The Dance is not over Chapter 26: The Salt of War, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

Chapter 26

The Salt of War

Lord Willam Stackspear

According to the wise old proverb, you needed three things to wage war. The first was money, the second was money, and the third was money.

Willam found it difficult to disagree with it, in his capacity as Master of Coin of King Daeron.

The Westerner stopped using his quill the time for the pain in his wrist to pass, watching the city of King's Landing under the grey sky. The servants and the elders predicted large rains for the evening, as their old wounds and knees made them suffer, and the strong eastern wind told them they were probably right.

King's Landing. By all rights, this city should be a ruin by now. In the last ten years there had been so many riots, coups, rebellions, starvation, diseases and conspiracies in this maze of streets and houses that the numbers of deaths had to beat those caused by the Battle of Bosworth by a large margin. And yet life was continuing, the Kingslanders continued to ran everywhere like when someone threw a rock in a hive of ants.

Of course, from the Council room, it was easy to overlook the sordid conditions of living, the half-destroyed state of the sewers, the disgusting things sold as food in the markets and the constant rising of the prices. Bread and soup remained the only aliments thousands of smallfolk were able to buy for their sustenance.

Shaking his head, Willam returned to writing the report destined to one of his clerks, who was going to depart for a long survey of Crakehall now that the Iron Fever had stopped killing the population of this region. The information was unpleasant in the extreme, but King Daeron and the realm as a whole had to know how many people had been killed, and the most urgent measures required to return the southern Westerlands to the era of pre-Dance prosperity.

He was in the process of signing and preparing his seal when Lord Marq Merryweather entered the room.

"Have you seen Lord Larys, my Lord Hand?" The Master of Coin asked. "I was supposed to discuss with him about certain news from the Riverlands, but I'm afraid the servants weren't able to find him, either in his quarters or in the rest of the Red Keep."

He had told them not to search further after this. The Master of Whisperers knew King's Landing like his cloak's pockets, and Willam had to assume that if Lord Larys Strong was not there at the agreed hour, it was because a bigger problem had attracted his attention. At least he had been able to deal with some correspondence work during the waiting...

"I'm afraid the Master of Whisperers fell ill as he was speaking in the Hotel of the Draper's Guild, Lord Willam," the Lord of Longtable answered. His worries must have been evident on his face because the Hand of the King made immediately reassuring gestures with his hands. "No, no, it's not the Iron Fever! No, Lord Larys I'm afraid exhausted himself with his duties. He needs rest badly. An escort of Goldcloaks and maesters are bringing him back to his quarters as we speak."

This was reassuring...and at the same time not. Willam had honestly put it out of his mind, but Larys Strong was not a young man anymore, and his health had never been robust. Highborn and smallfolk tended to forget it, because when the 'perfect knight' Criston Cole had been slaughtered like a pig in the war and most of the first Green Council had shared his fate, the 'Clubfoot' had managed to evade the Stranger's deadly grasp over and over again.

How old was the last man of House Strong anyway? Forty, forty-five name days? It was not a great and venerable age, but most people who reached eighty did not have the duties of a Master of Whisperers and did not dance in the shadows where a single false step meant a fiery death from dragonfire.

"I won't pretend I am not relieved. But I suggest humbly asking Lord Strong to train a successor once he will be sufficient rested from this exhaustion ordeal."

Lord Marq Merryweather nodded.

"You speak an excellent point, Lord Willam. The Master of Whisperers' title oversees important duties, we can't allow it to be disrupted by the health problems of a man, no matter how exceptional and dutiful he is."

Refreshments were brought by servants, as well as more blank parchments, quills and ink. There were no members of the Small Council who entered, but neither Willam nor Marq had expected any. Lord Royce Caron had gone south to protect his lands and his strategic fortress of Nightsong, letting a Marcher steward deal with the day-to-day business and enforcing the decrees he sent by raven. Alan Redwyne was at Oldtown, trying to organise some corsair activity against the Dornish shores. Larys Strong was ill, and the aging Lord Shermer had so many problems with the City Watch he rarely assisted to Council sessions. The Kingsguard was gone with the King and the Queen, save one protecting Princess Jaehaera.

