Chapter 2 The Crimson Crown
The first light Aelor saw in the ruins of Valyria was not sunlight but the glow of molten stone sliding down the distant cliffs. Dawn here was a slow, red‑tinged thing, filtered through ash and smoke until the world looked like it had been dipped in blood. He stood at the mouth of the dragon cavern, the Red Death curled behind him like a living mountain, her breath rising in slow, thunderous waves. The air trembled with her presence, but for the first time since waking, Aelor felt something like steadiness.
He had survived the Doom. His dragon had survived the centuries. But survival alone was not enough. Not for a Drakarys.
He stepped out into the open, the Artblade resting against his back, the Infinite Bag at his hip. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying the scent of sulfur and the faint, distant echo of the sea. The world was quiet too quiet for a land that had once been the beating heart of an empire.
He walked toward what had once been the central courtyard of his family's estate. The stones were cracked, the pillars melted into grotesque shapes, but the layout was still familiar. He could almost hear the voices of his sisters, the stern commands of his father, the soft laughter of his mother. Ghosts, all of them, but they walked with him in memory.
But before he could face the ruins of the courtyard, he had to finish what he started in the vault.
The Vault Counting the Remains of a Dynasty
Aelor returned to the vault entrance, the heavy stone door still open from his earlier work. The air inside was cool and metallic, thick with the scent of old magic. He stepped inside and took a slow breath.
He needed to know exactly what he had left.
What House Drakarys still possessed.
What he could rebuild with.
He knelt beside the first pile of gold coins thousands of them, stamped with the dragon sigil of Valyria. He ran his fingers through them, letting the coins clink and slide. Some were fused together from heat, but most were intact.
He began counting.
Not coin by coin there were too many but by weight, by volume, by the old Drakarys method his father had drilled into him. He stacked them into measured piles, each representing a thousand. He filled the Infinite Bag with each stack, whispering the activation words so the bag swallowed them whole.
By the time he finished, he estimated:
Nearly 300,000 gold coins.
Enough to buy a fleet. Enough to buy a city. Enough to buy loyalty.
Next came the silver. Melted in places, warped in others, but still valuable. He counted by handfuls, by the weight of his palms, by the sound of metal sliding against metal.
Over a million silver pieces.
Copper he barely bothered with, but he took it anyway. Copper bought food. Copper bought silence. Copper bought time.
He moved to the Valyrian steel.
Some blades were perfect untouched by the Doom. Others were warped, twisted, melted into strange shapes. But even melted Valyrian steel was priceless. It could be reforged. It could be reborn.
He counted:
- 17 intact Valyrian blades
- 9 damaged but salvageable
- 3 melted into lumps but still usable
- A chest of raw Valyrian steel ingots
He placed each piece into the Infinite Bag with reverence. This was the true wealth of his house.
Then came the books.
Most crumbled at his touch, turning to dust before he could even read the titles. But some survived protected by enchantments, sealed in metal casings, or simply stubborn enough to endure.
He found
- The Drakarys Spell Codex
- The Alchemical Ledger of Maegon Drakarys
- The Family Ancestry, dating back to the first dragonlords
- A map of the old Freehold
- A journal written by his mother
He held that one for a long time before placing it gently into the bag.
He found portraits his mother's eyes, his father's jaw, his sisters' hair preserved by the same stubborn magics that had kept him. He held them until his fingers ached, then placed them gently into the bag as if laying them to sleep.
When he had taken everything he could carry, he dressed in the simple garments he had found folded in a chest. He strapped the Artblade to his back and stood in the vault and listened to the world.
Then the rumble came
The Hatcheries Counting the Future
The rumble grew. It moved through stone and bone and old magic until it reached him. It was a sound he had known since childhood the deep, rolling voice of a dragon waking.
He ran.
The hatcheries lay below, carved into the living rock where heat and ash had once been tempered into life. He had left twenty‑five eggs there when the world had begun to tear itself apart; he had tended them with the fierce, foolish hope of a man who believed in continuities.
He found them where he had left them, warm with the slow pulse of potential.
He counted them carefully:
25 eggs. All intact. All warm. All alive.
He gathered them, one by one, and tucked them into the Infinite Bag, feeling the weight of futures he could not yet name.
But when he reached the adult pits, he stopped dead.
There were eggs everywhere.
He counted again, slower this time, checking each one for cracks, for warmth, for the faint glow of life.
52 eggs.
Some cracked. Some whole. Some glowing faintly.
He didn't know if they were viable.
But he took them all.
Every egg was a chance.
Every egg was a future.
Every egg was a weapon.
The Crimson Crown
Only after securing everything gold, steel, books, portraits, eggs did he return to the courtyard.
There, half‑buried beneath rubble, he found the crown.
The Crimson Crown.
He lifted it with both hands. The metal was warm alive, almost. His father had worn this crown. His mother had held it. His ancestors had forged it in the earliest days of Valyria.
He rose slowly, the crown cradled against his chest. Behind him, the Red Death shifted, her massive head lifting to watch him. Her eyes glowed brighter, as if she understood what he held.
"You remember," he murmured. "Of course you do."
He placed the crown against her snout. The gem flared, casting red light across the cavern walls.
Then he lowered it onto his brow.
The metal settled against his skin like a brand. The gem pulsed once, twice, then steadied into a soft, crimson glow. Aelor felt something shift inside him an old magic awakening, recognizing him as its rightful bearer.
The Red Death roared.
The sound shook the ruins, sent ash spiraling into the air, and echoed across the broken landscape. It was not a roar of rage or warning. It was a proclamation.
Aelor stood tall, the crown gleaming against his pale hair, the Artblade at his back, the Infinite Bag heavy with the remnants of his house.
"I am Aelor Drakarys," he said softly, but the words carried like flame. "Last son of the Crimson Line. Heir to fire and blood. And I will not let our name fade into ash."
The Red Death lowered herself, wings folding, offering him her back.
Aelor placed a hand on her scales. They were hot, rough, familiar. He climbed onto her, settling into the place he had once ridden as a boy. The dragon shifted, muscles coiling beneath him.
The world had forgotten House Drakarys.
But the world would remember.
With a single, thunderous beat of her wings, the Red Death rose into the ash‑filled sky, carrying the crowned heir of a dead empire toward whatever future waited beyond the smoke.
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New items
The Crimson crown images
Dragon eggs images