Over the years, Viserys had never filled the remaining vacancies in the Kingsguard.
The reason was simple.
With the establishment of the Royal Guard and the continued growth of the military academy, the Kingsguard's traditional role as the king's corps of elite officers—or, more accurately, his military council—had gradually diminished.
Though the order was meant to have seven knights, only four remained.
Arthur.
Gerold.
Oswell.
Willem.
After Arthur pushed the two princes back into their seats, Oswell and the others also rose to their feet.
Two rivers.
Four chain towers.
One knight for each tower.
"Your Grace," Gerold said firmly as captain of the Kingsguard, "the chain towers cannot be allowed to fall."
"They will become the noose around our enemy's neck."
"Entrust them to us."
The four knights stood shoulder to shoulder like an unbreakable wall.
Every minister present looked upon them with admiration.
Rhaella, in particular, found herself remembering the difficult days on Dragonstone.
It had been these very men who had stood beside House Targaryen through its darkest hour.
Viserys knew that only by placing this mission in their hands could he truly set his mind at ease.
"My lords," he said solemnly, "if that is your wish..."
"Then I place this chain—the one that will strangle our enemies—into your keeping."
Nothing more needed to be said.
Once the defenders of the chain towers had been chosen, the rest of the deployment became much simpler.
Each tower would be protected by three hundred heavily armored infantry and two hundred longbowmen.
Every one of them had been carefully selected from military noble families.
Their discipline, courage, and combat ability were beyond question.
After discussing the finer details of the operation with Tyrion and confirming that nothing significant had been overlooked, the council shifted its attention to another battlefield.
The Goosefeather Hills in the north.
There they would face the combined armies of Westeros and Braavos.
Everyone understood one thing.
Repeating the massacre of Khal Drogo's horde with a handful of longbowmen was no longer possible.
Braavos had already developed tactics specifically designed to counter Viserys's archers.
Shield wagons.
Ranks of spearmen.
They would steadily advance under cover until they reached bow range.
The formation sacrificed mobility. But with the enormous size of their army, that hardly mattered.
Tyrion spoke once again.
"At sea, we can use fire to overcome superior numbers.
But on open ground... There is no substitute for soldiers.
Our total strength is roughly one hundred and forty to one hundred and fifty thousand men.
Even if the enemy ignores Pentos entirely, we must still station thirty to fifty thousand troops there.
Once those men are committed... Gohor itself will require at least the same number to defend it."
He paused before placing his short finger upon Norvos on the map.
"And don't forget this.
If we're to hold back the armies of Norvos and Qohor, we'll need another twenty thousand soldiers.
When everything is added together... We may have fewer than fifty thousand men left to fight Robert.
And Robert will be bringing nearly two hundred thousand."
The enormous disparity weighed heavily upon the room.
Even Rhaella, who knew little of warfare, understood arithmetic.
From her perspective... She simply could not imagine how such a battle could be won.
"If only our dragons were as large as the Black Dread," Aegon whispered quietly to Aemon.
Had House Targaryen possessed dragons the size of Aegon the Conqueror's, the difference in numbers would hardly have mattered.
Viserys still held the essence equivalent to roughly forty thousand soldiers.
The reason he had not transferred all of it into the dragons already was simple: He intended to reveal that trump card only when the moment was right.
Even so...
He doubted forty thousand essence would be enough to mature them into monsters like the Black Dread.
It would, however, produce a tremendous leap in both size and combat ability.
At that moment, the Old Crab, serving as Master of Coin, unexpectedly spoke.
"We still have a chance.
If the fire attack succeeds, the destruction of their fleet will immediately free enormous numbers of our soldiers.
They can reinforce the northern front."
Clinton shook his head.
"No.
We must prepare for the worst. If the fire attack fails... We withdraw. And defend Gohor."
Having once seen victory snatched away through an unexpected reversal, Clinton had become almost obsessive about preparing for the worst possible outcome.
"Defending Gohor isn't an unacceptable option. We've spent years storing grain."
He turned toward Viserys.
Ever since learning of the Long Night, Viserys had insisted upon building enormous grain reserves throughout Gohor.
Even in lands capable of producing two or three harvests each year, he continued spending vast sums of royal revenue purchasing surplus grain from ordinary farmers.
His policies had even driven up grain prices across neighboring regions.
It was no exaggeration to say that Gohor possessed enough staple grain to feed one hundred thousand people for twenty years.
And that was only grain.
Once salted and dried provisions were included... The reserves became even greater.
If the war descended into a prolonged stalemate, it would ultimately be the so-called coalition of the world that would be forced to retreat.
Clinton's explanation gradually restored everyone's confidence.
He even took the opportunity to remind the council that all these preparations had been Viserys's foresight, prompting yet another round of praise for the young king.
The renewed optimism did not last long.
The doors to the war chamber burst open.
Three young officers had been attacked. More than a dozen soldiers had died.
In exchange...
Only a single Faceless Man had been captured alive.
The victims were Monford Velaryon. Monford's elder bastard brother. And the son of Illyrio.
Viserys had taken extraordinary precautions to protect his own family.
The passwords used by the Dragon Palace guards changed three times every day.
He had even ordered his relatives to avoid hiring new servants during this dangerous period and to handle as much as possible themselves.
Unable to penetrate those defenses, the Faceless Men had shifted their attention toward others carrying Targaryen blood.
The Velaryons.
Those descended from the Blackfyre line.
Or perhaps... They had always intended to target them as well.
Monford and his bastard brother had both been raised for years under Rhaella's care.
Their deaths struck her deeply.
As for Illyrio's son...
Further investigation revealed that his death had been nothing more than unfortunate coincidence.
The reputation of the Faceless Men inspired fear throughout the world.
But once one had actually been captured... They no longer seemed nearly so terrifying.
The moment Viserys received the report, he immediately ended the war council.
He intended to meet this Faceless Man himself.
Or more precisely... He intended to kill him personally and discover exactly what was happening.
It seemed every enemy his men captured shared the same final wish.
Before dying, they all wanted to look him in the eye and deliver one last arrogant speech.
It had been that way ever since the band of so-called sea raiders he had captured years ago.
Since they all seemed to want the opportunity... Viserys was perfectly willing to grant it.
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