Chapter 8 — The Sword, the Hatchling, and the March to War
Aelor spent three days recovering from the ritual.
Magic in this age drained him more than it ever had in Old Valyria. The Crimson Crown demanded focus, precision, and strength he hadn't needed before the Doom. Even now, sitting in his solar, he felt the faint ache behind his eyes — the lingering echo of power pushed to its limit.
The Red Death stayed close, curled protectively near the balcony, her molten eyes watching him with a mixture of pride and worry. She had felt the strain too. Their bond ran deep.
And in the corner of the room, nestled in a small padded nest, slept the newborn dragon — green‑scaled, horned, and already showing signs of sharp intelligence.
Aelor rose slowly, placing the hatchling gently into its nest. He walked toward the wall where his sword hung — the Artblade, forged in the days when Valyria still breathed fire.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he took it down.
He stripped off his shirt, letting the cool air hit his skin, and stepped into the center of the solar. The room was large enough for training — he had chosen it for that reason. He closed his eyes and began to move.
Shadow‑fighting.
Strikes.
Blocks.
Dodges.
Footwork.
Breathing.
He imagined enemies in front of him — imagined the battlefield, imagined the chaos, imagined the blades coming for him. He pictured himself getting stabbed, pictured himself bleeding, pictured himself fighting through it.
He needed clarity.
He needed focus.
He needed to be ready.
Hours passed. Sweat dripped down his back. His muscles burned. But his mind sharpened.
When he finally stopped, he leaned on the sword, breathing hard.
Behind him, the hatchling stirred.
Aelor turned, wiping sweat from his brow. The small dragon blinked up at him, green eyes bright and curious. Its scales shimmered like emerald leaves in sunlight.
He knelt beside it.
"I still haven't named you," he murmured.
The dragon chirped softly, tilting its head.
Aelor studied it — the lean wings, the narrow snout, the quick movements. This one would not grow into a mountain like the Red Death. It would be fast, agile, sharp.
A dragon of wind and fire.
A dragon of nature's fury.
"Tessarion," Aelor said softly. "That will be your name."
The hatchling chirped again, louder this time.
"And your mother," Aelor continued, placing a hand on the Red Death's warm scales, "is the Red Death. The eldest. The one who leads you."
This was not a claiming not yet. But dragons understood names. Names were power. Names were identity.
Tessarion bowed its head.
Aelor smiled.
"You will be fast. Strong. Focused. A guardian of nature even though you are fire."
Weeks passed, and Qarth changed again.
Aelor's forces swelled from 100,000 to 800,000 thanks to the surrender of Port Yhos and Qarkash. Those cities bent the knee quickly the sight of the Red Death circling overhead had shattered their will to resist.
With their surrender came ships.
Not the best ships many were old, worn, or poorly maintained but they were ships nonetheless. And Aelor took every single one. He needed a fleet. He needed mobility. He needed power on the sea as well as the sky.
Port Yhos became his temporary base.
He transformed it into a shipyard, using old Valyrian blueprints he had brought from home. Designs for larger ships. Faster ships. Warships capable of carrying soldiers, siege weapons, and dragons.
He would build a fleet worthy of a dragonlord.
His Council Forms
Aelor stood on the docks of Port Yhos, Tessarion perched on his shoulder like a green flame, the Red Death looming behind him like a living fortress.
Two men approached the first his newly appointed Hand, the second his commander of armies.
Jackal, his Hand, was a shifty but promising man. No dragon blood, no noble lineage, but sharp as a blade and recommended by several of the Dragon Scions. He had a talent for logistics, manipulation, and reading people.
"My king," Jackal said, bowing with a sly grin, "the shipwrights have begun reinforcing the hulls. We'll have twenty seaworthy vessels by the end of the week."
Aelor nodded. "Good. We'll need them."
The second man stepped forward a fallen Westerosi noble whose name Aelor kept private for now. The man had fled Westeros years ago, carrying with him knowledge of its politics, its armies, and its weaknesses.
He bowed deeply.
"My king, the troops from Qarkash have arrived. They await your inspection."
Aelor studied him. "And the information you promised me?"
The man nodded. "All compiled. Everything I know of Westeros its lords, its armies, its dragons."
Aelor's eyes narrowed.
"Good. I will need it soon."
The March Toward Another City
Aelor mounted the Red Death, Tessarion climbing onto his shoulder before leaping onto the Red Death's back. The hatchling chirped excitedly, wings fluttering.
Jackal stepped forward.
"My king, where shall we strike next?"
Aelor looked toward the horizon — toward the next city that would fall under his banner.
"Anywhere that resists," he said. "Anywhere that doubts. Anywhere that thinks dragons are gone."
He tightened his grip on the saddle.
"We march at dawn."
The Red Death roared, Tessarion echoed with a high‑pitched screech, and the soldiers below raised their weapons in salute.
Aelor Drakarys was no longer just a survivor of Old Valyria.
He was becoming a conqueror.
And Essos was beginning to tremble.