From the deck of the flagship, Baelon raised his Myrish scope and peered toward New Ghis.
The city loomed upon its island like a clenched fist thrust out of the sea. Thick, ancient walls of dark red brick ringed it completely, baked hard beneath merciless suns and bitter winds.
Tier upon tier they rose, squat and brutal walls. Reinforced by square towers crowned with battlements shaped like the wings of harpies.
The great harbours yawned open on the seaward side, once choked with merchant vessels from every corner of the world. Now they were sealed, trapped behind the iron grip of his fleet.
From this position, Baelon could make out panicked silhouettes atop the walls, men running, pointing, shouting.
They rushed about in useless valour. Signals passed frantically from tower to tower. The illusion of Ghiscari supremacy visibly cracked with every second longer the island stood surrounded.
He lowered the scope and passed it to Rhevos at his side.
"New Ghis is trapped," Baelon muttered, eyes never leaving the city. "Isolated." His gaze traced the curve of the walls. "How long do you think before they break and surrender?"
The plan was simple, if cruel. Starve the city. Strangle its ports. Let fear rot it from within.
Occasional raids would bleed morale, while dragonfire would cripple towers and gates without destroying the prize outright.
"I cannot say for certain, Your Highness," Rhevos replied, shaking his head slowly. "They may endure a season if they rid themselves of the slaves first." His mouth tightened. "Still, no city built on chains outlasts rebellion."
Baelon hummed in agreement. He had seen it before; it was all too familiar to him. Just like the chaos in Astapor in the recent past.
How fear devoured reason and strength alike. How masters, suddenly realising they were outnumbered by those they had broken, would fret in horror and panic.
He opened his mouth to reply—
Then paused.
A movement on the water caught his eye.
From the harbour of New Ghis, a single small boat slipped free.
It was a pitiful craft, scarcely more than planks nailed together, rocking precariously as it met the uneven swell of the sea.
Each wave threatened to swallow it whole, yet it pressed on regardless, inching its way toward the flagship with stubborn determination…or sheer desperation.
"What do you think they mean by that?" Baelon asked, one brow arching.
Rhevos did not answer at once. His expression hardened as he watched the little vessel approach.
"The Radiant Council of New Ghis does not surrender," he said finally. "They know what it means." His eyes narrowed. "Their status. Their wealth. Their pride. The moment you enter those gates, all of it dies."
"Right you are," Baelon said quietly. "So that leaves only one question." He tilted his head slightly. "What do they hope to gain by sending someone to us? Or…"
Was it even someone sent by the council in the first place?
Silence stretched between them as the boat drew closer.
Across the deck, tension snapped taut. Archers and slingers stood tall, weapons and gaze trained on the oncoming vessel…well, plank.
One wrong movement and the lonely sailor would be riddled with holes before they could even cry out.
And that was not even accounting for—
Baelon's gaze flicked upward.
High above, two distant shapes wheeled in slow, predatory circles. He forced his eyes back to the water.
Each heartbeat seemed louder than the last as the boat finally reached the flagship's side.
Two figures were visible within it.
One was clearly a servant, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands trembling as he clung to an oar.
The other stood out starkly against the grey sea.
A woman.
She rose carefully, steadying herself before climbing the rope ladder thrown down to her. As she ascended, the wind tugged at her garments, revealing robes dyed a deep, vivid crimson.
Her head was uncovered, her hair bound back, her posture composed despite the arrows tracking her every step.
When she stepped onto the deck, a dozen bowstrings tightened as one.
Baelon studied her with renewed interest.
"A Red Grace?" He murmured, curiosity threading through his voice.
Baelon knew little of Ghiscari tradition.
What scraps of knowledge he possessed painted the Red Graces as little more than temple courtesans, women whose bodies were offered alongside incense and prayer.
Their faith and devotion were expressed through flesh as much as faith.
Baelon wondered if the septons back at Westeros would be inspired seeing this. After all, most of them seemed intent on disregarding their vows.
However, his eyelid twitched as realisation settled in. 'Don't tell me…'
Not a Blue Grace. Not the Green Grace herself. A Red Grace. 'Don't tell me they expect her to seduce me?'
"Dragonlord," she said, bowing low. "I have come to offer you the unconditional surrender of New Ghis."
