Chương 48: Chapter 42 - Conflicting Ideas
A/N: Following chapters will feature time skips of at least 3-4 years, since they have now become rather draggy. Thanks to FieryMatter and Ascalon451 on SB for beta-ing. Support me on Ko-Fi if you're interested.
Chapter XLII: Conflicting Ideas
8 AC
Dāeria (Volantis)
Azella Rada
For an entire year, Azella Rada fought countless Dothraki alongside General Franklyn Doratarn, learning under his guidance the finer points of strategy and battlefield adaptability and the harsh realities of leadership.
Many questioned if they should be led by someone who did not attend, much less graduate from East Point, but Azella displayed a relentless ability and desire to adapt, to change and grow stronger as a commander. Though not a master swordsman like Franklyn, she was able to cut down her fair share of enemies in combat, and more than once she displayed daring and bravery in executing several strategies that led to the defeat of several khalasars.
She shared weal and woe with the troops, talking with countless captains and colonels and getting to know them better, and soon she earned a loyal following of her own.
As the war progressed, however, more and more khalasars joined and strengthened the invaders' ranks, eager to show the Daerians the folly of their actions and avenge their embarrassingly easy defeats at the hands of former slaves.
Needless to say, due to their refusal to change and adopt the tactics of their enemies, they failed miserably.
A new generation of intrepid heroes and brilliant strategists made themselves known among Westerosi and Daerian alike, and one unit of Westerosi troops soon made a name for themselves.
A battalion of Northmen, led by a Colonel Eckard of the North, demonstrated relentless offensive capabilities and cold-blooded ruthlessness against the savages of the Dothraki Sea, incorporating Dornian and Tegonian tactics to full effect. A striking feature of these Northmen were that many were Crannogmen [1] composing its ranks, and the Colonel himself was a graduate of East Point.
The body count of his battalion against the Dothraki reached into the thousands, and from the rank of Lieutenant, Eckard rapidly ascended the ranks by merit of his own achievements and quickly came to stand out amongst the thousands of other Northmen serving in the Westerosi warhost.
It was logical to assume he wished for some significant reward after this campaign.
Soon, Azella would face a terrible challenge regarding the Dothraki captives. More specifically, with getting her Daerian comrades to agree on a proper solution that did not involve simple expulsion or worse, wholesale genocide.
"I said it once before, and I will say it again, My Lady; we will not give them any place to settle in Daeria, and we will not take in the defeated captives!" Vaeranah declared to Azella.
"They are defeated, and they fear us!" Azella retorted, "And if we let them go back to their kind, they will simply be turned upon!"
"Then let the Dothraki deal with them!" Vaeranah argued, "We do not have the means to support them regardless, and we simply cannot accommodate them when we ourselves are barely fresh from an invasion! The shipments of food we receive are meant for hungry Daerian mouths - our brothers and sisters - not barbaric refugees!"
"Even then, surely you could put them to use?" Azella questioned, to which Vaeranah only glared darkly.
"I would not even use them as arrow fodder," Vaeranah growled, "They don't deserve that honour."
"Then at least we could just leave them at the very fringe of the border, Vaeranah," Azella suggested, "Once this war is over, we can then determine what to do with them."
Vaeranah huffed, but said, "As you wish, My Lady."
Vaeranah walked away with an angry stride, barely making effort to avoid colliding with Azella as she did so. Azella herself sighed, shaking her head before walking out of the command tent.
"You still insist on your current course of action with the Dothraki?"
Azella nodded slowly as she faced Franklyn, who waited outside the tent.
"I still believe the Dothraki can be made use of, turned to good purpose so long as the ones who perpetrate the stagnation are dealt with," She said firmly to Franklyn, "And look at the women and children; where can they go? At the very least, if we can give them a life away from their kindred, they can begin to change for the better, and become useful people who can contribute to society. The women can live free lives, and children do not have to be raised to become barbaric, rapist killers."
