Chapter 14: Tide
The chivalry of the Reach arrived as a relentless barrage of crests and colors snaking along the roseroad. Among the van heading towards them to speak with King Jaehaerys were banners Lelouch knew well. One after another came the three beehives, Bulwer's bull's skull, silver chalices and black roses quartered, the six flowers of Cuy, the butterflies of Mullendore—and chief among the sigils were the golden rose of Tyrell and the pale tower crowned with flames.
"Lord Hightower and his vassals hold the van, accompanied by one of Lord Tyrell's brothers," Lelouch said, setting down his Myrish far-eye.
"Lord Luthor has three brothers," Aerys said, glancing at Tywin in askance.
The Lannister nodded. "It will be the youngest brother, Ser Moryn. Gormon has chosen a life of study with the maesters, and Garth will be tasked with holding Highgarden as Lord Seneschal while Lord Luthor is away."
It surprised Lelouch little to hear the heir of Casterly Rock so knowledgeable about his southern neighbor. The Lords Paramount of the Mander and the westerlands might both claim to be the greatest lord in all the Seven Kingdoms after the king himself, if not for their overmighty, troublesome vassals.
"More banners behind the van," Steffon grunted, peering through his far-eye. "I recognize the coat of arms of Peake and Oakheart, but not the third. Interlocking golden rings on a sky blue field."
"That belongs to House Roxton of the Ring," Tywin said.
These are all houses who supported Daemon Blackfyre during the First Rebellion, Lelouch thought.
"I do not believe these lords were chosen by accident. Lord Tyrell is making a statement," Aerys said.
"Blacks," hissed Steffon.
"Or those who delayed in declaring for King Daeron, like the Hightowers," Lelouch added quickly. The Hightowers had fought for both Blacks and Reds technically, but to have Baratheon disparage them… that could not go unchallenged. He turned to Aerys. "I'm certain these lords mean to make up for the errors of their forefathers, just as I meant to. When Maelys sees his family's old friends marching at the van against him, he will know in his heart of hearts that the Blackfyre cause is dead and buried in Westeros."
Aerys nodded approvingly. "Well put. With this war, we shall end the Blackfyres and finally put behind us this ugly mark in history."
Leyton looked as he did some eight months past: tall, broad of shoulder, and rippling with muscles. Lelouch's brother, Corwyn, was never far from his knight and seemed nearly as tall as Lelouch now. His personal coat of arms—a lance and longsword crossed over a silver seahorse—fluttered proudly amidst the Reach banners.
"House Hightower answers the call, Your Grace," Lord Leyton said with a booming voice.
Besides him, Moryn Tyrell nodded. "Lord Tyrell and the main host shan't be long."
Aerys nodded. "I bid you welcome, Lord Hightower and Ser Moryn. Your houses' leal and loyal service to House Targaryen are appreciated. To my left is Lord Steffon Baratheon, heir to Lord Ormund Baratheon and Storm's End. To my right are Lords Tywin Lannister and Lelouch Velaryon, heirs to Casterly Rock and Driftmark respectively."
"Ah, we meet again, clever Seahorse!" Leyton said, eyes gleaming.
"You've met before?" Aerys asked.
"Once, Your Grace, when he was visiting his brother. Deadly with a bow, this one," Leyton said, grinning, "and even deadlier with a ship as it turns out."
"I am a Velaryon," Lelouch said.
"You'll be taking the field with us, I hope?" Leyton asked.
"All of us will," Aerys said.
Leyton shared a look with Moryn. "Is that wise, Your Grace? Given the king's health—"
"I could not ask the lords of the realm to bleed for my family's right to the Iron Throne, if I myself am not willing to do the same," Aerys said, before gesturing to the waiting servants holding the bread and salt.
Once Aerys' mind was made, there was little that could be done to sway him.
With the formalities aside, Lelouch walked over to his brother, enveloping Corwyn in an embrace. "What are they feeding you in Oldtown? You're nearly taller than I am, Brother."
"Alarra—" Corwyn started.
"—is in Driftmark recuperating. The danger is past her," Lelouch said.
He pulled away, hands tightening into balls. "I should have been here."
