Disclaimer: This narrative and its characters are inspired by the incredible worlds of Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire, which belong to their respective copyright holders.
Daughter of Valyria
"On your feet"
I hear, yet my limbs fail to heed the call. With determination, I try to leverage my arms for support, hoping to muster the strength to rise. Yet, they betray me, and I collapse, my face meeting the dirt again—a familiar defeat repeated throughout the day.
"Get up, Malon," I silently urge myself, frustration welling up as tears blur my vision, ashamed of falling short of my lord's expectations.
"Isn't this enough, father?" my lord interjects, offering a semblance of mercy upon witnessing my sorry state, only to intensify my inner turmoil.
A tense silence follows, my plight rendering me incapable of witnessing any nonverbal exchange that might occur.
"No," comes the firm reply, a mix of surprise and sternness coloring the voice, unaccustomed to opposition.
"Would you have this slave exert less effort than his master?" the voice grows nearer, footsteps affirming the closing distance.
"Malon has duties beyond my own," my lord protests, advocating on my behalf—a gesture that, despite its kindness, only serves to underscore my shortcomings. How could I not meet the demands placed upon me?
"Has your judgment faltered to the point of equating yourself with a servant?" Lord Maltanis retorts, his anger palpable, silencing any previous commotion as his presence looms closer. "He fulfills his role."
His words are punctuated by a sharp blow to my abdomen, forcing me to double over. As I grapple with this new pain, a strike to my face follows, the earth's taste giving way to blood. Overwhelmed and unable to defend myself, my body refuses to respond to the assault.
Yet, through the haze of pain, I hear my master's furious declaration, "Malon belongs to me!"
His anger, raw and undisguised, leaves no room for doubt or protest.
Drawn by the sound of what seemed to be my lord unsheathing his weapon and charging towards his father at full speed, he declared, "As his lord, it's my duty to protect him." My curiosity piqued despite my weakened state, I managed to turn my gaze towards the confrontation. I witnessed my lord challenging his father, who, caught off guard, could only attempt to evade the oncoming attacks. The element of surprise rendered my lord's less polished attacks surprisingly effective, his actions fueled by raw anger rather than skill.
"He is my responsibility."
The initial moments suggested an unexpected advantage for my lord, but it was short-lived. Lord Aelor Maltanis, renowned as the empire's foremost duelist, quickly demonstrated his prowess. His effortless deflection of my master's aggressive swings served as a stark reminder of the gap in their combat abilities, his superior skill cooling the heated exchange and highlighting their disparity.
With a graceful maneuver, Aelor dodged another of my master's charged, emotion-driven swings, stating firmly yet calmly, "I am a Maltanis," underscoring his lineage's renown. The momentum carried my lord forward, causing him to stumble and fall, his attack missing its mark.
Lord Maltanis, stepping back with a taunting grin, announced, "Death is the sole outcome of defiance against me." He then drew closer to his prostrate son, weapon in hand, his dominance clear as he positioned the blade near my lord's throat, asserting, "Your life continues at my behest. Remember that," leaving no room for doubt or challenge.
"You hold yourself in high regard, father," my lord bravely retorts, his voice tinged with agitation, never wavering as he keeps his eyes fixed on his rival. With a defiant smile forming on his face, he continues, "Your own cowardice is what keeps me alive." Lord Maltanis does not seem to appreciate this notion and exerts more force on his sword, causing a drop of blood to escape my lord's neck. Unfazed, my master remarks, "I see it in your eyes... the fear."
With a deliberate movement, my lord grasps the sharp steel of his father's sword with both hands, undeterred by the potential danger. Maintaining his provocative smile, he performs the unthinkable and uses his strength to pull his father's sword towards him. Lord Maltanis, relying on instinct, swiftly withdraws his sword, countering his son's actions.
"Killing me would only bring that family you brag about so much to an end," my lord asserts, standing up with the sword that moments ago threatened him. "Which would make you the worst disgrace of the lineage you revere." The two now face each other, my lord maintaining his confident smile, while his father frowns, eyes reflecting a mix of anger and pride.
