Chapter 22: Interlude - In Our Time
"We underestimated the boy," Alequo said as they broke fast in the privacy of his tent. "He's proud, yes, but he knows his way around words. It'd be wise not to provoke him more than necessary today."
Kalamnys dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "As you say, Archon. What is our plan now?"
"Deflect," Alequo said, forking a pear, its juices spilling out. "We've gained the upper hand with news of Lys' fall and Blackfyre's imminent return. Now, we negotiate a peace from a position of strength, and avoid any further foreign entanglements. This war has been ruinous to our economy."
"Very wise," Kalamnys said. "The Old Mother's pirates are a scourge, but their skill at sea is without question. Their screen has kept the sunsetlanders from hearing such important news in a timely manner."
Alequo nodded. "Fortune has smiled on us, but now we must make the most of it."
Once a peace was signed, Tyrosh could begin its recovery, and its ascendance. No doubt Lys would take precious months restoring order to its hinterlands after Maelys and Old Mother has so thoroughly kept the city without food. There was a window of opportunity for Tyrosh to assist their allies, especially in the most inland possessions of Lys where their hold was most loose. Old Mother was wise for a pirate, but she had not ruled before.
If she grew bored of it, there would be greater gains to be made. Perhaps he could be Archon of two Free Cities?
As for Maelys, he will prove a useful distraction, Alequo thought. How many ships would he need to cross? Forty? Fifty? A number of disgruntled Tyroshi captains might find their way into his employ… a rogue fleet for a rogue king was fitting. Could he be blamed for lacking control over his city's fleet after the Seafyre had so viciously savaged them?
Helping the Golden Company land in Westeros would be buying two slaves for the price of one. Maelys and his band of sellswords would no longer be his concern, and the lands they'd seized in the Verdant Heel could be reclaimed. If Maelys succeeded, Tyrosh would gain a powerful ally in the west. If he died, the sunsetlanders would still be forced home from the now pacified Stepstones.
Braavos too seemed increasingly preoccupied with Norvos, Qohor, and Lorath. Even Pentos was helping finance the war against the Sealord covertly.
Who would be left to contest the Stepstones? Volantis? They could be reasoned with, perhaps even distracted with a word to Old Mother of their riches...
Opportunity was everywhere in this new age for Tyrosh.
The air was crisp and clean and seasoned with salt as they stepped outside of his tent when Captain Aleximar made himself known.
"What news?" Alequo asked the Tall Man.
"A swift stallion was dispatched last night," Aleximar said. "I think a message from Magister Sarys."
"To speak of our success no doubt," Kalamnys said. "His friends will despair when they hear of it."
"It was seen heading southeast," Aleximar said.
Not to Tyrosh then, Alequo mused.
"He has business interests all along the coast. It takes many men and ships to collect enough material for the dyes he makes," Kalamnys said.
A Swift Stallion going at a canter carrying nothing but a sword and a letter could reach Averillys in ten minutes, and the next city in another half hour. For the most urgent messages, those lean young men would change mounts at every way station, be replaced after seventy five miles, and ride day and night without halt.
It was said that word from the Tyroshi hinterlands could reach a man in Myr after only thirty hours.
"This matter does not concern me," Alequo said at last.
Aleximar bowed in the peculiar way of the Sarnori—both palms flat against one's chest, like a woman cupping her teats, and bowing from the waist. "As you say."
As they made their way to the Rainbow Pavilion, Alequo saw little of the sunsetlanders outside their tents.
"It seems our guests enjoyed themselves quite thoroughly last night," Kalamnys said, a tinge of amusement coloring his voice.
"Let them," Alequo said. Let them bed as many women as they please if it leaves them blind and amiable. Let them fuck if it keeps them from seeing how fucked they are.
"He did not join," Aleximar said in his broken bastard Valyrian. "Lord Seafyre."
"What of the women I sent to his tent?" Alequo asked, brows furrowing.
"The green woman sent them away," Aleximar said, then in a lower tone added, "I think she is his lover."
Gods willing, Lelouch Velaryon would be in a good mood today. It would make the talks easier, if no less inevitable. "Who the boy sleeps with does not matter," Alequo said.
They entered the Rainbow Pavilion smelling of summerwine, honeyfingers, and cakes made of every fruit. The mix of sweet and sour smells tickled his nose. Velaryon and his underlings were already seated at the table, the plates set before them untouched, while Magister Sarys chewed on finger-sized logs made of honey, pepper, cinnamon, and pine nuts.
"You make me seem like a poor host," Alequo said as he took his seat. "You arrive before me, and you do not touch your plates. Is the food not to your liking? We can have something else made for you if you prefer."
"Tyrosh is not lacking in anything," added Kalamnys.
"We're eager to resume negotiations," the green-haired girl said.
"On an empty stomach?" Alequo asked. "That won't do. Affairs of state will be seen to after the affairs of men are satisfied. Now, what will it be?"
"A Myrish pie, if you have them," the girl said and Velaryon's eye twitched, "and a plate of apple pudding for Ser Lelouch."
The other boy said something in Common and the translator added, "Just porridge for Donnall Waters."
