Lost in Sothoryos Chapter 80 - Breaking the Wheel

Daeron walked through the Triarchy's palace in Volantis, following the woman in the green robe as she led him toward the highest chambers where the three Triarchs waited, his boots echoing on the marble floors while servants scurried out of his path, carrying trays or linens, their eyes darting to him then away. He felt relief wash over him, glad to finally get answers about Rhaenys after weeks of wondering, his mind spinning with questions about why she'd been banned from this city and where she'd gone.

He had tried using his newfound ability to see beyond his body, pushing his mind across the sea to find her, but their connection faltered, too weak to hold, and he lost his way every time, drifting over unfamiliar lands or sinking into dark voids before snapping back, frustrated and exhausted—he didn't have Adara to help him this time like she had before. He was still learning these powers—warging, seeing across distances, bending fire and ice to his will—and had little practice, fumbling like a boy with a sword too big for his hands, so now he relied on the old way, walking in to ask the Triarchs himself, though he resolved to warg into their minds and rip the truth out if they refused.

Worry gnawed at him too as he climbed the winding stairs, his thoughts drifting to Westeros, where Shiera might be flying if she'd caught his message through their bond, a faint pulse he'd sent urging her to Sunspear to help Ned and Oberyn escape that blood-filled cavern and whatever lurked in the lake. He hoped she'd understood, hoped she'd reach them in time... that thing in the lake unsettled him, its presence tugging at s memory of his, he felt that whatever was there felt familiar but he couldn't say why. He shook it off, refusing to linger, muttering to himself that he'd hoped the monsters in the dark were done with him, but they clearly weren't.

The woman stopped at a landing, turning to him, and started speaking fast, "When you meet the Triarchs, bow low, address them as 'Your Graces,' don't speak unless spoken to, and never turn your back until dismissed, these are ancient customs you must follow."

She paused, looking at him, then sighed, "I'm sorry, I've said this so many times it comes out without thinking." Daeron shrugged, nodding once, "It's fine." She bowed her head again, "And I must apologise for last night, those who sent men to kill you in your sleep deserve shame, their punishment will be severe, and I thank you for not making a scene over it." He shrugged again, "They weren't much of a threat anyway."

She straightened, folding her hands, "Regardless, it shames us that one of our own broke guest rights like that, the gods would look down on us with disgust." Daeron hummed, not replying, his mind churning as they resumed walking, thinking about Vhoris and Lysara, the Old Bloods he'd warged into the assassin's mind to identify, their smug faces flashing in his memory, their casual disregard for lives they saw as tools, their cowardice when he'd shown real power at the gate. He wasn't vengeful by nature, but he wouldn't lie—he wanted to kill them, strip them of their unearned wealth and command over men they valued less than dirt, men who died for their petty games.

She led him through a final corridor, stopping at massive double doors carved with dragons, and pushed them open, ushering him into the Triarchs' chamber, a sprawling room dripping with wealth—gold vases lining the walls, silk tapestries hanging from the ceiling depicting Valyrian victories, shelves packed with jade statues and silver idols of their old gods, and in the center, an altar holding a single dragon egg, black and scaled, bigger than a man's head.

The woman stepped forward, raising her voice, "Daeron Targaryen enters to seek audience with the Triarchs of Volantis." She turned slightly, gesturing to the three men seated on raised thrones, "Triarch Malaquo Maegyr, Triarch Nyessos Vhassar, Triarch Doniphos Paenym." She bowed low, backing out, pulling the doors shut with a heavy thud, leaving Daeron alone with the Triarchs and thirty Unsullied standing guard along the walls, spears in hand, faces blank.

Malaquo Maegyr, old and stern, leaned forward first, "You were not invited here, Targaryen, we sent word to stay away, yet you stand before us." Nyessos Vhassar, leaner with a sharp beard, cut in, "We told you not to come, and still you marched in, injuring hundreds of our men." Doniphos Paenym, round and balding, added, "You've plunged our city into chaos, turned order to ash with your presence." Daeron frowned, thinking their blame stretched too far—hundreds hurt, sure, he'd fought his way in, but chaos across the whole city seemed extreme, and he shook it off, stepping closer, "I came for answers, and I won't leave until I get them."

Nyessos waved a hand, "Then speak your questions, so you can take your cursed people and go." Daeron locked eyes with him, "I want everything you know about Rhaenys Targaryen—why you banned her from Volantis, what she did, where she is."

