The Doom claimed Valyria and never left. The ancient Freehold felt worse beyond the thought, a vile maze of sullen rocks and water corridors, under the ominous canopy of dull, gray skies. The air smelt sour and foul; the land cloaked in black ash, snarled with thorny vines. Plumes of acidy water hissed and steamed, as if the very sea were boiling. Breathing the air of the godforsaken realm gave Vaelar more nausea than the long voyage across the waves. As if that were not enough, he had to suffer the indignity of traveling in a hanging cage of iron.
"You no like it, bustard," jeered Zhokhar, Euron's mongrel son, the youngest of three baseborn half-brothers. In truth, the ebony boy was a bastard himself, but understands not the concept. Circling around the boy, Miirgal the ape bounced and capered, many bracelets of gold and silver clinking a song of their own, on his arms and arm-like legs. At first, Vaelar took the remark in silence, ignoring the boy and his simian friend.
Restless waves swayed the cage, nudging the boy within Vaelar's grasp, so the prince took the opportunity, grabbed boys shirt through the bars, and smashed his head on the iron. Zhokhar whimpered in pain, "I tell father." A stream of blood ran from the gash on his forehead, coloring a half-dark face with red.
"Go on, he doesn't give a damn, nor do your brothers. If you fell overboard, no one would mourn you," Vaelar grinned, feeling the hot Valyrian air fill his hollow eye socket, stirring a prickly itch. He was grateful the eye had healed before the Silence reached the smoking ruins of Valyria, for the salty sea air brought him great agony and many sleepless nights. It felt as if the eye still lingered there; it throbbed so much he wanted to tear bandages off. Yet, soon the pain faded, becoming lesser, until a month ago, dawned a painless morning.
Unsettled, the baseborn boy rattled the cage, fleeing away, and for the ten-thousandth time, Vaelar glanced at the shiny Frost below. The sword seemed so near yet so far from reach at the same time. The boy left, but the ape creature stayed, gazing at him with unnerving humanlike eyes. The ape was as cruel as Euron's sons, smashing the food that mutes brought to Vaelar and more than once beating Thoros to the blood. Euron gave the creature more leeway than to his own sons. For the matter of love, Vaelar spoke no falsehood; Euron bore love for no man, his own sons least of all. The middle bastard Zhai, with the jade face of Yi Ti, cherished only the books, and the eldest, Hormuth, in mien and manner, sought to be a mirror of his sire. To win his father's favor, the boy meant to take Vaelar's fingers, but came up short. A greater folly was to think he knew what pleased Euron, as the father asked the son which of the fingers he wanted to claim and sliced the answer from the boy's hand.
The crimson carcass of the Silence was draped with the gibbeted bones of Vermithor's crew. Of hundreds, only two men survived: Vaelar and Thoros—one spared for his dragon blood, the other for his priestly craft, now serving as Pyat Pree's acolyte. Flaming sword spoke Thoros was no common priest of R'hllor, but a sorcerer; which he was not, nor a pious priest for that matter. The Red Temple's choice to send such a man to the Westerosi court, to sway the king to their fate, now saved him. Simple priest, let alone emissary, barely knowing a word of High Valyrian, coming to a dynasty where it was mother tongue. The wheel of destiny, by design or not, spins in unusual ways.
"In Valyria, it's always twilight," Vaelar recalled uncle Viserys saying once.A truth nonetheless, since the cliffs of the isle loomed on the horizon, the skies were stained with crimson. The Silence sailed towards the heart of the land, where the redness faded under a grey shroud, as tongues of fire licked through the thick smoke.
"The old capital of the dragonlords is the core of the isle; beneath the rubble, many vaults lie, unharmed by the Doom," vowed Pyat Pree, peering into the glass candles. Three there were on the deck; a long, keen green one, more a sword than a candle; two twisted black ones, more fair but less fearsome. The warlock claimed he could glimpse a path through them, and as ever, Euron seemed the most patient man in the world. Until he was not.
"Does your art demand a hand?" Greyjoy asked, with a soft, almost gentle voice. He punishes all sins, even poor choices, or lack of foresight.
