The ancient Free City of Volantis was now engulfed in unprecedented panic. News of the Tiger Cloaks and the Dothraki's crushing defeat outside the city spread with lightning speed, reaching both inside and beyond the Black Wall.
The scattered Tiger Cloaks and slave troops fled back into the city, wailing and screaming about the terror of a golden dragon. Chaos erupted in the streets of Volantis. People jostled one another, some rushing home to hide, while others scrambled to pack their belongings in preparation for flight.
Within the Triarch Palace, the atmosphere was one of complete despair.
Malaquo Maegyr practically crawled into the council chamber. Realizing defeat was inevitable, he had spurred his warhorse back to Volantis at breakneck speed. His ornate armor was caked in mud and blood, his helmet long lost, and his hair disheveled. The dignity of the Tiger Party Triarch had vanished, replaced entirely by terror.
Malaquo grabbed the arms of Nyessos and Doniphos as they approached, his voice hoarse.
"It's over. All over. Sixty thousand men lost. Quick! Prepare to retreat! The Easterner is coming! He'll be at our gates any moment!"
Nyessos Vhassar and Doniphos Paenymion recoiled in terror at his frenzied state. Nyessos's round voice trembled, "Retreat... retreat? Malaquo, what about the Scorpion Crossbows?! Are our hundred crossbows utterly useless?!"
"Scorpion crossbows?" Malaquo let out a bitter laugh. "Those damn giant crossbows couldn't even scratch its scales! That Easterner doesn't just have a young dragon—we were too naive. He also has a golden dragon over two hundred feet long! It plunged down from the clouds, one breath of Dragonfire... just one breath, and all the crossbow carts were reduced to ash!"
"A golden dragon?!" Doniphos's face drained of color, his lips trembling. "How is that possible?"
"If you don't believe me, go see for yourself right now! It's on its way here!" Malaquo screamed hysterically. "We must leave immediately—head for Braavos or the Slaver's Bay. We absolutely cannot stay here any longer..."
His words trailed off.
BOOM!!!
A deafening explosion erupted from the palace's highest point. The entire council chamber shook violently. Lavish chandeliers swung wildly as crystal and glass ornaments shattered with a crash to the floor. Dust and debris rained down from the dome like a torrential storm.
The three Triarchs were knocked off balance, staring upward in terror.
The magnificent dome—adorned with the epic history of Volantis, inlaid with countless gems and gold—suddenly warped at its center. Giant cracks spread outward in an instant.
BOOM!!!
Another, even more terrifying roar echoed.
A monstrous hind limb, covered in massive golden scales, tore through the sturdy dome. Bricks, timber, glass, and gold cascaded down in a shower of debris. Sunlight suddenly poured through the gaping hole, blindingly bright.
Through the hole, a golden head so immense it obscured the entire sky slowly emerged.
The golden dragon, Lo Quen, with lava-like eyes cold and merciless, swept his gaze over the three Triarchs below, who seemed as insignificant as insects. The icy aura contained within that gaze instantly caused Nyessos and Doniphos to collapse to the ground, their pants damp with sweat. Malaquo fared slightly better, though his legs trembled so violently he had to cling to a nearby pillar to stay upright.
His gaze locked onto the golden dragon's head, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks from sheer terror.
Suddenly, as if discovering something unimaginable, he gasped, "There's... there's no one on its back! This dragon has no rider?! It's a wild dragon?!"
This discovery sparked a thread of absurd hope within him. Could it be that this dragon wasn't controlled by The Easterner? Perhaps...
The other two strained to look as well. Sure enough, the dragon's broad, ridge-like back was completely empty. No trace of the Eastern sorcerer who should have been controlling the colossal beast.
At that moment, a cold, buzzing chuckle erupted directly from the golden dragon's head, echoing through the shattered council chamber and reverberating painfully in their eardrums.
"Stop searching. I'm here."
The bodies of the three Triarchs froze simultaneously. Their minds struggled to process this information beyond comprehension, leaving them staring dumbly at the speaking dragon, their own insignificant, despairing reflections mirrored in its dragon eyes.
"You..." Malaquo's teeth chattered violently. "You... you're that Easterner... transformed?! Ah—!!!"
The final scream twisted into a wail of utter despair.
Lo Quen, in his golden dragon form, gave them no time to think or beg for mercy. His dragon maw opened, and an intensely concentrated golden Dragonfire engulfed them.
The three Triarchs vaporized instantly, leaving not a trace behind. The wall behind them, built of precious marble, was grazed by the edge of the golden flame and instantly melted, flowing into a pool of scorching liquid shimmering with a glassy sheen.
Lo Quen withdrew his gaze coldly, his massive head retracting from the breach. With a powerful flap of his wings, his colossal form rose effortlessly from the ground, soaring once more above Volantis.
The chaos in the city now reached its peak.
The slave garrison on the city walls watched in horror as the golden specter rose from the Triarch's palace, witnessing the massive hole in the roof and the faint black smoke billowing from within. In that instant, they realized the Triarch's fate, and the last remnants of their will to resist crumbled completely.
They dropped their weapons, screaming as they scattered in all directions, or fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before the golden dragon soaring above.
"The Triarch is dead!"
"The golden dragon! It killed the Triarch!"
"Run for your lives!"
Cries of panic rang through the streets.
Free folk, slaves, sellswords, sailors—everyone within the city looked on in terror as the golden dragon circled overhead. Wherever it passed, a vast shadow fell, engulfing entire districts.
Occasionally, it would dive down, releasing torrents of destructive golden flames onto pockets of lingering resistance or noble private armies trying to regroup. These places, and everyone within them, were reduced to towering pillars of fire and ash.
Resistance within the city crumbled under the relentless onslaught of golden flames.
Meanwhile, inside Volantis's immense Red Temple—a monolithic structure carved from a single red boulder—a very different scene was unfolding.
High Priest Benerro, his pale face adorned with flame-like tattoos, stood solemn and composed beneath the eternal flickering light of the temple's inner sanctum.
He listened to the deafening roar from outside and turned to Moqorro beside him. "The time has come. The prophecy of fire has been fulfilled. Volantis's calamity is unavoidable. You must depart immediately. Your mission is to find the true Child of Prophecy and guide him to end the Long Night. This is the will of the Lord of Light."
Moqorro asked no questions. He simply nodded gravely, casting one last lingering glance at the eternal sacred flame in the center of the temple before turning away. Accompanied by five of the most loyal Fiery Hand warriors, he swiftly vanished into the secret passage leading from the temple to the riverbank.
Benerro watched them depart, then took a deep breath and walked to the temple's main gate.
Outside, nine hundred and ninety-five Fiery Hand warriors stood in formation. Their ornate, flame-engraved armor and spears with burning tips gleamed in the firelight. The faces of the warriors were set with the unyielding determination of martyrs.
These Fiery Hand warriors were the guardians of Volantis's Red Temple, purchased as children and trained as soldiers.
Clad in their elaborate armor, draped in orange cloaks, and wielding long spears, they guarded every entrance to the temple.
They were known as the Holy Warriors of the Lord of Light.