The palace of Saera Targaryen had become as much a landmark of Volantis as the Black Walls themselves. Once an exile with little more than her name, she had spent years turning beauty into influence and influence into power. Merchant princes, triarchs, captains, and envoys all passed beneath her marble arches, where deals were struck as often over wine and whispered promises as they were over ledgers. This afternoon, however, her halls were unusually quiet. Reclining upon a cushioned divan on an open balcony overlooking the Rhoyne, servants drifted silently between fountains and flowering vines while musicians played softly in the distance. A goblet of Arbor gold rested within easy reach as the breeze stirred the silver strands of her hair.