[Outskirts of the Demon Fort of Draceryos, 187 AD / 85 AC]
The Hill of the Dragon loomed like a dark crown upon the Lands of the Long Summer, a place shrouded in whispers and dread. Where once Balthagar Draceryos had performed his ritual, the skies darkened, thunder cracked without storm, and an unholy screech rent the air, now stood the forge, a monument to rebirth and power. The hill had been encircled by high walls of dragonstone, watchtowers rising like sentinels, their gaze unyielding. The reinforced gate faced the Demon Fort of Draceryos, while the far side of the hill remained open to the skies, an expanse for Azantyos and other dragons to land, and for the world to fear what they might birth.
Beneath the hill, the ley lines pulsed, currents of ancient, volatile magic Balthagar had discovered upon returning from the Battle of the Blood Tide, the name the Valyrian sailors had given to his victory over the Ironborn, their ships set aflame, their dead set adrift in a grotesque warning. The air here was thick with arcane tension, the ground itself thrumming like a heartbeat. To contain the surging magic from the previous ritual, Balthagar had driven dragonstone tablets etched with Sith runes deep into the earth, anchoring the hill in a web of power.
At the summit, the forge awaited, an anvil of Valyrian steel, faint crimson cracks webbing its surface, a hammer forged of the same, gifted by Lord Embaryen and enhanced by Balthagar's own hands with Sith runes of stability. Even so, the metal strained, barely containing the dark force that surged within.
Azantyos perched nearby, a mountain of muscle and molten scale, his dark red body gleaming with a metallic sheen, horns like blackened iron, wings folded tight yet radiating latent fury. His eyes, pools of molten magma, watched with an intensity that seemed to sear the very air.
Only four stood with Balthagar atop the hill: the Grand Master of the Blood Dragon Order, the Grand Mistress of the Fire Dragon Order, the Grand Mistress of the Order of Shadows, and Lord Embaryen himself. They watched in tense silence, not daring to interrupt, for they knew not the ways of Sith Sorcery nor the forging of such power. They were here only to witness.
Balthagar began.
His hands, bare, scarless, unshaken, lifted Stormbringer, the ancient blade of House Draceryos. He laid it upon the anvil and began to chant. The words poured from him in the guttural, harsh syllables of the ancient Sith tongue, an alien sound that seemed to twist the air itself. The Dark Mistresses flinched, their eyes narrowing in alarm. Even the Grand Master of the Blood Dragon, steeped in the oldest tongues, had never heard such words.
Blood dripped onto the blade, Balthagar's own, mingled with that of Vassarion, the Great Dragon of Aurion. Dust from Vassarion's bones scattered across the anvil, hissing into the forge's flames. Azantyos exhaled, an inferno of molten breath that engulfed the blade, flames crackling with dark energy.
The forging was more than physical; it was a ritual, a binding of essence and will. Sith runes seared into the steel, glowing like fresh magma. The edges of the blade shimmered a deep, crimson red, as if flame itself lived within. A ruby, cut from the heart of a mountain and pulsing with caged power, was set into the pommel, encased by delicate veins of Valyrian steel, like a dragon's claws grasping a heart. The hilt was wrapped in dark dragonbone, crimson veins pulsing faintly within, the cross-guards shaped into snarling dragon maws.
The scabbard, forged of great dragonbone and Valyrian steel, was etched with runes designed to contain the blade's might, its fit was perfect, the sound of sheathing smooth as a whisper.
Stormbringer was reborn; a blade that could only be wielded by one of Draceryos blood, and only by one worthy. It enhanced its wielder's strength, sharpened their senses, increased proficiency with the blade, and amplified the Force within them, especially the combat techniques using the force, such as Vaapad (Form VII). It healed wounds by drawing blood, each deep cut feeding its master's vitality. It could levitate, find its master across great distances, and answered only to its bonded wielder. It was a blade of death and dominion.
The Blood Ring followed. Black steel and dark bone twisted together, the Sith runes glowing faintly in a lattice that seemed alive. Balthagar imbued it with his blood, the blood of a Great Dragon, and the essence of Sith sorcery. It granted heightened resistance to poison and disease, sharpened senses to an almost supernatural level, and bolstered the user's Force abilities, particularly the dark side. It healed minor wounds over time and enhanced instinct and reflex, granting a near sixth sense of awareness.
The armor came last; plates of Valyrian steel, dark as a starless night, etched with Sith runes that pulsed in time with Balthagar's heartbeat. It was fused with Balthagar's blood, Vassarion's, and the dust of dragonbone. The plates were perfectly interlocked, allowing seamless movement. The helm, shaped like a snarling dragon, radiated dread. The armor enhanced physical abilities; speed, strength, reflexes, and endurance, healing grievous wounds in battle, invigorating its wearer with arcane force.
