Chapter 27: Interlude - Mirrored Darkly
War, Aerys thought bitterly, war was the ruin of stories.
Bittersteel's work was wholly unmade.
"Two in five dead… that puts us on even numbers with the Volantene vanguard," Lelouch said as they walked through the desolate Golden Company's camp. Put all the worldly riches they'd found in a cave and it'd be a den fit for the dragons of song.
"We've lost many fine men besides," Aerys said. "Of the Kingsguard that marched with me, three of five are dead." Ser Redfort had taken a blow meant for Aerys at Guardian Isle. Ser Meadows donned his armor, and Blackfyre murdered him for it. Ser Mooton fought back-to-back with Ser Gerold, taking down two men before a mace bloodied his face.
All fine men, fine knights, now dead. They'd died for him.
Am I worthy? Aerys thought. What had he done to win his throne? Lelouch had led them to countless victories against all odds, despite what whispers older lords shared of him. Tywin had lost a leg and an uncle. Steffon's bannermen had been decimated over and over at Naqes, at the Gateway and still they kept faith with him.
Not even a scar to show for it. Aerys thought, staring at his reflection in the gleaming golden buckler resting in the dirt besides a now hollow tent.
"Aye, many of our commanders lost their lives in that butchery," Lelouch said, sounding none too pleased. "Lords Jon Arryn, Jason Lannister, Moryn Tyrell, Edgar Yronwood, Stephas Tarth, Dylar Wendwater… I've lost track of all the other great lords who've lost kin and kith."
It spoke more to the sheer death toll the battle had left, for Lelouch's mind had a keener edge than Valyrian steel.
"The war is not over either," Aerys said. "Since the time of King Jaehaerys the First, House Targaryen has been Defender of the Faith. Maelys Blackfyre's death has not ended the Sacred Struggle."
Thirty thousand Volantenes were half a day away, ready to enforce the whip and collar with death.
"The Volantenes will have to be dealt with," Lelouch said, nodding. "Do you know what they're calling Ser Brynden now?"
"The Blackfish," Aerys said, "though beyond the Tully sigil, the reason eludes me."
"It's for his raids," Lelouch said. "He's fond of striking at night, even the blackest of nights. If not for his daring, I dare say the Volantenes might have arrived just in time to smash into our backs."
"He'll have to be rewarded for his faithful service," Aerys said, eyeing Lelouch.
"Perhaps with a white cloak?" Lelouch asked. "He's brave enough, a notable commander, and it will please the Tullys immensely."
Aerys considered it. "A possibility, but there are only three open spots, and many worthy knights besides."
As the knight who killed the monster, Barristan the Bold's place was all but secured, and it made the last two spots all the more contested.
Marthew Crakehall had saved Tywin's life. Rodrick Cassel and the newly raised Lord of Yronwood both played a part rescuing Aerys from encirclement at Guardian Isle. Oswell Whent had felled six men and Tomas Santagar, the Butcher. The Red Lion had silenced the great golden warbows of the Ebon Prince, while his brother Reynard had led the heavy horse that completed the encirclement of the Golden Company. Ser Tristifer of Tarth, the Bright Knight, was said to have challenged ten lieutenants, officers, and veterans and come out the victor each time. Lord Leyton Hightower had bested Derrick Fossoway, the Bad Apple.
The deeds of the sons of Westeros were beyond counting.
Am I worthy? he thought.
What had Aerys done? Nothing in truth, but sit and watch others die in his name. He'd not earned his spurs, not truly, nevermind the oversized crown resting over his brow.
"This way, Your Grace," Lelouch said, heading for a nondescript tent.
Why he'd chosen it over every other tent eluded him, but Aerys followed nonetheless. Lelouch held out the tent flap, bidding Aerys enter first.
Inside was the green-haired woman Lelouch was fond of, Cici.
"It took you long enough. I've been waiting here for nearly a day," Cici said. "Did it work?"
"Just so," Lelouch said, grimacing. "It was still a bloodbath."
The message to Blackfyre. "The worst sort of battle," Aerys said, not fully grasping what they spoke of, but grasping enough to understand. This war had killed the boy inside of him, but he dared not say it left a man in its wake. "This is the woman you're fond of taking to bed?"
"I don't sleep with her," Lelouch said, face already resigned.
