"You Westerosi are all the same. You embroider some beast on a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions, eagles, and dragons."
— Illyrio Mopatis
…
Year 290 AC.
The Jade Sea. Unnamed Archipelago.
Sunlight reflected off the polished surfaces of the blades, then skipped onto the cleaned segments of the training armor. The blunted points of the swords swayed slightly from side to side, like snakes ready to dart at their prey at any moment. Rare pebbles crunched under our boots on the tamped earth of the training yard.
Today, I fought against three fighters at once. All of them were from the "Sea Panther" crew. The men knew which end of a blade to hold.
After a brief respite from the previous exchange of blows, we clashed again. Sensing danger from behind, I bent my knees, letting the whistling strip of metal pass over my head. Straightening up, I drove my elbow into the visor of the helmet of the opponent who had gotten too close behind me.
Simultaneously, my right hand, as if living its own life, raised the sword, parrying the thrust of the second man. Spinning sharply, I grabbed the stunned opponent by the forearm and pulled him toward me. Tripping over a hard sweep of my foot, he tumbled to the ground.
At the same time as the sailor fell, I had to sharply move aside, dodging the blow of the third fighter.
Exhaling, I quickly looked around. The one I had managed to knock to the ground was trying to get up, but wasn't having much luck. The other two exchanged glances and, spreading out a little, came at me.
The steel of the blades rang out, and I had to retreat gradually. Although I surpassed both of them in swordsmanship, fighting alone against a coordinated pair was difficult.
Noticing that one of the fighters stumbled slightly, putting pressure on a previously bruised leg, I lunged forward. A powerful blow, aimed at the base of the guard, knocked the blade from the stumbler's hands. The sword fell to the ground, followed by its owner, who received a Spartan kick to the breastplate.
Then I had to writhe like a snake myself, avoiding the planned strike of the last sailor. It was a decoy, after all. Smirking, I rushed forward instead of retreating.
The lunge ended with my shoulder ramming the opponent's chest, and my hands, already free of the sword, clasped behind his back. With a grunt, I lifted the sailor's body off the ground and immediately dropped him, collapsing on top of him.
A muffled moan came from beneath me. Before the sailor could recover, I drew a small stiletto from the sheath on my thigh and pressed it to the gap between his helmet and breastplate. "I yield," he informed me hoarsely.
Satisfied with the victory, I stood up and helped my training partner to his feet. The other two were already being helped by comrades who had also come to train on the yard.
"I am amazed! Last time, Tribune, you were only able to defeat two. And now three are sprawled on the ground. Soon all of Essos and Westeros will know Viserys Targaryen as the best swordsman in the world!" Zirarro clapped as he approached, his lips twisting into a somewhat ironic smile.
"Oh, don't flatter me, Captain. The world will just as soon know of Zirarro the great sailor of Zakloz." I returned the jab, chuckling as the Ghiscari winced.
A couple of days ago, Zirarro sailed in a boat for another inspection of the galley, clipping one of the reefs on the way. He arrived at the ship sitting knee-deep in water, accompanied by four oarsmen constantly bailing and dumping the incoming water overboard.
"Are you going to train your magic now?" Zirarro asked, lowering his voice.
"Yes. So, the men are completely in your power." Sheathing my sword, I fiddled with the fastenings on my helmet.
"Excellent. Today, my men will have a long-distance run in full combat gear, along with the legionaries." Smiling contentedly, the Ghiscari bade me farewell and headed toward the men who were already forming ranks.
Hmph. Although Zirarro would be running along with everyone, he had long since acquired a taste for army training, so he had made the phrase, "Whatever a soldier does, as long as he's exhausted," his personal creed.
Shaking my head, I walked toward the tower. The training yard was located on the outskirts of the enclosed part of the island, right beneath the walls. So, as I walked, I could observe the improved houses and workshops. Half of the buildings were unused, but all of them had been brought into order. New doors and window frames were installed, and the interior spaces were washed and cleaned.
The legionaries were mostly former mercenaries or not-too-wealthy commoners. That is, third sons of carpenters, smiths, potters, and other craftsmen and shopkeepers. Therefore, such work was familiar to men accustomed to working with their hands since childhood.
"Good day, Tribune," two patrolling men greeted me.
Nodding in greeting, I continued to walk slowly, contemplating my future plans.
The start and first steps have gone smoothly, one might say. There have been no serious problems, only minor ones, which always arise when working with people, especially on this scale.
But my heart tells me that further on, I will repeatedly face obstacles and the intrigues of ill-wishers. Previously, most attacks by opponents were aimed specifically at the rulers of Lys and Darry. No one particularly believes that I represent much yet, so everyone, or almost everyone, considers my chief advisor, Willem, to be the main authority in my entourage. And Darry, in turn, has concluded some agreement with the Magisters of Lys, who are our patrons.
And yes, there truly was an agreement. Lys assists the Burning Legion with resources and people and is the primary client for our services. In exchange, once we grow strong, we participate in the war for the Disputed Lands, and after victory... the Moor has done his duty, the Moor may go.
