Chapter 221 Kui Lizard
"Lord Darry, I had a dream yesterday," Daenerys said, cutting a piece of ham.
They were having breakfast in the garden at the apex of the Great Pyramid. The Ghiscari of Slaver's Bay preferred dog meat, considering pigs and cows unclean. Though Ian was eager to gain their approval and had quickly adapted to their diet, Dany still retained her original eating habits.
A dragon dream? Ian thought to himself.
Daenerys rarely spoke to him of her dreams, which made him suspect that last night's had been something special.
"Did Your Grace dream of me?" Ian teased lightly.
"I dreamed of a strange woman," Daenerys said after a moment's hesitation. "And she said something very strange to me."
"A strange woman? Strange words?"
"Yes. She wore a red wooden mask," Daenerys confirmed with a nod.
Quaithe? This is a problem.
The last thing Ian wanted to deal with right now were these unknown, mysterious entities. He currently held a massive advantage over other players in terms of 'physical' power. If not for the meddling of such annoying mystical forces, his odds of victory would be quite high.
Quaithe was one of the most mysterious and enigmatic figures from the original histories. No one knew her identity, her purpose, or whether she was friend or foe. The few times she appeared, it was only to deliver prophecies, which were then fulfilled with unnerving accuracy.
"What did she say?" Ian asked quickly.
"To go north, you must go south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back, and to touch the light, you must pass beneath the shadow." Daenerys recounted the dream's contents. It had been so vivid that she remembered every word the woman had spoken.
It really is Quaithe, Ian thought, his eyes narrowing. Even the prophecy was identical to the one in the histories.
Was her prophetic ability incapable of detecting the changes caused by players? Or were the changes he had made so far not significant enough to alter this prophecy?
The literal meaning of the passage seemed to be an exhortation for Daenerys to go to Asshai. And in the books, when Daenerys had asked Quaithe what she would find in Asshai, Quaithe had replied, 'The truth.'
But judging from the contents of the fifth volume, A Dance with Dragons, the possibility of Daenerys ever actually going to Asshai by the Shadow Lands was close to zero in the original timeline. Other readers interpreted the prophecy differently: to return to Westeros in the west, Daenerys first went to Slaver's Bay in the east. Later, when the Dornish sought an alliance, she would have to go south to land in Dorne. As for going back to go forward and passing beneath the shadow, the theories were even more divergent.
Ian was completely unable to judge the situation now. If anything, compared to the original story, he felt the possibility of Daenerys following him to Asshai in the future had actually increased.
"Ian?" Daenerys used his name this time. "What's wrong? You don't look well."
"It's nothing, Your Grace." Ian quickly shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. He stuffed a piece of mutton into his mouth.
"Do you know what this passage means?" Seeing him return to normal, Daenerys set aside her worries and asked.
"Well, why would you think I could understand what someone said in your dream?" Ian's lips twitched.
"Haha," Daenerys gave a sheepish laugh. "Sorry, sorry. It was just a subconscious thought. After all, Ian, you always seem to know everything."
"What I care more about than the passage itself is…" Ian looked at Daenerys. "Are you certain it was a dream?"
Ian's suspicion was not unfounded. In the histories, Daenerys first met Quaithe in person. The second time, Quaithe's sudden appearance and disappearance made Daenerys suspect it was a dream, but it was just as likely that Quaithe, a shadowbinder, possessed some form of magic to achieve such an effect.
Furthermore, in the books, Quaithe had set out to find Daenerys in the Red Waste after the dragons were born. If she had set out at the same time in this world, then her arriving in Astapor now to find Dany would be perfectly understandable.
"Certain?" Daenerys was taken aback. "What else could it be, if not a dream? My chambers are dozens of meters high, with four Unsullied guarding the door. Do you suspect someone could sneak into my room?" As she spoke, her eyes suddenly widened.
"What did you remember?" Ian asked urgently.
