287 AC — 14th Day of the First Moon of Summer — The Spice Quarter, Tyrosh
Tyrosh bled colors. Even in the storm, the city dripped with the painted shutters and gaudy silk awnings that had made it famous from the Summer Isles to the Basilisk Isles. Reds like open wounds, blues like the Sea of Sighs under moonlight, yellows like the sands of Lys — all of it dulled beneath the hammering summer downpour, pigments bleeding down walls and cobbles until the streets looked painted in melting rainbows. The water was hot, stinging, and it carried the stink of rotting fish from the harbor mixed with the metallic tang of fresh-spilled blood.
Daemon Sandfyre stood ankle-deep in that mess, the rain plastering his black hair to his face. The spear in his hands felt heavier than it had in training, slick in his grip. Somewhere down the alley, a scream split the rain — sharp, wild, and coming closer. Then he saw him: a Dothraki, bare-chested, skin bronze and shining under the torchlight spilling from a dye merchant's shop. His long braid swung behind him, bells ringing with each step, and in his hands was an arakh, its curved steel bright even under the storm. The man was grinning like the fight was already won.
The Dothraki's cry rose higher, drowning the sound of the rain as he came on. The blade arced for Daemon's throat. Instinct took over. Daemon stepped in, jamming the spear's shaft against the oncoming swing. The shock rattled his bones, the metal screeched, and the arakh slid off, throwing sparks that hissed in the wet. Before the man could recover, Daemon drove the broken spearhead forward into his gut. The iron point punched through wet leather with the sound of ripping meat.
The scream that followed was short, more surprise than pain. Daemon twisted hard, felt something give way inside the man, and yanked the spear back in a red spray the rain immediately began to wash away. The Dothraki staggered, dropped his arakh, and for a heartbeat their eyes met — wild, bright, almost curious — before the man folded to his knees and toppled sideways into the gutter. Dead.
"First blood," came a voice behind him. Vargo stepped over the corpse without breaking stride, his beard dyed Tyroshi purple and now streaking down his jaw in rivulets of color. His face was a map of old cuts, nose broken twice over. The rain sheeted off his battered half-helm. "And you didn't piss yourself. Good."
Daemon spat, tasting salt and iron. His hands shook around the spear's shaft, though whether from fear or the rush he couldn't say. "Do I get a reward?" he asked, his voice dry.
Vargo grinned with all the warmth of a drawn blade. He bent, pried the dead man's arakh from stiffening fingers, and tossed Daemon a rusted sword. "Aye. You get to live another day."
[**Trait Gained: Hardened**]
*+5 Morale to nearby troops. Your presence steadies the wavering.*
The words burned at the edge of his vision, gone in a blink, as if some unseen scribe had written them in the air. Daemon had stopped questioning them months ago. The first time it had happened — during drills — he'd thought he was losing his mind. Now it was simply part of him, as much as the blood in his veins.
The fight hadn't ended with the Dothraki's fall. Around them, the Spice Quarter was a chaos of steel and curses in a dozen tongues. Golden Company men fought in tight formation, gold-lacquered armor bright even under the storm. The air stank of wet leather and smoke; somewhere a warehouse burned, flames licking through the rain. Dothraki weren't meant for streets like these, and yet here they were, hired by Magister Orano to make some point only the highborn understood.
Daemon moved into the thick of it, rusted sword now in hand, the spear left behind. A mountain of a man came barreling into his vision — Roggo the Ruin, shield in one hand, mace in the other. He smashed a Dothraki to the stones with a single shield-bash, blood spraying in a hot arc. "Blackfyre!" Roggo roared over the rain. He was one of the few who called Daemon that without sneer or hesitation. "Your left!"
Daemon turned in time to meet a flash of steel, catching a cut on the edge of his sword. Sparks stung his face. He shoved back hard, boot slamming into the man's shin, and the Tyroshi cutpurse who'd been trying to gut him stumbled into the dark and was gone. The air was thick with the sound of steel on steel, the grunt of effort, the wet slap of bodies hitting waterlogged stone. Somewhere behind him, a woman screamed — not in fear, but in rage. He caught sight of Serra the Silver darting through the melee, her twin daggers flickering in the torchlight like fish in a tidepool.
