It neighed lowly, as if asking: Are you sure you want to use this?
Redd didn't answer. His eyes crossed the distance of dozens of steps and locked on Daemon's chest.
Daemon saw it all.
He saw Redd's hand reaching into the void, saw the Ice Spear emerging from "nothing", and saw the complicated ice flower magic lines on the spear shimmering with a faint blue light in the morning light.
His brain shut down at this moment - not because of fear, but because of the subversion of cognition. He had seen many people and many things. He had seen dragons soaring in the sky, Wildfire burning on the sea, and black-robed bachelors taking out firecrackers and artillery from iron boxes.
But he had never seen a man who could pull something out of the air as easily as he could pull a handkerchief out of his pocket.
Taking objects from the void. This is beyond the scope of magic, beyond the scope of dragon's breath, and beyond any known supernatural power in this world.
Daemon's pupils shrank suddenly at this moment.
It was just a moment. Less than one tenth of a heartbeat. But it was this moment that decided everything.
Redd's arm was pulled back suddenly and then thrown forward.
Ice Spear flew out of his hand as fast as a stone bullet ejected from a catapult.
The spear body rotated in the air, making a sharp sound of breaking through the air. Ice energy continued to leak out during the flight, dragging a long, white trail of cold mist behind the spear. The trail lingered in the air for a long time, like a white road leading to death.
The response of Daemon is also extremely fast.
The moment Redd pulled back his arm, Daemon's body had already started to move.
His legs were bent, his center of gravity sank, his upper body tilted to the left, and his entire posture instantly switched from a combat-ready state to a dodge state.
His eyes were fixed on the flying spear, and his brain calculated the flight trajectory and speed of the spear in a thousandth of a breath, and then issued the dodge command to his body - to the right, no, to the left, down, squat down!
His body executed the "down" command.
The spear flew in front of him.
Daemon's body suddenly shrank downwards at the last moment, and his entire height dropped by nearly a foot in less than one heartbeat.
The spear flew over his right shoulder - no, it didn't fly over, it went through.
The tip of the spear grazed his shoulder, pierced his leather armor, pierced his muscles, and pierced the edge of his shoulder blade. With an irresistible force, it pulled his body up from the ground, dragged him back several meters, and then nailed him to the beach.
There was a muffled sound of "poof", which was the sound of the spear tip piercing deep into the sand and touching the hard soil below.
Daemon's body was nailed to the beach with a spear, with his back facing the sky and his right shoulder penetrated. The whole figure looked like a butterfly nailed to a specimen board, with its limbs spread out and unable to move.
Blood gushed out from the wound and flowed down the spear shaft, forming a small pool of dark red blood on the sand. It was quickly absorbed by the surrounding gravel and turned into a dark wet mark.
His right hand hung by his side, his fingers twitching slightly. His left hand raised, instinctively wanting to pull out the spear, but the fingertips were frozen back the moment they touched the spear shaft.
Ice Spear The cold air was seeping into his body from the wound. He could feel the cold spreading outward along the blood vessels and nerves, freezing his right shoulder, right arm, right chest and neck bit by bit.
His breathing became rapid, not because of the pain - although the pain was enough to make ordinary people faint - but because he knew that if he did not pull out the spear, his entire right arm would not be saved.
Redd came over.
His pace was neither fast nor slow, and his boots made a rustling sound on the beach. Each step was taken extremely calmly, as if he was walking on the beach, not walking towards an enemy he had pinned to the ground.
He didn't hold any weapon in his hand - the bone knife was pinned to his waist and Ice Spear was thrown out. Now his hands were empty and he looked harmless.
But with every step he took, Daemon's heart sank an inch.
It's not because of fear. Daemon·Targaryen is not a person who is easily afraid.
He has experienced storms, shipwrecks, betrayals and assassinations, and everything that can destroy a person.
The reason why he is still alive, can still stand here, and can still throw that spear in front of Redd is because there is something hard and unbreakable in his heart.
But at this moment, cracks are appearing in that piece.
Because the way Redd looked at him changed. It was no longer the indifferent look he had before, as if he was looking at a captive who was not very obedient.
There was something in that look, something that sent chills down Daemon's spine - that was not murderous intent, murderous intent was not scary, murderous intent was direct, frank, and could be fought against.
What Redd sees is more terrifying than murderous intent. It is "interest", a kind of interest in which the hunter feels that the prey is interesting enough and wants to play with it slowly.
Redd walked to Daemon and looked down at him.
Daemon was lying on his back on the beach, his right shoulder was nailed by a spear, and his whole body was fixed to the ground in a twisted posture.
His face was covered with sand and blood, his hair was messy, and the leather armor on his right shoulder was soaked with blood, and the color changed from dark brown to almost black.
But his eyes still did not give in. Those dark gray pupils were staring at Redd, like two sharp blades hidden in the scabbard, ready to be unsheathed at any time.
Redd Lift your right foot.
The sole of the boot stepped on Daemon's left face. He didn't put it on gently, but stepped on it with just the right amount of force - big enough to sink Daemon's head into the sand, but small enough not to crush his skull.
Daemon's head suddenly turned to the right under that step, and half of his face was buried in the wet and cold sand. The gravel poured into his ears, nostrils and corners of his mouth, carrying a salty smell of seawater and a faint smell of blood.
"Bah--" Daemon spat out a mouthful of spit mixed with sand and blood, struggled with his head on the sole of his boot, and tried to turn his head to look at Redd.
But Redd's feet were too tight, and his head seemed to be pressed by a hill, unable to move even a hair.
"Do you know what I will do with you?" Redd's voice came from the top of his head, calm, calm, and without any emotion, as if he was chatting with an old friend.
Daemon didn't answer. It's not that he didn't want to answer, but his face was stepped in the sand, and the sand in his mouth had not been spit out, so he couldn't speak at all.
Redd didn't seem to be expecting his answer.