"I just remembered… the background of the dream was my actual room. The woman in the red wooden mask was standing by the window. She vanished immediately after speaking those words, which is why I thought it was a dream." A sudden fear washed over Daenerys.
A chill went down Ian's spine as well.
Can shadowbinders truly do such a thing?
Although Melisandre had summoned a shadow assassin to kill Renly Baratheon by birthing it from a child conceived with Stannis, that had been an expensive sacrifice, performed by the most powerful sorceress known in the world of ice and fire.
If other shadowbinders could freely infiltrate a well-guarded room through magic, then even he was at risk of being 'beheaded' by a well-developed mage player.
This was terrible news.
"No, it was just a dream," Ian said, offering what little comfort he could.
Whatever Quaithe's allegiances were, he knew that—at least in the published histories—she had never tried to harm Daenerys. For now, Ian didn't have to worry about hostility from this mysterious shadowbinder.
As for other players… The thought made Ian hurry. He quickly finished his breakfast and took his leave of Daenerys.
After returning to his room, Ian logged into the system. He spent a Scroll of Basic Skills of Your Choice to learn the fundamentals of a Red Priest, then upgraded both it and his Green Seer abilities to the elementary level.
His updated data card read:
[Ian: Strength 35, Agility 31, Mental Strength 34
Skills: Basic Etiquette, Basic Common Tongue, Basic High Valyrian, Sword Proficiency, Advanced Equestrian, Intermediate Lancer, Advanced Skinchanger, Basic Green Seer, Basic Red Priest
Attribute points: 0
Skill Points: 1
Points: 349
Props: Scroll of Basic Skills of Your Choice
Skill Upgrade Scroll x2]
Although 'elementary' magic skills held little practical value, they would at least allow him to understand the capabilities of these magical systems. That way, he could prepare in advance for skills that might threaten him, ensuring he wouldn't be caught off guard when a crisis finally struck.
Chapter 222 Throne Hall Conference
The throne room was a sea of armor, swords, and bright cloaks.
More than half the great lords of the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach were gathered at the back of the hall, standing beneath the high windows.
High above them all sat Robert Baratheon, enthroned upon the Iron Throne, that monstrous chair of blades and thorns. He wore his antlered helm, a sight not seen in years, and a suit of silvered plate armor custom-made for a man of his immense stature. He laughed loudly with the courtiers around him, as high-spirited as the day he slew Rhaegar on the banks of the Trident.
Beside him, Varys, clad in a lavender brocade robe, answered his questions in a low voice. On the king's other side, the High Septon, unable to get a word in, simply shook his head, sending rainbows of light scattering from his crystal crown.
The first to enter was Stannis Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone and the king's second brother. He was built with broad shoulders and strong limbs, his face a tight mask, his skin weathered as hard as iron by the sun. This was a proven commander, one who had demonstrated his military prowess many times during Robert's Rebellion and in the crushing of the Greyjoy Rebellion. He was also the man Robert would name commander of the royal army today, though the king was not pleased about it in the least.
Just a fortnight ago, Robert had received a letter from the North. Eddard Stark had informed him of grim news: the wildlings beyond the Wall had united under a man calling himself the King-Beyond-the-Wall. They had received aid from an unknown source and formed a well-equipped vanguard. This force had slipped through unknown passages beneath the Wall, emerging behind the Night's Watch defenses.
By the time Eddard Stark received the news, all three of the Wall's main castles—the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch—had fallen. Finally, House Umber of Last Hearth had sent a raven to Winterfell pleading for help, claiming that a hundred thousand wildlings were marching south.
This had forced Eddard, who had already brought his army to Moat Cailin, to turn his forces back to defend his own lands. He had written to Robert asking for his forgiveness.
Robert could not refuse Eddard on the matter of defending the North and had no choice but to grant his request. The problem that followed was that Robert had to choose a new commander-in-chief for the royal army.
