Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 95

The air in the cell was thick with the scent of unwashed flesh, damp stone, and stale piss. Viserys Targaryen sat curled on the thin, lice-ridden mattress, his once-proud frame hunched over like a man who had spent years carrying an invisible weight. His silver-gold hair, the pride of his Valyrian lineage, was gone, replaced by the uneven stubble of a shorn head. His scalp still burned from the rough hands that had held him down, from the blade that had stripped him of his identity. His master had laughed as he placed a pale wig atop Viserys' bare head, calling it a crown fit for a king.

He traced a finger over the deep scars along his arms, his chest. Some were from whips, others from blades, and a few from the lion he had been forced to fight for his master's amusement. The scratches on his face still itched, a constant reminder of his failure, his humiliation.

His left leg ached where the iron chain rubbed against it, chafing the skin raw until it had hardened into something calloused and deadened to pain. He had learned to sleep through it, to move just enough so the iron didn’t dig too deeply into his flesh. The only luxury in his miserable existence was the small window high on the wall, its iron bars framing a sliver of the outside world. Through it, he could see the tip of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, golden in the sunlight, a mocking beacon of a city that did not belong to him.

Meereen.

A city once ruled by Valyrains. A city that had once bent the knee to his ancestors. And now, he was here, not as its prince, not as its king, but as a nameless, beaten slave.

Yet he still dreamed.

Even as he sat in filth, his stomach aching from hunger, his body sore from labor and beatings, Viserys Targaryen still saw himself sitting on the Iron Throne. He saw himself in black and red, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting upon his head. He saw the great lords of Westeros kneeling before him, calling him their rightful king, their true dragon.

The dream had not died. Not even after all this time.

He whispered it to himself at night, when no one could hear him.

"I am Viserys, the Third of His Name, rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

It was the only thing that kept him sane.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the dim corridor outside. Viserys flinched at the noise, his entire body tensing like a beaten dog. A key turned in the lock, and the rusted iron door groaned open.

A man stepped inside—tall, broad-shouldered, his skin dark and gleaming with sweat. His master.

Mero the Bastard, a former sellsword who had carved his way into power through cruelty and cunning. He was not highborn, not of noble blood, yet here he stood, commanding the life of a prince.

"Get up, dragon." Mero’s voice was thick with mockery, his Lysene accent still heavy despite years in Slaver’s Bay. "The time has come for you to earn your keep again."

Viserys did not move. He kept his eyes on the floor, his breathing shallow.

"Did you not hear me, dog?"

A kick to the ribs sent Viserys sprawling, pain flaring through his thin frame. He coughed, curling into himself.

Mero crouched beside him, grabbing his chin roughly and forcing him to look up. "What do you say, hmm?"

Viserys clenched his jaw, refusing to speak. Another slap, harder this time, sent his head snapping to the side.

"Say it," Mero growled.

Viserys swallowed his pride. He had learned long ago that resistance only brought more suffering.

"Thank you… master," he muttered, the words like bile in his throat.

Mero grinned, pleased. "Good. Now get on your feet. You have a fight to lose."

The sun was blinding as Viserys was led into the fighting pits, his wrists bound, his body shoved forward. The crowd roared at the sight of him, jeering and laughing as the former prince stumbled onto the sand.

This was his life now.

His master found joy in parading him before the masses, in making a Targaryen—a dragon—grovel in the dirt.

Viserys looked up at the stands, at the nobles dressed in fine silks, sipping their sweet wines as they placed bets on how long he would last this time. He had fought before. Fought beasts, fought men twice his size. He had survived.

Across from him, his opponent emerged—a hulking brute with skin as dark as night, muscles rippling under the harsh sun. The crowd cheered louder, and Viserys felt a familiar thrill settle in his stomach.

Mero’s voice rang out from above, smug and triumphant. "Fight, dragon! Show them the fire in your veins!"

The man lunged.

Viserys Targaryen had once been a prince. He had once been a beggar. And now, he was something else entirely.

The man who had once been weak, who had lived off his name and suffered for it, had been reforged in fire and blood. Mero had broken him, but in doing so, he had shaped him into something far more dangerous than the boy who once cowered in exile.

He was no longer a Targaryen prince playing at reclaiming a kingdom. He was a fighter. A killer. The strongest warrior in the fighting pits of Meereen.

And the crowd loved him for it.

Before Mero, people had tried to help him. They had pitied him, seen him as a lost prince, a relic of a fallen dynasty. He had used that pity, milked it for everything it was worth, begged and charmed and demanded his way through the years. It had kept him alive, but it had also made him weak.

Mero had changed that.

Mero had beaten the weakness out of him, had thrown him into the pits with nothing but his fists and told him to survive. He had given him weapons and taught him not just how to fight—but how to win. How to break an opponent before they even lifted their sword. How to use fear as a weapon. How to turn pain into strength.

