Countless worlds unfolded before Mortarion.
They appeared within the grey emptiness like windows suspended in the air, each revealing lands that had never known his name.
Some were consumed by war, their fields crowded with armies that stretched from one horizon to the other.
Others were besieged by dreadful beasts that crawled from fiery abysses, tearing through cities and devouring entire populations.
He saw countries fractured by rebellion, kingdoms corrupted by disease and empires collapsing beneath the weight of their own decadence.
There were worlds where the dead rose from their graves.
Worlds ruled by creatures that considered humanity little more than livestock.
Worlds where fire fell from the heavens and reduced entire continents to ash.
Mortarion watched them all without flinching.
One vision showed a city surrounded by black walls as thousands of twisted creatures clawed against its gates.
Another revealed armoured warriors battling beneath a red sky, their blood boiling the moment it touched the earth.
In a third, a pale sickness travelled from village to village, leaving behind corpses that continued to whisper long after death had claimed them.
Every world possessed its own suffering.
Every world had men desperate enough to believe that survival alone was victory.
Mortarion felt no pity for them.
He had witnessed cities burn and watched entire armies disappear beneath cavalry charges.
Suffering was not remarkable.
It was the natural consequence of weakness, poor leadership and uncontrolled ambition.
Yet even he understood the scale of what Death showed him.
“There are more worlds than there are stars,” Mortarion observed.
“Why show them to me?”
Death stood beside him, skeletal fingers resting around the shaft of his great scythe.
The pale flames within his eye sockets moved from one vision to another, betraying nothing of his thoughts.
“To give you perspective,” Death replied coldly.
“You believed your Empire was the height of mortal achievement.
You believed its wars were vast, its monsters legendary and its victories eternal.
Compared to what exists beyond your world, the Aurellian Empire was little more than dust upon a forgotten road.”
Mortarion turned his head towards the hooded being.
“Yet you chose me from that dust.”
A quiet scraping sound escaped Death’s skull.
It might have been laughter, although there was no warmth within it.
“I chose you because you accomplished what should have been impossible.
You conquered every kingdom in your world.
You killed four creatures that had survived for centuries.
You endured agony that would have broken greater men, and even as magma consumed your flesh, your final thought was not fear.”
“What was it?”
“You wondered whether the Emperor would consider your death a failure.”
Mortarion’s expression remained unchanged, though he could not deny the truth of the statement.
He had never feared death itself.
His only concern had been whether the mission was complete.
Death lifted one bony hand.
The countless worlds faded, their visions retreating into the grey mist until only one remained.
It hung before Mortarion like an enormous mirror, its surface rippling before settling into the shape of a vast continent.
“This is the world to which I wish to send you,” Death said.
Mortarion studied the vision.
Unlike many of the worlds he had just witnessed, this one appeared peaceful.
Golden fields surrounded prosperous villages.
Ships crossed glittering seas, their sails heavy with favourable winds.
Great castles overlooked forests, rivers and mountain passes.
Nobles feasted beneath banners representing ancient bloodlines, while merchants filled their coffers in crowded cities.
There were wars, but they appeared distant and contained.
No endless horde approached the walls.
No great plague blackened the countryside.
The dead remained inside their graves, and the monsters that once ruled the skies had largely vanished.
“This world appears unimpressive,” Mortarion said.
“For the moment,” Death replied.
“Peace is often nothing more than the breath drawn before a scream.”
The vision changed.
Golden fields became blackened wastelands.
Villages burned while armoured riders hunted fleeing peasants through the smoke.
Castles that had stood for hundreds of years were besieged, betrayed or abandoned.
Roads filled with corpses, and rivers ran red beneath shattered bridges.
Mortarion saw noble houses turn upon one another, each convinced that blood and ancient promises entitled them to rule.
Armies marched beneath wolves, lions, stags, dragons and creatures he did not recognise.
Men who had once shared bread murdered one another over distant claims to a chair made of swords.
“It is a realm at peace,” Death continued, “but that peace will not last.
Soon, it will be torn apart by civil war.
Brother will kill brother.
Kings will rise from every corner of the land, and each will claim that the gods favour his cause.
Dragons will dance and bring death upon the realm once more.”
The image shifted north.
A wall of ice rose higher than any fortification Mortarion had ever seen.
It stretched across the land from one coast to another, separating the kingdoms of men from a wilderness of snow, forests and forgotten ruins.
