The intelligence report had confirmed Maegor's suspicions: beyond the immediate vicinity of Myrosh town, in the wilder, forested lands to the north, pockets of resistance and opportunistic bandit gangs lurked. These were not mere raiders; they were remnants of the old order, or opportunistic brigands preying on the chaos of conquest. They needed to be dealt with. And the mention of ruins in those same forests had piqued his Valyrian Insight (Tier 3).
He summoned Khal Drogo to the castle hall. The Khal arrived, his imposing presence filling the room, his arakh at his hip. He had taken to calling Maegor "my King" with more ease now, the submission ingrained by the dragon and the shared blood.
"Khal Drogo," Maegor began, unfurling a portion of the intelligence map that detailed the northern forests. "The conquest of Myrosh is not yet complete. There are still shadows in the north. Bandits, preying on the weak, holding out in the forests." He pointed to a specific area on the map, nestled deep within the woods, marked with a faint, almost erased symbol that his Valyrian Insight instinctively recognized as a ruin. "They have made camp around these ruins. I want them removed. Every one of them. Show them the Dragon's justice."
Drogo's eyes gleamed with the familiar hunger of a warrior. "My King, it shall be done. My bloodriders crave to ride again."
"Good," Maegor affirmed. "But there is more. These ruins you will find… they are old. Very old. Ancient. My ancestors held sway in these lands long ago, before the Doom. I want those ruins explored. Thoroughly. If there are any remnants, any artifacts, any knowledge of the old ways… bring them to me. Do not let your men break what might be valuable. Understand?"
Drogo looked puzzled by the command to preserve ruins, a concept foreign to Dothraki who burned what they conquered. But he nodded. "As you command, my King. The riders will be told. They will bring back anything of interest."
Maegor allowed a small, cold smile. "Go, Khal. Let the north of Myrosh know the Dothraki have truly arrived, and that their King commands all."
For one month, the northern forests of Myrosh became a terrifying hunting ground for the Dothraki. Waves of screamers swept through the dense woods, their arakhs flashing. The bandit gangs, however desperate or cunning, were no match for the sheer numbers and brutal efficiency of Khal Drogo's warriors. They were hunted down relentlessly, their makeshift camps burned, their resistance crushed without mercy. The screams of the dying, carried on the wind, served as a stark warning to any who might consider defying the new order. The scent of woodsmoke and fresh blood became a constant companion in the northern breezes.
During this month, Maegor remained at the castle, overseeing the frantic pace of construction and training. The Dothraki settlement outside Myrosh town grew rapidly, a sprawling collection of mud-brick houses replacing the temporary tents. Drogo, surprisingly effective in this new role, drove his people with fierce urgency, instilling a sense of permanence that was alien to their nomadic traditions. The women and children, initially bewildered, slowly began to adapt, planting crops in the fertile Myrosh soil under the guidance of captured local farmers.
In the castle, the Myrosh Castle Guards took shape. Ser Barristan, a relentless taskmaster, pushed the hundred recruits to their limits. Their raw talent was honed, their discipline forged in sweat and pain. Maegor often watched their drills, occasionally offering a sharp word or a subtle correction that would leave the men stunned by his unexpected insight into combat.
Viserys, too, endured his brutal curriculum. His mornings were a nightmare of exhaustion, his body aching from Barristan's unforgiving drills. He often vomited from exertion, but the alternative—Maegor's terrifying disapproval—kept him going. In the evenings, with Maegor, his lessons were just as grueling. He now spoke passable High Valyrian, could identify every major house in Westeros and Essos, and could recite the lineage of every Targaryen king, along with their fatal flaws. He still clutched his "weak" dragon egg, whispering to it, willing it to hatch, his only solace in his torment. The fear in his eyes had not vanished, but it was now laced with a desperate hope for approval, for survival.
And in the privacy of her chambers, Lyra's belly began to swell. Maegor continued his nightly visits, his Lineage Focus: Progeny Drive (Active) satisfied with the knowledge of a child growing within her. He spoke to her of the future, of the Velysarion name, of the loyal lineage they would establish. Lyra listened, her quiet strength a constant anchor for his wild ambition.
One month after riding out, Khal Drogo returned. He rode into Myrosh, not with the usual chaotic exuberance of a Dothraki victory, but with a more subdued, respectful procession. His bloodriders and ko followed, their faces grim but victorious. They were covered in dust and dried blood, but their eyes held the satisfaction of a mission completed.
Drogo dismounted before Maegor at the castle gates, bowing his head. "My King," he rumbled, "the northern forests are cleansed. The bandits are no more. Their camps are burned. The grass is clean."
"Excellent work, Khal," Maegor acknowledged, his gaze sharp. "And the ruins? What did you find?"
Drogo gestured to several Dothraki who were carrying strangely shaped bundles. "My King, these ruins… they were not like others. They were old stone. Hard stone. And strange things were found within."
The Dothraki unwrapped their bundles, revealing their finds. Maegor's Valyrian Insight (Tier 3) flared, a sharp, exhilarating tremor in his mind.
There were pieces of broken, jet-black stone, impossibly smooth and light, unlike any common rock. Fragments of obsidian blades, some with faint, rippled patterns like miniature Valyrian steel. A few intricate, bronze and silver carvings, depicting strange, winged creatures and figures that looked disturbingly like humans with scales. And, most importantly, several small, sealed lead boxes, carefully preserved by the Dothraki at Drogo's command.
"These boxes," Drogo explained, "were found in a deep chamber, protected by crumbling stone. They felt… important. I did not allow them to be opened."
Maegor's eyes glittered. These were not common ruins. This was something far older, far deeper. The subtle detection of ancient Valyrian artifacts was working exactly as the System had promised.
"You have done very well, Khal Drogo," Maegor said, his voice laced with genuine approval. "You have purged the land, and you have brought me treasures beyond measure." He turned to Ser Kaeto. "Ser Kaeto, have these items taken to my solar. Carefully. Especially the sealed boxes. No one is to touch them without my presence."
"As you command, my lord," Kaeto replied, already directing guards to collect the artifacts with utmost care.
Maegor knew what these ruins hinted at. Not just general Valyrian presence, but perhaps a lost outpost of dragonlords, a fragment of the old empire that had somehow survived the Doom, or fled it to these remote corners. This was a direct link to his heritage, a source of power and knowledge that could dwarf even the texts Aemon had taught him. The intelligence report had been a map, and now he held the key to its secrets.