"Information is the key to everything. You must know your enemies' strengths and understand which of your friends is no friend at all."
— Varys the Spider, Master of Whisperers.
…
Year 289 AC.
Westeros. The Vale of Arryn. Gulltown.
"The fourth-largest city in the Seven Kingdoms. It looks a bit dull, but it's a hard nut to crack," Zirarro remarked, scratching his smooth chin as he stood on the pier near their moored ship.
"This is Westeros, Captain. People here take more pride in their ancestors and castles. Few men wear bright rags; they value quality armor and honest steel more," I replied, biting into the juicy flesh of a red apple.
"Savages," the Ghiscari spat, then turned to the sailors. "Hoy, you bloody eunuchs! You'll all go with the first mate, Sorne, and fetch the supplies he buys from these local skinflints who mistakenly call themselves merchants. If I find even a handful of grain missing, I'll flog you all without distinction! After loading, the esteemed Sorne will give you money for three days of revelry in this city. And no drunken brawls, understood, you whoreson bastards?! Corporals, each of you watch your men, clear?!" The captain bellowed so loudly my ears rang.
Mhnn. It's not for nothing they say officers in the army and navy have lungs of brass. And it doesn't matter if it's the medieval era or the twenty-first century.
"Aye, Captain Zirarro na Zakloz!" came the ragged reply, and the young, red-haired man led the sailors away.
The Ghiscari standing next to me, who looked about thirty, was indeed a descendant of a noble house of Yunkai. The Wise Masters of House Zakloz specialized in training and trading slaves, both male and female, intended for carnal pleasures, as did nearly all the noble families of Yunkai. Zirarro was the bastard of the current head of the house's cousin, which severely limited his ambitions. The most he could aspire to was becoming an admiral of one of the two galley fleets his family owned.
But the man himself disagreed. Having received an excellent education and extensive seafaring experience, he left his father's house at the age of twenty-three. His first year was spent with the Golden Company, where he was welcomed readily, given that he was a competent warrior.
However, Zirarro soon realized he preferred the sea far more than being a land rat. Because of this, the Zakloz bastard left the mercenary ranks and signed on as first mate on a galley belonging to a free captain. They earned money in various ways: providing security for merchant ships, engaging in trade themselves sometimes, and, when the opportunity arose, playing at being pirates. All in all, the next two years of Zirarro's life were quite eventful.
Still, luck on the sea is important and can turn its back on a sailor at any moment. And so it did. The ship Zirarro served on was ambushed by pirates near the Stepstones. They managed to fight their way free, but at a very heavy cost. The ship's captain, the first mate, and a good half of the crew were killed, and a quarter of the remaining sailors were wounded. Taking command himself, the bastard of House Zakloz ordered them to sail for Lys, the nearest of the Free Cities.
It was there he was noticed by Narvos, who now commands the entire fleet of the Burning Legion. The name, by the way, I blurted out without thinking, just trying to make a joke when the throats of Darry, Maegor, Daemon, and Daeron were already hoarse from arguing over the mercenary company's title. In the end, this name suited everyone, and I was left to chuckle at such a twist of fate.
So Zirarro is a trusted man, who has served me for several years now without any serious offenses, save for a few drunken brawls with legionaries, whom he affectionately calls "flaming land rats."
"So is this why you ordered me to degrade myself into this absurdity?" the captain grumbled, returning to our conversation, his hand slapping his shirt.
The man from Yunkai was dressed in a manner customary to the locals: a light green shirt and brown trousers made of fine wool, short boots, and a wide calfskin belt with a silver buckle. A couple of gold rings and a backsword hanging from his belt completed the captain's look, making him resemble a prosperous landed knight.
"I don't see what's bothering you. It's perfectly fine clothing. Mine only differs in its blue color and silver-thread embroidery. Yes, I have a sword on my belt, not a backsword, but you are a sailor, not a knight," I said with a laugh, starting toward the city center.
We had already paid the port fee for our berth, so we could proceed to secure rooms at an inn. Our Praetorians followed us. Yes, another greeting from my past world. To prevent various intrigues and conspiracies within their ranks, shifts were frequent. So, a squad guarding a cohort commander six months ago might today be responsible for the security of the First Legion's legate.
Ten warriors guarded me, wearing half-plate armor and oval shields rimmed with an iron strip and featuring a massive iron boss. The bodyguards were armed with backswords and carried long, narrow daggers hanging from their left hips. Their heads were covered by closed helms with visors, topped with blue crests. Sea-colored cloaks with gold lightning-bolt embroidery covered their backs, and beneath the emblem, the word "Praetorians" was written in Valyrian. The bodyguards enclosed us in a tight formation, ensuring no passerby could approach within six feet.
