House of The Dragon: Heavenly Yaksha

"Hyuhuhuhu..."

A prideful laughter echoed around an octagonal fighting pit, a boy of barely five name days spread his arms wide in the centre, revelling in the applause of the audience.

His small form seemed incongruous amidst the towering figures that surrounded him, but his confidence knew no bounds. As the cheers washed over him like a warm tide, the boy's violet eyes sparkled with unbridled joy. Each clap and each shout of approval fueled him, augmenting his laughter that contrasted with his young age.

As the audience's voices died down, the boy looked around at what was left in the octagon with him: four other defeated children, their bodies adorned with slashes and bruises. Some of them lay sprawled on the ground, their chests rising and falling with ragged breaths, while others were barely conscious, their limbs trembling with exhaustion. Despite their varying conditions, however, each face bore the exact same expression - fear.

As the boy's gaze fell upon the fallen contenders littering the octagonal pit, his lips curled into a twisted grin, revealing the canines he was forced to sharpen as a babe glinting in the dim light.

It was a smile devoid of empathy, filled only with a sense of superiority over the other children. At that moment, he felt a surge of exhilaration coursing through his veins, a heady rush of power that intoxicated his young mind.

Taking a deep breath, he attempted to quell the conflicting emotions bubbling within him,

'We're all just children in a wicked game. I should not be proud of this,' he thought, a pang of guilt tugging at his conscience. Yet, try as he might, the sense of triumph proved too potent to ignore.

 He turned away from the fallen contenders with a toss of his head, giving an expression that some would mistake as sympathy. In truth though, it was pity – pity for those who had been forced to challenge his dominance, and pity for the inevitable fate that awaited them in this unforgiving fighting ring.

In the heart of a bustling tavern, tucked away from the prying eyes of the outside world, lay the arena – a miniature colosseum of sorts, where children fought in brutal wonders of strength and skill. The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of torches casting dancing shadows upon the wooden rafters overhead. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and ale, mingling with the tang of anticipation that permeated the atmosphere.

Around the makeshift arena, a raucous crowd of smallfolk had gathered, their voices rising once again in a cacophony of cheers, awaiting the next fight, jeering as they placed bets and exchanged crude jests. Spittle flew through the air, propelled by fervent shouts and excitement, while tankards of ale were raised in raucous toasts to the combatants below.

Amidst the throng, an announcer's voice boomed above the arena, his words barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

"And it seems that the Joker has won again!" he declared, his tone tinged with a mixture of awe and resignation. The name "Joker" reverberated through the tavern, the tavern's most celebrated fighter.

As the crowd's fervour was reignited, Darius surveyed the scene from a small side room with a sense of grim satisfaction. This was his domain, his kingdom of blood and sweat, where he reigned supreme as the undisputed champion of the fight.

Walking into the side room after he had calmed the crowd, the announcer smiled from ear to ear,

"They love you out there, Joker," he exclaimed, his tone filled with genuine admiration, "You know, you're the best thing I ever adopted for 200 silver stags."

With a clap on Darius's back, the announcer gestured toward the throng of spectators,

"You are a legend out there, kid, cheer up. That flip that you did when you kicked that dornish kid? It was amazing."

"Whatever it is you want, Finn, I'll agree if you give me time outside alone," Darius said pointedly.

The announcer, Finn seemed taken aback by his fighter's words. Darius' boldness caught him off guard slightly but as an individual who has had to deal with a variety of people inside his tavern, it didn't take him long to recollect himself.

"Well...what do you think of putting on a performance against a member of the audience?" He asked.

Darius contemplated for a bit before nodding,

"As long as you don't put me up against a man the size of a mountain, I'd win. There didn't look to be anyone like that out in that rabble though... Still, I'd like some time alone outside. You know I won't run away, after all, I'm not going to find anywhere that treats me like here."

Despite the vicious nature of the place, where he was forced to fight against those he was calling 'siblings' in front of any officials, Darius thought about the complex relationship he had with Finn. The owner of the tavern was also the parent who had 'fostered' these children, offering them a roof over their heads, beds and food, even if it was all built on blood and combat. Along with that, he was treated better than the rest of the children as he was the star of the ring.

