Four days had passed since the council had convened on the matter of the Ironborn ships, their grotesque cargo drifting into the Arbor, and King Jaehaerys had summoned Corlys Velaryon to King's Landing. The Red Keep's council chamber, a grand hall of stone and timber shaped by Andals and their gods, was stark and heavy with tension. Crimson banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung above, flickering in the torchlight, a reminder of the blood that ruled here.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the long table, his hands folded upon the smooth wood, face schooled into cold determination. Queen Alysanne sat beside him, her gaze thoughtful yet strained. Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon flanked their father, their postures rigid, their eyes sharp with unspoken resolve.
The doors opened, and in strode Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, salt-worn and weathered from the trials of his seventh voyage, his cloak still damp with sea spray. He bowed low, a flicker of calculation in his eyes as he rose to meet the scrutiny of the gathered lords.
Jaehaerys' voice was low, measured. "Lord Corlys. Speak. What have you seen of the Draceryos' territories?"
Corlys' gaze swept the chamber, lingering a breath too long on the two princes before settling on the King. "Your Grace... I have seen and heard much, though little I can claim to fully understand."
He began, his tone steady, yet edged with a weight that made the air seem thinner. "From the ports of Yi Ti, Leng, and the Summer Isles, I have heard whispers, of the Valyrian lords who rule the Lands of the Long Summer with fire and blood. They do not answer to Westeros, nor to any power known. The merchants of Yi Ti refuse Westerosi coin, their trade bound by quiet agreements with Draceryos. Qohor and Lorath speak of them in hushed tones, as if fearing their very names."
He paused, the silence in the chamber tightening. "There are those who say no assassin dares take coin against them. Not the Sorrowful Men of Qarth, nor the Pentoshi catspaws, nor even the Faceless Men of Braavos. The House of Black and White, long thought untouchable, was struck in the dead of night almost a century ago, bodies of half their number strung up from their rafters, their blood used to write a single message upon their walls: Do not test the Blood of the Dragons. After that, no contract against Draceryos or their vassals has ever been fulfilled."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Baelon's jaw tightened, his fists clenched. Aemon's expression darkened, his knuckles whitening on the table.
Corlys continued, his voice like a tide rising against stone. "Their fleets... formidable. They sail ships unlike any we know, Man O' Wars, galleons, frigates, vast and heavily armed. They have scoured the seas of pirates and slavers, turning their foes into chained laborers. Even I, on my voyages to Yi Ti, have found my trade hindered, merchants refusing my goods, citing their ties to Draceryos."
He hesitated, then added, his tone low, cautious, "There are rumors, too, of dragons. That the Draceryos hold two dragonlord families in vassalage, that at least one of them has dragons, though no one knows how many. And Balthagar Draceryos... it is said he rides a dragon unlike any other, its scales gleaming like molten metal, a terror in the skies."
Jaehaerys' face tightened, a flicker of something, anger, perhaps, or pride, sparking in his eyes. "Rumors, Lord Corlys. Whispers and shadows. We are the blood of the Conqueror, the blood of Aegon who forged this realm. We will not cower before stories spun by sailors and fearful merchants."
Corlys inclined his head, though his lips pressed into a thin line. "Your Grace, I advise caution. There is much we do not know. To underestimate them..."
Baelon's voice cut through, sharp and impatient. "Enough caution. We are the blood of the dragon. Let us remind them of it."
Jaehaerys' tone was final, cold as steel. "I will ride Vermithor. Aemon will ride Caraxes. Baelon, you will ride Vhagar. We will remind them that we are not so easily defied."
A hushed dread settled over the council, the weight of their decision hanging in the air like the stillness before a storm.
[The Demon Fort of Draceryos, 187 AD / 85 AC]
The solar of the Draceryos Manse within the Demon Fort was vast, its walls carved of dark dragonstone, its pillars veined with streaks of red and black. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long beams across the polished table where Balthagar sat at its head. The banners of House Draceryos, blood-red dragon with wings spread, laurel and flaming sun upon its chest, hung proudly behind him, a symbol of power reborn.
Around the table sat the lords of Draceryos' vassals: Vaelys Belaerys, Ghaelion Gelionar, Maerys Kostagar, Rhaemon Tyvaros, Gaelyx Azantone, Tyraevar Zobridar, Malaemar Ilvar, and Lady Kaella Magyros. Their expressions were a mix of respect, wariness, and anticipation. The heirs and families, those not seated here, were in the gardens below, enjoying the warmth of the sun before its descent.
Balthagar's gaze was sharp, his voice a quiet storm that filled the room. "The Targaryens will come. They will come in arrogance, blinded by the belief that they alone hold the flame. We will remind them, we are the flame reborn. You, your sons, and their sons will aid in the forging of a new Valyria. And I... I will show the world."
He then turned his gaze to Lady Kaella, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Send envoys to House Maegyr and House Rogare. Secure them under our banner."
A scoff rose from Vaelys Belaerys, though not at Balthagar. His lip curled, disdain etched in his tone. "The Maegyr and the Rogare... lesser blood, always scraping for power they do not hold, seeking recognition since the time of Maelarr."
Balthagar's gaze shifted to him, sharp yet composed. "And they will serve as a means to an end. They are Valyrian, holding ancient seats in Volantis and Lys. We will use them, and in doing so, expand our reach."
Kaella inclined her head, her eyes gleaming with understanding and resolve. "It will be done."
Balthagar leaned back, his presence filling the chamber like the coiled heat of a volcano. His voice cut through the air, a promise etched in flame. "In two days, I will reforge Stormbringer, the armor, and the Blood Ring. Then... I will meet the Targaryens. Alone."
Vaelys shifted, his brow furrowed. "My Prince, let us stand with you. Aegovax is ready."
Balthagar's voice was soft, firm. "No. They must see me alone. Let their imaginations feed the dread of what they cannot see."
The lords exchanged glances, a silent understanding forged between them. They were bound to him, to his vision, to the path he carved through fire and shadow.
Outside, the sun slipped lower, the sky streaked with crimson and gold, the colors of flame and blood. The storm approached, and Valyria's heir stood ready to meet it.