In his last life, Viserys had never been much of a diplomat. He had no patience for sweet talk or careful persuasion.
He saw it all as a waste of time. He was used to speaking plainly and letting his sword do the convincing. His followers loved that about the Sword King—the cold, direct edge of him.
But this life, this body, forced him to play a different game.
Negotiating with triarchs. Courting governors. Buying off local strongmen. Stroking the egos of mercenary captains.
Still, Viserys Targaryen had never grown comfortable in the role.
A real man said what he meant. He didn't bury his feelings.
And right now, sitting in absolute power, he planned to do exactly that.
If Doran Martell thought sending three bastard daughters was enough to settle matters, then Viserys saw no reason to waste time on ceremony.
" Your Grace, we're here to discuss a different sort of deal," one of the sisters said with a faint smile. "The wheat and rye can go to Lord Manwoody. You have no interest in grain, and neither do we. We're exactly where we're supposed to be. Tell me, Your Grace—do you already know our names?"
"Of course."
Viserys answered smoothly, using the opening exchange to study the three women from Dorne.
The one who spoke first was Nymeria Sand, the middle sister. Tall, strikingly pale, slender as a blade, with dark eyes that met his without a trace of flattery or fear. The thin cream-colored robe she wore was almost transparent, clinging to every curve.
A pretty distraction. But he was here to negotiate, not to bed anyone.
Still… interesting. Had her father named her after the exiled Nymeria on a whim? The man clearly had a sense of humor.
"How do you find our magnificent Volantis on this fine autumn day?" Viserys asked lightly. "I hear you've been enjoying yourselves these past weeks…"
"We've rested long enough, Your Grace. We could have met you far sooner."
"Please forgive my sister's bluntness," Nymeria cut in quickly, smoothing things over. "Obara has many fine qualities. Keeping her tongue in check isn't one of them."
That much was obvious.
Obara Sand, the eldest, looked nothing like a diplomat.
She was broad-shouldered and tall, with a deep, almost masculine voice. There was a rough, martial air about her, but that was all. Viserys could see she felt naked without a weapon—like a fish pulled from the Greenblood and left to bake in the sun.
She had agreed to leave her blades behind, yet she still refused anything resembling a proper gown. Rough linen tunic, men's breeches, and the only decoration a belt stamped with the sun of the Greenblood. She would have looked more at home in the escort of an envoy than among them.
He wondered what Eleonora would make of her.
"The gods made us all different," Viserys said, reaching for a line from The Seven-Pointed Star, "so that we might serve them in our own ways."
"Forgive me, Your Grace," one of the visitors said softly, correcting him. "The original text reads differently. It says, 'different, so that we might praise them in our own ways.'"
Viserys turned to the youngest of Oberyn Martell's daughters—the quiet one.
Tyene Sand. Delicate, almost ethereal, with a sweet, pretty face and golden hair twisted into an elaborate braid studded with jewels. She wore a modest blue Myrish gown that hinted at her figure without flaunting it.
But her most striking feature was the pair of deep blue eyes that watched him with the calm, patient hunger of a predator.
"So you are Tyene?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Her voice was soft and perfectly polite, yet Viserys caught the sharp glint of a hunter behind the innocent mask. The manners and the pretty dress were just another pair of weapons.
"Where did you learn such precise knowledge?"
"I love books," she said with an innocent shrug. "They hold the most astonishing—and most useful—stories."
Viserys gave a low chuckle.
This bastard girl had a quick tongue.
"Still, we didn't cross the Narrow Sea to debate scripture or trade stories," Nymeria said, steering the conversation back on course. "Or to haggle over grain. May we speak plainly now?"
"Then tell me—what business is so important that it brought you all this way?"
Viserys gestured to the chairs waiting across the oak table. Bastards or not, Dornish or not, basic courtesy still mattered.
The three women sat. Nymeria spoke first.
"Our uncle sent us to confirm whether you still remember the alliance you made with him. The one signed before Ser William Darry died…"
There was a subtle note of reproach in her voice—clever enough not to say outright, He wants to know if you intend to honor it.
