Chapter 8
Part I

They marched over the marshland, six-thousand boots pulling out of the mud. Stannis rode at the head with the other captains, at Handtaker's side. The commander's dark eyes were fixed intently forward above his hooklike nose; it made him appear like a great hawk, scouring the plains for prey. Behind him were the men of the Company. They were men of every kind: small dark Braavosi, silver-haired Valyrians, big sunbronzed Dothraki, men of the blood of Yi-Ti and Qarth and Old Ghis and a hundred other races. Only a few were from Westeros, and none of those were men of breeding. They were no less coarse and greedy and cruel than the others. Stannis had learnt that lesson long ago.

For all their lack of grandiosity, were he a man to wager, he would have wagered on them against any comparable host from his own homeland. Westerosi hosts were led by knights and lords with a surfeit of pride and a lack of knowledge, for wars in the Seven Kingdoms were rare. Stannis himself had never seen a battle when he was first placed in command of a great host. At the time, that had seemed natural to him. With retrospect, he shuddered to think of his inexperience. The Company of the Cat would never have allowed such. These men may not be good men—Stannis suspected that if they had been born in Westeros most of them would have met the Wall or the noose—but they were battle-hardened killers, one and all, and every man of them had spent much of his life at butchery. He had little doubt that the free companies that fought the great wars of the East, if enough could be gathered, could have swept aside the host of Mace Tyrell that had besieged Storm's End in a day.

That thought—and the thought of Highgarden sacked and despoiled, the Tyrells' fields in flames—summoned a smile to his thin lips. One day, he told himself, wishing, hoping, dreaming. One day.

The boatmen awaited them at the east end of the lagoon. Handtaker spoke with them curtly; iron coins exchanged hands; and soon they were aboard the ship that would take them to Braavos. On the other side of the lagoon, facing the sea, the great form of the Titan could be seen from here. It was more gigantic than almost anything made by the hand of man Stannis had seen, though to a boy born of Storm's End it seemed rather small. It had withstood a thousand Narrow Sea storms, and it bristled with murder holes and archers and catapults.

Yet the Titan faced only the seaward side. Pretty though it was, it was a work of pride more than aught else. The true walls of Braavos were made of wood, and came now before him.

One, another, another, another… dozens… one could see no end to them? Hundreds upon hundreds they were; Stannis could not have said how many. Braavos of the Hundred Isles lay enclosed in its lagoon, and that lagoon swarmed with purple-painted warships. Stannis had often seen the fleet of the Arbour, the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms. The Braavosi fleet must have had more than twice that number. Only the Volantene fleet came close, and it was no equal of Braavos. The fleet of the Secret City was unsurpassed and unrivalled by any known to man, save only in ancient days when red-and-golden ships had sailed beneath the dragon banners of Old Valyria.

Watched keen-eyed by the sailors of those ships, by their leave, the Company of the Cat passed into the city.

Everything in this place is done to excess, Stannis thought. There were no knights, little lords and leaders of men who also had a role in war; there were the men of the free companies, who dedicated their whole lives to it. There were no septons but priests of a thousand gods, each more bewildering than the last. There were no king's laws, but the laws of countless city-states, most of them tributaries to other cities, and at the apex of them all the Free Cities that acknowledged no yoke save that of their own men. There were no highborn ladies, or at least not such as Stannis knew them; there were magisters' wives and concubines, who sometimes seemed worlds apart and sometimes scarce distinguishable to him, and the courtesans, whose bizarre veneration was like nothing in the Seven Kingdoms. There were no castles, but magisters who dwelt in manses so palatial they put the Red Keep to shame. There were no lords; magisters were somewhat like them, but there seemed no clear distinction between a low magister and a high merchant, and surely that must be awry. Leaders of men should not lower themselves to dabble in silks and spices.

