The Tiger Cloaks were regarded as the absolute elite across all Valyria, or they could never have maintained the prestige of being the "First Daughter of Valyria," mistress of the Summer Sea, and one of the most powerful of the Free Cities, on par with Braavos.
After the Doom of Valyria, the Tigers dispatched a vast fleet to conquer Lys, while another fearless land army captured Myr. For more than a century afterward, all three cities lay under the rule of the Black Walls.
But all of that ended when the Tigers attempted to annex Tyrosh. The Archon of Pentos and the Storm King of Westeros joined forces with Tyrosh in the war, while Braavos provided over a hundred warships to a Lysene exile fleet. Myrmen and Lyseni alike seized the chance to rise in rebellion and expel the invaders.
The true turning point in the Tigers' decline, however, came when Aegon Targaryen the Conqueror, astride the Black Dread, Balerion, flew from Dragonstone to the front lines.
This war, involving Westeros and the Nine Free Cities, was a true world war.
Under the fierce counterattack of the coalition forces, and with dragons' death-flames scorching the earth, the battlefield became a wasteland of ash. Lys and Myr slipped free from Volantene claws and won back their independence.
The Tigers, already routed by the coalition, suffered further crippling defeats. A fleet sent to reclaim Valyria vanished into the Smoking Sea, swallowed by the Cursed Lands.
While the Tigers' warships fought desperately in the Disputed Lands, neighboring Qohor and Norvos seized the opportunity to destroy their holdings along the Rhoyne.
Then the Dothraki came thundering in from the east, sweeping over the lands between the Forest of Qohor and the headwaters of the Selhoru River, leaving behind only grass and ruins. Only when they had taken their fill did they ride away—and ever since, the jingle of bells has been heard there, for the braid-wearing warriors had tasted blood and plunder.
After more than a century of war, the people of Volantis found themselves ruined, impoverished, and dwindling in number. It was then that the Elephant Party, champions of trade, rose to prominence—because the First Daughter of Valyria desperately needed economic revival.
From then on, the Elephants held the Tigers in check. In some years the Tigers could elect a Triarch, sometimes not even one, never more than a single seat at a time. The Elephants had ruled Volantis for nearly three hundred years.
But the Tigers' fortunes began to shift when missionaries of the Lord of Light arrived from Essos. Followers of the Red God sprang up like mushrooms after rain, spreading like wildfire.
After years of preaching, the influence of the Red Temple had sunk deep roots in every Free City—most of all in Volantis. The Tiger leader, Malaquo Maegyr, long suppressed by the Elephants, cast aside pride and honor to throw in his lot with High Priest Benerro, hoping to wash away centuries of shame.
With the backing of the Red Temple, the Tigers grew powerful once more, slowly encroaching upon Elephant territory. Eventually, the two sides settled into an uneasy stalemate, divided by the great Rhoyne that wound through the city, each waiting for the other to fall.
That apparent deadlock was finally broken with the arrival of Khal Drogo's host.
But it was the Elephants—growing subtly weaker—who saw in him a dawn of hope.
With the black dragon unleashed, the khalasar and the Unsullied became spectators. Their task was merely to cut off the Tigers' retreat, driving them into the killing ground with spears and arrows.
Flesh and blood could not endure dragonflame. The eunuchs and the horselords were wise to hang back, for without a dragonrider to guide it, the beast knew no friend from foe.
The vast harbor docks became a slaughterhouse, the air filled with the squeals of burning swine—only the swine were men, and the butcher was a dragon.
In less than ten minutes, the four or five thousand surviving Tiger soldiers were nothing but ash.
Only their Triarch escaped the flames—not because Malaquo was special, but because before the dragon could swoop, the Unburnt severed his head with a Valyrian steel blade.
By the time Triarchs Dophas and Naesiso arrived at the scene—each mounted on a slow, plodding white elephant—the battle was already over.
Volantenes were poor horsemen; riding elephants, they had done their best to hurry.
The first thing they saw upon leaving the city was Drogo holding up Malaquo's severed head. Their old rival was gone, and their hearts grew heavy and uncertain.
What would Drogo do to the Elephants, now that the Tigers were destroyed?
And what of shattered Volantis itself?
Drogo had agreed only to a temporary alliance. He had said nothing of what came after.
They knew well what had happened in New Ghis—save for the slaves, all had perished in the burning pyramids, many thrown into the flames by Dothraki hands.
If Volantis, already half-ruined by wildfire, were to feel dragonflame as well, it would be nothing but a memory in the histories.
Seeing the grim-faced Triarchs draw near, Drogo guessed their fears. Feeling hunger stir in his belly, he decided to speak of an alliance over a meal.
After all, when strength is unequal, it's always easier to reach an agreement after a few cups of wine.
As they came up, Drogo said, "Triarchs—since we were so fortunate as to miss the wildfire feast in the square, I trust you'll arrange another?"
"Of course, of course," Dophas said quickly.
Pressed for time, Naesiso hesitated. "Khal, if you would follow us to the Hall of Governance and wait, I'll order the cooks to prepare a banquet as quickly as possible."
Drogo smiled faintly. "The hall is too small to hold my warriors. I hear the truth of Volantis lies within the Black Walls—I am curious to see it."
