I stared at the sphinx in confusion. Weren't their riddles supposed to be hard? Everyone knew sphinxes asked difficult questions, mixed with hidden meanings and layered answers, yet this one was so easy I wondered if they thought me stupid. Or perhaps I was the one missing something.
I shifted my attention to the sphinxes. Now that I was closer, I examined them properly, and this time I saw the faults: cracks hidden in their stone shells, limbs and appendages that moved in jerky motions, their eyes flickering and shifting between stone and flesh in split seconds. They had survived the Doom better than their creators, better than the dragons themselves, but they had not done so unscathed.
It wasn't hard to see how they survived in the first place. Other than the sheer physical destruction wrought by the eruption of multiple volcanoes, nothing else had actively threatened the statues. The wretches were strong, but obviously no match for the duo. The wraiths were bound to where they died, and the chimeras Gerion mentioned would have had little interest in statues.
The only plausible attack they could have suffered came from the chaos magic that diffused through the broken archipelago. Yet when I stretched out my magical senses, the same ones that let me understand this strange land, I understood why they had endured even that. The sphinxes were constructs powered by a closed-circuit magical system that helped transfigure parts of their bodies, joints, necks, eyes, into flesh when needed.
The Valyrians were masterful blood and flesh mages, so that much wasn't surprising. The true surprise came from how easily I had broken down and analyzed the construct's workings using only my senses. Like all things new, the answer came down to the body I wore. Dracula's sheer intelligence was nothing to scoff at.
I turned back to the riddle and considered it for perhaps three more seconds, turning the words in different ways and searching for a trap. When I found none, I finally answered.
"Dragons!" Marwyn blurted out a second before i could, unable to restrain himself.
The two sphinxes snapped their heads toward him and smiled, a disturbing sight. I sighed, already knowing what they would say.
"Wrong," they said in that uncanny, synchronized tone. "Death awaits."
They tensed but froze the moment I raised a hand.
"I was the one you posed the question to. I will be the one to answer."
I could almost see the logic loop twist them up inside. It made me wonder how their minds worked. Did they possess actual fleshy brains, or did they simply have golem cores?
"A riddle was asked," the first said.
"An answer was given," the second added.
"The answer was invalid," I replied calmly. "My aide simply spoke his thoughts. The question was asked of me."
Silence.
The first sphinx weighed my words. It glanced from Marwyn to me, contemplating whether it could take us. There was only one reason they had been polite so far: fear. Even if they hid it well, I saw how wary they were, and it was for one reason, me. Somehow, they understood the caliber of creature I was. I was no simple human.
"Fine," it said. "Answer us the riddle, Vlad."
"Dragon eggs," I answered immediately.
Their smiles froze. Their golden eyes blinked once, twice, alarmingly human. Even Marwyn gasped behind me, and I turned with a raised brow.
"Perhaps we should take a moment to consider,"
"You were close, Marwyn," I cut in. "The answers are close enough to serve one another. Put simply, dragons are born in fire, bound in blood through the rider's bond. But what about the second part?"
I continued. "They fly without wings while unhatched." I turned to the sphinxes. "A metaphor for soaring through dragon dreams, which they bestow upon those bound to them. They breathe without air within their shells, and though claimed by riders, dragons are never truly tamed."
Unbidden, the memory of Drogon surfaced, and I wondered how Daenerys and her three dragons fared. I could not wait to see them.
"They sleep in stone, their shells, and wake in flesh when they hatch. And finally, they are both the price and the prize of power. Put simply, the answer is a dragon, but when you take in other parts of the riddle, a safer answer is a dragon's egg, which consists of both dragon and shell."
Silence stretched. I felt Isaac and Gerion tense behind me, ready for the creatures to attack if my answer was wrong. I had no such worry. Even as the sphinxes stared with unnerving golden eyes, I stared back with curiosity.
The Valyrians truly had been something.
Then the beginning of a rumble rose in their throats before they burst into screeching laughter. It was not a pleasant sound. Their throats had not been among the parts transfigured, so we endured a mix of grinding stone and something almost melodic.
