Chapter 20: Chapter 19
19th Day, 4th Moon, 111 A.C.
The dawn broke over the Smoking Sea, casting a pale, sickly light through the ashen skies. The ruins of Valyria loomed like jagged teeth on the horizon, a silhouette of twisted stone and forgotten power. Baelon stirred from his sleep, the coarse wool blanket falling to the floor of his cabin on the Bitter Wind. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the memories of yesterday's discoveries swirling in his mind like the fog outside.
The ship was anchored in the remnants of the once-great harbor, a silent witness to the empire that had crumbled here centuries ago. Baelon dressed quickly. His armor was light, simple boiled leather over mail—nothing that would slow him down if the ruins turned dangerous.
He buckled his sword to his side, a Valyrian steel blade that had been newly forged a year back.
The deck of the Bitter Wind was quiet. He made his way to the galley where he prepared himself a simple breakfast awaited him: bread, hard cheese, and salted pork, washed down with a cup of watered wine.
As he ate in silence his thoughts were troubled, swirling like the fog that clung to the ruins. For as long as he could remember, the Gods had spoken to him in his dreams, their voices a constant presence, guiding him with cryptic whispers and visions of what was to come. But last night, as he lay beneath the tattered canopy of stars that hung over this forsaken land, their voices had been silent.
A thought began to take shape in Baelon's mind.
Perhaps the Gods had not abandoned him after all. Perhaps this silence was their way of telling him that this was his path to walk alone, without the comfort of their voices to guide him. Valyria was a place of mystery and power, a place where the will of men had once rivaled that of the Gods themselves. Maybe they wanted him to explore this land with his own eyes, to uncover its secrets without their interference.
The thought gave Baelon pause, a flicker of something akin to understanding passing through him. The Gods wanted him to reach this place, but perhaps they wanted him to forge his own destiny in the ashes of Valyria, to claim his birthright not through divine intervention, but through his own courage and will.
Baelon stood, the cool morning breeze tugging at his cloak as he looked out over the ruins. The silence of the Gods was no longer a source of fear, but a challenge—a test of his own resolve. He had come to Valyria to reclaim what had been lost, to unearth the power and knowledge that had been buried beneath the Doom. And he would do it, not as a puppet of the Gods, but as Baelon Targaryen, dragonlord and heir to a legacy of fire and blood.
After his thoughts about the silence of the Gods, his thoughts returned to the towers and ruins he had scouted from the air the day before.
There had been so many to choose from, each one a potential treasure trove of history and wealth.
But not all could be explored in one day, and Baelon knew he had to be methodical. The nearest tower, a crumbling spire half-covered in ash and vines, was the most practical choice. It was close to the harbor, making it easier to haul anything valuable back to the ship.
And something about it had caught his eye—a glint of gold through a broken window, a hint of tapestries still clinging to the walls, stubbornly resisting the passage of time.
His decision made, Baelon finished his meal and left the galley.
"Ready for another day, old friend?" Baelon murmured as he approached the dragon. Arrlithox rumbled in response, a low, guttural sound that reverberated through the stones beneath their feet.
Baelon got a few empty chests, sturdy and reinforced for the treasures Baelon hoped to find. With Arrlithox's help, the chests were loaded onto a makeshift platform that the dragon could carry in his talons.
Baelon climbed onto Arrlithox's back, settling into the saddle that had been fashioned to accommodate the dragon's massive form. With a powerful beat of his wings, Arrlithox lifted off, the platform and chests swaying slightly beneath them.
The tower came into view quickly, its once-proud spire now leaning precariously to one side. Arrlithox circled it once, then twice, before landing gently in the courtyard below. The ground was littered with debris—broken statues, shattered tiles, the remnants of a fountain that had long since run dry. Baelon dismounted and surveyed the scene, his heart quickening with anticipation.