When the last rune flared and dimmed, Balthagar stood at the forge's heart, in the now reforged armor, the ring on his right hand's tall finger, Stormbringer unsheathed, in the grasp of his right hand.
Balthagar is radiating power like a storm barely contained. The air shimmered, the earth itself seemed to hum beneath his boots. The mages and Lord Embaryen stepped back instinctively, faces pale, sweat beading their brows.
The aura he exuded was overwhelming, raw, pulsing, like standing before one of the Fourteen Flames in mortal flesh.
Azantyos' voice rumbled in his mind, deep and reverent. "You are no longer merely mortal, my rider. You are becoming... something more."
Balthagar's eyes burned with cold certainty. "As it must be."
Then, a sudden flash, visions seared into his mind. Three dragons; Vermithor, Caraxes, Vhagar. Their riders; Jaehaerys, Aemon, Baelon. Wings beating against the skies, arrogance burning in their hearts. They came with purpose... but not understanding.
Azantyos confirmed it, his mind entwining with Balthagar's. They approached.
The Dark Mistress, watching with narrowed eyes, whispered, "Dragon dreams... I saw them in Vaemor's time, though never so strong. The blood remembers."
Balthagar's voice was low, firm. "They are coming. And I will meet them."
Without hesitation, he leapt onto Azantyos' back, his movements fluid despite the weight of his armor. The connection between rider and dragon pulsed like a second heartbeat. He gripped the saddle, whispering to his mount.
"Let us deal with these fools."
Azantyos roared, a sound that split the air, a promise of doom, and leapt skyward, wings unfurling like a storm.
[East of Volantis]
The skies darkened as three dragons soared above the lands between Volantis and the Lands of the Long Summer, clouds swirling unnaturally, tendrils of mist rising from the earth as if the land itself recoiled. King Jaehaerys sat rigid atop Vermithor, his jaw tight, unease shadowing his features. Baelon on Vhagar shifted, gripping the reins with white-knuckled hands, while Aemon upon Caraxes glared into the swirling fog, his heart pounding.
Baelon's voice cut through the growing tension. "This fog... it is not natural."
A deep, shuddering roar shattered the air, a sound so vast, so primal, it seemed the very bones of the world trembled. Vermithor faltered in flight, wings shaking. Caraxes snarled in confusion, his head whipping side to side. But Vhagar... Vhagar whimpered, a low, broken sound, her body twisting in the air. She turned, ignoring Baelon's frantic commands, and fled, her roars tinged with panic.
Baelon shouted in disbelief, "Vhagar! Obey me!" But the old dragon fled, leaving Baelon reeling, the blood draining from his face.
Then they saw it.
Azantyos tore through the clouds, a titan wreathed in molten power. His wings blotted out the sun, scales gleaming dark red and black, horns like jagged blades. His roar was a sound of annihilation, his presence alone a declaration of dominance. Upon his back, a figure, Balthagar Draceryos, stood, dark armor gleaming, Stormbringer at his side, the Blood Ring pulsing faintly. The aura around him was palpable, oppressive, as if the very air bent to his will.
Azantyos struck. He lunged at Vhagar, pinning her against a cliffside, his massive claws locking her down in an instant. Baelon screamed, but Vhagar whimpered beneath the crushing weight, broken and cowering.
Caraxes turned to aid, but Azantyos twisted with terrifying speed, his jaws snapping shut around the red wyrm's neck, slamming him into the side of a hill. Aemon cursed, trying to steady Caraxes, but the dragon's struggles weakened.
Jaehaerys, pale, desperate, tried to rise higher on Vermithor, but a weight settled on his shoulder.
Balthagar stood upon Vermithor's back, impossibly balanced, the tip of Stormbringer resting against the king's shoulder, a dark smile playing across his lips.
His voice was quiet, but it cut through the roar of the wind and the labored breaths of dragons.
"Carefully consider your next move... I suggest you land."
Jaehaerys froze. The power radiating from Balthagar was suffocating, his voice like a blade pressed to the throat of the world. A slow dread crept into the king's veins, a cold realization that he faced not just a man, but a force of nature.
His voice trembled, a whisper against the storm. "Who... who are you?"
Balthagar's gaze burned, his words a dark promise that echoed in the king's soul.
"I am the shadow that commands the flames... I am the will that binds the storms... I am Balthagar Draceryos, and all shall bend."