Months flitted by like a leaf caught in an errant wind, one day blurring into the next until even Baelon was startled by the realisation that a full month had slipped by.
Oros had been scoured to its final pebble. They had stripped the ruin bare with the patience of scholars and the hunger of scavengers, overturning collapsed temples, cracking open half-melted vaults, prying apart stone fused by impossible heat.
Yet Valyria, for all its infamy, yielded little. A few warped trinkets. Shards of glass fused with bone. Useless, mostly. The dragonglass tablet remained the last true discovery of worth.
And its words would not leave him. Not yet at least.
Baelon squinted as Vermithor carried him once more through the ashen sky, Tyria their next destination.
The wind tore at his cloak, but that message rang clearer than the roar of the dragon beneath him.
Do not trust shadows in the corridors of power. Some men walk without name, without voice, and yet their blades strike deeper than fire.
He rolled the words over in his mind with care. Shadows. Corridors of power. Blades deeper than fire.
What in the Seven Hells could it have meant?
Did all mages have a penchant for being so vague?
First, it was Seryon, and now it was this random mage.
Was it a warning of the Doom itself? If so, it was a poor one…cryptic to the point of useless.
Baelon bit back a sigh as he pressed down his wandering thoughts. Compared to that odd warning, he had more important things to do.
His gaze drifted downward.
Below them lay the Smoking Sea.
The waters were a dull, bruised grey, thick with drifting ash and streaked with strange colours, greens, reds, and oily blacks that shimmered like a sickened mirror.
Steam rose endlessly from its surface, curling upward in vast veils as seawater met heat that should not have been there.
Even from this height, Baelon could smell the pungent odour of brimstone and smoke.
Thankfully, the grey water gave way to land.
It was a fracture and a rather pathetic sight at that, but it was land nonetheless.
The familiar wasteland of Valyria stretched out beneath them, a broken continent of fused stone and blackened ridges.
One by one, more of the Fourteen Flames revealed themselves through the haze.
They rose like titans half-buried in the earth, whose slopes were scored with ancient scars.
Then, the situation was met with a sudden change.
Vermithor's massive body tensed beneath him, a low, thunderous growl rumbling from the Bronze Fury's chest.
Above and behind, the other two dragons roared in answer, voices overlapping in a discordant chorus. Their wings beat harder, agitated, and all three fixed their gaze upon the nearest Flame.
Baelon followed their focus.
The volcano was trembling. Unlike its counterpart in Oros, this one was still breathing. Thin orange-red streams streaked down its slope like bloody tears.
Still, Baelon was certain the trembling was not due to any gathering pressure.
The mountain was not swelling outward. No. It was being pushed from within.
Curiosity tightened its grip on Baelon. He urged Vermithor higher, then had the great dragon circle the volcano at a cautious distance.
The trembling worsened.
Cracks split open along the slope with a sound like tearing metal. Lava spilt forth, brighter now, and then, something moved beneath it.
The rock bulged, split, and a massive, scaled form punched through the side of the mountain.
A head emerged first, scaled and terrible.
"A firewyrm?" Baelon breathed, eyes widening despite himself.
By now, the creature dragged more of itself free.
It was a vast, serpentine body uncoiling from the volcano's wound.
The beast had no wings, no limbs to speak of save for some small…hands? Or were they claws?
Baelon could not tell from a distance.
Still, it was a sight to behold. As its titanic, wormlike form was clad in heat-scorched scales that gleamed like reddish bricks of Astapor.
Its face was…uncomfortably familiar. Uncomfortably…draconic.
Kkkkssssshhhhh!
The beast forced open its maws as it let out a hiss that echoed across the wasteland.
Baelon remembered the passages well from Septon Barth's Unnatural History. Something he was keen on reading in his earlier years in the Red Keep.
Firewyrms, Barth had written, were proposed to have been used by Valyrian sorcerers alongside wyverns from Sothoryos to birth dragons. These wingless creatures often burrow deep beneath the earth.
They dwelt in volcanoes and molten caverns, growing larger with age, feeding on heat and fire itself.
Some were said to be no longer than a man's arm.
Others, Barth warned, were so vast they could hollow out entire mountains.
This one had been sleeping in the bones of the Fourteen Flames.
And now it had awakened.
The firewyrm coiled out of its volcanic cradle, ash raining from its body as lava streamed around it.
It lifted its head toward the circling dragons, eyes burning with an ancient, hungry fury.
Nonetheless, having seen the creature with his own eyes, Baelon felt his curiosity thoroughly sated.
Whatever mysteries the beast embodied, they were not worth delaying their return to their original flight path toward Tyria, where he hoped the ruins might yield relics of far greater value.
Baelon did not want to bother the angry worm any longer.
Or so he thought.
Vermithor did not turn.
Instead, the Bronze Fury let loose a thunderous roar, his massive chest swelling as the sound rolled across the ashen sky and down into the broken valleys below.
The firewrym answered in kind, its screech shrill and furious, echoing through Valyria's corpse like the cry of some ancient nightmare.
Baelon blinked, surprise flickering across his features. His hand tightened instinctively against the saddle's ridge.
