Lord-Captain Aerion Ilyleon

Outside, the dome of the Temple of Trios, squeezed between three towers, resembled an unripe orange of three segments—the stone carving, the joints of the segments, and the structure itself emphasized the tripartite nature of the edifice, and the yellow marble with milky-white streaks gave it a resemblance to a fruit not yet ready to be plucked from the branch. The structure was not impressive in size; it now seemed to Aerion that each of the three Tyroshi temples of this deity was three times larger than the Lysene sanctuary, although the last time he was there was several years and a lifetime ago.

Worshipers of Trios, unlike worshipers of the Panther, did not clutter their temples with carpets, pillows, and sofas, leaving the single space empty so that nothing blocked the view of the altar located in the very center with a three-headed monster of red granite, which they called god. Each of the heads faced its own window, assembled from triangular pieces of glass the size of a palm, occupying most of the wall between two towers, and thus the entire idol was invariably illuminated by the sun during the day, casting a grid pattern on it. A low barrier covered in wax was set up around the statue, on which parishioners placed candles, also tripartite—three molded into one.

The temple was empty—the few parishioners had been dispersed to their homes by the Lord-Captain’s men, and the servers, seeing heavily armed cutthroats again, submitted to their new, temporary, as they supposed, masters. Aerion’s heavy steps echoed loudly from the marble floor, ascending to the very top of the dome. Ilyleon walked around the red idol again, looking into six bulging, mad eyes and three gaping maws, each grinning in its own way. Lysandro was not late yet, merely delayed, and this was generally acceptable considering the state Lys was in now; yes, the Temple of Trios was in a relatively safe part of it, but who knows what could have detained the magister?

Before Aerion, losing patience, had time to regret not going to the Rogare mansion in person, soft steps and the quiet rustle of robes were heard. Magister Lysandro Rogare moved with the speed honed by years of political games of a person important and significant, slightly late and therefore hurrying, but not to such an extent as to appear ridiculous. The former First Magister of Lys was neither wiry nor fat—a barely noticeably protruding belly was surely explained by age and a mild degree of gluttony. The silver hair of a descendant of Old Valyria successfully concealed his grey, but his face, undoubtedly handsome in the past, was already crisscrossed with wrinkles, and the tense events of recent days added bags under the eyes and general puffiness.

“I beg forgiveness, Lord-Captain, I was somewhat delayed,” Lysandro spoke Tyroshi flawlessly. “Had to send the palanquin by a roundabout way, and send a couple of decoys ahead besides… It is difficult nowadays to commune with the source of divine wisdom.”

With these words, the magister, as if nothing had happened, took a triple candle from a box by the wall and, walking across the entire hall, knelt with the carefulness of an elderly person before the barrier surrounding the idol. Lighting all three wicks from a stub, he raised the flame to mouth level and began to whisper a prayer in an undertone, not too loud and not too quiet, so that the fire flickered from his breath but did not go out—worshipers of Trios believed that thus the prayer would reach all three pairs of the god’s ears, each of which would hear only its own, but the believer’s request would be fulfilled by a single and indivisible body.

Aerion, tilting his head to the side, lazily watched Lysandro’s actions. In Tyrosh, when he was just thinking of running away from home into the big world, a priest of Trios from the temple on Triangle Square taught him, a mere boy, some wisdom of his craft, counting, probably, that the Lord Viceroy’s nephew would become a significant parishioner, or even follow his path. Neither attracted young Ilyleon, but he did glean something from the old man: candles and prayers are the lot of the uninitiated who do not know the true names of the three-headed god; true requests reached Trios with the blood and flesh of a man. The victim had to be slaughtered, dismembered into several pieces, and shoved in equal proportion into all three mouths of the idol, after which the priests made the corresponding request. The rite took place immediately after sunset, and at dawn the body of the unfortunate was extracted from the idol’s maws, and, as a rule, some piece was missing, which testified to the success of the ritual.

During one of his visits to Qarth, Aerion decided to sacrifice a negligent sailor. He performed all the manipulations himself so the priests would not deceive him, and at night did not take his eyes off the statue, yet the sacrificial sailor lost his heart and hands. In fairness, it was worth noting that the Lord-Captain achieved his goal then.

That Lysandro chose the simple path did not yet indicate his lack of initiation into the mysteries of Trios, but slightly spoiled the impression of him. Having finished the prayer, the magister placed the candle on the barrier with others like it, and inquired curiously:

“You waited so long for me, surely you managed to light a candle?”

“I prefer to address the gods on my own terms,” Aerion answered dryly.

