The Red Dragon
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28. Burning of the Riverrun
🕑 Added 2025-04-20 19:39:02 +0000 UTC[Daeron POV — Old Wyk, Dusk]
As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the jagged cliffs of Old Wyk caught fire in hues of blood-red and bronze, as if the Drowned God himself had spilled his wrath across the land. The wind howled like an ancient beast, sweeping the scent of salt, seaweed, and distant pyres across the sea-slick stone.
Waves battered the black rocks below, frothing and snarling like dying leviathans. On one of those weather-beaten cliffs stood Daeron, his dark hair whipped by the wind, his dragon at his side. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, gazed at him with gleaming golden eyes, slit pupils narrowing in thought.
Daeron chuckled, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said in a low hiss, the syllables coiling like smoke. “I don’t have an ansswer to your quesstion—‘how?’”
Caraxes tilted his head, the muscles in his long neck rippling. “You are... forgiven,” he hissed back in near-perfect cadence. “Iss thiss... the tongue of wyrmss?”
Daeron blinked, caught off guard by the sudden fluency. Only moments ago, Caraxes had struggled with the words, but now he spoke as smoothly as any man. Two possibilities flickered in Daeron’s mind. First, as in the world of wizards, serpents summoned in the presence of a speaker gained intelligence—Caraxes was proving it tenfold. Or perhaps, more simply and more mysteriously, it was because he was a dragon. And dragons were never simple creatures.
Still, the mystery could wait. War demanded his focus. And the North, cold and rising, waited for no man.
“Yess,” Daeron hissed. “This is Parsseltongue. The tongue of sserpentss.”
“Then why not learn the tongue of dragonss?” Caraxes’s tone sharpened, the wind catching the edges of his wings as he lowered his snout to meet Daeron’s eyes. “Wyrmss are lesser things.”
Daeron winced slightly. “I don’t know a way to learn it... yet,” he admitted, only half-lying. Aether had given him a ritual—a way to speak the true Dragon Tongue—but the ingredients it demanded were beyond him, for now.
Caraxes studied him. “Find one. I will not sspeak in the tongue of lessser kin.”
Then, with a rumble in his chest, he added, “You are not like the raiderss who once rode me. You smell of fire and icy storm. I look forward to the death and chaos we shall unleash.”
Daeron exhaled slowly, watching the tide boil far below. He couldn’t fault Caraxes for his bloodlust. Without it, Caraxes would not be the monster of war he needed him to be.
His gaze wandered to the horizon, where the sea glimmered red beneath the dying sun. The beauty was staggering—a canvas of molten light and dark water—and he stood silently, committing it to memory.
But Caraxes was not done. “Are there more of our kind? Or are we the lasst?”
“There are three more dragonss with my aunt,” Daeron replied. “In Essoss. They will come ssoon.”
“Good.” Caraxes rumbled and finally closed his eyes, the tide-laced wind curling around him.
Night approached, and with it, silence. Daeron knew he’d leave at dawn for the Riverlands. There was death to deliver. Fire to fall. The Freys and Lannisters had danced long enough on the Tully’s doorstep.
As he turned to find shelter for the night, his gaze caught on Caraxes’ wing—membranous and vast, like living fire stretched over bone. Mischief lit Daeron’s face as he wandered closer, curiosity in his steps.
[Morning — Over the Narrow Sea, en route to Riverrun]
Daeron breathed deep as Caraxes skimmed low over the sea, waves breaking beneath them. The dragon’s long tail trailed through the surf like a blade, and he gave a low, satisfied growl.
They had departed Old Wyk before the first hint of dawn. In his past life, Daeron had loathed waking early, but here... something had changed. Power had its own rhythm, and Daeron had learned to match it.
Caraxes flew fast, wings pumping with strength that split clouds and scattered seabirds. The sky turned from steel to pearl as the sun crept up. Land emerged in the distance—rolling hills, snaking rivers, and the soft green sprawl of the Riverlands.
They followed the Tumblestone upstream, the water a ribbon of silver below. Another river joined it—the Red Fork. Daeron smiled. They were close.
Minutes passed. Then he saw it: Riverrun.
The castle sat like a wedge of red stone between the rivers, its walls defiant, its towers proud. But what truly caught his eye was the siege camp spread like a disease around it—rows upon rows of Lannister and Frey tents, siege towers, catapults, and battering rams. Some of them were broken. The men milled like ants, confident, busy, doomed.