"I don't hold it against a man what comforts they seek out in times of war," Aerys said. Who am I to judge Lelouch Velaryon? Only a boy prince who once thought wars were songs. "I take it there was a point to bringing me here?"
"This is the tent," Lelouch said, starting to rummage through the chest. "This is his tent."
He can't mean… "But it's so sparse," Aerys blurted out. He'd seen knights with more luxuries, though Blackfyre's tent had plenty of good steel in it. The only visible embellishment was a portrait of a seated woman with pink and purple hair. Rohanne of Tyrosh's big blue eyes and high cheekbones were striking, even as a still picture.
"War needs more than blood to be waged," Lelouch said. "It sucks men dry of gold too, like riptides suck men beneath the waters. Be lax for a moment and you'll find it drowning you."
I had seven kingdoms to pay for my war and Blackfyre had but himself, Aerys thought. Yet, he still almost won in the end.
Lelouch returned to him, carrying in his arms a bundled cloth. "Your Grace," Lelouch said, kneeling before Aerys and presenting it like a newborn babe.
Aerys unwrapped one end of it and saw the ruby pommel, the gleaming black grip, the crossguard that ended in snarling dragonheads… his breath hitched. "Is this...?"
"It is," Lelouch said, unwrapping the rest of it.
The hand-and-a-half longsword had distinctive rippled patterns in its blade, the mark of steel folded into itself countless times. Aerys lifted it up, feeling light as air in his hand and swift as stormwinds. It was the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the blade each king had wielded from the Conquest to its theft.
Blackfyre.
"All this time, he had it," Aerys said. "How did you know?"
"I suspected, I didn't know for sure," Lelouch said. "That's why I sent her."
"Aside from the message you mean," Cici said.
Lelouch shrugged. "A person can do more than one thing at a time."
"My father should wield this," Aerys said.
"You may present it to him if you wish. It is your blade now, after all," Lelouch said, "though I suspect he'd just give it back to you. That might not be so bad, now that I think about it. Bards and lords alike would love the imagery."
"I'm not worthy of it," Aerys said.
Lelouch stood, looked him dead in the eye for a long while, before saying, "Then be worthy of it."
Aerys gripped it tightly. "I will," he vowed, more solemnly than when he'd spoken his oaths of knighthood.
-ZeroRequiem-
They returned to their camp with Aerys' prize while the rest of the Golden Company's possessions were stripped clean by the squires.
Lelouch's woman had brought with her the portrait, but quickly squirreled it away to Lelouch's tent when they passed by it. Outside the Velaryon tent were a pair of men-at-arms tending to a pile of unstrung white and golden bows.
Finally, they reached the royal pavilion, already filled with lords. A hush gradually descended on the tent as Aerys entered. Every eye locked onto the sword in his hand. Blackfyre's magic is beyond doubt if the mere sight of it can silence an assembly of lords, he thought wryly.
"We're just in time for the war council, I think," Lelouch said loudly, shaking the lords from their stupor.
He took up his spot at the end of the high table, in between Uncle Ormund and Ser Gerold, then laid Blackfyre on the table. "Ser Lelouch found my family's sword at long last," Aerys said.
"It would've been sooner, but the weather was just too lovely not to enjoy," Lelouch said.
"An auspicious sign, Your Grace," Ser Gerold said. "Blackfyre is returned to House Targaryen."
"The Young Dragon!" shouted one lord.
"Aerys! Aerys!" came a slow, methodical chant from all present. "Aerys!"
Lelouch joined in too, though Aerys could see the tinge of amusement in his eyes.
They cheer for my name over a sword, Aerys thought. Did the sword win the war? Did the sword even mark the end of war? He let it go on a while longer, then raised his hand to silence the crowd.
"It fills me with joy to see Blackfyre returned to us at last," Aerys said, "but the war is not over, my lords. Not until Volantis is brought to the table."
Some weariness settled back into the table. Many present had lost kin and kith to the campaign, and many more thought they ought to leave Essos to the Essosi with the Iron Throne secured. To do so would be folly, Aerys thought. In one of those rare times, Ser Gerold, Uncle Ormund and Lelouch had all agreed with little argument between them.
"Have we learned more of their numbers?" Aerys asked.
