Chapter 72 – Trappers Get Trapped
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Company of the Rose's camp outside Volantis. Cregan Stark stood still, his blacksteel axe slung across his back, flanked by Edwyle Snow. The rider from the Second Sons stood before them, dusty from travel, and visibly uneasy—though he tried to hide it behind a straight back and a stony face.
Cregan stared deep into the man's eyes, silent, unmoving, letting the weight of his presence do most of the work.
"Speak," he said flatly.
The rider swallowed, then answered, "Commander Mero has sent me to convey a message. He wishes to meet for peace… to negotiate terms for a deal."
His tone was calm, but his eyes flickered—betraying just a hint of nervousness.
Cregan didn't reply immediately. He studied the man for a heartbeat longer, then turned his head slightly.
"You may leave. We'll send our answer… by evening," he said with finality.
The rider bowed his head slightly and rode off, disappearing into the dry hills under the dying sun.
Once the man was out of sight, Edwyle exhaled. "What do you make of that?"
Cregan's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "He's lying… or hiding something. His mouth said 'peace,' but his eyes said 'fear.'"
Edwyle nodded grimly. "Feels like a trick. Maybe to stall us while they regroup. Our surprise advantage is gone, and their captains aren't fools. If they have time to reorient, they'll make us bleed for every inch."
Cregan folded his arms, eyes narrowed. "We lose nothing by entertaining them. If peace is genuine, we spare lives. And if it's not—well, then we set the table ourselves."
"I don't like it," Edwyle admitted. "You've always had a nose for traps. And sellswords… they aren't known for their honour."
Cregan smirked coldly. "No, they're not. But maybe it's time they walked into a trap."
He turned sharply, already barking orders. "Prepare a strike force. Our best. Keep them hidden near any location we send for the parley. They're to stay in the shadows, silent and still, but ready to descend like wolves the moment things go sour."
Edwyle grinned. "Trappers get trapped. Has a nice ring to it."
"Write it on their fucking graves," Cregan said, then turned toward his command tent.
By nightfall, a new rider—handpicked and loyal—was galloping toward the Second Sons' camp, carrying three proposed locations for the meeting.
Cregan would play the game. But the wolf had already scented blood.
And if Mero wanted to toy with him, he'd find the teeth waiting.
---
The dry wind blew across the Volantene coast, carrying the scent of old iron and storm. The meeting place was neutral ground, a deserted trading outpost surrounded by flat plains and shaded by dying olive trees. A long stone table stood in the middle, flanked by benches worn by sun and time.
Cregan Stark arrived with Edwyle Snow and ten handpicked warriors, each bearing no banners, only grim expressions and blacksteel weapons. No one smiled. They had brought their own ale in sealed skins—refusing anything offered by the hosts.
Across the table, Mero of Braavos—the Titan's Bastard—sat with Prendahl na Ghezn and Daario Naharis. They brought fifty Second Sons, but only five stood within the parley ring. The rest lingered beyond the line of truce, hands on hilts.
The tension crackled like flint.
Cregan took a long swig of his own ale before speaking. "Well, let's hear it. You asked for peace."
Mero smirked, slouched like a lounging predator. "Peace… is profitable. We've seen enough blood spilled in Essos over coin. Perhaps now's the time for restraint."
"Second Sons don't strike me as the restrained type," Edwyle replied sharply.
Daario chuckled. "Well, we're sellswords. Restraint isn't in the job description—but negotiation is."
Cregan leaned forward. "Speak plainly. What do you want?"
Prendahl looked uneasy but answered, "Withdraw your pressure from our employers. Split up Volantis. You get the Eastern ports, we get the Western half. You stop hunting our caravans. We stop taking your partners."
Edwyle laughed—a deep, cold sound. "You want us to hand you half the coast we built for twenty years… for the promise of nothing?"
Cregan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Let me guess—you want us to trust you?"
Daario shrugged, swirling his wine lazily. "Or you could say no and keep bleeding."
Cregan set down his cup.
"You know," he said, voice like a winter wind, "for all your flash and gold, you're not very bright."
Mero narrowed his eyes.
"You think we came here to talk?" Cregan continued. "I came to get a closer look at your faces before I put steel through them."
The Second Sons moved. So did Cregan.
From the moment the first arrow loosed, the trap was sprung.
The first to fall was a man behind Daario. His throat opened by a blacksteel axe thrown with brutal precision. Cregan stood, already drawing his long Valyrian blade from its sheath across his back, eyes cold, calm, and absolutely delighted.
Chaos exploded around the stone table.
Cregan charged forward, swinging his greatsword in deadly arcs. The first two Second Sons before him never even screamed. Their heads hit the ground before their swords were fully drawn.
Mero bellowed in rage, drawing two curved blades and charging. The Titan's Bastard slammed into Cregan, the clash of steel ringing like thunder. Sparks flew. Blade met blade, and the ground trembled beneath their footwork.
Edwyle moved with ruthless efficiency. He parried a blow from a charging mercenary, disarmed him, and drove his sword into the man's gut. Another came, and Edwyle spun, slicing through the man's arm and then his neck.
Prendahl slipped through the carnage, creeping behind Cregan as Mero roared and pushed. The coward aimed for a backstab—
Only to be intercepted by Edwyle, who tackled him to the ground.
"You picked the wrong wolf's shadow to cross," Ed growled, stabbing Prendahl through the stomach.
Outside
Warriors were coming in groups of ten . But in the midst of battle they missed the fact they were less than expected and planned.
More warriors poured in—from the olive trees, from the shadows. They started attacking the rose. But were met with wall of defence and well prepared fighter ready to defend.
In that time
Company of the Rose fighters , dozens of them, emerged like ghosts. They struck fast and hard, surrounding the Second Sons with brutal precision.
The mercenaries tried to rally, but the wolves were too fast. They tore through the men with feral discipline. Blood soaked the earth.
In the midst of it all, Cregan and Mero fought like titans. Mero screamed with fury, his twin blades flashing with speed and hate. But Cregan was calm—a storm held tight in a clenched jaw. He parried low, ducked a horizontal swing, and rammed his shoulder into Mero's chest.
With a single upward strike, he carved through Mero's chestplate. Mero staggered, snarled, and lunged.
Cregan side-stepped, then drove his blacksteel axe into Mero's thigh and brought his longsword crashing down into the mercenary's collarbone.
The Titan's Bastard collapsed with a scream.
"Call yourself a titan? You died like a bitch," Cregan spat.
At the edges of the camp, Daario Naharis realized the tide had turned. Fire and steel raged around him. Mero was down, Prendahl was captured, and the men were breaking.he fled sneakily.
He signaled his own personal band—his loyal pit-fighters and lieutenants—and began retreating through the scrub. They barely slipped away, Daario wincing from a deep slash along his ribs.
In the Second Sons camp, panic spread like wildfire.
Daario mounted a stolen horse, blood dripping down his side. His men rallied around him, eyes desperate.
"We're done here!" he shouted. "Back to Lys. This was never our fight. Let the bastards rot in the ruins!"
His voice rang with conviction, and the remaining mercenaries didn't argue. Most had followed Mero for gold and glory—but it was clear now that they faced something dangerous, now shit hit the wall , they look to survive like rats.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the Second Sons were scattered. Their leadership shattered. Their name—once feared in Essos—now tarnished in blood.
Cregan stood over Mero's broken corpse, covered in gore and ash. His men circled him, tired but alive. Edwyle walked up, panting.
"That was a fucking trap," Ed said.
Cregan grinned. "Yeah. And it worked."
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