Chapter 51 (Patreon)

The iron-shod hooves of our horses clattered loudly against the cold basalt flagstones as mother led the way down the sweeping spiral stairwell of the keep and out into the lower courtyards.

I fell into step behind her, watching the dark leather of her clothes billow softly in the evening draft, my mind racing with a hundred different possibilities. It was genuinely exciting to think about what she was about to show me. Whatever form this magic took, I knew I would find a way to turn it into a practical, high-yield asset. My brain was already revving its gears, ready to analyze the mechanics, reverse-engineer the principles, and exploit the results for my own political and military advantage.

As we cleared the inner gates of Dragonstone, the guards posted at the portcullis snapped to attention, their iron-tipped spears thudding against the stone in silent salute. We did not stop in the upper bailey. Visenya spurred her dark courser down the wide, stone-paved ramp, bypassing the heavy oak gates of the city entirely and taking a secluded, gravelly trail that wound along the sheer volcanic cliffs above New Valyria.

Below us, the lit torches of the city were beginning to flicker to life like a carpet of fallen stars set against the darkening blue of the Narrow Sea. The warm evening air carried the sharp tang of salt water, woodsmoke, and the faint, sulfurous stench of the distant mountain peak.

Riding in silence behind my mother, I let my thoughts wander into the deeper, stranger corners of the world I now inhabited.

What did I actually know about magic in Planetos? If you took a step back and looked at the whole picture, the lore of this planet was weird as hell. You had the ancient tales of the Great Empire of the Dawn, the Bloodstone Emperor who betrayed his own sister and worshiped a black stone that fell from the sky, initiating the first Long Night. You had that terrifying, oily black stone found scattered in the most absurdly distant corners of the earth, from the mysterious Seastone Chair on Old Wyk to the ancient, abandoned ruins of Yeen deep in the viper-infested jungles of Sothoryos, and all the way to the Isle of Toads in the Basilisk Isles. Then there were the massive Five Fortresses of Yi Ti, built out of single blocks of fused black stone that made the Wall look pathetic. The deeper you dug into the history of this world, the weirder the reality became. Ancient alien-like cosmic entities, squishers, sirens, mermaids, shadow-binders, and blood-mages. How this planet managed to keep spinning while playing host to all these bizarre, eldritch horrors was completely beyond me.

Part of me, the part that grew up reading about grand expeditions in history books, really wanted to build a fleet of reinforced, ocean-going ships once my rule was secure, sail across the uncharted western oceans, and unravel those mysteries one by one. I wanted to see what lay past the Sunset Sea. But unless I figured out a way to achieve absolute biological immortality, I wasn't going to waste my prime years playing captain on a decade-long voyage into the unknown. Life in a medieval world was short, and dangerous, not that I planned to die anytime before my seventies. You had to make full use of the time you were given, build your empire, secure your legacy, and live your life to the maximum.

Up ahead, Visenya kept a brisk, unrelenting pace, her silver-gold hair gleaming in the fading dusk light. She hadn't spoken a single word to me since we left her solar, nor had she glanced back once to see if I was keeping up. I had to kick my stallion into a hard trot a few times just to keep from falling behind on the dark, twisting trail, making me wonder where the hell was she leading me.

Soon enough however, the destination became blindingly obvious.

The looming, ominous silhouette of the Dragonmont rose straight ahead of us, its black slopes piercing the evening sky, steam rising from its jagged peak like a dark plume of smoke. Glowing cracks in the volcanic rock flickered faintly along the high ridges, where subterranean magma burned deep beneath the crust.

Looking up at the dark mountain, I couldn't help but wonder why the hell I hadn't spent more time exploring these upper caves before. If there was ever a place on this island where ancient Valyrian sorcerers would set up a secret sanctuary or a blood-magic vault, the roots of the Dragonmont were the absolute prime candidate.

I hadn't steered clear of the upper peaks out of laziness, but rather out of a very healthy, very rational fear of getting eaten alive. The wild dragon lived up here, most notably the terrifying nightmare known as The Cannibal. It was a massive, coal-black beast with burning green eyes, infamous for devouring dragon eggs and newborn hatchlings. While it was still smaller than the gargantuan forms of Vhagar and Balerion, it was easily large enough to snatch me off my horse like an eagle catching a field mouse.

