282 AD
Strait of Tarth, Stormlands.
If fate existed and had a gender, it would be a woman. The most fickle, capricious, and unfair woman in the entire world. For I cannot find any reason why the peaceful days of peace so suddenly turned into the conflagration of civil war, where innocent women and children suffer.
Of course, this is all sophistry.
Everything had been building toward this for many years. It could be said that the preconditions for war were present even before I was born. The Targaryens were too weak to be kings, the grandlords too ambitious to be mere servants, the hatred between the regions too strong… the reasons were many, and they were held in check by just two factors: the honor of the lords, which prevented them from betraying their liege, and the benefits of shared borders between the kingdoms and the absence of constant warfare.
But Aerys and his son Rhaegar ruined everything.
The first had spent many years eroding the nobles' loyalty to his house, pursuing a very short-sighted and frankly stupid policy, further cementing the Targaryens' reputation as insane incestuous people and completely destroying the crumbs of respect left by Aegon I the Conqueror, while the second, with one decision, completed his father's undertakings - he set the kingdoms of the North and the Stormlands, along with their allies, the Tullys and the Arryns, on the Iron Throne.
And when I received the letter, I immediately understood everything. This was the very end of the dragons, as the series had promised. And right now, it meant nothing but trouble, both for me and for Dorne. Knowing Dorne, it was easy to assume he would send his personal guard to his brother-in-law's aid, and would almost certainly lose them.
And this significantly weakens House Martell. The House that has been protecting me for years from such monsters as the Ironwoods, the Fowlers, the Manwoods, the Swanns, and others. Without House Sunspear, I would have been wiped out as soon as Osgiliath began to bring in any profit. So something had to be done.
The plan only came together a couple of weeks later, when Oberyn and I, on the fastest schooner, raced to Sunspear. Somehow, I convinced Doran—who was quietly furious about what had happened and hadn't started cursing, smashing everything, and drinking only because of Lady Melario, who was in the final stages of pregnancy and due in the coming weeks—that there was no need to rush and that everything needed to be carefully considered. I used every possible argument, all the information my men had gathered across Westeros, and even some "understatements" about the true size of the royal army... Well, he didn't know that instead of thirty thousand, the Northern Alliance would face a full fifty, including the lords who remained loyal to the crown. So what? The main thing was that he agreed with me and decided to listen.
In the end, after many hours of brainstorming, Doran, Oberyn, and I came up with a simple course—to reduce Dorne's involvement in the war as much as possible without provoking the king, ultimately siding with the winner, and at the same time, to steal Princess Elia and her children from the Red Keep—and a plan was built around that.
Four months have passed since then and so far everything has been going more or less well.
The Council of Dorne was convened, where through me, a simple merchant who was not closely watched, the idea was conveyed to the majority of the lords: "We are forced to participate in the war on the side of the Targaryens and will certainly lose."
Naturally, most of them decided to withdraw from the expedition immediately after the meeting. But then Oberyn visited them and hinted that they could easily send not their own men, but mercenaries from the countless mercenaries who inhabited the Narrow Sea. They would only need to donate a small amount of gold to House Martell, and the assembled army would include men bearing their banners and flags.
The idea pleased everyone. Previously, they couldn't do this because it would offend their own honor and that of their liege lord, but now he himself proposed it, spending a measly few hundred golden dragons and preserving their own knightly lances, cultivated for years by the noble houses.
So, in fact, seven and a half thousand mercenaries were currently sailing on forty transport galleases, provided by the Yronwoods in lieu of their "share" of troops, and another thousand horsemen were heading for King's Landing along the Dornish Marches. Dozens of unremarkable companies of one hundred and two hundred men, of which there are countless numbers in the vast expanses of the Free Cities. After all, behemoths like the Golden Company, the Cat Company, the Sons of the Wind, and the Iron Shields are very few, and it was often more profitable to hire several small companies than these dogs of war. But we didn't need a strong and cohesive army—the main thing was that these mercenaries, dressed in the uniform of the house that hired them, created the feeling of a real army coming to the aid of the king.
Of course, more experienced men like Leven Martell or Rhaegar himself couldn't be fooled, but among this mercenary band were a thousand genuine Dornishmen, consisting of five hundred knights of House Dayne (Lord Vorian was well aware of our adventure, but the threat to his beloved sisters quickly cooled his ardor) and five hundred Martell guardsmen, personally under my command. They would serve as "headquarters" guards and escort important figures, creating a front for the mercenaries.
