Hidden beneath his black robes and mask, Jon Connington's courage was one thing—but it was his keen mind that gave him the nerve to walk into the tiger's den.
Drogo's fleet had sailed west from Qarth, and New Ghis was a necessary stop along the way. The exiled Hand had long since arrived in the slave city to lie in wait, ready to set his plan into motion.
He knew well that Drogo was a breaker of chains. When it came to slaves, he either took them in as his people and brought them with his army, or he arranged a hopeful future for them.
With Connington's intellect and Kerry's influence, it wasn't hard to blend into the entourage. The newly freed slaves of New Ghis mostly hailed from the tropics—black as coal from the Summer Isles, or pale like Tyroshi. Many veiled themselves to shield against the scorching sun.
Wearing similar garb, he blended in effortlessly. No one would find it strange.
Moreover, his weight had dropped drastically, altering his figure enough that even mercenaries who had once followed him as leader of the Golden Company would struggle to recognize him by his pale blue eyes alone.
Aside from Kerry and Daenerys, whom he had contacted directly, no one in the entire fleet knew his true identity.
Jon Connington had dared to sneak into Drogo's domain for one reason alone: to win Daenerys over. Freeing the Mother of Dragons was his most urgent objective.
Now that they had reached Volantis, outside of his original plans, this city presented the best chance yet to rescue her. But much to his dismay, Drogo had brought the entire Golden Company into the city, leaving behind only the Unsullied—those cold, unyielding war machines. His plan to rescue her had crumbled before it even began.
Yet Jon still clung to hope, because he wasn't the only one outside the city who longed to serve the Dragon Queen. He had made a secret pact with Marajo, the tiger-aligned Triarch of Volantis.
Marajo wasn't his only pawn, either. Daenerys had another supporter, one with influence over much of the Tiger Party's forces—that man was Jon's true hope.
As bitter enemies to Naessos and Dofas, Marajo was pleased—not angry—to have been pushed aside from the duties of hospitality and entertainment. His exaggerated smile deepened the striped wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Once Drogo entered the city with two-thirds of his elite army, and the elephant soldiers followed, Marajo clasped his hands inside his sleeves and ordered the gates to be sealed. He then turned to gaze at the massive fleet still guarded by the Unsullied.
One by one, his eyes swept across the ships until, guided subtly by Jon Connington, he fixed his gaze on one particular warship—a ship that swarmed with flies drawn to the refuse heaps aboard.
"To preserve a mighty legacy, the powerful grow ever more paranoid," Marajo thought grimly. But he was particularly sharp-minded: A pureblood Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons herself—how could that barbarian Drogo bear to imprison her in filth? Has he uncovered our plan already?
He mulled it over, then shook his head and whispered under his breath, "If the Griffin still lives, and if the Golden Company still answers to Kerry Ennil, then that savage king remains ignorant. It's only proper to send out ravens and doves when commanding a great army. Perhaps I was overthinking things."
Marajo summoned an officer with a wave. The man ran over, waiting for his command.
"Nori, the time has come to assemble. Today, the Tiger Party takes full control of Volantis."
The officer's eyes lit up. "Yes, Triarch—no, King."
"Hahaha!" Marajo bellowed with laughter, clapping the man's shoulder approvingly.
The officer rushed off in the same direction the beggars had earlier vanished into.
Volantis sprawled across both banks of the Rhoyne River, embracing its mighty waters. East and west districts were linked by two great bridges.
The oldest and wealthiest district lay on the eastern bank, where mercenaries and coarse foreigners were unwelcome. They had to cross into the west, where they might find a place to stay.
But today, that proud tradition was broken. The man entering the east bank was none other than the most powerful Khal of the Great Grass Sea—a man the Triarch feared deeply.
Drogo's troops were either fearsome savages or reviled sellswords, but they were undefeated. And they had dragons and giants in their ranks.
Even at a leisurely pace, Drogo's fiery steed was faster than the dignitaries guiding him. The two Elephant Triarchs, Naessos and Dofas, jogged ahead, panting, trying to stay ahead of the Khal. It was exhausting—and humiliating—for such pampered, decadent men.
Despite their age and exhaustion, whenever they reached a section of the city that warranted an introduction, the two men turned back with forced grins, eager to flatter.
Reality had forced them to cast aside their pride. Drogo's army was overwhelming. Volantis might be the mightiest of the Free Cities, but it was only as strong as all the Free Cities of Slaver's Bay combined, plus Qarth. That was not enough.
Drogo had bulldozed his way through opposition, and now the Triarchs had to swallow their pride—for the sake of old and glorious Volantis.
They had another goal, too: to curry Drogo's favor, in hopes of forging a future alliance that would finally crush the accursed Tiger Party.
Hosting tens of thousands of warriors with food, drink, and entertainment was taxing even for ruling Triarchs, but fortunately, the High Priest of the Red Temple had volunteered to fund the feast. He even offered the largest plaza in the city to stage the celebration, giving the Triarchs hope that this show of goodwill might win the Khal's favor.
Their Valyrian, spoken with a Volantene accent, often left Drogo confused. Fortunately, Missandei rode beside him on her dainty silver mare—Daenerys's wedding gift, her personal mount that no one had dared touch until now.
But Drogo could do as he pleased, and no one disobeyed him.
It was an immense honor, yet Missandei felt as though she were sitting on pins and needles. Daenerys might be imprisoned, but she was still her queen.
As long as Drogo did not strip Daenerys of her title, the Mother of Dragons remained a Khaleesi—second only to the Khal himself.
Missandei dared not guess Drogo's intentions. Obedience to one's superiors had long since become second nature.
The riverside street near the docks stretched on endlessly—dirty, crowded with fishmongers, sailors, slaves, and freedmen. But today, they all had the same focus.
The towering, handsome Drogo. The giant, Rommo. The low-flying dragons. They drew every eye. Even the drunkards and pleasure-seekers sobered up, shouting and cheering at the awe-inspiring sight.
Shock was written across every face. Some of the younger, less worldly folk trembled with fear.
The air stank of fish, and Drogo loathed the smell. But the dragons loved it.
At first, they had hunted vultures, gulls, and crows drawn by the stench. But when they saw the heaps of semi-fresh fish piled on carts and ships, they dove down, belching fire to roast the catch, devouring it by the ton.
Their flames spread wide—too wide. Not only the fish burned. Fishermen, traders, and sailors were scorched alive in the blaze.
The dragons' savagery—their destructive power—threw the entire waterfront into chaos. Panic took over, and survival became the only instinct.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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