The sweltering heat of Volantis pressed down on the crowded streets like a heavy blanket. Sweat trickled down faces and backs as slaves scurried through the narrow alleys, their tiger-striped tattoos marking their stations as clearly as brands. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of spices, rotting fish, and human misery.
A noble procession wound its way through the marketplace, four muscled slaves straining under the weight of an ornate palanquin. Its silk curtains rippled in the tepid breeze, offering glimpses of the pale-haired occupant within. The slaves' backs gleamed with sweat, their faces locked in expressions of careful blankness as they navigated the uneven cobblestones.
"Move aside, filth!" A guard cleared the path with sharp cracks of his whip. The crowd parted like water, slaves pressing themselves against walls and ducking into doorways.
From her perch in the palanquin, Lady Nyessa Maegyr's lip curled at the sight of a slave auction taking place in a nearby square. Her violet eyes, a testament to her pure Valyrian bloodline, swept over the proceedings with casual disdain.
"Stop here," she commanded, her High Valyrian flowing like silk. The palanquin halted, and she watched as the auctioneer paraded his wares before potential buyers.
"Fresh from the Summer Isles!" The auctioneer's voice carried across the square. "Strong backs, strong arms - perfect for the mines or galleys!" He yanked a chain, forcing a line of men to shuffle forward. Their eyes remained fixed on the ground, shoulders slumped in defeat.
A merchant in rich silks stepped forward, running expert hands over muscles and checking teeth like one might examine a horse. "I'll take six for my pleasure barge," he declared, counting out golden honors into the auctioneer's eager palm.
Lady Nyessa waved a delicate hand at her steward. "The young one on the end," she pointed to a girl no more than fourteen. "Add her to my household staff."
The transaction completed in moments, another soul changing hands as easily as a copper penny. The girl was led away, her face a mask of resignation as she joined the stream of humanity flowing through Volantis' endless streets.
The blazing sun climbed higher, baking the ancient stones of Volantis as the day's commerce continued unabated. Near the docks, a group of newly-purchased slaves huddled in an iron cage, awaiting transport to their assigned posts. Their faces bore the fresh marks of the tattooists - flames for temple servants, hammers for craftsmen, tears for pleasure slaves.
An elderly slave woman shuffled past, her face etched with decades of tiger stripes marking her as a domestic servant. She paused to slip a water skin through the bars to the new arrivals, her gnarled hands trembling with age. A guard's whip cracked near her feet.
"Back to work, you old hag." The guard spat on the ground. The woman hobbled away without a word, head bowed in practiced submission.
Inside the Black Walls, where the Old Blood of Valyria dwelled in luxury, a different scene played out. Servants moved silently through marble halls, delivering delicacies on silver platters while musicians played soft melodies on carved harps. The contrast between their careful movements and the iron collars at their throats spoke volumes.
"The shipment from Astapor arrives tomorrow," a merchant declared over cups of chilled wine. "Three hundred Unsullied, ready for training." His companion nodded in approval, dabbing sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief.
Down in the bowels of the Red Temple, acolytes tended the eternal flames while slaves scrubbed the stone floors until they gleamed. A young priest watched their labor with critical eyes, ready to dispense punishment for any perceived laziness. One slave's movements grew sluggish from exhaustion. The priest's cane descended without mercy.
"The Lord of Light demands perfection," he intoned as the slave bit back cries of pain. "Your suffering cleanses your soul."
Near the Long Bridge, a wine seller haggled with a ship captain over the price of a cargo of Arbor gold. Their animated discussion took place over the prone form of a slave who had collapsed from heat exhaustion. Neither man spared the dying figure a glance as they concluded their business.
In a wealthy merchant's compound, a newly-purchased pleasure slave wept silently in her quarters. The fresh tattoo of a tear below her eye still stung, a permanent marker of her new station. An older slave attempted to comfort her.
"You'll learn to endure," she whispered. "We all do, or we die. There is no other choice in Volantis."
This was daily life in Volantis, uncaring of the suffering it wrought. For the so-called Last Daughter of Valyria saw itself as Valyria's true heir, and in no way would those of the blood dare live any other life but of indulgence and wealth. Behind the Black Walls, the noble families lounged on silken cushions and sipped chilled wine while their armies of slaves toiled in the merciless sun.
