"To suspect your own mortality is to know the beginning of terror. To learn irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of terror."
— Frank Herbert, Dune Messiah
…
The chill off the Narrow Sea gnawed at Daemon's bones as he and Lucerys crossed Rook's Rest's outer courtyard. Dawn's light crept in sluggishly, turning the battlements a pale, sickly gold. The sun should have cast warmth, but instead the fortress walls reflected only a dreary pallor, as if they too sensed the storm of violence rolling in from beyond the hills.
Their breaths plumed in the cold. Around them, soldiers and servants scurried with grim purpose—dragging up barrels of pitch, wheeling out barrels of salted meat for the day's rations, adjusting harnesses on horses that would serve little purpose if dragons set the sky ablaze. There was no chatter, no easy banter. Men whispered their fears to themselves, or turned them into muttered prayers to gods unlikely to listen.
Daemon felt the weight of each footstep on the damp stone. He was tired. By the gods, he was tired. Only minutes earlier, he'd faced his nephew Aemond on that wide, lonely field of grass. A parley, if one could call it that. Come to me and surrender, or you will burn. Aemond had never possessed much subtlety, but in the past, there had at least been some veneer of courtesy. Not now.
He spared a glance at Lucerys, the boy keeping pace beside him. Lately, Daemon had taken to studying the set of the lad's jaw, the color in his cheeks when fear mingled with pride. Will he break if tested? The question haunted him. The unfruitful parley had turned that question into a lead weight in Daemon's gut.
They reached the entrance to the keep itself—an arched doorway flanked by a pair of tired guards, spears in hand. Inside, the narrow corridors smelled of stale rushes and damp stone. Smoke from the torches gathered in the higher vaults of the ceiling, ghosting in lazy drifts. Daemon saw the same uncertainty in every soldier's face as they moved aside for the prince: Will these walls hold against dragonfire? Rook's Rest was no mean castle, but no fortress in Westeros could withstand a determined skyborne assault forever.
A slim figure waited at the next cross-passage: Jamie, Lord Staunton's heir. A squire's belt still looped his waist, but he wore a worn cloak pinned by the Staunton sigil. The lad tried to stand straighter as Daemon approached, and if he was afraid, he hid it better than most.
"Your Grace," he said, voice wavering slightly. "We have men on every battlement. Orders?"
Daemon didn't waste words. "Prepare for attack. We're moments from an onslaught, minutes at best. The Greens will come from the air first. Keep your best archers on the ramparts, but out of open sight. If they see your men standing like sheep, they'll torch them from afar. Make them earn every pass."
He leaned in, lowering his voice so others wouldn't overhear. "Have your riders outside the walls send word to the scorpion crews. The moment any of those beasts strays into range, I expect a volley of bolts to greet them."
The heir swallowed. A faint tremor rippled across his pale features, but he kept his stance firm. "Yes, Your Grace. At once." He bowed again and hurried off, barking instructions to subordinates who nearly tripped over themselves in their haste.
Lucerys let out a slow breath. "They're frightened."
Daemon nodded, pressing his lips into a line. "With good cause."
They moved on. Each corridor felt narrower than the last, blackened sconces flickering with halfhearted flames. The fortress air was thick—spiced with mold, damp straw, the stale remains of last night's cooking fires. It clung to Daemon's lungs like a curse. He could hardly imagine how this place would reek if it fell under dragonflame. Bones and ashes, that's all that'll be left.
Eventually, they emerged into a lower courtyard open to the sea, where Caraxes and Arrax were roosting. The dragons looked on edge—restless, shifting weight from foot to foot. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, let out a low hiss that reverberated off the stone walls, stirring dust from hidden corners. Arrax was smaller by far, though the faintly luminescent sheen of his scales hinted at a power yet to come. They both sensed the tension in their riders.
Daemon approached Caraxes slowly, stroking the underside of the dragon's throat. The beast's chest vibrated with a deep growl. "Easy," Daemon said, not sure if he was speaking to the dragon or to himself. "This day's not done with us yet."
Lucerys stood beside Arrax, hands fumbling with the leather straps that would secure him during flight. Though the boy tried to hide it, Daemon recognized the fear in those darting eyes. Too young, he thought, with a pang of regret that cut deeper than any sword. This was war—no place for a boy. But what choice did they have?
When Lucerys looked up, there was a question in his eyes, unspoken but ringing clear as a temple bell: What do we do now?
Daemon inhaled slowly, letting the salt air fill his lungs, letting it wash away the roiling coil of anger and dread in his stomach. "Listen to me, Lucerys." His voice was softer than usual, roughened at the edges. "You're going back to Dragonstone."
The boy's brow furrowed. "You said— I thought—"
"—I said a lot of things," Daemon cut in, voice tight. "And I was a fool to say them. Arrax is a brave dragon, but no match for Vhagar or Sheepstealer. We have four beasts heading our way: one ancient as all Seven Hells, two scarred from war, and one nimble enough to catch us unawares. Caraxes and I… we'll do what we must to defend this castle, but your mother needs you alive. If I keep you here, the only difference it'll make is that I'll have to watch you die before I meet my own fate. I won't have that on my conscience."
