Aurion Belaerys had entered Old Valyria intending to crown himself emperor.
Instead, he had joined the thousands of soldiers scattered around him in a grave without a marker.
Mortarion stood before the fallen dragonlord while ash drifted through the basin in slow, uneven currents.
It gathered upon rusted shields, broken weapons and bodies that had remained untouched for nearly two centuries.
Some of the dead still clutched their swords, while others were trapped beneath the petrified remains of Aurion’s dragon.
The self-proclaimed emperor rested against the creature’s neck, his skeletal hand wrapped around the hilt of a broken blade.
Almost everything belonging to the man had decayed, yet his armour endured.
The metal was darker than ordinary Valyrian steel.
Beneath the crimson sky, it appeared almost entirely black, though faint rippling patterns moved across the surface whenever the volcanic light shifted.
The effect resembled smoke trapped within polished steel.
Layered pauldrons curved over the shoulders like overlapping dragon scales.
The breastplate had been shaped close to the body, offering protection without the excessive bulk of conventional plate.
Engravings of dragons, serpents and curling flames covered the cuirass, running between thin lines of dark crimson metal.
The helmet lay beside Aurion’s body, still connected to the armour by a damaged chain.
It was fully enclosed, with a narrow opening across the eyes and ridges of black steel that travelled from the brow towards the crown.
The faceplate had been shaped into the harsh suggestion of a dragon’s snout, concealing the wearer behind cruel angles and sharpened edges.
Even dulled by ash, the armour looked ancient and regal.
It had not been created for ceremony, nor had it been designed to inspire affection.
It looked like something intended to stand at the head of an army while cities burned before it.
Mortarion approved.
He crouched beside Aurion and inspected the body more closely.
The dead dragonlord showed no obvious signs of greyscale, although much of his flesh had dried against the bones.
His silver hair remained attached to parts of his skull, blackened by ash and age.
A deep fracture had been driven into the left side of the breastplate.
The Valyrian steel itself had not been cut, but the plate had bent inward enough to crush the ribs beneath it.
Long scratches marked the helmet and shoulders, while several smaller dents covered the back.
Whatever had killed Aurion possessed tremendous strength.
Mortarion looked towards the corpse of the dragon.
Large sections of its body had hardened into grey stone.
Deep wounds crossed its neck, chest and wings.
Some resembled claw marks, while others were narrow and unnaturally clean, as though the creature had been pierced by weapons capable of cutting through dragon scales.
Something had slaughtered Aurion’s dragon before turning upon the army surrounding it.
Thirty thousand soldiers had fought their final battle in this basin, yet Mortarion could find no remains belonging to their enemy.
Perhaps the creatures had carried away their dead, or perhaps whatever killed them possessed no ordinary body to leave behind.
The mystery could wait.
Mortarion had no soldiers, tools or scholars with which to investigate properly.
His first concern was the armour.
He placed Dreaded Deliverance upon the ground beside him, keeping the weapon within reach, and began removing Aurion’s remains from the plates.
The armour had been created in separate sections connected by metal clasps and articulated joints.
Most still functioned despite their age.
The leather straps and inner padding had rotted, forcing Mortarion to cut away what remained with the Valyrian steel dagger he had recovered earlier.
Aurion’s skull shifted when the helmet came free.
It struck the petrified scales of the dragon with a hollow sound before rolling into the ash.
Mortarion felt no reverence for him.
Aurion had survived the Doom only because he had been outside Valyria when it occurred.
Rather than learning from the destruction of the Freehold, he had gathered an army and marched directly into the ruins, believing a crown and declaration would be enough to make him emperor.
His ambition had been impressive.
His preparation had not.
Still, the dead dragonlord’s failure would now contribute to Mortarion’s success.
“You will have more purpose in death than you possessed in life,” Mortarion muttered.
He gathered Aurion’s remains and placed them carefully beside the dead dragon.
