Year 291 AC. Essos. Slaver's Bay. Astapor.
In the month that had passed since the conquest, only a fraction of the problems had been cleared. The issue of provisions was solved quite simply: small detachments of legionaries rode through all the villages and small towns under the jurisdiction of the glorious city of Astapor and informed the local headmen and town councils that the tax would remain the same. That is, the peasants pay in food, and the towns in goods and silver.
The latifundia previously belonging to the Masters also became a significant help in supplying the legions and the city with food. Half of them I confiscated for the benefit of House Targaryen; a quarter went to my vassals, specifically Willem Darry, the Reraxes brothers, House Lorkhaz, Narvos, and Veela. It was time to reward my most loyal and useful companions.
Zirarro received a fine villa on the coast as a personal estate, complete with a large olive grove and five hundred slaves, who lived in seven villages within his territory and differed little from ordinary peasants.
The legionaries were paid generous bonuses, and some received land grants for special merits. A portion of the soldiers decided to transfer to the city's service as guards and watchmen protecting the roads between the controlled settlements. No less than five hundred fighters left, but I was not overly worried about this, as they were still, in fact, serving my House. The vacated positions were filled by new recruits drawn from the third and fourth sons of the city dwellers.
"I think we can proceed," Willem said questioningly, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Yes. Veela will report first." Glancing at the woman, I gestured toward the tribune. I was currently in a large hall richly finished with gilded stucco. The stone floors were covered with sand-colored carpets, the walls were hung with paintings, and the ceiling depicted a raging sea painted by an unknown artisan. In the center of the room, directly opposite a substantial dark wood table, stood a single podium gleaming with fresh varnish. Seated at the table were Willem Darry, Daemon and Daeron Reraxes, Veela, who had taken the surname Ayshe, Oberyn Martell, and Elario Basco, who now held the position of chief of the city watch.
Rising from the table, Ayshe, whose name means "Shadow" in Valyrian, ascended the podium and placed a stack of parchment on a dedicated stand.
"We should begin with the situation within the city. Working with the watch, I managed to conduct several punitive 'campaigns' during which almost all the gangs in Astapor were eliminated. Only those leaders who agreed to complete subordination and adherence to the rules were spared. The plan for stabilizing the city's crime situation is fully executed," Veela began confidently.
"I'm still surprised by the idea of keeping an obedient and relatively adequate portion of the rabble so they can control all the other scum from the inside," the Red Viper muttered, sipping his wine.
"The world situation is proceeding according to our predicted scenario, with minor deviations. In King's Landing, they are concerned about the taking of Astapor, but not overly so. The fools believe that even if we manage to cross the sea, our infantry will be crushed by knights, and they mock the cavalry outright, calling it 'a salad of wild Dothraki and dishonorable fugitives who abandoned the Seven Kingdoms.'"
At this point, many in the hall smirked, recalling our iron-clad knights and the Dothraki who sting with arrows for dozens of yards.
"The wise ones, however, assume that the conquest and assimilation of Slaver's Bay will either fully occupy Viserys or push back his arrival in the Sunset Kingdoms for another fifteen to twenty years. The rumors about the dragon are perceived as something nonsensical, comparable to reports that the whores in Qarth have a third breast, or that people in Yi Ti fight with the help of floating fortresses."
Turning the parchment over, Veela took a sip of cool water from a crystal glass and continued.
"Meereen and Yunkai are frantically gathering an army for a punitive expedition. Our 'allies' in the enemy ranks report a twenty thousand strong force, consisting mainly of slaves who are being quickly turned into militia, and mercenaries from all corners of Essos. There are no more than four thousand Unsullied among them. The Masters are in no hurry to share their personal guards. According to the enemy command's estimates, an army of forty thousand spears will ultimately be gathered, which they plan to march on Astapor in five months."
Gathering the papers into the stiff leather folder I had accustomed all my senior and middle managers to use, the young woman returned to her seat at the table.
"Willem Darry, Legate of the First Legion," I named the next person.
"Very well," the warrior began, stroking his beard as he stood at the podium. "The castra for the First and Second Legions are fully constructed; the fighters have moved in and begun drills according to the schedule. The Third Legion has begun its formation under the command of Daeron Reraxes and several seconded Centurions and Tribunes. The influx of volunteers is pleasing; strong young men from the villages, seeking a better lot for themselves, have begun to arrive." Stroking his shining bald head, Darry smirked. "At this rate, the Third will be formed within six months. A couple of years of training and battles, and we will have another seven and a half thousand dogs of war."
