When Ancalagon the Black awoke, it was to be buried beneath tonnes of earth. For so long had the immense winged dragon slept in his injury-induced coma that broad fields had grown over his form, his spiked back forming hills and his huge horns small mountain peaks. Slowly he pushed himself free of the earth, the ground quaking as Ancalagon's body ripped free of the landscape. With slow movements he crawled forth from the soil, shaking his huge form to rid himself of trees and dirt which rained down upon the torn landscape.
For several days he spent acclimating himself to breathing again, to cleaning his sharp black scales and tending to the wound at his breast. The one which had sent him plummeting from the sky and shattering the peaks of Thangorodrim. The great scar spread down his chest, from the throat to the curving of his sternum, leaving the regrown scales a gleaming white in stark contrast to the pitch black of the rest of his hide.
Yet still, Ancalagon was confused. Not through his lack of death, for as the greatest of all the flying dragons it was not strange for him to have survived, but rather that he had spent a week upon land and not once had the sun appeared. He also did not recognize the stars above him and even the air smelled odd.
And there was the fact he could not sense Morgoth. Perhaps not so odd the Dark Lord had fallen, as Ancalagon knew his king had unleashed him and his fellow winged dragons as a final defense when the Valar came for him with the likes of Thorondor and Eärendil, so it made sense that Morgoth had been defeated. But odder still was the lack of Eru Ilúvatar's presence. The Father of All had been felt by all in the ending of the age, even Ancalagon due to being born of Morgoth, one of Eru Ilúvatar's Valar children. But there was nothing now, nothing in the air to speak of the One who is above all thrones for ever.
It was if the Father of All was gone, vanished from the world which now held nothing of His regard. This world was not being looked upon by anyone.
It was a strange sensation which Ancalagon could not decide if he preferred it or not. Either way that was how it was now, and if the Alone one had chosen to retreat back to His Timeless Halls then so be it. Ancalagon the Black was still living, even if the age of Morgoth had come and gone and the great dragon was alone and without his flock of fellow fire-drakes.
Another week passed before Ancalagon found himself strong enough to fly. While healed, the deep sleeping through the ages had taken its toll and when he flew forth it was slow and steady. His flight was heralded by great thunder but as he flew across the lands he acknowledged none of it was familiar to him, even with the immense maps of Middle-Earth that Morgoth had shown him.
There was a thick blanket of snow covering the land, the trees skeletal and Men were no where to be found. Ancalagon had to wonder if it was now an Age of Ice upon the land even as he searched with all his senses until he could smell magic deep within the black winter. A familiar magic, that of filthy Elves.
It seemed no matter what, even the death of the First Age had not rid the world of them.
But when Ancalagon found the Elves, they were not what he remembered; creatures of ice and snow, veins of frost and skin blue like frostbitten corpses while wearing armour like glass. Still furious at his defeat at the hands of Eärendil, Ancalagon the Black attacked the strange blue Elves with all the rage within him. His great fires engulfed the land, melting snow into rivers of water and blasting the blue Elves to ash as his black-and-red inferno swallowed them. The undead horde with them found the same fate, even when Ancalagon landed upon the ground. Hundreds crushed into kindling under a single swipe of his forepaws, his huge tail sending thousands flying up onto the air.
For three sunless days and three blackest nights he rampaged through the Elven army, killing and burning and slaughtering as many as he could. The entire continent was a scorching bed of ash and embers when he finally satiated his rage and his blood cooled. However when he was flying over the remains of a copse of trees, the bark white and leaves a persistent crimson even in the unyielding winter, he sensed another race and chose to land.
He found several creatures imprisoned by the Ice Elves that were neither Men nor Elf. Bound within a strange immense box made out of hoarfrost which Ancalagon shattered with a single claw and let them come free.
Ancalagon thought the creatures perhaps related to Ents; beings born of bark and leaves, soil and rain. The size of Dwarves, and belonging to the earth just so. Whatever they were, they showed him due respect so he permitted them their lives as he set them free. They could converse with him, being creatures of an element. Earth over his fire, but not dimwitted like Man. They spoke in nature, of the falling leaves and rushing water while he replied in kind of crackling fire and smoldering flames and engulfing shadows. Difficult at times but they could speak to each other nonetheless and because of that he demanded to know what Age he was within.
Those Who Sang The Song of Earth knew not of Morgoth nor even Eru Ilúvatar. They knew not of the Ages that he spoke of. Nothing of the Vala, Maiar, Balrogs or Orcs. They did not even know of dragons, listening as Ancalagon told them of himself and his fellow fire-drakes, and then they spoke of themselves and who they were as a people. Perhaps the Old Gods they spoke of were the remnants of Ents or Huorns, for as they described their gods it was of the trees and rivers, valleys and mountains.
Either way, it seemed Ancalagon the Black was now alone in a strange new world where nothing was familiar. But his grievous assault upon the Winter Elves has brought an end to the Long Night as the ones Who Sang The Song of Earth spoke about, and due to his great massacre upon the Elves the remnants of those hot-blooded could now drive them back. They thanked him either way, them only being focused upon the cycling of life and held no hostility for flames and dragons. Ancalagon let them be.
He then returned to where he awoke, and slept for nearly two centuries, exhausted after such a long rest followed by such a splendid effort of violence. When he awoke, it was to the sun high above and not being swallowed by the earth. Shaking off the grass and trees that had started trying to grow over his wings and tails, Ancalagon the Black took to the air.
It seemed that Man had in fact survived the great winter the Ice Elves had provoked, as he flew over several towns and small cities as he familiarized himself back with this new world. Ancalagon the Black, as now the greatest creature that existed, felt it was his right to name this new world. Arda had been the name of the previous world that Ancalagon had slept through the death of, so he decided to name this new one Planetos for it was his and so was everything that existed within it.
His flying was met with terror and awe from Man, which he accepted with great satisfaction. Let them cower like the lesser race they were, before the glory of the greatest and strongest of the winged dragons. He who survived the death of a world, the Black dragon of the Dark Lord Morgoth. He also found other races, who were not quite Man yet not quite Elf. Ones who stood nearly eight feet tall or others with green skin and webbed hands and even giant Men that stood as tall as Ents. He kept note of his findings even as he carried on his flight to find a suitable lair for himself.
