Late at night, Stannis wrestled with an agonizing internal struggle. Davos's warnings still echoed in his ears, but the pressure of the defeat at the front lines and the urgent news from Storm's End left him with no choice but to act. Determined, he made his way to Melisandre's chamber, ready to embrace the shadows once again and summon an assassin capable of striking down young Aegon.
When he entered her room, she was already waiting, her eyes fixed on him. A smile curled at the corner of Melisandre's lips as she slipped out of her crimson robes, revealing her pale, delicate form. Stannis's breath caught, his pulse quickening. They came together in an embrace.
But just as they were in the midst of the ritual, at its most critical point…
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack! The Dothraki are storming the city!!"
"The gates! The western gate has been breached!"
The shrill sound of alarms and the terrifying cries of battle shattered the night. Chaos erupted within Bronzegate. With the traitor's help, the waiting Dothraki warriors surged forward, roaring.
The Dothraki were ferocious, wielding their Arakhs as they let out inhuman shrieks—voices filled with pure delight at the thought of slaughter and plunder. The hastily assembled defenders tried to form a line, but their spear phalanx proved slow and fragile in the face of the Dothraki cavalry's brutal charge. The curved blades of the Arakhs sliced through the defenders' necks, spraying warm blood into the air. Arrows shot from drawn bows took down soldiers with deadly accuracy on the cold streets. The sounds of hacking and screaming filled the city.
Stannis shot upright beside Melisandre, his face turning ashen.
"What's going on?!" he roared, panic in his voice. "How did the gates open? Weren't the Dothraki still besieging Storm's End?!"
He quickly threw on his clothes, grabbed his sword, and rushed toward the door.
At that moment, Davos burst in, gasping for breath, his face streaked with soot and his expression filled with urgency.
"Your Grace! We need to leave now! A traitor opened the gates! The Dothraki have broken through—we can't hold them off. We must evacuate immediately!"
"Evacuate? No! What about my dragon?!"
Stannis's first thought was for his precious young dragon.
"It has already been sent for. Please, Your Grace, we have to move quickly. If we wait any longer, it'll be too late!"
Davos nearly dragged Stannis, pulling him toward the door.
Unbeknownst to Davos, outside the room where the young dragon was kept, two undercover agents from the Golden Company, disguised as Stormlands soldiers, swiftly eliminated the guards and entered. Their eyes locked onto the silver dragon locked in chains.
One of them quickly used a special tool to pry off the silver collar from Orys's neck. Then, he grabbed the young dragon's body, intending to stuff it into a bag.
But Orys was far from the docile creature they had expected. Perhaps instinctively hostile to strangers, Orys let out a piercing roar, then released a small but deadly burst of Dragonfire at the nearest infiltrator.
"Ah—!"
The agent was caught completely off guard, and in an instant, the flames consumed him. He frantically tried to beat the fire out, screaming in agony as he became a writhing inferno.
The other agent, horrified, dared not approach the dragon any longer.
Just then, Orys flapped his wings, broke through the stone window, and soared into the dark night, vanishing into the sky.
Seeing the plan fail, the infiltrator's gaze flicked to another reddish-brown dragon egg fossil in the corner of the room. Without a second thought, he grabbed the heavy stone egg and fled.
Almost the moment he burst from the room, the guards Stannis had sent arrived, finding only a charred corpse and the empty spot where the dragon egg had been kept.
The news swiftly reached Stannis, who was being escorted by Davos and his personal guard as he prepared to ride out through the castle's rear gate.
"What?! The dragon escaped?! And the egg was stolen?!"
Upon hearing the report, Stannis felt darkness cloud his vision. A metallic taste surged in his throat, nearly sending him tumbling from his horse. Extreme fury and frustration ignited a raging fire within him.
He whipped his head around, fixing a glare on Davos, whose face was equally grim, his eyes filled with resentment and blame.
If only he hadn't obstructed me last time…
If only he hadn't…
I would have forged the Shadow Killer long ago, and that impostor Aegon would be dead.
None of this would have happened!
How could he have lost the dragon too?!
"Your Grace, flee! The Dothraki's hoofbeats draw near!"
The captain of the guard urged anxiously.
In the distance, the Dothraki's frenzied roars and the thunder of hooves closed in.
Stannis forced down the rage nearly boiling over, casting one last glance at the burning, chaotic ruins of Bronzegate. With a sharp crack of his whip, he led the shaken Stormlands nobles into the darkness, vanishing into the wilds in disarray.
...
Dorne, Water Gardens
Sunlight streamed through the trees, water murmured gently—a stark contrast to the tension gripping the rest of Westeros. Yet Prince Doran Martell of Dorne wore no trace of ease. Seated in the shaded courtyard, he watched his two children before him. The impulsive, wild Arianne and the even more silent Quentyn, scarred by his last failure.
"News from the Stormlands grows ever more frequent." Prince Doran's voice was slow and weary. "A man claiming to be the son of Elia, Aegon VI Targaryen, has landed with over fifty thousand Dothraki and the Golden Company. What do you make of this?"
Princess Arianne's eyes flashed with excitement and eagerness.
"Father, though Varys is dead and truth is hard to discern, reports claim Ser Jon Connington is among his forces. This lends credibility, for Ser Connington's loyalty to Prince Rhaegar was beyond question."
Prince Quentyn's face flashed with a hint of embarrassment and shame. Last time he'd been sent through the Prince's Pass at his father's command, ostensibly to gauge Viserys' strength, only to be drawn into a chaotic battle for no apparent reason. The Dornish army had suffered heavy losses and been forced to retreat in disgrace—a thorn in his side ever since.
He hesitated before saying, "I believe... we should send someone to meet him personally, to gauge this Aegon's worth. After all, this concerns Dorne's future choice."
His voice grew fainter. Prince Doran nodded slowly, his cloudy eyes turning to his daughter.
"Arianne, journey to the Stormlands. Find this Aegon Targaryen. See if he is a true dragon or merely another painted counterfeit. The Dornish spears will not march lightly for an impostor."
Quentyn protested urgently, "Father, I can go! I..."
Doran fixed a deep look upon Quentyn. Raising a hand, he cut him off: "No, Quentyn. You remain in Dorne."
Arianne's face lit up with a smile, seeing her father finally free of prejudice toward her.
"Leave it to me, Father. I shall see through his true nature."
She could scarcely wait to meet this potential cousin.