His foster father, Jon Arryn, had been poisoned by the Lannisters, and the Vale had not yet answered the royal summons. His dear friend Eddard Stark was now tied down by the wildling invasion and unable to march south, sending only a few lesser lords and their men to serve the king. Hoster Tully, Duke of Riverrun, an old ally from the rebellion, was now bedridden, his health having taken a turn for the worse after the Riverlands army was ambushed and nearly destroyed by the main force of the Westerlands, led by Jaime Lannister, a month prior.
At this moment, Robert did not have many options for command. Only three men possessed both the ability and the reputation for the task.
There was his second brother, Stannis Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone. There was Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill, the finest general in the Reach. And there was Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, who had come to King's Landing alone, hoping to avenge his sister Elia, as Dorne had not sent troops to answer the king's call.
Beyond them, not even the living legend, Ser Barristan the Bold of the Kingsguard, was equal to the task.
And so, no matter how much Robert disliked his younger brother, he had no reason to pass him over in favor of the other two.
"Your Majesty, the king's army is assembled," Stannis said, kneeling before the Iron Throne in salute. His expression was so perpetually grim it made one wonder if he had forgotten how to smile.
"Brother, the Stormlands fight for you." Robert's third brother, Renly Baratheon, Duke of Storm's End, stood beside Stannis, his equal in rank, not falling a step behind him as decorum might dictate. Behind them stood the most renowned knights of the Crownlands and the Stormlands.
Renly did not address the king as 'Your Majesty' like his second brother, but simply as 'brother,' a smile on his face. From Robert's expression, it was clear he favored Renly far more than Stannis. But war could not be decided by preference alone. Renly, however charming, could not be the commander-in-chief.
"Stannis Baratheon," Robert said, also using his brother's name, "I name you commander-in-chief of the royal army. You shall lead my forces west to crush this rebellion."
"I swear I will break Casterly Rock and bring the treacherous Lannisters to King's Landing to face the king's justice!" Stannis vowed at once.
The throne room erupted in applause, the nobles chanting Stannis's name. None of them liked the man, but it was protocol.
Then the herald announced the entrance of Mace Tyrell, Duke of Highgarden. It was said he was once tall and proud, and though he had grown somewhat stout, he remained a handsome man. His two sons, Ser Loras the Knight of Flowers and his brother Garlan the Gallant, followed closely behind. All three wore green velvet robes trimmed with sable.
Garlan and Loras were the duke's second and third sons. Their eldest brother, Willas Tyrell, remained in Highgarden, his knee having been crippled in a tourney. The man responsible for Willas's injury, Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, was standing in the hall at that very moment, a fact which earned him a hostile glare from both brothers as they entered.
"The Reach is yours to command, Your Majesty." Duke Mace Tyrell, of course, could not indulge in such displays as his sons. He walked straight to the Iron Throne and bowed to Robert.
Behind House Tyrell were several great lords of the south: Paxter Redwine, Lord of the Arbor; Lord Mathis Rowan in a snow-white cloak; the lanky, balding Lord Randyll Tarly; and Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown.
The Reach was the second largest of the Seven Kingdoms, after the North, but its fertile lands and dense population made it the most powerful. As for the lords now standing before the Iron Throne, each could raise an army nearly the size of a duke's levy in other kingdoms.
Mace Tyrell clearly had a grand purpose in bringing such a formidable retinue to King's Landing.
"You are welcome, my lords. The crown shall never forget your loyalty and bravery," Robert said, in a rare display of statesmanship.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Duke Mace replied with a smile. "In addition to answering your call to serve the royal family, I have come with a request of my own."
"What is it you ask? Speak freely. It shall be granted," Robert declared magnanimously. It was a request that required no thought. How could he refuse a man who brought a hundred thousand swords to his cause?
Seeing Robert so agreeable, Mace Tyrell's face beamed with joy.
"I have a daughter, Margaery, of marriageable age, who is the jewel of my house. Margaery has heard of Your Majesty's great deeds and is captivated by your wisdom, courage, and chivalry. She has come to admire you from afar. I have brought her to King's Landing today, Your Majesty, with the sincere hope that you might join our houses in marriage, uniting the two to forge generations of glory."