Wrought awry though it may be, Essos was resplendent in its decadence. The Free Cities were greater and richer and more peopled than King's Landing, every one. The same could be said of embarrassingly many of the lesser cities that paid them tribute. Wars were without end, the Free Cities ever-partaking in dances of hate; if men were not slaying one another on the Shivering Sea, the free companies might voyage as far as Slaver's Bay in search of blood, and somewhere they would find it. The heat made the most scorching summers of the Seven Kingdoms seem temperate. The rivers were broader and faster-flowing than the Trident or the Blackwater. The unimaginable expanses of plains dwarfed even the fullness of the Riverlands and the Reach, and to the east of those, the Bone Mountains overtopped the Mountains of the Moon, the tallest in Westeros, as a man overtops a child. The riders of the Barrowlands, most famed of all those who dwelt west of the sea, were no equals of the horsemanship of the Dothraki. And when he delved into crumbling temples and tombs and secret places, the histories that were remembered on the Rhoyne stretched far further backward than any written in the Seven Kingdoms, full of tales of bravery and woe and bloodshed. The men were fierce, the manses rich, the women lovely (and audaciously dressed), the lands vast in breadth and in time… even the food felt like tasting fire.

No matter how long Stannis had to stay, he knew he would never feel at home here.

The Company's ships drew closer to the harbour, where a large group of Braavosi were gathered awaiting them. Anchor was dropped. Men began to disembark. Gemilio Nikar—a pale old gold-ringed captain, tall, though not as tall as a Baratheon—shook Stannis briefly. "We'll leave soon, Sunsetlander," he growled, giving a short glance ashore. "Be ready."

Stannis heard him. He did not bother to reply. Largely ensconced in the skins of his eagles, soaring high above, feeling the wind on his many wings and gazing over the endless little isles that emerged like pearls from the lagoon, Stannis wondered what would await him here. He had heard great things about Essosi feasts, but had never before enjoyed the banquets the mighty of the Free Cities reserved for their own. The Company of the Cat had been amply honoured and rewarded after crushing another slave-revolt in some anonymous province of Myr, for that was a common occurrence for the employment of the free companies… but while the commander and his captains were invited to dine with the noble lords of the blood of Valyria, the men were gingerly permitted entry to one of the lesser manses and given a meal somewhat better than the usual foraged stuffs. Stannis knew not what to believe. Lately raised to captain, he had never set foot in such halls for himself, nor in any other place so fine, since his departure from his own hall here in Braavos early in his exile.

Would there truly be such a selection of dishes as he had heard from the other men? Every meat mankind had ever thought to eat, along with fine wines and fresh fish and tarts of unbelievably exquisite making, course after course after course such that not the most gluttonous of men could ever hope to finish it all? Would there truly be feather-beds for the captains of the host, and scented baths, and beautiful dancing girls, and simpering servants scurrying after their every need?

It had been years since Stannis had dwelt in such comfort. Yet the Company of the Cat had won great victories for Braavos, and in those victories, most especially the victory at Nyrelos, he had played a fair part. And so he stood where he stood, calm, remote, unreachable, with his thoughts in the clouds gazing down distantly on the grandeur of the city below as the wind flowed under his feathers. By that means, he coolly ignored the irritable heating of his body in his armour that was bothering the other men, musing on what fancies the decadence of the east might bring.

Stannis smelt something pungent near his face.

He recoiled like a snake, shocked. At once he looked around with more than man's eyes; two of his eagles were swooping lower, seeking glimpses. He put his gauntleted hand to his face. It came away brown.

There were Braavosi men all around them, poorly clad, struggling, held off by the fists of men of the Company of the Cat—strangely, only the fists, not sword-point. Their faces were bright with anger and their shouts and jeers filled the air.

"Go home! Go home!" This from an old woman in ragged clothing.

"No war!" cried another, a young man.

"Rich man's war, poor man's fight!"

"Fuck outlanders!"

"Fuck the fat-cats!"

"Fuck the Sealord!"

"Out of our city!"

"Out!—out!—out!—out!—"

When some of them saw the dung on the face of Stannis, one of the captains, their jeers grew louder.

"Get out, shitface!"

"Braavos don't want you here!"

"Fuck Sealord Antaryon!"

"Fuck the war!"

