Darkness. Suffocating, all-consuming darkness. Daemon gasped for air as consciousness slammed into him like a tidal wave. His head pounded, each throb sending shockwaves of agony through his skull. He tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.
Panic clawed at his chest, his heart racing as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Cold, hard stone pressed against his back, the chill seeping into his bones. The air was damp and musty, carrying with it the stench of mold and decay. "Where... where am I?" he thought, his mind reeling with confusion. "How did I get here? What's happening to me?"
He reached for memories, desperately grasping at the fragments of his past, but they slipped through his fingers like wisps of smoke. A deep, unsettling sense of loss settled in his gut, gnawing at his insides.
"I can't remember... my name, my home, the faces of those I love. It's all gone," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with fear and despair. All that remained was a vague recollection of filling out a CYOA, a choose-your-own-adventure story set in the world of Game of Thrones, before drifting off to sleep.
"Daemon! Daemon, are you alright?" a voice called out from somewhere nearby, the sound muffled and distant.
The name cut through the haze of his confusion, and suddenly, memories flooded his mind like a torrent. He saw a boy with silver-gold hair and light purple eyes, growing up in the shadow of a mountain keep. "Strongsong," he murmured, the name feeling familiar on his tongue. "The seat of House Belmore in the Vale of Arryn. That's... that's where I'm from."
He remembered a father, Lord Benedar Belmore, with a gruff visage and a strong build, and an older brother, Benedict, who favored their father's red hair and sturdy frame. "My family," he thought, a wave of emotion crashing over him. "I remember them now. But why can't I picture their faces clearly? It's like they're fading away, slipping through my grasp."
Memories of countless hours spent in the training yard, honing his skills with sword and shield, filled his mind. "I wanted to prove myself worthy of my noble birth, to prove I was worthy of something despite being a second son," he recalled, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "But what good did that do me? Where did it lead me?"
And then, the war came. The ravens brought word of Lord Jon Arryn's call to arms, and Lord Benedar rode south with his son, Daemon, as his squire. They were to secure Gulltown, to bring the rebellious Lord Marq Grafton to heel. But fate had other plans.
The ambush on the road to Gulltown was a blur of blood and steel. Daemon fought bravely beside his father, but in the end, they were overwhelmed. Beaten and bound, they were dragged before the Iron Throne by the sea, where the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen awaited their judgment.
Daemon's last memory was of the Black Cells, of the taste of blood in his mouth and the sound of his own screams as the guards beat him senseless for daring to insult the king. And then, nothing. Until now.
"Father?" Daemon croaked, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable to his own ears. "Is that you?"
"Daemon, thank the Seven," Lord Benedar's voice came again, clearer this time. "I thought they'd killed you, my boy."
Daemon struggled to sit up, his body protesting every movement. He blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness, but the cell remained shrouded in shadows. "Where are we?"
"The Black Cells, beneath the Red Keep," his father replied, his tone grim. "The Mad King ordered us to be put here while he thought of a way to make an example of us, I fear. You calling him mad did not help."
A shiver ran down Daemon's spine as the reality of their situation sank in. They were prisoners of the Iron Throne, at the mercy of a king known for his cruelty and madness. And yet, as he sat there in the darkness, Daemon couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to his predicament than met the eye.
He had died, he was certain of it. The injuries inflicted by the guards had been too severe, the loss of blood too great. And yet, here he was, alive and breathing, trapped in a body that both was and wasn't his own.
"Daemon, talk to me," Lord Benedar pleaded, his voice laced with concern. "Are you alright? Did those bastards hurt you in the head?"
"I'm fine, Father," Daemon replied automatically, not wanting to worry his father further. He silently cursed himself for his foolish outburst in front of the Mad King, knowing that his actions had sealed their fate. Instead of being treated as mere prisoners of war, they were now destined to become a brutal example of the king's wrath.
