Tyrosh — The Eastern Docks, 232 AC
The harbor of Tyrosh shimmered beneath the noonday sun, awash in colors as vibrant as the city's fabled dyes. Merchant galleys and warships alike bobbed in the sparkling waters, their hulls painted in stripes of blue and green and violet. But none drew more attention than the black-sailed fleet being readied at the private wharf—a fleet not built for trade, but conquest.
Aenys Blackfyre stood on a marble balcony high atop a tower that overlooked the bustling docks. The silk of his robe fluttered lightly in the warm sea breeze. Behind him, the banner of the Black Dragon—black upon red—hung still in the airless shade.
Below, the Tyroshi fleet assembled. Dozens of ships: longships, galleys, and swift corsairs outfitted with scorpions and stocked with soldiers. Painted captains barked orders while slaves loaded barrels and crates of black powder and wildfire. The sea was alive with noise, but Aenys heard none of it.
His eyes were fixed on the horizon, westward. Toward Westeros.
A rustle of parchment broke his reverie. A robed messenger bowed low and offered him a sealed scroll. The wax bore the sigil of House Peake—a castle and three black stars. Aenys broke it and read.
A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he reached the final lines.
"So they pursue," he murmured. "Just as we planned."
He turned from the balcony and walked into the shadowed chamber behind him, voice quiet but thick with anticipation.
"Maekar and his cubs chase ghosts through the Marches, while Brynden—aye, Brynden—sniffs out the trap but cannot yet see the noose."
He raised his goblet, a deep purple wine glinting within, and offered a soft toast to no one in particular.
"It is time… to separate the prey and lunge for the kill."
Behind him, the sea wind carried the creaking of sails and the shouts of captains. The Tyroshi fleet—his fleet—was nearly ready.