Lucerys's frustration and fear fought for control of his features. "I can fight," he said in a strained whisper. "I'm not a child."
"No," Daemon agreed gently. "You're a prince. And that means making choices to safeguard the realm. Sometimes it means knowing when you're outmatched."
Silence hung between them. The wind off the sea kicked up, rustling their hair, and Caraxes snorted impatiently. Daemon could feel the weight of the boy's pride brimming just behind those dark eyes. But if he insisted, Daemon would have to force him away. Better a resentful son than a dead one.
At last, Lucerys exhaled, shoulders sagging with resigned acceptance. Daemon released a quiet breath of relief. He grasped Lucerys by the forearms and leaned in, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "If I… if this day goes ill, tell Rhaenyra—" His throat tightened, words refusing to come smoothly. "Tell her I've always been hers. That everything I did, I did for her and the crown she wears. Tell her… I wish I'd more time."
Tears threatened to well in Lucerys's eyes, but he blinked them away, nodding. "I will."
Daemon offered a wry smile, doing his damnedest to project confidence he didn't feel. "Go. Now."
Just then, a thunderous roar ripped through the dawn air: Vhagar, calling out her challenge, a menacing echo that vibrated in Daemon's very bones. Across the ramparts, men lifted their gazes skyward in horror. Even Caraxes' eye pin-pricked at the sound, emitting a hiss soaked with bloodlust.
Lucerys's eyes darted to Daemon's, fear renewed in his face. "Are you sure—?"
"I said go!" Daemon snapped, urgency lancing his voice. If he stays a moment longer, he'll waver.
Lucerys scrambled onto Arrax's saddle, fastened the closest straps with trembling fingers, and with a cry both boyish and terrified, he spurred the young dragon into the sky. Arrax's wings beat the air, lifting them clear of the keep in a gust of wind and loose debris. Daemon allowed himself a final glance, heart twisting at the sight of the small, pale dragon silhouetted against the brightening sky. Fly fast, boy.
Then he turned to Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm's serpentine neck twisted to meet his gaze. "Soves, Caraxes," Daemon muttered, swinging into the saddle with practiced grace. "Let's give that old bitch something to remember us by."
He checked the fastenings then—belt, harness, stirrups—each loop and buckle meant to keep him alive during flight. Or alive long enough, at least.
Pushing off with his heels, Caraxes sprang from the stone, wings unfurling like crimson sails. The initial drop made Daemon's stomach lurch before the beast caught an updraft. A swirl of cold wind battered his face, stinging his eyes and whipping his hair. Below, the fortress shrank, revealing the vague shape of hastily assembled scorpions hidden along the walls.
Daemon steered Caraxes in a wide loop, scanning the sky. The day's light was strong enough now to show him the landscape in stark detail: the rolling green hills to the north, the grey expanse of the sea to the east, and the dark blemish of the Green host's camp to the west. Tents and fires spread in uneven rows. From that direction, silhouettes rose from beyond the ridge, leaving the Green host's camp in a flurry of dust and scattered tents. Vhagar, Sheepstealer, Seasmoke, Tessarion—a dread choir of wings and flame. They climbed higher, then leveled off, soaring toward Rook's Rest in a flat, predatory arc.
They came on in a steady rush, just as Daemon had planned. The Greens seemed oblivious. Close enough now that Daemon could taste the moment. Let them come, he thought, jaw clenched. Only death lies this way. One more wingbeat, and they'd be in range…
Only they weren't. At the last heartbeat, the enemy riders banked south, their dragons tilting as one to pick up the sea's updraft. He saw them shift formation, long shadows flickering over restless waves. He frowned, Caraxes giving a puzzled snarl beneath him. If they weren't aiming at Rook's Rest, what was their target? Daemon's gaze trailed their new course—and there it was, a small pale dragon cutting a lonely line through the clouds. Arrax. Lucerys. Daemon's belly turned to ice.
They meant to kill the boy first.
"No!" He practically spat the word, jerking on Caraxes's reins. Every sense sharpened under a cold lash of panic. The scorpions in the cliffs might as well have been a world away. All that mattered now was Lucerys, out there all alone, the slowest prey in open sky. Daemon leaned low across Caraxes's neck, urging the Blood Wyrm faster, the wind roaring past like a thousand angry voices.
"Forward!" he roared at Caraxes, leaning hard into the dragon's neck. With a guttural snarl, Caraxes propelled himself on a forward dive, wings beating to gain speed, each stroke an agony of urgency.
Lucerys was but a scrap of color in the distance, Arrax's wings beating in frantic time with his rising terror. Seasmoke led the chase, nimble and quick, the other three behind but not by much. Daemon cursed under his breath, the taste of salt on his tongue as the sea churned below. Each second, the gap shrank. A few more heartbeats and they'd be on Lucerys like wolves on a wounded deer.