The first time Viserys had killed, it had been sloppy, desperate. He had been terrified, shaking, but he had done it. And after that, he had learned.

Now, he didn’t just kill. He performed.

Viserys had become the greatest spectacle the fighting pits had ever seen, not just because he won, but because of how he won. He didn’t just strike an opponent down—he destroyed them. He turned every death into an art form, a piece of theater. He made the audience scream in delight, gasp in horror, revel in the sheer brutality of it all.

He killed men in creative ways, twisting their bodies into unnatural shapes, making their deaths slow, painful, and memorable.

And every time he drove his sword into a man’s gut, every time he watched the life drain from their eyes, he imagined it was Mero.

He had fought men twice his size, had broken warriors who had fought in a hundred battles. He had been thrown against the worst the pits had to offer, and he had bled for every victory. His body was a map of scars, each one a lesson in pain, in survival.

The weak Viserys had died a long time ago.

Now, when he stepped into the pit, the crowd roared his name—not because he was a prince, not because he was a Targaryen, but because he was a goddamn monster.

They feared him.

And he loved it.

He no longer begged. He no longer bowed.

He took.

And one day, he would take the only thing that mattered—the crown.

But first, he would take Mero’s life. And when he did, he would make sure it was the greatest performance the pits had ever seen.

Viserys Targaryen sat in the grand hall of Mero’s palace, though palace was far too grand a word for what it truly was. It was an extravagant monstrosity, built upon blood and gold, a grotesque display of wealth stolen from the suffering of slaves and warriors. The pillars were adorned with tapestries of victory, the floors polished to a gleaming shine, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and perfume meant to mask the underlying stench of sweat and death.

And yet, despite all of this, Viserys did not feel out of place. For the first time in years, he had been allowed to wash properly, to wear fine clothes—not rags or armor meant for the pits, but silken robes that whispered against his skin. The chain that had been his constant companion, the iron shackle that had bound him to his cell, had been removed for this occasion.

It had been years since he had felt this way. Years since he had felt like a prince.

Mero had done this, of course, not out of kindness, but because tonight, Viserys was the prize he wished to show off. The fighting pits had crowned him champion of Meereen, and that title had made Mero richer than he had ever dreamed. Tonight, Mero would parade him before the wealthiest merchants, the slavers, the warlords, and the corrupt nobility who sought entertainment in Meereen’s depravity.

And Viserys played the role he was expected to play.

He sat at the long table, among men who laughed too loudly, who drank until their faces were red, who stuffed themselves with delicacies from every corner of Essos. Before him, golden platters were filled with food he could hardly bring himself to touch—spiced lamb cooked to perfection, exotic fruits dripping with honey, rich, steaming stews that made his stomach churn with unfamiliar fullness.

His body had forgotten what it was like to eat well.

So he ate sparingly, only small portions, while the others gorged themselves.

Mero sat at the head of the table, his laughter booming over the feast, his fat fingers adorned with rings that glimmered in the candlelight.

“You are the man of the hour, my little dragon,” Mero said, raising his goblet. “The crowd adores you. They would build statues in your honor if I allowed it!”

Viserys forced a smile, tilting his head slightly, the way he had learned to when playing the obedient slave. “And yet, I see no statues.”

Mero chuckled, slamming a fist onto the table. “A sharp tongue, as always! You should be grateful, dragon. If not for me, you would have died on the streets of Pentos.”

Grateful.

Viserys clenched his goblet tightly, the knuckles of his scarred hand turning white.

Grateful.

For years of chains. For years of humiliation. For years of fighting like a dog for the amusement of drunkards and slavers.

He looked down at the wine in his cup, swirling the deep red liquid slowly.

The truth was, he should be grateful.

Because Mero had taught him far more than anyone else ever had.

As he sat there, listening to the chatter of the rich and powerful, Viserys found his thoughts drifting.

Once, a lifetime ago, he had begged. He had begged in the streets of Essos for scraps, not for himself, but for Daenerys. His little sister, crying from hunger, her silver hair tangled, her tiny hands clinging to him as he swallowed his pride and held out his hands for coins.

And he had hated it.

The shame of it had burned through him like wildfire.

Even now, years later, he could still remember the sting of humiliation.

But Dany had left him.

No—he had left her.

And yet, she had abandoned their dream.

No. It had never been their dream. It had been his.

Daenerys had been content to be led, to be protected. And now, she was surrounded by the Dothraki, sitting in a tent of woven grass and horsehair, believing herself powerful. But Viserys knew better.

The Dothraki did not follow women. They used them.

The moment Khal Drogo died, she would be nothing.

A widow, discarded by the very people who now rode at her side.

A broodmare for the bloodriders.

Viserys smirked to himself.

She thought herself untouchable, but she did not understand the nature of power.

Power was not given—it was taken.

And he, the beggar, the slave, the killer, the champion—he would take it.