Once he did cross paths with those Who Sing The Song of the Earth again, different from the ones he remembered but they remembered him just the same. They were upon an isle of a lake, surrounded by the white trees and still remembered their manners to him. They spoke to him of their alliance with Man, and their own greenseers which was a concept that intrigued him, as they remained on watch for the Ice Elves as while they had been driven back beyond a great magicked Wall they were not extinct and some day would return.
Only then did Ancalagon scold the small beasts, for their assumption he would aid them if that happened again. He spared their lives when they appropriately grovelled and apologized for their impudence, destroying three of the trees as a warning for such an insulting assumption. Only the Lord of the Dark could order Ancalagon the Black, and he was long since dead.
He then left the small creatures to reflect upon their actions as he continued his exploration of this new world.
Eventually he found himself a new lair; a great peninsular to the east where he found a line of volcanoes with the earth beneath laden with so many geodes and jewels and natural veins of gold and silver it could satiate the avarice of a dragon his size. The warmth of the fourteen flames warmed his black scales, comforting as the fire in his belly. He claimed it as his lair, digging beneath the huge volcanoes in such a grand chasm even he could sleep within it. Even when one of the peaks exploded the boiling lava was of no inconvenience, instead he used it to shape the outside of his lair when it hardened into obsidian. A lustrous gleam that matched his hide.
There he fell into a contented sleep, in his gargantuan cave with the ground, walls and ceiling studded in so many geodes and crystals and gold that it shone with a prism of colours.
Then he got awoken a week later, to a sheep farmer than stumbled into his lair. The foolish Man somehow failed to see the colossal dragon when he was attempting to herd his sheep from the cave and his screaming was very annoying when Ancalagon cracked open a crimson eye.
He had intended on killing the Man, for such a punishment for such a trespass was a fitting end but as he kept the man pinned underneath a single claw he thought of how he might spend his days. There was no war to fight and there was nothing in this new world that could challenge him and Ancalagon now had his lair. Boredom would set in soon and after seeing those who sing the song of the earth and the Ice Elves made him curious. He knew of Eru Ilúvatar, naturally, as the one who created everything and granted life. But he also knew of Morgoth, who spurned the ideas of his Father and created his own many species including dragons.
Thinking that over, the great dragon decided he would try to do as Morgoth had done. That is, create his own race for he may be the greatest of all the winged dragons and always would be, he had enjoyed his flock back before the War of Wrath struck them down.
The issue Ancalagon found was that dragons were not bound firmly enough to the world of Man or Elves. If they had been anchored to either race, then they would remain strong and true even as each age turned. That was why when Ancalagon the Black decided to create a race of Man for his own, he decided to infused his own blood within and that of the wyrms he attempted to create.
Using magic upon Men was a difficult task; Ancalagon was no sorcerer but as a dragon he was born and bred of magic, even moreso due to Morgoth's involvement in his birth as a winged fire-drake. Still, Ancalagon had to routinely fetch more humans each time his experiments would fail or have odd effects. Luckily the new land he had been brought to was ripe with exotic human types, and even elves in the form of the strange forest dwelling creatures to the north. The ice elves were useless to him, as they died the moment they were exposed to his burning blood, so after several failed batches he left them beyond the Wall and focused upon the other races left to him.
He would drag many of the Men back to the peninsular, twisting them within his magic to burn it deep within their bones. Ones bound to dragons, now and forever, as he tried to emulate the races he remembered of Arda. For while he hated them he could not deny they had lived through many toils.
He remembered Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, who even among Men was famous for her grand beauty and tall, noble countenance. Ancalagon had never met the elf but had heard stories of her and knew how her appearance had transfixed those who met her. For this, he used her appearance as a template for the new species he attempted to create. Galadriel's hair was one of most spoken of aspects, a radiant gold shot with silver, and after two decades successfully made it a dominant trait for his new species. When they reproduced their children would have such hair, gold and silver, for it was a trait of the Vanyar.
The purple eyes were a byproduct of such magic in their blood but Ancalagon accepted it. They were also more resistant to disease and extremes of nature, but he could not make them immune. Sometimes the dragon-children could survive being put in fire, other times they screamed and died like anything else. Ancalagon soon came to greatly respect the patience Morgoth must have held, to do such experiments for so many centuries. It was on that idea that Ancalagon began to call these creatures, these dragonblooded Men, his children.
Valyrians, he chose to call them as a race. Both as an insult towards the Vanyar and their language of Vanyarin, but to also prove that in the end he had succeeded in creating a race filled with dragons-blood while the Elves had held themselves up so high yet now they were extinct and his 'children' remained. He taught them their own dialect, Valyrian, which he had created himself, even if he found it easier to simply speak directly into their minds. As children of his blood, he could sense them instinctively nearby. They adored and feared him in equal measure, seeing him as their god and terrible guardian. His demands were simple for their continued existence; to respect him and his place in their creation.
But it was not just the Men he had made, but also dragons. His first experiments with his blood had produced great wyrms, which made Ancalagon think of Glaurgun the Father of Dragons. These firewyrms held not Glaurgun's mesmerizing stare nor his intelligence but Ancalagon successfully molded them enough after himself they could breathe great flames. None ever came close to Ancalagon's size but by the standards of Man they were immense. However they preferred to burrow within the earth like worms or moles to his confusion; while Ancalagon enjoyed his lair of gemstones and gold, he still left regularly to fly and taste the air. He felt perhaps it was a product of their stubby legs and let them be, as like with Morgoth Ancalagon's creations were able to breed without his intervention.
He created sea serpents, through his failed attempt to replicate cold-drakes. Ancalagon did not care for these ones but nonetheless let the fish-dragons go free in the sea. The same for the wyverns, which were almost draconic with their bat-like wings and long tails but failed any attempt for him to have them breathe flames and their scales could be punctured by any blade and their size remained stunted. Both were useless to him so he set them off to the sea and sky. If they survived then so be it. They were not wanted with him.
It was into his later years that he successfully created winged fire-breathing dragons, even as his Valyrians had began construction of their cities out beyond his lair. They worshiped him as their god, as they rightly should.
