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For weeks, the city did not sleep. From the heights of the Black Walls to the lowest wharves along the Rhoyne, Volantis churned like a living engine. Hammers rang without pause. Shipwrights shouted over the crash of river current. Elephants trumpeted in their enclosures. Priests' chants rolled from temple balconies at dawn and dusk, weaving faith into iron and flame.
Even in a place where trade never ceased and ambition never dulled, there was a difference between prosperity and preparation. The difference could be heard. It thundered from the forges beneath the Black Walls. It echoed along the Long Bridge where caravans creaked and shouted and argued day and night. It drifted over the harbor in the clash of chains and the groaning of hulls being reinforced.
War had a sound. And the other Free Cities heard it.
Within the Black Walls, the Old Blood convened in torchlit halls. Outside them, the red temples of the Lord of Light swelled with new voices chanting beneath scarlet banners. The Red Priests preached destiny. The Tiger Party whispered empire. And every whisper carried across the water.
For years, the other Free Cities had grown accustomed to a quieter Volantis. It remained vast. It remained wealthy. Its Black Walls still cast long shadows over the Rhoyne. But its ambitions had seemed contained; turned inward toward factional rivalries, trade disputes, temple politics, and the eternal contest between Elephant and Tiger.
That illusion began to crack. At first the reports were dismissed as routine fluctuations of commerce. Volantis was always buying something. Always building something. Always arguing over something. But the pattern soon became undeniable.
But this was different. The shipyards did not slow. Timber and iron were bought in bulk. Storehouses filled and were sealed. Armor was commissioned in numbers too large for mere city defense. Strong young slaves were purchased with unusual selectiveness. Elephants were brought from their enclosures and fitted for war.
The pattern became impossible to ignore. Across the Free Cities, councils took notice. Whispers replaced confidence. Trade envoys carried more questions than contracts. Letters passed quietly between rival cities, each asking the same thing: What is Volantis preparing for?
No one yet knew the target. That uncertainty was what troubled them most. If Volantis moved west, the Disputed Lands would erupt. If north, trade routes would be threatened. If east, the old Valyrian colonies might be forced back beneath its shadow.
The Free Cities were very alarmed to say the least at Volantis rising from its long political slumber. And if the First Daughter of Valyria had truly awakened, it would not stir without ambition.
War was coming. The only question was where the blow would fall and how far Volantis intended to reach.
…
The Triarchic election had always been a contest of factions; Elephants for trade and stability, Tigers for expansion and glory. This year however, the Tigers roared.
Malaquo Maegyr, scion of one of the oldest lines within the Black Walls, stood beneath banners dyed in the deep orange of his party. His hair was silver-gold, braided in the Valyrian fashion. His cloak was striped like a predator's back.
He spoke not of caution. He spoke of legacy. Volantis, he declared, was the first daughter of Valyria. The eldest, the purest, the rightful heir. When the Freehold fell, the dragons died but the blood did not. And blood remembered.
In the run up to his election he kept on loudly proclaiming dragonlords who once bent half the known world to their will. He stood upon a marble dais in the Elephant Square, armored not in ceremony but in steel lacquered with flame and tiger stripes.
"These cities," he declared, voice carrying over the assembled thousands, "Mantarys. Tolos. Elyria. They were not born free. They were founded by Valyrian will. They were posts of the Freehold."
The crowd roared. "We are the heirs of the Freehold. The blood of dragonlords still runs in our veins. Those who sprang from our ancient dominion shall remember who they owe obedience to."
The common folk loved it, believing they were better then all else but they knew nothing of what was going on in the shadow.
The votes fell heavily in Malaquo favor as if already decided before hand. The Elephants protested as always and the rivals were slain as was tradition. The markets trembled and the count was clear. War!
Soon with the new triarch in office announcements were delivered in spectacle while preparations continued in the shadows. The Long Bridge was packed shoulder to shoulder. Slaves lined its edges. Citizens crowded balconies. Priests of R'hllor lit braziers until the air shimmered with heat.
Malaquo Maegyr stood atop a gilded dais overlooking the Rhoyne. "Volantis," he called, his voice amplified by bronze trumpets, "is the safekeeper of the dragonlords flame!"
Cheers answered him. "Mantarys. Tolos. Elyria." The names rolled like distant thunder.
"These were not equals. They were colonies of the Freehold; posts of our blood of our dominion."
He raised his hand. "As heirs of Valyria, they owe obedience to Volantis." The cheers continued with none in the square all that much wiser to were things were going. "They shall bend the knee, send tribute, and stand beneath our protection or be brought to heel."
Behind him, elephants raised their trunks and trumpeted as if in agreement. The declaration was dispatched by swift ship and rider. It reached Mantarys first, a land of twisted flesh and stubborn pride.