Viserys had already read the reports. The moment the Dornish women stepped off the ship in Volantis, their mood had soured. Hardly surprising.
They had carried such a heavy charge, only to arrive too late.
"How amusing," Viserys said, eyes locked on Nymeria. "Now it falls to you to remind me the pact still exists. You know as well as I do that I've had every reason to forget it these past years."
"What do you mean by that, Your Grace?"
"From the moment your father left Braavos, I received nothing from the Prince of Dorne. No gold. No knights. No shelter. No safe haven. Everything I have now, I earned with my own hands. Even the few Dornish who helped me did so of their own will, out of duty—not because their prince commanded it."
The exiled prince leaned forward, voice hard and honest.
"So tell me—why should it surprise anyone if I let the old agreement fade?"
"Our uncle has always been cautious," Nymeria admitted, and Viserys heard the hesitation. She didn't agree with her uncle's approach to their shared revenge. "After all, you and the usurper are separated by a sea. The ironborn rebellion's failure hangs over his head like a sword. We cannot risk Robert—or his little birds—learning that your family still has friends in the Seven Kingdoms."
"So your family's friends chose to do nothing?" Viserys laughed softly, pressing the advantage. "Wise, perhaps. But what kind of friend stands idle while his ally bleeds?"
The three women glanced at one another.
Finally Nymeria found her courage.
"The second reason our uncle sent us… is to ask what he can do for you now."
"Now that interests me," Viserys said, taking full control of the conversation. "Why didn't the prince send his brother again? Last time we met, Oberyn seemed so eager, so full of fire. Has time dulled his edges? Has he lost his thirst for justice?"
Tyene answered, her voice calm and musical, defending her uncle.
"He wanted to come himself. But, Your Grace, you must understand—the world has changed.
Sneaking into Braavos to meet an exiled knight was one thing. That city is vast and open. Even the best spies can miss things.
But slipping into old Volantis? Approaching one of the three Triarchs, surrounded by glory, dignity, spies, and informers? That is something else entirely.
If my uncle set foot here, word would reach King's Landing before the moon turned."
"And you can imagine," Nymeria added, "what the Lannisters would do with that information."
"If Dorne were burned to ash like the riverlands," Tyene finished softly, "it could offer the dragon no help at all."
The pure, burning hatred for House Lannister in their voices pleased him.
The lions of Casterly Rock had been his enemies in the last life. They would be his enemies again when he sat the Iron Throne. He would walk over their corpses to claim it.
Oberyn had passed that hatred to his daughters. Good.
"A truly loyal vassal offers herself in service to her liege," Viserys said. The words were old, but true. "Your promises are stirring, my ladies. But actions speak louder. Loyalty without action is just noise."
An awkward silence fell.
Then Nymeria spoke again.
"Yet you still agreed to see us today."
She left the rest unsaid: I don't believe you summoned us merely to scold us like wayward septas and send us packing.
"Because I admire your passion, Nymeria," Viserys answered plainly. "And because every one of my subjects deserves the chance to prove herself."
"Prove herself?"
"You know we're at war with the Triarchy. You know I'll soon sail for Lys. It will be a hard, bloody campaign. Any help will be worth its weight in gold."
Viserys finally came to the point.
"Dorne can help me. Dorne should help me. When the time comes, we'll see whether your words are true or empty."
"My uncle will never agree to send our people to fight under your banner," Obara said, and it was clear she didn't share her uncle's caution.
Viserys smiled.
"I'm not asking for open aid. Your people don't need to fly my banners yet." He looked at each of them in turn, voice steady. "I know the rulers of Plankytown have long funded pirate fleets. Tell your uncle to order them to harry the Triarchy's islands and shipping lanes first. Every enemy ship they sink or capture is fresh proof of our families' friendship. And to sweeten the deal, tell the captains that Triarch Viserys claims none of the plunder. Besides, Varys and his master already know the Dornish love raiding the Stepstones. This is simply business as usual."
Nymeria Sand listened closely, nodding.
The conversation had finally turned useful. She wasn't about to let the momentum slip.
"My uncle does know these men," she said. "I believe he can convince them to do something both profitable and just."