Night at Harrenhal
The night at Harrenhal was as dark as the depths of an unending nightmare, wrapped in an eerie silence broken only by the howling winds that slipped through the cracked walls, whispering secrets too dangerous to be spoken. This fortress was not merely ruins; it was a witness to massacres lost in time, its remains bearing the weight of a past drenched in blood and betrayal.
And in the heart of this desolation, where past and present intertwined, stood Daemon Targaryen, the master of this stormy night, staring at what should have been his. He sat upon the cold stone throne, his fingers tracing the hilt of "Dark Sister", the blade that had seen the fall of men and the collapse of empires.
His gaze was not upon the crumbling walls or the creeping shadows but upon something far beyond—an image that had haunted his thoughts endlessly… the Iron Throne, the seat he had never claimed. The seat that had been taken from him before he could ever reach for it.
"Aegon is king."
His voice was barely a whisper, as if uttering a cruel verdict against himself. Yet acknowledging the truth did not mean accepting it. A king was not merely the one crowned but the one who imposed his will upon the world. And the Iron Throne did not belong to the one who sat upon it—it belonged to the one strong enough to keep it.
"It should have been mine… If only Viserys had not been weak, if only he had not fallen for his council's deceit… if only Rhaenyra had never existed."
These thoughts burned in his mind like embers refusing to die, but they were not new to him. He had long felt his birthright slipping through his fingers, the throne always just beyond his grasp—like a mirage in an endless desert.
Slowly, he rose from his seat, his footsteps echoing in the abandoned hall, like the ghosts of the past whispering in the darkness. He approached the ancient table before him, where the map of the Seven Kingdoms lay spread out, ink and blood marking its surface. He studied the lines that traced the movement of armies, the shifting alliances, seeing not just a map but a fate written by another's hand.
His eyes fixed upon King's Landing, where the Iron Throne stood, where plots were spun in the shadows, and where the war he had long foreseen was already beginning to take shape.
"He inherited the throne… but he did not take it. And I?"
His words faded into the darkness, but they were clearer than ever. He knew the answer. His grip tightened around his sword, the same hand that had slain countless foes, the hand that had carved history with blood. But the sword alone was not enough. True power was not in the blade—it was in the will to use it.
And Daemon was not a man who feared wielding power.
His gaze returned to the map, but this time, it was no longer just a map. It was a path to his future, to the throne that was meant to be his.
"If not by right, then by fire. If not by inheritance, then by blood."
The words echoed in his mind like an ancient song, a song sung by dragons throughout the ages. The laws of rule were never written in ink but forged in fire and steel.
He straightened, as if the vision before him had finally sharpened into clarity. No more waiting. No more hesitation.
He stepped out into the courtyard, where the night exhaled its cold breath, and where Caraxes awaited—the dragon that had fought beside him in every battle, the only creature more loyal than any man ever could be.
The great beast lifted its wings, eyes burning like embers in the dark. Daemon approached, his hand brushing against the dragon's rough scales, feeling the untamed power beneath them.
"Is it time, old one?"
No answer came, but the deep exhalation from Caraxes' nostrils sent a wave of heat into the night air. It needed no words.
War had begun.
A faint smile played on Daemon's lips, as if he had finally found his path in the darkness.
"I thought so."
He raised his gaze toward the horizon, where the battles to come awaited, where fire and blood would soon become the only language spoken. There was no turning back now. History was not written by those who waited—it was shaped by those willing to seize it.
And Daemon was ready.
"The throne is not won through inheritance. It is taken by the sword, and the sword is only wielded by those worthy of it."
And so, on that long, dark night, Daemon Targaryen took his first step toward destiny, toward the Iron Throne, toward the fire that would not be extinguished until the world was set right.