Rhaella Rexarion The sun was shining that day, but its rays did not warm my cold, childishly thin hands.
Mother wrapped me in the remnants of warm clothing she had hastily thrown into the lifeboat after we heard the pirates’ screams on the deck of our ship.
The darkness of night gave us a chance to escape, and we drifted away, taking advantage of the fact that the men had been distracted by barrels of wine.
We were transporting them for sale, to establish ourselves in the new home Father had purchased for us.
Mother’s platinum hair gleamed in the sun peeking over the horizon like frost-covered silk, but she did not feel the cold.
Dressed only in the house gown she had been wearing when our escape began, she kept one hand on her noticeably rounded belly and looked anxiously at Father.
He sat frowning in silence, pressing down on the oar with determination, rowing toward our new refuge.
His shirt stretched tight across his back with each sweeping motion of his arms, veins bulging on his wrists, while his vague violet eyes stared straight ahead.
“Everything will be fine, dear, we’re almost there, and you’ll be able to warm up soon,” Mother comforted me, trying to calm herself as well.
Her child, my brother, had been growing and strengthening in her womb for months now, and she was anxious about bringing a child into such a hostile world.
But the bloodline of the Rexarions had to continue.
Live on despite everything.
The details of that day burned into my memory like a dragon’s breath burn.
Mother’s tears and her white legs against the black, wet wood of the lifeboat.
Father’s screams as he fought to the last to protect us.
Then his blood on his torn body.
The laughter of the vile pirates as they violated my dead, pregnant mother.
To this day, I do not know if I can call it luck that I survived after those monsters caught up with our boat.
Of course, it was only a matter of time, and that’s exactly what Mother’s worried look had been saying.
What saved me was the fact that a young Valyrian-looking girl, a virgin no less, was worth a great deal on the slave market.
Mother would surely have ended up with me if not for her fierce determination to protect me and the son in her womb.
Like a great, brave dragoness guarding her clutch, she rushed into the thick of battle after my father, trying to prevent the pirates from taking our last protector.
In my frightened eyes, I only saw the flash of a blade and a terrible image: a filthy, bearded man in a tattered gray shirt and leather trousers slicing my mother’s throat and grinning with a black, rotten smile.
When the pirates found me amidst the pile of clothes in the corner of the boat, they were overjoyed.
Such a “catch.” That’s what they called me until they sold me to the owner of a pillow house in Lys.
“The catch” behaved quietly and submissively, expecting every day to be maimed or raped.
But no one dared touch “the catch,” because my beauty was worth too much to squander on a quick release against my pretty face.
Only once, before I was sold, a glimmer of hope shone in my soul.
A young pirate, on his first voyage, brought me food to the place where I was locked up.
I tried to charm him then, hoping he would help me escape.
And it worked.
At first he brought me more food than I was allotted.
Then he dragged in a dirty but warm and heavy blanket from somewhere.
His dark hair and tanned skin made us look so different.
His black eyes looked bold as we discussed our escape plan.
The poor boy fought to the last when we were discovered untying the lifeboat in the middle of the night.
He died, torn apart by hungry sharks, and I lost my savior and my hope of freedom.
“Get up, you weakling!” my new master barked when he opened the cart and saw me curled up on a pile of hay.
The man led me to my bedroom and ordered me to wash, glancing at the bucket of water and ladle standing in the corner.
He made no move to leave, instead sitting in a chair by the door and appraising me.
I was only thirteen, and by Lys’s standards, I had long been ready to sell myself to the city’s visitors.
“Take off those rags and wash up, I said,” he almost growled.
“Or do you need help?” The crude joke, the greasy hands, the smirk quickly snapped me awake, and I began removing my dress, then plunged my hands into the water.
It was freezing cold, but that hardly interested me then.
The brothel owner’s gaze burned into the skin of my back.
I quickly scrubbed myself with the cold washcloth and bent down to rinse my face.
“Prime merchandise,” came a voice much too close.
The man’s hand slid to my chest and groped it roughly.
“You’ll be popular.
Might even buy yourself out quickly.” “I can buy myself out?” Hope ignited in my eyes.
For a moment I forgot I was standing naked in front of a stranger.
“Of course.
Just work hard,” he grinned.
“And if there’s anything you don’t know how to do, I’ll teach you.
But only after we sell your virginity for a good price.” Something inside me turned.
I jerked my shoulder away and turned back to the bucket of water.
The thought of WHAT I would have to do for freedom chilled me more than the washcloth in my hands.
At the time, I did not realize that the pillow house owner said the same thing to every young girl who arrived in Lys.
In his opinion, they worked better that way—with enthusiasm and drive, eager to escape.
But their enthusiasm never lasted.
Soon came the realization.
Something died in their eyes, and they became plain old, cheap whores, servicing anyone for pennies just to continue their worthless lives.
