Year 290 AC. Essos. Slaver's Bay. Astapor.
After making a few circuits around the city walls, I confirmed that all the sentries had burned in the dragonfire. There were no surprises or complications, suggested by the absence of prearranged signals from my army. Sweeping my gaze over Astapor, which from this height looked like a vast sandy blanket patterned with green lines of streets along which various bushes and trees were planted, I gave the command via the magical link. Avero roared and began to descend.
A detachment of legionaries was already waiting for us in the square where Avero and I landed.
"Lord Viserys," the warrior standing at the front, with a transverse red crest on his helmet, saluted me.
"Lorik," I said, with a barely perceptible smile, looking at the scarred, stern face of one of my first knights. "Were there any problems en route?"
Lorik glanced at Avero, who had already taken flight again, with an admiration visible even through his helmet, and shook his head.
"Everything went as planned; the Ghiscari let us into the city. On the way here, we encountered the Astapori guard detachments four times, but that was more a problem for the guards than for us." The seasoned warrior puffed out his chest proudly, surveying the three hundred veterans of the First Legion.
"Excellent. Then let's move out."
Striking his breastplate with a fist, the man turned and bellowed in a ringing voice:
"The rest is over! Advance!"
The veterans, who were steeped in discipline and possessed excellent training from years in the Burning Legion, moved like a well-oiled machine. Soon, we were marching through the streets of Astapor, sweeping the city's defenders from our path. A couple of barricades blocking narrow points on the Golden Street also posed no problem; Avero, hovering above our heads, burned these fortifications and the defenders standing on them to ash at my command.
We were soon at our destination. Massive, metal-plated gates, shining with gilded embossing in the sun, blocked the way into one of Astapor's largest pyramids. With regret at the thought of ruining such beauty, I gave the order:
"Ram!"
"Ram!" the Decurion standing in the center of the formation repeated me, and grabbing the iron-shod log with his subordinates, he rushed toward the gates.
"These buildings look very majestic. But they are so uselessly adapted for defense," Lorik winced, watching some cabinet being thrown from a third-story window. It harmlessly slid down the incline and crashed five steps away from the soldiers breaking down the gate.
"Astapor has not been taken for several centuries. The walls are an insurmountable obstacle for Dothraki hordes. Among themselves, the Masters of Slaver's Bay preferred to wage war with poison and daggers, not scaling ladders and swords. To my mind, they simply forgot how to fight," I replied over the monotonous crash of the ram and the cracking of breaking wood.
After ten minutes, one of the doors yielded and collapsed inward. A thin stream of arrows immediately rained down on the legionaries with the ram, but their comrades standing nearby provided cover. A couple of pierced limbs—that was all the warriors of one of Astapor's most influential families achieved.
The assault on the pyramid itself took about three hours. Though my soldiers' training was far superior, we had to fight for every corridor, fiercely contested by the Unsullied defending their master's home to the bitter end.
But we succeeded. One of the most powerful Masters of Astapor and his family were taken prisoner and placed under guard in their own chambers, but not before he received a few bruises on his face when he decided to spew threats after it became clear that all was lost. Lorik's mailed fist clearly explained the turbulent Ghiscari's new situation.
"Rest," I commanded, and the legionaries not occupied with patrolling the pyramid settled down right inside one of the reception halls on the ground floor.
I decided to descend with the majority of the soldiers back down. Though all targets had long been divided among the commanders and detachments, it was entirely possible that some of my men would need assistance. It was better to be ready to provide it quickly than to rush headlong from the upper floors of the pyramid in case of need.
"Lord Commander, a messenger has arrived from the Legate of the First Legion," one of the Decurions reported.
"Bring him," Lorik ordered curtly, taking a sip from a waterskin of watered wine. A couple of warriors brought in a slightly breathless young fighter, who reeked of smoke and horse sweat.
"Report," I waved a hand at the young man standing still a few meters away, settling more comfortably in a chair and stretching my aching feet onto the blood-splattered blue carpet.