Lord Maltanis closes his eyes and acknowledges, "Fear," regaining control in his voice and displaying the innate confidence he is known for. "You're right." Opening his eyes, he directs a cold look towards my master, Aelor solemnly affirming, "But it is not out of concern for the judgment of my ancestors." Closing the distance further, Lord Maltanis uses his free arm to deliver a punch to my master's chest, causing him to finally drop his sword. "The only thing that conceives shame in me is you."
Gripping his regained sword firmly, the Head of House Maltanis positions himself to strike his son.
Overwhelmed with dread at the imminent violence, I shut my eyes, unwilling to witness the act.
Contrary to my fears, the expected clash doesn't occur. Instead, a thud suggests the blunt edge of the sword was used to knock my lord to the ground, as evidenced by his prone form, unmarred by cuts.
"Your existence is a blight upon Valyria, being born a Maltanis," Lord Maltanis bitterly articulates, his disdain palpable with each uttered syllable.
His gaze, icy and piercing, settles on my lord, its intensity sending shivers through me.
"The prospect of our house's future under your feeble leadership fills me with dread," he coldly states.
With those final words, Aelor Maltanis departs, leaving an oppressive silence in his wake.
Time stretches interminably before I muster the strength to rise and make my way to my fallen master. He lies motionless, save for his gaze fixed skyward.
Approaching his side, I venture, "My lord..."
Without shifting his gaze, my master's faint reply comes, "I'm fine, Malon."
Now closer, the gravity of his condition becomes clear.
"But my lord..." I start, only to be interrupted by the sight of a solitary tear escaping his eye.
"It was my choice, guided by my own motives," he declares, his voice laden with frustration.
Attempting a smile and finally looking at me, he offers reassurance, "You're not to blame."
Despite understanding his noble intent, I'm overwhelmed by my inadequacy, silently lamenting my helplessness.
How pathetically useless you are, Malon.
Elaerys I
Nearly two years have passed since my life was irrevocably altered, erasing everything I once held dear. The identity I clung to, the future I had envisioned—all were stripped away by the capricious decision of someone who deemed the world his own. My life wasn't lost through any fault of my own; it was stolen from me. In an instant, I went from being the daughter of a respected Lysene merchant to the captive of a Valyrian noble, a dragonlord.
Yet, here I stand.
The morning's warmth, brightened by the sun and tempered by the sea breeze, lifts the spirits of all around me, even someone as shattered as myself.
Today marks the fifth day of our journey, and according to Lord Malon, we should be nearing Lord Naeliar's territories. The sight of a farm in the distance hints at a potential new beginning, a semblance of home for those of us cast into this uncertain life.
Our caravan is diverse, comprising individuals of various ages and the pack animals carrying our provisions. The extended duration of our travel hints at a kinder leadership under Lord Malon, a welcome change perceived by many, as reflected in their hopeful gazes.
However, my own scars remain unhealed, leaving me unable to fully embrace this optimism. My daughter is the sole treasure I cling to, her welfare the only concern that drives me to endure. Despite the label of slavery that now defines me, I've vowed to shield her from my fate, sacrificing my remaining dignity if necessary.
This resolve is tested by the peculiar arrangement observed during our journey—my infant daughter has been under Lord Naeliar's care, stirring rumors of kinship within our ranks.
What are Lord Malon's intentions?
As a slave, my child inherits my status. It's unheard of for a noble to mingle his lineage with that of a servant. This conundrum occupies my thoughts, challenging my hopes for our future.
Master Rogare had impressed upon me the importance of unwavering obedience, especially since Lord Malon was associated with a notably influential family. It puzzled me why such a critical responsibility would fall to someone as newly acquainted with him as myself.
My mind was a whirlwind of unanswered questions and speculative assumptions, each more unsettling than the last. Fear gripped me tightly.
A sudden command to halt snapped me out of my reverie. Turning towards the source, I saw a soldier in armor calling for us to regroup. Obediently, we congregated, anticipation and curiosity among us.
