The air inside the pavilion grew thick enough to choke on. Firelight from the camp slipped through the seams and painted broken shadows across the ground. The rich scent of Arbor red and roasted duck could not hide the sharp edge of murder hanging between the two men.
Viserys kept one fingertip resting on the rim of his cup, eyes cold and steady on Varyon. He offered no retreat and went straight for the throat.
"Then tell me—how exactly do you plan to beat them?"
Varyon did not answer at once. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips, the smile of a politician who had learned to speak in half-truths.
"Battle plans are shared only with those who sign the contract and truly commit."
"Are we talking about operations in the Disputed Lands or something on the Shivering Sea?" Viserys cut in, voice sharp as Valyrian steel. "No more dancing. We both know this is conspiracy. You've been honest with me; I'll return the courtesy. The Dragon Claw is not mine alone—it belongs to House Targaryen. It is the last weapon we have to reclaim Westeros and restore our laws. You want vengeance for your friends. I have promises to keep—to my sister, to my ancestors, to the dead. I will not gamble everything on half-formed schemes. Triarch, I respect you, but I will not risk my entire strength for vague promises. If you want me, lay out the full plan. If not, we can enjoy this duck and talk about the weather."
The words came harder than Viserys had planned, yet they struck exactly where they needed to.
He had made his position clear: full disclosure or nothing. No negotiation.
The sudden steel surprised Varyon for a heartbeat. He had already revealed too much; there was no turning back now.
The Triarch lowered his voice to a venomous whisper and began laying out his design.
"The elephant party's greatest weakness is their own power.
Centuries of rule have made them addicted to the city's old traditions. They cannot live without them.
Those self-proclaimed pure-blooded Valyrians are cowards at heart. They only know how to follow the herd.
That is exactly what I will use against them."
"After we defeat Drogo, I will petition the other two Triarchs and all the Fathers of the City for a triumphal procession through the Black Wall.
I will invoke ancient Valyrian custom. No Protector has ever been denied that honor.
The elephants, desperate to show the neighboring cities and the rabble how strong Volantis still is, will not dare refuse.
Then I will lead the entire army from the outer walls to the Black Wall. The gates will open according to ritual.
Once inside, tradition demands the procession splits.
You and your men will be sent to celebrate within the city, pretending to court the elephants' favor, while I enter the Black Wall alone to receive their false congratulations—and the death they have prepared for me."
Every Triarch of Volantis carried the soul of an actor. Varyon was no exception.
He paused deliberately, letting the heavy silence press down, making every word hit harder.
"That is what the elephants expect. We will rewrite the ending." A predatory smile spread across Varyon's face, eyes glittering with the desperation of a man who had already bet everything. "Your Grace, you and the Dragon Claw will follow me straight through the Black Wall.
One command, and we cut the head from the snake.
The elephants have grown soft on poison, plots, and court games. They have forgotten what steel feels like. We will remind them of the oldest law of all."
"You mean to make yourself emperor?" Viserys asked, remembering the history after Valyria's Doom.
"No," Varyon waved the idea away, a touch of regret in his voice. "That age is long dead. I do not seek sole rule. Volantis will still be governed by three Triarchs—only the faces will change."
He gave a cold little laugh, full of murder. "We will make the elephants pay in blood. No need for the slaughter your Lion of the Rock performed in Westeros. Just remove the leading magistrates and their inner circle. Break their ambition, redraw the lines of power. Let them stay quiet and mind their trade after the war. I have no wish to destroy the city. I simply refuse to let its rot destroy me."
Viserys weighed the plan in silence. It was dangerous, but not suicidal.
The Black Wall's gates were massive; they could not be closed in haste. A sudden strike would have overwhelming advantage.
If Varyon placed the Dragon Claw at the head of the column and the elephants remained unprepared, the odds of success were excellent.
Varyon needed sellsword strength untainted by old traditions and unbought by the elephants. That was why he had come to an outsider.
Varyon had always been generous. Payment would not be stingy. Still, Viserys needed to know exactly what he would gain.
