{A/N:
I will take a break for a couple of days. Since the first chapter released, I have been writing consistently. Chapter 9 and 10 are done, chapter 11 is in progress.
In 2 to 4 days I will upload chapter 9. I am trying to always stay 2 to 3 chapters ahead from whats uploaded.
One more thing, when next chapter is uploaded. I will upload the images for the dragons and the images of Balthagar. I will make also an Auxiliary for the dragons images and the characters images.}
[Valyrian Seas, Naath's Coastline, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
After six days of steady winds and rolling waves, the Valyrian fleet arrived at the northern shores of Naath. The journey had been swift yet tense, a sense of purpose hanging over the men as the dark hulls of ships cut through the sapphire sea. Five Man O' Wars, twenty galleons bristling with scorpions and ballistae, and a host of frigates, schooners, and sleek longships, one hundred ships in all, bearing the banner of House Draceryos, the Crimson Flame of Valyria.
The fleet anchored in the calm waters of a crescent bay, sheltered by rocky outcrops and dense jungle. The sailors worked swiftly, offloading supplies and erecting a temporary dock along the shore. Trees were felled, clearing space for palisades and a command post. The clang of axes and the rhythm of hammers echoed across the beach, mingling with the cries of seabirds and the distant roar of the waves. Thousands of men labored, building the bones of what would soon become a Valyrian foothold, an outpost from which Draceryos might shape the destiny of Naath.
At the heart of the effort stood the six figures: Lord Kostagar and his son Laekor, Lord Gelionar and his son Rhaenar, and the two young princes, Vaelon and Aegionar Draceryos. They watched as soldiers directed workers, as Dragonguards patrolled the perimeter, their armor gleaming in the tropical sun. Anaxigon rested on a rise above the beach, wings half-folded, his sapphire eyes gleaming with lazy menace.
Then came the messenger.
A Naathi, tall and thin, dark-skinned with sharp features, approached cautiously under a white cloth of peace. The Dragonguards watched him with suspicion as he bowed low before the Valyrian lords.
"I bring word from Kalemba, Chief of the Azhuka," he said in heavily accented Valyrian, his voice steady but cautious. "He waits with his warriors beyond the hill. He seeks parley."
Lord Kostagar's lips curled into a thin line. "Bring him," he ordered, and the messenger bowed again, retreating into the jungle.
Within the hour, Kalemba appeared, flanked by a dozen Naathi warriors, their skin painted with earth tones, their hair adorned with feathers and shells. Kalemba himself was tall, broad-shouldered, with keen, intelligent eyes the color of hazel and the presence of a man who had long ruled his people. At his side walked Azhuri, the aged shaman who had counseled Kalemba since his youth. Her eyes, dark and deep, watched the Valyrian lords with quiet calculation.
Chairs and tables had been set between the growing palisades and the jungle's edge, the air thick with tension and the scent of sea salt and freshly cut wood. Water, dried fruits, and watered wine were laid out. The Naathi sat opposite the Valyrians, the sun beating down upon them, the roar of the sea ever-present.
Lord Kostagar spoke first, his voice like gravel smoothed by time. "Chief Kalemba, you know why we are here. We come not as raiders, but as builders. The House of Draceryos extends an offer, order for chaos, unity for division."
Kalemba inclined his head slowly. "I know the old stories. Of Valyria, of fire and blood. My people have suffered under slavers, pirates, and plague. If we must bow to a master, let it be one who builds, not one who devours."
Lord Gelionar's voice was firm, measured. "Then you understand. Aid us in unifying the tribes, rebuild the fort that once stood on these shores, and we will protect you. You will be part of something greater, a future shaped by Valyria's might."
Kalemba's gaze sharpened. "And in return?"
"You will have peace," Gelionar replied. "You will trade, you will prosper. Your children will not be taken by slavers. You will have our steel, our ships, and our dragons. But you will kneel, to House Draceryos, to the Empire to come."
Azhuri's voice, raspy with age, broke in. "The world is vast. And the gods are many. We have heard of your Prince Balthagar, of his predecessors, of the fire and fury he and they commanded. We wish… to stand beneath that flame, not be consumed by it."
Kalemba nodded. "We will join. The Azhuka will be the first to bend the knee. And the other tribes… they will follow."
Lord Kostagar's eyes glinted. "Then let it be done."
The agreement was sealed with words and drink. Kalemba's warriors watched as the Valyrian banners snapped in the breeze, knowing that soon, their lands would change. The Dragonguards stood tall, their presence an unspoken promise of might. The terms were clear: the Naathi would unify, rebuild the ancient Valyrian fort, and serve under the protection, and authority, of House Draceryos.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the fleet prepared to sail once more. Vaelon stood at the rail, watching the shore recede. Men toiled, building the outpost, 2,500 Dragonguards, 1,500 Dragon Scouts, 1,500 Dragon Hunters, four Masters, and over three dozen mages remaining to secure the new hold. The Naathi worked alongside them, felling trees, shaping logs, and watching the skies where Anaxigon circled like a living god.
Three days into the voyage back home, the fleet sailed under steady winds, the Valyrian Peninsula rising to the east, jagged and dark. The sea shimmered beneath a slate sky, the scent of salt thick in the air.
