Chapter 36: The Vulture King Emerges from His Cave
"Alright, alright, it's not as if I'm leaving you to starve."
Hearing his father's dramatic wailing echo through the stone chamber, the young man paused at the threshold and turned back with visible impatience.
"Beneath the storage compartment there's enough bread, pickled vegetables, and fresh water to last you three to five months. Do not even think about demanding meat. You, Old Lord, should take this opportunity to lose some weight."
With that, he waved dismissively and stepped out.
He would not commit kinslaying. However ambitious he might be, he understood the weight of crowns and curses alike. Securing his own position came first. As long as his cousin's intelligence proved true, matters would resolve themselves within a few months. They need not act rashly. They merely needed to remain hidden and keep watch over certain Lords in western Dorne — that was the greater part of their task.
Afterward, fractured Dorne would become a stage upon which great houses clashed and maneuvered.
And House Dayne would once more lift the ancient crown of the King of the Torrentine.
The younger generation of House Dayne had been intoxicated by the sweeping promises Obara laid before them. With zeal and secrecy, they suppressed news of the shift in leadership. Ravens flying from High Hermitage and Starfall carried only reassurances that all was well.
Sunspear
Sunspear stood radiant against the sea, like a great ship sailing eternally eastward — proud and unyielding, where Princess Nymeria had once landed.
Prince Corwin Martell had just finished a difficult audience with Lord Uller of Hellholt.
He had urged caution — urged wisdom.
Dorne had suffered dragonfire before.
During the First Dornish War against Aegon the Conqueror, though Dorne had remained unconquered, the devastation had lingered for decades. Burned fields, poisoned wells, ruined oases — pride did not restore grain stores.
Prince Corwin desired only stability. Peace, fragile though it was, benefited Dorne most.
Weary, he sank into his carved chair and motioned for Ser Anders Allyrion — heir to Godsgrace and his sworn attendant — to bring him chilled wine mixed with lemon and crushed pepper.
He needed something sharp to quiet the fire in his chest.
"Aside from me," Prince Corwin asked, voice tight, "who else has Lord Uller approached?"
Ser Anders bowed his head slightly before answering.
"Your Grace, Lord Uller met with envoys connected to the Vulture's Roost. The so-called Vulture King of the Red Mountains. The old Vulture Gang pledged to gather young and able men from towns and villages — those with no prospects — to strengthen his banners."
Prince Corwin's cup stilled mid-air.
"A new Vulture King?"
He took a slow sip.
"And from which pit did this one crawl? A Blackmont bastard? Or merely another mountain brigand wearing feathers?"
"The Maester and several Lords suspect he may be a bastard — or even trueborn — son of House Blackmont," Ser Anders replied. "This Vulture King commands unusual wealth. Fine arms. Proper armor. Hundreds of sand steeds. It is said that Vulture's Roost holds thousands of fighting men."
He hesitated.
"Though provisions are scarce. It is believed certain Lords have quietly supplied him."
"That fool Uller."
Prince Corwin set the cup down hard against the table.
"He would drag all Dorne into ruin. Send word through the Maester's ravens. Inform every landed Lord: the Vulture King is no ally of Dorne. He is a threat. We will not squander hard-won peace."
"At once, Your Grace."
Above the Red Mountains
High above drifting cloudbanks, Vermithor moved like a shadow against the sun.
Upon his back sat Dragonzel — bloodlight flickering faintly within his deep violet eyes.
He wished to see this self-proclaimed Vulture King with his own sight.
Vermithor gave a low, resonant growl.
They had found it.
Dragonzel focused, the strange crimson sheen sharpening his vision. The clouds parted beneath his gaze.
There.
Vulture's Roost.
Within its walls, hundreds of Dornishmen in polished armor feasted and drank. Laughter echoed from courtyards. Banners bearing a crowned vulture snapped in the mountain wind.
Vermithor circled once.
Dragonzel's eyes narrowed.
A narrow mountain pass — cleverly concealed — wound southward from the stronghold. From the ground it would be near impossible to detect.
From the sky, nothing was hidden.
"Armor. Warhorses. Organization."
Dragonzel rested a gloved hand against Vermithor's scaled neck.
"We return."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"The harvest from this venture may prove… considerable."
He already knew how to maneuver this Vulture King into open war — and into ruin.
Dragon Nest City's towers still required months before they would be habitable. For now, Dragonzel and his brothers remained at Blackhaven, awaiting the arrival of the two Princes — each riding their own dragons.
Vermithor climbed higher, vanishing into blinding sunlight.
Below, the Dornishmen remained oblivious.
Only one man did not smile.
Vulture's Roost
Within the keep, the Vulture King watched the revelry without mirth.
At his side stood a learned man — not a full Maester, but a trained scholar retained from his family's household. Skilled enough to manage correspondence and tend wounds, though lacking a chain.
"Your Grace," the scholar said carefully, offering a sealed letter. "Word from Hellholt."
He began reading aloud.
"Lord Uller will dispatch one thousand five hundred men to join your banners. Six hundred sand steeds. Thousands of gold coins. Fifteen knights accompany them."
The Vulture King's expression hardened.
"Hired swords?"
"Most likely, Your Grace. House Uller lost heavily beneath Blackhaven. Over a thousand men. Several knights. They cannot spare more."
"Send thanks to Lord Uller," the Vulture King replied coldly. "As promised, I shall cast war upon the cowards of the Stormlands."
The scholar continued.
"Lord Uller has also secured cooperation from vagrant bands near Sunspear. They will gather no fewer than four thousand smallfolk — men and women — to march north. They lack arms."
"It matters little. What of the other Lords?"
"Prince Corwin Martell has publicly distanced himself. Ravens have been sent urging Lords to deny you provisions."
A sneer twisted the Vulture King's lips.
"He lacks the courage of King Mors Martell. Dorne chooses weak princes. They would fare better choosing a woman."
The scholar lowered his eyes.
"Of those approached, Lord Tolan of Ghost Hill agreed only to send eight hundred spearmen to guard his own lands. The others refused outright. Lord Yronwood has even dispatched six hundred infantry to fortify the Boneway against potential incursion."
The Vulture King paced, mind racing.
Then —
The ground trembled.
A violent shudder rolled through the stone floor.
He stumbled, instinctively diving toward the heavy oaken table.
"Your Grace!" the scholar exclaimed, steadying him. "This does not feel like an earthquake."
The shaking subsided.
Dust drifted from rafters.
The Vulture King rose slowly and strode toward the window overlooking the southern range.
Smoke.
Rising in dark columns.
His sharp instincts connected the truth at once.
"Seven Hells…"
The words escaped him in a whisper.
The southern mountains — the direction of his hidden supply route — were cloaked in smoke and dust.
His grain road.
His lifeline.
Gone.
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