Chapter 49: Essos Trade
The salty wind of Essos carried the scent of blood and steel as Artos Stark stood atop a small rise overlooking the disputed territory. He could see from far that the Unsullied held their positions with the mechanical precision for which they were infamous throughout the Known World. Eight hundred strong, clad in ornate bronze armor that caught the morning sun, their shields locked in perfect formation. Against them stood Artos's force—four hundred and fifty hardened Northern warriors and sellswords, battle-tested but outnumbered nearly two to one.Artos smiled. For the first time since leaving Winterfell, he felt truly alive.
War. That was the only trade he'd ever truly understood. Not politics, not compromise, not the careful calculation of lords and ladies. Just the pure clarity of combat—the moment when everything else fell away and all that remained was the struggle between life and death.
Ronan, his merchant contact here in Essos, stood beside him with visible anxiety etched across his weathered face. The man was good at commerce—exceptional, even—but he was no soldier. His nervousness manifested in the way he kept shifting his weight, his fingers drumming against his leg.
"Are you certain about this, Commander?" Ronan asked, though they both knew the answer. "I mean... they're Unsullied. Nobody wants to fight them. That's exactly why they command such high prices as mercenaries. And we're outnumbered—four hundred and fifty against eight hundred. Outnumbered nearly two to one, and they're defending fortified positions. It's madness."
Artos turned to face his merchant partner, and there was something unsettling in his smile—something that suggested he'd found exactly what he'd been searching for ever since arriving in Essos."Relax, Ronan. This isn't the first time we've fought outnumbered odds. We've done it before and won." He gestured toward the Unsullied below. "They're trained and disciplined, aye, but they're still men. And men die just the same whether they wear bronze or steel. You chop off their head, and they bleed out like any other bastard."
Ronan looked at the assembled soldiers—Artos's personal guard, the veterans he'd brought from White Harbour, the sellswords they'd hired in Lys. They were confident, almost eager. When they looked at Artos, they saw victory incarnate. The Demon Wolf who had carved through rebellion and lived to tell about it. Under such a commander, what did mere numbers matter?
"Well, I suppose I should leave for the camp," Ronan said, though reluctance was clear in his voice. "You'll be conducting the surprise assault?"
"Aye. Better this way," Artos confirmed. "We move fast, strike hard, and finish it before they can organize a proper defense. Having civilians in the middle of that chaos would only slow us down. You're more valuable counting coins than bleeding on a battlefield."
Ronan nodded, understanding the logic even if he didn't particularly like being excluded from the action. As he turned to leave, his mind drifted back to how they'd ended up in this situation in the first place.
Month back , in Ronan's office in Lys
Ronan had been going over ledgers, tallying profits from the initial Northern goods they'd begun trading through White Harbour, when an old friend had arrived unannounced. R'lah was a man of many connections and few scruples—exactly the sort of contact every merchant in Essos needed. But R'lah rarely traveled in recent years, and the fact that he had made the journey personally suggested something significant.
"R'lah! My old friend!" Ronan had greeted him warmly. "How are your balls, after last time? I remember you took quite the kick from that Man whose wife you were fucking."R'lah had laughed, a sound like gravel in a barrel.
"Still attached where they should be, thanks for asking. You're as crude as ever, I see."
"Travel does that to a man. But seriously, what brings you here?" Ronan had gestured to a chair. "I know you hate traveling. Someone must be paying you a considerable amount to drag yourself across half of Essos."
"Considerable is one word for it," R'lah had replied, his eyes gleaming with the particular hunger of a man who'd caught the scent of serious coin. "The bone is too big and too dangerous for me to ignore, my friend. Which is exactly why I came here personally."
Artos had been present in the office, silently observing the two men as they renewed their acquaintance. Ronan had gestured to indicate his Northern partner.
"Don't worry about him," Ronan had said. "He's a partner in the business. You can speak freely."
"If you vouch for him," R'lah had said, and Ronan had given his assurance immediately.
"So what's this great opportunity?" Ronan had asked, leaning forward with the intense focus of a merchant scenting profit.
"It's coming from Lys," R'lah had explained. "You know about the Triarchy conflicts, yes? Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh constantly squabbling over dominion?"
"Everyone knows about it. It's been grinding on for decades with no clear resolution."
"Well, Lys has decided to tip the scales," R'lah had continued. "They want to reclaim certain territories from Myr—specifically, a valuable castle and the lands surrounding it. Those lands control critical trade routes through the region. The problem is that Myr hired Unsullied to defend the position. Expensive, but effective."
Ronan had felt his enthusiasm deflate slightly. "So it's a mercenary matter. That's not particularly interesting, R'lah. The Essos is full of desperate soldiers looking for work. You could find a competent army commander anywhere. Why come to me specifically?"
"Because war and commerce aren't separate things here in Essos—they're intertwined," R'lah had replied with the confidence of a man stating obvious truth. "And this particular conflict comes with an extraordinary opportunity. Lys is willing to offer something more than just gold. They want to formalize trade relationships with successful partners. Specifically, they're willing to share in their aphrodisiac trade."
That had caught everyone's attention. The Lysene aphrodisiacs were legendary throughout the realm—prized in every whorehouse from Casterly Rock to White Harbor, traded at premium prices everywhere they appeared.
"It's not just any trade opportunity either," R'lah had continued, warming to his subject. "Establish yourself as the merchant who secured Lys victory, and you don't just get aphrodisiacs. You get preferential access to their entire spice trade, their wines, their exotic goods. You could dominate northern markets or even Westoros market within a season. This is the sort of opportunity that builds merchant dynasties, Ronan."
Artos had leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes gleaming with something that wasn't quite interest but wasn't quite disinterest either. The mention of Unsullied had clearly caught his attention.
"But here's the catch," R'lah had concluded. "They need a commander who isn't afraid to face Unsullied directly. Someone with actual experience in warfare. Everyone in Essos fears them, and rightly so. They're nearly unbeatable. You need to find someone exceptional."
Ronan had hesitated, recognizing the weight of what was being proposed. "It's a magnificent opportunity, R'lah, truly. But it's... I'm a merchant, not a military strategist. Taking on something this significant—"
"We can do it," Artos had interrupted, his voice cutting through Ronan's doubt like steel through silk. "We have an army. And I know how to use one."
Ronan had looked at his Northern partner with a mixture of concern and recognition. He'd come to understand Artos in their time together in Essos. The man was restless, always searching for something, always seeming to find himself whenever battle was imminent. Declining this opportunity would be fighting against Artos's very nature.
"Are you certain?" Ronan had asked, though he already knew the answer.
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Back on the battlefield
Artos looked out at his assembled force, seeing the eagerness in their faces. These men—many of them survivors of the Bloody Dance, hardened killers who had followed him through the rebellion—craved the simplicity that only war could provide. Like him, they had discovered in combat something that civilian life could never offer. Purpose. Clarity. The knowledge that their skills mattered absolutely.
Waymar Manderly approached on horseback, his armor gleaming. The young knight had proven himself capable in Bloody Dance, and had thrown himself into the campaign with the fervor of a man seeking to prove his worth."The men are ready, Commander," Waymar reported. "They're eager to move."
Artos nodded, feeling the familiar surge of predatory anticipation that preceded battle. "Then we move now, while the morning sun is in their eyes. Strike hard, strike fast, and give them no opportunity to organize a response. The Unsullied are disciplined, but they're still men. Men break when they're surprised and overwhelmed."He looked at the eight hundred bronze-clad figures below, ranked in their perfect formations, and smiled again.
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