Arthur leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as his fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the armrest. A low hum escaped his throat—strange, guttural, and resonant, the kind of sound that carried an ancient weight. It was not in the tongue of men, but in the deep, rolling cadence of dragons—a language long thought extinct. The words curled in the air like smoke from a dying fire, their meaning hidden to all but a few.
"The king and his men were wretched," he hummed, the syllables sharp and fluid, "They thought the people would die… but they rose… they rose again."
A glint of amusement flashed in his golden-red eyes as he leaned forward, the final verse spilling out with a quiet venom.
"I'm coming for it, Viserys… and there is nothing you can do."
He let the last note fade into silence before a deep, mocking laugh rolled from his chest. It wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. The kind of laugh that said he already knew the ending of the game, and it wasn't going to favor his enemies.
"Maya," he said suddenly, his tone cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.
The woman stepped forward from the shadows of the chamber, her dark coat brushing the floor. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—sharp and calculating—never left him. "Yes, my lord?"
"Prepare the Revolutionary Core," Arthur commanded, his voice low yet carrying a weight that filled the room. "Every cell, every hand, every blade. I want the streets whispering by dawn and the capital trembling by nightfall."
Maya bowed once, the faintest flicker of a smile on her lips. "It will be done."
"And Otto Hightower," Arthur continued, his tone shifting to something colder, "send word that I will require his presence. If he hesitates…" He leaned back, the smirk returning. "Remind him what happens to those who delay me."
Maya inclined her head again and disappeared into the forest.
The chamber was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth burning low, throwing restless shadows across the shelves lined with ancient tomes. Daemon sat slouched in the high-backed chair of black oak, the leather creaking under his weight. The book before him lay open—not in the common tongue, but in the jagged, curling script of the Dragonkin. His eyes traced the lines slowly, each symbol like a whisper from an age long buried. He turned the page with deliberate care, as though each fragment of knowledge was something that could shatter if handled too hastily.
The heavy doors groaned open without a knock. Cold air poured in from the hall, and with it came the sound of bootsteps—measured, urgent. A knight in dark steel entered, helm tucked beneath his arm, his breath misting faintly in the chill.
"My lord," the knight began, bowing low. "Our forward scouts have returned. There is movement in the Black Forest. We believe the rebels are on the move again."
Daemon did not look up immediately. His gaze lingered on the text before him, one long pale finger tracing a rune, as though he could wring its meaning dry before dealing with this intrusion. Only after a pause did his golden eyes lift to the knight, gleaming faintly in the gloom.
"And… how fares the carrier?" Daemon asked, his voice low and even, but edged with something like anticipation.
The knight straightened, his jaw tight. "The dragon still groans in pain, my lord. Since that time… there has been no great change. But the healers say its breath grows shallow."
A flicker of something unreadable passed over Daemon's features. He closed the book slowly, the sound of its heavy cover snapping shut echoing in the chamber. His gloved hands rested on the armrests for a moment before he rose to his full height, the firelight catching on the dark embroidery of his coat.
"Then this cannot wait," he murmured, almost to himself.
His voice hardened as he addressed the knight directly. "Assemble the guard—every man who can still hold a blade. Send word to the outposts and recall the riders. I want the boy's head on a pike before the week is out."
The knight gave a curt nod, but Daemon was not finished.
"Seal the northern passes," Daemon continued, pacing toward the window where the mist clung to the glass. "And double the watch at the river crossings. If the rebels think they can vanish into the forest again, they will find themselves hunted like wolves with no den to return to."
His hand pressed against the cold stone of the window frame, his gaze drifting toward the invisible horizon beyond the capital walls. Somewhere in the depths of that ancient forest, Arthur's shadow moved. And Daemon could feel it—like a pull on a chain, or the quiet hum before a storm breaks.
"We will smoke them out," he said softly, almost as though speaking to the night itself.
The knight bowed once more and departed quickly, boots clicking against the stone. The doors closed behind him with a hollow thud.
Daemon lingered by the window for a moment longer, his breath misting faintly against the cold glass. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned back to the table, resting one hand on the old dragon-scripted tome.
