We are really breezing through this goals and already hit the first one!
1st bonus chapter: 100 collections(Achieved Bonus on Friday)
2nd bonus chapter: 120 collections(19 more to go)
3rd bonus chapter: 150 collections
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Jon first saw Volantis from the deck of the ship long before the harbor came into sight. The city sprawled across the eastern bank of the broad Rhoyne like a living flame frozen in stone. From a distance, the spires and towers seemed to catch fire in the morning light, red brick and dark roof tiles glinting as if the city had absorbed the sun itself. The Rhoyne curved around it, wide and sluggish, dotted with barges, galleys, and small merchant vessels, all moving in a constant, deliberate rhythm.
The city was larger than any he had ever seen. Lys had been beautiful and indulgent, Pentos opulent, Tyrosh militaristic, Myr industrious but Volantis was something altogether different. It was power incarnate, a living testament to ambition, wealth, and history.
The first thing Jon noticed as the ship drew closer was the size of the city. Volantis stretched for miles along the riverbank, its walls climbing like the ribs of a sleeping giant. The streets were thick with people: merchants hawking spices and silks, slaves carrying goods too heavy for human endurance, patrician families in flowing robes riding in gilded carts, and soldiers marching in precise formations. Smoke rose from forges and bakeries, mingling with the scent of fish, sweat, and the humid summer air. Jon's senses were assaulted from all sides, and he realized immediately that no city he had seen could rival this neither in wealth nor in diversity.
The first daughter of the Free Cities, Volantis, stood unmatched, the greatest of them all. She was not merely a city, but the very heart of civilization on the narrow sea, the gateway through which the world of Westeros spilled into the vast, untamed expanses of Essos. From her black and red towers, ships sailed forth toward the smoking ruins of Valyria, the harsh and unyielding Slave Cities, the endless plains of the Dothraki Sea, the deserts of Qaath, the glittering waters of the Jade Sea, and lands beyond even the maps of maesters.
In Volantis, the world converged; trade, ambition, and power intertwined in the city's veins, making her not only a gateway but the center of it all, the pivot upon which the fate of continents could turn.
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Volantis was divided into quarters, each its own world. The Red District, the beating heart of the city, sprawled near the walls. Here, wealth and ambition were displayed openly. Home to noble families, wealthy merchants, and political intrigue.
Beyond the Red District, the free districts stretched, a patchwork of markets, artisans, guilds, and housing for the rising merchant class. Streets narrowed, twisting and crisscrossing, crowded with people hawking goods from every corner of the known world.
But Jon's eyes were drawn not only to wealth, but to stark contrasts. At the edges of the free districts sprawled slums and shantytowns, where mud and refuse marked streets narrower than a man's shoulders. Children played barefoot amid debris, and the sickly smell of waste mingled with smoke from open fires.
Taking up their own district distinct from the other religion was the Red Faith, the most dominant religion in the city. Shrines, temples, and statues to the Lord of Light, R'hllor were everywhere. Brightly painted temples rose above plazas, their walls adorned with depictions of fire and shadow, of heroes walking through flames, of evil consumed by light.
Priests in robes of scarlet and gold moved among the people, blessing merchants' wares, sprinkling water laced with fragrant oils, and taking offerings from the faithful. Festivals to the Red God were extravagant spectacles, combining fire, music, and pageantry in ways that dazzled both the senses and the mind.
Then there were the Black Walls, the very core of the city with the Old Bloods living behind those ancient walls, families whose lineage stretched back to the city's foundation, lived behind walls that had seen the rise and fall of dynasties. None knew what went on there as the Old Bloods played their games of intrigue there. Everyone knew if you made it in there then you were set for life.
Jon had barely stepped off the ship when the heat of Volantis struck him. Not the summer heat, but something deeper, more insistent, a warmth that seemed to rise from the stones themselves. The city breathed fire. He could feel it in the cobbled streets, in the glow of the Red District's towers, and in the flickering reflections along the Rhoyne. Every merchant torch, every kiln, every brazier seemed infused with an unseen energy, a pulse that reminded him the city was alive.
