The Bronze Dragon-A House of the Dragon fanfic

Chapter 82

My father had actually returned to camp the night that Rhaenyra's downfall became clear. With Tumbler's Falls won and Aemond and Daemon dead, other houses began seeing the writing on the wall. The remaining Riverlords loyal to Rhaenyra finally pledged their loyalty to him, along with House Tyrell.

The end of the war was finally in sight. For my father and mother, it was a time of joy with the revelation that she was pregnant with my brother.

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Tumbler's Falls

After the battle, Daevar had stayed put beside the body of Vermithor until the morning. The once-mighty dragon- his dragon-was now dead, slain by Vhagar. Once upon a time, he had never even thought to claim a dragon, and now here he was, distraught over the death of one he had been riding for less than a year.

He had known that sitting still and waiting for someone was simply not an option. He was only a short distance from Tumbler's Falls, after all. He had to make it back, for Helaena, for Kermit, for Daeron and for all the others that he had led into this mire. And he had to find out the state of the war as well.

So after muttering a prayer for Vermithor, he set out, Lamentation at his hip, to make for the army's camp near Tumbler's Falls. He felt able to stick to the roads; the region was firmly under the control of his forces and banditry so close to an armed camp was unlikely to say the least. Regardless, Daevar had to struggle with exhaustion the whole way. He had not slept since before the Battle of Tumbler's Falls, and was beginning to feel the effects of it.

Still, he struggled on. He knew that if he stopped at the side of the road, it would be hours before he began moving again. So he pressed on, keeping watch for anything that might be moving around him. The possibility that they had lost the battle entered his mind, and he realised he could effectively be walking into the enemy camp instead of his own. Well . . . then it ends here, he thought. He had planned for the battle to be the decisive encounter of the war, and it had happened.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves cantering down the road. His men? Or were they Hightowers? Brigands perhaps? He'd discounted the possibility of that but now reconsidered the wisdom of that. Tired and hungry as he was, he knew any fight would be over quickly. Regardless, he drew his sword.

The horsemen began to crest the rise in front of him, and instantly Daevar calmed himself; their light armour and bright colours gave away the fact that they were Dornish riders. Scouts, most likely. "Hail, Sers." He said, sheathing his sword.

"Hail." One man said, raising his hand to halt the troop of horsemen. "You've come from the Gods' Eye?"

"Daevar Targaryen, at your service." Daevar said, removing his helmet. "I would bow, but I am quite exhausted."

"My apologies, Your Grace." The man said, climbing down from his horse. Closer up, Daevar could see his olive complexion and dark beard more clearly. "We were sent out after the battle to find you."

"Did we win?" Daevar asked. The man smiled and nodded, causing Daevar to let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the Gods for that."

"We'll take you back to camp, Your Grace. We have no spare horses however."

"Then I suppose we'll have to ride two up."

Thankfully, the Dornish horses hadn't been pushed hard in finding him, and now they rode fast to make it back to the camp. Daevar vaguely remembered hearing that Dornish Sand Steeds could run for a day and a night without tiring, and he was grateful for that now. By the time they arrived back in camp, all he wanted to do was rest.