Game of Thrones: The Warmonger

The world around Daemon slowly came into focus as he emerged from the depths of unconsciousness. He found himself lying on a bed of damp earth, his body encased in the weighty embrace of his battle-worn armor. As his senses sharpened, he became aware of the acrid scent of smoke permeating the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

Drowsiness clung to him like a heavy shroud, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of his surroundings. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light that filtered through the thick canopy of trees above. The gloom of the Crownlands enveloped him, casting long shadows that danced eerily across the forest floor.

For a moment, Daemon's heart raced with uncertainty as he tried to recall the events that led him to this place. His mind swirled with fragmented memories of a fierce battle, the clash of steel, and the resolute roar of his fallen leader, Apolyon. The echoes of his mentor's final moments reverberated in his thoughts.

As he struggled to rise, a surge of pain coursed through his body, a testament to the toll of the recent battle. His muscles ached, protesting each movement, and his armor felt like an oppressive weight, threatening to drag him back into the embrace of unconsciousness.

Gingerly, Daemon pushed himself up, his gloved hands finding purchase on the damp ground. He surveyed his surroundings, his gaze sweeping across the dense forest that stretched endlessly before him. Shafts of weak sunlight pierced through the thick foliage, casting sporadic patches of light on the forest floor.

Questions flooded his mind, intertwining with a sense of disorientation. Had they lost the battle? Had he fallen in combat, only to awaken in some strange afterlife? The uncertainty gnawed at him, urging him to seek answers and make sense of this bewildering new reality.

With a determined grunt, Daemon forced himself to his feet, his armor creaking in protest. Each step was a struggle, but he pressed on, his boots sinking into the soft ground. The forest seemed to close in around him threatening to swallow him whole.

 Daemon's senses sharpened, attuned to the subtle sounds of the forest. The trill of unseen birds, the distant howl of a wolf, and the gentle caress of the wind through the branches created a symphony of nature that seemed both familiar and foreign.

Daemon POV :

After what felt like an interminable journey, trudging through the dense forest, Daemon's weary steps finally led him to the outskirts of a village. The scent of smoke grew stronger, intertwining with his senses, providing a glimmer of hope that he was nearing civilization. He yearned for a place to rest and recover before embarking on his mission to search for survivors of the Blackstone Legion and rally their strength to reclaim Ashfield.

Lost in his thoughts and the weight of his purpose, Daemon was abruptly startled by the sound of rustling nearby. Instinctively, he dropped low and pressed himself against the side of the road, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. His senses sharpened as he scanned the area, only to discover a young boy, no older than thirteen, running frantically from the direction of the village.

The boy's tattered clothing clung to him, soaked in blood, and fear etched deeply into his dirt-streaked face. Acting on a mix of instinct and urgency, Daemon swiftly moved, grasping the boy by the neck and covering his mouth to stifle any potential screams. The boy's wide eyes mirrored his terror, but Daemon spoke with a firm yet reassuring tone.

"Listen, kid," Daemon whispered "I mean you no harm, but I need you to calm down and promise me you won't scream when I remove my hand, alright?" The boy, his fear momentarily subsiding, nodded with a rapidity reminiscent of a chicken pecking for grain.

Slowly and cautiously, Daemon released his grip, his hand sliding away from the boy's mouth, allowing him to breathe freely once more. He settled the boy in front of him, ensuring they were both eye to eye, their gazes locked in a moment of shared understanding.

The boy's ragged breaths gradually steadied as he regained some semblance of composure. His gaze flickered with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, as if trying to assess the intentions of this armored stranger before him. Daemon, recognizing the fragility of the moment, spoke in a low, comforting voice.

"I won't harm you, lad," he assured the boy, his words carrying a weight of sincerity. "But I need information. What has happened in the village? 

The boy's eyes welled with tears, his voice trembling as he recounted the horrors that had befallen the village. Bandits and deserters had occupied their once peaceful haven for two long weeks, leaving death and devastation in their wake. Half of the village lay in ruins, its inhabitants mercilessly slaughtered or forced into servitude. The boy had witnessed the atrocities firsthand, narrowly escaping their clutches, his innocence forever shattered.

Daemon's heart sank as he absorbed the weight of the boy's words "How many of them are there?"

The boy hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. "There are thirty men, some of them deserting knights among them," he replied, fear and resignation intermingling in his words. Daemon's mind raced, assessing the odds. Even in his prime condition, taking on more than three knights at once would be a perilous endeavor.

For a fleeting moment, the thought of fleeing with the boy crossed Daemon's mind. But then, a vivid image of Apolyon flashed before him—the unwavering warrior, the embodiment of strength and honor. He could almost hear her voice chastising him and beating him up for entertaining such thoughts, urging him to stand tall and fight.

With a deep sigh, Daemon rose to his feet, his eyes glinting with steely resolve. He turned to the boy, his voice laced with determination. "Stay here," he commanded firmly. "Warlord Apolyon, wait for me. I am joining you again soon."