Chapter 9: The Dragon and the Rogue
The smoke over Rook's Rest was a funeral pyre for the Greens' ambitions. When Prince Aemond and King Aegon II arrived, they found not a battlefield, but a prelude to hell. The ground within the shallow basin had been fused into a swirling, uneven sheet of black glass, still radiating a palpable heat. The air stank of ozone and cooked meat on a scale that defied comprehension. Of the six thousand men of their finest army, nothing remained but carbonized shadows etched onto the molten rock and the occasional, unidentifiable lump of melted steel. Rook's Rest itself was untouched, its garrison staring down from the walls in catatonic, holy terror at the salvation that had been more horrific than any siege.
Aegon, aboard his beautiful dragon Sunfyre, vomited over the side of his saddle. The sight, the sheer, absolute nature of the annihilation, was too much for his wine-sodden mind to bear.
"We are leaving!" the young king shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria as he pulled frantically on Sunfyre's reins. "Now! Back to the city!"
"No." Aemond's voice was unnervingly calm. He sat astride the colossal Vhagar, his single sapphire eye scanning the devastation with a cold, analytical fury. Vhagar herself was uneasy, a low growl rumbling in her ancient chest. She was the largest dragon in the world, the veteran of a hundred battles, yet the sheer power that had been unleashed here was enough to make even her wary. "Stay, you fool. Look at it. Truly look."
"I see nothing!" Aegon sobbed. "There is nothing left to see!"
"Exactly," Aemond hissed, dismounting from Vhagar and striding to the edge of the glassy crater, his boots crunching on scorched earth. "There are no bodies to count. No banners to collect. No swords to salvage. An army does not simply vanish. Look at the edges of the rock. See how it flowed? This was not dragonfire as we know it. This was… a forge. The heat required to do this, to melt steel and stone into a lake… it is beyond Caraxes, beyond even Vhagar." He knelt, touching the glassy surface. It was still warm. "This was not a battle. It was a scouring."
"What are you saying?" Aegon whimpered, refusing to dismount, eager to put as much distance between himself and this cursed place as possible.
Aemond stood, his gaze sweeping the silent, fog-shrouded hills. "I am saying that my brother, for all his whoring and his cruelty, was not capable of this. Daemon is a viper, but he is a viper that strikes with a blade in the dark. This… this is the footprint of a god." He looked back at Aegon, his expression one of utter seriousness. "And it is not our god."
The news reached Dragonstone carried by a terrified fisherman who had seen the smoke from the sea. When the scouts on their swift dragons confirmed the tale, the Black Council chamber erupted not in celebration, but in stunned, fearful silence. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, his face a mask of grim calculation, was the first to speak.
"First, the Triarchy's fleet, gone in a storm that swallowed a hundred ships without a trace," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Then, my cousin Rhaenys and the Red Queen, vanished from the sky. Now, Criston Cole's entire host, six thousand strong, melted into glass. We claim these as victories dealt by our enemies, but no raven arrives from King's Landing crowing of their success. They are as silent and confused as we are."
"It is a blessing from the Stranger!" cried one of the lesser lords. "He punishes the usurpers for their crimes!"
Rhaenyra, her face still puffy from weeping, clung to this hope. "The gods see the justice of my cause. They smite my enemies for me."
Prince Daemon, who had been listening from the shadows near the hearth, finally stepped forward. He moved with a coiled grace, but his eyes, those pale violet embers, were dark with thought, not triumph. He stopped before the Painted Table, his gaze sweeping over the map.
"You are a fool if you believe that, my queen," he said softly, his words cutting through the hopeful murmurs. The chamber fell silent. "The gods are cruel, but they are not so direct. I have seen the work of men and the work of dragons my entire life. This is neither."
"Then what is it, husband?" Rhaenyra asked, a tremor of fear in her voice.
"It is a third player," Daemon stated, his finger tapping the spot on the map marked Rook's Rest. "One who took my cousin from us. One who shattered the Greens' fleet before we had to lift a finger. One who has now erased their army. This… entity… does not fight for the Black or the Green. It seems to fight only for chaos."
"An ally, then?" Lord Celtigar suggested. "One who works in secret?"
"An ally who does not announce himself is no ally at all," Daemon countered, his eyes narrowing. "He is simply a power that has not yet decided to aim its weapons at you. I would know who holds the hilt of this sword. I would look this new god in the face."
