The Black Forest was silent—eerily so. Beneath the canopies of ancient trees, where sunlight barely touched the forest floor, hundreds of cloaked figures waited in disciplined silence. The moss-covered stones beneath their feet hadn't felt this many warriors since the War of the Pale Crown. Now, they stirred again with purpose.
Arthur stood at the edge of a crumbling stone outpost, his black-and-crimson coat flaring slightly in the cool wind. His golden-red eyes scanned the line of his most loyal fighters—trained, hardened, and unseen by the world.
He raised one gloved hand. "Come on, get up. The slumber ends tonight."
All around him, men and women stood to attention. Some with axes. Some with blades forged in secret forges beneath the Empire's heel. Others with bows, their arrows already dipped in oil, ready to set fire to the old world.
"Send the signal," Arthur said coldly. "All outposts. Every cell. Tell them—they are free to attack."
There was no battle cry. No mad cheering. Only a grim nod from his captains and the silence of death settling over the glade. Within moments, red flares shot into the sky—one by one—streaks of crimson flame arcing into the air like bleeding stars.
Across the Empire… all hell broke loose.
**
In Marenth, the bell tower was the first to fall. A single explosive charge, set under the foundation, sent the structure toppling into the governor's manor. The ground quaked as the marble face of Lady Averyn's statue shattered in the dust. Rebel fighters emerged from sewer grates and supply wagons, tossing firebombs into guard barracks. Screams followed. The revolutionaries didn't fight like soldiers—they fought like ghosts. Fast, precise, brutal.
In Farreach, the vineyards ran red with blood instead of wine. The estate of Lord Belmont, known slaver and confidant of the Imperial Treasury, was set ablaze by his servants, many secretly trained by Arthur's agents over the past year. As the nobleman tried to escape through a secret passage, he found the exit caved in… and a note waiting for him:
"The forest remembers."
In Alborak, a church bell tolled seven times—an ancient code. On the eighth, fire erupted across the church square. The revolutionary fighters emerged from the cathedral itself, disguised as monks, slaughtering the bishop and his Acadian guards in their sleep. The sigil of the Obsidian Faith was ripped from the church doors and replaced with Arthur's: a black wolf, crowned in thorned roses.
But the deadliest strike of all was in the capital's shadow—at the outer prison complex known only as The Dungeon.
**
Arthur moved with surgical precision. Ten of his best, cloaked in dark leather, followed behind. The dungeon was buried beneath a waterfall, its entrance disguised as a collapsed mine shaft. Only a handful in the Empire even remembered its existence.
As Arthur's blade flashed in the dark, slicing the throats of sentries who never even had time to gasp, his lieutenant, Mira, whispered beside him.
"You're sure they're here, commander,"
"I am, " Arthur replied, voice low. "We'll need them soon. The next phase begins with them."
The wind was screaming tonight.
Cold. Bitter. Full of ghosts.
Torchlight wavered as Arthur stepped into the stone corridor, his heavy boots echoing through the hall like a death toll. Behind him, his rebels followed—silent, blades still slick from the carnage above. The revolution had begun. Cities were burning. Bastards were rising. Kings were falling.
And here, deep beneath the moss-choked ruins of a forgotten keep, lay the one relic Arthur sought not to destroy… but to awaken.
A rebel halted at a sealed iron gate, rusted with centuries of neglect.
"Sir," he whispered. "He's here."
Arthur approached. Eyes like molten gold fixed on the cell.
He saw a shadow stir behind the bars. Just a whisper of movement. A man long stripped of pride, of title, of purpose.
Arthur drew no sword. No threat was needed.
He placed a hand upon the lock.
With a flash of red, the magic seal broke. Dust coughed from the hinges as the gate creaked open.
The man inside squinted into the torchlight. Thin, beard-like white thorns, bones sharp beneath his skin… yet in his eyes: calculation. Still alive. Still watching.
"Otto Hightower," Arthur said quietly.
Otto blinked. His voice rasped like a dead raven's wing. "That… name still breathes in this world?"
Arthur stepped in. "Barely. You were erased from history. Buried. But I dig up the forgotten."
Otto studied him. "Who are you to speak like a prince?"
Arthur leaned in, face half-shadowed.
"You'll know soon enough."
He turned to his rebels. "Blindfold him. Shackles on. Take him. His mind is worth more than any castle."
