The harbor of Braavos was packed with warships.
Though none of them had yet raised their sails, the countless masts rose toward the blue sky like an endless forest of spears.
The fleet would soon divide into two forces.
One would sail to rendezvous with the armies of Westeros.
The other would head south to Volantis, joining the Volantene fleet to seize control of the Upper Rhoyne and the Little Rhoyne, completing the blockade of Gohor.
"Your Majesty," Quairo reported, "the Iron Bank's loan to House Baratheon has already been dispatched. It should reach King's Landing within two weeks at the latest."
"The armies of Westeros have also begun gathering. Astapor has sent fifteen thousand Unsullied toward Volantis, while Meereen has contributed seven thousand pit fighters."
"Fifteen thousand?" Freygo raised an eyebrow. "That many?"
As Sea Lord of Braavos, Freygo knew the military strength of every Free City better than almost anyone.
The Unsullied were, after all, merchandise.
Keeping them idle was extremely expensive.
As far as he knew, the Good Masters of Astapor, those slave-owning merchants, rarely maintained more than ten thousand fully trained Unsullied at any given time.
"They've also sent the recruits who haven't finished their training," Quairo explained. "There are roughly another six thousand of those."
"And Yunkai has contributed two thousand bed slaves."
"Bed slaves?"
Freygo quickly understood.
They would serve as camp followers.
The finest would be reserved for generals and wealthy slave masters. The rest would satisfy the common soldiers.
"They have only one request," Quairo continued, suppressing his disgust. "They want either Rhaenys or Daenerys Targaryen handed over to them."
Freygo merely nodded.
Now that dragons had returned, the blood of the Dragonlords had become priceless.
The Free Cities had already begun discussing how Gohor would be divided after its fall.
Those two Targaryen girls naturally formed part of the expected spoils.
Once captured, they would become breeding stock, forced to bear children until the day they died.
Slaver's Bay had always stood close to old Valyria.
Back when the Freehold still ruled the world, they had served the Valyrians like obedient hounds.
It was hardly surprising that a few dragon eggs had found their way there over the centuries.
More importantly, the Ghiscari had never once defeated Valyria during their long wars.
The dragons had seen to that.
Their obsession with Dragonlord blood was therefore perfectly understandable.
Still, Freygo paid the matter little attention.
Dragonlord blood was among the greatest prizes of the coming war.
Why should the slavers of Slaver's Bay be the ones to claim it? From Braavos to Volantis, every noble house coveted it.
What concerned him far more were the Faceless Men.
If they could eliminate Viserys before the war even began, then half the battle would already be won.
"Based on the schedule, the Faceless Men should be nearing Gohor by now," Quairo said. "At the latest, we'll know the outcome within two weeks."
"Two weeks..."
Freygo quietly repeated the words to himself.
Then another thought occurred to him.
"I've heard Viserys launched his attack on Pentos rather hastily. Do you think he somehow learned about the Lord of Light?"
Quairo considered the question.
The miracle performed by the red priests still lingered vividly in his memory.
He had deliberately tested them by revealing a secret known only to himself.
The answer he received proved beyond doubt that they truly communicated across impossible distances through the power of the Lord of Light.
Though merely a swordsman, Quairo had twice served as Freygo's First Sword, interrupted only by Tormo's brief rise.
He fully understood how terrifying that ability truly was.
It was a power capable of binding the entire world together.
Even someone who did not worship the Lord of Light found himself beginning to fear Him.
As for the red priests themselves, their devotion bordered on absolute.
"They cannot betray Him," Quairo said firmly. "Your Majesty, I don't believe Viserys could possibly know about this. No red priest would ever betray the Lord of Light."
Freygo nodded in agreement.
"Still," Quairo added, "it's possible someone on Robert's side leaked information."
"It doesn't matter anymore," Freygo replied calmly.
"Even if Viserys somehow learns that we possess the Lord of Light's blessing, it changes nothing.
We're sending ninety thousand soldiers.
Combined with Robert's army, we'll field well over two hundred thousand men.
Unless the dragon he calls Balerion is truly as enormous as the Black Dread itself, he'll have no choice but to watch us seize Goose Mountain and seal off his northern frontier."
The heavy mists of Chroyane remained exactly as they always had.
From certain angles, the endless gray fog resembled an unimaginably gigantic loaf of mold-covered bread.
Only at noon, when the sun blazed directly overhead, did the mist thin even slightly.
A procession of red priests had now arrived at the edge of the fog.
There they erected a great altar.
Upon it rested several statues prepared as sacrificial offerings.
Meanwhile, Volantis had also received word that Viserys had conquered Pentos and that Robert had begun gathering his armies.
To the Volantenes, Pentos's fall remained an acceptable loss.
Given how deeply the Targaryens had infiltrated the city, its capture had always seemed likely.
Their true concern was Chroyane.
Years earlier, Viserys had somehow sailed an entire fleet directly into those deadly mists.
Malaqo's pursuing fleet had been left helplessly outside.
Without dispersing the fog, even the largest navy in the world would accomplish nothing.
Yet Benerro claimed he could clear the mists of Chroyane and even force the so-called Shrouded Lord to remain obediently hidden.
Malaqo did not entirely trust him.
He insisted on accompanying Benerro personally, determined to witness the miracle with his own eyes.
"High Priest," Malaqo asked with a stiff smile, "may we begin?"
His uneasiness was understandable.
Only two months earlier, he had cooperated with House Targaryen in destroying the temples of the Lord of Light.
And the Lord of Light demanded unusual sacrifices.
Most gods accepted livestock or slaves...The Lord of Light accepted other gods.
How could Malaqo not feel uneasy?
After Benerro had demonstrated genuine divine power before him, Malaqo had immediately returned every coin taken from the temples.
He had even offered more than half his personal fortune to rebuild them.
Benerro had refused. Instead, he advised that the money be spent on the coming war.
The Lord of Light, he assured him, would find that far more pleasing.
Without sparing Malaqo a glance, Benerro first looked toward the sky. Then he turned his eyes toward the endless mists of Chroyane.
Finally, he spoke to his dark-skinned assistant.
"Moqorro."
"Prepare the offering for the Lord of Light."
___________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/BloodAncestor