"Run, boy, run," he murmured under his breath. "Run while you still can."
The fire cracked, the shadows shifted, and somewhere far away, the forest stirred.
Daemon stepped out into the open courtyard, the morning mist curling around the polished stone like ghostly tendrils. His golden cloak caught the pale sunlight, shimmering as though the very sun itself had pledged allegiance to him. In one hand, he held his sword, the steel gleaming with a cold, unforgiving edge; in the other, the weight of command pressed down on him like a living thing.
The Dragon Knights were assembled, their black and gold armor reflecting the firelight from the torches scattered along the courtyard walls. They waited silently, eyes fixed, hands on the hilts of their blades, their mounts snorting steam into the crisp air.
Daemon raised his voice, low and commanding, but with the kind of menace that made it vibrate through bone.
"Listen well!" he barked. His voice carried across the square, snapping heads toward him. "Today, you are no longer knights, men of courtesy. Today, you are hounds. Hounds with teeth sharper than steel, and with no mercy for those who would stand against our house."
He stepped closer to the first rank, letting the cloak swirl around his boots, letting the sword glint in a dangerous arc.
"Kill anything that whispers of rebellion!" he continued, each word hammered out like a strike of iron. "Spare no one. Women, children, old men… if they lift their head against us, if they think themselves above the crown, strike them down!"
The Dragon Knights stiffened at his words, the air around them thickening with the gravity of his command. There was no hesitation, no murmuring; only the silent, almost predatory acknowledgment of men who knew the weight of absolute authority.
"You have been trained to protect, to serve, to ride with dragons," Daemon said, his golden eyes sweeping across each of them. "But today, you are the wrath of our house. Show no mercy. Show no hesitation. Show them why crossing us is a death sentence written in fire and blood."
A low, guttural roar echoed through the courtyard—not from Daemon, but from Caraxes, his dragon, shifting impatiently on its chained perch. The Dragon Knights looked upward, where the beast's scales caught the light like molten bronze. Daemon's voice did not falter; instead, it seemed to harmonize with the dragon's growl.
"Mount!" he commanded, gesturing with his sword. "We ride now, and none will survive who would hide in the shadows of our enemies!"
The courtyard erupted into motion. Horses whinnied, armor clanged, and the Dragon Knights surged forward, a living wave of black and gold. Daemon swung himself into the saddle of his mount, the cloak billowing behind him, and the sheer presence of the dragon at his side made the air hum with tension.
As they moved toward the northern gates, Daemon's mind was sharp, calculating. Every village along the forest border would be struck, every rebel outpost crushed before it could even muster defiance. But he knew his real target—the red-golden-eyed boy—was somewhere beyond the shadows, watching, waiting. And Daemon would not stop until he had him.
The northern gates creaked open under Daemon's command, and the wind that rushed in carried with it the scent of impending war. Ahead lay forests dense and dark, villages ripe for fear, and a single thread of a challenge—Arthur's shadow lurking, untouchable, yet taunting.
Daemon leaned forward in his saddle, gripping his sword tightly. His voice cut through the clamor of hooves and the distant caw of ravens.
"Today, we hunt. Today, we strike. And when we are done, the world will remember that the wrath of our house spares no one!"
Behind him, the Dragon Knights roared their assent, their battle cries echoing against the stone walls and into the forest beyond. Caraxes flared his nostrils, flames licking the air, as if to seal Daemon's vow in fire itself.
The hunt had begun.
The courtyard was alive with the roar of Daemon's soldiers, a rolling tide of anger and bloodlust that seemed to shake even the stones. The scent of smoke and ash hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat and steel. Horses stamped and whinnied, their hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, and the Dragon Knights, mounted and armored in black and gold, surged forward like living engines of destruction, their war cries echoing off the castle walls. Amid this maelstrom, a knight, panting from urgency, pushed through the throng and approached Daemon. His armor was scuffed, his sword still at his side, but his eyes were fixed on the prince with unwavering resolve.
"My lord," the knight said, bowing low despite the chaos. "Your wife… Lady Rhea Royce is here."
