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The azure sea was calm, disturbed only by the slow, steady beat of the drum and the gentle stroke of wooden oars.
Viserys quite liked the sea. Years ago, Queen Rhaella had fled with them to Dragonstone, where Daenerys Stormborn was born, and from there they had fled to Braavos.
Viserys enjoyed the freedom of the open ocean. Leaving Braavos for Andalos had spared him the turbulent life of flitting between Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
In his cabin, Viserys examined his silver scale armor closely. He summoned a droplet of azure water, which the armor absorbed instantly.
The Armor of Garin the Grey was on par with the Valyrian steel armor Euron Crow's Eye would one day possess.
One was the creation of Valyrian Dragonlord pyromancers, the other of Rhoynar Prince hydromancers—both pinnacles of their respective civilizations' craftsmanship.
Even now, no other city could match the technological heights of those two fallen empires.
Though Viserys had not yet acquired a Valyrian steel weapon, this set of equipment was unparalleled.
Ancient noble houses might possess one or two pieces of Valyrian steel at most; Viserys had a full set of four.
If Tywin Lannister knew Viserys was looting legendary gear wholesale, the old lion might die of envy.
The silver scales flowed like liquid mithril, brighter than any silver plating, yet as light as silk.
The edges of the scales glowed with a brighter, reddish-silver light when he moved.
The metal was etched with spiral patterns, ancient Rhoynar runes, and mysterious symbols representing water weeds, the great river, turtles, and crabs.
The relics of Garin the Grey were akin to Valyrian steel—tempered by magic, light yet indestructible.
Viserys knew that Tywin Lannister's crimson armor and Renly Baratheon's green enamel armor were exorbitantly expensive, with master smiths fusing color into the metal itself.
But compared to the Silver Scale Armor, they were mere toys.
Mortal steel could not compare to epic artifacts.
Such items existed only a millennium ago, when Rhoynar civilization was at its peak. Even then, their value would have rivaled a kingdom.
Viserys lifted the armor, pondering. "Blood for fire, fire for blood—that is the essence of Valyrian magic. But Rhoynar magic is blood and water, water and blood."
One was a magic of sacrifice and exchange; the other of mutual prosperity.
Fire magic consumed the self; water magic relied on the Great River.
Viserys placed his hand on the silver armor. Even in the summer heat, it felt cool as jade.
The Rhoynar silver armor did not sink in water and was impervious to fire—Viserys's greatest asset for the coming expedition.
Of course, this invulnerability wasn't absolute; under the concentrated fire of a hundred dragons, nothing would survive.
The armor might endure, but the person inside would be cooked.
The greater the user's power, the more perfect the armor's performance.
The ruins of Valyria in the Smoking Sea would be filled with fire, firewyrms, toxic gas, sulfurous fumes, and perhaps blood magic mutations.
Studying the armor, Viserys realized its hardness and lightness were merely superficial traits. Its true nature lay in the magical arrays it contained.
Garin's silver armor acted like a massive battery, accelerating the gathering of water essence. It had an affinity for water and shielded against fire, but the user needed to expend significant water essence to fully activate it.
This was true for the entire Rhoynar set.
Viserys boldly guessed that Valyrian dragonlord armor worked on the same principle: fire essence gathering arrays serving the true dragonlords.
Viserys had also prepared the gems. The Unsullied (gifts from Ordello) and runaway slave oarsmen (mostly from Volantis) who would accompany him ashore would also carry these gems.
Sapphires storing water essence might provide some protection.
Morosh was an excellent admiral. They sailed swiftly along the coast.
The only potential trouble spot was the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands—a chaotic den of thieves with no master.
Fortunately, the Ironborn had been beaten down by the Iron Throne and were currently licking their wounds; otherwise, they might have run into those mad reavers.
Through the porthole, Viserys could see the distant Stepstones. Historically a pirate haven, no true king had ever ruled them for long.
Only two large islands in the chain had names: Bloodstone and Grey Gallows.
Bloodstone in the north was now a shared refuge for pirates and smugglers, though it leaned toward Tyrosh.
Grey Gallows in the south was the personal lair of Salladhor Saan, the self-styled Prince of the Narrow Sea.
