Among the lords and nobles, it was survival of the fittest, and interests came before all else.
In this timeline, Prince Doran and Oberyn had not suffered the pain of losing Elia. All they knew was that Dorne was now the Targaryens' only hope.
But Rhaella had not chosen to crown Elia's child, little Aegon.
After all, according to the Targaryens' own agreed-upon order of succession, little Aegon's claim came before Viserys.
It was understandable that Aegon was still too young, but how old was Viserys, really?
So the two brothers still felt Rhaella had disrespected them.
Disrespected House Martell.
"I'll find a way to bring our sister back. As for the Targaryens—whether they live or die, that's their business," Oberyn suggested.
Of course, Elia must have been secretly taken from King's Landing by Rhaella. In that case, they only needed to send over some token supplies.
As for little Aegon and little Rhaenys, they could simply be raised under different names in Dorne. As long as they gave up any claim to the Iron Throne, the two children would be safe.
They had seen the children before. Little Rhaenys especially looked just like any Dornish girl.
With the deep hatred for Baratheons and Lannisters no longer a factor, Dorne's motivation to support the Targaryens had weakened greatly.
To Oberyn's proposal, Doran nodded solemnly.
"Yes, we must bring Elia and the children back."
.......
Dragonstone.
After a victorious battle, the mood on Dragonstone had clearly lifted.
The crashing waves against the seawalls now felt more like gentle caresses, unusually soft. The sea level seemed to have dropped too, revealing clusters of clams and shells along the shore.
Maester Faelor merely noted that storm season was approaching. As for how bad the storms would be, even he couldn't say.
Aside from the storms, Viserys's current concern was that the "Essence Transfer" still lacked a suitable target. Dragonstone's army still had not earned the recognition of the system's golden finger.
Viserys had begun a round of "refinement" within the army.
For example, he weeded out the old and the weak.
Still, even those men weren't dismissed outright. To maintain morale, Viserys had them reassigned to a "security force."
Although the pay was lower, no one complained. With this change, the island's regular army now numbered just thirteen thousand.
Because of the naval battle at the Gullet, Viserys had also captured over twenty warships.
But after the downsizing, they didn't even have enough soldiers to man all the ships. Their armor rate was low as well. Of the thirteen thousand soldiers, only around four thousand had armor.
Some of that had been captured from the enemy.
One victory couldn't hide how fragile the Targaryen forces still were. Dragonstone's treasury still held over three hundred thousand gold dragons.
But Viserys had no intention of spending them on armor.
He was surviving on savings alone, with no income, so he had to be frugal.
First, he wasn't planning to fight Robert on land. Second, armor wasn't especially useful in naval battles. And perhaps most importantly—he had no capable financial advisor.
Still, the victory had bought Dragonstone a brief moment to breathe.
Viserys no longer needed to run around rallying troops like before, and now had more free time.
Today, he was flipping through the list of captured prisoners.
It wasn't enough to just count heads. They also had to record details like physical condition and injuries, to assess what kind of labor they could handle.
As Viserys browsed the list, one particular entry caught his eye:
"Kayn Waters, thirty-eight years old. Four fingers on left hand severed."
.......
Born in Flea Bottom, the Onion Knight Davos knew how to survive in the mud.
Even in a dungeon, he'd managed to get himself locked up alongside his two sons. And since he'd only just been granted land and title, he didn't yet carry the air of a noble.
So Davos had perfectly fooled the guards, making them think he was just an ordinary soldier.
Still, his physical details were recorded.
Like his severed fingers.
But Davos wasn't worried—there was no one on Dragonstone who could possibly know him.
*Creak—!*
Suddenly, the dungeon door opened, and the prisoners shrank back instinctively. Who would've thought they'd run into the Sword of the Morning?
And that he would ambush them?
Why would someone like him even need to resort to a sneak attack?
Though the prisoners were filled with grievances, this was clearly not the time to complain. The highborn knights among them were selected and escorted out one by one.
Davos let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Those lords were worth a hefty ransom. He turned to glance at his two sons, who were huddled together picking lice off each other.
Yes, he had no fear they'd be mistaken for nobles.
From Davos's experience, most noblemen captured after a loss would be ransomed back.
Ordinary soldiers were generally kept for hard labor. Hard labor was fine. Davos was confident he could escape Dragonstone with his boys.
To avoid raising suspicion, he'd discarded his gloves early on.
Now relaxed, he began picking dirt out from under his fingernails.
Half an hour later, the dungeon door opened again. Several guards in fine armor entered, along with a white-cloaked knight escorting a short man.
The light in the dungeon was dim, so Davos couldn't clearly make out the man's face—but he could see the silver hair. This wasn't just any short man—this was a boy.
Roughly the same age as Davos's fourth son.
"Your Grace, it's him," one of the guards said, pointing at Davos.
Wait… Your Grace? Was this boy… a Targaryen?
Davos's mind went blank.
Why would a Targaryen recognize him? He'd spent most of his life under Targaryen rule, and now he felt a chill of panic.
The silver-haired boy gave a slight nod.
A guard unlocked the cell and walked toward Davos. When the guard grabbed his hand—the one with the missing fingers—Davos felt like he'd fallen into an icy sea.
"Bring him out," the Targaryen said, turning to leave the dungeon.
"Father!"
"Father!"
Davos's sons rushed forward to stop them, only to be kicked aside by the guards.
"Don't worry. You'll join your father shortly," the young Targaryen said coldly, as if he were tossing a dagger at their feet, daring them to pick it up and end their own lives.
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