Current standing: 9,000 troops. Valyria is fully garrisoned and control has been established in Tyria and Oros using these troops
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A covert operation immediately started. As soon as I gave the order, the Faceless Men mobilised like never before.
3rd person POV:
The Red Keep slept uneasily. Storm clouds pressed low over King's Landing, blocking the moonlight and covering the city in a darkness. The guards at all the gates muttered about their commander Janos Slynt, notorious for selling commissions and pocketing a portion of his men's pay, or talked about what brothal they planned to visit when they got off duty. None of them noticed the three new faces among their ranks—faces that had not existed the day before.
Deep beneath the castle, past the wine cellars and the mouldy storerooms, the air grew colder. Near the dungeons of the Red Keep is a is dank, and dark and cavernous cellar. There is a row of long narrow windows set high in the cellar wall, which provide some light during the day, but during this stormy night, a normal person could not see past their hands. And dotted around the room, looming with ancient power and pride, are nineteen dragon skulls in various sizes. The skulls are black as onyx, polished smooth, and are cold and hard to the touch. The dragons' teeth look like long, sharp, curving knives of black diamond.
A lone lantern flickered at the far end of the corridor. The man carrying it wore the face of a tired, balding steward. His steps were slow, unhurried, the gait of someone who had walked these halls for decades. But when he reached the first skull in the room—Meleys, her cavernous eye sockets staring into eternity—he stopped.
He set the lantern down and removed his face. Jaqen H'ghar stood in the lantern glow, his mismatched hair catching the light like threads of silver and blood. Behind him, two more figures stepped from the shadows—one a young woman with a servant's face, the other a bearded guard with a limp. Their disguises dissolved just as quickly.
"Time is short," Jaqen murmured.
The woman nodded. "The guards above have been redirected. They will not return for an hour."
The limping man knelt by Meleys' skull and pressed a small obsidian token against the bone. The token sank into the skull like a drop of ink into water. A faint shimmer rippled across the surface.
"First is marked," he whispered.
Jaqen moved to the next skull—Dreamfyre, her fanged maw frozen in a silent roar. He placed his hand upon her brow. The air around them tightened, as if holding its breath.
"Second is marked."
One by one, they moved through the hall: Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys, Vermithor, Silverwing, The Cannibal, Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer. Each skull received its mark—an obsidian sigil that coats the skulls in magical energy from the Fourteen Flames.
When they reached the largest skull—the Black Dread himself—the three Faceless Men paused. Balerion's skull dwarfed them, a mountain of ancient bone and shadow. His teeth were longer than swords. His eye sockets were deep enough to swallow a man whole.
The woman swallowed. "Will the spell hold for him?"
Jaqen's smile was faint, almost sad. "A man does not question the will of gods."
He placed both hands upon the skull. The lantern flickered and the shadows lengthened. For a heartbeat, the cellar felt impossibly vast, as if the skulls were waking, stretching, remembering fire.
Then the air snapped back.
"It is done," Jaqen said softly. The three stepped back. The sigils glowed faintly—then vanished. "On the morrow," Jaqen continued, "the skulls will be gone. The king will rage. The spider will whisper. The lion will suspect. But none will know."
The woman tilted her head. "And the ships?"
"Waiting," Jaqen replied. "A man has arranged for them to sail without names, without flags, without memory."
The limping man extinguished the lantern, swallowing the cellar in darkness again.
"Valyria calls," he whispered.
"And we answer," Jaqen said.
When they left the cellar, they did not use the stairs. They did not use the corridors. They simply stepped into the shadows—and were gone.
Behind them, the skulls sat in perfect silence.
Waiting for the world to change and for the Emperor who would wake them.
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The docks of King's Landing were quiet at the third hour of the wolf. Fog rolled in from Blackwater Bay, thick and unnatural, swallowing lantern light and muffling sound. The harbor guards cursed at the weather, never noticing that the fog moved with purpose—curling around certain ships, avoiding others and hiding certain faces.
A lone warehouse near the waterline had it's doors opened wide. Inside, a dozen men worked in silence. None of them spoke, none of them looked at each other and their faces were borrowed—dockhands, sailors, a city watchman, even a fishmonger. But they were the same:
Faceless.
Jaqen H'ghar stood at the center of the warehouse, watching as the first skull was brought in.
Meraxes. Even in death, she was enormous and her fangs were glinting in the dim lantern light. The men moved her with great efficiency, determined in their mission.
"Careful," murmured one of them, though his voice was not his own. "The bindings are delicate."
