Daeron stepped back from Lorra as guards shoved their way through the crowd, their armor clanking, spears in hand, barking at the slaves to get back to work. He watched the slaves turn to him, their eyes wide, faces slack with something he'd seen before—the same look the Dothraki gave him, like he was more than human, a figure to bow to. He clenched his jaw, hating it, remembering Adara's whispers about his power, her claims he was beyond mortal. He shook his head, muttering to himself that he was Daeron, just a man, not some god to worship. The man in the red robe grabbed his arm, pulling him aside, and the messenger stepped close, both talking at once. "What did you do?" the messenger asked, voice sharp, while the man in the red robe added, "What kind of magic was that?" Daeron pulled his arm free and shrugged, looking between them. "I don't know," he said, keeping it short. The man in the red robe frowned, muttering under his breath, "The Triarchs won't like this," more to himself than anyone, then waved for Daeron to follow.
They led him across the city, heading east, the messenger riding beside him, the man in the red robe walking ahead. Daeron kept his horse at a steady pace, passing through streets packed with carts and people shouting orders. They reached a massive wall of black stone, so wide he figured six four-horse carriages could roll across it side by side. This was the Old Blood district, home to the Triarchy and families who claimed roots back to Valyria. They stopped at steel gates, tall and heavy, where two dozen slaves strained to turn cranks, chains rattling as the gates swung open. Daeron rode through, the man in the red robe and messenger staying close.
Inside, a group waited—two rich Old Bloods on palanquins, carried by slaves, and a handful of others standing around. The first Old Blood, Vhoris, had thinning gray hair tied back, a gold chain around his neck, and a silk tunic stretched over his gut. The second, Lysara, wore a silver circlet, her white hair pinned up, her thin hands clutching a fan. Slaves flanked them, heads down, holding trays or standing ready with spears. The man in the red robe stepped forward and raised a hand. "Daeron Targaryen," he said, voice flat. Vhoris didn't look up, whispering instead to a female slave beside him, while Lysara flicked her fan and stared past Daeron. The slave cleared her throat, glancing at Vhoris, then spoke. "Despite your rudeness in coming here, demanding an audience with the Triarchy, and bringing a Dothraki horde near our city, the Triarchy, in their mercy, will allow you to speak with them."
Daeron narrowed his eyes, annoyed at their tone and how they wouldn't even talk to him directly. He shifted in the saddle and said, "Take me to them," ignoring the slave's words, keeping his voice level but firm.
People around him gasped, muttering about his nerve. The man in the red robe turned fast, stepping close, and hissed, "Don't be stupid—making demands here is a mistake." Slave warriors edged forward, gripping spears, their sandals scuffing the ground. Daeron looked at them, face blank, knowing he could burn them all to ash and haul the Triarchs out himself. He held back, though—most here were slaves, forced into this, and he wouldn't kill them for following orders unless they left him no option.
Vhoris leaned to the slave again, whispering, and she hesitated, biting her lip, before speaking. "You don't make demands here, Targaryen." Her voice shook, but she kept going as Vhoris nodded. He raised a hand, and the slaves stepped closer, spears lowering. Vhoris spoke up, his voice reedy but clear. "If not for the purity of your blood, you'd be rotting in a cell. Take him."
Daeron frowned, and the air turned cold, sharp enough that breath fogged in front of faces. People shivered, pulling robes tighter. Vhoris and Lysara flinched, looking around, while the slaves just trembled, eyes darting to Daeron. He stepped off his horse, boots hitting the ground, and faced the Old Bloods, voice steady as he started talking. "You disgust me—thinking you're above everyone, that your gold and clothes make you better, that your blood means something. Your blood is nothing. You have no power in it. You're nothing."
Vhoris's face twisted, and he shouted, "Kill him!" Lysara joined in, slamming her fan shut, yelling, "End this now!" The air grew colder, icy winds kicking up dust, forcing people to hunch over. Slave warriors dropped spears, some crying out as the metal stuck to their hands, frozen to skin. Daeron walked forward, voice rising, loud and warped, cutting through the wind. "Drop them and run," he said to the slaves, and they obeyed, letting the palanquins crash down, Vhoris and Lysara tumbling out, cursing him as they hit the dirt.
He grabbed Vhoris by the arm, dragging him from the wrecked palanquin, and threw him to the ground, then did the same to Lysara, yanking her out and tossing her beside him. The winds stopped, air stilling, and he stood over them, looking down, eyes shifting colors—blue to green to gold in a blink. "Move," he said, voice low. "Take me to the Triarchy."
