Volantis. High summer. The air hung thick, damp, and oppressive.
Three figures in hooded black silken robes moved swiftly across the Fishmonger's Square on the western bank of the Rhoyne. Their faces were veiled, every line and feature concealed—an attire strange enough to draw every eye, yet carried with the certainty of necessity.
The air reeked: fish-guts, blossoms rotting sweet, dung, and the sour musk of decay. But here, amidst the stench, stood the grandest inn in the city—the Merchants' House, a four-storied hulk that loomed over warehouses and taverns. Captains, shippers, and traders from across the known world made their bargains here.
At the door, a rough table barred the way. Four men in the garb of sellsword-serjeants hailed every passerby, urging them to take the coin and join their ranks. The three hooded nobles gave no heed, striding into the courtyard, boots ringing on pale sandstone. Vines crept between the slabs, and trellises heavy with grapes twisted into archways, forming a maze of shade.
The doors of the Merchants' House were famed for their strength, said to rival the gates of a gaol. Yet the three pressed them wide, stepping into a hall that thrummed with noise—dozens of tongues clashing in a din of lies and trade.
The chamber was vast, larger than the great halls of many keeps, though close and dim, with secret alcoves cut deep into shadowed walls. Sailors, slavers, coin-changers, and shipowners brawled and bargained beneath blackened beams.
They did not linger at the door. To stand idle was to invite notice. Instead they made for the hall's farthest corner, where an old woman sat alone behind a small table, her seat shrouded in gloom. From that place, unseen, she commanded a view of the entrance and all who entered.
Her face was a map of years, lined and furrowed, one great scar slashing across her cheek to cover the place where a slave's brand had once been cut away. Sparse white hair clung to pink scalp. Time had bent her spine. Yet her eyes were dark and bright still, alive with hard-earned wisdom, defiant against fate.
Her guards rose at once to block the strangers. But the eldest of the hooded three drew back his cowl, revealing a toothless smile on a seamed old face.
"Children," he said softly, "bring an old friend upstairs."
The woman's sunken eyes flickered with sorrow. She leaned heavily on gnarled hands, rising without aid. Bent but unbroken, she climbed the stair surrounded by her sons—the guards who bore her name. In the hall below, men moved aside for her, murmuring the title all Volantis knew: the Widow on the Water.
Never aloud did they call her by the other name—the Whore of Vhogarro—for none dared insult her in sight of her sons.
Vhogarro had once been seven times Triarch of Volantis, an old-blood merchant prince. His wealth was ships and slaves, docks and warehouses, coin and insurance. The Widow had been bought as a bedslave, trained in Yunkai in the arts of pleasure, freed and wed by the Triarch himself. Their scandal shook the city, but he had loved her, and on his death left her his empire.
The Black Walls forbade a freedwoman to dwell within. So she had sold her mansion, crossing the Rhoyne to build anew. Her trade thrived. Now she held docks, wharves, and shipping lanes in her grasp.
The guards ushered the three guests to a lavish suite on the second floor—the Widow's own chambers, always held for her. One window looked east across the river to the Black Walls of her past; the other west to the square below, where she ruled in her own way.
"Merghayar," she whispered, easing herself into a chair. Her wrinkled lips curved to a tired smile, eyes heavy with old grief yet lit with the calm of recognition.
The hooded three uncovered their faces. The eldest laughed, his eyes bright as a tiger's, fierce and unbent despite the loss of teeth.
It was Maracho Merghayar, Triarch of Volantis, leader of the Tiger faction—old, but no less a tiger for it.
"You, I, and your husband Vhogarro—we have known each other near thirty years," he said. "Call me Maracho, as you always have."
He dropped easily into a chair, his voice still edged with command.
"Maracho," she replied, "the west bank is no place for a Triarch. But for the sake of your old kindness to my husband, I swore I would repay you in any way I could."
The tiger's eyes gleamed, devouring. "Then repay me now. I need a sellsword company—reliable, tested."
The Widow laughed softly. "You mean the Golden Company."
Sellswords were fickle, their word as thin as wind. But not the Golden Company. Their vows were iron, their motto: Our word is as good as gold. They were the fiercest of Essos' hosts.
"Yes," Maracho growled. "The Golden Company—and more. Others in the Disputed Lands, on the Stepstones. Those who can be trusted."
He clenched a fist. His voice rang with urgency.
The Widow's brows drew tight. "Do the Elephants know of this?"
"They have given consent," Maracho declared. "The Dothraki ride south. They draw near Volantis. War is at hand."
But the Widow on the Water only watched him, silent, her dark eyes fathomless. She knew more than even the tiger could guess.