Arthur lay on the cold, rocky surface, breathing heavily and feeling the sharp stone fragments dig into his skin.
Water still dripped from his clothes, leaving dirty streaks on the stones, and his hair clung to his face.
He could barely believe he was still alive.
Each breath came with difficulty, as if his lungs hadn’t yet recovered from the terrible struggle with the water.
Opening his eyes, he saw the dark silhouette of the castle looming above him like a menacing shadow, standing on the high cliff.
The reddish stone of the walls looked even more threatening under the leaden sky, as if the castle itself watched him like an unwanted guest.
There was no sound around, only the faint murmur of water and the distant howl of the wind piercing the gorge.
His hand still clutched something disgusting and slimy.
Looking at his cramped fist, he saw the remains of a bread crumb, soaked into a pulp.
That same loaf.
And somehow he had managed to keep it.
It didn’t matter.
The crumb tasted salty and vile, but even so, it was still food.
In Flea Bottom, you could find worse.
If you could find anything at all.
His heart still pounded in his chest, his thoughts jumbled.
How did he end up here?
The current had dragged him down mercilessly; he felt his strength leaving his body, the water swallowing his mind.
But by some unknown miracle, he had managed to escape and found himself here.
“Where is ‘here’?”
Arthur looked around, trying to figure out where he was and how to get back.
He stood on a small patch of ground surrounded by cliffs, barely lit by the dim light filtering through the clouds.
This place looked as if it had been hidden from prying eyes for centuries.
The stones around seemed natural, but his gaze soon caught something man-made: directly before him were roughly hewn stone steps leading upward.
Each step was covered in moss and slippery mud, but it was clear they were not created by random natural forces.
A few steps further, and a narrow black opening appeared in the rock, leading deep into the cliff.
Its dark mouth was frighteningly still, as if waiting for someone brave enough to enter.
The boy felt a chill emanating from this passage, not a physical cold, but an inner one, as if something lurked there in the shadows.
His hand instinctively reached for the stones to find support.
The steps led directly to the opening, and it seemed there was no other way.
The silence enveloping this place was oppressive, only the faint sound of water behind him reminded him that the outside world still existed.
Gathering his remaining strength, the orphan took a step forward, peering into the dark opening, and suddenly realized he had little choice.
The place where he found himself was a small, quiet cove among the raging waves crashing against the sharp rocks at the base of the Red Keep.
A storm was brewing; foaming waves stubbornly assaulted the dark stones.
Even if he wanted to, he could not return the way he came.
There was only one way forward.
But if stealing a loaf of bread could get him lashes, then getting caught somewhere in the royal palace…
Arthur didn’t actually know the punishment for that trespass, but his imagination painted horrifying pictures.
Especially since he had occasionally seen children like that among the crowds, their tongues cut out.
“Damn,” the boy sighed, cursing with the blackest oath he knew.
He still needed his tongue…
but he had little choice.
The dungeons of the Red Keep were cold and gloomy, as if steeped in ancient secrets and long neglect.
Damp stone walls were covered in old cobwebs, moss, and mold, and moisture seeped through small cracks, dripping onto the floor in dull, lonely drops.
A musty smell of dampness and old dust hung in the air, undisturbed for centuries.
Sometimes, however, the stench of filth added to the unpleasantness.
Narrow corridors with many intersections, in places so low that the boy had to stoop, stretched endlessly, turning the space into a countless labyrinth.
The stone floor was slippery, and each step echoed through the empty, dark corridors.
Arthur had always seen well in the dark, but here, without any source of light, he had to move almost by touch.
It seemed that every corner, every turn, hid something ancient and dangerous, ready to appear at any moment.
Here, in these dungeons, time seemed to stand still.
A light breeze rising from the depths of the castle carried strange sounds: whispers, distant moans, as if these gloomy walls held the voices of the long departed.
The boy moved deeper, feeling the cold creep under his clothes, his heart beating faster.
And in his chest, a pulling sensation settled, whispering to him to turn into one of these passages.
That same feeling that he had forgotten something very important there.
But Arthur stubbornly walked through the dungeons, not straying from the main path.
In these gloomy corridors, it was easy to get lost: one wrong turn, and he would find himself in a labyrinth from which he would never escape.
Reasonably believing that turning into one of the many narrow passages would mean losing his way completely, he stubbornly kept to the only path by which he had begun his journey into this terrible place.
