"Behind every bad idea stands a Lannister creature."
"…And some creature of a Clegane carries it through."
— Sandor Clegane and Tyrion Lannister
…
Year 290 AC.
The Jade Sea. Unnamed Archipelago.
"Hah!" After one last pull-up, I released my fingers and landed softly on the ground. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I walked to the stump where a waterskin lay and took a couple of gulps. The skin, uncovered by a shirt, prickled with goosebumps from another cool gust of wind. Placing the container back, I began to stretch the muscles that were already aching from the exertion.
"Whew, I'm tired. Even the legionaries train less than you do." Zirarro scooped water from a barrel, washed his face, and began to wipe it with a towel.
We had recently moved to using the informal address. In local society, the informal address is used not only for equals but also for superiors when there is a sufficiently close, trusting relationship. Moreover, although the Ghiscari was a bastard who had received a decent education by local standards, he was no politician. No, he might compete for a well-paying position in service, but he wouldn't weave any conspiracies behind my back. That's not his character. When he needed money, he simply asked me for it and explained why, instead of stealing it through some murky schemes. For a man with access to the procurement of ammunition and supplies for the entire ship and crew, that was the height of honesty and integrity.
"I told you my schedule is tougher than the soldiers'. In the Seven Kingdoms, it is customary for aristocrats to personally lead their armies into battle. So, this is a matter of my survival." I smiled, looking at the tired Zirarro.
"Barbarians. A lord should be wealthy, shrewd in business, and generous. Bastards, younger family members, and mercenary commanders lead armies into battle, that's what they exist for. Wait, hold on! Do they conduct negotiations in the Sunset Kingdoms using duels?"
"No, of course not. Lords meet in an appropriate place and discuss the necessary matters." I raised an eyebrow, casting a glance at the Ghiscari.
"War is also politics. My father told me that. So, I thought maybe in Westeros they conduct all politics using their own sword and shield."
"No, Zirarro, they also know and actively use the art of diplomacy and intrigue there." I chuckled, picked up one of the custom-cast kettlebells, and began to do squats.
After finishing my training and bathing, we changed clothes and met in the dining hall, where the Centurion awaited us. We ate as a trio, separate from the ordinary soldiers and sailors.
"Only a month has passed since your dragon hatched, my Prince. But he is already the size of a dog. I never thought an animal could grow so quickly," Elario Basco began, seeing that I had finished eating.
"Dragons are not ordinary animals. Magic plays an important role in his development." I smiled warmly, looking at Avero, who was sitting in the corner of the hall, currently eating fish with appetite.
He was so far from the table due to his specific way of eating. Fire-breathing lizards eat like most reptiles—they swallow food whole or tear it into pieces beforehand, like crocodiles. The main difference is the thermal treatment before this. So, the small flame-thrower on legs was currently savoring fish shashlik, which he prepared right there using his fiery breath.
"By the way, Elario, why did you choose the path of a warrior? You've heard Viserys' and my reasons. It was ordained by fate for the Lord, and I found my home too confining." Zirarro asked, pouring himself compote made from wild apples.
"That's a good question, my friend." The Centurion scratched his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. Tossing a small fig into his mouth, the officer answered.
"My father and mother died from some sickness that consumed them in literally ten days. I wasn't even ten years old then. I still remember the pie seller, bursting with life, literally withering before my eyes, and the twenty-year-old man who followed her beyond the edge." Wetting his throat with undiluted wine, he continued. "So, my brother and I grew up under the care of our grandfather. He was a fisherman who loved to drink cheap wine every evening and lecture us about life. He was a good man, but... how can I put it... a sheep in a world ruled by wolves. He taught us humility, spoke of submitting to one's fate. If you were born a small man, then occupy yourself with your small affairs, and don't forget to bow your back to everyone stronger than you."
"I see he had no ambition at all," the Ghiscari scoffed, imperceptibly curling his lip in contempt for the Centurion.
Given Zirarro's life path to becoming one of my personal assistants, the outlooks on life between the Centurion's ancestor and the Ghiscari were very different.
"Exactly. 'Your grandfather fishes in the sea, your father did the same, so don't look with such admiration at those respected mercenaries and get to work.' That's what he told me when I saw a couple of men from the Gold Cloaks. The old man feared his own shadow, which is why he was a fisherman, even though he had been asked to join the city guard in his youth. And what happened? He drowned during a storm, sinking like an axe. And my brother and I, still boys, were left alone. And we learned the lesson. Not every elder shines with wisdom, but every man will go to the bottom sooner or later. So, we took a risk and joined the mercenaries. We barely had enough money for miserable equipment, and it was hard in the company. But children don't belong in war; they either perish or become men. We, fortunately, fell into the second group and survived to become adults. And what now? My brother is one of the captains in the Burning Legion fleet, and I have two hundred dogs of war under my command, and I serve under the personal command of a Prince. And though I will go to the bottom sooner or later, I like this life." Elario raised his cup. We drank after him.
