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The air reeks of blood and dragonfire as Daervon arrives at the Dragonmont. His heart pounds in his chest, his mind screaming denial even before his eyes take in the horror before him. The Queensguard and dragonkeepers struggle under the weight of a fallen royal, lifting Daemon Targaryen from Caraxes’s back, his body limp, lifeless.

The blade that once brought kingdoms to their knees—Dark Sister—now rests deep in his abdomen, slick with his own blood, the crimson soaking into the dark fabric of his leathers. No words are spoken; they are not needed. The truth stands stark before all—Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, the Black Queen’s consort, has been slain.

The one who could not be bested in battle, cut down by his own sword.

Cole’s treachery is written in the wounds—the precision of the blade, the betrayal carved into flesh. He had been ambushed, overwhelmed, and left to die like a common soldier, not the dragon he was. The weight of it, the sheer wrongness, makes Daervon’s breath falter.

Baela clings to Jacaerys as if he is the only thing keeping her from shattering entirely. Rhaena sobs into Rhaenys’s shoulder, her cries raw, heart-wrenching. Rhaenyra kneels beside Daemon, her hands trembling as she touches his face, brushing back silver strands now matted with blood. She does not wail, does not scream—her grief is quiet, but it is an abyss, bottomless and all-consuming. Her husband is dead. The father of her children is dead.

Daervon goes still. Too still.

His breath becomes shallow, his body rigid. The grief that should take hold of him does not come in tears or cries of anguish. Instead, something darker stirs beneath his skin. Gaelithox’s roar splits the sky, a sound so furious that the very air seems to tremble. The ground quakes beneath the weight of his rage, and at once, all eyes turn to Daervon.

Something shifts.

His aura darkens, the warmth of his lilac eyes draining away until they gleam silver—a cold, merciless glow, like molten steel catching moonlight.

The Queensguard reacts instantly, their instincts screaming danger as they step forward, blades drawn. Swords unsheath with a sharp ring, bodies tense. They do not know what will come, only that it will not be kind.

Aemond watches, and a terrible realization dawns upon him.

Helaena’s words. She had whispered them before—of silver eyes, of a prince unburnt, of a darkness that would swallow even love whole.

And now, he sees it.

Panic knots in Aemond’s chest as he moves, his body acting before his mind can fully grasp the depths of what is happening. He must reach Daervon—must stop him before it is too late.

But before he can so much as lay a hand on him, Daervon’s fingers close around his throat.

Aemond gasps, choking on air as he is wrenched off his feet. His hands claw at Daervon’s grip, but there is no yielding, no hesitation. The strength in his husband’s grasp is monstrous—inhuman.

"You truly never knew this part of me? Not even deep down?" Daervon’s voice is unrecognizable—mocking, cruel, edged with something not entirely his own.

Aemond’s vision blurs, black spots dancing at the edges. His body thrashes instinctively, but it is useless. And yet, even as his lungs burn, his mind swims with memories—of Daervon’s touch, his lips, his warmth. His husband, his love. If Daervon means to kill him, Aemond will not fight him.

His eye locks onto Daervon’s glowing silver ones, searching, pleading. "I am willing to die if you wish it," Aemond croaks, voice raw, gasping.

"Then die," Daervon sneers, and Aemond lets his eye fall shut, surrendering to his fate.

The pain in his skull intensifies, the lack of air turning his thoughts sluggish. He waits for the final squeeze, for the darkness to claim him entirely—

But it does not come.

Instead, the grip loosens. A moment—barely a heartbeat—but in it, something shifts.

Daervon blinks, his body jerking as though waking from a nightmare. His fingers snap open, and Aemond drops to the ground, coughing violently, chest heaving.

He gasps in deep, desperate breaths, his vision swimming as he lifts his head. Daervon stands before him, wide-eyed, breathless—

But it is not him. Not entirely.

The Unburnt Prince looms in the space between who he was and what he has become. And he is smiling.

Malice curls in the tilt of his lips, in the way his head tilts as he regards the swords still pointed at him.

"You do not want to fight me," he says, his voice velvety, assured.

The Queensguard hesitate, their grips faltering, for they are not fools. They have seen men who wield swords, but Daervon wields something far greater.

Power. Unrivaled. Uncontained.

Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the tense silence, sharp with authority. "Daervon, stand down!"

But he does not listen. He does not even look at her. Instead, he lifts a hand, fingers curling slightly—a silent command. And Gaelithox moves.

The massive black beast rumbles low in his throat, his piercing emerald eyes locking onto his rider, sensing the shift in him. He obeys without hesitation. No words are needed between them—there never have been.

Daervon mounts his dragon without so much as fastening himself to the saddle. "Jemagon se ñuhoso." (Lead the way)

The night is cold, but Daervon does not feel it.

From the moment he takes to the skies with Gaelithox, Caraxes leading the way, the world below becomes insignificant. The grief, the horror, the faces of those he holds dear—none of it matters now. There is only fire. There is only vengeance.

By the time dawn begins to crest over the horizon, Caraxes banks sharply, his blood-red wings slicing through the morning haze. Gaelithox follows, the massive black beast a living shadow against the sky.

Below them, a sea of flickering fires and drunken revelry sprawls across the land—the camp of Criston Cole’s men.

They are still feasting. Still celebrating their so-called victory. Still laughing. The sight makes something inside Daervon snap.

He watches as men pass around cups of ale, their voices loud, their faces lit with sickening satisfaction. They killed Daemon Targaryen. Slaughtered him like a common soldier. Stained the honor of his father with treachery and cowardice. And now, they drink. They feast.

