Lys.
A wealthy Free City, a cradle of perfume and silk, a paradise of lust and gold.
It produced the finest lace, the sweetest mead, the women most skilled at pleasing men, and the most calculating merchants.
Warriors alone were something it did not produce.
The defenders' miserable performance the night before was proof enough.
They might squander their energy at banquets and in bed, but when faced with swords, the softness in their bones lay bare.
Recruit soldiers here? A flock of sheep whose legs went weak at a horn's blast, who vomited at the sight of blood. Putting armor on them would only waste steel.
Aegon's fingers unconsciously rubbed the cold stone windowsill.
News that Lys had changed hands had been suppressed, but how long could it stay hidden? Tyrosh, Myr, even Volantis-those greedy vultures would catch the scent sooner or later.
Blockaded shipping lanes, extortion, even outright attacks.
Of course, he could command King Ghidorah to burn cities and destroy fleets with overwhelming Dragon Aura.
But then what?
If I handle everything myself, rushing from one crisis to another, how am I any different from a sharper sword, a stronger hired thug?
He did not want a throne for one man alone.
He wanted the Iron Throne of the Targaryen Dynasty.
He needed an army.
A ready-made, organized army that had seen blood and knew how to kill.
An army to conquer for him, to hold his lands, to turn his will into a torrent sweeping across the earth.
The Golden Company.
An army of ten thousand that marched under his banner yet served someone else.
A flicker of cold mockery passed through the depths of Aegon's violet eyes.
According to Sa Melis's intelligence, the remaining Blackfyre faction officers within the Golden Company were behind its allegiance