Daemon ran a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed against a deep gash above his brow. He brought his hand down, trying to check for blood, but the darkness of the cell made it impossible to see a fucking thing. He let out a frustrated grunt, his mind reeling from the implications. He wasn't of this world, this was a series of books!
"Stop it," he chastised himself silently. "Stop thinking about reincarnation and focus on getting out of this mess." He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. If he truly had been reborn into the world of Westeros, then he needed to take stock of his abilities and figure out how to use them to his advantage.
When he had filled the CYOA, he clearly remembered choosing Drawbacks, Talents and Blessings, one of these should help him get out of this situation somehow.
Daemon began to list his talents, recalling the choices he had made in the CYOA. Martial, Swordsmanship, Archery, Survival, Academics, Medical, Blacksmithing, Crafting Arts, Mystic, and Linguistic - each one a valuable asset in its own right. He pondered how he could leverage these abilities to escape the Black Cells and drew a blank, the increasing headache not helping his thoughts.
As he delved deeper into his memories, Daemon managed to remember the Blessings he had chosen. Pinnacle, Attractive, Magical, Blood Magic, Pyrokinesis, Ritualistic, and Runesmith - each one something he was sure he didn't have in his last life. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope amidst the despair of his current situation. "Yes, they could work" he muttered.
"Daemon, listen up," Lord Benedar urged, his voice echoing off the damp cell walls. "We need to get out of this hellhole, and fast. That mad bastard on the throne won't show us any mercy, not after that shitshow in court. Come on, think! Do you remember anything about the layout of this damn keep? Any weaknesses we can use to our advantage?"
Daemon's brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of his father's question. "Why would I know about the Red Keep's layout, Father? It's not like I've been here before."
Lord Benedar let out a frustrated sigh, the sound of him running a hand through his hair reached Daemon's ears as loud as his voice. "Maester Leopold, he told me you spent hours pouring over books about the construction of this place. I thought maybe, just maybe, you might have stumbled upon something that could help us get out of this fucking place."
A flicker of recognition sparked in Daemon's mind as he recalled the tales he had read, both in the previous life and this one. "Ah, yes. I remember now," he began, his voice taking on a somber tone. "Maegor the Cruel, that twisted son of a whore, he threw this grand feast for all the poor bastards who built the Red Keep. Three days of food, drink, and merriment, and then the fucker had them all killed at the end of it. Wanted to keep the secrets of the keep all to himself, the paranoid cunt."
Daemon paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "So, yeah, there aren't any records of the secret passages in this place. I know they're here, Maegor was paranoid, and probably they lead right out of these fucking cells, but I haven't got a clue where to find them."
Lord Benedar let out a heavy breath, the sound of a man whose hopes had been dashed. "Well, isn't that just fucking perfect," he muttered, his voice barely rising above the oppressive silence of the cell. "Guess we'll have to find another way out of this godsforsaken shithole."
But Daemon was not satisfied with giving up so easily. If they were going to die, he reasoned, he might as well do his best to explore the strange new abilities he seemed to possess. The Black Cells had no guards stationed directly outside each cell, only a few positioned at the sole entrance to this section of the dungeon. Giving him some much-needed privacy to experiment with his new powers.
Daemon rose to his feet, his hands outstretched as he cautiously navigated the darkness, seeking the cold, damp walls of his cell. When his fingers finally brushed against the rough stone, he followed the wall until he found a corner. Lowering himself to the ground, he sat cross-legged and closed his eyes, focusing inward.
He searched within himself, trying to sense something out of the ordinary, some hint of the magic that now coursed through his veins. If he could somehow gain a quick understanding of the Pyrokinesis Blessing, he might be able to conjure a flame to illuminate their surroundings. And, if he was incredibly lucky, that light might help him find a hidden passage or, at the very least, allow him to attempt to melt the lock on their cell door or the bars.
"Come on, come on," Daemon muttered under his breath, his brow furrowed in concentration. He visualized the flames, imagining the warmth and light they would bring to the oppressive darkness. He willed the fire to manifest, to dance upon his fingertips and cast a comforting glow within the confines of their prison.
