Chapter Text
Laenor's crewmen spotted land on the horizon with their far-eyes, sent word to his father as captain of the vessel, and Laenor, as Grand Admiral, gave word to the fleet to continue its advance to the shoreline.
He had been sad to hear Prince Qoren's refusal to bend the knee to the Iron Throne, but he had been prepared for either outcome.
Laenor had planned the invasion of Dorne ever since they lent their support to the Triarchy. He dubbed it Operation Oakenfist in his book.
Dorne would have no warning of the first blow.
Before ever going to Sunspear to negotiate peace, he'd had the Royal and Redwyne fleets deployed to ferry troops across the seas. While the Velaryon fleet was waiting in the Stepstones for his command.
"The Dornish will expect us to come down the Marches with the dragons at our back as Aegon did, fighting towards Sunspear," commented his father, Corlys, at his side.
It was true. The Dornish had already amassed twenty thousand men in the Marches, ready to impede their advance.
Laenor had no intention of waltzing into the maw of the enemy so haphazardly.
His target. The Greenblood, the lifeblood of Dorne. He would split the principality into two. The western and eastern armies would be unable to come to the other's aid, as long as the Velaryon fleet controlled the river. And House Velaryon ruled the waves. The Dornish had not had strength at sea since Nymeria burned her ships, and any potential ally the Dornish might bring into the war would be powerless against the dragonships.
"Planky Town, dead ahead, Your Grace!" cried the Wind Wyrm's lookout, one Alyn of Hull. His brother from a common mother.
He'd given the boys places of high honour on his flagship, to see that they were well looked after and kept under foot.
Laenor must've lost his mind to think Rhaenyra would accept the boys as his bastards and have them live with them. And Laenor had thought the point of doing so was so that they could grow up alongside his children. He must've been mad. His time in his endless dream had shown him as much.
Still, he would make sure his brothers were looked after. They might not ever inherit lands on Driftmark or ride a dragon, but they would grow into wealthy men, and likely captain ships of their own one day.
Father knew the boys, and if he had a problem with Laenor taking them aboard, he kept his piece to himself. Likely out of fear of Mother.
Things between father and son had been cool since he'd woken up, as it was anyway. The Sea Snake should have trusted him to wake up rather than leaving him for dead, but Laenor did not have the time to give his old man the cold shoulder when what was needed was to conquer a nation.
In the distance, he spied a bustling harbour. It was Dorne's largest settlement, the closest thing they had to a city. And tomorrow it would be gone.
Some ships were already making a mad dash to escape what they suspected was coming. Laenor ordered them to be boarded, and if they were Dornish ships, captured.
The Velaryon fleet encroached on Planky Town, and he saw a mass of people begin to evacuate, some fleeing into the surrounding area, and others must've hoped he did not mean to venture up the Greenblood as they took off in their pole boats.
Laenor gave the order to sack the settlement with a heavy heart. He hadn't wanted hostilities to come to this, but this was now a war.
Dorne was not Tyrosh, that could be brought to heel so easily. A simple blockade and threat of burning would not lay them low. So, Laenor had to break them.
A township of any size meant that sacks were vile, bloody affairs rife with rapine pillaging. There was only so far his orders on discipline would carry.
At least, no slaves would be taken.
Planky Town was a hodgepodge of barges, pole boats, and ships fastened together with rope. Once his men had looted the town of its valuables to help pay for the war effort, he'd order the whole thing to be put to the torch. Dorne's chief harbour would be destroyed in a day.
As Silverwing roared in the sky at the carnage beneath him, Laenor figured he'd probably have his dragon burn it instead.
Already, the Ironborn had been ordered to seal off all of Dorne's great rivers from the Torentine to the Wyl. The Prince's Pass and the Boneway would likewise be sealed off to trade. As Planky Town burned, Daemon was sailing across the Sea of Dorne from Cape Wrath with a host meant to besiege the Tor, all while Vhagar and Meleys descended on the assembled hosts, which would throw the Dornish strategy into disarray.
Dorne would be isolated from the world, all shipments of food would stop. The Dornish noble houses would go bankrupt. The Dornish would starve. Dorne would lose, eventually...
He had no illusions this would be a short campaign. Of course, he doubted the Dornish would face the dragons in open battle, and dragons there would be accompanying every host descending on them. That meant pitched battles would be avoided for the most part. That did not bode all too well for them.
This would become a war of attrition. The Dornish desert, disease and the sun itself would wage war against them. Such pestilences he could only hope to mitigate. Supply lines would be carefully guarded to ward off skirmishers, maesters were to be brought in with plenty milk of the seahorse to ward off illness, and he'd make sure to outfit his soldiers for the heat. But it wouldn't be enough to save them all.
