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Once the Council made its decision then they had to discuss the preparations that would need to be done. This would be a great undertaking. Mantarys, Tolos, Elyria had never been recognized as free cities but they were each powerful in their own right and the Faith needed to put their all in to this campaign.
The mood within the sanctum shifted from debate to calculated mobilization. The central pyre burned steady and tall, no longer flaring in proclamation but simmering like a forge brought to working heat. The decision for full support demanded more than fiery sermons. It demanded organization across the whole of the city!
Orders would begin to ripple outward this very night.
Priests were called forth from satellite temples across Volantis and the surrounding territories. Messengers departed through hidden corridors beneath the great temple, carrying sealed decrees stamped in molten wax and ash. In distant districts, red-robed figures would soon be roused from study and meditation and informed that they were being reassigned—not to preach, but to march.
The apostolates were assembled next. Young acolytes nearing completion of their training were gathered into the Flame Halls and addressed by their superiors. Those with talent in battlefield blessings, fire warding, or morale invocation were marked for deployment. Those with softer talents; healing, persuasion, logistics were assigned to follow in the wake of conquest. Every soul had a role to play. No flame was too small to contribute.
Within the inner courtyards of the temple complexes, the Red Guard was summoned. These were not priests, but sworn blades of the Faith; men and women who had taken vows before the pyre and bore sigils branded into their flesh. Their armor was lacquered crimson over steel, etched with flame motifs that glowed faintly in torchlight. For years they had served primarily as protectors of sanctums and escorts for the clergy. Now they were told to prepare for foreign soil.
Barracks long quiet were thrown into motion. Armor was inspected and repaired. Spears were reforged. Shields repainted with the sigil of the Lord of Light blazing beside the tiger of Volantis. Captains drilled their ranks beneath the temple's shadow, crimson cloaks snapping in the wind as formations wheeled and tightened across the training grounds.
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Alongside them, the Faith Militia was armed. These were not elite warriors but fervent believers, they came from all wakes of life but the bulk of them were from recently freed slaves by the faith who had pledged themselves to the Light. In peacetime they guarded shrines and maintained order during festivals. Now they were to be expanded and hardened. Recruitment swelled as word spread that the Faith would march in holy conquest. Volunteers flooded temple courtyards seeking blessing and blade alike. Blacksmiths within the Faith's domain worked without pause, forging spearheads and sword blades day and night, sparks flying like falling stars in cavernous workshops.
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The sermons began the following dawn. From the high balconies of the temple, priests addressed the gathered masses. They did not speak of plunder. They spoke of destiny. Of corruption festering in Mantarys. Of decadence rotting Tolos from within. Of poison and betrayal ruling Elyria's streets. They framed the coming war not as conquest, but as purification. The Lord of Light would cleanse what had been left to fester too long in shadow.
Throughout Volantis, smaller temples echoed the message. Street corners became pulpits. Market squares transformed into congregations. Priests lifted braziers high and cast powders into flame, conjuring brief visions of fire consuming monstrous shapes, of crimson banners rising above blackened towers. The people watched in awe as illusions of victory danced in the smoke.
The Temple's forges burned day and night. Not for common weapons alone. Ritual implements were prepared. Oil mixtures refined. Incendiary compounds tested and stabilized for battlefield use.
Supply caravans were quietly negotiated. Grain, dried meats, medicinal herbs, tents, tools all stockpiled under religious authority for the joint campaigns. The Faith would not be dependent upon Volantene logistics. It would arrive self-sustaining, reinforcing the impression that divine fire required no mortal crutch.
That was all for later, for now the meeting drew to a close after hours of discussing tactical assignments, supply calculations, and proclamations to be sent out! The chamber had grown warmer as the night stretched on, the central pyre burning with disciplined intensity while voices rose and fell in measured cadence. What had begun as declaration had become architecture with war reduced to ledgers, timetables, and lines of command.
One by one, the gathered priests and priestesses withdrew. Some descended the winding corridors in quiet clusters, murmuring about temple allocations and shipping manifests. Others in their projections within the braziers dissolved in spirals of ember and smoke, distant sanctums across Essos fading from view as their representatives severed the connection.