They seemed content to wait in silence for their food to arrive, and when it arrived they ate at a pace more leisurely than he'd expected. Strange, Alequo thought. Perhaps they weren't so eager to restart the talks after all? He could understand it, though it was a mistake. Theirs was now the weaker hand, and time would only make it weaker, not stronger.
Finally, when the table was cleared and all present had settled with a drink of choice, the talks resumed.
"We have reconsidered our position," Velaryon said and his girl translated. "Peace in our time is a fine thing, but the Iron Throne would have more than peace if at all possible. We will recognize you as the Archpatron of the Verdant Heel if you would join us against the upstart Maelys Blackfyre."
Alequo smiled. Did they think for a moment he was someone else? That a few months in the office of the Archon would dull the keen edge that had brought low countless hagglers? "One does not excel in Essos without knowing the worth of your wares, and Tyrosh is not so cheaply bought," he said.
"What would it take then for you to make common cause with my king?" Velaryon asked.
Name my price? Now that is a dangerous thing to give me, Alequo thought with a smile. "I have not considered it. I came here to make peace, and I intend to leave having made peace with all my friends and enemies."
Velaryon's knucles turned white. "Red or black, the shade doesn't seem to matter, so why choose Blackfyre over Targaryen?"
"I choose neither," Alequo said. "I choose Tyrosh, and what is good for Tyrosh is peace, whether it is with the red or the black."
"And what of after the war?" Velaryon asked, his voice growing tenser.
His translator did a marvelous job mimicking the raw emotion that coated his words. Had she a
mummer's training?
"When," Velaryon continued, "not if, Blackfyre is defeated, do you think Westeros will forget you sided with its enemies, then refused to make amends?"
"I'll worry about it if, not when, Blackfyre is defeated," Alequo said. If the Iron Throne continued to meddle in Essosi affairs after all, it would bring the wrath of all the Free Cities on them. "I am not as convinced about your victory as you are. The Plains of Naqes saw Blackfyre trade less than a thousand lives for over ten thousand of your knights."
"If I remember my sums," Kalamnys said, "he will have killed all fifty thousand of your soldiers in the Stepstones and still have four thousand of his Golden Company to spare."
"Naqes was a disaster," Velaryon said, nodding, "but so were the Battle of Seafyre and the Battle Beneath the Storm."
"You did not face the Golden Company the second time, and but a fraction of their strength in the first," Alequo said. "Yes, you have shown yourself an able captain, but this war will not end until Blackfyre is dead. Can you beat him on land? If not, he remains a great threat to Tyrosh's hinterland."
Velaryon fell into a quiet contemplation, a hundred ideas hidden behind those violet eyes of his. "What if," he finally said, "we made arrangements to mitigate the danger to your city?"
"Oh?" Alequo leaned forward."Do tell."
"The danger of the hinterlands falling is that Tyrosh will starve," Velaryon said. "But Westeros has plentiful crops from the Reach and the riverlands. The king could arrange shipments for his allies."
"For free?" Kalamnys asked.
"At a price well beyond cheap," Velaryon said.
"The pirates make any shipments moot," Kalamnys said.
Velaryon tilted his head. "We control the Stepstones. We can put an end to that."
"Our relationship with the hinterlands," Alequo said, "is not merely one of taking. For our patronage, they receive protection as well." It was not entirely the truth, but what would a Westerosi barbarian know other than their feudalism?
"Then keep your fighting men in your cities. Do not surrender them so easily to Maelys," Velaryon said. "Even denying him access to the northern waters would make the king count you as a faithful friend of his. It would ensure, if nothing else, that the Myrish do not make trouble. Westeros does not ask you for gold or soldiers like Maelys does."
Now there was an offer worth sleeping on. Keep his gold and men behind walls, a generous discount for food, and an end to the pirate raids. Alequo's position in Tyrosh would be insurmountable after such a diplomatic coup, enough to entirely reverse the calamities at Bloodstone and Pryr.
"I will need time to consider this," Alequo said, rising from his seat. "We will resume these talks after lunch."
Velaryon nodded. "As you wish, Archon."
They began with a soup of chilled watercress perfect for the heat, and a spiced broth of chicken as well. Then came the snails, glistening with butter and served in golden bowls, the quails in honey, a rack of lamb with a side of mint, and a salad with golden grass as its base. Alequo waited, politely, for his guests to be served before taking a double portion for himself. His cooks were fat and old, and as far as he was concerned, those were the only cooks worth buying.
When they finished eating, it was well past midday.
"Have you given my proposals more thought?" Velaryon asked.
"I have," Alequo said. "It is a fine offer, but I must decline. As you said, have not enough fathers lost sons, and wives lost husbands?" Alliance with Westeros would secure his rule for a decade, but if he could unify the Stepstones in the wake of their retreat? If he could fly the purple banner over half the Verdant Heel?
Archon for life… the title appealed to Alequo greatly.
Velaryon frowned. "Very well. Have your peace and choke on it."
Alequo blinked, and shared a look with Kalmnys. He is a smart boy, but still a boy in the end. Lelouch Velaryon was overused to victory, and now defeat at the hands of his better has left him raw.