For a moment, Robert's brow furrowed deeply. He had not expected the Tyrells to use this moment to propose a marriage. He turned his head aside and said nothing.
Chapter 223 Humiliation
Varys, standing beside King Robert, was deeply satisfied with how the situation was unfolding. He had long guessed the purpose of the Tyrells' visit but had never thought to remind the king, preferring instead to wait for this very moment.
If House Tyrell truly forged a marriage alliance with the Iron Throne, then his own plans for Aegon and the Golden Company would be left with no chance at all.
"Lord Tyrell," Varys said, feigning a helpful tone, "the realm is at war. Does it not seem… inappropriate to speak of marriage at such a time?"
"The king's marriage and the matter of his heirs are the bedrock of the realm's stability; they cannot be long delayed," Mace Tyrell retorted at once. He was no fool. If he did not press his terms now, before the war was won, what leverage would he have after? "The royal wedding can, of course, be postponed until after our victory, but the betrothal can be settled beforehand."
"Hahaha." Just as Robert was struggling to find a response, a discordant laugh echoed through the throne room.
All eyes turned to find the source, landing on Prince Oberyn Martell, who was leaning casually against a pillar.
"Lord Tyrell, I advise you to save your efforts. You are not yet aware, are you? His Majesty brought a Winter Snow Rose back from the North with him this time, and the position of queen has already been reserved for her."
"A Stark?" Lord Mace was momentarily confused. He had proposed the marriage with such confidence precisely because he knew there were no eligible women left in House Stark.
"No, merely the daughter of some petty northern lord." Oberyn sneered. Dorne and the Reach were ancient enemies, and he would never pass up an opportunity to humiliate House Tyrell. "Ah, that's right. Her brother is Ser Lorraine of the Kingsguard, who stands before you now."
At these words, the expressions of all the lords from the Reach turned exceedingly grim. To be refused for the sake of a minor noble was not just a rejection—it was a scandal.
Every eye in the hall shifted to Robert on the Iron Throne.
"Your Majesty, you had already agreed to my request," Mace said, his voice tight. "I hope you will clarify this malicious rumor." As he spoke, he shot a venomous glare at Oberyn.
But it was Lord Mace's demanding tone that instantly ignited the temper of a king who had, until that moment, hoped to keep the matter quiet.
"I agreed because I did not know you would make such a request, my lord," Robert said. He restrained himself from using harsher words, knowing he still needed these men for the coming war, but his voice was heavy with royal authority. "I can only tell you, with regret, that what Prince Oberyn said is no rumor. While in the North, I gave my word. The queen's seat is promised to another. Though I personally would welcome a match with House Tyrell, the matter is closed."
A public rejection. A public rejection before the assembled nobility of the Crownlands, the Reach, and the Stormlands.
The humiliation was palpable. To be spurned in favor of an unknown girl from a house of no consequence felt like a deliberate mockery—a reminder that House Tyrell had once been nothing more than the Grand Stewards to the Gardener Kings of the Reach.
Men were fond of deriding House Frey of the Twins as upstarts with a history of only eight hundred years, but the Tyrells' true prosperity was less than three centuries old. After the Targaryen conquest of Westeros, they had been elevated from stewards of the old kings to Wardens of the South, chosen precisely because their influence was modest. They were the true nouveau riche.
Had Robert's intended been a sister or daughter of Eddard Stark, Mace Tyrell would have accepted it. But this 'Winter Snow Rose'? A petty noble from the North? Were petty nobles even considered nobility?
The old wound was torn open anew, and Lord Mace Tyrell trembled with a rage that shook his entire body. I brought a host of one hundred thousand men to serve my king, and this is the answer you give me, Robert Baratheon?
