[116] Spear and Fire

Chapter 116: Spear and Fire

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The relentless Dornish sun beat down upon the ancient stones of the Spear Tower, heat shimmering above the battlements like a mirage.

Prince Doran Martell sat motionless in his cushioned wheelchair, trembling fingers resting on ornate armrests worn smooth from years of his grip.

His dark eyes, still sharp despite his weak and failing body, fixed on the horizon where the Summer Sea melted into an endless blue sky.

But it wasn't the tranquil azure that held his attention.

It was the ring of steel choking Sunspear's harbor and coastline—hundreds of warships forming an impenetrable blockade.

Longships bearing the Greyjoy kraken cut through the waves like predators, while heavier royal galleys flew the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

They were like silent titans that observed Dorne for days now, allowing nothing in, nothing out.

Behind him stood Areo Hotah, captain of his guard, a mountain of a man whose loyalty was as unwavering as the longaxe he gripped. The Norvoshi's face remained impassive beneath the heat, sweat being the only sign that he was flesh and not a statue.

"How much longer must we endure this humiliation?" Prince Oberyn said in the end, eyes full of fury.

“....”

The younger prince paced the battlements like a caged predator, each step radiating barely contained violence. "Three days they've blockaded us. Three days with no word from Aegon."

Ellaria Sand stood nearby, her olive complexion flushed from heat and worry. She reached for Oberyn's arm as he passed, her gentle touch seemingly calming his fury.

"My love," she murmured, "even the walls have ears these days. How could anyone send any message through the raiders blocking our sea?”

Oberyn slowed down, his frown growing frustrated. She gestured toward the vast armada. "Look at them. Sitting on our doorstep like invited guests. The boy king mocks us."

"The boy king who commands dragons," Oberyn replied.

"And who holds my daughter,” Doran added, his voice measured, revealing none of the cold fear constricting his heart.

The pain of Arianne's abduction remained raw. Doran's letters demanding her return had gone unanswered—or worse, simply dismissed.

Even the mightiest fortress could not stand against a dragon, and Viserys commanded two now. Although Daenerys rode the second one, by now, Doran was sure she was just a puppet under Viserys' command.

He had underestimated the Dragon King's reach, his speed, his ruthlessness. He had gambled on Varys's whispers, on Aegon's supposed birthright, on the promise of a single dragon—Rhaegal.

Now that gamble felt so increasingly like folly with each passing hour the blockade held.

Doran knew what it meant for these ships to have surrounded him.

It meant Viserys himself was somewhere else. And where else could he be, other than wherever Aegon was hiding in?

"How long, brother?" Oberyn asked, now glaring out at the fleet. "How long do we sit here, letting our so-called nephew strangle us? Aegon should have been here days ago! Where is he? Where is the Golden Company? Where is the dragon we were promised?"

Doran turned his head slowly, his expression betraying none of the turmoil within. "Patience, brother. They blockade us, but they do not attack. To strike first would be to invite the very destruction Viserys threatens. We wait for Aegon. He will come."

Even as the words left his lips, doubt gnawed at him like a disease.

Had the pretender already failed? Had Viserys intercepted him? The lack of news was its own chilling message.

"Patience?" Oberyn scoffed, his laugh bitter as Dornish red. "The time for patience died when he took Arianne. Viserys Targaryen is not his father. He is not Rhaegar. He is fire and blood made manifest! He burned Yunkai to bedrock, they say. And we sit here waiting? How many more bad decisions would you make, brother?!"

"And what would you have us do?" To Doran's surprise, it was his brother’s love, Ellaria, who stood up for him. Her voice was soft but firm. "Challenge that fleet? Challenge the dragons we know he possesses? We would be ash before nightfall."

"I never said challenge," Oberyn retorted. “Isn't this the prime time to negotiate with them? We should send people to talk to the captain leading those ships.”

Doran fell silent at that. "...I don't think that would amount to anything. If the Dragonking wants us dead, negotiating with these ships would mean nothing. We should prepare for war, instead.”

But what good is preparation when the enemy commands the sky? The thought lingered, unspoken.

What good was war against dragons?

“We can't win,” Oberyn said. “We don't have the preparation needed for it.”

"You are a warrior prince, Oberyn," Doran replied, the edge in his voice betraying a rare flash of irritation. "Don't say that out loud. That's bad for morale.”

"Do you think I'm not angry, brother?” Oberyn leaned closer. "He took your daughter. But he also took mine. I haven't… heard anything from them for weeks. I'm only hoping they're alive, and just based on that hope I'm willing to keep myself reasonable. There's no point in escalating this in a way that'd cost the lives of innocent Dornishmen!”

Doran didn't know what to say.

His fingers twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. When he opened his mouth, however, a loud roar spit the sky.

Suddenly, a vast shadow swept across the battlements, momentarily eclipsing the harsh sun.

A collective gasp rippled through the guards. Oberyn froze mid-stride, hand flying to the dagger at his belt. Ellaria clutched his arm, eyes wide with undisguised terror.

Areo Hotah shifted his grip on his longaxe, readying for a command that might prove futile.

Doran followed their gaze skyward. His breath caught in his throat.

Not one, but three colossal shapes circled overhead, their wingbeats like thunder rolling across the sky.

The first, shimmering gold in the sunlight, impossibly large and terrifying. The second was as black as midnight with veins of furious red running through its scales. And the third—green.

