"Spare me the formalities, Ser Jorah."
Viserys gave a tired half-smile. The violet eyes still carried the heavy weariness of a day spent wading through blood, yet the old razor-sharp glint burned beneath it. "Tell me—what do you think of this little trophy?"
His fingertips stroked the massive golden cup. The harpy inlaid with gems glared back, whip and manacles clutched in its claws. The gold was thick, heavy, unmistakably the work of Slaver's Bay aristocracy.
"Truly a fine piece," Jorah answered, voice low. "Clever craftsmanship." He paused, then drove the needle home. "Still… it reeks of Ghiscari ostentation. Looks better in Meereen than at the mouth of the Rhoyne."
Viserys laughed softly. "The dragonlords once ground the old Ghiscari Empire into dust." He handed the cup to a waiting black-haired spearman, who accepted it with reverent care and placed it on the growing pile of spoils. "Every scrap of their wealth became Valyria's. I guarantee they collected hundreds of these cups. The cities of Slaver's Bay today are nothing but ragged corpses dressed in the empire's old finery—poor, broken, and proud of it."
He looked straight at Jorah, voice calm and certain. "Trust me, Ser Jorah. My ancestors knew exactly how to handle trinkets like this. So do I."
"The glory and deeds of Old Valyria have never been forgotten," Jorah said carefully. He was no schemer, but he knew the simplest truths. "Yet even dragonlords were not immortal. They bled, they died, and their empires still fell."
The former lord of Bear Island never spoke of the conspiracy in the open. The camp crawled with ears—informers, spies, whisperers. Only the seventh hell knew how many.
But since the prince had brought up history…
Jorah leaned in, lowering his voice. "How exactly did the dragonlords divide a dead man's wealth? Did they give it to widows and orphans, to poor cousins, offer it to the gods… or did they simply swallow it all themselves?"
The violet eyes flared with the familiar flame of naked ambition. Viserys understood every unspoken word.
"My ancestors were no different from you or me," he answered quickly, each word light yet weighted with iron. "The strong take what they want. That is the oldest law. The wealth buried with the dead stays buried. But the plans they forged in life? Those do not die with them. Someone always steps forward—someone with dragonfire in his blood and steel in his hand—to take the dead man's place and carry the plan onward."
The massive stone that had been crushing Jorah's chest finally rolled away.
He had his answer.
Viserys had no intention of abandoning Varyon Dortalos's plan—even though the Triarch now lay dead on the field.
And from the way the prince spoke, the scheme had not merely survived. Viserys had become its greatest beneficiary.
When it was finished, Jorah Mormont would receive his own share of glory and gold—the exact outcome he had hoped for.
"My prince, on my way here more than a hundred men already asked to join the Dragon Claw," Jorah continued smoothly, reporting the fresh battlefield reality. "Volantene citizens, veterans from the Company of the Rose, even remnants of the Iron Shields—every stripe of soldier wants to serve under you now."
"Eleonora says her tent has been packed with the same requests all night. Wood was cornered by an entire company of Volantene archers who want to ditch their old banners and eat at our table…" Viserys sounded unsurprised, almost bored. "Daario Naharis and Kelwan of the Freeborn came to me in person, begging to be taken in."
None of it was unexpected.
The Storm Crows and the Freeborn infantry had been gutted. Leaderless and bleeding, they faced slow starvation or the mercy of rival captains. Far better to swear to a commander who won every fight and showered his men with gold and glory.
And Daario and Kelwan were bringing intact companies. Real fighting strength. Viserys knew exactly how valuable that was.
Jorah was about to say more when a frantic shout cut him off.
Loren Rayne came sprinting from the western side of the camp. The newly-made standard-bearer had proven his courage in the day's slaughter. Street-born or not, the man had earned respect. His voice, however, still carried like a war-horn across a field of corpses.
"My prince! Urgent! You must come with me right now!"
Viserys looked up, perfectly calm. "What could possibly make you run like the Others themselves are behind you, Loren?"
"You have to see it yourself! You have to come!" Rayne's voice trembled with barely-contained excitement. "The lads are guarding it, but if those Volantene pigs sniff it out—gods, we can't wait!"
Viserys rose in one fluid motion, all trace of exhaustion gone. The speed and power in that movement would have made any warrior in Essos jealous.
"Lead the way." His tone left no room for argument. "Ser Jorah, Bennel, Tihar—with me. Donnelos, Alfred, stay here and guard my spoils."