Lord Mace was a vain man, lacking in political acumen, a fact that had earned him the private moniker of 'Lord Pufferfish.' In his fury, he forgot the most basic etiquette between a lord and his king and stormed from the hall.
What deepened the humiliation was that the only ones who followed him were his two sons and the members of House Redwyne, his mother's kin. The other great lords of the Reach remained behind.
In that moment, the weakness of House Tyrell's influence was laid bare for all to see.
***
*Astapor*
"Send these Dothraki into the training yards to learn formations?" the Unsullied instructor, Lysix, asked doubtfully. "I do not quite understand your meaning, my lord. The Dothraki are not foot soldiers. They are savage, unruly, and heed no discipline. There is no point in forcing such training upon them."
Ever since hearing the city's master, Fermor, praise Ian on the shores of Astapor and witnessing the 'miracle' of Ian taming the Dothraki slaves himself, Lysix had developed a powerful sense of admiration for him. He no longer dared to refute Ian's orders aloud, and so he could only voice his objections with tact.
"Savage, unruly, and disobedient slaves are not fit to be my riders. What I want you to instill in them is obedience," Ian explained.
"Practice obedience?"
"Yes. I want you to organize them into squads of ten and companies of one hundred. Select captains and centurions from among their own ranks, and then begin drill. You will tell them that the first company to master marching and maneuvering, to obey orders without hesitation, will earn the purifying water I provide. Then, and only then, will they regain the right to fight on horseback." I don't need Dothraki barbarians. I need Mongol cavalry.
"If that is the case," Lysix considered, recalling the scene of the Dothraki slaves shouting 'miracle' in awe, "if it is to earn the right to ride again, then I believe their resistance will be much, much less."
"See to it, my friend."
"You speak the High Valyrian tongue so fluently," Lysix remarked before leaving to carry out the order. "I find it hard to believe you only began learning the language after arriving in Astapor."
"I have always been a quick study," Ian said with a smile. Little does he know I began half a year ago.
Watching Lysix descend to the training grounds and begin organizing the Dothraki, Ian leaned against the railing of the high platform and let out a soft sigh.
This method of training them for obedience was not his first choice. It was a necessity, born of the simple fact that he was running out of money.
Though Ian had arrived in Astapor with more than a hundred thousand gold dragons and had seized assets worth another fifty or sixty thousand during his operations on the Worm River, he had also managed to hint to the Temple of the Holy Graces and several of Astapor's great families that they should 'donate' seventy to eighty thousand gold pieces to his cause—though these were the lighter coins minted in Meereen, worth only a third of a Westerosi dragon.
Even so, the funds had all but vanished in just two months.
According to Ian's plan, a proper cavalryman required a string of mounts: at least one warhorse and two remounts for marching. If coin were no object, two packhorses per rider would be ideal. He could forgo the packhorses for now, but merely equipping the 2,700 Dothraki slaves he had purchased would cost over forty thousand gold dragons for the horses alone. That did not include the price of their weapons, armor, and the subsequent costs of maintenance.
Ian, busy building his foundation, could never afford such an expense. Even if he could, it was not his highest priority.
Rather than spend a fortune buying qualified warhorses, it was far more practical to find a way to raid a few small Dothraki khalasars and take their mounts.
After all, for expenditures of this magnitude, plunder was the only path forward.
Chapter 224 The Messenger of New Ghis
The candle slowly burned down to a stub, and dawn began to filter into the room through the green glass skylight at the pyramid's apex.
Ian had fallen asleep at his desk, which was buried under a mountain of paperwork. He had thought that delegating most of the work to Celia would free him up, but it turned out there was simply too much weighing on his mind.
The matter of troop training alone consumed the majority of his time. The command structures of this world were so primitive that even the Unsullied, despite their rigorous conditioning, could not adapt to flexible commands. This forced Ian to spend a great deal of time and energy optimizing their formations, and he'd had the other Astapori instructors use these new methods as a benchmark for training the newly raised slave soldiers of the Ghiscari Legion.
