The Dothraki horde sprawled across the plains a few miles from Volantis, their tents dotting the landscape like a sea of leather and felt, their horses stamping the earth into a dusty haze. Daeron had ridden off with the messenger from Volantis days ago, leaving instructions for Viserys to lead the horde here and set up camp. Viserys, his uncle, followed the command without hesitation, guiding the riders and their families to this spot just beyond the city's reach. Now, thousands of Dothraki milled about, sharpening curved blades, wrestling in the dirt, and tending to their mounts. Tension simmered beneath the surface. Many whispered they'd come to sack Volantis, to prove their worth to Daeron, their new Khal. The younger warriors paced restlessly, eager to spill blood and claim glory, while the elders watched with weathered eyes, waiting for orders that hadn't yet come. The camp buzzed with barely contained energy, a storm ready to break.
In the heart of the encampment, Viserys sat cross-legged on a woven rug, surrounded by Arthur, Ashara, and Daenerys. Piles of treasures from Valyria lay scattered before them, hauled back by Daeron from his journey into the ruined lands. Viserys ran his fingers over a curved dagger, its edge glinting in the firelight, while Arthur sifted through a stack of ancient scrolls. Ashara sorted gemstones into piles, and Daenerys lingered near the edge of the group, her gaze drifting outward. Arthur picked up a small, intricately carved box and turned it over in his hands. He lifted the lid, revealing a stash of glittering coins, then set it down and grabbed a goblet etched with dragons. He held it up to the light, watching the way it caught the flames, then passed it to Viserys. "A single one of these could buy you a castle," Arthur said, leaning back on his heels and wiping his hands on his breeches.
Viserys shook his head and placed the goblet carefully on the rug. "No, they're priceless. Relics from our family's history. You won't find treasures like these anywhere in Westeros or Essos." He reached for a necklace, its chain woven with tiny scales, and held it up, letting it dangle between his fingers. "These belonged to our ancestors, to the dragonlords who forged empires."
Arthur nodded, then bent down and pulled a shield from the pile. It gleamed in the dim light, forged entirely of Valyrian steel, its surface smooth and unmarred, swirling patterns etched along the edges. He hefted it onto his arm, testing its balance, then handed it to Viserys. "Well, you certainly won't see one of these just anywhere."
Viserys took it, his eyes widening as he traced the designs with his fingertips. He stood, lifting it with both hands, and swung it lightly from side to side. "Not heavy at all," he said, marveling at how it moved like an extension of his arm.
"Valyrian steel—unbreakable yet light as a feather," Arthur said, chuckling as he watched Viserys turn it over. He stepped closer, clapping a hand on Viserys's shoulder. "It looks good on you. Keep it. Start training with it."
Viserys lowered the shield and shook his head, setting it back on the pile. "These are Daeron's treasures. I wouldn't take anything without asking. Besides, I'm not much of a warrior." He sat down again, folding his hands in his lap, and stared at the shield as if it might leap up and claim him.
Arthur crouched beside him, picking up the shield and pressing it back into Viserys's hands. "Daeron would want his family safe. That's what a shield's for. You've kept them alive all this time—don't sell yourself short."
Ashara looked up from the gemstones she was sorting and nodded. "He's right. You protected Daenerys and Rhaella through everything—exile, hunger, danger. You deserve this." She stood and walked over, kneeling beside Viserys. She placed a hand on his arm and squeezed gently. "Take it. It suits you."
Viserys hesitated, glancing between them, then down at the shield. He ran his thumb along its edge, feeling the cool metal, and finally sighed. "Fine. But I'll check with Daeron later." He managed a small smile and set the shield beside him, resting it against his knee.
Arthur grinned and turned back to the pile. "I doubt Daeron will use it anyway. He's got enough steel on him already." He reached in and pulled out a longsword, its blade rippling with the telltale waves of Valyrian steel. He laid it across his lap, then grabbed another—a shorter blade—and set it next to the first. Viserys joined in, lifting a spear with a leaf-shaped head, followed by an axe with a haft wrapped in faded leather. They counted a dozen swords, three spears, two axes, and a handful of daggers, each one flawless and sharp. Then came the armor—half a dozen full sets, from helms to greaves, all forged in that same dark, shimmering metal. Arthur lifted a breastplate and rapped his knuckles against it, listening to the clear ring it made.