"Clever," the left sphinx said.
"Too clever," the right added.
"The knowledge to come about such an answer is not one anyone, but a true blooded child of the dragon would know," left. "You are not of Valyria," the right continued.
"But I am the son of the Dragon." I interrupted them with a step forward and with the utter and overwhelming arrogance Vald Dracula Tepes was known for. They stared at me in anticipation, the way cats stared at mice. I could sense it in their eyes. They wanted to attack, to deny us entry, yet. When they looked in my red eyes, something convinced them to stay their hand.
"Pass, Vlad Dracula," they said together, and with a deep grinding of stone on stone, they moved fully aside and slowly i could feel the transfiguration start once more as even they began to turn back to stone, but before they completely froze, the left one turned to me and spoke "However your trials are not at an end." The obsidian doors swung open an instant later.
"That was disturbingly easy," Gerion muttered.
"It was not," Isaac replied as I led the way. "Regardless of the accuracy of the answer, they might have attacked owing to the Archmaester's failure if we were anyone else."
We stepped into the preserved manse.
The interior stood in stark contrast to the ruined world outside. Preservation spells had held better here compared to the manse where we had found Gerion. Tapestries still hung, their colors faded but intact. Furniture remained where it had been placed four centuries earlier. There was no dust and no ash. No volcanic ruin, no breach in the walls.
It felt as if the owners had just stepped out days or weeks ago, as opposed to centuries.
Our footsteps echoed across marble floors inlaid with shifting patterns. The night creatures followed, their hulking forms casting strange shadows. Magic filled this place, thick, oppressive, and woven into every single stone.
"Stay alert," I warned, unnecessarily. Isaac already gripped Longclaw. Even Marwyn had stopped taking notes.
When nothing happened after several seconds, I sighed and turned, then froze.
My companions were exhausted. We had been in Valyria for nearly a week, rations running low. Gerion and Marwyn were barely standing. Isaac hid it better, but he was just as drained.
"The entrance hall is safe. For now, we rest and bask in the opulence of a preserved mansion belonging to one of the Forty families."
"Many thanks, Master Dracula," Marwyn said, collapsing onto an embroidered couch. Gerion nodded and slid down against a wall, sword at the ready.
"Should I scout, Master Dracula?" Isaac asked. "The creature at the gates promised trials, and I would be remiss to let you stumble into danger."
I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Rest, my friend. You hide it well, but you are tired. Stand guard if you wish, but rest. I will scout."
He looked ready to argue, then sighed. "As you wish, my lord."
I spread out my senses. No living beings in the manse. So I switched to magical senses. My blood hummed in my veins as I reached out.
The preservation wards were bright and complex. Far too complex to unravel quickly, so I set them aside. Three spots of interest pulsed with magic, one on this floor, one on the upper floor, and one that drew me most strongly, the roof, where the massive landing pad stood. Whatever was up there held extraordinary magical residue. I lost myself in it.
"Master Dracula," Isaac called. He stood with the others, ready. I would've blinked in surprise if I were a lesser man, instead I simply looked at the three refreshed men with a raised brow. It seemed like time had flown while I examined the wards.
"There are three areas of interest," I said with a gesture. Standing still for what must've been a day had not dulled my movements in the slightest. "One on this floor, one above, and the strongest at the top. Isaac, Ser Gerion, and Archmaester Marwyn will handle this floor. Isaac and the night creatures will take the next. I will take the highest."
"Oh, we're splitting up again," Marwyn said with a smile, already looking ready to dash forward.
"Yes." and with my acknowledgement, we went our seperate ways.
_
Marwyn
The ground floor stretched before them like a maze of sheer opulence that not even the vaunted Lannisters of Casterly Rock would be able to match. The clinking of Ser Gerion's rusted chain and plate mail as he walked beside Marwyn was annoying, but he had learned to work with annoyances, especially when the benefit was a magically corrupted and enhanced knight with a Valyrian greatsword in hand.
