The Triarchs could never swallow terms like that. Either Khal Drogo had deliberately made the ultimatum impossible, or he held city folk in such raw contempt that he genuinely didn't understand how civilized people bargained.
"Volantis has strong walls," Viserys said. "And you already know he's coming, so surprise is off the table. The Dothraki fear the sea the way children fear demons—he can't blockade you."
"But he'll burn everything outside those walls," Menys shot back. "Manors, fences, wineries, villages—both banks of the Rhoyne will go up in smoke. Sea trade will die. Merchants will run. Waiting for the savages to kill each other could take years. Volantis might survive, but it will rot. Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh are already circling our borders and trade posts like sharks. What do you think they'll do during a long siege?"
"And what if Lys and Tyrosh decide to starve us from the sea?" Kentingar added.
"The Triarchs are united as never before in a hundred years," Saenara said, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "Inside the Black Wall the old blood stands together like never before. Volantis will fight—and fight to win, not just to endure."
"We are children of Old Valyria," Menys began, voice rising. "We will not hide from filthy Dothraki horse-lords. Let the Ghiscari cower—they who have lacked courage for centuries—"
"But to win, Your Grace, we need blades, bows, and spears in great numbers," the white-haired elder cut his nephew off. "We must strengthen ourselves by every means. Your Dragon Claw Company has a name that travels far. We need fresh blood. That is why we have come to you. Help us, Your Grace, and you will see how generous the First Daughter can be to true friends and noble protectors."
"Who else have you hired as protectors?" Viserys asked.
He had every right to know who he would share blood and battlefield with. Any captain worth his salt asked the question, and a worthy employer didn't dodge it—especially when the contract could get them all killed.
"Volantis has already signed with the Company of the Rose, the Iron Shields, and the Thunder Spears," Menys answered at once. "Envoys are riding to the Free Company, the Warrior Maids, and the Storm Crows. The Triarchs expect agreements with them as well."
A terrified Triarchy was scrambling to stitch together a sprawling, ugly alliance.
The Storm Crows' light horse were masters of feint and raid but famous for vanishing the moment things turned sour.
The Company of the Rose—Northmen—fought like demons one-on-one but had no discipline. Good killers, terrible soldiers.
The Warrior Maids were of limited use. The Iron Shields could hold a line under the worst arrow storm ever loosed.
The Thunder Spears loved a thunderous charge but had never been known for numbers.
The Free Company took every man who could grip a spear and hoped sheer weight would crush the enemy.
Welding that mess into one army would be a nightmare.
"How many men do you plan to field against the horde?"
"The Triarchs will keep thirty thousand swords inside the city—mostly citizens and our armed slaves, including the Unsullied within the walls." Menys seemed to have an answer ready for every military question. "Another forty thousand will fight on the open plains outside."
"The Triarchs?"
"Our noble Triarch of the Tiger party, Varyon Dortalos, has taken personal command of the campaign," Menys explained. "Your Grace will of course keep command of your own men, but per the contract you will be required to follow the battle plans of the city's Protector, Dortalos."
"So you can order us into a suicide charge against the main Dothraki camp? Forgive me, but we're not the Company of the Rose—we're not in any hurry to meet our ancestors."
"Oh," Saenara cut in smoothly, "rest assured, Varyon will demand no such foolishness. We are not new to hiring companies. We understand the consequences of such terms. No one of the old blood wishes to lose good swords in front of a Dothraki horde."
"Besides, Dortalos distinguished himself against the pirate lords of the Basilisk Isles," Jaehaerys added quickly. "The other two Triarchs would never have granted him the title of Protector if they doubted his judgment."
Viserys asked the obvious question. "You listed many companies, Menys. Some I've fought beside, some have fallen to the Dragon Claw, some I know only by rumor. But… where is the Golden Company?"
Viserys had to fight down a bitter laugh. He was painfully aware of how absurd his situation had become.
The company founded by Aegor Rivers—the last true banner of the Blackfyre cause, made up of the sons and grandsons of his friends and comrades—yet to them he would always be the hated enemy, the bloodline they had sworn to destroy.
The finest sellsword legion on the continent, and he could never ally with them.