"Other than the thirty thousand in their vanguard, we now estimate they've anywhere upwards of fifty thousand sellswords and slave swords mustering," Uncle said. "Mayhaps even doubling that with Qohor and Norvos too busy with Braavos to menace them from the north."
A hundred and sixty thousand soldiers? That was the strength of four kingdoms.
"A protracted war would not be prudent," Aerys said, as they'd instructed him to the night prior. "My lords have been bled enough."
"Aye, Your Grace," Ser Gerold said, "but King Jaehaerys also committed us to Sacred Struggle. If we leave without signing a peace, Volantis will sweep through the Three Sisters and the Disputed Lands. Every city we've freed, every chain we've broken, it would all be for naught."
Pious lords from the Reach and the Vale murmured angrily at the thought, and a fair few from the other kingdoms too.
"Braavos cannot act either," Uncle said. "Not when they face four Free Cities at the moment."
It had been a reaction to their own successes, Lelouch had said, though Aerys did not grasp why the Essosi would care so deeply, but then make war on one of theirs over a victory won by Westeros.
"We do not wish to fight every army from here to the Black Walls of Volantis," Aerys said to the agreement of many voices, "but we cannot allow these slavers to undermine our victories so easily."
"They're copper counters, my prince," Lelouch said.
"To them, war is no different from business," Ser Gerold said.
"Show the Volantenes we will bloody them dearly for overreach, and they will come to the table to treat," Uncle said.
"One battle," Aerys said. "We must make it count. It must be decisively ours."
And I must win my spurs.
-ZeroRequiem-
"Among the Free Cities," Prince Lewyn said as Aerys surveyed the field, "only Volantis refuses to pay the Dothraki any tribute."
"Then they have some honor to them," Aerys said, "though it does not wash away the taint of slavery from their hands."
Lewyn nodded. "The Dothraki are simple enough to best with sturdy foot, but they'll find our mailed knights a different breed altogether from the unarmored savages."
The Volantenes were struggling to advance as Lelouch's bowmen peppered them from a distance. Some of the Driftmark men had taken a liking to using the goldenheart or weirwood bows, though most did not yet have the strength to draw it in full. Still, it lightened Aerys's heart to see his enemies being on the receiving end of such fearsome warbows for once.
"You spent time in the Free Cities. Do you know anything about who leads the Volantenes?" Aerys asked, gesturing to the fluttering banners that made the crouching tigers look like stalking a prey.
"There has not been more than one tiger elected as Triarch since the Century of Blood, so their commander must be Yraedor Vaegyr," Lewyn said.
Aerys recalled the words of Grandmaester Pycelle, right before the campaign began. The freedmen of Volantis elected three Triarchs from their nobility, those who could prove unbroken descent from Old Valyria.
"The tigers being men of war I understand," Aerys said, "but I always wondered why they called those who advocate for trade elephants. They must have never seen one of the beasts," Aerys said, noting how the Volantene foot was packed tightly now, "for it strikes me an elephant is by far the fiercer weapon in battle."
"Not always," Lewyn said. "It is the work of many years to turn them into weapons of war like the Golden Company did. In Volantis, the beasts are gentler, and used to carry the rich and powerful."
"I imagine it makes for an impressive sight," Aerys said. But not as impressive and fearsome as a thunderous charge of knights.
Lewyn hummed. "You have the command, Your Grace."
With Blackfyre in hand, Aerys had been proclaimed the best choice to lead all the heavy horse of Westeros in what ought to be the last struggle in their sacred endeavor. Steffon led the knights on the opposite flank, but would not move until Aerys did.
He'd been on campaign for the better part of eight months, and had heard the tales straight from Lelouch himself who'd been fighting the war even longer. After witnessing commanders like Lelouch Velaryon and Maelys Blackfyre, this battle felt hollow to Aerys. Triarch Vaegyr was no idiot, but he was not of the same caliber.
"Let's put an end to this mockery," Aerys said, slamming the visor of his helm shut. He raised his family's sword high into the air for all the chivalry of Westeros to see, then brought it down in a vicious arc until it pointed forward.
Right into their enemy's exposed flank.
These were not the veterans of Maelys Blackfyre or the golden ranks of the Golden Company. These were self-interested sellswords and slaves pressed into a war by their masters. Oh, the odd Unsullied century would be among their enemy and those stood their ground well enough.