They cowered, Vhoris stammering, "We'll do it—forgive us!" Lysara nodded, clutching her arm, and both tried to stand. Daeron kicked Vhoris back down, boot catching his chest, then nudged Lysara flat with his foot. "No," he said. "Crawl."
Their faces went red, tears welling up, but they started moving, scooting along the dirt on hands and knees, robes dragging.
Daeron followed Vhoris and Lysara as they crawled through the Old Blood district, their hands and knees grinding into the dirt, leaving trails of dust behind them. Vhoris turned his head, sweat dripping down his face, and rasped, "You're making a mistake, Targaryen—enemies of the wrong people don't last long here." Lysara huffed, her silver circlet slipping as she glared back at him, adding, "You'll bring ruin on yourself crossing us." Daeron kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, not bothering to answer, his boots kicking up small clouds with each step. The messenger held his horse's reins a few paces back, and the man in the red robe shuffled alongside, glancing between Daeron and the crawling Old Bloods but staying quiet.
They reached the Triarchy's palace after passing rows of stone houses, the building looming ahead with broad white steps climbing up to double doors framed by pillars etched with dragon heads. Vhoris and Lysara staggered to their feet, knees wobbling, and bolted up the steps, shouting, "Kill him! Kill the monster!" as they disappeared inside. The doors burst open, and over a hundred soldiers spilled out, boots pounding, armor rattling, swords drawn and spears leveled. They fanned out, surrounding Daeron in a tight circle, cutting off any path but forward. He stood in the center, hands loose at his sides, watching them settle into position.
A soldier lunged first, swinging a short sword at his chest—Daeron stepped in, caught the blade with his bare hand, twisted it until the man's wrist bent back, and shoved him hard, sending him crashing into two others, all three tumbling down the steps. Another thrust a spear at his ribs, and Daeron slid to the side, grabbed the shaft mid-strike, yanked it from the soldier's grip, and swept it low, knocking the man's legs out so he hit the ground face-first. Three more rushed him together, swords slashing—Daeron ducked under the first blade, drove his fist into the second soldier's gut, folding him over, then grabbed the third by the arm, spun him around, and threw him into the first, both sprawling in the dirt. A fourth came from behind, spear aimed at his neck—Daeron turned, caught the weapon under his arm, snapped it in two with a quick jerk, and slammed his elbow into the soldier's jaw, dropping him instantly.
Five charged at once, yelling, swords swinging toward him—Daeron stepped back, raised his hand, and summoned a burst of fire, a wide arc of flame flaring out from his palm, hot enough to make the air shimmer. The first soldier flinched, his sword dropping as he shielded his face, and Daeron grabbed his arm, twisting it until the man flew into the second, both crashing to the ground. The third thrust at his side—Daeron sidestepped, slammed his foot down, and a sheet of ice spread across the dirt, catching the soldier's boots, making him slip and fall hard. The fourth swung high—Daeron ducked, grabbed the man's wrist, and yanked him forward into a burst of water he conjured from his other hand, the force knocking him back into the fifth, both sprawling in the mud it left behind.
A sixth soldier came from the right, axe raised—Daeron turned, shot a stream of fire at the ground in front of him, the heat forcing the man to stagger back, dropping the axe as his hands blistered. Daeron stepped in, grabbed his tunic, and threw him aside, letting him roll down the steps. Seven more pushed through, spears jabbing—he raised both hands, calling up a wall of ice that surged from the earth, three feet thick, blocking their path. The spears hit it and stuck, and Daeron kicked the base, shattering it into chunks that flew out, knocking four of them flat, the other three ducking and retreating as the ice melted under the sun.
A dozen advanced next, shields locked, swords ready—Daeron clapped his hands together, sending a wave of fire rolling out, low and wide, licking at their legs. They yelped, shields dropping as they hopped back, and he charged through the gap, grabbing one soldier's shield, wrenching it free, and slamming it into another's chest, sending him crashing back. A third swung at his head—Daeron leaned back, summoned a jet of water from his palm, blasting the man's face, blinding him, then kicked his legs out, toppling him. Four rushed from the left, spears thrusting—he stomped the ground, Ice pillars rose up from the ground slamming into their chest and groin and throwing them back with one even dropping their spear and Daeron catching it midair before throwing it—blunt end—to one of the other soldiers knocking him out.
