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The night air hung heavy with salt as Maegor moved through the shadows of the Volantis docks. A small ship, nondescript and perfect for a clandestine journey, bobbed gently at its mooring.
Maegor approached the dragon, his steps quiet. Vermithor's enormous head swung towards him, intelligent eyes fixing on his rider with an almost human-like intensity. The dragon nudged Maegor gently, a low rumble emanating from deep within his chest.
"I know, old friend," Maegor murmured, placing a hand on Vermithor's snout. "You want to come with me, don't you?"
Vermithor's response was another soft nudge, more insistent this time. His wings rustled restlessly, as if eager to take to the skies.
Maegor shook his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. "Not this time, Vermithor. Where I'm going... it's too dangerous, even for you."
The dragon's eyes seemed to narrow, and he let out a huff that sounded remarkably like indignation. Maegor couldn't help but chuckle at the dragon's expression.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, his voice a mix of affection and exasperation. "You know I'm right. The Doom of Valyria isn't something to be trifled with, even for a dragon as magnificent as you."
Vermithor's tail lashed, stirring up small eddies in the water. His gaze never left Maegor, and there was an unmistakable look of concern in those ancient eyes.
"I know you want to protect me," Maegor continued, his tone softening. "But this is something I have to do alone. I can't risk losing you to the Doom."
The dragon lowered his head, bringing it level with Maegor's. For a moment, they stood there in silence, man and beast locked in a wordless exchange. Then, with a gentleness that belied his massive size, Vermithor pressed his snout against Maegor's chest.
Maegor wrapped his arms around the dragon's snout, embracing him as best he could. "You've always been there for me, haven't you?" he murmured. "When others turned their backs, you remained loyal. You're more than just a mount, Vermithor."
The dragon rumbled contentedly at the embrace, a sound that Maegor felt reverberating through his entire body. For a moment, the weight of his impending journey seemed to lift, replaced by the simple comfort of this bond.
But the moment couldn't last. With a deep breath, Maegor stepped back, his expression growing serious. "Vermithor, I need you to listen carefully," he said, his voice taking on a commanding tone. "If I don't return... if something happens to me in Valyria, I want you to go back to Westeros."
Vermithor's head jerked back slightly, as if recoiling from the very thought. He let out a low, mournful sound that cut Maegor to the core.
"I know, I know," Maegor said, reaching out to stroke the dragon's scales. "I don't like thinking about it either. But you can't stay here if I'm gone. You belong in the skies, not chained to a memory."
The dragon's eyes seemed to darken, a stubborn set coming to his massive jaw. But after a long moment, he dipped his head in what could only be described as a nod.
Maegor smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's my boy. Thank you, Vermithor. For everything."
With one last pat on the dragon's snout, Maegor turned towards the waiting ship. The small crew of slaves he had chosen for this voyage stood silently on the deck, their faces impassive masks in the moonlight.
As Maegor strode across the gangplank, the wood creaking softly under his feet, he could feel Vermithor's gaze boring into his back. He resisted the urge to look back.
Once aboard, Maegor turned to face his crew. His voice, when he spoke, carried the unmistakable authority of a Targaryen prince. "Set sail immediately," he commanded. "Our course is set for Old Valyria."
The slaves moved swiftly and silently to obey.
As the ship began to pull away from the dock, Maegor finally allowed himself one last look at Vermithor. The dragon stood tall and proud on the shore, his wings half-unfurled as if ready to take flight at a moment's notice. Their eyes met across the widening gap of water, and Maegor felt a pang of... something.
"Until we meet again, old friend," Maegor whispered, too softly for anyone else to hear.
As the ship picked up speed, cutting through the dark waters of the harbor, Maegor turned his gaze eastward. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the ruins of Old Valyria, shrouded in mystery and danger. The Doom that had destroyed the greatest civilization in history still lingered there, waiting for the unwary or the unprepared.
But Maegor was neither. He was a son of Valyria, with the blood of the dragon flowing through his veins. And more than that, he was driven by a purpose that burned hotter than dragonfire.
"Soon," he murmured to himself, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "Soon, I'll uncover the secrets that have been waiting for centuries. And when I do..."
He left the thought unfinished, but a small, determined smile played at the corners of his mouth. Whatever awaited him in the smoking ruins of his ancestors' homeland, Maegor Targaryen was ready to face it.
As the ship sailed further into the night, leaving the familiar shores of Volantis behind, Maegor's mind wandered to the vision that had set him on this path. The massive dragon, unlike any he had ever seen or read about, with its scales of Valyrian steel and eyes of living fire. What secrets did it hold? What power awaited him in the heart of Old Valyria?
The gentle rocking of the ship and the rhythmic splash of waves against the hull provided a soothing backdrop to his thoughts. But Maegor remained alert, his senses sharp.
"Your Grace," a quiet voice broke into his reverie. Maegor turned to see one of the slave crew, an older man with weather-beaten features, standing nearby. "We've cleared the harbor and set our course as you commanded."
Maegor nodded, studying the man's face. There was fear there, certainly – fear was a constant companion to those who lived in bondage. But there was something else too. Curiosity, perhaps? Or was it hope?
"What's your name?" Maegor asked, his tone softer than it had been when giving orders earlier.
