LYRA stood in front of the great brazier where they lit their nightfires. Back in Volantis, she had spent countless long nights attending to the red priestesses who stood their watchful vigils over the shadowy gloam. Haunting hymns and litanies would spill into the dark, the warmth of the flames chasing twilight's chill away. Pale green eyes gazed intently into the ashen remains as she softly whispered, "Ivestragī konīr sagon ōños isse se zōbrie." ( "Let there be light in the dark." )

It started with smouldering red embers, small and weak as a newborn babe at first. Lyra leaned in close, reaching out with nurturing hands. The fire kindled with her breath, burning strong and bright as she continued to stoke it. She watched as it grew and flickered, visions dancing before her eyes and voices hissing upon the wind. She tore her gaze away, turning her sight to the inner sanctum of the temple where pillars of black stone stood erected at its entrance.

It had been the same on Dragonstone as it was in Volantis. The black stone of the Valyrians were still warm to her touch and she could trace the distant whispers within. Her fingers thrummed with ancient sorceries, old magic singing through her veins and proliferating through the air. The flames called to her, sweet and divine with libertine promises of enlightenment, but the only thing she could see was death staring back at her through pale blue eyes.

Lyra trod silently through the temple halls, passing the slave soldiers of the Fiery Hand and the worshippers who came to pray to R'hllor for another dawn. Sequestered away within an alcove, she lit the candles in front of a statue depicting the champion of the Lord of Light in his golden glory. Unseeing eyes gazed up to the sky with one hand plunging a sword aflame through the breast of a woman in devoted prayer.

Tales of Azor Ahai were known throughout Essos from Asshai. Lyra remembered the legend of the last hero in the north, how different their stories were yet serving the same purpose to banish the Long Night. She wondered if they were one and the same, that the miracles were all dealt by the same lofty hand from above. If greensight, dragon dreams, and visions in the flames stemmed from a singular entity puppeteering them all.

She heard the swish of a cloak and the approach of soft footfalls. Lyra turned her jade eyes away from the statue to find a familiar figure leaning against the wall. Moredo grinned down at her. "What a marvellous performance you've made," he commented. "I would have believed it all myself if I hadn't known any better."

"We have Johanna to thank for that," she said with a sly smile. "I would like to know how she managed to intercept a direct report to the gonfaloniere himself."

"Well, actually, you should thank Mysaria for that," Moredo told her. "She knows a lot of his secrets, that one."

Lyra hummed in response. "That is why I am so fond of her."

"Still, I should give credit where it's due," he said. "Seen anything of note lately from your magical flames?"

"I'm sure both Daemon and Corlys are hail and whole in the Stepstones," she spoke lowly. "I have not seen evidence otherwise, at least. . .what news from Volantis?"

Moredo hummed, nonplussed. "What an impracticable talent you must have," he commented, "to put it nicely."

"Speak swiftly," she chided. "You have the names now, do you not? Then what else are you waiting for?"

"For you to give me a sign," he said with a wry smile and Lyra hissed at him, wanting very much to throw a candle at his head. "Saera's sons will arrive within the fortnight, you should be ready."

 She hummed in response. "I am always ready," she told him.

Moredo chuckled in amusement. "I am sure you are," he remarked. "I will send word soon."

"Good," she said and he started to leave. Lyra called him back. "Moredo. You will let him know too, won't you?"

He turned to look at her over a shoulder with a fiendish smirk. "Of course." Pulling his hood further over his face, he disappeared through the back egress of the temple.

Lyra looked back to the flames, watching the visions that unravelled before her eyes. Blood would flow into the waters, burning upon crimson wings of ruin. She closed her lids, then they fluttered open with cloudy eyes that stared far into the expanse of time. Lyra saw glimpses of the dark isles that dotted the Stepstones, dark waves breaking upon a shore. She saw silver hair under the pale moon, violet eyes gazing out to a misty horizon, a skin of wine nursed between pale hands. Lifting her head, she moved closer and laid near him, a chittering sound escaping her guttural throat.

"Skoros iksis ziry, ñuha dōna?" he murmured gently. "Issi ao merbugon?" ( "What is it, my sweet? Are you hungry?" )

She felt his warm hand against her scales, stroking the length of her neck. The sound of the salted foam churned in her ears, rippling across the shoreline in a whispering caress. How she longed to lay her head on his shoulder and watch the dawn kiss his cheeks. To smooth the lines from his face and press her lips against his.

Caraxes stirred and Lyra broke the bond, rousing from her skin dream and blinking her eyes clear. She stood from the floor where she knelt and gazed intently at the face of Azor Ahai before her. The flames hissed in her ears and she swiped her hand against a candle spitefully, causing the holder to clatter against the stone floor. She turned and strode out of the hall of remembrance with nails biting into her palms.

Soon, it would all come to an end.

     A crimson dawn rose upon the unsuspecting city of Lys. Lyra climbed the familiar stairs of the martial palace as rivers of blood flowed through the streets beneath. Assassins of black knives fell upon the bronze-plated soldiers, obsidian blades cutting through throat and sinew. Moredo flanked her side wielding Truth, the Valyrian longsword glinting under the rising sun. The hem of her mantle was soaked red as she crossed the threshold, throwing the doors open and making her way to the upper floors.

Screams erupted around her, servants fleeing from the massacre. Fat and scheming magisters fell cold at her feet, war generals slain in defeat by her army of fleeting shadows. Beyond the triple light windows, the Volantene ships laid waste to the Triarchy foot soldiers on the pier. The explosions of their black powder pierced the air like thunder.

