A/N: Chap 7 review responses in my forums as normal.
Chapter Eight: A Failing of the History Books
The voyage from Qarth to Slaver's Bay was scheduled to take four weeks. In the course of their voyage, they encountered two storms as bad as that which almost drowned Taylor after she crash landed.
Groleo might not have been the most upright of gentlemen, but he proved himself a good captain and personally steered the boat through both storms without issue and with minimal damage. But other than the storms, every day of those four weeks were spent with Taylor learning.
From Barristan she learned the written Common Tongue of Westeros. If she'd had a little more history, she might have recognized it as being similar to pre-Vowel shift Middle English in the varied, phonetic spelling. Not a single letter went to waste. They used the Valyrian alphabet, which according to Quaithe the Valyrians actually stole from the Ghiscari, but it was similar enough in structure to her own language that Taylor mastered it even faster than the spoken language.
Every meal, Barristan tutored her on the customs and manners of the nobility of Westeros. He taught her the arcane art of eating without a fork, since only a handful of nobles had adopted the Braavosi utensil in their eating. Over meals, they spoke about history and the institutions of the Kingdom—the pillars that supported society. In this case, instead of Church, Crown and Nobility, Westeros was built around the Faith, the Maesters, the Crown and the Nobility. Unlike the Medieval period of Taylor's world, Westeros's Faith didn't have the power that the Catholic Church had. Instead of a Reformation like Christianity experienced, the Faith of the Seven ran head-first into incestuous Targaryens with dragons.
As Barristan summed it up, "The faith in the Seven didn't protect their followers from dragon fire."
When the old knight described the Kingdom's only place of higher learning, which apparently had managed to snag an eons-old monopoly on knowledge, Taylor couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration.
"I won't lie, if I can I'm going to break the Order of Maesters up," Taylor said after that particular day's tutoring.
The announcement had surprised both Barristan and Mormont, who'd taken to eating meals with them in Taylor's larger cabin. "Why?" Jorah asked.
Taylor regarded the two men squarely. "On my world, we went from simple bronze tools to vehicles that could span the globe in a matter of hours, medicines that could cure most illnesses, and machines that could harvest fields of wheat as large as all of Qarth in a day. We had sciences and mathematics that allowed us to reach the stars themselves. It wasn't magic that allowed me to span the distance between our worlds, but rather engineering and an understanding of the forces that shape our universe. We went from bronze tools to traversing the heavens in less than 3,000 years."
She made a point of lifting the eating knife Barristan provided her in Qarth. "Your Citadel has been hoarding knowledge for eight thousand years. Yet the lives of your smallfolk have not improved. From what you've taught me, diseases still ravage the land and starvation runs rampant. This Order of Maesters is not helping your people, my friends. It's holding them down in ignorance for their own glory."
The lessons continued.
From Quaithe, she learned Valyrian, Qartheen and the Shadow Tongue of Asshai.
After meditating to purge herself of the darkness just speaking the Shadow words created, Taylor stared at the woman incredulously. "They can't use that as a casual speaking language."
"They do not," Quaithe admitted. "Most speak YiTish, Valyrian or Qartheen. But disciples of Asshai are wide-spread in Essos. Many serve the Lord of Light, a cruel god who couches his message in words like love and light, while he demands human sacrifice from those inducted into his higher mysteries. If you do not know the Shadow-tongue, they will denounce you."
And so the lessons continued. Though she hated the oily, dirty feeling of the words, Taylor couldn't help but be fascinated by the way the alien language shaped Force energy. The Shadowbinders and Masters of Asshai used the words as spells, and Taylor could understand how it worked. She found that using the alien worlds allowed her to light fires faster than she could with the Force. Quaithe even taught her the art of illusion-making and enchanting.
"In truth, you have learned in a week what it took me five years of intense study to learn," the older woman said. She sounded amazed and a little wistful. "Another Shadowbinder would not know you had not been to Asshai."
"I might tell you a story about why I can do that one day," Taylor said. "But let's just say that when it comes to learning, I cheat."
Three weeks into their four-week journey, the captain announced they would be making port at New Ghis.
From the history Barristan had been teaching her, Taylor knew that New Ghis was a slaver city, the founders of which were inspired by the ancient Ghiscari Empire that ancient Valyria conquered thousands of years before. For the people of New Ghis, the Doom of Valyria was a cause of joy and celebration.
