100 AC.
The Prongs cut through the thick, oppressive fog like a dagger slicing through cloth. On either side of her, the Moony and the Padfootfollowed closely, their sails taut, their hulls eerily silent upon the dark waters. The Smoking Sea stretched before them, endless and treacherous, a place where even the bravest sailors dared not tread.
Hadrian stood at the prow of the Prongs, his red cloak billowing in the unnatural breeze that swept across the cursed waters. The air was heavy with sulfur, thick and cloying, a constant reminder that they sailed through the shattered remnants of a kingdom that had once ruled the known world. It was not like any sea he had ever known—there were no gentle rolling waves, no gulls crying overhead. Instead, the water lay eerily still in some places, while in others, it churned and boiled as if a great beast slumbered beneath its surface, exhaling smoke and ruin.
Jagged rocks jutted from the sea at irregular intervals, rising like the broken fangs of some long-dead leviathan. Some were small and sharp, barely visible through the mist, while others loomed high above, black and glistening with moisture, like the remnants of drowned towers. They had been there for centuries, untouched by time, the bones of Valyria's destruction.
Hadrian did not trust the map alone. Even the best cartographers of Volantis could not truly capture the shifting dangers of the Smoking Sea. Instead, he relied on his magic, reaching out with his senses, feeling for the subtle disturbances in the water that would spell doom if ignored. His fingers tightened around the staff in his grip, its wood smooth and ancient, humming with the quiet pulse of his power.
"Port," he called, his voice carrying across the deck. The helmsman obeyed without hesitation, turning the wheel just enough to avoid a barely visible outcropping of black stone.
Minutes later, another shift. "Starboard. Now."
The ship groaned as it turned, narrowly missing a submerged spike of rock. Hadrian let out a slow breath. Even with magic, this was exhausting work.
Hours bled into one another as they navigated the treacherous waters. The mist was relentless, thick and ghostly, curling around the ships like spectral fingers. Shadows danced in its depths, shifting unnaturally, whispering secrets Hadrian could not quite catch. He had read about such things before—stories of the Smoking Sea being haunted, filled with the restless spirits of those who had perished in Valyria's doom. He had dismissed them as the fearful ramblings of sailors. But now, sailing through this cursed place, he was not so certain.
Two days passed, though they felt like weeks. The fog never lifted, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional splash of water against the hull or the creaking of the masts. The men spoke in hushed voices, their usual camaraderie dampened by the unnatural stillness that surrounded them.
At night, the sea glowed.
It was a faint, eerie light, deep beneath the surface, as if something old and terrible still stirred in the depths. Hadrian had seen bioluminescent creatures before, but this was different. The light pulsed, moving in slow patterns, too rhythmic, too alive to be mere nature. Some of the men whispered of dragons lost to the Doom, their bodies sunk into the abyss, their fire still burning in their bones. Others muttered about spirits, old Valyrian sorcerers whose souls had never truly left the ruins.
Hadrian kept his silence, watching the water with unreadable eyes. He had known magic in many forms, but this place felt wrong. As if something had been shattered and never put back together properly.
On the second night, a sound echoed through the mist.
It was distant, barely more than a murmur, but it set the crew on edge. A low, mournful cry, like the wail of something ancient and forgotten. It came from nowhere and everywhere, drifting over the water in a voice that was neither wind nor beast.
One of the younger sailors gripped the railing, his knuckles white. "Gods save us," he whispered.
Hadrian did not answer. He could not tell if it was truly a voice or merely the sea playing tricks on them, but he tightened his grip on his staff all the same.
On the morning of the third day, Hadrian felt it before he saw it. A presence, vast and unmoving, like the weight of stone beneath deep water.
He stepped forward, gripping his staff, and slammed its base against the wooden deck. The sound echoed unnaturally in the silence, and as the vibrations rippled outward, the fog began to part.
Slowly, painstakingly, the world ahead of them was unveiled.
First, the water itself—black and rippling, disturbed only by the wake of their ships. Then, the remains of a harbor.
Once, long ago, it must have been grand. Great stone piers stretched into the sea, their edges crumbling but still standing defiantly against time. Some were half-submerged, broken by the Doom, but others remained, eerie and intact, like fingers reaching out from the past. The ruins of towers loomed in the distance, their once-proud forms reduced to skeletal remains.
A hush fell over the crew.
"Gods," someone whispered. "It's real."
Hadrian let out a slow breath. He had read of Valyria's ruin in books, but to see it—to witness the bones of an empire that had once commanded dragons—was something else entirely.
Beyond the harbor, the city stretched inland, half-buried beneath the encroaching land, its streets lost to time. Towers that had once gleamed with dragonfire now stood hollow and empty, their walls cracked and scorched. Statues, weathered beyond recognition, lined the harbor's edge, their faces lost to centuries of decay.
Even the air felt old.
Hadrian stepped forward, his boots touching the ancient stone of the dock. His men hesitated before following, their movements slow, reverent. There was no sound here, no birds, no insects. Only the soft whisper of the wind through broken archways, the echo of something that had once been great and was now nothing more than dust and memory.
The Smoking Sea had tried to hide it, to bury it beneath fog and ruin, but Valyria endured.
Hadrian turned to his men, his expression unreadable. "Prepare yourselves," he said. "This is only the beginning."
And with that, they stepped into the dead city, the weight of history pressing down upon them like the shadow of a long-lost god.