The pain of a shattered hand felt like ten thousand ants burrowing through bone.
But Daemon Targaryen only sat there, motionless on the back of his dragon Caraxes, the "Blood Wyrm," as the cold sea wind howled through the gaps in his torn armor.
What was this pain compared to what burned inside him?
Humiliation.
It was an unbearable, choking humiliation — as if invisible hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing the breath from his chest.
He, Daemon Targaryen — the "Rogue Prince," the conqueror of the Narrow Sea, the so-called mightiest dragonrider in Westeros — had been defeated.
He and his Blood Wyrm had once been the very image of invincibility.
But moments ago, over that damned stretch of ocean, he had been utterly destroyed.
The man who called himself the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay, Damian Thorne, had toyed with him as if he were a child, wounded Caraxes almost beyond recognition, and severed his left hand.
Had Rhaenys and Laena Velaryon not arrived when they did… he would have been taken alive.
A dragonrider paraded as a trophy.
A broken beast in the hands of another.
Caraxes rumbled beneath him, a low growl that trembled with pain. The Blood Wyrm's crimson scales were scorched black by the platinum flames, his wings beating unevenly as they limped through the sky.
Daemon lowered his gaze to the ragged stump where his left hand had been. Blood seeped through the torn gauntlet, staining his black armor crimson.
"Daemon!"
Rhaenys's voice cut through the wind like a hammer blow. Riding the Red Queen, Meleys, she drew close, her expression hard.
"Wake up! We have to land first!"
"Land?" Daemon's voice was hoarse, scraping like rusted iron. "Where? Back to the Stepstones?"
"Your wound needs a healer," Rhaenys said sharply. "And Lys's fleet is gone. I must inform Governor Bambaro Bazaan."
At the mention of the Lysene fleet, Daemon's face darkened even more.
Those ships had come at Rhaenys's call — and now they, along with thousands of sailors, had been reduced to ash inside the platinum fire tornado that had devoured the sea itself.
He said nothing.
With silent fury, Daemon turned Caraxes toward the south and followed Rhaenys and Laena to the Free City of Lys.
---
The Port of Lys
The shadow of the three dragons fell across the harbor like a dark omen.
Governor Bambaro Bazaan and a retinue of Lysene nobles waited at the marble steps of his palace, their faces shifting between awe and unease.
When they saw Daemon's missing hand — and the terrible burns on Caraxes — a murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Princess Rhaenys," the governor said, his voice tight. "Our fleet…?"
"Completely annihilated."
Rhaenys's answer was sharp and final, her words cutting like a knife through glass.
"They faced the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay. We could not stop him."
The hall fell into stunned silence.
One man. One dragon.
An entire fleet gone. Three Targaryen dragons defeated.
"Prince Daemon's injuries need immediate care," Rhaenys added, unwilling to linger on their humiliation.
Physicians rushed forward, their hands trembling as they tended to Daemon's mangled arm. They cleaned and bound the wound, their faces pale.
Daemon remained silent through it all. His violet eyes burned, not with pain, but with rage so deep it seemed ready to ignite the room.
When the final bandage was tied, he suddenly rose to his feet.
"Let's go."
Rhaenys frowned. "Daemon, you need to rest."
"I don't need rest!" he snarled, his voice a beast's roar. "We're returning to the Stepstones. Now."
He could not bear to remain another moment in this place — not under the pitying, fearful stares of the Lysene nobles.
Every look stabbed like a blade.
Rhaenys sighed. She understood. The man's pride had been shattered beyond repair.
Within the hour, the three dragons took to the air again, their wings casting shadows over the city as they fled toward the Stepstones.
Below, the people of Lys watched in silence, fear replacing the admiration they had once felt for their Targaryen allies.
---
The Governor's Hall
Crash!
A priceless Myrish glass goblet shattered against the floor, scattering jewels and wine across the marble tiles.
Governor Bambaro Bazaan's face twisted with fury; the servile politeness he had shown the Targaryens was gone.
"The Dragon King of House Targaryen?" he spat. "Ha! Rubbish!"
He stalked back and forth, his robes flapping.
"Did you see him? A crippled dog with one hand! That was Daemon Targaryen — the so-called 'King of the Narrow Sea!' He came crawling back like a cur with its tail between its legs!"
He jabbed a finger toward the door as if Daemon still stood there.
"And Rhaenys Targaryen! She took the finest fleet our city had to offer — every warship we could spare — and returned with nothing! Not a single ship! Not a single sailor! Just the word 'annihilated!' That's all she brought us!"
He slammed his fist on the table.
"Who does she think we are? Playthings for the Targaryens to waste in their family feuds? We're Lysene men, not pawns to be sacrificed for their honor!"
The assembled nobles kept their heads down, silent and tense.
They had invested everything into this war — gold, ships, reputation. And now it was all ash on the waves.
Bambaro paced back and forth, breathing heavily.
"One dragon destroyed three," he murmured, half in fear, half in awe. "How can that be? Since the Doom of Valyria, no such monster has existed."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "One dragon annihilated an entire fleet… that's the power of a god."
Uneasy murmurs spread through the room like insects crawling under skin.
"Governor," one noble asked timidly, "can we still win?"
Another added, "We've fought the Kingdom of the Three Daughters for years, but now a stronger enemy has risen. Are we on the wrong side?"
Their words were poison, and each sentence stabbed Bambaro like a needle.
He stopped pacing and turned toward the window, watching the sunset bleed across the sea.
Once, Targaryen had been a name that meant absolute power — a name mortals feared and worshipped.
Now, that myth lay in ruins.
Something greater had emerged from the East.
Damian Thorne.
Bambaro was no fool. He was a merchant and a politician; his loyalties belonged to profit and survival, not honor.
If the balance of power shifted, he would shift with it.
Abandon the Stepstones if necessary. Cut ties with the Targaryens. If Damian Thorne was the future power of the world, then Lys would need to be on his side.
His eyes narrowed, a calculating light flashing in them.
"Send envoys to Myr and Tyrosh," he said slowly, each word measured and cold. "Tell them what happened today."
The nobles glanced at each other, hesitant but obedient.
Outside, the evening bells of Lys tolled, their echo carrying over the harbor. The sound was solemn, like a dirge for the dead fleet — and for the Targaryen myth that had just died with it.
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