Rage took hold of Stannis, flaming red and roaring. They dare? They dare?! After all that I have done for them? He wiped his gauntlet clean on his armour and went for his goldenheart bow; the other dashed to his quiver. One of those rioters would serve excellently as a sacrifice if requisite, but for this he did not need one; at this range he had no need of secret sorceries to make his arrows fly farther and faster, swift as the wind, and strike true; with so many men so close, he could hardly miss…

A gauntleted hand clutched his arm. Captain Nikar hissed in his ear, "Stay your bow, Sunsetlander."

"Their disrespect—" Stannis spat. He could not even finish the phrase, so choked was his voice with fury. Stannis had his father's build, tall and broad and strong, surpassing most men; that sufficed to pull savagely free of his comrade's grip. Nikar staggered, near flung off his feet by the force of the blow; but he came back, and he and two others gripped Stannis by the arm.

"You must not. This is the way in Braavos; there are always rioters. Massacre a bunch of Braavosi freeholders and our patrons will lose power for sure; the city will be enraged; we'll lose everything—"

"They are insolent," snarled Stannis, struggling. "They should not dare. Insolent smallfolk are—"

"You are not in the Sunset Lands! Ways are different here!"

Another voice spoke. "Stay. Your. Bow."

Stannis had not survived for six years by disregarding those commands. Wrath warred with self-preservation. The latter triumphed.

He dropped his arm. "Your will, commander."

"We will soon be with our patrons," Handtaker said in his softest-spoken voice, the one that was most filled with the promise of cruelty to the disobedient. "The freeholding men of this city, smallfolk though you'd call them, think highly of themselves. The great men of Braavos have men experienced in quelling such disorder without slaughter such as you would commit. We await them. Until then, I have no use for men who lose their wits at the whiff of shit. Do I make myself clear?"

There was no choice if he wished to keep his head. "Yes, commander."

Soon, indeed, a tide of armed men in uniform surged down the streets, better-dressed than the mob. Ignoring shouts of "Fat-cats' slaves!" and "Traitors!", they rushed among the rioters with weapons in hand. Stannis saw they bore no swords; their weapons were made of wood, and they seemed practised in giving the rioters a beating and throwing them off without doing them great harm.

The uniformed men badged with the Titan parted ways, and one emerged from among them: a pudgy middle-aged man with some unfortunate's blood running down his fists. "Lord Handtaker," he greeted, in Braavosi with a thick Volantene accent.

"Master Levoryn," Handtaker said. "A pleasure, though I would that it were under better circumstances."

"So would I," Levoryn said. "Permit me to escort you to the Sealord's Palace. His Excellency would be pleased to see you."

"'Course he would," muttered Bloodbeard. "We won his war for him."

Stannis thought that would have merited a sharp look from Handtaker, but it gained none. The commander must be angrier than he seems.

At a nod from Handtaker, the men consented to be led away to a barracks on the other side of the city. Stannis and the other captains followed Handtaker towards the east end of the harbour, where golden domes and gleaming spires rose out of the mists.

Once they had passed through several columns of unsmiling purple-clad guards, they were led up flights of marble stairs and through great oaken doors to private rooms. Stannis had to wave off a servant who meant to help him remove his armour; it had been so many years since he had not done it for himself. Every sight was wondrous. The lovely woven rug beneath his feet depicted a stern-faced lord whose name Stannis did not know, lifting a sword, slender and silvery as a shard of starlight, towards a huge host of animalistic Pentoshi. It was muddied by his socks, even after the removal of his boots, and promptly rushed away without complaint to be cleaned and replaced with another. Once unarmoured, he strode over to the bed and rested a hand on the white pillow, wondering. It is so soft. He had not thought his hand to be dirty, but one of the servants took a single look at the pillow and swept it away.

Eventually he was persuaded to bathe. There was a tub of hot water already prepared for him. He sank in with a groan, and a freckled serving man scrubbed the dirt from his body. After that he was reluctant to let himself rise. When he did, he smelt of roses.

Once upon a time, Stannis realised, this would have seemed natural to him. It was startling to realise how much his exile had changed him.

