Daemon's mind drifted, lost in a haze of dreams and memories. Images of his childhood at Strongsong castle flashed before his eyes. He saw himself excelling in every skill a Lord should possess, his talent unmatched. But with success came jealousy. His older brother, the heir, watched him with envy, their relationship strained and cold.
The dreams shifted, morphing into visions of another life. A sprawling city called New York, its towering skyscrapers reaching for the heavens. Daemon saw himself hunched over books, devouring fantasy novels for hours on end. He filled out CYOAs, his imagination running wild.
But the dreams turned dark, nightmares seeping in like poison. Flames engulfed everything, smoke filling his lungs. Daemon was in his room in New York, coughing and choking, the ceiling crumbling above him. The last thing he saw was his computer screen, the CYOA page he'd completed before sleep claimed him.
Daemon jolted awake, heart pounding, as an old voice urgently called for someone to fetch the Lord Hand. The same person rushed to his side, pushing him back onto the bed as he tried to sit up. "Don't push yourself," the voice warned, "you'll reopen your wounds."
One eye refused to open, his body a patchwork of bandages and bruises. Through his barely open eye, Daemon recognized the man tending to him. Maester Pycelle, his weathered face etched with concern.
A cup pressed against Daemon's lips, a foul-tasting liquid sliding down his throat. He coughed, his body protesting the intrusion. Maester Pycelle leaned closer, his voice soft. "How are you feeling, my boy?"
"Like shit," Daemon croaked, his voice raw and raspy.
Pycelle chuckled at Daemon's quip, his aged eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's to be expected, my boy," he said, gently checking the bandages on Daemon's arm. "You were half-dead when Ser Jaime brought you to me." The old Maester explained that in addition to the numerous cuts and bruises, Daemon appeared to be severely dehydrated.
Daemon nodded, wincing as Pycelle's fingers brushed against a particularly tender bruise. "The guards in the Black Cells rarely brought food, let alone water for my father and me," he said, his voice still hoarse.
"That's just how the Black Cells work," Pycelle replied, a hint of resignation in his tone. He moved to examine a deep cut on Daemon's leg, causing the young man to inhale sharply. "Speaking of which, I must ask - how is it that you're in such good shape after spending three moons down there?" Pycelle raised an eyebrow, curiosity evident in his expression.
Daemon cursed silently, well aware of the Citadel's skepticism towards tales of magic. He'd even subscribed to the conspiracy theory that the Maesters had actively worked to eradicate magic from Westeros. Shrugging, and then immediately regretting the action as pain shot through his shoulders, he decided to deflect the question. "A Maester of your competence must have an explanation," he said, forcing a weak smile. "I'm just a 14-year-old second son, and my knowledge of such matters is quite limited." Daemon leaned back against the pillows, his one good eye studying Pycelle's reaction.
Pycelle quickly agreed that he had a theory, but wanted more information before sharing it. In a lapse of judgment he instantly regretted, Daemon asked, "Would you mind sharing your theory with me, Maester Pycelle?"
He berated himself for antagonizing the person responsible for keeping him alive. Pycelle narrowed his eyes and momentarily glared at Daemon before grinning. "Any explanation of mine would leave you bewildered, as you're just a 14-year-old second son of a deceased father," he said, his tone slightly mocking.
Daemon felt his temper rise, magic flowing through his veins at the quip mentioning his father. He quickly came to his senses, forcing the magic to settle. He briefly noticed that many of his bruises seemed to have numbed after the magic coursed through his body. Making a mental note to explore this effect later when he was out of the Maester's grip, Daemon focused on maintaining his composure.
Just as Pycelle was about to speak again, the door opened, and Lord Jon Arryn entered the room. The Hand of the King strode in, his presence commanding attention. Daemon tried to sit up straighter, ignoring the pain that shot through his body at the movement.
"Lord Arryn," Pycelle greeted, bowing his head slightly.
"Maester Pycelle," Jon Arryn acknowledged, his eyes settling on Daemon. "I need to speak with Daemon alone. Would you kindly give us a moment?"
Pycelle hesitated, glancing at his patient. "My lord, the boy is still recovering. He needs rest and-"
Jon Arryn held up a hand, silencing the Maester. "I won't take long, Pycelle. I assure you, Daemon will have plenty of time to rest after our conversation."
The Maester bowed, albeit reluctantly. "As you wish, my lord." He gathered his supplies and made his way to the door, casting one last concerned look at Daemon before leaving the room.
Jon Arryn approached Daemon's bedside, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "How are you feeling, Daemon?" he asked, his voice even.
Daemon met the Hand's gaze, trying to maintain a neutral expression. "Given the circumstances, I am well, my lord," he replied, his voice still a bit hoarse.
