14 Legions and Lions

Walking beneath the Alchemist's Guild Hall in Myr, I realised why they told us to dress warmly. Thankfully I heeded their advice and decided to dress in heavy quilted breeches, a woollen doublet, and a thick fur cloak I'd been lent by the High Wisdom. It smelled stale and was too big for me, but it was better than freezing. The chill in the long dark vault was bone deep.

With me trailed Lady Lyra and Vaquo Volnyros. Duck and the guards waited upstairs, barred from entering. Even if they could, I doubted they would have joined us in compact tunnels crammed full of explosive chemicals. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we entered a labyrinth of tunnels and narrow chambers with vaulted ceiling to hold up the massive weight above. The damp stone walls were splotchy with nitre and the only lights came from sealed iron-and-glass oil lamps the various Wisdoms and slaves carried so cautiously.

Rightfully cautious, the last thing we need is to be caught in an explosion should one of those jars drop. Pots of chemicals lined the walls, and wildfire was stored inside heavy crates filled with sand so they wouldn't break. In said creates I knew would also be the grenades themselves. They were fat clay grapefruits, the pottery so fragile that even squeezing one too tightly could cause it to break. The surface was rough and pebbled so it couldn't slip from the hand, and at the top would be a hole stuffed with fabric to be set alight. They were dangerous and would only be in the hands of skilled operators, where they'd be thrown or fired from artillery for added distance.

Leading the way was Jyssan Tessyr, a short slim man with black-hair and dark-olive skin. His eyes were like black beads and dangling from his chin was a pointy little beard. To show his rank, the Myrman wore rich silks of black-and-scarlet, with dark suede gloves to keep his little hands warm. All the various chambers were guarded with heavy doors reinforced with iron, but inside I could hear the Wisdoms working. They were very secretive, for they feared someone would steal the knowledge to make wildfire themselves, which was them being rightfully paranoid. I would have stolen it if I had the chance. It was a cautious decision to commission the Alchemist's Guild whose services were costly, despite their lack of clientele. While more influential than its cousin in Westeros, the Essosi Alchemist's Guild wasn't as influential as it could be and taking up service with the Golden Company was a venture taken with both hands.

It was then did they realise we'd only commission them provided they worked alongside Vaquo and Lyra. Poor sods.

"Are we going deeper?" I asked, trying my best at the Myrish language. "How deep does this tunnel go?"

"Far into the earth," the Wisdom answered. "There are vaults below where we store the older pots, the ones you refused. They grow more volatile by the day, so it may be wise you refused them. The ones your companions designed . . . they are bastard wildfire that'll only catch alight when exposed to an open flame. Still dangerous, mind you. One of the slaves with clumsy hands fell and the wildfire burned through his flesh to the bone and the rest of his arm bubbled. I apologise for his foolishness."

"Lovely. Thank you for that image," I muttered.

"What precautions do you have?" the Volantene inventor asked. Vaquo was so bound up in furs that he looked like a bear; a very plump teddy bear. He wasn't comfortable with just one cloak, oh no, he had to armour himself in a couple of large hides that wrapped around his body several times. He still complained of the cold, face red and teeth chattering. "I would expect there to be something should the wildfire ignite."

"There is, Master Vaquo. The substance is prepared by trained acolytes in a series of bare stone cells. Each jar is removed by an apprentice and carried down to the lower levels the instant it is ready. Above each cell is a room filled with sand. A protective spell is laid out on the ceilings. A most powerful spell crafted during the time of Old Valyria. Thankfully they never have been used, but should they do so, the sands will smother the fires at once."

"Not to mention anyone down there at the time," I mused. "Is it truly a spell? Or is it a simple trick like hatches on the ceiling?"

He bristled at the question of falsehood, but it was Lyra who answered. "There are wards in the stonework," she stated matter-of-factly. "The ceiling, the floors and the walls have magic built in the stone. They're activated by heat and the spell works by breaking the stone and letting the sands fall. Simple work, really. Not that impressive and certainly nothing of praise, especially during the time of Old Valyria."

"It is advanced magic," the Myrman rebutted, turning around to the smirking Rhoynish woman. "Made by the greatest mages of the age."

"Perhaps when they were mere novices," Lyra said dismissively with a brusque wave of the hand. "Not like it needs that much. There is such a thing as overdoing. Though the true interest is the substance itself. That I wouldn't mind truly knowing."