The slave blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "Lysono, Your Grace," he replied after a moment's hesitation.
"Lysono," Maegor repeated, tasting the name. "Tell me, Lysono, what do you know of Old Valyria?"
The older man's eyes widened slightly. "Only stories, Your Grace. Tales of great magic and terrible destruction. They say the Doom still haunts those lands, that no man can survive there."
Maegor smiled, a sharp edge to the expression. "And yet here we are, sailing straight for its heart. Are you afraid, Lysono?"
"I... yes, Your Grace," Lysono admitted, his gaze dropping to the deck. "But I fear you more than I fear the ghosts of Valyria."
The honesty of the response startled a laugh out of Maegor. "Well said," he acknowledged. "Fear can be useful, Lysono. It keeps us alert, keeps us alive. But too much fear..." He shook his head. "Too much fear paralyzes us, keeps us from seizing our destiny."
Lysono looked up, meeting Maegor's gaze with a mixture of wariness and fascination. "Is that why we sail to Valyria, Your Grace? To seize destiny?"
"Something like that," Maegor replied, his eyes drifting back to the horizon. "There are powers in this world that most men can't even begin to comprehend. Powers that have been sleeping for centuries, waiting for the right person to wake them."
"And you believe you're that person?" Lysono asked, then immediately looked as if he regretted the boldness of the question.
But Maegor didn't seem offended. Instead, he turned back to the slave, his violet eyes seeming to glow in the darkness. "I know I am," he said, his voice filled with absolute certainty. "I've seen it, Lysono. In dreams, in visions. The blood of Old Valyria calls to me, and I intend to answer."
Lysono was silent for a long moment, digesting this. Then, hesitantly, he spoke again. "They say... they say the Targaryens escaped the Doom because they foresaw it. That they had dragon dreams that warned them of what was to come."
Maegor's eyebrows rose slightly. "You're well-informed for a slave," he observed.
"I... I was a scholar once, Your Grace," Lysono admitted. "Before I was taken in a raid and sold into slavery. I've always been fascinated by the mysteries of the past."
"A scholar," Maegor mused, looking at the older man with new interest. "Perhaps the gods have a sense of humor after all, placing you on this ship at this moment." He paused, considering something. "Tell me, Lysono, if you could uncover the secrets of Old Valyria, if you could touch the power that built the greatest empire the world has ever known... would you?"
Lysono's breath caught in his throat. "I... I don't know, Your Grace," he said honestly. "The pursuit of knowledge has always been my passion, but the power you speak of... it destroyed Valyria. It brought the Doom."
"Or perhaps," Maegor countered, "the Doom came because that power was misused, or misunderstood. Perhaps it's been waiting all this time for someone who could truly master it."
Lysono opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond.
Maegor smiled, a gentler expression than before. "You don't have to answer now," he said. "But think on it, Lysono. This journey may hold more opportunities than you realize."
With that, Maegor turned away, effectively dismissing the slave. But as Lysono moved to return to his duties, Maegor's voice stopped him once more.
"One last thing," the Targaryen prince said, not turning around. "When we reach Valyria, when we step into the realm of legends and nightmares... I'll need men I can trust. Men with courage, and with knowledge." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Remember that, scholar."
Lysono stood frozen for a moment, his mind reeling from the implications of what he'd just heard. Then, with a quick bow that Maegor couldn't see, he hurried back to his post.
Later
The Smoking Sea lived up to its name as Maegor's ship sailed into its waters. Thick, acrid mist clung to the surface, obscuring visibility and filling the air with an oppressive, sulfurous stench. The crew moved about their duties with tense silence, their eyes darting nervously at the roiling fog that surrounded them.
Maegor stood at the prow, his violet eyes piercing through the gloom. Despite the danger, a thrill of excitement coursed through him. He was treading where no one had dared for centuries, venturing into the heart of the greatest civilization the world had ever known.
As they pressed deeper into the Smoking Sea, the first hints of Valyria's former glory began to emerge from the mists. Impossibly tall spires, their tops lost in the swirling vapors, loomed in the distance. Even from afar, the scale of these ancient structures was breathtaking.
"Your Grace," Lysono's voice came from behind him, hushed with awe and fear. "Those towers... they must be almost two thousand foot high."
Maegor nodded, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "The Valyrians built their cities with magic and dragonfire, Lysono."
As they drew closer to the ruined coastline, more details emerged from the fog. Broken domes, collapsed bridges spanning impossible distances, and the twisted remains of what might have once been roads winding up the sides of mountains. Everything was covered in a layer of ash and decay, yet the grandeur of Old Valyria was undeniable.
The ship carefully navigated around jagged rocks and half-submerged ruins. The water itself seemed to resist their passage, swirling in unnatural patterns and occasionally glowing with an eerie, greenish light from beneath the surface.
"Oros," Maegor murmured as a vast sprawl of ruins came into view. "The northernmost city of Old Valyria."
The sight of Oros sent a chill through the crew. Buildings of black stone rose from the water at impossible angles, as if they could fly. Streets and plazas could be glimpsed between the structures, but they seemed to shift and change when observed too closely. Statues of dragons and other, less recognizable creatures stood sentinel over the dead city, their stone eyes seeming to follow the ship as it passed.
