Commission: a true dragon (Silmarillion/House of the Dragon/Fire and blood): chapter 2: the Prince who was never promised

In the throne room, no one moved for a long moment. They stood or knelt or crouched where the roar had driven them, staring at the broken window, at the empty sky beyond.

Princess Rhaenyra was the first to find her voice. It came out as a whisper, barely audible, but in the profound silence that followed the dragon's departure, everyone heard it.

"What do we do, father?"

King Viserys I Targaryen, called the Peaceful, called the Conciliator, turned from the window to look at his daughter. His face had aged a decade in the space of an hour. His hands trembled slightly as he removed the crown from his head and stared at it, at the gold and rubies that suddenly seemed so small.

"I don't know," he said, and the honesty in his voice was terrible to hear. "I truly don't know."

Daemon pushed himself to his feet. His ear was bleeding where the roar had been too much for human flesh to bear. His ribs ached where he'd been thrown into the pillar. Dark Sister hung forgotten in his hand.

"We could call the banners," he said hoarsely. "Gather the dragons. Vhagar still lives, and Meleys, and Vermithor, and,"

"And then what?" Viserys turned on his brother, and there was something sharp in his voice now, something that hadn't been there before. "We send them against that? Daemon, that creature, that thing, could have killed us all with a breath. It could have torn the Red Keep from its foundations and cast it into the sea. And it didn't."

He walked back to the Iron Throne, his steps slow, and sank onto it without his usual care. A sword point scratched his palm, drawing blood, but he didn't seem to notice.

"It didn't kill us because it doesn't fear us," Viserys continued. "It doesn't fear our dragons. It doesn't fear our armies. That man, that dragon rider, came here to prove a point. And I think," he looked around the throne room, at the terrified faces, at the dust still settling from the roar, "I think he proved it."

"So we do nothing?" Daemon's voice cracked with frustration. "We let him claim the Stepstones, let him spit in the face of House Targaryen, and we do nothing?"

"I didn't say that," Viserys said quietly. "But I will not throw away lives, dragon or human, in a battle we cannot win. Not until I understand what we're dealing with. Not until I know if there's a way to,to," he trailed off, staring at his bleeding palm.

"To kill it," Daemon finished. "You want to know if we can kill it."

"I want to know if we need to," Viserys said. "He claims the Stepstones. Very well. The Stepstones have never truly been ours. They're a nest of pirates and raiders, more trouble than they're worth. If he thinks he can hold them," a ghost of a smile touched the king's lips, "then let him try. The Triarchy might have something to say about that."

"You're going to let the Triarchy fight him?" Daemon stared at his brother. "The Three Daughters? Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh?"

"They patrol those waters," Viserys said. "They have for years, trying to clear out the piracy. If this, this dragon rider thinks he can simply claim the Stepstones, he'll have to deal with them eventually." He leaned back on the Iron Throne, wincing as another sword point dug into his back. "Let them test him. Let them see what we saw. And then, perhaps, we'll know better what we face."

It was cowardly. It was pragmatic. It was the decision of a man who had just had every illusion of Targaryen supremacy shattered in the space of a heartbeat.

Daemon's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles going white. A vein pulsed at his temple, throbbing in time with his racing heart. The throne room was still thick with dust and fear, the acrid smell of smoke lingering in the air, and his brother, his king, was talking about doing nothing. About waiting. About letting the fucking Triarchy handle their problem for them.

"No."

The word came out flat. Hard. Final.

Viserys looked up from the Iron Throne, his bleeding palm pressed against his tunic, leaving a red stain that spread slowly across the black fabric. "What did you say?"

"I said no," Daemon repeated, louder this time. His purple eyes blazed with something wild, something dangerous. "We are not waiting. We are not watching. And we are certainly not hiding behind the Triarchy like craven dogs hoping someone else will solve our problems."

"Daemon," Viserys's voice took on a warning tone, the kind he used when his brother was about to do something spectacularly stupid. "You will not,"

"I will not what?" Daemon stepped forward, his boots crunching on fallen plaster. "I will not defend our house? Our name? I will not respond to a direct challenge issued in your own throne room, in front of your courtiers, your guards, your daughter?" He gestured wildly at Rhaenyra, who still stood by the shattered window, her eyes wide. "What lesson do we teach her today, brother? That Targaryens cower when threatened? That we accept humiliation with grace and call it wisdom?"

