Chapter 9: Interlude - By the Light of
"Ser Hughes, if I'm being honest, I don't like the look of these Myrmen," Stuar said. "They're not honest folk like those of us on this side of the narrow sea."
Hughes sighed. "You're not the first to feel this way. Nonetheless, Lord Lelouch was quite insistent that they be brought here."
"I suppose if it's Lord Lelouch's orders…" Stuar said. "Still, I'm not sure how a man can trust a slaver. It goes against everything the septons preach," Stuar said, finishing his delivery of bread to the camp.
"Which is why we're keeping them here in Spicetown for now," Hughes said, handing the baker his payment with his remaining hand. "Lord Lelouch is aware of your concerns, and is taking every step to ensure these Myrmen cannot prey on his people."
"He's always looked out for us smallfolk, y'know?" Stuar said. "Well, I best be off. I've had to take on five apprentices just to meet these orders, and it's still not enough."
Hughes nodded. "Things will go back to normal once they've had a chance to settle down. They have bakers among them, that make this round pie with salted meat and cheese. You should try some when they start making them."
Stuar's brows scrunched. "I dunno 'bout any of that, ser. I like my bread as it is. I'll be seeing you same time tomorrow."
Hughes watched him depart on his horse-drawn wagon for Hull to the north. Ensuring that ten thousand foreigners were kept fed and took most of his day as it was. It would only get worse too.
Seven willing that summer comes soon, Hughes thought, if the winter lasts any longer…
The first of the Velaryon bannermen, a hundred Swyftfoot men, arrived later that day. They must have emptied their holdfast to put together this many men. Lady Alysanne and Ser Cristin Swyftfoot, the heir, rode at the head of the column, while the disgraced Orin Swyftfoot rode several paces behind them. He could hear the sound of a babe wailing near the back, where a lady-in-waiting of Lady Alysanne was.
"Lady Velaryon. Lord Cristin," Hughes said, bowing. "Ser Orin."
"Ser Hughes… Truespear, was it?" Lady Alysanne asked.
"That is the knightly name Lord Lelouch gave me," Hughes said.
"You've risen high in his service," Lady Alysanne said with a kind smile. "Years of humoring his plots and ploys. He has new orders for you."
"I stand ready to receive them, my lady," Hughes said, accepting the letter she offered. His brow arched up. "Whale oil? Forgive me, but I don't see how this would be of any help at sea."
Lady Alysanne shrugged. "My son's schemes are a mystery to me. I do not have a head for war like his uncle did."
"Ser Hughes, where might my men encamp for the night?" Ser Cristin asked, his eyes sweeping through the chaos around them.
"Follow me," Hughes said.
After Spicetown had been sacked many, many years ago, it had been reduced to a grouping of mud huts and hovels. Even if they had enough to house the Myrmen, they made for poor shelter on a warm winter night. Better housing would have to be built or the people would freeze to a man. As it was, a mishmash of lodgings had sprung up haphazardly wherever the Myrmen could find material to build with.
The only order to this chaos had arisen by itself. A lifetime under the yoke had ingrained a sense of belonging, if it could be called that, in the Myrmen. They'd sorted themselves according to whom they called master.
Spicetown could be divided roughly into five parts. First was the town center where the people of Driftmark who'd lived there for years resided. It was situated by the sea, and had nothing of note besides a small pier and some fishing vessels. Second, third, and fourth were where the slaves of the magisters three had settled. Rasporos' three thousand were to the northeast and Zoutos' twenty-five hundred to the west, with Glossos' fifteen hundred hands setting up a small enclave in between the two.
"Here, Ser Cristin," Hughes said, tapping his foot against solid ground and near the inland well. The last part was furthest inland, and made up of those men whose masters were dead, or in Myr.
They were, in Hughes' opinion, free men and women in truth, though such a concept seemed beyond their comprehension when he'd asked the green-haired woman to tell them. They wondered about aimlessly, jumping to obey every order they understood, regardless of who gave it. Cici had named herself their "mayor", which must have been a myrish word for lady.