Thinking about the beast, it was actually kind of strange that The Cannibal wasn't larger than Vhagar. Maesters and smallfolk on the island held two main theories about its origin: either it was a wild hatchling born during the reign of my father Aegon, or it had been nesting on Dragonstone long before the Targaryens even arrived from Old Valyria. Looking at its physical size, the second theory felt like total bullshit. If the dragon were centuries old, predating the Doom, it would have been an absolute leviathan by now, dwarfing Balerion himself. Its moderate size suggested it was likely a post-Conquest beast, maybe boosted slightly by its volcanic habitat and vicious, cannibalistic diet.

Putting the danger of getting eaten aside, my real concern with the wild dragons was the risk of accidentally bonding with one.

Don't get me wrong, claiming The Cannibal would be a massive power move. It was a vicious, aggressive, battle-ready monster that would make a terrifying weapon in any war. But at the end of the day, a wild, mid-sized dragon was simply not comparable to the absolute, earth-shattering might of Balerion the Black Dread.

If I was going to claim a dragon, I wanted the biggest, baddest, most terrifying nuclear weapon on the face of the planet. Sure, waiting for my father Aegon to eventually die so I could claim Balerion meant I might have to go dragonless for decade at most, but it was a long-term investment that was worth every single day of waiting. Settling for a lesser dragon now would permanently lock me out of riding the Black Dread later. Patience was a virtue, especially when it came to ultimate firepower.

At the rocky base of the mountain, Visenya finally reined in her horse, holding up a pale hand to order our small escort of royal guards to halt.

"Stay here and guard the horses," she commanded the captain of the guard, her voice cutting through the whistling mountain wind. "No one ascends the slope without my explicit command."

"As you command, Your Grace," the captain bowed, spearhead glinting in the dark.

We dismounted, leaving the sweating horses behind with the guards, and began ascending the steep, craggy footpaths on foot. The ground under our boots was uneven, covered in sharp, jagged volcanic glass and loose black gravel. Steam hissed from narrow vents beside the trail, blowing hot, sulfur-scented air across our faces as we climbed past dozens of dark, yawning cave entrances that led deep into the bowels of the mountain.

As we took a sharp left turn along a narrow stone ledge, stepping away from the main path leading up the volcano, I decided to break the heavy silence.

"What even is magic, mother?" I asked, watching her dark velvet cloak brush against the jagged basalt wall ahead of me.

Visenya paused for a brief second, her boots grinding against the loose gravel, though she did not stop her steady upward climb.

"What is magic?" she repeated softly, her voice echoing strangely off the mountain rock. She took another sharp left, leading us toward a shadowed alcove tucked into the cliffside. For a second, I almost wondered if she was going to tell me to jump into a pool of bubbling lava to prove my Valyrian blood before opening some secret door. Fortunately, there was no lava in sight.

"Think of it as an exchange, Maegor," Visenya said, turning her head slightly so I could see the sharp profile of her face in the moonlight. "That is what it is, precisely. Magic is trade. You offer things of true value to bend the forces of the world to your will. It cannot create something out of empty air. It only alters, transfers, or destroys. You wish a forged blade to cut deeper into iron? You quench its red-hot steel in the living pulse of a heart. You wish to cast your eyes across thousands of leagues over the Narrow Sea? You burn your own blood in the dark glass."

I listened intently, my mind instantly trying to break her words down into functional components.

"And how exactly does the mechanics of that work?" I asked eagerly, stepping up beside her onto the flat stone ledge outside a massive, dark dead-end wall of rock. "Why does it specifically require blood or life sacrifice? Is the end result affected by the bloodline of the sacrifice? Does the blood of a king or a dragon-lord have a higher magical output than the blood of a common field laborer?"

