Matteno of Myr
The inn stank the same as any other this side of town. Piss and sour wine and the particular kind of sweat that came from men who spent their lives at sea. Matteno sat at a corner table nursing a cup of the cheapest ale the establishment offered, which was saying something, considering the place was already bottom-of-the-barrel as far as Pentoshi establishments went.
Around him, his officers were having a good time. Torgo the Flea was regaling the table with some story about a merchant's wife in Lys, his hands gesturing wildly, spilling ale with every dramatic flourish. Kassos laughed so hard he nearly fell off his bench, his scarred face turning red.
"And then, and then!" Torgo wheezed, barely able to get the words out through his own laughter. "She says, 'That's not what I meant when I asked you to check the hold!'"
The table erupted. Even stone-faced Gylos cracked a smile, which was rare enough that it made the others laugh harder.
Matteno took another drink and said nothing.
He should have been enjoying this. His men were happy, relatively speaking. They had enough coin to eat and drink and fuck their way through Pentos's cheaper brothels. They had work, even if it was petty shit—escorting merchant cogs, running protection rackets for magisters too cheap to hire proper guards, the occasional smuggling job.
But it wasn't enough.
More than the gold, he missed the adventure. The real work. The kind of jobs that got your blood pumping and made you feel alive in ways that petty escort duty never could.
And if he was being honest with himself—which he tried not to be, but the ale was loosening his tongue even if only in his own head—he missed his crazy Westerosi bitch.
None of the whores in Pentos could sate his appetites like Lenora had. They'd try, gods knew they'd try. But there was something missing. Some spark, some edge. Lenora had been half-mad and wholly vicious, and she'd matched him in ways that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with pure, raw hunger.
The Weeping Town job had not been good money. It was bad money, if anything. But it was good fucking.
He took another drink, grimacing at the sour taste.
Couldn't go back to Tyrosh. Not with the debts he owed Magister Karo Adarys. The man had already fronted him even before the Weeping Town, and when it all went sideways, Matteno had decided discretion was the better part of valor and fucked off to Pentos before Adarys could collect.
Myr was out too. He'd burned those bridges years ago in ways he preferred not to think about.
So here he was in Pentos, doing odd jobs for whatever magister could scrape together enough gold to pay him and his crew. Running messages, scaring merchants, playing bodyguard to soft men who'd never held a sword in their lives.
It was beneath him.
The door to the inn banged open. The noise in the place didn't stop immediately. Sailors were too drunk and too loud for that. But it died down quickly as the new arrivals made their way into the common room.
Four men in leather skirts and spiked bronze helms. Faces blank as stone. Moving with the precise, coordinated step of soldiers who'd trained together for years.
Unsullied.
The room went quiet. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even Torgo's wild gesturing stopped, his hands freezing in the air like he'd been turned to salt.
Matteno watched them approach, his jaw tightening. Unsullied meant money. Real money. The kind of money only the richest magisters could afford.
The lead Unsullied—distinguished only by a slightly fancier plume on his helm—stopped at their table. His eyes swept across Matteno's officers, then settled on Matteno himself.
"You will follow," the Unsullied said. His voice was flat and emotionless as he spoke with the clipped accent of Astapor.
Matteno's officers reacted immediately. Torgo's hand went to his belt knife. Kassos stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Gylos just shifted his weight, readying himself for violence with the economy of movement that came from decades of practice.
The four Unsullied didn't even flinch. Didn't reach for their weapons. Just stood there, perfectly still, perfectly calm. Six armed men against four, and they didn't care.
Because they knew they'd win.
"Whose orders?" Matteno asked, keeping his voice level.
The lead Unsullied simply repeated, "You will follow."
"Don't do it, captain," his first mate growled. Rego was a massive Tyroshi with a green beard and a temper to match. "We can take them. Be out of Pentos before anyone knows what happened."
Matteno considered it. Weighed the options.
And run where? The thought was bitter. Braavos? The Iron Bank didn't look kindly on pirates who operated in the Narrow Sea. Lorath? Might as well slit his own throat and save time. He couldn't go back to Myr or Tyrosh. And Volantis was a whole different beast—the Old Blood ran that city with an iron fist, and they had no love for pirates who didn't know their place.
He could try to disappear into the Basilisk Isles or the Stepstones, but that was just a slow death. Living hand-to-mouth, preying on fishing boats and coastal villages. No glory in that. No real coin.
"I'll go," Matteno said, standing.
"Captain…"
"Go back to the ship, Rego." Matteno looked his first mate in the eye. "If I'm not back by tomorrow sunset, sail off without me. Understood?"