The bent crown resting nearby followed, positioned near the skull rather than left beneath the feet of common soldiers.
Mortarion inspected the interior of the armour.
Most of the cloth lining had disintegrated, leaving the black steel exposed.
Strange symbols had been engraved along the inside of the breastplate where no observer would normally see them.
Some resembled flames, while others formed ancient High Valyrian words.
Mortarion translated the inscription slowly: Blood commands flame.
Will commands blood.
The phrase could have been the saying of a family, although the hidden placement suggested something more.
It might have referred to the enchantments used in creating the armour or to the methods by which House Belaerys had once controlled its dragons.
Mortarion remembered the darker writings found within the ruined dragonkeepers’ hall.
Blood sacrifice, soul binding and the creation of unnatural creatures had all been described with disturbing detail.
He had no intention of practising such magic.
An inscription alone did not make the armour dangerous, however, and its protection was too valuable to abandon because of uncertainty.
Mortarion lifted a fragment of Aurion’s broken sword and pressed its edge against one of the plates.
The ruined weapon slipped across the surface without leaving a mark.
He repeated the test with Dreaded Deliverance.
Valyrian steel struck Valyrian steel with a clear metallic ring.
The sword left a faint scratch upon the plate but did not cut through it.
Even the damaged section of the breastplate remained stronger than ordinary armour.
Mortarion removed his coat and began equipping the suit.
The leg protection came first.
Articulated black plates covered his thighs and knees, followed by fitted greaves and sabatons.
They were slightly larger than ideal, though Aurion had possessed a lean build and had not stood much taller than Mortarion’s new body.
The arm pieces were more difficult to secure without assistance.
Mortarion had to hold each section in position while fastening ancient clasps beneath it.
Several had warped, requiring considerable force before they closed.
He replaced the ruined straps with strips cut from his coat and sections of preserved leather taken from the dead soldiers nearby.
The cuirass settled around his chest with surprising ease.
It was heavier than clothing but far lighter than the full plate Mortarion had worn in his previous life.
Valyrian steel offered greater protection without the burden of ordinary metal, distributing its weight across his torso rather than dragging heavily upon his shoulders.
Layered plates protected his waist and hips.
Long panels of hardened scale and black steel descended over his upper legs, allowing freedom of movement while guarding the gaps between the cuirass and greaves.
Mortarion raised both arms and tested his reach.
The suit had not been forged for him, but it fitted closely enough to serve.
His injured shoulder still ached from Anaxion’s warning strike, although the armour supported the joint and reduced some of the strain.
He secured the gauntlets last.
Each finger was covered by overlapping segments of dark steel.
Raised ridges protected the knuckles, allowing the gauntlets to function as weapons during close combat.
Mortarion closed one hand into a fist.
The plates moved smoothly.
He approached a pool of dark water gathered within a hollow near the dragon’s corpse.
Its surface reflected enough of the crimson light for Mortarion to examine himself.
The armour transformed him.
His pale face and lean body had previously made him appear like an untested youth, despite the coldness within his violet eyes.
The black steel concealed much of that weakness.
The layered shoulders broadened his silhouette, while the engraved breastplate made him appear like a dragonlord carved from shadow.
Mortarion wiped ash from the centre of the cuirass.
Beneath the soot rested the image of a dragon surrounded by twisting flames.
A sphinx had been engraved over it at a later date, likely marking the armour as belonging to House Belaerys.
Aurion had inherited the suit rather than commissioning it himself.
That was unsurprising.
The armour had likely passed through generations of dragonlords before reaching Aurion.
Mortarion lifted the helmet and removed the remains of its decayed lining.
He lowered it carefully over his head.
The world narrowed around him.
His peripheral vision was reduced, though the opening across the eyes remained wide enough for combat.
Small gaps beneath the jaw allowed air to enter, while the faceplate concealed everything below his gaze.
His breathing echoed softly inside the steel.
The figure reflected in the water no longer looked sixteen.