He began his exploration cautiously, moving through the arched doorway and into the lower levels of the tower. The walls were lined with tapestries, their colors faded but still discernible: scenes of dragons in flight, ships laden with gold and silver, and men in armor bearing the sigil of a Valyrian house. This had been a place of wealth and power, a stronghold of one of the dragonlord families that had ruled Valyria in its prime.
The tapestries and art on the upper levels were remarkably well-preserved, considering the state of the rest of the city. Baelon carefully examined each piece, noting the craftsmanship and the stories they told. These were no ordinary works—these were the remnants of a family that had controlled the harbor, likely becoming rich from trade and the tribute that flowed through the city.
The thought of bringing such treasures back to his father made Baelon's pulse quicken. These would be more than just gifts—they would be symbols of the legacy his family still carried.
Baelon's hands moved with care as he rolled up the tapestries, stowed away the paintings, and placed smaller artifacts into the chests Arrlithox had brought. Each piece was a connection to the past, a thread in the tapestry of Valyria's history that had survived the Doom. It was not until he had cleared the upper levels of anything of value that he finally turned his attention to the basement.
He had almost missed it. The entrance was a simple stone door, partially obscured by fallen debris. But when Baelon pushed the door open, he found himself standing at the top of a flight of stairs that led down into darkness. The air was cool and dry, untouched by the decay and ruin above.
He descended cautiously, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The deeper he went, the more certain he became that this place was different.
The basement was intact—completely so. The walls were smooth, unmarked by the ravages of time or the catastrophe that had shattered the rest of the city.
Whatever magic had been worked here, it had been strong enough to withstand even the Doom.
The first room he entered was small, almost like a vault. A single chest stood in the center, its lid ajar.
Inside, Baelon found pieces of jewelry, crafted from Valyrian steel and set with precious stones. Rings, necklaces, and bracelets—each one more beautiful than the last.
But it was the armor that caught his eye: a full set, perfectly preserved, the metal gleaming in the dim light. And beside it, two swords, their edges sharp and deadly.
Baelon felt a thrill of excitement as he examined the weapons. These were no ordinary swords—they were Valyrian steel, forged in the fires of the Fourteen Flames. Such weapons were rare, even in the time before the Doom, and now they were almost priceless. He sheathed the swords and moved on, deeper into the basement.
The next room was larger, lined with shelves that sagged under the weight of ancient books and scrolls. Baelon's breath caught in his throat as he realized what he had found. These were the true treasures of Valyria—books of magic, of history, of culture, all written in High Valyrian. The knowledge contained within these pages was more valuable than gold, more powerful than any weapon, he would have to read them later, to discern what he already knew and what he didn't know about just yet.
And then, in the far corner of the room, Baelon saw them. Two dragon eggs, nestled in a cradle of stone, their surfaces shimmering with a faint inner light. He approached them slowly, reverently. These were the rarest of all treasures, the very heart of Valyria's power. The eggs were warm to the touch, and Baelon felt a deep connection to them, as if the blood of his ancestors was singing in his veins.
With great care, he placed the eggs into one of the chests, making sure they were secure. The books and scrolls followed; each one handled with the utmost respect. By the time he was done, the chests were full, brimming with the wealth of a lost civilization.
Baelon ascended the stairs, feeling the weight of his discoveries settle on his shoulders. This was not just treasure—this was the legacy of Valyria, the key to understanding the past and securing the future. Arrlithox was waiting outside, the dragon's eyes glowing with a knowing look as Baelon emerged from the tower.
Together, they loaded the chests onto the platform. Baelon took one last look at the tower before mounting Arrlithox and taking to the skies once more. The Bitter Wind awaited them in the harbor, ready to receive the spoils of their journey.
As they flew back, Baelon's thoughts were already racing ahead. His father, King Viserys, would be pleased beyond measure with the gifts he would bring back. But more than that, Baelon knew that what he had found here today was just the beginning. Valyria still held many secrets, and he intended to uncover them all.
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