He wandered deeper into the free districts, past twisting alleys where vendors sold spices that smoked in the sun, where lanterns glowed with colors no human hand had painted. At the edge of the district, a small shrine to the Lord of Light caught his eye. A priest knelt before it, and the flames of the brazier rose higher, forming the shape of a dragon that circled the shrine three times before vanishing in a flicker of sparks. Jon's pulse quickened. This was no ordinary pyre, it was alive
He knew then that Volantis was more than wealth, more than walls, more than trade. It was memory and ambition made flesh, a city where the fire of the dragonlords had never truly died. The Red Faith fed it, worshipping and shaping the flames for the world to see. The Old Bloods hoarded it, bending the fire to their own ends, playing their centuries-old games of intrigue in secret. And the city, the First Daughter pulsed with it, alive in every street, alley, and tower.
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Walking the streets of Volantis beneath a sky the color of copper. The heat rising from the great river wrapped around him like a living thing, heavy with moisture and smoke. After months at sea and weeks lingering in Lys, the city struck him not merely as large, but overwhelming, a living organism of brick, sweat, incense, ambition, and flame.
Volantis did not reveal itself all at once. It unfolded.
The docks alone were a world. Barges creaked beneath towering cargoes of grain and timber drifting down the Rhoyne. Slaves in iron collars strained hauling amphorae of wine, barrels of salted fish, cages of squawking birds from the Summer Isles. Dockmasters shouted in half a dozen tongues; Low Valyrian, the bastard dialect of Volantene traders, the clipped speech of Qarth, the rough growl of Dothraki. Bells rang from watchtowers to mark the arrival of ships. The smell was an assault: river mud, tar, sweat, citrus, smoke from cooking fires, and something faintly metallic beneath it all.
Ghost stayed close, red eyes alert. Jon felt small for the first time since leaving Winterfell.
The city rose in tiers from the riverbank, red brick structures packed tight together, pierced by arched bridges and narrow streets. Above them all, the Black Walls loomed in the distance like the spine of some ancient beast. Even from afar they dominated the skyline vast, dark, impenetrable. And beyond them, towers pierced the sky like spears aimed at the heavens.
He found lodging in a crowded inn within the free districts, a three-story structure overlooking a narrow canal where lanterns floated at dusk like drifting embers. The room was small, but clean enough. He left Ghost in the courtyard since he was drawing too much attention with how much he had grown and stepped back into the streets before sunset.
The city moved with purpose. Markets spilled across plazas in organized chaos. Silk merchants unfurled bolts of cloth dyed in colors so rich they seemed wet with light. Spice traders displayed pyramids of saffron, turmeric, and crushed red peppers so vibrant they glowed like powdered flame. Armorsmiths hammered breastplates etched with curling Valyrian glyphs to market up its value. Glassworkers sold orbs that shimmered with strange internal light.
Everywhere there was red. Red brick. Red banners. Red tiles. Red cloaks of priests. And fire. Torches burned not only at night but in daylight with braziers flared outside shops and temples, sacred flames maintained in iron bowls, flames dancing unnaturally steady despite wind.
Jon got onto his job of finding out who can really teach him fire magic. He spent the next weeks walking through the streets of Volantis, absorbing everything the city had to offer. It wasn't a hurried exploration, but rather a slow and deliberate experience, each day another layer of the city unfurling before him. Volantis, with all its fiery splendor, was a place of contrasts, a chaotic metropolis, a cradle of culture, and a city that wore its past like a crown.
The first group pointed out to him was not hard to miss, the Fire Dancers were a staple of the city. Their performances were said to light up the streets with beauty and wonder. One evening, he followed the music and the rhythm of drumming through the labyrinth of alleyways, where the sounds grew louder, drawing him toward the bustling square. He arrived just in time to witness one of their performances.