"You can't do so. You're no Wisdom and a woman. We don't accept your kind."

Lyra didn't look too disappointed, instead she clicked her tongue impatiently.

"Anyway," I said before this becomes an argument that Jyssan would surely loss. One didn't argue with Lyra about magic before she goes off into a rant that had left me speechless on more than one occasion. "Are you going to show us what you've done so far, Wisdom Jyssan?"

"Indeed. Well, my lady, my brethren have never so careless for the wards to activate. For one to become a pyromancer, one has to respect the power. The substance flows through my veins and lives in the heart of every pyromancers."

Vaquo tsked. "By substance, you mean wildfire?"

"Indeed."

"Then you should be dead. It should burn through you."

I rolled by eyes and the Wisdom looked behind. "A metaphor, Vaquo. He doesn't mean it literally."

"Though if it is, I would love to open you up and check," Lyra smiled in a way that couldn't be more sinister.

Rolling my eyes, I continued my series of questions. "So, since your last delivery, how many jars have you created?"

The man audibly licked his lips. "High Wisdom Yarridos Strassanar informs me that there are a two hundred new pots waiting to be delivered, though many, I am told, are to remain here."

That puts our total to one-and-a-half thousand. While the Golden Company had some wildfire on hand, it was stockpiling the rest of it for Westeros. We couldn't burn through all our wonder weapons before we even set sail, now could we? Granted, manufacturing would be easier once the dragons hatched so we'd have more by that point. Regardless of how much there was, wildfire should prove devastating. Unpopular, sure, but crossbows were looked down upon by knights, as were peasants. War was war and I had no qualms about being dishonourable so long as it got me results. Even the kindest and most merciful of kings rule over vast graveyards of both the innocent and guilty.

"I would not want you and your guild brothers to hasten on our account. None of us here would want jars of defective substance, nor even one . . . and certainly no accidents. The failure of fulfilling a quota is nothing should the former happen."

"Indeed, Master Griffin," the Wisdom said. "There'll be no accidents. That much will be certain."

One would hope.

...

"Century! Salute!" cried the officer and a hundred men stood to attention in the meadow where the Golden Company had made their encampment. The men planted their polearms into the ground, pressed a closed fist to their breast and bowed their heads.

I let myself smile mildly at the sight.

After inspecting them drill and fight another unit, one would be a fool to think they weren't exceptionally well-trained. How could they not with Galaerys Drahar training them? Armed with halberds, glaives and bills designed to drag nobles from their mounts, they were versatile in battle and would work well against even the most heavy of units. They were well-armoured as well, with mail and gambesons with either a brigandine or solid breastplate over that. All wore sallet helms with bevors protecting their necks. It was a common setup for common soldiery in the mid-to-late fifteenth century, and perhaps early sixteenth century. They were certainly superior to their Westerosi opposition.

Despite my usual pessimistic attitude, I was proud on what the officers of the Company managed to achieve in the last few years. The men excelled at fighting in formation and had proven themselves unrivalled in Essos. The problem was that they weren't trained to fight as individuals like knights were. If they were surrounded or forced to break ranks, they'd be devastated. Quite a shame because the Westerosi - and many Essosi for that matter - believed fighting one-on-one was inherently better. Such an attitude was so ingrained that Myles had a challenge getting the newly recruited knights to work in proper formation. Despite those hurdles, as long as the line held, this army held the clear advantage.

I gave a shallow nod aimed towards the men and turned to my associate who stood out like a sore thumb. Dalabhar was one of the largest men I'd ever seen. Standing nearly seven feet tall, he had hulking shoulders, a massive muscled chest and a flat homely face with a broad nose that looked like it'd been broken a few times. His skin was like teak and was covered with tattoos that had to be from Volantis. It would be hard to find a more intimidating man. He was decent with a bow, better with an axe but a much better accountant then he was at combat. That was why he became my adjutant, under the personal recommendation of Blackheart when I was more officially promoted to an officer and now leading a century. Due to Dalabhar being better at organising and paperwork than myself, he'd been given full control of my administration duties; not much different from the duties he performed under his previous commander who was completely illiterate.

"They're well drilled," I remarked.

