Thankfully, it might seem that no Deeper Ones existed to take belated revenge for the Deep Ones.
If anything, it would seem that those local green n were just working hard to try and turn their complexions bronze.
To honor their new god... which was just weird all around.
As for the Secret City, that was becoming not so secret to anybody else... it would seem that it remained sort-of secretive still.
To the clueless Jogos Nhai, at least. For those topheads didn't seem to bother with one dead band of them or so stolen zorses.
Or maybe they didn't know who to bla... it's not like he left a calling card anyways.
Also, it would seem that demons of Mossovy weren't ones for retaliation as well... so Nefer was resting easy in its fog and tall cliffs of chalk.
Maintaining the fact that mostly everyone knew it was there and knew where to look... but not anyone can just see and touch it.
Like titties. Hence, Nefer Titty.
And at the very least, that narrowed the places that Ronan had to revisit. And the enemy camps he had to intrude himself into.
Granted, there was also the issue of ti that he had to take into account.
Which is not just a matter of having enough prep ti... but the precarious ti period he has. With dear Rhaenyra expecting as it is.
Which involved a birth he didn't want to miss... and really highlighted how much of an inconvenience these acts of aggression are.
A headache that made him massage his temples... for quite so while.
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In the anti... a big man nad Racallio Ryndoon twirled his beard as he stood upon a Tyroshi ship deck.
Making orange and purple streaks wound about his fingers like ribbons of war.
The sa orange and purple that his hair was also colored with. Just because he liked the mix of them.
And as the wind off the Narrow Sea carried salt and promise in equal asure. He mused on how this was his charge now, and he really ant to savor it.
Even when he had been given more than a re task. He had been given an occupation.
The Stepstones were to be taken again... cleared, garrisoned, and made loud with the oars and boots of the Three Cities.
But that was only the beginning. The Archon and the magisters had spoken carefully, as they always did, yet their aning was plain enough.
If the western folk proved weak, their shores would burn just as well as their islands. A lesson delivered once is forgotten. A lesson delivered twice is rembered.
He was also to erase the blight that Drahar brought upon them. Retake the montum they had after collectively repelling Volantis back.
And they made sure that Racallio’s host was a fine one, better than the last that had bled itself dry in caves and crab pits.
The n of Myr were the first part of it... disciplined, square-shouldered soldiers with long spears and heavier shields than sailors liked.
They marched well and should hold ground well, even when they complained constantly.
Ryndoon liked them for it. n who complained lived longer.
From Lys ca lighter troops... archers, crossbown, and swordsn in bright mail.
They were prettier than they were loyal, but coin kept them steady, and Lysene captains knew ships better than most.
They would take to the waves, not the ground, and Ryndoon would see them rewarded accordingly.
While his own countryn of Tyrosh ford the spine of the force. Sailors and warriors both, loud-voiced and brightly dressed, quick to laugh and quicker to kill.
The lot of them followed Ryndoon not because of banners or vows, but because he had never yet led them where plunder did not follow.
And then there were the ships... like the one he stood at.
War galleys with rams painted red. Heavier dromonds for command and supply. Swift cutters ant for scouting and raiding.
Enough hulls to darken a narrow horizon. Enough oars to churn the sea white.
With all of these, the Stepstones would fall. Of that he had little doubt. Especially when it was haughtily unmanned.
What concerned him was what ca after.
The westerners of Westeros would not sit idle forever. And there was one among them who had already proven troubleso.
The Bloodied and Brutal Bronze was what they whispered about the Royce after his supposed domination feat of Bloodstone.
A knight who fought like a butcher on his loneso. The one who had driven n screaming from caves ant to shelter them from dragons. The one who had put the last Triarchy pawn into quite the execution.
Frankly, Racallio did not know what to make of all of that. For such an unrealness was just not real... hopefully.
So, he could only prepare for when the fabled man does co.
Which should still be so while.
For he was told that the Bronze’s princess-wife was heavy with child, and such things anchored most n.
And that might buy them ample enough ti.
Ti Racallion intended to spend well.
However... his thoughts, as they often did, wandered where they pleased.
He found himself wondering how the Targaryen princess would look in Tyroshi silks, swollen with child and fury both.
He smiled at the thought of her striking him, the way Racallio's many wives did when he asked nicely.
Ah, but the release of the child from the belly is bound to ruin the fun. He had always thought so.
Just as he liked kittens well enough, but cats soon grew tireso. A pregnant princess was a delight... but a squalling babe, far less so.
Still, fantasies were harmless things, and Racallio was one to indulge in them.
Maybe he could even push the full force of their might to attack that aforentioned Dragonstone directly.
Catching and overwhelming that bronzen threat right away. With the large-bellied princess as his prize.
Then again, Racallio still had to ponder so more on that.
Perhaps after his plentiful troops finally settled on the Stepstones and fortified it.
With that said, he felt that he should also loosen the reins of his n a little.
To remind them that this upcoming venture was not all blood and orders.
So, perhaps he would don perfu again, don a dress, and beco soone else for every evening.
Ah yes... to act like a whore once again... and have a different kind of fun with his subordinates.
How he just can't help but look forward to it.
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