The obsidian sigil embedded in the skull pulsed faintly, responding to the proximity of the others. It was not magic of this world. It was older, deeper—something the Red Keep had forgotten but Valyria remembered.
One by one, the skulls arrived. Each was wrapped in heavy black cloth, bound with rope, and lifted by teams of men. When Balerion's skull arrived, the warehouse seemed to shrink. His maw was wide enough to swallow a wagon. His teeth were longer than swords. His presence made the lanterns flicker.
The men paused. Even the Faceless Men felt something—an echo of fire, a memory of wings blotting out the sun. Jaqen stepped forward, placing a hand on the Black Dread's brow. "A man honors you," he whispered. And then he nodded.
The loading began; outside, three ships waited—unmarked, unlit, their sails furled. They had arrived at dusk, crewed by men who spoke no language known in Westeros. Their hulls were reinforced with iron and strange black wood that drank the moonlight.
The skulls were rolled aboard using thick ropes and padded beams. No one spoke, no one grunted with effort, the only sound was the creak of wood and the whisper of the fog.
When the last skull was secured, Jaqen turned to the others. "None will remember this night," he said.
And they didn't. By dawn, the ships were gone.
The fog lifted, the warehouse was empty, and the Red Keep slept on, unaware that its greatest treasures had vanished into the sea.
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The Summer Sea was calm; perfect sailing weather. The three ships glided across the water easily; no storms, no whirlpools. The sea parted for them, welcoming them home.
At the prow of the lead ship, Jaqen stood with his mismatched hair blowing in the wind. Behind him, the covered skulls sit waiting, some on the top deck and some in the ship's hold.
As the ships approached the Valyrian peninsula, the sky changed: the clouds thinned, the air shimmered, the horizon glowed with faint red light.
The Fourteen Flames were burning.
On the cliffs above the harbor, soldiers in gleaming armor stood in formation. Their armor reflected the firelight like molten silver. They did not cheer. They did not move. They simply watched, silent and reverent.
Galadriel stood at the front, her hair catching the light like spun gold. She felt the power in the air—the old magic waking, stretching, remembering.
The ships docked without a sound and the first skull was unloaded: Meraxes.
As more skulls were placed on the peninsula, the ground trembled, the air warmed and a distant rumble echoed from the mountains.
When Balerion's skull touched Valyrian soil, the world seemed to hold its breath. The Fourteen Flames roared higher, their fire turning white for a heartbeat. Galadriel stepped forward, her voice soft. "They know their home."
Jaqen bowed his head. "A man has delivered what was promised."
From the palace steps in Valyria, the Emperor watched to the south waiting as patiently as possible. The skulls—nineteen in total—were carried up the obsidian road toward the capital city.
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1st Person POV
Dawn broke over Valyria along with the glow of the Fourteen Flames. It feels like the air itself is extremely exited. Or maybe it's just me. In the great plaza in front of the rebuilt Temple of the Dragonlords, nineteen colossal skulls lay in a perfect circle, each resting upon obsidian plinths carved with runes older than the Freehold itself.
At the center stood the Emperor.
My silver‑gold hair shimmered in the firelight and my violet eyes reflected the flames like twin stars. In my right hand is the Elder Wand, while in my left, a Valyrian steel dagger etched with runes that had not been spoken aloud in a thousand years.
Thanks to the special ability that I received, not only can I summon 100 soldiers everyday, but once a month, I can also summon a character from a series that I've seen or a famous historical figure from my previous world. Galadriel was the first one I summoned, and it's been about eight weeks since I got here, which is two months. Since then, I've summoned Albus Dumbledore and Celebrimbor. Interestingly, since it's recognised as a signature piece of equipment of his, Dumbledore appeared with another Elder Wand, identical to the one I have.
Dumbledore and Celebrimbor had helped to create the magic tokens that helped prepare the skulls for the ritual. Currently, Galadriel, Dumbledore and Celebrimbor and several guards stood at the edges of the circle, silent witnesses to history.
I stepped toward the largest skull; Balerion the Black Dread. His skull was a mountain of dark bone, his fangs longer than greatswords, his eye sockets deep enough to swallow a man whole. Even dead, he radiated a presence worthy of the most powerful dragon in history.
I raise the Elder Wand, causing the flames around the plaza bent towards me. The air thickened and the runes etched beneath Balerion's skull from the token ignited with white fire.
I spoke the first words of the ritual in fluent High Valyrian.
"Māzīs, perzy jorwāelagon. Henujas mēre gūbagon hen ēdruta sagon eglie zirȳla, jēda sōvēs zaldrīzes kosa jorrāelagon."