"Aye," the much larger man said. "These are men of the Second Legion. Men whose forefathers were born and died in the Company." He snarled. "They're not green men who came in after the reforms, that's for certain. These ones know how to use their weapons and are no fresh faced recruits."

"I should hope not. Otherwise I may need a word with their commander," I mused aloud.

The men stood as still as statues and, as those words jogged my memory, I did recognise some of the weathered faces of veterans that'd been with us before uniting the Triachy and Disputed Lands, fighting sellswords and pirates occupying the Stepstones. Annexing the eastern islands had been one of the prices to pay for Tyroshi support. Only some of the isles were in the Triachy's hands, however, otherwise we'd have Westeros to deal with and it didn't turn out well the last time the Stepstones were under a central authority. Going against Westeros would be a different kettle of fish than fighting against pirate princes, thus we made sure not to be too threatening to the Iron Throne. They hadn't done anything yet, but I knew Westeros had eyes on us.

"You men, you're dismissed." They gave me a salute and returned to their duties. I turned to adjutant. "Of the new recruits you mentioned, the Third and Forth, I'm suspecting?"

"Indeed. I was of the Third before I was reassigned to you, Officer Griffin." I heard him chuckle at that, though it was more a snort. "I'm afraid my words came off as inaccurate. The men are all well-trained and well-motivated. Morale is high throughout all the legions. It's only that the Third and Forth remain unbloodied. Many have more confidence than sense, especially those of Westerosi blood."

I nodded. We took in soldiers from all over. The Summer Isles far to the south, the Free Cities, Ghis and even some Dothraki had joined, though they'd been disciplined and now fought in a manner more akin to the Mongolians and other steppe peoples. But the largest group were the Westerosi; more than a couple being Targaryen loyalists having either come just after Robert's Rebellion or more recently. Some were knights looking for adventure, nobles who'd been exiled or common-born criminals who'd rather be under the Essosi sun than the Wall or the hangman's gallows. The legions were full of criminals, but the lesser kind; not the rapists and serial killers sellsword companies like the Bloody Mummers hired, these men had been thieves and poachers, bastards, political enemies and the disenfranchised, people who weren't meant to matter and simply be forgotten. But those men had been reforged, beaten like how a blacksmith beats a sword, given a grander purpose and iron discipline where they'd been crafted into a formidable fighting force.

"They'll be bloodied soon enough, adjutant, I assure you," though those words were more to myself than him.

The Summer Islander looked at me with narrow eyes like onyx, his face guarded. "You think we'll be on the move soon?"

"We will." I'm a Blackfyre and Westeros awaits. We fought some battles but they were minor and of low intensity. The Golden Company's reputation did ensure that many of the rival free companies surrendered before the battle even began and that was before what we'd done recently. As of yet, this army hadn't fought for a year or so. It was a machine that needed war to exist. Because of this, a few officers were feeling that the tributes we received were turning the men lazy, but so long as they drilled and didn't become lax, I couldn't really complain. I didn't want to squander our limited manpower in unnecessary fighting.

"We'll need to move the camp regardless," the Summer Islander stated, crossing his arms behind his back. "The captain-general fears bad smells may cause disease to spread and we should move closer to Myr in order to put pressure on them."

It would be a foolish thing to say our tributary states cared for our presence. Despite all our agreements, they didn't hold much love for us extorting them for coin and resources. While the original agreements promised limited interference from us, we were pushing for the rights for slaves. After some threats, the Free Cities were truly becoming freer in that their slave class was getting more rights such as the right to complain about their masters in court for horrid treatment (though this was reserved for household slaves), slaves who were abandoned became free and masters killing their slaves could now be tried for homicide. While I wanted to go further, we needed stability first and foremost so I couldn't just abolish it and risk a repeat of what happened to Daenerys. They'll be time in the future for a free Essos.

These were some of the reasons the Republic of Myr was resilient to our demands and many of the men were even wondering if they planned on rebelling. Such a thing couldn't be allowed happen. Myr was the most advanced of the Free Cities. They outfitted our army with weapons and armour and wildfire. All the officers and scouts were equipped with Myrish scopes that let them easily look vast distances. Should they decide to rise up, their government would be abolished and replaced with a military dictatorship with a full crackdown on discontent. A clear warning to the others.

