Days, or maybe weeks or perhaps even moons passed, he couldn't be sure, and Daemon kept searching for a hidden passage or just practicing making the flame hotter, using his magic flame whenever he felt a flicker of strength return. Time blurred into an endless nightmare, marked only by the occasional scraps of moldy food tossed into their cell. No matter how much they begged the guards, they were met with cold, uncaring silence.
In the brief moments between searches, Daemon clung to his father's voice, desperately trying to hold onto hope. But even as his control over the flames grew, he couldn't make them hot enough to do a damn thing to the bars or lock.
"Fuck!" Daemon screamed inside, his frustration and despair threatening to tear him apart. "What's the point of this power if I can't even use it to save us? I'm useless, a fucking failure!" He dug his nails into his palms until it hurt, fighting the urge to break down completely. The Pinnacle Blessing kept him from wasting away, but it felt like a cruel joke in the face of their hopeless situation. His father's weakening voice and constant coughing only twisted the knife deeper.
One day, as they huddled in the suffocating darkness, Lord Benedar's voice, thin and frail as a dying man's, shattered the silence. "Daemon, my boy," he wheezed, each word a struggle, "I'm so sorry... for dragging you into this hell. I've failed you... as a father. I should've protected you, never let you... follow me into this madness. You're just a child... and I've doomed you. Forgive me, son... forgive me."
Daemon choked back a sob. "No, Father, don't say that. You haven't failed me. We'll get through this, together. We have to." He light up a fire strong enough to illuminate his father's cell in front of his.
Lord Benedar's hands were trembling, the skin paper-thin and pale. "I can feel the Stranger's icy grip, Daemon. My time... is running out."
Tears streamed down Daemon's face, his heart shattering at the thought of losing his father. "No, you can't die, not here, not like this! Please, Father, hold on. For me."
A rasping, mirthless laugh escaped Lord Benedar's lips. "The Mad King... he's forgotten us, lost in his own twisted world. Once, he dreamed of greatness... now, only nightmares remain."
Daemon wished the flame hotter, trying to make the heat reach his father cell. "I'll get us out of here, Father. I swear it. I won't let you die in this godforsaken place."
"Don't swear on what you can't deliver, the God's may punish you if you do. I'm afraid there is no time left for me, my son," Lord Benedar replied, his voice growing weaker by the moment. "And none of this is your fault. Before I leave this world, there is one thing I must ask of you."
"Anything," Daemon choked out, tears now streaming freely down his face.
"Let go of any thoughts of vengeance, Daemon, what is done is done. Focus on living your own life to the fullest. Promise me that."
"I promise, Father," Daemon whispered the lie, his heart breaking with each word.
"You are a good kid," came the faint reply, and then, silence.
"Father? No, no, no! Don't leave me!" Daemon screamed, his soul shattering while his magic sang. "Father! Father! Help! Someone!" He kept shouting and banging the bars, but no one came.
Grief, despair, and all-consuming rage boiled inside him, his magic surging through his veins like molten agony. He clenched his fists, nails tearing into his palms, blood dripping onto the cold stone.
Pressing his bloodied hands against the lock, Daemon roared, "Burn, you fucking piece of shit! Burn!"
His blood ignited, searing the metal, the lock melting in a hissing, sizzling puddle. "You killed him, you bastards! I'll fucking destroy you!"
Blinded by fury, both at the situation and himself for not attempting to use his blood to enhance his magic before, Daemon kicked the door with all his might. It flew open, the bang echoing like a clap of thunder.
Daemon was a force of nature, grief and anger transformed into destructive power. The promise to his father crumbled, consumed by the need for vengeance. "I'll make the King pay, Father. I'll make all the Targaryens fucking pay!"
He stepped forward, hands clenched, chest heaving. The Black Cells had held him, but now they'd witness his wrath.
Daemon burst through the cell door, his blood-fueled magic propelling him forward. The corridor stretched before him, dimly lit by flickering torches. In the distance, he heard the muffled sounds of laughter and the clatter of dice. The guards, oblivious to the storm of vengeance heading their way.
With a feral snarl, Daemon stalked towards the sound, his footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls. As he rounded the corner, he saw them - three guards huddled around a small table, their attention focused on the game before them.
