pierced his young heart, and sorrow welled up inside him. He couldn't help but sigh for the fallen Dornish.
Sensing the boy's emotional turmoil, Orys spoke steadily from atop his horse.
"There's no meaning in mourning the dead. If death has any meaning, it's in how it can be used."
Having endured the torment of captivity at the hands of the "Widow-lover," Orys's words had become increasingly severe—and that harshness only struck Garth more deeply.
The boy turned his head and asked, "Then... what is the meaning of life?"
"There is none. If there is, it's to serve His Grace with loyalty," Orys replied calmly.
Garth fell silent, deep in thought. Just then, a refugee stumbled into the path of Orys's horse.
Orys frowned and reached for the steel sword at his waist with his maimed left arm.
Seeing this, Garth quickly shook his head and placed one hand on Orys's to stop him from drawing. With the other, he pulled a small piece of bread from his cloak.
A sparrow swooped down from the sky, took the bread in its beak, and flew toward the refugee.
The moment the man saw the sparrow bringing bread, his face lit up with joy.
But just as the bird released the bread, the refugee lunged—not for the food, but for the sparrow itself. He grabbed the small bird out of the air, clutched it to his chest, and tore into it, swallowing feathers and bones along with flesh.
Clearly, the man wasn't stupid. He knew the sparrow held more nutrition than the morsel of bread.
Garth cried out in pain and clutched his head. The death of his animal companion caused a strain on his mental energy.
A moment later, his tear-filled eyes turned red. He raised his head and stared at the refugee.
Orys stopped a nearby soldier who moved to arrest the man. He looked down and said quietly to Garth, "Now do you understand the meaning of life?"
Sniffling, Garth nodded heavily, tears brimming in his eyes. "Thank you, Uncle. I understand."
Still, the refugee stared greedily at Garth, feathers stuck to his lips. "My lord, is there more? I want more!"
Garth raised a finger and said coldly, "As you wish."
In an instant, over a hundred sparrows overhead responded to his command. Like a swarm of wasps, they dove down toward the refugee. They weren't mere birds—they were small raptors, sharpened by Garth's mental training. The one that had been caught earlier had only been taken because Garth had been careless.
Now they descended with precision, their beaks gouging out eyes, their talons ripping open throats, bellies, and more.
As the cries of the dying refugee echoed, the head of House Bolton rode up, smirking at the bloody chaos.
"Dornish scum. If they'd known this would happen, maybe they wouldn't have turned on us," he sneered. "They took the Targaryens' kindness for granted. Betrayed us. Stabbed us in the back. Well—this is the price."
He flicked his blood-red cloak behind him and continued on toward Vaith Castle.
...
In a cavern beneath Sunspear...
Princess Meria, the Yellow Toad, had grown frail with age. Her health had deteriorated to the point where she could no longer care for herself. She sat in a chair, listening as her son, Nymor, read out military and political reports from the Martell regime.
When she heard that Orys, the Targaryen dynasty's Field Marshal, had led his army deep into West Dorne, crossed the Greenblood River, and was now just a few miles from Sunspear, her eyes filled with tears of bitter regret.
Nymor saw his mother begin to tremble. Her hands twisted like clawed branches, spasming uncontrollably. Panicked, he cried, "Mother! What's wrong? I'll call the—"
But Meria reached out and grabbed his sleeve, shaking her head to stop him from calling the black Maester.
Her dim gaze fixed on her son, and she rasped, "We held to our house words. We resisted the Dragonlord for four years. We did what the other six kingdoms could not.
But was it worth it?"
Nymor stood frozen, unable to speak.
He wanted to say no. That it hadn't been worth it. But he feared that if she heard the truth, the shock might kill her.
House Martell had learned from the downfall of the others. They refused to meet the Dragonlord in castles, open plains, rainstorms, or at sea. They avoided duels and frontal assaults, relying solely on ambushes and guerrilla warfare.
But even that had failed in the face of Aegon's strategy of encirclement.
Their young men were constantly relocated. Crops could not grow in the face of famine and fear. The economy collapsed. And in West Dorne, the Martells had lost the people's loyalty.
