Daemon Blackfyre awoke in mire and darkness. A patch of mud clung to his cheek, and when he raised his head, a chill wind cut across his flesh. He blinked against the sting in his eyes. A faint glow of witch-green lit the horizon, the remnants of that foul storm. The air smelled of blood and burnt flesh.
He lay half-buried among scattered limbs and shattered shields. The bog was thick here, and it tugged at him as he tried to stand. He forced his hands into the muck, pushing upward. His ribs ached, his breathing ragged. He remembered the sudden onslaught—black magic and the dead rising. Men screaming. The swirl of green lightning overhead. Then pain, a thunderous blow, and oblivion.
He staggered to his feet. The suction made him stumble. Blackfyre, the sword, was still belted at his hip, though caked with mud. He touched the pommel, relief flickering across his features. The only sense of anchor he had left. He pulled it free, letting the moon's faint light reflect off the steel. He tested his grip, felt the ache in his arms. But it would have to serve.
The sky overhead was dark, not with normal night but something deeper. A few swirling clouds still glowed green along their edges. He turned, scanning his surroundings. Bodies lay strewn about—knights in battered plate, footmen in torn leathers, archers half-buried in marsh water. Some made no sound at all. Others moaned softly, or coughed, or reached with trembling fingers. He saw no living banners upright, only poles broken in the mud.
He spat a mouthful of mud and sweat, glancing around for signs of the enemy. The gloom pressed in. A hush hovered, broken by distant shrieks or the rattle of armor. He saw no line of friendly soldiers, no command tent. Just heaps of carnage. The entire host had been undone. They had not even reached Moat Cailin.
He froze, lifting his gaze. In the distance stood a shape he barely recognized: a fortress of towering black spires, far taller than the old ruin. It loomed against the sickly sky, a silhouette of impossible angles. His memory flickered to earlier days, a younger self glimpsing the ruin of Moat Cailin with its crumbling walls. This was no ruin. This was some monstrous keep with spiked towers that vanished into swirling darkness.
He swallowed, forcing his eyes away. He tightened his grip on Blackfyre's hilt. The mud underfoot stirred, and he jerked around, blade up. A body shifted near him, some battered footman with half his chest burned away. The man let out a final breath, eyes rolling back. Daemon exhaled slowly, lowering the sword.
He had to find survivors, or an escape. The stench of necromancy lingered in the air, an odd tang that set his teeth on edge. He recalled the night's horrors—flashes of undead and green lightning, dark knights moving through the lines. Even his mount had bolted. Now he was alone, a man with a sword in a graveyard of thousands.
He began to move, each step an effort in the mire. His boots squelched. Now and then, he stopped to yank himself free. A severed arm bobbed in a shallow pool. He looked away, clenching his jaw. The rearguard must be further south, he thought. Or maybe they too were undone. He tried to steady himself. He was Daeron's half-brother, scion of Targaryen blood. He could not simply die here, nameless in the mud.
A flicker of movement among the corpses caught his eye. He crouched, pulse hammering. Slowly, a shape rose—a skeleton with scraps of mail, empty sockets glowing faintly. It turned its skull toward him. Daemon inhaled. Fear pounded in his heart, but he forced it down. He sprang forward, swinging Blackfyre in a low arc. The skeleton raised a rusted sword to parry, but Daemon's blow shattered bone and corroded metal alike. The skeleton collapsed in a clatter, shards of rib and spine scattering. Its empty helm dropped into the mud. The glow faded from its skull.
He stood panting, sword dripping with filth. At least he could still fight. Another skeleton emerged from behind a broken wagon. It lunged, spear thrusting. Daemon sidestepped, slicing downward at the spear's shaft, snapping it. The skeleton lunged again with the jagged end. He twisted his body, brought Blackfyre around, and cleaved the skeleton's skull from its shoulders.
He stumbled back, scanning. More of the dead loomed. They came in twos or threes, some stepping from the gloom, others pushing aside corpses. They advanced with silent purpose. Daemon grit his teeth. He had no illusions left—these were not mortal foes. They never tired, never felt fear. But he was no stranger to war. He steadied his stance.
