Doniphos reclined on his silk-cushioned divan beneath a striped awning, watching the endless stream of soldiers filing onto the waiting ships. The harbor stretched before him, a forest of masts and billowing sails that blocked out the horizon. His weathered hands gripped the armrests as another column of Unsullied marched past in perfect formation, their spears glinting in the harsh midday sun.
The smell of salt and tar mingled with the perpetual stench of slaves and sweat that permeated Volantis. Below his vantage point on the elevated terrace, the dockworkers scurried like ants, loading supplies and weapons onto the massive war fleet. The preparations had taken months - gathering allies, amassing troops, stockpiling provisions. All for a war he had opposed from the start.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Even in the shade, the heat was stifling. He reached for his cup of watered wine, noting how his hand trembled slightly. Age was catching up with him, much like it had with Volantis itself. The city's glory days were long past, yet here they were, reaching for empire once again.
The rhythmic thud of marching feet continued as companies of soldiers from Meereen and Astapor made their way along the docks. Their officers shouted commands in their harsh Ghiscari dialects, their voices carrying across the water. The sight of their varied armor and weapons - curved arakh blades, spiked shields, bronze scales - stood in stark contrast to the uniform discipline of the Unsullied columns.
Footsteps approached behind him. Doniphos didn't need to turn to know who had arrived. The tap of Malaquo's cane and Nyessos' labored breathing were unmistakable. His fellow triarchs settled onto their own divans without exchanging greetings. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken tensions.
Malaquo's skeletal frame cast a long shadow across the terrace tiles. Despite his frailty, his eyes burned with the same martial fervor that had driven Volantis to war countless times before. Beside him, Nyessos dabbed at his sweating face with a silk handkerchief, his jeweled rings catching the sunlight.
They watched together as more troops boarded the ships - ten thousand Unsullied and ten thousand soldiers from the slaver cities, though Doniphos knew the true numbers were even higher. The largest fleet since the Century of Blood, all to wage war against Westeros and Braavos simultaneously. Pure madness, in his estimation, but he had been outvoted.
A slave girl approached with fresh wine and fruits, her tiger stripes stark against her skin. None of the triarchs acknowledged her presence as she refilled their cups and retreated. Below, the loading continued, an endless procession of men and materials flowing into the belly of the fleet like water down a drain.
"When can we expect the Lyseni and Myrish forces to join us?" Nyessos shifted on his divan, the wooden frame creaking under his bulk. His fingers traced the rim of his wine cup, leaving smudges on the polished silver.
Malaquo's thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. "Their ravens arrived this morning. Their fleets and armies will meet with us at Lys. Fresh supplies and men await us there before we strike at Westeros and Braavos."
Doniphos plucked a grape from the silver bowl beside him, studying its purple skin before popping it into his mouth. The sweet burst of flavor did little to mask the bitter taste of impending disaster. He remained silent, watching another contingent of soldiers board the ships below. The grape seeds clicked against his teeth as he chewed, a quiet counterpoint to the endless drumbeat of marching feet.
The harbor breeze carried the smell of pitch and rope, mixed with the sweat of thousands of men preparing for war. Doniphos selected another grape, letting the conversation flow around him like water around a stone. His silence spoke volumes - they all knew his position on this foolhardy venture.
Nyessos leaned forward, his chair groaning. "The Lyseni ships will be welcome. Their sailors know these waters better than most." He paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a perfumed cloth. "And the Myrish crossbowmen are without equal."
"Indeed." Malaquo's cane tapped against the tiles in rhythm with the marching below. "With their forces added to ours, we'll have the largest fleet seen since the Century of Blood."
Doniphos chose another grape, maintaining his deliberate silence. The sweet fruit turned to ash in his mouth as he watched more soldiers file onto the waiting ships, marching toward what he feared would be their doom.
Nyessos turned his fleshy face toward Doniphos, rings glinting as he gestured with his cup. "You've been quiet, old friend. Have you finally seen the wisdom in our course?"
A dry laugh escaped Doniphos' throat. He rolled another grape between his fingers, watching the fruit catch the sunlight. "Wisdom? No. You both outvoted me, as is your right. I'm merely here to witness the consequences of that decision."
Malaquo's cane cracked against the tile floor. "Consequences? There will be none but victory for Volantis. The greatest fleet since the Century of Blood, the finest armies gold can buy." His skeletal frame straightened, some echo of old strength returning to his voice. "We will remind the world why they once feared the First Daughter."
Doniphos set the grape back in its bowl, untasted. Below them, more columns of soldiers continued their endless march onto the waiting ships. The sun beat down on their armor, creating a river of moving metal that flowed toward the harbor. Each step brought them closer to what Doniphos feared would be disaster, but he kept that thought locked behind his teeth.
