"A strange feeling, that: to carve someone up for the first time, and discover that we are nothing but sacks filled with meat, blood, and bones."
— Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, of the Kingsguard
…
Year 284 AC. Essos. The Free City of Lys. Temporary Residence of House Targaryen.
Six Months Later.
"Your sister is beautiful, my Prince," said Liara, one of the two wet nurses from Dragonstone, with a smile, holding the little white-haired girl in her arms.
"She is too small for such declarations. But she is quite cute now, until she starts to fuss," I admitted, observing one of the most contradictory heroines in the world of Ice and Fire.
We were currently on the veranda overlooking the garden. It was a beautiful evening. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of exotic trees, bringing with it the refreshing scent of the sea.
Sitting in a wicker chair and feeling a pleasant soreness in my body after physical exercise, I rested my soul and body. Although I tried not to overload this child's frame, focusing more on stretching and running, during sparring with swords and spears, when your entire body is in motion, the muscles received their share of stress.
"I saw your elder brother a couple of times, m'lord. He was very handsome. I am truly sorry things turned out as they did," she offered a pained smile, gently rocking the almost-sleeping baby. "You promise to grow into an even more splendid man. So I have no doubt that Daenerys Stormborn will become a beautiful princess," she concluded.
Glancing at the handmaiden sitting in the next chair, I smiled and shook my head. Daenerys would indeed be quite the beauty; this was shown in the series and stated in the books. And I had no reason to distrust them. Given that for some reason, the blood of Valyria had been amplified in our veins, she would undoubtedly become one of the world's most beautiful women.
The problem lay elsewhere. I feared the trait that was also inherent in my sister: madness.
My father was a madman. My mother was his own sister, making us the product of incest. Rhaegar, the older brother of this body, was supposedly a clever young man, skilled in battle and adept in diplomacy. Yet, despite being married, he fell in love with a Stark girl, who reciprocated his feelings. He didn't take her as a second wife, which was also not the best solution but possible. History remembers several Targaryen kings who had two or even three wives. No, Rhaegar abducts Lyanna and hides with her in Dorne for a whole year, where they couple like rabbits. This became one of the reasons for Robert's Rebellion to begin.
And so it was with Daenerys. She, too, was a very good girl at first. A loving wife, then a kind and just ruler of the Slaver's Bay, who abolished slavery. Yes, inexperienced in rule, but a girl who spent her entire life wandering the Free Cities couldn't have experience as a ruler. Her actions were sincere; she wanted the best for the people and her companions. But at some point, everything changed.
When Cersei Lannister executed Dany's closest friend right before her eyes, she decided to take revenge. But she didn't just burn the Red Keep, where the Lion Queen was sitting. No. The girl, astride a dragon, turned King's Landing into a branch of the Inferno, setting fire to tens and hundreds of thousands of common city-dwellers. The very people she wanted to rule, she burned in dragonfire.
Does that remind you of anyone? The Mad King also wanted to burn his capital, laying hundreds of jars of Wildfire beneath the city. Rhaegar was also a good, sensible Crown Prince, and then he stole Lyanna Stark.
So, I was very concerned that my sister and I would not suffer the fate of our father and brother. The only thing that was reassuring was that the blood of Valyria, and thus the magic, had strengthened in our bodies. Perhaps it would guard us from madness? After all, incest was the tradition not only of the Targaryens but of all the other dragonlord families. Yet these forty families created and ruled one of the greatest states in the world for thousands of years. I don't believe physically and mentally ill people would be capable of that. The Habsburgs degenerated after two hundred years of inbreeding. The Dragonlords felt perfectly fine even after five thousand years of the practice. What was the difference? What did the European monarchs lack that the forty noble families of Valyria possessed?
Magic.
I believe the answer lies in the mystical component of this world. A long life lies ahead of me, however questionable that sounds in the world of Game of Thrones, and I hope to live to see the birth of my grandchildren. So, in the years allotted, I need to solve the problem of Targaryen madness, find books on how our ancestors dealt with it, or create my own method. Both options require knowledge of magic. Well, I think once I have enough resources at my disposal, I can find the necessary tomes or even teachers.
"My Lord, I have brought you juice," a slave girl approached me with a tray in her hands.
Turning around, I was about to take the juice and continue my musings, but then I was hit as if by an electric shock.
A sense of danger. For the first time, it activated in such a seemingly peaceful situation as sitting on the veranda with my little sister. Slowly, I reached for the cup, frantically wondering what threatened me. Having already taken the silver vessel, my gaze fell on the slave girl's face. There it was! I had never seen her before!
