Tyrosh's Port had been filled with ships, transforming it into a land of iron and wood.
Row after row of oar-powered warships lay silently docked, their towering hulls almost obscuring half the sky.
Masts stood like a forest, black sails hung low, and the enormous three-headed red dragon emblazoned on the sails billowed slightly in the salty sea breeze, as if ready to take flight at any moment.
On the pier, stevedores chanted work songs as they loaded the last batches of grain sacks, arrow quivers, bundles of spear shafts, and timber for hull repairs onto the ships.
The air was thick with the smell of the sea, tar, freshly cut wood, and the restless anticipation of a long voyage.
This city was now a massive bridgehead.
Logistics from Lys and workshops from Myr all converged here, transforming into armor, swords, arrows, and provisions, which were then loaded into the holds of these ships bound for the Western Expedition.
The Three Cities' original garrison duties had been completely transferred to the newly trained Three Cities Garrison, unified under Karl's command.
The main legions, now freed up, had all gathered in Tyrosh.
Outside the city, three massive military camps were arrayed in a 'pin' shape, guarding Tyrosh in the center.
The North Camp was a sea of gold. It was the Golden Company's encampment. Tents were arranged as if measured with a ruler, camp roads were clean, sentries stood ramrod straight, and armor gleamed. Sunlight shone on the Soldiers' golden surcoats and cloaks, looking from afar like a flowing river of molten gold.
Only steady footsteps, crisp slashes, and the short, powerful commands of officers could be heard from the training ground, efficient and cold. Ten thousand battle-hardened veterans silently honed their claws and fangs.
The West Camp was a deep red. It was the Bloodsworn's encampment. The sounds here were distinctly different. Heavy, thunderous hoofbeats were the eternal backdrop. Three thousand hand-picked knights and their Dothraki warhorses, fully armored, were conducting their final charge drills.
When the heavy cavalry charged, the earth trembled, and deep red cloaks, pulled taut by the charging wind, became a unified wave of blood. The aura of slaughter was almost palpable.
The South Camp was pitch black. It was the Ash Company's encampment. The clamor here was the most vibrant. Over eight thousand Soldiers, freshly re-equipped and forged in the blood and fire of the Stepstones, were striving to adapt to their new identity and gear as regular troops.
Their formations were not as strict as the Golden Company's, nor was their demeanor as solemn as the Bloodsworn's, but they possessed an undisguised ferocity, born from climbing out of mountains of corpses and now reignited by their excellent new armaments.
The energy and restlessness permeating the camp were like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Eric forcefully patted the cold plate armor on his chest, producing a dull 'thump-thump' sound. It felt solid, with the unique coolness of metal.
He then smugly twirled the thick black wool cloak behind him, savoring the heavy feel of the fabric. His fingers pressed the hilt of the brand new, varnish-scented steel sword at his waist.
This whole getup—chainmail underneath, plate armor over it, black vambraces and greaves, thick-soled combat boots, plus this imposing cloak—
It was infinitely more dashing than the tattered, sweat- and blood-soaked rags he wore back when he was a pirate.
"Armor isn't for showing off, kid," a raspy voice came from beside him.
It was his Captain, with a hideous scar running from his temple to his chin.
He led a dozen Soldiers like Eric, veterans of the Ash Company.
Eric heard they used to be called the Skull Squad, a name he thought was pretty good, sounding scary enough.
"This thing is to let you take one more blow on the battlefield, to parry someone else's axe, and then plunge your new sword into their throat," Scar-faced Captain patted Eric's shoulder plate with considerable force.
"Understood, Captain!" Eric grinned.
His other hand habitually patted the bulging deerskin pouch at his waist, which emitted a reassuring jingle of coins.
Those were his bounty rewards from Bloodstone Isle.
He still clearly remembered how this very Scar-faced Captain had once cut down his hot-tempered former pirate captain, who often withheld spoils of war, then held a dripping blade to his throat and fiercely asked him, "Surrender or not?"
At that time, Eric thought his best outcome would be to be sold into a mine or plantation as a slave laborer, to exhaust his last breath under the lash.
He never expected it to be like this. It was still killing with a knife, but the rules had changed.
Rewards and punishments were clear, things wouldn't be siphoned off by those above, and those of them on the front lines could immediately get jingling coins, and even wear brand new armor and wield sharp, handy weapons they'd never dared dream of before.
There were pensions for the dead, and arrangements for the disabled. Although he didn't know the specifics of the arrangements, Commander-in-Chief Luke said that His Highness would not let those who bled for him feel disheartened.
Today was their squad's turn to go into the city to relax.
The Ash Company had just rolled out of the bloody battles of the Stepstones, and Commander-in-Chief Luke had granted them grace, rotating the entire army for three days of leave.
There was only one requirement: follow the rules.
No one dared not to; Lord Luke dealt with rule-breakers more decisively than he dealt with enemies.
Even for a casual trip into the city, Eric, Scar-faced Captain, and a few familiar faces from their squad couldn't bear to take off their new gear.
Cold plate armor, thick black cloaks, steel swords at their waists, feathered iron helmets on their heads.
The group walked through the streets of Tyrosh, drawing glances from passersby.
They puffed out their chests, held their heads high, feeling those gazes: fear, curiosity, envy.
Scar-faced Captain was especially so; he deliberately took large strides, his cloak swishing loudly, and with his scarred face, he looked like a triumphant rooster, strutting proudly.
They turned into a relatively clean alley and arrived at the entrance of a dockside tavern.