The helmet gave him an inhuman appearance, with black ridges framing violet eyes that stared through the narrow opening.
The severe faceplate resembled the armour of an executioner elevated into something regal.
For a moment, Mortarion remembered his old armour.
As High Marshal of the Aurellian Empire, he had worn black and dark green across countless battlefields.
His soldiers had rallied when they saw him advancing through smoke, while enemies had fled at the sight of his silhouette.
This armour carried the same potential.
It offered more than physical protection.
Once Mortarion emerged from Valyria, the appearance alone would help create the legend he intended to build.
He removed the helmet and continued cleaning the breastplate.
When his cloth passed over one of the crimson lines, the metal briefly glimmered.
Mortarion stopped.
A weak pulse of red travelled through the engravings before fading.
He pressed one gauntleted palm against the cuirass.
Nothing happened.
The glow might have been a reflection from the volcanic fissures surrounding the basin, although Mortarion doubted it.
The symbols engraved inside the armour suggested it had once responded to Valyrian blood or magic.
He would study the enchantments later.
Protection mattered more than understanding every secret immediately.
Mortarion searched the remainder of Aurion’s possessions.
A black stone seal hung from a chain around the dead man’s neck, carved with the sphinx of House Belaerys.
Several rings remained upon his fingers, including one set with a dark red gemstone.
Mortarion took them.
The seal and armour would serve as evidence if he decided to connect his invented lineage to House Belaerys.
Claiming to be Aurion’s direct descendant might attract questions from maesters and noble families familiar with the old dragonlords, but a new house descended from a forgotten branch would be easier to defend.
The story could be refined once Mortarion understood the rulers and scholars he intended to deceive.
He also recovered Aurion’s bent crown.
The metal remained valuable, but its true worth came from what it represented.
Aurion had declared himself Emperor of Valyria and marched into the Doom wearing it.
If Mortarion later claimed the legacy of Old Valyria, the crown would become a useful symbol.
He wrapped it in the remains of his coat and concealed it beneath the dead dragon’s wing.
A small hollow between the petrified scales protected it from sight.
Mortarion carved three marks into a nearby scale so he could locate the hiding place again.
Searching every soldier in the basin might reveal more weapons, jewellery and equipment, but doing so would take days.
The mass grave could be explored properly after Mortarion possessed men capable of guarding the area and transporting what they recovered.
Anaxion remained his greatest priority.
The dragon had flown north after their first failed bonding attempt.
Mortarion had followed the same direction before discovering Aurion’s army, suggesting he remained on the correct path.
He secured Dreaded Deliverance across his back.
The armour distributed the sword’s weight more comfortably, although the enlarged shoulder plates made drawing the weapon more difficult.
Mortarion practised the motion several times until he discovered the correct angle.
The Valyrian steel dagger rested against his waist.
Before leaving, Mortarion looked once more at Aurion Belaerys.
Without the armour, the self-proclaimed emperor appeared small.
He was no longer a dragonlord or conqueror, only a collection of dried bones resting beside the remains of the creature that had carried him into battle.
Mortarion felt no satisfaction in taking his possessions.
Defeating a living rival carried meaning.
Replacing a dead failure did not.
He climbed from the basin and continued north.
The terrain became increasingly unstable.
Streets twisted between fissures glowing with orange light, while entire districts had disappeared beneath hardened lava.
Mortarion kept close to the surviving walls and watched the smoke above for movement.
Wearing the armour changed the way he travelled.
The plates protected him from sharp stone, ash and falling debris, but their weight tested his young body.
Sweat gathered beneath the cuirass.
His breathing grew heavier, and his legs began to ache as he crossed the ruins.
Mortarion did not remove the suit.
Armour worn only during battle would always feel like a burden.
A soldier had to train in the same equipment he intended to fight in, until its weight became familiar and every movement instinctive.
His new body would adapt.