After talking a bit more, each of us went to attend to our own business. Zirarro decided to check on the ship's affairs, the Centurion to train his entrusted legionaries, and I to practice magic.
Climbing the steps of the tower with Avero in my arms, I pondered my progress in the secret arts.
Thank all fourteen Gods of Valyria that the knowledge of magic was systematized and categorized by difficulty level. The citadel was most likely also a school for mages serving House Deirarion, which is why scrolls from the "primary school," so to speak, were found.
There was little information on Air Magic, here called the Art of Storms, and no spells were found at all. It was merely mentioned that it was previously practiced by the former rulers of the Stormlands, the Durrandons, and some mages from Asshai. Most of the air wielders now live in the Yi Ti Empire.
There were also mentions of necromancers, greenseers, wargs, stone-singers, shadow-binders, blood mages, and pyromancers.
The Rhoynar, a people who lived near the Freehold and lost the war against the Valyrians, were given special attention. This nation, which found refuge in the warm sands of Dorne, has now lost its knowledge of Water Magic. But during the war, they made the Valyrian mages bleed profusely.
As a Targaryen, two paths were available to me: Fire Magic and Blood Magic. There was also Shadow Magic, which almost any gifted person could master, but I was simply too wary even to read about it.
If Pyromancy was neutral, and blood spells leaned toward dark magic, then playing with shadows... it would be easier just to sell your soul to demons. It would be both more effective and safer. Magic that eats away at the mind, gradually turning a person into a monster, both outside and in, was too dangerous. One wrong step, and you have the appearance of Darth Sidious, the mannerisms of Gollum, and the madness of Voldemort.
"Sleep, little one." Carrying the dragonet into the room opposite my bedroom, I laid him in a nest of furs and straw.
"Ra-rarrr," Avero grumbled discontentedly, noticing that his master was about to leave. Sending a wave of affection through our barely formed magical bond, I managed to calm the pet. Closing the door, I nodded to the pair of bodyguards and went to my own room. A couple of minutes to shed my clothes, and now I was on the soft mattress with a book in my hands.
"Pyromancy. Fundamental Laws. Volume III" read the golden inscription on the red leather cover. This work, authored by Daerion Draco, spoke of fire magic.
The first volume described the simplest theses to understand. For sorcery, there must already be an open flame, and the larger, the better. The most ideal environment for a pyromancer was a volcano, or rather, the lava within it. But these limitations could be circumvented if one had large reserves of magical energy and at least a spark. Many pyromancers, for this reason, carried special oil lamps with them, which, using clever fastenings, did not interfere with walking and hung on their belt.
The second volume already contained the first worthwhile spells. Fire Snakes, Fiery Currents, Scorching Gusts, and other fireballs. They were very difficult for me, and their power was only enough to burn someone's hair or light a bonfire. But with due persistence and control practice, I could become a strong mage in this discipline. However, I didn't want to rely too heavily on such a limited ability, so the goal was only one: to learn how to manage fire decently enough to correct the streams of flame that Avero would breathe.
The third and final volume was a textbook for the "pros," so to speak. I read it out of pure curiosity, as I wasn't entirely convinced I would be able to make sleeping volcanoes erupt in the foreseeable future. And spells like Ashen Waste, which could burn a small town to ash, were unattainable for me. The author himself said that only a handful of people in the entire history of the Freehold had achieved such power.
With Blood Magic, everything was slightly different. This art was more in the realm of rituals and long litanies, sometimes lasting several days. So, gathering a lot of mystical power and unleashing it on an enemy, as in pyromancy, was unlikely to work. However, one could heal a person from a deadly poison or disease, in exchange for magic and sacrifices, not necessarily human. Or, one could prolong one's life by drinking a special potion prepared from a young dragon's heart. However, this method only allows one to live to a hundred, a maximum of a hundred and twenty years, while maintaining the appearance of a thirty-year-old. But this was also a very significant advantage.
By the way, the artifact of Melisandre, the priestess of R'hllor who brainwashed Stannis Baratheon in the original story, was the result of the combined work of a very experienced Blood Mage and a Shadow-binder. Perhaps the "god" of fire itself, which resembles an ordinary demon more than anything, contributed to the creation of the medallion. In any case, if the opportunity arises, the artifact should be expropriated in favor of poor, aspiring mages in my person.
There were also various methods for physical enhancement, but they are more harmful than useful to me. I don't think even the most skillful blood-binders can surpass the creation of the gods. However, various healing potions were copied into a separate notebook by me. As was the ritual for creating an Obsidian Candle. This is also a very useful item, allowing two mages to communicate over long distances. In the army, communication is extremely important, as it is in managing large territories. Instead of a messenger or a raven, one could simply "call" and give an order directly from Lys to someone in King's Landing. All that remains is to find more gifted people who can be trusted with the job of a communicator, and I will acquire a very significant trump card.
…
Year 290 AC.
Westeros. The Westerlands. Casterly Rock.
