Mortarion refused to stake his life upon hope.
Death had promised him a dragon, but the skeletal being had already demonstrated an irritating preference for incomplete truths.
Anaxion would come to him, yet Death had never said the beast would arrive alone, obedient or even sane.
The ruined gatehouse groaned around him.
A crack appeared across the wall beside the doorway, spilling a thin stream of dust onto the glass road.
Mortarion stepped away as another tremor travelled through the ground.
It began as a faint vibration beneath his boots before growing strong enough to shake fragments of stone loose from the surrounding buildings.
The sound beneath Valyria deepened.
It was no longer a distant heartbeat.
It became a vast grinding roar, as though mountains were shifting against one another beneath the island.
The black road rippled with reflected crimson light while the shattered dragon statues trembled upon their foundations.
Mortarion moved into the centre of the avenue, away from anything capable of collapsing upon him.
The tremor lasted less than a minute.
When it ended, a portion of the gatehouse roof fell inward and buried the place where he had been resting.
A cloud of ash rolled through the entrance before settling over the broken stone.
Mortarion stared at the wreckage.
The structure had appeared stable.
That assumption might have killed him.
Old Valyria was not merely ruined.
It remained in the process of dying, each tremor weakening foundations that had already endured nearly two centuries of heat, poison and neglect.
No building could be trusted simply because it continued to stand.
Mortarion retrieved the small possessions he had left near the entrance and continued east.
He wanted distance from the courtyard where he had fought the stone men, and the closer roar suggested that the dragon had moved in the same direction.
Following it was dangerous.
Avoiding it indefinitely was impossible.
Anaxion represented the greatest advantage Death had granted him.
Mortarion would need to locate the dragon eventually, though he preferred to do so after learning more about his surroundings and testing the limits of his new body.
His shoulders still ached from the fight.
Dreaded Deliverance rested across his back, its weight growing more noticeable with every step.
Mortarion adjusted the strap and continued along the glass road, keeping his pace measured.
He could not afford to exhaust himself before finding water or a defensible shelter.
The avenue widened as it descended between two enormous palaces.
Their fronts had once been decorated with coloured stone, but the Doom had melted the ornamentation into long streams of red, black and gold.
Human figures remained carved above the entrances, each kneeling beneath a dragon whose wings stretched across the archways.
The dragonlords had not been modest.
Mortarion entered the palace on the right after determining that its lower walls had suffered less damage.
The doors had disappeared, leaving only warped bronze hinges embedded within the stone.
Inside waited a hall large enough to contain a small army.
Dozens of pillars rose towards a ceiling lost in darkness.
Most remained intact, though several had bent during the Doom and hardened into unnatural curves.
A layer of grey ash covered the floor, disturbed by tracks that Mortarion immediately recognised as recent.
Three long marks ran through the dust.
Claws.
The impressions were larger than his hands and spaced widely apart.
They continued across the hall before disappearing into a collapsed passage at the far side.
Mortarion crouched without touching them.
The tracks did not belong to the dragon circling above.
A creature of that size would have crushed the tiled floor beneath its weight.
These markings had been left by something smaller, perhaps a wyvern or one of the winged reptiles said to infest the ruins.
He rose and drew Dreaded Deliverance.
Moving more quietly, he searched the adjoining chambers.
Many had been stripped bare long before the Doom, while others contained only the remains of furniture fused into the floor.
He found fragments of pottery, blackened bones and metal instruments whose purposes he could not identify.
A narrow room near the rear of the palace appeared to have served as an armoury.
Most of its weapon racks had collapsed.
Bronze spearheads and rusted blades lay scattered across the ground, ruined by age and corrosive air.
Several pieces of armour remained chained to the walls, though they crumbled when Mortarion tested them with the point of his sword.
One object survived.
It rested beneath a fallen stone cabinet, its dark surface almost indistinguishable from the ash.
Mortarion shifted the cabinet with considerable effort, forced to use a broken spear shaft as a lever before he could reach beneath it.
He withdrew a dagger.
The weapon possessed a narrow blade covered in the recognisable ripples of Valyrian steel.
Its hilt had lost whatever leather once wrapped it, and one side of the crossguard had been bent.
Even damaged, the dagger was worth more than a standard longsword.
Mortarion inspected the edge.
It remained sharp.
He placed the weapon carefully inside his coat.
It could serve as a secondary blade, though its greater value lay in trade or symbolism.
A single Valyrian steel dagger would command the attention of noble houses across Westeros and wealthy families throughout Essos.
Old Valyria contained treasures.