“Of course, the gods are capable of hearing us without temples,” the magister nodded, understanding the captain in his own way, and rose from his knees just as carefully as he had descended. Brushing off and smoothing his bright silk tunics, he raised the gaze of attentive dark blue, almost black-violet eyes to Ilyleon. “I assume you proposed a meeting not for the sake of theological conversations. Usually I say time is money, but now it has become even more expensive; an hour is paid for with dozens and hundreds of lives, and lives of citizens, not slaves.”

“Pleasant to see a businesslike approach,” Aerion smiled, chasing annoyance and displeasure from his face—one must negotiate with an open face, so there remains no doubt of sincerity, even if holding a poisoned dagger behind one’s back. “It seems to me we are both in a somewhat… difficult position from which we cannot extricate ourselves on our own. You lack the strength to stop slave rebellions, let alone oppose Admiral Ryndoon. In a couple of weeks, when nothing but a drunken crowd remains of his army, if not Volantenes, then Targaryens will appear here, and then no one will ask you anything. I think you understand how this will end.”

“By your grace,” Rogare reminded.

“Who is to blame that the Volantenes called pirates as a striking force?” Aerion remarked maliciously, but immediately raised his hands in feigned surrender with a grin: “I deny my participation not a whit. But before judging, look at the situation from my side. I followed my Admiral, and success turned his head. Between us, there would be something to turn. But now his folly ruins me and my people, and I cannot allow this. I think you understand me.”

“I understand. Gods with profits, the main thing is to stay alive.”

“Wait to count losses.”

“How can I not count losses!” Lysandro threw up his hands, for whom this question, evidently, turned out to be quite painful. “How can I not count losses when your murderers and thieves smashed my warehouses, my shops on Purple Street, four of my brothels, four most magnificent palaces in which it is not shameful even for kings to entertain themselves, turned into pirate dens! Your people screw my slaves like the last goats! Trios Seyboshash, I paid five thousand panthers for each, they were brought from Yunkai and Qarth!”

“Enough!” Aerion cut him off. “Yes, the losses are great. Yes, they grow with every hour. But I give you the opportunity to break this vicious circle and turn everything to your own advantage. Looting will stop. You will again become the head of the magisterium, without all these buffoonish coronations, return power in the city. Get new patrons.”

“You, is it?”

“Yes, but not only. Dragon fire is reliable protection against ill-wishers. Ask the Pentoshi King.”

Lysandro frowned his thick eyebrows, white either by nature or age. In the reflections of candles and the setting sun, Aerion noticed realization, hope, and immediately longing with disappointment flashing in the magister’s eyes.

“I have heard how Callio Karlaris received the fullness of his power and crown. I will not hide, I would like the same for myself and my family, I will say more—I strove for this myself, even without the shield of dragon fire,” Rogare spoke in the dry voice of an offended man reminded of a missed chance.

“But you were mistaken, risked, but lost. You got involved in the big game with this Dornish adventure too early, and in the end lost a brother, money, power, and the respect of fellow citizens, and Lys lost independence.”

This time Aerion’s interlocutor did not restrain himself and maintain the appearance of serenity: his face darkened, and his gaze grew stern. The captain understood him perfectly well—no one likes when strangers dip his face in a pile of his own shit; and yet Ilyleon continued to scourge the magister’s already wounded ego.

“The Volantenes spared you, but robbed you. Lisaro said you had a bank? Its assets, I assume, were confiscated by the viceroy. Brethren, judging by what I heard, almost spit in your face. I have a friend,” one could not call Lohar Aerion’s friend, but the details of the relations of the pirate fleet’s lord-captains should not concern the Lysene. “He is your compatriot. So he, when he drinks, for nothing will miss a chance to say you are a freak and a traitor. Has not missed once yet, and he drinks, as you understand, often.”

“To what end is all this?” Lysandro inquired gloomily.

Well, ripe, Lysene lemon? Aerion smiled affectionately and answered softly:

“To the end that I repeat my offer. I can help you launder your reputation, return the trust of the Lyseni and power over the city and island. Of course, the crown will have to be forgotten, at least for a time—drastic steps should not be taken, but I suppose you understand this yourself. You will become First Magister again, even First Magister for life if you want, rebuild your brothel-palaces again, return your bank, merchant fleet.”

“And what will you receive?”

“And you will help me get rid of Racallio Ryndoon and several of his lord-captains. I will receive his fleet and army, put them in order—I will not need your help in this, I have my own methods. And then, you, Master First Magister of Lys, will appoint me gonfalonier of the city.”

“And thereby give my fate into your hands?”