"My thanks, Ser Hughes," Ser Cristin said. "Do you perchance know when the others will arrive?"
"We expect the men from Chaseman and Lord Tallfield to arrive tomorrow, and Goodchair the day after at the latest," Hughes said. Under normal circumstances, he'd been told that Chaseman and Goodchair might take several more days to gather, but their disgrace had left those lords eager to show they were eager.
"Lord Wells has informed me that he will need four days, and that contingents from Harrock and Bryne will join him," Hughes continued. The seaside houses were further away, and the Wells men had to come down from their ridge.
Ser Cristin was silent for a minute as his men began to set up their tents. "That does not strike me as enough men to crew the seventy ships moored here."
Hughes glanced about them. "We will be bringing some of the Myrmen here with us apparently."
"A bold choice," Ser Cristin said, then in a lower voice asked, "Can they be relied on?"
"Most of them have never raised a spear in their life," Hughes said. "But Lord Lelouch says there will be use for them beyond fighting. I have been tasked with discovering the professions these particular men and women had when they lived in Myr."
"An unenviable task, especially when they do not speak our tongue. I wish you the best of luck on it," Ser Cristin said.
"Thank you," Hughes said with a worried frown.
This does not feel like a knightly task.
-ZeroRequiem-
Magister Zoutos Ayas boarded the Seafyre under the moonlit night. "So we are finally to leave this wretched city," he said. His idiot speech slave repeated his words.
"I thought King's Landing would be to your liking," the cousin-boy, Donnall, said.
"What makes you think that?" Zoutos asked.
"It's a city like Myr, is it not?"
Zoutos snorted, eyeing the wise men be boarded at sword point on another, smaller trade ship with their sacred box. "It is nothing like it. Myr is the jewel of the narrow sea. This city, if I can call it that, has but five hundred thousand people I'm told, yet it smells of refuse and waste. You can attest to this, did Myr smell this bad when you were there?"
"I admit, it did not," cousin-boy said.
"Exactly," Zoutos said. "Furthermore, it makes nothing of worth. Myr can point to its many great crafts and masters of fine makings. Even Tyrosh has its dyes, and Lys its bed warmers. Here? I see nothing made, save fish. To their credit, at least the wealthier streets have good Myrish products, as any sensible place should have."
"They make good swords and armor in the Street of Steel," cousin-boy said.
"Like I said, nothing of worth." The ship lurched as it left port.
Cousin-boy tilted his head. "Swords and armor fetch quite the price here in Westeros."
Because the Sunset Kingdoms are a barbaric place, he thought. "A lot of coin to spend on things only used during war."
"Necessary costs," cousin-boy said. "Did we not see fighting in Myr?"
"The first time I have seen it occur in my lifetime," Zoutos said.
"Do you not wage wars over the Disputed Lands?"
"They are disputes, not wars, hence the name. Wars involve burning cities, leaving fields fallow, and wholesale slaughter. It is understood among the Daughters of Valyria that disputes are not done this way," Zoutos said. "We do not let it affect the flow of trade, no matter what."
"A strange way to fight a war," cousin-boy said.
"Because it is not a war. Disputes are how civilized places handle disagreements, and at the end of them, we sign contracts that make formal the new state of things."
It was clear the cousin-boy did not understand by the look of his face. Thankfully Lelouch was not so dim, or they might all have perished in Myr.
"What happens," cousin-boy began, "when you no longer agree on what should be the state of things?"
"Then we have disputes." Like explaining things to a child, Zoutos thought. Even dear Omorfia understood such things at half his age.
"Do those occur much?"
"Quite frequently," Zoutos said. "A year is not complete without at least one breaking out. Should a Free City ever be content with the state of things for long, they will find themselves less free as a lesser city quickly."
"You have wa—sorry, disputes every year?" cousin-boy asked. "Is that why you hire sellswords to do the fighting?"
