The Volantenes had never understood punctuality.
This so-called "First Daughter of Valyria" loved to drape itself in the oversized robes of its dead mother-city. Its rulers moved with slow, deliberate arrogance, making everyone else bake in the sun while they enjoyed the discomfort.
As if keeping lesser men waiting somehow proved their ancient blood still mattered.
But today was different.
The envoys from the Free City had actually shown up on time.
That told everything.
They were desperate.
Still, as hosts, basic courtesy had to be observed. Potential employers needed to feel the right atmosphere.
"Welcome to Sunward Town." The knight's greeting was respectful but ice-cold, no warmth at all. "Who seeks shelter within these walls?"
Sunward Town was what the locals proudly called this dusty little settlement.
Legend said the first settlers had been guided here by the sun itself to fertile, peaceful land.
Complete horseshit.
In truth, the first wretches who pitched their tents here were escaped slaves who had survived the dragonlords' whips, or debtors and paupers no better than slaves.
They built their hovels, raised crude walls, and called it home.
Ever since, life and death had spun the same bloody wheel on this patch of dirt.
Dozens of such nameless towns dotted the Disputed Lands—never on any proper map, yet every sellsword company knew them well.
Captains from Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis stopped here to resupply, recruit fresh meat, and occasionally butcher the unlucky.
These shitholes survived only because they still served a purpose for the mercenary trade.
"Saenara Argalis, Jaehaerys Kentingar, Menys Taryar." The speaker was a woman no longer young but still striking, seated straight in a snow-white saddle. "Envoys of glorious Volantis, the First Daughter, seeking audience with Prince Viserys Targaryen."
"Sunward Town?" Menys barely hid the sneer on his face. "Our guide called this place something rather less flattering."
"People say many things," the knight answered dryly, unwilling to waste breath. "Few of them are worth hearing."
No man in the prince's service would openly call his own camp "The Whore's Nest" to visitors' faces—even if the name was brutally accurate and described the place perfectly.
"It's of no importance, Menys," said the eldest of the three, Jaehaerys Kentingar, smoothing things over. "If Prince Targaryen chooses to name his seat here, he has every right. We have introduced ourselves—may we have the honor of your title?"
"Ser Jorah Mormont." The knight no longer added "Lord of Bear Island." Old wounds didn't need salt. "Captain of the Dragon Claw Company. His Grace ordered me to escort you to him at once."
"Our business is urgent, Ser Jorah. We appreciate the efficiency," Saenara said. There was a subtle predatory pressure in her voice that put men on instinctive alert. "However, our retinue has been on the road for two months. They haven't slept under a proper roof or eaten anything better than wild fruit the entire way."
"They'll find taverns here—plenty of them. Quality depends on how deep their purses are." Jorah glanced once at the armed escort and knew exactly what these men expected. "Tell them to sheathe their steel. While in Sunward Town they are under Prince Viserys Targaryen's protection. There is no need for drawn blades."
Saenara gave a few crisp orders to her guards in High Valyrian.
The old blood of Volantis still demanded mastery of the dragonlords' tongue.
Jorah had spent years in exile and spoke several Essosi languages fluently, but he had neither time nor desire to study the dead speech of fallen kings. He caught only the important fragments:
No baring sharp steel.
Any man who started trouble with the "savages" would see his entire family expelled from the Black Wall.
Jorah understood perfectly.
If even Volantene nobles were forbidding their own people from clashing with "barbarians" on pain of severe punishment, then these envoys were in deep shit.
They needed something from Viserys badly—badly enough to swallow their pride and humiliate their own men.
Once the lady finished giving orders, Jorah spoke flatly, "Follow me."
He turned his horse without waiting and rode ahead, hooves clopping out the path.
These Volantenes clearly knew exactly whom they were coming to see. Otherwise they would never have shown up at noon in the middle of nowhere. They would have hired more "respectable" blades.
But the Dragon Claw Company had never done business with Volantis before.
All the "First Daughter" likely had were vague rumors.
Rumors were cheap.
These pampered nobles from behind the Black Wall had probably never set foot in a real sellsword camp before.
When they returned home, this little trip would make excellent dinner conversation.
The moment they passed the town gate behind their guide, they received their first education.
Three figures burst into the street—two men and a half-naked woman. The woman was bronze-skinned and terrified.
One man was rough-looking with a short sword—a fresh recruit, still green, drunk on the feel of steel in his hand. Too many sellswords never survived this stage; their first real fight planted them in the dirt.
"She's mine!" shouted the smaller one, a scrawny black-haired boy with a thick Northern accent mangling Valyrian. "I took her!"
"Can't handle your winnings, boy? She was yours. Now she's mine." The one holding the woman was a Lysene—golden-haired, slender, elegant, violet eyes flashing arrogant mischief.
"Stand down!" Ser Jorah barked.
Both men turned. The moment they saw the grim knight, their bluster vanished.
Normally he would have let them settle it themselves, but with important guests watching, starting trouble with a potential employer was stupid.
"Golden boy. Let her go. Now."
The Lysene looked disappointed but obeyed instantly, releasing the woman.
Jorah nodded. The man had clearly been here long enough to know the rules.
"Now both of you go see 'Giant' Rodrik. Tell him exactly what happened. He'll judge fairly." He jerked his chin at a passing figure. "Zale, watch them."
A massive dark-skinned Summer Islander nodded sharply. Four years of war had carved his face into something vicious.
Whether from fear of Zale's reputation or the sheer length of his blade, the two men didn't argue. They followed obediently.
"And you," Jorah turned to the victim. She was still trying to cover her bare breasts, shrinking from the stares of strangers and other sellswords. "Run back quick, before someone else claims you."
She needed no second telling. The barefoot woman bolted past the envoy party, sparking loud, crude laughter from the onlookers.
And that was exactly how the town had earned its other name.
The Whore's Nest.
---