The Valyrian was a massive galley, a three-hundred-oared monster that served as the spine of Salladhor Saan's dominance over the Narrow Sea. In the past, Saan's tactics were a choreographed dance of greed: his swifter Lysene galleys would encircle a merchant cog like a wolf pack, nipping at its heels until the Valyrian arrived to deliver the final, overwhelming blow. Usually, the sight of the pirate prince's flagship was enough to make even the bravest captain strike his colors.
But today, Salladhor Saan was facing the greatest setback of his long, colorful career.
Galleys far outnumbering his Lysene fleet had swarmed his position. The sea was a chaotic tableau of grinding timber and screaming men. Blazing pitch barrels and stones the size of human heads whistled through the night, arcing down to create geysers of salt water and flame around the Valyrian.
"Hard to port!" Saan roared, his usual flamboyant smile replaced by the desperate ferocity of a cornered animal.
The helmsman obeyed, and the Valyrian carved a wide semicircle, turning to face three approaching Yunkish slavers head-on.
"RAMMING SPEED!"
The drumbeats became a frantic rain against banana leaves. Three hundred oars struck the water in unison, propelling the flagship like a massive arrow. The iron-clad ram slammed into the lead slave ship with a bone-jarring THUD, driving deep into its shattered hull. Dark seawater rushed into the gap, but before Saan could celebrate, a second slaver bit into his flank, tearing a massive hole in the Valyrian's deck.
Hundreds of grappling hooks flew from the darkness, snagging the railings. Slave soldiers, men who had been told that freedom lay in the pirate's death, began to pour over the sides.
"Get off my ship, you filthy trash!" Saan swung his scimitar, opening a gruesome wound in a Ghiscari's chest. He kicked the corpse overboard, his eyes darting around at the growing number of boarders. In the distance, even more slave ships were closing in.
Well, this is it, Saan thought with a surge of bitter sorrow. The Prince of the Narrow Sea is about to become the Beggar of the Abyss.
"Boss! Listen! The sound!"
Above the screams and the clashing of steel, a new sound emerged: the rhythmic, heavy thrumming of massive wings.
A shadow darker than the night descended upon the forecastle. Viserion, his cream-colored scales reflecting the flickering firelight, landed with a force that made the Valyrian groan. His golden eyes scanned the intruders before he let out a roar that seemed to vibrate the very marrow of Saan's bones.
The dragon's tail lashed out, sending three boarders flying like broken dolls. Then, Viserion took to the air, breathing blasts of white-gold flame that incinerated the three surrounding slave ships. The sea was suddenly illuminated by an artificial dawn.
"THE DRAGON!" Saan shrieked, raising his scimitar. "THE TRUE DRAGON IS WITH US! KILL THEM ALL!"
Eddard opened his eyes, gasping for breath on the balcony of the Great Pyramid. The mental strain of controlling Viserion during a high-speed naval engagement was a weight on his brain.
Through his telescope, he watched the dawn rise over the plains. The battle had lasted the entire night. The land was a ghost realm of corpses, outnumbering even the crows that were descending for a feast.
The primary objectives - the six trebuchets were ruins. The Yunkish command system had collapsed into a mess of fleeing mercenaries and charred palanquins. Ser Barristan's victory was a certainty, but the cost was high.
When the council reconvened at the cedar round table, the mood was somber.
Barristan Selmy looked haggard, his white hair matted with sweat. Grey Worm's arms were bound in bloody bandages, but he held a spear topped with the head of "Bloodbeard," the commander who had murdered the Hero.
Jorah Mormont remained in his blood-stained armor. Beside him sat two "returned" commanders: the Ragged Prince of the Windblown, and a newcomer - Brown Ben Plumm of the Second Sons, who had defected back to the Queen's side the moment the dragons began to burn the Masters.
"The crisis at sea is resolved," Barristan began, his voice a weary rasp. "The Yunkai'i are in full retreat. Meereen is safe."
"Safe?" Daario Naharis asked with a forced, cynical smile. His blue hair was perfectly styled, but his expression was dark. "Ser Grandfather, half our cavalry is dead. The Stormcrows are a skeleton crew. We have no Queen, only a city of ashes."
"We must find her," Grey Worm said. "That is the only mission."
"Of course," Barristan agreed. He looked at the mercenaries. "The Windblown and Second Sons will send scouts. We will pay what was promised."
"There is another matter," Skahaz mo Kandaq, the Shavepue, growled from behind his locust mask. "The Harpy's sons have used the chaos to murder more Free Folk. There must be a reckoning."
Eddard tapped the table, the sharp clack of his ring silencing the room. "You're all worrying about the wrong killer."
The council turned to him.
"The Pale Mare is inside your walls," Eddard said, his grey eyes scanning their fearful faces. "The corpses thrown in last night, the influx of wounded soldiers... the bloody flux is spreading. If we don't contain it now, Meereen will be a graveyard before Daenerys even finds her way home."
The mention of the plague brought a chilling silence. These men feared the flux more than any sword.
"Lord Eddard," Barristan said, his face grim. "Groleo says your Maester knows the secrets of the Wizard's defense against the flux. Can you help us?"
Eddard leaned forward, his hairless head giving him a daunting, predatory appearance. "I can. I can secure the water, isolate the sick, and burn the dead properly. But sanitation in a city this size isn't a suggestion - it's a law. If I am to save Meereen, I need more than a seat at this table."
Eddard's voice dropped an octave, resonating with a magical authority. "I need power. Absolute power over the city's gates, the water supply, and the movements of every soul within. Otherwise, we're just waiting for our turn to die."
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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