The Merchants' House.
Triarch Maracho of the Tigers had already departed; the west bank of the Rhoyne was no place for a ruler to linger.
"Lady," one of her guards asked softly, "will the Dothraki truly attack Volantis?"
The Widow on the Water furrowed her scarred brow, the ruined flesh drawing her features into a mask both grotesque and terrible. "The hearts of men are like the sea—unfathomable. The Dothraki no less so." A shadow crossed her eyes. "And the Tiger Triarch has never been one to rest content, nor a man without ambition."
Her web of spies told her more than he would ever confess. She knew the Golden Company had once spurned Maracho, refusing his whispered commission to strike down High Priest Benerro of R'hllor and his followers. The Tiger had not dared entrust the Tiger Cloaks, for most of his soldiers bent the knee to the Red God.
She knew as well the count of Volantis' armies, and with the Black Walls behind them, they were strong enough to withstand a Dothraki assault. But should Maracho sally forth in search of glory, his strength would prove sorely wanting.
"Word from the docks," another guard said, "tells that the Golden Company marches west. They have taken contract with Myr."
The Widow nodded gravely, then rose with slow effort. "A Lysene captain told me more. Myr's rivals seek to woo the Company away. They have promised twice the pay, and slaves for every man—ten for every captain, and a hundred women for their commander, Harry Strickland. Strickland did not refuse. He told the Lyseni he would 'consider it well.'"
For the sake of an oath, she would aid Maracho in his bargain. Yet the candlelight wavered upon her bent frame, and in its glow her memories rose, shadows of a long-dead oath and the man who had once spoken it in her ear.
"Perhaps the Golden Company is no longer what it was," muttered a guard bitterly. "To make a penny-counting steward their captain—what honor remains?"
Harry Strickland was no warrior. Before his command he had been but the Company's quartermaster.
The Widow on the Water paid the jibe no heed. She took up quill and parchment, bent low over the table in solemn silence, and penned two letters in her tight, steady hand. When the ink dried, she sealed them in wax and gave command:
"Take ship at once. One by river, one by sea. Bear these letters to Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos."
The chosen guards bowed low, took the seals, and departed at speed.
"Will Pentos aid us in winning the Golden Company?" asked another of her sons, doubtful.
She laid a hand upon his arm, smiling with patience. "In his garden rests a dragon."
The name passed from mouth to mouth among the guards.
"The Beggar King?"
"Even with a crown, he is still a beggar. A beggar, though he shine the brightest in all the world."
"They say he feasted the captains of the Golden Company, begging their swords for his cause. They laughed, and left him with crumbs."
"Aye. He is but a red dragon. The Company's blood runs black."
Their talk did not sway her. Her smile endured, her dark eyes gleaming with wisdom and a mother's fondness.
"Black or red," she whispered, "a dragon is still a dragon."
Viserys Targaryen—the last exiled son of a fallen house. The blood of Aegon the Conqueror, styling himself Viserys the Third, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, though men named him the Beggar King.
For three hundred years House Targaryen had ruled Westeros, until the war they called the Usurper's Rebellion ended their reign. Their arms bore the red three-headed dragon upon black: the Red Dragon.
Yet a century before, the realm had bled for the Blackfyres—Daemon Blackfyre and his sons, whose sigil was a black dragon upon red. Daemon was born of King Aegon IV's lust, his bastard by Princess Daena Targaryen, yet truer in blood than many who sat the throne. On his deathbed, Aegon had legitimized all his bastards. And so Daemon's claim had risen like fire.
For near seventy years, red and black warred for the Iron Throne. At last the last male Blackfyre fell, and the war was ended—though not forgotten.
For it was Bittersteel, Aegor Rivers, another legitimized bastard of Aegon IV, who forged the Golden Company in exile. Its ranks were filled with Blackfyre loyalists and their sons. Its oath was for the Black Dragon.
Now, as the Widow's messengers sailed for Pentos, the Dothraki rode.
At the headwaters of the Vhalaena, dusk was falling. Nohat and his riders reached the scout-camp left to guard the crossing. Their bodies were spent from ceaseless riding; even their horses dropped dead beneath them.
Nohat lay back upon the grass, eyes fixed on the rushing waters, unease gnawing in his breast. He saw the shape of the land clear in his mind. The enemy's march seemed a little astray—yet if not bound for the Syhoru, then it was as though they strode with foresight.
At once he rose, roused his men, seized water-skins and food, and mounted fresh horses. They set off west in silence.
But Nohat did not know that, even then, Khal Möngke was already across the Vhalaena with thirty thousand riders, sweeping south toward Volantis.