章節 13: Schemes and Wildfire
My chest was heaving as we circled each other in the training room. My padded doublet was drenched with sweat and my limbs ached with pain. Scraping my sword and parrying dagger against each other, I perfected my stance.
Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos, responded with a sly little smile. "You have improved well, boy." He of slight build, with a beak of a nose and shiny bald head. His padded garbs were plain and in his hands was a slight Braavosi blade not dissimilar to my own.
I had expected to run into other characters at some point, but I never quite expected for my father to hire Syrio Forel to give me lessons in the Braavosi water dance. Seeing that my father used to be one and took great pride in that moment of his life, Illyrio Mopatis desired me to follow his footsteps. While the magister was no longer able to teach me himself, father dearest instead used his wealth and connections to find the best. Syrio was a talented teacher but an extremely demanding one. I didn't object, however. I'd grown accustomed to harsh mentors and it would be best to practise multiple schools of combat.
Three years it had been since waking up in Essos. My new body had grown much in those few years, but it wasn't done yet. I was the midst of a growth spurt and, despite all the athletics and training, my frame remained slim and willowy, though as lanky as only a teenage boy's could be. As such, my grace was something to be desired, but it wasn't as bad as it could be thanks to my tutor and his tendency to give me a whack whenever I failed his expectations. Water dancing did require a certain amount of finesse and that was something which translated well to other things.
"Is this correct?" I asked, raising my slender blade up high, another stance.
Taking a deep breath, my arm grew steady. I'd been with Syrio for a year or so and training with the bravo taught me to use all my senses and hide my own from my enemies. While Galaerys Drahar taught me to fight as a unit, Syrio taught me to fight as an individual. He coached me to analyse my opponents body language and not only guard against them doing the same but manipulate them with false information.
Syrio Forel clicked his tongue as he usually did. He tried to circle me, but I kept my eyes on his and followed his every move. "Good. Getting better."
Not even a heartbeat later, he lunged. I parried and stepped back. His blade came whistling towards me once more. I evaded. Grimacing internally, I withdrew, checking each of his blows as they came. I wasn't much of an offensive fighter, instead waiting for my opponent to make an opening before counterattacking. It was unfortunate that Syrio was a talented dueller and his openings always closed before I could press my attack.
"Left, right, right, left," he said, all lies.
His mouth said one thing, but his eyes said otherwise. I moved right, back, forward and right once more, deflecting each of his blows with practised parries. I sidestepped when he lunged and struck his shoulder. Syrio grimaced and I stepped backwards, flicking my blade through the air, listening to it whistle. Syrio lunged forward again, much faster than before. He was little more than a blur, but I was used to that and the empty room echoed with the song of steel.
This body had impressive reflexes but it wasn't enough. We stopped sparring with his blade pressed against my chest. Every bruise is a lesson and lessons make us better. My skin was little more than bruises. For every strike I gave him, my tutor struck my body fivefold.
"You are a dead boy."
"I've already died," I grinned, running a hand through my hair. "I fear nothing."
"All men must die."
"But not today."
Syrio took my sword and placed them back on the rack. "You have much improved, Young Griff Mopatis."
"Thanks only to you, sir," I bowed my head respectfully. "I wouldn't be where I am without you."
Syrio looked me up and down. "My duty as a mentor to turn a student into a sword. A boy into a man."
Nodding, I turned to the balcony overhanging the Pentoshi Bay towards the direction of Westeros. This was perhaps my last lesson with him. Things were proceeding with speed towards the beginning of the books. Daenerys and Viserys were still going from place to place, but it was nearing the time they'll come to Pentos. While I'd allowed canon to continue mostly undisturbed for those two, I did have Illyrio give them light aid to ensure they were taken care of, even if it was from a distance. Soon, Lord Jon Arryn would be assassinated and Eddard Stark selected as Hand by King Robert Baratheon. Reports coming from Varys had me hearing all the important things going on. Despite knowing the major events going to happen, I did need to know when and act accordingly.