Nyessos laughed, a dry bark, "Such simple information, easy to find, yet you barge in here to ask us?" Doniphos snorted, "Treating the leaders of Volantis like couriers, the audacity of this man." Malaquo raised a hand, silencing them, "Enough," and signaled the Unsullied, who lifted his throne, carrying him down the steps to stop in front of Daeron, his wrinkled face level with Daeron's chest. He looked up, "I'll make a deal with you Targaryen."

"What kind of deal?" Daeron asked, crossing his arms.

Malaquo leaned back, "I'll tell you everything you want about Rhaenys Targaryen and more, even provide supplies and ships for your people to leave and reach her location."

"In return?" Daeron said, tilting his head.

Malaquo gestured, and an Unsullied pulled back a thick curtain, revealing the balcony. He nodded, "Take a look." Daeron walked over, stepping onto the wide stone platform, and peered out—Volantis sprawled below, worse than before, smoke rising from dozens of fires, buildings burning in the merchant's square and along the Long Bridge, and if he listened hard, he caught faint screams and the clash of steel echoing up from the streets. "What's going on?" he said, turning back.

Nyessos spat, "As if you don't know—this is your doing." Doniphos leaned forward, "Those who follow the Lord of Light started rioting across the city, many slaves joined them, overwhelmed the guard fast, and now we're trapped behind our walls."

Daeron frowned, "If you think I caused this, you're wrong—I don't follow R'hllor, don't know any of their priests."

Malaquo scoffed, "Yet they chant 'Azor Ahai' and storm the Old Blood district, all because of you." Nyessos added, "Your magic display at the gate confirmed it for them—you're the one they want, the one they follow, so whether you ordered it or not, this falls on you." Daeron's eyes widened slightly, processing that, then he turned from the balcony, walking back into the chamber, arms still crossed, "So what do you want me to do?"

Malaquo pointed at him, "Take them and leave our city, get those fanatics out of Volantis now." Nyessos slammed a fist on his throne, "Go, drag them with you, stop this madness!" Doniphos nodded, "Leave, take your chaos somewhere else, we demand it!"

Daeron nodded, "Fine, now tell me what I want to know," hiding a smirk as their irritation flared—he saw it in their clenched jaws, their narrowed eyes, and it satisfied him to poke at their pride.

Malaquo Maegyr leaned back in his throne, nodding once, and said, "Very well," before gesturing to Nyessos Vhassar, who cleared his throat, "Rhaenys Targaryen arrived in Astapor months ago, walked into the plaza with her blue dragon, and took all 14,000 Unsullied, turned them on their masters, ordered them to kill every one without a trade, sparing only those who could teach their crafts, and now forces those survivors to train their own slaves to replace them." Doniphos Paenym cut in, raising his voice, "The Good Masters of Yunkai and Meereen gathered a huge forve of men to march on Astapor, free their brothers, but Rhaenys released insects into their camp, wiped out over half before they could draw swords." Daeron frowned, stepping forward, "What could do that?" Malaquo replied, "Butterfly fever, it made men bleed from their eyes, nose, mouth, every hole, skin melting off their bones, leaving them screaming in puddles of their own flesh."

Daeron shook his head, "She wouldn't do that, that's not who she is." Nyessos smirked, "Oh, but she did, and then she mounted her dragon, burned the rest of the army to ash, and now she marches on Yunkai and Meereen with her Unsullied and freed slaves."

Malaquo waved a hand, continuing, "We sent delegates, messengers, all begging her to see reason, told her to keep Astapor if she must but leave the Unsullied where they belong, offered gold, trade deals, anything to stop her madness, but she refused every word." Doniphos gestured, and an Unsullied stepped forward, handing Daeron a folded letter sealed with a dragon stamp, "Read her reply yourself."

Daeron took it, breaking the wax, unfolding the parchment, recognizing Rhaenys's tight script as he scanned the words—she wrote that slavery plagued the land, called the Good Masters a sickness, said no gold, no jewels, no threats or displays of power would sway her, declared slavery finished, warned that people like the Triarchs and Masters would never accept the new world even if forced, insisted they had to die to usher it in, demanded they release all slaves with gold to travel freely, and threatened that if they didn't comply by the time her armies reached Volantis, they'd burn in their palace, signing off as Queen Rhaenys Targaryen. He folded it, handing it back, "I see."

