Essos, the Free City of Myr
“Creak—”
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and squinted toward the foot of the bed.
“Wake up, little brother.
It’s time for the council meeting.”
The warmth of last night’s embrace still lingered faintly in his senses, though the woman herself had long since disappeared.
Only the tangled sheets remained, silent evidence of the night’s indulgence.
Through his blurred vision, he could make out the silhouette of a man pulling open the curtains.
“Seven hells…” he muttered hoarsely, rubbing his aching eyes.
“Prando, can’t those pompous councilors wait a little longer?”
He cursed Benerro once again in silence.
That Volantene bastard.
These days, the western Free Cities called him the Pillar of the Freehold.
Benerro was now the ruling Triarch of Volantis, and House Maegyr—his family—stood among the city’s most powerful noble houses.
Perhaps not for much longer, Craghas thought.
Taking a deep breath, he forced down his irritation before rising naked from the bed and crossing to the wardrobe beside it.
He dressed in a pale linen shirt beneath a brown leather coat.
Looking into the polished bronze mirror, he found a face carved with sharp features.
Long brown hair hung loosely over his shoulders, while the stubble on his jaw gave him an untamed, rebellious edge.
Prando chuckled.
“Father has worked very hard to secure you this command.
Don’t disappoint him.”
The brothers left the bedchamber together, crossing a courtyard where fountains sparkled beneath the morning sun and carefully manicured gardens bloomed in perfect order.
Water leapt into the air, scattering rainbows through the light.
Roses were in full bloom, filling the air with sweet perfume.
Yet to Craghas, the scent seemed almost suffocating.
He quickened his pace.
Prando followed close behind as they crossed the flagstone paths toward the estate gates.
A carriage was already waiting outside.
Its body had been crafted from costly sandalwood, fitted with crystal windows and adorned with gilded decorations along its roof.
The coachman bowed deeply as the brothers approached.
“Come,” Prando said, opening the carriage door and helping Craghas inside.
War is coming.
As they crossed one of Myr’s bridges, Craghas looked west toward the harbor.
The docks swarmed with slaves like endless columns of ants, hauling crates of crossbow bolts, bread, stone shot, and supplies aboard waiting war galleys.
In happier times, Myr’s harbor had been filled with merchant vessels carrying spices, silk, and the city’s famous lace.
Ships departed for every corner of the known world and returned with rivers of gold.
Now…
Merchant ships had nearly vanished.
In their place stood rows upon rows of heavily armed warships.
Iron rams.
Siege engines.
Banks of massive scorpions.
Every vessel proclaimed the same message.
War was near.
“Do you think we can win?” Prando finally asked, his voice heavy with concern.
” Benerro has assembled an enormous army to conquer the Disputed Lands.
Nearly three hundred warships…
They say he’s even purchased Unsullied from Slaver’s Bay in the east.
Supposedly they’re undefeated.”
“The eunuch soldiers?”
The brothers exchanged a glance before Craghas curled his lips into a mocking smile.
“Brother…
you actually believe those stories?”
“The Unsullied are nothing more than props Benerro uses to inflate his reputation.”
“Men go to war for gold…
so they can spend it on women.
Or for power.
Or glory.”
“But those creatures?”
“They have no desires.”
“No emotions.”
“No will of their own.”
“They simply obey.”
“Perhaps they’re brave on the battlefield.”
“But strip away their commander…”
“And they’re nothing more than helpless targets.”
“Let them pray to whatever strange gods they worship.”
“We’ll crush them.”
By then the carriage had arrived at the Palace of the Archon—the official residence of Myr’s ruling magistrate.
The coachman opened the door.
A household slave hurried forward and respectfully guided the brothers toward the council chamber.
“It’s time, brother,” Craghas said.
“Let’s hear what nonsense those lords from Tyrosh and Lys have come to spew.”
“We’re all members of the Triarchy Alliance now,” Prando corrected as he pushed open the heavy doors.
“The Volantenes have already marched into the Disputed Lands!
We must respond!”
The booming voice belonged to a Tyroshi nobleman whose fleshy face was red with fury.
“We must act!
Otherwise Benerro’s next target will be our cities!”
“That clown claims he’ll rebuild the Valyrian Freehold and finish what the Century of Blood began,” another lord sneered.
“We defeated Volantis’ dreams once during the Century of Blood.”
“We can do it again.”
Prando cleared his throat politely.
The two brothers entered together, bowing respectfully toward the magnificently dressed nobles filling the chamber.
Conversation ceased.