"Mine does," Pree answered with a blank face, playing Euron's game. "His does not," long bony finger pointed at one of the two lesser warlocks. It skipped Thoros; Vaelar was not surprised; the red priest was least known to warlocks, so Euron would not take his offering. All threads with the Greyjoy reaver were frail ones. The purple man lost a hand by the reaver's steel, biting his own tongue hard. If he cries, the second hand may follow.
"Dragons grow fast, but how fast?" Euron asked another riddle while his mutes struggled to avoid a new peril, a jagged rock, barring passage through the corridor. So they ventured anew, into even darker ways, reefing sails to move as slowly as possible.
"In half a year, it may be the size of a mule or even a horse," Pree said. "Though there is much mystery, the dragon is now in Valyria. Here, it may grow even faster."
Poisonous delusion seized Euron. "Should I dwell in Valyria for a year or two, to harness the beast in its full power? No place in the Seven Seas seems more like a dream than Valyria does. Like a proper one, from which you wake in cold sweat and dread to shut your eyes again." His words stirred fear in the warlock. What if his master truly believes in such folly? For once, Vaelar was not afraid. If he is to die by a reaver's hand, or his sons, or mutes, or even a few dozen Unsullied; So be it, better for Valyria to take me.
"The walls of House of Undying offer men many a dream, dreadful as a deathbed, sweet as a royal feast. And above all, it offers ecstasy. Mayhaps your lordship should turn your course to Qarth."
Scanning the men, Euron laughed, slowly and wickedly. "Within the walls of your House, your kind reigns. Here, on my deck, I am the king, Lord of life and death." To prove his point, the captain of the Silence ordered two Unsullied to stand before him. "Life," he said, touching the axe to the pulse of the left one. "Death," blood spurted, tinting the axe.
Death lost meaning to Vaelar; the only god that may exist is the god of crows, to feast upon so much ill fate. He was weary of such musings, weary of salt and iron, weary of silence. Except for Euron's vile-bred whelps, no one spoke to him, nor looked, not even the Lord of the ship. The Silence lived up to its name; the deck was rid of talk of any kind, but for Euron and the warlocks. The prince guessed they spoke more in their chambers.
Suddenly, a colossal statue rose from the mist, headless and towering, thrice as tall as Baelor the Blessed. The stone figure was a warrior, in armor from neck to foot, the most splendid Vaelar had ever seen; its adornments had their own adornments. Not just a warrior, but a dragonlord, sentinel of the great capital of the lost empire, of those who once ruled the known world.
The narrow corridors of the sea became stone-brimmed channels; beyond the first great statue, the works of man reigned over every corner of the visage. It looked like Dragonstone, it felt like a dream, old and unplaced. Sphinx-shaped watchtowers dominated, destroyed hellhounds gaping jaws from the water, arches of stone spanned the void in the fog. So many statues men cannot count them all; some crumbled, some halved, but many still standing-whole. And this was only the periphery, a mere shadow of the majestic capitol, and it dwarfed King's Landing, outshone Volantis, though Vaelar had seen little of the first daughter of Valyria from his iron confinement.
Ashes fell like grey snowflakes, drifting softly in the air, like the north's summer snows. The mutes cried out in wordless agony as fiery specks seared their flesh. The first of the fourteen doomfires loomed in the distance, shrouded by smoke and haze. It looked like a second sun in the sky, but it was too close, and in the wrong place. Grunts of the mutes grew louder as the ashes rained down more heavily. Vaelar felt no pain, nor heat on his skin. Among the mute sailors, the ape Miirgal thrashed and howled, maddened by the torment, sending men flying with his blows.
Fleeing from the pain, some sought refuge below the deck, leaving the ship half-manned. The Silence, then, veered and lurched without proper guidance. A clamor heralded Euron's emergence from his cabin. Seeing the ashfall, the Greyjoy raised his hand to the sky as if trying to reach the doom volcano. Winter came to the Silence, a winter of raw fear. The ashes scorched clothes, blistered faces, and melted skin with every touch. And Euron stood, fearless and bare, like a man without armor on the brink of battle.
