Chapter 57: Revolt

Fourth Moon, 120 AC

The White Worm

"My apologies for the insult milord. Please, accept our compensation. Would a night with one of our girls free of charge be acceptable?" Mysaria said with a pronounced bow, trying to hide her anger and frustration with the man who had tried to have his way with one of her Conches without paying the price. One of those disgusting pigs who believed only in the Iron Price and not the Gold.

The ironman, a reaver and warrior in the service of Lord Greyjoy scoffed and sneered. "Not just any girl. I would have the mistress herself," he said, looking at her lecherously.

'You're the bastard who tried raping one of my girls!' Mysaria felt like screaming but sighed inside before putting on a fake smile and acquiescing to the demand. She was not that surprised honestly. Though she had dyed her hair black, her purple eyes could not be hidden, nor could the Lyseni Valyrian beauty she had been born with. She had already had to entertain several fools in the past few months since she had become the mistress of the Purple Conch.

She had aged exceedingly well for a woman in her early 40s and some even said that it made her all the more beautiful. It was not attention that she enjoyed. These savage ironmen reminded her and her brethren far too much of the slaver scum of Essos. They were barbaric, cruel, and rough with them, and they were filthy and ugly both inside and outside. Nonetheless she steeled her resolve. It was for the mission she told herself.

There was little that Mysaria would not bear if it allowed her to fulfill her duty to House Velaryon. Her loyalty to that house had never shaken, they had taken her in after her parents had died, given her a home and raised her. She had met her lord and lady when she was just a little girl and it had inspired her to enter their service. She had watched their children grow up, three fine young men and a lovely young woman.

The House of Zaldilaros had long since proven themselves to Mysaria and it was for their sake, for the sake of the realm that they ruled and protected, that she endured the most difficult of duties and missions. She was the Mistress of the Conches, the eyes, and ears, and left hands of House Velaryon, the shadows that lurked in the dark and dirtied their hands so their lords and ladies could rule in glory in the light of day.

As she led the client to a private room, she could see her girls, all of them in secret her fellow Conches and subordinates glaring daggers at the disgusting ironman. Nonetheless they could not break their cover and throw him out. This was not Tyrosh, the brothels in the Iron Islands did not have the protections they did there and any that refused to pleasure a man in the service of Lord Greyjoy would find themselves in a lot of trouble very soon.

She had almost reached the room when she saw another man wink to her in the corner of her eye. Mysaria recognized him and smiled. Their fellow Conches were perhaps the only men she and her girls were truly happy to see these days.

Knowing what she had to do, Mysaria led the ironman into the room before plying him with compliments, praising his manhood (those were lies, it was actually pathetic) and getting him drunk with fortified wine. Soon he was naked as the day he was born and snoring away on the bed.

She opened the door and invited her agent into the room. "Duncan," she said with a smile.

"Mistress, I have a message from Tyrosh," he said eagerly.

He did not say how he had received the message; they had been trained to avoid referring to the glass candles whenever possible but they were quite the convenient tools.

"Please tell me that the order has finally come," Mysaria said pleadingly.

Duncan grinned. "It has."

Mysaria smirked. "Excellent. Is everything ready?"

Duncan nodded. "I checked with them before coming here; our agents in the Drowned Men have confirmed that they have their confidence and enough wine and religious fervor to get them drunk and angry. At your word, we will incite mobs and oversee the storming of all the septs across the Iron Islands. Those mobs will then go out of control and burn down the Purple Conch and all our other assets in the region."

"Leaving the Ironmen to assume us dead. They will forget about us soon enough in the chaos that will follow and we will all be on ships bound for home," Mysaria finished with a smile.

Like herself and the girls, Duncan and the boys were sick of the Iron Islands. Many of them had been infiltrating them for years by now and they were all homesick with the desire to see the Queen of Cities again. Now that the end of their task was at hand, the excitement was palpable in the air between them both.

"All according to your plan Mistress. A bold one if I may say," Duncan said.

"Well you know what they say, who dares wins." Mysaria said smugly.

In truth, the problem of how to incite the Iron Islands into revolt had laid heavily on her mind for years. Lord Corlys had entrusted her with the task and given her discretion, with the only requirement being that the Iron Islands enter into enough chaos that it drew Targaryen attention and it could not be traced back to House Velaryon or the Conches.

As much as she despised them, Mysaria would begrudgingly admit that the Ironborn lords were not stupid. Ever since the reign of Vickon Greyjoy they had toed the line, bowing to House Targaryen in fear of its dragons. Even now after years of brewing resentment because of the return of the Faith of the Seven, they dared not rebel or act against the Faith under Targaryen protection.

Mysaria meant to force their hand. The Drowned Men were perfect for this. With her agents having infiltrated their ranks for years, they were in the position to incite them and all their fanatical followers, still the majority of the Iron Islanders, into a frenzy. They would attack the local septs and burn them to the ground, torturing septons and raping septas to death and desecrating their bodies as they went.

She felt a little weight on her conscience about plotting the destruction of holy septs and the violation and murder of the people inside them. Like most Tyroshi and Driftmarkers, and all those who were in Velaryon service, Mysaria followed the Light of the Seven and some part of her was disgusted with her cruel and callous plan.

She squashed the weakness and hardened her heart. She was a proud acolyte and adherent of the Zaldilaros Creed, and any who held to the Faith in the Iron Islands were puppets of the Targaryens, heretics and backward fools from the Westerosi sect. If it was their fate to die, then so be it. Mysaria would shed no tears for them.

The Iron Islands would ignite into a chaos they would never escape from. The thralls, good little followers of the Faith as they were, would rise up and the Greyjoys and their lords would have no choice but to crush them brutally. The brutal attack on the Faith would horrify Westeros and no doubt draw Targaryen reprisal. The Ironborn would not go down without a fight and their pride would see them fight to the bitter end. Hopefully the carnage would be the end of the accursed Ironborn culture and their savage ways. If the Targaryens brought any shred of the brutality they had shown Dorne to the Iron Islands, Mysaria would relish it after her experiences here. And if their ruthlessness prolonged their distraction from House Velaryon's actions, all the better. She so did look forward to visiting the city of Lys, which her long dead parents had hailed from, when it flew the Seahorse banner with pride.

A loud snore broke her out of her thoughts, drawing her attention to the bed where the disgusting pig of an ironman was drooling on the pillows. Duncan sneered in disgust. Mysaria shook her head before turning to Duncan.

