"Wage every battle, always, everywhere – in your own mind. Live thus: when anyone can be an enemy or a friend, and when every possible turn of events is possible. Live thus. And nothing will ever surprise you. Whatever happens, you will have already seen it in your imagination."
— Petyr Baelish
…
284 AC. Westeros. King's Landing. The Small Council Chambers.
"...Thus, there remains approximately two million gold dragons in the treasury," Petyr Baelish, recently appointed to the office of Master of Coin, concluded his report.
Laying his papers aside, the young man with the short beard bowed, then took his seat.
"So the Crown spent half a million less than it earned last year?" the Hand of the King said, furrowing his bushy brows and tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair.
Jon Arryn was no longer a young man, but he was still hale, with noticeable silver threads in his hair. Clad in a white tunic and a light green cloak fastened with the Hand's fibula, he conveyed an impression of authority, yet fairness. His strong chin and the lines around his eyes gave him an air of resilience and wisdom, while the longsword propped next to his carved chair recalled his fame as a good commander and a skillful warrior.
"This cannot help but cause concern, my Lord Hand," croaked Grand Maester Pycelle from his place. "However, we must not forget that after the war of liberation fought by our good King Robert, many regions are in need of financial assistance from His Grace. I believe that everything will soon be set right and improve." The elderly man mumbled, shifting more comfortably in his chair.
The Grand Maester was a man advanced in years. The grey robes of a Citadel graduate made him look even older. Few knew that the old man was merely feigning his frailty. Why else would a new whore visit his chambers every day?
"Besides, my husband can always borrow money from the Lannisters. I'm sure my father wouldn't refuse his good-son such a request." The beautiful woman smiled enchantingly, sipping wine from a glass goblet.
Cersei Lannister was undeniably one of the most beautiful women in Westeros. Her slender waist had been in no way marred by her recent birthing. The boy, sadly, had died soon after. Because of this, Robert Baratheon had taken to drinking even more heavily. The face of the Lioness of Casterly Rock was nothing less than one of the Maiden's own countenances. This only raised more questions regarding the behavior of her spouse, who spent most of his time in the company of serving girls and common whores.
"Very well. I agree with the Grand Maester's words. Large expenditures are only a temporary hardship," the Hand nodded. "As for loans, we will consider that suggestion later," Jon Arryn said with a grateful tone.
Only the slight downturn of the corners of his mouth betrayed the Falcon's displeasure at the prospect of the Lions gaining yet another lever of influence over the Crown.
"Now, I wish to discuss a matter that can in no way be called a temporary hardship: the Targaryens. For all this time, I still have not been able to learn where the Valyrian scions have concealed themselves. This is a great problem. Who can guarantee that in a decade they won't sail to the Seven Kingdoms with an army of mercenaries, laying claim to the Iron Throne?" The Hand glanced pointedly at the fat, bald man wrapped in yellow Myrish silk.
"My little birds were only able to learn their port of arrival in Essos. The Dragons stepped off the ship's gangplank onto the Tyrosh docks. After replenishing their provisions in the city and buying small boats and clothing from local merchants, they vanished in an unknown direction, my Lord Hand," the eunuch trilled in a soft voice, offering a guilty smile.
"Spider, your people must work more diligently, for these white-haired spawn could pose a threat to my future children. I hope we will soon know where that bastard Darry could have hidden the degenerates of the Mad King. Otherwise, I may begin to think you are failing in your duties as Master of Whisperers," Cersei Lannister said with a note of menace, yet still holding a slightly strained smile.
"I shall work day and night, Your Grace, and my little birds will flutter ceaselessly across all the Free Cities," the Spider assured the Lioness.
"We all count on your industriousness and skill, Lord Varys," Petyr Baelish interjected, offering the eunuch his perpetual smirk.
"Well, I believe the meeting can now be adjourned. Good day to you all, my lords and ladies," the Hand stood from his seat.
The Small Council Chambers filled with the scraping of chairs being pushed back, and soon emptied. After a time, Varys reached his solar, hidden deep in the lower levels of the Red Keep, and settled comfortably into a soft chair.
Pouring himself a glass of Tyroshi pear brandy, Varys noted a certain irony. He had woven his web very tightly around that city ever since the Targaryens vanished. Yet, he still could not find the thread that led to the Dragons who had slipped away from everyone.
An inconspicuous door, the second in the solar, creaked and opened. Turning his head toward the unexpected visitor, the eunuch relaxed his grip on the dagger's hilt. He had not been expecting anyone, but the guest was a small girl in beggar's rags, so there was nothing to fear.
"And what brings you to me, little bird?" the Spider asked, smiling and tilting his head.
Without a word, the girl, who looked about twelve years old, walked up to the seated Master of Whisperers and handed him a sealed letter, then stepped back with a curtsey.
Varys was not at all offended by the silence from one of his spies. After all, it is hard to speak when you have no tongue. Accepting the envelope, he tossed a silver coin to the spy.
Deftly catching the silver stag in mid-air, the little bird silently vanished into the shadows cast by the torches.
Waiting until the door closed behind his visitor, the eunuch broke the seal and immersed himself in reading.