Ashara uncovered a stack of books and scrolls, their pages brittle but intact, bound in leather and sealed with wax. She unrolled one, revealing script in a language none of them could read, and passed it to Viserys, who studied it with a frown. Next came gemstones—fist-sized rubies, sapphires the color of deep water, and others they couldn't name, glowing faintly in the firelight. Gold followed, coins and ingots stacked in a chest, alongside jewelry: rings, bracelets, and a crown studded with black pearls. Ashara lifted a dress from the pile, its fabric shimmering as she held it up. Thin strands of Valyrian steel ran through the silk, woven so tightly they couldn't tell where the metal ended and the thread began. "How did they even do this?" she asked, running her fingers over the hem.
Viserys shook his head and reached for a staff—gold and Valyrian steel twisted together, topped with a red gemstone that pulsed faintly. "No idea. Look at this." He passed it to Arthur, who balanced it across his palms, then set it down and grabbed a handful of candles, their wicks black and unlit and the whole thing made out of dragon glass. "Valyrian glass candles," he said. "It's said a person can look ahead for miles with one of these."
At the bottom of the pile, nestled in a padded crate, lay dragon eggs—three of them, each the size of a man's head, their scales glinting bronze, green, and cream. Viserys lifted one, cradling it like a child, while Arthur whistled low. "Eggs. Now we have six." They sat in silence for a moment, staring at them.
Ashara glanced over at Daenerys, who hadn't touched a single item. The girl stood near the tent's flap, peering out at Volantis in the distance, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. A faint crease lined her brow. Ashara set down a necklace she'd been examining and crossed the rug, stopping beside her. "What's on your mind?" she asked, keeping her voice soft.
Daenerys turned her head slightly, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just watching the camp." She shrugged and looked back at the city, but her fingers tightened against each other.
Ashara stepped closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I can see when a woman's troubled. Too often I've seen that look in the mirror." She tilted her head, waiting.
Daenerys stayed quiet, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then she exhaled and glanced down at her feet. "I'm worried about Daeron. He's in the city alone. I don't want anything bad to happen to him."
Ashara squeezed her shoulder, her own chest tightening. She loved Daeron too, had bound her life to his through years of chaos and hope. "Don't worry," she said, pulling Daenerys into a half-hug. "He's been through worse. Much worse."
Before Daenerys could respond, Arthur's voice cut through the tent. "Ashara's right." He stood and walked over, brushing dirt from his hands. "I've been with Daeron since the start—back when he was just Jon. The horrors he's faced, the trials—most men would've broken, and armies would've fled. But he endured it all." He placed a hand on Daenerys's other shoulder, his grip firm. "He'll be fine."
Daenerys looked between them, then back at the city, its walls a dark smudge against the horizon. She nodded slowly, her shoulders easing under their hands. "I hope so," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and turned back to the treasures, though her eyes lingered on the distance a moment longer.
___________________________
(Two Days Prior)
Daeron rode behind the messenger from Volantis, keeping his horse at a steady pace along the dirt road. He'd met the man earlier that day, when he'd flagged them down with a sealed letter. The message carried news of a ban—Volantis had barred all Targaryens from entering, a decision sparked by Rhaenys's actions. Daeron had told Viserys to follow with the horde and camp a few miles from the city and followed the messenger toward to get answers. As he rode, his mind stayed fixed on Rhaenys. He gripped the reins hard, wondering what she'd done to cause this. Was she hurt? Had the slave masters punished her? His stomach knotted with worry, his jaw tightening as he pictured her in chains or worse. He took a deep breath, pushing the fear aside, and told himself she had to be alive—her actions had led to this ban, so she'd made it through whatever happened. Still, he kept turning over the same questions: why had she acted, and what had she done? He'd know soon enough, and he kicked his horse to move faster, the messenger glancing at him but staying quiet.
They reached Volantis after an hour, the city's walls coming into view as they topped a rise. The messenger slowed his horse and turned. "The soldiers might not let you in."
Daeron pulled up beside him. "I'll handle that." He nudged his horse forward, the messenger keeping pace, and they headed down toward the gate.
