The Dance is not over

by Antony444

The Dance of the Dragons was the most devastating conflict Westeros had ever seen, one hundred and seventy years before the War of the Five Kings. In the end, a succession of deaths and betrayals allowed the kingdom to find peace and recover. But what if it had not happened? What if the courage of a young dragoness had pushed this war to be fought to the bitter end?

58. Vae Victis

Chapter 58

Vae Victis

It was the War of the Beard.

It was the war between the Princedom of Pentos and the Republic of Braavos.

It was supposed to stay that way.

On this point, all the surviving Braavosi witnesses who spoke with Sealord Salvatore Zalyne agreed the ruler of Braavos had been vehement about it.

But the plans made by one man could be unmade by others.

And war was and still not is a bottle of wine.

It won't stop once you empty it in one hour and declare this is enough for the day.

The Braavosi had begun the War of the Beard, and now the waters of the Narrow Sea were filled with blood.

It could have stayed the War of the Beard, of course. Nothing was inevitable in this year of one hundred and forty after the Conquest.

Nothing was inevitable. Alas, the race of Man was and still is not known for its lack of passion. There was enough anger to drown several kingdoms. There was arrogance that the worst part of the fighting was over, and that victory waited a few moons away if you were daring enough to grab it.

But above all, there was fear.

Fear of what your enemy would do to you if the sword of your future conqueror was placed against your throat.

The Freehold of Valyria had a saying for it, one which came straight from the First Ghiscari War, where they had been a battle away from losing everything.

Vae Victis.

Woe to the vanquished.

The loser was at the mercy of the winner, and when Braavos had proclaimed it would end slavery forever, the slave-owners of Pentos and many other Free Cities had known there was little mercy waiting for them under the Sealord's brand of justice.

There were miscalculations, as said before. There were very human passions at the heart of them.

Foremost among them was the sheer need to spite one's enemies before falling.

The War of the Beard was about to become the First of the Narrow Sea Wars. The flames were spreading towards the casks of wildfire, and with them came the Reign of Fire.

It would bring calamity, countless deaths, religious strife, and worse.

All of it for a price none of the belligerents would have the strength to claim at the end of the bloodbath.

Extract from Dragons and Beards, by Historian-Librarian of the First Rank Benjen Manderly, originally written at Fairmarket, 324AC.

---

Lord Alyn Velaryon, Eighth Moon of 140AC, Surabahai the Isle of Elephants

The guides had not lied: there was a Palace of Ivory, after all.

They had just failed to mention a few things about it.

The fact it was two days to the south of the place where they had circled around for so long.

Or that it was not a palace as Westerosi imagined it.

Yes, it was called the Palace of Ivory...because it was a Palace built for the elephants of the island.

This had resulted in the largest and tallest gates Alyn had ever seen, for the men and women of Surabahai felt two elephants should be able to come in and out of the Palace without trouble.

This had resulted in some...curious situations.

Elephants were elephants, and they rested wherever they wanted.

Unlike in a city or a harbour of importance like Gulltown, it wasn't up to the formidable animals to get out of the way to let men and women go to their workplaces. No, this time, the elephants were lords and masters, and if you wanted to reach your destination, you had to make a detour.

Nonetheless, the sights were largely worth the journey to reach the Palace.

Once passed the giant walls which kept the jungle at bay, you entered a new realm where fruit trees and exquisite smells were everywhere.

And there were elephants everywhere, of course.

There was no court, no armoury, no courtyard to train warriors; the immense space within the walls was a succession of sublime gardens where thousands of men and children made sure the elephants were properly pampered and lacked of nothing, be it food, water, or giant fans to keep the insects away.

Naturally, there were also people replacing constantly the stone-sculpted artworks; the elephants were rather peaceful, but they were huge too, and though their trunks were deft enough to grab exotic fruits, their paws and large bodies inflicted some involuntary damage to their surroundings.

"They looked smaller in the dreams," Alyn told the Raja, who had the longest beard the Lord of Driftmark had ever seen on anyone. And it was no hirsute Umber thing either: the beard had been meticulously kempt, oiled, and perfumed.

As the Raja was long past his prime, and the beard had become entirely white, the beard felt almost like a work of art.

"Everything is smaller in the Spirit World," the ruler of Surabahai told him wisely. "Smaller, but it reveals what is hidden. Each life is precious. Each life feels like a fountain of life there."

Alyn knew he didn't need to ask the Raja if the man had met the God; this would be evidently superfluous.

"The Spirit World," he mentioned slowly. "This is a place where...where it is easier for Gods to communicate more easily with us."

"It is." The Raja caressed his long beard thoughtfully. "And the Great and Wise Gajânana must like you."

"Why?"

"You didn't mention the pain." The Raja said as if it was the most natural of facts. "For the non-initiated travellers Wise Gajânana contact, the pain can be unbearable."

Alyn frowned. There had been some pain when he woke up, yes, but he had thought that it was because the stone he slept upon was not exactly the softest pillow one traveller could have access to.

And though it had placed some stress upon his back, it had hardly been a torture.

"Are there other ways the God can speak to men and women?"

"Of course, there are. But as long as you aren't willing to dedicate your..." the Raja searched for the exact word for several heartbeats, "to dedicate your life-spirit to Wise Gajânana, these methods are denied to you."

"Fascinating."

"There is always the possibility that the Mighty and Wise Gajânana decides to walk upon this island once again," the long-bearded ruler said tranquilly, as if a God suddenly deciding to take a walk and join the mortals was the most natural thing in the world. "But it rarely happened during the Chronicles of the Tears, and almost never since."

"The Chronicles of Tears...are you speaking of the way-"

"Our ancestors fled from the continent the Valyrians called Sothoryos? Yes." The Raja gave off a thin smile. "Wise Gajânana convinced our ancestors one at a time that our ancient lands were lost to us, and that we had to take refuge in his sacred land. They walked, and walked again, with the elephants as companions. Our ancestors walked, and the world broke behind them. Great and terrible was the wrath of Gajânana, and Surabahai became the land it is today."

This would mean Surabahai had been a Fingers-like peninsula during the Old Night, and a large one, given how many leagues separated it from Sothoryos.

How powerful had been the Elephant God, assuming the ancient tale was not an exaggeration, to break that amount of land and sunder it under the waves?

"We made our home upon Surabahai, and we slowly forgot the lost Land of a Thousand Gods."

"You know then what happened to turn it into...into the dangerous land it is today."

"Oh yes, we know, Alyn of House Velaryon." The Raja replied, all traces of smile gone from his noble visage. "And you know the simple answer: the Great Enemy. For the long answer...we do not give it to the souls unwilling to dedicate themselves to Wise Gajânana. It is our way...and it is far better for everyone concerned. The words would make sure to trouble your sleep for many nights to come, believe me."

"I believe you." And he really did, there was something in the gaze of the ruler of the Isle of Elephants that was incredibly dangerous. "But I heard there were many ships which went on the shores of Sothoryos to capture birds and animals they couldn't take elsewhere."

"As long as these men and women are content to stay close to the shores, the risks are not that great for their life-spirits," the Rajas assured him. "They can always lose limbs and sometimes worse; poison and fangs can vanquish any hardy elephant and dedicated follower, these raiders will perish all the same if they are not careful."

There was long moment of silence.

"But going deeper into Sothoryos...it is a walk no one will ever return from. There are things there...they must not be awakened. The horrors the Valyrians of Gogossos created are insignificant shadows compared to the evil which lurks deeper into the continent. Wise Gajânana commanded us to never return unless he gave us the command, and we have faithfully obeyed him since the end of the Chronicles of Tear."

This was...not exactly a small command. What exactly could make a God of Elephants afraid?

"But enough about that," the Raja dismissed the matter as if they had been discussing a bad rain or two. "The God gave you a mission, I believe."

"He did." Alyn was a bit reassured; if he had gone to a septon or someone of the Faith at home, they would have been prompt to declare he was crazy. The Raja here was taking it seriously...proof that he was neither the first nor the last to be given such 'missions'. "The Wise God believes that my journey has greater chances of success if I sail directly for one of the volcanoes in the centre of Marahai Bay."

The ruler of Surabahai...exploded in laughter.

Well, this was not the reaction Alyn had expected.

"I believe I understand the mission you were given, yes. No doubt you were told to go there, not to set foot under any condition on Marahai before?"

Alyn nodded, a bit hesitantly.

"These were exactly his...the suggestion of Wise Gajânana, yes."

In the distance, an elephant decided the climate was far too warm, and went into a pool to cool down.

"Yes, I believe I see." The Raja made an undignified chortle. "And I suppose the Wise God mentioned on how on this island, you will find a great temple that seems long abandoned, and whose entrance gate is easily taller than the ones of the Palace of History?"

"The comparison with the Ivory Palace wasn't made, but the rest indeed was mentioned."

Alyn didn't absolutely what was funny about it, though.

"I see. I see." The Raja laughed...again. "Yes, never let it be said that Wise Gajânana has not a sense of humour."

"With all the respect I have in me...I do believe I miss a lot of the reasons the Wise God gave me this mission."

The Guardian of the Palace of Elephants merely shrugged.

"Honestly, Alyn of House Velaryon, it is entirely possible that you will find the gates barred. You would not be the first traveller the mission was given in the last centuries. Wait until the volcano erupts and the earth shakes. If the gates are still closed to you, turn back, and continue your journey to the Empire of the Centre...it will not be something due to a flaw in your life-spirit. No, it will be confirmation that the time wasn't right."

"And if the gates of the temple open?"

The ruler of Surabahai laughed again.

---

Councillor of Taxes Navarro Adarys, Eighth Moon of 140AC, Tyrosh

The room was known as the Room of the Conclave for obvious reasons.

It was also noted to provide the Magisters using it a particularly peaceful and resting ambiance, one which allowed great matters to be discussed serenely.

Mahogany wood had been imported at great expense from several foreign nations to arrive to a result that was both impressive and eye-catching. Two giant snails had been carved into wood and placed on each side of the central table, as a way for the Free City of Tyrosh to thank the animals for creating the first source of wealth after the founding.

All of that was completely true.

It didn't matter much, not in front of the Archon's wrath.

"HOW IN THE NAME OF TRIOS DID YOU MISS THE ENTIRE DORNISH ARMY CROSSING THE NARROW SEA?"

Most of the Magisters present did look away, with eyes filled with panic. According to all traditions, the Archon was not supposed to enter the Room of the Conclave uninvited, and certainly not escorted by guards.

Then again, the circumstances were...exceptional. The only situation which had been worse in the City's long history was when the Volantene mighty fleet came before the Bleeding Tower and demanded their obedience.

"I believe," one of Navarro Adarys said in a manner that reeked of cowardice, "that matters of keeping an eye upon potential enemies are the prerogative of the Councillor of Feathers."

"You, silver-tongued-"

The green-bearded man who controlled the entire spy network of Tyrosh didn't have the opportunity to say more as stern-looking men removed him from his chair.

"Yes, I believe it too," the Archon growled. "One could believe not noticing a bunch of pirates, or a company of a couple of small companies. But thousands of men? An entire army on our very doorstep? Men for all we know, could have struck here at Tyrosh itself first? It is either incompetence, or it is treason!"

"MERCY! MERCY!"

But the soldiers weren't in the mood for mercy. And clearly neither was the Archon.

The Councillor of Feathers was dragged away kicking and screaming.

There was a brief period of silence.

