Chapter 227: The Final Battle of Dorne
Dorne.
Outside Sunspear, a biting wind swept fine grains of sand across the allied encampment.
Inside a vast crimson war tent, banners bearing the sigils of Dorne's great houses hung heavily from the rafters. The atmosphere was anything but calm—an oppressive excitement simmered in the air.
Here stood the most powerful lords of Dorne, the core of the coalition that had risen against House Martell—representatives from the western lands and the interior, gathered on the brink of victory.
At the center, Jynessa Blackmont, Lady of Blackmont, took a bite from a roasted leg of some unknown beast. Her expression twisted slightly. She spat it out without hesitation.
"Disgusting."
Her voice was low, almost casual, as if merely complaining. Clad in polished leather armor, her long hair tied roughly into a knot, she carried herself with a rugged ease. The grease cooling at the corner of her lips did not make her seem crude—instead, it lent her a fierce, distinctly Dornish boldness.
The moment she discarded the meat onto the table, the murmurs in the tent died instantly. All eyes turned toward her.
Yet no one looked offended. Instead, their expressions were filled with anticipation—even delight.
After all… the war stood one step from its conclusion.
"Indeed, hardly fit for consumption, Commander," said Anders Yronwood, the first to respond. His tone was respectful, almost deferential.
"This kind of fare does not suit your achievements—nor the victory that is about to be ours."
A faint smile curved his lips.
"But the kitchens of Sunspear will surely be to your liking. I've heard even the Martells employ cooks brought from Braavos at great expense."
"Feasts from Braavos are renowned across the Free Cities—especially their seafood and refined techniques. I doubt they'll disappoint."
His words drew a ripple of agreement throughout the tent.
Everyone understood the implication.
Sunspear was already on the verge of collapse. Once it fell, everything within would belong to the victors.
After so long at war, the moment of harvest had finally come.
But while the other lords brimmed with excitement, Jynessa's expression held something more complex—fatigue, memory… and a faint trace of longing.
"My mother… loved fish."
She spoke softly, almost to herself.
"She would taste every kind she could find. Even tried cooking them herself."
"Fish from the Reach… carp from the Blackwater… anything she could get her hands on."
Her gaze unfocused, as if seeing a distant figure—Larra Blackmont.
Two months ago, to tear open the Martell defenses, Larra had led the charge herself—and fallen in battle.
With her mother dead, Jynessa had taken up the vulture banner and command of two thousand soldiers.
What followed bordered on the miraculous.
With instincts far beyond her years, she unified the western coalition at astonishing speed. Lords who might have distrusted one another instead followed her lead, striking relentlessly at the weakest points in the Martell defenses.
For three days straight, she barely slept.
At every assault, she fought at the front, spear in hand, carving through the fiercest fighting.
By the end, her body bore more than a dozen wounds—yet she only grew fiercer.
And in the end, she achieved what many thought impossible.
She broke through the Martell line along the Brimstone, pushed deep into Dorne, and linked forces with Yronwood and Allyrion—bringing their banners to the gates of Sunspear.
Victory after victory, paid in blood, had earned her the respect of all.
The assembled lords had named her supreme commander of the campaign.
"Lady Larra's courage will shine like the brightest star in the night sky," said Davos Dayne, Lord of Starfall, rising to bow slightly.
(Not the Davos Dayne who was Sword of the Morning.)
"Her legacy will forever guide Dorne."
"She was the soul of Dorne!" another lord roared, slamming his fist on the table.
Even Delonne Allyrion spoke solemnly:
"Your mother was a true warrior. Her name will be forever bound to the liberation of Dorne."
Jynessa lifted her chin, accepting their reverence as her due.
She had earned it—blade by blade.
But the fragile harmony did not last.
Delonne Allyrion was the first to shatter it.
"Ahem… my lords."
She rose, deliberately drawing attention.
"Lady Larra's sacrifice is honored—but after victory, Dorne will need a ruler."
Her gaze settled on Anders Yronwood.
"House Yronwood has been among Dorne's greatest since the age of the First Men."
"And it was Lord Anders who first raised the banner against Martell tyranny!"
"He is the founder of this war—the leader of us all!"
Her voice rang out:
"I propose that Anders Yronwood be crowned—King of All Dorne!"
The words detonated like wildfire.
"Bullshit!"
One of the minor lords shouted.
"King of Dorne? When have the Yronwoods ever ruled all of it?"
"If we speak of ancient blood, House Dayne stands unmatched! The blood of the Torrentine kings still flows in us!"
Cheers erupted from his supporters.
But another voice cut in—young, sharp, defiant.
"To hell with ancient titles!"
"Look around you!"
"Who led us through the battles? Who fought at the front from the Brimstone to here?"
"The ruler of Dorne should be the one who bled for it!"
He raised his voice:
"I name Lady Jynessa Blackmont—Princess of Dorne!"
"Princess! Princess!"
