To Jorah, the terms had been crafted with devilish cleverness.
On the surface they didn't sound unreasonable. But the moment Volantis gave in to even one of these demands from the Whores…
They would keep coming back for more, each time hungrier than before.
And even if Viserys Targaryen survived this term as Triarch, he would never be allowed a second one.
He would be forced to leave Volantis—without troops, without money, without allies—reduced to a walking corpse just waiting for someone to finish him off.
But every speech, no matter how long, eventually ends.
"If these fair and just conditions are rejected," Regon Alynaris declared, as if he hadn't noticed the fury he was stirring, "then the three Free Cities will consider the Silver Treaty null and void. The Tri-City Renewal Alliance and Volantis will be at war."
The arrogant Lysene couldn't resist adding one last flourish.
"Seāmāzīli perzomyānogromā."
"We will return with flame and blood."
The galleries were no longer murmuring. They were on the verge of erupting into open, hate-filled shouts.
And why wouldn't they be?
Volantenes had always looked down on the people of the Three Daughters.
Now some rootless Lysene upstart dared invoke the ancient Freehold to threaten them?
No wonder the entire Hall of Wisdom was drowning in rage.
War…
Who knew better than Ser Jorah Mormont that Volantis—and his prince—were nowhere near ready?
Just one month ago he and Naharis had been crushing starving peasant revolts in the northern districts of the First Daughter.
The coldest truth was that the Lyseni, Tyroshi, and Myrmen knew it too.
That was exactly why they had the gall to stand here, in front of the man many called the greatest commander in Essos, and dictate these terms.
The city treasury was still empty. Huge sums had to go toward rebuilding after the Dothraki invasion.
Many sellswords had already been paid off and sent home, now scattered across the Free Cities or even farther.
The core veterans remained… but were they enough to fight three city-states at once?
The Volantenes themselves had bled heavily in that final savage battle. Too many good officers were dead. Entire companies of militia had sworn they would never touch a spear again.
Even the man they called the Red Dragon would need time to rebuild a new army.
Right now Renigar was probably whispering the same grim calculations to his colleagues.
The enemy had chosen the perfect moment.
But accepting this ultimatum…
Absolutely not.
His prince, his king, had won this throne through victory in war. If he backed down from these Whores now, his prestige would collapse overnight.
The elephant party would seize the chance to remove the thorn in their side. The fence-sitters would switch sides in a heartbeat. The tigers would turn into frightened kittens.
Viserys had climbed too high—higher than any other sellsword had ever dreamed.
And if Ser Jorah's years of service had taught him anything, it was that the prince had already guessed exactly how this would end.
At that moment Viserys raised his hand, signaling the musicians.
A single blast of horns rang out. The entire hall fell silent.
"It seems the Three Daughters cannot control themselves again," Viserys's voice rolled out, growing louder with every word. "They have banded together like a pack of bandits, eyes on other people's gold."
"But the elder sister's duty is to discipline her younger siblings—to teach them manners, respect, and, when necessary, the sting of the whip."
"I, Viserys Targaryen, speaking for Volantis, reject this contemptible ultimatum!"
Jorah smiled. There was his prince.
As the words landed, the first wave of excited shouts rose from somewhere in the galleries.
Viserys lifted his hand again, cutting it off.
"And that is not all." His voice now carried the full weight of a king. "Regon Alynaris, Joran Sarnathar, Bellario Aximion—they have committed a grave insult against the First Daughter and her finest sons and daughters.
They entered the Hall of Wisdom under the protection of envoys, yet dared to threaten us with flame and blood.
They must have thought we were lowly Rhoynar… or filthy Ghiscari.
They must have thought they were reborn dragonlords.
But… they are not.
The right of the eldest son belongs to us… and it is our duty to remind them."
The galleries went deathly quiet.
The arrogance on the envoys' faces vanished. They looked at one another in sudden panic.
In Jorah's eyes, the proud Lysene had gone white as milk.
Never send a hot-headed young fool to negotiate.
"As long as I sit upon the black-stone throne," Viserys declared, voice low and final, "no insult to the First Daughter will be forgotten, and none will be forgiven.
Guards!
Take them!
Strip them naked, parade them through the streets, and drag them to the sewer trench. Throw them in.
Execute every one of their followers."
The galleries exploded in a thunderous roar.
Even the hardest elephant-party lords looked satisfied. The timid fence-sitters thought the punishment was perfect.
They might not like the usurper from distant Westeros…
But right now he had shielded them from the shame the whore-spawn tried to inflict.
By dragging the Lyseni and their allies here to be judged, at least for this moment he had earned the city's acclaim.
At the same time, this sudden burst of unity—even if it was only a fragile rope—bound the old-blood nobles to Viserys tighter than ever.
Those envoys had been important men in their own cities. Their families would demand revenge for such humiliation…
"My lord!" the fat Myr man wailed. "I said nothing! It was all Regon's idea—"
"You came with the Lyseni and never once contradicted him. Therefore you stand with him." Viserys showed no mercy. "You will share his punishment."
Everything happened exactly as the Triarch commanded.
Every single follower of the Lyseni, Tyroshi, and Myrmen envoys was cut down by the guards.
The arrogant Alynaris's threat had stripped them of all protection, and the Volantenes seized the opening without hesitation.
Mormont's soldiers tore the fine clothes from the envoys' bodies. Their jewels were presented to the Triarchs and later added to the treasury.
The envoys themselves suffered a worse fate.
Completely naked, they were driven from the deepest heart of the Black Wall all the way to the edge of the city, while commoners and slaves jeered and mocked them.
Children chased after them laughing. Women pointed and giggled. Heads of households roared with delight.
It had been years since the streets had seen such a spectacle!
The road was long. By the end the envoys' feet were raw and bleeding; the last scraps of their dignity had vanished.
They wept, moaned, dropped to their knees and begged—completely stripped of rank and honor.
Begging only earned them more humiliation.
Their tears and wails were sweet wine to the lowborn of the streets.
Especially after these same men had threatened to bring flame and blood to their doorsteps.
In the end the three were hurled into the great sewer trench—the place where the entire giant city emptied every foul thing it produced—something they would never forget as long as they lived.
At least all three eventually crawled out, and the Volantenes spent a long time laughing at the "brown-robe envoys."
That, at least, was the story Ser Jorah Mormont heard later from dozens of witnesses.
Today, another war between the First Daughter and the Three Whores had begun.
Today, the city had cheered the ruler who protected them from shame.
But how long would that gratitude last?
War is never easy—especially for the smallfolk.
And the risk of defeat touches everyone, not just the men who march to the battlefield.
That was why, the very next day, Jorah was buried under an avalanche of new duties.
Inspecting warehouses, checking barracks, recalling old comrades…
The quiet days were over.
The sellsword captain's real work had begun again.