Thousands would perish, tens of thousands.
It was up to him to wage the war effectively. To ensure the conquest was a success, he needed to prevent a war of annihilation. Prevent a genocide of fire and blood.
As his men returned to their ships, he blew his horn and Silverwing descended so he could mount his dragon.
The two of them took to the skies, and he said the magic word: "Dracarys!"
Laenor watched Planky Town be engulfed by the silver flames, melting away into ash and dust as it washed out into the tides.
Laenor and Corlys were poring over maps of Dorne together.
"Daemon will have crossed the sea with Caraxes and ten thousand men to take the Tor on the coast. That leaves the other ninety thousand to march on foot. Matthos Tyrell will lead half the army through the Prince's Pass with Laena's providing cover on Vhagar, the other half will be lead by Uncle Boremund down the Boneway with Mother and Meleys," commented Laenor as he moved Cyvasse pieces over a map, denoting the relative positions of their forces.
"The Dornish cannot hope to contest such a force," remarked Father.
It was the largest army ever assembled in the history of Westeros outside of old legends, and the most dragons House Targaryen had ever fielded.
"The won't try to," Laenor sighed, "and that's the problem. We won't get the chance to smash them in open battle. They'll scurry away into the desert, into their caves and other such refuges. They'll wait until our backs are turned laying siege to empty castles, sending out raids, and attack our supply lines. They plan on the sun burning our men, and disease to ravage us."
"You told the king as much."
"I did, I only hope he realized how that bodes for our cause. This will be a long war, years even."
"What did you write in your book? 'Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics.' We're the professionals here, our commanders are bloodied from the war against the Triarchy. We'll win."
Laenor remembered the quote, it had not sprung forth from his mind but some military man from a past he no longer recalled, but he had included it in his 'Art of War'. The stolen words had won him an iron link of a maester's chain from the Citadel. He did not believe he was some military genius, but there were no professional generals in this world. He was as close a thing to one as there was going to be found here.
"Our supply lines will be our main focus-" Father began, trying to reassure him.
"Our supply lines that'll stretch hundreds of miles," he interrupted, "we'll have to feed, water, and clothe a hundred thousand soldiers, let alone the camp followers and pack animals driving them forward. It boggles the mind. And then we'll have to take care of a conquered population after despoiling the landscape or else we'll lose the hearts and minds of the people."
"Hearts and minds, bah!" Corlys rebutted, "You must let this folly go, the Dornish will not love you, conquered people do not adore their conquerors."
Laenor was not convinced, he had written extensively in his book that the key to winning a guerrilla war was to win the populace to their side. If the Dornish refused to surrender, then Dorne would remain an open wound instead of a conquest, swallowing soldiers and coin. They could burn down every keep in Dorne, kill all of their leaders, but if Vulture Kings kept emerging from a country of rebels, then the conquest will have been empty. The whole point of the conquest was to achieve a lasting peace, not an endless war.
He said as much to his father, who harrumphed.
"And how do you plan on winning the Dornish to your side as our armies run rampant through the country side, slaughtering their kin and countrymen?"
"The Dornish share the same language, the same gods, that is more than can be said for other successful conquests. Nymeria conquered Dorne because-"
"It took Nymeria eleven years to conquer Dorne. Do you want to spend a decade in the desert?"
"Because she won the people to her side." Laenor finished. Yes, Nymeria had spent longer than he intended to conquer Dorne, but she had brought a token force with her and fought established kings and lords. Half her strength had been from the Martells, petty Andal warlords. Laenor had a hundred thousand men and four dragons at his disposal.
The war would be simple; it was peace that'd be complicated.
"What's your plan then?" asked a skeptical Sea Snake.
"The small folk in Dorne are no different than in the rest of the kingdoms, poor and oppressed by nobles who care for little but themselves. We can be better than that. The high lords of Dorne have their grievances against each other that we can exploit. I'll turn the Dornish against each other, salt against stone against sand," Laenor said, referencing the different ethnicities present in Dorne. "Noble versus peasant. Divide and conquer."
"Aegon tried a similar tact-"
"Aegon tried to turn the Dornish houses against their princes by burning every other castle in the country in an obvious ploy. Then he turned to burning everything in sight out of vengeance for his lost sister-wife."
Laenor could understand that at least, Laena's lifeless face would scarcely leave his mind's eye. He wouldn't send his dragonriders to their doom, except maybe Daemon...
"Careful, son, it's a dangerous thing to compare yourself favourably to the Conqueror."
"Tch..." Laenor sucked his teeth. Aegon the Dragon had won his kingdoms by burning or slaying anyone who disagreed with him. He'd won the Iron Islands just by winning a duel. Dorne would take more than that; it would take finesse the Conqueror couldn't have conceived of.
