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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 77: The Unburnt
As the heavy oak door closed, the sound echoed through the chamber like the sealing of a tomb.
Daenerys stood with her back to it, her hand resting on the hidden pouch at her waist, her violet eyes fixed on the two men who stood between her and the throne.
High Priest Malachar had risen from his seat, his gaunt face illuminated by the orange glow of the braziers. The ruby at his throat pulsed with a deep, inner light, and his eyes burned with a passion that had long since curdled into greed.
He was old, but there was nothing frail about him. He moved with the grace of a man still in his prime, his steps deliberate, his hands steady.
Korath, the Flame Bearer, stood between them, his hand still on the pommel of his sword. His mask was shaped like a roaring flame, and through the slits, his eyes were cold and calculating. He had not spoken since the others had left, but his presence was enough.
"You wanted privacy, and you have it," Malachar said, his voice dry as old parchment. "Now do not do anything foolish, girl. I may look like a frail old man, but that is far from the truth. And Korath here..." He glanced at his second in command. "He used to be one of the best sword dancers of Braavos."
"I presume you did not ask me to come here merely to threaten me."
Daenerys stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. "I only wished for privacy so we could talk freely. What you have to say to me, you can say without worrying about your image."
Her gaze was steady, unflinching. The message was clear: I know what you are.
Malachar studied her for a long moment. Then he showed her a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "Very well. You are bold, I will give you that. Perhaps you are Azor Ahai reborn after all."
He stepped away from his throne, moving closer to her. The ruby at his throat pulsed faster. "The Lord of Light has chosen you, Daenerys Stormborn. He has shown me your visage in the flames. You are the one who will lead the living against the darkness. You are the prince that was promised."
"So I have been told already." Daenerys kept her voice calm, though her heart was racing. "But you could have sent one of your priests to guide me, instead of forcing me here with the threat of bloodshed. What is it that you truly want?"
"You are still young and naive, girl. You do not yet understand the forces at play." Malachar's voice hardened. "The darkness is coming, child. And you cannot win by yourself when you cannot even comprehend the power at your disposal. You need the Red Temple. You need me."
"Do I?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what is it you expect from me?"
"I expect your full obedience. Your blood. And your dragons." Malachar stepped closer, his eyes gleaming. "The Lord of Light demands sacrifices. He demands devotion. And you, Mother of Dragons, will be the greatest sacrifice of them all. For the greater good, of course."
Korath's hand tightened on his sword. Daenerys saw the movement, but she did not react.
"I see." She let her gaze drift to the braziers, to the flames that danced and flickered. They were beautiful in their way...orange and red and gold, warm and alive. "And if I say that I do not want you or your temple?"
"Then you will learn that the Lord's will is not easily denied." Malachar raised his hand, and Korath drew his sword. The steel gleamed in the firelight. "You will not leave this chamber until you agree to serve. Your dragons will be taken. Your people will be slaughtered. Everything you have built will burn."
Daenerys smiled. "Something will burn...but not what you think."
Her hand moved to her waist.
The first vial shattered against the marble floor before either of them could react.
Thick, grey smoke erupted from the shards, billowing outward like a living thing. It filled the chamber within seconds, choking, blinding, and searing their throats.
Malachar coughed, his eyes streaming. Korath staggered back, his sword swinging wildly at an enemy he could not see.
"What—what is this?!" Malachar's voice was hoarse, panicked. "Treason! Guards! Guards!"
Daenerys did not speak. She had already moved to the nearest brazier and tipped it over.
Burning coals spilled across the floor, igniting the smoke. The flames spread with impossible speed, hungry and eager to consume everything in their path, as if they had been waiting for this moment for centuries.
The second vial broke in her hand.
The accelerant was pale and glossy, and when it touched the flames, the world turned to light.
A roar of fire erupted from the center of the chamber...a column of orange and red that reached toward the ceiling, that shattered the golden decorations, that burned everything it touched.
Malachar screamed. Korath screamed. Their robes caught fire, their flesh blackened, their voices rose in desperate pleas for help.
Daenerys stood in the center of the inferno, watching. Waiting.
The flames parted around her like water around a stone. They did not burn her. They did not singe her. They did not even warm her beyond a pleasant heat. She was the blood of the dragon. She was the Unburnt. She was fire made flesh.
She watched the two men burn, and she felt nothing.
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Outside the chamber, the crimson-robed priests struggled with the door.
The tremendous heat had warped the lock and fused the hinges. They pushed and pulled, their hands blistering, their voices rising in panic.
"Break it down! Break it down now!" someone shouted. "The High Priest is inside!"
They threw their shoulders against the wood again and again, until finally, with a groan of splintering timber, the door gave way.
Flames roared out to greet them.
The chamber was a furnace. The marble walls were cracked, the ceiling charred, the throne melting into a puddle of black stone. Fire consumed everything...the tapestries, the statues, the very air itself.
At the center of it all, standing amid the destruction, was Daenerys Targaryen.
