Chapter 42: The First Flock
The dawn after the battle broke over a landscape transformed. The beaches of the Flatlands, which had been a stage for a doomed defense, were now the heart of a burgeoning city of refugees and conquerors. The air, which had carried the jeers of sellswords, now carried the low, constant hum of the Blessed at prayer and the weeping of men whose chains had been broken. It was a victory so absolute, so strange, that it felt more like the aftermath of a biblical event than a military engagement.
In the command tent of the Westerosi host, the mood was not triumphant, but one of stunned, sober contemplation. King Viserys II sat at the head of a rough-hewn table, a map of Pentos spread before him. Prince Jacaerys, his face grim, stood beside him, along with the great lords of the realm.
"The reports are in," Lord Tyland Lannister said, his voice holding a note of disbelief. "We have over five thousand prisoners, the remnants of four sellsword companies. And at least twice that number in freed slaves who have flocked to our banner." He shook his head. "The logistical strain is… immense. We are not equipped to govern a city of refugees, Your Grace."
"And what of the prisoners?" Lord Rickon Stark asked, his voice a low rumble. "They are hardened killers from every corner of Essos. We cannot trust them. We cannot feed them indefinitely."
Jacaerys looked at the lords, at their conventional, military minds struggling to grasp the new paradigm. "You are all still thinking of this as a war of conquest," he said, his voice flat and didactic. "You are wrong. This was never a war. It is a crusade. And a crusade is not won with supply lines and prisoner exchanges. It is won with conversion." He turned to the King. "The freed slaves are not a burden. They are our first flock. The prisoners are not a liability. They are our first test."
Viserys looked at his brother, at the cold, hard certainty in his eyes. Jace had been the most vocal opponent of this new world, and now he seemed to be the one who understood its terrible logic most clearly. "What do you propose, brother?" the king asked.
"I propose we let the Hands of the God do the work they were sent here to do," Jace replied. "They will tend to the flock. And I… I will speak with the wolves."
Outside, a new society was being born from the ashes of the old. Ellyn the Weaver, her face serene, moved through the massive camp of the freed slaves. The people parted before her, reaching out to touch the hem of her simple dress as if she were a living relic. The other Hands moved with her, their presence a calming, miraculous force.
A woman whose back was a lattice of old whip-scars knelt before Ellyn, tears streaming down her face. "Lady Saint," she sobbed in the lilting tongue of the Summer Isles. "You have given us our lives back. We are free. But what now? We have nothing. We know nothing but the chain and the lash. Where do we go?"
Ellyn knelt and took the woman's hands in her own. A soft light flowed from her palms, and the woman gasped as the ancient, painful scars on her back faded into smooth, unblemished skin.
"You have your freedom," Ellyn said, her voice a soothing balm. "That is the first gift of the Great Order. The second gift is purpose." She looked out at the thousands of hopeful, terrified faces. "The god who freed you does not abandon his flock to the wilderness. You will not be scattered. You will build a new city, here on this shore. A city for the Freed. You will work the fields, not for a master, but for each other. You will build homes, not hovels, under the god's watchful eye. In the Great Order, there are no masters and no slaves. There are no chains. There is only work, and peace, and providence."
Her sermon was not one of complex theology or promises of a distant heaven. It was a practical gospel of a better life, here and now, guaranteed by the power that had broken their chains. It was the most potent message they had ever heard. A man, a former stonemason from Tyrosh, stood up.
"Give us the tools," he said, his voice rough but strong. "And we will build a temple to the Great Order that will touch the sky."
A roar of approval went up from the crowd. They were not refugees anymore. They were citizens of a new, divine nation.
In a stockade on the edge of the beach, the captured sellsword captains were brought before Prince Jacaerys. The Volantene captain, Vorzo, a man whose scarred face was a testament to a life of violence, glared at the Targaryen prince with sullen hatred.
"So, you mean to hang us, dragon prince?" Vorzo spat. "Get on with it. A sellsword knows the risks."
"Hanging you would be a waste of good rope," Jacaerys said, his tone casual. He walked down the line of defeated mercenaries, Ellyn at his side, her calm presence a stark contrast to the barely contained violence of the captives. "You fought for gold. You lost. Your masters in Pentos have abandoned you to your fate. As I see it, you have two choices."
He stopped in front of Vorzo. "Choice one: You will be shipped back to Westeros. The Lannisters have deep mines in Casterly Rock. They are always in need of fresh arms to swing a pickaxe. You will live out your days in the dark, laboring for the good of the realm you fought against. You will be well-fed. You will be orderly."
The sellswords paled. A life sentence in the mines was a fate worse than a quick death.
"And the other choice?" Vorzo asked, his voice tight.
