News of Lys's fall and the thorough purge that followed swept through every Free City on Essos that still remained independent. None was more shaken than Braavos, which plunged into a state of unprecedented tension.
In a secret chamber deep within the Sealord's Palace, the atmosphere was oppressively heavy. Sealord Ferrego Antaryon sat at the head of the table, stripped of his usual composure.
His eyes rested unseeingly on the table, where a map lay spread out. The red areas marking the Valyrian Freehold's territory had already swallowed half the Free Cities. Lys was the latest to be engulfed, and the red ink covering it had yet to dry, like fresh blood.
Almost all of Braavos's most influential figures sat along both sides of the long table: the naval commander, a representative of the Iron Bank's keyholders, the head of the merchants' guild, the High Priestess of the Moon-Singing Temple, a representative of the House of Black and White who almost never attended such meetings, and representatives of several other factions.
"Gentlemen," Ferego began, his voice sounding somewhat dry. "Lys has fallen as well, and in a single night. That Dragonlord did not even give them a chance to surrender. I think we can no longer pretend to convince ourselves that the Targaryen will be satisfied with his current territory. We must prepare for war."
In truth, his influence in Braavos had originally been limited. There were too many ancient and powerful factions here; even as Sealord, he could not act without regard for their wishes. Viserys's existence had, ironically, made him considerably more important than before. Perhaps he even owed him a word of thanks.
The naval commander spoke then, his voice heavy. "Sealord, though our fleet is the strongest among the Free Cities, forgive my bluntness: it would