Isaac
Gerion Lannister mumbled and muttered in his sleep throughout the night. It seemed like whatever nightmares had trailed him in the waking world had followed him to sleep. Isaac did not blame him. After spending a single day here, he even found something like respect in his heart for the man. To have survived here for so long.
Isaac had refused to sleep. Master Dracula had promised to stay up the whole night, so there was no need for a shift, but Isaac refused sleep while his lord stayed up, and he also possessed the capacity to stay up in a meditative trance for at least two or three nights before his capacity to continue diminished.
The sudden scream did not come as a surprise to anyone but Archmaester Marwyn, who shot up from his bedroll with wide eyes clearly visible even through his goggles.
Gerion Lannister shot up a moment later, his green eyes wide with fear and horror, his mouth agape, and his throat no doubt sore from the hoarse scream. If there were any dead to wake, then the shout should have awoken them. Isaac briefly glanced at the two skeletons in the corner to ensure they were not stirring.
"Calm down, Ser Gerion. It was all a dream, a nightmare. You're safe here."
The man continued to hyperventilate, and his panic and worry only eased after another pinch of the sweetsleep, and slowly he began to calm down.
"It's been almost twelve hours, so I suppose you've had an appropriate rest," Dracula said from his position beside one of the shelves, a book in hand and his brows furrowed. Isaac remembered Dracula had begun to learn Valyrian, but it seemed like his proficiency in the language did not completely translate to its written forms. Then, as he watched, Lord Dracula dropped the book and walked to the seat he had been using previously.
"I have further questions about your experience here, experiences that would guide us. So tell us what happened," Dracula said, settling back into his seat with the patient stillness of a vampire. "From the beginning. How did you come to be trapped here?"
Marwyn held Gerion to shift so he could rest on the wall, and Isaac watched the corrupted man. His eyes grew distant, looking past them into memory. His story started off slow, his voice low and hoarse.
"We sailed from Lannisport with three ships. Good ships, strong crews. I brought over a hundred men, some I had cajoled with the promise of gold and treasure, the rest followed me due to loyalty and duty. Some I've mentioned already, like my cousin Stafford, Ser Harwyn who taught me the sword, young Lyman who'd just earned his knighthood..." His voice caught. "We had protections, I swear. Solid ones. Masks crafted by the Citadel, charms from every corner of the world, and supplies for at least a year. We thought we were prepared."
He laughed, a bitter sound. "Fools. All of us. You can't prepare for Valyria."
"What happened when you landed?" Marwyn asked. He had exchanged his medicine satchel for a quill and parchment, and he had already begun to write and record the man's experience.
"The first three weeks were manageable," Gerion continued, his hands clenching and unclenching unconsciously. "The heat was terrible, the smog burned our lungs even through the masks, but we could function. We went deep inland and found multiple ruins filled with treasures, more treasures than we could carry. I thought... I thought we'd won. That we could just take it all and leave."
His expression darkened. "Then night fell. And we learned we weren't alone."
Isaac leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "What came?"
"Dragons," Gerion whispered, and the word carried such horror that even Marwyn paused in his writing. "But these were not truly dragons. Not anymore. Not like the drawings Maester Lyn had shown me as a boy. These were things that had been dragons once, before the Doom twisted them.
"Now they were twisted. No two looked alike; the only similarities were their size and inability to breathe fire. They had scales that had melted into flesh, wings torn and reformed into something wrong. Some had multiple heads growing from their necks, others had their bodies split open with molten rock flowing where blood should be. They screamed—Seven save me, they screamed like dying children."
He shuddered, and Isaac leaned back. He was interested in these chimeric dragons. Interested in what he could craft from them. So far, what he had learned from the giant ice spider in the North was that magical creations had a specific resistance to them.
For the giant spider, it wasn't much. However, Isaac had a feeling it would be a drastically different thing when it came to these creatures.
Marwyn gave the bound man a sip from his flask to wet his throat, then he went back to chronicling the tale.
