Chapter 7 The People and Their New King
Qarth had changed in only a few days.
Not because its walls were stronger.
Not because its nobles were wiser.
But because a dragonlord now walked its streets.
Aelor Drakarys sat in the solar he had claimed as his own, the room filled with scrolls, ledgers, and maps. He had spent the last three days dispelling traps, illusions, and curses hidden throughout the estate. Qarth was beautiful on the surface, but beneath the silk and jewels lay rot political rot, magical rot, moral rot.
He had already burned several nobles who thought themselves clever enough to test him.
The rest learned quickly.
Now he was reviewing proposals, petitions, and reports from every corner of the city. His deep scarlet eyes moved from one document to the next, calculating, planning, shaping the future he intended to build.
He had 100,000 soldiers under his command now.
Not all trained.
Not all loyal.
But all his.
Slaves who earned freedom.
Young men seeking glory.
Women seeking purpose.
Families seeking protection.
And mercenaries old, tired, desperate mercenaries.
The Dragon Scions.
They had once been a proud sellsword company made up of dragonseed descendants scattered across Essos. But time had worn them down. Their numbers had dwindled. Their reputation had faded. Their coffers had dried.
They were dying.
Until Aelor bought their entire contract in one stroke.
Now they were permanent.
Now they were his.
Now they were the elite core of his new army.
Aelor Addresses His People
Aelor stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the training grounds, where thousands of men and women moved in organized lines. Qarth had never seen anything like this before. The city had always relied on mercenaries, slaves, and political manipulation to keep order. But now it had something else entirely:
an army with purpose.
He watched as former slaves now freed by his decree trained beside young men eager to prove themselves, and women who had never before been allowed to hold a blade. Some had come from desperation. Some from ambition. Some simply wanted a future that wasn't chained to a master or a merchant prince.
Aelor didn't care where they came from.
He cared what they could become.
He walked down the steps into the courtyard, and the soldiers straightened as he passed. The Red Death lay behind him like a living mountain, her presence alone enough to silence the grounds.
Aelor raised his voice so all could hear.
"You stand here today because you chose something better. Some of you were slaves. Some of you were thieves. Some of you were mercenaries with no future. But now you are soldiers of my command. You will be trained. You will be armed. You will be paid. And you will be respected."
A ripple of pride moved through the ranks.
He gestured to the front line.
"This is Vaelor Maegyr, commander of the Dragon Scions. He has fought in more battles than most of you have years. He will shape you into warriors worthy of a dragonlord."
Vaelor bowed, his pale hair tied back, his armor worn but polished.
"And this is Seris Velthar, his second. She survived the Basilisk Isles and carved her freedom with her own hands. She will teach you discipline."
Seris nodded once, her eyes sharp as steel.
Aelor continued, introducing the rest of the Scion leadership:
- Rhaekor Saan, scoutmaster
- Lynor Vhal, heavy infantry captain
- Miraella Qhor, chief healer
- Tessaro Velys, quartermaster and logistics officer
"These are the people who will lead you," Aelor said. "Learn from them. Follow them. And together, we will build something greater than this city has ever known."
The soldiers roared in approval.
Aelor let the sound wash over him.
He needed them.
All of them.
Old blood loyalists.
Mercenaries seeking coin.
Freed slaves seeking purpose.
Young men seeking glory.
Women seeking strength.
He needed every blade.
Aelor's Private Thoughts
Later, when the courtyard emptied and the sun dipped low, Aelor walked alone through the estate. His mind churned with plans.
He had one dragon.
One.
The Red Death was mighty larger than any dragon alive.
But even she could not fight an entire host of dragonriders.
He did not want war with the Targaryens.
Not yet.
His magic still worked, but this new age was different.
Magic was not free anymore.
It cost him energy.
It cost him strength.
He needed another dragon.
He needed a hatchling.
He needed a future.
The Ritual Begins
Aelor approached the Red Death with his satchel and the Crimson Crown. She lifted her head, snorting in amusement. She already knew what he intended.
"You want this too, don't you?" Aelor murmured.
She rumbled softly.
Dragons did not like being alone.
The eldest dragon of a dragonlord's family was always the Mother of Dragons the one who taught the young, protected the nest, and guided the brood.
The Red Death wanted that role again.
Aelor chose a spot outside the city a wide, open area of soft earth. The Red Death had picked it herself. The ground was easy to shape, perfect for a makeshift dragon pit.
He began carving runes into the soil Old Valyrian symbols of fire, life, and rebirth. The circle grew wider and deeper, glowing faintly as he worked.
When he finished, he placed the Crimson Crown on his head.
Power surged through him raw, overwhelming, intoxicating.
For a moment, he felt like he was back in Old Valyria, standing beneath the Fourteen Flames.
He raised his hands.
Fire gathered around him, swirling in spirals of red and gold. His aura flared, matching the Red Death's heat barely. It strained him. It burned him. It pushed him to his limits.
But he held.
The Red Death stepped forward and opened her jaws.
A torrent of scarlet flame engulfed him and the egg he placed in the center of the circle. The fire did not burn him it fueled him. Their magic intertwined, dragon and dragonlord, ancient and new.
The egg glowed.
Cracked.
Shuddered.
Aelor whispered the final word of the spell.
The egg split open.
A small dragon emerged green‑scaled, bright‑eyed, with two sharp horns curving back from its skull. It screeched, wings flaring, fire sparking from its tiny mouth.
The first dragon hatched in centuries that did not belong to House Targaryen.
Aelor knelt, exhausted but smiling.
"Welcome," he whispered. "My little flame."
The Red Death rumbled proudly.
The Mother of Dragons had a child again.
And Aelor Drakarys had begun his dynasty.