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Chapter Text

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Lysander.

"Power is freedom. Coin is portable power." Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Damn. He had finally gone a bit too far. The wild-elf, or whatever that… thing really was had done something to him. 'Begone!' the pointy-eared bastard had yelled. 'Bother some other world, some other people!' He had laughed, and suddenly the magic of the wild-elf had consumed him. He had regretted that last sarcastic comment, but then not. Finally, the sweet embrace of death and nothingness. Forgetfulness.

Except, he did not feel very dead. At all. He opened his dark green eyes, one at a time. This did not feel like any kind of afterlife he had heard of. And it certainly did not smell like that. Well, some tales of the afterlife for the wicked probably had this… smell. He stared at a dark stone wall. He was sitting on cobblestones that, seriously, were starting to hurt his bony behind.

"Who are you then?" he heard a rough voice saying, turning his head in that direction. A stocky, bald man with a wicked scar over his head and a strong smell of stale beer over him were coming closer.

Despite joints and especially his head protesting, he got up and stretched himself a little. The stocky man seemed less inclined to advance. Almost seven feet did help in these cases. The long, thin sword and the corresponding dagger at his hip were probably not in his disadvantage either.

"I am Equites Lysander Asimachos, Logothetes in service of His Imperial Highness Kaisar Leonids of the House Toarias." he replied with a confident smile. Years of negotiations, threats and the constant game of cat and mouse that was the world of a good caretaker of his master's estates had taught him to control his face. And do it very well indeed.

"Oh, sorry Milord." the stocky man said, bent is neck a bit and continued walking, now rounding the thin and tall nobleman as if he had intended to do so the entire time. They both knew better, and both knew to not tempt fate by not pretending it was not so.

"Oh, no worries my good man. Even Lords have natural needs, you know."

The stocky man had laughed, a bit forced, but then left. Leaving him to his own devices.

The first question, where the absolute shit were he? He was very far from Langtrue, and from Karastovel, that was clear. He could not recognise the face of the almost full moon, nor the stars, searching in vain for familiar formations.

And this mother-fucking stench. This was obviously a large city that knew nothing of sewers. It probably did not even have a proper aqueduct. How everyone had not perish in disgusting epidemics already was way beyond him.

He stepped out on the street. It was nighttime, or something close to it. Some people were about, drunkards staggered from taverns – some of which seemed very inviting, with song and laughter streaming from glass windows lit by yellow light from oil lamps inside. He needed to take a a look at his situation, and he had always done his best thinking with a glass of wine in his hand. He weighed his options and stepped towards a tavern with a decently freshly painted sign with grapes on it. Surely they would have passable wine?

He stepped in and glanced at the crowd which looked mostly like middle class people. Skilled labourers and tradesmen, traders and the like. With a smattering of whores and serving wenches among them, if one was to judge them on their status of dress – or rather, undress in this case.

He produced a small but polite bow towards those that looked in his direction, which seemed enough for most of them, their eyes turning back towards the bard playing a simple lute but doing it well.

He found his way to an empty table, with a serving wench soon appearing to take his order. He smiled a bit, a toothy grin of pearly white teeth of a man that had grown up being able to afford healers specialised in bones and teeth, got up and to her obvious surprise took her hand to bring it to his mouth, letting one and a half inch of air remain between her skin and his lips, as was proper, all in a smooth but deep bow.

"Ah, young Miss. How fortunate. I am Equites Asimachos and have recently arrived here. I am afraid my command of the language is far from perfect, could you perhaps help me?"

The girl blushed deeply and tried, unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.

"Of course, Milord." she said with a heavy accent, placing a hand over her chest.

"I shall require to name of this place in your language. And a glass of fine white wine." he produced a silver coin. "It is not of the local currency, but silver is always silver, is it not?"

The girl blushed again. "You mean to tell me, Milord, that you know not King's Landing, the greatest city of Westeros?" she giggled, probably taking his question as a joke. He smiled to assure her while she took the coin to return with wine soon after.

This was troublesome. He had never heard of King's Landing, and never of Westeros either.

The bard finished playing, raised a tankard and cried out. "Hail Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms!"

He partook in the cheer, without much enthusiasm. He had never heard of any seven kingdoms, nor a King Robert. This… was troublesome. He sipped the glass of wine the serving wench brought. Not too bad - he had tasted better, but this strange place at least had passable wine. If that had not been the case he would have considered the Wild-Elf most cruel.

As all proper Karastovlians knew, a disaster was just an excellent opportunity that needed some time to sort out.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Lysander

”Keep your allies and friends close, but keep your enemies closer still. It will keep you on your toes, like a whetstone sharpens the blade, your enemy sharpens your mind.” Equites Lysander Asimachos

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Quietly he counted what he had with him. A good set of clothes – a woolen cloak, tight-fitting trousers, good long-shafted boots, a doublet armoured on the inside and a wide-brimmed barett. A shirt and smallclothes of linen and a couple of handkerchiefs of the same material . He carried a few of his own coins, and quite a bit of Kaisar’s. His Master would most likely forgive him for using them to get back – or improve his situation if that proved time-consuming. The money was an assortment of coins – 22 gold, 36 silver, 15 copper. All alien and strange to the people here, of course, but the serving wench had bit on his silver coin, been convinced it was silver and returned with wine and change in the local currency - copper coins with stars on them. Silver was always silver, regardless of where you were. He had his light sword and dagger,- long and thin like himself and of excellent quality (you never skimped on what kept you from death). a few throwing daggers under the doublet, his rucksack with letters, writing utensils, seals and ledgers with Kaisar’s bookkeeping – not that any of them would do him much good in this place - a shirt and smallclothes to change and his pipe and tobacco, fortunately.

This would last him in the immediate future, but he needed to do something to replenish his supply of coin by any means, and soon.

Deciding to ask questions, make money and potentially victims or future partners – depending on how the evening went, he joined a few games of dice. Feigning ignorance, he had the rules explained to him and then mostly controlled the game. Few know that with the proper touch, you can control how the dice will land – often enough to make the difference. Make sure that you lose regularly, call it all luck, curse when you lose, hide your winnings and buy the losers a drink and shake their hand, thanking them for introducing you to this ’new’ game and few suspected and none acted on the cheating.

He made sure he only took a little from each loser and praised their friendly attitude and good sense. He laid it on pretty thick, but added some extra accent to his speech to make people think it not unnatural - people always forgave foreigners worse transgressions than kin - for ignorance was always a good excuse.

After most of the evening had passed, he was up 12 silver and 4 copper coins and had made several new friends. And he had learned much more of the place he was at. The stinking city was indeed called ’King’s Landing’ and had around half a million souls living in it! How they could have that many people living in one place without sewers, and aqueduct and public bathhouses (which he had been shocked to learn did not exist at all in this place!) was completely and utterly beyond him.

The Seven Kingdoms consisted of the Reach, the Iron Islands, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the North, the Vale, the Riverlands and Dorne, plus the Crownlands directly ruled by the crown. The entire continent was controlled by a single political entity – although most parts had extensive autonomy, dealing their own justice, raising their own army – and more importantly, collecting their own taxes before sending a part to the crown. Since about four years this whole continent was ruled by King Robert of the House Baratheon (at least these people were civilised enough to organise themselves into Houses) after a grand rebellion by House Tully, House Stark, House Arryn and House Baratheon that was later joined by House Lannister. The whole thing was very interesting. He learned about the King’s brothers, about his wife, the Lady Cersei, daughter to the Lord of the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister.

There was much to learn. And many things to do. He waved off a prostitute trying to lure him to spend his winnings – she was obviously more perceptive than the more or less drunk patrons of this inn. Then, as an afterthought, he held up a hand, causing her to pause her retreat.

”My apologies, my dear, I never asked your name.” he said with his toothy smile.

”Reah.” she answered with as much of a seductive smile she could muster. Which was quite a bit, he had to admit that. But the had a passion that stood above that of the flesh – at least for the moment.

”The pleasure is all mine, Miss Reah. But tell me, how much did I win tonight?” he held up a copper coin, a small reward for some information, and returned her seductive smile with a wolfish grin of his own and a wink in her direction.

”Around 15 silver stags. But you spent quite a bit on drinks for your newfound friends.” she said and snatched the coin from his hand, surprisingly quick.

”Excellent, Miss Reah.” he said with a laugh and produced another copper coin and tossed it to her, which she caught with a giggle that had only the smallest hint of being fake in it. Good girl. ”That one is to keep quiet about it. I do not require your…” he looked her up and down ”…services right now. But I may very well have some coin for you later – if you keep being as perceptive.” with that he rose and bowed politely, which she responded to with a passable curtsy. That girl’s talents could be honed to be wasted at an establishment such as this, he thought.

He returned to nurse his glass of white wine – which was passable, but barely, now that it was not as chilled anymore – when a sound seemed to invade his deep thoughts on his situation and what to do next. Heavy footsteps.

The door opened – it seems it had started to rain while he spent his time in here, for the heavy figure that stepped in shook off water from a large woollen cloak. He absent-mindedly watched the gesture, feeling like it should somehow remind him of something. Then the figure turned to him and he raised both eyebrows in surprise.

It was a soldier – that much was evident. Clad in heavy lamellar armour and a good steel helmet with a single red plume of horsehair hanging limply from the very top of the cone. The man was built like a brick larder – wide, deep and strong like few others. Slightly above five and a half feet, he was not among the tallest, but the fierce look more than compensated for it. Parallell deep, red and angry scars ran from his left eyebrow, parting it in three, down to the right corner of his mouth, breaking a nose that had not been especially beautiful before someone did a serious number to his face. A strong jaw, a penetrating gaze from brown eyes, bronze or olive-coloured skin and a short beard, dark black, completed the look of the man.

”Equites Asimachos.” the soldier said with a deep, gravely bass that seemed to cause the whole room to vibrate as the man approached the table, bowing stiffly to the sound of well-oiled lamellar plate moving against equally well-oiled lamellar plates.

”Captain Andreios!” he exclaimed. ”What… I mean, how did you get here?”

”Same way as you, I suspect. I was just beyond the door when you quarreled with the Wild-Elf. He told me to ’bugger off’ when I questioned him, and here I am.” he said. The voice deep and steady as always.

”But how did you find me?” he said.

”Well, I started by assuming you ended up at the same place as me, so I searched the taverns.” the soldier said matter-of-factly. Yes, he was a bit predictable that way.

”And you found me in a few hours? in a city of half a million?"

”No, I arrived three days ago.” the soldier said and looked at the Equites. "Half a million, is it? You look younger.” the Captain said, having the natural talent for pointing out things as he saw them.

He touched his skin and checked his hands. Yes. There was no mirror, but that seemed likely. He felt… younger. He checked the Captain. No grey in his beard. The wrinkles around the eyes nearly gone. ”So do you.” he said pragmatically. "If you arrived before me, and we both look younger, have the Wild-Elf sent us back in time as well as to this strange place?" the silence grew between them as they both pondered that.

”We best get a room and have a talk about what has happened.” he finally said.

The Captain simply nodded. He knew the Captain would not have slept for the last three days - being diligent to the point of simple-mindedness was one of the Captain's premier traits, after all.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Lysander.

”Attach yourself to anyone with money. If they are good, you can learn and ride their success. If they are a fool, they and their money will soon go separate ways. It can be good to be the facilitator of that transfer of wealth.” Equites Lysander Asimachos

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

A few coins and a polite conversation later they had a small room with two beds overlooking the street below.  The Captain immediately removed his armour, inspected it for rust and other imperfections in a well-drilled routine and then placed it as well as he could at the foot of one of the bed and then immediately went to lie down.

”Hey, we were supposed to discuss the matter of this world and what to do.” he said.

”You are the clever one. I am the soldier. You do the thinking.” the Captain replied, placed his head on the pillow and immediately went to sleep, of course with a hand on the hilt of his shortsword as always. He watched the lightly snoring soldier and cursed. No use crying over spilled wine, was there? He started to pace back and forth, thinking. The Wild-Elf had sent them here, to what was either the other end of the world, or another world entirely. They both appeared younger, so most likely they had also been sent through time – which the different state of the moon supported, as well as the Captain arriving three days earlier than him, despite fighting with the Wild-Elf after himself. The moon being different was not valid if they had been sent to another world entirely. How would they get back? Could they get back? What was the state of magic here?

Pacing back and forth, not feeling tired – probably due to being younger, he used to be able to pull all-nighters all the time in his youth – he formulated a plan.

They would acquire money enough to live and protect themselves for years to come, while they researched a way to get back. It was possible that Kaisar himself, or some of his other servants or relatives would corner the Wild-Elf in the search for them, and could end up here as well. If that happened they had to be prepared to receive them. Not all were as pragmatic as him or as uncaring as the Captain.

What if they never found a way back? Well, he would consider that once they were sure they could not find a way back. First things first. Acquire enough money. Money was always the key to everything else. Learn of the world. Start investigating ways to get back. If they managed it, beat the Wild-Elf black and blue.

It was time for a smoke and he stepped down the stairs, leaving the sleeping Captain in the room and walked out into the streets. It was starting to dawn, and people were around, milling in the streets going about their business. No-one seemed to care about the putrid stench that seemed to redouble in its attack on his poor (and, to be honest, too large) nostrils. He stuffed his chalk pipe with tobacco (some of the last in his pouch, he needed to acquire some more) and lit it with some flint and steel – no need to attract attention doing it the usual way. He seemed to attract attention anyway, especially when blowing a ring of smoke. Thinking of it, he had not seen anyone smoke last night. Perhaps it was uncommon, or even forbidden in these parts? Maybe that was why people were looking.

He stopped a man exiting the inn.

”My apologies, Master. I am a humble foreigner and a guest in your great city.” It took some lying to call the city great. Sure, it was large, but great? With this stench and no sewers, no aqueduct and it seemed no Green Faction maintaining streets, public baths, public toilets and springwells. ”I was wondering if you might enlighten me on where to buy tobacco?”

He got a strange look back. ”Taback-oh?”

”Brown leaves, cut in small strips, that you light to a smolder and inhale the smoke?” he tried, desperately.

”Never heard of anything like it. I have heard of some inhaling fumes of the milk of the poppy to get drunk beyond what wine or ale can provide. Why would anyone want to inhale smoke?” he laughed and got on his way.

Equites Lysander Asimachos remained frozen in place. DAMN THAT WILD-ELF!!! Of course he had sent him to a world that had no tobacco. He had just smoked his last pipe for a long, long time, and he had not even savoured it. Damn and twice-damn.

His self-pity and desperate despair was only broken by some commotion further down the street. Two riders seemed surrounded by many men, women and children on foot.

”Ser Homar Bluewater!” the crowd seemed to cheer for the rider, dressed in elaborate armour with a tunic with some kind of heraldic symbol popular with the knights of the feudal societies north of the old Empire and the Cracked Desert. The rider, evidently a knight, with a single dour retainer on the other horse, waved at the crowd with a smile, especially wide for some young girls who giggled and blushed. The age-old truths of courtship and young love did not seem different in this world compared to his own, at least.

”Will you participate in the melee? In the jousts, Ser Homar?” one of the girls asked.

”Participate? I intend to win them!” the knight boomed back. ”Maybe I will crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty then, if you are in the stands to watch me?” he said, winking at the girl who blushed deeply, but did not seem that unhappy at all. Quite the opposite.

The two riders urged their horses onwards, and the small crowd parted to allow them to pass.

”So there’s a tournament?” he asked one of the bystanders, with a gesture in the general direction of the quickly disappearing riders.

”Yes, King Robert is throwing one in celebration of the start of his fifth year of rule!”

”Interesting. I assume there are prices?” he said with a broad smile.

”Oh yes! One hundred thousand gold dragons!” the small crowd cheered. ”There’ll be wine and bread, music and games, jugglers and riddlers, mummers and fools!” the crowd chattered excitedly about all the things that would come to pass.

He raised an eyebrow quite a bit. One hundred thousand gold dragons? He thanked the burgher and went back inside.

”Captain Andreios!” he said out loud, and the Captain immediately sat up in bed, blinked and looked at him.

”You carry payment for Kaisar’s Condottieri?”

”Four hundred stavraton.” the Captain confirmed.

”Excellent. I’ll make us some money.” he said, took the bag of silver coins from where it lay on the floor, next to the armour the Captain had shedded earlier.

The Captain continued to look at him silently, obviously expecting a further explanation.

”There’s a tournament. You’ll enter the melee. I’ll bet on you. With the prize money and the winnings we have a good starting position.” he said with a wolfish smile.

The Captain scowled, but placed steady feet on the floor and got up to don his armour without looking and the air of a man who did something he had done thousands of times before. ”You know what I think of such spectacles.”

”Yes, I know. But think of it as training. We do need a good sum of money.”

The Captain glared at him for a while and then shrugged his wide, powerful shoulders. Very well.

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Alexios.

”A soldier’s trade is violence. Anything that dilutes that – formality, honour, style, taunting, revenge – is folly. Gloat and monologue at the dead body of your enemy, not to his living face.” Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

The crowd, and it was an immense such, was mostly silently watching. Partially because they were fascinated, partially because things were getting, if not boring, then at least repetitive. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and the day had been long and hot in the sand of the huge arena.

The melee was part of the first day of the tournament, and had started interestingly enough. A foreigner in strange but obviously well-made armour had surprised most. He wore no heraldry and claimed to be a sell-sword sworn to a liege lord – a paradox if any – to the far east. Most expected a mere mercenary to be quickly defeated, bu the had somehow clinged to the victorious side in each matchup, and was now in the finals, despite a much derided lack of swordsmanship, and using a wooden shortsword.

In the royal box, the Queen looked frightfully bored, while the King was getting increasingly drunk.

”What do you make of this foreigner, Ser Barristan?” the King yelled for his trusted Kingsguard.

”He’s obviously a veteran soldier, Your Grace.” Barristan replied.

”I can see that, Barristan.” the King said, impatiently. ”Your analysis. Who will win?”

Ser Barristan squinted, looking over the field.

”If I was a gambling man, I would put my money on the foreigner, Your Grace.” he said.

”What?” the King exlaimed. ”You think he will beat the Mountain? Why?”

”Well…” Ser Barristan started, thinking how to put it. ”He was obviously superior in all the team battles. He’s an experienced commander, and the shield walls he formed made his team the winner in each bout. He is used to commanding, and it can be seen on him, and heard in his voice. I can think of no other way he got hedge knights and lordlings alike to follow his command.”

”True.” the King answered and held his cup out for it to be refilled with barely watered wine. ”But against the Mountain?”

”He’s obviously outmatched, in skill, weight and reach.” Ser Barristan Selmy confirmed the King’s suspicion. ”But as you can see, he’s not letting Ser Gregor get to him. And he’s using his size and temper against him.”

And that was indeed how it was. The foreigner was running like a rabbit. In the beginning, it had caused the Mountain to laugh and the crowd to jeer and boo the coward. But after half an hour, the tune had changed. The Mountain charged, but the foreigner remained out of reach of the huge blunted greatsword, picking up pebbles and small stones from the ground and skillfully – and as far as Ser Barristan could see, with quite the throwing arm – pelted the Mountain’s face with them. Ser Gregor Clegane’s upper lip was split, and he was bleeding over his teeth. Ser Barristan suspected one of them was loose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and his lower lip as big as the Queen’s bosom. His nose was angry red and a few cuts on his eyebrows were also bleeding.

”How long can he keep it up? Its been hours already.” the King asked. Ser Barristan peered down at the field where the foreigner backtracked out of a wild swing with the greatsword from the Mountain and a metallic ring told of a small pebble hitting the rim of Ser Gregor’s helmet. He suspected that Ser Gregor regretted his decision to wear an open-faced helmet for the melee, but that was normal armour for the melee, where a good field of vision was more important than protecting the whole face as most of the bouts were of teams against teams. Some of the crowd laughed as the Mountain, cursing about cheating and cowardice and yelling for the foreigner to stand and fight him like a man, swinged wildly again.

”The foreigner is sweating quite a bit, Your Grace. But I suspect he’s used to things like this and wearing that armour of his in a hot climate.” his complexion reminded him of the Dornish. ”I think he could go on all day.”

The King laughed. ”And the Mountain?”

”About to drop, Your Grace.” Ser Barristan said with a hint of a smile.

Ser Barristan ’the Bold’ Selmy was indeed right. The Mountain swung wildly one more time, slipped in the sand and dropped to one knee. In an instant the foreigner was upon him and swung his small wooden sword to hit the much larger man in the face.

”Ser Gregor Clegane OUT!” the umpire called as the Mountain spat blood and collapsed. The foreigner removed his helmet and pulled back his coif, revealing a dark mop of sweat-damp shortcut hair. As he got closer to the stand ladies could be heard gasping over the disfiguring scars of his face. He bowed politely, first to the royal box and the King and Queen, the to the stands that the crowd occupied, once on each side of the crowd. He seemed to watch the King for a moment too long before straightening his back again.

The umpire seemed to have to check his list to get the name and title of the winner – no-one had expected any other winner than the Mountain.

”Your Grace, the winner of the melee of your tournament, Captain Alexios Andreios from the Empire of Karastovel!”

The Captain bowed again to the cheer of the crowd, while an exhausted Mountain was helped on his feet by his retainers, spitting blood and cursing.

”Your methods are unorthodox, Andreios.” the King said.

”A soldier uses methods that are effective.” he replied with a smile that the stiff scars turned into a mix between a smile and a grimace.

The King laughed at that reply, and with a leaf wreath upon his head the Captain marched off, waving to the crowd. He noticed a smiling Equites at one of the top stands and several rather pale men around him. Odds-makers and bookmakers, he suspected.

A good days exercise and a job well done. It was time for a bath and some care for his armour. He had taken one or two hits in the earlier bouts.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Lysander.

”Coin do not smell. Coin do not remember. Acquired by honest or dishonest means, they still carry the same value.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

There were many questions during that night’s festivities. About himself, about the Captain, about his fighting style, about his scars and many other things. He answered them as well and as truthfully as he could. It was always best to lie as close to the truth as possible – it made it much easier to remember what you had lied about and to whom.

’Ah, we are from the Empire of Karastovel, a whole world away. No, we are not official representatives in that sense, Kaisar is the Crown Prince of a small realm, and he wishes to know more of the world. We are to serve his interests here. He is too far away to travel here himself, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask Captain Andreios himself on his scars. I am not a warrior, Ser, you should ask the Captain himself on his way of fighting.’ and so on.

Taking a short break from socialising, mostly to answer nature's call over by the privies, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Tucking certain objects in properly before he turned around he met the just a bit too close gaze of a man with dark eyes, a man that was about as tall as himself and substantially more well-built and the face of a man that had spent the better part of a decade brawling in the streets. Scars, half an ear gone, a broken brow bone. He was slowly patting his open left hand with a short cudgel. So he smiled.

”May I help you?” he said.

”You cheated.” the man said.

”Cheated?” he replied, feigning ignorance, although he had a very good idea was this was all about.

”Cheated.” the other man repeated. ”You will not collect any winnings. Is that clear?” the brute said threateningly, taking a step closer despite being far too close for comfort already. The man opened his mouth to say something more, but did not produce a sound, instead suddenly turning very pale.

Taking a step closer had pressed the point of his dagger through the coarse fabric of the man's trousers and nicked the base of his member just a tiny bit. Just a little, little pressure, and he would never know the joys of fatherhood. Or ever peeing properly again.

”I am afraid there’s some kind of misunderstanding.” he said with an oily smile that could perhaps been interpreted as friendly by a passerby - but they both knew better. ”I am certain you were looking for someone else.” he continued, nodding an encouragement for the now very pale man.

”In fact, you probably saw the man you were supposed to talk to just now, did you not?” he said with the oily smile now turned into a decidedly predatory grin.

The man drew a trembling breath, took a half step back and nodded furiously. ”O-of course! My apologies, milord!” he stammered and quickly escaped, both hands firmly on his crotch while running away.

He inspected the tiny drop of blood on the point of his dagger, produced a handkerchief to wipe it off before putting the sharp and thin weapon with its basket-like hilt in decorated bronze back into its short scabbard. ”Amateurs!” he exclaimed with a shake of his head, and returned to the festivities with a smile, where the Captain seemed to have been engaged in a conversation with the King, some of his white-cloaked Guardsmen and some of the Lords of this Realm.

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Alexios.

”Discipline set the soldier apart from the warrior.” Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

He did not really like festivities. Normally, he would be standing guard at Kaisar’s feasts, announcing guests with his booming dark bass, but now he was one of the guests, and supposedly one of the more honoured ones, despite being a commoner. He was dressed in his finest parade equipment, of course. A crimson red silk mantle over a polished lamellar cuirass, with chalk-white silk short trousers and a similarly coloured short-sleeved tunic under the armour. He carried his helmet under his muscular, hairy arm, with the single red plume at the top of the conical steel contraption hanging limply as always. Oiled sandals, newly cut hair and beard and even a faint smell of perfumed oils in his hair made for a striking, if very foreign, appearance. Of course he wore his shortsword and dagger at the belt as always. The simple steel weapons with leather-wound steel hilts contrasted starkly against the finery he wore. They were tools in his bloody profession, not gilded accessories to perfumed silk and velvet clothing.

He had seen the eyes made by quite a few of the young ladies present, all certainly hoping for him to ask them to the dance that was about to start. One or two of the braver ones engaged him in a conversation – one that was rather short. Polite, but short, and they soon left, disappointed with his lack of engagement in the attempted conversation. It seemed like this place valued martial skill almost as much as beauty, and his scars were not as disfiguring as his status as the winner of the melee added to his – to be honest – more than questionable charm. It was interesting, but ultimately futile. He talked of war and learned much of the recent Robert’s Rebellion, where the current King had usurped to previous dynasty headed by the Mad King Aerys II. This place really did not differ much from his homeland. Although the stories of the Mad King’s ancestors conquering the Seven Kingdoms and uniting the continent using dragons were surely just myths?

”Captain Andreios?” the older white-cloaked Guard of the King approached him. He bowed politely. ”Ser Barristan.” he had learned the name, and had also learned that he was one of the best swordsmen of the realm and considered one of the most honourable and skilled warriors of all time, earning the byname ’the Bold’.

”If you please, the King requests your presence.” said the older knight with a smile and a bow in reply to that of the Captain.

When a King called, you came. Even if it was strictly not your King. ”We shall not keep him waiting then.” the Captain replied with a smile that the scars turned into a scowl. The knight seemed to understand the intent behind the face though, and led him to the royal couple. The Queen looked annoyed and quite bored, while the King himself was roaring drunk. Another thing that differed little between his own world and this one, it seemed.

”Ah, our champion of the melee!” the King yelled out as he approached and got down on one knee in a deep bow.

”Your Royal Majesty.” he replied, earning him puzzled looks from the various people jockeying for a position close to the portable throne under the royal canopy.

”Is that how you address a King?” the King said with his booming voice. Being drunk it seemed, put him in a good mood. Ser Barristan took a step closer and whispered in his ear. ”We usually address the King as ’Your Grace’ here.” The Captain nodded, grateful for the knight’s effort.

”I address my Emperor as ’Your Imperial Majesty’ and his son, heir and crown prince, the Kaisar, my Master, as ’Your Imperial Highness’, Your Grace. I am unfamiliar with your customs. My apologies.” he said. The King laughed loudly and called for more wine, for himself and for the champion in front of him. The Queen had actually looked up at the titles, with a small smile for him. It looked like she liked the idea of ’Majesty’ and ’Highness’. The Captain suppressed a grimace, took the offered cup of wine and partook in the toasts to the champion of the melee, the Kaisar and the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Hopefully, no-one noticed that he only put the cup to his lips and did not drink anything.

”So, tell me, Andreios, who was your first?” the King said after emptying his goblet.

”My first, Your Grace?” he replied, resisting his habit of running two fingers down his scars when he was confused.

”Your first kill, of course.” the King boomed.

”Ah. His name was Petrios. He was, I think, nine. I was six or seven. He attacked me with a knife from the kitchen.” he put up his arm and pointed to a pale old scar running almost from the wrist to the elbow. ”So I drowned him in the bathtub.” he said with a shrug.

Things were suddenly silent. The story of children murdering children did not seem to fall on fertile soil, until the King spoke.

”By the Seven, Andreios, they start you off early in your lands, don’t they?” he said with a roar of a laughter, evidently finding his own joke hilarious. His sycophants soon joined in and the festive spirit returned. Few if any heard his reply of ”The orphanage where I grew up was a bit… rough.” He bowed deeply for the King, who graciously nodded his permission for the champion to leave his presence, and was escorted back to his corner by Ser Barristan.

They conversed a bit on the King and their meeting, with the knight assuring him it went as well as could be hoped and he thanked him for the whispered words on how to address the King.

”You will not dance, Captain Andreios?” Ser Barristan said, eyeing the line of young ladies waiting for an invitation - some of which still seemed to harbour futile hopes.

”I don’t dance very well, Ser Barristan.” he replied with a light smile that the scars could not ruin completely.

”It seems like you could have your pick of lovely young ladies tonight, Captain.” the older knight continued with a smile and another glance towards the chattering ladies, many of which were still throwing glances their way.

”Ah, I am afraid I will have to make them disappointed. My preferences lies elsewhere.” the Captain said with a smile.

The face of the white-cloaked knight turned from a friendly smile to a forced neutral. ”Young boys?” he asked.

”Oh no!” the Captain replied with a wide smile not even the stiff scars could turn into a scowl. ”I prefer men. Real men with experience on the battlefield, with hair on their chests and faces, strong arms and backs.” he laughed and gave the knight a knowing look. ”Interested?”

It was not often that Ser Barristan ’the Bold’ Selmy was speechless, and even rarer that he blushed. But now that was the case, in both instances.

”Erm, I think not.” he finally managed to sputter out.

The Captain smiled, and bowed a short but polite bow to the knight. ”That is a shame. Should you ever change your mind, or simply become curious, find me, and I will show you why true passion and true satisfaction is only possible between men.”

With that he left to stand in his corner, laving the flustered knight to return to his duties.

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Alexios.

"A cup of sweat today saves a bucket of blood tomorrow. A bruise today saves a chopped-off limb tomorrow." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

He had been talking, and above all, listening on the second day of the tournament. Many asked if he would take part in the jousts or the archery contests, which he denied. He was not a lancer, and average at best as an archer. He had been convinced to show off his skill with his javelins outside the tournament. Hitting and penetrating an oak board about two feet wide and high and an inch thick at sixty paces seemed to impress many of those who watched. And he had not shown the lighter javelins and the sling he used with them. There was no need to let anyone see all your abilities.

He had talked to Ser Barristan again, politely avoiding mentioning the failed proposition the night before. The old knight had avoided that subject as well, but had much to tell about the Ninepenny war, about Robert's Rebellion and the Battle of Ruby Ford. Ser Barristan had also been able to direct him to several veterans and even some commanders of those conflicts who were glad to tell the stories. He even got a few minutes from the King himself, only a bit tipsy, telling how he slew the Crown Prince at the Battle of Ruby Ford. Being the champion of the melee had obviously opened quite a few doors, he had to admit that.

The Equites was hard at work turning several coins into many more coins. As usual.

"Ah, Captain Andreios." he said as the Captain walked into the room at the inn they were still staying at. They would probably need to move sooner rather than later - the room would not be enough for long.

"Equites." he replied, serving himself some of the water the long and thin man had at the table he was working on, but passing on the wine, as usual.

"I trust your research has gone well?" the other man continued.

"As well as could be hoped for, I suppose." he replied.

The Equites put down his quill, looked up and grabbed his wine glass in one smooth move. "Do tell." he said with a smile and reclined a bit in the chair, brandishing his cat-like ability to make the hard wooden chair look extremely comfortable.

He drank the water, set the mug down and started pacing back and forth in front of the table. It always helped him collect his thoughts and form the correct sentences when he needed to say more than a barked order.

"I don't think there's a single soldier among these people!" he finally exclaimed.

The Equites looked surprised, but said nothing. A clear sign for him to go on.

"Oh, they are a martial people. Prowess with arms is the finest ability a man can have. They are superb swordsmen, skilled lancers, excellent cavalrymen." he said, continuing to pace back and forth. "But they don't train to make war. They train to duel. To fight single combat with swords or joust equally fairly man against man with lances!!!" he was getting a bit upset now. It was just so frustrating. So much skill, so little sense. So much training on such useless things.

"Their idea of war is a duel on a grand scale. They raise feudal levies they barely equip and never train at all, unless they have some time before marching off to war. They are so stuck up about noble blood that regardless how much of a twit the respective Lord is, he will still raise and lead his feudal levy!" he was actually waving his arms now. The Equites wisely chose to remain silent and listen rather than to try to interrupt. "During Robert's Rebellion, the war to usurp the throne for the current King, Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell of the Reach led some 60 000 men to lay siege to the castle of Storm's End." the Equites did raise an eyebrow at that number. It was an impressive host. Even the Karastovlian Empire at its peak, before the great shattering, had rarely been able to field that many men in a single field army. "The castle held a garrison of less than a 1 000, probably around 500." the Captain continued. "Yet Lord Paramount Tyrell sat on his arse outside the castle with his entire force, while the war was being decided elsewhere."

Even the Equites had to facepalm at that.

"When the levies meet, the lords lead from the front and the battle usually lasts until the commander of one or both hosts are dead. There's no overall command, no real reserves, no attempts at battlefield manouvre. Just a mass of men pushing against each other until one side can hack their way through enough of the personal bodyguard of the enemy commander and slay him. Then they put his head on a pike and show the battlefield. The losing side then promptly routs." the Captain continued, shaking his head.

"They seem to have no concept of a general staff. Their idea of manouvre warfare is to rape, loot, burn and pillage the countryside. Formation warfare is almost unheard of. They build enormous castles - you have seen the Red Keep here in King's Landing - yet seem to have little understanding of siege warfare, taking castles and towns through subterfuge or simply waiting until the defenders starve. They do not seem to use artillery at all in the field." he finally stopped ranting and the Equites looked up at him.

"Your summary?" the tall and thin man said with a smile.

"Give me enough gold, and I can build a force that can turn the tide of any battle when properly applied." he stated with his usual confidence.

The Equites nodded. He knew that 'protecting us, our interests and anyone else that the Wild-Elf might find suitable to sent here' was included in that.

"I'm working on it. We'll have to start small, we don't want to attract too much attention." he said, bowed down and picked up a leather bag heavy with gold coin and placed it in the Captains arms with a grunt. A part of the prize and bets winnings of the melee yesterday. "Find us a suitable quarter where you can keep men and I can have a decent office and start recruiting."

"Very well, Equites." the Captain replied. "Oh, I almost forgot." he said with a grin that the stiff scars were turning into a bloodthirsty grimace. "There were five men waiting for you outside in the alley. I killed four and let the last one go to tell the story." he knowingly rattled the rucksack he was wearing over a shouler. Daggers, goedendags and a spiked club rattled against each other. "I'll sell them when I find someone to make us lamellar and proper weapons."

With those words he marched out, not waiting for a response.

"My, it is almost like back home!" the Equites said, with a chucke and picked up his quill again to note the gold given the Captain in his bookkeeping.

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 286 AL.

Lysander.

”Running the very long game is to most observers indistinguishable from being a good person. Use it to your advantage.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos

The Captain had found them a good house in the western parts of the city. Since winds were for the most part west winds, it spared them the worst of the rancid stench of the city. On the upper floor he had a bedroom, an office that also served as filing room as well as meeting room more lavishly decorated to receive potential business partners. There were also three more rooms that were currently unused, but another office and bedroom for a clerk to help him keep track of the rapidly expanding business would probably be the best way to use them. He just needed to find someone good with numbers and business who he could trust to not mess things up or steal too much (or be too obvious about it). All bookkeepers stole. The difference between a good and a bad bookkeeper was how much they stole, and how discreet they were about it. A good bookkeeper knew that stealing a little every month would add up to far more than stealing a huge sum once and having to run (in the best case, being hung was always an option).

A young boy entered, fidgeted nervously and finally placed a stack of documents on the table.

”The reports you asked for, Equites .” he said quietly.

”Thankyou, Tomas.” the Equites said with a smile, took his wine glass and took a small sip of the watered white wine from the Arbour and then continued. ”Do your numbers exercise. When you are done, we will join the Captain for supper. After that, you can go home for the day.” he said, with a gesture towards the wax-covered wooden tablet and documents in the corner where his young protegé had his workplace.

”Yes, Equites .” the boy said. He had a good head for numbers, but lacked the ambition needed to become a very good logothetes. That could change – the lad was only 11, after all – but for now he could not see him becoming more than a clerk to aid them. He was the third son of a parchment and papyrus maker and seemed eager to learn a trade he could hopefully support himself and eventually a family on. As per Kaisar’s usual policy, he was well paid (for a young apprentice, of course). Never give your own servants a reason to hold a grudge against you. You will have plenty of enemies anyway.

Speaking of enemies, it seemed like the commander of the city watch, the Goldcloaks, one Janos Slynt was again pushing for a meeting. He sighed, sifted through some notes and a few letters and then grabbed the quill to write a quick reply.

’To the honourable commander of the Goldcloaks, Janos Slynt, from the Logothetes of his Imperial Highness Kaisar Leonides of the House Toarias, Equites Lysander Asimachos.

’We have received your request for a meeting, and are much honoured to receive you. We ask only for some time to prepare our new residence for such a distinguished guest and would like to extend a cordial invitation for supper in two weeks time. Should this arrangement please you, we will be honoured to receive you.

With the outmost respect and most friendly regards,

Equites Lysander Asimachos’

He sanded the parchment, put some sealing wax at the bottom and pressed Kaisar’s seal on it, showing two eagles back to back with claws extended outwards to the right and left. He would send it with Tomas tomorrow. Back to more important work.

It seemed like the opium den was doing well, already having a respectable set of repeat customers. Heh, repeat with opium was almost guaranteed. Serving expensive luxuries, fine wine and mead and offering the services of high-class ’entertainers’, mostly female but also some young men and of course opium made quite the profit. The establishment seemed to have become all the rage with the more decadent young noblemen on grand tours or foreign merchants visiting. He noted down to ask the two failed Maester brothers to produce more opium, then crossed over the word and wrote ’milk of the poppy’ instead.

The distillery was coming to full production. Brandy from fine wine, tsiporo from the leftovers of winemaking - that the peasants had used as fertiliser before, so it was dirt (heh) cheap – and simple strong spirits from rye to clean wounds and sell to the more desperate parts of the proletariat. Of course he sent one of the first bottles of fine brandy produced (it was raw due to no oak barrel storage, but still decent) to the King as a gift – one that had been appreciated, as far as he knew, as the order for more bottles had come swiftly, along with more than enough gold to pay for it. And what the King drank, all the noblemen had to drink. Profits were good.

He had bought out a few inns to make them into places to serve what the distillery made, and had managed to acquire the tax farming rights of a wine yard in the southern Crownlands to produce their own raw materials. If you could, you should always control the entire process – to make sure the profit of all steps was yours to have, but also to ensure quality and deny your eventual enemies the ability to buy your supply out. He needed to travel there, talk to the serfs and set up a share cropping scheme that would have them work hard for their own profit as well as his. Mostly his, of course, but still, if you could, you should always make sure other won when you won. That kept them loyal, hardworking and eager for you to keep winning.

He also had a thousand of other little projects, but now Tomas was done with his numbers. He corrected a few of them, but praised the lad nevertheless. He did a little better every day and soon he would be acceptable at Thiesmarian double entry bookkeeping.

They descended the stairs to the realm of the Captain to have supper. They found the soldier in the kitchen, closely watching one of his recruits stirring a pot of stew.

”An army marches on its stomach, Recruit Gregson. All Condottieri in the service of the Kaisar shall know how to make a good meal or fail.” the Captain said to the recruit who was brandishing a red cheek from a rough slap from the Captain for daring to question doing ’womanly’ things. You did not question the Captain without very, very good reasons. ”Now, a little more salt, stir and bring the bowls.” the Captain said, with the recruit nodding and doing as he was told, knowing that more violence was the result of any kind of refusals. The silver weekly suddenly seemed a little less generous than it had previously.

Around them there were recruits at work with the tasks of Kaisar’s Condottieri. Laundry, cleaning the huge circular bathtub, heating water for the washing of hands and faces before supper.

”The army that keeps clean, keeps the camp fever away. Do you wish for your last breath to be that of a scarred veteran, surrounded by grandchildren eager for your tales of glory or for it to be pale and pantless, covered in diarrhoea or to be a wheezing and fever-shiver under a tent canvas?” he said, rhetorically, and the recruits answered as one man ”The first one, Captain!”

The Captain beamed a smile not even the stiff scars could destroy and banged the table so that the newly placed earthenware bowls rattled. ”Good! Now, come eat your fill of mutton stew with garlic and cabbage.” the recruits cheered and quickly filed up to sit down at the benches, with the Captain taking one short and the Equites the other, while recruit Gregson struggled to carry the large cauldron to the table.

Note: Images by my good friend John .

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 287 AL.

Alexios.

”If your enemy cries about honour, fighting them like a real man or your supposed cowardice, continue what you are doing. It is because you are winning, and they don’t like either losing or having to adapt.” Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

The house had been a coach and wagon repair shop and the large spaces on the lower floor under arched stone and brick roofs suited the Captain and his recruits well. The garden at the back was also good for various exercises, such as setting up camp after two or three full days without sleep. One of the two forges had been converted to a kitchen, while the other served to repair the equipment of the recruits.