But the rest of them?
The rest of them had never been subject to a true charge, and not that jape the Dothraki did. They were a hammer that sunk deep behind enemy lines, deeper even than the fear they etched into the hearts of men. They were a hammer, and Aerys was the guiding hand that showed it where to smite.
The Essosi fled the field. Men cheered his name. Knights rode the poor sods down.
Cleanup, Aerys thought, finding himself without appetite to kill fleeing green boys.
When he returned to camp later, the Myrmen and Lyseni were nowhere in sight, and many riders sworn to Driftmark, Wendwater, and Hightower streamed out of the camp in ones and twos. The Ironborn too seemed to be on the move, dragging their longboats overland from the Adere River to the Lake of Myrth.
It took two nights and three days for the Volantenes to reorganize themselves for a parley, and the better part of two days to set up a pavilion with the necessary accommodations for a meeting between men of their rank.
It began with the bickering of titles Lelouch had warned him of, and Aerys could not bring himself to care much for what men called him. Those parts of the talk he tuned out.
"We do not wish to crush every Volantene man underfoot," said Uncle Ormund, finally beginning the talks of any import, "but if need be, we will. Our war is over, and it would be wise of Volantis not to further provoke us into extending our Sacred Struggle."
"We've a hundred thousand more men to call on. Our bodies will clog up your narrow sea," Vaegyr said. "Do you think your threats scare me?"
"You have not seen the full strength of Westeros yet," Uncle said, the steel in his voice as firm as any warhammer. "We have tens of thousands more men, should we deem it necessary to call on them. Maelys Blackfyre has tricked you, he never stood a chance."
"Perhaps you speak some truth," Vaegyr said. "Yet, Volantis will need assurances, certain concessions, before this peace can be stomached even by the elephants. We've heard such terrible rumors from our friends in your lands too… or would you prefer to fight this to the bitter end and for what? Some slaves you'll turn into your smallfolk and treat all the same?"
From there it really was just haggling. As Essosi were wont to do, haggling was also measured in days and hours rather than minutes. Small wonder they had time for anything else with how much time they spent counting coppers rather than making gold.
Vaegyr would ask Lys restored to slavery, fully expecting them to reject it outright and barter him down to a promise that the Iron Throne would not annex any land in Essos. Sacred Struggle was put to an end, and slaves on slave master ships visiting Westerosi ports would not be seized and freed so long as they did not depart from the docks on foot. Perhaps most importantly, Volantis was allowed to take a sliver of the Disputed Lands on this side of the Adere River and the Gateway, and in exchange they would not interfere in the Stepstones, whatever it was Father planned for it.
Accord was reached, peace was had, and eternal friendship sworn that would last as long as it took the ink to dry.
Aerys and the royal party returned to the camp a second time to much louder cheering as they announced an official end to the war, but he did not spot Lelouch's dark hair or purple eyes in the crowd. He was not in the royal pavilion either, so he went to Lelouch's tent.
Aerys found his friend there, sombre and not quite sober.
"What's wrong?" Aerys asked.
"I'd thought Lashare had lost his nerve," Lelouch said, downing his cup. "I'd thought it'd been a bluff when my men reported no messenger forthcoming from Lashare, ordering my uncle be gifted to the khal."
"Is that what your riders have been up to?"
"And the Ironborn. All of them were looking for my uncle, but when Greyjoy overtook Lashare's small fleet on the lake, his men said—" His face twisted into something dark and ugly, something no true knight in the songs would wear.
Aerys winced as Lelouch's glass cup shattered into a thousand pieces against the floor. Hadn't Lelouch said to him once, "There are no perfect knights. All men err eventually."
"They killed him?" Aerys asked softly.
"Would that they had," Lelouch said, holding his head. "Lashare's orders were to give Uncle Adamm to the khal if they heard no word from him, and his army moved away from ours."
"Where are the Dothraki now?"
"Gone," Lelouch said bitterly, biting back his tears. "They have my uncle, and they are gone. I might as well have sold him into slavery."
Aerys didn't quite know what to say to that.
Instead, he sat down.
Instead, Aerys drank with his friend.
