The Last Blackfyre

The camp of the Golden Company was a sprawling city of tents and supply wagons, stretching across the arid valley like a vast, makeshift settlement. The camp buzzed with life as evening descended, though the oppressive heat of the day still clung to the hard-packed earth beneath their feet. Banners bearing the Golden Company's sigil—a golden skull with a sword clenched between its teeth—flapped lazily in the dry breeze that swept through the valley.

The air was thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and the savory aroma of meats cooking over open flames. Rows of tents stretched into the distance, some weathered and patched from years of service, others newer, their fabric still bright against the dull landscape. Mercenaries—soldiers from all corners of Essos and beyond—sharpened their swords or practiced their maneuvers, the rhythmic clanging of steel on steel echoing across the camp. The occasional grunt of effort or bark of laughter could be heard from men enjoying a brief respite, sitting around campfires with their comrades.

Scattered among the soldiers were camp followers—merchants, cooks, and whores—all contributing to the needs of the army. Near the edges of the camp, horses stamped their hooves impatiently, tethered near hastily erected stables, while the blacksmiths worked tirelessly to keep weapons and armor in top condition.

Beyond the camp's periphery, jagged hills loomed like silent sentinels, casting long shadows over the valley. Though they provided a natural barrier of protection, their rocky peaks and crevices also lent an air of isolation to the encampment.

At the heart of the camp, the officers' tents stood in stark contrast to the rest. They were larger and more luxurious, made of finer fabric, with bright colors marking their status. The largest of them, trimmed in gold and embroidered with intricate designs, belonged to the company's commanders.

=====

Daemon Blackfyre gripped Blackfyre tightly, the legendary sword of his ancestors, as he panted heavily, circling his opponent. His muscles ached, sweat dripped down his brow, but he kept his stance, eyes locked on the man before him: Harry Strickland, Commander of the Golden Company. He, too, held a Valyrian steel blade, one he had forged from an Arakh claimed after defeating a fierce Khal. The sword, reforged in Qohor, was named Bittersteel, in honor of the company's founder.

They clashed again, their blades ringing out as steel met steel. Daemon swung Blackfyre with all the strength he could muster, but Harry deftly parried, stepping to the side with the ease of a man who had seen countless battles. Daemon's strike went wide, and Harry seized the moment, bringing Bittersteel down in a swift arc. Daemon barely managed to block, his arms trembling under the force of the blow.

Harry pressed the attack, his strikes relentless but measured, each one testing Daemon's defenses. Despite his best efforts, Daemon found himself on the back foot, forced to retreat with every swing of Bittersteel. His breathing grew labored, his movements slowed, while Harry's remained precise and controlled.

With a final strike, Harry knocked Blackfyre from Daemon's hands, sending the sword clattering to the ground. Daemon staggered back, his chest heaving as he stared at the older man, who lowered his sword with a satisfied nod.

"Well done, lad," Harry said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "But you've still got a ways to go. The throne won't be won with your name alone. You need to sharpen your skills, both in battle and in the mind."

Daemon bent down to pick up Blackfyre, his face flushed with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. He knew Harry was right—he wasn't ready yet.

"You're doing well," Harry continued, his tone more encouraging. "The men respect you. Westeros is waiting for your arrival. They're tired of the red dragons. And with the Spider working in the shadows, chaos is sure to come. This time, we will be victorious."

As Harry spoke, Daemon glanced at him—the man who had raised him, guided him, and molded him into the weapon he was meant to be. The weight of expectation hung heavy on Daemon's shoulders, the burden of his lineage pressing down on him with every breath. He had been told since childhood that he was destined to reclaim the Iron Throne, to restore the Blackfyres to their rightful place.

But recently, a question had begun to burn within him, one he hadn't dared to speak aloud.

Did he want it?

Daemon ran a hand through his silver-gold hair, his violet eyes scanning the horizon, lost in thought. All his life, he had been told that he was born for one thing: to restore the Blackfyre name and reclaim the Iron Throne. It was a burden passed down through generations, a blood feud that had consumed his family for as long as he could remember.