"But this can wait for another day. What did you want to speak with our dear Master of Whisperers, by pure curiosity?"

"I wanted some information about the constructions and taxes the Blacks have in mind for Saltpans, Lord Hand." There was no reason to hide it, really. "As the peace appears to hold for the moment and we are too busy with the Dornish to have the shadow of a war plan in the direction of the north, I have been forced to evaluate what the King's realm is missing, and I'm afraid salt is one of the rare goods we have not in abundance in the kingdoms answering to the Iron Throne."

"I must admit I had not thought a lot about it," the plump Lord of House Merryweather recognised. "Do we not have any salt bays we can exploit?"

"I wish it could be so." The Master of Coin answered. "But salt exploitation was not done in a thousand and one locations under the reign of King Jaehaerys and Viserys. On the eastern side of the Seven Kingdoms, there were one salt harvesting south-west of White Harbor, and two even smaller ones on the eastern Vale coast. But the biggest and most productive ones were on Driftmark and the Bay of Crabs, Saltpans being of course the largest harvesting port there. All of them are now lost to us."

"I was told there is salt extraction north of Duskendale."

"There is, but Duskendale used everything coming from it before winter, and it has not changed. The salt of King's Landing must come from somewhere else, and unfortunately Blackwater Bay is not a good place for it. Shipbreaker Bay in the Stormlands is far worse for obvious reasons. And I am not going to send ships in the Sea of Dorne for a long, long time, salt or not."

"And on the western coast?"

"There is some salt harvesting near Oldtown, the Mander estuary, and Lannisport." It was in part why Houses Hightower, Gardener and Lannister had been able to dominate financially their rivals. "But here too their production is entirely sold to the nearby merchants and smallfolk. And with the end of winter, they need more salt than ever, not less."

"There must be something that can be done." Marq Merryweather was not pleading, but neither he looked amused or confident.

"We can conquer the Iron Islands." Willam proposed. "They have vast bays perfect for salt harvesting, and Tessarion has killed so many of the reavers I doubt the survivors are going to mount a heavy resistance. We will have to send soon warships to avoid a Black conquest of them anyway."

"To conquer these rocks, we will need to muster forces which do not exist."

"Yes, my Lord Hand. But buying all the salt King's Landing and the loyal Crownlands and Stormlands need is going to cost us gold we do not have too. Someone on the other side of the frontier has finally wised up, and now the salt inspectors of Saltpans do not accept silver anymore. They want gold, and they prefer it in the large heavy coins we agreed to not melt anymore two moons ago."

"I am not familiar with the trade rules on this. Can they do it?" The Lord of Longtable questioned hesitantly.

"I am not sure. But the Pentoshi are doing it. It probably helps they have other things to sell in compensation and as such their gold spending is not a quarter of ours."

"I see." The Hand of the King was presenting the appearance of a councillor burdened by titanic headaches. "I see. What are the effects on our coffers?"

"I was forced informally to cancel the salt taxing for this year." Willam grimaced. "I do not like the effect it will have on the treasury, but the salt prices are already too high. Taxing would increase them more, and we really can't afford salt riots this year. There are too few soldiers left in the Crownlands to stop a smallfolk uprising."

The visage of Lord Merryweather was unhappy, but after requesting a parchment on the numbers and a map, he agreed. Salt was absolutely necessary for the preservation of meat like cows, pigs, chicken and every animal the highborn and the smallfolk had in their larders.

And then the question he had dreaded since the arrival of the Hand of the King in the Council room was uttered.

"How fare your efforts to find money for the war?"

"I have a lot of difficulties." It was the truth, but it failed to tell how disastrous the situation was. "Thanks to the Iron Fever, the collection of the direct taxes is in complete disarray. More disarray, should I say. We weren't able to modify it in the middle of winter, and I have to make edicts after edicts to take into consideration the reality that the North, the Vale and the Riverlands are not paying a single penny anymore. I have already received a lot of ravens telling me that some Lords have taken to tax their smallfolk themselves by pretending they were acting in place of the tax collectors. Since so many agents of the previous Master of Coin were killed by the Blacks or our own allies depending on their allegiances, I fear we will be able to get one out of ten coins we should have received, maybe less."

