The council chamber had not changed. Black stone walls rose on all sides, smooth and lightless, swallowing torchlight like some unsatiable beast.
High above, narrow slits allowed thin blades of daylight to spill in, cutting across the gloom like pale scars.
At the chamber's heart stood the great table. Maps, scrolls, ink pots, and weighted seals lay scattered across its surface in careful disorder.
The table had borne witness to countless decisions and it waited now with the same patient indifference.
Baelon and Helaena sat side by side upon high-backed chairs along one edge of the table, shoulders nearly touching.
Scrolls lay open before them, others rolled and stacked neatly to one side.
The faint rasp of parchment shifting and the occasional scratch of a finger tracing inked lines were the only sounds breaking the chamber's silence.
They were reports. Fresh ones at that. Movements, alliances, betrayals. The ripples are spreading outward across Essos in the wake of plans already set in motion.
Baelon read with plain satisfaction written openly upon his face.
"Volantene merchant vessels carrying grain have been raided by Lys," he read aloud, eyes scanning swiftly. A pleased curve tugged at his lips. "Myr has likewise accepted our demands and is actively aligning itself with Tyrosh."
Baelon almost let his smug thoughts show on his face. Truly, he was a tactical genius.
Indirectly giving Lys intel on one of the Volantene fleet's routes, whilst only giving the Volantene's mere sand rather than grain.
And, now…
Both sides were at each other's throats.
He set the scroll aside with an air of finality and reached for another, already anticipating its contents.
"Pentos is… hm." His brow lifted. "Allying with Lys. Their forces are rallying toward the Stepstones."
Baelon clicked his tongue, amused rather than troubled.
Whilst Lys may have ignored his demands, all those fools had truly done was serve him. Every ship they seized, every blade they raised, only deepened the fractures he intended.
If any Lysene magister dared present themselves before him now, Baelon suspected he might have been inclined to reward them handsomely…if only for their follies.
They were acting precisely as he desired.
Giants among men, indeed.
His thoughts, however, stalled as his gaze drifted to the woman beside him.
Helaena sat just as composed, flicking through her own stack of scrolls with quiet efficiency, yet her expression stood in stark contrast to his.
Where Baelon wore satisfaction easily, Helaena's face was subdued, her silver-gold lashes lowered, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"The Dothraki have rushed past the city of Qohor," she murmured, eyes never leaving the parchment.
Baelon exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Helaena," he said gently, "there is no need to feel guilty. The Dothraki will inevitably pillage. We merely… redirected it a little."
A little?
For a fleeting moment, Baelon's mind brought him back to his...adventurous escapade.
Images and scenes rushed through his head.
He remembered heat pressing against his face. He remembered the thunderous beats of Vermithor's wings.
He remembered how the Great Grass Sea had burned, becoming an ocean of fire racing across the horizon.
Nevertheless, thanks to pyromancy, the inferno had merely consumed land, not lives.
"And Qohor," Baelon continued, almost dismissive, "is one of the few Free Cities the Dothraki would never truly harm. They seek tribute there, not blood."
He let out a quiet laugh. "There's an old tale, the Battle of Qohor. Three thousand Unsullied stood against a khalasar fifty thousand strong during the Century of Blood. Held them off for days."
He shook his head. "If there is any city in Essos least deserving of worry when it comes to the horse-lords, it is Qohor."
"You're right," she admitted softly. "Qohor will endure. And even if it didn't…" She paused, eyes unfocusing for a heartbeat. "It would still be inevitable."
Her fingers tightened briefly around the scroll before relaxing. She looked up at Baelon then, offering him a small, gentle smile, one tinged with resolve rather than joy.
"I shouldn't burden myself with such things," she said. "Not when doing so only harms those closest to me."
At that, something within Baelon settled.
He remembered another time, another place. Two children seated awkwardly upon the hard ground of the Dothraki Sea, sharing their first meagre meal.
'This is the law of the world, isn't it?' She had said then. 'One creature's meal is another creature's life. There is no right or wrong in it.'
Baelon's gaze softened.