"Yes, Lord Commander!" Striking his chest with a clenched fist, the young man bowed. "The Legate of the First Legion reports the capture of all pyramids by the forces of House Targaryen. Also, Lord Willem Darry reports the capture of all city gates by the Second Legion. News has also come from the First Legion: the streets of Astapor are almost entirely cleared of enemy troops." Pausing for a second, the messenger knelt. "Your Grace, the city is taken!"
Jubilant shouts erupted from the soldiers, Lorik roared with laughter, and I merely smiled faintly.
The first brick in the foundation of my future Empire will be laid on this very day. How many more times in my life will I hear that cherished phrase about a city being taken?
…
The thick smell of blood clogged Daemon's nostrils, his head was still ringing from the clang of steel and shouts, and his throat was sore from so many commands. But Daemon still smiled joyfully, standing among commanders just like him in one of the halls of the pyramid taken by Viserys.
To his left stood Daeron . His brother's armor, roughly wiped clean of blood and soot, sported a couple of new dents, as did that of most Centurions and Tribunes gathered here. Only the armor of Maegor, that arrogant bastard, shone with polished gilt. It was as if there hadn't been several hours of battle and the subsequent flushing out of stragglers hiding in their holes. Grimacing contemptuously at the sight of Maegor's smug face, Daemon turned his head and once again surveyed the man sitting in the chair on the dais.
Viserys, in the rays of the setting sun, looked like a god of war. An eager smile, revealing white teeth, never left his young face. His silver hair was braided into a tight queue that fell down his back. His light, yet no less durable, Valyrian steel plate armor was completely unscathed during the fighting. All that hinted at the many battles its owner had been through were dried specks of blood here and there on the predatory curves of the armor. The sword, which surely split dozens of enemies today, rested beside its owner, leaning against the young Targaryen's makeshift throne.
Viserys was truly the highest noble. Not the Ghiscari disgrace who calls himself a Master but squeals in terror at the mere sight of a drawn sword, but one of the Dragonlords, of whom his mother used to tell him and his brother stories in childhood.
When he and Daeron first saw Viserys mounted on a dragon... oh, how their jaws dropped! Like Westerosi seeing an elephant for the first time! But now they were absolutely certain that Viserys would fulfill his part of the bargain. He, like his brother, eagerly awaited the moment when House Reraxes would once again soar into the skies. For this alone, Daemon was ready to follow Viserys to Westeros or Yi Ti, proving in deed that his word was harder than Valyrian steel and that the Targaryen had not erred in his choice of vassals.
Noticing his liege lord stand up and survey the hushed men, Daemon prepared to listen.
"We have waited long for this moment. For several years, we have sharpened our swords, forged our armor, and gained experience in battles. And now, this moment has arrived! Astapor is ours!" Viserys began his speech with a smile. "This is only the first city we have taken. There will be more! But first, we should rest the soldiers and bring the local inhabitants to heel. And, following the glorious tradition of the Burning Legion, I announce a feast in honor of our victory. It will take place in three days. With that, since all your reports have been heard and orders given, I suggest we adjourn and meet tomorrow. The meeting is concluded."
Daemon and his brother were about to leave with everyone else, but one of the Praetorians stopped them at the entrance.
"Lords Daemon and Daeron of House Reraxes. My lord requests that you stay." The burly warrior, who was no smaller than Daeron, boomed from beneath his masked helm.
They and his brother were eager to exchange a few more words with Viserys, and the order was clear enough, so the brothers silently turned around and sat down on a bench in the corner of the room. Viserys, Veela, and Narvos were already seated opposite, enjoying wine from the Ghiscari nobility's cellars. Willem Darry stood nearby, arms crossed over his chest and leaning against one of the columns, his bald head occasionally throwing sunbeams. Only Maegor and Zirarro were missing, but the latter was currently at the port, overseeing the loading of supplies onto his ship, preparing to sail on some errand for Viserys. The absence of Maegor, however, greatly confused Daemon, but he decided it was unnecessary to ask questions. The reason for the absence of that fair-haired bastard, who had become especially insufferable recently due to his arrogance and disdain even towards equals like Daemon and Daeron, would likely soon become clear.
"Well, since everyone is gathered, we can begin." Waiting for the Praetorians to close the gates behind the last of the departed, Viserys leaned back in his comfortable, green-velvet-upholstered chair.
