The Red Mountains cast long shadows across the Targaryen camp as the sun dipped toward the western hills, turning the sky to blood and gold. Fires crackled in the gathering dusk, and the sound of sharpening blades and the low murmur of soldiers preparing for battle filled the air.
Within the royal tent, Aegon Targaryen stood beside a low brazier, its coals glowing. His simple crown of Valyrian steel gleamed dimly in the fading light. Across from him, clad in his blackened plate and a crimson cloak, stood Orys Baratheon, Hand of the King and Aegon's oldest, truest companion.
Aegon poured wine into two goblets and passed one to Orys without a word. They drank in silence for a time, the only sounds the crackle of flame and the distant roar of a dragon.
At length, Aegon spoke. His voice was quiet, but heavy with thought.
"Rhaenys has flown to Sunspear," he said, "to parley with Princess Meria."
Orys snorted into his cup, his face twisting in disbelief.
"A waste of good breath," he said. "We should have stormed Sunspear as we stormed Oldtown, the Eyrie, and Harrenhal. Subjugate them. Break them. Make them kneel."
He set the goblet down with a heavy thunk.
"The Dornish respect strength, not sweet words. They will not yield unless we tear down their towers and salt their fields."
Aegon studied his friend with those deep purple eyes that so many found unreadable. He set his own cup aside before answering.
"We have strength enough," he said. "Balerion's flame, Vhagar's fury, Meraxes' wrath. We could lay waste to this desert... but conquest is only the beginning, Orys."
He turned, gazing at the map spread out on the table, its edges weighted down with stones against the restless mountain winds.
"We must reign as well as conquer. Better to offer peace where we may, to give the realm a chance to heal. If Dorne would bend without blood, better for all."
Orys folded his arms across his broad chest.
"You think they will bend?"
A faint smile touched Aegon's lips.
"I think it unlikely. Yet better to offer the hand before the sword. When the world sees that we sought peace first, they will know where the blame lies for the fires to come."
He looked up, his gaze clear and cold.
"And you, my friend—how do you think Rhaenys's parley will fare?"
Orys shrugged, his face grim.
"I love your lady sister well, but she is too soft-hearted for this land. The Dornish will spit on her offers and laugh at her words. They will send her back empty-handed, if they let her fly back at all."
Aegon nodded, as if he had expected no other answer. He rested his hand lightly on Blackfyre's pommel, feeling the weight of destiny settle more firmly on his shoulders.
"Then we shall be ready."
Beyond the tent, the dragons stirred, sensing their masters' mood. Across the encampment, men sharpened their blades, tightened their armor, and gazed southward toward the endless sands.
War was coming.
And this time, there would be no mercy.