With the sparring lesson over, I thanked Syrio for all he'd done and headed to the bathhouse where I stripped myself of my soiled garbs, cleaned the sweat and blood from my body and dressed in a manner more fitting a son of a Pentoshi magister. I chose boots of supple leather, a soft black lambswool tunic and studded belt with a dirk hanging from it, for everyone carried weapons in this world; then proceeded to the makeshift workshop Vaquo headed.
What had once been an extensive guest wing of the magister's manse was now only open to me, my Volantene friend and a few select individuals, not to mention the magister himself, though Illyrio never actually visited which . . . was probably for the best. We had ripped out large portions of the expensive furnishings and it was now devoid of its former splendour. Granted, Illyrio had refused until I decided to beg and use the Bambi eyes on him which was enough to make him retract his position – if somewhat grudgingly. The fact the wing was barely used and Illyrio had such a vast manse meant that any guests could reside in the other wings, which was fortunate else he would've refused outright.
Reaching the closed doors of the wing, I was met with a line of Unsullied. Due to its secrets, this area was perhaps the most well protected part of the manse. Opening the door for me, I thanked them with a nod and passed through. What had been ballrooms, audience chambers and bedrooms had been turned into workshops and labs for the design and creation of new technology. Many things had been made here such as the printing press and my failed attempt at gunpowder that I couldn't get right no matter how much I tried. Speaking of the printing press, after a few years, we only had six operating in Pentos under a company called "Mopatis Printing and Books." It'd been a small but steadily growing business that had its rocky starts with some problem with the machinery – thanks to no small part of me having little knowledge on how to repair any of the problems, and not knowing the best ink and parchment to use. But even with that, we outcompeted everyone who wrote by hand and were forming a monopoly. While the market wasn't as great as it could be, I knew it would grow in time. They were important for my plans in Westeros and being used in crown corporations would not only allow me to cripple the Citadel, but make money doing so.
I found Vaquo in the former ballroom that had been converted into an assembly for the manufacturing of flamethrowers like the ones used by the Byzantines. Due to my Targaryen heritage and the love for craftsmen to decorate their designs, the nozzles were shaped in the likeness of dragons. They were little more than siphon pumps, smaller versions of those mechanical dragons Aegon the Unworthy used. The challenge with these weapons, however, was the chemical they sprayed. The initial tests with wildfire had a nasty tendency to explode without rhyme or reason but, after some careful tinkering from the Myrish Alchemist's Guild, we made a more stable formula. It was less powerful, but it'd been a sacrifice made for reliability sake. My Volantene friend stood in the centre, surrounded by Myrish Wisdoms and craftsmen. Flamethrowers weren't the only way to use wildfire in battle, I knew. We also had grenades made of ceramic and would function as a more destructive version of molotov cocktails that I hoped would serve well against tightly packed formations.
"Griff," Vaquo said politely. Even though he was in charge, Vaquo was very hands off and just allowed everyone to do what they needed without much in the way of interference. "Come to inspect my children, have you?"
"I have," I said, looking around as everyone was busy working with their heads down. Just the way I liked it. "May I ask how many have been built?"
The foreman, a towering Myrman with dark-olive skin, a broad nose and black watery eyes, answered He wore padded leather and looked more like a dockyard brute than anyone else. "We're ahead of our quota," he said with obvious pride. "Sixty flamethrowers this week. This includes the foundries in the city."
I responded with a nod. While Pentos was where we made most of our specialised equipment, the wildfire was crafted solely in Myr and I desired to head there to see the quantity. It did take some convincing for the Alchemists to change their substance and many people died trying to perfect it. The price was worth paying if it meant the Golden Company didn't burst into green flames.
"How many are needed? Do we have a surplus?"
"Surplus," the foreman proudly declared. "Total requirements are a thousand. We have that and an extra half stockpiled. Magister Illyrio says we should sell some of them."
I shook my head. "We won't sell these. We can't sell any of these. You know they need to be kept secret. Regardless, we need spares should any break down," I stated, folding my arms. "Have you tested their reliability? I don't want the men to use faulty equipment."
He shook his head.
