The streets of Asshai were impossibly wide, so vast that they seemed made for giants rather than men.
However, the city itself felt lifeless, yet far from empty; Baelon could see pedestrians gliding through the streets, their appearances usually covered by robes or masks.
Occasionally, thin, pallid slaves bore heavy palanquins, walking with a lifeless gait that made them appear as little more than ornaments to the city's desolate grandeur.
The, as if ignoring the solemn warning he had just delivered, Seryon ambled ahead, muttering about Asshai.
"…in Asshai, exchange is governed by equivalence. Good for goods. Resources for resources. Knowledge for knowledge. Should you seek knowledge of magics, I would recommend you visit The Conclave."
"The Conclave?" Baelon asked, noting the unfamiliar term.
"It is a loose organisation in Asshai. All who wish to embark on the path of magic, or who have already done so, may come to The Conclave to exchange magic, whatever the discipline."
Baelon nodded, but curiosity pushed him further. "But are there any rules to Asshai? Where will we stay?"
"Rules…" Seryon paused, weighing his words. "There are a few here in Asshai: do not ask of children, do not ask another's past, do not carelessly use magic, and do not give your name to a stranger."
"…do not give your name to a stranger?" Baelon repeated, staring at him.
Seryon coughed, glancing away. "I am a small exception to this rule. Just heed my words."
"And, what of our stay?" Baelon pressed.
"Pick an unoccupied house anywhere in the city. But know this, three months is the maximum. After that, you must leave or sleep on the streets. The latter comes at your own peril."
As his words fell, the group continued walking through the city, which screamed of its wrongness and the eerie quiet that plagued it.
Asshai was awake, yet it seemed to exist in a dream between life and death, a city suspended in eerie stillness.
Seryon paused abruptly, turning to face them. "I am curious why you seek knowledge of Valyria."
"Why are you curious? Did you not say others had come here to do the same?" Baelon countered.
Seryon shook his head before pausing, nodding instead. "They had… but that was centuries ago. Since The Doom, only three have come here to seek Valyria. A Lannister, a Targaryen, and a… Valyrian."
Baelon's eyelids twitched. In the quiet halls of the Citadel, he had studied these three extensively.
Tommen II Lannister, a fool who ventured into Old Valyria, wielding Brightroar, his family's Valyrian steel sword and a lust for treasure. The would-be adventurer was never heard of again, and neither was his sword.
Aerea Targaryen, a runaway princess, returned half dead following her escapade to the remnants of Valyria.
Aurion, a Valyrian Dragon Lord, survived the Doom by remaining in Qohor, raising an army of thirty thousand men before disappearing into the fractured peninsula, dragon at his side.
Yet a suspicion gnawed at him. 'Why does this Seryon speak as though he knew all three?'
"Regardless," Seryon continued, "if you seek information on Valyria, the false remnants of the Ghiscari are your best bet."
"The slaver cities?" Baelon raised an eyebrow.
Seryon grunted in disgust. "After the Century of Blood, they sent hundreds of thousands of slaves into Valyria, holding their families hostage. If the slaves returned with treasure, they and their families were freed. If not… execution."
"And how many treasures have they brought back? No one knows. But they will be your best source."
Baelon frowned, scanning the streets. "Why does it feel like you're guiding me straight toward the slaver cities?"
Unfortunately, he did not receive an answer.
Unperturbed, Baelon looked around.
They had reached a port. The docks were long and narrow, lined with warehouses blackened by soot and salt.
Wooden piers jutted into the dark, restless water, creaking as boats bobbed against the posts.
The city's eerie quiet extended even here; no merchants shouted, no children laughed, only the gentle slap of waves and the muted creak of ropes.
Nearby lay what seemed to be a tavern. The only thing in Asshai that Baelon felt had a semblance of life.
Shifting his gaze back to Seryon, Baelon stiffened. The man was gone.
Nothing remained but empty air.
Baelon turned to Helaena, words failing him at first. "Did I… just hallucinate a man speaking to us, guiding us through the city?"
"No," she said, her eyes strange. "Unless we both just hallucinated together."
For a long moment, they stood in silence.
"Well, as odd as that was…" Baelon tried to speak with confidence, forcing a grin. "It can't stop us on our grand quest. Forward, sister! Into the tavern!"
He felt Helaena's speechless, embarrassed gaze on him, but he ignored it, stepping into the tavern.
The air struck him immediately, a small wave of heat, mingled with sweat and the scent of warm food.
For the first time, he found Asshai to have some level of life.
A few patrons by the entrance spared them glances before returning to their meals. The crowd was a strange bunch.
Some men and women walked straight out of Westeros: pale skin, fur-lined cloaks and simple dyed tunics.
Others clearly hailed from the Free Cities with bright silks, jewellery glinting, and hair dyed with unnatural streaks.