"A letter will not put an end to my conquest," Laenor retorted. Laenor had seen the truth of that with the glass candles, the infamous missive that Aegon had received that persuaded him to put an end to the First Dornish War after making a ruin of Dorne. Queen Rhaenys had survived the fall of her dragon, but her body was broken and was held as a hostage by House Uller, thus persuading Aegon not to burn any more Dornishmen lest he accidentally burn his sister to death. Hence why Aegon had flown Dragonstone to confirm a secret between brother and sister, why Prince Nymor had felt confident sending his daughter into the dragon's lair.
Aegon never admitted the reason lest he look weak for failing his sister. Rhaenys had actually outlived both of her siblings, mayhaps even her son.
But now she was dead, and nothing prevented the Targaryens from waging war against Dorne in earnest. No lists of fallen dead, ensorceled parchment, pleas from father to father or threats of Faceless Men would prevent Laenor's bloody business.
"I will succeed where Aegon failed," promised Laenor to his father, "for the sake of peace, for my children's sake, I will not fail here."
"Where will you go?" asked Corlys, curious as the silver dragon on the board had yet to move.
"I will move between our armies, coordinating between the three of them, making sure the war is being prosecuted exactly as I've planned. Wherever dragons are truly needed, Silverwing will join with one of the others, two should overwhelm even the most scorpion-infested keep."
"It is a shame Vermithor has not joined us," mocked Father.
"Rhaenyra is too important to risk!" lashed back Laenor, "she is the heir to the realm, and the mother to the king after her besides. Do you want the Greens to take power should she fall? Besides, there is little five dragons can do that four cannot."
Chastened, Corlys seemed to have dropped the subject until he asked, "Then why are you here?"
The implication was obvious: Laenor was too important to risk as well. There was some truth to that.
"Because I must," answered Laenor. The real answer was Laena. She would not be kept from the war while her family fought, and Vhagar was too important to be held back. But she was too important to him to risk dying in this war, so he needed to be the one to wage it, to make sure she was safe.
Laenor dearly wished that Prince Qoren had accepted his peace treaty; he only hoped the man would be quick to come to the negotiating table after so much blood had been spilled. Laenor wanted to go home, spend the years otherwise spent waging war with his family, spreading his advancements across the realm. But wars were not fought by childless men alone, and if he meant for his children to live in peace, all their enemies would have to be brought to heel.
"I must," he echoed.
The initial phase of the war went as expected. As well as could be hoped for.
The Dornish forces assembled in the Marches were caught off guard by the appearance of Vhagar and Meleys, and scattered into the mountains. The Tor was taken by Daemon, and the members of House Jordayne were taken prisoner, including the ruling lady. And now, tens of thousands poured into Dorne from the Prince's Pass and the Boneway.
While they were harassed all the while, the Dornish were too afraid to march in force lest they be scorched by dragonflame, so the skirmishers they did send were repelled easily enough, though not without cost.
Laenor first flew to Laena and aided her in clearing the Prince's Pass. Silverwing spent much time with Vhagar as the siblings marched down the easier of the two paths. By rights, Mother and Uncle Boremund needed him more to clear the hazardous Boneway, but Laenor was keen to protect his sister at this, the most treacherous part of the invasion.
The two of them sat lazily on chairs inside their pavilion after a long day of conquering.
Laenor tuned his harp as Laena feasted on a cluster of grapes.
The two of them were deep into their cups of Arbor gold.
"Do you think the war will last much longer?" she asked of him.
"You know my thoughts on the matter," he replied. He'd insisted his sister be informed of their strategies, their tactics and urged her to take heed of them. For her sake.
"Even now that we've smashed them?"
"Now especially," he reasoned, "if they'd met us in the field for a conventional battle, we might've laid them low and captured their leaders. Now that we've 'smashed them', it's left to us to pick up the shards, one by one, and put them neatly back together again. I fear the war is just beginning."
"Pity," said Laena, making a face as if she'd swallowed a particularly sour grape, "I am not fond of war."
"Nor am I," he admitted.
"Yet you're so good at it."
"Is that to my glory or my shame?" It was a question he had oft asked himself of late. With every victory, as men heaped laurels on him, all Laenor could think of was the widows tearing their clothes in grief at the news of their husbands' deaths at his hands, the orphans he'd made crying at the loss of their fathers.
"Do not pose me riddles, Laenor. I am no septa."
Laenor snorted. His sister was not one to examine the ethics of such things. She was a true Targaryen in that she believed their suzerainty over the world was the natural state of affairs. Her dislike of war stemmed more from cutting into her leisure time.
"Sing me a song!" commanded Laena, so as to change the mood.
"What would you like?"
