The Old Mother watched the shield with a cold, crooked smile slowly forming upon her wrinkled face.
She could feel it—the faint trembling of the shield that guarded Sunspear. It was a powerful work, no doubt. The hands that forged such a ward had understood forces long forgotten by most men, and the secrets woven into its foundations were not to be dismissed.
But in the end, it was still sorcery.
A craft of mortal hands. A force borrowed, shaped, and bound by those who dared to touch powers beyond their understanding.
What flowed through the blood of her followers was something else entirely. It was not a spell etched into parchment or a charm whispered by a dying wizard. It was a fragment of something older—the dark will that answered from beyond the veil when blood was spilled and prayers were offered.
Against such a force, even the greatest works of sorcery would eventually yield. Not because they were weak, but because they stood against something far older than any kingdom, any order, or any name given by men.
The ward still held. For now.
But the Old Mother knew all things built by mortal hands eventually cracked beneath the weight of the ancient powers that came before them.
She turned her gaze back toward the sprawling, chaotic streets of the Shadow City stretching out behind them.
"Chaos," she murmured, her voice a low, raspy purr that carried over the screams of the fleeing locals.
The dornish lords sat behind their high walls while their outer city suffocated in horror, but the Old Mother knew the truth of this desert land. She knew the ancient blood that flowed through the veins of its secret protectors. Those old hags who worshipped the ancient waters would never sit idle on their gilded thrones while the Shadow City burned around them. They would be forced to reveal themselves, and when they did, her roots would strangle them where they stood.
A Blessed One,stepped forward from the ranks, her pale skin glowing with an eerie, translucent twilight and her dark purple veins pulsing like embedded cords beneath her flesh. She bowed her head slightly toward the Old Mother, her eyes gleaming with fanatical hunger.
"Mother... allow us to remind these cattle who we are. Let us etch our names into their nightmares."
Without waiting for a formal response, the Blessed One glided toward the bloodied corpses of the guards Kaelen had broken against the wall. She drew a curved bone dagger from her sash and dropped to her knees beside the first body. With a single, brutal tear, she sliced the dead man's abdomen open from hip to hip, exposing steaming entrails to the dry desert air. She thrust her bare hands directly into the open wound, her fingers sinking into the cooling gore as she began to chant a guttural, wet incantation in the forgotten tongue of Stygai. Dark magic surged through her palms into the dead tissue.
The corpse reacted instantly, its limbs twisting at impossible, sickening angles. Bone snapped and elongated with loud, wet cracks; skin stretched, tore, and reformed into thick, obsidian scales that glistened with toxic slime. The dead flesh expanded exponentially, devouring its own human shape until a colossal, serpentine beast—larger than a noble's iron-bound carriage—burst from the shattered ribcage. A monstrous basilisk dragged itself onto the cobblestones, its reptilian eyes glowing with dead, yellow light and its split tongue tasting the blood-scented air.
The Blessed One threw her head back and laughed, a shrill, ecstatic sound.
"Kill every human you see! Leave nothing but red ruin!"
The beast hissed, a sound like acid dripping onto hot iron, and lunged down the avenue, its massive jaws snapping a fleeing merchant in half before trampling his cart into splinters.
Intoxicated by the ritual, the Blessed One scrambled to the second corpse, plunging her hands into its belly and calling forth another scaled nightmare that tore down the alleyway to join the slaughter.
But when she reached the third corpse, something within her had already broken. The rush of blood magic, the whispers of the Old Gods, and the sight of her creations crawling forth had consumed what remained of her reason. She no longer saw the creature as a beast to command, but as a sacred manifestation of the power she worshipped.
As the corpse convulsed and the monstrous form began tearing its way free, she leaned closer, laughing softly, embracing the transformation rather than fearing it. She pressed herself against the shattered ribcage, offering her own body as if presenting a final sacrifice.
The emerging beast snapped its jaws open, its needle-like teeth closing around her upper torso. Yet even as bone cracked and blood stained her pale skin, the Blessed One did not scream. A serene, almost joyful smile spread across her face.
With her final breath, she whispered.
"Hail the Old Gods..."
Across the blood-slicked square, a towering cultist stripped off his heavy wool hood, revealing a face covered in intricate runes burned into his flesh. He extended both arms toward the crowded rows of wooden stalls and clay tenements lining the street. Bright flames erupted from his open palms, roaring like starved beasts as they swallowed the chill that had settled over the desert streets.
Behind him, three low-ranking cultist stepped forward, slamming their palms onto his bare back. Their faces instantly withered as their vitality was drained, transferring their raw magical essence straight into his body. The flame expanded violently, bursting outward into a towering wall of wild, hungry fire that swept over rooftops, turning the streets below into a furnace of smoke, ash, and screams.
The Old Mother watched half the Shadow City dissolve into a roaring sea of smoke and screaming shadows. Her smile widened, exposing dark, jagged teeth.
