Tattered Prince shot a sidelong glance at the agitated Tregar.
"Myr's mercenary company is still on its way here. Shouldn't we wait for them? Building the catapults will take time, too. Why not hold off until everyone arrives?"
Tregar couldn't afford to wait.
Having fled Lys in disarray, he now desperately needed a decisive victory to rally all the Lys nobles. The plantation nobles and Free folk of Lys were watching him closely. If he failed to secure a triumph, those nobles might well unite to eliminate him.
Tregar Ormollen had been a Rys merchant noble, but his holdings—mostly shipping and shops—were concentrated across the Lys archipelago. The plantation nobles he had always scorned now eyed him with predatory intent. That was precisely why he had agreed to let the sellsword companies raid the plantations later.
"No need to wait. They have ten thousand troops in total. Our Slave Legion numbers twenty-five thousand, and your mercenary companies together add over ten thousand. Thirty-odd thousand against ten thousand—the advantage is ours!"
Tregar's eyes burned with vengeful fury. His greatest wish now was to storm the sentry tower and impale the Easterner's head on a spear.
Carson, leader of the Maiden's Men, couldn't have cared less. He'd never taken that Easterner's army seriously. Though the Easterner had beaten Lys, Carson saw Lys's slave soldiers as little better than whores—their courage lost the moment they became slaves. If not for the sellsword companies' crude incompetence at commerce, they'd have joined forces long ago to crush these fragile Free Cities.
"Enough talk. Move. Build dozens of catapults—I refuse to believe that watchtower can hold."
Carson curled his lip, looking at Tregar with disdain.
Tregar ground his teeth at the Maiden's Men leader and cursed the late Drako inwardly. It was that worthless fool who'd invited these unruly sellsword bands. Still, he needed them now, especially the Maiden's Men, so he forced a polite smile.
"We'll begin constructing the catapults immediately," he told the sellsword leaders who acted like lords.
After the meeting, Magister Tregar hurried his officers to rally the plantation slaves to fell trees and build the engines. Days passed. Half a month later, Tregar had worked through the nights and produced thirty catapults. Half a month remained before Myr's hired company would arrive.
...
Lo Quen stood atop the tower, peering down through Myr's lens. Giant catapults stood arrayed across the fields, poised and ready to strike the sentry tower.
Chai Yiq asked, "Your Grace, shall we strike first?"
Lo Quen nodded.
"The time is nearly ripe. Myr's mercenaries haven't arrived yet, but the Lysene are about to attack us. Clearly, they refuse to wait any longer—they're determined to drive us out. Prepare yourselves. Tonight we launch a night raid on the Lys encampment."
...
Night fell.
A thin mist curled around the hills and trees, blurring the faint light of the stars and moon. Within the Lys allied camp, campfires flickered weakly through the fog. Slave soldiers on night watch huddled close to the flames, heavy eyelids battling exhaustion. Only the seasoned Sellsword remained alert, their sharp gazes cutting into the wilderness beyond the palisades, swallowed by mist.
Beneath the blue-and-white cross-tailed banner of the Windblown Company, the Tattered Prince had not removed his armor. He sat inside a simple command tent, methodically polishing the blade of his longsword with a strip of oiled cloth. His silver-gray armor shimmered faintly under the dim oil lamp.
Behind him, the "Warrior Bard" Denzo D'han murmured softly. "Lord, the night is deep. You should rest. In a few days, we'll be storming that stone tower."
The Tattered Prince lifted his sorrowful eyes. "A pity. I thought the Lysene would be more patient—waiting for their reinforcements to arrive."
Denzo shook his head. "No. That Lys Magister lost Lys City. He's gone mad."
The tent flap stirred as the interrogator known as "Pretty" Meris entered. Her tone carried a hint of irritation. "But we can't afford to go mad, my lord. The brothers of the Windblown are whispering in camp—saying our Ragged King actually listens to those foolish Lysene..."
Denzo said bluntly, "Meris, can you shut them up? Tell them—we took their gold, so we'll pay with blood."
Meris frowned. "Gold? You saw it yourself. That ruined Lys Magister's home was looted clean. He's got nothing left but a few plantations."
Denzo muttered, "Plundering their plantations should cover the cost."
