[Eastern Shores of Ombaru – Dawn]
Dawn painted the sky in ribbons of scarlet and gold as forty black-rimmed galleons slipped through the sea mist like predators. Their sails bore no heraldry save one, a red dragon coiled around a ring of flame, its wings outstretched, rising from a bed of black and red fire on a gold field, the banner of House Draceryos, a sigil that now flew high above the eastern waves of Ombaru.
Lord Maerys Kostagar stood at the prow of a Valyrian Man O' War ship, Stormborn, the wind brushing silver-gold strands from his face, his violet eyes narrowing on the distant shore. Jungle ridges loomed like green daggers, veiled by thick coastal fog. The cliffs were jagged, the beaches narrow, but there were gaps between the cliffs, places where ships could strike.
He turned to the hornmaster and raised two fingers.
"No sound. Signal the landing with the flags only," he said in clipped High Valyrian. "Let the Summer Islanders learn how swift and silent our strikes are."
The orders rippled through the ships. Flags lifted, and ropes unfurled. One by one, the galleons turned and approached the shallow inlets, longboats lowered with Dragonguards packed within. Dragonhunters perched on the sterns with bows already drawn, scanning the treeline. The enemy was hidden, but not idle.
As soon as boots touched wet sand, the jungle screamed.
War cries in the native tongue. Painted warriors burst from the tree line, bare-chested, wielding curved bronze, bone spears, and hide shields emblazoned with animal sigils. There were no banners, no chain of command, only the chaos of splintered tribes that ruled this part of Ombaru. The east belonged to no prince, only to chiefs who could hold their hills.
But they were not prepared for Valyria.
"Shields!" Kostagar roared as he stepped from his longboat, sword already drawn. The Dragonguards locked their dark-forged steel together in a tight crescent. The first wave of natives struck the wall and bounced back, spears splintering against armor from the Lands of the Long Summer.
"Forward!" he barked. "Step! And kill!"
Arrows hissed from the rear, Dragonhunters loosing fletched death into the jungle. Screams rose above the crashing waves. Behind the formation, fire sparked.
Four Flamecallers, their robes marked with curling red glyphs, stepped from the rear ranks. At their flanks, fourteen Fire Mages, moved with ritual precision. They did not charge. They did not shout.
The Flamecallers extended one hand, their fingers carved with ember-ink runes, while the other holds a fire staff, a staff made of dark-forged steel with runes etched on it, its head crowned by a swirling cage of dark, flame-edged blades that cradled a floating ember-heart of living fire. Heat shimmered in the salt air as a sudden line of fire exploded across the tree line. Vines curled, dried, and ignited. Smoke rose in an angry column. Warriors stumbled out of the trees screaming, some burning, others coughing.
Two Dragonguards caught fire in the chaos. A Blood Mage rushed forward, slicing her palm with a dagger and chanting through clenched teeth. She placed her bleeding hand to their scorched skin, the wounds started to heal and sealed within moments.
"Hold the ridge!" Lord Maerys Kostagar shouted as his blade met a tribal captain in single combat. The man moved fast, his tattoos gleaming with oil. But Valyrian steel caught him mid-spin, slicing through his defense. Blood soaked the sand.
The Valyrians pushed higher.
By midday, they had claimed a hillfort, a stone enclosure wrapped with spears and flags, and set the Draceryos banner atop its walls. Flamecallers conjured a circle of fire to ward the lower path. Kostagar stood upon the highest outcrop, watching new ships arrive with fresh waves of Dragonguards.
"Here," he told the architects behind him, "the eastern fort shall be built. Wait for one of the Dragons to arrive. Make it strong. Make it visible. Let every tribe that still hides in the trees know that Ombaru now belongs to Valyria."
[Western Inlet of Ombaru – Midmorning]
The jungle breathed fire when Azantyos descended.
His shadow darkened half the inlet, his wings fanning out like the sails. Trees bent. Sand scattered. The Great Dragon landed near a cliff-ledge where galleons had just begun offloading troops. His scales shimmered with molten hues, eyes burning like twin suns.
Upon his back sat Balthagar Draceryos, armored, silent, cloaked in the black and gold of Draceryos.
As he stepped down, Aenor Celnaeros and Aegalon Dalreos approached, each bowing.
"The beach is ours," Aenor reported. "But the interior is a web of paths. Tribes hide in the vines, use the trees like walls."
"They'll use the terrain. Ambushes," Aegalon added. "Even the Scouts report movement and disappearances."
"Let them come," Balthagar said calmly. "We'll remind them that our flames burn hot."
He turned to the two Flamecallers and eight Fire Mages with them. "Follow the Dragonguards. When the moment strikes, you will burn the paths before they can reach us."
