An excerpt from The Prince of Fire and Fate by Archmaester Vaelor, written in 153 AC
The storm broke upon Storm's End not by dragonfire, nor by siege engines, nor by the steel of foreign invaders, but by the hands of those sworn to its protection. The death of Lord Borros Baratheon at the hands of his own smallfolk was a moment of profound disgrace, a spectacle so steeped in horror that the chroniclers of the age struggled to record it without recoiling in revulsion.
When word first reached Aemond Targaryen that Storm's End had fallen, it was not to his banners but to the starving, the wretched, and the dispossessed. The great seat of House Baratheon, long thought unconquerable, had turned against its own lord. Borros, so long convinced of his indomitable will, met his end in the very halls that had birthed him, beaten and broken, his corpse dragged through the muck like a butchered swine. His wife and daughters suffered fates too grim to set to parchment, and when the dawn rose over Storm's End, its gates were thrown open not by knights, but by beggars and butcher's sons, who called out for the mercy of the Prince of Dragons.
Prince Aemond gave them no reply at first. He rode through the gates upon a black steed, his great wyrm's wings blotting out the sun as she circled above. The smallfolk, who had slaughtered their own lord in the hopes of securing their lives, fell to their knees before him, pleading clemency.
The corpses of House Baratheon—Borros's desecrated body among them—were laid before him in the castle's yard. His surviving kin, battered and bloodied, were dragged forth as offerings of appeasement. The Prince of Dragons surveyed them, and in them, he saw nothing worth saving.
Each noble of House Baratheon, each man suspected of aiding their lord in his doomed resistance, was put to the sword by the prince himself. Their heads were collected and bundled with those Aemond had already taken from Bronzegate, Parchment and Haystack Hall, a gruesome tally of his conquest.
Some had escaped. A handful of knights, a smattering of retainers, and men of the Stormlander fleet had fled northward, their sails set for Dragonstone. Perhaps they believed themselves swift enough to outrun fate. Perhaps they believed that the sea would hide them from the prince who had already bent the land to his will. They were mistaken.
Aemond pursued them as a storm pursues a ship, relentless and indifferent. He flew alone, untethered from the limitations of an army, unburdened by the weight of supply lines or siegeworks. He had no need for such things. His war was waged upon the air itself. The fleet was a scattering of wooden hulls upon a vast and empty sea. Aemond was a god descending upon them.
What transpired upon the Narrow Sea has been called a battle, but that is a misnomer. There was no battle, no contest of arms. There was only fire. Vhagar fell upon them like a beast starved of destruction. Ship by ship, mast by mast, the fleet was consumed. The sky itself turned black with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning pitch and boiling flesh. Sailors threw themselves into the sea, their screams swallowed by the tide. But there was no escape. Fire does not care for surrender.
By the time Aemond turned back for Storm's End, there was nothing left to pursue.
Upon his return, the banners of House Baratheon were torn down, their stags trampled underfoot, and as the prince left, only a token garrison remained to hold Storm's End before marching east, toward Griffin's Roost.
It was there that Lord Connington, who had heard the storm break over his liege's house, decided to meet the tempest rather than be consumed by it. Before Aemond's siege lines could be drawn, the lord of Griffin's Roost rode forth beneath a white flag, alone, save for a single squire. He knelt in the mud before the Prince of Dragons, denounced Rhaenyra as a false queen, and swore his allegiance to Aegon. Aemond accepted his submission and granted him back his lands, not out of kindness, but out of necessity. The Stormlands were in chaos, with the rebellious lords either dead or dispossessed. Aemond's war was not yet over, and he needed men to hold what he had taken. Lord Connington—as did Lord Fell of Felwood before him—eager to preserve his life and legacy, pledged himself to the task with a fervor that left no doubt as to his sincerity.
So it was across the Stormlands. Word of Borros's fate spread like wildfire, and lords who might have otherwise resisted surrender or found themselves prisoners of their own vassals. Blackhaven, Stonehelm, Weeping Tower, and Rainhouse—all fell, not to Aemond's host, but to insurrection. Fearful of the prince's retribution, the smallfolk turned on their lords, offering them up in supplication, just as had been done at Storm's End. Those who remained steadfast found no salvation in their own men-at-arms, for hunger and terror are stronger than loyalty, and mutiny soon did what siege engines could not.
Only Tarth defied Aemond's conquest. Seated beyond the Straits, Evenfall Hall believed itself beyond the reach of his wrath. They had misjudged. On the first day after, Vhagar's shadow darkened their skies. On the second, the Velaryon fleet, which had spent the better part of the Dance blockading the Stepstones, sailed to the isle and disembarked their troops. The Straits, which had so long been the Sapphire Isle's protection, had instead become its trap. Evenfall Hall fell within hours, its lord sent to join the others in Aemond's growing collection of heads.
With the Stormlands pacified, the ripples of the campaign spread beyond its borders. Sharp Point and Stonedance, distant but not distant enough, felt the tide turn against them. The smallfolk, having seen what fate awaited those who resisted, turned against their lords before Aemond's banners had even reached them. Sharp Point surrendered after a fail revolt and its lord fearing another. Stonedance's lord, hoping to crush the whispers of insurrection before they could bloom, tightened his grip upon his holdfast. In doing so, he only hastened his doom. The smallfolk rose in rebellion, and his own men-at-arms turned against him. By the time Aemond's host was informed of the happening, there need not be any work done for it had already been completed.
In King's Landing, the news of Aemond's campaign sent ripples through the court. King Aegon was said to have secluded himself for in his chambers three days and three nights after he was informed, rejecting all offers for food or wine. As a result, the prince would later sponsor a tourney from his own purse to thank his King for holding a fast in celebration of their great victory.
Prince Daemon, in the meantime, had been dispatched to Essos in hopes of raising coin and swords for Rhaenyra's cause. Had he been present, there is little doubt that the Black Prince would have flown forth upon Caraxes to meet his nephew in battle. But with him gone, the queen was left with only hard choices and harder counsel.
Some say she wished to fly herself to the Stormlands, to bring fire and fury down upon her tyrannical half-brother. But Syrax was not Vhagar, and even the most devoted of her supporters knew that to face Aemond alone was to court annihilation. Prince Jacaerys, eager to prove himself, offered to take Vermax in her stead, but this too was denied. Rhaenyra's hand was stayed by reason, and so she could do naught but watch as her enemy returned to King's Landing unchallenged.
Two weeks after departing, Aemond returned to the captial. With him, he brought the heads of a dozen lords, their visages twisted in the rictus of their final moments. They were presented in court, in silent tribute to his conquest. No banners were raised in mourning, no songs sung for the fallen. The war was far from over, but in that moment, the Stormlands belonged to Aemond Targaryen.
No one had dared to stand against him. And no one could deny that he had won.