In the center of the square, a group of young men and women clad in tattered, soot-streaked clothing moved with fluidity, their bodies illuminated by the glow of swirling flames. Each dancer wielded fire not in controlled bursts like a sorcerer or priest, but as an extension of their movements. With every spin and twirl, flames arced into the air like ribbons of gold. Their feet kicked embers into the air, and fire followed them, cascading like a waterfall as they danced in intricate patterns.
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Jon watched in awe as one dancer, a woman with a shock of black hair, twirled around, fire dancing from the tips of her fingers. The flames didn't burn her; they simply followed her lead, as if alive, tracing her body in a graceful, hypnotic arc. There was a sense of freedom to their performance, something raw and unpolished, but powerful. It felt like rebellion.
The people of the square were transfixed, some cheering, some watching with suspicion. As the fire swirled higher into the sky, Jon's eyes met the woman's, and she playfully winked at him.
The next group that Jon checked out that were famed in the city for their wondrous crafters were the Flame Smiths. Jon walked through the forge district, where the smell of molten metal and the crackle of fire filled the air. Here, the fire was not for display, but for creation. At the heart of the workshop, the Pyrosmiths worked, the most esteemed craftsmen who infused their creations with fire in ways Jon had never imagined.
He watched as an older man with a thick, soot-streaked beard carefully heated a blade in the forge. The moment the iron reached the right temperature, he pulled it from the flames and began to hammer it on the anvil. Jon had seen smiths before, but this was different. The fire seemed to bend to the smith's will, each strike of the hammer sending sparks flying, each moment a testament to the relationship between the smith and the flame.
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He heard that these smiths used fire not only to shape metal but to imbue it with magical properties. Through a combination of alchemy and engineering, they crafted tools, weapons, and even machines that could hold the heat of fire itself, channeling it into usable forms.
Jon was captivated by the ingenuity of the flame smiths. Their art was less about raw power and more about control using the fire to create things of beauty and utility. It was a different way of thinking about magic altogether, one rooted in craftsmanship and knowledge.
Later, Jon came across the Flameguards, Volantis' elite city guards known for their ferocity in battle and their use of fire in warfare. He found them practicing in a courtyard just outside the city's walls, the sun setting behind them. The men and women of the Flameguard were dressed in light armor with long flame resistant clocks and wielded fire to put the city in line.
Jon watched as a group of soldiers lined up to face off in combat. At the command of their captain, the soldiers ignited their blades, the steel gleaming with fire, and began to fight with brutal efficiency.
It was a display of power and precision. Each strike of their fiery swords sent sparks into the air, each block of a shield scorched with heat. Jon could see that the flames did not hinder their movements; they had become an extension of their combat skills, used to incapacitate, overwhelm, and intimidate.
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Jon didn't linger long since the flame guards were known to crack down hard on the city. The Flameguard's relationship with fire was violent, tempered by discipline. It was a weapon, not a tool for learning or enlightenment. Still, Jon felt a spark of interest, they were useful to have. They were what the Old Bloods used to keep the city in line.
Jon's next stop took him into the heart of Volantis' mystic community. Here, he found the Fire Seers, diviners who used fire as a means to peer into the future and communicate with spirits. The Fire Seers were often feared and revered in equal measure, for it was said that their fire rituals could reveal hidden truths and expose lies.
The Seers' services were well sought after as their shops and stalls dotted all over the cities. They were integral to the very fabric of the city acting as both guides and gatekeepers here where power and fortune were never guaranteed. Still you had to be careful with them as there were many who were scammers that knew only parlor tricks.
The common folks used them to tell if their marriages or romantic pursuits would succeed. To predict the future of their career, financial well-being, or health. The merchants and nobles used them to see if their trade voyages would work out or if their rivals would attack.They hoped the flames could guide them through the ever-changing currents of trade, politics,and warfare.
Even the Old Bloods kept some of the most powerful Seer on retainer to have them on guard for any dangers to their person and guard their family legacies.
