A few well-placed compliments, and both sides felt considerably better.
"Thank you for Your Grace's praise," Nessiso said, riding atop his elephant and pressing a hand to his chest in a polite bow.
"Volantis itself shines brighter for your arrival."
In their good humor, the triarchs even arranged for Viserys to ride in a more luxurious palanquin—one borne not by horses or slaves on wheels, but by eighteen men carrying it on their shoulders.
Viserys glanced down. The thick wooden beams rested directly against the bearers' necks.
After years of labor, the flesh there had grown misshapen, swollen into grotesque knots like the necks of overworked oxen.
It made the man who had once been a teacher for half his life deeply uncomfortable.
Most of the bearers were Rhoynar and Andal by blood. It seemed Volantis still sent its slavers upriver along the Rhoyne from time to time.
The sight made the crown upon Viserys's head feel duller, heavier.
He glanced up at the triarchs riding their white elephants and smiled faintly before stepping into the palanquin.
When the fleet passes through, the Volantene slavers will never cross Chroyane again.
For any realm to grow, population was essential—and that meant Volantis and Gohor would inevitably clash one day. Just as Braavos and Pentos fought not only for land, but also for people.
Yet Malaqo and the others had not arranged the slave-borne palanquin to insult him.
In their eyes, a slave was simply a slave. Andal, Rhoynar, even the black men of the Summer Isles—they were all nothing but talking tools.
Once seated, Viserys forced his thoughts elsewhere.
The streets were lined with onlookers, gathered to see the spectacle for themselves—to witness what a dragonlord, vanished for centuries, looked like.
Their gazes were full of curiosity.
This young dragon king had no horns, no scales on his back—only an unnervingly handsome face.
"Your Grace," said a young Volantene noble riding beside his palanquin.
"Ahead lies the Black Wall. It was built by Valyrians using sorcery. Thousands of years have passed, and still—look at it—it stands unbroken."
The noble's name was Bessilion.
Viserys nodded. As they passed through the massive gates of the Black Wall, that faintly familiar sensation returned to him.
"The castles of Dragonstone were built the same way, weren't they?" Bessilion continued. "With Valyrian craft. I wonder—does House Targaryen still preserve any of that knowledge?"
"Alas," Viserys sighed, "our ancestor Aenar brought many tomes from Valyria, but nearly all have been lost."
Bessilion nodded gravely, sharing the sentiment.
The procession continued straight to the "Administrative Hall" within the Black Wall—a palace that, as Bessilion explained, had once been the summer residence of a Valyrian dragonlord.
There, the Volantenes had prepared a welcoming feast.
For nobles, after all, half their lives were spent at banquets.
The chosen venue was an open-air garden—proof that those who lived in the tropics knew how to enjoy themselves.
Viserys soon found himself watching a performance that could only be described as not for children.
And truly, it wasn't.
The scent of sweat and lust hung heavy in the warm air, mingled with the earthy sweetness of wine. Viserys could even smell the raw musk of human desire.
Fortunately, the incense burned throughout the garden quickly masked the worst of it.
The courtiers around him, however, looked uneasy.
Westeros might be less advanced, even rustic by comparison—but at least its sense of modesty and decorum still held.
Most of his men shifted uncomfortably.
Lothan silently thanked the gods he hadn't brought his granddaughter.
Davos, meanwhile, was having his own problem—his eldest son's eyes were practically popping from their sockets.
When the dancers finally departed, both sides at last turned to business.
"Your Grace Viserys," said Dofas, lounging with a cup of wine in one hand and a servant girl in the other, "it is an honor for Volantis that you would entrust us with your fleet."
"We have therefore decided to raise our previous offer by one thousand golden honors. What do you think?"
Among nobles, there was profit, not politeness.
The price Dofas offered was a calculated insult.
Their intelligence may have been a little delayed, but by now they knew exactly what kind of situation Viserys faced.
Especially Malaqo—if not for Aegon the Conqueror, his Tiger faction would not have been crushed beneath the Elephants for more than two centuries.
Now, at last, came a chance to reclaim everything with interest.
Viserys, of course, didn't care about their offer at all. He wasn't here to sell ships—he was here to stall.
The Old Man of the River had promised him help, but needed a month to prepare the way through the Volantene locks.
Twenty days remained. Viserys had to drag out the talks until the old god was ready.
"This price," he said mildly, "is difficult for us to accept. I'm sure the esteemed triarchs know the quality of Targaryen warships. Even our oldest vessel has served no more than fifteen years."
The triarchs exchanged amused glances. They weren't surprised by his refusal.
They knew they were here to take advantage, and the first banquet was never the time to break faces over coin.
So the evening continued with polite laughter and hollow courtesies.
Before long, they arranged accommodations for Viserys and his retinue—a fine estate within the Black Wall.
Of his five hundred guards, however, only fifty were allowed inside.
The rest were kept comfortably fed and lodged outside—"for safety reasons," of course.
That, at least, was a concession to the fact that Viserys's guards were all young and inexperienced.
The Volantenes were nothing if not cautious.
Viserys had indeed considered a more direct approach: using essence transfer to summon an elite force from home, launch a surprise strike, and be free to sail away as he pleased.
But after learning of the strict Black Wall laws—foreigners forbidden to wear armor within its bounds—he dismissed the plan entirely.
For now, all would depend on the Old Man of the River.
Once inside the estate, Viserys, Lothan, Arthur, and Davos gathered by the lakeside to discuss what came next.
A closed room might have secret passages or listening holes; better to talk where no wall could hear.
And as a watermage, Viserys would sense at once if anyone tried to eavesdrop from beneath the surface.
After Davos explained how tightly the Volantenes were watching the fleet, they began to debate how to get the ships out.
"Your Grace," Lothan asked eagerly, "how exactly will the Old Man of the River help us?"
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