If you're enjoying these stories, consider leaving a comment, review, or vote.
You can also visit the Pat** on at: CaveLeather
Deep in Eleonora Darennis's soul a voice was screaming for wine—strong, cheap, the kind that would drown everything.
Drink until the world spun. Drink until she blacked out, the way the Usurper in Westeros was famous for doing.
Mix Arbor red with barley beer and pour it down her throat until she couldn't remember her own name. Maybe then this nauseating feast would become bearable.
Of course she crushed the undignified urge the instant it rose.
Eleonora wore leather armor embroidered with a red dragon, longsword at her hip, and moved through the gardens like a shadow. Her sharp eyes swept every corner, hunting for any hidden threat.
On the surface everything looked perfectly innocent. Slave men and women glided between guests offering delicacies and wine. Small groups of nobles formed and reformed. The air was thick with flower scent and roasted meat.
She allowed herself not one second of carelessness.
In this city, the moment you lowered your guard you could lose your wealth, your name, even your life.
And as the last of House Darennis, she understood that truth better than anyone.
Any traveler who had read a book on history or geography would tell you the same line: in Volantis, one free citizen corresponds to five slaves.
Almost every scroll describing the First Daughter began with that sentence.
It was shocking enough to spark the wildest fantasies, which was why the saying had traveled all the way from the Sunset Kingdoms to Yi Ti.
But only the few outsiders who had ever stepped inside the Black Wall—and the old-blood nobles themselves—knew the real origin of the legend and how deeply that seductive lie had been crafted.
The truth was simple: to the old-blood rulers of Volantis, there was no real difference between slaves and commoners.
The latter might not wear collars, but their so-called freedom could be stripped away the moment it became inconvenient.
Commoners, free citizens, true Volantenes—in the eyes of the dragonlord descendants they were all the same: dirt beneath their boots.
That was the root of the "one citizen to five slaves" saying.
In a way, the words were… perfectly true.
To Eleonora it laid bare the old blood's arrogance in its purest form.
A half-naked Summer Islander slave girl hurried past carrying a wine jug, a fully armed sellsword trailing close behind.
In the kitchens and cellars, tasters checked every dish while the guards Eleonora had chosen watched not only the cooks but escorted every servant carrying food from start to finish.
Some would call her paranoid.
She called it vigilance.
Once she had dreamed of returning as a conqueror—flame and steel, storming the Black Wall, burning her enemies' estates, taking their heads.
Now that dream had come true.
She had entered Volantis, walked the sacred ground of the old blood, even helped carry out the executions… yet none of it had brought her real peace or satisfaction.
The enemies of House Darennis had been dead for years.
No one in this city even remembered her name.
Toward its current rulers she felt nothing but cold contempt.
That was exactly why she had refused Viserys's offer to restore her family palace and grant her a generous stipend.
Living as a pampered Volantene noblewoman simply wasn't for her.
She could not bear being locked inside luxurious rooms with nothing to do, could not stand managing a household, could not endure the endless gossip.
Let other women enjoy those things.
Watching the elegantly dressed, self-important noblewomen drifting past, Eleonora allowed herself a small, sharp smile.
She was the Sword Saintess. That single title said more than a thousand words ever could.
After she refused the palace, Viserys had offered her the post of captain of the entire palace guard instead.
"At least in peacetime," he had added with that faint, knowing smile.
She had accepted at once. She could keep her sword, keep serving House Targaryen with steel instead of pretty words.
Tonight Viserys had already heard more than enough sweet lies—probably fewer than four in every ten of them true.
"My lords! My warriors!"
Weymond Dorya's voice rang out. He was surrounded by a flock of peacocks—young noble sons dressed in bright silks and already well into their cups.
"I have the honor of presenting Lady Eleonora Darennis, the Sword Saintess, one of Triarch Viserys Targaryen's closest comrades-in-arms!"
A chorus of flattery and pledges of loyalty rose around her. Eleonora couldn't tell whether Weymond was sober or drunk.
"Lord Weymond, is everything to your satisfaction?" She forced a polite smile.
"More than satisfactory, Eleonora! Your Dornish wines are unmatched… I only hope to see Lord Viserys soon…"
"He will appear when the time is right." Eleonora answered loudly, then dropped her voice. "The Triarch and his sister are preparing a surprise for all of you. They will join us the moment they are ready."
She turned and left Weymond and his pack of drinking companions to their wine and their unrealistic dreams. Young men like them would never refuse a party.
There was one more truth about Volantis that outsiders rarely understood.
Newcomers only ever heard about the two great factions—tiger and elephant—never realizing that beneath those banners lay dozens of smaller cliques, each with its own interests and grudges.
The bewildering betrayals and alliances among nobles and officials almost always sprang from those hidden currents.
Eleonora did not know every detail, but she and Viserys had reached a quiet understanding with the Keeper of the Foundation.
The old man named Menyx Agyar still remembered her father; the two had once been friends. Perhaps because of that old bond, his own career had never risen above a purely ceremonial post.
It was he who had helped the people now ruling Volantis untangle the city's countless tangled factions.
Right now, for example, Eleonora knew exactly who surrounded Weymond: the most fanatical of the tiger party—the so-called "young tigers." Young noble sons, cadet-branch heirs, junior officers, and everyone truly obsessed with war.
They were proud, arrogant, and preached endless expansion: more slaves, more loot, more conquest. They despised every custom and faith that was not purely Valyrian.
Among the young tigers were noble second sons, distant relatives, low-ranking officers, and merchants tired of having their ships raided by the Three Whores' pirates, along with priests who shouted for a new Valyria forged in fire and blood.
Since Viserys took power they had begun calling themselves "dragons." The most fervent had already taken the name "red dragons."
They clustered around Weymond and supported every measure Eleonora proposed.
They were not the most pleasant allies, but the gods had handed them to House Targaryen all the same.
Eleonora moved past another group of guests—too young and too low in rank to be tangled in real intrigue.
These were the heirs, distant cousins, and bastards who still knew how to enjoy a celebration with pure hearts.
They ran laughing through the garden maze in half-dressed games of treasure hunt, raised cups in song, and cheered the players with honest delight.
In a way, Eleonora almost envied them.
Their lives were truly carefree.
Soon enough the swamp of Volantene politics would drag them under as well, but tonight the entire world belonged to them.
To these young, rich, and blissfully untroubled children of the old blood.