Ash devoured not only the flesh but the vessel itself; black sails, reefed and furled, blazed like a fire arrow pierced through the mast. Dark doomfire pest gnawed at the timbers, turning the crimson hull to charcoal. "Oars," Euron commanded, and at last his thralls obeyed, more afraid of the master than the doom that loomed around. The ship leapt forward, faster than it had since they had sailed into Valyria. A safe haven seemed to beckon: a great domed palace, spanning the water channel from shore to shore—a lone edifice with a hundred arched windows and a score of balconies. The Silence slipped beneath the shadow of two winged wyverns, carved of blackened stone, and entered the scorched hall, hidden within belly of the pleasure dome. The rain of ash did not follow them into the tunnel.
Not many lives were lost, yet all who toiled on deck suffered sorely, losing great swathes of skin, and many men lost the use of their eyes. Maimed crewmen, an ecumbrance to the ships captain, were thrown into the foul water below, grievously dying. The flames devoured sails but left the mast cracked and useless.
A mask of discontent covered Euron Grayjoy as he gazed at the dark edifice above. Valyria frightened him as naught else in the life did. If not for this palace, the Silence would have melted with the hundred sunken ships before. Many vessels from the Free Cities tried to plunder the ruins; all perished. Ghiscari did the same, seeking to reclaim lost riches from the empire that brought doom upon the ancient slavers. Valyria stole even slavery itself, having more men in chains than every other realm combined.
"The gates of Valyria are behind us, but the city is vast; we scarce grazed its wonders. Our prize lies leagues ahead," the warlock emerged from his cabin. Is death a wonder.
Euron strode across the deck, every step measured, surveying the damage, weighing the next move. Every heart but his yearned to turn back. The reaver spied Vaelar, his doublet riddled with holes, but no harm on his face or limbs. No harm but one— the one he inflicted on himself. "The boy is unburnt," his voice grew louder. "Why? The tears of the Fourteen Flames took them, the silence, but not you. Does dragon blood run so deep? Will Dragonbinder grant my seed such fortitude?"
"Such an outcome seems likely," the lack of knowledge warlock Pree turned into honeyed words. Crow's Eye recognized the falsehood, but Vaelar saw desire in the lone eye. It gave him hope to rise beyond the shell of his Greyjoy body.
"It matters not; Valyria will claim us all. I lost an eye to the tip of your dagger; no blood spared me from such a fate," the prince said, startling himself, as for many a moon he had defended himself only with silence. The hope of returning to Westeros is gone; better to die as the man I once was, then a craven.
Crossing his arms, Euron grinned, "True, but no one said you are worthy of such blood. My arm has taken great steel from men who are not warriors, great armor from knights who failed to be guardians of themselves, a vast wealth from men more brittle than their coins. The Iron Price is a great justice."
'Valyria is a beast you cannot tame,' Vaelar wished to speak, but feared Euron might chastise him, subject him to that Iron judgment. "What if it's a lie," the prince dared instead, leaving greater defiance to other times which may never come, "if the horn is naught but a sailor's tale, or if true, but destroyed in doom?" A perilous query— at best, Euron would ransom him back to King's Landing; at worst, he would swim in the boiling stew of Valyrian water.
"If you think I would part with the wyrm; sell the beast, you gravely err. It may still soar under the yoke of fetters and lash, as all beasts do. Lions prance in mummer's farces, elephants bear men on their backs." Sweat glistened on Euron's brow beneath the eyepatch as the heat in the tunnel grew fierce. A pyre for us all. Wiping it off, Euron once more scanned Vaelar deeply, unveiling another virtue in dragon blood. The high temperature had no sway on Vaelar; his forehead stayed unblemished, as on the open waves.
"Valyria should have been in the North Sea," Vaelar breathed softly, his voice a whisper in the dark, as ash timbers framed both ends of the tunnel, closing around them, like an oven. Easy on the skin, dreadful to the lungs. The air grew heavier, weighed on him like a stone, a suffocating cloak of heat. He would have traded all his golden dragons for a draught of that mountain's crisp air. The heat shimmered at the corners of his sight, melting the world into watery shapes. He heard its song, a lullaby from a fevered dream, beckoning the men of the ship to the boiling chasm below. I am dreaming again, Vaelar thought, but he was still on the ship, a prisoner in a cage, beneath the black arches of Valyria's fallen halls.
