The warship glided swiftly down the Rhoyne. In a single day she could cover a thousand leagues, from Selhorys to Volantis itself—departing at dusk, arriving by dawn.
Morning winds swept away the mists of night. The river shimmered, pure and silver, stretching to the horizon. Hills and forests on either side revealed their outlines in the rising light.
Suddenly, cries rang out among the sailors. Makkiro, the Red Priest, looked across the waters and beheld a vast horned turtle.
It was the Old Man of the River, son of Mother Rhoyne, a god of the Rhoynar. Long ago he had defeated the Crab King, winning dominion over the creatures of the deep.
Legend says that in the Long Night, when darkness swallowed the Rhoyne and the river all but vanished, a hero persuaded the river gods—Old Man of the River, the Crab King, and many others—to set aside their quarrels. Together they sang a secret song, and only then did the night's grip fade, allowing the sun to rise once more.
Before the sailors' fear subsided, a wall loomed in the distance—two hundred feet high, black as shadow.
It was the Black Wall of Volantis, built when the city was but a Valyrian outpost. Forged of mysterious black stone, smooth and oily, whose origin none can explain. Some claim dragonflame shaped it, but such stone appears in ruins across the world—at Asshai, at Oldtown, at every place where ancient wonders stand. The Hightower's base in Oldtown is built from the same fused black rock, though there is no record the Valyrians ever set foot so far west.
The Black Wall was unimaginably thick: wide enough for six horse-drawn chariots to race abreast atop it. On the city's founding day, the Volantenes still held races upon its crown.
The ship surged onward, rowers chanting in unison, maneuvering with great skill through the crowded waters. As they neared the Long Bridge, the riverbanks swelled with Tiger Cloaks—slave soldiers sworn to R'hllor, stationed in endless ranks.
The Long Bridge itself was a wonder of the world, supported by massive piers, so broad it could bear the weight of a thousand elephants. Two chariots might ride abreast across its flat span. The gates at either end were carved of black stone, adorned with sphinxes, dragons, and beasts of Valyria.
As the warship passed beneath an arch, Makkiro shook his head. The gates were barred. The markets that once crowded the bridge had vanished. Only spikes bearing the heads of criminals remained. Volantis was bracing for war.
The bridge bound the city's two halves. On the eastern bank rose shops, homes, and taverns; the west was a den of pirates, sellswords, and outlaws—a lawless world where anything might be bought. Long ago, crossing the tides was perilous, so the Triarchs built the bridge at ruinous cost. Forty years it took, and millions of gold pieces; the Triarch Varharas the Generous did not live to see it finished. But in the end, the bridge stood—a marvel among the Nine Wonders of Man.
Makkiro disembarked at the eastern docks, greeted by the bustling city. A captain summoned an elephant-litter for him, for no man of rank in Volantis would stoop to walk on foot.
Yet behind the splendor lay decay. Statues lay toppled, fountains dry, weeds tangled where flowers once bloomed. Riot and war had scarred the city, though one building yet stood supreme—the great Temple of R'hllor.
Religion, as always, ruled the hearts of men. The poor and broken flocked to the fire, offering what little they had.
The temple was thrice the size of Baelor's Sept in King's Landing. Once the city's grand plaza, it had been transformed into a house of flame. Its spires rose like tongues of fire, its walls glowed with hues of red, gold, and orange, painted as if by the dawn and dusk themselves. Its towers soared, connected by bridges that seemed carved from a single stone.
There, the faithful wept. They burned offerings. They clung to the promise that the Lord of Light was their only hope.
And in that hour, Benerro, High Priest of Volantis, stood before the multitudes. His voice rang out over the square. He lifted his arms to the rising sun, flames erupting behind him as if by divine command.
"We are but mortals—born alone, dying alone, stumbling through the dark valley. Yet the Lord of Light gathers us, strengthens us, binds us in truth."
"The petty wars beyond the walls are but children's squabbles. Greater horrors stir. Ancient gods of cold and shadow gather their strength. They are vast, cruel, and terrible—beyond mortal hope—unless we stand in faith, with hearts ablaze."
"See the world as it is: night brings peril, day brings life. Black and white. Ice and fire."
At these words, women wept openly. Men raised their fists in defiance. The crowd trembled with fervor.