Duskendale.
The fifteenth day of the siege.
Inside the central command tent of Young Aegon's allied camp, the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive.
Young Aegon sat in the seat of honor, unease flickering beneath his composed exterior. He turned to the commander of the Golden Company seated to his left.
"Ser Harry, what is the situation with the Kingslayer?"
Harry Strickland inclined his head slightly, a trace of barely concealed embarrassment crossing his face.
He had previously been responsible for containing Sow's Horn, yet had allowed Jaime Lannister to break through and strike the alliance's flank. For a veteran mercenary captain, it was a stain he could not ignore.
"Your Grace, the Kingslayer is currently encamped at the ruins of House Hollard, northwest of Duskendale. He is watching us closely. I have already deployed twenty thousand troops to seal off his route eastward. He will not be given another chance to launch a surprise attack."
Young Aegon gave a noncommittal hum and shifted his gaze to the other side of the tent.
There sat Quentyn Martell.
The Dornish prince sat with his arms crossed, his expression dark enough to curdle the air.
Ever since Young Aegon had forcibly ordered the assault on the city, leading to Oberyn and his wife being burned alive by Cersei, the relationship between the two had frozen completely. If not for his sister Arianne's strenuous efforts to restrain him, Quentyn would have already withdrawn with his Dornish and Norvos forces.
Young Aegon spoke calmly.
"Prince Quentyn, we have besieged the city for half a month. We need to test the situation inside the walls. Tomorrow, your troops will carry out a feigned attack to probe the strength of the Lannister defenses."
Quentyn snapped his head up, anger blazing in his eyes.
"Your Grace, my Norvos warriors came to win glory and victory, not to be thrown away as expendable sacrifices. If you wish to probe the enemy, why not use those idle horsemen?"
He was convinced this was deliberate provocation, retaliation for his earlier defiance.
Young Aegon frowned, his voice turning cold.
"The Dothraki are ill-suited for siege warfare. Their probing tells us nothing. Dornish and Norvos soldiers are renowned for their resilience and discipline, which makes them ideal for this task. We need to identify the enemy's weak points."
Quentyn's teeth ground audibly.
He swept his gaze across the tent. Jon Connington wore a grave expression, clearly deep in thought. Harry Strickland kept his eyes lowered, feigning detachment. The remaining commanders were mostly Young Aegon's confidants or officers of the Golden Company.
The sense of being isolated and deliberately targeted sent Quentyn's anger surging.
He shot to his feet, the chair scraping sharply across the ground behind him.
"If Your Grace has already made up his mind, then why ask for my opinion at all!"
He hurled the words down like a challenge, turned sharply, and strode out of the tent.
"Who does he think he is?!"
Young Aegon's anger finally erupted. He slammed his fist down on the table.
"A Dornish prince, daring to show such insolence before his king!"
Harry Strickland seized the moment to speak softly.
"Your Grace, I have long cautioned against placing too much trust in the Dornish. They have their own designs and ambitions. They are not entirely devoted to your throne."
The seasoned Jon Connington frowned deeply.
"Ser Harry, mind your words. Dorne is one of His Grace's natural allies, the homeland of Princess Elia. Division at a time like this will only amuse the Lannisters. We must remain united…"
Harry merely smiled and said nothing further, though the look in his eyes carried unspoken meaning.
...
The following day, the siege operations proceeded as planned.
Despite his resentment, Quentyn obeyed the order, directing the Norvos slave soldiers to launch a probing assault.
After being surrounded for so long, the defenders of Duskendale had grown somewhat lax. Even so, under the steady command of Ser Addam Marbrand and Damion Lannister, they quickly regained control.
Defensive engines roared from atop the walls. Stones, bolts, and burning projectiles rained down. The Norvos troops suffered several hundred casualties without making any progress and were forced to withdraw in bitter frustration.
Though it was only a feint, the attack shattered the false calm of Duskendale.
Inside the council chamber of Dun Fort, the atmosphere was even more oppressive than in the allied command tent.
Kevan's shoulder wound had already healed, yet his face looked darker than it had when he was injured.
He stared across the table at Cersei, who still wore that venomous expression, his voice trembling with anger.
"Cersei, you never fail to astonish your uncle. Burning Oberyn Martell alive in public without a word of warning. Do you have any idea what that means? It means the Dornish have no way back now. They are completely bound to that Aegon's war chariot, locked with us in a fight to the death."
