The roar of the first inferno drowned out the world.
For a heartbeat, there was silence, just the heavy beating of two enormous wings. Then came the fire.
It poured from the heavens like a waterfall of molten light, crashing into the center of the rebel host with a sound like thunder made flesh. The first wave of flame consumed men, horses, and banners alike. In the space of a minute, thousands were gone, screaming shadows lost beneath waves of red and gold.
From above, Damon Targaryen sat astride Caraxes, his face calm and expressionless as he guided the dragons' descent.
The Blood Wyrm's crimson scales glimmered like a living storm, his wings stretching wide enough to darken the field wherever he passed. Beside him, Dreamfyre, radiant and beautiful, unleashed torrents of azure flame, her shrieks echoing across the plains like the wail of a dying god.
Beneath them, the rebellion was burning.
"Form ranks! Form ranks!" Robert Baratheon's voice was hoarse, drowned out by the screams of men and the crackling inferno. His great hammer swung uselessly at the air as he tried to rally what soldiers remained.
But what could he fight? Fire? The sky itself?
He turned, his face blackened with soot, to see Ned Stark dragging a man from beneath a burning wagon, his cloak half aflame. "Robert! We have to pull back!" Ned shouted, his voice almost lost beneath the roaring dragons.
"Where?" Robert bellowed, eyes wild. "To the gods, Ned, where do we run? The whole sky's on fire!"
Not far away, Jon Arryn, calm even amidst chaos.
Was trying to rally his faltering knights, waving a torn banner high. "Hold! Get the wounded clear! Find the..." His words died as another blast of flame struck nearby, the shockwave throwing him on his back.
In the span of minutes, the battlefield was gone. All that remained was ash, flame, and ruin.
Men ran blindly through the smoke, their armor glowing red-hot, faces unrecognizable beneath melting steel. Horses screamed as they reared and fell, their flesh sloughing off in ribbons.
And still, more fire came.
From his saddle, Damon watched impassively. His violet eyes reflected the inferno below, his expression unreadable. The bond between rider and dragon burned hot, the exhilaration of absolute power, the purity and addictive nature of destruction.
He didn't hear the screams; he indulged in the scent of the burning flesh of his enemies, and to his word, the thought of mercy hadn't even crossed his mind.
The flames of Caraxes carved through lines of men like a blade through silk, while Dreamfyre's pale fire rolled over their retreating ranks, turning the battlefield into a lake of light.
When the two dragons crossed paths in the sky, the collision of their roars shook the heavens.
Below, Tywin Lannister and his knights stood on the walls, silent, pale, and motionless. Not even the hardened lion of Casterly Rock had seen death like this.
Tywin's eyes widened ever so slightly as the smell of burnt flesh and molten steel carried on the wind.
Inside the city, the royal family watched in horror from the high balconies.
Queen Rhaella, pale as snow, clutched her swollen belly with trembling hands. "Seven save us," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Another dragon… gods, he has two."
Beside her, Viserys, still a boy, stared wide-eyed at the smoke rising in the distance, awe and terror
And Elia Martell, holding her children close, whispered something under her breath. Her eyes shone with a mixture of things: hatred, joy, sadness, ambition, and what seemed like lust.
Back on the field, Robert's men were breaking. The banners of the Stormlands, the Vale, and the North had vanished in the smoke, trampled or burnt.
Jon Arryn coughed violently, his cloak on fire as he waved a strip of white cloth, anything, a plea for surrender. Beside him, Ned Stark did the same, raising his sword high to reflect the sunlight.
"Signal the retreat!" Jon gasped. "For the love of the gods, signal it!" his orders fell; no one was listening. The men were running for their lives, and those that weren't were either dead or currently on fire, rolling on the ground screaming.
The flames came again.
Caraxes dove, his long neck twisting as he released another infernal blast. Dreamfyre followed suit, her azure breath burning through what little remained of the rebel cavalry.
From the walls, Tywin's voice broke the silence. " At this rate he'll burn the whole realm…"
The older lion's jaw clenched. Damon was not simply destroying an army; he was destroying the future of Westeros.
Then Tywin did something, the only thing he could do in the moment.
"DAMON! ENOUGH!" Tywin shouted.
The roar was so loud and sharp that it somehow reached through the chaos, carried by fate or by sheer force of will.
Someway, somehow Damon had heard him, when it should have been impossible, with the screaming and the dragon roars.
In the skies, Damon's eyes flickered. He looked down at the blackened wasteland that had once been an army, men now reduced to ash and smoke.
His breathing slowed. His mind cleared. The thrill began to fade, replaced by the heavy weight of realization.
He had already won.
He pulled on the reins, speaking softly in High Valyrian, his voice steady again.
"Kesīr iksos ēdruta. Ñuhys rȳbagon." (It is done. My dragons, land.)
Obediently, Caraxes and Dreamfyre wheeled in the sky and descended. Their wings stirred hurricanes of dust as they touched down outside the gates, massive bodies coiling and settling.
The battlefield was now free of dragon roars. Only the crackle of fires and the continuous screams of burning men remained.
The fires still burned long after the dragons had landed.
Black smoke rolled across the fields outside King's Landing, turning the afternoon sky into a gray-black haze that blotted out the sun. The smell carried for miles. A mixture of burned earth, scorched leather, charred wood, and death, it covered the usual stench of shit that filled Kingslanding
No songs would ever be written about this battle.
No bard would speak of glorious charges or heroic last stands.
There had been no battle.
Only judgment from the sky.
Along the ruined plain, thousands of survivors staggered through the devastation in stunned silence. Men wandered aimlessly among the blackened ground, some carrying wounded companions, others simply staring at the destruction around them with hollow eyes.
The rebel army had marched with almost thirty thousand men to Kingslanding, and now no more than five thousand remained alive.
Many had thrown down their weapons.
More had fallen to their knees.
Some prayed.
Others wept.
Most simply stared.
The rebellion had ceased to exist in a single morning.
Not defeated.
Erased.
Hey reader, I have some announcements to make:
1. Chapters will be uploaded daily going forward.
2. I am writing this story from memory, so some of the timelines might be different, but it won't be too bad, so just think of this as a slight AU.
3. Damon needs a wife. Currently, I am stuck between two options:
The first being he marries someone, though currently I don't have anyone in mind for the current time period; the only names I could think of were Cersei, Elia, and Ashara. If you can think of more, let me know.
Or two, when he uses his final time travel chance, he brings back a Targaryen woman with him to be his queen. Also, say who you think he should bring back if he makes this choice.
Comment here to vote :
Choice 1
Choice 2