Beyond it, shapes moved within a blizzard.
They resembled men, but their flesh possessed the pallor of ancient ice.
Their eyes glowed with an unnatural blue light.
Wherever they walked, the dead rose behind them.
“All the while,” Death said, “an adversary gathers in the north.
It has waited for thousands of years while the living fought over crowns, land and imagined insults.
When the realms of men are weakened, it will march south.”
Mortarion watched the dead advance through the snow.
They did not tire, fear or hesitate.
An army requiring no food, payment or rest was a commander’s dream, but only if it obeyed him.
“What would you have me do?” Mortarion asked.
Death turned towards him.
The bones of his skull shifted into an eerie imitation of a smile.
“Act as my champion and make the world yours.”
Mortarion waited for further explanation.
“You may conquer it, rule it, unite it or terrorise it into obedience,” Death continued.
“You may place yourself upon its greatest throne or destroy the throne entirely.
You may build shrines to forgotten gods, drown every priest in the sea or crown a fool as emperor.
I care little about the banners under which mortals kneel.”
“Then what do you care about?”
“Death.”
The word rolled through the emptiness like distant thunder.
The countless names carved into Death’s scythe glimmered for a moment before fading.
“Mortals are meant to die,” Death explained.
“It is the order of existence.
Yet there is a difference between the ending of a life and the careless destruction of thousands.
The coming wars will kill more than soldiers.
Famine will follow armies.
Disease will spread through ruined cities.
Children who might have lived for decades will die before they understand why their homes were burned.”
Mortarion folded his arms.
“You object to death despite being Death.”
“I object to waste.”
For the first time, Mortarion found himself understanding the being before him.
Death did not speak from kindness.
He did not seek to save lives because he valued happiness, innocence or peace.
He regarded needless slaughter in the same manner Mortarion regarded damaged weapons, wasted supplies and poorly commanded soldiers.
It was inefficiency on a catastrophic scale.
“Your primary mission is to prevent the worst losses of the coming civil wars,” Death said.
“Your second is to defeat the adversary gathering beyond the northern wall.
How you accomplish either task is your concern.”
“You expect peace from a conqueror?”
“I expect order from one.”
Mortarion looked again at the burning kingdoms.
Kings fought one another while the dead gathered beyond the ice, unnoticed by those who believed their petty rivalries mattered.
A competent ruler could have prepared the realm.
A strong ruler could have forced the divided kingdoms to face the greater threat together.
Instead, they would exhaust themselves over a throne.
“And if I refuse?” Mortarion asked.
Death’s smile widened.
“Then you may rest here.”
The surrounding mist darkened.
The visions disappeared, leaving Mortarion once again surrounded by endless grey emptiness.
“No heaven will accept you,” Death continued.
“No hell wishes to contain you.
You would remain in this realm without hunger, exhaustion, pain or release.
You would possess an infinite existence and nothing with which to fill it.”
Mortarion glanced into the distance.
There was no sun to mark the passing of days.
No wind moved through the mist.
No voices disturbed the silence.
There were no enemies to defeat, no campaigns to plan and no lands to conquer.
It was not rest.
It was torture stripped of violence.
With enough centuries, the silence would corrode even the strongest mind.
Boredom would become despair, and despair would eventually become madness.
Death did not need chains, blades or fire to punish him.
Eternity itself would be the weapon.
“You offer a choice between service and imprisonment,” Mortarion said.
“I offer you purpose.”
“You make them sound different.”
“They are different to men such as you.”
Mortarion could not argue with that.
He had spent his entire life moving from one campaign to another.
When wars ended, the Emperor sent him after monsters.
When those monsters were dead, Mortarion had intended to return and await another command.
He had never learned how to live without a mission.
Death had recognised that weakness and turned it against him.
“I am one man,” Mortarion said.
“No matter what I accomplished in my former life, this is a foreign world.
I know nothing of its people, its armies or its politics.
What can one man accomplish against kingdoms, dragons and creatures of the dead?”
“You will not arrive without advantages.”
Death raised his scythe and struck its base against the unseen ground.
A deep chime travelled through the void as a grotesque screen emerged from the mist.
Its border was formed from interlocking bones, while pale green flames burned at each corner.
Symbols appeared across its dark surface.
“I will grant you gifts as rewards for your service,” Death said.