One of the guards looked up, his eyes widening in shock as he saw Daemon approaching. "What the fuck? How did you-"
Daemon thrust out his hand, a burst of flames engulfing the guard. The man screamed, his flesh sizzling as he collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing in agony. But the effort left Daemon feeling drained, his limbs growing heavy.
The other two guards leapt to their feet, drawing their swords. Daemon's gaze locked onto the closest one, his rage boiling over. He charged forward, ducking under the guard's swing, but not fast enough. The blade grazed his arm, sending a jolt of pain through his body.
Gritting his teeth, Daemon slammed his fist into the guard's gut. As the guard doubled over, Daemon grabbed his sword, wrenching it from his grasp. The blade felt heavy in his hand, he wasn't sure if because his body was weak from the time locked or because of what he intended to do now.
The last guard lunged at Daemon, his sword cutting through the air. Daemon parried the blow, the clash of steel ringing through the corridor. They traded strikes, Daemon's raw anger driving him forward, but his short reach and waning strength putting him at a disadvantage.
"Where the fuck is the Martial and Swordsmanship talent!?" He shouted, drawing a confused look from the guard that quickly went back to trying to kill him.
The guard's fist connected with Daemon's jaw, sending him staggering back. Stars danced in his vision, but he shook them away, his fury reigniting. With a roar, Daemon unleashed a torrent of flames from his free hand, the inferno engulfing the guard. The man's screams echoed off the walls as he flailed, his flesh blackening and peeling away.
As the guard's lifeless body hit the ground, Daemon heard it - the distant tolling of bells, their sound muffled by the layers of stone between him and the surface. His heart seized in his chest as the realization hit him like a hammer blow.
"No, no, no," he whispered, his eyes wide with panic. The bells could only mean one thing from what he remembered from the books - the Lannisters were sacking the city. Time was running out. If he didn't reach the Mad King soon, his chance for vengeance would slip through his fingers.
Daemon raced through the corridors, his blood-soaked sword clutched tightly in his hand. The labyrinthine passages of the Black Cells seemed to stretch on forever, but he couldn't afford to slow down. Every second brought the Lannisters closer to the Red Keep, closer to stealing his revenge.
As he ran, the tolling of the bells grew louder, each chime a mocking reminder of his dwindling time. Daemon's lungs burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed himself harder, faster. He had to reach the Mad King. He had to make him pay for everything he'd taken from him.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Daemon saw it - the staircase leading up to the ground level of the Red Keep. He took the steps two at a time, his heart pounding in his chest as he burst through the door at the top. His magic was flowing freely through his blood and he guessed it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing from tiredness.
The scene that greeted him was one of utter chaos. Servants and nobles alike ran through the halls, their faces etched with terror. The sound of clashing swords and distant screams filled the air, mingling with the relentless tolling of the bells.
Daemon pushed his way through the panicked crowds, his eyes scanning the faces around him for any sign of the Mad King. He had to be here somewhere, hiding like the coward he was.
As he turned a corner, Daemon found himself face to face with a group of Lannister soldiers, their crimson armor splattered with blood. They stared at him, their eyes widening as they took in his blood-soaked appearance.
"Out of my way," Daemon growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I have unfinished business with the Mad King."
The soldiers hesitated for a moment before raising their swords, their faces hardening with resolve, they clearly had orders to not let anyone alive. Daemon let out a laugh, the sound devoid of humor. They had no idea what they were up against.
With a roar, Daemon charged forward, his sword flashing in the torchlight. He met the first soldier head-on, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. Daemon's magic surged through him, fueling his strength, but each use of his power left him feeling weaker, slower.
The soldiers pressed their advantage, their blades finding openings in Daemon's defenses. Cuts and bruises blossomed on his skin, the pain a constant companion as he fought on. A kick to his ribs sent him stumbling, gasping for breath.
But Daemon refused to fall. He lashed out with his magic, flames engulfing the soldiers who dared to come too close. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the coppery scent of blood.
One by one, the Lannister soldiers fell, their blood staining the stone floor. Daemon stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with an unholy light. He had come too far to be stopped now. The Mad King would taste his vengeance, even if he had to carve a path of blood and fire through the entire Red Keep to reach him. He barely noticed how each foe killed seemed to fuel the flames of his magic.