The men moved quickly. Otto didn't resist. He almost… smiled.
As they lifted him, he muttered, "I warned them. About dragons. About bastards. And no one listened."
Arthur's gaze flicked. "Maybe now they will."
With Otto and his two cellmates in tow, the rebels exited, torches burning as they made their way into the storm.
Behind them, Arthur raised a hand.
The dungeon trembled as fire spilled through cracks. The ancient stones cracked, screaming their last breath.
They vanished into the forest.
Dragonstone – High Tower of Records
Daemon slammed the book shut.
His silver hair was wild, his eyes bloodshot. Pages had been torn from the family records—deliberate omissions. Whole years erased.
He'd read of an uprising. A boy with golden-red eyes. A ghost leading men from the ashes.
Dragonstone – The War Room of Daemon Targaryen
Lightning cracked across the sky, sending webs of white light skittering across the obsidian towers of Dragonstone. The wind howled outside like a dying beast, and within the stone halls, the air was thick—tense. As if the island itself could sense what was coming.
Daemon Targaryen stood near the ancient war table, staring down at the dragon-carved map. He was alone… until the door burst open with a violent gust of wind.
A young knight stumbled inside, rain-soaked and breathless, eyes wide with urgency.
"Sire! Forgive the intrusion, but… You must hear this."
Daemon turned slowly, his silver hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot from hours of reading the old tomes and ravings of his ancestors.
"Speak."
The knight knelt, his voice shaking. "Seven towns, my prince. Seven. Struck in a single night. Fires—everywhere. Entire districts razed. The governors… slain. Their heads were put on spikes."
Daemon narrowed his eyes, stepping forward. "Struck by whom?"
The knight shook his head. "We don't know—hooded men. No banners. But they moved like shadows, like phantoms. They came, they slaughtered, and vanished."
Another lightning strike lit up the room.
"There's more," the knight said. "The dungeon beneath Black Hollow was breached. Five prisoners… are missing."
Daemon's voice dropped, low and deadly. "Who?"
The knight swallowed.
"…Otto Hightower was among them."
For a moment, the room fell deathly still. You could hear the storm hissing beyond the glass, like a dragon exhaling mist.
Daemon's brow furrowed in disbelief. "That old vulture was supposed to be dead. He's been rotting there for over a decade."
The knight lowered his eyes. "Yet… he is gone. And there's something else. We believe it is all connected. The fires. The attacks. The dungeons."
He turned abruptly, grabbing his black cloak and sword.
"Get me my brother. Immediately." His voice thundered like a war horn.
"Yes, the King!" Daemon snapped. "And tell him to call the Dragon Knights to arms. I want every winged bastard we have prepped for flight by dawn."
He stepped onto the balcony, rain pelting down like razors. In the distance, the volcanoes of Dragonstone glowed with ominous red pulses.
He raised his voice toward the sky.
"Bring me Caraxes!"
A shriek ripped through the heavens, and from the clouds came a flash of scarlet wings. The monstrous, twisted beast descended, its sinewy neck coiling like a serpent, jaws steaming with heat.
Daemon didn't flinch. His dragon landed before him, shuddering the very stones of the keep.
Far away, beneath the burning trees of the Black Forest, Arthur stood before a gathering of his commanders. Hooded figures knelt before him in silence, their blades still fresh with blood, their armor scorched with soot.
Torchlight flickered on Arthur's face, illuminating those infamous eyes—one gold, one red. The eyes of prophecy. The eyes of wrath.
Beside him, Otto Hightower sat in chains, but his head was raised, watching the new world take shape before his ancient eyes.
"The realm is awakening," Arthur said, voice calm and sharp as obsidian. "Let the dragons come. Let them roar."
He turned to his people.
"We are the storm now."
And in the distance, Dragonstone began to tremble.
The Red Keep – Small Council Chamber, Midnight
Thunder rolled over King's Landing, as if the sky itself braced for what had begun. The flames in the small council chamber cast flickering shadows on faces that had not slept. A storm brewed outside, but the storm inside had already begun.
The doors slammed open. Daemon Targaryen strode in, soaked from rain, his long silver hair matted to his face, cloak heavy with water. His eyes burned—not with fear, but purpose.
King Viserys sat at the head of the table. Lines of weariness etched deep into his face. The years had not been kind to the realm—or its king.
