The embers of the battle at Sor-Vhalar still smoldered in Neron's mind as dawn broke over Cair Volakar. The air was thick with the scent of ash and sweat, and the flickering shadows cast by torchlight danced like restless spirits across stone walls. The victory had been hard-won, but it was only the opening gambit in a far grander game.
Neron stood on the ramparts, the black crystal now secure in a polished obsidian chamber beneath the fortress. The pulse of its power echoed faintly through the stone, a steady heartbeat that mingled with the Emberlink's fierce fire within his own veins.
"Master," Kaerys Velaryon approached quietly, her sapphire eyes reflecting the early light, "the Freehold's nobles stir uneasily. Word of your conquest spreads faster than wildfire."
He turned to her, face drawn and thoughtful. "Good. They should fear the flames before they can see them."
Kaerys's lips curved in a knowing smile. "But not all fear burns the same."
The Hall of Cair Volakar was alive with whispered conversations and the clink of wine cups. Lords and merchants gathered in tight circles, their words as sharp as Valyrian steel, each seeking advantage in the shadow of a dying empire.
Neron took his place at the head of the table, his presence commanding silence like a rising tide. "The crystal is but one flame in a dark storm," he began, voice steady, "and the cultists who guard it are but a spark. Our enemies are many, and their alliances older than the stones beneath our feet."
The lords listened, wary. Among them sat Vaenor Celtigar, a hawk-nosed noble from the eastern coast, his silk robes stitched with sea dragons. To his right, Laenara Qoherys, a sharp-eyed woman who controlled key trade routes through the western passes. And farther down the table, brooding in silence, was Tarys Velgaren, once a dragonrider, now landless and bitter.
"You speak of shadows," Vaenor said, lifting his wine with deliberate slowness. "But what of the light, Lord Neron? Your flames burn bright, yes—but what will you do when that light draws every moth in the Freehold?"
Laenara folded her arms. "Sor-Vhalar was sacred to the fire-priests. By taking it, you've stirred a hornet's nest. House Urronar, House Maegyr, House Malqaron—they won't tolerate your rise."
Neron's silver eyes flicked across the table like twin blades. "They will tolerate it," he said, calm as still water, "or they will be consumed by it."
Kaerys stepped forward, unrolling a map inked with recent movements. "House Urronar has begun amassing forces at their southern outposts. Maegyr sent ravens to Volantis and Elyria. They are building alliances."
"And we," Neron said, rising to his full height, "are building something greater. A sovereign faction. An alternative to the rot at the Freehold's core."
Outside the hall, the training grounds rang with steel and shouted commands. Neron descended to the lower courtyard with Jorvan at his side, passing soldiers drilling in tight formation.
"We're outnumbered," Jorvan said bluntly. "You've made yourself a beacon, and now the wolves are circling."
"I know," Neron replied. "That's why we sharpen our teeth."
He stopped before a line of black-cloaked recruits—young men and women, Valyrian and not, handpicked from the borderlands, trained in silence and shadow.
"These are the first of the Ash Blades," he said. "Assassins, spies, couriers—loyal only to me. While armies clash and nobles bicker, these will move unseen."
Later that night, Neron stood alone in the Emberchamber, the newly built vault beneath the heart of the fortress. The black crystal sat atop a dais of scorched stone, casting no light, but humming with deep resonance.
He reached out, and as his fingers brushed the surface, visions spilled into his mind—flashes of fire-wreathed beasts soaring through volcanic skies, ancient Valyrian rites whispered in long-dead tongues, and a throne of fused stone rising in a city yet unborn.
A voice curled through the darkness.
"Flame calls to flame. The soul remembers. The blood obeys."
Neron's breath caught. "Who are you?"
But there was no answer—only the pulsing beat of the crystal, in perfect rhythm with his own heart.
He emerged from the chamber with eyes still burning. Kaerys waited in the outer corridor.
"You felt it," she said softly.
He nodded. "There is something old inside that stone. Something angry… and waiting."
"Not everything born of fire is meant to be tamed," she warned.
"Then I will not tame it," Neron said. "I will become it."
A Week Later – The Red Council in Velos
The sky over Velos was choked with cinders as nobles gathered in the city's High Temple to convene the Red Council—an emergency assembly of Valyria's eastern lords.
Inlaid with red gold and fireglass, the temple shimmered like a furnace. Above, a massive stained-glass dome showed Valyria's conquests in stylized flame.
Lord Dravos Maegyr, robed in crimson and ivory, addressed the council. "This… upstart—this Ash-Lord—threatens the balance. He wields foreign trade, cult relics, and dragons not yet sworn. If he is not silenced now, he may soon eclipse us all."
Whispers broke through the crowd like sparks on dry tinder.
"His dragon has not flown in battle yet."
"He commands no fleet."
"But the relic—"
"He controls fire we do not understand."
A pale woman in flame-orange silks—Lady Thalyria Urronar—rose, her voice cold as glass. "I say we crush him now. Cut out the rot before it spreads. My banners are ready."
"Too obvious," said Lord Vrax, an older noble from Elyria. "We cannot afford open civil war. Not yet. We weaken ourselves before the coming Doom."
"Then send whispers," Maegyr said. "Daggers in the dark. Poison. Bribery. Bleed him from the shadows."
And so it was decided.
Back in Cair Volakar – Shadows Move
Kaerys moved through the lower streets of the fortress, her hood drawn low. She met her contact in a shadowed alley behind the merchant's guildhouse—a slim figure dressed in tattered red.