As they sailed past Oros, Maegor felt a change in the air. The oppressive heat of the Smoking Sea took on a different quality, becoming almost electric. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he could taste metal on his tongue.
That's when the whispers started.
At first, Maegor thought it was just the wind playing tricks, whistling through the ruins in strange ways. But then he heard a familiar voice, one that sent a jolt of recognition through him.
"Aegor..." A soft voice echoed in his mind. "My sweet boy, why did you abandon me?"
Maegor's jaw clenched. He knew this was impossible – his mother was dead. This was some trick of the Doom, some lingering magic meant to lure the unwary to their deaths.
"Ignore it," he commanded loudly, turning to face his crew. "Whatever you hear, whatever you see, it isn't real. Focus on your tasks and nothing else."
The slaves nodded nervously, but Maegor could see the strain on their faces. They were hearing things too, voices calling to them from the mists.
As they continued their journey, skirting the edge of Oros, the voices grew more insistent. Maegor heard his father, his siblings, even Queen Rhaenyra – all calling to him, pleading with him to turn back, to save them, to join them.
He gritted his teeth and focused on the path ahead. They were making for Tyria, another ruined city that lay further south. According to the ancient maps he had studied, Tyria might hold clues to the heart of Valyria's power.
A cry from the stern drew Maegor's attention. One of the younger slaves was backing away from the railing, his eyes wide with terror.
"No, no, it can't be," the young man was muttering. "You're dead, I saw you die!"
Before anyone could react, the slave let out a heart-wrenching wail and flung himself overboard. The splash was lost in the constant hiss of the Smoking Sea, but his screams echoed across the water, growing more agonized until they were suddenly silenced.
The remaining crew stared at the spot where their companion had vanished, frozen in shock and fear.
Maegor strode to the stern, his face a mask of determination. "I said ignore the voices!" he roared, snapping the crew out of their stupor. "Back to your posts, now! Anyone else who gives in to this madness will wish they had jumped instead."
His harsh words had the desired effect. The slaves scrambled back to their duties, though their movements were jerky and their eyes wild with barely contained panic.
Lysono approached Maegor, his weathered face pale. "Your Grace," he said quietly, "perhaps we should turn back. The Doom's magic is too strong, too pervasive. We've already lost one man, and I fear—"
"We press on," Maegor cut him off, his voice like steel. "Tyria is ahead, and beyond that, the secrets we seek. Steel your mind against these tricks, Lysono. Remember why we're here."
The old scholar nodded reluctantly and returned to his post, but Maegor could see the doubt in his eyes.
As they left Oros behind, the voices faded somewhat, but a new horror took their place. Shapes began to move in the mists around the ship – vast, serpentine forms that slithered through the air as easily as through water. Occasionally, a membranous wing or a taloned claw would become visible for a heart-stopping moment before vanishing back into the fog.
"Firewyrms," Maegor breathed, recognizing the creatures from ancient texts. These were the monsters that were said to burrow through stone and earth, their bodies generating heat that could melt rock. But these... these were airborne, and far larger than any account had ever described.
The crew huddled at the center of the deck, their eyes darting fearfully at every shadow and movement in the mist. Maegor stood tall, one hand on the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. He wouldn't show fear, not now, not when they were so close.
As they approached Tyria, the ruins became more pronounced. Unlike Oros, which had been partially submerged, Tyria rose from the waters in a jumble of broken towers and fractured streets. The black stone of its buildings was marred by deep cracks that glowed with an inner fire, as if the very earth beneath was molten.
"Your Grace," one of the slaves called out, his voice trembling. "Look there, on the shore!"
Maegor followed the man's pointing finger and felt his blood run cold. Figures moved among the ruins – human-shaped, but wrong somehow. Their movements were jerky and unnatural, and even from this distance, Maegor could see that their skin was gray and cracked, like cooling lava.
"Stone men," Lysono whispered in horror. "The tales were true. The Doom didn't just destroy Valyria, it... changed it. Changed everything."
The stone men seemed to notice the ship. As one, they turned towards the water, their movements becoming more frenzied. To Maegor's mounting dread, he saw them begin to wade into the Smoking Sea, apparently unaffected by the toxic waters.
"Make for that inlet," Maegor commanded, pointing to a narrow channel between two huge, tilted towers. "We can lose them in the city."
The ship changed course, heading for the gap. As they drew closer, Maegor could make out intricate carvings on the towers – scenes of dragons and men working magic beyond imagination. But the beauty of the craftsmanship was marred by the wrongness that permeated everything here. The carvings seemed to move when viewed from the corner of the eye, the stone dragons writhing as if in agony.
They threaded the needle between the towers, entering a network of canals that wound through the heart of Tyria. The stone men's howls faded behind them, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the lapping of water against the ship's hull and the distant rumble of what might have been thunder – or something far worse.
As they navigated the canals, the true scale of Tyria became apparent. The city was vast, stretching further than the eye could see in every direction. Libraries larger than the Citadel in Oldtown stood with their doors agape, spilling charred books into the streets. Forges that could have accommodated dozens of dragons lay cold and empty, their great bellows frozen in mid-stroke.