Finn nodded, his expression softening slightly. "Alright, kid. You get your time outside between dawn and a few hours before dusk. Just don't go causing trouble. And remember, you owe me that performance, though, I won't pit you against anyone taller than six feet so rest assured."

Darius gave a curt nod.

"Well, that's your fights for tonight over, I still have a few more to run, so get off to your room and rest up for tomorrow's spectacle," Finn patted him on the back as he turned and went back to the fighting pit. On his way back, he gave a small smile,

'Sometimes I forget that he really is only five name days old. If I hadn't adopted him from birth, I really would've thought I was negotiating with one of those officials.'

Darius watched Finn disappear into the crowd, the din of the tavern's secret room swallowing him up. He turned and made his way down a narrow hallway from the side room that led to the main area of the tavern, circumventing his need to pass through the rabble watching the fights. The walls were lined with rough wooden planks, and the air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and ale. Each step he took felt heavier than the last, the adrenaline of the fights wearing off and leaving behind exhaustion.

Passing the bartender in the main area of the tavern, Finn's wife, he raised his hand and waved in greeting. "Good night, Jaena."

Noticing the young boy not wanting to stay to talk, she smiled at him and told him, "I've just put some food for you in your room, good night Dari."

He nodded his thanks and continued to his room. He reached his small, sparsely furnished space and pushed the door open. A simple bed, a worn chair, and a rickety table were all that greeted him. It wasn't much, but it was his haven away from the chaos of the tavern and the brutality of the fighting ring.

On the table, he found a wet cloth, along with the food Mycella had mentioned: a piece of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a small bowl of brown. It wasn't much, but to Darius, it was a small comfort after a night of fighting. He sat down and ate quickly, savouring each bite. The warmth of the stew chased away the lingering chill from outside, and the simple meal did wonders to restore some of his energy.

Grabbing the wet cloth, he began to wipe himself down, cleaning off the blood, dirt and grime littering his body. Changing into his only other pair of clothing, he got into the small, rickety bed and with a sigh, pulled the small cover over himself.

As he lay in the bed, Darius stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of the future. The fleeting sense of power and control he felt in the ring was intoxicating, but he knew it wasn't something that would sustain him forever.

"Am I destined to fight until I die?" He whispered to himself before shaking his head.

As the moonlight filtered through the small window, it cast pale shadows on the walls. Darius's thoughts drifted to the stories his mother had told him of the Valyrian legacy—the dragons, the power, the respect they commanded. Not knowing that this shouldn't be possible, he recalled every detail of her stories, the passion in her voice, the pride in her eyes.

See the reason that Darius was so talented in combat was due to this, his mind. It was... unique. He had the ability to not only mimic physical actions with a high degree of likeness, but his mind seemed greater than that of normal people, allowing him to form permanent memories from birth. This rare gift was what made him a formidable fighter at such a young age, able to remember and replicate techniques with uncanny precision.

Darius reflected on how his ability had shaped his life. He knew he was special in combat, but not exactly what mentally differentiated him from the rest. From the moment he was thrust into the fighting rings, he had absorbed every move, every strategy, and every lesson with an insatiable hunger. His mind was a vault of knowledge and experience, far beyond his years.

But it wasn't just the physical prowess that set him apart. His mind also gave him a strategic edge, allowing him to analyze and anticipate his opponent's moves, exploit their weaknesses and outmanoeuvre them with the correct anticipation. It was this combination of physical skill and mental acuity that had earned him his reputation as the Joker, the undefeated champion of Finn's Fighting Ring.

However, thoughts returned to the idea of his parents, for all his intelligence, it did not take a genius to conclude his heritage,

"I wonder which one of them he is? The king? His brother? Maybe he was actually of house velaryon?"

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him, the echoes of the crowd's ongoing cheers still faintly ringing in his ears. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new fights, but he would deal with them tomorrow. For now, he would rest and dream of a day where all of this changed.

As the night wore on, Darius's dreams were filled with scenes of him ripping apart a pile of swords with his bare hands, one by one.

...................Chapter 2.............................

The next morning,

Whoosh!

Darius moved through the shrubbery of the wild, just outside of King's Landing. Having had to escape from the city watch on his way out, a frustrated expression graced his face. His sharp canines clenched in annoyance as he ducked under a low-hanging branch and pushed through the foliage as his mind wandered to his early morning escapade.