She truly had come a long way.
Then again… hadn't they both?
Once, they had been powerless. No dragons. No wealth. No freedom. Only fear and survival clutched tightly between them like a dying ember.
Now?
They had dragons. Power. Gold enough to reshape nations.
Even the future they once feared, it's chaos…its destruction. It all felt distant, almost irrelevant. The world may burn, but they would not.
Baelon's eyes narrowed as his thoughts turned inward once more.
The Free Cities were fracturing, each too consumed by its own manoeuvring to meaningfully oppose him. Volantis strained. Pentos schemed. Lys flailed blindly.
New Ghis.
Yunkai.
Meereen.
The names formed neatly in his mind.
It was time.
Time to carve something lasting. A small kingdom, perhaps.
One that would serve him and his family for years to come. One that would stand even without dragons looming overhead.
Footsteps echoed softly from beyond the chamber doors.
The great doors creaked open, their hinges protesting the disturbance. A pair of guards stepped aside, allowing an older man to enter.
Rhevos crossed the threshold with practice, his lined face grave.
The doors closed behind him with a hollow thud.
"Your Highness," Rhevos said, bowing deeply.
When he straightened, his steady gaze met Baelon's.
"There is news regarding New Ghis."
Rhevos drew a breath.
"…war is upon us."
***
The Temple of the Graces rose from the heart of New Ghis like a relic from a long-forgotten age, dwarfing the streets that crowded around it in idle splendour.
Within its depths lay a chamber reserved for moments of utmost importance. The Council Chamber.
Polished stone arched overhead, carved with flowing Ghiscari glyphs so ancient that even the Graces no longer remembered their full meanings.
Massive columns ringed the hall, each etched from base to crown with scenes of conquest…armies kneeling, cities burning, chains laid reverently at the feet of a myriad gods.
Still, at the chamber's centre stood a table.
Fashioned from deep-red hardwood polished to a mirror sheen. Veins of gold inlay traced its surface, whilst at its edges, small gemstones had been embedded at measured intervals: garnets, jaspers, and pieces of green jade, each marking a seat on the table.
This was the hall of the Radiant Council.
Zhayla sat at her appointed place, hands folded before her, green silks cascading around her like still water. Her eyes moved slowly across the figures seated around the table.
She bore many titles.
Green Grace of New Ghis.
High Priestess of the Gods of Old Ghis.
And now, by necessity, a member of the Radiant Council.
The Radiant Council was the ruling body of New Ghis, formed generations ago in the wake of exile and loss.
Three elected merchant-magnates spoke for wealth and trade. The Commander of the Iron Legions spoke for steel and defence.
And the Green Grace spoke for faith, tradition, and the common folk whose prayers filled the temple's halls.
Together, they ruled New Ghis. They debated its laws, shaped its policies, and decided its future.
With a soft cough, Zhayla broke the silence.
"My lords," she said , her voice carrying through the chamber, "we must discuss what is to be done regarding the coming war."
Her words stirred the room at once.
Zol Ghisran, broad and heavy-jowled, shifted in his seat. Rings gleamed on every finger, thick with gold earned through salt caravans and slave coffles.
Beside him, Madzan R'haz leaned forward slightly, dark eyes sharp as knives lusting for opportunity.
Tazna Ghrozan, however, frowned, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the table's edge.
At the far end sat General Koresh Zharum, his massive frame rigid with discipline. He wore no finery, only a plain officer's cuirass beneath his cloak.
Scars mapped his exposed forearms, and his expression was carved from iron.
"High Priestess Zhayla," Koresh said, straightening, "there is little to discuss. Those cowardly Valyrian remnants have resurfaced. It is our duty to annihilate them."
Madzan nodded eagerly. "The general speaks true. Worse still, they have dared to upend slavery in our friendly states of Tolos and Elyria. I have received letters, many letters, from old friends. They write of loss, of humiliation."
Zhayla barely restrained a scoff. She knew his grief had less to do with morality than coin. Dragon's Bay's meteoric rise had bled his trade routes dry, and envy poisoned every word he spoke.
