The Dornish Marches — The Fifth Wooden Fortress, 233 AC
Smoke curled skyward where torches and burning pitch had scorched the palisades of the fifth fortress. The wooden walls loomed high, blackened by fire and defiance. Corpses littered the muddy ground from the last wave. The banners of House Targaryen—red dragons on black—hung limp from bloodied spears, while the banners of House Peake still flew defiantly above the ramparts.
The royal host stood haggard. Dust-caked armor, torn sigils, and a weariness that ran bone-deep. Of the host that had marched proud from King's Landing, half were gone—lost to ambushes, skirmishes, disease, or death at the previous fortresses. Yet King Maekar I stood tall, his crowned helm shadowing his grim visage.
He turned his warhorse to face his troops, mace raised high.
"No retreat!" Maekar bellowed. "We break them here, or we die as kings!"
A roar went up from the loyalists—tired but unyielding.
Prince Aegon rode beside his father, grim-faced but resolute. His cloak was torn, his blade dulled with dried blood. Behind him, the remnants of their knights lowered their lances. The siege engines began to roll.
Then came the charge.
The fifth fortress erupted in chaos. The royal army breached the gates in a thunderous crash, only to find the enemy within had swelled—reinforcements, fresh and ready. Steel clashed with steel, and cries of death echoed in the valley below.
On a nearby ridge, Brynden Rivers sat astride his pale mare, flanked by his personal guard. One of his scouts rode hard toward him, bearing a scroll marked with the silver seahorse of Velaryon. Bloodraven opened it swiftly, his single red eye scanning the page.
He paled.
"My lord?" asked Ser Harwin Frey beside him.
Brynden crushed the scroll in his hand, his voice flat with urgency.
"The Tyroshi fleet has entered Blackwater Bay. They harry our ships, attack our harbors."
He turned his gaze toward the carnage unfolding at the fortress.
"So this is their game. Not only to bleed us here… but to strike at our heart while we're gone."
The one-eyed Hand wheeled his horse around. His thoughts raced. He needed to send word to the capital, dispatch a fleet to repel the Tyroshi—if they still had one intact. He needed ravens. He needed time. He had neither.
And all the while, the dragon roared behind him—Maekar in the thick of battle, refusing to yield.
The scene ended in blood and fire, the storm clouds of greater war gathering not only over the Marches… but over all of Westeros.