They viewed such inequality as their birthright, a continuation of the old empire's ways, though they possessed only a pale shadow of Valyria's true might. The tiger-striped faces of their human chattel were as meaningless to them as the carved decorations that adorned their mansions.
Malaquo's withered frame sat rigid in his gilded chair, his skeletal fingers drumming against the armrest as he observed his fellow triarchs. The chamber's oppressive heat did nothing to improve his mood, though the gentle breeze from the silk fans provided some relief. Age had stolen much from him - his teeth, his vigor, even some of his infamous fire - but his mind remained sharp as Valyrian steel.
Nyessos lounged across from him, his expression carefully neutral beneath his perfectly groomed beard. The merchant's eyes held their usual calculating gleam, likely already counting potential profits in his head. His rich robes, heavy with gold thread and precious stones, spoke of wealth that Malaquo knew came as much from betrayal as from trade.
Doniphos reclined on silk cushions, accepting grapes from a buxom and beautiful Naathi pleasure slave whose collar gleamed with gold inlay. The sight made Malaquo's lip curl. Such casual indulgence seemed unbefitting a triarch, especially in times that demanded serious attention. But then, Doniphos had always been soft, more concerned with comfort than with Volantis' glory.
"We must speak of Westeros," Malaquo declared, his voice carrying the authority of decades in power. "More specifically, the North."
"What of them?" Doniphos waved his hand lazily, reaching for another grape. "All they have done is sell excess food and some very good jewelry." A lecherous grin spread across his face as he settled deeper into his cushions. "I gave one of their necklaces to my concubine and she loved it so much she spent all night showing me how appreciative she was."
Malaquo spat into a golden bucket, his toothless mouth twisting in disgust at his fellow triarch's softness. The sound echoed in the chamber, drawing a slight frown from Doniphos, who shifted uncomfortably under the older man's harsh gaze.
But it was Nyessos who caught Malaquo's attention. The merchant-prince sat in uncharacteristic silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he considered the matter. When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of careful consideration.
"The grain, vegetables and fruit they sell last longer even when not stored," Nyessos said, his eyes focused on some distant point. "And last near two years or more in proper storage." He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on an edge of intensity. "Thus they are making a profit like no other."
Malaquo nodded slowly, appreciating how his fellow triarch saw the bigger picture, despite him being of the elephant party. It was rare for Malaquo to find common ground with the merchants and peace lovers of volantis, but Nyessos had always possessed a keener mind than most. While Doniphos saw only immediate pleasures, Nyessos understood the implications of such unprecedented preservation capabilities.
Malaquo shifted in his seat, his aged bones creaking like old wood. The thought of Westeros - particularly the North - stirred a familiar anger in his gut. These upstart barbarians had grown too powerful, too quickly.
"You speak of profits, Nyessos," Malaquo's toothless mouth worked as he spoke. "But I see a greater threat. The North's influence spreads like wildfire across our markets."
He gestured to a nearby slave who hurried forward with a stack of trade records. Malaquo's bony fingers traced the figures with practiced ease.
"Look here. Our traders now purchase almost exclusively from Northern ships. Their preserved goods last longer, their deliveries arrive with constant precision thanks to their ships, and their prices..." He tapped a parchment before him with a sharp nail. "Their prices remain stable regardless of season or circumstance."
Doniphos shrugged, still more interested in his grapes than the discussion. "So they are good traders. What of it?"
"Fool," Malaquo spat. "It's only the beginning. Mark my words - the rest of Westeros will follow their example. Already we hear whispers of changes in their Reach, in the Westerlands. And when they do..." He let the words hang in the air.
Nyessos leaned forward, finally showing genuine interest. "You believe they'll expand eastward?"
"Beyond Astapor, beyond Meereen." Malaquo's voice carried absolute certainty. "All the way to Yi Ti if they can manage it. These Northerners, they're not like other Westerosi we are used to. They seem to have changed. They plan. They build. They improve."
His fingers drummed against the armrest as he continued. "And they hate slavery. Make no mistake - they trade with us now only for profit. Once they establish routes to markets that share their... moral sensibilities..." He sneered at the word. "They'll abandon us without a second thought."
"The cities that have come to depend on their trade will suffer," Nyessos mused, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Precisely." Malaquo nodded grimly. "Their ships are faster, larger, more reliable than anything we've seen. When they turn their attention eastward, we'll be left with nothing but memories of better days and warehouses full of empty dreams."
