Araino Laar.
“How is he?” I asked, inquiring about the condition of one of the new sergeants, Will Stone.
The question was mostly formal; I couldn’t have cared less about the bastard from Westeros who had joined our company a few years ago.
“What could happen to him?” Aastaar waved it off without waiting for an answer.
“Only his pride was hurt.
Irat barely even hit him.
Otherwise, it could have ended much worse.
The kid’s blows are heavy, like a blacksmith’s hammer.” I smirked at the description.
Who better than Aastaar to know about the force of those blows, given that he regularly trained the kid?
Now he was constantly complaining that he could barely manage a draw.
The training sword, which should be heavier than a real one, danced in the kid’s hands as if it weighed nothing.
Not to mention that after every sparring session, Aastaar looked like he’d been through a war.
Sometimes I thought the kid would look more natural with a hammer or mace in his hands.
But I always pushed those thoughts away, with horror imagining the scenes where Irat turned enemies into piles of meat and bone with his devastating blows.
“Why are you all so hung up on this brat?” John finally snapped.
“First, in Tyrosh, he did whatever he wanted.
And what did you do?
Nothing.
Now he’s beaten up a sergeant, and you just give him a warning?” “Beaten up, he says,” Aastaar chuckled at the bold statement.
“He just hit him, and lightly at that.” Despite myself, I smiled slightly.
But John didn’t seem fazed by the comment.
“So what now?” he continued as if nothing had happened.
“What if this brat goes and kills someone, just for a dirty look?
Will you let that slide too?
Or are these the new rules?
Maybe I can go and hit the captain right now?” I was silent.
I looked at Aastaar and noticed that he’d wiped the usual smirk off his face.
His face showed no emotion.
He seemed relaxed, but I could see his hand slowly moving toward his sword.
“You’re surprisingly talkative today, Silent One,” I said calmly, signaling Dahiris to stop.
“But let’s not forget that we’re mercenaries, not soldiers of some lord from the Seven Kingdoms.
In my unit, I will establish whatever rules I see fit.” “Maelis…” John started.
“Maelis doesn’t care,” I cut him off.
“He’s not Damon.
That Beast doesn’t care about us; we’re nothing more than a resource to him.
All he dreams of is sitting on the Iron Throne.
That became perfectly clear to me at the last meeting, where he brought his new ‘friends.'” I paused for a few seconds, choosing my next words, and looked at those present.
All the sergeants who had survived the capture of Tyrosh and whom I’d fought alongside for years watched me intently.
Much depended on what I said next.
“Maelis would throw us all to the slaughter without a second thought,” I continued, carefully choosing each word.
“The experience with the capture of Tyrosh proved that.
We suffered the greatest losses, and for what?
To find out that the city would go to some merchant who agreed to sponsor Blackfyre’s adventure?” Everyone present fell into thought.
The words planted seeds of doubt.
“And now what?” I continued, getting more worked up.
“A war with pirates for the Stepstones?
And who’s helping us?
Other pirates who, by the way, I don’t see among us.
Do I need to tell you who the Stepstones will eventually go to, or can you guess yourselves?” The sergeants’ faces grew darker.
Even Aastaar, who already knew all this, looked thoughtful.
“But even if we ignore all of the above,” I said, outlining the rosiest scenario, “and look a little into the future.
We take the Stepstones.
Maelis, with the other part of the company and his new friends, captures the Disputed Lands.
How long will it take the Targaryens to order our destruction?
Remind me how many soldiers the poorest region can field?
Twenty thousand?
Thirty?” “The North and Dorne can field twenty thousand,” Gareth, one of the sergeants, said.
“If they gather everyone.” “So, at best, from two regions, we have about thirty thousand,” I said, nodding gratefully, knowing the lords wouldn’t leave their homes undefended.
“But there are still five other regions that can field no less, if not more.
How many does that make now?” “A shitload,” Thorn muttered, scratching his head.