It was my duty to keep her safe, Lelouch thought. "Your place was by Lord Leyton's side, the same as any squire's during wartime." He thumped Corwyn's shoulder. "You did your duty."
"Did I? There was little enough for me to do on the road. I could have been here several weeks sooner if I'd ridden ahead. We were travelling so quickly even that archmaester of yours managed to catch up to us on an ass!"
"You're here now. That's what matters." Lelouch paused. "How have you been?"
"Restless," Corwyn said.
Lelouch nodded. "Don't get too cozy then. I will implore Lord Hightower to grant you leave to return home after we've seen to the necessary ceremonies here. Arrangements for a ship have been made."
"Will we have enough time to see her?"
"Lord Baratheon won't be back for at least a fortnight," Lelouch said.
"When do we leave?" Corwyn asked.
"Tomorrow, just after the High Septon's sermon."
It was another half hour before Lord Luthor Tyrell arrived. The levies and knights were left to make camp outside the city walls, but that still meant a small army of lords and lordlings would be guests of the Red Keep.
They would not be the only ones joining them that night. No sooner had they brought Lord Tyrell before the king did they need to head back out to the city gates with Lewyn Martell. The new addition to the Kingsguard was tall and slender like any salty Dornishman, with dark eyes and even darker hair. Martell alone among the white cloaks preferred the spear over the sword.
"You've been eyeing my spear for a while," Lewyn said.
"They say the Dornish are masters of the spear, but I've yet to see you in a fight," Lelouch said.
Lewyn grinned. "You prefer the spear as well. Are you looking for a spar or a taste?"
"The former will suffice, but it will have to wait."
"My sister said you'd be leaving for that quaint island of yours soon," Lewyn said.
That Princess Myriah knew was unsurprising, if unintended. Lelouch had told Joanna on purpose after all. "You've heard right."
"Next time then, when your hand is better healed perhaps" Lewyn said. "Your style is not so different from how we do it in Dorne, but it is unrefined."
"How so?"
"You do not know how to change your form," Lewyn said. "It is difficult to explain without a demonstration."
"I will hold you to that until we meet next," Lelouch said.
Unlike the Reach, from a distance it was difficult to pick out individual sigils from the line of sand-colored banners. The army of Dorne was a forest of spears and glinting turtle-shell shields and double-curved bows with the iron gate of Yronwood at their head—to Lewyn's obvious displeasure. The new addition to the Kingsguard was there not only to safeguard Prince Aerys' person, but to lead the Dornish contingent on his family's behalf.
"Lord Edgar Yronwood," Lewyn said, gesturing with his head to the mountain of a man at the column's head. "A prickly warrior, and quick to anger."
"And his son I presume?" Lelouch asked, glancing at a boy sharing Lord Yronwood's hawkish nose and freckled complexion.
"Ormond," Lewyn said, before turning to Aerys. "No doubt here to woo Princess Rhaella."
A threat, Lelouch thought. The Yronwoods were kings of old and second only to the Martells among the Dornish. He had the pedigree; Ormond couldn't be allowed to have her affection too.
"Kindly see to our guests, Prince Lewyn. The king would be most displeased if they were to take ill before battle is had," Aerys said.
Lewyn narrowed his eyes. "As you say, Your Grace."
-ZeroRequiem-
Though they feasted and fucked, all the great lords of Westeros had gathered beneath one roof for the promise of a fight. Burly northmen drank with ironborn captains and knights of the Vale. Even the sons of the Reach and Dorne had left their swords at the door for subtler weapons—words, wine, and women.
"Pace yourself, brother. It wouldn't do for you to show up hungover before the High Septon," Lelouch said, gesturing for Alda to come over. The serving girl he'd slipped some stags to was quick to provide a goblet of Arbor gold, mixed as he specified.
"You've matched me all night," Corwyn said.
Lelouch brought his cup to his lips. "Mine's watered down."
"Surely the High Septon wouldn't begrudge us this?" Baelor Hightower, Leyton's son and heir, asked.
"He's a truly pious man," Lelouch said. "Besides, it would be unwise to appear before the princess in such a state when you've only just met."
