Chapter 7: Thrones of Ash and Shadow
The first pale light of dawn crept over the jagged obsidian spires of Wockenfd estate, casting long shadows like ancient claws reaching out over the city below. Inside the great hall, the air was thick with the scent of heated stone and burning incense, the flickering torches struggling to hold back the morning gloom. Aerion stood at the head of the long obsidian table, his dark cloak falling in heavy folds around him, the faint glow of his dragonbound tattoos flickering faintly along his forearms. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept across the gathered faces—the lords and ladies, commanders, and merchants who still owed fealty to his house.
Valyria was a land perched on the edge of chaos, and Aerion could feel its tremors in his bones. The Doom was a shadow looming ever closer, but before that reckoning came, there was work to be done—empires to build and dragons to bind.
"Valyria burns beneath our feet," Aerion began, his voice calm but charged with quiet authority. "But from these ashes, we will forge a new empire. One not born from the decadence of the old dragonlords, but from fire and iron, from cunning and strength." He rapped a fist against the carved rune of the Ashborn ship etched into the black stone tabletop. "This ship," he said, "is the first of many. Not only will she sail the seas, but command them. Our merchants will dominate every trade route from Lys to Yi Ti. Our vassals will protect those routes—and enforce our will."
His gaze locked on Lord Vaesric Dorwyn, the grizzled veteran seated near the head of the table. The man's scarred face was as weathered as the northern seas he commanded. "The fleets are many, but scattered," Dorwyn admitted. "If you give the word, I will unite the northern waters under one banner."
Aerion nodded once. "Do it."
Lady Rysara Helleth, mistress of the Dragon Vein mines, leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence. "Our veins run thin, but with the right rune forges, we can multiply our output tenfold."
"Then your forges shall burn day and night," Aerion said with a faint smile.
One by one, the vassals spoke—their oaths weaving together with Aerion's vision like molten silver threads. He saw the beginnings of a new dynasty in their faces: pride, ambition, fear, and hope all tangled together.
After the meeting, Aerion retreated to the bustling Merchant Quarter where Vaezor of Lys awaited. The streets here were alive with the scent of exotic spices, the sound of foreign tongues, and the restless energy of traders and spies. Vaezor was a man of shadows and gold, with a smile as sharp as a dagger's edge and eyes that missed nothing.
"We need a fleet fast enough to outrun any pirate, swift enough to slip past rival blockades," Vaezor said, spreading out a map dotted with red crosses across the table between them. "Spices, slaves, metals, and the finest Valyrian steel—our caravans need to move faster than ever."
Aerion traced the routes with his fingers, his mind already turning them into veins of power stretching across the seas. "Then we'll build ships that sail on fire and shadow. Wind-sailors fueled by dragonheart engines, swift as a falcon's dive."
Vaezor chuckled low. "Only you would dream so dangerously."
But Aerion knew danger was the price of survival.
Later, grim news arrived. Scouts reported that the floating fortress of Vael Tyronax, once a jewel of Valyria's dominion, had fallen to darkness. The cultists of the Black Flame held sway there, twisting flesh and sorcery in unholy rites that defied the old laws of nature.
"They spread madness like a pestilence," Aenya warned, examining the reports with narrowed eyes. "If we do not act, their corruption will engulf the seas and the skies."
Aerion's fist clenched. "We strike before they can grow stronger."
That night, he sought out Nyelarra. In her chamber, lit by blood-red candles and heavy with the scent of incense and forbidden herbs, she whispered secrets of shadow magic and veiled power. "We will not storm Vael Tyronax with steel," she said, tracing glyphs that shimmered like liquid flame in the air. "We will slip inside, wrapped in shadow, unseen and unstoppable."
Aerion felt the weight of the coming storm settle on his shoulders. The Doom still loomed years away, but the foundations of empires were already trembling—and only those who could master fire and shadow would survive the coming inferno.
Back at the forge, Aerion laid a hand on the pulsating dragon egg nestled beneath the Ashborn's hull. The warmth thrummed through his veins like a living heartbeat. "I will not let you die," he whispered.
The egg was no longer just a promise of power. It was a symbol. A beacon.
From the ashes of old Valyria, a new empire would rise.