No need for more guards. In this freshly conquered camp, no man alive would dare touch the property of the warrior who had slain Khal Drogo and now commanded the entire army.
Jorah exhaled in relief. The destination was close. They passed a few collapsed tents and reached a strangely shaped pavilion. Two burly sellswords stood at the entrance—the guards Rayne had mentioned.
The moment they saw Viserys they bowed low and pulled the flap aside.
Inside, the air was thick with heavy incense—sharp enough to almost drown out the battlefield stench of blood and rot. This had clearly been Drogo's private shrine, the place where the khal and his kos prayed to the grass gods for victory and strength.
The gods had not listened.
Jorah's first thought was pure confusion. Why bring the prince here?
The tent was almost empty. No gold, no jewels, nothing worth looting. It looked completely out of place beside the treasure-stuffed pavilions outside.
Then a terrible suspicion flashed through his mind. Had Rayne been bought by the elephant party? Was this an ambush?
Jorah's hand flew to his sword hilt, knuckles white, eyes sweeping every shadow.
The next second his gaze landed on the brazier in the center of the tent, and every suspicion vanished.
Nestled in the cold ashes lay three dragon eggs.
Emerald green. Snow white. Black as midnight. Each shell covered in the natural whorls and scales described in every ancient scroll and maester's tome—the sacred relics of House Targaryen.
Nothing else in the world carried that same crushing weight and majesty.
Jorah's heart slammed against his ribs.
Rayne had not set a trap. He had found true, priceless treasure in the blood and mud.
The three men had been smart enough—and scared enough—to realize that hiding dragon eggs in this wolf-den of a camp would get their throats cut before dawn. So they had sent the smoothest talker, Loren, straight to Viserys, hoping for reward and protection.
Knowing their prince, they had chosen perfectly.
Viserys's gaze locked on the three eggs. Only iron will kept the shock and wild joy from flooding his face.
He walked forward slowly, fingertips brushing the shells. The cool, heavy touch traveled up his arm and into his bones.
"How did you find them?" His voice carried the faintest tremor.
"We were the first ones through the flap, Your Grace," Loren answered at once, pointing to his two companions. "Dunk, Marvin, and I figured a shrine decorated with horse skulls had to hold something valuable. Like the poor in Essos who'd rather starve than skip their temple donation."
"We were wrong," Marvin growled, still annoyed. "Not a single copper. Not even a decent idol. Bunch of uncivilized savages!"
"Then we found these…" Dunk began, the big, ugly-faced man with a child's eyes.
"Dunk, we agreed—I do the talking!" Loren cut him off, then turned back to Viserys. "So we decided to search anyway. We were about to give up when we saw them sitting right there in the brazier. I ran straight to you!"
Viserys gave a small nod. "One last question. How does a mere kos end up with something like this?"
"I don't—" Loren caught himself. "Your Grace, this lowly one does not know. But if you question his slaves, maybe they'll talk."
Silence fell inside the tent and stretched for a full minute.
Viserys picked up each egg in turn, studying every curve and scale with reverent care, then gently placed them back in the brazier.
In the next heartbeat he drew his sword.
The cold steel flashed, lighting the dim shrine like sudden lightning.
Any other sellsword captain would have ordered every witness killed and kept the eggs for himself.
Viserys did not.
He looked at Loren Rayne, voice steady and regal.
"Ser Loren, kneel."
Loren dropped to one knee at once, eyes shining with hungry hope.
"Loren Rayne, of House Rayne," Viserys said, playing along with the man's favorite fantasy, "from this day forward, will you swear to be my loyal vassal?"
"I will, Your Grace."
"Will you swear to give me honest counsel, obey me without question, defend my rights and my realm in every battle, protect my people, and punish my enemies?"
"I swear it!"
"Rise, Ser Loren Rayne." Viserys's mouth curved in a rare, genuine smile. "Rise, my Black Knight, my personal standard-bearer… and rightful lord of Castamere. When the Lannisters have paid their debts to gods and men, you will receive everything that is yours. Until then, be content with the honor of riding at my side and the twenty thousand golden dragons that come with it."
Loren stood, face split by a triumphant grin so wide it looked painful.
His two companions received promotions and heavy rewards as well. No noble titles, but they left the tent grinning like men who had just won the world.
Before they left the shrine of priceless treasure, Viserys glanced at Jorah and the others, a spark of humor in his eyes.
"Well then," he said lightly, "my sister can finally return to Volantis. I've just found a wedding gift worthy of a princess of the Seven Kingdoms."