A/N: Okay, so this story follows on from the Ghiscari plotline in A Game of Vengeance and Justice. Needless to say there are heavy spoilers for the events in that plotline here.

The story will be broken into three parts, this is the beginning of the first part: Legate, the other two will follow on after it.

As another note, this story will be told entirely from the perspective of Marghaz, no changing POVs here. Review it, see what you think, and I hope you enjoy. Also, feel free to ask any questions in the reviews, I will answer them as best I can.

Compared to the sheer size of the slaver cities of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen, New Ghis was small. It's harbour was less than half the size of the smallest of the three, it's population whilst larger in terms of free men, was much smaller when slaves were counted. This was the city that claimed the rights to the first empire that ever existed, yet all it is, is a pit of corruption and decadence; of craven Masters who attempted to hold their own power whilst murdering those who could achieve the dream of their rhetoric.

Marghaz shook his head, the masters had summoned him and he needed his wits about him if he was to survive the meeting. His fingers of flesh curled into a fist. He had hoped to exact immediate vengeance for the murder of his mentor in the sands of Meereen, but the Legates had struck out on their own, each seeking to be the one to replace Djoran zo Marok as the best commander amongst New Ghis' legions. Now, as Legate of a legion, Marghaz had to do the same, prove himself in battle to become Djoran's legitimate successor.

He made his way down the market street, wending through the mingling crowd of bronzed men and women moving from stall to stall and store to store, exploring the merchandise brought in on the latest trade ships, or brought in from the conquest of Meereen. The city was still half drunk on victory over Daenerys Targaryen and already puppeteers and mummers were playing out the scenes of the great Ghiscari victory in the streets. He scoffed, if it was a victory the price was far too high, if not, then many good legionnaires were dead for nothing. He did not know which was worse.

The Pyramid of the Masters was at the end of the street, a great Harpy of bronze stood atop it, clutching a thunderbolt in each claw and crying to the sky. It was the centre of the city, and by the time he was done, it would be torn down, the stone would be used as cairns for the fallen, better men than those inhabiting it. The guards outside were equipped in the same manner as the legions, but they did not know battlefields, instead they were to guard the city and the city alone, trained and sworn to do only that. There were dozens of them outside the main entrance to the pyramid, clutching spears and cudgels and making sure no one entered who was uninvited. As he approached himself, five of them immediately moved over, blocking his path.

"What do you want?" One of them asked, an officer, based on the two spikes on his helmet.

Marghaz held out his right hand, his legate's ring on his middle finger. Most legates had their ring on their left hands, but Marghaz didn't have a left hand, so he used his right. "I have been summoned," he said calmly.

The guard examined the ring and then held out his hand. "Your weapons, we cannot let you before the masters, not armed as you are."

Marghaz handed over his falcata and his small curved dagger with great discontent, an unarmed man was so much easier to murder, but he had no choice. If he did not answer their summons they would declare him a traitor and hang him.

The guards stood aside and allowed Marghaz to pass.

The inside of the Pyramid was a welcome relief from the outside heat: The place was well ventilated and there were fountains shaped like harpies at most corners filling pools with clear water. Marghaz had seen them enough with his father, so he moved past them to the chamberlain, who would tell him where he was to go in the pyramid. "Marghaz mo Teldak," he said to the man simply.

The man nodded. "Down that corridor," he said, pointing to the left, "the door at the end." The Chamberlains would be picked from slaves with the best memories, they would be prided on their ability to memorise a day's events.

Marghaz made his way down the corridor, past tapestries of past glories and triumphs, and statues of old set back in alcoves, to the hard wooden door at the end. The guard outside opened the door and he stepped through.

It was a small chamber, a stone desk sat atop a raised dais, three Masters sat at it, their hair twirled into elaborate shapes like wings and tails, their clothes heavy and rich. Masters were nothing if not extravagant. "Legate Marghaz," the one in the middle greeted, who had a whole harpy made out of his red-brown hair atop his head. It looked utterly ridiculous, as they all did.

"We promised that you would be given your own command," he explained softly. "We said, following the Meereen campaign, that you would be sent to Sothoryos, to reinforce our men in the colonies."

Marghaz nodded, they had said that, but first he had returned to New Ghis, giving his legionnaires time with their families, and time to re-equip and re-supply. "Your men are prepared."

