In Volantis, the triarchs were re-elected every year, and only the nobility had the right to run or to vote. In other words, the seat went to whomever could secure it, by whatever means necessary.
As a once-prominent incumbent who had once lowered himself to beg for votes, Nyessos could read the political winds perfectly well. What he could not stomach was being humiliated by a barbarian khal while holding the title of triarch.
A man who had grown used to strutting about unrestrained finds it hard to adjust when he is suddenly treated like a stable-boy. But now Nyessos had adjusted—because survival outweighed pride.
Like every Free City, Volantis was laid out with grand plazas adorned with fountains, and the Black Walls were no exception. When Drogo arrived at the central square that Morrafos had chosen, Nyessos was already there, leading over a hundred highborn ladies who had been assembled for the khal.
Morrafos and Nyessos understood each other well enough to know the Dothraki loved to feast and revel under the open stars, so they had chosen the broadest, most open space available.
The women's ages varied, though none were over twenty-five. They were all flowers cultivated in walled gardens, not wild blooms; the Dothraki could tell the difference.
Their beauty varied, but even the plainest among them were passable in the eyes of most men—and in the eyes of beasts, every one of them was a delicacy.
The suddenness of their summons, coupled with the fearsome reputation of the Dothraki, left most of the women hollow-eyed with despair; a few wept openly, tears streaking painted cheeks.
Unlike common girls, these noblewomen carried themselves with an air of breeding. Their fine clothing and careful grooming, their healthy figures, set them far apart from the ragged, half-starved girls of the slums.
As a man from another world, Drogo firmly believed an old saying from his past life: Clothes make the man; makeup makes the beauty.
He rode slowly among them, circling, his silver-handled whip tapping here and there as he gauged what pleased his eye. In the end, none did. He had grown accustomed to Daenerys's peerless beauty, and having once seen the likes of the mermaid-queen Haexi and the shadowbinder Quaithe—both lovelier than the Mother of Dragons herself—few women could stir him now.
The khal's repeated shakes of the head made Nyessos more anxious than the women themselves. For them, the worst was to lose their reputations; for him, it could be his life.
He already knew Drogo disliked him, and if he learned the khal had already decided to strip him of office, he might have felt the same despair as the weeping women.
Not all the ladies shrank from his gaze. Some, having heard tales of Drogo's might, dared to flutter their lashes as he passed. To be the consort of such a man—strong, unconquerable, commander of a host—would be an honor higher than any within the Black Walls.
Others were nervous for a different reason: in the Dothraki Sea, Drogo had shown no mercy to women. Come morning, his tents often held nothing but corpses.
After half a quarter-hour, Drogo said to Nyessos, "No."
The triarch paled. He was certain these were the most alluring women within the Black Walls. By virtue of his position, he had bedded most of them himself—whether they had come willingly, been pressured by their families, or simply yielded to his power.
Sweat beaded his brow. "Khal, please—grant me three hours more, and I will find women who please you."
Drogo's voice was cold. "Volantis's women do not interest me."
Nyessos faltered. In desperation, he glanced toward Morrafos, blinking rapidly in the hope the older man would intervene.
Morrafos only grinned coldly, as if watching a lowborn slave grovel.
Biting back his humiliation, Nyessos stepped closer, his eyes hard. In a low voice, he said, "Khal, I know of one beauty in Volantis who would surely please you. Her mother was a pale-skinned woman from Qarth—I believe she would suit your taste."
Drogo looked down at him with a half-smile. "If such a rare creature exists, why hide her from me?"
Inwardly, he thought, So they've already decided I like women of Daenerys's type.
Nyessos frowned, sighed. "The girl is Morrafos's granddaughter."
Trying to put his colleague in an impossible position, Drogo thought, his contempt for Nyessos deepening. Aloud, he called, "Morrafos! Nyessos says you have a beautiful granddaughter. Is it true?"
Morrafos's heart lurched; he nearly missed a step. That girl was the apple of his eye—he had hoped to keep her close all his life.
The old triarch's moustache quivered with rage as he silently cursed: Damn you, Nyessos. When this is over, I'll see every woman in your family serving drinks in a Yunkish tavern.
But necessity was a hard master, and Morrafos was a man who could bend with the wind. Swallowing his anger, he said loudly, "Khal Drogo, if you will permit, once I have arranged the feast, I will bring my granddaughter to you."
A man who would offer even his kin to save his own skin—if he were an enemy, Drogo would have cut him down. As an ally, he merely approved.
Drogo turned a cold gaze on Nyessos. "Morrafos, how old is your granddaughter?"
"My khal, she has only just turned twelve."
The words made Morrafos feel as if his heart bled. A little angel, sent by the Mother and Father… Is this my punishment?
He sighed. In this world of blood and fire, women were born to sorrow; few ever wed a man they truly desired. In his life, he had bedded more than a hundred women—most unwilling. It was only fair, he thought bitterly, that fate turn the wheel on him.
Here, sixteen marked adulthood, and Daenerys had been barely older when she wed Drogo, so the khal felt no pity for Morrafos's granddaughter.
But Drogo had no interest in Nyessos's so-called prize. Feeling whimsical, he decided to wring a bit of despair from the man instead.
Catching Nyessos's eye—still glinting with schadenfreude—he turned to Aggo. "Blood of my blood, go with Morrafos to Nyessos's house. Bring me his wife, his sisters, his daughters. They will serve the wine."
Nyessos's vision went black. He staggered, then collapsed, clutching at Drogo's stirrup in desperation.
"K-khal… I can give you every woman in Volantis. Please… spare my family."
Drogo sneered. "You are no longer triarch. What right have you to give me the women of Volantis?"
The words drained the last strength from Nyessos's body. He lay on his back, staring up at the cold, glittering stars, certain they were laughing at him.
So too, he thought bitterly, was Morrafos—already on his way home with the bloodrider—to collect the women of House Nyessos.
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