Many Magisters were glaring at each other, while others were trying to evaluate how much of the wooden boards behind their august boots were about to crack and send them to their dooms.

"The fact, remains, Archon, that the Andal barbarian you named as warlord utterly failed at the moment Tyrosh needed him."

"So you're going to blame him because you and your peers didn't warn him that in the middle of a battle, an entire army was coming to impale his back with a spear? That's what you're saying, Councillor of Swords?"

"I...I..." nine out of ten Magisters refused to meet their colleague's gaze. "I am just saying, Archon-"

"Yes, I'm sure you could have done better. After all, your own Generals were busy losing Tiberius and the entire southern Disputed Lands, weren't they?"

"I AM A MAGISTER OF TYROSH! I HAVE THE LAW ON MY SIDE!" The Councillor of Swords screamed as four tall brutes punched and kicked him as he tried to resist being dragged away from the rich mahogany-made room.

Navarro Adarys suddenly wondered if it had been such a good idea to elect Moreys Gallardo as Archon of his beloved city. Nine years ago, the man had been young and a lot of his colleagues had thought he would be easily controlled for the entirety of his twenty-years-long term.

And for the better part of five years, it had certainly felt the 'investment' was paying off.

Alas, one could delicately say it was no longer the case.

The disastrous war against Lys and now Myr had seen the Archon take more and more power onto himself, and since naturally, it had come at the expense of the Conclave and the Magisters who were seated upon it.

"I, for one, believe General Godric Arryn did the best he could do," Navarro Adarys spoke slowly, handing an informal peace offering to the Archon. "Unfortunately, the best he could was to save five thousand men. The others are all dead, or like the Company of the Rose, used a good bargaining position to leave the Disputed Lands and search for new battlefields outside of it. Knowing the desertion rate and the size of the forces arrayed against us, Tyrosh effectively doesn't have an army anymore."

Tyrosh still had a massive fleet...for all the good it did. As the Archon had loudly told them, they had managed to miss the hundreds of Myrish transports that had been mustered to help the Dornish cross the Narrow Sea.

"We don't have an army," Navarro repeated quietly, "and to be painfully honest, we don't have the means to rebuild one in time to do any good. The well of sellsword recruits is near-empty by now, for reasons many around this table have been informed of. And since our fair Free City never felt the need to train and equip an army from the ranks of our citizens, building an army without sellswords would require many, many years."

That was assuming it was even possible.

Tyrosh had plenty of guards and men with weapons, but plenty of them were involved in the slave trade.

Remove them from their usual duties, and sooner or later, there would be a major risk of insurrection.

"Yes." The Archon struck the mahogany table with his fist, making two of his colleagues jump in fear. "Councillor of Letters, read the terms these dogs of Myr are offering us."

"Ah...Archon...that is...the terms are not...they are flowery, but the insult..."

"The terms, Councillor of Letters. Now."

Moreys Gallardo had always been noted to be wrathful, belligerent, and prompt to offer insult. He rarely apologised for anything.

Many friends Navarro had thought it made him the perfect figurehead to pretend the position of Archon had power. The problem with figureheads, unfortunately at this desperate hour, was that if you gave them a drop of power, they began to ask for more.

"Myr...wants...Myr wants everything." The Councillor coughed loudly. "They want the keys of Famagusta and Kyrenia, the last two cities we hold on the Disputed Lands, the very harbours we use to pour dyes and other goods into the Disputed Lands while receiving massive taxes in exchange. Myr also wants a payment worth thirty ransoms of Magister; they leave it to us to decide if we want to give it to them in gold or silver. Myr wants the beautiful fleet of our fair Free City disarmed, and to not exceed the size of forty galleys for the next twenty years. Myr wants us to agree to a ban on the use of sellswords and sellsails across all our all colonies and the islands that will stay under our control. Incidentally, they also want us to cede several strategic Stepstones to Dorne. And last but not least, the Conclave of Myr will agree to pay for our dyes at certain fixed prices, while the Free City of Tyrosh will purchase every year a certain number of carpets and glass from the Magisters of Myr, in addition to liquors and diverse goods from Sunspear."

These terms, no one was stupid enough to miss it, would indeed make Tyrosh the client city of Myr and Dorne in all but name. Both the men around this table and their citizens would lose all power save a few scraps, be it from a war or coin perspective.

"Raise your hand if you believe we must eat the dough the Myrish and their new Dornish allies are prepared to feed us."

No one did. Idiocy and the threat in the Archon's words aside, no one felt very much eager to go pretend being the perfect happy clients of the Conclave of Myr. Their neighbours weren't Braavosi, but no one fancied very much handing the leash and the collar to their victors.

Navarro sighed and summoned all his courage.

"I would be very happy to tell the Myrish emissary to just eat his letter, Archon. That said, as I recognised in my previous intervention, the Army of Tyrosh is for all intents and purposes gone."

"There are some militias at Famagusta and Kyrenia!" one of his 'colleagues' argued.

Navarro gave him a disgusted look.

"One thousand militiamen per city, poorly trained, poorly equipped, and whose sole weapons are crossbows and long cudgels. Their utility is to stand on the walls in case of siege, and send their arrows at those threatening their homes. Send them on the open field against the spearmen of Dorne, and we will get a splendid and total rout!"

"There isn't a way to find more men! Half of the sellsword companies have sailed north to fight the Braavosi or side with them in their madness!"

The Room of the Conclave became in mere heartbeats the scene of much shrieking and screaming, of accusations and insults.

"ENOUGH!" The Archon roared, using his fist against the table once more. "Enough! No treaty will be signed with Myr under such humiliating terms!"

This wasn't really something Navarro Adarys was surprised to hear; a humiliating treaty such as this one would require someone to let the blame fall upon his shoulders, and there was never a higher figure to blame than the Archon in the city of Tyrosh.

Moreys Gallardo would not live to see the ink dry on the treaty if he felt desperate enough to sign it.

"Archon, we have no allies-"

"We have signed accords with the King of the Sunset Lands."

Yes, yes they did. But it was more trade recognition on parchment, and a way to simplify procedures as merchant ships used the harbour of another.

It certainly had not convinced the dragonlord to stir in their favour. A few hundred Andal sellswords had crossed the Narrow Sea, but aside from the Falcon, who was a special case, none had really made a mark. And plenty of them had perished on the battlefield next to Monforte.

"Tyrosh had an agreement with King's Landing, Archon. This didn't change anything in this war."

"This is because we asked the wrong questions and looked as the dragonlord like the inheritor of the Volantene Generals. In reality, King Daeron is far closer to the Andals. The dragon does not really care about coin and trade; he wants honour and blood."

The Councillor of Taxes grimaced behind a mask of loyalty. He could feel where it was leading, and he didn't like it at all.

"Archon, with due respect-"

"Support will come if the alliance is tied with marriage."

Plenty of men around the table were shocked beyond belief. Others were not so impressed.

"The Dragon of King's Landing has only a single newborn daughter, and a dragonrider niece," the Councillor of Sails said darkly. "The former evidently is far too young for any agreement to be made, and the latter won't be offered, the Targaryens have way too few true battle-dragons left after the butchery they called a Dance. And who would they marry in the first place? The title of Archon is not-"

"The title of Archon is the power to do what needs to be done!"

Moreys Gallardo was threatening them with...no, this kind of thing couldn't happen, they weren't Braavos, by Trios' three heads!

Someone should raise his voice in protest.

Someone...

They were way too many soldiers, and no one protested.

"The difficult of the decision is clear," the Councillor of Letters said timidly, "but the Dragon King will not offer his daughter or his niece. And without a dragonrider, this whole alliance is-"

"There is another name that has inherited the prestige of the fearsome citadel of Shipbreaker Bay, and it is incredibly close to Tyrosh. I speak, of course, of the Baratheon lineage."

That...that could work, Navarro acknowledged. The Lady of Storm's End had 'lost' her husband recently, as he was sent to frozen lands thousands of leagues away. And wasn't one of the younger sisters supposed to marry the Lannister Lord the moment this winter ended?

Yes, this could serve as a foundation for an alliance. Assuming the Dragon King was willing to accept.

It also needed to happen very soon: all the dragons in the world would not matter if Myr won decisively the war before the arrival of a single additional Andal warrior.

"I am unconvinced!" The Councillor of Sails sneered. "Yes, the Andals value blood, but we all know what they hate too, Magisters! They hate slavery!"

The elephant in the palace, to use one of these charming Volantene expressions, was now mentioned, and many Magisters scowled.

"Are we going to pretend the Andal barbarians won't demand the abolition of slavery and the invitation to create temples of their accursed 'Faith of Seven' on our fair island! No, I say! I won't accept this! Given the choice, I prefer to be the client of the Myrish Conclave! They are smug and arrogant, but at least with them we share traditions, trade values, and we are Free Cities of the Narrow Sea! We have not forgotten the hand which shaped us! I will not bow to a degenerate line of dragons who abandoned all dignity and the customs of their blood!"

"Splendid words for a man whose fleet let the Dornish sail for the Disputed Lands without offering even a skirmish. I think in your case, treason will be easy to prove."

"You will not silence me so easily as you did these weaklings! Get your hands off me! REMOVE YOUR HANDS! STOP THIS!"

At this rate, Navarro Adarys feared the Room of the Conclave was going to lose its name, by virtue of not having a quorum of Magisters to sit there anymore...

Damn the Myrish. Couldn't have they proposed reasonable terms in order to open peace negotiations?

---

Sealord Salvatore Zalyne, Sealord Palace, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Braavos

"What by all the Temples of the Isle of the Gods did Laskarys and Siscar thought they were doing?" Salvatore muttered, reading again the letter and hoping the words changed, that the revelations weren't as bad as the nightmares it had suddenly conjured in his head.

But the sentences were still there, ugly and filled with despair.

There were attempts to divert blame and give some positive news from the author.

Salvatore didn't fall for them.

After a third re-lecture, the Sealord let the letter fall upon his desk.

"Laskarys is of course trying to save his skin, pretending he had no idea the Company of the Goat was anywhere near Kaleos."

"Clearly he's lying," Napoleone said coldly, as the third candle of the night burned upon the desk. "And I note he doesn't mention who decided to send most of the infantry to Kaleos in the first place. Last time I checked, Vitello Siscar was under his command, not the contrary."

"I am..." Salvatore Zalyne, most powerful man of the Republic, shook his head in disbelief. "Sweet Weeping Lady, what possessed them to do something so stupid?"

"Lack of supplies," Napoleone reminded him.

"I know the problem was caused by the lack of supplies!" The eldest of the Zalyne brothers barked angrily, before controlling himself. "But I also believed I had made myself very honest with all the Captains and naval officers when we mustered for this war. The conflict against Pentos, this mighty clash of arms, had to take place at sea, or at worse on the coastline. Braavos has one of the greatest fleets, but we were never a Republic which gathered and trained armies capable of rivalling the Dothraki hordes or the Legions of Valyria of old. We rule over the seas, on land, we fortify our trade outposts everywhere we can."

His eyes fell upon the map once again.

Kaleos was there, east of Argilon. It was an insignificant dot on the southern bank of the Argos River.

"I don't expect our citizens to react calmly to this defeat."

His brother, Salvatore noted, had really a gift for understatements at the worst hour.

"The Arengo is going to explode in grief and rage," Salvatore winced. "We will need to punish someone."

"Tacito Laskarys practically volunteered for the role."