Twenty more pressed in, shouting, a tight knot of steel—Daeron spread his arms, fire erupting in a circle around him, five feet wide, forcing them to halt as the heat singed their armor. He pulled the flames back, then thrust his hands down, water gushing up from the ground beneath them, turning it to slick mud. Half slipped, falling in a heap, and he waded in, grabbing one by the arm, hurling him into three others, then shot a large stream of frost across the mud, freezing it solid, trapping five more as they struggled to stand. A soldier swung a sword from behind—Daeron spun, caught the blade in a burst of fire that heated it red-hot, making the man drop it with a scream, then shoved him back into the pile.
The rest kept coming, some climbing over the fallen—Daeron raised a hand, water swirling up around him, forming a spinning ring he flung outward, knocking a dozen off their feet, soaking their armor. He froze it with a snap of his fingers, ice locking their arms and legs in place, not crushing but holding them down. One broke free, charging with a mace—Daeron stepped aside, shot fire at the weapon's head, melting the metal into molten slag, then grabbed the man's collar and tossed him into a wall that nearly shattered. The last few hesitated, swinging half-hearted—Daeron summoned a ball of water, hurled it at one, knocking him into another, then froze the ground under the final pair, watching them slip and fall, groaning as they clutched bruised ribs.
The hundred lay scattered across the steps and dirt, some curled up, others sprawled, all breathing but beaten. However they weren't done yet more soldiers ran out of the palace, fifty at least, boots thudding as they lined up in ranks, spears and swords gripped tight. Daeron straightened, breath steady, and dug into the power he'd tapped with Lorra, focusing on the heat coiled inside him. He threw his arms out, and fire exploded from his body, surging up in a massive column, twenty feet high and ten wide, engulfing him in a roaring blaze. The flames burned white-hot, so intense his tunic caught, charring to ash and peeling off his skin, leaving him bare-chested as the fire clung to him like armor. The heat pulsed outward, the stone beneath his feet softening, edges melting into smooth puddles, the air shimmering with distortion. The soldiers froze, faces paling, hands shielding their eyes from the blinding light of the white fire. He took a step forward, the column tightening around him, flames licking higher, and bellowed, "Drop them!" Swords and spears clattered to the ground, some glowing red where they landed too close, men staggering back, some dropping to their knees, others bolting for the palace doors, tripping over each other in panic.
The doors swung open again, and a woman stepped out, middle-aged, in a green robe with gold trim, her hair pulled back in a tight knot. She raised her hands, walking down the steps, stopping a few feet from Daeron as he let the fire shrink, the white flames fading to flickers, then nothing, leaving scorch marks on the melted stone. "We won't harm you," she said, voice steady but loud enough to reach him over the soldiers' gasps. "Please forgive their rudeness—our representatives acted rashly." She clasped her hands and bowed her head slightly. "The Triarchy will see you whenever you wish."
Daeron looked at her, then at the soldiers still trembling, their weapons scattered across the softened ground, and nodded once. "Good," he said, brushing ash off his arms.
___________________________
Kinvara stood in the heart of Volantis, her red robe billowing as she moved through the city, the Fiery Hand fanning out around her. For hours, they'd scoured every street, alley, and square, searching for the source of the magic that had jolted the temple—a surge so strong it had set the crown of the Amethyst Empress glowing, a sign they couldn't ignore. The Fiery Hand, a thousand slave soldiers trained by the temple, split into groups, their spears tapping the ground as they questioned merchants, slaves, and guards. Priests in scarlet tunics trailed them, stopping people mid-step, asking if they'd seen anything strange. Some shook their heads, hurrying away, while others whispered about rumors. Kinvara had ordered every lead chased down, every story checked, her voice cutting through the chaos as she told her followers this was no accident—Azor Ahai, the Lord's chosen, walked among them.
She climbed onto a platform in the middle of the Long Bridge, the massive stone span stretching across the Rhoyne, connecting the city's halves. People gathered below—slaves in rags, freemen in tunics, even a few merchants pausing their carts—drawn by the sight of the High Priestess and the buzz of the temple's hunt. Kinvara raised her hands, silencing the murmurs, and began speaking, her voice carrying over the crowd. "The world falls to darkness—war, slavery, despair choke the light from our lives—but the prophecy promises a guide, a light sent by the Lord of Light himself." She paced the platform, eyes sweeping the faces below, and went on, laying out the tale of Azor Ahai. "He forged his sword through sacrifice, tempered it in the heart of his beloved, and with it drove back the night. The Lord swore he'd return when the need was greatest, reborn amid smoke and salt, wielding fire to banish the shadows." She stopped, letting the words hang, then pointed across the city. "He is here, in Volantis, now. We must find him—our savior, the one who'll keep us from being lost forever in the dark."
