Year 291 AC. Essos. Slaver's Bay. Astapor.
Narvos walked through the dark passages of the damp dungeons, casting a look of mockery at the accompanying legionaries. Recently assigned to guard the cells, they hadn't yet grown accustomed to the stench of unwashed bodies, the mustiness, and the rats scurrying everywhere. The commander of the Burning Legion's fleet himself was accustomed to such smells and creatures since his childhood in the slums.
He wasn't surrounded by his loyal capos, whom he had raised from the very bottom of the slums, giving them teachers, gold, and fine steel. No, his men, loyal as dogs, were now preparing three of the best war galleys for departure to the Free City of Myr. Viserys Targaryen wished to see his sister by his side, and Narvos would soon personally depart to fetch the lord's sister. Not alone, however, but in the company of Zirarro na Zakloz and a hundred Praetorians. The Lord did not fully trust either Narvos or Veela, though he had relaxed a bit towards them when they took the side of the young Targaryen instead of Maegor the Rebel, as the legionaries had dubbed their former leader.
Finally, they reached the required iron door, covered in rust and some filth, either slime or moss.
"We'll wait for you outside," the Decurion bowed and swung the door open, having first removed the bolt secured with a lock.
Narvos nodded silently, entered the stone box, and illuminated the room with a torch clenched in his hand. The door behind him closed with a creak, slamming loudly as a final punctuation.
"Hah, it's you," the chained prisoner drew out, sounding somewhat disappointed. Maegor looked thoroughly beaten. The silver hair that the Valyrian was so proud of and had kept clean even when he lived in the slums was now gray with dust and filth, matted into a large clump that concealed most of his face with its plastered strands. A loincloth covered only his manhood, leaving his severely emaciated body, covered in purple bruises and burns, perfectly visible. Half his fingernails and toenails were missing, replaced only by raw, mashed flesh, and his entire chest—and Narvos was sure, his back—was covered in thin, long, already scarred cuts. Viserys's executioners had done their work well, stripping all the former polish from the proud Valyrian.
However, as Narvos noted, he saw no irreparable harm. Even a decade spent in the cold dungeons shouldn't severely damage Maegor, for he was exceptionally robust. Other people in the slums simply did not survive.
"Did you expect to see someone else?" the fleet commander chuckled and sat down on a stool that had been brought in beforehand.
Maegor silently stared at him with his violet mirrors of the soul, in which will and a firm resolve that the executioners had failed to break still swam, and then he turned away. Resting the back of his head against the stone wall of the cell, the prisoner settled more comfortably on the bare wooden planks that served as his bed, the chain attached to the iron collar jangling.
"Why did you come, traitor?" the prisoner asked, somewhat lifelessly.
"Traitor?" Narvos snickered, uncorked the waterskin, took a few gulps, and let the sweet Dornish wine roll over his tongue. "What did I betray, eh, Maeg? Our friendship? That wasn't me, it was you." Rising from the stool, the man pointed an accusing finger at the Valyrian. "You and only you named yourself my master! Did you forget how we ate the last piece of rotten bread? Did you forget how we killed a dozen thieves together just to scrape up the money to treat Veela?! You cast aside all the years we fought our way out of the slums to there!" Narvos waved his hand upwards. "To where people live, not just survive! How we drank wine together, celebrating successes, how we shared the bitterness of defeats!" the man roared, unrestrainedly. Slumping back onto the stool, which creaked mournfully under his weight, Narvos returned to the waterskin of wine.
"How we made plans; what each of us would do when we conquered lands for ourselves with the Targaryen. You dreamt of the glory of a conqueror, I wished to emulate Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who sailed all the seas, and Veela spoke of children, casting furtive glances at you. And what became of it, eh, Maegor?" Narvos asked dully. "You wanted more. Like a fool blinded by your own pride, you challenged the Targaryen. And we would have supported you, Maeg! You know that; we would follow our friend even into the Seven Hells. But you did not call your friends to battle with you." The man's eyes bored into the Valyrian. "You demanded the loyalty of your servants, not your friends! You called me a servant! The man you called brother. You spoke of Daenerys Targaryen as your future wife in front of Veela, though you knew how much she loved you and wanted to be with you. You and only you betrayed our friendship, Maegor."
The Valyrian listened to the condemnation, his teeth clenched tightly, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"I..." Maegor began, prying apart his cracked, blood-weeping lips, but stopped mid-word.
