A sudden flare of green light erupted, and a nest of emerald vipers hissed violently as they burst from the center of the wine cask—twisting and burning furiously—while releasing waves of thick, acrid fumes that spread in all directions.
The stench of death swept over the square. Sensing the danger, the three mighty dragons shed their usual arrogance and beat their colossal wings in a desperate surge skyward.
The green serpents below had only just begun to flick their tongues, but they radiated lethal threat—even to beasts circling high above, their scales harder than steel.
Those in the square who had seen much in their lifetimes recognized at once the difference in color between these serpents and ordinary burning spirits, and heard in the fire's hiss and crackle the truth of the matter. Despair filled their cries:
"Wildfire! That's wildfire!"
Drogo sneered, slinging the great bow across his back once more. He swung into the saddle, wheeled his horse about, and barked the order:
"Khalasar! Leave this place at once—ride faster than the wind!"
"Hyah!"
The Khal at the rear lashed his hand across his stallion's flank, and the fiery-colored warhorse shot forward like an arrow loosed from the string, tearing into the bewildered khalasar ranks.
"The evil that devours all—Bennero, Malakho—you are truly vile! Gods, show your wrath and smite these demons who scorn life!"
The aged Dofas, pale with fear, prayed as he ran, suddenly restored to the vigor of youth—his pace no slower than a Khal's galloping mount.
As a man from another world, Drogo knew exactly what wildfire was. In the Song of Ice and Fire, Cersei had used it to destroy the great fleet of Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone. By his estimation, a mass detonation of wildfire might surpass even dragonflame in destructive force.
Wildfire was the life's work of pyromancers. It burned hotter and fiercer than any pitch, and once ignited, it was nearly impossible to extinguish. A single ember could be fatal—throw a wet cloth over it, and the cloth would ignite; slap it with your hand, and your flesh would burn; breathe too deeply, and you might set yourself alight.
"Douse wildfire with seawater, and you'll roast your own catch!"
So went the saying among old sailors, who had seen its fury firsthand—how it could boil and ignite seawater itself, turning a harbor into a churning inferno.
The tongues of flame stretched higher, growing ever more voracious. Bennero ran for his life, knowing that though the wildfire hidden in the Myrish brandy might be small in quantity, it could obliterate the entire square.
The High Priest had once received a vision from R'hllor declaring Daenerys the savior, and for that, he was devoted to the Mother of Dragons. But spurred by Jon Clinton's whispers, he came to see Drogo as the greatest obstacle to her rise. Thus he conspired with the Tiger faction's leader, Malakho, to burn the Khal alive with wildfire.
The Tiger faction's ranks were full of R'hllor's faithful. Malakho's title as Triarch was little more than a shell, and under Bennero's threats, he agreed to this mad scheme.
Of course, Malakho had his own motives: the "Feast of Death" was hosted by his political rivals, Dofas and Naeciso. If wildfire devoured those two—and the Khal's army besides—then Volantis would be left with only one Triarch in name and power.
Yet their plot had been known to Drogo long before he even entered Volantis. Jon Clinton trusted Qairey, and told him Bennero's plan; Drogo, suspecting the Golden Company's loyalty, had forced the truth out of Qairey with torture and threats of gelding.
And with the warning from the seagull-like red priestess, Drogo had no intention of being lured by rich food and drink into the heart of danger. Instead, he used Bennero's eagerness to kill him to bait the trap. A single flaming arrow, and the hidden enemy would be obliterated in one stroke.
He had not used dragonflame to ignite the wildfire for one simple reason—to buy more time for escape.
Not every Golden Company sellsword was loyal to their commander, but Drogo would spare none—better to kill a thousand by mistake than let one traitor live.
The Dothraki were cavalry; the Unsullied, infantry. Men on foot could never outrun horses. That was why the Khal had brought his riders into the city—it was the wisest move. The Unsullied waited outside, ready to receive them, while Drogo's khalasar served as bait to hold the conspirators' attention—then crush their scheme underhoof.
Bennero had meant to keep Drogo calm, lure him into the feast, and slip away to a safe distance before unleashing the wildfire.
But cunning met greater cunning, and in this game of blood and flame, R'hllor's First Servant had lost.
And not just the game—he might lose his life, for he was still far from any safe place.
Most of the Red Priests had no knowledge of the plot. Only Bennero's chosen few were aware, and so the rest were caught under the shadow of death.
Wildfire was already pouring from the cask storehouse, spreading in all directions like a flood. Failing to reach the Red Temple's high fire ladders, Bennero seized a fleeing disciple and hurled him back toward the oncoming flames, hoping to buy himself a moment's reprieve.
The unfortunate man was consumed instantly, joining the mercenaries in a chorus of inhuman screams.
A master of wildfire's creation, Bennero could gauge its speed—and knew the true eruption was seconds away. There was no time left to reach the temple. The High Priest gritted his teeth, chanting an ancient and terrible spell. His very blood ignited, wrapping him in a shroud of living flame.
This was a forbidden art, burning his own life force to call forth fire. His already gaunt body shriveled to little more than skin and bone.
It was poison against poison—Bennero's bloodflame against his own wildfire.
BOOM!
The explosion that followed shook all of Volantis. In an instant, the wildfire burst forth in full, unleashing unimaginable heat.
It spread faster than thought, devouring all in the square—friend and foe alike—without discrimination.
Even those mercenaries who had fled the square could not outrun the onslaught. Some were crushed beneath collapsing walls; others were caught by the rushing heat and roasted alive.
Pitch explosions were nothing compared to this—their torches were like candles beside the blood-red moon. The orange and crimson flames paled before the green holocaust. Even the low clouds above were painted in shades of the Rhoyne, and a green light covered three leagues of sky and earth.
From the safety of the outer quarter, Drogo reined in his horse and turned to watch. The wildfire ravaging the Red Temple was terrible, yet strangely beautiful. Those it devoured were enemies—and the sight stirred a dark excitement in him.
Lhakalo, ever eager to learn, spoke at his side:
"The books say there are only a handful of pyromancers left in the world. Such evil matter will soon be spent. I'd wager all the wildfire in Volantis is burning there in the square. We should be safe now."
Drogo's gaze stayed on the green inferno as he replied, voice full of meaning:
"Pyromancers may be few, but wildfire is far from gone. When we set foot in Westeros, I promise you—we'll see green demons burn even fiercer than this."
Lhakalo's lips parted, as if to speak—yet this was no place to linger.
The heatwaves rolled toward them, scorching the faces of the khalasar. All save the Unburnt herself fell back to a safer distance, unable to bear the blistering air.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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