Most of Volantis followed R'hllor, the Lord of Light, their faith woven into the city's bones—slaves prayed for freedom, freemen for favor, priests for visions in the flames. Only the Old Bloods, locked behind their black walls, clung to the old Valyrian gods, sneering at the red temple's sway. Now, as Kinvara's words echoed, the city stirred. Slaves stopped their work, dropping buckets and brooms, whispering to each other about the prophecy. Freemen shouted agreement, fists raised, while priests ran through the streets, repeating her call, urging everyone to search. The air grew thick with tension—arguments broke out, masters yelled at slaves to keep moving, guards pushed through crowds to keep order, but the unrest spread. People spilled into alleys, knocking on doors, questioning strangers, hunting for the man who matched the signs.
The search churned on, groups splitting off, rumors flying—a merchant swore he'd seen a man melt steel at the docks, a beggar claimed ice had sprouted near the market. The Fiery Hand dragged leads back to Kinvara, but none held until a priest burst through the crowd on the bridge, breathless, saying they'd heard of a miracle at the western gate. Kinvara turned, robe swirling, and ordered them to move, leading a throng of priests and soldiers across the city. They reached the gate, where guards still lingered, muttering about the fight they'd seen, pointing to a girl sitting against a wall—Lorra, the one Daeron had healed. She looked up as they approached, her torn dress hanging loose, but her skin unmarked, her eyes bright.
The crowd stopped, and Kinvara stepped forward, the Fiery Hand parting for her. Priests knelt around Lorra, heads bowing, while soldiers stood back, spears lowered. Kinvara sank to her knees in front of the girl, bowing low, her braid brushing the dirt, and the others followed, a wave of reverence rippling through them. The priests reached out, hands hovering over Lorra, feeling the air around her hum with power—magic, strong and fresh, left like a fingerprint on her soul. Kinvara lifted her head, voice soft, and asked, "What happened to you?"
Lorra sat up straighter, hands folding in her lap, and spoke, her voice quiet but clear. "A man came to me—I was hurt, bad, my legs wouldn't move, it hurt so much, I just wanted the pain to stop. I asked him if I'd see my sister again, and he smiled, said she was waiting just beyond." She paused, looking at her hands, then went on. "He whispered words I didn't know, strange ones, and then fire came—over me, all around, but it didn't burn. It took the pain away, made me better, like I'd never been hurt."
Kinvara reached out, resting her hand on Lorra's, feeling warmth pulse under the girl's skin, a mark of something vast left behind. She turned to the crowd—priests, soldiers, slaves, freemen all watching—and stood, raising her voice. "This girl has been marked by our prophet, chosen by Azor Ahai himself—she's been reborn in fire!" The priests dropped lower, foreheads to the ground, praying in unison, a low chant rising, while the Fiery Hand joined, their deep voices rumbling. Slaves in the crowd clasped hands, tears streaking their faces, and freemen shouted praise, the sound rolling over the gate.
Kinvara stepped back, lifting her arms, and began a prayer, her words sharp against the noise. "Lord of Light, cast your gaze upon us, shield us from the shadows, guide your chosen to us that we may stand in your flame." She lowered her hands, looking at Lorra, then out at the city, and finished, "For the night is dark and full of terrors." The crowd echoed it, voices blending into a roar, and Kinvara turned back to Lorra, kneeling again, pressing her hand harder, feeling the magic thrum—a beacon pointing to the man they sought, the one who'd brought this miracle, the one they'd tear Volantis apart to find.
...
The city now churned with unrest, the city's streets buzzing as slaves abandoned their posts, drawn to the priests of R'hllor like moths to a torch. Word of Lorra's miracle spread fast, carried by whispers and shouts, and the red-robed faithful fanned the flames, rallying the downtrodden with promises of Azor Ahai's coming. Slaves slipped away from their masters' houses, some dragging their chains, others joined by freemen who'd caught the fever of prophecy. Guards—near seven in ten of them slaves themselves, though not Unsullied—left their stations, spears in hand, marching toward the temple's call, their bronze helms glinting as they moved. The Unsullied stayed rooted, silent and unyielding at their posts, but the rest of the watch frayed. Freemen among the guard, officers born to petty merchants or lesser nobles, ran about in a sweat, barking orders that went ignored, their voices hoarse with panic as the city slipped from their grasp.
