Earl Morrigen stood at the edge of the Dornish camp, his eyes wide, his heart filled with shock.
The silver-haired young man in black armor slowly emerged from the towering clouds of dust and smoke. He carried a head that was still dripping blood, his red cloak fluttering gently in the wind.
Behind him, the golden lightning gradually subsided. The pale golden three-headed dragon stood proudly atop the ruins, his three heads surveying the surroundings to make sure nothing remained alive.
Only when Aegon drew near did Morrigen abruptly come to his senses. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, his voice hoarse with excitement:
"Your Highness!"
Aegon stopped and looked down at him.
The earl, who had endured nearly two months under siege, had jutting cheekbones and armor that hung loosely on his body. He had clearly suffered greatly.
But he had held Storm's End-he had neither surrendered nor abandoned the castle, holding out until Aegon arrived.
"Rise," Aegon said, his tone calm but carrying weight. "You held Storm's End without any hope of support. You did well. I will remember this service."
Earl Morrigen trembled and raised his head.
"All for Your Highness!" His voice rose sharply, filled with almost fanatical sincerity. "It was my honor to hold this castle for you."
"Even if I had fought to the last man and died on the walls, I would never have let the Dornish set foot inside!"
As for whether he had previously doubted his decision to surrender, wondering if he should have fought to the death like the other nobles...
Nonsense.
He, Morrigen, had always been utterly loyal to House Targaryen.
He had never wavered.
Never.
He vehemently rejected that thought, his gaze burning ever brighter. From this moment on, this prince was the only sun