"Ao jaelagon naejot vīlībagon?" You wish to fight?
He asked.
The only answer was a deep rumble that shuddered through Vermithor's spine and into Baelon's bones, a sound that spoke not in words but in intent.
Intent that he understood at once.
Vermithor had rarely been allowed true battle. Astapor. Tolos.
Both had been massacres, not contests, cities and soldiers alike crumbling beneath dragonfire with no real resistance.
There had been no challenge, no worthy foe to sate the ancient hunger that coiled within the Bronze Fury's.
This was different.
Here was a creature of Valyria itself. Old. Dangerous. Worthy.
Vermithor wanted to vent his battle lust, and he would not willingly relinquish the opportunity.
Baelon could have overridden him. A single command, spoken with force, would have turned the dragon away.
Yet as Baelon studied the firewrym below, coiled amidst blackened stone and rivers of sluggish lava, he found little reason to deny him.
He did not believe the beast could truly harm either of them.
After all, its greatest weapon was flame.
Unfortunately for the firewrym, both Baelon and Vermithor were as fireproof as living beings could possibly be.
With a quiet sigh, Baelon twisted at the waist and glanced back at Helaena, who hovered behind him atop Dreamfyre, her pale dragon's wings beating slowly against the smoke-choked air.
"Vermithor seems intent on battle," Baelon called out. "If you wish, you can circle the area on Dreamfyre and rest."
Helaena guided Dreamfyre closer instead, her silver hair whipping around her face. Her gaze flit past Baelon and toward the massive creature below.
"Are you certain?" She asked. "Do you not remember Princess Aerea? Was it not rumoured that she and Balerion were harmed by a firewrym?"
Baelon followed her gaze, eyes narrowing as he studied the beast's immense coils.
"You're right," he admitted slowly. "But even if Vermithor and I can't win, escape would be easy." His lips curved faintly. "That's not even accounting for the fact that we have three adult dragons."
He paused, then added more quietly, almost to himself, "And I am not Aerea Targaryen."
Should some parasitic horror attempt to burrow into his body, it would find no sanctuary there.
The Blood Bond had changed him permanently.
The scarlet hue that once stained his skin and the smoky breath that escaped his lips had faded, but the truth beneath remained unchanged.
His body was a living furnace. Only his extraordinary resistance made him appear human at all.
Should his blood spill, it would blister the air itself, hissing, steaming, and smoking like that of a dragon.
Thus, should anything try to tunnel into him, it would not only be met with searing heat but also an ungodly pressure.
After his words fell, Vermithor folded his wings and plunged.
The Bronze Fury cut through the ashen skies like a falling star, heat and wind screaming past Baelon as the ruined landscape rushed upward to meet them.
As they descended, the firewrym came into full view.
It was enormous.
Its girth alone rivalled that of a siege tower, whilst its length was monstrous, long enough that, were it stretched out, it would loom higher than any city wall ever raised by man.
Vermithor roared again as they closed in, and the firewrym reared up, screeching in defiance.
The beast's maw yawned wide, revealing multiple rows of jagged, razor-sharp teeth, each one as long and thick as a man's arm.
Yet it was not the teeth that drew Baelon's attention.
It was the glow building deep within its throat.
Flames clustered there, churning and swelling, a molten inferno preparing to burst forth.
'What a shame,' Baelon thought coldly. 'If it were anyone else, they might actually be afraid.'
As the firewrym unleashed its breath, Baelon raised his hand.
The flames twisted violently, as if they were resisting his control.
Then—
Boom!
An explosion detonated inside the beast's mouth as the fire burst, ripping through flesh and bone from within.
The firewrym's screech turned into a shrill, agonised wail as smoke poured from its shattered jaws.
Vermithor did not hesitate.
The Bronze Fury surged forward, jaws snapping shut around the wounded creature as he tore into its flesh and swallowed great chunks of scorched meat.
The firewrym thrashed wildly, shrieking in pain.
Through the billowing smoke, Baelon could glimpse dark crimson seeping from torn scales, splattering onto the rocks below and trickling down in steaming rivulets.
Satisfied, Vermithor pulled away, wings beating hard as he rose once more, then turned back.
This time, he breathed.
But the fire did not immediately fly forward.
With Baelon's guidance, the dragonfire gathered instead, coiling and spinning behind them into a massive sphere of flame.
It grew and grew, until it was as large as Vermithor's head, a blazing sun spinning in their wake.
When Vermithor closed in once more, the firewrym having barely recovered enough to lift its ruined head, Baelon willed the sphere forward.
Vermithor shot upward.
BOOM!
Below them, the sphere collided with the beast.
The resulting explosion dwarfed the earlier blast, a roiling inferno that swallowed stone, smoke, and flesh alike.
The firewrym's scream rose again, filled with agony, before breaking into a wet, gurgling screech.
High above, Baelon clicked his tongue softly as he looked down at the devastation.
"This thing really hurt Balerion?" he muttered. "Why does that feel impossible…?"
Perhaps Balerion had faced a far larger firewrym?
Even so, the fragments of truth never quite aligned.
Shaking his head, Baelon refocused, feeling the fierce excitement of his bond thrumming through him as he looked once more at their foe.
