Vargo's khas rode west into Myr, giving Varyon Dortalos the breathing room he needed.
The Triarch's finger rested on the map at the ruins of Valon Therys.
Once a proud riverside fortress, only blackened walls, collapsed towers, burned granaries, and blood-stained flagstones remained.
The Dothraki had turned the ruins into a forward base, stationing three scattered kos-bands there to control the middle Rhoyne waterway and choke the only route between Volantis's eastern and western forces.
Without retaking that ground, Varyon's army would stay trapped on the east bank, unable to threaten Drogo's main host outside the city walls.
"Send word," Varyon ordered. "Summon the captains of the Dragon Claw, the Company of the Rose, and the Storm Crows, the Unsullied commander, and the admiral of the river fleet. They are to attend council at once."
The messenger raised the command banner and galloped out of the pavilion, hooves shattering the quiet dawn.
…
War never gave the weak time to catch their breath.
Memories from his first life were still razor-sharp. The lords of the Westerlands and Riverlands had once believed victory was theirs—until three dragons blotted out the setting sun.
The rabble of Flea Bottom had cheered the very beasts that would burn them alive.
He too had stood on a battlefield certain of triumph—until the first bloodied raven-feathered arrow punched through his armor.
His foster-father, Aerys the Mad King, had ordered the gates thrown open to welcome the Lannisters, hoping an old friend would deliver the final blow to the Usurper. Instead he received wildfire and the screams of a city on fire.
Dwelling on the past was useless.
Three months ago the wind along the Rhoyne had carried only despair.
Volantis itself was sealed tight by Khal Drogo's khalasar. The Triarchs' army huddled in its eastern camp like frightened children.
"Your Grace, Triarch Varyon's herald is waiting outside the camp. He requires your immediate presence at the main pavilion."
Steady footsteps sounded behind him. Ser Jorah Mormont wore his old, battered armor, the black bear on his chest faded almost to nothing.
Viserys reached out and clapped the old knight's shoulder. "Come on, let's go meet our Triarch. And see what dirty little schemes the other two fox companies are cooking up this time."
…
The three great sellsword companies filled the pavilion. Every eye was fixed on the map.
Varyon wasted no breath on ceremony. He tapped the ruined fortress with the pommel of his dagger. "Gentlemen, we have been locked on the east bank for three months. Drogo is pinned outside the city. His kos-bands are scattered. Vargo's westward march has taken away one of their strongest forces. The three kos at Valon Therys are now isolated, their discipline crumbling. This is our one chance to break the stalemate."
He paused, sweeping every face in the tent.
"I intend a full offensive. We retake Valon Therys, open the Rhoyne waterway, cut the Dothraki retreat, and then encircle and destroy them."
The air in the pavilion tightened.
Viserys gave a single approving nod. No one understood the importance of this node better than he did.
Varyon's gaze moved to each captain in turn. His orders were crisp—route, hour, objective, responsibility—leaving nothing to chance.
"Dragon Claw, Prince Targaryen."
"You will be the central spearhead. Load your men onto barges and depart by noon tomorrow. Land secretly three miles downstream of Valon Therys and assemble under cover. At first light the following day you strike straight into the Dothraki central camp. Kill their commanding kos and shatter their command structure. Your company has the best mobility and the fiercest courage. You must break their leadership in the first minutes of battle."
Viserys nodded. "Done."
Varyon turned to Daario Naharis.
"Storm Crows, Daario."
"You will be the left-flank intercept. Move along the north-bank shallows and seize the ruined tower and high stone wall west of Valon Therys. Once battle is joined, you seal the western escape route. Not one man or horse gets through to Drogo's main force. Your men excel at raids and ambushes. That ground is yours."
Daario dropped his usual smirk. "They won't slip a single rider past us."
Finally the Triarch looked at the captain of the Company of the Rose.
"Company of the Rose."
"You will be the right-flank envelopment, working with the river fleet. Small boats will ferry your infantry to the south bank. Secure the fords and docks, burn every Dothraki vessel still afloat, and cut off all water escape. At the same time you pin the southern kos-bands so they cannot reinforce the center."