The dozen or so recruits were mostly young men from a commoner background. He made clear that the position paid well, but also required tolerating very, very hard training and even harsher discipline. He had to fire two men who had an attitude and would not cease even after a good beating or two. Another had proven to have run from a crime. He did not oppose taking in criminals, but as was as usual garnishing most of the rapist’s wages and paid them in restitution to the victim and her family.

Training was going well and after a lengthy session of a reverse tug-of-war, where they split in two teams and made two shield walls and tried to break through or push over the other side they had taken a common bath, shared stories, eaten well and then it was time for the week’s pay and then the men’s night and following day off. A bit more than six weeks had passed since he and the Equites had found themselves in this place, and he was finding his routine quite well. He sat at the simple table with coins stacked up and gave each man his due as they came up from the line. The men, except the two on guard duty left to drink or visit their parents (he did not recruit married men if he could avoid it) and he sat down with some leather straps and a bag of newly made steel lamellar plates to make a new cuirass for one of the lads who was still growing, and had added quite a bit of girth around his chest from the physical training and large amounts of food with lots of beans, peas and meat.

”Someone to see you, Captain.” one of the guards said and he looked up from his work.

”Send him in.” he replied. The guard nodded. It was usually someone trying to get to the Equites through him – with business offers, requests for loans or charity, sometimes someone selling something or someone wanting him to take care of a crime or extract vengeance. He usually rebuffed them.

The young man who entered was already taller than himself, and almost as wide. He wore his hair long to hide disfiguring scars on the side of his face. He seemed well fed – of course, it was rare for the lower class to grow that large with less meat and dairy and the frequent disease and malnourishment to stunt your growth – and strong.

”Your business?” he asked, letting any facade of politeness and concern fall.

”I heard you beat my brother. Messed up his face with pebbles.” the young man said.

”And now you are here for revenge?” the Captain asked back. That was unfortunately not common, but families tended to learn after losing two or three sons.

”No.” the large young man replied.

”Then why are you here?” the Captain looked at the young man – or youth, rather, his patience wearing a bit thin. Two men of few words seemed to be a bad mix when you wanted to get things done and away with.

”I heard you were recruiting.” the youngster finally said.

The Captain nodded. Interesting. ”I am. Do you think you can pass my tests?”

The young man shrugged. ”I’d like to try.” The Captain smiled a grin that his stiff scars turned into a bloodthirsty grimace. The young man met the gaze of the man, and did not waver. The grimace made the las feel equally afraid and excited for what might come. There had been stories. Numerous stories. The lad had no idea how many of them were true.

”Your name?” he asked.

”Sandor Clegane.” he replied, still meeting the strong brown-eyed gaze of the older soldier.

”Very well, Aspirant Clegane.” the Captain said, put down the steel lamellar plates at the table and rose. ”We start immediately.” A man with a last name was usually a Lord, or his family, and this man was evidently, or at least claimed to be, the brother of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. Lordlings did not usually take well to unlearning their duellist ways nor to taking orders without question, and he had already failed one or two that tried to become recruits.

The young man nodded.

”First of all, we cut your hair. Kaisar ’s Condottieri will not have hair or beard long enough to be grabbed in combat. It could be a disadvantage that kills you.”

The younger man did not look too happy, but eventually nodded and sat down on a chair the Captain placed on the middle of the floor and pointed at. Producing a sharp pair of scissors the Captain quickly snipped the young man’s hair short.

”You wore it long to hide your scars?” he asked.

”Yes.” the young man replied.

”Why?” he asked as he finished the haircut.

”They’re ugly.” the young man said with a shrug. The Captain walked around him and with a hand signalled him to rise. Then he drew two fingers over his own scars in the face.

”Wear your scars with pride, Aspirant Clegane. Someone tried to kill or break you. Are you dead? Are you broken?”

”I am alive. But I don’t think I am whole.” the young man’s shoulders slumped.

”Do you fear and obey the one who did it to you?” the Captain asked.

”I hate him.” there was fire in the dark eyes of Aspirant Clegane now.

”Good. You are not broken. Let your hate burn, draw strength from it. Stand straight and tall with your scars. Let them be yours. Did you break, Aspirant Clegane?” he said, raising his voice.

”No!” the young man replied back, and straightened his back and squared his shoulders.

”That is, ’No, Captain!’ to you, Aspirant.” he bellowed.

”No, Captain!” the young man replied, equally loud.

”You’re quick. Good. Now, we’ll find you some equipment, then we’ll go for a little run.” he said with a predatory smile. The young man was not sure whether or not the scars in the Captain's face were responsible for that smile being predatory.

He grabbed a torch and lit it in the still smouldering forge and brought it up close to their faces as they walked towards the heavy door of the storage. As the torch came close to Aspirant Clegane, he flinched.

He eyed the young man a bit, stopped and brought the torch close again. The Aspirant flinched again.

”Are you afraid of fire, Aspirant Clegane?”

The young man clenched his teeth, but did not reply. So he brought the torch close again and the Aspirant flinched again.

”Fear lives in all of us.” he said with a dark tone and opened the door, shoving the young man in front of him. ”Discipline overcomes fear, but it must be learned. We fix this. Now.” he said, closing the heavy door behind them.

Up on the second floor, Equites Lysander Asimachos was at work, writing a letter when the stone walls of the entire building trembled as a muffled roar could be heard from down below. He rolled his eyes a bit and sighed, and went back to work. ’Andreios and his methods.’ He thought as it was repeated.

Note: Images by my good friend John .

Chapter Text

The Crownlands, 288 AL.

Lysander.

”Never underestimate how hard people will work if they think they can gain from it. Nor their endless creativity to avoid work if they gain nothing.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

The wine estate was a good one. Rocky ground on a southward slope on a long ridge, with orderly rows of decently well-maintained wine stocks. Well-trodden paths trafficked by mules and peasants alike. A village of the usual thatched roof huts made from sun-dried mud, dung and hay over braided poles on a wooden frame. Peasant dwellings seemed to look the same in this world and his own. The wine stocks could have been cut more often and better, the baskets maintained better or replaced more often and the presses repaired. But in general, it was fertile ground, as the steward of the Lord he had purchased the tax rights from had assured him. The earlier tax farmer had done a decent job, he had been told, delivering the worth of some 90 barrels of wine per harvest. Which probably meant that the estate produced around 100.

He was standing atop of an empty wine barrel placed in the small square in the tiny village, and all the serfs had gathered to listen to what he had to say.

The villagers eyed him with some suspicion. He suspected the earlier tax farmer had pressed (heh) quite a bit extra from the serfs, but he had been the demon they knew and could deal with. He was new and unknown and they were wary of what this might bring, especially as he had two of the Captain’s recruits with him, their polished lamellar armour telling the tale of them being men of violence above what the serfs could normally accomplish.

The crowd included not only most of the serfs, but at the outer edges were younger brothers, wives, older children and other relatives. All in all a crowd of several hundred.

Peasants were usually conservative and loathed change, especially something that they knew worked. So he would have to work hard to get them to accept his proposal. Time for a speech. Time to bring all those lessons in rhetorics to use. Ethos, pathos and logos. One of the recruits introduced him before he began. People that had people introduce them were important, here and at home.

”Free men of Westeros!” he started. Everyone hated slavery here, so it was a safe start, and he even got a cheer or two from that. Excellent.

”I wish to speak to you. With you. But first, I think it is time you for once had a chance to enjoy the fruits of your labour.” with those words one of the recruits rolled forwards a barrel from their Lord’s estate. It had not been that expensive – it would normally require a few more years on bottles before becoming a very good vintage, but to these people, it was a luxury they rarely experienced. Sure, they probably stole some of the harvest and fermented raw wine themselves, but barrel-aged, from their Lord? The barrel was raised on the square, the lid opened and as through a miracle the serfs produced clay cups or bowls seemingly from nowhere to have their taste of unwatered fine wine. They seemed to like it, because it did not stop until the barrel was as dry as the soil before the autumn rains.

That put them in a good mood, weakened their judgement just a bit, and probably made them view him favourably. For a very low cost.

”I am from a land far away from here. But we are a people who know our wine. And know how hard labour it is to produce it.” establish your ethos. I am the right man to talk to you about this. He got a few ’yeah’ from the crowd, smiled and continued.

”I also know how to make wine better. More expensive, and how to make people pay well for it.” this would not aid them. Not right now. But it still established his ethos. They were willing to bear with him, not the least because of the wine. Many were a bit tipsy by now.

”I know times can be hard. Summer is here now, and for many, it is the time of plenty. I know that for you, it means a lot of hard work for your Lord.” more agreement from the crowd. Everyone considered their lot hard. Agreeing with them was proper pathos. He spoke to their feelings.

”I know that today, you are granted the usage of your land plots in exchange for three days a week of corvee labour on your Lord’s estate.” this was simple facts that no-one could disagree with. A simple arrangement that worked for both sides. Supposedly.

”I will make a suggestion for a different arrangement.” he held up a hand to silence some of the more vocal serfs who wanted to protest immediately. ”Please, I ask of you, free men of Westeros, to hear out a free man of Karastovel. Should you not like the new arrangement, you will of course, as free men, be free to decline it.” this worked. They liked to consider themselves free.

”I suggest that you keep your land plots, but I do away with corvee labour. Completely.” he said. This was excellent logos. No-one denied that this was an excellent deal. So there had to be a catch, right? He had them now. They were listening intensively.

”Instead, I suggest that you get one fifth of the wine harvest, to share amongst you. You will know who worked hard, and who deserve their fair share of it. Work hard, bring in a fine harvest, and you can sell your share to me, drink it yourself or sell it at the local market, as you please.” they seemed excited about this. Excellent.

”Will you be willing to do this, for me, for a free man like you?” the assent was brought forward with massive cheering. They would work much harder, and above all much better. Some would probably spend more than three days a week on the estate, others would simply work harder when they were there and get more done. Leisure laziness, lounging around and pilfering of the harvest would be reduced to a minimum when there were real coin and with them real luxuries to be had - or for the smarter peasants, investments in tools such as iron-tipped spades, iron-tipped ploughs, perhaps an ox or a horse to share to pull the plough, the thresher or the mill. Before the peasants had pilfered, but could not sell what they had stolen to any larger extent, lest someone discover that they stole of their Lord’s harvest, so they had mostly eaten the grapes (or made raisins for the next winter) or drank the raw wine.

Of course, he had investments lined up with the merchants that attended the local market and with the local inn the next village over. And his newly set up portable wagon-carried smithy and carpentry shop would make a stop at the village at a suitable time after the harvest, offering tools for the more future-minded to invest in. He would give them coin, and take them right back. And they would be happy and more productive. He had a hard time concealing his evil grin as he shook hands with the village elder and several of the serfs wanting to thank him for the offer.

He knew from his calculations and experience that the harvest would be about 180 barrels. 36 for the peasants, 110 for the Lord, going above and beyond what he had originally promised would make him happy about the arrangement and not asking any questions, leaving 34 for himself. For almost no work at all. After the first harvest or so, he would be respectable enough to compete for tax farming contracts elsewhere. Oh, how he loved passive income! He could see gold coins being poured, clinking into a chest for his inner eye, and himself sitting next to it lazily drinking a glass of fine white wine.

However, back in King’s Landing, he realised that not everything he touched turned to gold. In this case the financial loss was not that bad, but his enemies laughed themselves hare-lipped over it.

He had purchased a number of large earthenware vats and paid fishermen to bring him salt water and small fish to make proper fish sauce as the country completely lacked this essential flavour-improver, Leaving the vats with a mix of salt water and small fish in the sun caused the fish to ferment – of course, that did not smell too well, but considering the city’s normal stench from the lack of sewers and the tanners’ guild, he had not expected the reaction he had gotten. They had to move the vats several times, and by the time the fermentation was complete and baskets had been pressed down into the vats and the salty fermented fish-water bottled, no-one wanted to buy. These barbaros did not understand proper cuisine and the bottles sat idle save for some used by himself, the Captain and his recruits, and a very select few used in the kitchens of his opium dens, inns and brothels, where people praised the salty piquant taste when they did not know what had been stirred into the stew.

And now he was Equites Fishrotter to all that disliked him. Damn them and their lack of proper refinement and tastes!

Note: Images by my good friend John .

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 288 AL.

Sandor.

”War cries, shieldbanging, chanting, taunting, elaborate armour and tabards. None scare the enemy, they are all to instil bravery in the heart of your own. Nothing scares an enemy as silent, naked, swift effectiveness in battle.” Condottieri Sergeant Sandor Clegane.

Condottieri Sandor Clegane.

He was still not sure what to think of the Captain. He hated him for the episode in the storage room, where the man had forced him to face fire again and again, until he could control his fear. And he was ashamed of the panicked attempts at getting out he had suffered. And how seemingly easily the Captain had tripped him and continued the treatment. He still disliked fire. If he was honest, it still scared him stiff. But I forced that ice-cold feeling down into the pit of hatred deep in his belly and like a dead commanded alive by the sorcerers of old did what he had to do.

And it worked. Well enough, he supposed.

He hated the Captain for many more things, too. The constant slappings, beatings, hittings with the rod or the Captain’s wooden sword when you did not move fast enough, or if you, the Seven forgive you, questioned an order. If you asked politely, and there was time, you could get an explanation, before or after the order was carried out. But you never questioned the order. And to the Seven Hells with you if you became insubordinate, or tried fighting back. Then you had to run the gauntlet. The Captain viewed such actions not as a crime against himself or his absent ’Kaisar’, but rather as a disgrace for the entire unit, and the guilty man was stripped down to his breeches and the other men lined up with wicker rods facing each other. Then you had to run down between the two lines of men, while they beat you as much as they could, as many times as the Captain saw fit according to the offender’s crime.

But the Captain was also like a father to them. A strict, and at times violent father, but his care was also evident. He made sure that they had three hot and two cold meals per day, that they got the best equipment money could buy – well, that was not strictly true. Sandor had worn plate armour which was better, but this lamellar armour they wore was almost as good. Consisting of small steel plates with holes it was laid so that each plate overlapped the other and strung together with strong leather straps. The result was an excellent piece of armour, stiff enough to allow good weight distribution and much, much cheaper and easier to repair or adapt to someone of different size. He had seen the Captain dissolve a breast- and backplate and assemble it again in mere minutes. And then he had to learn to do it himself.

Their beds were simple, but comfortable and surprisingly lice-free - all the laundry they did probably had something to do with it. Their weapons were first-class steel from the Street of Steel, their clothes simple, but comfortable and high-quality wool. And the pay was excellent and doled out at the same time every week.

’An army marches more than it fights.’ the Captain said over and over again. ’The faster army stands on the hill. The faster army has water, food, a path of retreat – or stands between the enemy and his home.’ It made sense, of course. But evidently, it meant that Sandor Clegane the warrior, the son of a landed knight, had to learn to do laundry. Cook. Clean. Pitch a tent and take it down again. A hundred times. ’We will have no time for camp followers!’ the Captain had exclaimed when a recruit questioned these things.

The Captain made sure there was no bullying among the recruits. ’You are all equally worthless!’ he exclaimed, and beat the offender black and blue. He joined them for their daily baths in hot water, sharing stories of battles and campaigns from his homeland and places he had served as a sellsword, fighting mythical creatures such as one that could shroud itself in impenetrable darkness. Sandor believed some of them to be pure shit, but others held important lessons and interesting information. He had told about his scars. A nomad sabre, some kind of cousins to the Dothraki if he understood it correctly, when the unit the Captain served in as a Sergeant could not hold a spear-circle called a ’schiltrom’ together. He had spent two days playing dead while the nomads celebrated their victory and then walked back over the steppe.

The Captain listened to their complaints – most often he disregarded them with a short and gruff comment, but he listened and took them seriously. He was always sure they could perform much more than they were themselves, and it seemed like he was always right. He instilled a sense of pride in their unit and themselves in them, praised them when it was merited, although not too much.

The food was good – the Captain taught them, and soon they could all make quite tasty stews and soups. They had meat or fish at least once a day, freshly baked bread and wine watered down so much that it was hardly wine anymore. ’A soldier has wine only to purify is water. You can get drunk on your time off.’ Which Sandor did, of course. And the Captain seemed to enjoy forcing him to puke his guts out the day after during the run. After a while he learned to temperate his drinking - the punishment the day after was simply too exhausting to be worth it.

Oh, those runs. Damn those runs. In full armour and pack, with all the equipment needed for a campaign, they ran. It was not a mad dash, just a forced march too quick to walk. A shuffle that Sandor had thought leisure until they entered the second hour of it the first time. He had stood on the training field for hours, but that was never the constant motion this was. He had puked after about two hours, with the Captain laughing at that, and collapsed after about four, but to be honest, the last hour had then been more staggering than running.

’When I am done with you, recruit Clegane, you will run two leagues in full equipment and armour in less than an hour. And you will be able to run for twelve hours straight!’

He had looked at the man like he was mad. But he had talked to the other recruits – oh yes, he was a recruit now, that must mean he passed the initial test – and they had confirmed that the Captain himself could run for THREE DAYS STRAIGHT, only slowing the pace temporarily to eat, drink, take a shit or piss.

’A soldier can run longer than any horse!’ the Captain had said. And he started to suspect it was so. And he could run two leagues in an hour now, with the about 80 pounds of armour, weapons and equipment. And about six hours before he collapsed.

He felt stronger. Drinking less wine made him more alert, and the daily running, cleaning, washing, cooking, eating, training and then fortification work made a routine he found himself settling comfortably into. Discipline suited him, having a purpose suited him, and controlling his fear and hatred made him feel stronger. He hated the Captain, but he also respected him.

Note: Images by my good friend John .

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 288 AL.

Lysander.

”If you want someone to take a decision in your favour, make them think it is their idea, or at least, offer them a way to save face. It will make it much easier for them, and have them resent you less.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Commander of the Goldcloaks Janos Slynt had been punctual, arriving with the escort of two burly goldcloaks. He had bowed, being respectful, complimenting the Commander during the lavish dinner he served. The main course food had been simple, courtesy of the Captain’s Condottieri’s cooking - hearty, filling and tasty, but simple. He had served the best wines money could buy, a nice dessert of finely baked pastries and confectionery as sweet as Massenian cane sugar as well as chilled candied fruit, though. And the Commander had eaten to his heart’s desire, which proved to be as much as his belly could take without bursting.

”Are you sure I cannot tempt you with another piece of sweetened fruit, Commander Slynt?” he said with a broad smile, keeping the friendly facade, wondering when they would get down to business.

”Thankyou, Equites , but I am…” the Commander burped involuntarily. ”Excuse me, quite full.” the man said with a smile back. So he just refilled the Commander’s wine cup with fine Dornish red, unwatered of course, for such a plebeian, almost to the brim, still smiling.

”Well, with the pleasantries properly cared for, I am sure you came here for a reason beyond our hospitality, Commander Slynt.” he said to the red-faced Commander. He did not take too well to unwatered wine, it seemed. Uncultured barbarian - even more than most people in this Sebastokrator-forsaken place.

”Yes.” the Commander said and stroked the chin. ”You have made quite the impression in King’s Landing since your arrival. Equites .”

He smiled at that. ”I am glad to hear that, Commander.” he lied smoothly. It had been much better to have gone unnoticed. But making a lot of money quickly usually made that hard. Very well, it was not like he had not expected this to happen sooner or later.

”That said, as the Commander of the Goldcloaks, I’d like to ask for some support. After all, your business benefits from our hard work to keep the streets safe and sound.” the Commander said. Ah, there it was. Time to feign some ignorance.

”We are of course very grateful for the tireless work of the city watch.” he said with a smile. ”But I am uncertain how directly we benefit?” he made a gesture towards the floor below them, where the Condottieri was entertaining the Commander’s two Goldcloaks. They did have their own security, after all. Quite a lot of it, in fact.

”Oh.” the Commander said, his mile turning just a bit forced rather than friendly. ”We make sure no… accidents happen. But you know, funding is always hard. With a little help, we can make sure your business stays free of sabotage and other problems.” he said, his smile now rather cold and telling of what might happen should the Equites not pay. How direct.

”I see.” he said, rose from the table, wine cup still in hand, stretched his almost seven feet and nodded with a friendly smile. ”Give me a moment, I think I have something right here.” the Commander nodded as he stepped over to his desk and took a stack of parchments to study.

”Ah, yes. Here it is.” he said. ”I realise your Goldcloaks must be in dire straits.”

The Commander smiled. To him this was going even better than expected. It was so nice when people were cooperative for once.

”After all, selling fifty breastplates on the Street of Steel last month alone, and thirty swords and two hundred spear points three months ago!” he said, watching the Commander suddenly go stiff and his smile melt away to be replaced with a stiff scowl. ”Just what are you talking about, Equites ?” he growled.

He smiled, a predatory smile. He just could not help himself. ”The situation must be disastrous when you have to sell your arms and armour! I am sure we can help you out. After all, favours and returned favours, right?”

”Right.” the Commander said stiffly. ”When can we expect payment?” Not one to beat around the bush, eh?

”Oh, I have another arrangement in mind, Commander Slynt. You obviously need new equipment. I have some very good contacts at the Street of Steel and I am sure I can get you new equipment at quite the discounted price.” he insisted with a broad smile.

The Commander’s jaw muscles were working as he ground his teeth. ”Very well.” he finally said, rose and briefly shook the Equites ’ hand and then stepped down the stairs, or rather stomped, signalling to the two Goldcloaks to follow him. The Captain and two of his Condottieri were casually leaning against a wall with smiling faces.

It was not until they had stepped outside that he noticed that both men were as pale as the bleached silk shirts that the high-born liked to wear under their tunics and that there was a certain… smell around one of them.

”Have you pissed yourself?” he exclaimed, to a mumbled and inaudible response.

This had been a disaster. Whatever would he do now?

His anger returned in double strength once he realised he got the very same equipment he had sold on the Street of Steel from the Equites – just that his ’discount’ prices were twice what he had made in the first place!

--

Note: Images by my good friend John .

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 289 AL.

Alexios.

”Every man seeks a stable and certain position. If he thinks he is safe, he will remain there. If you want to force an enemy into a position, harass him until he moves there, then stop.” Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

Some time had passed since they had arrived in these ’Seven Kingdoms’. Almost two years, at least. He had learned that the seasons here could last years, and no-one could be certain how long they would last. He would have to introduce snow shoes training for the soldiers once they hit a multi-year winter, he supposed. He had learned that practice when serving as a pikeman among the highlanders of Margauth.

He had found the Equites quite drunk. A few empty bottles of what he assumed had been fine white wine littered the table. That happened from time to time, but it had been a long time since he had seen him like this, barely able to sit in a chair. He supposed the activity, all the coin there for the grabbing, had kept the thin man busy and thus the wine less than necessary. Their master, Kaisar Leonides, was the same. Really, he himself was the odd man out, not drinking anything fermented or distilled at all. The Karastovlians were a nation of drunkards.

”Equites.” he greeted the drunk man with a polite bow.

”Captain.” the Equites replied, slurring only slightly despite having difficulties focusing on the broad man in front of him.

”What news?” the Captain asked and helped himself to a glass of water from the pitcher at the Equites’ table.

”Well…” the nobleman said, raising a hand and counting on the long, dexterous fingers. ”The Maesters of Oldtown know little of magic, and the sentiment I get is that they like it that way. They’re like the natural philosophers of the Imperial Academy.”

The Captain nodded and remained silent. There was a rant coming, and he knew better than to interrupt it.

”They say magic has gone from this land, that it might return one day, they have some kind of glass candles they can light with magic but can’t be lighted now.” he scowled and snapped his fingers several times. The Captain watched the action closely, and nodded gravely.

”How are you… With that…?” the Equites said and suddenly managed to focus on the Captain.

”Well under control.” he replied. They watched each other for a while, but nothing more was said.

”I have written the so-called ’faceless’ men of Braavos, but the reply simply said ’a man does not reply’ on my inquiries on magic.” the Equites looked around for his glass, finding it and a last sip of by now lukewarm wine and swallowed it down before he continued.

”The Warlocks of Quarth wanted a lot of money for very little information.” he exhaled forcefully from the nose in contempt, despite the fact that he could respect those that sold information. It should never be given freely unless you benefited from it.

”And the bottom line?” the Captain said and gulped his water down.

”The bottom line, my dear Captain, is that few seem to know much about magic, and none of those seem to know anything about teleportation or moving between worlds.” the Equites raised his empty glass in a sardonic toast for the world they had ended up in.

”So we are stuck?” he said.

”For the foreseeable future.” the Equites replied.

He nodded. ”I’ll take the night off. I need to find me a proper man.” he said.

”Before you go, I have a small gift for you, Captain.” the Equites said with a smile. And rose unsteadily to fumble among several stacks of paper on shelf before finding a leather-encased box. Then he lovingly tidied the stacks of papers, placing a hand on two taller stacks for a while and sighing.

He took the box and watched the tall man. ”Letters?” he asked.

”For Kaisar. Reports.” the Equites replied, putting his hand on the smaller of the stacks.

”For Beatrix. And for Giorgios.” the soft touch on the taller two stacks spoke of love. And of lamentation. Considering the height, the man must have written a letter every two or three days.

”You miss them?” he asked, knowing the answer to the question.

”What kind of man does not miss his children?” the Equites replied.

Many men, he tought, but said nothing. Instead he opened the leather case he had recieved and picked out the cylinder-shaped object, turning it over in his hand.

”They call it a ’Myrish spyglass’. It fetches a pretty nummi.” the Equites said, his back turned and his hand still on the two stacks of paper on the shelf.

He turned it over in his hands and extended it. The craftmanship was excellent.

”It uses cleverly shaped glass to bring things closer.” the Equites said. So he tried it and almost jumped at the clarity of the image. Craftmanship indeed!

”This could help quite a bit.” he said with a smile that the stiff scars turned predatory.

”I thought you would like it. Now, I’d like to be left alone. Tell Tomas to bring me another bottle on your way out.” the nobleman said. ”Tonight, I drink. Tomorrow, we start a bank.”

”Very well, Equites.” he replied with a short bow, that the tall man answered with a staggering attempt at a court-level bow of his own. Then he turned and left.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Sunspear, 291 AL.

Lysander.

"Most people confuse good manners with good intentions. Use it to your advantage.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

His head throbbed quite a lot and the clear summer sunlight through the window seemed to taunt him. But such was the tribute to pay to the God of wine the day after.

There was no Karastovlian who had not known a bad day after, and the worst was cured by fried smoked pork with fish sauce and fried oat porridge, a glass of wine, a pitcher of water and a lot of hard work.

The bank had started out small, of course. A few exchange offices in the larger cities, giving travellers the ability to exchange foreign coin for Westerosi, and the other way around, making sure you got good coin, unshaved and unforged. Fortunately, it seemed like the Seven Kingdoms had never debased its currency. Perhaps it was simply that the King lacked the power to do so.

The banks then became reliable institutions where you could store your money for a small fee and that could facilitate large transactions between sellers and buyers of expensive goods. It expanded into traveller’s banks, allowing people to deposit a sum of money in Oldtown and withdraw it in King’s Landing, or the other way around, reducing the risk and effort required in travelling with large sums. After two years, they started to lend money. Initially, there were small sums – and always with extensive collateral. Seizure of property happened every now and then, until the debtors learned the limits. They never lent money to someone with power enough to do something about property being seized. Merchants, lower nobility wanting to invest in their properties, skilled craftsmen and tradesmen, shipowners and so on were the beneficiaries. Ironically, a few of the farmers he had started tax farming with loaned money with the next years’ harvest as collateral, to buy a horse and an iron plough as well as to buy some marshland and use dikes to drain it. Coin was moving around in the Seven Kingdoms, and he had his fingers in almost every transaction, making a profit from all of it. Always giving with one hand, taking with the other.

He had worried that his bank would draw hostile attention from the Lords Paramount or Wardens, the King or the Hand of the King, but in a stroke of luck, the Ironborn of the Iron Isles, under their Lord Reaper of Pyke, Balon Greyjoy, decided to revert to old raider ways and revolt against the throne. The lunatic had named himself 'King of Salt and Rock' - that was fighting words in a feudal world. Not paying the tribute, not coming to pay homage or simply ignoring royal commands could be 'forgotten' or temporarily ignored by the throne, but someone declaring himself the equal rather than the subject of the King? An invasion was coming.

He had shook his head at the folly of it. House Redwyne had a substantial fleet, the Royal Fleet was large and strong as the King spent lavishly on it, probably because his own brother, Prince Stannis Baratheon was in command - and the man was, if not a genius, at least competent and diligent. House Lannister also commanded a smaller but still sizable fleet. The whole thing was decided before it even began, as the Ironborn did nothing to destabilise the Seven Kingdoms before launching their attacks, thinking they could control the seas and then raid at will. Fools.

In what the locals called 291 years after Aegon’s landing, he uncorked a fine bottle of wine and toasted with the Captain -. who drank water as usual – to their first million gold dragons.

”Kaisar would be proud.” the Captain said.

”He would indeed. We’ll see if we can bring any of it with us, should we find a way to get back.” he replied. He doubted that they would get back, but what could they do, but work and hope for something to come along their way? If it did, he’d make sure they had the money and the power to seize it.

The Captain shrugged under his large lamellar shoulder protectors and drank his water. Probably content. Routine and discipline, and the steady flow of silver to pay, feed and equip the men the Captain trained was enough for the simple-minded man. No family to miss. No friends to lament, Build a new unit of new men, and the man was like a fish in the water. He had loads of envy for that.

”We need to expand outside of King’s Landing and the Crownlands. It is also time to start networking a bit. Get more contacts beyond petty nobility and rich merchants.” he said.

”If you say so.” the Captain said, deferring such things to him as usual.

”This is a feudal realm where the powerful landowners owe military service to their liege. Meaning that they always have the means to revolt any time they like. It will collapse in civil war one way or the other sooner or later. If it does while we are here, we need to have hedged our bets.” he continued.

The Captain nodded in agreement. He knew the Equites liked to have a first, second, third, fourth, fifth and so on plan, and to invest in all possible, likely and unlikely venues. If you bet on all horses, you would always win.

But investing in other parts would require good relations with and the approval of the various Lords Paramount and Wardens. It was indeed time to travel and to make friends. Their organisation had grown large and largely self-sustained. Tomas and his assistants could handle daily business, Sergeant Clegane could handle security well enough. The Goldcloaks had been… discouraged from any further attacks and Commander Slynt reminded that the prices on his own armour and equipment might rise if more 'accidents' happened.

”We’ll take an escort of 40 of your best men, Captain.” he said to the Captain who grunted his approval.

He had sent out letters to business contacts, asking for letters of introduction to some of the more powerful Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. The first invitation was to the court of the Princedom of Dorne – it came surprisingly easy. Perhaps too easy. Prince Doran Martell extended a cordial invite to visit Sunspear.

The trip also proved to be easier than the Equites was really comfortable with. If things went too well, it usually meant that there was some kind of ambush in store. Someone was trying to make it easy for him to take the path laid out for him. But he could not see how this trap was constructed, so he marched on. At least he had the Captain and his 40 men with him should anything go wrong. And plenty of gold for a ransom. It was time to walk into the vipers' nest and brave whatever might come.

However, so far, the only thing they had to brave was excellent hospitality. They had been shown lavish rooms, served salt and bread and then fresh fruits, dates and excellent wine (which the Captain politely but firmly excused himself from, to some raised eyebrows) before being ushered into an audience with the Prince himself, Doran Martell.

On their way, they passed pools and baths of fresh water, with fountains and plenty of happy, playing children. He could not hide a wide smile at the scene. At last he had found some civilisation in these Seven Kingdoms!

The Prince was seated in front of one of the pools on a wooden chair, with a few household guards behind him, a strongly built man who could only be his brother, Prince Oberyn Martell next to him, watching the play of several young children in the water. A young girl, chased by another, ran headlong into the long leg of the Equites, bouncing off and dropping to the stone floor. She looked confused, and then started bawling. He bent over, picked her to her feet and smiled, dropping to a squat

”Oh, but aren’t you a strong girl? Especially when your father is watching and recieving important guests?” he said. Patting her head. Confused, she looked up at him, but at least stopped bawling, only sniffling a little.

”You are very tall.” she said.

”I am. And if you obey your father, eat your vegetables and run every day, you might become almost as tall.” he said with a smile and offered a small treat, a piece of vanilla cake, which she eagerly consumed.

”My Princes.” he greeted the two men who had watched the scene closely. My apologies, it seems like the beautiful women of your court have a way to distract me.” he said with an elegant bow towards the two men. ”I suppose I just met the young Obara?” he continued, with a look towards the standing man.

”Nymeria, actually.” Oberyn Martell replied with a smile and returned the bow. ”You seem to have a good hand with children.” he gestured towards the playing children, who shylily (except for the oldest, which was the Obara he had asked about before) lined up to greet the visitor, while he kissed the hand of each and every one of them in turn.

”It is my one weakness, my Princes.” he said with a smile, which seemed to be honestly returned by both men.

”Forgive me if I breach protocol, my Princes. It is the tradition in my homeland to bring gifts when you are generously invited somewhere." He gestured to some of the Captain’s Condottieri, who approached with a long bundle covered in a crimson cloth.

”I hope you can accept our humble gifts.” he said. ”For your esteemed self, Prince Doran Martell, we offer scented soap of the finest quality, with oil of whale and ambergris.” a set of four thick bars was handed over to a servant on a thin silver platter and brought to the Prince – the perfume could be smelled weakly in the air as the servant passed, and the Prince picked one up and sniffed it.

”A fine gift.” he said with a smile.

”For you, Prince Oberyn Martell.” he uncovered a fine example of the type of swordspear the Captain’s Condottieri liked to use, which the Prince had been eyeing from time to time since they arrived. A servant brought this to the Prince, and he gripped it, felt the weight and balance and made a swing.

”Interesting. Thank you, Equites.”

He smiled, and then stepped forward with his hands behind his back.

”And for you girls, this!” he withdrew his hands and revealed small wooden training versions of the same spear that had been given to their father. ”So that you may train and become strong like your father.” the girls looked to their father, who nodded, and then accepted the gifts with squeals of delight. They were soon embroiled in fighting each other, and Prince Oberyn Martell had to excuse himself to make sure no-one got too hurt in the enthusiasm.

The Captain marched off to discuss the spear and its usage with Prince Oberyn Martell and they were thus left alone, apart from servants and guards, of course. But they were both men of such standing that they had learned to ignore their presence. They made small talk, had a cup of wine and some refreshment and discussed the situation in King’s Landing before getting serious.

”May i ask you, Equites, what is your opinion on the murder of children?” Prince Doran Martell asked. Ah. He had expected to get that question in one form or another sooner or later. The Martell’s wanted to know what he thought of the murder of their sister and her children.

They both glanced towards the children who were now practising fighting in the water of one of the pools.

”My Prince.” he began. ”There are people, who should have been strangled in their cradle.” he continued, shaking his head. The Prince on his chair raised an eyebrow.

”However, we cannot judge children for their parents' crimes, and we cannot kill anyone for crimes they might commit in the future. They cannot be held responsible for who they were born to. Anyone killing children is a despicable coward." he said, with some heat added into the tone. ”Where I come from, they used to blind children of overthrown rulers. At times they were castrated, but that was a thousand years ago, and such barbaric traditions have long been abandoned. But killing them? Never.”

That was not strictly true, of course. There had been infanticide in the annals of Karastovel. But he did not have to tell the Prince that.

”I see we are in agreement, Equites.” the Prince said with a smile and called for more wine while wincing trying to change his position on the chair.

”My apologies, my Prince, but more wine?” he asked.

”The only thing that helps, I’m afraid.” the Prince replied.

”Forgive my intrusiveness.” he said. ”My studies of medicine and healing at the Imperial Academy were short, but I understand you suffer from gout?”

”Unfortunately, Equites, yes, that is so.” the Prince replied with a grimace.

”We learn that wine is not good for you when you suffer from gout.” he said.

The Prince snorted.

”And what do your medical knowledge say is good for you?” he said.

He was walking on thin ice here – the man was in pain and perhaps not in a good mood from the subject they had discussed earlier.

”Cherries, actually.” he replied.

”Cherries?” the Prince said, with a tone of disregard.

”Yes. Cherries. Or, any fruit, berry or vegetable that is red or orange. And copious amounts of boiled water.”

”And this helps?” the Prince said, his tone being more inquisitive now.

”So they say. No harm in trying I suppose, my Prince? Avoid or limit your consumption of red meat, beans, peas, cured foods, cheese and small fish.” he continued. ”And no wine or other alcohol at all. And whenever you can, walk or exercise in any other way.” he said.

”You just removed most of what makes life worth living.” the Prince said with a sour face.

”You don’t need to stop completely. But lowering the amounts will help.” he said. "Besides..." he smiled a bit. "...shall we call it the benefits of marriage is excellent exercise."

The Prince of Dorne smiled slightly, and with that, the subject turned into that of banking and tax farming in Dorne, both of which the Prince seemed cautiously positive to.

The next day the Prince of Dorne sat drinking boiled water with some lemon juice in it, eating cherries, grapes and pieces of red apple when his brother walked into the open hall of the water gardens, wheel-legged like he had ridden a hundred leagues.

”Why are you walking like that, Oberyn? Did the Captain beat you that bad at training with that new toy of yours?” Doran asked.

”No, brother.” Oberyn replied with a wide and disturbingly happy grin. ”He’s fast, but no duelist. It was rather something else he said that I had to try out this last night. And I think he is right. At least partially.” he smiled and winced a bit.

”No details, please.” Doran said, while the Red Viper laughed.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 292 AL.

Lysander.

"Ambitious men are often useful and always dangerous. Never trust them, but if you can, use them.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

With business in Dorne picking up, it was time to focus in other places. He had made a mental list on where to go next. The Riverlands and the North was next. Then the Stormlands, and finally the big two when it came to coin and real power - the Reach and the Westerlands.

There had been an embarrasing episode where he had to read a letter from Prince Oberyn Martell to the illiterate Captain, who had of course smirked the entire time as he - flush-faced and even stammering had to read all those amorous details and then write a reply for the damn Captain to the Red Viper.

His organisation was growing, as he could not possibly do everything himself. Tomas and his small group of clerks were handling book-keeping well, and usually kept their thieving to an acceptable level. He looked through the books, and mostly they were skilled enough to hide it to an untrained eye. But to a master of theft the irregularities were easy to spot. He had blackmailed one of them to repay most of what he had stolen when he had gotten a bit too ambitious - threatening to reveal the whole thing to himself (anonymously, of course). He gathered evidence and information on all of his employees of course, and tied their loyalty to himself and the Captain with a combination of simple gestures of charity, praise where it was earned, good pay, good quarters and excellent food, favours, blackmail and at times threats and violence. The normal operation of business, here like in the old Empire of Karastovel. The only real difference was how mercantilistic a lot of these people were. They thought of coin as a limited resource and business as a zero-sum game. If a competitor made a profit, that was profit you did not make. Quite insane, but easy to work with.

The Captain's guard was growing, and it was getting harder to hide the sieze of it from prying eyes. He knew that he had an enemy in Commander Slynt, who clumsily staggered around in the game of information trying to gather evidence of wrongdoing or the size of the Condottieri to present to the Hand of the King, Lord Paramount Jon Arryn. They send men out to serve as tax farmers in his stead, trained men to become Sergeants, Lieutentants and Captains and stockpiled weapons and armour, having men go in civilian clothing to fool Slynt's laughably incompetent spies.

That the King himself liked to watch the Condottieri train on his way to and back from hunting in the Kingswood from time to time also helped - Lord Paramount Jon Arryn was evidently unlikely to act on anything that was not a direct threat if it pleased the King.

However, there were other men that were not as easily fooled, and he had raised an eyebrow when an informal note with a request for an invitation had arrived from Lord Varys the Spider. One could not deny sucha request, and a formal invitation was of course dispatched and the week after the Spider himself came to the fishrotter's mansion.

"Lord Varys the Spider." he said with a pleasant smile, rose and presented a chivalrous and deep, respectful bow that had all the aura and dressing of courtly manners from far away.

"Equites Asimachos." the pudgy man in soft silk robes and a shaved head replied with a smile. He answered with a shorter, but corteous bow. "Although strictly, I am not a Lord."

"I fyou wish to be adressed differently, I would be happy to accomodate you, Lord Varys, but I feel your position and service entitle you to the honourific." he replied with a smile.

"They do say you have a way with words." And being a flattering sycophant, he thought. They were both men that hid ruthlessness behind a facade of friendly politeness. "I suppose 'Lord Varys' does have a nice ring to it." the pudgy man said with a smile. He offered him watered wine and some refreshments, which the eunuch was happy to accept, and then offered a seat at a velvet-covered sofa.

"As pleasant it is to share smalltalk with you, Lord Varys, I am afraid I must politely ask you the reason I have the honour to host you." he said after a while, when the smiling facades and corteous compliments thrown back and forth became a bit too much to bear.

"Ah, yes." the eunuch replied with a smile. "There are, shall we put it, whispers of military ambitions on your part, Equites."

