A/N: after a horrible lapse in updates, I am back and writing steadily. Retuning to Dragonstone is of great importance to me, and I want to take a moment to thank those who reached out to me with encouragement and support. You people mean the world to me, and I am grateful for the bottom of my heart. Thank you!
Now, to the story. Dragonstone takes place six centuries before the book series, so I have taken a handful of liberties well writing. The World of Ice and Fire provides the only available information on Valyria, leaving me with a bare skeleton in terms of culture and history. Please read with this in mind, as I have taken my fair share of liberties with the world-building. All information related to the SYOC (rules, form, cast, etc.) can be found on my profile. I hope all of you enjoy reading this chapter, and I wish each of you a good day/night.

Dragonstone | Part I | Stone & Flame

Prologue I

Volantis| Essos | Third Moon of 314 BC
Aerion Belaerys, Lord-Lieutenant of Valyria

Bloody streaks of light coloured the eastern sky, slashing across the pearly vault-like veins of fire. The Morning Sword hung among the shifting streamers, pummel star brilliant amid wisps of silver cloud. Aerion watched the daybreak in silence from the balcony of his apartment, a glass of white lyseni wine at his elbow. Leaning forward, he resting against the intricately carved railing with cat-like grace. The stone beneath his hands—black as ebony and cold as ice—seemed to swallow the new day's drawing light, matching his bitter mood.

A breath of wind stirred the gossamer hangings behind Aerion, revealing for a moment the chamber upon which the balcony's bay doors opened. The movement drew his eyes, and Aerion shifted, wary and tense as his gaze wandered over the alcoves and arches of the room beyond. Hidden blades and shadows flitted in the periphery of his vision, but the space was as he'd left it; small articles scattered across the glass-like floor. Salt stained flying leathers and reinforced light-armour lay in an uncleaned heap near the door, and the mantle of his rank was carelessly draped over the only chair.

Sighing, Aerion left the balcony and padded into the room, booted feet sliding on the polished floor. Taking up the mantle, he made to return across the chamber when movement again caught his eye.

The breeze had woven its soft touch about the room, and though the body atop the bed weighed them down, the silken sheets still fluttered like the broken wings of a butterfly. The bedding was tumbled from the night's activities, but Aerion's heart still beat faster as his mind added blood and figments of glass and stone to the tranquil scene.

Volantis had not been kind in the past.

Shaking his head, Aerion left the slave to sleep and made his way swiftly back into the open air. Taking a sip of wine, he tried to clear his head and focus again on the rising rose-gold sun, but memories were quick to overwhelm him. Clutching the maroon mantle with both hands, Aerion allowed his mind to wander down echoing pathways of recollections best forgotten.

The flash of blades against the midnight sky, slivers of silver reflected in a frozen pool.

Rich colours and thick carpets beneath bare feet, pictures swirling in the bright hearth fire.

The taste of white wine paired with the sound of over-bright laughter and the feel of fresh silk sheets.

Of burying his blade-scared hands in silver hair, letting it flow like liquid moonlight between them.

Of a body pressed against his own, unmarred ivory skin admitting a soft glow under the first blaze of dawn.

Of heather coloured eyes flicked with dancing grey sparks.

Of a smile gentle as the brush of feathers, yet sharp as steel.

Aerion pushed the memories away and took another sip of wine. The taste alone, however, was enough to send him spiralling back into the abyss.

Flames rose around him, and screams echoed off black stone walls; somewhere, a dragon roared. His beloved lay crumpled on the floor before him, blood flowing into his hair from the hole Aerion's blade had left in his temple.

Tears burned his eyes, and Aerion leaned forward, putting much of his weight on the railing as he let the salty drops fall to the courtyard below. His life had been destroyed in Volantis three years before, and this visit had not washed away those cruel memories—not that he'd thought it would. Aerion knew he could never take back what he'd done out of duty to the Freehold that day, nor could he seek forgiveness for it from the one most hurt.

Aerion sighed and glanced back toward the bed. The governors had offered the slave as a gift of hospitality, and for a moment, Aerion thought to wake the dark-haired young man and try to lose himself in physical pleasure. It would do no good, but he could think of no other means of forgetting the images burning behind his eyes. He always took dark-haired men into his bed. Any flash of silver was like pouring wine into the open wound that was his heart. More than that, Aerion would not dishonour the man he'd loved, still loved, by calling a slave by his name. He had done enough when he'd struck down his beloved and would not black his reputation further. Aerion had done his duty to the Freehold, but he'd never reported what had passed between them to the governors.

