Daeron slept deeply in the lavish chamber of Volantis's Triarchy palace, the night cloaking the city in stillness. Outside, six figures moved through the shadowed corridors, steps silent on marble floors. They wore dark tight tunics and soft boots, each carrying a short blade at the hip and a small crossbow slung over the shoulder, loaded and ready. They used quick hand signs to communicate—one raised two fingers, another pointed left, a third tapped his chest then gestured forward—coordinating without sound. Servants passed with trays or linens, but the group slipped around corners, hugged walls, and ducked into alcoves, avoiding notice with ease. A guard yawned at his post; they waited until he turned, then glided by, unnoticed. Their stealth was flawless, letting them navigate the palace unseen. They reached Daeron's chamber, a heavy oak door banded with iron. One pressed an ear to it, listening, then nodded. Another slid a thin tool into the lock, twisting until it clicked open. They filed inside, shutting the door quietly, and found Daeron asleep on the massive bed, silk sheets tangled around his legs. Three spread out, surrounding him, blades drawn, while the others took positions near the wall, raising crossbows, bolts aimed at his chest. They nodded in unison, fingers tightening, steel glinting in the faint moonlight from the balcony.
Daeron's eyes snapped open as the first blade descended. He caught the wrist mid-strike, twisting hard, and yanked the man forward into the path of the crossbows. Bolts thudded into the assassin's back, blood spraying as Daeron hurled him across the room. The body crashed into the crossbowmen, knocking them down in a heap. He rolled off the bed, landing on his feet, as two more rushed him. He kicked the first in the chest, sending him flying into the wall, cracking plaster as he slumped, groaning. The second lunged with a dagger—Daeron grabbed his throat, lifting him off the ground. The man stabbed frantically, but the blade slid off Daeron's skin, unable to cut. Daeron clenched his fist, heat flaring, and the assassin screamed, neck blistering as skin burned away. Three others charged, and the crossbowmen disentangled themselves, reloading fast. They fired—bolts sank into the choking man's chest, blood gurgling as Daeron tossed him aside, body hitting the floor.
He faced the crossbowmen, leaning forward, legs tensing. In a blink, he crossed the room, a blur of motion, and punched both, fists slamming through their torsos, bone crunching, blood splattering. He lifted them, impaled on his arms, and flung them off, bodies thudding against the wall, leaving red smears. "Damn it," he muttered, shaking his hands, blood dripping onto the rugs. "Made a mess."
He turned to the three remaining assassins, arm steaming as blood evaporated, burned off by heat. "We done?" he asked, voice flat. They charged instead, blades raised. Daeron stepped in, dodging a short sword's swing, grabbed the man's arm, and snapped it at the elbow with a crack. The sword fell—he caught it mid-air, spun, and parried the next slash, flicking his wrist to disarm the second assassin before slashing his stomach open, guts spilling out. He pivoted behind the first, now clutching his broken arm, and kicked his leg—knee popped out sideways, the man collapsing with a howl. The last assassin bolted for the door. Daeron threw the sword—it punched through the man's back, pinning him to the wall, legs twitching then still.
Daeron exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow, and grabbed the first assassin by the throat, hauling him up. The man dangled, shaking hard. "Talk," Daeron said, sharp and cold. The assassin stayed silent. Daeron shouted, "Talk!" louder, shaking him. The man opened his mouth—empty, no tongue, just a scarred stump. Daeron growled, tossing him down, body thudding to the floor. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He figured it was the Triarchy or some Old Bloods—he'd shamed plenty today—but knowing who sent them would've saved him a rampage. "I hate this place," he muttered, pacing. He just wanted Rhaenys, to see her again, hear her voice.
The air chilled, temperature dropping fast, and a naked figure appeared on the bed—Adara, pale skin shimmering, hair white as snow, eyes glinting blue. She lounged, legs crossed, and smiled. "There's a way to find what you wish to know." Daeron turned, eyeing her warily. "How?"
