Chapter 28: The Cheesemonger

291 AC. Valyrian Empire. Astapor. The Ancestral Pyramid of House Targaryen.

"...therefore, as your most loyal allies and friends, we humbly ask for your aid in our hour of need." The middle-aged man, dressed in a black and yellow toga, concluded his speech with a low bow.

"I shall consider your proposal, Ambassador. You will have my answer no later than the next new moon," I replied evenly.

The man inclined his head even lower, then straightened and backed out of the door, careful not to turn his back on me. Only Willem and I remained in the room.

"Apprentice, have you lost your wits? Or perhaps that pagan priestess has enchanted you and stripped you of your sense?" Willem asked after a minute of silence.

I choked on my wine at the question, spilling a few drops of ruby red onto the white tablecloth of the small table where we sat.

“Khah!” Coughing, I looked at Darry, trying to find a trace of a joke on his bearded face, but soon resigned myself to the futility of the search. Glancing at his stone-faced expression with irritation, I asked, “Can you ask a more detailed question, O wisest of teachers?”

“Those corpulent merchants of Lys are as much our allies as a whore is a faithful wife to her husband!” Darry exclaimed, waving a hand and flashing a gold ring set with a large ruby. “Understand, Viserys, the time is rapidly approaching when we must move our army to confront those hell-born Ghiscari. This will be one of the greatest battles in history; almost one hundred thousand warriors will meet in the clash!” the old soldier said, almost rapturously. “But after the victory, which I do not doubt, we will need a long time to recover and consolidate our rule over the new territories. New Ghis, Astapor, Meereen, Yunkai, Elyria, and Tolos are large, wealthy cities, each holding as much wealth and as many problems as the Reach or the Riverlands in Westeros. To conquer three more Free Cities... even if you succeed, it is sheer madness! We will not hold them.”

“No one said we would go to war against Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr,” I stared at Willem in astonishment, leaning back into the soft chair.

“Och!” the recently rejuvenated knight waved his hand dismissively and irritably ruffled his beard. “I’ve known you since you walked under the table. And I perfectly remember that look. Thoughtful, predatory, and satisfied! You used to look at an apple pie like that when you were a boy, and now you look at cities you mean to conquer.”

“Do not grumble, old man,” I waved him off lightly, causing the knight to choke on the wine in his cup. “No one is going to seize those sick things, at least not yet, so do not fret. It’s bad for your age,” I continued with a smirk. “They are asking for our soldiers to suppress the unrest in the captured cities and lands, should it begin. But according to the reports of Veela’s people, the conspirators among the nobility of Myr and Tyrosh will need another year, if not two, to prepare a revolt. Right now, almost all the sellswords in this part of Essos have been bought up by our enemies, and such complex operations do not materialize in a couple of moons; we have time.”

“Let it be so. But a year, two, or even five years from now, our legions will still be needed here. We won’t be able to spare even one,” Darry frowned.

“Come now, Willem. We anticipated this would happen back when we established the first castrum and began recruiting men into the Burning Legion. Those fools couldn't plan their moves beyond ten years, and now they are paying the price. Our blades united the Disputed Lands, Tyrosh, and Myr into a single state under the banners of Lys, but the Magisters forgot that not only gold rules the world. We left, our legions are far away, and the conquered peoples immediately raised their heads; whispers ran through the corners of the palaces, and conspiracies began to ripen in dark rooms. A couple of years and the dominance of Lys will fall; that’s why they’ve started to panic.” Shaking my head, I smiled wryly. “Yes, after the rebellion and the wars, all three cities will be sufficiently weakened for the cunning boot of the legionary to crush their mercenary armies, but we cannot hold those dominions. We simply won't have enough soldiers, officials, or resources.”

“Then why do you want to march the legions into those lands? And don’t tell me you were taken in by those mountains of gold those merchants promise to the ‘great and mighty sovereign who rules the very heavens’,” we both laughed heartily at the last words.

“I shall suppress the rebellion, but not completely. I will accept bribes and gifts from both sides of the conflict, and once more bind that brittle state with ropes and chains. But the ropes and chains will be rotten and rusted. The contradictions will accumulate with even greater force, and instead of war, they will poison each other, cut throats in dark corners, and weaken with each passing year. I am sure the other Free Cities will also get involved in that brawl. And while everyone is fighting over those rich regions that control both the trade routes and some of the most fertile lands of Essos, our Dominion will grow strong enough.”