"They attacked us that first return night. Killed over two dozen men before we managed to escape them by following pathways their bodies could not follow. It took us a few days, and we even managed to kill one. It had shoved its head deep into the cavern after us, and exposed as it was, it was easy to slip Brightroar past its eyes."
"Chimeria's," Marwyn muttered. "Either dragons that had been changed by the Doom, or one of the many chimeric monsters Valyrian fleshsmiths were rumored to create, both for sport and for war."
"Then came the others," Gerion continued, his voice dropping lower, ignoring the Archmaester's mutterings. "The half-breeds. Things that were part human, part dragon, part something else. Their limbs were distorted, some had more than four, while others had tubs of growth at their backs that could've been wings. They were all covered in mottled scales, with claws and teeth and eyes that burned with madness. They acted like wolves, coordinated, hunted us through the ruins. Intelligent enough to set traps and to wait in ambush. We lost a dozen more men to them."
His breathing was coming faster now, more ragged. "But the worst were the specters. Pale-haired men and women who died in the Doom, still walking their old paths, still going about their lives as if nothing had changed. You couldn't even fight them. Steel passed right through them. But if they touched you..." He looked down at his arm, at the blackened veins beneath his skin. "They left marks. Cold that burned like fire. Madness that ate at your thoughts. The only thing that could kill them was Brightroar. And against dozens of them, Brightroar was not enough."
"How did you survive?" Isaac asked quietly.
"We ran again," Gerion said simply. "Abandoned our camp, took what we could carry, and fled back toward the coast once more. A journey that had taken us weeks took us at least half a year to make back, harried as we were, always hiding. But we would've made it if he had never found us."
The temperature in the vault seemed to drop despite the lingering heat from above.
"Who found you?" Lord Dracula asked, his eyes gleaming with interest as he leaned down.
"We don't know his name, we didn't even see him clearly, not covered in the smog as he was," Gerion breathed and shook his head violently, as if he tried to rid himself of the thoughts, but it wasn't enough. "What was clear was his eyes. All four of them were pits of molten gold. What marked him more than the rest was the fact that he spoke in High Valyrian, a language that only the two maesters who followed us could speak, and they had died earlier to the twisted dragon things..."
Gerion's voice broke in remembered horror. "He rode a wyrm. A giant fire wyrm made of living magma and stone. Thirty feet long, burning everything it touched. It came up from the lava flows like a shark from the sea. That thing... that thing killed at least another three dozen of my men in minutes. Burned them alive, crushed them, ate them while they screamed."
His hands were shaking now, clutching at the fabric of his ruined clothes. "The only reason we survived was because the monster and its rider froze halfway into their bloody massacre. They froze to the sound of a wing beat in the sky, and a heartbeat later, they had dived back into the lava flow they had come from."
There was a shift in Gerion's voice, one Isaac easily identified as hysteria. "That should've been the end, but it was too much. We had seen and suffered too much already, the men went mad. The corruption, the fear, the sight of that monster, it broke them. Harwyn tried to kill Stafford, thought he was a demon. Lyman started laughing and walked into a lava flow. I had to... I had to..."
"You ran again," Dracula said, no judgment in his tone, just fact.
"I ran," Gerion confirmed. Dracula's voice dispelled his hysteria as his voice thickened in shame. "Took what food and water was left, and I fled. I left them behind, found this manse, and barricaded myself inside. Thought maybe if I just waited, if I kept myself alive long enough, someone would come. A rescue party sent by Tywin. Other treasure seekers, anyone."
He looked up at them with haunted eyes. "No one came. Days turned to weeks. Weeks to months. The food ran out. The water turned foul. I ate... I don't remember what I ate. Found things in the manse, things that shouldn't have been edible but somehow kept me alive. Yet all through that, the whispers that had changed my men slowly got louder. I could feel myself changing, the hollow madness that followed..."