But deep down, there was a part of him that longed for something else—something simpler, something far from the battlefield and the endless cycle of vengeance. He had heard tales from across the seas, stories of far-off lands, places where he could forge his own destiny without the weight of his bloodline hanging over him.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, Daemon dreamed of escaping it all. Of leaving behind the endless struggle for power, the shadows of his ancestors, and the legacy he had never asked for. He imagined himself on a ship, sailing across the endless ocean, seeking adventure in lands where no one knew his name.

"What are you thinking, lad?" Strickland's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.

Daemon blinked and glanced at the older man, his brow furrowing as the thoughts of escape faded back into the recesses of his mind. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should voice the doubt that had been gnawing at him.

"Do you really believe we can win?" Daemon asked, his voice quieter than usual, laced with the uncertainty he had kept hidden for so long. "Even with Varys and his schemes, even with the chaos in Westeros… What if it's not enough? What if the Targaryens crush us again?"

Strickland snorted, waving a dismissive hand as if the thought were ridiculous. "The Targaryens are divided, weakened," he said, his voice filled with confidence. "They'll soon be too busy squabbling over succession and power."

"A second dance is on the horizon. Westeros will be ripe for the taking. And don't forget—Varys has been sowing seeds of discord for years. When the time is right, everything will fall apart for them."

Daemon nodded slowly, but the doubts still lingered in the back of his mind. Harry was right—Westeros was divided, and Varys was a master of manipulation. But Daemon couldn't shake the feeling that victory might not be as certain as the others believed.

He opened his mouth to speak, to voice the thoughts swirling inside him, but stopped himself. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint the people who had supported him, who had shaped him into the man he was. Instead, something else slipped out, almost without him realizing it.

"Sometimes I wonder if there's more," Daemon blurted out, the words surprising even himself.

Strickland paused, turning to look at the young man beside him. His gaze was sharp, studying Daemon as if weighing his words carefully. "There may be more," Strickland said slowly, "but this is your path, lad. Your family's legacy. Your birthright. You were born for this, like it or not."

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as the weight of his words settled in. Perhaps this was his fate. Perhaps the Iron Throne was his destiny, no matter how much he dreamed of something different.

"Prepare yourself for dinner," Harry said, his voice softer this time.

Daemon nodded, the weariness of his thoughts weighing heavily on him as he turned and left.

He headed toward his tent, lost in thought, when he felt a firm slap on his shoulder. He turned to see his oldest friend, Alyn 'Ironfist' Waters.

"Finally done?" Alyn asked with a playful smirk.

Daemon nodded. "Yes."

They entered Daemon's tent together, the fabric rustling as they stepped inside. Alyn immediately flopped down onto a small wooden stool.

"So, what's the plan? Are we going out for some fun?" Alyn asked, his grin widening. "I saw a new girl in camp today. A redhead."

Daemon shot him a glance and shook his head. "No, Alyn. We're not going whoring tonight."

Alyn sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock disappointment. "You're no fun," he muttered, leaning back in the chair. "One day, you'll understand the beauty of a well-earned distraction."

Time passed as the two friends joked and exchanged stories, the setting sun casting long shadows across the tent. But as the light faded, Daemon's mood shifted, and his earlier doubts resurfaced.

"I just don't know, Alyn," Daemon murmured, running his hand over the hilt of Blackfyre. "I'm not sure about all this."

Alyn, always steadfast and unwavering, leaned forward and gripped Daemon's shoulder firmly. "You are the true heir, Daemon. Westeros will rally behind you. We only need to wait for the Targaryens to begin killing each other."

Daemon opened his mouth to respond, but a strange noise cut through the air, interrupting their conversation. It was distant at first, like the low rumble of thunder, but it grew louder, fiercer. Alyn's brow furrowed in confusion.

"What the hell is that?" Alyn muttered, standing to his feet.

