Within a familiar chamber of the Red Keep, Viserys Targaryen sat amid his Small Council.
The room had not changed in decades. Yet the king within it had. That, more than anything, weighed upon him.
'Another day,' Viserys thought, his mind weary even before the meeting had truly begun, 'another set of arguments and complaints…'
It was meant as a jest, but it carried little humour, lingering somewhere between resignation and quiet mourning.
Not merely for the council to come, but for the slow betrayal of his own flesh to rot. He shifted in his chair. Yet even that small motion that took effort.
The seat had been padded, reshaped, softened for him over the years, yet no arrangement seemed quite right anymore. A dull ache persistently ran through his hips and up his spine.
He adjusted his weight once, then again, fingers tightening briefly against the armrest as though daring his body to disobey.
Once, he would have risen to greet his councilmen. Once, he would have paced as he listened.
Now all he could do was sit and listen.
Viserys did not know precisely when the change had come. It had crept upon him without ceremony.
His hair, once thick and silver-gold, had begun to thin at the crown.
The fullness of his face had slackened, jowls soft where they had once been firm. Even his gait…gods, even his gait had betrayed him.
Where he had once managed with little more than a mild hobble, he now found himself leaning more and more upon his cane, as if it were an old friend he had sworn never to need.
With a tired gesture, he inclined his hand toward the table.
Otto Hightower needed no further prompting.
"Your Grace." The Hand of the King inclined his head, posture immaculate as ever. "The principal matter before us today concerns their Highnesses in the East. Rumours have reached us steadily for the better part of a year, but they have grown too numerous and far too troubling to be ignored any longer."
"Oh?" Viserys leaned back. "Pray tell, my Hand. What have Baelon and Helaena been up to in recent months that warrants such solemn tones?"
There was mock seriousness in his voice, a familiar deflection. Otto noticed it at once. The man's lips pursed, displeasure flickering across his features, but he pressed on regardless.
"Their foremost action," Otto said evenly, "was a disturbance in Slaver's Bay. In Astapor, to be precise. Not only did they sack the treasuries of the so-called Good Masters, but they also departed with five thousand Unsullied."
The room stilled.
Viserys' eyes twitched.
He had known. Of course, he had known. Ravens had come months ago telling him of his children's feats.
Yet hearing it spoken aloud, spoken here, in this chamber, made it feel…more real.
Five thousand Unsullied.
If he had not watched Baelon and Helaena grow from children into who they were now, he might have thought them mad, or worse, ambitious enough to challenge him outright.
Such a force, trained and absolute in obedience, was no small thing.
And with the way Otto had phrased it, there was no mistaking the implication.
The slave soldiers answered to them.
That alone placed the pair among the Great Lords of Westeros in terms of raw military might.
True, a Lord Paramount could call tens of thousands in banners, but those numbers took time, oaths, politics, and a heavy amount of persuasion.
Even the greatest houses could rarely muster more than a few thousand men swiftly.
But five thousand Unsullied required no persuasion at all.
Across the table, Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, shifted irritably. His fingers drummed against a ledger as he muttered under his breath, words spilling forth in a thin, resentful stream.
"Five thousand slaves freed," he grumbled, "and the treasuries of Astapor emptied besides… gods only know how much gold they took. Enough to buy half the Reach, I'd wager. Imagine what such sums could do here…roads repaired, debts settled, granaries filled. Instead, the realm bleeds coin while Essos fattens princes."
His muttering grew sharper. "And still that castle drains us dry. Stone, labour, gold…always gold—"
Viserys cleared his throat. It was a dry, rasping sound that drew Beesbury to silence at once.
"Worry not, Lord Beesbury," the king said. "The royal treasury will endure. Construction on the castle will conclude within the coming years. I promise you."
Beesbury hesitated, then inclined his head. The grouchy Lord slumped back on his seat, lips pressed thin, but said no more.
Otto stepped forward once again.
"The news has sent Essos into no small frenzy," he continued. "Braavos itself has inquired whether the Iron Throne intends further incursions into the east. More interestingly, our former foes, the Triarchy, have curtailed their funding of the pirates in the Stepstones upon hearing these reports. Lord Velaryon was…most pleased by this development."
A collective exhale passed through the chamber. At least some good had come of it.
The Stepstones had bled the realm for too long. If piracy eased, trade might recover. Ships might sail unmolested.
For a moment, it seemed almost possible to imagine peace.
"If that were all, Your Grace," Otto said carefully, "I would not fault them. However…" He paused, letting the silence do his work. "You must have heard of their most recent accomplishment. Dragon's Bay, they call it."
His words were met with a most familiar silence.
In the past it might have been mistaken with politeness.
Alas, here? Now?
They all knew why the others remained silence.
Dragon's Bay.
Of course, they had heard. Every man present knew the name, knew what it meant. A power no weaker than a Free City, obedient to two children.
Still, what unsettled them was not the act itself, but why Otto chose now to speak of it.
"Your Grace," Otto said, gaze fixed upon the table before him, "your succession is of paramount importance. Regardless of who succeeds you, the realm will endure a period of instability."
He drew a slow breath.
