The waves crashed against the sea wall in the darkness of night, violent, flecked with whitecaps and surges.
The Legate watched the waves from where he stood on the windswept parapets of the Sea Spire Tower, searching for something. It was here that the fortress offered a commanding view of the Archon's Harbor. The fleet was anchored safely behind the walls, jetty, and steel boom, beacon fires lighting the way. A fierce storm raged beyond the protections of the harbor, a maelstrom of water, and the Legate pulled the heavy crimson cloak tighter about himself to fend off the rain falling from the heavens. When he had first come to Tyrosh, he had expected seawater and rain, but the storms and thunder were strangers to him. Even now, watching the waves crash against the rocky shores of the island filled him with unease, and a weary sense of foreboding.
Lightning dazzled in the storm clouds, and with it came the thunder, the noise crashing through the air. The Legate did not believe in omens and portents, in prophetic dreams and divination. It had been a dream from Daenys Targaryen that had led her father Aenar to abandon Valyria, to move his family and wealth to a small island outpost on the western edge of the Freehold called Dragonstone, to show cowardice in the face of the great families. The complete destruction of Valyria had been foretold, but the years had come and gone, and no such destruction came to the Freehold. And still the Targaryens remained huddled on that rock they called home, clinging to the belief that one day the Valyrian Freehold and the power it wielded would come crashing down.
What fools we all are. He leaned against the stone of the battlement, still searching. Most still swear by the words of a mad daughter long dead, and I toil away in a futile effort to regain our standing. Was the Targaryen Family meant to amount to nothing? There had been a time when the name Targaryen had carried weight, influence, power. Aenar the Exile as he had been named, he threw it all away, and over two hundred years later Aegon meant to pick up the pieces, to reassemble that lost glory that others had tried before him. He was a Legate of the Valyrian Freehold, commander of the veteran Ninth Legion Victaer Rhoynaeras tasked with guarding the Stepstones. He was a dragonrider in his own right, hailed as a dragonlord by both the common folk and the lesser nobles. But what did it matter, when those of the great forty families still snickered at the mention of the name Targaryen?
Below, the waves crashed, and the storm raged, and the ships of his fleet rocked from where they were moored to the piers. Are we nothing but the court fool, kept around just to be laughed at? Of his ancestors, Maegor Targaryen had abandoned Dragonstone in favor of the fighting pits, becoming famed as a gladiator and was fashioned with the moniker of "the Cruel" for his proclivity for violence, and he later served as the Archon of Elyria after his fighting days were done; Aerea Targaryen had followed her uncle's example, leaving Dragonstone behind by claiming the dragon Balerion, and she eventually rose through the ranks of the Senate to serve as a consul of Valyria, the first woman to do so in decades, dogged as she was by her political adversaries and her co-consul; Aemon Targaryen – his own uncle – had tried to follow her Aerea's footsteps, but a bolt to the neck from a rogue sellsword's crossbow had ended those dreams. Aegon himself had worked hard and long to rise through the ranks, fighting against the achievements of noble blood and worthy men, and yet this latest and newest posting did not feel like a promotion.
It felt like exile.
"Your Excellency, dinner is prepared." Voren spoke with the same stern voice as he always did. Unwavering in the face of adversity, was the captain of his guard. A true Katonian. "The Archon invites you to sup with his family." Politically ambitious and lacking in dragons, was the Archon and his family, themselves cousins of the main line residing in the exalted city of Valyria. The Legate did not doubt that the Archon's daughter would be in attendance, her clothing more suited for a pleasure house than a formal dinner. "The magisters will not be in attendance."
Interest piqued, Aegon turned from the storm and left the battlements for the shelter of the fortress. The legionnaire closed the door to the rain behind them, and the Legate removed his sodden cloak and handed it to one of the waiting slave boys. The legion's clerks looked up from their writing, and Aegon waved a dismissive hand. To one of his guardsmen he said, "Send word to the Archon that I will join him and his family for the evening meal."
