TBOV: Chapter Sixteen: Foothold

Chapter Sixteen: Foothold

"Swift death to the enemy. No mercy."

―Frank Herbert, Dune

…

Mysaria felt relief as soon as Pentos’s high walls appeared on the horizon, though it was a stifled sort of comfort. Dawn broke behind the city’s silhouette, bathing half-finished battlements and slender towers in a ruddy gleam. The harbor seethed with activity—swarms of dockworkers, merchants hawking their wares, and the gleam of steel where Aemond’s Red Cloaks patrolled. Even at a distance, she could make out their disciplined lines: rank upon rank of men in scarlet cloaks clasped at the shoulder with black iron. Their demeanor reminded her of a scythe cutting through chaff: precise, uncaring.

Her prince’s galley, the Absolution, glided into its berth with a gentler motion than the hulking carracks behind it, each bearing the vital cargo of ten thousand Unsullied. Mysaria watched from the prow, arms folded against her chest. Acquiring these eunuch-soldiers had been straightforward enough, yet the prince had shared little of what he intended for them. Already, her mind busied itself with questions.

A gangplank fell, and the familiar tang of salt water mingled with the dusty breath of Pentos. She stepped onto the pier, the Harpy’s Fingers whip coiled in her hand. A pair of Red Cloaks flanked her like crimson shadows, stony-faced. The other vessels in her convoy slowly drew alongside the quays, and minutes later, lines upon lines of Unsullied emerged in silent, ordered ranks. She felt the eyes of the city upon them: the sour glares of half-starved commoners, the apprehensive stares of merchant-lords who had seen their city handed over to the Targaryens without a proper fight.

A single man approached at the head of a small retinue. His armor was well-worn but brightened with fresh polish, a soldier’s kit shaped more by practicality than decoration. He was no lord, not by the cut of his hair or the wariness in his gray eyes. Yet he bore an air of command. His cloak, pinned back from one shoulder, bore a small golden disk near the clasp—marking him as the Marshal of this camp, this Standard.

“Lady Mysaria,” he greeted her with a respectful bow. “I am Luthor Sand. The prince instructed me to receive you.”

She inclined her head. “Marshal,” she replied, handing over the whip coiled in her grip. “This belongs to you now.”

He accepted the Harpy’s Fingers silently, as though uninformed of its worth. “The Unsullied are yours to command,” she said. “As the prince wills it.”

The Marshal looped the whip to his belt before turning back to her. “Your ships have arrived timely, my lady. His Grace’s plans move apace.”

“Plans,” Mysaria echoed, her voice soft. “Forgive me, Marshal, but what plans are these? I was given little more than a command to purchase.”

Marshal Sand’s mouth twitched. “I’ve received no explanation either, my lady. I follow orders. As do all sons of the dragon’s hearth.” He glanced at the eunuch soldiers who continued to file ashore in disciplined columns. “What I do know is that a thousand of them are to remain here in Pentos, along with five hundred of my own men, to keep the peace. The remainder will march down the Dragonroad with us to Ghoyan Drohe.”

“Ghoyan Drohe?” Mysaria echoed, frowning. “Those ruins are but a legend to most. Why march there?”

He inclined his head in a helpless gesture. “The prince bids it so. If his letters speak true, we are to restore the place into a fortified outpost capable of quartering the grand army from the mainland—some hundred thousand men. They’re already assembling by the thousands at Storm’s End.”

Mysaria’s brow furrowed deeper. “For what?”

Luthor Sand offered a wry smile. “For war, my lady. What else? I’m but a soldier. I ask no questions if the prince demands otherwise.”

She gave a small sniff of amusement, though the confusion in her chest only grew. The city around them seemed uneasy, the tension near-palpable. Targaryen banners flapped above the harbor, but even the local children watched from the alleys, crouched behind barrels and stacked crates, faces full of resentful caution.

“Pentos has not embraced your arrival, I take?” Mysaria said, letting her gaze settle on the gang of teenage boys closest to them.

The Marshal’s answering tone was flat. “Half the city would gut us both, given half a chance. They surrendered before starvation set in, but few enjoy living under foreign rule. There’ve been riots, sabotage, and assassination attempts. We’ve cornered a handful of rebels in the old wards just last night, and more slip through the cracks. Nothing my men can’t stamp out. Still, this isn’t Lys. These Pentoshi are soft from their ledgers and pleasure-houses, but there are plenty here who remember how to bleed a man.”

A gust of wind swept the harbor, stirring the red cloaks across the docks. Mysaria tilted her head, noticing a dark shape overhead—a dragon winging across the brightening sky. The beast dipped once, tail lashing as if scenting the air. She barely recognized the silhouette: dark, smaller than Vhagar, larger than tessarion.

“That’s Sheepstealer,” the Marshal said, following her gaze. “Lady Nettles flies her patrols about this hour. Never missed a day since she arrived.”

Before Mysaria could reply, she glimpsed sudden movement near the Marshal’s retinue. A Red Cloak guard broke from the group, moving fast, low to the ground.. She heard a hiss of steel on leather—a drawn sword. Steel gleaming. Instinct prickled along her spine, and she froze, her body seizing with the old, hard-won instinct of prey. The Marshal shouted — too late. The other guards lunged, but the assassin was already three paces away.

Beneath his helm, she caught only a flash of pale eyes and twisted lips. The assassin’s blade gleamed, upraised. Then came a dull thrum—an arrow loosed somewhere behind them.

The shaft took the Faceless Man in the forehead, piercing flesh, lodging deep. He dropped at her feet like a ragdoll. Blood spattered across the stones. Mysaria’s breath caught—she realized she hadn’t even screamed.

Chaos burst forth. Soldiers rushed forward, swords drawn, scouring the crowd for more threats. The Marshal grabbed Mysaria firmly, hustling her away from the pier. “My lady,” Marshal Sand breathed, half-apology, half-command. “We have to get you off the streets.”

She nodded numbly, glancing back the way they’d come. In that fleeting moment, she spotted a lone figure on the upper deck of a building. Bow in hand—long, slender, and dark as iron. As bone. Dragonbone. He caught her eyes once, then vanished behind a row of clay-tiled roofs. She knew what she had seen: a Speaker, one of the prince’s shadows.

Her heart hammered as she ducked behind a wine-seller’s stall and into the relative safety of a colonnade. Behind her, the harbor roiled with alarm, the assassin’s corpse still bleeding into the dusty street.