By now the servants were getting anxious, for the dinner was soon to begin. He rose, and, once dry, they draped silken garments over him, all of them softer and cleaner than anything he remembered. They worked quickly; only the largest-sized clothes they possessed would fit him; and they offered the traditional colours of highborn Braavosi, purples and browns and blacks and dark greys. Stannis preferred black. It had been long since he had wealth enough to garb himself in gold, so it was the closest that he could reach to Baratheon colours.

He wandered from his room in a melancholy mood, his thoughts dwelling on a pale grey tower of stone that he knew he would never see again, rising high and proud on the Narrow Sea's western shore. All this well-treatment made him remember his younger years. He could not help but think of home.

His thoughts a world away, struggling with the urge to send an eagle to gaze there from afar—a futile urge, he knew, for he could not return nevertheless and it only worsened his longing, and yet he was tempted—Stannis allowed himself to be led quickly by the servants. They took him through wide corridors to a hall full of portraits of Sealords past. This, he discovered, was no private dinner; dozens and dozens of Braavosi men were here, greatly outnumbering the sellsword captains from the Company of the Cat and a few other free companies.

Handtaker, his small lean hunter's body seeming out-of-place in these magnificent surroundings, was last to enter, save for the Sealord Ferrego Antaryon himself, a tall fit man whose once-dark hair had more than a few streaks of grey. "Welcome, welcome," Antaryon boomed, "to our valiant friends, who have aided in Braavos's rise to glory!"

There was a polite toast, with restrained sips of the wine, which was superb. Most of his fellow sellswords, Stannis saw, clutched the stem of the glass instead of holding them the proper way, three-fingered.

"Let me introduce my friends," Antaryon said, and swept around the hall, introducing the Braavosi guests. Every man of them was as plainly rich and well-dressed as himself. Stannis could not help but notice that the Sealord clapped some of them on the back, whereas others were merely named.

Handtaker addressed him with chill courtesy. "I thank you for your gracious hospitability, Your Excellency, though I must note that by others in the city we were received unkindly."

"Oh yes, that rabble," the Sealord said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I was sorry to hear they've given you trouble. The mob have been uproarious ever since Sealord Qorayis passed—they loved him, old fool that he was—but especially lately. Lots of them don't like the war. Well, they'll have less cause to complain now that we've won."

"We have won the war," a younger man, Magister Anno Nusaris, noted. "It remains to us to make a peace worthy of the blood that our men sacrificed."

What we sacrificed, you mean, Stannis thought. The men of Braavos itself had contributed very little. The free companies had done the real work.

"More blood was shed by us," said one of the captains of the Ragged Standard.

"Quite so," said Magister Horo Lynalyon. "The free companies did as we bade them, and have been reimbursed properly. Let us not bring unenlightened notions to the table. His Excellency's plans are more than satisfactory."

"Dare I ask," said Handtaker, "what these plans might be? I remind you, friends, that we are new-come here."

"We've been busy winning the war," said Bloodbeard. This time he did get a sharp look from the commander.

"Of course, Lord Handtaker," said the Sealord brightly. He was the first man Stannis had ever met who spoke that moniker as if it were a normal name, without a flicker of uncertainty or fear. This one is too stupid to be afraid, Stannis thought; he was reminded unpleasantly of Robert. "There are many terms the bearded priests have agreed to, more by far than we could have attained if we had not won such a great victory, but the essence of them is this: A swathe of Norvos's backcountry belongs hereafter to us, in the Hills of Norvos from Amaenelos to Menos. That was a lesser gain than we could have taken. In exchange we have something more valuable. The bearded priests may not impose any tax or tariff whatsoever on our commerce on the Rhoyne and all its tributaries. Hence our shipping will be able to proceed freely as far as the Golden Fields, where the Rhoyne starts to belong to the Qohoriks and Volantenes. That is worth more than any mere conquest. Our coffers will be filled with iron."

They fought this war not for honour, not for lands, but for coin, Stannis thought. Upjump merchants and they will make men die to bring them more coin. His lip curled.

