The Maegyr manse blazed with light, its hundred perfumed oil lamps drowning the night in saffron-scented splendor. Slaves in golden collars wove between the tables, bearing platters of roasted peacock stuffed with dates, braised octopus in fiery Volantene spices, and pyramids of blood oranges from the Summer Isles. The air thrummed with the discordant music of a Lysene harpist and the constant rustle of silk as nobles pretended not to stare at me.
I paused at the banquet hall's threshold, letting the assembled aristocracy take their measure. Black-and-red silks clung to my frame, the fabric slashed to reveal glimpses of the wyrm's scars across my ribs. Aserion perched on my shoulder, his obsidian scales drinking in the light, while Viserion coiled around my forearm like a living vambrace.
"Prince Viserys!" Malaquo's voice boomed across the hall as he rose from the high table. The Triarch's maroon robes were embroidered with enough golden tigers to outfit a menagerie. "How kind of you to grace our humble gathering."
I arched a brow at the gilded ceiling. "Humble? I've seen smaller palaces."
Laughter rippled through the crowd—too loud, too eager. The Volantene nobility were predators smelling blood in the water, and tonight, they weren't sure who would bleed.
Daenerys stepped from the shadows behind me, resplendent in a gown of midnight blue samite that made her silver hair glow like moonlight. Rhaegal peered from the intricate braids piled atop her head, his emerald scales catching the lamplight.
Malaquo kissed her hand. "Princess. Your beauty outshines even the tales."
Dany offered a smile sharp enough to draw blood. "And your flattery remains as polished as your floors, Triarch."
The first course arrived—towers of spiced crab and melon, drizzled with honeyed vinegar. I took my seat at Malaquo's right, Aserion hissing at any slave who came too close with the wine.
"So," Malaquo said, tearing apart a loaf of black bread, "you promised me a city."
I speared a cube of melon with my knife. "I believe my exact words were 'I'll make you King of Volantis.'"
A wine cup clattered somewhere down the table.
The Lysene magister with pearl-studded braids—Narbo something-or-other—leaned forward. "The Triarch system has stood for five thousand years. You expect us to believe—"
"I expect you to open your eyes." I tossed the melon to Viserion, who snapped it midair. "Your elections are a mummer's farce. The elephants bribe the magistrates, the tigers roar but never bite, and every three years you reshuffle the same tired players while Qarth and Braavos eat your trade routes."
Dany swirled her wine. "The last time Volantis truly ruled Essos was during the Century of Blood. When you had dragons."
Malaquo's fingers tightened around his goblet. "And now dragons have returned."
Silence fell like a headsman's axe.
I stood, Aserion spreading his wings for balance. "Democracy is the opiate of the weak, my lords. The illusion of choice granted to placate the masses while the powerful pull their strings." My gaze swept the table. "How many of you have bought votes? How many have been outbid by the cheese merchants of the Elephant faction?"
Narbo flushed. "The system—"
"—is rotting," Dany interrupted, rising to stand beside me. Rhaegal uncoiled from her hair, hissing at the magister. "We've toured your outer districts. The slaves starve while the magistres debate which golden statue to erect next."
Malaquo studied us like a chessmaster assessing a new gambit. "And your solution?"
"Three months," I said. "Gather every tiger-leaning noble who'll pledge to you. Meanwhile, I'll be in Astapor securing additional forces."
Narbo scoffed. "You can't possibly have enough mo—"
"Money won't be a problem." I smiled as Aserion's tail twitched against my neck. "Meet me at the northern fields at midnight. Bring no more than two guards."
---
The grasslands beyond the Black Walls shimmered under a full moon, the warm wind carrying the scent of distant slave fields. Malaquo arrived with only his slave captain—a hulking brute named Vargo with filed teeth.
"You drag me from my bed for—"
I raised a hand. The system interface glowed before me:
[Deploy Gondorian Infantry?]
Location: Grid E-7
Quantity: 2,000
I selected Yes.
The earth trembled.
Vargo swore as the hillside rippled, the very air distorting like heat haze over a desert. Then—
Men.
Row upon row of armored soldiers materialized from the darkness, their formation perfect despite the unnatural arrival. Moonlight glinted off silver-and-black plate armor, off spearpoints sharp enough to pierce the night itself. Their shields bore the white tree of Gondor, their plumed helms casting long shadows across the grass.
Malaquo's horse reared. "By the Fourteen Flames—!"
The front ranks parted. A captain approached—taller than the rest, his black cloak flaring like dragon wings. He knelt, his voice muffled but clear:
"My sword is yours, my lord."
I dismounted and drew Blackfyre, its Valyrian steel singing as I rested the tip beneath the captain's chin. "Rise, Captain...?"
"Boromir, son of Denethor." He stood, removing his helm to reveal a face all hard lines and sharper eyes. "Of the White Tower."
I was surprised—the man looked exactly like Ned Stark. I had never personally watched The Lord of the Rings back in the real world, but it appeared they were played by the same actor.
This could cause some problems—or perhaps some opportunities. With Ned Stark's death fast approaching, Boromir might serve a purpose when I eventually invade Westeros.
Malaquo approached like a man walking toward a mirage. He touched Boromir's pauldron, the Gondorian's armor still warm from whatever dimension had birthed them. "They're real."
"Two thousand today," I said, sheathing Blackfyre. "Ten thousand more when I return from Astapor."
Dany emerged from the ranks leading a Gondorian archer—a woman with raven hair and a longbow taller than she was. "Captain Zauriel reports their archers can pierce an eye at three hundred paces."
Malaquo's gaze darted between the soldiers, the dragons, and me. Calculating. Always calculating. "Three months?"
"Three months," I confirmed. "Gather your allies quietly. When I return, we move."
Boromir's hand fell to his sword hilt. "To war, my lord?"
I smiled, watching Aserion circle overhead, his wings blotting out the stars.
"To conquest."
---
Dawn found us on the estate's eastern balcony, watching the first ships of the day leave port. Most of the Gondorian Soldiers were sent back into the system, their presence still a secret to all but Malaquo's inner circle.
Dany leaned against the rail, Rhaegal gnawing on a silver bracelet. "You trust him?"
"Malaquo?" I snorted. "As much as I'd trust a starving lion."
She turned, the morning light gilding her profile. "Then why—"
"Because lions can be tamed." I caught a loose strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "Stay close to Kinvara while I'm gone. The Red Priests will protect you."
Her fingers brushed mine—brief, electric. "Three months is a long time."
I smirked. "Miss me already, sweet sister?"
Rhaegal hissed as she swatted my arm. "Don't flatter yourself." But her cheeks pinked.
Below, the crew of Black Dread—my newly christened flagship—prepared to sail. Boromir waited at the gangplank, his Gondorians already aboard.
Dany's smile faded. "What are you bringing back from Astapor?"
I kissed her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel her breath hitch.
"Fire and blood."