From the deck of the ship, Taylor could see the gold dome of the Temple of Graces catch the afternoon sun. Quaithe stood beside her. For the first time since joining them, she donned her mask. As she explained it, having a Shadowbinder as a companion just lent more credence to Taylor's status with these people.
"Graces. Those are the priestesses who sell sex as blessings from the Ghiscari gods?" Taylor asked.
"The Red Graces do, yes, Aeksiae," Quaithe answered with a nod. "There are other graces who provide healing or learning. But all are funded by the Red Graces."
"Are they Red Graces by choice?"
The older woman shook her head. "My mother was not, nor any others I know of."
It was the first time Quaithe had divulged anything about her personal life.
The great bronzed harpy of the Ghiscari stood atop a pillar set at the mouth of the small city's harbor. Barristan joined them at the rail. "Do you mean to enter the city?"
Taylor nodded. "It'll be good practice when facing the slavers in Astapor. They're the same culture, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Good. I need more clothes, anyway."
"Aye, you must look the part you mean to play."
Like Qarth, New Ghis had walls that separated the city proper from the harbor. It sat in the lee of an extinct volcano on an island large enough to allow agriculture. It didn't appear to be a particularly fertile island, but they appeared to be making due. From what Barristan said, it was a young city—only two centuries old—but for all its youth it had grown quickly. The island it claimed sat off the southeastern coast of central Essos in the waters leading to Slaver's Bay. From that position it served as an excellent waypoint for ships heading east to Qarth or YiTi as part of the slave, spice and silk trade.
In a sea filled with pirates, having walls between the harbor and the city made sense. Even though New Ghis was only a fraction the size of Qarth, its harbor was well made with what looked like stone and mortar that formed a sheltered spot from the rest of the ocean. The harbor mouth was large enough to allow ten ships to sail beside each other, but narrow enough that the very visible chain towers could close it down to incoming or out-going ships.
While the chains were a good defensive mechanism, if Taylor had to take the island by force she'd have landed men at night to take the towers first. The harbor had no other fortifications to speak off.
The harbor village was, like the rest of the city, only a fraction of the size of Qarth's, but very similar in nature. There were no brothels to speak of nor any of the pornographic art that seemed to fill every spare surface in Qarth, since the city regulated the selling of sex to ensure a monopoly by the Red Graces, enshrining it as a religious act, but she had no doubt there were working girls in the various taverns and inns.
The ever-present dockmaster was the first to step onboard the ship, speaking with the captain in a bastardized Valyrian that was the trade language of the region. Taylor followed along easily enough as Groleo declared his contents. To Taylor's surprise, the captain had obtained several tons of silk and spices while in Qarth. His commission to carry them was just a part of his overall purpose in sailing.
Makes sense. No point in travelling so far without getting something out of it. The dockmaster accepted the fees for their berth and the bribe for his not searching the ship more closely, and with that they were free to explore the city.
It was Taylor's misfortune, though, that the elders of New Ghis placed their slave market in the harbor in a stretch of land next to the main gates. Taylor didn't quite understand the press of men from various kingdoms and lands, from the Asiatic YiTish and Qartheen to people who looked more like Qaithe, to even a few with coloring similar to Mormont and Barristan.
When they cleared a ten-foot high wall of carved stone and walked past a broad, open gate, though, Taylor saw. It took a few moments to understand because the sight was so far outside the realms of her experience.
The only thing the slaves wore were collars. Even from across the selling ground, she could see the sores on their necks the collars caused. Men and women alike stood on stands where owners would hawk their value as if they were bundles of silk. If she understood, some were being sold for less than silk.
Some sat on the edge of their platforms with wooden placards around their neck, announcing their name, age, skill and price. Some were tattooed with symbols of a particular skill. She saw one large, muscular man with a black anvil tattooed across his face being harried over by two potential owners.
The man's genitals had been removed years ago, leaving only a slit for him to pee out of.
"Lhazareen," Qautieh explained, pointing out the many slaves who had coppery skin and almond-shaped eyes. "The Dothraki capture them and sell them to the slaver cities."
It dawned on Taylor, looking at them, that Quaithe must have been Lhazareen herself.
Traders and buyers walked around, handling the slaves like they might food animals. More than half the boys were gelded, just like the metalsmith. Some were so freshly gelded they still bled or bore scars.
Not all the slaves were Lhazareen, though. Taylor saw the darker skin of the Summer Isles and the pale skin of Westeros and the free cities of Essos. She saw occasional white or white-blonde hair from the old Valyrian stock, and even a few exotic slaves from the Empire of YiTi beyond the Jade Gates of Qarth. All the people of the world had been stripped naked, whipped, cut or abused, and now stood bare for others to buy as property.