Viserys stood, descending from the Iron Throne with more energy than he'd shown in months. His face had gone red, a combination of anger and shame and fear all mixing together. "You saw what we all saw! That thing, that creature, it's not,it's not something we can fight!"

"Everything can be fought," Daemon shot back. "Everything can be killed."

"Not that!" Viserys was shouting now, his usually pleasant voice cracking with strain. "You want to fight him? Fight his dragon?" He grabbed Daemon by the shoulders, shaking him. "You saw it! It made Balerion look like an ant and you think that with Caraxes, you have any chance of winning? Think, Daemon! Think!"

For a moment, just a moment, something flickered across Daemon's face. Doubt, perhaps. Or fear. The memory of that vast shadow, those wings that blotted out the sky, that roar that had brought him to his knees.

But then it was gone, buried beneath layers of pride and fury and the desperate, aching need to prove that he was not small, that House Targaryen was not small, that everything his family had built over a century of conquest and rule meant something.

"You may be comfortable being a coward," Daemon snarled, pulling away from his brother's grip, "but I am not!"

The throne room went deathly silent. Ser Harrold Westerling took a step forward, hand on his sword, but Viserys waved him back. The king's face had gone from red to pale, his eyes wide with hurt and anger in equal measure.

"You dare," Viserys whispered.

"I dare because someone has to!" Daemon was shouting again, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "I've always been the one who had to make the hard decisions for the wellbeing of our house, our family, your reign! Who do you think cleaned up the filth in your city? Who made the Gold Cloaks into something to be feared instead of mocked? Who has spent his life being the sword while you played at being the loving king?"

He was pacing now, like a caged animal, his hands gesturing wildly as the words poured out, years of resentment and frustration bubbling to the surface.

"My actions are why there is even a possibility of you being called a good king! Every difficult choice, every bloody necessity, every time someone needed to be hard when you wanted to be soft, that was me! That has always been me!" He stopped, turned to face his brother directly. "It doesn't matter how big that monster in the shape of a man may be. I am a Targaryen. We are Targaryens. Riding and fighting on dragons is in our blood!"

"Daemon, please," Viserys's voice had lost its anger, replaced by something closer to pleading. "Please don't do this."

"I don't need to hurt his dragon to win," Daemon continued as if his brother hadn't spoken. His hand went to Dark Sister's hilt, and when he drew the blade, the Valyrian steel caught the light streaming through the broken window, rippling like water. "Only him needs to be burning. A dragon without a rider is a much lesser threat than one with it. Kill the man, and the beast becomes manageable. Simple."

It wasn't simple. Everyone in that throne room knew it wasn't simple. But Daemon had always had a gift for reducing complex problems to simple solutions, even when those solutions were reckless, dangerous, and likely to get him killed.

He sheathed Dark Sister and turned toward the doors.

"Where are you going?" Viserys asked, though he already knew the answer.

"The Dragonpit," Daemon said without looking back. "To saddle Caraxes."

"No!" Viserys was moving, running after his brother, his crown forgotten on the Iron Throne. "Daemon, I command you to stop! As your king, I command you!"

But Daemon kept walking, kept moving through the doors and into the corridor beyond, and Viserys followed, his voice rising to a shout that echoed through the halls of the Red Keep.

"DAEMON! DAEMON, STOP THIS MADNESS!"

Behind them, the throne room remained frozen. Princess Rhaenyra looked at Ser Harrold Westerling, her young face pale. "Shouldn't we, shouldn't someone,"

"Let them go, princess," the knight said quietly, though his expression was troubled. "This is between brothers now."

The streets of King's Landing were in chaos.

People were running, some fleeing for the city gates, others barricading themselves in their homes. The passage of Ancalagon had left its mark, broken tiles and shattered windows, overturned carts and capsized boats in the harbor. Gold cloaks were trying to restore order, but they looked just as frightened as the smallfolk they were meant to protect.