"First, I want to enlighten you about the reason for our small gathering." Glancing in the direction of him and his brother, the young Targaryen gave a wry smile. "Maegor is a traitor."
At the words, spoken in such a casual tone, Daemon flinched as if slapped. Catching sight of Daeron, who had already opened his mouth to speak, the second Reraxes subtly kicked him under the table, causing his brother to look at him in surprise, yet he remained silent. "He plans to kill me and Willem at the feast. He intends to capture you and persuade you to join his side."
"The ungrateful bastard! Son of a whore, sired by a donkey with red lamb! Does he think we would meekly hand him the fealty of our subordinates?! How did he even dare to plot something like this against the man who pulled him out of the filth of the slums and raised him up?!" Daeron could not contain himself after all. "I will slit his belly and toss his body to the dogs like the lowest slave!"
Daemon's brother, his face contorted with fury, started to rise from the table, and Daemon was about to check his brother, but it wasn't necessary.
"Sit and be quiet. I am speaking," Viserys said coldly. Daeron froze for a moment, still angrily flaring his nostrils and gripping his sword hilt until his knuckles were white, but he eventually sat down, obeying the command.
Meanwhile, Daemon eyed a couple of people whose loyalty to Viserys he had begun to strongly doubt. In response to his suspicious glance, Veela only smiled crookedly, and Narvos, looking back grimly, continued to drown his sorrows in wine, glass after glass.
"The traitor thinks that Veela and Narvos are on his side. But as you can see, he is greatly mistaken." Viserys correctly deciphered the exchange of glances between his subordinates. "According to Veela's intelligence, Maegor does not have many supporters. Only about five hundred. And we must also factor in the thousand mercenaries who are supposed to attack the legionaries, who will be relaxed from wine, food, and women, along with the traitors."
"What exactly is this idiot counting on? The Burning Legion will not swear fealty to a former petty slum bandit," Daemon raised his eyebrows in bewilderment.
"He has some powerful ally. Also, Maegor believes that by marrying the Lord's sister and taking the Targaryen name, he can lay claim to the Iron Throne. 'The legionaries don't care who my father and mother were; they need land and money, which I can certainly give them'," Narvos quoted Maegor, grimacing even harder. He was about to raise the cup to his lips again, but thought better of it and set it aside.
Idiot. What an idiot. Rubbing the bridge of his nose in annoyance, Daemon looked at Viserys. "Does this fool truly believe that the nobility of the Sunset Kingdoms will cast aside their pride, which their ancestors have carefully nurtured for millennia, and bend the knee to the son of a whore and a pirate?"
"It's quite possible he'll be satisfied with Slaver's Bay alone. At least his powerful ally is certainly not foolish, as he forbade Maegor from revealing his identity to anyone," Veela shrugged her delicate shoulders, sweeping a lock of hair as dark as the night sky from her face.
"We largely don't care what this traitor is thinking. We need to plan how to repel the attack and figure out where the riff-raff hired by Maegor's mysterious friend might be lurking." Tapping his finger on the polished surface of the table, Viserys looked at Darry. "Are the Praetorians sufficient for a surprise attack?"
"Quite," Willem nodded soberly, stroking his beard. "I would also involve the men from the First Cohort of my Legion, but the fewer people who know about the impending events, the better for us. Your Grace, can your dragon ensure that none of the ships leave the harbor when everything begins?"
"Yes," the Targaryen with the braided hair nodded, popping a couple of grapes into his mouth. "Don't you want to capture Maegor's ally?"
"It's unlikely he will be in Astapor, but if luck smiles upon us, we can at least catch his spies. The Praetorians will block all the gates, and the traitors will fall into one big trap," the old knight shrugged.
"Then I propose we draw up a detailed plan to repel the attack tomorrow. Today, we are all too tired, having spent the entire day on our feet and with blades in our hands."
Daemon nodded in agreement at these words, feeling the fatigue creeping in. The young Reraxes's lips involuntarily stretched into an anticipating smile. It turned out his sword would drink blood again much sooner than he had thought...
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