Jon Arryn scoffed, a sarcastic tone creeping into his voice. "'Circumstances,' indeed." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "There was a trail of bodies leading from the Black Cells to the Throne Room. Both Targaryen and Lannister men-at-arms."
Daemon kept his face straight, despite the panic rising in his chest. He remained silent, waiting for Jon to continue.
"There are even some accounts of you using sorcery to kill some of the soldiers," Jon added, his gaze intensifying. "Given the burnt state of some of the bodies, many thought the rumors true." He looked pointedly at Daemon. "Of course, these are fabrications, right?"
Daemon quickly understood that Jon wanted him to agree to the story and deny any use of magic. "Of course, my lord," he said, trying to sound convincing. "I didn't use magic. I used torches to hit some of the soldiers, and maybe a few caught on fire."
Jon nodded, seeming to accept Daemon's explanation. "King Robert is generous," he said, changing the subject. "He wants to start his reign by rewarding you, the Kingslayer, with any boon."
The mention of Robert as king caught Daemon's attention. It meant that the coronation had already taken place, and Eddard Stark had likely left to lift the siege of Storm's End and search for Lyanna. "How long have I been unconscious, my lord?" he asked, trying to piece together the timeline.
"A fortnight has passed," Jon replied, his tone matter-of-fact.
A whole fucking fortnight? He screamed in his head. It took him almost a minute in silence to get his bearings and continue talking. Thankfully, Jon Arryn did not seem offended, he even had a hint of pity in his look.
Daemon scratched at his bandages, a mix of confusion and frustration in his voice. "Why am I being asked this now, my lord? While I'm still stuck in this infirmary?"
Jon remained silent, his foot began tapping impatiently on the stone floor. He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "I know Robert better than anyone, Daemon. If he sees you, he'll take back his boon faster than you can blink."
"But why?" Daemon asked, his heart racing.
"Your father was a known lover for all things valyrian and his marriage to a Rogare from Lys caught everyone at the Vale by surprise. At the time it was just some harmless fancy of a lord, we all have those, but the consequence is that you have a strong valyrian look, and unfortunately could pass as a twin of Prince Rhaegar," Jon said bluntly. "Robert might just call you a dragonspawn and toss you right back into the Black Cells, that is if he doesn't get his hammer and smash your head right away."
Daemon's blood ran cold, memories of George Martin's books describing Robert grinning over the corpses of Aegon and Rhaenys flooding his mind. "Then it's best to keep me away from the King's eyes," he said, his voice trembling slightly.
Jon nodded, his foot still tapping.
"Won't Robert be angry if he doesn't reward the Kingslayer in public?" Daemon asked, his fingers picking at the edges of his bandages.
"Yes, but I'll handle Robert," Jon said dismissively. "Now, tell me, what do you want? And be reasonable," he added, his patience wearing thin.
Daemon's mind raced. "Can I have some time to think? I still need to take care of my father's rites and bring his body back to Strongsong."
Jon's expression softened with a start, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Daemon. I already took care of that. We didn't know when you'd wake up, so I had your father's body prepared with all the respect a Lord deserves and sent him home to Strongsong."
Daemon felt like he'd been punched in the gut, a wave of grief and anger washing over him. Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked them away furiously. "You sent him home without me?" he asked, his voice breaking.
"I had to, Daemon," Jon said gently. "I couldn't let him lie here, waiting for you to wake up. Pycelle wasn't even sure you would wake up at all."
Daemon nodded, his throat tight. "Thank you, Lord Arryn. For taking care of him when I couldn't."
Jon placed a hand on Daemon's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Your father was a good man, Daemon. He'd be proud of you." A moment of silence stretched as Jon waited patiently for Daemon to get a hold of his emotions.
"This new reign demands a lot of work, especially from me. Robert has disappeared into the few brothels that have already reopened after the sack." He fixed his gaze on Daemon. "So, tell me again, what boon do you want?"
Daemon thought hard, his brow furrowed. "I want to be the Lord of the valley west of Strongsong, the land that currently has no lord," he said, his voice firm despite his injuries.
Jon's foot stopped tapping, and he seemed to be deep in thought. "You mean the Vernor Valley?" he asked, seeking confirmation.
Daemon nodded, his heart racing with anticipation. Jon's expression turned skeptical. "The land in that valley isn't well-suited for farming. There is an abandoned castle, likely in ruins now, from the time before the Andal invasion. It could be rebuilt, but it would take work." He paused, considering. "The land is currently under Arryn control because no one wanted to claim it."
"I'm a second son, not in line to inherit anything," Daemon said, his voice tinged with desperation. "Any land is better than no land at all."
Jon mulled it over, his foot resuming its tapping. After a few tense moments, he nodded. "I see no problem in granting this boon. The crown will even cover the expenses of rebuilding the castle, but it will be up to you to make the land thrive."
