The Flame-Court Rises
Cair Volakar's ancient hall, once quiet and half-abandoned, now thrummed with life. Lanterns of red glass and obsidian hung from dragonbone rafters, casting flickering shadows across the polished volcanic floor. Tables groaned beneath the weight of documents, coin-chests, and maps. Whispers of war rippled between lords and envoys like wind through coals.
At the head of the hall sat Neron, not yet king, but no longer simply a lord. Beside him stood Kaerys Velaryon, armored and proud, and behind them, a host of minor nobles pledged to his cause—House Naelarys, House Qorran, the fire-priests of Ashmere, and even a merchant-prince from Volantis, drawn by rumors of the Skyshard.
A great black banner had been raised—a new sigil: a phoenix of flame emerging from a circle of twelve stars, wings bound in Valyrian glyphs.
Kaerys stepped forward, her voice calm but steely.
"You have pledged swords. Ships. Gold. You have whispered oaths in shadowed corners. But today, the world must hear more than whispers."
She turned to Neron.
"Let the realm know who you are."
Neron rose slowly. The silence became a wall.
"I am no son of the Archons," he said. "No heir to any known bloodline. I was not born into flame... I was forged by it."
He held up his hand. The Skyshard shimmered from a chain at his throat.
"I walk the path of fire not as a servant of old Valyria—but as its reckoning. The old lords play with dragons and coin, but I offer something else: a future forged by merit, by might, and by mastery of the very forces they buried in the dark."
He stepped down from the dais.
"My banner flies not for conquest, but for rebirth."
A fire-priest bowed low, tears in his eyes. A Qorran captain unsheathed his sword and raised it high. One by one, others followed.
Kaerys watched the scene, eyes narrowed. "You've just formed a court of fire and blood."
"Not a court," Neron whispered. "A crucible."
Meanwhile – In Mantarys
The city of Mantarys, ancient and blood-drenched, was more fortress than city. Its towers burned with blue fire at their peaks, a reminder that the Maegyr line held dragonflame not just in name, but in ritual. Within the Flame-Keep, Lord Tyragas Maegyr stood before a council of iron-masked magisters.
He spoke without preamble.
"The Ash-Binder failed. He severed it. That means one thing—he's more than a usurper. He's a weapon."
One of the magisters leaned forward. "A weapon aimed at whom?"
Tyragas smiled thinly. "At everyone."
The room fell quiet.
"We respond in kind," he said. "The dragonlords grow bold. Let us remind them what happens when boldness becomes blasphemy."
A Secret Alliance
That night, in a quiet winehouse on the cliffs of Volantis, Ser Rymar Vhoan, a knight of the Lesser Valyrian Houses, sipped firewine alone—until a cloaked figure joined him.
"You were expected," Rymar said.
The stranger removed her hood. Saerya Naelarys.
"You're far from home," he said. "Cair Volakar keeps warm company these days."
Saerya smiled slightly. "And even warmer secrets."
She placed a scroll on the table. Unsealed. Unmarked.
Rymar's brows lifted. "You trust me that much?"
"No," she said. "But I trust ambition. You want a seat at Neron's table."
Rymar picked up the scroll, unrolled it. As he read, his eyes widened.
"This is… impossible."
"No," she said, sipping her wine. "This is Valyria. Everything is possible—until it's devoured by fire."
In the Dragon's Roost
Back at Cair Volakar, Vhassaryx brooded atop the obsidian tower. He had grown monstrous now—easily the size of three warships laid end to end. His breath smoked constantly, like a forge never cooled.
Neron stood before him, alone.
He pressed a hand to the dragon's black scales.
"I saw it again," he whispered. "The storm. The mountain breaking. The sky full of wings."
The dragon blinked slowly.
"Not just you. Others."
He turned toward the distant east, where the Doom would one day rise.
"But it isn't time yet. I need more."
As if in answer, Vhassaryx rumbled. Not in hunger. In agreement.
In the Shadows of Elyria
In a forgotten temple near Elyria's northern wall, a masked woman poured black sand into a circle of glyphs. Candles burned in unnatural hues—green, violet, silver.
A voice echoed from the darkness.
"You awaken old things."
The woman didn't flinch. "Because something older still has awakened. The boy."
"Not a boy," the voice corrected. "A shard of something greater."
She looked up.
"The Doom stirs. He walks paths forbidden to us. Even the blood of dragons will not be enough to bind him."
"What will?" she asked.
The voice exhaled slowly. "Blood… from beyond the world."
The Pact of Twelve
In the high tower of Cair Volakar, Neron met in secret with twelve envoys—each from different backgrounds: a merchant prince from Lys, a pirate queen of the Basilisk Isles, a rogue maester, a giant from the Shadow Mountains, and even a mute assassin from the Forgotten Valley.
The table between them bore no crest. Only a single object: a broken Valyrian circlet.
"I am not asking for oaths," Neron said. "I'm offering a place in what comes next."
One of the envoys—Magha of Basilisk Rock—grinned. "What comes next?"
Neron's smile was cold.
"The end of the Freehold… and the birth of something greater."
End of Chapter 13