"Then Myles and I will oversee the southern and western quarters of the city," Lysandro said, his tone calm. "And Qalhanna will continue managing the north."
Qalhanna tapped her fingers lightly against the polished table, the sound crisp in the tense hall. "This war has lasted far too long," she said, voice smooth yet edged with impatience. "We should begin discussing how to end it."
A derisive snort came from Banbaro. "Who doesn't want to end the war?"
He leaned back in his chair with the swagger of a man who mistook arrogance for authority.
"If you're so eager for peace, surrender the Stepstones," he continued. "Then we can all pay tolls like fools to cross the waters we bled to hold. Tell me, Qalhanna, would you still expect your precious Governor's seat after that?"
The words stung because they were true. Their Governor positions, the coveted posts, were determined by the votes of merchants, administrators, and the wealthy common folk. Too many powerful men and ambitious nobles were already circling like sharks. One misstep, one sign of weakness, and another would seize the office without hesitation.
To advocate surrendering the Stepstones wasn't just madness... it was political suicide.
Qalhanna rolled her eyes. "When," she said slowly, "did I ever say we should give them up?"
Banbaro's mouth twisted. "Then what do you propose? Sliding into Aegon Targaryen's bed and warming it for him with your cunt? Is that your grand strategy?"
Her smile came instantly, sweet, devastating, and beautiful in a way that commanded attention. But her eyes… her eyes were knives.
"If every problem in this world could be solved by spreading my legs," she murmured, "I wouldn't be standing here wasting words on an idiot like you."
Myles choked on his breath. Lysandro looked away. Banbaro went red as a Dornish sunset.
Qalhanna continued, unhurried, each word crisp and precise.
"What I am saying is simple. Use Aegon Targaryen's four dragons to stabilize our factions internally. Bring Volantis to our side through diplomacy or pressure. Forge a fleet so powerful that the Narrow Sea trembles at its sight. Once the Stepstones are cleared, we can find any pretext to settle our accounts with Volantis."
Banbaro's jaw tightened. Being called an idiot twice, or perhaps three times, had stripped away his bluster, leaving only wounded pride.
"Easy to speak," he muttered darkly. "Volantis isn't blind. When the time comes, it won't be clear who's settling accounts with whom."
Qalhanna clicked her tongue in irritation. "I offered a suggestion, not a decree. Idiot."
She rose sharply, chair scraping across the stone floor, and strode for the door.
Lysandro rose too, but more politely. "I have matters to attend to. I'll take my leave as well."
He followed her out, but once outside the Governor's Hall, their paths diverged.
Qalhanna vanished northward, her cloak snapping in the sea wind. Lysandro turned south instead, deeper into the city.
He did not return to the bank.
Instead, his boots carried him toward Lace Street, a place where shadows moved freely and secrets were traded like spices.
Lys was a city gilded by beauty but built upon whispered deals and hidden knives. Lysandro knew both sides well.
After weaving through several twisting alleys, he reached a modest tavern tucked between a perfumer's shop and a brothel draped in violet silk. The tavern's sign creaked gently in the wind, an unremarkable place for those who wished their business to remain unremarkable.
Lysandro pushed the door open.
The scent of roasted fish and cheap wine mingled in the air. He approached the counter and placed a single gold coin upon its surface.
"I am looking for your mistress."
The serving girl glanced at the coin, bit it, and gave a small nod. "Follow me..."
He trailed her through a narrow passageway, the walls close enough to brush his shoulders. At the end, she opened a wooden door and ushered him inside.
A soft, alluring voice drifted to him almost instantly.
"Long time no see, Master Lysandro ."
She stood by a shelf of dusty books, a woman draped in a black velvet robe lined with blood-red silk, the hood casting a soft shadow over her silver-blonde curls. Her presence was a blend of danger and utter seduction.
"Long time no see, Lady Meisa," Lysandro replied, offering a polite smile. But his eyes, sharp and cautious, betrayed his unease.
Meisaria, the White Worm of Lys. A woman who knew every secret worth knowing. And some better forgotten.
She poured him a glass of rich, dark wine. "This is your fifth visit," she said lightly. "You may relax."
She handed him the cup.
