I made it and I'm still alive, it's been two years since I was first taken from some alley and ended up here.
They didn't punch me, not like the man who dragged me here in the first place. That guy had fists like bricks and the temper of a cornered animal. The handlers were rough, sure, but they weren't madmen and after a while, things changed. They started feeding me better, not out of kindness, but because they had plans, the handler kept me breathing, and now he made sure I stayed healthy. Mara, the wet nurse, was told to take extra care of me, it was her job to keep me cleaned and fed, I wasn't sold, they were grooming me for something.
They even gave me a name more of a nickname, little dragon, not as honour but as mockery, a taunt, branding a child with the realm's greatest terror. They whispered I was one of the Targaryen's abandoned bastards, born in secret, blood of the dragon staining my veins though no one would come and claim me or look for me some fucking useless parents I had if they were even still alive.
I didn't know my age at first, not exactly I could tell it had been some time, but I listened.
One of the scribes kept records, coin ledgers, sale logs, birth dates. I heard him mutter once, "Born in 110 AC. He'll be six in four years." That stuck, I wasn't supposed to understand I also figured out where I am, King's Landing, capital of this realm, more specifically, a place called Flea Bottom, that's where they keep the pit, tucked away beneath the filth and noise, hidden from prying eyes like the city watch, though I've seen the gold cloaks down here from time to time, guess they don't really care much. It's currently 112 AC, I've been here in a foreign world for two years I wonder if we won the war or lost it, wouldn't be surprised with how shit the command was at Gallipoli. Still, I was stuck in this place they called the pit, don't think I'll be free anytime soon they're not letting me out from the looks of it. What is this, fucking slavery? I'm only two, what worth do I even have?
I learned of what I could by listening.
The pit was loud, screams, steel, people shouting orders but beneath all that noise was information. Guards talked, handlers bragged and buyers gossiped, I absorbed it all, information was my ticket to surviving in this strange new world.
That's how I learned about the realm outside these stone walls, about the crown and the court, about the families with power, and the tension building between them.
I kept hearing one name more than any other the Targaryen's. They were the royal family, the ones who ruled from the Iron Throne, blood of the dragon, dragonriders, and a name that made people lower their voices. King Viserys was one of them, said to be gentle, more interested in scrolls than swords. But he wore the crown, and that meant his decisions shaped the realm, even if not everyone liked them.
They said King Viserys named his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra as heir in 105 AC, but by 110 AC, things were shifting. Queen Alicent had sons now, Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond, and the men who passed through the pit didn't hide their thoughts. "No boy should wait behind a girl for the throne," one of them said while grabbing a boy from one of the cages, must have been sold to him. Most of the smallfolk didn't care who ruled, so long as the roads stayed open and the taxes didn't rise. But the ones who dealt in coin and blood, they talked like it mattered. The handlers called it "the Queen's quiet rebellion." One of the guards scoffed, said he'd rather see a drunken sellsword on the throne than a woman in a crown.
I heard about the tournament in 111 AC. That's when the colours started to matter. Queen Alicent arrived in Hightower green, the colour their banners flew when calling men to arms. Princess Rhaenyra wore black and red, the colours of House Targaryen.
After that, the whispers hardened into factions.
The Greens and the Blacks.
And the realm began to choose sides.
By 112 AC, even the pit had picked up the tension, a buyer from Oldtown refused to speak to a man from Driftmark. A handler warned another not to mention Daemon Targaryen unless he wanted his teeth knocked out. I didn't know who Daemon was, but I knew he scared people.
And I started to understand the world wasn't just kings and dragons, It was lords and bannermen, oaths and bloodlines, a feudal web stretched across the realm, each thread tied to a castle and a name. The crown sat at the top, but it didn't rule alone, it leaned on the great houses, Starks, Tyrell, Lannister, Baratheon among the many, and they leaned on their vassals.
The pit had its own hierarchy too, the handlers answered to buyers, the buyers answered to coin.
But coin didn't explain why they kept me separate.
I wasn't forced to work like the others, I didn't scrub floors or haul crates, I didn't get thrown into sparring pits or punished for stepping out of line. I was watched, fed better and kept clean.
Sometimes the handlers argued when they thought I was asleep. One said I was "too young to start." Another said, "He'll be ready by six, that's what they paid for."
Paid for?
That stuck with me.
I didn't know who "they" were. I didn't know what I was supposed to be ready for, but I knew it wasn't good, not in a place like this.
The other boys came and went, some older, some broken, some didn't come back at all, I stayed, always in the same cage, always under Mara's care, she never smiled, but she never let me starve either.
Then came the fever.
It wasn't the kind that made boys scream and sweat, mine came quiet, no chills, no shakes. Just heat, deep and constant, like something had lit a fire inside my bones and forgot to put it out.
Mara noticed first, she touched my forehead and pulled back like she'd touched a forge. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, she wrapped me in damp cloth and whispered to herself.
The handlers didn't care. "Kids burn hot," one said. "Let it sweat out."
But it didn't sweat out.
It stayed.
I could sit right beside the fire pits, close enough to feel the heat bite, and all I felt was calm.
Then came the fire.
A brazier had tipped when a drunken guard had knocked it over, flames spilled across the straw mats, screams followed, one handler grabbed a bucket, another grabbed a whip, for what fucking purpose I could not say.
I didn't move.
I was sitting near the edge of my cage, the fire had reached me, touched my leg.
And nothing happened.
No pain, no blister, just warmth it was a comforting feeling, I was confused, how the fuck was I not burning? No one saw, I quickly got out of the way when a handler came and grabbed me.
Time passed quickly days seemed to go faster and the usual routine stayed the same nothing really changed.
And then the dreams began.
Not dreams of freedom or food or the mothers the other boys cried for, mine were darker.
I saw fire again, but not the kind that danced, this fire devoured, swallowed forests, melted stone, turned men into ash and dust.
And in the centre of it all was a dragon.
This wasn't like the dragons the handlers used to whisper about in their drunken ramblings, not regal, not noble, this one was ancient, its wings were torn, its scales jagged like shattered obsidian and its eyes, its eyes burned green, wild and bloodthirsty.
Then it roared.
A low, grinding sound rose from its throat, deep enough to make the ground tremble beneath me. It swelled, sharper and sharper, until it tore through the air like metal tearing.
It didn't fly, It was hunting.
I saw it tear through castles, I saw it crush knights in gleaming armour, I saw it land in a field of ash and fire.
And I saw myself.
I stood in the fire, untouched, the flames curled around me as if they were dancing. The dragon circled me, snarling, smoke billowing from its jaws.
But it didn't strike.
It lowered its head.
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, my cage was cold, but I wasn't, I was burning inside.
The dreams kept coming, each one darker and more insistent I didn't understand them, not yet, but I knew they weren't just dreams.
They felt like pulls, as if something ancient had reached through and found me.