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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
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"We need to bring our navy home right now!" A fat governor, face flushed beet-red with fury, slammed a thick stack of parchment ledgers onto the black-ebony council table.
"Look at this, respected Lyseni! Look what this war has actually given us!" He was practically spitting as he launched into his rant.
"First—the Delta disaster! Our heavily paid mercenary companies got routed under that idiot Mitridas's command! Their death benefits, breach penalties, and all the massive advance payments we made—gone! Washed away!"
"Then the Slaughter at Swordbreak Fort! That battle proved exactly how weak and useless our so-called allies are! Our own esteemed Governor Lysandro nearly died in the mess!"
"After that—Watchfort, Three-Tax Gate, and the entire Rhaesh region!"
"How many years did we pour into Rhaesh? How much gold? How many lives? And now?"
"Gone! All of it! Wealth, people, grain, land—every single thing has ended up in Volantene pockets and become victory wine for their Senate!"
Governor Lysandro, in his purple robe, leaned over and whispered to Regar Haen beside him.
"This governor—I'm not mistaken, right?—he had heavy investments in Rhaesh. If I remember correctly, both he and his nephew used to be governors there, and his son-in-law was the castellan of Peninsula Port in the Flank Corridor—"
"Exactly, my lord," Regar replied quietly. "His real losses are probably worse than what the books show. A lot of off-the-books investments just went up in smoke too."
That explains it, Lysandro thought.
Right now Lys had split into two loud factions.
The first were the hardliners—keep fighting to the end, even if it meant sacrificing every Lysene colony in the Disputed Lands. This wasn't about rage or simple greed. Everyone at this table was a political shark; "rage" had been scrubbed from their vocabulary years ago. And it wasn't even about money—if it were, the losses were already so massive that even the greediest governor was secretly craving peace.
No. This was about survival.
Lys was an island state. Its navy and merchant fleet were its lifeblood. Lose the vast timber colonies in the Disputed Lands and where would they get enough wood for new ship keels and ribs? They sure as hell couldn't buy it from Volantis. Tyrosh and Myr? They'd be lucky if those two didn't stab them in the back.
The other faction, of course, were the surrender party.
As they put it: the war was lost—might as well sue for peace while they could still do it with some dignity.
Lysandro was unquestionably the leader of the hardliners. The victory at Stone Crow Town had given him massive prestige. When the news reached Lys, huge crowds had gathered in the main square chanting, "Where is Lord Lysandro?!"
That political capital was pure gold, and Lysandro had used it masterfully. Through careful maneuvering he now held nearly half the governors.
The surrender faction, meanwhile—
Lysandro glanced across the table at Gastor Mario and at First Governor Bambaro, who sat silently on the dais.
Two-faced rats, he thought darkly. One pretending to be a heartbroken patriot, the other pretending to be fair and just. Their faces are thicker than Volantis's Black Walls!
"Gentlemen, it is time we considered surrender," Gastor said, straightening his robes with obvious satisfaction.
"What have we given for the Three Daughters?"
"We gave mercenaries and the gold to pay them. What did we get in return? Death and astronomical compensation bills. Lys's credit is now at rock bottom! Mercenaries hear the words 'Lys contract' and immediately demand more money!"
"Land! So far we haven't taken a single inch of Volantene territory! Forget New Volantis Port or the Tax Collector Islands that we were negotiating for before the war—we even lost Swordbreak Fort! What kind of sense does that make?"
"Now, what I'm about to say might be harsh, but it's the truth—" He glanced pointedly at Lysandro and the hardliners.
"Some people among us keep preaching 'continue the war' while their own rice paddies lie flattened. They demand we fight on while our glorious city-state is already broken. These men are the real parasites of Lys!" He suddenly roared.
"They are the ones who dragged Lys into this abyss! Make peace with Volantis now—while the price is still lowest!"
"Surrender now and we stand tall with our hands raised. Surrender later and we'll be on our knees—and they'll make sure our posture is perfect, or the beating will be worse. That's the difference!"
"What the fuck kind of shit are you spewing?!" Regar Haen exploded, shooting to his feet.
"In my opinion, the only reason the state is in this mess is because it's full of worms like you!"
"Talking to a parasite like you is already a waste of breath!"
"Look—the traitor shows himself!"
"Who are you calling a traitor?!"
"Whoever yells at me is the traitor!"
The shouting escalated. Governors on both sides rose, trading insults that quickly moved from family lineage to personal anatomy. Shoes and belts were already being pulled off—things were seconds from turning into a full brawl.
"Enough! Silence!" First Governor Bambaro tried to restore order, but his shouts were swallowed by the roar. Nobody listened.
"Gentlemen, remember why we are here," Lysandro stood, speaking in a calm, soothing tone that made his own side sit down immediately.
Damn it— Bambaro thought, burning with nameless rage. Who the hell does Lysandro think he is, showing off his influence like this?
"Lord Lysandro, what is your brilliant suggestion?" Gastor gave an exaggerated bow, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you truly believe the current situation can still be salvaged?"
"Captain Jules the Trustworthy and my son Lysandro Rogare led a combined force north to the upper Disputed River several days ago," Lysandro said gravely. "If they win, we will not have to face Marcus and his Volantene legions in the Disputed Lands at all. Through the upper region we can send troops to Rhaesh and completely cut off his retreat!"
"They—hah!" Gastor laughed coldly.
"Do you really believe they can create a miracle? They're just an isolated army. How could they possibly stand against Volantis?"
"Besides, to achieve the strategic goal you describe, they would first have to capture the key upstream stronghold of Broken Spear City and the Broken Spear Ford itself."
"And how many men do they have, Lord Lysandro? Forgive my bluntness, but I seem to remember the White Company only numbers—what—two thousand? One thousand?"
"The expeditionary force totals nearly four thousand," Lysandro replied evenly.
"Pfft—hahahaha!" Gastor couldn't hold back his laughter.
"Then it seems Captain Mord is very confident. With such a tiny force he plans to defeat Volantis and casually take the core upstream strongpoints of Broken Spear City and the Broken Spear Ford? Does anyone here actually believe that's possible?"
"Unless they're blessed by the Seven—or the Lord of Light himself has personally anointed them!" Gastor roared with laughter.
It was impossible. Even in the relatively weak upstream region, Volantis's strength and preparations were more than enough to destroy Jules and his men.
"Yeah, how could that happen?"
"Volantis—once they field a thousand men they become unbeatable!"
"Exactly. Better to surrender now. Do we really want to watch loyal heroes die for a war that's already lost?"
Before the words had even faded, the heavy bronze doors of the council hall burst open. A dust-covered messenger in light armor, escorted by guards, practically sprinted inside. He dropped to one knee, chest heaving.
"This is a council session! No entry without proper reason!" Bambaro roared in fury at the door guards. "Do you want to die? We are in session!"
"Please calm yourself, First Governor Bambaro," Lysandro said softly.
"He carries a red-sealed dispatch. He has the right to report to you immediately."
The last red-sealed dispatch had been the fall of the Flank Corridor. The one before that—Three-Tax Gate. Before that—Watchfort. Swordbreak Fort. The Delta disaster…
In fact, there had been more red dispatches since the war started than in the previous ten years combined.
Ignoring all ceremony, the soldier raised the urgent military report bearing the special fire-wax seal. His voice rang loud and clear through the suddenly deathly-silent hall:
"Urgent military intelligence! General Jules the Trustworthy and Young Lord Lysandro Rogare's combined forces have achieved a glorious victory in the upper reaches of the Disputed River!"
"Broken Spear City—has fallen!"