Daemon's head snapped toward him, golden eyes flashing like molten steel. "What does she want?" he demanded, voice cutting over the roar of the courtyard.
The knight swallowed. "Apparently… the men you burned while fighting the rebels… I believe they were her men, sire. She has come to see you—she insists on it."
Daemon's jaw tightened. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword as he stared past the knight, past the tumult of his soldiers, past the fires burning on the edges of the courtyard. His mind was already turning, calculating, weighing what this intrusion meant against the broader hunt he had set into motion.
"Bring her to me," he said at last, his voice low but commanding, reverberating through the din. "And make it quick. I have no patience for hesitance."
The knight bowed sharply, retreating to fetch her, while Daemon turned his attention back to the field. The soldiers were a tidal wave of violence, their anger directed toward the forest, toward the imagined rebels hiding in the shadows. Horses reared, steel clashed, and the air rang with cries of vengeance. Yet beneath it all, Daemon's mind was a razor's edge, focused on the one person who had eluded him, the red-golden-eyed boy whose shadow haunted his thoughts.
A few minutes later, Lady Rhea Royce arrived at the edge of the courtyard, flanked by a handful of her retainers. She moved with the grace of someone who had been trained to command attention, yet there was tension in the set of her shoulders, and the fire in her eyes betrayed both anger and fear.
Daemon descended from his mount, golden cloak flowing, sword in hand, the flames of the torches and the distant fires reflecting in his eyes. He did not rush toward her, did not speak immediately—he let her presence, the knowledge that she was here amid his fury, sink into the very air between them.
"Daemon," Rhea said, voice strong, cutting across the roar of the soldiers. "What have you done? These men… my men… You have burned them!"
Daemon's golden gaze held her, cold and calculating. "I did what was necessary," he said slowly, each word deliberate, each syllable a hammer striking in the chaos around them. "They were part of the rebellion. They raised arms against the crown. They challenged my authority. Their loyalty was to destruction, not to order, not to the realm."
Rhea's eyes blazed. "Destruction? Is that what you call it? You have burned lives, Daemon. Men who swore oaths, women who depended on them, children who have done nothing but exist! And now you stand in the middle of their ashes, speaking of necessity?"
Daemon's hand tightened on his sword hilt, the knuckles white beneath the leather. He took a step toward her, yet the roar of the soldiers surged around him, a tide of bloodlust and obedience, a living wall that both shielded and isolated him.
"They thought they could hide in the shadows," he said, voice rising over the din. "They thought they could defy the house. And now… now they pay the price for their arrogance. If loyalty can no longer be trusted, then fear must be enough. If mercy is meaningless, then only fire and steel remain."
Rhea's lips parted, but no words came. She glanced past him, toward the soldiers, toward the smoldering remains of the rebellion's outposts, and her hand flexed at her side. Yet even in the chaos, Daemon's presence was magnetic, terrifying—a living embodiment of wrath and authority.
"I saved this realm from chaos," he continued, voice steady, unwavering. "And if that means making enemies among those I once called allies… so be it. You will understand, in time, why the order of our house must be absolute."
A tense silence followed, broken only by the clanging of armor and the distant roar of Caraxes, his dragon circling above like a dark god of war. Rhea's gaze met Daemon's, unflinching, yet for the first time, she seemed to realize that no argument, no plea, would sway him. He was a force beyond reason in that moment, a storm contained in golden cloth and sharpened steel.
And Daemon, standing amidst the chaos he had wrought, allowed himself the faintest smile—a predator satisfied not by victory, but by the certainty of his purpose. The hunt had only begun, and nothing, not even love or loyalty, would deter him from the trail he had set.
Arthur moved through the dense, shadowed corridors of the Black Forest, the low hum of the dragon tongue rolling from his lips like distant thunder. Each note seemed to stir the very trees, bending their branches slightly, as if the forest itself recognized the ancient authority in his voice. Maya, alert and precise, held the map tightly in her hands, her eyes darting over the inked markings that outlined the outer villages.
"It's ready, sir," Maya said, her voice quiet but sharp with anticipation.
