The wind blew in from the Narrow Sea, carrying the tang of salt and gunpowder smoke.
In the morning light, a moving shadow covered the waters outside Myr Harbor.
It was not a storm cloud, but sails... hundreds of sails, forming a dark arc that pressed slowly and inexorably toward the coast.
At the top of every ship's mast, the same banner snapped in the wind.
A black field, a red three-headed dragon, claws and fangs bared.
The Myrish defenders on the walls wore tense expressions.
They had seen fleets before.
The red tiger-and-elephant sails of Volantis, the blade banners of Tyrosh, the purple warships of Braavos... but never a formation like this.
There were no war drums, no horns, only the monotonous sound of oars cutting through seawater and the moan of sea wind through sails and rigging.
These were familiar Tyroshi oared warships, yet beneath those black-and-red banners, they carried a different kind of menace.
Miloto, the Governor of Myr, stood atop the highest watchtower on the walls, his hand resting on a cold stone merlon, his knuckles white.
Ever since a sentry had spotted the silhouette of the first ship's black sails the night before, he had not closed his eyes.
Defensive preparations had proceeded without pause. Heavy ballistae were pushed onto the walls, incendiary catapults erected in the towers, and bundles of arrows carried up to the battlements.
Now a heavy ballista stood every ten paces along the walls, its arms as thick as a man's legs, its winch-drawn string humming with tension.
The defenders had even managed to equip every soldier with a triple-shot crossbow, while arrows lay in small mountains behind the merlons.
The defenses were virtually airtight.
The Governor of Myr swept his gaze over these fortifications, and the unease in his heart