"I will have everyone ready to move out of the Purple Conch by sunset, instruct the others to incite the mob to attack the septs and the brothel shortly after that. It's time we end this and be rid of these filthy islands and their savage people once and for all."

Duncan's growl was predatory and pleased. "By your order Mistress," he said with a slight bow before leaving the room.

Once Duncan left, Mysaria turned back to the ironman on the bed and tutted. "Well, I don't think I need you anymore do I?" she said before drawing a dagger out from the false bottom of the drawer.

"Sweet dreams little ironman. I hope you find the Seven Hells welcoming," she said before she slit his throat.

___________________________________________

Gael

The rebels aimed bows and scorpions at her dragon from the deserted village they had taken up residence in. Having no desire to suffer the first Rhaenys' fate, Gael treaded carefully, evading the scorpion bolts before leading Syrax into a dive.

"Dracarys!" she shouted. Syrax obeyed, the dragon's flames were as yellow as her scales, eviscerating the Dornish rebels with a terrifying and pleasing ease. In her frustration, Gael did not call her dragon to relent once she saw the rebels destroyed, instead she let Syrax keep burning, destroying all the empty houses and fields in her path until the land itself had been reduced to a plain of ash. It only took a few minutes.

Shaking her head, she turned her head and saw the sun was getting low. It was probably around half past midday. Remembering her bearing between Hellholt and Vaith, she calculated that she should probably head back to Godsgrace now if she wanted to make it before dark. Syrax beat her wings fiercely as they sped off to the northeast. By now, her house's armies and vassals had taken control of every castle in Dorne, large and small, and garrisoned it with their forces. In Dorne however, simply controlling the castles was not enough.

Like they were in the First Dornish War, the people were defiant, refusing to submit despite their offers of rewards and clemency for simply accepting their rule. There were rumors that some of the Martells and the other nobles had survived and had fled to hidden caves and oases in the deserts, leading a resistance that continuously raided and harassed their armies as they attempted to bring order, all the while the common smallfolk gave aid to them.

As a result of this, they had been trapped in a limbo for the past month. Whenever their soldiers went on patrol, they would be attacked. Because many of the people were rebelling or dead and the lands burned, they had to send wagon trains of supplies to their garrisons in each castle and those would be attacked too. The new smallfolk that they had started bringing in from the northern kingdoms were also being attacked, and always the enemies faded back into the desert before the dragons could respond in time.

Objectively Gael knew that they wouldn't last in the desert forever. Sooner or later they would starve them out, but that inevitability was delayed each time they lost a supply train to them, and the longer the Dornish rebels remained at large, the longer until they could safely begin rebuilding Dorne and shaping it in their image.

Dorne was supposed to be her fief with her husband, their legacy to pass onto their son, something they could finally, truly call their own. Right now it made a piss poor inheritance however, for all that her husband was supposedly its ruler. Prince of Dorne, Warden of the Sands, and Lord of Summerhall he was styled, empty titles in truth. Half or more of the Dornish people refused to acknowledge Daemon as their Prince or paid him lip service, the rebels hid in the sands of the desert and used it to hide themselves, and Summerhall? Summerhall did not even exist yet.

She could see it in her mind's eye though. The seat that her husband and her intended to rule Dorne from was not merely Sunspear with a new name. Sunspear had been burned to the ground and would never be rebuilt; its ruins would be a monument that commemorated her family's power, just as Harrenhal had been before the Qoherys had rebuilt it.

The Planky Town however, that would be rebuilt, though it would not be the same. The poleboats and ferries that had been lashed together to form the floating town on the mouth of the Greenblood had been burned by Gael and her husband when their fleet had attacked the river and carved and sacked their way through eastern Dorne.

Gael envisioned a new city built properly in stone and brick on the shores of the Greenblood's mouth, nestled at the feet of the citadel which had once watched over the floating town, which would of course be remodeled and renovated as they desired. She knew Daemon wanted it to be red like the castle they had both grown up in. It would be lavish and luxurious, a home for their family, for their branch of the house.

Gael had been the one to conceive the name Summerhall, it was fitting in many ways for the mouth of the Greenblood was on the coast of the northern extremes of the Summer Sea and it was a homage to their ancestral homeland, the Lands of the Long Summer in Doomed Valyria. The name Summerhall would represent peace and prosperity for her family, a proud home for Jaehaerys and Rhaenyra to raise her grandchildren in, for Helaena and her children to visit them, and even her eldest two daughters and their children were but half a day's flight across the Stepstones in Tyrosh…

The years had done much to make her reconsider her position. Though she would never like Viserra or any of her children, including her goodsons, she did love her daughters and their children and had no desire to be estranged from them. She could be…civil with Viserra and her spawn if it meant she could spend time with Baela, Rhaena, and her grandchildren. Velaryon grandchildren yes, but her grandchildren nonetheless. Who knew, perhaps with her influence and that of their mothers, they might restrain the arrogance and overreaching stupidity of the children's Velaryon blood.

Daemon thought the same she knew, though he was loath to admit it. He had been exceedingly surprised and pleased when his rival Jacaerys had agreed to name his and Baela's second son for him. His smug smile had lasted for months afterward and he still wore it whenever the topic of their Velaryon grandchildren came up. Gael thought it likely Jacaerys had only stomached it because he sought to reclaim his great-grandfather's name for his house though she had not told her husband that, she had little desire to ruin his good mood.

It was not lost on Gael that her grandchildren were the majority of the next generation of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, only Daeron and Laena Velaryon's children were not her grandchildren. Her descendants were the heirs of both families and while she was still deeply loyal to House Targaryen, she could not help but bitterly feel that Aemon's play had succeeded at last. He had gotten her and Daemon to relent on their continuous opposition to the Velaryons by binding them together with blood. The success of her lineage and legacy was now in two houses and irreversibly entwined with that of Viserra and Corlys, which was a hard thing to swallow.

These days though Gael preferred not to think too much about houses, knowing it would only give her a headache. Instead her mind dwelt on a vision of the future, when Dorne had been pacified and was prosperous and thriving under her and Daemon's rule. Summerhall would be complete, dazzling all with its beauty. Her grandchildren, Targaryen and Velaryon alike would run through the corridors, frolicking and teasing each other while their parents, her four children, remained as close as they always had been, refusing to let their houses or spouses lead them astray and turn them against each other.

