lotsstoryinpatre** : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
Viserys felt it in his bones. In Tyrosh he had lit the spark of rebellion and liberation, and now every slave city around the Narrow Sea was scrambling to stamp it out before the flames spread.
He had broken chains and raised the freed to fight for themselves. The old slave cities feared the same fire would reach their own gates. This was the old world's hatred for the new.
The attacks would not come in one wave. They would come in endless, shifting coalitions.
Viserys had expected this. His answer was simple: break them one by one before they could join hands.
He held advantages the others lacked. A dragonrider gave him speed no army could match. His cavalry could strike anywhere. Most important, Andalos answered to one voice—his. Roland, Syrio, the Red Viper, Agos, Hugo, Garin, and Rosor had all thrown in with him from the beginning. Starting from nothing had its blessings. Land and people had been won with steel and fire, not soft words and marriage pacts. In Andalos his word was law. The decaying trade cities could not say the same.
He would use their slow councils and slower ravens against them. Volantis could not change its triarchs until election day. Lys, Pentos, and Myr each had their own schemes. Even the Sealord of Braavos had to consult his fellow magisters and great houses before moving. Braavos was stirring the pot on the continent, trying to bleed him from afar while it stayed safe on its island. Viserys would settle the land war first, then deal with the islanders.
These gaps in time were weapons. He intended to use every one.
The immediate threat was the Lys-Myr alliance. Pentos might scheme, but it lacked the strength to matter.
After he sent the captain and lieutenant of the Second Sons on their way, Viserys had already slipped his own spies into the councils of the Two Cities.
Mercenary companies served the highest bidder, but that loyalty had limits. Most loved their own skins more than gold. When the tide turned, they ran or switched sides. The Second Sons were classic slippery sellswords. The Golden Company was the exception that proved the rule.
Some companies were known for starting wars in peacetime just to keep their blades wet. Others tried to seize the Disputed Lands without any contract at all. In the free companies a man could call himself whatever he pleased. Only a handful earned reputations for real loyalty and iron discipline—the Golden Company above all. The Windblown and the Company of the Cat tried to copy that model. The Brave Companions were nothing but bandits in fancy names. The Second Sons and Stormcrows sat somewhere in the middle.
"The Second Sons are useful pawns," Viserys thought. "Next comes the Unsullied."
The Two Cities would hire plenty of sellswords, but they would never trust second-rate companies with the real work. Their main strength would be citizen levies, the expensive Unsullied household guards bought by magisters and rich merchants, and Meereenese gladiators. The decisive force would be the fresh Unsullied shipped across the sea.
Those ships would never reach their destination. Once Viserys had the intelligence, he would take the Unsullied for himself.
In Tyrosh he had already set his house in order. A new legion of freedmen and Tyroshi commoners held the Disputed Lands and guarded the city. Banker Thomas ran the temporary council, binding together freedmen, minor officials, and merchants to keep the city running.
The red priests, once troublesome, had learned wisdom. Now they preached only one message across Tyrosh: Azor Ahai reborn. The Dragon King was the prince of prophecy.
Morosh commanded the great fleet of Andalos and the Stepstones squadron based on Bloodstone. Plenty of skilled shipwrights and smiths had chosen to follow Viserys north—some out of loyalty, others simply afraid of the coming storm. That was fine. Viserys had his own quiet hands in Tyrosh for anything the open daylight could not handle.
The next morning Viserys turned his army north. Andal cavalry, Golden Company riders, and Dothraki screamers rode with him. He had stirred Tyrosh long enough.
"Farewell, Tyrosh."
He looked back once at the proud city. Black-and-red dragon banners flew from every tower now.
Sunblaze climbed into the sky, a streak of living gold against the clouds.
