[Two Weeks After the Dragon's Battle – Year: 187 AD / 85 AC]
The stories always began the same, whispered on salt-kissed winds, told by pale-eyed sailors at riverside inns and wine-stained merchants who had seen too much.
"He faced them alone," they'd say in hushed awe. "One man… one dragon… three of theirs, and yet none could bring him down."
The tales came from every corner of the Summer Sea's northern shores. From the fishing hamlets hugging the southern outskirts of Volantis to the caravan-stops deep in the Painted Mountains, all echoed the same impossibility, that a single dragon rider had stood against three Targaryens: King Jaehaerys, Prince Baelon, and Prince Aemon, and their dragons, Vermithor, Vhagar, and Caraxes… and won.
The stories varied in the telling, but all described a battle that left Caraxes with a deep, gouging bite mark along his flank. Vhagar returned with claw marks scored into her ancient scales, prints far too large and jagged to belong to any known dragon. Their return had not been triumphant. Their descent into King's Landing had been sluggish, their roars dulled by exhaustion, their riders ashen and shaken.
No proclamation could undo what the realm had already seen. No decree could silence rumor. The defeat of three dragons was no longer a rumor. It was a reckoning.
In Volantis, tension thickened in every marble hall. House Maegyr and their newfound allies, two noble families yet unnamed but loyal to House Draceryos, prepared in secret, tightening their grip on the city's pulse. They whispered of a rising tide, of fire returning not as conquest, but as order. The Old Blood stirred uneasily.
In Lys, House Rogare grew bolder by the hour, rallying three families tied to their influence, names still veiled to the world but soon to emerge under the sigil of reborn Valyria. Their ships docked deeper into shadowed harbors, their alchemists and goldsmiths forging futures in Draceryos' name.
But in Tyrosh, there was only fear.
They remembered House Mataeryon. They remembered betrayal. And now they saw the storm returning, tenfold in rage and bound in steel. They fortified walls, conscripted soldiers, and begged their gods for peace.
And in Westeros, dread settled like morning fog.
No bard sang of the King's return from Essos. There were no feasts, no declarations of triumph. Only silence. The Dragonpit stood quiet. Vhagar and Caraxes rested in pain. The people whispered. The nobles stared.
Even those who had once denied the rumors now looked at the wounds, wounds that should not have existed. The greatest dragons of Westeros had returned broken. That was all anyone truly needed to know.
[Red Keep – Small Council Chamber]
A heavy silence hung over the room.
The long table was ringed by the most powerful in the realm: King Jaehaerys I, seated with furrowed brow and eyes shadowed with age, Queen Alysanne, her face unreadable, Prince Baelon and Prince Aemon, each standing stiff and bruised, hiding shame behind the thinnest veil of composure.
Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, stood at the end of the table, arms crossed, disapproval carved into every line of his face.
"I warned you," he said finally, his voice cutting through the silence. "I warned you not to fly into the storm of Valyria as if you were still the masters of flame."
Baelon bristled. "We thought to confront a murmur."
"You confronted something far worse," Corlys said coldly.
The Queen shifted. The Grand Maester cleared his throat, but no one looked his way. Lord Gyles Morrigen, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood at the King's back, hand resting on his sword.
The King raised one hand to silence the murmuring that followed. "He did not slay us," he muttered. "He let us live."
That truth struck harder than any blow.
And then, movement.
A figure stepped forward from the far corner of the chamber. None had seen him enter. No sound had betrayed him.
He was garbed in deep shadow: long, layered black fabric that flowed like smoke, and tight leather gloves bound with steel-threaded cord. His face was masked, but his eyes, those unmistakable Valyrian eyes, gleamed beneath the hood like twin shards of amethyst.
Swords were drawn in an instant.
"Who-!" cried Aemon, stepping forward, blade out.
"Stand down!" barked Ser Gyles, but too late. Baelon's blade, Dark Sister, was already pointed at the intruder's chest.
The man only smiled behind his mask. In his gloved hand, he held a strange circular device, a polished sphere with fine grooves, his thumb pressed firmly against a small depression at its center.
