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Dressed to Kill, Chapter 12 (ASOIAF FI)
🕑 Added 2025-01-21 20:19:39 +0000 UTCThe immediate threat passed. Ladon’s preparations - an expanded sphere of influence, dozens of groves and meadows he could draw on for Vim, and local wildlife enhanced to their limits and contributing to his reserves just as much as the plants - did not, and that placed him into a perfect position to both consolidate and spread.
His first real act of doing so was the subsumption of the Dothraki that managed to break away from the psychic hunter before it could be their turn to get their minds shackled, and with that freedom came the opportunity to puppet their bodies, massively expanding the amount of opposable thumbs he had access to. He’d need them if he wanted to hold territory properly instead of simply making it simply very difficult to inhabit without his assistance. The fact that this let their slaves add a ‘former’ in front of that word was just a bonus, a handful of them electing to join him after another round of lucid-dream communication.
In the coming days and weeks, Ladon’s presence would become increasingly obvious even to an unaware observer - outposts formed, tall tanglewood watchtowers surrounded by the thornier resinous trunks forming a makeshift wall. Each one had at least a few squads of enhanced Dothraki, boosted to two meters tall with horses to match for all Ladon didn’t spend all that much Vim refining the bulk like he had done with Boro’s body, the exception being the three meters tall hero units. One for each outpost and made to the same standards as his primary terminal, they would put the fear of god into his targets. Even better, they were effectively falconers from hell now, thanks to the birds Ladon had taken and enhanced. The clay pot bombs full of plant extracts were still a work in progress, but there was something to be said for a rain of rocks.
The outposts were somewhat specialized to counter the pure light-cavalry of the Dothraki by the miracle of archers in an fortified and elevated position, but that was in line with his priorities of expanding into the Great Grass Sea. His informal alliance with the Lhazareen and his own sense of responsibility both demanded it, and as much as he wished to turn towards the Slaver’s Bay, the hundreds of disparate memories painted a complete enough picture to know the Dothraki were the biggest source of fresh slaves, and so his attentions shifting towards their lands also weakened Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen.
And so he started to expand. It was a slow, careful thing of his subtle influence becoming an overt presence, as subsumed fields of tall grass shifted. More outposts grew to hold their own detachments of Dothraki, horses and birds. Waystations sprung up, sponge-lined ponds and fruiting trees covered in vines willing to lash out at his command were liberally scattered across the terrain to make sure he’d remain supplied later without having to invest Vim into it at a later date. And while he could not cover the vast grassland with meadows of Thunderflowers or other living and very lethal barriers… large patches of it were not outside the scope of his ability.
In practice, it gave the Dothraki heading to Lhazar three options: Take a several-week detour to completely go around his holdings. Take the winding routes that were mostly safe from passive threats other than a constant rain of stones from supernaturally fast, agile, and resilient birds. Try and push through the patches of misery that were closer to organic minefields than anything else.
It wasn’t the limit of his efforts, however.
A discovery of Boro’s strength and precision caused Ladon to push more of the Dothraki to a comparable but just-barely inferior level of physical ability, because they were strong and resilient enough to bypass the need for tools. Nails fit for carving wood with ease, and large hands perfectly capable of digging ditches and assembling less flammable fortifications. A workaround for his currently rather limited access to metal, smiths, and forges. Trees and cattails he could grow on command, and so his puppets set to work assembling equipment.
Wooden lamellar armor, multiple layers bound together with thick fiber. It was heavier and bulkier than metal armor, but it still provided protection and the fewer wounds they took, the longer his reserves of Vim could be stretched in battle. With his abundance of water and superhuman shells to use, the gambesons to back the lamellar were also very viable and not something that seriously affected his logistics. Without an immediate looming threat, he could dedicate enough attention to make sure the horses also received barding, making sure the threshold for a lucky arrow to unhorse one of them was a fair bit higher.
And there were, of course, bows. He had a glut of hardwood, and the Dothraki knew how to make bowstrings from horse-sinew. When he subsumed them, Ladon inherited that knowledge, except his horses were already enhanced, and so the bows that were put together from those parts were firmly in the category of ‘impressive’ despite how simple they were. A hair over two and a half meters in length - just barely usable on horseback taking into account the physique of both his men and steeds - and requiring custom arrows that were closer to small javelins tipped by nothing but the haft being sharpened into a point.
But they had range and power in spades through sheer scale and mass. The morale effect would probably also be useful - Ladon imagined it would be difficult to retain enthusiasm for combat if the incoming arrows had enough force and momentum to skewer three men.
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The Lhazareen did, in fact, have more than one ‘city.’ Lhazosh was the oldest, the first to be founded and in theory the safest, being South of the Skahazadhan river that split Lhazar in half and therefore making sure it was at least marginally shielded from Dothraki raids into the region. Kosrak was the largest in both population and production, nestled inside a crescent of gently-sloping hills and low mountains, having the best access to both stone and metal of all Lhazareen towns. Hesh was the least of the three, North of the river that split Lhazar in half and thus the most exposed to demands from tribute as well as lacking any major natural resources like Kosrak could boast of.
None of the three settlements could boast serious commerce, for very, very few traders and caravans braved the risk of Dothraki for wool, smoked mutton, and other basic goods that could be found in most other places where people lived. Therefore, when a caravan of several wagons was sighted on the horizon, not escorted by hundreds of Dothraki, it was something of an event to the locals.