The oppressive silence weighed on him, as if the darkness itself tried to pull him into its embrace, whispering that there was no way out.
Sometimes forks or wide arches leading into even darker corridors flashed ahead, but the boy did not give in to the temptation to turn.
Something in these passages inspired both a desire to turn and an inexplicable fear of the unknown.
But then, ahead, clearly audible in the previously deathly silence, suddenly came the sound of footsteps.
A dull, distinct sound, it tore the boy from his thoughts.
He froze, his heart beating faster.
In the tense silence, the sound of footsteps echoed through the stone walls of the dungeon.
Soon, a faint glimmer of fire appeared: the dim light of a torch flickered around the corner, briefly illuminating the stone walls.
The boy ducked down, pressing himself against the wall, trying not to make a sound.
Someone was approaching.
The footsteps grew louder, clearer, their rhythm quickening, as if the one holding the torch was moving purposefully and quickly.
In the firelight, ominous, long, crooked shadows danced on the walls, as if the walls themselves had come alive.
The boy tensed, realizing he could be spotted at any moment.
He glanced again at the narrow passages on either side, but knew that turning there was too risky.
He had only seconds before meeting the approaching figure.
“Damn,” the boy whispered, stepping back sharply, not waiting for the footsteps to come too close.
Everything inside him clenched with horror and an unknown fear of being caught.
Without thinking further, he turned into one of the narrow openings, hoping it would bring salvation.
A few steps in, he found himself in an even darker, tighter corridor, where the walls seemed to press in on him.
As bad luck would have it, it was straight, and Arthur had to retreat even further to avoid being seen.
“What if the man with the torch turns in here?” The thought made Arthur move forward quickly, feeling his way along the walls with his hands.
Only around the corner did he feel relatively safe again.
The footsteps continued to echo from somewhere behind, but now muffled, as if the one with the torch had passed by.
Still, the boy’s heart kept beating faster; every rustle, every sound underground seemed suspicious.
Directly ahead, the corridor curved sharply, but somewhere in the distance, he thought he saw a faint light, promising hope of escape.
The boy decided to investigate.
Arthur cursed everything when he realized he was lost.
Turning into one of the forks, and trying to find his way back, he had become hopelessly entangled in the dark passages, now wandering forward and downward, toward the faint movement of air.
The light he had seen had turned out to be just some dimly glowing moss, and now he was trying to find his way back.
It was so dark here…
If he only had a torch, he wouldn’t have missed the right fork, but now he had to move forward by touch, hoping to find a way out.
He was also haunted by the thought that he could have thought to gather some of that very moss to light his way.
But then, the flow of air became more noticeable, and Arthur felt a faint hope.
The air was musty and smelled strange…
but for some reason, the boy felt an irrational certainty that he needed to go exactly there.
A step, another step…
A huge hall in the dungeons of the Red Keep opened before the orphan suddenly, as if it had appeared from nowhere.
He had been walking through a narrow corridor, descending lower and lower, and when he reached the end, Arthur began to slide down again, barely braking before another precipice.
But when he caught his breath and looked around…
The vaulted ceilings of the hall rose high, lost in the thick darkness, as if the air itself was swallowed by the gloom.
The damp, cold stone of the walls was covered in winding ancient symbols, glowing faintly green, giving the place an ominous aura.
Several more entrances darkened in the walls of this cave, but the main thing was inside.
“Wow,” Arthur whispered in awe, taking in the scene before him.
His eyes widened, his jaw dropping.
Even the worry and fear dulled before this magnificent sight.
“Real dragons!”
Huge, colossal bones filled almost the entire space of the hall, as if the dragons themselves had been laid to rest here, their remains sprawling, creating a terrifying picture of ancient battles and deaths.
Ribs, like giant arches, rose above the floor, forming chaotic labyrinths of bones.
Skulls, adorned with long horns, lay around, their empty eye sockets staring into nothing, evoking a feeling of mute menace.
Massive jaws were open, as if these creatures had frozen in an eternal roar before death; their teeth, sharp and long, protruded like giant daggers.
Besides the giant skulls, there were also very small ones in the cave.
One was the size of a dog’s skull, and only the sharp, sabre-like teeth left no doubt that it was indeed a dragon.
Without knowing it, Arthur had ended up in the very place where the remains of the majestic creatures had been moved by the hands of servants, under the direction of a certain portly “Master of Whispers.” In truth, the ardent hater of dragons had ordered the removal of reminders of the Targaryen glory.
