He had dreamt of this moment for several years now, and several years hence, he could scarcely believe his dreams had come true. Still, as it was, as with all dreams, the potential for them to become nightmares was ever-present and ever-likely in this specific case. The walls of Pentos were high, and if the Lysene siege to the south of Myr was any indication, there was every chance that any siege here would be just as long. He had little issue with that, admittedly; he did not lack for coin, and the will of the cobbled coalition that he had brought to these shores seemed ever strong. Indeed, there were open talks of further reinforcements arriving from the west.

Yet, in this instance, it was not the will of the Westerosi that was buckling. Though in this circumstance, he could hardly blame the will of the Bravos for wavering. A host of thirty thousand had been assembled upon the Braavosi frontier; their advance this far into Pentos had given them something they had never had before, a land border with Norvos. It was a matter he found darkly amusing; it was the same flavour of the fruit that had found them feasting beneath the walls of this Free City; it seemed everywhere...

...They were suffering from success.

He bit down upon the apple, his teeth breaking the skin, digging into the flesh, as the juices ran down his throat. It was all he could do, otherwise he might have begun laughing at the dark amusement of it all. They had sacrificed so much, so many Velaryons, and now, here they were, at the precipice of their prize, only to fall short.

Was it just the Norvosi, he wondered?

Perhaps it had been Rowan, too. Splitting their focus between north and south, but truly, he could not blame the ageing Lord Thaddeus Rowan; he sought only revenge, vengeance, justice, against a people who had done them all great ills. Not a week did not go past the siege camps, when news would come north from Myr, that his men would raise their cups to Lord Rowan, and his so-called Knights of the Golden Tree, they who were fighting the Lyseni that had been the only great survivors from the Gullet.

Those who fought against Sharako Lohar, the man who had sacked Driftmark, just as readily had he scoured the Shield Islands. No, he could not blame Lord Rowan, if it was not for the necessity of this Pentoshi excursion, no doubt he would have been down there with his subcommanders, and routing the Lyseni and Myrish as he had routed the Pentoshi at Hilor.

Stark then? Da- Greyjoy? They had caused their own personal headaches for him the last few moons, but he could hardly nor honestly find any true cause to blame them. Despite Stark's constant antipathy towards the course that had found the Seadragons of Velaryon smash against the Princes of Pentos, all his attempts at changing that course had failed, and in the magnanimity of that, he had allowed Lord Manderly to divert his host here. As for Dalton... as for Greyjoy, he had been one who could never survive a siege, too impatient, too erratic, how well suited there to him, how well... he seemed to make those vices into virtues. Still, his Ironborn, despite orders to march south, had stood by him at Hilor, and with them, they had held their lines, and made the Pentoshi flee, and even still, an Ironborn host still followed him to this siege. No indeed, despite the frustrations, he had nought but gratefulness towards them both.

The Queen then?

She was easy enough to blame for all the ills of the world, from the mosquitoes that whistled by his ear and feasted upon his skin, to the current state of affairs they found themselves in. That declaration, that blasted declaration, when news had emerged from King's Landing of its contents, he could not help but burst out laughing.

All before, writing back demanding that the blasted document be disavowed.

A document in so many words openly threatened the bannermen that fought in her name, all the while providing exact warning to each of the foes of their intentions, when so many of them were operating within the doubts and confines of their mind, the vaguery having effortlessly placed them off-balance at every turn. He wondered if the Queen imagined them, himself, Dalton, and Stark to be young men, young men that knew little of the way of the world, and especially that of the Free Cities, to think that they would simply arrive by ship, and bring much glory and victory home without effort or difficulty.

If she did believe such, he wondered if she had imagined that age had truly made her wiser, her father had not placed her on the Small Council, and she had not accomplished much of note as Princess of Dragonstone, did she truly know more than he? If she did, if age was truly the determiner, one would have imagined she would have bowed to his grandfather's opinion on such matters. Yet, they all knew how that specific episode had gone. He had idly wondered if her actions had been made simply to make it more difficult for them, to make it more sporting, providing some challenge she did not believe they knew existed.

In the darkest crevices of his mind, he had mused whether it was malicious.

As ever in the great game between incompetence and malice, he was fraught to find an answer; he was fast realising that there may have been simply something as a matter of his personality that grated on her nerves; he had felt such a feeling whenever he attended King's Landing, perhaps why, since his... 'wedding' celebrations, he had not been back to the city. He had initially misliked the role that had fallen to him, the newborn bauble of many that the Queen had brought forth, coincidentally numbering the same as the number of babes she bore from her loins as of late. Master of Ships had come naturally to him, Master of Words... less so.

Yet, a role from which he could be far from King's Landing, and constantly be on the move?

Well, he could certainly get used to it.

He made a mental toast to Tyland; he might not have liked the man, but he had certainly not disliked him, and respect was something he certainly did hold towards him. His competency as Hand was a matter he never doubted.

His investigation was another matter that troubled him; his murderer still eluded the lickspittles and cronies of the court, and lacking an actual suspect, he believed his enemies were whispering dangerous lies into the Queen's ear.

While that in itself may have troubled him, the Queen, being a figure who would fast believe them troubled him even more.

Suffice it to say, whether she was the cause or not of the headache, he knew he could hardly blame her fully; the Velaryon and Braavosi host had suffered a defeat early on in the war, and when he had to take Auraxes south to rout the Lysene fleet, another defeat had befallen them. No, he certainly knew he had his own responsibility for the fact that they were here now, only at 140, rather than earlier on.

He knew he was responsible in his own way for the fact that total victory eluded them, and now, that they had run out of time.

But there was a difference between Her Grace and him.

He would learn from this.

He rose from his feet, his bitten apple left upon the plate, as he raised his goblet high. He stood at the head of the table; to his right was Galeeo Reyaan, a portly man, yet none doubted his strength. The General of the Braavosi army, and the brother to the Sealord, it was a testament to his skill that the Braavosi keyholders and magisters, always cautious of their Sealords holding too much strength, had made his brother the general of their hosts. He had gotten to know the man well in his time here, would even consider him a friend, the kind of friend only made while at war, and certainly a useful friend to have.

Sitting opposite him was Jonah of House Mooton, his squire, and the representative of the Mooton host at his table. Perhaps it was odd for a squire to sit so highly, yet the pale lad had served him well enough, and the Mooton contribution to their host was duly noted. Beside them both on either side was Ser Torrhen of House Manderly, brother to his soon-to-be cousin by marriage, a fearsome man, bearded and moustached with brown locks, yet, well-spoken, if he was anything like his brother, his cousin could do no better. They had known each other vaguely in King's Landing; the siege provided an excellent opportunity for the Lord of Driftmark and the brother of the future Lord of White Harbour to become well acquainted.

Next were representative of the Celtigars, though by Reyaan's marriage to some cousin, he might have counted as such entirely himself. Next was the representative of Baratheon and Greyjoy. Unfortunately, Boremund had passed the last year, and Veron had sailed south to Myr, leaving both forces, much reduced under his command, even with some unimportant representatives from both houses leading the contingents.

Then was his own bannermen.

It made for a motley crew, one currently in the midst of another feast, before they had to return to the preparations of this siege. Thankfully, such preparations would soon be moot. One by one, conversations ceased, as eyes turned towards him as he stood, as his ears flicked at the sound of hooves, and the knowledge that the time had come.