Year 290 AC.
Essos. Ghaen Isle. New Ghis.
"It's so much cooler in here compared to the heat outside," Lord Tommen said, smiling into his mustache.
"Agreed." I briefly nodded, inspecting the clasps on my vambraces.
We were currently in one of the smaller training halls of the Lorkhaz pyramid. The room itself was about twenty square meters, but the sand covering the practice yard only occupied half the space. Five Praetorians stood by the walls like lifeless mechanisms. The echo of our voices bounced off the yellowish stonework and the high ceilings adorned with simple ornamentation. The servants had already disappeared behind the thick oak doors, having set up a small table in one corner with light refreshments and cool drinks.
"I suppose we can begin." Weighing the blunt training sword in his hand, Costayne picked up a round shield bearing the image of two black and two yellow squares.
Looking at the polished surface of my shield, upon which a skilled hand had depicted two silver goblets and a pair of black roses, I shook my head.
"Doesn't it pain you to spoil such beauty?" I tossed the scabbard onto the edge of the round, white-sand-covered area and raised the point of my sword to eye level.
"You mean the shield, Your Grace? You needn't worry; I have a dozen more like it," Tommen stepped forward, weighing the massive bastard sword in his hand once more.
"As you wish."
I decided to attack first. A powerful leap ended with the clash of our shields, which pushed the lord back a few hand-spans. My sword lunged like a snake into the gap between my opponent's shield and sword but only gave a pitiful clang, deflected by the edge of the shield.
The next moment, I had to move aside from Tommen's thrust. A fluid step to the right ended with a swing of my blade that clanged against the lord's. Taking advantage of my opponent's momentary delay, I closed the distance and delivered an artless kick to his leg, which was met by a stiff block from his shield. To defend his lower body, Tommen had to bend slightly, and I seized the opportunity, again shoving my shield hard into his, pressing my full weight onto my opponent.
It worked. Losing his footing, and then taking a blow of such force from the shield, Costayne fell into the sand. Forcefully knocking away a desperate swing of the bastard sword with the boss of my shield, I let go of my sword and drew the stiletto from its sheath. After a few moments of struggle, the dagger was halted an inch from the gap between his breastplate and helmet.
"I yield," the lord said tiredly.
I nodded briefly and rose to my feet. Returning the flat-pommeled stiletto to its sheath, I offered my hand and helped Tommen up.
"Aye, I'm getting too old for such bouts. I've been breathing the air for over half a century, after all." Picking up the swords and shields, we walked to the table and, having placed the training gear in the nearby cabinet, comfortably settled onto the groaning chairs.
"For a ruler, a flexible mind and a firm will are paramount. Battles can be left to loyal warriors. I have fought many men, some to the death, and I know only a dozen who surpass you," I disagreed with the lord, pouring myself a cup of sour fruit juice.
"It is pleasant to hear that, Prince. It means I haven't forgotten all of the instructor's lessons beaten into my back with a stout stick." Tommen chuckled. "But I fear the time will soon come when even Great Lords must take up swords and shields." The lord glanced at the Praetorians still standing in the distance.
"Such times come almost every generation, in every corner of the world," I vaguely replied to his hint.
"Undoubtedly. My generation has already seen the rebellion of Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident, and the rebellion of the Iron Isles."
"And you survived. You even increased your House's wealth and power, according to the master of this fine pyramid." I stood up and began removing my training armor.
"Yes. And this is the question I ask myself. My son and heir, Owen, also faces such a trial, I have no doubt." Costayne, having once more inspected the polished armor of the Praetorians, removed one vambrace and took hold of the second. "The question is only whether he will be able to stand firm, or perhaps, like me, strengthen our House."
"I think by that time he will have matured. The Seven do not send trials that cannot be overcome. And a father, with more grey hairs but still strong, will help him with advice and action." I gave him a subtle hint nonetheless.
