"In 138 AC, the bones of Addam were returned to Driftmark from Raventree Hall. His brother Alyn, by then Lord of the Tides, put only the word "LOYAL" as the epitaph on Addam's tomb."
―Unknown
…
"Angōs, Embrōrbar!"
The words came with malice, and before Daemon could react, his world was fire. A torrent of death erupted from Seasmoke's maw, a wall of orange and gold that swallowed the space between them in the span of a heartbeat. Heat washed over Daemon's face, and for a fleeting instant, he felt the searing sting of it, tasted the acrid bite of char, burnt hair, and scorched leather. Caraxes bellowed, a furious, wounded sound that rattled bone. Instinct took hold—Daemon barely needed to urge him. The dragon wheeled, throwing one massive wing between them and the fire, shielding his rider from the worst of it. The air shimmered with heat, the edge of the wing membrane blackening, curling at the edges like parchment caught in a brazier.
With a powerful beat of his wings, the bloodwyrm surged upward, seeking escape, his body twisting in the air to shake off the heat, his maw parting to answer in kind—But the enemy was already upon them.
Seasmoke burst through the fiery veil like a silver spectre, jaws wide and wings outstretched. The collision was jarring, a tangle of muscle and scale, the force of impact enough to send both dragons tumbling earthward. The younger dragon struck first, low and fast, sinking its teeth into the thick base of Caraxes' throat—just above the chest, where the crimson scales were thinner, more vulnerable.
Caraxes shrieked, the sound of it more enraged than pained, and lashed out in turn—his fangs found purchase in Seasmoke's left shoulder, clamping down on scale and sinew and drawing a bellowing roar from the enemy. His massive wings flapped violently, buffeting Seasmoke and sending gusts of wind whipping across the field. The thrashing forms tore furrows into the damp earth, setting the grass alight as fire spilled unchecked from their maws.
Daemon clung to the saddle, teeth bared in a snarl, hands and thighs fighting for purchase. Twice, he was nearly thrown off. Twice more, he was nearly crushed. The heat of the flames licked at his armour, the smell of his burning hair filling his nostrils. His skin burned and his eyes watered from the heat. Then a sharp jolt ran through his spine as the two dragons tumbled down a slight incline in the field, their writhing bodies breaking apart at the last moment, again narrowly avoiding crushing their riders beneath their bulk.
With a brutal wrench, Caraxes had managed to twist free, but not without consequence—deep gouges marred his crimson scales, and black blood oozed down his neck. Seasmoke, smaller and quicker, leapt first, taking to the skies. Caraxes, bloodied and enraged, was not far behind. He surged upward with a high-pitched bellow, his massive form struggling for balance before finally rising from the earth.
Ahead, Seasmoke wheeled about to face them again. The distance between them shrank rapidly and the two dragons met once more with a sickening crunch of scale against scale, their clawed feet kicking and raking and talons locking as they spun in a chaotic spiral toward the earth, wings beating against each other with furious desperation. The sound of their snarling echoed across the heavens, accompanied by bursts of dragonfire that scorched the sky and left trails of smoke in their wake.
They were losing altitude. Fast. The earth rushed towards them with malice and Daemon's world became a blur of motion—sky, earth, fire, sky again. He fought to stay in the saddle as Caraxes thrashed, struggling to break free. Just as they were about to crash into the earth, the bloodwyrm broke free again, and with a furious snap of his wings that pressed Daemon back into his saddle, he levelled out mere meters above the ground.
The two beasts separated and rose again, circling each other above the scorched battlefield. Alas, the calm was merely momentary. With a bellow and a savage pull, Caraxes pulled deeper into the turn, circling toward Seasmoke with frightening agility. The silver dragon twisted in the air, locking its talons with Caraxes before diving and pulling itself free again. Caraxes followed, but the smaller dragon simply pulled itself higher out of reach. Fleeing.
Disoriented, Daemon tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets. His blood roared in his ears, his lips curling into a snarl as he turned his attention towards the retreating enemy.
"Face me, coward!" he bellowed as he spurred Caraxes forward, the dragon's bellows echoing his words. They closed the distance again and Seasmoke wheeled in the air for a moment to clash talons with Caraxes but quickly broke away once more, spewing flames as it did. Distantly, Daemon could see its rider urging it away despite its desire to face them and his anger surged anew.
