Capítulo 2: (2) Of Chains and Flames
Year 288 after the Conquest.
Five years had passed since the storm that destroyed my life. I was twelve years old, and the word "Targaryen" had lost all meaning. I was no longer the exiled prince or heir to the Iron Throne. I was a slave—a body to serve, an object to be used. In Meereen, dragons were no more than forgotten legends.
My hands were calloused from labor, my knees raw from kneeling. I woke before dawn to scrub the floors of my masters' quarters, and if I made even the smallest mistake, the whip reminded me of my place. The first lash always stung, but the second was worse because it carried humiliation. How had it come to this? How had I fallen so low?
My master, Zhal Marak, was a cruel man, as most of Meereen's Great Masters were. He delighted in humiliating me, calling me "The Dragon Boy" with a mocking smile. One afternoon, while I poured wine for his guests, I tripped over the rug, spilling some of the crimson liquid onto his marble table. His hand was swift, grabbing me by the hair and forcing me to kneel before them all.
"A dragon, is it?" he sneered as the others laughed. "This is the fire that's left in the Targaryens."
He made me lick the wine off the table as his guests roared with laughter. Each sound was a dagger piercing my pride, but I did not cry. I would not give them that satisfaction. Inside me, the fire still burned, roaring stronger.
I trusted no one. The other slaves were as cruel as the masters, if not more so. Desperation had made them dangerous. If you showed even a hint of weakness or a spark of pride, they extinguished it with taunts or blows. To survive, I learned to stay silent. My eyes observed, but my lips rarely spoke. It was better that way. Better to be invisible.
But inside me, the fire lived on. It was not a warm or comforting fire. It was dark, fed by hatred and resentment. Every insult, every humiliation, was a coal fueling my hunger for revenge. I imagined broken chains, the bodies of my masters burning on a pyre. "One day," I repeated to myself, "I will be a dragon again."
One of the worst humiliations was being taken to the fighting pits. I was not a warrior. I lacked the strength of the men who fought for entertainment. Yet still, they threw me into the arena, armed only with a stick or a dull knife, to face other slaves. That afternoon, the sun blazed over the stands, and sweat dripped from my brow as I was shoved into the center of the pit. Before me stood a much larger man, his face scarred, his eyes full of hatred. He had been captured in one of the slaver wars and, like me, fought to survive.
"Kill him," Zhal Marak shouted from the stands. "Let's see if dragons have teeth."
The first blow sent me sprawling to the ground. I tasted blood in my mouth, and the crowd's jeers rang in my ears. But I would not die. I would not give them that pleasure. I staggered to my feet, gripping my knife tightly. When the man charged again, I sidestepped and drove the knife into his side. His cry was brief, and as he fell to the ground, I collapsed as well. Victory brought no relief, only more hatred. More fire.
There were nights when the pain of the lash kept me from sleeping. I would lie on the floor of my cell, gritting my teeth to keep from crying. Tears were a luxury I could not afford. On the rare occasions when I dared to dream, my dreams were filled with flames. I saw my enemies burning, their faces twisted in terror as the fire consumed them. But there were other nightmares, too. I dreamed of Daenerys, her tiny body sinking beneath the waves as the storm raged around us. I would wake up screaming her name, my chest burning with pain.
One day, as I scrubbed the floor of my master's house, I overheard a merchant speaking of dragons. He claimed to have seen dragon eggs in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. My heart leaped. Could it be true? Could dragons walk the earth again? That night, as I tried to sleep, I thought of those eggs. If I could escape, if I could find them, I could bring back my family's power. I could burn Meereen and everyone who had humiliated me.
But those were only dreams. The reality was different. Reality was the chains on my wrists, the scars on my back, the constant ache in my body. Reality was that I was not a dragon. I was a slave.
And yet, even in the deepest darkness, a spark can ignite a fire. And I, though just a shadow of the boy I had once been, clung to that spark. One day, I promised myself, one day the flames would rise again.
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