Time had passed since their encounter in Old Valyria, yet Baelon felt as if his soul had been left behind within the underbelly of the derelict.
He lay within his estate, sprawled across the bed, one arm draped lazily over his side with that book resting beside him.
A wretched thing it was. It said nothing, revealed nothing… and yet it pulled at his thoughts time and time again, dragging him back to that vision.
"Damn it all…" Baelon muttered, pinching the bridge of his brow.
He forced himself to sift through what he had seen, both from that vision and their earlier ventures into Valyria.
First of all, the Doom was linked to the Faceless Men of Braavos. That much had been clear since the warning in Oros, two years past.
But how? That he did not know…at least until recently.
They had likely targeted key mages within Valyria, replacing some, like the Magister, while eliminating others outright.
And if that were true…
Then who remained to warn the Freehold of what was to come through prophecy?
No one, save for anomalies such as Daenys.
Baelon exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
And more importantly…if the Arch-Mages had been removed, then who maintained the intricate magical matrices that held the Fourteen Flames in check?
No one.
The answer settled into his mind with a cruel, merciless clarity.
The Doom was no accident, it was orchestrated by men filled with hatred as much as madness.
The Faceless Men had let the Valyrians fall to the very flames they had fed with the lives of countless slaves.
Ah…the irony.
For a moment, Baelon found himself almost speechless.
And yet—
His eyes shifted to the book.
What was it?
Was its sole purpose merely to show that scene? A relic meant to pass on a fragment of truth to those who came after the Doom?
No…
That felt insufficient.
There was more to it. He could feel it, something just beyond his grasp, something the book refused to yield so easily.
If it holds more than that one vision…
If it carries other remnants of Valyrian knowledge…
A faint fire stirred behind his eyes.
Spells that would dwarf anything he currently commanded. Knowledge long thought lost…of forging Valyrian steel, of crafting relics imbued with magic like the very object at his side.
For a brief moment, the temptation was overwhelming.
And then—
Calm.
It rose to meet that hunger, clashing against it with equal force.
Baelon's fingers twitched faintly against the sheets.
He had no desire to stumble blindly into a trap of ancient making. Valyrians were not known for their mercy and certainly not toward those who meddled where they should not.
Their first attempt had already bordered on recklessness.
And if the book did more than show visions… if it could ensnare the mind itself—
What then?
Baelon let out a quiet breath.
A far-fetched thought, perhaps. But not one he was willing to dismiss.
With his mind tangled in questions, Baelon let out a slow sigh. Whether it was born of exhaustion or frustration, he could not quite tell.
Pitter-patter.
Familiar footsteps echoed just beyond the bedroom door, followed by the low groan of it opening.
Baelon lifted his head just enough to glimpse a lithe, silver-haired figure before letting it fall back against the mattress.
"Enjoy your little day trip on Dreamfyre?" he asked, voice lazy as he shifted slightly on the bed.
"I suppose so," Helaena replied lightly. "Though I cannot say I envy you, tucked away in here like some princess."
"Hold," Baelon perked up at once, turning his head toward her. "Have you forgotten your own station? Princess Helaena Targaryen."
"And…" his gaze followed her as she sat at the edge of the bed, a handful of letters clutched in her hands. "Mind you, I have been very busy pondering." He tapped the side of his head. "Mock what you will, but spare the jewel in here. It has saved us more times than either of us could count."
His pride, unfortunately, earned him nothing.
Helaena did not so much as glance his way, already absorbed in the letters before her.
Baelon raised a brow, then shifted closer, leaning just enough to peer over her shoulder.
"What could possibly be so—"
His words faltered.
Ah.
Now he understood her silence.
The letters contained tidings from Westeros, mostly pertaining to one figure in particular.
"Father…" Baelon exhaled, the word heavy on his tongue. "Is he truly so ill already?" It was framed as a question, though it seemed meant for no one in particular.
"We should have foreseen this," Helaena murmured, lips pressed thin. "He was not well when we left. By then, he was already limping…"
Silence settled between them, broken only by the faint rhythm of their breathing.