"Yes, Prince, you spoke truly that the Seven do not send hardships that cannot be overcome." Tommen exhaled, slightly relieved. "The main thing is simply to make the right choice, to acquire useful, strong, and loyal allies. Then a man will have no problem passing the Seven's trial and receiving his deserved reward."
I merely chuckled quietly at that. Having rid ourselves of the excess steel on our bodies, we once again enjoyed the drinks and exotic Ghiscari snacks.
Judging by the relief that briefly flashed across the lord's benign mask, he truly was worried about his son. But even more so, he was anxious about the commission from his superiors. If I hadn't engaged in this game of hints, I would have shown a complete lack of interest in the Reach faction's proposal. Which in itself would mean complete failure for Costayne as a parley-man.
Why hints, voice inflections, and meaningful glances, and not a direct question? Diplomacy. In case of trouble, one can always claim the interlocutor simply misunderstood and remain clean.
"If only I knew where to find such remarkable allies." I bit off a piece of the local baklava, delightedly washing it down with grape juice.
"I can help you with that. I have the honor of knowing one worthy person who will undoubtedly offer you support and aid in your endeavors," the lord carefully replied.
"Not for nothing, of course. But I don't mind. When you know who is loyal to you and why, life is much simpler." Leaning back in my chair, I looked intently into my companion's eyes. "Who?"
"Olenna Tyrell, and with her, the entire Reach," the lord answered directly, after a moment's hesitation.
"The entire Reach?" I raised an eyebrow slightly.
Stannis Baratheon has already married and even sired a child, according to the reports from Veela's spies. The problem is that the king's brother married Selyse Florent, a representative of a very mighty, ancient, and wealthy House in the Reach. Yes, according to the canon, the Florents, like the Tyrells, supported Renly Baratheon's claim to the crown. But there is still a risk of betrayal from them.
"If you are referring to that grim bastard Stannis and his wife, through whom he is connected to the Reach, then you needn't worry." Costayne snorted dismissively. "The Hightowers, the Florents, the Redwynes, the Tarlys, and the other strongest bannermen of the Warden of the Reach have already met with Lady Olenna and discussed the situation. We were loyal to the Targaryens to the very end, and for that, Robert Baratheon oppresses our blessed region. There isn't a single Reachman on the Small Council; the lords pay a higher tax than the aristocrats of other lands. 'These Reachmen are so proud of their fertile land, let them bring more grain to the Crown,'" Tommen clearly quoted someone, taking a frustrated sip of wine. "They even fleece our merchants more than others. The Reach pays much but receives only crumbs. When Leyton Hightower hinted in a letter to the Hand to give his son a worthy position, they merely offered him to become the king's cupbearer. Hah! Of course, the Old Man of Oldtown would not agree to such a slighting offer."
After a minute of silence, my companion gathered his thoughts and continued.
"Lady Olenna has compiled several proposals. Everything depends on the timing and what the Reach can expect in return. She is a clever woman and understands that in your wisdom, you have already found support here in Essos, but the assistance of one of the strongest and wealthiest regions of the Seven Kingdoms will greatly help you in any event."
I nodded thoughtfully, tapping my index finger on the smooth table surface. The Queen of Thorns is certainly right about one thing. The support of even the Reach alone will help me. At the very least, it will lend me even more legitimacy. After all, most of the legionaries, and especially the Unsullied, are strangers to Westeros, and the attitude towards them will be corresponding, as foreign invaders.
But I am a Targaryen, a descendant of those who created and ruled the Seven Kingdoms for three centuries. A native leader backed by strangers, or a native leader backed by his own people and a personal army... the choice is obvious. That's why I need Dorne and the Reach. I could conquer Westeros without them, the only question is the number of legions under my banner, but holding it and ruling the locals without internal support will become extremely difficult. Even Aegon the Conqueror, at the end of his campaign, did not destroy the majority of the Westerosi aristocrats but accepted their fealty.
