In the darkness, torches were lit one after another, their flames casting a harsh glow over soldiers' tense, murderous faces.
Young Aegon led the elite of the Golden Company and the ferocious Dothraki, swiftly sealing off several of the main exits of the Dornish encampment.
The sudden movement immediately alarmed the Dornish soldiers inside the camp, as well as the Norvos slave soldiers stationed nearby. Unease rippled through the ranks.
Some hot-headed Dornishmen, convinced the Golden Company meant them harm, were the first to draw swords and spears. The Norvos mercenaries, equally nervous, hastily formed up.
No one knew who struck first. Perhaps it was a shove, perhaps an angry shout from someone who lost their temper.
The clash erupted in an instant.
Dothraki scimitars hacked into Norvos shields. Dornish spears lunged toward Golden Company soldiers. The crash of steel tore through the night over Duskendale.
Quentyn and Daemon Sand, who had been urgently organizing their withdrawal, heard the shouting and clamor outside and went pale. They rushed out, only to see Golden Company soldiers and Dothraki locked in a chaotic melee with Dornish and Norvos troops.
"Aegon, you despicable wretch!"
Quentyn's eyes burned with fury. He believed Young Aegon meant to wipe them out under cover of night.
"Warriors of Dorne!"
He drew his sword and roared, "For Dorne! For Martell! Fight your way out!"
Daemon Sand raised his spear without hesitation and shouted orders, "Counterattack! Form up! Break out toward the outskirts of the town!"
The loyal Dornish soldiers immediately closed ranks around their prince, forming a battle line and launching a fierce countercharge against the Golden Company troops hemming them in.
Seeing the Dornish not only refuse to surrender but actually dare to strike back sent Young Aegon into a rage.
"Traitors! All of you are traitors!" he screamed. "Kill them! Kill them all!"
With that command, the Golden Company soldiers and the Dothraki stopped holding back and unleashed a full assault.
The Dothraki warriors under Young Aegon howled as they swung their curved blades, hacking wildly at anyone who looked Dornish or Norvos. The Golden Company's heavy infantry locked shields and advanced in solid formation, pressing forward with spear and sword, steadily crushing the space around their enemies.
The combined Dornish and Norvos force under Prince Quentyn fought bravely, but they were at a clear disadvantage in both numbers and preparation. Young Aegon still had forty thousand troops in Duskendale, while Quentyn commanded only thirty thousand. The attack came so suddenly that many soldiers were dragged into the fight without even having time to don armor.
Dornish spears were difficult to use effectively in the narrow streets. The Norvos slave soldiers, though fearless, were far inferior to the Golden Company elites in both equipment and training.
"Hold the line! For Dorne!"
Quentyn shouted himself hoarse, his sword already slick with blood. Beside him, Daemon Sand's blade claimed a life with nearly every swing.
But the enemy ring kept tightening, their space shrinking by the moment.
"Prince, this won't work!"
Daemon Sand knocked aside a slashing scimitar and shouted, "We have to break south and get out of this cursed town!"
Quentyn was just about to nod and give the order when a more panicked scream rose from behind them, followed by a surge of towering firelight.
The Dornish encampment was ablaze.
No one knew when it had started, but the flames were already roaring. Driven by the wind, the fire spread rapidly, engulfing tents, supply wagons, and everything else that could burn.
Countless Dornish and Norvos soldiers were trapped in the sea of fire, their screams piercing as they ran and rolled, bodies engulfed in flames.
Thick smoke billowed into the sky, the stench of burning flesh and cloth choking the air.
"Where did this fire come from?!"
Quentyn's eyes were bloodshot as he stared at the inferno devouring his men, his heart twisting in agony. "Who set it? Who did this?!"
He spun wildly, searching for answers.
Was it the Golden Company's deliberate arson?
Or some accidental blaze sparked in the chaos?
No one could tell him. There was only the growing fire and their increasingly desperate situation.
The flames did not stop with the camp. They crept along dry wood and cloth, spreading toward the houses of Duskendale and the Dun Fort beyond.