"Dracarys!" he bellowed, all the fury of his soul in one cracked word. Caraxes unleashed a blistering column of flame. It caught Seasmoke broadside, forcing the dragon to jerk away with a roar, battered scales smoking. Not a killing blow, but enough to spare Lucerys a grisly end, for the moment. Seasmoke banked, and Daemon dived after him, flame licking at the trailing edge of the grey dragon's wing.
Then Daemon recalled, with a sinking lurch, that Seasmoke was hardly alone. Three more hung behind like hungry crows. The sun suddenly died above him, replaced by a vast shadow—Vhagar, tucking her wings and dropping like a thunderbolt. Daemon yanked Caraxes left, and Vhagar's claws clipped the sea's surface in her descent, sending up a billowing curtain of foam that, for a moment, masked her colossal shape. She burst through it an instant later, jaws wide, snapping shut just yards from Caraxes's tail.
A near miss, yet Vhagar pressed on with an enraged growl, exhaling a sheet of white-hot fire that licked at them. The stink of singed hair curled in Daemon's nostrils, but he had no time to dwell on it. He forced his mounting terror down, clung to Caraxes's speed, rolling clear of the old bitch's snapping maw.
One danger gone, three more waiting. He glanced up: Sheepstealer and Tessarion soared overhead, banking their wings, likely sizing up the best angle to pounce. Seasmoke hung to Daemon's right, ready to cut off any dash for the anchored fleet and the scorpions there. Daemon ground his teeth. So that was their game: they were herding him away from his own defenses. The only open route lay straight back toward Rook's Rest. Better, Daemon decided.
He wheeled Caraxes round, aiming north for the fortress. He glanced around and spied Sheepstealer behind, stooped in a shallow dive, heavier but gaining speed with each heartbeat. A single glance told Daemon the old beast would collide with them from above if he kept his course.
He threw his weight into the reins, and Caraxes sliced sideways. Sheepstealer whooshed past in a gust of ragged wings, missing them by a hair. A bellow from the bigger dragon, a laborious climb back skyward, and Daemon let out a breath.
Hurriedly, he took stock. Sheepstealer on the right, Seasmoke on his tail, Vhagar closing on the left with that dreadful inevitability of an avalanche. As for Tessarion—Daemon squinted, blinded by the sun rising in the east. A sudden prickle of dread crawled up his spine. Where was she?
There. A small silhouette, a pinprick of blue in the glare, ballooning to dreadful size in a blink. Daemon cursed, yanking on Caraxes's reins too late. Tessarion slammed into the Blood Wyrm's left wing, talons biting deep before she kicked off, leaving Caraxes spinning, lurching, tumbling. Sky, sea, sky, sea. Gravity ripped Daemon free of coherent thought, pressing him back into the saddle so hard his ribs ached. He held to the harness with white-knuckled desperation—
Impact!
Brine flooded his mouth and nose, cold as an assassin's knife. He tumbled in the murk, tossed like driftwood. Now and then a gasp of air, now and then the roar of dragons overhead. Pain knifed through his leg, then his shoulder. Consciousness flickered in and out, the world a half-lit dream of boiling water aflame in dragonfire and the cold shadows of the depths beneath.
He surfaced once, choking, and glimpsed Caraxes hauling his bulk through the shallows near a narrow strip of rocky shore. The battered dragon's left wing dragged uselessly through the sand. Broken. Broken wing. Gods, a broken wing. That hideous truth sank in as Daemon retched up a lungful of seawater. No flight, not now, not for Caraxes.
But the enemy gave them no mercy. A pounding of wings made the very air tremble. Daemon squinted through wet lashes, heart pounding. Vhagar slammed down onto the beach in a shower of sand and pebbles. In a single motion, she planted one colossal talon on Caraxes's neck, pinning him down with an audible grind of scale and bone. Viciously, her maw opened. Then came the sickening crack. Caraxes's other wing was jerked back in a wrenching bite, twisted under the pressure. The Blood Wyrm's roar turned to a broken shriek. Through the haze of his vision, Daemon saw his partner flail, spitting a desperate gout of flame that licked ineffectually off Vhagar's armored hide.
An eerie hush fell over Daemon's senses, a hollow ring that silenced everything but his own ragged breathing. Time slowed. Through a haze of salt and pain, he watched as a figure slid down the old bitch's flank, stepping onto Caraxes's spine with dreadful poise.
One Eye. The bastard stepped lightly as though he treaded a tavern floor. He paused, face expressionless, one eye cold as polished steel. "You really should have taken my offer," he said. Daemon opened his mouth, though no proper words came—only a pained, ragged laugh. Aemond shook his head and crouched before Daemon before slowly sliding Dark Sister free from Daemon's own hip, and hammered him across the face with the pommel.
The tang of blood flooded Daemon's mouth. Blackness followed, quick and uncaring, and he sank into it like a stone in deep water.
Time stretched, a single endless moment of blackness pulling him under. He thought of Rhaenyra, a fragment of her face in candlelight. I'm sorry, he tried to say, but his lips wouldn't move.
Then, all was dark.