Five days later, outside the walls of Volantis.
The legions of the Valyrian Empire stood at the city's gates.
Duke Arthur's fifty-thousand-strong host pressed in from the west, accepting the surrender of every outlying village and stronghold along the way. Moro's Dothraki horse had severed every overland supply line.
At sea, Duke William's fleet sealed the mouth of the Rhoyne River, choking off Volantis by water. The city was now a fish in a barrel.
Most terrifying of all were the two dragons wheeling overhead.
Men had heard the tales, yet seeing them was another matter. Their colossal size and Ghidorah's three-headed, awe-inspiring form lay beyond mortal comprehension.
The Black Wall, the titanic rampart raised in the days of the Valyrian Freehold, had become Volantis's last hope.
Its parapets bristled with soldiers—the elite Tiger Cloaks and countless unwilling conscripts—while Scorpion Crossbows and cauldrons of boiling oil stood ready.
Magistrate Valharis of Volantis had come in person to direct the defense.
He gazed at the dark sea of besiegers and the dragons beyond the walls, his face grim. The ruin of fleet and field had left nothing but this city—yet he still believed. The Wall was said to be spell-wrought, proof against dragons, and the granaries could hold for a year.
'Let that silver-haired bastard come,' he sneered. 'When his armies bleed themselves white beneath the stones and the other cities bestir themselves, the tide will turn.'
But news of the disaster in Sothoryos and the loss of the fleet had already seeped through every alley.
The reports struck every Volantene like a hammer, and panic crept into every quarter.
As for why the three Magistrates had not stifled the rumors—Red Temple priests had sown them in the shadows.
The very night the battle of Sothoryos ended, in High Priest Nahalo's chamber:
'High Priest, word from Valyria has arrived.' A red-robed priest entered and offered a wax-sealed letter.
Nahalo cracked the seal and skimmed the brief lines: Fire reveals fate. The Temple of the Red God stands with the true dragon. Proceed as planned.
When he finished, he held the parchment to a candle and watched it burn.
'Gather every Hand of Fire and every armed servant,' he commanded, turning away. 'We will open the gates for the Dragon King.'
'But he does not worship the lord of light,' the priest protested. 'He even bars us from the Valyrian Peninsula. Helping him is betraying our god.'
'Helping him is the prophecy the lord of light has delivered.'
At that, the priest fell silent; the will of the lord of light was absolute.
Still, he hesitated. 'And the answer of the Elephant Party…?'
'They have long since run out of choices.'
Nahalo smiled coldly. 'The Tiger Party dragged Volantis toward ruin, while the Elephant Party's wavering earns them no salvation. Only the true dragon—he who commands fire—can lead us against the coming Long Night. Pay them no heed. We do what we must.'
Thus, when Viserys's host was but a day's march away, envoys from the Red Temple reached his camp, offering aid. In secret they had assembled a thousand warrior-monks and already held a stretch of wall beside one of the Wall's gates.
At the first all-out assault, they would open the gate from within.
Viserys had not expected the temple's initiative, but free help was not to be refused. If Ghidorah were again used to breach the Wall, the cost of repairs would fall on him after victory.
While the defenders' eyes were fixed on the dragons above, the beast suddenly loosed a piercing roar that carried across the city—the agreed signal to attack.
Viserys urged Ghidorah on, Black Flame streaking beside him toward the Black Wall.
Inside the Wall, at House Nahalo's mansion:
The study door burst open and his eldest son rushed in. 'Father, the Red Temple moves. Every fighting monk has been summoned and they march on the East Gate.'
Nahalo's eyes narrowed. 'What—open the gates in surrender?'
'I fear so.'
Nahalo's mind raced. The temple's influence was vast; if it declared for House Targaryen, riots could erupt—and then defense, perhaps even his life, would be forfeit.
'Make ready at once,' he decided. 'We leave by the hidden passage.'
'Leave? Father, abandon the city?'
'Not flight—relocation,' Nahalo growled. 'Volantis is lost, but we need not die here. To Lys or Braavos—our assets remain and we can rise again.'
He did not know his 'secret' passage had long since ceased to be secret.
Centuries of Red Temple influence had mapped the city better than any Magistrate, to say nothing of Viserys and his foreknowledge.
On the parapet the garrison tensed, training scorpions and bending bows.
Yet Viserys did not enter range. Ghidorah hung motionless, three heads surveying the city. On its back he wore black-and-red plate, twin blades at his hips, silver hair streaming.
'Men of Volantis, I am Viserys Targaryen, Dragon King of Valyria. Your fleet and army are broken; only this lone city remains, without supply. How long can you endure?'
Only the wind answered, whistling along the battlements.
'I give you one final chance,' he continued. 'Throw open the gates and lay down arms. I swear no harm to soldier or citizen—only to those who began this war.'
'But if you choose defiance,' his voice turned icy, 'today the Black Wall will be your tombstone.'
Valharis thrust past his guards to the parapet's edge and shouted upward, 'Targaryen, Volantis bows to no foe. Think two overgrown lizards frighten us? Dream on.'
Viserys looked down at him as one might regard a yapping mongrel.
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