Daemon barely noticed. He strode through the Street of the Sisters with Dark Sister slapping against his hip, his face set in grim determination. Behind him, he could hear Viserys, could hear his brother's voice calling his name, but he didn't stop, didn't slow.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, that great domed structure on the Hill of Rhaenys, large enough to house forty dragons in the days of the Conquest, now holding fewer than twenty. The Bronze Doors stood open, keepers scrambling to calm dragons who had felt Ancalagon's presence and were responding with anxiety and aggression.

Daemon pushed past them, ignoring their questions and concerns. He knew where Caraxes would be. The Blood Wyrm was his, had been his since he was a boy of fifteen, and the bond between them was strong. If Daemon wanted a fight, Caraxes would give him one.

"Daemon!"

Viserys caught up to him in the great central chamber, where sunlight streamed down through the oculus in the dome far above. The king was breathing hard, his fine clothes disheveled, his face flushed with exertion and emotion.

"Brother, please," Viserys gasped. "Please listen to me."

"I've listened enough," Daemon said, not stopping. He could hear Caraxes now, that distinctive hissing roar that gave the dragon his name. The Blood Wyrm was agitated, pulling at his chains, sensing his rider's mood.

"You'll die!" Viserys shouted, and there was desperation in his voice now, raw and unfiltered. "That creature will kill you, and Caraxes, and it won't even be a fight! It will be an execution!"

"Then let it be an execution," Daemon snapped, turning to face his brother. "At least I'll die doing something instead of sitting on that damned uncomfortable throne making excuses for my cowardice!"

"It's not cowardice to recognize when you're outmatched!"

"It's cowardice to not even try!"

They stood facing each other in the dim light of the Dragonpit, two brothers who had never quite understood each other, who had always pulled in different directions. Viserys with his love of peace and comfort, Daemon with his hunger for glory and action. Oil and water. Fire and ice.

Except they were both fire, really. Just different kinds.

"I won't lose you," Viserys said quietly. "I can't. You're my brother. My blood. The only family I have left who truly understands,who truly knows,"

"Then trust me," Daemon said, and for a moment his voice was gentle. Almost kind. "Trust that I know what I'm doing."

"I can't," Viserys whispered. "Because you don't."

Daemon turned away and continued walking. Caraxes was close now, the dragon's hissing roar growing louder. The keepers had already begun saddling him, perhaps sensing what was coming, or perhaps simply knowing better than to argue with a prince in this mood.

The Blood Wyrm was a magnificent creature. Smaller than Vhagar or Vermithor, yes, but long and sinuous, serpentine in a way most dragons weren't. His scales were red, the color of fresh blood, and his wings were tattered at the edges from years of hard flying. His neck was unusually long and flexible, his jaws filled with teeth that curved backward like a shark's.

When he saw Daemon approaching, Caraxes let out a shriek of greeting and pulled against his chains hard enough to crack stone.

"Easy, easy," Daemon murmured, running a hand along the dragon's snout. Heat radiated from those scales, and he could feel the rapid beating of the dragon's heart through his palm. "We have work to do, old friend. One more flight. One more fight."

Caraxes rumbled deep in his chest, a sound like boulders grinding together, and lowered his wing so Daemon could climb onto the saddle mounted between his shoulders.

"Daemon."

Viserys's voice came from behind him. Daemon paused, one foot in the stirrup, and looked back at his brother.

The king stood alone in the shadows of the Dragonpit, his crown still absent, his face streaked with dust and tears he was trying hard to hide. He looked older than his years. Tired. Defeated.

"You're cruel, brother," Viserys said, and his voice cracked. "You would make me lose you, my blood, because of pride?"

Daemon swung himself into the saddle, settling into the familiar leather, checking the straps and buckles with practiced ease. When he spoke, he didn't look at Viserys.

"You'll see that this is necessary when I come back victorious in the name of our house," he said. "You'll thank me for it."

"And if you don't come back?"

"Then at least I'll have died as a Targaryen should. On dragonback. In battle. Not rotting away in some bed while maesters feed me milk of the poppy."

