{A/N: I have had a terrible writers' block. This chapter was the cause of it, and honeslty I don't think I did will on this chapter, despite knowing what I want for the future chapters, this chapter hindered me greatly. But fret not, finally it is here, and even though there is some minor issues with writing the next chapters, they are planned and will be uploaded... hopefully... soon....
I do hope you all remember that I said I am writing this fan-fic as a past time. And this is becoming much true as I am now in my last year of UNI, so my concentration will be fully on finishing this year with flying colors.
Another note, is that I am working in altering/fixing the first chapters, as the writing was not properly done, and there are quite a few redundant paragraphs.}
[Walano, Tall Tree Town | 187 AD / 85 AC]
The sun rose lazily over the jungle cloaked hills of Walano, spilling a golden hue across the calm sea. Thirty Valyrian warships, cut through the glittering waves as they approached the port of Tall Trees Town, sails snapping like banners of conquest. The largest of them all, a Valyrian Galleon Man O' War ship named Stormborn, led the formation with ominous grace, its prow shaped like the head of a dragon, its maw open in an eternal roar.
From the decks of Stormborn, Prince Balthagar Draceryos stood still, donned in his reforged ancestral armor, with his dark golden-crimson cloak trailing behind him. Beside him stood Lord Maerys Kostagar, eyes squinting at the shoreline.
Lord Kostagar muttered, arms crossed. "They cheer."
And indeed, they did. Hundreds had gathered along the port's edge, waving colorful silks, shouting welcomes in Summer Tongue. Flower petals, red and yellow and deep violet, floated in the air, thrown by children perched on the shoulders of elders. Musicians played soft rhythms on drums and bone flutes.
Tall Trees Town, though named humbly, sprawled across the coast like a serpent, its homes of wood and ivory tiles peeking through dense groves of banyan trees. Broad avenues led up gentle hills, where the palace of House Xhar was nestled.
The ships began to dock, lines cast, and sails furled. The Stormborn eased alongside the central pier.
With precise discipline, the Dragonguards descended first, their dark-forged plate clinking in rhythm, formation perfect. Behind them came Flamecallers and Bloodcallers in their mages garbs. Then, with the pride of a Great Dragon, Balthagar stepped onto the dock.
The cheers dulled for a brief moment, replaced by breathless awe. The crowd felt it, something primal A force cloaked in mortal flesh. Not easily describable but those molten eyes of his spoke greatly.
Then, a new procession arrived.
From a shaded pathway beyond the pier emerged a group of Summer Islanders, their bodies adorned in golden paint and feathered sashes. At their center walked a man with regal ease. Tall, dark skinned, hair coiled in tight locks down his back. His smile was warm, but his eyes wary. That is Prince Daba Xhar.
He was flanked by two elderly advisors, both in flowing robes of ocean blue and forest green, and a retinue of warriors bearing spears etched with bone glyphs.
The two princes approached.
The Dragonguards stiffened.
So did the Summer Islander warriors.
And then, laughter.
The two young men, embraced with the rough energy of childhood friends. Daba slapped Balthagar's back with a loud thump, and the Valyrian's deep chuckle rumbled out like a drum.
"It has been too long," Balthagar said, stepping back.
"A decade, brother," Daba replied, grinning. "And you've grown… monstrous."
"Time changes us all."
Daba raised an eyebrow at that, glancing momentarily at Balthagar's eyes, those molten orbs that seemed to drink in light and radiate menace.
No more words were said. None were needed. They turned, side by side, toward a caravan waiting nearby.
Three elephants, draped in carpets, stood calm and proud. Two bore archer carriages, lightly armored, while the third bore an ornate platform wide enough for a dozen men to sit comfortably.
Balthagar, Daba, Lord Kostagar, and the two advisors mounted the elegant carriage.
The journey to House Xhar's palace wound gently through the vibrant heart of Tall Trees Town. The people here lived not among stone and iron but among life, homes were built around trees, not through them. Rope bridges linked towers of wood and shell, gardens bloomed from every balcony, and water ran freely through carved channels that fed communal pools.
The Valyrian prince and the Summer Islander prince laughed and reminisced.
"You remember when we stole the turtle wine from my father's cellar?" Daba asked, still grinning.
"And the scolding your uncle gave us?" Balthagar replied. "He couldn't sit down for a week."
"I still can't believe he blamed me. Said I was a bad influence on a Dragonlord."
"You are," Balthagar said, deadpan, before breaking into laughter again.
