Interlude
Syran was a pious man of a cult of one member. The cult had one member and one was enough. Two would be too many and none would be too few. Syran knew this because his God knew this. Syran trusted his God because when he had begged him for a way to live, his God had appeared and shown him a way.
He sat on the ground, next to the small pleasure house of the Little Lady. The Lady had five daughters, four of whom had followed their mother's footsteps into the pleasure business. For a Tyroshi pleasure house, it was modest; meagre even. But the Little Lady was resourceful and her daughters looked after each other. And if all else failed, Syran intervened.
Today was turning out to be such a day. One of the customers, a man from the Sunset Kingdoms, was screaming in his barbarian tongue and stamping his feet. He must have been a soldier because sailor's had enough sense to learn other languages and to haggle instead of harassing. Syran stood up and calmly tapped the Sunset man on his shoulder. The man turned and stared. The Sunset man was tall and broad but Syran was a giant.
"Pay and go. No trouble." Syran said. The Sunset man nodded before quickly handing the Little Lady her money and running away.
"I am very grateful for your help, Master Syran." the Little Lady said.
"I did this because my God told me to do this. I am but its instrument." Syran said.
"Well, I give thanks to your God once again for sending me his best man." the Little Lady said. "Would you like to have some food?"
"I am its only man, my lady. But yes, I would appreciate some food." Syran said. The Little Lady beckoned him to follow inside. Syran stopped low to go through the pleasure house's door. It was the same as always. A pink silk sheet tied at the corners of the ceiling, brass candle stands with perfumed melted wax on the long table, the Summer Island singing bird in the cage singing it's mournful song.
"Mella, bring out some food. Master Syran is here." the Little Lady called out. Her eldest daughter seemed to appear out of nowhere. Syran was mildly envious of the way the Lady's children could hide. He had been curious enough to even ask his God if they were special. They weren't. They were just good at not drawing attention until needed. Perhaps because, unlike Syran, the Lady's daughters were slender and could be demure when needed. Syran drew attention even when he was quiet and peaceful.
The meal was barley bread and goat cheese but Syran was grateful. A simple man had few needs. Mella set down a flag of wine but Syran shook his head. Syran had lost his taste for it when his God revealed itself to him. Syran stepped outside the pleasure house and drank from the well.
"Does Wenna need to go to the pedagogue today?" he asked.
"She does, Master Syran. Will you escort her?" Mella asked.
"It is my pleasure and my God's will." Syran replied. Mella nodded and disappeared into the pleasure house. She emerged, dragging a half-asleep Wenna out.
"But I don't want to go study!" Wenna wailed.
"Hush or else I will sell you to the Sunset Men." Mella scolded her.
"No price is high enough for me, you bitch." Wenna retorted.
"Language, child." Syran rumbled.
"Let's go, Master Syran." Wenna said and the two of them set off for the pedagogue's abode. Wenna suddenly went back and banged on the door. When Mella opened it, Wenna embraced her.
"I am sorry, I called you a bad word. I love you and always will." Wenna said.
"I know. Now hurry along." Mella said, gently shoving the girl back to Syran. It was almost a daily ritual and Syran never understood it but he remained silent. If it was worth understanding, then his God would clarify.
They went through the back streets of Tyrosh, stepping over horse dung and vomit. The city was home to over fifty thousand people, a hundred thousand slaves, and an untold number of exiles, thieves, pirates, deserters, cutthroats, and worse. Anyone and everyone was welcome in Tyrosh as long as they could take care of themselves because the city was as cruel as it was bountiful. The Little Lady knew that she and her daughters could not protect themselves forever which was why Wenna was the one to learn sums and numbers.
"I hate Maester Luwen. He smells of fish." Wenna grumbled. Syran disliked the Maester as well but for a different reason. Why did the Little Lady choose to have him teach Wenna was beyond him. There were plenty of Tyroshi slaves who knew numbers and words and yet Wenna's pedagogue was a Sunset Man.
Syran bumped into someone and moved on. The person he had bumped into had different ideas.
"You there, bumpkin! I will have you apologise for injuring my person." the man, for it was always men who spoke like this, said. Syran looked at the offending party. He had white hair like a Valyrian but was dressed in the plate armour of the Sunset Kingdoms. His Tyroshi was accented but understandable and he spoke it fluently. An exile perhaps? Or a deserter from some Sunset lord's army? But his armour was well taken care of which meant that he had coin in his purse. Syran decided to err on the side of caution and chose to speak meekly.
"Forgive me, noble master. I am only a simple man. I know nothing." Syran said. Wenna had wisely decided to stand behind him. Tyrosh was a cruel city.
"Well, you at least have enough sense in your head." the Sunset Man said, his temper mollified. "Tell me, have you seen a Westerosi knight in this part of the city? He is difficult to ignore as he has a habit of stamping his feet when he doesn't get his way."
"Forgive me, noble master, but I haven't seen anyone like that." Syran said. The Sunset Man looked at him for a moment before shrugging and continuing on his way.
"Why lie?" Wenna asked.
"I don't trust rich Sunset Men. Especially whose friends are in the habit of stamping their feet." Syran replied. Wenna wisely decided to keep silent.
