IX

The dragon roads of Westeros are rightfully acclaimed as the best in the Known World, peerless save for their sisters that connect the daughters of Valyria in the east. Age wearies them not, for they are not wrought of chiseled stone, nor are they of the wretched, barbaric dirt paths coated in gravel that were so prominent in the days of Andal and First Men dominance. No, theirs is the passion of one of the true Gods, the fruits born of Mother Valyria's loins. Their width lays ample enough to easily allow six wagons to pass abreast, shouldered by tiled pavements that blend seemlessly into the pale buildings that make up the Queen of all Cities, some painted into pictures of breathless design, frozen in time just as the city itself. Many do not remember a time without them, one when the Queensroad, Kingsroad and Dragonroad did not make up the cornerstone of overland movement, second only to the waterways of the Queen. They grow lax in their worship, forgetting how life was but a cruel existence before the arrival of our betters, forgetting when our kind lived in squalor and in constant fear of foul footpads, loathly poachers and vulgar, odious rapers, all wretched creatures born of evil seed . No, these roads were not made by the hands of ordinary men. They are the gifts we have been blessed with by our emperors and empresses, by the dragon kings and dragon queens who poured their lives into bettering a land once ruled by barbarity, none greater than the man who united these fair lands, our most revered father, Lord and Master, Viserys, King of All Westeros and Emperor of the Valyrians, and his constant companion in all labours, a woman with whom he freely shared all his power, wealth and knowledge with, our Lady and Mistress, the most Serene, most August Empress of the Valyrians, Rhaenys, Queen of All Westeros.

Old runes and calls of the old tongue line them, marks of old Valyria that glow golden bronze with an outline of silver pale from the onset of purple dusk, the like that has not been seen since such had lined the streets of Old Valyria herself. In the Queen of all Cities, our blessed capital, veins of bronze and silver enrich them further, not only to show off the unimaginable wealth of our dragonriding betters, but to remind all of whom tread upon these paths to remember the progenitors of our great realm in whose shape these precious metals are fashioned upon. They are fashioned to serve our Empire for all eternity, with neither rent nor swell beleaguering them that we so often see in the roads made by those seeking to copy the blood of Old Valyria, their make only privy to the Chisels of the Crown, who have all but sworn blood oaths of secrecy in exchange for the chance of etching their names into the Table of the Stone, one of the fourteen pillars of our empire, and the honoured conclave of the builders. Their magics have been caught by many a stray eye however, and none can deny that only the fires of a dragon could have ever turned hard stone into such a pieces of indestructible art. Yet, we remain ignorant of the arcane sorceries that conjure it, as well as the powers that leave them unmarred by age, for reasons more than just secrecy, but in our inner unworthiness as well…

- Excerpt from the Roads and Bridges of the Targaryen Empire by Aenar Belarr of Claw Isle, pending the approval of the Table of the Scrolls under High Archivist Valaena Celtigar.

'The greatest of all creations is often begotten by the seed of the least likely of aspirants' are the words Aen the Harpy Bane once said to the Assembly during the aftermath of the Fifth Ghiscari War, his blade cradled ever so gently by the bloodsoaked hands that slew Grazdan XVIII, last of the Emperors of Old. Bloodweep was her name, a sword a thousand years old, one stretching back to the days of the third war of this kind. She was plain in her beauty, with a hilt of plain dragonbone elegantly carved into the image of flames and with no adornments bar the string of golden beads that were tied around the base of its pommel, having been looted off the dead body of the final of Grazdan I's seedy, lustful, depraved, sinful ilk. Some ignorant barbarians of inferior ancestry may view those crude works of Ghiscar origin to be what made Bloodweep so lovely, with their intricately carved designs of the unprepossessing harpies the Ghiscari have long invoked as divine beings. But us civilised intellectuals, having been taught the correct histories, know better than to espouse the unintelligent ravings of envious and curlish naysayers. What are some grotesque beads, after all, than but a pale shadow of what truly made Bloodweep a testament to the greatness of Valyria, of an ore into something far, far greater! Yes, there is much truth in these words and much beauty to be inferred, for the greatest and grandest of all the offspring of ores lies not in the pale glow of beaten silver, nor is it present in the gleam of yellow gold. Neither does it lie even in the spellworked bronze that the Great Masters of this world used so oft during their Freehold's infancy, of which even the slightest of daggers could handle itself as well as the finest of steel. The pride of the Valyrian Smiths and the envy of all others is that of Valyrian Steel, born of crude iron, lowliest of all metals, smelted by the flames of a dragon's inborn hearth, and tempered by sorceries we are both too unworthy and too ignorant to even speculate upon.