The entire town seemed to have turned into a vast, living hell of fire.
"Break through! Break through now!"
Quentyn shouted hoarsely, his eyes bloodshot.
He gathered what forces he could still command and launched a desperate charge toward the southern flank, where the enemy presence was thinner.
But the road south was firmly sealed by the ferocious Dothraki horsemen.
Quentyn led from the front, fighting with everything he had as firelight flickered across his face. Again and again he tried to smash through the Dothraki blockade, only to be driven back each time, soldiers falling one after another at his side.
At that moment, he suddenly looked up toward Dun Fort.
A corner of the castle had already been swallowed by towering flames, thick smoke pouring from its windows.
"Arianne!"
The realization that his sister was still in Dun Fort struck him like a hammer. His heart sank, and he nearly turned his horse to charge straight toward the castle.
Daemon Sand seized his arm. His face was twisted with anguish and pain. Arianne was not only the prince's sister, but also the woman he loved.
"Quentyn, calm down! Dun Fort is crawling with the Golden Company. We can't break through. If we don't leave now, all of us, along with Dorne's last hope, will die here!"
Quentyn looked into Daemon's bloodshot eyes, then back at the troops behind him, trapped in flames and slaughter. He turned again toward the distant Dun Fort, engulfed in fire and utterly unreachable. Despair flooded his chest.
He knew Daemon was right.
As the eldest male heir of House Martell, as the hope of Dorne, he had to live.
He closed his eyes in agony. When he opened them again, only cold resolve remained.
"All men, break south! Don't linger!"
...
While Quentyn was drowning in despair, Young Aegon's situation was hardly any better.
Harri Strickland had only just managed to find and shield Young Aegon amid the chaos.
Once told that the Dornish had rebelled and that open fighting had erupted between the two sides, Young Aegon had been dragged into the battle whether he wished it or not. Even so, a sliver of doubt lingered in his mind. He could not believe the Dornish would be foolish enough to revolt in the very heart of Duskendale.
Now, as he watched the flames spread wider and higher, smoke choking the air until breathing became difficult and the town itself seemed on the verge of becoming a furnace, Harri urgently warned him:
"Your Grace, the fire is out of control. We must evacuate Duskendale at once, or we'll all burn to death here!"
Young Aegon stared at Dun Fort, now being licked by flames, his face darkening to a terrifying degree as conflicting emotions churned in his eyes.
After a few seconds of silence, he gritted his teeth.
"Take Arianne away."
Harri immediately replied, "Your Grace, rest assured. I've already sent men to bring the Queen… Princess Arianne out of her chambers. She's outside now, under guard."
Catching the edge of Young Aegon's hatred toward Dorne, he corrected himself just in time.
Young Aegon nodded. Casting one last venomous look at the burning town, he shouted:
"All forces, hear my command! Withdraw from Duskendale! Regroup in the southern hills! Block Quentyn. Do not let those Dornish traitors escape!"
Under the direction of Young Aegon and Harri, the Golden Company and the Dothraki disengaged in an orderly fashion, pulling back from the inferno and moving toward the rolling hills south of Duskendale.
Seeing this, Quentyn seized the chance. He desperately gathered the remnants of his force and led the shaken, mostly wounded Dornish and Norvos soldiers out of what had become a living hell.
But they had barely escaped the flames and had no time to catch their breath when they saw it.
On the southern hills, Young Aegon's army had already reformed, ranks drawn up and waiting, completely blocking the road back to Dorne.
Quentyn stared at the black banner bearing the red three-headed dragon and at the mounted figure beneath it. Old grudges and fresh hatred surged together in his chest. He spurred his horse forward and shouted in rage:
"Aegon, you Blackfyre bastard! Get out of my way!"
Young Aegon's expression instantly turned ugly.
Then he let out a cold laugh and waved his hand.
Several Golden Company soldiers dragged a figure forward.
It was Arianne Martell.
Her hair hung loose, her once-splendid gown smeared with soot. Her beautiful face was pale and bloodless, her eyes empty and rimmed with tears.