12.
Outburst of Wrath 16: Chapter 12.
Outburst of Wrath 251 AC.
Tyrosh Irat Rexarion.
“We’ve got a little over a hundred and fifty coins total,” Ross said, having finished counting our wealth at my request.
Several days had passed since I’d dealt with Varys’s former master.
All that time, Ross and Magok kept glancing at me, clearly wanting to ask something.
But they never quite worked up the courage.
When those looks started to irritate me, I gave Ross the task of counting all the cash our squad had.
Naturally, this caused a wave of discontent, as all the fighters had to empty their pockets.
But the grumbling quickly stopped when the loudest complainer, Beric, took a hit to his overly bold face.
The fighters were beginning to understand that I didn’t tolerate being contradicted.
And I, in turn, was starting to define the limits of what was permissible.
But back to the money.
This counting wasn’t just my idle desire to distract Ross and, along with him, Magok.
Far from it.
It was necessary for preparing for the upcoming battles.
Taking the pouch of coins, I roughly estimated the cost of the gear the new recruits would need.
It worked out that, on average, three gambesons would cost about fifteen or twenty coins, depending on their denomination.
The main problem was the swords.
A good sword made of quality iron costs no less than armor.
Things were complicated by the fact that we might need more than three swords.
Considering how easily they broke in my hands after particularly strong blows, I had no desire to spend money on weapons that would eventually be destroyed.
“Go to the armorer,” I said, counting out the needed amount.
“Buy the new guys a set of armor and weapons.
Rob’s in charge.” The chestnut-haired mercenary nodded curtly, taking the money.
The next moment, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he looked at me.
A silent question was in his eyes.
“Keep the change,” I smirked, seeing the greedy gleam in the mercenaries’ eyes.
“But buy everything first.
Otherwise, you’d better start praying to whatever gods you believe in, because I’ll tear your heads off.” “Of course, commander,” Beric said with a nervous laugh, standing next to Rob, and thoughtfully rubbed his cheek, where my fist had recently landed.
“What about me, master?” came Varys’s uncertain voice.
The boy was standing there, looking at me expectantly.
“Go with them,” I said, noticing his attempts to hide his excitement.
“Keep an eye on them and tell me later if they cheated me.” The boy nodded seriously and tried to look menacingly at my fighters.
Of course, all it earned him was the hearty laughter of hardened killers and a sullen, chubby face from the former slave.
“Don’t be discouraged, kid,” I said, chuckling along.
“They just don’t understand that information is the key to everything.
And you’ll provide me with that information.” While Varys tried not to burst from his own importance, I tossed a couple more coins to Rob.
“Buy him a knife he can handle,” I said seriously.
“Now get going.” The fighters began to gather.
Those sitting on rocks or the ground stood up and brushed the dust off their pants.
The new recruits huddled together, waiting for their senior comrades.
Beric approached Jon and started discussing how, if they could haggle well, there should be enough money left over to visit a brothel.
“Ross, Magok,” I called out to the mercenaries who were getting ready to leave with the others.
“Stay here.” They exchanged glances and, gesturing to their comrades not to wait for them, returned to their spots.
“Ask,” I said, as soon as we were alone.
“About what, commander?” Ross made a show of not understanding.
The Summer Islander, unlike his comrade, didn’t bother with pantomime and stared at me with interest.
It seemed that if he weren’t mute, he would have bombarded me with questions.
“Don’t take me for an idiot,” I said, giving the black-and-white pair a sideways look.
“Ever since we left that inn, I’ve felt your eyes on me constantly.” They exchanged another look.
Longer this time.
Much longer.
“What was that?” Ross finally broke the silence.
“Back at the inn.
Magic?” “It’s complicated,” I said, thinking.
How do you explain the color of the sky to a blind man?
They probably wouldn’t understand the full depth of the term “gravity.” And was it even worth explaining?
It was too complex a force to sum up in a few words.
“Magic?” I continued, deciding that term would be the most fitting.
“Yeah, you could call it that.” I paused, watching their reactions carefully.
Magok met my gaze.
In his dark eyes, I saw even more curiosity than before.
But there were also faint glimmers of awe and reverence.
His reaction wasn’t unexpected, as I knew Summer Islander culture didn’t reject magic.
Ross surprised me much more.
His reaction wasn’t that different from the dark-skinned mercenary’s.
But there was a small measure of rational fear mixed in.
Now it was my turn to be curious.