"Then I'd suggest you do so." We tested them out with water to see how far they could spray and if there were any problems with manufacturing. They didn't spray that far, but seeing they were designed for defensive operations like atop fortifications, it would do. They were fearsome weapons and the fear they should create would be greater than the damage.
The man hurried off.
"I've something I want to show you," Vaquo said, trying hard to suppress a grin and failing miserably.
"More experimenting?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. "What is it this time?"
"Let me show you."
With a giddy look, the Volantene led me to his own chambers which was protected with an impressive assortment of locks. He was a secret man, was Vaquo. He liked his privacy, but I knew he was nothing if not . . . well, I wouldn't say loyal. Vaquo merely lacked political ambition, and financial, nor did he seem interested in either men or women. He just liked creating things be it great and small. That seemed to satisfy him.
Lighting a candle, he went to the corner and pulled off a heavy blanket. Underneath looked to be one of those early fire pumps used during the Great Fire of London. The pump was large and promised to send forth a great torrent. It was crudely crafted and clearly not a finished piece.
I looked at it, then at him.
Vaquo was grinning from ear to ear. He was even doing that thing where he was standing on the tips of his toes and lightly bumping up and down like an excited child. "This is only a design. A prototype. The one I plan is even larger. It'll be mounted of a ship, powered by a pump that'll push down on the substance in the reservoir. I've even improved the design of the nozzle. It should be under greater pressure and therefore spray further. Perfect for naval engagements, you'll see, seeing as you plan to invade Westeros." His eyes looked feverish. Not in the way Aerys or Cersei got feverish when they saw wildfire, but just the chance to see his inventions be used.
"Don't fire ships already exist?" I asked, calculating its use. New weapons were always good and Vaquo had proven himself a good inventor, but as I got older and Illyrio handed me more responsibility, I needed to decide whether the costs outweighed the potential benefits. I was beset by various restraints.
"They do. Fire galleys are used by the Essosi cities like Volantis on the Rhoyne when it fought against Qohor in the Century of Blood. But they're rare and inferior, mostly galleys stuffed with flammable substances and set alight. A waste of a ship, as my good-brother would say. But with this, our ships can properly use wildfire and with our compound, they'll prove less dangerous for the crews. This should spew flames twenty metres or more, if my theory is correct. This is smaller than the final device as it's all in the concept stage at the moment. If you give me men for the project and the proper coin, I can have a fully sized prototype at the end of the year."
I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Lord Vaquo. I understand, but time is drawing near. I need reliable weaponry with a quantity enough for the invasion. You helped me a lot with the handheld flamethrowers—"
"But bigger is better," he spread his arms wide and pouted. "This can make us control the seas. What about normal warfare then? On land. Put them on a carriage."
Like a flamethrower tank? "Seems impractical. You know how much wildfire costs?" An arm and a leg. That was quite literal. One of the Wisdoms had both burn off during the initial stages of experimentation on the wildfire. In truth, we did have time. I planned to invade Westeros after they'd been killing themselves for a year or so. In canon, Young Griff had the right idea on when to attack. The only problem was alienating Daenerys the dragon queen with his power move. If not for that minor fact, attacking Westeros from the Stormlands when he did had been the right move. I wanted to emulate that, then I would sweep in against Cersei the Mad, declare myself a hero, ride into King's Landing on a white horse, smile and wave and make a dynasty that lasts a thousand years and all that good stuff.
"A lot," Vaquo confessed, somewhat annoyed.
Despite his education, my friend wasn't that good with money. Vaquo never cared for it and simply entrusted the budget to the men around him, men who in turn were all in my father's pocket. Should we make anything, those men would report it to Illyrio, who sometimes asked for a word with me, other times demanding improvements on our ploughs, seed drills and primitive threshers. Not only did they make Illyrio one of the greatest producers of foodstuff, he sold the inventions to close friends to work their own fields. Despite being effective, they constantly needed improvements regarding their reliability as well as various cost cutting measures. I didn't mind for as long as they were improved when Westeros needed them, but sometimes it took me dragging my chief engineer by the ear to do so.
"A lot," I agreed, and his face screwed up like he'd been sucking on a few particularly sour lemons.
