Rain fell steadily over Tyrosh, turning the narrow streets to streaks of red and purple runoff from the dyers' vats. The harbor bells tolled somewhere in the mist.
In a small rented room above a dockside tavern, Serra Waters labored.
The chamber was plain — cracked plaster walls, a narrow bed, one smoking candle.
Only a midwife with rolled sleeves and a basin of steaming water.
"Breathe," the woman urged. "Almost there."
Serra's silver-gold hair clung to her damp face. She bit down on cloth to keep her cries from carrying through the thin walls. She had survived in Tyrosh by keeping quiet. By not being noticed.
Pain tore through her again.
Then a child's cry filled the room.
"A boy," the midwife said, wrapping him in linen.
Serra's hands trembled as the babe was placed against her chest. Silver hair, faint but clear. Violet eyes blinking against candlelight.
She brushed her thumb against his cheek.
"Daemon," she whispered.
The midwife paused. "That name…"
"Daemon Blackfyre."
It was spoken softly. Serra's breathing began to thin. Too much blood soaked the sheets beneath her.
"Stay with me," the midwife muttered, pressing cloth to the wound.
Serra barely seemed to hear.
"You will live," she murmured to the child.
"You will not bow to anyone. Remember that I love you."
Her grip weakened. Her eyes never left him. She smiled thinly then her gaze stilled. The child began crying again.
The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky when heavy boots thundered up the tavern stairs.
Harlan Sand did not knock. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, rain still clinging to his cloak.
He froze. For a moment he did not seem to understand what he was seeing.
Serra lay too still on the bed. She appeared pale and thin yet bore a smile on her.
The midwife lowered her gaze.
"I'm sorry."
Harlan's jaw tightened.
"No," he said roughly, as if refusal alone might undo it. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed.
He took Serra's hand.
It was already cold.
"You stubborn fool," he whispered, voice cracking. "I told you I'd find work enough. You didn't have to—"
The words broke apart in his throat.
He bowed his head against the edge of the mattress, shoulders shaking once — sharply — as though struck.
She had not been his blood sister.
But he had found her alone years ago, half-starved and hiding from men who would have sold her name for coin. He had fed her. Taught her how to hold a dagger. Listened when she spoke of lost things and lost houses.
He had called her little sister ever since.
And now—A small cry cut through the silence.
Harlan lifted his head slowly.
The midwife gestured toward the cradle.
"He lives."
Harlan stood on unsteady legs and walked toward it. The infant stared up at him with wide violet eyes. Silver hair clung to his small skull.
Harlan swallowed hard.
"She named him?" he asked, though he already feared the answer.
"Daemon," the midwife said quietly. "Daemon Blackfyre."
Harlan shut his eyes briefly.
"Gods damn it, Serra…"
He understood what that name meant. Understood the danger. The hunted blood it carried. The ghosts attached to it.
He looked back at her still form on the bed.
"You couldn't let it die with you, could you?"
The child squirmed, fists clenching.
Harlan stared at him for a long moment.
Then he reached down and lifted the boy carefully into his arms.
His grip was firm despite the tremor in his breath.
"Alright," he muttered, voice thick. "You're mine now."
He glanced once more at Serra.
"I'll see him fed. I'll see him trained. I swear it."
Silence settled between the three of them — the dead, the living, and the witness.
After a long while, Harlan spoke again, quieter this time.
"No one can know that name."
The midwife looked up sharply.
"Harlan—"
"If word spreads, he won't live to see five years," he said flatly. "Men still sell old loyalties for new coin. And Blackfyre blood would fetch a heavy purse."
The midwife hesitated. She had been more than just a healer to Serra. Years ago, Serra had nursed her through a fever when no one else would come near. Later, Serra had paid coin she could ill afford to help the woman's son avoid conscription into a pirate crew.
They owed her. Both of them did.
"What will you call him then?" the midwife asked softly.
Harlan looked down at the child in his arms. The boy had stopped crying. His violet eyes were open, watching.
After a moment, Harlan said, "Godwyn."
It was a simple name. A strong and firm name.
"Godwyn," he repeated, firmer now.
The midwife nodded slowly.
"I will speak no other name," she said. "Serra's secret dies here."