The smell of it alone was enough to make her queasy.
"The history books couldn't do justice to the sheer horror of it," she whispered.
"It is far worse, Aeksiae, to be among them."
Taylor couldn't help but take the woman's hand. "Ser Barristan, can you tell me that the people of Westeros suffer any worse than these people?"
"Worse?" The old man had eschewed his armor for a light woolen robe and cotton trousers he'd purchased in Qarth. "Nay. But the fact these people suffer more does not make the suffering in Westeros less. People all over the world suffer, Your Grace. You can help those who are here now, but it will be the task of a lifetime. The slave cities are all united behind this endeavor, and any attempt to stop it in one will engender the enmity of all the others. From the Free cities and Volantis to Qarth, the world would turn against you. You would spend the rest of your life fighting to free slaves."
"There are worse ways to spend a life," Taylor noted.
"Perhaps," Quaithe said before Barristan could answer. "Though as a queen of a mighty kingdom, you would be in a much better position to enact change." She gripped Taylor's hand tightly. "Of all people here, my queen, my words are spoken from my heart, for I have stood where they stood. Shadowbinders are not made of their own free will. If you act now, you might save some, but many more will suffer. But if you return as a queen with a fleet at your back and dragons in your sky, you will have a chance not to save a few for a day, but all for lifetimes."
Taylor's attention was drawn from the horrific scene when she heard the cadenced march of boots on stone. Turning, she saw what looked for all the world like a troop of Roman legionnaire reenactors. They bore long, rectangular shields and iron-tipped spears whose long, flat blades were a head taller than they were. Their armor was made up of mail rather than steel plates, but they even wore the armored kilts that hung to their knees, and grieves below that.
The formation of twenty men marched right by them in a sweep of the docks. "Come on, this place stinks," Taylor said. "We need clothes and supplies."
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
On the second morning of their stay, while the supplies Groleo had ordered arrived to be loaded and the goods he'd sold were delivered, Taylor left her entourage behind on the ship. She wore a new outfit, one she called her "spear maiden" outfit. It consisted of a steel-plated leather skirt that hung to grieves over her knees and shins that ran down to her boots, a thick woolen blouse and a steel breastplate that ended at her ribs, but was then draped in mail over her stomach.
She had a short thrusting spear and a small round shield strapped across her back as an outward show of weapons, since only free people were permitted weapons within the city. It made her true weapons belt seem inconsequential in comparison. She made a point of getting past the slave market as quickly as possible.
The previous day, while shopping for clothes and the trappings of wealth necessary to pass herself off as royalty, Taylor had come across a bookseller. The books were scrolls made from papyrus, but she found one particularly thick scroll that detailed the history of one of the Valyrian-Ghiscari wars. The author, a long-dead man named Galendro, had a surprisingly comprehensive take on the subject. And he made it clear that, at least for the battle he chronicled, the Valyrians won not because of the quality of their soldiers or the skill of their leaders, but because they had flying nukes that could rain down fire on the enemy.
In all other regards, the Ghiscari had the finest, most powerful army in the world. And New Ghis, alone of all the slaver cities, used the training, tactics and weapon styles of their ancestors in their own army. Or so she read. The bookseller was very happy for the business and they spent hours speaking about a subject few others seemed to care about. There were not a lot of readers in the city.
The soldiers of New Ghis were not eunuchs, nor slaves. Although owners could donate slaves to the army to serve in their stead, any slave who served ten years was declared thereafter a free man, and a citizen of the city. Just in the two centuries of its existence, founded by disgraced or bankrupted families from Mereen, Yunkai and Astapor, the city had already fought seven wars to secure its existence. In all seven, it either won or forced its opponents to parley.
Within the city itself, slaves went clothed. Instead of heavy iron collars they wore leather or silk chokers, depending on gender and role. Most appeared well-fed and relatively healthy, and many appeared to be going about business almost as if they were free. They wore simple one-piece tunics that hung to their knees. Some were secured at the waist by rope, but most were not. The colors varied, but the cut did not.
The only time their station became apparent was when they got too close to one of the more ornately clothed citizens, with their dyed and heavily styled beards or hair. If that happened, the slave would stop where they were and prostrate themselves. The citizens continued on their way, ignoring the display.