"You're late," she said.
The boy—barely sixteen, but with eyes like old wounds—nodded. "Slavers from Mantarys are offering coin for information on the Ash-Lord's relic. And a man from Velos... said he'd pay triple to learn how many guards protect your vault."
"Did you tell him?" she asked, voice razor-sharp.
He hesitated. "No. I told you instead."
She handed him a silver token carved with a dragon's eye. "Good. Now vanish."
As he disappeared into the shadows, Kaerys looked to the fortress above.
They're coming. From all sides.
Nightfall – The Knife in the Dark
Cair Volakar slept fitfully under a heavy, ash-choked sky. Torchlight flickered along the battlements, and the sentries paced with sharp eyes and sharper blades. Yet danger, when it came, did not stride through the gates—it slithered through the stone like a whisper.
In the dead of night, a figure crept through the eastern wing of the fortress. Clad in soft black, his face painted in shadow, the assassin moved with practiced silence. He scaled walls like a spider, passed guards like wind, and descended into the lower chambers like death itself.
He paused before a black iron door. The Emberchamber.
Pulling a vial from his belt, he poured a thin stream of acid over the lock. Metal hissed and steamed. Slowly, the mechanism gave way.
Then—
Steel flashed.
But not from him.
A dagger struck the stone beside his head, then a second buried itself into his thigh. The assassin gasped, stumbling forward. From the shadows behind him emerged M'Koro, eyes burning, axe in hand.
"I smelled your poison an hour ago, wraith," the old warrior growled.
The assassin drew twin knives, fast and silent. They danced—a flurry of strikes and counters in the narrow passage.
M'Koro took a slash to his arm, but answered with a savage blow to the attacker's ribs, cracking bone.
As the killer stumbled back, Neron appeared behind him—calm, barefoot, shirtless, holding a naked sword glowing faintly red.
"You came for my fire," he said quietly. "But the fire was already watching."
The assassin lunged in desperation. Neron sidestepped, moved like flame, and plunged his blade into the man's gut.
He whispered in High Valyrian as the man died. A prayer—or perhaps a curse.
Later, as servants cleaned the blood from the stone, Kaerys joined him beside the embers of the hearth.
"That was no freelance blade," she said, handing him a goblet of molten wine. "Maegyr, perhaps. Or Urronar. They want the relic, and they fear the bond with your dragon."
"They should," Neron said. "We're only just beginning."
He glanced toward the window, where the dawn mist coiled like smoke.
"I want a message sent to House Naelarys," he said. "The blood of old dragonriders still courses through their veins, even if they've grown quiet. Offer them trade. Gold. Protection. I want them under my banner."
"And if they refuse?"
He smiled. "Then they'll wish they hadn't."
The Chamber of Ash and Bone
That afternoon, Neron walked alone into the dragon's hollow—a natural cavern deep beneath Cair Volakar, where rivers of lava gave light and heat. The walls pulsed with reddish veins of magma, casting shifting shadows across ancient bones embedded in the stone.
There, resting atop a pillar of rock, was Vhassaryx.
No longer the fragile creature he'd once cradled in his arms, the young dragon had doubled in size, now long as a warship, with obsidian-black scales that shimmered green in firelight. His wings, still growing, arched like blades.
The beast turned his head slowly, one massive eye blinking open, golden and burning with recognition.
"You came," said the voice—not spoken aloud, but pressed into Neron's mind like molten iron.
"I always will," Neron said aloud, approaching without fear. "We are bound."
He laid his palm on Vhassaryx's snout. The warmth beneath the scales was immense, almost painful.
"Enemies gather. I feel them, crawling like insects across the world. Shall I burn them?"
"Not yet," Neron whispered. "Not until the storm comes. First, we build our house. Stone by stone. Ally by ally."
"And then?"
"Then we show them what true fire is."
Three Days Later – The Envoy from Naelarys
The fortress gates opened to reveal a sleek black chariot drawn by pale silver horses. From it stepped Lady Saerya Naelarys, wrapped in a cloak of deep violet and trimmed with feathers of firebird. Her eyes were dark, sharp, and unmistakably Valyrian.
Neron greeted her in the high courtyard, dressed in black-and-red finery, sword at his hip.
"Lady Saerya," he said, bowing with just enough courtesy to satisfy dignity—but no more. "You honor us."
She studied him. "You sent trade. Gold. Promises. But you didn't send dragons."
"I sent fire," he said.
"I've known men who burned," she said. "And men who burned others. I'm still not sure which you are."
"Perhaps both."
She laughed, genuinely. "Good. I prefer dangerous men to dull ones."
They spoke long into the night, sipping molten wine in the skyhall above the keep, watching firestorms swirl over distant mountains.
"My family was once mighty," she said, tone soft. "We rode dragons across the Shimmering Sea. But time dulled us. We grew cautious. Too careful."
Neron's gaze never left hers. "Then rise with me now. Be bold again. The Freehold is dying, Saerya. Something new must rise. Something forged in truth and fire."
She considered him for a long moment. "And if I agree, what do I gain?"
He leaned in slightly, voice low.
"A place at the table of tomorrow. When Valyria falls, you will stand above the ashes—beside me."
And thus, the House of Naelarys joined him—first of many.
But as fire gathers, so too does shadow.
And far across the sea, in the black halls of the Fire Priests, a bell began to toll.
End of Chapter 9