Archibald spared a look behind him, but no worries to be had, Quentyn and the snake were following.
The alley led to a small garden, where they could stop to take their breath.
...
Quentyn was unharmed, but the snake had taken a cut on her cheek, and was dripping blood.
"We need to get out of the city, fast," the Volantene lady spoke. "The Eastern gate is close."
"Let's make a run for it before we are overrun." Quentyn nodded. "Arch, carry her."
Archibald nodded, carefully picked her up, then smiled.
"Waiting for your instructions, my lady."
The Volantene noblewoman nodded and pointed at small passageways. Their run was only obstructed by a few terrified women and children, coming to seek safety in the small corners of each street.
Soon enough, they were out in the open again, but this time, they were not met with Dothraki. Nor sellswords, in fact. Actually, Arch thought he could see the sigil of a house on the man's armor…
"Allyrion!" he shouted, finally.
The man's head immediately cocked towards them, and his mouth fell in surprise.
"Prince Quentyn, we've been looking for you everywhere!" The heir to Godsgrace ran towards them, Ser Deziel Dalt right behind him.
"Don't worry about that now, I need a horse to bring this lady back to camp."
The knight immediately acquiesced. Quickly, orders came out and a horse was brought.
"Nym, take your mother to camp, make sure she's fine."
"And you?" she asked.
"I need to figure out what is happening here."
"Be safe."
"I will."
The Volantene woman and the snake both took place on the horse, which kicked its way out of the city, out of a gaping hole in the ramparts.
Turning back to Ser Ryon after making sure the horse did indeed exit the city, Quentyn then asked:
"What are you lot doing here?"
"The Golden Company participated, so we thought we'd take advantage of this to make sure the capture of the city goes as smoothly as possible…for the slaves, we mean." Ser Ryon answered.
Quentyn and Archibald shared a look of hopelessness.
"I fear it's a little late for that…"
"What do you mean, my prince?"
"Do you think the Dothraki will differentiate between slaves and masters?"
The answer came down like an executioner's blade.
"We must do our best, then. Our new Queen wills it." Ser Deziel pointed out behind them.
BIG RED WARNING BIG RED WARNING
BIG RED WARNING BIG RED WARNING
BIG RED WARNING BIG RED WARNING
"You won't like what you'll see, then." Quentyn sighed, as he joined the Dornish party through the desolate streets of Volantis.
Indeed, the city was down to ruins. Everywhere they looked, houses were burning, or turned to piles of stones or bricks. Wherever there were once markets, there were now dozens of looters, Dothraki or sellsword, running around, taking what they can.
At the turn of a street, the group came across a group of Dothraki.
"What are they doing?" asked Ser Deziel. "They seem to be throwing something in the air."
"It's a child," Quentyn said with a choked voice. "A live one."
Indeed, a figure seemed to come down from the skies only for the Dothraki to lunge at it, blades drawn. Two blades hit. One of them went through the child's face, the other through his belly.
And the horsemen laughed, congratulating the two who had bloodied their blades. Then, their leader took out another terrified child, perhaps not even three namedays old, and threw him into the air.
"This…is monstruous!" Ser Henry Sunglass, who had added himself to the group, let out.
"It's what the Dothraki do," Archibald let out. "They're monsters."
Ser Deziel had had enough. He unsheathed his sword and ran towards the Dothraki, screaming bloody murder. The Dothraki were surprised by this, and, with no armor, they never stood a chance. They were cut down to the last.
When Archibald approached, there were eight corpses of children. A ninth was still alive, but, with three stab wounds, one of the men preferred to slit his throat to put him out of his misery.
And the rest wasn't better. In another street, the wooden buildings had all burned down. All that remained were charred corpses.
In the next, screams coming from a house left no doubt as to what was happening in it.
Finally, as they reached the last square, they could see members of the Golden Company running out of several stone houses, pockets and hands literally full of precious booty, from sculptures to bracelets.
At the turn of a street, they found a couple of Golden Company men dragging women along. The leader had two, both of them tattooed with a horse on their face.
"Where do you think you're going with these women?" Ser Ryon asked.
"None of your business, Dornish scum!" the leader replied, earning a hearty laugh from the others.
Quentyn stepped forward, rage in his eyes, looking at the man. He had arms engraved on his armor: house Peake.
"These women were slaves. They have done no wrong and are under the Queen's protection. They have suffered long enough, let them go."
"Go fuck a goat, Dornish pig, we're having these ones. The King will protect us."
A cheer went off in the ranks behind. Peake was harboring a wide smile. It was the last thing he did.
Valyrian steel pierced his stomach as Quentyn, angry like Archibald had never seen him before, threw him on the ground.
"Laswell!" shouted another man, brandishing his sword, "you'll die for this!"
Quentyn easily dodged, disarmed, and then pinned the man to the wall by driving his sword through his gut.
