{A/N: Uploaded the Auxiliary chapters as stated from previous chapter, including new ones.}
[Near the Demon Fort of Draceryos, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
The charred remains of the circular dragonstone platform still smoldered, dark smoke curling into the air like tendrils of a lingering dream. Balthagar Draceryos stood at its center, transformed. Where once he had been tall and imposing, now he was something more, something other. His form radiated power, carved as though by the gods themselves: muscles taut, defined, glowing faintly with the afterglow of the ritual's fury. His height stretched to a commanding 190 centimeters, every fiber of his being alive with the hum of sorcery.
His pale skin shimmered, kissed by the sun's light, and his hair flowed like liquid silver, longer, thicker, wild yet regal. But it was his eyes, those once-violet eyes, that burned now, molten orbs of deep, fiery amber, laced with threads of crimson and gold. The eyes of the Dark Side, yet fierce with an inner light, a testament to both power and purpose. Sparks danced along his fingertips, flashes of lightning crackling in brief arcs across his palms. He felt everything, every beat of his heart, every surge of blood through his veins, every tremor of magic within his flesh and bone.
With a slow breath, he lifted his hands, flexing his fingers. The sparks danced brighter, then faded. His gaze shifted to Azantyos, perched on the high rocks nearby, massive and coiled, his great red-black wings half-unfurled. Balthagar could feel it, sense it, the transformation within the Great Dragon as well. Azantyos' scales gleamed like polished crimson steel, his body thicker, stronger, the glow of magic pulsing faintly beneath his hide. Their bond had deepened, a connection now seared into their souls.
Azantyos' voice thundered in Balthagar's mind, a low rumble of satisfaction and shared power.
We are more, now. Bound deeper, flame and flesh as one. The sky trembles, and the earth will kneel.
Balthagar's lips curled into a fierce, quiet grin. "Indeed… The world shall tremble beneath us."
Azantyos launched into the sky, causing the ground to shake, his massive wings stirring the air into a maelstrom of wind and dust. He soared high, circling the hilltop, his roar shaking the stones below. Balthagar watched him ascend, then turned, walking toward the edge of the hill. He moved with a new weight, an effortless grace, a predator in full command of his domain. His robe lay where it had fallen; he lifted it without care, draping it loosely over his shoulders, not bothering to tie it closed. His bare chest, slick with sweat and marked by the faint, glowing traces of the ritual, remained exposed, a testament to the storm that had been unleashed.
The gathering below stared in awed silence. The Grand Master of the Blood Dragon, the Grand Mistress of the Fire Dragon, and the Dark Mistress of Shadows stood at the fore, their faces a blend of reverence, curiosity, and quiet dread. Lords Belaerys, Mataeryon, Embaryen, and Tyvaros, along with their sons, watched with wide eyes, their expressions tight with caution, wonder, and the weight of the unknown.
It was Vaelora who found her voice first, stepping forward, her tone tight yet trembling. "Brother... what happened? What took you so long?"
Balthagar tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean... so long?"
It was the Dark Mistress who answered, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper. "It has been three days, my Prince. Three days, and none could approach the hill. A dome formed, of magic, of flame, of... something more. We could only watch, powerless."
The Grand Master of the Blood Dragon, Maeryn Aerralis, stepped closer, studying Balthagar with sharp, assessing eyes. "You are... changed, my Prince. Beyond changed. You radiate power like a storm waiting to break. It humbles even the strongest of us."
The Grand Mistress of the Fire Dragon, Lady Kaella Magyros, nodded, her gaze both wary and intrigued. "What have you done?"
Balthagar's gaze swept over them, his voice even, yet carrying a force that vibrated in their bones. "I have reforged myself... into what must be done. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory... my chains will be broken."
Before more could be said, Lord Tyvaros, who had been standing nearby in tense silence, spoke with a hesitant edge. "My Prince... we received a message not long ago, brought by a swift messenger. The fleet, returning from the Naath expedition, has intercepted a force of Ironborn, fifty ships, it's said, off the western shores of the Lands of the Long Summer. The battle is... ongoing, or perhaps nearing its climax."
A cold, focused fury settled over Balthagar's face. His hands clenched into fists, sparks dancing once more across his skin. His voice cut like a blade. "Prepare the fleet. What ships remain, they sail now. I will ride."