Pushing open the door, a wave of boisterous warmth and the aroma of ale washed over them.
The tavern was already packed with people, mostly Ash Company Soldiers wearing black cloaks like them, laughing loudly, clinking cups, and boasting about the battles on Bloodstone Isle and their new equipment. The atmosphere was lively, almost noisy.
Eric and the others squeezed onto a recently vacated long wooden table.
Scar-faced Captain slapped the table, called a waitress, and ordered ample ale and roast meat.
The boss, a scrawny tyroshi man with a practiced obsequious smile, scurried between tables refilling drinks.
As Eric and his group sat down, he leaned over and whispered, "Drink to your hearts' content, gentlemen. His Highness has ordered that all taverns in the city will be on the Prince's tab for these three days."
The table fell silent for a moment.
"All... all the city?" a young Soldier stammered.
"All the city," the boss rubbed his hands. "His Highness said that the warriors of the Western Expedition should drink their fill before they depart."
Eric raised his wooden mug, and the cold ale slid down his throat.
He suddenly remembered the last time they divided spoils at sea.
They had plundered a spice ship, and the captain and his lieutenants took the ivory, silk, and finest spices, while those who rowed each received half a sack of moldy beans and a few rusty copper coins.
That night, he crouched in the foul-smelling bilge, listening to the laughter of the lieutenants and slave girls on the deck above, feeling no different from the lambs awaiting slaughter in the cargo hold.
Now, someone was buying them drinks. Because they were 'going on the Western Expedition'.
"This damn..." an old Soldier beside him wiped his eyes, unsure if it was from the alcohol fumes or something else, "This damn is different."
"Of course, it's different," a voice interjected.
A group of people entered the tavern.
Dark red cloaks, more refined armor.
They were the Bloodsworn. Leading them was an officer in his thirties, his face deeply etched by sea wind and harsh sun, his eyes piercingly bright.
Scar-faced Captain's back stiffened almost imperceptibly when he saw the man.
"You little rascal," the officer walked to the table, his gaze sweeping over the Ash Company Soldiers in black cloaks, finally settling back on Scar-faced Captain. "I heard you became a captain on the Stepstones? Not bad."
He pulled up a chair and sat down without invitation, picked up the wine pot in front of Scar-faced Captain, and poured himself a cup. "I remember when I held a knife to your throat, you yelled, 'I won't let you go even as a ghost.' And now? Aren't you wearing this uniform, cutting people down for His Highness?"
The tavern fell silent for a moment, then suppressed laughter erupted.
Eric's eyes widened as he looked at his captain, realizing that his own captain had also surrendered with a knife to his throat.
Scar-faced Captain's face was as black as the bottom of a pot.
"Back then..." Scar-faced Captain squeezed out a few words through gritted teeth.
"Back then, each served his own master," the Bloodsworn officer interjected, taking a large gulp from his cup. "Now, we are all blades in His Highness's hand."
He put down his cup and tapped his fingers on the table. "But then again, you guys fought pretty well on the Stepstones. You didn't disgrace His Highness."
The words sounded like praise, but the implication of
Eric couldn't help but ask, "Officer, were you really with His Highness since Valyria?"
The Bloodsworn officer glanced at him, didn't answer directly, but instead lifted the strap of his left armguard.
Beneath it, a hideous scar was revealed, stretching from his elbow to his wrist, the skin twisted and blackened as if corroded by something.
"A gift from Valyria," he lowered his sleeve. "One hundred ships went in, fewer than ten came out alive. We are the ones who crawled out of the cursed land with His Highness."
"Every step, we trod on the souls of the dead."
Only breathing could be heard in the tavern. Everyone had heard the legends of the Valyrian Ruins, but spoken by a survivor, the curse gained weight and form.
Scar-faced Captain stared in the direction of the Bloodsworn officer's arm for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed the wine pot and tilted his head back, taking a large swig.
The wine spilled from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin and into his chainmail.
He slammed the wine pot down and wiped his face.
"You crawled out of hell, and I respect that," his voice was raspy, but exceptionally clear. "But our Ash Company also fought its way out of the blood sea of the Stepstones."
"Eight thousand men, fifteen hundred lay on the island. Not one of the survivors has soft knees."
He stood up, looking around at his subordinates, who also held their heads high, their black cloaks taut behind them.
"In the upcoming parade, and on future battlefields, we'll meet with real swords and spears. Let His Highness see that we, who once sailed the seas, are no less capable than anyone else, now that we wear this iron!"
"Right!"
"Let His Highness see!"
The black-cloaked Soldiers roared, pounding the tables, making their cups jump.
The Bloodsworn officer looked at them, not angry, but grinning instead.
The smile stretched the weathered lines on his face, revealing a hint of exhilaration.
"Good! That's the spirit we need!" He also stood up, raising his cup.
"No matter if they're red or black, once we reach Westeros, they're all blades to cut down lions, stags, and wolves! Then, we'll compete to see who takes more heads! Who builds a higher Jingguan!"
"Let's compete!"
"We're not afraid of you!"
Cups clanged together, dark red and pitch black merging into one.
Wine splashed, landing on armor, flowing down the grooves of the plates, like blood, or like molten iron.
Outside the window, the warships of Tyrosh Port cast dark silhouettes in the twilight. Further west, across the Narrow Sea, war had already ignited.
And here, blades were drawn, and wine had flowed down throats.
Awaiting only a command, iron and blood would cross the sea.
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