He had left the city at the hour of the nightingale, around dawn. Knowing that the guards on the third watch would be tired and those beginning the fourth watch would be groggy from an early morning wake, he had chosen this time to make his escape.

He had ridden on the underside of a caravan that he had overheard was on its way to Storm's End, digging his sharpened nails on both his hands and feet into the wooden board, clenching his hands tightly. After it reached the outskirts of the Kingswood, he simply dropped and waited until it was out of earshot before picking himself up and beginning to explore the forest. He knew that he would only have a few hours here at most.

"The point of me coming here is to observe the wildlife, see if I can incorporate any of their movements," he repeated to himself as he noted the footprints in front of him.

'Hooved.'

He moved cautiously through the underbrush, his eyes scanning the ground for more tracks and signs of animal activity. The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, chirping birds, and the distant calls of unseen creatures. Darius's sharpened senses picked up every detail, his mind working to catalog each movement and behaviour.

Spotting a small deer in a clearing in the distance, he crouched low, watching intently as it grazed. Its graceful movements were fluid and efficient, each step carefully measured. Darius studied the young deer's posture, the way it tensed and relaxed, the subtle shifts in its balance.

The deer, sensing the threat just in time, sprang into action, leaping high to avoid the wildcat's charging leap. With a graceful bound, it darted away, moving erratically to escape the clearing and the danger it held.

"If I can mimic that fluidity, moving from a heavily static state, its weight equally balanced, to an erratic yet controlled state, weight shifting. I could be faster and more unpredictable in the ring," he thought, his mind racing with possibilities. He noted how the deer scanned its surroundings for danger before moving to a new spot to graze.

Satisfied, he moved on, deeper into the forest. He came across a fox, its sleek body darting through the underbrush with surprising speed and agility. Darius watched how it manoeuvred through tight spaces, its body low to the ground, its movements swift and precise.

"Agility like that could give me an edge," he murmured, committing the fox's movements to memory.

As he ventured further, he encountered a hawk perched high in a tree. He watched as it scanned the forest floor, its sharp eyes catching even the slightest movement. When it finally took off, its wings spread wide, and it soared with a power and grace that took Darius's breath away.

"Precision and power," he noted, "Striking only when the moment is perfect."

As the sun began to climb higher in the sky, Darius knew his time in the forest was running out. He needed to return before anyone began complaining about his absence. Reluctantly, he turned back, his mind buzzing with new ideas and strategies.

Each animal he had observed had taught him something valuable, something he could use to improve his fighting technique. The deer for grace, the fox for agility, the hawk for precision and power. He was determined to incorporate these lessons into his training, to become a fighter unlike any other.

As he neared the edge of the forest, he paused to take one last look at the Kingswood. A fruit hanging from one of the trees caught his attention, its pale white colour along with the purple-coloured stalk stood out against the greenery.

Intrigued, Darius approached the tree and reached out to pluck the fruit from its branch.

The moment his fingers made contact with the fruit, however, a strange sensation washed over him, it felt like he could tell the fruit had some sort of power to it.

"What in the Seven Kingdoms..." he muttered, wiping his hand on his trousers as if to rid himself of the sensation. The fruit, now cradled in his palm, seemed to pulsate with an unnatural energy, its surface shimmering with an iridescent sheen.

Curiosity warred with disgust as Darius stared at the fruit, unsure of what to make of it. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered, and yet there was something undeniably intriguing about it.

'Should I eat it?'

With a deep breath, Darius steeled himself and brought the fruit closer to his face, intending to examine it further. But as he did, a wave of nausea washed over him, his stomach churning at the smell of it.

"Gods be damned," he muttered, quickly turning away from the fruit and stuffing it into the pouch he brought along. Whatever secrets it held, he would have to unravel them later. For now, he had more pressing matters to attend to, like returning to Flea Bottom before his absence was noticed.

As he hurried away from the tree, Darius couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the pit of his stomach. Whatever had just happened, he knew one thing for certain—this fruit was no ordinary specimen, and its discovery had only raised more questions than answers.