His voice was rising once again, retaking that manic edge. "The madness was easier than staying sane. Easier to just let go, to become like them, like the things outside. At least they didn't have to remember. Didn't have to think about the men they'd betrayed, the brothers they'd abandoned, the—"
"Easy, Ser Gerion," Marwyn said, moving forward with another vial. "Your heart is racing. You need to stay calm."
But the Lannister wasn't listening anymore. His pupils were dilating, his breathing coming in sharp gasps. "They're still out there. Still hunting. Still waiting. You don't understand, we're not safe here! Nowhere in Valyria is safe! They'll find us, they'll—"
His words cut off in a choking sound. His body went rigid, then began to convulse. The blackened veins in his arms and neck stood out like thick cords, pulsing with something that wasn't quite blood.
"Marwyn!" Isaac snapped, his hand going to Longclaw's hilt.
"I see it!" The Archmaester was already fumbling for his supplies. "The sweetsleep is wearing off. The corruption is fighting back. I need to—"
Gerion's eyes rolled back in his head, showing nothing but whites. When he spoke again, his voice was wrong, it had lost that human edge and had returned to the mad chanting Isaac had faced upstairs hours ago. "MINE. ALL MINE. CAN'T HAVE IT. WON'T LET THEM. MINE MINE MINE."
"Two pinches," Marwyn said quickly, measuring out the powder with calm hands. "This should force him back under."
Gerion's body exploded into motion. The bindings that had held him snapped like rotted thread. He lunged forward with inhuman speed, hands outstretched like claws, mouth open in a soundless scream.
Isaac moved to intercept, but Dracula was faster.
One moment he was seated, the next he was there, catching Gerion in mid-lunge. The corrupted knight's momentum should have bowled him over, but Dracula stood unmoved, holding Gerion at arm's length with one hand wrapped around his throat.
Gerion thrashed and clawed, his fingers marking Dracula's coat but not ripping the material nor tasting flesh. His legs kicked uselessly in the air, and foam flecked his lips as he snarled and spat like a rabid animal.
"Fascinating," Dracula murmured, tilting his head as he studied the man. "The corruption has achieved a remarkable symbiosis with his body. It's battling to keep him alive, but at the cost of his sanity."
Then Dracula slammed him into the ground, hard enough to dent the rusted armor the man wore, and to briefly disorient him. "His hands, Isaac."
Isaac moved without hesitation, grabbing Gerion's wrists and pinning them despite the man's supernatural strength. Up close, he could see the way Gerion's skin seemed to writhe, as if something beneath it was trying to escape.
"Marwyn, prepare to administer the sweetsleep the moment I tell you. I want to try something," Dracula commanded. Then his red eyes began to glow brighter. "This may hurt him. Hold fast."
Dracula's free hand came up, pressing against Gerion's forehead. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Gerion's back arched, every muscle in his body going taut as a bowstring. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
Then Dracula pulled, and something flowed from Gerion into Dracula, visible as wisps of black smoke that crawled from behind the knight's orifices and drifted up through Dracula's palm. The corrupted magic, Isaac realized. Dracula was drinking it, pulling it out of Gerion's body like poison from a wound.
The process lasted perhaps five seconds, though it felt longer. When Dracula finally pulled his hand away, the black veins in Gerion's arms had faded slightly, and the wrongness in his eyes had dimmed.
But he was still struggling, still caught in the grip of madness.
"The sweetsleep?" Dracula asked.
"I gave him two pinches already," Marwyn said, his voice worried. "His tolerance, the corruption must have made him resistant. Another dose might—"
"Three pinches will produce a sleep from which there is no waking," Dracula quoted. "I remember. Then we need another approach." His eyes fell on Brightroar, still leaning against the wall. "Isaac, bring me the sword."
Isaac did not hesitate for a single moment before retrieving the Valyrian blade. It felt warm in his hands, almost alive. He passed it to Dracula, who took it with his free hand.