“You will give it to me one way or another,” Aerion remarked indifferently, and picked at the corner of a yellow marble slab slightly raised by time with the toe of his boot. “Consider you already gave it when you agreed to meet me. In any case, this is a temporary measure which, moreover, will be in your interests and in the interests of the city. When we, I emphasize, we together, get rid of Ryndoon and his hangers-on, the only force capable of defending the city will be in my hands, of course, after I bring it to its senses. Besides, I will need authority to negotiate with the Targaryens, and the post of gonfalonier of Lys is quite capable of providing it. Without you and your magister friends, I will be a usurper easily disposed of by both internal and external enemies. Ruling a city with swords alone is not easy, and I do not want to repeat the experience of the Volantenes, so I need your connections and people. And Daemon Targaryen cannot simply burn a representative of the lawful authority of a Free City. This will be a serious blow to his political reputation, and it, as far as I know, has suffered considerably in recent years anyway. He will not want to give his opponents another reason to turn weapons against himself.”

“And you believe so much that the Tyroshi King will listen to you?” Lysandro drawled doubtfully.

“Targaryens are mostly sentimental, and I am their kin after all,” Ilyleon smiled again. “They will listen to me more willingly than to you. And as for Daemon Targaryen, I think I will manage to make him forget the fact that Lys under your rule previously fought with him.”

“And then?”

“How impatient you are. One still has to live to ‘then’.”

“I prefer to know about all risks in advance,” Rogare announced like a true negotiator and crossed his arms over his chest. So, he has already agreed to everything, but is being stubborn for show.

“I suppose you know that in some cases risks in the long term are too difficult to calculate,” the Lord-Captain sighed. “I would not run too far ahead.”

Lysandro Rogare looked at him searchingly, and Aerion answered him with a direct, open gaze—he had nothing to hide. He needed the Rogare clan to overthrow Ryndoon and control Lys, and he needed control over Lys so that Daemon Targaryen would speak to him, if not as an equal (after all, the Lord-Captain has no dragon), but at least as a person behind whom there is a force that must be reckoned with.

“Very well,” the magister finally pronounced. “I agree. I assume there is no need for a written agreement?”

“Of course,” Aerion nodded. “Some things should not be trusted to either paper or parchment.”

“And yet I would like to discuss a way to ensure the fulfillment of our… obligations.”

“In other words, a pledge of our alliance?”

“Precisely. How can I be sure you will not slaughter us magisters as soon as I name you gonfalonier?”

“I can give you my word of honor, but I suppose it will be little for you. I can take your daughter as a wife, any, at your discretion. To spill the blood of kin, even by marriage, is a crime in the eyes of any of the gods, and I have seen many cults and many divine punishments not to doubt their inevitability. Does such an oath suit you?”

Lysandro bowed his handsome head in thought, surely guessing how not to sell too cheap.

“I can give you Larra. Alas, I have already betrothed her elder sisters to my fellow magisters. Larra is eleven, but I think she will flower soon…”

“Marriage is a political agreement,” Aerion reminded him. “Now marriage vows will satisfy me, and we will deal with marital duty later.”

Marriage in their case is not even so much an agreement of politicians as an economic deal. A wife and a not-too-bad father-in-law may turn out to be by no means superfluous acquisitions upon returning home: on percentages from transactions of Lysene merchants in Westeros alone one could become rich, let alone Lysene banks… This Larra will grow up, and he himself will tie Lysandro to himself so that he won’t even be able to sneeze without his permission. If the girl turns into a beautiful woman in a few years, and besides learns to behave in bed, this will be a rather pleasant addition, but deciding nothing.

“I understand,” Lysandro answered meanwhile. “Drazenko told me approximately the same thing in his time.”

“I think you will understand me if I also request certain guarantees from you?” Aerion inquired in a secular tone.

“Of course. Hostages?”

“Let us call them accomplices,” the captain smirked. “I will need to take command of your detachments anyway. It will be quite appropriate if not only Lisaro ends up in them, but a couple of his brothers too.”

“There will be Moredo, he is fourteen, and Lotho, he is two years younger,” Lysandro nodded. “I have no problems with sons.”

Apparently, there is even a surplus of them, since the magister scatters them so easily. Fine, this can be dealt with later, and the kids will sit out the most difficult part on ships, and different ones at that. Smiling again, Ilyleon pulled off his glove and offered Rogare his hand:

“Are we agreed?”

“Before the three faces of Trios I testify: House Rogare will fulfill its obligations if Lord-Captain Aerion Ilyleon and his people fulfill theirs,” Lysandro proclaimed in an official tone, accepting the handshake.

“Lord-Captain Aerion Ilyleon is not in the habit of refusing profitable deals,” he answered. “But private moments must be discussed right now. Time, as you said yourself, is expensive.”

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