{A/N: MC Apperance added into its own Auxiliary chapter "Balthagar Draceryos", as well as maps in "Maps & More"}
[Western Coastline of the Lands of the Long Summer, 187 AD / 85 AC]
The western shores of the Lands of the Long Summer lay beneath a slate sky, dark waves licking the sand, the scent of salt, iron, and ash thick in the air. The battle was done, its echoes carried still upon the wind, but the work had only begun.
Azantyos descended in a roar of wing and flame, his scales gleaming like molten metal, an infernal beacon in the grey sky. His wings stirred the sea into froth as he landed upon the beach, sending sand and smoke spiraling in every direction. Upon his back, Balthagar Draceryos dismounted, his Valyrian steel armor catching the faint, dying light like liquid shadow. Stormbringer rested at his side, the family blade reborn in his hand.
With him came Lord Belaerys and his son, Valen, mounted on their dragons, Aegovax, whose golden scales gleamed like a burning sun, and Amberion, a bronze-winged wyrm with grey-brownish scales. They landed a short distance behind, their presence a quiet, simmering threat upon the scorched shoreline.
Balthagar strode forward, the sand shifting beneath his boots, his gaze sweeping across the scene of slaughter and grim victory. Lord Kostagar and Lord Gelionar stood at the heart of it, flanked by their sons, Laekor and Rhaenar, and by Balthagar's own brothers, Vaelon and Aegionar. The young Draceryos princes were streaked with blood and salt, their hair tangled, their swords crusted with gore, yet when they turned and saw Balthagar, they faltered. Awe filled their eyes, a hesitant, wide-eyed wonder at the sight of their elder brother, transformed in stature and presence.
It had been scarcely four moons since they last laid eyes on him, since the funeral of their parents and eldest brother. And yet now, before them, he seemed carved from myth itself.
Balthagar's gaze softened. He ruffled their hair, a quiet gesture of brotherly pride. "Well fought," he murmured, his voice low, the edge of command softened by familial warmth. "I heard of your deeds. You have done well."
Aegionar grinned, breathless, eyes bright. Vaelon simply nodded, his exhaustion visible but his pride unhidden. Laekor and Rhaenar lingered behind, their own gazes a mixture of respect and caution.
Lord Kostagar and Lord Gelionar approached then, bowing low. Their sons followed suit, heads dipping in deference.
"My Prince," Gelionar spoke, voice firm yet edged with awe, "it seems you have succeeded… in what you sought to do."
Balthagar inclined his head, his tone even but resonant with power. "The first step is complete. Soon, I shall reforge the rest, Stormbringer, the armor, the Blood Ring. The crown, that will come in its time."
Lord Kostagar nodded grimly. "Then you shall have this, my Prince." He extended a bundle, wrapped in cloth. Balthagar unwrapped it to reveal Red Rain, the Valyrian steel blade of House Drumm. "The heir of House Drumm lies before you, and the others as well."
Kostagar gestured to where the prisoners knelt, chained and beaten: Alton Greyjoy, third son of Lord Veron Greyjoy; a Goodbrother son, snarling and broken; and the Drumm heir, eyes wide with terror. Behind them, the surviving Ironborn, over a thousand, perhaps twelve hundred souls, knelt in chains, surrounded by Dragonguards, Dragon Hunters, and mages. The dead, thousands of Ironborn, lay in ordered rows, their corpses stripped and prepared, the stench of death and salt thick in the air.
Balthagar's gaze fixed upon Alton Greyjoy. The Ironborn's eyes flickered, not with defiance, but with dread. The reavers had witnessed horrors beyond their imagining, dragonflame, sorcery, the wrath of Valyria, and the madness in their eyes had faded into hollow, haunted despair.
Balthagar stepped forward, his voice quiet, cutting through the roar of the waves. "Tell me, Greyjoy... why did the squid think it wise to cross into these waters? These lands have been Draceryos territory for centuries. We have burned the slavers and pirates for a hundred years. Did you think your salt-born god would protect you?"
Alton shuddered, his breath ragged. He mumbled incoherent pleas, his body trembling. "Let me go... I won't come back... never again... I swear it..."
