Chapter 3 The First Flight and New Beginning Essence
The morning Aelor chose to leave Valyria, the air felt heavier than usual thick with ash, memory, and the last dying breaths of a world that had once ruled all others. He stood at the top of the long stone steps that led down to the dragon cavern, the Infinite Bag secured at his hip, the Artblade strapped across his back, and the Crimson Crown resting on his brow like a promise he had not yet spoken aloud.
Below, the Red Death waited.
She paced slowly behind the half‑opened gates, her massive wings shifting with restless anticipation. Even after centuries of slumber, she sensed what he intended. Her eyes glowed brighter than molten stone, and her tail scraped against the cavern floor with a low, thunderous rumble.
She was excited.
She knew it was time to leave their old home behind.
Aelor paused at the top of the steps, taking one last look at the ruined halls of House Drakarys. He had spent the night walking through them, tracing the last threads of magic that still clung to the stones. The castle was dying—its wards fading, its enchantments unraveling like frayed cloth. He could feel the magical webs thinning beneath his fingertips, dissolving into nothing.
He whispered a quiet farewell to the halls that had raised him.
Then he descended the steps.
The gates groaned as they opened fully, ancient hinges protesting after centuries of stillness. The Red Death lowered her head, her breath washing over him in a wave of heat. Aelor placed a hand on her snout, feeling the familiar pulse of their bond.
"It's time," he murmured.
She rumbled in agreement.
He climbed into the saddle, settling into the place that had once been as natural to him as breathing. The leather creaked beneath him, but it held—another miracle of Drakarys craftsmanship.
The Red Death inhaled deeply.
Then she roared.
It was the loudest sound she had ever made—so powerful it shook the castle foundations, rattled the hatchery walls, and sent loose stones tumbling from the cliffs. The roar echoed across the peninsula, a final declaration that House Drakarys still lived.
Through their bond, Aelor sent the command.
Go.
Fly.
Fly toward Qarth.
The Red Death launched herself upward with a force that nearly tore the air apart. Aelor gripped the saddle tightly as they shot into the sky, wings beating with thunderous power.
"Finally flying, we—"
His words cut off as his throat burned.
The air of Valyria hit him like poison.
He coughed violently, eyes watering, lungs screaming. Only now, high above the ruins, did he truly see it—truly feel it. The magic of Valyria was wrong. Twisted. Corrupted.
He looked down.
The volcanoes that had once been the heart of Valyrian power still spewed fire, but in his eyes they looked coldcold as ice. Their magic spilled out in thick, black sludge that seeped into the land like rot. Ritual sites that had once glowed with power now pulsed with sickly darkness.
He felt it in his bones.
This was their fault.
His family.
The dragonlords.
The Freehold.
"What could we have done?" he whispered, voice raw. "What was the tipping point for this?"
The Red Death growled not in irritation, but in amusement. He felt her meaning through their bond.
*Not the dragons' fault.
The dragonlords' fault.*
Aelor let out a bitter breath.
"The Targaryen girl… I wonder what else she saw. To come from such a small house and survive through dragon dreams alone. Uncommon. Rare. But we were too arrogant, weren't we, girl?"
The Red Death snorted, a plume of smoke curling from her nostrils.
They flew over the Valyrian peninsula, and Aelor's eyes widened. Below them, massive snake‑like creatures writhed across the scorched land firewyrms, but mutated beyond recognition. Their bodies burned with unnatural flame, their movements jerky and wrong.
The Red Death climbed higher, wings slicing through the ash‑choked sky.
Aelor shook his head and whispered a spell. A thin veil of shimmering air formed around his face a filter to keep the toxic air from burning his lungs. It helped, but only barely.
For five long hours they flew through the poisoned skies of Valyria. Only when they crossed the last ridge of the peninsula did Aelor finally breathe clean air again. He inhaled deeply, feeling the difference immediately.
The world still had magic.
Still had life.
Still had a place for him.
He tested his basic abilities small sparks of flame dancing across his fingertips. His power responded, steady and strong.
Below them, the first sight of Slaver's Bay appeared on the horizon. The Red Death let out a roar that echoed across the cities far below. People would hear it. People would fear it.
Aelor shook his head at her antics.
"Show‑off," he muttered.
But he couldn't deny the comfort of her presence.
Much had changed. The cities looked different new walls, new ships, new banners. But he hoped, foolishly, that somewhere in this world, dragonlords still existed. That dragon knowledge had not been completely lost.
They crossed the East, soaring over the endless red sands of the Red Waste. The heat shimmered below them, but the Red Death flew strong and steady.
Hours later, the shimmering walls and towering gates of Qarth rose in the distance, gleaming like jewels against the desert.
Aelor straightened in the saddle.
A new beginning waited there.
And he would claim it.