"The other choice," Jace said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips, "is to swear a new oath. Not to a man you despise for a handful of coin you'll never get to spend. But to the Great Order. To the god who granted my soldiers the strength to defeat you without breaking a sweat." He gestured to Ellyn. "You have seen its power. You have felt its mercy—for you are still breathing. Join us. Fight for the god who has proven he is the only power that matters in this world. Fight for the cause of liberation. Your chains of gold will be replaced by a bond of faith. And you will be granted the same blessings as my finest soldiers."
It was an audacious, brilliant offer. To turn the enemy's defeated army into new, zealous recruits. Vorzo stared at Ellyn, at the faint light that still seemed to cling to her, and he remembered the way his best men had fallen to their knees, weeping. He remembered the feeling of absolute futility.
"And if we swear this oath?" he asked. "We fight for… a god?"
"You fight for the winning side," Jace corrected him. "For the first time in your lives."
Vorzo looked at his men, at their hopeless, defeated faces. Then he looked at the thousands of freed slaves, who were already beginning to clear land for their new city, their voices joined in a strange, humming chant. He spat on the ground, then slowly, grudgingly, knelt in the sand. "I will take the god's coin," he grumbled. One by one, the other captains followed suit.
In the marbled halls of Pentos, terror reigned. The Prince and the allied Magisters had received the reports from the handful of sellswords who had escaped the slaughter. Their confidence had shattered.
"They did not bleed!" the Magister of Myr, Malathen, shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. "Our armies are gone! Vorzo and the Gallant Men have… they have joined them! They fight for the monster now!"
"We cannot meet them in open battle," Prince Tregar said, his face slick with sweat. "That is suicide. We must fight as we have always fought against foes greater than ourselves. Like cornered rats."
"Poison in their wells," Malathen hissed, his eyes glittering. "Assassins in their camp. We must kill their leaders. The Targaryen king, the prince… and those cursed saints who walk unmolested through battle!"
An older, wiser Magister from Lys shook his head, his face pale. "And what happens when we do?" he asked, his voice a trembling whisper. "What happens when we anger the god that commands them? The one that melted the harbor of Tyrosh for being… untidy. If we use poison, it may turn our own rivers to poison. If we use assassins, it may visit a plague upon our children and call it 'a correction.' We are not fighting a king we can depose. We are fighting a force that can unmake our world with a passing thought."
A desperate silence fell over the room. They were the masters of Essos, lords of wealth and power, and they were utterly, completely helpless. Their swords were useless, their gold was meaningless, and their poisons were a child's toys.
That evening, King Viserys walked with Queen Jaehaera through the bustling, chaotic, yet hopeful camp of the Freed. Tents were being erected, fires were being lit, and for the first time, the sounds were not of whips and chains, but of songs in a dozen different languages.
"Look at their faces, Viserys," Jaehaera said, her voice filled with a quiet wonder. "They look at us as if we were… angels of salvation."
"And what are we, Jaehaera?" Viserys replied, his heart heavy. "Jailers for my brother? Figureheads for a crusade I don't believe in? I feel like a fraud. I wear a crown given to me by a monster, to free people I cannot truly protect, in the name of a peace that feels like a prison."
Jaehaera stopped and took his hand. "The girl I spoke with earlier," she said. "Her name was Nymella. She had never known a day without a chain around her ankle. Today, she walked on the sand, and the only thing that touched her skin was the sea foam." She looked him in the eye, her own gaze clear and certain. "Is the source of a good deed more important than the deed itself, my love? The world may be a prison. But for her, today, you and your brother and the god on the hill… you unlocked her cell. That is not a fraud. That is a miracle."
Viserys looked at his wife, at the simple, profound truth in her words. The moral calculus of their new world was a dizzying, impossible thing.
At the edge of the camp, Ellyn and the Hands of the God gathered the natural leaders who were emerging from among the freed slaves. Their bodies were healed, their bellies were full of bread. Now, it was time for the next step.
"The Great Order has given you freedom," Ellyn said, her voice ringing out in the firelight. "Now, it asks for your service. The city of Pentos, just beyond that hill, remains a den of slavers. It is the heart of the disorder in this land. The god's work is not yet done."
She looked at their faces, at the fierce new light in their eyes. "You have been freed. Now, you will help us free your brothers and sisters. The chains you wore will be reforged into swords. You will be the foundation of a new army. The Army of the Freed. And tomorrow, you will be the first wave in the liberation of Pentos."
A roar went up from the crowd. They surged forward, picking up the discarded swords and spears of the defeated sellswords. Their eyes, once dull with despair, now burned with the same zealous light as the Blessed. They were not just converts. They were now crusaders. The god's army was not just victorious; it was self-replicating. And it was ready to march.