She floated off the bed, slow and graceful, wrapping her body around his, arms over his shoulders, chin resting there. The assassin flinched, scrambling to crawl away, but Adara flicked her hand—an unseen force dragged him back, pinning him flat. She whispered in Daeron's ear, "Their minds are lesser. Slip in, and all will be laid bare."
Daeron frowned, pulling back. "What, warg into them?"
Adara's smile widened, teeth sharp. "Yes."
"That's against the rules," he said, stepping away, her arms slipping off. "I can't."
"Rules made for men," she countered, drifting closer, voice smooth. "You're not a man anymore, Daeron—you're more." She pressed against him, eyes locked on his. "You've outgrown those limits. This is nothing. Take what you need."
He hesitated, staring at the trembling assassin. Warging a man—Old Nan's warnings echoed through Jon's memories, a taboo carved deep. But Adara's words gnawed at him. He wasn't just a man now—fire, ice, strength beyond reason flowed in him. Maybe she was right. Maybe rules didn't bind him. "Fine," he said, firm but reluctant, and knelt beside the assassin, locking eyes with his terrified gaze. His eyes rolled back, turning white, and he pushed his mind in.
The man's life flooded him—childhood in a Volantene slum, sold to a shadow guild, trained with blade and bow, years of kills flashing by. Daeron sifted through it effortlessly, instinct guiding him to the moment: two Old Bloods, Vhoris and Lysara, shamed by Daeron's display at the gate, hiring this mute crew with gold, swearing vengeance. Before, the rush would've overwhelmed him, but now it bent to his will, clear as a map. He pulled back, eyes clearing, and sighed. "So it was the Old Bloods I shamed. Not surprised." He grabbed the assassin's neck, twisted sharp—snap—and let the body drop, lifeless.
Adara giggled, pressing herself tighter against him, naked body rubbing his side, breath hot on his neck. "You're growing into your powers—beautifully—but this is just the surface." Her hands slid down his chest, eager, voice low. "So much more waits." He shifted, uncomfortable but feeling her pull, the room still cold, blood and bodies scattered around them.
Adara clung to him, her naked body pressed against his back, cold skin brushing his warmth. She slid her hands down his chest, fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles, her touch deliberate and slow. Her breath grazed his neck, a cool whisper against his ear as she murmured, "You wield such power, Daeron." She pulled away, drifting to the bed, and stretched herself out on the silk sheets, legs parting slightly, arms resting above her head. Her pale skin shimmered in the moonlight, breasts full and firm, nipples taut, her flat stomach leading to the sparse white hair between her thighs. She gazed at him, eyes glinting with hunger, lips curling into a sly smile, inviting him without words.
He couldn't help it—his cock stirred, hardening as he took her in, the curve of her hips, the way her thighs flexed as she shifted. She noticed, her smile widening, and she ran a hand down her body, cupping her breast, then sliding lower, teasing herself as she watched him. "Come to me," she said, voice smooth and low, dripping with want. Daeron stepped forward, shedding his breeches, his erection springing free, thick and heavy. He climbed onto the bed, hovering over her, feeling the pull of her presence, something beyond flesh tugging at him.
She reached up, pulling him down, her cold lips meeting his in a deep kiss, tongue slipping into his mouth, tasting him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in, urging him closer. He settled between her legs, his shaft brushing her entrance, slick with her arousal despite her chill. She moaned, a soft "Mmm," vibrating against his lips, and arched her hips, pressing herself against him. "Enter me," she whispered, breath hitching. "I need to feel your heat inside." He pushed forward, sliding into her, her tight walls clenching around him, slick and cool, a stark contrast to his pulsing warmth. She gasped, "Ohhh," head tilting back, exposing her throat as he filled her completely, stretching her.
Their bodies connected, and it hit him—a surge, not just physical but deeper, like their essences tangled, threads weaving together. He thrust slow at first, savoring the way she gripped him, her moans growing louder, "Ahhh, yes," each sound spurring him on. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper. "You're so hot," she purred, voice thick with lust. "I can feel you melting my core, searing every inch." Her hands roamed his back, nails raking his skin, leaving faint marks that faded fast under his unnatural resilience.