As the elephants ascended a path that wound toward the palace, the memories became more solemn.
"I was sorry," Daba said, voice softening. "I couldn't attend your family's funeral. I was across the sea when the word came."
"I wasn't there for your father's either," Balthagar replied. "But I offer my condolences, even if late."
They bowed heads to each other, silence thick between them for a heartbeat.
Soon they reached the palace of House Xhar. The palace stood atop a gentle rise, its domed roofs painted in blues and violets, mosaics glittering like starlight. Within, the main audience hall was simple by Valyrian standards. Woven rugs, floor mats designed for comfort, walls adorned with carved oaths and trophies.
The two princes and Lord Kostagar sat cross-legged.
Daba dismissed his advisors.
"Speak freely, brother," Daba said, pouring summer wine.
"I always do," Balthagar replied.
Daba hesitated, staring at him and said, "You have changed."
Balthagar replied, saying "I must."
Daba added "It's not just the armor. Or the eyes. Or the… presence."
"I know."
"I heard what you did in Jhala. In Ashen Vale." Prince Daba continue, his tone tightened. "They say you fought hundreds. Alone."
"They're not wrong."
"With only steel and strength?"
"With purpose."
Silence again.
"I underwent a ritual," Balthagar finally said, sipping his tea. "I became… more. For my people. For the empire to come."
Daba nodded slowly. "Change is growth. But be careful. Grow too far from yourself, and you may not find your way back."
"I won't forget who I am."
"I hope so, for both our sakes."
Daba then turned to a roll of parchment beside him, unrolling two sheets onto the rug.
"These," he said, "are for you."
Balthagar examined the drawings. One, an architectural rendering of a palace in the Summer Islander style, elegant and organic; the other, a sketched map of the central peak of Walano, marked for fortification.
"I thought it fitting," Daba said. "A palace for your family. And a place to be cleared for a fort."
Balthagar raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Word has reached here not long ago of your battles. Ombaru will soon have a fort of dragonstone. So should we."
"You planned this in advance."
"I heard the whispers long before the petals fell."
Balthagar smiled slightly. "You're wiser than most."
He gestured to the fort plans. "We'll build it in our way."
"And the palace?"
"It is a generous gift. Let it be built in your style. A symbol of unity."
Daba bowed his head, pleased.
Then his expression darkened.
"Now, about Lotus Point…"
[Walano, Lotus Point - A day past since the arrival of Balthagar to Walano]
The name Lotus Point once inspired images of beauty. Hanging gardens, ivory domes, and waters filled with lilies. But tonight, it was a place of tension and dread.
In the uppermost tower of House Zhoqo's palace, Prince Jalo Zhoqo stood brooding, overlooking his city. Fortified stone walls surrounded Lotus Point, a recent addition built during the reign of his father. The eastern border once lively with trade was now silent. No caravans. No emissaries. Only fear.
He turned from the balcony and walked down a long, carpeted corridor toward the war room.
The rumors had reached even here. Ombaru had fallen. Jhala had bent the knee. And the Valyrian prince, the one spoken of with reverence and fear, had arrived in Walano.
Balthagar Draceryos.
A man who wielded power beyond comprehension. A prince who, if the stories were true, had fought alone and lived, killed hundreds of warriors with blade and will alone, and if rumours are to be believed… magic.
It was madness.
No... it was worse. It was inevitability.
He entered the chamber, his advisors and captains already gathered. Their faces were grim, their voices hushed.
"What can we do?" one asked.
"We must negotiate," another said. "Sue for peace."
"With what?" another snapped. "He has dragons. Magic. The damn jungle itself bends before him."
Prince Jalo raised a hand. "Enough."
The room fell silent.
"No terms will be offered. Not now. Not while we still breathe."
"But, Prince—"
"He is not a god," Jalo barked. "He is flesh. He bleeds."
But even he didn't believe it.
Before more could be said, a door burst open.
A guard stumbled in, breathless and pale.
"They're here!" he cried. "The Valyrians!"
[Outside the Gates of Lotus Point]
The city's defenders stood along the wall, eyes scanning the horizon.
Before them stretched a massive army ranks of Dragonguards in black armor, lines of Dragonhunters with curved spears and goldenheart bows, and behind them warriors bearing the colors of House Xhar, allies now marching beneath the Valyrian standard.
The gate closed. The walls manned.
But their hearts trembled.
A horn sounded from the Valyrian side. Three sharp blasts.
