"And on a final point," Aegon said to the assembled centurions, "inform the men that while they have been given leave to enjoy the winter festivals and all that comes with it, they are not to overindulge. Though we are not on campaign, we are still legionnaires. I don't want to hear any more reports of indecent acts."

They answered him with ayes and nods, with "As you command," and "It will be done, my lord," and "By your word, Your Excellency." And at the wave of his hand, the meeting was ended, and one by one they rose and buckled on their swordbelts and donned their cloaks and took their leave. The gladiatorial games were soon to begin, and Aegon made quick work of checking with the legion's clerks. There could be no room for error in his written orders, and once he saw that there were none, he buckled on his swordbelt and donned his cloak.

He would have preferred to head straight to the Grand Fighting Pit, but duty called, and the magisters of Tyrosh were still in need of convincing. Most were concerned with only coin, and it would be the prospect coin that would persuade them to side with the Archon. Others were more inclined to martial pursuits, and in this a legate would have better leverage than a magister or Archon.

But it was still very much playing politics, and Aegon was loath to bandy words and feign niceties.

"You served in the legions, yes?" he said to Magister Tibeno on the steps leading to the fortress.

An aged and lithe man, the magister still had a strength to him. "Thirty years," he said.

"Then we can do away with the flowery words and speak plainly, legionnaire to legionnaire."

"That depends on the nature of this conversation. Are you here as the Legate of the Ninth Legion, or as a political ally of the Archon?"

"I am both, and only because the matter requires it. The Conclave of Magisters is going to meet soon, and the Gardener princess is going to be presented."

"That she is." The magister set a sedate pace towards the Grand Fighting Pit, and the Legate walked with him, his guards forming a space around them. "She is the talk of the city, to be sure. Everyone seems to see something of themselves in her story. Running away from an unwanted betrothal? Sounds like something a Lysene playwright would come up with."

"Yes, but she is more than just a runaway princess. She was her father's cupbearer, and now a veritable wealth of knowledge in our hands."

"Knowledge that you and the Archon want."

The Legate grunted. "Of course, as a former legionnaire, you know as well as I the importance of information when it comes to a campaign into hostile territory."

"And what the princess knows may very well help in securing victory." The magister's face revealed nothing, and the Legate was content to let him unravel things on his own. "You speak of war, yet I know of no enemy that threatens Tyrosh at present."

"I am not looking inward," the Legate said. "I am looking to the west."

"The Sunset Kingdoms." The magister held his hands behind his back as they walked. After a time of silence he said, "Which one? I ask this as a legionnaire, not a magister."

"The Kingdom of the Storm, and I say this as a fellow legionnaire."

"And how is a princess from the Reach going to help with a campaign in the Stormlands?"

"With the information she claims to have about her father's war plans, Ones she will not give unless we guarantee her continued exile here."

"And if you were to get these plans?"

"I will follow in the footsteps of Maerius Lullus, and I will not make the same mistakes that he did."

The magister searched his face, and the Legate merely set his jaw. "I can make no promises," Magister Tibeno finally said. "I can see the risks involved in such a campaign, as well as the rewards. Storm's End is said to be impregnable and protected by ancient magics. Should you defy the odds and take the castle, well, the seat of the Storm Kings may very well serve as the site of the Tenth Free City, replacing the mess that is Gogossos. And, of course, you would be known the world over as the man who cast down the line of Durran Godsgrief and hailed as a triumphal general in the Senate. The first to expand the Freehold's influence in years."

The Legate saw something in the man's eyes as he spoke. Envy? Past ambitions? Or does he see all the possibilities that will come when the Stormlands are taken? He didn't know, but so long as the man agreed to support Laecius in keeping the Gardener princess on the island instead of selling her back to Highgarden, did it even matter?

"Can I count on your support when the Conclave meets?" the Legate asked.

"Again, I can make no promises," said the magister. "A dragon and one legion are hardly enough to conquer a kingdom. Should that change in the future? You and the Archon might very well have the support of even the most frugal magister for your war."

Aegon knew what Tibeno was alluding to, and he wasn't surprised. Jaela had been insistent on attending nearly every event of the winter festival with him, and being seen as a pair was bound to have others forming their own conclusions as to what they were. But do I agree to her offer? There were too many ifs for his liking. Nothing was guaranteed and there was room for the plan to falter at any step. But if it should all go to plan as Jaela thinks it will, I may very well be in the command of multiple legions by winter's end.

"Very well," he said, and the two men grasped forearms in the legionnaire's wordless acknowledgement.

They parted there, Tibeno for a side entrance reserved for fighters and their masters, Aegon for the main entrance. The colossal building rose above much of the city. It had room to seat fifty thousand souls, and it seemed that every seat would be filled for the first day's fights. The main entrance was clogged with people, but they all moved aside when the Legate and his guard approached. Towering marble warriors stood on either side of the doors, each bearing a different weapon.