The Sealord's face gave off an expression of warning.

"I know you don't like him-"

"He knew the Pentoshi were hiring as many sellsword companies, including plenty of mounted ones, and he sent Siscar eastwards anyway. How by the storms and waves did he think Siscar was going to be able to send back the grain? If the Company of the Goat hadn't been here, the Pentoshi would still have been able to harry our men and the barges transporting what was inside the granaries of Kaleos. It isn't like there are many rivers they could use for the resupply."

"True."

The war in the last fortnights had been going in Braavos' favour, mostly. There had been announcements over twenty Pentoshi merchant ships had been captured, and regulars of the Second Fleet had crushed a Lysene squadron of sellsails which had been sailing to support the enemies of the Republic.

But this had been before the messenger ship arrived with the enemy tide.

"Laskarys just gave the Pentoshi a clear and splendid victory, one where they can boast they have crushed our men. I don't expect them to be discouraged by the sight of thousands of our pikemen rotting somewhere between Argilon and Kaleos. Whether the decisive blow was indeed made by Pentoshi or not, this defeat will just convince the Pentoshi to fight harder, and might even convince most of their fat Magisters to open their purses. After all, they're winning, no?"

A few more bitter comments, and soon Salvatore would be afraid the Arsenal would combust under the wrathful flames coming out of his brother's mouth.

"All right," the Sealord of Braavos conceded. "I should never have named Laskarys for the job, and ultimately, he went against my orders."

The failure to seize the granaries of Argilon had been his and his alone, and his 'stratagem' to resupply had cost thousands of men for no gain.

"Siscar is dead, or at least, I hope he is." This was him sincerely speaking; the rumours about Hasturo the Unspeakable were not the kind you wanted to verify by yourself. "Laskarys survived; if the Arengo wants his head, I will give it to them. But no matter what the decision is when it comes to his life, I think we can both agree it is vital we remove him from command."

"Some of his Captains should have already stepped forwards and proposed he named a successor while waiting for the new orders of the Lagoon a fortnight ago," Napoleone wasn't far from gritting his teeth. "But yes, Tacito Laskarys needs to be removed."

It was not going to be a nice affair.

In fact, Salvatore was very much certain it was going to be a massive chore, one which would cost him a lot of favours. Few of his supporters would shed tears for a man like Tacito Laskarys, who was of the old sword-and-sail wealthy aristocracy, but this would be the second Admiral Braavos had 'used' in a single year.

And it left him with a question that deserved to be voiced.

"Who will I replace him with?"

"Me."

This time, Salvatore couldn't help but grimace openly.

"I know there is precedent, but you are the Second Sword, the commander of all naval forces of the Republic. If you leave-"

"I won't be able to exert control over the Second Fleet plus all its reinforcements...which we might as well call Third Fleet. I won't be able to choose where our corsairs are best employed hunting the trade of the enemy either."

The eldest brother closed his mouth. Damn it, the arguments were rock solid.

The reality was, this sea war was fought far away from Braavos, and messages took a very long time arriving to report on the victories and the disasters. It had been something the Zalyne brothers knew would happen, but they had thought a fast victory against Pentos would lessen the problems.

Unfortunately, Pentos had not been conquered, and for now, even the city of Sidorys was still standing with Pentoshi flags hoisted upon its highest tower.

"You're right. We need a skilled Admiral whose loyalty is unquestionable, and I don't trust Laskarys anymore. Moonsinger save me, I don't even know if we can trust all the so-called 'triumphant reports' of several of our Captains. We...I need someone to sail southwards, see the situation for what it is, and find a way to win this war."

Assuming there was a way to win it, Salvatore Zalyne didn't say out loud.

This latest defeat had cost Braavos thousands of men that couldn't be really replaced, while it had cost only some gold for Pentos. The Prince of Pentos and his slaver friends had been given more moons to reinforce the defences of their city and recruit and train more men.

This didn't make Pentos a titan of the Narrow Sea, but it meant it could take many moons, maybe years, to inflict them enough blows that would destroy their trade and allow the slaves to rise into rebellion against their masters.

"The city of Pentos itself is the only place the Magisters and their slavers can't replace," Napoleone warned him.

"I know," the Sealord of the Republic of Braavos sighed. "Believe me, I know."

---

Damio Ludiax, Ninth Moon of 140AC, the Iron Mine, somewhere close to Braavos

If circumstances had been normal, they would not have considered coming disguised and hiding who they were.

No, they would have come with a large escort, draped in robes of brown and grey indicating they needed no jewellery and magnificent clothes to signify their importance.

This location wouldn't have been chosen either. Leaving aside matters of retinue, the massive structure people recognised as the seat of the Iron Bank was perfect to set up meeting.

But circumstances were assuredly not normal.

As such, they had been forced to return to their roots, literally.

The place had long been transformed from an Iron Mine into something far more appropriate for secret reunions, of course.

Yet it was a far cry from the splendour of a bank's headquarters.

It was barren save the chairs and the table.

In the middle of this space where miners and former rebels had once gathered, the Masquerade-costumed men and women were very much akin to Priests of a Virgin Goddess standing in front of a whorehouse.

It was good, for it was the whole point of it.

Everyone knew the keyholders were a dignified species, unable to don brilliant and extravagant clothes by fear of losing their sense of self-importance.

This was why each and every one of the sixteen souls present had donned masks that they wouldn't have been caught dead before this year: gargoyles, bird courtesan, singer, and many other ludicrous disguises. Their robes were coloured in bright and light shades, from crimson red to wave blue.

The Maesters of Westeros had been wrong about many things, but they had not been wrong about that: they were indeed sixteen men and women controlling the Iron Bank, and they had indeed founded it in a now long-abandoned iron mine.

Everything else was just mystic they had added decade after decade.

"It seems our dear Sealord lost none of his eloquence in front of the Arengo."

Damio began without any introduction necessary. All of them had functions to attend, and the more time they spent here, the more there was a chance someone would speak in front of hostile ears.

"One must give him some credit," one of his female peers hidden behind a flamingo mask smiled. "Our dear Sealord is a superb orator."

"I will not give him any credit," the male banker who had chosen the mask of the Sun to hide his traits replied starkly. "Not anymore. In case you forgot, it's thanks to his bloodthirst that Braavos is now poorer of over six thousand men."

"To be fair, he did indeed give orders to Laskarys not to-"

"Laskarys nothing!" The man slightly increased his already powerful voice before inclining his head in apology. Even though they were in private, they were the ruling council of the Iron Bank. It would not do to lose their self-control. "Laskarys nothing. It is Salvatore Zalyne who began the riots who led to the deaths of so many merchants and members of the mercantile community of the Republic. It is Salvatore Zalyne who desired this war against Pentos above everything else. Fine, he got his chance to unleash great slaughter across the Narrow Sea. He can't exactly pretend to look away in horror and say he has no idea how his arms are plunged up to their elbows in blood."

There were fifteen nods of approval, though some were more reluctant than others.

"I will note, however," Damio intervened, "that it took him quite a speech to rally the malcontent souls of the Arengo. And we all know over two out of three of them were die-hard supporters of his three moons ago."

"Obviously," the flamingo-masked woman scoffed. "Zalyne can prattle what he wants about inflicting terrible blows to the trade of Pentos, but the reality is that by going to war in the name of slavery abolition, he literally killed our trade exchanges in the process too. For all the military disasters we have suffered with First Fleet and now the Black Pillars of Kaleos, these are just gentle slaps compared to the rumbling disaster which awaits us. Does someone want to disagree?"

"I do not," the cormorant-masked banker said politely. "None of the Free Cities have imitated Pentos and moved against the local branches of our Bank, but I fear this is very much a question of time. At Tyrosh, they very much avoided it because they are in a sufficiently bad military situation that they can't afford to anger us. But Myr and Lys are definitely contemplating confiscating all our assets, bank notes, archives, and letters of change."

"Volantis?"

"The Triarchs are ever slow to act...fortunately for us. And they elected a Tiger this year, so the two Elephants do have to negotiate, even if they have a two-to-one majority. But make no mistake, the Elephants will move. They are slow, but not stupid. We annoyed them a lot in the last couple of centuries, and the slavers of the Rhoyne have long memories."

The words were far more sinister than a non-banker listening would have realised. While Braavos traded with a lot of kingdoms and entities, a colossal fraction of its total trade was done with the Free Cities, from Lorath to Volantis.

It was the very reason why they had tolerated the disgusting slavery practises of their neighbours for so long.

Emphasis on the 'had'.

Now, it was over.

And the consequences of this war were going to be felt for a very long time.

"Pentos is lost to us. But is it possible we can preserve what we have created at Myr and the other branches?"

"How?" Damio Ludiax asked. This was not him being sarcastic; he was genuinely interested in having an answer. "This war does not seem to be anywhere close to ending. With this disaster at Kaleos and our forces about to lose the ruins of Argilon, we have to look at the reality: Pentos is not going to agree to any terms this year. The Magisters advising the Prince have no reason to cut their own throats."

"If our forces can take Sidorys-"

"The Pentoshi are rebuilding its walls as fast as they could, and building scores of siege engines. Any assault is going to cost us huge losses, and we have just lost thousands of pikemen and crossbowmen that would have been the spearhead of our efforts."

This time, all the nods were far prompter and more decisive.

"This war is costing us too much money. This winter isn't as bad as it could be, but every galley and carrack which ventures outside the Lagoon for military pursuits is in need of massive repairs. I can assure you it does not come cheap to return them to a near-pristine state."

"The surplus of last year's treasury has already been devoured by the demands of the war."

"How long can we hold?" Damio Ludiax asked. He knew all his peers would notice he had not asked how long Braavos could hold.

"Theoretically? The Iron Bank has the resources to last two more years. But that's counting n a certain number of factors, like the Myrish and the Lysene deciding to not draw the daggers and begin pouncing upon our assets. We have about forty merchant ships beyond the Stepstones too. If they can't go back from their ventures in the Summer and Jade Seas, many people will face crippling losses."

There was a loud sigh.

"And I will note that whatever will happen to our Bank, I do not see Braavos holding for two years. Masterful orator he might be when addressing the crowds, but Salvatore Zalyne would be absolutely horrible as a banker."

"He tried to buy the loyalty of half of the city, what did you expect? Silver is falling from his hands faster than young bravos die on foreign battlefields."

"I can't say anything about that comparison," the sun-masked council member of the Iron Bank replied. "But I can assure you the treasury chests of the Republic are headed for economic ruin at a pace that beggars imagination. Yes, we knew we could arm over two hundred warships, but we never considered trying it before. Now we have to arm even more than that number, while repairing all the damaged hulls, and somehow finding other sailors to crew our fishing and merchant fleet."

The loss of First Fleet was a bleeding wound that had not had the time to mend.

Naturally, losing thousands of men at Kaleos had made things worse.

"This is a bad outcome, I won't disagree with you. But at least surely when his treasury chests will be empty, Zalyne will be forced to stop. That, or the mobs will rise again and drown him in the canals. He went to war promising them a city ruling the Narrow Sea. If we're lucky at the end of this carnage, we will still be able to beat Lorath."

"Will he? Or will he send us his rabid mob of supporters, and kill us like he did Prestayn and all the others before stealing all the fortune of the Iron Bank before the blood of our corpses has the time to dry?"

The air of the iron mine felt suddenly far, far colder than it had been a turn of hourglass ago.