Though dinner would be of a more intimate nature, Aegon nevertheless donned a fresh set of clothes suited for a legate in command of a legion. His attendants dressed him in a black doublet over a fine crimson tunic, breeches, and polished black boots. The rings he wore on his fingers were of Valyrian steel, with the one on his left thumb shaped like a dragon's head. His swordbelt was plain and unadorned, made for ease in battle and nothing else, and the sword that hung from it was anything but. Sunraiser was the legion's sword, and only the commander of the legion could wield it, for it represented the soul of the legion. The blade was Valyrian steel, and Aegon paired it with a Valyrian steel dagger on his right hip, his sword on his left.
"Voren," Aegon said to the man as they descended the Sea Spire Tower. "How long has your family kept the tradition of service in the legions? The exact number slips from my mind."
"Since the days of the Rhoynish Wars, Your Excellency." The Legate bid him continue. "Several of my ancestors fought in the last of them, the Second Spice War. They served in the legions that swept over the Golden Fields after Prince Garin's army was destroyed when the dragons had set the earth aflame."
"One of my own ancestors fought there as well, another Aegon Targaryen. The Triarchs of Volantis called to Valyria for aid, and the Freehold answered not only with the legions, but with a force of three hundred dragons. I can't help but wonder if we could be able to muster such a force again, should it be needed."
The solemn face of Voren twisted with confusion. "My lord?"
"I'm sure the men of the legion talk," Aegon said. "And as we are based in a port city, we mingle with sailors and merchants, and they are worse. You will know as everyone else does that old rivalries have reared their ugly faces once more, and the Senate has become addled and bloated with petty politics. The forty great families have grown decadent."
"It… I am not a man for politics."
"No, but you are smart, and you have an eye for detail." They reached the bottom of the steps and made for the Archon's private dining hall. "That's what I envy about you, Voren. You are a soldier, nothing more, so politics has no power over you. But I? Aenar's Folly still hangs over my family, and it dogs my steps both in Valyria and all the way here in Tyrosh. And even then, I must deal with those like the Archon."
At that, Voren said nothing, just as Aegon knew he would.
The guardsmen flanking the doors to the Archon's chambers knew the Legate on sight, and Aegon bid his legionnaire a goodnight and passed through.
There were echoes of Valyria in the Tyroshi style, in the art that hung from the walls, in the build of the furniture, in the manner of dress for the slave and freeborn attendants, in the language of writing and speech. But they were far from the center of the Freehold here, on the island fortress in the middle of the Stepstones, guarding the sea lanes. The Tyroshi were a boisterous people, flamboyant in their manners. They were fond of colorful dyes as well, putting it in their hair and mustaches and beards. Most of the freeborn here partook in the practice, and the Legate passed a rainbow's worth of colors.
Dinner awaited him in a grand room of columnar walls and tall glass windows. Outside the storm raged as fierce as ever, the tapping of the rain too loud to ignore. In the center of the chamber was a great wooden table said to have been carved from the trunk of a massive tree. So long was its length that on each side twenty men could be seated abreast with room to spare, and its width was so that the middle of the table could not be reached less one stood from their seat and reached over. For this night, all but four of the chairs had been removed, and the only one available was on the right of the Archon himself, left of the man's daughter, and across from his wife.
"Ah! Aegon!"
Laecius Kaesaryas, Archon of Tyrosh and Defender of the Stepstones, was a man with broad shoulders and a thick chest. In the midst of leaving his middling years, some of his muscle had been replaced by fat, but he still had the bearing of a legionnaire to him, and his grip spoke of the strength only a soldier could possess. "Archon," said Aegon as shook his hand, noting that the man had changed the color of his hair, now favoring a light blue. Underneath the dye he knew there would be silver hair. The man had the blood of Valyria in his veins. His purple eyes and handsome face were testament to that.
"Ah, no need for titles here," said Laecius.
"I'm a legionnaire at heart," Aegon said, "you know how it goes." He shared a grin with the Archon.
The two women had stood from their seats as well, and Aegon turned to them now. "Lady Kalpurnia," he said, inclining his head to the Archon's wife. She was Tyroshi by birth, and favored a pale green dye for her hair which matched the emeralds that hung from her ears. By some miracle she was pregnant, given that she was in the winter of her childbearing years. She curtseyed, he nodded. Then he turned to the daughter. "Lady Jaela."