The difficulty would be surviving long enough to carry them away.
Mortarion continued through the palace and discovered a staircase descending below the main floor.
Hot air rose from the darkness, carrying the odour of sulphur and something sweeter that reminded him of rotting meat.
He stopped before the first step.
The knowledge within his mind warned of creatures that lived beneath the ruins, some descended from animals warped by Valyrian sorcery and others created deliberately by flesh-shapers.
Deep chambers might contain vaults untouched by the Doom, but they might also hold dangers that had spent two centuries adapting to darkness.
Mortarion had no torch, no armour and no understanding of the passages below.
He withdrew.
Exploration did not require recklessness.
Outside the palace, the crimson twilight had darkened.
The sickly sun remained visible behind the smoke, though its position seemed unchanged.
Mortarion could not tell how many hours had passed since his arrival.
He followed another road towards higher ground.
The route took him past a series of broken monuments dedicated to dragonlords whose names had been burned from history.
Some statues had been deliberately defaced before the Doom, their heads removed and inscriptions chiselled away.
Rival families had attempted to erase one another even while their civilisation stood at the height of its power.
Mortarion found the practice familiar.
Emperor Aurellian had ordered the symbols of conquered kingdoms removed from public places.
Statues had been pulled down, banners burned and the names of defeated rulers omitted from official histories.
Yet the crowns remained in the throne room because the Emperor enjoyed displaying evidence of his victories.
History was often whatever survived the destruction.
Mortarion intended to ensure his version endured.
Beyond the monuments, he discovered the remains of a market district.
Hundreds of small shops lined a circular plaza surrounding a black stone fountain.
The buildings were narrower and less ornate than the palaces, though enchantments appeared to have protected several from complete destruction.
The fountain still held water.
Mortarion approached carefully.
The liquid was clear enough to reveal silver tiles beneath the surface, but no insects gathered around it.
No moss grew along the basin, and the air above the water carried a faint metallic smell.
He tore a strip from the cloth he had used to clean his sword and lowered it into the fountain with the end of a broken pole.
The fabric emerged without burning or changing colour.
That proved little.
Valyrian poisons were unlikely to announce themselves conveniently.
Mortarion searched the surrounding shops and found several clay cups.
He filled one and left it upon a stone ledge while continuing his exploration.
If the water damaged the cup, produced vapour or changed appearance, he would know not to drink it.
He had no animal with which to test the liquid.
By the time thirst forced the decision, he would have to choose between possible poison and certain dehydration.
The shops contained little that could be immediately used.
Precious metals had melted together.
Scrolls had turned to ash.
Food stores had long since rotted away, leaving black stains inside sealed jars.
One chamber appeared to have belonged to a jeweller.
Its front had collapsed, but a smaller workshop remained intact behind it.
Mortarion found tools, empty moulds and several locked iron boxes beneath a stone table.
The locks had corroded, allowing him to break them with repeated blows from a hammer discovered nearby.
The first box contained gemstones.
Rubies, emeralds and sapphires lay among pieces of jewellery bearing dragon motifs.
Some had cracked under the Doom’s heat, while others remained flawless.
Mortarion transferred the most valuable stones into a leather pouch he found hanging beneath the table.
The second box held coins.
Many had fused together, but several dozen golden honours could be separated.
Their faces displayed dragonlords whose names Mortarion did not recognise.
Even if no merchant accepted them as currency, the gold itself retained value.
The final box contained six black candles.
Mortarion recognised them from the knowledge Death had granted him.
Glass candles were fashioned from obsidian and used by Valyrian sorcerers.
When burning, they allowed practitioners to see across great distances, enter dreams and communicate through forces that ordinary men barely understood.
These candles were cold.
Mortarion did not touch them.
Magic was a weapon, and weapons could be useful.
Yet a commander who wielded something he did not understand was more dangerous to himself than to his enemy.
Valyria had relied upon sorcery for centuries before the Doom destroyed it in a single day.
Whether magic had caused the catastrophe remained uncertain.
Mortarion had no intention of repeating the mistakes of an empire that had melted its own capital.
He closed the box and left it where he found it.
The discovery reinforced a growing concern.
Even if Mortarion secured part of the island, Old Valyria would never become a safe foundation for an empire.
Its wealth was considerable, but wealth alone did not make land habitable.
The air poisoned every breath.
No reliable source of fresh water had revealed itself.
The ground trembled without warning, while volcanic vents could open beneath roads or buildings.
Structures protected by ancient enchantments might stand for another thousand years or collapse before nightfall.
