The High Priest of the True Flame had invited outsiders into his most private prayer chamber.
Was he really that sure of his own power? That certain of his god's favor?
Viserys's heartbeat kicked up a notch.
They didn't walk far. The temple guard captain clearly had orders to deliver the guests quickly.
Viserys had neither the time nor the mood to admire the temple's staggering grandeur. They weren't here to stare at stone outlines in the dark. There would be time for that later—if they lived through tonight.
At a massive crimson door the captain stopped. He rapped three times with a heavy fist, then bowed low and stepped back.
"They are waiting for you. Unworthy servants of the Flame may not descend."
A wide, torch-lit staircase opened before Viserys. The steps should have been easy to take, yet his chest felt weighed down with lead.
"Please, Blood Prince. Flame Princess."
Would they ever climb back up?
The exiled prince took his betrothed's hand and led her downward.
Torches burned on both sides of the stair—how often did they have to replace them?
Halfway down, Viserys noticed something eerie.
The flames were bright and clear, yet they gave off no heat. No smoke either.
What kind of fire was this?
To stop obsessing over yet another terrifying discovery, he quickened his pace.
Soon they reached another door.
He had imagined a dozen possibilities. None of them matched what he saw.
He'd expected a treasure vault crammed with ancient gold, jewels, silver, dusty tomes of dead sages, and scrolls from vanished sorcerers.
Instead the spacious underground chamber was lit by the same ghost-fire he already knew—and it was almost empty.
At the center rose a huge pyre. The wood glowed with an unnatural sheen. A perfect circle of fresh blood marked its boundary.
Five paces beyond the blood line stood a ring of red-robed priests, hoods pulled low. Their faces were hidden—visible, perhaps, only to the god they served.
Viserys spotted Benerro at once. Only he left his shaved, flame-tattooed head uncovered.
The High Priest stood a little apart from the circle beside a lectern. A massive ancient book rested on it.
"Blood Prince. Flame Princess." R'hllor's voice in Volantis spoke calmly. "You have come on time, as promised. The night is deep and full of terrors, but the Flame will bring humanity the miracle of dawn… and the miracle of dragons. Yet I see doubt on your faces. I see surprise. Are you… having second thoughts?"
Viserys's voice wavered for half a second.
"No… it's only that the legendary First Spark isn't what I expected."
"Luxury and pomp are for weak minds and doubting souls. Here, the god speaks only to those who belong to Him." Benerro gave a quiet order, and his black-skinned slaves carried the dragon eggs onto the pyre. "In this place, extravagance would only distract from what is holy and exalted. Today we cannot allow that. When the Blood Prince prays for the greatest of miracles, he should not cling to fleeting worldly treasures."
"You know best." Viserys could only shrug.
"The True Lord's servant thanks you for your trust." The priest turned to his slaves. "Place the eggs upon the fire!"
The men who looked so much like Moqorro obeyed the commanding voice without hesitation.
Skinny, half-dead-looking Benerro held absolute power over them.
A dark thought flashed through Viserys: was religious zeal really all that drove these night-black men?
Torchlight flickered deep inside the temple, stretching their shadows long and twisted.
Viserys and Daenerys stood at the bottom of the Hundred Torch Stair, listening to the heavy stone door grind shut behind them—like the whole world had just been sealed away.
Viserys stared into the endless dark ahead. His heart hammered against his ribs.
The shadow of Summerhall had never truly left him.
"You, Flame Princess, please step beside them," Benerro said. For the first time his voice carried the solemn weight every true servant of the gods possessed in great moments. "He has chosen you to be the heart of the rite."
"What must I do?" Daenerys clearly wanted clearer instructions.
"Whatever happens, do not leave the fire," the temple master warned quickly. "Have no doubt. Most important—do not forget to breathe. You will feel every pleasure the world has ever known… and every pain.
Visions from the past, the present, the future—even things that never existed—will assault you.
Countless servants of the Great Other will try every trick to break your will.
The road will not be easy, but you will not walk it alone. The god's servants will sing to guide you through the illusions.
Breathe. Be brave. Stay inside the circle. Follow our voices."
Viserys and Daenerys exchanged one quick glance.
After years of exile they had met plenty of mad prophets, self-proclaimed saviors, and arrogant preachers.
In the last few months every fraud and mummer had described the "ritual" in vivid detail. Yet here the advice was vague and the instructions barely enough.
"Anything else?" Daenerys asked, almost whispering.
"Nothing more." Benerro gestured toward the top of the pyre. "Let the Flame Princess remove her garments and take her place. May her noble heart know no fear."
She was clearly terrified, but she didn't hesitate. The thin silk dress slipped away.
Viserys clenched his jaw as he watched Daenerys climb carefully onto the pyre.
Benerro loved comparing this to childbirth. His Rhaena had given birth a dozen times, but what was about to happen was nothing like that.
A peasant woman might birth twelve children without wonder. Viserys had never heard of anyone birthing dragons.
Daenerys moved with surprising grace and soon stood at the summit. The three eggs waited there.
"I'm here!"
Everyone could see she was just trying to burn off the tension.
No wonder she clutched the emerald egg so tightly!
"Can we begin?" As prince and one of the three Triarchs, Viserys kept his eyes locked on Daenerys's strained face while he spoke to the priest.
"One final step," Benerro answered. "The pyre must be lit in the name of our god."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"Oh, Blood Prince, we dare not." The priest shook his head, genuinely surprised. "Your house commands the dragons. Only you may open the rite. Any outsider, any unworthy hand, would anger the god!"
"In that case, give me a torch."
"It is not that simple. This fire cannot be lit by mortal flame."
He should have known.
When had magic or sorcery ever made sense to mortal minds?
Benerro snapped his fingers. Another slave handed over the most beautiful dagger Viserys had ever seen.
The dark steel blade was razor sharp; the hilt was carved from dragonbone.
"Women bring new life into the world—that is the wisdom of the Lord," Benerro said as he offered the dagger. "But only a man can begin the pregnancy. The Flame Princess will endure a long and painful labor, yet the first step must be yours."
"If I make one mistake, I'll be the one who pushes her into death."
"How do I do it?"
"Prick your hand. Let three drops of blood fall onto the blade. Then return the dagger to me, and the rite can begin."
The last shred of doubt clawed at Viserys.
It's not too late, he told himself, remembering Elyn's words.
It's not too late. Walk away. Take Daenerys. Leave this cursed temple.
Fate had just handed him an entire city. Why push further?
Leave. Accept that there will be no dragons. Win the war. Rule Volantis. Isn't that enough?
The black stone throne—surely it's better than the Iron Throne?
For one heartbeat Viserys almost handed the dagger back.
Then he remembered everything.
He remembered Aegon, Aemon, Daemon, Haegon, Aenys, Maegor, Quentyn, Baelor, Aegon…
He remembered every lord and knight who had died for Daemon I Blackfyre. Every warrior and friend who had fallen for the red dragon Viserys Targaryen.
He remembered Ser Willem Darry—the man who had saved him from Robert Baratheon and raised him into manhood.
He remembered the comrades who had built the Dragonclaw Company with him.
They had bled and died, one after another, not for the Triarch of Volantis, not even for an emperor here—but for the king of the Seven Kingdoms.
He had a duty.
Viserys pricked his finger, counted three drops onto the blade, then handed the ritual dagger back to Benerro.
The High Priest approached the pyre with solemn grace and, in a way Viserys could not understand, let the blood leave the steel.
One drop.
Then another.
Then the third.
The fire caught.
——