"He would not dare!"

"Why? Because he has shown such a deep respect for the laws of the Republic?"

"Because without us at the helm," someone else cleared his throat, "the other Free Cities will indeed 'pounce' upon our branches all across the Narrow Sea. If they are hesitant know, they won't be the very moment we are out of the way. All the ships we have insured, all the letters of change, the hulls filled with spices and expensive goods, the bullion and the other metals...all will be lost. We might even lose the assets we have on the other side of the Narrow Sea too. We have fewer competitors there, but I don't think many merchants of the Sunset Lands will be sorry to see us go."

"Yes. We thought Zalyne was intelligent enough to understand it. If he tries to do to us what he did to other figures in his bloody ascension as Sealord, he will kill Braavos more decisively than a hundred battles will do. Yes, he will gain some fortune in the process. But the economic and trade dominance we built over a good part of the Narrow Sea will be ruined for several generations. No sane man would dare doing such a thing."

"A sane man wouldn't." Damio Ludiax really, really didn't like where this conversation was going. "A desperate man, on the other hand?"

"Is he really that desperate?"

"He has just offered the head of Admiral Tacito Laskarys to the non-existent mercy of his bloodthirsty mob."

The masks hid much, but one could easily several hands shaking.

Yes, it did not take much imagination to believe one day, they could be the next ones to be sacrificed to appease the enraged crowds.

"We have assassins to remove that kind of problem."

"And if they miss? Or if they succeed, and Enrico Zalyne comes after us anyway?" Damio grimaced. "I would have preferred him leaving the Lagoon instead of his brother. Napoleone Zalyne is not a pleasant man, but he is competent...and sane."

"We need to prepare for the worse, I agree," the flamingo-masked woman replied. "And it promises to be very...unpleasant."

"How do we prepare for something like that?"

"Many souls believe the Iron Bank is Braavos, but they are wrong. If Braavos turns against us, then we will have absolutely no reason to consider ourselves Braavosi."

"I can only pray the Red Bull it won't come to that." Then the male banker changed abruptly the subject. "What do we do about the prisoners that were no doubt taken at the Black Pillars? Usually, we negotiate a ransom-"

"We're speaking about Hasturo the Unspeakable, gentlemen. If there are several of our soldiers who have survived the defeat, I am confident that they are going to regret it for the rest of their lives, no matter how long it will take."

"Yes. The Unspeakable does not negotiate ransoms. That's one of the reasons why he is so feared."

---

Captain Rollo Lurio, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Pentos

Rollo Lurio had never visited Pentos in his life before this war began.

Assuredly, this was not something he would be able to claim ever again.

He'd long dreamed of this moment.

The day he, like tens of thousands of Braavosi, would parade in the greatest streets of Pentos, in front of cheering crowds of freshly liberated slaves.

Under the lustful eyes of pretty women, Rollo and all his companions would show Essos the might and the freedom the Republic was spreading to every corner of the Narrow Sea.

Their plates would gleam over the winter sun; their banners would fly superbly in the wind.

"It didn't exactly look like in my dreams..."

"SILENCE!"

A whip struck his back, and Rollo had to almost bite his tongue to not give the slaver the pleasure to hear a scream of pain.

Yes, he had dreamed of being part of the victorious army which would bring freedom to the slaves and death to the slavers; the champions of freedom who would parade in the streets of Pentos.

But the dream had become a nightmare.

Rollo was no longer in armour, but in a tunic that was more appropriate for a bandit than any honest man. The cloth was coarse, and had the colour of an ugly brown. The better thing you could say about him was that it hid the bloodstains of his past injuries.

He went bare-footed; some slaver had stolen his good boots before he entered the city.

But the darkest part of the entire situation was of course the chains.

He, Rollo Lurio, son of a free man and a free woman, had been beaten, struck, and humiliated, before being subdued while slavers put one of their damn collars around his throat, and placed chains around his wrists and his heels.

"We could try to run," the soldier on the left proposed as at last the 'whip-master' went to some other section of the column to satisfy his monstrous enjoyment.

"With our chains?" Rollo asked sarcastically. "We would not get far."

They were already forced to walk very slowly courtesy of all the metal their limbs were prisoners of.

"The riders Company of the Goat are all around us too. And they are mounted."

Rollo had never fought an army made of cavalry before, but he had understood the lesson, thank you. On the endless plains of Essos, you needed many, many horses. Otherwise you were just meat for the carrion birds.

This did bring more bile in his belly, but there was no use denying the truth.

Their enemies had been two or three steps ahead of them during the battle. They had been the untalented braggart against a veteran swordsman.

And the result, when he had returned from half a day of unconsciousness, had been to watch the banks of the Argos River being covered in Braavosi corpses.

"Still, we must do something!"

"Wait and save our strength."

Rollo tried to show a brave face, but it was difficult enough.

The sun wasn't there over their heads; they had been graced with grey clouds that reminded him of the snow covering the peaks on the horizon when the denizens of the Lagoon had a clear view eastwards.

But Rollo felt thirsty, hungry, and exhausted.

More than that, he felt weak.

The little piece of bread and the small jug of water had not been enough to recover from the long and arduous march southwards.

And while the Company of the Goat had not pushed them too hard, the slavers they had been transferred to after a fortnight of travel were an entirely different tale.

Rollo Lurio supposed it had been a mercy they had been given a bucket of cold water to wash. But it wasn't because the slavers cared about them. They just wanted to shave their hair, and make sure there were no lice and other things for the parade.

"I'm telling you, I do not-"

They passed under a giant arch, and suddenly, they were drowned by the noise.

Rollo felt his eyes narrow in surprise, for suddenly, the dispersed groups of men and women were replaced by thousands and thousands of men, women, and children.

It was-

It felt like a million eyes had assembled to watch them.

"THE PRISONERS OF THE SO-CALLED REPUBLIC OF BRAAVOS!" A herald screamed, and screams of hatred were shouted everywhere.

Rollo grimaced. Yes, of course the slavers wanted to make it a spectacle.

They advanced slowly. They did not have exactly a choice.

The Braavosi officer had hoped there would be agitation; that if there were so many people gathered to watch them, the crowds could surge forward and temporarily break the discipline of the Pentoshi whip-masters and the Company of the Goat.

But there was no help coming.

The guards lined up on both sides of the great street were not threatened by anyone. There were shouts and rude words, but the closest Pentoshi remained three or four steps away from the spearmen.

"Where are the slaves? We were told they were many slaves here..."

"They are here..."

It had taken half of a street, but indeed they had begun to appear.

They were eminently recognisable: for most of them, their clothes were definitely far lower in quality and in looks than those of their 'betters'. Yet they remained above the ugly brown tunics the Braavosi had been forced to don while the slavers stole their armours and their boots.

It was hardly pleasant to realise that today, the message the Pentoshi wanted to send was that, yes, you could be a slave, but you could be that and remain above the Braavosi when it came to the hierarchy of this Free City.

It gave him the urge to draw the sword he had lost at the Black Pillars.

But with all his limbs in chains, this was a doomed cause.

For all its unpleasantness, this first realisation was not as bad as the second.

For Rollo looked in the eyes of the Pentoshi slaves, and everywhere he did, he saw contempt.

Plenty of the slaves were not cheering, but they were not showing any form of support for them either.

They were looking at them with contempt.

"Why?" a soldier that had to be two years younger than himself asked after a sound that resonated like a mournful cry. "Why? We came to free them. It's the Pentoshi, these evil bastards, who have enslaved them!"

"No, we tried to free them," Rollo corrected, while ignoring the thirst that was getting worse and worse for his throat. "We failed. We must have given them hope at first. But we failed."

There must have been exited once, these men and women who had endured the abuses and the nonexistent mercy of the slavers.

No doubt the first victories had fuelled something fiery in their hearts.

At least Rollo hoped to think so.

But now?

Now, it was over.

The losses of First Fleet during the storm had already given the Pentoshi slavers moons of reprieve, and now the Army of the Republic had been humiliated by sellswords.

They had promised the slaves freedom, and nothing had come out of it.

"DEATH TO THE SEALORD!"

"DEATH TO THE REPUBLIC!"

"DEATH TO THE BRAAVOSI!"

"DEATH!"

There was nothing to do but endure this litany of screams, insults, and accusations.

Rollo just swallowed everything, and hoped reinforcements would come from the Lagoon, so that all these splendid palaces' owners had their throat cut open and their fortunes would burn eventually.

The heart of Pentos had paved avenues, and slaves had no doubt been worked to death to make the city even more splendid for the 'festivities' of today. The closer they went from the giant temple and its colossal five bronze statues, the more flowers they saw being handed out. There were Pentoshi drinking and laughing everywhere, raising toasts to the defeat of the Republic.

"Whose temple it is? I admit I've not seen it on the Isle of the Gods at home..."

"No idea, certainly one more slaver deity that these plantation owners and fat Magisters are so fond of..."

"KILL THEM! VENGEANCE FOR OUR MURDERED MERCHANTS!"

Yes, the closer they came to this massive temple, the more bloodthirsty the crowd became.

And to Rollo's horror, among them figured a lot of slaves. The slaves were rejoicing about their misfortune and enslavement!

On the steps of marble, the Braavosi saw that a man in green clothes embroidered with gold was addressing the Pentoshi.

But there was so much noise all around that he missed most of the words.

The young Captain didn't miss the roar of approval that hurt his ears, though.

"THEY DESERVE IT!"

"GHISCARI BAY FOR THE BASTARDS!"

"What are they saying? And what is this 'Ghiscari Bay'?"

"It's the name they give to Slaver's Bay; clearly they weren't going to give it the same name we do, the bastards..."

"Yeah, but why would they mention it now? We are not Ghiscari, and that Bay is not exactly on the doorstep of Braavos, no?"

"Oh, no..."

They had all assumed that there would be ransoms. That no matter how many chains they used to bind them, eventually, the Republic would buy their liberty again. Or that when Braavos won the war, the pikemen of the Republic would storm the prisons or the plantations where they would eventually be sent.

But if the accursed Pentoshi sent them to Slaver's Bay...the Republic of Braavos had never been powerful enough to send its fleets beyond the Stepstones, never mind Lys or Volantis.

And Slaver's Bay was well beyond even the Eldest Daughter of the Slaver Cities.

"It can't end like that..." a young crossbowman who had had his fingers broken by the lost battle. "It can't!"

The next acclamations proclaimed exactly the opposite, unfortunately.

"THEY WANT TO BLEED AND FIGHT? SEND THEM TO THE PITS OF MEEREEN!"

---

Prince Fosco Doriatis, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Pentos

To his best knowledge, Fosco knew that Pentos had been the only Free City to build a grand temple to Turms, God of Trade and Merchants.

It also had been the only city where Magisters and freeborn souls had placed the Free City they had the charge of under his holy protection.

One of the reasons behind this uniqueness was that Turms was a very old deity, though it always was represented in the statues with a youthful appearance.

But the cult of the God of Trade remained incredibly ancient.

Long before Valyria expanded westwards after it founded the city that was going to become Volantis, the tribes and petty kingdoms of the Bay already worshipped Turms.

As the first Valyrian settlers landed and joined them in trade unions, Turms' worship had increased as a consequence. Few of the Fourteen Dragon-Gods had found great success here, and the same was true of the other deities tolerated by the Freehold.

