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"When is your name day, Cole?" Tyrion asked, sitting by the fire.
Cole had just returned from horseback riding, exhausted. Ever since he had donned the red robe, he had become the leader of the People of Fire—three tribes united under one banner: the Painted Dogs, the Burned Men, and the Redsmiths.
But just because they all called themselves the People of Fire didn't mean they saw each other as equals.
The Painted Dogs, claiming to be the true inheritors of the faith, looked down on the other two tribes. The hot-tempered Burned Men, in turn, had little patience for the arrogance of the Painted Dogs. Their hostility had been simmering for generations.
The Redsmiths, caught between the two, found themselves in a constant dilemma. The Painted Dogs, with their deep roots in the Moon Mountains, had always been the strongest tribe. Their numbers exceeded 3,000, with nearly 2,000 warriors ready for battle.
The Burned Men, on the other hand, were a rising power. Though they had only emerged in the last century, their name alone struck fear into every freeman in the mountains—and even the lords of the Vale had learned to dread them. Their numbers were smaller, barely 1,000 warriors, but their brutality more than made up for it.
Unlike the Painted Dogs, who had remained hidden in the depths of the Moon Mountains for thousands of years, the Burned Men were the most aggressive of all the tribes. They had fought against nearly every mountain clan and continued to thrive. If not for the lack of land and numbers, the Painted Dogs might have already sounded the horn for a full-scale invasion of the Eyrie.
Cole picked up a skewer of roasted meat from the fire and bit into it. Though he had been named the King of Fire, his authority was far from absolute.
Belief had weight, but not everyone was a devout follower. Most of the people who knelt before him did so out of tradition, not unwavering faith.
And if there was one truth about the free folk, it was that their loyalty could never be taken for granted.
"Name day?" Cole repeated between bites. "Must've passed already." The meat's juices spilled into his mouth. It tasted... well, like mountain meat always did. Nothing special.
Tyrion, on the other hand, had no trouble keeping the free folk in line. His ability to manipulate interests made him far more respected than Cole, and he cared little for the rivalries between the tribes. After all, he was just an employer.
Cole, however, was different. Every dispute, every minor grievance between the three tribes was brought before him first. His days were consumed with trivial conflicts—arguments over livestock, insults turned into brawls, endless feuds between stubborn warriors.
And that wasn't even mentioning the tribal leaders, who quarreled amongst themselves as often as their men.
"Where are we now?" Cole asked, rubbing his temples. The constant disputes had drained him.
"We've left the Moon Mountains," Bronn replied, poking at the fire with a stick. "By tomorrow, we'll reach the flatlands."
"Not spending time with your free folk brothers today?"
Cole had been staying with Timett and the other tribal leaders every day. They had all sworn a blood oath to him, giving him control over the entire People of Fire—at least in theory.
Leading more than 3,000 warriors was no easy task. The three tribes each had their own agendas, and managing them all stretched Cole to his limits.
But he knew this was an opportunity he couldn't afford to waste. With chaos looming over Westeros, power meant survival. Holding a strong force gave him more control over his own fate.
"I sent Timett and the others back to the tribe to select warriors," Cole said.
Tyrion took a sip of wine, the flask taken from the Painted Dogs. "So, do you truly want to be the 'Flame King'?"
"If war breaks out, I'd rather have an army at my back than face it alone."
Tyrion nodded in agreement. "And why exactly are you selecting warriors?"
"To settle their conflicts."
"Conflicts?"
"The Painted Dogs and the Burned Men have hated each other for years," Cole explained. "It's an old grudge, and if I don't find a way to redirect that tension, they'll tear each other apart. I need to give them a new enemy to focus on."
Tyrion's sharp mind caught on immediately. He clapped his hands and grinned. "Free folk are always willing to work together when there's an enemy to fight."
The next day, word spread among the People of Fire:
The Flame King was forming his own Flame Guard—an elite force of 300 warriors, the bravest among them, chosen personally by the King himself. These warriors would wield flaming swords and follow their King into battle, fighting across the world in his name.
For the first time in years, the Painted Dogs and the Burned Men had something to compete for—together.
When the Flame People heard the summons, they gathered beneath a high platform—one that had been hastily built overnight by Cole's followers.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
The deep thud of drums echoed through the air. It wasn't anything elaborate, just simple leather stretched over sheepskin, but it was enough. The rowdy free folk quieted at the sound.
As the drumbeats continued, a group of cavalry emerged, descending slowly from the hillside. They rode in tight formation, encircling a single figure draped in a blood-red cloak. The riders moved in a steady circle around the high platform, allowing every member of the tribe to see the face of their so-called Fire King.
Cole swung down from his horse. The wind caught his cloak, making it billow behind him as he ascended the platform, stepping past the kneeling tribal leaders.
"Flame People!" His voice rang out over the assembled crowd. "When I picked up the stone, the fire priest told me I was the reincarnation of the Fire King. But tell me—why should a stone decide the fate of the brave People of Fire? Just as you wonder why a boy of barely sixteen should be your king, so do I."
On the platform, a pile of firewood had been stacked in preparation. Timett handed Cole a torch, and without hesitation, he cast it into the pile.
With a whoosh, flames erupted, shooting into the sky.
"Then let the fire itself give us the answer!"
He unsheathed his sword and drove it into the heart of the blaze. Within moments, the metal was engulfed in flames. Cole lifted the burning sword high and descended the platform.
The crowd instinctively parted before him, forming a path. The heat radiating from the blade forced them to step back, their faces reflecting the flickering firelight.
He walked among them, the burning sword in hand, and in that moment, they truly believed.
Even the most skeptical among them could not deny what they saw with their own eyes.
Returning to the platform, Cole raised his voice once more. "The gods have given me the power to withstand fire—and the mission to lead the People of Fire. So I ask you, free warriors, will you fight for me?"
"The Fire King!" Timett was the first to shout.
A heartbeat later, the crowd erupted like a raging inferno.
From a distance, Tyrion observed the spectacle, nodding in approval. He played this scene well. At the very least, his standing among the free folk has just risen to new heights.
Cole lifted his sword and drove it back into the fire. "I will gather the bravest warriors among you—those who will stand by my side as my sharpest blade, my most trusted brothers, my companions when I return to the gods. Who among you dares to raise this sword?"
Timett leaped forward without hesitation, drawing the blade from the flames and holding it high before plunging it back in.
"Timett, son of Timett, your bravery is witnessed by the fire."
Cole sliced his palm with a dagger and smeared his blood across Timett's face.
The first three hundred warriors who stepped forward to take up the blade became the founding members of the Flame Guard.
To strengthen their ranks, Cole declared a new rule: if anyone wished to join the Flame Guard, they had to challenge and defeat a current member in single combat—under the watchful eyes of the flames.
He had given his people an enemy: not an outsider, but a challenge among themselves. So long as he remained the Fire King, the title of Flame Guard would be the highest honor in the tribe—the goal every warrior would strive to attain.
And once the ceremony was over, Cole wasted no time stripping off his blood-soaked cloak. The stench of dried goat's blood clung to the fabric, thick and pungent.
Sure enough, in the following days, conflicts among the Flame People lessened.
Not because they had stopped fighting—far from it.
Now, they were dueling every day.
And all Cole had to do was sit back and watch.