He picked up his pace, hips slamming against hers, the bed creaking under them. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples brushing his chest, sending jolts through him. She writhed beneath him, body trembling, her coolness yielding to his heat, a delicious friction building. "Deeper," she urged, panting, "pour yourself into me, Daeron, let me feel your blaze." He obliged, driving into her harder, feeling her walls pulse, slickness coating him as she stretched to take him. Her moans turned sharp, "Nngh, ohhh," a rhythm matching his thrusts, her pleasure echoing in the room.
Their connection deepened, a flood of sensation beyond the physical—her mind brushed his, a link sparking between them. He felt her desire,
endless, feeding his own, their essences coiling together. She clenched around him, tight and needy, and he groaned, the pressure building in his groin, heavy and urgent. "Your warmth," she gasped, hands clutching his hair, pulling his face to hers, "it's unraveling me, splitting me open with every stroke." She kissed him again, messy and hungry, tongue tangling with his, sucking on it as he pounded into her.
He shifted, grabbing her hips, lifting her slightly to angle deeper, hitting a spot that made her cry out, "Haaah!" Her body shuddered, thighs quaking, and she locked eyes with him, pupils blown wide. "You're burning through me," she moaned, voice breaking, "scorching my depths, I can't hold it." He felt it too—their union transcending flesh, a pulse of power syncing their breaths, their movements. He thrust faster, relentless, balls slapping against her, the wet sound mixing with her cries. Her walls tightened, spasming around him, and she arched, breasts pressing into his chest, nipples hard points against his skin.
She came first, a loud "Ohhhh!" ripping from her throat, body convulsing as her orgasm tore through her. Her slickness flooded around him, cool and pulsing, dragging him over the edge. He groaned, low and guttural, spilling into her, thick spurts filling her as his cock throbbed, each pulse a wave of release. Their minds locked tighter in that moment, a rush of shared ecstasy crashing through them—her pleasure amplifying his, his feeding hers, a loop of divine sensation. He kept moving, riding it out, her moans softening to whimpers, "Mmm, ahh," as she milked him dry.
He slowed, still inside her, their bodies slick with sweat and her arousal, chests heaving together. She clung to him, legs trembling, hands sliding to his face, cupping his jaw. "Your heat," she murmured, voice husky, "it's carved itself into me, molded me around you." She kissed him again, softer now, lips lingering, tasting the salt on his skin. He pulled out, his cock glistening, and rolled beside her, breathing hard. She turned, pressing herself against his side, cold skin soothing his flush, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "I've waited for you... for thousands of years I've waited for you, and you're finally here..."
Adara nestled against Daeron's chest, her cool skin soaking in his warmth, a satisfied hum escaping her lips as she relaxed into him. Daeron held her close, one arm wrapped around her slender frame, his gaze drifting to the window where the first rays of sunlight spilled over the horizon, painting the Volantene sky in streaks of gold and pink. The room was quiet, the mess of blood and bodies a stark contrast to the calm settling over them. They lay there for a moment, breathing in sync, her cold fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin while he stared out, the tension of the night easing from his shoulders.
A faint rumble rolled through the air, low and deep, vibrating in his chest. Daeron frowned, sitting up slightly, the sound tugging at something primal inside him. Adara shot up, her body lifting off the bed, floating toward the balcony in a blur of white hair and pale skin. Daeron followed, not far behind, stepping onto the wide stone platform as the morning light grew brighter. "What the hell was that?" he asked, hairs on his arms standing up, a shiver running through him despite his heat. Adara stood silent, staring out over the horizon, her face unreadable. He stepped closer, voice sharper. "What was it?"
She turned to him, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Look for yourself," she said, voice smooth and teasing. Daeron squinted at her, confused. "How? What are you talking about?" She shifted, perching on the balcony's edge, legs dangling, and tilted her head. "Stop seeing the world through your eyes. Go beyond."