That wasn't to say they weren't some communities of draconic worshippers or other groups worshipping lesser Gods and Goddesses in private, but Pentos' first and only great temple was to Trade, and thus to Turms.

When Fosco had been a child, it had all seemed very simple to him.

Turms was the God of Trade.

Why wouldn't the Pentoshi give their prayers to him?

Trade was life. Trade was good. Trade was the reason their Free City had survived the Doom. As the Freehold collapsed and so many things that had been taken for granted weren't anymore, the bargaining and merchant abilities of the Pentoshi had been the only thing that had kept mighty enemies far away from their tall walls.

But there was something few Magisters revealed to their children before they were eight.

Turms was the God of all Trade.

It included the gold taken from mines, spices coming from as far as Qarth, metal which would arm quantities of sellswords.

Turms made no difference between a purse of silver, and wood used for galley construction.

Trade was trade, clearly.

And if the commercial exchange included men, women, and children, yes, it was approved too.

Human flesh was a commodity like any other, per the ancient strictures of Turms.

Fosco hadn't liked it when he learned of it firsthand.

He still very much didn't enjoy it now. But he knew what part of this trade had played in the Doriatis' wealth he enjoyed day after day.

"You can begin," he commanded, leaving no trace of his emotions show on his face.

The Ghiscari on the marble esplanade before the temple grinned like a madman, before seizing his 'tool'.

The Braavosi prisoner screamed and pleaded. His supplications were in vain.

Then the screams rose louder, for most assuredly, being branded like cattle was not a pleasant experience, even if by common agreement, there had been some drug poured in their waters beforehand to lessen the pain.

The whole thing didn't take long.

Say what you want about the Ghiscari, but their ancestors had elevated the entire thing to an art form. A dark art where pain played an enormous part, but an art nonetheless.

By the time the Braavosi was taken away, a large Harpy had been burned into the man's right shoulder.

Then a second captured soldier took his place, and the whole process repeated itself.

There were after all some three hundred Braavosi there, and all had to be branded before sunset.

"I didn't think you would go with it, Prince."

"Captain-General Hasturo."

Before this war, Fosco and the Magisters wouldn't have let the man leading the Company of the Goat get anywhere near the Temple of Turms, but victory excused many sins.

"Why did you think I wouldn't go with it, for the sake of my curiosity?"

"Braavos won't forget."

"Zalyne and his fleet began this war thinking they could bring ruin to my city, and that we were all going to wait like sheep to be slaughtered. Weakness convinced Braavos to attack. We Pentoshi have to show the Narrow Sea and Essos that we are not weak."

Otherwise, if other men really believed Pentos repelled the attacks of the Sealord's minions by sheer luck, it was a guarantee there would be many more attempts to conquer Pentos in the years to come.

There may be the possibility some of them wouldn't be willing to abolish slavery altogether, but that would be a very cold comfort to Fosco and many other Pentoshi, given how many of them would die in the process.

"Is it the reason why half of the force sent to take back Argilon is Pentoshi-born, prince?"

"Of course it is," Fosco didn't bother pretending otherwise. "Your victory involved some Pentoshi militia playing a secondary role, but the companies we have trained are ready and need to be bloodied. Moreover, the Braavosi don't have the manpower to stand for long there. Things will be more complicated at Palados, I know, since it is much further away, and the Braavosi are busy fortifying it. But a victory at Argilon will further convince the City to pay for the considerable expenses of wartime."

And they were significant, these expenses.

The trouble with dismantling your military forces, Fosco had learned, was that no matter how much a blessing it was to not pay for them in peacetime, you had to spend easily five times more in wartime to rebuild them.

"And I presume it also prevents my popularity from rising too high." The old man of Qohor mused.

"You understand." That was the problem with Hasturo the Unspeakable, in fact. He did not commit atrocities because he was insane. The Captain-General of the Goat did them because he believed he served a cause greater than he was.

That made him a very dangerous man indeed.

"The Gods are different from Free City to Free City," Hasturo slightly raised his voice to be heard above the screams, as the Ghiscari slavers were now branding two Braavosi at the same time. "But politics remain the same."

"That, I won't argue against." Fosco breathed out. "To answer your question, of course Braavos won't forget. But their corsairs have slaughtered hundreds of merchants, giving no quarter to men and women who were willing to lower their flags and accept their unjust demands. All of this under the excuse that they were 'slavers'." It took an effort of will to not spit on the marbles stairs of the Grand Temple. "Braavosi may have forgotten some important facts, like the reality that if they wish to send our families to the gallows, then we have all reason to sell our prisoners as slaves too."

It was not done for profit: this farcical 'commercial exchange' of three hundred slaves earned a ridiculously low sum of gold.

It was done in the name of vengeance. By selling them to the pits of Meereen, Braavos would never see these men back. Ghiscari Bay was too far away, and good luck convincing the cities of the Harpy that you were their friends when everyone had heard of the Sealord wanting to break the chains of every Essossi slave.

That the Lagoon of Braavos would also have more difficulties recruiting young men when they knew their predecessors were dying in the fighting pits of the Wise Masters was a pleasant benefit as well.

"Yes, Salvatore Zalyne didn't really consider what he was going to unleash when he began this war." Hasturo the Unspeakable politely replied. "But I think now he is beginning to understand."

"Because he is losing?" Fosco asked.

"Because he is surrounded by enemies," the Captain-General of the Company of the Goat corrected drily. "It is not impossible to survive such situations; I did it, after all. But I do not advise that course of action. It is a lonely road, Prince."

"A lonely road, and one where plenty of daggers await to stab you in the back."

The saying 'Valar Morghulis' was not popular in the Free Cities for no reason at all.

Hasturo the Unspeakable suddenly looked like he had aged several decades for a heartbeat.

"We all must do as the Gods will it, Prince. But I agree it is a lonely road that gives few pleasures before the end."

---

Lady Sabitha Frey, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Stone Hedge

"Oh, what an adorable baby you are!" Sabitha crooned. "Give it a few years, you will be the Realm's Delight in no time!"

This was naturally music to the ears of the little Princess, who agitated her hands enthusiastically.

"I will thank you for not placing bad ideas in my daughter's head, Lady Frey."

"She will break many hearts."

"That's what I'm worried about, goodmother." Queen Baela Targaryen gave her a look where exasperation fought with amusement.

"Rhaenyra was a cheerful young Princess. A bit spoiled, perhaps, but she meant well, and so did her father."

The purple eyes that mother and daughter shared gave her a very draconic stare.

"That Viserys allowed his daughter to name a dragon after the Goddess of Love, Lust, whose patronage involve the Pleasure Houses and other places where carnal pursuits take place...it may have been a sign that his judgement was not exactly the best. Granted, the septons in general are utterly ignorant of Valyria, but still, there were plenty of people at court who had to know."

All this excitation in the mean time seemed to have exhausted Princess Laena, who fell asleep in record time.

"I'm going to request the maids to prepare the milk. She is very...loud when waking up."

"She isn't the only one, I understand." The eyes of Sabitha fell on the white dragon next to the chimney. The growing lizard was sleeping in a big basket next to a large russet cat, seemingly appreciating this improvised pillow.

"The two are giving us quite some sleepless nights. I can't wait her bonded is old enough so there is a move towards the dragon's stables."

"It would not be good for the dragon's health, I take it?"

"In the sense Laena would cry wherever she couldn't pet it," Baela shook her head. "Sometimes, I'm a bit worried by how young she was when the bond was forged."

A servant brought them drinks and withdrew after being thanked. For a short period of time, Sabitha let Addam's wife watch her daughter lovingly in silence.

The Mistress of Whisperers cleared her throat.

"I want to speak about the great victory the Pentoshi won over the Braavosi."

"The victory of the Company of the Goat, you mean," the dragonlady smirked. "I'm told the Pentoshi were cheering on the other side of the river while the Braavosi were taught a lesson about the proper use of cavalry on flat and uneven terrain."

"The Company of the Goat, yes," Sabitha chose not to laugh too hard about it; there was a recent war where both sides had made their share of massive mistakes.

"There are plenty of knights at Gulltown and Saltpans who are of the opinion the Pentoshi have exaggerated the Braavosi losses, and underestimated their own."

"They are wrong," the Lady Frey answered. "I believe the reports of the Pentoshi are completely truthful about what happened."

"Then it is the end for a generation of the Braavosi Army," Baela Targaryen shrugged. "Not that it was exactly the terror of Essos in the first place, but it does represent far less danger to this kingdom. I assume the Sealord will demand peace now. He wanted a short war, and it didn't work. Plus there are plenty of signs the weather isn't going to improve. We might get a second year of winter. Given what happened to their First Fleet, the Braavosi will have to sue for peace sooner or later."

"I completely disagree," Sabitha said sternly. "In my opinion, the war is likely going to get more and more vicious not better."

She received all the attention of the royal purple eyes.

"We just agreed that Braavos had lost some of the best men that it could use to build up a respectable army. Last time I checked, they need one to hold the Pentoshi coastline against the companies of sellswords hired by Pentos and its Magisters."

"They do. But Pentos decided to retaliate for all the insults and humiliation. Less than a fortnight ago, they formally branded all the Braavosi prisoners they caught at the Battle of Kaleos, and they sold them into slavery to the pit-masters of Meereen."

The Black Queen didn't bother hiding her distaste.

"How uncivilised," Baela Targaryen shook her head. "If your intent was to convince me I had made a mistake by not allying with Pentos, let me reassure you, this has the opposite effect."

"I do not really care if you ally with Pentos or not," Sabitha said truthfully and bluntly. "I care about how vulnerable the Vale and the Riverlands are right now. The war is attracting more and more pirates and sellsails, and the Pentoshi merchant navy is quite often hiding in our own harbours. It is only a matter of time before an Essossi does something particularly stupid."

"We have dragons."

"They can't fly if the winter is sufficiently bad, and for raids that don't last a day, your Majesty, you're at risk to arrive too late to do anything but mourn the fallen."

This, clearly, wasn't something her son's wife enjoyed hearing. But Sabitha was confident that once her pride would mellow somewhat, Baela would acknowledge her words as truth.

"The Lords of the Vale won't tolerate an alliance with slavers."

"Then don't," Sabitha Frey dismissed the matter with the haughtiness it deserved. "Send your road workers to the finish the planned roads of the Vale; the valleys there are practically the only location where it wasn't necessary to stop everything. As for the troops, Cregan urged you to find a place for two thousand men under Lord Umber. And last time I send girls to look after them, Benjicot Blackwood and his Lads were more about creating problems than solving them."

The Queen huffed in displeasure.

"It's so nice to hear my Mistress of Whisperers has such strong opinions about the war and the Narrow Sea."

"I never hid from you that I find the Braavosi dangerous." The grandmother of the Princess sleeping nearby smiled.

"No, you did not. Something about not being lazy like the rest of the slavers plunging their hands into chests of gold, I believe."

"You have an excellent memory...your Majesty."

There was a second offended huff from the royal throat.

"That could work," the silver-haired beauty touched her lips while looking at the map she had left on the table. "But adding Lord Umber plus Blackwood and some other rascals would give over five thousand men. And the treasure ship of Alyn is not yet there..."

"A treasure ship?" Sabitha asked. "Really? And I was not informed of this?"

"I only became aware of it last noon, goodmother." Visibly, the young Queen enjoyed knowing something she didn't know. "It landed to resupply at Lys. It appears Alyn and some of his allies fought a large naval and land battle in the eastern Basilisk Isles, and took a lot of loot, including gold, carpets, and some other valuable things like spice. Since it was neither prudent nor possible to take everything with him on his journey to the East, he chose to send back a large carrack with some loyal sailors to Westeros."

