Chapter 66

The Widow stared at me for a long moment, her brow furrowed. One of her hands had come to rest lightly on the small chain I had set on the table between us. She said nothing for what felt like a stretched half minute, and I began to wonder if I had misjudged her. Perhaps I had come at her too directly. Perhaps declaring my identity and my intentions in the same breath had been the move of a foolish young man who did not understand how business was done in this city.

Then she barked out a laugh, loud enough I almost startled.

"Well," she said, smiling like an old crafty fox. "This is certainly new. Word from your Seven Kingdoms does not fill the docks of Volantis, but it does trickle in. Especially to those with ears to hear. Now what would a young and famous Westerosi knight on a mission for his king want with a former bedslave such as I?"

I smiled back at her. She could still be coy despite her age. Or perhaps because of it.

"Do not sell yourself so short, my lady," I said. "I also have ears. And what I have heard of you paints an impressive picture. As for why, it’s truly quite simple. I have been looking to expand my island's reach in trade and influence throughout this journey, and why not do so with someone whose views I do not entirely despise?"

She looked to the chains by her hand, then back to me.

"Views, is it?" The Widow's eyes turned suddenly predatory. "I have a hard time believing these views of yours, Ser Galladon. One broken chain and a nice story is not quite enough to convince me. Not when I know you have had no issue expanding your island's trade with every manner of magister and slaver between here and Tyrosh."

My eyebrows rose slightly. "I am flattered that I could command so much of your attention," I said.

I probably should have expected that. She was the exact type of person to know everything about everyone.

"Volantis has known for weeks that we are the final destination on your little expedition," she said. "It is all the talk in the Old Blood circles, and I keep an eye on anything that interests them." Her mouth twisted with disdain. "They love to disparage you Andals, and even your dragon kings are not beyond their scorn. They call themselves the true heirs of Old Valyria, you see. Yet not one of them would hesitate to give away their daughters in exchange for a sunset queen."

I sniffed. "I do not much care about these slavers' opinions of me and mine. They can disparage me as much as I disparage them behind closed quarters."

"Cowardice from a knight?" she asked. "For shame, ser."

I only shrugged.

She was clearly trying to provoke me. Testing my reactions. Well, she would not get the satisfaction of an outburst. I had already been provoked by two small time magisters back in Lys and neither of them had gotten anything worth having from me.

"Perhaps it is cowardice, my lady," I said mildly. "But I consider myself to be a very pragmatic man. I am near powerless to influence change even in my own Seven Kingdoms. What could the heir of a small island do against an entire civilization's practice, beyond perhaps free one young girl from her chains?"

I leaned forward on the table now, and my voice dropped so it would not carry.

"But perhaps an older lord, someday. One who has been able to expand his reach both at home and across the sea. One who has powerful friends and connections at court. One who has grown rich from the gold of these same slavers he might one day oppose. One whose previously poor island has seen unprecedented growth in just the last few years." I held her gaze. "I promise you, dear Widow, you will find me brave enough to fight tooth and nail for my beliefs."

She did not shy away from my stare, only considering me back for a long moment as my little speech hung between us. Then she sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. The predatory readiness that had come into her eyes suddenly was gone, replaced by something closer to curiosity.

"You are young still," she said at last. "Young and idealistic. That is admirable in a young knight. But I am quite familiar with your side of the Narrow Sea's views on slavery. Those views never helped us here, even when your dragon kings still rode their beasts."

I nodded slowly.

I could hardly argue with her on that point. Aegon the Conqueror had disapproved of slavery, and so had his heirs after him, but their disapproval had never crossed the water. The Targaryens had spent three centuries building the greatest kingdom in the western world, and in all that time not one of them had done anything to trouble the slavers of Essos. Even Daeron the Young Dragon, who had waged wars to unite Westeros, had never turned his eyes east to end what everyone knew was an abomination.

Empty Westerosi disapproval was worth nothing in this city, clearly, and much more so for someone who’d likely spent years for any form of salvation that never came.