'Mother, I deny you. Father, I beg for you. Brother, where are you?' the sweet female voice sang. Daenerys. From the smooth walls of the palace, smoky shadows spilled, sweeping over the ship, dancing to the High Valyrian song, as nimble as dragonflies. Surely, I must be dreaming. Silent sailors, tormented by the rising heat, gazed warily at the shadows, which took on more and more the shape of women, breaking the quiet with laughter. The virtuoso movements of the shadowy maidens seemed gentle and graceful, turning the silence into a heavenly ball.
"Sing to me, Valyria. Speak to me, Valyria," Euron elated, at them, being alone in the absence of fear.
Petrified, all hands aboard shivered in terror, even the Unsullied, who drank potions to banish fear from their minds and spirits. Brother, oh winged brother, prey upon them, the lullaby gained words, and shadows swooped like hawks upon the crewmen, passing through bodies, stealing souls hidden in shells of flesh. Some dropped to the deck, some overboard to cook like crabs in Flea Bottom, while some bravely stood, as at first sight, the shadows did no harm. Bowmen loosed arrows at the nightmarish shapes, yet the shafts passed through, hitting other men. Self-slaughter continued when Unsullied stabbed each other with spears, fighting ghostly apparitions but wounding themselves.
"Cease," Euron commanded, "on the precipice of magnificence, men should tremble," and the eunuch warriors stopped, kneeling in obedience, letting shadows dance around, as courtesans do amid the fires of a battle camp.
A womanly shadow figure rose before Vaelar's cage, red eyes glancing through bars. "The son of Valyria returns," he heard in his head, "returns to die," the voice laughed, smooth and sonorous as a lady of the court.
"Set me free," Vaelar pleaded, as if he were awake, as if the voice were friendly. "Set my dragon free," he repeated as a second plea.
"Seek me," the voice replied, "beyond the wood of desolation, through the arch of triumph, under Balerion the heartdemon."
The Silence then thundered as the green water below seethed even more, misty vapors enveloping the ship in a veil of heat. The men shrieked from agony. A flame burst from the window of Euron's quarters, from which Taēlynn raised her wings, twice as large, like the great eagles of legends. As noble as dolphins off the coast of Lys, she flew through the heavy air. She is more at home than I am.
Four unsullied stood sentry by Vaelar's cage; four were engulfed by dragonfire, fleeing for salvation into treacherous waters. Merrily, Taēlynn blinked, seeing him, seizing bars of the cage with large white talons; rending the padlock with her razor teeth. The stubborn iron did not yield; instead, flames erupted from she-dragons's maw, heating it and turning it a fiery, bloody hue. As the redness spread, the sharp teeth sank into the softened iron, tearing it asunder. Vaelar was free. The door of the cage swung open, and the prince of the Seven Kingdoms leapt out, grasping his sword, the Frost.
Too prudent to fight, he vaulted overboard into the steaming water. An arrow shafts flew after him, vainly striking the liquid wall above his head. Murky and foul, the channel was as loathsome as every stench in Pycell's maester's chamber, if not worse. From hidden depths, wavy seaweed rose almost to the surface, licking his feet. Vaelar dreaded to emerge from the water, even as his lungs cried out for air. Bubbles ascended among the seaweed, bursting around him, bringing a glimmer of light with each pop. A bright glow shone from the source of the bubbles, like a Karstark banner defying the darkness.
Goddess Taēlynn called to him from the heart of the white circle, a living stone gliding through the vile water. 'Seek me,' she said again through the water, as clear as if spoken in the great Hall of Harrenhal, where stone arches carried echo. 'Up is down, down is upon,' the Lady of the Moon sang softly like honey on the tongue, as light shone beneath Vaelar's feet in the shape of a door. By instinct, a strange will stirring inside him, the prince followed, trying not to lose his sword Frost, a saving grace in the perils of Valyria.
