"Only death can pay for life."
―Mirri Maz Duur
…
Daeron's breath came fast and shallow as Tessarion alighted upon the wet sand, her talons sinking into the brine-soaked shore. His heart thundered against his ribs, the taste of salt on his tongue as he surveyed the scene before him. Vhagar loomed over Caraxes, and the Blood Wyrm writhed beneath her pinned claw, both wings twisted at impossible angles. One dripped fresh blood onto the sand, the other hung limp, cartilage and membrane shredded.
He had never seen anything so monstrous and heartbreaking. Over Caraxes's shrill keening, Daeron heard the wet crunch of bone as Vhagar pressed her weight down. Daeron flinched, bile rising in his throat. He had read songs of dragons slain, but the harsh reality of it—torn flesh and the shrieks of a dying beast—burrowed into his ears like a worm, threatening to unman him right there on the shore.
Aemond dropped lightly from Vhagar's flank and onto Caraxes's back, so sure of foot it looked as if he were stepping onto a rug in the Red Keep. The great mass of Vhagar pinned Caraxes at the base of the skull, preventing the dragon from thrashing. Daeron caught a glimpse of Daemon—his renegade uncle—still strapped in his saddle, drenched from the crash, face twisted with mingled rage and pain. Yet the Rogue Prince refused to cry out, even as Caraxes's tortured wailing rattled every stone along the beach.
Aemond bent low, said something Daeron could not hear through the cacophony, then reached for Dark Sister, slowly tugging it free from Daemon's belt in one fluid motion. The next instant, the pommel struck Daemon's temple with a dull thud. The prince's head lolled back, eyes rolling white, and Aemond wasted no time slicing through the saddle straps that bound him.
"Bind him," Aemond commanded, his voice somehow calm amid the din. "Keep him under watch. I'll have no unexpected heroics this day."
Addam and Nettles, who had dismounted from Seasmoke and Sheepstealer, rushed forward at once. Addam already bore chains and manacles as he had been informed to expect such an order; the links clinked ominously as he moved. Nettles merely nodded and dropped to a crouch, taking Daemon's arms while Addam secured the metal about his wrists and ankles. Soon, Daemon's unconscious form lay in the sand, shackled like a prisoner condemned.
Daeron swallowed, feeling the sour tang of fear and disgust curdling in his belly. He forced himself to dismount Tessarion, reminding himself that he was a prince of the realm—not a boy to cower in a corner. He placed a hand on Tessarion's flank for reassurance, her scaled hide warm even in the chill breeze, and turned to face his brother.
Aemond stepped closer, the wind snatching at his silver hair and flinging it across his face. He did not bother to push it aside. His single eye glimmered with something terrible—hunger, perhaps, or an unholy resolve.
"The eggs," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "Bring them to me. Now."
Daeron blinked. "Eggs…?" It took him half a heartbeat to recall the wooden box strapped securely to Tessarion's saddle. He had almost forgotten the ancient, stone-cold dragon eggs entrusted to him by Aemond.
"Hurry," Aemond repeated, turning his gaze on Caraxes. Vhagar's talon tightened, provoking another agonized roar from the pinned wyrm.
Daeron hastened to Tessarion's side, unbuckling the bindings that held the wooden chest in place. His mind churned with questions, none of which he dared utter: Why now? Why here, on this bloodstained shore, with war still raging and Caraxes lying broken beneath Vhagar's weight? He retrieved the box, a solid oaken thing reinforced with iron bands, and carried it gingerly to his brother.
Aemond took the box from his arms without ceremony and upended it. The eggs tumbled out onto the wet sand, each a different shade—faded reds and bronzes, dull greens, mottled greys. Daeron cursed inwardly; one errant drop might crack them. But these eggs had apparently turned to stone long ago, or so the dragonkeepers claimed, and indeed they only thumped solidly onto the ground, half-sunk in the saturated shore.
