Night had completely swallowed the port of Volantis.
Aboard Silence, moored at the dock, torchlight cast wavering shadows across the deck.
Aegon stood at the bow, already clad in his black, metallic Valyrian steel armor.
A dark red cloak was fastened to his left shoulder with an iron clasp, its hem stirring gently in the damp, salty night breeze.
Black and red.
The colors of House Targaryen.
He slowly drew the longsword at his waist, carefully selected from the pile of Ironborn corpses.
Its blade was heavier, its edge finely honed, gleaming cold and hard in the firelight.
He turned his wrist slightly, testing the grip and balance. Only when he was satisfied did he steadily slide it back into its sheath with a clang.
The clear scrape of metal rang out distinctly in the quiet night.
Behind him, on the deck and the dock, more than fifty mercenaries stood ready to depart.
They had donned Plate Armor and mail stripped from the Ironborn and Corlyon's guards, then given a cursory cleaning.
Some of the armor fit the shorter or taller mercenaries poorly, but compared with their former ragged leather armor-or no armor at all-the protection was worlds apart.
Iron helmets covered their heads, shields rested in their hands, and swords and blades hung at their waists, with bows and crossbows on their backs.
Under the moonlight and torchlight, a forest of steel stood in silence, broken only by the occasional faint clink of armor and restrained breathing.
The air smelled of rust and grease, charged with the restless anticipation of bloodshed.
Aegon raised his head and looked toward the night sky above the harbor, stained dark red by the city's lights.
The stars were hidden. It was a good time to act.
"Your Highness, everything is ready." A mercenary's