However, “removal” is a word that can be interpreted in different ways.
And the huge cave, where living dragons had once lived and raised their young, was a perfect fit.
In this same cave, one of the last of the Targaryen dragons had found its final resting place.
The floor was littered with small bones, fragile fragments of skeletons of long-dead creatures.
In the faint light from the enigmatic symbols, his gaze met the most astonishing sight: an enormous dragon skeleton, towering in the center like a majestic monument of bygone eras.
Its wings, once powerful and majestic, stretched out to their full length, could have covered an entire city block.
Now they resembled drooping frames, broken by the weight of time.
A long, curved, massive tail snaked through the hall like a giant serpent.
It rose above all the other remains, almost touching the high vault of the dungeon, a reminder of the creature’s former power.
Somewhere behind it, another tunnel led upward, too small, in the boy’s estimation, for such a huge creature to have come down here.
Arthur stood frozen for a while, stunned by the grandeur of what lay before his eyes.
This was not just a skeleton.
Before him stood a legend.
He could almost feel the cold breath of time, whispering of long-past wars, battles where these dragons were living instruments of destruction and glory.
Few could see such things with their own eyes, touch the ancient secrets hidden in the stone depths, and he felt that a history was opening before him that almost no one would ever remember.
Each breath felt muffled in this sanctuary of dead giants, and the air was saturated with something ancient, something mysterious that permeated these dungeons.
The boy reluctantly tore his gaze from this mighty guardian, realizing that this place held far more secrets than he could imagine.
And he was drawn to those secrets more powerfully than he could have guessed.
He climbed down, clinging to the indentations in the wall.
His feet seemed to carry him of their own accord, carefully stepping between the fragile bones, straight to the huge, grinning skull resting on its wing.
It was so enormous that, to the boy’s untrained eye, the entire orphanage could easily fit inside it.
Arthur’s eyes burned with excitement and a hot, purple fire hidden beneath the ice.
If anyone had looked at the boy at that moment, they would have had no doubt that a connection with dragons lived in his very blood.
But here, there were only old bones.
Touching a legend.
That was what he craved with his whole being.
The boy, who until now had known only the cramped, fishy-smelling streets of Flea Bottom, now stood before something that could not even fit into his childhood dreams.
Raised amid filth and poverty, he looked upon the majesty of long-dead giants with awe and reverence.
Only recently, he had merely gazed dreamily at the large ships sailing into unknown lands, holding his breath and imagining himself somewhere far from his gloomy neighborhood.
But even then, his dreams of travel and great discoveries seemed insignificant compared to what he saw now.
This was not another moralizing story about the Seven, nothing like the tales of old sailors or the scraps of fantasy he believed in before sleep.
Here, in this ancient hall, through the stone and dragon bones, time seemed to stand still, and before him lay a true legend.
He slowly reached out his hand, unable to restrain himself.
Touching the ancient bones, the traces of bygone power that had survived centuries, seemed both sacred and forbidden.
In his life, full of hardship, hunger, and constant struggle for survival, nothing could compare to this moment.
This hall was the embodiment of everything he dreamed of: freedom, adventure, an escape from the narrow world he knew.
And so, resolutely extending his hand upward, almost standing on tiptoe, he touched the very edge of the giant jaw.
In that instant, a feeling washed over him that could not be described in words.
A flash of bright light pierced the dungeon, as if history itself, hidden in this sanctuary, had awoken from a long sleep.
But that was an illusion.
This ancient hall had never been a sanctuary.
The bones stacked here had been touched by dozens of hands before.
No, the light came not from the bones; it was simply that something, long hidden within the boy, finally found its way out, for a second touching a kindred spirit held within the ancient bones.
The boy felt energy envelop his body, penetrating every cell, filling his mind with images he could not understand.
A crackling sound filled the air, as if time itself were beginning to split.
He closed his eyes, and images began to flash through his mind: dragons flying over battlefields, flashes of fire, monstrous creatures torn apart by dark ribbons, huge, unlike-any-buildings turning to dust in seconds, green flashes…
a world where magic and reality intertwined.
The visions grew stronger and stronger, mixing in Arthur’s head and dragging him somewhere into the darkness.
And the boy could not endure it.
His eyes flashed with a burning purple and rolled back…
Slumping awkwardly, he fell with a crash onto the old bones that crunched beneath him, sinking into a saving oblivion.