And like the great fighting pits of Valyria, the Grand Fighting Pit of Tyrosh carried the same design. The arena below was filled with sand, a massive oval surrounded by tiered benches for onlookers to sit. Many had already found their seats, and peddlers were already selling food and wine to them. Interspersed with the benches were boxes where the magisters could watch without having to rub shoulders with the common people. The Archon had the grandest box of them all, and Aegon found the man and his family had already arrived, surrounded by servants and attendants, and watching the first of the activities before the fighting began, a horse race.

Aegon greeted them with the usual pleasantries, whispered to Laecius of another potential ally among the magisters, and no sooner had he sat than Jaela found herself a seat beside him. "Look over there," she said, and Aegon followed her gaze. "The Gardener princess is here, putting on a show for the masses."

That she is, he thought, but we are doing the same thing.

The princess had taken to dressing in the Tyroshi fashion in the days since her arrival, but now it seemed as though she was willing to fully embrace the ways of the Tyroshi. Her hair was now dyed a brilliant purple with only her eyebrows retaining the original brown coloring. Aegon had even heard tell that she was taking lessons in High Valyrian. He suspected it was all just a ploy to ingratiate herself with the common folk, and as he looked around at the crowd around them, he knew that it was working.

"Garner the love of the people, and you shall need no throne to reign," he said to himself, watching as young girls offered flowers to the exiled princess in her box.

"Aegon?"

"A quote from Aeulus of Aquos Dhaen," Aegon explained. "One that Meredyth Gardener surely doesn't know, and yet seems to be employing as we speak."

"She may be smarter than she seems," Jaela murmured. "I've chanced upon her in Father's library more than once, a small host of translators and her handmaiden at her side each time."

"Yes, she does seem to be defying expectations." They watched for a time, as both princess and handmaiden listened to the words of their translator, and then replied to the fat magister with whom they were sharing the box. It was one of the men that Laecius had pointed out as an ally. "The second part of the quote is one that is often forgotten about."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Conqueror their hearts, and you shall need no army to conquer their lands."

"Sounds like a man who had no dragon."

"Oh, he had a dragon, and he served many years in the Senate. But he fell from favor when his plan to peacefully subjugate the Moraqi ended in failure. Seems that conquering hearts is easier said than done."

Below, the horse race ended, and a small cheer went up as the victor made a lap. Next to them, Laecius grumbled, and the pregnant Lady Kalpurnia tittered. "Bet on the wrong horse," the Archon explained. The feeling permeated through the crowd, as the winners of wagers smiled, and the losers frowned.

"Who has the honor of opening the day's fighting?" Aegon asked.

"Bessario Speardancer," Jaela said. "He's been given the honor of killing a pair of rapers."

"Our dear princess called it justice," Laecius said. "Her handmaiden seems to think otherwise."

"Alicent of House Hightower," said Aegon, remembering the girl. "That one doesn't think before she speaks, and she thinks too highly of herself. She very well might prove to be a hindrance."

"Worry not," Laecius said. "The princess has already come to realize that being in our good graces is better than returning to Highgarden. I'm sure she will convince her handmaiden of the same."

Aegon doubted that, but kept his thoughts to himself, for a roaring cheer rose from the crowd, and the day's first killing was about to be had. Bessario Speardancer strode onto the sands with his spear in hand. He wore armor of silvered steel inlaid with niello, the helm in the crook of his elbow plumed with bright yellow feathers, as was expected of a prized gladiator. The two rapers emerged in nothing but breechclouts and sandals, for pit fighters did not wear armor, and both men were not long for the grave.

The crowd hissed their disapproval at the criminals and pelted them with rotten vegetables, but they quieted when Bessario raised his spear into the air. It was eight feet long, the shaft smooth, heavy, and thick. The spearhead was two feet of steel narrowing into a vicious spike. It wavered as the spear was thrust into the ground. The two rapers were given their weapons of choice, a sword and an axe. Bessario silently donned his helm, took up his spear, and raised it point first to the heavens.

"All men must die," said Bessario, "but the two of you? Death is too easy. I will gouge out your eyes, rip out your tongues, cut off your ears. I will cut off your cocks and shove them down your throats, and your bodies will be left for the crows to feast upon. And when all the flesh has been plucked from your bones, they will be tossed into the sea. The people of Tyrosh will remember this day! But they will forget your names."

The crowd roared its approval, and the rapers charged. They fought like a pair of dead men, wild with rage and lacking in fear. Yet Bessario danced around them with his spear, cutting at them with fluid strokes. Aegon watched for a time, but then he glanced over at the Gardener princess and her handmaiden. The princess watched with awe, captivated by the sight. So too was the handmaiden, yet it was of the morbid kind, and one that had her flinching with each scream of pain. And when Bessario butchered the rapers, gouging out their eyes, ripping out their tongues, cutting off their ears, showing their cocks down their throats; the princess and the handmaiden did not look away from the sight, even as shock played on one face and disgust on the other.