None of the Magisters wanted an army on their doorstep that also wasn't subservient to the rulers of Lys. But they were happy to acquire the Disputed Lands by other men's hands. They were also glad to send half the poor and the "extra" third and fourth sons of not-so-wealthy townsfolk to the Burning Legion. But we only took those fit in health and age, and after being inducted into the army, the recruits were trained and drilled so that the words discipline and subordination were beaten into their subconscious.
As for the money... about eighty percent of the income flowed to soldiers' wages, new equipment, and food. And all these goods were happily sold to us by merchants and craftsmen working for one of the Magister families. And considering that part of their pay, the soldiers left behind in the brothels and taverns of Lys, which also belong to the Magisters... well, those traders knew how to count money, and how to earn it.
When the war is over, the First and Second Legions will return to the base near Volon Therys, where hired ships will be waiting for them. Thanks to all the gods of Valyria, Daemon displayed diplomatic talent, and the Magisters paid for our relocation. Though those naive Lysene youths thought that after earning money and creating a force of fifteen thousand blades, we would sail to conquer Westeros. And the meeting with Oberyn Martell only reinforced their confidence in this. It will be a shame to disappoint them, but my plans are entirely different...
…
Year 290 AC.
Essos. The City of Tolos.
The garden was cool and fresh. Date palms stood alongside bright flowers and tropical trees. Paved paths, like white threads, penetrated this green riot. Fountains of cold water helped to escape the city heat, and the benches beckoned one to sit and listen to the singing of birds brought directly from the Summer Isles.
In the middle of the wonderful garden stood an arbor. Built back in the days when Tolos was just one of Valyria's colonies, it was very beautiful. The white floor was adorned with a mosaic of rare blue stone straight from Yi Ti. Carved columns supported the domed roof covered with blue tiles. The table and chairs were made from the famous goldheart, a wood used to make the best bows and which grows only on the Summer Isles. Exporting such a valuable resource, and especially selling it to foreigners, was strictly forbidden, which nevertheless bothered the people sitting here very little.
Stroking his oiled, light-reflecting beard, a tall, plump man watched a pair of departing maidservants. The two young Ghiscari women, dressed in practically transparent silk tunics, were not slaves. In Tolos, it was popular among the aristocracy to have servants who were free people.
"Do you like Ghiscari women so much, Magister? When the deed is done, I can gift you a thousand of them." Leaning back in his chair, the young Valyrian crossed one leg over the other and took a few satisfied sips of wine from a golden cup.
"Young man, there's no need to worry. I am capable of buying a thousand concubines right now. I do not require such complicated intrigues to do so." Illyrio replied, raising an eyebrow mockingly.
Maegor frowned at the patronizing tone of the reply. He had already been put in his place during their first meeting, so now he was forced to address this merchant formally, while he was addressed informally. But what could he do? Mopatis's money and connections were vital to the Valyrian, but once the plan succeeded... that fat dog would be on his knees begging for even a bone from his rich table.
"We have eaten and drunk enough; let's discuss the next steps. I cannot be here for long. If any of the Centurions or Tribunes find out that instead of procuring provisions, I am feasting at the estate of an aristocrat in Tolos..." Maegor began, but he was stopped by a commanding wave of a hand laden with gold rings.
"You seem to misunderstand something. We will converse for as long as is necessary. I am not concerned with what you tell your subordinates in your defense. And yes, this is the home of Quentyn Loro, the largest grain and meat merchant in all of Tolos. My friend is currently away, but you may speak with his younger son, who is working with the ledgers at the estate now. I believe that by arranging supplies with the Loro family, you will be able to answer the inconvenient questions of your subordinates." Illyrio replied, casting a condescending glance at Maegor, with a trace of contempt in his voice.
At such treatment, the Valyrian's nostrils flared, his cheekbones tensed, and he leaned forward, baring his teeth predatorily.
"You seem to forget that without me, your entire plan will fall apart!"
"Sit straight and be silent. If you dare to be impertinent to me again, you will die in some ditch with a broken spine. Remember your place, boy." Mopatis replied coldly. At that moment, four Unsullied standing by the columns raised their shields and were about to aim their spears at Maegor, but Illyrio waved his hand commandingly, and the eunuchs returned to their positions.
"Well, now that we have settled who speaks and who nods in agreement," the Magister continued, staring intently at the pale Valyrian with barely audible pleasure in his voice, "let's move to the main point. Are you absolutely certain that after the success, Viserys and Darry will throw a feast?"
"Yes. It has happened many times before. Such are the traditions. Success must be celebrated, and the festivities will be for both the commanders and the common legionaries. Though they will celebrate separately, still. After the ancient victory in the war against Tyrosh, and at the end of the recent conflict with the alliance of Myr and Tyrosh, the celebrations were grand. From experience, I can say that only a few Tribunes, maintaining order, and the Praetorians will be sober." Maegor finished his cup in one go, answering while nervously glancing at one of the Unsullied.
