Cold mist rolled across the Rhoyne mudflats. Eleonora Darennis walked through the silent ranks of the Unsullied, her boots crunching on blood-soaked grass.
These castrated slave-soldiers were the last loyal killers still fully under Viserys Targaryen's command after the battle. They stood guard outside the pavilion without a word, spears grounded, eyes empty.
Inside, Viserys was hosting a feast for every captain and conspirator. On the surface it was a victory celebration. In truth it was the real division of power.
Four hours earlier, Volantis had sent an official delegation promising a grand triumphal procession for the allied army. That was the excuse for tonight's gathering—clean as a sept mother's altar on the outside, seething with knives on the inside.
Viserys had trusted only the Unsullied with guard duty. Men stripped of desire and independent thought in Astapor would never whisper to the elephant party, never carry messages for spies. They heard everything and could pretend they had heard nothing.
Eleonora often thought these creatures should never have been sent to war. Guarding doors was what they did best.
The pavilion was dim with lamplight. All the familiar faces had already gathered.
Viserys sat at the head, wearing a new dragon-embroidered robe made only two days ago. His silver hair was tied back, violet eyes calm and in complete control.
On either side of him sat the old guard and the new—men who had followed him for years and the hard bastards who had sworn to him after the battle.
In a single month the Iron Shields, the Freeborn, the Storm Crows, the Warrior Maids, and the Company of the Rose had all dissolved. Their survivors buried their dead and then poured under the red dragon banner, swearing loyalty to Viserys without exception.
The prince had taken them all. He coaxed the hesitant, and when Torrhen Snow tested him with steel, Viserys met the big Northman in single combat right there in front of the whole camp.
After the bastard of Winterfell lost, he knelt with the rest of his Northern remnants and acknowledged the last true dragon as his only lord.
No one at the tables cared about the roasted boar crackling on the platters. Every eye was locked on the prince. Every mind was calculating power, cities, and gold far sweeter than meat.
"We're only waiting for Weymond Dorya," Viserys said, cutting straight to business, his voice steady and carrying over every murmur. "Once he arrives, we begin."
"Weymond's late again," Daario Naharis, the new Black Knight and captain of the Dragon Claw vanguard, snorted. "Men who show up late to the feast never get the best cuts."
"Not this time," Jorah Mormont cut in at once, smoothing the moment for the Volantene. "Weymond and his Sons of Valyria are a force we must keep. He knows it, so he's late on purpose—to remind us of his value."
"I've seen those Sons of Valyria fight," Allyn Wood spat, openly contemptuous. "Give my archers three months and proper horses and they'll outmatch them any day."
"We don't have three months," Kelwan of the Freeborn hissed, voice tight with conspirator's impatience. "Every day costs us."
"No one needs you to count the days for us," Wood shot back coldly.
The former Kingswood poacher had never liked Viserys promoting former rival captains. He couldn't openly oppose it, so he vented with crude barbs.
"We need local Volantene strength to force the garrison's surrender and keep the city from rioting in the streets," Torrhen Snow cut in calmly. The Northern bastard's mind was sharper than most. "Volantis has hundreds of thousands of people. Brutal suppression will only bleed us more."
"Potters, dyers, tailors—a rabble of smallfolk," Kelwan scoffed. "They won't stand against our blades."
"I've always wondered why they call you 'Blue,'" Wood drawled, eyes sharp. "It can't be because you actually dye cloth, can it? You've got no respect for the poor at all."
Eleonora couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped her.
She preferred blunt Allyn Wood over the arrogant Andal sellswords any day. The man had never forgotten where he came from, and he never kicked down at those beneath him.
She had grown up in alleys and slums herself. That kind of decency mattered.
Her laugh had barely faded when heavy footsteps sounded outside.
Three Volantene nobles in fine robes appeared at the entrance. At their head was Weymond Dorya.
Eleonora's hand dropped to her sword hilt. The agreement had been Weymond alone. If Viserys hadn't stayed perfectly calm she would have drawn steel already.
"Your Grace, brothers-in-arms," Weymond said evenly, aware of the breach. "These two men beside me were chosen by my late uncle himself. They know every secret we share. They hate the elephant party as much as we do and will give everything for our cause."
"Won't you introduce your new companions?" Viserys asked politely, showing no anger.
"Aenys Baltios, my standard-bearer, son of the late Governor Renyx Baltios." The tall youth bowed. "And Vamor Naltaris, commander of the city infantry. Both are sworn to avenge Varyon Dortalos and help us finish what we began."
Eleonora's fingers tightened until her knuckles ached.
Those two names were carved into her bones.
It was Meqa Baltios who had framed House Darennis. It was Aego Naltaris who had pushed for her entire family to be exiled forever.
Because of those two houses her parents had fled to Lys penniless and broken.
Now the sons of her enemies wanted to stand as her comrades?
Even if their families had fallen from power, it did nothing to cool the hatred burning in her chest.
They still lived in marble palaces, still enjoyed the wealth their ancestors had stolen.
"Welcome," she forced out. Reason won over rage. She knew Viserys's decisions were bigger than her personal vendettas, but the taste in her throat was still bitter.
She had always despised the old-blood nobles of Volantis. Whether they called themselves dragonspawn or prayed to whatever gods they liked, they were all the same—plotters, liars, ready to betray at the first sign of weakness.
She could only hope her prince had already calculated every move and would not be fooled by these vipers.
Once the Volantenes were seated, Viserys straightened slowly, gaze sweeping every face in the tent.
"Now that we are all here, I will restate the situation."
He began to lay out the plan Eleonora had already heard a dozen times, yet had to hear again.
Three days earlier the elephant party had sent a lavish delegation to the allied camp.
Both remaining Triarchs, a dozen great lords, and more than a hundred retainers had arrived in splendor, showering the prince with empty praise and promises of eternal friendship.
When the rest withdrew, only the real power—Triarch Gemon Lennaris—had stayed behind for a private conversation.
The fat man's belly had nearly split his silk robe.
He had offered Viserys what he clearly believed was an irresistible bargain.