Chapter 21: The Dragon's Wrath Upon the Black Walls
The war horns of King Baelon I Targaryen echoed across the Blackwater Bay, a mournful, brazen cry that signaled not just the departure of a fleet, but the dawn of a new, terrifying epoch. Westeros, still reeling from the King's Iron Edicts, watched as a war machine of unprecedented scale prepared to sail for Essos. The Legions of the Iron Throne, their ranks swelled by conscripts whose fear of their ageless monarch outweighed their resentment at being torn from their homes, drilled relentlessly under the shadow of the rising Obsidian Citadel. Their new steel breastplates, emblazoned with a black, three-headed dragon breathing violet fire – Baelon's subtle alteration of the Targaryen sigil, hinting at a darker, more potent lineage – gleamed dully in the autumn light.
Baelon himself was a figure of chilling, focused intensity. He moved amongst his commanders – men like the grim Lord Roland Crakehall, whose initial reluctance had been replaced by a terrified obedience after witnessing the King's 'justice' in the Reach, and young Ser Corwyn Corbray, a man whose fierce ambition Baelon found useful – his pronouncements concise, his expectations absolute. He would lead this war himself, not merely from a distant command tent, but from the vanguard. Silverwing would be his chariot of fire, Umbraxys his unseen blade. Prince Aemond 'One-Eye,' his leashed hound of war, would command the dragon vanguard alongside him, Vhagar's colossal shadow a promise of the destruction to come.
Lord Lyonel Strong, the aging Hand, was left to govern Westeros with the aid of a Regency Council, but all knew the true power resided with Larys Strong, the King's Master of Whisperers, whose network of spies and insidious influence ensured Baelon's will would be done even in his absence. The linked obsidian amulets would keep the King appraised of any significant developments, any flicker of dissent.
The voyage across the Narrow Sea and into the disputed waters surrounding the Stepstones was swift and largely uneventful, Baelon's Valyrian-warded flagship cutting through the waves with unnatural speed, the fleet strung out behind it like a vast, predatory serpent. Umbraxys, a silent passenger in its sub-dimensional lair, extended its senses far ahead, alerting Baelon to scattered Volantene patrols, which were either contemptuously bypassed or, if they strayed too close, found their ships inexplicably caught in sudden squalls or beset by a creeping, unnatural dread that sent them fleeing in disarray. The shadow dragon was an invisible shepherd, clearing the path for its master's armada.
Back in King's Landing, within the gilded cage of Maegor's Holdfast, Helaena Targaryen was said to have woken screaming one night, her attendants finding her trembling, her eyes wide with visions. "Black sails on a bloody tide," she had wept, "a city of old blood weeping fire, and the ageless serpent drinks deep from the wounds of the world. The tigers, oh, the poor, striped tigers, their roars turn to ash…" Queen Dowager Alicent had ordered her sedated with dreamwine, but Larys ensured the prophecy reached Baelon via their magical link. The King received it with a flicker of cold amusement. Let them tremble.
As Baelon's fleet rounded the Stepstones – now a grim, Vhagar-patrolled bastion of the Iron Throne – and sailed towards the coast of Essos, they finally encountered concerted resistance. A combined fleet of Myrish and Tyroshi warships, dispatched by the nervous Free Cities in a belated show of solidarity with Volantis, attempted to intercept them. The battle was short, brutal, and utterly one-sided. Silverwing and Vhagar, with Aemond's hate-fueled precision guiding the elder beast, descended like twin apocalypses. Dragonfire turned oaken hulls to cinders, boiled the sea, and sent screaming sailors leaping to watery graves. Baelon, observing from Silverwing's back, felt a familiar surge of exultation at the sheer, untamed power he commanded. This was what it meant to be a god amongst men.
Finally, they arrived before Volantis. The ancient city, the First Daughter of Valyria, was a sight to behold. Its legendary Black Walls, fused by dragonfire millennia ago, rose sheer and imposing from the mouth of the Rhoyne, said to be impregnable. Within those walls, a million souls teemed, its harbors bristled with warships, and the banners of the Volantene Triarchs – the Elephant and the Tiger – flew in defiant challenge.
