"Dorne has danced with dragons before. I would sooner sleep with scorpions."
―in response to a letter from Ser Otto Hightower, asking for support during the Dance of the Dragons
…
Salt stiffened the collar of Vylant Darry's surcoat as he paced the weathered planks of his flagship's deck. The Grey Herald was not the grandest vessel in the royal fleet, nor the swiftest, but Vylant had commanded her through two wars now, and she had yet to fail him. A briny breeze ruffled his close-cropped hair as the midsummer sun cast golden motes across the Sea of Dorne. The sky was clear but for a few drifting clouds—too tranquil, he thought, for the storms brewing in the wider realm.
They had been patrolling the coastlines here for nearly a fortnight, running an endless circuit from the mouth of the Greenblood to the broken headlands below Storm's End. By direct order of the Master of War, Prince Aemond Targaryen, no warship—save those of Westerosi origin—was to sail within a league of the continent's eastern coastline. Though Braavosi presence was scant in these warm waters, the men had grown uneasy. Rumors abounded—talk of a grand alliance mustering north of the Steps, of Pentoshi money and Myrish crossbowmen, of the Tyroshi falling in line behind the Titan's call. Vylant did not need rumors to sense the tension. He saw it in every face on board: men glancing at the horizon with worried eyes, muttering about the blockade's next turning.
He found no solace in speculation. He only trusted orders. And so they had patrolled.
That morning, a swift galley flying the Targaryen standard had come alongside with all urgency, her sailors crying out for an audience with the Admiral. Vylant had them ushered aboard, curious and concerned. Perhaps it was news of an enemy incursion, or a change in strategy. He had not imagined it would be this—an urgent summons that could reshape the war in days.
He clutched the wax-sealed parchment now, reading its contents for what felt like the fourth time:
Admiral Vylant Darry,
You are hereby commanded to rally every available warship under your purview and sail at once to Estermont. There you will await further orders to bolster our strength against the fleet mustering at the Stepstones' foot. Let none tarry on these shores, nor waste precious days scouring the shallows. The threat from the Essosi coalition is immediate.
—Master of War, Prince Aemond Targaryen
Vylant exhaled then moved to seclude himself in the cramped warmth of his cabin. A battered lantern swayed overhead, painting shifting shadows on the wall. A moment later, he hunched over a writing desk, pen in hand, formulating a response to the Prince:
By your command, Prince Aemond,
I, Admiral Vylant Darry, do gather the fleets under my authority and shall sail at once to Estermont. I have left only skeleton coverage on the Dornish coast, at greatest speed. Expect us within a day—two at worst. May the winds favor our cause, and Long Live the King.
—Vylant Darry
He sprinkled sand over the ink, waiting for it to dry. Outside, the wind rattled the porthole. He closed his eyes, recalling the day he first hoisted the admiral's pennant on the Grey Herald, full of uncertain pride. Ah, youth. He missed those days.
At last, the letter was sealed with wax. Vylant rose, wincing at the ache in his joints, and stepped out onto the quarterdeck. In an hour, they would weigh anchor. One by one, caravels, cogs, and war galleys would form up behind the Grey Herald, and together they'd depart the Sea of Dorne. The next journey would lead them past Cape Wrath, along the Stormlands coast, and straight to the port at Estermont—as the prince had ordered.
A gull screeched overhead, circling. Vylant drew a deep breath, tasting salt and unspoken dread. His resolve firmed, he handed his reply to couriers and turned his gaze on his crew.
"All hands to station!" he bellowed. "Strike those sails and make ready—we weigh anchor on the hour! Let none among you tarry, for we sail on the prince's word, and I'll have no sluggards in my fleet!"
✥✥✥
By the time the raven flew in, the sun had begun its steady drop toward the jagged horizon, gilding the Palace of Sunspear in a deep copper light. Qoren stood upon a shaded balcony overlooking the broad courtyard, eyeing the restless banners that stirred in a merciless desert wind. The day had been a scorcher, like most of late, and though the sun cast long shadows across the sands, heat still radiated from the stone beneath his feet.
He felt the dryness in his throat, a tightness born of more than the Dornish climate. He'd known the day of decision loomed—only a fool would assume Dorne could remain aloof forever. Still, he had hoped for more time.
A soft knock at the lattice doors. One of his guards, lean and sharp-eyed under a burnished helm, stepped through. "My Prince," the man said, bowing his head. "A raven arrived from the coast. The letter bears the sigil of House Yronwood."
Qoren frowned. He dismissed the guard with a curt nod and accepted the parchment. Yronwood? They controlled the eastern marches near the Broken Arm, close enough to watch the seas. He broke the wax seal at once.
The missive's script was hurried:
My Prince,
The seas lie quiet of late. No Westerosi sails remain on our horizon. The watchers we posted in the dunes confirm the Westerosi ships stationed here have weighed anchor. They are rumoured to have sailed east in a great haste, presumably to the Stepstones. We suspect a major engagement looms. Your orders are awaited.
Qoren sighed, rolling his shoulders as if to ease an ache. The letter told him no more than he already feared. Still, it was confirmation enough. The Westerosi watchers have left. The seas around Dorne stand open—if we choose to sail.
He let the breeze tug at the edges of the parchment. Below, in the courtyard, smallfolk bustled about, stowing crates of dates and pomegranates for evening trade. A child squealed with laughter, chasing a scrawny cat behind a pillar. For a heartbeat, the ordinary hum of life pressed a pang against his chest.
He closed his eyes, remembering the weeks of tension—the embargo, the dread that Prince Aemond's blockade would strangle them all. With the Westerosi fleet gone from these waters, Dorne had, in theory, a rare chance to seize advantage. Braavos had long eyed an alliance. If Qoren dispatched his ships now, he might tip the scales in the Stepstones. Free the shipping lanes. Break the blockade that threatened to turn Dorne into a beggar realm.
Yet there was cost, too, in crossing the Targaryens. Aemond had proven lethal, and his dragons unstoppable. He had made it clear Dorne's neutrality would be respected only while it served him to do so. But if Qoren aligned with Braavos and the exiled Rhaenyra, the Butcher Prince might bring nine dragons down on his people.
His lips pressed into a grim line. I've stalled long enough.
He turned to call for ink and parchment, mind still churning. Dorne's fleets, though not as numerous as the Redwyne or Velaryon ships, held cunning sailors with desert tenacity. They could join a Braavosi attempt to smash the blockade at the Stepstones…
At that moment, a second guard rapped softly on the doorsill. The man bowed with another letter in hand—one sealed with a plain circle of black wax. "This just arrived, My Prince."
A trickle of apprehension prickled Qoren's spine. No sigil, yet the black wax felt urgent or ominous. He broke the seal carefully, half expecting some grave news. Instead, he found only a handful of words, written in a sharp, slanted script he had come to recognize:
The time is nigh.
Choose wisely.
—The Butcher
Qoren's skin ran cold.
He crushed the parchment in his fist. He let the crumpled letter fall to the table and walked to the balcony's edge, laying both palms on the sun-warmed stone balustrade. Beyond Sunspear's walls, the dunes stretched in shifting gold, bathed in the dying light.
In the hush of the late afternoon, Qoren felt the dryness in his throat again. His resolve firmed in his chest; he turned and strode back to his desk. Quill and parchment lay ready. With a steadying breath, he touched quill to parchment. The path ahead was fraught with grave danger, but he would not stand idle any longer.
He began to write.