Looking at the flamethrower again, I did ponder the makeshift tank made of a carriage armoured in metal plates. Then dismissed it as fantasy. We already had war wagons that were used for mobile fortifications, like those used by the late medieval Black Legion. The Kingdom of Hungary and its wars against the Holy Roman Empire were my main inspiration for that and would prove effective against Westerosi cavalry. While I didn't have gunpowder, the Free City of Myr was more than happy to arm the Golden Company with high-powered crossbows. Biting my lip, I conceded. "One prototype. Just one. Make it count."
...
When business with the engineers was out the way, I found my father reclining on a padded couch. He was having a busy day lounging in the expansive garden under the warm gaze of the sun, gobbling up hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. His brow was dotted with beads of sweat and his thin eyes shone above fat red cheeks. Every meal with the man was akin to a feast, which was only cut whenever he needed to piss or shit . . . that's if he didn't just relieve himself on the spot.
"Father," I said formally, bowing my head.
Magister Illyrio drained the last of his silver cup, rubbed his hands on his sweat-stained silken robes and turned to me with a crooked smile that was unpleasant to look upon thanks to his crooked yellow teeth. "Son," he replied, voice thick with the Pentoshi dialect as he licked crumbs from his lips. There were crumbs in his oiled-yellow beard as well, but I made no mention of that. Illyrio was a messy eater; it was like he planted his face into the food and ate like a pig from a trough. "Please, take a seat, my boy." He waved me forward. "Do you desire anything? Food, wine? Maybe a slave girl to entertain you? You're getting that age, after all. You need to enjoy life!" He was smiling widely through his yellow beard.
"N-no thank you. I'm fine." I climbed atop the chair that was more like a cushioned throne, designed not to buckle under the magister's massive weight. I glanced at the Lysene serving girl who stood beside him in a rather suggestive gown of pale-blue linen. Against my own wishes, my body reacted. Stupid hormones. Magister Illyrio did have a thing for blondes, I found. One of our few similarities. But unlike him, I wasn't a slave to my urges, especially when it came to slaves. "You said we had business to discuss?"
"As you wish, but let us eat." He dismissed the 'servant' girl with a brusque wave. She curtsied and hurried away. Biting deep into a pepper, Illyrio said, "You asked of the Targaryens: Prince Viserys and the little Princess Daenerys. My friends in Tyrosh report that they should be on their way here now."
That caught me by surprise, and I froze for a moment. "Now?"
Throwing the half-eaten pepper to the ground, the fat man grinned once more. "Indeed. They'd been on the run and you know we've watched and only rarely interfered. Recently I'd been thinking. I've a plan on how they can have some use to us and our future ambitions for Westeros."
I didn't respond and kept my face a blank façade.
"With the Golden Company and the Free Cities of Tyrosh, Myr and Lys supporting us, as are the Disputed Lands and some of the Stepstones, we have a perfect opportunity. As a father, I'm proud of what you've done. I always knew there was a bit of me in you somewhere. You had to get your wits from somewhere!" He laughed so loudly, and sprayed spittle over the table. I suppressed frowning as I wiped some of it off my tunic. "By bringing the Three Daughters to heel, you achieved more than Maelys Blackfyre and Volantis itself. A most perfect opportunity to us; to you, yes?"
I replied with a shallow nod. I'd a strong feeling I knew where this was going to go.
After victory at the Battle of the Blood Red Field, the Golden Company had pressed forward with plans to take control the three cities. We planted puppets in various offices and manipulated their democracies. With the cities in our pocket, then began the process to joining them together via treaties and marriage alliances, keeping them in line with careful diplomacy and ruthless violence. To further cement our control, various officers of the Golden Company gained Essosi wives of high standing. After that, the Three Daughters were turned into tributary states and then came the reformation of the Golden Company itself. One thing I considered was changing the name for when we finally invade Westeros. Maybe the Imperial Legions or, as I personally called them, the Imperial Legions of Terra. Now doubled its original number to twenty thousand and, thanks to the reorganisation, had been divided into four smaller legions each numbering five thousand fighting men. An expensive army, true, but the tribute sufficed. It wasn't a one-sided deal. The army defended the towns and estates against Khalasars and Volantis who'd grown increasingly uncomfortable with this new regional power at it's doorstep. And possibly Braavos . . .
