A fingertip tap, and he was instantly transported into the dazzling world of Chapter 100: Young Griff.
He walked across the blackened ruins.
The dead city revealed its full horror.
Streets lay buried under volcanic ash and rubble. Crumbling walls and shattered towers that once stabbed the sky now stood as jagged skeletons. Only a handful of massive towers still loomed in this realm of death and darkness, but even they were ruined beyond recognition, blanketed in gray dust like the stiff fingers of corpses.
The once-glorious palaces of white marble and fine gold rose defiantly from the wreckage, a painful reminder and warning to arrogant rulers.
No life stirred here… no people, no birds, no beasts, no trees.
He could only skirt the collapsed triumphal arch blocking his path, his gaze falling on the shattered remains of a colossal statue. Even the single surviving foot dwarfed the foundations of countless castle towers.
Everywhere he looked, he saw only ruin and desolation.
A living man could easily lose himself here forever, swallowed by the bones of ancient power.
But he was drawn forward by an invisible, irresistible hand, always finding the path ahead.
It was not a knight's duty. It was not personal desire. It was the call of the chosen.
He had hesitated. He had thought of turning back. He knew the living had no place in these cursed ruins.
Yet he kept walking.
He did not know why. He did not know how. He only knew that turning back would mean admitting failure, admitting helplessness, admitting betrayal.
And he was no traitor.
He walked on. The ghosts of a hundred years of triumphs and betrayals, battles and intrigues watched him in silence.
The glorious heroes who had fought and died before he was born. The loyal friends who had raised their banners through winter and summer. The innocents who had died cursing the usurper's malice. Their spectral eyes all fixed on him.
The deeper the traveler walked among the rubble and ash, the more vividly the dead city awoke.
The living could see the dead. The dead could see the living.
Those who had gone before became the pillars of his faith.
He saw brave brothers riddled with arrows.
He saw a gaunt young man whose iron chains looked far too wide for his wrists.
He saw a fearless warrior with a black hole in his chest.
He saw a wise scholar carrying his own severed head.
He saw a warrior with a sword through his neck, trapped in a hopeless stand.
He saw a grieving drunkard, face flushed, belly swollen like a drum…
All of them were there.
The dead said nothing. Words were unnecessary.
Because the one man still alive already knew exactly what he had to do.
He walked farther. He met no other living thing.
Everything around him felt ancient, sinister, utterly abandoned—as if some power far beyond mortals had toyed with the world and, displeased with the result, had smashed it in haste.
Every inch of this place screamed in silence!
The living had no business here.
The sky was black, streaked with blood-red light. Gray ash fell endlessly. Desecrated temples lay in ruins. Shattered houses stood like broken teeth…
But he could not turn back.
He had come this far. All he could do was keep moving, trusting the premonition that grew stronger with every step.
He descended slowly until an impossible sight rose before him.
A colossal structure built of black and white stone stood untouched by time, eternal and majestic amid the devastation.
Tall carved columns stood firm. A vast gilded dome half-covered the sky. The steps were clean and whole. The great dark-metal doors glowed faintly from within.
On the pediment, long-forgotten heroes were carved alongside dragons large enough to cast an entire city in shadow.
At the center, master craftsmen had sculpted a man and woman exchanging wedding vows.
The contrast with the surrounding ruin was breathtaking. The lone traveler stopped, his eyes greedily drinking in the endless grandeur.
At last his gaze fell on the memorial stone at the foot of the first step. Ancient words were carved there:
"I, Inar Targaryen the Third, Triarch of Valyria and Protector of the Daughters, Guardian of the Fourteen Flames, Emperor of the Freehold, dedicate this temple to the city, its people, and the gods.
Let mortal gods and the children born of a goddess who took mortal form enter and behold our glory, and witness the four gods made one."
…
"Wake up!"
The sharp command shattered the morning quiet.
Years of training had carved the response deep into muscle and bone.
Young Griff jolted awake, his soul snapping back from that haunted dream of ash and ghosts.
Jon Connington stood over him—his mentor, his guardian, the man who had raised him like a son. The older man's eyes were sharp with concern and held no trace of sleep.
He had risen earlier than usual. That meant something big was happening.
"Yes. Our movements have been spotted," Connington confirmed. "Weymond Dorya has accepted the challenge."
Young Griff understood at once.
Weymond Dorya… one of Volantis's three Triarchs. He had finally chosen to fight.
Retreating through the Disputed Lands would have been seen as cowardice by his protectors. With no way out, he had only one choice—stand and fight.
If he somehow won, he could claim victory over the Golden Company and force Myr to surrender.
"If you insist on fighting…" Connington's voice carried a trace of reluctance.
"My mind is made up." Young Griff swung out of bed, moving with crisp efficiency as if shaking off the dream and the ghosts that clung to it. "A king doesn't hide behind walls while his men bleed. You said it yourself—the captains want to see me fight. I understand them… We can't ask people to die for a coward, can we?"
"Franklyn, Black Balaq, Lysono Maar, and Tristan Rivers have all suggested it," Connington finally relented, though he still sounded unhappy. "Even Strickland himself hinted at the same thing in his roundabout way."
"Then we'll give them what they want." Young Griff dressed quickly, his voice firm. "Their request is fair, my lord. Let the whole army see what I can do in battle. With the gods' blessing, I'll lead them across the Narrow Sea one day. I want them to follow me with real loyalty the moment I reveal my true name."