The vast sanctum slowly emptied with Jon about to leave with Azula. "Remain, Jon," The high priestess Kinvarawords were neither request nor command.
Azula gave him a thumbs up for good luck before the great doors closed with a deep reverberation that echoed along the vaulted ceiling. The sound seemed to seal the moment away from the rest of the world.
The fire crackled softly. Outside, Volantis churned in preparation. Inside, a different matter now demanded attention.
Kinvara studied him openly, analytically as one might examine a newly forged blade for hidden flaws. "You understand," she began at last, "that tonight altered the trajectory of this Faith."
Jon met her gaze. "The decision was already forming," he replied carefully. "I only gave it voice." Jon did not know if in his last lives that was the case since he heard no rumors of Volantis going to war with this three cities. Maybe he did actually tip the scale in this direction.
His master seem to think that as he gave a faint hum of amusement. "Voice carries weight," the High Priest said. His eyes burned as though reflecting something deeper than mere firelight. "Especially when it is believed to carry divine favor."The title still lingered in the chamber, though unspoken, Red Son.
Kinvara folded her hands before her. "The Faith stands on the edge of expansion unlike any in recent generations. War in Essos. Growing influence in Westeros. Consolidation within Volantis." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Such movements require stability at the pinnacle."
Jon understood then there was more going on here then just this war. "For many years now," Benerro said, "the Faith has been guided by us three High Priests. None of risen to our rank."
Moqorro remained silent. Kinvara's gaze did not waver. "You have advanced at a pace unseen in living memory. From initiate to Adept in record time. Your connection with the flame is… singular."
The fire in the central pyre responded faintly, rising an inch higher as though acknowledging the truth of it. "We must consider," she said quietly, "whether you can ascend further. To Master rank."
The word seemed to deepen the chamber. Master. It was not merely greater control of flame. It was authority within it. It was the threshold to powers never seen by him.
Benerro leaned forward. "Can you reach it?" he asked, his voice no longer rhetorical. "Can you become the fourth pillar of this Faith?" Jon felt the fiery presence stir faintly within his marrow; distant, observant, neither urging nor resisting.
He did not answer since the question was not truly directed at him. It was directed at Moqorro. All eyes shifted to the Black Flame. For a long moment, Moqorro did nothing. He stood facing the pyre, the firelight tracing sharp angles across his dark features. His staff rested motionless against the stone floor.
Seconds stretched. The silence thickened until even the crackling of flame seemed to recede. Finally, Moqorro spoke. "Yes." The word was calm. Unembellished. Certain.
Benerro exhaled slowly, something like satisfaction crossing his features. Kinvara did not smile, but the smallest inclination of her head betrayed acknowledgment. "Then the Faith prepares not only for war," she said softly, "but for evolution. For us to take the next step in spreading our Lord's flame all over the world."
The fire pulsed once. However before the moment could settle fully into its implications, the central pyre surged abruptly. All four turned. Flame twisted inward, spiraling upon itself before expanding outward in the shape of a human form. The projection stabilized with effort, a priest, face drawn tight with urgency.
He bowed deeply within the inferno. "High Priests," he said, voice carried through crackling heat. "I would not interrupt your meetings if this was not very important."
"Speak," Kinvara said with a wave since she mostly ran most operations and had directives in place for none to barge in to the High command's meeting unless it was very urgent and high priority.
"The shipment has arrived," the priest said.
Benerro's gaze sharpened. "They are actually here?" Jon looked between them unsure what they were talking about exactly.
"Yes, my lord. We got the Dragonseeds!"
The word hung heavy. Jon felt his pulse shift. Dragonseeds. That could only mean one thing…
Kinvara's composure thinned by a fraction. "How many?"
"Nearly a dozen," the red priest answered.
Moqorro stepped closer to the pyre. "Show us." The flames responded instantly. They expanded, flattening into a shimmering window of vision. Smoke parted like curtains and the image resolved into the docks of a gray, windswept island.
Ships were moored in silence. Children descended the gangplanks under watchful eyes. Pale hair gleamed in muted light; silver-gold, ash-blonde. Eyes violet and deep purple flickered uncertainly as they scanned unfamiliar surroundings. Some clutched small bundles. Others held hands with siblings no older than themselves.
