Chapter 15

Stannis sat alone on an edge of twisted bronze and jagged stone, his legs dangling in the void, gazing down at a hundred isles of rubble and ruin.

The fires had gone out in Braavos, that had raged for two days and three nights. So had the screams of the plundered, the raped and the dying. In their wake they left an air of dreadful quiet and eerie emptiness. Rare was the house that did not have at least a toppled wall, wrecked by rocks that had been thrown about by the water in its wrath; in many, the ceilings had collapsed, and some had been torn apart altogether. Most of the city had been ravaged by the sellsword host, pillaged for everything that was not pinned down, and it showed in the way the men and women walked and spoke to one another. Under the gaze of the sellswords prowling the streets, the cityfolk went about their days like mice before a cat, timid, fearful, ready to leap and run at the slightest sense of risk. It was as if there had been something alive about the city, a spirit that had been banished, a candle-flame that had been snuffed out in the night.

In the outer islands of the western half of the city, the destruction was worst of all. There, fragments of buildings, of roads, of ships flung onto the land by surging water, and of people had melded into a jumbled mass of stuff. There was no telling what had belonged to what, or to whom. There were only shapeless heaps of wood and brick and rock and bone.

Surrounding Braavos of the Hundred Isles, the warm waters of the lagoon shimmered in the morning sunlight. Looking at them, one would not have known they were capable of what they had just done. Indeed, he saw nary a ripple. Next to the ruins they had made of the dwellings of men, their sparkling serenity looked almost obscene.

Two-hundred feet above, Stannis sat and watched, mind wandering.

My work, he thought. My work, all of it. I unleashed this. I have opened the gates of the seven hells and let the demons in.

Anno Nusaris was dead at his hands, and Braavos humbled. He had had his vengeance. He knew the magisters of Essos, petty upjumped merchants that they were, would not dare cheat him again, for fear of what he had done here. He ought to be with his fellow sellswords far below, celebrating in the streets. He ought to feel triumph, instead of emptiness.

I have sacked the Queen of Cities. For what? For coin that was owed to a free company that I only joined because I needed to eat, as I should not have needed, and would not if only Robert had not banished me?

The authors of that banishment lived still. Maester Cressen, the traitor. The Tyrells, who no doubt had poured poison into Robert's ears, conspiring against Stannis, and who had turned Renly against his family and thus forced Stannis's hand. And Robert himself, that grinning gutless ungrateful fool who had stolen his home from him, who did not have the wit to see Stannis had done what must be done. I killed the wrong brother. He did not doubt it now. How happily he would have sheathed his sword in the flesh of that quivering wineskin on legs and treasured its scream, were it not for the duty he had to his mother.

I am a stranger on these shores. Essos is not my place; it never will be. All my true enemies are in Westeros. Yet here I am and here I will remain, as long as I cannot bring myself to defy Robert's decree, make war on him and kill the last of my family. Here, far from home. He remembered men in a river screaming as it swelled and swept them away; horsemen charging bravely at the great black burning thing that had haunted their nightmares; himself walking out of the House of Black and White over a clutch of corpses; the Titan of Braavos toppling into the sea. Here, in the heat and in the blood, fighting wars that, if not for Robert, would not be mine at all.

They had called this place the Queen of Cities, once. Not the richest in the world, perhaps, but bright and bustling and pleased.

Was it regret, this thing that he felt? He did not think so. The Braavosi had stolen from him, along with his fellow sellswords. Justice demanded that they must be punished, so they were. Cutting off the fingers of that vile cur Nusaris, an upjumped petty thief who dared to rob the fighting men whose place ought to be higher than his, remained a joyful memory.

No, it could not be regret; but a certain sadness lingered. This should not have been necessary. This was not his place.

There he sat, half-dreaming, perched on the edge of oblivion, looking upon the ruin he had wrought of Braavos.

"I thought I'd find you here." A voice—light, pleasant. Stannis had heard the footsteps tapping on the stone behind him, too many to be one man. "You oft make your way to high places such as this, Sunsetlander. It seems you have a fondness for brooding in tall towers."

Stannis recalled a spiked fist of pale grey stone that reared high over the earth and he ached with longing so fierce that he could almost taste it. I know. They remind me of home, he thought. He did not say it.

He stood, turned and inclined his head. "Commander."