My eyes involuntarily widened, and my hand convulsively gripped the cup. Seeing the expression on my face, the woman began to act.
Her elegant fingers released the handles of the tray. The metal had not yet touched the veranda floor when a dagger emerged like a fish from beneath the folds of her clothing, glinting predatorily in the rays of the setting sun.
"I am so sorry," she whispered.
All I managed to do was hurl the cup at the assassin and reflexively raise my arm in a defensive gesture.
The cup struck the woman's shoulder with a dull thud, and the next moment, I felt a flash of pain in my arm.
My vision momentarily darkened, and a cry of pain escaped my mouth. The handmaiden beside me started shrieking.
Feeling a fresh surge of pain in my arm, I saw the assassin withdraw the blade from my arm and raise it for a new strike. Fumbling for the knife on my belt, I did the only thing that could give me a chance to survive: I rushed into the attack myself.
The blows were delivered simultaneously. My weapon entered the woman's abdomen. At the same time, the metallic clang of steel echoed across the veranda, and a wave of dull pain ran up my back.
"The Lord is in danger! Protect the Lord!" the voices of the Unsullied rang out.
The killer looked somewhere behind me. Seeing the warriors almost upon her, she dropped the dagger and bolted towards the garden.
Groaning in pain, I sat right down on the floor, ignoring what was happening around me, and stared at my forearm, from which blood was actively flowing. Remaining in a stupor for a few moments, I frantically recalled my lessons in survival and began to apply a tourniquet, using my own belt as a makeshift one.
A cry and the sound of something heavy falling came from the front. And behind me, there were hurried footsteps.
"My Prince, what is wrong with you?!" the maester cried out in horror, falling to his knees beside me.
"The dagger went through my arm. Another blow hit my back, but the mail helped there," I replied to Aemon, gritting my teeth in pain.
How good it was that I hadn't taken off my chainmail after sparring, but merely thrown a shirt over it!
"We'll fix everything now," the man murmured, confidently moving my hands away from the belt and tightening it further. He inspected the wound. "The bone is not hit, that is very good. We need to clean the wound and bind it," he muttered and turned to the two Unsullied who had silently taken up positions near us. "Help carry the Lord to my room. I have everything needed for treatment there."
Silently nodding, the eunuchs carefully picked up my increasingly weak body and carried me into the house.
"Maester, the dagger was most likely poisoned," I said in a weakening voice. "The wound needs to be thoroughly washed with strong alcohol." I began to give instructions, but Aemon's confident voice interrupted me.
"My Prince, I am one of the best maesters in Westeros when it comes to medicine. That is why your father ordered the Citadel to assign me to Dragonstone. I know perfectly well what to do in such cases." As he spoke all this in a soothing voice, I was already laid on the bed and my shirt and mail were removed. "So do not worry. Judging by the symptoms, you have been poisoned by the Green Tree Lizard venom, an interesting serpent that lives in the swamps of the Neck."
At this point, he finished washing the wound with some foul-smelling liquid and bandaging my arm. My entire limb was throbbing hellishly. It felt as if lava had been pumped through my veins, and my skin had been dipped in acid.
"This is a good poison. It acts within twenty minutes, with fatal results for the victim. It can also be stored for more than half a year, which is very convenient," the Maester muttered, mixing some powders with suspicious liquids in an iron cauldron filled with water.
"Considering this is Essos and the poisons of the serpents of the North are very rare here, it's an amazing choice for a guaranteed murder. After all, who would keep an antidote for something that is used in the Free Cities once every few decades, may the Seven help us. But! They attacked the wrong man!" Aemon said excitedly, placing the cauldron on a stand in the hearth, where a fire, kindled by one of the Unsullied, was already crackling merrily. "I have all the necessary ingredients. The antidote will be ready in no more than five minutes, Your Highness. So don't worry. You will be able to swing your steel toys again in about half a moon, no more."
He meant half a month for my recovery, I realized. Although my body continued to ache, I felt relief in my soul. I wouldn't die like this, killed by a poisoned blade. No. I would recover and become even stronger. And this world would yet witness my path to greatness.
With that thought, consciousness finally left my body, drowning in the darkness of oblivion.
…
The Same Time. Essos. A day's journey from the city of Vantaris. The "Dragons of Essos" Camp.