"The Blacks have not that problem."

"Oh they have," Larys Strong had been quite clear on this issue. "But only in the Riverlands. The North and the Vale were mostly untouched by war, so the collectors and stewards here survived if they swore allegiance to the Blacks, and I think that by the death of King Aegon the Second they had everything reorganised. Therefore they only have to deal with the holes in the Riverlands. We, on the other hand, have to repair our tax system in the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach. And the only kingdom which should have given us no problem is now the Stormlands."

It was now under attack from the Dornish, and of course as such taxes dispensations had to be given.

His interlocutor and superior rubbed his hands off in embarrassment.

"Yes. Ahem. Yes. King Daeron still needs close to one million and two hundred thousand gold dragons to pay the armies, the supplies and everything we need for this war."

"I know." He breathed loudly. "I know. I have...several expedients to fund this war. None of them are going to be very pleasant for everyone in this realm, my Lord Hand. I want to stop the reimbursements we are giving to the merchants of Duskendale for the gold they have lost with Gulltown. We will have to stop the rebuilding of Tumbleton for the time being. The help given to Oldtown is likely to be a handful of gold and silver, and not much else. I have asked for a 'donation' of ten thousand gold dragons from the major septs untouched by the war. And I am drafting the proposal for a new loan to Lady Johanna Lannister of Casterly Rock."

"I am glad you have such a wide range of choices for my perusal."

Willam blinked.

"My Lord Hand, this is no choice. The sum of these things, we have to do them now if we want the realm to avoid bankruptcy next year. Our coffers are dark and empty, our cities have their hips broken, and the purses of the Noble Houses save House Tyrell and Lannister are so indebted I don't even know why some creditors have not stormed their castles in the vanguard of bloodthirsty crowds."

"Weren't you assuring the King and myself we were in a far better situation than the Blacks?"

"I did, my Lord Hand." The Stackspear noble acknowledged with a nod. "And I maintain we still are. We have more gold, more silver, and still more people than the former followers of Queen Maegor-with-tits. But there are three major differences between them and us. The obvious one is that as long as we have the chief city of the Seven Kingdoms and the legitimacy it gives us, the money-lenders will try their chance with us, not them. At the same time, the Black Queen has a huge amount of support from her Lords and Ladies that we do not have. The marriage of her sister to the Winterfell's Heir has solidified her powerbase, and Lady Arryn support is unwavering in her favour. And last but not least...she is not at war right now."

And it was making all the difference, Willam suspected. Smallfolk in the Riverlands were these days working in the fields, preparing their wheat or cereal fields for the coming harvest season. They may have to rebuild their farms and the mills of the village first, but Willam had seen once in a village two leagues south of Castamere the results of a flooding. It had been disastrous and dozens of men, women and children had died yes, but once hundreds of smallfolk had been gathered and materials had been brought to rebuild, the reconstruction had been almost miraculous in its rapidity. And he had no doubt it was happening everywhere in the Riverlands now. Northerners and Vale's second or third sons were leaving their villages where nothing waited for them and rushed into the Riverlands to take new lands for themselves.

What were the Green smallfolk at this very moment doing? Some were seeding and preparing the fields, yes, but most young and old were watching the south, wondering when they were going to see the Dornish cavalry ride on the horizon to devastate once again their world.

"If our concerns are about preserving a military equilibrium with the North for the generations to come, I maintain we must end this war, and quickly."

"Unfortunately, as long as the Dornish aren't willing to talk, this war must be fought." The retort was delivered in a fatalistic voice. "Now, let's return to the taxes. We have spoken about the direct ones. What can be done for the indirect impositions?"

Lord Royce Caron

Royce was not an expert on sieges, having had little opportunity to encircle citadels and then try to take their walls by storm.

But being a veteran of sieges was not necessary to know the Dornish were not showing great qualities at siege warfare besieging his home.

If it could be called a siege, that is.