Hurried preparations were made, the main square cleared so that the merchants may hawk their wares freely, old lockboxes met their keys and hidden pouches were drawn from their hiding places so that the few coins of currency going around could change hands if something struck a buyer’s fancy and they happened to not accept barter they could still have a chance at things. The closest thing to a city guard - a few dozen men barely out of their youth playing at soldier with staves and copper-tipped spears that more often met the flesh of a wild hound angling at the town’s flocks of sheep than that of criminals - made sure to straighten their backs.
The elder of the town - someone scarcely fit the name, only having recently ascended to the position with his predecessor passing of old age - stood at the path leading into the town to greet the caravan.
And when they got close enough to see the people driving the wagons, he had to school his expressions to not gape in surprise, because the newcomers were Lhazareen - not down-on-their-luck merchants from Slaver’s Bay taking the trip out of desperation. And they looked… confident. Well-fed and healthy, their clothes clean, the horses drawing the wagons large and powerful as they pulled the cargo of laden sacks and crates with ease.
“Ho there!” The man seated atop the first carriage called out as they got closer, giving him a cheerful wave. “My name’s Loronr. We’ve come to trade!” The fellow Lhazareen introduced himself, acting as if the near-constant risk of a Dothraki warlord was unthinkable. Sure, they rarely swept through the same area twice in the same year and mere months ago there was a full khal that carved through the surrounding countryside, but that did not wholly remove the threat.
The elder nodded. “I am called Onter. From where do you hail?” Maybe he was just someone that returned to his homeland after finding his fortune elsewhere, it would not be too strange-
“Ladon’s Lair. It’s a town to the Northeast of Hesh, right on the border of the Grass Sea,” The leader of the caravan declared, his wagon coming to a halt a comfortable talking distance away - two dozen steps, more than enough to be polite. “We bring goods from there - leather and fabric, glue from fish and resin, as well as food. Smoked fish, lump-apples both fresh and preserved, jars of freshly-rendered tallow, root vegetables.” A loud, deep, singular bark came from behind the merchant, a dog - no, a wolf, one unconstrained by a cage or leash - lifting its head from between the stacks of crates. Even from what Onter could see it must have been a large beast, its muzzle long and wide enough to fit around a man’s thigh. Covered in thick, dull gray fur and with vibrant green eyes that he could clearly make out despite the distance; it cut an imposing figure. Loronr sighed. “And some half-dozen hounds, trained as sheepdogs,” He added, reaching back to rub the animal’s head, its eyes perking up as it obediently pressed itself against the merchant’s palm.
“How well-trained are they?” He asked. He couldn’t exactly take him at his act, with how carefree the man was acting regarding omnipresent threats. “The flocks are our livelihood, after all.”
The trader let out a low whistle, before pointing at the elder. “Trot on over there, lick his hand, and come back,” He ordered, voice gentle. The hound leapt out of the wagon with a single fluid movement, and Onter blinked - it wasn’t gray but white, merely the shade from Loronr and the crates that surrounded it making the animal look darker than it truly was.
And what a creature it revealed itself to be - without obstruction, he could see the full size; reaching up to his chest and with shoulders a hair wider than his own. It carried itself over, and the elder held back his natural instinct to take several steps back from an animal of unknown temperament, especially one of such size. Yet it moved with a smooth speed only further enhanced by its sheer size, and Onter reached out to present his hand.
The hound pressed its nose against his palm as it licked his fingers gently, and he drew upon a well of bravery to rub the dog’s ears. It pressed its head against his hand, just as he almost expected it to, a low rumbling sound vibrating through the tame beast as it let out a sound of contentment. He glanced up, locking eyes with the grinning Loronr. “How much for him?”
The trader let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! Ladon protects us and it would be shameful if we did not share at least some of the privilege. Consider him a gift,” Loronr declared boldly.
Well. “Then be welcomed to Hesh - trade your goods freely and rest beside our hearths,” Onter answered, and with a grateful nod the trader turned back, gesturing for the rest of his caravan to follow as he drove the wagons onwards, entering the town. The elder, meanwhile, stood aside to give him free passage, his hand continuing to idly pet his new hound as it stood at his side.
Onter glanced over at the animal, the bright green eyes meeting his as it chuffed, giving him a nudge. “You will need a name.” He said, and the second nudge the beast gave him seemed almost affirmative. A moment of consideration passed. Then a second. Ideas came and were discarded. Crook, as something to help keep the flocks in line. Drover, for much the same reason. The first was more fit for a tool, which the hound certainly wasn’t, that much he already decided; but the second option was for people. It would take some time for him to trust the animal that much.
He idly considered Snowdrift. Large, white, and difficult to get past - but it would not be truly fitting. Onter knew snow existed, but Lhazar had not received any in as long as he lived.
He glanced over at the merchant, already animatedly talking with a local butcher, assurances that he bought smoked fish and not mutton, so his livelihood would be left untouched right before offering the man a crate’s worth of ash-glazed pottery. His mind slipped back to his words, and Onter decided on a name. “It may not have been creative, but it fit. Consider you a Gift, hm?”
Gift let out a bark at his words.
