The figure moved silently through the courtyard, his steps deliberate, unhurried, as though the very castle grounds belonged to him. Shadows bent unnaturally as he passed, curling along the walls like whispers watching.
Daemon's eyes narrowed.
No one moved like that.
Not in the imperial keep.
Not under his watch.
With a flick of his wrist and a surge of wind, Daemon leapt from the balcony—his crimson cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dragon. He landed without a sound, the steel of Dark Sister gleaming in his hand, glinting like obsidian kissed by blood.
He dashed forward, cutting the silence of midnight with his voice.
"Stop right there!"
The figure didn't flinch. Didn't even look back.
"Unhood yourself! Show me your face, or I swear to the gods I'll carve it from your skull!"
Still nothing.
That silence. That refusal.
It was deliberate.
Mocking.
Daemon growled, rage flickering behind his violet eyes. His pride couldn't allow this insolence. Not in the heart of his house. Not with the weight of his ancestors behind him.
"You cunt!" he snarled—and lunged.
Dark Sister sang through the air, cutting cleanly through the space between them—
But it stopped.
No clang. No sparks. No cry of pain.
Just a hand.
A single, gloved hand raised without effort, gripping the edge of the blade mid-strike like it was no more than a stick of wood. The sword trembled in Daemon's grasp. Not from weakness, but resistance. From something immovable. Ancient.
Daemon's breath hitched.
Before he could react, a sharp twist of the wrist, and he was hurled backward across the stone, his body crashing into a statue of an old king, shattering it to rubble.
He rolled once and came to a kneel, spitting blood, hair disheveled, cloak torn.
The man hadn't moved.
Still hooded. Still walking. Still silent.
Daemon wiped his mouth, standing tall.
"You think you can just walk into the house of dragons and not bleed?"
He ran again. Faster this time.
Three strikes. Four. Five.
Each one was expertly aimed.
Each one parried with nothing but a single finger, or the edge of a boot, or a flick of the cloak that moved as if it had a will of its own.
Daemon was fast.
But Arthur was faster.
And not just faster—unreadable. Like he didn't move in the way normal men did. As though he weren't bound by the rules of motion, time, or space. He seemed to know where every strike would land before Daemon even thought to swing.
"Fight me properly, you coward!" Daemon yelled, frustrated, panting now.
Still, the hooded figure said nothing.
Instead, he stepped forward, one hand brushing aside Daemon's next swing like it was a leaf in the wind. Then—
A blow to the chest.
Daemon's ribs cracked. He was thrown again, this time smashing into the stone steps that led to the inner garden.
He struggled to stand. Blood in his mouth. Sword shaking in his grip.
But he refused to yield.
The figure finally stopped.
And then, slowly, as though the world itself was holding its breath…
He raised both hands.
Pulled back the hood.
And Daemon saw.
Golden-red eyes.
Burning. Glowing. Not of man. Not of a beast. Something else. Something deeper.
Arthur tilted his head, as if amused.
"You're slower than your ancestors," he said, voice deep, calm, like thunder that hadn't yet rumbled. "And far more arrogant."
Daemon's hands shook.
"But not weak," Arthur added. "You've earned your scars."
He looked at Dark Sister, then at Daemon again.
"But you carry that sword like a boy clings to a bedtime tale. As if it'll save you."
He stepped forward.
Daemon forced himself to stand.
"I don't need saving," he spat.
Arthur raised a brow.
"Don't you?"
Daemon lunged again, more out of pride than reason.
Arthur stepped forward. Caught his wrist. Twisted.
Dark Sister clattered to the ground.
And Daemon's knee hit the stone next.
He gasped for breath. Not from pain, but from the sheer weight of the man before him. It was like the world bowed beneath his presence. As if the earth itself knew who he was and bent to accommodate him.
Arthur crouched beside him.
"Tell your kin," he said, voice low, inches from Daemon's ear. "That the age of silence is over."
He rose. Cloak flaring like wings.
"The seven Kingdoms will fall."
And just like that, he vanished into the shadows.
Daemon fell backward, staring up at the stars, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He wasn't sure if he could move.
He wasn't sure if he even should.
But one thing echoed in his mind, over and over:
"The seven kingdoms will fall."
Morning broke like a bruised eye, pale light seeping through the high windows of the Red Keep. It should've brought calm, safety. But the tension in the air was a noose drawn tight, and Daemon could feel it with every labored breath.
The clash of steel boots rang across the stone courtyard as the royal knights rushed in.
"My liege!" one cried, seeing Daemon seated on the cracked stairs, his cloak torn, a line of blood trailing down his temple. "What happened?!"
Daemon didn't answer immediately. His chest ached. Not just from the impact, but from confusion. Shame.
And something worse.
Fear.
