Right then Viserys spotted the riders coming toward the training field.
Jorah led them, and behind him rode the people he had been waiting for.
"Your Grace." Ser Jorah's voice carried across the yard. "It is my honor to present the envoys of Volantis: Saenara Argalis, Jaehaerys Kentingar, and Menys Taryar."
"You stand before Prince Viserys Targaryen, commander of the Dragon Claw Company and protector of Sunward Town," Eleonora announced in her coldest, most formal tone. It was the only way she could hide the disgust she still felt for the "old blood"—the same people who had thrown her parents out of Volantis and stripped them of nearly everything.
You could exile someone from behind the Black Wall, but you could never quite scrub the arrogance out of them.
The king who had once been Daemon no longer used the highest titles.
He had told every man under his banners the same thing: only when he sat the rightful throne would he be called king. He refused to wear the mocking name "king in exile."
The envoys offered elegant, ritual nods, ready to show respect to this sellsword commander.
The earlier messages from the Triarchs had spoken of important talks, hinted at Volantis's deadly seriousness, even warned them to avoid risky adventures and keep their strength intact. Only now did the prince begin to believe they had meant every word.
"We speak for the Triarchs, for the First Daughter, for glorious Volantis," Saenara told him. "Where may we discuss matters of great weight?"
"My pavilion," Viserys answered.
Jorah read the prince's glance perfectly, swung down from his saddle, and let the prince walk while the guests remained mounted. It wouldn't do to have it the other way around.
First, though, a few orders had to be given.
"Daenerys, go back to your tent. Clean yourself up and wait for Eleonora. Be ready to answer her questions about the Second Blackfyre Rebellion."
Viserys's tone left no room for argument. His sister knew that in front of outsiders her brother's word was law. "Eleonora, Ser Jorah—gather the other captains and wait outside the pavilion."
Most captains liked to put on a show for visitors: neat ranks of soldiers, polished armor, mock drills, single combat demonstrations.
Viserys hated that circus. He wanted the Volantenes to see the truth—steel and mud, not painted silk.
That was why he didn't bother changing. He walked into the pavilion still wearing the same sweat-stained, dust-covered training jacket he had worn all day.
"Doreah, bring wine for me and our guests," Viserys told the Lysene servant girl. "The best we have."
Doreah moved at once. Moments later every hand held a horn cup.
No one in camp used goblets. Too fragile, too stupid, and the gold could be melted down for better use.
The wine was from the Arbor, taken as loot after a clash with the Gallant Men.
"Your Grace, I propose a toast," Saenara said with perfect grace, lifting her horn for all to see. "To the death of the usurper—and to your coming victory!"
"Thank you for the kind wish. I accept it with all my heart."
Inside, he felt none of the burning hatred a Targaryen prince was supposed to feel for Robert Baratheon.
In his first life, hadn't he himself rebelled against a king who didn't deserve the crown?
The black stag had simply been luckier than the black dragon—gold instead of a white arrow through the heart.
Mad King Aerys and arrogant Prince Rhaegar were strangers to him. He had no intention of mourning them.
Besides, if Prince Viserys Targaryen hadn't been forced to flee that night, he might never have fallen ill… and Daemon Blackfyre might never have been reborn at all.
So to Viserys, King Robert—fat and lazy as he was—remained a dangerous, serious enemy. Sooner or later they would meet.
Nothing more.
Of course he kept all of that locked behind his teeth.
In public he never forgot to curse the Baratheon and Lannister betrayal, pray daily for the usurper's death, and hum the new mocking song by Merrytongue Martin about the fat false king trying to mount his horse.
The singer who had joined them was an amusing little man. Asked for little, but told stories like a dream-weaver.
The guests couldn't hide their smiles. "This wine is excellent!"
Redwyne's finest could make even Volantenes forget the blazing sun.
"Please, sit." Viserys waved a broad hand. "As prince and host of this town I should offer you rest first, but the Triarchs made it clear the matter is urgent. So let us speak plainly. Afterward my men will take you to proper lodgings."
"A most reasonable suggestion," the steady old man Jaehaerys nodded. Since the first toast had come from the woman, Kentingar clearly was not the leader here. "Your wisdom exceeds that of many older maesters—men who sometimes cannot escape the weight of ceremony."
"Our business is indeed of the gravest importance," Saenara handed her horn back to the Lysene girl. The smile vanished from her face. "We come on behalf of Volantis to offer the Dragon Claw Company a contract."
"Against whom?" Viserys asked the one question that mattered most.
Amateurs always asked about pay first. Greedy sellswords rarely lived long enough to spend it.
The envoys exchanged a quick glance. Then Saenara Argalis spoke.
"A nomadic horde is moving west out of the east. At least three hundred thousand souls, led by a new khal—savage, ruthless, with no fewer than one hundred thousand warriors under his banners. We seek aid from any who will give it, and we promise rewards beyond measure."
Viserys kept his face blank, but his mind was racing.
This was no small thing. The Dothraki were called the most dangerous fighters in Essos for good reason.
Born in the saddle, raised in the saddle, masters of bow and horse, unmatched in speed and ferocity.
Cold-blooded and fearless. A khalasar almost never fled a field, but they never hesitated to butcher everything in their path.
Of course no army was invincible. Even Dothraki horsemen could be beaten—on open plains it had happened more than once.
Superior command, favorable ground, disciplined troops, personal valor—all could turn the tide.
Their charge was terrifying, but once the fight became a grinding melee they lost their greatest weapon: speed. Then heavy cavalry could cut riders down and infantry could drag them from their saddles.
But this horde numbered three hundred thousand.
"What do we know of this khal?" Viserys directed the question at the head envoy, but she signaled the third man to answer.
"His name is Drogo," said Menys, the one who had stayed grimly silent until now. "The grass has never seen such a monster. Huge, strong beyond measure, utterly without mercy. He bends his people's wild nature to his will. He calls himself the instrument of some savage prophecy and listens to no voice of reason."
"His victories?"
"He crushed the Lhazareen first. The Lamb Men were scattered, their leaders slain, their temples looted. He sold the slaves east, then struck Meereen. Burned everything outside the walls until the Ghiscari bled their treasury dry."
"Not unusual for a successful khal so far."
"Listen further, Your Grace. This Drogo is both feared and worshipped. His finest riders followed him across the Demon Road. He fell on the unwalled port of Tolos, put the entire city to the torch—houses, harbor, ships—everything looted and burned." The Volantene noble tried to hide the fear in his voice and failed. "On the very border of Vaes Dothrak he shattered two rival khalasars in a single day. The surviving crones call him 'the Shining Stallion' or 'the Savage Stallion.' After that… he went truly mad."
"I still don't understand why his eyes have turned toward the First Daughter."
"A month ago his envoys came demanding audience with the Triarchs. We refused to let them inside the Black Wall. So they sent slaves through every marketplace to shout the ultimatum, then vanished into the sunset." Saenara's voice was flat.
"What does the khal demand?"
"Every family of the old blood," Jaehaerys said, "must surrender one son and one daughter as slaves. If there is no son, the husband stands in his place. If no daughter, the wife. In addition he demands fifty thousand more slaves from the common people. Every temple must give one statue. And of course gold, silk, silver, fine horses, wine, fodder, food. Only if all this is delivered will he spare the rest."
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