I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I will not push the point any further, my lady," I said. "Let it be a simple promise from one young and idealistic knight to a former bedslave. Perhaps a promise that will fade to memory. Or perhaps, when the time comes, you will trust my conviction on this matter. Still, I would like to do business with you."

The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"Interesting," she said. "You are an interesting young man indeed. Very well. I will remember your promise, Ser Galladon Tarth. Perhaps you might even surprise me.” 

The next breath I took was suddenly lighter. Damn this old woman for making me sweat five minutes into our first talk.

We spent the next half hour discussing our actual business agreement.

To her credit, The Widow was a stern negotiator. She would need to be, to have held and built what she had built on this side of the river. She pushed hard on every point. She questioned my assumptions. She corrected me twice on the terms of the Essosi trade, corrections that I would have paid a fortune to receive from any other quarter, and made me clarify what I actually meant by "preferential berthing" in Dawnrest until every detail was pinned down.

But she was fair. She did not take advantage of my youth or my unfamiliarity with the local practices, at least not in any manner I noticed. When I asked for something reasonable, she conceded it. When she made a concession, she did so cleanly, without trying to claw it back through some clever phrasing hidden in the next clause.

After weeks of dealing with plenty of slimy magisters, it was a breath of fresh air.

By the time we were done, we had agreed to the following. Her ships would carry certain of my exports—marble, wool, ink, distilled spirits when the whiskey was finally ready—into Volantene markets on advantageous terms using her own docks and shipping lanes. I would’ve loved to have the fleet size to use my own vessels, but for now, we’d be using her own captains for that and splitting the profit.

For her ships heading further north toward King’s Landing and Gulltown and even Braavos, Dawnrest would serve as their main port to restock, given preferential berthing rights, first pick of unloading time, and a discount on port fees. 

We would communicate back and forth through captains she trusted. Not one, but three, so no single point of failure could break the line. They would carry sealed letters between us, and neither of us would send anything of substance through any other channel.

It was a good deal. A very good deal, in fact, on both sides, and one open to continuous growth if the relationship proved fruitful. 

I already planned to use the gold I’d make in this venture to move up in the chain of production, especially when it came to our wool. In a few years, I hoped to be exporting coats and cloaks and socks instead of raw wool. 

We had just finished signing the agreement when I decided to up the stakes. Reaching inside my coat, I drew out the rolled map I brought and placed it on the table between us, unrolled.

"What is this?" the Widow asked.

I shot her a smile. "A glimpse of what allying with me can provide."

Unrolling the vellum slowly, I used our cups to weigh down the corners, and suddenly the island of Tyrosh spread out across the table between us. The Bleeding Tower overlooking the mouth of its harbor, with the piers numbered and the berths measured. The maze of the city rendered with the kind of clarity that would take a professional cartographer a decade of ground surveys to achieve, every tower and square and temple. Even the coves on the eastern shore of the island stood clear and outlined. Only a single section in the north quarter of the city had been left gray and unfinished, the part Arlan had yet to add the colored details.

The Widow drew a breath. It was almost a gasp. One of her hands came down to touch it. 

Quickly and before she could reach it, I lifted the flagon and the cask and rolled the map back up, taking it away from her as smoothly as I had produced it. I knew she’d be salivating at the sight of it.

"A pity you did not get a longer look," I said, sliding the roll back into the inside of my coat. "Perhaps another time."

Her eyes tracked the roll until it disappeared. Then her eyes came up to mine, and they had changed.

"Where did you get that?"

"My cartographer made it,” I told her. "He has been mapping every city we visit. Tyrosh is nearly complete, as you saw. Lys will take longer. Volantis he will begin as soon as I can spare him to walk the streets. We came down the western passage of the Stepstones. On the way back, I mean to take the eastern passage. He will map the headlands of the Disputed Lands as we go. Every island. Every cove. Every hidden anchorage."

The Widow said nothing. In her place, I wouldn’t have the words for it either. Even knowing he was a skinchanger, Arlan’s talent still shocked me. He managed to work on half a dozen projects at once and still somehow remembered the details for each of them. 

Across the table, she was still silent. Her hand had gone back to her folded fan and had stayed there.

