~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Essos, Braavos
Palace of the Sealord
9th Moon of 58 AC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air of Braavos smelled of salt, the damp smoke of potteries, and the oyster stew simmering in the floating taverns of the Long Canal. From the pointed arch windows of his private palace, the Sealord watched the masts of hundreds of ships swaying in the night breeze.
That view usually brought him peace. Braavos was the bastard daughter of Valyria that had risen from the mud and darkness to become the sovereign of northern trade. Its merchants bought kings, its banks financed wars, and the stone Titan at the harbor's entrance proclaimed to the world that no tyrant upon a dragon would ever chain its people again.
Yet tonight, the quiet waters of the lagoon offered him no relief whatsoever.
On the black oak desk resting behind him, dozens of reports sealed with wax of every color lay piled high. Letters from terrified magisters, dispatches from the Iron Bank, reports from spies sent along the winding course of the Rhoyne River. All of them said the exact same thing, painting with dark ink the silhouette of a threat Essos had not seen since the glory days of Old Valyria.
Xandar.
The Sealord let out a heavy sigh and walked slowly back to his carved leather chair. He took a glass of Dornish wine, but barely touched the crystal to his lips before setting it back on the table. His mind could not pull away from the terrifying phenomenon that this emerging kingdom had become.
The Free Cities were old, opulent, and, above all, routine. Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Braavos itself... all operated under the same mercantile logic. In times of peace, the cities maintained small urban guards, short-term hired mercenaries to watch the warehouses, and merchant fleets crewed by salaried sailors. When war knocked at the door, the magisters opened the vaults, paid fortunes to free companies, or gathered hasty levies of peasants and craftsmen. Once the conflict ended, the gold stopped flowing, the mercenary companies left to seek another master, and the peasant soldiers returned to their plows, leaving the steel of their swords to grow cold and rust in the armories.
But Xandar did not play by those rules.
Xandar maintained a standing army. A colossal, hungry army that never rested. There were no planting seasons to halt its maneuvers, nor trade treaties to demobilize its men. Caspian's forces never grew cold; they were hot, trained daily under a barbaric discipline anointed in their veins through centuries of blood and death, eager for blood and flesh before routine could dull their edge.
"It is an economic aberration... or proof of bottomless wealth," the Sealord muttered to himself, running a wrinkled hand over his forehead.
How in the seven hells did they sustain such a monster? His spies had confirmed the impossible: Xandar not only fed thousands of professional soldiers day after day, but also maintained control and sustenance over all the Dothraki riders of Vaes Dothrak. Hundreds of thousands of horsemen who once terrorized Essos now served the empire of Old Volantis. The wild horse-lords no longer rode to raid and burn without purpose; they answered to a structured government, wore well-forged steel, and ate at the expense of King Caspian's vaults.
And then there were the Unsullied.
The Sealord recalled the report from Astapor with an involuntary shudder. When the Khal's Minister arrived at the Red City, no one expected things to end in such a manner. And how did it happen? All the Unsullied were bought at exorbitant prices, and as if that were not enough, the Red City swore fealty to the Khal. What was truly baffling was not that the Unsullied served him with a near-blind devotion—after all, he had freed them from tyranny—but what Xandar was doing with them now.
The spies brought unbelievable tales. The city of Xandar continued to train Unsullied in its barracks, but it had eliminated the traditional barbarity of Astapor. They were no longer forced to kill newborn puppies, nor to mutilate newborn infants to prove they felt no mercy. The Xandarian process utilized less cruel methods, nurturing devotion and pride instead of absolute emptiness of the soul. But make no mistake: those new Unsullied were not a single bit less lethal. They possessed the same unshakeable discipline, but driven by a conscious will and a fierce loyalty toward the crown. A soldier who fights because he believes in his king is a thousand times more dangerous than an automaton who only obeys because he knows nothing else.
And as if the muscle, discipline, and gold were not enough to deprive any sane ruler of sleep... there were the monsters of the clouds.
Braavos had been founded upon absolute hatred for the Dragonlords. Its ancestors had fled the Valyrian Freehold never to see giant shadows projected across the land again. Yet, destiny seemed to mock them.