“First, you will receive knowledge of this world.
Its recorded history, languages, religions, cultures and political divisions will become part of your mind.”
“Recorded history can be filled with lies.”
“Then you will be granted the truth where it is known.
You will also be shown events that have not yet happened, although your arrival will begin to alter them.”
Mortarion studied the changing symbols.
“What else?”
“You may choose the nature of your new body, the culture from which it originates and the location at which your second life will begin.
Other rewards have also been prepared.”
“A choice of who I will become?”
“To an extent.
I will not place you inside the body of an existing ruler.
Such interference creates complications even I would rather avoid.
You will enter the world as yourself, but your blood, appearance and natural abilities will reflect the culture you select.”
The screen changed.
Names, images and descriptions spread across its surface.
Mortarion stepped closer, reading each option as carefully as he once studied maps before a campaign.
There were cultures from every corner of the world.
Some were descended from ancient empires, while others consisted of nomadic riders or isolated mountain clans.
Each offered unique advantages and disadvantages.
He could be born among the Dothraki, a culture of mounted warriors whose hordes terrorised the eastern continent.
Their cavalry was formidable, but their hatred of armour and disciplined infantry offended nearly every instinct Mortarion possessed.
He could belong to the Ghiscari, heirs to one of the oldest civilisations in the world.
They possessed wealthy cities, disciplined legions and an established culture of slavery.
Yet their ruling classes appeared consumed by tradition and indulgence.
There were the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar and the people of the Summer Isles.
He could even become a champion of a strange religion devoted to R’hllor, the Lord of Light.
That choice offered an affinity for fire and the potential to command fanatics who believed every battle was part of a holy struggle.
Mortarion had commanded zealots before.
They were brave and obedient until their faith contradicted their orders.
Another option allowed him to emerge as the founder of a new Valyrian house.
He would possess the appearance and blood of the people who once ruled much of the known world through dragons and sorcery.
Their empire had been destroyed in a catastrophe known as the Doom, but their descendants remained symbols of power.
The screen showed silver hair, violet eyes and an instinctive bond with dragons.
It also warned of arrogance, dangerous bloodlines and the suspicion of those who feared the return of Valyrian supremacy.
Mortarion continued reading.
He could be born in Westeros as the heir to an established lord, inheriting lands and soldiers that would soon be consumed by war.
Such a beginning would offer immediate authority but bind him to existing allegiances, family obligations and ancient disputes.
The idea of inheriting another man’s duties held little appeal.
Mortarion had not built his legend by relying upon what others left behind.
“I choose High Valyrian,” he declared.
Death’s flaming eyes settled upon him.
“Why?”
“I stood at the pinnacle of greatness in my former world.
Let my new ancestry reflect that position.”
Mortarion looked upon the image of the dragonlords.
Their empire had collapsed, their cities destroyed and their surviving descendants reduced to scattered houses clinging to the memory of what they once possessed.
That failure did not discourage him.
It provided an opportunity.
“The Valyrians conquered much of this world before the world destroyed them,” Mortarion continued.
“Their surviving bloodlines either squandered their power and faded away into nothingness or established themselves in unknown lands.
I will surpass them.”
Death nodded with approval.
“A proud choice.”
The screen accepted his selection.
Pale fire spread across its border before the other cultures disappeared.
Death stepped closer.
“Then let me bestow upon you the histories of your new world.”
He extended a single skeletal finger and placed it against Mortarion’s temple.
Pain exploded through his skull.
Mortarion had endured broken bones, torn flesh, poison and dragonfire.
He had remained conscious while surgeons removed arrows from his body without anything to dull the pain.
Even the magma that killed him had not broken his will before it destroyed his flesh.
This was different.
Knowledge forced itself into his mind with the violence of a siege engine striking a gate.
Thousands of names, places and events flooded through him simultaneously.
Languages he had never heard became familiar.
Maps unfolded behind his eyes, expanding faster than he could understand them.
He saw the rise of Valyria from a civilisation of shepherds to the greatest empire the world had ever known.
He witnessed dragonlords soaring above armies while sorcerers shaped flesh, stone and fire.
He saw the Freehold conquer the Old Empire of Ghis, reducing ancient cities to ruins and enslaving populations beyond counting.
Then came the Doom.
Mountains erupted.
The earth split open.
Fire swallowed cities while dragons screamed in the sky.