Baelon felt it then, that lingering cowardice, gnawing at him. The quiet shame of returning to a man he had abandoned in pursuit of his own ambitions.
King's Landing no longer frightened him as it once had. He had outgrown that fear long ago.
But this…
This was different.
He feared returning, only to find a corpse in his father's place. He feared returning to only be met with blame. He feared returning just to see the family he had preserved in memory turn against each other like rabid dogs.
So many worries. Too many, even. Yet, even they could not stop the stirring of his heart as he thought of returning.
And still, one question remained.
"Should we return?" They spoke as one, their voices overlapping.
For a brief moment, they simply stared at one another before a soft laugh broke the tension.
Helaena spoke first.
"We ought to," she said. "For ourselves, and for our family, however distant we have grown. Besides, the realm here is stable. We can leave with little concern."
Baelon gave a slow nod.
There was reluctance, of course. A quiet pull as he thought of the years they had spent in Essos.
Yet… regardless of their father's weakness, regardless of whatever careful calculations lay behind their mother's affections, their parents had raised them with what love they could afford.
Which, for high nobility, was often as much as one could hope for.
And with the former merchant overlords of New Ghis having so conveniently "passed" the year prior, alongside the recent routing of resistance in Slaver's Bay, their holdings stood firm.
There was little left undone.
Knock-knock!
At the sound, the pair exchanged a look, one laced with the same quiet resignation.
"It seems they require our counsel once again…" Baelon muttered, rolling his eyes.
"This is our nation," Helaena replied with a soft chuckle, reaching out to poke his cheek. "It stands to reason that we should be the ones making its decisions."
"Call it what you will," Baelon said as he swung his legs off the bed. "All I know is that soon enough we'll be back in Westeros, and the council can manage here for all I care."
As for betrayal…
That was hardly worth entertaining.
The Blood Oath was no kind spell. Should any who bore it even think to defy them, their bodies would betray them in turn, blood spilling from every orifice before death claimed them.
And Baelon?
Well.
All he could say was that the regenerative gift he had gained from the Blood Bond ritual was…unfair, in the most convenient of ways.
With a quiet sigh, he rose to his feet, Helaena following soon after.
As they moved toward the door, Baelon lifted his arm slightly, to which Helaena slipped her arm through.
Then the pair strolled towards the door to deal with whatever matters had thought themselves wise enough to bother them.
***
Schliick!
Qyros slid his blade through another Lyseni throat, blood spraying wildly at his face and stinging his eyes.
Unfortunately, he could not close his eyes, as a moment of blindness on the battlefield was a death sentence in all but name.
Shiiing!
Gritting his teeth, he threw his body across the ship's deck as he dodged another blade.
Pain flared across his arms, his lungs screamed in protest, and his mind bemoaned a chance for rest.
Alas, he had to fight.
As the head of this Volantene fleet, he was the hope of his men to put an end to his city-state's struggle these past few years.
Dothraki marauding, Lys piracy and Dragon's Bay politicking. Each one of them wore down the spirits of every Volantene.
But now?
It was almost over.
Just one more battle. One more stage to spill Lyseni blood, and they could rest. He could rest.
Turning around, he tried to see who had been close to cutting him with that sword swing.
Then—
He saw him. Or her? Qyros wasn't certain. The intel on this Lyseni captain was rather mixed on the details.
Regardless, it mattered little.
Rising up, Qyros let out a rousing scream and gripped his blade tightly as he charged towards Sharako Lohar.
Clang!
Their blades clashed as steel mournfully wailed.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
On the Lyseni ship Qyros had boarded, he repeatedly clashed with Sharako. Leader against leader. Swordsman against swordsman. Man against…man?
After another bout, Qyros found an opening in the form of the exhausted Sharako, to which he did not hesitate.
Schliiick!
His blade dug into Sharako's lower abdomen, where he then cut upwards, entrails and blood spilling outwards in grim display.
"Haah…haah…!" Qyros panted, his body once again stubbornly protesting his actions, yet all he could truly bother paying attention to was the sheer exhilaration flooding his veins.
He had done it.
With a tired step forward, he used his blade to cut off Sharako's head before raising the head high.
