"Wyverns," Commander Varric spat, pacing the length of the war room like a caged bear. "Fucking flying, fire-breathing lizards the size of longboats. We signed up for a siege, Princess. Not a barbecue."
Tension filled the War Room of the West Tower. The Iron Legion's captains gathered around the map table, their faces set and grim. They were all hardened men, but they understood the odds. Facing flying enemies with ground troops was a losing battle.
Mirabelle stood at the head of the table, studying the map of the Northern Valley. She appeared calm, but her fingers gripped the table's edge tightly.
"How many?" she asked.
"Three legions of infantry," Varric said, counting on his scarred fingers. "And the Vanguard...fifty wyvern riders. Emperor Valdemar leads them. They call him the 'Scourge of the North' because he leaves nothing but scorched earth."
"Fifty," Mirabelle repeated.
"We have crossbows," one of the captains said, his voice uncertain. "If they fly low..."
