The purple flames suddenly began to die out. Within two heartbeats, only smoke and steam remained. The searing heat could still be felt in the surrounding air, and even the cold winds of winter couldn't dispel it. He cautiously looked around, only to see the glassed ground covered in fractures and littered with deformed, half-melted armaments and charred bones covered by soot and ash. Not a single trace of the camp containing forty thousand men remained. Nearly fifty yards away, Viserion was writhing pitifully on the ground, eking out low, painful rumbles from his throat. His scales were charred, and his wings were gone. No, not gone, but nothing remained of the bat-like membranes. Aegon's mount pitifully flapped his skeletal wings but to no avail. At that moment, the other dragon, completely untouched by the flame, flew over and tore into the neck of Daenerys" smallest drake, making it go limp.