"You know the Daerians will never accept your proposal," Franklyn pointed out.
"I know, General. I know," Azella smiled sadly, "And yet I still wish to persist."
Franklyn patted her on the shoulder, "Take some rest for now, My Lady. We've a large battle to fight tomorrow."
IIOII
The final battle was… anticlimactic, to say the least.
True to their culture, the Dothraki once again died terribly ignominious and embarrassing deaths in a massed frontal charge at the combined Daerian-Westerosi formations. Like the battle at Fort Kasloch, the Dothraki charged and died like a mass of bodies - a true horde.
With the last of the fighting khals dead along with their bloodriders, there remained a small minority of Dothraki warriors who willingly threw down their weapons in surrender, but not before cutting their braids and throwing them at the feet of the conquerors.
In the eyes of all other Dothraki, they were now the lowest scum of the earth. But they cared not for their shame.
No khal surrendered. All of them died fighting to their very last breath.
And it was in the aftermath of the battle that tensions reached their peak.
"No, we will not spare these Dothraki women and children!"
"They are barbarians! They will die like barbarians!"
"What use could they possibly have for civilised cultures like ours!?"
Azella found herself the sole voice of compassion for the defeated Dothraki, a lone sheep among wolves eager to cut her down to size. The Daerians did not want them, and the Westerosi wanted to wash their hands clean. Only the Dornians did not raise their voices, loyal to the blood of House Rada, yet even they did not lend support to Azella's proposal and murmured about washing their hands clean of them. Franklyn remained completely silent, offering her support in the form of a pat on her back.
No country wanted a horde of refugees on their doorstep.
"There will be order in this council!" Archon Saenyra roared, thumping her spear on the ground with a hard thud.
At once the council was silent, and all turned to face the Archon of Daeria.
"It is clear that none will take in the Dothraki refugees, and we are at an impasse on what to do with them," Saenyra said, her tone in neither agreement nor disagreement, "None support Azella's proposal of integration for the Dothraki and supporting their transition into a civilised society, or to make use of them as troops against other Dothraki or other Free Cities, should there be hostilities against them."
All murmured their agreements in hushed whispers.
"As such, I wish to ask the proposer of this plan about her next course of action," Saenyra said, and all eyes turned to Azella, "My Lady, do you have an answer to give to this council."
With all other options exhausted, there was only one choice to take, one last chance to give the refugees a chance for a brighter tomorrow.
"Since no one else will take them in, I will," Azella declared, "I will bring them with me to Dornia (Dorne)."
The council was stunned into silence; no one, not even the Dornians, expected such an outlandish and ridiculous answer. After all, who in their right mind would ever attempt to care for such barbarians? And yet such was the firm conviction in Azella's words, expression, in every part of her demeanour, that not even the ferocious and vengeful Vaeranah who held an adamantine hatred for the Dothraki could adequately respond.
Some of the Dornians showed similar disbelief, but chose to keep silent rather than voice their opinion in response to her answer; such was their absolute loyalty to the family of the Black Fox.
"Are you absolutely sure about this, My Lady?" Asked Saenyra, looking cautiously at both Azella and the audience, "There are close to a hundred thousand refugees you have to take and three-quarters of them are women and children, not to mention countless other factors at play."
"I am sure," Azella declared resolutely.
Franklyn nodded, then stepped forward and said, "Her Ladyship has spoken. Let none gainsay her commitment."
And the matter was settled. No one was truly happy, but at least the Daerians could wash their hands of the unwanted Dothraki refugees.
With countless thousands of Dothraki dead, it would be decades before they could muster such strength again, and after the War of Crimson Steeds as it was named by Daerian historians, the strength of Daeria was already beginning to write its own legend. National morale and pride in Daeria surged by leaps and bounds, and other Free Cities were now eager to curry favour, Braavos especially due to their shared history of freedom from slavery.
And due to the combined military achievements shared by both suzerain and vassal, Westerosi-Daerian ties would also become stronger and a deeper loyalty to the alliance instilled into the minds of the Daerian populace.
