The rise of the Dragon Prince - So it begins...
The shores of Ember Island were being torn apart by the storm.
Waves shattered against black cliffs like desperate prayers, while Dragonfall remained unmoved—an ancient fortress of obsidian stone and blood-etched runes, standing defiant before nature itself.
Within its walls, the Dragon Guard marched in flawless formation. Ebony armor traced with crimson sigils reflected torchlight as they moved with silent purpose. War was approaching.
And their prince had already chosen its outcome.
At the heart of the fortress rose the throne hall.
Thirty meters high. One hundred meters long.
A cathedral of domination.
At its center stood the Blood Throne, carved from fire-glass and shadowed crystal, crowned by three sculpted dragon heads frozen in eternal fury.
Upon it sat Aerion Targaryen.
Silver hair bound behind his neck. Amethyst eyes devoid of mercy. His posture was perfect, his presence absolute.
Before him, a defeated lord struggled for breath.
“P-Please… my lord…” the man whispered, voice trembling.
Aerion raised a single hand.
Invisible force tightened.
The traitor collapsed, gasping, reduced to helpless weakness.
Moments later, Aerion released him.
The man fell to the floor, kissing stone and ash in frantic gratitude.
“You believed,” Aerion said calmly, “that betrayal could be forgiven.”
His voice carried through the hall like sharpened steel.
The screams that followed echoed long after mercy had vanished.
When silence returned, understanding followed.
No one defied the dragon twice.
Behind the throne, Kaidarax stirred—white scales shimmering, black horns curved like crowns. Her presence alone silenced every thought of resistance.
White fire devoured what remained of treachery.
Only two figures knelt beside the throne.
Isabella and Narcissa Malfoy.
Wrapped in silk and jewels, marked by sigils of devotion, they remained motionless, eyes lowered, loyalty carved into every breath.
Aerion spared them no glance.
His attention returned to judgment.
“Lady Dalia,” he said. “Your titles are revoked. Your fate is no longer yours to command.”
“I claim your service,” Aerion declared. “You will belong to this house until I decide otherwise.”
A collar of magic sealed her destiny.
When Aerion rose, the hall finally exhaled.
They dispersed like shadows.
Only Narcissa dared meet his eyes.
“Tonight,” he murmured softly, “you will attend me.”
A faint smile curved her lips.
His private chambers awaited.
There, Nymphadora stood in quiet anticipation.
Braided hair. Dark silk. Jewels of binding and devotion glowing faintly against her skin.
She bowed as he appeared.
“You may speak,” he said.
With a subtle gesture, restrained magic awakened.
Still, she remained composed.
“Lily Potter has escaped,” she reported. “Riddle moves openly. Hogwarts is his next target.”
When she finished, her control began to falter.
“You have done well,” he said.
Relief washed through her.
Letting presence replace touch.
Her breathing became uneven.
“You belong to me,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.
When he finally drew her close, it was with authority tempered by care.
Their union was fire and shadow.
A merging of power and surrender.
Later, as she rested against him, trembling and breathless, he spoke:
“You will carry my legacy.”
“I live for you,” she whispered.
Tonight, he claimed loyalty.
For dragons did not fade.
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