That was supposed to happen to me too.
I nearly became that.
Then one incident changed everything.
Before that, for several years after I first appeared in the brothel, I diligently serviced anyone who came to me, earning money toward my freedom.
Gradually, the light of hope dimmed, and the endless parade of disgusting naked bodies became routine.
In those early years, climbing onto yet another client, I would think about how glorious our Rexarion line had been.
I dreamed of buying my freedom and setting off in search of a better life.
I dreamed of continuing our bloodline and showing everyone who had tried to wipe out my family that they were not worth even a single toe on my foot.
But while that very toe was being sucked by some wealthy pervert.
Everything changed with one unusual visitor.
A stately man with steel-gray hair and bright violet eyes, unmistakably Valyrian.
In those days, word was spreading through the city about the arrival of the Golden Company, a famous mercenary company, and the brothel owner had been stirring up all the serving girls and whores for a week with new orders.
The house gleamed with cleanliness, as did our bodies.
New pillows appeared from somewhere, beautiful shiny wine glasses, bright curtains in the rooms.
Only later did I learn that each time the Golden Company chose one of the brothels to billet in, and the owner wanted to profit off the lustful, weary warriors throwing money left and right.
Unfortunately for him, his plan failed, and they stayed in a richer, fancier establishment, leaving us out.
So when some interesting stranger in black and red robes walked into our establishment, the owner ordered all available whores to gather in the common room.
Some girls were not like me or the other slaves; they had been trained from childhood in the arts of love and accepted the work as their due.
The owner counted on them, and the girls set about seducing the newly arrived man.
But his gaze wandered, unable to settle on anyone, even though the whores were beautiful, their gorgeous bodies practically begging for attention with their beauty and flexibility.
I stood apart and, frowning, studied the visitor.
Suddenly our eyes met, and I physically felt his attention on me.
He pushed the best whores of the establishment aside, a bit roughly, and walked toward me.
Without a word, he grabbed my arm and led me into the nearest room.
The other girls could only watch us go with indignant sighs.
In those first moments alone, I realized this man was no ordinary Lyseni visitor.
There was something magnetic and captivating about him.
I could sense the breeding and bearing of some ancient, powerful bloodline.
As he later told me, during his fourth visit to my chambers, his name was Damon Blackfyre.
I did not know if he was famous or if his family was notable, but the way he spoke his name made me wonder about his origins.
Later, falling asleep in his arms on our fifth encounter, I realized I needed to become pregnant by him.
The blood must remain pure.
That was the vow my mother had passed down to me.
She had been married to her own brother, my father, so I too was considered a pure-blooded Rexarion, a true Valyrian.
And my goal was not only to preserve Valyrian blood in the veins of my descendants but also to revive the Rexarion bloodline.
The once-great and mighty bloodline of rulers, dragonlords.
Making a life take root in my womb was not so difficult.
No man who visits a brothel thinks about the well-being of some whore.
They think only of their own pleasure.
I took advantage of that.
The problem was that the owner dosed us all with poppy milk as soon as he learned of such “carelessness.” But on that score, I thought Damon would take care of it.
I had worked hard to charm him all through our “meetings.” The man had indeed grown more tender with me in the last days of his stay and even promised to return.
Of course, I, foolish and naive as I was, thought that seeing my pregnancy, he would buy me out.
But I was wrong.
Months passed, and the pregnancy became impossible to hide.
The owner noticed how carefully I concealed my figure and quickly suspected something was wrong.
He had already raised a cup of poppy milk to my lips, trying to force me to drink, when I pleaded through tears: “Please, I will give birth to a Valyrian girl!
Give me the chance.
I will work twice as hard!” He let me go, thinking I would give him a new whore.
But even then, I sensed that in my womb grew a son, a descendant of the great House Rexarion.
The owner’s softness proved to be my greatest stroke of luck, and I was able to raise my son, even though he was of little use to the master.
Irat was stubborn and hot-tempered from childhood, impossible to force into doing anything he did not want.
In part, that was my doing.
I raised him as a worthy heir to a proud bloodline.
Stroking his white hair in the evenings, I told him stories of our family, of how the entire Rexarion line had been exterminated, erased from the face of the earth.
But they had not succeeded.
Our lives were proof.
Of course, the boy could not help but see the disconnect between my stories and the reality surrounding him.
Rage grew in him, against the patrons, against the brothel owner, against the gangs of scum in the streets.
But that rage fueled him, drove him to greater heights.
Proof of that came when I learned from the owner that Irat was saving money to buy me out.
While I serviced client after client, my son worked to give me freedom.
It is a pity that I found freedom by a different path.
Choking and pounding my hands against the hands closed around my throat, I cursed the moment I had let that heavily drunk client into my bed.
In my head, only one name echoed.
Irat.
Irat Rexarion.
Son of a proud bloodline.
I place my hope in you.