"I see." he said with an equal smile. "Let me assure you, the whispers are wrong. The Captain builds a strong force, yes, but only to protect the Kaisars business."

"Some would say that he is not training guards and keepers of the peace, but sell-swords of rarely seen quality." the pudgy man countered and sipped on his wine.

"Hah, yes, the Captain is a perfectionist and would not be satisfied with inferior quality in his soldiers. I shall relay your compliment to him." he said with a laugh.

"A smooth switch, Equites, but the question remains unanswered." Varys said, raising a nearly hairless eyebrow towards the much taller man on the other side of the sofa.

"An astute observation, Lord Varys." he replied. "Someday you must tell me where you learned your substantial skills."

"And again." Lord Varys said with a smile. The eunuch was good at this, and would not let him get away.

"Indeed." he replied. "Let me assure you, Lord Varys, that while I am a most ambitious man, I have nothing hostile to the Seven Kingdoms in mind. I serve the Kaisar and work to gain him - and myself - coin. I have no desire for your so-called 'game of thrones'." he said, sipping is own wine.

"Perhaps you are truthful, Equites." the eunuch continued. "But the game of thrones have a tendency to to choose its players rather than the other way around. As your wealth and power waxes, you may find yourself embroiled in things regardless of your desire not to." the eunuch warned.

He nodded, solemnly, making a facade of considering it. He knew that from the beginning, of course. The trick was to back the winning side, or be strong enough to make the winning side. And deflect request or demands for support without making those asking your enemies. A task that was never easy. But staying under cover meant being smaller and less powerful. And thus more easily bullied into a position you did not want to take. A balance act that reminded him of politics back home and filled him with equal amounts of dread and giddy anticipation. The people of Westeros might be barbarian in his eyes, but by the Sebastokrator could they create a wonderful land of intrigue, deception, civil war, revolts, blood feuds and intricate political structures out of a simple feudal society. He was almost impressed.

"I will heed your warning, Lord Varys." he replied, acting as if the spider had come with good intentions to warn him of immediate danger rather than to threaten him subtly. "I shall be in your debt for this warning. Us Karastovlians are almost as known back home for fulfilling our debts as your Lannisters, Lord Varys." he said with a smile.

The eunuch seemed happy with that, or at least he played the role well enough. They made pleasant small talk before the man rose and offered a corteous bow.

"Thankyou for inviting me, Equites. It has been a pleasure." he said.

"The pleasure has been all mine." he replied with an equally corteous bow. "If you permit, could I make a donation for your orphanage charity?"

"My what?" the eunuch replied.

"Oh, all the little children you take care of and put to good work. I was thinking some of them might to better in the long run learning a trade, or even get some schooling. I will have use for more book keepers in the future." he said with a smile. It was to the credit of the eunuch that he did not betray single emotion beyond a benovelent slight surprise on his face.

"I was not aware that other shared my affinity for taking care of King's Landings more unfortunate little ones." he said with a smile. "It is not something I usually bring up. People may think I am a bit soft of the heart, and not prepared to do what is... necessary." he said, adding just a tiny bit of edge to the last word.

"Oh, my great weakness is children. I have seen some of yours around, so I thought I'd mention it. Please give Tomas a note where we can cooperate in this matter." he said with a wide, wolfish smile.

"Certainly, Equites." the eunuch said with a smile not quite as wide, but not cold either.

"I would like to talk again, Lord Varys. Perhaps we can be useful to one another, beyond helping poor orphaned children?" he said.

"That sounds splendid, Equites." Lord Varys replied, excused himself and exited.

He exhaled deeply and poured himself more wine, as the Captain entered after the spider had left.

"Almost like back home." he said to the Captain with a big smile. How exciting! The Captain did not reply, but rather raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes. We have a new player in Kings' Landing making grand business, usually of the morally more questionable kind. He's making a lot of coin, and I want to make sure he understands that this city is large enough, morally questionable part or not. Could you have some of your men keep a tab on his business here, while I correspond with him?" he said. The Captain nodded.

"His name?" he said, brief as almost always.

"Lord Petyr Baelish, of the Fingers, Lord Paramountcy of the Vale." he replied, taking a large sip of wine.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

The Crownlands, 293 AL.

Lysander.

"If you must humiliate another man, crush him utterly. For men take vengeance for small grievances when they cannot for larger ones.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

With business and tax farming expanding, especially in the Crownlands, where he and his men had started to become extensively used, invitations to hunts and feast started pouring in from lower nobility. Some wanted to foster their soft or lazy sons for some time with the Captain, 'making proper men of them', which always had him snickering inwards, since he knew what they would most likely think of the Captain if they knew his preferences. Others, the smarter ones, looked for business opportunities. Gold and success always attracted ambition and want like flies to a carcass in the summer sun. Some simply wanted to get to know the man who had came from nowhere and now commanded a small trade and business empire. Yet others looked for positions for second or third sons, cousins, younger brothers, bastards or orphaned wards.

He usually dined, conversed diplomatically, took one or two investments and repaid them generously enough when it was time. Some of the brighter boys made it into his organisation or the Condottieri, but most lordlings failed the rigours of the Captain's training, unable to take the hard regimen and above all orders without question, being used to command servants and smallfolk around. For the hunt, he partook but always let someone else have the honour of slaying the deer or boar. He turned on the charm on the ladies, displaying immaculate manners, knowing that them viewing him favourably would filter towards husbands and brothers, not directly of course, but still. Only a fool ignored the power a charming lady posessed in a society strung up on chivalry.

This feast, however, was a bit different. He had been invited to Greenfield Castle, a bit west of Rosby, by Lord Tomas Greenfield, a man known for being fair, jovial and much in love with his wife - to the extent that he had no less than nine children that had survived into adulthood. He had recently started tax farming at some of the manors and estates belonging to Lord Greenfield, and had of course studied the books briefly as well as gathered as much information as possible before heading for the feast - escorted by four Condottieri and Lieutenant Clegane in their best parade equipment.

Lord Greenfield, a portly and short man in a pointed grey beard, a bald head and intelligent pale blue eyes had greeted him warmly and offered salt and bread - a tradition he found endearing, as it was similar to what woudl be offered in an alliance back hom, even if that tradition was dying out. The Lord may be old and a bit fat, but his hands were still calloused from holding his sword, and it was evident from the stout keep and well-maintained curtain wall as well as the very well-worn exercise field that Lord Greenfield took his and his domain's martial ability very seriously.

"I must compliment you on the view, Lord Greenfield." he said with a smile, sitting not far from the Lord himself on the place of honoured guests, while Lieutenant Clegane stood like a statue a bit further away. The grand southwards slope down into the valley of the Blackwater Rush that had given the castle - and its Lordly House - its name was indeed stunning from the large led-fitted glass windows that lined the hall on its south side. The long slope was dotted with clungs of peach and apple tree orchards, fields in full bloom, green meadows with lazily grazing livestock, herb gardens and hops poles. "It is almost as stunning as your charming wife." he continued with a nod towards the equally portly and short Lady of the House, Merina Greenfield, who actually blushed and giggled. "You are a flatterer, Equites Asimachos!" she said with a smile that nevertheless spoke clearly that the words had fallen in fertile soil. The smile of the Lord himself was also wide - he probably knew that the rosy cheeks of his wife and her fine mood would let him get lucky later that night.

"It was constructed by my Lord grandfather when he expanded the castle. It would have to be abandoned in case of an enemy scaling the curtain wall, of course. Impossible to defend." the Lord said. A smart, pragmatic man within his field - the brief discussion they had on tax farming before the veal was served had told him the man had little economic skill, but was smart enough to know what worked and what did not - and that his skill better suited for military matters, and to let someone tax farm most of his lands. To know your strengths and weaknesses was the first step towards being smart, was it not?

He was about to inquire further on the reconsctruction of the castle, as it seemed like a good topic to continue, but someone else spoke first.

"Views, windows and sycophantry are all good, I suppose." the man that had spoked was a strongly built knight with a short, cropped sand-coloured beard and the same pale eyes as the Lord himself. Ser Halder Greenfield, third son of the Lord andlike his brothers an accomplished knight that had come far in several of the King's many tournaments, melees and other martial contests.

"You dress in fine silks and elaborate clothes, Asimachos." the man said. Ah, here was the reason for the odd mood during the feast. Ser Halder and his supporters and friends, who seemed to all watch him, while the Lord himself seemed to lose his good mood.

"Halder..." he started, but was interrupted by his son, who had rosy cheeks from his liberal consumption of wine. "Lots of words, flattering, being a sycophant. You are not a man." he spat. "You carry that pathetic thin sword around with you, but I am sure you can't even hold it in your weak little hands!"

Ah. So it was Ser Halder he had replaced in taking care of the Lord's estates. And he did not appreciate it. No inheritance, no war in sight, not good enough to actually go beyond the top third at the tournaments. The knight was destined to become a hedge knight and would perhaps never fight a single battle despite training for it his whole life. And now he had lost the one purpose he actually had, and was takin git out on the one who had taken it from him.

"Halder!" the Lord roared as he rose, but his son just extended his hands in a 'what?' gesture, as if he could not understand what he had done wrong. Everything he had just said was true, was it not?

"My apologies for my son, Equites Asimachos..." the Lord started, and suddently Clegane was behind them.

"Do you want him dead?" the large, scarred man said, and for a second it looked like Ser Halder regretted his words.

"Please, my Lord. It seems like Ser Halder thinks I cannot use my sword. I fear I must set things right. I will handle this, Lieutenant Clegane." this was a martial society, and much of it would never respect you if you backed down from a confrontation like this. He turned to the knight who had like his father, risen from his position.

"I am sure there's some misunderstanding." he said with a condescending tone. "Perhaps you'd like to apologise for not understanding the subject of the conversation, Ser Halder?" he said with a predatroy smile, which infuriated the knight, as planned, of course.

"The only thing I will do is chop you to pieces! Or would, if you were not too much of a coward to actually face me!" the knight said, to the laughter of some of his friend and snicker from some others.

"My Lord." he said and turned to Lord Greenfield. "I am afraid my honour has been challenged. With your permission, I'd like to answer the challenge. This is your house after all." he said, purposfully ignoring the fuming knight.

"Very well." the Lord growled, glaring at his son and giving his distraught wife a reassuring arm over her shoulder. "Halder! Don't you dare kill him!" he said.

"No promises!" it came from the knight, who with a satisfied smile took a sword and drew it from its scabbard. A well-maintained castle-fordged steel longsword - sharp and of excellent quality. He held it like he had held it for hundreds of hours as they whole feast filed out to the exercise field outside the feasting hall.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

The Crownlands, 293 AL.

Lysander.

"I you do need to fight, and can't have professionals do it for you, make a show of it. Teach each and all that see the costs of fighting you.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

"You will not be reconciled?" asked the Lord, looking from one man to the other.

"No. I will show this fop the true meaning of being a knight!" Ser Halder said forcefully.

He drew his sword and his dagger, pointing his swordpoint to the ground, denying the knight a quick way to determine his reach, and extended his dagger in front of him.

"They used to call me 'the adder', back when I duelled." he said with a smile.

"I would name you weasel - snakelike, but also soft!" Ser Halder replied, earning him a snicker or two from the guests who were now standing outside in the late evening summer sun.

"You are making many mistakes this evening, Ser Halder." he replied with a smile.

The knight laughed and swung his sword to connect with the dagger, knocking it out of place. But it was back to parry when he tried to strike again.

"You will die today, Asimachos." the knight growled and swinged again, which he parried with the dagger.

"I have heard that from better classes of men than you, Ser Halder." he said with a smile and parried another strike, moving quickly, pacing back and forth, never letting his feet be still. The school of the light sword called for constant footwork. Designed for cobblestone streets or even fighting in plowed fields, a light and small step allowed you to move without looking even on uneven terrain, allowing you to move forwards or backwards at a more rapid pace than someone not used to the same training.

"Shut up, you bastard!" the knight growled and swung wildly, knocking the dagger out of place again, but finding it rasied more quickly than he could with his sword when he tried to use the open defence to his advantage.

"Your first mistake was insulting me. I am sure your Lord father invited me partially to inquire if I could provide you with a position in my or the Captain's organisation." he  parried a bit more forcefully and raised the sword for the first time, using it with a short, whipped backhand swing - using only the wrist - to remove a silver button from the velvet west of the knight, who parried a bit too slow with his much heavier sword. The clenched teeth of the portly Lord, who looked very displeased seemed to confirm that assumption.

"Your second mistake was to challenge me without armour." he said with a smile and whipped the sword back as the knight backed out of range - too slow, or not long enough. Being tall and wielding a long, light sword gave him a range advantage that he had hidden well so far. Another button flew away from the knight's west.

"With armour, this would have been much more equal. You might even have won - it is hard to penetrate armour with a light sword." he said with a smile and parried a heavy swing with his dagger and cutting off a third button and then quickly retreating out of range. The knight growled, too angry to see that he was being toyed with and at a serious disadvantage.

"Your third mistake was to go into a duel with me wielding only one weapon, and nothing to parry with." he continued, matter-of-factly and parried yet another trust. Many of the guests were now quite intrigued by the fight, as they were seeing a Braavosi-style fight against a Westerosi knight, and the former winning clearly. Despite many of them originally being on Ser Halder's side, there were laughs at his quips and at the buttons flying. A truly martial people, who appreciated skill with arms and a good fight, or in this case, when it was not a good fight, a good show. "A shield or a dagger could not have been that far away. Or even a stool from the hall. But no, you were too arrogant for that." he said with a smile as the furious knight swung again. This time he parried with the basket-like hand protection of the dagger. The good steel of the knight's sword dug into the softer bronze of the protection - and stuck. It was just a moment before the knight could yank his sword back, but he used it to use his sword like a whip, using his wrist again to open a shallow gash on the swordarm of the knight.

Ser Halder roared and swung, but he backstepped, not even parrying this time, and used his superior range to again whip his sword to open up another shallow gash on the swordarm of the knight.

"Your fourth mistake was making me angry enough to care about you." he said coldly. "And the more than two thousand gold dragons you have stolen from your father's estates when you were the caretaker for them." he said, low, but slow and well articulated so that everyone could hear it. The knight paled and winced as he parried a thrust and hit his swordarm in the same manner again. Then he suddently went on the offensive, using the dagger to move the knight's sword to the side and then whipping his sword over the swordarm of the knight several times, until blood was flowing and the weapon slipped out of the knight's hand as he grabbed his right arm with his left hand, trying futily to stem the pain and blood. He stepped forward and for the first time in the fight, he let one foot cross the other as he took a step forward and swung his right hand to use his basket-shaped swordhilt as brass knuckles, hitting the knight over the nose and upper teeth. A crunch of bone and teeth being broken could be heard, and the knight dropped to the ground, unconcious. He watched the man for a second or two, placing his blade over his chest, to a few gasps from the assembled guests behind him, some of which turned into laughs as he flicked the blade and removed another button, this time upwards so that he could catch it with his dagger hand.

He took out a handkerchief to wipe the blood of the blade and hilt of his light sword and turned around to bow to the Lord and his guests.

"My apologies, Lord Greenfield. I have evidence, of course, but I did not want to bring it to your attention in a public setting." he said, eying the guests. "He spent it mostly on gambling, but also whoring and drinking." he said, sheating his sword and dagger and nodding towards Lieutenant Clegane. "He was actually decent at cooking the books, but it was nothing I have not seen before."

The Lord was a picture of dissapointment and bad mood, scowling. "I apologise for my son, Equites Asimachos." the Lord said. "I had my suspicions, but did not want it to be true." the Lord looked up towards him. "I am grateful that you did not kill him."

"Don't thank me yet, Lord Greenfield." he answered with a grimace. "I have cut certain tendons and muscles in his arm. While he will heal, I doubt he will ever have the strength in his hand to wield a sword again."

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone, 294 AL.

Alexios.

"There are impressive women. But they are few and far apart. Most are worse than useless - counterproductive." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

The visit to the island fortress of Dragonstone had mostly been arranged by the Equites and the wife of Prince Stannis Baratheon, Selyse Baratheon née Florent, and the whole affair was mostly them cooing over the five-year old Shireen Baratheon and playing games with the tatooed madman fool called Patchface. The wife of the elder brother of the King was a dutiful woman, and it seemed like economy and other similar matters befell her, while the Prince commanded the royal fleet as Master of Ships. He was standing on top of one of the towers studying the fleet manouvre in the choppy waters below.

"You seem interested in our fleet." a voice called out behind him. He had heard the steps - normal ones, not skulking or forcefully marching, which had led him to believe there were little hostile intent. He turned around to meet the blue-eyed gaze of Prince Stannis himself.

"It is a well-drilled formation, Prince Stannis." he replied with a short, but not unpolite bow.

"Sycophants would say so." the Prince replied with a scowl, which seemed to be the only face he ever made, apart from his normal teeth-clenched, thin-lipped resoluteness.

"I am no sycophant." he replied, without cracking even a hint of a smile.

"So they say." the Prince replied and joined him watching a squadron of galleys form a battleline and then turning, in formation, forcing the outmost galleys to travel at the highest speed to keep formation.

"I can see why you could smash the Ironborn fleet. Formation warfare at sea brought more experienced but undisciplined raiders low." he said. The Prince raised an eyebrow but was silent for several seconds, seemingly waiting for more flatter. None was forthcoming, as he was studying the ships manouvre. After a while, the Prince seemed convinced that he was serious and not just a sycophant.

"The men did their duty." the Prince finally replied.

"And you did yours." he said, shrugged a bit and turned to walk down the tower as the Prince slowly and solemny nodded.

"I heard you watched the garrison drill yesterday." the Prince finally spoke.

"I did." he replied.

"I have also heard that you train men hard and well, with unorthodox methods." the Prince continued.

"Unorthodox to your standards, Prince Stannis." he replied with a nod. "Simply effective by mine."

The Prince nodded, again slowly and solemnly. "And what is your opinion on my men?"

He stopped, thought for a few seconds and then finally replied. "The best I have seen on this continent. They understand discipline and fighting in formation. They could use more stamina and training on how to disrupt enemy formations, but they got a good head start on most if not all so-called soldiers I have seen so far in these Seven Kingdoms." he replied.

Again, the Prince nodded slowly and solemnly. The Prince was a serious and dour man without much of charisma, but he was an accomplished commander both on sea and land, that much was evident. He knew the difference between enthusiasm and discipline, and which would win when food and fodder ran low, when weather soaked the backs of the men and the enemy was hounding you in a long and bleak retreat. Prince Stannis Baratheon was a man of his own mold, and had he not been a high-ranking man, he might have made a move. As with the King, the risk was a bit too high. This society was not as advanced when it came to understanding that a man would always be superior in satisfying another man compared to a woman, inherited in a better understanding of the male body and what made it tick.

He left the Prince on top of the tower after excusing himself with a short phrase and stepped down into the castle with the intention of finding the Equites and see if there was something for him to do. The idleness was wearing on him, and he could feel his mood worsening as he stepped by the multitude of useless dragon figures that had been built into walls, crenelations and defence works. Useless shit the lot of it.

Unfortunately, someone esle found him before he could find something to do.

"Captain Andreios!" came a invitingly soft call from deeper within one of the corridors. He stopped and bowed politerly, if not very deep.

"Priestess Melisandre of Asshai." he replied, but remained standing where he was, forcing her to come to him in the more well-lit corridor where he was standing. The red woman arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, but did join him.

"I have been meaning to speak to you, Captain." she said with a stunning smile filled with pearl-white teeth in straight rows.

"Very well." he replied, positioning himself at ease with his hands behind his back, as if he was awaiting instructions from a superior officer.

She looked a bit surprised. "Most men would appreciate my attention, you know." she said with another smile, and perhaps a hint of something suggestive in her tone.

"I suppose." he replied without pushing the issue further. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

She seemed to change her stance a bit and moved a bit closer, as if to pursue a more discrete conversation.

"I see things." she said and fized his gaze with her own.

"I assumeit is beyond what normal looking yields?" he said, confidently meeting her gaze without faltering.

"It is indeed. You are a perceptive man, Captain Andreios." she said, licking her lips and moving a further bit closer. He did not move at all. 'Perceptive?' Hah. Flattering, and not very good such either. He remained quiet, forcing her to press the issue after a few moments of silence.

"The Lord of Light have granted me the ability to see things in the fire." she said, her voice and tone adding a degree of mysticism and revelation to those words. She was good at that, he had to admit. She could probably be very convincing if she put her mind to it.

"And you need to speak to me about this?" he asked, perhaps with just a tiny hint of sarcasm. She seemed nonplussed by this, or brushed it aside.

"I have seen you in the fire. You carry a secret." she said, giving him a knowing nod, as if they shared this great secret and he could trust her.

"All men carry secrets." he replied, non-comittantly.

"The night is dark and full of terrors. You are dark and full of terrors. I have seen it. Tell me your secret." she said, in a manner that was a mix of begging, promising rewards and an order. She was very good at this, he noted.

"No." he replied.

"Yes." she said softly, almost whispering, leaning ever so close.

"No." he said. She raised her eyebrows a little and leaned even more closely. He could smell her perfume - a decent one, as far as I he would know (which was very little) and something else. Her skin smelled... invitingly. He had a hard time describing it.

"Yes." she said again, leaning in closer, placing her bosom not far from his face. "I would be... most grateful if you did... Captain." she said, with a voice thick of promises and innuendo. the very air smelled of it.

"You could make me grateful." he replied, his gaze still fixed to hers and not diverting down to the skin bared just below.

"How?" she whispered.

"You could get those lumps of lard out of my face." he said, acknowleding her ample and supple bosom for the first time in the conversation with a short nod.

She looked a mix between insulted and surprised. "You are making a mistake, Captain." she said, low, almost purring now.

"If I wanted soft lard and lack of hair, I'd go bugger the fat young son of a sweet baker." he said, low, almost growling, matching her tone but with more force.

"You are making a powerful enemy today, Captain." she said and straightened her back, adding a bit of distance between their faces again.

"No." he replied.

"What?" she said, with insulted taking predominance over surprised in her face.

"I said no. You are not powerful. You simply insert yourself among powerful men and have them do your bidding. With varying degree of success." he stated, dryli.

The priestess scowled at the insult and raised a hand. "You will tell me what I want to know, or you will face pain." she proclaimed. He simply scowled through thick and stiff scars, while she made a gesture, made it again, and a third time, more forcefully, the red gemstone in the necklace round her nack seemingly flashing, her face contorting in a mix of concentration and frustration, being replaced with despair and surprise.

"I guess we are done. My regards, Priestess Melisandre." he said, bowed stiffly and set off down the corridor, only to be stopped by her placing a hand on his large lamellar shoulder protection.

"What are you!?" she shrieked. He grabbed her wrist forcefully, to a pained yelp.

"Condottieri Captain Alexios Andreios. If you touch me again, I will knock you down." he let go of the arm and then started down the corridor again, with a shouted "You will tell me what you are!" to his back.

He suspected that they would leave sooner rather than later now. Good. The idleness was chafing and obviously wearing on his temper. He stopped, bowed towards a dark niche between two ridicolous dragon-shaped pillars and greeted. "Lady Selyse Baratheon." to a gasp from the darkness. Then he continued his march though the castle.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

The Neck, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Men of honour are almost as dangerous as men of ambition. You never know how far into the realm of suicidal stupidity their honour will push them - and who they will take with them.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

The trip through the Riverlands had generally been uneventful. Fertile lands criss-crossed by rivers and streams, nobility that generally took well to tax farming and were civilized enough to be able to discuss the matters of coin and profit without letting their worship of martial ability get in the way. The few times that happened, a quick duel - and the nobility of this whole realm were easy to provoke to fight without armour, shields or even secondary arms in the left hand, giving him an distinct advantage. Or the Captain sorted it out. He had met briefly with Lord Paramount Hoster Tully, a man marked by disease and his young son, Lord Edmure Tully. Both had been receptive to the idea of tax farming and banking in the Riverlands, the older man due to some research and the younger mostly following his fathers lead. He could see that the young man was not ready for the responsibility that was ahead of him, and that his father was too ill to prepare him for it. Very well, Kaisar had been thrust into responsibility and it had formed him into the duty-driven husk devoid of emotions beyond uncontrollable rage that he was, and it had worked out sort of okay, so he supposed that the Riverlands would too. If not, well, someone else would rule it. House Frey, or someone from a different Lord Paramountcy, or someone appointed by the King. Who knew? A land always had a ruler, even if it was down to the the next man down the road with a boarspear and the willingness to use it against his neighbours.

Travelling north from the Riverlands, they had entered a swampy area called 'the Neck', where the raised road of the Kingsroad was what you kept to, or you died. Supposedly.

"We are being watched." the Captain said, matter-of-factly as usual with him. He turned around on his horse, a meek and friendly mare that still gave his behind a good workout every day as they travelled at high speeds. He would never be a horseman, that was for sure.

"From where?" he said and peered out into the swampy forest. He saw trees, marshy ground, vines, waterlogged meadows and the odd pond of still, dark water.

"Mostly everywhere." the Captain replied. "They're locals, and very, very good. I don't think I have seen half of them. And I think they are using children and youngsters." the Captain frowned.

"Why would they do that?" he answered with a grimace. "Are the soldiers away, or dead in war? I have not heard of a war in these parts recently, and as far as I know, the Greyjoy rebellion cost the Royal Fleet and the Iron Islanders blood, but the levies provided by the North and the Riverlands were not that decimated."

The Captain was silent for a moment, his brown eyes sweeping over trees and bushes where he could see nothing, but the Captain seemed to see many things.

"I suppose they are playing. Or learning." he said after a while.

"Playing?" he exclaimed, trying to peer something out there in the sea of green and black.

"The Lords of the North know we are coming, on the invitation of Lord Paramount Stark himself. We are fifty Condottieri, you, me and two of your men. We're no threat. Not to these people." the Captain said, eying the edge of the forest again. "They are sending their children out to play and learn the way of the ambush. If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead already."

He nodded. He supposed it made sense, and the Condottieri marched on in formation, running at the pace of a slow trot for the horses he and his two servants rode.

It seemed like the Captain was right, after the next turn, they were met by a red-headed child in a green cloak standing proudly in the middle of the road. The whole caravan stopped as the Captain stepped forward.

"I am Captain Alexios Andreios, escorting Equites Lysander Asimachos to Winterfell, at the invitation of Lord Stark." the Captain announced with a short bow.

"I am Jojen Reed, son of Lord Howland Reed." the child replied with a smile. "And I have you surrounded by a hundred men!"

By those words, the Captain blew the whistle around his neck, a short, shrill tone and bellowed "TURTLE!"

the reaction was immediate - he and the two servants were yanked from their horses and thrown into the middle of the throng of Condottieri, who forced their pack horses to lie down and raised shields to provide both a roof and walls around them, like an armoured turtle.

"I can count about thirty." the Captain replied. "I suppose there are about twice as many - there's not enough room in trees and underbrush for more than that. If you have more than seventy, some are in reserve a bit off." the Captain said as the turtle kept moving forwards. To the left of them, he could hear a soft 'phhw' and he extended his hand and caught the small dart blown from a pipe from the air. The child looked like he was about to reply, when an older man seemingly materialised from thin air next to him.

"That will be enough, Jojen." the man said.

"But father..." the child said, but was silenced by a stern look from his parent.

"Captain Andreios. My compliments to the skill of your men in protecting themselves." the man said with a smile and a bow. Please excuse young Jojen. He still has much to learn. I am Lord Howland Reed, and we will make sure you get through the Neck unmolested."

The Captain smiled, something the scars turned into a scowl, unfortunately. "Training is always needed, Lord Reed." the Captain replied with an equal bow and then blew his whistle again. "MARCHING FORMATION!"

So he had a chance to mount his horse again, right his expensive silk tunic and try to re-capture some dignity as children and youngsters, at times with grown men behind them materialised from the forest to wave, laugh and cheer at the men they had been stalking.

He rode up to next to the Captain.

"So these are the Crannogmen?" he said.

"Yes. Always avoid fighting horse nomands in the steppe, highlanders in the mountains and people like these in forests and swamps." the Captain said. "If you can."

"I shall remember that, Captain." he replied with a wide smile as they set of norwards, returning to the path to Winterfell. He would have to make some inquiries to what can of trade could be made with these locals eventually.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Most men want to belong to something. If you can provide it, you can gain cheap loyalty.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Travelling through the North was... Interesting. This was a place that lacked seasons, replacing them with natural disasters. Even in the middle of the long summer, it experienced snow at times, although it rarely stayed, melting away within days or even hours as the sun climbed over the horison. The land was sparsely populated, despite being prime grazing land, at least in summer. You could see massive granaries dot the countryside, built of mud bricks mixed with hay, stone and lumber in several layers in order to keep grain, meat and turnips over the long winters. Huts to smoke or dry meat and fish were everywhere, as were barns to keep hay and other fodder for animals. Anyone with a sense of economics could see that the North suffered from its long winters. Now, in the middle of a long summer, it seemed rich and fertile, if not suitable for wheat, grape vines or peach orchards. Instead he could see hops, barley, rye and turnips as well as the odd crop called 'earth apples' or potatoes that the Captain had taken an immediate liking to the first time he tried it at the inn they had stayed at just after they had left the Neck. There were the odd orchard for hardy kinds of pears or apples, but no citruses like in Dorne and no stone fruits that were common in the Crownlands and the Reach. People kept goats and sheep as well  as hares and rabbits in large wooden cages. The countryside seemed to teeme with wild game. Deer, rabbits, wild boars, foxes, moose and reindeer could be spotted at several occassions, and during night the howl of wolves could be heard. He supposed that the wildlife did their best to increase their numbers during summer to die off to starvation and cold during winter. The more offspring you had, the higher the chance that some of yours survived the winter, he supposed. They passed a few trade caravans. Salt seemed to come north, with fur and leather coming south.

The Captain observed the same things, but had different conclusions, of course.

"They hunt with longbows." he commented after running past a pair of hunters with hares slung over their shoulders. "I'd suspect they field a decent muster of commoner longbowmen."

"Hunting would bring in food, I suppose." he replied.

The Captain grunted and continued his run. They did get stares and the odd comment about 'madmen' as the 50 heavily armoured Condottieri ran through villages and hamlets. The Captain had them running for 9 hours per day, in 3 hour segments with an hour of rest between and he and his servants had to keep four horses each to switch between in order to keep up. And these were hardy northern 'clippers' - small, ragged horses that did not look much for the world but had an absoluting amazing stamina, trotting for hours on end without tiring - if you switched regularly.

It was thus not long before the great castle of Winterfell came inte view. They ran up to the main gates, scattering a surprised flock of sheep that were crossing the road, with a diligent sheepdog doing his best to getting the flock back together again. The gates were open and two guards who had been at leisure were doing their best to look impressive while staring wide-eyed at the Condottieri, who stopped running and now marched - in pace - towards the gates, stopping well before them (inside crossbow and longbow range from the walls - they were here for peaceful reasons, after all) while he rode forwards, bowing in the saddle before the distraught guards.

"I am Equites Lysander Asimachos, here on invitation from Lord Paramount Stark." he said. The guards stared at each other, even more distraught.

"Get Master Cassel." one said to the other, who opened his mouth as if to protest - perhaps asking the other why he did not do it himself, before realising that this could reflect badly on House Stark - their guards bickering in front of important guests would not be seen with kind eyes, probably. So the man went, with a glare towards the other guard, and soon returned with a stout man with long white whiskers, someone who held himself like a soldier and man-at-arms.

"I am Rodrik Cassel, Master-at-Arms of Winterfell and sworn to House Stark." the man introduced himself with a short bow.

"I am Equites Lysander Asimachos, here on the invitation of Lord Paramount Stark." he repeated and turned to gesture towards the men behidn him. "And this is Captain Andreios, fifty of his Condottieri and two of my servants."

The white-whiskered man eyed the soldiers, not without a certain degree of interest. "I see. I was informed you would arrive, but in about two weeks or so." Master Cassel said. "Please enter the castle, I shall inform Lord Stark of your arrival."

And with that they marched - the Condottieri in perfect stepped pace - into the castle, passing the mostly empty Wintertown on the way until they passed through the gate through the curtain wall around the ancient keep of Winterfell itself. He could see faces in windows and arrow slits watching them and by the time they had reached the inner courtyard of the castle, they could see people scrambling to get a response in place. They had marched slowly and deliberately, to give their hosts time to prepare, and they did not have to wait more than a few minutes before the Stark family filed out to greet them.

Lord Paramount Eddard Stark himself, a man of slightly above average height and strong physique, a bit worn by duty but still moving and presenting himself with a regal air around himself. A man used to order and be obeyed, and carry that responsibility every day since he was very young. The man reminded him of Kaisar in many regards. Beside him the no longer young but still stunningly beautiful Lady Catelyn Stark, née Tully, carrying a small silver platter with bread and salt for the occasion. Then the young teenager heir of Winterfell, Robb Stark, carrying is mother's hair and eyes but his father's nose and chin, ten year old Sansa Stark, already showing evidence that she would take after her mother's looks one day, seven-year old Bran Stark, watching the Captain and his men intensively and little three-year old Rickon, wide-eyed and glacing between his mother's skirts (where he probably would love to hide) and the guests, still maintaining his place in the family. And then, running like a lighting bolt came eight-year old Arya stark, her father's colours and looks evident in a blur, taking her place breathign heavily, sent there by a glare from her mother and a quick eye-roll from her older sister.

And just a little bit off, not with the servants, but not with the family either, the also fourteen year old Jon Snow, looking the Stark in every way possible.

"Equites Asimachos. Welcome to Winterfell. We offer bread and salt to affirm guest rights, as is tradition." Lord Paramount Stark said with a welcoming smile, while his wife presented the small platter. He took bread, salted it and ate a piece. The visit to Winterfell had officially begun.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Never trust a Karastovlian bearing gifts. Nothing is ever given freely, there's always another motive.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

He had eaten the bread and salt and the Condottieri had saluted on the Captain's command, in unison, of course, a simple 'Hail Stark!' had been deemed enough. The northerners, from what he had read and inquired, were usually not big on flamboyant displays. But when they did happen, they were usually epic on a political scale. An interesting people, if somewhat simplistic.

"My gratitude for recieving me, Lord Stark." he said with a smile and bowed deeply and respectfully. "And for your invitation."

"It is our pleasure." the Lord replied with a faint smile. "We usually don't get many visitors from the south." Which would be why Lord Stark was intrigued enough to actually issue an invitation when he had started inquires.

"You may perhaps have heard of the tradition of our people to give gifts when they are invited somewhere?" he said with a smile. "May I?"

Lord Stark looked intrigued enough that he suspected he had not heard that before. But he nodded his approval, and one of the servants stepped forwards with several bundles in his arms. He took one of them, withdrew the purle-coloured cloth that covered and presented a book, a thick tome. "This is the treatsie of Jaros Banar the far-seeker of Braavos." he explained as he placed the book into the hands of the arguably confused Lord Paramount Stark. "He sailed all over northern Essos and travelled to Ibben and to the northern Dothraki Khalasars, documenting not only their culture, diet and ways of war, but also how they prepared for long winters." he smiled a bit as the face of the Lord showed the signs of sudden understanding. "Knowledge is never wasted, and after all, winter is coming." he said with a small bow.

"A valuable and well-thought gift, Equites Asimachos." the Lord said with a warm smile and opened the book to study a few lines on one of the first pages. He smiled and breathed a short sight of relief inwards. That could have gone wrong, some thinking it presemptious or an insult, suggesting that the north could not prepare for winter by itself. The rest of the family seemed to attemtp to crane their necks to see the book when he stepped up to the Lady wife of the Lord, closely followed by the servant. It was probably not until then that they realised that there would be more than one gift.

He bowed deeply, took the hand of the Lady and brought it to sig mouth, but an inch and a half of air was allowed to remain between lips and hand, as was proper. "Lady Stark, née Tully." he greeted with a broad smile. "I have heard rumours of your beauty, but I am afraid they cannot do you justice. I am speechless." which was a lie, of course. She was very beautiful despite having given birth to five children, but he was still smooth-talking like there was no tomorrow. It would take more than that to actually make him speechless. He took a small bundle from the servant and withdrew a small bottle of myrish glass, as clear as that of a spyglass. "Forgive me for this base gift, as it might be considered more to your lucky husband than to yourself, yet I hope that it shall please you."

The Lady understood, took the small bottle and pulled out the cork and took a little sniff. The pleasant smell of the perfume, a mix of citrus and roses spread slowly from the bottle and she arched an eyebrow at the pleasantness of it, and broke out in a wide smile. "Such a generous gift, Equites Asimachos. Thankyou." she said, obviously pleased. "It is a recipy from our homeland. It will remind you of summer even in the deepest of winter." he said, and continued down the line. Now the children were trying to figure out if they were getting gifts too, probably hoping for it.

"Heir Appearant Robb Stark." he greeted the boy, or young man - Robb seemed to be somewhere inbetween - and bowed, a gesture that the young man returned with a smile. A glance to his left seemed to indicate that the Lady approved of the title he used. "I have heard of your prowess with arms. They say you take after your father in that regard." he said with a smile, which the boy returned, happy at being complimented for his efforts. "A strong sword arm should always be accompanied by a sharp mind." he continued and took a bundle from the servant and introduced a small box of leather. He opened it, revealing pieces of bronze and silver. "I learned of this game from Essosi traders. It is called 'Cyvasse' and simulates the battlefield." The boy took the gift and extracted an elaboratedly crafted silver dragon and turned it over. "I'll be happy to teach you how to play when we have the time." he continued as the young man further studied the contents of the box, obviously intrigued.

And so he continued, and did the same with young Sansa as he did with her mother, a hand almost kissed. "Young Lady Sansa Stark." he greeted her, and received an almost perfect curtsy in return. "I can see you will take after your mother in both looks and manner. How nice to meet you." he said with a warm smile and took another bundle from the servant. He removed the cloth and showed a small wooden box, which he opened towards her. "They say you are already a skilled embroidered, Lady Sansa." he said with a smile. The box contained needles of the finest castle-forged steel, waved thread of gold and silver and a multitide of colours as well as several layers of handkerchiefs of the finest silk, dyed in various colours. The young Lady gasped and pressed the box to her chest. "Perhaps a Stark direwolf, for a handkerchief to one day give a young man as your favour in a tournament?" he said with a smile and a small wink towards the young girl. Silly stuff for hopeless romantics, but the gift and the comment seemed to be appreciated as the young girl blushed and curtsied. "Thankyou, Equites." she said, pronouncing it almost correctly. She had obviously trained. Was that so? He raised an eyebrow and gave her a smile.

Four more gifts to go.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Whenever you have the time, learn. of your enemies, friends, potential allies and others. People love to speak of themselves and a glass of wine and a friendly word will loosen tounges. Use the knowledge against them or with them. Most are amazed that someone care enough to actually learn about them.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Moving down the row, only pausing for the servant to fetch another bundle from one of the horses, he bowed to the dark-haired young Lady that was next in line, and recieved a short curtsy in return. The prospect of a gift was evidently enough even for young and strong-willed Arya to behave, he mused. "Lady Arya Stark." he said with a smile. "I have heard that you have more love for boys' games than for girls'." the yougn girl nodded, somewhat eagerly, as it seemed the whole family was watching this exchange. "In my home, it is rare for women to carry weapons." he could see a scowl on the young girl's face. "That is visible weapons." he continued, and withdrew the cloth over the gift ha had gotten from the servant. A leather harness adapted for a child, with half a dozen daggers attached. "These are Karastovlian throwing daggers that can be worn under a tunic or a dress, and placed so that one can always be easily accessed, regardless of your position." he withdrew a dagger and showed her. "Now, these are not sharpened." he could see a certain degree of dissapointment through the general glee on the young girl's face. "Now, don't fret. You are too young for sharp knives, and you will need to learn how to use them before you wield sharpened ones. If we meet again when you are older, I might gift you sharp ones. Or, when you have learned properly, and if your mother and father approves, you can probably have the smith sharpen yours." the young girl nodded with a smile, took the gift and immediately tried to strap the harness onto her torso, with limited success. He gave her a pat on the cheeck. "I can show you the basics later, young Lady." he said with a small laugh.

"Is that really proper for a Lady?" he heard Sansa say, looking it over. It seemed like the Lady wife of the Lord Paramount also was less than certain about this.

"Knowledge and ability is never wasted. Such tools are used by some high-born Ladies in the Empire of Karastovel."

"A proper Lady would be defended by a proper knight." the young Lady Sansa retorted. And earning her favour and perhaps a handkerchief embroidered with her house heraldry, she probably thought, the small wooden box still in her hands.

"In a perfect world, yes, Lady Sansa." he said. "Unfortunately, there are men out there that are not proper knights. The story of your aunt should probably tell you that." he said with a slight grimace. "A she-wolf should have some bite. If nothing else, the mere knowledge that she might, will keep young knights prim and proper." he added with a smile and glanced over to the parents. This was a bit of a wager, such a gift could easily be interpreted as an insult. However, a grim-faced Lord Paramount Stark seemed to nod, if not approvingly, at least not disapprovingly, while Lady Stark née Tully seemed to dislike the notion to teach her daughters that there were improper men in the world this early, but unwilling to insult a guest by ordering her children to reject gifts. For it would be hard to tell one of the children they could not keep a gift and let the others keep theirs. As there were no protests, he continued down the row again to young Bran, who seemed giddy with the prospects of a gift.