With a final, defiant roar, Daemon sprinted down the hallway, the tolling of the bells urging him onwards. The Mad King's time was running out, and Daemon would be the one to bring his reign of terror to an end, he had to, his father's death demanded it!
Soldiers in the red and black of the Targaryens and the crimson and gold of the Lannisters rushed to stop him at every corridor, their swords drawn, their faces twisted with battle rage. Daemon met them head-on, his blade singing a song of death. He cut them down without mercy, his magic surging through his veins like molten fire, fueling his rage and his relentless drive.
A part of him, the one that filled the CYOA, recoiled at the brutal carnage he unleashed. But Daemon Belmore, the boy who had lost everything, the boy consumed by the inferno of vengeance, silenced that voice. He couldn't stop, not now, not when his goal was within his grasp.
Daemon's body screamed with pain, his injuries taking their toll. A vicious punch had left his left eye swollen shut, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, every movement sending bolts of agony through his flesh. But the more he bled, the more his magic sang, responding to his desperate, primal calls.
He turned a corner and found himself face to face with yet another squad of Lannister soldiers. They charged at him, their swords hungry for his blood, their faces contorted with battle fury. Daemon met their charge, his sword a whirlwind of death as he parried and thrust. Flames danced along his skin, searing the soldiers who dared to come too close, the stench of burning flesh filling the air.
But the soldiers kept coming at every corner, their numbers seeming endless. Daemon's breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming in protest. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He had to find the Mad King, had to end this before it was too late.
Suddenly, a laughter of pure, unadulterated glee cut through the chaos, coming from the direction of the throne room. Daemon's head snapped towards the sound, his heart leaping into his throat. He knew that laughter. It was Rossart, the Mad King's pet alchemist who had laughed as Daemon and his father were sentenced to the Black Cells.
With a burst of desperate energy, Daemon pushed past the remaining soldiers, his feet pounding against the blood-slick stone as he raced towards the throne room. He burst through the doors, and the scene before him made his blood run cold.
The throne room was empty save for three figures. The Mad King sat upon the Iron Throne, his eyes wild, his mouth twisted in a sick grimace. Beside him stood Rossart, his face pale, his hands trembling, he wasn't laughing anymore. And there, at the foot of the throne, was Jaime Lannister, his sword drawn, his face set with grim determination.
Daemon's gaze locked onto the Mad King, his vision tunneling. This was it. This was his chance. He had to act now, before Jaime could finish Rossart and then kill the King he was sworn to protect.
With a roar of pure, unbridled rage, Daemon charged forward, his sword raised, his magic surging through his veins like a firestorm. He saw Rossart turn to flee, no doubt to carry out the Mad King's insane order that had him laughing moments ago. Jaime moved to intercept the alchemist, his sword flashing in the light coming from the torches.
But Daemon barely noticed. His attention was focused solely on the Mad King, on the man who had taken everything from him. With a final, desperate lunge, Daemon closed the distance between them, his sword flashing in a brutal arc.
"This is for my father, you fucking bastard!" Daemon screamed, his voice raw with hatred and grief.
And then his sword was plunging through Aerys' face, the blade shattering teeth, tearing through flesh and bone in a spray of blood and brain matter. The Mad King's eyes bulged in shock, his mouth open in a silent scream as the sword burst out the back of his skull.
Daemon stood there, his chest heaving, his sword buried to the hilt in the Mad King's ruined face. He had done it. He had avenged his father, had ended the reign of the man who had brought so much suffering to the realm.
With a vicious snarl, Daemon wrenched his sword free from Aerys' corpse, the blade making a sickening, wet sound as it tore free. The Mad King's body slumped forward, his shattered face a ruin of blood and bone.
But as he looked around the throne room, at the blood-splattered throne, at Jaime standing over Rossart's lifeless body and looking at him with wide eyes, Daemon felt no satisfaction, no sense of triumph. His vengeance was complete, but at what cost? His father was still dead. His father was… dead.
And then he let himself relax and the moment he felt his magic receding from wherever it came from, he passed out.