"Your Excellency." Jaela Kaesaryas spoke High Valyrian with a Tyroshi accent, and the look she gave him was as pregnant as her mother was. And he would be a liar if he said he had not thought of bedding the girl. She was simply beautiful. The hair that fell to the small of her back was silver-gold, her doe eyes were twin bright violets, her skin unblemished and sun-kissed. When she lifted the length of her skirt to curtsy, he caught a hint of a slender leg and the sight of satin slipper. The dress she wore did little to hide the shape of her full breasts and the curve of her hips, layered as the Myrish silk and Rhyosi linen was.
He allowed himself only a momentary glance, knowing that the Archon and his lady wife expected as much from him, and inclined his head to their daughter. If their circumstances were different, he would have very much enjoyed getting to know her mind and body more intimately, but they were unfortunately not. The Archon might have been a legionnaire in his younger years, but he was now a player of politics, and the forty great families were ever seeking to outmaneuver each other, using what leverage they could to their advantage.
"Will you be attending the coming winter festivals, Aegon?" Lady Kalpurnia asked as they set into the dinner of sliced roasted pig wrapped in a salad and drenched in honeyed wine. "All this rain is said to be from the last of the autumn storms. There's to be a whole host of games and celebrations, as well as a few masked balls when the merchant fleets arrive, boat races amidst the islands, duels between journeying bravos. And a number of religious rituals as well. I know many of the legionnaires are worshippers of Bakkalon of the Sword, and his priests will be performing the Sharpening of the Blades as one of the ceremonies. And thirteen calves are to be slaughtered in honor of Aquan the Red Bull."
"I don't hold much faith in the Red Bull and his priests," Aegon said after chewing and swallowing a succulent piece of pork wrapped in lettuce. He washed it down with wine. "But for the sake of my men and the legion as a whole, I will attend the slaughtering of the calves, as well as every other ritual and ceremony. They do say that every legionnaire is a god-fearing man at heart."
Laecius nodded at that. "Truer words have never been spoken."
"Which of the gods do you believe in, Aegon?" Jaela asked, and he turned to his right. The deep red of her wine had colored her lips, and they glistened in the candlelight. "Surely you believe in one of them."
"I am not a very religious man," Aegon said. "But for you, Jaela? I will admit that on the eve of battle I pray to any and all who are listening, so that they may grant my men and I favor. Be it Bakkalon, the Warrior of the Sunset Kingdoms, R'hllor of the Red, Saagael the Giver of Pain, or the Lion of Night."
"Thankfully none of them are truly needed here," Laecius said. "The Stepstones have been quiet as of late, and I reckon that the knowledge of the Ninth's presence here has spread throughout the islands and coves of the narrow sea. Pirates and corsairs are many things, but fools they are not. They know that they cannot hope to stand against the might of a Valyrian legion, and the dragonlord who commands them."
Aegon could not argue against that, and so he raised his glass in toast and drank. The hint of ambition in the voice of Laecius Kaesaryas was disconcerting, as was the hunger in Jaela's eyes. It was a hunger that no food could sate, but Aegon did not know whether it was his cock or the power he wielded that she was after. What Lady Kalpurnia wanted seemed a mystery to him. Her expression betrayed nothing, and that worried Aegon more than the Archon's ambitions and the daughter's desires.
"I hear rumors that your cousin Aelius is putting forward his name in the coming elections," Aegon said to the Archon, wishing to turn the attention away from himself. "That he means to contend for the consulship."
"The rumors are correct." Laecius leaned forward on an elbow, gesturing with his fork. "His term as Archon of Tolos is coming to an end, and the Freehold has heaped praise upon him after he crushed the Ghiscari revolt in Meereen and brought the city to heel."
"An impressive feat, and more so with the fact that he hardly used his dragon for most of the fighting. But there are some in the Senate who are saying that Aelius has overreached in his role as Archon in doing so, that a Legate should have been sent to deal with the rebellious city instead."
Lady Kalpurnia tittered. "We all know how the Senate is," she said, resting a hand on her pregnant belly. "Some will hail Aelius as a hero and savior of the Freehold, while others will decry him as a tyrant and a would-be-king. Kato the Younger might even call for Aelius to be put on trial. But we all know that nothing that the senators say will happen if the great families don't wish for it to happen."
"You believe that nothing will come of it?" Aegon asked. "That Aelius will walk from this unscathed?"
"I believe he already has. None of us have been called back to Valyria to attend the trials."