"As ever," Marghaz said back to them. "To defend the glory of Ghis."

The Masters nodded. "Then you shall sail in three days, make for the port of Ghaereen, the Consul there shall be in command, you shall obey him. Your… tutelage under Legate Djoran-" Marghaz felt his fist tighten again and his lip curl into a snarl. "May have given you predispositions towards higher command, you will have them only when you have earned them, as he did."

"As it should be," Marghaz interrupted, there was little his mentor hated more than promotion through connections.

The Masters did not like being interrupted, but did not react harshly. "Quite," the one on the left said. "But unlike him, you will not overstep your place." It was not a question, so Marghaz did not reply. "Enjoy civilisation whilst you still have it," the Master continued. "Tomorrow you travel to Ghaen to collect your legionnaires, then you sail for Sothoryos."

Marghaz nodded and bowed his head. Then, when they waved their hands in dismissal, he turned and left.

After collecting his weapons from the guards outside, he made his way into the city itself. He may not like it, but battle alone would not defeat the masters, politicking was involved, and not all of that happened in the pyramids.

He made his way past stalls, taverns and brothels, including the infamous Hall of the Hundred Daughters, the brothel of the man who had filled it with his slave-born daughters, though that practice was finished. Finally he made it to his destination, the bathhouse. Djoran had often told him that the Masters would politick in their pyramids, the commoners would do so in the brothels and the soldiers would do so in the bathhouse.

The slave girls who worked the bath house in the name of their masters were all smiles and breasts. Unlike the dung-gatherers and worse, these slaves had a relatively easy lot in life. They had the best clothes, for no one would enter a bathhouse with slaves who looked no better that street rats; they were fed well and had trained hands and cunts, which they only had to use on occasion. He made his way over to the dressing rooms, removing his cloak, clothes and weapons and passing them over to the slaves who managed the dressing rooms. However, he kept his Legate ring and steel hand with him, for he could not be sure that they would not be taken. In return, they passed him a soft silk robe and directed him to the hot baths.

He entered the room to find, as expected, the officers of his legion, Serjeants, Centurions and Tribunes, were all lounging in the steaming water. "Legate!" One of them called out, waving in greeting. He held up his steel hand back as he used his right hand to untie the robe and let it fall to the ground, where it was gathered up by an obedient slave girl. "You have come."

Marghaz nodded as he stepped into the water, allowing the heat to wash over him. "Of course," he replied simply, giving a slight smile. He knew half of these men hated his half-blood, they considered his skin too pale and his eyes too bright, but the fresh memory of their slain hero gave them all something to be united in. "I was just with the Masters, I need to wash off the stench?"

Yezzan, the best swordsman in the legion and Djoran's preferred training companion, barked out a laugh. He was always the most jovial of the legion's officers. "Well said, Legate."

"Do we have our orders?" Khazar asked. Khazar was slighter of build than most, with a shaven head and hawkish eyes. He was ever dour and to the point, Marghaz often wondered why he came to the bathhouses anyway, they were supposedly a place of enjoyment.

Marghaz nodded. "We are to gather the legion tomorrow, we are being sent to Sothoryos."

"Sothoryos," Yezzan nodded, his mood darkened. "Hell on earth, the city was foolish to go there."

It was a mood that was echoed by the others. Marghaz, his body having mostly adjusted to the high temperature, unclasped his steel hand and called over one of the slave girls. "Put this with my robe," he said and she took it with a smile. He got the usual sense when he took of his hand, a brief feeling like a shadow of flesh on the end of his ruined stump of flesh. Slowly he lowered the stump into the hot water and winced at the initial pain, as always, but grew used to it swiftly. "Bring in the wine and apricots!" He called out and his officers let out a cheer. This was of the reasons the legions liked this bathhouse, they provided refreshment as standard. A trail of slaves brought in food and drink on silver platters and Marghaz seized a silver chalice of deep wine as it passed. He sipped on the heavy liquid, letting it slide down his throat, nourishing his tongue.