They will burn.

The moment the two dragons descend upon them, panic erupts through the camp like wildfire.

Men scatter, tripping over themselves in their drunken stupor. Some run for their swords, others for their bows, scrambling to nock arrows, their hands shaking too much to aim properly. The first arrows fly—small, feeble things that bounce off Gaelithox’s scales like raindrops against stone.

They are nothing.

Daervon does not even flinch. He inhales deeply, the anticipation electric in his veins, and when he speaks, his voice is a low, commanding snarl. "Dracarys."  The word is spoken once. But it is enough.

Caraxes and Gaelithox split apart, veering in opposite directions like twin harbingers of death. The moment their jaws part, the world is swallowed in fire.

Flames explode across the camp, consuming tents, wagons, and men alike. Screams tear through the morning air, bodies flailing as they are set alight, flesh blackening, melting away. The scent of burning hair, boiling blood, and charred skin fills the sky. The destruction is absolute, merciless.

Some men try to flee, only to be cut down by waves of dragonfire, their corpses left smoldering, their armor fused to their flesh. Others charge forward, blades in hand, roaring defiance—only to be trampled beneath the sweeping claws of Gaelithox, their bones snapping like dry twigs.

It is not a battle.

It is a massacre.

And in the midst of it all, Daervon sees him.

Criston Cole stands amid the carnage, half-shielded by the wreckage of a burning pavilion. His face is slick with sweat, smeared with soot, but his eyes—his damned prideful eyes—still gleam with defiance.

Daervon dismounts from Gaelithox without hesitation, landing soundlessly amidst the flames. The fire curls around his feet, licking at his bare skin, but it does not burn him. He walks through the inferno as if he is a god risen from the ashes.

Above, Moondancer circles at a distance, hesitant, unwilling to draw closer.

Daervon does not spare her a glance.

Gaelithox and Caraxes circle above, their colossal wings stirring the smoke, their piercing eyes locked onto their rider and his prey. Anyone who still breathes dares not move—not toward Daervon, not toward Criston Cole. They know what will happen if they do.

This is between them now.

Daervon’s glowing silver eyes remain locked on Cole, a slow, wicked smile curling across his lips. "I think it’s the end of the road for you, Ser Criston." He crouches, plucking a fallen soldier’s sword from the dirt, flicking away the ash that clings to the blade. The firelight dances across his face, painting his smirk in shades of something close to madness. "You are going to die, screaming and pleading for your demise. There is nowhere left to run." He tilts his head, considering. "Either way, you die."

Criston straightens, his breathing heavy, one hand clutching his ribs where his armor has already begun to melt into his burned flesh. His skin is blistered, peeling, but he stands tall. Too proud to kneel. Too proud to beg. That pride will be his downfall.

He spits blood onto the ground and snarls, "I killed Daemon Targaryen. What should I fear from his bastard?"

A low chuckle leaves Daervon’s lips—soft at first, then rising, bubbling into something sharp, something cruel.

He steps closer, the flames casting his silver eyes into molten steel. "You should be afraid," he whispers, tilting his head, his smirk widening. "You should be terrified." And then, without another word, he lunges.

Their blades clash in a screech of steel, sparks flying between them. Cole is skilled—he was once a finest swordsman in Westeros—but he is tired, wounded, and Daervon fights like something beyond human.

Every strike is relentless, every movement effortless. He does not pause, does not hesitate, his speed almost unnatural. Cole parries, barely keeping up, his breathing ragged as he staggers back step by step.

Cole lunges—his blade aimed for Daervon’s heart—but he is too slow.

Daervon sidesteps smoothly, twisting his body with fluid grace. In the same breath, his sword sings through the air, carving through flesh.

A wet, sickening sound follows.

Cole stumbles back, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. His right arm is gone, severed just above the elbow. The limb lands in the dirt, fingers still curled around the hilt of his sword as if refusing to release it even in death.

But Daervon is not finished. With a flick of his wrist, his blade slices again.

This time, Cole falls. His leg is severed at the knee, blood gushing onto the scorched ground, soaking into the ash. He collapses, a hoarse, strangled cry tearing from his throat as he writhes in agony.

Daervon stands over him, tilting his head in amusement. The once-proud Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now nothing more than a crippled, gasping mess at his feet.

"Where did your honor go, Ser Criston?" Daervon crouches down, resting his weight on his sword, his glowing silver eyes glinting with something wicked. "You were so righteous once. So devoted. Now look at you. Just another traitor bleeding in the dirt."

Cole trembles, his breath hitching as he swallows his pain. "Kill me," he rasps. "End it."

Daervon purses his lips, tilting his head as if considering the request. Then, he grins. "I'm not in a hurry."

He settles in, watching, waiting. Cole's blood pools beneath him, his body convulsing from shock. The burns, the wounds, the unbearable pain—death creeps closer with every agonized breath.

The once-great Knight of the Kingsguard is reduced to nothing.

By the time his final, shuddering breath leaves him, Daervon is already bored.

With a flick of his wrist, his blade comes down one last time—separating Cole’s head from his shoulders.

For a moment, all is still.

Then, he reaches down, curling his fingers into the blood-matted hair, lifting Criston’s severed head like a trophy. He does not smile this time. There is no need. The message has already been carved into history.

He turns, stepping over the carnage without a second glance, making his way to where Gaelithox waits. The dragon lowers his head, allowing his rider to mount, his emerald eyes gleaming in approval.

Without a word, Daervon takes to the skies.

Caraxes follows, his guttural snarl echoing over the ruined camp—one last warning to the world below.

This is what happens to traitors.