The fleet sailed across the sea toward Tyrosh.
The bows cleaved the deep blue water, leaving dozens of white wakes stretching westward in the morning light.
They had settled on this route the night before their departure.
There were two routes to Myr: one led from Lys to a landing on the coast of the Disputed Lands, followed by an overland march.
That meant facing dry hills, possible brigands, and a long, vulnerable supply line.
The other was the route they were sailing now: first from Lys to Tyrosh, then across the Sea of Myr to land directly at Myr Harbor.
Traveling by sea was a better choice than wearing down the legs and morale of their elite infantry on land.
Especially for this fleet. More than seventy percent of its ships and sailors came from the surrendered Tyroshi navy, and they knew every current and hidden reef in these waters.
Of the forces mustered for this expedition, the three thousand men of the Golden Company were seasoned elite infantry, capable of storming fortified positions.
Of the remaining nearly twenty-three thousand, most were sailors and oarsmen from the surrendered Tyroshi navy. They excelled at boarding actions, but not necessarily at sieges.
The rest were hastily recruited young men from Lys. They could serve as auxiliaries and reserves, but if ordered to climb Myr's famously sturdy walls under a rain of arrows, they would likely break at the first clash.
Taking the sea route would at least put the Tyroshi sailors' skills to use, bringing the fleet's heavy hammer down on Myr's doorstep.
Aegon stood at the bow, the sea wind striking his face with its salty dampness.
He recalled the scene before their departure.
Henry had been wrapped in thick bandages, his face pale from blood loss, yet he had