Laekor Kostagar, standing near his father, peered through a spyglass and frowned. "Ships ahead, Father. Forty… perhaps fifty. Ironborn colors."
Kostagar's jaw tightened. He took the spyglass, scanning the horizon. Black sails, cruel prows, ragged crews. Reavers and rapists, the Ironborn. His eyes narrowed. "They sail toward Valyria."
Rhaenar Gelionar hissed, his voice low. "They seek to plunder… bastards."
Lord Kostagar growled, turning to the Masters of the Order of Fire Dragon. "Scry them. Now."
One of the Fire Masters, a pale Valyrian named Vhorin Maelys, closed his eyes, hands on a Valyrian glass candle. His breathing slowed, his lips moving in a silent chant. After a tense moment, his eyes snapped open, fury gleaming in their depths.
"They speak of Valyria, of looting the ruins, of seizing what they can before the flames return. They are stunned by our fleet. Afraid."
Lord Gelionar's voice was like iron. "Prepare the ships. Ready the scorpions. Arm the ballistae."
Vaelon's hands tightened on the rail, his gaze flicking to Anaxigon. The Great Dragon rumbled above, wings slicing the sky.
"Let me burn them," Vaelon murmured, his voice a whisper of hunger.
Lord Kostagar's voice cut sharp. "No, young Prince. If anything happens to you, your brother will have our heads. Mount Anaxigon and wait for my signal. If they strike first, they will feel the wrath of House Draceryos."
Vaelon nodded, a flicker of fire in his eyes. The fleet shifted, the ships turning slowly, sails taut in the wind, weapons gleaming. The sea held its breath, waiting for war.
[Demon Fort of Draceryos, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
The hill rose like a black tooth from the land, a place of power. Lava flows simmered deep beneath its roots, the leylines pulsing faintly. Atop the massive hill, a large circular platform of dragonstone, fifteen meters wide, had been carved, etched with Sith runes, a nexus of ancient sorcery.
Balthagar Draceryos stood at its center, bare-chested, wearing only an undergarment and a crimson robe etched with gold and black. His hair, silver-black, fell loose over his shoulders. The air hummed with power, the sun rising behind the Painted Mountains in a slow, crimson bloom.
The gathered hosts watched in silence: the Grand Master of the Blood Dragon, the Grand Mistress of the Fire Dragon, Lady Kaella Magyros, and the Dark Mistress of Shadows. Lords Belaerys, Mataeryon, Embaryen, and Tyvaros stood with their sons. Vaelora Draceryos and her husband watched from the edge. Dragonguards, Dragoons, Dragon Scouts ringed the hill, their armor gleaming. Mages whispered prayers; Shadows lingered in the periphery, unseen but present.
Balthagar's gaze swept the hilltop, his eyes still amethyst, calm, focused. The main jar of the alchemical mixture sat before him, dragonbone dust, Great Dragon blood, weirwood paste, his own blood, rare herbs: silk grass, ruby ferns, jeweled moss, grunting shrub, leaves of the White Tree of Flames. Two smaller jars held the separate bloods.
He shed his robe, casting it aside. His skin gleamed in the dawn light, marked by faint scars and shadows of power.
He dipped his hands into the paste, smearing it over his chest, arms, and legs, layer upon layer, until his body gleamed with the alchemical substance, a strange, pulsing sheen.
The blood from the two smaller jars was poured onto the carvings, his blood, the Great Dragon's blood, flowing into the runes, igniting them in a soft, crimson glow.
He knelt, hands resting on his knees, the main jar before him. His voice rose in High Valyrian, amplified by the Force, a call to the heavens.
"Azantyos… The Infernal… come to me."
The ground trembled. Birds fled the trees in terror. From the distant forest came a roar, a deep, thunderous sound that shook the stones. The Great Dragon emerged, massive, red-black scales gleaming, his eyes twin stars of molten fury. Azantyos, the Infernal, the Crimson Comet.
Their bond ignited, a spark flaring between their souls. Azantyos' voice rumbled in Balthagar's mind. I am ready, my rider. Let us see what we may become.
Azantyos climbed the hill, wings folding tight, vast body coiling around the ritual ground, his presence a living storm.
Balthagar stood, the jar in hand. His eyes darkened, the amethyst swallowed by flame, the Dark Side searing through him. He began to chant in the Ancient Sith tongue, harsh, guttural, a sound that seemed to tear at the air. The clouds above darkened, thunder cracked, the wind howled. The Sith runes blazed crimson, the ground thrumming beneath their feet.
His skin cracked, glowing lines spreading across his flesh, a lattice of molten light. The paste lifted from the jar, swirling around him in a vortex of alchemical power, threads of energy binding to his form.
Azantyos opened his maw, fire gathering in his throat, a low rumble rising.
Balthagar's voice roared above the storm. "Through strength I gain power. Through power I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken."
And then Azantyos unleashed the flame, dark crimson, a torrent of heat and fury. It engulfed Balthagar, the runes flaring, the storm howling, the ritual beginning in truth.
The world held its breath.