Now, with the Targaryens at Sunspear's doorstep, the fall of House Martell seemed inevitable.
After a long silence, Nymor said softly, "Mother, we should surrender. Aegon is a just ruler. He won't destroy House Martell. We've ruled Dorne for thousands of years. He'll consider the people's hearts."
Meria sighed. "There's nothing else to do. Offer him my head. It should appease him.
That boy Aegon... he's earned his pride, driving us this far."
That night, before the last few loyal vassals of House Martell, Meria the Yellow Toad passed the title of Prince of Dorne to her son and placed the crown upon his head.
Then she revealed their plan to surrender.
"No, Princess, never!" one lord cried out. "The Dornish never yield!"
"I'll cut off Orys's other hand—his limbs too! To hell with House Targaryen!" roared the Widow-lover, face twisted in rage.
Meria rose unsteadily, laughter ringing through the cavern as she looked around at her gathered lords.
"Good. That's the Dornish spirit. That's our blood! The Targaryens may bring us to our knees once, but we will rise and fight again—and again—and again!"
With those final words, she seized the curved blade at Nymor's waist and slit her own throat.
Nymor trembled violently as he knelt and severed her head. Then, raising it high above him, he let out a hoarse, soul-rending roar:
"UNBOWED!"
"UNBOWED!" echoed the vassals, each dropping to one knee, right fists thudding against their chests as they faced their new prince. "Dorne is unbowed!"
"Dorne will never..."
That night was soaked in grief—a night that would surely be remembered in the annals of Dorne and sung by countless bards.
But the most tragic moment was yet to come. It would arrive with the dawn.
...
The next day, Prince Nymor of Dorne led the Martell nobles and several thousand soldiers to kneel in submission before the Targaryen army, ten miles outside Sunspear.
When Orys saw the line of Dornish nobles kneeling in perfect order, he allowed a faint smile to curl at the corner of his lips—then burst into wild laughter.
Prince Nymor, his hands trembling, held a wooden box. He opened it to reveal the severed head of Meria, the Yellow Toad, and cried out in anguish toward Orys, "The Kingdom of Dorne surrenders to the Targaryen dynasty! House Martell willingly accepts demotion to the rank of duke!"
Orys silenced his laughter, his face turning expressionless as he rode forward to face Nymor, locking eyes with him.
"Marshal Orys," Nymor said, forcing a strained, sycophantic smile. "The royal House Martell of Dorne submits willingly!"
Orys said nothing.
He merely removed the glove from his right hand, exposing the stump left by the Widow-lover's blade. Then, smiling softly, he gave a slow shake of his head.
Nymor's smile froze.
A dreadful sense of foreboding surged through him.
Without a word, Orys drew his longsword with his left hand and raised it high. He pointed the blade directly at the kneeling Dornish lords and shouted to the Targaryen army, "The Prince of Dorne refuses to surrender! He resists to the end! Targaryen forces—charge! Full assault!"
Even as his voice echoed, the blade came crashing down toward Nymor's neck.
In an instant, the entire scene turned.
The Dornish had believed surrender would spare their lives—but Orys answered their submission with ruthless execution.
On the battlefield, the Targaryen army surged forward like a tidal wave, descending upon the stunned Dornish ranks. War cries rang out. Steel clashed. Smoke and blood filled the air.
The Dornish soldiers, caught off guard and terrified, tried to mount a defense—but without preparation, they stood no chance against the ferocity of the Targaryen assault.
Prince Nymor's eyes widened in horror and disbelief. He never imagined that Orys would be so merciless—offering no clemency, not even a sliver of hope.
As the cold steel neared his throat, he stared helplessly, overwhelmed by the crashing tide of death.
With a sharp crack, his head—etched with shock and despair—was severed cleanly and fell, a spray of blood misting the air. His body followed, slumping to the ground.
Around him, the Dornish lords screamed in desperation, scrambling in vain to resist.
But it was already far too late.
...
[Upto 20 chapters ahead for now]
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