Too bad you may not get the chance.
"Only the living can claim a name," Connington countered. "That battlefield is a slaughterhouse. Listen to me, boy… stay here. You'll have plenty of chances to show off in front of the Golden Company later."
"Later?" Young Griff's tone held a hint of sarcasm. "Trading blows with Volantene foraging parties? Or fighting petty skirmishes in some backwater town with a name that sounds like a latrine?"
He forced down the knot of nerves in his chest. "You and Ser Rolly have trained me well. It's time people learned there's more than one dragon in Essos."
And one of them is black.
Young Griff kept bantering with Connington while he dressed faster, trying to shove the ruined city and its ghosts out of his mind.
That vision of the dead city had come to him before.
Ever since the red comet streaked across the sky, these dreams had grown more frequent. Even after the comet faded, the visions only sharpened, never letting the young man go.
And the details kept growing clearer—night after night he walked those ruins, surrounded by the lingering shades of Daemon Blackfyre's fallen followers.
"Ser Rolly is waiting for you." Jon Connington rose and handed him a vambrace. "Your sword and armor are already with him. Once you're ready, we'll speak with Strickland."
"Right."
But today the dream had carried one new detail Young Griff couldn't place.
A memorial stone carved with ancient Valyrian script. The lofty, classical words still echoed in his mind.
As he walked the narrow paths of the camp, he turned the inscription over again and again.
In the tongue of their ancient ancestors, the man on that stone had been called Emperor. He alone could command the legions of the Freehold and even force dragonlords to serve against their will.
That last emperor was Inar Targaryen the Third.
He had led hundreds of dragons and tens of thousands of Freehold warriors against the army of the Prince of Dorne.
And legend said Inar was not only a brilliant general—he was also a master builder.
Were these dreams just illusions?
Were they a sign pointing him toward some destined place?
And where was fate leading him now?
Could the ancient ruins of Valyria be his fated destination?
There was no time to dwell on visions. A very real battle was coming.
If he died beneath the walls of Myr, everything would be for nothing.
No matter how confidently he reassured Jon Connington, the risk of death was real.
According to the slippery Lysono Maar, Weymond Dorya had gathered a hundred and twenty thousand battle-hardened veterans.
They had survived the Dothraki horde, crossed the dangerous Disputed Lands, and crushed every force the Shepherds' Council could throw at them.
Now, waiting for Young Griff, Connington, and the Golden Company was an army of warriors who thrived on brutal fighting, who could smell blood and plunder from miles away, and who walked the knife's edge between life and death every single day.
Their commander, according to reports, was bold to the point of recklessness—yet also shrewd and cautious.
Against Volantis, Myr could barely muster six thousand militia.
That was everything left after the Dothraki invasion and the repeated disasters in the Disputed Lands.
Of course, standing with Myr were the ten thousand men of the Golden Company.
Even without years of personal experience, Young Griff could see the militia's weakness at a glance.
Hastily raised. Barely trained. Poorly equipped.
Worse, they had no real belief they could win.
The governors had promised the citizens an easy victory over the hated Volantenes. A few quick battles in the Disputed Lands and they would drown the Targaryen in the Rhoyne while Myr seized new lands and gold mines.
They had even kept part of that promise.
Every Myrene was now tasting the "fruits of victory" their rulers had delivered.
Without the Golden Company, Myr would already have sent envoys to kneel before the three Triarchs of Volantis.
This rabble could never stand against a real army.
Young Griff and his guardians knew Harry Strickland had originally planned to shelter behind the tall, strong walls of the Free City and simply wait the enemy out.
The captain's logic was sound.
The Volantene fleet was far away on other business. Twelve thousand men could never take Myr by storm.
The Golden Company could sit safely behind the walls, collect their pay year after year, and avoid heavy casualties.
For a former paymaster—and for any sellsword captain—that was the smart play.
But Strickland's cautious strategy had run into two obstacles.
First, the greed of his own captains.
Second, the restlessness of his soldiers.
For two months Young Griff had lived among the Golden Company, watching them closely.
His training and natural eye for detail helped, but the sellswords themselves made it easy—they spoke plainly, without masks, and trusted one another.
They were used to living on the edge of death. They built bonds through honesty.
On paper, Young Griff was one of them—registered under the name Griff.
They might not share their deepest secrets, but he heard every rumor and complaint.
Lately, from common soldiers to sergeants, everyone was loudly cursing their captain for hesitation and cowardice.
Everyone Young Griff spoke with agreed that Harry had made a huge mistake by refusing to join the Volantene campaign.
Some were even harsher.
They believed Strickland had chosen the wrong side from the very beginning when he sided with the Three Daughters against the Targaryen.
A few even whispered that soldiers had already sent feelers to Viserys Targaryen, offering to sign the Golden Company's final contract.
They argued privately that the color of the dragon didn't matter—real power did.
They were certain Viserys would reward anyone who joined him in time with land, castles, and gold.
Only Illyrio Mopatis's money and Strickland's iron discipline had kept the company together so far.
Even now, the grumbling was still loud and clear.
The Golden Company needed a real battle.
A big fight that would let the worthy claim plunder and crush any notion of negotiating with the Targaryen.
Otherwise, Young Griff and his guardians would lose even the faintest hope of ever claiming the Iron Throne.