Chapter 39: Our Blades Are Sharp

Year 291 After Aegon’s Conquest.

Essos. Valyrian Empire. Astapor.

The gray sky, veiled by dark storm clouds, exploded again and again with branching flashes of lightning. Thunder hammered through the roar of the downpour, and a sharp, gusty wind redirected the fall of a thousand heavy droplets, driving them like angry cold wasps under awnings to strike the faces and clothes of lingering citizens.

The great city, home to tens of thousands, had gone still. It was as if the torrent of cold water pouring from the heavens had washed the inhabitants away. Streams of every shade of filth raced through the stone-paved gutters, carrying off the refuse and dust of Astapor’s streets. The once-bustling markets had fallen silent, the stalls deserted. Only the fabric roofs of a few shops, left behind by hurried merchants, fluttered in the wind, threatening to tear free at any moment. In the harbor, sailors hastily secured their vessels with extra lines, praying to every known god that their hulls would not be dashed against the shore. Meanwhile, the masters of taverns and pothouses smiled joyfully, carrying mulled wine to tables crowded with drenched passersby who hadn't made it home in time.

But the girl standing on the balcony seemed oblivious to the raging storm. She stared out past the horizon, where waves taller than houses crashed against the shore, where lightning struck the very depths of the sea, and where a mighty waterspout was gathering strength.

Her slender fingers gripped the balcony railing with such force that her knuckles turned white. A thin dress of silk, dark as night, clung to her body, revealing rather than hiding every curve of her young, lithe frame. Black locks of wet hair whipped in the wind, and droplets of water slid down her neck, tracing a silver chain to glisten like diamonds on a simple oval medallion before vanishing into her cleavage.

The young girl’s face could not be called divine or even pretty. With its predatory features, sharp cheekbones, and lips pulled into something resembling a smile, more the smirk of a satisfied hunter, it captivated with a dangerous beauty. It was the sort of beauty found in a viper swaying before it strikes or a scorpion lurking in the sand—entrancing and profoundly lethal. She was pulled from her contemplation of nature’s fury by a raspy voice behind her.

"Mistress, one of the 'ears' from the harbor has arrived. He brings an important message!" Trying to shout over the storm, the man raised his voice until he finally reached her.

The lingering smile on the girl’s pale face vanished. Her lips, slightly blue from the cold, twitched in momentary annoyance, but within a heartbeat, a stony mask of eternal calm and indifference settled over her features.

Turning on her heels and sending droplets of water flying from her ink-black hair, Veela faced the man. He was a lean, graying figure, long as an oar, with cheeks covered in a coarse three-day stubble that failed to hide the pits left by smallpox.

In a flash of lightning, the blade of a stiletto glinted and pressed against the man's throat. Bright green eyes met watery brown ones, but the man didn't even blink. His gaze, more suited to a dead fish than a living man, remained fixed on the woman’s emerald eyes. His right hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt but froze, halted by the master’s will.

"I hate being disturbed," Veela hissed. She sheathed the weapon and walked toward the open door, brushing her shoulder against the man in her path.

"I would not dare tear you from your rest, knowing how busy you usually are, Mistress Veela," the man replied imperturbably, closing the door behind them.

Huffing at the remark, the young woman, unabashed by the witness, shed the wet dress, now a sodden black rag, onto the expensive carpet. She snatched a large cloak lined with white fur from the back of a chair and wrapped herself in it completely.

"How many times have I told you to start shaving properly?" Veela asked, as if nothing had happened, sinking into a soft chair and stretching her feet toward the fireplace she had ordered installed.

"Twenty-three, Mistress," the man rasped. Approaching the hearth, he lifted a kettle of boiling water from the flame, protecting his hands with thick gloves kept near the poker.

"And?"

"I insist on the necessity of the stubble. The scars left by that cursed pox are far too conspicuous," the man argued, as he always did.

A stream of steaming water hissed from the kettle into a copper jug, and dried flowers, berries, and spices began to swell on the surface.

"Gods, Horkazz, that stubble hides almost nothing. And why hide your face anyway? You are the right hand of the Viper herself. Anyone who has taken an interest in the web we are weaving through the cities of Essos is well aware of both you and me. Unfortunately, we aren't the only ones with 'eyes and ears,'" Veela said, arching a brow as she watched the glowing red coals.

