The old Targaryen stronghold was even larger than it had looked from afar, and even more ruined.
King Ghidorah landed in a relatively level square before the castle's main keep, its every detail erased by time and volcanic ash.
Enormous dragon feet crushed the long-weathered flagstones with dull cracks.
Aegon jumped down from the dragon's back and looked up.
The castle had not been built entirely upon the mountain. Rather, part of the mountain had been hollowed out and carved, then integrated with the massive stone structures built around it.
The outline of the main keep was still faintly discernible. Most of its soaring towers had snapped halfway up, like the necks of beheaded giants, their broken edges jagged and hideous.
Only gaping black holes remained of the enormous arched windows. Like countless blinded eyes, they gazed coldly at the descendant who had returned after centuries.
Even the air seemed more stagnant here.
Silence. Deathly silence. Even the wind's mournful passage through the broken walls seemed cautious.
But Aegon could feel it.
Not through his eyes or ears, but through some deeper, faint resonance rooted in his blood.
"Wait here," Aegon ordered King Ghidorah.
The dragon gave a low growl. Three heads turned slowly, six molten-gold slit pupils scanning every inch of shadow like the most faithful of sentries.
Tightening his grip on the Blackfyre Sword, Aegon walked toward the main keep's deep, doorless entrance, which gaped like the maw of an enormous beast.
Bright-Roar hung at his other hip, lightly tapping his greaves with each step and giving off faint metallic scrapes.
Beyond the entrance lay utter darkness, along with an even heavier smell of dust and decay.
Everything had collapsed.
Broken beams, shattered sculptures, mountains of rubble.
A thick layer of ash covered the floor, accumulated over who