A fleet of black-sailed warships cut through the wind.
Layer upon layer of dark sails billowed like the wings of a great dragon.
At the head of the formation sailed the Black Pearl, commanded by Davos himself. It was a vessel Viserys had personally gifted to House Seaworth.
Ever since Viserys had granted Davos a lordship, his eldest son had begun wondering whether he ought to find himself a suitably illustrious ancestor.
After all, that was what the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms did.
The Targaryens hardly needed mention—one could scarcely count their legendary forebears on both hands.
House Arryn claimed descent from a hero who rode a giant falcon to conquer the Eyrie.
House Lannister traced its origins to "Lann the Clever." Though in private many joked that Lann had conquered Casterly Rock with his third leg.
House Martell, meanwhile, traced its lineage back to the age of Nymeria.
On the deck, Dale chattered endlessly at Davos.
"Father, look—it's not just nobles. Even the Free Cities do the same. Valyria is gone, yet Volantis still calls itself the Eldest Daughter of Valyria.
Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh call themselves the Kingdoms of the Three Daughters.
And Braavos—whose ancestors were Valyrian slaves—calls itself Valyria's bastard daughter."
Davos glanced at his eldest son, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly.
A man often held a special affection for his firstborn. Dale had stayed at his side the longest, and his mind was sharp.
But fondness did not soften Davos's discipline.
He pulled off the soft leather gloves Viserys had given him and flicked Dale sharply on the back of the head.
"You little wretch, what good does thinking about nonsense like that do? Your ancestors were born in Flea Bottom.
His Majesty trusts us—what matters now is doing our duty properly!"
Davos looked back at the fleet behind him.
Ninety-six warships.
Nearly the entire core of Dragonstone's former fleet. The backbone of House Targaryen's remaining power.
Viserys had entrusted his most precious asset to Davos. That trust moved him deeply—and weighed on him just as heavily.
Over half a year had passed, and his hair had begun to gray.
Under Viserys's orders, he commanded three thousand sailors, over ten thousand men from Dragonstone, and several thousand strong women.
Under the pretense of "selling the fleet," he was to bring them to Volantis.
The true goal was to take these ships onward to Gohor.
But how exactly was the fleet supposed to pass Volantis? That question haunted Davos day and night.
Half of his white hairs came from that worry alone.
Force their way through?
The Volantene navy was no weakling.
The mouth of the Rhoyne River bristled with obstacles and patrols.
Sneak through?
With a fleet this large, Volantene eyes would have to be blind.
The harbor of Volantis was vast and deep, boasting it could swallow Braavos itself. Checkpoints were everywhere.
Pay a toll?
Volantis would never allow a second fleet to challenge its dominance of the Rhoyne. And even if tolls were possible, the price would be more than Viserys could ever afford.
Davos turned to his son.
"What do you think His Majesty plans to do to get this fleet past Volantis?"
Dale frowned at the distant horizon, deep in thought.
Davos watched him expectantly—at times, his son's mind worked better than his own.
After a long pause, Dale said, "Only the gods might know."
"Get to the back of the ship!" Davos barked. "You're irritating just to look at!"
Such a massive fleet could not escape notice.
Before Davos's ships even neared Volantis, patrol vessels had already spotted them.
The boarding soldiers bore tattoos of oars and blades on their faces.
Davos remembered—Volantis, the so-called Eldest Daughter of Valyria, followed Valyria's example closely in its use of slavery.
Soldiers, drivers, prostitutes, street sweepers—all were slaves.
Charioteers bore wheels on their faces.
Prostitutes were marked with tears.
Dung collectors bore flies.
"Seven save them," Davos murmured silently.
The Faith of the Seven forbade slavery.
"I am an envoy of House Targaryen," Davos announced to the patrol. "We bring this fleet for sale, to see whether Volantis has interest."
The slave-soldiers, trained but uninformed, hesitated.
This was no small fleet. They could not allow it any closer.
"Do not advance," the officer said. "I will report your purpose to the Triarchs. Until then, you will be treated as potential enemies."
"Understood," Davos replied. "Please inform the Triarchs that our king will soon arrive in Volantis himself."
"Noted."
"Targaryens selling a fleet?" croaked an old man with sparse teeth.
Volantis lay far from Westeros, yet the fall of House Targaryen had shaken the world.
Well-informed nobles could even reconstruct how the Iron Throne had been lost.
"I say we buy it," the old Triarch declared.
The proposal met immediate agreement.
"Indeed. A gift delivered to our door."
"A fine chance to expand our strength."
"Our navy is sufficient—we can refit them as merchantmen."
"Refit? Those are excellent warships! Turning them into merchant vessels would be a waste!"
The elderly Triarch, a leading figure of the Tiger Party, grew animated.
A strong military was his lifelong ambition—especially now, with war threatening again among the Three Daughters.
Upon hearing of the fleet's quality, his mouth practically watered.
"And what's wrong with merchant ships?" another snapped. "Our fountains need rebuilding too! Ships like those would sell easily."
"Fountains, fountains, fountains! What use are fountains in war?"
The old man scoffed at such decadence.
"Enough," a third Triarch interjected. "Whatever we intend to do with the fleet, we must first buy it. Arguing now is pointless."
The quarrel subsided.
He was right—the priority was acquisition.
"So," someone asked, "how much should we offer?"
They all knew the truth.
At full value, the fleet was worth at least three to four million gold dragons. In Volantene gold honors, that exceeded ten million.
Nearly a full year of Volantis's tax revenue.
"One million," the old Triarch said at last.
"Gold dragons?" someone asked.
"No," he replied calmly. "Gold honors."
___________
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