And everywhere, there were dragons. Statues, carvings, mosaics – the creatures were omnipresent in Tyria's art and architecture. But there was something off about these depictions. Many of the dragons had multiple heads, or extra limbs, or features that no living dragon possessed.
"Your Grace," Lysono said, his scholarly curiosity momentarily overcoming his fear. "These dragons... I've never seen anything like them in any text or record."
Maegor nodded grimly. "The Valyrians didn't just ride dragons, Lysono. They bred them, changed them. Who knows what monstrosities they created in their pursuit of power?"
As if in answer to his words, a roar echoed across the city – a sound so vast and terrible that it shook the very stones of Tyria. The crew fell to their knees, clutching their ears in pain. Maegor alone remained standing, his eyes wide as he searched the sky.
Through a gap in the ever-present mist, he saw it – a dragon larger than any he had ever encountered, its scales the color of old blood. But this was no ordinary dragon. It had three heads, each moving independently, and its six eyes glowed with an inner fire that spoke of madness and pain.
"By all the gods," Lysono gasped as he struggled to his feet. "What is that abomination?"
"A remnant," Maegor replied, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and determination. "A survivor of the Doom, twisted by centuries of isolation and whatever magic still lingers here." He turned to the crew, his eyes blazing. "This is why we came. The secrets of Valyria are within our grasp. Press on!"
The ship continued through the canals of Tyria, always keeping to the shadows, always watching for danger. The three-headed dragon did not reappear, but its roar occasionally split the air.
As they neared the center of the city, Maegor felt a pull – not physical, but something deeper, something that resonated with his very blood. They were close to... something. Something important.
"Seven save us," Lysono whispered, his scholarly composure finally cracking as he stared at the horizon. "The towers... they're breathing."
Maegor followed his gaze. The distant spires of Valyria rose through the haze like the spines of some grotesque beast, and indeed, they seemed to pulse with an inner rhythm. The sight made his eyes water and his mind rebel, but he forced himself to look. He needed to understand what they faced.
"Captain!" A slave's terrified voice cut through the unnatural silence. "The water... there's something in the water!"
Dark shapes moved beneath the surface, too fluid to be fish, too large to be anything natural. One of the slaves leaned over the rail, transfixed by the movement below.
"Daerys?" the man whispered, reaching toward the water. "Little sister, is that you?"
"Get back!" Maegor lunged for him, but it was too late.
A hand - scaled and clawed but unmistakably once human - shot from the water and seized the slave's arm. The man's scream cut off as he was yanked overboard, but what emerged with him wasn't his sister. It had might have been human once, but now it was a twisted amalgamation of flesh and scale, with vacant eyes that glowed like molten gold.
"Don't look at them!" Maegor commanded as more shapes surfaced around the ship. "They're not who you think they are!"
"But they're calling us," another slave moaned, pressing his hands against his ears. "They're singing... such beautiful songs..."
The air filled with voices - ethereal, seductive, promising everything from reunion with lost loves to godlike power. Maegor heard them too, but he recognized them for what they were: echoes of the Doom, trying to add more souls to its collection.
A sudden lurch threw everyone off balance. Something massive had struck the ship from below. In the water, more of the twisted creatures circled, their bodies flickering between human and draconic forms.
"The dragonlords... they tried to bind themselves to their dragons, to become one with them. These must be..."
His words dissolved into a choking sound as the air itself seemed to thicken. A figure materialized on the deck - a woman in flowing robes that moved against the wind. Her beauty was terrible to behold, for where her face should have been, there was only smooth, scale-covered flesh.
"Welcome home, children of Valyria," she spoke, her voice resonating from everywhere and nowhere. "Come, join the dance of flesh and fire."
Three slaves moved toward her as if entranced. Before Maegor could stop them, their skin began to ripple and change, scales erupting through flesh as they screamed in ecstasy and agony.
"Your blood calls to us, dragonlord," the faceless woman turned toward Maegor. "Can you not feel it? The power that awaits?"
Maegor's hand tightened on his Valyrian steel sword.
"I feel it," he growled, "but I won't submit to it."
The woman's laugh echoed across the waters, and more shapes rose from the depths - twisted creatures that had once been human.
"Lysono," Maegor called to the scholar, who stood paralyzed with terror. "The shore. How far?"
"A league, perhaps less," Lysono's voice shook. "But Your Grace... look..."
The coastline ahead was a nightmare made manifest. Buildings rose at impossible angles, their surfaces writhing with what looked like veins of liquid fire. The air shimmered with colors that had no names, and shadows moved with purposeful malevolence.
Another impact rocked the ship. Water rushed in through newly formed cracks in the hull, but it wasn't water - not entirely. It moved, seeking out the crew members like hungry tendrils.
"Make for the shore!" Maegor ordered, but half the remaining crew were already lost to madness or transformation.
One man's skin had turned to glass, his internal organs visible as they rearranged themselves into patterns that hurt to look at. Another began speaking in a language that made blood flow from the ears of those who heard it, his tongue elongating into a serpentine shape.
The faceless woman watched it all with her smooth, blank visage. "The Doom is not destruction," she said almost tenderly. "It is transformation. Change. Evolution. You cannot resist its embrace forever."
