¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xxx. the fall of fury

    Daemon hated Valerys Targaryen, and she was haunting him.

    It was her scent, that of gentle lilac and berries, that came to him most often. The smell snaked up his nose and loosened his airway, expanding lungs with the hope that the sweet smell had come with her; it never did, and so Daemon learned to evade hope. Hope that once she finally came into his sights again, he could murder this ghoul and banish it once and for all, just as he murdered the Triarchy pirates before him. Daemon hated her. He wanted her to relinquish this grating hold she had upon his mind and bleed into the background of his life.

    And yet, he could not let her go.

    It was not for lack of trying. Letters, scribbled and smeared with undried ink, lined his table, forever stuck in a ceaseless decision to send them, or keep them sequestered away within the gloom of his heart. Many had been sent, and none had been answered. Daemon wondered if she had burned them like she burned his heart, reduced to cinders just like the soldiers below him. Daemon wanted her gone, yet wanted her close at the same time.

    Thoughts of his sweet niece shattered when arrows alit with fire slipped past him, released from rows of archers atop the cliff. Below him, Caraxes' fire ceased its endless torment and he squealed, ducking and turning his body as Daemon clung onto his reins. The forms of the archers were minuscule at this distance, hidden in shadow. Just like ants, mused Daemon silently. And just as his niece had done years prior, he would stomp these insects out.

    Caraxes' lithe form swooped lower to the ground, the bluster of wind that followed sent many of the warring men backwards and onto the wet ground. From a distance, he could see the silver-plated figure of Corlys Velaryon, his axe swings sure and deadly, cleaving down pirate after pirate like bronze-skinned trees. Grey eyes turned upwards as Caraxes approach, and he paused as fire consumed his enemies in front of him.

    Though something had caught the Sea Snake's attention, and it drifted from the crackling fire out towards the mist-lined sea. "Daemon!" he called frantically, twirling his axe in his hands. "Look!"

    Daemon followed the point of his fingers, twisting his neck to stare out at the shadowy waters beyond. Fog curled and thickened the air, enclosing in the war-field like ever-encroaching death. Below, the waters rippled with calm movements, entirely unaware of the death befalling the shores it licked upon. A vast shadow darkened against the mist, and for a moment all was silent before a giant ship split the haze and eased from the sea beyond. One by one more followed, until near ten moved into the harbor besides the Crown's remaining ships, split with cannon balls of the Triarchy's.

    Daemon was never a frightful man. Death had wrested with him many times, attempting to steal away his life, yet it seemed it always lost. But here and now, he had never felt such depleting terror. Paralyzed atop his leather saddle, Daemon watched as more ships came forth from the murk, joining their brethren. Under the veil of night, the sigils remained obscured, allegiance hidden; cold, slimy fear coiled around his organs, setting them in place with tendrils of ice.

    Riding with those ships was loss. Victory was already a hard-fought game, evading his fingertips like a flighty bird. And yet, Daemon had thought it possible — if only for a fleeting, foolish second. As more ships gathered in the dark waters, Daemon knew well that death clung to their hulls, solidifying that their surrender was imminent. The Crown had truly forsaken him; his family had truly forsaken him.

    Setting his jaw in a hard line, Daemon wrenched Caraxes' reins and drove him towards the newcomer ships. Impending fire boiled his blood-red scales, and Daemon could feel the heat as if it were his own. If he were to die, it would not be by way of forced destruction. Daemon would die as he lived: with full control and surety. These Triarchy cunts would gain no satisfaction from felling him by their own hands.