Whispers in the Dark
The night in Volantis was heavy with fog and secrets. Narrow alleys twisted like serpents between towering black stone buildings. Lanterns flickered, casting uneasy glows on slick cobblestones.
Kaerys moved silently, her cloak pulled tight against the chill, footsteps muffled by the mist. Beside her, Jaro the Whisperer paused, eyes scanning the shadows.
"The Targaron scion moves closer to the Freehold," he muttered, voice barely above a breath. "He's gathering supporters—disgruntled nobles, outlaws, even those loyal to the old dragons."
Kaerys's lips curled into a smirk. "Then he forgets one thing—loyalty is bought, not born."
Jaro nodded. "And coins speak louder than oaths."
Suddenly, a soft hiss split the silence. From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in midnight blue, a mask shaped like a dragon's maw covering half his face.
"Kaerys Velaryon," he said smoothly, "you tread dangerous ground."
She stopped, hand drifting to the hilt of her sword. "And you must be the serpent who thinks he can strike me down."
The figure smiled beneath his mask. "I am Ser Athrys, last heir of House Targaron. And your enemy."
The Binding of Serenthis
High above, on the volcanic terraces, Aelthara stood over the dragon egg now cracked open, the air trembling with raw power. The hatchling, Serenthis, stretched sinewy wings spotted with violet and black scales. Her eyes, deep pools of ancient fire, locked onto Aelthara with fierce intelligence.
"Good," Aelthara whispered. "You remember me."
Neron entered, cloaked in shadow, the weight of Heartcleaver heavy at his side.
"She is stronger than we hoped," he said quietly.
Aelthara smiled thinly. "Strength is only the beginning. Control is the true prize."
Neron knelt, offering his hand. "Then teach me."
The dragon's eyes flicked between them, wild but curious.
The Spider's Web Tightens
In the candlelit halls of Cair Volakar, the war council gathered once more. Maps littered the table—routes of trade, lines of supply, and the shifting allegiances of the Freeholds.
M'Koro, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, broke the silence. "The Targaron heir is no fool. He has allies in the Shadow Isles and among the pirate kings."
Kaerys slammed her fist on the table. "Then we cut his head off before he strikes."
Neron's voice was cold steel. "We will draw him out with bait."
Aelthara smiled. "And the bait will be a feast none can resist."
A Feast of Shadows
That evening, in the grand hall of Cair Volakar, lords and ladies gathered under banners of flame and ash. The firelight danced in their eyes—hope, fear, and ambition all mingling.
Neron stood, raising a goblet filled with deep red wine. "To the rebirth of Valyria," he declared. "To fire that burns eternal."
Kaerys caught Ser Athrys watching from a shadowed corner, his eyes sharp as daggers.
"Tonight," Neron continued, voice low and commanding, "we remind all who would challenge us that the blood of dragons still flows."
A murmur rose through the hall.
And beneath the surface, the game of shadows deepened.
End of Chapter 18