"If I look back, I am lost."
―Daenerys Targaryen
…
Daemon stood, unmoving, his gaze locked on the last of the dragonseeds as he stumbled to the ground, his body charred and broken. The air around Dragonstone still smelled of sulfur and burnt flesh, the echo of Vermithor's final bellow lingering in the stone halls of the keep.
Not one had succeeded. Not a single man had lived long enough to make it onto Vermithor's back, and now the beast—its dark form vanishing into the gloom of the tunnels—was gone. Gone, as were any fleeting thoughts Daemon had entertained that one of these fools might have had the luck to survive the dragon's fury. No. In the end, they were all the same—foolish, desperate, and dead.
Daemon's hand tightened on the hilt of Dark Sister, though it remained still at his side. He did not look at Rhaenyra, who stood beside him, her figure as rigid as his own. He could feel her, though, the weight of her silence pressing against him. He had known, deep down, that this was the likely outcome. No dragonseed would ever match the power of true Targaryens. But for a brief, foolish moment, he had let himself hope. And that hope was gone now, burnt to ash along with the rest of them.
"Not one of them," Daemon muttered to himself, eyes narrowing as the last of the bodies were carried away by the wind, the remnants of their lives vanishing into the gloom of the night. The echo of their anguished screams still hung in the air, like the fading memory. "Not a single one."
Rhaenyra did not speak, but he could feel the question on her lips. The same one he had asked himself a hundred times since their cause had begun to falter. What now?
The answer came with the same bitter taste it always had: Nothing.
Aemond was winning. That much was clear. Daemon had heard it unfold in the south, in the Stormlands, where One-eye's lightning offensive had ripped through their allies, leaving only scorched earth in its wake. There was no time for mercy in the foul beast's world. Only fire. Only conquest.
And then there was Ormund Hightower, marching north with a great host and Daeron on Tessarion. The Reach was lost, as much as they tried to deny it. Lord Tarly, that old fool, had already bent the knee, and others would follow. The Reach was the Greens' now. Daemon could feel it in the way the winds shifted, in the way the news arrived too quickly, too easily.
And then, the Riverlands. Oscar Tully of Riverrun had raised his banners, his great host marching beneath the banner of the Green cause, with Seasmoke and the one named Addam at his back. Daemon had fought against that rider once. He knew well, as much as he might try to deny it, the fellow was competent. Daemon had seen it, felt it, tasted it. The Riverlands would bend the knee, or they would die.
In the Vale, the situation was no better. Jeyne Arryn, Aemond's betrothed, had gathered her forces, bolstered by Sheepstealer and his unnamed rider. Daemon had met that pair once, too, and had been forced to flee. Two dragons against one was never a fight a sane man would choose, especially when his own was injured.
The Ironborn had failed him. Dalton Greyjoy, that treacherous dog, had most likely ignored his orders to raid the Riverlands. The raids had not come. Not a single whisper of news from the men he had ordered to harry the enemy. It was no surprise, really. The Ironborn had never been known for their loyalty. But Daemon had thought… Perhaps. Perhaps this time, they might prove themselves. But no. They were as useless as they had always been—spineless reavers, too frightened of the flames to venture into the heart of the storm.
All across Westeros, their enemies gathered, while they watched helplessly as their allies fell. Each day that passed, their grip on the realm loosened further. Rhaenyra's claim withered in the wind, like a leaf caught in a firestorm. She could feel it, too. He saw it in the way her eyes seemed distant, the way her shoulders were a little more hunched, a little more weary. This was supposed to be her moment. They had all believed it—at least, Daemon had. But now, it seemed that the gods had other plans.
He turned to Rhaenyra, though his eyes did not meet hers. Instead, he fixed them on the darkness, where the last traces of Vermithor's form had disappeared.
"I must leave for Rook's Rest," Daemon said, his voice colder than the air around them. "There is nothing more for me here."
At first, Rhaenyra did not answer. He had expected that. She was lost in her own thoughts, as lost as he was in his own. They had always been two sides of the same coin, but now, they seemed as distant as two strangers. Yet, when she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, carried on the wind.
"Be careful, Daemon."
He paused, his fingers brushing the hilt of Dark Sister. For a moment, he thought of replying. Of reassuring her. Of telling her that there was no other way—that they were trapped in a web of their enemy's making, and he was the only one who could cut them free. But no words came. Instead, he merely nodded, the cold truth of it sinking deeper.
Without another word, he turned, his boots echoing in the stillness as he made for Caraxes. The sun had fully risen now, and yet the cold wind of Dragonstone wrapped itself around him, a reminder of how alone they were in this fight.
It was only a matter of time now, it seemed.