The first fourteen winged dragons he created were based upon his own memories of his lost kin; bright coloured scales that he made certain now covered the soft, slimy underbelly of a dragon which had been the byproduct of his failed wyverns. There would be no vulnerable place for his new-born kin of this land. Their horns, teeth and claws were as black as night, their link to Ancalagon the Black's hand in their creation. However it seemed he sacrificed their bewitching gaze for an armoured belly which he accepted with some frustration. They also lacked the additional legs Ancalagon had; he possessed four legs and his great sky-swallowing wings. These ones only had hind legs and had to use their folded wings to crawl upon the ground like bats. For him, Ancalagon thought it was very undignified however with enough blood fueled into them they grew rapidly and proved themselves to breathe flame so were not revealed to be failures like the wyverns.
The most frustrating thing, however, was the dragon's lack of intelligence. They were smarter than most beasts, but Ancalagon found himself unable to teach them speech. They could learn demands or phrases but remained dimwitted much to his annoyance. Still, it was the first true step he had come in regaining his fellow fire-drakes as they grew larger and larger.
They were magicked of course and Ancalagon found they would breathe flames that matched their scales. Flames that, the larger they got, the more destructive it became. Hot enough to melt steel, to melt stone.
It was then he summoned his dragonblooded children, stating that those intelligent enough to match his wits would prove themselves worthy of being bound to his dragons and of receiving his blessings.
It took nearly two weeks, with his Valyrians seeking audiences with him and offering their own riddles and puzzling words to try and prove their intelligence. Some failed so badly Ancalagon killed them for being so unworthy and stupid to dare come to him but most he permitted to leave with wounded pride until finally he had fourteen he deemed worthy. Surrounded by gemstones and great crystals and veins of gold, he used the blood of captives and his own and those offering themselves to the grown dragons.
But before that, Ancalagon the Black demanded an oath from all who went through with the ritual.
A Promise made is a promise kept, his voice thundered through the minds and ears of all those present to witness the ritual. The fourteen dragons laid curled on their bellies, submitting to their great black-scaled parent as Ancalagon continued, For so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world's end if it is so. Burn it into your dragonsblood and accept it, just as you accept these dragons and they you. Vow in the name of yourself and that of Ancalagon the Black, the greatest of all Urulóki. Bound together, you will wane when they wane and prosper when they prosper. That from henceforth their enemies shall be your enemies, their need shall be your need, and whatsoever threat, or assault may come upon them you will aid them to the utmost end of your strength. This vow shall descend to your heirs, to your descendants, all such as may come after, and let them keep it in faith unbroken, lest the Shadow fall upon you and you become accursed. Swear this and become one.
Each time the Valyrian swore the oath would Ancalagon rest his immense clawtip upon their breast; a single finger of his was taller than any of the humans, as he made them swear to him. Binding themselves in an oath to the greatest dragon that ever existed, to always honour him and his kind. He felt the ancient binding magic of a sworn oath through each and then he permitted them to approach the waiting dragons. The dragons must chose as well and before night fell they had all chosen.
And thus the first dragonriders of Valyria were created, bound together until death parted them. And for the first time since the destruction of Arda he was able to fly with a flock of dragons. It was shortly after this that their neighbours, some fool race of Men with a winged woman upon their sails, which Ancalagon took great delight in burning to death and teaching his new children how to burn and scorch. The humans compensated for the regrettable stupidity of the dragons, while the dragons provided the power and fire.
However if he wanted his own rule of the world to be acknowledged, he needed more dragons. He had seen with Morgoth's fall that even with many, it was still possible to fall, and the gleaming scar upon his own breast showed that.
Summoning his Valyrians, he demanded sacrifices for his next task of binding the two together. Not just as adults as he had done but from the very beginning. Ancalagon was rather surprised at the eagerness of his pet race to offer themselves but was nonetheless very pleased. He was rightfully worshiped as a god by his creations, with them bringing him great mountains fresh meat and gemstones and gold they had taken. He would have preferred to have taken the gold himself through battle but could appreciate the efforts to please him and offer tribute.
Now though he demanded two dozen infants, those successfully born from his creations. Through previous testing he found that incestuous breeding kept the dragon-blood thick and demanded they keep their bloodlines close and thus sister-brother became the norm for them and with their blood it would not lead to mutation or deformities. So when the babes were offered to him, none over seven months old, all had the silvery gold hair and purple eyes he had created.
This time Ancalagon bound each infant to a dragons egg. One he had spent years refining with his experiments of the firewyrms and drakes, and now their eggs could be bound to a dragonblooded child. The younger the better, so they would grow together. Keeping the races entwined, forever. Due to the abundance of Men and how quickly they bred, Ancalagon was satisfied that now dragons would not wane.
Now completed his task of creating his own race, his bloodborne children, Ancalagon the Black settled back into his lair and watched as the Valyrian freehold spread forth with his gift of dragons. He also began to teach those with the spark his means of magic; Ancalagon lacked the finesse of Morgoth but certainly knew enough from both his own experiences and watching of the Dark Lord to share it with the Valyrians. Magic of fire and blood, crafted in sacrifice and death and then passed through birth until it flower easy and true. All things he willingly shared provided they asked for it correctly and was pleased when they came to him with their new inventions such as the swords and armour that rivaled anything of Elven make and was impervious to flame or dullness.
The Valyrians kept their stream of tributes to him, erecting immense idols of his image as they conquered more of the lands and bringing sacrifices for him. He learned of their escalating war against the Ghiscari, the ones with the winged woman upon their banners. Ancalagon made no attempt to intervene. Curious if his children could destroy such a foe when they themselves were still young, as the dragons which had slowly bred and rideable were only three hundred or so. The rest younglings or eggs.
One, twice- upon the fifth time the Ghiscari refused to heed the danger of dragons their empire was attacked and burned to the ground and their fields salted and people enslaved. Legions of slaves were dragged into the Fourteen Flames and offered as food for Ancalagon the Black and as always he relished the looks of terrors upon the pathetic faces of Men when they beheld his true size. Not even the first of his dragons came close to his vast form, and many Man could not even comprehend how gigantic he was.
