The Children of Shadow moved like ghosts, their figures even more elusive in the dark, but even in daylight, they could merge seamlessly into shadows.
Whether that red-robed woman was the shadowbinder or not, unless she wanted to reveal herself, Drogo had no way of finding her.
Snowball could spot the Children of Shadow when the blood moon cast its eerie light, but now it was broad daylight, and the chance had passed. Tracking her by scent alone was nearly impossible.
Drogo doubted the shadowbinder was from Asshai. Asshai'i and Summer Islanders shared similarly dark skin, but this woman had yellow skin—clearly not of either people.
R'hllor, the Lord of Light, preached banishing darkness, yet the Children of Shadow served him.
Followers of the fire god were everywhere, infiltrating all layers of society. Now, facing this vast, devout group, Drogo felt unease settle in his heart. His expression turned grave.
No one in his army except the executioner, Morro, knew the fate of Harry Strickland, the Golden Company's commander. Most assumed he'd been gelded. That wasn't true. Drogo had secretly ordered that the castration be postponed under the guise of treating his injuries. Strickland was being held in secret.
The man had betrayed him—and lusted after Daenerys. Drogo would gladly have had him flayed alive, but he also knew a eunuch might lose the will to live and become immune to threats.
So he spared the man's body, using the threat of castration to extract secrets from him.
One such secret was that Strickland had served as a liaison between Jon Connington and the elite of Volantis.
Armed with knowledge from two lifetimes, Drogo's intuition was unmatched. Any man under his banner harboring disloyalty would not escape his notice. As a skinchanger, with Snowball freely roaming the land, he saw everything.
Even at a deliberate pace, the army soon passed five more streets and arrived at a massive square ringed with blazing torches.
Fires burned in broad daylight—not for illumination, but as a symbol.
This was the largest square Drogo had ever seen—more than four times the size of Astapor's punishment square. Countless columns, staircases, walls, arches, and domes rose into a dense forest of towers, as if all carved from a single massive rock.
The Red Temple stood just before the Black Wall that encased the city's noble quarter. It was the tallest, most grandiose structure in the square.
Its walls shimmered with hues of red, gold, and orange, like a sunset sky layered with flame. Slender towers spiraled upwards, appearing to twist with frozen fire.
Everything here was shaped by flame, real and false. The fires at the temple steps blazed higher than a man—easily twenty feet tall.
The two Triarchs hadn't been lying—they truly had prepared a feast for ten thousand. Over three hundred servants bustled about, arranging food and tables—but no wine.
Drinks were self-served. Drogo didn't count, but there were easily over a hundred barrels piled in the square's center.
Some leaked, soaking the ground with potent fragrance. Even from afar, the scent of Myrish firewine—a strong vintage—was unmistakable.
To a weary army, the food and drink were immensely tempting. But Drogo ordered his men to halt at the square's edge. He made no move to seat them.
Though Dofas and Neshiso had secured support from the Red Temple, time had limited their preparations. Feeding so many was a challenge.
The two Triarchs, seeing Drogo frown and hesitate, began to panic. If they failed to impress this warlord, their heads could roll.
But Drogo wasn't eyeing the feast—he stared at the two blazing staircases. A thought stirred in his heart: I think I know what kind of fire can burn even the Unburnt.
As the first Dothraki khal to set foot in Volantis, Drogo had already defied history. Now, Dofas hesitantly explained:
"This is a sacred place of light. At sunset, the red priests light their nightfires to ward off the darkness. High Priest Benerro delivers a sermon then. Slaves with tattooed faces crowd the square to hear the Lord of Light's teachings. But today, we light the flames early, to honor the greatest Khal of the Great Grass Sea."
Drogo replied calmly, "It's not just the slaves, is it? I'm guessing half of the Elephant and Tiger factions worship your fire god."
Dofas paled—Drogo was right. The real power in Volantis didn't rest with the Triarchs but with R'hllor's First Servant.
He worried, too, that his rival, Malajo, had closer ties to the Red Temple. Yet Benerro's gesture today brought him joy.
The Triarchs believed Benerro only aided them to protect the temple and the congregation he had worked hard to gather.
Neshiso gestured at a figure atop the flaming stairs: "Khal, that is the High Priest Benerro—called the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of R'hllor. He leads all the followers of the Red God in Volantis."
Drogo turned his gaze to the man.
Benerro was tall and gaunt, with milky-white skin and a shaven head. His face was etched with flame tattoos so vivid that even from afar, Drogo could tell what they were.
In this world, only slaves bore facial tattoos—but no one dared call Benerro a slave. He was the First Servant of R'hllor, and the spiritual leader of all Lightbringer's followers in Volantis.
Even the proud Drogo didn't underestimate him. The man wielded enormous influence, and his fanatical believers would do anything for him.
Drogo suspected the shadowbinder was connected to Benerro, but perhaps they did not walk the same path of faith.
According to what Strickland had revealed—under torture and duress—Benerro believed Daenerys Targaryen was the prophesied savior, R'hllor's chosen.
That meant he wouldn't look favorably upon Drogo, who had subdued Daenerys and dimmed her glory.
Benerro stood on a high platform reached by a narrow stone bridge. Behind him stood monks and acolytes in yellow and orange robes, while the senior priests wore red.
