Khal Drogo looked at the Volantene envoy and sneered to himself. This white-headed, skinny runt in his fancy gilded armor was so gratingly arrogant that it was only by dint of great patience that Drogo had not beheaded him. Oh, his words were respectful enough, or at least, the slave who was translating the Volantene's words from bastard Valyrian to Dothraki was using respectful language, but the very way the man sat his horse (a casual carelessness rather than the natural grace of a true rider) conveyed the man's pride in himself and his disdain for everyone around him. He also wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak, despite the fact that it wasn't even snowing. For his part, Drogo's only concession to the cold was a sleeveless vest which he wore unfastened. He had killed his first man in a bare-chested knife duel fought in knee-deep snow; he cared no more for the cold than he did for the blades of his enemies.
"Ask him why I should lead my khalasar against Myr," he said, not bothering to look at the translator-slave. "They have no gold to pay me since the Andals defeated them, and I can find gold and slaves along the Rhoyne without having to fight for them."
Belicho Maegyr, second son of that family, kept his features schooled to diplomatic blankness as he digested the barbarian's words. He had to admire the barbarian's stones at least; it took a lot of gall to threaten the First Daughter of Valyria, even obliquely. Not that it was surprising, of course. One did not rise to leadership of a khalasar forty thousand strong by faintheartedness, and it was only to be expected that a Dothraki would have a beast's self-confidence, being barely a step up from beasts themselves. "Tell the khal," he said, not deigning to look at the translator slave, "that the Triarchs will pay him handsomely to take the city of Myr, and give him the friendship of Volantis as well, which is more valuable than gold or slaves."
Indeed, until the time of knife and arakh comes, Drogo thought to himself as the translator-slave finished speaking. City-men all lied, it was known. And as for payment, he was a khal of the Dothraki, not a common sellsword. Not that there was anything wrong with taking gold for fighting, but it had to be a lot of gold; forty thousand riders gave you rights. "Ask him; if I were to attack Myr, how should we get over the walls," he said, not looking at the translator-slave. "We cannot break stone walls with our arakhs, or open gates with our whips." It was an old problem for the Dothraki, one they traditionally solved by not having to; a reputation for savagery was just as good as a battering ram and not as clumsy.
Belicho allowed himself a small smile of triumph. "Tell the khal," he said, keeping his eyes on that particular barbarian, "that we of Volantis have the means to open a gate for his riders." He waved a hand at the Untouchables standing behind him in double ranks. "Tell him the Untouchables are the finest killers in the world, that they are to Unsullied what Unsullied are to Dothraki."
Drogo blinked slowly as he transferred his gaze from the Volantene (what kind of man had not even a moustache, anyway, and wore his hair short?) to the spearmen standing behind him. The story of khal Temmo and the Spikeheads of Qohor was burned into the memory of every Dothraki. If these men were better than the Spikeheads, then they were fierce indeed. "Ask him," he said, ignoring the translator-slave, "what payment does Volantis offer for the taking of Myr?"
Belicho suppressed a shout of triumph. It would not do to get carried away in front of these savages. "Tell the khal," he said, not looking at the translator-slave, "that Volantis will pay one hundred thousand gold marks for the city of Myr, and that his khalasar may take whatever loot they can carry and as many slaves as they can drive. Volantis asks only that they destroy utterly that part of the city called the Andal Quarter, so that one stone does not stand on another."
Drogo could hear his bloodriders and his kos stir and murmur behind him as the translator-slave finished speaking. One hundred thousand gold marks, and all the loot and slaves they wished? By any standards, it was a princely sum. Drogo considered for a moment, and then raised his hand to silence his men. "Tell the Volantene," he said to the translator-slave, keeping his eyes on the Volantene's face, "that when we are done with the Andal Quarter, he will be able to gallop his horse across it and not fall. Tell him also," he added, glowering, "that if this is a trick, I will drag him behind my horse from Myr to Volantis and raise his head on a pike to watch his city burn."
Belicho fought down the urge to strangle the barbarian. "Tell the khal," he said, "that I shall ride beside him myself against Myr, and if I play him false, I give him leave to sack Volantis to his heart's content." That was well in excess of his orders, but grandfather Malaquo would forgive him when it worked. The retaking of Myr would be the first step on the glittering stairs of empire that it was Volantis' fate to ascend, until the domains of Valyria were regained and all the world bowed to Volantis.
Author note: So that's what Volantis and the Dothraki are getting up to. Stay tuned for the domestic quarrels of the Seven Kingdoms.