"Why did we dress as locals, my lord, if your guard attracts so much attention?" the Ghiscari continued to judge, his gaze following another cluster of townsfolk staring at us with great astonishment.
"I see no point in compromising my security for the sake of greater stealth. There are many Valyrians in the Free Cities, so my hair and eyes won't cause much surprise in the chief trading city of the Vale. However, if we have to speak with a local lord or other aristocrat, our clothing could play a big role. Your garish robes, like the toga I prefer to wear in the Seven Kingdoms, would only draw contempt. You would likely be called a tasteless merchant, and I a sodomite who dresses like a woman." I chuckled, seeing Zirarro's face twist again.
"Savages, understanding nothing of beauty."
"They would call us the same, Zirarro," I snorted.
…
Rolan stood in one of the city's side alleys, constantly glancing toward Seastone Street, which led to the Gulltown docks.
"I'm starting to think there's been a mistake," began John, his right-hand man.
The men were dressed like middling merchants but clearly were not. Their taut physiques gave them away as men accustomed to constant physical exertion. And while Rolan's beer belly slightly blurred the overall picture, his arms, roped with muscle and adorned with a netting of white scars, more than made up for it.
"Unlikely. The Spider rarely makes mistakes. Given how important today's meeting is, the risks are minimal," Rolan replied, thoughtfully stroking his pitch-black mustache.
How could two grown men be the underlings of the Master of Whisperers? After all, the eunuch used little birds, mute children, for espionage. It's very simple. In an organization so vast, with a web encompassing all of Westeros and some of the Free Cities, not only children and teenagers can work. Yes, the surveillance was primarily handled by the little birds, but they were managed by adults, people proven over time. And if someone needed to be apprehended and interrogated, or perhaps even killed, hardened cutthroats would be a better fit than children, wouldn't they?
John was such a seasoned cutthroat, a man from a simple peasant family in the North. His story was painfully simple: a long winter, hunger, a decision to move to the more fruitful Riverlands. And then the grim truth that a family of poor peasants was scarcely wanted in the neighboring region. Thus, the second son of a simple peasant turned to banditry.
A couple of years later, the watch caught him, and John was thrown into the cells with a sentence of execution for the morrow. But that night, a man came to him with an offer he couldn't refuse. And so John became, at first, a small pawn, and in time, the right-hand man of Rolan, the head of the spy network in Gulltown, who worked for Varys.
Meanwhile, astonished cries from passersby were heard in the street. Soon, the first figures appeared, clad in iron with blue cloaks on their backs. These warriors differed from the ordinary knights who frequently visited the Vale's largest city by their unusual crested helms and identical equipment. Everything, from their boots to their shields, was so uniform that the warriors could only be distinguished by minor differences in height.
"That's definitely him. Only some rich lord or a merchant from Essos could afford men like that," John said, clicking his tongue as he looked enviously at the Praetorians' armor and cloaks.
"Only the commanders of the Burning Legion can afford men exactly like this. I've heard of these warriors; they call them Praetorians. They say they select the best warriors from the mercenary company and train them for personal guard duty. Various Magisters of the Free Cities offered huge sums for them, after hearing about the three successful repulsions of attacks by the Sorrowful Men," Rolan shook his head.
"Serious guys," John said with respect, knowing much about various guilds of assassins from his profession.
"Let's go, it's him for sure." Seeing the silver-haired youth accompanied by the red-haired man, the leader slipped out of the alley and headed toward the procession.
"Halt! Who goes there?" But approaching the target was not so simple; the men were stopped by the menacing shout of one of the bodyguards.
The nearest warriors aggressively placed their hands on their sword pommels, forcing the two spies to stop.
"My master sent me to you, esteemed sir. He asked me to pass on that he who relies less on the mercy of fortune holds power longer," Rolan quickly spoke, bowing, not overly eager for a close acquaintance with the Praetorians' steel.
"Let them pass," the youth commanded dryly.
Pleased that he didn't have to resort to excessive hints and coded language to identify themselves as Varys's men, Rolan stepped toward the youth, but a warrior's hand blocked his chest.
"You'll have to surrender your weapons first, esteemed sir," a voice reached him from beneath the visor.
Not wishing to attract any more unnecessary attention from the townsfolk, who were already curiously watching their meeting, Rolan silently complied, and John followed suit. Once the daggers were taken and both men were searched for hidden weapons, they were permitted to approach the youth and his companion.
"I suggest we speak on the way to the inn. There's no need to stand here in the middle of the road," the youth proposed, to which he received an agreeing nod, and the procession resumed movement.
"Our mutual acquaintance has embarked on a dangerous venture. Your meeting with me could give some people thoughts that are not advantageous to us," the young man said quietly, with clear reproach, looking at Rolan with bright violet eyes.