-ZeroRequiem-
Zoutos heard a gentle rapping on the door of his cabin. Rising to his feet, and with many years of learning to dance with the swaying sea, he managed to reach the door and lifted the latch without trouble. Outside stood the little Lysene boy of Lelouch's.
"Varys, was it?" Zoutos asked.
"Yes, magister," Varys said in a passable Myrish dialect, eyeing the empty walkways outside. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late at night. May I come in?"
"You're not here to poison me, are you?" Zoutos asked half in jest, even as he stood aside.
The Lyseni were a people skilled in that craft, though they usually sent courtesans rather than eunuchs. Far easier to beguile the senses of a man when you stuck a pair of tits in front of him. It's how they'd gotten to his son, a service bought by an elephant.
"Not you," Varys said, and it did not set Zoutos at ease.
"If not me, then who?" Zoutos asked. It would be rather inconvenient, dying just before he landed near Myr where Cici had told him to meet her and her army. She'd predicted that the Westerosi would be dealing with the Volantenes after Blackfyre's loss, and had made her way to Myr to secure it on Lelouch's behalf.
An overall thoroughly competent woman and a most beneficial influence on his granddaughter, all told.
Varys withdrew a tiny rolled up parchment that could fit inside a bird's beak, and handed it to him. "See for yourself."
His brows furrowed as he read the message. He frowned as he recognized how the 'y's ended with a curved flourish and the 't's were crossed at an incline… and Zoutos knew fear. "This is…"
"Treason," Varys said, nodding. "I… I did not know who else to bring it too, with the Darys and Mayor Cici away. They spoke much of what a trusted ally you were when I was with them."
"You were right to bring it to me," Zoutos said. "I must confirm this with Magister Glossos before we act though."
"I defer to you, magister," Varys said, though he did not bow when he used the honorific as slaves oft did.
Here stands a free man, Zoutos thought. If the boy was any indication of the average Lyseni, Lys would never again be shackled save through the subjugation of the entire city.
As for this talk of treason… Lelouch would not like it, Cici even less, and Glossos least of all.
Zoutos cursed to the many pantheons. How had the boy even gotten hold of such a message? He slept not well that night aboard the Patron Far-eye.
Images of a broken Lys came to him unbidden, and Zoutos wondered: Would Myr be next? All it had taken was cutting off Lys from its hinterlands to send the slave city into a magister murdering frenzy. It would take an army and a fleet both to truly invest Myr, but it was not impossible anymore.
Maelys Blackfyre had shown them that. Lelouch Velaryon had shown them that.
Then there were the slave revolts to consider across the Disputed Lands. All it'd taken, according to Cici, was arming a handful of angry slaves to stir them against Tyrosh. Decades of slave training, of being whipped into obedience, of imposing practice and custom and ritual on the chained that they might never think to be free… all of it wiped away in the span of months.
Weeks and days, in some cases.
Now those armed angry slaves had gathered under one banner, been trained in spear and crossbow and formation. That was an army in the making and it would not fade quietly into the night.
Their system was a tower teetering on the edge of total collapse. Did a man shore up its foundations and pray, or jump off the tower to help push it down?
Zoutos woke with a start. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and made his way to his desk, rereading the message young Varys had intercepted, then shoved it into his clothes before he made his way out.
As had become their custom on Driftmark, he broke fast with Glossos on the deck. Varys was attending to them in place of their usual free bond servants at Zoutos' request. Zoutos had a view of the section lined with firebricks to reduce the risk of fire onboard while the cooks prepared the other magister's meal.
Zoutos himself preferred a glass bowl you could see through, filled with oats and soaked in almond milk overnight. It was somewhat simpler fare that agreed with his aged body this early in the morning, but to ensure others did not mistake simplicity with poverty, some candied macadamias and saffron had been added just before he ate.
Appearances had to be kept.
"I'm surprised you didn't bring Omorfia," Glossos said from across him, savoring the freshly sizzled bacon, "or that you brought so few of your household with."
"I've interests in Westeros now," Zoutos said. "My time there leads me to think there is more untapped potential, barbarians though they may be." And in some ways, she'd be safer there.
"Ah, and I suppose Omorfia is staying behind to keep an eye on the shop?" Glossos asked, nodding. "Prudent. She's at that age where she'll chafe if not given some freedom."