After a silence, the Valyrian finally raised his gaze.
"I was wrong, Narvos. I assume you already know exactly who seduced me with his sweet talk into taking such a step." The prisoner glanced at his scars. "Mopatis, the pathetic rat, who never intended to help me, sending only some riff-raff instead of the Golden Company." Clenching his fists, Maegor sighed tiredly. "But I don't shift my blame onto him. I truly was the ultimate fool, bought by the promises of a fat rich man, betraying our friendship while happily listening to his advice that 'yes, they are your friends, but also your subordinates; you must establish a rigid hierarchy if you wish to become a mighty monarch.' Hah! What a fool I was, heeding advice that was beautiful on the outside but so rotten inside."
Pausing for a moment, Maegor continued with confidence.
"I know I committed the irreparable. But still, pass on my apologies to Veela," Maegor smiled bitterly while saying the name of his former friend and comrade. "Tell her I considered having two wives, I think that might cool her down a little." At these words, Narvos grunted and turned indignantly on Maegor. "And forgive me, Nar. I remember. I remember the rotten piece of bread and the twelve corpses as the price for Veela's cure... I remember everything, but somehow I forgot about it for a while. The stale smell of the dungeons, the decay, and the rats quickly reminded me of those glorious days." The Valyrian laughed hoarsely.
Narvos looked thoughtfully at his former friend, paused for a moment, and then offered him the waterskin of wine.
"Your favorite. Don't be bored here." With those words, the fleet commander rose from the stool and headed for the exit.
The noisy gulps ceased, and the Valyrian's now cheerful voice struck his back.
"When's the execution?"
"Execution?" Narvos pondered for a moment, but then shook his head. "Veela and I talked Viserys into it. Because we didn't betray him in his time of need, he compromised with us. In the next cell sits some rapist bastard, also a Valyrian. He will be thoroughly mutilated and executed in about a moon's turn in the main square."
"What?" the Valyrian asked again, his voice cracking.
"Well, why not? Rape is punishable by death," Narvos shrugged, standing with his back to the prisoner, unperturbed.
"And me?"
"Well, in a month, the mutilated Maegor the Rebel will be executed. And a certain Maeg will be sent to a distant island where Viserys found dragon eggs." After a moment of silence, Narvos continued uncertainly. "He spoke of something about demons on horns and political prisoners." The man uttered the unfamiliar phrase with difficulty.
Turning over his shoulder and grinning, the fleet commander continued.
"Viserys is pleased that his plan regarding some sort of rebellious-inclined leaders, the consolidation of potential traitors, and the cleansing of the ranks was successful. You will be sent to herd goats and dig gardens under guard on a distant island near Sothoryos. The Targaryen promised to occasionally bring new residents there."
Turning around and not waiting for the prisoner to recover after the news of the cancellation of his imminent execution, Narvos opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
The iron door slammed shut behind him, making the torch flame flicker, and the legionaries quickly closed the bolts and fastened the lock.
"Let's go, then," the fleet commander said phlegmatically and walked along the damp stone passages.
Exchanging silent glances, the legionaries followed the visitor.
And one rebellious Valyrian laughed in his cell, cheerfully repeating:
"To plow the earth and herd goats, ha-ha-ha!"
…
Year 291 AC. Westeros. King's Landing.
"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm... Why the hell do I need these titles if I can't go and smash the head of one single fair-haired bastard?!" Robert Baratheon raged.
Huge as a bear and mighty as an aurochs, the proud owner of raven-black hair cascading to his shoulders and a shaggy beard reaching his chest. The embodiment of his own House's motto, "Ours is the Fury."
A silver wine jug flew past the Hand of the King and, crashing into the wall of the room, jangled mournfully as it rolled across the floor.
The bed with its heavy, richly embroidered canopy groaned mournfully as the man whom some residents of the kingdom called the Usurper landed on the feather mattress.
"More wine!" Robert bellowed so loudly that Jon Arryn straightened up, for a second finding himself back on the battlefield, facing the fiercely commanding Baratheon.
"Robert, maybe that's enough for today? You've already wrecked half the room," the Hand began gently, but meeting the eyes of the Demon of the Trident, he fell silent and, with a weary sigh, leaned back in his chair.
"Why did I learn of this insolent boy so late? And why the hell can't I call the banners and smash that bloody fair-haired bastard?" Taking a new goblet from a servant, the king took a couple of powerful gulps and set the vessel on the table.