I sat up, pretending to be interested, though I knew how this song and dance was going to go. "Idea? Come, let me hear it, father," I smiled naïvely.
Illyrio grinned like this plan of this was the most cunning thing in the world. It wasn't. "You know the Dothraki, lad?"
"I know of them." This is the original plan that made little to no sense in the canon, isn't it? The Targaryens get themselves a horde, weaken Westeros during a civil war then I come prancing in, kill Viserys if he hasn't died already, slaughter some Dothraki and be crowned to the roars of a happy populace. I'd a nagging feeling this plan wasn't all that different to the original one. "Please tell me more, father? How would the Dothraki aid us in our ambitions?"
Illyrio grinned, most eager to explain and listen to his own voice. "Seeing the Dothraki are the greatest cavalry force in Essos, and with the three daughters of Valyria eating out the palm of your hand, I've come up with the perfect strategy to weaken Westeros for your coming invasion." He smiled through his forked yellow beard, oiled every morning to make it gleam like gold. He was twirling one of the prongs. "You won't be included in that, at least not at first."
"Tell me, father. What do you plan?"
"I've plans to marry Princess Daenerys Targaryen off to the greatest Dothraki Khal in living memory. A man who's never been defeated in battle and leads the greatest Khalasar in the world. He would make for a very good pawn indeed."
My smile flickered. "You want to use my connections to hire ships, correct? You want to sail him and his horde to Westeros and let them do a little bit of pillaging on behalf of King Viserys?"
"He's no king. Viserys is merely a Targaryen pretender who has no true chance to sit the Iron Throne. Neither of them have. The Beggar King has no court, no allies, and the girl's merely a pliable young child princess—"
Don't underestimate Daenerys. Give her an inch, she'll take a mile and then some.
"—so neither hold any real power. This would be their only chance to get Westeros." He chuckled darkly. "But what you say is true. A simple idea, don't you think? One that promises much. When that is done, you'll come in as a hero, as Westeros' last hope to fight against the foreign horde. By that time, the Targaryens should be despised for what they've done and the lords will be thankful for the last Blackfyre liberating them."
A foolish idea. There were too many variables that promised the opposite of what he wanted. Should Robert, or whatever king sitting the Iron Throne succeed in throwing them back, that would just cement their rule due to throwing a foreign invasion back into the sea. If the opposite happened and the Dothraki prove too successful, then I could have trouble pushing them back, that's if anyone joined me. Though I doubted the second option would indeed happen, or the Dothraki would prove a threat. The Mongols would be a threat, they were worthy of respect. The Dothraki were worthy only of ridicule. They didn't even wear armour for crying out loud!
"A brilliant idea!" I partially lied, leaning forward. Though not for the reason you expect, magister.
Illyrio looked surprised for a moment. "I thought you would require more persuading."
"Me? Nope. I think it's a terrific plan. Should Westeros be divided and weakened after a Dothraki incursion, it would make it easier for myself. Their armies would be devastated, land destroyed and stability all the weaker. A kingdom divided cannot stand." I forced a smile. Why not let tens, possibly hundreds of thousands of women be raped, towns destroyed, and smallfolk killed off while the nobles hide in their castles and avoid the worst of it? How could that possibly go wrong? "Though I must ask, you mentioned a civil war . . . will the Dothraki invasion happen during or after?"
"During. Westeros is a great kingdom and not even our Dothraki friends can fight the lords alone. They'll need assistance. A kingdom divided won't stand up to Khal Drogo."
I didn't fear for Westeros for the Dothraki invasion would never happen. Repeating canon was a small price to pay for dragons. Daenerys marries Khal Drogo, he dies, she hatches dragons and pushes through a desert to Qarth where I'd be waiting with ships and an army in the Disputed Lands. Until the dragons were in my procession, I wasn't willing to move against Westeros. But even then, I was willing to wait and let Cersei get into power where she begins fucking everything up. In the meantime, my army could do with some further refinement as well as waiting for those weapons of mass destruction to get large enough to be of some use. I'd been working on that plan for years.