As the bright rim of the moonlight kissed his face, he felt all senses slip away; not light, but the blackness of a dreamless slumber claimed him. In the void, a soft kiss brushed his cheek. 'Daenerys,' he murmured, thinking of the silver queen-goddess beneath the ceiling of the channel. The kiss turned wet—a long lick of a leaf-sized tongue that smeared his skin, urging him to wake. Lifting his eyelid, Vaelar was just an inch from the dagger-shaped pupil of a dragon's eye.
"Taēlynn," Vaelar's heart jumped, "I have longed for you, girl." He kissed her between the nostrils, breathing in the smoky, rich scent of a dragon. Stroking her horns, now longer—much longer than before, as was everything about her, he saw. Her body was bigger than a hound, and her wings were so vast they wrapped him like a cloak. She shielded me, he realized, looking at the dim chamber, all its splendor hidden from his weary eyes.
"Forgive me," he whispered, "I was too weak to defend you." Gently, she rubbed her long face, a mosaic of blue scales, against his stubbled cheek. Taēlynn heard him, not only his voice but every corner of his soul and mind, as he felt no malice in her fiery heart. And sorrow as she beheld upon the eyeless side of his face
"Where are we?" he asked, as the chamber was too shy of light still. Sensing his need, Taēlynn bathed the chamber with a jet of flame, so tame it never touched the walls but revealed a vast room, cracked marble walls now dark, mournful, and filthy from volcanic ash. Statues and furniture lay shattered to bits, worse than the war, leaving nothing to loot or scavenge.
Abandoned, but for those who came from afar. Footsteps echoed in the distance, reaching his ears through the emptiness of the palace premises. "They are hunting me," he knew, but was perplexed. Any sane man would think I drowned, swallowed by the venomous waters of the Valyrian channel, the nearest, to water, ruined freehold had to offer. But any sane man is not Euron Greyjoy; seldom does a man have such a nose for strange matters or such cunning to see beyond what eyes and mind show.
Springing to his feet, Vaelar clasped the hilt of the Frost, determined not to fall into the Kraken's clutches again. "We must be quiet," he told his dragon as her leathery wings beat with a loud noise. The palace was deserted; whoever dwelled here wasn't present when the reckoning of the Doom swept over Valyria. Except for Euron's own men, the mutes of a different sort searching for him. The high-ceilinged hallway showed dozen more doors, many parts of the palace still claimed by the water. The place seemed larger from the inside; every turn offered several more ways. It was hopeless to just get out, let alone escape them. Until coiled stairs. 'Up is down, down is upon,' the counsel that became wise under the waters of the channel, spoke to him once more.
So Vaelar climbed up instead of going down, and as he did, the sounds of his foes became more faint. He almost stumbled to the ground when a dark, twisted hellhound awaited him after one turn. My ancestors truly fancied queer beasts, yet, on the back of a dragon, every lesser creature seems harmless. Grotesque after grotesque, the palace revealed many unnatural faces in the darkness — sharp-toothed grins, gaping claws, and long horns. The last turn brought him to the terrace, laying bare to the complete ruin of Valyria.
A bleak and barren union of earth and sea, akin to the bogs and swamps of the Neck, but with a pervading silence that broods over all. No winged creature soars above Valyria, no living thing swims in the water or creeps on the jagged lands, nor lurks in the ruins of the fallen city. None of this world, at least. Vaelar shunned the thought of the shadowy shapes that flitted around Euron's ship, and of the vision he had seen. The tainted air might be to blame, or something in the water. Blackfish had warned him oft of poisonous plants that spare men's life but steal his wits, conjuring up terrors hidden in the depths of one's soul. Scarce in Westeros, but they do exist, Tully said as they journeyed by the Kingsroad, crossing the Neck.
A dread seized Taēlynn; her fear became his fear as a crackling noise drew his eye to the arches where Miirgal hung, baring his teeth in a wicked grin. Panting and grunting, the ape craved attention. "Dracarys, Taēlynn," Vaelar commanded, and the she-dragon obeyed, spewing fire toward Miirgal. But the ape leapt to the ground, dodging peril. Charging at him, Vaelar swung Frost, slicing the ape's legs in midair as it tried a new escape. Mocking snorts turned into snorts of pain as it tumbled over the smooth floor, leaving a bloody trail. With a swift stroke, Vaelar clove the ape's head, slaying it.
