1st bonus chapter: 100 powerstones
2nd bonus chapter: 150 powerstones
3rd bonus chapter: 200 powerstones
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Beyond Bhorash the land changed. The further they traveled, the more the marks of Valyria faded and the deeper they entered the old heartlands of the Ghiscari Empire.
The land softened into fertile plains fed by wide rivers that wound through the countryside like silver veins. Fields stretched across the lowlands, caravans moved constantly between markets though they looked on edge.
The news of Daenerys Targaryen had spread through these lands faster than any army could march. And with that news came upheaval. Jon saw it everywhere. They passed by villages in which families had no idea of their fates.
Most were clearly slaves and the overseers had long fled when the news of the fall of the Masters reached them. Many of them stopped when they saw the red banners of the Faith. Some bowed. Others simply watched in silence as the procession passed.
Farther along the road they encountered something different. A group of freed soldiers who had once been slave warriors under the masters of Yunkai. They wore mismatched armor and carried old spears, but their banners bore a simple mark painted in red. A dragon with three heads.
They were traveling north, likely seeking service under the Dragon Queen's growing armies. They saluted the Red Faith respectfully as the column passed. Word of Daenerys had transformed the entire region. The old order was collapsing.
As they pressed deeper into Ghiscari territory, the landscape began revealing the remnants of an empire far older than Valyria itself. Jon saw the ruins of massive roads built from yellow brick rather than the dark stone of the Demon Road.
They were not smooth like Valyrian construction. Instead they were wide avenues built from enormous interlocking plates of pale sandstone reinforced with bands of bronze. The metal had long since darkened with age, but even after thousands of years the plates had barely shifted.
The Ghiscari had not tried to dominate the land the way Valyria had. They had tied themselves into it. The roads did not cut through hills. They climbed them. They followed the shape of the earth like veins following muscle. Even broken, they still felt deliberate. Even abandoned, they still felt imperial.
Trade caravans had once filled these highways. Armies of tens of thousands had marched them during the wars between Ghis and Valyria. Now only wind moved through them. And the Red Faith procession.
Occasionally the procession passed the remains of ancient Ghiscari fortresses. The Stone Citadels. Unlike Valyrian architecture, which favored towering spires and volcanic stone, the Ghiscari cities had been built wide and low. Their walls were thick, layered in brick and metal plating that once resisted dragonfire during the early wars between the two civilizations.
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Many of these strongholds had been destroyed during the long struggle between Ghis and Valyria. The ruins still bore the scars. Jon rode silently through these lands, absorbing the history surrounding them.
Essos was older than most people understood. Empires had risen and fallen here long before the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros had even existed. And now another power was rising again.
As the Faith traveled deeper into Ghiscari territory, they passed by remnants of the famed Moving Caravan Cities. The city had once been mounted upon an enormous mobile platform, large bases that were wider than most castle keeps, resting on massive circular structures that had once functioned as wheels or rolling supports. Time had buried most of them beneath dunes, but the surviving portions revealed engineering unlike anything Jon had ever seen.
The Ghis geomancers used to move them around the empire. Great mobile trade capitals, shifting them along the great imperial roads depending on season, conflict, or economic need. Entire populations had once lived upon these moving platforms.
Thick axles of black iron still connected them to the central chassis of the platform. At the center of the platform rose the remains of the market district. Tiered avenues once filled with traders from every corner of Essos now lay buried beneath centuries of sand and dust.
Collapsed stalls and shattered pavilions formed a maze of broken stone where merchants had once hawked silk, spices, slaves, and gold. Wide central boulevards radiated outward from the heart of the platform, designed to handle enormous flows of trade caravans. Storage towers and granaries lined the inner districts, their foundations reinforced with bronze ribs meant to withstand the constant vibration of movement.
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Around the outer edge stood the city's defensive structures. Massive towers that had once housed ballistae and stone throwers now leaned at unnatural angles, their upper tiers collapsed long ago. Iron railings and anchor chains still clung to the ramparts where watch crews had once monitored the horizon as the city rolled across the plains.
Across the old empire ruins they came across enormous sinkholes in the earth with a great maze complexes known as Bronze Labyrinths. These were not tombs or cities. They were the training grounds of their legions.