"One twitch," he said in a soft voice, "and this chamber becomes your grave. Gaseous death, concocted by the finest alchemists of Valyria, infused with Qarthene toxins, and enchanted by mages you do not believe exist. It will fill the air six times over this room's size. There will be no escape."
Stillness.
The air grew thick with sweat and fear. Even the Queen paled.
"You rode to Valyria unbidden," he said, his tone still quiet, almost amused. "And survived. That was… impressive. But foolish."
"Who are you?" the King demanded.
"I am a Shadow Master," he said, lowering the device slightly, "Here to act upon the Prince's will. And I bring you a message."
They stared.
"In one and a half moon's time," he continued, "you are invited to a meeting. On Walano. You may bring your dragons, your ships, your court, your swords. Bring the Seven if you must."
He chuckled.
"Prince Balthagar Draceryos does not care what you bring. He only offers this one chance… to avoid war."
Then the grin beneath the mask, somehow visible, as if the shadow itself bent to his smile.
"What madness overcame you?" he added, shaking his head. "You rode into the fire… and barely crawled back out."
And then, before a single footstep sounded, he was gone, vanished into the dark. The flickering torches wavered as if gasping in his wake.
No one spoke for a long while.
[Two Days Later – Red Flower Vale, Eastern Jhala]
The jungle wind carried the scent of crushed lotus and spilled blood.
Ten sleek Valyrian ships had sailed under cover of moonless skies, gliding past the outlying coral reefs and anchoring on either side of the river delta that split the land beneath the jungle-cloaked city, Zathari, one of the last strongholds of House Xho, located at the eastern coast of Jhala, specifically at the mouth of Red Flower Vale.
Five ships to the north. Five to the south. All offloaded in silence: Dragonguards and Dragonhunters in dark-steel forged armor etched with Valyrian glyph.
The plan was clear, surround the city, squeeze it from the jungle, crush its resistance, and bring the last remnants of House Xho to heel.
But House Xho had struck first. Scouting parties had pushed westward, seizing outlying villages of the Sweet Lotus Vale, claiming them under the bloodstained banners of the Vale.
Yet swift was the response. Valyrian Troops and the warriors of Sweet Lotus Vale descended upon the conquered towns, purging the invaders. Many were given a choice: join House Qhara, pledge to Valyria… or die.
Now, the final host of House Xho numbering in the hundreds, stood defiant in the jungle clearing, between the walls of Zathari and the looming hill to the west.
Upon that hill stood Balthagar Draceryos. His armor shone like a storm-forged monolith, Sith runes etched in burning crimson across every plate. His helm crowned his form like a beast of terror, horned and faceless. Only the slit revealed any semblance of man… and even there, the glow of his eyes betrayed something far beyond a man, something unnatural.
At his left stood Vaelys Belaerys, sheathed in his House's ancestral Valyrian steel armor. At his right, the veiled form of the Dark Mistress.
Far above, circling like shadows in the sky, flew Azantyos and Aegovax, their wings blotting out the sun in silent arcs.
The host arrayed behind Balthagar: 1,500 Dragonguards, 500 Dragonhunters, and 6,000 Summer Islanders, including former Red Flower warriors who had bent the knee. Mages stood scattered, their eyes flickering with inner flame.
Before them, at the hill's base, gathered the last warriors of House Xho, armed, defiant, but surrounded. They mocked the idea that this young princeling would face them alone.
"Mad," Vaelys muttered. "You're mad. Just like your grandfather."
Balthagar grinned beneath his helm.
"Madness," he said, "is only blasphemy until it conquers."
And then he moved.
He descended the hill in utter silence, yet the air shattered with tension. His presence distorted the world, time slowed, breath caught, and every heartbeat thudded like a war drum.
The warriors of House Xho had seen battle. They had faced pirates, jungle beasts, and even the golden blades of the Free Cities. But they had never seen this.
Balthagar was not a man.
He was an oncoming storm.