Aemond sank to his knees, making no remark as Caraxes spat a feeble gout of flame that fell embarrassingly short of reaching him. The wounded dragon's breath reeked of copper and salt, each exhalation labored. Yet Aemond paid it no mind. He used his bare hands to carve a shallow trench in the sand, scraping out a wide circle around the eggs. Then, with maddening calm, he dragged his cupped fingers toward Caraxes's flank, creating a narrow channel.
"What are you—?" Daeron began, but at a curt gesture from Aemond, he fell silent. His brother stood, brushing sand from his hands, and approached Caraxes's head.
The Blood Wyrm's eyes narrowed in hate, flames flaring weakly in its half-closed maw. Aemond set a hand upon the dragon's crest, and in High Valyrian, murmured something that sounded like an apology—a soft string of syllables that hovered in the air like a dirge. Daeron felt the hairs on his neck prickle.
Then Aemond turned and fixed Daeron with a stare. "Move back," he said, so quietly that Daeron almost missed it beneath Caraxes's ragged breathing.
Daeron took a few steps, glancing to either side. Addam and Nettles knelt near Daemon's chained form, both watchers wide-eyed with fear or fascination. Aemond gestured again, insisting Daeron move even farther. He did, heart pounding.
A hush fell as Aemond raised Dark Sister high. In one brutal thrust, he drove the blade into the side of Caraxes's neck. The dragon shrieked, all the remaining air in its lungs forced out in one wild, keening bellow. Hot, black blood spurted from the wound in an arterial gush, splattering the sand and soaking the shallow trench. For a moment, Daeron could only gape. The smell of it—sharp and acrid—drove tears to his eyes.
Caraxes's blood pooled quickly, a dark steaming tide swirling towards and around the eggs. Even pinned, the wyrm struggled, wracked by final spasms. Daeron fought the urge to look away.
Aemond stood amidst the gore calmly. When the circle around the eggs was a brimming ring of steaming black, he raised his hand toward Vhagar. Dracarys, he said. The ancient she-dragon opened her maw, then belched forth a lance of fire that ignited the blood-soaked trench as though it were doused in the most volatile oil.
The conflagration that followed drove Daeron another step back, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Blood burned with an intensity he would never have imagined—multihued flames roared around the circle, dancing with an unholy life of their own. By the time his eyes adjusted, he saw Aemond on his knees in the midst of the inferno, chanting in High Valyrian. His voice seemed… altered, echoing off the surf and the stones in layers. Shadows gathered around him—no, not shadows, Daeron thought, but shapeless things of writhing black smoke. They formed and dissipated, as if drawn to his voice, or perhaps birthed from it.
For several minutes this continued. Then, suddenly, Aemond drew Dark Sister again, this time across the meat of his palm. He swung and his blood splattered onto the flames. Instantly, the inferno leapt higher, flickering in unnatural shades of green, purple, and pale gold. Sparks rained down, and Daeron had to turn his face aside. The heat was intense beyond reason, scorching the wind.
Then, as quickly as the flames had surged, they began to dwindle, flickering down to embers and smoke. Steam rose from the sand. Daeron tentatively lowered his arm and blinked to clear the dancing afterimages. Seven eggs lay in a charred hollow, each glistening as though polished anew, color throbbing along their scales like a heartbeat.
He thought them ruined at first, some bizarre trick of the light. Then one of them cracked. A small sound, almost like the snap of kindling. Another followed, then another, until lines spiderwebbed across all seven eggs. The hush of the beach was broken by the distant hush of waves and a final, shuddering groan from Caraxes.
Daeron could scarcely breathe. As he watched, tiny claws and snouts tore their way free of each shell. One after another, the newborn dragons emerged, scrawny and wet with amniotic fluid, each letting out a high, piercing squeak of life. Seven of them, each hue more vibrant than the last: emerald, sapphire, ruby, topaz, amethyst… the colors of all Valyria, reborn in miniature.