His voice, when it came, was low, clipped. "Call for the doctor," he rasped. "And clear the damned yard."
The knights exchanged uncertain glances. None had ever seen Prince Daemon defeated. Not like this. Not limping and pale, a hand clutching his ribs like a wounded stag.
The maester came, fussed over his wounds, but Daemon's mind was elsewhere.
He sat silently as they wrapped his ribs, bloodied linen coiled tight around the bruises blooming on his flesh. His thoughts weren't on the pain, or the sword he dropped, or the shattered statue.
They were on the man in the hood.
The way he moved.
The eyes Daemon had seen—like a dying sun trapped in flesh.
He didn't even know if the man had truly walked away or simply vanished into shadow.
Who was he?
And more terrifyingly—what was he?
By midday, Daemon had forced himself onto his feet.
He walked alone through the corridors of the Keep, leaning slightly on the wall. Each step was a whisper of agony—but the ache in his bones was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.
He reached the throne room—wide, cold, silent.
And there, upon the Iron Throne, sat his brother.
Viserys.
Cloaked in royal black and crimson, a crown of dragonbone upon his head, a gloved hand resting on the twisted steel of the throne's arm. He looked up as Daemon approached, his gaze unreadable.
"Brother," Daemon said, his voice hoarse but steady, "may I ask you something?"
Viserys raised an eyebrow slightly, masking whatever thought ticked in his mind.
"Ask away."
Daemon stared at him for a moment, weighing each word like steel on a scale.
"Who was it… that came to your chambers last night?"
Viserys's expression faltered—just for a second.
A flicker.
A tightening at the corner of his eyes.
Then… calm again.
He exhaled slowly. "I don't know," he lied. "He wore a hood. Immobilized my guards. Didn't give a name."
Daemon's stare hardened. "He did the same to mine."
Silence.
Then Viserys gave a small nod. "Then perhaps we were both… visited."
Daemon turned his head, as if satisfied. But inside, he was boiling. He could see it—the tension in his brother's jaw. The careful slowness in his words.
He knew something.
Daemon's thoughts raced as he turned and left the hall.
I know you're hiding something, brother.
Your voice was too calm. Your breath is too measured.
He'd seen this look on Viserys's face before. Years ago, after their father died. After something happened in the vaults below Dragonstone, something Viserys never spoke of.
Daemon remembered now—he saw him shaking that night, clutching something in his palm… a shard of stone, red and warm, like it had just been pulled from a fire.
Daemon stormed through the halls of the Red Keep like a man chasing shadows. Though his ribs ached and his cloak still bore the torn, bloodied edges of last night's duel, he moved with renewed purpose. Fire in his veins. Fear in his heart.
But it wasn't for fear of himself.
It was the kind of fear that comes from truth clawing out of myth—truth wearing a hood, truth with red-golden eyes that parried Dark Sister like it was a child's toy.
He burst into the council chamber, scattering startled guards.
"Bring me Ser Lorrik. Now."
His knight captain appeared within minutes, breathless and armor half-buckled.
"My prince?"
Daemon's voice dropped into a growl. "There's a man… a hooded one. He moves in and out of this castle like smoke. His eyes—golden and red—you'll know them when you see them. I want every knight, every steward, every scribe from Duskendale to Storm's End to hear this: find him. Get me anything—where he eats, who he speaks to, how the hell he breathes."
Ser Lorrik nodded. "As you command."
The door slammed shut behind the knight captain.
Daemon leaned against the marble table, exhaling hard.
His mind wouldn't stop replaying last night's words. That cold, cruel voice echoing in the throne room—
"The Seven Kingdoms will fall."
Daemon clenched his fists. "Why would you say that, you hooded monster?" he muttered. "What are you planning? What the fuck are you aligning?"
He walked to the corner of the chamber, pulling open the iron-latched chest tucked beneath the Dragon Map.
He took out the black book.
He turned pages with a fevered urgency.
And then, he found it.
A scrawled passage, near the bottom of a page, faded with ash:
"Some say the Archduke never diedHehe vanished like smoke from the battlefield after the Siege of Silverthorn. That he walks still. Cursed to roam for eternity, neither man nor ghost. A child of ruin and wrath. A storm in the shape of a man."
Daemon slammed the book shut.
"No man lives for two hundred years…" he hissed aloud. "No man... unless he's not a man anymore."
The thought wouldn't leave him. Not as he returned to his chambers. Not as he paced for hours, ignoring his wounds. Not as he stared at the flame-lit walls and remembered the clash of steel.
The way Arthur had moved.
The strength in his grip.
Daemon had fought dragons. He had trained with princes. He had killed men of legend and stood victorious against the finest swordmasters in three kingdoms.
But that hooded figure had tossed him like a broken doll.