A pair of scribes were called for and Kalamnys dictated the terms of their agreement. When the ink had dried, Alequo pressed his signet rink to the paper and gestured for Velaryon to do the same in place of his king. It would have to be ratified by the Iron Throne as well to be truly official, but in the meantime this would do nicely.
As Velaryon transmuted scribbled words on a piece of parchment into political truth, he spoke, for the first time, in the tongue of Tyrosh. "Give Maelys Blackfyre my regards when you see him."
Alequo jerked his head back. He can speak, rather fluently too. I would think him a son of Tyrosh if only he had a beard. His words gave Alequo pause. Why would he say something like that? "What do you mean by that?"
Velaryon shared a look with his girl. "You did me the courtesy of telling me about Lys. I suppose it's only fair I tell you of your death," he continued in Tyroshi.
His brow shot up. "My death?"
"It is three hours past midday now, is it not?" Velaryon asked.
"It is," Kalamnys said.
"Then Maelys Blackfyre and all his friends have already received a message," Velaryon said. "Every member of the Band of Nine will know before the sun sets."
Alequo frowned. Blackfyre was still closer to Lys than Tyrosh, but his men were making good time last he heard. How could Lelouch Velaryon have sent him a messa—Sarys. His blood chilled. The Swift Stallion Sarys had sent out last night, it would have reached Blackfyre already. If there'd been more than one letter, more riders could've been found at the first waypoint.
"What did the message say?" Alequo asked, feeling a lead weight drop on his stomach.
"It says Alequo Adarys has made peace with the Iron Throne, and has betrayed the Blackfyre cause," Velaryon said. "I can't imagine Maelys is too pleased with that."
Alequo paled. "That—that—"
"That will be the death of you," Velaryon said. "You have your peace, now do as I said, and choke on it."
If he could get a message to Blackfyre in time to explain—no, that wouldn't work. Lashare's quiet defiance was one thing, but this was too public. Blackfyre would have to make an example of him or he could not hope to keep his hold over the Band of Nine. After all, if a mere "coin counter", as Alequo was derisively called, could break free without consequence, why couldn't a pirate queen or a sellsword captain?
"You have slandered me," Alequo said.
"It was not I who sent the message," Velaryon said.
"But you knew of it!"
Velaryon shrugged. "You knew of Lys, and were not upfront with it. Do not be a hypocrite, Adarys."
Kalamnys was edging away from him now. Tyrosh can survive this, but can I? Blackfyre could set fire to their whole hinterlands, and while he might keep his life in Tyrosh, how long before even his own allies sold him out?
"Perhaps we have been too hasty," Alequo said quickly. "I have reconsidered and would gladly accept alliance with your king."
"The ink has already dried," Velaryon said, poking the paper in his hand, only for it to come off marked black. "Oh, so it hasn't. Well, better make this quick. Alliance you say? You'll have peace of us, and friendship too. But alliance? Why should my people bleed for yours? This is a war your people must fight."
"Tyrosh has much to offer you. With us as allies, Blackfyre will never be able to make use of the northern waters! What shall he do against your king? Land in Dorne and die to the sun and snakes? Land in the Reach and fight a thousand and one castles?"
"What you say may be beneficial," Velaryon said contemplatively, before shaking his head. "We thank you, but no. You need us more than we need you."
"We can send men," Alequo said.
"You do not have many of those left," Velaryon said. "By your own admission, a Tyroshi soldier is not even the equal of a Westerosi, nevermind a soldier of the Golden Company."
"What," Alequo spat out, "would it take then for me to make common cause with your king?"
Velaryon smiled, and it was all teeth and daggers. "You will cease all support of Maelys Blackfyre immediately—no coin, no sellswords, no rogue captains."
"Done," Alequo said. "You mentioned arrangements for Tyrosh, to mitigate the danger of starvation—"
"—For a price," Velaryon said, "and that price has gone up."
"How much?" Kalamnys asked.
"A fair price for all involved," Velaryon said. "It does us no good if you all starve to death before being of use, but it does us no good if the Iron Throne bankrupts itself feeding slavers."
"The pirates of yours?" Alequo asked.
"They're not our pirates," Velaryon said.
"You deny that they are your lapdogs then?" Kalamnys asked.
Velaryon looked at the pink-bearded man and smiled blandly. "Categorically. I am, as you said, just a daft boy."
Alequo raised a hand and Kalamnys' mouth shut tightly. They would be hearing no more from the Master of Ships.
Velaryon turned to Alequo. "We control the Stepstones, so the pirates can be brought into compliance, but there is a condition."
"Which is?"
"One does not excel in Essos without knowing the worth of your wares, and Westeros is not so cheaply bought," Velaryon said. "The Iron Throne cannot be seen being friends with a slaver."
"You would have us abolish slavery?" Sarys asked in shock.
It seemed the snake did not know of this either. "That is out of the question," Alequo said, his neck feeling damp.
"Come, let us be reasonable friends," Velaryon said. "What good are your slaves if you do not last to see the morrow?"
"I will not see the morrow if you make me do this," Alequo said. "Even my own allies will desert me, and soon you will have a new Archon to deal with." One you do not have as much leverage over.