The Ghiscari had carved these vast networks of tunnels, training halls, arenas, and trial chambers stretched for leagues through the earth. These places had been designed to test soldiers beyond the limits of ordinary warfare.
Entire corridors could shift when triggered, forcing soldiers to navigate constantly changing terrain. Walls of stone would slide shut without warning. Floors tilted or collapsed into deep pits designed to simulate battlefield chaos.
Massive bronze gates could slam down between units, separating formations and forcing them to fight independently. The labyrinths were not merely obstacle courses. They were proving grounds.
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It was said not only did the common folks go through this so did the noble heirs. Every heir of a Ghiscari noble house was expected to descend into the Bronze Labyrinths before claiming their titles. This is where the future generals and rulers were raised.
When the empire fell, many labyrinths were abandoned. Their mechanisms still function. Some sections collapse over the years. Others shift without warning. And some corridors have sealed themselves for centuries. The labyrinths had been built to break soldiers. Without the empire that once controlled them, they were simply death waiting beneath the earth.
More haunting them all were the strange hills that looked too deliberate to be natural. From afar they seemed like smooth rises of earth but these were Imperial Necropolises.
The Ghiscari had not buried their rulers in simple tombs. Entire burial cities had been carved into the earth with vast stepped hills layered with terraces, stairways, and monumental stone platforms. Each necropolis stretched for miles, its surface lined with thousands of reliefs depicting kings, generals, and the empire's greatest warriors.
He also saw Great sphinxes carved from yellow stone still sat at the entrances to the ruined avenues. Each one had a different face. Some bore the faces of kings. Others the faces of unknown beasts. Many had lost their heads. Others stared across the empty plains with expressions that had not changed in thousands of years.
Jon noticed something strange about them. The Ghiscari sphinxes contained veins of metal running through their bodies. Bronze ribs. Iron joints. Ancient reinforcement meant to strengthen the structure. Or perhaps something else. It was rumored the Ghis were able to bring alive statues for war and defence.
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However the most formidable guardians of the necropolises were the War Colossi. Jon saw one tipped over, silently laying on the ground but no one wanted to test if it was still functioning.
These constructs towered over all like silent gods of stone and bronze. Each stood more than a many meters tall, their bodies formed from layered basalt plates reinforced with iron ribs. Bronze armor covered their chests, engraved with the sigils of the Ghiscari. Their faces were blank masks of stone. Their eyes, it was said, had once burned like molten metal when awakened.
During the ancient wars with Valyria, these giants had marched with the Ghiscari armies. When dragons descended upon their cities, the colossi were awakened. Their massive frames could withstand bursts of dragonfire long enough to do battle with the scaled giant flying lizards.
Many had been destroyed in those wars. But the surviving ones were placed here, set as eternal guardians of the empire's dead.
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Another ruin which draw everyone breath away was at first appearing on the horizon like strange mirages, a great shapes tipped over onto the desert floor. As the column drew closer the truth revealed itself. These were the Sanctums of the Earth Magi of Ghis.
Each complex consisted of a mini stepped pyramid of pale stone. It was said they used to hang hoovering above the desert, moving through the lands, their surfaces gleaming faintly beneath centuries of sun and wind.
The Ghiscari geomancers had mastered forces that bound stone to the bones of the world itself. Using vast geomantic engines buried beneath the earth, they could manipulate gravity and pressure within the land. These sanctums had been the greatest expression of that mastery.
Each floating pyramid had once been a great research center. The lower levels studied minerals, metals, and the shifting of tectonic forces. The upper chambers dealt with more dangerous arts from the manipulation of gravity, the shaping of entire landscapes, and the binding of subterranean forces that moved deep beneath the crust of the world.
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Even abandoned, the floating pyramids made the priests and soldiers uneasy. They looked less like ruins and more like machines that had merely been left unattended.
As the procession continued eastward, the pyramids slowly drifted into the distance behind them. As though waiting for the geomancers who had built them to return and finish whatever work they had once begun.
Weeks later the land began sloping downward toward the warm coastal plains of Slaver's Bay. The air grew thick with heat. Palm trees lined the irrigation canals.