He leaned forward, pressing his hand against the side of Caraxes's neck, feeling the heat, the power, the barely contained violence of the creature beneath him. "Sōvēs, Caraxes."

Fly.

The Blood Wyrm needed no further encouragement. With a scream that echoed through the Dragonpit, shaking loose decades of accumulated dust and startling every other dragon into responding roars, Caraxes launched himself forward. His wings snapped open, catching air, and he surged up through the great opening in the dome, claws scraping stone, tail whipping behind him.

Viserys watched him go, standing alone in the gathering darkness of the Dragonpit, and for the first time since becoming king, he allowed himself to weep openly.

The sky over Blackwater Bay was a clear, brilliant blue, unmarred by clouds. The sun glinted off the water far below, turning it to molten silver. A perfect day for flying.

A beautiful day for killing.

Daemon urged Caraxes higher, into the thin cold air where breathing became difficult and every breath felt like ice in his lungs. The Blood Wyrm responded eagerly, his powerful wings beating a steady rhythm, his long neck extended, scanning the horizon.

They flew south and east, following the path Ancalagon had taken. It wasn't hard to track. The dragon had left a wake of disturbed air behind him, wind patterns disrupted in ways that would take hours to settle. Caraxes could sense it, following the trail like a hound following a scent.

Daemon's mind raced as they flew. Strategy. Tactics. Caraxes was fast, faster than most dragons his size, and his unusual flexibility made him unpredictable in aerial combat. The plan, such as it was, was simple: get close, get high, dive on the rider. Avoid the dragon's jaws, avoid the claws, focus everything on burning the man off its back.

A dragon without a rider might flee. Might land. Might become manageable.

It was a good plan. A solid plan.

It was also, if he was honest with himself, probably suicide.

But Daemon Targaryen had never been particularly good at honesty, least of all with himself.

They had been flying for perhaps half an hour when Daemon saw it. A shadow on the southern horizon, vast and dark, moving against the blue like a storm cloud given form.

Ancalagon.

Even at this distance, the sheer size of the creature was staggering. It made Caraxes look like a sparrow flying beside an eagle. Made him look like a child's toy.

Daemon felt his stomach clench with fear, but he pushed it down, buried it deep beneath layers of pride and anger and the desperate need to prove himself.

"Faster," he hissed to Caraxes. "Faster, you wyrm. Show me that Blood Wyrm isn't just a pretty name."

Caraxes shrieked and poured on speed. The air screamed past them, so fast that Daemon had to press himself flat against the saddle to avoid being torn off by the wind. His eyes watered behind his riding goggles. His ears popped as they changed altitude. But they were gaining. Slowly, painfully slowly, but gaining.

The shadow grew larger. Details began to resolve. Those impossible wings, each one larger than the Sept of Baelor. That serpentine body, scaled in black so deep it seemed to drink in light. That neck, that head, those eyes that glowed like molten gold even in full sunlight.

And there, on the dragon's back, in the hollow between those massive wing-joints, Daemon could see him. Jacob. The dragon rider who had humiliated him, who had thrown him across a throne room like he weighed nothing, who had claimed Targaryen territory as his own and dared them to stop him.

Rage gave Daemon strength. Rage and pride and the bone-deep certainty that he was right, that this was necessary, that House Targaryen could not, would not, back down from this challenge.

They closed the distance. A thousand yards. Five hundred. Three hundred.

And then Ancalagon's wing beat.

Just once. A single, lazy downstroke, the kind of motion a man might make while swatting at a mosquito. But those wings were the size of castles, and when they moved, they didn't just push air, they commanded it.

The shockwave hit Caraxes like a battering ram.

One moment they were flying straight and true, the next they were tumbling, spinning, caught in a wall of wind that felt solid as stone. Daemon's head snapped back, his teeth clacking together hard enough to draw blood. The world became a blur of blue and silver as Caraxes fought for control, his wings buffeted by winds that changed direction faster than thought.

"Hold!" Daemon screamed, though whether to himself or his dragon he couldn't say. "HOLD!"

Caraxes twisted his serpentine body, using his unusual flexibility to roll with the turbulence rather than fight it. His wings tucked tight against his flanks, and for a heart-stopping moment they were falling, truly falling, spinning toward the sea far below.

