The Long Bridge connected the eastern Old City of Volantis to the western New City. Constructed over forty years at the cost of millions of gold honors, this bridge had stood at the mouth of the Rhoyne for over a thousand years. It was the longest known bridge in the world and had been listed among the Nine Wonders Made by Man by Lomas Longstrider.
Now, the central section of the bridge was engulfed in flames, with shops burning fiercely. Blood and corpses littered the bridge, the clashing of weapons and battle cries of men echoing through the chaos, while all manner of magic ravaged the battlefield.
On both riverbanks, countless Volantenes watched intently. The outcome of this battle would decide the future of Volantis.
The Dragon Cult forces advancing from the western New City were fewer in number but far superior in individual combat compared to the followers of the Lord of Light. Slowly but steadily, the front lines of the battle pushed eastward across the bridge.
From the high walls of the Black Walls fortress in the Old City, many noble elders and children peered over the battlements, observing the battle below.
"The R'hllor cult is finished," an elderly nobleman muttered.
"But there are still so many of them!" a young child pointed at the dense cluster of red-cloaked warriors on the bridge.
"Look at the rear of the Dragon Cult's forces. Wright is there, constantly using magic to heal the wounded. Now look at the front lines—Dofas, Naisso, and your father, Ellios. Just the three of them have already slaughtered the enemy's mages and taken down scores of soldiers. The R'hllor forces no longer hold the advantage in numbers."
The child then pointed at the towering structure outside the city walls. "What will happen to the Lord of Light's temple once the Dragon Cult wins?"
The old noble turned to gaze at the distant, gilded and opulent R'hllor temple. "I've always hated how much money was wasted on that religious monstrosity. Of course, it's coming down."
"Every afternoon, when the sunlight reflects off that temple, it hurts my eyes. Tearing it down is a relief."
The Black Walls was the oldest part of the city. As Volantis grew, it had become a city within a city, and only those of pure Valyrian blood were permitted inside.
Naturally, those who claimed Valyrian descent worshipped dragons in their very bones. However, the annual triarch elections had failed to curb the growing power of the religious factions, allowing the foreign faith of R'hllor to flourish unchecked. By the time the nobles realized the extent of the problem, it had already spiraled beyond their control.
The R'hllor faction had even constructed a massive temple—an extravagant colossus that stood in stark contrast to the dark, ancient castles of the Black Walls. The nobles of Volantis had long despised it, but with the faith having spread to every social class under the guise of religious authority, they had been powerless to act. Now that the Dragon Cult was uprooting this infestation, the people of Volantis felt a weight lifted from their hearts.
On the bridge, Dofas and Naisso, having each unleashed their Dragon Shout three times, retreated to the rear. The Valyrian magic they wielded covered a vast area, and the number of enemies they had slain was enough to secure an advantage.
Now, the towering, heavily-armored warrior Ellios Chiheda took the lead, spearheading the Dragon Cult's assault.
Wright, standing before him at a height of six feet three, barely reached Ellios's shoulder. The man was nearly seven feet three, his thick arms broader than most men's thighs. The massive iron shield he carried looked almost small in his grasp, and where others needed both hands to wield a warhammer, Ellios swung his effortlessly with one.
With his iron shield guarding his chest, every swing of his warhammer claimed another life. No shield nor armor could withstand its force—wooden shields shattered on impact, metal armor crumpled into deep dents, and those within were left beyond saving.
Such a monstrous warrior naturally became a prime target. The followers of the Lord of Light threw themselves at him with reckless abandon, determined to bring him down. But their situation only worsened, for Ellios had mastered the three-word form of the Unrelenting Force Dragon Roar—a technique devastating against clustered enemies.
A visible shockwave blasted through the Long Bridge, sending dozens of armored soldiers flying, their bodies crashing into the ranks behind them.
"That's Father!" The young child, blessed with sharp eyes, jumped excitedly.
"Not necessarily," the old nobleman mused. Many knew the language of dragons, and he himself had mastered the first word of the spell.