He turned to Lord Belaerys, his uncle, and Belaerys' son, Valen. "Ready your dragons, Aegovax and Amberion, at once. We fly."
Balthagar's voice was a storm given form. "Summon my armor, Stormbringer. I ride at once."
Without waiting for a reply, he strode down the hill, his steps a thunderous cadence. Guards scrambled, mages and attendants racing to obey. The wind howled above as Azantyos circled, a dark star in the sky, and Balthagar's gaze lifted to meet his. In the depths of his mind, he knew, Vaelon, Aegionar... they will hold. Their blood is my blood. The Ironborn are fools if they believe they can break what is forged in fire and shadow. Yet they will learn...
[Valyrian Fleet, Western Shores of the Lands of the Long Summer]
The sea churned, dark and furious. The Ironborn fleet, fifty strong, spread across the water like a swarm of black carrion birds. Their sails snapped in the wind, bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy, their decks crowded with reavers, shields, axes, and the stink of salt and slaughter.
At the heart of their fleet stood Alton Greyjoy, the third-born son of Lord Veron Greyjoy, a monstrous brute of a man. His beard was a ragged tangle, charms of bone and driftwood woven into it. Salt crusted his leathers, and the tattoo of the Drowned God coiled across his chest like a living thing. He stood at the prow of his warship, the Seadrinker, bellowing oaths to the Drowned God, his eyes wild with madness. "The sea is ours! Take Valyria's bones and feed them to the waves!"
But the Valyrian fleet stood firm, thirty ships in tight formation, disciplined, ruthless, their ballistae ready, scorpions gleaming like fangs. Vaelon Draceryos circled above on Anaxigon, his silver-scaled Great Dragon an omen of flame and fury. The fleet moved with precision, Man O' Wars at the center, galleons flanking, frigates darting like hunting hounds.
Lord Gelionar commanded from the Obsidian Flame, his voice a steady presence across the decks. Laekor Kostagar and Rhaenar Gelionar fought fiercely, cutting down Ironborn who dared to board, their blades flashing in the sun. But it was Gelionar who faced Alton Greyjoy in brutal single combat upon the burning deck of the Seadrinker.
The two clashed like titans, Valyrian steel against salt-forged iron. Alton Greyjoy, third son of Lord Veron Greyjoy, swung his axe in wide, savage arcs, bellowing oaths to the Drowned God, salt and bone charms rattling with each strike. But Gelionar, Marshal of the Valyrian Army, wielded the twin Valyrian steel blades of House Gelionar, Ashbane, a white-silverish sword that gleamed like moonlight on still water, and Shadowrend, a dark, blackish blade that drank the light around it.
Seasoned and unyielding, Gelionar moved with lethal precision, his blades a storm of steel and fury. He parried Alton's savage strikes with Ashbane, countered with the biting edge of Shadowrend, driving the Ironborn admiral back, step by step, across the blood-slicked deck of the Seadrinker.
Alton howled, but it was a desperate, dying sound. With a final, vicious cross-cut, Gelionar's twin blades flashed, a blur of light and shadow, and Alton Greyjoy crumpled, gasping, his body a ruin of blood and shattered bone. He lay amidst the broken timbers, barely breathing, his eyes glazed but still flickering with defiance, clinging to life by a thread.
The battle raged for hours. The Ironborn fought like madmen, but they were no match for Valyrian steel, disciplined ranks, and the fury of dragons. The Valyrian fleet crushed them, fifteen Ironborn ships captured, the rest burned or sunk. The survivors, a broken remnant of perhaps twelve hundred men, were rounded up on the rocky shore, chained and beaten, forced to kneel beneath the banners of House Draceryos.
The dead were laid in grim, orderly rows upon the sand, thousands of Ironborn corpses, a testament to the price of their folly. The sea ran dark with blood, the cries of the dying swallowed by the endless waves.
As the last screams faded, the Valyrian captains turned to the horizon, where another fleet approached, twenty ships, fresh reinforcements bearing the banners of Draceryos, sent from the Demon Fort of Kostagar. And in the skies, a terrible roar echoed across the water, Azantyos.
Balthagar Draceryos descended, mounted upon the Crimson Comet, flanked by Aegovax and Amberion, the dragons' wings casting vast shadows across the sea. The battle was done, but the war had only just begun.