"I'm not entirely sure," Viserys admitted. "But the Old Man can command the creatures of the river. I believe he'll manage."
In truth, Viserys suspected the Old Turtle would either summon a thick fog or send his children to help.
After all, those enormous bone-scaled beasts could easily bite through a few chains.
And truth be told, he was curious to see what tricks a creature ten thousand years old might have up its shell.
Over the next four or five days, Viserys claimed fatigue and did not meet with Malaqo or the other triarchs.
They, in turn, were unconcerned. The fleet was still docked safely in their harbor—what could possibly go wrong?
Taking advantage of the lull, Viserys decided to visit the Temple of R'hllor in Volantis.
He remembered that the High Priest, Benerro, was said to be a powerful master of fire magic.
And in another world—the one he remembered—Benerro had supported Daenerys Targaryen's rise.
Half of the Tiger Cloaks, the elite soldiers within the Black Wall, were R'hllor's followers.
If Viserys truly meant to become master of the Rhoyne one day, perhaps the priest could be a useful ally.
Thus, he set out for the temple with Arthur Dayne and several guards.
The structure that greeted them was monumental. Its columns, stairways, buttresses, arches, domes, and towers all appeared carved from a single massive stone.
It reminded Viserys faintly of the Aegonfort that once stood in King's Landing.
Red, gold, amber, and orange blended together across the temple walls like the clouds of a burning sunset.
This was the Temple of the Lord of Light—standing apart from the Black Walls as a power of its own.
When word spread that a king was coming, Benerro himself, the High Priest, arranged a grand welcome.
No matter the strength of his kingdom, Viserys was a ruler nonetheless—a potential vessel for spreading R'hllor's faith and casting aside the false gods of the west.
If the dragonlord king could be turned into a herald of the Light, so much the better.
So when Viserys arrived, the reception was magnificent.
The road leading to the temple was lined with soldiers in ornate orange cloaks and gilded armor—the Holy Hands of Fire.
A thousand in number, their ranks never changed save through death.
They had already cleared the streets for the royal guest, standing at perfect attention as Viserys approached.
At the great crimson gates stood Benerro himself, dressed in robes the color of a dying sun.
Beside him was a dark-skinned aide—likely from the Summer Isles.
Benerro's face was pale and gaunt, his lips marked with flame-shaped tattoos.
His bright eyes seemed to burn, and even from a distance, Viserys could sense the faint scent of smoke and heat clinging to him.
"Your Grace Viserys," Benerro intoned, "may the Lord of Light watch over you."
"My thanks for your blessing," Viserys replied politely.
Led by the High Priest, he entered the temple.
Inside, it was as if he had stepped into the heart of a massive red crystal.
Its grandeur surpassed even the throne room of King's Landing. Fire-patterned carvings covered every wall, interlaced with veins of deep red agate.
Overhead loomed a colossal statue, three or four stories high, its eyes fixed toward the heavens, its presence dominating the vast hall.
Truly, Viserys thought, religion was the best business in any world.
"This is where the faithful gather for worship," Benerro explained, voice echoing beneath the dome. "And there stands the Lord of Light—the one true god of this world."
Viserys nodded. There was no doubt that R'hllor was real—otherwise, the Old Man of the River would not fear him so deeply.
Still, Viserys was not worried.
If the Lord of Light could help him confront the being that had appeared at Lyanna and Rhaella's births, then he would gladly seek some form of understanding.
In truth, he had come not only for faith—but for favor.
Looking around at the temple's gilded splendor, it was clear that Benerro commanded great wealth.
"Your Eminence," Viserys began, "what are your thoughts on the prophecy of the savior?"
The question ignited Benerro's passion at once.
"He is Azor Ahai reborn!" the priest declared, eyes blazing. "He shall awaken the dragons from stone, wield the flaming sword, and drive back the darkness that threatens this world!"
His fervor was so intense that Viserys could almost feel the fire magic stirring around him.
"My brother Rhaegar was also fascinated by that prophecy," Viserys said. "He believed the savior would be born amidst smoke and salt.
My nephew, niece, and sister—all were born on Dragonstone. Do you know Dragonstone, Your Eminence?
It has a volcano that still breathes flame, and the island is rimmed with salt. Smoke and salt abound."
His tone was hopeful.
But Benerro's enthusiasm dimmed almost immediately.
He had hoped Viserys would help strengthen the Lord of Light's influence—not use the faith to polish his family's legend.
The High Priest forced a thin smile.
"Your Grace, prophecies must confirm themselves," he said mildly. "It is true that House Targaryen once hatched dragons.
But the savior shall awaken the dragons from stone. That is not something your house has done in more than a century."
In his view, the Targaryens had failed too long to prove divine favor.
They could no longer even hatch living dragons from their eggs—how could they awaken stone ones?
Viserys, it seemed, had already reserved three seats for saviors before earning one. It was laughable.
And Benerro, already unimpressed with the young king, went further still.
"Besides," he added with a faint smirk, "this 'land of smoke and salt'—it could describe many places. If every smoky kitchen or salty shore qualified, then every cook's child in the world might be the promised savior."
Viserys caught the tone at once. It was a polite rejection.
He did not press the matter. Still, he couldn't help but think: Benerro was a far sharper mind than Melisandre.
The Red Woman had power, yes, but little sense.
The prophecy said "born amidst smoke and salt," yet she had pledged herself to the lord of such lands. Her reasoning left much to be desired.
Meanwhile, beyond the temple, another kind of fire was kindling.
Perhaps it was the relaxed attitude of Viserys's retinue—or perhaps Malaqo's own instinct—but the triarch began to feel something was wrong.
"That boy isn't here to sell ships," Malaqo muttered to the others. "His fleet is full of people—even women. He means to smuggle them to Gohor."
"And what would you have us do?" Nessiso asked irritably. "Let him go? After he's already in our hands?"
"No," Malaqo replied, his eyes narrowing as a plan began to form. "We won't let the meal slip away. But there are… other ways to handle this."
___________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/BloodAncestor