To call it a mere product of this world all but our masters are bound to is sacrilege in itself, for can one be brazen enough, hubristic enough, of such little wisdom and wit to even dare designate such a plebeian term to such a divine fragment of a greater power? A physical manifestation of one of the Fourteen themselves, bastions of Old Valyria lay dead but not lifeless in the flames that girdled the great city. No less than one of their kind spoke her wisdom to the ears of demigods during their hour of need, when the relentless greed and self-conceit of Old Ghiscar landed upon fair Valyria once more, bathing all in light more golden and more pure than the ever kindling sun.

It is said that Syrax herself descended upon the fair lands of Tyria in the Lands of the Long Summer, bestowing unto Faenor, son of Maedryx of Tyria, the knowledge of crafting the first blade of Valyrian Steel in the tongue of the Gods themselves, endowed with so much wisdom that Faenor stood frozen in his stupor for days, so beautiful was her voice and so enlightening her bidding. Four-and-ten days it would take to craft such a blade, born out of an immaculate forging and tempered by the purest and most potent of lifeblood. The babe of dragon and its master, both working in sync to purge her shard of all and any taint. The greatest of the Valyrian Smiths proved an able student, for he spent a fortnight at work with noble Gaelyx of the scarlet scales to craft the first of all Syrax's fragments, "Syraxion", the flame of Syrax. Her fury, her might, her tenacity… All poured into one fragment of her power, a limb protruding from a far greater body, perfectly balanced no matter whose hand bears it.

Then, upon the wings of Gaelyx, mighty Faenor turned away the Ghiscar a third time, wetting Syraxion with the blood of the Harpy, slicing through their scales of copper and amber coloured skin with the ease of the sharpest of knives through melted butter. Once more, Old Ghis had attempted to purloin the mastery of the dragons from children of Mother Valyria, and once more had they been inflicted a heavy defeat, third of five fruitless wars, one put to the sword when Valyria finally roused itself in all her wroth a century later and smote wicked Ghis for the evil residing in the hearts of her barbarous, sordid, people, a charge headed by our the forebears of our Great Rulers, armed with their weapons of the dark smoke of dragons turned solid, completely devoid of wear and bluntness, impervious to even the hottest of flames.

It seemed only fate for those that ruled the skies and all that was beneath it, those descended from a union of a god and a mere mortal both, to bear fragments of a greater power. Even in our heart of hearts, deep within our breasts, we know that these were weapons worthy of only the hands of one of the Forty, blood borne by the blessed whose very disposition, mastery over every and all beings, and irrefutable skill speak of their most empyrean nature. Yet, those of Old Valyria pitied even those of the lowbrow make, gracing them with the lustre of their artistries, of the blades of Syrax the Golden… if not for a price.

Full kingdoms could have been paid for in Valyrian Steel, it is said, and many consider some of the works to be without cost. The princes of the Golden Empire of Yi-Ti and their ever changing prepotent ruling dynasties are but some who coveted the wondrous creation, for its secrets bore more import than just empty boasting for it can be used to repel even the most potent of the dark arts of the shadowbinders of Asshai-by-the-Shadow, for what are their sorceries but pale copies of what the Valyrians had conjured from the innate, prodigious talent flowing in their veins as smoothly and swiftly as the waters of the Rhoyne. None could replicate Valyria, and when the Doom came to end the capital of the Freehold, it was thought none would ever do so again.

Not until Viserys, son of Valaena and Aerion, beloved of the Fourteen, their Mouthpiece and their Prophet, was born during the summer solstice the seventy-third year after the fall of the Freehold of course.

