Aegon's hand brushed across a relatively intact wall, and dust fell in a fine mist.
A mural inlaid with glass and gemstones gradually revealed itself as the dust cleared.
Tiny figures with hair made of silver-white gems gathered beneath fourteen volcanoes cast from red carnelian; among them, a knight-like figure in particularly striking attire stepped out from the crowd, heading toward the churning volcanoes.
The surrounding figures were in various poses, some appearing to block him, others seemingly trying to hold him back.
When Aegon's fingertips inadvertently brushed the accumulated dust from the knight figure, a sense of trance seized him—as if he were stepping into the roaring crater along with that figure.
The young knight soared into the sky atop a dragon from the erupting volcano, while the crowd below knelt and cheered.
A gruff question pulled him abruptly back to reality.
"What's it say up there, silver-haired boy?"
An Ironborn stepped forward to ask at Crows Eye's signal.
Aegon suppressed the flash of displeasure in his eyes and replied calmly, "It tells of the origins of Valyrian dragon-riding. A group of ancestors once stepped into the Fourteen Fire Peaks."
Combining his memories from his past life, he easily deduced what the mural depicted.
The Fourteen Fire Peaks, the beginning of dragon-riding!
Crows Eye's blue-purple lips curved like a crescent moon in the shadows.
"Dragons."
The syllable rolled off his tongue as if he were savoring honey wine.
The Ironborn, however, stared at the shimmering silver-white gems on the wall, their eyes filled with greed.
"Captain," a bald Ironborn licked his lips, "those shiny stones..."
Crows Eye's single eye squinted over with a hint of mockery.
"My sailors," his voice slid like a snake over silk, "your eyes are still stuck on the grit, while I have already pointed you toward the golden halls ahead." His blue-stained nails brushed carelessly over the silver light on the wall, "Pry them off; they are a reward for the bravest man today."
He turned, looking deep into the mural at those fourteen volcanoes, his voice cold as scraping ice: "The true gems... are still burning within the volcanoes."
The Ironborn shouted "Long live Euron" as they lunged at the mural with knives and axes.
Aegon watched as the gems were crudely gouged out, leaving only a mess of pits and hollows. He frowned slightly and turned away in silence.
Corleone, walking within the group, happened to catch this scene.
He bit his lip until it bled, his nails digging deep into his palms.
This all belonged to Torregar!
"Awaken the dragons... once the dragons are awakened, I will burn this place to ashes. Crows Eye, that silver-haired bastard... everyone who desecrated this place will pay the price."
He swallowed the metallic taste in his throat and lowered his head, walking silently among the group.
Aegon continued forward, stopping before a half-collapsed wall.
The mural on the wall was severely damaged, with only one corner remaining intact. He reached out and brushed away the dust.
In the painting, a dragonrider was diving fiercely on a dragon, only to be pierced through—both man and beast—by a massive spear made entirely of condensed water, thrusting out from a churning river surface.
The dragon's wings twisted, and the knight fell backward, plunging into the dark green waves.
Beneath the remaining pigment, several lines of text carved in High Valyrian were faintly discernible, etched deep into the stone:
"...The Fall of Vylongserth... Our kin's shame... Must be cleansed with fire..."
The final stroke of the word "fire" almost scraped through the stone wall.
He remained silent for a moment, then turned toward another intact giant wall.
A completely different scene rushed at him.
Thousands of ships from various states were entangled and capsizing on a burning sea.
And the sky—it was filled with dragons.
Hundreds of dragons spread their wings, casting shadows like the coming of doomsday. Dragonflame poured down like waterfalls, boiling the ocean and the fleets together.
Above the dragons, a particularly massive one opened its great maw. Its pitch-black body was inlaid with tiny fragments of obsidian and black jade, shimmering with a dark luster that seemed to devour everything under the dim light.
Wherever it passed, the flames did not merely burn but consumed—enemy ships, waves, and even light were all turned into pale, void-like steam.
