Year 290 AC. Essos. Slaver's Bay. Astapor.
The spacious hall was illuminated by a thousand candles and oil lamps; the scent of wines from every corner of the world mingled with the aromas of dozens of dishes, causing copious salivation among the many invited guests. A dizzying kaleidoscope of colorful attire, so bright and pretentious it took one's breath away, shimmered before the eyes.
Hundreds of people, dressed either in the opulent robes of the Masters, the strict, militarily minimalist, and functional clothes of the Tribunes and Centurions of the legions, the revealing attire of the Harpy's priestesses, or even knightly doublets, spoke, laughed, and quietly began weaving intrigues, hidden from curious eyes in the shadows cast by the majestic marble columns.
Sitting at the head of a table set upon a dais made of rare orange stone imported from Yi Ti, I watched the stream of arriving guests who hurried to offer their congratulations, wish me a long and prosperous life, and bestow a few false smiles before vanishing into the colorful sea of equally important and influential people who had come to the feast celebrating the conquest of Astapor. The funniest thing was that a quarter of the guests were the very Masters of Astapor who, less than a moon ago, were the rulers of this beautiful and rich city. These were the lucky ones who were quick-witted enough to fall to their knees and swear an oath of fealty to House Targaryen. Why lucky? Because it's better to share power, gold, and influence with a new force than to hang as a proud stubborn fool on the gallows along the city's main street.
"Yet, this is far too risky," Darry grumbled, his eyes fixed on the guards of the evening stationed along the walls.
"Don't start, Ser Darry. Each of us is wearing chainmail, and a legionary is circulating by every important guest to guard him. No surprises," Daemon waved a hand lazily, sending another piece of roast beef into his mouth.
"I'm more amused by the behavior of that baseborn idiot. 'Sick, hence unable to attend the feast!' The son of a jackal doesn't want to risk his hide." Zirarro sneered, washing down his disgust with fortified Ghiscari wine.
"I fear, my friend, that as good as your treacherous subordinate is at war, he is equally poor at intrigue," Oberyn Martell offered his opinion with a slight smile, swirling the dry Dornish in his cup.
Yes, the Prince of Dorne was also privy to the conspiracy's "secret." The Red Viper and his band of cutthroats participated in the taking of Astapor, for which he and his men received my generous gratitude in the form of several trade galleys and gold.
He and his detachment would also take an active part in repelling the traitor's attack. After all, the Dornishman had sworn an oath of fealty to me and would simply have been offended if his liege did not summon him in a time of need. And truthfully, this lover of clashing steel was as happy as a child on a name day when he was told of yet another battle that would happen so soon after the fall of Astapor. So, Oberyn's cutthroats should already be secretly streaming toward the city slums, where the mercenaries Maegor had brought into Astapor under cover of night were hiding.
"By the way, my friend. I am certainly open to all things new and tolerant of many religions, but that is me. The devout followers of the Seven, however, are casting very hard glances at the Harpy's priestesses. I won't deny that these girls and women are very comely, especially in such revealing attire, but I fear your Westeros warriors want to string them on iron swords, not flesh swords," Oberyn remarked in his characteristic manner.
Darry actually choked at that, glaring indignantly at the Dornishman, while the other people sitting at my table merely laughed quietly, anticipating another round of confrontation between the "fussy" old man and the "lecherous" Dornishman.
"It's nothing to worry about. I don't think my warriors would dare violate my command not to attack the priestesses, and those women will be more skilled in verbal battles than the most experienced eunuch at the court of the Emperor of Yi Ti," I smirked, watching the guests.
Hmm, one of the ruler's main headaches is the strife between different peoples, ideologies, and religions within the state. But there is more to come! When I start building temples to the Fourteen Gods of Valyria... then literally everyone will wince, except for the Valyrians and my closest supporters, who mostly won't care. But it's nothing to worry about; the army, gold, and a dragon will quickly silence all dissidents.
I should also remember to meet with the chief priestess; after all, the exchange of magical knowledge promises to be interesting. True, I certainly won't get any particularly secret or powerful spells from the Harpy's servants, nor they from me, but even the basics will be more than enough for the near future. And once my power is solidified... I can review certain points in our agreement.
"...what exactly are the nobles of Dorne taught, if even a Martell behaves like a belligerent whore with a cock between his legs," Willem's voice broke through my thoughts.
"Manners, the art of war, and the skill of living life for one's own pleasure. And yes, Darry, did you seriously call me a belligerent whore?" Oberyn retorted, frowning menacingly, but barely suppressing the smile creeping onto his face. "Then what are you? A battle-nun?"
"Impudent whelp!" the old knight steamed like a boiling kettle, to which the Dornishman merely laughed heartily.
So it continued. My inner circle ate, drank, and enjoyed themselves, all while maintaining masks of composure and nonchalance when one guest or another approached us.
The Astapori aristocrats whispered among themselves; the most distinguished knights and tribunes, along with the centurions, drank wine, feasted on tender suckling pigs, and swapped tales of battles, hunting, and women. The Harpy's priestesses, of whom there were a good dozen here, mingled with everyone, occasionally retreating to distant corners away from the guests to whisper amongst their own female collective.