As Daemon focused on a strange feeling of something hot coursing from his heart towards his hand, a faint swoosh sound filled the air, and a small flame flickered to life in his outstretched palm. His eyes widened, locked onto the mesmerizing sight before him. The light was faint, and the heat barely noticeable, but he had done it. He had magic! True magic!
A surge of happiness and giddiness welled up inside him, threatening to burst forth in laughter, but he quickly reined in his emotions. This was neither the place nor the time for such displays of joy. Still, he couldn't help but marvel at the way his Mystic Talent seemed to shine through, helping him instinctively get better at maintaining the flame with each passing second.
A quick thought - were the CYOA's Talents and Blessings more than their short descriptions said? He pushed it aside. Not now. His headache got worse, probably from using too much magic. "Focus, stupid," he muttered.
The flame's faint light guided him as he walked slow through the cell, eyes scanning the walls for any hidden switch. His free hand touched the rough stone, carefully feeling each brick, looking for anything strange. It couldn't be too easy, or anyone touching the walls would find a secret way out.
Daemon gritted his teeth as the pain behind his eyes got worse, his eyes darting across the cell walls. "That paranoid fuck Maegor had to have an escape plan if he was thrown in his own cells," he thought, his fingers tracing the rough stone. "No way he'd build this shithole without a way out for himself."
He kept searching, the headache growing almost unbearable. A strange emptiness crept over him, like he'd drained some vital resource inside, it was like a thirst, but not for water. Unable to keep the flame going, Daemon let it die out, plunging the cell back into darkness. Exhausted and frustrated, he lowered himself to the ground again, this time sitting to meditate.
"Daemon, what are you doing?" Lord Benedar's voice cut through the silence, tinged with concern. "I saw a light coming from your cell. What's going on?"
Daemon wasn't sure if he should tell his father about his magic powers. He knew he couldn't just explain the light, and he wanted to tell someone about the magic, who wouldn't? Despite having the knowledge he has lived a life in another world, he felt truly like Daemon Belmore, the man asking about his health was his father!
He took a deep breath and made up his mind. He'd tell his father the truth and hope he'd not lose his mind.
"Father," Daemon grunted, his voice straining, "before I say anything, I need to know... are we alone? Can anyone else hear us?"
"What's wrong, Daemon?" Lord Benedar asked, sounding worried. "You don't sound right. Are you hurt?"
"Just answer the damn question, Father," Daemon snapped, his patience wearing thin as the pounding headache kept getting stronger. "Please" he added lightly.
Lord Benedar paused, surprised by his son's harsh tone. "I... I can't be sure, but I've been yelling for help since they threw us in here. Not a single person has answered nor the guards came to shut me up. I think we're alone. Now, tell me what's going on."
Daemon took a shaky breath, his head pounding. "Father, I... I found out something that could help us get out," he started, his voice tight with pain. "Seems I've got some kind of magic in me. I made a flame in my hand, thought I could use it to find a way out or maybe melt the lock or the bars, not sure yet."
"Magic? Son, what are you talking about?" Lord Benedar asked, confused and worried. "Are you sure you're not just seeing things in the dark?"
"I'm not fucking seeing things, you yourself said you saw a light," Daemon growled, frustrated. "I did magic, real magic. But now my head feels like it's splitting open, and I can barely think straight."
The silence was heavy after Daemon's confession. When Lord Benedar finally spoke, his voice was full of disbelief and concern. "Magic, son? How? The Seven teach us that magic is dangerous and unpredictable, a sword without a hilt. Are you sure of what you saw?"
Daemon nodded, forgetting for a moment that his father couldn't see him in the dark. "I am, Father. It felt like nothing I've ever felt before. A warmth, a tingling all through my body as the flame came to life in my hand. It was real, I swear it. Dammit, you saw it too!"