Lord Malon had set out early, likely to assess his newly acquired estate. His return was marked by a seriousness that under different circumstances might have signaled bad news. Yet, those of us who had seen the regent behavior these recent days understood his stern expression to be typical. However, having spent moments close to Lord Naeliar, I had witnessed a softer side, his face lighting up with genuine joy when looking upon him—a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. It made me wonder if I bore a similar expression when looking upon my daughter, Haelena.
"We're nearing our new home," Lord Malon declared, his mood seemingly uplifted by the prospect.
"As I surveyed the manor," he continued after dismounting, "it became evident." He paced before us, eyeing the assembly as if to gauge our numbers. "It cannot accommodate us all," he concluded, his eyes scanning the crowd.
"We'll need to split into groups, with some setting up camp outside." While the announcement might have taken some by surprise, the absence of any visible discontent spoke volumes about the group's discipline.
"The situation is temporary; we're already addressing it," Lord Malon assures, before his gaze shifts to single out one of his attendants. "You," he states, and it's clear whom he's addressing without further indication. "You will oversee the carpenters and masons."
Taking measured steps towards the designated individual, Lord Malon inquires, "Your name?"
"Gerah, my lord," responds a slave, his gray hair and beard suggesting age, yet his physique hints at enduring strength despite the wear of years.
With a brief nod, Lord Malon moves on to another servant. "You," he gestures, then, scanning the crowd, adds, "And you."
He proceeds to delegate. "Both of you will supervise the farms and fishing efforts."
Looking back to Gerah, he demands, "Names."
"Breza, my lord," comes the reply from one, whose dark hair and distinctive voice hint at a background not native to High Valyrian.
"Skoro, my lord," states the other, sharing a similar accent but sporting gray hair, albeit a different shade from Gerah's.
Acknowledging their responses with a nod, Lord Malon gives a final instruction to the assembly. "The blacksmiths will organize their own tasks and report directly to me with any requirements."
As Lord Malon makes his way to his horse, signaling the end of the current discussion, he unexpectedly calls out my name.
"Elaerys."
Caught off guard, as I hadn't anticipated being directly involved in these assignments, it takes me a moment to register that he was indeed addressing me. His continued movement towards his horse did little to clarify his intentions, leaving me momentarily bewildered amidst the puzzled looks of my companions.
Promptly stepping forward, I prepare myself to respond appropriately. However, Lord Malon preempts my attempt with a simple directive, "Come with me."
I hasten to comply, quickly closing the distance between us. He acknowledges my approach and leads his horse back along the path from which he had arrived.
Side by side, I steal a glance at him, noting the unchanging sternness of his expression. The silence that stretches between us feels endless, broken only when I nearly trip, realizing I had been fixated on him. Embarrassed by my lapse, I redirect my attention forward.
Unable to endure the quiet any longer, I initiated conversation, "Lord Malon." Before I can continue, he interjects, "You have many questions." His tone, unexpectedly gentle compared to his earlier sternness, suggests an openness I hadn't anticipated.
Indeed, I am full of inquiries, especially those concerning the welfare of my child and me. If pressed to prioritize, those bearing the most significant impact on our safety and future would undoubtedly take precedence.
"I know you are not a slave," he remarks, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. I had suspected my distinct treatment hinted at my unique status, yet it left me puzzled, given my unremarkable past didn't seem to justify such distinction.
" At least you weren't for long," he adds softly, his captivating gray eyes meeting mine, revealing a mix of sorrow and empathy.
Maintaining his composed demeanor and soft-spoken manner, he begins to elucidate, "Your eyes..."
In his gaze, I discern a fleeting sadness and understanding.
"In them, I see both hope and despair," he observes, then shifts his focus back to the path ahead. After a moment, he elaborates, "At your age, most would have surrendered to apathy."
Is it inevitable to become numb to dehumanization? To accept the fate of a slave as the norm?
I am determined not to grant my captor the victory of crushing my spirit. Retaining hope, I believe, is a defiance against being reduced to what I was labeled.
Understanding my own worth, I refuse to let a tyrant dictate my value.