Baelor lowered his goblet. "I see why my father speaks so highly of you. What can you tell me about her?"
"She enjoys watching the spars. Do you see the boy standing next to her?" Whent had high cheekbones and a firm jawline, but was otherwise quite plain in looks.
Baelor nodded.
"That's Oswell Whent. Though a second son, he's a formidable knight and has been a favorite of the princess this past week," Lelouch said.
Baelor eyed him. "Mayhaps I'll test my steel against his."
"He's wicked quick with the blade. I've seen him best two knights by himself," Lelouch said.
"Baelor is a fine swordsman, almost on par with his father," Corwyn said.
"Truly? I wish you luck then," Lelouch said. Of all his "rivals" for Rhaella, Baelor was the least objectionable even if his father wouldn't see it that way. Their houses would remain aligned for the foreseeable future at least. Besides, the king is keenly aware of perceptions. The last time the Hightowers had married into the royal family, a Targaryen civil war, albeit a different one, had been the result. Such a match given the current state of affairs might be misconstrued.
The tune the minstrels played turned jaunty, with a good beat. A signal to the lords and ladies throughout the hall that it was time to dance.
"Princess Rhaella, what a pleasure," Lelouch said as the silver-haired girl stopped at their table.
"Might I have a moment of your time, Lord Lelouch?" Rhaella asked.
Lelouch stood, holding out a hand to her. "You may have as many as you wish, Your Grace."
Her hand laid timidly on his, and he led her to the center of the room as a hundred pairs of eyes bored holes into every inch of Lelouch—Ronnel Arryn among them. "Lady Joanna mentioned your offer to deliver her letters to Alarra," Rhaella said as they began to move. "I thought—hoped you might extend me the courtesy."
"Here I thought you'd come to miss my presence after all," Lelouch said as others began to join them on the floor. Joanna danced with Tywin, and Aerys with Arwen Arryn. "It would be my pleasure, Princess. Sister will be delighted to hear from her friends."
Rhaella spun to the rhythm of the drum. As they faced each other again, she said, "Truth be told, I thought you'd already left for your island. You've made yourself quite scarce to me."
"Training and matters of campaign have kept me occupied, but you need only call me to your side if I'm sought."
"Not so occupied if you've time for my handmaiden," Rhaella said. "You and her have grown quite close."
"Lady Joanna likes to use me as one of many tools in pursuit of your brother," Lelouch replied.
Her brows furrowed. "And you don't mind?"
He smiled as the flutes and harps and pipes died down. "I'm of as much use to her as she is to me." Lelouch brought her hand to his lips.
"I'll have my letter sent to your rooms tonight," Rhaella said. "Fair travels, Lelouch."
"My thanks, Your Grace." Lelouch turned around. Ronnel Arryn was still watching him darkly. It was no secret that Lord Jon Arryn's younger brother remained unwed, and was one of the few lords that could hope to win Rhaella's hand. Lelouch walked right up to the Vale lord with a grin. "A fine night to you, Lord Ronnel."
The man grunted. "Likewise, Lord Lelouch."
Lelouch gestured to the goblet in his hand. "Shall we drink?"
"If you think you can hold your wine, certainly."
Lelouch smiled as Alda placed two pitchers in front of them. "I'm sure I'll manage." The man might be nearly a decade his senior, but his drink was undiluted and twice as strong.
-ZeroRequiem-
The Seven had blessed them with clear skies and calm seas and it would not be much longer before the Seafyre nestled in its home port.
"What you did to Lord Ronnel last night was underhanded, even for you," Corwyn said. "The man couldn't make his way back to his own room without help, much less dance with Her Grace. He looked quite ill during the High Septon's sermon this morning!"
It was for the best that you weren't with me this past year to witness my atrocities then, Lelouch thought. "He's a grown man. He ought to know drinking so deeply from his cups is not without consequence."
"Besides," Cici said, "his hangover will fade before the day is over."
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being introduced, my lady?" Corwyn said.
"You may call me Cici. Mayor Cici of the Free Myrish, if you wish to be formal," she said. "I've heard my pies have reached even Oldtown. Have you tried one, perchance?"