Then they heard it—screams from outside the tent, piercing through the evening air. A sudden glow filled the tent, flickering ominously, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

"Sounds like a fire," Alyn said, his voice tense.

Daemon stood as well, a gnawing feeling of unease crawling up his spine. Then they heard it—a deafening roar, unlike anything Daemon had ever heard in his life. It was a sound that froze the blood in his veins.

Alyn turned to Daemon, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What the fuck was that?"

Daemon grabbed Blackfyre, his heart hammering in his chest, and they rushed outside the tent.

Hot air hit their faces as they stepped into a scene of chaos. Flames erupted all around them. Soldiers screamed, horses reared in terror, and above it all came the roar again—louder, more terrifying.

The heat was suffocating, and the very air seemed to burn with it. Daemon's eyes shot to the sky, and there, looming in the smoke-filled air, was a massive shadow—a dragon. Its black wings beat furiously, stirring the flames below. The beast's scales gleamed in the firelight, and its maw glowed with the orange-green heat of the inferno it unleashed.

"What the fuck..." Daemon whispered, his voice barely audible. 

Was he dreaming? 

He stood frozen in place, staring at the monstrous creature above.

"Seven hells," Alyn muttered, his voice trembling. "We have to go!" He grabbed Daemon's arm, pulling him away from the burning tents. "We need to go, now!"

As they sprinted through the chaos, dodging burning debris and panicked soldiers, they ran into Harry Strickland. His face was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stood surrounded by a small group of officers. All of them looked as though they had stared death in the face.

"Daemon! Alyn!" Harry called out, his voice hoarse from the smoke. "We have to get the king out of here! Protect Daemon at all costs!"

The officers, too shocked to comprehend the enormity of the situation, nodded dumbly. Their only focus now was on protecting their young king.

The dragon's presence had shattered any semblance of order. The Golden Company had fought all over Essos, from slavers to Khalsars to other mercenary companies, but they couldn't fight a dragon. No one could.

"Move!" Harry shouted, snapping the men out of their stupor. "We need horses! Now!"

The group surged forward through the burning camp, dodging falling debris and panicked soldiers. All around them, the heat was unbearable. Daemon's lungs burned with every breath, and his heart pounded in his chest, terror coursing through his veins.

The dragon's roar split the night again, and Daemon saw it swoop low over the camp. Its fiery breath consumed tents, men, and horses in a single sweep, the flames erupting like waves of death. A pang of terror—deep, primal, and overwhelming—gripped him. The sheer power of the beast left him in awe, and tears welled up in his eyes from the heat and fear.

"Come on!" Alyn urged, his grip on Daemon's arm like iron. "We're almost there!"

They finally reached the makeshift stables, where a few horses still remained, stamping and snorting in fear. The officers quickly mounted, their faces grim and ashen.

Harry grabbed Daemon's reins, his eyes full of desperation. "Get him on a horse!" Harry barked, though his voice betrayed the terror that none of them could hide.

Daemon swung onto a horse, his hands shaking as they gripped the reins. His heart raced as he struggled to focus, his mind still spinning from the shock of it all.

As they began to ride out of the camp, the devastation behind them seemed unreal. The entire camp was aflame, a hellish inferno consuming everything in its path. The proud banners of the Golden Company were now reduced to embers drifting on the wind.

Daemon glanced back and saw the dragon again, hovering over the camp like a shadow of death. Its black wings beat the air, stirring the flames even higher, and its roar echoed in his ears—a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

"Ride!" Harry shouted, urging his horse forward. The horses galloped across the burning plain, away from the destruction, away from the dragon.

=====

The group rode in silence, their faces pale and their minds numb with shock. The fire roared behind them, casting a flickering, hellish glow across the darkened plains, but none of them spoke. 

What could they say? 

They had been utterly crushed—not by men, not by steel, but by a dragon. It was something out of nightmares, something they had never been prepared to face.

"We're... we're done for," one of the officers muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "A dragon... a dragon..."

