Around nine in the morning, the small hill beside the shallow ford on the west bank of the Upper Rhoyne was unusually lively.
Amman Greenvine's convoy snaked forward, escorted by Greenvine family knights wearing green cloaks and grey steel ringmail, guarding the precious supplies.
"About two hundred cavalry, plus some drivers and servants," Viserys estimated the Greenvine family's numbers. This was just the vanguard.
Assuming the standard lordly ratio of one cavalryman to ten infantrymen, the Greenvine family's strength was at least comparable to a major lord, not to mention their vassal villages.
Viserys had brought eighty cavalrymen. He had no numerical advantage, but he had positioned a unit of longbowmen and a reserve cavalry unit nearby. The situation was not hopeless.
Viserys wore black clothes and a red cloak, concealing the silver-scale mail underneath—a gift from the Andal villages, now put to good use.
Viserys's build was tall and explosive, not bulky, so the mail beneath his clothes was hard to detect.
At his waist hung a steel sword and a Valyrian steel dagger.
"If things go wrong, retreat and await my orders," Viserys told Argos Blackpine.
"As you command, Your Grace." Argos stroked his shockingly ugly greatsword. In his chainmail, he looked like a mountainous beast.
Besides Argos, Viserys brought two other guards; the rest of the cavalry waited.
"Are we going to hit those wine merchants, Your Grace?" Argos whispered. "They say they're thick as thieves with Tyroshi slavers and Pentoshi merchants—hardly like true Andals."
"We'll play it by ear," Viserys said. Even a brute like Argos knew the Greenvines' bad reputation. It seemed these capitalists were indeed detestable.
Viserys had his cavalry maintain a disciplined formation. The Greenvine family appeared eager and submissive.
The meeting place was a clearing between the two forces. Greenvine servants had laid out a thick travel carpet on the ground for the negotiation.
On the carpet sat a folding log table and camp chairs.
The cavalry formed two semicircles around the meeting area, positioned differently, hinting at the strangeness of the situation.
"Your Grace, King Viserys. You are the hope of the Andals, the Warrior incarnate. Serving Your Grace is the highest honor. The Greenvine family awaits your command." The bloated Amman Greenvine stepped down from his carriage and knelt before Viserys.
Beside him, a gaunt, pale middle-aged man in a green cloak—likely his eldest son and heir—stood.
"This is my eldest son, Jack Greenvine," Amman introduced, his smile so oily it seemed about to drip.
They are not warriors, Viserys thought, gauging the strength of the Greenvine father and son.
It seemed the Greenvine family had brought other experts.
"This is my guard, Argos," Viserys introduced. The tower-like Argos looked intimidating.
Amman Greenvine eyed Argos's physique. The dangerous one was Argos. Viserys might be dangerous too, but he was just a youth.
Viserys naturally noticed Amman's assessment. Good. Underestimating me will be your fatal mistake.
Argos was his camouflage and reference point; Viserys was the more dangerous opponent.
Flanking Lord Amman were two obese, beardless old warriors. Their faces were smooth as a baby's bottom, and they wore spiked bronze helmets.
"Are they Unsullied?" Viserys asked.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Amman said with a touch of pride. "Bought in Pentos. Though older, they are still the famed Unsullied. They cost a fortune. But after castration, life holds little joy for them. As they age, they just love sweets and get terribly fat."
Viserys nodded. "Interesting."
When Unsullied aged and grew fat, though still loyal, their combat effectiveness declined.
Amman's servants presented bread and salt to Viserys. He tasted it; salty and astringent, just coarse black bread.
Having partaken, Viserys was now under the protection of guest right beneath the Greenvine family's "roof."
"I have brought quite a bit of Andalos wine and grain. I apologize for making Your Grace come all this way," Amman Greenvine said apologetically.
"No trouble at all. Seeing so much wine and grain proves Lord Amman is truly a loyal servant," Viserys said coolly.
"I am glad you are pleased, Your Grace," Amman replied.
"Jack, you fool, bring some wine," Amman scolded his son. "A flagon of Arbor Gold, a flagon of pear brandy. None of our own Andalos sour wine—that's not for guests, certainly not for a King."
Jack Greenvine looked timid, as if constantly fearful.
"Please forgive him, Your Grace. My son has always looked forward to my death, but as you can see, I am still hale and hearty," the fat Amman said apologetically.
Viserys shrugged. "I understand."
Viserys watched Jack Greenvine leave. This was likely a signal. Viserys began considering the possibility of action.
Moments later, Jack returned to the carpet, followed by a wine bearer—a warrior with rust-colored hair and a hooked nose, radiating a scent of blood.
"Andalos hasn't been very peaceful lately," Amman said suddenly.
"Andalos is calm," Viserys didn't drink, remaining poised like a crouching cheetah.
"I don't see it that way, Your Grace. You are young and have been led astray by those around you. I think you need a place to cool off," Amman said with a sudden chill in his voice. "How about Greenvine Manor?"
"How dare you? Are you mad? I am the King!" Viserys feigned shock, his voice filled with anger.
"I am not mad. I am merely inviting you on a trip to the Greenvine family," Amman hissed.
"Now!" Amman roared, trying to retreat.
The servant posing as a wine bearer drew a concealed sword and attacked Viserys. The Unsullied seemed to wake from their stupor. Everything happened fast.
The rust-haired servant's reaction speed was faster than the elderly Unsullied; he was the main attacker.
"Seize the King," Amman ordered. The Unsullied moved to block Argos, thinking that stopping him would ensure success.
"Thanks for the gift. I have one for you too." Viserys reacted instantly; he had been preparing for a counterattack.
Argos also stood up rapidly.
Argos immediately flipped the folding table. Wine bottles and cups shattered on the carpet with a crash.
"Who dares approach!" Argos drew his sword and roared.
"Block the assassin for me," Viserys ordered.
The assassin tried to attack Viserys but was intercepted by Argos. Viserys paid no attention to the rust-haired killer; his target was the Greenvine father and son.
Viserys moved with astonishing speed—fast as a snake, swift as a deer.
Instead of retreating, Viserys advanced, launching a violent assault on Amman. Amman wasn't kidnapping him; he was taking down Amman.
"You!" Amman Greenvine was shocked. He hadn't expected Viserys to be so fast.
"Forgot to tell you, I'm actually the more dangerous warrior." Viserys kicked Amman, then drew his dragonbone dagger and drove it viciously through the fat man's hand, pinning it to the carpet and into the earth below.
The Valyrian steel dagger cut through flesh and bone effortlessly. Blood gushed, and Amman Greenvine's agonizing screams filled the air.
"My hand!"
"My hand!"
Amman pulled at the corner of Viserys's sleeve, revealing the silver-scale mail underneath.
Amman's heart sank. His long-planned conspiracy now seemed like a bad joke.
He had calculated everything, except for underestimating his opponent, Viserys.
In war, such an oversight is fatal.