"I think we should introduce additional classes for the legionaries. Say, half a day once every ten days." Sipping the sweet and sour orange juice from my goblet, I continued my thought. "Currently, every soldier can more or less read, write, and count thanks to the lessons, and the officers undergo even deeper education in the sciences. But it is also necessary to teach the warriors, at least roughly, how to run a household, so that when they retire and receive the promised piece of land, they don't go bankrupt. After all, more than half of the legionaries are former city dwellers, mercenaries, and knights, and they have no idea how to manage an estate. It will be easier for the lads from the villages, but not by much. After all, they plowed the land, they didn't give orders to plowmen."
"I agree, few will want to hire a steward. After all, paying a salary to a learned man is quite burdensome if you own a small holding," Elario Basco chimed in.
"It will be quite difficult to organize. We will need to find a huge number of knowledgeable people willing to teach," Willem muttered.
"Not all at once. This idea can certainly be postponed for a couple of years," I shrugged, watching Darry return to his seat.
"Daemon, do you have anything to cheer us with?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The coronation, as you wished, will take place in five days in Astapor's main square." The Valyrian, who had volunteered to organize the event, took Willem's place. "The chief priestess among the Harpy's servants has been invited to the subsequent feast, as has the priest of the Fourteen Gods of Valyria, who is currently passing through Astapor..."
****
Lorik, one of the handful of knights who had escorted the then very young Viserys Targaryen and his sister to the distant lands of Essos, was drinking in a tavern.
The "Golden Piglet" was an establishment for very wealthy clients, where even an aristocrat, which Lorik had recently become, would not disdain to eat meat and drink wine. He hadn't yet grown accustomed to his new status but was immensely pleased that from a simple knight, and then a loyal bodyguard, he had become a true Lord! He even had his own city! Yes, not as large as White Harbor or Oldtown, but five thousand city dwellers and a pyramid is more than a couple of villages and a run-down castle!
Taking a satisfied sip of spiced wine from his silver goblet, Lorik sank his strong teeth into a goose leg dripping with fat, roasted over coals with fragrant herbs. Downstairs, on the first floor, a troupe of musicians played and muffled laughter could be heard, but the noise behind the wooden partitions of his private box did not bother the seasoned warrior in the slightest. There was a time he helped the healers after a battle; there were so many wounded during a skirmish with those hellish Northmen that he had to eat dried meat while cauterizing a poor wretch's severed arm. That was when eating was truly uncomfortable.
"Yes, it's good here," Gorzent smiled slightly drunk, already having had quite a bit to drink.
Lorik had met this Ghiscari man when the First Legion was being formed. Gorzent joined the Burning Legion immediately with the rank of Tribune, as he had previously successfully commanded a company of mercenaries numbering a couple of hundred spears. By the time Astapor was taken, the lucky Ghiscari, who had lost only half an ear and a couple of teeth in his entire career, had already become a Centurion and was rewarded for his service with a strong holding and ten villages to boot. As it happened, his estate bordered the lands of his old friend Lorik, now Lord Raidshield, so they decided to meet at the Golden Piglet to discuss the purchase of provisions for the city's needs. Although Lorik planned to offload most of the worries onto the ransomed and freed manager Drazgo, a former slave, he decided to personally concern himself with such an important matter as food for his subjects.
Now, the two old acquaintances decided to celebrate the successfully concluded deal and chat about the past and future. Old dogs of war always have things to talk about and things to be silent about, drinking wine and enjoying good food.
"I was also born in the slums, just like the fleet commander Narvos or Legate Daemon," Gorzent confided. "Since childhood, I wanted to be a mercenary. They always had silver for a drink and fresh bread, and they often visited my whore of a mother, so they had money. Simple logic."
Tossing a couple of small fig fruits into his mouth, the Ghiscari continued.
"One of my mother's regulars, happy after a pleasant night, advised me to eat more and train, and then I would amount to something. Ha! Thanks to that kind uncle. I started eating for three and was ready to slit a throat for an extra piece of bread! That's how I grew into such a lion that they immediately took me into the company." The Centurion tensed the mighty muscles in his arm. "In ten years, I became old Larr's right hand, and when the commander retired, I became the head of our gang! Well, when I heard about a rich prince from the Sunset Kingdoms who was gathering brave lads for his service, I decided to take a look. And then I joined completely."
Loudly drinking the remnants of wine from his cup, the Ghiscari picked up the silver jug and began pouring a new serving of the ruby drink. "It's a sure thing. Either you die, or you strike it rich! And in our trade, you risk your head every day anyway; at least here the profits are bigger." Chuckling, Gorzent put his hands on his hips. "And I didn't lose! Now I have my own land grant; my family is secure. Even if I die in another battle, my son and wife won't perish."
