At the centre of the flagship's cabin stood a sturdy wooden table, its edges notched by years of use, a wide map of South-Western Essos spread across it and pinned at the corners with dagger points.
Baelon stood over it, hands braced on the tabletop.
"We've won a great victory," he said at last, "but what are we to do regarding New Ghis?"
Rhevos stood at his side, one weathered hand idly caressing the pommel of his sword. His gaze lingered on the inked coastline and the small, defiant mark that represented the island city.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he looked up.
"Your Highness," the old man began, carefully, "I understand your concerns." He paused, the lines on his face deepening. "However, the siege will be cruel. And the aftermath...crueller yet."
Baelon closed his eyes upon hearing this.
Is there truly no way to avoid this?
He knew the answer even as he asked himself. New Ghis was no Tolos. It was by no means a cowed harbour city that could be taken with fire and fear alone.
It was old, proud, and hardened by centuries of war and trade. If pressed, it would resist with everything it had.
Worse still, it sat upon an island. The tricks that had served him before with the great fog would be torn apart by the shearing winds that scoured its shores.
At least this time, he was prepared. His fleet carried ample provisions, far more than during the Tolos campaign.
Several months of food. Enough to outlast bravado. Enough to let hunger do what steel and flame would make costly.
Baelon opened his eyes and straightened.
"So be it," he said quietly. "We will continue with the plan. Isolate New Ghis and starve them into submission."
Rhevos inclined his head at once. "Understood, Your Highness."
Baelon's gaze returned to the map.
The Gulf of Grief.
Dragon's Bay.
The Slaver Cities.
New Ghis.
So many names. So many borders drawn by greed and blood.
'Once this is all over…' he thought, a faint smile touching his lips, 'Will I not be able to carve out a small kingdom for ourselves?'
A place not borrowed for. Not begged for.
Earned.
"Come," Baelon said, turning toward the cabin door. He glanced once more at Rhevos, resolve settling into his expression. "Let us begin our siege of New Ghis."
And, with the Gods' mercy, perhaps with little bloodshed. Though that seemed to be a fantasy at current.
***
A thick, suffocating silence hung over the Radiant Council Hall.
Once, there had been five seats filled at the grand table. Now there were four.
The fifth stood empty in quiet accusation. Their former comrade was either dead or rotting in chains after his flagship went up in flames.
No one dared voice which was worse.
Zol Ghisran clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed upon the opulent table before him. Gold inlaid with lapis. Slaves' handiwork polished to a mirror sheen.
A fortnight ago, the sight would have stirred pride, no…joy, in his chest. Now it mocked him. Mocked his weakness. His cowardice.
What was gold to a dragon?
What was wealth to two?
The lesson had come too late. Far too late.
He was a salt merchant of House Ghisran, scion of New Ghis' most ancient bloodline.
Fear was a thing he had believed long buried, left behind in his youth, drowned beneath ledgers, fleets, and obedient bowing heads.
In his city, he was a god in all but name. A word from him could starve districts, reroute trade arteries, topple lesser houses. His influence rippled from Asshai's shadowed harbours to the winding canals of Braavos.
And yet—
Cold sweat slid down his temple.
"We…" Zol swallowed, his throat dry as salt flats. He forced the word out, hating how small it sounded in the vast chamber. "Lost?"
Tazna exhaled, her eyes having long lost their focus. "Unfortunately," she said softly, "it seems so."
Then silence returned, heavier than before. It pressed down on them like a burial shroud, smothering both breath and thought.
Across from him, Zhayla shifted in her seat. It was a small, almost hesitant movement, but it caught Zol's eye all the same.
Hope…a desperate, humiliating hope rose ceaselessly in his chest.
"Your Holiness," he began, inclining his head. The title tasted strange on his tongue. "Are there… any revelations from the Gods?"
Shame burned him the moment the words left his mouth.
Gods.
Only weeks ago, he would have dismissed them as peasant fantasies, useful tools for control, nothing more.
Idols to frighten slaves and soothe fools. Yet here he was, silently begging with every fibre of his being for a miracle he did not deserve.