The corpses were dragged away, leaving trails of blood. Bessario bowed to the crowd, the blade of his spear glistening in the sunlight, and made his exit just as the next combatants entered. Pit fighters came and died, slaves from all corners of the Freehold. Black skinned Summer Islanders, pale Qartheen, copper-skinned Dothraki, sullen Braavosi, dome-headed Jogos Nhai, hairy Ibben – all came, and all died. Gladiators, freeborn and slave, fought in duels and melees, afoot and ahorse. "I wonder what our exiled princess makes of this," Aegon said of a Westerosi knight with a red apple on his shield.

"Poorly, I would think," said Lady Kalpurnia, after the knight met his end in the sand with a poleaxe thrust into his throat.

When a pair of women fighters came, the crowd jeered and roared, and Aegon again looked to the exiles from the Reach. "Does the princess know that the Freehold considers men and women to be equal?" he asked Laecius. "That a woman can wield as much power as any man?" Jaela eyed him, a smirk pulling at her lips. "It might convince her to be more open with any future plans the Freehold might have for the Sunset Kingdoms."

"The Westerosi are a backwards people," Laecius said, understanding in his eyes. "They're too set in their ways. Only a new generation of lords would be amenable, and perhaps a queen might be able to lead them in seeing that the Valyrian way is better."

"She dyes her hair and wears our clothing," Jaela said, and they all looked over to the princess. She and the fat magister were conversing through the translator, seemingly as thick as thieves. "All she needs to do is learn our tongue and she will be Tyroshi in all but birth."

Lady Kalpurnia agreed. "Convince the handmaiden to do the same, and the princess will have no reason to look back on her past life."

And if she were to sire a son, the boy could be used against the Reach as well. Aegon remembered enough about the Sunset Kingdoms to know that blood was what really mattered. The ruling dynasties had sat their thrones for thousands of years, for so long that no other family would be capable. There was always a Stark in Winterfell, always an Arryn in the Eyrie, always a Lannister in Casterly Rock, always a Martell in Sunspear. And always a Gardener in Highgarden. Yet… should the rest of King Mern and his line die out, they very well might accept the line of the wayward princess in search of their next king. In the time since the arrival of the princess and her handmaiden, he had read much and more on the Sunset Kingdoms, and knew very well that a drop of royal blood was all that was needed, no matter how long ago that drop came from.

Aegon reckoned that, should King Mern die without a male heir, some lords of the Reach would look to the man's daughter to be their queen. There very well might be a war for the throne with how many lords claim blood ties to the Gardeners, but with dragons burning her enemies, a Gardener under Valyrian control might sit the Throne of the Reach and pay tribute to the Freehold. The Free Cities were much the same, self-ruling and governed, but always under the control and protection of the Freehold and the Senate.

"The Free Kingdom of the Reach," he whispered to himself, as the noise of the crowd filled the air. He smiled as one of the women slew the other, and blood rained down on the sand. Aegon the Kingmaker, yes, that does have a nice sound to it. He called for a glass of wine, and when he caught the eye of the princess, he raised a toast to her as the pit fighters died below.

Then the lions were unleashed on a pack of wolves. "The Lannisters and Starks," Laecius said. Then an elephant fought two tigers. "The Triarchs." Then a blind man against a black goat. "Qohor and Lorath." And every other manner of representation that poked fun at another prominent force. Even the Legate and the Archon were represented in a folly, where two mummers were dressed up like them and made to do battle, for in the Freehold no one was above being laughed at.

And when the sands were red with blood, and the sun was chasing down the horizon, the last of the day's fighting was ended. A mountain of a man was felled by a host of dwarfs wielding daggers, but not before taking a few to the grave with him. Those that remained plunged their daggers again and again into the man's flesh, and when the pit masters finally clapped them back into chains and dragged them off, little remained of the man. His corpse was dragged off, and the parts that fell from him were loaded into a bucket and carried away.

"You Excellency," came a familiar voice from behind them, and Aegon turned. "Her Grace Princess Meredyth wishes to invite you to share an evening meal hosted by Magister Numerio."

The princess herself was still chatting and smiling with the magister, Aegon and he smirked as he leaned back in his seat and beckoned the handmaiden forward. "Where is your smile, my lady?" he asked her. "The gladiators and pit fighters put on a splendid showing if the cheers of the crowd were anything to go by."

"I find killing for sport and entertainment to be distasteful."

"Well, sounds like a rather dull way of living," Aegon drawled. "And yes, I shall accept the princess' offer of attending a meal hosted by Magister Numerio. In fact, would I be allowed to bring a guest or three? I assume our dear princess would have no objections to dining with the Archon and his family."

"It has been a time and a half since we've dined with Numerio and his family," said Lady Kalpurnia, idly, as if the thought had only just occurred.

"She would be honored, I'm sure," said Alicent of House Hightower.

"Splendid!" Aegon rose to his feet and tossed his cup of wine to one of the slaves. "We all have so very much to talk about, and so much to look forward to."