Caraxes let out a low, anticipatory snarl.
“Let’s give them something to remember.”
[Daeron – Above Riverrun]
Veiled by mist, Daeron guided Caraxes into the clouds above the ancient castle. Below, Riverrun sat like a defiant beast—its crimson walls weathered by time, yet still proud. Around it, the besiegers’ camp sprawled like a rotting wound, its tents flying banners of red lions and twin towers.
But what truly caught Daeron’s eye was the Tully banner—flapping beside the lion’s share.
His brow arched.
So, Edmure has done as Jaime asked.
A dilemma stirred in his mind. He had decided that if the Lannisters and Freys held Riverrun, he would burn it to the ground. But the presence of Edmure in the keep fled his mind at that time. That complicated matters. Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—was key to Daeron’s plans. If he burned the keep, would the old knight ever kneel?
Caraxes snarled beneath him, circling the skies with growing impatience.
Daeron weighed his options. Minutes passed. The dragon's wings sliced the air as the red terror spiraled lower, eager for carnage.
Then, Daeron made his decision.
Burn the keep. Burn it all. Let the gods sort the dead.
He would deal with the consequences later. A lie would suffice—“I didn’t know Edmure had surrendered the castle.” And if Edmure died in the fire? Well, so be it. His wife still lived. She carried the future of House Tully in her womb. That might be enough to win the Blackfish... and if not, Daeron would make an example of him, too.
Resolved, he turned Caraxes toward the camps.
As a herald of death, Caraxes let out a roar—raw and vicious, brimming with bloodlust. The sound tore through the sky like a warhorn from hell. Below, heads snapped skyward in disbelief and horror. Lannister and Frey alike stood frozen beneath the shadow of the red beast.
Daeron leaned forward, voice calm, commanding:
“Dracarys.”
Fire fell like judgment.
A great red torrent burst from Caraxes’ jaws, swallowing the camp in a storm of heat and fury. Screams rose, then fell silent as tents turned to ash and men to blackened bone. Chaos bloomed. Soldiers ran in every direction, some leaping into the river to escape the flames. A few survived. Most did not.
For fifteen long minutes, Caraxes unleashed carnage—looping, diving, raining death in broad strokes. Daeron gave no quarter. He sat still upon the saddle, issuing commands with cold precision.
When the last tents smoldered and the scent of charred flesh filled the air, Caraxes turned his hungry gaze toward the keep.
The archers on Riverrun’s walls broke into two factions—those who ran, and those who raised bows under the frantic shouts of their commanders.
Caraxes gave a mocking roar.
Arrows flew.
Daeron braced himself, but his mount shifted, wings flaring wide to shield his rider. The shafts thudded harmlessly against scale and membrane, most bouncing off or snapping on impact. Caraxes didn’t flinch.
Then, with a beat of his wings, the dragon surged forward.
Before the archers could ready another volley, he was upon them. Fire poured from his throat, turning stone to slag and men to ash. Half died where they stood. The rest fled.
Daeron gave no orders now. He merely watched as Caraxes turned the proud Tully keep into a smoldering ruin.
And still, it fascinated him.
He’d seen it before, but each time felt like the first—the way Caraxes’ fire exploded upon stone and mortar, almost like a bomb. Not powerful enough to level entire towers, but enough to shake them. Enough to leave a mark.
Yet now, after so long in flight and fire, the Blood wyrm was tiring. His breaths came shorter. His dives slower. The fire in his belly dimmed, though not yet extinguished.
Still, the damage was done.
The once-beautiful fortress of Riverrun now lay scarred and battered. Its outer walls were all but gone, melted and crumbling. The keep still stood, but no longer proud. Smoke poured from its battlements. Its bones were blackened.
Satisfied, Daeron ordered a retreat. He would not bleed Caraxes dry today. The beast had done more than enough.
With a final pass over the burning castle, Daeron steered him toward the Twins.
Behind him, smoke curled into the darkening sky like a funeral pyre. Beneath him, the river boiled around the broken fortress.
Daeron didn’t look back again—until the last glimpse of flame disappeared behind the clouds.
A million thoughts surged through his mind.
But one stood out, cold and sharp:
“How will Westeros react to this?”
