Bloodstone on this very night was already burning when Daemon dove down... with Caraxes crushing someone who was yelling something along the lines of "prince" and "save me"...
But the Rogue Prince himself had no care to check on what that was...
As the air over the Stepstones churned with smoke, sparks, and the shrill whistle of flaming arrows.
Daemon had Caraxes cut through it all. As a given, the Blood Wyrm was quite long-necked, wicked, and screeching... its wings scattering fire with great ease.
Even those flaming arrows were nothing to it.
All the while, the beach crawled with shadows... Triarchy grunts scrambling for cover, men screaming as the surf hissed under falling embers, and the Crabfeeder's scuttling ranks pulling their wounded toward their pits. Towards those annoying caves.
Daemon surveyed this all as he sat atop Caraxes... but was not satisfied with the havoc they've unleashed.
He wanted more. Nay, he wanted this over. This stretched-out nuisance to be done.
So, Daemon could only yell. "Where are you?!"
"Come out and face me, Drahar!" He emphasized.
"Come out, Drahar!" He taunted, and again he asked. "Where are you?"
But only the roar of flames answered him. The inconsistent shouts of cunts that were scampering away.
"I'm gonna feed you to your own crabs!" Daemon shouted again from being ignored, his voice raw with taunt and fury. "Where the fuck are you?!"
Even Caraxes screeched along, sweeping through these stepping stones in hopes of finding what his bonded rider was looking for.
None dared to interfere with the dragon's passing, as the lesser men broke at the sight of the beast.
But even with all that rampage, the Crabfeeder did not appear. Not even a glimpse.
Instead came the arrows. More arrows.
A sudden storm of them hissed out from the dark ledges... flaming, fast, and too many to cut aside.
Daemon twisted to evade some, but one struck home, burying itself deep into his shoulder.
The force staggered him in his seat... the pain bit through armor and flesh like a red-hot spike.
In response to his rider's plight... Caraxes shrieked in fury, smartly using its great wings as a shield.
Daemon gritted his teeth, ripped the shaft halfway free, and let out a grunt.
This was not the glorious challenge he had wanted... no duel, no face to carve off a stone-skinned man... but a pincer on him. And he impulsively obliged on it.
So, before more arrows rained. He and Caraxes retreated... to the dark sky...
Below them, the caves also remained dark. Though some was lit with fire... but that Drahar stayed hidden.
And Daemon... furious, wounded, denied his kill... continued to be flown by Caraxes away into the night. With many thoughts in his head.
For the cold winds did nothing to cool Daemon's temper. Nor did it console him.
His shoulder throbbed where the arrow struck, each pulse reminding him how foolish this nightly charge had been.
A prince with dragonblood, bleeding due to crab-skulking cowards hiding in their holes.
A dragonrider forced into retreat.
Another stain for the Triarchy and the realm to mock him with.
So Daemon could only spit into the wind.
Three years they'd been here. Three years of a war that promised glory but gave only rot and stalemate. He had thought carving out his own glory would silence the whispers in King's Landing... the snickering behind his back, the mockeries about being an heir stripped of what should have been his.
For even on these barren rocks, those rumors reached him.
And louder than any of them was the legend of the boy he'd left behind.
Ronan Royce. Or Ronan Stone, as he had been then... nothing but a tool Daemon used to be rid of a marriage he despised. A bronze-colored babe to discard. To use against that Bronze Bitch.
But said babe, with little Valyrian traits, hadn't stayed discarded.
In the years since, Ronan had grown into something else entirely.
From bastard to boy of wonders. From Young Bronze to the Bold Bronze. Ender of tribes and clans. Tamer of coastlines. Builder of ships so strange and swift that even the seas afar now buzzed with tales of them. A warrior spoken of in the Free Cities with more awe than he, Daemon Targaryen, an actual Targaryen prince with a dragon to call upon.
Daemon had heard the stories whether he wanted to or not.
A boy with a mind clever enough to make toys and joys.
A bastard who had risen to command the Vale's greatest Order.
The youngest knight to ever be. Clawing his way into the half of his legitimacy.
A fighter who cleansed caves and mountains with ease.
A sailor who explored the Shivering Sea.
A Westerosi who colonized lands in Essos yet no Essosi seemed to be complaining.
Against the killer of demons and creatures from the Deep.
A young lord... damned it... that people actually looked up to.
With riches and wealth aplenty.
Even with just those steels. Gods, those blades of Valyrian steel.
Four Valyrian blades, the Royces now held. Five, if the pre-existent Lamentation is counted.
A house of old First Men lords suddenly richer in the metals of Old Valyria... more so than the Targaryen family born of Old Valyria itself.
Such reality stung every time it reached Daemon's ears. For even Aegon the Conqueror perhaps hadn't held that many.
Worse still is that Daemon remained stuck here... sweating and bleeding in a broken war on broken islands. Trading years of his life for a few dead corsairs, while the realm laughed behind their cups. Musing at the imbalanced comparisons.
Yes, the Rogue Prince had a dragon... but what had he done with it? A few burned ships? A few caves collapsed?
Compared to Bold Bronze's victories, it all felt small. Especially when Ronan had no need of dragons.
So, everything Daemon did lately felt small. Making him clench Caraxes's saddle until his knuckles whitened.
He had thrown the boy away, thinking him a burden. Thinking himself clever. Thinking himself free.
Now the boy was a grown man... and greater than Daemon had ever expected. Greater, perhaps, than what Daemon would ever be.
A great son he could have had.
A son who didn't need him. Who had never needed him... nor will have to.
Even that spiteful reveal to Viserys that Ronan was his child all along... had not appeased any.
Making Daemon curse again... for the hurt that actually stung.
For the regret that sat heavy and sour in his chest, more painful than the arrow that just struck him.
And for the first time in many years, he wondered what Ronan might have been at his side, instead of being away at the edge of the known world.
What this Stepstones War might have looked like with the Bold Bronze present and accounted for... instead of the Slow Snake and that Vaemond who just can't shut up.
But alas... Ronan and him... might never be.
So, Daemon Targaryen could only continue to fly into the dark... with doubts and many rethinkings to consume him.