Tyrosh, the Black Faction's Eastern Stronghold.
Morning in Tyrosh always arrived early.
By the time the first rays of sunlight breached the eastern horizon to spill over the prosperous Free City, the docks were already teeming with life.
Fishing vessels, merchant galleys, and warships choked the harbor, creating a chaotic symphony of shouting sailors, crying vendors, and the heavy grunts of laboring porters.
Yet today, the atmosphere in Tyrosh was distinctly different.
In the most prominent position on the pier, a massive banner fluttered in the sea breeze, bearing the quartered sigil of the Black faction.
Beneath it sat a long wooden table where several scribes busily registered names and distributed silver. A line snaked away from the table, stretching all the way to a distant street corner.
With the war driving a massive influx of refugees from the Disputed Lands into Tyrosh, the Blacks were seizing the opportunity to swell their ranks rapidly.
"Next!"
A sturdy man stepped forward. He wore tattered boiled leather, a rusted sword tucked into his belt.
"Name?"
"Worg."
"Ever fought in a war?"
"I have," the man grinned, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.
"Served three years as a mercenary in Myr. Killed three Volantenes."
The scribe glanced up, scribbled a few lines onto a piece of parchment, and counted out ten silver coins from a nearby pouch, sliding them across the wood.
"Take these. Go over there to draw your gear, then report to the barracks. Food and lodging are provided. Survive a month of training, and if you qualify, you'll receive regular pay."
The mercenary snatched up the silver, weighed it approvingly in his palm, and followed a soldier toward the armory.
The long line shuffled forward a step.
"Next!"
Similar scenes were unfolding simultaneously at the four city gates, the three docks, and the two major squares of Tyrosh.
Ever since the Blacks had captured the city, their recruitment officers had scarcely rested.
The terms they offered were undeniably tempting: food, shelter, fifteen copper pennies a day, and additional bonuses for victories.
To the unemployed dockworkers, bankrupt artisans, and desperate refugees flooding Tyrosh, it was a veritable godsend.
Elsewhere in the city, within the walls of an unremarkable residence, Hugh the Hammer stood by a window, toying with an exquisite longsword.
The blade featured the distinct, rippling patterns characteristic of Valyrian steel, exuding a dark, somber luster.
Its hilt was carved from polished lapis lazuli interwoven with fine golden veins, and the pommel boasted a sapphire the size of a man's eye.
'A fine sword, Hugh marveled inwardly.
He had been a blacksmith his entire life and had handled countless blades, yet he had never touched true Valyrian steel.
Such weapons were peerless in sharpness and never rusted, legendary treasures coveted by the high and mighty.
He had once dreamed of owning one, but it had remained a distant fantasy; a Valyrian steel sword was worth as much as a castle.
Moreover, almost no one would ever part with them; they were fiercely guarded and passed down through generations as ancestral heirlooms.
And now, this magnificent blade rested in his own rough hands.
"Lord Hugh, what is your decision?"
The speaker was the young man with silver hair and striking purple eyes sitting opposite him.
He wore the black robes characteristic of Volantene nobility, intricately embroidered with golden floral patterns.
He was in his twenties, possessing sharp, aristocratic features: Nefas Lancer.
Nefas was a true aristocrat from behind the "Black Wall" of Volantis, the nephew of the Elephant Triarch Aerion Lancer, a secret envoy, and the proud heir to House Lancer.
Hugh did not answer immediately, continuing to admire the weapon.
His thick, calloused fingers traced the inscriptions etched into the blade, ancient Valyrian glyphs.
He could not read the words, but he understood the power they signified.
"This sword is named Awakening," Nefas offered smoothly.
"A fine name indeed. Awakening," Hugh repeated, smiling down at the dark steel.
"Lord Hugh?" Nefas prompted again.
The polite smile remained plastered on his face, but a fleeting trace of impatience flickered in his violet eyes.
Hugh finally raised his head to meet the Volantene's gaze.
"Lord Nefas," he began slowly, "tell me... who am I right now?"
Nefas answered instinctively.
"You are a bastard, "
He caught his slip immediately, quickly schooling his expression.
"You are Hugh the Hammer. A hero, and a true descendant of King Jaehaerys."
"A descendant of King Jaehaerys," Hugh repeated, a sarcastic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I am a bastard. A bastard without even a family name. A bastard who spent twenty years working as a blacksmith, huddled in the filthy gutters of the city."
Nefas said nothing, watching him carefully.
"It was Prince Lucerys who gave me my noble status," Hugh continued, his voice hardening.
"He raised me from a bastard blacksmith to a knight, a commander guarding a castle. Twenty gold coins a month in pay. He gave me all of that."
Nefas's perfectly crafted smile stiffened.
"So," Hugh said, leveling a heavy stare at the aristocrat, "what makes you think I would betray him?"
Nefas took a deep, composed breath and spoke slowly.
"Lord Hugh, you are a hero. The blood of King Jaehaerys flows in your veins. Are you truly content to be an obscure knight for the rest of your life, groveling for a prince's wages?"
Hugh offered no reply, letting the silence stretch.
Nefas pressed his advantage.
"What did Prince Lucerys actually give you? A mere knighthood? What is that truly worth? A man like you deserves far more. A grand castle, a sprawling territory, a noble name to pass on to your descendants. That is what you truly deserve."
Hugh's finger tapped the Valyrian steel blade lightly, producing a crisp, resonant ring.
"This is truly a priceless treasure. Are you actually willing to part with it?"
He looked at Nefas with a meaningful, searching gaze.
Nefas replied with a gracious smile.
"Lord Hugh, in my eyes, you are a hero. And only a hero is fit to wield a Valyrian steel sword."
Inwardly, however, Nefas's heart was bleeding. This was the ancestral blade of House Lancer; his immensely wealthy family possessed only two such Valyrian steel swords.
But if he could win this brute over, their grand plan would succeed. Was a single sword more important than claiming a dragon? Never.
"You Volantenes," Hugh scoffed lightly, "certainly have a way with words. One sweet sentence after another, all very pleasing to the ear."
Nefas smiled wider. "I am merely stating facts."
"Facts?" Hugh laughed out loud.
"Then let me state some facts of my own."
He placed the Valyrian steel sword down onto the table and looked Nefas directly in the eye.
"You Volantenes allied with the Blacks to strike at the Triarchy. The Blacks took Tyrosh, and you took Myr. But now? Lys is surrounded by your forces. The Triarchy is finished, and Volantis has become the most powerful force in the East. Do you truly still need to fear the Blacks?"
Nefas's smile instantly vanished.
"You don't," Hugh answered for him, his voice low and dangerous.
"What you desire now are dragons. Dragons that can help you dominate the entire Eastern continent."
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