Tyrosh's harbor had been packed with ships until it became a landmass of iron and timber.
Oared warships lay silently at their moorings, their towering sides almost blocking out half the sky.
Masts rose like a forest. Black sails hung low, the enormous Three-Headed Red Dragon emblazoned on them swelling gently in the briny wind, as though ready to take flight at any moment.
On the piers, laborers shouted in rhythm as they carried the last sacks of grain, crates of arrows, bundles of spear shafts, and timber for hull repairs aboard the ships.
The air smelled of the sea, tar, freshly sawn wood, and the restless anticipation of a long voyage.
The city had become a vast bridgehead.
Supplies from Lys and the output of Myr's workshops all converged here, becoming armor, swords, arrows, and provisions packed into the holds of ships soon to sail west.
The three cities' former garrison duties had been handed over entirely to the newly trained Three-City Garrison, under Carl's unified command.
Freed of those duties, the main fighting forces had now all gathered in Tyrosh.
Outside the city, three enormous military camps formed a triangle, sheltering Tyrosh at their center.
The northern camp was a sea of gold: the Golden Company's quarters. Its tents stood in rows so straight they might have been measured with a ruler, its roads were clean, and its sentries stood ramrod straight in gleaming armor. Sunlight shone on the soldiers' golden surcoats and cloaks, making them look like flowing molten gold from a distance.
Only steady marching, crisp sword strokes, and officers' short, forceful commands came from the training grounds, efficient and cold. Ten thousand battle-hardened veterans silently sharpened their fangs.
The western camp was a sea of deep red: the Blood Oath Band's quarters. The sounds here