Anaxion did not become obedient simply because he had permitted Mortarion to touch him.
The dragon remained curled around the broken platform at the centre of the ruined palace, watching Mortarion through a half-closed eye.
Smoke escaped its nostrils with every breath, drifting across the floor before rising towards the shattered roof.
Mortarion remained seated several paces away.
He had spoken until his throat became raw, describing distant kingdoms, old campaigns and the wars awaiting them beyond Valyria.
Anaxion had listened without driving him from the chamber, though the dragon gave no indication that it understood or cared about Mortarion’s purpose.
Tolerance was not loyalty.
It was merely the absence of violence.
Mortarion rose from the fallen stone and approached his weapons.
Anaxion’s eye opened fully when he reached for Dreaded Deliverance, but the dragon made no aggressive movement.
Mortarion fastened the sword across his back before replacing his gauntlets and helmet.
The armour had grown increasingly uncomfortable in the heat.
Sweat gathered beneath the black plates, while the sulphurous air made each breath feel heavier than the last.
His body needed water and food.
He had found neither in a reliable quantity.
The poisoned atmosphere also presented a danger that could not be measured.
Mortarion did not know how long his new body could endure the ash, volcanic fumes and traces of unknown substances drifting through the ruins.
He could not spend weeks establishing a bond.
Old Valyria was already attempting to kill him.
Mortarion turned towards Anaxion.
“Rise,” he commanded in High Valyrian.
The dragon did nothing.
Its dark green eye followed him, but the enormous body remained settled against the ruined platform.
Mortarion repeated the command, accompanying it with an upward gesture of one hand.
Anaxion released a low rumble.
“Rise.”
The dragon lowered its head onto the stone and closed its eye.
Mortarion stared at it through the narrow opening of his helmet.
He had commanded men who pretended not to hear orders.
Most changed their behaviour after witnessing the punishment given to the first few offenders.
Such methods would not work upon Anaxion.
Mortarion could shout until his voice failed, but the dragon possessed no reason to obey.
He carried no whip capable of causing pain and no chain strong enough to compel movement.
Even if such things existed, using them would only make the beast regard him as an enemy.
Authority had to be created through repetition, confidence and reward.
Mortarion had none of the third.
Anaxion had likely fed recently, judging by the dark stains across several teeth.
Mortarion possessed no livestock, meat or other offering with which to encourage cooperation.
All he could provide was his presence.
“Rise,” Mortarion said again.
Anaxion opened one eye.
For several moments, dragon and man stared at one another.
The beast eventually lifted its head, but the rest of its body remained motionless.
It had responded to the sound, though not to the command itself.
Mortarion repeated the word while making the same upward gesture.
Anaxion rose slightly upon its forelegs.
The movement shook dust from the ceiling.
Mortarion stepped back to give the dragon room.
“Rise.”
Anaxion pushed itself fully upright.
Its head passed through the broken roof, while its wings shifted against the ruined walls.
The palace trembled beneath its weight.
Mortarion felt the faintest sense of satisfaction.
Then Anaxion turned away from him and settled upon the other side of the chamber.
The dragon had moved because it wished to become more comfortable, not because Mortarion had commanded it.
There was a difference between action and obedience.
Mortarion approached again.
“Come.”
Anaxion’s tail swept across the floor.
Mortarion stepped aside as the tip struck a broken pillar and shattered it.
Fragments of stone scattered around his boots.
Whether the movement was accidental or deliberate remained uncertain.
“Come,” Mortarion repeated.
The dragon looked towards him.
Mortarion extended one hand, keeping the gesture slow and visible.
Anaxion had permitted his touch before, which meant the beast might associate the offered hand with a peaceful approach.
Anaxion rose.
For a moment, Mortarion believed the command had worked.
The dragon walked past him and left the palace through the collapsed wall.
Mortarion followed.
Anaxion crossed the volcanic plain without acknowledging him.
Each step left deep impressions in the black stone, while the dragging tail carved a wide channel behind it.
“Stop,” Mortarion commanded.
The dragon continued.
“Stop.”
Anaxion unfolded its wings.
Mortarion quickened his pace, though the black armour and weakened body prevented him from matching the creature’s enormous stride.
“Stop.”
Anaxion launched into the air.
The force of its departure knocked Mortarion backwards.
Ash and pieces of glassy stone struck his armour as the dragon climbed through the smoke.
Mortarion remained upon the ground until the wind settled.
Anaxion circled once above the valley before disappearing behind the towers.
The second attempt had produced little more than the first.
Mortarion pushed himself upright.
His frustration was growing, but anger would not accelerate the process.