"Understand, Robert, the Crown simply doesn't have the means for it!" Jon Arryn waved his arms indignantly. "After the overthrow of the Targaryens, our treasury was full; now, the Small Council is considering taking yet another loan! The Iron Throne owes money even to the Faith. Before the Greyjoy Rebellion, the sum was still bearable." Jon snatched the goblet from Robert's hand and emptied it himself. "But after the expenditures on provisions, arrows, horseshoes... the restoration of the fleet, after all, you also threw a tourney and a feast so grand that its upkeep cost perhaps even more than suppressing the rebellion. Five million gold dragons, Robert, five!"
Jon glared angrily at the servant who had spilled wine while filling the goblets and, snatching the jug from his hands, poured the ruby liquid into the vessels himself.
"Out," he grumbled, at which the servant, trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind, bolted out of the king's bedchamber like an arrow.
"Jon, at least you don't—" Robert began, but the Hand interrupted him, striking the table with his fist.
"Don't nag?! No, I will rinse your brains, Robert, until you gain some sense! After all, I am your mentor, and since no one else dares to tell you to your face that you are behaving like the ultimate fool, then I will tell you! I didn't whip you enough," Arryn threw out venomously, at which Baratheon quieted down and seemed even smaller than he was.
"What did this Targaryen do? He conquered Astapor, one of the three strongest and richest cities in Slaver's Bay. Believe me, Robert, I am sure that even now, the armies of Meereen and Yunkai are sharpening their swords and saddling their horses, and their rulers are spending mountains of gold on the best mercenaries to drive the Valyrian out of Ghiscari lands. And even if Viserys manages to capture the entire Bay, it will take him a great deal of time, effort, and money." The aging Hand calmed down somewhat. "It will take the young Targaryen, even with a dragon," Jon smirked at this word, for he, like all the courtiers, had laughed long at the reports that the legendary creatures had returned, "no less than two years. And that is without mentioning the internal resistance in the already captured territories. And if he does manage to subdue the entire Slaver's Bay, he will simply drown in the affairs and concerns of the newly formed state. If Varys's reports are to be believed, Viserys is very responsible about governance and matters. And trust a man who carries such a burden on his back," at this point, Jon cast a reproachful glance at the King, who attended the Small Council meetings, may the Seven grant it once a year, "the young dragon simply won't have the strength or opportunity for a war with the Seven Kingdoms as well. And after such a difficult war, he simply won't have enough gold for another campaign."
"It just infuriates me that this foul seed is still alive and walking the earth, Jon," Robert grumbled, sending a piece of roasted boar, which he had personally caught with a spear during his last hunt, into his mouth. "And not begging for alms somewhere on the church steps, but living in luxury. And warring, too." At this point, Arryn rolled his eyes at the ceiling, well aware of his pupil's passion for battles. "If I give him time, he will only grow stronger! And if not me, then my children and grandchildren will have to fight these damned Targaryens."
Sipping his wine, Robert wiped the red drops from his mustache and smiled. His son Joffrey had already begun to master the art of war under the guidance of Barristan Selmy, and his younger brother Tommen, though overly kind, was easily learning to ride. Little Myrcella promised to become a stunning beauty. The main thing is that she doesn't grow up to be a bitch like her mother.
At the last thought, Baratheon gave a wry smile and again took a sip from the goblet.
"The fleet, according to Stannis's reports, has been fully repaired and considerably reinforced with captured Ironborn ships. Ned Stark is my friend and won't refuse me aid, and the warriors of the Stormlands are always happy to spill the blood of enemies. The old Kraken may be broken, but Greyjoy needs to feed his men, and he'll certainly welcome the chance to plunder. And Lannister will provide gold and provisions if he doesn't want his descendants killed by these pale-haired Hellspawn," Robert voiced his thoughts after a short silence.
"It won't work," Arryn grimaced. "I too considered the situation in a similar light. Yes, the Martells and the Tyrells will certainly send us packing and, if they send any troops with us on campaign, it will be a small handful, making some excuse. Doran Martell knows how to wriggle out of such situations like a sand snake, and the Queen of Thorns even more so. It is simply not profitable for them to support you in this matter. The Lannisters, one of whom you married, are responsible for the death of Doran's sister and her children. The Tyrells, meanwhile, are very unhappy that you banished all their people from King's Landing and do not allow Reachmen onto the Small Council."
