- 24 AC -
- Meereen, Daznak's Pit -
The deafening roar of the Meereenese crowd washed over the circular brick arena, Daznak's Pit, echoing off the descending tiers of multicoloured stone benches.
At the very top, the black and purple benches were packed tightly with the lowest of Meereen, usually slaves or the poorer citizens who screamed for carnage as it was the only thing that made them forget the cruel reality they lived in. Even if just for a moment.
Descending through tiers of blue, green, white, and yellow, the wealth of the spectators grew, until reaching the bottom tiers of red and orange, which were reserved exclusively for the highest ranking of Meereen.
In one of the most lavish orange boxes, Great Master Grazdan mo Ullhor leaned back in his heavily cushioned seat, sipping more of his wine and bathing in the atmosphere of the fighting pit.
Beside him sat Queen Visenya, who was his guest of honour. The chests filled with gold lay on the ground before them. As she looked around the pit and took in everything around her, a cruel, knowing smirk played on her lips. This was criminally unfair, even for her as a warrior queen and dragonlord, like taking food from orphans.
Down in the hot, blood-soaked sands, Maegor Targaryen stood utterly still. On paper, he was a boy of twelve name days and shouldn't be anywhere near a fighting pit. If Aegon knew about this, he would lose his mind and throw a fit, as this was truly unnatural. In reality, Maegor's physique was already that of a tall, muscular warrior.
He wore only his pants that he had brought with him, having discarded his tunic. Combatants wear no armour in the fighting pits since the spectators want to see blood, and ironically, that was also what Maegor wanted. So he was all the more for it.
The air was thick with anticipation and cheers of the masses and the heat of midday Essosi sun.
Across the pit, the heavy iron portcullises groaned upward.
Within these pits, matches varied wildly to entertain the nobility and the general populace; beasts were pitted against beasts, pit fighters against fellow fighters, and beasts against fighters and so on.
For the Westerosi Targaryen Prince, Grazdan had ordered a quadruple threat: a massive Dothraki bloodrider armed with an arakh, a seasoned veteran Ghiscari pit fighter wielding a barbed trident and a weighted net, a smaller but nimble fighter who didn't have any obvious advantages except a hood that covered his body, and a starved, monstrous spotted tiger imported from the jungles of Yi Ti.
The Great Master thought this to be overkill already, as he had told the three men that should they kill the young prince, they would be set free and heavily rewarded for their loyalty. So much gold and women were something no man could withstand, and so they naturally agreed.
Killing a child? Who cared? Morality was for those who had the privilege of it. Not those at the bottom.
All four different breeds of beasts burst onto the sands, their eyes locking onto the unarmed, bare-chested young man before them. The spotted tiger, naturally, wasn't trained or anything like that, but it was chained, and two men made sure they could somewhat control whom it attacked.
Maegor's breathing slowed down. His eyes lost all human warmth. The whites of his eyes turned black, while the purple deepened. His mind accelerated, taking everything in. He saw the stance of the three fighters, the large tiger, the way they moved, and their intentions.
To the roaring bloodthirsty crowd, Maegor simply stood there. But in his vision, blue silhouettes detached from his four enemies, rushing forward to show him their most probable movement in the same instant that their muscles twitched.
He saw the tiger leap towards his throat; he saw the net cast over his head; he saw the Dothraki flank him with a sweeping decapitation strike, and he saw the hooded figure grab several small needles from somewhere.
And then reality took place.
The tiger sprang first, clearing the distance with terrifying speed as the men holding the chains were thrown to the ground and lost all control. The tiger's jaws opened wide to snap Maegor's neck.
Maegor moved.
It was an unreadable movement—a sudden displacement of air that looked like a blur to the human eye. He stepped forward, directly into the apex of the beast's leap. His hand shot through the air horizontally like a blade.
His unbelievably durable fingers literally sliced through the air and consequently through the tiger's neck in one swing. With a sickening sound that echoed throughout the arena and somehow was louder than the cheering crowd, Maegor cut through the beast's windpipe and sliced its spine in a single, almost effortless motion.
CRACK--
SPLAATT--
"..."
"..."
The entire arena turned silent for a few seconds before the crowd burst into roars.
The tiger's head flew into the air in a rotational motion, while its heavy carcass fell into the blood-soaked sand, a fountain of crimson erupting from its severed spine. But Maegor did not pause. His mind was already three steps ahead, knowing what was coming.
The Ghiscari pit fighter cast his weighted net, the barbed weights flying through the hot air exactly as the blue silhouette had indicated. Maegor didn't dodge.
He simply raised his left hand, snatching the edge of the heavy net mid-flight. Digging his feet into the sand, Maegor yanked it forward with one hand. The Ghiscari, still gripping the drag-rope, was pulled off his feet, launching through the air like a ragdoll.
Simultaneously, the Dothraki screamed and closed the distance, his curved arakh sweeping in a decapitating arc aimed at Maegor's neck.
