In the vast, resplendent palace of Lys, the members of the Lys Magisters' Council sat around a circular table in the grand hall, their faces dark with worry.
Lysono Haen, the First Magister of Lys, his hair streaked with gray and his hands resting on his temples, spoke gravely.
"Gentlemen, word has come from the Disputed Lands. The Easterners have launched an unprovoked attack. Their forces have taken the Outpost Tower and the Grey Mountain mines. What should we do next?"
Magister Moredo Orthys slammed his fist onto the table in rage, making the silver goblets tremble and hum.
"Those barbaric Eastern bastards! They've desecrated Pantera! They piled the heads of three thousand warriors from the Company of the Cat on the central hill! The Cat Goddess will bring down divine punishment upon them!"
This nobleman was a devout follower of one of Lys's deities—the Cat Goddess Pantera. The founder of the Company of the Cat had also been a devoted worshipper of this very goddess.
Tregar Ormollen shot him a sidelong glance, impatience flashing across his handsome face as he interrupted.
"Enough. The Company of the Cat is gone. What matters now are our estates and lands. Don't forget—besides iron ore, we also hold vast plantations and farms in the Disputed Lands. Our wine, perfumes, and blankets all come from there. If we don't defend those estates, our wealth will vanish."
Magister Drako, seated beside Moredo, nodded.
"Three days ago, we received letters from the Disputed Lands. The Windblown Company, the Ragged Standard Company, the Long Lances Company, and the Maiden's Men have all accepted our contracts and are marching here from abroad..."
Moredo's voice rose sharply, filled with shock and fury.
"The Maiden's Men? Damn it, Drako! You know how vile their reputation is! If they march into our estates, they'll plunder everything before the battle even begins!"
Drako sighed helplessly.
"What other choice do we have? The Golden Company refused our offer. Without hiring the Maiden's Men, we don't have enough soldiers. Haven't you heard the Eastern King commands an army of tens of thousands?"
Moredo was left speechless.
The Maiden's Men, for all their infamy, numbered more than five thousand. Combined with the Windblown Company's two thousand sellswords, the Ragged Standard Company's three thousand five hundred, and the Long Lances Company's eight hundred heavily armored cavalry, their total force would exceed ten thousand.
Lysono Haen pondered for a while, then turned to Drako, who oversaw military affairs.
"How many slave soldiers can we field?"
Drako's expression turned awkward, and he gave a strained smile.
"Lord Lysono, perhaps you're unaware—though Lys has nearly a million slaves, each one drafted means less labor in our cotton fields and perfume workshops. To avoid unnecessary losses, I've already conscripted fifteen thousand slaves. That's our limit. We'll still need to buy armor for them, which will cost even more."
Tregar sneered.
"Losses? If the Easterners defeat us, all the gold you're saving will end up in their hands."
Lysono nodded in agreement.
"Drako, conscript another ten thousand slave soldiers. Their fighting power may be poor, but they'll force the enemy to split their forces. Don't think of them as twenty-five thousand men—even twenty-five thousand pigs would take time to capture."
Drako could only nod in reluctant agreement.
Just then, a servant's voice came from outside. "Your Lordships, the envoy from Myr requests an audience."
The Magisters' eyes turned to Lysono, who immediately said, "Show him in."
A black-haired, dark-eyed envoy with deep brown skin entered, bowing respectfully to the governors of Lys. "Your Lordships, I bring greetings from Myr..."
Moredo frowned. "Envoy of Myr, spare us the pleasantries. Get to the point."
For a hundred years, discord among the Three Daughters had festered. The once-united Daughters' Alliance was long gone, leaving only rivalry and deceit. Among them, Lys and Tyrosh were the most hostile, their open and covert struggles over the Stepstones poisoning any chance of trust. But that did not mean relations with Myr were any better.
The Myrish envoy smiled, then composed himself. "The Magister's Office of Myr has sent me to Lys to rebuild the Daughters' Alliance. Tyrosh has been usurped by the Easterner, who rules with cruelty and dark arts. Many Tyroshi nobles are filled with resentment. They hope Lys and Myr will come to their aid—to overthrow the Easterner's tyranny and restore Tyrosh's old order."
Tregar rose sharply. "Easy words. The Easterner's blades are aimed at us. While we were recruiting sellsword companies and raising our armies, you Myrish were hiding in your highland fortresses, snickering inside your turtle shells."
The envoy did not flinch. "Lord, Myr has already gathered twelve thousand slave soldiers and hired the Iron Shields, the Bright Banners, the Second Sons, and the Stormcrows. They will reach the Central Highlands next month to fight alongside the armies of Lys."
A heavy silence fell over the hall—so deep a pin could be heard dropping. The Magisters exchanged uneasy glances, disbelief mirrored in their eyes.
After a long pause, Lysono spoke slowly. "Envoy of Myr, perhaps it is time for the daughters to set aside their old grudges and unite against the outsider... We shall join forces with Myr. When their armies arrive, together we will crush the Easterner!"
His voice rang firm and resolute.
But then Drako muttered, "That Easterner is said to have a dragon—two hundred feet long."
Tregar Ormollen burst into laughter, shattering the heavy air. "A dragon? If you believe those Seven Kingdoms tales, you might as well wave the white flag now! If that Easterner truly had a dragon—two hundred feet, you say?—he'd have flown over here and burned us all to cinders already. Why would he need to ambush us?"
The others scoffed as well. None of them believed the Easterner possessed a dragon. Reports from Tyrosh's fall had made no mention of one.
A dragon? Only the gods would believe that.
With the alliance between the two daughters sealed, the Myrish envoy departed, satisfied with his success and ready to return to rally their troops.
...
Meanwhile, the capital of Lys erupted into a different kind of turmoil.
Drako could not go against the council's will, forcing him to scrape together the twenty-five thousand slave soldiers demanded. Yet the unease in his heart only deepened. He was certain the destruction of the Westerosi fleet had not been caused by mere storms.
He believed, with grim conviction, that the shadow of a dragon was the true cause.
In the days that followed, the harsh pounding of the city guards' fists and the curses of slave owners echoed throughout Lys. Slaves were dragged from cotton fields, vineyards, and perfume workshops, thrown into rough leather armor, and handed rusty spears.
The Magisters' Council's draft order filled the upper ranks of Lys with resentment and unrest.