The Tattered Prince rose to his feet. His patchwork cloak, stitched from countless scraps of colored cloth, fell silently behind him. Beneath his mournful gaze glinted a fox-like shrewdness.
"Meris is right. Raid the estates? The Maiden's Men will raid them. The Ragged Standard will raid them. The Long Lances too. It'll turn into chaos soon enough... We can't just sit and wait for death. I have a feeling that Easterner isn't someone to provoke. Rumor has it he commands dragons—and an undead legion. Every sellsword company scoffs at those tales, but look at the truth before us: Tyrosh has fallen, Lys has fallen. What clearer proof could there be of his strength?"
Denzo's pupils tightened. "Lord, what do you propose?"
The Tattered Prince's eyes gleamed cunningly. "I've decided to fight for gold—but it doesn't have to be Lysene gold. Send word to the Easterner: we'll act as his inside men, help him crush the Lysene. Once it's done, he only needs to pay us what the Lys promised."
He had seen the disarray among the Lys slave soldiers, and he knew every Sellsword company had its own agenda. No one could command so many ruthless men.
Denzo volunteered, "I'll go. I can see well in the dark."
The Tattered Prince nodded.
...
The Watchtower.
A grim tension hung in the air. Lo Quen's Dragon Soul Guards and elite soldiers stood fully armed, their copper-hued armor glinting under the torches. Valyrian steel blades whispered in their scabbards, yearning to be drawn and bloodied. The men silently checked their gear; only the sound of heavy breathing and the faint scrape of metal filled the hall.
Then, faint commotion stirred from below the tower.
A patrol soldier hurried up, escorting a burly man dressed like a Sellsword. "Your Grace, we've captured a Sellsword who claims he wishes to negotiate with you."
Lo Quen's interest was piqued. He turned his gaze toward the man.
The bound "Warrior Bard," Denzo D'han, showed no fear. He lifted his head proudly, meeting Lo Quen's eyes through the ranks of armored guards. "Your Grace," he declared, "I am a Sellsword of the Windblown. By order of our Ragged King, I come to discuss a plan with you."
The moment the words left his mouth, Denzo noticed the soldiers around him—tense, weapons ready, brimming with killing intent. His heart sank. They were fully armed and prepared for a night raid. The Tattered Prince's foresight had been terrifyingly accurate. Cold sweat soaked his back. If the attack began tonight, even if the Lys camp didn't collapse, it would be devastated.
Hearing the name Tattered Prince, Lo Quen's interest grew. He remembered seeing the Windblown Company recruiting in Volantis. The Tattered Prince was no stranger to him. Despite his harmless appearance, he was sly, sharp, and perceptive.
In the old tales, he had once fought alongside the slave masters of Yunkai—but the moment he sensed their incompetence, he began plotting to side with Daenerys.
"What plan? If you can't give me a satisfactory answer, you won't live to see the sunrise," Lo Quen said coldly.
Sweat beaded on Denzo's forehead, but he forced his voice steady. "Your Grace, our Ragged King sent me here because the Magister of Lys is broke—he can't pay our wages. We wish to serve under your command."
Lo Quen smiled inwardly. So, his surprise attack on Lys had stirred quite the ripple. That escaped Tregar couldn't even pay his sellsword companies. No wonder the Windblown were turning.
But he still asked, "Then why aren't the other companies doing the same?"
Denzo explained, "The Lys Magister promised them that once they defeat Your Grace, they could raid the plantations as payment. Our Ragged King believes that will only spark fighting among the sellsword groups. That's why he chose to pledge allegiance to Your Grace instead."
Only then did Lo Quen fully grasp the situation. Tregar truly was stumbling from one blunder to the next.
Letting several mercenary bands loot the plantations meant the largest and strongest would claim the lion's share. The Maiden's Men had five thousand, the Ragged Standard three thousand five hundred, the Long Lances eight hundred heavy cavalry. The Windblown had two thousand—but with poorer equipment, they'd lose any struggle for spoils.
Lo Quen nodded. "Very well. I accept your allegiance. Once the war is over, you'll have your payment."
He had already taken plenty of wealth from the Lysene. The Windblown's pay? The Lys had long since prepared that for him.
...
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