The color of Rhaegal. The dragon Aegon was meant to bring as their salvation.

But Aegon was not riding him.

Unmistakably, atop the golden dragon sat the figure of Viserys Targaryen, silver-gold hair gleaming like a crown. On the black beast was Daenerys Stormborn. Who looked a little… odd from here.

Is that horns on her head, I see? Doran squinted his eyes.

The green dragon, riderless, followed in perfect formation. They descended in a slow, deliberate display of absolute power, circling Sunspear as gods might survey their domain.

The sight broke something within Doran. The carefully constructed walls of patience and calculation crumbled like sand. The fear he had held at bay flooded through him, cold and absolute.

Three dragons. Including the one meant to be his salvation.

"I see.”

Aegon had failed.

Viserys Targaryen had won.

“So falls the spear before the flame," Doran whispered, his voice nearly lost in the wind.

He slumped back in his wheelchair as the strength drained from him. A long, slow sigh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of decades of planning, years of vengeance turned adoration by the appearance of his nephew—now all turned to ash by the beating wings above.

It was over.

No need for a fight.

Dorne was defeated.

****

Fire and blood.

Those were my family's words. Not just pretty phrases to frighten children, but the brutal philosophy that had kept Targaryens in power for centuries—until we forgot their meaning.

My father went mad with fire. My brother Rhaegar died without ever knowing about it. I nearly had molten gold poured on my head.

But now?

Now I understood the true meaning of our words.

Fire is transformation. Blood is power. And I possessed both in abundance. I understood that fact more than ever as I circled the skies of Dorne.

I was on top of Viserion, who flew beside Daenerys astride Drogon, against the scorching Dornish air. Below us, Doran Martell's weathered face twisted with shock, his wheelchair suddenly seeming smaller against the backdrop of Sunspear's ancient stones.

Beside him, Oberyn, the Red Viper, stood rigid, his hand on his weapon though he surely knew how futile that gesture was.

Rhaegal circled overhead, his emerald scales catching the sunlight as he kept watch. A dragon without a rider, but following my command regardless. Facts to my victory over the pretender Aegon.

The sight of Rhaegal clearly devastated the Martells below. Their champion, their false dragon, reduced to ash.

I patted Viserion's neck, feeling her scales hot beneath my palm. "Go to the ships, my beauty," I whispered. "You know what to do."

I'd already given her the instructions before.

I jumped off her back. Translucent wings widened from my back, beating against the wind. With a satisfied rumble, Viserion peeled away, her massive golden form casting a shadow across the entire courtyard as she departed.

I stretched my wings to their full span and descended slightly, coming level with the battlements where the Martells stood. The guards tightened their grips on their spears, sweat beading on their foreheads—not entirely from the heat.

"Prince Doran," I called while ignoring the weapons pointed at me. "Or should I simply call you Doran now? For you have proven yourself unworthy of rulership."

"Viserys—" he began, his voice steady despite everything.

"It's ‘Your Grace’ for you, Doran." My words cut through the air like Valyrian steel. "Your crimes are clear. You had incredible opportunities, being my very first ally, and you still betrayed me. You refused my call when I summoned your soldiers for my war. Not only that, you plotted with Varys and Illyrio.”

“....”

“Doran Martell, you backed a disgusting Blackfyre pretender against the true blood of the dragon. You would have seen me deposed, my realm plunged into chaos, all for your petty vengeance."

Oberyn stepped forward, his dark eyes flashing. "If we speak of vengeance, Dragon King, then speak also of the murdered Elia and her children. Speak of justice denied for decades!"

Even in defiance, there was respect in his tone. Oberyn appreciated power, especially when wielded with audacity. Oberyn and I started as friends, but now that I was against his brother, he took his brother's side even when he knew who was in the wrong.

Honestly, as family members, I couldn't even hate that.

"Prince Oberyn, calm down. Your sister was my sister-in-law. Although I didn't get to spend much time with her, the bit I did, she treated me like her own son. But you already know that. Why're you talking about her vengeance with me? It was the Lannisters. I know you're taking your brother's side, but choose your words carefully." I said with a sigh. "I've given you justice as much as I can. I killed that fool Joffrey, and made his mother watch. Next will be Tywin Lannizter. All in all, I've given you a future you can't deny."

“....”

Oberyn had nothing to say to that. He just looked into my eyes, and then lowered his head. I knew it wasn't his fault. He must have tried his best to convince his brother, but the senile cripple didn't listen.

“Now,” I clapped my hands sharply. “Let me introduce you to the future I'll give you next.”

Viserion reappeared, swooping low over the towers. There, clinging to her neck with practiced ease, rode a girl. It was Arianne Martell.

Her dark hair streamed behind her like a banner as Viserion landed with surprising gentleness on the battlements.

The shock on Doran's face was almost comical. "Ari?! You've been in those ships the whole time?"

She dismounted gracefully, her Dornish dress swirling around her legs. Her silver eyes, so striking against her bronze skin, regarded her father coldly.

"Yes, father," she said, her voice carrying the heat of the desert. "But I had no reason to let you know. Please stay quiet now. His Grace has an important announcement to make."

Doran's eyes widened, face full of rage for once. “What-”

“Yes, your daughter is right,” I smiled, savoring the moment. “Arianne Martell, shall be the new ruler of Dorne. The Highlady of this land.”

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