The cry spread like fire.
The tent descended into chaos.
Three factions quickly formed—Yronwood's royalists, Dayne's traditionalists, and the loud, fervent supporters of Jynessa.
Shouting turned to insults. Accusations flew.
The tension thickened—hands drifted toward sword hilts.
Victory was within reach… yet the alliance was tearing itself apart.
Fools.
At the head of the tent, Jynessa's eyes burned with fury.
She rose in one swift motion.
"—CRACK!"
Her sword came down.
The heavy table split clean in two.
The crash silenced the tent instantly.
She swept her gaze across them all.
"My lords."
Her voice was cold as steel.
"Instead of arguing over crowns…"
"…why not end this war first?"
Without waiting for a reply, she turned.
Sword still in hand, she strode out of the tent without hesitation.
The argument behind her died into silence.
As the yellow cloak vanished beyond the tent flaps, the lords exchanged uneasy glances.
The younger knights were the first to move. They shoved aside chairs and hurried out, one after another, following Jynessa Blackmont without hesitation.
Delonne Allyrion looked toward Anders Yronwood.
Andres glanced at Davos Dayne.
They opened their mouths, as if to salvage a shred of dignity—
But before any words could be spoken, a clear, commanding voice rang out from beyond the tent.
It cut through wind and sand like a drawn blade.
"Blackmonts!"
"Strike camp! Prepare to attack!"
At the same time, a force of fewer than a hundred elite riders thundered through the Prince's Pass, crossing into Dorne at full speed.
A plume of red dust trailed behind them like a banner, only to be shredded by the howling wind.
At the head of the column rode a man clad in gleaming white armor—the unmistakable plate of a Kingsguard knight. Under the harsh midday sun, his armor blazed with blinding light, merging almost seamlessly with the powerful white warhorse beneath him. Every movement radiated raw, unrestrained strength.
Beside him, however, rode a striking contrast.
Melisandre, wrapped in a crimson robe, moved with eerie composure. Though galloping at full speed, her hooded cloak did not flutter in the wind—as if held in place by some unseen force.
Her grey mare, plain in appearance, carried her with uncanny steadiness, gliding across rough terrain as though it were level ground.
The wind screamed past their ears.
Melisandre tilted her head slightly.
"I do not understand."
"I told you long ago—our true enemy lies beyond the North, in the eternal cold."
"Yet you lead your armies south."
"Your actions run counter to the prophecy. We should first deal with the one in the Iron Islands who has stolen the power of a dark god."
"Then, gather the strength of all Seven Kingdoms beneath the Wall."
Lance Lot shot her a glance, clearly irritated.
"You talk too much, woman."
"If Dorne isn't settled, I won't march north."
"I'm not about to fight to the death in the North, only to come back and get stabbed in the back."
Melisandre frowned slightly beneath her hood.
She could not understand him.
A man bearing the power of Azor Ahai should have been a selfless savior—one who wielded a burning sword to purge the world's darkness.
Yet this man before her was different.
His obsession with balance of power, his vigilance against betrayal, his relentless involvement in the petty struggles of the Seven Kingdoms…
All of it made no sense to her.
And then there was what she had glimpsed within his mind—
That endless, boundless red…
She couldn't understand it.
Not at all.
"Compared to the war that is coming, your struggles are nothing but children's games," she said, her voice carrying a distant, almost pitying tone.
"I can feel it. Ancient powers are gathering… forces too terrible to comprehend."
"The cold winds have already begun to rise."
"The Long Night is coming…"
"I know exactly what you're talking about, Melisandre!"
Lance cut her off sharply, his voice resolute.
His gaze swept across the red-brown lands of Dorne unfolding below the pass, his eyes growing deeper.
"I know of the pale things that roam beyond the Wall. I know the power of those ancient gods."
"And I know that threat has never truly vanished."
"Which is precisely why—"
He yanked the reins. The white warhorse reared up with a piercing neigh before turning sharply, leading the riders onto a narrower path.
Even as he moved, his explanation did not falter.
"That's why I've already sent word to Eddard Stark—to take Moat Cailin and claim Winterfell."
"Only then can he unite the North as its true Warden—and reinforce the crumbling lines of the Night's Watch."
His voice echoed through the valley, steady and full of conviction.
Melisandre's crimson eyes flickered with thought.
"It seems you know more than I expected… Lance Lot."
She tilted her head again, glancing toward Sunspear in the distance.
"But if you understand the urgency… why are you not in King's Landing, directing everything?"
"I've heard the allied armies already stand before Sunspear. Martell rule is on the brink of collapse."
"By the time you arrive, they may already be celebrating victory."
The wind surged through the canyon, tugging at Lance's dark hair.
For a moment, he said nothing.
His hand drifted unconsciously across the hilt of the black Valyrian steel sword at his side, recalling the information he had extracted from a certain bald prisoner in the dungeons of King's Landing.
Then, finally—
"She needs me."