The crude furnishings and total disregard for protocol put Viserys on instant alert. This was no ordinary social dinner. Varyon had an agenda.
Targaryen blood had taught him patience. His face showed nothing. He gave a small, courteous nod and took the seat the Triarch indicated.
His gaze flicked across the older man's tense shoulders. Years of dealing with sellswords and lords let him read the truth at once: the Protector of Volantis, the man who held the allied army in his fist, was quietly terrified.
"This wine comes from the Arbor—aged reserve," Varyon said, personally filling Viserys's cup. The deep red liquid caught the lamplight. "My grandfather bought it from the great-grandfather of the current Lord Redwyne. Father always said the old Redwyne was so tight-fisted he demanded ivory on top of the gold before he'd part with a single barrel."
"The Redwynes have always been that way," Viserys replied smoothly. "Trade is in their blood. They never miss a copper."
"You would know better than most—they are your sworn vassals," Varyon said. "A ruler must understand his subjects' nature, their strengths, and especially their vices." His tone sharpened. "And when to watch for their betrayal."
"Vices and betrayal can be settled with a blade," Viserys answered, tapping the rim of his cup. "The gods and the world both accept that justice. It's the fools who walk free—there are far too many of those."
"You speak truly, Your Grace. Your wisdom is something those fat-bellied magistrates will never possess." Varyon raised his cup and stood, respectful yet without a trace of flattery. "To Your Grace's return. To the Usurper's fall. May the red dragon of House Targaryen sit the Iron Throne once more!"
Viserys had served under Varyon for over three months. The Triarch had always been straightforward, a soldier first. Together they had crushed the greedy elephant party, checked arrogant officers, and foiled rival sellsword schemes. There had never been the slightest friction.
But Viserys knew Free City lords too well. Poison was cheap in their world. He did not hesitate—he lifted his cup and drained it first.
The gesture could not guarantee safety, but it eased the tension and lowered the other man's guard.
The wine slid down rich and strong, carrying the unmistakable deep perfume of Arbor red.
Viserys thought wryly that if the Redwynes had half the talent for war that they had for winemaking, the Usurper would already be rotting in a dungeon.
"Your Grace," Varyon set his cup down, face twisting with bitterness. "If every enemy could be cut down on the battlefield, the world would have far fewer troubles. But our true enemies are not the kos who charge with steel in hand. They are the wolves who smile while they sharpen their knives. Drogo and his Dothraki are simple—like whores on the street. Easy to handle. But the enemies hiding in the shadows… those are the ones who kill you."
"And who, exactly, does the Triarch mean?" Viserys asked lightly, every word probing for the real game.
He knew Varyon. The man was no master of intrigue; he was a soldier who preferred straight deals. If he was circling like this, he had been pushed to the edge.
Varyon had not touched the roasted duck. Its rich aroma filled the tent, yet neither man reached for it.
He looked up, eyes locking on Viserys with the cold appraisal of a slave-master examining new stock—or a captain sizing up fresh recruits. There was calculation there, and the grim resolve of a man who had already burned his ships.
At last Varyon spoke, shattering the heavy silence.
"Prince Viserys, you are rational, practical, an excellent commander, a brave warrior, a reliable ally. Most important of all, you are willing to risk everything when the reward is great enough—otherwise you would not be here today. I have a new proposal I wish to discuss with you."
"I am listening," Viserys said. The heart of the evening had finally arrived.
"When I accepted the title of Protector, I knew it was cursed. Since the Doom, every Protector of Volantis—even the greatest—has met a miserable end." Varyon's voice was low, heavy with fatalism. "I took the post because no one else could. Some were greedy, some cowards who fled at the first arrow, some lowborn and unfit to command. I did everything that needed doing for Volantis, for the First Daughter. I have never regretted it."
"But the First Daughter has long been ruled by the elephant-party merchants and moneylenders. They worship coin. They would sell their own mothers into slavery for a single copper. My war has cost them fortunes. They already hate me. When the Dothraki sacked Valon Therys and crossed to the west bank, they stayed silent. When the kos burned and slaughtered, they stayed silent. Now, on the eve of the decisive battle, their fangs are finally showing."
"Drogo's power is not yet broken," Viserys said. "They must know the danger. They cannot afford to turn on you completely."
"Precisely because the danger still exists, they will use even crueler means." Varyon's knuckles whitened around his cup. "Today I received word that Ganlaris is dead—strangled by his own guts. He is the third ally I have lost in a month, and he was the city's treasurer. I am out here behind the Black Wall while the elephants have already placed their creatures in charge of the treasury. They use the war as an excuse to tighten their grip on both coin and swords."
"They will not give you free rein."
"The elephants have been planning for the day after victory," Varyon said, voice icy with rage. "They have stripped me of allies, murdered my cousin—the commander of the city guard. Now slaves and players spread lies about you and me in every tavern. When we return triumphant, I will walk straight into the wolves' jaws."
"They would dare arrest the victor?" Viserys's brow furrowed.
"In Westeros perhaps not. In Volantis their methods are subtler." Varyon gave a bitter laugh. "They will not accuse me openly. No scandal. First they will crown me a hero—for one month, two, three… If I am wise and retire quietly to an estate on the Orange Shore, I might survive the summer. But the final gift waiting for me will be poison. A rare, traceless poison—something fitting for a victor. That is the reward I will receive for bleeding for Volantis."
Viserys saw the entire scheme at once.
Varyon Dortalos, the heart of the tiger party.
If he returned covered in the glory of defeating the Dothraki, he would shatter the centuries-old balance of power behind the Black Wall and cripple the elephants' commercial stranglehold.
The rich merchants would never allow it. Even before the final battle they had quietly cut away his support, poisoned his name. They would not kill him outright—they would make him politically dead.
That was the law of this age: even with an external enemy at the gates, the knives never stopped.
"Your Grace, I stand at a crossroads," Varyon leaned forward, eyes burning into Viserys's with desperate intensity. "One road leads to certain death, the shame of my allies, and total oblivion. The other promises power and glory—but I cannot walk it alone.
I need a reliable partner. I need an ally with the strength of true dragons.
Alone, I cannot defeat the elephant party. With you at my side, victory is certain.
I swear by the title of Protector of Volantis: if we succeed, we will share power. I will give you the strength you need to return to Westeros and set the red dragon of House Targaryen burning above every Usurper!"
Outside the pavilion, campfires crackled. The Rhoyne murmured like distant drums. The shadow of the coming battle lay heavy across the land.