Corwyn dreamed of fire.
Not the warm kind, not the hearth, not the forge.
A fire that screamed.
He stood on a plain of cracked obsidian, under a sky smeared with storm clouds the color of old bruises. Lightning stitched across them in thin, perfect lines — like scars across flesh.
Something moved in the distance.
Not a shadow.
A shape.
Twisted. Small, compared to the mountains that shifted behind it.
A dragon.
But wrong.
Its wings were short, misshapen, one bent like a broken sail. Its horns were stunted. Its tail dragged a groove through ash. In every twitch of its body, Corwyn saw pain.
The runt of the brood.
And above him, cutting through the clouds, came the others.
Magnificent. Divine.
Long-bodied, crowned in lightning. Golden spines that flashed with every beat of their wings. Their throats crackled with stormlight.
One dipped low, brushing the air above the small dragon — not lovingly.
Mockingly.
The runt crouched.
A hiss escaped him.
The bigger dragon laughed — not a human laugh, but the sound of thunder collapsing. It struck the smaller one with a flick of its wing, knocking him sideways across the rock.
Blood steamed where he landed.
The other dragons circled.
There was no mercy in them. No pity.
They were gods of the sky. He was a thing of the ground.
The runt pushed himself upright again.
Wings trembling.
Chest heaving.
A sound rose from his throat — thin at first, more breath than voice.
Not words.
Just hurt.
And then rage.
He lunged.
Not with grace. Not with skill.
With desperation.
Fire burst from his jaws — red, jagged, unfocused, like a child's first scream. It lashed across one of his siblings, burning into the golden scales and melting them like wax.
That dragon shrieked and tumbled from the sky, wings aflame.
The others froze.
The runt didn't roar triumph.
He curled in on himself, panting, shaking.
Even he hadn't expected that.
The golden dragons descended.
Three landed around him — each massive, perfect, lightning dancing along their wings.
The runt tried to back away.
One struck him across the face.
Another drove a claw into his wing, pinning him.
The third leaned close, golden eyes bright with a cruel, righteous fury.
They beat him until the rock cracked beneath his body.
Until fire sputtered from his mouth in little dying coughs.
Until his wings hung limp and useless.
Until his breath came thin.
He lay still.
The great dragons lifted their heads and took flight again, leaving him in the ash.
But then—
His claw twitched.
Slow.
Shaking.
He pressed it against the ground.
Not to rise.
To push.
To refuse.
The air around him shimmered.
Not with heat.
With fury.
A low rumble built in his chest — not a roar, not a cry.
A promise.
"Enough…"
The word was not spoken like human speech.
It tore itself raw from memory — the closest thing Corwyn's mind could understand.
"…enough."
Fire crawled between the runt's scales.
Red, deeper than any flame the others had ever breathed.
Ash lifted from the ground.
Stone cracked outward in a ring.
Lightning — faint, stolen, cursed — flickered across his broken wings.
The runt's head lifted.
Eyes molten.
Burning.
Alive.
"ENOUGH"
The dream ruptured.
CORWYN
He woke choking.
His body jerked upright so violently the chains rattled like struck bells. The hull creaked. Men around him startled awake.
Steam poured from his mouth.
His eyes burned red in the dark — not glowing like a lantern, but smoldering, like embers behind a thin layer of skin.
One of the slaves scrambled back until his shackles yanked taut.
Another made the sign of R'hllor. Another whimpered, "Seven help us…"
Corwyn wasn't looking at them.
His heart hammered.
His muscles trembled.
His skin felt too hot, too tight, as if something inside was trying to claw its way out.
He pressed his hands to the wooden floor and the planks smoked under his palms.
No flame. Not yet.
But heat.
Real heat.
He clenched his teeth.
His breath came in gasps.
The slaves watched him with wide, terrified eyes.
No one spoke.
Corwyn lifted his head, eyes still burning faintly, and looked at the dark door that led topside.
A cage.
Another cage.
His jaw tightened.
He whispered to himself — not a vow, not a shout.
"Not again. Never."
And the wood beneath him sizzled.