HĀROS BARTOSSI | DAEMON T.

[ 𝟏𝟔 ]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒

── •✧• ── ⋆⋅༻✦༺⋅⋆ ── •✧• ──

(TW: This chapter includes mentions of violence, war, and blood. If you are uncomfortable with such topics, please do not continue.)

The land on Bloodstone simmered in an eerie silence.

Embers floated lazily through the air— embers of chaos, a haunting reminder of a battle that once thrived there. Not yet ended, merely paused. Flames licked at the battle remnants: barricades and shattered weapons, their dying light casting restless shadows across the broken debris. Everywhere, the ground was littered with splintered wood and twisted iron, the carcasses of war devoured by crabs, picked clean beneath a sky smeared with smoke.

The once-proud Velaryon banners hung in tatters along the shore, their sea-horse sigils frayed and soaked, fluttering mournfully, whispering tales of defeat in the wind before sagging into the blood-tinged surf.

Daemon's boots squelched in the wet sand as he entered the realm of the crabs. The landscape was a desolate canvas— painted in ash and smoke, draped with blood and death. The stillness hung heavy in the air, unnatural, as if the world itself was holding its breath, bracing for the storm that loomed just beyond the horizon. 

His stride was relentless, though his mind swirled with sharp and ragged thoughts. There was no grand strategy, only the raw, primal urge to prove his worth— to his brother, to his house, to honour the promise he had given.

Only hours ago when the sun first rose, he had left Dwarfstone and his comrades behind, along with the Velaryon lady whose fire had taken root in his chest. Yet time felt distant now. Irrelevant. Masked by the sheer single-minded hunger that polluted his mind.

It stripped him of all distractions, leaving only the urgent need to end the war for the Stepstones and return home.

"Hēnkirī..."

Together— The wind carried her voice— soft and fleeting, yet chilling enough that goosebumps rushed down his spine. He paused.

Maevys.

Daemon clenched his jaw as the ache of old wounds resurfaced, the soreness in his muscles a cruel reminder of the voyage, of the fights fought, of the weight he chose to carry, all of which he thought have faded beneath his pitiless drive. Her whisper was both a wound and balm, stoking the fury that boiled in his veins.

As his boots pressed on, trudging through the wreckage, the swirl of emotions rolled within him, propelling the anger to surge to the forefront, morphing into an unyielding resolve. Today, he would either conclude the conflict or meet his end, but retreat was not an option. His brother, the King, would learn of his fate in a matter of days, and whether it heralded victory of his demise, mattered little to him. 

The bones of the dead watched his every step. The battlefield was deserted in appearance, but Daemon knew better. They were out there— lurking within the jagged shadows of the caves, their nets ready to ensnare the lone fool who dared tread this ground.

But Daemon Targaryen was no fool. His recklessness had always been calculated, even when the realm deemed it madness. He had come with a plan— a perilous gambit inspired by whispers of strategy and shadows of Maevys's defiant grin. One he was most eager to set in motion.

He would be the bait. A dragon pretending to be a lamb.

Daemon stooped, fingers curling around a torn flag half-buried in the muck. Once white, now marred with grime and blood, the symbol of a false surrender. Perfect.