The mages bowed low.
They advanced inland, step by step, the jungle closing around them. Dragonguards marched in tight formation. Dragonhunters scanned the canopy. Dragon Scouts moved ahead in pairs, bows, daggers, and short blades ready.
Then, the trees screamed.
Dozens of native warriors dropped from above, blades swinging. The Dragonguards held fast. Fire Mages called out in unison, their fire staffs glowing, and the two Flamecallers struck together, and unlike the Fire Mages, their staffs is made of Valyrian Steel. A rolling firestorm burst forward, catching the ambushers in a fiery surge. It wasn't vast, but it was enough. The trees lit up. Cries echoed. Smoke swallowed the attackers.
Among the chaos, a tribal chieftain charged toward the command flank, tall, bare-chested, inked with crimson dyes and scars of a dozen battles. His twin axes moved like dancing blades.
Aenor Celnaeros stepped forward.
Their duel was swift and brutal, blade against axe, step against strike. The chieftain fought with strength, but Aenor with honed brutality. One sidestep, one reversal, and the Commander's Valyrian Steel blade cut through bone.
The army paused, then raised their fists, Dragonguards, Dragonhunters, and Dragon Scouts alike, in salute to Aenor's prowess.
"Good, you have earned their respect," Balthagar said simply.
A wooden cliff-fort rose from the rocks ahead, its towers crowned in smoke and fire, a last stand. Azantyos shrieked from above. Balthagar gave no command.
For the Great Dragon obeyed the instinctual connection with its rider.
Flames erupted in a cone of molten ruin. The fort crumbled and burned beneath the blaze. Smoke and ash swirled over the jungle, and when the inferno faded, only ash and molten stone remained.
Balthagar raised his hand, pointing toward the ridge above.
"There," he said. "is where we will raise the western fort."
[Central Ombaru, The Shrine and Plateau – Nightfall]
They called it the Great Circle of the Sun and Moon, a stone-ringed grove atop a central plateau, high above the twin coasts. Tribes claimed it sacred, a neutral meeting ground untouched by blood.
Tonight, it bled.
Eleven tribal warlords stood in half-circle, armed and arrayed in feathered cloaks and carved bone armor. Behind them, dozens more warriors watched in tight formation.
And from above, shadow fell.
Azantyos descended upon the Circle like a storm. The tribal warriors fell to their knees as wind and fire crashed into the grove. The great beast landed with one claw crushing part of the stone ring.
Balthagar stood alone upon his back. No soldier accompanied him. Eyes locked on the tribal leaders, he descended in silence.
He walked between the tribal warlords. None moved. None spoke.
"You are the last," he said in the Summer Islander tongue, sharpened by Valyrian tone. "You stand upon land that no longer remembers your names. Your gods do not answer. Your spears are broken."
He stepped to the center.
"Kneel," he commanded, "or join your ancestors."
Some fell to their knees, out of fear. Two warlords turned to run. Azantyos opened his jaws, and flame consumed the path behind them.
It was over.
The shrine was not desecrated, Balthagar approached the center and touched the standing stone, placing his palm upon it.
"Let this no longer be a place of your gods," he said. "Let it be the Beacon of Flame, for those who remember Valyria, for those who will know of its power."
He summoned the fire.
The stone lit, not by spell, but by true magic, blood-and-fire. It glowed with the colors of the Draceryos sigil a dark crimson-gold.
[Two Days Later, Northern Coastline of Ombaru – Morning]
After two days, the swift conquest of Ombaru sent shockwaves through the nearby islands. Ombaru had always been known for its chaos, with endless wars fought for tribal dominance. Now, House Draceryos flew its banners above the ruins. Valyria had come for Ombaru, and claimed it wholly.
By morning of the second day, all resistance was broken. Order was swiftly established, just like the conquest had been.
Three Valyrian forts were already being prepared, one in the east, one in the west, and one at the center of Ombaru, atop its mountains range. The banners of Draceryos flew proudly and high on those locations.
Balthagar stood atop a central plateau, overlooking the fleet assembling at the Northern coastline. Lord Kostagar stood beside him, armor scraped from war.
"No leaders left. No would-be princes," Lord Maerys murmured. "Only husks remain, tribes without teeth."
Balthagar's gaze turned northward, toward the sea.
"They will not have long to lick their wounds," he said. "The people of The Tall Trees shall see our sails… and know the promise of Daekar Draceryos is soon to be fulfilled. They have always yearned for Valyria, for its strength, for its glory, and they shall have it soon."
Azantyos lifted his wings, and the ships turned north towards the next conquest.