Arthur's golden-red eyes flicked toward her, a faint smile ghosting across his face. "Good," he murmured. "Then we move to the inner villages. The outer settlements… they've already paid the price to Daemon's dragon. Caraxes has left nothing but ash in his wake."
The forest seemed to hush around him as his forces—rebels, loyal scouts, and a few handpicked warriors from noble families—moved silently behind him. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, a constant reminder of Daemon's earlier sweep. In the distance, faint plumes of rising ash marked the burned-out husks of villages, the remnants of the destruction his enemies had wrought.
"Listen carefully," Arthur whispered to his assembled commanders, his voice carrying an unmistakable authority. "The inner villages are our next target—not to destroy, but to reclaim. Daemon expects fear, chaos, and submission. He underestimates patience, cunning, and the will of those who survive."
The first inner village emerged through the mist, its outlines obscured by towering trees and the curling smoke of smoldering ruins at the outskirts. Soldiers and peasants alike peeked cautiously from hiding places, their faces etched with fear and despair. Arthur's gaze swept over them, calculating. He did not move with blind fury like Daemon. Every step, every command, was measured, precise.
"Maya," he said, gesturing to a group of scouts, "take two squads and check for survivors. Ensure they can defend themselves if Daemon's forces strike again. Lead them to safety. Do not linger longer than necessary."
"Yes, sir," she replied, her movements swift, blending into the shadows as she led the squads deeper into the village.
Arthur turned to the remainder of his force, his voice dropping into the dragon tongue, a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the air. Even the trees seemed to respond, leaves shivering and branches twitching as if in acknowledgment. "The supply points are our priority. Disrupt their stores, cut off communication, and vanish before their dragons can descend upon us."
The rebels moved like shadows, slipping between the burned buildings and ruined streets. They struck silently—arrows against sentries, quiet blows to exposed watchmen—and melted back into the undergrowth. Arthur watched them, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over him. Every move was calculated to bleed Daemon's reach without risking unnecessary lives.
Above, the faint beating of wings echoed—Caraxes patrolling, sensing the lingering heat of rebellion. Arthur paused for a moment, letting the hum of the dragon tongue roll again through his throat. "They think fire and steel will erase us," he said quietly. "They do not understand that shadows can be sharper than blades, and patience deadlier than dragons."
As twilight descended, the inner villages were secured. Supplies and intelligence had been collected, strategic points mapped, and survivors evacuated under the careful guidance of Maya and Arthur's lieutenants. Each step of the operation was executed with silent precision, leaving no trace except for the lingering whispers of resistance that would haunt Daemon's scouts and his Dragon Knights alike.
Rain pelted the courtyard, turning the cobblestones slick and dark. Daemon sat astride his horse, golden cloak plastered to his armor, unshaken as the Dragon Knights formed a deadly ring around him. Thunder rolled overhead, but he didn't flinch.
From the balcony above, Lady Rhea Royce's voice cut through the storm. "You'll regret this, Daemon!"
Daemon's golden eyes snapped upward, glinting like molten metal. "Regret?" he said, his voice slow, deliberate, dripping with contempt. "Regret is for the weak. For those who fail. I do not fail, Lady Royce. I command."
Rhea's hands gripped the railing tightly. "Killing innocents is never an option! You didn't kill them for loyalty, or betrayal, or justice! You didn't even grant them mercy. You instilled fear! Do you understand? There will be many who want your life now, and I am among them."
Daemon laughed, low and sharp, a sound that cut through the storm like a blade. "Fear is not just a tool; it is a gift. It separates those who survive from those who deserve to die. Let them come. Let them all come. Every trembling hand raised against me will learn what it means to face the crown… and the dragon."
Rhea's voice rose over the rain, trembling with fury. "Just you wait, Daemon. You'll regret your arrogance! You'll pay for what you've done!"
Daemon leaned forward slightly in the saddle, eyes glimmering with fire. "Arrogance? No, Lady Royce… this is power. Power that moves mountains, burns kingdoms, and breaks men. Arrogance is thinking you can stop me."
