Blood Game

Chadha walked down a sewer tunnel that smelled of shit and piss while helping Rylen stay on his feet. The air was heavy, dense with humidity and despair, as if the tunnel walls absorbed every muffled scream that had ever echoed there. Chadha stopped in front of a rusty door and pushed it open with her shoulder. They entered what appeared to be an improvised room: a wobbly table, two broken chairs, a bed, and an oil lamp in the corner that seemed like it could go out at any moment.

"I still don't understand why we have to live here when you're the richest man in Westeros," she asked, crossing her arms, her voice sharp but restrained, as always.

Rylen looked her up and down; his squinting eyes gleamed in the dim light of the oil lamp, and he smiled with a twisted smirk that barely concealed the pain he felt when breathing.

"It's to protect you," he replied in a tone that was meant to sound paternal but instead came off more like an order.

"From whom?" she insisted, not moving an inch from his side.

"Those men are like those animals," Rylen said, pointing upward as if the Dragon Pit were there, where Jasim Stackhouse and Darvin Casterly had left a trail of blood and shattered bodies.

"Do you mean Jasim Stackhouse and Darvin Casterly?" Chadha asked, pronouncing their names with a clarity that resonated off the stone walls.

"Watch how you say their names," Rylen interrupted, his voice now colder than Valyrian steel. "Anyone who hears you for the first time might think they've been friends for a long time."

"Sir, I... I'm sorry," Chadha murmured, lowering her gaze.

"Come on, don't apologize. Just hand me the medicine," Rylen said, coughing hard. His body hunched over itself, making him look older than he was.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the creaking of old wood and the constant dripping of water somewhere in the room. Rylen looked at Chadha, his green eyes darkened by memories that haunted him even in the deepest darkness. He remembered the first day he saw her—a young innocent girl, too young to understand the hell Jaemon Ageamon, his father, had prepared for her parents.

The room was barely lit, illuminated only by the orange glow of torches burning on the walls. The screams of pain from a man and a woman filled the air, sharp and piercing, as if each sound was being torn from the depths of their souls. They were Chadha's parents, tied to iron-forged chairs, their bodies trembling in agony as drops of wildfire fell onto their bare skin like slow-moving beasts.

One drop. Two drops. Three drops.

Each drop burned like a thousand suns, devouring flesh and bone with inhuman ferocity. Their skin melted, bubbled, and exhaled a nauseating stench that saturated the air. The mother's screams were high-pitched, almost animalistic, while the father's were deeper, broken, as if he were trying to endure the pain for the sake of his wife and daughter.

But there was no resistance against wildfire. There was no escape.

The executioners, faceless men covered in black hoods, held small glass vials with metal tongs. One of them tilted the vial over the father's chest, which was leaning forward so another drop would fall. The man arched in his chair, his muscles tense like bowstrings, but the iron straps held him firmly in place. His skin sizzled, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

"Please... stop," begged Chadha's mother, her voice barely a whisper, clouded by her own tears. "We'll give you anything… everything we have…"

But no one answered. No one listened. The drops kept falling, one after another, marking the rhythm of endless torture. The mother began to ramble, muttering incomprehensible words while her body convulsed. Chadha's mother stared at the ceiling but could no longer see anything.

In a corner of the room, a little girl watched everything without being able to look away. It was Chadha, just a child, dressed in dirty rags, trembling with fear. Her hands pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs, but her tears ran freely down her cheeks, mixing with sweat and grime.

Jaemon Ageamon entered the room, his imposing figure casting long shadows on the walls. He carried a wine glass in his hand and wore a cruel smile on his lips.

"This could have ended days ago if you'd paid your debts," he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather. "But you already know how this works: no one owes me anything without consequences."

The screams continued, but Chadha no longer heard them. Her mind had shut down as if her small body knew it couldn't endure any longer. She closed her eyes and collapsed, wishing to disappear.

Rylen shook his head, trying to clear the images from his mind. He looked at Chadha, who now sat in front of him, her face unreadable.

"I don't want you talking about them again," he said softly but firmly enough to make it clear he wasn't willing to see her suffer again. "Not them, nor anyone like them."

Chadha nodded silently, but her green eyes shone with a mix of anger and sadness. She was aware that Rylen had saved her from that hell, but also that she didn't know if she could ever forgive him for what his father had done to her parents.

"So, what do we do now?" she asked after a long silence.

Rylen smiled again, this time with a bit more cruelty.

"Now, we wait and see how far those two animals can go before the game ends."