"Never deal with fanatical madmen unless you have a backup plan." Viserys's tone was grave. Daenerys listened with complete attention. "Even if something looks foolproof, never give a straight yes immediately."
"But… they offered to help…"
"I guarantee that in the last thousand years their 'chosen heroes' have been replaced hundreds of times. The second their path no longer matches the red priests', the chosen one gets thrown away. I'll need to check the archives in Volantis…"
How many exiles would have snatched at that lifeline without a second thought?
But her beloved brother—her wise, powerful brother—was weighing every risk, as always.
"Thank the gods we have the Dragon Claw. Whether Benerro truly saw us in his ashes or is simply betting on the likely winner, we will not become slaves to suspicious patrons who look like walking corpses."
"What exactly did they mean?" Daenerys finally asked. "You… you're going to attack Volantis?"
Viserys pulled her close again, protective. "We'll talk about that later. That's not the news I wanted to give you."
He led her to the deepest part of the pavilion, where a sturdy little chest sat.
"Inside is real treasure—worth more than every gift the priests brought combined."
"What is it?"
Viserys smiled with quiet triumph and handed her an iron key from a hidden compartment.
"Why don't you see for yourself?"
Daenerys dropped to her knees in front of the chest. After a few fumbling moments the lock clicked open, and the moment the lid lifted—
The sight inside far exceeded anything she had imagined.
She had expected legendary weapons, crowns, fist-sized gems, or sacred relics from Ghis or Valyria—any of the priceless wonders from Drogo's hoard.
Instead, three dragon eggs lay nestled inside.
Midnight black. Snow white. Emerald green.
The three eggs seized her entire soul. The princess froze where she knelt.
Five minutes earlier she would never have dared dream she would see such wonders in her lifetime.
Even when she blinked, the vision did not vanish.
"Well? How does it feel?" Viserys asked, the question almost silly.
Daenerys reached out with trembling fingers and touched the emerald egg, careful, as if it might shatter like a dream.
Then she felt the warmth coming from within.
She cradled it against her chest and pressed her ear to the shell. She heard it clearly—a faint, living pulse.
Like a tiny, beating heart.
Completely stunned, she grabbed the other two eggs, convinced her senses were playing tricks.
All three were warm. All three had heartbeats.
"They're… they're alive!" Daenerys cried out, unable to contain herself. "They're alive!"
"Yes," Viserys said behind her, "but Daenerys, don't jump to conclusions yet. I understand how shocking this is, but stone is still stone…"
"No!" She turned to him, desperate to make him believe. "I can feel it—truly feel it! They're warm inside. I can hear heartbeats—each one has its own! These are not dead stones, Viserys. There are living dragons inside—dragons that can grow!"
After a short silence Viserys spoke again. "That is strange. When I found them they were in a brazier. I assumed they'd gone cold in the chest by now. As for the heartbeats…"
He shrugged, no longer rushing to deny it. "I've held them many times. I felt nothing."
"I would never lie to you," Daenerys whispered urgently, "especially about this. Why would I lie?"
"True enough." Viserys nodded. "All right—Doreah!" He called, and the scantily clad Lysene beauty hurried in and knelt. "Rise. Tell the cooks the princess has returned. Set the table. You may rest tonight."
That her brother was willing to dismiss his most trusted slave girl told Daenerys the secret he was about to share was no small matter.
So she followed him to the table with deep regret, eager for the food but far more eager for the world-shaking secret about to be revealed…
...
If anyone in the world should be used to noise, it was a veteran sellsword.
Forget the countless battles—simply the constant clamor of a field camp was enough to make a man forget what silence sounded like.
Yet even so, Viserys Targaryen had never imagined his triumphal procession would look like this.
Only now did he truly grasp how many souls Volantis contained.
Tens of thousands of citizens poured into the streets. The rest crammed onto balconies and rooftops, leaning out of every window.
From wealthy merchants to the lowliest slaves, everyone wore their finest clothes. Under the midday sun the entire city glittered with wealth.
Viserys noted coldly that the city guards were few and scattered, utterly unable to hold back the crowds pressing toward the procession route.
The whole world was shouting, singing, boiling with joy at the defeat of the Dothraki barbarians.
Behind their commander the Black Knights sang Merrytongue Martin's newest creation, "Volantis Welcome March."
The singer Daenerys and the sellswords loved so much had once again delivered a perfectly harmless, flawlessly innocent tune.