Caravans lined the road outside the walls, wagons loaded with goods like grain and cloth, drivers shouting at oxen to keep them moving. People crowded close to the city, looking for safety after hearing about Dothraki that were in the area. Guards stood in groups, holding spears and watching the road. Daeron and the messenger rode through the mess, their horses stepping around carts and people, until they got to the gate. Daeron stopped and looked around. He'd come in through the harbor last time and left fast, so he hadn't seen this part of the city. Now he saw slaves everywhere, walking with their heads down, chains rattling. Scars covered their backs—some fresh, some old. Kids were mixed in, barefoot and thin, and naked women shuffled along, pushed by masters with whips. He pressed his lips together, remembering something he'd read in Winterfell about Volantis having five slaves for every free person. His stomach turned, and a hot feeling spread through his chest as he watched.
They stopped at the gate, where two guards in armor stood waiting. One stepped up, sticking his spear in the ground. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
The messenger sat up straight and pulled a scroll from his bag. "I'm Tycho, servant of Triarch Malaquo. This is my pass." He handed it over, and the guard read it, nodded, and gave it back.
The guard looked at Daeron. "And you?"
Daeron leaned forward on his horse. "Daeron Targaryen."
The guards started talking among themselves, hands moving to their weapons. The one in front frowned and pointed back down the road. "Targaryens aren't allowed here. Get out—Volantis doesn't want you."
Daeron didn't move. "I want to talk to the Triarchy."
The guard laughed, and the others joined in. "Talk to the Triarchy?" one said. "You've got no business here, leave or you'll find yourself in chains," another shouted. They pulled out swords and aimed spears, stepping closer to block the gate.
A voice whispered in Daeron's ear—Adara, saying, "Show them your power." He took a breath and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "Move out of my way and let me in. This is your last warning."
They laughed harder, but then a bowstring snapped, and an arrow flew at him. Daeron caught it with one hand, looked at it, and broke it in half, dropping the pieces without a word.
The guards went quiet, and he swung down from his horse, landing on the ground. He reached inside himself, feeling the power there, and let it out. The guards yelled as their swords turned red-hot, burning their hands through gloves. Armor started melting, dripping off them, and they fell, trying to rip it off. Daeron stood still, watching them drop.
Three guards with no armor, just spears, ran at him. The first stabbed at his stomach, but Daeron grabbed the spear, twisted it until it broke, and hit the man across the face with the back of his hand. The guard flew back, slamming into a wagon and falling limp. The second came at him, aiming for his chest, and Daeron stepped aside, and punched the man's jaw, knocking him flat. The third hesitated, then lunged. Daeron caught the spear, pulled it away, and hit the guard's head with his elbow, sending him down. He turned to the rest and said, "I'm talking to the Triarchy—either you let me through, or I walk over you."
The guards left standing didn't move, some holding burned hands, others stepping back. A man in a red robe showed up on the wall, looking down at Daeron. He raised a hand and said, "Stop. Let him in. The Triarchy will see him."
The guards moved aside, and the gate opened. Daeron got back on his horse, nodded to the messenger, and rode into Volantis.
Daeron rode through the gate, hooves clacking on the stone as he entered Volantis, the messenger keeping pace on his own horse. A man in a red robe stood waiting inside, hands folded in front of him, and stepped up as Daeron pulled his horse to a stop. "The Triarchy are in the Old Blood district, eastern side of the city," he said, looking up with a steady gaze. "You'll get an audience, then you're expected to leave."
Daeron didn't say anything, just watched the man, waiting for him to move. The man gave a short nod, turned, and started walking, waving a hand for Daeron to follow. Daeron tapped his horse with his heels, moving it forward, the messenger riding beside him.
They went through the gate into the western district, streets tight and packed, stalls and mud-brick houses on both sides. Daeron kept his horse slow, looking around as they passed. He saw a man beating a slave tied to a post, whip snapping, blood dripping down to the dirt. A woman scrubbed the ground nearby, hands trembling, a fresh mark on her face. Two kids pulled a cart full of barrels, one dragging a swollen foot. Daeron stopped his horse, watching a master kick a boy who'd dropped a grain sack, the boy curling up as the man raised his boot again. Unable to keep watching such things he swung down from his horse, boots hitting the ground, and handed the reins to the messenger without speaking.