He opened his mouth to argue, still lost, but before he could get a word out, she flicked his forehead with a sharp finger. His mind jolted, ripped free of his body, and he stumbled in the air, weightless. The world sharpened—colors vivid, sounds crisp, every sensation heightened. Adara floated beside him, smirking. "See? It's not that hard. But I won't help you again." He blinked, adjusting to the strange view, no longer bound to flesh. He felt the rumble's source, a pull tugging him westward, and let it guide him. His consciousness sped over the ocean, Volantis shrinking behind him, and in less than a second, he hovered above Sunspear, the Dornish city sprawling empty below. He descended, slipping through stone, into a cavern beneath—a vast space with a blood-red lake at its center, thousands of unconscious bodies littering the floor. A shadow stirred under the water, massive and looming. "What is this?" he said, voice echoing in the void.
Adara appeared next to him, giggling softly. "Old powers are waking."
He scanned the people, sprawled and lifeless, then the dark priests along the lake's edge, knives cutting wrists, blood dripping into the water. "What happened to them? What are they doing?" he asked, nodding at the priests.
"They're feeding her," Adara said, floating closer, Daeron drifting beside her. She paused, then continued. "People like us are hard to kill for good. Usually, we hibernate, depending on the damage."
"So they'd come back eventually?" Daeron asked.
"Under normal conditions, yes," she replied. "But magic faded 8,000 years ago—nothing left to restore her." She pointed to the priests. "They're using blood's power to feed her. Thousands have likely died already."
Daeron cursed, drifting nearer, but another rumble shook the air, a roar that made his form ripple. Adara giggled again. "She noticed you. I wouldn't get too close." He pulled back, scanning the cavern, and his eyes caught movement near the edge—three figures creeping along. He moved closer, confirming it: Oberyn Martell, his uncle Ned Stark, and a stranger, a young man with dark hair. "How did they get here?" he muttered to himself. "Why are they together? Who's the boy?"
"The past is yours—look through it," Adara said, hovering nearby.
Daeron frowned, focusing on the trio, and reached out with his mind, brushing their thoughts. Memories flooded him—Ned captured by Oberyn in a skirmish near the Prince's Pass, the Dornishman sparing him for leverage. The boy, Aegon Targaryen, a pretender Rhaenys had warned him about, raised by exiles, believing himself her brother. Ned escaping a Dornish war camp, hunting Robert Baratheon to avenge Robb, crossing paths with Oberyn and Aegon. A false Rhaenys, a monstrous thing wearing her face, fooling Aegon but not Oberyn, who saw through her. Their journey to Sunspear, finding it deserted, sneaking through tunnels, only to be ambushed and dragged here. He pulled back, shaken. "I have to help them," he said, staring at the cavern floor.
"That's not possible," Adara replied, voice calm. "Even I can't move between places like that."
Daeron thought hard, then pushed forward, exploring. The cavern stretched upward, connecting to Sunspear's castle. He rose through stone, finding the halls empty save for a few wandering priests, their robes dark, faces hidden. Then he saw her—the false Rhaenys, standing in a chamber, her face a cruel mirror of his sister's. Nausea twisted him; she looked right, but a sick wrongness pulsed from her, a stench of rot beneath her skin. She froze, head tilting, and spoke in a low voice, "Who's watching me?" Her eyes locked onto him, shadows stretching from the walls, coiling around him like ropes. He backed away, but they tightened, trapping him.
Adara appeared beside him, power flaring—icy winds blasted out, shredding the shadows, nearly knocking the false Rhaenys off her feet. She giggled, sharp and clear. "Foolish child, trying to meddle." She grabbed Daeron, pulling him free, and they snapped back into their bodies on the balcony.
Daeron gasped, lurching forward, hands gripping the marble railing so hard it cracked under his fingers. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, turning to Adara. "Who was she?"
She shrugged, leaning against the rail. "An aspect of something greater, I suspect—similar to the one you made."