He realized only then that his mouth hung open. Shock and some trembling, nameless awe pressed upon his chest. Aemond remained kneeling in the sand, skin glimmering with sweat and blood, as the newly hatched creatures trembled in the ashes, then turned him as if awaiting guidance. The hush was absolute save for their mewling cries and the sound of the sea meeting the shore.
Daeron tore his gaze away from the miracle—or monstrosity—being birthed before him, and looked instead at his brother. Aemond lifted his head, his gaze dull, exhausted as those newborn dragons dragged themselves across the sand, wailing for his attention. Daeron found himself, in equal measures, chilled to the core and awed—wondering to himself what abominable pact his brother had just forged.
✥✥✥
An Excerpt from The Lives of the Dragons by Grand Maester Althorus, written in the reign of King Aemond II
"…and thus did the Prince of the City of Dragons (that most restless spirit, Daemon Targaryen) fall at last into his enemies' hands, bringing about the swift ruin of Rook's Rest and the final collapse of the Blacks' hold upon the mainland."
In the waning hours of that fateful day, Prince Daemon Targaryen—long famed for his boldness—found himself undone by the cunning of Prince Aemond One-Eye. The Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, had served Daemon valiantly through many campaigns, yet even that fearsome drake proved no match for the converging might of Vhagar, Seasmoke, Tessarion, and Sheepstealer. Some dubious accounts refute the fact that it was Tessarion, not Seasmoke, who struck the first crippling wound to Caraxes's wing, but all agree that Vhagar's final assault spelled the end. The ancient she-dragon delivered the grievous blows that left Caraxes broken upon a thin strip of rocky shore.
The wyrm's rider, Daemon, was himself ultimately overwhelmed upon the beach, his blade, Dark Sister seized from his person. Thus fell the Rogue Prince, subdued at the very threshold he had hoped to defend. He was carried away in irons.
In the immediate wake of Daemon's defeat, Rook's Rest was left in disarray. Though Daemon had cleverly arranged an array of scorpions hidden in the pines and brambles surrounding the castle, these engines could not be brought to bear without the Prince's direction. Panic took root as word of Caraxes's fall spread among the defenders. Some among the Essosi free companies were heard to say, "If the Blood Wyrm can be slain, what hope have we?"
Seeing their chance, the Greens dispatched light horse and lancers to sweep through the outer woodlands, where the scorpions lay concealed. Foot soldiers followed, bearing torches and oil. Within hours, those great siege-killing machines burned in the smoky pines, scuttled before they could even loose a proper volley. Lord Staunton's men resisted bravely at first, harassing the raiders from behind hillocks and fallen trunks, yet cut off from their leadership, they could not hold. By midday, every scorpion set outside Rook's Rest lay in ruin.
Freed from the threat of bolt-fire in the open, the Green's dragons and their host next encircled the fortress. Ser Gwayne Hightower commanded the bulk of the infantry—stalwart men of the Reach trained to fight in disciplined ranks. At his side were the City Watch contingents loyal to Prince Aemond, and from the Vale came knights and mounted serjeants. En mass, they battered at Rook's Rest's defenses, seeking weaknesses in the walls.
Yet Daemon's preparations were not so easily undone. Anticipating an aerial siege, he had ordered the fashioning of yet more scorpions within the very heart of Rook's Rest—heavy machines kept hidden under stone vaults and stable roofs. Men strong of arm and steady of nerve waited to wheel them out whenever a great winged shape appeared overhead. Time and again, the Greens attempted to bring their dragons close to scorch a breach in the curtain walls, only to be driven off by a sudden volley of iron-tipped bolts.
Still, the Greens pressed relentlessly. Daylight assaults met stiff resistance, and the castle defenders turned each gatehouse into a killing ground. A mounted sally from the keep was repulsed amidst savage fighting in the outer yard. Smoke drifted across the battlements, mingled with the cries of the wounded and the clash of steel on stone.