Duty and love did not mix. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

Thoughts drifting, Aerion found himself thinking upon the oath he'd sworn after learning his beloved's fate—that he'd never love another. It was safer to let a forgotten traitor left to die in a tower keep his heart than leave it free for another's taking. Aerion missed the passion brought by romantic love, physical pleasure was but sparks to its blaze, but it was not worth the risk. Besides, Aerion did not think he could love another even if he'd wished to.

Sipping his wine, Aerion turned his back on the rising sun and cased his gaze west. He'd spent the morning dwelling upon the past, even as he looked toward a new beginning in the distant lands of Sunset Kingdoms. The scroll containing his orders was tucked away, ready to be used when he returned to Valyria. Aerion now had the right to demand assistance from any citizen of the Freehold, regardless of rank. Lords, maegs, and freeborn alike would be at his command. The penalty for disobeying him would be so high it would ruin even the greatest and leave generations of the poor in debt. Only the governors could overrule him now, and Aerion intended to make use of this power.

He would build the fortress as ordered and would hold it until his last living breath. He would prove to all those who'd never seen past his slave father that he was as great a dragonlord as any of the purest old blood. Aerion would prove himself to the governors earn the right to a Valyrian blade as his mother had, as nearly every Freehold lieutenant before him had done. He'd meant to show himself worthy in this city three years ago but had failed out of love. Aerion loved the same man then as he did now, but Jaednar Vaelysen was no longer beside him, questing the law and speaking of anarchy. Drinking down the last of his wine, Aerion left the balcony and dressed in the silence of the chamber beyond. Fastening his mantle, he collected blade and orders before heading down to the courtyard under a sky, just giving up the remnants of a stunning dawn.

Aerion wanted to be in the Sunset Kingdoms within three moons, and he'd work to do.

III

Storm's End | Westeros | Forth Moon of 314 BC
Joscelin Durrandon, King of the Stormlands

Scarlet leaves fell like drops of blood into the black pool. Among the ivory branches above—whose twisted limbs stretched toward the gloomy sky like skeletal fingers—the wind murmured a pray for the dead. Joscelin closed his eyes and tried to shut out the eerie whispers. He was alone. The only sounds echoing from the rough stones of the enclosing wall were those of the wind and his imagination.

But he could still hear them.

Within the desolate godswood, the mutters were nothing. Outside the ancient place of worship, however, a very different truth held sway. From the inter passages of Storm's End to the lowest farmers hut, Joscelin knew they called him cursed. He might pretend not to hear, not to see when a mother pulled her child close, not to care when his family withdrew from his touch. Joscelin could live with their fear, even shared in it, but he could not stand the rumours spreading through his land like the plague.

"Cursed, blessed, damned to the seven hell, promised salvation," Joscelin said.

The words tasted of damnation.

The last two men to wear the crystal crown had spoken them. One had denounced Joscelin's rule as an affront to the Seven and called upon the Faithful to strike him down. The second had proclaimed him favoured by the Gods, his grayscale a divine mandate to rule. The controversy had brought the southern kingdoms to the brink of war, and only the actions taken by the Princess of Dorne saved the Stormlands from a war they could not have won. Threatening invasion—should the Reach act against him—she'd stamped out the sparks before they became a raging fire too hot for any water to cool. Joscelin owed an unpayable debt to the princess, and even now, he could remember the lines she'd sent by raven days after her declaration became known.

'Do not fear, young king; your throne is safe so long as I rule the red-gold sands of Dorne. Our spears and poisons are yours to call upon until the day your life ebbs away. This is Dorne, and we know better than to head the statements of old men dressed in white. May your heart be ever true.'

Her words—a simple kindness in the darkest of hours—had lead Joscelin to the light. They'd allowed him to find his courage and push forward, putting down the whispered rebellions of his vassals and then to face down two kings who could count upon their banners with sure strength. Still, people watched him. Joscelin knew they waited for the day he failed.

Sighing and rubbing his brow, Joscelin squinted into the murky sky, wondering if he could find answers among the clouds. His forbears had prayed to the gods of wave, wind, and weather, and a part of Joscelin felt tempted to do so now. The Seven, after all, had shown him no aid nor offered any favour; they'd brought nothing but suffering and trails into his life. Joscelin had been told not to question the Gods' will—that it was beyond the understanding of mortals—but he could only feel that the divine powers had abandoned him.

A shadowy flicker across the northern skyline caught Joscelin's eye, and he focused, trying to make out the spot of movement. The dark skies and low light hindered him—ever-worsening eyesight aside—and the speck had crossed the bay and was being to descend before he identified it.

A raven.

Joscelin pushed himself to his feet, stumbling numbly over the stone covered ground. Better to discover the message's contents now, then force the guards to search the castle for him. He wished to know what tidings the bird brought before any others, especially if they were ill—dark wing, dark words. Yet Joscelin had not made it ten paces when the sound of wings filled the air around him, followed by iron sheathed claws gripping his shoulder. Their hold was strong enough to be felt through leather, wool, and what lay beneath. Joscelin smiled, feeling the brush of a beak through the inky strands of his loosely tied hair.

