After fifteen agonizing days and nights, the Laughing Lion finally sailed into the land forsaken by the gods.
The sea churned and boiled, reeking of acrid rot.
A dense, chalk-white fog rose from the water, curling around the hull and blotting out the sky.
The air was scorching and oppressive—every breath felt like swallowing burning sand.
"Smoking Sea..."
A sailor's teeth clattered, his face pale as ash.
In the mist, shadowy outlines writhed in the pallid glow—some like toppled spires, others like the bones of titanic beasts.
From the shrouded "islands" all around came eerie, blood-curdling shrieks, drilling into ears and tearing at nerves.
Guards' hands trembled around their spears, bowmen's knuckles whitened on their strings.
Even Scarface Lened, whose gaze was always sharp and merciless, showed a flicker of fear for the first time.
...
Days later, the plague came.
At first, a few sailors grew pale as corpses dragged from the sea. Then their skin flushed raw red, lips swelling purple, eyes sinking deep, with dark veins bulging and twisting beneath their flesh.
They burned with fever, vomited, and suffered ceaseless diarrhea. Their bodies stank of sweet, charred meat as their cries of despair echoed through the lower decks.
"Throw them overboard!"
Gerion didn't spare them a glance as he gave the order.
The sick were hurled into the boiling, gray-yellow waters, swallowed at once by the frothing waves.
The crew's numbers dwindled sharply. Those who remained carried only numbness—or madness—in their eyes.
Only Lo Quen silently counted the numbers flashing on his panel:
[Magic: +10... +15... +25...]
Just as he expected. The ruins of Valyria were thick with magic, the air's concentration far surpassing the outside world. A natural cradle for magical creatures. The deeper they pressed into the Smoking Sea, the faster the numbers climbed.
On the tenth day, they froze at:
[Magic: 450/500]
At dawn on the eleventh day, the anchor sank into shallow waters lined with jagged black reefs.
Gerion narrowed his eyes at the hazy shore, his command crushing the crew's last shred of hope.
"Lower the boats. Land."
When his boots hit the wet, searing gray-brown "sand," Lened finally cracked under the terror in his chest.
From the first day in the Smoking Sea, he had felt as though a giant hand was squeezing his heart, leaving him gasping.
His years as a sellsword had hardened his will, but they were no defense against the horrors of Valyria's ruins.
He wanted to run.
He grabbed Gerion by the collar of his leather armor, the rose-red scar on his face flushing with rage.
"Madman! Back in Volantis you swore you'd find the sword—you swore you'd succeed! And now? Look around you! This is hell, not treasure! I see only plagues that devour men, monsters howling in the shadows! Do you want treasure, or do you want us all buried here with you?!"
Gerion brushed his hand away and pulled a roll of charred-edged parchment from his cloak.
"Open your eyes, 'Eagle' of House Maegyr."
He nudged aside loose ash with his boot, revealing a massive black stone slab beneath, its seams so tight a blade could not slip through.
"This is the Dragonroad. Follow it, and you'll find the Valyrian steel you dream of."
Lened Maegyr's breath caught. The map depicted Valyria in its entirety. He'd wager it was worth a fortune in gold.
Blood rushed to his head, greed flashing nakedly in his eyes. But the thought of Gerion flanked by dozens of guards cooled him, and he forced himself to study the parchment.
It showed their party on the western shore of Valyria's island. Beneath their feet stretched the marble-paved Dragonroad. Follow it east, and they would reach the fabled city itself.
Visions of vaults brimming with Valyrian steel weapons and armor surged through Lened's mind.
The shame of his cadet-branch birth and his hunger for treasure drowned out his fear.
He spat to the side—silent consent.
Gerion gave the order, and the company marched onto the Dragonroad.
The colossal stone blocks, even after four centuries, still displayed craftsmanship so perfect it mocked the crude works of later ages.
On either side, twisted dead trees clawed at the gray sky, while fragments of gray-veined marble lay half-buried in scorched earth.
The air reeked only of sulfur and ash.
Lo Quen trailed at the rear, his cold eyes scanning the wasteland, every step pressed tight against his nerves.
The faint trace of bloodline within his body granted him sharp senses. He could feel something moving deep within the thick fog, its hungry gaze licking at their backs, yet it never struck.
Lo Quen dared not relax, keeping his focus razor-sharp. He was certain that if some hideous monster leapt from the withered forest, he would be the last to fall back, standing guard before the others.
After less than half a day's march, Gerion and Lened halted the group, announcing they would camp here.
Sure enough, something went wrong.
While setting up camp, a Lhazareen slave vanished into the mist along the forest's edge. His companions cried out in Lhazareen, begging Gerion to send men to search. Gerion coldly refused.
Lened leaned close to him, voice low and trembling. "Gerion, you've noticed it, haven't you? They're following us. The things in the Deadwood Forest. Those monsters have been on our trail since we landed this morning!"
Years as a sellsword had sharpened his instincts—he had long known something lurked within the Deadwood.
"Which means there aren't enough of them, and they're not strong enough. Otherwise, they'd have struck already."
Gerion's tone was careless, his blue eyes gleaming faintly in the dusk, his steadiness brimming with confidence.