"It's all they're good for," Zoutos said. "Just as I would not ask a baker to fish, or a dyer to sew. Each man and woman has a part to play in the city. What great loss we would incur to put swords and spears in the hands of craftsmen. In a moment, a twinkling of time, years spent honing their craft stolen by death."
"Like the maesters of the Citadel."
"Yes, yes! Exactly!" Perhaps there was hope for the boy.
Donnall seemed to think, before opening his mouth. "Why do you fight over the Disputed Lands? I imagine paying sellswords costs a fair bit of coin. Why not just split it among Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, and be done with it?"
Zoutos considered the words wistfully. "The old magisters tried more than a hundred years ago. They named it the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."
"You had a king?" Donnall asked.
"Ha! No, we had a high council that rules of thirty-three men. Together, we humbled that whore Volantis and drove it from the Disputed Lands," Zoutos said. "But then many conspired to bring us low and break the alliance, including your Sunset Kingdoms and the Braavosi. Mighty as we once were, even we could not stand against the combined might of three Free Cities and the Sunset Kingdoms. Never forget that those who overreach might rise high, but they also fall fast."
"You have not answered my question," Donnall said.
"Do you know what the Disputed Lands produce? What other name it is called?" Zoutos asked. At the shake of his head, he answered, "The Verdant Heel, for it yields grains and crops in abundance. Large cities are many peopled, all of whom must be fed. The fields of the Disputed Lands provide much of that food. Would any permit another to hold the knife of famine to their people's throat?"
Donnall shook his head again. "It would be unwise."
"Exactly," Zoutos said. "That is why we have disagreements. More food is always needed and in short supply."
There was a pause. "Lelouch has offered you kingship of Myr."
"He has offered three of us this," Zoutos said.
"Have you thought about what you might do with it? To be kings…"
Zoutos shrugged. "Perhaps we will raise new Magisters of Myr to power and return it to the old way of things. Perhaps we will rule as Triarchs like they do in Volantis. I have not spoken with that rascal Rasporos, or Glossos on what we might do."
Donnall frowned. "You speak of Magister Rasporos with such contempt, and yet you expect him to work with you?"
"Rasporos and I hate each other, this is true, but we both know there is a time to shake hands with the enemy to defeat the greater enemy," Zoutos said. "We have done it before, and we will do so again. A merchant that lets grudges prevent them from making deals will impoverish himself in a year."
"But… they did not come with us," Donnall said. "They said they would take a ship back to Driftmark instead."
"I am aware. They are of a younger breed, without stomach for fights and bared blades," Zoutos said. "I do not care for it, but I would know how Lelouch Velaryon intends to fight this war. I will not gamble so heavily on a man whose ways I know nothing of."
"I'm sure you'll like him," Donnall said. "He's clever and can be cruel, but never for its own sake."
"Of course you would praise him so," Zoutos said, glancing at the rising moon. "You are his cousin. Now, it is becoming late. I will retire."
The next few days at sea passed exactly as Velaryon explained it would. Ten ships of Myrish make from the west joined them after a day, half-filled with knights and men. Together, their flotilla raced for Tarth. Always though the trade ship of the wise men was kept at a distance from their ships, which struck Zoutos as odd. From what he knew of disputes at sea, keeping your fleet together was preferrable.
"Tell me, Magister Zoutos, do you play?" Velaryon asked, gesturing to the cyvasse board he'd set up on the deck.
"All magisters play, whether they know it or not," Zoutos said, taking a seat across from him. "What form do you prefer?"
Velaryon explained and they began to set up the board. His fortress was placed on the second rank, while Zoutos' was on the fourth.
"The right to choose is yours," Zoutos said.
"Then I will play first," Velaryon said, moving his king to the side.
"A waste of a move," Zoutos said. "You could have placed it further back."
The Velaryon smiled, as if remembering some jest. "If the king doesn't move, then his subjects won't follow."
The Velaryon played recklessly, moving immediately after Zoutos did. Such affairs ought to be thought through, or missteps would occur. Through happenstance, Velaryon made no great blunders that Zoutos could see. Still it was only a matter of time.