"A love song, of course, something passionate and heartfelt."
Laenor racked his brain for the right words. He'd forgotten much of his past, but poetry would come over him like a welcome tide.
"Forever, my darling, our love will be true. Always and forever, I'll love just you."
Laena hummed in appreciation and stood up from her couch.
"Just promise me, darling, your love in return. May this fire in my soul, dear, forever burn."
His sister closed her eyes and danced languidly to the music.
"My heart's at your command, dear. To keep love and to hold. Making you happy is my desire, dear. Keeping you is my goal."
She brushed past him, opened her eyes long enough to gaze into his, and purple met purple.
"I'll forever love you, the rest of my days. I'll never part from you, and your loving ways."
Laenor blushed as memories of strange dreams invaded his mind. Of Laena, of them, together...
He finished the song, and Laena stayed dancing, swaying like a leaf in the breeze. Clearly lost in some waking dream.
"Where are you?" he asked, beyond curious.
"Mmm, we're back on Driftmark, watching our children play in the Hall of Nine."
Laenor closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself there. He saw Aemon and Jace dancing with the twins, as he twirled Laena around the pale stone floors under rays of sunlight glistening off the silvered rooftops.
He took a deep breath and shuddered, longing for a simpler time.
"I love you, Laenor."
He smiled, then tried to keep his expression from turning into a scowl as the image of her lifeless face made its way from the back of his head.
"I love you too, Laena."
His sister laughed at him, as if at some secret jape.
"I did not want you to come to war," he confided in her.
"Did you want Mother to fly with you?"
"I could never keep her from going where she might, and she would not be parted long from Father."
"And I would not be long parted from my love either."
"I'll try to give Daemon leave soon."
"He has his mission, and I have mine."
"I just want you safe..."
There was silence for a while after he'd said that.
"Is that why, you never fought for us?" Laena asked, full of trepidation.
"What do you mean?" he asked, confused by the question.
"Once you had Silverwing, and I might have had Vhagar had you but asked me to claim her. Mother had Meleys. None could have withstood us together. Not Caraxes, and it would be some time before the Old King died and Rhaenyra took up Vermithor. Why did you choose to abide by the results of the council? Why did you even agree to go?"
Laenor was taken aback by the question, "We were children, Laena."
"I was. You were never a child, Laenor. From the first. I won't hear differently. I might be your big sister, but you were always... older."
He didn't know what to say to that. He'd always known that Laena looked up to him, even in their youth. Knowing that she was clever, and that he could scarcely pull the wool over her eyes. He tried to change the subject back to its previous vein.
"The whole realm was against us, you've heard the rumours. The results of the council were 20-1 in Viserys' favour."
"And the realm entire was against Aegon forging the Iron Throne from their kingdoms. It was dragons that made the difference, and dragons we had."
"You might've died, or Mother. I never even considered it," Laenor lied.
He had once considered disregarding the council. When only he and Daemon were capable of flying dragons. He had every confidence that Silverwing could take Caraxes, and it was true, he'd kept Laena waiting for Vhagar for fear of her safety. He'd abandoned the plan in favour of courting Rhaenyra and ensuring their eventual victory, and ensuring they all lived. How could he tell Laena that he knew that Daemon & Caraxes were capable of killing even Vhagar?
"I might've been queen," Laena said, with her tone rebuking him, yet there was something else there, something pleading.
The words landed on him like a blow. He had no idea she was still sore over her claim to the throne. Should he have? Their parents still chafed at the insults given them over the years, why not Laena?
"I never wanted to be king," he spoke the truth with that, "to be king is to have a sword hovering over your neck."
"Yet you content yourself with becoming a king-consort."
That was... strange.
"I had to do my duty. The realm needed me at its head. You know the things I've seen."
Laenor had long since told Laena of his 'dreams'. It was of paramount importance that the Blacks win the war soundly lest their house be ruined.
"What about me?" she asked, staring at him with an expression he'd never seen from her before. Loss.
"I saw us dead. I saw you dead, Laena. I would do anything, have done everything, to keep that from happening."
"I am alive, damn you! I am the eldest child of the rightful queen! I ride the greatest dragon! I should be queen!"
The words struck him like a blow. Did his sister truly feel this bitter about their loss of station? Was this the drink talking?
"I have done everything that was ever asked of me," she continued, ranting, begging. "I claimed Vhagar. I paraded for Viserys when I was told. I flew to war when my twins were babes. I took moon tea to prevent me from giving Daemon a son! I have given every part of me for Father's ambition, and for what?"
"I never asked you for anything, sister." He didn't know why he said it, but part of him felt the need to defend himself. Guilt rose up in him for letting Laena be used as a pawn in their great game, but wasn't that the world they lived in?
