Chapter 68 — Dorne's Choice, Battle of Bone Island
The Supreme Council of the Triarchy was in chaos.
Tyrosh burned, Lys smoldered, and Myr trembled under the shadow of dragons. Amid the turmoil, Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder, understood one brutal truth: without new allies, the Triarchy would crumble into ash.
And so, the Crabfeeder turned his gaze west — toward Dorne.
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Sunspear, the Spear and the Sun
Sunspear rose like a mirage at the edge of the world — towers of gold and pale stone shimmering in the heat. The castle's twin symbols, the Spear Tower and Sun Tower, stood as a testament to Dorne's dual heritage: the warrior blood of the First Men and the fiery soul of the Rhoynar, united under House Martell's sigil — a gold spear piercing a red sun.
Craghas Drahar arrived aboard his flagship, the Giant Crab, his armor polished but his skin pale and scaly from the rot spreading down his neck. He came bearing gifts: three Lysene virgins draped in silk, Myrish lenses of fine crystal, carpets of Tyroshi weave, chests of gold, saffron, and casks of the richest brandy.
Atop the sun-drenched dais waited Prince Enrik Martell, tall and thin, his skin the color of burnished copper, eyes calm but unreadable. Beside him stood his son and heir, Prince Qoren Martell, youthful and sharp-eyed, with a smile like a blade.
> "Craghas of Myr," Prince Enrik greeted coolly, "Dorne welcomes her guests with open doors — though not always with open hearts."
Craghas bowed low.
> "Your Highness, the Triarchy seeks not enmity, but alliance. The dragons have awakened again, and already they burn Tyrosh's harbors and Lys's gardens. Yet dragons cannot burn Dorne's sands if we stand together."
Prince Qoren's lips curved faintly.
> "And why would the Crabfeeder of Myr bring such rich tribute to Sunspear, unless his own shores were already aflame?"
Craghas's diseased smile stretched thin.
> "Because I offer Dorne something rarer than gold — vengeance. The blood of Targaryen dragons for the blood they spilled upon your soil."
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The Memory of Fire
Enrik Martell listened in silence as Craghas spoke of the Stepstones — of Daemon Targaryen's red dragon, of Rhaenys and the Red Queen, of Lys and Tyrosh reduced to cinders. But when the Crabfeeder named his price — Dorne's fleet and gold — the prince's calm gaze hardened.
Before he could speak, Qoren stepped forward.
> "You mistake us for fools, Myrman. When Aegon the Conqueror came with three dragons, Dorne alone endured. When King Jaehaerys sent his sons with fire and fury, we endured again. Your alliance would only bring the dragons to our gates once more."
Craghas's tone sharpened.
> "And if you do nothing? When Daemon seizes the Stepstones, his dragons will fly from those rocks to your deserts in a single day. Corlys Velaryon's fleet will sail up the Greenblood. The Stormlands will march from the north. Do you think Dorne can endure that fire again?"
The court murmured uneasily. The scent of heat and wine hung heavy in the air.
Qoren's smile did not falter.
> "We do not court dragons. We outlast them. Ask your history — Prince Merion once tried to take the Stormlands by sea. His ships burned beneath Vermithor and Caraxes. His bones washed ashore like driftwood."
A shadow crossed Enrik Martell's expression, and for a time, no one spoke.
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A Bargain of Sand and Blood
At last, Prince Enrik rose, robes of pale gold trailing across the marble.
> "You speak boldly, Craghas Drahar. But bold words will not turn the tide of fire. You ask Dorne to fight dragons while your fleets hide behind poisoned bolts. Tell me — how will you slay a creature born of flame?"
Craghas leaned forward, eyes fever-bright.
> "The alchemists of Lys have forged new weapons — glass vials of death that burst into fire and smoke. Our ships bristle with scorpions, our archers dip their bolts in poison drawn from Sothoryos serpents. And remember — King Jaehaerys grows old. Vhagar and Vermithor no longer fly to war. The dragons in the Stepstones are few — only Caraxes and Meleys. Two beasts cannot fight an ocean."
Prince Enrik studied him.
> "And if you lose?"
Craghas hesitated. The question hung like a blade.
> "Then we die as free men — and so will you, whether you join us or not."
The old prince turned toward the sea, where sunlight shimmered upon the waves that had carried Nymeria to Dorne. When he faced Craghas again, there was fire in his dark eyes.
> "Very well," he said quietly. "If fire is coming to our shores, better we choose where it burns. Dorne will ally with the Triarchy."
Craghas exhaled, triumphant.
But behind him, Prince Qoren's gaze darkened.
