{A/N: I have stated many times before, read the Auxiliary chapters, as they contain most, if not all the AU Lore for this fan-fic. And whatever you may find/read in the chapters here will be subtle as to not fill these chapters with so much lore.
If you don't care about the lore, great just don't make dumb comments that are redundant/repetitive. If you read it, and you still managed to somehow make a dumb comment, which one of you did in the early chapters, even after admitting to reading the Auxiliary chapter(no offense to you, whoever you are), then I am truly baffled by your meagre reading & thinking capabilities. Best to properly read the chapters next time.
All AU Lore, are always going to be in the Auxiliary chapters, I will always try to remeber to mention when I add an Auxiliary chapter or update one in the newest volume chapters, but as I stated previously I will also probably forget, so it is best to check up on the existing ones for any updates or check if there is a new one. These were made so you can avoid making dumb comments and me to avoid reading them.....
From now on, I will save my time and most of my brain cells from reading any dumb redundant/repetitive comments you make.
Have a great day/night and enjoy this chapter.... or not. To be honest I felt like I could've done better with this chapter but... meh so what.}
[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 wyrm, massive, jagged, eternal. Beneath their shadow, two small hosts approached, banners fluttering in the sea breeze. Twenty guards for House Maegyr, twenty for House Rogare. Just enough for protection along the road and to show status without threatening insult.
Lord Maloros Maegyr and Lord Aener Rogare rode at the forefront, 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 the best steel of the Valyrian smiths. 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 steel. Civilians in elegant 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 of Valyria offered flame 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. He nodded once towards them and 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, robed 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, sat without expression, like a statue cast in mourning obsidian.
Lord Vaelys Belaerys, Lord Baenarr Mataeryon, Lord Maerys Kostagar, and Lord Ghaelion Gelionar, and the rest of the lords sat in the semicircle of stone thrones, 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 dark crimson and black robes lined with gold thread. His armor glinted at the edges. Stormbringer rested at his hip, sheathed but ever ominous. His silver-white hair was untamed, reaching the ends of his jaw, swaying gently with the breeze from the open archway.
His back still turned to them, he spoke, his voice was like 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 Maegyr 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 those who have asked for three 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-"
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 coldly, "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 nobles squabbling. 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. 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. Men of coin and conviction. You have my word."
Balthagar nodded. "Good. Two fleets will await to aid you. Two legions of Dragonguards. A legion of Dragoons by land. And dragons to shadow the conquest."
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."
[Three Days Later, Summer Sea, North of Naath, 187 AD / 85 AC]
The skies above the Summer Sea were thick with cloud, dark gray against the shimmering waters below.
Azantyos flew with purpose, wings beating like thunder, scales glistening like molten metal. Atop the Great Dragon, Balthagar sat still, his cloak trailing like a banner, eyes scanning the coast ahead. Just behind, Aegovax soared, yet Vaelys Belaerys commanding his beast with the calm ease of an elder warrior.
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. Vaelys followed, his traditional Valyrian steel plate 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 friend, 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 as kind as they once were."
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.
"My prince," he said, head bowed. "I am at your command."
"Rise, Commander," Balthagar said.
Vimond stood tall, short silver hair, sharp violet eyes, a beard lined with age and discipline.
"I am proud of what you've accomplished," 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—"
"Don't apologize," Balthagar said. "A person who sees beyond today is a rare thing."
"You honor me."
"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."
Vimond dropped to one knee.
"I name you Lord Vimond of House Gondaerys, Lord of Naath. You will swear the oath now."
Vimond did. Blood was drown, a sealed pact of a bloodied handshake, spoken in High Valyrian, using blood magic, the words spoken in tongues older than the Doom.
"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."
Balthagar turned 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."
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 wine from a silver goblet. His armor was gone. His robe was dark crimson, trimmed in gold.
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 dark amethyst eyes that shimmered like hidden storms.
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.