"Even so. If I shave, dye my hair, and rub my skin with trea-seed oil, I become a sailor from Tyrosh. You grow your hair long for the same reason. Cut it, bleach it, and don a colorful tunic, and you are a perfect bravo from Braavos," Horkazz replied, shrugging his sharp shoulders. He took an orange from a bowl and began to zest it into the hot water, adding citrus notes to the spicy aroma in the air.

"Was that a comment on my small chest? You are a bold one." Veela looked at the man as if seeing him anew while he continued preparing the drink. "And besides, you're too old for a sailor."

"Then I’ll be a cook. I like to cook."

Finishing with the orange, Horkazz set the knife and fruit aside and uncorked a small ceramic jar.

"You do it poorly, though your drinks are decent enough."

"What else do sailors need? Porridge with lard, a piece of salt beef once a decade, and cheap swill they can drink without dying or going blind." Pouring wine into the copper jug, the man picked up a long spoon and gently stirred the concoction.

"What is in the letter?" the brunette asked, her tone and posture remaining somewhat indifferent.

"The Eye of Volantis reports that a storm is about to break behind the Black Wall. It won't be water flowing through the city’s gutters, but blood." Only a momentary tightening of his back betrayed the man's unease, but he soon resumed stirring the mulled wine.

"So Viserys Targaryen's assumption was correct. By throwing a stone into the weed-choked swamp, we’ve stirred the silt at the bottom."

"The abscess has been ripening for a long time; one surgical prick and all the filth comes out." Taking a strainer woven from fine gold wire, Horkazz covered the first goblet and poured the steaming, aromatic drink, carefully ensuring no petal or piece of zest entered the hot, diluted wine.

"I wouldn't call that work 'surgical.' When they found the charred corpse of that 'Dragonblood' hog who dared slander the Targaryen name, the watch caught two of ours. They are a regrettable loss. At least they didn't turn craven and drank the poison all 'Claws' carry," Veela said, taking a sip from her goblet with relish. "But things went poorly with the High Priest of R'hllor, to be frank."

"We didn't truly count on his elimination." Taking the second goblet, Horkazz sat on the edge of a nearby stool. "That is why we used common rabble recruited from local dreamwine addicts."

"And yet, three 'Fingers' and their subordinate 'Claws' were responsible for that job. Did eighteen veteran assassins really find nothing better to do than shoot that lover of red robes with crossbows during the chaos of the mob attacking the temple guard?" Veela frowned, her fingers warming around the cup.

"Our capabilities are not as grand as those of the Faceless Men. But we achieved our goal. An attack on the High Priest, followed by the charred body of the head of an aristocratic house who always spoke ill of the R'hllor fanatics." The man shrugged his aching shoulder. "It was easy to link the two events. Both the lesser priests and the hotheads among the young nobility did so. A few skirmishes, and a long-simmering conflict is poised to enter its hot phase."

"But the High Priest of R'hllor, that old, experienced wolf, is alive and well. If he is even half as strong in magic as Viserys, he will be a thorn in all our sides. And we mustn't forget the temple guard. A thousand well-armed, well-drilled spearmen, supported by a mob that mostly worships that flame-lover... if Volantis falls entirely under the control of R'hllor, we are in trouble."

"The aristocrats living behind the Black Wall may care little for the plight of the plebs, but they still hold weight within their enclosure. Not all citizens will side with the fanatics. The merchants, masters, and other wealthy folk prefer to pray to the gods favored by the ruling descendants of Old Valyria. Volantis is very rich; its rulers maintain numerous guards, and every wealthy citizen owns at least a dagger, shield, and spear for the militia. Even if the city falls, its center behind the Black Wall can hold a siege for six months at the very least."

"And in that time, Viserys could easily redeploy part of his army there, heroically 'saving' his fellow believers. It wouldn't be the best outcome, but a good one nonetheless," Veela nodded. She rose from her chair, went to a massive oak wardrobe, and began to dress in a white shirt and sturdy breeches.

"What about the internal situation? What is the mood among the citizens and the nobility?" Tightening the laces of her breeches, she performed a few warm-up stretches before reaching for a shirt with gold-embroidered sleeves.