Cersei snapped her head up, emerald eyes blazing with madness.
"The Dornish sold Myrcella. My daughter was taken by that damned The Easterner, made his queen, forced to share a man with that Targaryen bastard and that little Stark wolf girl. Oberyn got what he deserved. Every Dornish viper deserves to die!"
Kevan slammed his fist onto the table, making the cups and plates jump.
"How do you know The Easterner was telling the truth? What if he seized Myrcella from the Dornish himself and sent her here to stir chaos between us? Your stupidity and your madness have ruined everything!"
"I don't care!"
Cersei screamed, her voice shrill and piercing.
"All I know is that Dorne failed to protect my daughter as promised, and now they're already mixed up with the rebels. They must die. They must pay for it!"
Kevan pressed a hand to his forehead, a crushing weariness washing over him.
There was no point trying to reason with someone who had completely lost her mind.
"Now tell me, what are we supposed to do? Jaime is still barely holding on outside. There are nearly a hundred thousand men beyond these walls. Duskendale can't hold. Didn't you see today's probing attack? They'll soon realize how weak we are. Our stores are almost gone. Are we just going to sit here and wait for death?"
A flicker of panic crossed Cersei's eyes, quickly swallowed by deeper obsession.
"We can retreat to Harrenhal. Have Littlefinger send troops through the Bloody Gate to meet us. He's taken so much from us already. It's time he paid some interest."
Kevan let out a cold snort.
"Littlefinger? That profit-hungry weather vane? Right now he's probably busy waiting for the highest bidder. The moment we show signs of defeat, he'll be the first to wag his tail at our new masters. I truly don't understand why you sent him to the Vale in the first place. Look at the mess there now. Those lords, because of The Mountain's atrocities, hate House Lannister to the bone."
Cersei gave a scornful snort and forced a rebuttal.
"Uncle, don't forget. If I hadn't sent Ser Gregor to Gulltown to raise funds to repay the Iron Bank, where would the money have come from to hire these twenty thousand sellswords? A good number of the men under your command now are there because of me."
"Sellswords?!"
Kevan finally roared, no longer able to hold back.
"Those gold-sniffing locusts! Do you think they'll die with us in a doomed city? Just look at them. Sluggish, undisciplined, whispering among themselves. The moment the food runs out, they'll tie us up and hand us over to the Targaryens outside without hesitation."
That was the most fatal problem of all.
When the forces had been divided, Jaime had taken most of the loyal and dependable Westerlands veterans with him.
Kevan, meanwhile, had been left with these Braavos sellswords, bought with the blood of Gulltown and Runestone, along with only a small contingent of Westerlands troops.
After so many days of siege, the sellswords' loyalty had long since frozen solid.
A flash of murderous frenzy crossed Cersei's face.
"Then burn them all. Just like we burned those Dornish vipers. Lannisters always repay their debts. We have no need for traitors."
Kevan looked at his niece's twisted face and felt a suffocating sense of helplessness.
She was completely mad now, with no limits left at all.
He took a deep breath and made his decision.
"Hold for five more days. After five days, no matter what happens, we abandon Duskendale and retreat to Harrenhal. We cannot stay here any longer. These sellswords cannot be trusted."
…
While the Lannister uncle and niece argued fiercely, a conspiracy was quietly taking shape in the sellswords' camp.
Several Braavos sellsword captains huddled together, speaking in low voices filled with anxiety and impatience.
"Did you see today's probing attack? The Targaryen troops were as many as grains of sand by the shore. We can't hold this place."
A scar-faced captain spat on the ground.
Another sellsword, eyes sharp with cunning, let out a mocking grin.
"What's this, Bono? Thinking of changing colors? I hear the Golden Company is paying quite well."
"Changing colors?"
The captain called Bono shot back.
"I only recognize Westeros's golden dragons. Whoever pays me, I fight for them. And it's obvious the Lannister lunatics and their nearly bankrupt gamble can't afford us anymore. We should make a big bet. For example, hand over the king, his Hand, and the mad queen as gifts to the true dragon outside. That offering should be worth our pay, maybe even more."
The sheer audacity of the suggestion made the nearby captains suck in sharp breaths.
But greed and the instinct to survive quickly overwhelmed their fear.
They leaned in, whispering urgently, as a plot to seize Dun Fort from within and without, capturing the core figures of House Lannister, rapidly took shape.