Viserys looked up slowly. "Brother," he said. "I assume you've heard."
Daemon nodded. "Seven towns. One night. Fire. Blood. And no banners."
The gathered councilmen—Lyonel Strong, Lord Beesbury, Lord Ormund Baratheon, and Alicent Hightower—sat in tense silence.
Viserys asked quietly, "What do you suggest?"
Daemon took a breath. "I believe this wasn't random. It's coordinated. Someone's orchestrating these attacks."
Lyonel frowned. "A rebellion?"
"Something like it," Daemon replied. "But not the usual sort. These aren't angry farmers with pitchforks. These are trained. Precise. And I believe I know the center of it all."
Viserys's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Daemon stepped forward. "A boy. Young. Hooded. Golden-red eyes. My spy saw him heading into the Black Forest weeks ago. Right before all this began."
Viserys blinked, his cup halfway to his lips. "Golden and red? Are you certain?"
Daemon nodded. "He's not flying any banner. No name. But the men follow him like zealots. He's dangerous and charismatic. And now—he's moving like a general."
Lyonel asked, "You think this… boy is behind it all?"
"I think he's a spark," Daemon said. "And someone lit the kindling. Whether he's alone or backed by someone greater, I don't know yet. But he's out there, and I want to find him."
Viserys looked at him. "And you're asking to go?"
Daemon's voice dropped. "Yes. Let me ride out. Let me find him. Burn this rebellion before it spreads."
Viserys raised a brow. "Why you?"
Daemon hesitated only a second.
"Because," he said, "whoever he is, he's making it personal. And I intend to return the favor."
Alicent's eyes narrowed. "You don't even know his name."
Daemon met her gaze. "Names don't matter when your towns are on fire."
Viserys considered for a long moment, his fingers tapping softly on the armrest.
"You'll take sixty Dragon Knights. No less," he said. "And you'll take Caraxes. Find out who he is. If he's real, if he's mad, or if someone else is pulling the strings."
Daemon nodded once, tight-lipped. "I'll leave by dawn."
As he turned to go, lightning cracked outside the tower windows.
Behind him, the council murmured. Names were whispered—rebellion, sorcery, even prophecy—but none dared say what Daemon suspected least of all.
That the boy he sought… was not born of this age.
The Dragonpit – Pre-dawn
The rain had become a mist. The city, though bruised by whispers of revolt, still slept. But not Daemon.
He stood before the iron gates of the Dragonpit, armor dark as blood. The breath of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, steamed through the bars like the exhale of hell itself. Its eyes gleamed, slitted and knowing, watching its rider with burning anticipation.
Daemon stepped forward. No saddle. No bridle. Only fire and fate.
He placed a hand on the great beast's scaled snout and whispered in the old tongue:
"Vezof jin azantys, Caraxes. Kesīr nyke ōdrikagon. Skoros morghūljagon."("Wake, my knight, Caraxes. Today we fly. Today we kill.")
Caraxes let out a bellowing roar that shook the ancient stone foundations of the Dragonpit.
Daemon mounted without pause, and the chains were released.
With a sound like a hundred warhorns crying at once, Caraxes surged skyward, splitting the sky with his wings as thunder cracked behind them. Below, sixty Dragon Knights on black warhorses, armored in Targaryen crimson and obsidian, rode out in formation, headed for the rebel strongholds rumored to lie along the outer river valleys.
Hours Later – The First Stronghold
A rebel outpost in the ruined watchtower of Vane's Crossing, nestled in thick woods.
They never heard the dragon's scream until it was too late.
The sky turned red as Caraxes dove from the clouds, flames spewing from his mouth like a god's wrath, consuming wooden palisades, men, horses, and everything in between.
Daemon rode low in the saddle, directing the fire with vicious precision. He was not here to warn. He was here to annihilate.
"Dracarys!" he roared in Valyrian, again and again.
His knights followed on the ground, slicing through fleeing rebels with swift cruelty. The cries for mercy were lost in the roar of wings and the hiss of melting flesh.
One of the captured rebel scouts, half-burned and weeping, was dragged before Daemon.
"Who do you follow?"
The man spat blood. "He has no name. Just eyes like a god. Golden and red."
Daemon's lip curled. "Gods die."
He thrust his blade through the man's heart without hesitation.