Lened's mouth twitched stiffly. Inwardly he cursed Gerion's arrogance, his voice sharp with scorn. "Sometimes I can't tell if you're truly certain or just running your mouth. They're weighing their prey! Think—are they jackals, or are they lions? Can you swear you'll escape their jaws?"
"Is that so, Lened? A pack of starving beasts scared Maegyr's 'Eagle' into pissing himself? I'll tell you this: Valyrian treasure is worth the risk. If they're jackals, I'll roast them for supper. If they're lions, I'll gladly bring my brother at Casterly Rock a fine Valyrian pelt.
Or would you rather pick over carrion at the ruins' edge? Don't you want to see Valyria for yourself? To see what kind of power brought the mighty Valyrian civilization to its end? Maybe we'll find weapons fit for our hands. Maybe we'll discover dragon eggs and be remembered in taverns from the Seven Kingdoms to the Free Cities."
Lened fell silent. He knew his strengths lay on the battlefield and in the arena, in blades and combat—not in sparring with Gerion's words.
Yet, he had to admit, Gerion's words stirred something in him.
Greed whispered to him, drawing him toward Valyria and its treasures.
Gold, gems, weapons, even dragon eggs—he would welcome them all.
Night soon fell, and the party was forced to halt again.
Gerion forbade the lighting of fires, wary of attracting hostile eyes.
But before long, a shrill, inhuman scream tore through one corner of the camp.
A sailor was burning, engulfed in a strange, bright yellow flame. His skin melted like wax, dripping as his flesh sizzled in the fire.
He rolled and writhed like a living torch, casting the tents around him in a hellish glow.
Gerion came running, fury already boiling. Before he could even grasp what had happened, he roared, "Put it out! Quickly!"
But his command was swallowed by the man's wails.
The sound was so piercing, so full of agony, that it made every soul present shiver.
No one dared approach the flames. One of Gerion's guards stepped forward and explained what had happened.
An old sailor had suddenly ignited from within as they set up camp. That was how he had come to this.
The story darkened Gerion's face at once.
Lo Quen, standing among the crowd, realized instantly—this was disturbingly similar to what had once happened to Princess Aerea.
At last the fire burned itself out, leaving behind a curled, blackened husk. Thin wisps of smoke carried the stench of scorched flesh.
Silence hung heavy. Then—hiss… hiss…
A sickening scraping came from within the charred corpse. Lo Quen's suspicion was confirmed.
With a wet pop, a crimson maggot as thick as an infant's arm pushed through the burnt ribs.
Its slimy body was embedded with a distorted, weeping human face.
Beneath it, four small limbs clawed frantically at the bone fragments, greedily sucking.
Then came a second. A third...
"Disgusting things!"
Lened, snapping at the sight, lost all reason. With vengeful fury, he drew his sword and hacked down.
The blade struck true, slicing a human-faced maggot clean in two. Thick, lava-like crimson pus sprayed violently into the air!
"Don't get close, you fool! Stop!" Gerion's warning came half a heartbeat too late.
The maggots splattered with the foul blood twisted their weeping faces into masks of venomous hatred.
They reared their swollen bodies high, their hissing cries rising into a shrill, glass-scraping screech.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Lened's face—
Whoosh!
Several streams of sticky pale-yellow fire shot from the maggots' mouths, striking his face with unerring precision.
"Arghhh—!!!"
An inhuman scream split the night.
Lened became the second human torch, thrashing wildly.
He clawed helplessly at his face as flesh carbonized and peeled away under the yellow flames, exposing stark white bone.
Staggering, engulfed in searing fire, he lurched toward Gerion—the only one still composed—charred fingers outstretched, a desperate plea rasping from his throat.
His men-at-arms exchanged helpless glances, torn between rushing to him and knowing there was nothing they could do.
Gerion stepped back, his expression unchanging, blue eyes colder than steel. "Loose!"
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
Arrows rained like locusts, nailing the remaining maggots—and Lened's blackened, writhing corpse—to the scorched ground.
The insects twitched as pus seeped into the earth.
Unseen, a dozen faint crimson lights rose from the carcasses, drifting like spirits through the shaken crowd before vanishing into Lo Quen's chest.
[Dragon's Soul +140! Dragon Bloodline Purity: 0.06%! Maximum Magic increased to 640! Current Magic: 460/640!]
The cold notification seared through Lo Quen like molten fire. He bit back the growl rising in his throat, driving his nails deeper into his palms.
Then came another shift.
At a single icy glance from Gerion, Lened's guards had their throats slit from behind by their former "comrades."
The corpses were dragged into the withered woods, burned and buried hastily, their blood greedily swallowed by the blackened soil.
"With their master dead, they'd try to escape. Killing them keeps our ship safe."
Gerion gave the surviving sailors a curt explanation.
His merciless gaze swept over the cowering slaves and sailors, the threat plain without words.
Hidden among them, Lo Quen seethed. Even as joy at gaining the Dragon's Soul burned in him, he cursed this Lannister endlessly.
This Lannister had no bottom line, no conscience—ruthless, merciless, the very image of Tywin's cold methods perfected.