"The common people are glad for the news of the victory and the fall of Yunkai. Or rather, they were glad for the barrels of wine and the tables laden with meat and bread." Veela snorted. "But I acknowledge the wisdom and experience of Ser Willem Darry. The orders he left alongside Viserys’s decrees have significantly lifted the spirits of the rabble."

"They were already high. Lower taxes, new rights, permission for all free men to trade, not just the aristocratic clans. The people love Viserys Targaryen, and in the Free Cities, whispers have begun that life here is better than in those so-called 'free' polises."

"Have you started studying High Valyrian?" Veela smirked, hearing a word familiar from old books.

"A minor vice of mine," Horkazz said, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. Since his back was to her, she couldn't see his face, but she caught the note of satisfaction in his raspy voice and moved to drop a few sour lemons into his "excessively" good mood.

"And what of the aristocrats?" Fastening the last button at her throat, Veela threw a cloak over her shoulders and returned to her chair.

"There, it is not so simple, alas. The Westerosi are glad for the land, and those who haven't received it yet are working themselves to the bone. But at the same time, they grumble about 'infringement of rights,' because justice and tax collection are handled by newly appointed judges and magistrates who are as bold as they are inexperienced. And then there's the creation of the city council, which can send complaints to the Small Council or even to the Emperor himself..."

"Not to mention that you can't even lash a peasant or 'sample' a milkmaid; an elected village head will complain to the city council, and from there, a letter might reach the Magistrate of Astapor," Veela chuckled. Due to her origins, she had little love for pompous oafs boasting of the deeds of ancestors who had been dead for centuries.

Though the head of Imperial Intelligence acknowledged that those to whom Viserys had granted land had earned it with sweat and blood. And the lords and knights, though they grumbled, recognized Targaryen's right to set the rules. After all, it was the ruler who granted them their holdings, carving them out of his own lands. He wasn't tearing down the old ways or infringing on established freedoms; he was granting new feofs with conditions that weren't particularly burdensome.

Veela didn’t fully grasp the intricacies of the Seven Kingdoms' politics and traditions, but what she did know was enough to understand that such a maneuver would likely fail in Westeros itself. There, across the Narrow Sea, land could be held for dozens of generations, for hundreds upon hundreds of years. In practice, while the lords swore fealty to a king, his power over them was limited. They were rulers in their own domains, answering only to a stronger, higher-ranking aristocrat. That had been the way of the Seven Kingdoms since the Targaryens lost their dragons. Before Aegon the Conqueror, it had been the absolute norm. Dozens of kings had ruled those lands, and their descendants remembered those times well, constantly seeking more privileges, for by "right of blood," they were masters of their own hearths.

"A portion of the land taxes still goes into the aristocrat's pocket by law, and the peasants pay a tithe for working the lord's land," the man said, scratching his cheek. "And they have little room to complain; the 'Sunset Lords' have seen a great influx of new residents because of runaway slaves, for on their lands, every man is free and cannot be sold like cattle at market."

"Yes, Viserys outmaneuvered the former Masters quite brilliantly then. He promised to preserve slavery but introduced the 'Law of Free Children,' which makes the offspring of slaves free. And that theater with Lorik Raidshield the Liberator? 'I, like all lords and knights, as a man of honor and a good follower of the Seven, ask my liege, Viserys Targaryen, to grant us the right to bestow freedom upon every person living on the lands held by your grace.'" Veela quoted the speech she had helped write with Viserys and Willem Darry. "Ha! And the Ghiscari nobility actually fell for it. They spent a long time discussing those 'stupid soldiers who know nothing of making money or why the rabble must be in chains.' They played those fools like children, and the fools were still laughing. Now they’re clutching their heads and haunting the magistrate’s doorstep, begging for permission to hunt runaway slaves across the whole Valyrian Empire."

"Ahem," the man coughed, hiding a satisfied smile at the veiled praise. He had been responsible for executing that plan, after all, and had spent days drumming the words of that speech into Lord Lorik Raidshield while inciting the rest of the "Sunset Nobility" to champion freedom on their lands.

"I believe it is time to discuss the list of aristocrats seen in questionable company," Veela said, tapping a rhythm on the side of her goblet.

"Yes, of course." Horkazz nodded. "Our suspicions were confirmed; Rozzu mo Gonaliz was indeed passing letters to a spy at the Three Cups, who in turn is linked to Pentos, specifically to..."