“Exactly,” I agreed with the brute.
“A shitload, and we have shit.
Not even half, even if Maelis’s new friends join us.
This whole venture was doomed from the start.” Silence fell in the tent.
Everyone was lost in their own thoughts.
The picture I’d painted didn’t please anyone.
“Why does Maelis…” “Maelis is insane,” I said, not letting the sergeant finish.
“The actions of madmen are beyond logic, so you can expect anything from him.” Suddenly, John’s voice broke the silence.
“All of this is very interesting,” he said ironically.
“And we’ll definitely come back to it.
But we started with something else entirely, with a certain brat you’re all letting get away with everything.
And somehow I’m not seeing the connection between him and your words, Captain.” I looked at Aastaar, nodding to allow him to share the necessary information.
“He’s a Valyrian, you idiot,” Dahiris said with a smirk.
“The real deal.” “So what?” Silent One asked, not understanding where this was going.
“So!” Aastaar snorted, raising a finger in a lecturing manner, clearly mocking someone.
“How many people have you seen with such pronounced Valyrian features?
Don’t bother answering, not many.
Because there are only a few left: the Targaryens and…” “Blackfyre,” Gareth blurted out.
Everyone present stared at Aastaar in surprise.
On their faces, one could see the gears turning.
One guess led to another.
“Let’s say,” John said.
“So what?” “This is where it gets interesting,” the Joker grinned, baring his teeth.
“To preserve Valyrian features, at least one parent must be Valyrian.
Since the kid was born in Lys, the Targaryens are out.
They don’t leave Westeros.
That leaves only the Blackfyres.” “Maelis,” Thorn whispered in shock.
Such a stupid statement immediately shattered the atmosphere.
Aastaar couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing.
The other sergeants joined in.
I allowed myself only a slight smile.
“What Maelis, you idiot?” Dahiris asked after calming down.
“Have you ever seen him with a woman?
I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t interest him at all.” “Exactly, exactly,” Gareth chimed in, once he’d caught his breath.
“If he ever gets hard, it’ll probably be for a severed head.” The tent filled with laughter again at the crude joke.
“So he’s Damon’s son?” John asked rhetorically.
“And what does that give us?” “A young and promising contender for the Iron Throne,” I answered, bringing everyone back to a serious mood with a single phrase.
“A controllable contender.
A profitable one…” It didn’t take long, not even for the least bright individuals like Thorn, to assess the prospects.
Assess and calculate their own benefit.
And the benefit was simple.
What does every person want?
Money and power.
And who better than a king to grant all of that to those who helped him ascend the throne?
“And all these events…” John began, but the meaning of his unfinished phrase was clear.
“Nothing more than a test of how he reacts in various situations,” I calmly answered his unasked question.
The subsequent discussion smoothly shifted from one young Valyrian to how we would root out the pirates from their hiding places.
“How long do you think our explanation will hold?” Aastaar asked, sipping heavily watered-down wine, once we were alone.
I chuckled softly, not answering right away.
My subordinates had left my tent, cheerfully discussing the future among themselves.
A future that was not destined to come true.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, also sipping from my cup.
“After all, there wasn’t a drop of lies in your words.
Just simple omissions.
But sooner or later, the whole truth will come out anyway.
And when they all realize it, it will be too late.” I looked thoughtfully at the bag.
In it lay something that could change the fate of the world.
Awaken in the Targaryens the desire to kill our ward at any cost.
In it lay something for which I had paid a fortune that not every lord could boast of.
Money earned through blood and sweat.
In the bag lay a simple, but very ancient folio that had miraculously not turned to dust over the centuries.
A folio in which was written the history of a forgotten house.
A house that once ruled in Valyria.
House Rexarion.
“It will be too late,” I repeated softly.
“The Dragon King cannot be tamed.
He can only be killed when he is weak.
And we must give the dragon time to grow strong.”