"Watch me," Maegor snarled, but even as he spoke, he felt something stirring in his blood - an ancient power awakening to the proximity of its birthplace.
The ship was falling apart now, both from the assault of the creatures below and from some internal corruption that turned wood to flesh and back again. The remaining crew fought desperately to keep it moving toward shore, but their numbers dwindled with each passing moment.
A man screamed as his hands melted into the rail he was holding, becoming one with the ship itself. Another gripped a knife and was carving the map of old Valyria into his chest. Lysono huddled near Maegor, muttering fragments of ancient texts as if they could ward off the horrors around them.
"Your Grace," he managed between increasingly hysterical prayers, "the shore... we're almost..."
His words ended in a gurgle as his eyes began to glow with inner fire. Maegor watched in horror as symbols appeared on Lysono's skin - ancient Valyrian glyphs that moved and changed, telling stories of terrible power and forbidden knowledge.
"The books," Lysono whispered, his voice taking on an echo that seemed to come from vast distances. "They're all here, in my mind. Every scroll, every tome that burned... I can see them all..."
The scholar's body began to fold in on itself, not like flesh but like parchment, covered in writing that burned itself into reality. His screams became the rustle of countless pages turning.
Maegor turned away, forcing himself to focus on survival. The shore was close now, tantalizingly close, but what awaited them there might be worse than what pursued them through the waters.
The faceless woman appeared beside him again, close enough to touch. "Your ancestors understood," she said softly. "They embraced the change. Became more than human. You could too. The power you seek... it requires transformation."
"My ancestors fled," Maegor countered, though his voice shook. "They saw what was coming and they ran."
"Did they?" The smooth flesh where her face should be rippled. "Or did they send you back to us, generation after generation, until one would be strong enough to complete what they began?"
Before Maegor could respond, the ship gave one final groan and began to break apart. The corrupted water rushed in, carrying with it the twisted forms of what had once been his crew. As the vessel died around him, Maegor made his choice.
He dove into the boiling waters and swam for shore, trying to ignore the things that brushed against him in the depths, the voices that promised power and knowledge, the hands that reached for him with loving malevolence.
Behind him, the last remains of his ship and crew disappeared into the Smoking Sea, claimed by horrors that had waited centuries for fresh victims. Ahead lay the shore of Valyria proper, and beyond that, somewhere in the twisted ruins of the greatest civilization ever known, the answers he sought.
If he survived long enough to find them.
The stone road leading into Valyria was made of fused dragonfire glass, black as night yet shot through with veins of red that pulsed like living arteries. Each step Maegor took produced whispers from the ground itself, as if millions of voices were trapped within the stone.
The ruins that flanked his path defied natural law. Towers curved impossibly, their tops disappearing into the perpetual ash-cloud above. Some structures appeared to breathe, their walls expanding and contracting with slow, deliberate movements. Others seemed to shift position when he wasn't looking directly at them.
A sound like singing drifted through the toxic air - beautiful at first, until Maegor realized it was the screams of the damned stretched and distorted into melody. The source seemed to be a group of figures in the distance, their bodies elongated and twisted, swaying in a dance that made his eyes hurt to witness.
"Blood of the dragon," they called in voices that echoed wrongly. "Come join our eternal dance."
As Maegor passed them, he saw their faces were mirrors, reflecting versions of himself that smiled with too many teeth and eyes that burned with madness. He quickened his pace.
The path split around a massive crater filled with something that looked like water but moved against gravity, flowing upward in spiraling columns. Within the liquid, shapes moved - human figures performing elaborate courtly dances while their flesh slowly dissolved.
A creature that might once have been a dragon emerged from behind a fallen column. Its scales had been replaced with human faces, all screaming silently, its wings were translucent like gauze, showing the corruption that flowed through its veins. It fixed Maegor with eyes that were windows into the Doom itself.
"Little prince," it spoke in a thousand voices at once. "Why do you resist? The change is beautiful."
Maegor drew his Valyrian steel sword, but the beast merely laughed - a sound like breaking glass and crumbling stone. It reared up, spreading its wings, and the faces covering its body began to speak in unison:
"We are perfection. We are transcendence. We are what your ancestors tried to become."
The air grew thicker, heavier with magic that made Maegor's blood sing and burn. His own flesh tried to respond to it, to reshape itself, but he fought against the sensation. The dragon-thing watched him struggle with infinite patience.
"Your resistance honors your bloodline," it said almost tenderly, "but it is futile. All return to us in time."
A flash of movement caught Maegor's eye - what looked like children playing among the ruins. But as they turned toward him, he saw their faces were smooth expanses of flesh, interrupted only by mouths filled with dragon teeth. They giggled and scattered, leaving trails of molten silver in their wake.
"Have you come to be our new father?" one called back in a voice that was both young and ancient. "The last one melted when we tried to love him."
The ground trembled, and from a nearby structure that might once have been a temple, a procession emerged. They wore the robes of ancient Valyrian nobility, but their bodies beneath were wrong - limbs bent at impossible angles, torsos twisted and elongated. Their heads were crowned with living flame that whispered secrets of power and madness.
"The blood remembers," they chanted in unison. "The flesh remembers. The magic remembers."