Xandar not only possessed dragons, but its sovereigns had demonstrated a terrifying lack of scruples when it came to deploying them. They were not ornamental creatures meant to intimidate in diplomatic parades; they were weapons of mass extermination used without hesitation at the slightest hint of provocation.
The Sealord remembered the fate of Meereen. The Aerial Khaleesi had descended upon the walls of the great city of Slaver's Bay riding Balerion, the Black Dread, the most fearsome beast to have flown the skies since the Doom. And she had not been alone. At her side had been Queen Rhaella, riding her own dragon, unleashing a storm of infernal fire that reduced the pyramids and defenses of the Meereenese masters to ashes in a matter of hours.
And that was without mentioning Qarth.
The Queen of Cities, the great jewel of the east with its three concentric walls and its merchant princes who believed themselves untouchable behind leagues of desert and impregnable ramparts. Caspian had flown there upon his infernal dragon and erased the city from the map. The destruction of Qarth had been so absolute, so devoid of mercy, that eastern trade still trembled at the memory of the smoking ruins of what was once the richest port in Essos.
The Sealord leaned his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands. How did one negotiate with people like that? How could Braavos maintain its posture of superiority when on the other side of the sea stood a king capable of burning an entire city out of mere vengeance?
A series of soft, hasty knocks on the oak door of his chambers interrupted his dark thoughts.
"Come in," said the Sealord, composing his posture and adopting the stone-faced expression his office demanded.
A servant dressed in the blue and silver livery of the palace entered quickly, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the carpet.
"Your Excellency... forgive the intrusion at this hour of the night," said the servant, his voice trembling and a trace of sweat upon his forehead.
"Speak at once, Taelon. What is it?"
"An emissary has just landed at the palace's private dock. He claims to come in direct representation of the Crown of Xandar and demands an immediate audience with you."
The Sealord tensed in his chair. An emissary in the middle of the night?
"Did he come alone? How many ships accompany him?"
"No fleet, my Lord. He arrived on a light galley, but the man is... someone of great importance, judging by his bearing. He claims to bring an urgent message that cannot wait until dawn."
The Sealord remained silent for a second, weighing his options. Denying an audience to an envoy of Xandar was a stupidity he could not afford.
"Show him in. And tell the personal guard to stay alert, but without drawing their steel. I do not want it to look as though we are afraid."
The servant bowed again and left hastily. A few minutes later, the heavy double doors swung wide open.
The man who entered the hall did not resemble the rough Dothraki captains nor the austere Unsullied officers the Sealord envisioned when thinking of Xandar. He was a relatively young man with refined features, pale skin, and meticulously combed silver-gold hair revealing indisputable Valyrian ancestry, likely hailing from the opulent island of Lys.
He was dressed with astonishing neatness. He wore a black silk tunic reinforced with intricate silver-thread embroidery. Over his shoulders hung a short burgundy velvet cloak, fastened by a solid gold brooch. From his waist hung a wide belt made of carved gold links, from which hung no sword, but rather a royal seal. Several pendants of golden filigree and dark gems rested upon his chest, gleaming under the lantern light.
The emissary walked with natural grace, showing not the slightest hint of shyness or excessive reverence. He stopped a few paces from the Sealord's desk and gave an elegant, measured bow—just enough for a ruler of his status.
"Sealord of Braavos," the emissary began, with a soft, melodic, polished voice suitable for the most demanding diplomatic halls of Essos. "I beg you forgive me for interrupting your rest at these unseemly hours, but the matters that bring me are not governed by the position of the sun."
"The men of Xandar seem to have a habit of not sleeping, if rumors are to be believed," responded the Sealord, keeping his voice firm and crossing his fingers over the table. "You speak the Common Tongue very well, Sir..."
"Lysandro, at your service. Spokesman for the Foreign Chancellery of King Caspian," the man introduced himself, a faint smile forming on his well-delineated lips. "And you are correct in your assessment, Sealord. My lord the King does not sleep either when the fate of Essos is being decided."
