"What? Aren't we attacking Tyrosh or Myr?" Naeiso's eyes widened. "How could we possibly manage it from so far away?"
"No." Malaquo shook his head. "We already lost our war in the Century of Blood. Now, only by killing the chief culprit can we win swiftly. Once Storm is dead, every wave will fall silent."
"But this is too risky, Malaquo. With such a great distance involved, why not use our old tactics, splitting our naval and land forces for a joint assault on Tyrosh, Myr, and the Disputed Lands first?"
"Under ordinary circumstances, it would naturally be impossible. But the will of the gods will give our fleet favorable winds and currents." A Red Priest appeared behind Malaquo. He was short and fat, with prominent features and skin as white as milk. Flame tattoos covered his cheeks, chin, and bald head.
"A Red Priest." Naeiso was shocked. "This man actually disobeys Benerro's orders?"
"Honored Archon, I am Vachiro, an exiled Red Cloaks Priest. The Weeping Blood Sword soars high in the heavens, but everyone interprets the Red God's prophecy differently," Vachiro said. "Storm is no savior, but a tyrant who would blaspheme against the gods and make them bow to him. You and I both know that the Baratheons carry Durrandon blood, and Durran was a blasphemer."
"Bring him up," Vachiro shouted.
Naeiso watched dumbfounded as flames rose around a half-naked man bound to a ship's post.
"What is going on?" Naeiso asked.
"These are gifts we offer the gods in exchange for a north wind to speed us onward, Lord Archon," Vachiro said.
"Who is this man?" Naeiso asked curiously, watching the wretch scream in agony in the fire.
Vachiro gave a mysterious smile. "He was originally just an unremarkable slave, but he was also the bastard of