"You would know best," Zoutos said. Though the younger magister had no children of his blood, he had many to care for and educate. "It feels good to be headed home at long last."
Glossos hummed. "Blackfyre's cause is doomed, and that curr Lashare is dead. I wept for joy the night we heard," he said. "The speed with which these ravens of Westeros fly is remarkable, far faster than the Swift Stallions or any ship. Could you imagine such prompt correspondence in Essos?"
"Every man has a price. Perhaps we might pay some maesters to come teach us their tricks, now that peace has come to our lands at last," Zoutos said.
Glossos nodded from across him, his back to the firebricks. "That's true enough, but I do wonder if peace will come? The Volantenes care not who sits on the Iron Throne, but they care greatly who rules in Lys." The clean shaven younger man smirked. "In the sunsetlanders' struggles to stamp out slavery, they may have yet breathed life back into the slave markets of Pentos."
"I'm sure the Westerosi will manage to reach an accord with Volantis," Zoutos said. "I should hope so anyway. It does not benefit Myr to be under the thumb of the Triarchs, and long have they looked at the Three Daughters enviously."
They'd fought countless minor wars during the Century of Blood, but ultimately Myr and Lys both had been subject to Volantene rule. Only when the tigers overreached and tried to take Tyrosh did a coalition of Targaryen dragonlords, local partisans, and the other Free Cities come together. But if the tigers were to grow in influence again… Tyrosh had been weakened, Myr by more, and Lys most of all. As it was, a new pact of eternal friendship between the Daughters could not resist Volantis.
"It would be a better fate than what Velaryon has in mind for us," Glossos said. "We may be acclaimed kings of Myr soon, but kings are not wealthier than magisters. He'd see us impoverished like the Lyseni, unable to compete without slaves. Qohor's tapestries are already cheaper than ours, this will only make matters worse."
Glossos had made his fortune in the trade of educated slaves—translators for magisters, patriarchs, sealords, and pirate kings, or tutors for their sons and daughters. Given his business relied on investing heavily into those same slaves, the slightest erosions of a master's control over the chained was exponentially more dangerous for him than a normal slave owner.
"I suppose you're right. There must be some among the Volantenes who are good," Zoutos said, frown deepening. Like the ones who are dead. "As for Braavos, I cannot help but wonder… no, nevermind."
"Wonder what?" Glossos leaned forward.
"It's no secret that Pentos has long chafed under the slavery ban Braavos imposed on them, and their ruling familes hate the military restrictions even more! Why, without an army or the right to make contracts with Free Companies, their twenty war galleys are a paltry shield!" Zoutos said. "But to make common cause with Norvos and Qohor, they'd need more than just gold. They'd need to give the bearded priests and Qohorik magisters a reason for war."
"The Iron Throne provided that reason, if unwittingly," Glossos said. "This Sacred Struggle of theirs has made enough men fear, driving them into the arms of warhawks. They fear the slave uprisings, the Westerosi meddling, and most of all they fear Braavos' growing influence."
"Braavos is strongest among the northern Free Cities." And second only to Volantis, but just barely. In another decade, even that might not be true anymore.
"Braavos is strongest," Glossos agreed, "but not stronger than four Free Cities. Not yet, at least. With each victory Lelouch Velaryon has won, the Sealord's enemies band tighter together. It is whispered Braavos has made a contract with House Targaryen, one that greatly benefits the Sealord. After all, it is not hard to believe Braavos had a hand in this Sacred Struggle given their own stance on slavery."
"What of Lorath?" Zoutos asked. "They hate slavery as much as the Braavosi do."
Glossos smirked. "They do it for entirely simpler reasons: greed. The Braavosi hinterland is rich, and with a coalition forming, they'd be fools not to join in."
Varys approached without prompting, presenting a bottle of Lyseni White. "Magister Zoutos, the wine you asked for?"
Glossos' eyes sparkled. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Your favorite vintage," Zoutos said. "I bought it at such a bargain."
"Exquisite! What would it take for me to pry it from your hands, my friend?" Glossos asked.
"A special occasion," Zoutos said, before turning to Varys. "It is too early in the day for wine. Bring us some juice instead."
Varys nodded, retreating.
"If you'll forgive me for saying, he's not very well trained," Glossos said. "A good servant ought never be seen or heard, but always felt, and I've spotted him lurking through the corridors more times than I care to count."