"There is not much looting yet to be done," said Aro Isattis, called Handtaker, commander of the Company of the Cat, surrounded by his usual cluster of unsmiling armoured guardsmen. "I daresay you could have taken more than nigh any of us. The others would have allowed it. Yet as far as I am aware, you've taken none."

There was a question there, though Handtaker did not speak it.

Nonetheless Stannis felt obliged to answer. "That is so, commander. I am not inclined to such things."

"Hmm," Handtaker hummed. "This sack is likely the best opportunity you will ever have; ignore it and you'll regret it for a lifetime. Should you wish to change your mind, I would advise you to act quickly. The city is largely ours by now—the City Guard is crushed, only the last few of those pitiful little militias hold out, and they will not live long—and I do not tolerate my men looting from each other."

"I shall bear that in mind," said Stannis. He looked idly up at Handtaker, then down again at the cat banners that protruded everywhere above the ruined city. It was strange, he thought, to have such a powerful man be represented by such a feeble thing, but in time he decided it was fitting. Cats, too, like to play with their food before they eat it.

"Friendly advice on pillage was not why I sought to speak with you, however," Handtaker said dryly. "Lately I have been speaking, at length, with the magisters of the late Ferrego Antaryon's faction. You will recall that they support the privileges of the wealthy against the faction led by Nusaris and by Banero Prestayn before him, stirring up the anger of the poor and downtrodden."

"Is not Nusaris of the wealthy?" asked Stannis. "He seemed so, to me."

"I daresay Anno Nusaris before he became Sealord lived in more luxury than your brother the king of the Sunset Lands. The Nusaris family are—or were—obscenely rich. None of the politicians in Braavos are poor, you must understand. Only the richest of merchants are deemed magisters, and only magisters and Iron Bank keyholders can vote for the Sealord. But some of them pretend that, from their pleasure-barges and their gilded manses, they truly worry for the plight of the common people."

Handtaker's snort showed how much he believed of that.

"All lies, of course. Our friends in the late Antaryon's faction assure me ever-so-sweetly that we shall have the eternal friendship and undying gratitude of Braavos for deposing the false Sealord, Nusaris, who usurped Antaryon. They tell me we should restore the legitimate government of Braavos—that is to say, themselves—and place the old families back in power. With our help, they will have all but obliterated their rivals; they will be well-placed to rule. And indeed they will rule in Braavos for many, many years, as a Free City disposed to favour us and to employ us whenever it can."

Stannis kept his face cold and not revealing but was ever more appalled. Handing this city over to magisters? They are not men of the sword; they are merchants upjumped above their rightful place, ever full of ambition and deceit. No doubt they'll betray any agreement we sign with them as soon as they please. And our men fought and bled to take Braavos, at our own expense, not for magisters' gold; why should we give it up to those who did nothing?

"Philenio has counselled me to accept," said Handtaker, speaking of Philenio Zometemis, the foremost captain of the Company of the Cat, more commonly known as Bloodbeard. "I am minded to agree. A friendly Free City would be useful indeed. Sunsetlander, what say you?"

Stannis tried to gather his thoughts and to speak them with clarity and strength. "Commander, with the greatest respect, I do not think it is wise to trust Antaryon's magisters. They are only summer friends. In our hour of need, when Nusaris betrayed us, these 'friends' in Braavos did not lift a finger in our aid, to see us paid; they cowered before the thief-Sealord to save their miserable hides."

"That is true," said Handtaker. "Then what would you suggest?"

"The magisters of Braavos should not prosper by their betrayal," Stannis said coldly. "Besides, you made them a promise: they make peace by the terms you told them or they die. A man must keep to his word, else his threats mean nothing and other men will disregard him. We shouldn't give them the city. I say we kill them all."

There was a drawn-out silence.

Then Handtaker laughed. "Of course I will."

Stannis was bemused. "What—"

"You have learnt well. Fear not; I never intended to deliver Braavos into the hands of those preening peacocks. It was you I meant to learn about, not the magisters, and I am pleased to say that you have acquired the necessary ruthlessness. You see, I lied; Philenio counselled me as you did, and, regardless, my mind was already made."

Aro Isattis swept a hand over the hundred islands, with all their streets, all their homes, all their peoples, all their triumphs and tragedies, in the midst of the glasslike clear waters of the lagoon two-hundred feet below him.

"Be welcome, Sunsetlander, to my city."