It reached Tolos next famed for slingers and defiance. It reached Elyria last, smallest of the three, but no less ancient. Volantis had claimed them. The world waited for reply.
The response from the other Free Cities was swift and self-serving.
Myr called for "respect of sovereignty."
Tyrosh urged "stability among sister republics."
Lys advocated "measured diplomacy."
None spoke of love for Mantarys, Tolos, or Elyria. They spoke of balance. They feared what would happen if Volantis succeeded.
If the Tigers won a war of expansion, the precedent would be set. Colonies reclaimed. Borders redrawn. Old empires reborn.
They met in hurried councils, exchanging envoys and pledges. They would not allow Volantis to rise uncontested. And yet, their unity was brittle. Myr and Tyrosh had bled each other for years now over disputed territory. Lys trusted neither. Each feared that aiding one would strengthen a future rival.
So they debated. They delayed. They drafted letters heavy with lofty principles and light on commitment.
Meanwhile Braavos was silent.
Behind the new triarch stood priests of the Lord of Light. Behind them, captains of the Tiger Cloaks. Behind them, emissaries who had returned empty-handed. Or not returned at all.
The former colonies had answered Volantis' demand for subordination with outrage. Mantarys sent back an envoy flayed and reassembled with surgical precision, his mouth sewn into a grotesque smile. Tolos sent back nothing but a black feather dipped in poison. Elyria sent the heads cleanly severed and preserved in brine and coral dust.
When the grisly cargo reached Volantis, there was no shock within the Black Walls. Only satisfaction. There would be no diplomacy.
Malaquo Maegyr lifted a sword forged in old Valyrian style and pointed it east and south. "Then let them remember old Valyria!"
War was called.
The assembly of the army was unlike anything seen in generations. Fifty thousand. A combined force meant not merely to punish but to conquer.
Jon watched from the outer ramparts as the great host gathered beyond the walls of Volantis. For weeks he had heard the hammering, the chanting, the restless movement through the streets. Now it had taken shape and the great army had gathered.
It stretched across the plains beyond the city like a second settlement made not of stone, but of canvas, steel, and living muscle. Banners snapped in the river wind. Lines of men formed and reformed as officers shouted commands. Dust hung low over the encampment, churned by thousands of boots and hooves.
Fifty thousand. Even from the walls, the scale was staggering. Jon adjusted the straps of his armor as horns sounded in the distance. He was not merely here to witness it. He would march with it.
The first encampment which he was part of was the Red Faith. Its gathering was a tide of crimson. Scarlet banners bearing the burning heart rippled above ordered ranks of Red Guards and faith militia. The guards stood disciplined and silent, shields polished, spears upright like a forest of iron. They numbered over 3,000 strong, the best of the best the faith had.
Then there was the militia behind them who were less uniform but no less fervent, their armor dyed red, their weapons raised when priests passed among them. They were double at nearly 6,000 strong.
The final thousand were made up of the clergy. Between the ranks moved fire initiates and red apostles, chanting prayers in High Valyrian that carried across the plain. Braziers burned even in daylight. The smell of smoke and oil clung to the air. They formed the main bulk of the fire power they were bringing.
At the center rode the red priests and priestess who numbered a dozen if you included him. They were surrounded by attendants and standard bearers. Their presence made the army feel less like a political campaign and more like a holy undertaking.
Finally there were the two High Priests whose power could be felt everywhere in their camps. They were the main pillar of their campaign and would make or break it.
If the Red Faith was flame, the Volantis Legion was iron.
Fifteen thousand heavy infantry and archers assembled in disciplined blocks, their formations precise and practiced. Rectangular shields locked edge to edge. Spears angled forward in unified lines.
They were all made up of slave warriors. The mostly highly trained and disciplined force the city had. The legion was stylised after the Valyrian legions developed based on the Ghis legions they fought.
Officers paced before them, correcting posture, tightening ranks who were of more nobler freemen blood. Their armor gleamed bronze and black beneath the sun. Tiger-striped plumes marked veteran units. Commands were given sharply, movements executed in near silence.
At their heart stood the Tiger Cloaks. Elite warriors clad in black-and-gold armor, their striped cloaks hanging from broad shoulders. They were taught the well guarded sword style of the city making them able to fight many opponents. And their jobs were simple to safeguard the city's Triarchs.
They carried heavier shields and longer blades than the common legionaries and moved with an ease that suggested long years of drill and battle alike. They were mounted great horses bred along the Rhoyne which were tall, muscular beasts armored at the chest and brow.
And beyond them, impossible to ignore, were the elephants. Dozens stood in slow, patient lines. Their armor was layered leather and bronze, strapped across massive heads and flanks. Wooden towers were secured to their backs, already fitted with archers and javelin men. When they shifted, the ground trembled faintly.
