Year 289 AC
Under the scorching sun of Meereen, I walk with my back hunched, my small figure marked by scars that tell the story of a cruel life. I am Viserys Targaryen, the last vestige of a dynasty that once ruled the Seven Kingdoms. Now, at thirteen years old, I am nothing more than a slave among the dusty alleys of this city.
The heat is relentless. Sweat runs down my forehead and mixes with the dust that clings to my skin. My hands tremble under the weight of a basket of spices I must carry to the market. The overseer, a massive man with a scar running across his cheek, watches me from the shade. I know that if I stop or stumble, his blows will fall on me mercilessly.
"Faster, dragon boy," he growls, mocking my lineage. The rumors about my family have reached even here, but they mean nothing. My royal blood does not protect me. In this place, dragons are nothing more than old tales crushed by the brutality of reality.
The market is a chaos of screams, smells, and colors. As I move between the stalls, my eyes scan everything around me. I am not looking for anything in particular, just a spark, something to make me believe that this life is not all that remains for me. Sometimes I hear other slaves talk about the Sons of the Harpy, a group that fights against the masters. But for me, they are stories as distant as my own past.
That night, back in the barracks, I sit alone in a corner. My arms and back ache, but what weighs most is the emptiness in my heart. I hug my knees and close my eyes, trying to remember the stories my mother used to tell me about dragons and the greatness of our family. But the memories are blurry, like a dream fading upon waking.
Then I hear a soft voice next to me.
"Are you okay?"
I open my eyes and see a boy my age sitting beside me. He has dark skin and curly hair, and his dark eyes shine with a mix of curiosity and compassion. I have never seen him before.
"I'm Daro," he says, offering me a piece of bread. "I've seen you work. You seem... different."
I hesitate before taking the bread, but hunger is stronger than my distrust. "I'm Viserys," I murmur, avoiding his eyes.
Daro asks no more questions. We sit in silence, sharing the bread. There is something about his presence that feels comforting, a strange sensation that I am not completely alone.
In the weeks that follow, Daro and I become friends. We share the few rations we get and talk in whispers when the overseers aren't watching. He tells me he was captured by the masters when his village was raided. He has no family, just like me. In him, I find something I haven't felt in a long time: an ally.
One day, while we are working together carrying sacks of grain, Daro whispers, "Have you ever thought about escaping?"
I look at him surprised. "Escape? There's no way. They'd catch us before we reached the gates."
But Daro smiles with a glint of determination. "There are ways. You just have to be smart. And brave."
That night, in the barracks, we begin talking about how we might do it. Daro has ideas: the underground canals running beneath the city, the corrupt guards who might be bribed, the routes to the sea. I listen with skepticism, but also with a spark of hope growing inside me.
As we plan, we also face the daily cruelty of our lives. The overseers don't hesitate to use the whip for the slightest mistake. A girl who works with us, barely older than me, is beaten unconscious for spilling a bucket of water. Daro and I help her up, but we know we can't do much more.
One night, an elderly slave approaches me. She places a small wooden figurine in my hands: a dragon with its wings outstretched.
"Dragons never truly die," she says in a soft but firm voice. "They always find a way to be reborn."
I look at the figure, feeling something I cannot describe. I clutch the dragon to my chest and decide I cannot go on living like this. I cannot let the last Targaryen die in chains.
With Daro by my side, I begin to take the plan seriously. We know the risk is enormous. If we are caught, we will be killed. But we also know we have nothing to lose. We are slaves, and the only thing we have is our will to be free.
One night, under the moonlight, we gather in a secluded corner of the barracks. Daro shows me a small knife he has stolen. It is crude, but it's something. We hide it under the floorboards and continue planning.
Time passes, and every day is a torment. The overseers grow more cruel, as if they sense our determination. But we also grow stronger. We learn to move silently, to observe without being seen, to wait for the right moment.
Finally, the day comes. Under the cover of darkness, with Daro's knife and the dragon figurine as my talisman, we take the first step toward our freedom. We don't know if we will succeed, but we know we have to try.
Because dragons never truly die. They always find a way to fly again.