But for the Queen to be aware of it so soon...ah, she had used the glass candles again to contact someone in the perfumed and venomous city of Lys.

"I suppose that ship alone confirms sending the former Master of Ships onto a 'Great Voyage' was indeed a good gamble to make." Sabitha answered. "Let's hope it won't be captured by pirates before it can be unloaded at Gulltown or another harbour where the Crown can take its cut."

"The carrack has Velaryon sailors aboard, and plenty of them know how to deal with 'pirates'. Furthermore, they are now allowed to fly my banner now that they're back in the Narrow Sea. I don't think the sea outlaws and their friends will like it if they try."

They wouldn't like it. But if they had friends at Lys, then the outcasts and the scum of the sea might have a good idea of what sort of cargo the treasure ship was filled with.

And desperate men were ready to do a lot of things when someone waved dreams of gold in front of their greedy eyes.

"That said, your Majesty, you are completely right it will pay for the sums keeping the brave ruffians...I mean, your loyal warriors paid and well-fed."

"Yes," Baela huffed a third time, but did not tell her she was wrong about her description for the Umber 'adventurers' and the Riverlands 'Lads'. "Hopefully, five thousand men should be able to convince anyone, even the most aggressive 'corsair', that they really, really shouldn't go to war against the forces of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, winter or not. Braavos' Sealord is a man who cares nothing about the laws of war, but he won't try to open a second war when he is already losing the first he is currently fighting. Now please tell me, goodmother, that it is the end of the problems."

"I'm afraid it isn't." The Mistress of Whisperers replied. "You see, Dorne has decided to take a side in the war for the Disputed Lands."

---

Lady Ysolde Dayne, Ninth Moon of 140AC, east of the city of Kyrenia, the Disputed Lands

"So far, my Lady, this has been a superb campaign."

"I agree, Ser, but it is now that the really difficult part begins."

Ysolde continued smiling; her hand remained on the hilt of Dawn, though.

The Tyroshi weren't good fighters, but they assuredly weren't shy of sending plenty of assassins against her and the other commanders of the Dornish Army.

"The victory at Monforte gave our Myrish allies the majority of the northern Disputed Lands, this is the truth. But now the black sheep of House Arryn has taken refuge behind the walls of Kyrenia."

And now that she was able to watch said city with her own eyes, Ysolde Dayne knew the concerns of the Myrish captains and the Gonfalonier commanding them were very much justified.

Kyrenia was smaller than a 'real' Free City, but it was far bigger than all towns of Dorne. The city boasted some fifty thousand souls, and if it missed that mark, it wasn't by much.

"If only they weren't these tall walls..."

"You might as well wish the sun to not rise in the east every morning, Ser."

"True, my Lady."

"But your point about the walls is good. If they weren't in the way, we would storm the city today. But Kyrenia is on the very doorstep of Tyrosh. The Tyroshi love their smelly dyes, but they haven't smelled enough to befuddle their brains and forget to protect it."

Whether you could read a map or not, it was evident that whoever controlled Kyrenia had a perfect harbour to trade with Tyrosh...or a sword against the Archon's throat to threaten the Free City built on the islands west of it.

The Tyroshi had acknowledged that. And the walls built to protect their possessions were easily seven times of a man. Most of the towers looked extremely tough and manned by many scorpions. From the hill serving as her observation post, Ysolde could see there were hundreds of crossbowmen manning the ramparts.

This wasn't the end of it, sadly. After Godric Arryn narrowly escaped the trap where thousands of his fellow sellswords had perished, the Falcon had sent messages to warn Kyrenia of what was coming.

The Potestas and other authorities had reacted promptly, and restored the ancient moats before filling them with water.

As a result, the city looked more and more like a proper island under the winter sun.

"I don't like the two forts built on the rocky spurs all around the city, my Lady."

"For good reason," Ysolde spoke. "As long as this 'northern fort' isn't dealt with, the defenders can sally out and turn any assault of ours into something I won't describe for the sake of politeness. And the same is true for the 'southern fort'."

No, the defenders of Kyrenia had not been stupid, and they had poured silver to make sure their defences could hold against a siege. They had known Tyrosh was weakened, and that a siege may be coming before long.

"Wouldn't it have been wiser, my Lady, to not divide our forces? The Gonfalonier going after the city of Famagusta means we have effectively two armies too weak to properly storm a single walled settlement. If we had the Myrish with us-"

"It would be easier, yes. But the Conclave gives the orders, the Gonfalonier obeys."

Ysolde had to give it to them: the Magisters of Myr were cautious and diligently guarded their privileges. The Gonfalonier didn't have a single chance to make the army loyal to his cause...for now.

That didn't mean he wasn't often right. Scaramuccia Scalla had protested the terms sent to Tyrosh were far too harsh, and that the Archon and the Tyroshi Conclave would reject them out of hand.

In this, he had been proven completely right.

"At this rate, it may take years to convince the city to lower down its banners, my Lady."

"Years? It might take even longer than that. The farmland all around us has been stripped bare to fill the granaries of Kyrenia. And the Tyroshi ships can easily sail for Tyrosh and the Stepstones, purchase food there, and come back to fill the bellies of the defenders."

There may be a few weaknesses in the armoured plate of the city's defences, but food was not among them.

"I understand why Myr is now making the armament of its main fleet an utmost priority. As long as the sea lanes are opened between Kyrenia and Tyrosh, any siege is going to be a long and miserable affair."

Yes, Myr held the northern Disputed Lands, but as anyone who had read about the campaigns of this blood-soaked patch of land, Ysolde knew many cities that had opened their gates and pledged their loyalty would have thrown their allegiance to the Archon if the victor of the last battle had been Tyrosh.

At the first sign Myr was weak, there would be massive rebellions, and the army of Dorne would expend its strength trying to put down rebellions everywhere.

"We are going to besiege properly Kyrenia; it would keep busy our spears, and morale is high after we kicked down the Falcon's pride. But I'm afraid that if the Myrish really want Kyrenia, they will have to bring their navy here and enforce a proper blockade."

---

Lord Joffrey Cuy, Ninth Moon of 140AC, King's Landing

"What did you just say?"

Joffrey swallowed nervously.

Unlike his immediate predecessor, he wasn't able to face off the royal wrath without flinching.

Larys Strong had had a talent for that, but for the most part, a lot of Westerosi didn't have it.

"I was saying, your Grace, that I have the confirmation you wanted that it has been indeed Lord Gael Bar Emmon who has killed several of my spies for the last couple of moons. Beginning with the corpses we found in the Kingswood, I began to have my suspicions. It took me quite a while, but I was able to turn a smuggler to my cause. And the man confirmed he saw the Lord of Sharp Point kill two of them as warning for the others."

"But...but why in the name of the Father Above would he do something like that?" Alan Redwyne seemed to take the news really hard, for some reason. Maybe because of the disastrous implications it had about certain captains' loyalty in the Royal Fleet...

"I can't speak for the man himself, evidently, but as for the murders themselves, it certainly has to do something with the fact his ships have been supplying the Braavosi fleet with everything they can provide from Sharp Point and their contacts in the Crownlands."

"That...how is this that rumours didn't arrive to our ears?"

Joffrey raised an eyebrow.

"Have you seen recently a Pentoshi ship moored in front of King's Landing, my Lord? No, for they don't sail here anymore. And the number of sails from Myr also massively fell in the last moon. This may have to do with Lord Bar Emmon outright purchasing prize ships to sell them off to merchants in his debt."

"This is piracy," Lord Alan Redwyne hissed.

"This is treason," the King snarled in a voice that felt like it was colder than the Lands of Winter north of the Wall. "And I think it is not the end of the message."

Well, the King had asked, and it was better to give all the bad news in one audience.

"I have now three reliable witnesses who wrote testimonies that will hold in front of the Iron Throne. Lord Gael Bar Emmon travelled in person on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and met several times the Braavosi Admiral commanding the forces which overwhelmed the city of Argilon earlier in the year. The true content of their exchanges was denied to me, but I am very confident I have discovered the reason why the Braavosi didn't have more supply problems than they did."

All of this, undoubtedly, was treason.

The Lord of the Swordfish banner didn't have any seal from the Council or the King to defend his actions.

"What is this traitor thinking? Is he aware that when his actions are discovered, we could be forced to enter a war with not just one Free City, but several? With Braavos as sole ally?"

"Unless he has lost his mind," Alan Redwyne noted darkly, "Bar Emmon must have been clever to know he would be discovered sooner or later."

"I thought about it too," Joffrey confessed, "and based on the quarters Bar Emmon visited between each of his visits at court, I feel the Lord of Sharp Point is trying to forge an alliance with Braavos. It would naturally be an alliance directly aimed against Pentos for the next years, but in time, it would be a sword forged against House Velaryon and the Blacks, as well as all the cities tolerating and practising slavery."

For many heartbeats, the fingers of the King danced upon the table in front of him.

"Whatever his ambitions and his motives," the true sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms spoke at last. "I have not showed any desire for an alliance with Braavos, and Bar Emmon has deliberately gone against my orders to stay uninvolved in the war raging in the Narrow Sea. This is treason, and he will pay the price for it. Since the oaths he swore mean so little to him, I think I will need to remind them to him before the axe of the executioner falls. Lord Redwyne!"

"Yes, your Grace!"

"Take a squadron...no, two squadrons of the Royal Fleet. You are to sail to Sharp Point, and arrest Gael Bar Emmon. I do want to judge him while I sit on the Iron Throne, but if he has grown delirious enough as to raise his sword against his King and resist, you have my permission to kill him."

"Yes, your Grace. I will bring back the traitor in chains, or his head upon a pike if he tries to object violently."

The Master of Ships saluted, and left briskly the room, leaving Joffrey alone with the King.

"Of all the damned things..." for a moment, Joffrey Cuy could swear he saw dangerous madness dance in the purple eyes of the King. "One after another they lose their lives, but they are always more of these oath-breakers thinking they can dictate me their conditions. Who by the Stranger's dark breath do they think they are?"

Joffrey did choose wisely to not answer that.

"Enough about Bar Emmon...for now. I believe there is the problem of Tyrosh to speak about. Is the situation that bad?"

"It is assuredly not good, your Grace." Joffrey replied honestly. "The Essossi I have at Kyrenia send couriers to the Stormlands to inform me that an immense Dornish Army had landed on Essos to support the Myrish sellswords. The Dark Falcon suffered as a result a decisive defeat at Monforte, and I fear Tyrosh is going to lose everything but Kyrenia and Famagusta."

"That would explain the promptness the Archon sent me a letter to tell me he would agree to an alliance...an alliance forged by marriage."

Joffrey gaped.

"Err...your Grace..."

"No, the Archon is not deluded enough to think I would let him marry Jaehaera." King Daeron said, and the Master of Whisperers breathed in relief. "He's more thinking about a marriage with a Lady Paramount."

Since there was only one woman in this kingdom who could claim this title as a matter of law, it wasn't difficult to tell who was the Lady in question.

"It wouldn't have been my first choice, but I suppose it makes sense. The Stormlands are very close to Tyrosh."

"Yes. The question is if the situation is that bad for Tyrosh?"