"Being a mercenary is much more dangerous than being a knight. If it hadn't been for the Usurper's Rebellion, the most I would have done in my life was chase bandits on the road, but here you risk your hide all the time," Lorik Raidshield noted.
"Ah, you just don't understand," Gorzent waved him off and, his face darkening, emptied a whole goblet in one gulp. "I wasn't the dumbest kid in our slums and I perfectly understood that I had to get out of that shithole. And poverty is like a swamp. A stinking quagmire from horizon to horizon that pours into your mouth, climbs into your ears, and obscures your eyes. Sticky silt that pulls you down, sucking you in. And other failures and outcasts just like you, who twitch and wave their arms and legs but still sink to the bottom. There is only one way out: pile up a mountain of the bones of failures like yourself, climb it, and rise up. Break free from this swamp, cast off the chains of poverty and destitution! I did that. I elevated myself and my family. To do what? Right! To end up in a similar swamp, only the people around me are no longer those poor wretches and bandits, but knights and Lords. Ha-ha-ha! What difference does it make what a man is dressed in, rags or the finest silks, if the essence is the same? I only console myself with the thought that my children will not be gnawing throats for a moldy piece of bread. Let them cut their enemies for lands, wealth, and power, rather than a handful of coppers and a homeless dog's meat."
Toward the end of his speech, the Ghiscari grinned brightly and sank his teeth into a piece of meat that burst with juice.
"That's why I am so grateful to the Targaryen. Whatever anyone says, whether he's a boy or not, I know one thing for sure. For loyal service, Viserys gave me more than I could have achieved in a couple of lifetimes." Raising his cup, the Ghiscari roared, "Hail Viserys Targaryen!"
"Hail Viserys Targaryen!" Lorik supported him.
"Hail Viserys Targaryen!" an uneven chorus of voices sounded from the first floor of the tavern.
****
Astapor's main square was buzzing and loud. A sea of people gathered before the stone platform decorated with hundreds of flowers. Praetorians, wrapped in festive cloaks bearing the House Targaryen sigil, shielded our delegation from the city dwellers. Behind them, in wooden tribunes, sat the noble guests.
I stood on the platform in the company of Willem Darry and the Reraxes brothers. Veela, who never liked large crowds, preferred to watch the proceedings from the stands. And Narvos and Zirarro had not yet returned from Myr, where they had gone for my sister. A pedestal with the crown stood before me. Next to it was an old man with a neat beard, long silver hair reaching his shoulders, and piercing violet eyes. His snow-white toga was fastened with a fibula of Valyrian steel, and around his left arm were wrapped beads consisting of exactly fourteen obsidian spheres. I myself was clad in armor of Valyrian steel; a black cloak with a red three-headed dragon rested on my shoulders. Scabbarded on my hip was my hand-and-a-half sword of sorcerous steel, and my hair was tied back with a wine-colored silk ribbon.
Raising my hand, I gave the signal. The Praetorians took the silver-chased horns from their belts and sounded a fanfare. The crowd, previously noisy and loud, fell completely silent. Activating the only aeromancy spell known to me, I amplified my voice, which boomed like thunder across the sea of people.
"My name is Viserys Targaryen. I have conquered Astapor with iron and fire! Next, the entire Slaver's Bay will be subdued. Are you ready to swear fealty to me as your Emperor? Are you ready to become subjects of the Valyrian Empire?" A winged shadow flashed over the square, and the fearsome roar of Avero sounded in the sky.
"Dragon Emperor!"
"Hail Viserys Targaryen!"
"Long live the Empire!"
Veela's people in the crowd began to shout, and the rest of the populace took up the cry after them.
Soon, the multi-thousand strong crowd knelt, and the Praetorians once again sounded their horns, calling for silence. The Voice Amplification spell easily settled upon the elderly Valyrian, and he began his speech.
"I am Rhaegar Paeminion, High Priest of the Temple of War. In the name of the Fourteen Gods of Old Valyria, I ask you: Do you swear to be a wise and just ruler?"
"I swear."
"Do you swear to be merciful to your subjects and cruel to your enemies?"
"I swear."
"Do you swear to uphold the Fourteen Covenants and to be the shield and sword of the Valyrian Empire?"
"I swear."
"You have spoken, and you have been heard!" the priest raised his hands to the sky, while Avero announced the occasion with another thunderous roar. "From this day forth, you are Viserys Targaryen, the Dragon Emperor of the Valyrian Empire!" The priest placed the iron crown with fourteen spikes upon my head.
Gazing out at the cheering crowd, I smiled. The years of labor had not been in vain.
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