He walked straight to the master, who turned and swung the whip at the boy. Daeron grabbed the man by the throat, fingers clamping tight, and lifted him off the ground, the man's feet kicking air. He threw him hard, sending him crashing into a stall, wood splintering as he landed. The other masters and guards froze, staring, and Daeron raised his hand, summoning fire into his palm, flames curling around his fingers. They yelled and scattered, dropping whips and spears, running down alleys or behind carts. He let the fire fade, shaking his hand out, and turned to the slaves left in the street.
He looked at them, some lying in the dirt, others propped against walls. A man held a broken arm, blood leaking through his grip, face white. A woman pressed a hand to a cut on her side, breathing fast and shallow. Near him, a girl—maybe ten—lay flat, legs bent wrong, bruises all over her arms and chest, blood pooling under her head from a cracked scalp, her legs were also bent unnaturally. Daeron knelt next to her, setting a hand on the ground, wanting to pick her up, take her somewhere, but knowing she wouldn't make it if he tried. He leaned in and spoke. "What's your name?"
She cracked her eyes open, barely seeing him, and whispered, "Lorra," her voice thin.
"I'm Daeron," he said, holding her gaze. Unsure of what to say to her. What could he say? She was dying. How could he comfort her.
She coughed, a rough sound, and moved her head a little. "Will the pain stop?"
Daeron balled his fists, nails biting into his skin. "Soon," he said, pushing the word out.
Her mouth shook. "Will I see my sister again?"
He swallowed, staring at her, seeing her fading. "She's waiting for you, just beyond." He put a hand on her xheek, light, and dropped his voice, whispering a prayer from Winterfell. "Old Gods, give her strength, take her home." He said it low, knowing the gods didn't hear, that they'd been gone for a long time, but he had nothing else, not with her slipping away right there.
Then something pulled inside him, a sharp tug in his chest, like a rope snapping loose. He frowned, not understanding, as power rushed out, flowing down his arm into his hand on her shoulder. Lorra groaned, her body jerking, and flames rolled over her—not hurting, but sinking in, spreading across her skin. The bruises disappeared, cuts sealed up, and the blood under her dried into dust. Her legs straightened, bones clicking into place, and she gasped, eyes flying open, sharp and awake.
Daeron stayed on his knees, staring, mouth open, hands still where he'd touched her. She sat up, blinking, and ran her hands over her arms, feeling where the marks were gone. He leaned back, breathing fast, trying to make sense of it, the heat still buzzing in his fingertips. The man in the red robe yelled from behind, "Targaryen, let's go!" but Daeron didn't look, watching Lorra get to her knees, staring at him like he'd done a miracle. The other slaves started moving, some crawling toward him, others calling out, voices piling up—begging him to help, to fix them too. He stood, legs unsteady, and stepped toward the man with the broken arm, reaching out, but the messenger grabbed his arm. "You can't stay—they'll mob you, and the Triarchy won't wait."
___________________________
The main temple to R'hllor stood in the heart of Volantis, its walls rising high, built from red stone that caught the sunlight and threw it back in sharp angles. Inside, the air hung thick with incense, smoke curling up from braziers set along the walls, filling the space with a haze that stung the eyes. People packed the floors—worshippers of R'hllor, men and women in loose robes dyed red and orange, their faces painted with ash in swirling patterns, kneeling before altars or swaying as they chanted prayers in low voices. Priests moved among them, bald heads gleaming, wearing long scarlet tunics, swinging censers that clinked and released more smoke. Slaves stood at the edges, heads bowed, holding trays of oil and wicks, ready to refill the fires that burned in iron stands scattered around the room.
The faithful pressed hands to the flames, some wincing as they held them there, others staring into the flickering light, muttering about visions and signs. Weeks ago, an event had shaken everything—the Sun slid behind the Moon, blotting out the day, and when it came back, something returned with it, something the world hadn't felt in ages. Magic woke up, it had been returning slowly for sometime but after that event it seemed to explode, and every worshipper in the temple had sensed it, a pull in their bones, a heat under their skin. They'd gathered here since, desperate for answers, but their power stayed weak, their spells faltering unless they leaned on stronger tools—blood, gems, rare metals—and the silence from their god left them scrambling, searching the fires for meaning, voices rising in panic as they begged R'hllor to speak.