Regardless this was a very dangerous profession in which staring at the flames too long came with risks as many had their eyes burnt out.
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Jon tried to get his future read by a few seers and he wasn't surprised when they turned out very ominous.
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As Jon continued to navigate the sprawling city of Volantis, the layers of fire-wielding mystics and martial he discovered seemed to reveal themselves in different, often unsettling, forms. Everywhere he turned, there were whispers of different groups and enigmatic figures who lived in the shadow of the flames.
The city was not merely a place of trade and spectacle, it was a breeding ground for those who sought power and the manipulation of the ancient force of flame. These were not just ordinary people, but ones who had learned to bend the flames to their will and, in some cases, to their very essence.
One unsettling group he did not personally see but heard plenty of rumors about in the city was the Eternal Flame. A shadowy, almost mythical, secret society within Volantis, known only to those who could afford to seek them out or those who were born into the right circles. Whispered about in hushed tones within noble halls and merchant houses, the society was made up of the elite: nobles, wealthy merchants, and even some of the most powerful figures in the city. Their goal was one shared by many throughout history, the quest for immortality.
The members of the Eternal Flame were not interested in the mundane power struggles that consumed the common people. They had already achieved wealth, status, and influence. What they craved now was something more profound: eternal life. These were the individuals who had the means to fund great alchemical experiments, procure rare ingredients, and enact ancient rituals from the time before the Doom of Valyria. They believed that fire was the key to immortality, not merely as a destructive force, but as a purifying one, a force capable of regenerating, renewing, and binding life to flame.
Their rituals were secretive, often performed behind closed doors in ornate chambers or within hidden corners of their estates. The reason why there was whispers of them was due to them kidnapping many innocents off the streets to use them as fuels to prolong their lives. Doing many other heinous acts such as calling upon fire demons to make pacts. Making the blood of others into elixirs to drink or using their flesh to make alchemical monstrosities.
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No one had ever publicly confirmed these whispers. What was known was that to join the Eternal Flame, one had to prove their worth by completing difficult and dangerous tasks, tasks that often required a deep understanding of both fire and alchemy. The society did not simply allow anyone to partake in their eternal quest. The price for immortality was steep, and not all survived the trials. But those who did those few who rose through the ranks were said to wield power and knowledge beyond that of mere mortals.
Jon found himself intrigued but wary. The concept of immortality, especially one that involved binding oneself to fire, felt dangerous and heretical. Still, their power in the city was undeniable. Whispers of their influence were everywhere, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was any truth to the rumors that some of the city's greatest families owed their continued prosperity to this secretive, fire-worshiping order.
Another group that Jon heard tales of who were a plague upon the city were the Flame scions. The bastard children of the Old Bloods, born of the ancient families who ruled Volantis. These children were marked from birth, bearing the fiery gift of their parents but never accepted into the Black Walls. Many of them lived in the underbelly of Volantis, their lineage was unmistakable. The Flame born were wild, unruly, and very dangerous as they carried the spark.
These were the outcasts, the illegitimate sons and daughters of noble families, rejected by society's upper crust yet wielding a power no one could ignore. They had no discipline and plenty of power. Their flames were wild, uncontrolled, sometimes a manifestation of their anger, sometimes of their joy. In the slums of Volantis, they ruled with the ferocity of fire itself, leading gangs that thrived on fear, violence, and chaos.
The Flame scions were as much at each other's throats as they were at the city, leading gangs of the most hopeless people in the city deep in the slums. Despite their fragmented nature where the strongest and most cunning came out on top, they all shared one thing: the power of fire that flowed through their veins. Some could summon flames with the flick of a finger, while others could bathe entire rooms in fire with nothing more than a thought. There were stories of Flameborn children who could ignite their very blood, transforming themselves into living embers, or people who could turn entire sections of the city to ash with a single act of rage.
Jon knew better than to get too close to them. The Flame scion were a curse who burnt out quickly causing plenty of damage in their wakes. But, Jon couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to wield such power to be as free as the flames themselves, to burn away everything that tied him to the past.
