For the moment, King's Landing could be set aside.
Far across the Narrow Sea, on the vast continent of Essos, the banners of Volantis flew high. The city had won a decisive victory, crushing the allied forces of the Three Daughters and advancing without pause to seize the Disputed Lands. The long-contested region, soaked in blood for generations, now bent beneath Volantene boots.
Within the Triarchs' Palace, the air was heavy with incense and old power. Three men sat around a table of dark red marble, each dressed in opulence befitting the rulers of the oldest Free City. Their robes shimmered with gold thread, their rings glittered, and their faces bore the lines of age and ambition.
One of them leaned forward, fingers heavy with jewels resting upon a painted map. A necklace of gilded beast fangs lay against his chest, clinking softly as he moved.
"We have taken the Disputed Lands," he said, tapping the parchment with a blunt finger. His voice was deep and impatient. "But the cost was steep. Our legions bled heavily. If we are to hold what we have gained, we must replenish our strength."
He lifted his gaze, eyes sharp and predatory.
"I propose reopening the Demon Road and purchasing slaves in great number from Meereen. Slave soldiers, laborers, guards. We rebuild our armies, and we remind the world that Volantis does not weaken."
This was Magnaar of the Tigers, the most openly aggressive of the Triarchs. Even seated, he radiated a restless hunger for war.
Another Triarch nodded at once. He adjusted the sleeve of his robe with care before speaking.
"Magnaar speaks truth," he said. "Our surviving forces are stretched thin. Maintaining order within the city already strains them. If Lys senses weakness, they will strike. And we must never forget our greater purpose."
His lips curved into a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes.
"The restoration of the glory of the Freehold of Old Valyria."
The third man remained silent for a time. He belonged to the party of the Elephants, his wealth rooted in trade rather than conquest. His fingers drummed softly against the table as he considered the map.
At last, he inclined his head.
"I have long believed that gold and commerce shape the world more surely than swords," he said slowly. "But even trade requires protection. Without soldiers, caravans burn and ports fall silent."
He drew a steady breath.
"The cost of these slaves and slave soldiers will be borne equally by our three houses."
His expression hardened.
"Once they are trained, we march on Lys."
The words were followed by the sound of his fist striking the table, not in fury but in resolve.
"Those whoresons have plundered dozens of my caravans. Ships burned. Men flayed. Gold lost. I will not see my house bleed coin forever while they laugh behind perfumed walls."
Silence followed, thick and heavy.
Magnaar exchanged a glance with the other Tiger Triarch. The two men shared a brief, wordless understanding before nodding in unison.
"Agreed," they said.
Of the Three Daughters, Lys lay closest to Volantis and thus stood as its most immediate enemy.
Tyrosh, distant and tangled among the Stepstones, was of little concern for now. From Volantis's view, it served as a buffer between east and west. So long as the wider balance of power remained unchanged, Tyrosh would remain quiet.
Myr, however, was another matter.
The city loudly proclaimed itself under the protection of the Bloodflame Dragon King, Baelon Targaryen. With Volantis weakened by war and Baelon's fearsome reputation whispered across the Free Cities, no Triarch dared test that claim. Not yet.
That left Lys.
Close. Exposed. Unguarded.
If Volantis did not strike now, then who would?
—
Far away, across the sea and the narrow waist of the world, trouble stirred at the Wall.
The Wall.
Harwin Strong stood wrapped in black wool and boiled leather, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. The wind gnawed at his face, carving lines deeper into a countenance already worn by bitterness. Since arriving here, everything that had once defined his life had been stripped away.
Once, he had been the heir to House Strong. A captain of the City Watch. A man who dined on roasted meats and drank fine wine beneath warm roofs.
Now, his meals were thin stews that stank of old fat. The ale was sour, burning his throat and turning his stomach.
Worse still, there was no release for his anger.
The gelding had seen to that.
The memory made his jaw tighten. Even now, the ache lingered, a dull and constant reminder of what had been taken. The butcher Baelon had hired had been clumsy, nearly cutting him apart entirely. Sometimes, even relieving himself brought a muted pain that left him breathless.
It made him mean.
Mean and violent.
Harwin had become known among the black brothers for his frequent "friendly" brawls. He fought often, and he fought hard.
Once, he had been counted among the strongest men in the Seven Kingdoms. He could not best Prince Daemon, nor Ser Criston Cole, but against common men he was unstoppable.
Castration had stripped away fear as much as flesh.
At the very least, he no longer dreaded a blow between the legs.
His body below the waist felt distant now, numb. But his arms remained powerful, his grip iron-hard. Since joining the Night's Watch, he had won every fight he entered. When food ran short, he always claimed the largest share, daring anyone to challenge him.
Of course, there was always a price.
Harwin fought fiercely, and so he was punished fiercely.
That was how he found himself once more atop the Wall, assigned to the coldest duty as discipline for another broken nose and another split lip.
"What's the point of guarding this cursed place?" he muttered, rubbing his hands together as he stomped his feet. His breath steamed before his face. "Snow and ice as far as the eye can see. Who's coming? Wildlings? Giants? Or the Others themselves?"
A short, humorless laugh escaped him as he remembered the words of a Watch commander spoken on his first night here. A warning. A lesson.
Harwin had laughed then too.
The wind howled louder, carrying with it the sting of snow. His gaze drifted over the endless white beyond the Wall. He saw nothing.
Below him, ice axes bit silently into frozen stone.
Figures wrapped in animal skins climbed with practiced ease, their movements smooth and patient. The storm swallowed every sound. The sentries above noticed nothing.
Harwin glanced down once more, eyes half-lidded.
"Tch," he scoffed. "Nothing to see."
He turned his back and moved toward the fire, holding his hands out to the meager warmth.
Time passed.
The climbers reached the top.
Among them was a woman with a longbow slung across her back and a short blade at her waist. Her eyes were sharp, her movements economical. She spotted Harwin at once, his broad back exposed, his attention fixed on the flames.
She raised two fingers.
Her companions nodded. They drew their weapons and crouched low, moving across the snow like hunting cats.
The storm covered them completely.
Harwin never sensed a thing.
A heavy step crunched softly behind him.
Then pain exploded through his skull.
The club struck the back of his head with brutal force. At the same instant, a dagger drove forward, aiming for his heart.
Thud.
Shhk.
Harwin staggered, a roar tearing from his throat. He forced himself to turn, vision swimming, breath ragged.
"Y-you," he snarled, blood filling his mouth. "Wildlings…"
Dirty figures stood before him, faces painted, eyes blazing with feral resolve. He swung blindly, his fist grazing nothing but air. His legs buckled. Strength drained from him as the world tilted.
He fell hard against the ice.
Even as darkness closed in, disbelief filled his fading thoughts. To die here. Not in battle. Not by a knight's hand. But ambushed by Free Folk atop the Wall.
A voice cut through the storm, calm and commanding.
"Princess."
The woman stepped forward, lowering her blade. Snow clung to her hair and shoulders as she looked past Harwin's fallen body.
"Lower the ropes. Help the others climb."
She turned her gaze southward, toward the hidden gate.
"The Bone Armor King commands it. The tunnel behind the Storm Gate must be opened today."
Her eyes gleamed with fierce certainty.
"He waits beyond the gate," she said. "With the army."
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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