"A seat on the Small Council, taxes equal to other regions, and no oppression. If someone from the Reach is skilled and clever enough, he can take any position, be it cupbearer or commander of the City Watch; he will face no obstacles from the Crown. Also, the Reach will receive an exemption from all taxes for five years to recover after the war. Some sons of lords who prove themselves will receive the liberated land holdings."
"The Reach army is the largest; we can provide supplies for your entire army. Lady Olenna believes this deserves three seats on the Council and some lands in the Stormlands."
"No more than two seats, and only for those who can perform their duties excellently. Regarding territories, the Storm Kingdom will become part of the Crown's personal lands. But the Tyrells and their vassals can count on holdings in Essos."
"Essos?" Costayne blinked, perplexed.
"Yes. Brezdan mo Lorkhaz has already informed me of your assumptions. No, House Lorkhaz and the aristocrats of the other cities in Slaver's Bay will not help me cross over to the Seven Kingdoms and seize the Iron Throne, at least not now." Glancing at the stunned lord with a slight smile, I barely suppressed a laugh.
"Then..."
"I hope this news remains between us, at least until your foot steps onto the soil of your homeland. Consider this a small test of our future relations. Soon, all the cities of Slaver's Bay, and with them the vast, fertile lands and trade routes, will belong to the Targaryens. I believe that even if Baratheon does not have the support of all regions, it will only be possible to fight him with my own lands, from which taxes, provisions, recruits, and other resources will flow."
Costayne might leak the information, but this is indeed a small test. Brezdan's people and Veela, my personal head of intelligence, will be watching him; in any case, any letter or servant will be intercepted. Moreover, it's not in his interest to hinder my success. He knows for a fact that his superiors want an alliance with me. It's not in his interest to prevent me from becoming stronger.
As for victory... resources are indeed necessary. A strong and reliable rear, the foundation of power. Being a just and generous ruler, a skilled commander and warrior, I only need to be all that when I arrive in the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. Lords will gladly swear fealty to such a man, especially if I give them a good piece of the pie.
"The swords of the Reach will support you, Your Grace. And the banners of our glorious Houses will fly alongside the flags of your legions. I swear by the Seven." Slowly standing up and walking over to me, Lord Tommen Costayne sank to one knee, extending the sword he had pulled from his scabbard towards me.
"I am pleased by this. I will always have need of faithful vassals, those who never forget honor and dignity, for myself and my descendants. Rise, Lord Tommen Costayne. I accept your oath. But I am not yet king."
"I do not think that will be for long." The lord smiled, glanced once more at my Praetorians, and rose.
…
I was walking slowly along the sandstone path, breathing in the scent of hundreds of flowers and listening to the singing of dozens of bright birds. To the left and right, green walls of trees, shrubs, and flowers towered. And ahead, in a small clearing, a solitary gazebo made of rosewood stood. A table with hot food and the best wine, two soft armchairs upholstered in fabric worth the cost of a house in the city's artisan quarter, and two hookahs, standing on separate small tables and issuing wisps of bluish smoke.
"Sit down, Viserys. Now you will learn what lunch is like the Ghiscari way." Brezdan smiled, taking a drag of smoke with obvious pleasure.
"Brezdan, wine for lunch?" Sitting down and realizing there was only wine on the table and no juice, I looked at Lorkhaz with a smirk.
Yes, now we were talking like old acquaintances, if not friends. That's what drinking does to people. It brings them closer. Though, considering how long we've been corresponding... we can be called old acquaintances who only met yesterday.
"It is never too early or too late to drink wine. Remember this wisdom, my friend." The Ghiscari immediately backed up his words, biting off a generous portion of a fat-dripping chicken leg and taking a good half of the ruby liquid from a clear glass.
"Have you already managed to go to the brothel with that Dornish rogue?" I smiled at the "instruction," starting on the baked mutton.
"Ha-ha, no, no, not at all. I am too old for such adventures. My concubines and wives are enough for me." Stroking his beard sagely, Brezdan finished the chicken and started on some fish. There was no soup for lunch today, so we conversed right through the meal.