Yet for Azella Rada, her struggles would only continue.
IIOII
Rhoyehom
Arin Rada
"So, let me get this straight: You chose to bring over a hundred thousand Dothraki refugees all the way from Essos to Dornia, despite obvious disapproval by our allies and the logistical nightmare that comes with integrating a primitive society?"
"Yes, Father," Azella answered curtly.
Arin groaned and rubbed his forehead, before pinching his nose as he tried to comprehend the recklessness of his daughter's actions. He knew of everything through correspondence with Franklyn Doratarn, but he had to admit, learning of it in person was another thing.
"Daughter… I know others have said this to you already, but this is exceedingly reckless," Belandra remonstrated, "Don't you understand that as eldest child and heir to our Ducal family, your actions have consequences?"
"I… I am aware," Azella faltered slightly, "I admit I acted in the moment, but I just could not sit idly by; worse things would have happened otherwise."
Belandra wished to say more, but Arin intervened with a gentle hand and shook his head at her.
"Can I ask why you chose to take them in, Azella?" Asked Arin, "I heard that you disagreed with many Daerian officers over the matter of the Dothraki."
"They wanted to kill the women and children, even though they did no wrong," Azella stated, her lips trembling and her eyes twitching, "They just wanted to slaughter them all. I also wanted to make use of Dothraki horsemanship to our benefit, to put them to use for the betterment of Daeria and our alliance. And they wanted nothing to do with them at all, not even to use them as disposable pawns."
Azella took a deep breath, steadying herself, "Is hatred so terrible and deep that we wish for the extermination of an entire people?"
Arin sighed, nodding in understanding and giving her a gentle smile as he patted Azella's shoulder.
"Take a seat," Arin beckoned.
Azella obliged, and together, they sat down and prepared to talk.
"So Azella, when you said that you wished to make use of the Dothraki. How do you expect to do so?" Asked Arin, "Do you know the difficulties you face?"
Azella nodded confidently, "The Dothraki are the very definition of a primitive society; they have no currency and do not understand the concept of trade; their government is centralised around brute strength and absolute power in the hands of a khal and his bloodriders; their tactics have not evolved beyond a massed frontal assault; their women and children have absolutely no real useful skills and produce no luxury goods, and the women are treated as broodmares; their religion is a central proponent of their way of life. They are… difficult to integrate and uplift."
"And do you understand that since you openly declared your intentions to take care of them, people will now watch you closely to see if you can back your rhetoric, both fellow Dornians and other Westerosi, and the Daerians?" Arin asked, his tone gentle yet firm and brooking no argument, "And that they will watch our entire family for weakness? Weakness that they can exploit to bring us to heel?"
Azella nodded in gradual understanding, breathing deeply and almost sinking into her chair in weariness.
"Yes, Father. I do," She answered, face covered with her hands and eyes averted from her parents.
Arin hugged her close, offering his shoulder as a pillar of support.
"You have been reckless, but I do see that you are a firm believer in your convictions," Arin said to her, "There's nothing wrong with that, or wanting to help people in need."
"There are countless who'd say otherwise," Azella muttered, her voice so subdued it was barely above a whisper, "They say showing mercy to such people is weakness."
"Don't let them bother you," Belandra said firmly, "You helped those Dothraki because it is who you are, and like your father, you saw benefit and opportunity. No one can choose for you."
Azella sighed heavily and said, "For what it's worth, I just wanted to make you both proud, to be a worthy successor to the Rada name."
"And Azella, we already told you countless times to not worry about that," Belandra reiterated, "If you let yourself be so distracted by obligations and expectations, you cannot truly grow as a person. Before being a scion of House Rada and successor to your father's legacy, you are our daughter, first and foremost. Nothing can change that."
Azella slowly nodded as she digested her mother's words.
