Viserys unrolled the parchment and scanned it at a glance. A derisive snort escaped his nose. "I've never seen a single letter pack so much begging, threats, and sniveling cowardice into one scroll. My condolences that you actually have to answer this garbage word for word."
"These spineless bastards would hand their own wives and daughters over to the Dothraki as bed-slaves if it meant their fat asses could stay planted on silk cushions," Varyon spat, voice thick with contempt. "The only reason they haven't surrendered yet is they know even that wouldn't save them from Drogo's rage. But one line in this hysterical drivel is true… our situation is getting worse by the day."
"Khal Drogo is stuck outside Volantis with nowhere to go," Viserys said calmly, setting the scroll aside. "His raiding bands hit us constantly, but they're not a mortal threat. We throw back every probe. In a little while we'll cross the river and take the fight to them."
"The nobles don't want small victories—they want an instant, glorious triumph. They're demanding I march the entire army across the Rhoyne and lift the siege right now." Varyon's knuckles whitened around his goblet. "Most of my soldiers are freshly conscripted peasants and slaves who can barely hold a sword straight, let alone fight a field battle. And the deadliest threat right now isn't even the Dothraki."
Viserys's eyes sharpened like Valyrian steel. "Let me guess… your dear Free City neighbors smell blood and want to feast?"
"Exactly!" Varyon's face darkened. "Myr and Tyrosh are already stirring—reports say they're eyeing the Disputed Lands. Lys is whispering the same poison."
"Free City whores always swarm when they scent weakness," Viserys said coldly, the rough edge of a lifelong sellsword in his voice. "They couldn't have picked a better moment. While you and Drogo bleed each other dry, they'll slide the knife in from behind."
"In normal times these little games wouldn't worry me," Varyon growled. "Volantis's swords and ships outnumber Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys combined. Only Braavos could match us. But right now we're wounded and can't fight on two fronts. And they know it better than anyone."
"So that's why you summoned me," Viserys said, cutting straight to it.
"Correct." A cold glint of intrigue flashed in Varyon's eyes. "We can set a trap that will make Myr and Tyrosh think twice—while pulling the thorn that's been bleeding us for months."
"I'm a sellsword, hired to kill Dothraki," Viserys said flatly, "not to pick fights with other cities or throw my men away for nothing. The Dragon Claw's interests come first."
"I won't ask you to break the contract," Varyon replied, a sly smile curling his lips. "I only need you to take part in… a negotiation."
"Negotiation?" Viserys raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "With whom?"
"With the Dothraki kos, Bono," Varyon said slowly, watching Viserys's face like a hawk.
Viserys nearly choked on his wine.
That was the last answer he had expected.
"Bono?" He set the goblet down hard. "The same kos your whole army chased for two months without catching so much as a hair, while he cost you hundreds of men? You want to negotiate with him?"
"He has spilled too much of our blood," Varyon admitted, "but circumstances force every man to make choices he hates. Look here." He stabbed a finger at the large campaign map spread across the table, right at the region north of the Rhoyne and east of the Disputed Lands. "My army holds the eastern bank. We've blocked the Dothraki from pushing south—but we've also accidentally shielded Myr's lands. That gains us nothing. Bono's khas would much rather raid Myr's rich, lightly defended villages and fields than trade blows with us."
Viserys leaned over the map, eyes tracing Myr's coastal towns and grain fields. He saw the plan instantly. "You want to let Bono's riders slip through your lines into Myr territory. That rids you of a major headache and leaves Myr too busy saving its own skin to grab pieces of the Disputed Lands."
"Precisely," Varyon nodded. "But Drogo will never allow one of his strongest kos to abandon the main fight and go raiding on his own."
Viserys said nothing, but his mind was already racing.
The farther north Bono's khas traveled, the farther they would be from Ten-Day Town.
Daenerys was hidden there, at the mouth of the Rhoyne—protected by Volantene troops and the hand-picked elite knights he had left with her. Still, Dothraki arakhs didn't care whether their victims were highborn or low.
Every mile Bono moved away was another layer of safety for his sister. That alone made this worth considering.
"Drogo will never agree," Varyon continued with a wolfish grin. "But the Dothraki are not one iron fist. Drogo takes too much loot and gives too little to his captains. Bono already has a crowd of angry riders whispering in his ear, urging him to break away and strike his own deal. If you can make that happen, our pressure drops by half."
"I'm a soldier, not a silver-tongued diplomat," Viserys said, looking up. "Don't you have envoys for this?"
"I chose you because you are not a diplomat," Varyon answered firmly. "The Dothraki despise flowery speeches. They respect only strength. You slaughtered ten thousand of them at Valysar. Every rider in Bono's camp knows your name. Our envoys could talk until their tongues fell out and the horse-lords would still laugh. But you—a warrior, the commander who beat them—might actually make them listen."
"Or they might decide I'm the man who shamed them at Valysar and take my head as a trophy on the spot," Viserys said, frowning.
The canyon victory had been costly. Jorah's spearmen alone had lost more than a thousand men—a crippling blow for a sellsword company of their size.
Varyon had allowed them to recruit replacements from the surrounding lands, but those pressed farmers, vagrants, and slaves were nothing but living shields—cannon fodder for Dothraki blades and hooves. They could never replace hardened veterans.
If he rode alone into Bono's camp of fifteen thousand bloodthirsty riders, he would never ride out again.
"My people have arranged everything," Varyon said calmly. "The meeting will be on neutral ground. Each side brings a small retinue—no more than ten men. Bono brings his trusted captains. You bring yours."
"You expect me to trust a Dothraki oath?" Viserys's voice dripped with mockery. "That might be the funniest thing I've heard all year."
"A middleman has staked his own head on your safety."
"Who?"
"Captain of the Storm Crows—Daario Naharis." Varyon spoke the name slowly. "You know him."
Viserys's face twisted into a sour grimace, as if he'd bitten into something rotten.
Of course he knew Daario Naharis—the flamboyant sellsword with the ridiculous three-colored beard, the silver tongue, and the swagger of a cheap mummer.
They had served the same paymaster more than once. Every encounter had ended in bad blood and bitter parting.
In Viserys's eyes, Daario belonged in a king's court as a jester—good for nothing but wit and whoring.
"Your face says it all," Varyon chuckled. "Old grudge, I see. But you two can work together. To ease your mind, I'll pay you fifty thousand golden dragons—half in advance, in good silver."
"One hundred thousand," Viserys shot back without hesitation. "Negotiating with Dothraki is sticking your hand in a wolf's mouth. Double the risk."
"One hundred thousand for talk, not storming a castle? Sixty thousand—my final offer."
"You yourself said I'm the only man Bono will listen to… less than ninety thousand and you can find someone else."
"You're the best choice, not the only choice… Sixty-five thousand, in honor of your Targaryen blood."
"Eighty-five thousand. I won't risk the last dragon blood for nothing."
"Seventy thousand… final price. No more."
"Seventy thousand," Viserys countered, "plus two hundred Unsullied under my direct command, win or lose the talks." His eyes locked on Varyon like a predator.
The Triarch weighed the demand for a long moment, then gave a single sharp nod. "Done. Half the gold delivered immediately. The rest when the negotiation concludes."
"Agreed." Viserys extended his hand.
They clasped again. In the warmth of their palms lay all the cold scheming of the Free Cities and the burning ambition of an exiled dragon.
Outside the pavilion, campfires crackled. The distant murmur of the Rhoyne drifted on the night wind. The army still roared with life.
But in that tent, the secret negotiation that would shape the war, the fate of cities, and the future of House Targaryen had just begun.