Veela listened to the raspy voice of her right hand, watching the dancing flames and sipping her mulled wine. Her thoughts drifted repeatedly to the army that might even now be marching toward Meereen. From the army and the campaign, her thoughts skipped to the commanders, and then, time and again, they snagged on memories of a certain silver-haired rogue...

******

Year 291After Aegon’s Conquest.

The Seven Kingdoms. The North. The Dreadfort.

Domeric Bolton did not often visit the north wing of his ancestral castle. Truth be told, he only came here when his father wished to speak with him privately, away from prying eyes. Even then, such private conversations usually occurred during a ride or a hunt. That was why the young man was surprised by his father's summons; they had only just returned from a hunt and could have discussed everything there. Why wait until they reached the Dreadfort?

The north wing, especially the restricted section, felt more like a crypt than a living part of the castle. Narrow windows with permanently closed shutters, the gloom of stone corridors held back by torchlight, and niches—dozens of man-sized alcoves in the walls. In other castles, these usually held the ancient armor of illustrious ancestors; Domeric had seen such things while guesting at other lords' keeps. But for the Boltons, pride lay in something else entirely.

"A naked man has few secrets. A flayed man, none." That was the favorite saying of his father, and his father's father, and all their ancestors before them. The Bolton sigil was a flayed man, stripped of skin. Their ancestral weapon was a flaying knife of Valyrian steel. The exhibits in the niches were appropriate to such a legacy. Human skins, carefully flayed and masterfully cured, with bronze plaques beneath them. Here were the remains of Dickon Stark, a King of Winter who ruled four thousand years ago and began a war with the Red King, Rodrik Bolton. And that one, with remnants of a mustache, belonged to yet another self-proclaimed King-Beyond-the-Wall who had dared attack the Dreadfort. There were hundreds of exhibits past which Domeric walked; he remembered almost all of them. The history of House Bolton was mandatory study for the heir to the former Red Kings.

Reaching the intended door, the fifteen-year-old boy paused for a moment. He checked his clothes, adjusted his red cloak, and placed a hand on the pommel of the sword at his belt. He tried to compose his face into an expression as emotionless as possible. Taking a deep breath, he resolutely pushed the thick oak door open.

The scene before him was, in its way, familiar. A large, cold hall lit only by a pair of open clerestory windows near the ceiling and four fireplaces in the corners. Iron chains with hooks hung along the walls, bearing animal carcasses. In the center of the square room stood a polished rectangular pedestal of black stone. Once, according to his father, it had been white marble, but over the centuries it had blackened from the blood it had absorbed.

Currently, a stag's carcass lay on the table. Its throat had already been slit to drain the blood, and now the skin was being removed in preparation for hanging yet another trophy on a vacant hook. The flaying was being done by Lord Roose Bolton himself. He wore a leather apron and held the familiar knife with the rippling lines on the blade. His pale, nearly transparent, ice-colored eyes looked up. A hint of a smile appeared on his nondescript face, which, for Roose, meant at least satisfaction, if not joy; usually, he settled for a slight twitch of the corners of his thin lips.

"You called for me, Father." Domeric bowed his head.

"Close the door. No need to let out the heat or give anyone a chance to overhear us," the thirty-year-old man said quietly, returning to his task and expertly cutting the skin near the stag's hind leg.

When the youth stepped closer to better hear his father’s habitually quiet voice, he froze at the news that struck him.

"You will not be going to the Vale."

"But..."

"Listen." Pausing for a moment, Roose pinned his son to the spot with his icy gaze and continued calmly. "Plans have changed. A far more promising opportunity has arisen. If everything goes as I intend, we may rise so high that our ancestors will laugh with joy beyond the veil."

"Surely you don't mean to, like our ancestors... but that is unthinkable! The King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert Baratheon, is a long-time friend of Ned Stark. He will not allow it!"

"If he can stop it," Roose said with a thin smile, leaving Domeric momentarily speechless. He wasn't sure if his father had smiled even half as broadly at the birth of his heir.

"Where am I to go?" Domeric asked, his voice raspy from a sudden lump in his throat.

Looking up at his son, Roose appraised the youth who had matured so much in the past year and replied quietly:

"Far away. Across the Narrow Sea, to Slaver's Bay. To where the Blood Dragon has made his home. You shall become his squire, for the future of House Bolton. And remember: 'Our blades are sharp.'"