Malaquo watched Doniphos wave away his concerns with the casual indifference of a man too comfortable in his prosperity. The younger triarch's silk cushions rustled as he shifted, accepting another grape from his pleasure slave.
"Let them leave then," Doniphos said, his voice thick with dismissal. "We traded well enough before they came, did we not? Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen - they'll always need our goods. And we'll always have slaves to sell." He chuckled, patting the golden collar around his slave's neck. "Some things never change."
Malaquo's withered fingers gripped his chair's armrest until his knuckles whitened. Age had taught him patience, but Doniphos tested its limits. He'd seen this blindness before, this willful ignorance of changing times. It had cost Volantis dearly in the past.
"You fool," Malaquo's toothless mouth worked in frustration. "Half our traders have sunk their fortunes into warehouses bursting with Northern goods. Four years of steady profit has made them forget the basic rules of trade." He gestured at the trade records before them. "Look at these numbers. Really look at them."
Nyessos leaned forward, his merchant's mind already calculating the implications. But Doniphos merely shrugged, reaching for his wine.
"I've seen how the Northern traders look at our slaves," Malaquo continued, his voice heavy with certainty. "The disgust in their eyes when they pass the auction blocks. The way they turn away from the tiger stripes on our servants' faces." He spat into his bucket again. "They trade with us now because it suits their purposes. But mark my words - this time of plenty will end."
"You worry too much, old friend," Doniphos said, but Malaquo could see the first flicker of uncertainty cross his face. "Surely they understand the way of things in Essos. They're pragmatic people, these Northerners."
"Pragmatic?" Malaquo barked a harsh laugh. "Yes, they are that. Pragmatic enough to build their own trade routes once they've learned what they need from us. Pragmatic enough to turn their backs on those who practice slavery once they no longer need our markets."
He watched his words sink in, saw the moment Doniphos finally began to grasp the gravity of the situation. The younger triarch's hand froze halfway to his mouth, the grape forgotten between his fingers.
"Our merchants have grown fat and lazy on Northern coin," Malaquo pressed his advantage. "They've filled their warehouses with goods bought at Northern prices, expecting Northern profits. When those profits vanish..." He let the implications hang in the air like a executioner's blade.
Malaquo shifted in his seat as Nyessos fixed him with a penetrating stare.
"What truly troubles you, my fellow triarch?" Nyessos asked. "Beyond trade routes and Northern goods. What keeps the great tiger of Volantis awake at night?"
Malaquo's withered fingers traced the edge of his armrest. He studied his fellow triarchs - Nyessos leaning forward with keen interest, even Doniphos now setting aside his grapes to listen. The old man's toothless mouth worked for a moment before he spoke.
"I have received visitors," he said, his voice low and harsh. "Representatives from Myr, Lys, Pentos. Even Meereen and the other slaver cities sent their envoys." He spat into his bucket. "All bearing the same whispers, the same fears."
"Go on," Nyessos prompted when Malaquo fell silent.
"The Northern traders have set a new standard in every port they touch. Their goods, their methods - they've become the measure against which all trade is judged." Malaquo's fingers drummed against the armrest. "But that's not what truly frightens these envoys. No, what keeps them awake at night is Braavos."
Doniphos frowned. "Braavos? What do those upstart descendants of slaves have to do with-"
"Everything!" Malaquo snapped. "The Sealord seeks alliance with the North. Not just them - all of Westeros. The Iron Throne itself." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "They mean to end us."
"Surely you exaggerate," Doniphos protested, but his face had lost its usual ruddy color.
"The Sealord plans to build a coalition," Malaquo continued. "First, they'll clear the Stepstones with Westerosi help. Then..." He let out a harsh breath. "Then they mean to turn their combined might against slavery itself. Port by port, city by city."
"A campaign against slavery?" Nyessos's eyes widened. "The Sealord wouldn't dare."
"Not just a campaign." Malaquo's weathered face twisted. "A holy war. The Red Priests already whisper of it in their temples. The Lord of Light, they say, demands freedom for all." He spat again. "And now they have allies with the strength to make it happen."
The chamber fell silent as the implications sank in. Even the slaves holding the fans seemed to still, though they quickly resumed their duties under the sharp glance of a nearby guard.
Malaquo observed how his fellow triarchs absorbed the gravity of his words. Even Doniphos had set aside his grapes, the pleasure slave forgotten as she retreated into the shadows.
