A salty sea breeze swept across the coast of Bloodstone Island, carrying with it the scent of rust and despair.
Daemon Targaryen stood motionless, his expression carved in stone.
Before him lay his dragon—Caraxes, the "Blood Wyrm."
The mighty beast's colossal body sprawled across the black sand like a fallen mountain.
Once, his scales had glowed with the brilliance of molten rubies. Now, they were blackened and split, scarred by hideous burns that still hissed faintly in the air.
But it was his head that bore the cruelest wound.
One of Caraxes's eyes had been burned away completely, leaving behind a charred crater that oozed black, tar-like fluid mixed with blood. Each droplet sizzled as it hit the sand, sending up a faint whiff of smoke.
Daemon extended his remaining right hand, trembling as he tried to touch the dragon's ruined face—but his fingers froze halfway.
The memory of that platinum flame—bright enough to boil the sea and scorch the heavens—still haunted his very soul.
He glanced down at his left side.
The arm was gone.
The stump was bound hastily with linen, already soaked through with fresh blood. Phantom pain throbbed from the severed limb, sharp and endless, echoing the humiliation carved into his pride.
Anger had been burning in his chest since that day—but when he thought again of that dragon—the monstrous black beast whose movements defied all sense and whose platinum fire annihilated everything in its path—that anger turned hollow.
He, Daemon Targaryen—the "Prodigal Prince," conqueror of the Stepstones, once called the "King of the Narrow Sea"—had been maimed in a single strike.
His dragon crippled.
His name, once feared, now whispered with pity.
Slowly, he lowered his forehead against Caraxes's less-damaged scales. The dragon's skin was still warm beneath his touch, grounding him in a way no words could.
"Blood Wyrm…"
His voice came out cracked and low, almost breaking. "We are both broken."
The dragon gave a faint, pitiful rumble—a deep, throaty whimper that vibrated through the ground. Even in agony, the beast seemed to mourn alongside its master.
Behind him, footsteps approached softly.
Rhaenys Targaryen stood with a letter in her hand, the seal of King's Landing gleaming faintly in the dying light.
She looked at the once-arrogant prince before her, now hollowed and silent beside his suffering dragon. For a long moment, she hesitated, unsure how to speak. Then, wordlessly, she extended the letter.
Daemon turned, confusion flickering across his face. He took the parchment, recognizing the royal seal instantly. His brother's seal.
He tore it open with his teeth and read quickly.
The deeper his eyes scanned the words, the darker they became.
By the time he reached the end, his expression had twisted from disbelief to fury.
"He wants me to restrain myself…"
His voice trembled with venom. "He tells me not to make an enemy of the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay."
Each word fell like a blade through his clenched teeth.
"Viserys… how dare he!"
With a guttural snarl, Daemon crumpled the letter in his fist and hurled it to the ground, his body shaking with rage.
"Coward!" he roared, the sound echoing across the cliffs. "He's a coward!"
His voice cracked, raw with betrayal.
"Does he not know his brother's hand was just cut off? Does he not know Targaryen blood was spilled across the sea?!"
He kicked the sand violently, his eyes blazing. "He does nothing—nothing!—and dares to lecture me on restraint!"
Daemon's breath came in harsh gasps. He looked every bit the wounded beast—cornered, humiliated, furious.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the camp, his steps heavy and unsteady, his back radiating bitter solitude.
Rhaenys watched silently.
After a moment, she bent down, picked up the crumpled letter, and sighed deeply before following him.
---
King's Landing, the Red Keep
The king's study was filled with the faint scent of wood shavings and glue.
King Viserys I Targaryen sat hunched over his grand model of Valyria, his fingers delicately holding a pair of silver tweezers as he set a tiny tower onto its obsidian foundation. His face was pale and tired, but his eyes were filled with an almost childlike concentration.
In this miniature Valyria—his imagined, perfect world—there were no wars, no dragons dying, no rebellious brothers.
Only peace, beauty, and the illusion of control.
"Father."
The cold, steady voice cut through the silence like a knife.
Viserys flinched, nearly toppling the tiny spire he was placing. He turned sharply.
At the doorway stood Princess Rhaenyra, her face pale but fierce.
"Rhaenyra?" he said weakly, forcing a smile. "My dear daughter, what brings you here?"
Rhaenyra didn't return the smile.
She walked straight toward him, her gaze unyielding. "Is it true?" she asked quietly. "Uncle Daemon… he lost his hand? To the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay?"
Viserys's shoulders slumped. He set down the tweezers and sighed.
"Yes," he admitted softly. "I've heard the same."
His tone was casual, almost detached. "He's always been reckless. I've already written to warn him—he must not provoke that wild dragon in the east again."
Rhaenyra stared at him in disbelief.
"A wild dragon?" she repeated, her voice rising. "Father, that 'wild dragon' killed a Targaryen prince! He crippled Caraxes! He humiliated our family before the world—and you call Daemon reckless?!"
Viserys's brow furrowed. His voice grew sharp.
"What else should I call it? Yes, reckless! What did he expect? To fight a god and win? Three dragons could not defeat one! That wasn't a battle, Rhaenyra—it was a massacre!"
He stood abruptly, pacing the room. "The power of that dragon is beyond anything we can comprehend! As long as he doesn't threaten our borders, we gain nothing by provoking him."
Rhaenyra's throat tightened. The father she once idolized—the man of dragons and fire—was gone. In his place stood a frightened old man, desperate to avoid confrontation.
Viserys continued pacing, his voice growing more animated with every word. "This Damian Thorne—he is not our enemy if we are wise. If anything, he could be our greatest ally!"
Rhaenyra blinked, startled. "Ally?"
Viserys's eyes lit up with strange excitement. "Yes! Think about it—two dragon-blooded houses, the last of Valyria's children! Why should we fight? We could unite through marriage!"
He turned toward her, his expression suddenly filled with feverish inspiration. "Imagine it, Rhaenyra—if our bloodlines were joined, if a child were born of both houses… such a union would make us untouchable! The whole world would bend before our dragons!"
He spread his arms as if painting the vision in the air before him—two great dragonlords ruling in harmony, an empire reborn.
But Rhaenyra's face hardened.
The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by cold, silent disbelief.
She took a long, trembling breath, then turned toward the door without another word.
"Rhaenyra?" Viserys called softly, confused. "What's wrong? Don't you see what I'm trying to do—for peace—?"
But she didn't look back.
The door closed behind her with a quiet finality.
For a long moment, the king stood frozen. Then he sighed heavily and sank back into his chair, rubbing his temples.
He would never understand why his daughter couldn't see the wisdom in his words—the necessity of avoiding another cataclysm.
He turned his gaze once more to the model of Valyria. His trembling hands reached for another miniature spire.
As the golden sunlight filtered through the windows, it gleamed upon the delicate towers of his imagined empire—a city of dreams untouched by flame or betrayal.
Within those tiny black walls, Viserys found his peace again.
Outside them, the world of dragons was already beginning to burn.
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