To start with, the circumvallation trench and the earth ramparts the Dornish had built were only encircling two out of three sides. The east and the south were largely covered by trenches and several hastily assembled obstacles, but from the north, there was nothing to prevent reinforcements from coming.

In his best days, he recognised the ground was far rockier there than it was on the other sections surrounding his castle. When he was not generous, he treated the Dornish of lazy drunkards and siege amateurs. Twice already smugglers had under cover of darkness entered and left the citadel. This 'siege' was doing a terrific deed at not cutting Nightsong from the rest of the world. There also was no contravallation line, by the way.

The mix of Fowler, Blackmont, Dayne, and Manwoody banners could have saved part of their reputation by transporting great siege engines, in disassembled parts as even the largest pass were not that practicable for trebuchets, and inflicted terrible damage to the walls.

But no, they hadn't done that either. Most of the rock-throwers and bolt-launchers that had been paraded under his eyes were light scorpions, mobile ballista, and small models of catapults. Royce wasn't going to deny they were probably able to kill many infantrymen, but they were of no use against the solid walls of Nightsong.

But the worst part was the camp sprawling in the south-east. Armies were undisciplined and not prone to imitate on their own the infamous discipline of the ancient Ghiscari or the Valyrian troops, but when one spoke about 'the mass of tents' of the Dornish army, it was not an exaggeration.

Three times already the sentinels on the rampart had seen Lords and important knights rearrange the disposition of the Dornish camp because the previous one was causing quantities of problems, but for everything they corrected, three new issues were conjured like if the Father and the Warrior wanted to play tricks on them.

As the spring rain continued to fall and the raids of the King in the passes with Tessarion had caused much damage to their supplies and their chariots, this had created the very ironic situation of the besieged eating better than the besiegers.

Not that it was the sole problem created by the rains and the brusque variations of cold and warm weather. The ground was drenched every two days, and in this humid season mosquitoes and insects loved army camps. There was a not-negligible distance between fortress and the tents, but the smell could not be ignored. The enemy would have to fight disease outbreaks soon, unless they had signed a pact with the Stranger.

He had three thousand men under his command. The Fowler-Dayne-Manwoody-Blackmont force had something like six thousand on this side of the mountains. This was a one-to-two disadvantage, but a garrison on top of the walls was generally worth three to five men. It could get higher, but a defender needed landscape advantages like the ones offered by Casterly Rock, Storm's End, or the Eyrie to immobilise larger hostile forces.

"They don't look to be in a hurry to attack this morning, my Lord."

"No, they aren't."

In fact, as the archers and spearmen on the rampart knew very well, the Dornish weren't quick at all to attack every morning. The first two days of siege they had tried to test the defences. Then they had stopped. The fact the supplies were coming from the south now irregularly certainly had something to do with it. And the lack of reinforcements had to be deep imbedded in their minds.

Still, it had been close to a fortnight this 'siege' had begun, and the defenders of Nightsong were still waiting for a third assault.

"Do they really have little so experience in bloodshed and siege warfare?" asked Oliver Wendwater with a disabused expression. The grey-haired Crownlander had forged himself a reputation of archer in the Dance, and thus had been chosen to command the Crown reinforcements which had reached Nightsong in time. "I mean, I know they haven't fought dragons and the long war against the Blacks, but still..."

"Where would have they found this experience, Ser?" Royce had tried to find the answer for himself three days ago, and he had arrived to it rather quickly. "The Dornish have not fought a real war since the Conqueror invaded, and during that war, they were never noted for their talent to besiege our fortresses."

Perhaps because the moment their forces stayed immobile, either Balerion, Meraxes or Vhagar were coming to slaughter them, and successfully storming a fortress was not something done in a couple of days.

"This was their last war. Plenty of hot-headed youths are crossing the straights to fight in a sellsword company or another in Essos, but Lys, Myr and Tyrosh are fighting their trade disputes on open battlefields, and assaults of fortresses are rare. Merchants have a holy horror of profit losses, and there are not that many citadels in the first place in the Disputed Lands."

This must have given the Dornish youth the wrong idea about what war truly was. A few hundred must have believed waging war was all about money, taking as little risk as possible, killing defenceless villagers and looting. The rest of their army believed war was about glory and glory conquest.