Some were utterly enigmatic, their faces hidden beneath masks shaped like animals or were entirely swathed in flowing robes that left only shadow where flesh should have been.
Grabbing Helaena's hand as she followed, Baelon guided her to a vacant table near the corner of the tavern.
The table was scarred with years of use; the wood darkened by spilt ale and ash, and by the marks of knives and rings.
Around them, the tavern smelled of roasted meats, vinegar, and the faint hint of incense.
"What are we doing here?" Helaena asked, eyes narrowing as she scanned the crowd.
"Isn't it obvious?" Baelon shrugged. "To eat, of course. And perhaps listen to some rumours here and there."
Helaena looked at him for a moment before sighing. "Sure…"
"You accepted my words rather quickly?"
"This city is uncomfortable as it is; may as well just finish our goals and leave," she mumbled, her tone soft and resigned.
From the far end of the tavern, the server, a woman past middle age, came to them. Baelon and Helaena mumbled an order before the woman left, leaving them there to listen in on the idle chatter around them.
Fortunately or unfortunately, some of the topics discussed weren't unfamiliar to them.
No.
Rather, they were a bit too familiar.
"…dragons in the Steppes of the Dothraki Sea," one Tyroshi man insisted, his bright orange beard shaking with his words, "I heard it from a captain who just returned from Vaes Dothrak. They've been spotted near the grasslands' edge."
A companion snorted, swirling the wine in his cup. "Dragons? In Essos? Don't make me laugh. That's old wives' tales and drunk sailors' fantasies."
The first man leaned closer, his eyes burning with conviction. "I swear it! Over a year ago, a pair of Targaryen royals escaped from Westeros. The Free Cities have been scrambling ever since offering them positions of honour, hoping to lure them and their dragons to their cities.
Baelon could hear the murmurs of disbelief rise through the men, but the first speaker's certainty seemed unshakable.
Nearby, at a corner table, a group of Westerosi men spoke among themselves. By their sigils, faded lion emblazoned on worn cloaks, Baelon guessed they hailed from Lannisport.
"Perhaps they truly have escaped to Essos," one said, eyes narrowing as he listened to the Myrish discussion. "The prince and princess. It's a troubling sign. Tensions rising, the court split, and the king's health…" The man shook his head, not finishing his words.
"Why do you think they ran?" another asked, voice low and grim.
"Their lives were in danger, plain and simple," the first answered.
"Danger?" scoffed the third, leaning back in his chair. "They're dragon riders. The last people in the world who should fear harm. They could fly above armies, burn cities if threatened. Tell me, what danger could reach them?"
The first man's brow creased. "Perhaps, but even dragons cannot shield against betrayal or intrigue. The lords respected them. Whichever faction they align with would not only gain several dragons but the favour of several noble houses."
The words drifted into Baelon's ears as his eyes glinted with a curious light. 'It seems our decision to leave Sallosh temporarily was rather clever. Still...'
A pang of worry hit him when the second group of men mentioned his father's health. It should not be too serious.
Otherwise, the lot would be in no mood to travel here and drink themselves to sleep. But the fact that they knew of it meant that his father was not doing too well in health.
'Still, it would be unwise to reveal ourselves here.' Baelon shifted the cloak further over himself, as Helaena did likewise.
Soon, the pair finished their meal, stepping back into the streets as the heat of the day gave way to the cooler, shadowed avenues of Asshai.
Pressing his thoughts into the back of his mind, Baelon focused on the main issue at hand.
Where would they sleep?
"I guess we just pick a house, then…" Baelon muttered, brushing a lazy strand of hair from his eyes. "What a unique custom."
"Though perhaps only Asshai could pull it off," Helaena replied, her tone quiet. "A city unrivalled in size, yet its population probably doesn't even rival that of a small town."
They moved slowly, taking in the eerie uniformity of the city's architecture.
Each building was carved from the same oily black stone that coated the streets themselves, giving the city an almost viscous quality in the dim light.
Still, each house had its unique differences.
Some had shutters tightly closed, and on their doors and windows hung peculiar adornments: animal skulls bleached to a chalky white, twisted horns bound with threads of red or black, and glyphs drawn in dried blood.
A few houses were unadorned, their shutters thrown wide as if inviting the outside light to pour in.
'It seems that the unadorned homes with open shutters are available...?' Baelon narrowed his eyes, gaze flitting to Helaena beside him.
Helaena's eyes, on the other hand, settled on a house at the edge of the street.
Like some of the others, its shutters were wide open, but unlike most, it was flanked by similarly unoccupied homes.
"What about that one?" Helaena asked, nodding toward it.
Baelon studied the house for a moment before he shrugged. "Seems good enough."
A shared glance passed between them, one of unspoken agreement, and the pair walked forward.
For the coming months, this would be their home in Asshai. In this strange city of shadowed silence, strange people and even stranger customs.