When the ship reached shore, there was no dock.
There was only a charred stretch of mudflats, plowed over time and again by war.
Rotting shipwrecks lay half-buried in the silt, their jagged keels exposed.
The distant hills stood bare. Their trees had long since been felled to build camps or burned for firewood, leaving only blackened stumps, like scars left by festering sores on the earth.
Aegon stepped onto the land, his boots sinking into the soft black mud.
The air was thick with lingering smoke, the smell of rust, and a faint, sickly sweetness of decay.
The Disputed Lands.
This narrow strip of land between Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys had been soaked in blood over and over again.
One city's flag flew today, another's emblem replaced it tomorrow, yet the bones beneath those banners never grew fewer.
Jon Connington came to his side, his gaze sweeping over the desolate surroundings.
"Your Highness, the Golden Company's main camp lies at the easternmost edge of the Disputed Lands. The fastest way to reach it is to cross straight through."
Aegon said nothing, merely looking inland.
Scorched earth stretched to the horizon. A few wisps of black smoke rose beyond the distant hills, whether from cooking fires or another battle that had just burned itself out, he could not tell.
Thoughts churned in his mind.
Sa Melis had departed three days before them. By now, she should have finished her diplomatic visit to Tyrosh. He wondered how it had gone.
Truthfully, he held little hope.
He did not believe those greedy vultures would pass up Lys, a seemingly succulent piece of meat fresh from upheaval.
Tyrosh, Myr, even distant Volantis were probably calculating how much they could gain from this turn of events.
Still, they had to make an approach to