GoT and House of The Dragon: The Last Valyrian Dragonlord.

"A realm supreme and mighty, forged in fire and blood."

The scorching white sun bore down upon a city that stretched beyond the horizon. Countless ships, their sails a riot of colors, crowded the seemingly endless harbor, packed together like sardines. The wide waters of the Rhoyne flowed steadily, their surface reflecting the long bridge spanning the river's mouth, broad enough for two carriages to pass side by side. Statues of sphinxes, dragons, and manticore-like creatures carved from black stone loomed over the congested crowds crossing the bridge, their cold, unyielding gazes ever watchful.

A sleek falcon sliced through the sky, a blur of feathers against the burning heavens. Below, a slave marked with a tattoo of writhing maggots carefully picked up a fallen feather, tucking it into the crude basket slung across his back. A whip-wielding overseer, his skin striped with tiger-like tattoos, barked orders, driving a long line of slaves as they labored to sweep the broad streets.

The falcon soared over the bustling port, where the air swirled with a heady mixture of fish, flowers, filth, and decay. It passed over merchants from across the world, tattooed slaves, and nobles reclining on golden seats atop miniature elephants, their silk tokar robes trailing behind them. The bird flew past the towering black walls, two hundred feet high, before finally landing atop an ornate black pillar. There, bathed in the sun's harsh light, a silver dragon encircled by laurel leaves gleamed upon the carved stone.

Across from the pillar, in a lavish chamber adorned with fountains shaped like dragons and manticores, an old man in gray robes reclined, reading aloud from a heavy tome.

A silver-haired boy, strikingly handsome, looked up in delight, sneaking a glance at the falcon.

"Rhae, pay attention," the old man chided, adjusting the chain around his neck, each link forged from a different metal.

"I'm sorry, truly," Rhae murmured, quickly shifting his gaze back. "I just miss Flamewing too much, Maester Viserys. Please don't tell my brother."

The twelve-year-old's violet eyes pleaded for understanding as he looked at his tutor, a learned scholar from the far west—a land the people of the Black Walls called the Sunset Kingdom. But Rhae knew its true name: Westeros. His late mother and father had spoken of it often.

It was his mother's long-lost, long-hated homeland.

"Your brother Rhaegel would never forsake knowledge for a mere falcon," Viserys said sagely, flipping to the next page. "Unless, of course, it were a dragon."

"But we have no dragons left."

Rhae lowered his head, the weight of that truth pressing against him. Still, the maester's steady voice carried on, reciting the chronicles in High Valyrian:

"Dawn bathed the eternal kingdom in light, where fire and ice ruled the land and sea for ten thousand years. Until the fated hour arrived—Pearl Emperor upon the throne, Tourmaline Emperor at the loom, Onyx Emperor forging armor, Topaz Emperor writing laws, Opal Emperor tending wounds. Then came the fall of order, the age of chaos, the long night of blood and betrayal, where the hero rose with sword in hand, and the Night Lion wept."

"Old myths and legends," Rhae thought idly, his mind drifting once more to Flamewing. "But my brother loves them. Is it just because the Amethyst Empress had violet eyes like ours?"

Feigning attentiveness, he fluttered his long lashes, a perfect picture of studious interest.

"Your ancestors rose from the volcanic peaks of the Fourteen Flames," Viserys continued. "They were sons of the mountains—warriors, scholars, sorcerers, and craftsmen."

"Legends are still just legends," Rhae mused privately. "We know well enough that our forebears were once simple shepherds."

"They awakened the children of the Fourteen Flames," the maester's voice grew hushed, "and so the greatest civilization was born. The Valyrians mounted their dragons and launched their conquests. The ancient Ghiscari Empire, proud and mighty, burned beneath dragonfire, its lands reduced to barren salt plains. The Rhoynar, masters of water magic who could drown dragons, fell with their gallant Prince Garin, consumed by the fury of three hundred winged beasts."

"Now this is getting interesting." Rhae tucked his hands into the sleeves of his violet silk robe, his fingers brushing against a small silver dragon figurine hidden within. He ran his thumb over its smooth surface, finally focusing on the words before him.

"At its height, Valyria's Freehold boasted forty noble families, each commanding dragons by the thousands."

"Yet now only one dragonlord house remains. No, not a dragonlord—just a lucky exile." Rhae continued to toy with the figurine, recalling his noble lessons.

"The dragonlords schemed from their ivory towers, their beasts roared atop the volcanic peaks, while millions of slaves toiled in the mines below. Across the known world, the Andals fled like rats, the Tall Men of Sarn bent the knee, the Ghiscari became chattel, and even the proud YiTish emperors coveted the hands of silver-haired Valyrian brides." The maester's voice swelled, like a bard reciting a grand epic.

"But then came Daenys the Dreamer, who foresaw doom. The failed house of Targaryen fled west with their dragons, and when the Doom finally struck, the once-mighty Freehold crumbled into fire and ash. The dragonlords burned, their beasts plummeting from the skies. A great empire was reduced to dust in a single night."

Viserys cleared his throat before continuing. "Your ancestor, the last Valyrian Emperor, Aurion Velaryon, was in Qohor when it happened. Greed clouded his judgment—he saw an opportunity amidst the ruins. He spent his fortune raising an army of thirty thousand—mercenaries, farmers, wandering Valyrian knights, and Qohorik sellswords. They marched upon Valyria itself, his dragon leading the way."

The maester's gaze turned sharp, studying Rhae. "And that, young lord, is where your direct ancestor comes in—Lingor Velaryon, the 'Lost Dragon.'"

"I know him!" Rhae's eyes brightened, delighted at reaching his favorite part of the family saga. "To protect him from assassins, his mother—a Valyrian noblewoman without a dragon of her own—shattered the egg Aurion left for him. Of course, he never managed to hatch one anyway."

"The army vanished within Valyria. Aurion and his crimson beast were never seen again. Thus ended House Velaryon's reign as a great dragonlord family," Viserys intoned solemnly.

He turned the page, detailing the house's later years in the Black Walls of Volantis. The family flourished under Gaemon Velaryon, amassing vast wealth—owning fertile lands along the Rhoyne, beetroot and wine estates, silk mills, forests, gold and silver mines, and ironworks.

But it was his grandson, Cleorius Velaryon, who became legend. Some called him a madman, others a genius, still more, a sorcerer. His innovations—glassmaking, silk production, metallurgy, shipbuilding—brought him untold riches. He freed his slaves, transforming them into loyal contract workers and warriors. The elite 'Silver Bloods' and 'Weepers' were born. He trafficked with shadowbinders, warlocks, and blood mages, seeking knowledge lost to time."

Rhae's hand tightened around the silver dragon figurine.

The corridors blurred past as he dashed toward the main courtyard. The figurine burned hot against his palm, but he did not recoil. It wasn't painful—it felt... right.

Then he rounded a corner, just as something round tumbled to a stop at his feet.

Rhae's breath caught in his throat. A hand rose instinctively to stifle a scream.

It was a severed head.