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A long, grinding war of attrition with no decisive battle had always favored Volantis in the past.
The three whore-cities could never stay united for long, while Volantis behind the Black Wall had more people, more gold, and more swords.
The old triumvirate could have played it safe—waited for the temporary allies to start tearing each other apart, then delivered the killing blow.
But Viserys Targaryen was not the old ruler.
He had taken power by force. Only victory could keep it.
A long war would bring new taxes, pirates would raid merchant ships, and sellswords who got no decent plunder would demand higher pay.
Both smallfolk and old-blood nobles would look for someone to blame, and that scapegoat would likely be the foreign usurper who started the war but couldn't finish it.
Plots and rebellions would follow. Conflicts would break out between the Volantenes and his own men. The other three cities would only grow bolder.
No. Viserys Targaryen and his allies didn't have years to waste.
Victory had to come fast. It had to be decisive.
A favorable treaty wasn't enough. If he wanted to use Volantis as a springboard back to Westeros, he had to completely conquer these three wayward daughter cities.
So they decided to roll the dice. One massive gamble.
Weymond Dorya would lead an army through the Disputed Lands straight into Myr's territory.
His job wasn't just to destroy whatever the Dothraki had left behind. He also had to pin down Myr's remaining sellswords and militia, keep them from crossing into Volantene land, and protect the colonies and settlements the khalasar hadn't touched.
The First Daughter could not lose any more territory on the far side of the Rhoyne.
Dorya had fifteen thousand men—mostly local troops. The Sons of Valyria marching with him could recruit more volunteers once they reached the Disputed Lands.
It wasn't enough to besiege Myr, but they didn't need to.
The real killing stroke would fall somewhere else.
Lys sat on the distant isle of Dorne—isolated from its allies.
Its pirates and privateers had preyed on Volantene merchants for generations. The pleasure beds of that city had already claimed the lives of more than one old-blood Volantene.
Lysene merchants had their fingers in everything, and their loyal attack dogs were always ready to hurt anyone who stood in their way.
No wonder Viserys's plan to invade the isle had won strong support from several important captains. The loudest voice belonged to the respected Admiral Haemon Goneris—the One-Eyed. He had lost that eye in one of the countless clashes with the Lyseni.
Admiral Haemon had an impressive record. He had destroyed pirate nests in the Stepstones three times, led fleets all the way to Qarth twice, and even reached the distant Bay of Blue.
Yet all that travel had never cooled his hatred for the Lysene magistrates.
Menyx Renigar, who did regular business with him, once mentioned that Goneris's beloved sister had been taken by Lysene slavers.
For both revenge and profit, the admiral—close to the elephant party—had made peace with the Targaryen and thrown himself fully into the invasion plan.
Ten thousand men, led personally by Viserys, one of the triumvirate, would sail from the harbor under the protection of Volantis's main fleet. They would stay far from the coast to avoid detection, preventing the Lyseni from preparing defenses at sea.
Lys's land defenses were pitiful. The pleasure-loving noble sons made terrible guards, and their decent sellswords were far away.
One successful landing could take the city in a single stroke.
That victory would solve a dozen problems at once: boost Volantene morale, fill the treasury and pay the sellswords, and knock one whore-city straight out of the war.
After that, they could link up with Dorya and finish surrounding the already weakened Myr.
The enemy would notice the preparations. They would probably guess the target.
They would beg their allies for help, but Myr would be pinned down by Dorya's army, and the Tyroshi would have to sail through the dangerous Stepstones—past waters crawling with pirates who answered to no flag.
Scouts also reported that one of Lys's most notorious attack dogs—Salladhor Saan—had already taken his fleet west to serve King Stannis Baratheon.
But if they repeated Aegon the Unlikely's mistake, every plan would turn to ash.
Viserys tried hard not to think about it. For a long time he had succeeded.
Yet as the sedan chair drew closer to the Red Temple, the weight in his chest grew heavier.
Every past attempt to wake dragons had ended either in farce and humiliation or in the kind of ashes and dust left at Summerhall.
So why did they believe they would succeed this time?
Why trust Benerro?
And why did his heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vice?
Finally the slaves and horses stopped.
The chair was lowered with careful, almost silent grace. They had arrived.
Viserys stepped out first into the neatly paved courtyard, then reached back to help Daenerys down.
They stepped into R'hllor's domain, surrounded by high, solid walls.
He had seen this great temple from a distance before, but up close it was even more overwhelming. The massive structure seemed to crush the will right out of a man.
Stone walls stabbed toward the sky. Perfectly straight, symmetrical towers pierced the clouds.
Anyone standing here had no choice but to feel small and powerless.
The priests of R'hllor clearly knew how to display their god's majesty.
But the night surrounding them and the watchful guards made it impossible to study the building properly.
"Who goes there?"
"The Flame Princess and the Blood Prince," Viserys answered exactly as Benerro had taught him. "We have come to stand before the True Lord and the Light."
The temple guards' finest warriors respectfully lowered their sharp spears.
The captain had clearly been waiting for those words. He spoke at once: "Dismiss your escort. In the domain of the True Lord, no one would dare threaten you."
"Except the Lord Himself."
Today, though, the Targaryens needed the red priests more than ever.
Too much depended on their goodwill.
Besides, as the Westerosi saying went, every man is king in his own house.
"Ser Loren, you may withdraw," Viserys said with a casual wave. "But return at sunrise!"
That was the deadline Benerro had set.
"As you command, my king," Ser Loren replied. Like most Westerosi, he still used the Andal title for Viserys.
The Black Knights and the Targaryen slaves melted into the darkness.
Soon Loren would return to the palace, where Eleonora would never let him leave until Renigar told her everything…
Would he ever see her again?
"The servants of the Flame will watch over these treasures."
At the captain's signal, six tall, powerful Summer Islanders stepped forward from behind him. They carried three litters between them, two men to each.
As they took the dragon eggs, Viserys studied the slaves closely and realized their skin was far darker than the Summer Islanders he knew—almost blending into the night itself. Only in the torchlight could their shapes be clearly seen.
Daenerys unconsciously tightened her grip on his arm.
She must have noticed the same thing. These litter-bearers looked far too much like Moqorro.
"Where are we going?" Viserys asked the moment the eggs were placed on the litters. He needed something to focus on—anything to push back the vague, stubborn doubts.
"We are ordered to take you to the Hundred Torch Stair. It leads to the First Spark." The captain's voice carried a trace of tension. "After that, you must go on alone."
Benerro was taking a real gamble.
According to the Keeper of the Foundation, the priest had used his position to meet every red priest in Volantis. But the First Spark—this secret underground chamber—was forbidden to everyone except the High Priest and the few servants he personally chose.
Legend said prayers were heard more clearly there, and the answers given to mortal questions were the most detailed.
There were also darker whispers—human sacrifice, black magic performed by terrible sorcerers from the distant east.
For centuries the old-blood nobles had tried to discover whether the rumors were true. Every investigation had ended in failure.
Benerro, acting out of self-interest, had never opened his heart to them.
The slaves and servants allowed to attend in that chamber had never left the great temple. They never spoke to outsiders.
Every spy who tried to infiltrate the temple had either died or genuinely converted to the new faith, never sending word again.