"Grooming me, are you?" He asked softly, half-smiling as he leaned into the bird's touch. "I am hardly your mate."

The last words were bitter and tasted of sand. A reminded of another act he could not perform, another thing that made him different.

The raven replaced with a noise, something between a child's cry and the hum of a single harp string. Joscelin raised one gloved hand, and the bird fluttered forward to rest upon his wrist, allowing him to at last see it properly. A ray of watery sun broke through the black clouds above, turning the tips of the raven's inky feather to deepest scarlet—the colour of heart's blood. It glinted to, off the silver sliver attached to one of the raven's legs by a chain thin as spider silk.

"Ah," Joscelin said, flicking the chain with his thumb, "Nál. What news from my lands?"

The she-raven ruffled her feathers and shifted but did not answer him. Instead, wings brushed against Joscelin's cheek as another raven landed on his shoulder. In the bone-white weirwood overhead, a third raven took their place. Inhaling sharply, Joscelin tried to listen past the rapid pounding of his pulse, waiting for words he knew would shift threads upon the loom of fate.

His flock did not gather unless great things were to come.

The wind moaned in the skeletal boughs above as the last leaves dropped silently to the ground. Crimson drops upon the dry grass and stone of the godswood. Joscelin bit his lip, adding a few drops of his cursed blood to the thousands which had already soaked beneath the soil.

"Danger," croaked the bird on his shoulder, iron claws digging into the flesh as Nál's had not. "Danger and flame."

"East," the bird in the trees added. "Look east."

Joscelin closed his eyes, calming his racing heart with a few deep breaths. He trusted the ravens—a gift from the only power in which he could believe—and they would not be so cryptic if the crisis were emanate. Still, he'd need to interpret their words quickly, lest their warning is just moments ahead of the storm. Yet nothing lay to the east, only wind tosed water and a continent few had seen.

But what had the birds warned him of? Fire?

Joscelin's blood ran cold. Turning from the bench beside the black pool, he limped toward the nearest entrance to the castle proper, chased by the first drops of rain. He did not pray to be wrong, there were no Gods to listen, but he sent the ravens to fetch the castellan and maester to his chambers. The Rainwood would not burn, Joscelin silently vowed, numb feet caching on the uneven flags of the floor, not where there was yet air in his lungs.

III

Valyria | Essos | Fifth Moon of 314 BC
Viserra Vaelysen, Lady-Maeg

Arches of black stone rose into the smokey shadows like the rips of a long-dead monster. Shards of dancing firelight casting strange patterns across the glassy floor as they reflected off the runes covered walls. Viserra's fingertips burned with power, golden sparks playing between them as she shaped the molten rock before her. A veil of magic blossomed around her, blazing like a thousand stars in the dim chamber. Humming softly, Viserra harmonised with the tumble of water and the raising of flames, each note of her song a different question or command, blending into a melody old as mountains.

She was no master of the old arts. Skill, however, mattered far more than raw power when working with the greatest of primaeval elements. Viserra had years yet to gain knowledge, but none could doubt her mastery of flame and stone. Sacred were those who wiled magic like hers, and so rare was its gift that none could forbid a flamesinger from works of magic.

No person living could take this final salvation from her.

During the darkest watches of the night, Viserra reminded herself of that fact. It was the one solid thing in her life. She'd sit alone in the chamber crowing her family's home, watching her brother's life ebb away, and repeat allowed the laws regarding the use of magic. Though many long nights, it had kept her sane.

At times Viserra wished for the delicate touch and soft glow of a healer's gift. Her father's gold had seen to it that Jaed had the best of healers, but some part of Viserra believed she could do more for her brother had her magic been different. The realistic part of her acknowledged that only a tear in fate's fabric could change the past, and it could not be bought with gold or power—even magic was useless against the tapestry of life.

Viserra shook her head and allowed the tune on her lips to die. The last notes echoing about the chamber as silence slipped in to fill its place. There was nothing to intrude upon this far beneath the suffice, even the most profound moments of flawlessly frozen time.

Sighing, Viserra surveyed the result of her efforts with cold disgust. Once again, she'd allowed her mind wander well, working, and it had cost her the dragon she'd been forming. The twisted stone upon the table before her resemble not one of the majestic creatures but rather a misshapen beat with stubby wings and a horse-like head.