"I'll have to make certain with the captain-general then."

The both of us then entered the encampment surrounded by palisade walls, watchtowers and a ditch fitted with sharpened stakes. It was compact and orderly with streets of tents and armouries and areas for merchants to scam the men. Besides the river were latrines so the water washed away the waste and far away from that was where the men collected their water to drink or clean. Strict rules were in place when it came to hygiene and public health, where doing your business too close to the drinking water was punished by twenty lashes. We couldn't tolerate disease spreading. Should there be any outbreak, the infected were isolated in tents away from the rest of the men and only be visited by physicians and medics required to follow all the health standards of a modern hospital. Having an army be devastated by disease was no way to begin a lengthy military campaign. As we walked down the neat avenues to the captain-generals tent, the legionaries diced, maintained their equipment and saluted my presence. All were drilled throughout the day, and I hadn't been excused despite my few promotions; if anything, I was held to much higher standards since returning as both a soldier and commander. A future ruler didn't have the option for failure, it seemed, nor could they be seen as being soft on me before the rest of the 'lads,' as Ser Duck called my peers. The captain-generals tent was at the top of the hill, a pavilion made of cloth-of-gold with the previous skulls of the captain-generals waiting outside. I greeted them and adjutant shook his head at the display.

The guards ushered us inside where only Blackheart sat, leaning over a table carpeted with paperwork. Both me and Dalabhar gave a salute and Myles Toyne looked up, boredom in those pale-green eyes of his. He had grown out his beard which was going grey and I now stood taller than him.

"You've arrived, Young Griff," he said to me with all the enthusiasm of a man marching to the Somme. "Please take a seat." I did so and Blackheart stood up. "Do either of you want wine? I've got myself a fine selection from the city of Lys. Came with the latest tribute. Our dearest friend Tregar Ormollen gifted me with some of his finest vintages from his own cellar. Worthy of a king, he claimed and I agree, though I'd say kings must have sweeter tongue than myself."

I declined, instead asking for some lemon water and Dalabhar refused the offer altogether. The Summer Islander was a dutiful soldier and not a man of vices. "Captain-general," he said, voice flat and ever so formal, "May I be excused? I'm sure you'd want to talk to my superior alone and I have business required of me."

"You may be dismissed, adjutant. Continue with your duties." Dalabhar gave a crisp salute and took his leave. Toyne filled his cup and mine which was crafted from Myrish glass said to break if the contents were poisoned, and even added some chunks of ice, an expensive luxury in the Disputed Lands. I was most thankful for his generosity.

Myles took a sip of his wine and fell into his chair of tiger fur. "I assumed you've inspected the men."

"I did, captain-general. They're well-drilled. I couldn't find anything that was at fault. I know from experience that Galaerys Drahar is a talented master-at-arms and drillmaster. These men will do well in the wars to come."

"They should," Myles commented, giving my cup a queer look. "The First and Second legions will serve as the backbone for taking Westeros. The Third and Forth are inexperienced and, until they prove themselves in battle, will not compare. Despite everything, those men are of a lesser breed."

"A lesser breed?" I was confused. "May I ask what you mean by that, ser?"

"Beneath the gold, the gold." Myles leaned back and massaged his scalp. "What you planned, while I must congratulate you on everything, it needs be said are drawbacks both great and small. Because of this new comfortable status quo, many of the men are hesitant to sail to Westeros. They believe we've got a good life going on now. The cities of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys offer us tribute and the new blood have no ambition for Westeros. Mostly among the common soldiery but we've a couple of officers with similar opinions. Harry is one of them."

"Homeless Harry?" Why am I not surprised?

Myles nodded. "Him and others are different. Our founder never had to deal with them like I needs to. They're no Bittersteel, no Fireball. They want coin and easy coin at that. Those who've joined recently, you can understand. But the older blood, oh, Westeros is a foreign land to them and not one they're willing to fight for."

"It could be expected," I said softly. "This is what happens when generations pass and those that have never seen Westeros will distance themselves from it." One just had to look at many of the men to see that. Oh, they spoke the common tongue and even worshipped the Seven, but you just had to listen to them speak and see how they dressed to know they were more Essosi than Westerosi. The fact many of them had Essosi parentage made it genetic as much as cultural.