Rhevos snorted beside him, folding his arms across his chest. "Oh?" He said dryly. "If you expect us to believe that, lass, perhaps you should start by ordering those soldiers off your walls."
Baelon said nothing, merely allowing Rhevos to press her for words.
The Red Grace bowed again, lower this time, her posture impeccable despite the exhaustion creeping into her words. "That is beyond the authority of us Graces."
As she straightened, Baelon noticed her fingers briefly tug at the neckline of her robes, the crimson fabric parting slightly to expose more skin to the cold sea air.
He turned away at once.
'Thank the Seven Helaena isn't here,' He thought grimly. 'I'd be flayed alive.'
He fixed his gaze on the rolling waves instead, as though they held some sudden or rather profound fascination.
How had he never noticed how deep the sea's blue was?
How light endlessly refracted within it like some precious jewel.
How schools of fish danced within it, vanishing as swiftly as they appeared.
Truly, nature was a miraculous thing.
Behind him, the Grace continued.
"New Ghis cannot hope to achieve victory against Your Magnificence," she said. "We Graces only ask that, in exchange for aiding you in taking the city, you spare the common folk from harm."
Baelon raised a brow, hearing this.
Not once did she mention the masters.
Baelon turned back to her slowly. "Is that all you ask?" he said, arching a brow. "Simply mercy for the people?"
The Red Grace shook her head. "We also ask that you honour Ghiscari tradition… and permit the continued practice of our faith."
Baelon's expression darkened.
Did she take him for a fool?
Religion was a blade with two edges. It could comfort the broken, give meaning to suffering, and bind communities together in a shared albeit chaotic belief.
But he knew all too well how easily it could be turned, how it could become a chain no less cruel than iron, used to shepherd men like livestock.
House Targaryen had bled dearly for that lesson many years ago with the Faith Militant.
'Still…' He conceded inwardly.
Faith, properly bound, could also be a tool of stability.
Baelon glanced sideways.
Rhevos met his gaze, the old man's eyes bright with understanding. A silent exchange passed between them.
As Baelon gave Rhevos a nod, the man stepped forward and spoke to their guest.
Rhevos inclined his head and spoke. "Priestess," he said evenly, "let us discuss the finer details." He gestured toward the cabins below deck. "I believe our cooperation may prove… most fruitful."
The Red Grace bowed once more, relief flickering across her features before she masked it with solemn focus.
As she followed Rhevos below, Baelon remained at the railing, eyes drifting back to New Ghis.
The city still stood defiant, its walls crowded with frightened men who believed themselves strong.
Alas, whether they realised it or not…
Their own people had forfeited them this battle.
***
Seated within her temporary residence in Elyria, Helaena occupied a quiet hall far removed from the clamour of the streets beyond.
Temporary, in name only.
The manse had once belonged to a merchant prince.
Unfortunately, the tradesman had grown too entangled with Ghiscari interests and was far too willing to profit from chains and blood.
Thus, the moment war came upon them, the man did not hesitate to seek asylum with the slavers of Mereen.
Alas, he was a poor soul, having been ratter out by his men before he could flee.
Then? Well, Baelon made sure the world was short one fool.
Even her room was a grand thing.
Tall marble columns lined the hall. The floors were laid in polished onyx veined with gold, cool beneath bare feet.
Even the bed upon which Helaena reclined was vast, draped in fine linen, its frame inlaid with ivory.
Helaena lay back against the pillows, staring at the vaulted ceiling without truly seeing it. A few scrolls rested loosely in her hands, their edges curling faintly beneath her fingers.
She had intended to read, but her thoughts drifted endlessly, refusing to be anchored by the ink and parchment before her.
She had done it.
Tolos and Elyria still stood. Their harbours were safe. Their people would no longer wake to the fear of black-hulled ships on the horizon, no longer whisper of chains and auction blocks in the night.
And yet—
Her gaze dropped to her hands.
Smooth. Pale. Untouched by soot or blood.
They looked as they always had, paleas milk…and yet, to her eyes, they were stained scarlet.
Helaena bit back a sigh as memory surged.
Men screaming as fire consumed them, leaping from burning decks only to vanish beneath churning waves.
Ships drifting aimlessly across the pale blue sea, their husks charred, sails in tatters, glowing embers licking along their ribs like a corpse still smouldering after death.
'I had to…I cannot become a burden to him', she told herself silently, pressing her lips together.