His men and those who reinforced Nightsong knew better. The war fought against the servants of Rhaenyra Targaryen and later the Black Queen had earned swallow graves and little else.

"It is a fortnight now. I don't think they are going to attack." Oliver managed an authentic disappointed expression.

"I believe you are right." Royce replied. "And I would prefer to deal with them before they really begin to think and find intelligent ideas. Like making a proper siege or dispersing and ravaging our lands. The King has ordered this war to be ended soon, but they are not attacking our walls. So we will have to properly motivate them."

Royce gave back the spyglass he had used to the Crownlander before giving his next order.

"Choose two hundred men personally. Tonight, we will make a sally and burn some of their tents and siege engines."

Lord Belial Wyl

Belial wished he had a prisoner to torture when he had finished reading the message one of his men had brought him all the way to Wyl.

But he had no prisoners. The damage to his harbour and his lands was real and would not disappear even if he killed ten thousand enemies. And there weren't any more reinforcements coming from the Boneway. Supplies and newly forged weapons still came irregularly, but it was an erratic system of convoys. The quartermasters had to travel by night as long as they could to avoid the vigilance of the blue beast in the skies.

It could have been solved if larger scorpions and better siege engines were transported forwards, along with thousands of fresh men and women. In the end, there was only one dragon to slay, and it was not the Black Dread! But no, the Sunspear bitch had refused him the troops.

Cowardly girl. They should have replaced her the moment her father was taken by the Stranger, but the blood ties she had with Lord Gargalen had made his allies and himself hesitate. The Lord of Salt Shore was not a man you wanted as an enemy, and removing his niece would have meant fighting Starfall, Godsgrace and likely Yronwood at the same time. So they had bid their time. The bitch had seemed pliant enough.

It had been a mistake, and one which would be rectified the moment he could deal with it.

And it was not now. They had to deal with the contents of the raven messages and their scouts first.

"According to the ravens, Lord Fowler has abandoned the siege of Nightsong following the night attack of the Caron horse. The blind hawk was so sure the Marchers weren't going to attack he had placed half of the sentries necessary, and those which obeyed the orders were drunk or sleeping at their posts when the raid came."

Lord Fowler's message had of course blamed the disaster on House Blackmont and House Dayne, but the messages of his fellow Lords were telling a rather different – and more serious – tale. No, the Lord of Nightsong had not signed a pact with the demons of the night and bought the allegiance of thousands of Dornish inside his camp. Nor had he delivered them poisoned ale and wine for them to sleep while they had to mount guard.

Belial loathed the land usurpers, but he had never seen a tiny spark of sorcery from them in his life, and neither had his father, his grandfather, or any of his ancestors. Lord Fowler's accusations had the stink of a weakling, an incompetent, and a coward – according to Lord Manwoody, there were indications he had escaped the sword of an enemy by hiding in the fodder for the cows.

"How many men did we lose?" Lord Ulrich Qorgyle questioned.

"Five to six hundred, a majority of them infantry," the Wyl of Wyl said. "But while they killed many, the real disaster was the enemy setting aflame half of their siege engines and many supplies stocks. Lord Fowler remains in charge...for now, but his authority is precarious. He ordered one thousand of our mounted forces to raid the Marches in small detachments. The rest of the army, however, must withdraw southwards by the Prince's Pass. Otherwise they are going to starve."

It was not said loudly in the messages, but it was obvious the western army of Dorne had decided to go back home. This early spring was too rainy, the Marchers were too tough and stubborn for them, and the young men and women had had their taste for war and decided besieging a castle with no chance of taking it was not what they had signed up for.

These insipid soft-bellied spring blades were all shout and blusters, but had no steel in their spines. They must have seen the dragon three or four times, not even a fifth of what the Boneway warriors had to endure, but they had panicked utterly and stopped everything.

Belial really wished he could open the stomachs of one or two of the ringleaders. The others would quickly turn around, he was sure. But he was too far away, and he had his own army to deal with.