Praising the scenery, looking forward to the feast—no one could possibly hear the blades hidden between the notes.
Those who did not sing—including Viserys himself—simply smiled mild, harmless smiles at the gathered citizens, slaves, and guards.
The city rang with a thousand-voiced welcome chorus. Amid the noise, scattered shouts could be heard in every language.
Standard High Valyrian mixed with crude street slang:
"First Daughter! Daughter of Valyria!"
"Victory!"
"My lord, look at us!"
"Dārilaros nykys, jurnēs yno! (My prince, look at me!)"
"They're so beautiful!"
"You mean… he's so beautiful!"
"Glory to the red dragon!"
"Yes, that's what I meant!"
"Glory to the prince! Glory to the city's protector! Glory to Dorta—"
"Gevie hegnīr issa! (He's so handsome!)"
"Silly girl, who are you looking at?"
"My prince, take me! I belong to you!"
Viserys smiled coldly inside.
In a few minutes, what will you be shouting?
A few hours from now—if everything goes right—what will you shout then?
Daenerys's sudden arrival and the red priests' visit had not disrupted his plan.
From the late Varyon Dortalos he had already learned of the delicate hostility between the followers of R'hllor and Volantis's old blood.
The old fossils like Marqeo Megyr were preparing to move against the eastern priests, accusing them of trampling city traditions and abandoning the ancient gods of the Freehold.
Benerro had not yet made any open, reckless move, but he had his followers preaching day and night to the guards and to the old-blood mansions outside the Black Wall.
Both sides had avoided crossing the final line, maintaining a tiresome, fragile truce.
The Dothraki invasion had briefly strengthened that balance, and Varyon had even forced full cooperation.
But now the Triarchs were dead, Marqeo's faction was about to reclaim its peak power, and Benerro had decided to strike first.
Viserys had thought through the night and still could not discover who had leaked the plan to the red priests.
He ran through every captain in his mind: Weymond despised the priests, Daario had never left camp, Torrhen was grateful to him, Kelwan knew following the Targaryen would profit him far more than clinging to priests.
His captains were all proven loyal.
Could the madman truly have seen the future in the flames?
The red priests had boasted of that power from Braavos to Volantis, yet they always guarded their "holy secrets."
But not long ago the world had believed the Dothraki invincible in open battle and that dragon eggs were lost forever.
How many more secrets lay beyond mortal sight, known only to gods and demons?
Since the sellsword army had already been granted entry to the city, the priests could not be accused of betrayal.
Fanatics who stood on your side were the most loyal allies imaginable.
The moment your goals diverged from their god's will, they became the most merciless enemies.
Viserys understood perfectly: if the plan succeeded, he would have to tread carefully around the red priests—neither their puppet nor quick to break with them over small matters.
He had already placed his sister in a safe part of camp under trusted guards.
If anything went wrong, she could be evacuated at once.
Loyal Ser Tristifer would never fail. The Riverlander knight was the man Viserys trusted most.
Daenerys had thrown a tantrum at first, insisting on riding beside him.
A single small ambush and the girl now thought herself a veteran warrior.
Thank the gods he still had reason and persuasion on his side; in the end he had talked her out of it with plain common sense.
But Viserys knew it would only grow harder to make her obey. One day he might have to give a royal and brotherly command.
In that, she was exactly like the brave, knightly ancestors of House Targaryen.
Daemon Blackfyre had failed to protect those he should have protected. Viserys Targaryen would not make the same mistake. He would never let Daenerys risk herself needlessly.
Besides, Daenerys might be tied to the dragon eggs Loren Rayne had recovered from the barbarian camp.
His sister had sworn again and again that she felt more than warmth—she felt heartbeats.
Even after supper and a full night's sleep she had not changed her story.
Viserys did not fully believe her, yet he had held the black egg he favored most many times.
He felt the warmth, but no heartbeat.
Daenerys spoke with absolute certainty, her beautiful eyes burning with conviction, and he could not dismiss her as foolish.
The dragon eggs held a mystery. Without his sister he would never solve it.
Therefore Daenerys remained in camp, guarding this new and priceless treasure of House Targaryen.
With every step the column took, they drew closer to the massive Black Wall.
It was a wonder of Valyrian engineering so imposing it crushed the spirit.
Inside lived the descendants of Old Valyria, lost in ancient chronicles, forever plotting revenge for ancestral humiliations long turned to dust.