Then the Blood Wyrm's wings snapped open, catching a pocket of calmer air, and they leveled out barely fifty feet above the wave tops. Salt spray misted Daemon's face. He could see the shadow of Caraxes racing across the water beneath them, could see the white caps of waves disturbed by their passage.

Above them, Ancalagon continued his steady flight, utterly unconcerned.

"Again," Daemon snarled through gritted teeth. "Come on, you beautiful bastard. Again."

Caraxes climbed, powerful wings beating a frantic rhythm, gaining altitude in a tight spiral. The Blood Wyrm was built for this, for quick maneuvers and rapid changes of direction. If they could get close, if they could use Caraxes's agility against the larger dragon's ponderous size...

They rose through a thousand feet, two thousand, closing the distance again. Daemon could see Jacob now, seated comfortably on that vast skull, one hand resting casually on the ridge of horns. The man wasn't even holding reins. He sat there like he was enjoying a pleasant afternoon ride through the countryside.

It made Daemon's blood boil.

"Dracarys!" he screamed, and Caraxes responded.

The Blood Wyrm opened his jaws and fire poured forth, brilliant orange-red flame that stretched out for fifty feet, sixty, a lance of heat and death that could melt steel and boil men in their armor. They were close now, close enough that the flames should reach, should burn, should,

Jacob leaned to the side.

Just that. A casual lean, like a man avoiding a low-hanging branch on a forest path. The column of fire passed by him, missing by inches, and continued on to splash harmlessly against Ancalagon's scales.

The great dragon didn't even seem to notice.

But Daemon did. He noticed the contemptuous ease of that dodge, the utter lack of concern in Jacob's posture. The man hadn't even bothered to look worried. He'd just...moved. Like Caraxes's fire, fire that had burned men and siege engines and castle gates, was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

"Higher!" Daemon pulled Caraxes into a steep climb, the Blood Wyrm's wings straining as they fought for altitude. "Get above him, get above, GET ABOVE!"

They climbed in a desperate spiral, Caraxes's breath coming in harsh gasps now, the thin air making every wing-beat harder. Below them, Ancalagon continued his steady flight, and now Daemon could see the sheer enormity of him, could truly comprehend the scale of what they were fighting.

Each of Ancalagon's scales was the size of a shield. Each tooth in those massive jaws was as long as a lance. The claws on those feet, claws that hung below the great dragon's body like the anchors of warships, could have skewered a horse and rider together without even noticing.

And they were going to attack this thing.

They were mad. Both of them.

But they were committed now.

"NOW!" Daemon leaned forward and Caraxes folded his wings, and they dropped.

They fell like a thunderbolt, like divine judgment, building speed with every second. The wind screamed around them, tearing at Daemon's clothes, trying to rip him from the saddle despite the safety straps. His vision narrowed to a single point, that figure on Ancalagon's back, that man who needed to die.

They fell past Ancalagon's wing-line, past the massive body, angling their dive to come at Jacob from below and behind, the sun at their backs, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they could catch him by surprise.

Two hundred yards. One hundred. Fifty.

Ancalagon's tail moved.

It was like watching a mountain range shift. That impossibly long tail, thick as a castle tower at its base, tapering to a point that could punch through ship's hulls, whipped through the air with speed that defied logic.

"DIVE!" Daemon yanked the reins and Caraxes responded instantly, tucking his wings tighter, dropping like a stone.

The tail passed above them with a sound like a hurricane, the displaced air creating a shock wave that rattled Daemon's teeth in his skull. They fell another hundred feet before Caraxes spread his wings again, banking hard to the left, and now they were below Ancalagon, flying in the shadow of those vast wings.

It was like flying through a canyon. The wings above them blocked out the sun, creating a twilight world of shadow and wind. Every beat of those impossible wings created a downdraft that Caraxes had to fight against, his own wings straining, his serpentine body weaving and twisting to find pockets of stable air.

Daemon looked up, searching for an opening, searching for any vulnerability in that scaled underbelly high above. There, a join between the scales, a gap where soft tissue might be exposed, if they could just...