They emerged into the White Street, the widest street in the city. Eight horsemen could ride abreast through it. It was here that all the great commerce of the city took place. Shops selling perfumes, spices, silks, cottons, feathers of exotic birds, and furs lined both sides of the street. Some of the larger pleasure houses also had their premises here and their whores advertised their services. Men and women from all over the world walked the streets, from women wearing the jade silks of Yi-Ti to men wearing the plate of the Sunset Kingdoms.
Maester Luwen's quarters were above a grain merchant's shop. It was a meagre room stuffed with books and inkpots. Luwen himself was a frail old man who looked ready to die at any moment. He did indeed smell of fish quite strongly. Syran wondered why the grain merchant hadn't evicted him for that reason alone.
"Good morning, Wenna." he tittered. That was another thing Syran disliked about him. His high voice as if he was a castrato. Syran had seen eunuchs with deeper voices than him.
"Good morning, Maester Luwen." Wenna replied obediently.
"Shall we begin with sums today?" Luwen said. Wenna nodded and Luwen brought out a book from which he began reading.
"A carpenter has been told to build a table for his master in ten days for a payment of ten stags. He is promised another stag if he finishes the work a day early, two stags if earlier by two days, and so on. The carpenter asks his brother for help, promising him a third of his wages for help. The brother agrees and they finish the table in eight days. How much did the carpenter's brother earn?"
Syran's head swam just from the words alone. These maesters were all obsessed with money and sums. In trying to make the world fair, they just made things difficult. But then again, none of them had Gods that spoke to them. Syran was truly blessed for having a God to worship. He needed no sums and sums didn't need him.
"Four silver stags." Wenna replied.
"Correct," Maester Luwen said and then turned the page. "A wagon carrying a hundred sacks of grain is travelling a distance of fifty miles. A sack full of grain goes bad every five miles. The merchant can make a profit if eighty sacks survive the journey. How many sacks will survive the journey and will the merchant make a profit?"
"Ninety sacks will survive and the merchant will make a profit."
Syran stopped hearing Luwen and Wenna's voices and tried to make communion with his God. Nothing happened as he expected. Syran's God spoke when it needed, not when it was wanted. Such was the nature of a God but that did not stop Syran from trying.
"I believe this is enough." Maester Luwen said.
"Maester." Wenna said.
"Please remain seated." Maester Luwen said. He looked hesitant. Syran didn't like that. The only thing worse than an arrogant Sunset Man was one whose arrogance had been removed.
"Wenna, how would you like to be Lady Rohanne's lady-in-waiting?" Maester Luwen asked.
"No." Syran spoke before Wenna. "She will not."
"Master Syran!" Wenna said.
"No, Wenna, forgive me but I will not let you do this." Syran said. Everyone knew who Rohanne of Tyrosh was. She was the wife of Daemon Blackfyre, the Exiled Prince of the Sunset Kingdoms. His court was a hotbed of sorcery and intrigue. Wenna would be lucky to die in such a court. Syran had heard of dark rituals in which the Exiled Prince had burned children alive and drank the blood of virgins. He was protected by an army of Sunset Men and sellswords and his good father was none other than the Archon of Tyrosh himself.
You will let her do this, Syran, because I command it. His God suddenly spoke and the force of his words made Syran go weak. His knees buckled and he sat down.
"Who's there?" Wenna asked and to Syran's amazement, she was looking around as if she had heard his God's voice.
I am a God, Wenna of Tyrosh, and a God am I. You must go to the Sunset Kingdom of Westeros for I command you to go.
"Are you Syran's God?" Wenna asked.
"What is going on?" Maester Luwen asked. Syran ignored him.
"My God, did you not make me a Cult of One? Why can she hear your voice?" he asked.
Because the times have changed. His soldier has arrived on this world and if not stopped, he will burn this world to ash and claim the cinders as part of his Imperium.
"Who? Who are you talking about?" Wenna asked. She was still bewildered and not frightened, unlike Luwen, who was both.
He goes by many names and titles. He is Neoth, Anathema, Revelation, Adamus. He is the Allfather, the Omnissiah, the Chaosbane, the Lord of Dust. Demiurge, Prometheus, Wotan, Matarisvan, Yaldabaoth.
Syran and Wenna had stopped trying to understand and had just let the words wash over them. Luwen was missing from the room. Syran felt as if his head was growing hot and cold at once. This had never happened before.
He claims to be the Master of Mankind and yet he stole power from the Dream Gods to fashion an Imperium of Bones and Blood. The Carrion Lord of a million armies, each who give battle in his name across the stars. He turns gardens to desert and names it peace. He bleeds people to death and calls it justice. He feeds fathers their own sons and calls it prosperity. And now his agent has arrived on this world.
"What am I supposed to do?" Wenna cried out.
You must find and kill the agent. The agent is in the Sunset Kingdom of Westeros.
"Why me?" she asked.
Because you believe.
There were people in the room. Luwen had brought two men with him. Sunset Men, in plate armour. One of them was the man who stamped his feet in anger. Syran staggered to his feet and gasped as the man stabbed him in his belly. Once. Twice. Thrice. Syran's strength left him. He tried to tell Wenna to run but he couldn't even do that.
"Why did you kill the man, ser?" Luwen cried out.
"He made me feel small." the angry man said. He kicked Syran but he felt no pain. His body already felt like it was an object.
You did well, Syran. A God could ask for no greater worshipper than you. Be at ease for Wenna will now become my worshipper and the Cult of One shall live on.
"My God, please tell me. Who are you?" Syran asked. For so many years, he had wondered.
I am the Land.
