He rose abruptly and strode back into the blood-reeking underground chamber.
Without hesitation, golden light flared, and his human form gave way to the massive body of a golden dragon.
His thick hind claws sank deep into the base of the black stone as his wings whipped up violent gusts, slowly dragging the impossibly heavy boulder out of the dim chamber.
When he returned to human form, he immediately summoned Janice, pointing at the ominous stone. "Take this aboard as well. Handle it carefully."
"Yes..." Janice hurried over, her cheeks tinged with red, unable to meet Lo Quen's eyes.
She quickly pulled a clean linen robe from her small satchel, pressed it into his hand, then darted away like a startled fawn, head bowed as she rushed to direct the guards.
Lo Quen stood for a moment with the soft robe in hand, a faint awkwardness flickering across his face.
Ever since the two women had discovered that his dragon form left him "bare before the world," Janice had quietly prepared several robes in her pack, always ready for him.
In the harsh desolation of the ruins, that silent care felt all the more precious.
Lo Quen sighed inwardly. This, he thought, was true knightly spirit—utter devotion in service.
The guards sent to search for Terys eventually returned empty-handed, finding no sign of the man or his sword.
Lo Quen paid it no heed.
It mattered little where Terys hid. Even with Valyrian steel and armor, the man was not worth wasting more time in this cursed land that gnawed at his spirit.
The gnawing sense of danger pressed him to depart at once.
Jaelena, quick to sense his resolve and unease, dropped her insistence on pursuing Terys.
Together, the three of them, along with the remaining Dragon Soul Guards and their final haul of supplies, made for the harbor.
The harbor lay only four or five miles from Tyria.
It was shaped like a vast pocket cut deep into the land.
A damp, sour gray mist hung over the sea like a burial shroud, sinking low and thick, choking visibility.
Dozens of old two-masted and three-masted ships lay stranded in the shallows like a ghost fleet, while more than ten were being dragged by ropes into deeper water by Dragon Soul Guards.
Their hulls were thick with barnacles and seaweed, their timbers rotted black under years of acid mist. Masts leaned broken and askew, with ropes dangling like decayed entrails.
Yet on the mainsails of several of the larger, less ruined flagships, Lo Quen caught sight of a blurred but unmistakable sigil: a golden lion rearing and roaring, mane flying, on a crimson field.
Lannister.
Lo Quen's heart gave a violent jolt.
Gerion's face flashed in his mind, twisted with madness.
But he shook his head. These ships were far too old—they could not possibly be the Laughing Lion.
"Lord," a Dragon Soul Guard appeared at his side, his voice flat and toneless. "A sealed cabin has been found aboard one of the larger vessels. Its contents remain in fair condition."
Lo Quen's interest stirred. He followed the guard aboard the largest ship, a flagship with a lion carved into its prow.
They crossed rotting decks and shadowed passageways until they reached a heavy oak door deep inside.
The iron lock had already been forced open.
When Lo Quen pushed the door wide, a breath of stale wood, dust, and faint mildew greeted him.
Inside, the scene was wholly unlike the decay outside—as if time itself had forgotten this cabin.
Silver candlesticks, goblets, and platters lay scattered across a thick, dust-covered wool cloth.
Against the wall stood a broad mahogany desk littered with parchment scrolls. But what drew the eye most was a sturdy wooden rack by the wall, upon which rested a long sword in its scabbard.
Lo Quen's gaze locked onto it at once.
He stepped closer.
The scabbard was forged from a metal dark as midnight, its surface set with countless gems glimmering with a faint crimson sheen. Intricate filigree of gold thread wound across it in ornate patterns, giving it a majesty both regal and grim.
At the pommel's end, a lion's head of pure gold had been wrought with lifelike precision—its eyes wide and fierce, its mane bristling, frozen in a silent roar that still echoed the power and pride of its long-dead master.
Lo Quen reached out, gripping the cold, weighty hilt with his right hand, and slowly drew the blade free.
Clang—!
A clear, resonant sword cry rang through the deathly still cabin, its echoes lingering long after the sound itself had faded.
The slender blade gleamed in the dim light, cold and sharp as flowing mercury. Its edge was so keen that it reflected Lo Quen's faintly astonished face with crystalline clarity.
"A fine Valyrian steel sword," Jaelena's voice came from behind him, carrying the certainty of one who knew.
As a descendant of the Dragonlords, she was deeply attuned to the essence of this metal. For her to give such praise was proof enough of the sword's extraordinary nature.
Lo Quen flicked his wrist lightly, the blade brushing across the corner of the heavy mahogany desk and a silver platter lying upon it.
There was no resistance, no grating sound—only the faintest hiss.
Like the sharpest razor slicing through silk, the thick desk corner and solid silver platter split cleanly in two. The cut was smooth as glass, gleaming with fresh metallic luster.
"A fine blade," Lo Quen said with genuine admiration.
But there was regret as well—the steel bore no trace of runes.
In that instant, he knew the sword's true identity.
This was the long-lost treasure that Gerion Lannister had dreamed of, the prize he risked everything to find within the Smoking Sea: the Valyrian steel sword of the King of the Rock, symbol of House Lannister's might and honor—Brightroar.
History stirred in his mind.
More than a century before the Conquest, Tommen Lannister II, the ambitious King of the Rock, had led a grand fleet laden with Westerlands gold and dreams of conquest into the doomed seas of Valyria. Neither he nor his men were ever seen again—a tragedy still whispered in Casterly Rock.
Now it was clear. His vast fleet had perished here, at this cursed harbor of Tyria.
And the proud King of the Rock, along with his thousands of seasoned warriors?
Lo Quen's eyes swept over the rotting hulls and the lifeless silence hanging in the air.
Valyria's ruins had swallowed them whole.
Perhaps Firewyrm infestation. Perhaps slaughter by scaled monstrosities. Perhaps an ancient plague that had slumbered deep in the ruins. Or perhaps the sorcerers of Tyria had a hand in their grim fate.
They could not have vanished quietly into the sea. Their end must have been brutal and strange.
Now, with the weight of centuries, this fleet of ambition and ruin—together with its still-untouched gold and gems—had become Lo Quen's ark of escape, and his unexpected fortune.
At last, under Jaelena's experienced guidance, the Dragon Soul Guards determined that sixteen ships, after hasty repairs and cleaning, still had hulls sound enough to endure. Their sails were worn, but they could be raised, and the vessels were seaworthy for short voyages.
When the last of the supplies, weary survivors, and silent Dragon Soul Guards had boarded, Lo Quen stood at the prow of the flagship that had once borne the Lion banner.
He cast one final look back at the outline of Tyria's ruins, shrouded in the leaden mists of death.
Too many secrets, too much madness, too much despair lay buried there.
He drew in a deep breath of the salty, metallic air. His voice cut through the mist, ringing clear across the fleet:
"Cut the lines! Raise the sails! Set sail!"