Every eye turned toward Craghas.
Some held curiosity.
Others expectation.
Others suspicion.
Still others…
Barely concealed contempt.
“Oh?”
“Our hero has arrived.”
Slarathos Reha, the current Archon of Myr, smiled warmly before beginning to applaud.
Craghas felt every gaze prick against his skin like needles.
Perhaps I should have dressed more formally…
One stare in particular made his skin crawl.
A middle-aged nobleman with hair and beard dyed pale lavender watched him with an intensity that could almost be called…
Hungry.
“Demio Rogare,” Prando whispered quietly.
“Younger brother of Lys’ current First Magister, Lansono.”
“Excellent.”
Slarathos leaned back comfortably.
“Let’s hear our commander’s thoughts.”
“Tell us, Craghas.”
“How do you intend to drive the Volantenes from the Disputed Lands?”
Steadying himself, Craghas picked up the wooden pointer resting beside the map.
“My lords…”
He pointed toward the Plain of the Sorceress.
“The Volantenes are presently encamped here.”
Near the border separating Volantis and Lys.
No…
As Prando said…
I should call it the Triarchy Alliance now.
The Volantenes had come with overwhelming force.
They meant to erase forever the humiliation suffered during the Century of Blood.
They intended to reclaim the Disputed Lands for the eldest daughter of the Valyrian Freehold.
To oppose Benerro’s advance, the three former Valyrian colonies—Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh—had done the unthinkable.
For the first time in history, they had set aside generations of hatred and rivalry.
Together they declared a Permanent Alliance.
A Supreme Council would be established at Adahulys.
Each city would send eleven representatives, ensuring that none could ever dominate the others.
“Their army’s main striking force consists of Black Wall chariots.”
“Three men ride each.”
“One drives.”
“One wields a spear.”
“One carries a bow.”
“On open plains…”
“They’re devastating.”
He smiled faintly.
“So I have absolutely no intention of fighting them on open ground.”
“And where do you intend to fight, handsome?”
The interruption came from Demio.
He leaned forward in his chair, studying Craghas with amused interest.
His lavender hair shimmered beneath the lamps.
Its tone carried unmistakable arrogance…
And something else.
Something that made Craghas’ stomach churn.
Suppressing his revulsion, he answered calmly.
“Hess.”
“It’s mountainous terrain.”
“Their chariots will be useless.”
“The passes are narrow.”
“The valleys uneven.”
“The roads broken by ravines.”
“The Black Wall chariots won’t be able to charge.”
“They’ll crawl forward slowly.”
“They’ll lose all mobility.”
“I’ll deliberately stage a retreat.”
“They’ll believe they’ve routed us.”
“Our alliance fields three exceptional forces.”
“The Bright Pike Company of Tyrosh.”
“The crossbowmen of Myr.”
“And Lys’ heavy infantry—the Weeping Guard.”
“If properly coordinated…”
“And supported by the terrain…”
“We’ll be far stronger than the Volantenes.”
“We’ll prepare ambushes throughout Hess.”
“As we retreat, we’ll abandon supplies.”
“Weapons.”
“Treasure.”
“They won’t resist the temptation.”
“They’ll pursue recklessly.”
“Their chariots will outrun their supporting spear formations.”
“The moment they enter our trap…”
“I’ll destroy them.”
He moved the pointer again.
“Once the chariot corps is annihilated…”
“I’ll regroup our forces.”
“Then we’ll confront the Unsullied.”
“Without cavalry…”
“Without chariot support…”
“The Unsullied are simply targets.”
“Our crossbows will pin them down.”
“Hired cavalry will strike from behind.”
“Our heavy infantry will envelop their flanks.”
“We’ll crush them completely.”
Silence settled across the chamber.
Every noble present considered the plan carefully.
At last…
Slarathos slapped the table with an approving grin.
“Excellent.”
“Your father assured me his son was a military genius unlike any other.”
He leaned forward.
“Go.”
“Do what you’ve proposed.”
“The Archon of Tyrosh has already dispatched his brother-in-law to reinforce the frontier.”
“If you defeat the Volantenes…”
“If you drive them from the Disputed Lands…”
“I’ll personally prepare a triumph worthy of the Free Cities.”
He smiled.
“And perhaps…”
“I’ll even persuade the council to proclaim you…”
Prince of Myr.
Demio Rogare nodded as well.
“Splendid…”
“My handsome commander.”
“Lys, too, shall—”
Prince of Myr…
Craghas rested a hand over his chest before bowing respectfully once more.
But I want far more than that.