Stannis's jaw dropped at the sheer ambition of it. "But—commander—the other free companies—"

"I have spoken with their commanders," Handtaker said. "Some will leave us. Some will stay, and I have promised them great lands and wealth and high positions in the new order. But none will try to take power from me. They are not nearly strong enough; they know that."

It was true, Stannis knew. No other free company in this war was half the size of the Company of the Cat. Handtaker had reached out to other free companies, but only to smaller ones. He must have been planning this since the day we had the meeting about Nusaris's betrayal, Stannis realised, and told none of us.

"You mean to be King of Braavos," Stannis breathed.

"Look down at that city." Isattis gestured. "See all those cat standards. My standards. Braavos's, too, now, for they can hardly use the Titan." He looked pointedly down at the arch of dark stone where they now stood, formerly the hips and legs of the Titan, now full of contorted bronze sheets and beams that had once held the Titan's upper body in place here. "My armed men hold the streets at my bidding; my will is enforced. There is no 'mean to be'. I am King of Braavos in everything but name."

Stannis thought on this. Aro Isattis was no rightful king; as far as he knew, the Isattis family had never ruled. But he was no less rightful than the disgustingly rich magisters, the tiny number of wealthiest people in Braavos, and the Sealords whom those magisters voted for. At least Handtaker was a man of the sword, not just a merchant. That made him more suited to rule than upjumped coin-counters like Ferrego Antaryon and Anno Nusaris.

"As king—" he began.

" 'Sealord', Sunsetlander. None of Valyria's daughters are fond of the word 'king'—too strong memories."

"As Sealord, then," Stannis said, "I suppose you'll wish to wed?" The thought of Handtaker with a wife felt profoundly bizarre to him.

"Whores will suffice."

"But surely for your heir—"

"Why in the names of all the gods should I desire that some mewling brat should rule after me, just because I fucked the cunt that whelped him?" Handtaker sounded honestly curious. "You may be an ocean away but you are still a Sunsetlander at heart, I daresay. No. I expect the Braavosi will return to that absurd system of theirs; I doubt they will be quiescent when the fear I have inspired in them dies with me. They'll rise up, and quite possibly they won't wait for my death before they do it. If not that, I'll be succeeded by another fighting man who can hold the confidence of the army. And I daresay a man like that will not have the patience to wait for me to die, either."

Stannis was bewildered. "Does that not matter to you? The thought that everything you have achieved here will be undone?"

"No," said Handtaker. "I cannot lose in life, because I have already won. Born in the gutter, son of a Tyroshi whore, spat on by the magisters' sons and daughters and their ilk as dirt beneath their feet… but I was a better fighter than they were, always, and now I have risen to rule the Queen of Cities. However long or brief that rule may be, I will always know I obtained it." He shrugged. "The rest of life is just waiting to die. And so what does it matter to me who should rule after I am dead and gone? It matters not at all."

This, little as it was, was the most that Stannis had ever heard about Handtaker's past before he had been Handtaker.

"I imagine you did not come merely to tell me your ambition," Stannis said.

"Indeed. I came to offer you a choice."

"What choice?"

"My men are sellswords, and some wish to remain so. I will not compel them to stay here and settle as my army in Braavos if they do not wish to, for that would be unwise. All those who wish to part ways are free to go; my army will be better without them. Most of them have chosen to stay, for the risks will be meagre and the rewards will be handsome. I have been generous with promises of the magisters' land, you see; the magister class might object, were it not that I have killed them all already. And that was for the common soldiers. For you I offer something more."

Stannis's eyes widened. Could he…

"I know it does not please you to sell your sword," Isattis went on, as if this were something they had discussed every day rather than something he was only revealing now. "I know you would prefer a more peaceful life. You can have it. Settle here and I will grant you an estate in the Braavosian Coastlands with a great swathe of towns, to make you as rich as a lord in the Sunset Lands. You will be a warlock in my service, and in the meantime, you can be a lord again. You can have land of your own, to belong to yourself and your descendants, and pass it on to a son."

It was true that Stannis did not take delight in the life of a sellsword for its own sake. He did not whore; he did not rape; he did not keep the company of women, only of armed men. He did not drink anything stronger than water. He did not eat more than the bare little enough to keep himself alive. He did not even like to fight.

Stannis had never expected such an offer from Handtaker, because Handtaker in his head had become closely linked with the life in which he had encountered Handtaker: the life of being a sellsword. But Handtaker, commander of the Company of the Cat, was now Aro Isattis, Sealord of Braavos, and Isattis the Sealord possessed the power to grant rewards that Handtaker the sellsword never could.