Then, within the city, another horn. One single, answering cry.
Confusion spread across the defenders.
Then came screams. Behind them. Inside the city. They turned to see chaos blooming like rot.
Masked figures, clad in dark cloaks and wielding short swords and daggers, emerged from alleys and rooftops. Whispers in the dark. Blades in the shadows.
These are Whisperers and Darkblades; Agents of the Order of Shadows.
They moved like wraiths, cutting through the defenders stationed within the city. Within moments, the streets near the palace were drenched in blood.
At the palace itself, panic erupted.
Children screamed. Servants fled. Guards tried to rally, only to be silenced by steel and poison.
[Inside the Palace]
Five shadowed figures moved with purpose through the palace halls.
They were not like the others. These were Shadow Masters.
Their steps were measured, precise. Every breath they took echoed with discipline.
Dead bodies littered the corridors behind them, throats slit, hearts pierced, poison boiling veins. Even now, a few struggling defenders moaned softly on the floor, dying slowly.
The leading woman held a short sword in one hand and a large dagger in the other.
To her right, a whip-wielding man, a spiked mace head dangling from the end, moving like a predator.
Behind him, a towering figure with a brutal warhammer, the second head of which bore a deadly spike part mace, part pick, the hammer designed to puncture even heavy armor.
To her left, a female swordswoman, moving like a dancer with a long blade. And last, a silent figure wielding two curved daggers, moving like a shadow detached from his own body.
They approached the chamber where the royal family was hidden.
The leader stopped. She placed her ear to the door. Voices whispered inside.
She turned, unfastened a circular metallic device from her belt, she rotated the halves of the sphere, and it clicked, then she opened the door just enough to toss it inside.
The device hissed. A blinding puff of smoke erupted. Then gasps and screams.
And then eventually, silence.
The door opened. The Shadow Masters entered.
Three adults; an elderly woman, a younger man, a young woman. Four children, all unconscious.
One by one, they were dispatched, their throats slit. Quick and efficient.
The large Shadow Master paused.
"One is missing," he rumbled.
"The brother," the leader said. "Spread out. Find him. He should be nearby."
The others vanished into the dark, except the large Shadow Master and their leader.
[Outside the Gates]
Prince Jalo stood upon the battlements, breath ragged. He could see the smoke rising from the heart of his city. They were being butchered from within.
He gripped the parapet. And then he saw him. A lone figure, walking calmly across the clearing between the Valyrian army and the city gates.
He wore black plate armor that shimmered faintly with unnatural heat. His dark golden-crimson cloak billowed. At his side, a sheathed sword, Stormbringer.
Balthagar Draceryos. He didn't run. He didn't rush. He walked.
Jalo hissed to his archers. "Draw. Nock. Now!"
Hundreds of bowstrings were pulled.
"Loose!"
And thousands of arrows flew. They screamed through the sky, descending like a storm of death.
Not one touched him. They fell around him, embedded into the earth, bouncing from unseen force. It was as though the very air rejected the arrows.
Balthagar opened his arms, a grin on his face. Behind him, Dragonguards watched in silent awe.
Lord Kostagar whispered, "Madness…"
He had heard the stories of what transpired in Jhala, but seeing it was something else.
Balthagar raised his arms slowly. The arrows that had landed around him began to lift, floating, quivering, pointing toward the city walls.
Gasps rang from the battlements. Then he threw his hands forward. The arrows flew back, faster than before. They tore through the defenders. Screams filled the air. Blood sprayed across stone.
Prince Jalo ducked just in time.
Then came the horns. Balthagar shouted in High Valyrian: "With me, Valyria!"
The army surged forward, voices rising in a thunderous war cry.
Balthagar led them. He raised his hand toward the gate. His fingers clenched and then he pulled.
The gates trembled, hinges groaning and eventually they shattered.
And the storm began.
[After the Battle]
The courtyard of House Zhoqo's palace, once a place of feasts and diplomacy, now bore the scorch and tread of conquest. Blood stained the polished stone tiles, and the once-proud banners of House Zhoqo; vivid indigo silk emblazoned with the lotus blossom sigil, lay trampled underfoot, torn and dirtied beneath the boots of conquerors.
At the center stood Prince Balthagar Draceryos, calm amidst the aftermath. His cloak fluttered in the breeze, his armor glinting with that unmistakable sheen of Valyrian steel, drenched in blood.