"Fus~~Ro~~Dah~!"
From the moment the magic sent the crowd flying to now, about ten seconds had passed before the Unrelenting Force shout reached Black Wall Castle.
The child was overjoyed. "Listen, that's Father's voice!"
The old noble nodded, running his hand through his grandson's platinum hair before turning his gaze back to the bridge. His expression grew solemn as he muttered, "Let's hope he doesn't die in battle."
Even the bravest warrior tires, and even the strongest sorcerer runs out of magic.
Ellios Chiheda had already used the Dragon Shout three times in battle, leaving his magical reserves nearly depleted. Observing the battlefield, he knew he couldn't retreat—he was the vanguard. The enemy still had numbers, and if he withdrew, morale would plummet. But the enemy didn't know how many more shouts he could unleash. He had to push forward, enduring the fatigue.
But fatigue could not be hidden for long. Soon, the enemy noticed that Ellios' movements had slowed, his strikes had weakened, and they immediately began to surround him.
"Argh!"
Four longswords simultaneously tangled with his warhammer. No matter how much strength he exerted, he couldn't shake them off. More enemies moved to grab his shield, forcing him to release his warhammer and wield his shield with both hands instead.
Zzzt! A bright, narrow bolt of lightning shot through the air, striking an enemy. Sparks flared from the gaps in his armor before flames erupted, and he convulsed before collapsing.
Zzzt! The second bolt. Then the third. One after another, enemies fell, instantly breaking the tense deadlock.
With the space before him cleared, Ellios turned to see Sansa on the rooftop, aiding him from above.
He nodded in acknowledgment, then retrieved his warhammer from the pile of corpses and resumed the slaughter. However, this time, he no longer charged at the very front. Instead, he organized the Dragon Cult warriors into a battle formation, standing in the front row as they advanced together.
Sansa moved across the rooftops toward the R'hllor forces, with Wright leading the way ahead of her.
Wherever the two passed, the raging flames were instantly extinguished. After a brief puff of smoke, pure white frost spread downward like a creeping mist. The damaged rooftops were swiftly restored with solid ice, creating a frozen path that allowed them to advance unimpeded.
Using magic like this—such extravagance! It was an absolute waste!
Sansa, trailing behind Wright, was utterly disgusted by his reckless use of magic. Meanwhile, she herself was carefully conserving every drop of her magical power.
"There you are!"
Wright stopped abruptly, conjuring an icy spear in his hand. He stepped forward with his left foot, shifting his weight backward, and raised the spear in a throwing stance. Crimson and azure lightning crackled around the spear, intertwining with gusts of wind. The buzzing of electricity filled the air, mingling with the howling winds—a devastating fusion of ice, lightning, and wind magic.
Clad in his Dragonbone armor and wreathed in magic, Wright was impossible to ignore.
Bennero's eyes widened as he saw the spear aimed directly at him. Panicked, he shouted to those around him, "Save me!"
"Bennero, go to hell!"
With a loud cry, Wright hurled the spear with all his might. It streaked through the battlefield like a comet.
Not even the eerie, armor-clad White Walkers could withstand its force—what chance did mere men in steel armor and iron-plated wooden shields have? Moreover, this spear's magic wasn't designed to explode but to maximize penetration.
Clang!
A strange sound echoed as the spear, thrown from above at an incredible speed, tore through Bennero's chest, piercing straight through his heart.
The men meant to shield him hadn't even had time to raise their defenses properly.
Bennero's limbs gradually lost all feeling. As he took his final breath, he mustered his last bit of strength to turn his head—only to see that the bridge, which had stood unshaken for a thousand years, now bore a hole as well.
Wright had long wanted to eliminate Bennero.
And he had done so using the dagger gifted to him by Dagon, which had a special effect: every soul he killed would be absorbed into Dagon's Oblivion realm—a domain of endless lava and volcanoes.
So, in the end, Bennero's soul had quite literally gone to hell.