Harry Strickland shot him a furious glance. "Shut up! We'll find a way. We just need to get Daemon out of here and regroup." His voice held a note of desperation, as though he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

Alyn, riding next to Daemon, glanced over at his friend, concern etched on his face. "Daemon, are you all right?"

Daemon couldn't respond. His chest ached, his throat was tight, and tears streamed down his face, mixing with the soot and ash that clung to his skin. He didn't want this. He never wanted any of this. He wasn't meant to be a king, a conqueror. The weight of it all felt like it was suffocating him.

"We'll be all right," Harry said, though the doubt in his voice betrayed him. "We just need to keep moving."

They continued riding, the flames from their camp still visible in the distance, an inferno that lit up the night like a second sun on the horizon. The dragon's roar echoed in the distance.

"Riders!" one of the officers suddenly yelled, his voice cracking with panic.

Daemon's eyes shot to the side, and there, from the cover of the trees, riders emerged—silent, swift, and deadly. The moonlight gleamed off their armor as they closed in from both sides, tightening the noose around the fleeing group like wolves descending on helpless prey.

"Are they ours?" Harry Strickland shouted, his voice laced with desperate hope.

The answer came swiftly and brutally.

An arrow whistled through the air, its deadly point striking true. Daemon's breath caught in his throat as he watched in horror. The arrow embedded itself in Alyn's neck. Blood spurted from the wound in dark, violent gushes, and Alyn's eyes went wide, his hand flying up to clutch his throat. But it was too late.

A terrible, gurgling sound escaped Alyn's mouth, a desperate attempt to breathe, and then he slumped forward, his body slipping from the saddle. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, lifeless. His horse continued forward without him.

"Nooooo!" Daemon screamed, his voice cracking with anguish.

Alyn, his closest friend, his brother in arms, was gone.

"Keep riding!" Harry bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. He spurred his horse forward, urging Daemon to do the same.

Daemon's throat tightened as more arrows whistled through the air, striking men one by one. The riders—swift and relentless—closed in, picking them off with terrifying precision.

Harry fought fiercely, his sword flashing in the moonlight as he cut down one of the attackers. Another officer, a burly man named Cedric, swung his axe with deadly force, gutting a rider in a single blow. But it didn't matter. More enemies surged from the trees. It was a flood they couldn't stop.

"We can't hold them off!" one of the officers shouted, his voice shaking with panic.

"Fall back and fight them!" another yelled, trying to rally the men. But it was useless. There were too many. The group was vastly outnumbered, and the riders were ruthless.

"We need to protect Daemon!" Harry roared.

One of the older captains, his face grim with resignation, turned to Harry. "We'll hold them off. You take the boy and go. We'll give you time!"

"No!" Daemon cried, his voice cracking with desperation. "You can't!"

But the men had already made their decision. Without hesitation, they turned their horses and charged into the fray, swords raised. They knew what awaited them, but they were determined to buy Harry and Daemon every precious second they could.

Daemon could only watch in disbelief as they rode into certain death.

Harry grabbed Daemon's reins, yanking his horse forward. "Don't look back!" he ordered, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't look!"

Daemon's mind reeled. This couldn't be real—this was a nightmare, a twisted, terrible dream from which he couldn't wake. He wanted to scream, to fight, but his body wouldn't respond. All he could do was cling to the reins of his horse and ride.

Tears streamed down his face. His chest ached, the weight of guilt and grief pressing down on him like a crushing force.

Behind him, the sounds of battle grew fainter, and Daemon knew what that meant. The men who had sworn to protect him were dead, sacrificed so that he and Harry could escape.

Daemon swallowed the lump in his throat, his mind numb, his heart hollow.

.

.

.

Daemon and Harry rode on, the sound of hooves pounding against the ground beneath them. The distant roar of the dragon still echoed behind, but as they pushed further, the horizon seemed to open up, the firelight dimming in the distance.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Daemon allowed himself to believe they had escaped. His breath was ragged, his heart racing, but the flat, open landscape stretching ahead offered a deceptive sense of safety. It was too exposed.