Putting the chalice on the side of the bath, he took a breath and dunked his head under the hot water, letting it wash over his hair. He rose again and wiped the water from his eyes, hearing a squeal and a splash as he did so. He blinked his eyes open and saw that one of his officers had seized a slave girl and pulled them into the water, her pale dress becoming see through in the water. She bobbed in the water and smiled at the men. Marghaz smirked as more of his officers seized the slave girls and pulled them into the water, bringing them close to their bodies and kissing them as the bath dissolved into a swirling mass of lusty soldiers and sultry slave women. Marghaz chuckled and felt a stirring inside him, it would not be the first time that this happened, though it was his first time as Legate. Djoran had always excused himself and made his way to the cold bath when the orgies began, but he was not Djoran, he was not that great, so he seized the nearest slave girl and had his way with her in the steaming water, in a room filled with moans and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

One by one, as his men found their pleasures in the slaves, they left the steaming hot baths and headed for the massage rooms. Marghaz made sure that he was with Yezzan and that they were serviced together, for they had matters to discuss in private. There were two slave girls here as well, ready to serve the two men who would be in the room at once. But, before Marghaz once more passed over his robe and steel hand, he seized their jaws and opened their mouths, and smiled, they had had their tongues removed to keep their silence, that they would not share secrets spoken in the massage parlour.

So he let them disrobe him and then he lay down on the table, Yezzan taking the one next to him. As the slaves and their soft hands got to work, Marghaz and Yezzan began to confer. "The Tribunes are displeased with the wait," Yezzan confided in him. "They wish to avenge Djoran as soon as possible."

Marghaz gritted his teeth. "I am with them," he replied. "I wish to have each of the masters strung up on crosses and left to die, I wish to turn Ghis into the vision our leader had, but I can't. The Masters are too careful." It was true, there were no legions on the same island as the city, they could only come for triumphs after successful campaigns, other than that they were on the island of Ghaen, north of New Ghis, and the Ghiscari Navy ruled the crossing. "I have one legion loyal to me, with one legion I cannot hope to overcome the others, who will no doubt turn on us to gain glory and wealth, we need more supporters, for that, I need a reputation, and one is to be built in Sothoryos."

"I am aware," Yezzan replied earnestly, grunting as one of the slaves eased the stress out of his muscles. "But the longer you wait, the less chance you have of gaining the loyalty of others. It is easier to gain loyalty to the recently slain, not rotten flesh, even less for bones alone."

"Sothoryos is my one chance," Marghaz confirmed. "Not so hard," he added, as the slave girl pressed a little too hard on his shoulder. "If I fail there, then I will have failed Djoran forever."

"Then you had best not fail," Yezzan said to him.

"I will not," Marghaz replied simply.

Yezzan nodded. "Good, he deserves vengeance, and you are his chosen successor, it would be unbecoming if anyone else did so."

Marghaz was about to reply, but felt a tap on the head and so pushed his head into the hole in the table so the massage slave could work on the back of the head. They didn"t speak whilst the slaves worked on them in this way, waiting until they could look at each other once more. When they were able to, they felt the thin metal blades trace over their skin, scraping off beaded sweat and any left over muck from the bathhouses.

"You know, of course, that the Governor of Sothoryos will be ordered to try and hinder your advancement. The Masters recognise your potential as Djoran"s successor and will do everything that could be done to hold you." Yezzan was voicing concerns that Marghaz had been fostering ever since he had been told that he would be going to Sothoryos.

"I know," Marghaz replied.

Yezzan pressed onwards. "You need to push further than what they will offer you. You need to make sure that you make a substantial impact, one that will be felt across New Ghis, you will have to bring back slaves by the hundred and victories by the dozen. You will have to bring back gold and glory and husbands and sons, for the people will not look well upon a Legate who loses his legion."

"If the legion dies, then I die," Marghaz said. "But neither of us will, I will bring us victory and glory in Sothoryos, the city, the legions and the people will recognise me as the legitimate successor to Djoran zo Marok, and then, when I have gathered the required support, I will crush the Masters and usher in the new age for Ghis."

Yezzan looked at him quizzically, then nodded. "You have the conviction," he commented. "That is for sure."

Marghaz was about to respond but then felt a tap on his shoulder, the massage was done, there was only one room left, the cold baths. They got up, retrieved their robes and Marghaz's hand and moved for the cold baths for one last soak before they returned to the city itself.

When they both slid into the cool and refreshing water, Yezzan continued his bombardment of questions. "Do you know why we are going to Sothoryos?"

"The brindled men are acting up, as usual," Marghaz replied. "They are attacking the colonies in force. We are to stop them."