Yes, Gael liked the thought of that future very much indeed. And it was still within her grasp. Jaehaerys and Helaena had never left their side, and while there were some things that Baela and Rhaena would not tell her anymore, secrets of House Velaryon no doubt, they remained filial and loyal and she could accept that.

It seemed like the only thing in the way of that future coming true was the blasted Dornish. Gael honestly found herself astounded by their stubbornness. Did they truly think they could mimic their ancestors' success against her great-grandfather? The death of the first Rhaenys had been a fluke and it was beyond Gael what could possibly have been in the infamous letter Aegon the Conquer had received that had had him relent when Dorne and vengeance was in his grasp.

Gael would not relent and neither would any of her family. If the Dornish would not submit, then they would die, simple as that. And they were. Hundreds of thousands of Dornish had already been put to the sword, starved, or burned for their defiance. Gael just wished that it didn't have to be so tedious.

On second thought perhaps she did understand why her great-grandfather had relented, it meant that he wouldn't have to deal with this nonsense any longer. Every single day there was a raid somewhere or another and the dragons were often too late to respond, Dorne was not small.

On multiple occasions they had had success, following them back to their hidden bases using the clouds as cover and destroying them. They had boiled entire oases away and sometimes when they were out in the sand dunes of the desert, they would even turn the very sands into glass.

It still wasn't enough however. Other times the rebels would steal whole supply trains, destroy entire patrols, or even sneak into undermanned castles using secret passages to poison and kill their entire garrison, setting their progress in pacification back by months. If they hadn't had so many dragons to spread across Dorne to patrol constantly, Gael dreaded to think of how much more difficult their task would be. As it was they had six dragons and still the rebels' constant incessant raids would not stop, like a fly you just could not catch and crush.

It was only a matter of time, that she knew for certain. The Dornish defiance had come at a price. Their people, their culture was on the brink of extinction. Once the rebels had been destroyed, Dorne as a distinct culture and kingdom was gone, its nobility gutted and its people decimated. Dorne would be repopulated with people from the northern kingdoms, its lands redistributed to cadets from loyal noble houses, and in half a century it would be just like any other part of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was a shame honestly, their stubbornness and defiance had caused all this needless destruction. Rhaenys had been optimistic when whispers had told them of how House Martell's reputation had suffered greatly after Morion Martell's failed war in the Stepstones. She had thought it would be simple to turn the Dornish nobles and smallfolk against the Martells and ease their conquest.

She had underestimated just how much House Targaryen was hated in Dorne unfortunately. Their every attempt to reach out to the noble houses had been scorned or responded to with treachery, the breach of sacred truces, of guest right. Their offers of clemency, peace, and prosperity to the smallfolk had been responded to with stubborn defiance and false surrenders. In the end, all Gael and her fellow dragonriders had done was retaliate in kind to the atrocities and war crimes the Dornish so liked doing. When the Dornish broke, it would be on their own heads.

She just hoped their final breaking came sooner rather than later, she could feel her annoyance and frustration growing every day that she was forced to ride out and patrol in search of rebels. Gael had never truly felt old but it had dawned upon her that she was forty years old this year and not as young as she once was. She could feel the ache starting to creep into her joints, the tiredness in her bones, the weariness in her muscles.

Burning Dornish rebels and whoever sheltered and aided them gave her some relief and turning entire landscapes into ash and sand did have an appeal of its own but she was never upset to return home at the end of the day. Or as much a home as Godsgrace could be.

The seat of the now extinct House Allyrion was nothing special, a rather ordinary looking castle in a standard square shape with two sandstone curtain walls around its main keep. Its location however was everything but ordinary. Godsgrace was placed in a more central and strategic location in Dorne near the confluence of the Greenblood's two tributaries compared to Summerhall, at least for the purpose of sending out dragonriders and armies to patrol and respond to incursions all across Dorne. With the Planky Town and Sunspear destroyed and Summerhall not yet built, Godsgrace had become the central headquarters for the Targaryen war effort and now serve as their capital in all but name.

Gael mused to herself. Summerhall would be superior for trade purposes in the long run, bringing some much needed wealth back into the destroyed kingdom but she was seriously considering telling Rhaenys that Daemon and her would be keeping Godsgrace as part of their direct demesne as well, its position was that good and since they already ruled it as their own, they might as well keep it.

As she had expected, the sun was setting when she arrived back in Godsgrace. To her slight surprise however, Gael did not see just Vermithor and Tyraxes in the castle when she arrived, but also Silverwing, Meleys, and Sunfyre too.

What were Rhaenys, Viserys, and Aegon doing here? As the Red Mountains bordered the Stormlands, Rhaenys had agreed that she and her husband and son would patrol Western Dorne while Gael and her husband and son oversaw Eastern Dorne, greatly reducing the load on their shoulders. Last she recalled, Rhaenys was in Yronwood overseeing the movement of supplies, smallfolk, and soldiers down the Boneway from the Stormlands while Viserys and Aegon hunted down rebels hiding in the Red Mountains.

She landed Syrax and handed her over to the Dragonkeepers to be fed and watered before she entered the hall in search of her family. One of the soldiers pointed her to the solar when she asked after them and she was off immediately. She felt her stomach rumbling with hunger but ignored it. Dinner could wait until she found out what was going on, Rhaenys and the others would only have come all the way to Godsgrace if something was urgent, else they would have simply sent a raven.

She entered the room without even knocking, she was the Princess of Dorne, she could have some leeway. It seemed like she had walked into an argument however. Daemon and Jaehaerys looked furious, Rhaenys and Aegon annoyed, and Viserys looked desperate to calm them all down.

"What's going on here?" Gael demanded.

Rhaenys looked over to her. "The Iron Islands have risen in revolt."

"What?" Gael was confused. That was incredibly random and seemed to come out of nowhere.

Her nephew was quick to continue. "There's been burgeoning tensions between the Drowned Men and the Faith for several years and it seems to have burst at last. The Drowned Men led mobs to destroy all the septs on the islands. If the messages tell true, they tortured the septons to death in various ways, flaying, drowning, quartering, and the like before leaving their bodies to bloat in the water and displaying them with some disgusting pride. All the septas were raped and butchered and many pious worshippers killed.