There was no farmland.
No forest provided timber.
No healthy animals could be hunted.
The surrounding sea boiled, smoked and concealed reefs capable of tearing apart ships.
Any settlers brought here would depend entirely upon supplies from abroad.
Mortarion could summon ten thousand Unsullied with enough provisions for a year, but doing so would waste them.
Feeding an army within Valyria after those supplies were exhausted would require a continuous fleet of ships willing to cross the Smoking Sea.
Few captains would risk the journey.
Those who agreed would demand absurd payment.
The very soldiers intended to form the core of Mortarion’s power would instead become trapped upon an island that could not sustain them.
Old Valyria could be searched.
It could be looted.
It might even serve as a secret refuge for short periods.
It could not become the heart of a living kingdom.
Mortarion disliked abandoning the idea so quickly, but sentiment had no place in strategy.
Valyria carried symbolic value, yet symbols did not feed armies or produce children.
A capital required roads, fields, clean water and people willing to live beneath its walls.
This ruin offered none of them.
He would take what remained useful and find better lands.
The question was where.
Several possibilities moved through his mind.
The Stepstones were divided, frequently contested and positioned between the Narrow Sea and the trade routes of Essos.
Establishing himself there might allow Mortarion to control shipping while remaining close to Westeros.
The islands were barren, however, and Prince Daemon had already claimed influence over them.
The Disputed Lands offered greater space but invited conflict with Myr, Lys and Tyrosh.
A new settlement there would face immediate opposition from the Free Cities.
Farther east lay abandoned or weakened territories where old civilisations had collapsed.
Some possessed fertile land and ruined cities that could be rebuilt, though distance from Westeros might delay Mortarion’s involvement in the coming wars.
He needed a place capable of supporting soldiers, settlers and eventually dragons.
It also had to be weak enough to claim without immediately uniting every nearby power against him.
The answer would not be found while wandering blindly through ash.
Mortarion needed maps, ships and information about the current political conditions beyond what Death had placed in his mind.
History told him what nations existed, but not the location of every garrison, merchant fleet or ambitious local ruler.
For the moment, he would continue searching Valyria.
The ruins could provide enough wealth to fund his first campaigns.
Valyrian artefacts would strengthen his claim of dragonlord ancestry, while weapons and knowledge might give him advantages no modern ruler possessed.
He returned to the fountain.
The water appeared unchanged.
The clay cup had not cracked, and no residue had formed along its surface.
Mortarion lifted it and smelled the liquid carefully.
The metallic scent remained.
He took only a small mouthful.
The water tasted faintly of iron but caused no immediate pain.
Mortarion waited several minutes before drinking again.
He did not trust it, though his body required hydration if he intended to continue.
He filled two small sealed flasks found in the jeweller’s workshop.
They were decorated with silver dragons and had likely once contained oils or perfumes.
Mortarion washed them repeatedly before securing them inside his coat.
The additional weight was becoming inconvenient.
He needed a place to store what he found rather than carrying everything.
The jeweller’s workshop appeared secure enough for temporary use, but the claw marks within the earlier palace proved that creatures moved through the district.
Mortarion concealed the iron box of coins and several larger gemstones beneath a cracked floor tile.
He memorised the surrounding buildings and carved a small mark into the base of a dragon statue to identify the location later.
The Valyrian steel dagger remained with him.
So did the finest jewels.
He left the market district and continued towards the higher towers.
The ground rose gradually, providing a clearer view of the island whenever the smoke shifted.
Old Valyria extended farther than Mortarion had initially realised.
Ruined districts covered the slopes of distant volcanic mountains.
Roads crossed chasms upon bridges that should not have survived.
Half-submerged towers rose from the Smoking Sea, their upper floors leaning above the boiling water.
Red light pulsed between the peaks.
A plume of flame erupted from one mountainside, throwing molten rock into the sky.
The eruption lasted only moments, but the sound reached Mortarion several heartbeats later as a deep explosion.
The island responded with another tremor.
Mortarion steadied himself against a low wall.
Far below, part of the market plaza collapsed into an unseen cavity.
The fountain tilted, spilling water across the black glass before disappearing beneath falling stone.
His only discovered source of drinkable water was gone.
The conclusion became undeniable.
Remaining in Valyria for long was a death sentence.
Mortarion resumed walking once the ground settled.
He would explore until his supplies, health or the instability of the island forced him to leave.
Before then, he needed to locate a vessel or some means of reaching safer land.
Mortarion had placed himself in Old Valyria without a surefire idea on how he was to depart.