Leading from the front and seated on his own elephant was the new Triarch, eager to lead this campaign on the face of it since there were others he took orders from and anticipating getting many accomplishments under his name.
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The mercenaries were different. Less uniform. More colorful. Louder.
Fifteen thousand hired blades had answered Volantis' call. Their banners bore a hundred different sigils. Their armor varied from polished mail to patched leather. Some marched in tight formations; others lounged between drills, laughing, sharpening blades, or dicing for coin. They were professionals whose task was to kill. Gold bound them where loyalty did not.
There were hardened spearmen, crossbowmen with heavy windlasses slung over their shoulders, mounted outriders, and companies whose reputations traveled ahead of them. Some companies specialized in siegecraft. They brought carpenters, rope-makers, and engineers who knew how to assemble rams, towers, and trebuchets from raw timber. Others fielded shield-breakers with men wielding massive axes or two-handed mauls designed to shatter formations.
There were even units trained in night fighting, accustomed to silent infiltration and sudden strikes within enemy camps. The mercenaries' camp rarely slept fully. Dice clattered against overturned shields. Contracts were reviewed by torchlight. Disputes were settled swiftly, sometimes with coin, sometimes with blood.
Their captains rode through camp inspecting contracts and reminding their men that profit lay at the end of discipline. For all their color and noise, they were not rabble. Many had survived more campaigns than the younger legionaries had seen seasons. They knew how wars truly unfolded; how supply lines faltered, how morale cracked, how commanders erred.
They brought experience. They brought adaptability. And they brought unpredictability
Last to assemble were the private forces of the families within the Black Walls.
Ten thousand men-at-arms bearing ancient sigils and polished armor that reflected the sun like mirrors. They were quieter than the sellswords, prouder than the army. These were not conscripts. They were retainers of lineage. They were sworn retainers bound to bloodlines that traced themselves, truthfully or not, to dragonlords. Service was inheritance. Armor was legacy.
Each major family fielded its own contingent, commanded by kin or trusted captains. Some units favored heavy infantry armed with long spears and broad shields, trained to hold formation around their lord's banner. Others brought armored cavalry with disciplined riders on tall horses, caparisoned in dark chain and mail, lances upright and steady.
There were household archers drilled in disciplined volleys. Compact reserves equipped with heavier blades meant for decisive engagements. Personal guard units clad in darker armor, positioned close to the command ranks and rarely seen far from their family's sigil.
They maintained strict separation within the wider host. Camps were arranged by lineage. Standards were placed deliberately. Rivalries simmered beneath formal courtesy
Among them rode figures more unsettling than any armored knight, sorcerers of the Old Blood families. Cloaked in dark silks, marked with Valyrian symbols, they observed rather than drilled. Some carried staffs; others wore rings etched with runes. Their presence was subtle, but unmistakable.
They spoke little. When they did, captains listened. Rumors followed them of blood rites whispered beneath the Black Walls, of ancient texts preserved from the Freehold, of arts not entirely lost when the dragons fell. None flaunted their craft openly, yet their presence altered the atmosphere of the camp. Fires burned a little lower when they passed. Conversations quieted.
This was not merely a military expedition for them. It was a statement of heritage.
It did not take long for Jon to spot the other two masters joining them in the campaign from amongst the Old Blood forces.
The first was the wyvern lord who came mounted not upon horse nor elephant, but astride a massive scaled beast held in iron chain and rune-bound harness. The wyvern's scales were dark and uneven, layered like plates of old iron. Scars crisscrossed its flanks. One horn was chipped. The sound of its breathing alone was enough to make nearby horses rear and strain against reins.
Everyone stepped back in fear when they saw the vicious creature which was very old and scaly. It was not a dragon but to the untrained eye, the distinction mattered little.
The Wyvern Lord sat easily upon the saddle bolted into the beast's spine harness. He wore dark armor chased with crimson sigils that pulsed faintly when the creature exhaled smoke. His helm was crested with swept-back horns of blackened steel. At his back hung a long, curved Valyrian sword, an actual ancient dragon crafted weapon.
Behind him marched his entourage made up of his brood who also kept cages of smaller wyverns ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. Handlers did their best to satisfy these smaller wyverns that hissed and snapped, winged reptiles bred for war, their eyes bright and vicious.
Then there were the man's retainers heavy infantry clad in layered armor reinforced with cured wyvern hide. Many bore hooked spears designed to drag riders from saddles or entangle shields. Their discipline was iron. Their reputation colder still.
They were not numerous compared to the Legion but they did not need to be. When the Wyvern Lord's banner moved, men made space.
On the opposite side of the Old Blood's encampment, a quieter presence gathered. The maiden, no one mistook the title for innocence.
