Chapter Text
The world was burning.
Fire was no stranger to Bravos. It flickered in torches, roared in hearths, coiled from the breath of dragons who had flown alongside her people for generations. But this fire was different. It did not flicker—it consumed. It swallowed the city whole, clawing up the walls, racing along the rooftops, sinking its teeth into flesh and bone.
The great towers of Bravos, once symbols of power, crumbled like sandcastles beneath the weight of the flames. The air was thick with smoke, choking out the sky, turning the stars to embers. The streets were lined with corpses, some still clutching their swords, some unarmed, some too young to have ever held a weapon. The battle had long since ended.
The war was lost.
And in the stillness of its aftermath, a single sound broke through the silence.
Sobbing. A girl knelt in the ruins, hunched over the lifeless body of a king, once thought to be immortal.
Her father lay beneath her, his flesh marred with burns, his once-proud face now slack and empty. The girl clung to his arm, her fingertips stained purple from the bruised skin of the dead. Exhaustion had stolen her voice, her screams dwindling to nothing but hoarse, broken gasps.
She did not hear the footsteps approaching. Not until the glint of metal caught her eye.
She lifted her head sharply, her breath shuddering in her throat. A group of men stood before her, dressed in black leather, their swords tucked neatly into their sheaths. No sigils marked their armor, no banners claimed their allegiance. They served no one.
Mercenaries, she thought. But mercenaries fought for coin.
These men had burned her kingdom to ash.
A monster stood at the front of them.
He was tall and pale, his silver hair tied back, his hands tucked neatly behind his back as if he were a guest in this ruined land rather than its executioner. His wolfish gaze swept over her, slow and calculating, the corners of his mouth tilting up in amusement.
The girl moved before she could think. Her fingers tore at her father's sword, prying it from his stiff, unyielding grip. It was too big for her hands, too heavy, but she lifted it anyway, her arms trembling under its weight. She stepped in front of her father's body.
"Don't—" her voice broke, rasping and raw, but she swallowed and forced it out. "Don't come any closer."
The man's smirk widened.
She was bleeding, alone, trembling on legs that barely held her upright. Her home was gone, her people slaughtered, her gods deaf to her cries. And yet she stood her ground.
He took a step forward.
She raised the sword higher.
The man reached out—slowly, lazily, as if she were nothing more than a nuisance—and pressed two leather-clad fingers against the flat of the blade, tilting it away with no effort at all.
His voice was soft, almost amused. "Reyna Valyrian," sharp eyes scanned hers, as if looking for something, "you're just like your father, aren't you? relentless, a true dragon."
Reyna did not move, did not flinch, did not answer. He watched her for a moment longer before he sighed, tucking his hands behind his back once more.
Then he turned to his men. "Take her."
Reyna's stomach plummeted. Before she could run, hands snatched her up, lifting her into the air as she screamed. She thrashed, kicked, clawed, bit at the arms holding her, her nails tearing at flesh, but their grips were iron.
She screamed for her father.
For her mother.
For anyone who was left.
No one answered.
She was the only survivor.
They carried her through the carnage that had recked her city. Through the smoke, past the crumbling towers, past the charred bodies of people she had once known, people she was meant to protect.
Then onto the ship. It was larger than any palace she had ever seen, made of iron and steel, armed with weapons she did not recognize. They dragged her below deck, through twisting corridors, through damp tunnels lit only by dim lanterns.
Her screams never stopped. And yet no one turned to look. No one acknowledged her. No one cared. And so, after what felt like hours of thrashing against an unfeeling world, her screams faded to nothing. She let them carry her into the darkness. She had lost.
Reyna did not know how long she had been unconscious. But when she woke, the world was blindingly bright. She winced, raising a hand to her face, only to realize that she was no longer bound. The thought of escaping the iron fortress crossed her mind, but where would she go? Her only home had been reduced to ashes, her family slaughtered. The rough stone floor scraped against her bare knees. She pushed herself up, squinting through the light, of the open sky. except it wasn't open- Bars, she noticed. Thick iron bars stretched across the ceiling, caging her in.
Her pulse pounded as she took in her surroundings. A pit. A training arena, enclosed by towering walls of stone. The air smelled of sand and steel, damp with the scent of blood.
Something clattered against the ground.
Her gaze snapped forward. A leather-cloaked figure stood before her again. The silver haired man. Her father's sword was in his hand. He spun it lazily between his fingers, then planted the tip into the ground. His silver eyes glowed like a wolf's, drinking in her dishevelled form.
She did not move. She did not dare breathe. And then, in the silence, he spoke. "Nobody is coming to save you, little storm."
Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. He tilted his head slightly, considering her. Then he tossed the sword at her feet. It clanged against the stone. The sound echoed in her skull.
"Get up," He smiled, "And fight."