She turned her gaze to another Blessed One standing nearby, whose eyes were fixed on the sky.
"Dig through the earth," the Old Mother commanded, her voice sharp and absolute. "Poison the air beyond their walls so those coward lords have no choice but to crawl out of their high towers."
The Blessed One nodded, a look of profound reverence washing over her features. She had watched her sisters dissolve into dust unleash the Old Gods power against the shield, and her soul burned for the same glorious end.
She dropped to her knees, slamming both hands hard against the scorched dirt. Closing her eyes, she whispered a fervent prayer to the the Old Gods, releasing every drop of her life force into the ground beneath her feet.
Black, thorny vines erupted from her fingers, burrowing deep into the sun-baked earth like writhing, parasitic worms. The vines tunneled beneath the cobblestones, slithering silently past the foundation of the massive iron gates and penetrating deep into the fortified grounds on the other side of the ward.
Beneath the feet of the armored dornish archers and household guards who stood lined up along the inner courtyard with bows fully drawn, the ground suddenly bulged.
Within heartbeats, massive, unnatural flowers with dark, bruised-purple petals burst through the stone tiles. Before the guards could even raise an alarm, the blossoms unfurled, releasing clouds of dense, sickly green pollen into the air.
The moment the archers breathed in the mist, they began to choke. Their hands flew to their throats as violent coughing shook their bodies, their bows slipping from their fingers onto the stone. Within moments, their breaths became ragged and desperate, their faces turning pale as the poison spread through their lungs.
Some collapsed where they stood, clawing at their chests as if trying to tear the sickness out from within. Others stumbled blindly, blood leaking from their noses and mouths before they fell upon the courtyard stones. The once orderly ranks of Sunspear's defenders broke apart in seconds, leaving only groans, desperate gasps, and the sickly scent of death hanging beneath the walls.
Suddenly, thunder split the night above Sunspear, shaking the towers and rolling out toward the distant sea. The moon disappeared behind a mass of black clouds that had gathered from nowhere, churning above the city like a living thing. Lightning crawled through the heavens, revealing the ancient walls in flashes of cold light, before the rain came—heavy, relentless, and unnatural, drowning the streets of the Shadow City beneath a storm that had no place in the dry lands of Dorne.
The heavy downpour hissed loudly as it struck the flames, smothering the roaring fires before they could consume the remainder of the district.
The Old Mother looked up into the sheets of falling rain, her eyes locking onto the apex of a distant, soaring tower that overlooked the Shadow City.
"Finally you move, old hags of the River!" she hissed, her voice dripping with ancient hatred.
She could feel the delicate sorcery flowing from that high spire. She turned back to Kaelen, her heavy robes soaked with rain and blood.
"Continue until the shield breaks down," she ordered Kaelen. "Do not stop the barrage."
Leaving Kaelen to oversee the siege at the gate, the Old Mother turned and began walking directly toward the high tower, three pale Blessed Ones falling into step behind her like silent, deadly phantoms through the rain-drenched smoke.
Kaelen raised his iron-shod staff into the stormy sky, his eyes burning with relentless, fanatical focus.
"Again!" he roared above the sound of thunder and falling rain.
Without a word of protest, another line of cultists dropped to their knees in the mud and blood. The standing casters laid their hands upon their shoulders, draining their remaining life to create five more massive, pulsing orbs of black-and-crimson.
With a deafening roar, the projectiles launched into the stormy sky, tearing through the heavy rain before slamming brutally against the flickering, weakening shield once more.
Inside the sun-bleached walls of Sunspear, the world was unraveling into blood and thunder. The moment Thaddues left, Princess Dareya gathered the terrified children, ushering them swiftly down the corridors toward the secure chamber of Thaddues.
The air inside the palace was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of fear. As they turned the corner into the central hallway, shadow-draped assassins lunged from the alcoves, daggers drawn to strike at the heart of House Martell.
The loyal household guards stepped forward instantly, steel clashing against steel in a desperate, confined brawl. Though the spies were cut down, a stray blade slashed through the defense, striking Prince Nolan, the ruling prince himself, across the chest. He staggered back against the sandstone wall, clutching his bleeding torso as his breath hitched.
"Nolan!" Princess Maris cried out, her voice breaking with raw agony as she caught her husband before he collapsed.
Her hands pressed frantically against his torn tunic, instantly stained crimson with his blood. Prince Qoren and Qhorys scrambled to their father's side, their eyes wide with terror as they shielded their little sister, Mereya, who wept quietly against her mother's dress. Princess Dareya knelt beside them, her hands trembling as she tried to stem the flow of blood beside Maris.
Nolan looked up into Maris tear-streaked face, his own features pale from pain, yet his grip on her hand remained fierce. "Move forward! Maris... get them to the chamber," he rasped, his eyes shifting to his children with a father's desperate love. The blade was poisoned. He can feel it, he won't last long. "Qoren, Qhorys... protect your sisters. Be the sun and the spear today."
