As the cool crisp morning sun rose above Kings Landing, I stood at the edge of the royal docks, my eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
The gentle sound of lapping waves and the distant cries of gulls filled the silence, my braided silver locks flowing carelessly in the wind.
"Why did we have to wake up so early for this?" Brien complained.
Theodore rolled his eyes. "No one forced you to stay up all night wasting candlelight."
"I resent that," Brien retorted. "My studies are for the betterment of Rhaenar. I thought you understood the concept of business expenses."
Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was chosen to be my escort on that glorious day during the seventh moon of 106 AC.
He was unimpressed with Brien's lack of punctuality.
"Prince Rhaenar," Ser Harrold corrected, "Did they not teach respect in the Citadel?"
I kept my gaze fixed on the east, ignoring my companions.
"At ease. Brien's insolence is his way of showing affection. If he insults you, it means he likes you."
"A convenient excuse," Ser Harrold remarked.
Brien retorted, "What's wrong with convenience? Just think of all the time we'd save if we removed the unnecessary titles before everyone's name."
Theodore's economic mind raced at the prospect.
"It would certainly improve productivity. Perhaps I should run the numbers?"
"Enough," I ordered firmly, unwilling to entertain such changes. The use of titles reinforced the hierarchical status quo, a pillar of our society that I was unwilling to compromise. "But to answer your question, you are here because our late king taught me the importance of a good welcoming party."
"That requires my presence?" he asked.
"Come on, Brien," Theodore ribbed him, "Where's your Team Rhaenar spirit?"
Brien grumbled, "I have what they call 'selective enthusiasm.' Maybe we should have a schedule to keep things organized."
"Forget that," I interjected, "Schedules only make it easier for our enemies. Get your shit together, Brien Flowers.
At that moment, a ship appeared on the horizon.
I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand and squinted.
"Could that be—?"
Ser Harrold also squinted, "It's difficult to tell from this distance."
Theodore used his 'I told you so' voice.
"If only we had a Myrish eye."
"Silence," I ordered, "I can't concentrate."
As the ship drew closer, the emblem on its sails gradually came into focus.
At first, it was just a subtle symbol in the distance, but as the canvas sails grew larger, the details became clear:
A woman's torso with bat wings for arms, eagle legs, and a scorpion tail, clutching a chain with open manacles at either end.
Astapor.
"They've arrived," I stated, my voice full of certainty.
As the ship neared the docks, we heard the ropes creak and sails flutter.
The sailors worked swiftly and efficiently, tying the vessel securely to the pier. With a gentle thud, the plank bridge was lowered onto the dock.
The Astapori representatives, dressed in sand-cream robes, stood in a neat line on the dock, their faces impassive.
Their leader, a tall man with a bald head and a prominent nose, stepped forward to meet my hand.
As we exchanged pleasantries, I noticed his grip was firm, his eyes cold.
Behind him, the other men shifted their weight from one foot to another, their hands clasped behind their backs. I sensed their impatience to conclude the formalities and move on to business.
The meeting between myself and the Astapori slavers was cordial but tense.
We convened in a small pavilion erected at the end of the dock, sheltered by a blue and white striped canopy.
The salty tang of the sea wafted in on the breeze, mingling with the smell of fish from the nearby market. The atmosphere was tense, despite the bright sun overhead.
I was careful to avoid any discussion that might suggest support for the slave trade, or the oppressive ways of Slaver's Bay and Old Ghis.
Instead, I spoke in general terms about our mutual desire for peace and cooperation between our nations.
After, I quickly went about our true agenda, "Pardon me, but I don't see the persons you promised."
The Astapori representative gave a curt nod as my servants brought forth the chests of silver and gold.
I noticed the tense exchange of glances among them, as if they were not expecting me to have the payment ready.
I tried not to let their skepticism bother me, instead focusing on the task at hand.
The transaction proceeded with a cold formality, leaving me with the impression that these slavers did not trust in the integrity of the Iron Throne.
Nevertheless, they quickly adapted to the strangeness of my mature demeanor and beckoned their "cargo" to come forth without further ado.
Two figures emerged from the shadows, clad in their own unique attire.