Even the mere thought of my captor stirs a tumult of negative emotions. However, realizing Lord Malon's attentive gaze upon me somehow tempers my burgeoning anger.
As our gazes meet, Lord Malon promptly shifts his attention forward, breaking the brief moment of connection. "I've spent my life among both nobles and slaves," he shares, his voice tinged with melancholy, accompanied by a wistful smile.
It's hard to envision the regent lord in the company of servants, given the elegance in his movements and the refined manner of his speech, clearly the product of a privileged upbringing.
"And I've witnessed the conduct of Valyrian lords firsthand."
Considering Lys's reputation as a haven of indulgence, it's hardly shocking to think that its denizens have suffered at the hands of Valyrian aristocracy. The notion that many of these nobles met their end at the hands of their own enslaved people following the catastrophe of Valyria seems almost expected.
He briefly closes his eyes, then, reopening them, fixes his gaze back on me. Each time he does so, I find myself compelled to meet his eyes, a reaction that feels almost instinctive. This time, however, he doesn't look away.
"Lord Rogare has informed me of your education."
Reflecting on my past, I glance skyward, memories of my father's shop brimming with books flooding back. "I was raised among merchants," I explain. "I seized every opportunity to read and learn."
My parents envisioned a brighter future for me, which, in their eyes, entailed marrying into the family of a prominent merchant. Thankfully, they regarded my passion for reading as a benign interest, allowing me to pursue it without objection.
Yet, the notion of my worth being tied solely to the children I could bear was something I could not accept. In a world where women's ambitions are severely limited, I clung to the belief that education could shield me, a mere commoner, from a fate within the confines of a brothel.
How mistaken I was.
"Your daughter," he says, his gaze averted, "Is the man who claimed you as his property also her father?"
His question unleashes a torrent of thoughts within me—scenarios I had envisioned, yet none prepared me for the abruptness of this moment. The suddenness leaves me speechless, uncertain if responding would be prudent or even what to say. The silence that follows seems to stretch indefinitely, with Lord Malon interpreting my silence as confirmation.
"Do you love her?"
It appears a conclusion has been drawn by him.
"More than anything," I reply without hesitation.
The word "love" had always seemed straightforward until she came into my life, reshaping my entire understanding of its significance. Previously, I had naively believed I comprehended the depth of affection my parents bore for me. Yet, her presence transformed my world, imbuing my existence with purpose amidst the ruins of my former life. She was the light in the darkness, turning my fears into hope with just the sound of her laughter.
"What do you think would happen to her if they knew who her father was?" I ask him, puzzled by Lord Malon's implication. My daughter is innocent; why should she face consequences for the identity of her father?
"Your daughter," he repeats, his tone now devoid of the earlier warmth.
Lord Malon steps closer, compelling me to halt and confront him directly. The warmth I once saw in his gray eyes has vanished, replaced by a stern, commanding presence.
"You must relinquish your claim to her," he demands, his voice brooking no dissent.
"What?" My response is a faint whisper, barely audible, born of shock and disbelief at his demand.
A surge of emotion floods me, a mix of indignation and sorrow threatening to spill over as tears, yet I fight to maintain composure, unwilling to expose my vulnerability.
Experience has taught me a harsh truth: all men, it seems, are cut from the same cloth, their names the only distinguishing factor between them. Even those who display seemingly genuine kindness and empathy are merely donning a mask, perpetuating a deception.
How foolish I was to believe otherwise.
"You will be her guardian, ensure her education, but she must not know of the bond you both share," he instructs, though his words barely register through my swirling storm of anger and disillusionment. Why must my aspirations for something more, something beyond traditional confines, be met with such cruel fate? Is this the divine response to my yearning for a different path?
Unable to suppress my emotions any longer, tears betray my inner turmoil. Lord Malon seems taken aback by my sorrow, his previously stoic demeanor softening, his eyes suddenly reflecting a genuine sense of empathy.
Compelled by his unexpected show of compassion, I find myself asking, "Why are you doing this, Lord Malon?"