Rego's jaw worked, but he nodded. "Aye, captain."
Matteno turned to the Unsullied and spread his arms. "Lead on, then. Let's see what magister wants me badly enough to send you lot."
xxx
They brought him to one of Pentos's hills, where the wealthy magisters kept their estates away from the stink and noise of the lower city.
The manse wasn't the biggest he'd ever seen. That honor went to some monstrosity in Lys that had belonged to a pillow house owner who'd made a fortune selling his best girls to Volantene nobles. But this one was impressive enough.
High walls surrounded the estate, topped with iron spikes. Guards at the gate, not Unsullied, but professional soldiers in matching armor. The manse itself was built of pale stone and white marble that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Gardens spread out on either side, lush and green and clearly expensive to maintain.
The Unsullied led him through the main entrance and into a courtyard. Fountains burbled. Orange trees grew in decorative pots. Silk cushions were scattered around low tables.
And sitting at one of those tables was a dangerous man.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with the build of someone who'd been athletic once but was letting it slide. Blond hair oiled and curled. A handsome face, if you looked past the indulgence starting to show around the jaw and midsection. Dressed in yellow silk that probably cost more than Matteno's ship.
"Ah! My guest has arrived!" The man stood, spreading his arms in welcome. "Please, please, sit. You must be thirsty after the walk. Wine? We have an excellent vintage from the Arbor. Or perhaps something from Dorne? I confess I've developed quite the taste for their sour reds."
Matteno remained standing. "Who are you?"
"Forgive me, where are my manners?" The man pressed a hand to his chest. "Illyrio Mopatis, at your service. I am a simple merchant, you understand. A trader in cheese and spices and other sundries."
A simple merchant who could afford Unsullied and a manse on the hill. Right.
"What do you want with me, Illyrio Mopatis?"
"Please, sit first. All this standing makes me nervous. As if we're about to duel, and I assure you, my dueling days are long behind me." Illyrio laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Though in my youth, ah! I was quite the bravo. Won seventeen duels before I turned twenty. The ladies loved it, of course. The scars, the danger..." He sighed wistfully.
Matteno sat. Mostly because standing felt stupid after that speech, and the half a dozen guards standing around meant it wouldn't make much of a difference if he sat or stood.
Soon a servant appeared with wine and food: roasted fowl, cheese, grapes, bread still warm from the oven. Another brought dancers, girls in silk so sheer they might as well have been naked. They swayed and spun to music from a trio of musicians who'd somehow materialized in the corner.
Illyrio talked. And talked. And fucking talked.
He told stories of his days as a bravo, though Matteno suspected half of them were exaggerated and the other half were outright lies. He asked about Matteno's pirate life with the enthusiasm of a child hearing adventure stories, laughing at the violent parts and gasping at the clever bits.
A full half-hour passed. Matteno ate—no point wasting good food—and drank sparingly. Kept his guard up. Waited for the other shoe to drop.
It did when a servant approached and whispered in Illyrio's ear.
The magister's face lit up. "Ah, wonderful! Bring them here, yes."
Matteno shifted in his seat, his hand moving to where his sword should have been. The Unsullied had taken it at the gate. "You expecting company?"
"An old friend," Illyrio said, his smile widening. "Two, actually. I think you'll find them most interesting."
Two figures emerged from the manse. The first was a man, bald and plump and soft-looking. He wore silk robes in deep purple that hid his significant bulk. He moved with small, precise steps, his hands folded in his sleeves.
Everything about him screamed "eunuch." The smoothness of his skin, the pitch of his voice when he giggled to himself. The way he carried himself.
Matteno didn't like him on principle. Too soft. Too unmanly. The kind of person who smiled while sliding a knife between your ribs.
But the second figure made him sit up straighter.
A woman. Dusky skin, dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders. Beautiful as sin in a dress that left very little to imagination, deep red silk that clung to curves and exposed more than it concealed. But it was her eyes that caught him. Sharp. Clever. Fox-like.
She looked at him for just a second, taking him in with a glance that felt like being assessed and catalogued and dismissed all at once. Then she turned to their host.
"Serala, my dear!" Illyrio rose from his chair, arms spread wide. "It is so good to see you."
He greeted her with a warm hug, kissing both her cheeks. She returned the embrace with the ease of long familiarity.
"It is good to be back," she said. Her voice was rich and cultured. The accent was Myrish, but smoothed out by years of travel. "I've missed Pentos. Westeros is so... damp."