One was a strikingly handsome man with long brown hair and a garibaldi beard, his eyes fierce and unyielding.
The other was more specific, dressed in the age-old light armor attire of the Unsullied, with leather-clad that hugged his lean frame.
"Greetings," I addressed them with a sincere tone, "I want to express that you are now free, liberated from any shackles that once bound you.
As individuals, you have the power to make your own choices and forge your own paths in this world.
However, I hope that you will consider joining me as trusted companions and allies. Together, we can build a new era of cooperation and respect.
Should you choose to pledge your loyalty to me, I offer you my protection and support, and I promise that your service will come to an end after a fair and mutually agreed-upon duration. The choice is yours to make, and I will respect it either way."
The handsome vagabond was the first to answer.
"Hmph. Not what I was expecting."
"Would you prefer I bring out the whip and chains?" I jested.
"The only thing they asked in the fighting pits, if they did ask, was to see which weapon we wanted."
I was suddenly hit with the weight of what I was attempting.
"I understand that this seems like I'm offering a false set of choices. To free you, only to give you the choice to be on your own for the first time, something you have no idea how to do. Your instincts would make you want to cling to the first bidder willing to direct you like how you were in the slave past. Rest assured, you will be properly provided for should you choose not to accept my offer."
The pit fighter placed a hand on chin, contemplating my words for a moment.
"My master promised that if I won 1000 fights, he'd award my freedom.
I was celebrating my 93rd victory, they called me the greatest of my era. Yet as I celebrated in my cell, they came, and I was shipped off across the world without free will, only to come to this distant land and the first thing I'm offered is that very thing, free will. Give me a sword, and thy will be done."
Brien smirked at that, "Well spoke."
I had to agree, "Indeed… Where did you learn such delivery?"
"I grew up listening to the announcers at the arena," the pit fighter explained, "Wasn't too hard to pick up."
"Great…" Ser Harrold lamented, "Another talker…"
I fist bumped the pit fighter's chest, "It's that kind of quirkiness that lets me know you will fit snugly into our eclectic bunch. I accept your sword and service. What do they call you, pit fighter?"
"I've been a slave all my life, but the other slave women who were around during my childhood knew my mother and told me about her. Apparently, she named me before she died, long before I can remember."
As I looked into the pit fighter's eyes, I couldn't help but wonder about his past. "You mentioned that your mother named you," I said. "May I ask what name she gave?"
He hesitated for a moment before answering, "Sari Sicai."
I nodded, taking note of the unique name. "Well, Sari Sicai, welcome to our group. We're glad to have you on board."
Sari walked awkwardly weird strange, wondering as we motioned him to come behind our group with pats on the back and words of locker room tomfoolery.
"That leaves you," I turned to the unsullied, who stood with hands behind his back, light leather armor, and a helmet with a round shield strapped to his back. His stance was firm and unmovable in the coastal wind.
"I trust you are well versed in the war tactics they teach you unsullied?" I asked. "Spear, shield, and sword?"
"This one was charged by his master to teach Unsullied," he responded, regarding me with a stoic, serious, warlike intensity.
I couldn't help but note his young appearance.
"You seem quite capable for someone so young," I commented.
"It is known," he replied.
"Perfect. You are welcome to join us, if you so choose. What is your name?" I asked.
"This one is known as Black Leech," he answered.
Theodore, Brien, and I exchanged glances before breaking out into laughter.
"Forgive us, Black Leech, but that name won't do," I said, wiping a tear from my eye. "We like to use nicknames here if things get queer, but we're struggling to come up with one for you."
"No need to over complicate," I continued with a snap of my fingers.
"You deserve a fresh start. I think it's only fitting that you rise from the ashes with a new name. From this day forward, you are free and you will be known as Phoenix."
For the first time in his life, he felt valued as a being, promoted not just for his prowess with a sword and shield, but also for who he was and what his spirit could contribute.
Foreign light poured into his lens, illuminating his surroundings through an aperture of unfamiliarity.
I watched as Pheonix straightened his posture even further, a mix of confusion and a newfound sense of self-worth evident in his stance.
"Pheonix," he said slowly, as if testing the sound of the name on his tongue.
"This one finds that name agreeable."