Naesiso frowned. "It would be our honor to have the Khal's interest, but the wildfire still spreads—it might spoil your mood. Only the areas cut off by Mother Rhoyne are safe for now."
Drogo heard the unspoken fear: that greedy Dothraki would run riot in the quarters of the great families. His face went cold. "No matter. My eyes are my own. If the wildfire passes the Black Walls, it will not touch the secrets within—and if there were danger, more than just soldiers would be outside the walls right now."
Dophas shot Naesiso a glare. "If you want to live, hold your tongue."
Naesiso sighed and turned away.
The older Triarch saw the truth more clearly: if Drogo desired the Black Walls, no words could dissuade him—he had the strength to take all of Volantis. Delay could only turn to tragedy.
So Dophas bowed slightly. "If our welcome has been poor, Khal Drogo, forgive us. We thank you for ridding Volantis of its traitors. The people will be grateful. I hope you will stay in Volantis a few more days, so that we may properly honor your great service."
With that, he gestured invitingly.
This was the way of an old fox. Pleased with the words, Drogo spurred his horse back into the city, his army following in his wake.
Dophas, annoyed at his slow elephant, dismounted and jogged after them.
The Black Walls were easy enough to find, but he meant to play the guide and further warm the Khal to him.
Seeing the old man hurrying to keep up, Drogo glanced back and barked, "Naesiso—don't forget the noblewomen for the wine table. If I don't see beauties fit to grace my feast, you'll answer for it!"
Startled, Naesiso leapt down from his elephant and sprinted ahead, soon passing everyone on the road to the Black Walls.
Drogo watched him with disdain. "Old man—from today, you're the only Triarch of Volantis."
Dophas froze, until Drogo caught up and tapped him on the head with his silver-handled whip. Then the meaning struck him, and he shouted in delight, "Thank you for your favor, Khal!"
Drogo only chuckled.
As Rakharo passed, he said, "Mount up."
Dophas, overjoyed, obeyed.
Two hours later, they entered the Black Walls. Even the heavy smoke in the air could not hide the perfume of flowers—the place was designed to perfection.
Drogo, usually so composed, turned his head this way and that.
Fountains splashed along the roads, Cyvasse halls stood in misty gardens, palm and cedar thrived in watered beds, monuments rose at every corner.
They passed into broader streets, domed buildings glittering with stained glass lit from below, the colors shifting red to green to purple in the gathering dusk.
It was like riding through a tunnel of torches.
The only blemish was that every house was shut tight—its occupants hiding from the fearsome Dothraki.
Such beauty and grandeur stirred a raider's desire—but Drogo, already rich, gave no such order, and the khalasars held themselves in check.
Dophas rode at the front, Rakharo pacing Drogo's side. The Triarch kept his tongue save for brief explanations, but Drogo wanted more.
"Khal Drogo asked, "Dophas—why would the Red Temple set such a trap? Do they not know I sweep all before me?"
"Perhaps," Dophas said slowly, "High Priest Benerro wished to remove an obstacle for the Prince That Was Promised—even if that obstacle were—"
Drogo finished for him. "—the prince's husband, yes?"
Dophas stammered, unwilling to offend. "Th-this…"
Drogo had heard enough from spies to know Dophas had no hand in the wildfire plot. He waved the matter aside.
Dophas knew some things, though not the deepest secrets, and Drogo now understood enough to brood.
In this world, the Lord of Light's enemy was the Great Other, the god of ice, whose White Walkers were the storm of death sent to bring despair to mankind.
The key to stopping the Long Night was the Prince That Was Promised—the savior the Red God's faithful sought to find and aid.
Drogo knew the tale: eight thousand years ago, when the long night fell, Azor Ahai was chosen to fight it.
Three times he tried to forge a hero's sword. Twice it failed—once quenched in water, once in a lion's heart.
The third time, after a hundred days of labor, he drove the smoking blade into his wife Nissa Nissa's heart, and her blood, soul, courage, and love flowed into the steel.
Thus was forged Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, with which Azor Ahai drove the Walkers back to the Land of Always Winter.
A prophecy from five thousand years ago in Asshai foretold that Azor Ahai would be reborn to fight the Walkers again, after a long summer, when darkness falls.
"When the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword—Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes—and he shall be Azor Ahai reborn, and darkness shall flee before him."
Thus the Red God's servants sought the prince. Benerro saw Daenerys as the savior; the shadowbinder Quaithe favored Drogo; and in Westeros, the red priestess Melisandre had chosen Stannis Baratheon.
None of them knew the true prince.
But Drogo did. The savior was, in truth, Jon Snow—the real son of Rhaegar Targaryen—now serving on the Wall.
Only now, with his rebirth altering fates, Drogo was no longer certain.
-
-
-
🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
📢 Fire and Blood! 📢
This epic has 200+ chapters ahead on Patreon! 🐲🔥
Rule Westeros long before others catch up.
🛑 Also available:
Star Wars: The Rise of MandaloreCyberpunk: The RelentlessCyberpunk: Lucy Adopted Me and I Got a SystemMy Cyberpunk 2077 SimulatorMy Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the DreadfortThe Rebirth of Harry PotterStar Wars: Relics of the PastR18: Reincarnated in Her World
🔗 www.patreon.com/c/MrMagnus👤 SrMagnus🐦 https://x.com/SrMagnusBook
⚠️ The throne favors the strongest support!