The firewrym still lived.
Half its face was gone, torn away in a charred ruin. Boiling blood hissed and steamed as it poured from the wound, vapour rising in thick, choking clouds.
And yet, still, it writhed. Still, lived.
"Jikagon." Go.
He murmured.
At the word, Vermithor moved.
The Bronze Fury folded his wings and dove, slamming into the firewrym with catastrophic force.
His claws sank deep, tearing through scorched scales and softening flesh alike.
Each hooked claw ripped great swathes from the creature's remaining side, peeling muscle from bone as Vermithor rended and shredded without mercy.
The firewrym convulsed, its life on its final embers…but it was not yet finished. Not yet.
With the last of its remaining strength, it lunged upward and clamped its ruined jaws around Vermithor's forelimb.
Teeth scraped and bit, piercing scale and drawing blood, but not deeply enough.
The Bronze Fury snarled in fury rather than pain, wrenching free before the beast could gain purchase or tear away flesh.
Vermithor leapt back, wings beating hard as he hovered just above the ground, staring down at the firewrym with molten fury burning in his eyes.
Below, the wounded creature thrashed and scrambled, dragging its ruined bulk across the stone in a desperate attempt to rise again.
Vermithor roared.
Dragonfire erupted from his jaws.
And, like before, Baelon seized it.
The flames twisted mid-air, funnelled inward, forced directly into the firewrym's open mouth and down into its exposed, fleshy insides.
The beast convulsed violently as smoke poured from its throat, from ruptured wounds, from between shattered teeth. The stench of cooked meat flooded the air.
The firewrym writhed for several agonising moments more…then stilled. The beast had fallen.
Vermithor rushed forward at once, claws and jaws tearing into the carcass as he began to gnaw hungrily at his fallen foe, ripping chunks free with wet, crunching sounds.
Baelon watched his gluttonous dragon for a moment before dismounting, boots crunching softly against blackened stone.
His gaze drifted instead to the vast tunnel networks lining the volcanic chamber, the jagged mouths of passages burrowed deep into the mountain's heart, including the one the firewrym had emerged from.
A shadow passed overhead.
Silverwing descended gracefully from the smoke-filled sky, her pale form cutting through the ash like moonlight through fog.
She landed beside Vermithor, who immediately nudged her with his snout, a low rumble escaping his chest.
Silverwing answered with a soft croon, rubbing her head against his neck before lowering herself beside him and joining in the feast.
Baelon stared.
"…Why didn't I know you two could be so romantic?" he muttered.
Shaking his head, he turned back toward Vermithor and gestured toward the tunnels.
"Dombo isse konīr?" Any more in there?
Vermithor glanced up briefly from his meal, swallowed a mouthful of flesh, and released a low grunt before returning to eating.
"So it seems to be safe…" Baelon murmured, eyes lingering on the largest tunnel. Curiosity tugged at him sharply. "It wouldn't hurt to explore… right?"
As dangerous as it sounded, the pull was irresistible.
For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like one of the old stories his father used to read to him, of young heroes venturing into the villain's hidden lair, uncovering some long-buried secret or forgotten treasure.
"Seven hells," Baelon muttered, rolling his eyes behind his goggles. "I really haven't changed…"
He cast one glance at Helaena, who remained atop Dreamfyre and decided to briefly sneak away to fulfil his curiosity.
With a flick of his fingers, he conjured a small ball of flame no larger than his fist. It hovered obediently beside him, casting flickering light as he stepped into the tunnel.
The passage was narrow and uneven, its walls jagged and blackened, the flame barely illuminating more than a few feet ahead.
His footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the depths.
Unlike Dragonstone, he was not alone.
He had a dragon now. And with the bond between them, as long as Vermithor remained above, he could always find his way back, simply by following the pull of that ever-present connection.
So he had little fear of being lost.
Soon, time passed.
He found little.
No glyphs. No carvings. No ancient inscriptions.
At last, as frustration began to creep in, Baelon slowed, preparing to turn back—
Then his eyes widened.
The tunnel opened suddenly into a vast underground chamber.
Its ceiling soared high above, supported by massive stone columns fused into the rock itself. The air was strangely still here, untouched by smoke or ash.
Braziers of black metal lined the walls, long extinguished yet untouched by decay.
Preserved.
Too preserved.
This had been made after the Doom.
At the chamber's centre stood an altar of dark stone, and upon it rested four dragon eggs, their shells faintly gleaming, untouched by time.
But around the altar lay something far worse.
Faces.
Human faces.
Not masks. Not carvings.
Faces.
They were scattered around the altar in a grim ring, dozens of them, their features frozen in silent agony. Despite however many decades or centuries they had lain here, they had not rotted.
Instead, they had shrivelled.
The skin was brittle and grey, stretched tight over hollow contours, caked in ash as though the life had been sucked clean from them.
Baelon glanced around, finding markings etched into the walls nearby. Their text was a familiar High Valyrian.
No face should choose.
Without warning, Baelon remembered the words etched upon the dragonglass tablet.
A cold realisation settled over him as the pieces slid into place.
Some men walk without name…