In the guardhouse near the western gate, Captain Vorro of House Maegyr sat behind a cluttered desk, his pudgy fingers drumming on the wood. A free man with noble blood, he'd clawed his way to command not through skill but through his uncle, an Old Blood who'd greased the wheels with gold and favors. Vorro's red hair, thinning at the crown, stuck to his scalp with sweat, and his fine tunic strained at the seams over a belly fed by too many feasts. He'd never swung a sword in earnest, never led men beyond a parade, but his name carried weight, and that had been enough—until now. Officers burst in, one after another, their faces flushed, demanding answers. "The slaves are deserting—whole streets are empty!" shouted a lean man with a scar over his eye. "They're chanting about some prophet—what do we do?" asked another, his cloak torn from a scuffle. Vorro slammed his fist on the desk, knocking over a cup of wine, and bellowed, "Round them up! Flog the lot and chain them to their posts!" The scarred officer blinked, hesitating, and said, "Captain, there's too many—half the guard's with them!" Vorro's face went purple, and he yelled, "Then flog the guards too! I'll not have this rabble defy me!" The officers exchanged looks, muttering, but none dared argue louder with the fool in charge.
Vorro slumped back, wiping his brow, then pointed at a young runner hovering by the door. "You—go east of the river, to the barracks across the Rhoyne, and tell them we need more men—hundreds, now, to put this down!" The boy nodded and darted out, sandals slapping the stone. Before Vorro could catch his breath, another officer—a wiry lad barely past twenty—stormed in, shouting, "Captain, something's happening in the square—thousands are moving!" Vorro heaved himself up, gut jiggling, and snapped, "Everyone, armor up—we're going!" He grabbed his sword, a gaudy thing with a jeweled hilt he'd never drawn in a fight, and lumbered out, his detachment of fifty scrambling to follow, buckling helms and cursing under their breath.
They marched to the square, a wide plaza near the Long Bridge, Vorro at the front, puffing as he tried to keep pace. When they arrived, he stopped short, mouth dropping open—thousands filled the space, a sea of bodies pressing forward, slaves and freemen alike, their voices rising in a chant. "Azor Ahai! Azor Ahai!" In the center, atop a palanquin borne by four priests, sat Lorra, her ragged dress swapped for a red robe, her face calm as the crowd surged around her. Torches flared in hands, casting shadows that danced on the cobblestones, and priests in scarlet shouted prayers, urging the throng onward. Vorro's scarred officer leaned in, voice tight, and said, "They're heading for the bridge, Captain—they mean to cross it."
Vorro blinked, then—for once—made a half-decent call. "Blockade it," he barked, waving his sword like he knew what he was doing. "No one crosses!" His men fanned out, rushing to the bridge's western end, forming a line three deep, spears lowered, shields locked. The crowd slowed, then stopped, faces glaring across the gap. Vorro climbed onto a crate, puffing his chest, and shouted, "Back to your work, you dogs! To your homes—now—or I'll have your hides!" His voice cracked at the end, but he kept waving that useless sword.
The people didn't budge. A slave in the front, a wiry man with whip scars on his arms, stepped forward and spat, "We follow the Lord's chosen—not you!" Others joined him, pressing closer, some picking up stones or broken planks from the square. A priest raised a torch and yelled, "The fire will cleanse this city—stand aside!" Vorro's men shifted, uneasy, spears trembling as the crowd swelled, their chants growing louder. A rock sailed out, clipping an officer's helm, and he stumbled back, cursing. Another flew, then a dozen, pinging off shields—Vorro ducked, nearly falling off his crate, and screeched, "Hold the line! Cut them down if they move!"
The air turned thick, a riot brewing as slaves shoved forward, freemen hurling insults, priests stoking the fury with cries of prophecy. Vorro's detachment braced, but cracks showed—slave guards in the back lowered their spears, muttering, some slipping away to join the crowd. The freemen officers yelled at them to stay, but it was no use—the city teetered, ready to snap, and Vorro stood there, red-faced and clueless, shouting orders no one followed as the faithful surged toward the bridge.