"Instead of killing and punishing the Drowned Men, the Ironlords have opted to join them instead. Lord Toron Greyjoy has proclaimed an end to the Faith of the Seven in the Iron Islands, citing King Aenys' decree as his justification. The thralls, many of whom followed the Seven, have risen in revolt and the Ironlords are stamping down on the thralls. There have been concerning reports however of ironborn longships raiding Seagard and Fair Isle and other settlements along the western coast."

"In other words Gael, we have been recalled," Rhaenys finished.

"Recalled? How many of us?"

Viserys sighed. "Rhaenys, Aegon, and I."

Gael grew wroth. "What? The Iron Islands are insignificant. You mean to tell me my brother has recalled three dragonriders from Dorne just to deal with the Ironborn? One would suffice!"

"My thoughts exactly," her husband agreed with her.

Rhaenys shook her head. "Time is of the essence. The fleets of the Westerlands and Reach are still in Dorne and it will be weeks at least, maybe even months before they could reach the western coast. The lords along the western coast had pleaded for our protection and it is our duty to shield them from the savageries of the Ironmen. Right now they are still preoccupied dealing with the thralls but they will have crushed them soon enough and then the full might of the Iron Islands could be unleashed to raid and rape the entire western coast from Bear Island to the Arbor. We have to go. I promise we will return to Dorne and continue aiding you when it is done but for now we must go."

"If you leave Rhaenys, Daemon, Jae and I will have to patrol the entirety of Dorne alone. Why must all three of you go? Can't Aemon and Baelon give aid in the Iron Islands?"

Rhaenys shook her head. "My mother and Aunt Alyssa pleaded with them not to go. For the same reasons they did not come to Dorne. They are old Gael, you can't expect them to put down a rebellion, especially if the Ironmen are anywhere near as fanatical as the Dornish here. Rhaenyra and Helaena offered to go but I think we are all in agreement that they should be kept away from war as much as possible."

Gael relented bitterly. Yes, her brothers were old and Helaena was a more gentle soul and hardly the type suited for war. Rhaenyra might have more of the temperament but she had never bothered to truly learn how to wage war with her dragon either and the last thing any of them wanted was a stray arrow killing either of the girls. They still had the little ones to look after as well.

Daemon still looked grumpy, no doubt thinking of how tiring it would be on the three of them to overstretch across the entirety of Dorne. He looked to his cousin before speaking. "Very well Rhaenys. I can understand the reasoning but it will be very taxing on the three of us to hold Dorne alone. I want some compensation."

Rhaenys raised her eyebrow. "Compensation Daemon? You're already getting a principality, an entire kingdom to rule."

"A worthless kingdom. We have burned and destroyed it and even after this damnable rebellion is quashed it will be decades before Dorne is worth anywhere near the effort we have expended on it. Come now cousin, we both know that Dorne is not a gift I was given without strings, it is a mildly poisoned chalice meant to both reward me and also keep me occupied pacifying and rebuilding my reward the rest of my life so I don't cause any trouble. Now you want to leave Dorne entirely and give all the work to me and my wife and son? No I need something more tangible, a reward I can enjoy immediately."

What? Gael had not known this. She turned to Rhaenys to ask her if it was true but her expression was carved from stone. "Name it," she told Daemon in answer.

It was true then. She felt blind for not seeing it earlier. Of course Aemon and Baelon would not have given Daemon Dorne without any strings attached. How many years had it taken them to reinstate him to the gold cloaks? Her brothers thought Daemon was a rogue, a loose arrow threatening to cause another headache at any moment. They didn't see his ceaseless and unfailing loyalty and devotion; not like she did.

"I want Red Rain."

"Red Rain?" Rhaenys raised an eyebrow.

"House Drumm has rebelled has it not? Your son has Blackfyre and I do not begrudge him it, he is the future King, it is his birthright. But Dark Sister, you have long opposed me ever having Dark Sister and you have lobbied my father to grant it to Viserys and from him to your son. Selfishly hoarding both of our family swords to your branch. Very well, so be it. I have accepted that I will never have Dark Sister. But I still want a piece of our heritage, a Valyrian steel sword. And now one has all but fallen into our laps. Unless you mean to tell me you intend to spare the Drumms or any of their ilk?"

"I do not. But don't you already have a fine sword as an heirloom for your branch?" Rhaenys said, looking pointedly at Dawn leaning against the wall of the solar. Their son had claimed it as a trophy after destroying House Dayne and had presented it to his father to wield though Daemon had insisted that it was Jaehaerys' by right. Gael knew that while he admired Dawn and knew it was the equal of Valyrian steel, he still stubbornly wanted a true Valyrian sword. Now he had his chance and he wouldn't let it slip from his fingers.

"Dawn is a fine sword true, but it's not Valyrian steel. The Velaryons have so much and we have merely a crown, a dagger, and two swords. Are you content with that Rhaenys?" Daemon countered mockingly.

"Red Rain belongs to the Reynes by right does it not? Do you propose we steal their sword?" Rhaenys demanded.

Daemon shrugged. "Does it matter? The Reynes were too weak to take their sword back. Should we care for their opinion? It would be ours by right, spoils of war. We are under no obligation to return it to them. Have it reworked if you like so we can deny it is Red Rain and claim that sword is lost. I care not. I intend to rename it anyway. Dragon's Wroth has a nice ring to it," he said, referencing their ancestor's desolation of Dorne, it was oddly fitting.

Rhaenys conceded. "Very well then. You will have your compensation Daemon."

"Thank you," he said with a blinding smile.

When Rhaenys, Viserys, and Aegon finally left after that meeting, Gael stayed behind with her husband and son to discuss how they were going to patrol Dorne with only three dragonriders. The obvious conclusion was that they'd have to split up. Jaehaerys would stay in Godsgrace and patrol the Greenblood while Daemon would go to Hellholt and patrol the deserts and she would go to Skyreach and patrol the Red Mountains. With any luck they could keep everything from falling apart before Rhaenys and the others returned. If the worst came to pass, they could send for Rhaenyra to assist them.

Briefly she thought of calling Baela and Rhaena before she squashed the idea. Her eldest two daughters would be of great help no doubt, they had been forged in fire in the Basilisk Isles fighting corsairs and monsters of legend, but they were Velaryons by marriage. The entire point of the conquest of Dorne was to reinforce and enshrine Targaryen power and prestige and calling Velaryons to help, even those that were Targaryens by birth, would undermine everything they had wanted to accomplish. No they would simply have to endure.