No, he wasn't afraid of those four. Although he had to surrender his weapons at the entrance, the Legate, and former gang leader, could escape the arbor from this quartet, and then from the estate; the fence wasn't that high. But on the way to the meeting place, he had encountered about a dozen eunuchs patrolling the garden. And those were only the ones he managed to notice. So, his chances of leaving were extremely slim. And he had no doubt, Mopatis could reach him even at the Wall, or in Yi Ti.
"Yes, that is a problem." Taking a sip of wine, the Magister chased it with spicy goat cheese. "But it's solvable. No matter how strong a warrior is, he can always be crushed by a mob. And I will provide you with that mob. I don't think the bodyguards will number more than two hundred. You know the Decurion who works for me and belongs to the first cohort of your legion. You will pass on through him where the feast will take place. I have already hired the necessary men, and they are in the right place. And yes, Maegor, remember my instructions. No one should suspect anything ahead of time."
"You don't have to worry about that. My friends will help with this. Narvos and his men will block the port and the city gates. And Veela will make sure no one finds out." Maegor replied, pouring himself more wine from a silver pitcher.
"Are you so confident in them? Maegor, wasn't it you who wrote to me in a letter that they were against our plans?"
"They don't know that you are involved in this at all. I played the part of a youth hungry for revenge and power before them. And although Veela and Narvos were initially reluctant to go against Darry and Viserys…" At the last name, Maegor clenched the cup with such force that his fingers went white; Illyrio merely smiled faintly at this. "…They still remember who their true master is. Me. But they will pay for their doubts tenfold."
Mopatis was not unjustified in considering himself no fool. Illyrio had noticed that the Valyrian knew how to weave intrigues and conceal his true feelings behind masks even at their first meeting. But Maegor was clearly overestimating his talents, a frequent phenomenon among young men. Take, for example, the phrase about his friends. He calls himself their master, though in fact, they are comrades. He harbors resentment over their doubts, and wishes to take revenge after the victory. And he tells this to him, the Magister of Pentos. Is this boy really so stupid? Does he think Illyrio is an idiot who won't realize that Maegor also intends to push him aside or kill him after seizing power? Ha! The boy thinks he is craftier than a man born and raised in the slums who became a Magister?
"Quite right, Maegor. Once the power is in our hands, everyone will get what they deserve." Mopatis smiled relaxedly, carefully scrutinizing the expression of his interlocutor.
Ha! For a moment, just for a moment, the visage of the man opposite him changed, but the next moment he was only smiling submissively again, acknowledging the Magister's wisdom. But the brief flash of malicious triumph that broke through the Valyrian's mask was more than enough for the experienced schemer. This wretch definitely wants to deceive him. Hmph. Well, it doesn't matter; all that is required of this fool is the assassination of Viserys and the coup.
After that, he must be disposed of. Illyrio will save the little Targaryen from the traitor, and the surviving commanders, and subsequently the legionaries, will swear allegiance to her. And Darry and those Valyrian brothers... they too will go under the knife. He does not need such rivals in the struggle for the regency of the young Daenerys. Afterwards, when the little princess grows up, she needs to be married off advantageously. And once she bears an heir, he can start thinking about... though, those are plans too far in the future. First, the intended action must be carried out.
"You may be free." No longer paying attention to the glowering Valyrian, Illyrio picked up his favorite spicy goat cheese. The negotiations were concluded, so instead of light wine, strong pear brandy came into play.
Why bother carrying out a coup at all, if his old friend Varys is playing for Viserys and, on the contrary, asked Mopatis to assist the Prince? The reason is only one, power. And consequently, money. Illyrio was prepared to tolerate sharing the spoils with Varys when carrying out the plan. But it turned out that Viserys Targaryen had no need for the services of a certain respected Magister.
The creation of a mercenary company, the agreement with the rulers of Lys, two successful wars against the enemies of that Free City. All this was increasing the power of the Prince and his entourage. But Mopatis could still offer resources, information, and political influence in exchange for a good position and lands. But this plan that Viserys wants to implement in Slaver's Bay... if it succeeds, which Illyrio had little doubt it would, it will make the young Targaryen a very strong player. Yes, there will be problems, but they will be solvable.
And what will the result be? Varys is needed because he possesses the largest network of spies and assassins in Westeros. The Spider is influential in the Seven Kingdoms and informed about all the undercurrents among the Lords. And Mopatis? He will only come along as an appendage to his friend. The most he can hope for is a piece of land and a title. That is, what the Magister already has in Pentos. Too small a piece of the pie. Therefore, the number of people eating this pie must be significantly reduced. And Varys will agree to the terms Mopatis offers him. The eunuch will have no other choice, or all his efforts will be for nothing.
Illyrio Mopatis very much enjoys playing Cyvasse. And he knows perfectly well that if you start losing, you must settle for a draw or lose with minimal losses. The only problem is that the Magister really dislikes losing or settling for less. It is a good thing that life is not Cyvasse. The unassuming merchant will merely replace a king with a queen, becoming the monarch's most trusted man. One can rule even without wearing a crown...
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