Every man in the Dragon Claw had steel in hand, bodies locked in place, waiting for the Dothraki to make the next move.
The surviving horse-lords did not charge. They fell straight back into shouting at one another, blades half-drawn, on the verge of cutting each other down.
Viserys's face stayed stone. His eyes cut across every bronze face. "Who speaks for you now?"
The warrior who had just murdered his own kos spurred forward, back straight, presence unbroken. "I, Vargo, son of Gorgo."
Daario knew him.
The man had spent seven years selling his sword in the Free Cities, picked up a few words of the common tongue—thick, ugly accent.
He had also learned the sellsword habit of betrayal.
"I accept the Silver Stallion's terms," Vargo rasped, words clumsy but clear. "We will burn Myr's fields, kill Myr's men, and take everything."
"Good," Viserys nodded. "But you swear never again to set foot on Volantene soil."
"We will not touch the fire city," Vargo hissed. "Let Drogo storm the city he wants himself."
"Then the pact is sealed?"
"Sealed." Vargo thumped a fist to his chest in the warrior's oath. "I swear by the warrior's vow that my men ride north and west without troubling Volantis… Prince Viserys must swear the same."
"I swear by the warrior's vow that the Volantene army will not bar your march into Myr."
Viserys's voice was iron.
Vargo nodded once, wheeled his horse, kicked hard, and galloped away.
The rest of the Dothraki followed, swallowed by the night, leaving only Bono's corpse sprawled in the dirt and blood.
Dothraki honored only the strong and the living. The dead and the beaten got nothing.
"Whew…" Daario finally exhaled, shoulders dropping. "I pictured worse endings than that."
The slave translator collapsed to his knees, muttering frantic prayers. A moment ago he had been one heartbeat from dying.
"Can we trust this Vargo?" Jorah Mormont asked, frowning.
"Truthfully? No," Daario sheathed his arakh, voice dead serious. "Seven years as a sellsword—he's seen more betrayals than blades of grass. But he killed Bono for this deal. If he takes Myr, he becomes khal.
Sellswords follow coin. He knows keeping the pact pays better.
Besides, he swore the warrior's vow in front of his blood brothers."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he respects His Grace," Daario said, glancing at Viserys. "That's the highest honor a Dothraki can give someone not born in the saddle… They almost never break that oath."
"Whether he keeps it, we'll find out later," Viserys cut in, eyes darkening as they fell on Lavaros's body. Eleonora knelt beside it, face carved from ice. "Right now, how do we send our brother home."
Daario looked at the cooling Tyroshi corpse, then at Eleonora's tightly leashed grief.
Lavaros had been one of her oldest friends. If Bono had lived, the Sword Saintess would have peeled him alive.
A stupid death. A savage end.
"Ser Jorah," Viserys ordered. "Lash Lavaros to a horse. We will not leave him here. Back at camp we give him proper farewell rites."
"As you command."
Jorah moved forward and began the grim work with steady hands.
Night closed over the grass sea again. Cold wind stirred blood and dust. The bones hanging from the old oak swayed like silent witnesses to this filthy bargain sealed in blood and gold.
The Dragon Claw party turned their mounts and rode home in silence, leaving behind one dead kos and ground soaked black.
…
The same night still pressed down on the grasslands upstream of the Rhoyne. Cold wind whipped dust and half-dried blood as Viserys's party turned their horses and slowly left the old oak hung with skeletons.
Lavaros's body was lashed tight to a saddle, green beard hanging limp. The mouth that once loved jokes would never tease Eleonora about her vow again.
Eleonora rode in silence, knuckles white on her sword hilt. The Sword Saintess kept her rage locked deep.
Dothraki savagery, Bono's stupidity, the sudden betrayal—they had taken one of her first comrades.
Even Rageflame beneath her felt it, pawing the ground, nostrils flaring.
In Essos—from the western Free Cities to the eastern Dothraki Sea—it had always been eat or be eaten.
The Dothraki were nomadic warriors of the vast grass sea. Unmatched riders, deadly with the arakh, they believed in no gods—only strength and their horses. They lived by raiding under the greatest khal, each warband led by its kos. When a warrior died, he was forgotten, left to fatten the grass.
