The raging wildfire turned the once-proud Red Temple into a funeral pyre, turning people into living torches — yet those torches burned green.
Perhaps even its creator had not imagined that twenty casks of wildfire could unleash such devastating might.
Drogo thought Benerro was nothing but a fool. Even if the High Priest had not stepped into the plaza's center and had remained at the front of the Red Temple, he still would not have escaped the flames' ravenous hunger.
What's more, from the Khal's own observation, the wildfire had already surged over the towering black walls and engulfed the temple entirely. Benerro's own guard, the so-called chosen of R'hllor, were likely already dead.
"I hope that witch isn't anywhere near the temple."
What one cannot have is often the most enticing. Drogo, in the way of any man, found himself worrying for the Quaithe-like seeress.
The emerald blaze roared upward like a fountain, like a colossal mushroom cloud. Drogo had thought the flames would soon weaken — but he was wrong. He had underestimated the true power of the King of Common Fire.
At the moment of its full eruption, the wildfire had soared thirty to forty feet high; now, as time passed, it had swelled to more than a hundred feet, as if it sought to connect with the clouds themselves.
The writhing, crackling flames drowned out all other sounds. Clearly, all within the plaza had been consumed and become part of the green inferno.
The growing brightness forced Drogo to shield his eyes, and each breath nearly choked him with the acrid, poisonous stench.
It was an environment no man could endure. The Unburnt could withstand it, but his warhorse could not. Unwittingly, his red stallion had carried him toward the long bridge where the rest of the khalasar waited.
The apocalyptic vision unfolding made Tolphas tremble uncontrollably. He recalled Drogo's earlier words: "Your hospitality has touched me. Good men reap good rewards. I believe you'll live to a ripe old age — until you can no longer chew fresh grass."
Now, the magistrate began to understand. The Khal must have known of Benerro's plot all along; that remark had been a warning.
The resentment in Tolphas's heart melted away. Having given up every comely slave girl in Volantis — and still owing a highborn lady — in exchange for his life was, in truth, a bargain well struck.
Covering his face with his long sleeves, Tolphas approached Drogo's horse and bowed deeply. "I thank the Khal for saving my life."
This one understands, Drogo thought, smiling faintly. "From this day forth, you will have reason to thank me for the rest of your life. Now, stand aside."
Tolphas's eyes lit up, certain the Khal would grant him even greater rewards in time.
As the wildfire devoured the city, Drogo watched in silence. Tolphas was shrewd enough to read the tides. The Khal had made too many enemies in his life; perhaps it was time to draw an ally to his side.
With his own strength, he could easily take the greatest of the Free Cities. But he lacked a trustworthy political hand to hold it for him. And with the Golden Company destroyed, he had only his mounted warriors and the Unsullied — the twin blades with which he conquered — and these could not be spared to garrison a city.
Thus, he would need to intimidate with absolute power, then grant rewards — both favor and fear — to win the Elephants' loyalty.
Drogo had made up his mind: he would see the two heads of the Elephants secure the highest seat in Volantis.
Handing the rule of the "First Daughter of Valyria" to others was no regret for the Khal; aiding them was aiding himself.
Wildfire, like dragonflame, could not be easily quenched. It now surged outward from the heart of its fury, and at this rate, half of the Tigers' territory would soon be nothing but ashes.
Tolphas now understood why Maracho had ordered his people moved: the man had foreseen that his lands would be the wildfire's feast.
Drogo suddenly saw Maracho as a kindred spirit — a predator who would abandon all to start anew, stronger than before.
The Tiger leader, in truth, was shrewder than the Elephant chiefs and even Benerro. He had seen what the others could not: that Benerro was courting his own destruction, and that the wildfire's ruin would be total. Thus, he had moved his followers long before the flames were lit.
Beyond the bridge, the sight was more terrible still — the Rhoyne's docks had become the gates of hell itself.
The sky shifted through blazing colors, though none rivaled the fierce green of the wildfire. The strange green tide rolled through the clouds, while orange, red, and yellow flames battled for supremacy, casting fleeting shadows in their wake.
Daylight had turned to dusk, the air thick with the stench of burning — like a cauldron of meat left to scorch — while cinders floated like fireflies toward the far side of hell.
As the Unburnt, Drogo could guess the blaze's lifespan: this ocean of green fire would not burn out in less than a day and a night.
The enemies within that hell were surely ashes by now. The Khal had no more reason to linger — the true battle lay beyond the walls.
He could already hear the clash of arms and cries of war from outside. Maracho's host was fighting the Unsullied.
No matter that Daenerys was a prisoner, no matter her dangerous power to rally men, no matter that this firestorm had been her spark — Drogo would never abandon her. Never.
For Daenerys Targaryen was the woman he loved most, and her safety was not something he could ignore.
"Khalasar, hear me!" Drogo bellowed. "Spur your horses! Ride out and trample the Tiger soldiers! Bring me Maracho's head!"
"Yes, Khal!"
The Dothraki were a people of war, their cries echoing to the heavens.
The sight of their fervor stirred Tolphas's blood. Gone was his sycophancy; he stepped forward, blocking Drogo's path, and said with grave determination: "Khal, the Tigers have offended you and thrown Volantis into the wildfire's grip. I will muster all the Elephants' finest warriors to fight at your side and destroy all that Maracho commands!"
Drogo did not know the Tigers' full strength, but he was confident in victory. Still, after their long voyage west, his men were tired; the Elephants' support was welcome.
It was, of course, their duty — the Tigers were their enemies, too.
"Good," Drogo said approvingly. "Then I shall trouble Magistrate Tolphas for his aid."
He turned to his bloodriders. "Blood of my blood — find a warhorse for the magistrate, that he may ride with us."
"Yes, Khal!"
Three bloodriders thumped their chests and galloped off to seize some hapless wretch's steed.
Tolphas, well-versed in Dothraki ways, knew exactly what such a gift meant: the Khal had recognized him.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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