Nyessos leaned forward, "So you see the madness in her, the same that gripped her grandfather Aerys, thinking she can erase slavery like it's nothing?" Doniphos nodded, "Slavery is part of this world, has been for centuries—eradicating it is nonsense, no one person can undo it." Malaquo raised a finger, "It's a wheel, Targaryen—people rise, and fall, then it turns again, always has, always will, that's the way of things." Daeron stood silent, letting them talk, Nyessos adding, "She's a fool, delusional, dragging cities into ruin," and Doniphos chiming in, "A woman with a dragon doesn't change nature, she just breaks things until someone stronger stops her and brings it all back."

Daeron clenched his fists, listening to them insult her, then stepped forward, "Be silent," before reaching out with his mind, locking onto Nyessos, warging in, ripping through his thoughts, it was all true, every word they'd said confirmed in jagged flashes.

Nyessos screamed, clutching his head, falling forward off his throne, hitting the floor hard, writhing as blood trickled from his nose. Malaquo jumped up, shouting, "What did you do to him?" while Doniphos yelled, "Seize him!" and the Unsullied snapped their spears forward, tips gleaming.

Daeron raised a hand, "Silence!" his voice warping, deep and commanding, forcing their mouths shut, their words dying in their throats. He paced, looking at them, "Do any of you even know who I am?" They stared, lips trembling, unable to speak until he nodded, "Speak." Malaquo stammered, "You're Daeron Targaryen."

"Half right," Daeron said, stopping in front of them, "You missed that I'm Daeron Targaryen, brother and husband to Rhaenys Targaryen." Their faces paled, spines stiffening as he went on, "Despite your words against my wife, I find myself agreeing with you—I wouldn't have tried what she's doing, thought it pointless, that we'd die one day and the wheel would spin, putting someone else back on top." Malaquo smiled, relaxing, "Good, you see our way—" but Daeron cut him off, "Shhh," raising a finger, "That was my opinion before, but now things are different."

The air chilled as he spoke, "Rhaenys couldn't end slavery alone, even with a dragon," pausing, then reciting their vows, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

He finished, hand dropping to his sword, "If Rhaenys wants to end slavery, then I'll break the wheel." Malaquo shouted, "Unsullied, kill him!" and Doniphos echoed, "Now, cut him down!" but the thirty Unsullied stood frozen, spears still, eyes blank, disobeying for the first time since training. Daeron raised both hands, summoning three tendrils of fire, thin ropes of flame snaking from his fingers, stretching across the room, wrapping around the Triarchs' throats, yanking them out of their thrones, dragging them across the marble floor to kneel before him, choking and clawing at the burning coils. Malaquo gasped, "You monster, who do you think you are?" Nyessos coughed, "Curse you, you'll pay for this!" and Doniphos spat, "You're nothing, a madman!"

Daeron released the tendrils, letting them drop, gasping, and walked forward, "I'm King Daeron III Targaryen," stepping to the altar, picking up the dragon egg, feeling a faint pulse inside, feeding it with his own power, pouring heat and will into the shell. "And I'm Azor Ahai," he said as cracks split the egg, a small dragon clawing free—black scales, red eyes, wings unfolding, screeching as it hatched, tumbling onto the altar, shaking off shell fragments.

He raised his hand again, fire bursting from his palm, engulfing the Triarchs where they knelt—Malaquo screamed, "No, stop!" Nyessos yelled, "Mercy!" and Doniphos wailed, "Please!" but the flames roared, burning through robes, searing flesh, melting skin as they thrashed, voices fading to gurgles, then silence, leaving charred husks smoking on the floor. Daeron watched, sword still sheathed, the newborn dragon chirping beside him, the Unsullied standing motionless, the chamber quiet except for the crackle of dying embers and the distant screams from the city below.

___________________________

Viserys Targaryen sat cross-legged on a rug inside a large tent at the Dothraki camp, listening to Arthur Dayne, Daenerys, Ashara, and Rhaella discuss whether to ride to Volantis and demand entrance to find Daeron, the wind outside flapping the canvas while horses snorted in the distance and warriors shouted orders to each other.

Rhaella folded her hands in her lap, looking around the circle, saying, "We need to stay calm, Daeron can handle himself, he's proven that before, riding up there now might start something we can't finish."

Arthur nodded, sliding his dagger back into its sheath after wiping it clean on a cloth, adding, "She's right, he got through worse than a city full of merchants, we'd just put ourselves in danger going in blind."

Daenerys twisted a braid between her fingers, shaking her head, "He's been gone too long, got there days before us, we can't wait here doing nothing, I say we go."