"Yes, yes," Tazna cut in sharply, her composure finally cracking. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles blanching white. "Can we win? Escape? Live?"
Zol felt something hollow open in his chest at the sight. Tazna of House Meranthis.
She had inherited her late husband's vast trade empire and not only preserved it, but expanded it over a decade of ruthless competence.
This woman had outplayed rivals, weathered embargoes and crushed upstarts.
Now she clutched at hope like a drowning sailor, seated in the very hall that symbolised New Ghis' absolute power.
The Green Grace shook her head.
"We Graces have not heard the whispers of our Gods for centuries," Zhayla said, her voice calm but empty. "Not since the fall of Old Ghis."
A scoff cut through the air.
Madzan.
"Pathetic," he muttered. "Begging statues for salvation when we haven't even lost yet."
Every head turned.
Zol's stomach tightened as his eyes met Madzan's. The man's gaze gleamed unnaturally bright. The whites of his eyes were webbed with red, veins swollen and furious.
It was clear that both sleep and reason had long abandoned Madzan.
Whatever calm cunning Madzan once possessed had burned away, leaving only something lesser behind.
"Does that Targaryen bastard not claim to be a liberator?" Madzan rose abruptly, palm slamming into the table. "So be it. We will let him liberate us, at the cost of his precious reputation. What do they call him and his whore of a sister? Breakers of Shackles?"
A grin split his face.
Then he laughed.
It began as a low chuckle, breathless and erratic, before swelling into a manic cacophony.
The sound scraped at Zol's nerves, sharp as broken glass.
One by one, the others joined in with nervous, forced laughter.
"One hundred slaves," Madzan continued, voice rising with feverish delight. "No, no! Three hundred. Every day. Gather them beneath the walls and have them butchered in full view. Let the world know why they died. Let it be known these slaves were slaughtered because of this would-be conqueror's ambitions."
Zol recoiled despite himself.
He felt no pity for slaves, never had. To him, they were cattle, merely numbers on ledgers.
Yet even so, this plan chilled him. It was madness dressed as strategy. Cruelty in the façade of necessity.
"Would that not," Zol ventured carefully, "invite rebellion?"
"Rebellion?" Madzan barked a laugh. "They dare?" He sneered. "We are to hang them in plain sight. Let them rot where all can see. Any thoughts of uprising will die with them."
Zol said nothing more.
In his mind, surrender unfurled as the only sensible path: tribute, gold, concessions. Pride and wealth sacrificed so that his life might yet endure.
Madzan's vision was a blade's edge: either the Targaryens recoiled, unwilling to kill slaves…or they did not.
And then New Ghis would burn, preventing the pair from ever truly ruling New Ghis from its ashes, with the people filled with hatred towards them.
It was an open conspiracy. Either way, the Targaryens would never be able to conquer New Ghis.
Zol glanced around the table. Tazna met his eyes, something resolute, something approving, both settled behind her rampant fear. She had already chosen.
His last hope, the Green Grace, remained silent.
'Cowardly b*tch,' Zol raged inwardly. 'Where is all that love and care for the masses now? Where are your Gods?'
But thoughts did not shape fate. Power did.
And without Zhayla's support, Zol would not dare oppose two great houses.
So, it was…
New Ghis would continue to stand defiant.
Whether it would be saved or reduced to ash beneath dragonfire, remained to be seen.
***
Zhayla knelt. She was submitting both her mind and body in a vague, desperate hope.
The polished stone beneath her felt cold even through the layers of her robes, its chill creeping upward as if to remind her of the ground to which New Ghis had been brought.
"O most highs," she began. "Our proud legions have been broken. Our men…"
She faltered, lips pressing thin as she thought of General Khoresh, who had likely been turned to ash or become a prisoner.
Alas, regardless of his fate, the truth remained: New Ghis stood without a firm hand to direct its defence.
There were others who might have taken his place, men of title, men of steel, but most had followed in that hapless fool's voyage, and those who yet breathed lacked both the courage and the experience to command in the face of dragons.
"Challenging dragons…" Zhayla exhaled softly, barely restraining a scoff.
What a foolish notion.
Her thoughts drifted backwards through history.
The Ghiscari Wars.