Little could surprise the experienced spy; he had lived a very eventful life. But this young man still managed to do so. First, with his appearance.
Roland had never seen anyone with such flawless Valyrian features: predatory cheekbones, deep violet eyes, a lean, muscular physique, and hair the color of pure silver, styled in a rather strange cut. It most resembled the Dothraki braid these nomads wore as a sign of their martial valor; they were forced to cut their hair upon defeat in single combat, which was considered a disgrace. But the Valyrian's haircut was distinctive in that the temples and back of the head were shaved clean, leaving hair only on top. The whole look was very unusual.
And then there was his behavior. A straight back, hands clasped behind him, and a deep gaze that held a slight flicker of amusement and iron confidence. Confidence in what? In the fact that this youth was the master of the situation and could give any order and it would be carried out. That's how Jon Arryn looked when the entire Grafton family was brought to its knees before him, and he announced in the square that they would either be loyal to him or they would die. Yes, the lords of Gulltown should not have closed the gates to Robert Baratheon's army.
"My master realizes this."
"Yet you are here, speaking with me," the Valyrian snorted.
"Circumstances are sometimes stronger than the desires of ordinary mortals," Rolan said with sorrow in his voice. "If this meeting did not take place, your life would be endangered, which my master cannot permit."
"And what does he want to tell me? Has the Stag raised a massive army and is already outside this city's walls? Have the Faceless Men finally accepted a contract on my head? Was that whore sick with the pox after all?" the silver-haired interlocutor inquired irritably, surveying the neat, tiled-roof houses and the well-dressed passersby.
"Pardon me? A whore?" Rolan was slightly taken aback. He understood his companion was being sarcastic with his assumptions, but by the Seven, what did some whore have to do with it?
"Ha-ha-ha, no, esteemed sir, that girl was definitely healthy. Grozan is an old friend of mine, and his brothel doesn't have girls with the pox," the Ghiscari walking beside him suddenly burst into laughter, revealing strong, white teeth.
"No, my news is not so… horrifying," Rolan forced a smile, internally cursing his companion's sense of humor. "The Iron Islands are summoning all their captains to Pyke. Those iron-backed bastards are preparing something very foul, and the Narrow Sea will be very dangerous in the near future."
"The ironborn? Those pirates live on the other side of the Seven Kingdoms. I don't think they can threaten me here in Gulltown, or wherever I go next," the youth replied lazily.
"Also, my master asked me to pass on that the necessary man has been found and is already waiting for you at The Drunken Boar inn. It's not far, only a couple of blocks away," Roland chose to ignore the casual dismissal of such important information. After all, his task was simple: relay what was commanded, learn what was ordered, and arrange the meeting with the Braavosi man who arrived in the city a decade ago.
"Now, that is welcome news. Lead us to this inn, Rolan," the young man brightened.
"How do you know my name?" the spy stiffened, subconsciously looking for escape routes.
"Well, you didn't think the Spider was the only one who could weave a web, did you?" his companion glanced at him with a smile.
Rolan relaxed a little and returned a strained smile. It seemed he would have a lot of work ahead of him soon, rooting out the rats among his subordinates.
"Braavosi? Why do we need that bastard?" the Ghiscari asked with barely concealed distaste.
There was nothing surprising here. Braavos was the only Free City where slavery was forbidden, and also the wealthiest of them all. And the citizens of Braavos zealously undermined and threw wrenches in the gears of all slavers. It was easy to understand the feelings a man from the region known as the Slaver's Bay would harbor for them.
"Alequo Olko is one of the best navigators of our time. And the only one who can be hired for money. As far as I know, he has even sailed to the cities of the Empire of Yi Ti. I need this man," the young man replied softly.
…
Year 289 AC.
Essos. The Free City of Lys. The Magisters' Palace.
The large, bright hall was filled with the familiar scents of incense. Delicacies brought from all corners of the world stood on four tables arranged into a square. Only the finest wines of Westeros and Essos accompanied bear meat from the North, candied fruits from Yi Ti, and the large crabs found on the shores of Zabhad, the Isle of Elephants.
The four most powerful men of Lys, the city's Magisters, were dining. Their tunics, colored in the hues of their houses, cost as much as the galleys that brought them new slaves. Black with yellow, pink with blue, green with white, and purple with gold. Every self-respecting merchant in the Free Cities knew these colors.
"Soon, the Disputed Lands will finally fall into the hands of those who should rightfully possess them. Which is to say, us," Lysanno Doar said with a smile, proposing a toast.