It was fortuitous for the boy that they were interrupted eight moves in.
"A pirate ship by the looks of it, my lord," the Tyroshi said.
Velaryon frowned. "They don't sail this far north normally, do they?"
"No," the Tyroshi replied. "The better trade routes are to the south, towards Plankytown and Oldtown, or along the Essosi shoreline. Shall we chase them down?"
"Can it be done quickly?"
"Yes."
Velaryon nodded. "Do it then, and try to keep them intact. I would have words with their captain."
There were some shouted words and the Seafyre picked up speed, outpacing its escorts in minutes. The trade thieves seemed to panic, but could do little as their ship's greater oars caught up to them in half an hour.
Javelins and bows were being prepared when Velaryon waved at the trade thieves. "Ahoy there! Come aboard, I've just opened this casket of Arbor gold and can't finish it all."
Even from where Zoutos stood, he could see the trade thieves share looks of confusion.
Then Velaryon raised his glass to them and took a sip of wine. The Seafyre's crew lowered their weapons. "I just want to talk to your captain. No harm will come to you on my word as a lord."
A gangplank was extended to connect their ships, and a bearded Lyseni came across with a pair of swordsmen.
"Who do I have the honor of addressing?" Velaryon asked.
"Captain Lysandro of the Women's Wail," the Lyseni said.
"What brings you to these waters?" Velaryon asked. "As I understand it, there are more riches to be had elsewhere."
Lysandro scowled. "There are, but the Great Bitch and Lord Whore think themselves king and queen of the narrow sea. They've put several ships to the sword already that prey on the traders of Pentos or Lys."
"Are you speaking of Samarro Saan and the Old Mother?" Velaryon asked, handing him a goblet.
"Thank you. Good vintage." Lysandro swallowed. "Aye, I speak of them."
"How are they able to do such things?" Velaryon asked. "I know they have control of Tyrosh, but—"
"Not just Tyrosh," Lysandro said. "Their ships have been sighted at Pryr, Highwatch, and Redwater. Scarwood and Bloodstone will be next."
Velaryon eyed the Cyvasse board as Zoutos decided on his elephant at last, and replied by swinging his horse around a mountain. "Bloodstone is a large island, nearly twice the size of Driftmark. Surely you could turn back their ships if you wanted?"
"There are pirates who answer to Lord Whore already on Bloodstone," Lysandro said. "And Bloodstone has a score of pirates that call themself the Bloodlord."
"You are familiar with the island?" Velaryon asked.
Lysandro shrugged. "I have hidden from storms there a few times, and have been employed by the odd pirate lord to raid a rival's harbor point."
"You seem to me a hard working, diligent man of great intellect," Velaryon said.
Zoutos snorted and Velaryon shot him a glare.
"Excuse my impertinent friend," Velaryon said. "I can think of no one more worthy to become Bloodlord. Would you be interested?"
Lysandro's greed shined through his eyes. "What would you want in return? I have no riches to pay you with."
"Riches? Let us not speak of such things. We have shared drinks, so are we not friends, Lysandro? All I ask is that we keep certain mutual enemies from taking the island," Velaryon said. "Perhaps in the future, we might even work together on other things."
"You do not want the island yourself?" Lysandro asked.
"But it is so far from my dear mother," Velaryon said, finishing off his cup and moving again.
Zoutos considered the board and scowled.
-ZeroRequiem-
Donnall had never pretended that he understood his cousin's many schemes. He'd learned long ago that Lelouch's mind ran at a different pace than everyone else.
It was why he preferred the sword.
Lelouch was clever, and so he thought he could think his way out of any problem. But sometimes, Donnall thought, bashing his shield against a pirate's face and knocking him into the wine red sand while he pushed his sword through another's chest, you just have to color your steel red.
It had a way of simplifying a lot of things.