"And?" Nyessos asked, his merchant's mind already working through the implications. "Apart from their fears of an army of those who wish to destroy our very way of life, what solutions did these lessers offer but bleating fears? An army of unsullied to attack northern shores, hundreds of boats to assail Braavos' waters?"
There was fear in Nyessos's voice, though he tried to mask it. Even Doniphos leaned forward, his usual indolence replaced by keen attention.
Malaquo actually nodded at his fellow triarch's words, his toothless mouth working as he considered his response. "They suggest we strike first, a joint army to break Braavos and Westeros. Not enough to destroy them, we wouldn't have enough soldiers, but enough to warn them off any future coalition with each other."
His bony fingers tapped against the armrest as he watched understanding dawn in their eyes. The proposal was bold - perhaps too bold - but the alternative was to wait for destruction, economic or otherwise, to find them. Malaquo had not survived decades of Volantene politics by being passive in the face of threats.
The slaves continued their silent fanning, though Malaquo noted how their movements had slowed ever so slightly, their ears straining to catch every word. He made a mental note to have them replaced after this meeting. No slave who heard such sensitive discussions could be allowed to remain in service.
Malaquo watched Nyessos stroke his beard thoughtfully, the triarchs calculating mind clearly weighing profits against risks. The chamber's heat pressed down on them all, but Malaquo had learned long ago to ignore such discomforts when matters of importance were at hand.
"A risky plan," Nyessos said at last, "but it could work." He shifted in his seat, his jeweled rings catching the light. "Most of Essos' nations and kingdoms exist in peace despite our different ways of life and economies. A few sharp skirmishes on land and sea, some strategic destruction here and there - Braavos would have no choice but to back off."
Malaquo's toothless mouth curved into what might have been a smile. The triarch was thinking along the right lines now.
"And the Westerosi would learn their place," Nyessos continued, warming to the idea. "Peace talks would follow naturally. We could negotiate better trade deals with the North." His eyes gleamed as he considered the possibilities. "Better prices, of course, with the threat of more war hanging over them. Perhaps even exclusive trading rights for a few more years."
"Yes," Nyessos nodded, his voice growing stronger with conviction. "Yes, it could work. The Sealord is proud but practical, He won't risk Braavos' prosperity over idealistic notions of freedom, not when faced with united opposition from the rest of Essos."
Malaquo felt a surge of satisfaction at Nyessos's reasoning. Finally, someone else who understood the gravity of their situation and saw the solution war offered. But his contentment shattered as Doniphos burst into loud, mocking laughter that echoed through the chamber.
"Mad! You're both absolutely mad!" Doniphos wiped tears from his eyes, his whole body shaking with mirth. "Oh, I know you both merely tolerate me. You, Malaquo, because the election made me your fellow triarch, and you, Nyessos, because we share the elephant banner." He shook his head, still chuckling. "But it seems I'm the only one here with any sense left."
Malaquo's withered face twisted into a dark scowl. His bony fingers gripped the armrest until his knuckles whitened. "What game are you playing at, Doniphos?"
Doniphos's laughter died away, though his eyes still danced with amusement. "Do you truly believe you can cow the current king of Westeros with some surprise attack and a quick war?" He leaned forward, all traces of his usual indolence gone. "Robert Baratheon? The man who smashed the Targaryens and won his crown with a Warhammer?"
Malaquo's jaw clenched as Doniphos laughed again, the sound grating against his nerves like steel on stone. The younger triarch's eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, as if he found their concerns about war absolutely ridiculous.
"Oh, you think Robert Baratheon is some fat drunk now?" Doniphos wiped a tear from his eye. "Perhaps he is. I've heard the same reports - how he's lost his edge since crushing the Targaryens, drowning himself in wine and whores after losing his northern love." He popped another grape in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "But consider this - if that broken shell of a man was effective enough in war to bring down a three-hundred-year dynasty, what do you think will happen when we give him a proper war to fight?"
Malaquo felt his stomach turn cold at the words. He'd read the reports and heard the stories of Robert's Rebellion, of course - every educated person in Volantis and Essos had studied how the mighty Targaryen dynasty fell. But he hadn't considered...
"The man lost his purpose, lost his love," Doniphos continued, his voice growing sharper. "But give him a war? He'll find that purpose again. And mark my words - he won't stop until every city that raised arms against him is crushed beneath his Warhammer."