"Might we speak in private?" Velaryon asked.
Alequo nodded and everyone filled out.
Once they were alone, Lelouch Velayon said, "I am not unaware of the perilous position you are in. As you imply, a new Archon to deal with would not be ideal for either of us, but especially for you."
Because I'd be dead. "If you know this, then do not ask me to do what cannot be done."
"Let us not speak of impossibilities so soon," Velaryon said. "The problem, as I see it, is that this must be something you can sell to your friends as a win, no?"
"That is accurate."
"Then Wessteros will let you keep your men and your gold," Velaryon said. "We have no need for it. In exchange, we ask that you deny Blackfyre passage through your lands, though we both know you cannot stop him. More importantly, you guard the northern waters on our behalf and put a stop to any attempted crossing."
"In return for your generous contributions," he continued, "you will be given seven years to adopt the Pentoshi solution. I trust you know what that is?"
"You do not rise high in Essos without knowing," Alequo said. "Seven years?"
"A lot can happen in seven years," Velaryon said.
He must sell this to his own people too, Alequo thought. This is more for appearances than this Sacred Struggle of theirs. "It will look like capitulation. They would not believe me that in seven years things might change."
"Then you must convert to the Faith of the Seven," Velaryon said. "Free your own slaves. Perhaps even fund a sept too and be baptized. I am honored to count the High Septon among my acquaintances."
What did he—it clicked. "Sell this as self-sacrifice?"
"And in exchange, we will phrase the agreement more leniently," Velaryon said. He snapped his fingers. "The Archon of Tyrosh will work over the next seven years to make his people see reason in the light of the Seven Who Are One, and lead by example in seeing slavery done away with in Tyrosh."
Alequo nodded slowly. "That… I think I can make that work."
Velaryon extended a hand to him, and Alequo took it, like a drowning man grasped for air. Well played, Lelouch Velaryon. I will not underestimate you again.
-ZeroRequiem-
I have failed, Maelys thought as he surveyed what was once a farm. The sky had turned a blood orange and so thick with smoke it made the eyes of many men water.
"We've turned the Tyroshi hinterlands into a burning wreck," Fossoway growled, "and still Adarys will not yield!"
"As long as he is in Tyrosh and we are without ships, he is safe," Maelys said bitterly.
Adarys had learned his lesson from Lelouch Velaryon's raids. By the time Maelys arrived, their own tributaries had hidden behind their tall walls of stone with their food and their soldiers. The Westerosi seemed to be supplying Tyrosh itself and many of the coastal cities with food despite just coming out of an admittedly warm winter. They could not hope to starve them out in a reasonable amount of time, and they refused to give battle on the field.
Siege was not an option. Maelys could not afford to waste so much time in these lands bringing every pitiful city to heel when there were reports reaching him daily of Westerosi bands putting his own southern supply lines to the torch.
Yet, to abandon the Tyroshi hinterlands in the wake of their open defiance sat ill with him.
Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. His rule, the very basis of his legitimacy, was fear, not love. There would be no flower wreaths for him in Westeros; no cheering smallfolk or praise from lords, septons, and maesters. But they would all have bowed to him for fear of what someone monstrous would inflict on the defiant.
Men will look at me and wonder 'Is Maelys truly one to fear if he cannot keep a coin counter in check?'
If he stayed in Tyrosh, he'd have no food to feed his army once he crossed. If he left Tyrosh, he'd have not a shred of legitimacy and the Band of Nine—Band of Six now—would fracture into nothing.
Where had it all gone so wrong?
"Naqes," he said softly. "We should have ended it then and there. Committed the reserves, crushed Aerys Targaryen's skull, and crossed the narrow sea." It would have hurt, they would have bled, but they could have won. Yet, he'd hesitated, thinking greater victory could be won elsewhere.
How could Maelys have known that a man of Velaryon's caliber existed? A commander who defied the norm, did the impossible…
He should have known. The Night of the Myrmidons, the Battle of Bloodstone Straits, these were not outcomes a lesser man could have achieved. Maelys should have known, because hadn't the gods always sent someone to save the Targaryens time and again from their own inadequacy?
In the First and Second Defeat, Bloodraven brought his ancestors low with foul archery and low cunning. In the Third Defeat, there had been Maekar to rally the realm, and the Fourth Defeat saw Ser Duncan the Tall slay the rightful king of Westeros.
And now… now there was the Seafyre, the Stormcaller, Champion of the Seven—Lelouch Velaryon.
Yet, in a way, Maelys was thankful. Velaryon had exposed his weaknesses and forced him into struggle. He'd struggled all his life, while others were given everything. Struggle was familiar. Struggle burned away weakness. This struggle would see him a worthy successor to the Blackfyre name.
"We head back south," Maelys said. "We've done all we can here and we need to be in position for the fleet to carry us west after Old Mother finishes consolidating."
"What about Tyrosh?" Fossoway asked.
"Leave a detachment of your Knightfall company under a trusted captain, someone who won't be tempted by the promise of easy gold," Maelys said. "Then let him loose."
Fossoway grinned toothily. "I have some men who might enjoy that."
If nothing else, it would tie the Tyroshi down and keep them from resting too easily in their cities.