In short, it was an ordinary feast of the nobility, where the big lords and ladies pretended to relax, but were actually working. I am certain that many intrigues began tonight, alliances and agreements were mooted, and perhaps even offers were made to marry the younger daughters of the Masters to the most influential commanders of the legions. After all, I conquered Astapor, which means I must install my own people in profitable positions, elevating them to the aristocratic class. Why not "ring" such promising personnel? In general, the local high society greatly augmented its ranks, and the old nobility of Astapor began to build bridges with the new nobility.
"Your Majesty," a young man approached me, dressed in slave clothes that were patched in places.
"Yes?" I looked inquiringly at the gray-eyed man with closely cropped hair.
"The main course will be ready very soon. No more than a hundred breaths."
"Go. Tell the others to be ready to receive the dish and serve it to the table," I commanded with a wave of my hand, at which the man bowed low and disappeared behind an inconspicuous door behind me.
"The main course?" Oberyn asked with a slight confusion.
"Maegor and his new friends," Veela answered for me, rising from the table.
"Ho! I happen to have the proper table utensil right here!" Martell chuckled, pulling a spear from under the table.
"Escort the guests out," Darry instructed one of the approaching Praetorians.
"It shall be done, Legate." The warrior struck his chest with his fist and gave a signal. The elite bodyguards immediately split into pairs and began carefully leading the guests through previously hidden secret passages.
The army officers, who until this moment had been nonchalantly drinking wine and chatting with the ladies, immediately shed their masks of good humor and inebriation, starting to don the armor, hidden under the massive benches that stood along the walls, covered with yellow fabrics embroidered with animals and birds, with military precision and speed.
By the time the hall doors burst open and the traitorous legionaries streamed into the room like a river of iron and shields, they were met not by drunken aristocrats, but by a wall of shields bristling with a palisade of spears.
Maegor, who had prudently kept himself in the middle of his formation and was walking with the swaggering gait of a victor, quickly lost his contemptuous smirk along with his proud demeanor. Now he looked more like an extremely pale corpse with a slightly trembling lower lip and wide-open eyes. A smart boy, he quickly realized that they were expected.
The leader of the conspirators was about to turn around and give the order to retreat, but the words caught in his throat. A squad of Praetorians with shields and heavy crossbows at the ready was already moving into their rear.
"Looks like someone's been had," Oberyn Martell sneered acidly. "My uncle always said that when you want to betray someone, look behind you and make sure a spear isn't being driven right up your arse. He was a clever man."
Maegor paid no attention to the Red Viper's speech. The Valyrian silently fixed his hateful gaze on his former subordinates, Veela and Narvos, grinding his teeth in impotent rage.
"Lay down your weapons and surrender. I promise you an honest trial and a just punishment. I give the Targaryen word," I said loudly, raising my left hand, free of a sword, and igniting a large ball of fire in my palm.
"Give me and my men three ships, gold, and food for three months, and we will leave. No one will be wounded or killed this day," Maegor offered in a counter-proposal.
I only shook my head at his words and hurled the fire-ball onto the floor between the rows of Praetorians and traitors. The flame flared brightly, spread across the stone surface, and blasted the front ranks with heat.
"Fire and Blood. Lay down your weapons, or I will burn you." I made my final offer, extinguishing the flame after a dozen seconds, whose greedy tongues forced the traitors to take a couple of steps back.
Maegor hesitated only briefly.
He had seen a few of my training sessions and understood the level of my power perfectly well. I wouldn't be able to burn everyone, but a dozen men in the front ranks would certainly suffer burns and be unable to fight. Breaking through such a gap and cutting everyone to pieces would be a trivial matter for the veteran Praetorians. Considering that the traitors were being backed up from behind by a second squad with crossbows at the ready, the chances of survival were negligible, let alone victory or retreat.
"We surrender," Maegor spat out, and was the first to throw down his sword, setting an example for the rest.
Soon the renegades' weapons clattered against the stone floor, and my warriors, maintaining their combat readiness, began to bind the rebels.
"That was too easy," Oberyn grumbled gloomily.
"Boy, if you crave blood, I will provide you with horses and a dozen warriors for escort. You will lead the assault on the slums where the mercenaries are hiding," Darry irritably waved him off, his sharp gaze monitoring the process of arresting the conspirators.
"Now that is more like it! Quicker, old man, I fear I'll be late for the event!" Martell cheered, to which Willem merely sighed tiredly and gave a brief order to one of his assistants, who led the Red Viper away to a dozen soldiers.
Narvos and Zirarro also declined to "deal with boring business" and departed in the company of the Dornishman to slaughter the riff-raff Maegor had hired.
Veela disappeared even earlier; she had a separate task. If Maegor's ally is in the city, he must be captured. The guard in the port, supported by the dragon, will not allow a single galley or boat to sail. My chief of spies and scouts will deal with the city gates and the rest of Astapor. I can only hope the rat will be caught.
I won't be able to talk to Maegor anytime soon, I noted mentally. The Valyrian had tried to slit his own throat with a knife, once he was sure there was no way out and he would soon fall into the hands of skilled executioners. But who would let him escape so easily? So now the unconscious body of the traitor, who had been struck on the head with the blunt side of a spear by one of the Praetorians, was being dragged away by his arms.
Turning on the heels of my cavalry boots, I headed towards one of the secret exits from the hall.
"I'll be in my solar," I informed the Centurion commanding the arrests as I passed and disappeared into the dark opening of the hidden passage.
————
Read ahead of schedule here → pat-reon(.)c-om/Bluuuxx [remove the parentheses and hyphen]