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Most of Volantis—including Menyx Renigar himself—saw it exactly that way.
So when Viserys extended the invitation, the merchant accepted at once.
Menyx was known as a master negotiator and compromise artist, a true expert in Volantene law and a man so charming he could talk the Mother herself into a bad bargain.
On paper he belonged to the elephant party and his status certainly fit, but in practice he followed only strength and served only his own profit.
He was hardly the ideal ally, yet Viserys had to work with the pieces he held.
Besides, he had never killed any of Menyx's kin, never interfered with the man's business, and had instead helped the merchant achieve a dream he had chased for decades.
Expecting heartfelt gratitude from a merchant would be foolish.
But a man who had survived decades at the top of Volantene commerce understood exactly where gold and advantage flowed—or he would have gone bankrupt long ago and ended up wearing a slave collar.
So Viserys had reason to believe their relationship would be mutually beneficial and lasting.
By tradition the most respected and powerful Triarch opened the meeting.
In the past "most respected" had usually meant "oldest," but Volantis now had a new order.
"The city calls us," Viserys began.
"We hear it," Menyx answered at once.
"We will not refuse its need," Weymond finished.
The younger Triarch was at least willing to show respect for Menyx's age—fortunate, since he bore the old merchant no personal grudge.
With the ritual greeting done, Viserys Targaryen the Third took his rightful seat and the Triarchs could finally begin real work.
They still had to receive the most important petitioners of the week—colonial governors, foreign envoys, and the like.
All business had to be finished within two hours, after which each man would return to his palace for lunch before reconvening in the afternoon to review the week's governance.
"Though we defeated Khal Drogo, the story is far from over," Viserys said. "The hard work of rebuilding has only just begun, and the challenges we face are countless." He signaled the knights to bring in the first petitioner. "This is Valar Tarellios, the new governor of Valon Therys."
The new governor understood that the Triarchs had no time for long-winded speeches, so his report was crisp and to the point.
The ruins of Valon Therys needed money, manpower, timber, guards, grain—and more money.
Tarellios's demands were large, yet every figure and name was precise. It was easy to see why the returning survivors had chosen him as their leader and protector.
Old divisions were forgotten. The ashes needed a capable, intelligent, effective man—someone who could wring resources from Volantis's new rulers and use them wisely.
When he finished he bowed deeply. Viserys decided to let his two colleagues speak first, curious to see their attitude toward the colonies and how much aid they were willing to give.
"Solve it yourselves," Weymond said flatly. "It was your people's cowardice that forced us to chase bandits up and down the right bank of the Rhoyne. You lengthened the war. Now you must fend for yourselves."
"My fellow Triarch speaks bluntly—as true warriors do," Menyx added smoothly. "But he is not wrong. Volantis has suffered grievous wounds and must first heal itself. We need every laborer, every coin, every sack of grain and side of meat to keep the city running. One misstep and this glorious victory will turn to ash. With regret, I must refuse your request."
As expected.
Viserys had anticipated exactly this answer—one man saw only immediate victory, the other was short-sighted and arrogant.
Such co-rulers were convenient for now; they posed no threat to his power. Yet their lack of vision would eventually cost their shared cause dearly.
The colonial governor slowly turned to him—to the outsider, the conqueror, the usurper… and his last hope.
"Governor Valar," Viserys chose his words with care, "the city's own wounds make it difficult to offer our daughter cities more than limited help. The war has left us with many scars that will take time to heal."
From Tarellios's expression it was clear he had already braced for outright refusal.
Desperate, bankrupt men could do anything when cornered.
Fortunately, the final decision rested with Viserys.
"Even so, we cannot ignore the fate of our daughter cities. You may go to the slave pens and choose five thousand men and five thousand women. Soon three thousand sellswords will be leaving the army and laying down their spears." Viserys continued, watching the man's face closely. "Grant them land and citizenship and you will gain both labor and defenders at once. River traffic on the Rhoyne will soon resume. Barges loaded with grain and building materials will sail for Valon Therys…"
The Targaryen's voice was calm and steady, yet carried iron certainty.
Tarellios would not leave empty-handed.
One hundred thousand gold coins, material and food aid, manpower and slaves—the sums were smaller than he had hoped, yet far larger than he had feared.
More importantly, he would tell everyone which Triarch had reached out while the city itself still bled.
He would tell them the old-blood nobles remained cold and selfish, while the new ruler truly cared for the colonies.
Once he had the promised aid, the governor bowed deeply and withdrew to carry the orders to the treasury.
"A noble gesture, and in some ways wise," Menyx remarked once the doors closed. "But if I may speak plainly, the funds you allocated were excessive. The timing is not ideal…"
"Speaking of funds," Viserys cut in casually. Formal titles and courtesies had long been discarded between the three; time was too short for waste. "Menyx, have your people finished the count? What is the true state of the city treasury?"
"Yes, Viserys. My clerks worked day and night and have finally delivered the final report." The merchant cleared his throat and began the speech he had clearly prepared. "Khal Drogo's invasion did not destroy Volantis, but the damage is unprecedented. Most farmland and grain fields on the left bank of the Rhoyne were ruined. The right bank suffered heavily as well. Vineyards, estates, settlements, caravan waystations—all burned by the Dothraki. Add the cost of repairing the eastern siege works, mercenary wages, militia upkeep, and the various gifts given to Dortalos… no offense, but the expenditure was enormous."
Weymond cut in impatiently. "Get to the point. How deep is the hole?"
"Ten million golden dragons. If we include the near-total collapse of trade during the war, the figure rises to twelve million."
Viserys frowned. "As I understand it, I have already returned half the property of the executed to the treasury in accordance with local law."
"Oh, indeed you have, and every honest Volantene is grateful for it. That is the only reason we avoided the worst." Menyx hurried to reassure him.
To keep the city's finances from total collapse, Viserys had been forced to act ruthlessly.
Of the army that had marched with him into Volantis, only fifteen thousand elite troops remained. The rest—mostly militia—had been sent home. Some received land, others gold.
Only the core veterans, hand-picked by their captains, stayed under the new Triarch's banner.
If war came again, the disbanded men could be recalled quickly.
But keeping the entire host on the city payroll would have bankrupted the First Daughter.
He had also sent several thousand men—led by Jorah Mormont and Daario Naharis—upriver to restore order and law while announcing the change of regime to the colonies.
The meeting continued.