A month had passed since the submission of the dothraki.
Yet news of the war had not been suppressed; with Viserys's tacit blessing it spread swiftly—carried by north–south caravans, freed Lhazarene captives, and still-awed Dothraki riders—to every corner.
Viserys had gained the new title "Conqueror of the Dothraki," and the details of his exploits grew wilder with each retelling.
Some claimed the golden dragon he rode roared and shattered dothraki arakhs; others that the all-consuming golden light was the judgment of a Valyrian god. A few swore they saw the shadows of kneeling warriors twist into dragons at the wyrm's feet.
Such rumors stoked fiercer worship among the Free Folk, deeper dread in neighboring city-states, and a different sort of attention from farther afield.
According to the questioner Moso, a great merchant from Qarth had showered the Khal with treasure before the Khalasar set out to pillage Lhazar towns; the strike on Meereen might have been urged by that same trader. Only the Khal and his bloodriders knew the truth, and they were all dead.
Volantis, deep within the Temple of the Red God.
Flames burned here without end, their flicker throwing the frescoed walls into restless light. High priestess Kinvara knelt before the fire, palms together, grey hair loose, blue eyes reflecting vistas beyond the world.
Within the flames she glimpsed visions: a golden three-headed dragon sweeping across the sky, a silver-haired rider severing chains with a blade, countless indistinct figures kneeling and cheering.
"The visions grow clearer," said an aged voice behind her. A plainly robed old man stepped from the shadows, cowl hiding his face.
"The three-headed dragon, Targaryen blood, blood-and-fire magic. Kinvara, you have met him, looked into his eyes. What do you see?"
She did not turn. "High Priest Benerro, his fate is tightly woven with this world, yet shrouded in thick mist. The flames of the lord of light can brighten shadows, but they cannot pierce that fog."
She paused. "Yet I am certain he is not the reborn Azor Ahai; he lacks the destined scent of sacrifice. He is more like wildfire, seeking to burn the world and raise a new order. His flame holds light—and the shadow that devours all."
Benerro was silent a moment. "The lord of light needs a hero against the Long Night, a sword of faith. This Viserys Targaryen's ambition seems altogether worldly. He shattered slavery to win hearts and secure power. He shows no reverence toward the gods."
"Precisely why he may be a sharper blade." Kinvara rose slowly, facing the elder. "High Priest, the flames also show the cold of the Long Night gathering, an unprecedented threat awakening. We need every strength. Whether he reveres the lord of light or not, so long as his sword points toward the cold, we should guide him."
Benerro studied her. "Your proposal is bold. Yet allying with a godless dragon-king could shake the temple's foundations and draw opposition from every faction."
"When winter comes, theological debate will not warm frozen flesh." Kinvara's gaze returned to the dancing fire. "We must watch, and prepare. Perhaps it is time to send certain 'messengers of flame' to the dragon-king's realm—not only to preach, but, if need be, to offer help he cannot refuse."
Besides the followers of the lord of light, places tainted by "false gods"—the Shadowlands of Asshai, the Temple of Immortals in Qarth suspected of instigating the Dothraki war—also turned their gaze toward the Valyrian Peninsula and Slavers Bay.
King's Landing, The Red Keep.
In the council chamber King Robert Baratheon's bloated frame slumped in his chair, face flushed from years of drink. He listened as Master of Coin Petyr Baelish, voice forever light with amusement, reported the realm's crippling debts, fingers drumming impatiently on his cup.
"In short, Your Grace, the Iron Bank's envoy again voices 'concern.' Next year's interest must be set aside from the Crownlands' taxes, or…" Littlefinger left the pause hanging.
"Or what?" Robert cut in, gulping deep red wine that spilled into his beard. "Damn dragons—have they all sprouted wings and flown away?"
"Perhaps," came a soft voice. Varys. "They flew east, Your Grace. Toward a threat we believed long dead."
The chamber stilled. Even Littlefinger's smirk vanished; Grand Maester Pycelle's white beard trembled; Jon Arryn, hand of the king, frowned deeper, weariness etched on his face.
Robert's drunken eyes narrowed, glinting. "You mean the silver-haired whelp? Viserys?"
"Viserys Targaryen the Third," Varys corrected, deliberately stoking the king's ire. "He is no whelp now, Your Grace. Latest caravels anchoring at Blackwater Rush bring certain tidings, no longer mere tavern tales."
He stepped forward, laying scrolls before Robert. "Slavers Bay has changed hands. The Good Masters of Astapor, the Wise Masters of Yunkai, the Great Masters of stubborn Meereen—their Pyramids fly a new banner: the black three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He accomplished this in under half a year."
"So?" Robert scoffed, trying to shake rising unease. "A pack of Essosi slavers tearing each other apart, till a stray cur snatched the scraps."
Jon Arryn spoke, voice hoarse. "Your Grace, every source, every tale, points to one unbelievable truth: dragons. True dragons, more than one. One black as night, breathing fire. The other more terrible still—three heads, golden, said to spew golden flame that reduces Meereen's strongest gates and Pyramids to ash."
"Dragons?" Robert straightened so suddenly his chair groaned, then burst into raucous, wine-laden laughter. "Dragons? Old Jon, have you lost your wits? The last one died under Aegon the Third—a hundred years ago! These are stories for fools and frightened sellswords, like Children of the Forest, white walkers, and the Long Night."
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