Such a reaction was strange for a man from Westeros.
Everyone knows how the Faith of the Seven and the Order of Maesters condemn everything magical.
“So I wasn’t imagining things,” the big man said with satisfaction.
“Back during the defense of the North Gate…
it was you who slowed down the guards.
I’m right, aren’t I, Irat?” I nodded affirmatively.
“Truly,” the mercenary said thoughtfully.
“A blessing from the Old Gods, no less.” His assumption was so absurd, so ridiculous, that I couldn’t help but laugh.
Loudly, hysterically, angrily.
The few birds nesting nearby took flight.
“You don’t look like a Northerner,” I said, after my laughter died down, looking him in the eye.
“And I don’t look like one either.
I’m Valyrian!
Magic has been in my blood since birth.
And no gods had anything to do with it!” Having finished my tirade, I started to calm down.
Only then did I notice that the boulder I’d punched in my fit of rage was now covered in a web of fine cracks spreading from the impact point.
“Valyrian?” Ross asked in surprise.
“There are people with Valyrian blood all over Essos.
That doesn’t make them Valyrians, let alone sorcerers.” “True, it doesn’t,” I agreed calmly, trying to ignore the fact that he’d questioned my heritage.
“To have a chance of becoming a mage, one drop of blood isn’t enough.
The purer your blood, the greater your chances.” “But the only known pure-blooded Valyrians are the Targaryens.
Are you saying…” “No, I’m not a Targaryen,” I cut him off.
“Though I won’t deny there might be some of their blood in me.
My mother never told me who my father was.
She only said he was Valyrian, like her.
So you’re right that they’re the only known ones, but there are others who’ve been forgotten…” The mercenaries’ faces stretched in surprise and confusion.
“What do you even know about Valyria?” I asked rhetorically.
“How many houses ruled it?
Or what do you know about the Targaryens?
About who they really are?” I paused for a moment.
I looked into the fighters’ faces.
The Westerosi looked thoughtful, searching his memory for answers to my questions.
The Summer Islander, on the other hand, continued to watch me with interest, waiting for me to continue.
A reckless thought flashed through my mind that I should stop, end this conversation.
They didn’t need to know the history of times long past.
They didn’t need to know my story either.
It was all unnecessary, since they wouldn’t believe it anyway.
That was the voice of my rational mind.
But I couldn’t stop.
The fire of wrath was burning inside me again.
All the stories my mother had ever told me came flooding back.
I remembered my mother.
Her glassy violet eyes, the peaceful smile on her deathly pale face.
A lump formed in my throat, and the suppressed anger flared up with renewed force.
I was angry at myself for not being there in time.
Angry at the brothel owner I’d killed.
At the bastard who’d caused my mother’s death.
Angry at the noble houses of Valyria who’d betrayed us and brought us to this state.
“Did you know the Targaryens are nothing but traitors?” I continued, my voice growing more guttural, less my own.
“Rebels.
Cursed rebels!” I punched the boulder again, sending small chips of stone flying.
“They were never close to the top of power!
They were a small, pathetic house.
They had neither wealth nor might.
But look at them now.
They have everything…” My words dripped with venom, contempt, and bitterness.
“Traitors,” I whispered quietly, finally calming down after releasing the carefully suppressed and accumulated anger.
Silence fell over the training ground.
Only my heavy breathing and the sound of falling stone could be heard.
Slowly, I began to realize how many unnecessary words I’d spoken.
Lifting my head, I looked at the witnesses of my outburst.
There was no fear.
I wasn’t afraid of being judged, because that was impossible.
There were practically no Targaryen loyalists among the Golden Company.
Just rebels and exiles.
Or people who’d simply chosen the only trade they knew to earn money.
Magok looked at me with surprise and a hint of respect, his gaze shifting from me to the shattered boulder.
The Summer Islander had little interest in politics.
He didn’t care about the Targaryens or my attitude toward them.
Ross wasn’t far behind his comrade.
He radiated curiosity.
It seemed he understood the reason for my outburst, but his suspicions weren’t enough.
“Why traitors?” he asked quietly.
I looked him in the eye.
Looked and made a decision.
“I am the last of House Rexarion,” I said slowly, firmly, decisively, like diving headfirst into the deep end, trusting in the mercenaries’ discretion.
“A house rejected and forgotten.
A house of Valyria’s rulers.
A house also known as the Dragon Kings.” — The time allotted for preparations and training was long over.
I couldn’t say I was happy about it.