Eyes burning with unshedable tears and disheartened by another failure, Viserra turned from the table and moved to the carved basin in the room's far corner. It was built into the wall and supported by three dragons, wings folding together to serve as a shallow but wide bowl. The piece was the work of her father's first wife—Jaed's mother—and had been a gift upon the occasion of Viserra's engagement. Dipping blistered hands into the cool water, she carefully washed away ash and sand with an old cloth. The once pure water turned an ashy grey, and swirls of scarlet from her ruined fingertips, blistered and cut to the bone by years of magic.

Viserra had given up wearing gloves years before. Any protection was rendered useless because her power would burn through even the thickest of treated leather. Reaching to the shelf above the basin, she took down a green-glass jar and opened it, rubbing the wax-like substance it contained into the broken skin of her fingers. All who worked with fire sustained such injures—you could fine a flamesinger in any crowd by the scars upon their hands—but Viserra's were worst than most.

She never gave them time to heal, unable to bear being free of pain when her brother suffered unbroken silence.

Turning back to the table, Viserra retrieved the mishap dragon. The rough stone had cooled somewhat, but holding it still sent a tingle of pain through her hands. She moved across the room on light feet, crossing to the gutter that followed one wall of the room.

Viserra dropped the figure in.

As it tumbled to the bottom of the channel, the stature twisted. The water filling the gutter was filtered down from the mountains, channelled to Valyria using a massive series of subtracting waterworks. It was not hot enough to shatter the warm stone, but it still conformed into an almost unidentifiable lump.

After allowing the broken statue to cool, Viserra pulled it from the gutter and slipped it into a leather pouch hanging at her belt. Putting out the lamps with a wave of her hand, Viserra stalked from the chamber. The corridor outside was dark, but she needed no light to follow the gently sloping floor upward. The room where she practised magic was on the lowest level of her family's home—tucked away from unwanted eyes beneath the wine cellars.

Viserra's fingers trailed along the wall as she walked, brush against roughly shaped rock. The stone came to life beneath her touch, whispering of a sorrow and hatred so deep that untold years could not dim it. Here, far from the bustle of life, the halls had been carved not with magic but by slaves. The stone remembered their blood and fear, and as Viserra passed, it told her of all it had seen. She would pass dark wood doors bound in iron and steel at intervals, though Viserra touched none. The rooms beyond were shapely, she knew, but they were drenched in blood.

As a child, Viserra had been frightened by the stories told her by the very halls of her home. Many nights she'd run crying to her brother's bed, begging him to chase away the shadows with soft words. Jaed would pull her close on such nights and whispered tales of his travels and the far corners of the empire he'd seen. They'd been rare moments of peace, those nights of stories and laughter, when he'd been the friend she needed in the dark.

No longer.

Those nights now seemed a phantom to Viserra, like a half-forgotten dream. She no longer feard the whispers of the rock and listened to them as a way to remind herself of the bitter world beyond the silvery walls of her family's estate. More than that, the vigil she'd kept these last three years had washed away her memories of Jaednar as he had been.

It was unbearable to remember, so Viserra had forced herself to forget.

All at once, the word opened around her, and Viserra stepped into a little-used courtyard behind the kitchen garden. The air smelled of cinnamon and charcoal, and a light breeze kissed her sweety skin. Above, the sun beat down in unrelenting rays, leaving the ground beneath Viserra's bare feet dusty and cracked.

Still, Viserra turned her face toward the blazing star. As long as it reminded in the sky, watching over the lands of green and gold, none could say light had been lost. Its daily rise and fall promised better things to come, of hope when darkness seemed all-encompassing.

Sighing, Viserra slipped silently through a nearby door and headed for the stairs. She was needed in the chamber crowning the manner, the pace that was her brother's sanctuary.

A/N: This concludes the opening chapter of the first arc of Dragonstone. Writing this was a challenge—though one I enjoyed—and I can't wait to hear your thoughts in the reviews. I have a wild ride planned for the future, and I look forward to meeting those who will accompany me and mine, whether they be other members or characters. I offer my apologies for any spelling, grammar, or punctuation issues, though not for the length (almost four thousand words), but I understand this was likely rather long in terms of fanfiction. Again, the information regarding the SYOC is my profile, and questions may be directed to my PM/DM box.
Keep safe and have a great day/night!
-Mx. Carazes

Needed Characters:
I will consider any and all submissions, however, I am in need of the following characters. If you wish to do a collab with me or another member, don't hesitate to get in touch. The same goes for character ideas and questions.
healer of Valyrian descent - any age, attending Jaednar Vaelysen
Durrandon princesses - aged 23-27 & 12-15
Ruling Princess of Dorne (Martell) - aged 22-28
Castellan at Storm's End - aged 35-50
Maester at Storm's End - aged 40-60

Fun Fact: Joscelin Durrandon is based on King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, who had leprosy.