Inside the Golden Company's makeshift command tent, a crude map lay spread beneath the candlelight, ink tracing the contours of coastlines and scorched earth.
Jon Connington pressed his finger hard against Lys, his brow furrowed into a deep crease.
"Your Highness, this plan is far too risky."
His voice was hoarse from days of marching, but every word was clearly enunciated.
"Lys is our foundation. We cannot afford to lose it."
"If over ten thousand men cross the sea to attack Tyrosh, there is no telling how long it will take. If Lys falls in the meantime..."
He raised his eyes to Aegon across the table, the most fundamental fear of a soldier in his gaze.
"We will have no home to return to."
Aegon's gaze never left the map.
Candlelight cast flickering points of light in his violet eyes, but could not disturb their deep, pool-like calm.
"Rushing to relieve Lys would leave us running ourselves ragged."
His voice was quiet, yet it had an edge that cut through hesitation.
"Making one city's safety depend on another army's marching speed and the outcome of another battle at sea-that is the real gamble."
His fingertip left Lys, traced a cold arc, and landed precisely on the mark representing Tyrosh.
"But if we take this place," he tapped the mark lightly, as though sealing some irrevocable fate, "everything changes."
Jon's breathing caught almost imperceptibly.
Aegon looked up at him, his gaze like a tempered blade. "Reacting to an attack is fighting fires. Take Tyrosh, and we become the hand that holds the blade."
"Whoever holds the blade makes the rules. Whoever holds it decides... who lives and who dies."
A brief silence fell over the tent.
Only the faint voices and neighing horses from the distant camp remained, along with the