"Your plan may work, but it requires my Dragon Claw's swords and spears to do the killing. Even without this, we would earn rich spoils from the war. Why should I risk everything and raise the stakes?"
"Merchants understand that mutual profit is the only lasting bargain. Betraying a partner in something this large gains nothing," Varyon admitted openly, the Free City trader's instinct plain in his blood. "Your Grace, I will grant you the entire palace and estates of Lennaris. That fat pig has long deserved death. Your men may loot his house clean, and the city treasury will pay you far more than your contracted wages."
"And the rest of the elephant party's holdings will be divided among the others?" Viserys pressed.
"Correct. The Dragon Claw alone cannot accomplish this. The spoils must be shared."
"Who else have you approached?"
"Weymond Dorya, my cousin, commander of the Sons of Valyria—he lives for battle. Infantry commander Nafios is also willing. The last surviving captain of the Storm Crows has already agreed. The captain of the Company of the Rose loves luxury and has taken my heavy gifts. I could have done this with them alone, but for certainty I came to you. Do not take offense at the order of invitation. It was only circumstance."
"Only these men?"
"Six of us, counting myself. Six can hold together. Seven becomes sand. I have had enough of mobs in this war."
Viserys reached for the bottle and poured himself a second cup of Arbor red.
He was not thirsty. He simply needed the small motion to hide his calculations.
Varyon continued, offering the sweetest bait of all. "You once said the Dragon Claw is your hope of going home. But you know a single sellsword company cannot conquer Westeros. The Usurper sits the Iron Throne and can crush any invasion. Yet if you become my ally and help me take Volantis, the First Daughter will give you everything you need to reclaim your throne."
"You would send troops?" Viserys countered at once. "I doubt the other Triarchs would agree."
"I will not send Volantene soldiers to die for you," Varyon said. "But war is never won by blades alone… You need gold, ships, weapons, training grounds, supplies. The barren Disputed Lands cannot provide it. Volantis… can give you everything."
"And when Westerosi envoys arrive demanding my expulsion—or my head—what will Volantis do? All my preparations will turn to dust."
"The heirs of the Valyrian Freehold do not betray their allies," Varyon said, pausing to let the promise sink in. "My supporters have already been cut down by the elephants. I need someone like you. The elephants offer you only citizenship and a seat inside the Black Wall. I offer you the highest honors in southern Essos—palaces, power, and the chance to avenge yourself on the Usurper. Why you? Because among all the sellswords, you alone carry pure Valyrian blood. Dorya is tainted by scandal, Nafios is lowborn. Only you are worthy of this honor. Besides, you have never wanted a few rocks in the Disputed Lands. You want the whole of Westeros."
Viserys lowered his eyes and stayed silent, weighing every risk and reward. Accepting meant there would be no way back.
Yet becoming one of Volantis's Triarchs, holding the reins of the richest city in Essos, was an opportunity the exiled prince had never dared dream of.
The dangers were equally lethal. Varyon would be the senior partner. The Triarch's seat required regular re-election. Poison, assassins, and the crushing burden of ruling a city would never leave his shadow.
But Varyon spoke the truth.
Without a solid base, without endless gold, he would never sail west.
The sellsword life was too uncertain to support a war of restoration.
Seizing this chance, tying himself to the tiger party, taking real power—that was the only road to Targaryen revival.
After a long moment Viserys looked up, eyes steady, and spoke two words.
"I accept."
Half a lifetime of wandering, of moving from camp to camp—he was tired of drifting.
It was time to put down roots and make the final preparations for the war that would bring him home.
"Excellent. You will never regret this decision," Varyon said, the satisfied smile of a merchant who had just closed the deal of his life. He gestured toward the duck that had long gone cold. "Now, Your Grace, let us enjoy this meal. Even the cruelest gods would call it a sin to plot on an empty stomach."
The roasted meat was crisp and tender, rich with juices, but the real feast was the conspiracy being sealed inside that tent.
Outside, campfires crackled. The Rhoyne murmured like distant drums. The shadow of the coming battle grew heavier with every passing hour.
And in the gathering dusk, a plot that would upend Volantis and lift House Targaryen back toward its throne was finally set in motion.