"To protect my lord," he replies, reverting to his initial firmness, a reminder of the motive behind his directive.
"I don't understand," I confess, breaking our eye contact to stare at the ground, overwhelmed by the dissonance between his actions and the persona he projects. It's difficult to reconcile this contradiction, to see beyond the facade and grasp the truth behind his intentions.
"I truly don't understand, Lord Malon."
The ensuing silence seems to confirm that the Regent is either at a loss for how to further elucidate his statement or he's meticulously selecting words to embellish the narrative he's crafting, perhaps more fabrications.
"She hails from Valyrian descent," he finally offers, as though this revelation should clarify everything. Yet, I'm still left puzzling over the significance of his words.
Frustrated by his vague explanation, I meet his gaze with a challenging look, only to be met with his usual solemn expression. However, it's the genuine emotion in his eyes that captures my focus, the only aspect of the regent lord that feels truly honest.
Realizing that no additional explanation would be forthcoming, I reflect on all that has transpired. It doesn't take long for me to draw a parallel between the empathy I witnessed in him and the solidarity I've observed among the enslaved, a mutual understanding born of shared suffering.
With a sudden insight, I blurt out, "Is Lord Naeliar...?"
But before I could complete my inquiry, Malon turns away, presenting me with his back, effectively cutting off the conversation.
"She will lead a life befitting her heritage," he asserts, leaving me to ponder the implications of my realization and his abrupt departure.
I can feel resentment brewing within me at how frequently he has interrupted me, cutting off my thoughts and questions.
Yet, without fully turning around, Lord Malon slightly shifts his head to catch a glimpse of me, continuing, "She will be raised alongside my lord." It all starts to make sense now; Master Rogare must have informed him about my situation, and what seemed like kindness was actually a carefully orchestrated manipulation.
As he turns back towards me and steps forward, locking his gaze with mine, he whispers, "I need to trust you." It's a statement that echoes the way my life has always been shaped by the desires of others.
Haelena, my daughter, is now just a pawn in his plan for Lord Naeliar, her fate determined by someone she's never even met. Once again, I find myself a mere puppet, my strings pulled by another's will. The sense of powerlessness is overwhelming.
With a bitter taste in my throat and a heated tone fueled by my defiance against life's unfairness, I question, "Will she be made a prisoner?"
Lord Malon steps back, taken aback by my accusation. His face registers offense at the suggestion that such a fate would be part of his intentions.
At this point, I don't know what to believe anymore. My daughter is being utilized for his convenience, and neither she nor I have any power to alter these circumstances. Is this what life has been reduced to for us?
"You love her," he states simply, as if that fact alone should be my guiding light amidst the confusion and manipulation surrounding us.
She is the pillar of my strength, yet in believing I had nothing left to lose and could therefore sacrifice everything for her, I overlooked that she is also my most profound vulnerability. The thought of losing her is unbearable.
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to endure any more of this, but does my desire even matter?
A numbness envelops me, draining away the anger and frustration, leaving me adrift in an empty void. Is this the state of resignation Lord Malon referred to, the fate of those enslaved?
"They are bound by a truth that could threaten their lives," he says, recapturing my attention. The realization hits that my daughter could be targeted simply because of her father's identity. Initially, I hadn't considered the risk, assuming she'd be overlooked as just another slave. But now, two people are already aware of her lineage.
"And we both share the goal of protecting them," he adds.
Am I being selfish in my decisions? By denying this path, am I also making choices for her, depriving her of potential alternatives?
As her mother, do I have the right to make these decisions?
My primary responsibility is her protection, but at what cost?
Malon steps away, once again presenting me with only the view of his back. The silence between us lingers before he partially turns his head, poised to speak again.
"She'll live joyfully, free from the harsh life that could have been hers," he assures.
Despite the gravity of our conversation, I find myself wondering how often he's turned away like this, concealing his thoughts and emotions.
"Isn't that sufficient?"
I do not know, the only thing I know for certain is that when the book of the history of my life that I had longed for is finished, my baby will steal the spotlight by being the most beautiful chapter.