The Triarchs, led by the proud Horonno who had so boldly defied Baelon in King's Landing, sent forth a single galley under a flag of parley. Their message was unchanged: Volantis would not yield. They paraded their legions of slave soldiers along the ramparts, their Tiger Cloak guardsmen a fearsome sight, and from the great temple of R'hllor, red-robed priests chanted, their voices carrying across the water, invoking their Lord of Light against the 'shadow from the West.'
Baelon received their defiance with a predator's smile. He had not come this far for negotiations. He had come for conquest, for subjugation, for an example that would echo through Essos for centuries.
His strategy was not one of patient siege. It was designed for shock, terror, and swift, overwhelming force. "We will break their spirit before we break their walls," he told his war council, his voice like the hiss of a striking viper.
The first phase was a relentless aerial assault. For three days and three nights, Baelon on Silverwing and Aemond on Vhagar became living nightmares above Volantis. They targeted the Volantene fleet anchored in the harbor, turning hundreds of warships into a blazing inferno that lit the sky for leagues. They systematically destroyed the great trebuchets and scorpions atop the Black Walls, their dragonfire melting stone and incinerating defenders. They made deliberately slow, terrifying passes over the city's districts, not always releasing flame, but allowing the sheer terror of their presence, the beat of their colossal wings, the earth-shattering roars, to sow panic and despair amongst the populace.
Umbraxys played its part from the shadows. Under Baelon's direction, it slipped unseen into the city during the chaos, a phantom of dread. Key granaries inexplicably caught fire with black, cold flames that water could not quench. Important aqueducts cracked and failed. Whispers of monstrous, shadowy beasts stalking the alleyways spread like wildfire amongst the slave population, fueling unrest. The priests of R'hllor found their sacred flames sputtering and dying in the presence of an unseen, chilling power, their invocations faltering.
The Volantene defense, though initially spirited, began to crumble under the psychological and physical onslaught. The slave soldiers, poorly armed and motivated by fear rather than loyalty, broke and fled under dragon attacks. The famed Tiger Cloaks fought bravely, but even their Valyrian steel and disciplined courage were no match for dragonfire from above and a creeping, supernatural dread from within.
On the fourth day, Baelon decided the time was ripe to breach the Black Walls. He had studied the ancient texts; he knew the secrets of their Valyrian construction, and therefore, their potential points of resonance, their hidden vulnerabilities. He chose a section near the Harbor Gate, one supposedly reinforced after a forgotten siege centuries ago.
"Prince Aemond," Baelon commanded, his voice amplified by magic as they hovered on their dragons before the chosen section, "you will focus Vhagar's fire on the upper ramparts. Create a diversion. I will deal with the wall itself."
Aemond, his one eye blazing with a mixture of hatred and battle-lust, gave a curt nod and sent Vhagar into a roaring dive, unleashing a torrent of bronze flame that engulfed the battlements, scattering defenders and drawing the attention of the remaining siege engines.
While Vhagar created chaos above, Baelon brought Silverwing lower, directly before the towering black edifice. He closed his eyes, his mind linking with Umbraxys, drawing upon its immense reservoir of shadow-magic and the primal earth-energies he had touched in the Heart of Valyria. He was not just a dragonrider; he was a sorcerer-king, a conduit for forces beyond mortal comprehension.
He raised his hands, and the air around him crackled. He began to chant in High Valyrian, words of unmaking, of entropy, of the slow decay that gnaws at even the strongest stone. It was not the explosive force of dragonfire he sought, but something more insidious, a targeted resonant frequency that would exploit the ancient magical bonds within the Valyrian stone itself. Umbraxys, from its unseen vantage, pulsed its own dark energy in harmony with Baelon's spell, creating a focused wave of disruptive power.