Seas boiled, towers collapsed and spells twisted beyond the control of those who had cast them.
In a single day, the greatest civilisation in history was annihilated.
The knowledge shifted before Mortarion could fully understand it.
He witnessed the rise of House Targaryen on Dragonstone.
Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives crossed the sea with three dragons and forged the Seven Kingdoms through flame and submission.
Harrenhal melted beneath Balerion’s fire.
Kings knelt, burned or died in the field.
Mortarion saw generations of Targaryen rulers.
Some were capable, others weak and several unmistakably mad.
He witnessed the Dance of the Dragons, a civil war in which the ruling dynasty turned its greatest weapons against itself.
Dragons tore one another apart while armies devastated the realm in support of rival claimants.
He saw the last dragons weaken and die.
He witnessed rebellions, betrayals and marriages that shaped entire kingdoms.
Blackfyre pretenders raised their banners.
Lords changed allegiance whenever it became profitable.
Honourable men died for foolish rulers, while cunning men survived long enough to rewrite the truth.
The knowledge moved beyond Westeros.
Mortarion saw the Golden Empire of Yi Ti and the ruined cities of the Old Empire of Ghis.
He learned of Asshai by the Shadow, where dark sorceries endured beneath a poisoned sky.
He saw Braavos, Volantis, Qarth, Pentos, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh and the other cities that competed for wealth and influence across the Narrow Sea.
He learned of gods both old and new.
The Seven, the old gods of the forests, R’hllor, the Drowned God, the Many-Faced God and countless others worshipped by peoples across the world.
Then more of the future came.
Robert’s Rebellion shattered the Targaryen dynasty.
A dragon prince fell upon the Trident.
A mad king died upon his own throne while his capital was sacked.
The surviving Targaryens fled across the sea as Robert Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne.
Years of uneasy peace followed.
Mortarion saw a king grow fat and careless.
He saw lions gather power around the throne while wolves remained distant in the north.
Secrets festered beneath royal marriages.
Old grievances sharpened into weapons.
The king would die.
The realm would fracture.
Stark, Lannister, Baratheon and Greyjoy banners would rise.
The Riverlands would burn.
The North would seek independence, and pretenders would fight over a throne none of them fully understood.
Across the sea, dragons would be born again.
Far beyond the Wall, the dead would awaken.
The knowledge continued until Mortarion could no longer separate memory from prophecy.
He saw battles that had not happened and deaths that might never occur once he entered the world.
Faces appeared before him, accompanied by names, loyalties, ambitions and eventual fates.
Eddard Stark.
Robert Baratheon.
Cersei Lannister.
Tywin Lannister.
Stannis Baratheon.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Jon Snow.
Thousands more followed.
Mortarion fell to one knee.
His hands rose to his head as though he could physically hold his skull together.
The movement was instinctive and useless.
No wound existed for him to close.
The pain came from within, growing more intense with every century of history forced into his mind.
He clawed at his temples.
His body convulsed as the Doom of Valyria and the wars of Westeros collided with memories of his own campaigns.
For a moment, he could not remember whether he had commanded imperial legions beneath the banners of Aurellian or ridden a dragon above the armies of Old Valyria.
A sound escaped him through clenched teeth.
Death observed in silence.
The transfer continued until Mortarion’s limbs went limp.
He collapsed against the unseen ground, his mind buried beneath the weight of empires, bloodlines and possible futures.
When the pain finally ceased, he remained motionless.
The grey emptiness slowly returned to focus.
Death stood in the same place, watching him with an expressionless skull.
The screen of bones continued to burn nearby, waiting for the next selection.
Mortarion forced himself upright.
He expected weakness but found his body restored.
The exhaustion remained within his mind, yet the information no longer attacked him.
It settled into place as though he had spent years studying the world.
He could remember every king who had sat the Iron Throne.
He understood the primary languages of both Westeros and Essos.
He knew the strengths of each kingdom, the rivalries between their noble houses and the mistakes that would lead them into war.
More importantly, he knew where the world was vulnerable.
Death tilted his head.
“How do you feel?”
Mortarion stared at him with chilling indifference.
“Mentally exhausted,” he replied.
“But otherwise unharmed.”
“You endured the process better than most.”
“Have others done this before?”
Death did not answer immediately.
“Not in this world.”
Mortarion recognised an incomplete answer but did not press the matter.
