Fire and Blood

Chapter 115: Capture of Dustonbury and Whitegrove

Caraxes, sensing the futile attempts of the humans to harm him, cast a shadow that seemed to swallow the entire battlefield. With a thunderous growl that shook the very earth beneath their feet he let out a thunderous growl that reverberated through the air. Burning with an ancient fire, his eyes locked onto the archers, daring them to continue their audacious assault. With a flick of his massive wings, Caraxes unleashed a gust of wind that sent the archers stumbling backward, their arrows falling short of their intended target. Undeterred by the Blood Wyrm's defiance, the archers regrouped, their determination unwavering. They knew that their lives depended on piercing the seemingly impenetrable scales of the mighty dragon. With renewed vigor, they unleashed another volley of arrows, their aim true and their hopes high. But their efforts were in vain once again, as the arrows merely glanced off Caraxes' scales, leaving no mark upon his majestic form.

"It's no use! We can't bring that beast down!"

"Shut up! Keep firing!" Titus ordered.

"Dracarys," Daemon commanded.

With a single breath, Caraxes unleashed a torrent of scorching dragonfire that engulfed the garrison line in an inferno of unimaginable heat. The archers, their bows now reduced to ashes, screamed in agony as the merciless flames consumed their bodies. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning flesh, and the once vibrant landscape was transformed into a desolate wasteland.

"Damn it!"

"They're too much!"

"My lord, for our house's sake, we must surrender!" one of the sentries urged.

"What?!" Titus said, appalled.

Daemon's lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. There was panic and dissent within the enemy ranks. The Peake garrison stationed at Dustonbury was now disorganized, consumed by chaos and disagreement. The air was tense as commanders bickered and soldiers questioned their orders. It was a scene of utter disarray, a perfect breeding ground for doubt and despair. Perfect. It was time to maintain the siege and further break down their spirits. This was precisely what Daemon had hoped for. He knew that a garrison besieged by a powerful army, already weakened by internal strife, would be far easier to conquer. Their morale, already teetering on the edge, would crumble under the weight of their own discord. And in that moment, Daemon saw his opportunity to strike. As the siege continued, Daemon's forces pressed forward, relentless in their pursuit of victory. They struck with precision and purpose, exploiting the enemy's confusion and disarray. Each blow landed with devastating effect, further eroding their already fragile morale. But Daemon was not content with a swift and decisive victory. No, he wanted to break them slowly, to watch as their hope dwindled and their will to fight crumbled. He understood that a defeated enemy was not just physically defeated but mentally defeated as well. And so, he continued to tighten the grip, gradually increasing the pressure, until their spirits were crushed beyond repair.

These weak men know they cannot win. "Listen up!" Daemon called out to them from above. "Resistance is futile! Further resistance will bring more deaths! Lay down your arms and surrender now, and I might be merciful! Refuse and continue to resist House Targaryen, however, and you will all die here!"

Ser Titus Peake groaned in frustration.

"My lord, please! I beg you! Please surrender!"

"You dare speak of surrender?!"

"We must conserve supplies and release all non-personnel within the castle."

"Silence! Know your place. My father's instructions were clear: we must hold off enemy forces long enough until we receive reinforcements from Prince Aemond and Ser Criston."