However at one point some fool stole a small crystal from his horde, in one of the decades while Ancalagon slept. The crystal was no larger than a mouse but Ancalagon was instantly aware of its absence when he awoke. Furious, he came forth from his lair and flew to the city of Valyria and burned down several spires and devoured a dozen dragons and countless more of the Valyrian people before the thief was located and given to him.
The thief, a child of ten years of age and cried that it was a dare, was strung up before the Fourteen Flames and flayed alive as Ancalagon watched. The children who encouraged the theft were burned in dragonfire, as were the parents who failed to teach their children respect, and he let their screams soothe his rage. However even after the child died he demanded more tribute to make up for the insult and thus the Valyrian empire expanded. Spreading across the country, which his Valyrians had told him was Essos, and attacking more of the cities and establishing more of own and burning any rebellions beneath fire and blood. This time he was granted the majority of the slaves and riches, heaping tributes to make up for the insult of the theft. Finally, after five decades of feasting and waiting in his lair, he decided to forgive his children and permitted them to continue as they were.
He spent most of his days within the Fourteen Flames, teaching the mages their ways and sleeping and eating. They bore news for him of the events of their cities, such as the Rhoynish Wars. He felt no need to intervene either way, knowing the dragons he had created were growing more and more numerous and his Valyrian race growing ever more skilled in magic.
He infused more of his blood or taught them the ways of Morgoth until visions of the future began to seed its way within the people. They were sporadic and could not be cultivated but Ancalagon had the Dreamers sent him and blessed them personally. Many seemed almost dimwitted, lost in their own heads, but he was not fooled; to see the future was a terrible blessing and as far as his knowledge went only Galadriel with her mirror could perform such a feat back upon Arda. Now though his children could see the future by virtue of their blood, something which inordinately pleased him.
However his further tutoring of his children came to a halt with an earthquake, which buried the entrance of his vast lair in ash and magma which cooled to obsidian. Unconcerned, Ancalagon instead chose to sleep; his centuries of magic crafting and cultivating a civilization had been surprisingly exhausting and he now took the chance to settle into his longer slumbers.
Over six centuries had passed before Ancalagon the Black awoke again. The time did not bother him, as he could sense those of his blood around him and knew they had prospered well. A intricate link binding them, as they were his now, now and forever. Dragons in great numbers, as with the Valyrians.
However when he easily blasted the obsidian dam of his lair apart with his fire, he barely had time to feel confusing and indignation until it turned into terrible, horrific wroth.
His lair was situated at the end of the curving arc of the Fourteen Flames and it had been left due to the hard plug of molten rock. But the rest of the volcanoes had been carved open, with thousands of slaves streaming out of the mines and hundreds of wagons filled with treasure being funneled into the sprawling mining town that must have been created in his absence. His treasure being blatantly stolen, belonging to him as he had claimed the Flames as his own.
The first thousand slaves barely had time to notice the huge form blocking out the sun before fire engulfed the town. Ancalagon's rage was so volcanic he did not stop, his breath coming in huge waves of scorching crimson and orange, as he razed the town to ash in a matter of minutes. Then he blasted down great gouts of fire down the mine shaft, killing tens of thousands in a single breath each time before he took to the air.
One, two passes before the volcanoes exploded into boiling magma and flaming rocks as dragonsbreath engulfed their smouldering peaks. The explosion caused a chain reaction, the shockwaves hurtling across the land as the ground began to quake and dance as splinters cracked the earth. But Ancalagon's fury was not satiated.
Instead, within a day, the entire Valyrian peninsula was killed.
Ancalagon the Black was merciless in his rage, killing anyone and everything he encountered as he scorched the continent barren. Such was the offense, for stealing from him after he gave them their gifts. After he bound them to dragons and taught them his knowledge and they repaid him in treachery.
Even the dragons were not exempt, Ancalagon devouring any and all that he encountered as he destroyed the peninsula. Snatching them out of the air in his huge jaws, crushing bones and shredding wings. Even the largest, her body could fit within his mouth as he caught her midair. The flames of the other dragons could not penetrate his hide, for Ancalagon the Black was the greatest of them all and in this new world there was nothing to threaten him, not even his children.
The Fourteen Flames continued to vomit forth lava and poisoned clouds, the toxins spilling over the land even as Ancalagon's breath turned the fertile fields in barren ash. The cities fell quickly before him, his anger perhaps could have been stopped if they offered supplication; however when he reached Valyria, the central city, and discovered that while they held great statues of him they had forgotten his name, his place in their creation, there was no mercy left.
The volcanic ash and the great dragon's breath rendered the peninsula unlivable years later, with Ancalagon's flames burrowing into the earth and sending the shoreline steaming until the great roiling Smoking Sea came into being. The firewyrms remained sunken within the earth, going even deeper to avoid provoking the Black's sheer rage.
Once the Valyrian peninsula had been reduced to a barren landscape of ruins and meadows of ash and coal, did Ancalagon go back to the Fourteen Flames. The boiling magma did not bother him, so great he was he could raise a paw to grab one of the peaks. He broke several of the mountains, spilling out the magma as he spent the next decade rearranging his lair and taking back every piece of his horde which had been scattered across the continent. Several times foolish invaders tried to go to Valyria only to meet Ancalagon and thus died. Including a dragonlord whom Ancalagon ate alive. He did not hunt for the scattered others he could detect of his blood, those who had not been on the peninsula, but neither would he overlook them if they attempted to creep upon his lair.
The next century was spend terraforming the peninsula, with Ancalagon burning great furrows and killing any that intruded upon his land. Several times he thought about burning the world at large but found himself bored at the notion. Several ships passing into the Smoking Sea were plucked from the water by his huge jaws and he would do experiments upon them; never to the effect of the Valyrians, whom he was still annoyed with, but rather for his own amusement. Ogres and Orcs would be interesting to introduce to this world.
Instead after killing the humans he went back to the broken Fourteen Flames and began counting his horde with draconic meticulousness. Seasons swept past like that, with Ancalagon the Black counting each and every piece of his horde and occasionally lapsing into dreamfilled slumber. At one point he was belatedly aware someone, a dragon and rider, had come to Valyria. When he finally shook off his sleep the visitor had been and gone after spending years in the remnants of Old Valyria.
