The council chamber of Aegonfort was a stark, smoke-dark hall of green oak and black stone, built atop the highest hill at the mouth of Blackwater Rush. The banners of House Targaryen hung from the beams, their three-headed dragon snarling red against black. A heavy iron brazier smoldered in the center of the room, driving back the autumn chill.
Aegon sat at the head of the table, Blackfyre resting across his knees, the rubies of his crown catching the firelight. His queens sat at either side of him: Visenya to his right, clad in sober steel-gray, with Dark Sister sheathed at her hip; Rhaenys to his left, bright-eyed and laughing in a gown of scarlet and gold.
Around the table, his council awaited his words.
Orys Baratheon, broad and bluff, drummed thick fingers against the tabletop. Daemon Velaryon, the Lord of the Tides, leaned forward intently, salt and silver streaking his beard. The Celtigar cousins, Edwell and Crispian—red-haired, sharp-featured men of Claw Isle—watched with the wary glances of those who had learned to measure each pause and frown. Grand Maester Gawen, a stooped, parchment-skinned man, coughed softly behind a hand.
Aegon let the silence stretch, testing them, weighing them.
At last he spoke."Dorne," he said, as if tasting the word. "The last thorn in the dragon's foot."
Visenya smiled thinly."It should be plucked."
"Burned," muttered Orys. "A torch in the sands, so all the realm sees what comes of defiance."
Daemon Velaryon gave a small grunt of agreement. "The seas choke with our ships, ready to sail. We can land a host at the Plankytown and march to Sunspear in weeks."
"Plankytown is not Sunspear," Rhaenys said lightly, but her words carried weight. "The Dornish do not fight like the Stormlords. They will not come forth in force. They will harry us, vanish into the sands, strike and fade. Every well poisoned, every pass defended."
"They are few," Edwell Celtigar pointed out. "Their castles are dust and stone, not walls of granite like Casterly Rock. Their cities are barely fit to be called towns. Crush them swiftly, I say, and plant loyal lords in their stead."
Grand Maester Gawen stirred."Forgive me, Your Grace," he rasped. "But I would counsel caution. The Dornish are a proud, fractious people. Their hatred for the dragonlords runs deep. In Valyria's day, they never bent knee nor offered fealty, though the Freehold ruled half the world."
"They hid in holes and caves," said Orys disdainfully. "Let them dig new graves."
Visenya's hand rested casually on the pommel of Dark Sister."Every moment they stand unbroken shames us. Six kingdoms is not seven."
At Aegon's side, Rhaenys tilted her head, golden hair gleaming in the firelight.
"Yet six kingdoms stand quiet now, at peace," she said. "If we pour blood into the sands of Dorne, how many years before the sands drink their fill? How many sons and daughters shall we bury in foreign soil?"
Silence again.
Daemon Velaryon broke it."If we do not strike, Sunspear may seek allies. Oldtown...the Reach...even the Free Cities. Better a war of fire now than a war of blades and coins tomorrow."
Aegon listened, eyes hooded, weighing each voice. His hand caressed Blackfyre's hilt, as if seeking counsel from the steel itself.
Then he rose.
"The Dornish will not come to heel with words," he said. "Nor with treaties signed on parchment. Their pride runs deep, but pride burns as swiftly as flesh."
He turned to Orys and Daemon Velaryon.
"Prepare the hosts. Muster ships at Storm's End and Dragonstone. We will strike at Plankytown and the Greenblood. Let the sands boil."
To Edwell Celtigar he said,"Study the Dornish Marches. Find the mountain passes we must take, the wells we must hold."
To Crispian Celtigar,"Gold buys loyalty. Where steel fails, silver may yet prevail. We will sow both."
To Grand Maester Gawen,"Summon the maesters of the Marches. Their wisdom may yet save lives we would otherwise lose."
Then he turned to his queens.
"Visenya, Rhaenys—you will ride with me."
Visenya inclined her head, a shadow of satisfaction in her cool eyes.Rhaenys only smiled, though her smile did not reach her eyes.
The council rose as Aegon strode from the hall, Balerion's roar shaking the distant sky.
War was coming again.And the sands of Dorne would soon know the taste of dragonfire.