"The one I what?" he said, confusion creasing his face.
Adara tilted her head, smiling. "Oh, you don't even know, do you?" She giggled, light and teasing.
"Know what?" he pressed, voice rising.
"You'll see," she said, still giggling, then vanished, leaving him alone.
Daeron cursed her playful nature, muttering under his breath, but his mind shifted to Sunspear, to Oberyn and Ned trapped in that nightmare. Whatever stirred there was bad—evil, even—and he needed to help them. But he couldn't just leave Volantis. The Triarchy loomed here, unfinished business tying him down, and Rhaenys waited beyond, pulling at his heart. His family too, left with a Dothraki horde that might turn without him—abandoning them wasn't an option. "Shit," he said, pacing the balcony. "What can I do?"
An idea sparked. He stopped, closing his eyes, and focused on the bond with Shiera, his dragon, a thread of instinct and blood linking them. He poured strength into it, willing it to grow, feeling her presence flicker—distant, wild, but there. He couldn't speak through it; Shiera's mind wasn't strong enough to bridge the gap fully, but maybe he could send a nudge, a command. He concentrated, urging her, *Go to Sunspear, help them, fly now.* He pushed the thought hard, picturing the city, the lake, Ned and Oberyn. A faint pulse came back, but it was weak, uncertain. He opened his eyes, breathing heavy, sweat beading on his brow. "I hope that worked," he said, staring across the horizon, the sun climbing higher, its light glinting off the Black Walls of Volantis.
___________________________
Volantis burned and bled as the sun climbed higher, chaos swallowing its streets whole. The Fiery Hand, a thousand slave soldiers clad in red tunics and wielding spears, clashed with the city guard in every corner, their numbers bolstered by slaves who chanted R'hllor's name, swinging crude weapons—axes, hammers, broken swords—taken from their masters' homes. The guard fought back with long spears and curved blades, their bronze armor glinting as they hacked through the mob, but the sheer mass of bodies overwhelmed them. Blood ran thick in the gutters, pooling around corpses, some split open from shoulder to hip, others trampled into the dirt, faces caved in by boots or clubs. A guard thrust his spear into a slave's chest, piercing through ribs, and yanked it free, blood spraying his face, only to take an axe to the neck from another, his head lolling as he dropped. Across the square, a Fiery Hand soldier drove his spear through a guard's stomach, twisting it until guts spilled out, then kicked the body off to face the next, his red cloak soaked darker.
The Long Bridge became a slaughterhouse, bodies piling up as the two sides collided. Slaves charged over the stone span, screaming prayers, and met a wall of shields—guards locked arms, shoving them back, stabbing through gaps, piercing throats and bellies, blood dripping into the Rhoyne below. A slave swung a hammer, smashing a guard's knee, bone snapping loud, and the man fell, screaming, only to get his skull crushed under a second blow, brain matter splattering the stone. The Fiery Hand pushed forward, their spears jabbing, skewering guards through gaps in armor, one taking a blade to the arm, slicing to the bone, before stabbing back, gutting his attacker, intestines looping out as he staggered and fell. Arrows flew from both sides—guards on rooftops loosed volleys into the crowd, bolts punching through chests and necks, while slaves fired back with stolen bows, one hitting a guard in the eye, the shaft jutting out as he toppled off the edge, splashing into the river.
Near the merchant's square, a guard captain bellowed orders, swinging a longsword, cutting down a slave with a single slash across the chest, blood gushing as the man crumpled, clutching the wound. Three Fiery Hand soldiers rushed him, spears thrusting—he parried one, dodged another, but the third caught his thigh, ripping through muscle, and he roared, hacking the spearman's arm off at the elbow, blood jetting from the stump. A slave tackled him from behind, knife plunging into his side, and they rolled, grappling, until the captain drove his sword up through the slave's jaw, the blade bursting out the top of his skull, blood and teeth scattering. He shoved the body off, staggering up, only to catch a spear through the chest from another, pinning him to a cart, his gasps wet and short before he went limp.
