The expectation of a warm welcome, like in Pentos, was not justified: the Governor of Selhorys, a lean middle-aged man with short-cropped white-gold hair, was coldly polite, his High Valyrian emphatically flawless. He introduced himself as Ex Beiselar Arnarion; his bow was light and casual, just enough to portray a minimal degree of respect for a high guest. The soldiers of his garrison were perfectly drilled, and the honor guard looked more like guards at an honorable surrender; the Governor’s urgent request to refrain from leaving the city citadel suggested the same thought.

Winter in the lower reaches of the Rhoyne turned out to be quite comparable to winter in the lower reaches of the Blackwater: during the day, sleet drowned the streets in mud and slush, and at night, frost turned the stinking slurry into stinking stone. Neither the Selhoru nor the Rhoyne froze over, and Aegon was not entirely sure that temperature alone was to blame—it could also be the remnants of ancient Rhoynish water magic. The rooms, furnished quite modestly contrary to rumors of the Volantenes’ great luxury, were warm and dry, but the Westerosi hardly felt comfortable, being in the position of unwanted guests.

The Governor was not particularly gracious—in several weeks he had barely spent more than two hours with them—but any whim of Aegon’s was fulfilled the same day: he was brought several impressive stacks of paper, quills, ink, india ink, and slate pencils; he was allowed to use the Governor’s library (though always in the presence of an attendant, who sometimes politely denied the prince access to certain books and scrolls); the best dishes were served for dinner daily; expensive bed slaves were brought to the prince and the knight, and a cow to Vermithor. When the vile climate drove Dennis to a terrible cold, the prince, who took it upon himself to treat his sworn shield, was provided with all necessary ingredients for potions without any questions, and they did not even take offense when the highborn guest rudely kicked out the local healer.

Finally, when the fourth week of their forced seclusion was already underway, right before the midday meal, the Governor himself honored them with his presence, appearing on the threshold of their chambers ahead of a procession of tattooed slaves bearing numerous trays of food.

“Prince Aegon,” the ruler of the city spoke in the Common Tongue with the noticeable lilting accent that distinguished those more accustomed to speaking Valyrian, drawing out the vowels. “May I join your meal?”

“We are at your disposal, my lord,” the prince quipped and belatedly bit his tongue; although they had grounds to be angry with their host for the strange reception, such overt disrespect could cross out the negotiations that had barely begun. Fortunately, his interlocutor chose to let the barb slide.

“There has certainly been some misunderstanding between us, which I wish to resolve.”

“Tell me, Ex Beiselar, how have we angered you or the Triarchs of the Volantis Freehold, that you keep a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms almost as a prisoner? I admit, it is a sin to complain about the conditions of the dungeon, but a cage, even if gilded, remains a cage.”

“As I mentioned, there was some misunderstanding,” the Governor repeated. “Your arrival turned out to be… a complete surprise to us.”

“Really?” Aegon raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “So, your ambassadors and whisperers from Pentos and Braavos did not report to you that an adult dragon with bronze scales and two riders on its back had appeared on the other side of the Narrow Sea?”

“I ask you not to exaggerate my power, Prince Aegon,” Arnarion even seemed offended. “I am not among those allowed to see diplomatic correspondence. I am a simple governor; the Triarchy does not report to me and informs me only of the information it deems necessary for me to dignifiably and effectively manage the lands entrusted to me. Your sudden appearance in our lands forced me to request instructions from the Triarchs; the journey is not short as it is, and then the weather…”

“The weather is particularly vile, there I agree with you. But what do the Triarchs wish to do with me?” Aegon ostentatiously lounged in his armchair, paying no attention to the bustling slaves placing more and more dishes of delicacies on the table.

“The Triarchs invite you to Volantis.”

“What a fortunate turn of events. I had almost changed my mind about flying there.”

“They invite you as a guest.”

“The same kind of guest I am here with you? Thank you kindly, but I had a better opinion of Volantene hospitality. And where will we be accommodated, pray tell? I do not think there are any stables left in Volantis suitable for Vermithor.”

“You will be a guest within the Black Walls.”

Now that was interesting. Aegon swallowed another sharp retort and stared scrutinizingly at Arnarion; the man calmly withstood his gaze and blindly accepted a slightly steaming cup of warmed wine from a slave’s hands.

“I heard that one cannot simply enter the Black Walls,” Dennis interjected quite opportunely, reaching for his own goblet, which allowed the prince to buy time and observe the Governor a little longer. He was as calm as an overfed dragon: minimum unnecessary movements, a firm self-confidence typical of people who have received an order and know for certain that they have the strength to execute it, and execute it perfectly.

“That is correct,” Arnarion nodded. “Only families of the Old Blood live behind the Black Walls, and those they have invited—their dearest and most welcome guests. How fortunate that you, Prince, fall under both criteria.”

In the silence that hung in the room, the shuffling of the slaves’ feet on the carpets was clearly audible as they finished setting the table and now hurriedly left the chambers.

“What do you mean?”

“You are blood of the blood of Valyria, Prince. Your right to live within the Black Walls is unclear only to the blind, but your mighty dragon speaks for you more than your appearance. Only a true son of the Old Freehold could tame such a beast. If you were to claim rights, the Triarchs would find no way to refuse you. The evidence, pardon the bad pun, is plain to see.”

“And the second criterion?” Aegon admitted he had never thought about what standing he might have abroad; the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms had not cared about that before, but now another question concerned him most of all. “Who invited me?”

“A former Triarch of Volantis.”

“There must be dozens of them. I do not know a single one.”

“It would be more accurate to say that you are not personally acquainted with them, that is true, but in Volantis, it is customary to help one’s own blood. You will be received by Saera Targaryen.”

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