"As I said previously, your Grace, Tyrosh has lost an entire army for the second time in as many years on the battlefield. The sellswords are not exactly running to fight for the Archon's coin. And the Iron Fever hit them hard years ago; they already had difficulties keeping their fleet manned at a sufficient level of readiness. Their trade suffered long before your reign began; Tyrosh has dyes, smith-working, and plenty of other assets, but they pale before Myrish glass-working and other expensive goods. As long as Tyrosh manages to keep its fleet intact, I think they can avoid an extremely punishing treaty, but if the fleet is defeated too, it will be the end."

"And when that day comes, the alliance of Myr and Dorne will control both the Stepstones, and have the power to prevent any ship of our kingdom to pass through this den of pirates."

This was indeed the big problem, Joffrey knew. Myr...the relationship was not excellent, but it could be mended in time.

But Dorne was the enemy. It had been the enemy since the Conqueror landed on Westeros and conquered the lands around Blackwater Bay, and nothing in the past years had changed that.

To be sure, there had been quantities of Dornish pirates and corsairs in the past.

But at no point a Prince or a Princess of Sunspear had had the power to close the Stepstones to the ships of the Iron Throne, be they warships or merchants.

"Yes, your Grace. In fact, I think it is the main reason why the Princess of Dorne sold her army like a giant company of sellswords in the first place."

"This won't do at all." The King said severely. "I don't care about the ambitions of the Tyroshi, and even less about marrying them into Westerosi nobility. But it is out of the question to let these Dornish vipers in position to harm us."

"It is entirely possible they would raise the tolls like some of the Pirate Kings of a few years ago did, your Grace."

"Yes, and then they would raise them again and again," the Dragon King commented mockingly. "It would be a poison they would bite us once or twice every year, until none of our merchants could afford the tolls. It is a very Dornish approach, isn't it?"

Joffrey Cuy wasn't stupid enough to believe it was a compliment to the Lady of Sunspear and those she ruled.

"I have the strength to stop Tyrosh from losing completely its foothold upon the Disputed Lands," the dragonrider of Tessarion spoke with a voice of iron before wincing. "But the Archon is not completely wrong. Keeping the Dornish away for several years may require a more powerful alliance than what we have. Do you know what Lady Baratheon thinks of the Tyroshi?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea, your Grace," Lord Joffrey admitted. "But I can say that plenty of her bannersmen will be very happy about smashing a few Dornish heads, no? That the commander of the Dornish host is the same female demon who humiliated so many knights of Storm's End and Highgarden at the last grand tourney of the South should please her too, of course..."

---

Alchemist Apprentice Aerion, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Gulltown

Aerion's wrist was in pain by the time the day was over.

So much pain, in fact, that he didn't smile when he counted the silver coins in his purse.

"Copying books and writing some letters pays, but Meraxes' wings, I would certainly do something else..."

Being able to speak most of the Valyrian dialects this side on the Narrow Sea assuredly earned you a fine meal at the end of the day. His poor mother had been right about that.

But Aerion had not learned to read to become a Maester or a special scribe.

From the day he had seen one of the pyrotechnic displays, Aerion had wanted to become an Alchemist.

Royal favours came and went, but the Alchemists alone understood the power of the flames that the dragon harnessed naturally.

Some called them charlatans, other – mainly septons – accused them of being heretics.

But the Alchemists were an old Order that had survived the predecessors of these fools, and they would survive these hardships.

The door opened. And Aerion winced, because alas, the cursed rain seemed not to have stopped since he had entered the Dogmatist' copying workhouse.

"Those who called it a rainy autumn knew what they were speaking about," he commented to one of the 'not-maesters' waiting under the porch.

"Some says it is the fault of the water witches of Upcliff," the young blonde-haired man laughed before seriously considering his green robe. "We don't see many Alchemists these days."

"Most of the senior Wisdoms went to Saltpans, to swear their vows to the Queen." But while many had done so, his master had not been among them. "But the Guildhouse there is hardly complete, and I am currently without a master. Thus I need to earn some money if the Wisdoms are to think I am not a lost cause."

"And copying the books with skill is definitely something we need twice the hands we have here at Gulltown," the Valeman said. "I understand. I was thinking you spoke with a strange accent."

"Mother was born on Dragonstone, then went to King's Landing trying to find fortune. It didn't work, and she ended giving birth to me in Fleabottom." Aerion didn't need to say more; there were many 'dishonourable' professions for newcomers in King's Landing, but for unmarried women, one came to mind first. "That's why she named me Aerion when I was born."

"The Flamboyant?" the young not-Maester laughed, proving he had some knowledge of High Valyrian. "It's not a very common name, even on Dragonstone...I think. I never went there, of course."

"Of course," exchanges with the South had pretty much ceased in the last years, and the Valeman looked too young to have lived when the kingdoms were one. The Alchemists were among the rare people who had fled northwards in the last days, and not been caught while doing it.

"Oh, and I answer to Jon, Jon of the Ink."

This time Aerion laughed.

"You're the sixth Jon I met today." There were many rumours about Gulltown, but one which was splendidly verified was that everyone seemed to know a 'Jon', and that was if the person you talked wasn't called Jon himself.

"Only six?" the Dogmatist laughed back.

They exchanged jokes for quite a while before their eyes returned to the downpour the Gods had chosen to let fall upon Gulltown.

"It doesn't look like it's going to end soon."

"I know." Jon 'of the Ink' grimaced. "I was hoping for a lull, but it doesn't look like...ah, well. I'm going to be looking like a drowned rat, I'm sure."

"Where do you need to go?"

"The House of the Master of Galleys."

"That's on the quays. And...you have the waves as well as the rain to be wary about."

"A fact I'm humidly aware," Jon joked. "But I have to go. Important messages to deliver, and I'm the one of the apprentices who took the wrong straw."

"That's bad luck, all right."

"Bad luck and bad news," the soon-to-be 'drowned' Valeman nodded with a fake sigh of despair. "Someone in Lord Grafton's favour finally woke up and realised that with all the pirates in the Narrow Sea, it might be prudent to reinforce the defences of Gulltown."

"That would be for the best, yes."

"Yes, and they told some savage Northern giant to descend from the North to drink in the taverns of the city. That solves a problem, but then the highborn realised these Northerners couldn't walk on water. Best to close the harbour to avoid enemy ships, right?"

"That would make sense," Aerion answered. "That said, I am not a sailor...but isn't the entrance to the harbour a bit too large to be blocked?"

"Yes, that's exactly the realisation that illuminated their tall minds," Jon commented drily. "And the years as a Master of Coin have not made Lord Grafton a spendthrift. He won't pay for what could be the largest metal chain the known world."

Illuminate.

Block the entrance of the harbour.

Could it be that simple?

"My friend," Aerion began. "Have you considered the prolific of our greatest invention, the powerful and flamboyant wildfire?"

"No," the Dogmatist not-Master gave him a strange look. "But now that I think about it...it may be better if you come with me to see the Master of Galleys."

Aerion looked at the rain and groaned in despair. One more day his mouth put him in trouble...

---

Admiral Tacito Laskarys, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Argilon Bay

Tacito Laskarys had thought that the flames burning Argilon in the distance as his fleet slowly withdrew for the Narrow Sea would be the worst vision for his eyes today.

The Second Admiral of the Republic of Braavos had been wrong.

Terribly wrong.

"Relieving me of command? He can't do this!"

As the words passed his lips, Tacito acknowledged the ridiculousness of the statement.

Salvatore Zalyne was the Sealord. He needed only the support of the new Arengo to confirm the removal of a particular high-ranked Navy officer. It was perfectly legal...and feasible.

"He can, Admiral...and he is not just removing the authority invested in you as Admiral. He's also ordering you, in the name of the Republic, to return home using the messenger ship that was sent to deliver the messages. You are to face justice in front of the courts of the Lagoon."

"Is it what they call it these days? Justice?"

His second chose wisely to not give a scathing remark.

"What are the charges?" He felt, fighting the fury burning in his lungs.

"To have failed the Republic," it was like a massive hammer had decided to crack his ribs. "You are also accused to have utterly disregarded the grand strategy the Sealord and the Arengo ordered you to execute across the Narrow Sea. You have attacked the ships of other Free Cities the Republic does not currently desire to go to war against. You have lost an entire army in an adventure that had no reason to be pursued."

"If it had worked, he would have been the first to praise my name, the bloody hypocrite..."

"You have failed to use the forces that were at your disposal in a fair and ingenious manner." The younger man raised his eyes from the parchment in his hands. "I suppose they had yet to hear of the fall of Argilon."

"Argilon fell when this stupid sellsword burned half of it instead of handing it to us intact." Tacito Laskarys gritted his teeth. "Most of our problems began there."

The others had arrived when this demon-worshipping bastard of Hasturo the Unspeakable had somehow decided to answer the call and the coin of Pentos.

"Admiral..."

"Yes?"

"No, nothing." It was not 'nothing'; they both knew it. Of course, compared to the accusations he was facing, they might as well be nothing.

"Will it be the gallows or the sword, you think?" For an Admiral of his rank, the sword should have been the weapon of choice for the executioner. But Salvatore Zalyne had broken every tradition of the old Braavos, beginning with the elections.

"He may choose neither, Admiral." The Second Admiral turned his head to look at the grim face of his subordinate. "Let's face it, plenty of the people who could open their mouths to reveal some of the nasty deeds our esteemed Sealord committed...these men did not end up being dragged to the gallows. They were found dead at the bottom of the canals, with their feet tied to heavy stones."

"Maybe you're right," lassitude fell upon his shoulders. This war felt more and more reckless and stupid with every day, and Tacito honestly didn't know how he could have won it. "Or if you're wrong, I don't see something that would point towards me being right. It's not like...no, it doesn't matter anymore. Who is going to be my replacement?"

There was no immediate answer, which was suspicious.

"Well, who is going to be the Second Admiral? Or the Third, if they want to change the name again?"

"Napoleone Zalyne."

For a heartbeat, the Braavosi officer believed his ears had failed him.

But no, looking at his second, Tacito didn't need to ask again. He had listened to the words perfectly the first time.

All lassitude was banished, and his fury exploded again.

"THAT BASTARD!"

"Admiral, he is..."

"I did not make any waves in the Lagoon, you fiendish creator of a thousand vendettas! And this is how you thank me? By sending me to be torn apart by the mobs and replacing me with your cold-hearted iceberg you name a brother?"

"Admiral, even if...you may be in the right for some things, but the letter...Napoleone Zalyne was preparing to leave the Lagoon with several squadrons as it was written. There's nothing left we can do. The weather forces us to retreat for Palados. Most of our galleys and galleasses won't survive the crossing of the Narrow Sea. And southwards...we still don't have the supplies for anything but a desperate raid against Sidorys. A raid, I might add, which will almost certainly fail."

"I know that."

"Besides, the messenger wasn't the first ship it visited before coming to us. I would bet that at least twenty Captains know already of your removal. They won't like you being removed, but they won't obey if you order them to sail for a battle that will in all likelihood end in their demises."

"I know that!"

Fury burned in his heart and every part of his body.

"We can't count upon the regular galley crews. But we still have plenty of corsairs. And it is not about Braavos winning anymore. It is about getting rid of Zalyne. And for that, we have a very willing ally. He didn't have time to leave, didn't he?"

"No, Admiral. I saw his banner and his carrack before coming to your cabin."