And not once—not oonce—not once—not once-did he even draw a weapon.
Night fell again, and the castle dimmed to a hush.
Daemon stood alone in his solar, the windows thrown open to the wind. The city beyond glittered like spilled stardust.
He pulled the old leather-bound journal from his father's belongings. His grandfather's handwriting—crooked and violent—spoke in his memory.
"There was one man I feared. Not dragons, not kings. Arthur. The cursed prince. The Devil in the Crown."
"He led armies of black banners and broken men. Spoke with a voice like thunder. And when he vanished… the land never recovered."
"Mark my words, boy: if he returns… the ground itself will rise in rebellion."
The trees whispered with the hush of ghosts as Arthur moved through the Black Forest, his cloak dragging faint embers of unnatural darkness behind him. Moonlight barely touched the path he walked; it parted around him like even the night didn't dare brush his presence.
Then torches in the distance.
A makeshift outpost flickered to life, carved into the woods with blood and bone. Dozens of tents, steel weapon racks, firepits, and men and women bustling about. Some were sharpening blades. Others stirred thick stew in blackened cauldrons. A few trained in the shadows, sparring under banners that bore a sigil long outlawed by the Crown:
A black dragon, mouth open in defiance, wings raised over a field of blood-red.
The Revolutionary Army.
At the center, a small stone watchtower loomed like a broken tooth. And from its balcony, a young woman spotted the cloaked figure approaching.
She leapt down and called out with a crooked grin, "Ah, boss! You're back!"
Arthur didn't smile. He nodded once.
The girl jogged over, maybe nineteen winters, with scars along her cheek and a dagger at her side.
"How'd the visit go?"
Arthur's voice was deep, quiet, and cold."It went well."
The girl's smile faltered. "You went that far in? The Keep itself?"
Arthur looked at her, eyes glowing faintly. "I went further. I stood where the Iron Throne casts its shadow."
A few soldiers nearby stopped what they were doing. The stew-simmering woman looked up. A scout paused mid-whistle. Silence spread like fire among them.
One muttered, "You saw it…"
Another: "And lived…"
Arthur spoke calmly, but every word carried the weight of an avalanche.
"It's worse than we thought. The throne is still held by children in crowns. Petty men. And worse, they whisper of war. Brothers. Cousins. The house is rotting from within."
The girl walked beside him as he moved toward the main command tent. "So it's true, then. The rumors. The Empire is weakening?"
Arthur paused.
"They aren't rumors."
"They are prophecy."
Inside the command tent, maps of the Seven Kingdoms lay pinned beneath daggers and burned wax. Rebel officers, outlaws, and former knights gathered around the table. Some bowed. Others just nodded in that half-respectful, half-afraid way.
A one-eyed man with a flanged mace grunted, "So, what now, eh ?"
Arthur leaned over the map, his finger tracing rivers and mountains.
"The Reach is restless. Half of Dorne is already with us. The mines in the Westerlands are starving. The Dragon Gate is unguarded. We strike not with armies… but whispers. Fear. Sabotage."
Another soldier asked, "What about the crown's dragons?"
Arthur replied without blinking:"They have dragons.But we have something worse."
He turned to the tent's corner.
A tall man stepped from the shadows. His body was covered in dark steel, veins glowing faintly purple, face hidden by a mirrored mask. Everyone in the room stepped back slightly.
The girl whispered, "The Black Flame…"
Arthur nodded.
"Let the King raise his banners. Let the Prince's war. Let the dragons burn each other from the skies."
"When the smoke clears, we will rise."
He stood straight, his voice growing louder as he looked around at his gathered people—soldiers, rebels, orphans, outcasts, zealots.
"We do not fight for a throne."
"We fight to burn it."
The camp roared in response. Swords clashed. Fists were raised. A chant began, low and furious:
"Ash to the crown. Blood to the root. Rise, rise, rise."
Later that night, as fires crackled and drums beat low through the forest, the girl approached Arthur as he stood alone by a ridge, looking back toward the capital—toward the place that once tried to erase his name.
"You're not afraid, are you?" she asked.
Arthur didn't answer right away.
She looked at him with her arms crossed, standing among the flickering candlelight and war-torn maps."But why, Arthur?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and conviction."Why do you want to destroy the Iron Throne?"
Arthur turned his gaze to her slowly. His eyes, red and gold like a storm of fire and blood, burned beneath his hood.
"Because," he said, his voice low and measured, "the Princes have grown arrogant. Blinded by gold, drunk on dragons, fighting over a seat forged in fire while the kingdoms rot under their feet. I have walked through villages where people eat bark and dirt. I've seen mothers sell their daughters for bread. The realm is bleeding… and the Throne is the blade."
A hush fell over the command tent. Even the wind seemed to be still.