If Volantis managed to hire the Golden Company, the Dragon Claw might find itself in real trouble.
But his worry vanished with the next words.
"We tried to negotiate and seemed close, but fate laughed. Myles Toyne died. Their new captain-general, Harry Strickland, is a coward and a miser. He ended every talk. He says we are doomed and refuses to lead the Bitter Steel to certain death. He also says he will not obey anyone's orders—not even his employer's."
"Many captains I know would agree with Strickland's reading," Viserys nodded. "The man was never famed for courage, but he has always been excellent at coldly weighing strength against ability. That is how he survived. And that is why I believe he could command the Golden Company."
"You ask us to face the largest Dothraki horde in Essos history. Even if we win, most of us will never see the victory. Sellswords will fight for Volantis, but they may not be eager to leave their bones in a foreign field for the First Daughter."
Saenara took control again. "That is precisely why Volantis is prepared to pay any price to give them confidence and courage. Yes, men like Strickland will call it hopeless. But we ask protection from more honorable captains and are ready to reward their service accordingly."
"Assuming we agree, what exactly can you offer me and my Dragon Claw?" Viserys gave them a small, almost imperceptible smile. "You should know—dragons never complain about having too large an appetite."
The lady diplomat cleared her throat and spoke in a low, confiding tone. "First, Your Grace, you and your princess sister will be recognized as members of an old blood family. You will receive a magnificent estate in the heart of Volantis and the right—as legitimate heirs of glorious Valyria—to live freely inside the Black Wall. Under our protection the usurper's dogs cannot touch you."
Saenara paused, then continued. "Your captains who are not of Valyrian blood will also receive townhouses within the city. They may visit you freely and, if needed, reside in your estate."
Viserys barely held back a snort. Volantene nobles lowering themselves to accept Targaryens? The First Daughter truly was desperate.
"Of course, there is gold," Jaehaerys added. "Five hundred thousand golden coins. If coin is inconvenient, we can pay in goods. If you have interest in the flesh trade, we can supply slaves, rare curios, and the finest silks. Better to pay protectors a portion than lose everything—including your life—to plunderers."
"Furthermore," Menys finished, "all plunder taken from the Dothraki camp belongs to the sellswords who seize it. Volantis claims no share. Distribution is your right and privilege."
That last clause was more admission of reality than generosity. If the Triarchs forbade looting, no company would touch a contract this dangerous.
Of course, if only a hundred men of the entire company survived, the Volantenes would rewrite that clause the same day.
"So, Your Grace, we have made our offer and answered your questions," Saenara said, closing the matter. "Now we await your reply."
Looking at the three visitors, a storm raged inside Viserys.
The contract was undeniably tempting—a once-in-a-lifetime chance. But the risk was monstrous.
Fighting an ordinary khalasar was already a brutal, thankless, often fatal job. Now they were talking about challenging the largest horde in living memory, led by a savage monster, while standing shoulder-to-shoulder with yesterday's enemies, famous cowards, and useless two-legged cattle, all under Volantene arrogance.
It would be the hardest fight of his second life. But the rewards could be staggering.
The Dragon Claw had begun as a dream in a rat-hole tavern.
Some of his men dreamed only of riches and leaving the filthy slums of the Free Cities forever. Others wanted revenge on old foes. Some chased glory and a truly free life—simple, common reasons men became sellswords.
But Viserys Targaryen himself—the Dragon Claw Prince—dreamed of going home.
At first glance he should have run from the First Daughter's offer. He could bury every hope there.
Yet he knew perfectly well that seven thousand—or even ten thousand—men were not enough to tear the Iron Throne from the usurper. The Crownlands alone could raise twice that number.
He could not sail west without a solid, reliable base and real power behind him.
And Volantis… might be able to give him exactly what he needed.
A curious paradox: to ride west, you must first ride east.
"The answer will be given to you at sunrise tomorrow."
At those words the Volantene envoys rose.
Loyal Ser Jorah Mormont had stood guard outside. He let the visitors leave, then stepped into the pavilion.
Prince Viserys gave the order at once. "Ser Jorah, summon everyone."
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