He nudged his horse, which snorted and stepped forward into the torrent of rain, Caraxes' shadow looming faintly above. "Today, the people tremble. Tomorrow, the world bends. And I… I am the storm they will never forget."
Rhea's fists clenched, knuckles white. "You'll answer for this, Daemon. The blood you've spilled will stain your soul—and I will make sure of it."
Daemon's laugh echoed through the courtyard, low, cold, and terrifying. "Answer? I am the answer. I am the reckoning. And you… You are merely a witness to it."
With that, he spurred his horse, the Dragon Knights following like shadows of death incarnate. Rain streamed down, lightning cracked overhead, and the storm itself seemed to bend to the will of the man who ruled not only through fire and steel but through fear, arrogance, and absolute command.
Rain pelted the courtyard like a relentless drum, drenching armor and cloaks, turning the stones beneath hooves slick with water and mud. Daemon sat atop his mount, golden cloak plastered to his back, eyes glowing like molten metal beneath the storm-darkened sky. Around him, the Dragon Knights formed a ring of steel, their breaths steaming in the cold, the wind whipping swords and banners into frantic motion.
Daemon's voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding, echoing against the castle walls. "I want that cocksucker's cock in his mouth!" His laugh was low, cruel, a blade forged from pure arrogance. "And send a letter to the Starks. Open Gate 771. Now. Every soldier, every rider, every blade—they move into the Black Forest. Flush him out. Leave nothing standing!"
The knight nearest him stiffened, eyes wide, fingers twitching nervously along the hilt of his sword. "Sire… that path… it is crawling with walkers. They will swarm like a tide and swallow everything. If word reaches the king that you ordered this… he will be furious, and…"
Daemon's head snapped toward him, golden eyes burning with fury. "And what? You think I care for the king's fury? Or for fear? Do you see these hands?" He held them out briefly, armored and deadly, the rain sliding off the metal like blood off a blade. "Do you see the power I wield? That boy hides in jungles, in the shadows, because he fears me. I will find him. I will drag him from every bush, every tree, every shallow grave. And you—" His gaze pinned the knight like a spear. "—will obey. Every last one of you will obey. Or die. And I promise, I will not hesitate."
The knight swallowed, heart hammering. "Sire… the walkers…"
Daemon leaned forward slightly, letting his cloak snap in the storm like the wings of a shadowed dragon. "Walkers are nothing. They are clay and rot. They can be crushed, burned, smashed, torn apart. I have faced worse. You have seen what Caraxes can do. You think this forest, this boy, these creatures… will stop me? No. They will kneel, they will burn, and the Black Forest will be mine."
The knight's jaw tightened, voice trembling despite himself. "Sire… perhaps you should reconsider. If the tide of walkers is more than we anticipate—"
Daemon's laughter cut him off, sharp as lightning. "Reconsider? Ha! You speak to me of caution? I speak to you of dominance. I am Daemon Targaryen! I decide who lives, who dies, who fears, who kneels. That boy? He will pay. And the Black Forest? It will tremble under my command."
Lightning split the sky, illuminating Daemon's figure like some god of war descending. He gave the signal, a raised hand slicing through the storm. "Gate 771! Open it. Flood the forest with fire and steel. And remember this—every whisper, every rebel, every coward hiding in shadow, every spy… they will all know what it means to defy me."
Chains groaned as the massive portcullis began to rise, creaking with ancient effort. Rain poured through the opening, carrying the mist and the scent of impending slaughter into the night. Daemon's Dragon Knights surged forward, hooves splashing through puddles, armor clanking like the drumbeats of war, swords drawn, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Daemon's voice rang out over the storm, relentless, unforgiving, carrying across the courtyard and into the forest beyond:"Hide in the trees, little boy! Hide in the shadows! Try to breathe while I am near! I will find you! And when I do, the world itself will shatter beneath the roar of my wrath!"
The knights hesitated no longer; their loyalty—and terror—propelled them into the storm-soaked Black Forest. Behind them, Gate 771 yawned wide, a portal to death, fire, and inevitability. The forest seemed to lean back, listening, as if it feared the wrath of Daemon Targaryen, unstoppable, merciless, unrelenting.