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"Shouting won't solve a damn thing! Both of you, shut up and calm down!"
The Archon of Tyrosh slammed his palm on the carved armrest of his high seat. "Torilos, close your mouth! Matarol, keep your people in line!"
It took five full minutes to drag the shouting match to opposite sides of the hall.
The man running the meeting finally caught his breath and rubbed his temples. The pressure felt like a lead weight pressing down on his skull.
Even without this circus, Archon Joros Nestoran's head was already splitting.
He had sat through the entire afternoon in the Hall of Arbitration and heard not one workable proposal. The talk had been pure noise with zero substance.
"I speak for the Myr delegation," said Matarol Artaga, the lead envoy, with a stiff bow. "I offer our apologies to the honorable Archon of Tyrosh for Yagmion's outburst. Please accept our assurance that we never questioned the wisdom of this great city's rulers, nor did we intend any disrespect to your venerable ancestors."
"The apology is accepted," the Archon said coldly. "The talks continue."
"Yagmion's words were sharp, but they were true," Artaga pressed on. "Myr's lands have not recovered from the barbarian invasion, and now another army marches on our borders. After three border battles our vanguard lies shattered. The city militia is useless. If we face Weymond Dorya in open battle, it may well be our last."
"Dorya?" A blue-bearded Tyroshi councilor barked from the benches. "That green boy? He isn't fit to polish Targaryen's boots or his dead uncle's! You hired the Golden Company, didn't you? With them you still can't handle one upstart?"
"Harry Strickland is a greedy, cowardly bastard," the Myr governor's representative snapped, nearly spitting on the marble floor. "The contract gives him full command of his own men. We can't force him to fight Dorya."
"You paid him! Just order the man!"
"The contract is clear," Artaga ground out. "If he doesn't get total control he can walk away with his army. That clause is exactly why he took our gold."
"Idiots! Who signs a deal like that?"
"Quiet!" The Archon struck the floor with his staff for the hundredth time. The sound was shrill and painful. "You sound like fishwives in a market! Silence! All of you—silence!"
His head could not take another shouting match.
"Thank you, honored Archon," Matarol said, rising with forced grace. "Let us face facts. We made a terrible mistake listening to our more warlike and ambitious colleagues. We thought the Targaryen was a paper giant ready to topple. But Myr has an old saying—worse than stupidity is the stupidity that refuses to admit it."
"So you propose surrender?" one of the Archon's advisors sneered. "Myr once boasted it was the hero of the border victory."
"Not surrender. A favorable peace before we are forced to accept worse terms," Artaga continued smoothly. "We can still bargain with the Red Dragon while we have something to offer. Why wait until his appetite grows and he demands more? A deal we offer beats one he forces on us. Any former sellsword should understand the value of mutual benefit."
"What kind of deal are you offering Viserys Targaryen?" the Archon asked, voice heavy with suspicion.
"We recognize his rule over Volantis. Lys is already his—let him keep it. If he wants gold we will pay… while we still have gold. He can take his army back across the Narrow Sea and leave us alone. The man used to be a sellsword. He should understand a fair trade."
"A dragon that has tasted human flesh does not easily return to grass," Admiral Ino Torilos shot back. "Those terms might have worked before he took Lys. They will not work now. He will demand far more. We may have to sell ourselves into slavery just to satisfy him."
"Tyrosh's fleet has not even sailed yet!" a new, rough voice cut in. "Once the remnants of the Lysene fleet join us we can fight the Volantenes to the death. Trap them in Lys without ships and they will never get home!"
"Home? Dorya is already at the gates of Myr! Once he finishes the fat sellswords and the militia, what then?"
"Who says he will win?"
"Your mother does—with that big mouth of hers."
"Say that again!"
"Enough!" The Archon struck the floor so hard the staff rang like a bell. "You are all children! Be silent!"
A thin spy came stumbling into the hall, gasping.
At first no one noticed him through the shouting.
Then his high, eunuch voice cut through the noise.
"Honored Archon Joros Nestoran! A pirate fleet has appeared off the coast! They sent an envoy… their leader is Euron Greyjoy! He wants to set foot on Tyroshi soil. He says he has a profitable offer for the Triarchy council—about the war against Volantis."
The hall went dead silent.
Euron Greyjoy.
A name that thundered like a war drum.
A name that made strong men's blood run cold.
A notorious villain, a fearless sailor, a pirate and reaver whose luck was said to be unnaturally good.
Dozens—hundreds—of Tyroshi, Lysene, Braavosi, and even Volantene ships had ended up at the bottom of the sea because of him.