When she went to bed that night dreading the long and tiring flight to Skyreach in the morning, Gael thought for a moment that this entire situation felt oddly contrived to spread House Targaryen as thin as possible. She had to be overthinking it though, who in the world had the ability to plan something as complicated as this?

The Knight of Truth

It was rare that Moredo Rogare attended the weekly service at Septon Maekar's sept. Well he called it a sept but honestly it was just his house. There was no seven-sided building with elaborate stained glass windows or beautiful mosaics or grand statues of the Seven. Not in Lys.

It was impossible to get the permit to build a true sept in Lys, for the Faith of the Seven had been outlawed decades ago. He prayed that one day they would worship in the open but until then the believers of the true faith were left to skulk around in the shadows. He had asked his father once, the Archon of Lys appointed by the Volantene Triarchs, about honoring their city's commitment to religious tolerance and removing the ban. It had gotten him a lecture and he had never brought it up again, fearing that it would arouse suspicion of his true beliefs.

He was a strange irony; he knew that much. A Lyseni Valyrian man born into a banking family, yet his passion was the sword and soldiering, he walked around in armor proudly wielding the family's Valyrian steel sword, Truth. With the exception of his uncle Drazenko, Moredo alone in his family showed any talent or love for swordsmanship and soldiering. That was only the irony the public knew, for even deeper there was another, more paradoxical truth.

He, Moredo Rogare, born into the Rogare family who held thousands of slaves, who held Lys itself as the slave warden of Volantis, was a chivalrous and noble man. There were none to knight him but it had long been his aspiration to be a knight. His family worshiped the manifold gods of Lys such as Yndros of the Twilight, Bakkalon of the Sword, Pantera the Cat, and Saagael the Giver of Pain, but Moredo alone worshipped the Seven-Who-Are-One. His family did not know, in fact no one did but a few trusted friends and confidants.

Confidants such as Septon Maekar. He had requested that he attend service today, saying that it would be important. That was exceedingly rare. Maekar knew all too well his family situation, he would never call him unless it was truly urgent and alas, with how persecuted their religion was, sept services were not considered urgent.

Moredo was the Archon's son, even if just his fourthborn and so he had discarded his signature blue plate and even his beloved Truth but there was still a danger he could be recognized. He took care to sit in a rather isolated alcove in Septon Maekar's house near the kitchen. Close enough to hear the service but be out of sight from the congregation. As the service carried on, Moredo reflected that it had been a long time indeed since he had come to service, too long. He should come more often, regardless of the risk. Faith demanded sacrifice did it not?

Once the service concluded, Moredo waited for the other faithful to leave before he went to speak to Septon Maekar. He was not alone unfortunately. Moredo grew a little worried thinking he might have blown his cover before he realized who was with the good septon. They were all men and women he knew very well. Fellow members not just of the Faith of the Seven, but of the Triarchs, and no he did not mean the Volantene Triarchs.

"Ser Moredo," one of his old friends, Irraphos Ormollen, greeted him with a smile.

"Ah Irraphos, once again I must remind you that I am no knight sadly, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"That is the good news friend. We have called this meeting because the day might come at last that you have a chance to become a knight."

Moredo was confused. He looked to the others before noticing someone he hadn't earlier. He could never forget him. He had introduced himself to him as Varys many years ago though he somehow doubted that was his real name. He knew all too well who Varys was. One of the spies of House Velaryon, of Zaldilaros, the man who had recruited him into the Triarch movement when he had been at his lowest.

Varys only said four words with a smirk. "The Triarch is hungry."

A cryptic phrase, one that many might use to subtly mock the Triarchs of Volantis who continued to hold Lys under their yoke. Moredo however knew that it meant something else entirely. His heart leapt for joy as he grew more and more excited. Perhaps the faithful would not have to wait much longer, salvation was coming.

"Truly?" he asked, unable to believe that the time had finally come.

The others all nodded. "Wonderful," Moredo said with a smile. "What's the plan?"

Varys explained the plan to him and Moredo listened attentively. When he was done, he spoke up. "This plan… it could work very well but if Zaldilaros takes too long to come, we could be in grave danger. Even if the faithful across the city rise up to join our cause, it will be a slaughter. We cannot possibly hope to hold the Emerald Palace forever, not against the full might of the Volantene garrison."

Septon Maekar rebuked him. "Moredo… where is your faith? This is Zaldilaros' plan. He will come. Do not let your faith waver."

Moredo bowed his head and humbly took the rebuke. "Forgive me Septon. I am but mortal and doubting. Yes, you are right. Zaldilaros will not let us down."

"Nor shall you," Varys said. "You have the command Ser Moredo, by the orders of Lord Jacaerys himself. He recognizes your skill and loyalty and the good work you have done over the past few years training the Triarchs in soldiering. Furthermore, as the son of the Archon and the captain of his guard, you are uniquely placed to carry out this mission and hold the palace until Zaldilaros arrives."

"Zaldilaros honors me," Moredo said, bowing. "But why do you and Irraphos call me Ser, Varys?"

Varys smiled. "Simply a promise Ser Moredo. I have it on good word that Lord Jacaerys intends to knight you for your service when he arrives. Perhaps even more. And might I say there is no man more deserving of that than you!"

Septon Maekar, Irraphos, and the others all shouted their agreement. Moredo chuckled, humbled by the praise.

"Thank you my friends. I will strive to be worthy of these accolades. I promise I shall not let you down. Soon Lys shall be free! Zaldilaros shall come and their rule shall be glorious indeed! The Old!"

"The True, the Brave!" his fellow Triarchs chorused.

With the plan finalized, the others bade them a fond farewell before departing with jubilation in their steps. Varys disappeared back into the shadows, as was usual. Moredo however stayed a little longer. It was not often that he had the opportunity to pray in the sept. Kneeling before the tapestry of the Warrior and Father, Moredo prayed for guidance, for wisdom, for his sword arm to prevail, to bring justice to Lys who had been deprived it for so long.

When he had finished with his prayers, he arose and found that Septon Maekar was watching him pray with pride. He felt his heart swell with joy. Why couldn't Septon Maekar have been his real father, he thought to himself bitterly at times. He was so kind, so caring. Firm as a father should be yes, but never harsh and always understanding.

"I have a letter for you Moredo," Septon Maekar said.