___________________________
Daeron stood outside the Triarchy's palace, the air still thick with the smell of scorched stone after his display of power. The mood had flipped fast once the soldiers dropped their weapons—where they'd been ready to gut him, now they parted like he was one of the Triarchs himself. The woman in the green robe, who'd called off the attack, hurried forward, gesturing for him to follow, while servants spilled out behind her, offering trays of figs, honeyed wine, and silks draped over their arms. They ushered him up the steps, voices overlapping with promises of guest rights and comforts. Daeron brushed past a servant pressing a goblet into his hand and said, "I just want to meet the Triarchy."
The woman dropped to her knees in front of him, bowing low, her forehead nearly touching the stone, and clasped her hands. "Please, my lord, grant us time—they're locked away in a Valyrian rite, a sacred ceremony, and to disturb them would anger the gods beyond measure." She looked up, eyes wide, begging. "Until they're done, we'll give you every luxury Volantis can offer—food, wine, women, whatever you desire."
Daeron crossed his arms, considering barging in anyway. The Valyrian gods were dead, dust and bones, and he didn't care about offending them—they'd abandoned this world long ago. But these people didn't know that, and he saw the fear in her face. He sighed, figuring there was no point in stirring more trouble when he was already in, and after that fight, his stomach growled. "Fine," he said, nodding once. The woman exhaled, relief washing over her, and stammered, "Thank you, my lord, thank you—may the Fourteen bless you." She stood, brushing her robe, and waved to an army of servants, who swarmed around him as she led the way inside.
They took him through marble halls, past statues of dragons and old Triarchs, to a chamber bigger than most keeps in Westeros. The room sprawled wide, its walls painted with scenes of Valyria's glory—dragons soaring over volcanoes, ships cutting through waves. A massive bed sat against one wall, piled with silk cushions and furs, big enough for ten. A table groaned under platters of roasted peacock, olives, and flatbreads, with flagons of dark wine beside it. A bath carved from black stone steamed in the corner, fed by pipes hidden in the floor, water rippling with heat. Half a dozen women waited there, all naked, their bodies bare and gleaming in the torchlight. One had skin like polished ebony, her breasts full and heavy, a thick patch of black curls between her thighs. Another, pale as milk, stood tall and lean, her nipples pink, her pubic hair shaved clean. A third, golden-skinned, had wide hips and a soft belly, her bush a dark triangle. The fourth, shorter, had small, firm tits and a sparse line of hair running down her mound. The fifth, with olive skin, curved like an hourglass, her breasts pert, her hair below trimmed into a neat strip. The sixth, copper-haired, had freckles across her chest, her body slim, her pubic hair a fiery tangle. They smiled, bowing low, their beauty undeniable, each different but striking.
The woman in the green robe stepped forward, gesturing to the bath. "After your journey, my lord, you'll want to wash—these girls will tend you." She clapped, and a seventh woman came forth, younger, maybe sixteen, with long black hair and a face like a Lysene painting, her body slender but ripe, breasts small and high, a faint shadow of hair between her legs. "I'm Nyessa," she said, voice soft, "and if you need anything, just ask." Daeron nodded. "Thanks," he said, keeping it short. The older woman smiled. "I'll leave you to rest, my lord," she said, then turned, leading the other servants out, their sandals whispering on the stone. Nyessa lingered, bowing again. "I'll be in the servants' quarter if you call," she said, pointing to a side door, then slipped out.
Daeron walked to the bath, steam rising from the water, and stopped by the edge. He turned to the women. "You can dress and go—I'll wash myself." They shook their heads, the ebony-skinned one stepping closer, her voice smooth. "We're here to help you, my lord—to wash you, ease you." The pale one nodded, smiling. "It's our duty." He frowned, trying again. "Really, I can manage—go on." They didn't move, just stood there, insistent, and he sighed, giving up. He started untying his breeches, kicking off his boots, then peeled off the remains of his charred tunic, dropping it all in a pile. Naked, he stood straight—since his rebirth, his body had no fat, just lean muscle, shoulders broad, arms corded, stomach flat and hard. The women stared, eyes roving over him, lingering on his chest, his thighs, then lower. Their cheeks flushed, lips parting, hunger in their gazes as he stepped into the bath, his cock swinging free.
He sank into the hot water, groaning as it hit his skin, the tension of the day melting off. It'd been a long one—fights, magic, threats—and he let his head rest against the edge, content to let it end here. His mind drifted to Rhaenys, the ache of missing her sharp in his chest, wondering where she was, what she'd done to get banned. Then Sansa and Arya, their faces flickering in his memory, and his children—Jaehaerys and Alysanne, so small when he'd left. He hoped they were safe, prayed Rhaenys's trouble hadn't touched them.
