Chapter 43: The First Domino
The night before the assault on Pentos was a night of two starkly different vigils. In the Westerosi command tent, the air was thick with tension and the smell of salt and steel. A massive, detailed map of the city lay on the table, a flimsy piece of parchment upon which the fate of a hundred thousand souls would be decided. King Viserys II, his face illuminated by the flickering lamplight, looked to his brother, the commander of his armies.
"The scouts report their defenses are concentrated at the main gate and the harbor," Jacaerys said, his voice flat and devoid of any pre-battle bravado. He tapped a point on the map. "They have hired what's left of the sellsword companies in the region. They expect a conventional assault. They are mistaken." He looked around the table at the grim faces of the Westerosi lords.
"The Army of the Freed will lead the charge on the main gate," he declared. "They are not a disciplined force, but their numbers and their… passion… will serve as a tidal wave to break the enemy's spirit. The Blessed, under the command of Ellyn and Matthos, will follow directly behind them. They will be the spearhead that shatters the gate and secures the main plaza."
Lord Rickon Stark, his beard now streaked with grey, frowned deeply. "You want my Northmen, who have marched two thousand miles, to act as a reserve force while former slaves fight the main battle? My men will see it as an insult to their honor."
"Honor is a luxury of the old world, my lord," Jacaerys countered, his gaze as cold and hard as winter iron. "In this world, we have our orders. The god wants a tidy liberation. Your men, Lord Lannister's men, all of you," he swept his gaze across the lords, "will be the third wave. Your job is not to fight for glory. Your job is to impose order. When the gates are breached, you will secure the city, street by street. You will prevent looting. You will stop massacres. You will be peacekeepers, not conquerors." He turned to Ellyn the Weaver, who stood silently at the edge of the firelight. "Can you control your new flock, Lady Ellyn? Can you ensure their rage does not consume the city?"
Ellyn met his gaze, her eyes holding a calm that was both soothing and deeply unsettling. "They are not a flock to be controlled, Prince Jacaerys," she said softly. "They are a righteous storm, and a storm cannot be commanded, only guided. They will break their brethren's chains. The god's will shall guide them. That will be enough."
The lords were silent, their ancient traditions of warfare rendered obsolete. They were no longer generals; they were managers of a divine, and terrifying, event.
Inside the opulent palace of Pentos, a different kind of fear reigned. Prince Tregar Ormollen stood on a high balcony with Magister Malathen of Myr, watching the endless sea of bonfires that was the Westerosi camp. The sight was a dagger of ice in his heart.
"Look at them," Tregar whispered, his voice trembling. "It is a city outside our walls. The sellswords are drinking to keep their courage up, but I see the fear in their eyes. We cannot fight this."
"Then we do not fight," Malathen hissed, his own face slick with sweat. "We bargain. These Westerosi are men, are they not? Men can be bought. We will offer them gold, ships, access to our trade routes! Half the city's wealth, if they will only turn back!"
An old, wise advisor who stood behind them shook his head, his face a mask of weary despair. "You cannot bargain with a storm, Magister," he said, his voice a dry rustle of parchment. "Their spies have been captured. Their camp followers talk. They do not want our gold. They do not want our city. They want our way of life. They want to break every chain, open every cage. They are not conquerors. They are liberators. And that is far more terrifying."
Prince Tregar looked at the fires again and understood. You could pay a man to not take your life. How could you pay a man to not give you a gift he believed was divine?
The assault began at dawn with a sound. It was not the sound of horns or drums, but the sound of fifty thousand voices raised in a single, humming chant, a prayer to the Great Order. Then, the Army of the Freed charged.
It was a sight of pure, terrifying chaos. A human tidal wave of men and women, armed with captured swords, farming tools, and righteous fury, surged towards the main gate of Pentos. They were not a disciplined army. They were a force of nature.
The sellswords on the walls, hardened killers to a man, let loose a torrent of arrows and scorpion bolts. Men and women in the front ranks fell, but the wave did not stop. For every one that fell, two more seemed to take their place, their eyes burning with a zeal that transcended fear.
Then the second wave hit. The Blessed, led by Matthos, marched through their own charging ranks, parting them like a rock parts a river. They reached the great iron-banded gates of the city. Matthos, the old soldier, did not call for a ram. He simply placed his hands on the gate. A golden light pulsed, and the iron bands groaned, then snapped. The great wooden doors splintered and blew inwards as if struck by a giant's fist.
