The sounds of the yard died. Varro and the stable hands stared, their mouths agape, witnessing a miracle casually performed in the dust. To them, this was not mere magic it was a sign of divinity.
Hermione was entranced. She reached out, her small finger poking the surface of the sphere. Her finger sank into the cool liquid, the water tension holding the shape around her skin.
"It floats," she whispered.
Hadrian closed his hand. The sphere dissolved, the water dispersing into a fine, cooling mist that vanished into the Sarnor air.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. The moment of indulgence was over. The warmth remained in his eyes, but the steel returned to his voice.
"The sun travels west, Hermione. And so must you. Your lessons are done, and your curiosity is sated."
"But—"
"You will return to the palace now," Hadrian said. His tone was absolute. It was not a request; it was the command of her sovereign, as unbreakable as gravity. "Elara waits for you. Do not keep her."
Hermione looked at him, searching for a loophole, but found none. She nodded, the defiance draining out of her.
"Yes, Pater."
A second chariot, smaller but no less ornate, rattled up to the staging area. The Praetorians helped the Domina aboard. She waved once as the horses turned, and then she was gone, a speck of white disappearing toward the Palace Hill.
Hadrian watched her go until the dust settled. Then, he turned to his own driver.
"The Docks," he commanded. "The Admiralty."
The journey through the city was a blur of stone and bowing subjects, but the air changed as they approached the river. The smell of the Sarne Delta was distinct—salt, silt, and tar.
The Commercial Docks were chaotic littered with activities and creatures of commerce. Ships from Braavos, Ibben, and the Summer Isles jockeyed for space, their masts a dense forest of timber. Stevedores shouted in a dozen languages, rolling barrels of wine and bales of silk.
Hadrian's chariot bypassed the chaos, turning onto a fortified causeway guarded by a heavy gatehouse. The guards manning the gate slammed their fists to their chests as the Imperator approached, and the portcullis rose with the grinding of heavy chains.
This was the Naval Quarter. Here, there was no shouting, no disorder.
The Admiralty was a marvel of order. Massive stone slips cut into the riverbank, each housing a vessel of war. These were not the clumsy cogs of lesser kingdoms or the fat trading galleys of the Free Cities. These were Dromonds of a new design—sleek, predatory things with reinforced rams of iron.
Hadrian stepped down from his chariot, his boots striking the stone pier. He walked past the rows of docked ships, his emerald clothes billowing in the river wind, heading toward the command structure at the end of the quay where his Admiral waited.
When Hadrian entered the Admiralty, he was immediately attended to by the mariners, led by the Admiral who offered him the imperial salute.
"Deus, I would have made the trek to the Palace at your command; you needn't sully your presence by coming down here, Sire," the old man standing at the forefront of the entourage relayed.
He was a greying man with more hair on his beard than on his head, yet his blue eyes were as potent as the sea his ships sailed. His face, wrinkled though it was, did not belie the toll of age for even a moment. He wore the armor of the Empire, grey as the steel it was forged from, with the sigil of the Navy engraved deeply into the breastplate.
"Nothing is sullied by visiting my naval headquarters, Quintus. Let us not delay any further. My son tells me that you have drafted the initial plans for the blockade. We have much to discuss and too little time to plan." Hadrian waved off the Admiral's concerns before signalling for privacy within the Admiral's quarters.
"At once, Sire," Quintus motioned, moving toward his office followed by the Imperator, his aides, and the guards.
They entered the quarters, which was large in size but modest in possessions. A wide table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs, while a single desk sat at the far end before a window overlooking the docks. This was the Admiral's workspace, littered with maps, navigational tools, and parchments ranging from ship designs to cargo manifests.
Quintus walked in and pulled the chair at the very head of the wide table for the Imperator. The others took their places but waited until Hadrian was seated before settling in. The guards positioned themselves silently throughout the room.
"Now then, let us begin," Hadrian indicated once he was comfortable.
An aide brought forth a large board, placing it in broad view of all who sat at the table, before pinning a map onto its surface.
"As you can see, Deus, the blockade as planned by myself and the Princeps is ideally attainable with one hundred and twenty ships of the Dromond class," the Admiral explained, pointing to a smaller version of the map placed between himself and the Imperator.
"They will be positioned in Bitterweed Bay to prevent any aid from Lorath or Braavos once we begin the siege. Simultaneously, the legions can march into the woods while covering the flanks from the south and the east. The only problem that remains is a counter-force from the west, which is manageable considering they will be delayed by the distance between the Free Cities and our target. Once the sea blockade is in place, we estimate it will take at least two moons for the other cities to amass their armies and mercenaries. This would be followed by a mobilization of another moon and a half for them to besiege us with their forces." He continued further.
The Imperator nodded in approval. "This, then, leaves the Imperial Legions and their timeline for completing the siege."
"That is so, Sire."