Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 354: Doran’s Determination

"Brother, do you really think Olenna is concerned about those other nobles?" Dany asked, casting a skeptical glance back as their entourage departed Highgarden.

Viserys, having politely declined Olenna’s invitation to stay, exchanged a few final words with her before turning his attention to the next phase of their journey: preparations for Prince’s Pass. But Dany’s question lingered in his mind.

"Of course not," Viserys replied. "She’s thinking about House Tyrell. The fewer nobles there are, the more castles and lands become vacant. Those castles and lands become leverage—bargaining chips to consolidate power. And the fewer feudal lords there are, the more pressure falls on the remaining houses, no matter how powerful they might seem."

He looked ahead, his eyes narrowing as he continued. "After all, with more and more dragons under our command, it won’t matter whether there’s one more castle or one less. But eliminating one noble house or another? That can shift the balance significantly. Olenna—this ‘Queen of Thorns’—already suspects what I’m planning."

"So, what should we do?" Dany asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Don’t worry," Viserys said, his tone confident. "In theory, the entire continent of Essos belongs to the Targaryens. The ruins left behind by the Rhoynar will need significant human resources for redevelopment. I plan to relocate as many Westerosi nobles as possible. In time, Westeros will come fully under Targaryen rule."

Viserys’s ambitions were clear—he envisioned a new feudal system, one that would span continents. There are vast, fertile lands along the upper and middle reaches of the Rhoyne. After eliminating a few of Robert's staunchest supporters, just send the rest to settle in Essos. And let's not forget Sothoryos—a wilderness waiting to be explored. It can serve as a place of exile for criminals or dissenters.

...

At the Prince's Pass, the siege of Nightsong raged on. Prince Doran Martell himself stood at the foot of the city, offering an irresistible reward: the first to breach the walls and capture Nightsong would be granted the title of Viscount, along with a fief anywhere in Dorne. The promise of land and title drove the Dornish soldiers into a relentless assault, heedless of the danger.

Nightsong, serving as a key defensive pass between the Stormlands and Dorne, had been fortified over the years. Its stores of food and weapons were ample, and after three days of bloody fighting, the city remained untaken. The losses were heavy, with over three thousand Dornish soldiers dead or wounded, including the seasoned knight, Tremond.

Doran's thoughts darkened, weighed down by the capture of his brother, the Red Viper, who was being held in King’s Landing. Memories of Elia’s tragedy haunted him, and he feared a similar fate might befall Oberyn. Determined not to let that happen, Doran pushed for the siege’s success, even though his illness confined him mostly to his tent. From there, pitched on a high vantage point, he could see the battle unfolding below.

As the sky darkened, anxiety gnawed at Doran. Despite the relentless attacks, Nightsong still stood, its walls reduced to little more than a pile of rubble, yet not breached.

"Prince, night is falling. We should withdraw the troops," one of his advisers suggested, eyeing the growing darkness with concern.

Doran hesitated, torn. His army had been reduced by nearly 3,000 casualties in the effort to take the city—a heavy toll indeed. After five days of fierce fighting, they had yet to conquer Nightsong, and frustration simmered beneath Doran’s calm exterior. Yet, the defenders’ arrows were depleted, and the walls barely held. Victory felt so close, and retreat seemed unbearable.

But as night closed in, he knew the risks were growing.

"If only Your Grace Viserys could bring his dragons," an elderly vassal suggested. The speaker was Lord Trebor Jordayne of Tor, a man approaching sixty. His words echoed the thoughts of many.

Doran knew that if Viserys arrived with his dragons to assist in the siege, it would likely bring swift victory. But it would also cast the Dornish forces in a poor light, making them appear ineffectual. Worse, it would elevate the Targaryens in the eyes of Dorne’s lords, making them overly reliant on the dragons. Once the lords began to view dragonfire as the true power, it could hinder the unity of Sunspear.

'We must find our own way to take Nightsong,' Doran mused, 'especially since Viserys is still on Dragonstone.' He dismissed Trebor’s suggestion as a minor distraction and turned his thoughts back to the siege. Should he commit more resources or reconsider their tactics?

Just as he pondered, Doran caught sight of several massive "birds" circling over Nightsong.

Fire.

Dragons! Viserys!

"Dragons! It’s dragons!" The shout rippled through the ranks of Dornish lords, most of whom had never seen a dragon in their lifetime. They had grown up hearing stories of how Sunspear had resisted the might of dragons, and as a result, many held little love for the creatures. But now that the dragons fought for them, their presence filled the men with newfound hope and courage.

'Why is Viserys here?' Doran wondered, bewildered by the sudden appearance. But there was no time for answers. Seven dragons had already begun their assault, unleashing torrents of fire upon the defenders on the walls.

Nightsong belonged to House Caron, and the fortress was now held by Rolland Storm, the legitimized bastard son of the late Lord Bryen Caron.

Clad in his father’s armor and holding aloft the bright yellow banner of House Caron, Roland remained steadfast atop the battlements. Even as three arrows pierced his body, he did not waver. His resilience was the key reason Nightsong’s garrison of less than 4,000 men had been able to hold off Dorne’s 20,000-strong army for so long.

I may be a bastard, Roland thought grimly, but after this battle, my child will no longer be a bastard. He will carry the Caron name!

Gritting his teeth, he vowed, Gods help me—I’ll hold back these sons of bitches from Dorne!

As Rolland watched the Dornish offensive begin to falter, a flicker of hope ignited within him. He thought they had survived yet another attack. Just as he prepared to rally his men and push the Dornish soldiers back once more, he noticed a ripple of unease spreading among his troops.

He was about to bark orders, his temper flaring, when a thunderous roar erupted from the sky above—seven dragons descending like a storm.

"Surrender, and you will be spared! Resist, and you will be reduced to ashes in dragonfire!" Viserys's voice boomed over Nightsong. Though it had been years since he had last heard it, Doran immediately recognized the voice and realized this was the turning point. Seizing the moment, he urgently rallied his troops.

"Attack! Attack! Tell everyone to press the assault!" Doran shouted, his command spreading like wildfire through the Dornish ranks.

The arrival of the dragons shattered the fragile balance between the two sides. The soldiers of Nightsong, already exhausted, were struck with terror as the massive beasts soared overhead. Weapons trembled in their hands, and their will to fight crumbled at the sight of the dragons circling above.

Rolland Storm, too, had never seen a dragon before, but he knew that in moments like this, the commander had to set an example. Determined not to let fear control him, he grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow, and aimed at the largest, most striking of the dragons—a silver one flying in the lead.

With a sharp twang, the arrow flew, its white fletching streaking through the air towards the dragon. But Daenerys, riding atop the silver dragon, easily avoided the shot. In response, her dragon unleashed a torrent of black and red flames.

The fire consumed Rolland before he could even react. His body was incinerated in an instant, his armor melting into a pool of molten iron. Not a sound escaped him as he was reduced to nothing but ash.