The Rose captain simply nodded.
Tasks assigned, Varyon turned to the Unsullied commander and the admiral, voice hardening.
"The Unsullied will serve as the general reserve. Commit when the fighting bogs down—hold the line, sweep up the remnants. The fleet will control the river at all times, providing arrow cover and ensuring the sellsword companies always have a path in and out."
He planted his palm on the map, voice cold as Valyrian steel.
"Remember: no prisoners. No mercy. Valon Therys must be scoured clean. Every Dothraki must die. Once this ground is ours we can march north, encircle the main horde, and show Drogo that Volantis is no lamb for him to slaughter."
No one spoke.
The captains turned and left the pavilion to prepare their companies.
…
"You don't have to do this," Eleonora Darennis said quietly, stepping up beside Viserys.
Night had swallowed the camp. Firelight danced across her face in shifting gold and shadow.
She wore light armor, posture straight as a lance, long hair tightly bound. All softness was gone—only the hard, honed edge of the battlefield remained.
Viserys leaned against a watchtower post, staring at the scattered campfires. "Some things have to be done."
"Lavaros is dead," Eleonora said, grief raw beneath the words. "He followed me for ten years—from Tyrosh to Volantis. Never left my side."
"I know." Viserys turned and met her eyes. "I will drown every enemy in the Rhoyne."
"You always say things like that," Eleonora smiled, the expression softening in the firelight. "Ice on your tongue, but you remember every man's life."
"Targaryens are like that," Viserys answered, smiling too—letting the mask of command slip for a moment, showing the rare gentleness beneath. "We're very good at being hated… and very good at remembering loyalty."
The night wind turned colder. Damp river mist drifted across the camp. Campfire wood crackled. Sentries' footsteps measured the darkness with steady rhythm.
The camp's noise slowly died, leaving only tired breathing and the soft snorts of horses.
Eleonora stepped closer. The space between them shrank until they could smell each other—iron, blood, powder smoke, and the faint spice she had picked up somewhere in Myr.
"Are you afraid?" she whispered. "Afraid of losing everything again? Afraid of going back to being nothing, running forever?"
Viserys was silent for a long moment, then looked up at the heavy, starless clouds.
"I have never been afraid of having nothing," he said, each word measured. "What I fear… is that in the end there will only be betrayal."
Eleonora's fingers brushed the back of his hand.
Cold steel gauntlet. Warm skin beneath.
"You are not alone," she breathed, the words light as wind yet unbreakable. "The Dragon Claw is yours. I… am yours."
Viserys turned and looked into her eyes.
No fear. No flattery. No calculation. Only honesty, loyalty, and warmth.
In this land of corpses and blood, in this hard-bitten camp, that feeling was precious—almost unbearably hot.
He did not speak. He simply lifted his hand and gently brushed aside the wind-tossed strands of hair from her forehead.
Callused fingertips traced her skin with surprising tenderness.
Eleonora did not pull away. She tilted her face up, gaze settling on his lips.
Night became their curtain. Firelight their only lamp.
Viserys leaned down and kissed her.
No frenzy. No haste. Only the quiet exhaustion of long war, the comfort found in the midst of ruin, two lonely souls clinging to each other in the dark.
Her lips were cool, tasting of smoke, yet they brought him a peace he had not felt in years.
His arms were solid and warm. Armor pressed against her shoulder, but she had never felt safer.
Lavaros's death, the cruelty of war, the pain of exile, the distant dream of home—all of it fell away for this one moment.
They were commander and captain, sellswords living blade-edge to blade-edge, battle comrades… and right now, simply two people who belonged only to each other.
"When the war ends," Viserys murmured against her ear, making a solemn vow, "I will take you back to Westeros. Back to Dragonstone. Back to the Red Keep. Back to the place that belongs to House Targaryen."
The campfire burned steadily. River wind whispered across the grass sea.
The breeze moved through the endless grass with a low, wild moan. The swaying blades looked fierce and untamed beneath the night sky.