Stannis thought of himself living in a great manse in Braavos and an estate in the Braavosi countryside. He imagined himself heading to the city for the occasional errand as Handtaker's sorcerer but living in some rural idyll of a town, marrying a Braavosi woman, siring and raising Braavosi children in a pleasant, warm Braavosi home…

He said, "You are kind, commander, and I thank you for your generosity. But no."

Isattis lifted an eyebrow. Stannis sweated through his robe, seeing the guardsmen who surrounded Handtaker, knowing from personal memory the instant brutal violence that could be unleashed with the slightest twitch. "Why not?"

"I cannot go home again," Stannis said. "I have accepted that, now, though for many years I denied it. I am a son of Storm's End and House Baratheon. That is my only true home, and though I will never lay eyes upon it again in my lifetime, I will not replace it in my heart, not now, not ever."

"So you will wander," Isattis murmured.

"So I will wander," Stannis agreed.

"And I suppose," Isattis said, "that you also do not wish to remain in my service, since your chastisement after the Great Northern War?"

Stannis cursed under his breath. That, too, had been part of his thinking. He had chosen not to voice it. His heart beat very quickly. He wondered if he were about to die.

Isattis had already guessed, so Stannis decided—hoped, guessed, prayed—that honesty would be the best approach. "Yes, commander, that is part of it."

"Very well, Sunsetlander." Isattis's voice was queerly calm. "That is as I expected, I must admit. I hoped elsewise, but I cannot pretend to be surprised. I did say that those of my soldiers who wish to can part ways from the Company of the Cat as it transforms into the new army of Braavos, and I will hold to that. But for you, there is one more thing, ere I release you from your contract to me."

"Name it," said Stannis.

"I want your oath, Sunsetlander, never to fight against me or Braavos or my servants, unless we fight you first. Either by yourself or by any plot or instrument of yours."

"And you would believe that?" asked Stannis, wondering. "Forgive me, commander, but that does not sound like you."

"From another man? I wouldn't if I had given him all the gold in Qarth and he had sworn it half a hundred times upon his father's grave," Handtaker said. "From you? I know your word will be enough."

Then indeed Stannis swore the oath that had been demanded of him. "Will you, in turn, release me?"

"You are released from our contract," said Handtaker.

Stannis thought he ought to have felt a sense of lightness as a great burden was lifted off his back. He did not. Seven years he had spent under Handtaker's wing, with the Company of the Cat as his companions. All that he felt now was the uncertainty of being thrust out flailing into the world.

They faced each other then, one tall dark-clad figure as broad as an ox, the other in resplendent garb, short and lean. Stannis studied his commander's face—the small dark eyes, the hooklike nose, the smile that spoke of murder and worse—and considered the man that he could see. Handtaker was a cruel man who took delight in maiming people. He was endlessly afraid for his own life, keeping a guard of big, strong, loyal, armed and armoured men at his side wherever he went. He was too lowborn to deserve to command someone as high as a Baratheon, though at least he was a fighting man, not just some merchant. He believed staunchly in the value of fear to set examples, treating enemies with merciless viciousness in order that possible future enemies would be too afraid to decide to be enemies. He was ruthless in the extreme. He was utterly intolerant of aught he might consider treachery. He was selfish and careless of family legacy.

He was also the man who had taken Stannis in. Stannis had learnt a lot from him.

They parted ways, then, with a final, firm shake of hands. "Fare well, Your Excellency," Stannis said, and was surprised to find the sentiment was genuine.

"Fare well… commander."

A giant figure stood upon a dais in Braavos's least damaged public square, shaking his fist and bellowing to a crowd of sellswords who cheered his every declaration.

"And I will bring you glory!" the huge man thundered. "Great glory! These men—the men who broke Braavos—are the finest in the world, but even the best metal needs its forging. I will be the smith. Right now, we're the fragments of a dozen free companies, those that chose to roam on instead of taking Handtaker's offer. This army needs a man to forge it into a single sword, to harden it and temper it, and I'm the man we need! I've fought at Handtaker's side in countless battles, we've won countless battles, and with my leadership we'll win countless more—"

A smaller man, from the direction of the pier, slipped through the crowd and hurried towards a knot of five men in a corner, paying the speech no heed.