The Archmaester could see the thing moving beneath the Lannister's skin again, that writhing mass that had taken root in him. It worried him, though he said nothing. What good would words do against whatever curse had latched onto Gerion? The only one who could probably solve it was Master Dracula, and it could not be done here.
"There," Marwyn said, pointing to a set of ornate double doors at the end of a long corridor. The wood was dark, almost black, inlaid with beautiful script etched in proper Valyrian. Even from this distance, he could feel the pull of knowledge, that familiar hunger that had driven him across half the world and into this cursed land.
"What is it?"
"A library," Marwyn answered. "But I think it might be more than that. Look at the script." He moved closer, running his fingers just above the surface, not quite touching. "These are protection wards. Powerful ones. Whatever is inside, the family thought it worth protecting from those not of the family."
The doors had no handles, no visible means of entry, just like the main door to the manse. There was only the flowing script and, at the center where the two doors met, a small depression carved into the wood. It was shaped like a hand, palm down, with grooves that looked almost like channels.
"Blood lock," Marwyn muttered, his heart racing. "Of course, they used blood magic to seal it. Only those with the right blood can open it."
"The blood of the dragon," Gerion said, his voice flat. "Which, unless you're hiding some Targaryen in your family, neither of us has."
"Perhaps." Marwyn pulled out his knife. "But there's only one way to find out."
"Archmaester, I'm not sure—"
Marwyn didn't let him finish. The cut across his palm was quick and deep, blood welling immediately. He pressed his hand into the depression, feeling the channels fill with his blood, watching as it spread through the grooves like veins of crimson.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the blood began to smoke.
"That's not good," Gerion said, stepping back.
The blood turned black, hissing as it burned away to ash. The doors remained sealed, but something else was happening. A grinding sound, stone against stone, came from within the walls on either side of the door.
"We should move," Gerion said, already pulling Marwyn back.
They weren't fast enough.
Two sections of the wall slid open, and from the darkness within emerged constructs smaller than the sphinxes but no less deadly. They were shaped like hounds, or perhaps wolves, their bodies a mixture of the obsidian stone Dragonstone was built from and what looked like bronze worked into joints and teeth. Their eyes glowed with the same golden light as the sphinxes, and as they stepped fully into the corridor, parts of their stone shells began to shift into muscle and sinew.
"Of course, there are guards, the trials the creatures at the gate mentioned, i suppose," Marwyn said, pressing his bleeding hand against his robe.
The constructs didn't hesitate. They launched themselves forward, their partial transfiguration making their movements fluid and terrifying.
Gerion let out a shout as he met the first one head-on, Brightroar flashing in the dim light of magic lanterns. Valyrian steel rang against stone, and the Lannister grunted as the impact jarred his arms, but it was enough to push the construct back. The construct snapped at him with bronze teeth, and he barely managed to dodge, the thing moving beneath his skin writhing with increased agitation. Then he surged upward with inhuman strength, throwing the creature back with the blunt side of the blade.
The second construct went for Marwyn, who stumbled backward. His crossbow was useless against such a creature, as was the dagger he had strapped to his boot. He dodged the first swipe, his mind racing.
"The wards!" he shouted. "They're connected to the wards!"
"That's bloody helpful!" Gerion yelled back, spinning to slam his sword deep into the unaware construct that still attacked Marwyn. The Valyrian steel blade dug deep enough to break stone, sending cracks through its mid-frame and forcing the creature to dodge back to where its partner was.
"How does it help us?" he asked as he raised his sword in a guard position, the stupid maester behind him.
Marwyn's eyes fell on the script around the doors, tracing the flowing lines of High Valyrian. His mind, trained by years of study, began to piece together the patterns. Blood to seal, blood to protect, blood to... there. A flaw in the weaving, a necessary weakness to allow maintenance of the wards themselves.
He pulled out a piece of chalk from his robes and began drawing on the floor. He could barely come up with a counter-ward; he didn't have the skill or time for that. But a disruption, a break in the magic that powered the constructs, that he could do.
"Gerion! Keep them away from me for thirty seconds!"
