[North Valyria, Fort Draceryos, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
In the southeastern reaches of the Painted Mountains, where shadows stretch long after sunset and the wind whispers in forgotten tongues, one of five Demon Forts rises high, unyielding and eternal. Made from deep black Dragonstone, it stands untouched by time or decay. Stronger than any known stone, and built to outlast empires.
Fort Draceryos. The stronghold and inheritance of House Draceryos. The largest and most active of the five Demon Forts. Each Demon Fort is a city in its own right, capable of housing nearly one hundred thousand souls, though they usually hold between forty and sixty thousand. Fort Draceryos alone holds seventy thousand, noble families, mages, smiths, soldiers, merchants, and commoners all live within its walls. Every kind of shop, forge, market, and venue can be found here. It is also the headquarters of the three great Orders, the Blood Dragon, the Fire Dragon, and the secretive Order of Shadows.
This is where House Draceryos has ruled since the Doom, nearly two hundred years of blood, fire, and watchfulness. Among the four Dragonlord families that survived, only we carry the full legacy of the Seven Great Dragonlords of Old Valyria. The others were lost to fire and ruin. But not us. Never us.
On a hill in the heart of the fortress stands the main house. A tall, dark structure of stone and sloped roofs. Inside it, in the family's private library, I sat at a desk carved from a single piece of Weirwood. The air was filled with dust and old memories. Bookshelves covered every wall except where the hearth stood on the left and the tall double doors at my back. Across from me, two stained-glass windows shone with color, images of dragons, spellcasters, soldiers, and our banners.
And I just sat there. Silent. Dazed.
[Balthagar Draceryos, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
One moment I was dying. The next, I was here.
Alive. Whole. But... different.
I don't know how. I don't know why. But this is real.
Planetos. The Painted Mountains. Fort Draceryos.
And I am Balthagar Draceryos, head of House Draceryos, heir to our ancient power. The Targaryens claim to be Great Dragonlords. They are not. No Great Dragon. No true legacy. Survivors, not rulers. We are the bloodline of greatness.
And there's more.
I was given something, no, gifted. I don't know how, but I feel it inside me like a second heartbeat: the Force. Not quite as I knew it. Here, it moves differently. It bends and twists alongside what this world calls "magic." And it obeys. Easily.
Force techniques, push, pull, sight, domination, they come to me like breathing. But deeper still, something older waits.
A Holocron. In my mind. Only I can reach it. Not just any Holocron, a Sith Holocron. It pulses when I close my eyes, whispering with ancient voices.
Sorzus Syn. Naga Sadow. Marka Ragnos. Exar Kun. Vitiate.
Dark Lords.
They speak to me, about runes and rituals, spells and changes. How to shape metal. How to bend minds. How to mark souls. This isn't some trick. This is the heart of power. The beginning of rule.
With this knowledge, I could build an empire like the world has never seen. Not even Valyria at its height.
Why not?
I descend from Aurion Draceryos, the First and Only Emperor of Valyria. When he disappeared, his son Maelarr swore that House Draceryos would not claim the imperial title again until a true Valyrian stronghold had been established.
That time is near.
Right after the news of Aurion's death reached House Draceryos, Maelarr's brother, Aenor, led a mission into Valyria. He returned with their father's body... and more. The bones of Vassarion, the Great Dragon, along with some of his preserved dragon blood. Stormbringer, our family's sword. The Emperor's armor, ring, and crown. He also managed to reach deep enough into Valyria to recover the belongings of two Great Dragonlord Houses, Draceryos and Maznareon. Artifacts, scrolls, books, weapons, armor, and many other things, known only to our bloodline.
He found scrolls and relics from both Draceryos and Maznareon, things that should've burned. But they didn't. We didn't.
With these, we built the Demon Forts. Strengthened the north of Valyria. Claimed the Demon Road and made all who pass pay. Those who tried to sneak through? Dead, or forced into servitude as worker slaves.
Vaemor Draceryos, son of Maelarr and my great-grandfather, dreamed of dragons and fire. Guided by those dreams, he expanded our land and made us strong. When Volantis sent 10,000 Unsullied to attack our eastern fort, he met them with only 1,500 Dragon Guards. 9,700 of the Unsullied died. Our banners still fly there.
They never forgot.
One year ago, someone, maybe Volantis, maybe someone else, hired the Warlocks of the House of the Undying. With shadow magic, they struck. My father Taegon died instantly. My mother Elaenys Belaerys and my brother Vhalor died screaming.
I remember how my soul screamed with them.
I put on my armor, Stormbringer by my side, and flew Azantyos, the Infernal, my Great Dragon, to Qarth. I killed everyone. Burned everything. Broke minds before I broke bones. Took their scrolls, their treasures, their secrets. Then I burned it all. Let the world remember: this is the price of crossing House Draceryos.