When the Myrman was gone, Qoren turned to his father.
> "You know he lies. The Triarchy cannot win. Why risk our house for his folly?"
Enrik's answer came cold and measured.
> "Because neutrality is death disguised as wisdom. When the fire burns your neighbor's fields, it will soon reach your own. Better to fight on our feet than die waiting behind our walls."
He looked to the sea again.
> "Let the Crabfeeder have his war. If dragons come to Dorne, they will find more than sand."
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The Stepstones: Blood and Salt
Far across the Narrow Sea, on Brokenheart Isle, war had already come.
The Westerosi camp was alive with motion — soldiers sharpening blades, fletchers stringing bows, smiths hammering out sparks. Ser Criston Cole, his mail gleaming beneath a stained surcoat, sat cleaning his longsword by firelight.
The son of a steward from Blackhaven, Criston had no lands, no title, and little hope — save the wars of greater men. The Stepstones, to him, were not a campaign but a ladder.
Beside the shore, Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone watched the waves crash against black rocks. She was bronze and unbending, her armor etched with ancient runes of the First Men.
Many men sought her hand — Martin Frey with his trinkets, Lucio Florent with his songs, Kevan Farman with his falcons — but Rhea had little patience for fools. When a mercenary once tried to force himself on her, she had cut him down without hesitation. Criston had been among those who found the corpse.
That act alone had earned his respect — and something colder, deeper.
> "Lady Rhea," Criston said as he approached, "today we strike Bone Island. Stay close to me in the melee. I will keep you safe."
Her eyes, hard as obsidian, met his.
> "Then pray keep yourself alive, Ser Criston. I need no man's shield."
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The Battle of Bone Island
The Velaryon fleet set sail before dawn. Great war galleys led the charge, longships following in their wake like sharks in pursuit of blood. From the clouds above, two shadows swept low — Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, and Meleys, the Red Queen.
When the Myrish fleet appeared on the horizon, the sky ignited.
Caraxes's scream split the heavens as he plunged from the clouds, torrents of dragonfire consuming ships whole. Meleys followed, her pale blue flames turning the sea into a molten mirror.
Ballistas fired in vain; poisoned bolts fell harmlessly into the surf.
The Crabfeeder's men burned. The air stank of pitch, blood, and cooked flesh.
By midday, the Myrish fleet was broken. Corlys Velaryon's banners — silver seahorse on sea-green — led the landing. Thousands of Westerosi soldiers stormed Bone Island's beaches beneath the wings of dragons.
In the valley beyond the shore, the Triarchy's defenders rallied behind their arrow towers. Arrows rained like black hail; the first wave fell screaming. But when Caraxes and Meleys descended again, their fire swept the towers to ruin.
Daemon Targaryen came down in a storm of flame and ash.
Clad in crimson armor, his dragon-helm shaped like Caraxes's snarling face, he leapt from the saddle as his mount tore through the enemy ranks. The Blood Wyrm's tail crushed men and horses alike, his talons raking the earth red.
Criston Cole fought like a man possessed, his sword slick with blood. He turned to see Rhea Royce fighting beside him, bronze runes flashing as she struck down a Lysene captain. Above them, Daemon's dragonfire lit the valley like dawn breaking through hell.
By the time the smoke cleared, the Triarchy's host was shattered.
Their survivors fled to the beaches, only to find Princess Rhaenys and Meleys already waiting. The Red Queen's fire swept across their retreat, sealing their doom.
When the last screams faded, only the crackle of fire remained.
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Ashes and Aftermath
As the bodies were gathered and the wounded tended, Criston Cole wiped his blade and sighed.
> "Three men I slew today," he murmured. "And still I am nothing beside a dragon."
Rhea Royce gave a rare smile.
> "You're wrong. The dragon burns many at once, but he remembers none. Men like you must remember every face."
Criston said nothing. His eyes followed Daemon as the prince strode through the camp, his armor scorched but his bearing untouched. When Rhea stumbled slightly, her arm bleeding from a shallow cut, Daemon was suddenly there.
> "Leave her," he told Criston. "I'll see to it."
Rhea hesitated as Daemon guided her to his tent. His hands, though calloused from sword and saddle, were unexpectedly gentle as he wrapped her wound.
For the first time, Rhea Royce looked into the eyes of the Rogue Prince and saw something she had never expected — not arrogance, nor cruelty, but the flicker of a man who might yet become a legend.
Outside, the sea whispered against the shore, and the dragons slept among the smoldering ruins of Bone Island.
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End of Chapter 68 — "Dorne's Choice, Battle of Bone Island"
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