"Captain!" cried Alequo Nudoon, a great green-haired Tyroshi almost six feet tall. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

The man from the pier pulled down the hood of his cloak, revealing pale skin and short-cropped black hair. "Alequo," he said, by way of greeting.

"Captain," nodded Marro Namerin, a small dark Braavosi with a fondness for wicked-looking dirks. "I found the girl you sent me, and I put her on a ship to Pentos as you asked. Mind saying what that was about?"

Because Robert would have killed her, Stannis thought. Robert would have done it instantly. He would have wanted me to do it, too, and I could, but I didn't. If naught else, to prove to myself that I was hunting Viserys Targaryen for my own purpose—the sacrifice—and not for Robert's. To prove I am not Robert's hound, hunting his enemies for him and coming back no matter how often he kicks it.

All of this he thought. Aloud, he said simply, "She was too young. I pitied her."

"It's been days," said fleshy, white-blond Justin Massey. "Where have you been, ser?"

"Thinking," said Ser Stannis, in a tone that suggested he did not want to say more.

"Leave Ser Stannis alone, ser," said the latest addition to their party, a thin, scarred, dark-haired Westerosi knight by the name of Ser Richard Horpe. Alone of them, he had not fought in the Great Northern War between Braavos and the Pact of Four, only in the Sellsword War. "If he doesn't wish to be disturbed then he shouldn't be disturbed."

"Does that mean you haven't eaten for three days?" asked Marro.

"Not a great deal," Stannis said.

"Captain—"

"Do not call me that!"

Marro exchanged looks with the others. "You know we know about your demotion, ser," he said. "We think it was undeserved, so we call you 'captain' anyway. Moon knows you're better than anyone else Handtaker has saddled us with. If you dislike it, we won't."

"It is not that," said Stannis. He drew in a deep breath. "I have spoken with Handtaker this morning. I am no longer contracted to the Company of the Cat."

A pause.

"So," said Bozyno Vunel of Pentos, "we're leaving, then."

"With Bloodbeard, I take it?" Justin cast a scornful glance at the huge red-bearded man on the dais.

"No."

That terse, bald word struck like a thunderbolt.

"I do not trust Bloodbeard," Stannis said. "I served under Handtaker, lowborn as he is, but at least Handtaker has a mind to him. Bloodbeard is a reckless oaf and I will not have him as my commander. Nor will I stay here and settle down on some Braavosi estate. I mean to found a new free company, to be called the Swords of the Storm."

He stopped for breath and looked over them all. "But this can only come to anything if you are with me."

"I am with you," Alequo Nudoon said at once. "Now and forever."

Bozyno Vunel spoke softly, simply. "Always."

"I do believe, ser, that, despite the commander's name on the contract, you are well aware whose allegiance I was sworn to when I joined the Company of the Cat," Justin began, "I am, of course, your sincerest and most faithful serv—"

"I'll join," said Marro Namerin, interrupting him.

"It wasn't Aro Isattis I went looking to serve," said Richard Horpe. "I think you know who."

Stannis's lips quirked. "I know."

They were all behind him. They had not deserted him. This thought sent a thrill of hope tingling down his spine.

"As my most trusted, you will be my captains," Stannis said. "I want you to find men who have fought beside me, be they of any free company. Men who saw the Battle of Nyrelos and the Battle of Lakimys and the Titanfall, if you can, but one is enough. Men who know what I can do and won't be surprised by what I'm capable of. I know most of the men are staying here, at Handtaker's offer, and most of those who are not are going with the… so-called 'Company of Blood'." He gestured at the crowd in the rest of the square. "But there should be at least a few of those who can be talked to."

"It will be done, commander," said Bozyno.

"If we're recruiting, we should have banners to bring men to, to help them find us," said Justin. "What should they be?"

"Baratheon banners," Stannis said at once. "Only…" He hesitated. "No gold. Gold is the colour of treachery, like Anno Nusaris and his ilk." And the golden rose of Tyrell.

"But ser," said Ser Justin, "if we take Baratheon colours and remove the gold, that leaves only black."

Mourning colours. Stannis thought, unwillingly, of Renly, the brother he had loved.

When the Swords of the Storm marched in neatly ordered ranks southward, their spears were sharp. Their bows were dry. Their quivers were full. Their armour was gleaming. And the standards above them were all mourning black without sign or sigil, snapping in the wind.