"Mayhaps not to a peasant or a magister. But to those who know what a true Valyrian looks like, you are a burning pyre whose heat can be felt even with one's eyes closed," she stated.
I felt a sudden swell of pride at the high praise.
"There you go, getting a big head over a few petty words," she immediately pointed out, much to my chagrin.
I straightened my posture, pulling on a stoic mask as we reached the perimeter of the allied camp. We found four riders heading out to intercept us. It was just Marc, Ana, and myself facing the four armed men blocking our path. One of them removed his iron helm, stopping at a safe distance. He had black eyes and silver hair—a strange combination. His jaw was squared, jagged scars marred his cheeks, and a scruffy moustache clung to his upper lip.
"So, ye be the latecomers, eh? Falling Stars, was it?" the man said roughly.
"Since you know who we are, why not introduce yourself?" Ana countered smoothly.
The man paused, his eyes widening slightly at the sound of her voice. "A woman! Bwahahaha! Lads, did ya hear? A woman leads the Falling Stars. It be the truth! No wonder these stars keep falling when a bitch leads 'em," he japed, his compatriots erupting into crude laughter.
Ana's expression did not even flicker. "No wonder this city needed me and my men to protect it, when whelps like you clearly cannot keep it safe. Such advanced age, and you still act like a brat wet behind the ears, soiling his breeches. Now go on, sweetling. Run to your mother. I wish to speak to an adult."
His face contorted into sudden, ugly fury. "Now look here, lass. I may be old, but I am Captain-Commander of the Silver Sons. Ye will speak to me with respect, or I'll take yer tongue for the insult!" he threatened, his hand dropping to his hilt.
"Try it," Ana said, the steel of her curved blade hissing as she drew it.
Marc did the same in a heartbeat, his massive broadsword clearing its scabbard. I smoothly drew my borrowed arming sword, falling into a ready guard alongside them.
Just as the situation was about to tip over into a bloody brawl, the man threw his head back and began to laugh, even louder than before. "Ye got guts, lassie! I meant no disrespect. Me and the lads were bored. Just light japes among sellswords, naught more," he said placatingly, raising his hands in surrender.
"Now come, we must head to the meeting with the City Council within the hour. I be called Jason. What be your names?" he asked, waving us forward.
Ana just shook her head at the sudden, volatile change of circumstances, though she sheathed her blade. Marc and I reluctantly followed suit. "My name is Ana, Commander of the Falling Stars. These are my companions, Marc and... Dae."
"Dae? What type of name be that?" one of Jason's companions grunted.
"Lysene," Ana interjected smoothly before I could open my mouth. "He was born in the pleasure gardens, so he named himself."
"Ah. He be one of those, eh," Jason murmured, surmising whatever crude backstory suited him.
No further questions were raised as we rode past their patrol and made for the city gates.
Jason rode ahead as we approached the heavy, iron-wrought gates. The massive stone walls of Qohor loomed above us, scarred and battered from the Imperial catapults, yet still standing defiant in the gathering gloom. Jason exchanged a few gruff words of assurance with the heavily armoured guards manning the portcullis. A moment later, the iron teeth groaned upward, and a muddy, trampled path was cleared for us to enter the Free City.
If the sellsword camps outside had been a chaotic cacophony of life and death, the city within was suffocated by an eerie, oppressive calm.
Small flickering of light—sputtering torches and dim oil lamps—dotted the winding streets, casting long, jagged shadows against the dark stone. The people of Qohor huddled in doorways and narrow alleyways, their hollow eyes following our horses with deep, silent apprehension. They looked like a people merely waiting for the executioner's axe to fall.
As we rode deeper into the city, the true, macabre nature of Qohor revealed itself.
Scattered at intersections and within shadowed alcoves were crude, disturbing effigies. They were bound in soiled cloth, smeared with fresh, dark blood markings, and surrounded by small, smouldering pits of burning ash. The acrid, metallic stench of burnt offerings stung my nose. Despite the fire that burned in my Valyrian blood, a sudden, cold prickle of unease crawled down my spine.
I remembered the dark tales traded by merchants and sailors. This was how they worshipped their foul deity: the Black Goat, Akua. It was a religion rooted in blood and daily sacrifice, and the sheer desperation of the Roman siege had clearly fuelled their dark fervour.
The architecture grew vastly more imposing as we approached the city center. It was a brooding, nascent style—entirely unlike the smooth, seamlessly fused stone of Old Valyria or the stout, blocky keeps of Westeros. The buildings here favoured a dark, skeletal verticality. They were characterized by sharp, pointed arches and heavy stone ribs that seemed to claw their way toward the heavens, seeking to intimidate rather than inspire. It was grand, yet undeniably grim.
Finally, our muddy trek halted before the City Council Hall.
It was a towering structure of dark, rough-hewn stone, crowned with jagged, reaching spires that pierced the night sky like the teeth of a great beast. Hanging from the highest balcony, snapping violently in the evening wind, was a massive black banner.
Upon the cloth was the sigil of their dark god: a grotesque, goat-like man, staring down at the condemned city