Near Crown Town the cavalry rolled forward like a black tide, hooves shaking the earth. At the center rode the Andal heavy horse under the three-headed red dragon. Their armor had been reforged in victory after victory—through Andalos, Pentos, Myr, and Tyrosh. Now every man wore solid black steel plate beneath a black-and-red surcoat. Tyroshi smiths had given them dragon-wing helms, the kind only Tyrosh knew how to make. They looked like a mailed fist of iron and blood.
The screamers rode the flanks, short hair whipping in the wind, curved arakhs raised high. They had no armor, but numbers and speed made them terrifying enough.
"True Dragon Khal!"
"True Dragon Khal!"
"Keep up with His Grace," Agos shouted, longblade flashing. "We ride for Andalos."
Rosor Brune watched the endless ranks and finally understood what it meant to command power that could swallow kingdoms. Only the full might of Westeros could field something like this.
"Follow King Viserys," the red priestess said from her saddle, eyes bright with something close to awe.
Only strength like this could truly be called a savior.
"The dragon has left!"
"The dragon rides north!"
Nervous Myr landowners spotted the dust cloud first and sent ravens flying.
In the white marble halls of Myr, the secret high council argued in circles.
Myr's city hall and the magisters' palace stood together in the heart of the city—a cluster of elegant white domes and graceful fountains. Myr's famous craftsmanship showed in every carved stone and painted tile. Because there was no single First Magister, every meeting dragged on while each man fought for his own faction's advantage. No one wanted the top seat; it made too easy a target.
Inside the circular council chamber the magisters shouted over one another. Most were olive-skinned with dark hair and eyes, like the people they ruled. Ancient ruins lay beneath the city, but the current Myr had been built by Valyrian merchant adventurers who had slaughtered or enslaved the earlier Andal settlers.
The walls were hung with rich tapestries showing Myr's proud exports—lenses, lace, high-heeled shoes, painted screens, and fine window glass.
"This is not peace," one magister declared. "This is appeasement before war."
"We have retreated again and again before the Andals. The Dragon King's hunger has no end. He is not some khal who takes gifts and rides away. Today's Tyrosh is tomorrow's Myr."
"You are wrong," another answered. "The Braavosi mediate for us. Viserys will not strike Myr lightly."
"Pathetic," a third snapped. "We pin our hopes on Braavosi promises while our estates burn."
A plump senior magister moaned, "The wildfire-paste plantations are in the countryside. Every time those screamers pass, my lands are ruined. And now the Dragon King frees slaves—my best workers have fled. My losses are already ruinous."
"The Braavosi guarantee peace," a dovish voice protested weakly.
"Weakness," his rival shot back. "You have taken Tyroshi coin, haven't you?"
The council dissolved into shouting. Myr was the most moderate of the Three Daughters and the least warlike. The hawk faction—magisters tied to shipping, wildfire paste, and slavery—hated Viserys most. They depended on the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. The bankers and craftsmen were more cautious; even a Dragon King would still buy fine goods.
The argument raged until midday.
"Gentlemen, you must be hungry," said Admiral Lock Dahar, rising. "My household has prepared sweet pastries. Let us share them."
Lock was a descendant of the Crabfeeder, the old Myr prince who had once commanded the Triarchy's fleets. His family still held power. Since Tyrosh fell, Bloodstone had strangled Myr's sea trade. Even the pirates dared not sail.
The magisters exchanged uneasy glances.
Lock's servants carried in a massive cedar chest. He opened it himself.
Inside was no pastry.
Salladhor Saan, the self-styled Prince of the Narrow Sea, stared up at them in his silver-threaded finery, sleeves dragging the floor, jade monkey buttons gleaming, peacock feathers on his green hat.
"Honorable magisters," Salladhor said smoothly, "why retreat step by step? Join hands with Lys. Together our strength can cow all of Essos. I bring Lysene goodwill. Let us make common cause against the Dragon."
Lock Dahar threw off his outer robe. Steel armor gleamed beneath.
The dovish magisters went pale.
Lock's soldiers and the war faction's private guards flooded the chamber, sealing every door.
"War," Lock said coldly. "Choose now."