"You took everything I ever wanted from me!"
He could only surmise she was wroth at his advice to avoid a second pregnancy for fear of her dying in childbirth. Hearing that she'd taken moon tea was a shock he could scarcely process, let alone address.
"I thought you were happy, I thought you were-"
"I was meant to be queen! I was meant to be Visenya!"
"Where is this coming from, Laena? Is this Daemon's doing?"
She scoffed at him.
"Fly on, little brother," she told him with her back turned, "I tire of your knight in shining armour routine."
"I only ever meant to keep you safe, sister."
"On Vhagar's back, you are the only living creature capable of harming me."
He saw her lifeless face again and meant to protest, when she continued.
"The sooner we're done here, the sooner we can get back to what really matters," she said, turning to face him again. Tears were falling down her chin, and her eyes were puffy.
Laenor swallowed his dread and nodded reluctantly.
His sweet sister laughed bitterly and pressed a kiss to his cheek that he took on the chin. It was a forced gesture, but he appreciated it nonetheless.
In the morning, with a splitting headache, he learned that Laena had taken her leave first.
She had flown at first light, leaving no note of her destination.
He meant to send ravens after her, but knew she was right. With Vhagar, far from Dorne, she was as safe as could be hoped. She would appear when she felt like it. She would not leave the twins for too long.
He sent the ravens out anyway, if only to see where she was headed and to be certain that she was safe.
Mayhaps she had gone to see their mother, mayhaps her husband. Mayhaps she simply wanted to be away from him.
Their estrangement did not bode well. If Laena wanted to be queen, if Daemon was egging her on. They were 'ifs' that Laenor dared not contemplate to any end. The thought was too terrible to imagine.
Laenor had already lost trust in his wife, he could not afford to doubt his sister.
He chose to believe that it was just a spat between siblings.
He would die for Laena, he could not bear the thought of fighting her.
She was his sister, and she would come around. She had to.
Laenor had come to a holdfast in the Boneway.
Laena was nowhere in Dorne; she'd left the war entirely. To where, he did not know. He would soon have Mother and Meleys take her place in Lord Tyrell's host, while he joined Uncle Boremund.
Baratheon commanded the flower of their army. Heavy infantry from the Stormlands, the knights of the Vale, Marcher longbowmen, etc.
The Northern contingent was noticeably the smallest portion of the Royal Army, save for the Ironborn who seldom came ashore, but they were worth every man.
"Lord Stark," greeted Laenor from atop his dragon.
Lord Rickon was not a tall man, but he struck a formidable figure dressed all in white among the dunes save for the grey direwolf embroidered on his chest. Standing upright and stalwart with the men he'd led all this way to go to war.
"Your Grace," the grey-eyed man greeted back, and bent his knee. He'd accompanied Lord Baratheon on the march down the Boneway, and Laenor had taken to ordering his Northmen to storm the Dornish refuges they found.
The Northmen were shaving their beards as he came upon them. Unused to the hot weather, they wanted to be comfortable before they died.
They crowded around Silverwing in awe.
Laenor dismounted and had Rickon stand.
"I will say it again, I am most thankful for your presence here in Dorne. When King Viserys called the banners, I wanted the Direwolves of Winterfell to be among them as much as any."
Lord Stark simply nodded, not one much for pleasantries, but he was still a proud man who'd remember the compliment even if he did not appreciate it as some other men might.
"I only regret I brought so few," lamented Lord Stark.
"Don't mention it," Laenor waved off, "I have tens of thousands of men. I needed those willing to risk their lives for the cause, and you brought as many of those as any of your peers."
"Winter is coming," was Stark's reply, "soon the snows will be upon us, and the old men do not mean to burden their families with hungry bellies." They were Winter Wolves come to die before the end of a long summer. If only Laenor had ten times their number...
"I'm impressed by their resolve. I swear to you, Lord Stark, that any of your men who feel they are a burden and do not perish in our current conflict, I can gladly take on as sworn swords to serve the crown, clearing pirates in the Stepstones."
Lord Stark nodded again, "I will let it be known to my men, Your Grace."
"Excellent, now on to these dire warnings of winter, I've been meaning to talk to you about supplying the North with grain and other sundries through White Harbor for the upcoming winter to dampen the season's harsh effects on your region. I'd also like to discuss the creation of glass houses in your homeland to grow fruits and vegetables despite the cold, they're all the rage among the wealthy in Essos, and I think with the price of glass falling due to my glassworks that we can have them sprout up in the North," Laenor rambled on as Rickon listened with rapt, albeit subdued interest.
"The North is not as rich as the other kingdoms, Your Grace," remarked a humble lord.