The second element of our plan was appointing me commander of this corps. In reality, this gained me nothing—as soon as we arrived in King's Landing, Prince Leven would take charge, leaving me out of the picture. But knowing a few interesting facts... such as the fact that the guard and squad captains are personally subordinate to me... everything changes. First, remaining in the shadows, I'll be able to safely leave a small stash in King's Landing without attracting undue attention. Second, it will give me more freedom of movement, which is crucial in the later stages of the plan. And finally, third, my status. In the future, Doran will be able to calmly point to me and say, "Fellows, tell me—if I truly wanted to help our king, would I have sent a former merchant who understands nothing of warfare at the head of the army?" For the same reason, despite his desire, Oberyn was not sent to war, in order to completely eliminate the personal involvement of House Martell.
"That's the way things are with kittens," I thought wearily, leaning on the bridge railing. "Although it's my own fault—I shouldn't have gotten involved in all this noble nonsense. But I want to live, and I want to live beautifully. So, Felix, get used to intrigues, or better yet, learn to weave them yourself. If the other lords are so desperately engaged in it, maybe it's even fun."
"Remember, Davos. If you can smuggle supplies into Storm's End, you'll get so much gold your wife will be able to wear jewelry like a noblewoman. Can you do it?"
"Of course, my lord," replied a thin man with brown eyes and a typical weathered face. Davos Fleabite. My age, already a living legend among the seafolk. Still, from a poor boy barely scraping by in the depths of King's Landing's Flea End to becoming the captain of an entire ship and the finest smuggler on both sides of the Narrow Sea, it's no small feat. "I won't let you down."
"Just please, don't tell Stanis where you got your provisions. There's a war going on now, and if he finds out you've received help from the king's man, he'll hang you, even if he's dying of hunger. Understood?" I said, walking him to the boat.
"Yes. Thank you for your concern, my lord. May the Seven be with you." The man bowed his head once again and, wasting no time, climbed into the boat, which the sailors had already begun to lower into the water.
"And you too, Davos... And you too," I muttered, looking towards the departing boat.
My meeting with him was a coincidence. One day, one of the captains of the mercenary companies I used as guards in Osgiliath told me that a smuggler had managed to double-cross his "colleague" and smuggle a shipment of glass, porcelain, and whiskey out of the city, bypassing customs. Everyone got a dressing down. The men in charge of the warehouses, the mercenaries guarding the coast, and Fleas himself, for whom I'd placed a bounty of five hundred gold pieces, safe and sound. They brought him back to me a couple of months later. One of the dealers handed him over to the Stepstone pirates, who, having captured the entire crew and the smuggler himself, brought them to me.
Initially, I was going to simply execute him, as a lesson to others, but after talking to him a little and getting to know him better, my decision changed.
I've always admired people like Davos—honest, open, and, most importantly, loyal. To his wife, his master, and, most importantly, to his word. So this man, perpetually dressed in a brown-green wool robe, old boots, and brown breeches, was given a simple and straightforward task: find all the smugglers' hiding places on my lands and those surrounding them, in order to completely block these people's entry here. The smuggler succeeded. And succeeded brilliantly. All the hidden grottoes were now blocked with bars, small coves had watchtowers, and the cliffs containing the secret caves were completely blocked, beyond repair.
Beauty.
And now I need him again. A week and a half ago, Robert Baratheon lost a battle to the vanguard of the Reach army, commanded by Randyll Tarly. How he managed to lose to fifteen Tarlys with twenty-five thousand is beyond me, but the fact remains. The shattered Stag army retreated north, plundering the lands of the Merryweathers, Cordwainers, and Fossoways along the way, and Mace Tyrell, without pursuing, led his army to Storm's End. This once again confirmed my suspicions that the Tyrells would not actively support the dragons and, like Dorne, had chosen a wait-and-see tactic.
But there was a dangerous moment. Storm's End was practically impregnable, and as long as a two-thousand-strong garrison remained there, there was no need to worry about it being taken by storm. But the problem was time. Even I, a man far removed from war, realized that soon there would be famine and the castle would fall. And knowing Baratheon and his character, I can't guarantee he won't swear to exterminate the entire Reach down to the seventh generation for the death of his brothers. For they wouldn't be taken alive—Stanis would more likely strangle little Renly with his own hands than allow the enemy to seize such a valuable hostage.
So Davos had a very important mission, which I could not entrust to just one person.
"I hope those purses reached their destination," I thought, and, feeling a chill wind that made me shiver, I headed to my cabin. I still had a lot of work to do, and it wouldn't just disappear.
*
282 AD
King's Landing, Crownlands.
I didn't like King's Landing.
I really didn't like it.
