#freehold

Slaves in iron collars moved among the dragonlords, expressions dulled by intoxication and terror alike. Some would survive the night, and others would not. One slave with vacant eyes knelt as a human footstool for a lanky Valyrian lord, trembling each time he struck her arse.

Near the tower’s center, two male slaves fucked, observed by dragonlords who watched eagerly, pleasuring themselves. Nearby, another dragonlord poured a powder into his cup of blood-laced wine, casting aside his garments as he fixed his attention to a young slave, preparing to claim her next.

On a pile of cushions by the balcony, a silver-haired woman lay locked in a writhing embrace with a handsome collared youth while he pleased her. A few paces away, another dragonlord chuckled as he traced the dagger’s tip along the inner thigh of a whimpering black-haired slave girl, drawing forth a line of blood.

One dragonlord named Kaelar was pounding into a slave from behind. Amid his motions, he raised a cup high and declared loudly, "We know not if this Freehold shall fall into ruin or rise toward redemption. Yet the blood of the dragon runs strong—stronger than any blood in this world!"

One of the dragonlords applauded while fucking a male slave, nicking his body with his blade and licking the blood away.

From atop the dais, the high priest sneered, "Bend down, whore," forcing the woman roughly onto her knees. Her cry vanished under the relentless beat of drums and drunken cheers. As he began thrusting into her, he drew his dragonglass blade across her throat. She crumpled without a sound, blood spilling upon the obsidian floor.

"For Valyria and the Zaldrīz Ārlinta," the priest spat, lifting the bloody knife high as a feral cry erupted from the gathered dragonlords. They raised their cups, their eyes glazed and faces twisted in ecstasy, as above them the dragons screamed uneasily.

Another naked dragonlord called aloud, "Should we set these slaves free? They are the source of our headpain!"

The other dragonlords booed in drunken disdain. "No! Kill them all!" he cried.

The slaves abruptly froze, terror flaring in their eyes, then surged desperately toward the stairs, seeking escape. But guards swiftly formed a line, blocking their path. At the dragonlords' nods, the guards seized the slaves and drew blades sharply across each throat, one after another.

The remaining slaves cried out and also tried to run, but the guards seized them all, cutting them down each one, their blood spilling across the floor.

"What a pity—I wanted that one young," a dragonlord said. "Well, I still can, actually."

"For the Fourteen Flames!" one dragonlord cheered. "This blood shall please the gods, and the Zaldrīz Ārlīnta! May his reign be..." He faltered, groping for words.

"May it show the Freehold cannot be conquered," another finished fiercely.

As the last slaves collapsed lifelessly upon the floor, the high priest barked, "No, do not defile the dead. Their blood is needed for our rites, to ensure the Dragon Reborn…" He paused, and then laughed. "To ensure he is… properly comforted."

The dragonlords began gathering the spilled blood, knowing it would serve their sorcery, ensuring the Freehold’s power.

"For the Zaldrīz Ārlinta!" they cheered together.

Another priest snarled in disgust. "Do not toast his name in celebration, you fools! He shall be our downfall. Better that the council slay every last bastard son born beneath this cursed omen."