Laenor smiled, "Nonsense, you are simply rich in other commodities that will be needed in due time. But worry not, I will be generous with any proposals, I'm sure it will only be to your benefit and your bannermen's."
As Lord Rickon was about to answer back, bells started to toll throughout the camp, and men started to scream.
"We're under attack!"
"The Dornish are coming!"
Laenor unsheathed Blackfyre, and Ice was brought forward to Lord Rickon, and the two of them quickly went to meet the enemy.
It was a suicide charge of some fifty Dornishmen who'd sallied out of a fortlet they'd been caught in to die honourably rather than being burned to death by Silverwing or Meleys.
And suicide it was.
Laenor carved through them like a hot knife through butter, as the fearsome Northmen swarmed at his side to protect their lord and prince.
He caught sight of a helmet-less Lord Rickon who nearly cut a man in half with his greatsword. Then Laenor was at his back, blocking a spear from piercing Stark's neck.
Soon, Meleys was soaring through the air, and Laenor ordered his men to halt in formation.
Mother bathed their enemies in dragonfire, who died screaming.
Those who had flocked together to run into the wall of Northern spears and swords likewise fell.
It was from the survivors that Laenor learned the Dornishmen's intentions to die in battle rather than like cattle.
Lord Rickon found him when it was over, and fell to his knees, "My thanks, Your Grace, I will forever be grateful for you saving my life here today."
Laenor waved him off and brought the man to his feet, "We both live to fight another day."
Inwardly, Laenor was thrilled. The Northmen would be staunch allies of the Blacks should a civil war ever break out over Rhaenyra's inheritance.
Starks remembered their oaths.
When Mother found him, she hit him hard enough on the chest to leave a bruise, as she scolded him for risking his life in what was an admittedly paltry battle rather than taking flight on Silverwing.
He laughed it off and thanked her for her support. His dragon could not fight all his battles.
"Good show of it, Your Grace, we're glad to have you with us!" Boomed Uncle Boremund, who nearly took him off his feet when he patted him on the back.
That night, he sang Last of the Giants and played his harp to the Northmen, who were a captive audience. On the morrow, he would resume the war and spend that night singing Marcher ballads with the archers.
War in the Boneway was no more rewarding than in the Prince's Pass, and he drank deeply of every offered flagon, tested by a taster, mind you. Wondering where Laena might be.
What was meant to be a week's march to Yronwood turned into a month.
The Wyl of Wyl had harried their entire march down the Boneway, with their troops constantly being pelted from above. Silverwing's presence could only dissuade them so much as they swarmed the cliffs, and Laenor only risked his dragon sparingly, as the skies became inundated with arrows shot from powerful longbows and bolts thrown from a score of scorpions.
They couldn't even send scouts on horseback forward, since the very ground was littered with caltrops and wolf holes that needed to be painstakingly removed under a hail of projectiles.
Whenever raiding parties were sent out, the Dornish seemed to materialize out of nothing to attack them, before retreating for fear of Silverwing.
Lord Baratheon had taken to setting a large fraction of the army on guard for the night's watch, as that is when the Dornish really descended on them.
Even though the Dornish had been taken by surprise by the initial assault, they had still known they were coming. They had prepared their defences well.
They had wisely forgoen building any new fortifications in the Boneway that the dragons would have simply burned; they had instead put all their manpower into turning the terrain against their foes.
The Red Mountains themselves seemed against them, as the Dornish collapsed the cliff sides and let loose landslides.
He'd lost a thousand men just to one such attack.
Thankfully, the Dornish attempt to surround them was foiled. Laenor and Boremund had learned from Orys Baratheon's blunder. Laenor had sent the Winter Wolves along the goat paths, and they reaped a bloody toll from the Dornish trying to ambush them.
Lord Stark brought him the Wyl of Wyl's head.
The Dornish would not meet them in battle, but they constantly harried their supply lines. Drawn out over hundreds of miles, even a hundred thousand men could be stretched thin. The Dornish themselves were not much of a threat; they would not deploy in force, and so they were driven off by their superior numbers and far superior fire power. But every time they needed to face a threat, they did so under the scorching sun. When they were on the march or resting in camp, it meant tired and hungry men cramped together in close quarters nestled nearby where they shit, and something deadlier than the sun emerged.
"Ahhhhhh! It hurts!" screamed a young man inside the tent as Laenor entered.
The lad was not much older than a boy, he had no visible wounds but was covered in his own blood and shit, clenching his belly.
Laenor looked to the maester treating him.
"It's the Flux, Your Grace, as sure as I breathe," cautioned the man, who held a handkerchief to his nose, either repulsed at the scent or trying to avoid infection himself.
So, the Bloody Flux had come. The bane of every army since the Dawn Age. What even battle-hardened warriors feared.