"That's assuming they would even call for us."
"Oh? And why do you say that?"
"Because the Targaryen Family has all but exiled itself to Dragonstone," Aegon reasoned. "My cousin rules the island as Lord of Dragonstone, and he even has some meager vassals who do him homage. It does not change the fact that Dragonstone is the Freehold's most western outpost, and one so oft forgotten. We Targaryens belong to the forty great families in name only."
Laecius interceded. "The same can be said for my own position here, a member of a minor branch of the family, and not even a dragonlord at that. Yet I wield power here, have influence over the entire island and the Stepstones around it. And serving on the fringes of the Freehold is not exile, Aegon, but rather a land that is ripe for opportunities. Just look at the deeds of Maerius Lullus, he himself posted to the eastern edge of the Freehold. He took his legions and pushed further east, marching through the Khyzai Pass and into Lhazar, bringing a hundred towns and villages all the way to the western edge of the Red Waste under the hegemony of the Freehold. To this day, tribute is paid to the Valyrian Vaults, and the Lhazareen serve in the legions."
"Is that what you would have me do?" Aegon eyed his host, who simply smiled. "Follow in the footsteps of Maerius Lullus? I am a student of history, Laecius, and through his actions with the Lhazareen, influential and long lasting as they are, Legate Maerius never again held high office. There were rumors that he meant to crown himself king, and those rumors spelled the end of his life in the public eye. It was said that even at the time of his death, the rumors still persisted."
"Unfounded rumors, if you ask me." Laecius leaned back in his seat, as distant thunder boomed. "I never said you had to follow in all of his footsteps. But think about it for a moment. We are in a prime position, are we not? I have five more years as Archon of Tyrosh, and you are newly appointed as Legate of the Victaer Rhoynaeras. And just to our west lies a land of warring kingdoms stuck in their ways…"
"Backwards and primitive, if you ask me," said Lady Kalpurnia.
"Think of it, Aegon," Laecius said. "The nearest of the Sunset Kingdoms is Dorne, and Sunspear is less than a day's journey by ship, and I reckon even less than that on dragonback. Would it not be an almost… simple campaign for a veteran legion and their able commander?"
Aegon knew what they were doing, he could see it in their eyes. No doubt that should he decide to go and invade the Principality of Dorne, and conqueror it, governorship of the newly conquered lands would fall under the purview of the Archon of Tyrosh, until of course the Senate debated and passed the necessary laws to reform the land into new provinces of the Freehold. And such a task could take years with the state the Senate is in now. He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, to scoff at its origins.
But I can't. Aegon took up his glass of wine and sipped as he thought. There were many factors to consider in such a campaign, but the general aims were clear. Laecius is ambitious, but not a fool. One did not become Archon of Tyrosh without a sense of shrewdness and more than a little cunning. That he was a veteran of the legions spoke in his favor, and lent credence to this truly audacious plan.
"I'll need to give it more thought," Aegon said, and Laecius smiled. "And if I do agree, I feel that there will be many a conversation between us before anything is formally announced."
They shared a drink at that, and to his right the Archon's daughter huffed. "Must we speak of politics and war for the rest of the night?" she asked.
"Ah, forgive us," Laecius said with a flourish. "We've gotten too distracted with the matters of state. My lady wife tells me that I too often leave no time in the day for pleasure."
Lady Kalpurnia chuckled. "Yet it seems to go in one ear and out the other."
Aegon laughed with the rest, and then he said, "We've been remiss in our conversation, Jaela."
"I believe you can make up for it by accompanying me for the winter festivals," she said, and Aegon at once realized that he was in no position to refuse her. To do so would be to insult his host. "There will be so much to do and see. I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun."
"Of course, I will accompany you, my lady," Aegon said, and when Jaela leaned forward to take her glass of wine in hand, his eyes drifted to her breasts. He looked away and lifted his own glass to his lips. No, that's enough wine for tonight. He set it aside after taking a sip of courtesy and stood from his seat. "Now, I believe it's time that I turn in for the night, Laecius. It would speak ill of the legion's officers if I were late for morning drill."
"Ah, were it anyone else I would have bid them put it off, but I know you would never allow it." Laecius stood and they grasped hands once more. "And think of what we've discussed. Fame and glory may very well be in both of our futures."