Taēlynn hissed, spitting smoke between the white teeth-daggers of her jaw, then skewered the ape's corpse with a fiery lance, charring the flesh. She took the first bite, and with a ravenous belly goading him, Vaelar used Frost to hack a large chunk for himself. Meager as it may be, Valyria herself shall not feed us. The taste was awful, as unsavory as it could be, granting no delight. The fare before him was indeed born of despair, disgusting to the mind as much as to the tongue.
The leftovers, he stowed, using cloth from his shirt; the rest of the meat for himself and the bones for Taēlynn. If there were any game amid the ruins, he might have hunted, but the dead landscape dashed such hopes to dreams. Still, some vermin might dwell under rocks, and Vaelar ate those, just for the sake of Blackfish lesson. When the land is scourged by war and hunger, it's better to eat beetles than leaves, as greenery swells men's bellie but gives no sustenance.
Following Taēlynn, he made his way through the hallway, finding a bridge out of the palace. Crossing it led to more ruins—scores or more of buildings that did not withstand the doom, losing their proud shapes. All were raised upon the backs of slaves, a wicked practice that her ancestors not only took from Ghis, but honed it as a great endeavor, putting more innocents in chains than some lands now have folk. Those who refused to bend the knee perished under the searing breath of a thousand dragons. His mother's blood admired the defiance Roynar put forth, as the North would rather die than suffer chains. When Aegon came three centuries ago, he took only their pride from them, so Torrhen Stark, the last Winter King, knelt.
With a swift pace, he wanted to go as far as he could. Euron would not forsake the Silence; the ship was maimed by fire, but it was his only salvation here. Likewise, he would not give up the chase for Vaelar; two scores of Unsullied must be on their trail. The walk was brief before the first part of the accursed woods came into sight—a vast blackened ground filled with burnt dead trees, leafless and dry, with only ash as their fruits.
The Wood of Desolation is true, so I might still dream, trapped in that foredoomed cage. The curse of Valyria is that you never know; every moment here seemed twisted, with all senses prickling that something was wrong. Lacking a better choice, he pressed on, touching the dusty ground of the woods—a soft ash settled over three hundred years, mingled with rain, hardened by dry air. Cycle after cycle.
He made ten paces when his right foot sank almost to the knee. Gods, not this. Once, he nearly died in the shifting sands of the deserts of Dorne. The roads south of the marches, in some places, are like bridges; straying beyond them meant death by land or beast. Or by men—Dornish are not always friendly.
Carefully, Vaelar probed the ground with Frost, searching for firmness, and moved slowly. "I'll not reach the other side, not before nightfall; the things night brings might be even worse." Cold, he feared. Dry and desert lands tend to be cold at night, as they are hot by day. Heat I can bear, but in these clothes, others may take me. Perhaps they shall. I now know children's tales are true. The enemy of men still skulks somewhere; if a cold Mountain harbored some of them, many more may sleep north of the Wall, where ice never thaws.
Taēlynn croaked, alerting him of the peril at his back as a score of Unsullied raced toward the fringes of the charred forest, bearing round shields and short spears in disciplined ranks.
I cannot face so many; I scarce bested one, Vaelar's courage faltered at the sight. Hastening his steps, he pressed onward, wading through the ashen drifts. "Taēlynn, stay near to me. We will live through this." How, he knew not, but it was better to speak it than to succumb to despair.
A low snarl behind gave him hope as the first Unsullied plunged, but deeper then Vaelar sank, almost to the waist. Then the second, third, and he counted almost half of them. By chance, some may sink deep enough to perish... or I may. The Unsullied are not fools; they used the same ploy he did, correcting their course with their spears. And faster than him, as spears gave them more leverage. The Frost is a long sword, but not as long as a spear.