A grin curled Balthagar's lips, sharp and cold. "That is not what I want."
He turned, his voice rising. "Look! See what happens to those who dare test Draceryos' might!"
He reached for the Goodbrother's son, placing his hands upon the man's head. His palms glowed, the air shimmering with heat. With a surge of power, Balthagar ignited the man's skull, flames consuming flesh in an instant. The Ironborn's scream was cut short, snuffed as his head burned to blackened bone. Gasps and cries echoed across the beach, Valyrian warriors, mages, even lords recoiling at the display. The sheer control, the raw fury, the artistry of destruction, it was a spectacle few could comprehend.
Without pause, Balthagar turned to Lord Kostagar and extended his hand. Kostagar wordlessly handed him Red Rain.
Balthagar approached the Drumm heir, the man trembling, tears streaking through dirt and blood. Balthagar's hands ignited once more, and Red Rain, Valyrian steel itself, heated under his touch, glowing a dull, angry red. Slowly, deliberately, he warped the blade, deforming its sleek lines into twisted, jagged, grotesque shapes. The weapon, once a symbol of legacy, was now a shattered, molten abomination.
With a brutal thrust, Balthagar drove the ruined Red Rain into the Drumm heir's chest. The man gasped, a strangled, broken cry, and then fell still, the blade embedded in his heart, the heat cauterizing flesh and bone.
The Ironborn screamed, but their wails were swallowed by the sea.
Balthagar turned to Alton Greyjoy. His eyes burned like twin coals. Without a word, he stepped forward, unsheathed Stormbringer. In a calculated, merciless rhythm, he severed Alton's limbs, first one arm, then the other, then his legs, cauterizing the wounds as he went, the stench of scorched flesh rising. Alton sagged, barely alive, twitching in agony.
Then Balthagar carved Sith runes into his body, runes of pain, of binding, of unending torment. They flared briefly as they settled into his flesh, scars that would never heal, marks that would forever scream with agony. The Ironborn knelt in silence, broken, cowed, shivering in fear.
"Let him suffer," Balthagar growled, his voice low and sharp as a blade. "Let the world see what becomes of those who dare challenge the true dragons."
The gruesome work began. Five of the fifteen captured Ironborn ships, including the Seadrinker, were chosen. The dead, thousands of Ironborn corpses, were dragged, mutilated, and arranged with grim precision. Heads were lined along rails and sails, dead eyes staring out in mute warning. Bodies, limbs, and half-torsos were nailed, hung, and displayed, a grotesque gallery of death. On the deck of the Seadrinker, Alton Greyjoy hung chained to the prow, a living, writhing figurehead of dread. The Goodbrother son and the Drumm heir's bodies were hanged upon the sails of the Seadrinker, Red Rain still embedded in the Drumm's chest.
Valyrian runes were carved across the ships, imbued with power by Balthagar's hand and the Master Mages. They would sail, untouchable, a grim procession of horror, drifting past Volantis, the Disputed Lands, the Stepstones, the coasts of Dorne, the Reach, and finally to the Arbor. Each port, each sailor, each noble who glimpsed them would see the message carved into the backs of the dead, a single, brutal declaration:
Here lies the fate of those who dare test the blood of Old Valyria. Fire and shadow shall claim all who defy Draceryos. The True Dragons rise, let the world tremble.
Balthagar watched from the shore as the ships, powered by blood and rune, slipped into the sea, drifting away, a nightmare set upon the waves. The world would see. The world would know.
He turned, meeting the gazes of the lords and their sons. Kostagar's face was grim satisfaction, Gelionar's tight-lipped and shadowed by awe. Laekor, Rhaenar, Vaelon, Aegionar, each stood silent, the weight of what they had witnessed heavy upon them.
Balthagar's voice was quiet, final. "This is the price of arrogance. Let none forget it."
The waves lapped at the shore. The scent of salt, ash, and blood lingered, heavy in the wind. And so, the world would learn.