He could hear his father's unease in the silence that followed. Finally, Lord Benedar spoke, his tone cautious and reluctantly accepting. "Daemon, be careful. The Seven warn us about the dangers of magic, and I fear what it could do to you. But if the gods have given you this power, then maybe it's for a reason. Just promise me that you'll use it wisely and not let it consume you."
Daemon felt relieved at his father's words. Not totally accepting his magic, but a step in the right direction. "I get it, Father. I'll be careful and only use this when I have to. I just couldn't hide it from you, not when it might be our only shot at getting out of here."
"Thanks for being honest, Daemon," Lord Benedar said, his voice softer. "Just... Please, watch yourself, son."
Daemon nodded, even though his father couldn't see in the dark. "I understand, Father. I'll be careful." With that, he closed his eyes again, focusing on his breath and the energy flowing inside him, hoping meditating would help him recover faster.
His head throbbed, the pain making it hard to think straight. He tried to push through, to find some clarity in the chaos of his thoughts. The CYOA, reincarnation, magic, the escape, the fear of what lay ahead - it all swirled in his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.
"Fuck," Daemon muttered under his breath, pressing his fingers to his temples. "This headache's killing me."
"Just rest, Daemon," Lord Benedar urged, concern heavy in his voice. "Don't push yourself too hard. We'll figure this out on time, but you need to take care of yourself first or you will make no progress at all."
Daemon wanted to argue, to insist that they needed to act fast, but he knew his father was right. He couldn't do anything if he was too weak to even stand. With a frustrated sigh, he settled back against the cold stone wall, letting the darkness envelop him as he tried to quiet his racing thoughts.
And here it comes another GoT/Asoiaf fic. This time I wanted to try something I rarely see for some reason. I filled out Valmar's Game of Thrones CYOA (Create Your Own Adventure) and found it pretty interesting to turn into a fic.
For those who don't know what a CYOA is, basically you create a character for a RPG, you have a set number of points and anything that improves this character costs points and anything that is bad for him gives you more points.
Don't take this story very seriously, I won't go bananas with it but the character has powers from some divinity far above Planetos' "gods". The idea is that this fic will eventually turn into a multicross. I haven't settled on what the next world will be, but for now I'm leaning on Dragon Age for the similarity in "time period". Maybe do something like crossing over worlds that get progressively more futuristic? Not sure yet.
I expect the GoT/Asoiaf part to last something between 100 and 150k words. I promise I won't touch any crossover until everything is settled in this world. you can most definitely read this story as a GoT/Asoiaf standalone and won't feel cheated. Once he leaves a world, it is gone, no coming back.
Here is the build of this character:
The character:
-Male
-Teen
-Insert
Time Period:
-Reign of Madness
Items:
-Wanderer Cloak;
-Eros Earrings;
-Compass;
-Flask;
-Firestarter;
-Magical Mirror;
-Pack of Holding;
-Tent;
-Self-Filling Map;
-Hammer;
-Mortar and Pestle;
Blessings:
-Pinnacle;
-Attractive;
-Magical;
-Blood Magic;
-Pyrokinesis;
-Ritualistic;
-Runesmith;
Talents:
-Martial;
-Swordsman;
-Archery;
-Survival;
-Academics;
-Medical;
-Blacksmithing;
-Crafting Arts;
-Mystic;
-Linguistic;
Location and Background:
- The Vale;
- Nobility;
Scenario:
-Captured;
Drawbacks:
-For now will keep them hidden to not let spoil some events
Quests:
- Dragonslayer;
- Tribes Downfall;
- Legendary Hero;
Rewards:
-For now will keep them hidden to not let spoil some events
Just a Heads up, Valmar has, as of first of may of 2024, updated his CYOA, which makes the build I'm using impossible to replicate as things just changed completely. If I fill the new version, I would have to change ALL of the story, so that won't happen.
Anyway, check out the updated CYOA by Valmar, it's awesome.