Chapter 22: The First Daughter's Lament
The breach in Volantis's Black Walls was a gaping wound spewing forth the iron legions of King Baelon I Targaryen. The initial shockwave of the wall's collapse, a testament to Baelon's terrifying command over Valyrian sympathetic magic, had momentarily paralyzed the city's defenders. But the Tiger Cloaks, elite guardsmen whose lineage purportedly traced back to the Old Empire, recovered with the desperate courage of men defending their ancient hearth. The outer districts of Volantis became a labyrinth of brutal, street-by-street fighting.
King Baelon, astride Silverwing, circled above the unfolding carnage like a dark god surveying his handiwork. His orders, delivered telepathically to his commanders whose minds he had subtly 'attuned' to his will with tendrils of Umbraxys's shadow-essence, were precise, ruthless, and devoid of any consideration for civilian casualties. This was not a war of liberation; it was a conquest, a subjugation, a lesson etched in fire and blood for all of Essos to comprehend.
Aemond 'One-Eye,' mounted on the colossal Vhagar, was a force of pure, unadulterated destruction. Baelon had given him a specific sector of the city – the wealthy merchant quarter and the wharves teeming with remaining Volantene warships – with a simple command: "Leave nothing that might challenge my dominion. Let the Rhoyne choke on their ashes." Aemond, his single sapphire eye blazing with a feverish light, unleashed Vhagar's ancient fury with a zeal that bordered on ecstatic. The magical vow ensured his obedience to Baelon's strategic objectives, but it did nothing to temper the inherent cruelty and burning resentment that fueled his every action. He was Baelon's perfect, terrible instrument.
Within the city, the Legions of the Iron Throne, though disciplined and armed with superior Valyrian-inspired steel, found the going tough. The Tiger Cloaks, fighting in the narrow, winding streets they knew intimately, exacted a bloody toll. Chokepoints became slaughterhouses. Baelon, observing this through Umbraxys's roving senses – the shadow dragon now a phantom of terror that flitted unseen through alleys, its mere presence amplifying fear and confusion – would occasionally intervene directly. A squad of legionaries pinned down by scorpion bolts from a fortified temple would suddenly find their assailants screaming as their own siege weapons twisted into grotesque shapes or their innards froze from an unseen, icy touch. A barricade that had held for hours would crumble as if its stones had turned to sand, the defenders within collapsing as whispers of pure despair, projected by Umbraxys at Baelon's command, eroded their sanity.
The vast slave population of Volantis, nearly five times the number of freeborn citizens, became a volatile, unpredictable element in the unfolding chaos. Baelon had made no direct pronouncements towards them yet, his initial strategy focused on shattering the Volantene military and noble resistance. However, the sight of their masters' legions being cut down, their ancient walls breached, their temples burning, ignited sparks of desperate hope and opportunistic revolt in the slave pits and servant quarters. Riots erupted in several districts, slaves turning on their overseers, adding another layer of anarchy to the city's death throes. Larys Strong, through their linked amulets, had subtly suggested that Baelon might consider arming a portion of the slave population to sow further chaos. Baelon dismissed the notion for now; uncontrolled slaves were as much a liability as an asset. He would deal with them once the city was his, on his own terms.
The final stand of the Volantene leadership took place in the city's ancient heart, around the sprawling Palace of the Triarchs and the Great Temple of R'hllor, whose fiery beacon had long symbolized Volantis's defiance and its claim as the true heir of Valyria. Triarch Horonno, his face a mask of grim determination, rallied the last of his Tiger Cloaks and the warrior-priests of the Red God.
As Baelon's legions closed in, the priests of R'hllor attempted their most potent magic. Upon the steps of their temple, they began a great ritual, their voices rising in a thunderous chorus, calling upon their Lord of Light to smite the 'shadow king' and his unholy host. Pillars of fire erupted from their outstretched hands, coalescing into fiery vortexes that sought out Silverwing and Vhagar in the sky.
Baelon watched this display with a contemptuous sneer. Primitive pyromancy. He signaled Aemond, and Vhagar, with a deafening roar, unleashed a torrent of bronze flame so immense, so incandescent, that it dwarfed the priests' efforts, swallowing their sacred fires and incinerating a score of them where they stood.
Then, Baelon himself descended on Silverwing, landing amidst the burning plaza before the Great Temple. The remaining priests, their faces contorted with a mixture of fanatical zeal and dawning terror, turned their attention to him. One, a towering figure with eyes like burning coals, hurled a spear of pure, solidified flame directly at the King.
Voldemort barely flinched. He raised a hand, and a shield of swirling black shadow, Umbraxys's essence made manifest, solidified before him, absorbing the fire spear without a trace. "Your Lord of Light seems… inadequate," Baelon's voice, amplified by his own magic, boomed across the plaza, cutting through the screams and the crackle of flames. He then unleashed a torrent of his own – not dragonfire, but a blast of pure, dark Valyrian sorcery, a bolt of obsidian energy laced with soul-chilling cold that struck the Great Temple's central dome. The ancient structure groaned, then imploded, showering the plaza in shattered stone and the despairing cries of the faithful. The priests' connection to their 'god,' or whatever power they drew upon, seemed to shatter with it.
