{A/N: It seems most of you haven't read the Auxiliary chapter labelled "IMPORTANT".... Like I asked simply.
To avoid the uncessary and repetitive questions that I know will be asked. So, you are either acting stupid or you haven't read the Auxiliary chapter... which is it? I do not know.
Do not take offense for your own folly.
So, go and read it, and then read it again. And In there I have answered your future questions like Sosuke Aizen. I also at least acknowledge the mistake of forgetting to add certain info in the synopsis the start period of the story, so there... what? You expect a sorry?
Also, do try to not comment dumb shit... the story has already been stated to be ASOIAF AU, why are you surprised when its different to what you expect. That is the beauty in fan-fictions, why should I write exactly as the story has been written, or follow a certain trope, or keep with certain lore? When I have the freedom to alter it, I will do so.
So read the whole chapter, before commenting. You guys & gals, comment on the first part of the chapter, only to find out that most likely, your question has been answered somewhere later in the chapter.
If you are mad at how I responded to this... well, too bad for you, you can leave.
If not, it seems you got some grit, so stay and enjoy this story, and good luck.}
[Demon Fort of Draceryos, Solar, 187 A.D. / 85 A.C.]
My maternal uncle, Vaelys Belaerys, leaned back on his chair, his eyes narrowed in appraisal. A slow, feral grin spread across his face, as sharp and cold as a sword's edge. His gaze lingered on me, silent approval tempered with a note of warning.
"You speak of foundations, my prince," he said, voice low and deliberate. "But what of the West? What of Westeros and the exiled dragons? They will not sit idle if we move against the Stepstones."
I met his gaze, my eyes steady, their hue a burning violet rimmed with faint gold. "We are not blind, uncle. The Westerosi, especially the Dornish and the Seven Kingdoms under the Targaryens, will see our moves as a threat. The Stepstones hold no claim for anyone, nor for us... yet. But the seas must be cleared. The corsairs, the pirates, they choke the trade routes." I turned my gaze to the head of House Kostagar, his face weathered by salt and sea, his hair a silver mane, a thin scar running across his cheek, "Speak of what you have seen, Lord Kostagar."
Maerys inclined his head. His voice was a steady rumble, like waves breaking on stone. "While on my usual route coming back home, I stopped in Naath to resupply. The largest tribe of the Naathi came to me, my prince. Their leader... he is no simple island chieftain. His mind is sharp, his vision clear. He spoke of uniting the Naathi tribes under leadership, of seeking protection under our shadow. Word of Draceryos' power reached them long before we sailed their shores. He wishes to rebuild the ancient Valyrian fort, to make Naath another center of trade, a jewel in the Summer Sea. They are tired of suffering, tired of the corsairs and slavers. He offers his loyalty... in exchange for a future."
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of that truth. Naath, so long isolated, its people gentle yet enduring, had suffered for centuries. The chance to reshape it, to restore the ruined Valyrian fort on the island, its dragonstone foundations still standing proud, was an opportunity.
"We will rebuild it," I said, voice firm. "The Naathi leader understands his place in the world. We will offer protection, forge trade routes, and make Naath a haven. But we must move carefully. The Westerosi watch, and I will not risk a needless war, but I will also not cower from it. We are strong, but even we must not tempt a storm without reason. The time for the Stepstones will come, but only with careful justification. I will not risk the lives of my people, nor the need for desperate rituals, nor the price of blood to force the hands of fate. And soon we will need to awaken the dragons of House Mataeryon... But not until Tyrosh burns, as they have sworn so."
I turn to Lord Rhaemon Tyvaros and Lord Ghaleion Gelionar and speak, "You will prepare the troops. Every Dragonguard, Dragoon, Dragon Scout, and Dragonhunter, they are to be prepared and informed of what will occur. I don't need my men unprepared."
Both Lords nod and Lord Gelionar speaks, "Your will be ours, my prince. We will make sure of it."
I then turn to Lord Laenor Embaryen and tell him, "You will aid Lord Tyvaros and Lord Gelionar. Ensure we are properly armed and check with your men if we need tools or arms to be reforged and for more to be forged." Lord Embaryen nods, a slow bow.
"Ensure the mages are also notified, make sure there is at least a century of Blood Mages with each Legion. If you can't spare mages, notify me on how you will divide them among the Legions." I spoke towards the two Grand Masters of the Mage Orders.
The Grand Master of the Blood Dragon Order, his face weathered and marked by ritual scars, leaned forward slightly. His voice was steady, his eyes dark and glinting. "Worry not, my prince. There will be enough for each Legion deployed, I will make sure of it."
The Grand Mistress of the Fire Dragon, robed in dark orange and goldish hues, the embodiment of flame given form, nodded her head, her gaze calm yet intense, agreeing with the Grand Master of the Blood Dragon Order's words.