He inspected the ruins of Old Valyria but deduced that the visitor had not stolen anything from the ancient city in their visit and thus he chose to forgive it. Perhaps it was an insulting weakness, for the greatest of all the Urulóki, but Ancalagon still felt oddly fond of his race of Men and dragons. The very first he had created, from his own blood and magic no less.
Once done inspecting the city, and briefly entertaining the idea of following the few remaining of his children, Ancalagon instead returned to his lair and settled within the huge hollow which had once been fourteen volcanoes. And then he slept.
Bloodmagic was what awoke him next.
Ancalagon's huge form shifted, gleaming red eyes flickering open as a ripple rolled down his scales. He could sense the magic so easily, one he had gifted and taught to the humans he had formed into Valyrians. He could feel its power, bolstered by the great crimson star falling above, and Ancalagon reached out through his blood and used his magic blood born of Morgoth, Master of the Fates of Arda, to bolster whoever was reaching for him. Curiosity fueled him for he could sense the blood and sacrifice and unyielding resolve, as whoever was on the other end of his link was powerful. Strong enough it made him think of the Elves or even an Ainur.
The bloodmagic remained potent in the air and the crimson star continued to fall high above. Ancalagon shifted from his lair, spreading his huge wings and casting the ground around him in shadows so thick it was as if night had fallen. Stars were important; the last falling star he knew of was during Dagor Dagorath as Eärendil descended the heavens to fight against Morgoth, so great was the peril of Middle-Earth when Ancalagon the Black was unleashed. He still remembered that ship, Vingilot, as it flew out to meet him in combat. With the vessel looking like a star flying through the battle with the brilliant Silmaril at its bow before it struck him from the sky.
He felt that perhaps this was the turning of a new age, one he hadn't felt since that long strange winter had faded. Who was falling high above Ancalagon did not know. But he knew whoever had invoked him must be important. That fact it could be the Age of Dragons excited him, for there were no Elves, Dwarves or Men who could stand against him in this new world. His children had still lived despite his wroth, even if their offense of forgetting him stirred his blood to rage when he thought upon it.
However Ancalagon the Black could be forgiving. In near none other aspect but here, if his children ushered in a new age dedicated to him and his kinswyrms, he could forgive their transgressions, their disobedience.
As it was he waited for the star above, great black form primed and flames burning in his throat as the scar at his breast ached, but as a month passed whomever the star was made no attempt to descend and fight him. Still, even as he stretched his wings and with a great crack of air he launched his immense body into the sky he kept a close eye upon the star. Just in case.
His flight was leisurely, each flap of his wings sending gusts of wind sweeping through the land below and making clouds churn. He followed the scent of his blood, huge jaws opening as he adjusted his wings as he soared over ocean. At one point he ducked down low to snatch up a whale in his jaws, like a cat with a fish, and tossed it back to swallow it whole. At least when Morgoth had created him, the Dark Lord had realized Ancalagon's immense size meant feeding like a typical beast would be senseless and unattainable. Ancalagon was fueled by his own innate magic, like a plant with the sun and through his own deep sleeps, but could still eat at his pleasure.
The ocean soon gave way to land and Ancalagon followed his senses, briefly soaring over a port city which had the statue of the bird woman. He briefly thought of blasting it with his flame- a single pass would send the majority of the city alight -but his curiosity over the blood ritual was more important. When he flew overhead, the entire city was briefly cast in his gargantuan silhouette and he was pleased by the screams of terror he heard below.
As he kept up his pace the landscape changed from grass and hills to barren desert occasionally dotted with scrubs and dead trees. Dried up riverbeds and barren windswept plains. He had no idea why one of his own were out in such a ugly place, for even with heady sniffs he could smell no ore.
Eventually he found the one who had used the magic, a tiny camp tucked in the ruins of some long forgotten city. Ancalagon's sharp gaze could see them already panicking at his approach even as he flared out his wings with a noise like thunder.
When he landed, far enough he did not drown the city in dust but close enough he could hear the high babble of voice, the cracked earth shuddered beneath his huge weight. Rather than approach like some lowly hound, Ancalagon settled down upon his scaled belly, tail sweeping across the ground as he folded his forepaws atop one another as his wings tucked against his sides. Even settled like that he completely towered over the city ruins but he waited, the tip of his tail twitching.
If the dragonchild was any of his blood then it would approach. If it made him wait until nightfall then he would use his fire. Ancalagon held no tolerance for weakness.
Soon, when the dust of his landing had settled and the heat slowly started to creep into his scales, someone began to approach him from the ruins.
It took them some time, as they were very undersized and Ancalagon had settled some way away but he watched in curiosity when he realized it was a very young girl approaching him. Considering how strong the ritual had been he had expected something else, an adult grown, but he did not let that discount her. Instead he waited as she drew closer and closer, noting the clothes she wore were ragged and plain, a painted vest and hairy trousers- nothing like the gleaming Elf-like armour he had been shown before. Her hair was burnt away so he could not tell its hue but her eyes were of the purple he had cultivated with his experiments.
He could sense the fire and magic in her, knowing she was of his stock. Same for the dragons he could sense, back at the ruins of the city where she had left her people to approach him. Young, so young, he doubted they were long from their eggs. Though that did confuse him for why would bloodmagic be lingering so potent for her, to the point a star collapsed?
Ancalagon kept his thoughts to himself as the girl halted before him, her small form swallowed by his immense shadow. She was afraid, he could tell that easily, but she did not flee from him. Instead she continued to look up at him, form slight and skinny, but with eyes as bright as any star.
"Nyke nykeā raqiros."
Ancalagon blinked at her.
Then he laughed.
It was a strange noise, not one a creature like him made oft. It caused the ground to quake, small splits radiating across the earth, his huge scaled form shaking with his laughter that caused the humans present to cover their ears while horses whinnied in fear.
You are no friend of mine, dragonchild, he replied, though he was pleased she had spoken in the tongue he had created for his creatures centuries ago. The respect was still there, even if it must be remembered. You are my daughter and that is all you shall ever be.
