{A/N: There was a mistake in the first chapter. Vaemor Draceryos is the Great-Great-Grandfather of Balthagar, not his Great-Grandfather. It has been fixed.
To avoid this Issue, I will add an Auxiliary chapter with Main Line of House Draceryos.}
[Fort Draceryos, Solar, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
A week had passed. A week of study, of deep thought, of careful planning. I sat in my solar, surrounded by scattered parchments, scrolls, and books. The air smelled of ink, old paper, and faint smoke from the hearth. The light of the setting sun filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. My desk was cluttered, a controlled chaos of notes, diagrams, sketches of runes and weapons, fragments of dragonbone and polished shards of obsidian.
The knowledge I had gathered from the Holocron was unlike anything in this world. Sith rituals and sorcery, Valyrian alchemy and magic, the theories of runesmithing and forging, all of it layered together in ways I had only begun to understand. The tomes in the library spoke of ancient rites, blood magic, and the dark arts of old Valyria. I had spent hours comparing them, searching for connections, for hidden truths.
I meditated often, drawing strength from the Force, from the pain that still burned in my chest. My father. My mother. My brother. I felt the pain, the anger, the fury that swelled with each memory, because they were my memories, and yet not. I was Balthagar Draceryos, heir to a legacy of fire and blood, but I was also something more. I was not born of this world, yet I had been reborn into it. A soul from another place, another life, woven into the body of a prince. Their grief was mine now. Their faces, their voices, their love, all etched into my mind. I felt it, all of it, as if it were my own. My old self and the new were no longer separate. They had fused, seamless, a single flame. This was who I was now, Balthagar Draceryos.
They would not have died in vain. I would ensure that House Draceryos, that Valyria itself, would rise again, greater, stronger, eternal.
My ancestors, House Draceryos and the rest of the Great Dragonlord families, had merged their blood with that of the Great Dragons five thousand years ago, becoming more than men. Their strength, their power, their connection to magic had been unmatched. But I could go further. I had the preserved heart of Vassarion, the Great Dragon, as large as I was tall. I had the dust of his bones, the blood drawn from his veins. I had the knowledge of both Sith and Valyrian sorcery. If I succeeded, what would I become? Stronger, taller, sharper of mind. My magic would burn brighter, my will stronger.
But it would not stop there.
I looked at Stormbringer, the ancestral greatsword of my house, resting on its stand. It was a large blade, not quite as massive as most Valyrian Steel greatswords, yet still a magnificent greatsword forged for war. The metal shimmered faintly in the firelight, dark and smooth, forged not with the blood of a lesser dragon, but in the blood and magic of an ancient Great Dragon, long dead. Forged by the founder of our line, its power unmatched, its legacy eternal. That was the difference. That was the strength. I would reforge it, remake it into something greater than any Valyrian Steel or Ancient Sith weapon. A sword bound to my bloodline, answering only to a Draceryos. The same would be done for my armor and the Blood Ring. The rings, carved from dragonbone and Valyrian steel, were imbued with magic and runes to heighten a dragonlord's senses, warn of poison, of danger, and much more. They would all be reforged, perfected.
And then, there was Martivia.
I leaned back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the open window, where the distant mountains rose dark against the twilight sky. Martivia. The city of my ancestors' dreams, nearly complete. Built atop one of the Fourteen Flames, in the heart of the Lands of the Long Summer. A place once fertile, green, and lush, now scorched by the Doom. For centuries, Maelarr, Vaemor, and those who came after had worked to cleanse the land. The mage orders, the alchemists, the Dragonguard, they had all labored to restore what was lost. The Stone Men were gone, the curses lifted. The Sea of Sighs no longer ran red, but shimmered teal under the sun, its waters filled with fish, its shores lined with growing farms and cattle.
Martivia itself was a marvel, a large stronghold, castle, fortress, you may call it all those and more, situated on the lone mountain, the volcano. Immense, enormous, magnificent, and glorious. Yet not done, not finished, but soon. The city surrounds the mountain, its foundation built from dragonstone. Runes, laid by Maelarr and perfected by Vaemor, chained the volcano, keeping it asleep, yet alive, its magic flowing through the city, feeding the dragon nests and hatcheries, strengthening the wards. The walls of the city were etched with those same runes, protecting against scrying, prying, and assault. At the heart of the city lay the hidden chamber, where the lines of power met. Guarded by three Whisps and a Master of the Order of Shadows, two Masters of the Order of the Blood Dragon, two from the Order of the Fire Dragon, and the many Dragonguards. Always watching. Always ready.