Descendants of House Targaryen. Illegitimate children of the great fallen royal dynasty of dragonlords. Dragon blood scattered across Westeros like seeds.
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Jon's jaw tightened. So this was the deeper purpose. He did wonder in his past life what exactly the faith was doing on Westroes in the territory of the Seven. Now it became clear the Faith had not sent emissaries west merely to bolster a claimant. It had not poured resources into the cause of Stannis Baratheon out of simple zeal. It had been collecting blood, dragon blood.
Kinvara's voice cut through the crackling projection. "Weren't there more?"
The priest within the flame shifted uneasily. "There are more upon the island. Hundreds of them all with talent for the flame. But the Baratheon lord requests further assistance if he is to release additional children."
Jon's thoughts sharpened. Release. As though they were cargo.
"He must tread carefully," the priest continued. "His support among the Narrow Sea houses is fragile. If word spreads that he is surrendering Targaryen bastards to us—"
He did not finish. He did not need to. Stannis Baratheon had to balance precariously between the faith and his bannermen who were the only support he had. To openly surrender dragon-blooded children would provoke rebellion from amongst his ranks.
Benerro snorted softly. "He knows the deal he has struck with us. We wish for all of the dragonseeds scattered across those islands. Tell him if he ever wishes to sit upon the Iron Throne, he must give them all to us." The high priest was truly a slave driver.
"For now send him additional apostles," Kinvara decided. "Quietly. We do not wish to draw the ire of the Faith of the Seven."
Jon's thoughts sharpened. He wondered what the Red Faith has to fear from the Faith of the Seven exactly. He knew nothing of any magical might the Seven wielded openly like the Red Faith…or maybe he was just in the dark like everyone else.
Still he did know that the Seven could call up a crusade against them like of old that they used to do against the North then the Targeryans. However the likelihood of such a holy campaign reaching all the way here in Volantis was unlikely. Still it was clear the High Priest of the Red Faith worried about something from the Seven.
Moqorro's voice rumbled, this above all else his main interest. "And the vaults?"
The priest's expression darkened. "Melisandre has been unable to breach the dragonlords' defenses. Whatever wards House Targaryen set upon their vaults… they are beyond our current means. Perhaps if one of you esteemed Masters—"
Kinvara shook her head immediately. "We cannot leave Volantis. Not now. This campaign is important and would need them. And all our time is taken up here as the Faith is at a very pivotal moment."
"Also I doubt that even we all together can crack open those vaults," Moqorro shook his head. "House Targaryen were dragonlord after all. Our strength is nothing compared to their especially at their peak as one of the 14 flames in Valyria!"
Jon absorbed every word. Melisandre had not been sent merely to crown a king. She had been sent to harvest blood and secrets.
The image of the children lingered in the fading flames.
The Faith did not help Stannis from charity. Nor for a handful of converts in cold Westerosi halls. They were gathering dragon blood. They were seeking vaults sealed by dragonlords. They were preparing for something larger than Mantarys or Tolos.
The vision dissolved. The pyre returned to its steady burn. Silence fell once more.
Jon also came to a sad realization that settled within him. With the fall of House Targaryen, the vultures had descended not to mourn the corpse, but to strip it clean. And the Faith of R'hllor intended to claim the richest pieces.
…
The flames settled after the vision faded, but the weight of what had been revealed did not. For a few long breaths the chamber remained silent, the central pyre casting restless shadows across the volcanic stone walls. The image of silver-haired children descending from ships lingered in Jon's mind like afterburn etched behind his eyes.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Benerro smiled. "Everything," he said, voice rich with satisfaction, "is falling into place." There was no madness in the smile. No frenzy. It was the expression of a man watching pieces align upon a board he had been arranging for years.
Jon felt unease coil in his stomach. Volantis mobilized. Mantarys, Tolos, Elyria targeted. Dragonseeds gathered from across the Narrow Sea. Red Apostles dispatched into Westeros. Dragon Vaults sought out. Powerful bloodlines secured and cataloged by the Red Faith.
He hesitated, but the thought would not leave him. The Red Faith had a reputation. Sacrifices. Burnings. Offerings to the flame. He remembered what happened to the mad boy king the Red Witch got her hands on and all the others that died.
