"Then Mills and I shall oversee the southern and western ramparts," Lysandro declared, his voice cold and final. "The North Gate, being the most scorched, falls to Johanna."
Johanna did not argue. She leaned forward, her beringed fingers tapping a rhythmic, restless beat against the obsidian tabletop. "This war has bled us for years," she said, her lilac eyes darting between the men. "Defense is a necessity, but we should be discussing how to bring this to a conclusion."
Banbaro scoffed, a wet, unpleasant sound. "And who among us truly wishes for peace? To end the war is to surrender the Stepstones. To surrender the stones is to pay the iron price every time a Lysene galley seeks the sunset. Tell me, Johanna—do you intend to keep your seat as Governor after you've bankrupted our merchants with Targaryen tolls?"
In Lys, power was a fickle mistress. The Magisters and Governors held their titles by the grace of the wealthy and the approval of the guilds. To suggest retreat was to suggest political suicide.
"You speak as if your brain is as soft as your gut, Banbaro," Johanna snapped. "Did I say we should yield?"
"Then what is your counsel?" Banbaro's lip curled. "That you should crawl into this Aegon's bed and use your charms to beg for mercy?"
Johanna's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "If the world's woes could be mended by a night between the sheets, I wouldn't waste my breath talking to a gargoyle like you. No, my meaning is unity. Use the shadow of these four dragons to bind the Triarchy tighter. Draw Volantis into our fold. Form a fleet so vast the sea groans beneath its weight. We clear the Stepstones once and for all—and once the Targaryens are driven back to their rainy island, we find a convenient excuse to settle our accounts with the Volantene."
Banbaro snorted, though his bravado seemed slightly deflated. "Volantis is not a child to be led by the nose. It is a dangerous game to invite a tiger into your home to kill a wolf."
"It is a suggestion, you fool. Not a decree." Johanna rose, her silks hissing against the stone as she swept out of the hall.
Lysandro followed suit, offering a curt, stiff-necked nod. "I have matters at the bank. My lords."
He did not return to the Rogare vaults. Instead, he made his way to Lace Street, where the air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume and stale wine. After a series of calculated turns through the city's labyrinthine underbelly, he stopped before an unassuming tavern. He pushed inside, the bell above the door chiming a lonely note.
"I seek your mistress," Lysandro said to the serving wench, sliding a heavy gold dragon across the scarred wood of the counter.
The girl bit the coin, nodded, and led him through a narrow, damp corridor into a study that smelled of sandalwood and old secrets.
"It has been an age, Master Lysandro," a silken voice purred.
"Lady Misery," Lysandro replied.
He could not quite suppress the shiver of caution that ran down his spine. Mysaria—the White Worm—sat shrouded in a hooded robe of black velvet, the edges trimmed in silk the color of fresh arterial blood. She poured a dark, viscous wine into a crystal glass.
"This is your fifth visit to my parlor. Pray, relax." She pushed the glass toward him.
Lysandro ignored the wine. "I require the truth of Aegon Targaryen. I want to know why he was cast out to these barren rocks, and exactly where he stands in the hierarchy of the Red Keep."
Mysaria sipped her own wine, her pale eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Information is a rare vintage, my lord. The price for this particular bottle is three thousand Lysene gold pieces."
"Three thousand?" Lysandro's brow furrowed. "I could buy a small army of slaves for that sum."
"Aegon Targaryen is no common target. He is shadowed by a spymaster of no small skill," Mysaria said, a cryptic smile playing on her lips. "However, I suggest you pay. Once you have read what I have gathered, you may find that three thousand gold pieces is a pittance compared to the cost of making him your enemy."
Lysandro twisted the jade ring on his thumb, the silence stretching between them. Finally, he gave a sharp nod. "I trust the vintage is as potent as you claim."
"I guarantee it," she whispered.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Narrow Sea in hues of bruised purple and gold, the thunder of wings returned to Bloodstone Isle.
Sunfyre was the first to pierce the clouds, his golden scales catching the last of the light. Vhagar followed, her massive bulk displacing the air with such force that the tents in the camp below flattened against the earth. When the ancient she-dragon touched down, the very foundations of the island seemed to groan.
The camp was a hive of activity, glowing with a thousand campfires as soldiers labored over supply crates.
"Your Highness," Ser Alec hailed, stepping forward to catch Sunfyre's lead.
Vaemond Velaryon followed close behind, his weathered face split by a wide, expectant grin. "Prince! You return just in time. The feast is prepared, the fires are high. Come, let us celebrate your arrival."
"A feast?" Aegon asked, dismounting with a stiff elegance.
"Ser Vaemond wished to welcome you properly, My Prince," Alec explained.
Aegon's face darkened with a mock sternness that held a hint of iron. "How can this be? I am the Duke of the Stepstones. It is my hearth, however temporary, and my table. I shall not have Ser Vaemond hosting me on my own land."
He turned to his captain. "Alec, see to the ships. Bring up the finest Arbor gold from our private stores. Slaughter ten of the woolly sheep and twenty of the white-haired hogs. Tonight, the men eat like lords of the Realm."
Vaemond's eyes lit up. "Then I thank you, Prince. A gift truly felt."
For the garrison on Bloodstone, life was a grueling cycle of salted beef and hardtack. Lord Corlys viewed the Stepstones as a front line, not a fiefdom, and supplies were strictly metered. The men survived on stone-hard black bread soaked in wild vegetable broth. To have fresh meat and royal wine was more than a feast—it was a miracle. As the scent of roasting pork began to waft through the salty air, the weary soldiers of the Stepstones let out a cheer that rivaled the roar of the dragons.