The Great Hall of the Stone Drum remained locked in shadow, relieved only by the pale glow of the gilded chandelier overhead.
A massive parchment map of Essos and the Narrow Sea lay unrolled across the long oak table, weighted at the corners by heavy iron daggers.
Lord Daemon Velaryon and Master-at-Arms Quenton Qoherys stood on opposite sides.
Beside Daemon stood Alton Celtigar, younger brother to Lord Crispian of Claw Isle, his eyes darting toward Aegon with quiet apprehension.
Like House Velaryon, the Celtigars had crossed the Narrow Sea centuries before the Doom, settling the rocky crags of Claw Isle.
Though rich from customs tolls on passing trade galleys, they lacked the grand fleet of Driftmark and carried the lesser prestige of minor Valyrian nobility.
Alton had answered Aegon’s summons to serve as Master of Coin, eager to elevate his house in the eyes of the dragonlords.
Beside Ser Quenton stood Darchu, the Braavosi diplomat, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Securing the intervention of true dragonlords was an achievement that would echo through the canals of Braavos.
Once he returned across the sea, no rival envoy could challenge his standing before the Sealord or the Keyholders of the Iron Bank.
“Do we wait for Lady Visenya?” Quenton asked, breaking the silence.
“There is no need,” Aegon replied without lifting his gaze from the map.
“Visenya and Rhaenys hold the keep.
A skirmish of this scale requires no more than two mounts.”
The lines of the war lay bare before him.
Volantis held the Disputed Lands, yet its grip was fraying.
The sack of Pentos by Braavosi sellswords had broken the northern supply lines, leaving the seven legions along the upper Rhoyne, seventy thousand strong, isolated against the combined hosts of Qohor, Norvos, and Braavos.
Worse for the Triarchs, their aggressive push along the river had left their eastern borders exposed to a far more savage predator: the Dothraki.
Following the collapse of the Freehold, the horselords had swept out from the great grassy sea around Vaes Dothrak.
They had broken the ancient Kingdom of Sarnor, driven the peaceful Lhazareen into the hills, and turned their curved blades toward the Free Cities rising from the ashes of Valyria.
Two decades prior, the great inland city of Essaria had fallen beneath their hooves.
In that brutal campaign, the nomads had feigned retreat, drawing the Essarian legions into the open plains before wheeling their mounts to strike the disorganized columns from the flanks.
Twenty thousand Dothraki slaughtered sixty thousand men beneath the walls.
When the terrified magistrates opened the gates with wagons of tribute, the horselords butchered the envoys and put the city to the torch.
After razing Essaria, the khals turned their eyes toward the fertile basin of the Rhoyne.
At Qohor, their advance met a bloody wall.
Behind high stone battlements, thousands of heavy crossbows and three thousand disciplined Unsullied spearmen broke charge after charge, forcing the horde to abandon the northern forest.
Yet that defeat merely turned the riders south toward the rich plantations of Volantis.
The Triarchs had been forced to detach twelve full legions to shield their homeland.
On the plains east of Ny Sar, fifteen thousand Dothraki struck the marching Tiger cloaks.
Armored veterans on barded steeds shattered the Volantene cavalry, while mounted archers rained horn-bow arrows into the spear squares until the formations broke.
Three entire legions were cut down to the last man.
The slaughter at Ny Sar forced Volantis to pull even more garrison troops from the front, leaving dangerous gaps along their western lines.
Braavos had seized the opening.
The Secret City sat safe within its lagoon, immune to cavalry raids.
Braavosi gold and silver had already reached the silk tents of the khals, hiring their hooves to harry the southern borders of the Black Wall.
Meanwhile, secret rebel cells in Myr were preparing to rise, ready to strike the occupying garrisons the moment the signal arrived.
Aegon’s finger moved from Dagger Lake down toward the salt waters of the Narrow Sea.
“The allied host moves the moment the fleet makes sail,” Darchu said, stepping closer to place a brass token near the Stepstones.
“Volantis has deployed one hundred and seventy-seven warships.
Forty-seven sail north to intercept the Braavosi squadron, ninety lay siege to Tyrosh, twenty hold the harbor at Myr, ten patrol Lys, and ten protect Ryk-Lacron.”
He tapped the marker for Myr.
“Two fresh legions garrison Myr.
The local resistance is confident they can seize the gates and burn the Volantene ships in the harbor within a single night.”
“And the seven legions at Dagger Lake?” Aegon asked.
“The khalasars of Khal Mengo and Khal Enzo are in position,” Darchu answered.
“With their horsemen in the field, we will crush those seventy thousand men in open country.”
He shifted his token into the Disputed Lands.
“Nine veteran legions hold the southern redoubts, but they are scattered.
You need not concern yourself with the land battle, my lord, though if your mount should share a taste of dragonflame with their vanguard, the Iron Bank will remember your generosity.”
Aegon tapped his knuckles against the table.
“And the western forces?”
“King Argilac Durrandon leads fifteen thousand men across the water,” Darchu said with a thin smile.
“Seven thousand armored knights of the storm.
In a pitched field, no mercenary infantry can withstand the charge of Westerosi plate.”
The design was clean, yet brutal.
Volantis had spent a century bleeding its own people.
If the alliance struck every link in the chain simultaneously, the empire of the Black Wall would fracture within a single season.
The northern alliance of Braavos, Norvos, Qohor, and the Dothraki would shatter the Rhoyne front.
Braavosi warships would draw the Volantene northern squadron toward the waters of Dragonstone, where Velaryon galleys and true dragonfire would wipe them from the sea.
From there, the allied fleet would relieve Tyrosh, while Argilac’s storm knights smashed the southern redoubts.
“All of this relies on perfect coordination, Lord Darchu,” Daemon Velaryon remarked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“What if a single link snaps?”
“It will not snap, Daemon,” Aegon said, lifting his chin.
His lilac eyes were bright with cold conviction.
He knew his vassal was fishing for greater concessions from the Braavosi, but the time for bargaining had passed.
Darchu had offered everything the Iron Bank could yield, and the intelligence was sound.
This battle would announce House Targaryen’s return to the world.
“Because we take the sky,” Aegon said.
The candles flickered against the fused black walls as the decree settled over the council.
High up in the residential wing of the Stone Drum, the glass lantern in Raegon’s bedchamber shook with the boy’s sharp, sudden shout.
Raegon bolted upright, his mismatched eyes wide with shock.
“Gogossos?
That cursed city still stands?”