"They look formidable. But I still don't understand why we need such a company. The equipment costs almost as much as heavy cavalry, but these are foot soldiers. A dense formation of spears simply won't let their iron near the enemies' flesh," the white-haired youth said to the knight standing next to him.
"Due to your lack of battle experience, you simply haven't grasped all the Prince's ideas. Daeron's men," Willem Darry nodded toward the warriors practicing drills, "won't charge naked at the enemies' spears. Viserys presented a very good idea. Before engaging in melee, the infantry commanded by Narvos will launch a couple of volleys of pila into the enemy formation. You saw those short spears our company smiths are making, didn't you?" the knight asked, and upon receiving the nod of his companion, continued to explain.
"These throws will break the first ranks of the enemy army. And those who survive will lose their shields. It is too cumbersome to wield when a dart is sticking out of it. And then the heavy infantry will crash into the enemy formation, bringing even more chaos to their lines. When the opponent's ranks have breaches where Daeron's lads break through, Narvos's foot soldiers will join the fight. Their spears and short swords—gladii, as the Prince called them—will mark the beginning of the end for the enemy army."
Nodding his head, Daemon thoughtfully looked at his brother, who was walking in the company of one of the knights and giving instructions to his subordinates. Then, turning his head to the right, Daemon surveyed his own company of slightly over a hundred men, who were resting by the fires.
"Then why do my brother's warriors wear plate armor and wield greatswords, while my lads have some kind of offspring of a boarding saber and a sword?" the Valyrian pointed to his weapon resting in its scabbard.
"You have the same task, with one exception. You will participate in battles where space is limited. Ship decks and city streets are excellent examples. You won't be able to swing those greatswords there. And that weapon is called a backsword, not the offspring of a sword and a saber," the knight chuckled.
Yes, he too had initially asked Viserys many questions. Why these short swords, gladii? They are convenient in dense formation and cheap. Why backswords, if there are gladii? Backswords are better, but expensive. Therefore, only Daemon's elite fighters will carry them, not all the soldiers. Why hollow lances and rests for the cavalry? To this question, the Prince merely smiled mysteriously and suggested they try it out.
When Willem saw a dozen riders in action, simply annihilating the mannequins with those lances, which often broke but did not hold the rider in one place, he was thrilled. The hollow lances, in the first charge, allowed them to knock many enemy knights from their saddles at the start of the battle, inflicting significant damage on the enemy cavalry. Then, ordinary hard-wood lances or swords would come into play.
Guaranteed to unseat half, or even more, of the opponent's riders at the start of the battle—that was a strong claim for victory.
And so it was with everything. For all of Darry's questions, the Prince had his own answer. In the end, when the time for the revenge came, about a dozen years, according to the Prince's plans, they would have an army for which the word "impossible" would not exist. They would become true gods of war. Or die trying, as Viserys sarcastically joked.
Sometimes Darry felt as if the Warrior, one of the Seven gods, was giving advice to his Prince. To all questions about his eccentricities and brilliant ideas, the young Targaryen only smiled mysteriously and shook his head. In the end, Willem accepted that some things in this world were not for him to know. One should not anger the Seven, who clearly blessed his young liege. Talented in the sciences, according to Aemon. Possesses an excellent sense of battle and intuition for danger, according to Darry's observations. And of course, providing very sound ideas both in army organization and in matters of secrecy. After all, they still hadn't been found by the Usurper's men and the spies of other powers. And that was worth a lot. You could say he was simply the ideal Prince and future King. So Willem vowed to keep out of all mysticism and simply do his job. And do it well.
"The Golden Company numbers ten thousand blades. The largest sellsword company in Essos. Yet, they only have foot soldiers, cavalry, and elephants," Daemon voiced his thoughts, now staring into the distance where the small specks of riders, maneuvering under Maegor's command, flickered.
"We plan for much more. Cavalry, which now numbers a couple of hundred. The heavy type for battles, mainly recruited from knights of the Seven Kingdoms who fled to the other continent after the Targaryen defeat. And light cavalry, recruited from Dothraki who agreed to serve, for scouting and raids on enemy supply lines," the youth continued, gesturing toward the formation of young men in plate armor and rectangular shields, currently practicing with spears.
"Six hundred foot soldiers, the First Cohort, as you ordered this company to be called. If there is a first, there will be others. I read the papers with the plans. A Legion has six cohorts of foot soldiers. That is three thousand six hundred men. Foot soldiers alone. Add to that two tagmata of a hundred riders each, which we already have. But the plan is not for two, but twenty, combined into four centuries of five hundred riders each," Daemon wet his throat with watered wine from a wineskin and adjusted his breastplate.