Anaxion was a wild creature.
It had never carried a rider, responded to commands or lived among humans.
Even a war hound required months of training before it could be trusted in battle.
Mortarion did not possess months.
He looked towards the surrounding ruins.
The dragon would return when it wished.
Waiting beside the palace accomplished nothing, and every hour spent within Valyria reduced his remaining strength.
His original purpose had been to search the ruins, recover their wealth and establish a base upon the largest island.
That plan had died quickly beneath the weight of reality.
Valyria could not support an army.
It could not grow food, provide safe water or shelter a population from the poisoned air.
Tremors might destroy any settlement before its walls were completed.
The Smoking Sea made regular supply routes unreliable, while the creatures inhabiting the ruins would require constant extermination.
Mortarion no longer intended to rule from the dead capital.
He would take what he could carry and leave.
The most valuable discoveries had already been identified.
Aurion’s armour protected his body, while the Valyrian steel dagger could serve as a weapon or proof of wealth.
The damaged texts on dragon bonding might become useful once he began training Anaxion properly.
Gold and gemstones would provide coin in any civilised land.
Aurion’s seal, rings and crown would support the lineage Mortarion intended to create.
Everything else could wait for a future expedition.
Mortarion returned first to the ruined hall where he had discovered the fragments concerning dragons.
The journey was slower than before.
His legs ached beneath the armour, while thirst dried his mouth and made swallowing painful.
The building remained standing, though new cracks covered the entrance.
Scraping continued behind the wall in the lower chamber, followed by the irregular breathing of whatever creature remained trapped beneath the ruins.
Mortarion ignored it.
He entered the archive and recovered the metal case containing the surviving texts on natural dragon bonding.
The pieces were fragile, forcing him to wrap each one in clean sections of cloth before returning them to the container.
He also searched for the diagrams concerning dragon saddles.
The stone tablet was too heavy to carry, particularly without knowing whether Anaxion would allow anything to be secured to its body.
Mortarion studied the designs until he could recall their essential features, then used a shard of charcoal to copy several measurements onto the back of a damaged parchment.
The drawings were crude but sufficient.
He left the writings concerning blood sacrifice, soul binding and twisted creatures where he had found them.
Such knowledge might possess value to sorcerers, yet carrying it created unnecessary risk.
Mortarion had no intention of allowing those texts to become the foundation of his new house.
The scraping behind the wall grew louder as he departed.
A crack widened across the masonry, and several pale claws pushed through before withdrawing into darkness.
Mortarion did not remain to see what followed.
His next destination was the jeweller’s workshop.
Part of the market district had collapsed since his previous visit.
The fountain and several surrounding buildings had vanished into a deep cavity, leaving the narrow workshop dangerously close to the edge.
Mortarion entered quickly.
The mark carved into the dragon statue remained visible.
He lifted the damaged floor tile and recovered the iron box hidden beneath it.
Most of the coins had fused together.
Mortarion left the largest pieces behind and selected only those that could be separated without tools.
He filled a small leather pouch with golden honours, then added the best rubies, sapphires and emeralds from the jeweller’s collection.
The gems weighed far less than their value in gold.
He left the empty settings, damaged jewellery and lower-quality stones.
Mortarion disliked abandoning wealth, but greed had destroyed commanders more effectively than any enemy.
A man who attempted to carry everything often escaped with nothing.
The floor shifted beneath him.
A tremor travelled through the market district.
Mortarion seized the iron table as tools and stones slid towards the collapsed street.
The workshop wall cracked.
Part of the ceiling fell behind him, crushing the place where the jewellery boxes had rested.
Mortarion pushed away from the table and reached the doorway before a second collapse buried the rear chamber.
The ground continued shaking.
A section of the market fell into the cavity, taking several buildings with it.
Black dust surged into the air, reducing visibility to only a few feet.
Mortarion moved away from the edge.
The tremor ended as suddenly as it had begun.
He looked back at the workshop.
Almost nothing remained.
The ruins were closing around their treasures one collapse at a time.
Mortarion secured the pouch of gems and coins beneath his breastplate.
The hard shapes pressed uncomfortably against his clothing, but the armour protected them from being lost.
He continued towards the mass grave.
The journey consumed more time than expected.
Several roads had become blocked by collapsed towers, forcing Mortarion to take a longer route through a district filled with blackened courtyards and empty cages.
He heard movement among the buildings more than once.
Something followed from beyond the smoke, remaining far enough away that Mortarion never saw more than a thin shadow.
He kept Dreaded Deliverance drawn until reaching the basin containing Aurion’s army.