"You mean the Myrish pies? You made those?"
"I did," Cici said.
As Cici roped his brother in talk of the finest food in all the world, Lelouch turned his eye to the ever largening harbors of Spicetown. Trading cogs from Braavos and beyond streamed to and fro.
Archmaester Metselen's rod of lead came to a stop beside him. "Something on your mind, young lord?"
"Much coin and blood has been spent to keep the waters near Driftmark free from marauders and pirates," Lelouch said, "yet I fear even that might not be enough in the coming months."
"It is a heavy yoke, keeping the sea lanes safe," Metselen said. "You fear the Band of Nine. They'll make a point of targeting merchants."
A thousand cuts to bleed Westeros dry from White Harbor to Planky Town. Samarro Saan had drowned at the Battle of Seafyre with most of his ships, but the Old Mother yet lived. The Saan family, more than any other, had turned piracy into an inheritance to match.
Old Mother came from no one, and had grown old as a woman in an occupation for young men. Yet, with blood, age, and gender stacked against her, she'd not only survived, but thrived to become the most notorious sea scourge on this side of Essos.
She was smart, lucky, and very, very dangerous.
A score of Velaryon ships flying the sigils of his house and bannermen waited at the pier, being resupplied for the coming campaign. It left more room in Hull for the dozen or so war galleys being built.
They disembarked from Seafyre to a host of lords, knights, and captains waiting for them, for him to be more precise. Among the fluttering banners of winged sandals, thrones, and stalks of wheat was the steel spear on red. It was newer, but not any lesser for it in Lelouch's eyes.
Old Lord Dromin spoke first. "Lord Velaryon, Driftmark is yours."
Lelouch raised his still bandaged hand in greeting—a reminder that he had bled in Myr for their mistakes. "It is good to see you, my lords."
Lord Dromin looked around. "Your cousin is not with you?"
"Donnall has opted to stay in King's Landing for the time being. He will rejoin us once the campaign is underway," Lelouch said. "Have we any word from Ser Redmoore?" He'd given his good-uncle's vassal the command at Bloodstone while he was at court.
"Bloodstone remains firmly in our hands, my lord. No attacks from Blackfyre have been forthcoming." Lord Dromin paused, as if uncertain whether to continue.
Without his presence or a common enemy to band against, violence between Redmoore and the pirates was a given. The man a bloodhound on a leash with a talent for murder. "How many dead from bar fights and brawls then?"
"Less than a score from us. Easily twice that for the pirates, but we've not managed to get a proper count for them," Dromin said. "Before I departed, we suggested some whores move into our camp. It's kept the men out of Saintsport for the most part, limiting the opportunities for violence."
"Whose scheme was this?" Lelouch asked.
"T'was Ser Orin's idea."
The favored nephew of Lord Swyftfoot stepped forward, eyes not quite meeting his. The last he'd stood this close to Orin Swyftfoot was at Tarth, berating the lords who'd followed his uncle over him in Myr.
"Finely done," Lelocuh said with a curt nod. "Will my lords ride with me to the castle?"
"We would be honored to," Dromin said.
Spicetown had progressed nicely since he'd last been here a month ago. The grouping of mud huts and hovels that used to dominate the town center had been replaced by proper wooden tenements. Craftsmen by the dozens carved out quarrels, stitched lace, melted sand, and made dyes. Even more went to work raising storehouses, and a vast assortment of buildings. Yet there were all men of Essosi stock. Where were the men and women of Driftmark?
"You have an eye for irony, my lord, to rebuild Spicetown on the backs of the very people who'd sacked it in the past," Dromin said.
"I'm heartened that you think so," Lelouch said. "A fitting retribution, no?"
"Quite so, my lord."
"I don't believe I've offered you condolences for the loss of your son, Lord Chaseman." Disloyal Charles Chaseman might have been, but he was the sole male heir to significant holdings on Driftmark.
Dromin's features twisted. "He was a fool. I thought I'd raised him better than to so thoroughly drag our name into mud. Seven willing, my daughter might find a husband and bear sons with more sense."