"We need to head for the hills," Harry said, pulling his horse to a sudden stop. His eyes darted nervously to the barren plains around them. "The mountains can give us cover."

Daemon nodded numbly, his thoughts still swirling with the chaos they'd just fled—the camp burning, men screaming, the dragon's unrelenting fury. His hands trembled as they clutched the reins, his knuckles white.

Then, they heard it.

A roar—deep, guttural, and bone-shaking. It rumbled across the land, so loud that the very earth beneath them seemed to tremble in response.

The sound pierced the air, monstrous and primal, sending a cold shiver down Daemon's spine. His heart clenched, and his hands began to shake violently, gripped by a terror he couldn't control.

"Ride, Daemon! Ride!" Harry screamed, his voice cracking with desperation, his own fear barely contained.

But Daemon couldn't move. He was frozen, paralyzed, his mind struggling to grasp the sheer enormity of the situation.

The dragon was enormous—far larger than he remembered from just moments ago. Its scales were as black as the night itself, rippling under the moonlight, which glinted off its ridged armor-like body. It looked more like a creature from a nightmare than something real.

The dragon circled them slowly, its wings beating the air, creating gusts of wind that sent dust and debris flying around them like a whirlwind. Each flap of its wings was like the sound of thunder, heavy and ominous.

For a brief moment, it hovered overhead—massive and menacing. Then, with a terrifying roar, the dragon reared back its head, its glowing maw opening wide, revealing the fiery inferno within.

Daemon's breath hitched as the beast unleashed its fury. Flames exploded from its jaws, shooting toward the ground with terrifying speed.

In an instant, they were surrounded. A wall of fire erupted around them, forming a blazing ring of death that encircled Daemon and Harry, trapping them. The flames roared higher and higher, crackling and hissing like a hungry beast.

The heat was unbearable, scorching their faces and sending waves of blistering air over them. Daemon could feel the searing intensity, the raw power of the dragon's wrath. It was as if the very air had turned to fire, the flames closing in on them with terrifying hunger.

The dragon's roar and the intense heat spooked Daemon's horse. It reared up, its eyes wild with terror, and before Daemon could react, he was thrown from the saddle. He hit the ground hard with a painful thud, the impact knocking the wind out of him. For a moment, he lay there, gasping for air, his body stunned by the fall.

"Daemon!" Harry yelled, quickly dismounting and rushing to his side. He grabbed Daemon's arm, his grip firm as he tried to pull him to his feet. "Get up!"

But Daemon couldn't move—his gaze was fixed on the sky, his eyes widening in sheer horror. Above them, the monstrous shape of the dragon loomed, silhouetted against the moonlit clouds.

It was descending.

The enormous beast dropped from the sky with a thunderous crash, its massive weight shaking the ground beneath them. The impact sent tremors through the earth, and Daemon felt the force of it vibrate through his bones.

The sheer size of the dragon was overwhelming. Its wings, dark and leathery, were still spread wide as it landed, creating gusts of wind that stirred the air. Its claws dug deep into the earth, carving long, jagged lines in the ground. Its head, crowned with sharp horns, slowly swiveled toward them, smoke curling from its nostrils as its glowing green eyes locked onto them.

Then, through the haze of fear, Daemon saw something that made his blood run cold.

There was a rider.

"There's a rider," Harry muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. His disbelief was palpable, as if speaking the words aloud only made the nightmare worse.

Daemon's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the dark figure dismounting from the dragon. The only light came from the blazing ring of dragonfire surrounding them, casting a flickering glow on the rider. He moved with slow, deliberate steps, the firelight reflecting off his black armor, making him seem less like a man and more like a demon from the Seven Hells.

The helm that crowned his head was monstrous, shaped like the snarling head of a wolf, its gleaming fangs giving the rider an even more terrifying presence. As the dragon spread its wings and let out a deafening roar, the flames surged higher, illuminating the scene with an eerie, otherworldly glow. From Daemon's perspective, it looked as though the rider himself had wings, stretching out behind him.