"Young Bran Stark." he said with a smile and a bow, which the seven-year-old returned. The Lord Paramount and his Lady wife knew how to raise corteous children, at least. Excellent. "I have heard you like climbing?" he said with an eyebrow slightly raised towards the child. "I do! I climb everything!" Bran replied entusiastically. He laughed a bit, and took a bundle from the servant and introduced a leather harness connected to a fine but strong, well-crafted hemp rope that ended in a little clasp connected to a string. "See this? This is what the men that polishes glass windows at the Grand Cathedral of Karastovel use when they climb. Connect the rope to a spike, a rope hung between two towers or something else, and you have something to catch you when you fall. And you can disconnect it with the thread..." he continued, before young Bran interrupted. "But I don't fall! I never fall!" the child claimed, almost insulted. He smiled and shook his head. "No-one does, until it happens. A frosty morning, a slippery stone, a rainy evening, a vine that does not quite hold. It can be quick. If it would happen, this will keep you safe. And using it..." he leaned in closer with a knowing glance towards the boy's parentsm, lowering his voice, almost whsipering and suddenly having a conspirational tone. "...will probably give your parents peace of mind enogh to let you continue to climb. We would not want them to forbid it, for real, do we?" he said and patted the child on the cheek. Bran seemed to consider it, and looked the harness over. Maybe, just maybe it was worth a try, if nothing else to end mother's constant nagging on the subject? He would not fall, but mother did not know that, and she kept nagging. "Thankyou, Equites." he said finally, thumbing the harness.

Speaking of the mother, she seemed to have forgotten to earlier gift to you Lady Arya and how improper it was, and seemed to beam with gratitude at this latest gift. That went decently well. If young Bran used the harness, all the better. But he could only try.

Continuing, he squatted down in front of the even younger Rickon, barely three years old. "Hi Rickon." he said with a smile, and the boy glanced over to his mother, probably wanting to hide behind her skirts, but remained and took a finger out of his mouth to reply. "Hi long man." he laughed at that and nodded. "I have a gift for you too." he said with a smile and took a bundle from the servant. "I heard you plan to be a great warrior when you grow up?" he said, eying the boy as if he wanted to know if that could really be true. "Yes!" the boy replied eagerly. "In my home, our knights use special weapons against the armour of other knights. They are called kataphraktoi in our language." he said. "Katafrakoi." the young Rickon echoed. "Just like that." he said with a smile and removed the cloth over a small flanged war mace made out of wood, painted so it looked very much like the real thing and decorated with leather-bound handle and brass rings. "This is a kataphrakt's mace." the child took the mace and with a squeal of delight he stared swinging wildly, forcing him to bid a hasty retreat. "Careful now, we don't want any heads bashed in pre-maturely, great little warrior!" he said with a laugh, and the young child calmed down, at least a bit. "Thankyou!" the child said, as he continued onward to the last recipent of a gift today, a dour-faced bastard, who seemed surprised that he stopped in front of him as well.

"Jon Snow." he greeted with a bow, which the young man who carried his fathers colours and looks returned with one of his own. "Equites Asimachos." Jon replied. "I must congratulate you on your luck." he said with a smile.

"My luck?" the young bastard replied, obviously conufused. "I don't think I understand."

"You are the freest of men." he replied.

"Freest?" Jon still looked surprised.

"The younger son of high nobility. No duties or responsibilities that you do not wish to take upon yourself. Free to marry for love rather than duty. Free to serve yoruself or others as you please." he said. "Many would envy you this."

The young man seemed confused, a look that slowly turned into understanding, and then brooding and deep thinking. He smiled faintly in the midst of his grim and brooding Stark look. "I like that term, 'younger son'. Is that what we are called in your home?" the bastard asked.

"It is a direct translation." he returned with a smile. "Free men among our people all have something to show that they are free." with that he took the last bundle from the servant and withdrew the cloth. A shortsword, with the scabbard bound to the scabbard of a dagger, looking very similar to the side armament of the Captain and his Condottieri. "A free man carries a sword, to defend himself and those that he chooses worthy of his efforts, to signify that he is free and not a slave, to fight for his freedom should it be necessary." the young man took the sword and dagger, pulling the sword, making almost no sound as it was pulled from its leather scabbard. The polished and pale blade was of the finest castle-forged steel that could be had. It was shorter than he was used to. But it was also his, and his only. A sword for a free man. He smiled a bit. "Thankyou, Equites. I shall treasure your gift. Does it have a name?"

He shook his head "Swords do not carry names where I come from."

"Why not?" the basard asked, a bit taken back.

"Swords are tools. The free man wielding it has a name and a personality, the sword does not."

It seemed like the young man thought it over, and nodded. He probably gave it a name himself.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Limit the lies you tell. After a while it gets hard to remember what you said to whom. If you do lie, keep it simple and close to the truth.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

He sat in a chair in Lord Paramount Eddard Stark's solar, nursing a glass of excellent wine and listened to the household rush about behind the door. It was not quite at the level of panic, but not far behind either. Everyone can make plans and follow them, it is when the unexpected happen that the well-organised players emerged, thinking and working on their feet while the less skilled were left behind. That could be said for everyone, freom the highest ruler to the lowliest serf.

The door opened, and Lord Paramount Stark emerged, closing the door behind him, firmly ending the sound of a household on the verge of becoming a bunch of headless chickens. "My apologies, Equites." the Lord Paramount said with a hint of a smile.

"Oh, I know how busy a household can be." he replied with a broad smile and took a sip of the wine. It seemed like the Stark household had not expected them for another four to seven days, and the feast that was supposed to happen had not been properly prepared. Certain dishes took time to prepare, and now Lady Catelyn Stark née Tully was throwing the entire household upside down in order to throw something at least closely resembling a proper feast together. And when she wanted to raid stores intended for sieges or winter, Lord Paramount Stark's authority was required to ensure that she got what she wanted. It was interesting to watch, really, even if he was mostly locked up in Lord Paramount Stark's solar and saw little of it. At least there was plenty of wine.

"Your lovely wife seem determined to make a feast happen tonight." he continued, sipping further on the wine. The Lord Paramount smiled.

"She will not have it any other way." the Lord Paramount replied.

"I understand. I tried to assure her that a simple dinner was enough for tonight. After all, we did arrive sooner than expected." he said and shrugged a bit. "I suppose she sees it as a challenge to her position as your Lady wife and is determined to rise to meet it." he raised his glass towards the Lord Paramount. "To your lovely and determined wife, Lord Paramount Stark." he said.

The Lord Paramount raised his own glass with a chuckle. "We've talked about the old Stark kings, about Robert's rebellion, about the North and the old legends. I feel it is my turn to ask for stories." the Lord Paramount said.

"I am at your service, Lord Paramount Stark." he replied with a wide smile.

"So, tell me about your home, Equites Asimachos. I am sure many have been curious." the man said, leaning back in his chair.

"Actually, few have. Most worry about their own problems and those of their loved ones." and their ambitions, of course. He nodded, but the Lord Paramount remained silent, a clear cue for him to continue.

"Karastovel is an ancient realm. Not quite as old as your domains, Lord Paramount Stark, but not far behind." he said. The Lord Paramount nodded, still silent.

"About three thousand years ago, when our ancestors had barely learned to forge bronze, one of the semi-nomadic tribes settled down on a rocky peninsula next to a large river, built a village and named it after themselves. They called it Karastovel." he took a sip of wine and noted that the door had been cracked open a bit. Three faces were doing their best to snoop and not be noticed. Not very well, but it was not his place to discipline the children of the Lord Paramount. So he continued.

"Forming a republic lead by an assembly of prominent citizens, the Senathos that in times of need elected a Supreme leader, a Thyrannos, Karastovel thrived. It was ruled not unlike Braavos, I understand." he said, took a sip of wine and continued. "There were plenty of fish, fertile arable land, grazing land for cattle and sheep as well as sweetwater pearls in the river. Our ancestor grew prosperous, and traded far and wide. And with wealth comes ambition. Armed with bronze weaponry and armoured with cuirasses of pressed layers of linen, fighting in closed ranks, we conquered west, north and south. The tribes of Massenia, Moraos, Thanos, Nicoros, Kappodios, Komnos, Bourenia and many others fell under our domination." he raised his gaze to meet that of the Lord Paramount and glanced towards the faces in the crack of the door. The short smile and nod from the Lord Paramount told him that he was aware of the children, and allowed it to continue.

"To our shame, I must admit that in those days, we enslaved our tribal cousins, forcing them to languish in serving us, driven by the whip and the fear of worse punishment." he shook his head and took a sip of wine.

"Still, we won our laurels with glory in combat, superior to the semi-nomads in their hill forts, immune to their arrows and sling-stones in our bronze and linen armour. But an oligarchy, a republic is a fine way to rule a city or a tribe. It is ill-suited for an Empire. The need for slaves drove us to ever new conquests, enriching the city and its citizens, lkeading to a fall in morals, in diligence and in honour." he grimaced as the Lord Paramount and their three evesdroppers listened without comment.

"Despite our efforts, the steppe nomads of the vast plains to the southwest eluded us, and the Mothrog nomads in the mountains to the far north defeated any attempt to bring them under our rule. As did the desert dwellers of the cracked desert to the north of that. A time came when the wealth and degeneration of the now great city of Karastovel was so great that any slave seeing it could not avoid the burning rage in his heart over such injustice, that fat and lazy degenerates enjoyed such luxury while he suffered the whip and ate hard bread flavoured with his own sweat. Only one in fifty men were a citizen, and there were ten slaves to every free man." he shook his head again.

"You understand of course where this is heading?" he added with a smile and the Lord Parmount nodded.

"Fifteen hundred years ago, when the army was defeated in a battle against the steppe nomads, the whole domain rose in revolt. Slaves rose against their masters, lesser houses against great, free men against citizens and blood was spilled so heavily that it is said that the great river of Karastovel was black with the floating corpses drifting downstream and that its water was read from blood for two whole years." he shivered a bit at the grim tale, but continued, sipping on the wine and pausing only to accept the Lord Parmount's offer to refill the glass. "A great plague, the result of the destruction of the great aqueduct, the many unburied corpses and the collapse of the sewers with no slaves to maintain them, ravaged the land and especially the grand city of Karastovel." he continued, sipping on the recently refilled wine.

"It was then that Strategos Theodoros, commander of the left wing of the army and the only one who had managed to keep some of his forces intact after the disaster against the steppe nomads took charge." he said. "His origins have been lost to the passage of time, but legends have that he was a freed slave that took the silver stavraton to become a soldier and rose through the ranks until he commanded the left wing of the army - the less prestigous part of the army. The elite was always on the right." The Lord Parmount nodded and then turned to the door.

"Jon, Robb, Arya. You are not as sneaky as you think you are. If you want to listen to the story, get in and close the door behind you. You are being in the way of the servants." he said, sternly, but still smiling. Sheepishly, the three slinked in and closed the door behind them, a shade of pink evident on all six cheeks. He smiled and nodded, greeting each of them in turn. The children sat down on a bench, eerily quiet for a bunch that were normally so rowdy.

"Sorry for the interruption, Equites. Please continue." the Lord Paramount said with a smile and leaned back in his chair again.

"Ah, yes." he replied, taking a sip of wine. "What we do know of Strategos Theodoros is that he was a harsh but fair leader, but also that he was plagued by bouts of headache, visions and heard voices." he laughed. "In modern terms, he was a madman. He claimed to be chosen by the Sebastokrator, the Diety of our faith, and proclaimed himself Imperator, above all men." he smiled widely and took another sip of wine. "It was a sad testament of the time and the dire situation our desperate people were in that people flocked to his banners. He abolished slavery, declared that all men are born equal and that one of each generation would be chosen by the Sebastokrator to lead us." he shrugged. "Yet, wherever he went, he restored order and ended strife. Who cares if a man is mad, as long as he is just?"

The Lord Paramount seemed a bit taken back by that comment. He took a sip out of his own glass of wine, seemed to ponder it. "I suppose you are right, Equites." he said.

He nodded with a smile. "Imperator Theodoros married a widow of a prominent citizen, declared that all citizens were now nobility - Equites, which had meant 'equal' now meant 'baron' and all men became homonoi, 'of equal worth'. His wife was too old to bear him children, so he adopted one of his Lieutenants and named him Kaisar, hier to the throne..." he was interrupted by shouts and the sound of weapons banging on shields and armour from the courtyard. With a furrowed brow, the Lord Paramount stepped up to the open window to look down on the courtyard, with his children close behind.

Was Captain Andreios up to something?

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"There is no such thing as 'dirty tricks' in war." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

While the Equites had gone with the Lord Paramount to his solar to discuss things over a glass of wine, he had remained in the court yard, admiring the formidable defences of this castle. Compared to the ones he had seen in the south, this one was built more for actual defence rather than to impress, it seemed to him. The Stark Kings and Lord Parmounts seemed to have prioritised defence and size over impressiveness. While there were wolf banners flying in many places, the number of wolven statues were very low, especially compared to Dragonstone, which was an orgie in usueless decorations. The northmen seemed to be more pragmatic than their southron brethren, and he found himself more at home here.

The Condottieri remained in formation as the Stark household exploded like a kicked over beehive. He studied Lady Catelyn Stark née Tullly stand like a red-headed eye of the storm and the Household desperatly running around her. It was obvious she did not hold the household with a military discipline, but it was equally obvious that she held great respect and that she knew what needed to be done. Organised chaos. Interesting. His attention was turned away as the white-whiskered Master of Arms aproached, eying the lines of Codottieri.

"Captain Andreios." the man greeted with a bow.

"Ser Cassel." he returned the greeting with a short and military, but not uncorteous bow^.

"You have a fine force." the Master at Arms said, eying the two ranks of Condottieri in their well-polished armour. "I have not seen this type of armour before. What is it called?"

"Thankyou, Ser Cassel." he replied. "It is called lamellar. It is not quite as good as plate in combat, but far cheaper, can easily be repaired or modified in the field."

"It looks like small steel plates sewn together with leather straps." the Master at Arms said after inspecting the chest of a Condottieri more closely. "I have heard of the Wildlings beyond the wall using this type of armour, but made from bone, wood or leather." he seemed a bit suspcious. "Can it really protect as well as a riveted chainmail?"

"Certainly." he replied. "Condottieri, attention!" the man in front of them immediately stood at attention, as the Captain pulled the shortsword from the belt of the man. "Good steel forged at the Street of Steel in King's Landing, well sharpened." he leaned the sword toweards the Master at Arms, who touched the sharp point and nodded.

With a fluid movement, he took the sword in a firm grip, placing his second hand behind the hilt for extra strength and shoved it right at the mid-section of the man in front of them, to a gasp from the Master at Arms. He had used most of his significant strength, and an "Ouff!" came from the Condottieri as the man lost a signicant bit of air and was forced to take half a step back, which the man behind him immediately countered by grabbing his chestbelt. He continued to push with the sword, until it slid off with a rattling against the lamelles. He gave the sword back to the Condottieri, who sheated it silently. Then he pointed towards the plate which had bent a bit under the strain.

"See, Ser Cassel? It holds well." the white-whiskered man inspected the slightly bent but not penetrated plate. "Interesting." the Master at Arms exclaimeed.

"Condottieri, repair your armour." he ordered, and the man immediately went for one of he horses, bringing a pouch of new plates. He quickly undid the large lamellar shoulder protections and then removed the cuirass, unstrapping the leather as he went. Several dozen plates rained down until he got to the bent one, which was tossed aside and the armour then reconstructed with a new plate, while he stood over the man with a small hourglass. Soon the man had re-built the armour and strapped it to himeslf again.

"Just below six minutes. Well done, Condottieri. One extra fifth of pay this week." he nodded to the man, who smiled broadly at the praise and the prospect of extra silver.

The Master at Arms stroked one of his white whiskers. "Armour is good and well, and so is being quick at repairing it. But it is ability in combat that wins battles." the man claimed.

He laughed, a short and ratchy sound. "Tell me, Ser Cassel. Do your men train in formation warfare much?" he said, meeting the gaze of the older man. "The levy train with sprear and axe or sword." the man said.

"Very well. How about a test?" he said with an almost predatory smile that not even the stiff scars that disfigured his face could make any worse. "Pick forty of your best men. I will field them against twenty of mine."

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Man to man skill may win. Formation to formation, discipline, drill and stamina does." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

With Westeros being such a martial society, even the more pragmatic North, the challenge could not go unanswered, even if his smile had unsettled the Master at Arms a bit. The man acted quickly, called one of the soldier's of Winterfell's garrison and blurted out a list of men for him to fetch. The best forty Winterfell could muster, he was certain. He nodded towards the Master at Arms and walked over to his Condottieri.

"First rank, one step forward." he eas immediately obeyed. And in pace as well. Excellent.

"We will do a mock battle to show Lord Paramount Stark's men how Condottieri handle battle." he said with a smile, that several of the men returned. All seemed predatory. "Wooden swords, no daggers and cover the blades of your swordspears." he ordered. Sword were laid aside, wooden training swords from the packs taking their place. Leather scabbars were put on the swordspear blades.

"Two ranks deep. You know the drill." he said and the Condottieri immediately formed up, the front ten men with heavy oval shields painted in upside-pointing alternate chevrons of white and light blue and wooden shortswords, the rear rank with swordspears with the scabbards on. All men wore a lamellar cuirass with large lamellar shoulder armour, lamellar upper arm armour, banded armour running in long, thin bands of steel from elbow to the wrist as braces with riveted chainmail at the joints. Plated riveted armourer fastened on leather gloves protected their hands almost as well as plate gauntlets. Large lamellar tasset guards fastened to the cuirass with hinges to improve mobility protected the upper parts of the legs, with short pants of riveted chainmail under them and steel greavas upon thick leather boots with soles and shoes strengthened with steel protected the lower part of every Condottieri's body. Like with the arms, the joints were protected by riveted chainmail. Under the armour, each man wore a gambeson of thick quilted wool cloth and shortpants of the same material. Upon his head, a high conical helmet with nose and chin guards, with a strong neck guard which like the brim of the helmet extended outwards to deflect any blow that came from above away from the shoulders and the weakspot between the shoulder guard and the neck. Under the helmet, a coif of riveted chainmail and a hood of quilted wool. Each man also fastened a veil of riveted chainmail, baring only his eyes for his opponents to see. The armour, if of the thicker sort like the infantrymen wore, usually weighed about 30-50 pounds, depending on the size of the man.

After a while, Winterfell's best lined up to face them. He could see there were veteran soldiers among them, placed in the centre, and younger, less experienced, but quicker and more fit men with better stamina on the flanks. Most likely, the Master at Arms intended to use his superior numbers to flank the Condottieri and roll up their short line, winning quickly. A sensible tactic, given the circumstances. The Stark men wielded large round shields, most likely wooden with iron trimmings, painted with the sigil of House Stark, the grey head of a Direwold on a white and green field laid with the white field above the green. The men wore tabards with the same sigil and looked soldierly and proper. But it was not the style of dress that interested him, but rather how the men kept,and what they wore beneath those cloaks. Coat of plates, most likely. Tough armour, not terribly cheap, but much cheaper than plate. The best armour a footman could hope wearing in these Seven Kingdoms, he supposed. Bowl-shaped steel shoulder armour, banded upper arm armour and steel-reinforced hard leather braces. Thick leather gauntlets on their hands and tassets of riveted chainmail or studded leather. Good, thick leather boots on top of that. Good steel hats with nose guards, brimmed so that no blow could really get from straight above to the weak area between the neck and the shoulder. Good equipment, overall. It was obvious the Starks cared for their Household men.

The men carried themselves with confidence and wielded swords, axes and maces and looked like they knew how to use them and use them well. The Master at Arms lined up his forty men in two ranks of fifteen and one rear rank of ten and then joined him standing aside.

"Ready when you and your men are, Captain." the Master at Arns said with a short bow. He replied with a bow of his own and took up the wooden whistle he wore in a string around his neck and blew it, producing a shrill sound.

"Checkered, advance, shortstep." he bellowed, his deep baryton carrying far and wide and causing a large subset of birds to lift from the broken tower and take to the air and a small figure climbing the same small tower, wearing a newly acquired harness, to turn around to look at the commotion.

The Condottieri obeyed, the rear rank shifting slightly to the right so that each man stood behind the shoulders of the two men in front of him, brandishing his swordspear over their shoulders, between their heads. The formation was tight, shield edge to shield edge and there weren room for the spears between the shields. With short steps, not setting one foot in front of the other, in pace and stamping their feet at each step, the Condottieri advanced slowly, making a sound that belonged to a much larger force.

"Alright lads, brace, then flank!" the Master at Arms cried out, his voice alo carrying far and wide, if not quite as deep as his own.

The two lines met, the Stark men bashing Condottieri shields with mace, sword and axe, looking for an opening, while the rear rank split in two and strarted down the line to flank the Condottieri. The Condottieri wooden shortswords were kept behind their shields as they advanced slightly crouching behind their heavu shields, soon locking shield to shield, with swordspears poking at the Stark shields from above, making the Stark men raise their shields. Suddenly several swordspears protrouded from below the Condottieri's shields, with long s-shaped guards held vertically. They were extended and then turned so the guards were horisontal, and yanked back, taking Stark men by surprise as his knee was yanked out from under him, often dropping him to his arse or even his back. Those that were not quick enough to wiggle away backwards found themselves being stabbed in their unprotected tighs by wooden shortswords and the Condottieri of the front rank crouched down, raised his shield above his head and quickly made a few stabbing motions and then returned to his previous position. The small battlefield was now a cacaphony of sound, of Stark men yelling war cries and bashing shields, frustrated at their inability to get at their opponents and use their skill with blade, axe or mace. The Condottieri were still deathly quiet. Only laboured breathing and the odd grunt could be heard behind the veils of riveted chainmail.

He blew his whistle. "Deny flanks!" he bellowed above the sound of the mock battle. "Continue advance!" Orders were short, in single words only to be easier to understand over the sound of battle. The Condittieri on the flanks started advancing slower, making the line become a V-shaped formation as the Stark men tried to flank, forcing them to move further and further until they could not actually get at the flanks of the Condottieri. In the meantime, the Stark men at the centre wisened up and were not as easily fooled by the swordspears yanking them to the ground and started trying to use their axe heads to yank the shields from their opponents, or at least create an opening or dsirupt the Condottieri formation. At least one Condottieri was hit hard on the chin by a mace after having his shield yanked aside and was out, but generally the rear rank held on to the breastbelt of the front tank, keeping them stable, and the front rank kept their shields close to their chests, forcing the Stark men to move two heavily armoured men to disrupt the Condottieri line, which was hard to do with a one-handed weapon.

He blew his whistle again. "Center push!" he bellowed and he could see the Master at Arms furrowed brow. "Hold, brace!" the man yelled, but the Condottieri had trained for this countless times, and they pushed the Stark men backwards until several of them fell over, unable to keep their balance. They were quickly dealt with the same way the men finding themelves on their arse from the swordspears yanking their knees from under them. Soon the Stark line split in two, with the men disorganised. Now the swordspearmen left the rear rank to flank the two stark lines in an ironic reversal. The two Stark lines were too disorganised despite the Master at Arms yelling for them to get in lines again and to move men from the rear rank to the flank and could not react properly. Stark men were knocked on their arses, had to fight both frontally and to their flank and suffered stabs from the sheated swordspears to their sides, and soon only half a dozen or so men were retreating, unwilling to continue to fight a fight they no longer had any hope of winning.

He blew his whistle. "Cease!" he bellowed, and with that the short mock battle was over, a scarce few minutes after it had began.

"By the Gods new and old!" the Master at Arms ghasped as the Stark men, some of them groaning from hard hits by hard wooden swords or leathersheated swordspear blades on the softer parts of their bodies, were helped on their feet by grinning Condottieri who had by know loosened one fixture of the riveted chainmail, baring their faces.

"There's nothing otherwordly about this, Ser Cassel." he replied with a short bow and a wide, victorious grin that not even the stiff scars that crippled his ability to produce all facial expressions could mar completely. "Your men are skilled, well equipped, brave, strong and loyal. But it seems like they have not trained in line and formation warfare like we do in the Empire of Karastovel." he nodded towards the crest-fallen Master at Arms. "Should you wish, I could give you a few pointers."

The white-whiskered man's expression changed from that of shock, to that of rage, clenching his teeth. But then he evidently remembered his duty and swallowed his pride and became a picture of determination instead. "I would be... most grateful for that, Captain Andreios." he said between gnashed teeth.

Northerners were more pragmatic it seemed. At least this Ser Cassel could see the use and instead of yelling about cheating or dirty tricks, he took the offer.

High above, at the window to Lord Paramount Stark's solar, there were three faces with mouths wide agape in shock and one furrowed brow belonging to the Lord Paramount himself, with the Equites, looking like this was a completely normal thing.

"How did he do that?" Robb exclaimed.

"You'll have to ask the Captain. He's the soldierly of the two of us." the Equites replied with a smile.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Learn how to tickle someone's imagination, and use it. ” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

He took a few questions more about the fight they had just watched in the courtyard, but mostly deflected them towards the Captain - he could have answered a few of them, but it was better if the Captain, who knew more of such matters, did it.

The children seemed to be eager to rush out of the room and get down to the courtyard to pelt the Captain with questions, but a serious look from the Lord Paramount could evidently say more than 'You wanted to hear this, then you hear it out'. It struck him that the Lord Paramount took time and effort to be a good father to his children. An admirable trait.

"Please continue, Equites ." the Lord Paramount said. He sipped his wine and did as requested.

"We became an Empire, with the administration that was required. While the Emperor was clearly mad, he was also wise, and just. And for a long time the tradition of adopting a deserving General, Diplomat, nobleman or Civil Servant as Kaisar secured a line of competent and well-meaning rulers. However, as anyone who has studied his history knows, success breeds contemplacy and contemplacy breeds corruption." he grimaced. Again we became rich, corrupt and disregarded virtues as folly.

He took a sip of wine and watched the faces of the man and children in front of him before he continued.

"From the nobility arose great Houses, Princes in their own regard, that jockeyed for the power of the throne, wishing to limit it within their own family. Some supported weak Emperors, as it laid less hindrance for their own political and economical ambitions, others hired assassins to remove strong Emperors to clear the path for themselves or their allies..."

"Assassins?" said the Lord Paramount with a furrowed brow.

"Yes, unfortunately, assassinations are common among our people. So common that they are at times considered a normal continuation of political disagreement or economical struggle." he guffawed at that. "You might find it intriguing, or ghastly, that the assassins are organised in a guild..." his gaze went from the Lord Paramount over to his two sons and then to his young daughter. "...and that it is almost entirely made up of young noble ladies."

"What?" said the Lord Paramount in obvious surprise.

"Oh, it is kept a secret, of course." he said and sipped his wine. "No-one would ever admit to being an assassin, but there's really no-one but a young lady of proper upbringing that can do it." he said with a wide smile.

"But why ?" the Lord Paramount blurted out.

"Oh, no-one else has the time , Lord Paramount Stark." he said and sipped the wine again. "Imagine young Arya here..." he made a gesture towards the young girl sitting and listening intensively. "...with a family a bit less caring and forgiving than your own. She'd be sitting with her needlework, and probably chafing." he blinked with one eye towards the girl, who had to contain a giggle. Spot on. "And an old distant aunt or wife of an elder cousin mentions there's another way. Give some coin to a seamstress to make some needlework for her, and go to a rigorous and intensive secret training program. And make some serious gold on the side that her father or future husband does not know about."

"It seems... Strange and foreign." the Lord Paramount said.

"Of course. It is heavily frowned upon. At the same time, it stayed the hand of many a noble man." he continued.

"How so?"

"Well, a man can never know for certain. Our ladies are like yours, beholden to their fathers and then to their husbands. Dowries given are taken by the husband, and he can send a young lady's trusted servants away, leaving her all alone and at his mercy. Of course no proper gentleman would do this. But we know that unfortunately not all knights are knightly and not all men are honourable. The mere possibility that his lady wife, or one of her close confidants or relatives could be an assassin is enough to stay the hand of many a rough fellow." he said and sipped his wine. The room was deathly quiet for a while, before the grim-faced Lord paramount suddenly burst out laughing.

"That would indeed put the fear of the Gods, new and old into some men I know..."

"Are there female warriors among your kind too, Equites ?" asked Arya, taking the opportunity.

"A scant few. But our older legends tell stories of them. Amazones , they were called, and they were as ferocious as they were skilled..." he was interrupted by a knock on the door. A servant popped his head in, bowed respectfully and said, to the Lord Paramount. "My apologies for interrupting, milord. Your lady wife wishes you to know that the feast is due in an hour, and that the guests should be given a chance to wash and change clothes."

The Lord Paramount thanked them man and then ushered his children from their seats.

"You heard the man. That goes for you too."

"But I want to hear more of amazones!" Ayra complained.

"You can ask more questions during dinner, or tomorrow." the Lord Paramount said sternly and ushered a pouting Arya out the door.

"We will see you for the feast I hope, Equites ?" the Lord Paramount said with a smile.

"Of course." he bowed deeply and politely, drained his wine goblet and then strode down to his room offered by the hospitable Starks to wash up and change.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John .

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Love? A fleeting emotion, usually just mutual lust disguised as affection.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

He had dressed in a spectacular deep black silk doublet with silver trimmings and a double row of silver buttons, a lace scarf as white as snow and a beret of the darkest black crushed velvet decorated with feathers from rare white eagles. Trousers as tight as any, pearl grey with mother of pearl decorations and long-shafted polished black boots completed the outfit. A sword belt of black oiled leather hung over his shoulder, keeping the long, thin sword and the accompanying dagger in place. For the event, he used a copy of his original sword with a basket hilt of silver instead of bronze. He smelled slightly of expensive perfumes and the scented oil which he had done his hair with. Perfectly shaved, with the moustache and beard trimmed to perfection, he had watched himself in the polished tin mirror of his quarters, pleased with how he looked. He was such a dandy, and finally he had the gold to live up to it.

A servant politely knocked on the door, bringing his attention to the feast, and he accompanied the man to the great feast hall of Winterfell.

House Stark had done wonders to make it festive, but you could tell that he and his followers (which were, to be honest, mostly Condottieri), together with the Stark Household and some of their more trusted and loyal servants and Household Guards were a pittance to this great hall. The castle of Winterfell was huge, and the feasting hall probably designed to be able to host all the Lords of the North and their retinues should the Starks call them here. The stone floor, tiled with mosaics displaying Stark deeds of old had been swept and scrubbed and rush mats had been replaced with deeply coloured Myrish carpets, out for the occasion and probably rolled up and stored with strong herbs to keep bugs away normally. Tapestries and elaborate wooden carvings, some of ironwood and wierwood covered the walls, depicting godswoods, old legendary deeds or Stark family trees. Open hearths spread the warmth and light of leaf firewood with no crackling of cone-bearing firewood.

Overall, while almost empty, the great hall smelled or resin-based incense, hot food, rush and herbs, bathed in a welcoming yellow-orange light from the open hearths and many wax candles, also out for the occasion. Overall, it felt warm and inviting. The Captain and his Condottieri were already there, dressed in white silk shortpants and shirts and red silk cloaks. They all wore a lamellar cuirass, polished until it shone like the moon itself, but no shoulder protections. Shortsword and dagger were at their sides, as always. The hall had one great table placed next to the gable wall, on a raised platform. The seat of honour, for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, their immediate family and honoured guests. Set with the short gable towards the table of honour were rows after rows of tables for the lesser guests, with the more honoured positions being closer to the table of honour, of course.

The servant guided him to a seat of honour at the main table where the Stark family sat themselves, together with the already arrived Captain. He greeted them politely in turn according to rank, stepping down from the raised table to greet the young Jon Snow and the Master at Arms, Ser Cassel, at one of the best positions of the lesser tables before stepping back to the table of honour. Lord Paramount Stark seemed intrigued by the gesture, while his Lady wife hid a scowl well.

"You and your men come armed, Equites?" the Lord Paramount said, gazing out over the seated Condottieri. It could be interpreted as an insult ot the Stark's hospitality and their ability to keep guest rights,

"Ah, my apologies." he said with a hopefully disarming smile. "It is the right and duty of every free man to carry a sword where we come from. One is usually given to a man when he comes of age and it will be the last possession a man will separate himself from. It is a matter of great pride to always wear yours." he explained.

"I see." the Lord Paramount said. "We hold guest rights with great pride, Equites. But as you are not wearing them for protection, I don't see any insult to the honour of House Stark." the man continued, and flashed him a smile in return and bit him to sit.

With that, the feast began. The wine was excellent, as was the food. The conversation as light-hearted and merry. They talked about old Stark Kings, about the excellent food and wine, about the mead that was made locally, about the economics of the north, with him hinting at the idea of tax farming and banking, with the Lord Paramount deflecting those for a later conversation, perhaps one where his seneschal and maester was not sitting at the next table - the Lord Paramount probably wanted them either further away or closer. He guessed the second.

"Can't you tell us of your Kaisar, Equites?" Sansa asked. He had his goblet refilled with wine and took a sip. "Certainly, young Lady Sansa." he replied with a smile. What would you like to know?"

"Is he a man of honour? Of knightly values?" she asked.

He mulled over the question for a bit.

"Kaisar is an honourable man, but in a peculiar way." he said.

"How so?" she asked, clearly intrigued.

"Well, he usually asks this question: If an evil man does good, is it good?" Sansa looked confused. "I am not sure I understand..." she said.

"Well..." he began, stopped himself, and thought it over before continuing. "Imagine a cruel, dishonourable man. Someone who renegades his promises, who robs his smallfolk, who attacks the weak and uses guest rights to ambush and execute his peers." he met the gaze of the young Lady. "Now imagine that he, in order to get in the good graces of a young noble Lady he wishes to court, feeds and clothes the orphans of King's Landing. Is he still an evil man?"

"Yes!" she said, maybe a bit too quickly to be entirely Lady-like. So there was some passion to the young Lady?

"Is the act of feeding and clothing the peasants evil?" he continued.

"Yes... I mean, no. But he is still evil!" she said, furrowing a pale little brow.

"Indeed. Would you say that violating guest rights to save thousands of lives is honourable?" he continued to press.

"I... No. It is not." she said after pondering for a short time.

"Indeed. So the ends do not justify the means?"

"They do not." she replied, after a shorter time of thinking about it this time. It seemed once she had kicked all those gears up, they spinned just fine. Fascinating young girl, this.

"Kaisar believes so as well. But he also believes that if the ends do not justify the means, they cannot soil them either. A good act done for selfish or dishonourable reasons is still a good act. And he tries to hold himself to that."

"That... Is an interesting take on honour, Equites." the Lord Paramount interjected while nursing his own goblet of wine. "But I suppose not too bad." the man continued.

"Tell me, Equites, how are bastards viewed in your Empire?" the Lady wife of the Lord Paramount asked, seemingly innocently.

Oh boy. He quickly glanced over to the table where young Jon sat, but he seemed deeply in discussion with a Condottieri Sergeant on the usage of swordspear guards in formation warfare, judging from the gestures they were making.

This would take some time. And needed to be done diplomatically. He drew a deep breath.

"Lady Stark née Tully." he started with a smile.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Blood ties? I may be a hypocrite, but the old Emperors were smart. Adopt someone competent. Blaringly incompetent sons of the blood have been many a House and Realm's undoing.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

"First of all, Lady Star née Tully, bastards are pretty rare among us." he said with a smile. "We have an equivalent of your moon tea that can be safely used after pregnancy has been discovered, and it is usually widely available from the healers' guild." he said, earning himself a frown from the Lady in question. It seemed she did not really like the idea of that, killing children in the womb, bastards or not.

"That said, the marriages among our upper classes, like yours, are arranged as business deals and political alliances by the parents or heads of the House." he glanced quickly towards the young Lady Sansa and shrugged a bit. "Romantic love plays very little part of it." he spinned the simple gold band he wore on his left ring finger a bit before he continued.

"There is no courtly love at all?" Lady Sansa said with a sad demeanor, her romantic streak clearly finding the whole thing lacking.

"Oh, yes there is." he said with a wide smile. "Outside marriage." he reached for his goblet to take a sip of the excellent wine.

"You mean that your Lords and Lady wives are unfaithful?" Lady Stark gasped, a hand over her mouth, a gesture mirrored by her oldest daughter once she also realised what the statement meant.

"Oh yes!" he exclaimed with a short laugh. "Marriage is a business partnership. You combine Houses, make alliances, leverage holdings and estates, make both your Houses more powerful and have children to secure your line, but love is found outside marriages." he raised his hand to show the simple gold band. "A gold ring on your left hand for marriage. For love affairs, many exchange a silver ring to wear on their dominant hand. Having many of them is usually seen as a sign of being a desirable, charming and passionate person." or someone that could afford to charm a highborn, at least. They might have noticed the lack of silver rings on his right hand. Both the elder and the younger Lady Stark looked confused and somewhat disgusted at this concept, but were struggling to form words in opposition, so he continued.

"You are of course expected to make sure any children are of the correct parentage. The healers' guild and the philosophers of medicine at the Imperial Academy have ways to check fatherhood." he said with a smile.

"But... Courtship?" Lady Sansa exclaimed, clearly distraught.

"Oh, we have courtship. It just rarely ends in marriage, as one or both parties are usually married anyway. But we do have songs of love ending up in marriage." he said with a smile. "Old legends from the best days of the Empire."

The young Lady Stark smiled broadly and clasped her hands together in the most naive young Lady-like gesture he had ever seen. And he has seen a lot - he did have a daughter after all. But her temper and that of Lady Sansa were very, very different. Like night and day. 

"Won't you sing to us?" she said, before her smile faded a bit as she realised she had just asked a high-born to perform like a common bard. There were high-borns that played instruments and sang, many of them skilled, but to their peers, not to a room that was if not filled at least included a lot of common-born like the men and women at the lower tables.

He smiled at her, and then at the elder Lady Stark and nodded. "I must warn you, it is a common epic popular with the proletariat and and thus at times... graphic." he said and turned to the bard who had been slowly playing a lute for soft background music during the feast.

"My good man, would you lend me your lute for a few moments?" the man seemed to glance over to the Lord Paramount, who with the slightest of nods gave his approval. The lute was handed over and a silver coin tossed to the man for his willingness to serve. 

"Thankyou, I shall make sure to return it in good shape." you never fucked with people's livelihood. he plucked a bit at the strings, getting a feel for the instrument.

"Now, you will have to excuse me." he said. "It was a long time since I last held an instrument. And the song itself, well, it rhymes in our native tounge, it may lose some rythm in the translation." the room had gone quiet, and most eyes seemed fixed on him where he sat, comfortably slumped in the high chair and with a leg thrown over the other as he strummed the lute.

"With your permission, Lord Paramount Stark. Alexandra Helena and the vile thief." he said and started a simple melody on the lute. It was made for street artists with simple instruments - all the better, as he had never been better than mediocre at playing any instrument. It had been a part of his education, but not one he had excelled at.

"Alexandra Helena, a noble young Lady, as beautiful as you can see, but with a temper fiercer than two hives worth of bees." he sang, in a low, soft tone that still carried in the enormous hall. There was a snicker from one of the lower tables.

"Served with the secrets and on top of that an assassin. Will she ever have a birthbed lie-in?" he continued, with a broad smile.

"Wicked smart, fair like a flower. Would never be satisfied with any man that does not over the rest tower." he continued again, wincing a bit about the lack of rhythm and length as he made desperate translations of the rhymes. But the tune was simple and could be stretched out, and the hall seemed to not mind the lack of proper poetry.

"Stavros, tall and strong, came courting. Not noble enough, said Alexandra Helena, not even sporting. Stavros, as unhappy as can be, thought the story will be different when I bend her over the chair, you'll see." he was pretty happy about that translation. The original did have the same ambiguous language, allowing children to think of a spanking and adults of a far worse thing.

"Such things are never nice, and Stavros would pay the price. He did not even have time to stagger before she found his heart - with her dagger." there were gasps and some laughs at that. The Lord Paramount himself did seem to find the humorous justice pleasing.

"Ioannes, rich as a Lannister, still tried to kiss'er. To steal a kiss was a big but acceptable danger. Ioannes survived, but was rejected as kissing colder than the stranger." that received a bit of laughter, both from the honourary table and the lower ones.

"Next came Giorgios to pay his respect. With gold, land and noble blood, he was almost perfect. But with a tongue as heavy as led, Alexandra Helana ran circles around him, and soon he had fled."

"And so they passed, soft and tough, none would for Alexandra Helena be enough. One could wonder if she a spinster would remain, and never anything in the bedchamber gain?" a few giggles, one or two red cheeks among the women and low laughter from some of the men.

"But one night Alexandra Helena awoke, with a thief that would among her belongings poke!" he made a face at that prospect, earning a few laughs. "Up rose the maiden fair, with such a speed that most of everything were bare." more laughter.

"'You', she exclaimed, 'are very dead'. But the thief bowed and replied, 'I'd like to keep my head'. And she who stabbed hearts of evil men, found her daggers cutting air rather than flesh and linen then." by now some of the people on the lower tables had caught on to the rhythm (such as it was) and banged the tables and 'ooh':ed and 'aah':ed as he finished each line, adding to the tale. He smiled broadly. Such a simple song, one of the oldest and basest of their epics, recieved so well.