Mentally, Arryn winced even harder. Who knew that his innocent intrigue to stir up Robert's aversion to the Reachmen would take such a turn? The Lannisters didn't miss the chance, and through Cersei, poured oil onto the fire of the king's indignation towards the fact that the Tyrells had supported the Targaryens during Baratheon's Rebellion. Now, the Red Keep was crowded with the golden-haired descendants of Lann the Clever, who were quite cleverly competing for key positions with Arryn's people.
The court at the Iron Throne now resembled a circus. A Baratheon sits on the throne, but among all the influential people from the Stormlands are only Stannis and Renly, the king's brothers. And even they often disappear to their own seats, Dragonstone and Storm's End.
The Dornishmen and the people of the Reach have been completely driven out of the capital and have retreated into their own lands. Rumor has it the Martells are actively weaving another intrigue involving Doran Martell's daughter, who has already rejected her twentieth suitor. The Tyrells, particularly the Queen of Thorns, were busy placating vassals who have again begun whispering that it is not for former stewards to rule over the descendants of Garth Greenhand, who founded the Kingdom of the Reach. According to reports from Varys and his little birds, a third Lord has recently died suddenly, having "accidentally" fallen from a castle tower window.
The Northmen traditionally do not venture south and prefer to freeze their backsides north of the Neck. Hoster Tully is too old, and the heir to the Riverlands throne prefers tourneys and whores to intrigues and power. Thus, all key and lucrative positions are occupied by the appointees of the Arryns and the Lannisters.
"The Greyjoys won't be able to field even a thousand proper warriors. All their elite were either killed or have already gone pirating in the Stepstones. Tywin Lannister, despite persistent rumors, does not shit gold, and his money is finite, though he certainly has a lot of it. But he knows how to count it, which is why the Lions are the wealthiest House in Westeros, so the most you can count on is another loan, which will sooner or later have to be repaid." Jon cut himself a piece of the fat-dripping sausage and contentedly put it in his mouth. "You can forget about Stark; the wildlings have become overly active, according to the Night's Watch reports, and are raiding more frequently. He may well have a new King-Beyond-the-Wall to contend with. Ned simply isn't in a position to send the majority of his forces to your aid, and you can't fight much with the few thousand he could scrape together."
Jon paused for a moment, washing down another sausage with expensive Myrish wine. Glancing at the sullen Robert, who was listening to him like an offended child, Arryn shook his head.
"The Stormlanders have not yet licked their wounds after putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion, nor have the Lords of the Crownlands." Stopping the already open-mouthed Robert with a heavy look, the Hand finished his thought. "Understand, Robert. We need another ten years, or better yet, fifteen, to recover. Yes, the Seven Kingdoms have reserves for another war, and Lannister will lend money to destroy the threat to his grandchildren in the person of the Targaryens. But after such a war, when we'd have to hire an additional fleet to transport the entire army across the Narrow Sea, when a significant portion of the knights' horses die during transport, and the treasury incurs another couple of million gold in debt... the Kingdom will take a very long time to recover."
Getting up from his chair, the Hand began to pace around the room.
"And you are also overlooking the possibility of treachery! Who can guarantee that the Lannister-hating Martells and the Tyrells, whom you oppress, won't stab us in the back? Especially since the Tyrells were loyal to the Targaryens until the very end, as were the Dornishmen." Turning on his heels, Jon threw up his hands. "And the losses? The Targaryen possesses the most battle-ready army in Essos, according to Varys. If he also buys the services of the Golden Company, we will bleed ourselves dry, if we can even win, considering the unreplenished losses after the Greyjoy Rebellion."
"Then what am I supposed to do, eh, Jon? Sit quietly on my arse, knowing that somewhere out there, beyond the Narrow Sea, the pale-haired spawn of Hell is gaining strength?" Baratheon finally exploded.
"Consolidate your strength, Robert, restore the Seven Kingdoms, pay off the debts. Remember that the crown on your head and the Iron Throne beneath your arse are not just an opportunity to drink a barrel of wine and bed a dozen whores every day."
With every word from his mentor, Robert lost more interest in the conversation. Noticing the blank look on Baratheon's face, which Jon remembered from the days when he read the young fool lectures on economics and politics, the Hand merely grunted in annoyance and, rising from his chair, headed for the exit. He still had much to do. The burden of power truly consumed much of the strength and time of the aging Eagle.
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