It has been three months.
I know who gave the order. But revenge must be timed. I will not rush.
Now, there are other things.
The Holocron shows me flashes, bone runes, blood rituals. It speaks of giving life to flame. Of armor that channels the Force. Of weapons filled with hate.
There's a technique, only partly clear, that uses dragonfire, blood magic, and the Force to create weapons stronger than Valyrian steel. Dragon Forging. I will try it. Soon.
One other image, quick and strange, shows beasts made from shadow and scale. Sithspawn. Not yet. That path is not ready. Not yet.
Azantyos stirs below. He feels my thoughts. A Great Dragon, a massive beast of fire and fury.
He waits. The world waits.
And I...
I am awake.
The age of fire has not ended.
It is only just beginning.
I rose from the desk and walked to the door of my solar. The guard stationed outside stood at attention the moment I stepped out.
"Fetch the steward," I ordered. "Now."
He bowed and rushed off.
Minutes later, the steward arrived—a man of about fifty, with shoulder-length platinum-gold hair tied neatly behind his head, and eyes of pale violet that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. His features were smooth for his age, still holding the ageless beauty of High Valyrian blood. He was loyal. Trained. Known as Vaeloryn.
"My Prince, you called?"
"I will be descending into the family dungeon for a few days. I am not to be disturbed for any reason," I said. "Send word to the heads of the families and to the leaders of the three orders. I want the Grand Master of the Order of the Blood Dragon, the Grand Master of the Order of the Fire Dragon, and the Grand Master of the Order of Shadows summoned. They are to arrive within the end of the week."
The steward bowed low. "As you command."
The dungeon is secret, known only to a trusted few. Its entrances are hidden and warded. Deep below the manse, beneath layers of carved Dragonstone and runes, it is secure in ways the surface could never be.
Valyrian runes are etched into the stone walls, designed to detect intrusions, repel scrying, and gather what little ambient magic remains. It holds many chambers, vaults, alchemy labs, ritual halls, storerooms, and a library so vast it rivals the private collection of Oldtown. The tomes here are older, darker, and more dangerous. Magic lost to the Doom. Theory and knowledge no school would dare to teach.
There are meditation chambers and training rooms, forged and shaped by the runesmiths of House Draceryos, the greatest rune forgers to ever live, even before the Doom. This was our legacy among the Great Dragonlord Houses: the mastery of runes and the magic of the forge, a craft tied deeply to both our blood and our will.
Within the meditation chamber, a large circular hall lit by a ring of steady flame, stood fourteen small statues, each one dedicated to a god of the Fourteen Flames. They were placed there long ago by Vaemor Draceryos, carved by hand and bound with old magic. Arrax, Aegarax, Vhagar, Caraxes, Meraxes, Vermax, Meleys, Balerion, Draxtar, Onixa, Syrax, Tyraxes, Tessarion, and Shrykos. Each figure gazed inward toward the center of the chamber, silent witnesses to the legacy of blood and fire.
It is also good to mention that it was within the heart of The Demon Fort of Draceryos itself, not hidden underground, but standing proud within its walls, that Vaemor Draceryos, my great-grandfather, commissioned the construction of a great cathedral. The only one of its kind in the world, dedicated to the Fourteen Flames, the Old Gods of Valyria. Built for the people, for the High Valyrian faithful who had grown more devout since the Doom. Some became zealous, others simply respectful, but many made pilgrimage to the cathedral, seeking closeness to the gods who were believed to be tied to the source of Valyria's great magic.
We do not worship blindly. We are not like those who kneel for hope. But we understand the power these old gods represent. Some among the noble families pray. A few even sacrifice. And most, like me, respect them for what they are: eternal symbols of the source of all Valyrian magic.
I sat cross-legged on the cold stone of the central chamber, surrounded by flickering braziers and the faint hum of old power.
Sith Meditation.
I closed my eyes and began to whisper the words etched into my mind by the Holocron, an oath remade for this world of fire and blood:
"Through strength, I shatter weakness.
Through will, I break the chains of fate.
Through blood and flame, I ascend unbound.
Through legacy, I command the storm.
Power is not given, it is seized, and in its mastery, I am reborn.
The chains of the old gods shall break, and in their ashes, I shall rise.
I am the fire that burns in silence, I am the blood that flows without end.
Valyria lives through me, and through me, it shall conquer."
I reached within, pulling from memory. The screams. The pain. My mother's last breath. My father's still corpse. Vhalor's voice calling out to me in fear.
Anger.
Hate.
Grief twisted into rage, and rage into fury. I fed it to the dark side. I did not fight it, I became it. The Force swelled around me, coiling like a storm, pulsing through the runes, whispering through the flames.
And the Holocron answered. Its hum grew louder. Its whispers are clear.
Good.