"Father, when I offered my proposal to integrate the Dothraki, I admit I acted on… dreams, hopeful and fanciful dreams based on stories you told us when we were young," Azella admitted, "I wished to transform the Dothraki into a proper nomadic warrior society, like the Sarmatian Auxilla of Western Rome and the Hunnic mercenaries of Byzantium."
"You wished to make that a reality?" Arin asked, genuinely interested and half-concerned.
"Yes, father," Azella affirmed, "I… hoped that by achieving a successful Dothraki integration, I could achieve what you could not."
Arin pursed his lips, leaning his head into his hand in disappointment. Azella could see that Arin was warring with his own emotions, pain and disappointment flashing in his distant eyes.
"I think I placed too much of a burden on you, Azella," Arin admitted, his voice terribly soft and sorrowful, "I did not think you were so… challenged on dealing with the expectations. I should have talked to you more about this; I must talk more with you - with our children - on this matter."
Arin sniffed, wiping a tear from his eye.
"I'm so sorry you had to suffer like this."
Azella was swift to embrace her father in comfort.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," She said with a smile.
The three of them embraced for a long, pregnant pause before they released each other.
"I stand by my decision to help the Dothraki, and they are now my responsibility. Though I admit, I will need much help as this is new territory and I'm completely unfamiliar," Azella said, "Will you help me, Father? Mother?"
"Of course, as much help as you need," Arin smiled and nodded.
"I will send missives and determine who is willing to lend a helping hand," Belandra said.
No matter her misgivings or that of anyone else, Azella had made her decision to help the Dothraki settle down in Dornia (Dorne) and start a new life away from their raiding days in Essos. Whether it was the right or not, that was for the history books to determine.
IIOII
King's Landing
Eckard
The War of Crimson Steeds saw countless hedge knights be promoted to full-fledged knights and lords in light of their meritorious achievements in battle, and countless Lords be awarded great treasure and influence. For Tegonia (The Reach), especially, the ennoblement of new Lords was a boon given how many minor households faced extinction in the ill-fated War of Roses and Serpents, and their revolutionary tactics saw their influence and status as a martial power be mended.
At King's Landing, the Targaryens presided over countless promotions of minor petty Lords and hedge knights for what seemed like hours, a mere formality given how swiftly their promotions had already been ratified.
Then came the unlikely hero among the Northmen.
"Eckard of Sonaria (The North) and Oberyn of Dornia (Dorne), step forward!" Rhaenys called out.
The two mentioned men came forward and knelt before the Iron Throne, and all eyes were on them. The former with his striking white hair and crimson eyes had countless gossiping in morbid curiosity and slight trepidation, muttering curses and whispers of magic, while the latter struck the image of a mighty, imposing and handsome warrior, a far cry from his bookish self of three years prior.
Aegon Targaryen stood from his seat and approached the two men, who kept their faces facing the ground.
"These two men have distinguished themselves in battle, saving countless Northmen [2] lives and turning the tide in our favour, not to mention killing at least half a dozen khals by themselves," Lord Paramount Torrhen Stark reported, sounding both respectful and slightly envious, "As such, I would like to recommend them for promotion to Lordly status."
It was a political move to endear Eckard to the North, for he was by far the only Northman graduate of the Aryslonye (Sunspear) Military Academy and a proven commander of men, and a man of such experience and intimacy with Dornian tactics was invaluable to Sonaria, which even now struggled to build influence with the rest of Westeros further south.
As for Oberyn, he himself had already stated that he was sworn to follow him as a knight followed his liege lord, saving Torrhen a potential headache in trying to convince him.
"Very well," Aegon said as he stood up from the throne, walking towards the two young men.
Unsheathing Blackfyre [3], he tapped it on their shoulders.
"In the name of the Fourteen, I charge you to be warriors of steadfast loyalty and unwavering bravery, and to protect the people against the strong and domineering," He recited, "I, Aegon Targaryen, King of the Valyrīhi, the Andhālīhi, the Endinīhi and the Rhoynīhy, name you both Lords of Sonaria. Arise Lords of Westeros."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Eckard nodded as they stood up.