“Ha! You are either a madman or a genius. I suppose a bit of both,” Darry drained the wine from his cup and his bald head gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the window. “You want to take a spear not only to the Seven Kingdoms but also to Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. I suppose you’ll bring the Stepstones to heel as well.”

“I have sufficiently reliable information, confirmed by Veela’s spies. In about ten years, the Seven Kingdoms will plunge into a civil war even more terrible than Robert’s Rebellion and the War of the Ninepenny Kings combined. We will seize lands weakened by wars and revolts, starting from the Disputed Lands in Essos and ending with the Wall in the North of the Seven Kingdoms. I will create an empire whose might will eclipse all that came before and all that will come after.”

“To conquer such a swathe of land, weakened by civil strife, is entirely feasible. The Valyrians, who ruled over all the Free Cities, and the great Aegon the Conqueror proved that,” Willem said thoughtfully, furrowing his brow. “But how will you hold it?”

“We have created the finest army; soon, dragons will cleave the skies of our country. When we return from the campaign, the building of the Guild of Mages will be finished, and sorcerers will join our struggle for dominance. Some of the pyramids, by my order, are being converted into academies and schools; officials are also needed to maintain law in the state. Soon, I will completely understand the workings of the Obsidian Candles and mirrors that were available to old Valyria, and it will be possible to instantly communicate with any city, any army. I think we will succeed in establishing the law and order of the Valyrian Empire in the new territories,” I elaborated on all the titanic work that had been done and that which was still to come.

“May the Seven permit it. I will be happy, Your Grace, to help you and enter history as one of the commanders of the man who will eclipse even Aegon the Conqueror,” Willem raised his cup.

I looked thoughtfully at perhaps my most faithful and devoted close associate. So that was it. I always wondered what he wanted to achieve. He is indifferent to wealth, wears only one ring for form, and prefers simple, comfortable clothes. He only visited his landed estate a couple of times before washing his hands of it and installing a manager. It turns out my devoted friend, mentor, and military commander desires to enter history, like almost any knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Ha, good. So be it. I will find the best Chronicler and commission the writing of the Chronicles of Valyria. Let my teacher see himself mentioned in the book while he is still alive; I will please the old man.

Smiling at my thoughts, I took a sip of the tart wine from the golden cup and looked out the window. From a bird's-eye view, Astapor, one of the richest and largest cities in Essos, stretched out at the base of my pyramid. The first, but far from the last, city to become part of my empire...

******

Liao Fen dodged the whistling blade with the grace of a tiger and delivered a powerful kick to his opponent, sending her sprawling onto the sand of the training ground.

“What in the blazes are you looking only at my sword for, you blockhead? How many times must I repeat myself: learn to watch the opponent’s whole body, not just her weapon. You cannot master even the first stage of the warrior’s path, yet you demand to be taken to war? Kurusu doru, foolish woman, even if the sky turns gold and the Soaring Dragon, teacher of the Sages himself, descends and commands me to take you, I will not do it!” Sheathing his jian with a thunk, Liao walked up to his pouting sister and helped her up, lecturing the stubborn little monkey all the while.

“You will go, and I am to stay here all alone and wonder if my brother will return or not?!” Mae snatched her hand from her brother’s and kicked the sand of the training ground, creating a small cloud of dust.

“No. I will go, and you, as the younger sibling, will submit to the command of the head of Clan Fen and remain home, guarding the safety of the young Targaryen mistress. I promise, sister, I will return home with victory, having protected our master’s life and brought glory to our clan in this land. My blade must be washed in blood, and my name in glory. It is time to reclaim what was lost, Mae.” Turning around, the youth put on the mask of a cold prince and walked toward the exit of the training grounds.

“Kurusu!” The girl clenched her fists and caught up with her brother, positioning herself to his right. “Fine, fine. I will stay, but next time I will definitely go on the military campaign with you. Our father taught me too, you know.”

“That depends on what success you achieve.”