The Targaryens were mighty - are mighty - indeed. As this ink dries upon the finest vellum, I, Barazhad of Tyrosh, cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense of indebtedness to my forefathers who willingly forsook the reigns of their False Archons to uphold their moral and righteous duty to the heirs of Valyria during the fabled 'Turning of the East'. If not for them, how else would I find myself in the Queen of Cities, standing but a league from the halls of the House of Wisdom herself, where our eminent and most revered rulers have helped make ours a civilised city. Not just in its most puissant of weapons of whom Valyrian Steel looms over the rest, but in its culture, its learning, its refined people. It is impossible to remember a time without such a refined society. Yet, even the grandest of dynasties have the smallest of origins. Whence Archon Aenar came upon the shores of Dragonstone, burdened into secrecy with the knowledge that Valyria would soon be consumed by the Fourteen, and that his would be the line to propagate its teachings, his was not the grandest of parties, nor the wealthiest of the Forty. Only five dragons took to flight upon their way there, with only Balerion, last of Valyria's children, to even survive till the days of the Conquerors. That is not to say the Targaryens were weaklings however! Their sorceries were not feeble, nor were they lacking in political acumen despite the fallacious claims spread by the dissenters to our mighty empire. Many intervened in the affairs of the East, demanding tribute from as far as Qarth so vast was their greatness and influence. Yet, their ambitions and numbers were limited by the setbacks none could have predicted, with the sudden deaths of many an Archon and a splenetic civil between the sons of Aerys leading to the evil reign of Daemion of House Targaryen, who took his sister, widow of the brother he slew, to wife and sold off his other sister to Lord Laenor Velaryon after committing acts of the highest treason, acts of kinslaying I dare not note in good conscience, so repugnant are they that my very innards churn upon resting on them for even the briefest of moments.

But, we know now that these exploits, however marked by evil and perfidy, were necessary in the blessed name of the Fourteen, for had they not occurred, our most Radiant Viserys Targaryen, beloved of the Gods, would never have drawn breath, and without him, neither would every secret of Valyria, some dead with the Doom, others having long been forgotten even when Valyria still lived.

As you have probably surmised from this text written by mine own hand, I speak mostly in the context of Valyrian Steel, the steel that sung as whole armies were levelled. Other writers have focused their attempts on unravelling the mysteries of the occult, some of great renown, Aenar the Bastard being one of them, the baseborn offspring of Lord Aron Celtigar. These theses I and my peers present have no credibility beyond word of mouth and stories of legend of course. But many a Targaryen master and mistress have cast their gaze over our humble work, going so far as to house them in their halls of wisdom and learning. While this does not validate them, it does at least prove that it is viewed in a positive light, and not at all in the respect as the wretched 'Scrolls of Oldtown', foul tales congested with fabrications and falsehoods daring to challenge the right of our Most Noble, Most Radiant, Most Blessed of rulers, that of the House Targaryen, last and chosen of the Forty.

But I digress, for I have drifted away from the subject matter in hand, that of the revival of the arts of Syrax the Golden, Mistress of the Smiths, by the hand of Viserys, greatest of the Valyrians. For that however, I must recall the Humbling of Braavos, however briefly, though knowledge of the tales of such are as akin to breathing to us civilised men and women of the Empire. Still, if some uncultivated savage should fall upon my work, then I shall say it again in good faith, and in prayer in hopes that the taint of inhumanity damned upon your kind be purged by the blessed light of the scions of House Targaryen.

I speak only of the vile perfidy of the Bastard Daughter, she who dared too much and overreached, bringing about herself her reckoning and ruination. That which prompted our First Father to remove the shackles that still tethered him to what was once the westernmost outpost of the Freehold, and to the black foes of the aptly named Blasted Lands. Archon Aerion of Dragonstone's unjust murder is what I speak of, of course, an act that still beckons forth an ire within me even two decades after I first learned of it.

Yet, let us speak not of the righteous justice delivered upon those vilest of villains, and instead turn our learned minds towards its aftermath, one that promised not despondent defeat in the face of such a painful blow, but instead, the gleaming, inexhaustive hope upon which our Empire was built on.

Our King of Kings, greatest of all the princes of the land, did not return to the blessed land of fair Dragonstone with only pride in his purest of hearts after dealing the Blasted Lands of Braavos' fair retribution for their most spiteful of a long line of transgressions. Nay! Such a man could never be weighed down by the agonies that drown men such as you and I, consuming us like the everburning flame until we crumble into ash. Viserys the Vanquisher was made of stronger, more deific stuff. Neither did he allow his sorrow to deal more damage to his subjects. While he flew upon the wings of Vhagar 'the Bronze Dragon' to his seat of power, his uncle, later his Navarch, was tasked with a task that only he, as close kin to our Archon, was worthy of.

That task?

To tell the world the furnaces of Valyria rung again, the song of which would fall upon one's hands in a year's time. A festival to the Fourteen, rife with sacrifices and games, would be held before the shard of Syrax ever Golden be brought forth to the eyes of all those who sought its hilt, on the fourteenth day itself. The Great Auction, it would later be remembered as, whence the flesh of lessers might be favoured enough to be graced with a shard of Syrax, not within, but without.

To all four corners of the Known World this news flew, leaving all who heard it bewildered, stunned, and most of all, covetous, their minds wondering if the Archon of Dragonstone had truly gone mad, or if it were aught but a boy's juvenile jape meant to inflame tempers.