"If Prince Baelon and Princess Helaena were present," Otto continued, "their newfound forces would ensure order in the years to come."
Viserys' eyes narrowed.
"My succession is settled," he said flatly. "My heir is, and always shall be, Rhaenyra."
He knew exactly what Otto meant. The Hand imagined Baelon and Helaena returning, their dragons and armies tipping the scales in Aegon's favour when conflict inevitably came.
Family supporting family. Blood answering blood.
'Then again,' Viserys thought bitterly, 'aren't we all family?'
A wave of sorrow washed over him.
Still, he trusted Baelon and Helaena enough to know they would not involve themselves in these petty struggles. Their intentions, to him, were clear. Conquer land in Essos. Develop it. Rule it well.
Then, rest.
They were not hungry for power. Not like others. He would stake his crown on the belief that they had no desire to expand further, no hunger for more crowns or more thrones.
To them, ambition beyond what they held would only invite chaos.
And chaos was the last thing he wished upon them.
No. He would not allow them to be dragged into this coming storm, nor into the poison of court politics that already ate away at his realm.
"Lord Otto." Viserys turned his gaze upon his Hand, who stood as composed as ever, spine straight, expression carefully neutral. "They will not return to Westeros with their armies. Should they come, and I will welcome them as such, it will be as kin, not as conquerors."
His eyes moved slowly across the table, settling upon each councillor in turn.
"They are my family," he said, voice steady despite the fatigue beneath it, "and they rule foreign lands. That is all. There is no cause, nor need, for them to interfere in the affairs of this realm with sword or sail."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
"But…" Tyland Lannister broke the silence, hesitation softening his usually confident tone. "Surely, Your Grace, with their navy, they might help secure our coastline. Such an arrangement would only benefit the realm."
"No." Viserys shook his head at once, the motion sharp enough to betray a flicker of irritation. "The Triarchy is fractured. Wary even. Their actions against us have slowed because of that disunity and caution."
His fingers tightened around the head of his cane.
"To invite a foreign fleet, one tied to dragonriders no less, into those waters would give them a common enemy once more. It would forge unity where there is none, and hatred where there is presently caution."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"I will not be the one to give them that gift."
Viserys looked again to the rest of the council. "Is there anyone else present with suggestions?"
Silence answered him.
Some avoided his gaze. Others gave small, restrained shakes of the head. Even Lord Jasper Wylde, who rarely missed an opportunity to argue from statute, merely cleared his throat.
"They have violated no law," Wylde admitted. "Nor do they rule any Westerosi city. There is little I can suggest in the way of action."
Viserys nodded once.
"Good," he said quietly. "Then we are agreed on at least that much."
He straightened with visible effort, shifting again in his seat before continuing. "Nevertheless, I will send them an invitation. Not as rulers, not as allies, but as family. Should they wish to visit, they may do so under my roof."
His gaze returned to Otto. "Lord Hand, I would have you look into the matter of trade with Dragon's Bay. Carefully. No military entanglements. Only commerce."
Otto inclined his head. "As you command, Your Grace."
Viserys turned next to Beesbury. "And you, Lord Beesbury. I want figures. Contracts. Deals. Anything that might be negotiated should trade with Tolos and Elyria prove…mutually beneficial."
Beesbury blinked, then nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it at once."
"That will be all," Viserys said, exhaustion lingering in his words. "This council is adjourned."
Chairs scraped softly against stone as the councillors rose. One by one, they bowed and filed from the chamber, their whispers held until they were beyond the doors.
Viserys remained seated, cane resting against his knee, staring at the empty table, at a realm balanced on the edge of tomorrow, and a family he prayed would never be forced to choose sides.
***
The wind rushed past Baelon as he rode atop Vermithor, tearing at his cloak and flattening it against the great dragon's bronze-scaled neck.
Below him stretched an endless expanse of grey sand and shattered stone, a dead world smothered beneath layers of ash.
Nothing broke the monotony. No rivers flowing, no forests growing, no structures showing, only ruin stretching on endlessly to the horizon.
Fixed to his face was an odd contraption: a mask of sorts. Its main body was fashioned from dark leather, moulded tightly to the contours of his face.
It sealed his mouth and nose completely, the leather treated with special oils to repel dust and lock out unseen vapours.
Beneath it lay a lining of coarse linen, rough against the skin, serving as a second barrier should the outer seal fail.
At either side of the mask were the filtration assemblies: stacks of densely packed wool, meshed between two leather plates.
The wool had been specially cleaned and treated, designed to catch ash, grit, and whatever foul remnants still lingered in Valyria's air. Inelegant, perhaps, but survival usually was.
Attached to the mask were a pair of goggles, bound securely by leather straps that disappeared beneath his hair.
The lenses were Elyrian-made glass, faintly tinted and thicker than the pristine Myrish kind.
They lacked that crystalline clarity the Free Cities were famed for, carrying a slight distortion at the edges, but they did their work well enough.
More importantly, they could be produced cheaply and in numbers, something Myr could never offer. Against the ash-choked wind, they were invaluable.
Baelon looked down at the broken land below and let out a slow breath.