Taylor had little doubt what would happen if a slave failed to prostrate themselves. Most were wise enough to just give the citizens a wide berth. They treated Taylor the same, since just by her bearing weapons she had to either be free, or a fighter.
She found the training barracks for the city's legions outside the walls on the northern end of the island. Long, low buildings were fashioned from stone and wood, with training yards set between them. The moment she walked through the open gates, she could see formations of men marching or drilling.
Only two guards stood detail on either side of the gate, both looking bored. They watched her with the intensity of two men both surprised by a woman with weaponry, and with a desperate desire for something to do.
She picked the one on her left and sidled up to him, careful to make sure her hands were visible. "Good morn. I've been sent by my queen to observe the training of your famed Iron Legions. Will I break any law or rule in doing so?"
"Queen, huh?" Just like she spoke it, she understood the man's bastard Valeryian easily enough. "What fool of a queen wants a woman fighting for her?"
"It's a secret," Taylor said, forcing a smile. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you to keep the secret. And she doesn't want me killing anyone today. Is there any law that would prevent me from walking down there and observing them?"
While the man she spoke to just realized that, woman or not, Taylor was taller than he was, the man behind thought it a funny joke. "Kill us? Ha!"
The man she picked, though, swayed under a slight push of the Force. "No," he finally said. "No rules."
"Thank you."
She continued on her way. It did not surprise her, given the culture she found herself in, that the drilling soldiers saw her approach and, as soon as they observed the fact that she was female, began to react as if they'd never seen a woman in their lives. They whistled and catcalled. One of the men lifted his kilt and grabbed his package, as if that was supposed to impress her somehow.
That is, right up until an officer strode to the man in question and slugged him in the head so hard the man dropped like a sack of potatoes. "The Iron Legions are not fucking dogs!" The officer shouted. "Ten laps or ten lashes, choose and move!"
That particular squad of men picked up their companion, and then started running on their sturdy sandals. The officer watched them go with a nod before walking stiff-legged toward her. "What's your business here, woman?"
"I've been sent by my Aeksiae to observe the training of the famed Legions of New Ghis. My mistress wishes me to learn, and to determine if such training could be used for her own future troops."
The man frowned, then looked her up and down. There wasn't anything sensual in the look at all, rather he studied her as one soldier to another. "You're the tallest fucking cunt I've ever seen. Looks like you have some muscle on you as well. But war ain't no woman's sport, and this batch ain't worth learning shit from."
Over his shoulder, she could see that the men being drilled were all rather… young. "I can see that," she admitted. "They don't move like soldiers yet. New recruits, then. I don't wish to waste your time. But I do have a mission. Is there someone I might speak with who could assist? I am willing to pay."
The officer stared at her for a long moment, as if she had surprised him by passing his test and identifying raw troops. "There's a tavern on the Boulevard of Graces. Its sign is a shock of barley. A retired officer will be there within a candle."
Taylor bowed her head. "My thanks. I will be there as well."
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
Rezhal mo Zhaeq was thirty years old. Like most Ghiscari, the man wore his beard and hair styled with sheep fat and dye, giving him sharp green spikes jutting down from his chin, and goat-like horns that rose from the bright orange hair of his head.
He stood in height three inches below Barristan, and four inches shorter than Taylor, but he had a thick, muscular body. He didn't have bulging muscles like the body-builders of Earth, though. Rather, he had a body hardened by six years of hard training and fighting.
His manner reminded her a little of Charles Scapetti—a weathered veteran with no illusions about the nature of war and very few fucks to give about life in general.
The man joined Taylor and Barristan at a tavern in the docks for a free meal. He walked into the room not with a swagger, but rather a cadence to his steps that implied anyone who got in his way would simply be trampled over. Fortunately, none got in his way.
Taylor remained seated as Barristan stood from the table to meet him. They didn't shake hands, but rather held their hands up, palm out, and nodded. "Join us?" The old knight invited.
"I'll eat," the man said in the gruff, bastardized Valyrian of Slaver's Bay. He sat at their table, pulled out a pair of fine steel knives with carved ivory handles, and set into the haunch of goat on the table. He dipped a wooden bowl into the pot next to the haunch, and finally tore off a piece of black bread to eat the soup with.
He ate with the single-mindedness of a man who didn't know for sure when the next meal would come. And he ate a hearty amount of the food, as well. When a serving slave came with the grainy, bitter ale common in the city, he didn't even look at her revealing slaver's tunic. He grabbed the tankard and downed it in one long draw before demanding another.