"Thirty seconds?" The Lannister's sword clanged against stone again, and this time a smaller chip flew from the construct's shoulder, but the second had not stayed still. Already, they understood that to get to the maester, he had to die first, so they went for him. It bit into his greaves, its teeth puncturing the rusted steel with ease. He grunted from the dulled pain before lashing down with a blow that forced the construct to release his limb and fall back. "You'll be lucky if I give you twenty seconds!" he shouted back at the maester as he braced for the next encounter.
Marwyn's hand flew across the stone floor, drawing symbols he'd learned in Asshai, formulas that were supposed to dissipate magic. It was used in the cells where they placed rebellious mages. His blood, still dripping from his palm, fell onto the chalk markings, and he felt something shift in the air around him.
The constructs felt it too. Both turned toward him, their golden eyes blazing brighter.
"Marwyn!" Gerion shouted.
"Almost... there!" The last symbol complete, Marwyn pressed both hands to the floor and spoke words in broken Asshai'i, words that tasted of curdled milk and vomit on his tongue.
The chalk lines ignited with pale blue light, spreading outward in a pattern that intersected with the invisible ward lines running through the walls. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the constructs jerked, their movements becoming erratic, the transfiguration process that made them attack smoothly stuttering.
One of them collapsed mid-lunge, its partially transformed muscles reverting to stone in an instant. The other managed three more steps before it too froze, gold fading from its eyes until they were just empty sockets.
Gerion stood panting, his sword still raised, the thing beneath his skin finally settling. "That was more than twenty seconds."
"But less than thirty," Marwyn said, his own breath coming in gasps. He looked at his handiwork on the floor, at the frozen constructs, at the doors that remained stubbornly sealed. "Interesting."
"Interesting?" Gerion lowered his sword. "We were nearly torn apart by stone dogs, and you say interesting?"
"The disruption I created was only supposed to affect the constructs, not the main wards on the door." He eyed the door that seemed to have lost its glow. "This means it was never used to its full power due to the lack of magic, but here, where magic is so thick it can almost be physically felt, It's true strength has been revealed..." Marwyn stood, walking past the frozen construct to examine the doors more closely.
"The lock isn't just about blood. It's about specific blood. Not even Targaryen blood would have worked here. It would have had to be blood from a direct member of this family."
"Would this have worked against the creatures guarding the front door?" Gerion asked.
"I doubt it," Marwyn answered. "If the corrupted magic of the Doom did not, then they were well insulated against such."
"Wonderful," Gerion muttered, interrupting him. "Can we enter now?"
"Yes, but give me a moment to catch my breath and bandage my hand."
Marwyn sat down and worked quickly. When he was done bandaging his hand, he cautiously pressed his hand to a point just left of the main lock and pushed.
The doors shuddered. Then, with a sound like a long-held breath being released, the doors swung open.
Beyond the doors lay a library that made Marwyn's heart sing. Shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls stretched into the darkness, untouched by time, preserved by the same magic that had kept the entire manse intact. There were tables placed close to each shelf, and every table had Valyrian glass candles on them.
Marwyn's eyes widened as he took everything in, including what sat in the center of the room on a pedestal of its own: a tome bound in what he very much hoped wasn't human skin and dragon scales.
"By the Seven," Gerion whispered.
"By all the gods, old and new," Marwyn corrected, already moving forward. "We've found it. We've actually found it. A proper library."
_
Isaac
The upper floor was different from the ground level. Where below had been grand halls and ornate corridors, here the space felt more intimate, more personal. Isaac moved through the rooms with his night creatures flanking him, their shambling forms somehow appropriate in this place of preserved death.
He'd sent them ahead to check each room before he entered. They made excellent scouts, and their loyalty was assured, unlike the fickleness of humans. If there were traps, they would trigger them. If there were more constructs, they would face them first.
But so far, the upper floor had been empty. Bedrooms with beds still made. Personal chambers with mirrors and wardrobes. A bathing room with a pool that had once been filled by some sort of magical heating system, but it was now dry and cracked.
