In every war, some drink to glory while others choke on their own bile.
Inside a lamp-lit pavilion, Ser Ent Staunton paced until the rugs were frayed. As the younger brother of the Lord of Rook's Rest, he had been hand-picked by King Viserys to command the fleet. The King believed Ent was a loyalist who could "balance" Prince Aegon—a polite way of saying he was meant to drag the Prince into a quagmire and report back to the Red Keep.
It was a farce. Ent Staunton was a man of soft hands and loud boasts, a second son who had convinced his elder brother of his "strategic genius" during a particularly heavy bout of drinking.
Until tonight, he thought he could coast. He'd let the dragons do the killing and he would take the parchment credit. But as the sun rose, he realized the truth: the captains were ignoring his signals, and the sailors were shouting "True King" at a boy half his age. If Viserys learned his commander had been sidelined within a day, Ent's head would be decorating a spike on the Traitor's Walk before the moon turned.
"What to do... what to do?" Ent scratched his scalp until it bled. "Think, you fool! Perhaps I should just swear my sword to Aegon?"
His heart sank. "But I am a second son with no lands and even less talent. Why would a dragon want a mangy dog like me?"
Before he could spiral further, the tent flap moved. Ser Alec Cargyll stood there, his face a mask of stone. "Sir Ent. His Highness summons you. He says there are 'important matters' to discuss."
Ent felt a chill. He's going to feed me to the crabs, he thought. In the lawless Stepstones, Aegon could invent a hundred "accidental" deaths for a disgraced commander. He followed Alec, his legs feeling like lead.
Inside Aegon's tent, the Prince sat with Captain Nicks. Ent's stomach did a slow roll. He's already found my replacement.
"Sit," Aegon beckoned, not looking up from a map.
Ent forced a ghastly smile and sat beside the mustachioed captain. Aegon looked up, his violet eyes tracking the sweat on Ent's brow. "You look nervous, Ser. Is the salt air not to your liking?"
"I... I am quite well, My Prince," Ent stuttered.
Aegon gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Good. I have decided to promote Nicks to Vice-Commander. He will take ten warships to garrison Grey Gallows. Since you are the Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet, I wanted your... expert opinion on the matter."
Ent's lip twitched. He knew if he said "no," he'd be overboard by midnight. "You are the blood of the dragon, My Prince. My title is but a courtesy. You are the supreme commander. Your word is law."
"Then it is settled," Aegon said smoothly. "Nicks sails tomorrow with two weeks' worth of grain and salt pork."
Aegon was keeping the leash short. He needed to see if the Tyroshi slaves were worth supporting or if they were merely a mob of "loose sand" before he wasted his precious hoard of supplies. The Hightower and Lannister ships were still weeks away; until then, every crust of bread belonged to Bloodstone.
The news of Tyrosh's incineration swept through Essos like a wildfire. From the marble halls of Pentos to the shadowed markets of Braavos, the name Aegon Targaryen was whispered with a new, jagged edge of fear.
In Myr, the atmosphere was thick with bewilderment. They had heard of Tyrosh's ruin and the stinging raids on Lys, yet Myr remained... untouched. The four dragons had circled their spires three times, casting shadows over the Governor's Palace, yet not a single spark of dragonflame had fallen.
Inside the Council Chamber, the three Great Governors of Myr sat in tense silence.
"I will not vote for war," Vasily Cox snapped, slamming a letter from Archon Nekania onto the table. "The Stepstones were always Tyrosh's prize. They didn't share the tolls when times were good, and now that they've poked a dragon, they want us to bleed for them? Look at Tyrosh! Do you want Myr to be a pile of ash?"
Ruben Polk nodded morosely. "The Archon is a drowning man grabbing at our robes."
"Peace, Vasily," said Felix Bowles, the most powerful of the three. His family had ruled the looms and banks of Myr since before the Doom of Valyria. "We must help, even if we do not send men. We send timber. We send gold. We cannot let Tyrosh fall completely, or the Prince will have a harbor from which to hunt us all."
Vasily's eyes cleared slightly, the logic piercing his panic. But Felix remained troubled.
"One thing haunts me," Felix murmured. "Why did he spare us? He circled our city. He saw our wealth. He saw our fear. Why did the 'True King' keep his torch unlit?"
"A ploy," Ruben suggested. "To sow discord."
"Precisely!" Felix gasped. "If we remain unscathed while Tyrosh burns, the Tyroshi will think we made a secret pact with the Targaryens. They will turn on us before the Prince ever does."
"Then we must intervene!" Vasily cried.
Felix looked at his fellow governors and saw the hesitation in their eyes. He realized then that Aegon had played them perfectly. Even knowing it was a trap to divide them, they were too greedy and too afraid to risk their own skins.
Felix Bowles had his own war to win at home—a blood feud with the rival Houston family. If he sent the Myrish fleet to die against dragons, the Houstons would seize his estates before the week was out.
What is the Triarchy compared to the survival of House Bowles? he thought. He had been elected to protect his family's interests, not the Archon's vanity.
"We wait," Felix decided, his voice cold. "We send supplies to appease Nekania, but our ships stay in the harbor. Let the Targaryen and the Tyroshi exhaust one another. We shall see which way the wind blows before we commit our blood."
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