"The mutton is truly marvelous, Brezdan. A true success. I hope the result of our endeavor is just as successful."
"You can have no doubt, Viserys. Everyone who promised support has already confirmed their intentions and sent close relatives from the main branches of their Houses to 'visit' the Lorkhaz pyramid."
"What about New Ghis?" I took a tentative puff of the aromatic smoke and blew out a couple of rings.
"Two thousand Golden Company will arrive in the city exactly on schedule. Those fools on the City Council truly believed that you hired the sellswords with my money to fight for the Iron Throne. The rumors about buying all the Unsullied for the same purpose only strengthened their certainty. Naive fools," Lorkhaz recounted with a laugh, pouring more wine from the golden jug.
"That is easier to believe than that I intend to conquer the entire Bay, and you are on my side." Clinking glasses, we drank again, and I attacked the fatty mutton with redoubled fervor.
"The Lorkhaz surrounded on all sides by enemies. Deprived of almost all allies. Standing on the brink of ruin, after which will follow the cruel death of the entire House. And the Targaryens, those whose enemies succeeded. Fallen already, but rising again, even mightier, preparing only to ascend higher." Brezdan stared thoughtfully at the smoke rising from the hookah, as if trying to glimpse the future fate of our families there. "Yes. We will make an excellent duo."
"Fire and Blood." I raised my cup.
"Fire and Blood," he answered me.
…
Costayne swore fealty to me. In a world where oaths are not empty words, this is a sure sign of his sincerity. The Reach is with me.
Lorkhaz confirmed his intentions. The sellswords will arrive in New Ghis and deal with Brezdan's enemies. Then he will gather the infantry and fleet of his House and lead them to join me in Astapor. The families who agreed to support me from within Meereen and Yunkai will simply wait until my army arrives beneath their city walls. The best way to take a fortress is with a donkey laden with gold. Their help cost me only a donkey laden with promises.
Now the third and final meeting for the day was about to take place. Oberyn Martell was already waiting for me behind one of the many doors of the brothel. A practice yard, a gazebo, and a brothel. What a tourist route! The thought even made me involuntarily smile.
"Ah, here you are, Viserys! Smiling already? You should be, for today you are in a place where all your desires will come true!" Oberyn smiled.
He occupied one of the soft sofas and was only half-dressed. Bright yellow pantaloons were all the Dornishman had on, save for a pair of daggers and a dozen poisoned needles, naturally. The dry but taut, powerful muscles of his abdomen and chest glistened in the rays of the setting sun filtering through the hazy window. His black hair and beard, seasoned with aromatic oils in the local fashion, looked as if they had been dipped in pitch. My companion's cheerful, dark eyes examined the figures of the Praetorians with interest before the door closed.
"I'm not sure I dreamed of being in the same room as a half-naked Dornishman," I snorted mockingly, which only made Martell burst into sincere laughter.
One of the four maidens, dressed only in colored transparent fabrics that concealed absolutely nothing from a curious gaze, approached and bowed to me.
"Fine, to the Seven Hells with it." I waved my hand.
The one who spoke and her companion immediately approached me. A couple of moments later, my sword was on the rack by the door, along with all my clothes and shoes, except for a pair of loose purple trousers.
Sitting on the couch opposite Oberyn, I placed one of the numerous cushions behind my back and allowed one of the girls to sit next to me. The brunette poured wine, while the chestnut-haired girl stood behind me and began massaging my shoulders.
"I'm sure the old men exchanged hints and glances with you for a long time, competing to see who could make the most mysterious face. But we have known each other for ages; we've crossed spears, swords, scimitars... hmm, what haven't we dragged onto the practice yard? In short, my friend. I will speak openly." Catching my glance thrown at one of his girls, who was feeding him grapes by hand, Oberyn hesitated for a second. "They won't tell anyone anything."