He did not have to wait long. Two nights later, the summons came. It was not a raven, but a light. A brilliant, silent, emerald-green aurora that pulsed in the northern sky, centered over the desolate, rocky isle of Dragon's Tooth, a jagged shard of stone halfway between Dragonstone and Driftmark. It was a light that did not belong in the sky, a beacon of impossible colour and power. The smallfolk on the coasts fell to their knees in prayer, believing it a sign from the gods. Daemon Targaryen knew better. It was a sign, yes. But it was not from any god he knew. It was an invitation.
"It is a trap," Lord Corlys warned as Daemon prepared Caraxes for flight. "The Greens could be waiting. Aemond and Vhagar…"
"Aemond would not be so subtle," Daemon scoffed, tightening the saddle straps on his blood-red dragon. Caraxes hissed, sensing his rider's agitated excitement, smoke curling from his long, serpentine nostrils. "Aemond announces himself with a roar. This… this is a whisper. I must know who is speaking."
He flew into the night, the green aurora his only guide. The air grew colder, charged with a strange, static energy as he approached the island. Caraxes grew more agitated, his powerful flight becoming hesitant. He was afraid. Daemon had never felt his dragon express true fear before. It put every nerve in his own body on high alert.
He saw the source of the light. It was not a fire. On the highest peak of the rocky isle, a single, perfect sphere of green energy, no larger than a man's head, pulsed with silent, rhythmic light. It was a lure. He circled the island once, his eyes scanning the jagged rocks and crashing waves below. He saw nothing.
"Come out!" Daemon roared into the wind, his hand resting on the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister. "Face me! You have my attention!"
The green light extinguished. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the sea. Then, the island itself began to move.
A section of the northern cliff face, a vast expanse of what Daemon had thought was solid rock, shifted. A shadow detached itself from the other shadows. An eye, larger than Caraxes's entire head, opened. It was a slit of molten gold, burning with an ancient, terrible light. Then another opened beside it. A head, vast beyond all reckoning, lifted from the stone, its colossal horns scraping against the cliffs, sending showers of rock into the sea below.
Krosis-Krif unfolded himself from the island he had been impersonating. He rose slowly, deliberately, a living mountain of serrated black scale and smoldering power. Caraxes shrieked, a sound of pure, instinctual terror, and banked so hard Daemon was nearly unseated. The Blood Wyrm, the most feared dragon of his generation after Vhagar, was trying to flee. Daemon had to fight his mount for control, his knuckles white, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was a prince of the blood of Old Valyria, a man who had faced death a hundred times, but the sight before him threatened to unmake his sanity.
This was no dragon. This was the abyss given form.
Krosis-Krif looked at the comparatively small red dragon and its rider. He could feel the man's shock, his fear, but also his stubborn, arrogant refusal to be cowed. This was the one. This was the mind he could use. He did not speak aloud. He reached out, not with his claws, but with his mind, using the bridgehead of Rhaenys's absorbed consciousness as his conduit.
The first thing Daemon experienced was not a word, but an image, projected directly into his mind's eye. He saw the Triarchy fleet, saw it from below the waves as a great shadow rose and tore it to pieces. He saw the foggy sky over Blackwater Bay, felt the bone-shattering impact as Meleys was seized from below, felt a phantom echo of Rhaenys's final, horrified thoughts. He saw the Green army at Rook's Rest, felt the disorienting hum, saw the world melt into fire. It was a cascade of memory, a brutal, irrefutable confession.
Daemon gasped, clutching his head. "Who… what are you?" he managed to shout, his voice hoarse.
A sound ground its way from Krosis-Krif's chest. It was not a roar, but a word, spoken in a language of granite and thunder.
"Dovah."
The word itself seemed to have weight, settling on Daemon, who despite not understanding it, knew it was a declaration of identity. Dragon.
You bleed this world for a chair of cold iron, the thought came next, not a word, but a pure concept impressed upon Daemon's mind. The voice was genderless, ageless, and filled with a contempt so profound it was almost a physical force. You kill your own kind. You send your children to die. An… untidy… affair.
Caraxes had calmed slightly, though he still trembled, submitting to his rider's will but keeping a terrified distance. Daemon, his mind racing, tried to find his footing on this new, impossible battlefield. "You killed my cousin," he accused, his voice regaining some of its steel.
She was flying to her death, the thought returned, cold and pragmatic. A trap. Two against one. Vhagar would have torn her apart. Her death would have given your enemies a victory. My intervention gave you only a mystery. It was… a mercy. And a strategic rebalancing.