"Her frustration was met with a jolly laughter, and eyes brown as dark honey was all she could remember after. The thief made his escape, with no loot, but her threat was also completely moot."

"The next night, our maiden was better prepared, but still not much better she faired. The thief came and was spotted but despite the time and effort she had allotted, only a beret remained. And of course, from that there was nothing she gained. But the did see a lock of golden brown hair, and from the thief's coat, a smell of tar pretty fair." they seemed intrigued now. Even young Arya, who had seemed disinterested at the prospect of a romantic song from the start.

"Then several nights would pass with a tired, guarding young lass. Perhaps the thief was now getting through the defence of our fair young shrew?" he blinked at young Lady Sansa, who turned beet red at the gesture in combination with the song. He laughed and continued.

"Then one day came a herald bearing a gift of price oh so steep. Her own necklace, stolen when she finally had gone to sleep!" he faked outrage at this insult, calling own laughter before he continued.

"The next time the thief made his rounds, she had made sure she had her grounds. With a smile of satisfaction she could place her dagger on the thief's throat in the action!" he deepened his voice as if exclaiming triumph, but then continued.

"Her heart beat faster, this time he would not outsmart'er! But then she felt icy cold and would almost stagger, for against her own fair throat rested the thief's dagger!" a standoff! Oh no!

"So they stood, for far too long, until with a roguish wink he made her realise that she was not at all that strong." there were jeering and laughter now.

"So, equally a fight, a wrestling match and an act of love, he took everything and went a bit above." he laughed a bit himself as someone whistled from the lower tables.

"But at the break of dawn, there was of the thief not a trace, as Alexandra Helena realised with little grace. Spurned and angry as an executioner with a tooth-ache, there were few things in her rooms she would not break."

"Then, one day not long after, came another to win her hand with a laughter. The Prince of the Western Helms, with estates as large as realms. Imagine her surprise - brown were his eyes. Golden brown locks of hair, and both mind and tongue were more than fair."

"But that was not enough, oh no, the man was also tough. The man she would meet, he commanded the fleet! Handsome, with a uniform coat that could not his looks mar - and hear me say - it smelled slightly of tar!" more jeering and laughter.

"Well, you know how it went, the message has been sent. You have brains behind your ears and they were married for many, many years. In times bright as a meadow and black as a bog, they lived like cat and dog. Wrong or right, there was fighting every day and lovemaking every night!" with that he lowered the lute to jeering, whistles, stomping and laughter that soon changed to an applause. He carefully returned the lute to the bard. "Feel free to use it, should you think it could earn you coin." he said with a wink to the bard, who smiled and nodded, and probably tried to say his thanks, which was drowned in the roaring applause.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Families are not natural. Like friendships they must be maintained, or they fall apart.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

"A very nice song, Equites." Lady Stark née Tully said. "But the question was not really answered." she pointed out. Damn it, she would not let it go. Well then.

"Bastards are rare, as I said, and they can never inherit." he replied. "No, I cannot remember a single instance where a bastard managed to usurp an inheritance in our history. Brothers, on the other hand..." he said with a grimace.

"You mean to say bastards have never been a threat to their brothers?" the Lady said, tilting her head in disbelief. She really, really would not let this go, would she? He was getting a wee bit annoyed at her persistence.

"No. There's no way to legitimise bastards, and the Emperor will always be happy to seize land or other assets that lack a rightful heir and add them to the state's." he said, taking his wine glass and sipping on it with a smile. One that grew a bit predatory as he continued. "Now, brothers, that is a different matter. We do have an unfortunate streak of fratricide in our history."

"You mean to say brother would turn against brother?" the Lady exclaimed.

"Certainly." he replied, to her shock, enjoying a bit too much twisting the dagger. "Like you, we have a tradition of fostering, although we call it hostage. It is dying out, but traditionalists still do it. That is usually how it goes bad." he said, his gaze passing from one Stark to the other before he continued. "Imagine for example, in a few years, young Brandon..." the boy looked up from his plate at his name being mentioned, too young to follow the conversation properly. He looked around, realised they were not talking to him and went back to playing with some left-over beans on his plate, his mother too engaged in the conversation to correct his behavior. "...being sent to foster with one of the great northern Houses. Bolton, for example." he took a brief pause and saw that he had the attention of most of the honourary table.

"Lord Bolton is of course a loyal man. Outwardly." he continued with a smile that said lots about that. "But he lets the boy run with a bad crowd. Rowdy boys with ambitions. And in private, he blows the boy's ego, calling him the greatest Stark ever, praising his ability and skill. Soon the boy begins to believe it. He is the greatest Stark, and if things were just and right, HE would inherit. When the boy starts showing ambition, it is encouraged, and the fostering Lord can whisper that if the undeserving older brother just has... a... little... hunting accident, things would be different, the greatest Stark would rule. So the boy's mind is poisoned against his family, and when he returns, with plenty of the Lord's gold in his pockets to rekindle old friendships and gain new ones, he'll either kill his brother and take over, granting the fostering Lord a strong position of influence, or start a civil war within House Stark, at which the fostering Lord can petition the King to name him Lord Paramount instead, as his House is clearly better fit as it is not tearing itself apart. And he will have bought and built influence at court to do so beforehand, of course." he reclined a bit in his chair at finishing that grim tale.

"A family would never..." Lady Stark née Tully exclaimed.

"You are wrong." he interrupted her. "They have, they would and they will. There's plenty of examples in your own House's history." at that the Lord Paramount simply nodded grimly.

"In our Empire, many noble families restrict themselves to one son only to avoid this problem. Or have ceased sending sons away as hostage. A family that stays together, fights together. Likewise, a brother, bastard or not, that is brought up with his brother will be his loyal brother." he finished and raised his glass. "To brotherhood." he said and took a swallow.

It seemed like Lady Stark née Tully was going to protest, but the Lord Paramount placed a hand on top of hers and gave her the slightest shakes of his head, stopping her in her tracks. "I think we should change the subject. Arya, you wanted to ask about amazons?" the Lord Paramount said, with the young girl immediately perking up.

"Yes! Please, Equites, can't you tell us more of them?"

"Certainly, my young Lady. You see, our distant nomad cousins - now, don't tell anyone I said so, most don't like to admit we're related to them - have both female and male warriors. They use the bow from horseback and marry many partners. Strong men and strong women who can draw their frankly insanely hard bows and show themselves as strong warriors marry many partners as they are considered as strong as husbands or wives as they are warriors..." he laughed a bit, and then spun the tale of the old wall militia of women wielding spears that had defended the city and village walls against nomad raiders and hostile tribes, up to the secret service spies being made up of many women, and the odd women the Captain employed in the Condottieri, until Lady Stark née Tully ushered the younger children to bed.

He rose and took her hand, bowing deeply and courteously, bringing her hand to his mouth, but letting an inch and a half of air remain between lips and hand, as was proper.

"My compliments to an excellent feast, Lady Stark née Tully. I am impressed at your ability to run both a household and a family. It has been long since I saw such well-behaved children. It speaks highly of their parents. My most sincere thanks." he said with a wide and hopefully disarming smile. The blue eyes of the Lady softened a bit and she rewarded him with a smile and a few platitudes of thanks. Hopefully, he had disarmed the most glaring enmity his words had induced in her.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Lessons don't have to be beaten into people. It is usually just faster that way." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

The feast had wound down. The younger children had been sent to bed and the bard had left, leaving the atmosphere to drop down to a more somber one. Servants had cleaned most of the food away, leaving sweet tarts and cookies, honeyed nuts, cheese, wine, ale and mead for them to snack on. He held up a hand to a servant coming with a wine pitcher, palm outwards. A polite 'no thank you'. He drank only water, even at an occasion such as this. He had not asked for goat or sheep's milk, as is was not appropriate to question the hospitality of your hosts.

"I tell you, they just pushed us aside!" a Stark Household guard said with a laugh. "I tried to hold them back and was pushed to my arse. They used their spears to yank the legs from under us. You tell them, Hedrig." the Stark man said to a third man who looked up from the wine goblet he was nursing and winced. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure if we had a re-fight and fought like real men, we would win!" he exclaimed.

"That phrase is certain death." he said to the man, who winced again.

"What? Asking people to fight like real men?" the man replied.

"Yes. That means you are inferior, and rather than adapt, you want your enemies to lower themselves to your level. They will not, and you will die." he said.

"On the field of honour..." the man started, but he interrupted him by slamming a palm into the table, making a few of the remaining plates rattle.

"There is no such thing as honour in war. There's death and killing, and being good at what you do means killing, being worse than the enemy means death. If that had been a real battle, you would all have been dead. There's no second chances in battle. Adapt, or die."

The man seemed annoyed at that, but lacked a proper response. Instead he pulled something else. "Yeah, what do you know, you're a buggerer anyway."

"I am indeed." he said with a laugh. "You want to try it? I can make you squeal." he eyed the man meaningly, from the top to the toes. The man turned red with rage and embarrassment. "I'll rip that tongue out of your unnatural, buggering arse!" the man exclaimed.

"You would not survive the attempt." he replied, low and menacing, his red scars suddenly seeming to reflect the light of the dying fires in the open hearths. "Even if you did, I am sure Lord Paramount Stark would have some opinions about his Household Guard violating guest rights under his roof."

The man managed a low, angry growl as he stood.

"Should you change your mind, stop by my quarters, and I will show you. Otherwise, why not meet me at the drill yard tomorrow? I'll show you what unnatural things a buggerer is capable of." he said with a wide smile that the stiff scars marred. The other two men bowed. "Our apologies, Captain. He's had too much wine."

He waved dismissively. "No harm done."

The three men left under a muted conversation. He could hear pieces of it. 'Are you stupid?', 'I'll show him, tomorrow!' and "You ARE stupid!' And so on. He nursed his goblet of cool water before noticing a smaller figure almost sneaking up on him. Turning his head there he noticed the heir of the Lord Paramount, young Robb Stark. He rose and bowed. "Young Lord Stark." he greeted.

The young Lord replied with a courteous bow of his own, fidgeting with a box he almost clutched to his chest.

"Uhm... Captain Andreios." the boy greeted. "I heard from Equites Asimachos that you play Cyvasse."

"I do. But I am unfortunately not very good at it." he replied with a slight smile. "I take it that you would like to challenge me to a game?" he continued, his brown eyes turning to the box in the lad's arms. He recognised it as the Equites’ gift to the lad.

"Yes. If you have the time, I mean. I have been playing a bit with Jon, that is my brother, Jon Snow and learned the game..." the young man exclaimed.

"And now you want to play someone who has played the game before." the boy nodded. And he wanted to play with the man who won on the training yard earlier today, most likely. "Very well. Set up the game, I'll be right back." He left to talk with a servant and returned with some oil and a pair of rags to a finished set up of the game. As they started playing, he quickly dissolved his lamellar armour and started inspecting and polishing each individual lamelle, then oiling it as they played. He had never liked to be idle.

The conversation started about the bout on the training yard earlier, with him explaining how they trained for formation warfare, to be able to push an enemy shieldwall over or apart to win and how much coordination, cohesion and discipline counted and how little individual skill with the sword mattered in such situations.

The conversation soon turned to the game, as the young Lord was besting him. The lad had a mind for quick manoeuvre within the perimeters of the game, and soon he found himself being bested. However, his defence was solid, and he played conservatively. The game dragged on, even if it was just a matter of time before the young Lord would win.

Yet the game dragged on, and as he was assembling his armour again, he noted that the young Lord had fallen asleep on the table. He smiled a bit at the failed youthful determination as someone entered the now empty hall. He rose and bowed.

"Lady Stark." he greeted with a smile as good as he could make it on the account of his stiff scars.

"Captain Andreios." she replied. "So you're the one who kidnapped my son? We've been looking for him." she chided in jest, gently shaking the young Lord awake. "Come on Robb, you should sleep in your own bed."

"But the game..." Robb replied, groggy and trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"You can finish tomorrow. It is way past bedtime anyway." she said, ushering the sleepy young Lord out of the hall. "Goodnight, Captain Andreios." she said as they left. He bowed silently.

As they were breaking their fast the morning after, the young Lord found his game packed up in its box.

"Our game!" the lad exclaimed, distraught.

"Ah, you lost." he said with a short bow.

"What? We were not finished. I was winning!" Robb said.

"Yes. And then you left, leaving the field. That means I won." he said with a short and coarse laugh.

"What?!" the young Lord exclaimed, distraught and upset. "That is cheating! I was winning!"

"There is no such thing as cheating in war." he replied, giving the lad a pat on the shoulder. "Remember that. If you cannot win, make sure you outlast your enemy. As long as you are still in the field, he has not won. Sooner or later he has to go home." he laughed at the less than enthusiastic look he got from the young Lord in response. "Very well. If I invite you to our lesson in formation warfare after breakfast, will that brighten your mood?"

The lad nodded with a smile, and so they went back to breakfast.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Not all noblemen understand business. But all understand being owed a favour and the advantages of that.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

"The answer is and will remain a firm no, Equites." the Lord of the North said, shaking his head. They had been over the issue back and forth, and he had tried most of his wily tricks and decent arguments, but the Lord Paramount would not budge.

"If I may..." he said, but the Lord of the North raised his hand, palm towards him.

"No. We have been over this. I will not permit tax farming in the North." the Lord of the North said. "It is the duty of every Lord to know the plights and tribulations of his smallfolk. Otherwise, how would he fulfill his duty to protect them? No, a tax farmer adds an uncaring man between the Lord and his smallfolk. I will not permit it." the Lord of the North said, with a tone that indicated that he was tired of the subject and that his mind was made up. Sensing that pressing the matter further would only make the Lord of the North less interested in other subjects he wished to discuss, he decided to drop the matter, with a small internal curse. Αιματηρή σκατά. Very well.

"It is your prerogative, Lord Stark. I shall bend to your wish." he said with a smile and raised his wine-glass in acknowledgement, a salute returned by the Lord of the North. "The next issue I would like to raise is that of banking." he saw the Lord of the North grimace at that. Damn. For all his honour and sense, the Lord of the North was awfully rigid in his thinking. Smallfolk tilled the land, paid land rent and tribute to Lords, who kept troops and castles to protect them. Everything else seemed like folly to Lord Paramount Stark. Trade, tax farming, banking, any industry except local artisan one and the myriad of other ways you could make money was completely disregarded.

"Banks ruin men." the Lord of the North said.

He made a face and showed the palms of his hands upwards in a 'perhaps, perhaps not'-gesture. "Banks that give loans without security, yes." he agreed. "But my bank does not. And I charge far less interest."

"Oh?" the Lord of the North said, not very enthusiastically, but it seemed still willing to hear him out.

"Yes. The Iron Bank charges between one tenth and one fifth in interest, yearly, for unsecured loans, which most loans are. And they always get their due."

"Banks are known to do so. Kings or paupers, the Iron Bank will have its due." the Lord of the North agreed.

"Well, I offer secured loans. Say that a lumberjack wants to buy a new saw. A good one of castle-forged steel is expensive, and his lumber is drying, not ready for sale yet." the Lord Paramount nodded, sipping his wine, so he continued. "So I lend him money, with his lumber as security. To an interest of one twentieth of the loan yearly." he said, sipping his own wine. "If he fails to pay, I take his lumber, and have been paid in full. He can still work and is poorer, but not ruined. If he can pay, he will have more lumber next year since his new saw allows him to fell more trees. Then, having repaid his loan and having more lumber as a security, he takes another loan to buy a draft horse. This enables him to drag larger trunks and thus fell stronger trees that will bring him a higher price for his lumber. And so on." he explained, hoping the Lord Paramount would understand. Eddard Stark scratched his bearded chin and his eyes narrowed as he thought of it.

"I cannot find any faults in your reasoning, Equites. But that alone should not keep me from being wary." the Lord of the North said and threw a glance at Maester Luwin who sat next to them, but generally not participating in the discussion, clearly asking him for his opinion.

"Hrm." the old Maester said, clearing his throat. "It does seem sound. I would argue caution though."

Lord Stark turned his gaze back towards him and seemed to judge him. "And what is in it for me, for Winterfell?" he finally said.

"Higher taxes and tribute a few years down the line." he said with a smile.

"Hardly. Loans don't provide taxes." the Lord of the North protested. He wanted to slap some sense into the man, but that would be ill-advised. Some of the nobility of this world were so dense that one would think that they'd sink any ship they boarded. They certainly seemed able to sink any venture they joined. Bah.

"Very well. How about this for a favour in return - I go through the accounting of Winterfell and make suggestions on improvements, and Captain Andreios spend some time with your Master at Arms and yourself, suggesting improvements in your defences?" he offered with a smile. The Lord of the North seemed to mull it over.

"I will agree, but on two conditions. Beyond what you have just suggested, you will owe me a favour for future use." the Lord of the North smiled at that. "And I reserve the right to shut your bank down at the first report of abuse of those you lend money to."

He winced a bit - partially because owing someone a favour could be bad, but mostly as a show to give the Lord of the North a reason to think he got the best of the deal. Why not? It kept people happy. He pretended to mull it over for a while and then rose and extended a hand. "Deal." he said with a faint smile.

"Deal." said the Lord of the North and took the outstretched hand.

Captain Andreios was already working with the Master at Arms, so that part of the deal would be easy to fulfill. The other parts? Not too expensive. This would work out, he was sure of it.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Duels for honour. Such a waste of time. If you can, make sure you make a lesson of it." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

While the Equites were selling his services, he was out in the courtyard providing them already. This was his environment, his forte, his profession. This was who he was, who he chose to be.

His Condottieri were lined up in four ranks, and a large part of the Stark guardsmen of Winterfell had been mustered just across from them - it seemed like Ser Cassel, the Master at Arms, had gathered everyone that did not have immediate guard duties in the courtyard. At least five hundred men in Stark colours and all decently equipped. Some were old, some were young, a few had a limp or a weak arm, but in general, it was a unit of well-kept, well-equipped and by the standards of this world well trained and disciplined men.

That said, he estimated that he needed a third to half their strength to defeat them in detail in a field battle. Discipline and formation, not individual skill with arms, won the day and had always, since their ancestors had fought with bronze weapons in phalanxes to defeat their tribal brethren still doing champion fights and war dances.

One man in the Stark ranks was glaring at him. Ah, the drunk man from yesterday.

"Before we begin, Ser Cassel, I think I will have to make a bit of a show. You have a man that wishes to challenge me to spar?" he said with a wicked smile that the stiff scars turned even worse.

The Master at Arms furried his brow and turned around towards the Stark men, who were glancing left and right, obviously confused, with one or two burying their faces in their palms over it, just as the man from yesterday pushed his way to the front. "I will show this foreigner how Winterfell fights!" he exclaimed. The Master at Arms made to say something, but he raised a hand, stopping him.

"I would consider it a great favour, Ser Cassel, if you would allow this before we begin." he said.

The Stark guardsman drew his arming sword and readied his wolf-attired shield and drew close. The man's stale breath still smelled of the wine from yesterday and he was unshaven. A severe lack of discipline.

"Not so cocky now, buggerer!" the man whispered tensely, producing a menacing smile. Not that apt at logic, he thought. He had just invited it.

"Before we start, a short lesson in the value of heavy armour." he said loudly towards the two blocks of men.

"Fight, you coward!" the guardsman exclaimed. He kept his hands on his back and his shortsword in his scabbard. The only change had been setting the veil of chainmail in front of his face, leaving only his eyes unarmoured.

"I am. You're the one standing back doing nothing." he replied with a short laughter to goad the man in. And goaded the Stark guardsman was, rushing in with his shield in front of him, bashing the Captain with it. Having placed himself wide-footed and braced for it, he could remain on his feet.

"An armoured man that remains on his feet is almost impossible to defeat." he said as the guardsman placed a heavy blow on his shoulder protection, the ring of steel against steel echoing between the stone walls of Winterfell. He felt the blow, but the armour protected him. Another blow, this time from the side, ringing against the lamellar upper arm armour and gliding downwards until it was stopped by the riveted chainmail of the joint at his elbow.

"Note how..." a blow to his helmet that actually made his ears ring, but he of course did not show it. "...despite me not defending myself at all, his blows are completely ineffective." there were laughs from both groups of men now, and the red-faced guardsman started rain blows on him - a good thing. In his anger, he did not bother to aim them towards joints or other weaker spots, or try to break bone beneath armour by going for the face, the hands or the lower legs (or perhaps the ribs). However, it did hurt, and sooner or later the man would get a lucky hit in, that would wound or even maim him. The message was clear as well. Time to end this.

"The armoured man..." clang. "...has options..." thunk. "...and thus more freedom..." rattle. "...of action." he said, and then caught the blade of the sword with his gauntleted hand and yanked it away from the surprised guardsman, who had clearly not expected such a trick. The sword slipped from the sweaty grip of the Stark guardsman and was thrown across the courtyard, landing in the sand a bit further away. He took a swift step forwards, grabbing hold of the tunic of the Stark Guardsman with one hand.

"A soldier should never wear something on the battlefield which can be grabbed." he said as he pulled the man forwards, yanking him off balance and then lifting him from the ground, struggling, kicking and flailing at the arm that held him aloft. He turned towards the Master at Arms. "This man's tunic is too loose and can be grabbed. You should rectify that." he said with a smile and then turned to his victim (because it was hardly a fight anymore) and pulled him a bit closer.

"See what a buggerer is capable of on the field? Imagine me in bed." he said lowly with a short, coarse laugh to accompany it. Then he backhanded the man, slapped him and backhanded him again quite hard with his armoured free hand, splitting the man's lip and rendering him if not unconscious at least very groggy. He dropped the man like a sack of root cabbages, where he remained, groaning and sprawled on the ground, his helmet rolling away after coming loose.

"Now, we were going to show off some formations, were we not?" he said looking around. The Condottieri looked bored. They had seen and heard that lesson before, but the Master at Arms and the Stark guardsmen looked surprised, and the Stark children, Robb, Jon and Arya, who were watching from horseback, the first two in armour and armed, the last in her riding leathers, watched with mouths agape.

He rolled his eyes a little bit. It was as if they had not seen heavily armoured men use their armour to their advantage in battle before. Very well. He blew his wooden whistle, a short, shrill tone easy to hear above the sounds of the battlefield, and the Condottieri perked up.

"Castle formation!" he bellowed, and the men immediately formed a block, hollow in the middle. "March!" he yelled, and the men started marching at a low pace, the whole square moved like it was one man. The Stark men tried to form something similar, but had problems keeping the formation together when moving, leaving gaps, having men walk into each other and disrupt the whole thing. To their credit, they did try and doing it with more men was harder. The Master at Arms did not look too impressed - or happy - with their attempt though.

"Stand! Face!" he bellowed, and the Condottieri stopped and turned, so that each man now faced outwards, swordspears extended. The Stark men did the same, looking over towards the Condottieri, plugging the gaps by running, but the result was not as organised, nor did it happen nearly as quickly.

"This formation is used when the enemy is superior in missile troops, skirmishers and light cavalry, especially if he has horse archers. Supply carts, camp followers, skirmishers and your own missile troops can be kept safe inside the castle formation. It cannot move fast, and it is vulnerable against a good charge by heavy cavalry as it lacks the depth, and can be hard to keep together in broken terrain." he explained, the Master at Arms nodding and tugging at one of his magnificent whiskers.

So the day continued, and he showed the spearblock, marching in lockstep to confront heavy cavalry or an enemy pike hedgehog and weak to flanking but unbeatable from the front. He showed the turtle, with shields covering the sides and heads of the formation - excellent when faced with superior archers, storming through an enemy gatehouse or being ambushed by missile troops (as had happened, even if it was a game, by the Crannogmen children in the Neck). However, it should not be used for close combat, as it was impossible to fight in such a formation, and the lack of vision meant that it should not be maneuvered in, as the unit might end up in strange places. The classical shield wall and pig's snout were well known by the men of Winterfell, and they did a passable, even by his standards, execution of both of them. He showed the shiltrom, the spear circle, and how it could move, albeit very slowly, even in rough terrain and as long as it was kept together almost undefeatable from all sides. Its big weakness were good enemy archers and other missile troops, as it could not react to them. Getting out of a schiltrom took a long time as well and it left your own missile and other light troops as well as your camp vulnerable.

Then they went for a run. And barely an hour into it, most of the Winterfell men were lagging behind or had started marching instead of running. When they headed back after two hours, they collected dozens of Winterfell men strung out along the King's Road from Winterfell, including a wheezing Ser Cassel.

"Your men need more stamina. Have them run at least an hour everyday, Ser Cassel, and they will stand on the battlefield and be able to manoeuvre to crush their enemy when his morale falters as his stamina does." he recommended the panting, red-faced and utterly exhausted Master at Arms as they dropped to a marching pace and entered the great castle again. In the corner of his eye, he saw how three tired children dropped off sweaty horses, handing them over to stablehands who would care for them.

Robb seemed to say something about washing up and having a nap, and Arya bolted away to nick something from the kitchen.

"Now that was refreshing!" he exclaimed to the laughter of the Condottieri and the assorted groans from the Winterfell men and a head shaken in disbelief from the Master at Arms. "May we try your famous baths?" he continued. The Master at Arms nodded, still too out of breath to talk. "Where are they?" he asked. A bit timidly the shape of Jon Snow appeared.

"I can show you, Captain." the lad said.

"Very well, young Snow. Lead the way." he said with a smile.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Discipline wins battles, and above all campaigns. But discipline takes time and work to instill. The men must stand the rigours of it being instilled. So give them pride and community as well as good pay and good food." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

It turned out that the cavernous lower levels of the Castle of Winterfell held an amazing secret. The hot springs that kept the castle warm throughout the long winters up north through intricate piping in the walls had here been used to provide for baths. Large shallow pools hewn from the base rock, fed by hot steaming water through burned clay or masoned stone pipes. It was almost like being back home. Almost... civilised. 

The Condottieri, taking instructions from an elderly servant confused by the sudden eagerness for bathing, soon had one of the pools filled up with warm water and were stripping off muddy armour and gambesons to slip into the water - all naked.

So did he, of course, but like all Condottieri, they kept their swords at the edge of the bath. The history of Karastovel had a long list of prominent and not-so-prominent men killed in the bath, in the lavatory or in their bed when they were defenceless. That was not something which would happen to him or his men.

The young Snow seemed to be lingering, watching the armour as it was taken off, no doubt interested in how it looked when it was removed (to be fair, it told a lot about the effectiveness of the armor).

"Young Master Snow!" he bellowed. The young man looked startled, but looked over. 

"Yes?" he asked, a slight pink tint on his cheeks telling of being unused to men stripping down naked as casually as the Condottieri did. Most of the men had been similar once they started, but you quickly got used to it. And you needed to be naked to wash properly.

"You rode hard. Why not accompany us?"

The young man, or boy, seemed to hesitate, but the occasional nods from other men in the pool seemed to convince him, and he stripped down to his breeches and slid into the water.

"You bathe like this often?" Jon asked.

"Every day." one of the Condottieri, a small blonde man with a slightly lazy eye. "The Captain says that it keeps the field fever away." he made a gesture towards his cheek. "And it usually hurts to contradict the Captain."

There was a round of hearty laughter at that and he gave the man a rough pat on the shoulder. "I always said you were one of the smart ones, Condottieri Carpenter. You learned quickly and now you are teaching. Keep this up and you will make Sergeant one day!" he said with a laugh while the men passed a bar of soap around, lathered up and dove under the surface to rinse off one by one. Condottieri Carpenter seemed to take that with a wide smile of crooked teeth. "Thank-you Captain." he said, took the soap in turn and started lathering up.

"Alright men, today's topic." he said when the laughter had died out. "Something embarrasing!" There was some 'ooh':ing at that.

One man cringed and grimaced. "Alright. I'll start." he said. "When I was but a wee lad..." someone made a comment about him still being a wee lad, but he waved a hand. The man would be allowed to finish. "...the flux was making its round in King's Landing around then. And I found my shit was red as blood. A cold fear, gripped me, I grabbed my pants and ran home, towards the kitchen, but I lost my grip on my pants, they slid down and got entangled in my feet, so I feel into the kitchen, on my face, my still shit-stained buttocks bare for the entire family to see." there was giggles and the odd muffled laughter now, but the man was not done yet, oh no. 

"I cried out for mother and father, telling them of the flux, that we were all going to die!" the man rolled his eyes at that, causing more laughter. His face was red now. "And then my mother, the Seven Bless her, ever the steadfastness of my life, stirred the pot and said, 'dearie, did you forget we had red beet soup for dinner yesterday?'" at that the whole pool burst out in uproarious laughter, even the young Snow sharing in.

The men shared stories, and while some were funnier than the others, it seemed all laughed alike at each others' misfortune, but it was a hearty, friendly and non-malicious laughter every time.

"Let me tell you!" the Captain finally said. "The story of my fine scars." he continued, dragging two fingers across the diagonal scars that ruined his face so badly. Some of the men had heard it already, but some had not, and the young Snow seemed interested as well.

"I was hired as a mercenary officer. Before my service with Kaisar." he said. "A fine nobleman was gathering a small army. Well trained troops, he assured me, for a punishment expedition against raiding nomads." he winced while some of the men laughed. 

"I should have left right there, but I thought I had to see it through. Young and stupid, you know." more men laughed now.

"Well, it turned out the men were not as well trained as advertised. The noble cavalry chased after the nomads in a feint and were cut to pieces and fled like they had demons on their heels. The spearmen were formed into a schiltrom, leaving the poor burgher slingers to fend for themselves. The nomads cut them down in seconds." he cringed. 

"Then the men proved unable to hold a schiltrom together. So there I stood holding a spear yelling at the men around me to stand while they ran like rabbits chased by foxes, when a nomad did his best to improve my dashing looks with two cuts with his sabre to my face." there was much laughter at that.

"I had to hide under the dead for two full days while the nomads looted and celebrated their victory. Then I had to walk alone the entire way back without water." he shook his head sadly, laughing himself. "That was when I swore I would not command men I had not trained myself again. And which is why you lot have to stand me and my methods!" there was some boo:ing at that, but mostly laughing.

"How about you, Master Snow?" he said, turning the gaze of his brown eyes towards the young man who shifted awkwardly.

"Well..." the boy said, turning a bit pink. "When I was a small boy, I loaned a sword from the armory. I wanted to show father I was a real warrior, to make him proud." he shifted a bit, uncomfortably, as he noticed the many gazes on him as he spoke. "The sword was too long, and when I tried to sit down in my chair for dinner, it got in between me and the chair."

"You..." the Captain snorted. "...you sat on the sword?"

"Yes." he said with a grimace. "It was an arming sword, for training. Of iron. So it bent." there were snickers and laughs at that. "But it got worse. I took it off, and tried to hide it beneath a carpet. It was pretty clear something was under there, it being bent and all. And when I looked up as I was trying to beat the carpet flat again, I saw father standing there. He had seen the whole thing." the snickering was turning into laughter now and young Snow turned even more red. "But that is not the whole thing. He said, 'Jon, get the sword from under the carpet.', and I squeaked 'What sword?'" he laughed a bit at that memory. 

"My arse was so red that evening. And I got no dinner." at that the whole pool burst into laughter. Even the Captain had a hard time containing himself.

"Master Snow, you tell a most excellent embarrassing story. Thank-you." he finally said, wiping a tear from the corner of one of his brown eyes. The lad smiled, almost beaming, despite still being red-cheeked, as the many men, ranging from only slightly older than himself to as old as the Captain nodded and gave him encouraging pats on this shoulders.

Later, as they were dressing, and the Captain and the Condottier were cleaning their armour, the young lad furrowed his brow. "Captain, may I ask a question?" he said.

"Please do." he replied, inspecting his lamellar cuirass for any faults or specks of rust.

"When you arrived, the Equites said I was the freest of men." young Snow said.

"He did." he replied.

"Why would he say that? I am a bastard." the lad said with a face of grim sadness.

"That is what makes you free." he replied, shrugging and cleaning his lamellar cuirass with an oiled rag, satisfied with its current status.

"I hardly see myself as free." the boy replied, sitting down on a stone bench, being done getting dressed.

"Tell me this, Master Snow." he said. "Say you and young Lord Robb go carousing. Hitting the nearest inn, drinking and having fun, as boys your age are inclined to do." the quick look of guilt on the boy's face told him he had hit a nerve. Rather recently, too, he supposed. 

"Say that the innkeeper has two beautiful daughters. Good, reliable young women. You fall in love, you and Robb. And you go to your father, asking permission to marry them. Your father might approve for you, if you convince him that is the life you want to lead. But for Robb?"

"No, that would not be a fitting marriage for Robb." the lad agreed.

"So you are free to marry whomever you like, but he is not. What do you want to do when you are grown?" he continued, donning his gambeson as he spoke.

"I... I have been thinking about taking the black and joining the Night's Watch, like my uncle Benjen." the lad said, hesitantly.

"And would your father approve?" he asked.

"I, I suppose he would allow me if I really wanted to. But he would deny Robb. Robb is his heir." the lad continued, probably starting to understand where the Equites had come from.

"Exactly. You can do whatever you want. If you ask your father for a small holdfast and to be a loyal bannerman to your brother, he would probably give it to you. If you would want to become a sellsword in Essos, you could do that. If you wanted to marry a peasant's daughter and become a Yeoman farmer, you could do that. Not only can you do whatever you want, you also have training, education and starting money to do most things you could set your mind to. Most others will either be mired in duty or restricted by lack of training, education and money."

"So I am the freest of men?" the lad asked, thoughtfully. It seemed he had not considered that before.

"I would say so. You could even join the Condottieri for a five year contract if you wanted to." he said with a smile that the stiff scars marred only a bit, took his helmet under his arm and started marching towards the stairs leading up to the rest of the castle. 

"Lunchtime, is it not?" he said cheerfully. The Starks were good hosts and served excellent food.

"I could?" the lad said to himself behind him, then remembering himself and scurrying after the much larger Captain.

--

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Preparations are half the battle. In sieges it is the battle." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

He was sitting in the Lord of the North's solar, a large room with even larger windows of Myrish glass, letting the evening sun paint the walls in a golden reddish tint. The chair was comfortable, or would have been if he had not been wearing armour as always. 

There really was no way to comfortably sit while you wore armour. Not that he was looking for comfort at this present time. He was nursing a glass of cool water, having politely declined offers of wine, ale and mead, to the surprise of both the Lord of the North and his Master at Arms.

Both men held goblets of wine as they sat across the room in their own comfortable chairs, watching the Equites pour over the accounting, as it was, of Winterfell, with a distraught Maester Luwin struggling to keep up. And he knew the Equites was taking it slow, his servant Tomas and two servants of Winterfell running back and forth with parchments in rolls or bound in books from the archives of Winterfell at the command of the two men.

He returned his gaze to the Lord of the North and his Master at Arms.

"Well, that concludes the things I have suggested to Ser Cassel. Increased stamina training. Field washing and hygiene. A dedicated soldierly supply train to make you independent of camp followers. Field fortifications. Formation training." he ticked off the repetitions on his hand's fingers as he spoke, noticing with approval that Ser Cassel nodded.

"The Captain has good points, and I have seen several of them directly in the ways his soldiers, the Condottieri, act and fight." Ser Cassel said. The Lord of the North nodded his approval. These were after all suggestions that would cost him little or even nothing. The men of Winterfell, the Guards of the Stark Household were permanently employed men, numbering around a thousand, to in war be bolstered by the bannermen and their levies sworn to Winterfell directly, and by the Lords and Masters of the North and their own bannermen and levies. And force-conscripted peasant levies, should the Lords feel it necessary. Mouths that required feeding, bodies that spread disease for little value on the battlefield and even less of it, if you asked him. But his was not to question the feudal way to raise troops. At least the part-time feudal contract levies were usually decent troops, especially on the defence of their homeland.

"Now, I do have several suggestions that will cost you money. Some a lot of it." he said with a smile that the stiff scars were turning into a scowl, or even a grimace that made the two other men stiffen a bit in the face, barely noticeable, but both men were making an effort to not show how the display affected them. Good men that did their best, but he knew how to read faces, even if he did not know how to read letters.

"First, and probably most expensive. Moat Cailin." he said and gestured towards the two men sitting across from him.

"Moat Cailin. Yes, it is a ruin." the Lord of the North said, scratching his chin. "However, is it that relevant? It was constructed to force any enemy trying to cross the Neck to remain in the Neck, at the mercy of the Crannogmen and all the diseases of the swamps. But Aegon's dragons made it irrelevant. The Seven Kingdoms are united and what comes north are for peaceful trade - or visits." the Lord Lord of the North said with a hint of a smile.

"A ruin, yes. We passed it on our way here. However, it can be restored to defensible condition and improved from that, especially with a garrison." he said. "Besides, there are no dragons anymore, and your own recent civil war to dethrone the Mad King speaks clearly that while the Seven Kingdoms are united now, they may be at each others’ throats again in a generation or two. It is simply bad strategy to leave such an important position abandoned." he pressed on.

The Lord of the North seemed to agree with the general sentiment, but shook his head. "I don't think such a move would go over well, neither with my Goodfather in Riverrun nor in King's Landing. There will be questions as to why I am rebuilding defences of the North. We are not of the same faith, and most southrons distrust us." the man said, turning to a grim look.

He shrugged under his large shoulder protection pieces. "So? Tell them that you have four sons, but only one of them can inherit Winterfell. Repair two abandoned smaller holdfasts outside of Winterfell to make the story more plausible if you want to. Your son Brandon should be old enough to foster, should you desire it, soon enough. Sending him to a northern Vale or Riverland House that you wish to tie closer to your current alliance with those Kingdoms should allow him to share his time there and in the Neck, with Lord Reed and at his future holding of Moat Cailin." he suggested with a smile he forced to be light. The scars tended to disrupt such a smile less.

"Your words have merit, Captain. I must think this over. However, there is the cost..." the Lord of the North said.

He shrugged again. "As I understand it, the Neck is rather poor, producing little land rent. Offer Lord Reed freedom from all tribute as long as he contributes to the restoration of Moat Cailin. He should be glad enough to be able to keep some money badly needed, and probably has at least some manpower for corvee labour on such a project." he smiled a bit more grimly. "As for the rest, I am sure the Equites will find you some money. He'll turn silver into gold at the toss of a coin."

Both men smiled and shook their heads at that, betraying the sentiments of feudal Lords and their vassals at the trade of merchants, bankers and moneyhandlers. It was all beneath them. They were fools. 'The sinews of war are endless money' they always said in the Empire of Karastovel, and they were right. That said, they were more pragmatic, both here in the North and in Dorne. But not pragmatic enough for his tastes. Oh well, he was not here to proselytise.

"The second thing I would suggest, is a siege train." he said.

"A siege train?" Ser Cassel asked, his forehead furrowed.

"Say for example that Lord Karstark decided to revolt tomorrow." he held up a hand as the Lord of the North began to protest. "A mere fantasy, of course, only to show what I mean." he continued, and the Lord of the North seemed willing to hear him out. "You muster Winterfell and its levies, around five thousand men, probably raising the men of the Last Hearth and Lord Umber as well as the men of the Dreadfort and Lord Bolton on the way. You defeat Lord Karstark in a field battle, but he retreats with his remnants into the Karhold. Then what?"

"We lay siege to the Karhold, of course. Lord Stark probably orders Lord Manderly to block off the Karhold from the sea and block any sellswords Lord Karstark may have hired from Essos." Ser Cassel replied. The Lord of the North seemed to be content to let his Master at Arms argue for him.

"And then?" he continued to press.

"Subterfuge. Some of the Karstark men might be loyal to their true Lord and be plied to open a postern gate. If not, we construct siege weapons to break down the walls of the Karlhold, and failing that, we starve them out." the Master at Arms replied.

"All of which might take years. Should another situation arise, for example an Ironborn invasion to the west, Winterfell, the Dreadfort and the Last Hearth are unable to respond, as they must hold down the siege." he said.

"That is the purpose of castles, really. Delay the enemy long enough that he must leave." the Lord of the North said. He had some strategic sense at least.

"Yes. While you are laying siege to a castle, you are vulnerable. So you must be prepared. Hire a skilled siege engineer, perhaps from Essos, to command a small siege train. Employ some carpenters and assign some of the Guards of Winterfell as manual labour. You can use them to improve the defences of Winterfell and perhaps even in the restoration of Moat Cailin, should you desire to go along with that suggestion, Lord Stark. Siege engineers are usually very good to have when building or rebuilding castles, as they can point out weaknesses you are building into the defences." he said, pausing only to take a sip of water. 

"You can assign the men you wish to learn to become siege assistants as the garrison to Moat Cailin too, allowing them to learn while on duty. Have them construct onagers, catapults, ballistaes and trebuchets and learn of siege ramps, mining under the walls, building siege tents and siege towers, and so on. That way you will be ready for a siege at a much, much quicker rate should you ever need it." he said with another light smile.

The Lord of the North nodded. "These are good suggestions, Captain, should I be able to afford them." he laughed a bit at that. The North was not the Westerlands or the Reach. This was a hard region of hard men, driving a hard living out of unwilling soil. Money did not flow like out of the mines of the Westerlands or the mills or wine-presses of the Reach.