The wind howled across the blackened shores, carrying the scent of ash, salt, and charred flesh. The Ironborn dead lay in grim order, their bodies contorted in final agony, while the enslaved survivors, over a thousand, huddled in chains, branded upon their foreheads with Valyrian runes of binding. These marks gleamed faintly under the touch of magefire, an eternal curse upon their flesh, ensuring their pain would be felt, their bodies tracked, their spirits broken. The living would serve; the dead... they had already been shaped into a message for the world.
Balthagar stood at the shore, his Valyrian steel armor gleaming darkly beneath the rising sun. Stormbringer rested across on his left hip, humming faintly with caged power. His gaze lingered on the horizon, where the twisted Ironborn ships, the Seadrinker leading the fleet, sailed away, their grotesque cargo destined to drift past the ports of Essos and Westeros alike. He watched in silence, knowing the message would be heard, would be feared.
The sea whispered, but his mind was elsewhere, focused, calculating.
He turned toward the waiting assembly. The mages of the Blood and Fire Orders stood in quiet reverence, some whispering incantations over the runes inscribed into the ships, ensuring their passage would not falter. The Shadows, veiled and silent, watched from the periphery, their dark eyes reflecting no emotion. Lord Kostagar and Lord Gelionar conferred quietly, their sons standing nearby, Laekor, Rhaenar, Vaelon, Aegionar, all of them scarred by the battle, their faces marked with the weight of what they had witnessed.
Balthagar's voice broke the silence, low and edged like a blade. "The sea remembers. The world will remember."
He moved through the gathering, his gaze falling briefly on Alton Greyjoy. The Ironborn lord hung chained to the prow of the Seadrinker, limbs severed, runes burning into his flesh, his screams long since reduced to hollow, ragged moans. Balthagar's expression remained cold, but a flicker of satisfaction burned in his eyes. A living message. A creature reduced to a warning.
As the last of the preparations were completed, the fleet began to shift once more. Survivors were divided, Ironborn workers herded onto Valyrian ships under watchful eyes, while the Valyrian dead were honored in quiet rites, their bodies burned in controlled pyres. The mages and the Masters led the rites, inscribing the final runes of protection and remembrance.
Lord Kostagar approached, his expression grim but resolute. "My Prince. The work is done. The sea belongs to us once more."
Balthagar nodded. His gaze drifted skyward, where Azantyos circled, his presence a blazing sun in the heavens. The Great Dragon's scales shimmered like molten metal, and his roar echoed across the shore, a sound that seemed to shake the bones of the earth itself.
Balthagar's voice, when it came, was quiet, almost reflective. "This is but the beginning."
He turned to the lords, his brothers, and the gathered forces. His eyes burned, eyes of the Dark Side, of power reforged. "Prepare the fleet. We sail for home."
The command set the beach into motion. Soldiers, mages, and shadows alike moved with purpose. Ships were loaded, banners unfurled, and the Valyrian fleet formed its lines once more, a storm reborn. The surviving Ironborn slaves were chained in the holds, their fate sealed.
Later, in the quiet of his solar aboard the flagship, Balthagar retrieved a blank journal from his saddle bag, the one he took from the dungeons before coming to the western shore, an empty Draceryos Journal. He bound it in his blood, sealing its cover with the mark of House Draceryos, a roaring dragon wreathed in flame. He sat beneath the flickering light of a Valyrian glass candle, the ink glinting dark as blood, and began to write. His pen carved the story into parchment: the battle, the blood price paid, the message sent. He wrote not as a man from another world, but as Balthagar Draceryos, the dragon reborn. He wrote of his power, his vision, his family, the legacy he was forging with blood, fire, and will.
He did not write of the Force, the Sith, or the world beyond. Those were his alone to carry. But the pages burned with the tale of a man becoming something more. A Prince of Valyria. A Sith of fire and shadow.
As the fleet sailed back toward Valyria, the echoes of the battle drifted across the waves. Whispers began to stir in the Free Cities, in Volantis, in Slaver's Bay, whispers of the Ironborn ships that drifted past, grotesque warnings born of madness and might. Whispers of Draceryos' wrath, of the dragons that soared once more, of a power rising in the ashes of the Doom.
And as the fleet drew closer to home, Balthagar's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. His journey had only begun.