Information withheld by Death would eventually reveal itself, provided he survived long enough.
“Now choose your location of origin,” Death said.
The screen changed once more.
A map of the known world appeared upon it, from the frozen lands beyond the Wall to the distant eastern reaches of Essos.
Hundreds of locations glowed beneath Mortarion’s gaze.
He could begin in King’s Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and the eventual centre of the coming war.
Starting there would place him near the Iron Throne, but it would also surround him with spies, nobles and institutions loyal to established powers.
Dragonstone offered an ancient Valyrian fortress and proximity to Westeros.
Volantis provided wealth, soldiers and descendants of Old Valyria who still dreamed of imperial glory.
Braavos held vast financial power, while Pentos, Myr and Lys each offered access to trade, mercenaries and political influence.
Other locations included Sunspear, White Harbor, Oldtown and the great cities of Slaver’s Bay.
Mortarion considered each carefully.
A city offered resources but also scrutiny.
Appearing without history, family or documentation would attract questions.
A High Valyrian arriving in Westeros with knowledge of the future might immediately be associated with House Targaryen, binding him to conflicts before he possessed the strength to control them.
He needed time.
More importantly, he needed a foundation that belonged entirely to him.
Mortarion’s eyes moved towards the Smoking Sea.
Old Valyria appeared upon the map as a darkened ruin surrounded by warning symbols.
The peninsula had been shattered during the Doom, leaving behind volcanic islands, broken cities and waters feared by every sailor in the known world.
Few ships willingly approached it.
Fewer returned.
The histories spoke of poisonous fumes, unnatural creatures and curses lingering among the ruins.
Stone men wandered parts of the surrounding lands, while darker things were said to dwell beneath the shattered towers.
It was isolated, dangerous and abandoned.
Mortarion selected it.
Death stared at the marked location.
“Old Valyria?”
“Yes.”
“You may begin within almost any civilised city in the world.
I could place you near wealth, armies and political influence.
Instead, you choose a ruin where the air itself may kill you.”
“Civilisation brings witnesses.”
“So does survival.”
“Old Valyria provides resources no living kingdom has claimed.
Weapons, knowledge, fortifications and whatever remains of the dragonlords’ wealth may still be found there.
The world avoids it because it is dangerous.” Mortarion’s lips almost formed a smile.
“That makes it valuable.”
Death examined him for several moments.
“You also chose it because no ruler currently claims it.”
“I will not begin my second life as a guest upon another man’s land.”
There was another reason Mortarion did not voice.
The ruins of Valyria represented both the greatest heights humanity had reached in this world and the consequences of allowing power to become uncontrolled.
If he intended to establish a new Valyrian dynasty, there was no more appropriate birthplace.
“Very well,” Death said.
“Because you are beginning within a ruin isolated from the rest of the world, you may choose a dragon.”
The map disappeared.
Three names emerged upon the screen: Anaxion, Midas, Oblivion.
Mortarion waited for descriptions to appear.
None did.
“No information?” he asked.
“The selection is based upon instinct.”
“An unreliable method.”
“Yet one you used throughout your life.”
“I relied upon experience.”
“Instinct is experience speaking before reason has caught up.”
Mortarion studied the names.
Midas suggested gold, wealth and perhaps greed.
It was a strong name, although it sounded more suited to a king who measured his greatness through treasure.
Oblivion carried power but possessed an unnecessary theatrical quality.
It was the sort of name an insecure ruler gave to a sword before losing his first battle.
Anaxion was different.
The name sounded ancient without being needlessly boastful.
It carried weight, though it revealed nothing about the creature attached to it.
Mortarion touched the first name.
“I choose Anaxion.” The other two vanished.
“You do not wish to reconsider?” Death asked.
“If you wished me to make an informed decision, you would have provided information.
Since you did not, reconsideration would accomplish nothing.”
Death’s skull shifted into another faint smile.
“Anaxion will come to you after your arrival.
Whether the dragon accepts you will depend upon the strength of your blood and will.”
“You said I could choose a dragon.”
“I said nothing about making it obedient.”
Mortarion did not appear troubled.
“Then I will make it obedient.”
The selection was accepted.
Death moved the process forward, and the screen filled with images of weapons.
There were hammers capable of shattering castle gates, axes with enchanted blades, spears forged from metals unknown to Westeros and bows that could send arrows across impossible distances.