"Look well, cowards of Lys! Your captain is dead! Throw down your weapons and kneel, or I will send every one of you to join him!" Qyros bellowed, his voice raw with triumph, cut across the decks and surrounding ships alike.
His words caught the attention of all aboard the Lyseni flagship, most of all a wiry man nearby who immediately flushed red as he saw Qyros' actions.
Alas, the man's momentary fury was his undoing as a Volantene arrow found itself lodged in his eye socket, with the man dropping dead promptly after.
Qyros vaguely remembered the man being Sharako's first mate, but couldn't care less at this point.
Clutching his former foe's head, he roared up to the heavens above as he became the focal point of the skirmish.
Slowly, the Lyseni began to drop their blades, dropping to their knees with their hands in the air.
Then, surely but slowly, the battlefield began to calm. The air, once filled with fighting and screaming, had ceased.
"Secure the decks! Bind every prisoner. Any man who resists, kill him! Send boarding parties to seize every remaining Lyseni ship; no vessel is to escape." Qyros leaned on his sword as he barked out orders to his men. "Tend to the wounded first; anyone still breathing is to be saved. The dead will be honoured once this is done. Raise our banners! Let every ship in these waters know who holds victory!"
Not long after, a familiar figure approached through the aftermath, boots slick with blood, armour battered but intact.
Malquo. His deputy. Or, rather, a spy placed on his crew by those Old Blood scions.
Qyros glanced toward him, saying nothing, though the question lingered plainly in his eyes.
Malquo inclined his head slightly before speaking, his tone steady despite the carnage around them.
"It is done, then. We lost nearly a quarter of the men we brought into the fray. Many more are wounded, though some will survive with care. The Lyseni suffered far worse; their dead numbered in the thousands across the fleet. Meanwhile, roughly two thousand have been captured on this vessel alone, with more being secured as we speak. We have seized 15 of their ships intact, and 5 more are damaged but salvageable. The rest, either sunk or burning."
Qyros smiled, satisfaction plain in his gaze.
These past few years had worn Lys thin, war on two fronts, against both Volantis and the rising Twin Daughter Alliance.
With Pentos faltering on its last legs, Lys had finally broken, its fleeting dominance over Essos proving as short-lived as a whore's chastity.
As for his casualties?
Volantis lacked many things, but men were not among them.
Though the loss of his soldiers weighed on him, Qyros knew himself well enough. If this victory demanded it again, he would pay the same price without hesitation.
With a dismissive wave, he sent Malquo off to his duties and closed his eyes, allowing himself a rare moment of indulgence.
What now? After all this chaos?
A brothel, perhaps. A feast worthy of kings. Or land in Volantis, perhaps then he could even vote.
'Ah… choices atop choices,' Qyros mused, a smug smile tugging at his lips—
—and then it froze.
A chill crept up his spine.
His eyes snapped open, darting across the deck, the horizon, the men.
From his days as a pirate to his rise as commander, which may have been earned or bought through bribing the Tiger Party triarch, he had always trusted his instincts.
They had never failed him.
And now—
They screamed.
But in a tongue he could not understand.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
His heart thudded uneasily as his gaze dragged itself toward the horizon.
The sea stretched wide and restless, its surface choked with splintered hulls drifting aimlessly, broken masts jutting from the water like fingers.
Corpses bobbed between them, armour glinting faintly beneath the sun, staining the waves in slow-spreading ribbons of red.
At first, nothing seemed amiss.
Just ruin.
Just victory.
But then—
Shapes.
Faint, distant things they were, but soon their silhouettes grew ever clearer.
Ships.
Qyros' breath hitched as the silhouettes sharpened, multiplying across the horizon.
A fleet.
"Move!" he roared, the word tearing from his throat as he spun toward his men. "To arms, you bastards! This is not over!"
His sword pointed wildly across the deck.
"Form ranks! Archers to position! Ready the ballistae, now!"
He turned, voice rising further.
"And bind the prisoners properly! I want chains on them, chains, you hear me? If they so much as twitch, gut them!"
The brief lull was shattered.
Men scrambled. Orders flew. The remnants of triumph were swept aside, replaced by urgency and dread.