But that didn’t stop me from grinning with anticipation at the prospect of a new battle and new opportunities.
Opportunities to become stronger, to absorb as much power as possible.
All to strike terror into the hearts of my enemies.
Tapping my fingers on the wooden railing of the ship’s deck, I kept replaying the events of the day when I’d opened up to Ross and Magok.
We sat on that training ground for a long time, almost until evening.
By the time we finished, the rest of the squad had returned, showing off their new gear before running off to the nearest brothel to spend the remaining money.
Only Varys stayed behind, dutifully reporting everything my subordinates had done.
Then Magok took him away to continue his knife training, leaving me alone with Ross.
The big man asked questions, clarifying various aspects of my story.
But only one stuck with me, a question I still ask myself today: “What is your goal?” A particularly large wave crashed against the ship’s hull.
The vessel lurched sharply, and I had to grip the railing tighter, pulling myself out of my thoughts.
Beyond the side of the ship stretched a line of vessels belonging to the company.
Mixed in among them were other ships, which, according to the sergeant, belonged to our allies.
Allies among the pirate brotherhood.
In the distance, I could see the rocky shore of one of the small islands that dotted the Stepstones.
Our staging point, or possibly a foothold for further advances.
As the ship glided smoothly over the waves, I tried to remember everything I knew about the Stepstones.
But, as usual, I knew frustratingly little.
The Stepstones were, are, and always will be a group of rocky islands of various sizes.
There’s practically nothing on them.
No fertile land, no deposits of precious metals, no large game.
Just rocks that ships could easily smash against.
There was no reason at all to fight over these small patches of land in the middle of the Narrow Sea, except for their strategic location.
It was precisely because of their location that the Stepstones were the cause of so many wars.
Control over them effectively meant control over the Narrow Sea.
Control over the sea trade routes.
Power over the Stepstones had passed from one hand to another many times, and no one had ever managed to hold them for very long.
So, in these conditions, the Stepstones became a haven for countless pirates, raiders, and other scum of society.
It was the perfect place for them to attack trading ships or other passing vessels.
And it was with these bastards that we were supposed to deal, allowing the pirates allied with us to establish their dominance over the islands.
“Interesting how they think they’re going to pull this off,” came a thoughtful voice from behind me.
It was Aastaar, approaching quietly.
I gave him a once-over.
He didn’t look his best.
Pale and tired, as if he hadn’t slept in a week.
“You look like hell,” I said with a smirk, though I did add a hint of concern to my voice.
“Feel worse than I look,” the man said with a weak smile.
“Usual aftermath of a drinking binge.” “A drunk sergeant, what could be better?” I mocked him, not bothering to comment on his words in any other way.
Aastaar laughed for show.
I knew perfectly well he hadn’t drunk as much as he claimed.
His appearance was due to simple exhaustion.
He’d spent the last few days with the captain.
They were probably discussing how to carry out the task ahead.
Speaking of which.
“What did you mean by ‘how they think they’re going to pull this off’?” I asked, looking the sergeant in the eyes.
Aastaar was silent.
Leaning on the railing, he stared thoughtfully at the water until he finally pointed at the island we were approaching.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“An island,” I answered, not really understanding what he meant.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance and shook his head.
“What else?” he asked another question.
This time I thought about it and looked at the island again.
There was nothing unusual about it.
Just an ordinary island with lots of rocks.
“Rocks,” I ventured another guess.
“Exactly,” the sergeant finally agreed, lowering his hand.
“Rocks where archers can hide.
Rocks full of tunnels and passages.
Passages where pirates can hide.
And we’ll have to fight inside narrow, dark tunnels if we really want to drive the pirates out.” He paused, sighing tiredly.
It was clear how much he disliked the whole idea of capturing the Stepstones.
“And every island is like this?” I asked, not expecting much.
“No, of course not,” the Joker grinned, stepping away from the railing.
“On the big islands, like Bloodstone, there’s plenty of room for a couple of armies to clash.” He paused, yawning.
“But you don’t think the pirates are going to fight fair, do you?” he continued, asking a question with an obvious answer.
With that, the sergeant headed for his cabin, muttering that he was going to catch some sleep while he had the chance.
Left alone, I thought about Aastaar’s words.
And the longer I thought, the wider my grin became.
A network of tunnels against the power of gravity.
What could be better?
“I don’t think so,” I said quietly, answering the sergeant’s question.
“But I’ve got something to show them too.”