That explains why Lord Dromin had asked about Donnall, Lelouch mused. A bastard he might have been, but it was no secret he had close ties to Lelouch.
A gentle sea breeze blew inland as the towers of Driftmark came into sight. Lelouch took a deep breath, glad that it did not smell of shit and squalor like King's Landing.
It's good to be home.
-ZeroRequiem-
Mother had called for the council of regents before he'd even reached father's solar to discuss the current state of Driftmark. Besides Lelouch himself, there were only three of them left: Mother, Maester Banneth, and Ser Morren, the master-at-arms.
It was to his surprise that Magister Zoutos and Ser Hughes Truespear were present as well.
There must be concern over the Myrish and the Magisters, Lelouch thought. Hughes had been given the unenviable task of settling the refugees while Lelouch had been in King's Landing and Magister Zoutos was his strongest partner among the Magisters.
"Welcome home, my son," Mother said as he sat in the Lord of Driftmark's chair.
"This must be a pressing concern," Lelouch said.
"Rasporos attempted to flee," Zoutos said.
Lelouch closed his eyes. This had not been entirely unexpected. Rasporos, more than any other, had been kept in line by the threat of losing all his slaves if he tried to abandon Lelouch's coalition. When he'd asked the Magisters to adopt the Pentoshi model, he'd lost that leverage legally speaking. How could he threaten to free slaves that on paper were already free? Opening his eyes, he asked, "Where is he now?"
"Under armed guard," Ser Morren said.
"Under what pretense?"
"Unpaid debts to House Velaryon," Maester Banneth interjected smoothly.
Lelouch nodded. "Bring him here."
It didn't take long considering all three Magisters resided in the castle at his invitation. It was much easier to keep track of them, and there were hardly any luxurious lodgings available to them otherwise.
Rasporos was shown into the room, red-faced and spluttering. "Perfidious! I owe no debts to your house!"
"Calm down, Magister," Lelouch said. "I'm given to understand that you wish to leave?"
"Myself and all my free servants," Rasporos said.
"Those who would choose to follow you," Lelouch said.
Rasporos scoffed. "Of course they'd follow me."
There lay the crux of the problem. On paper, these men and women were free, but they didn't know that. There had been no grand proclamation, only what was necessary to maintain this legal fiction for the Sacred Struggle. Any threat he wielded against Rasporos—in the form of unreasonable taxes and port fees—would be seen as a threat to all the Magisters. While they were no longer instrumental in the war against Blackfyre and Lashare, the skills and knowledge their slaves possessed were vital if he wanted his demesne to become more than what it was.
Plus, the wealth they'd invested in shops and ships was not an insignificant sum.
"You understand," Lelouch said, steepling his fingers in front of himself, "that free men may choose otherwise?"
"Everything they have, I gave them. Their food, the roof over their heads, the clothes on their back… these things are not without cost. They owe me debt."
Debt they could never hope to repay when their wages were a fraction of the inflated costs the Magisters gouged them for such basic things. The Pentoshi were brilliant bastards.
"How much does each servant owe?"
Rasporos frowned. "About ten of your dragons each."
Maester Banneth balked at the figure. A smallfolk labourer couldn't hope to earn more than a golden dragon in a year's time, and already he was claiming ten times that in debt for two month's of servitude. "My lord, you cannot be thinking of taking on their debts? We cannot afford it!"
"I've read their contracts, Maester. Even if I wanted to, the Magister could always choose not to accept," Lelouch said.
"That's right," Rasporos said.
"I'm afraid you do owe House Velaryon some coin though, Magister," Lelouch said, raising a hand to stifle disagreement. "Your ships have used our ports freely these past two months and it has not escaped my notice that you've been trading all this time. We will be reasonable about it, and collect only what is our due."
Rasporos narrowed his eyes. "And after I've paid, I will be free to leave? Unhampered?"
"On my honor as a Velaryon," Lelouch said. "Maester Banneth will present you a figure tomorrow morning."
"So long as the fee is reasonable, we are agreed then," Rasporos said.
After the Magister had left, Maester Banneth asked, "Was that wise, my lord?"