Volantis, the First Daughter, carried the blood and glory of fallen Valyria's Freehold.
Valyria had once conquered the world with dragons, only to be consumed in the Doom, leaving behind dragon-blooded heirs, an ancient tongue, and the ruins of empire.
Viserys Targaryen the Third's house was the only dragonlord family to leave Valyria before the cataclysm. They claimed Dragonstone in Westeros, then conquered the entire continent with three dragons and ruled the Seven Kingdoms for nearly three hundred years.
Until, a little over a decade ago, the Usurper's Rebellion toppled the Targaryen dynasty. Viserys and his sister Daenerys fled across the Narrow Sea to Essos.
"Your Grace, do we ride straight back to the main camp?" Jorah Mormont broke the silence.
"First to the Dragon Claw camp," Viserys answered, staring into the darkness, silver hair whipping in the wind. "Lavaros was one of ours. We will send him off ourselves. The elephant lords of Volantis are not worthy to mourn him."
The party rode on slowly, passing more villages the Dothraki had burned.
Daario Naharis rode at the flank, his three-colored beard still bright even in the dark.
The Storm Crows were just as infamous as the Dragon Claw—another sellsword company in Essos.
Loyalty here was measured in coin. Honor was survival.
Daario had seen too many betrayals, assassinations, and battlefield turncoats. Vargo killing Bono was nothing new to him.
Myr, along with Tyrosh and Lys, formed the Three Cities. They fought endlessly over the Disputed Lands, bleeding each other dry, yet always ready to pounce on weakness.
Now, with Volantis locked in war with Drogo, the Three Cities were quietly nibbling at Volantene territory. That was the real reason Triarch Varyon had been willing to pay any price to send Bono's khas straight into Myr.
One simple truth: let Dothraki blades carve your enemy's flesh.
Soon, distant pinpricks of firelight appeared.
The Dragon Claw camp came into view. Unlike the neat Volantene army, the sellsword camp was rougher, tighter—bonfires roaring, armor and blades scattered casually, the air thick with the smells of ale, roast meat, sweat, and powder smoke.
Soldiers rose and saluted as the prince returned.
Most were Westerosi exiles, Free City drifters, retired soldiers, even escaped slaves. Viserys had forged them with discipline, gold, and the name of dragon blood—from scattered rabble into a force that dared meet Dothraki steel head-on.
When they saw Lavaros's body across the saddle, the noise died instantly.
Green-bearded Rainbow had been with the company from the early "Valyrian Orphans" days under Eleonora, then joined Viserys. Cheerful, fierce in battle, beloved by all.
His death wiped every smile from their faces.
Eleonora dismounted, gently lifting her old friend's body from the saddle. She did not cry or scream. She simply stood there like a statue of ice.
Viserys dismounted too and stepped beside her, voice low. "He died like a warrior."
"He should have died charging on a battlefield, not in some filthy parley," Eleonora's voice was hoarse.
"A sellsword's death is never clean," Viserys said, looking at the firelit camp. "But we will make his death count. Bono is dead, Vargo rides north, Myr will burn. Volantis's flank is safe. We are one step closer to victory."
Jorah Mormont ordered men to clear a space and build a simple pyre.
In Essosi sellsword tradition, fallen comrades were not buried. They were burned, ashes scattered to the wind—forever free, unbound by earth.
Daario stood at the edge of the crowd, watching, and for once felt a rare stir of respect.
He had seen too many comrades left to rot like garbage in the wild.
The Dragon Claw's way with their dead made him think, perhaps for the first time, that this company truly was different.
"Your Grace, word from Volantis," a scout ran up and dropped to one knee. "Triarch Varyon is most pleased the negotiation succeeded. He has ordered the agreed seventy thousand golden dragons and two hundred Unsullied sent to our camp at once."
Viserys gave a small nod.
The Unsullied—slave soldiers from Astapor, trained from childhood with brutal discipline. Absolutely loyal, utterly obedient, fearless, immune to pain. The finest heavy infantry in Essos.
Two hundred Unsullied were worth more than gold to the bloodied Dragon Claw.
"Keep the gold for the war chest," Viserys ordered. "Assign the Unsullied directly to the infantry under Mormont's command."
"As you command."