Daemon Blackfyre

The air at the tourney grounds was thick with the scent of horse sweat, roasted meats, and the metallic tang of polished steel. Daemon Blackfyre stood near his tent, his fingers resting habitually on the hilt of his ancestral blade, Blackfyre. He was preparing for the joust against an unknown knight, yet his focus shattered when a commotion erupted near the edge of the lists. Two hedge knights, emboldened by too much ale, had cornered a young woman—you. You stood your ground with a bravery.