"Fear," Doniphos murmured, "is a poor foundation for empire." The words were quiet, almost lost in the clamor of loading ships and shouting officers, but both his fellow triarchs heard them clearly enough.
The slave girl returned with more wine. Doniphos watched her pour, noting how her hands trembled slightly as she filled Malaquo's cup. The old tiger's reputation for cruelty was well-earned, even in a city built on suffering.
Nyessos shifted his bulk again, silk robes rustling. "You've grown too cautious in your years, Doniphos. Too much time spent counting coins and fucking your concubines." He waved a bejeweled hand at the harbor spread before them. "Look at our strength. What power in the world could stand against this?"
Malaquo nodded in agreement, his thin lips curved in a predatory smile. "The tigers of old would be proud to see Volantis bare her claws again. Even you must admit the glory in this moment."
Doniphos snorted, the sound harsh and undignified for a triarch of Volantis. "Glory? What glory lies in war? In this war?" His fingers traced the rim of his wine cup, remembering countless battles from his younger days. "In any war?"
Malaquo's face twisted into a scowl, but Doniphos pressed on before the old tiger could interrupt. "Have we even attempted to speak with the Sealord of Braavos? To find common ground?"
"Common ground with those sanctimonious freedmen?" Nyessos spat the words like spoiled wine. "They've been undermining our trade for decades."
"Yes, because of slavery." Doniphos set his cup down with deliberate care. "We could have proposed a gradual reduction in the slave trade. Phase it out over years, decades even. Give our economy time to adapt. Or at least pretend to."
"Madness." Malaquo's cane struck the tiles again. "The tigers would never-"
"The tigers are dying, Malaquo. Look around you." Doniphos gestured at the harbor, at the thousands of slaves loading the ships. "We're clinging to old ways while the world changes. Braavos wouldn't dare approach Westeros if we showed willingness to change."
"Change?" Nyessos laughed, his multiple chins quivering. "You sound like those freedmen zealots preaching in the streets."
"I sound like someone who doesn't want to see Volantis burn." Doniphos leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "Think. Really think. If we approached the Sealord with a proposal - gradual manumission, regulated over time. Trade agreements to ease the transition. They'd have no reason to seek alliance with Westeros."
Malaquo's skeletal fingers tightened around his cane. "You would have us bend knee to those former slaves?"
"I would have us survive." Doniphos watched another column of Unsullied march past. "Better to bend than break. Better to change on our terms than have change forced upon us."
Nyessos barked out a laugh, his jowls quivering with mirth. "Silly words from a man grown too fond of his comforts." He gestured expansively at the sprawling city behind them, at the grand estates and pleasure gardens visible through the heat haze. "Look around you, Doniphos. Every noble house in Volantis has grown fat on the slave trade. Our coffers overflow. Our power increases year by year."
Doniphos watched a bead of sweat roll down Nyessos' temple, noting how it caught in the folds of his neck. The man's rings clinked against his wine cup as he took another drink, droplets staining his silk robes.
"And you think the Sealord would believe any overture we make?" Nyessos continued, dabbing at his face with a perfumed cloth. "That he would trust pretty words about gradual changes while our slave markets continue to thrive? The man's not a fool."
Malaquo nodded, his sharp eyes fixed on the loading ships below. "We did send envoys to Braavos. To see if some... accommodation could be reached."
Doniphos felt his stomach tighten. He'd heard nothing of this diplomatic mission. "And did you ask the Sealord to refrain from approaching the Iron Throne, or did you demand it?" The words came out grimmer than he'd intended, heavy with the weight of certainty.
Doniphos felt the familiar weight of resignation settle in his chest. Of course Malaquo had bungled any chance at diplomacy. The old tiger's pride would accept nothing less than complete submission.
"Demand? As one of the blood of Valyria should," Malaquo declared, his skeletal frame straightening with ancestral pride. "Our envoys were of my house, and they demanded he cease such foolishness."
Doniphos took a long drink of his watered wine, letting the liquid cool his throat. He didn't need to hear the rest to know how this tale would end. Still, he watched Malaquo's face as the old tiger continued.
"Only to find the ship with Braavosi envoys had already set sail two weeks past." Malaquo's cane tapped against the tiles in irritation. "Luckily, the fat king Robert and his hand were going down north, and so there was nobody to meet them. My spies sent word."
Doniphos set his cup down with careful precision, fighting the urge to throw it across the terrace. Below them, the endless columns of soldiers continued their march onto the waiting ships. Each footstep echoed the beating of war drums that would soon thunder across the seas. All because Malaquo couldn't swallow his pride long enough to attempt real diplomacy.
