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PROLOGUE

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ㅤ MAGIC HAD NEVER BEEN UNCOMMON IN OLD VALYRIA. In fact, magic was practiced by the old gods as if it were a way of life. As old Valyria eventually fell, so did the magic that lied beneath it. For a long time, magic was forgotten as Westeros rose from the ashes. Of course, there were fantasy stories and dreams about magic this ancient magic. For centuries people has forgotten about this magic of Old Valyria. As the children grew, the stories they heard about fire and talking shadows faded into the deepest corners of their minds.

-ˋˏ ༻☆༺ ˎˊ-

SHE HAD GIVEN EVERYTHING SHE HAD AND IT STILL WAS NOT ENOUGH. The widowed woman from King's Landing had sacrificed her life for the sake of her children. After her husband died in the mountains, she was left with nothing but her four-your old son and twin infant daughters. She had nothing left to give to keep her family afloat. She could not work because of her children, she could not marry another man because she was widowed.

Her nights were occupied by tending to her babies and her days occupied by the same fate. She could not keep going the same way any more. One cool evening, whilst the moon was full and the village was asleep, the woman plucked one of the twin girls from her cot. This baby was skinnier than her twin, weaker. She was paler, more likely to become sickly. The woman knew that when the baby grew she would not be strong enough to live in a place like King's Landing.

So, the woman brought the helpless baby into the forest and placed the child beneath a white tree with red leaves. She kissed the girl on the forehead and wrapped the thin cloth around her naked body. It would be one less mouth to feed, one less reason to get up in the night, one less worry. Without giving herself time to feel any more guilt, the woman turned away from the tree and made her trek back to the village, not even sparing a glance over her shoulder back at her baby.

The baby girl, already ever so pale and frail, turned blue within minutes of being under the tree. The baby cried and wailed for someone to save her. No one came. The frost was taking over her small body, turning her lips blue and her fingertips red. Flurries of snow caught onto her wispy lashes and dotted what little hair she had for eyebrows. Her heartbeat slowed and slowed.

        A band of men on horseback carrying torches to lead them through the night pass the tree, galloping by at an alarmingly fast rate. Despite the cries that the baby makes, she cannot be heard over the thundering hooves and clanking of armor. Towards the end of the pack,  young man with strikingly blond hair is nearly thrown from his stallion. The man's torch is knocked from his grasp and lands just beneath the tree.

        "My light!" His accent is thick and unnerving. His eyebrows knit together as if he's calculating whether or whether not it is to be retrieved. He turns his head back to face the clearing, only to realize that his group is nearly ten lengths ahead of him. He grunts and decides against picking up his torch, instead he kicks the chestnut stallion into a gallop and he's off.

        On the other side of the tree, the baby sobs as the torch's fire burns at the base of the tree. Within minutes, flames are licking the wood and spiraling towards the branches. The baby girl is suddenly staring straight up into the eyes of a fire. The little bit of snow spilling from the sky is no match for the lustful flames. They tear apart the branches, consuming the leaves in their wake.

        The baby, so young and so senseless, reaches her arm up to the flames. She knows no harm of it. The blaze grapples at her fingertips but it does not touch her. It does not want to. The fire keeps the baby warm as it burns all throughout the night. It is extinguished by a group of travelers passing through in the wee hours of the morning. The baby is plucked from her place beneath the tree and carried back to the village.

        For the next twenty years, she grows with age. Her hair becomes a deep brown with hints of auburn. She leaves the house of orphans at the ripe age of eleven and from there becomes involved in whore houses— as the people call them. She realized from a young age it was the most efficient way to make money quickly, selling herself for the ogles of men. But, she had nothing to her name and needed to create a life for herself.

       At age fifteen, four years into her work, she was almost beaten to death by a drunken man. He held her head inches away from the fireplace of his chambers. Her eyes sealed shut at the heat from the fire. His hand tousled her skirt and the other kept her head by the raging flames. She had nothing left to fight with. Her body was weak and bruised. Her heart began to palpitate and she opened her eyes into the fire.

       She did not see anything in the flames, but she knew what they wanted her to do. Through her watery gaze she reached her hand into the fire and balled up a single flame in her fist. She reached around and pressed the inferno into his skin. With a scream and a daunting look, he stumped backwards into his bed and split his head open on the pole sticking out from the bed frame. The girl, now a woman, stood there horrified, with one hand over her mouth and the other in front of her, shaking, as the fire faded away.

        The young girl had just had the first taste of her power. And though it terrified her, what she had just done, there was a deep set relief that coursed through her body. She had a sense of how to protect herself now.

       That young girl would become one of the greatest warriors to ever live. She would become one of the biggest influences of the war between the Greens and the Blacks. Perzys ābra, the books would call her, fire woman. Mireyah was her name.

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