Dragonstone
Daeron, instead of directing Caraxes toward Viserion and Rhaegal, went straight for Drogon. Caraxes, already tired after flying here with relentless vigor, released another vicious, hungry roar that tore through the sky. Though Daeron had only commanded him to force Drogon off course, the Blood Wyrm's true target was clear—the thick, powerful neck of the smaller dragon.
Anger flared through Daeron. He cracked his whip sharply across Caraxes's hide, the sound snapping like thunder. The instant he felt even the slightest faltering resistance in Caraxes's mind, Daeron pushed harder, going full force with his intent, the intent of suppression. It was not a suggestion but an iron command.
The Blood Wyrm recoiled as if struck in the flesh, jerking midair. A roar of rage thundered from Caraxes's throat, raw and affronted, but despite his fury, the blood-hungry dragon obeyed. With brute force and violent precision, he slammed into Drogon's flight path and shoved the smaller dragon away, driving him off course and forcing separation.
Drogon, prideful and fierce, still possessed instincts older than rage. Daeron could almost smell the fear rolling off Daenerys's dragon as its molten red gaze locked onto Caraxes, burning with anger and unease. Caraxes answered with a mocking, contemptuous roar, one meant to belittle rather than threaten, and it only served to enrage Drogon further.
Daeron exhaled sharply and used the whip again, correcting Caraxes's behavior before the Blood Wyrm could escalate further. His eyes then traveled back to the battlefield.
Rhaegal and Viserion were still raining fire upon the Ironborn fleet. Ships burned from stem to stern, sails collapsing into ash as screaming men hurled themselves into the sea in desperate hope. The Ironborn leapt overboard to escape the flames, but even the ocean offered no sanctuary—both dragons continued to spew fire relentlessly, boiling the waters and turning escape into gruesome death. The smell of scorched wood, salt, and burning flesh filled the air.
Drogon moved alongside Caraxes as the two dragons, with their riders, flew far from the song-ensnared pair. Daeron finally turned his attention to Daenerys. She was glaring at him now, confusion and fury written plainly across her face, anger sharp enough to cut.
Daeron raised his hands and motioned for her to land—we need to talk. She hesitated, eyes flicking between him, the distant carnage, and Caraxes, who was sulking openly, wings twitching in irritation for being denied the chance to fight and maim hatchlings after such a long, grueling flight.
At last, she nodded.
Daenerys guided Drogon down toward the foot of the Dragonmont. The ground there was wide and open, scorched stone bearing the scars of ancient fires. Caraxes landed some distance away without issue, though Drogon continued to watch him warily, wings half-spread and muscles taut.
Daeron dismounted first. Daenerys followed soon after. They walked toward each other across the blackened ground, their dragons looming behind them like living mountains, eyes never leaving one another.
"Why did you stop me?" Daenerys demanded the moment Daeron was within earshot, her voice tight with restrained fury.
"Because if I hadn't," Daeron replied evenly, his tone cold and absolute, "you would have met death today—along with your dragon—by the claws and fire of the very dragons you call your children."
Daenerys stared at him, disbelief flashing across her face, as if the words refused to settle.
"What happened to them?" she asked, her voice lowering. "Why are they destroying the Iron Fleet?"
"That," Daeron said grimly, "I do not yet know. But whatever has been done to them, it was caused by the Horn." His gaze shifted skyward to where Rhaegal and Viserion still circled, their movements growing heavier, more sluggish. "What I do know is this: you must not interfere with their song unless you are fully prepared to kill them—or cripple them so completely that they cannot fight."
He paused, watching as both dragons began to show signs of exhaustion, their flames less controlled, breath coming harder after unleashing so many devastating blasts in succession.
"That," Daeron finished quietly, "is the only way you would stop them."
"How do you know all of this?" Daenerys asked, looking at him with a mix of surprise and suspicion. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied his face, as if trying to find a lie hidden there. Then her expression shifted again, curiosity pushing past wariness as she asked, "No—more than that. How and why are you here? How did you know this would happen?"