"I'm glad you support it. That was exactly what I was thinking," my father said, nodding to his own shoddy and overcomplicated scheme. "Though for it to work, I would urge you and your . . . companions to leave these grounds. If I'm to host these two Targaryens, they can't be seen and especially not a Blackfyre. Viserys . . . oh, Viserys. He is the Mad Kings son. The girl is meek and so very weak. But should they believe you're a Blackfyre . . ."
"They won't be happy and all the more resilient to your plans." I sighed. "I'll take my leave then, father." It would do well to return the Disputed Lands once more to check up on everything. I was mostly the ideas guy so the responsibility of seeing everything through was performed by Ser Myles Toyne and his subordinates. It was only thanks to them I got this far. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have starved to death, or be killed to an axe to the back of the head.
"In a few days' time." Illyrio Mopatis looked conflicted. "Perhaps it'll soon be time to reveal yourself to the world. It is wrong for the one true king of the Iron Throne to be in hiding with that ludicrous blue hair. It never looked good on you, hiding your colours. Your mother would certainly not like it. She was proud of her heritage."
I flicked my blue-locks back. "Me dying my hair is needed, I'm afraid." I carelessly shrugged my shoulders and leaned back into the chair, feeling so tiny atop the massive cushions. "The true monarch will sit the Iron Throne at the end of the day, magister, I ensure you. I've been making sure of it."
...
With news of the Targaryen's arrival, I spent the rest of the day packing. Despite preparing for a long time, a part of me doubted I'd done enough. Perhaps it'll never be enough . . . But that was likely just me and my overall attitude. I was cautious by nature and while that would help ensure I wouldn't do anything foolhardy, it would also make me more hesitant to take advantage of an opening. Thinking about it, I was in a good position. I had Illyrio and allies to provide financial aid, I had able generals and an experienced war machine. Still, I didn't know how I'll fare in Westeros.
Taking a deep breath, I calmed my nerves. Keep calm. You can do this. Others in a worse position have succeeded. I still had two years before the events of Feast and Dance. I chewed my bottom lip. You still have time.
I proceeded to a secluded room in the manse and knocked on the door. Waiting outside felt like an eternity before it opened and Lyra stared at me, annoyed. I looked over her shoulder. The curtains were closed, leaving the entire room dark excluding the bits illuminated by dimly lit candles and a strange ruby that seemed to shimmer and produce a faint glow.
I couldn't help but chuckle at the pointed look she was giving me. "Still at it, are you?"
Lyra wasn't an open person and only let a few people inside her chambers, nor would they like to visit. The one time Illyrio approached her, apparently to see the future of 'his boy,' Lyra had been dissecting body parts in the name of science. Afterwards he kept as far away as he could, even offering her a place away from his manse, but I urged her not to agree. I needed her close. The saying was keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I don't know which Lyra was but her being a mage who knew my real identity ensured I needed to keep a close eye on her person.
Being a beacon of hospitality, Lyra grimaced and reluctantly let me inside. "Oh please, do come in. It wasn't like I was in the middle of something."
I rolled my eyes. "For someone being financed for your studies and given equipment that would make the maesters of the Citadel cry out in envy, I do think you should owe me a little more respect. Not much, I know you have your pride, but a little thank you would suffice."
She folded her arms. "I never bent the knee to you."
"You didn't," I agreed grudgingly.
Ours was a friendship of convenience, as Haldon called it. Though to call it friendship would be a bit of a stretch. More like people with interests that slightly align. All that it took for this alliance of ours was the Glass Candle I got from Volantis and freedom for her to operate as she wished in her free time which I was going to offer anyway. Lyra's expertise wouldn't have much use until after the dragon's hatch. But with magic certain to come back swinging hard, it wouldn't hurt to begin early and grab myself a mage beforehand. The fact she was against the Red Faith was a nice bonus as well, though not for the reasons of sacrifice which disgusted many of my Westerosi companions. Lyra was perfectly fine with sacrificing people provided the costs were worth the price, but her reasoning was one she explained, "The faith of R'hllor are backwards. Their attitude to work magic is to use a hammer than a scalpel is all that is needed. Nor do they know or care to know where their magic comes from, so they attribute it to their false god." Lyra wasn't the kind to shy away from badmouthing R'hllor, would tsk whenever she heard about them burning people alive for minor miracles and go off in tirades on how bleeding them or using a leach would be a preferable alternative. Not because it was wrong to burn them alive in her eyes, but it was a waste of good blood to use for a later day.