One of the pirates tried to come at him with a knife of all things. Donnall rolled his eyes as it slid against his chainmail impotently. His sword was still stuck in a chest, so he curled his right hand into a fist and bloodied the idiot's nose.
Donnall retrieved his sword, gave the man a quick poke, and assessed the beach. All along the shore, the pirates under the "Dogman" fled. He spotted Ser Rolan Redmoore from the Wendwater raise a severed head in the air as men cheered.
"Big victory," Captain Lysandro said besides him in broken Common.
"The first of many today," Donnall answered.
Bloodstone's coast was pockmarked with pirate dens and smuggler lairs. Lysandro had pointed them towards a strip of shore he knew was lightly held, but Donnall didn't expect the fighting to be this easy.
"Where next?" Donnall asked.
"Not wait others come land?" Lysandro asked.
Donnall shook his head. "We hit the pirates hard and fast."
It took half an hour to get the first two hundred men ready to move, which was faster than Donnall expected.
"Get a move on, before I break your skulls alongside these scum!" bellowed Redmoore. "I plan on killing twenty men personally today, and I don't mind if I have to take out the difference on you lot!"
Then again, most people didn't have a beast like Redmoore to encourage the men.
The weather on Bloodstone was agreeably warm even during winter, not unlike Oldtown. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that on their way to the next closest pirate lord ("Mad Nadruk", some wannabe from Braavos), they came across several small farming villages. The smallfolk peered at them as they marched past, more curious than frightened.
"Pirates no kill farmers," Lysandro explained as they followed the dirt trail through the woods. "Cook food for us. Give daughters for fuck. Have plants for heal. Pirate lord that kill farmers get killed quick."
"What do you eat here anyway? I don't imagine they grow enough crops," Donnall said.
"Big sea. Plenty fish."
Donnall nodded. That made sense. "Is it the same across at Serpentholm?" He could see the edges of the island from the wooded hill.
Lysandro shook his head. "Stupid live in Serpentholm. Many snakes, many poison. Kill quick. Look, we near."
Nadruk's haven was little more than an assembly of wooden and stone huts by the sea. It was a good place to hide from the storm, but had little in the way of comfort.
"Bastard, get over here," came Redmoore's gruff voice.
Donnall crept up to him, just before the woodline turned into open field. "Ser Redmoore?"
"Take your seahorses and circle round that way," Redmoore said, pointing south. "Block off their escape. You have ten minutes."
Donnall signalled to the Driftmark men to follow him. Six minutes later, they'd gotten into position just in time. Redmoore charged the pirates like a rabid dog on the loose, swinging his two-hander so hard it actually cut a man in half. Ser Mortimer Creek was mere seconds behind him, cracking a skull open with every swing of his morningstar. The Glade brothers, on the other hand, were particular towards disemboweling.
Faced against such monsters, and with little to fight for, the sea scourges broke even before Nadruk's body cooled.
Which was when Donnall stepped out with his men, though they held their line. The first man who tried to run past them they gave a good stabbing to, just so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings.
The rest threw down their weapons.
Lysandro strutted up to them, speaking in quick Lyseni with such emphatic hand gestures that Donnall wasn't sure whether he was cussing them out or making love to their metaphorical sisters.
The pirates pledged their undying and eternal loyalty to His Magnificence, Lyssandro Bloodwail, the Pirate King of Bloodstone without much more prompting.
"This is almost too easy," Donnall said to Lysandro as they resumed the march.
"These small pirates," Lysandro said. "Big pirates harder."
"And where are the big pirates hiding out at?"
Lysandro grimaced. "Saintsport."
Saintsport, as it was so aptly named, was the largest and only city on Bloodstone. It was situated at the widest point on the Blood Strait with Serpentholm, with a wooden palisade and a moat ringing around it. This was the seventeenth Saintsport to Lysandro's knowledge, with its past sixteen iterations having been burned, flooded, raided, pillaged, or otherwise destroyed in different places at different times.
