The Red Dragon
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38. Echoes of One Line
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 17:09:20 +0000 UTCThe Riverlands
“Who was this First King? Can you tell me his name? And did all the Elder Races become extinct in the Second War?” Daeron asked, excitement and curiosity gleaming in his voice. The existence of Elder Races before men—and their mastery of magic—was fascinating. A revelation that made his heart a little lighter. Because it meant this world was more than just a creation of some author back in his own reality. It was real. Real than him, bleeding and breathing in it. But still seeing the people think and act the same way he read about them doing, made Daeron uneasy and doubt his own existence. But no more.
Patch averted his golden-brown eyes from Daeron and replied in a low, mournful voice, “Leaf didn’t tell us.” Wood nodded solemnly beside his brother, sadness and frustration on both their faces.
“Although she did say,” Patch continued, “that the Second War was not the end. Many more wars followed—until men proved they were not lesser than the Elder Races. In victory, they took brides from each race. And from those brides were born sons more powerful than the last. Though still not greater than the First King himself—who, Leaf said, never stopped growing in power. His children, too, were mighty, surpassing even the mixed-blood children of men and Elder Races.”
Patch and Wood looked at Daeron then, as if trying to tell him something unspoken.
A moment later, Daeron realized what they were implying.
“You mean to say… I’m a descendant of the First King?” he asked, incredulous.
“Aye, that I know for sure,” said Wood. “The First King’s bloodline split in two. One branch came to Westeros thousands of years ago, long after my kind had settled here to escape the bloodshed in the Summer Lands. The other settled near the banks of the Jade Sea, where the sun rises. Bloodraven told us that land is now called the Shadow Lands.”
Wood stared at Daeron unblinkingly. “And you, King, are a convergence of that bloodline—both branches united in you. You are not the first; Bloodraven bore the same blood. But your circumstances are different from the former Three-Eyed Raven.”
“How?” Daeron asked. “What makes me different from the others who bore both bloodlines? Why isn’t theirs the Song of Ice and Fire?”
Though he would never admit it out loud, the constant murmurs of destiny—of saviorhood—were beginning to feel more like chains than prophecy. A burden he bore alone, unwillingly.
“It’s simple,” Patch said softly. “However much others meddled—whether to hasten or delay the Song—fate had already chosen when it would be sung. And you, Daeron Targaryen, were the one chosen by fate. Your rising from death, without losing any part of yourself, was proof enough.”
“There are many who were brought back from the cold grip of death,” Daeron said quietly, “but that proves nothing.”
“Aye,” Patch agreed. “But returning someone with blood as powerful as yours—whole and unbroken—is not something that servant of the Red Demon could have done alone. It was fate that helped her, that allowed your soul to return without cracks or scars.”
Patch’s golden eyes narrowed.
“And death’s embrace, Daeron Targaryen, is not cold. It is warm—like a mother’s arms welcoming back her long-lost child. Do not fear death. But pray to the gods of the woods and rivers that the Others do not disturb your eternal rest and raise you to serve them and their slumbering master.”
His voice dropped grimly, and he and Wood turned to retreat into the caves.
“Wait—I want more answers!” Daeron called after them.
“You will get them,” Patch’s voice echoed faintly, “but not now—and certainly not from us.”
Then silence. They were gone.
~*~
Arthur and Daeron rode toward Seagard on horseback, the clatter of hooves on stone echoing beneath them. Daeron’s mind was a storm of thoughts as he absentmindedly guided his steed. Arthur, ever watchful, noted his king’s furrowed brow but said nothing. They entered the keep, and Daeron confined himself to his chambers, lost in brooding contemplation—torn between the path ahead and the history he had unearthed.
Days passed in a blur—feasts, sparring matches, and long consultations with Aether about which ritual to attempt next. Lord Malister proved a gracious host, if a vengeful one. When a group of Frey men begged for exile, the Lord of Seagard subtly suggested Daeron deliver justice—final and fiery.
Distracted and preoccupied, Daeron merely waved his hand in dismissal and sent a mental summons to Caraxes, instructing him to hunt. Moments later, Lord Malister stood atop Seagard’s curtain wall and watched as Frey ships burned—Caraxes soaring above, plucking men from the decks with his claws and swallowing them whole before returning to his rest.
Half a moon later, ravens began to arrive one after the other, bearing confirmation of objectives completed. Lords of the Riverlands sent their thanks, joining the Vale and Northern banners in their march to Harrenhal, pledging allegiance to Daeron. With momentum building, Daeron ordered Lord Malister to ready his forces—they could not delay their march south any longer.
The day of departure arrived. Daeron and Lord Malister stood beside their horses, men armored and assembled. But before they could mount, the sharp, urgent tolling of Seagard’s great bronze bell rang through the air.
Jason Malister’s face twisted with rage.
“Ironborn,” he spat, venom thick in his voice.
‘Well, a little fire might clear my head,’ Daeron mused. He said aloud, “Lord Jason, Master Glover—I trust you’ll deal with any Ironborn who leave their beloved sea and take to the land. I’ll take to the skies.” The two men nodded and turned swiftly to rouse their men, already bracing for battle.
Daeron pulled the reins of his horse and rode swiftly beyond the city walls, where Caraxes rested atop a rocky outcrop. The Blood Wyrm was already rising, irritated by the ringing bell. His guttural growls rumbled like thunder as he stretched his wings, blood-red eyes locked on the sea.
The smallfolk had begun to abandon their work, rushing indoors, bolting doors, clutching children. Daeron spared them only a glance. His focus was on calming and directing Caraxes’s wrath. Their bond had changed since his dreams—deepened, perhaps mutated. He could now sense Caraxes’s emotions even from afar, similar to how he felt Ghost’s mind while warging. But he had not dared attempt to skinchange into Caraxes. Not yet.
Every time he considered it, instinct screamed not ready. And if there was one lesson Daeron had learned in this treacherous world, it was this—trust instincts, not people.
“He-yaa!” Daeron spurred his steed into a gallop. Caraxes was a league away, already on his feet. Daeron dismounted swiftly and struck the horse’s flank to send it running—better it fled than become a snack.
The dragon growled low and lowered his forelimb. Daeron climbed into the saddle, strapped in tightly, and gave the command to ascend. With a thunderous beat of wings, they soared skyward.
From above, Daeron spotted the longships—dozens—creeping toward the coast, grey sails fluttering like carrion banners.
He let his intent flood through the bond and cracked his whip leftward—not to strike, but to signal. Caraxes banked sharply, bringing them behind the fleet.
“Dracarys,” Daeron murmured.
The response was immediate. A torrent of blood-red fire spilled forth, engulfing the nearest ships. Wood shrieked as it split and curled in flames. Screaming Ironborn jumped overboard, desperate to escape, but the sea offered no safety.
Daeron watched Malister’s men flooding the harbor—long spears in hand, shields ready, grim smiles on their faces. They stood poised, a wall of steel and discipline, waiting to welcome any raiders who reached the shore.
High above, Daeron smiled.
“Come now, Caraxes,” he said softly. “You see that? We can’t let them have all the fun. You love to burn, don’t you?”
Caraxes rumbled deep in his throat, and another wave of fire swept over the scrambling Ironborn. Flames danced, men screamed, and the sea boiled.
The battle didn’t last long. The Ironborn had not expected resistance so swift or brutal. Many drowned, casting themselves into the sea rather than face dragonfire. They chose the watery halls of their god over death at the hands of Daeron’s host.
But death claimed them all the same.
