While Robert's army was landing along the Braavosi Coast, Tormo arrived in Volantis with the Braavosi fleet.
At almost the same time, the gladiators and the Unsullied legions from Slaver's Bay reached the city as well.
Yet the slaveholders of Volantis found themselves increasingly irritated by a series of scattered slave uprisings within their own walls.
"My friends who have traveled so far," said Nessiso, one of the Triarchs, during a lavish banquet, "you must ensure that your Unsullied have no contact with the outside world."
"The Targaryens are exceptionally skilled at winning people's hearts.
I don't think anyone wishes to see the Unsullied refusing orders once the battle begins."
The Great Master from Slaver's Bay, his hair sculpted into the shape of ram's horns, merely waved the concern aside.
"My friend, I understand your worries.
But I assure you, every Unsullied is nothing more than a weapon built for war.
We erased their humanity long ago."
As he spoke, he beckoned to one of the Unsullied standing nearby.
The soldier, clad in simple leather armor, stepped forward without hesitation.
Taking a dining knife from the banquet table, the master approached him.
Every noble in the hall turned to watch.
Without warning, the master pulled aside the Unsullied's armor and pressed the knife against his bare chest.
Back and forth the blade sawed through flesh. The Volantene nobles watched with shining eyes.
Soon, the master sliced a bloody piece of meat from the man's chest.
Casually tossing it onto the floor, he smiled proudly at his audience. "During their training in Astapor, we strip away their minds in three stages."
"The first is the destruction of identity.
We geld them. We take away their names.
The second is the destruction of fear.
If they fear water, we throw them into it. If they fear heights, we push them from rooftops.
The third is the destruction of humanity.
Every Unsullied is ordered to raise a puppy. And on the day their training ends...
They kill it with their own hands."
The slave master spoke with animated enthusiasm.
The Volantene slaveholders looked ready to start taking notes.
It was less a banquet... Than a gathering of demons discussing the finest way to prepare human flesh.
"Such fearless weapons should be sent wherever the fighting is fiercest!"
Malaqo declared excitedly.
"If every Volantene soldier possessed such discipline, no army could ever defeat us."
"Exactly."
Another slave master, whose hair had been styled into the shape of wings, grinned smugly.
"No matter how high the corpses pile beneath a city's walls... They'll keep climbing over them until the fortress falls."
Among those attending the feast was Benerro.
Listening to the conversation, he suddenly felt lost.
What kind of world was the promised savior meant to save?
Why?
Viserys had been reborn amidst smoke and salt. Viserys had awakened dragons from stone.
Why, then... Was he not the chosen savior?
Benerro had sent people to Gohor.
Its population had already grown to rival that of Volantis itself.
Admittedly, if one counted Volantis's surrounding towns and dependencies, the city's total population still far exceeded Gohor's.
Yet the quality of life... And the spirit of the people... Could not even be compared.
'Is it because Viserys despises slavery? Did the Lord of Light strip him of his destiny for that reason?'
What had truly happened that day upon the Holy Mother's Mountain?
...
Only after the banquet had progressed well into the evening did the assembled rulers begin discussing the coming campaign.
"The armies of Braavos and Robert Baratheon will occupy the Goosefeather Hills and sever communications between Gohor and Pentos.
Our fleet, meanwhile, will seize control of both the Upper Rhoyne and the Little Rhoyne."
After the latest count, the combined fleets of Braavos, Volantis, and Slaver's Bay numbered more than one thousand seven hundred warships.
Calling such a fleet invincible was hardly an exaggeration.
Each vessel carried between one hundred and three hundred men.
Altogether, the coalition commanded roughly one hundred and seventy thousand sailors and marines at sea.
"And I have more good news for everyone!"
Triarch Nessiso rose to his feet.
An armored man with a somewhat stout figure entered the hall.
"Allow me to introduce the commander of the Golden Company... Harry Strickland."
The Golden Company was recognized across the known world as one of the greatest mercenary companies ever assembled.
Even the masters of Slaver's Bay knew its reputation.
With Nessiso's endorsement, everyone immediately raised their goblets.
"To the Golden Company!"
"The world still has need of slaves..."
"But it has no need for dragons ever again!"
Overwhelmed by the enthusiasm shown by so many powerful figures, Strickland returned their toast with a broad smile.
At first, he had sincerely intended to serve Viserys faithfully.
Once the Iron Throne had been reclaimed, he had hoped the Golden Company could finally abandon its endless life of wandering.
But the troubles surrounding House Targaryen had grown too overwhelming.
He simply could not imagine any path to Viserys's victory.
So he had led the Golden Company into the ranks of the so-called Coalition of the World.
In truth, many mercenary companies saw this war as an opportunity to become rich.
The rise of Gohor had dramatically reduced the need for sellswords.
The Disputed Lands between the Three Daughters had once been the most war-torn region in Essos.
But because of Gohor's growing influence, those rival cities had gradually been forced into uneasy cooperation, setting aside conflicts that had raged for generations.
Naturally, the demand for mercenaries declined with them.
The Dothraki had become loyal subjects of House Targaryen. They had long since forgotten their lives as raiders.
Now they spent their days tending Viserys's herds.
Gohor itself had become a stabilizing force along the Rhoyne. It absorbed people from every surrounding land.
When peaceful lives were available...
Few wished to return to living by the sword.
Many mercenaries who thrived on endless conflict deeply resented Viserys for that.
Yet the strength House Targaryen had accumulated left them with little choice but to keep their distance.
Now everything was different.
If Gohor fell... The central Free Cities would once again descend into chaos.
And the mercenary companies that lived upon war would enjoy a new golden age.
As for the Windblown...
The company no longer existed.
After the Ragged Prince finally achieved his long-awaited revenge, his health had rapidly declined.
Nearly forty years of constant warfare had covered his body in scars so dense they resembled scales.
He no longer cared who won or lost between Viserys and Robert.
Each day he simply lay at home, quietly waiting for death.
The surviving members of the Windblown had scattered among other companies.
The Golden Company had grown stronger by absorbing many of them.
Its fighting strength was unquestioned.
As commander, Harry Strickland received honors equal to those of the great lords.
Malaqo himself was exactly the sort of man who lived for war.
R'hllor's recent humiliation had finally allowed his Tiger faction to gain the upper hand over the Elephants.
If this campaign against House Targaryen ended in victory...
Volantis would enter another great age of conquest.
One that could last a century.
Perhaps two.
The continual arrival of fresh troops only lifted his spirits further.
Raising his goblet high, he declared,
"Let House Targaryen bid farewell to this world!"
"Glory to R'hllor!"
___________
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