Five times her people had risen against Valyria. Five times they had been broken.
Yet, her ancestors had knelt just as she knelt now, again and again, until Old Ghis itself had been reduced to ash and stone.
How many wars had her people won?
None.
Not a single one.
Perhaps a skirmish here, a fleeting triumph there, but never a war. Never against dragonfire.
Every single Ghiscari War ended in the Freehold's victory, and...it was by no means close.
And yet, here they stood, repeating the same defiance, trapped in the same doomed cycle.
"We cannot hope to achieve victory like this…" Zhayla murmured, teeth grazing her lower lip. "We have neither the men, the resources, nor the power to contend."
This war would grant them neither victory nor surprise. Only suffering.
Her gaze lowered further, past the Radiant Council's gilded dais, past banners heavy with symbols of old glory, and instead settled on those who would truly pay the price.
The toiling slaves pressed into labour and war alike. The children whose bellies already ached with hunger.
The families who would soon be grieving fathers, sons, mothers, and names that would never be remembered by history.
Starvation would stalk them first. Then the disease. Then despair.
A soft rustle broke the silence.
Zhayla lifted her eyes as one of the Graces stepped forward. The woman bowed low, hands folded within her sleeves, her voice gentle but edged with urgency.
"My lady," the Grace said, eyes fixed on the floor below. "Riots have begun in the lower districts. Food stores have been raided. Slavers' compounds set alight. The people are frightened…and angry."
Zhayla said nothing.
"The Radiant Council," the Grace continued, swallowing, "has instructed you to address the crowds. They believe your presence may calm the unrest."
Calm them down.
The words tasted bitter.
Was she to offer hollow assurances?
To dress despair in fine language and turn suffering into obedience?
To lull the people of New Ghis into quiet submission while the noose tightened around the city? By their own people at that...
No.
Slowly, Zhayla placed her palms against the floor and rose to her feet.
Resolve hardened behind her eyes.
She turned to the Grace, meeting her gaze fully. "Tell the Council I will go," Zhayla said. "I will face the people. Give me a moment."
The Grace bowed once more and withdrew.
Left alone, Zhayla's gaze drifted, piercing stone and distance alike.
Beyond the walls of New Ghis, beyond the churning harbour, she imagined the vast fleet encircling the island, dark hulls upon the water, sails taut with bloodlust, dragons looming above like some damning omen.
This war.
Her jaw tightened, hands curling at her sides.
"…will not continue."
She would not allow it. For the first time in New Ghis' history, a Green Grace would do its best to wade against the city's rot and greed…to ensure her people could live another day yet.
And, by the Gods, she will see to it she succeeds.
***
Silvo stood near the crown of Elyria's eastern wall, hands resting on cold stone as he peered into the widening blue.
Far out upon the sea, where sky and water stitched themselves together, small black dots crested the horizon, too many to be birds, too ordered to be chance.
They were coming.
The Slaver Cities: Yunkai and Mereen.
The Wise and Great Masters, wanting to take advantage of the war with New Ghis, decided to launch a direct assault on Dragon's Bay.
Half of their fleet had sailed to Tolos, and the other half was here at Elyria.
A foolish plan from the slavers, but Silvo never quite did consider them to be bright.
Behind him, Elyria stirred, a jewel set tighter than its sibling. It was smaller than Tolos, no endless terraces of marble or bloated avenues, but it breathed with vibrance of its own.
Whitewashed towers rose in elegant tiers, their balconies draped with dyed silks that fluttered even now in the morning wind.
Canals cut through districts like roots from some great tree, reflecting painted facades and copper roofs.
Unfortunately for Silvo, he was in no position to admire the city.
"Damn slavers," Silvo muttered, clicking his tongue.
He turned to his side and gave orders to his men as the city walls burst into life.
Ballistae crews hauled thick ropes, arms straining as massive bolts were set into place and aimed seaward.
Winches groaned. Buckets of oil were carried up stone stairwells, their contents shimmering in the sun before being set above murder holes and pouring slits.
A bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
From the harbour below came a brutal sound: iron screaming against iron. Great chains soon rose from the water.