Surrounding him stood Dragonguards and captains in formation, clad in the signature dark-forged armor of the Valyrian legions, greyish from the volcanic ash infused in their steel, resilient and battle-proven. Lord Maerys Kostagar stood to Balthagar's right, adorned in his own Ancestral Valyrian Steel armor, his brow furrowed, gaze flickering between the Prince and the bound figure now being dragged into the courtyard.
That figure, bloodied, beaten, and bound was none other than Prince Jalo Zhoqo, gagged and unconscious, his once-regal robes torn and soaked through with sweat blood, and dirt.
Nearby, a Bloodcaller approached Prince Balthagar. She bowed low and spoke in hushed High Valyrian so only the Prince may hear, "My Prince… two Shadow Masters request to speak with you. It appears to be urgent."
Balthagar didn't turn to look at her immediately. He seemed to consider, still staring down at the ground where Jalo's blood had already begun to seep into the stone.
Then he raised his head and said, his voice even but final, "Bring them in."
The Bloodcaller froze for a moment, eyes wide. "My Prince," she said, hesitant now, almost whispering, "Are you certain? The Order… they-"
He raised his hand to silence her. "Bring. Them. In."
She bowed once more, hurriedly, and darted away.
Moments later, silence fell across the courtyard as two cloaked figures emerged from the palace corridor. Their presence brought a chill despite the heat of Walano's sun. They moved like shadows cast by flame, and for a heartbeat, the Valyrian commanders, the Bloodcaller, and Flamecaller, had a look of bewilderment.
The Shadow Masters approached Balthagar and knelt in unison at Balthagar's feet, heads bowed low. Even Lord Kostagar blinked, astonished. All the vassals of House Draceryos know of the Order of Shadows. He himself had obviously been present when the Dark Mistress was with them with the Prince's meeting. But never has there been a case were a Shadow Master interacted with any of the Nobles or much less seen them appear in full view.
The first of them, the woman who had led the strike on the palace, spoke first in High Valyrian. "My Prince. We have dealt with the family as ordered. But one was not present."
Her voice was steady, but laced with tension. Failing to capture even a single target, to her, felt like a failure deserving of punishment.
Balthagar looked down at her. "Who was missing?"
"The brother," she said. "He fled."
There was a long pause. Then Balthagar gestured to the Bloodcaller. "Bring me a Glass Candle," he ordered. "And you two," he said to a pair of Dragonguard captains, "Bring Prince Jalo here."
The captains obeyed immediately, dragging the gagged prince forward, his eyes fluttering open as they pulled him to his knees before the Glass Candle now placed on the ground.
Balthagar unsheathed a small Valyrian steel dagger, blackened at the edges, but gleaming with a strange, oil-slick sheen. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, gripping Jalo's hair with one hand and drawing the blade across his throat with the other.
The prince choked and flailed, eyes wide in horror as blood poured from the gash. It spilled in thick streams onto the glass candle's base. The enchanted glass absorbed the blood like thirsty soil.
No one spoke. Even Prince Daba, standing nearby, said nothing, his face rigid with shock. This wasn't execution. It was ritual.
Balthagar knelt before the candle and placed both hands on it. The surface shimmered, and his molten eyes began to glow deeper, swirling as if mirroring the energies coursing through the Glass Candle.
Images flickered in the glass, shadows and silhouettes, ships, docks.
"There," Balthagar said at last, his voice cold and sure. "He hides on a merchant vessel docked near the eastern pier. He hasn't fled far."
He pushed the Glass Candle gently toward the female Shadow Master. "He is yours," he said. "Deal with him."
She bowed her head low. "As you command."
Without another word, the two Shadow Masters vanished into the corridor, slipping into shadow as if they had never existed.
Lord Kostagar stared after them, then at Balthagar. "You would call them here," he murmured, "in the open? For all to see?"
"Let them see," Balthagar said, turning toward him. "Let them all see what shadows serve Valyria."
Then he turned to the Flamecaller beside him and said calmly, "The palace is yours. Cleanse it. Then begin preparations for the fort. I will contact my cousin Aeralyx Belaerys, he will come with his Dragon."
The Flamecaller bowed, the golden embroidery on his robe catching the sunlight.
Prince Daba finally stepped forward. "You did not hesitate," he said softly, glancing at the corpse of Prince Jalo.
"There is no room for hesitation in conquest," Balthagar replied. "And now, Walano is ours."
He stepped forward, the golden-crimson cloak trailing behind him, his boots crushing the torn banners of House Zhoqo underfoot.