Eleonora clenched her jaw and continued weaving through the crowd.
Beside the next cluster of highborn stood the Keeper of the Foundation himself.
He was explaining—with genuine enthusiasm—the finer points of ancient Valyrian inheritance law to a circle of respected lords and elegant ladies: the precise division of property between stepmothers, uncles, and bastard sons.
The Keeper greeted her with warm sincerity, but the faces around him told a different story.
Even a child could see through their forced smiles and empty flattery.
It was no surprise. To the old-blood nobles who clung to tradition, she was a thorn in the eye.
She was a living reminder of who now ruled Volantis, and her very existence was a public insult to the judgments and authority their fathers once wielded.
Besides, she was a woman who carried a sword.
What gave Eleonora some comfort was that these so-called "rabbits" lacked the courage to rebel.
Nothing terrified them more than losing their lives and fortunes, so they would rather endure a tyrant than risk everything.
Very well—let the grass-eaters keep nibbling the last blades of the Freehold's ruins. They were capable of nothing else.
In truth, Menyx Renigar—the man Viserys had chosen as the third Triarch—belonged to exactly this breed.
Timid, cautious, a lover of negotiation and compromise, yet he had still accepted power from the usurpers and was now chained to House Targaryen's fate.
Since the rabbit could not escape its cage, it had simply dyed its fur red.
Looking at the perfumed, silk-clad guests swirling around her, Eleonora was more certain than ever: Viserys had successfully gathered almost every elite of the city in one place. In a sense, he had already won their silent acceptance.
No matter how bitterly the old blood gnashed their teeth and cursed him in their beds, they had accepted the new reality.
That gave the new regime the time it needed to solidify its power.
Almost everyone who mattered had come: noble lords and ladies, priests of the Valyrian gods, sellsword captains, merchant princes, and the finest craftsmen in the city.
The only ones missing were the followers of R'hllor.
Eleonora was not surprised.
She knew Benerro and his fanatics never set foot inside the Black Wall, claiming its inhabitants were cursed and unclean.
The real reason was simpler: the Red Temple was the second most powerful institution in Old Volantis after the Hall of Power itself. Its priests refused to share the stage with rivals who had already stolen many of their followers beyond the Wall.
The servants of the Lord of Light had been shut out completely. And since most red priests came from low birth, they had no hope of changing that fact.
What truly worried Viserys and his supporters was the Great Temple's silence.
They had helped the Targaryens seize power—prayers and proclamations that had effectively paralyzed the city garrison.
They had recognized the new Triarchy and prayed for it every night… and that was all.
Neither Benerro nor his black-skinned lieutenant had invited Viserys to the temple, nor had they answered the request to attend tonight as personal guests of the Triarch.
What did they want?
What goal were they pursuing?
What price were they waiting to demand for their help?
Dealing with fanatics was like juggling wildfire—eventually you got burned.
There was an old Volantene saying: if you want to find a real tiger, look among the ruins of past glory.
The aging, fattening, balding former magistrates and men who had once held real power nursed an obsessive love for relics of the old days.
Sure enough, beneath the towering statue of Balerion, Eleonora found the true core of the tiger party—the same men who only months ago had been the elephant party's greatest enemies.
They clustered around a haughty priest in purple robes, listening with rapt attention while he droned on about how the legendary Valyrian ancestor Aelion had married the daughter of Balerion—a goddess.
The tale was beautiful and entirely made up.
Every Volantene had heard it a thousand times, yet they still hung on every word of the thousand-and-first telling.
Aging, paunchy, balding men lost in the same myth again and again… no wonder their children had turned away.
The young, ambitious, glory-hungry sons had all flocked to Viserys—a man who could give them a future instead of a distant past.
Besides, these young tigers had easily forgiven the Triarchs for executing the toothless old snake Marqeo Megyr, the former self-proclaimed leader of their faction.
The gods had given them a stronger, better leader.
Eleonora pushed her way out of the tiger crowd and made her way to the fountain.
She passed the beast-tamers and their performing animals, circled the acrobats, jesters, and dancing girls. Laughter and music filled the garden. Everything remained under control.
The guards she had placed were hidden and alert, ready at a moment's notice.
Eleonora slipped past another performance, politely refused wine from a slave girl—on duty she stayed stone-cold sober.
Thank the gods the marvelous garden was thick with shade; the late-summer heat stayed outside, making the night bearable.