Maegor pressed on, his Valyrian steel sword humming more intensely with each step. The weapon seemed almost eager, as if recognizing its birthplace. The air grew thicker still, filled with floating motes that looked like embers but felt like fragments of lost souls against his skin.
A woman's scream pierced the air - his mother's voice. Maegor spun toward it, though he knew Lyanna was long dead. Instead, he saw a creature perched atop a broken arch. It had the upper body of a beautiful Valyrian woman, but below the waist, its flesh merged with the stone itself, pulsing with veins of magma.
"My son," it called in Lyanna's voice, then changed to his grandmother's, then to voices he didn't recognize but somehow knew belonged to ancestors centuries dead. "Come, let us show you the true power of our blood."
The thing reached out with arms that elongated like smoke, trying to draw him closer. Maegor slashed at the approaching limbs with his dagger. Where the Valyrian steel cut, the flesh hissed and recoiled, but the creature only laughed.
"You fight with a toy we made," it said in a thousand voices at once. "Would you like to learn how to make more? To reshape flesh and steel alike?"
Before Maegor could respond, the ground beneath him shifted. The black glass road began to flow like water, forcing him to leap onto what looked like solid ground. But this new surface was warm and yielding, like flesh.
A massive shape passed overhead - something with too many wings and a body that seemed to fold through dimensions that shouldn't exist. Its shadow left afterimages in the air that formed into scenes from his own memories, but twisted and wrong.
"The dragons didn't die in the Doom," came a whisper from everywhere and nowhere. "They transcended. As did we all. As will you."
Maegor pressed on, though every step became harder. The air itself seemed to resist his movement, thick with magic that called to his blood. Shapes moved in his peripheral vision - things that crawled and slithered and flew, always just out of clear sight. Their movements formed patterns that his mind tried to interpret, threatening to draw him into geometries that would shatter his sanity.
Maegor realized why all of them were speaking about power. They knew he was here for it, so they were trying to seduce him with more power. If he were a man longing for a family, they would try to seduce him with the idea of having a family here.
A structure ahead caught his attention - a tower that seemed to be made of intertwined bodies, all still moving, all still aware. As he passed it, hands reached out, trying to grab him, to pull him into their eternal embrace. Their touch left marks on his skin that burned and tried to spread, to remake him in their image.
"Brother," they called. "Father. Son. Join us. Become us."
The path ahead began to slope downward, leading into what looked like a valley. But as Maegor approached, he saw that the ground there was different - no longer stone or glass or corrupted flesh, but something else entirely. Something that made his blood run cold despite the oppressive heat of Valyria.
Faces
Faces
Faces everywhere!!
A Field of Faces stretched before him like a blasphemous tapestry, the ground completely composed of human faces pressed together, each one perfectly preserved as if carved from living flesh. The air had taken on a crimson tinge, and a sickly-sweet smell pervaded everything - like rotting flowers mixed with burning hair and something metallic that reminded him of blood.
"Welcome home, my son," came his father's voice, and Maegor looked down to see Daemon's face beneath his boot. The features were exact - the same sharp cheekbones, the same knowing smirk that had always made Maegor feel like a child. The eyes blinked, very much alive.
"Father," Maegor whispered, stepping back, only to find himself standing on his sister Baela's face.
"Why did you leave us?" Baela's lips moved, her eyes filled with tears of molten silver. "We needed you, brother. We needed you when the dragons danced."
He tried to find solid ground, but everywhere he stepped, there were faces. Some he recognized - courtiers from the Red Keep, servants, soldiers he had greeted when he was younger. Others were strangers with the unmistakable Valyrian features of his ancestors.
"The blood remembers," they chanted in unison, their voices creating a harmony that made his teeth ache. "The flesh remembers."
A soft laugh drew his attention. There, a few paces ahead, Rhaenyra's face emerged from the mass of flesh, more prominent than the others. Her beauty was just as he remembered, but there was something cruel in her eyes now - or perhaps it had always been there, and he'd been too young to see it.
"Sweet Maegor," she purred, "always watching, always judging. Did it hurt you to see me with your father? Did it break your little heart?"
The ground shifted, faces rearranging themselves until a scene formed - bodies rising from the flesh-covered earth to reenact that night he'd rather forget. Rhaenyra and Daemon, their forms twisted and beautiful and horrible.
"You could have joined us," Daemon's voice echoed from multiple faces at once. "The blood of the dragon is meant to mingle. To strengthen. To transcend."
Maegor's uncle Viserys appeared next to him, his face distorted by the disease that had killed him. "You abandoned your duty," the face accused. "Left us all to burn while you chased shadows in the east."
"You are wrong. I was always there, protecting all of you, until your whore of a daughter send me to Volantis."
"The visions!" hundreds of faces laughed at once. "Did you think you were special? We all had visions. We all heard the call of ancient magic. Some of us were just brave enough to answer."
The air grew thicker, and the red mist coalesced into shapes that suggested intimate acts, violent deaths, and human transformations into dragons. The smell intensified—sweet rot and burning flesh.
Rhaenyra's face grew larger, rising slightly from the ground until her features were level with Maegor's knees. "Kiss me, little dragon," she whispered. "Kiss me like you always wanted to, before you knew. Before you saw. Before you ran."
"I loved you, but I never meant anything to you," Maegor spat, but his voice shook.