"If they do not besiege Nightsong, the west of the Marches is lost," Ulrich Qorgyle declared bluntly. "Add to this the report of our scouts telling us there is an army of six thousand men coming from the north-east, and we don't need to be Nymeria reborn to know we are soon going to have the undivided attention of every Green army in the Marches."

"We have still the bigger army. If we can crush them separately..." But his proposal received a negative nod. Why? It was a bloody good idea!

"Seven thousand and five hundred is not a big superiority over six hundred, not when there is a dragon nearby. And the moment we muster for battle, the soldiers inside Blackhaven will prepare a sally to strike our camp or our rear-guard. There aren't many places we can position our army anyway."

Belial tried to find the support of Vorian Uller with his eyes, but the young Lord of the Hellholt was white-faced, shivered and tightened his fists in pain. He did not know if the rumours were true, if the sandy highborn had truly caught a virulent and painful pox from the whores, but there was no denying he was ill.

Anyway, Belial found no support in his eyes. He didn't find anything, to be honest. It looked like the Uller was busier lacing his wine with something powerful to cure his pain, and had not heard the debate and the challenges they were facing.

"What are you suggestions this time? Sending half of our army joining the Fowler raiders?"

"Raid what? The enemy is blocking all the northern passes!" The Master of Sandstone replied derisively. "No, the time for raids is now long gone, and the Green King has called his armies. What we must do now is withdraw. First we retreat to Wyl, before their reinforcements can catch us between the hammer of their Storm host and the anvil of Blackhaven. If they still pursue us, we will have to bleed them through the Boneway and the desert approaches west of Yronwood."

"My lands are in the northern regions of the Boneway, Qorgyle," Belial reminded him icily.

"You should have thought about that before beginning this war," the older Lord insulted him, giving him a glance like he was pig's dung. "I am going to give the orders to my troops. The first companies will leave tonight."

Belial Wyl felt the urge to kill Ulrich Qorgyle here and there. He could not afford to lose the Sandstone forces. It was two thousand infantry and cavalry strong, and if they retreated, it was him, not the dragon lackeys, who would be numerically outnumbered.

But the older Lord had still his spear in hand, and would not go quietly. And there were eight men and two women a couple of feet outside the tent. The moment he acted, he would have to kill them too, and if one escaped...

"Lord Qorgyle, I urge you to reconsider..."

"I reconsider nothing, boy. Unless the Dondarrion is kind enough to open his gates, we will never take Blackhaven with the army we have right now. We went in too ill-equipped, too confident, and too arrogant. The Targaryens and their bannersmen learned war the hard way while you were still sucking your mother's tits, and if we offer them battle in equal numbers, they are going to massacre us. I am not going to kill my men for your pride. We retreat."

And as if to add weight to his words, a loud roar was heard in the distance. Vorian Uller began to snicker hysterically, but Belial paid him no mind as he stormed out of the tent following Lord Qorgyle and saw the blue dragon circle the mountains north of Blackhaven. It was so high in the sky it was almost looking like a prey bird. It was a prey bird exhaling smoke and fire.

Orders were shouted and battle-preparations were made.

But the dragon did not attack, it just continued to circle around the army...like a vulture or a carrion bird.

And they were the prey.

Princess Aliandra Martell

"I thought this was a war we couldn't win in a year. I didn't think the idiots were going to try to lose it in one moon!"

It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Wyl, Uller and many of their friends were terrible writers, eloquent speakers, and cruel rulers. Why had she even thought they were going to be more skilled when they marched to war?

One moon. They had managed to completely and catastrophically bungle up a war in one single moon.

A war they had started, naturally.

When Tyrosh, Myr, Lys and the other Free Cities were going to learn this, the Dornish warriors were going to the laughingstock of Westeros and Essos. There were things that a dragon as an enemy wasn't able to erase in the mind of foreign merchants and sellswords.

Aliandra watched the sunny plain of Yronwood with dark thoughts.

"They didn't manage to capture a single castle of importance. We hold nothing beyond our frontiers, and I don't doubt that soon the few raiders we have in the Northern Marches and the Reach are going to be hunted and hanged to the tallest trees of the Tyrells," the Princess of Dorne enumerated. "We have literally nothing to trade back with the Targaryens, uncle."