"In summary, the situation is as expected. Over the past year, we have suffered considerable losses, as have our vassals. The restoration of Lannisport and the fleet will take one-twentieth of all free funds, but the recent tournament has significantly replenished our treasury. Frankly speaking, if not for the new loan to the Crown, we could have recovered the losses in a couple of years." Placing the papers on the table, the middle-aged man settled more comfortably in his chair.
It was still light in the solar. The sun was just beginning to sink towards the horizon, so candles were unnecessary. But knowing his brother's love for showcasing the family's status even in trivial matters, Kevan was not at all surprised that expensive candles were burning in the study, spreading a pleasant aroma of wax throughout the room.
A red carpet, carved furniture depicting lions, portraits of ancestors, a pair of swords in golden scabbards hanging on the wall, enough to buy a good house in the capital.
And in the center of this composition sat Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. A middle-aged man with the lean figure of an experienced knight, golden hair where gray could already be seen in places, luxurious sideburns, and deep green eyes. Always focused, somewhat gloomy, and dry in emotion. A harsh and dominant man, always looking out for the interests of the House.
"These expenses are necessary. With our gold, we are strengthening the House's power in the capital. Even Jon Arryn can do nothing about the golden leash we have thrown around the Stag. The Hand is not immortal, and when he retires, we must seize his office, which is impossible without a strong foothold in King's Landing."
"Yes, brother, I understand that. Has Robert suddenly come to love our House? Were it not for your influence, the Lannister gold, and my niece, he would have long since sent all our people away from the capital, handing all authority over to the Falcon, while continuing to drink and indulge in debauchery," Kevan clarified.
"As long as the Crown owes us so much gold, Baratheon won't stir up trouble. Though he understands nothing about how to rule, he is not a fool. And who else can he call upon to serve as Hand? The ordinary lords would not dare to oppose us. The Hightowers are currently led by a man who will not fight for power. Leyton is more preoccupied with studying magic and his fourth wife, Lady Florent. He has completely lost his mind. The Tyrells? After the Old Rose besieged Storm's End during the rebellion, Robert would sooner give up drinking than allow anyone from the Reach, especially a Tyrell, to hold even the office of Master of Laws."
"The situation is similar with the Martells. But there are still the other Wardens." Crossing his arms over his chest, the younger Lannister looked at his brother expectantly.
Sometimes they held such debates. When Kevan criticized his brother's decisions, asked uncomfortable questions, and cast doubt on the elder Lannister's plans. This helped Tywin make a balanced decision, considered from all sides. Which, however, did not stop the younger lion from carrying out all of his elder brother's orders, even if he doubted their correctness.
"Old Tully is older than Arryn; if he lasts longer than the Hand, it won't be by much. And his heir... you saw him at the tournament. Women, wine, and mock battles. That's all he cares about. And his uncle, the Blackfish, is a commander, not a politician. He simply won't manage it. So, we have nothing to fear there."
"Young men often behave like Edmure Tully at tournaments. Remember Gerion at his age."
"Our younger brother Gerion is sailing to the Smoking Sea, seeking Brightroar on the shores of Valyria. Do you truly think that man should be held up as an example?" The Warden of the West asked coldly, causing his brother to grimace.
The mood, upon mentioning the youngest brother, immediately soured. That fool, raised on tales of chivalry, tournaments, and feasts, had gotten it into his head that he was unworthy to be called their brother until he accomplished something great. Tygett, though he died of smallpox, brought glory to our House in the War of the Ninepenny Kings; Tywin brought our House to prosperity, and Kevan was his most loyal assistant in this, his brother used to say. And the fool could think of nothing smarter than to assemble an expedition to the ruins of Valyria to retrieve the family sword.
"You understand perfectly well. Gerion cannot be persuaded; he simply lives for his idea. If I forbid him to sail, he'll run off on some merchant ship. It's better that he be accompanied by men loyal to us on a good galley," Tywin continued discontentedly.
"Very well, we have discussed this topic enough. I will try again to knock sense into that grown knight with the mind of a youth, but let's continue the previous discussion. You forgot to mention Eddard Stark, Robert's best friend. Judging by how he fought at the taking of Pyke, the Quiet Wolf is not planning on retiring." Kevan brought the conversation back on track.
"He is a good administrator; my people report an improvement in the North's well-being. But given his honesty and inexperience in intrigue, even if the Northerner becomes Hand, it won't be for long. We already hold considerable power, and after Arryn's death, it will be even greater. Starks and Lannisters are as unequal as a dog is no match for a lion; we will simply crush this boy."
"Good. Now I suggest we discuss Jaime; despite all our efforts, he remains in the Kingsguard, and your heir is Tyrion. This must change, or we will have a second Toothless Lion." Kevan leaned forward, starting the long-overdue conversation.
Though he loved his nephew, and especially his father, he could not deny the fact that such men would not be able to maintain and multiply the House's influence.
————
Read ahead of schedule here → pat-reon(.)c-om/Bluuuxx [remove the parentheses and hyphen]