The dead remained undisturbed.
Mortarion descended carefully between the bodies, avoiding any showing signs of greyscale.
He reached the corpse of Aurion’s dragon and located the three marks carved into its petrified scales.
The bent crown remained beneath the wing.
Mortarion removed the cloth wrapping and examined it.
The gold had been darkened by ash, while several gemstones were missing.
One side had been crushed inward, likely during the battle that killed Aurion.
It was no longer fit to be worn.
That did not diminish its usefulness.
The crown proved Aurion Belaerys had entered Valyria intending to rule.
Combined with the armour, seal and rings, it could support whatever history Mortarion eventually presented to the world.
He wrapped it again and placed it within a larger bundle made from strips of preserved cloak.
The dragon-bonding texts joined it, along with the pouch of coins and gemstones.
Mortarion secured the bundle using lengths of treated leather recovered from the remains of Aurion’s saddle.
Most of the saddle had decayed.
The metal fittings survived, but the main structure had cracked beneath the dragon’s fall.
Several broad straps remained usable, protected from the air beneath layers of petrified wing.
Mortarion took those as well.
He had no intention of placing a complete saddle upon Anaxion immediately.
The dragon barely tolerated his touch and would not accept being surrounded by straps before a bond existed.
The leather could still secure Mortarion’s possessions.
It might also prevent him from falling during the first flight.
Mortarion considered searching Aurion’s officers for maps or documents, but another tremor moved faintly beneath the basin.
Several corpses shifted against one another as the dead dragon’s body settled deeper into the ash.
He had gathered enough.
Mortarion climbed from the grave carrying the bundle over one shoulder.
The weight strained his tired body.
His armour was already becoming difficult to bear, while the sulphurous air caused a dull ache within his chest.
He needed to leave Valyria soon.
The nearest inhabited lands were Mantarys, Tolos and Elyria.
Volantis lay farther west and offered greater wealth, ships and political significance, though arriving above the city upon a dragon the size of Balerion would create immediate panic.
A smaller settlement might provide a safer first contact.
Mortarion could decide once he saw the coast from the air.
First, Anaxion had to carry him.
The dragon was not waiting within the ruined palace when Mortarion returned.
Fresh claw marks crossed the floor, and several stones had been disturbed where Anaxion had rested.
Smoke lingered near the ceiling, but the chamber itself was empty.
Mortarion placed the bundle beside his weapons and waited.
An hour passed.
The poisoned light beyond the broken roof darkened from crimson to a deeper shade of purple.
Mortarion sat against the wall, conserving his strength while listening for wings.
None came.
He drank the last of the water remaining within one flask.
The metallic taste had grown stronger, though it caused no immediate sickness.
The second flask was less than half full.
If Anaxion did not return, Mortarion would be forced to search the coastline for a wreck or attempt to reach another island using whatever materials remained.
Neither offered a reasonable chance of survival.
Death had not promised that his gifts would be convenient.
Mortarion closed his eyes briefly.
The faint connection he had experienced with Anaxion remained somewhere beyond conscious thought.
It was not a voice or clear presence.
It resembled pressure at the edge of his awareness, distant but familiar.
Mortarion focused upon it.
He pictured the ruined palace, the scent of sulphur and the black stone platform where Anaxion had rested.
He pushed his own urgency towards the sensation, allowing the dragon to feel his exhaustion and need to leave.
There was no response.
Mortarion tried again.
He remembered the moment his palm touched Anaxion’s scale.
Heat, roughness and the immense strength beneath the dark green surface filled his thoughts.
The distant pressure shifted.
A roar echoed across the valley.
Mortarion opened his eyes.
Anaxion descended through the broken roof.
The dragon landed outside the palace, crushing part of the wall beneath one foreclaw.
Its jaws and neck were stained with dark blood, while the remains of a leathery wing hung between its teeth.
Anaxion had been hunting.
It dropped the torn creature onto the ground.
The carcass resembled a wyvern, though its body had been twisted by deformities.
Two sets of hind legs protruded from its scaled torso, while several useless eyes covered one side of its skull.
Mortarion looked from the dead creature to Anaxion.
“You returned,” he said.
The dragon began feeding.
Mortarion approached slowly while Anaxion tore flesh from the carcass.
The dragon ignored him at first, though one eye remained fixed upon his movements.
Mortarion stopped beyond reach of its jaws.
“Come.”
Anaxion continued eating.
Mortarion repeated the command and made the same gesture used earlier.
The dragon lifted its head.
Blood dripped between its teeth.
“Come.”
Anaxion took one step towards him.