The gonfaloniere's men entered the fray and Lyra drew her sword with Moredo, meeting their blades with a clash of steel. Their bodies littered the floor, soiling the Myrish carpets that lined the hall to the cabinet. She stalked forward with purpose and resolve, opening the door to find the gonfaloniere himself at the open balcony. He turned at the sound of her coming and his face contorted with fury.

"Skoros iksis se nūmāzma hen bisa, Lyenne?" he demanded. ( "What is the meaning of this, Lyenne?" )

"Lyenne?" she laughed mockingly. "You fool. I am Lyra Stark of Winterfell, consort of Prince Daemon Targaryen, the one who slayed Caaro Noqane on the moors of the Blackwater Bay."

His expression changed to shock, then one of betrayal, bearing his teeth at her threateningly. Steel rang in the air as he drew his sword from its scabbard and pointed the rapier in her direction. Spittle flew in the air as he yelled out in anger.

"Ao Vesterozia aspo!" he bellowed. "Ossēninna ao!" ( "You Westerosi bitch! I will kill you!" )

Lyra parried his attack, using her smaller stature to her advantage and easily sidestepping him. Though he was the leader of the Lysene armies, greed had made him fat and slow. She swung her sword in a flurry of slashes, driving the man backwards to the balcony doors. The gulls cried amidst the sea breeze, the taste of salt and blood on the winds. The thrills of war ran amok upon the city streets, pillaging and plundering the stolen wealth of the corrupted magisters. It was a renaissance, a restoration of order within turmoil.

She knocked the sword from his hand easily and kicked it away. With a wolfish grin, she advanced forward, inching ever closer to the edge of the balcony and the sun shone upon her face radiantly. Refusing to concede, the gonfaloniere dug into his cloak and pulled a smaller blade in hand, raising it above his head. He started towards her but a figure fell behind him from the eaves above and a flash of steel halted his step.

"Rytsas, kepa," Mysaria crooned in his ear, pressing the tip of her obsidian dagger into his throat. "Eman daor ūndegīon ao isse sīr bōsa. Gaomagon ao gīmigon nyke?" ( "Greeting, father. I have not seen you in so long. Do you remember me?" )

She wore the black garments of an assassin now, her long dark hair secured with numerous pins beneath her hood. Inky paint and blood adorned her face as she smiled cruelly under the growing daylight. The man froze in place, the colour draining from his face as his eyes sought to look at her in vain.

"Mysaria?" he called in wonder. "Sīr iksā lēda bisa Vesterozia aspo?" ( "So you are with this Westerosi bitch?" )

"Better than a bastard father who sold his daughter for coin and power!" she hissed. "Ao kessa jorepagon bona nyke dāez ao." ( "You should beg that I spare you." )

"Nyke kessa emagon ossēntan ao isse se iemny!" he spat angrily. ( "I should have killed you in the womb!" )

Lyra clicked her tongue, exchanging a glance of ire with Mysaria as she sheathed her sword. "What a worthless man. Slit his throat and be done with it."

"Eminna aōha bartos—" ( "I will have your head—" ) the gonfaloniere screamed before Mysaria sliced through his neck. His gurgling throes fell onto deaf ears as his knees struck the floor, fingers clutching futilely at the open wound.

Mysaria hummed in thought. "That was disappointing."

"I agree," Lyra replied as she moved around the table and rifled through the drawers. She pulled out a key with a satisfied smile and tossed it to the woman. "I suppose this will have to suffice."

Mysaria wrinkled her nose as she caught it. "What use are of his trinkets?"

"He took something of mine while I was in his service," Lyra said. "A dagger. Return it to me if you find it."

"Very well," the assassin responded before leaving through the door. Lyra stayed behind as she searched the cabinet for anything of value. There were only trade documents and journals that would have done better in Moredo's hands instead of hers. She had no use for such things now that her role had been fulfilled. But a treaty with Oldtown, she observed as she unfurled the scroll, this would do very well indeed.

Her lips curled slyly, unable to mask her triumph as she chuckled wickedly to herself. "Well, well, my Lord Hand. . .what do we have here?"

But before she could peruse its contents, heavy footfalls sounded from the hall and a group of soldiers marched in with bronze-tipped spears. They pointed at her, yelling furiously, before advancing on her. She cursed out loud, shoving the documents into her robes and darting towards the balcony. The soldiers were swift-footed and Lyra had only a brief moment to consider her options. Engaging the enemy was a fool's errand when she was wholly outnumbered ten to one. Planting a hand against the bannister, she hoisted herself onto the edge and jumped.

The breath left her lungs in a rush as her body plunged towards the rippling sea below. Frothy waves awaited to greet her and she squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself to be swallowed by icy waters. To her astonishment, she felt herself colliding against something hard and solid. The winds suddenly whisked her away on crimson wings and smoky breath. Lyra tore her lids open to find herself in arms clad in black and red. Silver hair whipped in the zephyr and violet eyes bore down upon her.

Caraxes shrieked in her ears as Daemon grinned exuberantly. "Beautiful maidens falling from the sky?" he questioned loudly in mirth. "It must be my lucky day!"

Her shock at his appearance gave way to joyful laughter as she clung to his shirt. "And a knight in shining armour to save her, how fortuitous!" she responded.

"But not any knight!" he protested. "This one's a dragon rider and a prince!"

Then he drew her close and pressed his lips against hers, and she smiled as she tasted exultation on his tongue. Her heart rejoiced under the golden sunrays, the ocean brine entangling in her windswept hair, and the roar of victory upon the clouds.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.   thank you to everyone who is still reading!! <33 tell me your thoughts! we're almost at the end of the stepstones war and we are going to banish otto out of the keep. i turned mysaria into an assassin with her own assassin's guild and i think she's slaying ( literally ), also sorry not sorry grrm i am introducing gunpowder because if you can create liquid explosions, there is no reason you can't create powder too.