Captain Vorro Maegyr stood near the temple square, barking useless orders to his shrinking guard. "Form up, you idiots! Stop them here!" he shouted, his fat frame trembling in his ornate armor, sword still sheathed. A lieutenant ran up, blood on his face, yelling, "They're breaking through, Captain—we need more men!" Vorro waved him off, stammering, "No, no, hold them, flog the weaklings if you must!" The lieutenant stared, then shouted, "Flog them? They're dying out there!" Vorro ignored him, turning to another guard. "You, get to the east gate, bring reinforcements!" The man hesitated, muttering, "There's no one left," but ran off as a slave charged Vorro, screaming, "Burn, you pig!" Vorro stumbled back, tripping over a corpse, and a Fiery Hand soldier finished the slave with a spear to the gut, shouting, "Stay down, filth!" blood splashing Vorro's boots.
Kinvara stood at the heart of it all, atop a makeshift platform in the temple square, her red robe billowing as she raised her arms, voice carrying over the screams and clangs of steel. The fighting swirled around her—slaves and Fiery Hand soldiers surged forward, crashing into the guard's lines, while bodies dropped, some gutted, others with throats slashed, blood soaking the cobblestones. She shouted to her followers, "These men stand in the way of our mission, servants of darkness who defy the Lord of Light's will!" Her eyes blazed as she pointed at the guard, their bronze helmets flashing as they cut through the mob. "Cleanse them—purge their corruption with fire and steel!" A slave near her drove a pitchfork into a guard's gut, twisting it, blood pouring as the man screamed, falling to his knees, and another smashed a rock into his head, caving it in, blood and bone mixing with the dirt.
The temple square turned into a meat grinder. A guard swung his sword, slicing a slave's arm off, the limb hitting the ground as blood spurted, but two more tackled him, one stabbing a knife into his neck, the other stomping his chest until ribs cracked, blood bubbling from his mouth. A Fiery Hand soldier thrust his spear through a guard's back, the point bursting out his chest, and yanked it free, spinning to block a sword slash, then stabbing again, piercing another's throat, blood spraying as he gurgled and fell. Slaves swarmed a guard post, dragging men out, beating them with clubs and fists—one took a blow to the face, teeth flying, before a knife slit his belly, spilling guts as he howled. The air filled with the stench of blood, sweat, and smoke as fires broke out, shops and stalls catching from flung torches, flames licking up wooden frames.
Kinvara kept preaching, stepping over a corpse with its head split open, brain oozing onto the stone. "The Lord demands their end—every drop of their blood brings us closer to salvation!" she cried, and her followers roared, charging a guard line. One slave ran forward, only to catch a spear through the chest, blood exploding out his back as he fell, but three more leapt over him, swinging axes, chopping into armor and flesh, a guard's arm dangling by tendons before a second blow took his head off, rolling into the chaos. A Fiery Hand soldier wrestled a guard to the ground, driving a dagger into his eye, blood and fluid squirting as he twisted it, then stood, kicking the body aside to face another, spear dripping red.
Captain Vorro watched all this happen and it scarEd him, he turned to his men. "Get me to the walls, now!" as his men fell around him. A guard grabbed his arm, shouting, "Captain, we can't—they're everywhere!" Vorro shoved him off, screaming, "Do it, or I'll have your head!" and ran, lumbering toward the black walls, his gut bouncing with each step.
He reached the gates, pounding on them, yelling, "Open up, it's Vorro Maegyr, your captain!" A voice from above barked, "Gates stay shut—no one in!" Vorro hammered harder, shouting, "I'm noble blood, you fools, let me through!" but the gates stayed closed, guards on the walls yelling, "Stay out, coward!" He turned, panting, as slaves closed in, one screaming, "There's the fat one!" Vorro bolted, tripping over a dead guard, scrambling up, but a Fiery Hand soldier tackled him, shouting, "Got you!" pinning him face-down in the blood-soaked dirt. Another tied his wrists with rope, yelling, "To Kinvara with him!" as Vorro whimpered, "No, please, I'll pay you!"