The heat was unbearable, the air thick with smoke and ash. Daemon could feel the scorch of it on his skin, the intensity of the flames making it hard to breathe. His body trembled—not from the heat, but from the overwhelming fear coursing through him.

The rider advanced, carrying a massive warhammer in his hand. Each step he took was measured, deliberate, as if he knew there was no escape for the two men standing before him. The hammer looked capable of crushing bone and steel alike, yet the rider wielded it effortlessly.

Fear gripped Daemon's heart like a vice. His legs felt like lead, frozen in place. He wanted to move, to flee, but he couldn't. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body refused to obey. Every fiber of his being was consumed by the terror the rider exuded. Behind the figure, Daemon could hear the dragon breathing—each exhale a low, hissing rumble, as if the beast was toying with them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Beside him, Harry drew his sword, the steel trembling in his hand. He glanced at Daemon, his voice frantic and urgent. "Daemon, draw your sword! Now!" he shouted, panic clear in his eyes.

Daemon's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of Blackfyre, but it felt as though the blade weighed a thousand stones. His fingers trembled, barely able to grip it. The legendary sword felt foreign in his grasp, as though it belonged to another man.

Without hesitation, Harry took a deep breath and charged forward, his sword held high. "You'll not take him, beast!" he bellowed, rushing toward the armored rider with desperate fury. Daemon watched in helpless horror as the two figures collided.

The rider's movements were swift, almost too fast for Daemon to comprehend. Harry slashed with all his might, but the rider sidestepped with ease, his dark armor gleaming in the firelight. In one fluid motion, the rider swung his warhammer with brutal precision, bringing it crashing down on Harry's sword arm.

The sickening crunch of bone breaking filled the air. Harry screamed in agony, his sword slipping from his grasp as his arm went limp. But before Harry could even react or recover, the rider swung again, his warhammer aimed mercilessly at Harry's head.

The blow landed with a gruesome thud.

Harry crumpled to the ground, his skull caved in, his body lifeless. Blood sprayed across the dirt, mingling with the ash and flames that danced around them. The sight of Harry's broken body—his mentor lying dead at the rider's feet—made Daemon's stomach lurch. He could feel bile rising in his throat as he stared in disbelief, his mind struggling to process the horror of what had just happened.

His heart pounded violently in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as panic set in. Without thinking, Daemon turned to flee. His movements were frantic, clumsy. In his blind terror, Blackfyre slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly to the ground.

His legs felt like jelly, his muscles refusing to cooperate as he stumbled forward. He fell to his knees, his hands scrabbling in the dirt as he desperately tried to get back up. His mind was a blur, filled with nothing but the primal instinct to survive, to run, to escape.

He could hear the rider's slow, measured footsteps behind him, the crunch of boots on dirt, and the ominous clang of the warhammer dragging against the ground.

Then something inside him shifted. A spark of bravery—or perhaps desperation—flared in his chest. He couldn't die like this. He wouldn't. He wouldn't die a coward, running with his back to his enemy. His blood was that of the great Daemon Blackfyre. He had been born for more than this.

Daemon stopped, his heart pounding so violently that it felt as if it would burst from his chest. He turned, his eyes frantically scanning the ground for Blackfyre, the symbol of his family's claim to the Iron Throne.

There. Just a few paces away, lying in the dirt.

His breath quickened, anger and resolve burning through the overwhelming fear. He would not be remembered as a craven. If he was to die, it would be like a warrior.

Without a second thought, Daemon sprinted toward the sword, his eyes locked on the gleaming hilt. His hand stretched out, desperate to grasp it. But just as his fingers brushed the cool metal, an agonizing pain shot through his side.

The rider was upon him.

With terrifying speed, the rider delivered a brutal kick to Daemon's chest. The force of it sent him sprawling backward, his body slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. All the air was knocked from his lungs, leaving him gasping, his vision swimming as the world around him spun.