One skeleton charged, sword raised. Another flanked from the side, half-armored in a dented breastplate. Daemon dodged the first, metal scraping his pauldron. He slammed the pommel of Blackfyre into the second one's skull. It wobbled but did not fall. The first came back with a low slash. Daemon blocked, feeling the shock in his arms. He roared, twisting his blade free, and cut down the second with a heavy overhead strike that smashed it into splinters.
He pivoted, parrying the first skeleton's blow. The force rattled him. He let out a ragged breath, stepped inside, and hacked the skeleton's spine. It collapsed. He felt a moment's triumph, short-lived as another trio stumbled from behind a broken palisade. Their glowing sockets locked onto him. He realized this fight might not end.
He advanced anyway, refusing to yield. He was Daemon Blackfyre, carrying the fabled blade. He cut through the first skeleton with a diagonal slash. The second swung a rusted axe. He blocked, reversed, and lopped off its head. The third lunged from behind, but he sidestepped, punching its skull with his gauntlet. Bone cracked. He followed with a swift thrust. It toppled.
Breathing hard, he looked around for more. The stench of gore weighed heavy. Bodies twitched under rising mist. He felt his arms tremble from exertion. How long could he keep this up? He spotted movement in the corner of his vision—a cluster of undead further away, ripping mail off a wounded knight who struggled in vain. He grimaced, taking a step, but paused. The knight's screams soon stopped.
A shape passed overhead, or maybe it was just swirling smoke. Daemon pressed forward, deeper into the wreckage, hoping to find living souls. He stumbled onto a portion of the battlefield with shattered tents. The banners lay half-submerged in muck. More skeletons roamed, some dragging bodies away. He watched them fling corpses into piles, as if collecting them for reanimation. The sight made his stomach churn.
He glimpsed a figure in black, not a skeleton but a man or something akin to a man. The figure turned, revealing armor sculpted to resemble a snarling face on its breastplate, a helm shaped like a bat's skull. A black knight. The man—if it was a man—towered with inhuman poise, carrying a curved sword. Then Daemon saw the eyes under that helm. They glowed a faint crimson, predatory.
Daemon's blood chilled. He recalled glimpsing knights like this in the swirl of battle. They had moved like shadows, silent and unstoppable. Some part of him quailed, wanting to flee. But flight offered no safety here. Gritting his teeth, he set his stance. The black knight noticed him, turning fully. One gloved hand rested on the hilt of the sword, the other on a short blade at its hip. A faint greenish luminescence traced along the knight's forearms, or maybe that was reflection from the overhead storm.
They stared at each other, the battlefield quiet around them for that moment. Daemon raised Blackfyre in a two-handed grip. The black knight cocked its head, as though studying him. Then it surged forward.
Daemon barely caught the first strike, a blur of steel. The impact jarred his bones. He pivoted, attempting a slash at the knight's torso. The black knight stepped aside with impossible speed, returning a counter that almost took Daemon's head. He ducked, lashing out with a thrust. The knight twisted, batted the blade aside with unnatural ease.
They circled, mud sucking at their boots. Daemon's pulse thundered. The knight struck again, sword a flicker of black steel. Daemon blocked, forced to backpedal. He tried a feint, then reversed, scoring a shallow cut across the knight's thigh. A hiss escaped the helm, but the figure showed no sign of pain. Instead, it moved faster, pressing Daemon with a flurry of blows. Each parry rattled his wrists. The knight's strength exceeded mortal limits.
He gasped. The speed, the power—they defied reason. The knight hammered at him, forcing him to yield ground step by step. Daemon stumbled over a broken shield. The knight's blade carved into his shoulder plate, sparks flying. He hissed, twisting away, but the knight pressed on.
A glimmer of defiance filled Daemon's gaze. He roared, swinging Blackfyre in a desperate arc. The black knight caught it on the curved blade, locked it, and disarmed Daemon with a sharp twist. The sword flew from his grip, landing with a squelch in the mud. Daemon reached for a dagger, but the knight seized his wrist in a grip like iron. The man's—creature's—face, hidden by that helm, came close. Daemon felt the chill radiating from him, eyes shining red behind the visor.