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They soared across the Riverlands, bellowing and snarling, twisting and diving and exchanging gouts of dragonfire. Below, the earth rolled by in a blur of green and brown. The wind howled in Daemon's ears as Caraxes climbed after the enemy. Below, even the silhouette of Riverrun behind the faded into a smudge of green and grey.
For a moment, the distance from their quarry grew, but the injuries Seasmoke sustained were perhaps too great to ignore. The smaller dragon soon began to slow and Caraxes drew closer. Daemon could taste the sweetness of victory upon his lips.
It was then he saw it.
A shape in the distance, approaching from the east. The prince's stomach clenched as he turned his attention toward it, his gaze narrowing. The shape grew larger as it drew closer, its outline unmistakable. Another dragon.
Daemon's mind raced. Vhagar? No, too small. Dreamfyre? No, too large. Another of the Green's creatures? Meleys?
As the dragon neared, its mottled brown hide came into view, its tattered wings and ungainly gait impossible to mistake.
"Sheepstealer," Daemon muttered, his tone tinged with confusion.
The old, ugly dragon was a creature of the wild, a beast with no love for men or dragons alike. Yet there it was, and worse—a rider sat astride it, a feminine figure wrapped tightly against the wind. The sight sent an uneasy chill to rest in Daemon's guts. Seasmoke was flying directly towards the newcomers. The sight stoked a flicker of doubt in his mind, one he could not afford to let grow.
A trap?
"Fuck!"
Daemon swore then. "Motherless sons of whores," he spat, yanking hard on Caraxes' reins. The bloodwyrm resisted, trilling in protest, his bloodlust unwilling to abandon the fight. But Daemon knew they could not face the two alone. Sheepstealer was larger than Caraxes—clumsy in the air, yes, but powerful, and more than capable of inflicting harm if the moment came. And while Seasmoke was smaller, the injuries Caraxes bore now were proof enough of the threat the younger posed. Together, they were an unwelcome challenge, one Daemon had no interest in indulging at the moment.
For a moment, it seemed as if the bloodwyrm might ignore him. But, alas, the gods were good and with a reluctant, rumbling growl, Caraxes turned, wings hammering against the wind as he pulled away.
Daemon's fingers tightened on the saddle as he forced his gaze forward, trying to rid himself of the unease coiling in his gut.
It was then Caraxes called, a trilling, high-pitched sound that vibrated through Daemon's very bones. The bloodwyrm twisted his head slowly, and Daemon turned to follow his dragon's gaze. Immediately, a frown crested his brow.
The injured Seasmoke was turning to follow and Sheepstealer was slowly catching up. The chase had begun anew.
"Fuck!"
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"Faster," Daemon growled, pressing himself low against the saddle, his fingers tightening around the reins of Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm shrieked his displeasure, a keening wail that echoed across the sky, but he obeyed. His wings beat harder, slicing through the cold air, and they surged ahead with a lurch that made Daemon's teeth clench. Higher they climbed, higher still, angling away from their pursuers with each powerful stroke. The wind howled in his ears, but he paid it no mind.
Daemon risked a glance over his shoulder. Seasmoke lagged behind, his pale hide streaked with blood, wings labouring against the weight of his wounds. Sheepstealer followed, his tattered wings beating against the wind, yet even he could not close the gap. A flicker of relief curled in Daemon's gut, though he did not trust it. Not yet.
Below, the jagged outline of Rook's Rest rose from the mists, its grey stone tower a lone sentinel against the vast expanse of the sea. Daemon looked back once more, his gaze tracking the movements of the dragons behind him. They were slowing, their course curving away, retreating to whence they came.
And yet, the sight brought him no comfort.
As Caraxes cut through the mist-laden skies above the ragged coastline, Daemon brooded in his saddle, his mood as dark as the waves crashing against the shore below. The Greens had claimed two more dragons—somehow, some way—and worse yet, they had found riders bold and skilled enough to ride them. It gnawed at him, a slow, simmering anger beneath the surface. He and Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, the fiercest weapon in their arsenal, had been driven from the field like whipped curs.
It was no retreat, not by name. But Daemon knew the truth of it well enough. And truth, like a blade, cut deep.
This was ill. Ill beyond reckoning.