I once more met their gazes, feeling the weight of their dedication. My family's legacy was not mine alone. It was theirs as well, a living thing, a tapestry woven by blood and flame.
"We will move forward carefully," I said, my voice low, steady, the fire beneath tempered yet smoldering. "The roadways must be secured, the sea lanes patrolled. We will rebuild the legacy of Valyria, piece by piece, not as a reflection of the past, but as a foundation for the future."
The chamber was silent once more, but the tension had shifted, no longer heavy with doubt, but charged with purpose. My eyes swept across them all, lords and mages, warriors and blood. This was not the end. It was the beginning.
And in the quiet, I felt it again, that hum, that pulse, that steady, unyielding rhythm beneath my skin. The weight of my ancestors. The dreams of the future. The power of flame, steel, and will.
Once more, the solar grew quiet as the last of the maps and reports were gathered, the weight of decisions settling over the gathered lords, masters, and family heads. The flickering light from the hearth cast shifting shadows across the walls, illuminating the carved table of dragonbone, ancient wood, and obsidian that held the future of Valyria itself. I stood at its head, arms crossed, my gaze sweeping across the faces of those assembled.
"My Prince," Vaelys Belaerys spoke, his voice measured yet laced with the firmness of duty, "the hour draws near when we must look beyond battles and borders. The strength of House Draceryos must not only be measured in swords and sorcery, but in bloodlines and legacy. It is time... you must wed."
A quiet murmur passed through the chamber, not of surprise, but of expectation. This was a conversation long delayed, yet inevitable.
Maeryn Aerralis, Grand Master of the Order of the Blood Dragon, nodded once, his dark violet eyes gleaming beneath the torchlight. "The people will look to you, my Prince. To unite Valyria's bloodlines once more. To lead not only by power, but by example."
Vaelora shifted slightly in her seat, her silver-gold hair catching the light, her expression a blend of sharp intellect and quiet amusement. "It is true, brother," she said softly. "The future of Valyria rests on more than flame and steel. It rests on family."
I inclined my head, my voice steady, my words deliberate. "And I will do my duty. But not as a prince seeking favor... when I wed, it will not be as a man seeking a lady, but as an Emperor claiming his Empress. The bloodline of Draceryos does not kneel to tradition... we shape it."
The words hung in the air, and I could see the weight of them settle on each face. They understood, this was not arrogance, but vision. A promise that when the time came, I would take my place as Emperor of Valyria, and my wives, yes, wives, would be Empresses, chosen not merely for beauty or blood, but for strength, loyalty, and the future they could forge.
I turned my gaze to Lord Mataeryon and my uncle, Lord Belaerys, my voice calm, my expression composed. "How fare your daughters?"
Lord Mataeryon, a weathered man with a lined face and a mane of pale silver hair, sat straighter, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Serena is well, my Prince. Strong of will, clever of mind, and trained in the ways of diplomacy. She has not forgotten the promise of House Mataeryon, nor the blood oath we swore... To serve Draceryos, and to one day ride dragons when Tyrosh burns."
Lord Belaerys, grinned and offered a slight nod. "Raenesa thrives, nephew. Her training continues under the tutelage of my armsmasters. Her blade is sharp, her mind sharper still. She is eager to serve, as any of Belaerys blood would be."
A flicker of amusement crossed Vaelora's face, though she spoke no words. The lords and ladies seemed satisfied, pleased that I acknowledged their daughters, that I showed no hesitation or shyness in this matter of duty. It was expected... and it was necessary.
I leaned back, my hands resting on the carved table, my gaze sweeping once more across the faces of my vassals. "Know this, my intentions remain clear. I will take wives, I will strengthen my house, but I will not wed until the crown of Valyria rests upon my brow. When that day comes, they will not marry a prince... they will wed an Emperor."
A hum of approval rippled through the room, quiet yet potent. The lords nodded, some with satisfaction, others with quiet calculation. My uncle Vaelys' grin was as sharp as usual.
It was then that I turned to Lord Gelionar, my voice steady, my tone lighter, though no less commanding. "My brother, Vaelon... how fares he?"
Lord Gelionar a man of quiet authority with hair streaked in silver and steel, offered a slight nod as the faintest hint of pride warming his features. "Your brother is a true warrior in the making, my Prince. Fifteen name days old, yet he rides Anaxigon as though born in the saddle. His martial skills are exceptional, though there is still much to learn. His mind is sharp, his heart fierce. He has accompanied the Dragonguards, the Dragon Hunters, the Dragon Scouts... he has learned the ways of war as all of Gelionar's wards do. He is a Draceryos... through and through."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I felt the weight of pride settle in my chest, heavy yet satisfying. Vaelon, my brother, my blood... a rider of a Great Dragon, destined for greatness.
