Behind Viserys, entirely new shouts rang out.
"Lower your spears! The Red Dragon Prince's comrades are not the enemies of honest Volantenes!"
"The Flame of Wisdom forbids you to raise arms against them! Any who disobey will suffer divine punishment!"
Viserys had no time to glance back.
Ahead of him, someone was screaming hysterically to close the gates.
At the far end of the tunnel, daylight already outlined the shapes of houses and mansions.
He was the first to burst through. The first to set foot inside the Black Wall.
The front-row estates hugging the wall were so magnificent they would have shamed half the castles of Westeros.
What else waited for him deeper inside?
The slave guards who had been manning the gate scattered the instant their officers fled.
As the Volantenes would soon learn, slaves had never made reliable defenders.
"Up the walls, brothers!" Torrhen Snow's roar came from behind. The big Northman had finally been given his chance to shine. He led fifty dismounted warriors straight for the internal gate mechanisms. "Up! Don't let those tattooed freaks close it!"
"For the red dragon! Charge!"
"The rest—with me!" Viserys bellowed, confirming that hundreds of riders had already poured inside.
"Follow the prince!" Eleonora and Weymond repeated the order in unison.
Viserys spurred forward. His mount became a whirlwind racing down the broad, immaculate street.
He had no time to admire the scenery, yet he still caught glimpses of the relentless luxury flashing past—elegant stone manors, temples to the ancient gods of the Freehold, strange and ornate buildings, gardens bursting with flowers, towers stabbing into the sky.
And on the streets—almost no resistance.
The few slaves they encountered took one look at the charging Black Knights and fled in every direction. Not one dared raise a spear.
Before long Viserys and his men reached their target square.
This was the Hall of Wisdom, the heart of all freeborn landholder councils in Volantis.
The massive black-stone building supported more than a dozen domes. A hundred stone dragons coiled along its roof, flanked by soaring spires and towers—designed from birth to proclaim the majesty of the Freehold and the insignificance of mortal men.
Against that overwhelming grandeur, the old-blood nobles gathered in front to welcome their new "guest" looked pathetically small.
White-haired elders, waxen-faced matrons, terrified young lords and ladies—all dressed in their finest silks—now looked ridiculous.
Many had armed slaves beside them, but these men wore no proper armor, had no unified command, and carried no quality weapons. They could not protect their masters.
One look at the faces in the crowd told Viserys everything: the old blood already knew their fate.
For the first time in Volantis's long history, they felt the bony fingers of death resting on their shoulders.
Viserys had to seize that terror and never let go.
"Form ranks!" he roared. Victory was within reach.
As a battle-hardened commander, he saw at a glance that these people would neither fight nor bleed.
The crowd sensibly retreated, giving the Black Knights and Sons of Valyria enough space.
Viserys glanced back. The plan was unfolding perfectly—more than four hundred riders had formed up behind him, swords drawn, spears lowered. Loren Rayne held the red dragon banner high, a smug grin on his face.
More of his men were still pouring through the gate, while the old-blood nobles still dared not order their slaves to attack.
Some were paralyzed by fear. Others already understood what resistance would cost.
"There is no need to raise spear or sword," Viserys declared at once, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "My men—and Lord Weymond's Sons of Valyria—are far more skilled with steel than you or your slaves. Lay down your arms and you may return peacefully to your comfortable mansions. But if you give the wrong order to the people beside you…"
"Prince Viserys," Gemon Lennaris spoke, his face the color of curdled milk. He was the one who had proposed the triumphal procession for the Targaryen—and he would be the first to pay the price. "What is the meaning of this? Your conduct is that of a barbarian, a savage! Order your men… to withdraw… For the sake of your blood, we will be merciful. We will forgive this farce…"
"I am glad you are all gathered here," Viserys ignored the plea and spoke directly to the terrified crowd of men, women, and youths. No need to waste words on the already dead. "We have important business to discuss."
"What business?" a young woman asked, voice trembling.
"The future of this city, of course."
...
When the news from Volantis reached his ears, Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos did not waste a single heartbeat.
He raced to the harbor, hired the fastest ship, and set sail for the Sunset Kingdoms, praying he could outrun the ravens.
If the sea gods truly existed, they stood with him that day—favorable winds and currents made the voyage unnaturally swift.
The moment he landed he swallowed his exhaustion, excitement, and frailty, found a trusted black-haired whore, and half an hour later stepped into a candlelit fighting room to meet Varys.
King Maegor had built the Red Keep with obsessive care.
Even Varys, whose life was built on secrets, could not claim to know every hidden passage, maze, and concealed door in the ancient fortress.
Still, he had found several rooms secure enough for honest conversation—the same rooms they had used since they were young men.
But there was no time for nostalgia. Only one urgent matter needed discussion.
"To put it simply, Volantis and the dragon eggs have both fallen into Viserys Targaryen's hands," the Magister of Pentos said, not bothering to hide his irritation. "We spent enough gold to buy a hundred Westerosi lords, and instead we handed the prize to the wrong dragon."
"Believe me, my friend," Varys smiled—the same gentle smile he showed the world, though only two men had ever seen the real one. "I am as displeased as you. But what good does lamenting do? The Targaryen siblings have obtained nothing but a few fossils, however precious they may be.
Aegon the Dragonbane, Baelor the Blessed, even the Incredible Aegon—all tried spells, prayers, and sorcery to wake dragon eggs, and you have seen the result: no dragons fly above King's Landing.
We still have swords. Strickland is still willing to cooperate.
Even if the plan to seize the princess fails, I hear the Warden of the South has a very fine daughter who would look splendid wearing a crown."
"When King's Landing learns what has happened in Volantis, will swords still matter? If Robert orders the Tyrells to hand over knights and ships, what use is your daughter's plan?"
"Emotion, Illyrio, has never been a good counselor in our game," Varys said softly. "The milk has already been spilled. What we must decide now is how to play the next move—even if the pieces are not ideal. On that, I agree with you."