Days turned to weeks on their return march south. The tributaries at the edge of Tyrosh's sphere had already turned their colors from purple to black, but it did little as a balm for his mind.
"It changes little," Maelys said to his subordinates. "These are not cities longsworn to Tyrosh, and they change masters every year depending on where the winds blow. These are but pinpricks to them."
"I can't imagine Jaehaerys rested easy when we had the means to land in the crownlands itself," Spotted Tom said. "Now what is left? Dorne?"
"A perilous land of sand and snakes," Fossoway hissed. "We have no friends in Dorne, but we might find many in the Reach."
They would find no friends in Westeros, but Fossoway intended to take his due from the family that cast him out, Maelys knew. They'd heard little from any of the great lords since he'd returned the knights captured at Naqes. The ploy had never been more than a means of sowing discord, for the allies he'd chosen for himself were besides him.
Though some days I wonder if that was my first misstep, Maelys thought.
It was a year since Lashare had seized total control over Myr after the Night of the Myrmidons, give or take a few days, and already two of his allies had died, one had turned coat, and one lifted not a finger to help.
"And be forced to besiege half a hundred castles from Oldtown to King's Landing?" said Tom scathingly. "We'd have sallies against us each morning from every which. There are faster ways to commit suicide"
Even now, united under one cause, his cause, the hatred between Dorne and the Reach persisted.
"We'd smash every host they sent to face us," Fossoway said. "Such victories will bolster Maely's cause. What awaits us in Dorne but a slow death without glory? Succumbing to sun and sand for lack of water is no way to go."
Maelys raised his clenched gauntlet. "The situation is fluid. Much will have changed between now and when Old Mother is ready."
"As you say, Your Grace," they said in grudging unison.
And much did change, but not for the better.
Far off estates were put to the torch. Enclaves of slaves found with broken collars and iron in their hands. Lynched fat men. Supply dumps despoiled, ransacked, beyond use. The reports came frequently, and with disturbing regularity and consistency that Maelys could not dismiss it as the work of overactive rumormongers. It seemed the whole southwest of the Verdant Heel was under threat.
Maelys had never hated being more right in his life.
"Targaryens!" screamed Fossoway. "Onward! Onward Knightfall! Ride down the curs!"
As the scorned knight and twelve hundred of his heavy horse pinned a thousand strong detachment of Reach spears in place with the mere threat of charge, his Golden Company swept forward, shattering their petrified prey like a hammer striking glass.
If only that were the end of it.
"Where are the rest of them?" Maelys asked. "There were too few here."
"Mayhaps these were scouts?" Tom asked, though he seemed no more confident in his words than Maelys was.
"A thousand men on foot to scout? The Targaryens do not have fools for commanders." Not all of them at least. "A vanguard? But if so, why have we not seen any sign of the main host?"
The answer became clearer the next day when they found another detachment of three hundred men—all knights and squires and mounted men-at-arms. The lions of Lannister, unlike the Reachmen, were difficult to pin down and even harder to match in a contest of speed. After all, their host was but a fraction of a fraction of the Golden Company.
"We should give chase," Tom said.
"It might leave our own horse overextended and vulnerable if they've men waiting in support," Fossoway said.
Where was your caution yesterday? Maelys thought. Yet, he had an inkling of what the Targaryen host was doing. "Give chase, but retreat at the first sign of a trap."
"As you command," Fossoway said, sending his horse into a canter.
They watched as the westerland lions kept fleeing, slowly engulfed by the jaws of Knightfall, then at last went over an eastern hill. Then, at last, the Knightfall returned and Maelys knew what the Targaryens had done by the grim look marring Fossoway's handsome visage.
"Their host camps over that hill," Fossoway said. "Twenty thousand strong, and another twenty thousand it looks like maybe half a day's march away to our south."
"Do we offer battle?" Tom asked.
"Against forty thousand?" Fossoway asked. "This is not Naqes. We do not have the element of surprise and an enemy in disarray now."
The Golden Company was an army like no other, but four-to-one, and without the high ground was insurmountable. "What we saw yesterday was a foraging party," Maelys said. "They must be sending out detachments to pick the region clean before moving on."
Two-to-one odds though… perhaps if I can lure them into giving battle before their reinforcements arrive? Maelys thought. "Sound the trumpets. We form up and offer battle, if they dare take it."
It was with a father's pride that Maelys watched his men form rank upon rank of glistening golden phalanxes, with their heavy cavalry massed on one flank and their elephants anchoring the other. There they baked under the sun for three hours, but the red dragons would not come down from their roost.
Finally, on the fourth hour, Maelys could wait no longer. "Sound the retreat."
As trumpets blared once more and his host fell back, Tom snorted. "So the cowards refuse to face us in open battle and resort to this."
This might be the end of us yet, Maelys thought.
Each time Maelys offered battle to one host, it would wait for the other. If he entrenched on favorable terrain, they'd starve him out. One would think forty thousand men would starve faster than his thirteen thousand men and allies, all else being equal. But all else was not equal, for the Targaryens could supplement their scavenging with foodstuff brought by ship and Maelys could only live off an increasingly devastated land. All the while Targaryen foragers descended like locusts on the region, engaging in light skirmish with his men whenever possible.