Moments ago, they had stood victorious.
Now—
Now they stood on the precipice once more.
Fatigue clung to them, etched deep into their faces, their limbs heavy from battle. But none dared voice it.
Not now.
Not when survival hung in the balance.
Qyros forced himself to breathe, eyes narrowing as he watched the approaching fleet.
Perhaps, perhaps he had misjudged.
There was a slight possibility they were merchant vessels that had strayed from their routes. Excessively armed, yes, but Essos was not kind to the unguarded.
However, his delusion lasted until the banners rose clear against the wind.
Tyrosh.
Myr.
The sigils of the Twin Daughter Alliance burned into his vision.
Qyros closed his eyes, a quiet finality settling over him as he drew in a long, steady breath.
When he opened them again, a thin, forced smile had taken hold.
"Ah…" He murmured softly. "So this is where my road ends."
Yet even then, his grip tightened around his sword.
If he were to die—
He would not go quietly.
He would drag these rats down with him, break them upon the same blood-soaked sea.
Still, a thought lingered, unwelcome and sharp.
How had such a force come so close, unseen?
His patrols should have caught them. Should have warned him long before this moment, which meant...something was wrong.
But doubt had no place here.
Not now.
With a sharp breath, Qyros stepped forward, raising his blade as his voice rang out once more.
"Hold the line!"
Archers lined the rails with half-drawn bows, fingers trembling as they waited.
Blades were gripped so tightly that knuckles blanched white beneath grime and blood.
Along the decks, scorpions creaked as they were hauled into place, their wicked bolts glinting in the sparse sunlight that slipped through the clouds above, while ballistae groaned under the strain of being turned toward the oncoming threat.
Every man stood ready.
Every man knew it would not be enough.
And still—
They waited.
Yet as the enemy fleet drew nearer, Qyros' unease did not fade.
It deepened.
Twisting and festering within his chest.
Was this truly what his instincts had screamed of?
He felt something was off. It was as if his instincts were reminding him of another danger…
His gaze drifted upward, careless at first.
Then it stopped.
BA-DUMP! BA-DUMP!
His heart pounded in his ribs, screaming to escape. Which, he would have loved to do too, alas, he very quickly understood its futility.
A shape, barely more than a smear against the clouds, danced and writhed.
Qyros' throat tightened as he swallowed, sweat beading along his temple, cold despite the heat of battle.
And then—
SKRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!
The sound tore through the heavens.
Not a roar, not quite.
Something sharper. Wilder. A scream dragged from the throat of something ancient and something no man could ever hope to best.
It rattled his bones and banished his thoughts.
Men flinched. Some fell to their knees outright, hands clamped over their ears as if that might save them.
The clouds parted—
—and it descended.
A crimson terror, vast and terrible in size, twisted its elongated form as it plunged.
Wings beat once, twice, each motion sending violent gusts across the sea below, scattering ash, spray, and the fragile remnants of victory.
Qyros could not move, nor could he think.
He...could only watch.
Time stretched thin, drawn out into something cruel and endless.
The beast's maw opened as it descended upon him like a falling star.
And within its maws glowed a light.
A deep, molten light, as though the sun itself had been caged within its throat.
For a fleeting moment, something broke through the terror.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Understanding. Bitter understanding.
A dragon.
A f*cking dragon. That was how they remained undetected; that monstrosity had likely torched his patrol ships.
Qyros' grip loosened.
The sounds of the world dulled.
The shouts of his men, the crash of waves, the groaning of ships…all of it faded.
He thought, briefly, of the path that had led him here. Of blood and ambition, of bargains struck and victories stolen. Of men who had followed him, believed in him.
Men who now stood behind him.
Men he had led here…to their very deaths.
"…I'm sorry," Qyros whispered, though no one heard.
Then came fire.
The all-consuming torrent that swallowed Qylos' world whole as it annihilated everything in its orange-gold radiance.
Gone.
And then—
Nothing.
The sea, the ships, the men…
All of it was devoured, offered up to the greedy hunger of dragonfire, leaving behind only ash scattered upon a silent, uncaring tide.