The girl had fallen to her knees, hands gripping onto her bald scalp as his voice reverberated through her head. He had not been kind yet nor had he been cruel but despite her obvious pain she did not scream.
She looked up at him with watering eyes, saying in Valyrian, "You can speak?"
His mirth vanished as quickly as it appeared as he bared his teeth at her; his smallest fang was three times her height as he said, I am intelligent as any Man or Elf. Do not forget your place, girl. You and the rest of the Valyrians and their dragons were forged by me, Ancalagon the Black and the greatest of all the Urulóki. You will show me the proper respect as your creator, as it seems your kind have forgotten yourself.
The girl remained kneeling and perhaps would not have responded to his temper until Ancalagon waved an impatient paw at her. He could crush her with a single claw, so slight and scrawny she was. What had happened in his time of slumber? He had punished those upon the peninsula for their insults, but he knew dragons and their bonded had lived elsewhere. So why did she look so plain and drab?
"I mean no offense, Ancalagon the Black," the girl managed to say, form shaking but still not fleeing from him. She continued in High Valyrian, "I only...I thought all over dragons had been dead for centuries, until mine hatched upon the pyre. I did not know you were our origins even if I had always heard we are blood of the dragon."
Extinct? Explain to me your meaning now.
The girl did so, telling him of her House of origins. Targaryen. Told him of a Dreamer that save the last dragonlords. She told him of Balerion the Black Dread, whom Ancalagon realized must have been named in his honour. It pleased him somewhat, to know that the ones who fled the disrespect of Valyria had at least remembered him so Ancalagon was vindicated in not punishing them as he did the rest. But then she told him of the Targaryens and their civil war and then countless deaths later until she and her last kin were driven from their lands. When she finished her tale of death his rage was towering. Smoke billowed from his flaring nostrils, scales of his throat gleaming red at his fury as flame urged itself free.
You have been blessed by myself, by my own blood within you, and this is what you are reduced to? he demanded. A single child and three hatchlings? Why have you spited my generosity?
The girl said nothing, but her lack of defense did calm him somewhat. She made no excuses for her failures and that of her family, of letting dragons die and their House wane to such an extent. She had suffered in turn for it. He briefly thought of killing her but remembered the magic he sensed. That she had invoked dragons forth after a century they had been stone, igniting her blood and stepping into flames to accept her fate as a dragon-mother. Perhaps she was more like Morgoth than he thought. Defying fate and making events bend to her whims as she burned people alive to nourish her ambition. The idea gladdened Ancalagon. There was potential here and he was curious after his rampage of the last dragonlords.
Perhaps Ancalagon was too forgiving, but he was interested in what this child could do and thus she would live.
It seems your family suffered from violating their oaths to me, Ancalagon considered, using the joint of his wing to rub at his chin as he watched the girl carefully. I had them swear, when I bound them and dragons together, they would rise and fall with one another. That your enemies will be their enemies. Yet it was dragons fighting dragons, that is not how the nature of us is. You will give me names. You will tell me who aided in the fall of dragons, both those who flew and those of Man. I have slept too long, that pathetic Men have forgotten to fear the sky. I will remind them. Tell me.
She told him, as much as she could. Her history was spotted so she ended up hesitantly asking if she could bring another to the conversation. A Ser Jorah, who was of the lands she had been cast from as a baby. Ancalagon thought upon it before granting her permission, inwardly pleased she was deferring to him. He had thought she would be stupid and willful but she was showing him proper respect.
When the girl returned from the distant city, it was with a Man as plain as Ancalagon had ever seen. But the man bowed deeply and, at the girl's urging, got down on one knee before the great dragon and then he hesitantly spoke to Ancalagon of what the girl knew not while she translated. Ancalagon held no interest in conversing in such an ugly tongue, his language was the one he would use, so he permitted her to continue. Ancalagon listened intently as the man spoke in detail of everything he knew about the fall of his dragonchildren, the Dance and the Rebellion. At Ancalagon's demands the man described the Houses, the families, the sigils. Westeros.
By the time the man was finished, the sun had started to set. Ancalagon did not care for how tired the two humans looked, the girl looked especially strained even if she did not voice her complaints.
I have heard enough. I will go to this Westeros and remind those who dared to butcher my children what it means to die in dragonfire, Ancalagon promised as he rose from his seated coil. His wings spread slightly, in preparation for flight, Meanwhile, my daughter, I can sense the fire and magic within you. While I kill those who dared to raise a hand to what is mine, you will find your own path here. You will prove your strength to me and prove your worth to the hatchlings in your care.
The girl dropped in a curtsy while the man remained kneeling.
"Yet please, King of all Dragons, may I ask for a word before your travels," the girl said, her Valyrian rushed.
Be careful, Ancalagon warned but nonetheless gestured for her to continue with a flick of his tail, curious as to what she wanted.
"You said you taught my people magic when you created us, and I had a dream of you once. A great black dragon who came to me while I wished for death and breathed strength into my aching limbs," she said.
He inclined his head, the dying sunlight glinting off his onyx-black horns. She was a Dreamer then, even greater news for her potential.
"My friend is dying, I seek only your wisdom in saving her," the girl said desperately. "She has been loyal to me and my family has lost so much of itself. If you could offer whatever aid I will be eternally grateful, King of Dragons."
Ancalagon thought it over; his first instinct was to refuse, for he had shared his knowledge of magic and the Valyrians had failed to respect it. But this girl was asking him and her boldness left him curious as to what she could become.
Where is the dying one, he demanded.
She led him back the ruined city, even if that meant he only had to take several steps before he was there and waited for her to run after him. The people in the ruins stunk of horse and he nearly bathed them in flames but the way they cowered and hid in the shadows pleased him.
Panting, his daughter ran into the ruins and into the courtyard he could easily lean over and look down upon. She dropped to her knees next to a bedridden woman, her hair stringy and skin sunken. He could smell death upon her.
"If there is any wisdom you could impart, Great One, I would be grateful even if House Targaryen had spurned your blessings and your faith," the girl said quietly, clutching the dying girl's hand tightly. He still heard her clearly, eyeing her closely. She had a kindness to her his other children lacked but he felt no need to scold her for it. Not yet at least.