There were many reasons, from my first visit, when I was thrown into the filthy and stinking waters of the Blackwater, to the bright green fire that burned like a beacon in the night in the Red Keep. And judging by the faces of the dockworkers, this scene had long since become commonplace.
The first message I received as soon as the Ironwood ships approached King's Landing was a letter, hysterically dictated by Aerys, in which he forbade the "Dornish bastards" from coming closer than a hundred meters to the city walls.
They had to land on the southern shore and, amid the faint grumbling of the mercenaries, quickly silenced by the slaps of their captains, set up camp there, off the kingsroad, away from curious and sharp-eyed simpletons. Still, the fact that the army they had brought contained too many Valyrian speakers was something they didn't want to reveal prematurely.
Only I, as the head of the army, and a few minor lords responsible for logistics and creating the general atmosphere were summoned to the Red Keep. Taking the ferry and passing through the River Gate, rightfully called the Dirty Gate for its unbearable stench and the nearly half-meter of mud accumulated in the potholes, we headed straight to the dragons' residence, through Crooked Street. Nearly a hundred people accompanied us, thirty of whom were guards, twenty servants, and the rest…
"Do you remember everything, Robin? Fifth street, third door, two long knocks and five short ones. Leech is a real bastard, but don't provoke him. Only he and his men know the secret passages of this city so well. Understood?"
"Yes, Fel," nodded my old friend, who had remained with me since the Citadel, along with Joen. "Rick and Dick, despite their appearances, remained artisans at heart and now ran their foundries in Osgiliath, and Piper... I never would have thought that my request to stay in Oldtown would change his life so much. Now he was the owner of a small shop in the vast expanses of the old city, collecting rumors for me from all over the Hightower domain and married to that very courtesan, Obara's mother, whom I asked him to keep an eye on. H-haa... The ways of life are mysterious.
"I'm counting on you," I said, handing over a small bag of money and walking forward, watching as, unnoticed, one person at a time, taking advantage of the sharp turn on Hook Street, broke away from our group, disappearing into the endless alleys of the continent's largest city.
Essentially, they were my insurance in case the negotiations with Baratheon failed, but knowing that the best-laid plans often go down the drain, it was better to be on the safe side a few times than to regret it later.
Meanwhile, the massive royal residence loomed ahead, its very appearance a foretaste of trouble. And noticing another flash of green flame from that direction and the sound of something vaguely reminiscent of mad laughter, I became even more convinced of my assertion.
*
Aerys II Targanien had changed since I last saw him, and not for the better.
Now, in the throne room of the Red Keep, upon the majestic and dangerous Iron Throne, forged from hundreds of swords of vanquished warriors, a symbol of the unity of the Seven Kingdoms, sat a painfully thin old man in rich and expensive robes. His arms and legs were covered in unhealed scabs and cuts, judging by the blood stains left by the blades of his own throne. His long silver hair and straggly beard, more reminiscent of white-dyed straw, and his long yellow nails, several inches long, further created the appearance of a madman, merely serving as an accent to his eyes.
When I first began my journey, almost ten years ago, I had the chance to see the king at the entrance to Lannisport from the roof of a tavern. Even then, his eyes were constantly shifting, flashing, changing tone and meaning several times a minute, with the characteristic black bags of sleep deprivation. But now all this has worsened tenfold, if not a hundredfold.
From the seat of the ruler of Westeros, the eyes of a true madman looked down upon me, whose mind and will had long since given up and crumbled to pieces, leaving only one reminder that the man sitting here was a king, in the form of the ornate crown of Aegon IV, adorned with images of the three Great Dragons.
"Your Majesty," I said, dropping to one knee and bowing my head as low as possible, trying not to let our eyes meet. I knew full well that madmen often react like wild and dangerous animals, which you should never look into the eyes of.
"Your Majesty," my retinue repeated my movements, having learned one simple rule over the long voyage: to repeat exactly what I said when they were received by the king and to remain silent, even if asked.
The silence that followed was so profound that it seemed as if my breath reverberated off the walls, audible to every sycophant present… yes, still sycophants. The remaining courtiers with even a shred of honor or sanity had long since been consumed by the Wildfire flames or fled far from King's Landing, fleeing the Mad King.
"The damned Dornishmen have finally arrived." The words and tone, familiar to all the locals, cut deeply into me and my companions. Surprise, stupor, incomprehension, rage, disappointment, and understanding flashed through my mind in seconds, leaving only sadness in their wake. I mustn't forget that the man sitting before me was mad, and taking his words to heart would be tantamount to insulting a small child. "I was beginning to think that brat Doran had forgotten who honored him by letting a Dornish whore into his home. What's your name again... Temper! How many men did you bring with you from your barren desert?"