Malaquo's withered frame straightened as he gazed out at the assembled armies below. His eyes gleamed with an almost feverish light, reflecting the glint of thousands of spear points and shield bosses moving in the harsh sunlight.
"Can you not see it?" The old tiger's voice crackled with excitement. "Soon the Braavosi will kneel in their precious Purple Harbor. Their Sealord will crawl before us, begging our forgiveness for their insolence." His cane swept across the vista of loading ships. "And the Westerosi? Those barbarian lords who fancy themselves greater than those with the blood of dragons? They'll learn what true Valyrian might means."
Doniphos watched as tremors ran through Malaquo's hands, noting how the old man's fingers clutched his cane to hide their shaking. Age had taken its toll on the fierce tiger, leaving behind only the echo of the warrior he'd once been.
"The sight of our fleet will break their spirits," Malaquo continued, lost in his martial fantasy. "They'll plead for mercy, offer tribute, promise anything to avoid our wrath." A thin smile crossed his lips. "I shall enjoy teaching them their proper place."
Doniphos turned fully in his seat to face his fellow triarch, studying the old man's frail form. "Surely you don't expect to lead this war yourself, Malaquo?"
Malaquo's thin lips stretched into what might have been a smile, though to Doniphos it looked more like a death's head grin. "Of course I shall lead them. The tigers of old didn't send others to fight their battles."
He raised something from beside his divan - a nine-foot whip of black leather, its handle carved with intricate dragons. Doniphos recognized it immediately - the symbol of command over the Unsullied. His stomach turned slightly at the sight.
"The masters of Astapor presented it themselves." Malaquo's skeletal fingers caressed the whip's handle. "Complete command over all our allied forces. When was the last time Volantis marshaled such might under a single commander?"
"During the Century of Blood," Doniphos answered quietly. "When we lost half our armies trying to rebuild the Freehold."
Malaquo ignored the barb, too enraptured by his own glory. His cane tapped against the tiles as he shifted, attempting to sit straighter. "This time will be different. This time, we have the Unsullied. This time, we have true allies who share our goals."
"And I shall be there as well," Nyessos interjected, his jowls quivering with excitement. "Someone must handle the surrender terms, negotiate the trade agreements once victory is achieved." He dabbed at his sweating face with a silk cloth. "And I hear the noble ladies of Westeros are quite beautiful. The slave markets will overflow with pale-skinned prizes when we return."
Doniphos watched as another drop of sweat rolled down Nyessos' temple, disappearing into the folds of his neck. The man's rings clinked against his wine cup as he took another drink, droplets staining his silk robes. The casual way he spoke of enslaving noblewomen made Doniphos' look at them like they had two heads.
"You're both mad," Doniphos said softly, more to himself than his fellow triarchs. He looked out over the harbor, at the endless columns of soldiers boarding the ships. How many would return? How many would die for old men's dreams of glory?
Malaquo's dry laugh rasped through the air like sandpaper on stone. His skeletal frame shook with mirth, but there was no warmth in the sound. "Mad? No, dear Doniphos. We are the only ones who truly see." His cane tapped against the tiles as he gestured at the assembled fleet. "Victory is within our grasp. The greatest armada since the Old Valyria reigned, The might of the slaver cities under volantis command, united under a single purpose."
Doniphos watched as another bead of sweat rolled down Nyessos' temple. The corpulent triarch shifted his bulk, silk robes rustling as he leaned forward. "There's still time, you know. Your personal guard stands ready. Your ship can be provisioned within days." His rings caught the sunlight as he gestured expansively. "Join us in this moment of glory. Let all three triarchs lead Volantis to its destiny."
"At least one triarch must remain in the city." Doniphos kept his voice level, though his fingers tightened around his wine cup. He studied his fellow triarchs - Malaquo lost in dreams of martial glory, Nyessos already counting his profits from imagined victories. A cold certainty settled in his chest as he recognized the gleam in their eyes.
"This isn't about a quick war anymore, is it?" The words fell into the space between them like stones into still water. Neither of his fellow triarchs met his gaze directly.
When they finally met his gaze, Doniphos saw the truth written in their eyes. Nyessos shifted his bulk, silk robes rustling as he leaned closer.
"There has been... discussion among the factions." Nyessos' rings clinked against his wine cup. "The tigers and elephants have found common ground at last. Our allies in Astapor and Meereen share our vision."
Doniphos felt ice spread through his veins. "What vision would that be?"
"A grander one than mere victory." Nyessos' face flushed with excitement, sweat beading on his brow. "Why stop at defeating Braavos? Why not reshape the world itself?"
"The world?" Doniphos kept his voice carefully neutral.