The movement might have been intended only to reposition the carcass, but Mortarion repeated the command before the dragon could lower its head.
“Come.”
Anaxion stepped again.
The enormous snout stopped several paces from Mortarion.
It had responded.
Not immediately and perhaps not willingly, but the dragon had associated the word and gesture with approaching him.
Mortarion raised one hand.
Anaxion lowered its head enough for him to touch the scales near its jaw.
The contact lasted longer than before.
Mortarion felt the dragon’s satisfaction from the hunt, mixed with irritation at being interrupted.
Beneath both rested recognition.
The bond had strengthened while they were apart.
Mortarion withdrew his hand and pointed towards the ground.
“Lower.”
Anaxion stared at him.
“Lower.”
The dragon turned its head towards the carcass.
Mortarion repeated the command.
Anaxion resumed eating.
Patience was becoming increasingly difficult.
Mortarion allowed the beast to finish.
Attempting to train a hungry dragon while standing beside its prey was needlessly dangerous.
When little remained beyond bones and torn hide, Anaxion stepped away from the carcass.
It licked blood from its teeth, then looked towards Mortarion.
He issued the command again.
“Lower.”
Anaxion remained standing.
Mortarion placed one palm near the ground while repeating the word.
He maintained the same tone and gesture, giving the dragon a clear association.
Anaxion shifted its weight.
The front of its body descended slightly before rising again.
“Lower.”
The dragon released a frustrated growl.
Mortarion did not change his voice.
“Lower.”
Anaxion bent its forelegs.
The head and shoulders descended towards the ground, though the rest of the body remained tense.
Mortarion stepped closer.
Anaxion began rising.
“Stay.”
The dragon stopped halfway.
Mortarion repeated the word.
Anaxion remained still.
The command had not been properly learned, but the tone carried enough authority to interrupt the movement.
Mortarion approached the dragon’s foreleg, placing one hand against the dark scales.
He felt irritation through the unstable bond.
“You possess wings,” Mortarion said quietly.
“I possess knowledge of where we must go.
Neither is useful alone.”
Anaxion exhaled.
Mortarion retrieved the bundle of valuables and fastened it across his back using the salvaged leather straps.
The crown and metal case pressed against the armour, making the weight awkward but secure.
He returned to Anaxion.
The dragon had risen fully.
Mortarion looked up at the ridges along its neck.
Even while lowered, the creature towered above him.
Reaching the natural seat between the shoulders would require climbing the foreleg and using the large scales as handholds.
“Lower,” Mortarion commanded.
Anaxion did not respond.
Mortarion repeated the gesture.
The dragon slowly bent its forelegs.
It was progress.
Anaxion immediately rose.
Mortarion lost his footing and fell onto the black stone.
His armour absorbed most of the impact, though pain spread through his back.
The dragon looked down at him.
Mortarion rose without comment.
“Lower.”
Anaxion obeyed after the third command.
Mortarion began again.
This time, he reached the dragon’s elbow before Anaxion shifted its leg.
Mortarion clung to a scale as the movement carried him several feet from the ground.
“Stay.”
Anaxion turned its head to look at him.
“Stay.”
The dragon shook its foreleg.
Mortarion was thrown into a pile of ash beside the wyvern’s remains.
He landed near enough to the corpse that blood splashed across the lower plates of his armour.
Mortarion pushed himself upright.
Anaxion released a deep rumble that sounded disturbingly close to amusement.
“You find this entertaining,” Mortarion said.
The dragon lowered its head.
Mortarion felt curiosity through the bond, accompanied by a challenge that required no words.
Anaxion was testing him.
The dragon could have ended every attempt by simply flying away.
Instead, it remained, watching with quiet curiosity to see whether Mortarion’s resolve would break before his body did.
Mortarion had crossed frozen mountains for half a year to reach Karaban.
He had clung to a winged nightmare while it tried to tear him free, endured magma burning his flesh, and survived.
He would not be defeated by a foreleg.
“Lower,” he commanded.
Anaxion obeyed after a moment.
Mortarion climbed again, using the gaps between scales as footholds.
His arms trembled beneath the weight of armour and the bundle on his back.
Sweat stung his eyes; each breath tasted of sulphur.
“Stay.”
The dragon shifted, watching him with one molten-green eye.
Curiosity brushed against Mortarion’s mind.
He ignored it and climbed onto the shoulder, pressing himself against the warm scales at the base of the neck.
Two ridges formed a narrow hollow, just enough for a rider.
Anaxion moved again.
Mortarion nearly slipped but forced himself steady.
“Stay.”
This time, the dragon obeyed.