Blackfyre. The name still burned, even after a year in Tyrosh. He was Daemon Sandfyre Blackfyre, bastard son of Ser Aegor Sandfyre — a man who had boasted of blood ties to Maelys the Monstrous himself, last of the Blackfyre pretenders. It was a thin claim, drunk on half-truths and pride, but enough to have made enemies. His father had squandered what little they had left at cyvasse tables, losing land, gold, and finally his sword. When the Tyroshi debt collectors came, they came with fire. Daemon had woken to the smell of silk burning and the sound of his mother's scream. By dawn, both parents were gone.
He'd walked barefoot to the Golden Company barracks on the city's edge, bleeding from a gash in his forehead, and told Vargo he'd fight for bread and a place to sleep. The drillmaster had thrown him a spear and told him if he could still stand at the day's end, he could stay.
And now here he was — fighting in a rain-slick street for a cause he didn't understand, killing men he'd never met, and somehow feeling more alive than he had in years.
The Dothraki line finally broke. Tyrosh's narrow alleys and slick cobbles had robbed them of the space they needed to fight, and without their horses they were just men with curved blades. They melted back into the dark, leaving their dead behind. The rain hammered on, turning blood into pink rivers that wound toward the harbor.
Daemon leaned on his sword, chest heaving. His arms ached, his soaked tunic clung to his skin, and his mind still rang with the echo of that first kill. Vargo clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Not bad for a bastard's boy," he said. "You'll see worse before long."
[**Skill Unlocked: Spear Handling I**]
*+5% damage with all polearms.*
The whisper came again, and Daemon let a thin smile twist his lips. One step closer.
They formed up in the street, pushing the bodies into a heap to be burned later. The smell of wet flesh clung to them as they marched back toward the barracks. Roggo walked beside him, chuckling under his breath. "First blood, eh? I remember mine. Felt like the whole world stopped for it." He glanced sideways. "It doesn't. It gets quicker. Messier."
Serra appeared out of the shadows, rain gleaming on her hair. "You fight like a man who's been hungry too long," she said, falling into step on Daemon's other side. "Hungry men are dangerous."
"I fight to live," Daemon replied without looking at her.
"And what will you do when you've lived enough?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer.
By the time they reached the barracks gates, the drizzle had turned into a thin mist, curling over the palisades. The Company's colors — the black dragon on gold — hung limp in the damp air. Inside, the heat hit like a wall. Men crowded the hall, some stripping off armor, others already halfway to drunk. The smell was sweat, steel oil, and cheap wine.
Daemon barely made it three steps before a broad figure blocked his way. Boros, a Lysene with eyes the color of swamp water, leaned against a table, tossing a coin in one hand. "Heard you got your first kill tonight," Boros said, his voice thick with the slur of someone who'd been drinking since before the rain.
"Word travels fast," Daemon replied flatly.
Boros shrugged. "Some of us had to work for our place here. Others get lucky with a wet street and a green rider."
"Luck didn't hold the spear for me," Daemon said, stepping to pass. Boros shifted, blocking him again.
"You think carrying that name means you're something special?" Boros' lips twisted into a smirk. "I've pissed on better Blackfyres than you."
The words hit harder than a fist. The hall seemed to still, nearby voices fading to a murmur. Daemon's hand slid toward his sword without thought.
"Enough." Vargo's voice cracked across the room like a whip. The drillmaster stood near the hearth, eyes fixed on them. "You want to bleed each other, do it in the yard at dawn. Not in my hall."
Boros sneered but stepped aside. Daemon didn't give him the satisfaction of a glance, heading instead toward the far end of the hall where the stables lay.
The air there was thick with the scent of hay and horse, warmer than the hall despite the open doors. Daemon leaned against a stall, the breath he hadn't realized he was holding finally leaving him. The mare inside shifted, her dark eyes watching him.
He let his mind wander, back through the years to the stories his father had told by firelight — of Blackfyre steel, of kings who should have been, of dragons that might have carried their riders over the world. They had been just tales then, but tonight, with the taste of battle still on his tongue, they felt closer.
The Blackfyre name was tarnished, spat on, whispered in mockery. But names could be reforged. Steel could be hammered back into shape. And blood — blood had a way of proving itself.
The rain outside softened to a steady patter. Somewhere beyond the city, thunder rolled over the sea. Daemon rested a hand on the mare's neck, feeling the steady beat of her pulse.
One day, he told himself, the world would remember the name Blackfyre without laughter.
And when that day came, they would remember him, too.
"""