He struggled, but the knight's strength pinned him. He saw in those crimson eyes a grim finality. Then the knight turned, hurling Daemon face-first into the muck with monstrous ease. Pain lanced his ribs. Before he could rise, the knight's boot pressed on his back. Daemon cursed, limbs flailing. He heard the creature's low growl, or perhaps it was just breath.
In a swift motion, the knight grabbed Daemon's collar, hauling him up like a rag doll. He felt his feet scrape the mud. A stabbing ache shot through his side. The knight held him there, glancing around the battlefield as though searching for orders. The swirl of green overhead cast shifting shadows on them both. Daemon tried to twist free. Futile.
Other undead figures wandered near. Some living men knelt in surrender, or lay with arms clasped behind their heads. The black knight dragged Daemon along with dispassionate force, passing lines of skeletons, passing more black knights rounding up prisoners. The entire host was undone, being herded or slaughtered.
Daemon caught sight of Blackfyre lying half-buried. He reached for it with a desperate lunge. The black knight snapped a foot out, kicking his hand away. The blow jarred his bones. No hope of retrieving the blade. The knight propelled him onward, ignoring his curses.
They trudged through sections of carnage. Daemon glimpsed a broken banner of House Tyrell, trampled in mud. A carriage turned on its side, the occupants nowhere to be seen. Corpses floated in a shallow pool. The swirling sky overhead provided twisted flickers of green light, revealing the devastation in sharp flashes.
At last, they emerged onto firmer ground. He saw a large tent, black cloth rising from the gloom, guarded by skeletons. A mass of captured lords and knights huddled around it, some on their knees, some leaning on each other with wounds bound in torn cloaks. A few dark knights stood watch. The skeleton guards parted to admit Daemon's captor. The black knight shoved him forward.
Inside, the tent reeked of sweat and fear. The floor had been covered with rough planks, presumably to keep it from sinking. Torches guttered in iron brackets, casting dim light. Over a dozen men sat or knelt, many sporting injuries. A Stormlands lord cradled a broken arm. A Westerlands knight, gauntlet missing, nursed a gash on his leg. Their eyes widened at Daemon's entrance. They recognized him.
The black knight released Daemon with a final rough shove, sending him sprawling onto the planks. He grunted, chest heaving. The knight said nothing. It moved aside, standing near the tent's entrance like a sentinel. Daemon pushed himself upright, wiping mud from his chin. He cast a glance around, meeting the eyes of lords once proud, now battered and subdued.
He recognized Lord Tarly, face bruised, hair matted with blood. The man shot him a look of grim acknowledgement. Others wore hollow stares. A Riverlands knight crouched in a corner, chainmail torn, blood seeping from the side of his head. No one spoke.
Daemon wanted to rage, to demand answers, to call out for a second chance to fight. But the swirling memories of the black knight's inhuman strength stilled his tongue. Instead, he inhaled sharply, trying to gather composure. He realized these men had seen the same horrors. Some had tried to stand, some had fled. Now they all ended here, at the mercy of the one who claimed godhood.
A skeletal guard shuffled in, carrying a small chest. It set the chest down near the center, rattled once, then withdrew. No words. Daemon surmised it might hold meager supplies or perhaps something worse. Another captured lord, grey-bearded, wearing half a torn surcoat, spat. The man's hand trembled.
They waited. No one dared break the silence with demands or pleas. Outside, the shuffle of undead, the occasional moan of the wounded. The stench of death lingered. Daemon's side throbbed from the black knight's blow, but he forced himself to remain steady. He glanced at Tarly, who merely shook his head, as though to say: There is nothing we can do.
Minutes passed. The black knight stood at the tent flap, rigid, silent. Now and then, it turned its helm slightly, that red glow faint behind the visor. Daemon kept his distance, leaning against a wooden post that supported the tent's center. He listened to his own breathing, the soft whimpers of those with mortal wounds.
"Seven hells…."
AN: Chapter 64 is out on (Pat)reon!