"They've lost their purpose," Blackheart declared with a low raging fire deep in his throat. "With no Blackfyre among us, we're digressing to mere sellswords. We were a brotherhood of exiles. Oh, some may have come later, but we were united under common cause. The golden banner of Bittersteel, his skull. And now . . ."

Instability always comes with change. That was a given. The fact that the army was experiencing further division was most certainly stressing Blackheart out. Currently there were multiple factions within the Company. The Independents didn't want to go to Westeros, being more than happy to sit on their arses and drown in gold from the Free Cities. While that belief was rife throughout the army – most prominent among the lesser officers and commons – the upper echelons included figures like Maar, Balaq and Edoryen who couldn't care less about Blackfyres and Westeros because they didn't see it as their fight. The higher command was also divided between the Blackfyre faction who wanted me crowned King, headed by Ser Myles Toyne and various other Blackfyre supporters known as the Old Guard. More than a couple didn't want the Targaryens involved and, if anything, wanted me to marry Margaery Tyrell whose family promised much in the way of men and fodder. Opposing them was the Targaryen faction led by Ser Jon Connington and various loyalists who'd joined after Robert's Rebellion; whose radicals wanted to crown Viserys as King of the Seven Kingdoms and were otherwise known as the Reds. The Moderates wanted an alliance between the two branches, by either killing Viserys or otherwise removing him from the board and creating unity between the branches of House Targaryens - not to mention their proponents within the Company - by marrying myself and Daenerys as a way to bridge the gap.

"They'd been left to swim in an ocean without a clear destination in sight and mind." I shrugged my shoulders. "It was bound to happen, ser. Though I'm sure many would want to regain their ancestral keeps and titles."

"Is it really home if you've never been here?" Blackheart asked me, as if he wasn't so sure himself. "My kin are from Westeros, my kin fought in the Brotherhood and against the Targaryens. That's the only reason I'm here. It was King Aegon the Unworthy who exiled my house when Ser Terrence Toyne of the Kingsguard slept with his mistress and was dismembered piece by piece while the Bracken woman was forced to watch. His brothers tried to avenge him but were killed by the Dragonknight." Toyne took a drink, swashing it in his mouth. "We then lost our ancestral castle, Blackheart Keep, near Summerhall. Most of us were exiled to Essos where we'd been forced to sell our swords just to survive. Oh, some of us remained in Westeros, Ser Simon Toyne and the Kingswood Brotherhood by example, but now . . . I'm the last one. My bloodline is like to end with me."

"But you're married," I pointed out. While Myles never married before, he was now with a Tyroshi merchant prince's daughter, a young creature that had bright purple hair and a gap between her teeth. She was in Tyrosh, having only bedded her husband once to consummate the marriage and not since.

"I'm married," Blackheart acknowledged. "But I'm prepared to state my dynasty may indeed end with me. My family were once Marcher Lords, defenders of the Stormlands against the Dornish south. Now we're nothing but colours on cloth, with words saying, 'fly high, fly far.'" Toyne laughed, cold and bitter. "We flew high on more than a few occasions, but we clipped our wings and fell and battered the ground hard enough to never rise again. We flew far, but away from Westeros and home." He took another drink, almost emptying it with that one gulp. "Should my seed quicken in that child, I may have a daughter and whether she'll continue the family name, is uncertain. Should it be a boy, he'll be a knight and my heir should he survive long enough."

I nodded. "You're prepared for you line to end, and you? Have you prepared to die?"

He laughed that same laugh. "I'm a soldier who sells his sword. I am a knight. Every time I arm myself I don't know whether I'll return. This invasion of Westeros may in fact be my last, lad. It most certainly would. Won't just be me. This is the last opportunity for many of the men to do so as well. The First and Second Legions are all that's left, manned by men who know no other life than that of war. More Blackfyre men die off every year, making us a dying breed. The Third and Forth though . . . they're outsiders yet to properly prove themselves. Opening up the Company also lowered our standards in order to build up the proper size as well. Those men have no proper loyalty to the cause. Many of them may indeed break easier than we'd both like."