Mortarion eventually reached a staircase carved into the side of a shattered tower.
It climbed towards an elevated bridge overlooking a vast volcanic valley.
He ascended carefully.
By the time he reached the top, his thighs burned, and his breath came heavily through the helmet.
He ignored the discomfort and studied the land ahead.
Much of the city below had collapsed during the Doom.
Towers protruded from hardened lava like broken teeth, while ancient bridges stretched between fragments of ruined districts.
Mortarion searched for movement.
A column of smoke rose from behind a half-melted palace near the far side of the valley.
Unlike the constant vapour escaping from fissures, the smoke emerged in heavy bursts separated by several moments.
Something was breathing.
Anaxion.
Mortarion descended from the bridge.
The most direct route crossed an open plain of cracked black stone.
It offered no shelter from anything flying above, but circling the valley would consume several more hours.
Mortarion chose the direct path.
Halfway across, he discovered a dragon’s footprint pressed into the ground.
Three long claw marks extended through hardened stone, each longer than his arm.
Another track appeared farther ahead, accompanied by the wide channel left by a dragging tail.
Anaxion had landed there before walking towards the palace.
The dragon had not fled across the island after rejecting Mortarion.
It had travelled only a short distance and settled somewhere he could be found.
Mortarion refused to interpret that as an invitation.
A dragon did not need to construct trials like a patient teacher.
Anaxion might simply have returned to a familiar resting place and felt no concern over whether Mortarion followed.
Still, the beast had not left Valyria.
That was enough.
Mortarion followed the tracks into the palace.
A shattered section of wall served as the entrance.
Beyond it waited a grand audience hall, although half the roof had collapsed and lava glowed through cracks beneath the floor.
Anaxion rested at the centre.
The dragon had curled its enormous body around the remains of a raised platform.
Its wings were folded tightly along its sides, while its tail disappeared into the shadows at the rear of the chamber.
Dark green scales reflected the volcanic light, becoming almost black along the spine and wing bones.
One eye opened as Mortarion entered.
The dragon had heard him long before he crossed the threshold.
Mortarion stopped.
A low growl rolled through the chamber, shaking dust from the fractured ceiling.
The dragon lifted its enormous head from the remains of the raised platform, fixing one molten-green eye upon the intruder.
There was no recognition within its stare.
Anaxion had never known Aurion Belaerys.
The dragon had been born long after the Doom and possessed no connection to the dead dragonlord or the armour Mortarion now wore.
It was a wild beast that had grown among the volcanic islands and poisoned ruins of Valyria, beyond the command of riders or dragonkeepers.
To Anaxion, Mortarion was simply an armed stranger entering its territory.
The dragon rose.
Its dark green scales became almost black along its spine, while its unfolded wings scraped against the ruined walls.
Smoke escaped between its teeth as a faint green light formed deep within its throat.
Mortarion remained still.
The black armour made him appear larger, but it also made him look prepared for battle.
Anaxion could not understand that Mortarion had worn it for protection during his search.
The dragon saw steel, weapons and an unfamiliar creature approaching its resting place.
Mortarion slowly unfastened Dreaded Deliverance.
Anaxion’s growl deepened.
He stopped until the dragon quietened, then placed the sheathed sword upon the floor.
The Valyrian steel dagger followed.
Mortarion removed his helmet and gauntlets before lowering himself onto one knee.
It was not surrender.
It was an attempt to appear less threatening while remaining ready to move.
“I have not come to fight you,” Mortarion said in High Valyrian.
“You know that my sword would accomplish little against you.”
Anaxion stepped closer.
Each movement cracked the ancient floor.
The dragon lowered its head until Mortarion stood within reach of its jaws, surrounded by smoke and waves of suffocating heat.
Mortarion maintained eye contact without staring too aggressively.
“You left before our first understanding could be formed,” he continued.
“Yet you remained close enough to be found.”
Anaxion inhaled deeply.