This was the exact question I had been chewing on for a very long time. I wanted to know the rules, the variables, and the conversion rates of this world's supernatural forces. Treating magic as a structured science with clear laws and limitations made the most logical sense to me. If you could measure the input versus the output, you could optimize the system.

Visenya stopped in front of the smooth, dark rock face, the wind whipping her silver braid across her shoulders. She turned around to look at me, her dark purple eyes calm and reflective.

"I do not possess the answers to those questions, Maegor," she admitted plainly, her voice carrying a rare tone of quiet humility. "There are many truths that remain hidden, even to me. After decades of studying ancient scrolls, burning blood-sacrifices, and chanting Valyrian runes, I have only ever managed to glimpse the small edges of the great flame. But that is the fundamental nature of the art. You can never know the full pattern for certain. Yet, to answer your last thought, yes. Blood is not equal. Some blood carries a far heavier weight in the scales of magic. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon, achieves far greater results with vastly smaller sacrifices."

I nodded slowly, satisfied with the confirmation. Though I still wanted to know exactly why and how that happened. Mysteries for another time.

I watched closely as Visenya stepped up to the seamless wall of dark basalt.

The surface looked like an ordinary cliffside, covered in tiny cracks, fissures, and rough stone edges that blended perfectly with the rest of the mountain. But Visenya didn't recite a dramatic incantation or slice her palm open with a dagger. Instead, she reached her slender arm deep into a narrow, vertical fissure in the rock face that had completely escaped my notice among the dozens of identical cracks nearby.

Inside the hidden slot, her hand caught a concealed iron mechanism. She flexed her arm, pulling a heavy internal lever upward.

A low, deep rumble echoed through the stone beneath our boots. Dust and dried moss spilled from the wall as a massive, rectangular slab of solid basalt unlocked with a heavy metallic clunk, slowly sliding backward into the mountain on hidden iron rollers before shifting to the side, revealing a dark, square doorway hidden within the cliff.

"Follow me," Visenya said quietly.

She turned and stepped straight into the dark opening, her boots clicking against a flight of descending stone stairs.

I stood outside for a second, looking at the sliding stone door in absolute fascination. To be honest, a tiny part of me was slightly disappointed. I had been half-expecting some ancient, bloody Valyrian magic seal that required me to smear my own blood over a carved dragon rune to prove my lineage. Instead, it was an ancient piece of physical engineering, counterweights, hidden iron tracks, and sliding stone slabs.

Then again, ancient Valyrian sliding doors were still interesting. The precision required to cut a ten-ton block of volcanic basalt and mount it on subterranean counter-weights so smoothly that a single woman could open it with a hidden lever was a masterclass in engineering.

Reaching into the doorway, Visenya touched another hidden catch on the inner stone wall. The massive basalt slab rumbled back into motion, sliding smoothly into place with a heavy, deafening thud that sealed off the moonlight and locked out the cold mountain wind entirely.

We were plunged into total, pitch-black darkness.

"Hold your position," Visenya's calm voice echoed down the stone shaft.

A second later, the sharp rasp of flint striking steel rang out in the dark. A bright spark flashed, catching on a pitch-soaked cloth wick, and a broad iron wall sconce flared to life, illuminating the stone stairwell in a warm, flickering orange light.

Visenya stood three steps below me, holding the iron torch in her hand. Her face was half-shrouded in shadow, her bright violet eyes reflecting the flame as she looked up at me.

"Down here lies the true heart of our bloodline's power," she said, her voice dropping into a reverberating whisper that echoed down into the depths of the earth. "Keep your eyes sharp, Maegor. The things kept in these vaults were not meant for the weak of heart."

I let out a low smirk, resting my hand comfortably on the pommel of Dark Sister at my hip.

"Lead the way, mother," I said, stepping down onto the first stone stair. "I'm not easily scared."

As we began our long, winding descent into the dark depths beneath the Dragonmont, my mind buzzed with anticipation.

...

Damn I am sorry, I wanted to upload two chapters today, but this schedule is going to be the death of me, I barely even have time to think, much less to write. I don't even know if I'll be able to upload tomorrow. I think by the end of the second week of September, I'll be free because my exams would be over.