Haelena, you are my present and my future. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.
There's nothing I wouldn't endure for you.
In this moment, I realize he's right.
It is enough.
Malon II
As I sit reviewing letters at the table, I reflect on the recent progress we've made. The estate is gradually coming to life, with my focus primarily on the cultivation of the fields and the ongoing construction of additional living quarters for the servants still without shelter.
Lord Rogare's assurances about the land have proven true – its beauty and fertility fuel my optimism for the future of the house that my young lord will one day oversee.
Despite our achievements, much remains to be done, with priorities demanding immediate attention, especially security. While it will consume most of our resources and time, our current limitations in manpower and materials mean we must wait about three weeks before starting, as both are en route. Before leaving Lys, I secured trustworthy suppliers, recommended by Lord Rogare, to assist with our security plans.
This brings back my thoughts to Lord Rogare. While I'm still wary of fully trusting him, his actions are beginning to suggest that my decision to work with him was correct. It was a gamble, but one I felt comfortable taking, knowing the Rogare family's debt to my late lord Galaenar.
I won't forget that my great lord had described Lotho Rogare as cunning and ambitious – a combination not to be underestimated.
I've always been cautious with Lysene merchants, aware of their self-interest. Despite that, I cannot deny that he seems to have enough honor to remember why his family has been a rising power in this city. It's ironic that even in death, my lord Galaenar still contributes to the wealth of the Rogare house, just as he did during his lifetime.
Lost in thought, I'm interrupted by Vaogenka, one of our guards, entering the room. I chose this quarter for its ample space, useful for managing the myriad responsibilities now under my charge. "Master Malon, a rider requests an audience with you," he informs me.
Following the open-door tradition of my late lord Maltanis, a practice I've found valuable for addressing the unpredictable nature of daily affairs, I gesture for the visitor to be brought in.
"Waiting for someone to answer the door takes longer than tearing it down," he would often say. While I've never tested this theory myself, given our differing strengths, I suspect the outcomes would vary significantly.
Acknowledging Vaogenka's announcement, the towering Astaporian steps aside to allow the rider entry. The man who enters is a young, dark-skinned individual of stocky build but modest height, which explains why he was initially obscured by Vaogenka.
Advancing with a respectful bow, the rider's accent betrays his southern island origins as he states, "Master Malon, I've brought a message from Master Rogare." He steps closer, extending a letter towards me with both hands, his head still inclined downward.
I moved to accept the letter, offering my thanks with a nod. "You have my gratitude."
Glancing to the side, I call out to another attendant, "Moreo."
"Yes, Master?" responds a man with dark black hair and an ever-present smile, emerging from behind the still-bowing messenger.
"Attend to our guest," I instruct, turning back towards my desk.
"Of course, Lord Malon," Moreo replies with a bow, guiding the rider out of the room.
Seated once again, I hold the sealed message from Lord Rogare, curiosity piqued. We had departed Lys not long ago, and the urgency of this correspondence suggests that something significant must have transpired in our absence.
"Vaogenka, summon Elaerys here immediately," I command, my focus unwavering from the message I've begun to dissect.
Having read through the letter multiple times, each pass reaffirming the astonishing news it contained, I finally set it down on the table and recline in my chair, absorbing the implications.
A self-proclaimed dragonlord, Aurion, has been making headlines across western Essos. Claiming to be the last pureblood of Valyrian lineage, he's rallying an army to retake the Freehold, declaring himself the new Emperor of Valyria.
The thought of such a claimant sparks an almost humorous image in my mind. If the late Lord Maltanis heard of a Qohtigar vying for the Valyrian throne, he'd likely rise from his grave to challenge him. No one, living or dead, is more deserving of Valyrian ruling than my lord Galeon, seemingly chosen by the gods themselves.
The absurdity of the situation provokes a spontaneous laugh. The circumstances that emboldened Aurion are almost comical. His family, like the Targaryens who left Valyria long ago, hadn't been seen in the city for over a decade. But while the Targaryens' departure was shrouded in mystery, the Qohtigars were compelled to flee, having lost their standing in the empire's power struggles. Their decline in recent generations had left them without a foothold in Valyrian politics, unlike my lord Galeon, whose lineage and legacy remain unchallenged.