"And what fate is that, Lysandro? Why does the crown of Xandar send a diplomat to land at my palace in the dead of night?"
The emissary took a step forward, sliding his hands behind his back. The gleam of gold on his belt caught the Braavosi ruler's eye for a brief moment.
"I have come to announce the arrival of my King, Sealord. I do not bring a letter drafted by scribes, nor a formal petition on parchment. I bring a voice. My king, Caspian, wishes to meet with you in person."
The Sealord raised an eyebrow, concealing his bewilderment.
"Meet with me? Braavos is always open to commercial diplomacy, but if King Caspian desires a formal summit, etiquette requires his emissaries to request a date weeks in advance to prepare the reception of his court..."
"I fear you have misunderstood the nature of this encounter," Lysandro interrupted him, without losing the courtesy in his tone of voice. "King Caspian is not waiting in Xandar for your scribes to set a date for the meeting."
The Sealord sat up straight in his seat, feeling a pang of apprehension run down his spine.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Sealord, that at this very moment, His Majesty is flying above the skies of Essos," Lysandro revealed, looking the ruler straight in the eye with an almost unsettling calm. "He has left behind the domains of Xandar and is advancing in a straight line toward this city. He is a few hours away from Braavos, on the back of Endaxia, his fearsome and colossal dragon."
The mention of the dragon brought a heavy silence to the room. In the shadows along the walls, the Sealord could hear the subtle clink of his guards' steel as they tensed at the impact of the words.
"A dragon over Braavos?" said the Sealord, and for the first time a thread of coldness seeped into his voice. "No dragonlord has set foot in this city since its foundation. The Titan did not rise to receive kings who fly on beasts of fire."
"And he does not come to threaten you, Sealord," Lysandro responded immediately, raising a hand adorned with gold rings to ease the tension. "If King Caspian wanted to reduce Braavos to ashes, he would not have bothered to send me ahead to warn you. The king does not seek a display of force. He seeks a very important meeting. A face-to-face conversation between the two men who truly hold the keys to trade and military power on this side of the world."
The Sealord clenched his fists under the desk. Caspian's audacity was boundless, yet completely calculated. Flying in person to the capital of the Iron Bank was no ordinary act of diplomacy; it was an imposition of presence.
"A very important meeting about what matter, exactly?" the Sealord inquired, trying to guess the intentions of the king of Xandar.
Lysandro smiled subtly, adjusting his silk tunic.
"Upon that meeting, Sealord, depends the development of the great war that is about to strike both Westeros and the Free Cities of the Narrow Sea. My king brings a proposal. A reconfiguration of the continent's trade routes that can fill the vaults of Braavos with more gold than your Iron Bank has ever seen... or, conversely, change the course of history should you choose to turn your back on it."
The ruler of Braavos stared at the Lysene diplomat for a long, agonizing minute. In his mind, thoughts raced frantically: Xandar's formidable fleet, the standing army that never rested, the Unsullied trained in the king's new faith, the Dothraki sharpening their curved arakhs on the steppes, and now, the beating of giant wings approaching from the south.
Braavos was powerful, yes. The Iron Bank could ruin entire kingdoms by withdrawing its credit. But loans did not stop dragonfire, nor did gold pay mercenaries if they knew they would be facing a force that never grew cold.
Finally, the Sealord exhaled slowly and stood up, causing the leather chair to creak against the stone floor.
"If King Caspian comes flying on such a creature, he leaves us very little room to refuse to listen to him, doesn't he?" said the Sealord with a bitter yet resigned grimace.
"The king appreciates wise men who know how to recognize when history knocks at their door," Lysandro replied, offering an impeccable bow.
"I will prepare the upper terrace of the palace," declared the Sealord, walking toward the window and gazing once more at the salty mist of the lagoon. "If the king of Xandar wishes to speak of wars and trade routes, we will hear what he has to say. But that does not mean Braavos kneels before beasts."
"There will be no need for you to do so, Sealord," Lysandro concluded, his gaze bright and calm. "My King has no interest in having grievances with Braavos. He is interested in partners. And I am certain that, before dawn breaks, you and he will have changed the map of Essos forever."