"Do you know," she said at last, quietly, "what such maps are worth?"

"I have some idea."

"No, you have no idea, ser." She leaned forward across the table. Her voice dropped to something almost intimate. "A map like that of Volantis? The Old Blood would drown you in gold for it. Of the Stepstones? The merchant princes across the Free Cities would send their sons to your door as hostages for the only copy. Do you understand me? The only copy. If you can control that. If your cartographer keeps his work only for those who pay you."

"He does,” I said. “And he will."

She sat back slowly, looking off to the side as if making calculations in her head.

"How many can he produce?" she asked.

"Not many,” I lied. “Perhaps three or four of that quality each year."

I imagine he could make ten times as much, but she—and anyone else who would be from me—need not know that.

"Two or three," she repeated, shaking her head. "Then there are many advantages to becoming your partner in trade indeed, Ser Galladon Tarth."

"So I have been trying to tell you. And, as a show of good faith for such a promising partner, perhaps you might enlighten me in some Volantene matters." 

“Smart boy.” She gave out a soft laugh. “Go on, then. Ask away.”

I went right into it. "You said the Old Blood have been talking about our expedition for weeks. What have they been saying beyond the usual sneering?"

"You wish to know how not to be caught out. That is wise."

I nodded. "I would particularly like to know about Nyessos Vhassar."

Her expression sharpened. "Ah. He has been paying you attention, has he?"

"Rather more than seems natural."

She was quiet for a moment. "Nyessos Vhassar is a weak fool," she said. "But a rich weak fool. And a rich weak fool with heavy outside backing."

I frowned. "From whom?"

"Pentos.” She was quick to say. "Though I do not know which magister or which faction. Someone has been funding his campaigns for years now, and the coin has flowed heavily this last one. I have my suspicions, but I do not share suspicions as if they were facts. What I can tell you is that Pentoshi gold has been reaching his coffers, and Pentoshi ships have been carrying his correspondence."

My mind went very still.

Pentos. I knew of only one magister of Pentos who had shown interest in Westerosi politics in the version of events I remembered. Only one who had made moves that spanned the Narrow Sea and reached toward the Iron Throne itself.

Hell, I had even considered not coming with Lord Steffon, or at least joining in late, if he’d intended to stop at Pentos first. But it was too early for Illyrio Mopatis. Twenty years too early for the young griff scheme that would eventually produce a boy claiming to be Aegon Targaryen. Illyrio should not yet be involving himself in matters of Westerosi succession. Not directly. Not visibly. Not yet.

Except.

Except that men did not build the kind of intricate long-term scheme that Illyrio and Varys would eventually build without laying groundwork. Twenty years of groundwork, perhaps. The two of them were nothing if not patient. If Illyrio was already reaching into Volantis to secure influence in the election of triarchs, if he was already funding a candidate whose daughter would be well-placed to become the queen of the Seven Kingdoms…

Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe the pieces did not have to fit. It might be someone else in Pentos entirely. Some other magister with reasons of his own. But my stomach had gone tight all the same.

"Thank you for that," I said. "That is worth knowing."

"There is more." She turned her fan over in her hand once. Set it back on the table. "The elections come in less than two weeks, as I am sure you have heard. Four men are contending for the three seats. Your friend Vhassar is seeking his first victory. Malaquo Maegyr, the current Tiger triarch, seeks a reelection. The other two current triarchs, Parquello Vaelaros and Doniphos Paenymion, the man who currently hosts you at his palace, are also seeking reelection."

"Four candidates, three seats."

"Four that have a chance, yes,” she said. “And it will be a fierce campaign. Malaquo Maegyr is properly mad. I say this not as an insult but as a description of the man. He is a Tiger of the old school. He believes Volantis should march again. He has been beating war drums for two years now and speaks openly of leading armies against our neighbors. He will do whatever it takes to hold his seat."

I’d heard of Malaquo Maegyr in both my lives, and knew her to be telling the truth. A traditional warmongering Tiger was certainly an apt way to describe him. "And the others?"

