[Eastern Shores of Ombaru – Dawn | 187 AD / 85 AC]
Dawn painted the sky in ribbons of scarlet and gold as forty-one black-rimmed ships sailed through the sea mist. 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, which with the banner of House Draceryos on its largest sail, had two smaller banners hanging to the sides like studding sails, the coat of arms of House Kostagar; a dark grey background, at its center are rising green and blue waves, from the waves, emerges a spear, and hanging above the waves is a pale crescent moon.
Lord Maerys was a sight to behold, donned in his family's ancestral Dragonsteel Armor with the breastplate having the motif of his family's crest, a spear with a crescent moon behind it. Held tightly in his lefthand is a Dragonsteel shield and in his righthand, is his family's ancestral Dragonsteel spear, Wavepiercer. Another weapon, a Dragonsteel short-sword sheathed to his left hip.
As he stood on the deck, the wind brushed over his silver-gold hair, his violet eyes narrowing on the distant shore. Jungle ridges loomed like green daggers, veiled by a 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 raises two fingers.
"No sound. Signal the landing with the flags only," he says in 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 war-galleys and 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 steps from his longboat, spear and shield ready. 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 of the Valyrians.
"Forward!" he orders. "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 Sorcerers, 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 made entirely of dragonsteel is 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 Sorcerer rushed forward, slicing her palm and chanting in High Valyrian through clenched teeth. She placed her bleeding hand to their scorched skin, the wounds sealed within moments.
"Hold the ridge!" Lord Maerys Kostagar shouted as his spear met a tribal captain in single combat. The man moved fast, his tattoos gleaming with oil. But the dragonsteel forged spear caught him mid-spin, piercing 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 rise. 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]
Azantyos' shadow darkened half the inlet as he descended, his wings fanning out like the sails. Trees bent. Sand scattered. The Great Dragon landed near a cliff-ledge where the Valyrian ships had just begun offloading troops. His scales shimmered with molten hue, ember eyes scanning the land.
Upon his back sat Balthagar Draceryos, armored, silent, cloaked in the black, gold, and red of House 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 will use the terrain. Ambushes," Aegalon added. "Even the Scouts report movement and disappearances."
"Let them come," Balthagar said calmly. "We will remind them that our flames burn hot."
He turned to the two Flamecallers and the eight Fire Sorcerers with them. "Follow the Dragonguards. When the moment strikes, you will burn the paths before they can reach us."
The sorcerers 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. Flame Sorcerers called out in unison, their fire staffs glowing, and the two Flamecallers struck together. 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 dragonsteel blade cut through bone.
The soldiers paused, then raised their fists 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, the accent sharp and heavy by the 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 just a place for your gods," he said. "Let it also 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.
[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, the Valyrians occupy it, and the banners of Draceryos flew above the ruins. The Great Dragonlord had come for Ombaru, and claimed it wholly.
By morning of the second day, all resistance was broken. Order was swiftly being 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 the strength that a Dragonlord brings, and what it means to be under the wings of the Great Dragon. And soon, they shall have it soon."
Azantyos lifted his wings, and the ships turned north towards the next conquest.