Advance chapter available on Pǎťr̥eon gk31
Offer is going on
Inside the Dragon Den, chaos reigned.
The massive cavern, a place that for centuries had housed the most fearsome beasts of House Targaryen, was shaking as though it might collapse entirely. Earlier, the dragons had clashed in a violent frenzy, their massive bodies colliding with such force that stone walls cracked and dust rained from above. Now the aftermath revealed itself: the roof groaned under strain, rocks and dirt crumbling like a storm from the heavens, crashing down with deafening noise.
Daemon, riding upon the back of the blood-red Caraxes, was caught unprepared. The sudden collapse nearly buried both dragon and rider alive beneath the avalanche of stone.
But Caraxes, ever loyal, proved his worth. With a thunderous roar, the great beast twisted his serpentine body, throwing himself sideways. His leathery, bat-like wings spread wide, curling protectively around his rider. Rocks crashed against scales harder than iron, shattering into fragments. Caraxes shielded Daemon as best he could, taking the brunt of the damage, his long body trembling under the assault.
Still, Daemon was not spared entirely. Rubble struck him across the shoulders, arms, and legs, leaving bruises that throbbed with pain. A particularly heavy stone glanced off his temple, filling his vision with blinding stars. His head rang, his senses blurred, and for a moment he swayed in the saddle, fighting to remain conscious.
Caraxes bellowed and strained, his claws digging deep into the ground as he clawed free of the rubble pile. Blood streaked his crimson scales where sharp stones had cut him, and his breathing was heavy with pain and exhaustion. Yet the bond between dragon and rider held strong—despite his wounds, Caraxes carried Daemon forward, step by laborious step, until at last they staggered free of the collapsing cavern's core.
But their pace was slow. Blood dripped from the dragon's wounds, leaving red streaks upon the stone floor. His movements lacked their usual ferocity. Because of this, Daemon and Caraxes trailed behind the other two injured dragons—Vhagar, ancient and proud, and Vermithor, the Bronze Fury—who had already limped their way toward the cavern entrance.
By the time Daemon reached the mouth of the Dragon Den, his head still spinning, the sight that greeted him turned his blood cold.
Vermithor lay sprawled upon the stone, his vast chest heaving, his golden-bronze wings spread limply across the ground. The dragon was barely alive, groaning weakly, smoke hissing from his nostrils. Vhagar, on the other hand, stood at the entrance, her ancient body trembling with rage. She lifted her head and let loose a roar that shook the very earth, her cry echoing across Dragonstone. The sound was less of pain and more of fury—she was still enraged by the insult of being challenged, still thirsting for battle.
Instinctively, Daemon's eyes darted outward, scanning the skies beyond the entrance. What he feared—and hated most—was the presence of the Cannibal, the dreaded black dragon. Yet the air above was clear. The Cannibal was gone.
Daemon's stomach tightened. He knew instantly what had happened. The Cannibal, clever and savage, had taken advantage of the chaos to flee. Freed from confinement, the ancient terror now roamed once again. The consequences of such a thing chilled him, but Daemon clenched his jaw, refusing to dwell on fear.
"Faster," he hissed to Caraxes. The dragon obeyed, pushing himself forward with renewed determination despite his injuries.
As Daemon emerged from the gloom into the open air, his gaze fell upon a sight that stoked his anger to a blazing inferno.
Rayder was waiting for him.
The young man sat astride his own black dragon, Im, as though he had all the time in the world. Rayder's posture was relaxed, almost leisurely. A mocking smirk curved across his lips, and his eyes glittered with amusement as he watched Daemon's struggle. It was the look of someone enjoying a private joke at another's expense.
Daemon's face darkened instantly, his expression like thunderclouds. His long silver-white hair—so often a symbol of Targaryen pride—was scorched and blackened in places, curled and tangled from dragonflame. Dust and ash clung to his clothes. He looked less like a prince and more like a beggar clawing his way from the ruins.
Humiliation burned him.
The chaos, the injuries, the collapse—he knew deep inside that all of this had been his own doing. He had provoked the Cannibal, and the consequences had nearly destroyed them all. Yet his pride would not allow him to shoulder the blame. His anger needed a target, and Rayder, the outsider, the interloper, was perfect.