He could not help it. The image of those children; frightened, confused, clinging to one another collided violently with stories of pyres rising beneath chanting priests. He did not know why but he felt pity for them and a sense of familiarity. Maybe it was because he was a bastard. And what did one bastard say to him not too long ago? We bastards must stick together.
"What," Jon asked carefully, "do you plan to do with them?" The question lingered in the heat.
Moqorro's head tilted slightly. His dark eyes flicked toward Jon, thoughtful rather than offended. "We will not be sacrificing them," he said calmly, sensing the direction of Jon's thoughts before they fully formed. "If that is what you fear."
The tension in Jon's shoulders eased, though only partially. Kinvara stepped closer to the pyre, hands folded within her sleeves. "No," she said. "They will be folded into the Order."
Benerro's smile widened almost paternally. "These children," he said softly, "are the future of the Faith."
Jon studied him carefully. "If you consider the Flame Scions," Benerro continued, "the bastard offsprings of the Old Blood of Volantis who show talent for the arts of fire… you must understand they are but embers compared to what true dragonlord blood may yield."
Kinvara inclined her head slightly in agreement. "Even the Old Blood must bow their heads to ancient legacy," she said. "The blood of the dragonlords once ruled half the known world. We would be fools to ignore what remains of that inheritance."
Jon understood the implication. The Old Blood families of Volantis guarded their lineage fiercely, tracing ancestry back to the Freehold of Valyria. They prided themselves on magical sensitivity, on tradition, on purity.
And yet, even they were nothing compared to the might of dragons, the great riders of such powerful beasts who they all had once bowed to. To a family like House Targaryen.
Moqorro let out a low rumble of amusement. "If fortune favors us," he said, glancing at Jon, "some of them may even show you up." Jon arched a brow. "I would hate," Moqorro added, teeth flashing in a grin, "for you to grow arrogant."
Benerro waved a dismissive hand. "This is the Red Son you speak of. No one will surpass him." Jon did not know whether to feel reassured or burdened.
The pyre crackled between them. Benerro's tone shifted slightly. "Now," he said, "to the more immediate matter. Who will go to war?" The air seemed to tighten. War was on the horizon. Until now it had been an abstract shape; plans, sermons, mobilization. But here, in the quiet sanctum, the reality crystallized.
Moqorro rolled his shoulders slowly. The movement was almost feline, deliberate, powerful. "It has been too long," he said, voice deep and resonant, "since I stepped beyond my laboratories and stretched my legs. It will be great to see some new foreign sights."
A faint heat shimmered around him as he spoke. "I will lead the tip of the spear." The words landed with finality.
Jon's gaze snapped toward him. Moqorro turned, meeting his eyes fully. "And it is time," he added, "for my student to step onto the battlefield."
The implication struck like a physical blow. Jon's breath stilled. He had come here to master flame. To study. To understand. Not to march beneath banners. Not to return to war. In other lives, memories that sometimes flickered at the edge he had known nothing but battle. Steel in hand. Blood on snow. Walls cracking beneath assault. The endless churn of conflict.
He had grown tired of it. Exhausted by it. And yet. He had been the one to argue for full support. He had spoken of purification, of destiny, of making the Faith indispensable.
What was the saying? What comes around goes around. He had pushed the first stone. Now the avalanche rolled forward.
Jon exhaled slowly. "Very well," he said at last. He had called for fire. Now he would stand within it.
Kinvara spoke next. "I will lead the reserve." Her presence alone would steady entire armies.
Benerro folded his hands behind his back. "Then I," he said, "will safeguard the city." There was no disappointment in his tone. No sense of lesser duty. Volantis was not merely a city, it was the beating heart of the Faith's worldly power. Its temples, its coffers, its main influence.
If all the High Priest left then it would be vulnerable, rivals would move. Moqorro nodded once. The division was clean. Efficient. The spear. The reserve. The citadel. Jon felt the shape of it settle.
"You will not be thrown blindly into the front lines," Moqorro said to him quietly, as though reading the churn beneath his calm exterior. "You will observe. You will act when needed. You will learn how flame behaves in the chaos of war."
Jon nodded slowly. War had found him again. It was a ever constant. And this time, he would step into it not as pawn, nor reluctant conscript, but as something far more dangerous, a wielder of flame.