Standing at the edge of the family, Princess Deria—Nolan's grandmother, the revered Peace-Bringer—looked upon her wounded lineage. Age had carved deep lines into her face, but her eyes held the unyielding, ancient resolve of the desert. She placed a gentle, steadying hand on Nolan's bloodied shoulder, giving Maris a single, solemn nod that signaled there was no time to cry.
Once they arrived at the chamber of Thaddues, the family was rushed inside along with the young nobles. Deria was the last to enter, but before she could do so, she turned to her three loyal servants, who were also skilled water mages.
She took out a potion from her pocket and toss it to Qhorys, as Dareya and Maris tend to Nolan, bleeding and slowly dying.
"Seal it," she commanded.
The two servants looked at her with striking sorrow, knowing what closing the room meant for their mistress, yet they still obeyed.
Qhorys realized what she had tossed at him.
"Grandmother!"
It was the first time he had ever called her that. Deria froze for a brief moment, then a faint smile touched her weathered face.
Dareya, who witnessed the exchange, felt a wave of dread wash over her. Her eyes widened as she finally understood what the Peacebringer intended to do.
"Grandmother, wait—" she cried, her voice trembling with panic.
But it was already too late.
The heavy oak doors swung shut with a resounding thud, sealing the royal family within the sanctuary and leaving Deria with her servants beyond its walls.
"It has come to this after all," Deria spoke softly into the quiet hallway. She looked at her two servants who served beside her since they where young. "Where are the others?"
"They are at the hall. Waiting for your command," one of the servants replied.
Deria then walked to the front, her posture straightening with the authority of someone who ruled a house for decades. "Then let's do it. For the fate of House Martell," she continued, her fingers brushing the heirloom resting against her collarbone. "Mother Rhoyne, may protect us."
She turned and walked back toward the Grand Hall. As she moved, the second necklace she wore began to pulse, casting a brilliant, radiant aura that illuminated the dark corridor.
Meanwhile, Rhaenys walked towards the courtyard, her boots clicking sharply against the stone. As she stepped under the open sky, she saw the terrifying explosions tearing through the clouds above—crimson and dark detonations that shook the foundation of Sunspear itself.
The violent shockwaves in the sky had deeply unsettled even the Red Queen. Meleys thrashed wildly in the center of the courtyard, her crimson scales reflecting the unnatural firelight, her hot breath scorching the desert air as she snapped her jaws in panic. Yet, with absolute courage, Rhaenys pressed onward, willing to take the ultimate risk to tame Meleys again in the midst of the madness.
As soon as she stepped into the courtyard, she lifted her voice and sang the ancient Valyrian song:
"Dhaerossā glaesos, Zaldīzes buzdari... Sybilar ilono, hen mēnāe ñuha..."
Meleys whipped her colossal head around at the sound of the tongue of Old Valyria. Her golden eyes—slitted, wild, and blazing with raw dragonfire—locked onto the solitary figure standing in the open sand. A terrifying, low growl vibrated up from the Red Queen's chest, rattling the stone pillars of the courtyard. Smoke rolled in thick, black plumes from her nostrils, hot enough to singe the hem of Rhaenys's gown as the dragon reared back, her massive jaws opening wide to unleash a torrent of flame upon the intruder.
Rhaenys did not flinch, nor did her voice falter. She stepped directly into the beast's shadow, pouring every ounce of her Targaryen blood into the melody, binding her will to the creature's panicked spirit.
For an agonizing heartbeat, the dragon hovered on the edge of destruction, the pale orange glow in her throat threatening to reduce Rhaenys to ash. Then, slowly, the wild fire in Meleys's eyes flickered and softened as if remembering something. The massive horned head dipped low to the cobblestones, letting out a heavy, cavernous breath that blew dust across Rhaenys's boots in quiet submission.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rhaenys reached out a hand toward the iron riding chains dangling from the saddle, preparing to mount the beast once more.
Suddenly, a sound like the world snapping in two echoed directly overhead.
Five crimson-black orbs slammed violently into the barrier once more. The invisible shield above Sunspear groaned beneath the assault, buckling under the impact as a blinding red light erupted across the night sky. The collision sent a violent shockwave through the air, scattering scorching sparks over the battlements and shaking the courtyard stones beneath the defenders' feet.
Though the shield still held, the force of the impact shattered Meleys's fragile calm. The Red Queen released an ear-splitting shriek of panic, rearing onto her hind legs as her colossal tail whipped around in a frantic arc.
Rhaenys lost her footing on the trembling cobblestones, reaching desperately for the iron chains of the saddle as the massive, spiked tail swung toward her chest—threatening to crush her against the sandstone wall before she could catch hold.
TBC
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