Meanwhile – Black Forest Rebel Camp
Smoke had begun to rise on the southern horizon. Arthur stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below, arms folded behind his back. His cloak fluttered in the wind. The smell of char and ash carried to even this place.
"Dragonfire," one of the rebels muttered beside him.
Arthur said nothing for a long while.
Then he turned and said calmly, "So… the Prince finally moves."
Another rider came from the eastern post, breathless. "My lord. Three of our camps. Burned to the ground. Only ashes left. It's him. The rogue prince. The dragon rides."
Arthur narrowed his golden-red eyes.
"He's trying to provoke me," he said.
One of his lieutenants, hooded in brown leather, asked, "Shall we strike back?"
Arthur looked to the horizon again. "No. Not yet. He thinks I'm just another rebel… Let him believe it."
He turned to them all.
"Double the guard. Move the relics. Prepare for the next phase. And send word to the Deep Hollow— the prisoner must be prepared."
They saluted.
As he walked back into the shadows of the trees, Arthur murmured to himself in an ancient tongue no one around him could understand:
"Skoriot iksos nykēla, naejot moriot."("Let them think they are hunting. Until they become the hunted.")
The Riverlands – Outskirts of Haywell
The skies were blood-red by the time Daemon's hunt entered its third day. Caraxes flew like a demon unleashed from the pits of Valyria, a living tempest of death. Below, the Dragon Knights moved like wolves through a flock, torching, pillaging, and executing anyone suspected of aiding rebels.
And that suspicion was paper-thin.
Haywell was a sleepy village—wheat farmers, cattle herders, smiths. Children played with sticks and sang old songs. But one man had been seen offering bread to a rebel. That was enough.
The village was surrounded by sunrise. By mid-morning, it was in flames.
Daemon walked among the burning cottages, laughing as men and women screamed. A man ran past him, ablaze, and collapsed in a field of rye, twisting in agony.
Daemon tilted his head. "Smells like pork."
A Dragon Knight approached. "Sire, the elders are bound. Awaiting your word."
They were dragged before him—an old woman with gnarled hands, a one-eyed shepherd, a boy no older than twelve.
Daemon crouched before the boy, smiling gently.
"Did you offer food to a stranger?"
The boy trembled. "Yes, my prince… he looked hungry."
Daemon's smile widened. "Then you fed the flame."
He rose.
"Burn them. All of them."
The woman cried out, "You're no better than the monsters you hunt!"
He turned, eyes gleaming with something colder than rage—pleasure.
"I am the monster," he said, and gave the command.
Caraxes roared from above, flames pouring down like wrath from heaven, and the screams of Haywell became nothing more than embers on the wind.
Hours Later – A Scorched Hamlet
The peasants called him the Red Demon now. Some whispered prayers. Others fled before the banner of House Targaryen could be seen. But it didn't matter.
Daemon burned it all.
He slaughtered every able-bodied man in the next village, saying, "They might fight tomorrow, so I'll save us the trouble." Children who wept for their fathers were ignored. Old women who cursed him were struck down. Homes that had stood for generations became ash and memory.
A young Dragon Knight, barely sixteen, rode beside him as they moved on.
"Sire," he asked hesitantly, "what if… they weren't with the rebels?"
Daemon didn't turn to look at him. He only said, flatly:
"Then they'll think twice before sheltering wolves next time."
The boy paled, but said nothing more.
Behind them, the charred skeletons of villages stretched into the horizon like a trail of guiltless ruin. Mothers tried to flee with babes in arms, only to be mistaken for spies. Fathers begged for mercy. But Daemon had none to give.
Because deep in his heart, he believed something:
"If fire is the only thing they understand, then I'll teach them with an inferno."
Back in the Black Forest
Arthur stood at the edge of a cliff as riders returned, bloody and breathless.
"The villages are burning," one said. "The rogue prince has lost all restraint."
Another spat. "He's not after rebels anymore. He's purging the land."
Arthur turned to them.
"Good," he said.
The men looked confused. "Good?"
Arthur's golden-red eyes gleamed beneath his hood. "He's no longer fighting a war. He's leaving a legacy… of fear. Now the people will come to us."
He faced his generals.
"Spread word. We will take in those he burned. Feed them. Clothe them. Shelter them."
A rebel captain stepped forward. "But… why?"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Because when the realm looks for a savior from the fire, they'll look to us."