"Very good, Lord Stark. My last suggestion is for a militia."

"A what?" the Lord of the North asked.

"You know how in some of the Free Cities of Essos, the citizens are required to keep arms and defend the city should it be attacked?" he asked.

"Yes?" the Lord of the North said, scratching his chin again.

"That is what we would call a militia." he said.

"Outside White Harbour, there are few large cities of the North." the Lord of the North protested.

"Oh, I am not talking about cities in this case, but rather of the peasants." he countered.

"You would arm the smallfolk?!" Ser Cassel said, holding back a gasp.

"They are already armed. Small hatchets and hunting longbows." he said with a shake of the head. "They only need a little training to be able to act as a group and some money to buy a padded gambeson, perhaps a helmet and some more arrows and bowstring to hold in reserve." he said and continued, before either man could protest. "For example, promise them halved land rent for a year or two if they sign up. They are required to use that money to buy a padded gambeson and a helmet and to turn up with a hatchet, axe or sword, a longbow and three dozen arrows to train with someone sent from Winterfell for a week per year. Promise that they will not be taken out of their native land like the feudal levies can be, unless there's an emergency where you would force-conscript peasants." he said with an almost predatory smile. "That way you get a force that can hold walls, skirmish with an invading force and protect their own land from bandits and enemy raiders should your own forces be away. And should you be desperate, they will certainly be better than force-conscripted peasants."

Both men nodded, with Ser Cassel being less enthusiastic, raising concerns over armed smallfolk and the potential of them turning to banditry or even a revolt when emboldened that way, however, the Lord of the North seemed to like this idea the best. Giving the smallfolk a way to protect themselves should their Lord be away seemed to speak to his sense of justice.

"I will be happy to go into more detail should you want it, Lord Stark." he said as he rose and bowed deeply and respectfully, as much as the armour allowed him to. "However, now I think the Equites wants your attention, and I should go for a run with the Condottieri." he said, and promptly straightened his back to leave the room as the other two men rose and bowed in return.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Few cheaters are creative. If they were, they could make their money by at least semi-honest means.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

He was lording over a large pile of books, rolls of parchment, paper and writing tools, as a clearly flustered Maester Luwin struggled to keep up and runners kept back and forth from the archives and library of Winterfell with old tomes with incomplete numbers. He kept quickly scribbling on the wax covering his wooden tablet, every now and then showing it off to Maester Luwin who peered at it with an odd mix of understanding, confusion and at times perplexion.

As the Lord of the North and his Master-at-Arms approached, he rose and produced a most polite and elaborate bow. "Lord Stark." he greeted the man. "Ser Cassel." for the second man.

The Lord of the North made a gracious gesture with the goblet in his hand and responded with a shorter bow himself. "Equites." he replied. "Captain Andreios indicated you would like my attention. And said that you might be able to provide the coin some of his suggestions would require." the Lord of the North said as the Master-at-Arms also bowed, a bit lower than his high-ranking Lord, of course.

"Indeed." he replied with a wide smile and made a gesture towards the piles of paper and parchment on the table as the Lord of the North frowned. No nobleman in this realm, it seemed, liked paperwork. Paper was the lifeblood of gold, but they did not understand that. Very well.

"Maester Luwin?" he said and the man looked up from some parchment.

"My Lord Stark." the old Maester said with a bow and peered at the Lord of Winterfell. 

"The Equites has shown me a method he calls double bookkeeping - while the initial work is a bit taxing, it does make it much easier to spot irregularities - especially over time."

"And have you spotted any irregularities?" the Lord Paramount seemed amused.

"Yes, in fact, we have, my Lord." the old Maester replied. He fidgeted a bit. "It seems like I have made a mistake a few years ago, and that mistake has accumulated and grown over the years." the old man said apologetically.

"And what does this... mistake mean for the treasury of Winterfell?" the Lord of the North said, suddenly a fair bit serious.

"A net boon of almost sixty thousand gold dragons, Lord Stark." he replied himself. "It seems like the extra costs to maintain the King's Road after the floods along the White Knife seventeen years ago made it into the regular numbers every year since. The money has not been spent, but it looks like they have been."

"So I have sixty thousand gold dragons more than I thought I had?" the Lord of the North said. "How was this not noticed?"

"Well, my Lord, your treasure contains just shy of nine hundred thousand gold dragons, well just above it now. There's no time to count them regularly." Maester Luwin said.

The Lord of the North looked seriously taken back by that. The fact that once money was piled high enough, it became bothersome to count it. He had been to the treasure now and then and seen the coins, ingots, bars and jewels that made up Winterfell's reserve for the next long winter piled up and felt reassured. He has never imagined that his servants would not know the exact amount in there!

"That said, Lord Stark, I have teached Maester Luwin the basics of double book-keeping, so this kind of error should be rarer in the future. But more important is that one of your bailiffs is skimming your land rents." he said, pointing to a number in one of the older books.

"What?" the Lord of the North exclaimed. "How do you know this?"

He smiled and said nothing about it taking a thief to know one. "The number is too consistent. It drops down during the years of the Great Spring Sickness, as is to be expected when land is abandoned due to the disease." he said, and the Lord of the North nodded. "Then it jumps up again as land is re-settled in the years after it. But not as much as several other areas. That in itself is not strange - some land recovered quicker than other, some slower and some not at all. However, the numbers are invented." he showed the Lord of the North a line in the book, running his long finger against the line.

"I don't understand. How is that made up?" the Lord of the North said.

"Too many nines." he said, leaving the Lord of the North confused. "Things are usually rounded to nice even sums, the shortage or surplus taken out of good or bad years. Even if they are not, nines are not that usual. If you compare it to a hundred entries from other bailiffs, they have much fewer nines." he showed a long list of numbers he had written down. "Too many nines are a tell-tale sign of a made-up number. Besides, the number does not change. It remains the same year after year."

The Lord of the North frowned and furrowed his brow, attempting to make sense of it all. "So what happened?"

"I would say this. The Bailiff, and his predecessors since about sixty years or more, have sent less than they should as the land was re-populated. They have taken land rents as assigned, but have kept part of the money for themselves and sent a sum they made up." he said, lightly tapping the numbers with his sharpened wooden stylus.

"And who would this Bailiff be, Equites?" the Lord of the North growled.

"A Samred Fletcher, of White Valley." he said, reading a name off the list.

The Master-at-arms narrowed his eyes. "Master Fletcher's daughters were unusually nicely dressed for the last harvest feast, My Lord. Silk and velvet, and they made their rounds among the sons of Landed Knights, trying to charm them. And rumour is that Master Fletcher is promising dowries beyond what he should be able to afford to Houses of higher status than his own. Perhaps he's looking to improve the status of his family, even becoming a House, with his wealth?"

"My wealth, if the Equites is right." the Lord of the North said between clenched teeth. It made a bit too much sense to not be true. "Ser Cassel and Maester Luwin, I want you to travel to White Valley - bring enough guards to ensure that an audit happens without Master Fletcher's interference. Equites, I thank you for bringing this to my attention." the Lord of the North said with a nod to the odd trader-lord in front of him. Who knew numbers on a paper could betray theft that easily?

"All in a day's work, Lord Stark." he replied with a smile. "The second thing I wanted to bring to your attention is that some land rents and forest usage rents are still set to a level that was set by your grandfather, Lord Edwyle Stark to help resettlement of land after the Great Spring Disease. Some peasants pay less than others, because their grandfathers re-settled abandoned land. I think it would be fair - both to their neighbours and to your treasury that they pay the same level as all others."

The Lord of the North nodded.

"That said, continuing the original policy is probably a good idea. In theory it is still in effect - settle abandoned land and you have no land rent for the first five years, and reduced for the rest of your life. Just limit the reduction to ten years. It will not cost you anything, but might encourage second sons of smallfolk to move, and perhaps some of the men of the Hill Clans to settle down?" he continued. Another nod from the Lord of the North.

"You run a surplus of roughly thirty thousand gold dragons per year, on average, as long as there's no long winter. I would say that you could spend a hundred thousdan gold dragons from your current treasury and perhaps five to ten thousand more yearly without affecting your long-time treasury for the next long winter." he concluded. "I suppose that should be enough for the Captain's suggestions, and one of mine - pay some bards to sing songs of the north and the land available to settle among the believers in the Old Gods in the south, or men willing to convert. While the old provisions of reduced land rent is still in place, I suppose hardly anyone knows of it."

The Lord of the North nodded, scratched his beard and shook the hand of the wily man with all the suggestions and a seemingly magic handle with money. The conversion went on, but the main subject had been handled. He had fulfilled the immediate favour, and could now establish his bank in the North.

"I heard you will go to the Wall after you leave tomorrow, Equites?" the Lord of the North asked.

"Yes. The good Captain wants to see the wall and experience the Night's Watch." he said as they continued towards the hall of Winterfell for supper.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Castle Black, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Traditions and prestige are fine and good. But when they cause stupid behaviour, they have outlived their purpose and must be removed." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

They had made their amicable farewells with the Stark household, leaving the poor Maester Luwin and Master-at-Arms Ser Cassel with a lot more labour to complete than when they arrived, but it seems, a favourable impression. He had raised some eyebrows when requests to correspond via mail had to be turned down to both Jon Snow and Robb Stark, as he could neither read nor write, but that they could address the Equites, who could relay information should it be needed.

As they rushed north along the banks of the White Knife, then by hired sailship over the Long Lake the weather grew colder. They met the Kingsroad again at the northern shores of Long Lake and continued from there onwards north. The land became less and less hospitable - colder, more wooded, with fewer villages, less roaming herds of cattle, less pastures and fewer fields under the plow. Marshes, forests and the odd moor seemed more than eager to replace civilised country.

This was primary ambush terrain, as the patrols by local bailiffs of sheriffs or even the local landed knight and his men-at-arms became as scarce as the villages and holdfasts. They moved in a spread out skirmish order, but within a shouting or spotting distance within each other, and were moving out of a thick fir forest into a clearing on a slight downward slope when he spotted it.

The wall.

They were at least ten leagues away from it, yet it could still be seen poking above the horizon. He shook his head. What could ever compel someone to build something that monstrous? He had seen the castles of this land - Riverrun, the Red Keep, Dragonstone and Winterfell, and they were ridiculous in their own size, but this? He caught himself getting annoyed. He had asked questions about the wall and the Night's Watch and had understood it was a fixed fortification made out of ice that did not melt during summer. A wall of ice, supposedly 700 feet high and 100 leagues long and manned by less than a dozen hundreds of men of the Night's Watch.

He had scoffed at the idea of a wall 700 feet high. He could hardly imagine the labour needed to create something such as this - but to what purpose? What could a 700 feet wall do that a 70 feet wall could not? As far as he had managed to learn, the only threat were the nomadic or semi-nomadic 'Wildlings' north of the wall - that at times raided south of it, wielding weapons and armour of stone, bone and bronze or rarely, captured iron and steel, which they lacked the skill to produce and maintain themselves.

Why would they ever need such a humongous thing?

He had always been of the opinion that things existed for a reason - sometimes the reason was a bad one, but it was still there. The Red Keep towered over King's Landing far more than it needed for military purposes because it showed the power and wealth of the King of the Iron Throne in commanding the resources to build something like it. 

But this?

They had been well received, the Night's Watch and its commanders happy to receive visitors of some dignity and wealth - no doubt in the hope that they could help with recruitment for the lethargic, almost dying Night's Watch. He had heard some comments about him and his Condottieri wearing 'Wildling armour', but of steel rather than bone, leather or wood. It made sense - lamellar armour was common among nomads where he came from, why not here too? Effective solutions would be arrived at by many people at many different places and different times. After a hearty meal at the hall of Castle Black, he had forced his Condottieri to run the entire stretch of the stairs up to the top of the wall, and then back down again, to the amusement of the men of the Night's Watch, one which turned to mutters and shaken heads as he made a second run up himself, to take a walk along the wall with the Lord Commander Jeor Mormont himself.

As they walked, he noticed siege engines taken apart, and then left to slowly sink into the ice, rooms cut into the ice to flank the wall and anything ascending it on the northern side abandoned and in disrepair and forests slowly approaching the wall a bit away from Castle Black. It seemed like the Lord Commander also noticed.

"We lack the men to maintain everything." the old but still straight man gruffed. The Lord Commander seemed like a man of little nonsense, with a strong sense of discipline and duty, having abdicated a position as Lord of Bear Island to take the black, not because of a crime or misdeed, but because he felt it is duty. He could respect that.

"So I can see." he replied, peering out over the wall, to the north. No movement. Just endless forests that in the far distance climbed the slopes of hills that eventually turned into mountains. "It seems like most of the land sworn to the Iron Throne does not consider your guard as important." he continued.

"So it is." the Lord Commander replied as they walked along the wall, every now and then passing a single or pair of Night's Watchmen huddling by a brazier, strewing sand and gravel along the ice at the top of the wall, or maintaining a siege engine. Few seemed worried about anything from the north.

"I suppose the wildlings are not that much of a threat, not even to the North?" he continued.

"They are not. The odd raid, carrying off loot, weapons, valuables and sometimes women." the old man next to him replied.

"So why this enormous wall?" he finally asked.

"It was built for a reason." the Lord Commander replied.

"What reason?"

"I don't know." the old man admitted. "It has stood for eight thousand years. It was erected higher and higher, a tradition that each Lord Commander would leave his successor with a wall slightly higher than he received it. Now, we are lucky if we can maintain it." the Lord Commander said with an eye cast towards a few wooden beams sunk into the ice, probably once part of a small trebuchet. "But it was erected to defend against something far, far worse than the wildlings. We just don't know what."

He grimaced. "I can imagine it being hard to recruit men to defend against a threat you don't know, that was last seen eight thousand years ago." he said with a shake of the head. He wondered if a threat that ceased to be a threat eight thousand years ago would ever appear again. It had been a time of magic, magic which had been used to raise the wall. Of course, you never knew with magic. Unreliable stuff.

"Quite so, Captain." the Lord Commander replied. "It is my hope that you might return the favour of us receiving you by spreading the idea of honourable service at the wall in the south."

"We can try, I suppose. And I could send any man that commits a crime that disqualifies him from the Condottieri. But it takes more than a few men and some gold to change your problem." he said.

"That you try is all I can ask, Captain." the Lord Commander said with a solemn nod as they turned around. The rest of the conversation centered around the Wildlings, their tactics and weapons, their raids and he was pleasantly surprised to learn that the Night's Watch, despite its low numbers, maintained an active force raiding, doing reconnaissance and gathering information north of the wall under capable men such as Ranger Qhorin Halfhand and First Ranger Benjen Stark - keeping the Wildlings busy rather than waiting for them to arrive. A good, sensible policy that should have been maintained and manned, rather than this gigantic wall, if you asked him.

He took the stairs, while the Lord Commander took the elevator down. As he descended, he pondered legends and how the crap they could forget exactly what they erected and maintained this completely stupidly sized for. Magic, certainly. It was usually involved in cases such as these.

As he disarmoured himself and laid down in his simple bed that night, intending for a full nights sleep for the march southeast to White Harbour that would start the next day, he again pondered what kind of threat there could be out there, in the far north, that caused men to build such a wall. Very well, it was not like he would find out anytime soon, so why bother about it? He pushed the thoughts away, closed his eyes and went to sleep within the minute, as he always did. As the Condottieri that had the watch passed him, they could not he was scowling and grimacing. Was the Captain having a nightmare? The man that always slept peacefully like a child, like the world could not bother him the slightest?

He found himself on top of the wall, peering north into the darkness, blinking at two blue dots, slightly brighter than the darkness around them. Something urged him north. He found himself on the ground, marching briskly over the thin snow cover, making barely a sound, towards the edge of the forest. As he approached, a voice could be heard, or felt - he was uncertain.

"Welcome home, Captain." it seemed to say. It was quiet for a while, but as he stopped and crossed his armoured arms over his armoured chest, the cloud of his breath being the only thing changing in the cold night, the voice continued. "You are one of us."

"Oh?" he replied.

"Your heart is of ice. It burns with the cold desire to kill." the voice exclaimed, with a potency of knowledge instilled in it.

"It does." he admitted.

"Your mind is black, hard and difficult to reach."

"If you say so." he replied, sensing perhaps some annoyance in the voice as it replied.

"Your rightful place is with us. Where you shall lead as is your desire, as is your one wish."

"No." he replied. The voice seemed to pay no heed to his words. He could feel the pull from the north, the ice-cold burn of desire. Of death and killing. He could see himself with shining blue eyes and milky pale skin, on top of an ice-cold steed, leading perfectly arrayed formations of men - no, of dead men - and women. Soldiers that felt no fear, never hesitated, that struck unmatched fear in the heart of their opponents, that obeyed every order immediately and to the fullest, that never faltered and never misunderstood. A perfect army for a perfect killer to cleanse the world of everything living. His heart's most burning desire. The lure was strong, the pull irresistible. Yet he stood firm in the snow, arms crossed over a heaving chest, a smile fouled by the stiff scars on his face, made even stiffer by the cold.

"No. I am Kaisar's, not yours." he replied, firmly, even as his inner blackness surged with desire to accept. From the forest emerged a white-faced and blue-eyed monstrous creation with a spiked forehead, cold following his path creating thick layers of frost upon the lamelles of his armour.

"Your mind is hard, Captain, but we have ways to make you pay for insubordination. You are ours, and you will learn it. If you will not come voluntarily, we will make you." the creature said, his words dripping of ice-cold authority and the promise of freezing pain.

"I think not." he replied, which caused the creature to scowl and open his mouth to say something more, but he talked over him. "I did not go on top of the wall. I did not cross it and go to this forest. My mind is not capable of doing such things." he said, his voice a gravely base that seemed to make the trees vibrate in the cold.

"No, you are in here." he pointed two fingers to his temple. "And that is mine, and you will learn it. Goodbye."

The creature's eyes widened as the Captain smiled and dragged a small, small, small part of something very powerful deep, deep into the black abyss that was the innermost suppressed and bottled up memories and desires of Captain Alexios Andreios, survivor of the angelmakers of Saint Andreas Orphanage.

He woke up feeling refreshed, satisfied and almost happy, almost as if woken up by a faint but pained, no tortured scream from deep, deep within his mind.

"Been dreaming, Captain?" one of the Condottieri asked with a smile.

"Perhaps. Can't remember any dreams though." he answered truthfully and looked out the window. Dawn was about to hit. Time for morning exercises.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Castle Black, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Magic is mostly useless. Leave it to the magicians, and don't think they know more of what is urgent and important just because they know magic.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Castle Black was an interesting experience - not that there was any money to make here (except perhaps with a brothel, considering all these men sworn to celibacy, but someone seemed to have cornered that market already). No, it was interesting because it was a hive of scum and villany. Thieves, murderers, rapists, failed rebels, failed loyalists and people someone for one reason or the other wanted out of the line of succession to various estates and titles. And they mostly managed to keep it together and make it into an efficient, if diminishing and lethargic military organization.

They had presented their gift - a nice chest with a thousand gold dragons and he had told the Lord Commander that while it was not recruits, perhaps it could pay for bards to sing the praise of the Night's Watch in the south, and some nice gear and uniforms for those that traveled south to take recruits - voluntary or otherwise - to the Wall. It would perhaps peak the interest of some?

They had been served a nice dinner and the Captain and the Lord Commander had disappeared to make the Condottieri run up to the wall and down again, and he had found himself talking to the blind old Maester of Castle Black.

"Maester Aemon." he greeted the old man.

"Ah, Equites. I trust you are enjoying your stay?" the old man replied with a smile directed just a bit off, but in his general direction.

"Oh, the Night's Watch has certainly gone above and beyond in their hospitality." he answered with a smile, despite knowing the old man could not see it.

"A polite way of saying no." the old Maester pointed out.

He laughed. "Touché, Maester Aemon." he said and produced a small bow. "To be honest, I am here mostly because the Captain wanted to see the Wall and experience the Night's Watch. "I find the Wall... interesting, but your organization, and perhaps yourself and your order more interesting." he replied truthfully and took a sip of the wine. It was not bad, but there was much better to be had. Wine had to travel a long way to get to the Wall, after all, and he was surprised it did not go to vinegar en route. But then again, people had always been resourceful about getting drunk on other stuff than the local swill.

"Oh? You find me interesting?" the old Maester said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh yes. A forgotten Targaryen Prince at the Wall, a man who turned down a crown." he said, leaning back a bit in his chair and throwing a glance over his shoulder. This could be a sensitive subject, but there seemed to be no-one near to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"You need not to worry, Equites, no-one is listening." the old Maester said, as if he had seen the quickly thrown glance. Then he was silent for a while. "You have done your research, Equites. Most have forgotten about me, and I think it is well that it remains so." the request was unstated, but still understood between the two.

"Of course." he replied, sipping on the still not entirely bad wine.

"Thank you." the old Maester said. "And yes, you are correct. I was once a Royal Prince. But that was a long, long time ago."

"I understand you rejected the crown out of worry it could cause a civil war?" he asked. "A noble decision."

"A hard one." the old Maester replied. "I have never desired power, but neither have I shirked duty."

He raised an eyebrow at that, and like dwarven clockwork, it seemed the old Maester could read his thoughts.

"Oh, you think everyone desires power, Equites. You are right in a sense, but desires can be resisted." the old Maester stated.

"That is true." he replied. "It is considered among the supreme virtues to sacrifice personal glory among our people. You would be remembered for a long time for a gesture such as that, not forgotten." he continued.

The old Maester nodded. They sat silent for a moment or two.

"Do you ever regret your decision, Maester Aemon?" he asked after a while.

"My vows have been tested." the old man replied. "Perhaps I should have been King, and could have had a grandchild and great grandchild that were not mad. Perhaps I avoided one civil war only to facilitate another." the old man said. "Yet, we cannot change the past."

"We can't indeed. In my homeland, I once had to choose between a life of servitude and one of freedom. I chose the former, and I serve Kaisar. Hopefully, it will allow my son to inherit my title. But here, I do not know." he sighed a bit. "Regret will assault us. But as long as we stand for what we chose, we did not do too bad, did we, Maester Aemon?" he asked.

The old man chuckled and raised his goblet in a salute. "I suppose not, Equites. I suppose not."

There was a comfortable silence for a while. Two men, one old, one still decently young, had arrived at a conclusion that might not make them happy, but did assure them that they could continue the struggle that was duty, life and the future.

"Tell me, Maester Aemon, they say that magic is strong here in the North, and especially at the Wall?" he asked after the silence had grown long.

"Hah." the old man replied, with a tone that clearly indicated disdain. "The Wildlings have skinchangers, or wargs as they call it, a few at least. But magic is gone from these lands, and I hope it stays away. It is of no use."

"Oh, I concur." he said with a chuckle. "Magic is common where I and the Captain come from. And nothing good ever comes from it, trust me."

"They say the wall was built by Brandon Stark, called the builder, and that he used magic as well as mundane means to build it. And enshrined powerful spells in its base to prevent enemies from crossing it. But Wildling bands climb the wall regularly, so I suppose they are weak and magic is as weak here as everywhere." the old Maester said with a shrug.

"Oh, perhaps there is something to the stories?" he said with a wide smile, nodding as if he knew something others did not. "To change the subject from something as useless as magic, my apologies if I am rude, but how did you lose your sight, Maester Aemon?"

"I take no offense, Equites. My eyesight turned narrower and narrower over the years, and then became fuzzy before it vanished completely. I have been blind for some time, and while I regret not being able to read, I fulfill my duties." the old Maester said with a nod.

"Ah. I think it would be what my people call 'green narrows'. Unfortunately, it is common among the elderly." he said. "I did study medicine for some time. Would you mind if I took a look?" 'for some time' was an exaggeration, of course. He had studied many subjects for a short time. But he had other tricks.

"If you think you could learn something, Equites." the old man said with some hesitation. So he rose and took the few step over to the old Maester and with a small apology studied his eyes closely. "Ah yes." he lied. "I see. Green narrows indeed."

"Will that help you, Equites?" the old man said with an amused tone in his voice.

"Not me, but perhaps you, Maester. If you'll allow me to inflict a small sting?" he asked, drawing his dagger.

"I suppose I could. It is not like it could be worse." the old man chuckled and grimaced as he pierced the eyelids at the side of the eyes a bit, sending a small trickle of blood down both sides of the old man's face. Then he threw a glance over the shoulder, sheathed the dagger and placed both his hands over the eyes of the old man. If someone had studied the two men closely, perhaps they might have noticed a very faint yellowish glow between the long and dexterous fingers of his hands.

"What are you doing, Equites? There's a warm sensation." the old man said as he removed his hands and sat down again. The old man opened his mouth to say something, but gasped, and left his chin hanging, his mouth wide agape. He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"What have you done?!" the Maester whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.

"You can see?" he replied with a smile.

"Yes. Narrowly, but clearly. I can see." the old man whispered. He nodded.

"Unfortunately, I cannot remove the sickness that took your sight. I can only reverse it temporarily." he said with a sigh and a shook head. "You will soon lose it again, like you did before. A few months, a year at most." he said, shaking his head again and meeting the wide-eyed gaze. "And like with your forgotten descendancy, I would appreciate it if it remained between the two of us." he said. "It is a simple thing, but a bit risky." he lied as the old Maester continued to blink and look around himself in amazement. "You are lucky that your sickness could be treated, if temporarily." he lied again, with a smile to cover it up.

"Of course, Equites." the old Maester said. "You have my most sincere gratitude. I can read again, even if it is just for a short while."

It did not take long before the old Maester excused himself to return to his tower and his tomes there. He took another goblet of wine and hoped the Maester would be a bit too busy for the rest of the Night's Watch to notice before he, the Captain and the Condottieri left for White Harbour tomorrow morning.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Know everyone. Never let someone come from nowhere to test you.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

They had stopped by White Harbour on the way back from Castle Black. It had been the most enjoyable stop on their entire tour of the North. White Harbour was a proper trade port, exporting the products of the North - wool, tin, wood, sawed lumber, bog iron (the western part of the continent bought from the Iron Islands, the eastern part from the North), honey and mead, ale, ironwood and many other things. Here good quality wool cloth was trampled in urine to become even better, or was coloured with dyes extracted from the plants and minerals of the North. Chamois and tanned leather was made at a near industrial scale and fish was salted or dried in the cold, salty air, but clever positioning of these districts left most of the city free from the stench of these industries. At the port, extensive shipyards maintained House Manderly’s trade fleet that plied their craft all over the Narrow Sea. He could even spot some galleys patrolling, ensuring the Skagosi did not return to their old ways.

The city was home to many bath houses, and it seemed like a hot bath was one of the favourite pastimes of the many wealthy merchants of White Harbour. It was almost like home, despite the lack of an aqueduct.

To sweeten the pot even more, House Manderly eagerly met with him, and nothing was off the table in the discussions. He had found Lord Manderly an interesting man. Behind the layers of lard and supposed joviality and lack of martial prowess rested a very sharp mind that knew very well how to make others under-estimate it and profit from it. Their negotiations regarding trade and tax farming had made him sweat more than he had so far in his otherwise Sebastokrator-forsaken land. It had been wonderful! In the end, he had made deals to export salt and dyes from Dorne, salted beef from the Riverlands and a few other products his pre-visit research had told him White Harbour would desire.

But all good things must end, and he and the Captain had found themselves back in King's Landing for a while, where he shored up the business and organised the new banking and trade rights acquired in the Riverlands and in the North as well as got involved in some of the less than honest businesses in King's Landing. Not for the profits - they could be good, but the risk was almost always too high to be worth it, but for other reasons. While he did not want to dabble in politics, the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys was right - at times, politics dabbled with you. And if it happened, you better be prepared for it.

Speaking of Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers continued to accept an invitation for glass of wine and a game of Cyvasse every three to four weeks or so. The so-called 'Spider' played an intricate, slow and hard to figure out game and they often had to leave it unsettled, as neither of them were able to get the upper hand before they had to return to more important duties.

He did have a creeping feeling that the eunuch easily could have bested him any time he liked, having played the game before during his time in Essos, but rather would string the game out to continue their conversations and philosophical musings, and perhaps to see how he would play. And keep the foreign Lord and all his coin and strange personal guard under check, as his 'little birds' kept being discovered and often sent to an orphanage the Equites funded, being well fed, learning basic arithmetic as well as expanding on their letters in combination with a trade that could support them decently.

"What is power, Equites?" the pudgy eunuch asked during one of their games over a goblet of superb Dornish red.

"The ability to compel others to do your bidding." he replied smoothly and made a move.

"I suppose." the eunuch replied, seemingly considering the statement before continuing. "But what compels?"

"Violence." he replied as the eunuch made another move.

"So, brute force is the only power there is?"

"At the end, yes. But the more civilised a society becomes, the more layers are added on top of it." he replied, taking another sip of his wine as he considered the board. "From hunter-gatherers to wealthy merchants and noble families the way power is formed and used changes exponentially." he said, hesitated for a moment and then made a move.

The eunuch punished his mistake by taking one of his lesser pieces. A sacrifice to save a higher value piece. They both played conservatively, a long game, not rushing headlong in and trading high-value piece for high-value piece. Instead they maneuvered back and forth, tried to entrap each other and often sacrificed lesser pieces to keep their bigger assets. They both ran the long con.

"If violence is always at the end, why have layers at all? The powerful can just take what they want." the eunuch posed.

"You could, for a while. But some will resist. And even if you win, it will cost you. And people may band together to take you down, if they think you may go for them next. And even if they don't, what you wanted is often worth less than what it cost you to get it by brute force."

"So power can be wasted?"

"Of course." he replied and moved again, placing the eunuch in a dire situation.

"And where does your beloved coin enter this, Equites?" the eunuch asked as he considered the board.

"Coin is portable power." he answered.

"Only if people want coin."

"People always want coin."

"If you do not have food and the other man has barely enough, he will not sell regardless  how much coin you offer." the eunuch countered as he moved a lesser piece to sacrifice.

"Inflation. For enough coin, someone will transport food to you." he answered, to which the eunuch made a grimace.

"You seem to have an answer for everything, but I will counter with this, Equites. People want coin because they believe it will buy them things. Likewise, the ability to use power resides where people believe it resides."

"I suppose so. That is another layer on top of the violence." he said and made another move. They would not agree on this.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Protect yours. But don't let them use that as a shield from consequences. It will set them on dangerous paths for all of the men." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

Back in King's Landing, he had returned to drilling his recruits, finding suitable men to make his Lieutenants, having them escort caravans and traders as well as the various tax collectors and bank officials Equites made use of. He had to 'retire' men to estates being tax farmed, switch people in and out, use some as civilian labour to hide their numbers. 

A foreign Lord with 500 men spread out all over the Seven Kingdoms was nothing out of the ordinary. A foreign Lord that could command half the personal strength of a Lord Paramount, that would raise some eyebrows. Especially if it spilled out that one of his men was worth three to ten of the men of the half-useless feudal levies of this land.

They continued to use the Iron Gate, making their way though Fleabottom when going to and from the drilling fields outside the city and the lines of armoured men had quickly became a common and everyday sight among the poor, destitute and barely scraping by people of the slums of King's Landing. Today, however, was a bit different. It was just before midday, and he walked alone, carrying this week's pay in a pleasantly jingling bag of coins attached to his breast belt, hanging on his back. Heading from one of Equites' banking houses back to the garrison house they still made use of, he noticed he was being followed. Only a matter of time then.

It did not take long, of course. He turned into a narrow alleyway and found himself in front of a large, burly man wielding a heavy goedendag, with three more approaching from behind. Unsavory characters, with heavy stubble, dirty clothes and a stink of cheap wine and ale on their breaths. Hard men used to the dirty fighting in even dirtier alleyways. One of them had a significant limp. Two of them missed fingers and all were scarred with lumpy, destroyed ears. The pride and hope of Fleabottom. He briefly considered just charging through the large man in front of him, but decided against it.

This would keep happening until enough of Fleabottom had learned, and it had been a while since he had dealt with the odds makers' roughmen after the tournament when they had just arrived. He stopped.

"My good man. You're in my way." he said simply, as the three men behind him approached.

"Just turn over that bag of coin, and no-one needs to be hurt." the man in front of him said, revealing an uneven set of teeth. Some had been knocked out, or pulled by a dentist, at some point in time. The man made a 'give it here' gesture with his hand, impatiently. Behind him the other three drew closer. A dagger, two goedendags and a plain wooden club. He burst into a wide and happy smile, something the stiff scars turned into a horrible grimace of blood-thirsty excitement. Which was not too far from the truth.

"Gentlemen. You are unawares doing me such a service." he said, as the four approaching from behind hesitated. He brought his armoured hands together in a metallic clap. "For this, I promise that I will spare the man that starts running first."

"What?" said the large man in front of him, evidently confused.

"The one who starts running first, lives." he repeated himself, his voice sinking into a base growl before he spun around and launched himself at one of the men wielding a dagger, bring himself and the three crashing down into the filth and half-rotten wooden beams that made up the 'street' of the alleyway. The dagger bounced harmlessly against the thick lamellar cuirass as the man below him tried to stab him in the gut. A good move, had they not been stupid enough to attack an armoured man. He did not bother with the sword or the dagger. This was not war, just... Lucky relief. He extended his arm and his armoured hand clasped around the throat of the man below him.

"Get him off me! Get... Gurgl." the angry cries of the man below him ended in a throaty sound as he squeezed the windpipe shut. To their credit, the two other men rallied quickly, scrambling to their feet while the large man started bashing his goedendag over his shoulders and back. Powerful blows still not doing much damage due to the stiff armour. However, as the others joined in, he had to get out. Sooner or later they would crack ribs, or get a lucky hit in. So thus he tightened his grip on the man beneath him, using his armoured fingers as claws as a high-pitched whine escaped the man. He was furiously and fruitlessly stabbing his dagger into his armoured chest over and over again. Then he ripped the throat out of the would-be bandit, tearing a sizable chunk of flesh out. Blood sprayed everywhere over him and the other three would-be bandits as the man under him let out a pathetic gurgle and managed one last weak attempt at a stab. Good spirit, at least.

The other three seemed stunned and he used the two second respite to ride to his feet before the blows started to fall. He grabbed the larger man by the face, wincing as a hard blow landed in his arm from one of the others, and then turned his torso, using his body weight and the strength both in his arms and legs to push the man's head into the stone wall behind him. A sickening crack could be heard, and when he let go, the man slid down, leaving a sticky trail of blood, pieces of cranium and brain matter on the wall.

With a wide smile he turned to the last two who seemed pale, with wide eyes flickering to each other. Suddenly one of them, the limping man, threw away his club and started running, as good as he could make it.

"Coward!" shrieked the other, but still followed suit, throwing away his goedendag and making good speed. He pursued them, of course. People may think a man in heavy armour is not fast. That is not true. He might be a bit slower than a man without armour, but in general his weakness is that his weight will make him tire much faster. But not if he runs many leagues with armour every week.

The second survivor soon passed the limping man who cried out for being passed as the blood-soaked Captain approached from behind, steadily gaining ground.

He caught up with the limping man, who by now was sobbing desperately. "Please, no!" he said as he slipped and tumbled down into the dirty excuse for a street.

He passed him by, soon catching up with the second survivor, tripping him and then quickly pummeling his face in, literally, with his armoured fist. Leaning in to make sure the man was no longer breathing, he then got up and walked over to the limping man who had perched himself up to a wall, probably having sprained his ankle when slipping. 

The man sobbed. "Please!" the man exclaimed pathetically through a dry throat.

"Of course." he replied with a wide smile.

"What?" he got back from the trembling man.

"I said I would spare the one who started running first. Not the one who got furthest." he said with a short laugh. He reached into the bag on his back and took out a small handful of coins and threw them on the man. "You live to tell the tale of what happened here. What happens when you go after the Condottieri. Tell it well, or I may still come for you." he said with a nod, turned left and resumed his original quick march back to the barracks.

Within him the great blackness purred like a kitten given a bowl of cream.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Justice is a fine balance between what is popular and what is prudent." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

He was sitting at a simple wooden table, arranging this week's sold, stacking silver coins all over the rough surface like it was beans. Two of the Condottieri standing guard at the entrance to the re-purposed stable kept eying the piles of coin. He noticed, but said nothing. They were smarter than to try to take it, and probably just eagerly awaited the combination of pay and an afternoon and night off duty to go spend it at the inns, alehouses and brothels of Fleabottom, where that kind of money would make a man King for a day.

Second company, Sergeants, two silver stags per week, that made eight…

He was interrupted by the unmistakingly sound of a Condottieri coming running double-quick. He raised his gaze to instinctively watch the form of the man coming running. It was good. Conservative, could be kept up for a long time. Excellent.

"Captain!" the man stopped in front of the table and saluted by pressing a fist to the lamellar cuirass he wore.

"Condottieri Bakerson." he acknowledged the man.

"There is a man at the gate insisting to speak with you. Quite loudly." the man said.

He raised an eyebrow split in three by his scars at that. "Does he look like some kind of official?" he inquired.

"He does not, Captain." the man replied. Good form on the report too, clear and to the point. He would have to add this man to the list of potential Sergeants in the future. Not all that took to soldier training well were leader material, but there was usually a decent overlap.

"Very well. Show him in."

The Condottieri saluted, spun around and returned to his post, double-quick. He soon returned with a small, older man with long, unkempt and thinning hair and a clear stench of stale ale and wine around him, a large pointed nose and the fury of righteous anger in his sunken, grey eyes. Trailing him came an even smaller young woman. A comely creature that he supposed those who were attracted by women would describe as cute or fine rather than stunning or beautiful, were it not for the swollen lip and bruise around one of her eyes, which she tried to hide with a cowl over her nut-brown hair.

The older man did not stop for any kind of greeting or polite exchange of bows, but made a beeline for the table, banging his fist into its roughly hewn surface with surprising force, making the stacks of coins jump, cling and jingle. He had to prevent one pile from tipping over and spilling all over the place.

"I demand justice!" the old man exclaimed, his voice trembling with anger and the effort from keeping it at least close to a normal volume.

"Justice for what?" he replied, shifting his gaze from the old man to the young lady and back, suspecting what the answer would be.

"One of your men forced himself on my daughter!" the old man more or less yelled, grabbing the young woman by the arm and forcing her forwards. "Show him!" he yelled. 

Slowly the young woman raised her eyes to meet his own and drew the cowl back a bit. That she had been roughly handled was evident.

"And who do you accuse of this?" he asked, still sitting at the table. The old man pressed the young woman's arm forward a bit, in a gesture that was half encouragement and half forceful order. "Tell him!" the gaze of her eyes returned to the ground immediately in front of her feet. "TELL HIM!" the old man said, louder and with a command to the tone. The old man had a lot of rage and command in such a small frame, he thought.

"Will... Will Williamnson." she finally piped up, barely audible.

"I own the inn 'New pig and whistle' in Fleabottom." the old man said. "My daughter work there as a serving maid. He courted her, and when she rejected his advances, he violated her!" the old main continued, pointing a finger into his face. Ignoring it, he stood and threw a glance to one of the Condottieri at the door, who drew up in attention in response. Good man.

The sound of armour moving when the Condottieri stood at attention seemed to draw the attention of the old man that he had brought himself and his daughter completely at the mercy of a band of well-armed men that were known to care for their own, and some of his authority seemed to leave him. But he was in too deep to back out now.

"Condottieri, fetch me Condottieri Williamson." he ordered, the man saluting and leaving immediately, only to return soon after with a large and not very handsome man with dark blonde hair and severe pox scarring. The large Condottieri seemed annoyed, but froze as he saw the pair, fear and then anger passing over his face.

"Condottieri Williamson, you have been accused of rape." he said with a growling low base voice that seemed to bring the very room to vibrate. The large Condottieri's eyes flickered back and forth and the awkward silence continued as all watched him and he struggled to reply.

"The little whore deserved it! She probably wanted it anyway! No other way she'll get a man!" he exclaimed.

Not the sharpest spear in the stack, eh, he thought. A simple denial would probably have sufficed, but after that long a silence, he probably knew it would not work. So he said what he thought. Shame.

"Condottieri, seize Condottieri Williamson." he said, with the two men at the door moving to grab the man's arms surprisingly quick.

"What?" the man yelled. "It was just a little whore from Fleabottom!" he continued, struggling against the other two men, who held him firmly. "Captain!" Williamson tried, as he got nearer.

"Shut up." he ordered. As Williamson continued to protest, he simply punched him over the mouth. Hard. That silenced the man.

Then he turned to the old man and presented a deep and respectful bow. "My most sincere apologies for the Condottieri's actions." he said, stepped over to the table, took a small leather bag and counted out a hundred silver stags. "For restitution, I offer a hundred silver stags. If used for a dowry, your daughter should still be able to find a suitable marriage despite this unfortunate event." the old man took the bag of coins, but fury seemed to return to his eyes.

"I demand he is punished!" he said.

"Of course." he answered. "Please follow me." he made his way outside, gesturing to the Condottieri to bring Williamson with them. "Tie him to a pole." he ordered, and the two men did as ordered, tying the hands of the rapist high on a supporting wooden column of one of the buildings surrounding the small courtyard. He stepped forward to the surly and dogged Williamson and removed his shoulder and arm protections and cuirass himself, then the gambeson beneath and then even the linen undershirt, leaving the man naked from the waist up.

