Duskendale, Dun Fort.
Inside a stone hall, the Dornish nobles had gathered, their faces grim.
Quentyn slammed an urgent report from Dorne onto the rough wooden table with a heavy thud.
His face twisted with rage. "You've all seen it. The Easterners struck while we were stretched thin and attacked our homeland. Sunspear is in grave danger. I must return at once, with all our forces. The fighting here is finished. We've already won. The Lannisters have collapsed. There is no reason for the warriors of Dorne and Norvos to stay here guarding someone else's lands!"
His words were blunt and forceful. His gaze swept across everyone present before finally settling on Daemon Sand.
The bastard of Godsgrace, and a respected commander within the Dornish army, looked just as solemn.
He nodded slowly, his voice steady. "The Prince is right. Dorne is bleeding. Our first duty is to protect our own land and our own people. We must return to Dorne."
Princess Arianne, however, was visibly troubled.
She clenched the fabric of her gown, her brow tightly knit. "Quentyn, Daemon, even if you intend to return, you should at least inform His Grace first and seek his consent. That is what allies do. It's a matter of basic courtesy and judgment. We cannot simply act on our own—"
"His Grace?"
Quentyn let out a cold laugh and cut her off, his voice thick with scorn. "What about him deserves to be called 'His Grace'? A boy of unknown origin, propped up by mercenary Companies and savage horsemen? He hasn't shown the slightest respect to us Dornish. Whether he agrees or not, I will not stay here like a beggar, waiting for his charity or his orders. The Dornish army must march back to Dorne immediately!"
Arianne's face darkened. She opened her mouth to argue further, but when she saw the determination in her brother's eyes, she swallowed her words. Worry filled her gaze.
Daemon Sand spoke again. "The Princess isn't wrong. We should at least inform Aegon."
Quentyn frowned, considered it for a moment, then gave a silent nod.
The meeting soon broke up, each person leaving with heavy thoughts.
Quentyn did not waste a moment. He went straight to the great hall of Dun Fort to find Young Aegon.
Inside, Young Aegon was conferring with Harry Strickland and several officers of the Golden Company. When he saw Quentyn striding in with a hard expression, his brow creased slightly.
"Your Grace…"
Quentyn gave a stiff salute, barely concealing the impatience in his tone. "We've just received word. The Easterners have invaded Dorne and are advancing on Sunspear. The situation is critical. I must immediately lead all Dornish forces back to our homeland."
Young Aegon frowned more deeply.
He set aside the map in his hands. "Prince Quentyn, I sympathize with Dorne's plight. But withdrawing all the forces of Dorne and Norvos is not appropriate. We have just learned that another army of that Eastern King has taken the North and the Vale. They may soon emerge from the Bloody Gate and threaten the Crownlands. We also need troops here. Here is my decision: you may take half of the Dornish forces back. The other half will remain to help defend Duskendale."
"Half?"
Quentyn erupted at once, stepping forward sharply. "Impossible! Dorne is at war. Every Dornish soldier must return to defend our homeland. I will not leave a single man here to stand guard for you. You must understand this. The safety of Dorne comes before everything else!"
Publicly contradicted, Young Aegon's face flushed red. His youthful pride, along with his long-held resentment toward Quentyn, surged up and overwhelmed what little restraint he had left.
He slammed his palm onto the table and roared, "Quentyn Martell, watch your place! I am your king. If you dare take everyone away without my permission, I will have your head taken off!"
Harry Strickland, standing nearby, immediately stepped forward and grabbed the nearly out-of-control Young Aegon, lowering his voice as he urged, "Your Grace, please calm yourself. Dorne is still our most important ally. This is not the time to escalate matters…"
"Allies?"
Young Aegon shook off Harry's hand and pointed at Quentyn, his voice trembling with rage.
"Does he even see me as his king anymore?!"
Quentyn answered with an even colder sneer. Without another word, he turned sharply and stormed out, slamming the door behind him and leaving Young Aegon shaking with fury where he stood.
Night fell over Duskendale, wrapped in an uneasy silence.
Lysono Maar, the intelligence chief of the Golden Company, sat in his dim chamber, reviewing reports sent in from across the land by flickering candlelight. His focused silhouette swayed against the wall.
Suddenly, a soft but urgent knock sounded at the door.
Lysono Maar immediately tensed. "Who is it?" he asked in a low voice.
No answer came, only three more knocks.
His brow relaxed. It was the agreed signal.
He rose and opened the door.
A thin, slight youth stood outside, one of his intelligence operatives.
After the Golden Company's landing, using certain channels provided by Illyrio, Lysono Maar had dispatched men to absorb the "little birds" who had once worked for Varys, bringing them under his own command.
This boy was one of those "little birds."
He quickly handed over a letter and a small slip of paper. The note explained that the letter had been intercepted from the Dornish side and was extremely urgent.
Lysono Maar took the letter. The instant his eyes fell on the wax seal, his pupils shrank.
Stamped upon it was a dragon sigil.
The emblem of the Easterners.
His heart lurched. He broke the seal at once and unfolded the parchment.
The more he read, the paler his face became, cold sweat beading at his temples.
The letter was written in the Common Tongue and signed by the Eastern king, Lo Quen.
It claimed that House Martell had already submitted in secret under the pressure of the Eastern armies. Prince Doran himself had identified Young Aegon as a remnant of House Blackfyre and had instructed Quentyn and Daemon Sand to seek an opportunity to launch a mutiny, seize Young Aegon, and trade him for Dorne's peace and future gains.
"This letter… where did you get it?"
Lysono Maar's voice was dry as he stared at the boy.
The youth seemed unable to speak. He took out a quill and quickly wrote several lines on the slip of paper.
"It was found by our servant informant planted among the Dornish, hidden in Prince Quentyn's personal belongings."
The muscles in Lysono Maar's face twitched as doubt and alarm churned inside him.
He did not hesitate any longer. Clutching the letter tightly, he said, "You've done well. Keep watching."
With that, he hurried out, heading straight for the quarters of Young Aegon and Harry Strickland. This news had to be reported at once.
After he left, the fear and urgency on the messenger's face vanished in an instant, replaced by a faintly unsettling smile.
He was no "little bird" left behind by Varys. He was one of Meizo's "children."
After Varys' death, Meizo had moved quickly, slipping his carefully trained agents into the leaderless remnants of the original "little birds."
When Lysono Maar arrived and began building his intelligence network, these agents were smoothly absorbed, successfully infiltrating the very core of the Golden Company's intelligence system.
This meticulously forged letter was the bait Meizo used to carry out Lo Quen's plan to sow discord.
Whether the letter was real or fake did not matter. What mattered was planting suspicion between Young Aegon and Dorne.
Once doubt took root, falsehood could become truth.
Even if they suspected the letter was fabricated, they would do everything possible to prevent such a scenario from ever coming to pass.
This was no longer a covert plot, but an open stratagem, aimed squarely at the weaknesses of human nature.
Before long, the council chamber of Dun Fort was brightly lit.
Young Aegon stared at the letter, his face livid, his chest heaving violently.
Harry Strickland examined the document with care, his brow tightly furrowed.
"This letter is absolutely forged!"