It was a grey, windless day when Princess Deria Martell rode through the broken gates of Aegonfort, bearing her grim gifts.
In her wake came the Dornish delegation: men clad in flowing robes of orange and red, their faces proud, their heads high.At their center, borne on a litter of black velvet, was the skull of Meraxes.
A hush fell over the court.The dragon's bones, once crowned in silver scales and fire, were now dry and dead, empty sockets staring at the vaulted roof of Aegon's hall.
At the sight, Visenya Targaryen rose from her seat, one hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, her face pale with rage.Lord Orys Baratheon, grim and maimed, muttered oaths dark enough to curdle blood.Others shouted for the Dornish to be seized, hanged, or thrown into the dragon's gullet.
But King Aegon I Targaryen lifted a hand, and the hall fell silent.
"Let them speak," he commanded.
Princess Deria, no older than sixteen, stepped forward alone.In her slender hands she carried a sealed letter, bearing the broken seal of Prince Nymor Martell, ruler of Dorne.
Kneeling before the Iron Throne — a monstrous seat of twisted blades and riveted steel — she spoke in a clear, unflinching voice:
"My father sends you peace, Your Grace...but no submission. Dorne bows to no king, and no queen."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled lords and ladies. Visenya's fingers tightened around her sword-hilt, knuckles white.Yet Aegon said nothing. He merely extended his hand.
Deria rose and placed the letter in his grasp.
Upon the Iron Throne, black armor gleaming, crown heavy on his brow, Aegon the Dragonlord broke the seal.
The court held its breath as he read.
The minutes stretched into an eternity.
His face, already stern, grew darker with every line.When he reached the end, the parchment crumpled in his gauntlet.Blood welled from his palm where the letter's sharp edges had sliced deep, dripping onto the blades of the Iron Throne.
Men said afterwards that his hand dripped blood like rain upon steel.
Without a word, Aegon let the letter fall into a brazier, where it blackened and curled into ash.
Still silent, the Dragon rose.
He descended the Iron Throne's cruel steps like a storm descending a mountain, cloak billowing behind him.Past the staring nobles.Past Visenya's searching eyes.Past Deria, still kneeling, still proud.
Outside, the black beast Balerion waited, wings like thunderclouds, claws digging trenches into the courtyard stone.
Aegon mounted his dragon without ceremony and took to the sky, vanishing into the ashen clouds toward Dragonstone.
The court was left reeling — no one knowing what the king had read, or what vengeance he might unleash.
But all could feel it in the air:the war was not over.
Not while the blood of dragons cried out for vengeance.