Mortarion ignored most of them.
He had trained with nearly every common weapon during his former life, but the sword remained the most adaptable.
It could be carried through cities without attracting undue attention, used on horseback or foot and wielded within confined spaces where a spear or halberd became inconvenient.
One blade drew his attention.
It was a longsword forged from dark Valyrian steel.
The rippling patterns within the metal were nearly black, visible only when the blade moved beneath the pale light.
Its length allowed it to be wielded with one or two hands, giving it greater versatility than a traditional greatsword.
The hilt was wrapped in black leather.
Muted silver formed the crossguard, while the pommel had been shaped into a human skull.
Two small green emeralds rested within its eye sockets.
An eerie presence surrounded the weapon.
It reminded Mortarion of Dreaded Deliverance, the mithril sword that had accompanied him through the conquests of his former life.
The colours also reflected the black and dark-green armour that had made Death’s Disciple recognisable across every battlefield.
This weapon did not merely suit him.
It appeared to have been made for him.
Mortarion selected it without hesitation.
The blade’s details appeared upon the screen.
Its Valyrian steel would remain sharp through years of battle and could harm creatures resistant to ordinary weapons.
The sword possessed no recorded history and belonged to no existing house.
That pleased him.
He had no desire to carry another family’s relic.
“The sword will accompany you into Old Valyria,” Death explained.
“You may name it once it has drawn blood.”
“Why wait?”
“A weapon should earn its name.”
Mortarion approved of the principle.
The final selection appeared.
Armies filled the screen.
Armoured knights rode beneath unfamiliar banners.
Dothraki screamers swept across open plains, while disciplined Ghiscari legions formed ranks behind tall shields.
There were mercenary companies, wildling tribes, Volantene soldiers and warriors drawn from lands Mortarion had only recently learned existed.
Some options offered fewer elite soldiers.
Others provided enormous numbers of poorly equipped levies.
Each included different supplies, officers and limitations.
Before choosing, Mortarion turned towards Death.
“How many men will I command?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Will they be waiting in Valyria?”
“No.
You may call for them once you have established a suitable location.
They will arrive with their weapons, armour and necessary equipment.”
“How?”
“Does the method matter?”
“It matters if enemies can use it.”
“They cannot.
It is a single reward, not a power you may repeat whenever convenient.”
Mortarion accepted the answer.
“And their provisions?”
“You will receive sufficient food and supplies to sustain them for one year, along with coin equal to their wages for the same period.
What happens after that year will be your responsibility.”
Mortarion returned his attention to the army selections.
Knights offered heavy armour, martial training and the social standing required to negotiate with Westerosi nobility.
However, knights were often burdened by pride, family loyalties and personal ambition.
Ten thousand mounted warriors would also require a vast number of horses, servants and provisions.
Dothraki were exceptional cavalry but ill-suited for siege warfare and heavily fortified terrain.
Their culture would also resist the discipline Mortarion demanded.
Mercenaries possessed valuable experience, although their loyalty lasted only as long as their wages and confidence in their commander.
The Unsullied offered something different.
They were infantry soldiers trained from childhood in Astapor.
Their training was brutal beyond reason.
Boys were broken physically and mentally, stripped of their identities and transformed into disciplined spearmen who followed orders without hesitation.
Only a fraction survived the process.
Those who did could march for extraordinary distances, maintain formation under terrifying conditions and obey commands that would send ordinary soldiers fleeing.
They did not pillage without permission, abandon their posts or murder civilians merely because a city had fallen.
The process that created them was abhorrent.
The result was undeniable.
“I choose the Unsullied,” Mortarion said.
Death watched him closely.
“Why?”
“They are disciplined, competent and accustomed to fighting as a unified force.
They will not retreat because an enemy appears frightening, nor will they abandon formation to pursue personal glory.”
“They are also slaves.”
Mortarion looked at the marching soldiers displayed upon the screen.
Slavery had never existed within the Aurellian Empire.
Prisoners worked mines, criminals were condemned to labour and conquered populations paid tribute, but the ownership of one person by another had never been recognised by imperial law.
The concept should perhaps have offended him.
It did not.
Mortarion had ordered men into battles they could not survive.
He had executed soldiers for desertion and craftsmen for failing to meet his demands.
He was in no position to claim moral outrage over cruelty simply because it wore an unfamiliar name.
“They are soldiers,” Mortarion replied.