And this folly had already cost them plenty of gold. One in three gold coins of the treasury had been used to pay for the weapons, the supplies, the moon's pay of the troops, the Essossi wood for the siege engines and plenty of things her accountants felt was absolutely necessary.

Her uncle caressed his beard for several heartbeats before nodding.

"I find nothing wrong with what you have just said. And as commander of your armies, I must offer you the opinion that the chance of Dorne's armies emerging triumphant from this war have been...considerably reduced."

The Lord of Salt Shore took an orange in the fruit basket and began to peel it.

"Our enemies' spies knew Wyl and Fowler were coming moons before they did, and the moment they were warned, storming Blackhaven and Nightsong would have required five or six moons, perhaps a year to subdue them. Knowing what we do now, it would have been more intelligent to use our ships to directly transport our forces near Stonehelm and the northern shores of the Sea of Dorne. Of course, we can't do this anymore, since Wyl cost up dozens of ships and more were burned by the dragon in the days after."

Aliandra hid her grimace by drinking the wine in her golden cup. It had been so long since the Dornish war – which may be known now as the First Dornish War – that everyone, and she included herself in the lot, had forgotten how fast a dragon truly was. King Daeron and his blue beast in the last moon had seemed everywhere at once, pillaging, burning, and raiding. The Marches on Dorne's part of the frontier were smoking ruins by now, hundreds of Dornish soldiers and smallfolk had been killed, and in a blatant of display of stupidity, people were beginning to mutter they had been tricked into launching this war of aggression.

If there was one reason to believe the smallfolk and the Dornish population as a whole could not be trusted to rule, this early spring had provided all the evidence required.

"And they only have one dragon."

If they had been more than one, the armies would have been utterly annihilated. Smith and Warrior, if the dragon was bigger, they would have been totally defeated. The blue dragon was never used to burn straight-on fortresses and armies, maybe because they had no replacements and their King was riding it.

In a way, this had been their best chance to win against the Green Targaryens, since Aliandra wasn't confident the 'Seven Kingdoms' were going to stay divided into two different realms for decades and decades. And they by the Seven Hells weren't going to restrict themselves to one dragon for years.

It had been their best chance for plenty of reasons, and Belial Wyl and his friends had squandered it. Thousands of men and women were now retreating by the Prince's Pass and the Boneway. The only exception was this genius of Lord Wyl of Wyl, who was now fortifying his castle against the counter-attack of the Stormlords.

"If I may suggest you something, dear niece, it would be to send overtures of peace today or tomorrow. The war isn't going to get any better for us, and for the present we still have fifteen thousand warriors loyal to you at Yronwood and in the nearby fortresses."

"I must give something to the Green King." Her father, for all his faults, had insisted this was the foundation of every diplomatic exchange.

"Then give him Lord Wyl and the Wyl lands," Lord Manfrey Gargalen shrugged. "They want him and his entire House dead, and it's not like these lands contributed much to your coffers anyway."

It was...not wrong. It didn't rejoice her to lose a Lordship to the northern neighbour of course, but there was no denying Wyl had always been a particularly exposed castle to the raids and counter-raids of House Dondarrion.

"I am going to think on it. Begin arresting all the Wyl spies we have found, it can't hurt."

If the Gods were good, nothing more would be necessary. The Targaryens and the Marchers would get her rid of this troublesome and poisonous House. If not, the rude letters of Belial Wyl would be the rope she would use to declare him a traitor. Aliandra would prefer not order it, because there was no telling how many supporters the viper had ready to try assassinations and conspiracies against her.

But if the alternative was between a long and costly series of defeats and watching her executioner detach the head of Belial Wyl from his body, she wouldn't hesitate.

"We will need to suggest to the merchant-bankers of Lys to raise their interest rates where King's Landing is concerned. Just in case Dondarrion, Caron, Selmy and the others want more lands and conquests."

Author's note: The Second Great Dornish War is, frustratingly for some, not a one-sided Dornish victory.

Next chapter will likely be on the Siege of Wyl, and the reactions around Westeros to this spring war.