"Condottieri Carpenter. Make sure the kitchen brings out a table of refreshments." he ordered as he put down two chairs not far from the silent and surly Williamson. He then stepped into the armoury and returned with a wicker faggot, at least a dozen rods. He undid the tying and then presented it to the old man.

"I request that you avoid his eyes and private parts. Infections there can kill him, and I would like him still able to serve when you are done." he said simply and matter-factly.

"What? You want me to beat him?" the old man asked.

"Yes. You and your daughter. The crime was committed against you and your daughter. It is only fitting that you deliver the punishment. It stops before you kill him, or when you are both too tired to continue." he said, pushing a rod into the hand of the old man, who raised it, seemed to study it while his face slowly broke into a cruel grin. He swung the rod into the air a few times, getting a feeling for the weight, reach and handle of the thing.

As a Condottieri came from the kitchen with a table and then setting it with bread and butter, raisins, watered down wine and cool water, vinegar and salt and smoked sausages as well as mashed chickpeas mixed with oil, the blows rang out in the afternoon. He watched the whole thing, of course.

"Remember, Condottieri, your conduct does not reflect just on you, but on all Condottieri. Act like arses, and you will be treated like this. If not by me, then by the people around you sooner or later. Condottieri will have discipline on and outside the field, or they will be hated. And hated men die by a thousand small pinpricks." he lectured and raised an eyebrow again as the henceforth immoble and quiet young woman let out a scream of rage, grabbed a rod and went to town at a rate he had not thought her capable of.

In fact, she was still at it when her father sunk into one of the chairs, breathing heavily and with a coat of sweat over his face half an hour later.

"How does she do it?" the old man said, shaking his head as blood splattered from the back of Williamson onto the stone courtyard. She had already broken two rods.

"Never under-estimate a woman's need for revenge." he replied, nodding towards the old man. She would be spent too, soon. Before the sun set, he suspected. Williamson would barely be alive, let alone conscious by then.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Kaisar may have his faults, but he certainly knew how to look past problems to hire and keep competent servants. And make sure they kept him on his toes.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

It had started as a simple trade deal. A cargo of Myrish glass as clear as the cleanest water, something to make a proper profit on, but more importantly, a chance to establish a trade link across the Narrow Sea. The Myrish merchant seemed to think alike and they met at a lavish tavern for just this kind of thing right next to the piers outside Fishmarket. It was soon evident why the Myrishman wanted to meet outside the Mud Gate rather than inside it. With him was a quiet slave responsible for his bookkeeping. Bribing the goldcloaks to look the other way, not even counting any particularly moral merchant or Septon that might pass by, could be expensive and potentially disastrous. Here, outside the walls, few cared. People were here for business and wine, not acting morally upstanding.

They had shared excellent wine, jokes about the lack of mercantile skill among the nobility of Westeros, told stories of trade and tricking pirates, of Kaisar and Myrish magistrates and how to stay in the good grace of powerful men. He had bought the cargo and paid well. Then the discussion had turned to further co-operation and perhaps a permanent business relationship, with the Myrishman seeming eager for it. The merchant claimed to have heard many things about him, the Equites from so far away that no-one knew where his realm was.

They had negotiated a bit back and forth on the matter and then reached an agreement on a commission of trust. The merchant would leave a copy of his books with him. He would study them and learn of the merchant's trade, wealth and businesses and thus know if he was a proper business partner. In return, he would suggest anything that could help improve the business. A good way to establish trust that cost him little but time.

But oh so much time. He was still pouring over the whole thing, back and forth, several days later. His guts told him there was something here that he could find, something important, but he could not find it. For the strength of the Sebastokrator, he could not find it. No matter, he would. Sooner or later. He smiled and poured himself another glass of wine as yelling and banging downstairs announced that Captain Andreios was teaching some new recruits a vital lesson or two.

Two months later they met again, the Myrish merchant, his slave and him, at the same tavern, sharing wine again.

He turned over the book-keeping.

"You have a skilled book-keeper, Master Bothros." he complimented the merchant, who raised his glass in recognition of the compliment. He watched the silent book-keeping slave as he said so, but the man's face was a study in nothing at all.

"That said, I do have a few suggestions for you. First of all, I think you keep too much coin at hand. While I understand that you want to keep ready for any good deal of Myrish produce that might pop up, your credit should be excellent and most of it sits around. I would suggest investing in another ship, or any other venture that you would find suitable..." he went through a few more options, some basic irregularities and the fact that the lace business was not making as much profit as it should, suggesting they either had a problem with waste or someone was pilfering. In the end, Master Bothros was happy and he was happy. There would be several more profitable trade deals, of that he was sure.

"I do like your man's book-keeping. He would not be for sale, by any chance?" he then suggested with a warm smile.

"Oh, Endros is vital for my business." the Myrishman replied, with the slave's eyes darting between the two men. "Besides, he seems to have eyes for one of my house slaves, a pretty young thing. I'm not sure he would like to part with her."

"I see." he replied. "But if I buy both of them? I'm not well versed in the price of skilled slaves, I'm afraid, but say three hundred gold dragons?" he inquired. It was a lie, of course. He knew very well the price, which would be what he had offered. But he gave the Myrishman a chance to rip him off a bit.

"Oh, the people of Westeros never are." the Myrishman replied with a laugh. "For the sake of our good relations, I might be willing to part with them both for a thousand gold dragons. And it would not be until the next time I come to King's Landing. I would need to find replacements." the man said.

They negotiated fiercely, both enjoying it immensely, and eventually he brought the price down to six hundred gold dragons. Twice what the man would have to pay for the replacements. Of course the merchant was happy when he and his silent slave (the slave helping his rather drunk master) boarded his ship again.

Another two months later, he found himself in the very same tavern again, handing over a heavy purse filled with gold coins and taking custody of a book-keeping slave and a beautiful young kitchen slave. After exchanging pleasantries, he motioned the slaves to follow him and went upstairs to a room he had rented. He rounded a table and sat down, motioning to the chairs on the other side.

"Please have a seat." he said with a smile, and a bit confused, the two sat down.

"Now, we should introduce ourselves. I am Equites Lysander Asimachos, and this is Condottieri Captain Alexios Andreios." he gestured towards the heavily armoured man at the door. "And you are?"

"Endros, book-keeper." the book-keeping slave responded, his voice a low but clear barytone with the Myrish funny accent when speaking common. He turned his eyes to the girl, who kept her gaze virtuously towards the floor. "Asynthia. Kitchen maid, Master." she said.

He grimaced a bit, but pressed on.

"As you might know, slavery is illegal in Westeros..." he began.

"So we shall keep our status a secret while we serve you, Master?" said Endros. He paused, blinked and then burst out laughing, a short, but joyful sound that had both slaves blinking.

"No, not quite." he said. "Captain?" the armoured man stepped forward and placed two bundles on the table, wrapped in simple grey cloth stained with oil. He unwrapped the first, revealing a simple shortsword and dagger in equally simple leather scabbards bound together, eerily similar to the one at the Captain's belt. They were weapons without decorations, but made from fine, high-quality steel.

"Where I come from, slavery is illegal too. It is, however, the right and the duty of each free man to defend himself, his family, his neighbourhood and indeed the Empire itself. Thus he must be armed. When a boy turns twelve, he is usually gifted a shortsword and a dagger. Serfs that buy their freedom and foreigners granted citizenship usually buy one for themselves." he slid the sword across the table. "Pick it up, and put it in your belt as a free man, Master Endros."

The slave sat still, eying the sword, probably suspecting a trap or a test of his loyalty.

"Why?" he finally let out, with a strong hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Oh, I want to have your services. I will make you an offer, but I want to make sure your servitude is willing, should you accept it." he said with a smile.

"And if I choose to not accept?" Endros asked, still with suspicion.

"Then I am out six hundred gold dragons for little benefit. But sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose." he said with a short laugh.

"And what about Asynhia?" Endros continued.

"Yes, coming up." he said with a smile and unwrapped the second bundle, revealing an iron padlock with the bronze key in the keyhole. "Free women have the right to personal property. It is usually signified by having the ability to lock it away and keeping the key on one's person." he said, sliding the lock over the table towards the still floor-staring young woman, who reached out and took the lock with hands that trembled a little.

"She's good, especially for her age and skillset, but not as good as you, Master Endros." he said with a laugh, causing a terrified look from the woman before her gaze returned to the floor.

The now former slave slowly reached out and placed a hand on the sword.

"Why?" he asked again.

"I have seen your book-keeping. You are even better at it than both of you are at playing respectful and demure. Tell me, Miss Asynthia, how did you come to Master Bothros' household?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

"I was a gift from his friend and ally, Master..." she began.

"No, you were not." he interrupted with a short laugh and looked from one former slave to the other. One stone-faced, the other surprised. "Why not tell her, Master Endros?" he inquired.

"I don't..." the former slave began.

"Oh, you are not in the service of Master Bothros anymore. Besides, I have seen it in the book-keeping. No need to deny it." he pressed on with a smile. "Come on now."

The former slave looked like he would continue to deny it, then he breathed a sigh. "I bought you, Asynthia."

"What?" she exclaimed.

"Ever since I saw you when your Master visited mine, I wanted you close. I fudged Master Bothros’ books and hid it, well enough I thought, and got enough money out to hire people to make fake letters between our Masters, buy you and have you delivered to Master Bothros' household." he said.

"You did all that... For me?" she whispered.

"Yes." he whispered back.

"Yes, he did. And it took me days to even notice it. He rewrote an entire book to hide it, causing the irregularities to be normal. He even made sure each looked like any other transaction, taking more when there were uneven sums due to exchange of different coin. Quite brilliant." he coughed a bit to get the attention of the two, who seemed to only have eyes for each other now. She holding her padlock, he his sword and dagger. They slowly turned their eyes towards him.

"Now, I have a job offer for you, Endros. The pay will be two gold dragons per month, of which I will withhold one to pay off the six hundred I just paid for you, until your debt is repaid. You'll be able to steal and pilfer some, of course, and there'll be some bonuses too. Should you walk off, now or later, I'll forgive your debt."

"What about me?" asked Asynthia.

"Endros should be able to support a wife and eventually a family quite well on a gold dragon per month." he said with a wink towards her. "You are married?"

"No..." she said, a bit flustered, but having dropped the play of staring demurredly at the floor. "Master Bothros spoke of allowing us to, erm, breed more slaves in the future. But not until he had the first night. Or several."

"I see. However, should a promising free man with a steady job propose sometime soon, I am sure a nice wedding in whatever faith you follow could be arranged." he said with a wide smile.

"Oh, we don't... Really have a faith. Myr is a city of many faiths, but few for slaves." Endros said.

"I could marry you in the name of the Sebastokrator, should you want it." he said and offered a stretched out hand. "Do we, two free men, have a deal?" he asked.

Endros looked at the hand, glanced towards Asynthia and then took it. "We do. And thank you."

"Oh, I am sure you will repay me with good services." he said with an even wider smile. 

Most likely.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Highgarden, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Some let their curiosity get the better of them. It is wise to exploit that." Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Highgarden was... Interesting, to say the least. He had heard the stories and had disregarded most of them. Trade happened at centres of power, and where trade happened, cities sprung up. With cities came thievery, corruption, back-stabbing competition, drinking and other merry pursuits that made cities interesting and captive and the countryside dull and reliable. But Highgarden was not a city. It was a huge castle, of course, but most of all, it was a manor of stupendous size for the vast and fertile lands around it. It was the pinnacle of feudal, agricultural wealth and to be honest, he had never seen anything quite like it anywhere else. Not even the most lavish agricultural estates in Shault, not even the Prince of Massenos' great sugar cane producing lands could compare.

A city would have many merchants - small and big. Here, everything belonged to the Tyrells. The massive warehouses storing thousands if not millions of bushels of cereal? Tyrell property, along with their contents. The small inns and alehouses, mostly catering to Tyrell serfs, overseers, rent collectors and carthandlers? Tyrell property. The salteries, the smokeries, the stone wine fermenteries, the wineries, the meadhouses, the alebreweries? All Tyrell property. The men and women toiling in all those businesses were all Tyrell serfs, sworn to Lord Paramount of the Mander Mace Tyrell himself. Oh, they were wealthy for serfs, fat for serfs, well-dressed for serfs and seemed content and perhaps even happy for serfs. A few of them even owned their own serfs. But still, Tyrell serfs.

Oxen and horse carts came and went at a steady pace and mind-boggling frequency. Only now and then could you see a merchant among them, usually someone coming to sell something to the Tyrells, or buy their produce. Down the Rose Road and up and down the Mander the carts and barges went with Tyrell produce, transported by Tyrell serfs for the profit of the Tyrells.

He could see now why no invitation had been forthcoming from Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell as he had sent out his feelers. The Reach, and especially the Tyrells, needed no tax farming, no trading and no banks. They were richer of the fertile lands than probably half the nobility of Westeros together, perhaps sparing Lord Tywin Lannister of the Westerlands and his productive gold mines.

With no invitation to the court of the Lord Paramount, he had to make do with some trade deals and meeting some lower nobility interested in loans and taking part in some tax farming, and perhaps getting a third son into his business or to serve as Condottieri 'to toughen the lad up a bit' or similar. He took a room at one of the better inns - a Tyrell inn, of course, and conducted business, buying some grain and stone wine, mostly to sell over the Narrow Sea. The Braavosi especially seemed dependent on grain purchases from overseas, primarily the Reach, and there was a lot of profit to be made that way.

It was on the afternoon on the third day, and he was catching up on some of the book-keeping now kept by his assistants, among them the newly engaged Endros, who had noted that Williamson's wages were garnished by four fifths to pay for the one hundred silver stags that had been paid for a dowry for the girl he had raped. Ah, yes, that was the Captain's business. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Hm? He raised an eyebrow. He did not expect any more visitors for today.

"Enter." he said. The door opened, revealing his assistant showing the innkeeper in.

"Is there a problem, Master Keeper?" he asked, carefully putting his quill down.

"No, not as such, Equites. But you have a visitor." the man said.

"Oh? I did not expect any more visitors today?" he replied.

"You misunderstand, Equites." the man insisted. "You have a visitor."

He raised an eyebrow at that. The tone indicated someone important. Oh? "I suppose you better show him in, then." he said with a smile.

"Her." the man corrected him. "And, as you wish, Equites." the man bowed, and he returned the gesture and the man turned and left. However, he had not had enough time to get downstairs again before a couple of Tyrell men-at-arms in the absolute finest castle-forged steel halfplate under impeccable Tyrell tabards came up the stairs in perfect lockstep, followed by a steward or personal servant helping someone up the stairs, and then two more men-at-arms. The Captain would probably be pleased by the perfect pace the men-at-arms marched at, making much noise as they stepped up the groaning wooden stair. Impressive. Less impressive, at first sight, was the short and seemingly frail woman being escorted up the stairs. With an air of annoyance she snatched her cane from the steward as they had ascended the stairs, tapping it into the polished wooden floor as the innkeeper bowed so low that he feared the man might tip over.

"Yes, yes. Very well. Now be off." the woman said to the innkeeper and nodded a short acknowledgement of his presence and subservient gesture and waved the cane in his general direction. The man took his leave quickly, stepping down the stairs and being gone in less than a few seconds. He noted that she shared one of Kaisar's traits. That of the natural authority of someone born into a very high position and being used to being immediately obeyed at every occasion.

He stood from behind the table, walked around it and stepped out the door to bow almost as low as the innkeeper. "Lady Olenna Tyrell, née Redwyne. What a pleasant surprise!" he exclaimed with a wide smile that was almost completely genuine.

"Equites Lysander Asimachos. We'll see if it will be a shared experience." the old lady said and tapped her cane into the floor with some impatience. 'The Queen of Thorns' certainly was direct. "I wish to speak with you." she said, with the same authority, turned around and gestured towards the steward, who immediately handed her a bundle. She then made an impatient gesture with the upper part of her hand towards the men-at-arms and the steward. "You lot stay here."

The men seemed used to this kind of arrangement and merely nodded their assent as his assistant arranged for a chair to be added in front of his table for the Lady.

"May I escort you to some comfortable seating, Lady Tyrell?" he said, extending his arm towards her. She seemed to judge him from his head to his toes like something a cat had dragged in before she took his arm. "Very well. At least you know your manners." she said. He chuckled and escorted her to the chair, rounded the table and sat down.

"Now, this is for you." she said, unwrapped the bundle and placed a green glass bottle of aged stone wine on the table in front of him. "I understand it is the tradition of your people to give gifts when one visits."

He had heard much about 'the Queen of Thorns', but the tales of her wits had usually been limited to her razor-sharp tongue. He had to watch himself a bit here - she was the first one in Westeros to so blatantly make it obvious she had studied him beforehand. A warning, perhaps? Or just a friendly gesture? The latter did not sit well with the sharpness of her words, though.

"Thank you, Lady Tyrell. You have studied my traditions." he said with a smile.

"Only a fool does not find out what they can about who they meet." she said dismissively as his assistant - he needed to increase the man's salary - placed a tray of light snacks, mostly fresh fruit, and good watered wine on the table and cleared away the book-keeping.

"And may I perhaps inquire why I have the pleasure?" he asked. She took a grape, popped it in her mouth and chewed for a while, leaving a short silence he was sure made other men (and women) nervous around her. She knew how to use silence as well as words.

"I have been told about Equites Fish-rotter. About a petty foreign Lord lowering himself to trade and petty tax farming to make a pretty penny. And then he has the audacity to ask to see my son." she seemed to study him as she delivered the words. Probing for a reaction, perhaps?

"I have been told of the 'Queen of Thorns' and her razor-sharp tongue, the old widow who lashes out at everything and everyone and has the entire court of the Reach, including her son, cowed under her words." he replied with a smile.

"Don't get pissy with me little man!" she exclaimed.

"Pissy? I thought we merely retold what we had heard." he retorted, with an even bigger smile. She seemed to study him for a while before shaking her head ever so slightly.

"Perhaps we are. Perhaps we are." she finally said with a little smile that lacked several teeth. It seemed like he had passed some kind of test.

"Now, Mace thinks trade is below him." the tone indicated that she might have thought it above him rather than below. "And will not invite what he sees as a mere merchant, and a foreigner at that."

"So I have understood." he replied and sipped his wine. "I suppose I cannot expect to win the good graces of every man."

"Smart." she said with a small smile again. "But you have made quite a lot of money - and quite quickly. And I want to know how."

He raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon, but you do not strike me as the type of person that takes the effort to get down here to see me personally to get an answer to that question. You have servants that can find out for you."

She nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "Yes, that is true. But you hide your tracks a bit too well."

"I do?" he replied as if in surprise. It was entirely fabricated, of course.

"Yes, you do. Most of the people you tax farm will not speak of your arrangement. Silent as the grave!" she seemed a bit annoyed at that, tapping her cane into the floor to emphasize. "They don't complain to their Lords though, and there's no rabble-rousers inciting them to revolt as would be if they were severely maltreated. I can't find evidence of whip-crackers, kidnapped children, extortion or other unsavory means to increase production either." she continued.

"But you did not let that stop you, did you, Lady Tyrell?" he answered with a smile that seemed to frustrate her.

"Of course not. I am old and have few duties. One can only make so many needlework roses before one goes mad. So this proved an interesting challenge." she said.

"And what did you find out?" he asked, actually a bit curious now.

"All I found out was the ridiculous cover story you have told them to feed me. Getting some of them drunk, sending spies dressed up as smallfolk from other parts asking about you, all give the same bogus story. 'Abolishing corvee labour' my arse!" she more or less spat, shaking her head. He smiled.

"You will now tell me what it is you do." she finally said, pointing impatiently at him.

"And if I don't?" he challenged.

"You won't deny an old woman some peace of mind, of course." she claimed.

"Of course." he agreed. "I abolish corvee labour." he laughed a bit as her face turned sour.

"More of that cover story." she accused him.

"Lady Tyrell, I presume that your late husband gave you a few estates as a morning gift, which you retain the income of all your days?" he asked.

"As is proper." she answered.

"Let me tax farm them, and you, or your servants, can see first-hand what it is I do." he offered.

"Hah! Like I would let you steal a poor widow's only income."

"Your income would go up. I guarantee it." especially with lands as fertile as these.

She seemed to study him for some time, with a dour look on her face.

"Two of them." she finally said. "No more."

He nodded. "Agreed. Let us toast to mutual profit." he said, raising his glass towards her. She replicated the gesture and they drank of the excellent wine to mutual profit while he struggled not to laugh. Her curiosity had given him an inroad to tax farming in the Reach. Even if Lord Paramount of the Mander Mace Tyrell had said nothing, his mother letting him tax farm would make many Lords allow it as well.

She nodded towards his hand. "I see you carry a ring, Equites. Are you a married man?" she asked.

He glanced towards the ring on his left hand. A small, plain gold ring. "I... Was." he said. That was technically not a lie.

"Oh?" she said.

"She's in another world now." he said. Technically true as well.

"Oh, I am sorry." the sentiment actually seemed genuine.

"Don't be, Lady Tyrell." he answered with a wistful smile. "Our marriage was, as is proper among the higher classes of our society, decided by our parents while we were children. While some marriages start with respect and grow into a strong alliance, fondness and in some cases even love, ours started with resentment and eventually degraded into pure hatred." he explained with a grimace. "Despite two wonderful children, a daughter of thirteen and a son of six, we were entirely separated before..." he trailed off, letting her do the lying to herself.

"I see." she said, taking another sip of wine. "And for what it is worth, I am sorry."

"I shall survive, Lady Tyrell. But thank you nevertheless for your concern and sympathy. It is said among our people, 'Only the poor can afford love'." he said with a sad smile.

"Hah! That is a good one!" she exclaimed. "So, are you looking for a new wife?" she then asked.

"Why? Are you intent on setting your granddaughter on me like you did with Lord Paramount Luthor Tyrell?" he said with a big grin.

She actually looked quite shocked. "Heavens no!" she said, placing a palm over her forehead, before realising how little seriousness there had been in his words. "Bah, I will get you back, Equites Fish-rotter. Trust that. Not only the Lannisters pay their debts." she exclaimed with a hint of a smile.

"I am at your service, Lady Tyrell, any time you wish." he said with a laugh. "And had my title been a bit higher and my blood a little finer, maybe I would have come courting you."

"I was perhaps thinking of a daughter to a landed knight, one set to inherit." she explained and then raised an eyebrow. "They did say you were a sycophant, Equites, but not quite this bad."

"Oh, I do love a woman who can speak for herself. There are so many airheads and meek little does with no agency whatsoever." he met her gaze and fixed it there, having her blink first. With an air of irony, she corrected her hair slightly.

"Oh, do go on, Equites. Even if it is mockery, it has been so long since someone tried to seduce me." she said with a short laugh. He was happy to oblige.

They were on the third bottle of wine when the Lady Tyrell finally saw fit to let her steward lead her away (as she was a bit unsteady), back to the higher parts of Highgarden.

What an amazing woman! Had not more than twenty years as so many ranks separated them, who knew what could have happened?

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Lannisport, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Proud men are like pufferfish. It is so tempting to puncture them, but all you get for it is poison." Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Now, Lannisport was a proper city. While lacking an aqueduct and proper bathing houses and also being smaller than King's Landing, it was nevertheless larger than White Harbour and had some kind of thought-out sewer system. The smells were more off the sea, with its a little sharp but still pleasant mix of rotting seaweed and salt. Here and there a whiff of spices could be felt. The Lannisters mined gold and their wealth was legendary. And where there was gold, luxuries would soon pour in, something as natural as life and death themselves. And judging by the bustling trade on the streets and square markets of Lannisport, it was not just the Lannisters that had gold mines. Several of their vassals did as well, and they and their landed knights gorged themselves on the finest of wines, Myrish glassware and carpets, spices, silk and the lightest of cottons from Essos and beyond. On the gold road, gold went east to King's Landing and back came artisan products, art and luxuries.

Had he been Lord of the West Tywin Lannister, that would have had him worried. A place that produced nothing but precious metal would sooner or later have problems. Sure, the Westerlands was mostly self-sufficient in food and lumber, as well as various other ores, but it did not sell anything but gold. The Reach produced stone wines, wines, grain, meat, hides, leather and parchment and had a whole nascent book industry based around Oldtown. They also bred some of the finest warhorses. The North exported wool, honey, mead, tar, wood, slated and dried fish and ironwood. Dorne produced everything from subpar to excellent red wine, sugar and many valuable herbs and poisons used by the Maesters. The Riverlands produced grain, hemp, ale and fine leafwood lumber. The Iron Islands produced, well, iron mostly, but also traded, supplementing it with raiding should they get away with it. The Vale produced salt and wool, while the Stormlands produced flax and linen and Dragonstone produced salted and dried fish - and used to produce dragons.

But the Westerlands? Nothing but gold.

And they did nothing but trade with it. Sure, the Lannisters liked to use gold decorations, such as the silly leaf-gold-covered armour of Ser Jamie Lannister, gold-plated furniture and other insane applications of the material that rumour had Casterly Rock's bowels overflowing with. But it was not like they used their gold for something useful. Like starting a bank, or buying silver and paying all their servants in it, spreading enough money in their local economy to do away with bartering. Imagine the wealth of Lord of the West Tywin Lannister if all his subjects could pay their land rents in coin instead of grain, firewood and cattle.

But Lord of the West Tywin Lannister was interested in his gold. Not the gold or silver of others, or of banks or a coin-based economy. Like in Highgarden, there had been no invitation to Casterly Rock to meet with the Lannisters. He had to be content watching the looming rock from the window of the excellent inn he had rented a couple of rooms in. Some of the lower ranking Lannisters of Lannisport were not too high and mighty to smell a good profit as it walked by, and neither were many of the merchants making their home, permanently or temporarily, in Lannisport.

So despite the disappointment of receiving no invitation, and the Captain walking off to explore the arms industry and other, to him, interesting parts of the city, he was busy with a series of guests and potential trade partners. Making nice with a wealthy merchant well involved in the spice trade as the man was leaving, he realised he had new company waiting for him as he stepped out the door.

Two redcloaks - large, strong men in fine half-plate armour, deep red cloaks and polished halberds met his gaze. And between them a short, ugly and misshapen young man dressed in the finest of velvets in red and gold. He looked frightfully bored as he brandished a parchment roll with the seal of Casterly Rock on it. This could not be good news, but he would be damned if he would let that get in the way of opportunity. The difference between success and failure was to always be ready to grab the ever-fleeting chance by its throat and squeeze hard.

He bowed deeply and respectfully, with a flair that had the aura of court etiquette from somewhere far off (and a long time ago, the Empire was conservative, after all).

"Lord Tyrion Lannister, Heir Apparent to Casterly Rock and the Lordship of the West, the Westerlands and Warden of the West, what a pleasant surprise." he greeted the dwarf with a wide smile and got what seemed like a half-sarcastic, half-appreciative smile in return. It did not last long though.

"Tomas." he said to the young lad helping him with the book-keeping. "Would you please inform the innkeeper that we will require four... No, make that five bottles of his absolute best wine and two glasses?" he said and noted another short-lived smile in that ugly face and a glimmer in the green eyes of the young man.

This would most likely be very interesting.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Lannisport, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Kaisar, for all his other faults, certainly knew how to find and tie talent to himself and his cause. I seek to emulate him in this." Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

He invited the dwarf to sit, and sat himself on the other side of a nice hardwood table that did duty as his desk at this inn. Lannisport sure had some good inns compared to most other places he had visited on the continent. The wealth did not stop at the nobility, it seemed. The merchants that sold the nobility luxuries got their part too, and it showed. All the better. While he did not show it outwardly, he enjoyed the luxury immensely. The chance to be a proper dandy, dress in the finest silks tailored to an exact fit. Good food, even better wine and all the luxuries he as an impoverished nobleman forced to serve managing others' money instead of his own had not been able to enjoy in his own world.

Money made all the difference - had it not been for the dulling ache of missing his children (their mother not so much), he might even have enjoyed it.

"Now, Equites, I fear I must attend to duty before pleasures." Tyrion Lannister said and handed over the rolled parchment. He broke the seal and quickly scanned through the content.

"You have a skilled scribe, Lord Tyrion." he commented, to a furrowed brow from the dwarf. "Most excellent handwriting. Keep him close, or I might seek to snatch him from you."

"It is my father's personal scribe. He might take that as an insult." the dwarf replied with a half-hearted smile as Tomas poured them both wine - he put a palm upwards and raised it a little, and the young man nodded and filled the glasses almost to the brim.

"Well, we should probably not upset your Lord father more than he already is." he said with a short laugh and put the document down on the table.

"You seem quite chipper, especially considering the content of the letter..." the short Lannister Lord said and raised his glass in response to his own toast.

"Oh, the banning of both tax farming and any banking in the Westerlands, on the pain of exile and death should the exile be violated?" he said with a laugh. "Don't worry, Lord Tyrion. Where I come from, I am used to worse slights than this. And while I would have hoped to do banking in the Westerlands, there are other parts of the Seven Kingdoms to conquer, so to speak."

"I... See." the young Lord said and sipped his wine, raising golden-coloured eyebrows and the taste. Yes, he had chosen this inn mostly for its excellent wine cellar. "And how will you conquer the Seven Kingdoms?"

"With my bank, of course." he said, drinking his own wine and studying the younger man.

"By indebting Lords and merchants alike? Seems awfully risky. The Lords usually have quite a few swords to back them up, should they decide they are above paying their debts." Lord Tyrion pointed out. A relevant comment. It seemed like the rumours of the younger son being the sharpest tool in the Lannister shed by far had some merit to them.

"No. One should never provide a loan, one is not certain the loaner can pay back at any time." he replied and leaned forwards a bit. "I will make trade and transfer of coin easy. I will invest and lend money for investments to those with a sound plan for what to do with it.. And soon Lords and merchants will notice that their tolls, rents, fees and tariffs increase. Prices go down, yet more rents are paid in coin and promptly. And, as I am sure you know, gold can be stored many years, easily transferred and used, and does not rot, unlike grain."

"I don't think my father would approve." Lord Tyrion said. The 'but I would' was left unstated, but still clear.

"Oh, I am sure he is all 'No jumped up foreign merchant-so-called nobleman is going to get his hands on any of MY gold!'" he said, which earned him a guffaw from the dwarf.

"It seems you know my father well, Equites." the dwarf said as they toasted again. "And you plan to simply punish anyone that goes against you by removing your bank from them. And suddenly they and their vassals will find themselves poorer, with businesses and tradesmen shutting down or moving out of their demesnes. They'll be unable to afford the latest fashion and the finest luxuries for the next feast, and will lose face in front of their neighbours. And slowly they'll learn that being your friend equals them profit, and being your enemy hurts?" the dwarf said.

Sharpest tool in the Lannister shed indeed. He raised an eyebrow. "An astute analysis, Lord Tyrion." he said with a smile. "And a bit too close to the truth for comfort." he said, toasting again.

"So, you move in. Bring life to the local economy, make people dependent on you, all while making massive profit?" the dwarf asked.

"Yes." he replied.

"And is that your endgame?" Lord Tyrion asked, taking another sip of wine.

"Should it not be so? Money equals power. Power equals freedom." he retorted. He found it interesting that most of the time when he met with high-ranking Westerosi, he asked them questions, he learned from them and took away more information than he gave away, leaving them ignorant of the robbery he had just committed. But now it was this young and ugly Lannister that was taking him for information.

"Perhaps." the young dwarf said, drinking more wine. "But you seem like the kind of man that has a plan behind the plan." he smiled a bit, taking another sip of wine. "And a plan behind that."

"Might be." he confessed. "Or I am just building power until opportunity arises." he offered.

The dwarf nodded. "And you will not tell me, of course."

"You are after all your father's loyal servant." he retorted and glanced towards the letter, toasting the dwarf yet again. He put down his glass as Tomas smoothly entered and refilled their glasses with more wine.

"I suppose." the dwarf said, shrugging and glancing towards the two redcloaks stationed at the door behind him. Both were loyal men. But they were loyal to his father, not to him.

"Still, you need enough real power - swords and armour - to keep any desperate Lord from trumping up some charge and seizing all your assets he can get his hands on."

"That is true." he admitted.

"Which is why you have your Condottieri and Captain Andreios to lead them?"

"Guilty as charged." he said with a smile and toasted as the dwarf chuckled.

"I did some checking. Most seem to agree that you have around five hundred men. Competent heavy infantry, but no cavalry to counter a proper knightly charge." the dwarf said, spinning the glass between his fingers, looking at him. He opted to say nothing, as he had a feeling more was coming. "Spread out protecting banks, a few tax farmed estates, trade caravans and money transfers. But you know, I think they are wrong."

"Oh?" he replied.

"Yeah. I would say you have closer to two or three thousand. But you hide them well, to make sure no-one is upset by your raw power." the dwarf continued.

"What makes you come to that conclusion?" he said, refilling both of their glasses himself, waving Tomas away.

"Oh. You are earning a lot of money. And you are not feasting and greasing the axles of the noble cart. No hunting, no balls, no extravagant dinners with exotic food. You are not angling to get a position at court - as far as I can discern, you have not been to the Red Keep at all since you arrived at Kings Landing." he sipped on more wine before he continued. The man could certainly hold his alcohol, he was almost a proper Karastovlian! 

"And you are not the kind of man to keep large amounts of gold just lying around. No. It must go somewhere, and your army is the only viable option."

Their gazes met as they both sized each other up. He could see how many would underestimate Lord Tyrion because of his size and looks.

"And what would you do with this analysis, Lord Tyrion?" he finally asked after a pregnant silence, taking another sip of wine. He might look outwardly cool and keep his face straight, but his mind was racing. This was a potential disaster. The upper crust of Westeros learning of the real size of the Condottieri would raise questions and inquiries. He would no longer be underfoot, undetected and unmolested in his business. Things become... difficult.

"Oh, it is just idle speculation." the young Lord said with a broad smile. "Nothing I would bring to the attention of people with far more important matters at hand." he said, gesturing with the glass towards the declaration from his father.

"I see, Say, Lord Tyrion, what are your immediate plans?" he asked with a broad, almost wolfish smile. Inward, he breathed a sigh of relief. The implication was there though, the dwarf could tell if he so wished, if they became enemies. But why be enemies, when you could be friends?

"I have completed my tenure to maintain the... water systems of Casterly Rock." the dwarf said with a grimace. "I was thinking about going to King's Landing and see if I could make myself useful at the court."

"Very well. I should perhaps mention that I have been looking for an advisor for my bank. Someone who knows the noble Houses of Westeros and have some financial acumen to help my business penetrate further." he said with an eyebrow raised towards the dwarf. "I realise that such a position is far beneath the position of an Hier to the Lordship of the West, but to someone who would like to know King's Landing less publically, make a pretty penny while doing it and perhaps meet some very gracious young Ladies not too concerned about the institution of marriage..." he laid it on pretty thick, knowing some rumours about the young dwarf.

"An interesting position, Equites." the dwarf replied, non-commitantly.

"Oh, maybe I should add that I do allow drinking on the job. In fact..." he said, grinning as he poured them both more wine. "...it is an encouraged added benefit of the job, beyond pay. It is all part-time, as other duties allow, of course.”

“Of course.” the dwarf said and raised his glass and took a sip. "I might actually know someone interested in such a position, Equites. I just might."

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

Lannisport, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"Do not worry about magic, fate and other things you cannot change. If you can change them, do, if you can't, then accept them. Brooding is not productive." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

He had visited the rather limited armour and weapons establishments of Lannisport - most seemed to be in the huge rock that dominated the horizon of the city, serving the Lannisters of Casterly Rock and their troops. Speaking of which, here he had seen the best troops in this whole miserable world, maybe with exception for the personal levy of Prince Stannis at Dragonstone. Both the city watch of Lannisport and the professional redcloaks, personal guard of Lord of the West Tywin Lannister were well-equipped professional troops. They carried themselves with prestige and at least a vestige of discipline. And more importantly, good quality armour. It seemed like some of the men that guarded the Lannister family themselves wore half-plate while the rest wore coat of plates and riveted chainmail. That must have cost more than a pretty penny.

However, like all full-time troops he had seen on this continent, they spent more time standing guard duty, or simply drinking, gambling and being merry in their barracks like they had time off instead of adhering to any kind of rigorous training regimen. And yet again, what little training they did get seemed mostly centered around personal combat, like every battle would be a duel between two men and the next man would patiently wait for his turn to duel the winner.

To be fair, a lot of garrison troops were like that where he came from. But even the rag-tag militia of citizens of Karastovel, manning the Michalian Walls equipped with boar spears, slings or shortbows and wicker shields had some kind of formation training. Oh well.

Having mostly exhausted what military sights there were to see, he had strolled along the top of the walls, getting a feeling for their defensive worth and layout until a grumpy city watchman had sent him down to the city proper again. After that he had spoken with a Maester Acolyte selling herbs and ointments to finance his next year's training at the Citadel and made his way through the city's barbers, surgeons, doctors, wise old women and other healers, purchasing the odd bottle or jar with remedies and inquired about their abilities with broken bones, severed limbs, crushed shoulders, cuts and stab wounds.

Overall, it was an interesting experience. The last man had sent him here, to a door down an alleyway. A faded sign with a frog and a serpent hung over the small portal. The house itself was an impressive stone building close to the port, with the guards and the smell to reveal it was a spice merchant's residence, warehouse and shop. And a wealthy one, too.

Leaving his impressions aside, he opened the door, bowed his head under the low archway and stepped down the wooden stair, which creaked a bit under the weight of him and his armour. He removed his helmet and blinked a bit towards the sparsely lit room which smelled of herbs, spices and various oils. Despite the oil lamps that dotted the walls, it took some time to get used to the semi-darkness of the room after the bright daylight outside. The room was small, perhaps twelve feet by twelve feet, with a closed door presumably leading further into the cellar. The floor was of rough stone covered with decently fresh rush and the white-washed stone walls were more or less covered in shelves, upon which a multitude of clay and stone masoned jars, bottles and bowls stood, intermingled with the odd example of glass, all holding some kind of paste, ointment, herb or liquid, it seemed.

And in a corner, behind a simple wooden table, working a mortar and pestle sat an old woman in a worn but obviously comfortable plush chair.

"Who goes there?" she called out as he straightened his back.

"Captain Alexios Andreios, Madam. I was told that you sell cures and medicines and wanted to see if any could help my men." he said.

"Oh, do step closer, Captain. My eyes are not what they used to be." the old woman said.

He did as requested and noted that she was indeed very old. Almost no teeth, wrinkled and grey skin that seemed to carry a wicked scar close to her eyes - that were a predatory yellow.

"As you wish, Madam." he said, putting his helmet under his left arm and standing in front of him.

"A foreigner?" she said with a toothless smile that seemed wicked like that of monsters from stories you scared children with. "I am Maggy." she said, extending a hand. He watched it for a few heartbeats, then pulled off his armoured gauntlet and took her hand.

There was a sensation, as if a static spark had gone between them and with an audible gasp she withdrew her hand, pressing it close to her chest, almost flipping over her chair in the suddenness of her movement.

"You mean to kill me!!!" she shrieked. He raised an eyebrow.

"No." he replied as her panicstricken eyes flicked from one end of the room to the other, seemingly searching for escape or salvation. Her laboured hyper-ventilation calmed ever so slightly.

"You... You desire to." she stated.

He smiled a bit and bowed, a short but courteous bow. "Please do not take it personally, Madam. I desire to kill everyone."

She peered at him under silence after those words.

"Besides, if I intended to kill you, Madam, you would already be dead." he said, matter-of-factly.

There was a moment of silence after that, only interrupted by the old hag's laborious breathing.

"What are you?" she finally asked.

"I am Condottieri Captain Alexios Andreios." he said and raised a hand as she started to protest. "Is there a point to this?" he asked.

She was silent for a while, studying him.

"You are... Strange." she said. He smiled and bowed a short bow again. "Your fate is... Unclear." she continued.

"So I have heard before. I suppose it is Maegi, not Maggy?" he then asked.

"You know me?" the old hag asked.

"Where I come from, your kind is not unknown." he continued.

"Tell me!" she exclaimed. He felt slightly compelled to comply and briefly considered resisting it, but deciding not to. It was not some kind of vital secret.

"I briefly served as the bodyguard of a fate magician. A young and stupid one, still in training. He had the odd ability to step into vipers' nests barefoot and into lakes heavily armoured." he rolled his eyes a bit and chuckled. "He described the ability of a Maegi like that of a bard. Pluck at the strings of fate attached to someone, or something, and listen to the tunes the vibrations made. Like a bard could tell a lot on a lute that way, a Maegi could tell a lot about the future."

The old hag stared at him under silence for a short while. "Not a bad description, Captain. Not exhaustive, but not bad either."

"I suppose neither he nor you would like to tell me all your secrets." he said with a smile and short bow again. The smile turned out pretty predatory due to the stiff scars.

"I suppose not." she repeated. "But you must tell me. What are you?" she repeated, and again he felt the tug of willingness to comply.

"I am Captain Alexios Andreios." he repeated.

"No, not who you are. What you are." she insisted.

The silence that followed was pregnant with tension in the semi-darkness in the small cellar room.

"I am what I choose to be. Captain Alexios Andreios."