Triarch Horonno, witnessing the collapse of his city's most sacred temple and the failure of its divine protectors, let out a roar of despair and charged at Baelon, his Valyrian steel ancestral sword raised high. He was a brave man, a foolish one.
Baelon met his charge with a calm, almost bored expression. He did not even draw his own blade. A flick of his wrist, an unspoken word of command, and Horonno froze mid-stride, his body contorting as if seized by an invisible giant. His sword clattered to the ground. His eyes bulged, his face turned purple, and then, with a sickening crack, his neck snapped. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
With the death of their last Triarch and the destruction of their temple, the remaining Volantene resistance shattered. Pockets of Tiger Cloaks fought on, dying where they stood, but the city, as a whole, was broken. By nightfall, Baelon's black dragon banners, with their three heads now breathing violet shadowflame, flew from the Palace of the Triarchs and the highest points of the Black Walls.
King Baelon I Targaryen stood in the vast, looted audience chamber of the Triarchs, the scent of smoke and blood thick in the air. His commanders stood before him, awaiting his orders for the subjugated city.
"Volantis has paid the price for its defiance," Baelon declared, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. "It will now serve as an example, and as the first jewel in the Essosi crown of the Iron Throne."
His terms were brutal, designed to utterly dismantle Volantis as an independent power and integrate it into his burgeoning empire.
* The Triarchy was abolished. Volantis and its territories would henceforth be ruled by a Lord Governor appointed by, and answerable only to, the Iron Throne. Baelon named Lord Roland Crakehall, a man whose ruthlessness was matched only by his fear of the King, as the first Governor.
* A massive, crippling annual tribute in gold, slaves, and trade goods would be paid to King's Landing. The Volantene fleet was forfeit to the Iron Throne, its warships to be crewed by Baelon's own men.
* One hundred highborn sons and daughters from the noblest Volantene families, the Old Blood, would be sent to King's Landing as 'wards' of the Crown – hostages, in truth – to ensure the city's continued compliance.
* The worship of R'hllor, while not entirely forbidden, was to be heavily suppressed, its temples stripped of their wealth, its priests closely monitored. Baelon had no tolerance for rival sources of spiritual authority.
* Regarding the vast slave population, Baelon issued a calculated decree. All slaves who had actively fought against their Volantene masters during the siege would be granted their freedom and offered enlistment in auxiliary cohorts of his Legions – a move designed to win him a degree of desperate loyalty from this underclass and to further destabilize the slave-holding societies of other Free Cities. Those who had remained passive, or fought for Volantis, would see their status unchanged, merely transferred to new Westerosi masters or to the Crown's labor projects, such as the continued construction of the Obsidian Citadel. This selective emancipation was a masterstroke of cynical pragmatism.
* All significant Valyrian artifacts, texts, and magical objects found within Volantis were to be confiscated and sent to King's Landing for study by the Royal Academy. Baelon himself spent several days personally sifting through the looted treasures of the Triarchs' palace and the desecrated temples, claiming several ancient scrolls and dark-looking artifacts that resonated with his own power.
News of Volantis's swift, brutal fall, and the draconian terms of its surrender, spread like wildfire across Essos. Terror gripped Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. Envoys from these cities arrived within weeks, not with defiance, but with chests of tribute and offers of abject submission, begging to be spared Volantis's fate. Pentos and Lorath followed suit. Only Braavos, the Titan of the North, protected by its labyrinthine lagoon and its powerful fleet, remained aloof, sending a carefully neutral message acknowledging Baelon's new 'sphere of influence' but offering no fealty. Baelon noted their defiance for a future reckoning.
Larys Strong's reports from Westeros, via the amulet, were filled with the reactions. The Great Houses were stunned into a deeper, more fearful obedience. Lord Corlys Velaryon was said to be grimly impressed by the scale of the victory, though uneasy about the growing power of his King and the fate of his granddaughter Baela, now widowed by Daemon's demise and residing uneasily in the Stepstones under Aemond's watchful eye. Princess Rhaenyra sent elaborate congratulations, her missives filled with carefully chosen words of loyalty and admiration for her brother's 'Valyrian spirit.'
Within Maegor's Holdfast, Queen Dowager Alicent reportedly fainted upon hearing the full extent of Volantis's subjugation. Aegon was said to have merely called for more wine. Helaena, however, had walked the gardens for hours, murmuring to her spiders, "The First Daughter weeps in chains of black iron. Her sisters bow, their jewels turned to dust. The Serpent's coils now span the Narrow Sea, and the world holds its breath, for the shadow grows longer, and the age of men… it wanes…"
King Baelon I Targaryen, standing on the highest tower of the Triarchs' Palace, looked out over the conquered city of Volantis, the Rhoyne flowing like a silver ribbon towards the sea. The First Daughter of Valyria was his. Essos was beginning to tremble. He felt Umbraxys stir in its lair, a silent acknowledgment of their shared triumph. This was power. This was dominion. And this, he knew with every fiber of his ageless, Voldemort soul, was only the beginning. The world was vast, filled with fools who clung to their petty gods and fleeting freedoms. He would teach them all the wisdom of true, eternal order – his order. The Valyrian Empire would rise again, not as a memory, but as a terrifying, unending reality, with him as its undying God-King.