Lisandro accepted it but did not drink. "I want information on Aegon Targaryen. Everything you have. Why he was granted the Stepstones, what his standing is in the Seven Kingdoms, every detail."
Meisaria raised a brow. "All of it?"
"All of it."
She leaned back against the desk, swirling her wine lazily. "Very well. But the price will be steep. Three thousand Lyseni gold coins."
"Three thousand?" Lisandro frowned deeply.
A strong, healthy slave cost ten silver coins. Three thousand gold coins was no small sum, even for him. He did not like being made a fool.
Meisaria took another delicate sip of wine.
"Aegon Targaryen," she began, "has a spymaster of considerable talent at his side. One who knows how to bury tracks, silence tongues, and erase footprints. Obtaining intelligence on him is not easy. Nor is it safe."
Her eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
"Still," she continued softly, "I suggest you buy the report first. Read it. Then decide whether you truly wish to make him your enemy."
Her smile was slow, subtle, dangerous, and strangely... sympathetic.
Lysandro hesitated only a moment, fingers brushing the jade ring on his thumb. Eventually he exhaled.
"I hope," he said, "that my three thousand gold coins prove to be well spent."
"Oh, they will," Meisaria said confidently. "Of that, I have no doubt."
Bloodstone Isle, Night
The sun slid beneath the horizon, turning the sea to molten red. Night swept over Bloodstone Isle like a cloak, bringing with it the distant crash of waves and the sharp cries of gulls settling into their nests.
Then came the roars.
Deep, thunderous, echoing across the rocky island.
Sunfyre broke through the clouds first, shining gold even beneath the moonlight, wings beating with radiant power. His descent scattered embers of light across the sky.
The other dragons followed, each a monstrous silhouette cutting through the darkness.
When Vhagar descended, ancient wings stirring the wind like a rising storm, the ground trembled beneath her weight. Soldiers glanced up in awe and fear. Some whispered prayers. Others simply stared.
Despite the late hour, the camp bustled with activity, torches blazing, men hauling supplies, carpenters driving stakes, scouts returning with reports. The camp of the Stepstones never truly slept.
"Your Highness!" Ser Arryk Cargyll hurried forward, breathless.
Vaemond Velaryon strode behind him, his face bright with anticipation.
"Prince," he said eagerly, "you've returned at last. The feast is prepared and may begin whenever you command."
"Feast?" Aegon asked, brows lifting slightly.
"Your Highness," Arryk explained, "Ser Vaemond arranged a welcome feast to celebrate your return."
Aegon's expression darkened, not angry, but stern, as a commander should be.
"As the Lord of the Stepstones," he said quietly, "how could I allow Ser Vaemond to host a feast in my stead?"
He turned to Arryk. "Bring down the finest wine from the ship. And slaughter ten wool-sheep and twenty white-haired pigs."
Arryk bowed sharply. "At once, Your Highness."
He hurried off to relay the orders.
Vaemond's face brightened with genuine gratitude. "Then I thank you, Prince."
He had held Bloodstone with a thousand men, keeping the route stable despite meager supplies. Corlys Velaryon's shipments, though steady, were hardly generous. To the Velaryons, the Stepstones were not yet a true domain, merely a battlefield to be maintained at minimum expense.
Wine, fruits, vegetables, fresh livestock were luxuries delivered in sparse, rationed amounts.
Most soldiers survived on salted fish and black bread hard enough to break a tooth. Only a nearby stream and its wild greens offered relief, their rations boiled into simple, thin vegetable stew.
For men who had lived on battlefield fare for weeks, hearing that sheep and pigs would be slaughtered, and wine served, felt like a small miracle.
Vaemond bowed again, unable to hide his relief. "Your generosity will raise every spirit in this camp, Prince Aegon."
Aegon said nothing at first. His gaze traveled over the camp, the torches, the weary soldiers, the dragons settling into their pits. The Stepstones were harsh, blood-soaked and merciless.
But they were his.
And he intended to hold them.
----
A/N: The world is moving in shadows, schemes brewing, alliances breaking, and every soul chasing wealth or survival. No one knows what comes next…
Who wins? Who falls? Only time will tell.
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