"A theory," Dracula said, almost to himself. "The blade has been acting as a focus, filtering the corruption. Then direct contact..."
He pressed the flat of Brightroar's blade against Gerion's chest.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Gerion's thrashing stopped as if someone had cut his strings. His eyes, which had been wild and unfocused, suddenly sharpened, and his breathing, which had been coming in ragged pants, evened out.
"Wha..." Gerion's voice was his own again, confused and weak. "What happened?"
"You lost control," Dracula said simply. He shifted his grip, moving Gerion's hands to wrap around Brightroar's hilt instead. "Hold this. Don't let go."
Gerion's fingers closed around the familiar grip, and something like peace settled over his features. The madness receded further, pushed back by the combination of Dracula's intervention, the lingering effects of the sweetsleep, and now the stabilizing presence of the Valyrian blade.
"I can think," Gerion whispered, wonder in his voice. "For the first time in... I can think clearly."
"A temporary measure," Marwyn observed, studying the interplay of forces. "The blade is acting as a crutch, but it's effective. Combined with regular doses of sweetsleep and Lord Dracula's... unique abilities, we might be able to keep him stable for a long time."
"Might," Dracula repeated, releasing his grip on Gerion's throat. The knight slumped but remained conscious, clutching Brightroar like a lifeline. "How do you feel, Ser Gerion?"
"Like I've been pulled back from the edge of a cliff," Gerion admitted. His voice was hoarse but coherent. "I can still feel it, the corruption. The madness, it's like an itch at the back of my eyes, but this..." He looked down at Brightroar. "This helps. How did you know?"
"I theorized that since the blade had already been protecting you passively, direct contact might amplify the effect, especially since I leeched out some of the chaos magic," Dracula explained. "It seems I was correct. You'll need to keep it close. Perhaps even sleep with it in your hands."
"I've been doing that anyway," Gerion said with a ghost of a smile. "Hard to let go of the thing I suffered so much to claim."
Isaac watched the exchange, noting how much more stable Gerion seemed with the sword in his hands. The blackened veins were still visible, but they'd stopped pulsing. The fever brightness in his eyes had dimmed to something closer to normal.
A solution, then. Not perfect, but workable.
Dracula returned to his seat, settling back with the same predatory grace he'd shown before. "Rest now, Ser Gerion. Keep your blade close. We'll—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his head snapping toward the vault entrance with sudden, absolute focus.
Isaac recognized that look. He'd seen it countless times in their travels together. It was the look of a predator sensing prey. The look of a vampire that had smelled blood in the air.
"Master?" Isaac asked quietly, his hand already moving to Longclaw's hilt.
Dracula's ears twitched, almost imperceptibly. In the sudden silence, Isaac strained his own senses, trying to hear what had caught the vampire's attention.
There.
Faint, but growing louder. The sound of movement from above. Multiple sources, moving in coordinated patterns. Claws scraping on stone. Feet, too many feet, scuttling across the manse's upper floors.
And underneath it all, a low chittering sound that raised the hairs on Isaac's neck.
"It seems," Dracula said softly, "that the wretches Ser Gerion spoke of have finally found their way here."
The chittering grew louder, accompanied now by the sound of furniture being overturned, of doors being torn from hinges. The searchers above were getting closer, working their way methodically through the manse.
Hunting.
Marwyn's face had gone pale behind his visor. Gerion clutched Brightroar tighter, the knuckles of his hands going white. Isaac simply stood, calm and ready, waiting for his master's orders.
The vault had one entrance, one exit. They were trapped down here with a corrupted knight, limited supplies, and an unknown number of twisted abominations closing in from above. Yet Isaac was not worried, for Master Dracula was here, and there was no greater security than that.
Dracula stood slowly, his movements fluid and unhurried despite the approaching threat. His crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light, and when he spoke, his voice carried anticipation.
"Well then," he said, a soft smile on his face. "Shall we see what Valyria's Doom has made of its victims?"