The women stepped into the bath, water sloshing as they waded closer, hands reaching for him. The golden-skinned one ran a cloth over his shoulders, murmuring, "Such strength, my lord—hard as steel." The pale one scrubbed his chest, pressing her breasts against his arm, giggling, "A warrior's body, fit for a king." The copper-haired one washed his back, fingers lingering, whispering, "So firm, so perfect." The olive-skinned one grabbed a tray of grapes and a flagon of wine, feeding him a fruit, her nipple brushing his cheek as she leaned in, pouring him a cup with a sultry smile. "A dragon needs royal care," she said, winking. They kept at it, hands sliding over him, flirty and bold, asking questions as they worked. "Is it true, my lord—dragons fly again?" the ebony-skinned one asked, eyes wide. "They say Targaryens bring fire—did you hatch them?" the short one added, her hand on his thigh.
Daeron swallowed a grape, answering between bites. "Rumors spread fast—dragons might be back, but I've not seen them yet." He shifted, uncomfortable with their closeness, but his cock stirred anyway, hardening under the water. They noticed, the pale one giggling, glancing down, and he caught it too—it looked bigger than before, thicker, longer, a change he hadn't clocked until now. The golden-skinned one leaned in, voice low. "Would you like us to clean that, my lord?" He shook his head. "Not necessary." The olive-skinned one pressed closer, her breast against his shoulder. "You must, my lord—let us wipe off the road's filth."
Before he could stop her, the copper-haired one reached down, wrapping her hand around his shaft. She gasped, laughing. "My fingers barely fit—gods, it's thick!" The others crowded in, giggling, touching it—some stroking, some cupping—while Daeron groaned, grabbing the wine and downing a gulp. They kept washing him, splashing water, chatting among themselves, laughing as they ran cloths over his arms, his legs, his chest. The ebony-skinned one, oldest but still young, maybe twenty, purred, "Are you sure we can't service you, my lord? We're skilled." He shook his head again. "No—were you expected to do that?"
She smiled, tracing his collarbone. "We're trained in all pleasure arts—bought to give honored guests a night they won't forget." Daeron frowned. "How long have you been here?" She shrugged. "Since we were girls—our mothers sold us, and we've been honed ever since." He leaned back, the wine souring in his mouth. No choice, no freedom—just slaves bred for this. It twisted his gut, wrong in a way he couldn't shake.
He asked, "Ever wanted to be free?" The pale one laughed. "Freedom's for the Old Bloods, not us." The short one nodded. "It's our duty to serve—always has been." Daeron pressed his lips together, saying nothing, and finished washing, pushing their hands off. He stood, water streaming down him, and stepped out. The women followed, naked and dripping, grabbing cloths to dry him. The golden-skinned one picked up his old clothes. "These'll be washed," she said, while the olive-skinned one held up a new outfit—dark silk tunic, black breeches, a cloak of deep red with gold thread at the edges, rich as any Triarch's garb. "These'll do for now," she said. He tried to take them. "I can dress myself." They pouted, the copper-haired one stepping in. "Let us, my lord—it's no trouble." He sighed, and they dressed him, hands smoothing the fabric, lingering on his shoulders, his chest.
Once he was clothed, Daeron said, "I'd like to be alone now." The ebony-skinned one pointed to the side door. "We'll be in the servants' quarter—ring the bell if you need us." They smiled, his own grin making them blush, and filed out, their arses swaying—big, round, jiggling as they went. He sighed, crossing to the balcony, a wide slab of stone jutting from the room, framed by carved rails. The palace towered high, letting him see over the black wall into the city. Smoke rose from the western district across the bridge, faint shouts carrying on the wind, and he leaned on the rail, wondering what in the seven hells was happening out there.
(AN: A lot of things may be a little exaggerated in this such as the palace but tbh Volantis is said to be the greatest amongst the free cities so who knows maybe it's not exaggerated enough. Anyway some may be wondering why Jon didn't kill any of the guards. Answer is, they are slaves and Jon I feel wouldn't want to kill people who didn't have a choice. Not when they couldn't harm him anyway, none of their blades could piece his skin even if they could hit him. Anyway next chapter we will be shifting a bit and going somewhere we haven't been in a while. I hope you liked the chapter.)
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