"From you Septon?" Moredo was confused.

He shook his head. "Nay my boy. From your beloved."

From Annalys? Moredo almost choked with shock remembering soft grey eyes and honey curls.

"Aye. Varys brought it. He told me that she misses you. Another thing to look forward to eh? Once the Triarchy is restored under Zaldilaros, nothing can stop you from going to Tyrosh to see her, or bringing her back here to Lys if she is willing."

Moredo shook his head. "Lys has… painful memories for Annalys. I wouldn't even dare to ask her to come back. Not after what happened."

His friend and father in all but name looked disapproving but sympathetic. "At least try my boy. You might be surprised."

That night, Moredo read the letter over and over again. It had been so long since he had heard from Annalys, he had feared that she had forgotten him, or worse, hated him and wished to have nothing to do with him. The letter indicated none of that thankfully. Annalys' tone was kind and polite as she wrote much about the sights and wonders of Tyrosh, and how kind the Velaryons were to their servants in Zaldilaros Palace, whose ranks she had been privileged enough to join.

She had even described some of them to him in her letter, their personalities and looks. Combined with what Septon Maekar had told him, it only left him feeling more confident that his decision to join the Triarchs had been correct. House Velaryon truly was a worthy house to serve, a worthy and just liege.

He sighed. House Velaryon might be worthy, but was he? Annalys wrote nothing about them, about whether she had any feelings for him at all. He found himself wondering if he really had just been like a little brother to her all along. Feeling morose, he shook the memories away. Tomorrow would be the day of reckoning and it would be best if he was well rested for it.

___________________________________________

How exactly did a son of House Rogare become a worshipper of the Seven and leader in the Triarch movement plotting to overthrow his own family and seat House Velaryon at the head of a restored Triarchy? It sounded fantastical, like one of the tales Annalys had told him growing up sometimes. Moredo shook his head sometimes thinking about how it had all come about.

Thirty years ago, his father, Lysandro Rogare, had been one of many Magisters in the city of Lys. The Rogares were a proud and old family, they could trace their descent from Old Valyria, supposedly even from a cadet branch of the Forty Families. However, in Lys, such descent was very common and so they had been nothing special. Many other houses like the Haens or Ormollens (whom his friend Irraphos was a member of) had been richer and more powerful than them.

Nonetheless his father was not content with his lot. With his brother Drazenko, they had plotted and schemed a lifelong plan to see their family rise to great wealth and prominence using their core holding and business, the Rogare Bank. They held many others of course but the Rogare Bank had always been chief among them and his father and uncle had thought to follow the example of the Iron or Velaryon Banks and become wildly successful. And for a few short years it looked to be showing potential.

Then came the formation of the First Triarchy and the war with Volantis, and their influence and prestige had grown enormously from their father's risky decision to fund the war with the Rogare Bank's collateral and holdings. The idea was that by loaning the ruling council of Lys the money to prosecute the war, his father would buy his way into a seat of power and influence, with the aspiration to one day become First Magister of Lys, for Life even if possible.

That had all come to nothing when the Velaryons had interfered. Viserra and Corlys Velaryon took Tyrosh with the dragon Dreamfyre and a great fleet of men. Suddenly, far from winning the war, the Triarchy had lost it entirely. Volantis was ascendant and it would be annexing Lys.

Memories of the last time Volantis had ruled Lys had seen the city panic and despair, but his father and uncle had not been among them. They immediately and without any honor, defected to the Volantenes and collaborated with the garrison and archon they had appointed, recouping their losses spent funding the war from the ruin of those other families such as the Haens and Ormollens who had not been so clever and duplicitous. For his actions, his father had been called Lysandro the Traitor ever since, though he much preferred the more flattering epithet of Lysandro the Magnificent that he gained for the enormous wealth he had amassed since.

By the time Moredo was born twenty years ago, his father had already become the Archon of Lys. The original Archon, a Maegyr sent from Volantis, was eventually recalled due to infighting amongst the Volantene Old Blood and that same infighting had prevented Volantis from sending a new Archon. Who did they have to appoint then but his father who had proven his loyalty with a decade of eager service as the lieutenant of the previous Archon.

Once he became Archon, nothing was impossible for his father Moredo once thought. He immediately secured his position, bribing the Volantene General and Admiral commanding the garrison and fleet left behind as a check on his power before using his position as absolute ruler over a Free City to amass enormous wealth and power for their family. He went after all their old rivals, ruining them even worse than the Volantenes had done and taking their remaining businesses and wealth to form a near monopoly for their family. The Rogare Bank swelled in power and influence, becoming one of the most important banks not just in Lys or even in Greater Volantis, but in the entire Known World.

They had seemed unstoppable, his father ruled like a king in all but name and Volantis was too distracted with its constant wars with the other Free Cities before it was too late to dethrone him. Once that point had come, he paid only lip service to Volantis and that was because it was easier to be under their nominal rule than to try and fight a war for independence that could see all their wealth undone. Unless Volantis moved to remove him from his position or curtail his power in anyway, Archon Lysandro would remain their loyal vassal.

Moredo had grown up like a prince consequently, spoilt in the lap of luxury. Yet as a fourthborn son his parents had never truly paid much attention to him and so he had mostly been raised by the maids. One of those maids was Annalys, who was closest to him in age, only five years older. Annalys was a slave from Westeros and had told him many stories that he had come to love, stories about Serwyn the Mirror Shield, and Florian and Jonquil, and many more. She had taught him about knighthood, about the Seven, and it had inspired his younger self to aspire for a higher chivalric nature.

Of course with the hindsight of maturity, Moredo could admit it had really just been because he had been infatuated with Annalys and had wanted to impress her by becoming a dashing knight for her. After all he had been a young and lonely boy of ten and she had been a very beautiful and comely fifteen-year-old maid and perhaps his only true friend. Nobody had really wanted to play with Moredo when he was young, he had been seen as awkward and foolish, with his head in the clouds, never really fitting in with his brothers and their friends, both younger and older.

So yes, his feelings for Annalys had started his desire to become a knight, but later on as his father and uncle had praised his dedication in the training yard, as he had become stronger and taller from his relentless training, as he had finally begun making friends for now being admirable, he had come to realize that Annalys had given him more than just a mere infatuation, she had given him a purpose, a goal, an ideal to strive for.