That was always the danger. Before deciding to expand, the Golden Company held high standards, but they'd been lowered. The numbers were quickly filled when we decided to deal with the competition should they ever be hired by the Essosi powers to remove us for whatever means. The Ragged Standard, the Stormcrows, Second Sons, the Merry Men, and many others, all killed off to a man. Daario Naharis' head was presented to me by a grinning Chains who'd smashed the flamboyant sellsword's head with that massive chained whip of his, leaving half the twat's face in bloody ruins. The advantage of mercenaries was that they had no loyalties other than coin and, fighting in the midst of civil war and for what I had planned, that was all the more important. The only problem was them getting paid on time and should that not happen, they'll revolt which made administration essential and required the need for more scribes, which in turn cost more.

"They will fight," I said with certainty, sitting straight in my chair. "The men have been drilled and are well versed in the art of war. They'll not retreat else they shame themselves before their comrades, or flee in the face of hardship, for desertion is deserving of decimation." The Romans were bloody ruthless when they needed to be. Having people stoned or beaten to death by their companions was enough to stop them from deserting the Company. Even the most disloyal sellsword hesitated to flee when the punishment was harsh enough.

Myles looked at me uneasily and finished his drink. Mine remained on the table. "I've got the message from Magister Illyrio. The Targaryens have made it safely to Pentos. I heard you removed all your . . . associates from the manse."

"Indeed. I didn't want the Targaryens to get their hands on what I spent the last year or so doing. I don't trust them. I think you understand."

"The Volantene and the witch. Not the best of company to keep around, lad."

"They're good company," I defended, hearing my voice break. Myles lip's curled in a slight smile. "They are useful. I couldn't have done the wildfire without the both of them. Vaquo for the flamethrowers and Lyra for the compound."

"You know I don't trust the wildfire."

"This is a difference substance. I've shown you. It won't ignite unless near an exposed flame. You know they're more reliable than they ever were. It's not like before where Aegon the Unworthy burned down half the Kingswood." An embarrassment that halted his invasion of Dorne and empowered Crown Prince Daeron.

Myles grimaced. "Sometimes I hate it when you're right. Still though . . . just give me good men and some grappling hooks and I can take a fortress regardless of the size of her walls. Not sure how good these flamethrowers of yours are. They haven't been truly tested in battle." He pinched his forehead like he had a headache. "We'll see them in action soon enough."

"And what action is that, captain-general?"

Blackheart rolled his eyes. "The invasion of Westeros, or did you forget?"

"I didn't."

"Something like this hasn't been attempted with this number before. Oh, twice we invaded but we failed just as many. An invasion force of this size is a bloody nightmare to supply and even with the three cities under our yoke, ships will prove a challenge. Not to mention the Westerosi fleets. We need to hire ourselves sellsails for warships and merchant marines for transport. Never forget the weather as well. We're coming into autumn; the winds and seas will get increasingly rough. A storm can sink our fleet. We may be locked at port if the seas and winds aren't in our favour."

"We could take the Stepstones," I suggested. "Hop from island to island. It may prove less intensive on our logistical corps and provide cover. It'll take longer, but it'll be safer." I didn't like it though. The longer the invasion took, the longer the continent had to prepare. Striking fast and hard was an important part of the plan. We needed to smash the local defences and establish a beachhead where supplies and even more men could be sailed in from Essos. A port was also required. I looked down at the maps Myles had in front of him. Small flags had been planted at preferred points, such as the Stormlands and areas in the Crownlands such as Massey's Hook and Crackclaw Point, though the latter lacked infrastructure. Crackclaw men skilled in guerrilla warfare was not something I wanted attacking my supply lines. Irregular warfare was the bane of even the best of armies.

"Mayhaps. Depends on our enemies, however. The Baratheons certainly. Stannis is a loyal whoreson. He'll fight for his nephew's crown should his own life depend on it. The bloody bastard refused to bend the knee during the siege of Storm's End and killed any man who tried to flee. He'll break before he bends. He's pure iron that one."

"And Renly?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Stannis didn't see Joffrey as his nephew and would instead rise against him, unless we struck too soon but that wouldn't happen. We weren't in a position to attack the Seven Kingdoms while they remained united under King Robert Baratheon. The land needed to be divided.

"The third born son. More charismatic than Lord Stannis, I hear, though that's not a hard challenge to beat. It is Lord Stannis, Arryn, Eddard Stark and, of course, the Lion of the Westerlands." Toyne grimaced. "Lord Tywin will be the most dangerous with no lack of cunning and ruthlessness. Very dangerous."