And in the far distance, beyond the rising haze of the southern sky, Jon saw something that dwarfed even the Ghiscari ruins they had passed. Great pyramids. Hundreds of feet tall. Their golden tops gleaming in the sun like mountains crowned with fire. Even from this distance they dominated the horizon.
Meereen. The greatest surviving city of the old Ghiscari world. Now the seat of the Dragon Queen.
Moqorro lifted his staff slightly. "The journey nears its end."
Jon stared across the plains. The ruins behind them spoke of ancient empires. The city ahead spoke of something new. And somewhere within those towering pyramids sat a queen who commanded three living dragons.
The Red Faith continued marching. The heart of Slaver's Bay awaited.
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However before they even caught a glimpse of the pyramids of Meereen news of war reached them. It came in whispers carried by caravans moving west along the road. Traders spoke in hurried voices at roadside wells. Messengers galloped through the dust with sealed scrolls marked in Volantene script. Even wandering priests traveling between temples carried fragments of the same story.
Though Moqorro got actual confirmation from Kinvara through the flames. Tolos had fallen.
The campaign began along the jagged coastline where the Painted Mountains broke apart into black stone cliffs overlooking the smoking seas. Somewhere within that region lay Tolos. The city had always been difficult to find. Unlike other towering ports of the Free Cities, Tolos had been built deliberately to hide.
The Black Cliffs formed a labyrinth of shadowed valleys and narrow ravines carved into volcanic rock. Tall walls of stone blocked sunlight from reaching the ground for much of the day. Fog rolled in constantly from the sea, clinging to the cliffs like living mist.
Some travelers claimed the land itself was cursed. Others believed darker things lived there. But Tolos had thrived within those shadows for centuries. It had become a city of assassins, spies, and shadowbinders.
Its infamous Shadowblades had served as killers for hire across half the world. Kings feared them. Merchants paid fortunes to employ them. And enemies of Tolos often died before they ever saw the city.
For generations that secrecy had protected them. But secrecy meant little against an army. And the Volantene host was enormous. Nearly thirty thousand soldiers marched beneath the banners of Volantis as they advanced toward the Black Cliffs. Legions of disciplined Volantis infantry formed the core of the army, supported by cavalry companies and mercenary contingents drawn from half the Free Cities, along with Mantarys freshly drawn.
Behind them rolled siege engines dragged across the rocky terrain by teams of slaves and war elephants. And marching alongside the soldiers were the priests of the Red Faith. Thousands of them. Their braziers burned day and night. The flames of R'hllor never dimmed.
Yet when the army reached the Black Cliffs they encountered their first true obstacle. They could not find the city. Weeks passed as scouts searched the ravines. Cavalry patrols combed every canyon and valley. But Tolos remained hidden.
The cliffs themselves seemed designed to swallow entire armies. Narrow passes twisted into dead ends. Deep shadows concealed caves and tunnels that could hide entire settlements. And worse still, many swore they had seen shapes moving within the shadows themselves.
The priests of the Red Faith claimed the cliffs were saturated with unnatural sorcery. Shadow magic. It was the favored art of Tolos' rulers.
And somewhere deep within those cliffs the Shadow Lord waited. He ruled Tolos alongside his shadowbinders, mages trained in the secret arts of Asshai. Few men alive had ever seen the city's true masters but their reputation was enough to chill even hardened soldiers.
If the Volantene army marched blindly into those cliffs, they risked losing entire legions to ambush and sorcery. So the two sisters prepared their answer for this predicament.
The grand ritual that was undertaken became a legend almost immediately. Witnesses later claimed the sky itself caught fire. A blazing sphere of fire suspended above the cliffs. It looked like a second sun.
The light poured down across the entire landscape. Shadows vanished instantly. The deep ravines of the Black Cliffs, places where sunlight had never reached were suddenly illuminated as bright as midday. Every canyon. Every hidden pass. Every secret valley. All of it revealed beneath the burning radiance.
And there, nestled within one of the deepest ravines, the city was soon found after some days. Tolos. The Shadow City. Black towers clung to the cliffs like claws gripping the rock. Narrow bridges stretched between jagged spires while hidden docks clung to the shadowed coastline below.
For centuries the city had hidden itself within those cliffs. Now the light exposed everything. The soldiers of Volantis stared in stunned silence. They could see it clearly. And so could the defenders.