The Blessed poured into the city, a whirlwind of divinely-powered destruction. The Sermon of the Sword began. The sellswords who met them in the streets found themselves fighting phantoms. Blades skittered off simple leather. Men were thrown twenty feet by a simple shield bash. Fear, for the first time, entered the hearts of men who had made a living from inspiring it in others.
Ellyn walked through the battle untouched, a calm center in the storm. Her hands were open, and the light that emanated from them did not burn, but soothed. Sellswords who lunged at her would find their rage replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of peace, and they would drop to their knees, weeping for sins they had never known they possessed.
The city's defense collapsed not in hours, but in minutes.
In his throne room, Prince Tregar Ormollen heard the screams growing closer. He stood by his throne of ivory and gold, a jeweled dagger in his hand, ready to take his own life rather than be captured. The great doors to the chamber burst open.
He braced himself for armored soldiers, for the grim face of Jacaerys Velaryon. Instead, Ellyn the Weaver walked in, flanked by Matthos and a dozen other glowing, serene Blessed. Behind them, hundreds of the Prince's own household slaves, their faces a mixture of terror and dawning hope, shuffled into the room.
"You will not take me alive, witch!" Tregar shrieked, raising the dagger.
Ellyn looked at him, not with hatred, but with a profound, soul-deep pity. "We have not come to take your life, Prince of Pentos," she said, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. "We have come to take your chains."
She raised a hand. The dagger in Tregar's grip grew impossibly heavy, as if it were forged from lead, and it slipped from his nerveless fingers, clattering on the marbled floor. The rage, the fear, the will to fight—it all drained from him, leaving him a hollow, trembling shell. He slumped onto his throne, a king of nothing.
"Your world of masters and slaves is over," Ellyn announced to the silent room, to the masters and the slaves alike. "The Great Order has come."
Later that day, in the newly-liberated city, King Viserys and Prince Jacaerys had to decide the fate of the conquered. The former masters of Pentos, the Prince and his Magisters, were brought before them in the main plaza, now stripped of their silks and jewels.
"What is to be done with them?" Viserys asked his brother, his voice low. "By our laws, they have committed no crime against us. We were the aggressors here."
"Our laws are a whisper in a hurricane, brother," Jace replied, his gaze cold. "The god's law is all that matters. And slavery, it has told us, is the ultimate disorder."
Ellyn approached them, her face serene. "The god does not demand their deaths," she said, her voice carrying the weight of divine authority. "Death is untidy. It asks only for balance." She looked at the huddled, terrified nobles. "They have lived their lives in luxury on the broken backs of others. Now, they will learn what it is to work. They will learn what it is to serve. They will rebuild the city they profited from, side-by-side with the people they once owned. Their hands will mend the world their greed has broken."
It was a new kind of justice. A creative, poetic, and utterly terrifying form of punishment that was worse than any execution.
The final act of the liberation of Pentos was the most symbolic. The Great Plaza, where the slave auction blocks had stood for centuries, was torn up. An army of volunteers—freed slaves, converted sellswords, and humbled Westerosi soldiers—began the work of laying the foundation for a new, black stone temple.
King Viserys stood on a balcony overlooking the scene. He saw the former Prince of Pentos, his soft hands bloody, being forced to haul a block of stone alongside a man he had owned just the day before. The new knight, Ser Tytos Hill, came to stand beside his king, his face a mask of awe.
"It is a new world, Your Grace," Ser Tytos said, his voice hushed.
"Is it a better one, Ser Tytos?" Viserys asked, the question that perpetually haunted him.
Ser Tytos watched as a freed slave shared his water ration with the weeping, exhausted Magister of Myr who was working beside him. He saw Ellyn healing the blistered hands of a Lannister soldier. "I do not know if it is better, Your Grace," the knight said after a long moment. "But it is… more orderly. And I think that is the only thing that matters now."
Viserys turned away from the balcony. His crusade was a success. He had brought freedom to thousands. And in doing so, he had helped his god tighten its grip, not just on a kingdom, but on the very soul of the world. The first domino had fallen, and he could already hear the sound of the others beginning to tremble.