In confirmation of his words, the blonde who caught my eye briefly opened her mouth, showing a tattoo on her tongue.
"They are priestesses of one of the temples."
I involuntarily flinched at his reply and glanced at the small knife lying on the little table. But then I suppressed the flare of alarm and relaxed back onto the couch.
Priestesses. The third highest rank in the Ghiscari temples. And that mark on the tongue... I'd heard that such tattoos belonged only to the Black Faction of the Harpy's servants.
Many rumors circulate about them. Mages, interrogators, spies, poisoners. The only certainties are that they can represent the will of the entire priesthood of Slaver's Bay, they can only speak among themselves in closed temples, and there are exactly three recorded instances of them using magic. The last was thirteen years ago; a priest of R'hllor was burned to ashes attempting to enter one of the temples and preach there. According to the description my spies managed to obtain, it was a spell of Ash Touch, which doesn't even reach a medium level of complexity. But it was magic, nonetheless...
"They gave me a letter, sealed by the Abbess of the High Temple," Oberyn pointed to the snow-white scroll lying on the edge of the table. "It contains only assurances of our inviolability from the loyal servants of the Harpy and a request for them to keep us company tonight. After our conversation, which will not reach even the High Priestess of the Black Temple and the head of the entire Harpy church. An oath was sworn to that effect, and there's even some gibberish in High Valyrian written in blood attached." Martell said mockingly.
At his words, I froze for a second, then lunged for the scroll. Greedily reading every line, with shadows of hints clear only to me and an oath at the end understandable only to another mage. Carefully rolling up the paper, I put it back on the table and retreated deep within myself.
"Viserys, are you alright? Did you understand something more than I did?" Oberyn asked, sounding slightly worried and instantly becoming much more serious.
"Yes, I'm alright, and yes, I understood much more than you did. Now let me think." I cut off his rush of questions with a wave of my hand and concentrated.
That's why Daenerys was neither hindered nor helped by the servants of the Harpy's church. The priestesses needed her. They were hardly mentioned in the canon compared to the Faith of the Seven and R'hllor. And yet Slaver's Bay has dozens, if not hundreds, of temples and even monasteries.
It's all about magic. The priestesses have almost lost the knowledge of the art but have retained more ancestral knowledge than the Undying of Qarth and certainly more than the wildlings' wargs. And they immediately sensed my arrival. Mine and Avero's. Magic flowed like a mountain stream through the almost dried-up channels of their meridians. It was no trouble for them to find my dragon through distortions in the magical background; he didn't let them get close, but even that was enough. And when one of the abbesses attended the feast at the Lorkhaz pyramid last night and felt my power... Targaryen, dragon, magic. An unsophisticated and extremely simple chain of reasoning.
Oberyn read one thing in the letter. I, however, saw dozens of hints and an oath in blood seasoned with magic about non-disclosure of the conversation, and a clue—a drawing of a glowing eye at the very end of the message. Upon activating my magical vision, I could see tiny particles of magic hovering in the air, the four foci of the priestesses, who possessed less than a fifth of my power, and the unawakened source in Martell. As well as the true message. Previously invisible symbols glowed with a gentle blue light, emerging between the lines written in ink.
The priestesses suspect my plan. And they honestly noted that they wanted to get rid of the Valyrian who dared to open her mouth at the last fragment of the Ghiscari Empire. But chance intervened. A novice seeking solitude far in the mountains noticed changes in the magical background and, after news from her sisters in faith, was able to find their cause. A young dragon.
The old women at the top, who were delaying their end with low-grade spells, rituals, and potions, couldn't pass up such a chance. But they are smarter than the Undying of Qarth, and chaining even a young, yet large, dragon is very difficult. They tested me yesterday and were deeply impressed. I am only slightly weaker than the Abbess of the High Temple, who has lived for nearly two centuries and practiced magic since childhood. And they decided to strike a deal with me. They will support me, share their knowledge. In turn, I will give them several ladlefuls of dragon's blood, will not oppress their faith, and will also share knowledge. A good deal. The only thing is, I will have them brew the potions in my presence, lest they keep a little for a last resort and, if they wish, send some nasty curse my way. But I think they will agree to that condition.