"His value lies in other matters," Zoutos said.
Glossos took another bite of his bacon and sighed. "Give him to me, and I'll have him whipped into shape."
"That's generous of you, but I'll have to decline," Zoutos said, assessing the creases of his eye. "You seem unusually informed of the affairs up north. Not even my captains know half of this."
"I have my ways," Glossos said as Varys returned with two goblets of freshly squeezed Fossoway apple juice. "After all, many of my 'free bond servants' go on to work in those cities. It earns me the ear of many fine men in subtler matters."
"Men such as Triarch Aegador?"
"Among others," Glossos said, patting his rotund stomach as another servant brought a platter stacked with sickeningly sweet pastries that looked sticky to the touch.
"You really should watch what you consume," Zoutos said. "I may outlive you at this rate."
"What is life for if not to enjoy?" Glossos asked. "A toast!"
Zoutos touched his cup to his and drank. It was sweet, yet did not wash away the bitterness lingering in his tongue.
-ZeroRequiem-
The Patron Far-eye rowed to a spot on the shore within sight of the city, but not so close a hostile populace could seize them without warning.
All was quiet save the sea's kisses on the sand, like star crossed lovers who could never last, but for however brief would share tender moments together. When they neared the shore, the silence was broken by Glossos' voice, its sweetness intertwining with a melody coaxed from a lute.
"I loved a maid as fair as summer
with sunlight in her hair.
I loved a maid as red as autumn
with sunset in her hair.
I loved a maid as white as winter
with moonglow in her hair."
Zoutos recognized the song, and though his hoarse voice was of little worth, he sang the traditional last verse with his colleague of many years and friend of many months.
"I loved a maid as fresh as spring
with stormglow in her hair."
Yet, while Glossos stopped singing, Zoutos continued,
"The maids I love changed with each season
But my love for Myr remains."
When Zoutos finished, he could feel his friend's eyes on him.
"I've never heard that last verse," Glossos said.
"My grandfather taught it to me," Zoutos said. "When Myr was occupied by Volantis, the partisans would sing it under hushed breathes and dark alleys and hidden rooms. The day the Triarchs were at last driven out, he told me his grandfather sang it from the tallest point of the High Bazaar."
"It's a fine addition," Glossos said, humming. "You will forgive me if I borrow it from now on?"
"It would be a pleasure to hear you sing it," Zoutos said. "Your voice is a credit to your old master."
"He was always kind to me," Glossos said, almost wistful for the days of his youth. "Lygarys taught me more than sweet songs though. I think he saw my potential."
"He was a good judge," Zoutos said. "If only he were alive to see how high you've risen. From a slave to a magister, and not even forty!"
"And soon co-ruler of a Free City too," Glossos said.
Zoutos leaned on the rails. "I must ask… of everyone, I thought you would have liked Velaryon's plans most of all given your upbringing. Business interests aside, would you really be so opposed?"
"Of course I would," Glossos said without hesitation. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't imagine it's pleasant being a slave," Zoutos said, frowning. Not that he himself had ever been one.
"Being a slave is a hard life, and I recognize I was more fortunate than most," Glossos said, clutching his stomach. "But there is nothing inherently wrong with the system. It has been the way of Essos for centuries, since the glorious days of Old Valyria. If I was able to rise to such heights, what excuse does anyone have?"
"There are places where slavery is not practices."
Glossos snorted. "Westeros, where the barbarians live? They don't even have proper sewages in that wretched city of kings! I am glad to be away from it. As for the rest, are they even worth mentioning? Sarnor was shackled by the Dothraki, and their people quiver in their last walled city."
"Yi Ti has no slaves, and they've more cities west of the Bone Mountains than all of Valyria ever had at its height," Zoutos said. "Magisters are richer than kings, but YiTish princes are richer than magisters."
"You can't tell me you believe those tales about living in houses of gold and eating sweetmeats with pearls and jade powdered over it? More likely the seamen imbibed some exotic herb, or mistook spices for powdered pearls."
"If it were true, I would not blink," Zoutos said. "Golden saffron is worth more than the metal, and they have plenty of it."
"I shall believe it when I see it," Glossos said.
"You're too fat to travel that far," Zoutos said dryly.