"We also add a century of light riders. Another five hundred warriors. We must not forget my and my brother's companies," the white-haired youth waved his hand. "Heavy infantry, divided into two cohorts. Breaker Infantry, under Daeron's command, six hundred men. And another six hundred Assault Infantry under my command. I believe Praetorians were also mentioned. Elite warriors who guard the commanders. Ten per person. My brother and I, Maegor, Narvos, and you—that's already fifty. Also, I assume that once their numbers grow, they will also guard the cohort and century commanders in battle and in peace."
"That is all correct, Daemon. That is the structure of the Legion, minus the servants, the men working in the baggage train, and the service staff for machines like catapults and rams, which we won't have for a while," the former Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep nodded, internally pleased that he hadn't been wrong about the boy. He had thoroughly studied all the papers available to the trusted commanders.
"We currently have two hundred heavy riders and sixty light riders at our disposal. Six hundred ordinary foot soldiers and two hundred twenty elite soldiers. We have two hundred sixty mounted and over eight hundred foot soldiers. A little over a thousand warriors in total right now. And seven and a half thousand warriors in the future," the youth said, turning to Willem and spreading his arms. "Why do we need so many? For now, we have enough contracts. Right now, for instance, we are guarding Volantene territory for another three months while the Dothraki are wandering ten days' ride from the city. But they don't pass through here every year, and even then, they don't stay for more than half a year. Wouldn't it be simpler to create many small sellsword companies instead of one?"
"It might be simpler. More profitable for the immediate future. For sellswords," the knight nodded with a smirk. "But the full Legion will only be assembled in a couple of years, or even more. Besides, no one forbids us from doing as the Golden Company does," the warrior shrugged.
"We can break up into small corps, which will include both foot soldiers and riders. And execute many contracts simultaneously. And then these companies will return to the outskirts of Volon Therys, where our permanent camp will be. The authorities of Lys will soon agree and give us permission to establish our base here, where we will both rest and train new recruits. It benefits them. Sellswords are always at hand, and our men will eat Volon Therys food and bed the whores of Lys, bringing even more gold to these merchants."
"Why such complications if you can just create several different sellsword companies?" Daemon adjusted his red cloak, issued to all the high command, stirred the soup in the cauldron, and threw new branches into the fire.
"Do not forget, young man. We are not just a sellsword company with a patron who paid for all our equipment and other things. We are the future army of the man who will conquer all Seven Kingdoms. An army is not many small companies. It is a unified organism," the knight raised his finger to the sky didactically and sniffed. "I think it's time to eat."
Laddling the soup into bowls, both began to eat.
"The Legion will be a very strong army," Daemon said once they finished eating. "But seven and a half thousand blades is too few for a goal like an entire Sunset Kingdom."
"One Legion, yes, won't be enough," Darry agreed. "But who said it will be the only one?" Glancing slyly at the Valyrian, whose eyebrows were raised, the knight poked him with a spoon. "In two years, we will have one Legion. In twelve years, there will be five of them. More than that won't be possible, to my regret. An army of forty thousand could still be fed from the contracts in the Free Cities, if the Legions are spread across all of Essos. But much more than that is highly unlikely."
"Forty thousand? And who will command these Legions? Prince Viserys could barely find commanders for this incomplete one from experienced sellswords and seasoned knights."
"By that time, the First Legion will have enough experienced and quick-witted warriors who can lead centuries and cohorts. As for the positions of Legion Commanders... Legate of the Second Legion Daemon Reraxes. Sounds excellent to me. What do you think?"
"That... that... Will I be able to handle it?" the knight's companion was somewhat flustered.
"Right now, of course not," Willem chuckled, but seeing the boy's offended look, he smiled even wider and clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "But having gained experience as a warrior and commander, absolutely. I hope you justify the Prince's trust, lad. And do not disgrace your House."
"I will justify it. This is a chance for the star of my line to rise again, and I will not miss it, I swear," said one of the last two representatives of the once-great dragonlords firmly.
Willem Darry merely nodded. He would help this boy, just as he would the other youths to whom Viserys had given a chance at a great future. After all, their success was the success of his liege and ward.
He would return to Westeros. Not as a miserable nobody who would beg the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, for mercy. No. His Prince would come to the Seven Kingdoms, as Aegon the Conqueror once did, at the head of an army. And he, Willem Darry, would stand right beside him.
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