The priestesses' outfits were so skimpy they resembled the garb of those who refuse to work.
Rumors said the Red Temple bought them as children, training them as monks, playthings, or warriors.
They built up violent followers and treated women as toys, forcing marriages and sales—an evil faith masked in holiness.
Most of Benerro's devotees were tormented slaves. Those who joined in the name of light found themselves plunged into darkness.
To Drogo, the so-called god of righteousness—R'hllor—was nothing more than filth.
To fulfill a promise, the badly beaten Neshiso entered the Black Wall in search of noblewomen to serve as Drogo's wine companions.
Meanwhile, Drogo asked Dofas with a trace of ire: "Where is the entertainment you promised?"
Dofas grinned obsequiously, squinting toward the upper steps. "Khal, those priestesses are the performers. They are even more enchanting than the slaves you've recently acquired."
Drogo smirked. "After what you've said, these filthy priestesses do sound rather tempting."
Dofas nodded fervently. "Exactly! What man could say he's lived without tasting the sacred filth of a red-robed woman?"
Drogo sneered. He would rather die unfulfilled than bed a woman warped by blind faith.
Those women were better left to his Dothraki brothers—assuming they survived today's events.
Benerro, being the First Servant of R'hllor, might possess magic. Drogo also kept an eye on the guards atop the Black Wall and at the temple gates. Clad in ornate armor and orange cloaks, their spears blazed like fire—deadly and ceremonial alike.
He guessed this thousand-strong elite force was Benerro's personal guard: the Burning Hand, sacred soldiers of R'hllor and protectors of the temple.
While Drogo's men focused on food, drink, and women, he studied the zealots who, in turn, watched him.
Benerro, hoping to display his power, pointed a finger at the sun and chanted in High Valyrian.
With each word he spoke, flame erupted from his fingertip. The strange sound of fire scorching air drew sharp breaths from Drogo's men.
Astonishingly, Benerro's fire left marks in the air itself.
The crowd of zealots shrieked and wept. Women cried. Men raised fists in madness.
Drogo couldn't read the Valyrian script Benerro etched in fire, but Missandei could. Without instruction, she read it aloud:
"Blood and fire contend, light battles darkness—flame shall consume the shadow, and never cease!"
A clear provocation. They saw Drogo's army as a sea of blood, drowning the light.
Drogo bellowed, "Drogon! Viserion! Rhaegal! Show those feeble flames your power—burn brighter, higher!"
Three dragons roared and loosed torrents of flame, their breath devouring Benerro's display.
The zealots fell silent, awestruck and terrified by the dragons' majesty.
Benerro stood frozen, like a statue, gazing upward. Clearly, dragonfire was beyond his reach.
Satisfied, Drogo shouted, "Khals, make way for the Golden Company! Let them feast first!"
Bloodriders and braid-wearing warriors were usually favored above Unsullied and mercenaries, but this time Drogo placed them behind.
Though reluctant, they obeyed, parting for the sellswords to pass.
The Golden Company, used to being slighted, now walked proud. Dothraki resentment only fueled their joy.
Once seated, priestesses descended and danced among the men. Many mercenaries were too entranced to eat.
Servants brought wine in silver bowls to each table—but they were all red-robed monks. Dofas's people were pushed to the sidelines.
The monks dominated every detail. Dofas could only shake his head.
After a few rounds of drink, ten burly monks hauled in a table of solid gold. Behind them, servants set out food finer than any the sellswords had.
A monk approached Drogo's horse and bowed. "Khal, you have journeyed far. The High Priest invites you and your commanders to feast at this table, prepared in your honor."
Drogo sneered. "I'll sit, but only if that dried-up corpse serves me wine himself."
The monk's face twisted in fury, but he dared not argue. He rushed back to the temple to relay the insult.
Soon after, Benerro responded—he pointed skyward and traced a massive "NO" in fire.
Drogo laughed. "The Golden Company are our guests. Should they need anything, let them ask the High Priest. As for me and the khals—we've places to explore, and delicacies to sample elsewhere."
Dofas turned pale—these damned savages were going to loot the city!
With the king's blessing, the mercenaries stayed and continued to eat and drink.
"Khals, turn your horses! Back the way we came!"
The Dothraki began to move. Drogo whispered to Dofas, "Triarch, care to come along?"
Of course Dofas agreed—he cared little for the mercenaries.
Just as Drogo began to leave, Benerro desperately conjured fire in the sky once more, writing: "Khal, please stay—have a drink with me."
True to his word, the High Priest descended with his followers to the golden table and sat with his back to Drogo, pretending to salvage some dignity.
But Drogo was not done. He galloped to Rakharo, took the great dragonbone bow, lit an arrow, and stood on his saddle.
He drew to full draw and loosed the shot like lightning—straight toward the wine barrels.
Benerro tried to dodge, but Drogo hadn't aimed at him—the arrow struck the liquor.
The Myrish firewine burst into flame, but the blaze alone was no threat. The mercenaries merely shifted in their seats.
But the red priests panicked. They screamed, "The Green Demon that devours all is coming! Run!"
Benerro had taken only three steps when the fire spread to the central barrel stack—and from it poured the Green Demon.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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