"Eight and a half thousand people ready to die for you, Your Majesty," I replied, without looking up, continuing to stare at the mirror-clean marble floor.
"Not enough..." Aerys said grumpily, somehow managing to combine hysteria and a childish edge in one word. "Your entire forgotten desert should have sent every warrior it had. Not these pathetic scraps. Perhaps I should burn you as a warning, so the Dornishmen will remember what happens when they upset a dragon?"
Hearing his words, filled with barely restrained anticipation, a wave of goosebumps ran down my spine against my will.
"This motherfucker isn't joking. He could actually do it!" A cold sweat and an involuntary clenching of my fist on my knee were a clear indication of how panicked I was. Death doesn't scare me. Having died once, I began to treat it with a fair amount of indifference, understanding that one day it will come for me, and it doesn't matter when that will be. Tomorrow or decades from now.
But it was worth remembering the torment experienced by those whom the Madman burned in the Wildfire... How their skin and bones gradually melted, how their eyes flowed from their sockets, and their internal organs baked right inside the body, how their screams, filled with unbearable pain and suffering, carried for many kilometers around...
"Scary"
"But I won't do that." His words seemed to release a taut spring coiled inside me, allowing me to relax. "Soon my new Hand, Jon Conington, will crush these damned rebels and bring me their severed heads! For no one dares rise against a dragon! Go back to your camp, Temper, and watch these bugs burn in the fire! Ha-ha-ha-ha!!!"
And so I left the throne room. Amid the laughter of the mad tyrant and the discreetly handed over letter of approval, signed by the Small Council, officially naming Prince Lieven Martell as the head of the Dornish corps.
*
The Dornishmen's camp remained in place for another three months.
That's how long it took Baratheon to retreat to the Stoney Sept, hide there for several days from Jon Conington's approaching army, wait for reinforcements from the Starks and Tullys, and finally put his enemy to flight in a battle that received a rather poetic name.
Bell.
Aerys raged, burning and torturing everyone he came across. Poor Conington, before even reaching King's Landing, was banished from Westeros, with the threat of "cutting off his ugly bird head if he ever set foot in the lands of the dragons again." The new Hand of the King was Quarleton Chelsted, a cowardly and craven man whose only talent was filling the treasury so he could plunder it himself.
But at the same time, the king finally realized that the rebellion of the four kingdoms was no joke. He realized he was facing a real threat to his power, the greatest since the first Blackfyre Rebellion, and so he went beyond simply replacing the Hand. The only ones the king trusted were the knights of the Kingsguard, and so he used them as commanders, tasking Barristan, whom I never managed to meet, and Jonothor Darry with gathering the scattered remnants of Connington's army and taking command of them. And Prince Leven was finally forced to inspect the forces entrusted to him, which had long since taken root along the kingsroad.
I haven't been idle for three months. Every single day, I've been inspecting the mercenary units under my command, doing everything I can to ensure they're indistinguishable from genuine Dornishmen. I dyed the Lyseni's hair, taught those who only spoke Valyrian the basics of Andalos, removed the Eastern trinkets and gestures unique to Essos, taught them to stand in formation and look like a proper army... It sounds simple, but considering there were nearly seven and a half thousand mercenaries in this camp... it was truly a titanic undertaking. And I couldn't forget such wonderful things as espionage and logistics. After all, it wasn't enough to simply keep Varys's famous mute birds out of the camp. I had to organize everything so they could visit areas with genuine Dornishmen and report the necessary information to their master.
And logistics... feeding eight thousand people is hard enough even in peacetime, and in wartime, in foreign lands where looting is prohibited... The only thing that saved me was the fact that Quarlton Chelsted had the foresight to allocate the necessary funds for provisions, and my connections with the local merchants' guild allowed me to purchase quality food without a significant markup. And that's not to mention the whores, vagabonds, peddlers, and other riffraff that flock to the soldiers' camp like flies to honey.
So when Leven, accompanied by the Golden Cloaks, rode into the camp, he saw only what he expected: a well-trained and armed "Dornish" army, over which he immediately assumed command.
The prince naturally didn't know that this crowd would scatter and flee as soon as they encountered a more or less serious enemy, and in fact, he left the management of "minor matters" to me, spending most of his time guarding the king or in his room in the White Sword Tower, where, according to rumors, his mistress lived.
But the final point in our sitting was marked by the return of the prodigal son - the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaegar Targaryen, returned from his "journey".