It was an oversight on his part.
Perhaps Anaxion was the answer.
A dragon large enough to carry him could cross the Smoking Sea easily, provided Mortarion survived the bonding process.
If the beast refused him, his second life might end before reaching civilisation.
He entered another large building near the crest of the hill.
Unlike the palaces below, this structure possessed few decorative features.
Its walls were thick, windowless and formed from dark stone veined with red.
Dragon heads had been carved around the doorway, though their mouths were closed rather than roaring.
The entrance descended into the ground.
Mortarion almost turned away.
Then he noticed the symbols carved beside the doorway.
They represented flames, blood and winged creatures.
Beneath them was an inscription in ancient High Valyrian, damaged but partially readable.
The surviving words included lineage, obedience and binding.
This had not been a residence.
It might have been a place where dragonlords studied or trained their beasts.
Mortarion drew Dreaded Deliverance and entered.
The first chamber was cool compared with the streets outside.
Narrow channels had been carved through the walls, allowing air to circulate from somewhere beneath the structure.
Several stone benches surrounded a circular depression in the floor.
Blackened chains lay within it.
The links were enormous, each thick enough to restrain a war elephant.
Some had melted together, while others had been torn apart.
Deep scratches marked the stone surrounding the pit.
A young dragon might once have been held there.
Mortarion moved into the adjoining rooms.
Most had been destroyed, but one contained the remains of shelves carved directly into the walls.
Stone cylinders and metal cases lay among the rubble.
The first case he opened contained only ash.
The second held fragments of parchment.
Mortarion handled them carefully.
The edges crumbled beneath the slightest pressure, and much of the writing had faded.
What survived was written in a formal variation of High Valyrian.
It described the relationship between dragon and rider.
Blood was important but not absolute.
Valyrian lineage increased the likelihood of acceptance, yet dragons possessed individual wills.
Some rejected riders of the purest blood while accepting unexpected candidates.
Fear was repeatedly mentioned.
The text warned that a dragon could sense hesitation through movement, scent and voice.
A rider who approached while expecting death often received exactly what he feared.
Another section described the first contact.
The prospective rider was advised to remain visible, avoid sudden movements and speak continuously in High Valyrian.
Food might encourage a young dragon, though mature beasts could regard the offering as either tribute or insult depending upon temperament.
Mortarion found that observation unhelpfully vague.
A damaged passage appeared to discuss eye contact.
Too little suggested weakness, while a prolonged stare could be interpreted as a challenge.
The final readable lines concerned domination.
The bond was not simple obedience.
A dragon did not become a horse merely because someone climbed upon its back.
The rider had to establish authority without attempting to break the creature’s spirit.
A dragon whose will had been entirely crushed became unpredictable, lethargic or violently mad.
Mortarion understood the principle.
The best war beasts he had commanded in his former life had not been mindless.
They responded to experienced handlers because discipline gave direction to their aggression.
Cruelty alone produced animals that feared the whip more than the enemy.
He placed the fragments inside one of the metal cases.
These texts were valuable.
Farther inside the structure, the nature of the writings changed.
The walls became darker, stained by substances the Doom’s heat had failed to remove.
Iron hooks hung from the ceiling.
Long stone tables rested beside channels that drained into covered pits.
Mortarion recognised a place of experimentation.
Several sealed cases contained texts written in red ink.
The first described blood sacrifice as a means of strengthening the bond between rider and dragon.
Prisoners were to be killed beneath a dragon egg while sorcerers recited the names of the intended rider’s ancestors.
Another discussed placing human souls within beasts.
The author claimed that fragments of memory could be preserved through flesh and blood, allowing a dying dragonlord to continue guiding his descendants from within the mind of a dragon.
Mortarion read only enough to understand the subject before closing the case.
He opened another and found references to creatures formed by combining men, wyverns and lesser reptiles.
The surviving diagrams displayed bodies with too many limbs, human faces emerging from scaled torsos and wings stitched to distorted spines.
The Valyrians had not limited themselves to controlling dragons.
They had attempted to create new life through suffering.
Mortarion had ordered cruel things during his former life.
He had sacrificed soldiers to achieve victories, executed craftsmen and destroyed kingdoms that resisted the Aurellian Empire.
He did not pretend to possess a gentle conscience.
Yet his brutality had always served an objective.
The writings before him described cruelty pursued through obsession.
Sorcerers had destroyed thousands of lives to satisfy curiosity, pride and the desire to possess powers they barely understood.
Such practices offered no predictable result.