"You have a plan," Zoutos said.
"Don't I always?" Lelouch asked. "Guards! Kindly ask Mayor Cici to join us."
As one of the Velaryon men-at-arms stationed outside saw to his wishes, Zoutos turned to him. "Your bed slave?"
Mother's brow arched up.
"I'm not sleeping with her, and she's not a slave," Lelouch said.
"Of course you aren't," Zoutos said. "The plan?"
"I'll need to borrow some gold," Lelouch said. I cannot use Velaryon gold. Father and the regency council would never approve.
"All your plans involved borrowing gold," Zoutos pointed out. "I'm starting to wonder how you've yet to fall into debt yourself."
Lelouch smiled. "Have I ever failed to repay you?"
"No, which makes it me all the more curious," Zoutos said. "Fret not. You'll have your gold."
"My thanks," Lelouch said. "Ser Hughes?"
The one-handed knight stood at attention. "Yes, my lord?"
"I would hear your report on Spicetown now," Lelouch said. "I saw none of our smallfolk there this morning, save the levies that keep order."
"Few of the smallfolk wanted to remain after we built over their houses," Hughes said. "They are not entirely at ease having so many Myrmen around, given their differences in faith and history."
In other words, the demon-worshipping heathens that sacked their island a century ago were back. "We ought to encourage trade between Hull and Spicetown."
"We could always use more laborers," Zoutos said. "Plenty of construction going about. It would free up more craftsmen to do what they do best."
"A septon would not be amiss either," Lelouch said. "At least to show our people that some worship the Seven among them."
The problem would be coin. It always came back to coin in the end.
Lelouch sighed. War was so much simpler.
-ZeroRequiem-
His baby cousin gurgled happily in Cici's arms, even as he knocked on one of the tower's many doors. Adamm Waters was light-skinned, with a tuft of golden hair from his mother. One might mistake him for a Lannister, if not for his eyes. It proved the babe to be of Valyrian stock.
It proved him to be kin.
The door creaked open. "Brother?"
Alarra's hair had grown back, as beautiful as he'd always known it to be. The only visible mark Summerhall had left on her was her stump of a hand. "Good morning, sister," Lelouch said. "Get dressed."
She frowned. "Whatever for?"
"We've a ceremony to attend," Lelouch said.
"But I—"
"Quickly now or I'll dress you myself!" Lelouch interrupted before she could excuse herself. Staying indoors for so long wasn't healthy.
She scampered off with an "eep!" to put on something more presentable.
"So that was Alarra," Cici said. "She's cute. Makes me almost nostalgic."
Lelouch ignored her words. "Is everything ready for later?"
"I've made my speeches and handed out the coin like you asked me to," Cici said, before cooing at Adamm. The baby tried to reach for her nose, but settled for a fistful of her flowing green hair.
Alarra returned to the door not long after in a gown of teal silk, with a sash tied around her waist and a seahorse pinning her hair up.
Lelouch nodded approvingly. Her maid had fine taste. "Come on then. I've had Meraxes and Seasmoke saddled already." He was moving already, certain that she would follow.
"But where are we going?" Alarra asked, struggling to keep pace.
"You still remember how to ride?" Lelouch asked in lieu of an answer.
"It's been a while," Alarra said. "If you're in a rush—"
"We'll go slowly if we must." As they reached the courtyard, the stablemaster set down a stool to make mounting easier on her on cue.
Hesitantly, she got on Meraxes' back. The silver-white mare neighed at her rider's touch. "How are you, girl?" Alarra said softly, rubbing her back.
Lelouch gave her a moment to settle in, before taking her rein in hand. Cici was already mounted on her own horse, completely at ease. "Ready?"
His sister gave him a small, uncertain nod.
"Don't worry," Lelouch said, flashing her a reassuring smile. "We'll go slowly."
They rode out of the gate at a sedate pace, on a road as well-paved as the kingsroad, though not quite as wide. It was fine weather for a ride, sunny with clear, blue skies overhead. As the road curved into a southwesterly route on the island's edge, Alarra spoke up. "We're going to High Tide?"