"I hope Varys didn't ask too much of you." Illyrio gestured to the eunuch, who'd settled into a chair and was helping himself to grapes. "He can be quite the taskmaster."
The eunuch—Varys—let out a soft giggle. "I prefer to think of myself as thorough."
Serala smiled, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh, but it was quite fun being a lord's wife. Ordering him around. Poking at the dragon king." She glanced at Matteno again, that same assessing look. "The men of Westeros are much more fun than their Essosi counterparts. No offense, Illyrio. You are still my favorite."
"None taken, my dear. Your talents were always wasted at the pillow houses." Illyrio waved toward the manse. "Go inside for now. The servants will show you to your rooms. Rest. We'll speak more at dinner."
The woman smiled, turned to wink at Matteno, a slow, deliberate gesture that promised things he absolutely should not be thinking about, then twirled around and left.
Matteno couldn't help but watch her go. The sway of her hips, the way the silk moved against her skin...
"She's a good-looking one, isn't she?" Illyrio said, amusement in his voice.
Matteno grunted an agreement, dragging his eyes away.
"She is an investment. A fruitful one." Illyrio sat back down, gesturing for Varys to join them at the table. "As were you."
His eyes hardened. Beneath the table, his hand moved instinctively toward his belt before he remembered—no sword. But he still had the knife in his boot. Always had a knife in his boot.
"I've never taken work from you."
Varys giggled again, that high, soft sound that set Matteno's teeth on edge. "Not directly, no."
His mind raced. "Lenora?" he asked slowly. "She didn't work for you. I'd have known."
Varys's smile widened. "Would you? She was a bad investment on Adarys's part, I'm afraid. Too blunt of a tool. Too... passionate in her methods. Not subtle enough for the work we needed done."
Matteno's instincts sharpened to a razor edge. The Unsullied had taken his sword, but he could get to the knife fast. Grab the soft eunuch as a hostage, use him to get out of the compound. Six guards around them here. Four Unsullied at the gate, maybe more inside, but if he moved quick enough…
"You work for Adarys?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
Illyrio laughed. "Not quite. Not quite. Karo Adarys is an old acquaintance. A friend of the family, you might say. We've done business together over the years."
Matteno tensed, ready to move.
Before he could explode out of his seat, Illyrio lifted a hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy. But something in it made Matteno pause.
"No, no. Do not worry, my pirate friend. I am not here to settle old debts. If anything, I want to alleviate them." Illyrio's smile was friendly, but his eyes were calculating. "Start anew and wipe the slate clean, as it were."
Matteno wet his lips. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to stay still. "You've got work for me?"
"Work is such a dirty word," Varys said, his voice like that of a child's. Almost playful. "Think of it more as a long-term partnership."
Illyrio nodded enthusiastically. "Our future interests lie in the west now. And we need men who have some... experience with the people of that land."
"If you think killing and fucking them counts as experience..." Matteno said.
Illyrio laughed, slapping the table. "Those are the only ones that count, my friend! Yes, yes. You understand perfectly." He leaned forward, his expression turning serious despite the smile still on his lips. "I'm sure we will accomplish great things together. And you will not suffer for lack of coin for many a year to come, Matteno of Myr."
Matteno looked between the two of them. The merchant with his easy smiles and expensive silk. The soft eunuch with his giggles and sharp eyes.
Something was going on here. Something bigger than smuggling runs or pirate raids. These weren't men who dealt in petty schemes.
"What kind of work are we talking about?" he asked carefully.
Ilyrio's smile turned knowing. "The profitable kind. The kind that will see you commanding a fleet instead of a single ship."
"And all we ask in return," Varys added, "is loyalty. Discretion. And the patience to wait for the right moment to strike."
"Strike at what?"
"Why, kingdoms of course," Varys said softly. "What else is there worth striking at?"
Matteno stared at them. He should walk away. Should refuse whatever insane scheme they were cooking up. Should take his ship and his crew and disappear into the Stepstones and never look back.
But he thought about the shitty inn. The petty jobs. The boredom eating away at him day by day.
And he thought about what Varys had said. A fleet. Real power. The kind of coin that could buy anything, even a boy's fanciful dreams.
"Tell me more," Matteno said.
Illyrio's smile widened. "I knew you were a smart man. Now, let us discuss the details. But first—more wine! This calls for celebration!"
As servants rushed to refill cups and bring fresh food, Matteno settled back in his chair. He would hear them out and make up his mind after that. And if it all went to shit?
Well, he'd gotten out of worse situations before.
Kind of.
xxx
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