It was eerie, walking through the frozen life of people who had been dead for close to four hundred years. Isaac had seen much death in his time alone, had created instruments of death with his own hands, but this felt different.
He found the study at the end of a long hallway. Unlike the other rooms, this one had a door that was not just closed but sealed. Runes covered the doorframe, glowing faintly with a magic that Isaac recognized even if he couldn't fully understand it.
"Ward magic," he muttered, holding up a hand to stop his night creatures from approaching. He'd learned enough from Master Dracula to know that wards could be dangerous, especially old ones. They had a tendency to be indiscriminate in their defense.
He circled the doorframe, examining the runes from different angles. His knowledge of magic was practical rather than theoretical. He knew what worked, what didn't, and how to manipulate the forge magic that had become his specialty. But wards were different. Wards were structured, mathematical, built on principles that required understanding rather than instinct.
Still, he'd watched Master Dracula work through magical problems enough times to have picked up some methodology. First, identify the power source. His eyes traced the runes, looking for the anchor point, the place where the spell drew its energy. There: a small crystal embedded in the top of the doorframe, still glowing after all these centuries.
Second, identify the trigger. What would activate the ward's defenses? He leaned closer, careful not to touch anything, and felt more than saw it, the almost invisible tripwires of magic extending from the door itself.
Isaac straightened, his mind working through the problem. The ward was designed to stop unauthorized entry, likely with lethal force given the importance the family must have placed on this room. But it was also old, drawing on a power source that, while still active, was probably not as strong as it once was.
He could try to brute force it, but that would likely trigger every defensive mechanism the ward possessed. Or he could try something else.
Isaac pulled out his dagger, his forge tool. It was an extension of himself, for his blood was on the blade, metaphorically and literally. His intent, his will, his essence had been impressed upon the jeweled blade through years of use. The forgeblade was used to change and to twist. Could he do the same to the ward?
Isaac stabbed the blade forward into the jewel that powered the ward. He could feel the ward react, like a dog that had been kicked and was about to make its displeasure known. The two night creatures surged forward to put themselves in the path of the ward's retaliation, but there was no need.
His dagger had dug deep, so he twisted, and he could feel the ward fight against the magic of the forge tool. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the runes that made up the ward flickered. The glow dimmed slightly, and Isaac felt something shift in the air around him.
He could still feel the ward fighting back and struggling, searching for a way to untwist itself, but Isaac's dagger had changed and twisted it and it's purpose. It was like reforging something halfway. Isaac left his dagger in the door, then gestured for the night creature on his right to push the door open.
The creature pushed gently on the door, and it swung open without resistance.
The study beyond was smaller than he'd expected, but rich with treasure. Bookshelves lined three walls, filled with books. A desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with papers and scrolls, as if the owner had stepped away mid-work and never returned.
But what caught Isaac's eye immediately was the armor stand in the corner.
The armor was magnificent. It looked like it had been forged from smoke and shadow given solid form, the metal so dark it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Valyrian steel, Isaac realized with surprise. An entire suit of Valyrian steel armor. Next to it, mounted on the wall, was a sword as big as Brightroar had been. Also made of Valyrian steel, its blade showing the characteristic rippled pattern, its hilt wrapped in leather that had somehow survived four centuries intact.
Isaac approached slowly, prepared for some kind of ambush, but by the time he got to the front of the armor stand, nothing happened, so he relaxed, and his hand reached out to caress the armor. It was a suitable gift for Dracula. He doubted the elder vampire could wear it, considering it was proportioned and made for a regular human. Still, the interest he had in the rare steel should be enough to keep him occupied. And even Isaac could admit some fondness for the blade on his hips.
He turned his attention to the desk next. The papers on top were covered in Valyrian script, which he couldn't read, but the diagrams were universal. Architectural plans, from what he could tell. Perhaps for this very manse, or others like it. Whatever it was, no doubt had some importance.
Master Dracula would be pleased. Something told him that the elder vampire had his sights on something truly intriguing, and Isaac couldn't wait to return to his side.