The Northern District was for the nobles, a place of quiet power. Lands were granted to the vassals of House Draceryos, large estates surrounded by gardens and parks, and even larger holdings set aside for the two Dragonlord families under Draceryos' rule, enough space for dragon nest for two to three dragons with a dragon hatchery included. Seven in total, two for the Dragonlords, five for the noble families. It was not yet crowded, but outlined for the future, for those who would earn their place. Space was left for new families, for those who would prove themselves worthy of nobility, a vision of growth yet to come.
The Eastern District was the heart of learning and devotion, where the cathedral of the Fourteen Flames stood tall and proud, the mage citadels rising like towers of wisdom. The Citadel of the Order of the Blood Dragon, the Citadel of the Order of the Fire Dragon, and the reserved spaces for future orders yet unnamed. There were outlines for future guilds as well, spaces left open, not yet built upon, but marked in the plans with precision, for when the time was right. Here, worship and knowledge, faith and sorcery, all converged.
The Southern District, where trade and life thrived, was the commerce district. Markets lined the streets, vendors and merchants selling goods both rare and common. Taverns, inns, cookshops, butcher stalls—all found their place here. The district pulsed with the daily life of the city, the hum of commerce and the exchange of goods and coin.
The Western District was the heart of the army and the general populous, it was also the largest district compared to the rest. The garrisons, the training grounds, the command halls. Here the Dragonguard drilled, the Dragoons prepared their mounts, the Dragon Scouts sharpened their blades, and the Dragon Hunters practiced their aim. The residence of the general population was also here, even though there are homes given and built in the Southern and Eastern District, here is where all the general populous gathered and resided. The command center of the army stood tall here, where the Marshal would oversee all, his solar a place of strategy and leadership. Here, the strength of House Draceryos gathered, ready for any threat.
The Draceryos Journals. Fourteen books, bound in the skin of a dragon, created through blood magic by Aurion himself, with the gift of the dragon skin, from the dragon that has perished from House Mataeryon, not reluctantly given, but offered in hopes of forging a strong and prosperous relationship as vassals. The first journal, the largest and most important, filled with all the knowledge Aurion had gathered: the secrets of Valyria, of the Great Dragonlords, of magic, of theory, of war. A guiding hand for future generations, a recount of history. The second, his own thoughts, his life, his victories, his mistakes. Each head of House Draceryos wrote their chapter in the journal of their generation. My father's journal lay there; its pages closed. A slip of paper lay on top of the next journal, with my brother's name, Vhalor, written first, then mine, and my two younger brothers, Vaelon and Aerion.
I thought of the day I would write in it.
A knock at the door broke my thoughts.
The steward entered, and bowed, then stood striahgt and spoke. "My Prince, they have arrived."
I stood, usually I would turn towards the door, welcoming them but this time I turned towards the windows, looking at the people going about their day.
Even though I am not one for theatrics, I need to send a clear message to all, of the powers I possess. One does not hide their strength, but also does not reveal all their cards.
My robe straightened with a pull of my hand. My gaze sharpened. It was time.
The heads of the noble houses filed into the solar. Seven in total. Six men, ageless in their High Valyrian beauty, silver and gold hair shining under the candlelight, their pale or dark violet eyes glinting with quiet power. The head of House Magyros, a woman, wore her long hair loose, her eyes, pale violet, watched me with a steady, calculating gaze. She was also the Grand Master of the Order of the Fire Dragon, and the deep red robes she wore bore intricate flame patterns edged in gold.
At her side stood the Grand Master of the Order of the Blood Dragon, a tall, severe man with short-cropped hair the color of starlight, his dark violet eyes sharp as a blade, his crimson robes immaculate.
Then came the Dark Mistress.
She moved like a shadow, her dark veil hiding her face, her robes intricate yet understated, the aura around her cold, unyielding. Her form was slender, her posture straight, her presence commanding. No one in the room spoke her true name, for none but I knew it. She was the Grand Mistress of the Order of Shadows, the second founder of the order, the one Vaemor had called upon and bound by blood oath to House Draceryos.
Lastly, my sister, Vaelora Draceryos. Her platinum hair gleamed in the light, her pale violet eyes fierce, her face sharp and elegant. She sat at my right, her presence both comforting and commanding. She was my sister, my advisor, and the wife of the heir to House Mataeryon, who held the Demon Fort of the Black Cliffs, the fortress that guarded the only land path from Slaver's Bay to the Free Cities. A fortress built into the cliffs, unassailable from the west, secured by gates forged by Draceryos and Embaryen.
They were all here. Waiting.
I turned, my eyes a blaze with fiery red. A crimson hue, with golden fury. Radiating the dark side. My arms crossed, my eyes wandered to each one of theirs, one by one.
"Let us begin." I state.