Chapitre 226: Chapter 226: Last Dragons
Viserys looked at Young Connington. 'This guy also has Targaryen blood in his veins,' he thought, 'and it's probably for this reason that he's less affected.'
The two tried to wake the others, but it was useless. It seemed they could not continue. Only time would tell if taking them away from the Palace of Sorrows would make any difference. But the group had already come this far, and there was no turning back.
Viserys threw the unconscious bodies into the 'bus' and blocked the door. "Let's go first. There's no one around; they shouldn't be in danger," he said.
"Prince, what's wrong with them?"
"It's probably because of the gray mist. The two of us have Valyrian bloodlines, so we have some resistance. It could also be because we practice magic," Viserys replied casually, also to reinforce Young Connington's identity with him. 'You have Valyrian blood, but not the Kingsblood,' he mused. However, Young Connington still seemed proud of his lineage.
Viserys noticed that there didn't seem to be many tracks around. 'If that's the case, then from my experience, places where tracks pass through are usually more important,' he considered. So, the two of them followed the tracks through the grey mist.
The Palace of Sorrows was full of ruins, and they were frequently blocked by collapsed buildings. Half of a thick tower stood in front of them, with the nearest point of support from the ground about three or four meters above their heads. Looking left and right, Viserys realized that if they wanted to continue following the tracks, they would have to climb over it. 'I'll be fine, but Young Connington is in for a rough time,' he thought.
He crouched down, interlaced his fingers, and motioned for Young Connington to climb up using his knees and palms.
"Prince?" Young Connington hesitated, reluctant to accept the offer, even though he could guess Viserys' intention. After all, this was his monarch. How could he, an adviser, climb up on the monarch?
"Cut the crap, or I'll leave you here."
"No, I mean, yes..."
Seeing there was no other choice, Young Connington steeled himself and approached Viserys. When his feet touched Viserys' knees and palms, he was surprised by how solid the other man felt. 'I weigh at least 160 to 170 pounds, including armor, yet Viserys didn't even flinch,' he marveled. But then he remembered Viserys' earlier feat of driving a short spear into a stone wall, and suddenly, it didn't seem like much.
Young Connington soon made it to the top, and just as he was wondering how Viserys would manage the climb, he watched in astonishment as Viserys leaped up effortlessly, landing directly on the ledge. 'My knowledge has been refreshed once again,' he thought, marveling at Viserys' strength.
With that obstacle behind them, the path ahead was clear. To the east, they spotted a large set of ruins. Calling them "ruins" seemed almost unjust, as most of the buildings were still remarkably well-preserved. This was the core area of Chroyane, and the battle had been essentially over by the time the Valyrians attacked here.
Fog swirled around them. Viserys noticed a main hall up ahead, from which a thick column of ash-like smoke was rising—a miniature version of the Smoking Sea on the Valyrian side. Weapons in hand, the two men advanced cautiously. Along the way, they encountered numerous petrified human bodies, frozen in place for what seemed like a thousand years. It appeared that those who had been infected with grayscale were preserved, all captured in postures of terror, as if fleeing from some unimaginable presence within the smoke-filled palace.
Viserys approached one of the petrified corpses, noticing that the man was still clad in armor. He wiped the dust off with his hand, and his eyes lit up. Valyrian steel armor! There was no mistaking it. He remembered the legend of the Garin curse. After the Valyrians captured Chroyane, they imprisoned Prince Garin in a golden cage, and Garin, in turn, cast a curse that summoned the waters of the Rhoyne to drown the Valyrian invaders. After all, the Valyrians had deployed 300 dragons in that battle, so it was natural that some of them would have been from the Dragonlord's own house.
In the Age of Magic, the value of Valyrian steel armor was beyond measure. 'If we search carefully around here,' he thought, 'we could easily find a dozen, perhaps even twenty suits of Valyrian steel armor.'
But the immediate task was to meet the 'Shrouded Lady.' Viserys made a mental note of the location and continued onward with Young Connington at his side.
After walking for about half an hour, the two arrived at a large square. Scattered across the area were more petrified corpses, some still clad in armor that hadn't decayed in over a thousand years. 'Most likely Valyrian steel armor,' Viserys thought as they surveyed the scene.
The square was vast, roughly the size of five football stadiums, and at its center stood the main hall of the "Palace of Sorrow." Crossing the square, the two men approached the steps leading to the grand hall. Here, too, they found seven or eight armored bodies, likely encased in Valyrian steel.
But this wasn't entirely surprising. Back then, Valyria was still a flourishing empire, and items like Valyrian steel swords and armor were probably considered mere luxury goods. 'Still,' Viserys wondered, 'how could the Targaryen ancestors have been so low in Valyrian society that they didn't even possess a set of Valyrian steel armor?'
They continued climbing the moss-covered stone steps until they reached the main hall's door. Through the open doorway, they glimpsed the interior. Dominating the center of the hall was a massive throne. While the throne itself was unremarkable, what caught their attention were the four living dragons perched around it.
Each dragon was the size of a train car, their heads raised, mouths open, spewing thick grey mist into the open sky above the roofless palace. It became clear that the dense fog enveloping The Sorrows originated from these dragons.
"Prince," Young Connington whispered, swallowing hard. The sight was overwhelming, especially for a fourteen-year-old who had never witnessed anything like this. In fact, even Viserys, who had painstakingly gathered dragon eggs without success, was stunned. Yet here were four living dragons right before him.
As he hesitated, unsure whether to proceed, a voice suddenly echoed from the throne in the main hall.
'Crap!' Viserys thought. 'Rhoynar language—I don't understand!'
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