Together, his Golden Company was the master of any other force, but only when together. Split apart from each other, too far to be supported, and a hundred of his men died like any other hundred men. It seemed the Targaryen commanders had figured that out.
Armies of red and black danced a near bloodless, burning dance across the Verdant Heel, and the war was more terrible for it.
"Another victory," Fossoway spat out, like the word was a bitter herb to his tongue.
Victory, so some claimed, because the Targaryens had fled the field than take his offer of battle. "If we remain victorious in the battles," Maelys said, "we shall be utterly ruined before we set foot on Westeros."
"So what do we do?" Tom asked. "We can't let their foragers go unchallenged, and we cannot catch them with our main host without bringing their full might down on our heads."
That much was true. They'd starve to death without supplies, and though they'd wisely kept many of their needs behind city walls, the less guarded ones allowed them greater mobility than they otherwise would have.
"This war cannot be won while we are in Essos," Maelys said. In cyvasse, only the king mattered. All else was chaff, so the Volantenes told him.
"Make for the shore?" Fossoway asked. "The Targaryens will not let us be rid of them so easily, and if we attempt to embark with them breathing down our necks, we invite disaster."
"Xhobar rejoined us last night, did he not?" Maelys asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," Fossoway said. "Him and his three thousand."
He pointed to a spot on the map where a defile was, some eight hundred yards at the narrowest point. It was ideal ground for the Summerswans, but the Targaryen commanders would never attack into a position without the weight of numbers on their side.
"I need his goldenheart bows here with Serjeant Rolan Rivers," Maelys said, "reinforced with warbows and crossbows until they number one thousand in total. Five hundred of our pikes will join them too."
Xhobar would be smart enough to prepare the land beforehand without his input.
"And what of the rest of us?" Fossoway asked.
"Xhobar is the hunter in waiting," Maelys said, "and we will act the hounds, forcing our quarry to move where we want them to."
It'd taken days of maneuvering to get everything setup, but by the end of a week they'd forced one host to march a full day behind the other. Then, he ordered his men through Aegador's Scorch.
The Westerosi had two choices. Let him break free of their incessant badgering, or go through the defile where black grass grew, where Xhobar waited.
They chose the latter and it was a mistake.
The Summer Islands had long held dominion over much of the summer sea and southern Sothoryos, yet they almost disdained armor and good steel.
"Plate is bulky and slows a man down," Xhobar was fond of saying. "It makes men feel safe, but those men have not met me."
Through a far-eye, Maelys watched the battle end from a distant hill. The Targaryens were in full retreat, leaving the battlefield covered in black and bloodied grass: Blackfyre colors. Yard long shafts littered the field of corpses—perhaps a third were now food for the crows. Where a warbow had no hope of hurting a knight in full armor save through the luckiest of shots, and a weirwood bow might struggle to kill, goldenheart bows punched through full plate cleanly.
There were no bows of finer make in the world save those of dragonbone, and the dragons were all dead.
"Xhobar is victorious!" Fossoway proclaimed to their men as he set down his own far-eye.
"Blackfyre! Blackfyre!"
"Victory for the Black Dragon!"
"Maelys the Unvanquished!"
His men cheered and Maelys scowled, turning his eyes back to the bloodied ground. Blackfyre colors, or Targaryen colors? It is red blood on black grass after all.
Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. For all these small tactical victories, Maelys was losing this war.
What was seven thousand men to House Targaryen? Next to nothing.
Westeros was trading lives for time—time to gather more men, time to further their growing naval superiority, time to see if his band would break...
...Time to bring Lys to a boiling, white-hot rage.
-ZeroRequiem-
Rhaella peered at the pie topped with garlic, onions, and shrimp in interest. "A Myrish invention you say?"
"Yes, Your Grace," said the girl in a dress of fine silk and Myrish lace. Her accent Rhaella couldn't quite place, only that it was Essosi, exotic, and sensual. She was tall and lithe with unblemished olive skin that looked smoother than a Dornish baby's.
"What's your name?" Rhaella asked.
"Omorfia, Your Grace," she said. "Omorfia Ayas, granddaughter of Magister Zoutos of Myr."
"Magister?" Rhaella repeated, looking to Ser Mooton. She'd heard that word before, on one of the days father held court.
"What they call their rulers in Essos," Mooton said. "The richest, most powerful, most influential of their coin counters."
A city ruled by merchants? How quaint. Rhaella thought, blowing at the hot slice before taking a bite. An explosion of savory and salty flavors burst in her mouth, with the onions giving it a subtle sweetness. She swallowed and smiled. "It's very good."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Omorfia bowed slightly. "It pleases me that my humble shop has found favor with you."
"Why are you out here in King's Landing on your own, rather than back on Driftmark?" Mooton asked. "Isn't that where Magister Zoutos has established his new trade?"
"Ah," Omorfia said. "I wished to make a fortune for myself and it is… difficult to escape my grandfather's shadow. Here at least, his name is not so well known that every man I deal with will favor me just to please him."
"I can understand that," Mooton said gruffly, something close to respect in his eye.