The force drew Mortarion’s silver hair towards its nostrils.
The dragon examined his scent, lingering upon the blood dried into his clothing and the strange black steel covering his body.
Mortarion felt pressure behind his eyes.
It was weaker than during their first meeting, but unmistakable.
Anaxion’s presence brushed against his thoughts, testing the will concealed within the unfamiliar body.
Mortarion did not resist.
He allowed the dragon to glimpse his former life.
Armies marched beneath black and dark-green banners.
War hounds tore through enemy formations, while armoured beasts shook the ground beneath their feet.
Anaxion saw Mortarion standing at the centre of countless battles.
It witnessed kings kneeling before him and cities surrendering at the sight of his approaching legions.
It saw that Mortarion had commanded men and monsters alike, but had never hidden behind those he sent into danger.
Then came Karaban.
Mortarion showed the months spent searching the mountains, enduring cold, hunger and exhaustion.
He revealed himself climbing the dragon’s back while it twisted through the sky.
He did not focus upon Karaban’s death.
Instead, he showed his refusal to release his grip, even when magma began consuming his body.
Anaxion withdrew from his mind.
The dragon studied Mortarion in silence.
There was no affection in its gaze and no willingness to obey.
Yet some of the hostility had faded.
The creature had seen enough to understand that the youth before it possessed a will far older and stronger than his body suggested.
“You will wear no chains,” Mortarion said.
“I have no desire to break you.”
Anaxion exhaled against him.
Heat washed across Mortarion’s face, but no fire followed.
“A broken dragon would be useless,” he continued.
“You will follow because you choose to, or you will not follow at all.”
Mortarion slowly raised one bare hand.
The dragon watched every movement.
During their first encounter, Mortarion had reached towards its snout and been thrown across the terrace.
This time, he aimed for one of the broad scales along the side of Anaxion’s lower jaw.
The dragon growled.
Mortarion stopped immediately, though he did not lower his arm.
They remained motionless.
Pain spread through Mortarion’s injured shoulder.
His young body struggled beneath the weight of the pauldron, but he refused to allow his hand to tremble.
Anaxion moved first.
The dragon shifted its head forward until Mortarion’s palm rested against a dark green scale.
Heat entered his hand.
The surface was rough and marked by old scars, harder than even the Valyrian steel surrounding his body.
Mortarion kept his touch light.
Anaxion could have killed him before he drew breath.
Instead, the dragon remained still for several heartbeats, allowing the contact.
Then it pulled away and released a warning rumble.
Mortarion lowered his hand.
He had not established a complete bond.
Anaxion had not accepted a rider, nor had it submitted to his authority.
It had only permitted his touch.
For now, that was enough.
Anaxion settled beside the ruined platform, though one wing remained partially unfolded.
Its eye followed Mortarion as he moved towards a fallen block of stone and sat several paces away.
He made no attempt to recover his weapons.
For the next hour, Mortarion spoke.
He described the lands beyond Valyria and the wars that would soon consume them.
He spoke of armies, kingdoms and the frozen enemy gathering in the north.
Whether Anaxion understood every word mattered less than allowing the dragon to learn his voice.
Anaxion listened without approaching again.
The beast was not obedient, but neither did it drive Mortarion from the palace.
When Mortarion eventually rose, the dragon opened its eye fully.
“I will return,” he said.
Anaxion answered with a low rumble.
Mortarion could not tell whether it was a warning or an acknowledgement.
He collected his weapons, secured Dreaded Deliverance across his back and replaced his helmet.
The dragon continued watching him but made no move to attack.
Their bond remained incomplete, yet something had changed.
Anaxion now recognised Mortarion’s scent, voice and will.
It had permitted him to remain within its lair and touch its scales without violence.
Mortarion had conquered kingdoms by breaking armies and taking crowns.
Anaxion could not be claimed in the same manner.
The wild dragon would have to choose him.
Mortarion intended to prove himself worthy of that choice.