Harlan met her eyes.
"And if anyone asks?"
"He is your sister's bastard, born of some passing oarsman," she replied without hesitation. "Nothing more."
Harlan gave a tight nod.
He adjusted the blanket around the boy around Godwyn or Daemon and moved toward the door.
Behind him, Serra lay still upon the bed, the only one who would ever call the child Daemon without fear.
Outside, Tyrosh was waking to another ordinary day.
Inside, a dragon's name was buried — and a different one carried down the stairs in the arms of a grieving sellsword..
….
…
..
.
Five years later, the yard behind the tavern rang with the crack of wood against wood.
A small boy stood barefoot on packed dirt, both hands wrapped tightly around a wooden sword almost as long as his arm. Across from him loomed a man twice his size broad, scarred, and steady on his feet.
Harlan swung first. The blow came fast and heavy.
The boy met it cleanly.
Wood struck wood with a sharp snap. The child shifted his footing, angled his wrists, and slid the force away instead of meeting it head-on. The larger blade skidded off to the side.
Harlan's brow lifted slightly.
He attacked again — low this time.
The boy stepped back, turned his hips, and redirected the strike with surprising precision.
His movements were not frantic or childish. They were measured. Controlled. Graceful in a quiet way, like a practiced dance — yet grounded, deliberate, like soldiers marching in step.
"You've gotten better, boy," Harlan said, circling him.
He lunged without warning.
The child parried again and twisted his blade, forcing Harlan to adjust or lose grip.
Harlan disengaged with a short huff of breath.
"Kids your age shouldn't be able to keep up with grown men," he muttered.
It had only been a month since he'd begun teaching him properly. At first it had been play — sticks in the alley, harmless taps. But once Harlan showed him structure, the boy absorbed it like dry ground drinking rain.
He corrected mistakes after seeing them once.
It unsettled him.
The boy lowered his blade slightly but did not drop his guard.
"That's because I'm not like other children, Uncle," he said calmly.
Harlan snorted. "Every child thinks that."
The boy's violet eyes held steady. There was no arrogance in them. Only certainty.
He was Daemon Blackfyre by birth.
But to the world — and to most who knew him — he was Godwyn, the orphaned bastard Harlan had taken in.
"Again," the boy said.
Harlan hesitated, then swung harder this time.
The impact jolted up the child's arms, but he did not lose footing. He angled the strike aside and stepped inside Harlan's reach, tapping the man's ribs with the wooden blade.
A clean hit.
Harlan blinked.
Then he laughed once, short and surprised.
"Seven hells," he muttered.
The boy stepped back immediately, lowering the sword this time.
"Alright," Harlan said, raising a hand. "That's enough for today."
The child nodded without complaint. No whining. No boasting.
Just a small exhale as he lowered the wooden sword and rolled his shoulders once, already thinking.
Always thinking.
Harlan studied him quietly.
Five years old capable of making out on the works. Serra's blood showed in his hair and eyes.
"Come on," Harlan said gruffly. "Wash up. Then we'll eat."
The boy turned toward the tavern steps, wooden sword still in hand.
Behind him, Harlan watched in silence.
He had meant to teach the child how to survive.
Instead, he was beginning to wonder what exactly he was raising.
Once the boy was left alone, he placed the sword and went to wash up while thinking about the past.
'5 years. This place bloody sucks.'
He inwardly growled in frustration considering he was actually an adult trapped in a Child's body.
Daemon was a reincarnator with a task given by an entity that brought him there. He has a boon that helps him in his quest with one of them having Eternal Arms Mastery meaning he has unparalleled skills in combat within the Era.
It didn't make him invincible but certainly stronger than normal. He is able to learn and adapt with any and all weapons with ease and precision. Additionally, he has given other boons that help him for his conquest in the future.
As for the Task, it was to become king of Westeros and bring glory to Blackfyre Household, Marry Daenerys Targaryen and build a family with her, Bring the Age of dragons and magic and defeat Kill the Night King.
It was easier said than done as the condition had never been specified and he doesn't have a system to guide him.
Daemon was left wondering what to do but it didn't matter as he focused more on getting stronger and gathering trustworthy allies to fight with him.
