Volantis.
She was the very first colony founded by the Valyrian Freehold, and the one closest to the imperial capital itself.
That is why she is called "the First Daughter of Valyria."
The people of Volantis have always taken pride in being heirs of the Valyrian Empire. They still preserve many of the old traditions, and because of this, Volantis proclaims herself the rightful successor of Valyria and the true ruler of the world.
And indeed, this claim is not without merit.
Volantis stands upon the delta where the Rhoyne divides into four mouths as it meets the sea. To the west, her rule extends along the Orange Coast, pushing deep into the Disputed Lands; northward, her reach spreads as far as the Golden Fields. The fertile banks of the Mother Rhoyne yield thriving towns and villages—all subject to Volantene dominion.
The city rests not only at the perfect river mouth, but beside a deep, natural harbor of rare magnificence. Volantenes boast that if one were to set a hundred islands of Braavos within their harbor, it would swallow them all.
The port, lying in southern Essos, knows endless summer even when Westeros is bound in winter. Ships from every corner of the known world gather here: swan-ships laden with silk and spice from Yi Ti, great galleys of Slaver's Bay carrying their grim cargo, cogs from Westeros and Braavos bound for Jade Sea trade.
Her vineyards produce the famed sweet red wine, her fertile fields feed the world, her craftsmen shape fine glass, her artisans weave wonders. Volantis boasts the busiest, most prosperous harbor in all the world.
She is also the oldest of the Free Cities. At first, she was nothing but a frontier outpost of Valyria, a place to meet emissaries from upriver cities or a resting ground for dragonlords. But in time, she swelled with power.
Volantis grew rich upon Valyria's trade with the Rhoynar. That prosperity ended in war. The Rhoynar stronghold of Sarhoy was destroyed, and their cities along the upper Rhoyne burned. Queen Nymeria led the remnants of her people west, fleeing in ten thousand ships to Dorne.
Thus Volantis rose among the greatest cities in history.
When Valyria fell to the Doom, Volantis declared herself free and sovereign. During the early Century of Blood, she triumphed in conquest: her fleets subdued Lys, her legions took Myr, her banners spread across the Disputed Lands and the upper Rhoyne.
But in the end she was defeated. Pentos, Braavos, and even the Storm King of Westeros rose against her. The exiles of Lys were lent ships, and Aegon the Conqueror himself came astride Balerion the Black Dread. From the east, the Dothraki struck her holdings, burning Volantene towns along the lower Rhoyne.
At Selhorys
The sun sank, staining the clouds crimson as twilight shimmered upon the water.
In the fading light, the Red Priest Makkiro, with his sworn guards of the Hand of the Holy Flame, rode not to Volantis directly, but first to Selhorys. There they sought to take ship downriver.
Volantene spearmen manned the walls, torches glinting on their tiger-striped cheeks, claws of steel jutting from their gauntlets. These were the Tiger Cloaks—slave soldiers sworn to R'hllor.
Within the sandstone walls lay taverns, stalls, and warehouses. Glass lanterns of many colors glowed within, richer than the sheepskin lamps outside.
Makkiro wasted no time. He rode at once to the main square.
The city bustled as if untouched by war. Nobles lounged in litters, commoners bustled in ox-carts drawn by squat elephants, slaves with fly tattoos shoveled dung from the streets. Makkiro's flame-tattooed face drew no challenge; the crowds parted for him.
Past the grand headless statue of Horonno, past the dazzling turtle sign of a brothel-inn, he came to the red-stone temple of R'hllor.
There he met the Red Priest sent to hold Selhorys.
"Rumors of Qohor spread through the markets," the man pressed. "They say the Dothraki march to slaughter Volantis. Are these whispers true?"
Makkiro's reply was calm, almost dismissive:
"I came with the Dothraki from Qohor. Selhorys is of no concern. Khal Möngke has no interest in it. You must only prepare us a ship—I must hasten to Volantis to stand before the High Priest."
Relieved, the priest arranged passage at once.
On the River
The docks swarmed with warships, soldiers poured northward. The rulers of Volantis clearly believed the Dothraki threatened Selhorys.
Makkiro and his companions walked brazenly through the harbor, unchallenged, and boarded a southbound warship returning to Volantis.
Night fell. The air hung hot and heavy, the ship swayed in a mist-laden breeze. A crescent moon hid in drifting clouds, casting a ghostly halo like an unblinking eye.
Suddenly, cries rang out.
Shouts, the splash of oars, horns and clamor echoed across the river. War galleys laden with soldiers veered suddenly, choking the waterway.
Makkiro, sleepless, heard the sailors' frantic cries. A single phrase carried to him through the chaos:
"The Dothraki have ridden south. They are upon Volantis."