Location: Shattered Steps → Valyrian Fleet Dockyards → The Basilisk's Maw Tavern
Time: Hour of the Harpy (False Dawn) → Hour of the Scorpion (High Noon) → Hour of the Basilisk (Dusk)
I. The Choice Made
Location: Galvarro's Forge, Shattered Steps
Time: Hour of the Harpy
The bone collar gleamed like a grinning skull in the forge-light.
Lysander stared at the Maw of Meraxes, his fingers twitching. The parasite—his parasite—hissed at the artifact, its needle-claws digging deeper into his collarbone in protest. Blood trickled down his chest in thin rivulets, steaming where it met the volcanic rock beneath his boots.
"Symbiosis Progress: 27%"
"Current Enhancements:"
Thermal Vision (See heat signatures through smoke/mist)
Pain Dampening (30% reduction)
"Current Drawbacks:"
Hemorrhagic Fever (Stage 2: Internal bleeding begins)
Auditory Hallucinations (Voices in Old Valyrian)
Galvarro spat into the flames. "Every second you wait, that thing roots deeper into your soul."
The smith wasn't exaggerating. Lysander could feel it now—tendrils of something dark threading through his veins, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
"How does it work?" he ground out.
Galvarro turned the collar over, revealing its inner surface—needle-thin spines made of the same blackened bone. "Bites deeper than your little friend here. Anchors to the spine. Might kill you. Might drive you mad." He grinned, showing blackened teeth. "Might do both."
Outside, the wind carried the distant shriek of Vhagar. Closer now.
Lysander grabbed the collar.
"User Alert: High Risk of—"
He silenced the System and slammed the Maw against his throat.
The world shattered.
II. The Visions
Location: The Soulscape (???)
Time: Outside Time
Lysander floated in a void of swirling ash and fire.
Before him stretched two versions of Valyria:
The Pristine Empire - Spires intact, dragons numbering in the thousands, the Fourteen Flames dormant and docile.
The Doom - Rivers of fire, skies black with smoke, dragons melting mid-flight as the earth cracked open beneath them.
A third figure stood between them—a woman with silver hair and eyes of solid flame.
"You delay the inevitable," she whispered, her voice the crackle of burning parchment. "The Fourteen must feed."
The parasite—now visible as a shadowy mass clinging to his spectral form—shrieked at her.
The woman laughed. "Poor stunted thing. You were never meant to hatch."
Lysander tried to speak, but ash filled his mouth—
—then he was back in his body, on his knees in Galvarro's forge, screaming.
"Symbiosis Override: Maw of Meraxes Active"
"New Status: Parasite Contained (Not Removed)"
"Side Effects:"
Soul Fracture (Minor)
Dragon Dreams (Random)
Blood Thirst (Weekly Requirement)
Galvarro loomed over him, holding a mirror of polished obsidian.
The reflection showed the truth:
The bone collar had fused to his throat, its spines buried deep. The parasite was still there, but now constrained—its form half-visible beneath his skin, pulsing angrily against the Maw's grip.
"Congratulations," Galvarro muttered. "You're now half a man and half a prison."
III. The Dockyards Deal
Location: Valyrian Fleet Anchorage
Time: Hour of the Scorpion
The Valyrian Fleet was the greatest in the world, and the dockyards reflected that—a sprawling maze of dry docks, slave pens, and armories that stank of salt and suffering.
Lysander moved through the chaos with new eyes.
The Maw's Enhancements:
Heat Vision revealed which ships had recently run their dragonfire engines
Pain Dampening let him ignore the fresh wounds from the collar's installation
The Voices whispered which captains could be bribed
His target: The Siren's Delight, a sleek warship with Lysene rigging and a hull painted the color of old blood.
The Faceless Man's directions proved accurate—right down to the one-eared slaver guarding the gangplank.
"No passengers," the man grunted, hand on his whip. "Cargo only."
Lysander smiled and tossed him a Valyrian steel coin (stolen from Daekar's corpse). "I am cargo."
The slaver's eyes glazed as the coin's magic took hold. "Berth seven. Don't touch the crates marked with red."
As Lysander boarded, the parasite twitched, its attention snapping toward the ship's hold.
Something down there called to it.
IV. The Basilisk's Maw
Location: Dockyard Tavern
Time: Hour of the Basilisk
Every port had a tavern where deals were made in blood and gold. In Valyria, that place was The Basilisk's Maw—a windowless pit where the ale was strong enough to dissolve iron and the patrons regularly dissolved too.
Lysander took a corner booth, his back to the wall. The Maw's spines itched as he scanned the room:
Dragonhorn smugglers arguing over maps
A blood mage selling vials of "dragon's vitality" (likely just adder venom)
Three legion deserters eyeing his purse
Then she entered.
Captain Nyessa of the Siren's Delight stood six and a half feet tall, her dark skin scarred by whip and flame alike. A live sea viper coiled around her left arm, its tongue flicking at the air.
She slid into the booth, her golden eyes reflecting the torchlight like a cat's. "You're the one who charmed my guard."
"I paid him fairly."
"You enchanted him." Nyessa's viper hissed. "I don't like magic on my ship."
Lysander leaned forward, letting the collar's spines glint. "Then you'll hate my new jewelry."
The captain's nostrils flared as she caught the scent of bone magic. "Where to?"
"East. As far as your maps go."
"That'd be the Saffron Straits," she mused. "Where the dragons don't fly and the water burns blue." Her fingers drummed the table. "Price is double for cursed cargo."
Lysander was about to reply when the parasite screamed inside his skull.
"Warning: Temple Hunter Detected"
Outside the tavern, Vhagar's shadow passed over the docks.
V. The Stowaway
Location: Siren's Delight, Cargo Hold
Time: Hour of the Basilisk
The marked crates pulsed with heat even through the wood.
Lysander pried one open with Daekar's dagger, revealing:
Dragon eggs.
Seven of them, each the size of a human skull, their shells black as the depths between stars. Unlike the Temple's egg, these showed no vibrant colors—just an endless, light-drinking void.
The parasite thrashed against the Maw's grip, desperate to reach them.
"System Analysis:"
"Eggs: Shadowkin-Class (Abyssal Variant)"
"Origin: Deepest Fires of the Fourteen Flames"
"Status: Dormant (But Not Dead)"
A voice spoke from the shadows:
"You weren't supposed to see those."
Nyessa's first mate stepped into the lantern light, a loaded crossbow aimed at Lysander's chest. The man's eyes were solid black—no whites, no iris.
"Warning: Bloodbound Detected"
"Affiliation: Temple of the Fourteen Flames (Heretic Sect)"
The first mate smiled. "The High Priestess sends her regards."
The crossbow fired.