Then there were the iron smelters and armor-forges. With Celia managing agricultural development upriver along the Worm, the responsibility for the factories near the city had fallen back to Ian. Given the current rate of steel production and the output of the forges, it would be impossible for Ian to arm all of his infantry within two years. To achieve that goal, he would need to at least triple the size of the factories, and he certainly did not have the coin for such an expansion.
On top of that, directing his falcon and wildcat to search the city for any sign of the Quile Lizard consumed even more of his energy.
The combined weight of these duties had caused him to collapse from exhaustion in his study the previous night.
After rising and stretching his stiff muscles, Ian walked to the window and took a breath of fresh air.
Just then, he heard a knock on the door.
"Come in," Ian responded. Unsullied stood guard outside his door; the only ones who could knock directly without being announced were his own trusted retainers. Not even Daenerys or Celia had that privilege.
The door opened to reveal Yada, the water dancer. "My lord," she said, "Lord Feimol invites you to the Nakroz family pyramid to discuss a matter of importance."
"If he has business with me, he should be the one to come here," Ian said, raising an eyebrow. Such an invitation was unconventional.
"An envoy from Xingis has arrived, and he has asked to see you by name," Yada explained.
"A messenger from New Ghis?" Ian mused. Such a momentous event had transpired in Astapor, yet Meereen and Yunkai had sent no word. How had New Ghis been the first to send an envoy?
"It seems the envoy is here to lodge a protest."
"Protest what?"
"I do not know," Yada said, shaking her head. "Shall I arrange your escort?"
"No. If they insist on seeing me, let them come here." Ian chuckled softly. "If I must go simply because they ask for me by name, where is my authority? It would be humiliating."
"Yes, my lord." Yada accepted the order and departed.
Afterward, Ian ordered breakfast from a servant—a traditional Slaver's Bay meal of dog and mutton. He himself had no aversion to such fare, but the pastoral economy of Slaver's Bay was a significant obstacle to his plans for military expansion. To train elite soldiers, he needed a diet rich in protein, which meant meat. For now, however, he could not find a short-term solution to this problem and was forced to shelve his plan to provide a regular meat ration to the army.
After breakfast, Ian attended to his documents for a while longer. Soon, Yada returned to his study at the pyramid's peak to announce that Rego Emud, the messenger of New Ghis, was requesting an audience.
"This is Lord Rego Emud, Treasurer of New Ghis. He is also the envoy visiting Astapor on behalf of New Ghis," said the translator, clearly a slave, introducing the man beside him to Ian in the Common Tongue.
Rego Emud had a typical Ghiscari appearance, with amber skin and dark hair twisted into the shape of two demonic horns. He wore a tokar of fine make, its tassels woven with gold thread.
"And this is Lord Ian Darry," Yada announced, stepping into the role of herald. "Hand of the Queen to Her Majesty Daenerys, Apostle of the Red God, Dragon Caller, and Protector of Astapor."
"My esteemed Lord Darry," Rego Emud began, showing none of the usual Ghiscari arrogance and using a respectful tone. "There is one thing I do not understand. As an Andal knight serving a descendant of Old Valyria's Dragonlords, why would you believe in the Red God?"
Just as Rego's translator was about to speak, Ian held up a hand, interrupting him.
"I learned High Valyrian after my arrival in Astapor. We can speak directly, without the need for a slave."
"Your Valyrian is quite fluent. You are a talented man indeed," Rego Emud complimented at once.
"Have you heard the story of how I purified the poisoned waters on the coast and subdued the centaurs?"
"I have heard it was a miracle."
"That is why I believe in the Red God. There is power in the flame—true power," Ian replied. In truth, his promotion of the Red God's faith served another purpose: it was a signal to the deity that Ian was working on His behalf.
After all, he had stolen the Red God's most important chess piece, Daenerys, and had likely thrown all of His plans into disarray. If he didn't create the illusion that he could be won over to the Red God's cause, he feared he might invite the deity's wrath. Although the 'gods' of this world might not be able to directly impact the mortal realm, being a target of such a power was never a good thing.
