The Conquest, Year Sixty-Two.
That year, Rogar Baratheon departed Sunspear and set out for King's Landing. The Emperor's old friend brought with him three young girls.
Two were the daughters of his late brother Ronnal, whose wife and sons had all perished during the dreadful plague of the Shaking. The third was Lady Jocelyn, the daughter of Lord Rogar and Queen Alyssa.
The frail infant who had been born in the grim "Year of the Stranger" had now grown into a tall, graceful young woman. Her large eyes were bright and deep, her hair thick and jet-black, carrying a unique allure.
In sharp contrast to Lady Jocelyn's youth and vitality, Rogar Baratheon himself bore the heavy marks of time. His hair was long turned to gray, and the years had carved deep wrinkles into his face. His complexion was pale, his frame gaunt to the point that a single gust of wind might topple him. His loose clothes hung on him as if made for a man far broader and stronger.
Before the Iron Throne, he knelt on one knee. When he tried to rise, he struggled, and only with the aid of a Kingsguard did he manage to stand again.
With heartfelt urgency, Lord Rogar pleaded with the Emperor and Empress:
—For Lady Jocelyn was soon to celebrate her seventh Naming Day.
Rogar addressed the Emperor respectfully:
"She lost her mother in infancy. Though my sisters-in-law cared for her as best they could, their hearts naturally leaned toward their own children.
Now, both of them are gone as well.
If it please Your Graces, I humbly beg you to take Jocelyn and her cousins into your care, and let them grow up in the palace among your own children."
Queen Alysanne answered with a warm smile:
"We would be delighted. It is an honor for us. Jocelyn is my half-sister—blood is thicker than water—and we have never forgotten her."
At her words, Lord Rogar breathed easier, his burden lightened.
Then he made another request:
"I must also beg Your Grace to look after my son.
Boremund will remain in Sunspear under the care of my younger brother, Garon. He is a good boy, strong and healthy, and with time he will surely make his mark.
But he is only nine years old, and as Your Grace knows, my brother Borys left Dorne years ago. He resented Boremund's birth, and our bond soured swiftly thereafter.
Borys lingered in Myr, then went on to Volantis. None know what he did there…
Now he has suddenly returned to Westeros and stirs trouble in the Red Mountains. It is said he has allied himself with the so-called 'Vulture King' and has even turned to raiding his own people.
Garon is capable and loyal, but he cannot stand against Borys. And Boremund is still only a child.
I fear for him, and for Dorne, once I am gone."
At this, the Emperor frowned slightly.
"When do you plan to leave? And why? Where will you go?"
A wry smile crossed Lord Rogar's face, though beneath it still lingered a glimmer of the strength he once possessed.
"To the mountains, Your Grace.
My maester tells me I have little time left, and I believe him. Even before the Shaking struck, I often suffered pains in my body. Now they have only grown worse.
He gave me milk of the poppy to ease it, but I rarely take it. I will not spend my last days in a stupor, nor do I wish to die humiliated in a sickbed.
I mean to find my brother Borys and end him with my own hands—him, and that so-called 'Vulture King.'
Garon says this is folly, and he is right. But I would rather die with an axe in my grip, cursing my foes, than waste away in silence.
Your Grace, will you grant me this request?"
His words stirred the Emperor deeply. He rose, descended from the Iron Throne, and came to stand before Lord Rogar, laying a hand upon his shoulder.
"Your brother Borys is a traitor to the realm. And this 'Vulture King'—he is no king at all—has plagued our borders for far too long.
I grant you leave to march, my lord. And I will lend you my strength."
The Emperor was true to his word.
The war that followed became known in the histories as the "Third Dornish War." But to the common folk, it was remembered more often as the "War of Lord Rogar"—a name that fit all the better.
Lord Rogar of Dorne personally led five thousand elite men deep into the mountains. At the same time, Aegon II took to the skies on the mighty Ghidorah, providing support from above.
Looking down over the rugged peaks, the Emperor scoffed:
"He calls himself a vulture, yet he cannot fly, and all he does is hide. To me, he is more like a mole."
The Emperor's judgment could not have been sharper.
The first "Vulture King" once commanded vast armies, awe-inspiring on the battlefield and dominating the winds of war.
The second "Vulture King," however, was nothing more than a raider who seized power by chance. Born into a lesser house and not even its heir, he led only a few hundred bandits, men as obsessed with rape and plunder as he was.