"I'll take pleasure in knowing Starpike will be Dornish for eternity. Be sure I will never let a Peake step into its lands again," his words were spat like venom from a viper's mouth.
He removed the sword, then pointed out to the rest, who had immediately raised her hands.
"Ser Deziel, hang the rest and make sure to state the reason. Ser Garibald, raise one of our banners on the square alongside a Targaryen one, right here. Set up patrols around and bring every single slave you find right here. Make sure you shout 'Regia homiae', it means 'Queen's man' in lower Volantene. That should be enough to make them follow you. Get some of the girls to help if they're in a condition to."
"Yes, my prince."
Both men quickly shouted orders and were on their way.
"I need this side of the city locked down. Everyone who enters the area from the Black Walls to the Eastern Gate, between both the Elephant Gardens and the Street of Skulls is under our responsibility.
You have my complete trust considering what options you wish to consider against any who trespass. This means everything: Dothraki, Golden Company, Windblown ... I don't care! Even Dornishmen if it happens! Your word is law, by my orders.
Set a field hospital, get nurses from the camp if necessary. Ser Ryon, you and Arch come with me, we will drive out all this scum from the Street of Glory: a passage needs to be cleared between here and the Eastern Gate."
The men stood at attention. They were no longer playing at war. This was about saving the entire population of a city.
Soon, orders went out. Patrols were set up and it was time to get on the move. The Martell and Targaryen banners soon flew over the headless statue throning in the middle of the fountain square, likely seen from far around.
"Let's hope this works…" Quentyn sighed.
Archibald nodded. For the good of hundreds of souls, it had to.
Everywhere, though, the streets reeked of death and desolation. People only came out due to the cries of the other slaves, whom the Dornish had rescued. Some of them were half-burnt, others were missing limbs.
Their cries sometimes attracted sellswords or Dothraki, who were always quickly put to flight or to the sword.
At some point they entered a house, where men of the Windblown had set camp in, their banner floating. The Dornish, curious, entered.
Archibald thought he had seen it all, but this…it revolted him. The sellsword has put young girls out for their…needs. The oldest could not have been twelve. The youngest…no, better not to try thinking about that.
It was a massacre. Archibald killed no less than three, the last with his bare hands, choking the life out of that monster himself.
But the Windblown and other sellswords were numerous. Too numerous, even. Some of them had time to lunge for weapons, even half-naked.
Archibald wasn't hurt. Neither was Quentyn.
But Ser Ryon, hit by a sword in the stomach, lay dying on one of the tables.
"What will I say to Ynys…" Quentyn managed to choke over the man's body.
But they had to continue. Everywhere, the madness continued. The bodies piled up: slaves, masters, others…it didn't matter. The city smelt of death and blood.
What was once the Queen of Cities was now but a mass grave.
It never ended. The pain, the suffering…it was everywhere.
At a street corner, Dothraki playing with young boys again, seeing who would throw him the furthest. Those same Dothraki, in one of the gardens, were playing archers with live targets. A few streets later, men indulging in drink, forcing young boys and girls to strip for them. At a detour of a fountain, people getting burned alive for having dared to resist the pillaging of their home.
And the dead kept piling up. But Archibald couldn't throw up. No, that he would do tonight. He would reek so much in the Rhoyne that he'd be skinnier than a stick by the end.
But for now, he was the only thing separating the Volantenes from death, or worse.
The refugees kept coming into the Dornish area. Banners were flying everywhere, while more and more men were pouring in to keep the peace. The Dornish bodies also piled up. So many, dying for a cause they'd never even heard of, far from their homes.
Then, a great dragon landed in the main square, where the dragon banner floated alongside that of the sun and spear.
The atmosphere was heavy, silence dawned upon the area.
Quentyn stepped forward as a figure stepped off of the dragon, which quickly took flight again.
The people's stares were empty. There were no celebrations or cheers. Only silence.
The Dragon Queen looked around and shook her head.
"The masters tried to take the slaves with them, it seemed."
Quentyn looked at her in the eyes, his eyes raging with a fire Archibald had never seen in a man before.
"The masters have oppressed the slaves for hundreds of years, and caused untold sufferings on them. But tonight, as the lights flicker to signal the death of the Queen of Cities, the blood of innocents are not on their hands, they are on yours."
Quentyn then presented Queen Daenerys with a small child, a girl, barely older than eleven, wrapped in sheets, giving him to her. The child was dead, her face mutilated and with multiple stab wounds in the stomach. On his back, in clear bloody letters, were inscribed words in Dothraki. Archibald had them translated. They read: 'Khal Moqo was here'.
The Queen released the body, letting the girl fall to the ground, blood staining the sand.
She fell into Quentyn's arms, sobbing, barely managing to make out a sentence. Between tears, she finally gasped.
"What have I done?"
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