The ink shimmered faintly as it dried, the glyphs curling across the page like smoke trapped in glass. Vaelros sat cross-legged on the floor of his workshop, his fingers stained with ash and silverroot, his mind far from Lys.
The book before him was not ancient, not weathered or bound in dragonhide. It was new his own. A grimoire in progress, stitched with protective wards, each page sealed with a whisper of his will. He'd modeled it after the arcane tomes he once carried in another life, when he was a man of science and sorcery, not memory and instinct.
He turned a page, marked off another line on his checklist. Wards complete. Cloak sealed. Sword acquired. Mother safe. All that remained was the final entry, circled in red ink:
Magical Focus: TBD.
He frowned. For too long, he had used himself as the conduit—his body, his mind, his blood. It worked, but it drained him. Left him raw. Vulnerable. The book from Tomas had confirmed what he'd long suspected: the greatest Valyrian mages had external foci—crystals, relics, and most of all...
Dragons.
He reached for the older book, the one with the seal of House Vherion. Its pages whispered of dragonbone staves, scales etched with runes, and hearts preserved in amber. But the clearest path, the most potent focus, was a living dragon—or failing that, a dragon egg.
He closed the book slowly.
Dragonstone. That was the obvious choice. The Targaryens still held it, and if any eggs remained in the world, they would be there. But there was another place. A darker place.
Old Valyria.
He paused, staring at the flickering candlelight. The Smoking Sea. The shattered peninsula. The ruins of a world that had burned itself hollow. Every tale said the same: death, madness, fire. But some whispered of petrified eggs, buried beneath obsidian ash. Of vaults sealed by magic older than kings.
He stood, fastened his cloak, and dressed in simple traveling leathers—dark, fitted, practical. A silver clasp at his throat, shaped like a coiled wyrm. He checked his satchel one last time, then slipped into the streets of Lys.
It took him two hours to reach the Sailor's Guild, a sprawling stone hall near the harbor, its doors flanked by carved krakens and faded banners from half a dozen Free Cities. Inside, the air was thick with salt, sweat, and the low roar of voices—mercenaries, captains, smugglers, and sellswords, all bartering for coin and passage.
Vaelros moved through them like a shadow, ignoring the stares, the muttered offers. He approached the front desk, where a bored clerk raised an eyebrow.
"I need to speak with the Guildmaster," Vaelros said.
The clerk snorted. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No. But I have eighty gold dragons and a very dangerous destination."
That got the man's attention.
He waited nearly an hour in a side chamber, sipping bitter wine and watching the tide roll in through the open windows. Finally, the door creaked open, and a man stepped in.
He was tall, lean, with skin like old parchment and eyes like wet coal. His beard was streaked with silver, and his coat was lined with seal fur and sharkskin. Rings glittered on every finger.
"I am Dorian Vaskyr," the man said. "Guildmaster of the Sailor's Hall. You've paid for my time. Use it wisely."
Vaelros stood. "I need a ship. A crew. Discreet. Loyal. Capable of surviving... unusual conditions."
Dorian's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"Old Valyria."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Dorian walked to the window, staring out at the sea. "You're not the first fool to ask. Most don't come back. Some don't even leave."
"I'm not most."
"No," Dorian said. "You're worse. You look like the kind who thinks he's prepared."
"I am."
"Then you know what's out there. Stone men. Smoke that screams. Waters that boil without fire. Winds that whisper your name."
Vaelros nodded. "And dragon eggs. Maybe."
Dorian turned. "You want to die for a myth?"
"I want to understand what we lost. What we were. What we could be again."
The Guildmaster studied him. "You're Valyrian."
"Half."
"Which half?"
"The half that remembers."
Dorian smiled faintly. "You're lucky. I owe a favor to a man in King's Landing. A Lannister. He's interested in Valyria too. And I have ships that sometimes carry goods to Dragonstone. Quietly. For the right price."
"I can pay. Gold. Recipes. Favors."
Dorian raised a hand. "No need. I'll take your gold. But more than that, I want a copy of your book. When it's done."
Vaelros blinked. "Why?"
"Because I collect stories. And yours smells like fire."
They shook hands.
---
As Vaelros stepped back into the night, the wind off the sea felt colder than usual. But in his chest, something stirred. Not fear. Not yet.
Purpose.
He was leaving Essos. Leaving the city of his birth, the ghosts of his past, the safety of the known. Ahead lay Westeros, Dragonstone, and perhaps... the ruins of Valyria itself.
And if the world still held dragons, he would find them.
Or die trying.