Inside the magnificent Council Chamber, the heart of New Ghis's power, the atmosphere was so heavy it felt solid.
Walls of polished obsidian absorbed what little light there was, leaving only the massive round table of gold and ivory to gleam with a heavy, opulent luster under the bronze lamps imported from Qarth.
Seated around it were the six Masters who held the lifeblood of this military city-state in their hands. A debate that would determine the fate of New Ghis was unfolding.
"Will we be their next target?" Master Max mo Kandaq broke the silence first. His voice carried a dryness he hadn't realized, and his knuckles unconsciously rapped against the exquisitely carved harpy crest on the table, as if seeking stability from the cold touch.
Master Gerhard zo Reznak remained relatively calm, slowly stroking his pointed beard, which had been meticulously groomed with scented oils. "Patience, my old friend. What arrives at our port now is merely a handful of merchant ships flying a trading flag. Those truly terrifying battleships, the ones with the Golden Kraken, are still anchored like sleeping sea beasts back in the Basilisk Isles."
"Gerhard speaks the truth," Master Hodel zo Fazarr interjected. His sharp gaze swept over the others, his voice decisive. "Our intelligence is precise. The only high-ranking Ironborn accompanying this small caravan is Euron Greyjoy himself."
The obese Master Reznak mo Reznak—distant kin to Gerhard—dabbed at the nonexistent sweat on his smooth forehead with a silk handkerchief from Myr. His voice wavered with obvious hesitation. "They haven't... shown any hostility yet. But how exactly should we receive this... uninvited 'guest of honor'?"
"Why complicate things!" Master Lucas zo Hazkar slammed his hands on the table, interrupting forcefully. "Refuse their merchant fleet entry! We cannot let them stroll into our city like hyenas sniffing for carrion, learning our defenses to prepare for the next assault!"
At that moment, Hizdahr zo Loraq, who had been silent as a shadow, slowly raised his eyes. "Refuse?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone clearly. "Is there anyone here who doesn't know that this so-called 'Ice and Fire Trading Company' is the Iron Islands' tentacle reaching for the continent? That it was created by the owner of the Far Reach himself? Refusing his merchant fleet is no different from slapping the Lord of Sea Monsters across the face."
He looked around the table at each face, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Gentlemen, have you considered how, if we refuse, we will withstand the... monstrous wrath of a man who commands deep-sea leviathans and crushed the entire Basilisk archipelago to dust in a matter of weeks?"
The chamber fell into a dead silence. Even the crackle of the oil lamps seemed loud.
Lucas zo Hazkar's face changed color several times. His lips moved soundlessly before he finally asked, grudgingly, "Then... in your opinion, what should we do?"
Hizdahr zo Loraq leaned back into the shadows. "Until his true intentions are clear, we maintain a facade of impeccable politeness. We give him a grand, formal welcome befitting his status and present gifts that match his power. At the very least, let us not be the fools who actively provoke the fire that could burn New Ghis to ash."
Max mo Kandaq took a deep breath, as if making up his mind, and slapped the table hard. "So be it! We do not provoke. But at the grand welcoming ceremony, we must ensure they see our Unsullied, our Iron Legions, and our war elephants! Let them understand that New Ghis is nothing like that rabble in the Basilisk Isles!"
The Masters nodded in unison. The oppressive atmosphere lifted slightly as they began to discuss the details of the ceremony in low voices—and, more importantly, the weight of the gift necessary to appease the maritime beast knocking at their door without losing their own dignity.
---
Euron Greyjoy tapped his knuckles against the railing of the Tide, the flagship of the Ice and Fire Trading Company. The salty breeze whipped his long black hair as his eye gazed toward the misty south.
New Ghis. That fat prey had long been marked in crimson on Euron's map of ambition. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about swallowing it whole; on the contrary, the thought popped up often, especially now that he was en route.
But the wealthy coast of Slaver's Bay was not a soft underbelly that could be easily ripped open.