Baelon had never wanted her to fight. It had been her choice…her insistence to take part.
Not out of bloodlust, nor ambition, but because she could not stand idle while others suffered in her name.
She had not wanted to burden him.
And if her guilt, this weight lodged deep within her chest, could be exchanged for the safety of hundreds of thousands who lived beneath her protection, then she would pay it gladly.
Again and again, if she must.
Slowly, she exhaled and brought her attention back to the scrolls in her hands.
Baelon had recovered them during their expeditions in Tyria. He had copied the most valuable texts himself, painstakingly, so that they might be carried and studied without risking the originals.
Typical Baelon.
Careful. Methodical. Ever thinking of the future.
Helaena adjusted herself against the pillows and unrolled a scroll, her eyes beginning to trace the familiar lines of ink.
Dragons are fire.
Dragons are magic.
They are the purest expression of power known to the Freehold, where flesh, flame, and sorcery are bound as one.
When a dragonlord forges a bond with such a creature, it is no simple pact of rider and mount. It is a slow yet inevitable fusion.
The dragon's presence bleeds into the rider, shaping mind and body alike. Some grow more irascible, their tempers sharpening to match the beast's ferocity.
Others gain an unnatural confidence, a certainty that borders on arrogance, as though their fear itself has been burned away.
The strength of these effects is not uniform.
The greater the dragon's power, or the stronger the will of the rider, the more pronounced the changes become.
A lesser dragon may leave only faint traces upon its master: heightened vitality, sharpened instincts, a resistance to common sickness.
But a mighty dragon, bound to a resolute soul, leaves marks that cannot be ignored. Such riders age slowly, heal swiftly, and endure hardship that would cripple ordinary men.
Their bodies grow resilient with little conscious effort, sustained by the dragon's ever-burning vitality.
Yet this bond is not one-sided.
Once joined, the dragon, too, is shaped by its rider. Over years of companionship, the beast absorbs fragments of the rider's character, calm or cruelty, patience or wrath, until these traits surface in its behaviour.
A disciplined rider tempers a dragon's wild fury; a reckless one inflames it further. Through this shared will, the dragon's growth is greatly accelerated, its immense and riotous power guided into something sharper, more focused.
Helaena paused mid-line, the scroll slackening in her hands.
'So this is why Dreamfyre and Vermithor are growing so fast…'
If ordinary bonds could affect one another, it was even moreso for them.
The Blood Bond ritual had, in essence, closely fused her with Dreamfyre.
Rider and beast remained distinct, yet bound in some sort of circuit.
As her own power deepened, so too did Dreamfyre's, the dragon feeding upon her will just as she drew upon its flame. Growth answering growth. Magic refining magic.
Her mind churned, relief mixing with joy. Thankfully. Thankfully, they had managed to understand the situation with their dragons.
Knock. Knock.
"Come," Helaena said, shifting atop the bed as she turned her gaze toward the door.
It opened quietly.
A maid slipped inside, head bowed low, hands folded tight at her waist.
"Your Highness," the girl said softly. "Lord Silvo requests your counsel…regarding the captives."
Helaena closed her eyes for a brief moment.
Her temple throbbed.
Captives. Such a small word, so carefully chosen. She knew well enough it was only the surface of a far deeper tide. Behind it lay a thousand other matters waiting to drown her.
The fate of conquered cities.
Provision for wounded soldiers and pensions for the fallen.
Aid to the New Ghis expedition.
Reconstruction. Governance. Justice.
Plan after plan, each demanding a decision, each one binding lives to her every word, her every thought.
Weariness seeped into her very bones.
All she wanted, just for a little while, was to remain here, curled among silk, losing herself in knowledge.
Or to take to the skies on Dreamfyre's back, letting the wind tear these thoughts from her mind.
Instead—
She was required to rule.
If Baelon were here, she might have let herself falter, if only a little. Let him shoulder the weight while she recovered her breath.
'Perhaps if I act coy next time,' she mused, 'he'll deal with it all himself. He truly has little resistance to it...'
The thought prompted a small chuckle from her.
Helaena straightened, pushing the scrolls aside as she swung her legs from the bed.
"As is my duty," she said, forcing her tone to remain impassive. "I will come at once."
And thus, Elyria and Tolos were brought to calm. The fleets of Mereen and Yunkai long burnt under dragonfire.
Though the fate of New Ghis still remained a mystery.