"I will," Aegon said, and he offered his good-nights to the Archon's wife and daughter. Those dragged on for a while longer, as Lady Kaplurnia tittered, Laecius japed, and Jaela hung off Aegon's every word. He could feel Jaela Kaesaryas' eyes on his back as he left. Thunder boomed from without, and the rain continued to assail the glass windows and stone walls of the fortress. It seemed that the storm would not abate for some time, and Aegon idly wondered if he would be able to get a full night's rest.
When he returned to the Sea Spire Tower, he checked on the legion's clerks and saw that only a few still remained at their writing desks, the camp prefect amongst their number. As the oldest and longest serving member of the legion, the camp prefect was the most senior of the freeborn legionary, outranked only by the commander of the legion and his second. The clerks moved to stand, but Aegon waved them off, and they returned to their writing.
"Dinner with the Archon," Titus said, the older man not looking up from his writing. "I can't help but imagine the captivating conversations that were had."
"And how are you this night, old man?" Aegon fell into the seat across from the camp prefect, and he gripped the side of the desk to catch himself from falling right off. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."
"With this storm?" the older man grumbled. "Not likely. Call me old all you like, but every time the thunder booms, I fear the island may split asunder."
"Yes. Hopefully this is the last of the autumn storms." Aegon leaned back in his seat as the sound of rain pelting the windows and the scratching of quills filled his ears. "Tell me, how long would it take to ready the entire legion for a campaign by sea?"
"Depends on what sea we're sailing?"
"Say… through the Stepstones."
Titus grunted. "Dorne?"
"Humor me."
"Months, if we were to base this campaign out of Tyrosh. Bloodstone, Grey Gallows, and Torturer's Deep would need to be taken and garrisoned to prevent pirate raids on our lines of supply and communication. That alone might require a fifth of the legion unless we rely on the Archon's own forces for that role. This might be a merchant city now, but its roots were as a military outpost and fortress."
"What if we look north? Along the island of Estermont and Cape Wrath?"
"Are we still speaking in ifs, my lord?"
Aegon shrugged. "Humor me. Laecius said some ideas that sounded interesting."
"Ever since the death of King Argilac the Arrogant and the ascension of his daughter Argella as Storm Queen, Durrandon rule over the Kingdom of the Storm has been weak. Her descendants did little to strengthen their position, and now the authority of Storm's End beyond its own walls was nominal at best. And should the current Storm King die without a clear heir, there are at least a dozen princes and lords with blood claims to the throne, and we all know what the Andals will do when there is no clear heir to a throne."
"Civil war." Aegon looked out the western facing windows, and though the storm and rain obscured the distant shores of the Stormlands, he knew that those volatile lands were all but ripe for the taking.
"Of course," said Titus, "we only speak in ifs…"
"Of course." The Legate stood and clapped the camp prefect on the shoulder. "Talking and doing are two different things. Ah, sleep well, old man. Try not to work through the night."
His chambers were lit only by fading tapers, and they were all he needed. Aegon undressed himself in their meager light and rubbed his eyes as he sat down on his bed. The storm continued to rage around the fortress, the thick stone walls dampening the noise. He wondered how his dragon was faring in this weather the gods had deigned to inflict them with, and through the bond that connected man and beast, he felt the brooding of Tael Imperae. The dragon had made its lair on a rocky mound of an island not far off the Tyroshi coast, one since declared off limits to all but the legion by the Archon. The beast misliked rain, and Aegon felt as much through their bond.
I don't possess the power to change the weather, he thought as he rested his head against the pillows. He realized that he did not feel as worried as he had hours ago. Maybe it was the wine. Laecius did have many a good vintage in his storerooms, and his cooks were superb in their craft. If only the legion could cook so well while on campaign… that would be wonderful…
When he woke it was only to a single dying taper, the little thing barely giving off any light, and what sounded like thunder. Aegon pushed himself up, a tightness in his forehead. One of the legion's slave boys was knocking on his door, and Aegon commanded him to enter, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face with his hands. "What is it?" he asked the boy, and from behind him, Aegon saw that it was not yet dawn, and the rain still fell.
"A ship's come into the Merchant's Harbor, Your Excellency."
"It sailed through the storm?"
"Yes."
"And why was this of such import that I was woken?"