In the midst of my uncontrollable laughter, I suddenly become aware of Elaerys standing at the doorway, her expression one of bewilderment, as though she had stumbled upon someone who had lost his sanity. Feeling a rush of blood to my face, I hastily try to recompose myself, adjusting my posture in the chair.
Elaerys, now wearing a playful smile, tilts her head slightly and greets me in the melodious Lysene accent, "Master." Her amusement is evident. Should I pretend not to notice her jest? It seems the only way to salvage some semblance of dignity.
Eager to shift the atmosphere, I rise from my chair and approach her, holding the letter containing the information from Lord Rogare. "Lord Rogare has conveyed some intriguing news," I say, handing her the letter.
After she reads it thoroughly, she inquires, "Are you planning to return to Lys, Master?"
I nod in affirmation as I retrieve the letter from her. "Gerah mentioned we're in need of some supplies."
Returning to the table, I add, "So, this doesn't really alter my original plans." However, the need to expedite my departure was not part of my initial itinerary. The current state of affairs here makes it more pressing, and fortunately, I now have someone I feel I can trust to oversee things in my absence.
Given the current chaotic climate and the increase in piracy, especially along the coast where my lord's lands are situated, we won't have peace for long. Lord Rogare has promised to assist us as much as he can, including providing his own men for our protection until we can better secure our territory. These men are expected to arrive soon.
Standing, but directing my gaze towards Elaerys, I make a declaration loud enough for the guards outside to hear. "You will be in charge of everything here in my absence."
Softening my tone, I advise her, "Only trust those in this room." My gaze remains fixed on hers as I emphasize, "No one else."
Elaerys nods in understanding, and that simple gesture is all the confirmation I need.
With that matter settled, I take a seat to write down a few things that I want to see addressed while I am away.
"Do you intend to travel alone, Master?" Elaerys asks, her voice tinged with worry.
Pausing from my writing, I look up at her, refocusing my attention on the young woman.
"Yes."
The changes looming over Essos necessitate a more robust defense for our coasts, and I must ensure we are prepared.
Lotho Rogare II
As I anticipated this meeting, I expected the reactions I'm now witnessing. Most faces display anger, but it's clear that fear underpins their emotions, keeping the conversation within the bounds of civility.
However, not everyone manages to mask their true feelings.
"We cannot let this stand," declares Vivor Bazanne, his restraint evident despite the flushed face and taut expressions betraying his effort to contain his rage. "We must counter their assertions."
His continued insistence on a forceful response belies the visible strain of maintaining composure. "And how, Lord Bazanne?" someone inquires, a voice I can't place, likely someone of lesser standing. "We lack the manpower and ships to confront Volantis."
Bazanne's glare shifts, possibly towards a newcomer in our assembly. "Surrender?"
That single word shatters his semblance of calm, and he rises, his face twisted in indignation. "Is that what you suggest Lord Haen?!"
From a business standpoint, surrender might be the less costly option, akin to living under a new Valyrian regime. Yet, many here have grown accustomed to their recently acquired freedom, relishing the full control over their wealth and the newfound independence it brings.
"Perhaps a compromise is possible," suggests another unfamiliar voice, adding to the unfolding debate.
"A compromise?!" Bazanne scoffs, clearly unimpressed with the notion.
As the discussion heats up, Lorreo Tareon, a seasoned Lysene, interjects, rising to claim the spotlight momentarily. "And what terms, Lord Orthys, do you believe we could negotiate? The services we might provide?" His words, laden with implications in Lys, the city of pleasure, elicit a smile from me.
"The price of our own lives?"
The room erupts into a cacophony of dissenting voices, each man shouting over the other, their words unified only in their underlying theme of disagreement. The notion of valuing one's life as a commodity seems abhorrent, particularly to those accustomed to trading in the lives of others.
The irony of it all is palpable.