Caraxes banked hard right, spiraling up along Ancalagon's flank, close enough now that Daemon could have reached out and touched those black scales. The Blood Wyrm's claws scraped against them, trying to find purchase, and the sound was like sword on stone, sparks flying where talon met scale.

"Dracarys!" Daemon screamed again, directing the flames at that gap he'd seen, that potential weak point.

Fire washed over Ancalagon's underbelly, concentrated, focused, the hottest flames Caraxes could produce. For a moment, just a moment, Daemon thought he saw the scales darken, thought he saw some effect.

Then Ancalagon rolled.

The great dragon simply rotated in mid-air, his body twisting along his central axis, and suddenly Caraxes wasn't flying beside him, he was flying under him, and that vast belly was coming down on them like the dome of the Sept of Baelor falling from the sky.

"OUT! GET OUT!" Daemon hauled on the reins with all his strength and Caraxes responded, wings beating frantically, pulling out from under Ancalagon's body with bare feet to spare.

They shot out from beneath the great dragon and found themselves flying parallel to his neck, that impossibly long neck that stretched ahead of them like a road. Daemon could see Jacob clearly now, could see the man standing on Ancalagon's skull, watching them with those golden eyes, and there was something in his expression that made Daemon's blood run cold.

Amusement.

The bastard was amused.

"I'll wipe that smile off your face," Daemon snarled. "Caraxes, follow that neck! Get to his head!"

The Blood Wyrm poured on speed, racing along the length of Ancalagon's neck, and it was like racing alongside a moving cliff face. The scales flowed past them, black and gleaming, each one perfect, each one impenetrable. Daemon kept waiting for Ancalagon to do something, to snap at them, to knock them from the sky, but the great dragon simply continued flying, untroubled by the insect buzzing along his neck.

They reached the head. Jacob stood there, balanced perfectly despite the wind and the motion, his cloak billowing behind him.

"DRACARYS!" Daemon screamed one final time, and Caraxes unleashed everything he had, every last reserve of fire, a sustained blast that turned the air between them into a solid wall of flame.

Jacob stepped through it.

He just...walked. Stepped forward into the fire, and where the flames touched him they parted, flowing around him like water around a stone. Smoke wreathed his body, rising from his skin, but he didn't burn. Didn't even seem uncomfortable.

He looked at Daemon through the fire, and when he spoke, his voice carried clearly despite the roar of flames and wind.

"Is this all you have, Prince of Dragonstone?"

Caraxes's fire sputtered, guttered, and died. The Blood Wyrm was exhausted, his fire-lungs depleted, his wings laboring just to keep them aloft. They'd thrown everything at this monster, every trick, every maneuver, every ounce of fire, and they'd accomplished nothing.

Less than nothing.

"No," Daemon whispered. "No, this can't,"

Ancalagon's head turned. Slowly, ponderously, that mountain of bone and scale and terrible purpose turned to look at them, and Daemon saw, truly saw, the intelligence in those golden eyes. Not animal intelligence. Not instinct. But thought. Awareness. Understanding.

And contempt.

The great dragon opened his mouth, and for a moment Daemon thought he was going to breathe fire, thought that at least they would die in flames, a death worthy of dragonriders.

Instead, Ancalagon roared.

It was not a sound. It was a force of nature. It was the ending of all things.

The roar hit Caraxes like a physical blow, and the Blood Wyrm tumbled backward through the air, his wings crumpling, his body folding in on itself. Daemon heard bones crack, heard Caraxes scream in agony, felt blood spray across his face from his dragon's mouth.

They were falling, spinning, the world a nauseating blur of sky and sea. Daemon's hands scrabbled for the reins, his safety straps the only thing keeping him in the saddle as Caraxes tumbled end over end.

"Come on!" he screamed. "Come on, spread your wings, SPREAD YOUR WINGS!"

The Blood Wyrm tried. Gods, he tried. His right wing extended, catching air, but the left, the left hung limp, bent at an angle that wings were never meant to bend. Broken. Shattered by the sheer force of Ancalagon's roar.

They were still falling, but slower now, Caraxes managing a kind of spiraling glide on one working wing, his serpentine body twisting to maintain some semblance of control. Blood poured from his nostrils, from the corners of his eyes. Internal damage, massive internal damage.

