The Burnt Prince-GOT SI (OC x Ashara Dayne)

Part 8

Chapter 8

She found herself once more in Slavers Bay, where human flesh was cheaper than bread and wine. Where chains were common and slaves commoner still. The city had seen a great shift in her eyes, though even she had not seen a King arise, for even throughout her long life, the city had been governed by its Wise Masters. And how wise they were.

Meeren, the city was the crown jewel of Slaver's Bay, the Northern city was the largest and most populous of the three centres of slavery, with its wonderous pyramids and adventures pits, the City was a sight to behold. And it was in one of these pits that she found herself in, her eyes focused on the ground below as men fought and bled to their deaths.

She had feared the worst when she had heard exactly where the Prince was, and a small whisper inside her had spoken of the Prince's demise. Yet she had traveled in hope and desperation, and her belief was answered as she found a man down below fighting with a blade in his hand, drenched in scarlet blood, as he stared down his opponent. His face was now gone, covered by a thick metallic mask, one that showed little else apart from his eyes, which gleamed in the burning Sun as he stood dyed in red.

The fighting had been brutal, he had been hit, cut, and slashed many a times. Some of his wounds were egregious yet he fought as if he didn't feel a thing, even as he bled away he refused to feel any pain as he avoided a slash from his opponent, before cleaving his head straight off with a simple swing.

He had won, and she watched as the crowd cheered, loudly shaking the whole pit, yet the victor didn't celebrate even as he was showered in gold. He picked up his blade and walked back, leaving behind only a trail of blood. And just like him, she left the stands as well.

.

.

.

"You will die at this rate," he heard as he sat in the room beside the pit. It reeked of blood and sweat, much of it his own, as he bled away from the various cuts and scars from his battle earlier, yet he didn't feel a thing. He hadn't since the burning, at least after the skin had healed and congealed into the mess it was.

He looked up and found Melisandre standing there, and his eyes narrowed.

'Who had let her in?' The door was closed behind her as she walked in and stood in front of him regally. His blood began to boil at the sight of her.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his tone curt, and yet it didn't affect her.

"You know what comes for humanity, know of the danger that approaches, yet you defy my God's offer and sit here fighting with reckless abandon," she began, and at the mention of her God, he snarled.

"I need nothing from your God or from you," he snarled in rage, for they had destroyed his life. Them and his own father, and he would not forget that. Never.

"You would deny his favor, deny to serve the true lord of the light..."

"I serve no Master," he cut in before she could begin her sermon. He had had enough of her and her little order. He would see to it that one day they burnt for what they had done to him, burnt in a pyre just as he had.

"I am Daemon Targaryen. The blood of the Dragonlords flows through my veins. I was born a free man and shall die as one," he answered. He would not enslave himself to a God for parlor tricks.

"The Red God could grant you anything, my Prince," she began as she closed the distance between them. The red ruby around her neck gleamed as her form shifted. The red hair was gone, replaced by a river of black, and so were her face and eyes. He watched as, in the blink, she turned into a figure so familiar, one that plagued his own dreams.