So they walked, passing other sections of the training ground enclosed by low fences, where knights, tribunes, and centurions trained. Soon, the pair left the drill grounds entirely, finding themselves on the narrow streets of the castrum.

The First Legion was situated not far from the river that skirted Astapor to the east. The wooden walls of the fortification formed a square with towers at the corners where sentries kept watch. Within the walls, the settlement itself spread out, with a small training ground in the center. Large tents of thick, oiled cloth housed ten men each and stood perfectly aligned, their rows intersected by narrow paths along which the legionaries hurried. The brother and sister walked along one of these paths.

“How is the work on the Guild of Mages building going?” Mae broke the silence.

“Well, it’s not bad. The legionaries are very disciplined, and under the guidance of the architects, they are constructing the complex quite quickly. I am confident that as soon as the war is over, the training blocks will be ready to accept the first students.”

“And what about your progress in magic? If I’m honest, lately all you do is train with those scrolls the white-haired barbarian gave you.”

“Mae! Stop calling our master a barbarian. He is one of the most educated people I know. And I was taught by both the Sages who serve the Golden Emperor and the mentors of the Scarlet River School.” Glancing irritably at his sister, who had lowered her eyes, Liao gestured. “The scrolls Lord Targaryen gave me have greatly expanded my understanding of the Air element and carried knowledge of twelve techniques and three meditation methods I did not know! The chronicles of the House of Dragon lords, from which these treasures were taken, state that most of the scrolls came to the library from the vault of the Sect of the Thousand Heavenly Swords! And that was a legendary Sect, one of the most ancient and powerful, which was destroyed more than two thousand years ago. I am infinitely grateful to the master for the right to touch such valuable knowledge.”

“Pff. As if. That knowledge belonged to our people originally; the barbarians simply stole it,” the girl sniffed, furrowing her delicate eyebrows.

“Stole it, indeed. The Dragon lords destroyed the Sect, burning all the warriors to ashes. This knowledge belongs to the Valyrians by a sacred right recognized by all who follow the path of self-improvement and the knowledge of magic’s mysteries. But enough of the past, let us talk about the present.” Tossing open the flaps of his tent, Liao surveyed the room and sat down on a stool, removing his shoes.

His sister followed him in, quickly shedding her unfamiliar sandals and tossing her belt and sword onto the rack by the entrance, before collapsing onto the bed and groaning into the pillow from the pain in her muscles. “I think you should also enroll in the Guild’s academy. You know too little. A couple of attack spells and a defensive one, and all of them weak. A competent mage, not to mention one as powerful as the Harpy’s temple reverend mother or Lord Viserys, would simply destroy you in a couple of heartbeats.”

“What about you?” Mae lifted her face from the pillow and looked at her brother, who was carefully setting his sword on the rack and starting to prepare a simple meal. “Your lessons are enough for me.”

“I will become the teacher of Aero-mancy at the academy, and I also need to train myself. The head of Clan Fen cannot be weak. I simply will not have the time to teach you as well. Once you become stronger and exhaust the usefulness of the academy, we will decide what to do next. Perhaps by then, I will be released from the post of teacher; after all, I am a warrior, not a sage.”

“Very well, brother.” Sighing, the girl got out of bed and, settling down next to her brother, began to slice the meat.

******

291 AC. Westeros. King’s Landing.

A full, red-haired man with a smoothly shaven face dabbed his lips with a napkin and tossed the white cloth onto his grease and sauce-stained plate. Leaning back against the back of the sofa, he looked expectantly at the man across from him, who was once again sipping from a porcelain cup of tea from far-off Yi Ti.

The red-haired, middle-aged man was dining in one of the finest establishments in King’s Landing, in a private cabinet whose walls were upholstered with a thick, soft layer of down packed into silk and velvet. A pair of small sofas, an elegant cedar table, and a tiny chandelier with a dozen oil lamps made up the entire interior. But such cabinets in the Blue Rose establishment were not valued for their exquisite cuisine, which was nonetheless present, nor for the beautiful interior. Oh no, all that would not be worth a hundred gold dragons for six hours. These small rooms were valued for the guarantee that not a single word would escape the walls of the place, not a single guard would dare to interrupt the conversation, and not a soul besides the establishment's proprietress would know who was talking in such a place.