She rode a pale courser draped in silver-threaded cloth that shimmered like heat haze. Her armor was lighter, layered scale of red and white, etched with High Valyrian runes that glowed faintly when she passed near open flame. Her hair, bound in intricate braids, caught the sunlight like molten copper.
Around her stood her own circle; devotees trained not in destruction but in controlled precision and healing. Flame-shapers. Ward-casters. Those capable of shaping fire into barriers, into spears, into focused bursts that could break formations without consuming allies.
Her retainers were disciplined fire archers whose arrows were tipped not merely with steel, but with alchemically treated heads designed to ignite on impact.
Between Moqorro's calculating intensity, the Wyvern Lord's savage aerial threat, the Maiden's disciplined flamecraft, and Kinvara's steady, commanding presence, the army's arcane strength formed something formidable.
Jon felt it keenly. Four Masters marching. Four pillars of flame moving beyond the city.
Still back within the city walls, Benerro would remain safeguarding the heart of the faith remaining in Volantis.
Beside him was the fire giant master that kept the forges heated, preparing more arms and armor for the city and bolstering its defences. And there was the Old Man who was a force to be reckoned with.
They were to guard against Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh if they overcame their distrust long enough to form a coalition, they would not find Volantis unguarded. Also since the land route was blocked for them, if Braavos dared to send its navy south in the hope of exploiting this opening, they would find harbor chains raised and ships prepared.
This was why more than anything the Volantis fleet was remaining not only to block the Elyria fleet which would take most of their attention due to how slippery those ships were but also to clash with Braavos if it came down to the Summer Sea.
The Black Walls bristled with activity even as the grand host marched away. Volantis was not gambling everything on conquest.
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The army would march at dawn. Campfires burned low across the vast encampment outside Volantis, their glow scattered like embers across a dark sea of canvas and steel. Elephants stood in quiet lines. Legionaries sharpened blades in silence. Priests murmured final rites. The air carried that strange stillness that comes before something irreversible begins.
Jon stood alone at the edge of the Red Faith's encampment, watching the Demon Road vanish into the distance like a black scar across the land. Footsteps approached without hurry. He did not need to turn to know who it was. Moqorro, the Black Flame his master.
The great priest's presence was never loud, never theatrical. Heat without visible source. Authority without raised voice. "You are not restless," Moqorro observed.
"I have marched before," Jon replied quietly. "I have long gotten used to war."
Moqorro said nothing, his dark eyes reflected firelight in shifting patterns. In his hands, wrapped in black cloth bound with red cord, he carried something long and narrow. "You have risen from initiate to adept in a span that should have taken a lifetime. You command flame not as a borrower but as one who understands its hunger." His voice lowered slightly.
Moqorro extended the wrapped object. "This is not merely for war. It is a recognition."
Jon hesitated only a moment before accepting it. The cloth was warm. He untied the cord carefully and peeled the fabric back. The staff beneath was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was slender, perfectly balanced, and pale gold in color.
Its surface shimmered faintly, as though sunlight had been woven into its structure. The grain along its length resembled fine barbs, layered and delicate yet impossibly strong. Jon's breath caught as he could feel the power coming off this thing.
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"It is made from very well aged firewood. With heart fire rubies and most importantly a phoenix feather core."
Jon looked up sharply. Phoenix. Creatures whispered of in the same breath as dragons. Beings of flame and rebirth. So rare that most dismissed them as allegory.
"This feather," Moqorro continued, "I found long ago. Near the nest of my firebird." He gestured to the staff. "A phoenix sheds a feather only at a turning. At the edge of death. Or rebirth."
Jon ran his fingers along its length. It was alive with contained heat. When he tightened his grip, the faintest pulse traveled up his arm, as though the staff acknowledged him. "It will strengthen your control. Focus your shaping. Amplify your flame."
Moqorro's gaze sharpened. "But above all else phoenix feathers carry an echo of their nature. If you suffer wounds that should end you, truly end you the staff may answer."
Jon looked down at the staff again. Revival. Recovery from wounds that should have led to death. The weight of it settled into him. "I do not know if I deserve this," Jon admitted.
"What sort of master would I be if I can not provide my student rare things?"
Jon bowed his head. "Thank you, Master."
Moqorro inclined his own head in acknowledgment. "You are no longer merely my student," he said. "You are to be a pillar of the faith."
The distant horns of assembly began to sound across the camp. Dawn approached.
Jon straightened, the phoenix staff resting comfortably in his grasp. It felt neither foreign nor overwhelming. It felt… right. Somewhere high above, unseen in the dark, a faint flicker crossed the sky like a brief, distant ember carried by wind.
Moqorro turned toward the gathering ranks. "Come," he said. "It time to go to war."
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Author Note: Time to go to War. This is Jon's first foreign campaign!
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