Harry spoke in a low voice, his reasoning steady and clear. "House Martell would never crawl into bed with the Easterners. House Yronwood betrayed Dorne and went over to them, and the Martells and Yronwoods are sworn enemies, like fire and water. And there's more: Prince Oberyn was captured by the Easterners before he was handed to the Lannisters. The Easterners and the Martells share a blood feud. There's almost no ground for cooperation."
Harry Strickland's judgment was, in truth, dead on.
But Young Aegon had already been blinded by his hatred of Quentyn, and the "Blackfyre" rumors had made him jumpy and suspicious.
He slammed his fist onto the table and roared, "How could it be impossible?! Just look at Quentyn Martell! Has he shown even a shred of respect for his king? He's surely decided I'm Blackfyre, not a true Targaryen! Those scheming Dornish bastards, I'll settle this with them sooner or later!"
A deep unease flickered in Harry's eyes.
The Blackfyre whispers hung over Young Aegon like a curse, turning him skittish. Any little movement became proof that someone was questioning his identity, betraying him.
Harry sighed to himself. Jon Connington was still in the Riverlands, locked in a grinding fight with the remnants of the Westerlands host, and hadn't made it back to Duskendale.
In all of Duskendale, there was no one who could rein in a king sliding into obsession.
And Harry had his own fear, too. If the Dornish truly decided, as one, that Aegon was Blackfyre… it would be ruin.
He took a breath and kept pushing. "Your Grace, please calm yourself. This is very likely a ploy by the Easterners, meant to make us doubt one another and tear ourselves apart. And even if House Martell has its own intentions, we cannot act rashly right now. There are thirty thousand Dornish troops here. If fighting breaks out, the consequences will be unimaginable. If anyone must be punished, it should wait until Lord Jon Connington returns from the Riverlands."
Young Aegon stared at the letter. Harry's words were like cold water, tamping down the fire in him, if only a little.
He fell silent for a moment, regained some control, and ground out, "You're right. It could be that Eastern sorcerer's trick. But we can't do nothing. Summon Quentyn tomorrow. We'll test him."
The next day, Young Aegon forced down his anger and pretended he'd never received the secret letter. He summoned Quentyn to the hall again, his eyes cold.
"Prince Quentyn, I've considered your request to march back to Dorne. Taking everyone is impossible. But I will allow Ser Daemon Sand to lead most of the army back to Dorne as relief. As for you and Queen Arianne, you will remain in Duskendale."
The meaning was obvious: he meant to hold Dorne's prince and princess as hostages.
Quentyn exploded.
How could he miss such a crude attempt at coercion?
"You can dream of it!" he roared, his hand snapping to the hilt at his waist. "House Martell will not be toyed with!"
That motion was a spark to dry tinder. The Golden Company guards around the hall drew steel in a single rasping chorus, blades flashing as they leveled them at Quentyn. The air went tight as a drawn bowstring.
"Prince Quentyn!" Harry Strickland barked. "What do you think you're doing? Drawing steel before the king, is that treason?!"
"Treason?" Quentyn shook with rage, a harsh, mocking smile twisting his mouth. "House Martell swears to the true dragon, Targaryen, not some bastard Blackfyre whelp who crawled out of nowhere!"
"Blackfyre."
The word lit the last fuse.
Young Aegon's eyes went red. Whatever restraint and pretense he'd had shattered in an instant.
"You want to die?!"
He ripped free the famous ancestral blade, Blackfyre, and surged forward to cut Quentyn down.
Harry Strickland went white. He threw his arms around the raging Young Aegon from behind, holding him back with all his strength. "Your Grace, no! Please, calm yourself!"
Young Aegon struggled and screamed, "Seize him! Throw him in the dungeon, now!"
Soldiers rushed in, tore Quentyn's sword away, and ignored his curses and thrashing as they dragged him off. Moments later, he was shoved into the cold, damp darkness beneath Dun Fort.
The news reached the Dornish camp quickly.
The uproar that followed was instant, and furious.
Princess Arianne was frantic and furious when she learned what had happened. Swallowing her grief and rage, she first managed to calm Daemon Sand and the hot-tempered Obara Sand, who were on the verge of raising arms on the spot. Then she went alone to seek an audience with Young Aegon.
When she saw him, his anger had yet to fade. His expression was dark, almost frightening.
Arianne stepped forward, tears pooling in her beautiful eyes. She pleaded softly, "Your Grace, Dorne is bleeding. My father and my homeland are in grave danger. I beg you, let Quentyn take the troops back. If you need a hostage, take me instead. I'll stay here. Please, release Quentyn…"
Young Aegon looked at her coldly and sneered. "My dear Queen, your beloved brother just drew steel before his king and called me a 'Blackfyre bastard.' Do you truly think I would forgive that?"
Arianne reached out with trembling hands and cupped his face. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as she sobbed, "Aegon… I love you. I truly do. Please, for my sake, spare Quentyn. At the very least, don't leave him in that horrible dungeon. I beg you…"
Seeing her tearful face and desperate plea, Young Aegon's hardened heart finally softened a little.
He fell silent for a moment, then waved his hand impatiently. "Fine. For your sake, I'll have him released from the dungeon. He'll be given a room and treated with the dignity due a prince. But returning to Dorne? Don't even think about it. He stays here."
That was the furthest he was willing to yield.
Arianne felt only cold despair. She knew this solved nothing, but at least her brother would no longer suffer in the dungeon.
She thanked him through choking sobs and left, her spirit shattered.
Soon after, Quentyn was released.
By then, his hatred for Young Aegon had reached its peak, and his resolve to return to Dorne with the army had only grown stronger.
That very night, he secretly contacted Daemon Sand.
"We have to get out of this cursed place," Quentyn said. "We can't stay another moment. That Blackfyre whelp can't be trusted."
Daemon Sand's expression was grim. "But the Princess is still here."
"We can't worry about that now," Quentyn cut in sharply. "Arianne is his Queen. He won't dare touch her for the moment. But we and the Dornish troops must leave. Tonight. Gather the loyal officers quietly. Prepare horses and weapons. Under cover of darkness, we break out of Duskendale."
Their movements were discreet, but not invisible.
Lysono Maar, who had been closely watching the Dornish camp, soon detected unusual troop movements through his agents.
His operatives recovered another letter from the quarters of a high-ranking Dornish officer.
The letter made it clear that the Dornish planned to launch a mutiny that very night and seize Young Aegon alive.
Lysono Maar immediately sensed the danger and rushed to report to Young Aegon once more.
Young Aegon had just finished lying with Arianne and was resting on the bed, still slightly drained, when he heard Lysono Maar's urgent report. Quentyn and Daemon were secretly assembling troops, preparing to rebel, and there were indeed strange movements in the camp.
Young Aegon exploded. The last shred of patience snapped.
He bolted upright, eyes blazing red, and backhanded Arianne hard across the face.
"You bitch!" he screamed. "I let him go, and this is how your precious brother repays my mercy! He's betrayed me again!"
Arianne was stunned, her cheek burning as she clutched it, tears spilling out. "Your Grace! Let me go to him! Let me ask him—there must be some misunderstanding…"
She could not believe her brother intended to capture Young Aegon.
"Enough!" Young Aegon roared, cutting her off.
He flung the covers aside, leapt from the bed, and began pulling on his armor. "A king does not bend again and again to traitors. I will take his head myself!"
He snatched up the sword Blackfyre from the table and stormed out. Rallying the horsemen and nearby Golden Company soldiers, he charged straight toward the Dornish encampment.