GOT: The Prophecy of Shadow and Steel

The scorching sun bore down on the khalasar as the nomads bustled with their daily routines. Kieran—no, Torak—stood in the shadow of his younger brother, Rhaeshar, whose piercing eyes gleamed with ambition. The younger man had the lithe build of a predator and the cold cunning to match. His hair was braided in intricate patterns, adorned with gold and silver to mark his victories.

"You look pale, brother," Rhaeshar sneered, his voice a honeyed blend of mockery and venom. "Perhaps the fever has dulled your edge. Let us test if the gods have truly returned you to us or if you are merely a shadow of the Torak I once knew."

Torak's hands itched to reach for the bronze arakh at his side, though he had no memories of wielding such a weapon. Yet, something deep within him—a primal, instinctual confidence—whispered that it would feel as natural as breathing. Around them, the khalasar gathered in a loose circle, eager for blood and spectacle.

Among the crowd stood their mother, Alaena. Her foreign heritage was unmistakable. Unlike the Dothraki, her skin was fair, her deep blue eyes sharp and calculating. She wore her hair loose, a defiant choice that marked her as an outsider despite years among the nomads. Her presence commanded respect, though whispers often followed her: the Braavosi witch, they called her.

"Rhaeshar," Alaena's voice rang out, smooth and measured. "Do not toy with your brother so soon after his recovery. There is no honor in it."

Rhaeshar chuckled. "Honor?" He spat the word as though it were bitter. "This is not about honor, mother. It is about strength. If he cannot stand against me, he has no right to call himself the heir of Khal Drakhan."

Torak stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Rhaeshar's with a steely resolve. His body still felt foreign, but his mind was clear. If he was to reclaim his place, he had no choice but to fight.

"Then let us see who is worthy," Torak said, his voice calm but laced with an edge that silenced the murmurs around them.

The duel began. Rhaeshar moved like a serpent, quick and unpredictable, his arakh flashing in the sunlight. Torak's body reacted almost instinctively, parrying and dodging strikes with a precision he hadn't known he possessed. Each clash of blades sent vibrations through his arms, and with every moment, he felt his strength growing.

But Rhaeshar was relentless. His strikes grew faster, his footwork more erratic, until finally, he feinted to the left and struck to the right. Torak's arakh was knocked from his hand, and he fell to one knee, panting.

Rhaeshar's blade hovered inches from Torak's throat. "Pathetic," he hissed. "You are no heir. You are a ghost."

He raised his arakh for a killing blow, but before it could fall, Alaena's voice thundered through the circle. "Enough!"

She stepped forward, her blue eyes blazing. "I will not let you murder your own blood, Rhaeshar. You dishonor your father's memory with this madness."

Rhaeshar hesitated, his blade wavering. His expression darkened. "Do not interfere, mother," he growled. "You forget your place."

As Rhaeshar's blade swung toward Alaena, Torak's body moved on its own. A surge of energy, like an inferno igniting in his veins, propelled him forward. His hand closed around the hilt of his fallen arakh, and in a blur of motion, he blocked the strike with such force that sparks flew from the clashing blades.

For a moment, there was silence. Rhaeshar's eyes widened in shock, and the gathered khalasar murmured in awe. Torak's stance was steady, his grip on the weapon unyielding. Something deep within him had awakened—a mastery over weapons that felt innate, as if the blade itself obeyed his will.

But the effort was too much. Torak's vision blurred, and his knees buckled. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Rhaeshar's smirk and Alaena rushing to his side.

When Torak awoke, the air was heavy with tension. Alaena knelt beside him, her hand cool against his fevered brow.

"You are awake," she said softly, relief evident in her voice.

Torak groaned, his body aching from the duel. "What happened?"

Before Alaena could answer, Rhaeshar's voice cut through the tent. "You surprised me, brother." He stood in the entrance, his silhouette framed by the setting sun. "For a moment, I thought you might actually best me."

Torak pushed himself upright, glaring at Rhaeshar. "If you've come to finish what you started, do it."

Rhaeshar chuckled, shaking his head. "No, brother. Killing you now would be too easy. I want to see what you become." His eyes gleamed with a twisted sense of excitement. "I am banishing you and our mother from the khalasar. Survive, grow stronger, and one day, return. Give me a challenge worthy of my blade."

Alaena's lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. Torak stared at his brother, his mind racing. There was no mistaking Rhaeshar's intent. This was not mercy—it was a test.

"You'll regret this," Torak said, his voice low but firm.

Rhaeshar's grin widened. "I hope so." With that, he turned and disappeared into the twilight.

Torak glanced at his mother, whose expression was unreadable. "What now?" he asked.

Alaena's eyes met his, the fire of Braavos burning within them. "Now, my son, we prepare. Your story is far from over."