"Think of it." Nyessos spread his hands wide. "Braavos carved up between Volantis and our allies. Their banking house brought to heel, their smugness crushed forever." His jowls quivered as he spoke. "And Westeros... those seven kingdoms ripe for division. The Reach's fertility would feed our slaves for generations. The Westerlands' gold mines would fill our coffers. Each of our allies would receive their due portion."
Malaquo's cane tapped in agreement. "A new age. The return of proper order." His skeletal fingers tightened around the dragon-carved whip. "Slavery restored across both continents, as it should be. As it was meant to be."
"The other cities have agreed to this?" Doniphos asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Astapor provides the Unsullied, Meereen their ships and soldiers. Even New Ghis sends support." Nyessos dabbed at his face with a silk cloth. "All will share in the spoils. All will benefit from the new order we create."
"A new Valyrian Freehold," Malaquo whispered, his eyes fever-bright. "But this time, Volantis shall lead it."
Doniphos watched another column of soldiers march past below, their feet raising dust in the harsh sunlight. He thought of the millions who would die for this mad dream. The countless who would be enslaved if they succeeded. His fingers tightened around his wine cup until his knuckles whitened.
"And you truly believe you can hold such conquest?" he asked quietly. "That you can maintain control over two continents?"
"With the Unsullied? With our combined fleets and armies?" Nyessos laughed. "Who could stand against us? The Westerosi lords will fall one by one, too divided to unite until it's too late. And once their people are properly enslaved..." He made a dismissive gesture. "Control will maintain itself."
Doniphos felt his stomach turn as Malaquo's toothless grin spread across his skeletal face. The old tiger leaned forward on his cane, eyes gleaming with an almost feverish light.
"Just imagine, Doniphos. Those northern ships - remarkable vessels, by all accounts. Faster than anything we've seen, able to weather any storm." Malaquo's fingers drummed against his cane. "Think how many slaves we could transport with such a fleet. How many raids we could launch."
"And their food preservation methods," Nyessos chimed in, dabbing sweat from his brow. "My factors tell me they can keep meat, fruit and vegetables fresh for months, even in the summer heat. No more losing cargo on long voyages." He patted his ample stomach. "Think of the profits."
Malaquo nodded eagerly. "Their craftsmen too. Those pieces we've seen - the jewelry, the weapons. Pure artistry." His bony fingers clutched the dragon-carved whip tighter. "We'll make them teach us their secrets. Every last one."
"Or we'll take their children and have them teach the next generation," Nyessos added with a predatory smile. "Break them young, train them properly."
Doniphos watched as another bead of sweat rolled down Nyessos' temple, fighting back bile at the casual cruelty in his fellow triarch's voice.
"And once we have their secrets, their ships..." Malaquo's eyes took on a distant look. "Yi Ti lies open before us. Think of it - the golden empire itself, ripe for conquest." He gestured expansively with his cane. "Their wealth, their resources, their millions of potential slaves. All ours for the taking."
"The greatest empire the world has ever seen," Nyessos agreed, his rings clinking against his wine cup. "From the Sunset Sea to the Jade Gates. All under Volantene rule."
Doniphos stared into his wine cup, watching the red liquid swirl. The magnitude of their ambition - and their madness - left him feeling hollow inside. These weren't just the dreams of glory-hungry old men anymore. They had ships. Armies. Allies. The power to make their twisted vision real.
"The tigers of old would weep with pride to see it," Malaquo declared, raising his cup in a toast. "To Volantis ascendant. To empire renewed."
Doniphos let the wine cup rest against his lips, ignoring Malaquo's toast and Nyessos' eager seconds. His gaze swept across the harbor where the massive fleet stretched to the horizon - seven hundred ships, their black sails catching the afternoon light. The largest naval force assembled since the days of Old Valyria.
The numbers rolled through his mind with crushing weight. A hundred thousand Unsullied and slaver soldiers from the great cities, their spears glinting like stars in the harsh sun. Fifty thousand more would join from Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, with Pentos adding its own considerable force. The sheer scale of it made his head spin.
Columns of warriors continued their endless march onto the waiting vessels. The crack of whips and the steady beat of drums echoed across the water. Supply ships groaned under the weight of provisions, war machines, and siege equipment. The combined might of nearly all the Free Cities, gathered for conquest.
He took a final sip from his silver goblet, letting the cool wine wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. The liquid did nothing to settle the unease churning in his gut. As he watched the armies board their ships, Doniphos couldn't shake the feeling that he was witnessing a funeral procession rather than a war fleet. All those soldiers, all those ships - sailing away to their deaths.
He shrugged mentally and took a final sip of his wine. That extended tour of YI-TI was looking mighty fine right now.