"You destroyed the Greens' army. You destroyed their fleet. You sank their gold. Why?"
A low chuckle seemed to vibrate the very air, a sound more terrifying than any roar. A single, guttural word echoed from Krosis-Krif's throat.
"Krif."
Fight. The meaning was obvious. But the next thought that entered Daemon's mind was more complex. The scales were unbalanced. Your side was too weak after the loss of the Red Queen. Now… they are weaker. The scales are balanced once more. A long war is a… nourishing… war.
The word 'nourishing' sent a chill down Daemon's spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air. He finally understood. "You are feeding on this war."
Krosis-Krif's massive head dipped in a slow, almost imperceptible nod. The strife of lesser beings is the sustenance of greater ones. But your strife grows clumsy. Unfocused. You risk a swift conclusion. A disappointing harvest.
Here it was. The purpose of this meeting. This… creature… was not an ally. It was a parasite of godlike proportions, and it was worried its hosts were going to die too quickly. Daemon, the Rogue Prince, the man who prided himself on his own ruthlessness, felt a sense of profound, professional respect mixed with his terror.
"What is it you want from me?" Daemon asked, his mind latching onto the only thing that made sense: a bargain.
"Fahdon," Krosis-Krif rumbled. Ally/Friend. The concept he projected was more conditional. A guide. A whisper in the right ear. Your kind is predictable in its passions, but inefficient in its methods. I offer… efficiency.
"You want me to be your agent," Daemon said, the audacity of it almost making him laugh. "To direct you? To aim you like a loaded crossbow at my enemies?"
You are not my master, the thought came, sharp and cold as ice, making Daemon flinch. You are… a consultant. You will point me toward imbalance. You will suggest targets whose removal will prolong the chaos and deepen the wounds. In return, your enemies will fall, and your path to the Iron Throne for your queen will be… cleared of obstructions.
It was a devil's bargain. A pact with a monster that saw his entire family's dynastic struggle as a source of sustenance. Daemon knew he should refuse. He should fly back to Dragonstone and warn them all. But the pragmatist, the rogue in him, saw the potential. A weapon that could erase armies. A power that could unmake fleets. An ally that his enemies did not even know existed. How could he refuse?
"My brother's daughter sits the throne in King's Landing," Daemon said, testing the waters. "She is a weak fool, but her children… her brother, Aemond, is not. He rides Vhagar. He is the single greatest threat to my wife's claim."
Krosis-Krif was silent for a long moment. His golden eyes seemed to bore into Daemon, reading the ambition and hatred in his soul.
Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar are a significant weight on the scales, the thought finally came. Their removal would require… a substantial expenditure of energy. The scales would need balancing elsewhere. Perhaps… the Velaryon fleet is too strong? Perhaps Lord Corlys grows too proud?
Daemon's blood ran cold. The creature was threatening his own allies, his wife's staunchest supporters, to maintain its grotesque 'balance'. He was not being offered a weapon. He was being interviewed for the position of sheepdog, helping a wolf manage the flock.
"Show me a sign of your good faith," Daemon demanded, pushing back, refusing to show the fear that was threatening to consume him. "A target. Of my choosing. Let me see your… efficiency… directed by my will."
Krosis-Krif considered this. It was a test. A necessary step in securing his new pawn. There is a gathering of Green lords at Bitterbridge, he projected. Lord Ormund Hightower amasses a great host to march up from the south. They are confident. Unprepared. His destruction would shatter the Greens' southern ambitions. He paused. Point me. And you will have your sign.
It was more than Daemon could have hoped for. The Hightower host was the Greens' last great army. Its destruction would leave them naked.
"Do it," Daemon said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Destroy them. All of them."
"Zu'u fen krif," Krosis-Krif rumbled. I will fight.
With that, the great dragon began to sink back into the island, his form melting into the rock and shadow. In moments, he was gone. The island of Dragon's Tooth was just an island again. Daemon was left alone in the sky, the green aurora having faded, his dragon still trembling beneath him.
He flew back to Dragonstone, his mind a whirlwind of terror and elation. He had looked into the abyss, and the abyss had offered him a partnership. He knew it was a fool's bargain, a pact that would likely consume him and everyone he loved. But the temptation of such power, the sheer, beautiful efficiency of it, was too much for a man like Daemon Targaryen to resist. He would be the whisper in the ear of the god-monster. He would help it feed. And he would ride the wave of its destruction all the way to the Iron Throne. The cost was a problem for another day.