He was ambitious, seeing his chance to take a beautiful woman from Westeros as his paramour since Daenerys will hold the title of being his wife.
'Too bad I can't go and meet her since she's in Pentos while I'm at Tyrosh.' Daemon had been receiving news and how the Robert Rebellion had ended a few years prior and guessed that Greyjoy Rebellion would soon come to play.
Daemon decided to let time tell on what fate has in store for him and focused more on improving himself while also planning on how to deal with gathering an army that supports his cost.
The best option is to gather Blackfyre Loyalists to his side but without Money and resources it will be meaningless therefore he needs to start small before making his way up.
Daemon glanced at the window and saw the city street of Tyrosh thinking about standing above them living a lavish lifestyle while maintaining his prime self considering how living comfortably could weaken a man like what happened to Robert Baratheon.
They shall know Godwyn, bathed in golden light,
Unaware of Daemon, veiled from mortal sight.
His brilliance bright as banners newly sewn,
While darker truths beneath are never shown.
A god to the world, in glory openly shown—
A demon in ebony, claiming the throne.
…..
…
..
.
The sound of steel clanging and bloodcurdling screams of men were heard. It was a battlefield with countless corpses laid on the ground while creating a river from their enemies blood.
"Hold fast! These Bastards shall not taste victory!" The commander shouted at his men even though their situation was grim. They were overwhelmed by their enemies' relentless pursuit.
Their enemies had taken their supply lines and left men weak and starving with low morale made their formation weak and helpless.
"Those Tyroshi dogs!" he shouted, rage burning hotter than fear. He rose in his saddle and swung.
His blade cleaved through one man's shoulder, then reversed in a brutal arc that opened another from throat to collarbone. Blood sprayed hot against his gauntlet, coating the steel in a dark sheen.
"Huh? That armor?" The commander noticed an enemy.
The dust of the plains choked the air, but even through the haze, the knight was impossible to miss. He didn't just approach; he bore down on the line like a localized apocalypse, a streak of jagged crimson cutting through the dull brown of the battlefield.
He tightened his grip on his reins, his palms slick with sweat. He had faced lords and sellswords in my time, but this Blood Dragon Knight felt less like a man and more like a walking furnace.
His plate was the color of fresh arterial spray, or perhaps cooled magma. It wasn't smooth like the ceremonial tin my scouts wore; it was obsidian-hard and segmented, layered like the scales of the very beast he claimed to represent.
The helm was a terrifying, draconic visage that offered no glimpse of the human within, sitting beneath a wild, sun-bleached mane of hair that whipped behind him like a dying flame. Great, curved shells of red steel served as his pauldrons, seeming to pulse with every heavy stride of his warhorse.
Even from the side, he looked like a predator tensed to spring, with sharp, claw-like protrusions extending from his greaves and gauntlets—as if even a simple touch from him was designed to tear flesh.
But it was the weapon that truly signaled my end. It wasn't a sword meant for duels; it was an instrument of execution.
The blade was massive, a broad slab of blackened metal edged in a glowing, translucent red. It looked as though he had reached into a volcano and pulled out a solidified tongue of fire.
The crossguard flared out like dragon wings, barbed and cruel, protecting a hilt wrapped in dark leather that had likely tasted the blood of a thousand men. As he closed the distance, the sword didn't just catch the light—it seemed to swallow it.
The thundering of his horse's hooves grew deafening. The Red Knight raised that monstrous blade, and for a fleeting second, he saw his own terrified reflection in the polished crimson of his breastplate.
The commander felt his heart pounding in fear upon seeing this frightening figure ever so growing and closing its distance. The man was known by the Gravelords, God of Battle and war, Crimson Knight but the most striking title was Herald of death.
"Godwyn!!" the commander roared in anguish.
That was the man who shattered their lines—
the one dragging them all toward damnation.
The Red Knight answered not with words, but with steel.
His great blade came down in a brutal arc. The first soldier it met did not simply fall—the impact split helm and skull alike, the edge biting deep enough to cleave through bone and bury itself in the man's chest. Blood burst outward in a violent spray, fragments of steel and teeth scattering across the churned earth.
Godwyn wrenched the blade free.