Ashara stood, pacing near the tent's entrance, "He's our friend, we should ride up, bang on their gates, make them let us see him, he'd do it for us."

Viserys tapped his fingers on his knee, thinking, then stood, brushing dust off his trousers, "I'll go alone, see what's happening, get him back if he's in trouble."

Rhaella grabbed his wrist, pulling him back, "Viserys, no, that's reckless, you can't go off by yourself."

Arthur stepped in front of him, blocking the way out, "You're not thinking, one man won't scare Volantis into opening up, stay with us."

Daenerys jumped up, "We stick together, Viserys, don't leave us behind."

Ashara moved closer, "Daeron wouldn't want you risking it alone, listen to us."

Viserys shook his head, pulling free, "Daeron would ride through fire for any of us, I'm doing this, no arguing."

A Dothraki bloodrider pushed through the tent flap, cutting them off, his long braid swinging as he spoke fast in his language, gesturing with a scarred hand holding an arakh toward the camp's edge.

Arthur turned, listening, then translated, "He says people are coming toward the camp, want to talk to us."

He asked, "Who are they?"

The bloodrider pointed outside, "They carry the red god's banner."

Arthur frowned, bending down to pick his sword up from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder, and walked out, Viserys following right behind, shoving the flap aside, while Daenerys, Ashara, and Rhaella came after, stepping into the sunlight, ignoring the risk, as Dothraki warriors ran past, mounting horses and shouting to each other.

The newcomers stood in a tight group, surrounded by Dothraki riders holding curved blades, their horses snorting and pawing the dirt while the strangers clutched a red banner with a flaming heart stitched on it, and Arthur and Viserys pushed through the circle, stopping in front, seeing Kinvara step out, her red robe brushing the ground, flanked by priests in the same color and Fiery Hand soldiers gripping spears.

She bowed low, her followers doing the same, "We honor the family of Azor Ahai, the last Targaryens, with our respect."

Arthur rested his hand on his sword, "Who are you, what do you want?"

Kinvara straightened, clasping her hands, "We come at the command of my Prince."

Viserys stepped forward, "What do you want with us?"

She tilted her head, "He wishes his family to join him in the city."

Daenerys whispered to Rhaella, "She means Daeron, doesn't she?"

Viserys asked, "You're talking about Daeron?"

Kinvara nodded, "Yes, Daeron Targaryen—Volantis is his now, and soon all of Essos will be too."

Ashara frowned, muttering, "That sounds bad."

Rhaella stepped closer, "Take us to him."

Arthur turned, shouting to a group of Dothraki sharpening blades nearby, "Twenty of you, come with us, keep the girls safe."

Kinvara raised a hand, "That's not needed, no one in this city would dare harm the Prince's blood."

They followed her, walking through Volantis's gates, stepping over broken spears and shattered shields littering the streets from the riot, passing burned-out stalls with smoke still curling up, bodies piled in corners, some with throats slashed, others charred black on pyres, bones sticking out of ash where people had burned alive, the air thick with the stench of burned flesh and blood.

Daenerys gagged, turning her head away, refusing to look as they passed a pyre with a skull half-buried in embers.

Arthur walked beside Kinvara, "What happened here?"

She glanced at him, "Sometimes, to make a better world, the old one has to be destroyed."

They moved into the Old Blood district, walking past smashed gates and overturned carts, seeing priests and Fiery Hand soldiers dragging dead guards to new pyres or herding slaves into lines, blood staining the marble steps of empty mansions, and Kinvara led them into the palace, climbing stairs past Unsullied standing still with spears, guiding them through halls lined with gold vases and silk banners until they reached a massive room with a throne at the far end, where Daeron sat, legs crossed, a small black dragon perched on his lap, its jaws snapping at a piece of meat, blood dripping onto his trousers as he looked up, meeting their eyes while the doors slammed shut behind them, leaving Kinvara bowing in the shadows.

"I'm glad to see all of you here safe," Daeron said with a smile leaving everyone else gobsmacked.

(AN: Jon loves Rhaenys and if she wants to end slavery then it'll be done. Tbf it's not like he doesn't hate it. Anyway this will be Daerons path to conquering Essos, he has the power. He is The Lord of Rebirth he can awake Dragons from their slumber. They have six dragon eggs that remain unhatched. It seems that dragons will be returning to the world in a big way. Anyway hope you like that chapter)

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