[The Demon Fort of Draceryos, 187 AD / 85 AC]
Four days had passed since the Ironborn were broken on the western shores of the Lands of the Long Summer. Now, the Demon Fort of Draceryos stirred with life, its vast, fortified expanse a testament to the legacy of Valyria reborn. The thick walls of dragonstone loomed like the bones of ancient dragons, crowned with jagged battlements. The fort's massive gates, carved with runes of flame and shadow, marked the two entrances, both heavily guarded, warded, and watched by Dragonguards and Dragon Hunters.
Within, the sprawling city-fort thrived. Marketplaces buzzed, training yards clashed with the ring of steel, and banners of the Draceryos family, deep crimson, with a dragon of flame-winged glory clutching a laurel over a flaming sun, hung proudly above the battlements. The edges of the banners blazed in red streaks, the bottom tongues of fire.
At the heart of it all, upon the hill where the Draceryos Manse rose, Balthagar Draceryos sat within the Grand Hall. The hall was vast, grander than any Westerosi castle dared imagine, columns of black stone and veins of glowing magma-like ore held the weight of the high-arched ceilings. Twenty great hearths lined the chamber, their fires crackling softly, casting long shadows across the polished tables of rare woods, their surfaces carved with Valyrian patterns of flame, wings, and ancient glyphs.
At the far end of the hall, Balthagar sat upon the Dragonstone Throne, a massive seat of blackened stone shaped like a dragon's maw, its eyes hollow and fierce. Behind him, the largest banner of House Draceryos unfurled in the torchlight, its woven threads catching the flicker of flame.
He wore no armor now, but rather the regalia of a Valyrian prince, black robes trimmed in red and gold, with dragon-clasps at his shoulder blades. His hair, like molten silver, cascaded just above his shoulders, like a wild mane, and his fiery amber eyes watched the chamber with measured calm. Stormbringer rested at his side, humming faintly with caged power.
Before him stretched a long table, heavy with food and wine: roasted meats, spiced fruits, golden breads, and Valyrian glass pitchers gleaming under the light. Yet Balthagar touched none of it. His mind drifted, sharp, calculating, through the storm that brewed beyond these walls.
He thought of the reforging soon to come, Stormbringer, his family's Valyrian steel armor, and the Blood Ring, all to be reforged using the forbidden arts of Sith sorcery. The rune-forging, the ritual bindings, the reshaping of Valyrian steel with the strength of fire and shadow. He would see it done in the days ahead, before he turned his gaze upon Martivia, where the Last Volcano pulsed with ancient power. There, his plans would take root.
He knew the heretic Targaryens, Aenar the Exile's descendants, would not remain idle. They would respond, driven by arrogance and ignorance, and when they did, the world would feel the price of their defiance.
His musings broke as the great doors of the hall groaned open, revealing the nobles of Valyria, their significant other and their children following in their wake. The high seats of power had come as summoned.
Lord Vaelys Belaerys, Lord Baenarr Mataeryon, Lord Maerys Kostagar, and Lord Ghaelion Gelionar, Lord Rhaemon Tyvaros, Lord Laenor Embaryen, Lady Kaella Magyros. From the vassal cities came the others, Lord Gaelyx Azantone of Tolos, Lord Tyraevor Zobridar of Mantarys, Lord Malaemar Ilvar of Elyria.
Balthagar's gaze swept over them all, his presence a weight pressing into their bones. One by one, they bowed their heads.
"Welcome," he said, his voice low, measured, yet resonant with an edge that cut deep. "We have much to discuss."
They seated themselves, the vast table filling with the sound of shifting chairs and the faint clink of goblets. Balthagar's eyes burned with focus.
"The world is watching," he began, his voice steady, cold flame beneath calm words. "The Ironborn have been broken, their dead carved into warnings, their ships drifting across the seas. And yet... this is only the beginning."
He leaned forward, hands steepled before him. "The Westerosi will not ignore this insult. Aenar the Exile's descendants, his pathetic line, will answer, as fools do, with hot blood and blind pride. Let them come. We will teach them the cost of arrogance."
His gaze passed over the assembled lords. "We will not wait for the storm to strike us. We will shape it."
They spoke of the battle, of what had been seen. The lords of Tolos, Mantarys, and Elyria spoke cautiously, but with respect, aware of the power Balthagar now commanded. The others, Belaerys, Kostagar, Gelionar, they spoke with grim pride, recounting the blood price paid and the strength of Valyria.
Balthagar listened, his mind already five steps ahead. He would reforge Stormbringer, the family armor, and the Blood Ring in the coming day, using the knowledge drawn from the depths of sorcery and the soul of fire itself. Once complete, he would depart for Martivia, to oversee its final phase of construction, the city of flame and shadow rising from the bones of the Last Volcano. There, the true rebirth would begin.
The lords debated the wider world's reaction, the whispers that would soon echo through the Free Cities, the nervous eyes of Westeros, the silent fear of Qohor and Lorath, unspoken allies of Draceryos, their intentions quiet but firm. Balthagar said little, only enough to guide, to shape, to remind them all that the true dragons had risen, and the world would tremble.
Two weeks after the battle, the ships reached the Arbor. The Seadrinker drifted into the harbor, its sails ragged and dark, its deck a horror of severed bodies, heads, and limbs arranged in grotesque art. The tortured body of Alton Greyjoy, limbless, chained to the prow, moaned, and writhed, a breathing symbol of dread. The incinerated skull of the Goodbrother hung above the deck, his house's arms marked upon scorched banners, while the Drumm heir's corpse lay sprawled across the deck, Red Rain, deformed, twisted, still embedded in his chest.
Carved into the backs of the dead, the message spoke in High Valyrian:
Here lies the fate of those who dare test the blood of Old Valyria. Fire and shadow shall claim all who defy Draceryos. The True Dragons rise, let the world tremble.
Panic spread across the Arbor like wildfire. The news raced from Dorne to the Wall, across the kingdoms of Westeros, and beyond the Narrow Sea. The Ironborn lords gathered at Pyke, their tempers smoldering. The Goodbrother lord seethed, the Drumm heir's father howled for vengeance, but their fury crumbled beneath the weight of fear. The few smiths in Essos capable of reforging Valyrian steel had refused Lord Drumm, terrified of Draceryos' wrath. Even Veron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, though furious at the fate of his son, hesitated, his voice sharp yet laced with caution. He had sent a raven to King Jaehaerys, seeking guidance.
In the Free Cities, Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, the whispers deepened into dread. They spoke not only of the Ironborn's folly, but of Draceryos' might, the legacy of Old Valyria awakening once more. Fear whispered of unspoken allies of Draceryos; Qohor and Lorath, watching, waiting.
In King's Landing, the council met in tense, uncertain silence. The memory of Aegon's sister-wife, Visenya, echoed, a tale of quiet shame, of her flight from Draceryos lands, Vhagar wounded and refusing to fly for weeks. What had truly happened there, none knew, save perhaps Aegon, Rhaenys, and Maegor, and they had taken that knowledge to their graves.
King Jaehaerys sat in quiet contemplation, his fingers steepled, his face shadowed with thought. He asked of Corlys Velaryon, the famed Sea Snake, where was he? A message came: Corlys had just returned to Driftmark from his seventh voyage. Perhaps he, more than any, would know the truth of the Draceryos legacy, and the shape of the storm that now loomed on the horizon.
The world waited. And the dragons stirred.