None were immune to temptation however. In droves they came, bringing with them all the worldly goods in their possession, however meager or seemingly inexhaustible. Travellers came from East to the lands of the Golden Empire where squabbling princes and squabbling emperors alike all hungered for the prestige of such a blade, from the West where the golden-haired heirs of a butter-soaked, raping vagabond vied once more for the chance to restore their fallen honour, not for the last time as we all know very well. The Empress of Leng sent forth both of her husbands and her ships overflowing with gems, the Shan of the Elephants promising enough ivory to cover every nook and cranny of the Archon's island. The triarchs of Volantis attended upon their own two feet, kneeling to His Majesty in reverence and proclaiming endless blessings to the 'heir of Valyria'. Even the irksome maesters of Oldtown made the holy pilgrimage by ship, writing much of the wonders of "Valyria writ small", for Dragonstone was no longer the barren outpost, dreary and dark as they foolishly thought. Nay, friends! It was the shining beacon of hope that was already common knowledge to those in the East, its beauty so awesome that upon witnessing the opulence of its first city, Archmaester Arlen of the Citadel wrote, rather simply as was the wont of the Old Citadel, though not dishonestly:

"My peers, always so bitter and hateful, oft speak of the ordure of Godless Valyria within the walls of our Citadel. Yet, after having spent but a day within the walls of its sole worthy successor, something I say with the utmost confidence, I see no heinous villainy as is said in our lands of the Sunset as the men of the East call them. I see streets wide and broad, with pavements of the finest tiled white stone. Friezes and frescoes adorn its buildings, so magnificent in its beauty and in the skill of its makers that I have seen even the most virile of knights stand in utter transfixation for hours on end. The foods here are so rich, that even the most based of them makes the feasts of the West seem but a beggar's pantry. I see curiosities that even I cannot fathom. If the Seven Heavens await us, my mind's eye needs to look no further than Dragonstone, loveliest of Valyria's Daughters."

Not all of their ilk were of a similar mind as our histories are so fond of telling us. Why, I must only bring up the treacherous maester of Driftmark, Coleman the Craven, who attempted to share the secrets of the dragons with his trueborn yet no less primitive kinsmen of Oldtown, and was unceremoniously executed for treason. Long before the Targaryens had even had any reason to look West, the rats of the Citadel were already seeking to nip at their heels, as if they could ever hope to stand a chance, though again, I must digress for their crude idiocy should not bother virtuous scholars, nor should we mistake the ignorance of the ancient to be the wisdom of the new.

The whisperings of his lessers did not bother Archon Viserys overmuch just as well, for a thousand ships girdled Dragonstone by the time the festival began its tidings, with a thousand more anchored at Driftmark and Claw Isle and hundreds more swarming the ports of the Sunsetlands. What did the duplicity of some misbegotten bastard matter when his majesty had already ensnared all who cast their gaze upon him, his allure, his surpassingly lovely sister and his dragons? Men already fell to their knees in wonder at the briefest of sight of him, a boy of barely four-and-ten yet already more glorious than all them all, pressing their unworthy lips onto the ground his shoes of red-and-gold trod upon.

His coffers, already overspilling with the riches of the Blasted Lands of Braavos, seemed unhousable for even the wealthiest of all Yi-Tiish Emperors whence the sword, named 'Fate', found itself housed within the great treasure ship of Jai Doq returned victoriously to his Golden Empire, having paid such a sum that some said that the greatest merchant of Qarth, the fabulously wealthy Xoro Xax Xhoas who was said to own ten palaces made purely of jade, fainted. Though the sum eludes us, I must note that one thousand eunuchs, half of them boys, were considered a small token of friendship by one middling prospective buyer who earned nothing in return. For the man who paid for the most revered prize of the Century of Doom, one can safely assume it would have been more than enough to buy a kingdom. Still, I have dallied far too long on prodigal literature, and must return once more to the greater intricacies of the Age of Bronze and all that followed it to Great Auction. I pray to our great Emperor that such irresponsible, asinine and obtuse neglect shall hopefully not riddle the forthcoming chapter of this work, and that I may write something worthy of his name, his right, and his legacy…

Excerpt from A Short Discourse on the Histories of Valyrian Steel by Barazhad of Tyrosh.

A/N: Soz for the late update. Reworked this entire thing from the ground up. A reminder that I do not espouse these views and this is just propaganda long after Viserys is dead. Anyway, 9 out of 21.