Saintsport was home to three thousand whores, pirates, thieves, dredges, lowlifes and more whores. Six of the more powerful pirate lords on Bloodstone had managed to not kill each other on sight and agree to keep the peace in the city. Really, what that meant was drawing too much blood outside of the fighting pits was frowned upon.
"Leaves stains. Sand hides it," Lysandro said.
Lesser pirates had to pay a fee to dock, paid in goods or good, but you had to be the right sort of pirate. Those who'd shed blood, or had otherwise pissed off a member of the Six Saints, did not have the peace to shield them.
It took another three days and four raids before Donnall laid eyes on the hive of scum and villainy. The path they'd traversed saw them approach the city from the north.
The next day, a host thrice their number of Myrish slaves, press-ganged pirates, and Tarth men-at-arms appeared on the western ridges overlooking Saintsport. By now the residents of the city were getting antsy, as even they could hear the sound of many axes biting into wood.
On their sixth day on Bloodstone, Lelouch showed up from the south with a mixed host of Wendwater and Driftmark levies. Their fleet of a hundred ships blockaded the port.
Six pirates were sent out under the white flag. Some of them, Donnall knew, were sworn to the Old Mother though they might not obey her whims in truth. Lelouch demanded their heads.
He was refused.
On their seventh day on Bloodstone, rocks rained down on the city. A fire had broken out somehow in the night too, and sounds of steel on steel made sleep difficult.
Before dawn broke, two heads were mounted outside the city, and dozens more thrown down at their feet under the white flag.
"I knew you could be reasonable," Lelouch said, smiling as if discussing the weather. "A storm is coming from the north, I think."
"We have dealt with them like you asked," one with a magnificent moustache said. "What else would you have us do?"
"The Band of Nine is coming with a fleet of over a hundred and fifty ships, and you will all be dead men if they are allowed to land. You have, after all, just killed their affiliates," Lelouch said. "I propose we don't let them land."
The pirates shared a look.
-ZeroRequiem-
"Are you done yet?" Donnall asked, right hand playing with his pommel
Wisdom Karpe shot him an annoyed look. "The substance is volatile at the best of times. This requires a delicate touch that is not to be rushed." He wiped his brow. "Or would you prefer to be incinerated?"
"Go on then."
Karpe continued to tinker with it some more before stepping back and nodding to himself.
"Done?"
"Yes, finally done you impatient whelp. As soon as one of these ships are rammed, the wildfire should be knocked loose and set the whale oil on fire. Now, we'd best leave quickly," he said, pushing past Donnall.
"Yes, I'd best do that," he said, drawing his sword.
"Have you seen Wisdom—"
Whatever Karpe was about to say was cut off as Donnall shoved his sword through the back of his knee. Karpe screamed.
"Are you insane!?" Karpe asked.
Donnall twisted the sword, and Karpe screamed again.
"Why are you doing this!?"
"I am my cousin's sword," Donnall said, pulling the blade out before spearing his other leg for good measure. It wouldn't do to have the man escape his fate somehow. "His enemies are my enemies, and his friends my friends."
"I've done n-nothing w-wrong against Lord Lelouch." Karpe sobbed. "This is all a misunderstanding. Don't leave me here!"
Donnall wiped the blood with the Wisdom's clothes. "For all your wisdom, Wisdom, you never thought playing with wildfire around the king might be a terrible idea?"
"Please, it wasn't me! It was the king who ordered it! It was the king!"
"Save your excuses for the Stranger," Donnall said, spitting in his face. "If it were up to me, I'd give you a more painful death, but Lelouch loves his ironies."
There was a knock on the door. "You done in there?" came Redmoore's voice.
Donnall walked out as Karpe continued to whimper on the floor.
Redmoore glanced back and whistled. "Good sword work. Very precise."
"I won't let him bleed to death before he faces the flames," Donnall said. "The others?"
"Taken care of," Redmoore said. "Now let's go 'fore we get roasted alongside these poor fuckers."
From the north, a hundred ships flying the purple banner of Tyrosh were headed straight for the Blood Strait.