"This is all that is left of Valyria…" he murmured.
The bitterness that followed was sharper than what he had felt in Sallosh. This was not merely another ruin; it was the cradle of his blood, the forge of his ancestors' empire.
To see that legacy reduced to dust and poison, slipping away like sand through an open hand, was unsettling to say.
He turned his head and glanced toward Helaena, who rode beside him. Their eyes met briefly through tinted glass, an unspoken understanding passing between them before both dragons began their descent.
These days, neither Baelon nor Helaena needed to issue commands. Vermithor and Dreamfyre moved as extensions of their will.
Silverwing, ever loyal to her bronze companion, followed without hesitation.
The three dragons touched down upon Valyria's ashen soil, claws sinking slightly into the powdery ground.
As Baelon and Helaena dismounted as their preparations became clear. Several heavy bags hung from each saddle, thick leather satchels secured with iron buckles and reinforced straps.
Within them were coils of rope, chalk, measuring tools, sealed rations, spare filters, and water sealed in a horse hide. Nothing had been left to chance.
Baelon cast a quick glance upward, narrowing his eyes behind his goggles. The sky was a bruised, ashen black.
Clouds…if they could be called that, hung low, like slow-moving pools of ink suspended above the land.
Light filtered through them weakly, dull and lifeless. Though the sun's rays reached the ground, the sun itself was nowhere to be seen.
Valyria existed in a perpetual dusk it seemed.
"How long will we explore here?" Helaena asked as she approached him.
Her voice came muffled through her mask, softened and distorted.
"A week," Baelon replied, his own voice similarly dulled. "The filters can last two, ideally, but there's no reason to tempt fate. We explore for seven days, return to Tolos, then come back for another round."
She gave a small nod.
Then silence reclaimed the land.
A thick, crushing silence.
No birds cried overhead. No insects buzzed. No wind whispered through the trees. Even the ash beneath their boots swallowed the sound of their footsteps.
Everything was… still.
Even Asshai, with all its eerie glory, solemn dreams and muted atmosphere, could not compare to…this.
To Baelon, it felt as though Valyria were a grave too vast for mourning.
Feeling the weight of that silence pressing in on them, Baelon turned his head toward Helaena.
His gaze lingered for a moment longer than intended on the mask fixed to her face, so similar to his own in construction, yet somehow sitting differently upon her features.
"What are you looking at?" Helaena asked, her voice dulled and softened by the leather and wool. She paused, then stiffened slightly. "D-does the mask make me look foolish?"
Baelon almost nodded.
Compared to his own severe, angular appearance, the goggles and straps gave her something almost…endearing in presence.
Childlike, even, in a way entirely unsuited to the bleak ruin surrounding them.
For the sake of his continued well-being, however, he thought better of voicing that observation.
"No, no. Of course not," he said quickly. "You're beautiful regardless of what you wear."
Helaena's eyes narrowed behind the tinted glass, unimpressed. He had the distinct sense that she knew exactly how she looked and had little faith in his reassurance.
Still, Baelon could have struck his chest and sworn it before both gods and men: foolish or not, she was the most beautiful woman in the world to him.
"Regardless…" He said, swiftly changing the subject before she could press him further. "We have more important matters at hand."
He turned toward Vermithor, who had already begun lowering himself, massive body settling with a muted crunch of ash and stone.
One claw shifted carefully aside as Baelon approached the dragon's flank.
He reached up and unbuckled one of the heavy satchels hanging from the saddle, the leather creaking as it came free.
From within, he withdrew a tightly rolled map, its edges stiff with wax and oil.
It was one of many he had looted from Astapor but was the most detailed. Gods knew how many slaves bled and suffered for this simple piece.
With care, Baelon unfurled it before stepping closer to Helaena and angling it so she could see.
"Look," he said, tapping the northern fringe of the peninsula. "We've been travelling for a few hours now, which puts us here."
His finger drifted downward, tracing the ruined coastline before coming to rest on a marked point. "This will be our next stop. Oros."
"Oros…?" Helaena murmured.
"It was the northernmost of the three most well-documented Valyrian settlements," Baelon explained. "The records from the book Valyrian History describe it as a grand city, second only to Valyria itself in majesty."
Helaena tilted her head slightly as she studied the map. "So… we'll explore all three cities during this time?"
"Perhaps. A few months for each, I suppose," Baelon replied. "Until we've explored them thoroughly enough. Though, if we ever come across other ruined cities, I am not exactly against exploring them..."
He trailed off, eyes lifting from the parchment and drifting toward the distant dunes.
Something felt off. Wrong.
For a heartbeat, he thought he heard something, faint, distant, but tangible nonetheless.
"Did you hear that?" Baelon asked quietly.
Helaena hesitated, then nodded. "It sounded like…a howl?"
As the word left her lips, movement stirred along the ashen horizon.
Shapes crested the dunes, their forms lean and hunched, silhouetted starkly against the dim sky.
Dark fur blended seamlessly into the grey wasteland, rendering their bodies nearly invisible.
Only their eyes gave them away.
Crimson orbs that flared like smouldering coal.