Vorro groveled at Kinvara's feet, blood and dirt smearing his face as he clutched her robe, tears streaming down his cheeks while he begged, "Please, High Priestess, spare me, I'll serve you, I'll give you gold, anything you want!" Kinvara looked down at him, her face calm, and knelt, lifting his chin with her fingers as she spoke, "The Lord of Light offers mercy through flame, Vorro, and we will guide your soul to his embrace." She stood, turning to the Fiery Hand soldiers around her, and said, "Gather fuel for his salvation." Vorro sobbed louder, shaking his head as he pleaded, "No, no, I don't want to burn, let me live, I beg you!" but the soldiers ignored him, two grabbing his arms, dragging him off the platform while he kicked and screamed, "Mercy, please, I'm not ready!"
The soldiers moved fast, one shouting to a group of slaves nearby, "Bring wood, quick, for the priestess!" and they ran off, returning with armfuls of broken planks, chair legs, and cart pieces scavenged from the wrecked square. Others hauled a thick beam from a collapsed stall, dropping it in the center as they piled the wood around it, stacking it into a rough pyre while Kinvara watched, nodding as she murmured, "This will cleanse him." Vorro thrashed in the soldiers' grip, yelling, "You can't do this, I'm noble, I'm Maegyr, let me go!" but they pulled him to the pyre, slamming him against the beam, wrapping ropes around his wrists and chest, tying him tight as he twisted, shouting, "Please, don't, I'll do anything!" A slave handed a torch to a Fiery Hand soldier, who stepped forward, saying to Vorro, "The fire will save you, stop fighting it," and touched the flame to the wood, the dry planks catching fast, crackling as the fire spread.
Flames licked up the pyre, smoke rising thick and black as Vorro screamed, "No, stop, I don't want this, mercy!" his voice cracking while the heat hit him, his tunic smoldering, then catching, the fire climbing his legs as he kicked against the ropes, yelling, "Help me, someone, please!" Kinvara raised her hands, chanting, "Lord of Light, take this soul, purify him in your flame," and the faithful around her joined in, their voices rising over his cries, "R'hllor, receive him!" The fire roared higher, engulfing his lower half, skin blistering and splitting, fat sizzling as it dripped into the flames, and he shrieked, "It burns, stop it, I beg you!" but the soldiers stood firm, one muttering, "It's for your good," as they watched. His hair caught, burning off in clumps, and his screams turned raw, "I don't want salvation, let me live, AAAHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" until his throat charred, voice fading to a wet rasp, his body slumping as the flames consumed him, leaving a blackened husk tied to the beam.
Kinvara turned from the pyre, smoke curling around her, and faced her followers, who now controlled most of Volantis after a day of brutal fighting that left the streets littered with guard corpses, blood staining every corner from the Long Bridge to the merchant's square. She spoke loud, "The city bends to the Lord's will, and the Old Bloods cower behind their black walls." The faithful had swept through, the Fiery Hand and slaves breaking the guard's lines, killing hundreds, seizing key points—docks, gates, temples—while survivors fled or surrendered, swearing allegiance to R'hllor under threat of spears.
The Old Bloods, the noble families who ruled from their fortified district, locked themselves in when the gates shut on Vorro, their guards holding the walls but unable to push out, cut off from the rest of Volantis now firmly in Kinvara's grasp. She raised her voice again, "Their darkness remains, but we will bring the flame to them soon," and the crowd cheered, some dragging dead guards to new pyres, others looting homes for more fuel, their chants of "R'hllor! R'hllor!" echoing through the shattered city as the fires burned on.
(AN: So without Daeron knowing Volantis has been taken in his name. Pretty cool. Did Daeron manage to send Oberyn and the others help? Will they even live. Probably not. But who knows at this point. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter ☺️)
If you like my stuff consider supporting me.
Patreon.com/captainalfie78works