"I'm going to ask that maester about this... in a roundabout way, he did say he had his link for herbology and the higher mysteries," Darius concluded as he began jogging back towards King's Landing, "Whatever the hell the higher mysteries are? Only the maesters and the gods know. What I can say for definite though, is that this fruit is definitely a fuckin' mystery."

.....

As Darius approached the walls of King's Landing, he noticed the guards diligently checking everyone on entry. His mind raced with ideas on how to bypass them unnoticed, and then a daring plan formed in his mind.

Spotting a cluster of crates nearby, Darius swiftly pulled his hood up before he made his way towards them. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, he reached for a nearby rock and hurled it towards the opposite side of the gate, creating a loud distraction.

As the guards turned their attention towards the noise, Darius seized the opportunity to act. With agile movements, he crept beneath the line of caravans waiting to enter the city before he leapt onto the nearest crate and then onto the wall itself, using the uneven stones as handholds and footholds.

His heart raced as he scaled the wall, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The guards were too preoccupied with the commotion to notice him, and Darius moved quickly and quietly, his determination driving him forward.

As Darius reached the top of the wall and peered over the edge, a sense of exhilaration swept over him. Below him, King's Landing sprawled out in all its chaotic glory. The city buzzed with activity, its streets teeming with people going about their daily lives. The sounds of vendors hawking their wares, the clang of metal from the blacksmith's forge, and the distant cries of street urchins filled the air. The smells of the city wafted up to him—a heady mix of sweat, spices, and sewage that assaulted his senses. 

"People don't really tend to look up," he muttered to himself, a hint of amusement in his voice. He marvelled at how oblivious the people below were to his presence, going about their lives without a care in the world. It was a reminder of just how easy it was to blend in, to become invisible amidst the chaos of the city.

With a slight satisfaction, Darius lowered himself down to the other side of the wall and dropped to the ground below, dropping into a tree to break some of the impact. He had successfully infiltrated the city without being detected, and now he could continue his journey undisturbed.

As he disappeared into the bustling streets of King's Landing, Darius couldn't help but smile. He had proven once again that he was resourceful and cunning, and nothing would stand in his way on his quest for answers.

His breaths came in measured rhythm as he slipped into the bustling streets. The air smelled of sweat, spices, and desperation—a heady mix that clung to his cloak. Darius had no illusions; this city devoured the weak and celebrated the cunning. He intended to be the latter.

Unknown to Darius, a slender man leaned outside against a tavern wall, his eyes sharp as daggers. His cloak blended seamlessly with the dusk, and his grin revealed more than amusement. He had seen the boy's agile descent, the grace of a seasoned climber.

As Darius passed, the man hobbled forward as if having to go somewhere. The boy's hood concealed his features, but the man recognized the telltale white hair—the mark of a valyrian. A bastard, perhaps, but one with promise.

'A skilled bastard,' the man thought, his eyes relaxing, "He could be useful."

Darius glanced up, meeting the stranger's gaze. The man's eyes held secrets, he could tell they were the ones that would get you killed if spoken.

'A noble it seems, brown hair and grey eyes with a walking stick to assist with a foot condition,' moving past him, Darius noted the man's looks,

'He doesn't move like a man with combat ability, the foot problem probably arising from a young age preventing him from being knighted.'

Moving past him, Darius hurried to get back to his home.

.....

On the other hand, the man turned a corner and walked into the back alleys of Flea Bottom, where a group of thugs exuded an intimidating aura. Despite their menacing presence, the leader of the group rushed over to the man and bowed his head slightly.

"Lord Larys... Did you need us for anything?"

"I'm not a lord yet," Larys Strong corrected, his voice calm but firm. "And yes, there's a kid with white hair and sharp nails. Do you know anything about him?"

The leader of the thugs exchanged glances with his comrades before responding. "We've heard rumours about a white-haired boy making a name for himself in one of the child fighting pits. They call him 'Joker.' He's supposed to be quite the fighter."

Larys nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. Keep an eye on him. I want to know more about his movements and his connections. Discreetly, of course."

The thug leader bowed his head again. "As you wish, young lord. We'll gather the information and report back."

Larys smiled, a calculating glint in his eyes. "Good. And remember, this boy could be useful. Handle your interactions with him carefully."

As Larys turned to leave, the thugs dispersed into the shadows, their mission clear.