He had learned the truth of the world through pain and suffering. Through blood and battle.

And one day, when the time was right, he would show the world just how much he had learned.

Mero raised his cup again, looking down the length of the table.

“To the champion of Meereen! To the dragon of the fighting pits! To the man who bleeds but never dies!”

The gathered nobles and slavers cheered, goblets clashing together, wine spilling over fingers and onto the floor.

Viserys lifted his own cup, his golden eyes flickering in the candlelight.

He drank, letting the bitterness of the wine settle on his tongue, masking the smirk that threatened to form.

One day, they would toast his name for a very different reason.

One day, he would drink from a golden goblet atop the Iron Throne.

And when that day came, he would remember this night.

The laughter from the feast still echoed faintly in the corridors as Viserys Targaryen walked with measured steps, flanked by Mero’s five guards. They were the strongest of Mero’s personal enforcers, handpicked for their loyalty and brutality. These were the men who had dragged him from his cell to the fighting pits time and time again, who had shackled him like an animal, who had watched with amusement as he bled for their entertainment.

But they were also the ones who had spoken to him.

Viserys had learned long ago that men like these, warriors hardened by years of violence, still craved companionship. They still needed someone to laugh with, to share stories with. And over time, he had made himself that person. He had listened when they spoke of their pasts, laughed at their crude jokes, and even offered small words of agreement when they complained about their duties.

It had never been genuine.

Everything Viserys did had been calculated.

And tonight, that patience would bear fruit.

As they moved through the dimly lit corridors, the guards spoke freely, still caught in the lingering pleasure of the feast. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a thick scar running down his left cheek, chuckled as he nudged Viserys.

"That fat merchant nearly pissed himself when Mero insulted his wife," he said with a grin. "Swore he’d take his trade elsewhere, but we all know he’ll be back begging next week."

Viserys let out a soft chuckle, nodding. "Mero does have a way with people."

The others laughed, and for a moment, it seemed like just another night. Another routine trip back to his cell.

They reached the iron door, and one of the guards yawned, stretching his arms. Another leaned against the stone wall, still drunk from too much wine, recounting something amusing from the feast.

The third knelt, reaching for the heavy chain that was meant to bind Viserys once more.

And that was when Viserys struck.

The blade was small, no longer than his palm, a simple eating knife he had stolen from the feast. He had hidden it in the folds of his silk robe, tearing a small slit into the fabric for easy access.

Tonight would be the last time anyone tried to put a chain on his foot.

As soon as the man reached for the shackle, Viserys’ hand moved like lightning, the blade slashing in a swift, controlled arc. The knife sliced deep across the guard’s throat, and before the others could even register what had happened, blood gushed from the wound, painting the cold stone floor in dark red.

The guard gurgled, eyes wide in shock, hands clawing at his ruined throat. He collapsed sideways, twitching.

For a brief moment, the corridor was silent.

Then chaos erupted.

The second guard, the one who had been leaning against the wall, shoved himself upright with a curse, reaching for his sword. But Viserys was already moving.

He lunged forward, driving the knife into the man’s exposed side, right between the ribs. A choked gasp left the guard’s lips as he staggered backward, blood seeping through his tunic.

The third guard managed to draw his weapon, swinging wildly. Viserys ducked just in time, feeling the blade whistle past his ear. He rolled to the side, slashing out blindly, the knife tearing through flesh as it caught the guard’s thigh.

A roar of pain filled the corridor.

But Viserys did not stop.

He twisted the blade, then yanked it free, sending the man collapsing to the ground, clutching at his bleeding leg.

The last two guards were more prepared.

One of them, the largest of the group, rushed at him with a dagger drawn. Viserys barely managed to dodge, the blade grazing his arm, drawing a thin line of blood.

Pain flared, but he ignored it.

His body was already moving, instincts sharpened from years of fighting in the pits. He sidestepped, using the momentum of his opponent against him. The guard stumbled forward, and Viserys took the opening—plunging the knife into the base of his skull.

A sickening crunch.

The man dropped without a sound.

The final guard hesitated, staring at the carnage around him. He had been the youngest, the least cruel, the one who had spoken to Viserys the most.

For a brief second, their eyes met.

The guard’s lips parted, as if to speak.

Viserys didn’t give him the chance.

With one fluid motion, he slit the man’s throat.

The body fell with a dull thud.

Viserys stood in the blood-soaked corridor, chest rising and falling with each measured breath. His silk robe was ruined, clinging to his body in wet patches. His fingers, still gripping the knife, were sticky with blood.

But he was free.

For the first time in years, he was truly free.

He stepped over the bodies, moving toward the iron door. With a quick glance down the hallway, he ensured no one had heard the struggle.

Silence.

Good.

He wiped the blade on his sleeve, then tucked it away. He would need it again soon.

Then, without a backward glance, he slipped into the shadows of the night.