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Jorah Mormont had walked through plenty of great cities and been received with high honor in both Westerosi castles and eastern palaces. He was no lord with endless gold, but he was no crude barbarian cut off from civilization either.
Even so, the Hall of Wisdom still took the Bear Island knight's breath away.
Here, at the very heart of the Triarchs' power, he finally saw true wealth and taste woven together in perfect harmony.
No vulgar flash like Westerosi lords, no desperate eastern upstart stuffing every corner with exotic treasures just to prove he had money.
Everything was exactly right—an almost miraculous marriage of fortune and refinement that left a man able only to stand in silent admiration.
The grand hall that had once welcomed envoys and dragonlords gleamed with intimidating splendor.
Marble statues of past Triarchs and heroes lined the entrance. Guests had to climb the broad steps while the city's highest elite watched from the galleries beneath the dome.
Each level of the stairs was painted a different color to mark exactly how far each kind of guest was allowed to climb.
The lowest brown steps belonged to humble petitioners.
The purple steps reserved for Valyrian messengers and dragonriders had stood empty for centuries—no one dared set foot on them.
Above the purple steps, at the very peak of the pyramid-shaped platform, sat the three thrones.
The mysterious black-stone seat, the golden seat, and… the weirwood seat.
The first and most exalted—the black-stone throne that carried pure Valyrian blood—belonged to his prince… Viserys Targaryen the Third.
The golden seat of wealth and trade was occupied by Menyx Renigar.
And the white weirwood throne held Weymond Dorya.
There had never been weirwood in the east, which was exactly why it had become the symbol of warriors and conquerors.
By ancient custom the first two thrones had always belonged to the elephant party. Now they had only one left—and it was tied purely to money.
At this moment Ser Jorah Mormont stood at the side in his capacity as captain of the Triarch's trusted sellsword retinue, flanked by Captain of the Guard Eleonora Darennis and standard-bearer Ser Loren Rayne.
Most of the envoys arriving today would not dare show open disrespect to the Triarchs, but having armed guards nearby was simply wiser—especially when the guests came from Volantis's ancient enemies, the Three Whores.
Rayne stood watch on the yellow merchant steps below.
Mormont took the blue steps reserved for fallen noble widows and widowers.
Eleonora guarded the final step before the purple stairs.
Every position had been chosen with meticulous care by people who understood protocol. In this ceremony not a single misstep would be tolerated.
The massive doors swung open slowly.
First came the Keeper of the Foundation, solemn and magnificent in his robes. Only in his wake could petitioners and envoys enter the hall that was sacred to the old blood.
The three men who followed were dressed so lavishly it looked as if they had draped their entire family fortunes across their bodies.
Talking about practicality was pointless—the jewels and fabrics alone could feed a middling lord's household for a year and a half.
Their large retinues had, of course, been stopped outside the doors.
Volantene custom forbade any entourage from entering the Triarchs' seat of power—except for guests from so far away they did not even speak High Valyrian.
"Joran Sarnathar, speaking for the Archon of Tyrosh."
His yellow beard had been dyed blue, as if he were terrified someone might miss where he came from.
Still, the man had almost no belly—more noteworthy than his dyed whiskers.
"Bellario Aximion, speaking for the Magistrates of Myr."
The moment the Myr banner appeared, a ripple of unease ran through the Black Wall nobles.
Most had assumed Lys and Tyrosh had come to propose that Volantis join them in plundering their weakened northern neighbor—or at least beg the First Daughter to stay out of it.
Instead Myr had arrived flying the same banner as the other two Whores. The lords inside the hall were visibly unsettled.
Only his prince remained perfectly calm, as if everything were unfolding exactly as planned.
Ser Jorah Mormont enjoyed Viserys's trust and therefore had a fairly clear idea of what the Triarchs were expecting.
To put it plainly, the Targaryen, Renigar, and Dorya all agreed that the Whores had simply come to snatch whatever advantages they could while Volantis was still reeling from war.
It was the oldest tradition in Essos: when your neighbor was still staggering from a fight, you jumped in and took a bite.
Trade privileges, lowered tariffs, perhaps a few disputed settlements thrown in for good measure…
Scouts had already brought word that dozens of firebrand orators in those three quarrelsome cities were stirring up their people, promising easy glory and riches.
Such talk never appeared out of nowhere.
"Regon Alynaris, speaking for the Magistrates of Lys."
This Lysene didn't just share a name with the late Westerosi prince across the Narrow Sea.
Tall, handsome… let's hope he was as unrealistic as Rhaegar had been.
Once the guests had been introduced, the old Keeper presented his own masters.
"Viserys Targaryen, Triarch of the Black Stone Throne.
Menyx Renigar, Triarch of the Golden Throne.
Weymond Dorya, Triarch of the White Wood Throne."
The Keeper, breathless and clearly excited, still spoke the ritual words.
"Honored Triarchs, will you deign to hear the words of these respected envoys?"
It was pure formality. Jorah knew that in the past the Triarchs had often refused audiences at the very last moment simply to display the power and dignity of the First Daughter.
Today, however, Volantis could no longer afford such arrogance.
"We will," Viserys answered for all three. "The Triarchs of Volantis invite our honored guests to come straight to the point."
"That is exactly our intention," Regon Alynaris replied on behalf of the delegation. "In such a setting there is no need for polite pleasantries."
A murmur of discontent rose from the galleries, but it died the instant the envoys began reading their letters.
The Lysene spoke at tedious length, pronouncing every syllable of the High Valyrian with painful care as he read from the parchment.
Jorah's years in Essos let him follow the meaning even if he couldn't catch every word.
Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr demanded that Volantis cede vast tracts of land in exchange for recognizing the legitimacy of the new Triarchs.
The golden-haired envoy listed more than twenty towns and settlements in the Disputed Lands that the Three Whores now claimed as their own.
Some names Jorah had never heard. Others he had walked through himself.
Most were worthless…
But then, almost in passing, Regon Alynaris mentioned a mining settlement called Exion.
The sellswords knew it by a far more famous name—Gold Hill.
As one of the few orderly, civilized trading posts left in the Disputed Lands, Gold Hill sat on rich deposits of precious metals.
Volantis had held it firmly for fifty years. Even in the darkest days of the war, Varyon Dortalos had refused to pull its garrison to reinforce the main army.
Lys had lusted after that fat prize for decades and never managed to sink its teeth in.
Now they wanted to take it without spilling a drop of blood.
Losing the gold of Exion would be a death blow to Volantis's already weakened economy.
The moment the envoy uttered the name Exion, angry muttering exploded across the galleries.
Jorah couldn't pick out individual voices, but even a deaf man could feel the tension crackling through the hall.
Nobles and ladies were stunned by the sheer gall of the Three Whores. The envoys' words felt like a slap across the face of Volantis's honor and dignity.
Mormont caught fragments of furious shouts—something about teaching these animals, these whore-spawn, a lesson.
Even the most refined aristocrats, when truly wounded, could curse like any cobbler in the street.
But the demands of the Whores' envoys did not stop at land.
Alynaris continued on behalf of the others, moving smoothly into trade rights and privileges.
This was never Jorah's area of expertise—perhaps that was why he had lost both his inheritance and his wife in the old days…
Yet even he could see how breathtakingly greedy the Lysene terms were.
Just one clause—that ships from the Three Whores could enter Volantis harbor freely and pay no taxes at all—was already outrageous.
And that was before they demanded the right to buy grain and supplies at rock-bottom prices for any eastward voyage…