Laenor did not fear it. Targaryens were not like other men; such common diseases did not threaten them. And he was used to the smell of shit by now.
"What's your name?" he asked of the young man.
"Help me, please!"
"His Grace asked you a question!" barked one of his guards.
"Peace, Ser, the man is clearly in pain. Abdominal cramps can be fierce," Laenor explained, and turned to the maester, "give him milk of the poppy, and see he's well watered, do not neglect to salt and sweeten his drink."
Laenor knew the Bloody Flux also as dysentery; it had been highlighted in his book. The best treatment was oral rehydration therapy.
With one or few cases, it was of little concern as long as those infected were quarantined and hydrated.
The problem was how it could spread, especially among armies of men on the march, in the desert where water was already scarce. The Flux could consume entire cities if left unchecked.
Just as he considered setting up a permanent field hospital, two more men were brought in.
"Two more shitty men shitting themselves to death, Your Grace," commented one of the gruff soldiers who'd brought them.
He heaved a heavy sigh.
Laenor's worst fears were realized. This would be a long war, a war against guerrillas in hostile terrain.
Laenor turned to the book for wisdom. The 'Art of War', his book, was a font of knowledge. He followed its tenets on prosecuting a war religiously.
His plan for waging war had never been attempted before in this world.
Yronwood had been abandoned save for some stragglers. No matter. He'd neither expected it nor wanted to waste time with a siege.
He would drain the sea, or in this case, sift the desert. Every settlement that did not submit to being garrisoned would be emptied of inhabitants, and the population relocated to strategic hamlets. Their non-combatants could be kept under control, and the enemy denied succour. The otherwise empty castles and holdfasts left in the wake of their hosts for fear of being burned by their dragons would be used as staging grounds for counterinsurgency warfare. Each keep would serve as the heart of an oil spot that would eventually blot out the map until every cave and hidey-hole was cleared.
He took out his map of Dorne, and dabbed Yronwood with too much ink and watched it blot outwards.
Wherever House Yronwood had run off to, it likely hadn't been far from their ancestral home.
Some of them, one of them, would be found. And they'd spill the beans about the others.
Laenor was playing the long game. The Yronwoods might think they could outlast him, but he would see just how long the proud Dornishmen were content to wither away in the desert while he slept inside a castle's walls.
In a sense, the Fifth Dornish War had become... holy, in nature. Alongside the three-headed dragon banners of House Targaryen, more often than not, flew the Seven-Pointed Star. When Dornishmen surrendered to him, he would have them swear an oath on the holy book of the same name.
Laenor himself had taken to carrying a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star with him and quoting its lines to his troops and the Dornish alike.
"The Smith set unto Hugor of the Hill's hand, a mighty sword of iron through which he would shatter hosts and destroy kingdoms alike!" proselytized a Septon to the castle garrison.
Yronwood's maester approached him with a pile of parchment, "Your Grace, here are the letters you asked for."
He'd commanded the man to bring him anything the Yronwood's had ordered burned.
As Laenor skimmed through the missives, a wide smile emerged on his face. It was a letter from Lady Manwoody, offering safe haven for the Yronwoods in their time of need. No wonder they wanted it burned.
Laenor had taken complete control of the realm's resources to wage his war. The Citadel had been commanded to order their maesters to not only deny aid to their enemy and crucially, deny them access to the network of ravens, but to aid the invasion forces. When the order of learned men had protested regarding their neutrality, sworn as they were to serve the realm entire, Laenor had simply written back that it was a shame the realm was ruled by House Targaryen. The Faith, too, had been roped into the cause, with Dorne's Septons and Septas commanded by the High Septon to preach peace to the faithful, and deny even funeral rights to the enemy dead.
"Seven Blessings on you, Your Grace!" cried a Dornishwoman as Laenor strode through the hamlet. From the looks of her, she was a lady of the evening.
The woman might suffer the consequences of that action later, if her erstwhile countrymen had their way. But she was likely hoping to ingratiate herself in the good graces of the local garrison.
He threw some coppers to a gang of children who ran off with smiles on their faces.
As he approached the hamlet's centre to visit the local alderman they'd put in charge, he considered his hearts and minds approach.
From the very beginning of the conflict, Laenor instructed his men to act as though Dorne were already a part of the Seven Kingdoms (which was a pretense that stretched back to Aegon's Conquest) and their war was against rebelling lords, who'd long preyed on the small-folk of the principality and waged offensive wars across the Marches.