"Vaelaros is competent and dull. He will make trade deals and hold the coalition together. Vhassar we have discussed. But it is Paenymion who worries me most."

"Paenymion?"

Something in her voice had changed. I set aside my flagon.

"Paenymion is an Elephant. He should be one of the safer choices. Trade and peace. Yet there are rumors, ser. And these rumors have grown thicker over the past three moons."

"What rumors?" I asked.

She lowered her voice further. "That he has been meeting with the red priests. That the Red Temple is throwing its weight behind his reelection. That he has been seen entering and leaving the temple at hours when no ordinary business would take a man of his station there."

My blood ran cold.

The Red Temple. Malora had warned me not to go anywhere near that place, and now the man who was hosting our delegation was rumored to be in league with them.

I could not exactly avoid my host. He had put us up in his palace. He would be presenting himself at every dinner and every audience for the remainder of our stay. If I openly refused his company, the diplomatic breach would be enormous.

But I could keep my distance from him as much as protocol allowed. I could arrange to be busy with other Old Blood contacts. I could push my meetings with lesser magisters to the times Paenymion would otherwise demand my attention. I could sleep in my chambers with a blade under the pillow and my door well and truly locked.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "Truly."

"Do not thank me. It’s a shame I do not have anything more to give in exchange for another glimpse at that map of yours. Still, you will owe me for that information, map or otherwise."

I smirked. "I expected nothing else."

I left her table soon enough after that. Hopefully, this would only be the start of a long-term business relationship that would catapult me and my house to new heights.

xxx

Making my way back through the heat and the crowds of Volantis, I slipped into the sept through the rear door and settled myself back at the same altar I had knelt before earlier. 

Bowing my head in a bit of theatre, I waited five minutes for my sweating to at least partly subside. Then I rose and walked out through the front, and Codin and Arlan fell in behind me without a word as I approached the palanquin.

The slave bearers were waiting exactly where I had left them, hopefully none the wiser. After what I learned from the Widow, I’d need to be extra careful. Not only with Nhassar, but with all the men seeking to become triarch.

We made it back to the Black Walls in silence. There was too much in my head to entertain conversation.

xxx

Late that same night, a knock came at my door.

I had been at my desk, working through my notes from the day, trying to write down every scrap of what the Widow had told me about the Volantene political landscape before any of it faded. My hand was cramping. My eyes ached. Two candles had burned to stubs before I set my quill down and stared at the door.

For a moment I thought it might be Elyssa Vhassar.

That made me sit up straighter. She would be well within her calculations to try a nighttime approach. To arrive at my door in some artful state of undress, or bearing wine, or with some pretense of needing to speak privately with me about her future betrothal to the crown prince. And she would be very good at it. Extraordinarily good.

I forced myself to consider how I would handle it before I opened the door. I would refuse. Of course I would refuse. There was too much at stake to be entangled with her in any way. But refusing a woman who looked like Elyssa Vhassar was not the trivial matter that knightly Westerosi tales sometimes made it out to be. I would need to be firm from the first word, and I would need to keep firm through whatever she tried.

Bracing myself, I rose and moved toward the door, opening the door with a scowl ready on my face.

Lord Steffon Baratheon stood in the corridor with a flagon of wine in his hand, and not in a decent state. His hair was dishevelled in a way I had never seen it in all our months together. His eyes were bloodshot. He was propped against my doorframe with one shoulder because he could not, I realized, keep himself entirely upright on his own two feet.

"My lord?"

He looked up at me. He blinked twice as if his vision had trouble focusing.

"Galladon," he said. His voice was slurred but clear enough. "Just the man I was looking for. May I come in."

I looked past him down the corridor. There was no sign of Ser Oswell Whent, who I would have expected to be somewhere nearby if his charge was in this state. There was no sign of Lady Cassana, who had turned me away this very morning. There was no sign of anyone.

Lord Steffon had come here alone. And drunk. Not exactly a Valyrian beauty, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Of course, my lord. Please." I stepped back and let him in.

He walked inside sloshing wine the whole way as if he was laying breadcrumbs for me to follow him. It would’ve bothered me if it was my rugs he was staining. 

