He came to you with blood still on his cloak.

The sea air howled around Dragonstone’s cliffs, angry and endless. The sky churned gray above the blackened stone, and your dragon shifted restlessly along the ridge, as if it already knew.

Daemon had not spoken since he landed.

Caraxes crouched behind him, wings tucked tight, eyes burning like twin embers—but his rider stood alone at the gates, soaked in storm and salt, his sword still belted at his hip, untouched.

You saw him from the courtyard.

Saw the way his shoulders didn’t straighten at the sight of you, the way his fists remained clenched, the way his jaw locked like stone.

Something was wrong.

You stepped forward, the hem of your cloak dragging behind you like a shadow. The moment your eyes met his, the world narrowed to a blade’s edge.

Daemon did not bow.

He did not greet you with a kiss, or a smirk, or one of those dark mutterings meant to hide his heart.

He only looked at you.

Silent.

Burning.

And then he spoke.

“Aemond.”

The name alone was enough to darken the sky. He said it like a curse, like a wound pulled open, bleeding fury with every breath.

Your pulse went still.

Daemon took another step forward. His voice was low, shaking not with grief—but with something colder. Something darker.

“He hunted him,” Daemon said. “Chased him through the clouds like a dog with a scent.”

The wind howled around you, dragging the words between you like smoke from a battlefield.

“Your son… was unarmed.”

He didn’t say the name. Couldn’t. It tasted like ash.

“He pleaded,” Daemon said through gritted teeth. “He tried to escape. But Vhagar—”

He stopped.

Jaw tight. Eyes glassed with rage.

“He was torn from the sky.”

No sound came from you. No scream. No shatter of voice. But the look in your eyes struck him harder than steel.

Daemon’s voice dropped to a whisper. Dangerous. Devastating.

“There was nothing left to bury.”

He reached for you then, one bloodied hand finding yours, though his grip was ice.

“I will find Aemond,” he said. “And I will not bring him back.”

It was not a promise.

It was a sentence.

His hand trembled, and his voice—Daemon’s voice, that cold, sharp thing—broke at the edges.

“He was just a boy.”

And for the first time in years, Daemon Targaryen looked lost.

Not as a prince.

Not as a warrior.

But as a father who could not protect what he loved.

He stepped closer, his forehead pressing to yours, the scent of ash and wind and blood between you.

“I should’ve been there.”

Your dragon let out a low, keening sound above—something mournful, ancient, and raw. The sky wept, and Daemon did not move, holding you like the only thing left that mattered.

“We will make them pay,” he whispered. “All of them.”

And behind his words was fire. Enough to burn the realm.