"Tribune Vaekar thought it necessary."
Tribune Vaekar thinks everything is necessary of my attention. Aegon sighed. When will the boy learn to lead on his own? "Go and tell Belaerys that I'll be along shortly," he told the slave boy. The hour was too early for his liking, and he could still feel the wine lingering on his mind. He called for his attendants and forewent the Valyrian steel ringmail and plate in favor of black and crimson riding leathers; the Valyrian steel chain of office around his neck, the crimson cloak bordered in cloth-of-gold, and the squad of guards tailing him was already more than enough to distinguish him as the Legate of the Ninth Legion. "One of you send word to the kitchens," he said to his attendants as he pulled on his riding boots. "I want breakfast to be cooked and plated by the time I return." He picked up his swordbelt from where he had left it and belted it on as he left his chambers.
The fortress was still asleep as Aegon descended the Sea Spire Tower, the trustworthy Voren at his side. At the bottom of the steps awaited the rest of his guard, to a man armored and armed, with heavy cloaks covering their shoulders and plumed helmets in hand.
"Who in their right mind sails through a storm?" Aegon grunted as they stepped out into the rain. He raised his hood, as his guards donned their helmets.
"A desperate man," said Voren.
"Or a foolish one." Aegon led the way through the courtyard, as the black dragonstone of the fortress' winner walls loomed above them. The stables were lit by lanterns, and the grooms had readied their horses. "Whichever the captain turns out to be, he better be important enough to warrant my attention."
As one they put spurs to horseflesh and were out the gates, into the city and the rain. Few were out before sunrise, and fewer still because of the rain. Of those who ventured into the world, many were shrouded in hoods and darkness. Temples and shrines of a hundred different religions lined the way, no one faith being dominant in the Free City of Tyrosh. With them were houses, manses, merchant stalls, taverns, storehouses, walled courtyards, market squares, workshops. Separate from all of them were the pleasure houses. Though not as numerous as in Lys, the pleasure houses of Tyrosh catered to desires of the flesh, sating the needs of men and women.
The harbors of Tyrosh were divided. The Archon's Harbor was permitted only to Tyroshi ships, crewed by Tyroshi sailors, and commanded by Tyroshi captains. The Merchant's Harbor was open to all ships, no matter their origin, language, or creed. And with such nonexistent restrictions came the mixing of peoples. The Legate and his guards rode past sailors and merchants from across the world, with porters busy loading and unloading cargo from ships now that the storm was abating, sailmenders going about the three masted cogs ravaged by the high winds of the night, sailors repairing and ordering their vessels, merchants cutting deals and signing contracts even as the sun slipped from the horizon, bakers and fishermen calling to all who would buy from them, whores ambling along the way in the hopes of catching a sailor's eye, cutpurses dashing through the crowd to swipe coin purses from distracted victims. The falling rain did little to hamper them all, and from his seat in his saddle, Aegon saw above the crowd and to the ship that was of such importance that he was awoken from his sleep.
It looked so damaged that it hardly seemed seaworthy.
Dismounting, the crowd made way for them easily enough. Though Tyrosh swore fealty to the Valyrian Freehold and paid taxes to the Senate, the city was all but self-ruling. Some had made their dislike of the legion's presence on the island known, but for most of the people, they were seen as not a burden, but a boon. Tyrosh was a mercantile city, and the last thing the merchants wanted was piracy eating into their profits.
The tribune and half of the centuriae – including the centurion – tasked with patrolling the Merchant's Harbor were awaiting them on the pier of the listing and storm-beaten ship. Along with them were the harbormaster, two customs serjeants, and a scribe. "Vaekar," Aegon said to his second in command. "What is so important that it requires my attention? This ship looks ordinary enough."
"The captain is refusing to allow anyone onboard, my lord." Vaekar frowned and wiped some of the rainwater from his brow. "First the porters and dockworkers were refused, then the customs men, the harbormaster himself, and the legionnaires who first noticed all the commotion. The centurion in command brought this to my attention when he too was refused, and when I threatened to take the ship by storm, a score of the princess' knights emerged from below deck and drew their swords and threatened to kill any man who set foot on the ship. I thought it prudent to call for you then."