The Elder Wand blazed with golden light, threads of magic spiraling from its tip like serpents. They wrapped around Balerion's skull, sinking into the bone, filling the empty sockets with bright lights.
I lifted the Valyrian steel dagger and drew it across my palm. Blood fell onto the threads and were carried to the skull.
The flames roared and the ground trembled while the blood disappeared into the skull.
I pressed the Elder Wand to Balerion's brow and continue the incantation.
"Tīkun jorwāelagon, se Zōbrie Ūñ lōr. Ānogrose se perzy, mēre gūbagon hen Valyria se henujas rhaenagon jēda hen drakarys. Balerion!"
A sudden shockwave of fire and light burst outward, sending sparks into the sky. The skull cracked—not breaking, but opening, unfolding like a chrysalis. Bone reshaped. Flesh formed. Scales rippled into existence like black glass. Wings unfurled, vast enough to blot out the moon.
And then — ROOOAAARRR. A sound like the first roar of creation.
Balerion lived.
The Black Dread towered above the plaza, his body a mountain of obsidian scales, his wings stretching wider than the temple itself. His eyes—two burning furnaces of molten gold—opened for the first time in centuries.
He looked down, and I was the first thing he saw.
The dragon's pupils narrowed. His breath rumbled like distant thunder. The air shimmered with heat.
Galadriel and the Dumbledore tensed and reached for their weapons. Even the guards stepped back, knowing it was unlikely that they could help in this situation.
But I do not move. I stare up at the greatest dragon ever to live, wide‑eyed, breath caught in my throat. Awe, fear, wonder—all of it washed over me in an instant.
Slowly, I raised up my hand and Balerion lowered his head and the plaza fell silent.
The Black Dread's snout—broad as a carriage, scarred by ancient battles—pressed gently against my palm.
A perfect stillness seemed settled over Valyria. A bond older than empires, older than magic, older than the world itself, snapped into place. I was finally part of something powerful and amazing.
The heat radiating from his scales is the first shock. It isn't the passive warmth of a horse. It is the thrumming, internal furnace of an active volcano, vibrating straight through the soles of my boots.
Balerion exhaled, warm and steady, and I lean in closer to him, my voice trembling with emotion: "It's an honour to meet you, Balerion."
The Black Dread rumbled in answer. And then turn around slightly, giving me an inviting look.
I stand at the base of his left wing, looking up at a mountain of charcoal-black scales. Balerion's eye—a molten pool of gold and crimson the size of a carriage shield—tracks my movement. There is no saddle. There is no iron bit, no leather reins, and no stirrups. To ride the Black Dread in his physical prime means conquering him on his own terms.
I reach out, my hands sinking into the deep ridges of his wing-joint. The skin there is rough like scarred leather, hot enough to make my palms prickle.
Galadriel steps forward, clearly concerned. "Your Majesty. With all due respect, I am worried that riding the dragon immediately is terribly dangerous."
I hold up a hold towards Galadriel, silencing her. "Lykiri," I whisper to Balerion. My voice cracks slightly, caught between terror and pure, unadulterated awe. Calm.
Balerion lets out a low, vibrating rumble that rattles my teeth in my skull. He lowers his front shoulder by a fraction of an inch. It is an invitation.
I don't hesitate. I scramble upward, digging the toes of my boots into the overlapping scales of the wing arm. The climb is steep, slick, and perilous. One misstep means a thirty-foot drop onto hard stone. I drag myself onto the massive shelf of his shoulder, gasping for breath, already soaked in sweat and soot.
Ahead of me lies the terrifying expanse of his spine. Large, jagged black spikes, each the size of a greatsword, run down the center. There is nowhere comfortable to sit. I slide forward, straddling the base of his massive neck just before the shoulder blades, anchoring my thighs against the rough hide. With no reins, I reach forward and bury my fingers deep into the thick, fibrous spinal membranes and the coarse, wire-like ridges at the base of his neck spikes. I twist the leather-like skin around my knuckles, locking myself in place.
The dragon moves.
The shift in weight is cataclysmic. Balerion raises his head, hoisting me ten feet higher into the air. His massive wings snap open with a sound like thunder, casting a shadow that swallows the entire courtyard.
I grip the membranes until my knuckles turn white. "Sōvēs!" I scream, the Valyrian command ripping from my throat. Fly!
Balerion leaps.
The sheer kinetic force of the jump nearly tears me from his back. The g-force slams against my chest, stealing the air right out of my lungs. The ground vanishes in a blur of grey stone and green trees. One massive downbeat of his wings sends us rocketing into the clouds. The wind is a deafening roar, whipping my hair into my eyes and biting at my face, but I refuse to look away. Galadriel, Dumbledore and the guards all run after us as much as possible until we're high in the air.