He turned away, cloak swirling.
"Let Daemon be the dragon. I will be the cure."
Meanwhile – Dragonstone
Viserys sat in silence as more reports arrived.
Villages gone. Temples destroyed. Towns turned to smoke.
He looked to Alicent, then to the flames in the hearth.
"What have we unleashed?"
The skies cracked with the thunder of wingbeats. Caraxes soared, red scales gleaming like molten metal beneath the sun. His tail swayed like a serpent in the air, wings cutting the clouds. On his back, Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, rode with a manic fire burning in his violet eyes.
Below him rode four squadrons of Dragon Knights, banners flapping in the wind—obsidian swords over crimson fields, House Targaryen's elite, armored and mounted, ready to purge the woods.
"Burn it all," Daemon whispered to Caraxes in High Valyrian, patting the beast's side. "No survivors this time."
The Black Forest stretched beneath them like a coiled beast, dark, ancient, haunted. The trees moved without wind. Crows fled the canopy. The air itself carried the taste of something… old.
"Sire," a Dragon Knight called below, "there! The rebel camp!"
Daemon's eyes narrowed. There was movement among the trees—torches, banners, figures with weapons. The time had come.
He pulled on the reins.
"Dracarys," he commanded, loud and furious.
From the edge of the forest, a figure stepped forth.
He wore a black cloak lined with fur. A sword hung from his hip, untouched. His eyes—golden and red—shone like twin suns bleeding across the earth. His hand was raised, palm open.
Arthur.
He looked up calmly. He spoke in Valyrian, not like a man learning it, but like one born from it—ancient, flawless, commanding:
"Skorion morghūltas. Rhaenys hen sȳndror. Obey."
("Death means nothing. Rhaenys of flame. Obey.")
Caraxes opened its mouth. The flame lit behind its throat.
Then… it stopped.
Mid-flight, Caraxes veered sharply to the right, causing Daemon to nearly lose his grip.
"What in the—?" Daemon steadied himself. "Caraxes! Focus!"
The dragon turned again—but not toward the rebels.
It turned toward the Dragon Knights.
Daemon's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Caraxes… no," he whispered. "What are you doing?"
Below, the Dragon Knights halted. Some raised shields in confusion, others lowered lances. They trusted the beast. They didn't fear it.
They should have.
Caraxes roared—not a roar of fury, but something primal, possessed. Its body twisted unnaturally, as if caught between two commands.
And then—the fire came.
A torrent of flame, wide and hot as a hundred furnaces, poured onto the Dragon Knights. Screams erupted as men and horses ignited in an instant. Plate armor glowed red-hot, fusing to skin. Banners turned to cinders. Cries for mercy were drowned beneath the inferno.
Daemon screamed.
"CARAXES! STOP! OBEY ME!"
But the Blood Wyrm wouldn't listen. As the Blood dragon flew back to the dragon's keep.
The Unthinkable
Caraxes did not slow.
Daemon frowned. "Caraxes? Pull up."
The dragon ignored him.
"Caraxes, pull up!" Daemon snapped again.
Still nothing.
The beast's breathing had become erratic, its wings rigid. Its eyes—wide and wild. Something was wrong. It was as if—
BOOM!
With a thunderous, world-shattering crash, Caraxes slammed headfirst into the gates of Dragonskeep, its massive body splintering the obsidian doors, cracking the outer wall, throwing debris into the air like volcanic shrapnel.
Daemon was hurled from the saddle like a ragdoll, his body skidding across the stone ground.
Guards screamed. Bells rang.
Smoke filled the courtyard. Flames licked from Caraxes's nostrils as the dragon twitched violently, confused, groaning in a strange sound of pain and rage.
Daemon lay still for a moment, groaning, blood on his lip. He rose, dazed, gripping his ribs.
"What the fuck was that?" he muttered, staggering toward the dragon.
Soldiers rushed forward, spears drawn—not at an enemy, but toward their own beast.
"My prince!" one yelled, "the dragon's gone mad!"
Daemon waved them off. "Don't touch him!"
But it was too late.
Caraxes let out a haunting, broken roar—then lifted its head, eyes now glowing faintly… gold. Not the red it once had. But gold—deep and ancient. Something else had taken hold.
Then the dragon collapsed.
Not dead.
But unconscious.
Unmoving.
Like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.