"Just a little more," Daemon pleaded, his voice cracking. "Just hold on, just,"

Another wing-beat from Ancalagon, and the shockwave hit them again.

This time Caraxes couldn't compensate. The Blood Wyrm tumbled, his working wing folding under the pressure, and they were truly falling now, plummeting toward the sea that rushed up to meet them.

Daemon looked up one last time and saw Ancalagon circling above them, saw Jacob standing on that vast skull, watching their descent with the same mild interest a man might show watching leaves fall from a tree.

And something in Daemon broke.

Not his courage. He'd face death when it came, face it with all the pride of House Targaryen. But something deeper, something fundamental. The certainty that had carried him through his entire life, the bone-deep knowledge that he was special, that he was important, that House Targaryen ruled because they deserved to rule due to them being the strongest.

All of it, shattered in an instant.

The sea was very close now. Daemon could see individual waves, could see the white foam on their crests. Caraxes had gone limp in his harness, the dragon's golden eyes glazed with pain and exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," Daemon whispered. "I'm sorry, my friend. I'm sorry I brought you here to die."

But the Blood Wyrm had one more flight in him. One more act of defiance.

With a final, desperate effort, Caraxes pulled up, his working wing catching air, his broken body straining for just a few more seconds of flight. He leveled out, racing across the wave tops, close enough that his claws carved furrows in the water.

And in that brief moment of stable flight, Daemon made his decision.

If he was going to die, he would die trying. He would die as a Targaryen should, with a blade in his hand and a curse on his lips.

The straps came off easily, his fingers finding the buckles from muscle memory. Daemon stood in the saddle, balancing despite Caraxes's labored flight, and drew Dark Sister.

Daemon looked up at Jacob, at that figure standing triumphant on his impossible dragon, and rage, pure white-hot rage, consumed him.

If he was going to die, he would die doing something. He would take this bastard with him.

The Valyrian steel sang as it cleared its sheath, rippling in the sunlight.

One chance. One throw. One desperate, mad, glorious attempt to prove that Daemon Targaryen did not go gentle into that good night.

He looked at Caraxes, at his dragon, his friend, his companion for twenty years. The Blood Wyrm's golden eye rolled to look at him, and in it Daemon saw understanding. Saw acceptance. Saw love.

"Thank you," Daemon whispered. "For everything."

Then he jumped.

He leaped from the dying dragon with every ounce of strength in his legs, Dark Sister held above his head, his body angled toward that distant figure, toward Jacob who still stood on Ancalagon's skull watching him with those inhuman eyes.

The distance was vast. Impossible. No man could cross it. But Daemon Targaryen was no ordinary man, he was a Targaryen, he had dragon's blood in his veins, and if he was going to die he would die trying.

The air screamed past him. His vision tunneled. All he could see was Jacob, growing larger, closer, almost within reach.

He raised Dark Sister, angling the point toward the man's skull, and for one glorious moment he thought he might actually make it, might actually strike true, might actually,

Jacob moved.

Not much. Just a slight lean, a tilt of his head, moving with a grace and speed that should have been impossible for something human. Dark Sister passed by him, inches from his chest, close enough that the Valyrian steel carved a thin line across his tunic but didn't touch the skin beneath.

And then Jacob's hand came up, almost lazy in its motion, and struck Daemon across the face.

It wasn't a punch. It was a backhand. A dismissive, contemptuous slap, the kind you'd give a misbehaving child.

It shattered Daemon's jaw. Broke his nose. Sent teeth flying. The force of it snapped his head around so hard that something in his neck cracked. Dark Sister flew from his nerveless fingers, spinning away through the air, and Daemon's vision exploded into stars and pain and darkness.

He was falling again, but this time he couldn't control it, couldn't fight it. His body tumbled limply through the air, blood streaming from his ruined face.

The last thing Daemon Targaryen saw before unconsciousness claimed him was Caraxes.

The Blood Wyrm was falling beside him, his wings folded, his eyes closed, blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils. Dragon and rider, tumbling together through the sky.

Then everything went black.