"A princess commanding knights?" They looked to the ship, and the several men on the top deck looking down at them. Some were sailors, nimble and lithe, and others were thicker and stronger, clearly warriors. The captain appeared then, dressed in a manner Aegon was familiar with. "They are Westerosi." The sigil on the man's doublet was a green hand on a white field. Aegon failed to remember what house it belonged to. "You there!" Aegon called up to them, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "Yes, you! Captain of this ship! What is your name, and what king do you serve?"
"I am Ryam, captain of the Loyal Sword, and I serve the King of the Reach!" shouted the captain. "Mern Gardener, Tenth of His Name!"
"Listen here, Captain Ryam! I will say this only once! I am Legate Aegon Targaryen, commander of the Ninth Legion! Lower your gangplank and let us speak as civilized men. Do not make me force my hand!"
The captain nodded gravely and left. Aegon translated what was said into High Valyrian to his men, and Vaekar sent word that translators were needed. The legionnaires spoke many languages, for the Valyrian Freehold encompassed many lands and peoples, but the Common Tongue of Westeros was not among them. The Sunset Kingdoms were distant lands and of little importance to the Freehold and the great families. There was no need to learn its tongue.
"Centurion," the Legate said. "Send a runner to the fortress. Inform the camp prefect that I want all recent reports from the Sunset Kingdoms south of the Neck copied and reviewed. He is to wake the Archon as well."
The runner had long since departed when the captain finally reappeared. With him was not a princess by Aegon's reckoning, but rather a young handmaiden wearing a cloak over a dress. "I… I am Alicent, of House Hightower!" said the lady. "The princess will allow your men to board the ship, but only if the Free City of Tyrosh can promise her safe haven!"
What madness is this? Aegon shook his head and wiped the rainwater from his face, misliking this entire situation. It reeked of politics. "I can make no such promise, Alicent of House Hightower! Not until I know who this princess is that you speak for, and what she requires safe haven from! Tyrosh is a long way from Highgarden!"
Indecision flashed across the young lady's face, and Aegon motioned for his legionnaires to be ready, for he knew that she would concede. When the gangplank was lowered, the centurion was the first aboard, quickly followed by several legionnaires. "Return to your post, Vaekar," he said to the tribune. "The day is still young, and I feel there will be much to do." He clapped the young man on the shoulder and boarded the Loyal Sword. The captain was busy with the harbormaster, while the two customs serjeants were led down into the hold to inspect the wares. The knights had put up their steel, and yet remained ever vigilant. There was a tenseness in the air.
Alicent of House Hightower proved shorter than when he had stood on the pier, and she on the deck of the ship. Her hair was brown underneath her hood, her brown eyes were tired, and her shoulders sagged underneath the weight of more than just her cloak. "My lord legate," she said, the last word seemingly strange on her tongue. "I… I beg you not to turn the princess away. She's risked her life traveling this far."
Unable to muster the desire to feign niceties, Aegon looked down at her in all seriousness. "I say this with all kindness, my lady. I can make no promises. But I will have words with the princess. Lead the way."
The look of defeat that flashed across her face brought him no joy, but the momentary glance of anger that followed did catch his eye. Both were soon replaced by a more guarded expression, and without a word she turned and made her way to the captain's cabin. Aegon followed, along with Voren, as the rest of his guards took up positions between the cabin and the rest of the ship. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords.
"I thought this was to be a privy conference?" said the young lady.
"Voren is the captain of my guard. Where I go, he follows."
The cabin was smaller than Aegon had expected for a ship of this size. It was cramped and hardly looked comfortable, but it was dry, and private. With the door closed, Voren stood with his back to it, silent. Aegon removed his hood and met the gaze of the princess. She looked a small thing, sitting there on the bed wrapped in a large brown fur-trimmed cloak. Her hair was combed and pulled back into a braid, and her blue eyes stared back at him defiantly for all that he was the one with the sword, and she with nothing but her hands. Rings and jewels glittered on her fingers, but she wore no dress, only a man's shirt and trousers hastily corrected to fit her smaller frame, and a pair of riding boots adorned with a cavalryman's spurs.
When she did not rise from her seat, Aegon smirked.
"My lord legate," Alicent of House Hightower said. "You stand before Meredyth of House Gardener, Lady of Highgarden, Princess of the Reach, and a maiden daughter of His Grace King Mern Gardener, the Tenth of His Name, King of the Reach, and Patron Lord of the Order of Knights of the Green Hand."