Daemon's heart soared, and he immediately agreed. "I accept, Lord Arryn. Thank you."
"Very well," Jon said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I'll have a ship ready in a fortnight to bring you and a team of masons, blacksmiths, surveyors, architects, and whoever else you need to start the work." He stood, preparing to leave. "In the meantime, it would be best for you to find lodging in the city and start gathering people interested in making the journey to your new lands."
Daemon nodded, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities. "I will, my lord. Thank you again for this opportunity."
Jon placed a hand on Daemon's shoulder, his expression serious. "Make the most of it, Daemon. This is your chance to build something for yourself, to create a legacy."
As Jon turned to leave, he paused, looking back at Daemon with a cautionary glance. "Being dubbed the Kingslayer has certainly immortalized you in the history books. The fact that you did it after breaking out of the Black Cells and killing more than 40 soldiers, both Lannisters and Targaryens, will make a lot of people interested in you," he warned, his tone grave.
Daemon sat up straighter, wincing slightly at the movement. "Is there anything in particular I should keep my eyes open for?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
Jon shrugged, his hand resting on the doorknob. "Probably everything. There are many Targaryen loyalists still alive who could seek vengeance, or some crazy person looking to make a name for themselves by taking you down. Oh, and a Lord by the name of Tywin Lannister, he was quite cross with what you did to some of his best soldiers."
Daemon gulped, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded, his mind already racing with the potential threats that lay ahead. "Thank you again, Lord Arryn. For everything," he said, his voice sincere.
Jon shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "No, thank you for ridding us of that monster," he said, referring to the late King Aerys. With that, he opened the door and left, leaving Daemon alone with his thoughts and the weight of his new title.
Daemon's eyes snapped shut as a piercing headache assaulted his senses, threatening to tear a scream from his throat. He gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into the bedsheets as he fought against the overwhelming pain. Suddenly, a vivid memory from his past life flooded his mind, transporting him back to the moment he filled out the CYOA.
He saw himself at the end of the CYOA, faced with the task of choosing three quests and three rewards. His past self had chosen the quests "Dragonslayer," which required him to kill either Rhaegar or Aerys and be known as the perpetrator, "Legendary Hero," which challenged him to establish himself as a legendary figure with his martial talents, worthy of being spoken of long after his death, and "Tribes Downfall," which set him on a mission to pacify the Mountain Clans living in the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale, either through words or sword.
As the memory continued, Daemon watched as the quests "Dragonslayer" and "Legendary Hero" began to glow golden, signaling that he had to choose their respective rewards. His past self had already selected two rewards: the first, a blessing called "Warg," which was self-explanatory, and the second, "Divine Touched," which promised to imbue him with the knowledge and skill approximated from 20 years of experience and knowledge within the realm of expectations for the standards of the modern world.
What gave Daemon pause was the fact that his past self had chosen the talent "Mystic" to receive the boost from the "Divine Touched" blessing. In his past life, magic had been nonexistent, so how would the CYOA handle this? His past self had theorized that the CYOA would pretend that the study of magic was a normal pursuit, speculating on how far humanity would advance in its study if it were a part of the modern world, with university courses, masteries, doctorates, and everything else.
As Daemon watched his past self select the Mystic talent to receive the Divine Touched blessing, the mother of all headaches invaded his brain. It felt like a thousand needles were piercing his skull simultaneously, making him gasp for air. Suddenly, a cold sensation circled through his veins, opening a new pathway for magic to flow within him. In a brief moment of clarity, he understood that he had just been granted the power of a Warg, or skinchanging as was the more apt name, the reward for completing the Dragonslayer Quest by killing Aerys.
But the pain didn't stop there, he still hadn't received the reward for "Legendary Hero", as his trek from the Black Cells to the Throne room killing groups of soldiers was a deed worthy of making him a legend.
Knowledge of various magical disciplines began to flood his mind, as if he had diligently studied each of them for 20 years in a controlled and structured setting. Thousands of hours of studying runes for his "Runesmith" Blessing flashed before his eyes, followed by thousands more for "Blood Magic," "Pyrokinesis," "Ritualistic," "Magical," and "Warg." The information poured into his brain at an alarming rate, each discipline vying for attention and threatening to overwhelm him.
The process was excruciating, and Daemon felt like his head was being split open from the inside. He thrashed on the bed, his body convulsing as the knowledge and power coursed through him. Through the haze of pain, he managed to open his eyes briefly, only to see a frantic Maester Pycelle trying to make him swallow something. Someone was screaming, the sound so loud that it made his head throb even more.
Daemon's vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening as the pain reached an unbearable crescendo. "Oh, it is me who is screaming," he thought, a fleeting moment of self-awareness before the darkness claimed him, and he passed out from the sheer intensity of the pain.