Chapter 729

A distant rumbling echoed through the night as Messin Vyslis quietly counted on his fingers.

One. Two. Three...

Right on time. He felt the faint tremor through the ground as the cannonballs struck the city's fortifications.

For every slave and freeman alike within these walls, tonight would be a night they never forgot.

Valyria’s First Daughter—the oldest and most powerful of the Free Cities—Volantis—was under siege.

Not by rival traders, not by warring factions within its Tiger and Elephant parties, but by an enemy from across the Narrow Sea—an enemy that had chosen to strike while the main fleet was away attacking King’s Landing.

For the first time in its ancient history, the walls of Volantis trembled under foreign fire.
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Technically, this was not a complete surprise.

Two days prior, Lys had sent word—a fleet bearing the red dragon banner had appeared and attacked.

But that warning had bought them little preparation time—before dawn had even passed, enemy sails were already visible from the watchtowers.

The attack followed the alarm almost immediately.

Which left only two possibilities:Either the Queen’s fleet had bypassed Lys entirely, heading straight for Volantis...Or Lys had fallen within mere hours, unable to hold for even half a day.

Given that Lys was a city of pleasure—famous for art, luxury, bed slaves, and the exotic techniques they used to please their masters—the latter seemed far more likely.
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The moment they entered range, the Royal Fleet opened fire.

With cannons, they swept through the harbor’s defenses like autumn wind through dead leaves, obliterating the hastily assembled reserve fleet before sailing arrogantly into Volantis’ vast, world-famous deepwater harbor—large enough to fit all of Braavos within it.

They dropped anchor just outside the range of catapults and ballistae—and began the longest bombardment the city had ever seen.

A day and a half had passed since the shelling began.

Even though nightfall had reduced the firing rate and accuracy, the intermittent thunder of cannon fire still shattered any attempts at sleep.

Every time the city seemed to quiet down, the next round of shells came crashing in.
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The seaside defenses were in ruins.

The morale of the defenders had plummeted.

The ruling elite of Volantis were already preparing to abandon the outer city.

Yet despite weakening the city’s defenses to the brink of collapse, the enemy still had not landed.
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The Triarchs of Volantis convened a brief war council and arrived at two possible conclusions:Either this strike force lacked sufficient landing troops to launch a full-scale assault.Or they were waiting for an uprising within the city—for an inside force to strike in tandem and deliver Volantis from within.

And if betrayal was possible, then there were suspects.

At the top of the list?

Messin Vyslis and his "Thunder God" Mercenary Company—currently standing guard outside the Great Red Temple of R’hllor.
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The Great Red Temple was truly great in size.

Located east of the Rhoyne, near the Black Walls, it was three times the size of the Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing.

Built from massive pillars, stone steps, buttresses, vaulted arches, domes, and towering spires, it stood like a single monolithic structure, as if carved from a mountain of stone.

After the Doom of Valyria consumed the Freehold, this sacred temple had become the new center of the Faith of R’hllor, home to its High Priest.
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But size wasn’t what made it a threat.

What truly worried the ruling elite was the message the Red Temple had been preaching:That Daenerys Targaryen was the Prince That Was Promised.That she was humanity’s savior and the world’s rightful Queen.That even her loyal Night’s Watch commander—Aegor—was R’hllor’s chosen emissary upon this earth.
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The Red Temple had fought against the Tigers, had opposed the formation of the Anti-Dragon Queen Alliance.

Worse still, it had its own army—the Flame’s Hand, a force of 1,000 elite warriors.

These soldiers were slaves purchased by the temple from childhood, trained in the manner of the Unsullied, indoctrinated into religious fanaticism, and armed with the finest weapons gold could buy.

They had the motive.

They had the strength.

This was why, even as the city braced for invasion, the Triarchs still diverted a mercenary company to stand guard outside the Great Red Temple.

If the priests dared to rise in rebellion, they would be met with steel.
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The mercenaries had been issued special arrows, supposedly enchanted to counter magic.

But Messin Vyslis found little comfort in that.

Against the mysterious Red Priests and their unnatural abilities, he’d rather be facing cannon fire.

Still, even the slave masters weren’t foolish enough to believe that one small mercenary company could crush a full-scale Red Temple uprising.

That was a job for elite forces like the Golden Company.

Messin and his Thunder God Company were here for one reason only:

To buy time.

If the Red Temple revolted, their job was to slow them down, raise the alarm, and give the slave masters enough time to retreat into the inner city.
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Messin sighed internally but steeled himself as he walked toward the barricades, inspecting their forward defenses.

They were a small company, but they were disciplined and loyal—the only reason Volantis had hired them at all.

As he passed, each mercenary straightened their backs, offering salutes and status reports.

So far?

The Great Red Temple remained silent.
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"Keep your eyes wide open!" Messin barked.

"If so much as a rat or a wisp of shadow slips out of that temple, I want the alarm sounded immediately!"

And as if on cue, the alarm bells screamed.

But the sound did not come from the temple gates.

It came from the opposite direction.
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From the southern end of the street—the side opposite the Great Red Temple—a wave of torches suddenly emerged from the darkness.

Before the mercenaries could even react, before they could turn to face the threat, a new sound thundered behind them.

The great doors of the Red Temple swung wide open.

And from within marched a disciplined legion—the Flame’s Hand.

Clad in gleaming armor, draped in orange cloaks, wielding flaming-tipped spears, they moved in perfect formation, sealing off the northern end of the street.

Messin’s entire company was trapped.

A pincer formation—executed flawlessly.
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He clenched his jaw.

This was no ordinary rebellion.

This was a coordinated strike.

And Volantis was about to