I closed the door behind him and shot the bolt, then watched as the Lord of the Stormlands half-stumbled to the padded chair beside the desk, sitting down heavily on it. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened again.

I stepped up closer to him, taking the flagon from his hand as gently as I could and setting it on my writing desk. I poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the side table and pressed it into his hand.

"Drink this first, my lord. I can also send for food if you would like."

"Not hungry."

"Water, then,” I insisted. “Just water."

He drank a swallow. Then another. He held the cup loosely in his big hand and stared at it, and I sat down across from him and waited.

He did not speak for a full minute.

"You are a friend, Galladon," he said at last. "Did I ever tell you that? You and your father both. True friends. I do not have so many of them anymore. Not the way I did once."

"My lord—” I tried, but Lord Steffon just went on.

"Do you know what the king was like when we were young?" He was not really speaking to me. His eyes had gone somewhere far away. "I do. I was there. I fostered with him at King’s Landing. He was clever, Galladon. Do you understand me? Clever, kind, careful. Not what he has become. Not what he has been made into."

I sat still and let him speak.

"I still think of that boy sometimes," he said quietly. "The boy Aerys used to be. Gone. Gone completely."

He took another long swallow of water.

"And the prince," he said. "Rhaegar. A good boy too, Galladon. A serious boy. He will be a great king when his time comes, if he is given the chance. But if we bring back a foreign bride for him…"

He paused, looked down at the water in the cup in his hand, and sniffed, frowning as if unsure how that ended up there. Setting it aside as carefully as if handling a baby, he reached toward the wine flagon on the desk and took a swig of it without caring to pour anywhere. 

"If we bring back some Old Blood snake wrapped in silver hair, we do not give him a queen,” he continued, and there was a bitterness in his voice that I had not heard before. “We give him a chain around his neck. Do you understand me, lad? The Old Blood do not marry. They ally. She will not be his wife. She will be a Volantene garrison in his marriage bed. And her father will be the general commanding her."

I said nothing. This was nothing I had not thought of. 

"Aerys is not the same man," he went on. His voice had dropped. "The realm has felt it. The lords have felt it. And now…"

He stopped again. He seemed to become aware that he was speaking as he blinked at me. His eyes focused for the first time since he had walked in.

"I have been approached," he said.

I swallowed. "Approached, my lord?"

"Overtures only,” he said, now almost a whisper. “From concerned men. Men in high positions. About the future of the realm."

My heart went still.

"Which lords, my lord?" I asked. Not because I didn’t have any idea. I did. I remembered the theories, the rumors that power blocks seeking to replace the Targaryen kings had formed even years before Robert’s Rebellion ever even started.

But I wanted to confirm. And more than anything, I wanted names.

Steffon Baratheon looked at me for a long moment. Something in him seemed to sober suddenly, all at once, as though he had realized what he was saying and where he was.

He shook his head slowly.

"Just lords, Galladon. Just lords. That is all I can say. That is all I should say. That is more than I should have said." He let out a huge sigh after that, as if even saying this much had taken a toll on him. "Forgive me. I did not come here to spill secrets on you. I came only because I did not want to drink alone tonight. That is all. That is all this is."

But it was not all it was. We both knew it.

Still, I did not push. Not tonight. I could feel that pushing him now would close him off entirely. He had spoken as much as he was going to speak. Tomorrow, when he was sober, he would remember what he had said, and he would be watching me to see how I had received it. 

If he liked what he saw, then perhaps he’d come to me again when he needed to vent out state secrets. I certainly wouldn’t mind.

"You are welcome here, my lord,” I told him. “Drink as long as you like. Say as much or as little as you wish. I will keep whatever passes here to myself."

He looked at me. And for just a moment, beneath the wine and the lordly titles and the expectations, I saw only a weary man. A weary man trying his best at a game he was clearly not built for.

"You are a good lad, Galladon Tarth," Lord Steffon Baratheon said. "A better one than the times we live in deserve."

Then he sat back in the chair and closed his eyes.