Time to get serious…

The city of Valyria loomed before Aegon, its ruined skyline jagged against the storm-lit horizon. Even standing at the threshold, he could feel the weight of its past pressing down on him—the ghosts of an empire that had once commanded the world. He stepped forward, his bare feet crunching against blackened stone, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and decay.

Lightning crackled above, illuminating crumbling spires and shattered bridges, their edges warped and melted from the doom that had consumed this place. Each step deeper into the ruins filled him with an eerie sense of trespassing as if the city resented his presence.

Aegon moved carefully, senses sharp. He traced his fingers against the ancient walls, feeling their unnatural warmth as if the fire that had devoured Valyria still lingered beneath the surface. There was no sound but the wind, carrying whispers that had no source. He ignored them, pressing onward.

Then the ground shifted.

A deep, guttural growl echoed through the ruins. Aegon halted, wings flexing as he turned toward the sound. Something moved from the darkness between broken columns—slow, deliberate, its massive form scraping against stone.

A dragon.

Or what had once been a dragon.

Its scales, once shimmering, were now dull and cracked, bones jutting through rotted flesh. Its eyes, clouded and dead, locked onto him, and then it lunged. Aegon leaped back, wings flaring as he twisted away from the beast's snapping jaws. It moved like a corpse refusing to lie still, jerky and unnatural but fast.

He clenched his fists, feeling the surge of power in his limbs. With a single, brutal strike, he sent the dragon staggering, its ribs splintering under the force. But it did not stop. The broken bones realigned with sickening cracks, and it lunged again.

Aegon's lips curled in annoyance. "Persistent."

Before he could strike again, more figures emerged from the ruins—twisted remnants of Valyrian warriors, their flesh half-melted, weapons rusted but still deadly. They moved in tandem with the dragon, soulless and relentless.

Aegon exhaled sharply. "Fine. Let's see what you've got."

The first warrior lunged, blade swinging. Aegon sidestepped, catching the rusted steel mid-air and snapping it in two with his bare hand. He drove his knee into the attacker's chest, sending him flying back into a crumbling pillar. The others did not hesitate.

He moved through them like a storm—striking, dodging, breaking them apart piece by piece. They fought like echoes of their former selves, driven by something beyond death, but they lacked the mind to adapt.

Then the dragon came again, wings spreading as it loosed a gout of blackened fire.

Aegon dove through the flames, feeling the heat lick at his skin but refusing to slow. He landed atop the dragon's back, grabbing onto its broken horns before driving his fist straight down into its skull. The force shattered what remained of its spine, the beast letting out one last choked roar before it collapsed in a heap of scorched flesh and bone.

The remaining warriors hesitated as if some unseen force had faltered. Aegon rolled his shoulders. "You should have stayed dead."

One by one, they crumbled, whatever unnatural force binding them unraveling as the dragon lay still.

Silence returned.

Aegon stood in the ruins, breathing deeply, the scent of ash and rot thick in the air. His body was unharmed, but his mind remained alert. Something had reanimated these creatures, and if they were here, it meant Valyria still held secrets worth guarding.

He dusted his hands off and stepped over the remains. The ruins stretched before him, dark and waiting.

And Aegon was ready to see what else this fallen empire had hidden in its bones.

He moved deeper into the city, passing mansions that had once belonged to the greatest dragonlords. Their facades were scorched, statues shattered, their insides filled with nothing but dust and echoes of a lost age. He stepped over broken mosaics, their once beautiful depictions of dragons and conquest now fractured and barely recognizable. Occasionally, another undead warrior would lurch from the shadows, but Aegon dispatched them with little effort, their rusted blades no match for him.

Then he saw it—the mansion of House Blaries, one of the most powerful dragonlord families of the Freehold. It stood near the heart of the city, still imposing despite its ruin. But the path to it was not empty.

Before its gates, a force waited—one thousand undead warriors, their armor twisted and corroded by time, and five undead dragons, their wings tattered but still capable of flight. They stood as sentinels, mindless but formidable, blocking his path.

Aegon grinned. "Now this… this is interesting."

The battle erupted in an instant. The warriors surged forward, weapons raised. Aegon met them head-on, tearing through them with brutal efficiency. He twisted, dodged, struck, his body moving like a force of nature. Bones snapped, armor shattered, and corpses fell by the dozens. But they kept coming.

Above, the undead dragons took flight, circling before diving with fire and claws. Aegon shot into the sky to meet them, weaving between their attacks. He seized the first by its skull, driving it downward with such force that it cratered into the earth. The second he ripped apart mid-air, sending its remains scattered across the battlefield.

The third and fourth came together, snapping at him with rotting jaws. Aegon twisted between them, letting them crash into each other before delivering a strike that sent them both plummeting. The last dragon let out a ghastly screech and loosed a breath of corrupted fire. Aegon caught it mid-flight, forcing its jaws closed before wrenching its head from its body.

When he landed, the battlefield was silent. The last remnants of the undead force lay in ruin around him, their decayed forms finally at rest.

He stepped over the corpses and into the courtyard of the Blaries estate. The remnants of its former grandeur were still visible—shattered pillars, scorched banners, and broken statues of dragons that had once towered over guests. He walked through the ruins, past rusted suits of armor, decayed books scattered across the stone floor, portraits torn and faded with time.

Then a memory surfaced.

He had read about this place before—not in this life, but in the world he had left behind. The Blaries family had been the most powerful house in Valyria, with the Targaryens coming second in influence. Their dragons were said to be among the mightiest ever bred, their knowledge of magic unrivaled. And now, they were nothing but dust and ghosts.

Aegon exhaled, his eyes scanning the ruins. Somewhere in this mansion, something remained. Something worth guarding.

And he intended to find it.

The history of Valyria lay in ruin before him—fractured mosaics, shattered statues of long-dead dragonlords, and inscriptions in High Valyrian too worn to read. He passed a library, its once-proud entrance collapsed, the scent of old parchment and mildew lingering in the air. Inside, the shelves were broken, their contents reduced to ash and fragments, save for a few brittle scrolls clinging to life.

Aegon moved on, stepping into what had once been a grand hall. The walls bore massive paintings, somehow untouched by time, depicting Valyrian conquests, dragons in flight, and rulers adorned in gold and steel. Their eyes seemed to follow him, watching from beyond the grave. He paused, wondering how these relics had survived when so much else had been lost.

At the end of the hall, he stepped into a throne room—or what remained of it. The grandeur of the past still clung to the place. Twin thrones stood at the far end, the larger one cracked but standing, while a smaller throne remained eerily intact. Beneath the steps leading to them, something glinted in the dim light.

Aegon moved closer.

Resting beneath the grand thrones were two suit of Valyrian steel armor, untouched by time. Their dark metal gleamed with a faint shimmer, their craftsmanship flawless. They were not alone. The remains of the last rulers of this house sat inside them —skeletal figures decayed , their bones little more than dust. Around them, the corroded remains of their subjects lay scattered, twisted in their final moments of agony.

Aegon knelt, brushing his fingers against the armor. It was perfect, untouched by the decay that had consumed everything else. A relic of a lost world, waiting for someone worthy enough to claim it.

He exhaled, eyes flicking to the broken throne before him. He had read about this house before, back in his past life. He knew what had happened here. The Doom had not spared anyone, no matter how mighty.