We break through the grey mist into bright, blinding sunlight. Below us, the world is a miniature map of tiny fields and winding rivers. Balerion tilts his massive bulk, banking hard to the left. I tilt with him, my stomach dropping into my boots as I hang suspended over open air, held to the beast by nothing but raw grip strength and sheer willpower.
I look out over his massive black neck, watching the sunlight glint off scales that survived the Doom, feeling the terrifying power of dragonfire rippling beneath my legs. I am not just riding. I feel like a living god. A wild, breathless laugh escapes me, swallowed instantly by the roaring wind.
The adrenaline high from the ascent begins to plateau, replaced by a hyper-focused clarity. We are cruising through the upper atmosphere, the wind a constant, freezing howl against my face. Beneath my thighs, Balerion's body is a rhythmic engine of muscle and heat. I can feel the ancient, dormant power inside him stirring, responding to the raw thrill of flight. I am a part of him now, and he is a part of me. The urge to see the true power of the Black Dread overrides every ounce of survival instinct I have left.
I lean forward, pressing my chest flat against the scorching scales of his neck to shield myself from the wind. I tighten my grip on the thick, fibrous spinal membranes, my fingers cramping painfully. I take a deep breath of the thin, freezing air and scream the word into the slipstream.
"Dracarys!"
The reaction is instantaneous and terrifying. Deep within Balerion's chest, a low, mechanical rumble starts, vibrating so violently it shakes my entire skeletal structure. The scales beneath my inner thighs shift from hot to searing. I can feel the literal rush of blood-magic and heat rising up his throat like molten magma moving through a pipe.
He unhinges his massive jaw.
A torrent of flame erupts into the sky. It isn't the orange or red fire of a normal beast; it is a column of pitch-black fire shot through with swirling veins of dark crimson, so dense and hot that it instantly obliterates the clouds around us. The sheer concussive blast of the flame hitting the open air creates a shockwave that rattles my teeth. For a split second, the sky ahead of us is completely dark, swallowed by a roiling wall of black heat. The ambient temperature around me spikes violently, singeing the loose hairs at my temples and filling my lungs with the heavy, choking stench of sulfur and ash.
Balerion snaps his jaws shut with a crack like thunder. The black fire dissipates into thin air, leaving behind a wake of shimmering heat distortion. A wild, manic grin plasters itself across my face. I have just commanded the god of death, and he obeyed.
But as the euphoria of the fire begins to fade, reality crashes back in. My body is failing me.
Balerion begins his descent, banking hard toward the earth, and every muscle in my body screams in agony. Without a saddle to lock my weight into, my lower body has been doing the work of an iron vice. My thighs and groin are utterly spent, the muscles trembling so violently from the sustained isometric hold that I can barely keep them clamped against his torso. Every time he pumps his massive wings, the friction of his overlapping, razor-sharp scales grinds directly against my breeches. The fabric of my trousers has long since torn away, and I can feel the hot stickiness of my own blood pasting my shredded skin directly to his soot-covered hide.
My hands are in even worse shape. Wrapping the coarse, leather-like spinal membranes around my knuckles seemed like a brilliant anchor during takeoff, but the constant, brutal yanking of the wind and g-force has taken a devastating toll. The skin across my palms is blistered, raw, and weeping. Several of my fingernails have cracked down to the quick from the sheer pressure of holding on for dear life. My forearms are so locked with lactic acid that my fingers are frozen into rigid, claw-like shapes; I couldn't let go of his back now even if I wanted to.
By the time Balerion's massive talons slam back into the grey stone of the plaza with an earth-shattering thud, I am entirely spent. He lowers his shoulder once more, a silent cue that the ride is over.
I don't climb down. I slide, completely losing my footing on the slick wing-arm and tumbling the last eight feet to the ground. I collapse onto the cold stone, gasping for breath, coughing up a mixture of ash and soot. I lie flat on my back, staring up at the massive sun revealed by the incinerated clouds. Every inch of my body—from my raw, bloody thighs to my blistered, unbending hands—feels like it has been beaten with an iron mallet.
Everyone in the temple quickly runs to be in panic and worry. Galadriel kneels down to check my breathing and orders the soldiers to take me back to the palace.
I am broken, bleeding, and utterly exhausted. And I have never been happier in my entire life.
As I'm carried back to my palace to receive medical treatment, the only thought in my mind is when I can go flying on my new dragon again. And that I need to make sure I revive the other dragons as soon as possible.
Valyria is truly whole again, and I'm at the heart of reborn fire.