"So, Lys. Well, now the Game can begin," the corpulent man smiled with satisfaction, carefully setting the paper alight with a candle.
"First, I need to sound out this Darry. Perhaps send an old friend to negotiate? No, Illyrio is too busy right now. That rogue managed to become a Magister in his dearly beloved Pentos; he has more pressing affairs than our Hand." Staring thoughtfully as the paper burned away, Varys snapped his fingers. "But why not? That way the Targaryens will receive support, and at the same time Dorne will return to the Game. With the help of the Martells, a couple of small intrigues can be pulled off." Shaking his head, the Master of Whisperers set about writing a letter.
"However, those snakes will want something in exchange for their support. And certainly more than just vengeance on the Lions. I shall need to find out precisely what they demand from Darry." Sealing the letter and tucking it into his sleeve, the eunuch rose to his feet.
"As for you, my Lord Hand... Ah, my little birds are already worn to the bone, but there is no good news from Essos. Perhaps a larger quantity of gold will loosen the tongues of the local merchants? Someone is surely helping the Targaryens. Perhaps it is the Tyrells? The Rose was loyal to the Dragons until the end," Varys trilled with a melancholy lilt, leaving the solar with a faint smile on his face.
…
284 AC. Essos. The Free City of Lys. The Wine Quarter.
"And still, I don't understand you again. Why must I wear these rags? I look like one of the local hucksters," the knight grumbled, adjusting the blue tunic for the umpteenth time and casting a look of disgust at his yellow cloak.
"Ha, don't worry, Lorik. Almost all the merchants and nobles here are fair-haired and have blue or violet eyes. With your black hair, you'll be taken for a mercenary sooner," I replied, chuckling at the knight as I continued to examine the various amphorae and barrels on the stalls.
"Fine, it's hard to argue with that. But what about the recent attack? Ser Willem, having heard of it, ordered me to return to Lys and find out the details. The messenger just stammered and kept saying you were alive," the knight said, developing his thought while grimly scrutinizing the passersby, who were dressed much like he was. "But soon after arriving, you dragged me into the city. And your only guards are me and four eunuchs." Waving a hand towards the pair of Unsullied walking ahead, the knight glanced at the matching pair behind.
"You wouldn't believe how much Aemon tortured me. That old man latched onto me like a hound on game and made me lie in bed for about a week! I need to clear my head," I grumbled, pouting in annoyance.
This only earned a roar of laughter from the knight, not sympathy. Yes, over time, my relations with the five knights who followed their suzerain to the end had warmed considerably. A man always needs a circle of acquaintances. There was little to talk about with the servants and slaves; our concerns and problems were too different. And the locals wouldn't understand me. Being friendly with loyal knights who traveled with you to another continent is one thing. But having warm relations with the common folk is simply bad form for a class-based society.
"Who do you think it could have been?" the warrior asked, growing serious and resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.
"The Usurper, the Lions, the Falcon, other schemers. I have many enemies capable of hiring the Sorrowful Men. There's no point in guessing who exactly paid the assassins." I replied neutrally. Although that wasn't entirely true. Most likely, it was either the Lannisters or Jon Arryn. It profits them the most.
"How is the legion coming along?" I asked, changing the subject.
"We already have more than a thousand men at our disposal. Over six moon turns, they've been forged into a decent army by local standards. But they still have a long way to go before they match the legions you described on paper. Our lack of experience in creating such an army is still hindering the training. And I doubt anyone else has that experience either."
"Have you not yet reached an agreement regarding the establishment of a permanent camp near Volon Therys?"
"The meeting is scheduled for a fortnight from now. With one of the four rulers of Lys. I think his name is Lysanno Doar. I saw him fleetingly, two moons ago in the main square. A fat hog, draped in pink and blue silks. His linen hair simply gleamed with fragrant oil! The cursed sodomite," Lorik spat.
"Well, people say he has a wife and four concubines who have given him five sons and three daughters. Quite a lot for a lover of male beauty, don't you think?" I smirked, watching the knight's face twist.
"Oh! That's the famous Tyroshi brandy. Come on quickly, my loyal knight, before it's all bought up!"
To the knight's sighs of resignation, I briskly headed toward one of the stalls.
…
284 AC. Essos. The Free City of Lys. The Magisters' Palace.
The large, bright hall was quite quiet this time. Rounded walls adorned with naturalistic carvings and ancient paintings. Four carved tables forming a square, chairs upholstered in the hides of rare animals, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The scent of incense from the distant Yi Ti Empire, mingling with the smells of elite wine and spiced meat. Literally everything in the hall signaled the wealth of those gathered here.
The men occupying the four tables, the rulers of Lys, were no less richly dressed than the furniture and decorations of the room.
"I think we can begin now," one of the gathered men said, blotting his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushing his empty plate away.
"Quite so, my friend," agreed the grey-haired man sitting opposite. His dry, sinewy body contrasted sharply with the build of the others. His sharp facial features, watery eyes, and seemingly tanned hide looked wild compared to his plumper, rosy-cheeked counterparts. What could be done? Aurion Torinci had spent most of his life at sea. He only secured the post of one of the four rulers of Lys for one reason—his elder brother had recently died without leaving an heir.