Aegon's gaze shifted downward, finding a line of sharp, etched inscription at the bottom of the mural. His fingertips traced the ancient characters as he recited softly:
"With the blood of the Rhoynar, cleanse this deep shame."
His voice was very soft, yet it was like an icy stone dropped into the dead-silent pool of history.
The Rhoynish Wars!
With just two surviving murals and the inscriptions, Aegon had roughly pieced together this past story. Not only because he had read about it in his previous life, but also because, as a descendant of Valyria in this life, he had long ago collected and memorized all of this.
In the books he had read in his previous life, the Rhoynish Wars originated from intense trade competition between the Valyrian colonial city-state of Volantis and the Rhoynish city-state of Sarhoy.
Volantis, joined by three dragonlords, burned Sarhoy to the ground and sowed the earth with salt to signify its permanent destruction.
This act enraged the Rhoynar. Prince Garin of the Rhoynar gathered the various city-states and launched a counterattack with an army of two hundred and fifty thousand.
In the early stages of the war, the Rhoynish army won victory after victory, even dealing a major defeat to the Valyrian allied forces at Vylongserth and repelling the dragons.
However, this victory brought about total catastrophe.
The Valyrian Freehold assembled three hundred dragons for retaliation.
The Rhoynish army was completely annihilated under the dragonflame. Prince Garin was captured and forced to witness the destruction of his own city-state.
The war ultimately ended with the destruction of the Rhoynish civilization. Its survivors, led by Nymeria, crossed the Narrow Sea and brought the sparks of their culture to Dorne.
He hadn't expected that the world background he had skimmed through in books in his previous life would manifest here, and that he would witness it firsthand.
"Silver-haired boy," Crows Eye's voice, slimy as a snake, slid past his ear from behind.
"What does this bloody story say now?"
Aegon turned, his gaze calmly passing over him and sweeping across the stiff-bodied Corleone not far away.
"A story about arrogance and destruction." He pointed to the mural of the crushing defeat. "A dragonrider of Old Valyria was here, severely wounded by Rhoynish water magic; dragon and rider fell together."
"This is called'Shame'."
His fingertip moved toward the mural of the burning sea.
"And this is called 'Cleansing.' The House of Torregar committed over three hundred dragons to burn the Rhoynish civilization and its fleets... into ashes upon the Rhoyne."
Crows Eye's single eye stared intently at the sky-covering shadows of dragons, his blue-purple lips opening and closing soundlessly, as if repeatedly chewing on the number "three hundred dragons." His Adam's apple bobbed, and he licked his lips.
There was no fear in those eyes, only a nearly obsessive, pure greed for the power of absolute destruction.
The group continued forward, going deeper. The murals and reliefs on both sides recorded the bloody and glorious history of this family's conquests.
Aegon looked on as they went, his feelings complex.
From the scorched earth of the Ghiscari conquest to the fleets advancing on the Basilisk Isles, and then to the boiling rivers suppressing the Rhoynar—this family had participated in almost every major war during Valyria's rise.
The family members in the paintings were always atop dragons, their expressions a uniform blend of arrogance and indifference.
They treated other peoples like livestock, and even when facing other dragonlord families, their posture was not one of equality but more like a monarch looking down on vassals.
However, what made Aegon stop for a long time was a massive mural titled "The Seafarer."
In the center of the image, an unprecedentedly large dragon was fighting a god-like deep-sea Kraken that brandished countless tentacles.
Dragonflame pierced through the sea monster and plunged straight into the ocean.
The mural vividly depicted the terrifying scene of seawater boiling and evaporating, revealing the abyss of the seabed.
The inscription claimed that the family's ancestral dragon had once evaporated a section of the sea for this, earning the title of "The Seafarer."
Aegon stared at the "evaporated" seabed, inlaid with gold leaf and deep blue gems, but he felt little awe.
"Evaporate a sea?"
He thought to himself; this seemed more like a mythical self-boast.
But the fact that such an exaggerated "achievement" was solemnly inscribed here only confirmed this family's bone-deep, nearly insane arrogance.
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