"Do you get much news from Driftmark?" Rhaella asked.
Omorfia nodded, pushing her silky black hair to the side. "Oh yes. My grandfather tells me of Lord Lelouch's exploits regularly."
Rhaella blinked. It was no surprise her grandfather had met Lelouch, but to address him by his first name… "Your grandfather is well-acquainted with him?"
Omorfia tilted her head to the side. "I suppose so? He did save our lives at Myr and they get up to all manner of schemes together. I've spoken to him a few times too when he was still here."
"You have?" Rhaella asked.
"Usually by happenstance," Omorfia said. "I am partners with his woman, whom this establishment is named for."
Rhaella looked up at the sign that read "Cici's pizza" and smiled wryly. "I suppose I'll have an answer for Joanna now where it is Lelouch disappears to in the city." A forbidden tryst with a foreign woman… how romantic. It sounded positively like one of Rhaella's favorite stories.
Perhaps Lelouch Velaryon did have a heart under all that bluster about duty.
"So," Rhaella said, "what did you last hear from your grandfather about Lord Lelouch?"
"Well, he is Ser Lelouch now," Omorfia said, tapping her cheek thoughtfully. "I am actually unsure how to properly address him."
"Ser and lord, either is fine," Rhaella said. "Knighted? Whatever for?"
Omorfia's eyes widened. "You haven't heard? He saved the army at the Battle of Naqes in a decisive defense. The crown prince himself knighted him."
Rhaella looked to Ser Mooton. "Where was I when this was announced?"
"Grieving, Your Grace," he said solemnly. "We had thought the Lord Hand's injuries fatal, and you locked yourself in your room that entire day. You were inconsolable, and would not even see your ladies-in-waiting."
Rhaella's mouth formed an "O", before she said, "I'm glad for him then. Great deeds should be rewarded with great honors." And for boys, there were few honors greater than knighthood at the hand of their future king. "But it takes a knight to make a knight, so who knighted my brother?"
"Ser Tywin Lannister had the honor," Ser Mooton said.
Tywin? He was good friends with Aerys, and she'd spotted Lelouch and Tywin speaking cordially more than a few times. Had her brother found a friend in Lelouch Velaryon? I suppose there are worse friends to have, she thought.
Rhaella stood up and wiped her greased fingers on a wet towelette. "Thank you for the meal, Omorfia. It was delicious."
"Come again anytime, Your Grace," Omorfia said, seeing them out the door.
Rhaella stepped out into the Street of the Gods, not far from where the Alchemists practiced their craft, and returned to the Red Keep with Ser Mooton in tow. "I hear my uncle is returning to Westeros soon," Rhaella said.
"To gather more men for campaign," Ser Mooton said.
"Do you suppose he'll come speak to father before leaving?" she asked.
"Anything's possible."
Ser Mooton's words proved prophetic. Not only had her uncle visited King's Landing with Aunt Rhaelle, he'd stayed on indefinitely. Rhaella's grasp on the situation was middling at best. She had not been trained to think of war, but it seemed to her the mere threat that Blackfyre might land in either the Vale or the northern crownlands had forced her uncle to garrison the city with men. Now, it seemed everywhere Rhaella turned her head there were lanky riverland boys, gruff stormlanders, and dashing knights of the Vale.
"Mayhaps some of these Vale knights will not be as fond of their drinks as Ronnel Arryn," Joanna said to Rhaella as the Lannister fanned herself.
Rhaella's face grimaced as she remembered. The man had nearly spilled his dinner on her dress, and looked much the same when the High Septon was giving his sermon. "One can hope," she said. "Has anything interesting happened? It's been so dull lately."
Joanna shut her fan as a thoughtful look landed on her face. "Well, I received a letter from my cousin recently."
"Lady Genna?" Rhaella asked. She'd heard that the poor girl's husband had died recently. "Is she feeling better?"
"Still grieving," Joanna said, "but she tells me she met Lelouch at Duskendale. She seems quite taken with him."
"She ought to marry him then. I'm sure her grief will pass by the time the war is done," Rhaella said. Would Lelouch keep to his talk of duty and do as his father bid, or would he run off with his woman?
"It might yet come to pass," Joanna said with an impish grin. "Lelouch was heard remarking on her rather ample dowry."
Rhaella rolled her eyes. "The boy has no shame."
"He's daring is all," Joanna said, almost wistfully.
Rhaella raised a brow at her. "Should I tell my brother he ought to marry you soon, or risk Lelouch Velaryon whisking you away?"
There was a spark of quiet laughter in Joanna's eyes. "Perhaps you should. If I wait any longer, I feel I might die a spinster."
"You're six and ten, same as Aerys," Rhaella said.
"Exactly. I'm six and ten and still unmarried."
-ZeroRequiem-
It was not often Rhaella got to see her aunt, so she'd made sure to spend time with her over tea one afternoon, after an exciting day at court. Lord Jaron continued to sing praises of his son that Rhaella swore even the Seven would've heard by now. Not that it was undeserved, but it seemed every piece of good news that reached them involved Lelouch Velaryon in one way or another.
