They called it a game.
The dog run, a maze full of screaming toddlers and murder dogs, while rich bastards sip wine and place bets like they're watching horse racing, if the horses were three years old and got eaten halfway through.
I was up top, sitting next to Mara, the wet nurse, a handler and a guard were nearby, watching me closely, sometimes they let me out of the cage I called home and took me around the pit, their eyes never leaving me for a second.
Right now, we were seated in the stands of a small arena, witnessing something horrific. A kid was being dragged, screaming, into the dark. I looked up at Mara, she just stared down, expressionless, like she was watching someone sweep a floor she didn't care about.
The year is still 112 AC I am two years old and have seen many things in the pit.
But this?
This was new.
The horn blew.
Out came the dogs.
Not pets, not strays, these things were engineered nightmares, lean, fast, and hungry.
The kids ran, or tried to.
Most didn't even understand what was happening, one boy just stood there, frozen, until a dog barrelled into him and knocked him flat. He screamed once before it clamped onto his leg and dragged him away.
Another girl ran in the wrong direction, straight into a dead end. She turned around, wide eyed, mouth open, but no sound came out. The dog didn't wait, it pounced, slammed her into the wall, and started tearing, terrible way to go.
One of the smallest tripped over his own feet, tried to crawl, then just curled up and sobbed. A dog grabbed him by the back and shook him like a rag.
The crowd roared like it was a festival.
"Dog hit him so hard I thought his spine snapped. Did you hear that scream?"
"The girl ran straight into a wall. Like she wanted to die."
"I swear I saw his arm come off. That beast's got bite."
The dogs dragged what was left of the smallest one into the shadows, his sobs had stopped. The crowd didn't care. They were already talking about odds for the next batch.
I looked at Mara, she hadn't moved. Still staring down like none of it mattered.
And maybe it didn't, not to her, not to them.
But it did to me.
I'd seen kids die before, starve, get beaten, get sick and waste away, but this was different.
I felt it building, slow, heavy, like pressure behind my eyes.
Not panic. Not grief.
Rage.
The kind that makes your muscles lock up. The kind that makes your jaw ache from clenching too hard. I could feel it in my arms, my legs, my chest, every part of me felt like it was burning, I wanted to do something, but I couldn't. My body was too small, too soft, my legs were short, my hands weak, I couldn't swing a hard punch, couldn't strike, couldn't even scream loud enough to matter.
This place was fucked, all of it
I was trapped in this tiny fucking frame, forced to watch monsters tear children apart while the crowd laughed and placed bets. I wanted to beat these rich cunts to death, watch the life drain from their eyes as my fists pummelled their faces.
I was eventually taken back to my cage and left alone, silence, my best friend, came to say hi.
I let out a bitter laugh.
"What a sad fucking life I've ended up in."
Days slipped into weeks, the pit became a blur of blood and bone, men tore at each other with fists, teeth, broken blades, anything they could get their hands on. Even some of the boys and girls, just children, seemed dulled to the violence. I watched them kill each other in the cages closest to mine.
I'd seen war, but never brutality this casual.
"Did you see Rylan gouge out that guard's eye?" one fighter spoke, wiping gore from his knuckles.
"He's done for," another replied, eyes dead. "Odds say he won't last the week."
The air reeked of fear and rusted steel, but my mind was back on the farm, no cheering crowds, just dirt under my nails and sweat on my brow. Here, every breath felt like suffocation in this tiny body, fuck I hate being this weak, I needed to change that.
When the lamps dimmed and the handlers slipped away, I pressed my back against the cold stone and stretched until my joints screamed. My push ups were clumsy, my planks shaky, absurd for someone barely two, but I'd squeeze every ounce of strength from this small frame.
They kept me apart from the other children, my cage sat at the far end of a stone hallway, I heard their sobs and muffled screams, but I never really saw their faces. Even the ones closest to me I couldn't interact with, too many guards lingered nearby.
Silence really was my best friend.
Only Mara crossed that divide, she'd squat beside my bowl, her sour breath ordering me to eat and grow strong. Her eyes flicked upward, as if she were counting coin, with every mouthful I forced down, I could almost feel her purse growing fatter.
Beneath that damp nurse's apron beat a heart of pure greed, I heard her whisper to the guards about when I'd turn six.
"I'll keep him healthy, nice and plump, they like them better that way."
Plump? Fucking what? Keep me nice and plump?
I'm not the smartest person, I mean, I signed up for a war and lied about my age because I thought it'd be fun, look where that got me. But even with all that, I could still put two and two together, and I'm not fucking letting that happen, no way.
She wasn't keeping me alive out of the goodness of her merry little heart. She was keeping me profitable, I bet the old bitch gets a nice fat cut if whoever they are like the goods, and I'm pretty damn sure the goods are me.
At night, I lie in darkness with Mara's words hammering inside my skull, I hate her, I hate this cage, every bruise, every throb of pain is a reminder that I can't just sit around waiting for something to happen, hoping it might, that's not reality.
If I want change, I have to make it happen, It's been long enough, no one's coming to get me. I have to grow strong enough to get the fuck out of this shithole.
If the world is cruel, then I'll be cruel too, because so far, all I've known is suffering and madness.
One number stood out in my mind above all the others, six. Whenever the guards huddled around Mara, someone would mutter, "Just wait until he's six."
What happens at six? Well, I can already guess, especially considering Mara's own words, "Keep him nice and plump, they like it better that way."
Some disgusting freaks obviously took an interest in me from the moment I arrived. Why, though? Just because I have silver-white hair? And fucking what, purple eyes? Oh, and I can't forget the fucking dragon blood. The amount of times I've heard that word muttered by those around me
I get it, I know the Targaryen's have those features, and to be honest, I'm fairly certain I'm a bastard from one of those damn fucking royal cunts, they see that as exotic, I'm held as a higher product in regard to others.
But fuck all that, I'm not sticking around, I'm getting out, I don't know how, but I'm done with this fucking shit cunt of a place they call the pits.