"Your Grace, we are approaching the Stepstones. I will go negotiate," Morosh reported.
"Good," Viserys nodded.
The ship cruised rapidly along the coast, Morosh flying his personal banner.
Viserys first saw Tyrosh, a fortress city protected by high walls on the northeasternmost edge of the Stepstones.
Larger than Sunspear, Tyrosh was described as a boisterous city.
It possessed Black Walls like Volantis, though far less impressive.
The ship passed Tyrosh easily, threading through the chain of Bloodstone, even managing to resupply.
Viserys noted the rocky islands, reefs, winding channels, and sea stacks.
This terrain was unsuitable for large fleets to charge through; it favored the smaller, more agile ships of pirates.
The channels here had once been blocked by booms or sunken ships, leaving only a few open waterways for tax collection.
The only time anyone boarded them was at Grey Gallows, where Salladhor Saan's customs officials came aboard. Morosh calmly invited them up.
A Lysene ship approached from the island, its flag depicting a naked maiden.
Viserys even saw Saan's flagship, the Valyrian, a massive war galley with three hundred oars and painted hull, anchored nearby. Another large ship, the Old Mother's Son, was also present.
"I hear you've struck it rich lately, Admiral Morosh," the Lysene official asked, followed by several slender, dangerous Lysene bravos.
Pure Lyseni often had fair skin, seductive eyes, blond hair, and blue eyes.
Morosh shrugged casually. "Just small business. I don't earn as much as Prince Saan."
"That's not what I hear. Prince Saan says you've secured a monopoly smuggling route from Myr to Andalos, selling arms and firepowder. You're swimming in gold," the Lysene said enviously.
"Just a few coppers. Where is Saan?" Morosh asked, ordering his crew to bring out the carefully packaged grape brandy.
"The Prince is still in Lys. He always says this place is a bird-shit rock compared to the beauty of Lys."
To mask the purpose of their journey, Morosh's ship carried many barrels of grape brandy—a perfect opportunity to market it.
"What is this?" the Lysene asked.
"Grape brandy. Good stuff I'm planning to sell in Volantis," Morosh said mysteriously.
"Good stuff? I heard Andal wine tastes like horse piss."
"Taste it. It's better than Tyroshi pear brandy. Not bad at all." The Lysene couldn't resist a taste and his eyes lit up. "Looks like you really have struck gold, Admiral Morosh."
"Thanks to everyone's support. The sea trade is too risky; I'm planning to switch to something safer, trading wine."
"So, can I pass now?" Morosh asked.
"You are an old friend of the Prince. We'll only take a third of the tax."
"Many thanks." Morosh sent five barrels of brandy to the smugglers' customs officials. Everyone has a bright future.
The fleet continued, crossing the island chain.
The only violence occurred when they anchored in the Disputed Lands. A pirate ship recklessly approached them at night and was chopped to pieces by the crew.
The next day, Viserys and his fleet sailed near the beautiful island city of Lys.
Lys was a small city built on rock, surrounded by stormy seas.
But the island climate was cool, sunny, and fertile, with abundant palm and fruit trees. The sea was emerald green and teeming with fish.
"Lovely Lys." Viserys looked at the distant city. To save time, they did not stop.
Though originally a Valyrian colony, Lys had gone its own way since the Doom. The Magisters wouldn't welcome a new master.
True rule would require blood and fire.
During the Doom of Valyria, some Dragonlords were in Tyrosh or Lys, but they were killed along with their dragons by the citizens in the ensuing chaos.
The ships sailed on for a long time; the distance between Lys and Volantis was great.
Fortunately, the weather held, and there were few obstructions.
When Viserys saw the sprawling metropolis, he knew Valyria was not far.
Proud Volantis, the First Daughter of Valyria, Queen of the Rhoyne, Mistress of the Summer Sea.
Volantis sprawled across the mouth of the Rhoyne, extending from both banks into the hills and marshes of the interior. It resembled a pair of fat, moist lips—rich, mature to the point of decadence.
The Volantenes boasted they could sink the hundred isles of Braavos in their deep harbor.
"The First Daughter of Valyria."
"The failed heir of Valyria."
Viserys's fleet resupplied food and fresh water at Volantis, docking at the port on the western bank of the Rhoyne.