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The Fire Monks were a different breed altogether. Nomadic mystics who roamed the fringes of Volantis, these monks sought enlightenment through the fire. They did not wield flames for battle or control, but for transcendence. They believed that fire was not merely a physical force, but a spiritual one, a tool to burn away the impurities of the soul and allow them to ascend to a higher plane of existence.
These wandering monks lived in the hills and plains, fasting and meditating their days away. They would meditate in the heart of blazing infernos, their minds focused on nothing but the purity of the flame. Some even claimed that these monks could transform their bodies, purging all weakness and disease through the fire, becoming beings of pure energy.
The flaming ascetics were not feared in the same way as the other fire-wielders in Volantis. They were revered, in fact, by many who believed in their ability to commune with higher powers. Their teachings were a mixture of Valyrian mysticism, old Valyrian rites, and an esoteric form of fire worship that few could fully comprehend. But they were always on the move, traveling from city to city, temple to temple, spreading their gospel of enlightenment through flame.
Jon had seen a couple in the markets before with tattered robes, their faces veiled, moving quietly through the crowds, offering their services to those who sought to purify their bodies or souls. It was said that their powers could heal, or reveal hidden truths about the self. He wondered whether they could help him find the answers he was seeking. But with their ascetic ways and their obsession with purity, Jon knew that to seek them out would mean leaving behind his old life and beliefs.
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Trumping all of these groups were the Crimson Tribunal who administered justice within the city at the behest of the Old Bloods. Justice in Volantis was as harsh as it was fire-forged. It wasn't just about law and order, it was about fire and blood. The Tribunal was made up of judges, executioners, and inquisitors who wielded flame as their symbol of power. They didn't just pass judgment from the safety of their chambers; they enacted their sentences with fire.
In the public squares, criminals were often sentenced to burning or flaming brands pressed to their flesh to mark their crimes. The Tribunal believed that fire revealed the truth, purging corruption, and cleansing the soul of its sins. The Inquisitors used fire to break confessions, holding suspects over flame to force them into revealing secrets.
Jon had witnessed one of their rituals. In a square not far from the docks, he had watched as a woman, accused of treason, was bound to a stake. The air was thick with anticipation. The Crimson Tribunal moved in ritualistic fashion, their robes flowing with red and black as they prepared the fire. It wasn't just an execution, it was a spectacle. And it was what was needed to keep this massive beast of a city in line.
Flames rose around the woman's body as she screamed, but Jon saw the crowd watch in silence, some with grim satisfaction, others with horror. There was no mercy in the Tribunal, no room for leniency. Justice was swift and final, delivered with the certainty of fire.
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The last group who were the most prized profession in the city were the ones Jon could not hear the end of. The Inferno Knights, elite fire-wielding knights who were famous throughout Volantis for their prowess in combat. They were the personal bodyguards of the city's wealthiest families, hired to protect the most important figures in Volantis. It was said that their flame was not only a tool for destruction but also a mark of their nobility and honor. They were renowned for their skill in combat and their mastery of fire magic, using it to fuel their blades, augment their strength, and decimate their foes.
The Inferno Knights were both feared and respected. They were often seen in public tournaments, displaying their fiery prowess in mock battles, but their true power lay in the missions they were hired for. They were often called upon to act as private enforcers, carrying out tasks that the noble families did not want publicly known. Whether it was dealing with rivals, settling disputes, or ensuring that their employers' interests were safeguarded, the Inferno Knights were always willing to use fire in the name of their lord's will.
Jon had witnessed one of their duels, a bloody, fiery affair between two knights in the arena. Each strike of their swords sent sparks flying into the air, the blades themselves glowing like molten.
Jon knew deep in his bone if he sought to learn the ways of fire, he would eventually cross paths with these knights, perhaps as a potential ally or rival. Their flames were powerful, their loyalty unquestioned, and their reputation throughout the city as fierce as the fire they wielded.
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