"But the Free Cities are in disarray," Tazna interjected, shaking her head. "Our allies falter. And if we must rely solely upon ourselves…" Her gaze darkened. "I do not believe we can fell three dragons."
Three dragons.
The words pressed the chamber into a suffocating silence.
Zhayla felt it keenly and understood well why.
Dragons were not mere beasts, nor were they weapons. They were symbols. Of fear. Of Dread. Of an age long lost to time.
Even Prince Garin the Great, with his Rhoynar water magic and an army two hundred and fifty thousand strong, had barely challenged the Freehold's might. He had managed to barely best three dragons in battle.
And in answer?
The Valyrians had unleashed three hundred more, burning Garin's host to ash, caging the prince and forcing him to watch the enslaving of his people, and razing his city.
What chance did New Ghis truly have?
Zol Ghisran snorted. "Then we must act swiftly. We cannot allow more of them to gather strength. Delay only favours them."
Zhayla's heart sank.
'Pride and indulgence,' she thought bitterly. 'They have blinded you all.'
The majority spoke not of how to win, only of when.
The Iron Legions were formidable, it was true.
Disciplined citizen-soldiers armed with spear and shield, drilled relentlessly in tight formations modelled after ancient Ghiscari legions.
Their ranks did not break easily, their discipline rivalling any host in the known world.
Only the Unsullied of Astapor surpassed them.
And even those Unsullied, rumour claimed, had been taken…liberated by the same Valyrian pair now threatening them.
Zhayla felt hollow.
Everything unravelled at once.
Allies gone.
Dragons above them.
Enemies wielding soldiers superior even to their feared legions.
And yet she alone seemed to see the abyss yawning open before them.
"I suggest we storm Dragon's Bay at once," Koresh said gruffly. "With the scorpions we acquired in past trade, we can spill the blood of those flying lizards."
"We would be remembered forever," Madzan added eagerly. "The Radiant Council that slew a dragon. Our families would know eternal glory."
The chamber ignited with fervour. Voices overlapped, fantasies of conquest drowning any sense of caution. Even Tazna's hesitation melted beneath visions of triumph.
"General Koresh," Zol said decisively, "we must move. Slaughter the Valyrian filth, claim their lands, and bend their people to us."
Koresh rose, pounding his chest once in solemn assurance. "Fear not. With our men, you will hear victory by the next moon."
Zhayla said nothing.
She sat still, watching the farce unfold before her in silence. Watching them seal their fate with smiles and boasts.
No.
It wasn't just their fate.
It was the fate of all who resided in New Ghis. Citizens and slaves alike.
Yet, she could do nothing here to stop it.
Unlike them, she possessed no armies, no wealth, no guards.
She only held influence over the poor, the faithful, the forgotten. And she knew well what became of Green Graces who spoke too boldly against the Radiant Council.
They disappeared. Never to be seen again, until a suitable Grace was selected to replace her.
When the meeting ended, Zhayla withdrew alone.
She walked deeper into the temple, past flickering candles and kneeling supplicants, until she reached the inner sanctum.
There, beneath a simple altar worn smooth by centuries of prayer, she knelt and bowed her head.
"O gods of Old Ghis," she whispered. "Hear your servant."
Incense curled around her like a shroud.
Her mind flicked to the memories of her councilman, dressed in opulence as they dragged the realm to war.
Then, the faces of the faithful came to her mind. Their scrawny frames, almost lifeless eyes.
The images in her head flashed to and fro between the groups, as tension coiled in her skull.
She did not know what to do.
She had little power to prevent this, even if she had the desire to. She could only watch in hopeless sorrow as New Ghis was to be washed in fire and blood.
Zhayla closed her eyes. Incense wafted into her nose, as a sense of tragic melancholy welling up within her.
"If war must come," she prayed, "let it pass over the innocent. Spare the children. Spare the poor who will never know the names spoken in councils."
Her hands tightened together.
"Let their pride not doom those who have no voice to choose."
Her words sank into a vast silence, and just like before, just like it had always been…
Her Gods did not answer.