Countless privateers had done business with him.
But what could a pirate from distant Westeros possibly offer the rulers of two Free Cities?
"Let him come," the Archon said after a long pause. "Alone. His men stay with the ships at anchor. If they so much as twitch, sink every last one of them."
No one questioned the decision. No one dared.
The shouting stopped. Every man in the room waited in uneasy silence for this impossible visitor.
They had the same stunned look on their faces as old Nestoran.
Roughly an hour later Euron Greyjoy appeared at the doors of the Hall of Arbitration.
In that hour the suddenly quiet councilors had imagined every possible demand he might make.
He wore rich clothes covered in silver and copper rings. His lips were painted deep blue. A black eyepatch covered one eye. He carried himself like he already owned the hall, the city, and the entire island.
A heavy sack hung from his broad shoulder.
"Well now, looks like everyone important is already here. Hope I did not keep you waiting too long." Euron grinned. The smile made more than one governor's stomach tighten.
"Give me one good reason I should not order your head taken right now," the Archon said coldly, though his voice lacked real conviction.
"Oh, always the same with you people. A man comes with honest business and you start screaming for blood." Euron clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, then turned serious. "Archon, governors, honored envoys. I come in peace… but I brought a gift. Proof of my good intentions."
He untied the sack and dumped its contents onto the floor.
A dozen severed heads rolled across the marble, the smell of blood and rot filling the air at once.
"This one was Captain Etanis and his officers—well, what is left of them." Euron sounded pleased with himself. "I caught them near the Bay of Whispers. They tried to block the Silence. Now they feed the fish. They will not raid your coasts again, and they will not help Viserys Targaryen anymore."
Joros swallowed his disgust and forced himself to speak. "Tyrosh is grateful to anyone who kills its enemies. But I assume you did not sail all this way just to show us your trophies."
"Of course not. These ugly heads are only my down payment."
Euron's blue lips and single eye smiled at everyone in the room.
"First, let me ask—what exactly do you plan to do about Viserys Targaryen?" He dragged an empty chair across the floor with a loud scrape, sat down like he owned the place, and propped his boots on the table. Several councilors bristled in silent fury. "And spare me the stupid ideas, like lying down and letting the Volantenes ride you."
"A filthy, rootless beggar pirate thinks he can lecture us on policy?" the Myr envoy said with open contempt. "You are good for nothing but stealing ships and robbing corpses."
"Rootless beggar? I take offense at that." Euron did not so much as blink at the anger directed at him. His tone only grew more arrogant. "My family is older than many of the upstarts in this room. But that is not the point. The reality is that the Targaryen already has his hand around your soft, fat throats."
"We have suffered heavy losses. That is why we need peace."
"You know, some sick bastards enjoy watching other men fuck their women." Euron stared straight at Artaga, whose face had turned the color of raw liver. "I suspect some of your leaders are the same sort. They will stand by and let the dragon from across the sea take your lands and your people… while you pay tribute, taxes, and levies. Instead of clenching your balls and paying the iron price."
"Enough, Greyjoy," the Archon snapped. "Get to the point."
"As you command." Euron gave the man running the meeting a mocking salute. "While you were busy deciding how best to kneel before the Targaryen, I sailed through the Stepstones and gathered what is left of the Lysene fleet. Some came willingly. Others needed… stronger persuasion. Either way, I now command a fleet of respectable size. And I am the only man who has ever beaten the Volantenes at sea. More Volantene sailors have fed the fish because of me than all of you put together."
The pirate paused for effect.
"My offer is simple. I will place my fleet and my command at the service of Tyrosh and Myr. Hire me and my ships to fight the dragon. Together we will teach those lizards why they should stay far away from the sea."
Even if lightning had struck the floor at his feet, the Archon could not have looked more stunned.
Greyjoy?
Commanding Tyrosh's fleet?
This lawless pirate, this enemy of every city on the Narrow Sea?
This monster of dark legend?
If such a man fought for them, any hope of peace would vanish. The fate of the Triarchy's captains would reach Viserys Targaryen's ears, and Tyrosh and Volantis would bleed each other dry on the waves.
On the other hand… a monster like this had survived for a reason. Skill. Cunning. Sheer luck.
Otherwise he would already be hanging from some harbor gibbet, food for the gulls.
"We know what we want," the Archon said at last, speaking for Tyrosh. "But what do you want?"
