The Council of Flames
In the great hall of Cair Volakar, torches flickered against carved stone walls etched with the history of Valyria's rise and fall. The air was thick with the scent of smoldering incense and wet ash. Neron stood at the head of the table, Heartcleaver laid carefully before him, its dark blade humming faintly as if alive.
Around him sat his closest allies: Kaerys Velaryon, the fierce blade-bearer; M'Koro, the shadowbinder; and Aelthara Vhoryn, the Merchant-Queen, draped in silks dyed with the deep reds of her home city.
Kaerys broke the heavy silence. "Our enemies will not wait. Tyragas has unleashed the Blood-Pledged, and Mantarys grows restless. They'll come for us next."
Neron's gaze was cold, the firelight casting shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones. "Then we must strike before they gather strength."
Aelthara smiled, a dangerous gleam in her mismatched eyes. "I have a gift for you—a whisper carried on dragon's breath. The eastern Freeholds have traded in secrecy. A wyrm's egg, stolen from the Temple of the Sun."
Kaerys scoffed. "An egg is worthless if we cannot hatch it."
"True," Aelthara said, "but the mother is on the move. I've hired spies, shadow dancers, even those who speak to dragons."
M'Koro rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Dragons listen. They do not obey easily."
Neron leaned forward. "Then we speak their language."
The Whisper of Dragons
Later, beneath the molten sky on the volcanic terraces, Neron and Aelthara walked side by side. The dragon egg rested between them, cradled in a bed of glowing ember moss.
"Tell me about this wyrm," Neron said, voice low.
Aelthara's eyes gleamed in the firelight. "They call her Serenthis. A rare black and violet hatchling, rumored to have survived the Doom by fleeing through the Smoke."
Neron nodded slowly. "A dragon like no other. She will be the key."
Aelthara stepped closer, brushing a finger along the egg's cracked surface. "But dragons are not born, they are made. Through pain, fire, and will."
He smiled. "Like men."
The Market of Masks
Meanwhile, in the shadowed alleys of Volantis, Kaerys moved like a ghost among merchants, cutpurses, and spies. She met with an informant, a grizzled man known as Jaro the Whisperer.
"Word is the Blood-Pledged have infiltrated the merchant guilds," Jaro said, handing over a sealed parchment. "They seek to choke your supply lines."
Kaerys unfolded the letter, reading the names of several key trade routes.
"We strike at them before they can strike us," she said coldly.
Jaro nodded. "And the Merchant-Queen?"
"She plays her own game," Kaerys said. "But her coin will buy us what swords cannot."
Treachery in the Court
Back in Cair Volakar's throne room, an urgent message arrived—a letter sealed with the mark of House Targaron, one of the oldest Valyrian families thought destroyed.
The letter was brief:
"Your actions threaten the balance. The blood of Valyria is not yours to command. Surrender the Heartcleaver, or face ruin."
Neron crushed the letter in his hand. "Let them come."
Kaerys stepped forward, eyes fierce. "We will burn their houses to ash before we fall."
Aelthara leaned in, her voice a whisper dripping with poison. "Then we must weave a web of fire and shadows. Let the snakes fight among themselves."
Nightfall Conspiracies
That night, under a sky full of stars and smoke, Neron and Kaerys convened in the war room, maps spread across the stone table.
"We have three paths," Neron said. "We strike at Mantarys and their Blood-Pledged, we secure Serenthis and her egg, or we break the Targaron alliance before they can muster."
Kaerys's hand rested on the pommel of her sword. "I say we start where they least expect. The Targaron blood runs deep, but they are fractured. We'll ignite their rivalries."
Neron smiled grimly. "A web of fire indeed."
End of Chapter 16