[Demon Fort of Belaerys, 187 AD / 85 AC]
Two days had passed since the last council.
Atop the dragonstone walls of the Demon Fort of Belaerys, obsidian towers loomed like the claws of some long-dead dragon, massive, jagged, eternal. Not far, deep within the fort, three enormous dragon towers made from dragonstone can be seen, built for dragons to perch, but also among many other things, such as mage towers.
Beneath the shadow of the outer walls of the Demon Fort, two small hosts approached, banners fluttering in the sea breeze. A score (twenty) guards for House Maegyr, and similar for House Rogare. Just enough to show status without threatening insult.
Lord Maloros Maegyr and Lord Aener Rogare rode at the fore, cloaked in finery more suited for court than for shadowed war-castles. Beside them, each had brought a single advisor, men of learning, but untested eyes. And yet none among them, not lord nor steward nor soldier, could hide their awe as they neared the great obsidian gates.
The gate was vast, towering twice the height of an elephant, carved with silver veins shaped into draconic script, reinforced by dark-forged steel and runes that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Above, dozens of Dragonguards and Dragonhunters stood in silent vigilance, dark-eyed and unmoving, their weapons ready, their armor pristine.
As the gates opened with a low groan, the two lords and their escorts stepped within and were struck silent.
Inside, the Demon Fort was not the barren martial keep they had imagined. It was a city unto itself, marketplaces brimming with exotic goods, taverns echoing with laughter, smithies hammering bright steel. Civilians in noble robes walked with pride, speaking High Valyrian, faces bearing marks of a dozen houses long-thought scattered. Children played in the wide streets. Priests of the old gods offered wisdom and prayer in silver shrines. And above them all, the crest of House Draceryos, House Belaerys, and House Gelionar hung from the spires.
A steward approached, robed in silver-threaded black, flanked by two mages. It was Taenys, the steward who had served Balthagar since his early return. Instead of a bow, he nodded. For Taenys, one should only bow to one deserves it, such as his Prince, Balthagar Draceryos. Taenys then gestured them forward. "Welcome to the Demon Fort. The Prince awaits."
Inside the grand hall, the same that had hosted the last council, the lords were assembled once more. The grand master of the Blood Dragon sat in somber silence, armored in crimson-colored silk. Beside him, the grand mistress of the Fire Dragon Order, cloaked in flame-colored silk. The Dark Mistress, veiled in shadow, stood without expression, like a statue cast in mourning obsidian.
Lord Vaelys Belaerys, Lord Baenarr Mataeryon, Lord Laenor Kostagar, Lord Laeron Gelionar, and the rest of the family heads all sat in the semicircle of stone chairs; which are adorned with cushions for comfort. Their eyes fixed on the two newcomers as they were escorted in by four Dragonguards. The heavy doors closed behind them with a thunderous finality.
The silence weighed upon them.
And then, they noticed the lords were not gazing at them, but past them.
They turned.
At the far end of the hall, framed by the great window that faced the volcano's heartland, stood a solitary figure.
Balthagar Draceryos.
His back was straight, hands clasped behind him, his black robes lined with crimson and gold threads worn over his ancestral armor. Stormbringer rested at his hip, sheathed but ever ominous. His pale silver hair was untamed, reaching the ends of his jaw, swaying gently with the breeze from the open archway.
"You stand in the House of Fire and Shadow," he said without turning. His voice was cold steel wrapped in velvet. "Welcome, Lords Maegyr and Rogare."
They bowed, deeply. They had expected arrogance, perhaps youth, perhaps fire without discipline. What they saw was presence, pure, suffocating presence. His eyes, as he turned, were magma. Living flame. They stared into him and felt themselves reduced to ash.
"It is an honor," Lord Rogare said hoarsely, bowing low, his voice barely holding. "To stand before the Heir of Valyria."
"Sit," Balthagar said, motioning to the stone table surrounded by flame-carved chairs.
They obeyed.
