Chapter 730

"Lower your crossbows."

Messin Vyslis pressed down the weapons of his nearest men while issuing a low command to the rest.

He recognized the red robes instantly.

The cut of the fabric and embroidered patterns were unmistakable—this was no ordinary priest.

This was a High Priest of R’hllor.
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"Good."

Messin turned to his men.

"Listen up, boys—officers, remain in place. The rest of you, remove your weapons and armor and surrender them to the Great Red Temple."

The words sent a ripple through the ranks, but no one resisted.

They had no choice.
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"As you can all see," the High Priest began, stepping forward, "the Great Red Temple has taken a stand for the Prince That Was Promised. We fight to overthrow the corrupt slave masters who have oppressed the people of Volantis for far too long."

He spread his arms wide, not in a gesture of surrender, but a display of power—a silent reminder of the forces standing behind him.

"I, along with many of my brethren, left the Red Temple before nightfall to ignite the flames of rebellion across the city. As we speak, thousands of slaves have risen, breaking their chains, fighting for their freedom."

The priest’s glowing eyes locked onto Messin’s.

"You have two choices:Be crushed between my liberated followers and the Flame’s Hand—dying a meaningless death on this street...Or swear yourselves to the Prince That Was Promised, and fight for R’hllor’s will."

He paused.

"If I recall correctly... Messin, Commander of the Thunder God Company—I require your answer. Now."
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Messin’s mind raced.

A thousand questions burned in his skull, but he had no time to ask them.

The reality was clear:

If this priest had intended to wipe them out, he would have ordered the attack already.

Instead, he had chosen to negotiate—alone.

Messin wasn’t foolish enough to ignore what that meant.

He was a mercenary—his job was to survive and profit, not to die in hopeless battles.
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The Thunder God Company was one of Volantis' most trusted mercenary forces.

Messin and his officers were on familiar terms with the city’s commanders.

That meant they could move freely near the Black Walls, getting close enough to strike before the guards suspected treachery.

And once the rebellion’s signal was given, once the royal fleet landed, they could seize the Black Walls from within.

With one swift coup, the Anti-Dragon Queen Alliance would be decapitated overnight.
----


Volantis was divided into two sections:The Outer City—the sprawling newer districts, filled with markets, slums, and trade ports.The Inner City, known as Old Volantis, encased within the Black Walls—once a Valyrian military stronghold.

That was the true heart of power.

That was where the ruling elite would retreat and fortify.
----


The Black Walls were no mere fortification.

They stood two hundred feet tall, thick enough for six war chariots to ride side by side.

Forged from Valyrian black stone, rumored to have been melted by dragonfire, they were impenetrable to conventional siege weaponry.

Even cannons would struggle to breach them.

If the slave masters fell back behind those indestructible walls, and if they had proper anti-dragon defenses, they could hold out indefinitely—until reinforcements arrived from Velos, Valysar, and Selhorys.
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Messin broke into a cold sweat.

Twenty years as a mercenary had honed his instincts.

And his instincts told him:

They had already lost.
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"...Priest," he finally spoke, "can you swear by R’hllor that we will be spared if we surrender?"

The High Priest smiled.

He had already won—and he knew it.

"In the name of the Lord of Light," he said, "I swear it."
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Messin’s jaw tightened.

His mercenary code demanded loyalty to his employer.

But when death was certain, even principles could bend.

With no escape, no hope of victory, and no reason to fight for a doomed cause—

He made his choice.
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Messin exhaled sharply.

"Then tell me, Priest—if we surrender, what happens next?"
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The High Priest gestured toward the mercenaries.

"The Great Red Temple will hire your company, at a rate above standard market wages."

Messin raised a brow.

A clever move.

Not only were they switching sides—they were getting paid for it.
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"However," the priest continued, "we require your face for another purpose."

"Your troops must surrender their weapons. My men will take their armor and gear, disguising themselves as your mercenaries."

"Then, under the pretense of reinforcements, you and your officers will lead us through the gates of the Black Walls—claiming that the slave masters ordered you to reinforce the Inner City."
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Messin froze.

Then, understanding dawned.
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The Royal Fleet had not launched a full invasion because they were waiting for this moment.

Not just to conquer the harbor…

But to take the entire city in one stroke.
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Messin chuckled darkly.

"A brilliant scheme," he admitted.

The High Priest nodded.

"Once we are inside," he said, "you need not concern yourself with what happens next."
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Messin’s loyalty as a mercenary meant little here.

Survival came first.

Betrayal was meaningless if the old masters were already doomed.

And if the Black Walls fell before they could be locked down…

Volantis would fall in a single night.
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Messin turned to his men.

His decision was made.

"Stand down," he ordered.

"Shed your weapons. We fight for the Prince That Was Promised now."

The High Priest smiled.

"Welcome to the Light, Commander."