They looked neither forward nor at tomorrow, yet they ruled the entire city.
This was a wealthy, thriving commercial city whose population dwarfed King's Landing and Oldtown, yet it suffocated under the elephant party's grip.
According to both the late Varyon Dortalos and Weymond Dorya, the elephant party had brought short-term prosperity but stolen the First Daughter's future and ambition.
Men like Weymond believed the Dothraki invasion had finally woken Volantis from a thousand-year slumber. They had to seize this last chance.
Viserys could only hope that Weymond's hunger for glory and greatness was not a phantom born of his own imagination.
Otherwise he would become nothing more than a short-lived tyrant.
No one could hold a throne with swords alone. The cruel King Maegor and the Horono Triarchs had all learned that lesson.
He needed loyal men, wealth, and the support of priests.
But before he could rule, he first had to seize power.
It felt like a century had passed before the Dragon Claw commander, surrounded by his army, finally reached the square the elephant-party Triarchs had designated.
Guards stood here as well, citizens packed behind them, but Viserys's eyes were not on them.
At the far end of the square rose the Dragon's Gate.
Forged of steel, awe-inspiring.
One glance told Viserys the dead man's calculations had been correct.
This monstrous thing could not be closed in an instant. Its width was enough for a hundred riders to charge through abreast.
He could ride straight in—provided the old blood opened the gate as promised.
His column halted.
Then a loud voice rang from the top of the Black Wall, echoing across the square.
"Who disturbs the peace of the old blood?"
The slave announcer had lungs like a war-horn!
"The man who has come to end that peace forever," Viserys answered in the exact words the Triarchs' envoys had taught him. "I, Viserys Targaryen the Third, heir of Old Valyria, blood of the dragon, request the old blood grant me entry beneath the shelter of the Black Wall."
Everything had to appear innocent, proper, traditional.
Until the final second.
He made no claim to the Sunset Kingdoms, nor did he call himself a sellsword captain.
Inside the Black Wall only the identity of a descendant of the exiled Aenar was worthy of passage.
The silence stretched so long it began to feel dangerous.
Had they seen through him?
Just as doubt crept in, welcoming horns suddenly blared.
"Targaryen is a son of Valyria, of illustrious name and worthy of honor," the voice declared again. "Viserys Targaryen the Third, you may enter."
The Dragon's Gate began to swing open.
The corner of Viserys's mouth curved in a satisfied smile.
The elephant-party Triarchs had kept their word after all.
He sat straighter in the saddle—the natural posture of a victorious commander riding into a city.
His lover and captain Eleonora moved up beside him, fingers twitching toward her sword.
"Soon."
"Are you ready?" Viserys did not lower his voice; they were too far for anyone else to hear.
Eleonora had recently asked for the honor of personally executing the old-blood Triarch. He had granted it; she would wield the blade of vengeance against Triarch Vassar.
"Of course." Her voice was calm and cold. "I await only your signal. So do the knights behind you."
"That is exactly what I wanted to hear." Viserys nodded in satisfaction and turned to Weymond Dorya on his other side. "And you, Weymond?"
"Ready as never before."
The march through the city already felt endless. The wait for the gates to open felt like eternity.
But Viserys focused only on the favorable truth: even if they tried, this masterpiece of Valyrian engineering could not be closed in time.
The next second Viserys drew the horn.
In his heart he offered a silent prayer to the Warrior, then blew the agreed signal.
The first blast rang out—perfectly in keeping with ancient Valyrian custom, the ritual the old-blood nobles knew from their chronicles.
Immediately the second blast tore through the air.
Viserys slammed his spurs into his horse's flanks.
For him, for the tens of thousands behind him, the moment of life-or-death decision had arrived.
There was no turning back.
"For the red dragon!"
Eleonora raised her sword and spurred after him.
"For the red dragon!"
"…!"
Countless voices roared as one, surging forward like a tidal wave.
Discipline and training showed their worth in that instant.
Only one in a hundred Black Knights knew the full plan, yet they had heard the signal and seen their commander charge.
That was enough.
The opening was perfect. The advantage of surprise had not been wasted.
The city-wide cheers cut off as if a blade had sliced them.
In their place came cold military commands—orders from veteran soldiers, some in familiar accents.
"Move!"
"Drop your weapons!"
"Spears down!"
The coup had begun.