Balthagar remained standing. "You were summoned," he said, voice clear, "not as guests, but as the descendants of those who have asked for five generations to rejoin what they abandoned. The time of your pleading is over. I offer you one chance. An oath, and a blood oath. One binds your word. The other binds your bloodline."
Lord Maegyr stiffened. Lord Rogare said nothing, lips tight.
Balthagar's eyes flicked to Aener Rogare.
Rogare hesitated. "My lord… I seek not to offend. Only to ask. Lys is ripe for rule, but fractured. If I am to ensure its loyalty and rebuild it under your banner, I must have the power of coin behind me. I propose a bank. A Bank of Valyria, to stand against Iron Bank of Braavos and-"
He stopped.
No sound left his lips. His hands clawed at his throat. Slowly, terribly, he began to rise from his chair, feet scraping, until he hung a foot above the ground, invisible fingers choking the life from him.
Gasps echoed. Even the Noble Lords of Valyria stared in alarm.
Balthagar did not move, save for his hand, raised and clenched as if squeezing air.
"Be careful," he said softly, "not to choke on your aspirations… Lord Aener."
He released.
Rogare collapsed into his seat, gasping for breath.
The silence in the hall was a wall of stone.
"You will have Lys, Rogare," Balthagar said coldly. "You will rebuild it in my name. You will create your bank. But not a Bank of Valyria. That name belongs only to the empire I will forge. You may raise a lesser one in the meantime, under our oversight. Do not presume to dictate what belongs to dragons."
He turned to Lord Maegyr.
"And you. Volantis will be yours. But the Tigers and Elephants are finished. No more factions. No more noble squabbles. All will bow or burn. From Volantis… to Tyrosh."
Neither man dared speak.
"You may accept. Or leave, and face extinction."
They accepted.
By the next day, the rites were complete. The sacred flames were lit, the runes etched in blood and ash. Oaths were spoken. Then the blood oath, a sorcerous rite that bound their houses to Balthagar's will and blood. Not even the unborn would be exempt.
Lord Maegyr spoke first after the rites. "I can bring two other houses to our fold, my prince. Their loyalties will be unquestioned."
Lord Rogare added, "And three from Lys. You have my word."
Balthagar nodded. "Good… once everything falls in place, my fleets and legions will await on your coasts and outside your cities… as well as our dragons."
At the edge of the chamber, Stormbringer pulsed faintly within its sheath.
Rogare bowed. "We shall not fail you."
Balthagar smiled thinly. "See that you don't."
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[Three Days Later, Summer Sea, North of Naath, 187 AD / 85 AC]
The skies above the Summer Sea were somewhat clear, the bright blue sky against the shimmering waters below. Various clouds, from small to large dotted the sky.
To some, the Summer Sea was also known as the Valyrian Sea, due to the dominance of the surviving remnants of Valyrians in the Lands of the Long Summer. The Valyrian Navy patrolled excessively in these waters, and at times would go on hunting missions to find pirates, slavers, and any corsairs who dared to face them.
Azantyos flew with purpose, wings beating like thunder, scales glistening like molten metal. Atop the Great Dragon, Balthagar sat, his cloak trailing like a banner, eyes scanning the coast ahead. Just behind, Aegovax soared, and its rider Lord Vaelys Belaerys, Balthagar's maternal uncle, commanding his dragon with the calm and ease of an elder dragonrider.
Below them, a fleet of twenty ships sailed in neat formation, their black sails etched with red dragons. Balthagar's forces, sent from Fort Kostagar three days ago, had been shadowed by his flight today.
Now, the coast of Naath revealed itself.
The port had grown.
Stone piers jutted into the sea. Homes and markets spread in organized fashion. Valyrians and Naathi worked side by side. Crimson banners flapped above every gate. The cleared earth glowed with life.
They landed on a wide-open field near the port.
Balthagar dismounted. His reforged armor gleamed, bearing no name but marked by power. Lord Belaerys followed, his ancestral dragonsteel plate armor impressive, shoulders crowned with carved dragon-heads, helm at his side.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Balthagar said.