"I knew what would happen here from my dream," Daeron replied calmly. "That is why I came as fast as I could—to prevent any dragon from dying. There are already too few of them left in the world as it is, and I do not intend to see any more die because of the schemes of a mad Greyjoy."
As he spoke, his gaze drifted to a nearby slab of black stone, where a crow and a raven had just landed. Their dark feathers rustled softly in the wind, heads cocked as if listening.
Somehow, Daeron could smell the skinchanger within both birds. It was his same ability that could smell emotions from the others, sharp and unmistakable, but it is inconsistent sometimes when Daeron needs it. Anyway, there were not many skinchangers left in the world, and only two would have reason to be watching what transpired here.
The raven was easy to identify—his brother, Bran.
The crow, however, carried something else entirely. Daeron sensed an unhinged delight rolling off it, layered with too many emotions at once—glee, hunger, obsession. The stench of madness clung to it like rot. Euron, Daeron realized grimly.
He had no desire to be spied upon.
With nothing more than a focused pulse of displeasure, sharp and deliberate, Daeron let his intent bleed through the bond. Caraxes felt it instantly. The Blood Wyrm turned his head and unleashed a blast of red-hot flame onto the stone. The rock heated so rapidly that it began to glow, molten cracks spidering across its surface.
The raven reacted first, launching itself into the sky in a frantic rush, narrowly escaping the fire. The crow was slower. Its wings caught flame, feathers shriveling as it shrieked—a raw, ugly sound—before crashing lifelessly to the ground below. Euron escaped by a hair's breadth before the bird's death.
"You're a seer?" Daenerys asked slowly, unease creeping into her voice. Daeron slowly turned her gaze to her. She was looking at him differently now, as though reassessing everything she thought she knew. Daeron mentally cursed his luck as his heightened ability to sense emotions chose this moment to dull, leaving him without assurance that could not come by reading emotions on Daenerys's face.
Still, he nodded. There was no point denying the truth. He had seen Drogon clashing with Viserion and Rhaegal in his dream, the horn's call echoing through fire and blood in the background. That vision alone had driven him to mount Caraxes and fly without rest, pushing the Blood Wyrm to his limits to reach Dragonstone in time.
"May I ask my own questions now?" Daeron inquired, and Daenerys nodded slowly and deliberately."Then answer me this," Daeron continued, turning the focus back to her. "What were you thinking when you mounted Drogon and flew to confront two dragons that even a fool could see were hell-bent on destruction? You risked your life—and your dragon's—for traitors who had already betrayed you. Forgive me, but I cannot understand the reasoning behind that decision."
Daenerys hesitated. For a moment, embarrassment flickered across her face before she straightened, schooling her expression into something firmer, more regal.
"Victarion may have betrayed me," she said evenly, "but I believed that after stopping Viserion and Rhaegal, I could force the remaining Ironborn to submit. I could have used their ships to ferry my army to Westeros before disposing of them at the first sign of further treachery."
There was pride in her tone—subtle, but unmistakable—as though she believed the plan clever and far-sighted.
Daeron shook his head slowly. "You are making the same mistake with them that you made with Victarion," he said, voice edged with frustration. He gestured toward the burning wreckage of the fleet, fire devouring hulls and masts alike. "And you see where that led you."
He continued, his gaze hardening. "Yes, these captains may not possess a Valyrian horn hidden in some dark corner. But the same treachery, the same hatred for anyone not born on their salt-soaked rocks, flows through their veins. They would betray you now or later—betrayal is inevitable. It is better to cut them away now than face ruin at a crucial moment."
"My dragons would have kept them in line," Daenerys argued stubbornly.
Daeron exhaled, tired more than angry. Still relying on dragons to solve everything, he thought grimly, so much alike to the show Dany, he watched in his previous life.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess," he said at last, unwilling to argue further.
"Hey!" Daenerys snapped, bristling. "I'm not a princess. I'm a queen."
"Is that so?" Daeron replied, amusement creeping into his voice.
At his side, Caraxes lowered his long, sinuous neck, molten-gold eyes locking onto Daenerys's much smaller form.