The last group she encountered was simply enduring the evening.
Merchants and elephant-party officials stood stone-faced while a choir sang praises to their new master.
Eleonora read the genuine disgust on every noble face and felt a small, sharp spark of satisfaction.
These people had lost two Triarchs and all real power. They could plot their petty schemes in private, but tonight they would play the part of the most obedient subjects—smiling, laughing, bowing, thanking.
Once they returned home, many would burn with humiliated rage and begin conspiring.
They had no idea their servants and closest confidants had already been bought in batches by her lover.
At that exact moment, solemn horns blared.
It was the only instrument that had stayed silent all evening—the signal for every guest to gather before the palace's main doors.
Thanks to Eleonora's careful planning, hundreds of nobles moved without chaos.
Only a few overly long hems were torn in the rush—nothing serious.
The moment everyone was in place, the orchestra unleashed a thunderous fanfare.
And then they appeared.
The Targaryen siblings.
Viserys and Daenerys.
They wore the height of Volantene fashion, hand in hand, looking as if they had stepped straight out of an ancient dragonlord tapestry.
Behind them walked Loren Rayne—self-styled Lord of Castamere—carrying the red dragon banner high. Two powerful slaves bore an ornate chest between them.
Eleonora even paused for a heartbeat to admire her commander.
But the first words out of Viserys's mouth snapped her straight back to the present.
"Free citizens of Volantis! My blood kin and brothers of the dragon!"
Viserys's voice rang out strong and clear—loud enough that even Westeros might have heard it, and certainly every soul beyond the Black Wall.
"I am glad you answered my invitation and gathered here tonight."
"On this night that will be remembered, on this final night of summer, we celebrate a new chapter in Volantis's history… the dawn of a new era for the First Daughter!"
Eleonora had already heard the speech.
Viserys had asked for her opinion on it.
So now she could focus on watching the crowd, reading the effect of every word from the new Triarch.
The dragon faction nodded in satisfaction. The fat elephant lords wore thunderous scowls. The rabbit-party ladies kept their polite, empty smiles…
No one was foolish enough to draw steel or do anything rash.
"Volantis has repelled the savage nomads of the east."
"We, direct descendants of the Freehold, have—for the first time since the Battle of Qohor—defeated the greatest of all khals in open battle!"
"More than that, we have delivered justice to the murderers of the previous Protector of the City."
"Justice has been served!"
"But what we celebrate tonight is far greater than victory alone."
Triarch Viserys raised his hand. The slaves slowly opened the chest.
"Tonight we celebrate a new hope—a hope that will lead this great city into the future!"
No one saw the slave lift the first egg from the chest.
But the instant Viserys raised the black dragon egg high above his head, hundreds of people gasped at once.
Then the real uproar erupted.
Musicians, slaves, free citizens—everyone froze. Gasps, envy, wild joy, curses, disbelief, and doubt crashed together in a deafening roar.
When Daenerys lifted the green dragon egg the noise doubled.
When Viserys raised the white one, Eleonora thought her ears might burst.
"Three dragon eggs."
Viserys's voice fought to be heard over the storm.
"I found them in Khal Drogo's camp."
"That filthy savage handed the Freehold's most precious legacy straight into our hands!"
"Is this not proof that we are the chosen of the gods?"
"We, the people of Valyria, once again hold the key to our former greatness!"
"This is a living key… inside these eggs, flames burn and hearts beat."
"We stand only one step from restoring our glory!"
Eleonora knew that no matter how hard they tried to hide it, the greatest secret of House Targaryen could not stay hidden forever.
Rumors, whispers, and prying eyes had already spread through the city. Even inside the new Triarch's palace, servants gossiped.
That was why Viserys had chosen to announce the dragon eggs to the world—on his own terms.
But the truly important part was what came next.
When the crowd finally quieted a little, Viserys spoke again, his voice carrying to every corner of the garden.
"I also wish to announce a decision to the entire world."
"I, Viserys Targaryen the Third, Triarch of Volantis and rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, hereby swear:
Whoever can wake these dragon eggs—man or woman, wizard or scholar, priest or beggar—will become my closest friend and most honored companion!
Come, men and women of talent!
Help us bring the dragons back, and you will never want for gold, power, or anything else again!"
The crowd exploded in ecstatic cheers so loud that even distant King's Landing might have heard them.
And that was the very city Viserys was destined to reclaim.