Countless sailors, slaves, and merchants landed there, served by taverns, inns, and brothels.
The wealthy Old City of Volantis lay on the eastern bank, unwelcoming to mercenaries, savages, and foreign bumpkins.
The West and East cities were connected by the Long Bridge. The center of the bridge was lined with iron spikes displaying the severed hands of thieves and pickpockets, and the heads of runaway slaves.
Volantis was so crowded with ships that Viserys's fleet went unnoticed.
The western docks were packed with riverboats and sea-going vessels from all over the world, loading and unloading cargo.
There were galleys, whalers, trading galleys, carracks, cogs, barges, flatboats, longships, and swan ships.
Ships from Lys, Tyrosh, Pentos, Qarth, Tolos, Yunkai, and the Basilisk Isles filled the harbor.
"I'll arrange supplies and contact merchants," Morosh disembarked to handle logistics and contact his Volantene acquaintances to open a market for the brandy.
The smuggler was still adjusting to being a legitimate wine merchant.
"Good. I'll go ashore and take a look as well," Viserys said.
The smell of Volantis in the southern harbor was uniquely foul, hanging in the hot, humid air—pungent and pervasive.
It was a mix of fish, flowers, elephant dung, something sweet, something earthy, and something rotting.
Viserys had never experienced such a hot, humid, ancient city.
He toured the city in a cart drawn by a dwarf elephant with skin like dirty snow.
Following local custom—Volantene nobles and foreign captains traveled only by cart or palanquin, and the Triarchs' feet never touched the ground for a year—Viserys rode.
The driver shouted, clearing the way of travelers and slaves.
Slaves were tattooed: some with blue feathers masking their faces, others with lightning bolts from forehead to jaw, or leopard spots, coins, skulls, or jugs on their cheeks.
Viserys was most drawn to the Black Walls, a wonder of the world. Unfortunately, they were far away in the Old City on the east bank.
Outsiders were generally not allowed inside the Black Walls—a seamless oval of fused black stone, two hundred feet high.
The walls were thick enough for six four-horse chariots to race abreast.
Residents within called themselves the "Old Blood," tracing their lineage back to Old Valyria.
Unless invited by a resident, foreigners, freedmen, and outlanders were forbidden entry.
While the docks bustled, the peripheral districts showed signs of decay.
Small bridges over tributaries feeding the Rhoyne were rotting and treacherous, creaking ominously.
Fortresses guarding the river to the north had only broken gates remaining.
"Seeing is believing. The face remains, but the substance is gone," Viserys thought. "Braavos seems more prosperous than Volantis."
Volantis had tried to conquer the world and failed miserably.
Braavos, wiser, had never let war touch its soil.
Naked children screamed and ran through Braavos's alleys; bravos lounged outside taverns, fingers on sword hilts; hunched, tattooed slaves scurried like roaches on their masters' errands.
Centuries of war had depopulated Volantis, leaving many districts to return to swamp and ruin.
This was beautiful Volantis, city of fountains and flowers.
Now, half the fountains were dry, half the pools stagnant. Flowering vines claimed every crack in the walls and walkways; saplings rooted in abandoned shops and roofless temples.
"This is a city that has never recovered," Viserys thought.
Once the ship was fully loaded again—brandy offloaded, replaced by fresh water, food, large fish, and ice—the new journey began.
Thanks to Morosh's silver tongue and the brandy's quality, the wine sold well.
Volantis had plenty of rich men who didn't mind spending coin.
The fleet set sail again. Viserys bought more seafood rich in water essence at the fish market.
Volantis was as bountiful as Braavos.
Leaving Volantis, the fleet sailed southeast until they saw red clouds in the sky—a gloomy red light illuminating the northeast, the color of bruised blood.
Smoke began to rise from the reefs below.
The sea water here steamed, and the Fourteen Flames within seemed still alight.
The ancient ruins of the Smoking Sea had arrived.
Morosh felt a twinge of nervousness. Though this was a great adventure, the tales of the Doom and the curses of the ruins were chilling.
Viserys smelled the red wind of Valyria, carrying the scent of ash and brimstone. The black wind drove them toward the destroyed coast.