When dusk came, the battered defenders hoped for respite. Instead, under cover of darkness, the Green dragons flew once more. Prince Aemond had ordered lanterns and fires dimmed in the Green camp so that, from the ramparts, the sky beyond the walls seemed black as pitch. Out of that gloom swooped Tessarion, Seasmoke, even the cunning old war-mount Sheepstealer, each guided by watchfires set behind the lines.
In half-seen raids, they rained destruction upon the gate towers and ramparts. All through the night, the defenders fought to push the scorpions back under stone arches whenever the telltale roar of wings sounded overhead. Some scorpions found their marks, wounding Seasmoke and scarring the underside of Sheepstealer's left flank—but many more were lost to dragonflame, their crews perishing in the inferno.
By dawn, a breach had been opened in the western wing of Rook's Rest's walls, where the stone had grown brittle under repeated blasts of dragonfire. The Greens funneled men into the gap, driving the defenders back from courtyard to courtyard. And yet, Daemon's labyrinth of trenches and barricades, combined with an escape network of tunnels burrowed beneath the keep, preserved the defenders from an outright rout. Whenever the dragons passed overhead, fighting men melted below ground, emerging again only after the shadows of wings had passed.
So began two days of bloody, back-and-forth struggle. Simon Staunton, lord of Rook's Rest, sought to coordinate a last stand. He labored to keep men fighting from within the castle's thick stone halls, where dragons could not reach. The tunnels, though stifling with smoke and the stink of too many men crammed together, gave a semblance of shelter from the fury above.
Might alone could not break Daemon's defensive measures, so the Greens resorted to starve or smoke out the defenders. King's Landing engineers constructed great fires at the base of key ventilation shafts, spewing hot fumes into the subterranean passages. Mercenaries and knights alike choked for air. Hunger, thirst, and the imminent threat of fresh dragonfire began to gnaw at even the staunchest among them.
In the end, loyalty proved as frail as courage. The ragged ranks of Essosi free companies—once paid by Braaovsi gold—began to mutter that their cause was hopeless. The news of Caraxes's fall weighed heavily, for the Blood Wyrm had been a symbol of their contract's might. Now that Prince Daemon's fate was unknown, the fear of reprisals or slow starvation saw entire mercenary banners throw down their arms. Some even turned their blades upon Lord Staunton and took him prisoner, offering him as a peace-gift to the Greens.
With the castle's most steadfast commander in chains, any lingering resistance soon crumbled. One tunnel after another fell, until all Rook's Rest lay in Green hands. Fires roared in some wings of the keep; in others, triage stations were hastily erected by the victors for their own wounded.
Meanwhile, at sea, the great Black fleet—comprising numerous Braavosi, Pentoshi, and Lysene ships—had remained anchored off the coast, waiting for a sign of victory or an opportunity to strike. Yet the sight of Caraxes broken on the shore, coupled with the news that Rook's Rest was all but lost, convinced the ships' captains to weigh anchor ere the Green dragons turned their attentions on them. Before the second night had passed, the sea was bare but for the detritus of war—broken rafts, driftwood, a few bobbing corpses. The Blacks' fleet made haste for Dragonstone, offering no further aid to Lord Staunton or the doomed garrison.
Thus did Rook's Rest become the last significant stronghold of the Blacks on Westerosi soil. Its fall marked the dissolution of Rhaenyra's final pocket of military power on the mainland. Only the island fortress of Dragonstone remained loyal to the queen's cause, and on Dragonstone the princess-turned-queen brooded with her remaining dragons and a scattering of sworn men, diminished and grim.
"In the end," wrote Maester Renly of the Vale, "all causes rise on wings of hope, yet they may just as readily perish when those wings fail. With Caraxes broken and Daemon in fetters, it was as if the Blacks had lost the very heart of their cause. From that day forth, the war took a darker shape, with the Greens claiming total dominion over the realms."