Deep in the temple, past the main halls and down a narrow stairwell, Kinvara knelt in a small room, her knees pressing into the cold stone floor before an altar. She wore a red robe that pooled around her, gold threads stitched into the hems, her dark hair pulled tight into a braid that hung down her back. Kinvara served as High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, called the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light, her name known across Essos for her devotion. She rested her hands on the altar's edge, staring at the single flame burning in a shallow bowl, its light dancing across her face. When the magic stirred weeks ago, she'd felt hope, a spark she hadn't known in years, believing R'hllor had turned his gaze back to them. But the silence that followed crushed her—the Lord of Light stopped whispering, leaving her empty, and she'd spent days here, waiting for even a murmur. The other priests and priestesses had stumbled too, some hearing voices they made up in their heads, others abandoning their posts when the miracles faded. Their magic clung on, weaker now, needing sacrifices or relics to spark, and Kinvara pressed her palms harder against the stone, asking why their god had gone quiet when the world needed him most.
She pushed herself up from her knees, standing straight, brushing dust off her robe, when a force slammed into her, a wave of magic so strong it shoved her back a step, her shoulder hitting the wall. She steadied herself, breathing fast, feeling it ripple through the air—someone had used a huge burst of power, close by, in the city. She turned to the altar, eyes locking on the object resting there, a crown from ages past, once worn by the Amethyst Empress of Yi Ti. It sat heavy, forged from dark silver, twisted into sharp points like flames frozen mid-leap, a single amethyst the size of a fist set in the center, its edges catching the firelight. The gem pulsed, glowing brighter, throwing purple light across the room, and Kinvara froze, watching it hum with energy, alive for the first time since she'd laid it there.
She spun and ran out, feet slapping the stone as she climbed the stairs, pushing through a wooden door into the temple's corridors. People rushed past her, priests in red tunics, worshippers clutching prayer beads, all talking at once, their voices overlapping—some shouting they'd felt it, others asking what it meant. She shoved through them, elbowing her way to the main hall, where the biggest fire roared in a pit ten feet wide, flames licking up toward the ceiling. She stopped at the edge, raising her hands, and called out to the priests nearby, "Summon the Fiery Hand—now!"
The priests turned to her, eyes wide, some nodding fast, others stepping back, tripping over robes in their hurry. One, a thin man with ash smeared across his forehead, grabbed her arm and pulled her close, yelling over the noise, "The fires are whispering, Kinvara, but I can't tell what they're saying!" Another joined him, a woman with a shaved head, holding a bowl of oil, her hands shaking as she added, "but the words don't make sense!"
Kinvara smiled, stepping toward the pit, feeling the heat wash over her face, and raised her voice so everyone could hear, "They speak of his return." She turned to the crowd, priests and worshippers pressing in, and lifted her arms higher, letting the firelight catch her robe. "Azor Ahai is among us!"
The hall went still for a second, then erupted, people shouting, some falling to their knees, others running to the flames to look closer. The thin priest dropped his censer, metal clanging on stone, and started chanting, pulling others into the rhythm. The woman with the oil poured it into the fire, sending up a burst of flame, and joined the prayer, her voice cracking with excitement. Kinvara stayed where she was, watching the pit, the crown's glow still burning in her mind, tying it to the magic she'd felt, certain it pointed to the prophecy they'd waited for—the warrior promised by R'hllor, reborn to fight the dark.
(AN: Haven't been here for a while. Tbh I'm in a game of thrones mood and this is my first ever fic. It's been almost two years since I started writing. I think I've gotten better since then. Tbh I hate my earlier chapters on this and really do want to rewrite the first arc at least. But tbh I wanna finish this story. I have the ending all planned out so it's just a matter of writing it. Sadly this fic isn't as popular which isn't surprising considering how bad the earlier chapters are. But I'm hoping now Jon is a God and is now gonna be conquering Essos that it'll be more interesting)
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