Dark magic demanded prices that were often concealed until payment became unavoidable.
Death had already given Mortarion knowledge of this world’s histories.
Blood sorcery created miracles, but it also produced curses, madness and consequences that extended across generations.
The Doom itself might have been the final cost of Valyria’s ambitions.
Mortarion left the red texts untouched.
He had no need to place souls inside dragons or create beasts from the bodies of men.
An army, disciplined administration and ordinary steel had conquered his previous world.
Magic could supplement strength, but it would never replace control.
He retained the fragments concerning natural dragon bonding and saddle design.
The rest remained within the chambers where their authors had died.
As he turned to leave, a sound emerged from behind one of the walls.
It resembled wet breathing.
Mortarion stopped.
The noise came again, followed by the scrape of something dragging across stone.
Dust shifted beneath a narrow crack near the floor.
Dreaded Deliverance rose into his hands.
The wall bulged.
Whatever moved behind it struck the stone once, then again.
A section of masonry split open, releasing a foul gust of air that carried the stench of blood and decay.
A pale limb pushed through.
It possessed too many joints.
Black claws scraped against the floor as the creature attempted to widen the opening.
Beneath the stone came a low, almost human moan.
Mortarion retreated.
He had no interest in discovering which Valyrian experiment remained alive after nearly two centuries.
Fighting within the narrow chambers would expose him to an enemy whose size, strength and abilities were unknown.
He left the structure and climbed the steps into the crimson air.
The creature did not follow.
Mortarion marked the entrance in his memory.
When he returned in the future, the lower chambers would either be sealed permanently or burned from a safe distance.
The damaged texts rested beneath his coat.
They were perhaps the most useful things he had found.
Gold could purchase soldiers, but knowledge of dragons might allow Mortarion to control a weapon capable of deciding wars alone.
He crossed onto a broad terrace overlooking the lower city.
From there, he could see the devastation in its full scale.
Old Valyria had once been vast enough to humble every capital in the modern world.
Now its roads led into chasms, its towers leaned above lava and its palaces sheltered disease and monsters.
Mortarion imagined ten thousand Unsullied marching through the streets.
They would need masks to breathe safely.
Tremors would disrupt formations, destroy supplies and collapse barracks.
Men stationed near volcanic vents would slowly sicken.
Greyscale could spread through the ranks before its victims were identified.
Even if discipline prevented panic, discipline could not command the earth to remain still.
“No,” Mortarion said quietly.
Old Valyria would not be his capital.
He would claim its legacy, recover its wealth and use its name to legitimise his rise.
He might return with organised expeditions once he possessed ships, labourers and scholars willing to risk the ruins.
He would never bring a population here.
The dead empire could fund the living one, but it could not become it.
Another roar echoed across the city.
This time, it came from directly above him.
Mortarion looked towards the sky.
The clouds moved.
At first, he believed another volcanic plume was spreading across the island.
Then the darkness took shape.
Two vast wings unfolded within the smoke, each powerful beat forcing the poisoned clouds aside.
A dragon descended from the crimson sky.
It was larger than any creature Mortarion had seen since Karaban.
Its body rivalled the descriptions of Balerion the Black Dread, the monstrous dragon that had carried Aegon the Conqueror across Westeros.
The beast’s wings stretched wide enough to cover the terrace and several surrounding towers.
Its scales were a deep, dark green that became almost black along its spine, limbs and the ridges of its enormous head.
Smoke poured from between its teeth.
The dragon circled once.
Wind struck the terrace with the force of a storm, throwing ash and fragments of stone into the air.
Mortarion planted his feet and raised one arm across his face while his coat snapped violently behind him.
The creature descended lower.
Its claws extended towards the terrace, each talon longer than a spear.
The damaged stone cracked when the dragon landed.
The impact drove Mortarion back several steps and sent fractures racing across the black floor.
The beast folded its wings.
Its enormous head lowered until one dark green eye, veined with molten gold, stared directly at Mortarion.
Heat rolled from its nostrils.
Mortarion’s hand closed around Dreaded Deliverance, though he did not draw it.
The sword would accomplish little against a creature of this size, and reaching for it too quickly might be interpreted as a challenge.
He remembered the fragments he had just read.
Remain visible.
Do not show fear.
Speak in High Valyrian.
The dragon opened its jaws, revealing rows of blackened teeth.
A green glow formed deep within its throat, illuminating smoke that curled between its fangs.
Mortarion stood alone before a beast the size of Balerion the Dread.
He lifted his head and met its gaze.
“Anaxion,” he said.