The taste of blood filled his mouth as he lay there, staring up at the rider—a towering figure silhouetted against the backdrop of flames and smoke, his warhammer resting menacingly by his side. Daemon's chest heaved as he tried to draw breath, his limbs refusing to move.

Daemon reached out, his fingers trembling as they neared Blackfyre. It lay just inches from his grasp. But before his hand could close around the hilt, the rider's heavy boot came down, crushing Daemon's hand beneath it.

Daemon screamed in agony, his body writhing on the ground, but the rider didn't move. The pressure on his hand increased, bones cracking under the weight. The pain was overwhelming, clouding his vision, but through it all, he heard the cold, metallic voice of the rider through his helm.

"FInally Blackfyre returns to its rightful place," the rider said, his tone emotionless.

Daemon's eyes widened as the rider bent down and picked up Blackfyre, lifting it effortlessly. The rider studied the sword for a moment, turning it over in his hand as if weighing its worth.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the rider turned his gaze back to Daemon, his helm still obscuring his face, save for the haunting glow of the flames reflected in his eyes.

"Ah, you must be... let me guess," the rider said, amusement creeping into his voice. "Daemon Blackfyre."

He chuckled darkly. "Of course, they would name you that." The rider laughed, a cold, mocking sound that cut through the suffocating heat.

Daemon glared up at him, every breath a struggle as his chest heaved, trying to manage the searing pain in his hand and the weight of his defeat. His vision blurred with tears of frustration and pain, but even through the haze, anger flared in his eyes.

"Why?" he managed to rasp, his voice barely above a whisper.

The rider laughed, the sound hollow and cruel. Slowly, he lifted his hand to remove his helm, revealing a man with dark hair and piercing gray eyes. His face was sharp, regal.

"My name is Maekar Targaryen," the rider said, his voice no longer muffled by the helm but still carrying the same chilling tone. "Son of Lyanna Stark."

Daemon's heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening in disbelief.

A Targaryen… he thought, shock rippling through him. The dragon that had decimated his camp, the ruthless rider standing over him—everything made sense now. Blackfyre glittered menacingly in Maekar's hand as if it had always been meant for him.

"Like I said before," Maekar continued, his voice softening slightly as he glanced at the blade, "Blackfyre has returned to its rightful place."

He turned his gaze back to Daemon, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—pity, perhaps. "You look the same age as me," Maekar remarked, his voice almost contemplative. "Such a shame."

Daemon's anger, his hate, all the fire that had once fueled him, began to ebb away, replaced by a cold, creeping fear. The Blackfyre name—it had been a burden he had never asked for. It wasn't glory or power that he had longed for.

His voice trembled as he spoke, desperation seeping into his words. "Let me go," Daemon pleaded, tears brimming in his violet eyes. "I didn't want this. I don't care about the throne... I just... I just wanted to see the world..."

His words hung in the air, a plea for mercy, for freedom from the weight of a name he never chose. He looked up at Maekar, hoping, praying that there was some trace of mercy in the man before him.

Maekar's expression hardened. "You know I can't do that."

The finality in his tone crushed whatever sliver of hope Daemon had clung to. He lowered his head, the weight of inevitability settling over him like a shroud. He had always known, deep down, that his life would end this way. His fate had been sealed the moment he was born with the Blackfyre name. He had never been meant to live a full life.

Slowly, Daemon pushed himself up, kneeling before Maekar, his head bowed in submission. This was it. He took a deep breath, accepting the death he had spent his life running from.

"Make it quick," Daemon whispered, his voice hollow.

Maekar didn't hesitate. He positioned Blackfyre at Daemon's neck, the blade cold against his skin. Daemon closed his eyes, a strange sense of peace washing over him. It was over. The burden of his name, his lineage—it would die with him.

"Rest in peace, Daemon Blackfyre," Maekar said quietly.

With one swift motion, Maekar brought the sword down.

Daemon Blackfyre saw nothing but darkness.

.

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The next chapter will be released in a week as I will be taking a break.