Chapter 6 News Spread Fast
The year was 94 AC, and the world had not seen a true Valyrian dragonlord rise in centuries.
So when Aelor Drakarys claimed Qarth in a single day, the news did not crawl across Essos.
It exploded.
From the Jade Gates to the Shadow Lands, from the Dothraki Sea to the Free Cities, whispers spread like wildfire.
A dragonlord had awakened.
A dragon the size of a mountain had taken to the skies.
A city had bent the knee.
By the time the rumors reached Westeros, they were already twisted into legend.
And in King's Landing, the Small Council gathered in uneasy silence.
The chamber was warm with candlelight, but the air felt cold.
Septon Barth stood before the king, a scroll in his hands, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked carved in stone.
"My king," Barth began, voice tight with worry, "this is… troubling. Surely the reports must be exaggerated. There has never been a dragon recorded of such size. Someone would have seen it long before now."
He glanced down at the parchment again, as if hoping the words would change.
"And this name Drakarys. I admit, my knowledge of Old Valyria is extensive, but even I know little of that family. Do you, Your Grace?"
Around the table, the other council members murmured in confusion.
They knew the great Valyrian houses—Targaryen, Velaryon, Celtigar.
But Drakarys?
That name was a ghost.
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen raised a hand, and the room fell silent instantly.
His voice was calm, but there was a weight behind it.
"Drakarys," he said slowly. "They were… greater, in the days of Old Valyria. In my readings, their name appears often. Too often. Always tied to blood sorcery."
Barth swallowed.
"Blood sorcery, Your Grace?"
Jaehaerys nodded.
"They delved into forbidden arts. Magic deeper and darker than anything the Freehold allowed. Some texts claim they reached a point where they no longer needed sacrifices to fuel their spells."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"If this Aelor is truly of that blood… then he is far more dangerous than a simple dragonlord."
The council shifted uneasily.
Prince Aemon Targaryen, standing at his father's right, folded his arms. His expression was thoughtful, but beneath it lay a spark of excitement—perhaps even challenge.
"My father," Aemon said carefully, "forgive me if I speak out of turn. But if he has only one dragon, surely we could defeat him. The Black Dread still lives. Balerion alone could—"
Jaehaerys lowered his hand.
Not harshly.
Not angrily.
But with a quiet authority that silenced the entire room.
"Aemon," he said, "your plan has merit. But how long would he last? How long would we last? We do not know the limits of his power. We do not know the nature of his magic. We do not know the strength of his dragon."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"Before we prepare for war… we must understand his motivation."
Barth nodded vigorously.
"Yes, Your Grace. If he focuses only on Essos, then perhaps—"
"Perhaps nothing," Jaehaerys cut in gently. "A man who conquers Qarth in a day does not stop at one city. A dragonlord who awakens after centuries does not settle quietly."
Aemon's jaw tightened.
"What do you believe he wants, Father?"
Jaehaerys looked toward the window, where the faint outline of the Red Keep's towers cast long shadows across the city.
"I believe," he said softly, "that he wants what all Valyrian kings once wanted."
The room held its breath.
"A kingdom of his own."