Lynesse Hightower walked out of the garden with her head held high, convinced she had once again outwitted fate—and the husband who had once been willing to walk through fire for her.
Her former master, Trigg Omoren, was dragged along behind her by the guards. He no longer had the strength left to curse the treacherous woman who had betrayed him.
Once the guards had taken the pair away, Viserys rose from his makeshift throne and headed in the opposite direction.
The real business of war still waited for him.
Admiral Gemon Goneris was already waiting in the palace chamber assigned to him. A large map of the Narrow Sea and its coasts lay spread across the table.
The two men exchanged brief greetings and got straight to the point.
"Still no word from Captain Eltaris?"
"None." The admiral's voice was rough. He moved a ship marker off the map. "Twenty ships vanished like they sank to the bottom of the sea. If even one man survived, it would be a miracle… That fleet is lost to us completely."
Eltaris's ships had never stood a chance. It seemed some Lysene privateer had finally gotten the better of them.
"The first gold convoy sails tomorrow," Goneris continued. "We're also sending the most valuable prisoners and slaves. I've assigned our best captains to escort them. They should reach Volantis safely."
"What if enemy privateers attack them on the way?"
"They won't dare." Goneris shook his head firmly. "Attacking a convoy leaving Lys harbor would be suicide. You have a full army on the island and the momentum of a crushing victory. Scavengers only sniff around other people's blood. They won't risk coming after us."
"And what about the ships carrying the really valuable cargo?"
"According to our spies, what's left of the Lysene fleet has split into three groups. Their strength is scattered. They don't have the power to hit our best crews."
"Which three groups?"
"The first group has already struck their colors and come asking for employment. They just want full payment in gold. Some of them might still be worth taking on.
The second group raised their own banners and sailed southeast. They're now raiding Summer Islander merchant ships and have set up as pirates in the Basilisk Isles."
"And the rest? They went to Tyrosh?"
"Very likely. But some will scatter along the way. Others will vanish into the mists of the Stepstones…" Goneris waved a hand, his expression grim. "Tyrosh and Myr have heard about our victory by now. They're probably panicking and arguing among themselves about whether to keep fighting. If Weymond can—"
"Only if."
Weymond had won some early successes against Myr, but nothing decisive enough to force their rulers to the negotiating table.
Viserys's lightning victory might intimidate the governors and archons, but he refused to base his war plans on wishful thinking.
"You're right, Triarch Viserys." The admiral grunted and pulled his thoughts back to reality. "So what's our next move?"
"Right now we need to restock supplies, repair ships, and gather strength. Peace is a slim hope, but not impossible. Either way, we have to rest and refit."
"And if they decide to keep fighting?"
"Then we take the war to the Stepstones."
The admiral's brow furrowed. He didn't try to hide his displeasure.
He knew the move was necessary, but he also knew how hard it would be. More Valyrian blood would soak these rocks. This land had seen thousands of clashes and hundreds of battles over the centuries. Dozens of short-lived kingdoms had risen and fallen here.
"We took Lys. As long as we hold it, we can keep sending supplies to the islands, even if it's difficult. Without control of the Stepstones we can't attack Tyrosh."
"And we can't cut Myr off from its allies."
"Exactly. But we have to move carefully, one step at a time." Goneris kept his voice steady. "No reckless charges. The same surprise attack won't work twice. I can't sail the entire fleet straight across the Stepstones. Tyrosh's defenses are far stronger than Lys's. Even if we reach the walls, it will cost three times the blood to break through."
"I never planned to do it that way," Viserys assured him. "We'll take the islands one by one, building forward bases and supply ports as we go. The fall of Lys gave us gold and slaves. Now we have the strength to fight a long war."
"Then, Triarch Viserys… will you return to Volantis?"
"No." Viserys shook his head. "The warriors of Volantis need to see their Triarch with their own eyes. My knights need to see their king. I'm staying here. I'll command the land forces personally."
"The war in the Stepstones will be a bitter, thankless grind, Triarch. There won't be any swift cavalry charges or clean siege victories. Only endless arrows, falling stones, foul water, and the endless treachery of men."
"My ancestor, the great Daemon Targaryen, fought on these very rocks. He survived. He defeated the Triarchy and the Dornish more than once." Viserys gave a small smile. "And while I'm here, I might finally learn how to fight at sea. I'm tired of being a helpless lamb on the deck."
"You'll have plenty of chances to learn, Triarch…"
The war council lasted several hours.
Viserys and the admiral went over supply routes, the location of future storehouses, new captain appointments, and every possible trap the enemy might set.
They talked until deep into the night. Both men were exhausted.
Viserys walked quickly back to his bedchamber. A dozen naked, stunningly beautiful women were waiting inside, all eager to serve the Triarch.
"Out!"
He sent them all away with a sharp command, locked the door behind them, and stripped off his clothes before lying down on the bed. He only wanted sleep to come quickly.
Daenerys, far away in Volantis, would be resting by now too.
Alone. Worn out. Spending every waking hour trying to govern the city.
Most of the real burden fell on Menyx, of course. She was still learning how to rule. But even so, this was heavier responsibility than she had ever carried before.
Duty was the most exhausting thing in the world—especially for someone who had never borne it before.
Viserys pictured her now—Daenerys slipping out of her gown, hugging a soft pillow, letting out a quiet, contented sigh as she drifted toward sleep. He was certain she was thinking of him right now.
He had to write her a letter tomorrow.
He would tell her about the fighting in Lys, share a few lighter stories, and carefully explain which slaves should be given to whom, what measures to put in place now that Lys had fallen, and which people deserved generous gifts.
She needed guidance, and he was the one who should give it.
She would be his queen one day. She had to learn how to stand beside him when it mattered most.
And a queen had one other vital duty to her king.
Perhaps by the time he returned, she would already be carrying his child.
Or perhaps she would already be holding their son in her arms.
The dynasty needed an heir more than ever.
Their own child. A living continuation of Targaryen blood.
It might even give him a chance to wash away the heavy sin of the child he had sacrificed.
No matter how hard things were for Daenerys right now, they would have children. Many of them.
Those Dornish women and their outdated ideas about multiple wives could stay out of it. He needed Daenerys. Only her.
That was why he had strictly forbidden his sister from having any contact with those Dornish vipers and refused every gift they offered.
He needed Daenerys. Only her.
The conqueror of the City of Pleasures finally sank into a deep, lonely sleep.