Yet he knew the Red Mountains like the back of his hand. Time and again, he slipped away before pursuers could reach him, only to reappear when the moment was right, bringing fresh calamity to the people of the marches.
Those who hunted him faced constant peril, for he was a master of ambushes, leaving his enemies unprepared at every turn. But such tricks were useless against Regalus and Ghidorah, who hunted him from the skies.
Legends claimed the "Vulture King" possessed an impregnable fortress high in the mountains, hidden among the clouds. But when Aegon scoured the skies on Ghidorah's back, he found no such stronghold—only a scattering of crude encampments.
Ghidorah unleashed torrents of fire, consuming them one by one until the "Vulture King" was left without a refuge.
...
Lord Rogar's forces struggled through the mountains, the treacherous paths forcing them to abandon their mounts. They climbed steep slopes along narrow goat tracks, weaving through countless caves, all the while wary of hidden foes hurling boulders from above.
While Baratheon's men pressed eastward, Lord Simon Dondarrion of Blackhaven led a band of Marcher knights into the mountains from the west, sealing off the enemy's escape.
Like hunters closing in on their prey, they formed a deadly pincer.
Above them, Aegon watched the battle unfold, directing the armies with precision, as if moving toy soldiers on a painted table. Every advance struck with calculated force, leaving the enemy no room to breathe.
At last, their moment came.
Borys Baratheon, unfamiliar with the hidden paths of Dorne, was the first to be caught by Regalus's host. Rogar's men, seasoned and disciplined, made short work of his followers.
As the two brothers were about to clash, Regalus descended from the sky, halting the duel that might have stained Rogar with a kinslayer's name.
"I will not let you bear the name of kinslayer, my lord," Regalus said gravely to his former Hand. "I will deal with this traitor."
At that, Ser Borys threw back his head and laughed with wild arrogance.
"Better I be a kingslayer than let him be a kinslayer!"
With a roar, he charged, weapon swinging furiously as he hurled himself at Regalus.
But he had gravely underestimated his foe.
Regalus wielded Blackfyre, a blade of unmatched power. The martial skills he had honed long ago on Dragonstone's training grounds had never dulled, and now, with a divine body and strength far beyond any man's, he was unstoppable.
In a single flashing stroke, Regalus cut him down, severing Borys Baratheon's head clean from his shoulders.
The knight's body crumpled lifeless at the Emperor's feet, blood spreading across the ground.
...
The "Vulture King" lasted only a month longer.
At last, he was cornered in one of his old hideouts, now a charred ruin. Desperate, he hurled spears and arrows in a futile last stand.
When he was finally bound in chains and brought before the victors, Rogar Baratheon stepped forward.
"He is mine," he told Regalus.
At his command, the bandit's shackles were struck off, and he was armed with a spear and shield. Rogar himself hefted his battle-axe and advanced with steady resolve.
"If he can kill me, let him go," Lord Rogar declared.
But the "Vulture King" proved pitiful in battle.
Even weakened by sickness, racked with pain, and his body failing him, Rogar Baratheon's years of combat and unyielding will carried him through. He parried each blow with ease, then struck, splitting the outlaw in two from shoulder to navel.
When the duel was done, there was no triumph on Rogar's face—only a deep sorrow.
"It seems I shall never die with my axe in hand upon the battlefield," he told Regalus with regret.
His wish went unfulfilled.
Half a year later, Rogar Baratheon—once Lord of Sunspear, former Hand of the King, and Protector of the Realm—passed away in Sunspear.
At his bedside stood his maester, his septons, his brother Ser Garon, and his son and heir Boremund. Together, they bore witness to the final moments of a legend.
...
The War of Lord Rogar lasted less than half a year, beginning and ending in the sixty-second year of the Conquest. With the "Vulture King" dead, raids along the Dornish Marches ceased almost entirely.
When news of the campaign spread across the Seven Kingdoms, the realm's fiercest lords regarded Regalus with newfound reverence. Whatever lingering thoughts of defying his central rule melted away.
All agreed: Emperor Aegon II was utterly invincible.
And for the Emperor himself, this war was like a draught of strong medicine.
"Against the Shaking Sickness, I felt powerless," he confessed to Septon Barth. "But against the Vulture, I was a king once more."