"I was everything," Rhaenyra's face smiled, her teeth looking sharper than they should. "Queen. Mother. Lover. Power itself. And you... you could have been part of it all."
Other faces joined in, creating a chorus of temptation and accusation:
"Coward," hissed Baela.
"Weakling," sneered Rhaena.
"Failed son," rumbled Daemon.
"Lost prince," lamented Viserys.
The faces began to move like waves in a flesh-sea, creating patterns that told stories - the Dance of Dragons, but wrong somehow. Dragons with human faces, riders whose flesh merged with their mounts.
"Do you remember what the maesters taught us?" Rhaenyra's voice turned scholarly, mocking. "That the Doom was punishment for our pride? They were wrong. The Doom was ascension. Look around you, little dragon. Look at what we became."
Maegor kept walking, each step landing on another face, another voice, another memory twisted into nightmare. He saw his own face several times, but wrong - older, corrupted, transformed by the very power he was seeking to understand.
The red mist thickened until it felt like walking through blood. The faces began to weep - some tears, some blood, some liquid fire that left smoking trails across their features. Yet they kept speaking, kept tempting, kept accusing.
"Your mother screamed so sweetly," Daemon's face appeared directly in his path. "Did you know that? When we made you, she screamed like a dragon taking wing. Would you like to hear it?"
Before Maegor could respond, the air filled with his mother's voice - pleasure and pain and something else.
"Stop," Maegor commanded, but his voice was lost in the chorus of faces.
"Never stop," Rhaenyra's voice joined in. "Never cease. Never end. This is what it means to be Valyrian. This is what you deny yourself."
The faces stretched as far as he could see in every direction, each one moving, speaking, crying, laughing. They told stories with their expressions - histories of tragedy and triumph, love and betrayal, power and corruption. All of them seemed to focus on him, judging him, finding him wanting.
"The tower waits," they chanted together, thousands of voices becoming one. "The power waits. The truth waits. But can you bear it, little dragon? Can you face what we became? What you might become?"
The woman's voice cut through the cacophony of other faces like a blade of pure anguish. Maegor froze mid-step, his boot hovering over what had been a nobleman's sneering visage. The face beneath his foot melted away, replaced by hers - Rhaenys Targaryen, the first wife of the First Aegon.
Her beauty was exactly as the paintings showed - strong Valyrian features softened by an expression that had once been kind. But now that kindness was twisted by madness and desperation. Her silver-gold hair seemed to move like liquid metal around her face, and her purple eyes were shot through with red veins that pulsed in time with her sobs.
"Aegon?" she called again, her voice carrying the weight of centuries of darkness. "I can hear Meraxes sometimes, you know. She screams too."
"You're dead," he whispered, though he knew it was foolish to engage. "You did with your dragon when they shot her. The histories say-"
"THE HISTORIES LIE!" Rhaenys shrieked, her face contorting unnaturally. The skin around her mouth cracked like pottery, revealing flesh that glowed with inner fire. "I lived! I lived as the sand filled my lungs! I lived as they dragged me through tunnels that shouldn't exist! I lived through all of that!"
Her eyes began to weep molten silver, the liquid running down her cheeks and pooling around her face. "Aegon searches still, you know. I feel him sometimes. But he never finds me. They make sure he never finds me."
Other faces around her began to change, showing scenes from that fatal day in Dorne. Meraxes falling from the sky, the scorpion bolt through her eye. But in these visions, Rhaenys didn't die in the fall. Instead, shadowy figures pulled her broken body from the wreckage while she screamed.
The air around her face grew distorted, and Maegor could smell burning flesh and scorched sand. The red mist thickened until it felt like he was breathing blood.
"Would you like to see what they did to me?" Rhaenys asked, her face beginning to shift and change. "Would you like to see what lies beneath this pretty mask they let me wear when visitors come?"
"Sometimes they let me feel everything at once," she said, her voice now coming from somewhere beneath the ruined flesh. "Every moment of pain, every second of transformation, every year of waiting. Would you like to feel it too, little dragon? Would you like to know what it means to truly live forever?"
Maegor tried to step back, but the faces behind him formed hands that grabbed at his ankles, holding him in place.
"He'll come for me," Rhaenys insisted, her face reforming into its beautiful mask, though now Maegor could see the horror lurking just beneath the surface. "My Aegon will come. He promised we would be together forever, you see. And what is forever to dragons like us?"
She began to laugh, a sound that started as the tinkling of bells but descended into something that resembled the screams of dying dragons. "They're all here, you know. All of us who didn't really die. We wait in the darkness, we change in the fire, we become what we were always meant to be."
"I have to go," Maegor managed to say, fighting against the hands that held him.
"Go?" Rhaenys's face stretched impossibly wide. "But you've only just arrived! And there's so much more to show you. So many secrets to tell. Would you like to know what really happened to all those dragons? Why the magic truly failed? What price we paid for power?"
Her voice began to overlap with itself, speaking in multiple tones at once: "Stay with me. Stay with us. Stay where blood is power to be harnessed, where death is just another door to walk through."
The ground around her face began to ripple, other faces emerging to join her horrible chorus: "Stay, stay, stay," they chanted, their features morphing between human and dragon and things that were neither.