And with those words, he bowed again, and then turned around and marched up the stairs and into the streets again, taking a deep breath, as if the air down there had been stuffy and too hot. An interesting experience, but not a productive one.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"There are some I desire to kill far more than others." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

A part of keeping the power balance with the eunuch that visited the Equites now and then, it seemed, was to catch the young orphans running about gathering intelligence for the Master of Whispers. While the eunuch offered food and sweets, the Equites offered a stable future - a warm bed, meals every day and learning a trade that eventually would be able to support them. The smarter of the children, and thus usually the better spies often took the offer.

The rest? Well, they were fed a mix of half-truths, truths and lies for the eunuch to sort through.

But to maintain orphanages and have it be plausible, the Equites needed to cooperate with some. And that was why he was seated on a chair, uncomfortable already, adding nothing to the discussion and wasting his time. He was used to wasting time - it was required when you served high-born. Posturing, threats, diplomacy, endless talk and no action was part of their world, all layers above the naked violence everyone but the most deluded knew lay beneath. But this was worse than usual.

The Equites was running three orphanages - really, two of them had existed previously, but he was bankrolling them enough that even though they were technically run by the Faith of the Seven, in reality, here in this room was where they were run. The man himself was magnanimous about it of course, using diplomacy, praise and his velvet-tongue to flatter the Septon and the two Septas, each representatives of various Septries running orphanages for him in King's Landing. He was here mostly because it was expected that one or more of the three would sooner or later request some soldierly discipline for some of the older, more rowdy children, and he was expected to accept some of them into the Condottieri. And he would have to sit through at least an hour of talk until that happened. He could feel a certain ire rising.

"...and of course, proper discipline is required, my dear Equites." one of the Septas, he had forgotten her name for some reason. He usually was very good at remembering names.

"Certainly, Septa Stronghaven." the Equites replied. "However, it is my experience that a stern talking and perhaps at times an open-hand slap are better tools to raise children that understands discipline and the need for it. Excessive use of the birch creates fearful creatures eager to please in the moment but unable to to work for the betterment of themselves or their peers in the long run." the Equites said, his words dripping with honey and diplomacy. Knowing well enough that sweetened words were easier to swallow than bitter ones, for the members of the Faith. They kept discussing it back and forth, but he heard little of it.

Then he noticed all four were staring at him. He noticed he was taking deep, long breaths and holding on to the seat of the chair to the extent that the thick wood groaned under his grip.

"Captain, are you well?" one of the Septas asked, her face marked with what seemed like honest concern. But he knew better. Oh, he knew much better.

"You do seem a bit pale." the Septon suggested and even the Equites seemed a bit concerned.

"I think we all need some refreshment after such a long discussion. Please allow me and the Captain to arrange for it." he said, all smiles. The man was incredible at letting no concern show for long on his narrow, sharply featured face. "Captain?" he said, a little bit of an order in the tone. He rose at the command and followed the man out.

"Are you all right?" the Equites said and immediately continued. "No, you are not. Pale as a dead. And now this. The Septas, I suppose."

Shit.

He drew his sword, a gesture that even made the normally so smooth Equites tense up. The man feared him, they both knew it. But he did not have aggressive intentions, instead he drew two deep breaths and held up the sword's well-polished side to see his reflection in the steel. As he supposed. His eyes glowed red, and shadows moved out of the corners of his mouth and could have been mistaken for boar's tusks had they not writhed from time to time. He sheathed the sword with a disciplined move, despite shadows dancing around his coarse fingers.

"They... Stir fear in me." he said, barely a coarse whisper. He was ashamed at admitting it, despite knowing that the man in front of him already knew.

"Saint Andreas Orphanage?" the Equites asked with a solemn nod.

"Again." he replied. "I will need a few minutes." he pressed out. The tall man simply nodded, knowing that he could do nothing but make excuses for the Captain. The members of the Faith would accept them, you did not bite the hand that fed you after all.

The tall man retreated, after informing Tomas they would need some watered good wine and fluffy almond cakes as soon as possible.

He remained in the shadows, lashing both the black beast that had fought its way outside him for a short moment, and the ice-cold white beast of fear deep into the deep pit of his innerness. Back, you beasts. Back to where you belong. You are the unruly stallions of the chariot that is my life, nothing else. Discipline is my whip, and I will have you pull me in the direction I desire and nowhere else. BACK!

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"No-one has 'your best interest' in mind. They have their own best interest in mind. They can sometimes intersect, but it does not mean they work for you.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

"I'm still saying that the potential is enormous." 'Tytus Land' said, comfortably propped up in a stuffed chair, a glass of wine in one hand and the other leisurely toying with a gold dragon, the coin reflecting the setting sun's light in a reddish glimmer as it bounced up and down.

"If there's enormous potential, it is because the costs or risks outweigh the benefits. Otherwise others would already have seized them." he retorted, himself at least as lazily stretched out in another comfy chair.

"That is... Probably true." the dwarf replied and took a sip of the wine. "Still, it is not just the million gold dragons my father would pay for a replacement Brightroar - the ability to create, or at least rework a cache of Valyrian steel would have Houses major and minor groveling at your doorstep, their daughters throwing themselves at you."

"Never think of the rewards before you think how you could accomplish the task, Lord Tyrion." he chided with a smile.

"Well, you are no fun." the dwarf replied with a short laugh and took another sip of his wine.

"Profit before pleasure, Lord Tyrion." he retorted with a similar laugh. "I will make you a deal, however. Make me money like the suggestion to start prospecting for a bridge over the Green Fork - Lord Frey actually lowered the tolls I pay to four fifths of what they had been - and I will set out a tenth of them to finance an expedition to Old Valyria, headed by you. Proven of course you provide me with a viable plan." he smiled a bit at that. It was not fair, really, He hoped more that the industrious little man would find magical artifacts that could perhaps facilitate a portal to get home again than Valyrian steel. But their interests would intersect, and if the Lannister fascination with the ruins of an old Empire would claim another after Tommen Lannister and Gerion Lannister, well, it would be sad, but he would not have invested anything he could not afford to lose.

"You find a way to profit from everything, don't you, Equites Asimachos?" the dwarf stated bluntly.

He raised his glass in a toast to that. "That is my primary talent, I am afraid." he retorted, at which they shared a laugh and some more wine.

"I'm afraid I must go, Equites." Lord Tyrion said with a grimace that contorted his already rather ugly face. "I must attend supper with my dear sister and her husband. A great honour, of course. It would not do to be absent and scorn the invitation." the dwarf drained his wine-glass and stood from the chair.

"You seem less than thrilled, Lord Tyrion?" he asked with a smile.

"Between the high risk that the King drinks all the wine at the table, leaving me sober and the inevitable nagging from my sister to advance the position of yet another favourite of hers, or rather someone she thinks is father's favourite, I don't consider my position enviable." the dwarf replies with a smile. "Still, can't be missed. Until next time, Equites." the dwarf bowed and he accompanied him downstairs, where a couple of redcloaks deep in the young (and short) Lord's pockets awaited to escort him back to the Red Keep.

At the door stood Tomas, waiting impatiently as the Lannister Lord departed.

"A message for you, Equites." the lad said and handed over a roll of parchment. He thanked the boy and took a look at the sigil. A crescent and a hawk inside a sphere. Oh my, and at this hour? This should be interesting.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Having responsibilities without power is just being a scapegoat.” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

The missive had been a simple invitation to the Tower of the Hand and Lord of the Vale, Hand of the King, Jon Arryn himself, for noon the day after. He scribbled a quick response and had Tomas run to the Red Keep with it, accepting the invitation. This could be interesting indeed - if nothing else, he had been looking for an angle to meet the Lord of the Vale for some time, but had been unable to find an opening. And now it was delivered to him on a silver platter. Never check the gift horse in the mouth. And at the same time, never trust anyone coming bearing gifts. Including life. If things looked like they were too good to be true, they usually were.

But fortune also favoured the bold, so the next day he dressed up, but not too much. Polished black leather boots, a black beret with a single, small white feather for decoration, tight, pearl-grey hoses and a splendid pich-black doubled with intricate embroideries in silver and silver buttons. A silver chain over his shoulders, black goatskin gloves and a waist-length thin white silk cloak over one of the shoulder and he looked smart, professional and rich, without overdoing it. He studied himself in the full-length mirror (a superbly expensive purchase from Myr he was particularly fond of). 

Smart, sharply dressed and with a silver-hilted sword and dagger by his side. He nodded once towards his reflection and answered himself with a toothy grin before stepping out of his room. In his previous life, in his previous world he had been indebted far over his eyebrows, having to accept inheriting his fathers' debts in order to keep his title, leaving him a life of serving others instead of himself, Kaisar only being the latest (and to be honest, foremost, richest and probably best) master he had served.

He had chosen to take on the debt, to ensure that a tradition was not broken. He was the 79th Equites Asimachos and he sat doing menial work cooking Kaisar's books, stealing what he could and envying what he could not. So that little Giorgios may one day hopefully not have to choose like he had to. And that Beatrix may marry well.

And here he stood, dressing more expensively than he could ever afford before. With so much gold that he actually started to get a bit sloppy and even... generous at times. Having an entire army at his service. Poised to, if he dared and wanted, get involved in the Game of Thrones that like a huge windmill ground wheat to flour consumed great men and Houses with callous contempt for their proud legacies and long histories. It was exciting beyond belief, yet he would trade it all away in an instant if he could be back, if just for a moment.

He would take the poverty, the disdain, the contempt from elves at a mere human trying to do business with them, the condescending comments and abuse from Kaisar's relatives resenting him and his influence (to be honest, the Captain's was much bigger, but no-one dared be condescending towards him) for a chance to see his children again.

He closed his eyes for a moment, pinched the base of his nose and breathed in deeply. Such was his life, not even when he had everything he had desired could he be happy or even content. Perhaps this was all an ironic nightmare, showing him that losing what he had for everything he so hotly desired did not improve the despair that always gnawed at him from the inside.

So he smiled towards his reflection again, and all doubt had vanished from his face. He had always been good at controlling his face, not betraying his emotions, from surviving as a poor student cheating at gambling with young noblemen more at the university for whoring, drinking and meeting their peers than studying to negotiating on Kasiar's behalf.

He stepped out of his dressing room, to the waiting Captain and four Condottieri as well as Tomas, the lad carrying paper, seal and other things that might be needed. The lad was finely dressed in yellow and black, while the Captain and his men wore the usual white silk pants and shirts under polished armour and red silk cloaks.

"Very well. Time to go. Danger awaits!" he said with a cheery smile.

The Captain snorted and made a gesture, and the men fell in behind him. Polished brown leather boots striking rhythmically against the wooden floor and then the stone flagons and eventually the cobblestones of King's Landing as they marched in pace towards the Red Keep. He doubted he needed the security - in fact, if it was a trap, he would probably have an easier time getting out of it if he were by himself rather than with five guardsmen and an assistant, but looking important could at times be more important than actually being important, so the escort continued behind him.

They turned a corner and the street got wider, better maintained and they were striding upwards. The houses became larger, nicer and with impressive decorations and colourations. Money liked to flock to money, that did not differ between this place and back home.

Soon they approached the Red Keep and could no longer avoid looking at the monstrous thing. By the ever sterner look on the Captain's face the grizzled soldier disapproved as much as he did himself. It was too large and too high. It said 'I am powerful and rich enough to build something like this' rather than 'I have a strong fort that dominates the Blackwater and this city'. Oh well.

A man-at-arms in Baratheon livery, a yellow tabard with a rearing crowned black stag took a look at the seal of the parchment he presented and nodded - either used to the Hand of the King inviting people, or being informed beforehand of their visit. He sent a runner, and soon an older man-ar-arms, this one in Arryn colours appeared and bowed.

"Equites Asimachos, I presume?" the man said as he returned the bow. "The Lord Hand expects you. Please follow me."

He took his time to take in the internals of the Red Keep as they made their way through corridors, over gardens, plazas, drill squares and halls towards the Tower of the Hand. He noted that the Captain did the same. He saw Baratheon, Lannister and Arryn men intermingling with what was probably courtiers from lesser Houses, merchants, servants, skilled tradesmen, labourers and others and the somewhat stiff, perhaps even barely hidden hostility between the Lannister men on one side and the Arryn and Baratheon ones on the other. The Captain probably saw defensive structures, sally ports, towers and most importantly how some had been destroyed, breached or abandoned in favour of storage rooms, festive halls, luxurious gardens and other less than military purposes. They would have to have a chat after this.

Finally they arrived at the Tower of the Hand and were received by yet another Arryn man, who had them seated in comfortable chairs in front of expensive and lush Myrish carpets while the door to the office of the Hand of the King remained shut.

"My apologies, Equites. The Lord Hand is a busy man, and his meetings have a tendency to last longer than planned. I am sure he will be able to see you shortly."

He wondered if it was a power tactic, to keep him waiting, underlining who was the man of higher rank in their meeting and undermine his confidence for any negotiations. But he would probably wager no, that was not the case, considering that the room they had been placed in was so well furnished and that refreshments - including very good wine - was readily available together with what seemed like sincere apologies. If the Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King Jon Arryn wanted to underline the difference in rank he could have had them standing in a windowless and unfurnished room for a few hours. So he chatted with the Arryn servants and kept the mood up, cracking some jokes - one even had the Captain chuckling over in the corner where he had, as usual, made himself part of the inventory, looking like a statue made vaguely in his own likeness.

And finally a delegation of what seemed like Crownlander Lords or Landed Knights stepped out of the Hand's office, obviously less than satisfied. The servants refilled goblets with wine and ushered him (and Tomas) into the office where he was confronted with the Lord Hand himself and an assistant of his.

The Lord Hand seemed weary, but the blue eyes of the man studied him with interest. Greying hair that was growing thin on the top, a bit disheveled grey whiskers, a back that many years had only managed to bend slightly, a lined face with aristocratic features and a regal aura all spoke of a man who had seen and commanded through many years. The lack of teeth and a notable smell from those that remained was most likely the only obvious sign of the man's advanced age. Of average height and with broad shoulders, the Lord of the Vale and the Hand of the King Jon Arryn had a presence in the room far larger than his stature and posture would lend you to believe. Such were men that had commanded from birth and were so used to it that it was completely natural to them.

The huge hardwood desk was completely covered in letters, parchment, paper and even papyrus here and there. Rolls, scrolls, books, sheets and even a few boards of smooth, planed wood to write in chalk on, lined the shelves along the walls. The whole room smelled of fresh rush, Myrish carpets, books, paper, ink and a bit of the body odours of the man himself and the delegation that had just left.

They studied each other as they politely bowed and made their introductions and continued when he was invited to take a seat. He scanned over the room. Baratheon and Arryn seals. The man was running both the Seven Kingdoms and the Crownlands and probably took some participation in his own homelands of the Vale, and this room was a clear sign of it.

"Equites Asimachos. I am sorry I kept you waiting. I am also sorry that I must be a bit blunt, as my time is short and precious." the Lord Hand said and chuckled, making a telling gesture towards the piles of letters and other paperwork that covered his dark hardwood desk.

"Not to worry, Lord Arryn." he replied with a smile. "I am sure it will be worth the wait." he said, studying the referred paperwork, stealing a glance of a line of text here and there, to where letters were addressed, seals and so on.

"Excellent." the Lord Hand said and took a sip from a goblet of, from the looks of it, very well-watered wine. "I have heard much about you and your financial acumen, Equites." the old main said, the man's blue eyes steadily meeting the gaze of his own green ones without flickering.

"You get that many complaints, Lord Arryn?" he said with a broad smile, at which the old man guffawed.

"Well, not just bad things, actually. Which is why I have called you here. A long story short, I may have need of someone of your talents. However, that would require you to be a subject of the King, of course." the old man said.

"Of course." he replied, nodding for the Lord Hand to continue.

"Pending negotiations, formalities and other things that need to be settled, the basic question is, Equites, if you would be willing to leave the service of your Kaisar and enter mine and the King's. I have a small holdfast..." the old man started looking among his many piles of paper before his assistant swiftly moved in and found the relevant piece in the piles for his master. "Ah, thankyou, Joran." the old Hand of the King said. He noted how he treated his servant - politely, but not really recognising him. There were worse ways to treat your underlings, but better ones too. Good underlings were not furniture or inventory. "...the holdfast of the Foxhold. Income of roughly 800 stags per year. Close to useless, but still a Lordly holding." the old man shrugged. He put down the paper again. "Would you be willing to swear fealty to me and the King and be interested in a future position as Master of Coin?"

--

Note: Images by my good friend John. Apologies to Cymraeg for stealing the castle name from his excellent Robb Returns.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"Land? Not that profitable, compared to trade and craftsmanship, for the effort needed. But the prestige...” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

They sat in silence for a moment after the Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King's offer. Both their assistants knew better than to make a single sound when their masters were quiet as mice. A test of wills? Probably not, more of a thinking session.

None of the Equites Asimachos, of which he was the seventy-ninth (not even considering the roughly thirty generations as prominent citizens the Asimachos family could trace before the Empire or the tradition that it went back even further) had owned land since the splintering of the Empire roughly five hundred years ago. Oh, they had been rich, prominent traders, members of the white faction and even senators at times. But not land owners.

Owning land had always been the pinnacle of prestige in the Empire, and the fall and splintering had rendered so much of the nobility landless, that it had become almost divinely mythical. Not far off from owning Valyrian Steel here in Westeros. It had also created a very interesting situation, where the so-called 'mud barons', lower nobility that had always made their home in the swampy and muddy delta of the Karastovel river where among the most prominent landowners when the land controlled by the Empire did not extend beyond how far you could see from atop the quadruple Michalian walls. 

However, protected by the swamps, marshes and the river, the 'mud-barons' had managed to retain their land. And when Comeses, Douxes and Prinkipases filed into the city as landless (yes, most often still rich) proletariat, fleeing the nomad invasion or mercenaries turned rogue, they stared with envy at the 'mud-barons'. The delta nobility themselves, in their small holdings, often a single delta island and wooden manors (as stone castles and palaces often sunk in the soft ground) resisted any attempts at seizing their land and distributing it among their superiors. Some of them sold off small patches of land at horrendous prices, others secured rich titles by marrying into much more prominent nobility while others maintained an insular culture that had existed before the shattering.

Yet, when you invited your friends, relatives or rivals to show off your wealth and generosity, to have them break your bread from your wheat fields and serve them your wine from your stocks showed how magnanimous you were - and rubbed their face into the fact that you had land and they did (most often) not.

But that was in the Empire. Regardless of his own feelings about land and owning it, this was Westeros. Such a patch of land would perhaps marginally raise his prestige, but would not offer him any great advantages he did not already have. Justice was still based on military power and his safety on the strength of the Captain and his Condottieri. The only reason people went to their liege lord for justice was that the liege lord controlled far more troops, and were thus more likely to be obeyed.

Still, it was a position offered from which he could perhaps profit a lot. Controlling the realm's finances would allow him to do something about a lot of the more stupid practices of this land. Gathered that he was allowed.

"It is a most generous offer, My Lord Hand." he said with a smile. "However, before I accept or decline, I think I should familiarize myself with the realm's finances and the duties of the Master of Coin." he said, cautiously, trying to not offend by seeming too reluctant for this opportunity.

"Of course." the Lord of the Vale replied and gestured towards his assistant, who brought forth a small chest and opened it, revealing leather-bound books, letters and scrolls. Doubtlessly the book-keeping of the previous Master of Coin. "I have included the charter of the Small Council, especially the duties of the Master of Coin." the Lord of the Vale said. "I trust I can rely on your discretion regarding this offer? Some might not think it entirely... Proper, that I offer the position to you, Equites." the old man continued, with a tone that easily told that the meeting was over. Powerful men were usually good at that kind of thing - Kaisar often did the same. So he signalled to Tomas to take the chest, rose and bowed.

"Schedule another meeting when you think it suitable, Equites." the old man said, absent-mindedly, already picking at the pile of letters on his beautifully carpented hardwood desk.

"I will, My Lord Hand." he said as he left.

"Now, Tomas, that was interesting." he said with a wide smile as they were being escorted out of the Red Keep, the Captain and his Condottieri marching in pace behind them, causing some ruckus by their heavy steps as they marched through corridors and plazas. "When we get back, I want you to get Endros - it is cruel to pry the newly-wed from each other, but I'll need him for this, as well as some light food, plenty of wine and writing supplies." he said, with the lad nodding.

"Yes, Equites." the young man said.

"Oh, and tell your mother I'll be needing you as well. It is about time you get to see some more extensive book keeping." the lad's eyes widened a bit, but he knew better to produce more than a smile at that and carry on.

—

King's Landing, 295 AL.

"So, we've been through it all now." he said, nursing a goblet of lightly watered, excellent wine. "Tomas, can you summarize for us, please." the lad looked nervous, but cleared his throat and looked up from his notes.

"Yes, Equites." he said and cleared his throat again. "The Crown and the Royal Household, since King Robert, nor his previous Master of Coin have seen fit to keep them separate, is currently  just shy of one and half million gold dragons in debt." he nodded. "I have it at 1 486 125. Good. And the details?"

Tomas took a deep breath and continued.

"The treasury contained 7 436 546 gold dragons just previous to the sack of King's Landing, according to the records. They might have been badly kept and money spent for re-equipping the Royal Army after the Battle of the Bells or hiring sell-swords, or some might have broken into it during the sack, because the count conducted by Lord Arryn's men after the rebel army had taken control of the Red Keep after the Lannister forces found 6 282 987 gold dragons." he nodded, indicating the lad should continue.

"Still an impressive sum, and 'a well-filled treasury' is not an erroneous statement." the lad continued, glancing nervously at the two older men in the room as he made that statement. He had a bit to go before he could do this and make more money. But he was still young. There was time. He rotated his hand a little, signalling for the lad to continue on.

"Lord of the Westt Tywin Lannister paid a princely dowry of 250 000 gold dragons to the Royal Household upon the marriage between Queen Cersei Lannister and King Robert Baratheon." Tomas continued. "For a total of 6 532 987 gold dragons."

"And the income?" he asked, as Endros nodded, checking his own notes.

"The Royal Household have an income of 27 000 gold dragons per year from the estates, mines and fees in the Westerlands that Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister have awarded his daughter and grandchildren - 15 000 for Queen Cersei, 5 000 for Prince Joffrey, 5 000 for Princess Myrcella and 2 000 for Prince Tommen. The property taxes of King's Landing provide another 50 000, after the deduction of the wages and supplies of the Magisters maintaining the walls, the streets and communal buildings as well as the costs associated with the Goldcloaks." the lad leafed through his notes before continuing. "The tolls rendered 163 431 gold dragons last year..." the lad looked up as he held up a hand.

"Average, Tomas." he said, waiting while the lad, a bit red over the cheeks, did his numbers.

"Sorry, Equites. An average of 145 678 gold dragons per year. Other income..." he stopped himself, and averaged that number as well. "...including property with no heirs in King's Landing and the Crownlands taken and sold, gifts, fees, fines, seized property of criminals and smugglers and so on averages 22 456 gold dragons per year." he noted the number down before he continued. "The Royal Estates' land rent and the tribute from the arious Crownlander Lords and landed Knights is set to 400 000 gold dragons. The North pays a yearly tribute of 30 000 gold dragons, the Reach 100 000, the Westerlands 75 000, Dorne 50 000, the Stormlands 30 000, the Riverlands 60 000, the Vale 60 000 and the Iron Islands 5 000, for a total of 410 000 gold dragons yearly." the lad said, rambling the numbers from his notes, with both Endros and himself nodding.

"Thus, the combined income of the Iron Throne, both the Royal Household and the Crown, is a grand total of 1 055 134 gold dragons per year." the lad finally said, fidgeting a bit with his notes, his eyes darting from one man to the other. "Or, previously existing gold plus income totals 19 194 595 gold dragons." he added after a short while.

"Yes. Nothing too particular there." he said with a smile and took a sip of wine. "And the expenses?"

Tomas took a deep breath and grabbed his other set of notes, staring to count silently in his head while his lips still tried to form the sound of the numbers.

"The Royal wedding cost 232 567 gold dragons, including the Queen's Great Torney and the feasting afterwards. 100 000 gold dragons were set aside for relief for the citizens of King's Landing following the sack, and the King allowed three years of no property taxes for the city, for a total cost of 600 000 gold dragons. The King also allowed his allies in the Riverlands, the Vale, the North and the Stormlands five full years without tribute to rebuild after the fighting, costing the Crown 900 000 gold dragons. In fact, King Robert has abstained from taking the tribute from his brother Prince Renly, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands since he granted him that seat, which is a further seven years without tribute, costing the Crown 210 000 gold dragons." the lad looked up, and he urged him to continue.

"King Robert granted monetary rewards where he could not grant land, and was very generous. Each soldier in the army - or his widow - was awarded four gold dragons, for a total of 501 366 gold dragons. Knights and Lords were awarded a total of 862 000 gold dragons. Then the King spent 50 000 gold dragons to restore Dragonstone after Prince Stannis captured it and granted a one-time grant of 3 000 000 gold dragons to rebuild the Royal Fleet. It seems the King promised a million gold dragons to 'bash the kraken' in the Greyjoy rebellion, and 128 468 gold dragons were spent on supplies for the armies gathered against it and a further 871 532 awarded troops and noblemen after it. The total cost of these actions totals 7 405 933 gold dragons." the lad said, tracing a finger along the correct line in his notes.

Both he and Endros nodded, having achieved the same number. "And yearly expenses?" he said with a smile and another sip of wine.

"The Royal Navy receives 400 000 gold dragons yearly." Tomas read from his notes. "The Royal Household has been expanded, with many new redcloaks, game wardens and hunting squires and their assistants, hounds and so on. The King also seems to insist on monetary gifts to prominent game rousers who bring him prey. There is a lot of feasting in the Red Keep and the Queen and the Royal children also seem to have extensive clothes accounts. As a comparison, the Targaryen Royal Household spent roughly 50 000 gold dragons per year, the Baratheon one averages..." the lad stopped to calculate once again. "...204 520 gold dragons per year." the lad shook his head, as did he and Endros and all three took a sip of their wine before they continued. Tomas' had more water than his and Endros'.

"One of the main expenses of the Crown seems to be the numerous tournaments and associated feast the King arranges. Monetary prizes for the champions, runner ups and third placers in the joust, the melee and archery and other competitions if they are added - which they seem to be, more and more. Wrestling, spear throwing, crossbow shooting, running, log tossing and many others. Generous reimbursements for fools, mummers and bards. Ball games with prizes in real coin, accomodation and travel expenses for many that travel to the event to participate. There is even a budget for throwing silver coins at the crowd!" Tomas shook his head. It seemed his greed, erm, carefulness with coin started to rub off on the lad. "The average sums up to 465 672 gold dragons per year - roughly 230 000 per tournament!" the lad shook his head again, which he chuckled a bit. "They started off cheaper and seem to get more and more expensive and frequent. In total, yearly expenses are 1 020 192 gold dragons."

"Well done, Tomas. And what is your conclusion?"

"I must have done something wrong, Equites. Because the sum is a deficit of 1 053 642 gold dragons - but the Crown owes another..." the lad calculated quickly. "...432 483 gold dragons."

"No, Tomas, I think you did everything right." he looked down towards his own notes and threw a glance towards Endros, who also nodded.

"There's a note among the paperwork, from the previous Master of Coin to the Lord Hand Jon Arryn, stating that the King had filled a chest with coin from the Royal Treasury - again - and refused the Royal Treasurer to count them, stating that he had his hunt, and it was time for cunt and paying for it and the after-effects. I suppose pilfering, corruption and unchecked spending by the King himself accounts for the last. You have done well, Tomas. I think you are ready to advance in your apprenticeship." he said, raising his wine glass towards the young lad, who blushed a bit.

"Thank you, Equites." the lad said with a bow.

"Now, Endros, your analysis?" he continued, looking towards the ex-slave. The man was doing well enough for himself these days to dress quite nice and have a smell of perfumed oils around him. He claimed his newly wedded wife liked it. He suspected the ex-slave just liked to spend his own, honestly (well, in at least some of the cases at least, and in some cases his) earned money.

"I have not been a book keeper for a King, Equites." Endros stated carefully. The playing humble part had been hard drilled into the man and he would not just let it go. Oh well. "But it seems to me that King Robert is spending more than he earns, and he is not investing in future returns. His current path is unsustainable in the long run. Regardless of how much, what did you call it, 'bread and circuses', he provides for nobleman and commoner alike."

"Quite. Thank you, gentlemen. I will meet with the Lord Hand Jon Arryn tomorrow and discuss these matters with him. I will let you know my decision based on that." he said. "Should I accept, I will need competent people close to the Royal Treasury." he said with a smile and raised his glass in a toast to the ex-slave and the apprentice.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep, 295 AL.

Lysander.

"There is no profit in regret, nor in nostalgia. Get to work!” Equites Lysander Asimachos.

Equites Lysander Asimachos.

The situation had repeated itself. Apologetic servants providing the very best of wine and snacks, including Dornish fresh dates as the Lord Hand addressed grievances and mediated conflicts among Crownlander Lords, as his master the King would not. It was telling however, that the Lords sitting with the Lord Hand were allowed to drone on about their issues while he sat there waiting. Lord of the Vale Jon Arryn was perfectly polite and courteous, but the man did not respect him or his time - he was a merchant and decidedly in the second or third rank when it came to the priorities of the Lord Hand. 

Feudal folly.

Once the Crownlander Lords had left, their parting words telling of a conflict over hunting rights in a small patch of forest he was ushered in to the Lord Hand. They exchanged pleasantries and he returned the books.

"So, Equites, you have studied the books?" the Lord Hand said with a small smile showing his lack of teeth.

"I have, Lord Hand." he returned the smile, an even row of pearly white teeth. The advantages of growing up in a nation where the Natural Philosophers looked actively for the reasons for disease and documented everything, while the healer's guild, a mix of actual magic-talented healers, experienced midwives and wise old women with natural remedies and well-tested old methods gave you specific instructions. And having parents that spent the coin hiring healers specifically specialised in bones and teeth, of course.

"How have you found them?" the Lord Hand inquired.

"To be completely honest, Lord Hand, somewhat lacking." he replied with a rueful smile. "They are well kept and it is obvious the previous Master of Coin made a good effort, but the methods used are not the best. And the Crown and the Royal Household are bleeding money." he said and shook his head.

The Lord Hand nodded but said nothing, so he continued.

"Currently, the Crown is nearly one and a half million dragons in debt. Now, this is not a desperate situation - the Crown has substantial assets and a strong income. But if it continues, it could cause problems down the line." he said.

"Hrm. One and a half million you say?" the Lord Hand said, furrowing his brow.

"Yes. And there have been no attempts at increasing the Crown's income." he said, looking through his notes briefly before locking gaze with the Lord Hand.

"Well, that is why we could use a man with your talents, Equites." the Lord Hand said with another toothless smile.

He chuckled at that. "May I ask a few questions?"

"Certainly." the Lord Hand said.

He drew a deep breath. "I must ask, why is there no Royal Army?"

"A Royal Army?" the Lord Hand seemed confused.

"A standing force loyal to the Crown and no-one else."

"Sellswords are hardly loyal nor reliable." the Lord Hand sniffed.

"I refer to an enlarged retinue, akin to the Lannister Redcloaks."

"Such forces are very expensive. The Crown does not have access to the Westerlander goldmines, Equites. They are the property of Lord Tywin Lannister and his vassals." the Lord Hand pointed out.

"The King could ask the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms to decrease their levies and instead provide more yearly tribute to pay for such a force." he replied, at which the Lord Hand raised an eyebrow.

"To rob the Lords and their vassals of their right to keep a force suitable to their position and prestige would cause an uproar. It is simply not how things are done."

"I understand it would be unpopular." Lord of the Vale Jon Arryn did not seem to understand. He found himself missing Kaisar. The man could be stubborn, could fly into fits of rage and even go berzerk at times, but he was intelligent and could be reasoned with - and he usually saw problems ahead when they were pointed out to him. "But in the long run, how do House Baratheon maintain the throne? Now King Robert holds the loyalty of the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the North, the Riverlands and the Vale through family relations, personal friendships and marriages. His son will probably have the loyalty of the Westerlands, and perhaps the Crownlands. King Joffrey will have neither dragons nor a long tradition to prop up his rule." he said, eyeing the Lord Hand for a reaction.

"The Great Council elected Robert King. I am sure no Lord will be dishonourable enough to raise their banner in revolt." the Lord Hand said.

"You did." he countered, which seemed to annoy the old man quite a bit.

"That was different. King Aerys II committed heinous crimes against the Seven-ordained laws of the land, murdering the Lord of the North and his heir and demanding two f his peers to be murdered." the old man replied.

"If the Targaryens had a Royal Army, the rebellion might never have succeeded." he pointed out.

"But they did not." the old man replied. He was really not getting the point. "Because the Seven-ordained order is that the King calls his vassals, and they call their vassals when the King needs troops. It keeps a King honest - he needs to rule justly, or the Lordly Houses will not support him. To establish a Royal Army as you seem to suggest would be a great insult to all the Lordly Houses and their honour as vassals, essentially telling them that their bravery and loyalty are worth nothing to the King!"

He sighed silently at that. Feudalism.

"But the Royal Fleet is not an insult to House Greyjoy, House Redwyne, House Manderly and House Velaryon?" he countered.

"Ships are different. They are not a knightly pursuit." the Lord Hand replied.

He had to control himself to not facepalm at that. Very well.

"I see, Lord Hand." he replied with a smile. "Let's leave the subject of a Royal Army and discuss some other matters."

"Very well." the Lord Hand replied, seemingly still annoyed at his poking of the natural order of things.

"The next issue is my liberty to control the finances should I accept your offer."

"I trust the Master of Coin to take care of the Crown's finances. The King is not one for 'counting coppers' and I myself must admit a certain... ignorance on matters of trade, merchants and coin." the Lord Hand said with another toothless smile. The tone of 'ignorance' spoke clearly that he was not ashamed of that fact, rather the opposite. 

Proud to be ignorant of un-lordly pursuits. By the Sebastokrator's beard.

"And does that include the expenditures?" he inquired, an eyebrow slightly raised.

"It is the duty of the Master of Coin to provide the money the King and the Lord Hand sees fit."

There were a lot of problems in that statement.

"The King is spending the Crown into debt." he replied.

"I am sure I and the future Master of Coin will be able to convince the King to reduce his spending in due time."

"’In due time’ might be too late, Lord Hand." he replied with a grim face.

"It is the prerogative of the King to use the Crown's coin as he sees fit." the Lord Hand said, his smile also gone. "The King have been spending generously to build his image as a gregarious and good King to cement his popularity and rule."

"Of course. But the Crown is now one and a half million dragons in debt, and spending more than it takes in every year."

"I am sure the King will temper his generosity when the time comes." the Lord Hand replied. A repetition of what had been said earlier. He was not so sure of that.

"Would you have the Master of Coin debase the currency?"

"Debase?" the Lord Hand said, evidently confused.

"Put less gold in a dragon."

"Heavens no! That would rob the Lords of their due when their treasuries reduce in value!" the Lord Hand said, evidently aghast.

"So, I would not be allowed to tell the King 'no' when he wants another tournament or feast?"

"Absolutely not. The prerogative of the King trumps the opinion of the Master of Coin. That is how things are, and should be."

He shook his head slightly.

"Then I am afraid, Lord Hand, that I cannot accept your offer, generous as it is. I cannot in good conscience let the Crown's finances become worse." he said with a rueful smile. He wanted to say 'I will not be your scapegoat or whipping hound, regardless how much I could pilfer, steal and what power and respect - as well as a small patch of land and a Lordship - the office could bring'. But that was not suitable.

"The previous Master of Coin said something similar before he resigned." the Lord Hand said with a grimace.

"I am most grateful for your generous offer, Lord Hand. I hope my inability to rise to the challenge does not cause you undue duress." he said as they both rose. The groveling seemed to put the old man in a slightly better mood.

"Oh, don't worry, Equites. I do have other candidates. Among them a skilled man my wife has recommended strongly and that has proven his worth in Gulltown."

"I am happy to hear it. Ever at your service, Lord Hand." he replied with a wide smile and a deep and polite bow. They exchanged some further pleasantries before he left, pushing any regret and what-ifs away. Always focus on what is at hand and what will come.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 295 AL.

Alexios.

"A good soldier knows that at times he must be loyal not to the words of his master, but to his best interests." Captain Alexios Andreios.

Captain Alexios Andreios.

He had just finished counting out the pay of the Condottieri and was taking a walk around the compound to make sure everything was in order before a large part of the men were released for their night and following day off - if the bath, the kitchen and the armoury was not in perfect state, none of them would be allowed to go. It was an effective method to make sure they did not slack off. Unfair? Of course. But life was never fair. Slacking off in the field got men killed - by enemy actions, ambushes or just disease that crept onto you when the latrine was not dug deep enough, water not collected far away from the camp enough, meals not cooked well enough, animals not slaughtered and drained properly, food not checked before cooked, clothes not washed well enough and so on. So he taught them to be vigilant at all times and made sure it hurt to not listen to his lectures. Some needed more than just pain to motivate them - these men were often sergeant or even officer material, if they would take the even harsher training.

Which reminded him, he would need to promote himself sooner or later. Strategos. Who would have believed it? But he needed Captains now, and he could not be a Captain commanding Captains. Lieutenant Clegane would make a decent Captain. But probably not more than that. He made a fine zweihänder - it was almost a shame to move him out of such a position and into command. That bulk and strength was best used to break or disrupt the enemy line...

His line of thought was interrupted as he walked through the small area where he usually sat when meeting or giving out pay. There were still a few bags empty of coin on the table after the week's sold. He sniffed in the air with his broken, scarred nose and made a grimace, made worse by the stiff scars. Slowly he pulled his gauntlets off and placed them on the table and then went for the cellar armoury - the same place he had forced Clegane to face his fear of fire - and opened the door. Yes, the smell was stronger here. He stepped in, sniffed again and spotted the small, small glow in the darkness. As he suspected. He advanced towards the faint light.

"Oh, Captain." he heard Equites Asimachos say and saw the flash of a smile - white teeth in the darkness. "Hello." He did not reply.

Instead he marched up to the long, thin man, comfortably stretched out on a pile of blankets intended for field use (with buttons to allow them to be joined to tents) but now arranged to a comfortable sort of recliner and grabbed the expensive doublet he wore, pulling him up.

"Hey!" the man protested. Instead of replying, he pulled him off his feet, which meant he had to hold him above his own head with a strong hand, and then backhanded his supposed master. Hard. The pipe went flying, spinning out of sight. He had to remember recovering it and making sure it did not set anything on fire when he was done. His hand returned to slap the Equites hard again.

"What the..." the tall man had time to say before he backhanded him again. "You wanker!" Equites Asimachos exclaimed and reached for his dagger.

"Touch the dagger and die." he said. It was not a threat. Just a statement of the current state of affairs, and he saw the tall man's movement freeze. Equites Asimachos knew very well that there was no bluffing, posturing or exaggerating when he stated something. The room grew silent, with the tall, thin man, with his thin moustache out of order from the slaps and his dark-green eyes wide at what had just been said. So he slapped him twice more. The dark-green eyes turned less than focused at that. Good.

"Listen." he growled with his deepest base voice, the sound seeming like a barrel being rolled down a cobblestone street. Slowly he let some of his iron will release the black beast within. He could not see it himself, but he could feel it. His eyes turned red. Shadow tusks extended from the corners of his mouth and shadows danced around his fingers and arms, seemingly eager to consume whatever he would let them. The dark-green eyes suddenly widened again, this time in panic-like fear as all the colour drained from the face of the Equites.

"Smoke opium again, and I will let it consume you." he growled through gritted teeth, took a deep breath through his crushed nose and controlled it. As easily as it had appeared and the room had seemed ice-cold and full of despair and hopelessness it was gone and the room again smelled of oiled steel, leather stained with oil, wax and sweat and washed blankets. He let go and the long, thin man collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"You don't understand..." the man sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

"No, I don't." he agreed. "But I will control myself and my beast, and you will control yourself and your black beast. One day we will find a way back, or the wild-elf will simply transport us back. And when it happens, you will be of sound mind to use it."

The man on the floor sat for a few minutes, the silent sobs being the only thing that could be heard, until those also petered out. He sat still for a while. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been an eternity, before he pulled himself up, straightened his back and dusted himself off. Their eyes met in the darkness, and they both knew. They needed each other, and they would support each other. Perhaps not as friends. Perhaps not as master and servant - the Captain served only Kaisar after all - but as allies and comrades-in-arms against an unfair fate. Slowly the smile that always marred a face as made for sorrow and seriousness made its way back. Equites Lysander Asimachos took a deep breath, and corrected his moustache. Only the developing bruises from his rough handling of the man told of what had just happened.

"Thank you Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have some work to do." the man said, bowed and then exited the dark room.

He stood there for a few seconds more before he exited himself. Maybe he should take a night off? There was an old man-at-arms from the Stormlands, a veteran of both Robert's Rebellion and the Greyjoy Bebellion with strong arms, a hairy chest and a lovely beard that tickled just fine he had gotten to know. He could use being held and hold a bit after this.

–

Note: Images by my good friend John.