Glossos grinned, poking himself in the stomach. "Then I suppose I'll never believe it."
Zoutos nodded, and gestured for Varys to approach with two pre-filled cups and the rest of the bottle. "I promised it would take a special occasion to pry this bottle from my hands."
Glossos clapped. "And what's the occasion?"
"We're home at last," Zoutos said, handing his friend the first cup Varys offered. "I trust mine has been watered down the way I like it?"
"Of course, Magister Zoutos. It is as you instructed," Varys said.
"Watered down?" Glossos asked, appalled. "You're wasting such splendid drink like this by watering it down?"
"I've always found it too sweet for my liking," Zoutos replied.
"How are we even friends," Glossos said in faux anger, before savoring his drink with a happy sound.
Zoutos drank as well. It was sweet, yet did not wash away the growing bitterness lingering in his tongue.
-ZeroRequiem-
Cici had already coaxed the city into surrendering when they arrived with the promise of leniency and the return of the rule by magister.
So it was to great fanfare and the roaring of Myrmens that they entered Myr. Petals of every shade and scent fell on their shoulders, while Lyseni and Myrmen ex-slaves kept the crowds at bay. Lashare's cronies, the nine new magisters, presented themselves humbly, and in the view of the public were forgiven for past misdeeds if they recognized the supremacy of Glossos and Zoutos' joint rule.
Lashare had stripped the city bare of training fighting men, so of course they accepted.
Cici watched all of it with amusement, and after escorting the ill-looking Glossos to his manse, turned to Zoutos. "I heard in Lys that there lives a master of great power in your city. The man spoke of prophecies."
"Those are dangerous things," Zoutos said.
Cici licked her lips. "I've acquired a taste for dangerous things."
Zoutos glanced at Varys, who had not left her side since they arrived. "Would you like me to accompany you there?"
"If it's not an imposition," Cici said. "I thought I might return his candle to him."
"You have a glass candle?"
"Sadly," Cici said, "it's broken. I thought he might help me fix it, or give me a new one."
"This is not done lightly," Zoutos warned. "Once you hear his words, they will haunt you."
"I'm no stranger to hauntings," Cici said, looking him in the eye. "As for doing things lightly, neither is what you did."
"It had to be done." He had seen Lelouch Velaryon's wrath, that great and terrible thing to behold. Myr would not be subject to it, not ever, not if Zoutos could help it.
The house Cici brought them to was pristine, with winter roses blooming in its garden. Hidden beneath the deep shadows of a hillock, its serenity bothered Zoutos more than his sins.
Cici walked up to the door without fear and knocked.
"So you came," a voice like velvet said.
"So I did," Cici said. "I trust you won't offer me anything to drink?"
"You're no queen. I've no use for your blood." The door's lock unlatched and it opened without sound. "Come in, please."
"Your apprentice seemed to think it might work," Cici said.
Zoutos followed her inside the hall lined with low burning candles. It was well lit, and kept immaculate.
"As always, he grasps the surface of things, and not the spirit of them," the Master said. "You are not of here."
"Not from Myr," Cici said, handing him the glass candle.
"Not from anywhere," the Master said, taking it in both hands and examining it critically. "You wish to hear the rest of the prophecy?"
"I don't wish it," Cici said, "but I must. I cannot protect him from things I do not know of."
Zoutos frowned at her words.
"A city, in passion, stained red," the Master recited. "A city of slavers turned black."
Zoutos froze. Lys was the first, clearly. He'd seen the bloodstains. But a city of slavers… there were many of those. Volantis perhaps? It was famed for its Black Walls. Qohor had its Black Goat of a deity.
"A city," the Master continued, " for magic, burned green."
"Wildfire," Zoutos said. "You speak of wildfire."
"I do not know what I speak of," the Master said. "I am merely the vessel, the humble messenger."
"This has been most enlightening," Cici said.
Zoutos turned to her. "You understood that."
"Oh, not at all," she said. "But in time, I suppose it will be made clear. You timed it perfectly by the way."
Outside, unceasingly, the people of Myr roared darkly, and Zoutos knew why. It did not take long for a soldier to rush in, blabbering about poison and a dead magister.
"There will be purges for this," Zoutos said softly.
"The times they are a-changin," Cici said.