More interestingly, the girl expected it and lingered until she could refill the tankard. Only then did she move on.
The man finished a meal in five minutes that most would have taken twenty to eat. When done, he shoved the empty bowl and plate away, leaned back with an impressive belch, and regarded his hosts intently.
"You have the look of a warrior," the man said to Barristan. "White hair on a man of war is to be respected. Yet it was the freakish-tall girl who came to the camp."
"We serve the same queen," Barristan said, at Taylor's insistence playing along with the idea of Taylor being another servant. "She is a powerful warrior in her own right."
"Have you fought her?"
"I've not had the honor," Barristan admitted. "But of those who have, few survived."
Rezhal laughed as if it were a joke—a short bark of laughter that packed irony, cynicism and sarcasm into a tightly wound burst of sound. "So, tall girl, you offered food for time. You've paid for my time, speak."
"How'd you like to help conquer Westeros?" Taylor asked.
The man snorted. "You and what army, girl? I'm a soldier, not a god."
"What my friend meant was that we wish to hire you to help train such an army," Barristan said. "She is somewhat infatuated with the Iron Legions."
"Aye, we do well enough," Rezhal said. "But we're infantry. Good for island and coastal fighting. We'd fair poorly against that heavy horse you Westerosi use. Not without emplacements. The strength of the legion is tactics and mobility."
"Aye," Barristan nodded. "But infantry is the heart of every army. Having an infantry well- trained in the tactics of the legion could only be a boon."
The New Ghis man took another swig of his ale. "To be sure. Where's your army, then?"
"We're sailing north to fetch it," Taylor said. "We aim to secure the Unsullied. But I'd like officers with your experience to maintain order, and to train any recruits we gather."
"Unsullied? You want me to fight with those cockless sons of slaves? What makes you think I'd want to do such a thing?"
The moment he sat at the table, Taylor had been studying him in the Force. More, she'd been skimming his surface thoughts. He was a tight bundle of resentment and anger, but none of it was directed at her.
"You spent six years in the Iron legion, first as a soldier then as a sergeant. Most of the men you fought with were slaves, since the rich families don't want to give their sons to war. You've fought in four wars, most against Qarth on the mainland, but at least one against pirates out of Velos. You're the sixth son of the fifth son of the New Ghis Zhaeqs, an old but poor family that left Yunkai a hundred years ago to seek their fortune here. You're fresh out of the army, fresh out of a failed betrothal, and nearly fresh out of money."
Rezhal's confident smile faltered as Taylor spoke, turning grim and then alarmed. "Who are you?"
Taylor leaned forward with her elbows on the table and stared at the man with her black-gold eyes. She had actually rehearsed this part with both Quaithe and Barristan. "I am Rhaenys Targaryen, newly returned from Asshai-Beyond-the-Shadow. I am a Dragonlord of Old, and bear three hatchling dragons in my ship. By blood and birth, I am rightful queen of Westeros, and I aim to take my throne. Any who come with me shall be richly rewarded, and will find a new life in the Seven Kingdoms."
"You don't look like any Valyrian."
"My mother was Dornish," Taylor said, adopting the lie Barristan and Quaith cooked up for her. "But the rites I endured to attain the sorcery of the ancient dragon lords changed me. I am not the girl who was smuggled out of the Red Keep so many years ago. I am a woman of sorcery and skill."
Rezhal regarding her intently, not laughing anymore. "The dragon lords destroyed my ancestor's home."
"They were cunts, I'll admit it," Taylor said. She didn't care for the word, but when in Rome... "Nor will I lie to you, Rezhal. I despise slavery, and a day will come when I return to Slaver's Bay to end it. Not today, but someday. But right now, my fight is with the pretenders who've torn my father's kingdom apart."
Another bark of laughter. "So you're not my enemy now, but maybe later? Fine. But you came to me, you want me. I command the soldiers I train."
"You'll take your orders like all commanders do," Barristan said firmly. "But there's a fine line between giving a commander orders, and then telling him how to execute those orders. You'll command our infantry forces. And we'll not undermine that command."
Rezhal nodded. "This is acceptable. I know a few other lads that'll join us."
Exactly as Taylor hoped. She held up her own tankard of bitter ale. "To the new commander of the Targaryen infantry."
"All one of it," Rezhal agreed, raising his own tankard.
A/N: This was one of those chapters that I really had a hard time wrangling into shape. I'm still not particularly happy with it, but it got us to New Ghis.