"That's wonderful. We have finally wrested a piece of land from our neighbors that is entirely unsettled by peasants and spent a huge amount of gold doing it," Gayron Mitaso clapped his hands ironically.
"Latafundias can be established there where slaves will toil. And the gold will be recouped over time. By my calculations, we can start turning a profit in seven years," Loro Gaemyrion offered, adjusting his green tunic with white elements.
"Well, you certainly have nothing to worry about; you'll even get interest on the loans we took from your bank," Gayron Mitaso grumbled, as was his habit.
"My family is wealthy, but pulling so much money out of circulation makes no sense; it's easier to borrow," Aurion Torinci stated simply. "So I don't understand what you're unhappy about, Gayron. I am more interested in the military successes of our acquaintance."
The elderly sailor Torinci was old, but his straight posture and intelligent gaze showed that the seasoned sea wolf was not yet eager to die. Yet everyone understood that Aurion was merely awaiting Lys's final victory before he could peacefully hand the reins of power to his eldest son.
"The armies of Tyrosh and Myr were defeated near the Saltwood. The remnants of their army are now retreating toward Tyrosh. They have only three thousand foot soldiers and about five hundred riders. But they are experienced mercenaries who did not desert, like the rest of the slaves who survived that slaughter," Lysanno Doar shared the fresh news.
"If those remnants manage to cross into Tyrosh, they will cause a lot of trouble. They are seasoned sellswords with corresponding armor and weapons. No matter how good the warriors of the Burning Legion are, they don't have a couple of dragons to storm a city located on an island. Especially when defended by so many brave warriors. I won't even mention a siege; Tyrosh has many times more ships than Darry," Magister Aurion voiced his concern, frowning his gray eyebrows.
"There's no need to worry so much. Our fleet should have already passed the Stepstones and begun sinking any ships flying the Tyroshi flag. Even if we can't take the city, which is likely, considering their fortifications, we will be satisfied with their complete inability to interfere with the siege of Myr. Six months, a year at most, and those slugs will sign a peace agreement on our terms." Lysanno Doar, conversely, was more than satisfied; the campaign was proceeding quite successfully.
No one was seriously planning to conquer Myr and Tyrosh; that would lead to disaster. Already, many Free Cities were secretly loaning money to Lys's opponents, pirates had begun deliberately hunting their trade ships, and tariffs were invariably rising specifically for Lyseni merchants.
The Free Cities did not want Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys to be subject to a single authority. Who would then guarantee that the Magisters of Lys would not wish to resurrect the Freehold? History had already seen the example of Volantis and the Century of Blood that followed when the city's nobility declared themselves the heirs of Valyria and sought to conquer all the other former Valyrian colonies.
Volantis took on too much then and even managed to conquer Lys and Myr, but afterward… a crushing defeat in the Battle of the Triarchy by the united forces of the Free Cities, a battle in which even Aegon the Conqueror on Balerion was noted. Since then, Braavos became the strongest city, and Volantis significantly lost power and influence.
"By the way, won't the military successes go to the head of our mutual acquaintance? He is young, though clever. And conquering three Free Cities at once is quite a tempting goal," Gayron Mitaso raised the old question.
"By the gods, Gayron! Are you so afraid that the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Daemon Targaryen flows in his veins? He himself, his inner circle, our spies, and simple logic all point to the same thing! Viserys has no need to waste strength and money capturing and holding Lys and the other cities; his goal is the Seven Kingdoms. And his army is not yet strong enough. Fifteen thousand of the best soldiers on both continents is very good. But it's not enough to conquer Westeros, where the Reach alone can field a hundred thousand warriors." Aurion Torinci, having had numerous conversations with the prince during his stay in Lys, had developed a sympathy for the youth, which did not, however, prevent him from using the Targaryen for his own interests.
"A rebellion has flared up in the Iron Islands; those bastards have already sacked and burned Lannisport. Rumor has it that Tywin Lannister was furious and is already calling his banners. And the King even smashed a table in the Small Council Chamber and demands that troops be mustered as quickly as possible."
"The Demon of the Trident prefers war over peace. It's no surprise that the Stag immediately flared up. As for the Lion, I won't even comment; he's not the man whose feet you can wipe with and not lose your own soon after," Loro Gaemyrion was not overly interested in the news.
All the free finances of the four houses were invested in the war against Myr and Tyrosh. There was no possibility of also earning money by supplying provisions and whores to the warring armies. Moreover, the galleys were occupied with the naval blockade of Tyrosh.
"Good. Now I think we can move on to the most important question. Which of us will receive which fiefs in the Disputed Lands." Taking a sip of wine, Lysanno Doar leaned back in his chair and surveyed the other magisters with interest.
The rulers of Lys would argue until they were hoarse today. Perhaps even with the help of fists...
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