Her aunt had set a nice table for them in the Tower of the Hand, filled with lemon cakes and honeycombs paired with a minty brew.
"Let me look at you, child," Aunt Rhaelle said.
She stood and presented herself before her namesake.
Her aunt gifted her a warm smile, and pinched her cheek. "You look more radiant each time I see you."
"We should see each other more often than," Rhaella said as she sat back down. "That way, I'll be a beauty to match Shiera Seastar."
Aunt Rhaelle laughed. "You hardly need my help for that, dear. There'll be no end of suitors for your hand in a few more years when you've fully blossomed."
"I don't think I'd like that. There's already no end to them," Rhaella said.
"That's good, that's good," Aunt Rhaelle said, putting a hand atop hers. "Choice is good."
"Choice, but not mine to make," Rhaella said.
"We always have a choice."
Lelouch nodded. "Do you think that was her choice?"
"You didn't," Rhaella said.
Aunt Rhaelle smiled. "I chose what was best for my family. I chose duty over love."
"Over happiness?" Rhaella asked.
"I am happy," Aunt Rhaelle said. "I could have done far worse than Ormund, and in the end, we agreed with each other."
Rhaella fell quiet.
Aunt Rhaelle sipped her tea and set it down. "Something's bothering you."
"It's just… I'm not blind," Rhaella said. "I know I'll have to marry soon, when the war is over most likely."
"We all do eventually." Aunt Rhaella tilted her head. "Do you have your heart set on someone?"
Bonnifer. Rhaella's throat dried. "No… not anymore. He is—"
"A silly notion," Lelouch said. "A knight is no fit consort for a princess of the realm."
Rhaella shook her head clear of his voice. "He is unavailable."
"Then you must move on if he has," Aunt Rhaelle said. "It doesn't do to dwell on the past, on what could have beens. Believe me, I know."
"It's hard."
Aunt Rhaelle smiled sadly. "It's easier with someone new to care for. What about that Velaryon boy? Your father seems to like him."
Rhaella sighed. "Father likes him because Lelouch keeps winning. Will he still like him if he falters?" The Battle Beneath the Storm sounded to her a close thing. One misstep and it could have ended all so differently.
"I can't claim to know my brother's mind," Aunt Rhaelle said. "Do you like him then?"
"It's not my choice."
"You have more of a say than you think, dear. Your father cares for you and your happiness, but he must balance that with his duty to our house and to the realm. What you think may sway him yet. Again, do you like Lelouch Velaryon?"
Did she?
-ZeroRequiem-
"Peace in our time. On this day, in the fifth month of the second year of the reign of King Jaehaerys, the Second of His Name," Uncle Ormund announced to the court, "the Iron Throne has found common cause with Alequo Adarys, the Archon of Tyrosh, against the Pretender Maelys Blackfyre."
Rhaella was only half-listening to it all. Most of it she'd been privy to when Uncle Ormund and her father discussed it over dinner.
The long and short of it was that her uncle would be leaving King's Landing soon to rejoin the fight. With Tyrosh now an ally, the threat of invasion from the Sea of Myrth was deemed rather less credible. Now the only viable threat left was a seaborne invasion through the summer sea.
"It is my will that Ser Gerold Hightower shall remain in overall command," Father said, "and that Lord Baratheon shall serve under him, charged with leading one of two great hosts to hamper Maelys Blackfyre from ever reaching our shores."
It was rather lost on Rhaella how they intended to win the war if, as Father had said last night, they would not offer battle to Maelys Blackfyre but bleed him with a thousand cuts.
"Further," Father said, "Lord Lelouch Velaryon and Lord Quellon Greyjoy shall have joint command over all the ships that pledge service to the Iron Throne, with the intent of freeing Lys from the yoke of slavery that Maelys Blackfyre condones."
There were gasps and murmurs that met her father's words, and it seemed the nobility's opinion of the Blackfyre cause had dropped to a new low, if that were even possible.
"A fine choice, Your Grace," Uncle Ormund said.
Jaron Velaryon was positively beaming, like Joanna had looked when Aerys had first kissed her.
Their talks soon turned to potential replacements for Ser Redfort, who'd died protecting Aerys, as well as the troubling amount of Volantene gold they were finding in the Disputed Lands.
-ZeroRequiem-
"They say Lyseni women are the most beautiful in the world," Joanna read her letter aloud, "but I have taken the city for myself and find those words ring false. I offer you this, Princess Rhaella, that you might see the most beautiful woman in the world."
Rhaella wrinkled her nose. "It's rather over the top, isn't it?"
"I think it's nice," Princess Myriah said, standing beside her in front a full length plane mirror of smooth glass. It's back and rims were made of gold, tiny carvings etched into them that seemed to be dancing, though it was not one Rhaella had ever seen. "All I got was a tapestry."
"You too?" Joanna asked. "It seems everyone has a tapestry these days. Lelouch must have gifted one to every man and woman he's ever spoken to."
Rhaella would be lying if she said that didn't make her feel a little bit special to get something different.
A few days later, when Ormond Yronwood sent her a tapestry, Joanna and Myriah giggled at the sight of it.
"How quaint," Myriah said. "You can put it on the pile with the others."