Maegor sidestepped. Using the net's momentum, he pulled the airborne Ghiscari directly into the path of the Dothraki's blade. Having done that perfectly, the Dothraki's arakh cut deep, cleaving through the Ghiscari's collarbone and ribcage with a sickening crunch.
The Dothraki's eyes went wide in shock as a spray of hot blood hit his face, blinding him momentarily, and he realised he had just killed his own ally. Not that they were truly allies, but right now, they weren't enemies.
Before the Dothraki could rip his blade free from the dying man's chest, where it was stuck, Maegor's ears could hear a series of sharp, whistling sounds. No one else could hear that, but he could, and he understood what was going on as well.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The hooded figure had chosen that moment to strike. Three small, metallic needles, having been bathed in what was most definitely a lethal poison, flew toward Maegor's exposed torso and neck.
Maegor's accelerated mind predicted their trajectory. His right hand snapped up and plucked two of the flying needles directly out of the air, catching them between his fingers.
The third needle struck him squarely in the chest. However, that turned out to be nothing more than a distraction, as the man threw a small object at Maegor. From the small box, a creature emerged, carrying small wings and a stinger.
A manticore.
Up in the orange tiers, Great Master Grazdan mo Ullhor leaned forward with a greedy, malicious smile touching his lips. The manticore is an insect that lives in the islands of the Jade Sea, especially the Manticore Isles. Their poisonous sting is fatal to humans, with venom that kills the instant it reaches the heart.
Making a hissing sound, the manticore, seeing Maegor first after being freed from its small prison, flew forward and attacked.
Right then, the Dothraki finally freed his arakh and attacked Maegor as well. He dodged the slash, moving his head to the side, and grabbed the man's fist as he attempted to punch him.
The manticore struck with its stinger, but Maegor moved his head from side to side, not even bothering to move. With a show of absolute dominance, he opened his mouth, bit into the manticore and then spat it out again.
With a flex of his chest muscle, the needle that was still stuck there was expelled, popping out of his flesh and falling harmlessly onto the sand, as he threw the Dothraki to the side, not bothering with him for now.
The hooded figure froze, a gasp of pure terror escaping from beneath the cowl.
Maegor's black-and-purple eyes locked onto the assassin. With pinpoint accuracy, Maegor flicked his wrist, hurling the two needles back at the hooded man. They flew with the speed and power of crossbow bolts, burying themselves deeply into the assassin's eyes.
"AAAGGHHH!!"
The man screamed in pain, clawing frantically at his face as his own venom instantly burned his optic nerve and moved further up towards his brain. He dropped to the sand, convulsing violently, screaming his brain out of his eyes... literally, before going entirely still.
Now, only the Dothraki remained.
The horse lord drew a long, jagged hunting knife. Screaming bloody murder in utter frustration, he lunged angrily at the young prince, driving the blade directly at Maegor's stomach.
Maegor stepped into the charge. He didn't bother dodging or parrying the blade. He caught the man's fist with his hand and then clenched his fist. His own fingers crushed the Dothraki's skin, muscles and bones in his hand, causing blood to puff out of it.
"RAAAGHH!!"
The Dothraki shouted in pain and looked down at his utterly flattened and broken hand. The reality of his death slowly dawned on him. He wasn't fighting a boy. He was fighting a dragon... literally.
He cursed and attacked with his arakh, ignoring his own health.
"My turn," Maegor said.
He reached out, his massive hands grabbed onto the sides of the Dothraki's head and with a casual twist, Maegor snapped the horse lord's neck 180°. The crack echoed sharply, and the massive warrior went limp. Blood spilt out of his mouth as he dropped into the bloody sand alongside the others.
...
At some point, the fighting pit had turned utterly silent. Seeing the carnage had surprised them, to say the least. However, that was what they had come here ot see, so needless to say, the masses started roaring in support of the young prince and his brutality.
Maegor stood amidst the corpses, entirely unbothered. His chest was barely heaving, but his heart beat in excitement. Not a single drop of his own blood had been spilt, and all the blood on him was his enemies'.
He turned his gaze upward, locking eyes with Great Master Grazdan mo Ullhor in the audience.
In the Great Master's box, Grazdan's wine slipped from his trembling fingers, the gilded chalice hitting the ground and the wine spilling over.
"The wager was one hundred thousand dragons, was it not, Great Master?" Visenya Targaryen asked, her smile widening until it almost split her face.
Down in the pit, Maegor picked up the tiger's carcass and began to walk slowly toward the entrance. He was, after all, Aegon's son, as he took a souvenir of the fight. The tiger's pelt would serve as a nice rug for him.
He would not need to have his name engraved on the Gates of Fate today, for those great stone doors were strictly reserved for the gladiators who had died in the arena.
Maegor was no gladiator. He was a dragon, and he had only just begun to stretch his wings. A cruel grin appeared on his face as he thought about the fight. This was the way he would move forward and grow more.
All in preparation for the upcoming tourney back home.