"Now, I understand you do not have a fief of your own," Aegon noted, "So might I ask if there is a particular plot of land you wish to acquire, or if you would rather Lord Paramount Torrhen choose for you?"
"Moat Cailin, Your Grace," Eckard answered.
"Moat Cailin?" Asked Aegon, "The place has lain in ruin for countless centuries since the extinction of House Callin, and no one has sought to rebuild it since. Might I ask why?"
"Moat Cailin, or at least the region surrounding it, was my home and birthplace," Eckard answered, a wistful tone in his words, "It will be an expensive endeavour to repair it, and I know the sheer cost would bankrupt most houses, especially a newly-formed house, but I simply wish to do a service for my home."
Aegon nodded, "An admirable sentiment, and one I respect. What about Lord Oberyn, by the way?"
"I am content with serving Lord Eckard, Your Grace," Oberyn answered, his face firmly neutral.
No one dared to believe Oberyn did not want for anything, but they held their tongues. And considering that Oberyn was ranked Major while Eckard was Colonel, this subordination did make sense in a way.
"Very well, I hereby name you the Lord of Moat Callin," Aegon stated.
"My gracious thanks," Eckard bowed.
"So what will your house name be?" Asked Visenya, her eyes squarely on the new lord.
"Blodfeld," Eckard answered.
"Your household's coat-of-arms?"
"A snow leopard with a burning torch in its mouth on a field of amber."
"Your house's words?"
"All or nothing."
"And Oberyn," Asked Aegon, "What is your household's name?"
"Taegorad."
"Your coat-of-arms?"
"A white crocodile on a field of grey."
"Your house's words?"
"Strength and Wisdom."
"What of your chosen fief?" Aegon questioned, "Do you have any place in particular?"
"Any fief that is within the lands under Moat Cailin," Oberyn answered.
Aegon nodded approvingly, and declared, "Behold, Lords Eckard Blodfeld and Oberyn Taegorad of Sonaria!"
And the crowd gave a round of applause.
After his ennoblement, Lord Eckard was gifted a hundred thousand gold dragons from Arin Rada, ostensibly as thanks for helping Dornian troops in times of crisis on several occasions. The money was more than enough to rebuild Moat Cailin using modern techniques and high-quality materials, though some would argue that Eckard only needed less than a fifth of said amount.
While such naysayers would be right in spite of money not being an issue for Arin Rada, the reality was that Eckard himself approached Arin in secret and made a request for such a large amount of gold, and that in exchange for gifting him the gold, Eckard was to fulfil at least a dozen favours in exchange for the Black Fox.
The official reasons for reward were merely to deflect suspicion.
And the foundation was set for the rise of a new power in the North.
IIOII
Choryane
Arin Rada
Choryane, once the greatest of the Rhoynar City-States before its downfall at the hands of Valyrian Conquerors during the Second Spice War, home of Prince Garin the Great who sought to repel the Valyrian invaders with an invasion of his own, extending far into the Valyrian Freehold before their eventual retaliation. His legacy was one that ended in tragedy, the Rhoynish great host defeated and the last Rhoynar City-States falling to Valyrian aggression.
If anyone asks me, he's Garin the Prideful Prick; he sent his men to die while Nymeria tried to preserve her people. Then again, he never truly had another choice if exile was no option.
Keeping his disdain to himself, Arin accompanied this archaeological expedition to the lost city, hoping to glean hidden secrets within the ancient ruins which could grant his people a much-needed advantage in his eventual rebellion.
When the ships sailed close to the ruins of Choryane the grey mists that shrouded the city, said to curse any and all trespassers with Greyscale [4], mysteriously parted before the morning sun, clearing the way for their unmolested advance towards the heart of the city.