The conversation is veering off course with each impassioned outburst from Lord Bazanne. The need for a more rational, calculated approach is evident if we're to navigate this precarious situation effectively.
Lord Lorreo seizes control of the conversation, stating, "They seek to dominate and enslave us as Valyria once did." His words briefly quell the chaos, creating a moment of silence.
With the room quieted, Lord Bazanne, having regained his composure, takes the lead again. "We've all seen the proclamation," he asserts, referring to the bold declaration from Volantis. Their ambition is undeniable and somewhat admirable in its reach.
"Isn't their intent obvious?" he questions. Many of us here have engaged in similar acts of conquest, seizing opportunities through force. The key difference was the relatively low risk our actions carried.
"They proudly claim to be the first daughter of Valyria," he continues, dismissing the romanticism of such a claim for its potential to antagonize a significant portion of Essos.
"Heirs to the empire," he scoffs, a title young Maltanis would surely contest if given the chance.
"The tigers of Volantis have always been prideful," he adds, a trait shared by all who have savored the seductive taste of power.
"This is no time for cowardice," he concludes, reigniting the previously subdued tensions. Accusing this assembly of esteemed individuals of cowardice is far from advisable.
As the room descends back into argument, I realize the solution lies plainly before us, yet it goes unheeded, lost in the stubborn refusal to consider the collective wisdom expressed in our very discourse.
Amidst the ongoing tumult, my eyes search for Lord Lorreo, hoping he might intervene once more. He catches my gaze and, understanding my plea, responds with a subtle shake of his head, indicating his refusal to intercede.
Realizing I can no longer maintain a low profile, I stand and project my voice across the hall. "My lords!" Surprisingly, my call to order proves more effective than anticipated, and a hushed silence falls over the room.
"Times like this call for composure," I state, holding everyone's attention. "We must avoid infighting." I notice some lords exchanging glances with their rivals, indicating my words might not have fully resonated with them.
Raising my hand to prevent further discord, I continue, "All positions presented here hold merit."
For Lys to retain some degree of independence, essential for my plans, we must navigate this crisis carefully. The tigers of Volantis, vying for control, pose a significant threat, comparable to the power of Braavos.
Stepping towards the room's center, I address them, "Volantis seeks to fill the void left by our former rulers." Lord Lorreo nods in agreement.
"And we lack the resources to confront them directly," I add, turning to Lord Haen, who acknowledges the statement with his own nod.
Shifting my focus to Lord Orthys, I suggest, "Our best course is to negotiate." He remains impassive, his lack of response eliciting a wry smile from me.
Anticipating further objections, I quickly address Lord Bazanne, gesturing for him to hold his thoughts. "Not with Volantis," I clarify, calming his rising concern.
Standing once again at the center, I face the assembly.
"They claim to be heirs of Valyria," I observe, noting the irony. Valyria lies in ruins, yet some cling to its legacy, like children unwilling to wean off their mother's embrace. It's time we accept that we no longer need Valyria's guidance.
"I'm curious what our sister cities think of this claim," I conclude, maintaining the smile I had shown Lord Orthys.
"Lord Rogare is correct," Lord Lorreo interjects, affirming the need for strategic alliances.
"We need allies," another lord, unfamiliar to me, adds. I turn to identify him, but his face doesn't trigger any recollection. I simply nod in acknowledgment, and he returns the gesture.
The room buzzes with murmurs, making it challenging to discern every comment.
"Pentos might follow Volantis's lead," someone speculates, a reasonable assumption that adds urgency to our deliberations.
"Braavos will never ally with us," another counters. True, given Braavos's staunch opposition to slavery, their assistance would require fundamental changes in Lysene society.
"Tyrosh? Myr?" Lord Tareon muses. "They are likely in the same situation we find ourselves in," adds Lord Bazanne, his expression indicating agreement with the current line of discussion. "A coalition against Volantis seems a shared interest."
The consensus seems to be forming among us, or at the very least, a majority. It's time to formalize this agreement and conclude the meeting.
"So, my lords," I address the assembly, "have we reached a unanimous decision?"