Sighing loudly, Lady Lyra took a seat at her desk. "So, what is going on? Rarely do you come in my most humble chambers for a little chat."
"Rarely," I agreed and sat down opposite her. "I'm afraid that we'll need to take our leave of this place, milady. My father is accepting some important visitors who won't appreciate our presence, or to be more specific, mine."
"The red dragons?" I nodded and she snorted. "You fear them, don't you?"
I fear what Daenerys may become. "The opposite. I pity them. Regardless, we need to take our leave. I've already told Vaquo and his minions." Despite our back and forth, Lady Lyra, strangely enough, was on warmer relations to Vaquo. That was likely due to them working on multiple projects together and it had been her who'd suggested changing the chemical compound of the wildfire. While neither had much in the way of social skills, they were experts in their selected fields. "I would even suggest you pack up this lab of yours. Most of it anyway. We're heading to the Disputed Lands and should be gone for a while."
She groaned loud and hard. "I hate travel, and besides, I'm busy. I was on a breakthrough when it comes to dissection. Then you barged in." The mage pursed her lips.
I looked over. "On frogs?"
"I know frogs aren't the best, but they are the closest things to humans you can get without being listed as a monster or grave robber. I can't believe it's illegal in Pentos."
"You'll get human bodies, that I promise," I said dismissively.
While this world's knowledge of medicine was better than it would likely have been in medieval Europe, it could still be further improved upon. I couldn't proclaim bacteria and viruses existed due to lack of physical evidence, but I could still push for cleanliness. I also needed people with expertise to add credence to what I did know. If Lyra needed dead bodies, I was more than happy to provide and Westeros would soon have an abundance. Like Qyburn, Lyra had more interest in the breathing kind and if she wanted live specimens, there would always be rapists and other monsters I could hand her. I cared not for them and if they spend the last of their life being used for science, at least they'd do some good that can benefit others.
"I'll hold you to that promise," she grinned a way that unnerved me. It was a slightly feral expression that she did whenever we found common ground. "So, when do you plan to leave"
"We should have a week, maybe more, though I'd rather not take the risk. We'll take a ship to Myr where we'll visit our main manufacturer of crossbows, the Alchemist's Guild and finally the army stationed in the Disputed Lands."
"Or your legions," Lyra giggled, and her face turned into a falsely innocent mask. "Your Westerosi invasion force. It'll be horribly amusing should they break and falter like the attempts of your ancestors." She cocked her head, clicking her tongue. "Should that indeed happen, I may have fun cutting you up and see how you Valyrians function. Someone inbred as yourself would no doubt provide much in the way of research. Your race does not have much in the way of physical disabilities due to inbreeding, unlike others. If you did, you'd look like a monster instead of half a girl."
"Then I hope I don't loss," I replied, suppressing a shiver. As much as I'd grown comfortable around her, I doubted our relationship would stop her practising medicine on me. Like Qyburn, but a younger female version who didn't act nearly as friendly and was as subtle as a kick to the balls. "That would be most distressing for me."
"Then you better work hard. There are dark things in this world that you wouldn't want to be on the bad side of. I do have some theories on why Valyrians are the way they are. Want to hear them?" She sounded awfully eager. While Lyra didn't have the same childish eagerness of Vaquo who could talk for hours about his inventions and concepts without allowing you a moment to break in, Lyra acted more restrained but there was a similar love for her craft.
"Briefly."
She pursed her lips, clearly not what she wanted to hear. "To cut a long story short, I have come to believe you Valyrians are not, shall we say, completely natural."
"If it exists, it is natural," I said. "But what makes you say that?"
