The dagger slipped between his ribs like a lover's whisper.
Lysander Varro, former general of the XII Legion, coughed blood onto the marble floors of Ostia's senate annex. Around him stood the men he'd led across the Rubicon—their faces now as cold as the steel in his back. His own blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky, as Cassius leaned close.
"Rome has no place for would-be kings," his second-in-command murmured, twisting the blade.
Darkness swallowed him.
Then—
Fire.
I. The Bastard of House Vaelarys
Lysander awoke drowning.
Not in water, but in scent—myrrh and rotting figs, sulfur and spiced wine. His skull pounded as foreign memories crashed over him in waves:
Aerion Blackscale, bastard son of Dragonlord Vaeron Vaelarys
Twenty-three years of humiliation, from the fighting pits of Astapor to the poisoned courts of Valyria
The ever-present weight of being a dragonless son in a house that measured worth in flame and fang
The palanquin jolted violently as slaves carried him through the Gates of Smoke, their bare feet slapping against obsidian cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of passage. Through the parted silk curtains, Lysander saw Valyria Prime for the first time.
Spires of black stone clawed at the heavens, their peaks lost in the volcanic haze of the Fourteen Flames. In the distance, the Temple of the Dragonlords loomed over the city, its braziers burning so fiercely they rivaled the dawn. Closer, the Arena of Sighs echoed with the screams of dying slaves, while merchants in Tyroshi silks hawked their wares along the Street of Whispers.
A slave girl with brand marks crisscrossing her arms bowed until her nose touched the litter's floor. "My lord, your father demands your presence. The Belaerys delegation has arrived."
Her voice trembled—not with respect, but fear.
"Welcome, User," whispered a voice in his skull as ghostly text scrawled across his vision:
Primary Objective: Survive the Night
*Threat Assessment:
Daekar Vaelarys: 89% assassination probability
Slave revolt imminent: ETA 2.3 hours
Lady Sylanna Belaerys: Valyrian steel secrets detected*
Lysander's fingers twitched toward where a gladius should have hung. Instead, they brushed silk robes damp with nervous sweat.
This is no dream.
II. The Poisoned Feast
The Hall of a Thousand Tears stank of roasted peacock and hypocrisy.
At the high table, Lord Vaeron Vaelarys slumped on his obsidian throne, his once-powerful frame withered by the Grey Death. To his right sat Lysander's golden-haired half-brother, Daekar, already deep in his cups.
"Ah, the bastard graces us at last." Daekar's smile didn't reach his eyes as he raised a jeweled goblet. "Father insists you drink. To... family unity."
The System's warning flashed crimson:
"Contents: Tears of Lys (96% purity). Antidote: None detected."
Lysander accepted the cup with his left hand while his right—trained in every dirty trick of Rome's back alleys—palmed the fruit knife from the table. As Daekar leaned in for the toast, the switch was made.
The poison took Daekar slowly.
First, the twitching fingers. Then the slurred speech. By the time the convulsions began, Lysander was already moving, the stolen blade cold against his wrist.
"Brother!" He caught Daekar as he collapsed, the perfect picture of concern. "Fetch a maester! Quickly!"
Across the hall, Lord Vaeron's milky eyes narrowed. The old dragon knew.
III. The Blood Pits
Midnight brought the screams.
Lysander heard them first—the clank of broken chains, the whispered oaths of desperate men. He'd barricaded himself in the armory, trading silk for boiled leather and strapping a breastplate over his tunic.
When the doors burst open, Gorthos the Flayer led the charge, his scarred face gleaming in the torchlight. Behind him surged a tide of slaves armed with whatever they'd scavenged—broken bottles, rusted shivs, the occasional pilfered shortsword.
"Freedom or death!" Gorthos roared.
The first attacker died with a fruit knife in his eye. The second choked on his own blood as Lysander's stolen dagger found his throat.
"Combat Skill Unlocked: Legionary's Precision (Weak Spot Detection +20%)"
He fought like a man possessed—every Roman drill, every back-alley brawl, every dirty trick from the streets of Ostia channeled into brutal efficiency. A serving tray became a shield. A broken amphora shard served as a gladius. When a bravo tried to flank him, Lysander feinted left before slashing the man's hamstrings.
"You fight like no dragonlord," Gorthos growled when they finally clashed.
Lysander spat blood. "I'm not just a dragonlord. I'm a son of Rome."
Their duel lasted seven heartbeats. The gladiator fought with brute strength, but Lysander had centuries of military evolution in his bones. When Gorthos overextended, the Roman hooked his foot behind the man's ankle and shoved. As the Flayer fell, Lysander's blade found his throat.
IV. The Tower of First Light
The dagger hummed in his grip as Lysander watched false dawn paint the city in fire.
"They say you died tonight."
Lady Sylanna Belaerys emerged from the shadows, her emerald eyes reflecting the rising sun. Behind her, Vermithrax stretched his massive wings, the dragon's sulfurous breath curling around them like fog.
"Reports of my death were... exaggerated," Lysander said, not lowering the blade.
She laughed and tossed him a scroll sealed with black wax. "The Temple of the Fourteen Flames. Three nights hence. Come alone."
The System translated before the wax hit the ground:
"House Belaerys Proposal: Steal a dragon egg. Reward: Valyrian steel secrets."
As Vermithrax's roar shook the tower stones, the System flashed one final warning:
"Alert: Another User Detected in Valyria Prime."