"Good," Tacito didn't think his smile was exactly pleasant, but he had stopped carrying the moment he knew Napoleone Zalyne was on his way to steal everything from him. "Summon him. Summon Gael Bar Emmon. Zalyne wanted a war? I'm going to give him one; and this time, we will see if his bloodthirsty friends stirring up the crowd at home will continue to side with him!"

"Admiral, this is-"

"We are all dead men anyway. Let us make sure that the Sealord will have will follow us into the grave soon enough."

The Braavos he had sworn to serve was dead. If it was to be reborn, removing Salvatore Zalyne from the seat of Sealord was the sole and only goal, not defeating the Pentoshi. Those would be dealt with later.

"Yes, the slavers can wait for their turn. For now, there's a bigger enemy, and plenty of fires to push him to his funeral pyre..."

---

Captain Vysario Bombardo, Ninth Moon of 140AC, Palados

Vysario Bombardo knew an extraordinary inventor, a scoundrel, and someone who annoyed the aristocratic sensibilities of his home on a daily basis.

At this moment, though, genius or not, Vysario was extremely happy he had booked several tables for his men in one of the most reputable taverns of Palados.

The place was relatively new, you could almost smell the paint when you entered...but keeping away from the raging wind and the sprays you were sure to get outside felt like a gift from the Gods.

Oh yes, a good tankard of ale in his hands, chairs close to a nice fire...truly it was far better to be here, safe inside, that on a ship trying to chart a course in the middle of the Narrow Sea.

"The weather isn't getting any better," one of his fellow corsairs commented drily.

"It is winter. It's never getting any better." Vysario replied philosophically. "And sometimes, it gets worse. My crew got three days of heavy frost on the deck before we threw our anchor here."

"Damn this winter." The large blue-bearded men muttered back. "It's already bad enough the prizes are getting scarcer, but now we have to hunt them between gales and high waves."

"This is also making my inventions useless three times out of four." Vysario admitted. "Much as I'd pretend if the Admiralty asked, my bombards are far from perfect in normal conditions. But in winter, they are more often than not big and useless."

"The projectiles you place in the tubes explode before being thrown out again?"

"No," the Braavosi inventor sipped more of his ale. "It's just that despite my best efforts, we aren't able to keep the powder completely dry. I did everything I could, but even with the bombard-powder placed in good leather bags, the conditions are so bad the humidity gets everywhere. And when the bombards are filled with water, nothing happens when we try to fire them."

"It's true that when both the deck and the compartments are washed by the fury of the seas, it's far more complicated keeping the waves outside than it is in summer." The Captain conceded with a smile before raising his tankard for the waitress to bring me more ale. "At least you got two prizes, and you lost very few of your crew. I tried to attack a Myrish ship, and I lost over twenty men before withdrawing. It was a slaver ship; I'm sure of it. But good luck trying to capture it when they had an entire company of sellswords to fight for them."

"No one serious ever said the slavers were stupid, my friend. Evil, yes, but not stupid. Otherwise someone would have eradicated slavery long before we were born."

"True. I am still worried."

"The ships sailing for our waters are getting better and better defended, yes."

"That, and we aren't able to get the targets that really matter, Vysario. Old Gusto sent us letters, and he tells us as many as five ships are entering the Bay of Pentos every day, with their hulls bringing more iron and wood from the Pentoshi southern holdings and Myr. They're also rebuilding their forts at the entrance of the Bay."

Pentos had taken a lot of time to get into the war, courtesy of the rusted state of its navy and army, but it seemed they had indeed solved some of their problems.

In turn, this meant the short victory that had been the order of the day some moons ago was more or less a nice dream and nothing more now.

"If we were in position to hunt these ships in large attack packs, it would change everything."

"And if pigs could fly, we would call them eagles," his friend retorted with a smirk. "Oh, I don't disagree with you. But to do exactly what you propose, we would need a nice anchorage somewhere Pentos and Myr, and one preferentially having a port to sell our prizes. Unfortunately, there isn't one. In the Sea of Myrth, they do not tolerate our presence anymore."

This was indeed one more reason to be afraid. Yes, this war was assuredly bloody and not pleasant. But it would eventually end, as all wars between the Free Cities eventually did.

And on that day, Braavos would have to rebuild its trade network.

Yet for now, on this side of the Narrow Sea, Vysario saw no effort made by an Admiral or by anyone else to calm the tempers or to promise some advantages to the former trade partners of the Republic. On the contrary, it seemed pretty much everyone near Pentos was eager to burn papers and pretend to not have heard in a lifetime of accords with Braavosi merchants.

"And the lack of tolerance leads to sellsails being sent after our old backsides, eh?"

"They do! But we are still better than these former pirates, even with the wind against us!"

More sailors entered the tavern, and in the little time the door stayed open, it was enough for Vysario and every other man and women present to have a good idea how bad the wind had become.

"All praises be made for the Gods who created the Bay of Palados; without it, I don't think we would have been able to concentrate so many ships in a single place. We seem to have, what, sixty corsair ships there?"

"About that, and only thirty are entirely crewed by Braavosi. The Sealord was at least right on something; there are plenty of people eager to fight the good battle against slavery."

"For the right price too," Vysario added sarcastically.

"For the right price too, yes." The blue-bearded man agreed. "Of course, the promises the Commodore made six or seven days ago may have to do something with the eagerness some captains rushed here."

"The promises?"

"Oh right, you just arrived with the last tide..."

"Glad you noticed!"

They laughed.

"But in all seriousness, what kind of target could possibly be so important as to order half of the corsairs that paid for a Letter of Marque to go after it?"

"A treasure ship, of course," the smiles grew wider around the table, and the tankards became emptier. "According to the rumours, it's a treasure ship returning from the Summer Sea that we're going to hunt. The Commodore promised that the crew who would capture it would be granted half of the value when it will be sold before the Admiralty's Court."

"Now I'm interested," Vysario smiled, a sight he knew would reveal some of his missing teeth. "But who does this treasure ship belong to?"

"Oh, certainly Pentos; after all, the purses of the fat Magisters must be really feel some pain, and they have to sell some important things to fund their war, right?"

---

Captain Baelor Tide of the Velaryon Treasure Ship Red Tide, Tenth Moon of 140AC, the strait between Crackclaw and Claw Isle

"That was...closer than I thought."

"These pirates were completely mad! Yes, our navigation was a bit risky, but we had a map of the reefs, and they didn't."

"Assuming of course," Baelor Tide replied, "that they were pirates in the first place. Those were definitely not the badly-equipped scum who tried to attack us in the Stepstones."

"Yes, Captain."

Yes, indeed. The two ships which had pursued them for the better part of the last four days and four nights had been heavy and armed for the trade wars the Free Cities liked so much.

"That would make them Braavosi." Pentos did not have that many ships with a high draft while being able to carry so many scorpions upon their decks. "And I don't think I need to ask why."

"Their spies at Lys must have informed them of the value of the goods we bring back home aboard the Red Tide. Maybe I shouldn't have insisted we resupplied in this perfumed Free City, Captain."

"Perhaps, and perhaps not," Baelor shook his head while watching the hulls in the distance disappear slowly under the waves. One ship appeared to have launched a small boat, for all the good it would do. In the middle of the reefs, and with the Narrow Sea winds venting their fury, their chances to live past the night were incredibly slim. "We needed to resupply somewhere. And where could we have gone? Tyrosh? Lord Alyn told us to avoid this harbour on our way to the Summer Sea, and if it was a good reason to avoid the Free City when we were poor, it is vital to avoid it when we transport something valuable. I wasn't going to sail in Shipbreaker Bay in winter even if a Goddess told me to. As for Myr, our water barrels wouldn't have sustained us so far."

It had been Lys or nothing, and thus he had chosen Lys. Unfortunately, it seemed to have alerted every pirate and corsair of the Narrow Sea, along with plenty of sellsails.

"We could wait here, Captain. For a couple of days, at least. We have the water and the supplies now."

"We could," Baelor agreed, "but we won't."

"House Celtigar-"

"They are our allies, yes, but they aren't of House Velaryon, and we aren't going to unload any valuable thing in their harbour. Lord Alyn would have my head, and we wouldn't see anything we placed into their custody for years! No. We were told to sail to Gulltown or Driftmark, and given how dangerous it is for a Velaryon ship to plunge into the Gullet these days, Gulltown is the only reasonable choice."

Baelor Tide adjusted his hat, which had very much seen better days, with everything the sea had tried to turn it into a shapeless piece smelling like a wet dog.

"As far I can see," he decided to turn his back upon the 'pirates' fighting to stay alive every heartbeat to the south of the Red Tide, "there are two choices. Either we wait here in the Straits that these pirates' friends come to find us, or we use this storm as a shield to evade our pursuers and sail for Gulltown."

"That would assume there are more hunters!"

The Captain of the Red Tide snorted.

"Would you care to bet a few gold dragons on that last two 'pirates' being the last of their kind?"

"No...no, Captain, I won't."

"Good for you, because there are others." His instincts screamed so, and when the weather had been clear at the start of the 'hunt', the lookout had announced four sails, not two. It was possible the two others had met the same fate as their two unlucky brethren. But it was possible too they were busy calling for other corsairs, especially if they were the auxiliaries of the Braavosi Navy hiding under sellsail flags. "The faster we get into Gulltown harbour and begin unloading our prizes in the hands of House Velaryon's paymasters, the better for our purses and the morale of our men."

"That's assuming the 'pirates' won't follow us here, Captain."

"Gulltown isn't exactly an easy prize, Lieutenant. They have something like ten or twelve galleys active at all time, and that's not counting the ships of House Celtigar and of course the great galleys of House Velaryon patrolling. Moreover, corsairs have to keep a certain thing called 'deniability'. If they attack us at sea, House Velaryon would have a hard time trying to discover who is guilty. But if they attack a city of the Seven Kingdoms, prisoners will be taken. There are always prisoners. And prisoners speak."

"I'm told Unsullied don't, Captain!"

"I wasn't aware you had a sudden desire to find company with the eunuchs-"

"Oh screw you, Captain?"

"I consider myself reprimanded," Baelor Tide watched the tormented dark skies. "I think the better course is to use the tempest as a cloak which will hide us."

"The men are exhausted."

"I know. But I prefer them exhausted than dead." Baelor took a deep breath. "Open the last barrel of rum. It should put them some fires in their bellies. Also tell the cooks to prepare something warm, so that they get to eat something before drinking. And..."

"Yes, Captain?"

Baelor continued to look at the fury of the Narrow Sea. Maybe he was wrong...but all his instinct told him something bad was going to happen, to him and his ship.

"We have two ravens left, don't we? Tell the Dogmatist we have onboard to prepare them. I wish to use them to send a message each."

"Yes, Captain." His second nodded. "You know...I'm beginning to regret we didn't try to sail for the Summer Islands. We would have avoided winter and...that for many moons."

"True, the things we do for the House of the Brave!"

---

Author's note:

The problem with wanting a short and victorious war, is that you might get the war, but plenty of other people may decide to not make it short and victorious.

The War of the Beard will continue and expand in the next chapter, whose title may be The Fires of Dawn (provisional title).

More links on the Dance is not Over:

P a treon: www. p a treon Antony444

Alternate History: www .alternatehistory forum /threads /asoiaf-the-dance-is-not-over.391415

The Dance is not Over can also be read on Archive of Our Own too:

Link is: archiveofourown works / 52798378 / chapters / 133541518