"Gold, of course. And favorable terms." Euron laughed lightly. "I have slipped past your captains too many times over the years. I know their incompetence better than anyone. So I think it would be wise to name me… let us say, Admiral of the reborn Triarchy. Or perhaps it should be the Diarchy now?"
He winked.
"You? Admiral?" Admiral Ino Torilos exploded. "You belong in the torture chambers for the rest of your miserable life!"
"Do I?" Euron raised his voice and stood, pacing the center of the hall like a lord. "Has Viserys already been dragged to your dungeons? Or his dog Goneris? Or are you just a pack of cowards who have not set foot on a deck since the Targaryen sat the Iron Throne?"
"I have sailed the Smoking Sea. I have walked the ruins of Valyria. And I came back alive…"
Before the sentence finished, Euron ripped off his cloak.
Underneath he wore a suit of matte black armor that seemed to drink every drop of light that touched it.
The entire hall erupted in gasps.
Even the worldly Archon leaned forward on his throne, staring at the impossible sight.
Valyrian steel armor.
Legend said the dragonlord families together had owned only ten such suits.
Legend said every last one had been destroyed in the Doom.
Legend said neither gods nor men could ever forge its like again.
"Impossible…"
"A trick…"
"This cannot be…"
"Silence!" the Archon roared, dragging everyone back to reality.
Euron took the opening.
"I have sunk more ships than the entire fleet of the Drowned God. Only I can save you from certain defeat. More than that—I can give you victory."
"You still have not answered my question," the Archon cut in before the noise could rise again. "If gold means nothing to you, why take this risk?"
"Once we have drowned the dragons in blood, I will return to the Iron Islands. The spoils I take from Volantis will help me claim the Seastone Chair that is mine by right. One third of your gold income should be fair payment for my services." The smile never left his face, but the old Archon's instincts told him the smile hid lies. "And as I said, you will name me Admiral of the Triarchy and give me full command of the fleet. I decide strategy. I recruit my own men. No interference. No second-guessing. In return I deliver victory."
"What about their dragons?" someone shouted from the back row. "Those beasts are already in the world. In a few years they will be grown. What then?"
"Dragons? A few years? Who said I am giving the Targaryen years?" Euron's grin was charming and dangerous at the same time. "Besides, in war even young dragons can die—along with their riders. So I will say it again: worry about your gold. Leave the dragons to me."
"This is outrageous…"
Euron turned toward the Myr man who had spoken and gave him a contemptuous smile.
"Everything in this world has a price, Governor. I never sell myself cheap." He swept his hand toward the severed heads still lying on the expensive marble. "Perhaps your Lysene friends did better than me? Or maybe your militia already shamed the Volantenes? If so, then by all means ignore this wave-rider and his legendary ship… and his new privateer allies. Forty galleys and five great cogs."
Euron waited for the muttering to die down before he spoke again.
"But you can hire me. In six months you will be able to dictate peace terms to whatever enemies remain. I will sail away with my gold and a fresh crop of dragon-blooded slave girls." The words sounded disturbingly convincing coming from him. "I have always wondered what a Targaryen girl feels like in bed. Looks like my chance has finally come."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then finished his speech.
"I have shown the council the road to victory. Stand with me and we will hold the Stepstones, retake Lys, sweep the Orange Coast… hell, the Others know, we might even sail straight to Volantis and see what lies behind the Black Wall. So… are you ready to walk that road with me? Decide, honored Archon."
Joros Nestoran sat in silence.
Every advisor and envoy in the room sat in silence with him.
Greyjoy's words had been sweet as honey. Despite the Myr envoy's warnings, most men already wanted to keep fighting.
Joros himself felt the same pull.
He understood Myr's fear. He knew the risks. He knew what another defeat would cost.
But he had built the Triarchy with his own hands. He had started this war against Volantis.
If he signed a humiliating peace now, every rival and former ally would tear him apart the moment they smelled weakness.
No. He had to win.
Euron Greyjoy was a thrice-betrayed villain and a monster, but even monsters could be useful.
And the price he asked was nothing compared to the price of defeat.
The Archon rose slowly from his carved throne.
"Tyrosh accepts Euron Greyjoy into its service and, on behalf of the Triarchy, asks glorious Myr to name this great sailor Admiral of the fleet."
Pirate and Archon both turned their eyes on Artaga.
The man stood rigid, every muscle tight.
Even members of his own delegation were now leaning toward Greyjoy.
And the Archon of Tyrosh—whose authority in the Triarchy was absolute—had already spoken.
In the end, stripped of every ally, Artaga forced a single word from his throat.
"Agreed."