In Daemon's eyes, everything was Rayder's fault. If not for Rayder's reckless attempt to tame the Cannibal, none of this would have occurred. His own plans lay in ruins, Caraxes was wounded, and the Cannibal was free. And there, watching smugly from atop his dragon, was the man he despised.
Rayder, meanwhile, seemed delighted at the sight of Daemon's misery. Seeing the once-proud Targaryen prince disheveled and seething filled him with wicked amusement. He even cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted mockingly toward the sky, where the Cannibal had vanished.
"Hey! Runaway big guy! Well done!" he called. His voice dripped with sarcasm, carrying easily across the air. "Pity you didn't finish the job. It would have been perfect if you'd killed Daemon!"
Daemon's hands clenched tightly around the reins, his teeth grinding together. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his rage so fierce he could barely breathe.
Rayder turned his gaze back toward him, his tone openly mocking. "Tell me, Daemon, why did you provoke that mad dragon in the first place? Couldn't you see how irritable it was? Now look at you—battered, bruised, humiliated. Serves you right!"
Daemon's vision blurred red. He wanted nothing more than to lunge forward, to strike Rayder from his dragon's back and silence that mocking voice forever. Yet deep inside, reason whispered that such an act might doom him. He forced a breath through clenched teeth, suppressing the urge to attack.
Slowly, deliberately, he urged Caraxes forward. His voice, when he finally spoke, was like iron dragged across stone, every word squeezed out with venom.
"Rayder," he said, low and dangerous, "hear me well. You will not get a single dragon from Dragonstone. This is the Targaryen family's domain. You are nothing here."
Rayder, instead of being intimidated, merely laughed. He reached down to stroke the neck of Black Dragon Im, whose great head swayed with silent menace. "Oh? Is that so?" Rayder replied lightly, his grin widening. "This island is vast. Surely you don't expect me never to visit again? You can't watch me every hour of every day. Who knows what might happen while your back is turned?"
Daemon's eyes narrowed, his glare sharp as a blade. "Remember my words," he said coldly. He did not need to say more; his gaze alone promised unending hostility, a vow that Rayder would never find peace here.
For the first time, Rayder shifted uncomfortably. Daemon's unwavering stare, full of undisguised hatred, pressed upon him like a physical weight. Goosebumps prickled across his skin. He wanted to sneer, to throw another insult, but the longer Daemon's eyes bored into him, the more unsettling it became.
Finally, his temper snapped. His jaw tightened, and his voice rose, sharp with anger. "Want to fight?"
The words hung in the air like a spark to tinder. His gaze locked on Daemon's, daring him.
Daemon's heart pounded. Every fiber of him screamed yes. He longed to see fear twist across Rayder's face, to feel his fists or his blade prove his superiority. His lips parted, ready to utter the challenge.
But then his eyes flicked past Rayder.
Behind him, three colossal dragons loomed—muscular, hostile, their eyes glowing like molten fire. They were poised to strike, their loyalty to their rider absolute. If Daemon made a move, they would descend upon him without hesitation.
He looked down at Caraxes beneath him. The red wyrm was mighty still, but his wings bore fresh tears, his body bled from gashes, and his strength was waning. Caraxes was no longer in his prime condition.
Daemon's fury cooled, smothered by bitter reality. To fight now would be suicide. His aggressive aura faltered, leaving him caught between pride and pragmatism. An awkward stiffness crossed his face, betraying the internal battle.
Then, suddenly, a voice rang out—firm, commanding, impossible to ignore.
"Daemon! Stop!"
All eyes turned.
King Jaehaerys himself had arrived, his white hair glinting in the light, his presence commanding instant authority. He had rushed here upon hearing the roars and the chaos spilling from the Dragon Den. Now he stood at the edge, surveying the scene: dragons injured and restless, Daemon and Rayder facing each other like duelists, the tension a breath away from igniting into bloodshed.
The king's eyes, sharp despite his age, flicked from Daemon to Rayder. Recognition flared—he knew this young knight, though his bearing was unlike any man of Westeros. Jaehaerys did not yet know the full truth of Rayder, but he understood enough…
The situation was clear. And if he did not intervene now, Dragonstone itself might burn.
Advance chapter available on Pǎťr̥eon gk31
Offer is going on