It was strange, from a young age he had sought to embody the tenets of knighthood, but he had never noticed that slavery was an evil until it was far too late. He had always treated the slaves kindly of course, seeing it as his duty as their liege and thinking it no different than the smallfolk in Westeros, but he had believed his family's lies and truly believed that it was better for them and everybody if slavery remained as it was and he had disliked the Velaryons for upsetting the delicate balance that had existed for thousands of years with their actions. He had been naïve, foolish.

When he was sixteen years old, his friend Annalys, was given by his father to the Volantene General for a night of 'fun.' A gift apparently, part of the old friendship and understanding his father had with the General.

Annalys had been in tears when he had found her, she had screamed he had been told by some of the other slaves later. Begging for him to come. It had crushed his heart with guilt and it had broken it even more when Annalys seemed disgusted with him, with the touch of any man after what she had suffered.

In rage, Moredo had confronted his father, demanding to know how he could give someone to be used like that. He had never forgotten what his father had told him. "Slaves are nothing. They are ours to use as we please. Put aside these silly dreams of chivalry and knighthood, those are the ways of the Sunset Kingdoms, of flowery and pompous fools. Those are not the ways of Lys."

He had told his father that if the ways of Lys entailed giving a servant who had loyally served your family for years over to someone to be raped and abused than he wanted no part of it. His father had struck him then. Any love he had for him had died that day.

By the next day Annalys was gone, sent away from the palace so she could no longer be a distraction to him. Moredo had cursed at his father some more and thrown himself into his training in rage, beating up anyone who had dared to challenge him to a spar. He had failed his friend, his first love, and his new goal was to become so strong he would never fail anyone else again.

His mother and siblings had not understood, it was just a slave they said, Moredo had said nothing. He had hardened his heart and his face became like stone. That was where he got his stern reputation from, he had no choice but to be stern because if he wasn't he would unleash his rage and all would be lost.

This had lasted for only a scant two months before he had approached him. The mysterious Varys who had introduced himself as someone who could help him save Annalys. Moredo had been suspicious and he had asked him what he wanted in return. In a rare moment of sincerity, Varys had told him that he hated slavery and would be glad to free a slave for no reason but he needed Moredo for something once she was saved. He had told him that he trusted in his honor as an aspiring knight to keep his word.

That had meant a lot to Moredo. He hadn't trusted Varys, he was too suspicious, too much of an obvious spy, but other than Annalys he had been the only person up until that point that had told him his dreams of chivalry and knighthood were not foolish, quite the opposite.

Moredo had taken a gamble and had decided to trust him then. Varys told him that for suspicion to not fall on him, he needed to reconcile with his family, or at least appear to, so that when Annalys disappeared, none would think him responsible. Moredo had done so, swallowing his pride, he had apologized to his father and his father had smiled and thanked him. He had then reconciled with the rest of his family and became high in their esteem once again, forgiven for his supposed transgressions.

One month later, Varys called him to a hidden meeting at the dock and Annalys was there, freed from slavery. She was still afraid of touch but she had hugged him one last time and bid him farewell, promising to write (which she had…but rarely) and telling him that her ship was bound for Tyrosh where slavery was outlawed. That was the moment he had first suspected that Varys served House Velaryon.

When he had confronted him afterward, he had not lied, only confirming it with a smile and telling him with religious devotion how he too had once been a slave and it was House Velaryon that saved him from it and for that he would always be loyal to them. He had asked Moredo then, if he understood that Annalys' story was far from rare in Lys, if he had realized that slavery was evil. He told him that there was a plan to ensure that one day, what happened to Annalys would never happen again in Lys and he had asked him if he was interested.

Moredo hadn't even had to think about it very much. He shook his hand and the rest was history. Slowly as they had built more trust, he was inducted deeper and deeper into the Triarch movement. He met Irraphos first, they had had some tension at the start due to Irraphos' resentment for his father destroying his family but they had eventually become fast friends when he had gotten him out of prison after he had slipped up on a mission.

After Irraphos, he met Septon Maekar and listening to his sermons about the Faith, about the Seven, about Zaldilaros, about Annalys' gods, it changed Moredo forever. He truly came to believe in what he was doing on a religious level, more than just spite for his father and the desire for revenge, he came to truly desire the end of slavery and the coming of Velaryon rule. He felt proud to finally have begun to live up to the chivalrous knights in the tales he had so loved.

His mission as Moredo Rogare was to continue earning the trust and loyalty of his family. He had so convincingly played his part that they had never even suspected him of Annalys' disappearance. He became the stern and dutiful soldier son, turning a blind eye to the abuse his family brought upon their slaves even if he never partook in it himself. All for the mission. His father became so proud of him, going so far as to name him the Captain of the Emerald Palace Guard and granting him their family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Truth. Moredo had almost gagged when his father had told him he was proud in him but he had enjoyed getting a Valyrian steel sword and more importantly, becoming the Captain of the Guard, the proof that his ruse had succeeded, the proof that he was in a position to carry out the plan, the proof that he could avenge Annalys.

And now after four long years, the time had finally come. Moredo had to restrain his excitement as he opened the postern gate and let his Triarchs into the palace grounds. Irraphos and the others were well equipped, courtesy of Varys and his ilk. In his time as Captain, Moredo had also used his position to subvert the entire guard as well. All the new recruits since he had become Captain were diehard fanatic Triarchs just waiting for the order and the older ones would either obey him or die.

"Are you ready Moredo?" Irraphos asked him as they walked up to the entrance of the palace.

He smiled. "I've been ready for years."

"Captain Moredo?" the guards at the palace doors were confused. Old veterans his father had chosen.

"Gentlemen," Moredo said. "You have two choices. Surrender your weapons and let my men take you prisoner. Or die."

One of the guards laughed nervously. "Surely this must be a jape Captain?"

"I assure you, I am most serious," Moredo said coldly.

The two guards looked at each other before raising their weapons against him. Too loyal to his father it seemed. How disappointing. Truth was buried in one's gut before he could even react, still unable to believe his lord's son, his captain, had betrayed them. The other screamed and charged at Moredo but the talented aspiring young knight sidestepped the blow before decapitating him cleanly. Valyrian steel proved its sharpness yet again.

