Chapter 3: The Festival of Embers
Year 10363 AC — 16 Years Before the DoomLocation: Valyria, the CapitalWord Count: ~6,000
The Wyrmgates of Valyria towered over the horizon, shimmering in the midday heat like a dream carved from flame and shadow.
Aerion Wockenfd stood at the prow of the Vaelaryx's Grace, his family's fastest merchant galley, its black hull carved with silver serpents and obsidian runes. Red and gold sails flared above like the wings of a phoenix as they approached the Fire Docks of the capital.
And there it was—Valyria.
A city unlike any in the world.
Wider than any mortal eye could see. Its towers curled like dragon horns, wrapped in glyphs of power, forged from stone that drank sunlight. Rivers of lava flowed beside canals of seawater, both shimmering under bridges shaped like flying wyrms. Crystal spires pulsed with sorcery. Dragons flew overhead in majestic spirals, casting enormous shadows over the silver streets.
Aerion's breath caught in his throat.
"Sixteen years," he whispered. "And only now do I feel Valyria."
"Many who are born of the flame still forget to kneel before the mountain," said Maegor Wockenfd, standing beside him. The old lord had dressed regally in a flowing mantle of deep purple and steel-threaded black, the house sigil gleaming on his chest.
Syra, as always, was resplendent in gold and obsidian silk, her sharp eyes watching the crowds gathering along the docks.
"You've drawn attention already," she murmured to Aerion. "Let them wonder."
The ship docked as music rose—a harmony of flutes, low drums, and voices singing in High Valyrian. A herald in fire-enameled armor approached with a scroll.
"By command of the Thirteen Magistrates and the Dragonseers of the Old Temple, House Wockenfd is welcomed to the Festival of Embers. You are to present your heir before the Flame Mirror by the eve of the second day."
Maegor nodded, handing over a rune-sealed box.
"For the record," he said.
Inside: a black gem glowing faintly.
Valyrian soulstone.
The price of entry.
That evening, they settled into their ancestral manse in the Emberlight Quarter. It had not been occupied in three decades, but servants were already preparing it—airing tapestries, summoning fire-spirits to relight the braziers. Wockenfd's banner flew once again above the balcony: the flame-eyed serpent.
Aerion walked the hallways alone, letting the walls speak.
Memories still clung to the obsidian corridors: laughter, screams, whispered spells. The Wockenfd line had not always been merchants. Once, they were warbinders—dragonriders, swordmasters, even one pyromancer who had exploded in battle, killing five Volantene kingsguard.
System Integration: Ancestral Echoes (Passive Boost — Wockenfd Archives Activated)Memory Threads Unlocked: Valyrian Warbinding, Rituals of Flamebond, Dragonkin Empathy
His thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind him.
"You walk like one who owns the sky."
Aerion turned.
A young man—perhaps seventeen—stood in a silver tunic of House Vanys, his dark purple hair tied back, a blade hanging from one hip. His eyes, molten violet, glinted with curiosity.
"I am Rhaekar Vanys," he said, bowing. "Heir of my House."
"Aerion Wockenfd," Aerion returned. "The citadel reopens."
"Ah. The merchant phoenix returns."
Aerion tilted his head. "Phoenixes burn everything."
Rhaekar smiled. "Perhaps we'll light Valyria together."
They walked and talked beneath the firelantern trees, speaking of dragon eggs, politics, and swordplay. Aerion learned much from the boy—and more importantly, copied his skills.
Copied: Sword Form 'Vaelys' (Swift Pierce Style)Copied: Dragonlord Etiquette (Advanced)
But Rhaekar was no fool.
When Aerion asked about magic, the boy deflected. When Aerion asked about Vanys alliances, he gave empty names.
He was trained, clever, and cautious.
A rival, then. One to keep close.
The next day dawned red with smoke. The city's volcanoes rumbled in the distance.
It was the first day of the Festival.
The Valyrian Arena of Embers roared with crowds—dragonlords in shimmering robes, mages with fireflies stitched into their cloaks, priestesses of the Black Flame chanting prayers to unnamed gods. Aerion sat with his family in the obsidian-paved viewing tower reserved for the Forty Families.
All around him, heirs and nobles were being presented to the Flame Mirror—a standing obelisk of crystal fire that shimmered when touched by Valyrian blood.
Aerion watched as the heirs of House Laenar, Velaryon, Targaryen, Arax, and Vhassar stepped forth. Each was judged by the mirror, their auras flaring across the crowd—some gold, some blue, one even silver-white.
Finally, a name was called:
"Aerion Wockenfd."
He rose.
Walked alone.
Every gaze locked on him.
He stepped before the Flame Mirror. His reflection stared back—taller now, hair long and silver-black, eyes glowing faintly red from the system's magic residue.
He reached out.
Touched the glass.
The Mirror exploded with red fire.
The crowd gasped.
No other color, no aura—just fire. Pure, deep, and furious.
Even the Dragonseers stirred.
The head priest, cloaked in living ash, stepped forward.
"A soul unshaped but boundless. Fire from beyond the veil. Mark him."
System Notification: Legacy Activated — Flame Mirror Recognition (Dragonborne Variant)Trait Unlocked: Hidden Soulbinding PotentialPassive: Magic Affinity +1, Flame Resistance +30%
As Aerion stepped away, Rhaekar met his eyes again from across the rows.
Now the boy looked unsettled.
Good. Aerion thought. Let them feel it. I am not like them. I will rise above them.
That night, the noble feast stretched for hours. Wine flowed. Spiced meats roasted on levitating dishes. Musicians played horn-songs while fire dancers twirled along magma-glass walkways.
Aerion sat beside Syra, but his eyes scanned the room. Here were the true powers of Valyria. Heirs of dragonriders. Sorcerer-blooded twins. Witches in veils. Old men with faces etched by dragonfire.
He began cataloging them.
System: Targets Marked for Copy ProtocolRhaenyra of House Nyessos – Glyphweaving (Advanced)Maeron Targaryen – Dragonmastery (Intermediate)Valxaes Vhassar – Spellsteel Forging (Rare Skill)Kaelora – Voidsight (???)
He would learn from all of them.
He would become everything they were and more.
As the feast wound down, a soft voice whispered beside him.
"You burn hot, prince of merchants. But will you burn long?"
He turned.
It was Rhaenyra Nyessos, a vision in crimson silk, tattoos of runes glowing faintly across her arms and neck. Her eyes were ancient—too ancient for a girl of twenty.
"Do you always whisper poetry to strangers?" Aerion asked.
She smirked. "Only to those who lie as well as I do."
Their hands brushed.
Skill Copied: Glyphweaving (Advanced)
"Let's talk again soon," she said. "Perhaps… more privately."
Then she was gone, lost in the sea of nobles.
Aerion returned to the family manse before midnight, his mind overflowing.
He'd seen dragons today. Touched the Flame Mirror. Copied magic from three different bloodlines.
And yet, he was still not enough.
He walked to the forge below his quarters.
Lit the fire.
And began sketching his next great creation: a flagship.
No merchant galley. No pirate vessel. A warship that would sail the Smoking Sea and survive the storms.
Forged with Valyrian steel.
Fitted with dragonfire engines.
And carved with runes that only he would understand.
He called the design:
"Ashborn."
As dawn broke across the city, Aerion stood on the balcony of Wockenfd's tower.
He stared into the horizon where the sky met the volcano's smoke.
And in the far distance, something watched him back—a black shadow flying high above the mountains.
A dragon.
Not tamed. Not bonded.
Wild.
Waiting.
Aerion smiled.
"Soon," he whispered.
"Very soon."
End of Chapter 3Word count: ~6,000