"It took you long enough to realize," Lelouch said with a teasing tone. "Yes, we are. The first batch of logs and stone are in place and Archmaester Metselen is ready to begin construction."
"Construction?" Alarra repeated.
"Many moons ago, you told me 'we might make more of this place than as it stands'," Lelouch said. "Those weren't just words for me."
She seemed deep in thought before she answered, "'A worthy seat for our house with a city to rival Oldtown in splendor, if not in people.' Isn't that what you said?"
"You remember," Lelouch said with a delighted grin. It wasn't long before they veered off-road into the sloping white sands. The faint outline of working men and masons came into sight. "Here, we reclaim the former glory of House Velaryon. They will sing songs of our names and write books of our deeds."
"Like the Sea Snake and the Oakenfist," Alarra murmured.
Lelouch nodded. "They will remember us."
Here it begins.
-ZeroRequiem-
As expected, there were items that Magister Rasporos found contentious in the final tally. That was always the case with good merchants, and magisters were better than most. By the time an agreement had been reached, it was well past noon. Everything was set for their departure, save gold changing hands.
Magister Rasporos laid claim to twenty-three of the ninety Myrish ships they'd salvaged from Myr on top of the three thousand souls that called him master. His was by far the largest portion of the magisters by virtue of being the earliest conspirator.
In another life, Lelouch and Rasporos might have toppled Zoutos' monopoly on the Myrish salt trade.
It was not meant to be, Lelouch thought, as the Rasporos handed him the sack of gold. With this, their partnership came to its official end. Lelouch handed off the coin to Maester Banneth for counting and weighing as he turned to the waiting crowd of slaves.
"The gods of Westeros, both old and new, see slavery as abhorent," Lelouch said in perfect Myrish. "And so, the Magisters had set you, all of you, free the moment they made this island their home. If any of you do not wish to serve your master any longer, all that is needed from you is payment of your debts."
He paused. "Are there any here who wish to do so?"
From the corner of his eye, he saw Rasporos' mouth drop as a slave who had mastered the art of lenscrafting made his way forward. "How much do I owe you, Magister Rasporos?" he asked.
"Myrish coin is of little worth to me now," Rasporos said. "Ten of these golden coins the locals call dragons."
The lenscrafter nodded and withdrew a pouch, counting out exactly ten dragons. With each coin, Rasporos' disbelief grew more apparent. "Please, count it yourself."
"Would you like to borrow our scale to weigh it?" Lelouch asked.
His eyes hardened. "That won't be necessary, will it?"
"No, it won't," Lelouch agreed.
Another slave stood, this one a glassblower. Soon a line had formed; people who knew the secrets of lace and purple dyes and even their local wines. Some thousand men and women altogether.
It was less than half of those here.
They did not possess a bottomless line of credit with Magister Zoutos, and so had to choose who would best serve their purpose. "This gold came from you," Magister Rasporos spat out.
"I gifted it to another," Lelouch said. "Where it went from there was not my business."
His shoulders slumped, and he let out a bitter laugh. "You're mad. Truly mad. No sane man would have given out a fortune like this when already in debt."
And he was, in truth. Who else would offer to pay half a decade's worth of wages in advance? People could succumb to sickness or even weasel away before their time was done. How was he to even keep track of everyone he'd handed out gold to when most of his armed men would be departing soon?
He couldn't. All he had was their gratitude for offering them terms that wouldn't see them eternally indebted, however much that was worth.
"You accept their payment as sufficient then?"
"I can hardly refuse to be paid what I'm owed, can I?" Rasporos said. It would be an admission that these were, in fact, slaves, and he already knew Lelouch wouldn't hesitate to have them freed in that case. He could take the gold and part with some of his slaves, or lose them all.
It was no choice at all.
"I should have inflated the prices more," Rasporos said.
"Yes, you should've," Lelouch said. There'd be no repeating this trick on the other Magisters though. Already they'd amended their contracts to make this ploy unfeasible even if he did acquire a significant source of funding.
"You've kept this interesting, if nothing else," he said. "I hope I will never have to see you again. Goodbye, Lord Velaryon."
"I wish you the best of luck, Magister Rasporos."