The fact the dragonsblood resonated so strongly with you is enough for me to turn my rage, for now. Ancalagon said, a great gust of breath sweeping down the courtyard. He could see the dying girl's eyes crack open but doubted she was even aware of his huge form casting a shadow over her.
His daughter lowed her head at his scolding, accepting it without complaint.
He also did not like how far his lessons had fallen; the girl knew nothing of magic, confessing her actions upon the pyre had been spurred by instinct instead of knowledge. Blood sacrifice had its place certainly, but it was not the only magic and he felt disgruntled at how she did not know.
Still, her potential was beyond doubt. As it only took for night to fully fall before she managed to utilise the magic within her blood. Ancalagon pushing through her veins, her bones and flesh which had been created by him so many centuries ago. Her blood was strong but had been weakened by generations of ancestors not utilizing his gifts. It enraged him.
But it seemed his blood still won out as did her bond to the three hatchlings, as when the glow of magic encased the dying girl and his daughter pulled her hands away the young woman was not longer near death; her hair golden blonde, skin rosy. Rejuvenated, and his daughter looked up to him with purple eyes filled with love and gratitude.
It pleased him.
What is your name? he finally asked, deciding she had proven herself.
"Daenerys."
Good. Remember this lesson and how you are born of blood and magic. For now the dragons in your care need you, and you must fulfill your oath. As they rise so shall you. I will not help you further here and I will leave you now to take your own path.
"Of course, King of Dragons. I thank you for your aid."
He shifted away, turning as his immense wings spread out which blotted out the stars and the gleaming comet high above.
"I am the mother of dragons," he heard Daenerys say quietly.
He did not care if she didn't intend for him to hear that, answering her with, You are indeed mother of dragons but you are also the daughter of dragons. The daughter of Ancalagon the Black, the greatest of the winged dragons who lived through the death of a world. Remember that. I will return when my rage is satiated. Do not disappoint me, Daenerys. You will not like the consequences if you do as your potential is great.
Then he took off, his wings making the ruins quake and sending dust clouds flying as he flew up into the air. With great flaps of his wings Ancalagon circled the ruins twice before angling his wings west. He had sensed the fortitude within Daenerys' mind, subtle strings of her being exposing themself to him the longer he had remained in mental contact as they spoke. He could feel the lust for vengeance, the bitterness of one cast aside. But he also felt her utter awe and adoration for him, like a trueborn daughter, as well as her love for the three hatchlings in her care. He knew at the very least she would protect them with her life, time would tell if she could raise them however. Still, he had felt how strong her blood was- perhaps the Targaryen line had been such failures since that ridiculous civil war to steep in preparation for her, Ancalagon knew not.
Regardless of anything else Ancalagon could still feel the turning of the world and knew a new age was indeed upon them, that the skinny, scrawny girl with burned hair and bright eyes had been the one to usher in the new age of dragons.
He would leave her there and know that she would survive, especially now she had realized her magic which he still felt annoyed that of her blood had forgotten. Now however, Ancalagon was due west. His daughter was would remain eastward while his enemies lay within the land of Westeros. It did not matter that Ancalagon had punished the Valyrians; as their creator, it was his right and his right alone to kill them, to drive them extinct if he chose. He had chosen to spare those who had already left before the grievous insult against him had been levied but it seemed those fools within Westeros failed to realize that.
Ancalagon would teach them.
It was upon a warm day during the small council that everything collapsed.
The queen mother had called the meeting, after Stannis Baratheon had sent forth letters labeling her son a bastard and illegitimate heir to the Iron Throne. The North was already mobilizing after the death of Ned Stark, an army led by the self proclaimed King in the North. The Greyjoys were also rebelling, Renly Baratheon was gathering his own host along with his treacherous wife from Highgarden. It was enough to drive anyone mad.
Cersei despised the news, of so many enemies nipping at their heels. Even worse her ungrateful brother Tyrion was at King's Landing, having somehow tricked their father into giving him the title of Hand in his absence. After having shouted for the council to leave when her brother so brazenly stepped into the meeting, she confronted him angrily.
"I have no idea how you tricked Father into this," she snapped, resisting the urge to fling her wine in his face.
Tyrion gave her a mirthless smile from where he sat across from her on the balcony. Back inside the room an assortment of scrolls were strewn across the table, where they had been discussing potential plans and senseless logistics before Cersei had thrown the council out.
"If I could trick Father I would be emperor of the world by now," Tyrion snorted. "You brought this on yourself."
"I did nothing!"
"Exactly, you did nothing when your son called for Ned Stark's head. Now the entire North has risen up against us."
"I tried to stop it," she argued.
"You did? You failed. You understand we're losing the war, correct?"
"What do you know of war?" she all but spat at him, taking a gulp of her wine as she glared out across King's Landing. It was a beautiful day and she cared not for it.
"Nothing but I know people," Tyrion said. "And I know our enemies hate each other almost as much as they hate us."
Cersei swallowed down her goblet of wine before pouring more from the flagon. Out across the bay, over the blue ocean at the horizon, she could see the beginning of an immense storm cloud.
"You're here to advise the king," Cersei finally said, giving her brother a cold look.
"Only to advise the king," Tyrion nodded, taking a sip of his own wine. "And if the king listens to what I say, then the king might get his uncle Jaime back."
The words made her bristle, knowing her brother was still in the hands of those backwards savages of the North.
"How?" she finally allowed, refusing to look at him and instead focused on the black clouds heading towards King's Landing.
"You love your children, it's your one redeeming quality. Starks love their children as well, and we have two of them-"
"One," she muttered, eyes dropping to her goblet. Still not looking at him even as she heard Tyrion's stuttered inhale.
"One?"
"Arya, during the execution she disappeared."
"In what, a puff of smoke?" Tyrion's voice rose even as he sat up in his chair. Cersei refused to meet his eyes as he continued, "We had three Starks to trade! You chopped one's head off and let another escape. Father must be furious."
There was a mocking edge to his voice and she wanted nothing more to hurl him over the balcony and watch his malformed body break upon the rooftops down below. The noise of thunder from the sea storm grew louder and louder.