The Black Wall before him began to groan, a deep, unsettling sound like the lament of a dying giant. Cracks appeared, spreading like black lightning across the fused stone. The Volantene defenders on the ramparts above, those not already consumed by Vhagar's fire, looked down in horror as the supposedly impregnable wall began to shudder and weep dust.
With a final, guttural cry of power, Baelon thrust his will forward. A section of the Black Wall, a hundred yards wide, did not explode, but crumbled, collapsing inwards with a deafening roar, creating a jagged, smoking breach into the heart of Volantis.
"Legions of the Iron Throne!" Baelon's voice, magically amplified, cut through the dust and chaos. "The way is open! For your King! For the glory of the Iron Throne! Advance and claim this city!"
The first wave of his new army, men forged in fear and drilled into brutal efficiency, surged forward with a roar, their black dragon banners held high. They poured into the breach, meeting the desperate, last-ditch resistance of the Tiger Cloaks and the city guard. The battle for Volantis had truly begun, street by bloody street.
Baelon, astride Silverwing, circled above the breach, directing his forces, incinerating enemy formations that attempted to rally, his presence a terrifying inspiration to his own men and a harbinger of doom to the Volantenes. Aemond and Vhagar continued their rampage, preventing reinforcements from reaching the breach, turning entire districts into charnel houses.
News of the war, filtered through Larys's amulet, painted a Westeros held in grim suspense. The Great Houses were sending their tithes, their sons to the Legions, their expressions of loyalty more fervent than ever. But Larys also hinted at secret councils, at lords wondering if the King's ambition in Essos might overextend him, might create an opportunity. Rhaenyra, from Dragonstone, had dispatched a squadron of Velaryon warships, under the command of Ser Vaemond Velaryon (Corlys's ambitious younger brother), to join Baelon's fleet – a public display of support that Baelon acknowledged with a curt, internal nod. Even Queen Dowager Alicent, Larys reported, had been seen leading prayer circles in the royal sept, though whether she prayed for Baelon's victory or his demise was anyone's guess.
Within Volantis, the fighting was brutal. The Tiger Cloaks, true to their name, fought with a desperate ferocity, defending their ancient city to the last. But they were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and facing the combined terror of two Targaryen dragons and an army that fought with the cold, disciplined fury of men who feared their king more than any enemy.
Baelon, seeing a critical chokepoint where the Tiger Cloaks had rallied and were holding back his Legions, descended with Silverwing. He did not unleash her flames immediately. Instead, he landed amidst his own troops, his black armor and pale, ageless face a beacon of terrifying authority. He drew the Valyrian steel sword he now carried – a blade of ancient, unknown origin he had… acquired… from the depths of the Red Keep's oldest vaults, its metal darker than night, its edge preternaturally sharp.
"You falter before these striped curs?" his voice cut through the din of battle, each word dripping with contempt. "They are mortal. They bleed. They die. I am your King. I am Baelon of the Blood of Old Valyria. And I do not countenance failure."
He then strode forward, alone, towards the barricade of Volantene shields and spears. Spells, dark and swift, unspoken but potent, flowed from him. Men clutched their throats, their eyes bulging as invisible forces choked the life from them. Others screamed as their weapons burst into black, cold flame in their hands. A wave of pure, unadulterated terror, Umbraxys's gift, washed over the Volantene defenders, shattering their resolve.
The Tiger Cloaks, men who had faced death without flinching, broke before this display of inhuman power, this sorcerer-king who wielded death as easily as he breathed. The breach became a rout.
King Baelon I Targaryen stood amidst the carnage, the Black Walls of Volantis breached behind him, his forces pouring into the doomed city. The scent of smoke, blood, and fear was perfume to his Voldemort soul. This was but the first of the Free Cities to fall. Essos, then the world, would follow. His eternal reign was being forged in the crucible of war, its foundations laid with the bones of his enemies, its mortar mixed with their despair. The tigers had roared their last; the Serpent King's conquest had truly begun.