“Very capable soldiers.”
“Most people would question how they were created.”
“I did not create them.”
“But you will benefit from what was done to them.”
Mortarion’s expression hardened.
“You offered them as a choice.
Do not pretend moral superiority because I accepted.”
Death’s laughter echoed through the void.
The sound held greater amusement than anything Mortarion had heard from him before.
“You adapt quickly.”
“I despise hypocrisy.”
“What will you do with them once they are yours?”
Mortarion studied the Unsullied once more.
He valued obedience, but he understood the difference between loyalty and conditioning.
Soldiers who believed they possessed nothing beyond service could be effective.
Soldiers who understood that their commander valued their continued existence were better.
“I will not treat them as property,” he said.
“They will serve as soldiers and be rewarded as soldiers.
Their officers will earn authority through competence.
Those who prove themselves will be promoted.”
“Will they be free to leave?”
“After the coming wars, perhaps.”
Death tilted his head.
“That is not freedom.”
“No army allows its soldiers to wander away whenever they grow tired of service.
Discipline requires obligation.”
“You speak like a commander already planning his empire.”
“I have been planning since you showed me the world.”
The screen accepted the selection.
Ten thousand Unsullied would answer Mortarion’s call once he established himself within Old Valyria.
Their equipment, provisions and wages would arrive with them.
Whether one year was enough time to create a sustainable base depended upon what remained among the ruins.
Mortarion considered it sufficient.
A year was an eternity when used properly.
The screen of bones began to dissolve.
Its pale flames drew inward until only darkness remained.
Death raised his scythe.
“You have made your choices.
High Valyrian blood, the ruins of Old Valyria, the dragon Anaxion, a Valyrian steel sword and ten thousand Unsullied.”
“You make it sound almost too generous.”
“The challenges awaiting you justify the rewards.”
“What have you neglected to tell me?”
“Many things.”
Mortarion had expected no other answer.
Death swept his scythe through the air.
A narrow line of white light appeared behind Mortarion.
It widened gradually, forming the outline of a door that stood unsupported within the void.
Warm air flowed through the opening, carrying the scent of smoke, salt and sulphur.
Beyond it waited darkness broken by a distant red glow.
Old Valyria.
Before Mortarion could step forward, Death spoke again.
“There are conditions.”
“You did not mention conditions.”
“You did not ask.”
Mortarion turned back towards him.
“Speak them then.”
“You will retain your memories, experience and personality, but your new body will not possess the strength of your former one.
It must be trained.”
“That is acceptable.”
“You will not be invulnerable.
A blade through your heart will kill you.
Poison, disease and fire may do the same.”
“Then I will avoid them.”
“Your knowledge of the future is no longer certain.
Every action you take will create changes.
The more influence you exert, the less reliable your memories of coming events will become.”
Mortarion had already considered that possibility.
Prophecy was useful only to those capable of adapting when it failed.
“Anything else?”
“You must prevent the greatest loss of life caused by the coming wars and defeat the threat in the north.
Conquering the world is optional.”
“Optional objectives are usually the most rewarding.”
Death lowered his scythe until its blade hovered near Mortarion’s shoulder.
“Do not mistake my amusement for affection.
I have selected you because you are useful, not because you are irreplaceable.”
“All men are replaceable.”
“Even you?”
Mortarion looked through the doorway towards the ruined homeland of the dragonlords.
“The Emperor believed so.”
“And was he correct?”
Mortarion’s pale reflection appeared within the blade of Death’s scythe.
His features had already begun to change.
The dark hair of his former life faded towards silver, while his eyes acquired a faint violet hue.
“He never had the opportunity to discover the answer.”
Death withdrew the weapon.
“Go forth, Mortarion Krieg.
Enter this new world, raise your armies and prepare it for what is coming.”
Mortarion approached the doorway.
“Do not fail me,” Death warned.
Mortarion stopped at its threshold.
Heat brushed against his face as distant volcanic fires illuminated shattered towers beneath a blackened sky.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“I have never failed a mission.”
“You died completing the last one.”
“The beast died first.”
Mortarion stepped through the light.
The doorway closed behind him, and the grey realm disappeared.
Death remained alone within the endless mist.
For several moments, he stared at the place where his new champion had vanished.
Then the pale flames within his skull brightened.
“Let us see,” he murmured, “whether this world survives being saved by you.”