Was that meant to intimidate me? Aegon simply folded his arms and waited.
The princess and her lady did not know what to do or say, clearly, and so Aegon was forced to unravel this situation himself. "Princess Meredyth," he said. "Your handmaiden has impressed upon me your desire for safe haven and protection within the Free City of Tyrosh, something you risked sailing through a storm for. Why? To my best knowledge the Kingdom of the Reach is not at war, and Highgarden has not been seized by some foreign power."
"It is not a war I am running from," said the princess, "but a betrothal."
"Oh? Do tell."
"His name is Ser Theodore Tyrell, and while his looks are rather plain–"
Aegon raised his hand and cut her off. "Stop." The princess gaped at him, apparently unaccustomed to being interrupted. "I don't actually want to know, nor do I care which unfortunate lad you are running from. So far as I am concerned, this is not a military issue, but a political one." To Voren he said, "Inform the centurion to ready transport for the Reachmen to the fortress."
"Do you have no compassion?" There was a hint of desperation in Alicent Hightower's voice. "All the princess is asking is for safe haven–"
"Yes, that is what she is asking for," the Legate said. "But will her father see it as such? Will the lords and ladies of the Reach? You wish for safe haven to escape an unwanted betrothal, and you braved a storm to do it, risking your lives for it. I would commend you for it, were your actions not insultingly stupid and reckless. And when word reaches Highgarden that you are hiding here? You might have very well planted the seeds for a war between the Kingdom of the Reach and the Freehold of Valyria."
"I did not!" The princess stood, outraged. She too was shorter than Aegon had expected. "You are a fearmonger who is trying to scare me away from this port. Well, I won't have it! I am a Princess of the Reach!"
Aegon invaded her personal space, and he took pleasure in the way she flinched. "And I am a Legate of Valyria! You have no authority here, girl. None." From behind, Voren opened the door and the centurion stepped into the cabin, a local Tyroshi translator with him. "You all will remain in the custody of the Ninth Legion Victaer Rhoynaeras until the Archon decides what to do with you. The centurion will convey you to the fortress, and you and yours will be given accommodations as befit of your rank. Translator, you will assist the centurion until you are no longer required, after which you will be compensated for your time and efforts. Do you understand and consent?"
"I do, my lord."
"Good." When the handmaiden moved to speak, Aegon spoke first. "Nothing you say will change this, so close your mouth, follow the centurion's orders, and wait for the Archon." The look of murder and rage in her brown eyes almost made him laugh. He smiled instead, and some vindictive part of his mind took pleasure in rubbing salt in the wound. A petty action unbefitting of a legate, but he was tired, wet, and had not yet broken his fast. "Welcome to the Free City of Tyrosh."
With that, the Legate drew up his hood and stepped out of the captain's cabin, onto the deck and into the rain that was still falling from dark clouds above. His guard was waiting for him, and the sailors of the Loyal Sword were busy offloading what cargo they had aboard. By the time the Legate and his guards had descended the gangplank and stood on the pier, the rain and sea spray had cooled his temper. Ah, that was ill-done. He knew he should have handled it more delicately, with more tact. But this was not what he had trained for. He was a legionnaire, a warrior, a battlefield commander. His duties as a legate were foremost to safeguard the Freehold and kill its enemies, not play politics and humor petulant royalty.
Resting a hand on the hilt of Sunraiser, Aegon set off, and soon enough he and his guards were ahorse. The Loyal Sword stood out like a sore thumb, battered as it was. Aegon wheeled his mount around, not wanting to deal with the Reachmen until Laecius inevitably dragged him back into the issue, for there was no reason for the Archon to not use this situation to advance his own position.
"Voren," Aegon said as they rode. "When our campaign here is done, remind me to petition the Senate to transfer the legion to Qarth, so that we never again have to deal with the Westerosi."
"I will, my lord." Voren almost sounded pleased. "Qarth is said to be beautiful."
Beautiful indeed, Aegon thought, as well as the natural staging ground for further eastward expansion. It would serve as a pleasant distraction until his mood improved, the issue of the Gardener princess was dealt with, and the semblance of normalcy was returned.