"Must be strange, to be the disappointing child," he mocked, coming up to her side to give her a faux sympathetic look.
Cersei spun, wine spilling from her goblet to splatter on the floor. Her features twisted as she glared down at her brother, "And what would you know? You were the one who was captured first and caused all this!"
"And look, here I am," he mocked. "We can-"
Abruptly Tyrion's expression dropped, his face contorting in fear and bewilderment. Confused, Cersei looked around for an assassin or something but found nothing else on the balcony.
"What fool's game as you playing at?" Cersei growled, knuckles white around the goblet.
"Dragon," her brother whispered.
"What?" Cersei looked over at those foolish words, looking out over King's Landing-
Only to drop her goblet at the sight of the utterly gigantic black dragon bearing down upon King's Landing even as screams began to engulf the city, Cersei had heard tales of Balerion the Black Dread, had even seen his skull down in the dungeons, but the monster up in the sky looked as if it could hold Balerion's skull in a single paw. Its wings were so massive they quickly blotted out the sun, casting the entire city in shadow as if it were night. It hadn't been a storm hurtling towards the city, it had been a horrifically huge dragon.
Cersei's body was shaking, utterly helpless to move as the dragon flared out its wings over the city and the resulting gust of air knocked her backwards into the room even as screams rang through the Red Keep. She barely had time to desperately think she should find Joffrey before the dragon opened its jaws and a blast of fire greater than any river swallowed the entire Red Keep in flames hotter than the core of a volcano and then she was nothing but ash.
The news of the fall of King's Landing failed to reach anyone before the dragon did.
The city was left burning, most of the Red Keep in ruins with only a determined spire left. The surrounding city had been mostly set alight, killing thousands and then hundreds of thousands as the caches of wildfyre beneath the city exploded.
Around Dragonstone the Baratheon fleet was destroyed, sunken in flames and death. The castle itself was seared in fire, but the magiked stone forged by Aenar and his fellow dragonlords held firm even as the stones burned cherry-red and cooked alive anyone inside. The Riverlands were granted the same fate, over a dozen castles burned down within an hour with no time to flee the imminent death. Instead all that was left behind was fire and blood of the great shadow.
Then the dragon went north, doing as Visenya Targaryen and Vhagar had done centuries ago to the Eyrie; simply flying over the defenses of the Bloody Gate and snow and stone but unlike the two queens this dragon came in war and not diplomacy and so with a single blast of fire it melted the ancient castle and seat of House Arryn, one of the oldest lines of Andal nobility. Fire swallowing it until the castle collapsed under its own flailing weight and went plummeting into the Vale of Arryn with the stone melting.
The North was given the same fate, each castle burned to nothing and villages scorched. Winterfell was bathed in so much flame the entire landscape was scorching ash for months afterwards.
The Wall was left alone, and any of those lucky enough to flee north far enough before the black death caught them but those patrolling at the top of the Wall reported the burning lands of the North where the smoke was so thick it could be seen and smelt even miles high within the sky. Some brothers in black even claimed to witness a huge form bursting up from the heavy clouds of smoke, like a leviathan breeching the sea. In bed within Castle Black, an old man could feel his blood burning and for the first time in years could see, but all that came forth was a great black wyrm as if it had been imprinted upon his eyes.
Beyond the Wall the Others shrank back, for they never forgot the black shadow. The Wildlings despaired over what could possibly frighten the Undead and what monster would be found to the south, while the Children hid in their burrows but found comfort in the raging familiar flames they could feel radiating through the land.
Then the forests of Glover were burnt down and anyone within burned to death in the raging bonfire. The castle Mormont was isolated off the coast enough it escaped the assault, but the watchmen reported seeing the huge form of the black dragon vomiting out flames during the attack upon the North in the far horizon.
The Neck was next, as the dragon headed south and scorched every castle it passed and huge swathes of farmland. Lord Frey died in his bed, not even waking in time to feel himself be burned alive as the fire melted the Twins and cast it into the river.
Flames followed the Westerlands, Casterly Rock and Lannisport now nothing but broken ruins that smoked for weeks. Of the Iron Islands it was if the isles had been returned to the sea, the dragon's breath so great it sunk the crags and sent the entire Ironfleet drowning. What had been a scattered heap of isles was now nothing but a few broken peaks as Seven Kingdoms became Six.
The Stormlands were next, the valleys burning and rivers and lakes vaporized as flames tore open the landscape. Storm's End, a castle said to have been forged of magic to resist even the most magnificent of hurricanes, eventually fell to the great black dragon. When flames did not break the enchanted castle the dragon simply tore apart the stone with talons the size of tree trunks, casting Storm's End into the waters of Shipbreaker Bay even as the ocean boiled from dragonfire.
Dorne and the Reach were left alone, bewildered as the other Kingdoms burned around them with no news or demands being issued by the dragon invader. The Dornish retreated to their mountain caves in droves when panicked messages of a gigantic dragon razing the lands came through, many fearing Balerion the Black Dread reborn. The only part of the Reach which was drowned in flames was Oldtown, the ancestral home of the Citadel and Hightowers, collapsing in a bonfire that burned for weeks. Otherwise it was strangely left alone, with Renly Baratheon hastily retreating with his wife and army back to Highgarden. Even the Redwyne's were left unmolested and when a small group managed to reach out to Lady Olenna, it was speculated that due to both of their Houses supporting the Targaryens during Robert's Rebellion they were spared fire and blood.
Still, the utter silence from the majority of the Kingdoms especially King's Landing left them on edge so at Lady Olenna's urging they retreated back to their Houses to await the summons from the Targaryen force which had attacked Westeros with such viciousness.
They did not know it was all for naught, for Ancalagon the Black cared nothing for diplomacy or mercy or restraint. Instead he had returned to Dragonstone after a month of burning and slaughtering hundreds of thousands across Westeros, relishing in his might and punishing those who dared to raise a hand against his creations, his blessings.
Now his lair was at Dragonstone and he would await his daughter, Daenerys Targaryen. He would cast this country in terror and awe until he felt she had grown strong enough and either he would fly to reunite with her or if her dragons were large enough she would come to him.
Either way, the Age of Dragons had fallen across the world and Ancalagon the Black was content.