"They were meant to lead," Arthur continued, walking slowly around the war table, his gloved hand tracing the edges of the Seven Kingdoms."But all they've done is rule. That's the difference—leadership guides with pain and wisdom. The rule just demands loyalty. And blood."
The girl stared at him with wide eyes. So did the others. Some nodded solemnly. Others whispered prayers under their breath. To many of them, Arthur wasn't just a commander. He was a revenant, a returned god of war, a shadow out of the old books.
But behind his words—behind the fire and fury of his voice—his mind told a colder truth.
I don't care about the people.Let them burn or rise. Let them starve or sing.I want the damn crystal.The Osborn Crystals—the map—the vault buried deep in the Reach's treasury beneath layers of old royal magic and forgotten horrors.That's what matters.Not crowns. Not peace. Not revolutions.I'll use every sword, every child's belief, every last drop of blood if I have to.If the cost of finding it is setting the world on fire, then let it blaze.Let it scream.
He looked up again, the firelight glinting off the golden ring around his iris.
"The world deserves better than kings who never bled for it."
A cheer went up in the tent. Fists slammed on the tables. The one-eyed soldier chanted his name. The others joined. Even the girl smiled, her eyes hopeful.
Only Arthur stood still as stone in their roar, gazing past them, already thinking ahead.
The Osborn Crystal…Said to contain a map to something greater—older than Valyria, older than even the First Flame. Hidden by a forgotten king, warded with blood magic, and sealed by seven gods and one curse.The foolish lords don't even know what lies under their golden vaults.But I do.
He turned back to his war map and placed a black dagger into the Reach.
"Send riders. Tomorrow we move. We'll make it look like a siege, a raid."
Meanwhile, in the dim, starlit halls of the castle, Daemon sat alone in the royal library, the old, dust-covered book spread open on his lap. The flickering flame of the candle cast dancing shadows across the ancient pages as his eyes scanned the text—tales written by the hand of a long-dead scribe, recounting events long purged from the official histories. And then he found it—a record of the death of the High Pontiff, the Holy Pope, not by sickness or natural age… but at the hands of a man few dared to speak of: Archduke Arthur von Hurellious.
Daemon's eyes widened slightly as he read on.
"…and before the High Altar, as the blood of the Holy One ran like wine down the marble steps, the girl stood frozen, sword in hand, eyes wide with horror. And the Archduke, golden-eyed and cold as obsidian, turned to her and said—"
The page ended there. Torn. The rest was gone.
Daemon slammed the book shut and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "So it's true…" he muttered. "The legend is true. He was there. And she… the girl… Aisha?"
But elsewhere, in the memories held behind time's veil—in the past, in that very moment…
The light of the hearth danced across the walls of the Archduke's war chamber, casting long shadows that swayed like phantoms. Arthur stood tall, his black coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak of judgment. Across from him, Aisha knelt, breathing hard, eyes downcast.
His boots echoed as he stepped closer.
"What did you do, huh?" he asked, voice razor-sharp, not shouting—but far worse—disappointed.
Aisha looked up slowly. Her voice was small."Sire?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head."Why didn't you follow orders? I told you to kill the Pope the moment I gave the command."
A pause. Heavy. Suffocating.
"You hesitated," he said, tone now dripping with venom."Do you think I repeat myself for pleasure? Do you think mercy is something I can afford in a palace filled with vultures?"
Aisha swallowed. She could barely find the words."I… I was afraid. He was the Pope. I—"
"He was a man," Arthur snapped.He grabbed her chin and lifted her face roughly. "And next time—if you ever hesitate again—I will slice your throat first. Do you understand?"
She nodded quickly, her eyes tearing."Y-Yes, sire. I understand."
Arthur let go and turned away with a wave of his hand."Good."He took a deep breath. The fury ebbed from him like a passing storm.
A moment later, a knock came at the great oak door. One of his knights entered, bowed, and stepped forward.
"Sire, a message has arrived—from the Imperial Academy. Your invitation has come."
Arthur didn't turn around. His eyes stared out the high window, where the storm clouds gathered once more above the capital.
"So," he murmured, "they still remember me."
He finally turned toward the knight."Good. Write back: I will attend."
Aisha, still on one knee, lifted her gaze, unsure."Sire… the Academy?"
Arthur smirked faintly."Yes, my dear shadow. Time to visit some old graves… and shake the stones loose."
Later that night, Arthur stood alone before a black mirror within his chambers—its surface swirling like oil and ink. He placed his palm upon it, and ancient runes lit up in ghostly white. His reflection shimmered, warping—until another figure appeared.
A hunched old man with a burnt, stitched face.
"So you're going to the Academy," the figure rasped.
Arthur's eyes gleamed."They have something I need. I left it there long ago…"