"The coffers of the mighty men in Braavos," said Magister Qarro Domaryen, sitting three chairs from Nusaris. "The men who control the great trading fleets of the rivers. I fear the likes of the mob that assailed our brave defenders will not be so easily placated."

Some of the magisters were nodding in agreement, but most of them did not. It seemed that the mighty men of Braavos largely supported their Sealord—either that, or they wanted him to think so, or perhaps the Sealord was predisposed to invite few save for his determined supporters.

"Nonsense," declared a white-haired old magister named Lorio Hyndel. "Freer trade is for the best for all. Goods of all sorts will come to us more cheaply, now that they are without Norvoshi custom. Every shopkeeper in Braavos will be thanking His Excellency."

"Indeed," Antaryon said. "If not—well, permit me the indelicacy, magister, but if they did not approve, this would not be my palace."

The moustached face of Banero Prestayn—a man older than Antaryon, very richly dressed, sitting near Domaryen and Nusaris—tightened.

"This does leave us with a fair deal of newly acquired land," Antaryon went on. "I am of a mind to give it out to eminent men of the city, who will know how to give it proper usage. For all those who believe they have some proposal that will use it to the benefit of the city, my ears are open."

Stannis soon began to see why this dinner was happening. Those magisters who had not supported the war were being invited to name great projects, such as vast plantations of some crop or the construction of new mines, that would serve the Sealord's purpose, along with those who were already allies of the Sealord. If they pleased him, they were to be granted plots of the land that Stannis and his fellows had conquered, as their reward for speaking nicely to their master. Prestayn and his party, invited perhaps solely for politeness's sake, flung barbs at Antaryon, but the numbers of his followers were dwindling.

Antaryon is not like Robert, Stannis decided, despite what he seems. He is just another corrupt courtier. Robert would have handed it all to the first man he took a liking to, then gone away to fuck another whore in Father's bed.

The dinner went on, full of the sort of bribery of stolen goods that Antaryon would doubtless have clapped a man in irons for, if it had been done by a man less lofty than himself. It sickened Stannis to think of the brave men of Norvos treated thus. The axemen of Norvos had fought fiercely and bravely in the defence of their homeland, better by far than the mediocre performance of the Braavosi men; but Braavos was richer and had been able to hire better free companies, so Braavos had won, and now Braavos meant to subjugate them and carve up their country like a chicken.

Late in the evening, Nusaris spoke again. "This talk of lands and usages for the benefit of the city is all very well," he said. "I fear, however, that it may not be to the benefit of the city to take as much as this, as well as Norvos's concessions on commerce. The other Free Cities may be alarmed."

It was not the first time that one of Prestayn's followers had raised this matter tonight, and not the first time that it had been dismissed.

"Ah, don't be so afraid," the Sealord said. "Braavos has fought other Free Cities before. The Lorathi hate the Norvoshi more than either of them hate us. We can defeat Lorath, and we can defeat the alliance of Norvos and Qohor. We have done it before. And now we have our fine friends to help deter any unpleasantness." He gestured at the sellsword captains with a fork. "We're too far from Volantis and the Three Daughters, and as for Pentos, well do they remember when we humbled them. I doubt they wish to repeat the experience. What other threat is there? Neither the Lorathi nor the Norvoshi and Qohoriks have strength enough to overthrow us. Either of them would be foolish to try."

"Quite so, Your Excellency. The matter of trade is a fitting concern for your noble selves," Handtaker said. "As for the small matter of the security of the city, you may leave that to us."

Stannis saw the amusement in those small dark eyes over that hooklike nose, and suddenly he understood that Handtaker did not truly agree with the Sealord. He wants war. He thinks it will come and this is the best way to get it.

"Good man, Lord Handtaker," Antaryon cried, reaching over to pat the commander on the back.

"Our threat may cause them to put aside old hatreds," Nusaris continued, speaking quickly. He sounded genuinely afraid. "Magisters, we are placing ourselves at risk of the same fate that befell Volantis in the Century of Blood. We dare not seem too mighty. Are we prepared that the enemies of this city may retaliate?"

"Let them come," said Stannis. "We will destroy them, each and every one."