Her white gown was gone, burned away by the flames. Her silver-gold hair was loose and wild. Her skin was unmarked, unblemished, untouched. She stood naked before them, and in that moment, she was beautiful, terrifying, and utterly inhuman.
The priests stumbled back, their swords rising, their voices trembling.
"Demon!" one of them cried. "She is a demon!"
Daenerys smiled and spoke a single word. "Dracarys."
The word was soft, almost gentle. But the dragons heard her call.
They came through the doorway in a rush of fire and fury. Drogon first, his black wings spread wide, his golden eyes blazing. Rhaegal and Viserion followed, their flames joining their brother's, sweeping across the chamber, consuming crimson robes and steel swords and the flesh from bones.
The priests screamed and tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go. The fire was everywhere, covering every corridor, every passage. There was no escape.
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The Red Temple burned.
The flames spread from the inner sanctum to the corridors, from the corridors to the outer chambers, from the outer chambers to the roof. Black smoke rose into the grey twilight, and the citizens of Asshai stopped to watch the macabre spectacle.
Lyssara stood at the base of the temple steps, her red lacquer mask hiding her face, her hands clasped before her. Around her, the armored knights and the surviving priests watched in horror as their sanctuary was consumed.
"It is over," one of the priests whispered. "Everything we built... gone."
"We brought this upon ourselves," Lyssara muttered, her eyes fixed on the entrance. "The High Priest tried to meddle with something that was not his to touch."
The fire raged for what felt like hours, though it had only been minutes.
The heat was so intense that even from a distance, they could feel it pressing against their masks.
The knights shifted uneasily. The priests prayed to their god, not knowing what else to do.
And then, she emerged from within.
Daenerys walked out of the burning temple as if she were strolling through a garden. The flames parted for her.
Her silver-gold hair was singed at the edges, but her skin was unmarked.
She wore nothing but the pendant at her throat...the black stone that Joffrey had given her, still warm, still pulsating with his magic.
Drogon perched on her shoulder, his scales gleaming in the firelight.
Rhaegal and Viserion circled overhead, their cries echoing across the city.
Behind her, the temple collapsed.
Stone walls crumbled. The great archway cracked and tumbled, sending up a cloud of ash and dust.
The fire roared one final time, and then it began to die. Its fuel was exhausted. Its purpose was fulfilled.
Daenerys stopped at the top of the steps and looked down at the assembled crowd.
Lyssara was the first to fall on her knees.
"Azor Ahai," she said, her voice carrying across the silent square. "The princess that was promised. The one chosen by the Lord of Light. Please, forgive us."
She pressed her forehead to the stone.
The other priests hesitated. Then, one by one, they knelt. The armored knights followed, their swords clattering on the ground, their heads bowed.
Even the few of Korath's men who had survived, those who had not been in the chamber, lowered their weapons and bent the knee.
Daenerys looked at them, her violet eyes cold, her face unreadable.
"I may have been chosen by your god," she said. "But I will never be your tool."
She descended the steps, her bare feet silent on the stone.
"I am Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." She stopped before Lyssara and looked down at her. "I did not come to Asshai to serve anyone. I came to learn. And I have learned that the only person I can trust is myself."
Lyssara looked up, her mask hiding her expression. "What would you have us do, Your Grace?"
Daenerys was silent for a moment, her violet eyes sweeping across the kneeling crowd. She looked at Lyssara, at the priests, at the knights who had come to capture her and now knelt in supplication. She thought of the Red Waste, of Qarth, of the House of the Undying. She thought of Joffrey, somewhere in the east, and of the army she would need to reclaim her throne.
This was a start.
"I will accept your swords," she said finally. "I will accept your loyalty. But I will not accept your chains."
"We offer no chains, Your Grace," Lyssara said. "Only our lives."
"Then swear it." Daenerys raised her voice, carrying it across the square for all to hear. "Swear your loyalty to me. Swear that you will follow me and help me reclaim what once belonged to my family. The throne of the Seven Kingdoms."
"We swear it," Lyssara said, and the words echoed through the crowd. "By the Lord of Light, by the fire that burns within us, we swear. We are yours to command, Your Grace. Until the end of all things."
Daenerys nodded. "Then you are mine."
Lyssara removed the crimson cloak from her shoulders, leaving herself in only a thin silk dress, and offered it to her.
Daenerys took the cloak and wrapped it around herself. The fabric was warm, still carrying the heat of the temple, and it smelled of smoke and incense.
She turned and began to walk toward the tower, her dragons flying above her head.
The knights and priests rose and fell in behind her, forming a procession that stretched down the black stone streets.
The citizens of Asshai watched from the shadows, their masked faces turned toward the strange spectacle...the silver-haired queen in her crimson cloak, the dragons circling overhead, the army of former enemies marching at her back.
Daenerys Targaryen had left the black tower as a prisoner.
She returned as a ruler, with an army at her back and fire in her blood.
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