[Dungeons, Demon Fort of Draceryos, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
The chamber beneath the Demon Fort of Draceryos pulsed with an ancient, subdued energy. The walls were carved from dragonstone, etched with Valyrian runes that glimmered faintly under the flickering light of oil lamps. The air was thick with the scent of ink, smoke, and old parchment, heavy with the weight of generations past. This was the family dungeon, a large and vast network of rooms, vaults, storerooms and much more. Here, in the chamber designed by Vaemor, a place designed for meditation and the forging of the mind, a chamber where knowledge, ritual, and legacy intertwined.
I sat cross-legged in the center, a circle of carefully arranged materials before me. The dragonbone dust of a Great Dragon in a glass jar, fragments of obsidian, vials of preserved Great Dragon blood, a dish of thick, crimson Weirwood paste prepared from the sap and seeds stored in the alchemical vaults. Around me, the Valyrian runes of protection and containment gleamed faintly, ensuring no magic seeped beyond their bounds.
The Holocron within me, the fragmented vessel of Sith knowledge, a memory of a galaxy far removed yet now its knowledge and powers bound to this world, bound to me, hummed in the depths of my mind. I had studied it for months, merging its dark wisdom with the ancient rites of Valyria. Sith Sorcery, Alchemy, Rituals, all would be woven into this grand tapestry, but with materials of this world: no Sith metals, no Sith creatures. Only what Valyria offered, dragonbone, fire, blood, and will. But maybe… yes one day and soon. Weapons rivaling both the Valyrian and Sith creations, creatures similar to the Sithspawn, their purpose to serve my will, the will of Valyria.
Theories and plans sharpened in my thoughts, visions of what was to come. This ritual of transformation would be the first step, the foundation. My body, my mind, the magic within me, my very soul would be reforged. Sith runes, not yet carved or laid, would soon encircle me, etched into the ritual grounds above the lava ley lines beneath the hill, a place of power just beyond the Demon Fort. There, I would stand as Azantyos bathed me in dragonflame, the might of the Great Dragon intertwining with my form.
But for now, I prepared. Every piece aligned, every step measured. My breath slowed, steady as the beat of a war drum, my mind a storm held in check.
The flame of the Valyrian glass candle flickered in the still air. Through its glow, I felt the threads of magic in the world, faint and fragile. The Doom had stripped much of the world's power, and the blasted Andals' axe had felled the Weirwood trees, even long before the doom, severing ancient roots of magic in Westeros. Only the remnants in the North, the Wall, and the few surviving groves clung to what was left, though even there, a dark presence lingered, masking and chaining what remained.
I would unshackle it, one day. For now, I gathered strength, meditated on the knowledge I had, and the knowledge I would yet claim. Soon… the ritual would begin. But there was much yet to do.
[A Week Later, Demon Fort of Kostagar, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
The docks of the Demon Fort of Kostagar bustled with controlled chaos. Crates of provisions were loaded, barrels rolled, weapons stacked neatly. The sound of hammering, shouting, and the creak of wood filled the air. At the heart of it all stood six figures: Lord Kostagar and his son Laekor, Lord Gelionar and his son Rhaenar, and the two young princes, Vaelon and Aegionar Draceryos.
The fleet was a force of might and precision. Five Man O' War vessels, bristling with scorpions and ballista's, their reinforced hulls dark and imposing. Twenty galleons, sturdy and well-armed, their decks crowded with sailors and marines. The rest of the ships—frigates, schooners, and a handful of sleek longships, numbered in the dozens, bringing the total fleet to a hundred. The frigates, lean and swift, each bore four ballista's, two on either side, ready to deliver death from afar.
Above them all, Anaxigon, Vaelon's Great Dragon, rested on a high bluff overlooking the port, his sapphire eyes half-lidded, his scales catching the sunlight like molten silver. His wings shifted occasionally, the faint rumble of his breath a constant reminder of the power that guarded the skies.
Vaelon's gaze swept the docks, a flicker of concern in his violet eyes. "Will my brother be here?" he asked, turning toward Lord Kostagar. The young prince's voice was calm, but the undertone of longing was clear.
Lord Kostagar's face, weathered by salt and storm, softened just slightly. "Your brother, my Prince, is fulfilling his duty. He prepares for something… great. When the time comes, you will see."
Aegionar, standing tall beside his brother, listened in silence, his fists clenched lightly at his sides. He had not spoken of Balthagar in weeks, but his gaze, sharp, focused, betrayed the same worry, the same hunger for answers.
Lord Gelionar, his silver-streaked hair tied back in a simple knot, placed a firm hand on Vaelon's shoulder. "Your brother's path is one of burdens and fire, young prince. Trust in him. And trust in us, your kin, your allies."
Vaelon nodded slowly, though the weight in his chest did not ease.
Laekor Kostagar, heir to House Kostagar, his hair silver like sea foam and his eyes pale as the horizon, grinned slightly. "It won't be long before we sail, young princes. Then you'll have your own glory to speak of."
Rhaenar Gelionar, dark-eyed and steady, clapped Aegionar on the shoulder. "When you return, we'll train again. Blade and bow. Let us see if the sea has dulled your reflexes."
A faint smile touched Aegionar's lips at that, though his gaze soon returned to the sky, where Anaxigon stretched lazily, the wind catching his wings.
The scene at the docks was one of calculated urgency. Over two dozen high mages and countless mages, five Masters from the Order of the Fire Dragon, and five Masters from the Order of the Blood Dragon moved among the soldiers, offering blessings, checking wards, and ensuring every aspect of the fleet was prepared. In the shadows, unseen by most, two Shadow Masters and their cadre of Whisps and Shadows watched in silence, their presence a hidden blade.
This was no mere expedition, it was a projection of Valyrian will. A fleet destined for Naath, to establish a permanent foothold, to cleanse its surroundings of pirates and slavers, to expand the reach of House Draceryos across the Summer Sea.
And as the sun dipped lower, the fleet stirred. The last of the cargo secured, the soldiers boarded, the banners of House Draceryos and its vassals, Kostagar and Gelionar, snapping in the sea breeze. Vaelon and Aegionar stood at the rail of the flagship, Anaxigon circling above with a low, rumbling cry, a promise of flame and fury.
Lord Kostagar turned to Lord Gelionar, his voice a low rumble. "The sea is ours, Gelionar. The slavers and pirates will bleed, the Naathi will yield. Our ships will carve the waves like blades."
Lord Gelionar's gaze was steady, his voice calm. "Aye, but remember, the sea is treacherous. And the Westerosi, especially the Iron Throne and the damned exiles (Targaryens), will not sit idly by if we move too boldly. We have strength, yes, but even strength must be tempered."
Kostagar's grin was sharp, predatory. "Let them come. We will drown their banners beneath the waves."
Vaelon, his gaze steady, asked softly, "Will we be ready, Lord Kostagar?"
Lord Kostagar's voice was firm, a promise forged in steel. "We are ready, my prince. And when you return, you will see the world burn brighter in your brother's name."
With that, the order was given, the fleet set sail, and the ships turned their prows toward the southern seas. Anaxigon roared, wings unfurling as he swept over the fleet in a wide arc, a herald of fire and might.
And as the sun sank below the horizon, the ships vanished into the gathering dusk, their sails catching the wind like shadows on the sea.
The future had begun. And the storm would follow.