A second man rushed him in desperation. The crimson sword swept sideways, catching him at the waist. The strike tore through mail and flesh as if they were cloth, severing him nearly in two. Entrails spilled steaming onto the mud as the upper half of his body toppled lifelessly from the saddle.
The Red Knight did not slow.
Limbs were severed. Throats opened to the spine. Men who dared stand before him were reduced to broken shapes beneath pounding hooves.
Yet even as he butchered those in his path, his attention never strayed.
It remained fixed on the commander.
The head ends the body. End the commander, end the fight.
Realizing this, the commander gritted his teeth and drove his heels into his horse's flank. The beast lunged forward.
"Forward!" he shouted, though he no longer knew who still lived to hear him.
He lowered his blade, gripping it tight enough to ache, and rode straight toward the crimson knight.
The commander met Godwyn in the churned mud between the lines, where broken spears and fallen banners marked the cost of Tyrosh and Myr's pride. Their blades crashed together with a crack that seemed to split the very air, steel screaming against steel.
Sparks burst between them.
The Myrish commander bared his teeth. His plumed helm was dented, his silk cloak stained dark.
"So you are the Red Knight God of Battle and war," he spat. "The butcher Tyrosh hides behind."
Godwyn laughed softly, calm even as he forced the man back a step.
"I hide behind no one," he said. "And I butcher only those who raise steel against me."
Their swords rang again. The commander swung hard, aiming for Godwyn's neck. Godwyn turned the blow aside with effortless precision.
"They say you burned the grain stores of Selhorys," the commander sneered. "Poisoned wells. Slaughtered prisoners."
"I burned supplies meant to feed soldiers," Godwyn replied evenly. "I poisoned nothing. I spared every farmer who knelt. As for prisoners—"
He twisted his wrist, locking their blades.
"—I gave them the choice to live as men or die as dogs."
The commander's eyes flickered. He knew the tales. Every man in Essos knew them. Whole sellsword companies broken in a single night. Captains cut down before they could finish their boasts.
Still, he forced a laugh.
"You call that honor? In Myr, we fight as merchants—we bargain, we profit. You Tyroshi dogs just drown the field in blood."
Godwyn shoved him back.
"In Essos," Godwyn said, "honor is not the same as in Westeros. We do not sing songs of mercy. We win."
The commander lunged again, faster now, desperate. "They say you smile while men beg."
Godwyn's red cloak snapped in the wind as he parried and answered with a sharp cut across the commander's thigh. Blood spilled warm and quick.
"I smile," Godwyn said, "because I warned them."
The commander grunted, staggering but still defiant.
"You think yourself a god? You are just a killer with a title."
"And you," Godwyn replied, eyes cold, "are a commander who sends boys to die for coin."
The commander roared and brought his sword down in a heavy overhand strike meant to split helm and skull alike.
Godwyn stepped inside the swing.
Too close.
Too fast.
Their blades locked once more—then Godwyn twisted, slid free, and drove his pommel into the man's face. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered into the mud.
The commander fell to one knee, blood pouring from his mouth.
"You fear me," Godwyn said quietly.
The commander coughed red and forced a grin through broken teeth. "Fear? I fear no man. I just see what you are."
"And what is that?"
"A monster."
Godwyn tilted his head slightly.
"No," he said. "I am your enemy."
The commander tried to rise, swinging blindly. Godwyn stepped aside, seized the opening, and with one clean, decisive stroke drove his blade through the gap beneath the man's raised arm.
Steel punched through mail, flesh, and lung.
The commander gasped, eyes wide.
Godwyn leaned close so only he could hear.
"I have never harmed the innocent," he said softly. "Remember that when you meet whatever gods Myr prays to."
He withdrew the blade in a smooth motion. The commander collapsed into the blood-soaked earth, life spilling out beneath him as the clash of Tyrosh and Myr raged on.
Godwyn grabbed the decapitated head of his enemy commander then stabbed his sword then removed his helmet revealing handsome with flawless skin and silver hair along with purple eyes. A Valyrian trait. His red cloak trailing behind him like a banner of war as he raised the head of his enemy showing that they had won.
The fact he removed his helmet despite the battle made it more terrifying, showing that he does not feel any shade of doubt of his victory, only shadowed by certainty.