"Tell the Abbess of the High Temple, Zirame, that I agree. But all potions will be brewed in my presence; you all understand why. Also, temples to the Fourteen Gods will open in all cities. And they will not be hindered." Closing my eyes for a second, I made my decision.
All four priestesses silently stood, bowed from the waist, took the scroll, and returned to their places. Oberyn, meanwhile, watched with his mouth open. That was when another grape was placed in his mouth, causing him to almost choke, which elicited quiet laughter from all four beauties.
"Viserys, what was that just now?" he asked hoarsely. "Since when did you become the Abbess of the High Temple of the Harpy, that Black Priestesses are bowing to you from the waist?"
"The Harpy? No, I haven't even become a novice."
"What are the Fourteen and what cities and potions were you talking about?" Martell asked with immense interest, leaning forward.
Thinking for a second, I nodded to myself. If I don't tell Oberyn at least part of the whole plan, he'll be greatly offended, and our friendly relationship can be safely buried. But I shouldn't talk about the most secret parts. Yes, that's what I'll do.
"The Fourteen Gods of Valyria. That is the religion I follow. As for the cities... Soon, the Burning Legion will capture Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen, and after that, all the other small cities of Slaver's Bay. Lorkhaz will help me in this."
"To the Seven Hells! And you stayed silent!? I would curse you if you didn't take me along for such a venture! I will engrave my name on the stones of history, carving the letters with the tip of my faithful spear!" the Dornishman righteous indignation.
"It is decided!" Martell decisively chopped his hand through the air. "My company of sellswords and I will go with you, and our names will thunder from Qarth to the Wall!"
"But what about the fact that I am an exiled Targaryen?" I raised my eyebrows, my lips naturally spreading into a smile because I had not been wrong about Oberyn.
"I don't care! I'll say I was hired as a sellsword. You wouldn't begrudge your best friend some gold, would you?" At his audacity, I almost choked on my wine. "My brother will be furious, of course, but I'm tired! My blood boils and demands battle. I can guess what the next major target will be," he cast a questioning glance at me and received a nod. He continued, "So I'll be one step closer to vengeance. It's all profit, whichever way you look at it!"
"'When a deal is sound and profitable from every angle, look behind you and check if they are trying to screw you over.' That's what one of the sellsword captains who joined the Burning Legion said."
"No. I know you, young dragon. You are as cunning as the snake I got my nickname from, you are wise beyond your years like that golden YiTish monkey, and you scent profit like an old Ghiscari trader. I don't believe you don't have ten backup plans, allies who will open the city gates, and a dragon up your sleeve." At the last words, I stared at Martell, utterly without manners. "What?" he asked, bewildered, and then understanding flashed in his eyes, and he burst into the choicest curses in five languages.
"Viserys! To the Seven Hells with Doran's instructions! In the name of the Martells, I agree to give you my niece as a second wife and swear fealty right here and now if you tell me my guess is true!" Oberyn's eyes bored into my face, his voice rang like steel, and he looked like a snake ready to strike.
"What guess?" I tried to evade the topic, but he just shook his head and smiled... though that baring of teeth is hard to call a smile.
"Do you have a dragon that can scorch the armies and castles of those Lannister and Baratheon bastards with its fire?"
Hesitating for a second, I moistened my throat with wine and, with a voice slightly trembling from excitement, but no less confident, I replied:
"Yes. But he is still too young; he needs to grow up. A little less than ten years."
"Excellent. Simply marvelous!" I gave a barely noticeable start at the sound of his voice. I had never heard such hatred and bloodthirsty triumph before.
And then he knelt. The oaths were spoken. Oberyn had the right to speak on behalf of his brother, and thus the entirety of Dorne. Another region, secretly for now, but still joined me.
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