Choryane, once the greatest and wealthiest of all Rhoynar City-States that rivalled all others in grandeur and splendor, was now a hollow, sunken ruin, its streets and buildings desolate and virtually blanketed in barnacles and all manner of fungal growth. The city stank of dampness and despair, a massive living tomb stretching for miles around. Any colour on the walls and tiles had long faded, leaving behind a ubiquitous, dreary grey landscape.
"Rhoynamhari preserve us…"
Arin was grim-faced and silent all the way while his men exchanged whispers and muttered prayers, the fallen city a vindication in his eyes that pride and ego, not a genuine loyalty to his home country, motivated Garin to his doomed crusade.
They soon approached the city centre where the ruined Choryane Palace once stood. For countless generations since its founding, it served as the seat of power of the Taikolyos Family [5] before its ruin. At its peak, the palace held a gigantic library that surpassed even the most renowned of academic institutions in the Valyrian heartland, and it was Arin's hope and the hope of his Inner Circle that they could find the knowledge they were looking for.
"My Lord, we are near the palace," One of the sailors reported, "It looks like there is a port we can dock at."
"We dock immediately. Then we'll search the library," Arin ordered, "Make sure the ships and archaeologists are under guard at all times, and see to it that everyone is accounted for."
"Aye, milord," The sailor saluted.
Now, what bounty shall we collect from this treasure hunt?
IIOII
The libraries of the Choryane Palace were vast as the ancient histories described; rows upon rows of shelves enough to educate five armies, housing thousands of volumes of texts of all varieties of subjects from history to academia of both the mundane and arcane nature.
Due to age and ambient humidity, however, many of the texts had corroded and the pages fused together through moisture, and the archaeologists had to be extra careful with opening the books and separating the pages, using refined tools and years of experience to perform their tasks.
Other teams of archaeologists combed the rest of the city, searching for any other tomes of knowledge or ancient artefacts to bring home.
And the reap was enormous.
"Excuse me, run that by me again?" Arin asked.
"Yes, Milord! Apparently, the Rhoynar were in the process of attempting to improve the enchantments of their steel, to make it comparable to Valyrian Spell-forged Steel!" The archaeologist excitedly reported, "Sadly, their experiments were unfinished as the city was torched, but the archivists managed to safely hide this knowledge in the deepest vaults. We also managed to find some artefacts that, in theory, should be able to help us design anti-air weaponry capable of accurately targeting dragons and piercing their scales, along with a plethora of other magical and mundane lore long lost to Nymeria's Exiles. With time, we can make it all a reality, but they are neither quick nor cheap endeavours to pursue."
"Either way, it's best we keep it all under wraps," Arin replied, "The new magical steel is perhaps the only thing we can publicly manufacture for now."
"Indeed, My Lord. Perhaps it is a good thing that we have such a long peace," The archaeologist remarked.
"Indeed it is," Arin smiled.
And then Arin heard a voice in the air, a voice that sounded like a soft lilting mezzo-soprano, a youthful voice filled with sorrow and remorse.
Please, find me in the throne room of the palace, and we may talk there.
Arin groaned inwardly.
[1] Crannogmen - The name given to the short-statured, reclusive denizens of the Neck, known to be a poor people and who seldom leave their lands. Living in villages of thatch and reed that sit atop floating islands in the mire (crannogs), they subsist on fishing and frogging. Many speculate their small stature is simply due to poor nutrition.
[2] Many people in the North could not truly accept that they were now a conquered people, and that their home's name was changed. As such, as a form of silent protest, a great number of Northmen continue to refer to themselves as Northmen and not as Sonarians.
[3] Blackfyre - A Valyrian Steel bastard sword, and the weapon of Aegon the Conqueror himself.
[4] Greyscale - A dreaded and usually fatal disease that leaves the skin cracked, flaying and stone-like to the touch and flesh stiff and dead. Those who survive after contracting it are completely immune but often scarred for life, and rarely do survivors make a full recovery.
[5] Taikolyos Family - The ruling dynasty of Choryane, and the family of Garin the Great.
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