"Master swore not to harm you," the nearest Unsullied to Vaelar said in a deep voice, startling the prince. The Reaver spared their tongues, as Unsullied never grumble, let alone defy. Quieting them is a matter of command; if tales are true, the master can command them never to utter a word in life, and they'll be more silent than mutes.
"Did he command you not to harm me?" Vaelar retorted, and the eunuch held his tongue. He did not; they have leave to kill me if I spurn the offer. "I offer you mercy; go back, and my dragon will spare your lives." Of course, slave soldiers will not yield; they drink not to feel, the lash stripped every shred of humanity from them. They are emotionless fighters, as an empty suit of armor if one can move.
Again, the Unsullied held their peace. Not to parley, as they already had; not to boast, as serving Euron gave them no pride; nor jest, as they were not men anymore. "Keep your distance," he whispered to Taēlynn as she softly beat her leather wings above the men, out of reach of his spear but close enough to heed Vaelar's command. "Dracarys." The pointed leather helm melted into the man's face, bringing him down. Without a new command, Taēlynn swept over the next two, setting their brawny bodies aflame. Then three more, halving their strength. The remaining Unsullied followed the last command given and hurled their short spears toward Vaelar, ready to slay a prince. The first landed a yard away, but Vaelar had to duck to avoid the second one, falling into a dusty pool of ash.
To shield him, Taēlynn spread her wings wider, soaring over the spike-helmed foe, raising a wave of dust, a veil to blind their sight. The wave of ash became a wave of fire as four men in unison shrieked, burning agony claiming them. The scent of scorched human flesh filled Vaelar's nostrils, sparking a feeling inside him he never thought he had. 'It smells good,' to an empty belly, it smelled good.
His dragon did not share the same moral qualm and landed upon the roasted men, feasting upon their flesh.
At that moment, his stomach turned so hard he spewed meat of a simian beast, one he had eaten before. Some maesters believe simians were once men, cursed by the Seven to live an animal life, in a lesser form. He would have to eat their meat soon, not to starve himself. He could not tell if that made him a maneater, nor did the Seven truly exist, but he did not like the maesters. Especially Pycelle.
Careworn, he went on walking, taking an Unsullied shield on his back and using a spear to clear a way. Soon, the snake-shaped trail he left in ash became so long he could not see its start, and still, nothing lay before him. His heart somewhat leapt when, in the distance, a stone shone with the redness of the coming dusk. A stone face emerged from the ash, another statue of some great dragon lord, a name lost to time, buried in the layers of ash. Weariness taking hold of him, Vaelar stopped, making himself a bed in the giant's eye. In an ellipse sheltered by dragon wings, he fell asleep, dreaming about his mother.
The first autumn snows drifted onto Winterfell, bringing the first white cloak that would not melt, unlike the summer snows. The world was cold in the dream but in a pleasant manner, with crispness in the air and roads still free from ice. On horseback, Lady Lyanna galloped through shallow snow, freeing grass from its cloak. Time seemed serene and slow, each moment clear, something to cherish.
"Stand aside, or face the consequences. Move on," she said to Vaelar as he stood by the road, taller than her. She died young, younger than you are now, the dream reminded him of the cold truth. Yet, he wanted to stay there, just to gaze at her. Then the snow began to melt, and the beautiful blue skies of the North dimmed. "No, I wish to stay. Leave me here."
Instead, the heat called him back to reality as Taēlynn encircled them in a ring of fire.
"What are you doing, girl?" Still half-asleep, he asked, as danger caught his eye—a thousand red scarabs tried to breach the fiery wall. Relentlessly, Taēlynn fended them off with her blasts, sending many of them into the air, as sparks from a campfire. Valyria has a life, vile as the land they crawl upon.
Crawling swiftly, with crackling sounds, the six-legged pest persisted, sensing the fresh meat, until the boom—the boom that frightened them back into ash.
A ruthless sound erupted so forcefully that Vaelar put his hands on ears to prevent them from falling off. Suddenly, the starless Valyrian sky was ablaze, turning the bright reddish night into day again.
In the east, Vaelar saw flames creating a brazen arch between two volcano peaks. The second clue;
An Arch of Triumph