"Even in peace, it breathes purpose," Vaelys replied.
Balthagar nodded. "I plan to visit the Summer Isles after this. An old acuantince, Princess Nalla Qhara, awaits. Much to discuss. Especially the Targaryens."
From the port, a contingent arrived, twenty Dragonguards, several mages, and the steward assigned to the port. All bowed deeply.
"My prince," the steward began, "we have prepared horses if, "
Balthagar waved him off. "Why rush through beauty? We will walk. That is why we built it so close."
He noticed a cleared patch of land.
"That?"
"A foundation, my prince," said the steward. "Commander Vimond cleared it in case a shipyard is ordered."
Balthagar's smile was genuine. "He thinks ahead. I like that."
Another contingent approached, Lord Kostagar, Lord Gelionar, and the veiled Dark Mistress.
Balthagar turned to the elder lords with a sly grin. "You may wish to take horses, my lords. These hills are not kind to the old."
Chuckles rippled through the group.
They walked.
Past hills, workers expanded the town. Slave-marked pirates and slavers toiled beside Naathi carpenters. Small markets bloomed. Soldiers saluted as they passed. Whispers of the Prince followed them.
At the fort's gates stood a man giving orders, directing soldiers and builders alike.
Commander Vimond Gondaerys.
He turned, saw them, and fell to one knee, as did the rest of the soldiers.
"My prince," he said, head bowed. "I am at your command."
"Rise," Balthagar said.
Vimond stood tall, short silver hair, sharp violet eyes, a beard lined with age and discipline.
"I am proud of what you have accomplished, Commander Vimond." Balthagar said. "The port, the town, and a space for the shipyard. You think ahead."
Vimond bowed again. "Forgive me, my prince, for taking the initiative, "
"Do not apologize," Balthagar said. "A man who sees beyond today is a rare thing."
"You honor me, my prince."
"Do you have family?"
"Yes, my prince. A wife. Three children. They live in Fort Belaerys."
Balthagar nodded. "And how long have you served?"
"Thirty years in the Dragonguard. Under your father, Prince Taegon."
"Do you know the blood oath?"
Vimond hesitated. "I do."
"Then kneel once more."
Vimond dropped to one knee.
"I name you Lord Vimond of House Gondaerys, Lord of Naath. You will swear the oath now."
Vimond did and blood was drown, a sealed pact of blood and spoken in High Valyrian, using blood magic.
"You are no longer a commander alone," Balthagar said. "You are a noble. This land, this fort, is your seat. Make it worthy."
Vimond's voice trembled with pride. "My sons and their sons shall guard it. For you. For House Draceryos. For Valyria… for the empire."
Balthagar nods, then turns to Kostagar. "Send ships to escort his family. Treat them as befits their new station."
He turned to Vimond. "By week's end, present your house's banner, the steward shall aid you in any other matters too."
They walked together to the fort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Evening, Valyrian Fort of Naath]
The room was large and warm, silk curtains drawn, the hearth glowing.
Balthagar sat in a high-backed chair, sipping Valyrian wine from a silver goblet. His armor was gone. His robe black, trimmed in gold and crimson.
The blood oath was done. The town growing. The future, closer.
He sat in silence.
Then the door creaked open.
He did not turn.
The Dark Mistress entered, her veil still on. She walked to the other chair and sat.
He set down his goblet. Turned to her.
She removed her veil.
Lady Oresa.
She was beautiful beyond mortal bounds, black hair like ink, pale skin like moonlight, and amethyst eyes that shimmered like hidden storms. A necklace made of dark silver and black gold, intricately designed, sat perfectly around her neck. The centerpiece of the necklace is a red blood gem, lightly shimmering.
She smiled faintly.
"My little prince."
There was no mockery in her voice. Only quiet affection. Almost maternal.
Balthagar smiled back, his eyes glowing in the firelight.
"Lady Oresa," he said.