The old triarch's fingers drummed against his armrest as Doniphos pressed on.
"And let's not forget - when Robert won his crown, the North that helped him wasn't this..." Doniphos gestured vaguely with his wine cup. "This wealthy, organized force we see today. They were just northern barbarians with steel and determination. Now?" He barked out another laugh. "Now they have those massive ships you're so worried about. They have wealth enough to buy whole armies if how much they've been making in trade is any show of the truth…"
Malaquo spat into his bucket again, but this time it was to hide his growing unease. Doniphos's words carried the ring of truth he'd been trying to ignore.
"Just imagine," Doniphos leaned forward, "those northern ships, filled with angry warriors, backed by the full might of the Seven Kingdoms - all led by a king who finally has an enemy worth fighting again. Do you really think your 'quick war' will end the way you hope?"
Malaquo watched as Nyessos's eyes lit up with a sudden inspiration. The merchant triarch leaned forward, his jeweled rings catching the light as he gestured excitedly.
"The Targaryens," Nyessos said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We could find the last dragons. Set them up as figureheads. There are still dragon loyalists in Westeros - the Reach, Dorne..." His fingers traced patterns in the air as he warmed to his theme. "With the threat of legitimate heirs to the Iron Throne, those kingdoms might break away from Robert. The realm would fracture, and then-"
Doniphos's laughter cut through Nyessos's words like a knife. The younger triarch doubled over, tears streaming down his face as his body shook with mirth. His wine cup clattered to the floor, spilling red across the marble tiles.
"Oh gods," Doniphos wheezed, wiping his eyes. "And I thought your first plan was mad." He struggled to catch his breath, his face red from laughing. "If you thought Robert's wrath would be terrible before, just imagine what he'd do if he heard we were trying to restore the Targaryens." Fresh peals of laughter escaped him. "He'd make sure Volantis looked like a second Valyria by the time he finished with us."
Malaquo felt his withered face twist into a snarl. "We have no choice," he spat into his bucket. "With our allies' combined strength and a swift campaign-"
"Glory," Doniphos interrupted, all trace of laughter gone from his face. He fixed Malaquo with a look of pure disgust. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? One last grab at glory before death claims you." He shook his head slowly. "You'd drag us all into the grave with you, just to have songs sung about the great tiger who started one final war."
The words struck Malaquo like physical blows. He gripped his armrest so hard he could feel the wood creaking beneath his fingers, his pride warring with the truth he heard in Doniphos's accusation.
He'd heard enough of Doniphos's mockery however, enough of his warnings and cowardice dressed as wisdom. The old triarch's weathered face twisted into a mask of determination as he raised his voice over Doniphos's continued protests.
"Enough." The word cut through the chamber like a blade, silencing both his fellow triarchs. Malaquo straightened in his seat, his aged frame crackling with purpose. "We will put this to a vote, as is our custom."
The slaves stilled their fans, the sudden quiet hanging heavy in the air. Malaquo's rheumy eyes swept across the chamber, fixing each triarch with an unwavering stare.
"All those in favor of beginning preparations for war against Braavos and Westeros, with our new allies?" His voice carried the weight of centuries of Volantene authority.
Without hesitation, Malaquo raised his own hand. Beside him, Nyessos's bejeweled fingers rose as well, the triarchs calculating eyes already distant with plans and schemes.
"Those opposed?"
Doniphos raised his hand with deliberate slowness, popping another grape into his mouth as he did so. The gesture carried all the casual disdain that so irritated Malaquo.
A thin smile crossed Malaquo's withered lips. "Two against one. The motion carries." He savored the taste of victory, sweeter than any wine. "I will send word to our allies to begin preparations. It will take some months to gather our forces, but soon..."
His toothless mouth curved into a fierce grin. "Soon, glory will be ours. The dogs of Westeros and Braavos will learn their proper place - beneath the boot of Valyria's true heir."
Malaquo rose from his seat, his aged joints protesting the movement. Nyessos fell in beside him as they made their way toward the chamber doors, their slaves following at a respectful distance. Already they were deep in discussion, voices low as they planned the coming conflict.
Behind them, Doniphos remained in his seat, reaching for another grape. He popped it into his mouth with a thoughtful expression, wondering aloud if Yi-Ti might not be a more pleasant place to conduct trade visits in the coming months.