The huge doors of the hall slammed shut, leaving Viserys with a growing sense of entrapment. The only source of light was the red glow streaming through a massive window near the top of the hall, twelve or thirteen meters high. Below it, skeletons were piled, as if some unfortunate souls had tried—and failed—to escape through the window.
Outside, the Yellow Dragon sensed the danger and let out a loud cry toward the hall. Yet the thick walls offered excellent soundproofing; Viserys heard nothing of his dragon's alarm.
His hand instinctively went to the sword at his waist as his eyes scanned the dim hall. Just two breaths later, a gargoyle-shaped lamp carved into the wall suddenly flickered to life, illuminating the space. The harsh light revealed the gruesome detail of the ground—a dense layer of bones, some areas stacked into macabre piles.
Viserys noticed that these skeletons were smaller and more fragile than normal, and the realization sent a chill through him.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps.
A squad of soldiers appeared in the gallery above, armed with crossbows of a strange design. Viserys quickly assessed his surroundings but found no cover. The hall was vast and barren, resembling an empty warehouse. The piles of small, brittle skeletons scattered across the floor offered no protection.
He couldn't fathom how a regiment of soldiers operated in a desolate ghost town like Tyria. Where did they get provisions? How did they survive? But this wasn't the time to dwell on logistics.
Believing his Valyrian armor and combat skills might give him a fighting chance, Viserys decided to try diplomacy first.
"I am Viserys Targaryen, descendant of the exile Aenar. If I have disturbed you, I am willing to leave immediately!"
His voice echoed in the vast hall, but there was no reply.
Instead, from a corner of the hall, a yellow door creaked open. Two columns of soldiers, armed with swords and shields, marched out in perfect formation.
These soldiers wore blue armor adorned with shields depicting flying dragons. Their disciplined appearance was startling—healthy, robust men in a place thought to be devoid of life.
The soldiers halted five or six meters from Viserys and split into two lines, forming a path like an honor guard. At the end of this path emerged a man in a flowing purple silk robe.
Viserys's eyes narrowed. A two-headed man?
Perched on the man's shoulders were two distinctly different heads. Both had silver hair, but the hairstyles were markedly distinct. One head had short hair and sharp, masculine features; the other had softer, more feminine features.
The gender disparity puzzled Viserys. If they shared the same body, wouldn't their biology influence both heads equally? But he quickly dismissed the thought. This was a world of magic, after all—rationality often had no place here.
Speaking in fluent Valyrian, he addressed the figure.
"My lord, I am Viserys Targaryen, descendant of Aenar Targaryen, who fled Valyria for Dragonstone. If I have intruded, I offer my apologies and will leave."
Viserys's tone was calm but firm, his eyes carefully studying the two-headed figure. In his mind, he evaluated the possibility of escaping by taking the man hostage if negotiations turned sour.
The masculine head stirred first, its expression pensive. "Aenar…," it muttered, as though struggling to place the name.
The feminine head interjected, clarifying, "It was Aenar's that led the Targaryens to Dragonstone before the Doom."
The masculine head nodded, as if finally piecing the memory together.
"What are you doing here?" the masculine head asked, its tone both curious and wary.
"To lead humanity against the White Walkers and survive the Long Night," Viserys replied earnestly. He saw no point in deception; honesty might even secure their cooperation. These people, if alive and organized, could be invaluable allies.
"My fleet will arrive soon," he continued. "I hope to use your port as a staging ground. If necessary, I am prepared to compensate you in kind."
Viserys abandoned any pretense of imperial authority. Here, in this ancient and enigmatic place, he approached the negotiation with genuine humility.
The two-headed man was not about to accept Viserys's conditions. The man's head spoke, his tone devoid of emotion:
"Your army cannot appear in our port, and the situation in Tyria cannot be known to outsiders."
Realizing there was no room for negotiation, Viserys inclined his head slightly and replied,
"Very well. If that is the case, I will leave now. Please, my lord, open the door. I will not tell a soul about what I have seen today."
The woman's head interjected sharply,
"I don't think you can keep a secret."
Boom boom boom!
As she spoke, a sudden crash echoed from the main hall door. The yellow dragon was attempting to break in to rescue Viserys. Confusion flickered across his face—how had the dragon sensed his predicament from outside?
Clatter.
The vibrations from the door caused a pile of bones to collapse, scattering several skulls across the floor. Seizing the moment, Viserys activated Dragon Vision to assess the situation outside. He saw the yellow dragon pinned at the door, surrounded by hundreds of soldiers clad in the same armor as those inside the hall. The dragon could have easily flown away, yet it remained, defying the soldiers and using its massive, water-tank-thick tail to strike the door in an attempt to alert Viserys.
It was clear these people had no intention of letting him leave alive.
They never had any good intentions to begin with!
With that realization, Viserys surged forward, delivering a sharp kick before leaping to confront the two-headed man. Panic flickered across both faces, betraying their earlier overconfidence. The cold steel of Viserys's sword pressed firmly against the man's throat as he spoke in a chilling tone:
"I can promise not to tell anyone about what happened here. But until then, you will either die or let me leave."
To his surprise, the man lunged forward, impaling himself on the sword. Viserys barely had time to react before the woman's head extended unnaturally, her neck elongating to three times its original length. Her mouth grotesquely split, stretching to the base of her ears in a horrifying transformation.
Viserys's eyes widened as the monstrous head clamped down on his sword with incredible force. He struggled to free it, but her bite was like a vice. The combined weight of the two-headed man dragged him down into an awkward heap on the ground, making it impossible to kill them immediately.
Above, a soldier with a crossbow fired, and a hail of seventy or eighty arrows rained down toward Viserys. The man's head sneered maliciously. With no other choice, Viserys released his grip on the sword and moved to evade the attack, knowing escape would leave him defenseless against the soldiers' inevitable pursuit.
But events took an unexpected turn. The two-headed man fused with the sword in Viserys's hands, becoming an unwieldy, grotesque weapon. Swinging this strange new blade, Viserys deflected many of the incoming arrows, a significant portion embedding themselves into the two-headed man's body.
A wail of pain erupted from the man, echoing through the hall, yet the woman's head maintained her grip on the sword.
"You know nothing of strength," Viserys muttered under his breath as he hefted the bizarre weapon. With powerful swings, he began fighting the advancing swordsmen and shield-bearers. The unwieldy, humanoid hammer-like weapon was over two meters long and weighed more than 100 catties, but it proved devastating in his hands.
Upstairs, the archers hesitated, unwilling to fire into the melee. Taking advantage of the chaos, Viserys charged toward the second floor, dragging the two-headed man with him. Along the way, he snatched up a shield for added defense.
At that moment, the yellow dragon smashed through the enormous window, sending shards of glass scattering across the room in a dazzling array of refracted light. With a roar, the dragon unleashed jet-black fire, engulfing most of the soldiers in flames.
Seizing the opportunity, Viserys mounted the dragon, the wounded two-headed man slung over his back as a hostage. As they ascended, he looked down at the shrinking building below, realizing that Tyria would be a battleground if it were to serve as their base of operations.
But just as this thought crossed his mind, the two-headed man, seemingly on the brink of death, stirred with sudden vitality and launched a ferocious attack.