"Not only are you different from most of the other races, you have qualities not found anywhere else. Certain features like—"
"Purple eyes? Don't those Little Valyrian lemurs in the forests of Qohor have similar eye colours?"
"Tis true. But the histories point that the magical potential of the Valyrians surpass others and then there is the field of blood magic that does specialise in body alteration. While I don't believe those legends of Valyrians being part dragon, I do believe magic may have been used to make dragons more receptive to those of Valyrian blood and alterations have been made for the dragonlords to make them more attuned to magic itself."
Transhumanism? "Any proof?"
"Mostly speculation."
I chuckled. "Well, work on that. Should be interesting to read your thesis on the matter. I could use a laugh."
Her face flickered for a moment then curled into a dark smile. "You'll see, demon. When I'm proven right, you'll regret it."
Ah, the D-word again. "If you're proven right, I'll eat my own shoes. How about that?" She laughed and, grinning, I turned to the glass candle atop her desk. It was her most prized procession, something she always kept close despite its origins. The candle was a tall monstrosity of warped glass that curled in upon itself, tall and twisted with sharp edges eager for blood, where it rose in a parody of a spire. When I first showed her, Lyra had been entranced. A Glass Candle was a rare artefact, and one that promised power should it ever work. "Have you found a way to make it glow?"
Lady Lyra shook her head disappointingly. "Not yet. I'm trying various ways from those books you gave me. None of them have worked. I tried my own blood by cutting them on those purposely designed edges. That failed and it was a bloody bother to clean it off without cutting the fabric. I'm sure I'll find a way to make it work in due time. Though to be honest, I've ignored it for more theoretical pursuits."
"Other than proving the Valyrian dragonlords are inhuman abominations?"
"Don't sell yourself short, my little dragon. I only know the one descended from the dragonlords and inside his pretty little head is a being from another world." She grinned playfully, cocking her head and twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Dissecting your soul would be a most fruitful endeavour. Who knows what secrets it holds?"
I signed dramatically. "With friends like you, who needs enemies?"
She snickered and changed the subject or, more accurately, put it back on track. "Other than that, as more a passing fancy, I'm working on Marwyn's theory on the differences between natural and magical laws. It seems that magical laws can't take precedence and must conform to how nature works. I consider one to have come before the other and the latter needs to fit certain categories. As I said, much is theory and more studies are needed to prove its validity."
I nodded, sometimes wanting her to speak plainer so my plebeian mind could understand. She did know how to make certain things complicated. From what I could get, she said that magic needed to conform to the laws of natural science like physics. But does it? Shadow babies be damned and dragons and ice zombies . . . yea, I think that theory could have more holes in it then the Bismarck. "Well . . . good luck with that. But what about destiny and the like?"
Her face soured immediately. "Aegon. What is your obsession with destiny?"
"I'm not obsessed with it," I said. "I'm just curious about whether it's a legitimate force." One that may in fact kill me if I'm not cautious. Self-fulfilling ones seemed to be a thing in this world, and that wasn't to mention certain characters like Daenerys who seemed to be in the centre of many. That was one of the reasons I was so worried about interfering. Rarely did it turn out well.
Lyra rolled her eyes at me. "You are a fool. Don't concern yourself with such nonsense."
"Says the fortune-teller."
"It does you no good health being concerned on how you'll affect the future. I told you this once and I'll say it again, it doesn't help you sleep at night and sooner or later it'll destroy your sanity. This knowledge of yours of things to come, all that it really is, is keeping you inside a box you will never be able to escape from. It restrains you. Like this moment of fleeing the Targaryens because you don't want them to acknowledge your presence at the risk of changing what could be." She then shrugged. "But that's only my opinion on the matter. Do as you will, Young Egg. We have free will and if you want to enslave yourself, go ahead. I won't stop you."
I blinked and looked away, taking a deep breath. "I'll think about it, Lyra. You've given me something to think about." I then took my leave. While she was in her quest to cut open the world to see how everything worked and criticise whatever I did, I was going to get myself a migraine by planning my future invasion of Westeros. What a time to be me!
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