"Brindled men make good fighting slaves," Yezzan commented.

Marghaz nodded. "Indeed," he replied. "Bringing back a few thousand brindled men slaves to fight in the pits for the entertainment of all should endear the people to me."

"Certainly it will at least keep you safe, for a while, the Masters would not dare strike at you immediately."

"With luck," Marghaz replied, "it should give me the time I need to unseat them." He plunged his head underwater and swam two lengths of the pool. Ever since he had lost his hand, swimming had become harder for him, but that was why he did it, the challenge, it was rewarding when he finished.

"With luck, though it is a mistake to rely only on luck."

Marghaz nodded and quoted his mentor. "It is a mistake to rely only on fortune, she is a devious whore and is not to be trusted."

"Just so," Yezzan replied. Yezzan took a turn at swimming and, as he did so, Marghaz rested his head on the side. When he returned, Yezzan asked, "how are his family?"

Marghaz had been close to Djoran's family for a while, closer than any other officer in the legion. "Well enough," he replied simply. "Djoran's wife and he were never close, but they are all devastated. "Grazdan wants to come with me, to learn as I did."

Yezzan smiled. "The boy always was wilful, what did you say?"

"That he was too young," Marghaz replied, "and that it would be improper for him to go to war so swiftly, he should mourn his father's death first." Marghaz sighed. "It was only a half truth," he confided in Yezzan. "If I were to take his son under my wing, it might tip my hand to the Masters early, if I refuse, it looks like I am trying to fill his shoes, not avenge him."

"I hope they buy the ruse," Yezzan commented. Marghaz nodded and, after one last dunk, he pulled himself out of the water.

He held out his hand and beckoned, a brown haired slave girl rushing over with a towel and rubbing him down, removing the excess water before turning and retrieving his robe and hand. As she pulled on his robe she squeezed his stump roughly, sending a shot of pain up Marghaz's arm. He smacked her across the face. "Careful, slave!" He snarled and she meekly retreated. He took the steel hand from her and strapped it to his arm himself.

Yezzan joined him soon after. "Where are you going now?" He asked.

"I'll find a ship across the straights," Marghaz said simply. "I want to be with my legion tonight, not this city. Besides," he added. "I need to make sure the legionnaires know we are leaving tomorrow."

Yezzan nodded. "Understandable, I'll bring the officers as well, just let them finish off first."

Marghaz agreed with him, it would not do well to interrupt their orgy, not if he wanted them on his side. "Bring them soon though," he said. "We set sail as soon as possible."

He left Yezzan to be properly pampered by the slaves and retrieved his clothes from the dressing room and left the bathouse, clean and refreshed, to make his way down to the port and find a ferry across the straights to the legion camps on Ghaen.

The port was not large, and was divided into two, making it seem even smaller. Half was donated to the Ghiscari Fleet and transports, and the other half was for traders and ships from afar. It was a hustling mass of different tongues and garbs, with the nearest buildings being inns, taverns and brothels to cater to the sailors. Marghaz wouldn't touch any of those whores with a spear, who knew what these unwashed foreigners brought with them and gave to the whores, who were often cheap so that even the lowliest deckhands could afford them.

A small stockade separated the two harbours, guarded by the same men as guarded the Pyramid of the Masters, who were supposed to not let any but a legionnaire through, but Marghaz suspected that all you needed was a little coin and they would look the other way. He showed his ring to the guard on the gate, and the large guard who stood before it lifted the bar and opened the door to him.

The other side was significantly calmer, legionnaires were more ordered than most, after all. Men were loading boxes onto boats and ships or discussing their latest deployments. Some were testing their swords or spears in the air, or were at the archery buts to one side, but there was no swirling mass of colours, all wore the dull grey armour of the legions. Marghaz ignored them all, making his way to the dockmaster. He showed his ring. "I need to get to Ghaen." The man gave him a red smile, like a man who chewed on sourleaf. Sure enough, he put some more of it in his mouth and then jerked his head in the direction of a soon to be departing galley not far away. Marghaz nodded and made his way to the ship.

Though many were making their way to Ghaen, as a Legate, and the only one on the ship, Marghaz got a priority place on the castle at the front of the ship. He leant on the railing and lost himself in thoughts of revenge, smiling at the image of the crucified masters lining the streets of New Ghis.

Soon, he thought. Soon I will make it a reality.