As he reached the first line of spearmen, the ground beneath him rippled. Not with magic, but with sheer momentum, his advance felt like a siege ram crashing through flesh and bone. Stormbringer, in his grip, swung low with a howling arc of force. The blade sheared through five men at once, their torsos separated mid-stride, blood erupting like fountains onto the trampled red earth.
A javelin flew toward him, he caught it mid-air, crushed the haft with one hand, and hurled the splinters into the eyes of the thrower before his sword found the man's neck.
Then, chaos.
The warriors surged, shouting, stabbing, slashing, but their weapons barely scratched his armor. Sparks danced off his vambraces as he took blows that would have felled oxen. His retaliation was merciless. He spun, his black cloak swirling like wings of shadow, and carved a dozen bodies open in less than ten breaths.
He moved like a phantom of war, his footwork precise, brutal, and unrelenting. He did not dance with his blade, he hunted with it. When spears closed in, he ducked low, rolled under their reach, and exploded upward with Force-driven strength, cleaving through chests and skulls alike. Every swing of Stormbringer carried the weight of ancient fury, augmented by Sith power and honed through ritual blood.
They tried to flank him.
Two warriors rushed in from behind. Balthagar didn't turn. He raised a hand, fingers clawed, and they stopped mid-charge, hovering in the air as if hung by invisible hooks. Their screams were cut short as their bones imploded inward, blood dribbling from ears and eyes as their bodies crumpled like paper crushed in a fist.
Another wave charged. He welcomed them.
With a roar not of voice but of raw Force, Balthagar slammed a boot into the ground, a shockwave burst from the impact. Earth cracked, air bent, and the front rank of enemies flew backward as if struck by an unseen hammer. Some were torn from the inside, their organs burst from pressure alone. Others staggered, stunned, and then they died.
Every few moments, he let himself slip.
The fury inside, the darkness he so carefully tamed, was unshackled. Force Rage filled his limbs. His body swelled with invisible current, every movement a blur. Men tried to parry, only to find their swords snapped, their arms severed, their lives extinguished before their eyes registered the blow.
Sith lightning arced once, from his left hand to a cluster of archers. It did not kill, it tortured. Bodies convulsed, mouths frothing, nerves unraveling under sustained agony before the final mercy of unconsciousness... or death.
Still, they came.
Still, they died.
Some dropped to their knees, begging. He spared none. His silence was their sentence.
A berserker of House Xho, massive and tattooed in jungle ink, charged with twin axes, roaring a challenge. Balthagar did not raise his blade. He sidestepped the charge with preternatural grace, caught the man's wrist mid-swing, and with a twist and a bone-crunching snap, ripped the arm clean from its socket. As the warrior screamed, Balthagar drove his gauntleted fist into the man's throat, crushed it flat, and let him fall in twitching silence.
Time lost meaning.
Blood coated his armor like paint. Corpses lay broken in grotesque shapes. Limbs without owners twitched in the mud. The air stank of ozone, burnt flesh, and spilled bowels.
Far above, Azantyos roared, a sound of judgment.
Behind Balthagar, none had moved. Not Vaelys. Not the Dark Mistress. Not the Valyrian host. They had seen bloodshed before, but not this.
This was a slaughter.
This was a legend.
And when it ended, when the last of House Xho's warriors fell to the dirt, their defiance drowned in gore, Balthagar stood alone in a field of death. Steam rose from his pauldrons. His breathing was heavy. His sword, dripping with blood, the sword's ruins hummed.
A single Summer Islander warrior dropped his weapon and whispered, "We have seen the will of Valyria made flesh….."
Zama Qhara, watching beside her mother atop the hill, turned her face from the carnage. "Is he even still a man?" she asked, voice full of fear, face the expression of someone who has just witnessed the most horrifying thing ever.
Princess Nalla Qhara did not answer immediately. Her eyes did waver, dread overcoming her from witnessing such a display. She watched as Balthagar turned his gaze upward toward the jungle canopy, toward the sun veiled in smoke.
"No…." she finally said. "No, he is not."