Valyria's first daughter reeked.
In Volantis, the line between wealth and poverty was clearly drawn. The central district where the nobility resided was encased by tall walls of black brick, while the poor could only dwell outside them.
Drogo's army moved slowly along the riverside. The old, cluttered buildings grew shorter and more dilapidated the further they advanced, the trees along the streets arranged in wild disarray, as if they stood on the edge of some desolate mountain. From beyond the low walls, one could glimpse goats, wild boars, and even stray dogs scavenging for food.
Any fool could see that the roads had just been swept. It was obvious that this place used to be covered in refuse—cast-off food scraps, fish guts, animal innards and dung—all of it now pushed behind the walls.
The pungent stench Drogo had smelled earlier hung in the hot, damp air, dense and inescapable. It was a chaotic blend—fishy, floral, the stink of elephant dung, sweet rot, the earthy scent of decay. Clearly, all of it came drifting from behind the low wall, carried on the wind.
The stench was tolerable to warriors, but what really bothered Drogo's men was underfoot.
Where the road had once been paved with river pebbles and mortar, it now turned to patches of ghost grass and finally degenerated into thick, wet sludge—muddy and sticky like a babe's mess. Even without rain, the road along the river remained slick and damp.
Just from the consistency of the muck, Drogo could tell—Volantis truly had the largest population of all the Free Cities. If there weren't so many people, the blazing sun would have dried out the road long ago.
The path to the Red Temple was long. Even if the city rulers wanted to clean it all up, they couldn't do it in a day. They still had to cross many streets and wastelands, and eventually span the great bridges that connected both sides of the city.
Yet along the way, Drogo hadn't seen a single person in rags. The only people on the streets were armored soldiers or well-dressed merchants. Even the slaves, running around like roaches to do their masters' bidding, were properly clothed—none of them barefoot.
No matter how wealthy a city, there were always poor folk. Drogo guessed the city's rulers had issued strict orders to keep such undesirables out of sight today.
They wanted to show off strength and prosperity. That much was clear.
But even the shrewdest men made missteps. The Dothraki only raided rich cities—poor people couldn't meet their needs. Unless they had to, they wouldn't bother.
After playing the role of tour guides for a while, the two triarchs, Dofas and Naesoso, began to notice something troubling: the Bloodriders following Drogo were openly discussing which parts of the city they planned to sack, speaking freely in Dothraki.
Unluckily for the triarchs, they understood the Dothraki tongue—not learned in haste, but passed down from generations of Volantene rulers who had always needed to appease the horselords from the east. You couldn't lead a diplomatic envoy without speaking their language.
This army was brutal from top to bottom. The triarchs had once thought of trying to charm Drogo and maybe even ride elephants beside him to appear equal in status.
But one glance from Drogo's piercing eyes killed that idea. They had to lower themselves, completely abandoning their pride.
After all, elephants were taller than horses. To speak from atop an elephant meant looking down on the Khal—a grave insult.
Volantis was full of white dwarf elephants—they were the city's main form of transportation. In some regions, they were even called "walking weirwoods" due to their pale, bone-like color.
Each elephant pulled ornate carriages, born to labor.
And their waste? A whole fleet of slaves pushed dung carts behind them. It was their job to shovel up the steaming piles of elephant droppings. These slaves even bore tattoos—flies and shovels—on their cheeks to mark their station.
Such was the cruelty of the Free Cities: once tattooed, a slave's fate was sealed. Many male slaves dreamed of becoming Tiger Cloaks or Elephant Legionnaires just to rise ever so slightly above the muck.
As for the women? Most bore tear tattoos, a mark branding them as playthings for men—willing or not, their faces nailed them to a pillar of shame.
Missandei had once served as a bedslave herself, and she counted herself lucky not to bear that particular brand.
Aside from soldiers, tattooed slave women were the most common sight along the streets. With nods from the triarchs, these women fluttered their lashes and flirted boldly with Drogo's men.
This was survival. Drogo didn't mind. He let his Dothraki and sellswords do as they pleased—as long as they kept up with his pace.
Suddenly, Drogo spoke:
"Triarchs, these slave girls look delicious. Since you're hosting us, we'll treat them as part of the feast—and devour them all."
As the famed Breaker of Chains, Drogo's name was well known across the Free Cities.
The two triarchs cursed inwardly. In trying to impress him, they had only dug their own graves.
These handpicked women had been borrowed from noble houses, the cream of Volantis's female slaves. To give them all away? That was a loss greater than any banquet.
Dofas tried to protest with a sycophantic smile.
"They're just wilted flowers, nothing special. Perhaps I could offer a few noble ladies instead, to better suit your taste?"
Drogo shrugged. "I only need Daenerys. But my men? They've got big appetites. Here's the deal—these plain girls, we'll take them as starters. The noble ones? That'll be the main course."
The two triarchs nearly tripped over their own feet. A lion's share, and then some!
Dofas coughed violently in outrage. "Cough! Cough! Cough!"
He was on the verge of coughing up blood. Drogo laughed silently, then offered a word of comfort:
"Your hospitality has touched me. Good men reap good rewards. I believe you'll both live long lives—right up until you can't chew fresh grass anymore."
The triarchs nearly choked again.
"Humph!"
They didn't reply, instead storming forward in a huff.
The pair looked like disgruntled wives returning to their parents' homes. Drogo followed on horseback, his expression returning to a blank slate as he muttered under his breath:
"You're lucky. You've earned my blessing. But the others? I can't promise them anything."
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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