Therefore, Ian's initial strategy was simple: tell everyone he met that he served the Red God, but do nothing to actively proselytize. He would first wait and see how the Red God reacted. If the deity proved sincere, then cooperation was not out of the question. His goal, after all, was not to build an eternal kingdom but to maximize his score—or kill all the other players.
But if the Red God proved insincere, or even hostile, then Ian would have to find a way to undermine Him, to cut out His power at the source and perhaps establish a new 'Red God' in His place.
"I trust you did not come all this way just to discuss matters of faith, did you?" Ian said, noticing Rego Emud had fallen into thought and deciding to steer the conversation back on course.
Whether the Red God was friend or foe remained uncertain, and Ian worried that if he kept talking, he might accidentally brainwash the Treasurer of New Ghis into becoming a follower himself.
"Oh, of course," Rego Emud said, shaking himself from his reverie. He then revealed his true purpose. "I have come to protest your use of the name 'Ghiscari Legion' for your new slave army. The legions of Old Ghiscar were comprised of free folk. To allow a company of slaves—none of whom are even Ghiscari—to take that name is an insult to the legacy of the Ghiscari Empire."
Does the Old Ghiscari Empire need any more humiliation? Ian thought with bitter amusement. Even if I wanted to flog its corpse, there isn't even ash left to whip.
Chapter 225 The person targeted by the faceless man
"Oh!" Ian shot to his feet, feigning shock. "I sincerely apologize for my mistake, Ser Rego. I wished to build a force modeled on the Ghiscari because I so admire your culture. I had no idea that granting such a title to a group of slaves would tarnish the honor of the Ghiscari Empire."
"It was merely an unintentional mistake," Rego Emde said, sighing with relief internally. He had not expected that this protector of Astapor—this man who could awaken dragons and command ten thousand Unsullied and two thousand centaur cavalry—would be so easy to reason with. Most importantly, the man held the culture of the Ghiscari people in such high esteem. "Now that the misunderstanding has been resolved, would you please change the name of that slave army?"
"No," Ian said, shaking his head.
Rego Emde's face darkened. Didn't you just say it was unintentional? Didn't you just apologize? Are you toying with me?
"I require a reason, my lord," Rego Emde said, restraining his anger and forcing a smile.
"If I change their name, then I would no longer have a Ghiscari Iron Legion, would I? As I said, I admire Ghiscari culture. It is my dream to command an Iron Legion of my own."
"A legion composed of slaves is not worthy of the name Iron Legion!" Rego Emde insisted.
"Then, could you give me one that is not composed of slaves?" Ian asked, a sudden smile playing on his lips.
"What did you say?" Rego Emde thought he had misheard.
"I said, if you can provide me with two Ghiscari legions composed of free men, I will immediately change the name of my slave legion." This was a condition Ian had just devised on the spot.
"Are you mad?"
"Do not be so quick to anger, my friend. Hear my terms first."
Who in the seven hells wants to hear your terms? Rego Emde was on the verge of an outburst, but a glance at the surrounding Unsullied made him reconsider. "Speak."
"I wish to hire two Iron Legions from New Ghis, for which I am prepared to pay the corresponding fee."
"And against whom would you use these troops?"
"Lhazar."
"That land has no value," Rego Emde said, shaking his head.
"The Lhazareen are called the Lamb Men. They are a gentle, weak people, long bullied by the Dothraki. Conquering them should not prove difficult. Furthermore, the environment in Lhazar is quite favorable. With my current military strength, augmented by two Iron Legions, I could seize the entire region."
"I do not doubt that. But as you yourself said, the Lhazareen have been bullied by the Dothraki. If you cannot defend that land after taking it, you will face endless harassment from them."
"I wonder, have you heard the tale of Pentos?" Ian did not answer directly, posing a question of his own.