“Long hair suits you,” the red-haired man smiled.

“And your eyelashes have remained black, though a redhead with such bright hair should not have them,” the plump, though not as fat as his interlocutor, man smiled softly and slightly adjusted the wig on his bald head, wiggling his false mustache amusingly. “I am not a master like you; my talent lies elsewhere. Do you remember? You stole, I sold. Then you gathered information, and I made arrangements with buyers,” Illyrio Mopatis chuckled.

“It is a pity that prudence has abandoned you this time, my friend, and that you have strayed from our rules of doing business,” Varys the Spider smiled softly, his head tilted.

“What are you talking about?” The Magister of Pentos sipped his favorite wine and popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, never losing his cheerful smile.

“Did you think I would not find out?” Varys questioned. “We agreed on everything, my friend. That plan with my nephew and your son is only a backup. Too many will not accept Blackfyres on the Iron Throne; the Targaryens are far preferable. Especially since the youth is making good progress; he will soon conquer the entire Slaver’s Bay. My little birds have worked hard, and Yunkai has lost its best general; only the mediocrity from Meereen remains in Viserys’s opponents’ army. The Admiral, Honor the Sea Demon, will be powerless against the Dragon; the people of that girl who works for the Targaryen have burned all the warehouses holding ship ballistae and ammunition.”

“Varys!” Mopatis shed his feigned good nature and clenched his fists. “Young Griff is also succeeding. Five, maybe ten years, and he will be sufficiently trained, and his reputation among the Golden Company will soar to unprecedented heights thanks to our efforts. Why do we need a true Targaryen, especially one like Viserys? He is completely ungovernable, unlike my son. He is your sister’s son too, if you haven’t forgotten! Yes, he is a Blackfyre, but if we pass him off as the surviving son of Prince Rhaegar and marry him to Daenerys, he will ascend the throne! Especially if the Golden Company and the Burning Legion support him. All our labors will be for naught if Viserys lives. He is already being called The Blood Dragon and is compared to Daemon Targaryen, who conquered the Stepstones just as boldly and quickly. What will happen if he conquers the Bay? A man with the glory of Aegon the Conqueror and who has revived dragons will be very difficult to remove from power, and killing him will be even harder. He has already survived twenty-seven assassination attempts! Assassins have only reached him in three cases, and to what avail, if they were turned into bloody mince faster than gold runs out in a brothel!” Punching the table with his fist, Illyrio Mopatis fixed his heavy gaze on his friend, who continued to smile softly.

“It seems you truly decided to violate all our plans, my friend. Is it old age that clouds your vision? Or something else? In any case, it does not matter. Farewell.” Standing, Varys adjusted his wig and reached the door in two quick steps.

“Wait! I haven't finished, you bald eunu—” The fat Magister struggled to his feet from the sofa, but the words suddenly caught in his throat.

Three grim-faced men entered the room directly from the open door. They wore ordinary, unremarkable clothing, with the faces of simple cobblers or shopkeepers, not a single scar on their skin, and a rather respectable appearance. So why was the Magister, who in his youth had been one of the best warriors in Pentos, so frightened? It was simple: their eyes.

“Varys! Forty years of friendship, and you would betray me for some Targaryen?” Illyrio drew his dagger, prepared to sell his life dearly.

“You betrayed the family yourself, Illyrio. The Blackfyres must live. Many rebellions have shown what will happen to our family if we lust after that accursed piece of iron. Better to be second to the Targaryens than to suffer defeat again,” Varys shook his head, looking coldly at Illyrio from behind his men.

Turning, the Master of Whisperers pulled shut the door, which would let no sound escape, and after taking five steps, opened another, painted green.

Inside sat a dozen guards in gold cloaks. Each carried a crossbow, their bodies were covered in chainmail, and their heads with helmets featuring aventails and nasals.

“As soon as the ‘brigands’ are finished, the valiant guard should catch them in the act,” Varys said coldly.

“No trouble at all, generous Ser. The brigands will, unfortunately, all be dead, and we won’t arrive in time; the patron of this place will already be dead,” the captain of the guard chuckled into his mustache, taking the thick purse into his hands.