Mortarion settled between the ridges, legs spread awkwardly.
Without a saddle, he would be thrown the moment the dragon took flight.
He pulled a leather strap from Aurion’s ruined saddle.
Anaxion tensed.
Its head snapped around, green fire glowing in its throat.
“No chains,” Mortarion said.
“This binds me, not you.”
He showed the dragon his intent; himself falling, the strap securing his own body.
Suspicion lingered, but the tension eased.
Mortarion looped the strap loosely beneath a raised scale and tied it around his waist.
It would hold him if he slipped, but could be cut quickly.
He placed both hands against Anaxion’s neck.
Heat pulsed beneath his palms.
The dragon’s heartbeat thundered like distant war drums.
Mortarion focused, letting his mind brush against the presence he had felt before.
The connection deepened.
He felt Anaxion’s irritation, its hunger, the heat beneath the island.
In return, the dragon sensed his exhaustion, his thirst, and the urgency driving him from the dead city.
It glimpsed green fields, cities, and open seas; knowledge gifted by Death.
It also saw his ambition.
Armies.
Fortresses.
Conquest.
Anaxion resisted.
Its will was vast, untamed.
It had never carried a rider, never obeyed a mortal.
Mortarion did not try to dominate it.
He offered truth.
He did not want a chained beast.
He wanted a partner, one that would choose to fly beside him, to bring death across battlefields.
There would be war.
There would be prey.
There would be skies beyond Valyria.
The dragon’s heartbeat quickened.
A hunger stirred, not submission, but desire.
Freedom.
Open air.
Endless hunting.
Mortarion gave it direction.
Their wills pressed together, neither yielding.
Then something shifted.
The resistance softened, no longer hostile.
Mortarion felt Anaxion as clearly as his own limbs.
The dragon turned its head, one green eye fixing on him, not as an intruder, but as something it recognised.
Acceptance followed.
The bond settled into place.
Mortarion removed his helmet.
“Rise.”
Anaxion stood at once.
The sudden motion nearly threw him, but the strap held.
The dragon’s wings unfolded, scraping stone as it moved toward the shattered wall.
“Forward.”
Anaxion obeyed, stepping into the ruined courtyard.
Each stride forced Mortarion to adjust his balance.
At the edge, the world opened below, Valyria’s broken towers, rivers of molten stone, crimson smoke.
“Fly.”
Anaxion hesitated.
The bond was not obedience.
Not yet.
Mortarion pressed urgency into it, his failing strength, empty flasks, poisoned air.
Then he showed the world beyond: forests, rivers, herds.
The dragon’s hunger sharpened.
Mortarion did not command again.
Anaxion roared and surged forward.
The ground vanished as they fell.
Wind tore at Mortarion as the ruined city rushed up.
Then Anaxion’s wings snapped open, and the fall became flight.
They climbed.
Old Valyria spread beneath them, melted palaces, broken roads, the Smoking Sea.
The mass grave lay below, Aurion’s dragon at its centre.
Mortarion looked down at the failed emperor’s resting place.
Aurion had come with an army and a dragon.
He had never left.
Mortarion would.
He would not rebuild Valyria.
He would carry its strength elsewhere and forge something new.
Anaxion banked sharply.
Mortarion nearly slipped.
“Steady.”
The dragon resisted, eager to climb higher.
Mortarion shifted his approach, sending images instead of words; a straight path, the horizon.
This time, Anaxion responded.
They rose through the clouds.
Ash swallowed them, then sunlight broke through.
Above Valyria, the sky was clear.
Blue stretched endlessly.
Sunlight revealed the dragon’s true colours, deep green scales edged in black, gold glinting around its eyes.
Anaxion roared, joy surging through the bond.
For the first time, it knew open sky.
Mortarion looked west.
Beyond the Smoking Sea lay civilisation, food, water, knowledge.
And fear.
A dragonrider would not go unnoticed.
He welcomed it.
Fear meant power.
He pressed the image of the western sea into the bond.
Anaxion resisted, turning north toward distant prey.
“West.”
The dragon ignored him.
“North.”
Mortarion pushed harder, open water, distant lands, endless hunting.
Reluctantly, Anaxion turned.
They flew toward the horizon.
Behind them, Valyria vanished into smoke.
Mortarion did not look back.
He had entered as a lone boy trapped in ruin.
He left wearing a dead emperor’s armour, carrying lost treasures, and bound to a dragon.
Anaxion roared as the last island fell away.
Mortarion rested a hand against its neck, feeling the answer echo through him.
Death’s Disciple had returned to the world of the living.
This time, he came on dragon wings.