"Pentos was destroyed by Khal Drogo. Your queen was his betrothed, and you fled from that city."
"Yes. Because of the assassination of His Majesty Viserys, Daenerys became our queen, and we could no longer fulfill her engagement to Drogo. Once Drogo learns of our presence in Slaver's Bay, his khalasar will ride for Astapor with fire and blood in their eyes. Meereen and Yunkai both lie to the north of Astapor. Do you truly believe Drogo will spare them?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"I intend to defeat Drogo's khalasar in Lhazar," Ian declared, "and in doing so, protect the civilization of Ghis."
"This…"
"Do not give me an answer now. You are not in a position to make such a decision. Let New Ghis send someone who is, and have them bring envoys from Yunkai and Meereen to speak with me as well."
***
Ever since Daenerys had her dream, Ian had spent a full week scouring Astapor. He used every resource at his disposal—spies, scouts, and even the city's cats and hawks—to search the city from its highest pyramids to its deepest sewers. He had the guards from the major city gates and the port brought in for detailed interrogations. Yet, in the end, he could find no trace of Quaithe. It was as if the mysterious shadowbinder had never set foot in Astapor at all.
This left Ian puzzled. Why had Quaithe not approached Daenerys openly, as she had in the histories he knew? Why choose such a furtive path?
Had his own presence made Quaithe feel threatened, making her afraid to show herself?
Or did his presence somehow interfere with her plans, forcing her to bypass him and attempt to contact Daenerys in secret?
For the time being, Ian could find no answers. But while searching the city for Quaithe, he had found something else entirely.
"You have courage, I'll give you that. Coming to Astapor to try your luck." Ian waved a hand, and one of his Unsullied stepped forward to pull the gag from the mouth of the uninvited guest tied up before him.
Ian had caught this man in an Astapori tavern, where he had been asking other patrons about the deeds of Ian Darry, Darren Grafson, and the red-robed woman, Celia. His questions immediately aroused Ian's suspicion. Later, Ian followed him in the form of a cat and observed him approaching the pyramid where they were quartered on several occasions, as if planning to infiltrate it.
Ian monitored him for three full days, hoping he might lead them to his accomplices. In the end, however, Ian discovered the man was working alone.
Done wasting time, Ian ordered Yada, the water dancer, to lead a team to capture him.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Ian asked with genuine curiosity.
"I am here to surrender," the prisoner said. He glanced at the guards around them and then looked back at Ian, seeking permission to continue.
"They are either Unsullied or my own people," Ian nodded.
"Save me, my lord! Please, save me!" After receiving Ian's assurance, the prisoner spoke quickly, seeing no more need for pretense.
"Oh?" Ian raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain you understand your situation? Though I don't yet know what you fear, why would you come to me for aid? I do not know you. There is no basis for trust between us."
"But this is my last chance!" the prisoner said, his voice filled with despair. "At last month's settlement, I was ranked last. I've been targeted by the Faceless Men."
"Fuck!" Ian swore. "You're being targeted by the Faceless Men, and you came here? Are you trying to get me killed?"
"I had no choice, my lord. From what I've seen, the player chosen by the Faceless Men on settlement day is always eliminated within the following month. There's less than a week left of this one. If you are not willing to help me, I will be killed."
"Well, it feels inappropriate to say this, but what business is it of mine if you're about to be killed?" Ian rolled his eyes. "In fact, I should kill you myself before the Faceless Men do. At least that way, I'd get the reward for it."
"There's not much of a reward for killing me! It's nothing you'd be interested in, truly."
"Are you joking? You're one step away from the top twenty players, and you're telling me you're worthless?"
"I only have three points to my name. If you kill me, you'll get another four, and maybe a few attribute points. That's all."
"How is that possible? How in the hell have you survived this long?"
"Until the last settlement day, I always thought I was a child of destiny. Though I was notified that I ranked last in points every single time, the one chosen by the Faceless Men was never me."
Author's Note:
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