New Ghis was not an isolated island. It was bound by gold and chains into an unbreakable alliance with the three great cities of Slaver's Bay—Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. They were a multi-headed hydra; strike one, and you woke the other three.
Battle formations of ten thousand Unsullied, silent as rocks and sharp as razors. War elephants draped in colorful tapestries, their legs like pillars shaking the earth, capable of trampling the stoutest lines. Mercenary companies that circled like vultures, sniffing out gold and carrion. And the Iron Legions of New Ghis itself, well-equipped and disciplined.
Cracking this hard nut would not be easy.
New Ghis and its allies were like a hedgehog armored in gold and steel, curled up on the warm sands of the south.
Dealing with them was inevitable.
When that time came, it would be a war that dyed Slaver's Bay red, a price so heavy the gods themselves would choke. But it required the right timing.
For now...
Euron's thoughts were like a compass needle drawn by a magnet, pointing steadfastly further east, to the land shrouded in the mists of spice, magic, and endless wealth—Qarth.
The legendary city, the "Queen of Cities." Behind its triple walls lay wealth that made gods jealous, the shade-of-the-evening that promised eternal youth, and ancient, potent secrets.
On Euron's scales, the value of Qarth far outweighed New Ghis.
Moreover, Euron had whispered a promise in Lysa's ear—a promise of a crown as the Queen of Qarth. That wasn't empty pillow talk; it was part of his contract, a key piece in his ambition.
New Ghis represented military power and the hegemony of slavery—it was hard, realistic power. Qarth represented the gateway to the vast eastern world, a lever to move the known world... and Euron's commitment to Lysa.
---
Five days of sailing.
When the gloomy silhouette finally emerged on the distant horizon, the sailors on deck grinned—New Ghis, at last.
The island rose like a black nightmare from the seabed, formed of jagged volcanic rock. Even from a distance, a sense of desolate silence hit them in the face.
As the ship drew closer, the details became clear—the terrain was rugged and rocky, as if beaten repeatedly by a giant's warhammer. The soil was a deathly gray-white, like bone ash burned by fire and worn by time.
It was rumored that a maester had once tested the soil, finding it saturated with salt, sulfur, and a strange bone powder. He had whispered that this might be the malicious residue of the curse that fell when the Old Empire of Ghis collapsed, a poison that made the land reject most life.
Beneath the waters surrounding the island, reefs hid like fangs, silently warning intruders.
The only entrance was the natural harbor on the eastern side, carefully exploited by the builders. It wasn't large, but thanks to the volcanic structure, the water was deep enough to accommodate massive warships.
As the prow plowed into the relatively calm waters of the bay, the full view of New Ghis was laid bare.
The hot, humid air wrapped around everyone like a wet blanket, carrying the pungent smell of sulfur mixed with sea salt.
Vegetation was sparse. Only drought-resistant cacti stood like silent sentinels, with clumps of listless scrub dotting the cracks in the rocks. The only thing that could be called soft was a small patch of black sand beach under the leeward cliffs, the main activity area for the island's residents, scattered with crude shacks.
The construction of New Ghis followed the cold military traditions of the Old Empire strictly.
The layout was compact and efficient, with no room for comfort or aesthetics. The heart of everything was the harbor before them and the barracks and training grounds visible in the distance. A low but exceptionally sturdy black wall encircled the city tightly. It felt less like a city and more like a massive military fortress with a singular purpose.
Stone piers extended from the shore like stiff arms, flanked by sturdy warehouses filled with grain, weapons, and siege equipment.
By the docks, a few crude taverns and inns stood with doors wide open, like dormant stone monsters waiting for passing merchants and mercenaries to come in and squander their silver.
Above all these structures, a flag lazily fluttered in the sullen breeze—the Harpy embroidered on faded red cloth, the terrifying symbol of the Old Empire of Ghis.
The silhouette of her claws and wings remained sharp, as if reminding everyone who arrived here who truly dictated the laws of this cursed land.