Lord Kostagar, a tall, lean man with hair the color of pale sea foam and skin tanned by sun and salt, spoke next, his voice deep and steady. "And Aegionar, my Prince, your brother grows well too. Fourteen name days old, strong in arms, sharp in thought. His study of naval warfare, of battle at sea, is impressive. He commands the respect of my captains and has taken to the sea as if born of it. You should be proud, my Prince. Both your brothers honor your name."
I nodded, my gaze distant for a moment as I thought of them, Vaelon, bonded to Anaxigon, a Great Dragon, a living flame of the sky. Aegionar, soon to command ships and fleets, the sea his domain, and hopefully claim his own Dragon. My brothers, my blood, my future.
But the moment passed, and the conversation turned once more, as it must.
Stating what my intentions are to do soon, the solar shifts, as the those who are present are bewildered and stunned at what I have stated.
"My Prince," Vaelys Belaerys began, his tone sharp, a hint of disapproval lacing his words. "You speak of reforging Stormbringer... your family's ancestral blade, the sword of House Draceryos itself. Are you mad?"
The words hung heavy, a question asked not in jest, but in concern, in challenge.
Vaelora leaned forward, her voice quiet yet firm. "Stormbringer is more than steel, brother... it is our legacy, the symbol of our blood. To reforge it... that is no small thing."
I met their gazes, unflinching, my voice calm yet unyielding. "I do not speak of destroying Stormbringer... I speak of perfecting it, of transforming it into something greater. The blade was forged in dragon's blood and magic, yes, but it can be made stronger, infused with the knowledge I now possess. I will not desecrate it... I will elevate it."
A hush fell, the weight of my words sinking in.
The Grand Mistress of the Order of the Fire Dragon, her robes of dark orange and gold catching the firelight, spoke at last, her voice a soft whisper of flame. "This is no small undertaking, my Prince... the forging of such a blade requires precision, and the magic that binds it... if unraveled, it could consume you."
Maeryn Aerralis, the Grand Master of the Blood Dragon, nodded slowly, his expression tight. "Such a ritual... even your ancestors who merged dragon blood into their veins... they treaded carefully. My Prince, power is a blade... it cuts both ways."
The Dark Mistress, her voice a low whisper like the wind through a crypt, offered no counsel, but her silence was heavy, her presence like a shadow at the edge of the flame.
I stood straighter, my eyes burning faintly once more, the faint glow of dark magic threading through my veins. "I know the risks. I will not act blindly. The knowledge I have... the knowledge I will yet gather... it will guide me. This is not a whim, but a path. When the time comes, I will forge Stormbringer anew... my ancestral armor, the Blood Ring... and the crown... when I claim my title as Emperor."
The lords fell silent, each absorbing my words. There was reluctance, yes... but there was also a glimmer of something else, anticipation, perhaps. Curiosity. Even the Dark Mistress, hidden behind her veil, seemed to lean forward slightly, as if drawn by the promise of what was to come.
The conversation shifts once more, towards what must be done by each Lord and Lady, the Grand Master and Mistresses.
And finally, for the second time since we have settled in the solar, has The Dark Mistress' spoken, her voice like a whisper of shadow, drifted across the room. "The shadows are yours, my Prince... the Whisperers, the Darkblades, and the Shadow Masters... in the Free Cities, in the Slaver's Bay, and even in Westeros... they are ready, waiting, to serve you, to serve Valyria…. To serve Draceryos..."
I nodded once, slowly. The weight of it all settled on my shoulders, not as a burden, but as a mantle I was born to bear.
The night grew deeper, the embers in the hearth burning low. One by one, the lords and ladies departed, their duty clear, their path set.
And when the chamber was empty, I descended once more into the depths of the keep. The dungeon was cold, the air thick with the scent of ash and ancient magic. I sat cross-legged before a Glass Candle, the flickering flame dancing within its obsidian core. The glow cast strange, shifting patterns across the stone walls, and I closed my eyes, breathing slow, controlled.
I reached into the dark... the Force, the sorcery, the memory of Valyria's fire.
The ritual loomed before me, Sith Sorcery and Valyrian Sorcery… Rituals, Blood Magic, Alchemy, and so much more. It would be a union of power and pain, of knowledge and will. The ambient magic of the world was faint, a dying breath after the Doom. The Weirwood Trees of Westeros after being cut by the Andal bastards has also effected the magic of the world, even long before the Doom. The Wall and the few of the Weirwood Trees... they held a lingering echo, but the dark presence that I sense through the candle... it masked the magic of northern Westeros, as if to chain it, hide it away.
I would break those chains. I would gather the fragments of power, piece them together, and forge myself anew. My will would burn brighter than the Doom itself.
And so, I sat, silent, in the heart of the darkness, the candle flickering before me... and I prepared.