Those who surrendered were welcomed into the King's Peace, lavishly. Food was brought to them from the Reach, their water reserves were left untouched, and they were even given new apparatuses to collect water he'd written about in his book on technology. They were provided with new desert staple crops and supplied with camels from Qarth, and sandsteeds were bought aplenty for them. New public works were raised, roads were paved, and houses and mills were built. They gained access to medicine and modern education. Everything looted or burned by his soldiers would be paid for, in gold, but only to those loyal citizens of the crown. Soldiers caught harassing their womenfolk would be gelded. Informers and turncoats were paid handsomely.
Inside the hamlet, there were as many Dornishmen patrolling as watchmen as there were soldiers from the Royal Army.
If one had to live in Dorne, it was best to live in Occupied Dorne.
"What's your name?" asked Laenor of the olive-skinned man kneeling before him.
"Garin, Your Grace," answered the man with a grimace.
Laenor laughed. Garin was a name rife with anti-Valyrian history, but it was a very popular name among the people of the Rhoyne.
"Where are you from?"
"Dagger Lake."
"Mmm, you'll do nicely."
Laenor had brought many Rhoynish mercenaries from the Rhoyne in Essos to mingle with the Orphans of the Greenblood to turn them against their overlords by guaranteeing their rights, language, and gods, who'd long resented Martell attempts to assimilate them under the Red Princes.
He turned the different races of Dorne against one another as ancient grudges were inflamed. Divide and conquer.
To the 'rebels', they were given nothing but fire and blood. They would starve as their crops were burned and their trade cut off. They would die of thirst as their wells were poisoned and the rivers were closely guarded. Their homes would be reduced to ash. From the sky, the dragons would drop jars full of wildfire over olive groves and vineyards. Pets and pack animals alike were put to the sword. Rape and pillage were overlooked. The earth was salted, and the air filled with smoke. Entire villages were erased off the map, entire family trees driven extinct.
In the end, Laenor had little burning to do, since the Dornish had taken to scorched earth tactics, leaving them little for them to seize or destroy.
He'd had Hellholt alone reduced to charred ruins, and wrote in the blood of executed prisoners for all to see: "For Queen Rhaenys".
House Toland, with their banner of a dragon eating its own tail in reference to Aegon the Conqueror mistakenly slaying their fool instead of their lord, had been extinguished. That had not been Laenor's doing, but Daemon's, who'd been assigned to taking Ghost Hill. The Rogue Prince had not brought his forces to bear against the castle, he'd simply flown the Blood Wyrm there and, without warning, turned the fortress to slag. As ruthless as it had been, it had emptied Dorne's castles of nobles, who feared the same fate.
The Dornish had a habit of leaving their families behind while they fled into the desert. Laenor capitalized gladly, taking them all as hostages. Highborn women, especially, were prized. Laenor would take advantage of Dornish succession laws, and kill the men of a noble house, leaving behind hostage women and children as the sole rulers of their lines.
Tens of thousands of Dornishmen lay dead in the sands, rotting under a sun that in death was no more kind to them.
And still, the war waged on.
Laenor was in Kingsgrave, dining with his mother, when the raven came.
"Your Grace, Your Grace!" cried the castle's maester, "You must see this."
He took the parchment, read it, and dropped it in shock.
Sunflower Hall had been taken. The Sunhouse, in the Reach, had been taken by a host of Dornish who must've slipped through the Marches.
They had expected, at the worst, Fawnton or Nightsong to be attacked in retaliation. Maybe Uplands or Horn Hill in their wildest dreams. In truth, the opening phase of the war had gone so well that no one suspected a Dornish counterattack.
The town of Cuy had been sacked and then put to the torch. Lord Cuy had been crucified, alive, and put on display atop the castle's gate. Lady Cuy had been raped a hundred times along with her daughters before being absconded with back to Dorne. And their infant son had been thrown from a tower by a vulture in a jape of House Blackmont's sigil.
House Blackmont's doing. The Lady Blackmont's doing. Lady Vulture.
Laenor stood and ordered Silverwing to be saddled.
Mother read the letter, gasped, but still seized him by the arm.
"You must not go to Blackmont alone," she warned in their mother tongue.
"I won't be alone, I will be with Silverwing."
She slapped him, hard, across the face.
"Listen to me! I know your temper," she commanded, "they will expect reprisal for this atrocity. You will find Blackmont empty, or worse, prepared to greet you."
Was that their game, to entice an attack on a relatively unimportant target in hopes of felling another dragon, as Meraxes had been brought down?
Laenor stared at her, before he turned heel and stalked out of the dining hall.
"Where are you going?!" Mother called out to him.
"Starfall."
As he mounted Silverwing, he commanded Lord Matthos Tyrell not to return to the Reach in pursuit of the Dornish.
Soaring through the sky on the back of his dragon, he could not help but feel as if the world weighed on his shoulders.
'Fire and blood' was a frightening reminder, but the consequences weighed heavily on his soul.