They stretched across the mouth of the port like a titan's grasp, seawater cascading from each link as they locked into place.
All along the walls, men took their positions. Shields lifted. Bows bent. The city behind Silvo fell unnaturally quiet, doors barred, shutters drawn, desperate prayers whispered in frightened households.
Elyria was holding her breath.
Silvo's gaze flicked back only once, toward the quiet inner streets, then returned to the sea.
The ships were closer now. Half a league. He could make out hulls, oars flashing like insect legs, banners snapping in the wind.
He swallowed.
Despite standing at the heart of the city's defences, Silvo was not the final authority. The men beside him, the Unsullied, spears upright, faces blank as carved stone, did not look to him for reassurance.
Their obedience bent toward one will alone.
Her Highness, Helaena.
He had received word that she had managed to stave off the incursions against Tolos and was heading here promptly.
Thus, Silvo could only pray that Her Highnesses' bond could flap her wings ever faster and reach her immediately.
Time stretched.
Minutes bled into one another as the fleet advanced. The sun climbed higher. Sweat beaded at temples. Arms ached from holding bows half-drawn. The sea churned into white froth beneath the oncoming oars.
Then—
The first ships slammed into the chains, hulls shuddering as momentum died in a violent lurch. Wood splintered. Men were thrown from their feet.
More ships followed, ramming again and again, lashed together in crude determination.
The chain groaned, iron links flexing as strain rippled across its length.
"Hold," Silvo ordered, arm rising. "Hold your fire."
The chain wailed like a wounded beast.
Still, Silvo did not look worried.
Other cities used harbour chains to stall their enemies.
Elyria used them to trap them.
Silvo lifted his gaze skyward, eyes narrowing.
He wanted to see if reinforcements had arrived. If not, launching flaming arrows would serve as a substitute.
Thankfully, something moved above.
A speck against the blue falling downwards with great speed.
No—
Not falling.
Swooping.
The shape grew, wings furled as it descended, scales catching the sun in pale cerulean flashes.
The air itself seemed to scream as it rushed down.
A dragon.
A great beast.
No matter how many times Silvo had witnessed them, the awe never faded. Creatures closer to gods than men, both ancient and terrible.
The pale blue behemoth folded its wings tight, plunging toward the sea, then at the last heartbeat unfurled them wide.
The downdraft struck the water like a hammer as fire erupted from its maw, a roaring torrent of flame washing across the clustered ships.
Wood ignited instantly as men screamed, leaping into the sea still burning, flesh sloughing from bone as they hit the water with hissing shrieks.
The dragon climbed, banking sharply, smoke and embers trailing behind it.
"Loose!" Silvo roared, arm dropping.
The walls answered.
Arrows darkened the sky. Shafts whistled, bolts screamed, stones arced outward. The trapped fleet became a killing field, ships burning, men scrambling, formation shattered.
But not all broke.
Through the chaos, Silvo spotted them, fast transports, lower in the water, packed to the brim with mercenaries.
They surged toward one of the chain's anchor points, grappling hooks flying, men spilling onto the stone platform with tools already in hand.
"Anchor teams!" Silvo snapped. "All fire on that point, now!"
A concentrated storm descended. Men fell screaming, bodies tumbling into the sea. Others fled, yet some pressed on, hacking at iron with reckless resolve. Sparks flew, and then, the chain shuddered.
With a final shriek of metal, it slackened.
The port was now wide open, like some Lyseni whore's languid invitation.
Ships surged forward, one after another.
Silvo drew his sword, steel ringing as it cleared the scabbard. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as memory surged.
Sand. Smoke. Screams.
He was Lhazarene.
His father had been cut down like an animal. His mother and sister taken by a Dothraki horde, ridden hard, starved, broken, both dying before Astapor's gates ever rose into view.
The Dothraki.
The slavers.
The same filth. Different banners.
Silvo's grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
"I will not let you have this city," he growled.
Above, the pale blue dragon screamed its challenge and dove once more, flame pouring down upon the invaders. Silvo watched it with a grim, almost reverent smile.
Dragon's Bay would win this war.
They would break these slaving sons of whores.
And before it was done—
They would make the masters wish they had died in chains.