I wasn't scared of Lord Tywin, he was perhaps one of the more overrated characters. "I'm not scared."

"Then you're a fool."

I took a sip, swishing it around the inside of my mouth. "No fool. I believe there are ways to deal with Lord Tywin Lannister. He's a prickly man who cares more for his reputation than anything else. His pride is his weakness. He dragged House Lannister up after his father ruined it, you know. He wants to be feared so House Lannister is feared. Each act he does is a signal to others."

That was his weakness. Under the façade, Lord Tywin Lannister was not a pure Machiavellian schemer who made decisions based solely on pragmatism. Many of the things he done were not pragmatic and instead foolish, so steeped in anger and pride and his own pettiness. Such as his treatment of Tysha, his father's mistress and the Princess Elia of Dorne. The risks he made were risky, yet they always worked out due to luck. He sent the Mountain to attack the Riverlands when he could have instead undermined the Starks and Tullys politically at court for them abducting Tyrion where he wouldn't come off as an aggressor. But he didn't, instead his pride was pricked so he decided it wise to break the king's peace and commit hundreds of war crimes because 'no man sheds Lannister blood with impunity.' To Tywin Lannister, nothing was more important than the political image he was trying to maintain.

I'll destroy that image and you'll act rash for being unable to let it stand. I'll declaw you, my lord. My claws are longer and sharper than yours. "You want to beat Lord Lannister, similarly with Lord Stannis? Attack them where it hurts. The pricklier lords are the ones who hurt most when given offence and will act irrational because of it. Irrational men are easier to foresee than ones not fuelled by emotion. Undermine Lannister power and he'll come at us like a dog with the taste of blood – right into our trap. Mock him, belittle him, spread rumours and bring down his name. That is how we beat him."

Myles looked at me for a moment, then at his cup. "Sometimes I wonder. What happened that day? Jon Connington tells me you had a fever and then came back like this. Tis strange."

"How so?"

"You speak not like a boy. You clearly know more than you let on."

"Perhaps I do. You could say the Seven guide me." Better reason than any. A good thing about reading the books, better than knowing the sequence of events, was that I knew what made the characters tic, their likes, their dislikes. What they feared and what they loved. Information was the greatest weapon of all.

"Perhaps they do. You seem certain, but youth like yourself do not believe death will ever come for you. You think you're invincible and you're destined to win."

"We will win though," I smiled boyishly. "How can we not, when war is coming to Westeros?" I took a sip of my water, staring at the map's borders. "The usurpers reign is too unstable for there to be peace and, besides, the passing of a king is a ripe time for rebels to sprout up. He does have a twelve-year-old son and young kings are the bane of houses with regents fighting over them like bitches over a bone."

"You think there'll be civil war? I know the Spider has plans for one and the Dothraki invasion to happen, but do you think it'll be as effective as your father claims?"

"I'm certain of it." Varys will be laying the groundwork and Littlefinger will be supporting him, whether knowingly or not.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

I chuckled, looking up at him with a lazy smile. "You think we'll be all alone, captain-general? No, the Spider will be aiding in our conquest behind the scenes. It'll happen. Mark my words."

Myles Toyne frowned at me. "I forgot how you always get irritatingly smug when you believe your plans come together. You're definitely your father's son."

Arrogance is a tool that can be used like a mask. I pouted. "Try to rain on my parade, why don't ya?"

He rose an eyebrow. "What you say may not come to be. You act like it's a given, that everything will follow your machinations."

Maybe because it will. I nodded, averting my gaze. "I'm sorry, ser. Sometimes I forget myself."

"You regularly do. Remember what I told you about pride. It'll narrow your vision if not outright blind you. Dragon blood seems very susceptible to this most dangerous sin. Maybe you could do with some more humbling. Maybe clean the cauldrons after the men eat. How about that?"

I didn't say a word.

"Nothing to say, have you?" Myles Blackheart grinned darkly. "Well then, looks like you have no objections so—"

"Captain-general!" came a shout.

Both me and Toyne turned around to see a bald, red-faced man gasping for breath at the flap of the tent. There was a look of panic and urgency in his face.

"What is it, serjeant?" Myles asked calmly.

"Captain-general. We've received reports . . . from the Dothraki Sea."