Truth however was not the only Valyrian steel weapon in his family's possession. As he stepped into the palace, Moredo spotted Sallero stalking toward him menacingly. He was a tall man, over six and a half feet tall and he had an angry scowl on his face. He must have realized his betrayal. In his hands was a great curved Valyrian steel sword with a dragonbone hilt, the other Valyrian steel sword in the Rogare family's possession.

Of all the men in the guard to face, Moredo most worried about Sallero. He had been given the sword for a reason, he had the loyalty to his father in the entire guard and his skill was equal to his own, maybe even greater. Taking their opponent seriously, Moredo and his men spread out to surround Sallero. He grimaced. They had to finish this quickly or the other guards would come to Sallero's aid and the plan would fail. Annalys would not be avenged, and he refused to let that happen.

As one they moved on Sallero but he swiped his blade and cut cleanly through the chainmail several of his men were armored with, tearing their bodies apart as they fell to the ground in agony and some died on the spot. Steeling his nerves, Moredo stepped forward and met his blade with his own, the Valyrian swords clashed together in a song of steel.

Sallero tried to swipe at his legs with his longer reach but Moredo deflected it, there was too little power in the blow because Sallero had had to reposition his legs to avoid being skewered by a spear one of his men wielded. Working in tandem with his troop, Moredo pushed back Sallero. Outnumbered, he was unable to fully commit to any offense and his end came when Moredo took advantage of a distraction when one of his men tried to attack him from behind to slip Truth into a gap in his armor. Sallero screamed in anger and fury, his lips involuntarily parting before Moredo simply thrust Truth into his throat and out through his neck in the next second, taking advantage of his distraction.

He swished his blade to clean of the blood and ordered some of the men to tend to the wounded before taking the rest to continue their mission. They were lucky they had encountered Sallero alone, he would have been a fearsome opponent if he had rallied the loyalists against them, but then, he had assigned Sallero's patrol shifts in this way for a reason. Being the captain of the guard did have its privileges.

As they marched through the palace, they found more and more guards. All of them either automatically filed in behind them, having been his planted Triarchs long in advance, surrendered, or died, with none being as challenging as Sallero to fight and defeat. Eventually Moredo split the Triarchs and sent them to secure his family.

Though he cared not if his father lived or died, he did still have some affection for the rest of them and would prefer if they were captured alive. Pragmatically too they needed some hostages or the Volantene garrison would kill them all long before Zaldilaros ever reached Lys. Varys had said they needed to hold out for two weeks at least so the Velaryons could cite the chaos as justification to intervene in case the Targaryens tried to meddle, he could do that, he must do it.

It was not long before he found the room where his father had been. In disgust Moredo realized that his father was taking his pleasure in a young slave girl. But then that was just the man his father was. If he recalled correctly, he had at least ten bastard siblings, probably more. He idly wondered if his father had ever dared use Annalys' body as well before he shut the thought down hard. It would be messy if he killed him here out of blind rage.

His father was furious at his intrusion. "Moredo? What the fuck are you doing here!? GET OUT!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that Father. You see, we need to have a little family meeting," Moredo said before he dragged his father out over his protests and betrayed look when he pointed Truth at his back to make him walk naked, humiliatingly, to the main hall where the rest of their family had assembled.

The Hall of Mirrors was one of the jewels of his family, a massive great hall filled with massive ornate mirrors of great expense. It just seemed soulless and decadent to Moredo now. The vanities on the wall told all that needed to be said. It was so very vain.

His family all looked betrayed, shouting obscenities at him while his mother looked like she was crying tears in denial. His brothers asked him why he had done it, his sisters wailed. Moredo did not answer any of them. He simply stood there, savoring his victory. He had waited four years for this moment, four painfully long years.

"Silence!" he finally barked when he tired of their incessant whining.

"This is what is going to happen from now on. All of you now have the pleasure of being prisoners of the House of Zaldilaros Velaryon and your fate will be theirs to determine. I cannot promise any of you your wealth and luxury but I can promise you your lives so long as you are obedient and do not cause trouble for us."

"The Velaryons? You betray us to those accursed fools who seek to tear down everything that built our society?" his eldest brother Lysaro demanded.

"You'll never get away with this Moredo! The Volantene garrison will kill you for this! Stand down while you still can!" Fredo, his next eldest brother said.

"Oh Fredo, you have all spent so many years bribing the Volantene garrison I think they would hesitate just a little if I threaten your lives? Because if not, we really wasted all that money," he said drily.

His mother gasped in shock and his sisters and youngest brothers clung tight to her. He looked down at his younger siblings then and felt himself waiver for a moment. Damn his bleeding heart but Larra was only five, and even Lotho was just seven and ten. His younger siblings were truly innocent, guilty only of not knowing better, just like he had been. It hurt a little to see some of the siblings he did care for stare at him like he was evil but that wouldn't stop him from doing what he had to.

They must think he is a monster now but they would understand one day and if not, then at least he had done what was right. One way or another, House Velaryon was going to take Lys, their dragons could not be stopped. At least this way, his family got to live, and that was more than many of them deserved.

"You would stoop so low?" his mother demanded, looking like she regretted ever giving birth to him.

'Not nearly as much as I regret being born into this family Mother,' he thought before answering mockingly. "What can I say Mother, I am my father's son," he said mockingly.

All eyes turned to his father then, still naked and humiliated. "This is about that girl isn't it?" his father demanded, fire and impotent fury in his blue eyes. "She filled your head with silly songs and nonsense, she took you from us! I rue the day I bought that Westerosi whore and brought her –"

In the next second, Truth was at his father's throat. Moredo barely restrained his rage. "Don't you dare say another word about Annalys. You're the one who made her a whore!"

He was done talking to them. "Take them away!" he barked to Irraphos and the other Triarchs and they obeyed. His mother and younger siblings were allowed house arrest but his father and elder brothers were to go straight to the dungeons beneath the Emerald Palace they liked to throw their prisoners into and torture, the sick fucks.

Soon Moredo was all alone in the hall, nothing but him and his thousand reflections. He'd done it, he'd won, he'd finally taken vengeance for Annalys. The plan had gone perfectly yet why did he feel so empty? Why did the look of betrayal on his mother's face and the tears in his little sisters' eyes haunt him so? Why did the condemnation from his brothers wound him so? Why did somewhere, buried so deep down, did he regret the way things ended with his father? Why had the Seven cursed him to be born into this family that he both hated and loved so much!? Moredo screamed in frustration, not even knowing who or what he was angry at anymore.