"Tell Aegon," Rhaenys called as Maegor finally wrenched himself free. "Tell him I'm waiting. Tell him I'm still alive. PLEASE TELL HIM I AM WAITING FOR HIM..."
Her last words followed him as he stumbled forward, trying to block out her continuing screams: "TELL HIM I NEVER DIED!"
Maegor stumbled forward, his boots crushing face after face as he tried to escape their maddening chorus. The ground became increasingly unstable, the faces shifting and morphing, trying to trip him, to drag him down into their eternal torment.
"Running again, my son?" Daemon's face emerged, larger than before, his features twisted in mock disappointment. "Like you ran when you saw me with sweet Rhaenyra? Do you want to hear how she screamed my name and not yours? Do you think I don't know that deep down you still Love her?"
The red mist thickened around him, and the faces began rising from the ground, forming three-dimensional visages that floated in the air. They spun around him like a twisted carousel, each one speaking, screaming, or laughing.
"The blood remembers!" they chanted. "The flesh remembers!"
Rhaenys's voice cut through again, more desperate now: "Tell him where I am! Tell Aegon I'm waiting! TELL HIM I NEVER DIED!"
The ground beneath his feet began to soften, faces melting into a flesh-like substance that tried to pull him under. Each step became harder than the last, like walking through thick mud that whispered and moaned.
"Join us," Rhaenyra's face appeared directly in his path, beautiful and terrible. "Stay in our embrace. Let us show you what love truly means in the old way, the Valyrian way."
Maegor drew his Valyrian steel dagger, its rippled surface glowing with an inner light that seemed to repel the worst of the horrors. Where its light touched the faces, they recoiled, hissing in pain or anger.
"You would hurt us?" the faces asked in unison. "Your own blood? Your own flesh?"
The air itself seemed to resist his movement now, thick with magic and madness. Shapes formed in the red mist - dragons made of faces, serpents composed of twisted bodies, things that should not exist outside of nightmares.
"Almost there," Maegor muttered to himself, seeing solid ground ahead where the Field of Faces ended. But the faces had one last torment to share.
The ground before him erupted into a scene from his memories - Daemon and Rhaenyra's coupling, but now shown from angles he hadn't seen, revealing truths he hadn't known. The faces formed their bodies in obscene detail, showing how they had laughed about him, mocked his devotion, planned his future while they betrayed his trust.
"Sweet, innocent Maegor," they mocked in unison. "Too pure for the dragon's true nature."
With a cry of rage and despair, Maegor slashed at the scene with his dagger. The Valyrian steel cut through the illusion, dispersing it into mist. He ran then, truly ran, as the faces rose behind him in a wave of flesh and bone and madness.
"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE WHAT YOU ARE!" they screamed after him. "THE BLOOD REMEMBERS! THE FLESH REMEMBERS!"
Rhaenys's voice rose one final time above the others: "When you see him... when you see my Aegon... tell him... tell him I'm still here... tell him I love..."
Maegor's boot hit solid stone, and suddenly the voices cut off as if severed by a blade. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air that wasn't tainted by that sickly-sweet smell of corrupt flesh.
Ahead, the towers of Old Valyria proper rose like spears thrust into the crimson sky. Whatever horrors awaited him there, he knew they would have to surpass what he'd just witnessed. Somehow, that thought made him laugh - a sound with more than a touch of the madness he'd just escaped.
Walking and walking.
Walking and walking.
The highest tower of old Valyria, he could not see how high it could go, but he knew it was taller than the Wall, taller than the Hightower of House Hightower.
But then he saw the shadow fly overhead.
Maegor's eyes widened as the colossal dragon descended from the skies of Old Valyria, its massive form dwarfing even the mightiest structures he'd ever seen. Lightning crackled around its wings, painting the air with an otherworldly glow. As it landed, the ground trembled beneath his feet, yet Maegor stood firm, unflinching in the face of such raw power.
""Skoroso... skoroso iksā? (Who... who are you?)" he breathed, awe evident in his voice.
The dragon's eyes, burning with ancient wisdom, fixed upon him. "Nyke issa ūñā belmī dāezōtāt issa bēvilza, (I am the key to reclaiming what is rightfully yours,)" it answered, its voice resonating through Maegor's very bones.
Then, before Maegor's astonished gaze, the dragon began to shrink. Scales melted away, wings folded inward, and that immense form contracted until it was no larger than a human. A blinding light erupted, forcing Maegor to shield his eyes.
When he looked again, his breath caught in his throat. Where the dragon had stood now stood the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon. Her hair cascaded down her back in silver waves, and her eyes shone with an otherworldly purple light. Her beauty was utterly mesmerizing, transcending mortal bounds.
"Skoroso iksā? (Who are you?)" Maegor asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.
The woman's lips curved into a sultry smile as she approached him. "Nyke issa vēzos ēlīrya zaldrīzoti, (I am the Mother of all Dragons,)" she purred, her voice as sweet as honey. "Se hēnkirī, ñuha jorrāelagon Maegor, īlon zaldrīzes rhaenagon kostagon. (And together, my dear Maegor, we shall claim the world.)"
Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to his in a searing kiss that seemed to set his very soul aflame.
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