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In Valley Chronicles by Maester Anel, there is a record of the Painted Dog Tribe:
During the reign of King Roland Arryn I in the Vale, the Painted Dog Tribe launched a surprise attack on the king. Caught unprepared, Roland was dragged from his horse and beaten to death with a stone hammer before he could resist.
This King Roland was the founder of the Eyrie.
No one stopped them when they made their intentions clear, nor did anyone attempt to drive them away.
Fires flickered in many of the houses, their white smoke carrying the scent of roasting meat.
Barefoot children ran through the settlement, their small bodies marked with burn scars.
The patrol led them to the base of a towering rock wall.
Here, a section of the stone had been carved into a dwelling. Outside, small fields bore fruit and vegetable crops, while beside the house, a massive cave had been hollowed out of the rock.
Upon reaching the cave, every member of the Painted Dog Tribe bowed in reverence.
An old woman emerged from the stone house, drawn by the commotion. As she stepped forward, the tribespeople saluted her one by one.
The leader who had brought Cole and the others whispered something to the old woman. She nodded slightly, her wrinkled face calm and composed.
Tyrion studied her carefully. He suspected she held a position akin to an elder among the Painted Dog Tribe.
At this point, aside from Cole and Bronn, only Shagga and Timett remained at Tyrion's side. Zira and the others had refused to enter the Painted Dog settlement, as though fearing something unspeakable within. They chose to wait outside the mountain.
The Painted Dog warrior returned, and the old woman retreated into her home, emerging moments later with a torch in hand.
Tyrion frowned. "What are they doing?" he asked Shagga.
The big man grinned.
Timett, his single eye gleaming with amusement, smirked. "If the half-man wants to negotiate with the Painted Dog Tribe, he must undergo their trial."
"Trial?"
The old woman moved toward the cave entrance with slow, deliberate steps, and Cole briefly worried she might stumble. She stopped at the threshold and cast the torch into the darkness.
A sudden roar erupted from within. A red glow flared to life, reflecting off Tyrion's face. His jaw dropped so wide it seemed he could fit two eggs in his mouth.
Tyrion's eyes widened as fire surged through the cave, the flames licking hungrily at the stone walls. Heat waves rolled outward, and sweat beaded on his forehead. An ominous feeling churned in his gut.
The cave crackled, stones exploding in the intense heat.
Shagga suddenly let out a cry, dropping his iron axe. "I am Shagga, son of Dolf!"
Without hesitation, he charged into the inferno like a maddened bull. Fire swallowed him whole, his silhouette vanishing in the flames.
"Timett, son of Timett," the Red Hand warrior declared before leaping in after him.
Moments later, they re-emerged, their clothes singed and bodies smoldering. Cheers erupted from the Painted Dog Tribe as villagers abandoned their meals to witness the spectacle.
Shagga held up a smooth white stone, its surface glistening in the firelight. He struck his chest and let out a triumphant roar.
Timett, too, produced a white stone, patting down the lingering flames on his body.
Tyrion swallowed hard. He turned to Cole and Bronn, finding their expressions just as stunned as his own.
He instinctively took a step back—only to feel the sharp press of an iron spear against his spine. Painted Dog warriors blocked his retreat.
"I'm not about to do something so foolish," Bronn scoffed, though there was no mistaking the tension in his voice.
"You are a spineless flatlander!" The Painted Dog onlookers jeered.
Tyrion raised his hands in placation. "I only wish to speak with your chieftain about a mutually beneficial arrangement."
The warrior shook his head. "A spineless man has no place among the Painted Dog Tribe."
"Then I request to leave."
The spears around them did not waver. They were being herded forward.
"You are a spineless flatlander!" The chant grew louder.
Tyrion sighed, exasperation flickering in his eyes. "It seems our friends here are quite insistent that we respect their customs."
He turned to Cole and Bronn. "So… who's going first?"
Cole whispered something in Bronn's ear before stepping forward and, without warning, lifted Tyrion by the waist. The dwarf let out a startled gasp, meeting Cole's resolute gaze.
Flames surged before them like a crashing tide, their heat pressing in from all sides. Tyrion's heart clenched, and in a sudden panic, he shut his eyes and shouted, "Tyrion, son of Tywin!"
A deafening roar filled his ears, making his head buzz. When he dared to open his eyes again, he found himself surrounded by a world of fire and cracking stone.
Cole moved like the wind, the flames rippling behind him in long, undulating waves. Before Tyrion could react, he was hurled out of the inferno.
The fire licked at his face, scorched his backside, and singed his hair and clothes. He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to scream, fearing the flames would leap into his open mouth.
With a sudden puff, he was thrown clear of the cave, landing in strong arms.
Bronn caught him in midair, securing a white stone in one hand while holding Tyrion in the other.
By the time Bronn set him down, Tyrion was still reeling, his breath unsteady.
He glanced back at the blazing cave, his mind made up: A Lannister always pays his debts.
Without hesitation, Bronn dashed into the flames. Moments later, he reemerged, a white stone clutched in his grip.
But Cole was nowhere to be seen. A murmur of disappointment rippled through the Painted Dog Tribe. Even Shagga, who rarely showed concern, looked regretful. He had acknowledged Cole as a warrior.
Bronn shook his head grimly. "Didn't see him in there."
Tyrion's expression darkened.
Inside the cave, amidst the consuming fire, Cole remained. His clothes burned away, the last strands of his hair vanishing in the heat. He ran a hand over his reddened skin—but the flames did not harm him.
A piece of stone cracked and flew toward him, but he dodged it effortlessly.
Something within the cave called to him. The fire curled around his body, moving as if it obeyed his presence. Though he didn't fully understand, he found himself unsurprised. He had already accepted that he was no ordinary man—a traveler from another time, gifted with immense strength and the Eye of Time.
At the cave's deepest point, the flames halted, encircling a cluster of dry bones.
Charred black as night, they loomed like a massive shadow against the red glow. At the center lay a great skull, its forehead ridged and its maw filled with jagged teeth.
Cole quickly realized—this was the skeleton of a dragon.
A dragon, dead in a cave in the Mountains of the Moon.
He approached the remains, running his fingers lightly over the scorched bone. It was smooth beneath his touch, almost… familiar.
For a fleeting moment, an image flashed through his mind—a silver-haired girl. Had she hatched the dragon eggs yet?
The thought of Daenerys Targaryen stirred something deep within him. He recalled how she had walked through fire unscathed. And now, standing amidst the flames, Cole couldn't help but wonder… Was he also a descendant of House Targaryen?
After all, King Aegon IV had scattered his bastards across Westeros, earning himself a reputation that could rival any infamous monarch. Could Cole be one of his distant descendants?
The thought made him laugh.
Climbing the ladder of royal bloodlines—was he truly that delusional? The Iron Throne belonged to no Targaryen now, and to claim kinship with the Dragon lords was a death sentence.
Even if he did carry a trace of Targaryen blood, it was so diluted that it hardly mattered. He bore none of their distinct features, and no one would believe him if he claimed otherwise.