The white banners appeared almost as soon as the army was upon their gates. The rulers of Tolos understood their greatest defense had been darkness. Their assassins moved unseen through them. Their shadowbinders manipulated the gloom itself.
But beneath that blazing artificial sun there were no shadows left. If the Volantene army attacked now, the city would be utterly exposed and crushed. Envoys quickly descended from the cliffs carrying white banners of surrender.
The transition of power happened quickly. Volantene legions marched into the city without resistance. The gates were opened. The defenses were dismantled.
The Shadow Lord had already fled. Reports suggested he escaped during the night alongside his inner circle of shadowbinders. Most believed they had retreated east toward the distant city of Asshai, where shadow magic was said to originate.
Without their master the city's ruling structure collapsed. Tolos had never been governed by a traditional aristocracy. Instead it had been controlled by hidden councils of assassins, spies, and shadowbinders who operated from the darkness behind the throne.
Now those networks dissolved almost overnight. Many of the remaining Shadowblades fled with their lord. Others surrendered. And some simply vanished into the wilderness.
The Red Faith and Old Blood moved quickly to dismantle what remained of the old order. Shadow temples were seized. Hidden guild houses were burned. And those assassins who remained were given a choice.
Swear loyalty. Or die. Many chose loyalty.
The city was formally declared a subject of the Volantene Freehold revival. Tribute began flowing within weeks. Gold. Ships. Weapons. And soldiers.
The famous Night Cavalry of Tolos made up of elite riders trained to operate within the dark ravines of the cliffs swore allegiance to Volantis along with several of the city's surviving noble families who were part of the order.
Now only one enemy remained, The island city had watched these events unfold with growing panic. First Mantarys had fallen. Then Tolos had surrendered without a fight. Now Volantis controlled two of the three former colonies beyond the Painted Mountains.
Elyria stood alone. Its rulers understood what that meant. Across the waters of the Jade Sea they began desperately reinforcing their defenses. Ships were recalled from distant trade routes. Mercenaries were hired from across the world.
But the Volantene armies were already preparing to move. From the cliffs of Tolos their fleet would soon sail. And when they did, the last independent colony of the old Freehold would face the full might of Volantis alone.
The war had entered its final act.
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Also along the way Jon continued his lessons under Moqorro. Weeks passed along the ancient road as the Faith crossed deeper into lands that had once belonged to the Ghiscari Empire.
Every evening after the column made camp, Moqorro summoned him to the central altar fire. The traveling brazier burned constantly, fed by sacred oils and enchanted coals brought from Volantis itself.
It was there that Jon practiced. The other priests watched from a respectful distance. Some whispered quietly among themselves. Because some knew what Moqorro was doing. Jon Snow was being prepared. Prepared for something very few ever achieved.
The Red Faith's hierarchy was strict. Thousands served as acolytes and apostles. With only dozens rising to become priests. But above them stood only 3. Masters of the Flame. The High Priests, the true spiritual rulers of the Faith.
"You wield the flame well. Your power and your control are already worthy of a master. But knowledge… knowledge is what separates young Priest like you from High Priests."
Jon knew he was right. Magic was not simply strength. It was understanding the nature of the forces one wielded. And the flame of R'hllor was deeper than simple fire.
Their lessons expanded from there. Moqorro began teaching Jon the broader applications of the divine flame. Not just destruction. But transformation. Illumination. Purification. Divination.
Jon began learning everything the faith had on fire magic. He was like a sponge soaking in everything. Healing rituals. Protection wards. Rites and so much more.
But Moqorro also tested him in other ways. Leadership. Judgment. Restraint. Several times along the road demonic fissures erupted across the Demon Road itself, unstable tears between worlds that spilled strange creatures into the mortal realm.
Each time Moqorro allowed Jon to lead the response. Jon coordinated the priests. Directed the containment rituals. And when necessary, destroyed the creatures with controlled bursts of fire.
The soldiers watched these displays with growing respect. Stories of the Red Son spread quickly through the ranks. The young priest who commanded angels. The one whose fire burned brighter than any other.
Jon tried not to think about those stories. Fame had never been something he desired. But the responsibility that came with it weighed heavily on his shoulders.