"We are all interested to know why our young colleague decided to call an unscheduled council. Is the matter truly so urgent that it couldn't wait three more days?" grumbled a middle-aged man, reaching for a wine jug.
Yes, the four most powerful men of the Free City served themselves. After all, there was no place for slaves or servants in this hall, as things were sometimes discussed here that no one but the magisters should know.
"The matter brooks no delay. Moreover, my meeting with these mercenaries is scheduled for two days from now. And the issue must be resolved by that moment," Lysanno Doar smiled softly, smoothing invisible folds in his pink and blue toga.
"Oh, really? And what is it? Have those mercenaries been bought off by the Dothraki? Or are they truly the forces of Volantis?" Gayron Mitaso raised a brow, twisting his plump lips into something resembling a smile.
"Save your sarcasm, Magister. The last of the Targaryens have taken up residence in our city. And we only learn of it now!" Lysanno Doar exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically.
"That is important news. But still not sufficient for an unscheduled meeting. What can we gain from those children? They will be useful when the boy matures and the girl blossoms. Besides, intrigues in the Sunset Kingdoms are not a very profitable business," the head of the Mitaso family frowned.
"Fugitive children with not much gold and a dozen warriors. I don't see how they can be useful. Unless we sell them to the new King... Though I don't think he'd pay much. And in doing so, we might ruin someone else's intrigue. The risks and benefits are simply dreadful," Aurion Torinci said, crossing his sinewy arms over his chest.
"Yes, gentlemen, you are generally right. There is only one hitch. Willem Darry, the captain of that mercenary company stationed near Volon Therys. He is also the head of the young Prince Viserys's guard and the former Master-at-Arms," Lysanno Doar chuckled, watching the magisters' astonished faces.
"A loyal soldier serving his new lord," Aurion Torinci nodded respectfully. "He is raising an army, but not to be a mercenary his whole life."
"Do they want to earn money and then try to return to Westeros?" the last of the four magisters, Loro Gaemyrion, raised a brow.
"Hopeless. The Blackfyres tried, and not just once. Recall the tales from our fathers and grandfathers about the War of the Ninepenny Kings. A Targaryen bastard raised a huge army, led the Golden Company, and even seized the Stepstones! And what was the end result? He was killed in battle by some knight of the Kingsguard, and the rest of that army was drowned in blood," Gayron Mitaso dismissed, annoyed that instead of conducting business, he was forced to waste his time in the company of three rivals.
"A huge army?" Aurion scoffed. "A horde of pirates and other rabble, that's what he gathered. Excluding the Golden Company, all the other soldiers there were just grease for the blade. But what this Darry is doing is very good, even compared to the Unsullied."
"Oh, really? And what has this knight devised that is so great?" Loro Gaemyrion, who didn't particularly understand military matters, asked with interest. After all, his family owned the Bank of Lys, while the Torinci family traditionally engaged in sea trade and owned warships.
"Very high discipline. Many different types of troops, acting as a single unit. And uniform equipment, like the Unsullied. For a city, creating such an army is too troublesome and costly. At the same time, having such warriors as mercenaries is very good indeed. I think such a company could easily cope with the defense of blessed Lys and its territories on land," Aurion answered, sipping brandy from his goblet.
"They have only been occupied so far with guarding caravans and standing camp near Volon Therys, scaring off the Dothraki from our domains," Gayron grumbled. "And they cost almost as much as the Golden Company."
"Well, given the suspicious stirrings in Tyrosh with the hiring of the Brave Companions and the large-scale procurement of provisions, war will soon break out again. So Darry's swordsmen will soon be able to participate in a real conflict," Magister Gaemyrion sighed, leaning back in his chair.
"True enough. But we did not gather here to discuss those accursed Tyroshi sodomites. The question now is what we should do about the Targaryens in our city?" Lysanno Doar steered the conversation back to his desired course.
"I propose we just keep an eye on them for now. They are causing us no losses, and at the same time, they provide excellent warriors for a good price. And when they grow stronger, they will sail to their Sunset Kingdoms, not try to seize Lys," Aurion Torinci said, looking confidently at the magisters.
"We could even lend them some gold. A quite decent investment. The Iron Bank did the same with the Seven Kingdoms, and now Braavos has very generous tax concessions across an entire continent," Loro Gaemyrion added to the idea.
"Hmm. Let's see if those soldiers can handle the Brave Companions. And then we can talk about whether or not it's profitable to invest in this venture," Gayron Mitaso decided.
"It is resolved, then. First, we'll take a measure of them, and then we'll buy or sell. As my ancestor, Miranno the Traveler, used to say, if a commodity is not worthy of your money, simply sell it to a rich fool," Lysanno Doar smirked.
"And who do you plan to sell the Targaryens to, in case of failure?" one of the magisters clarified.
"They say Tywin Lannister shits gold and greatly dislikes the former kings of Westeros. I think we will find a common language with him," Lysanno smiled openly, while his eyes remained cold.
In response, he received only similarly warm smiles, complemented by icy gazes.
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