~~~~~~~~~~~
Essos, Braavos
Palace of the Sealord
9th Moon of 58 AC
~~~~~~~~~~~
The thick, salty fog of the early morning covered the lagoon of Braavos like a heavy, icy cloak, drowning out the usual sounds of night trade and muffling the light waves striking against the dark stone pillars of the palace. The smell of the Narrow Sea blended with the damp smoke from nearby potteries and the rancid trace of burned oil from the lanterns illuminating the interconnected canals. From the pointed arch window of the main balcony of his private chambers, the Sealord watched the landing dock, where the wrought-iron lanterns swayed their yellowish lights over the stagnant waters.
Behind him, the room remained in heavy gloom. Along the polished granite walls, the officers of his personal guard stood motionless, clad in their blued steel cuirasses with fine rapiers at their belts. Their necks were stiff and their hands gripped the hilts of their weapons with involuntary strength, betraying a repressed tension that no military discipline could entirely conceal.
A rhythmic, deep, and forcefully measured clatter of iron hooves echoed over the flagstones of the great access bridge connecting the dock to the palace's lower gardens. It was not the slow, clumsy gait of pack mules, nor the tired cadence of urban draft horses pulling merchant barges. It was a compact, powerful, proud, and perfectly synchronized gallop.
From within the thick mantle of salty mist, seven riders emerged with the deliberate grace of ancient shadows.
The Sealord took a step toward the marble ledge of the terrace, pressing his fingers onto the cold stone until his knuckles went numb. For moons, the letters from his envoys and the reports brought by merchants from the south had painted legendary portraits of Xandar's forces, but beholding those men advancing through the streets of Braavos produced a visceral shudder.
Those men did not ride with the rigid, inflexible posture of Westeros's heavy knights, bound to high wooden saddles and massive shields, nor did they possess the disorderly looseness of the Dothraki barbarians everyone was accustomed to. They moved in perfect communion with their mounts, adapting to every turn and every stride of the stallion as though man and beast shared a single mind. It was the ancestral, wild bearing of the Dothraki riders, stripped of crude savagery and refined under the mold of a structured, implacable order.
But what truly dried the saliva in the Sealord's mouth was the striking, ceremonial architecture of their armor.
Those warriors did not wear the raw hides or light tunics of the Vaes Dothrak savages. The seven bloodriders wore immaculate, imposing armor of dark steel, engraved with ancient inscriptions and runic glyphs carefully carved along every plate. Dense chainmail covered their necks and shoulders, topped by a gorget and overlapping pauldrons of orthogonal design. The breastplate, formed by angular plates carved with mysterious characters, descended over a ceremonial skirt of divided metal plates and a heavy cloth central drape completely covered in inscriptions in an unknown language.
The cuisses, greaves, and sabatons fitted their legs like a second skin of carved steel. Yet most terrifying of all were their helmets: metal, impassive masks—faces carved in iron with pronounced cheekbones, beards sculpted into the metal itself, and narrow eye slits that projected an empty, superhuman, and terrifying gaze.
They were the very incarnation of battlefield devastation, the atavistic ferocity of the Great Grass Sea encapsulated within the indivisible armor of conquerors.
(Image)
The seven riders reined in their war stallions just a few yards from the entrance steps. None made the slightest move to draw their curved arakhs, nor did they utter a sound. They remained motionless atop their beasts, flanking the entrance like statues of sacred iron, breathing in the icy breeze and guarding the perimeter as they awaited their king.
The Sealord turned and walked back into the palace interior, feeling the air inside his own domain grow increasingly scarce. The next two hours became a slow, stifling ordeal, measured by the monotonous dripping of water clocks and the terrified whispers of the Iron Bank magisters, who crowded the side galleries discussing the impact of this visit in hushed tones.
Then, the sky above the lagoon seemed to split open.
A colossal, deep, gutural roar echoed against the stone walls of Braavos. It was not the distant thunder of a winter storm; it was a bellow imbued with pure destructive power that shook the palace foundations, cracked several glass panes in the high towers, and unleashed a wave of terrified screams along the canal.
The Sealord crossed the hall with swift steps and returned to the terrace.
Cutting through the low cloud line under the morning light, two monumental silhouettes descended toward the lagoon's surface. The first was an overwhelming mass that defied any known sense of scale. Balerion, the Black Dread. His size was plain and simple a monstrosity; his giant wings, with dark, leathery membranes, completely blocked out the sky, casting a shroud of absolute night over the mountain peaks and the rooftops of the city. His scales bore the shade of coarse, textured charcoal, so dense it seemed to swallow the reflections of the urban lanterns, featuring a long row of sharp spines running down his ridge and whip-like tail.
(Image)
Every beat of air driven by his wings raised foaming waves in the canal, causing moorings to strain and the masts of ships anchored in the harbor to groan. The stench of sulfur, ash, and burned flesh emanating from the beast was so overpowering that several palace guards fell to their knees on the flagstones, dropping their weapons to cover their faces while stammering prayers to the Gods of the Night. Standing atop the saddle fastened to the black beast's back, Princess Aerea held the steering chains with cold composure, governing the titan as if he were an extension of her own will.
Yet if Balerion inspired a primal dread through his massive scale, the creature flying alongside him aroused an even more unsettling fascination due to her exotic anatomy.
Endaxia descended, skimming the line of moored vessels. Caspian's dragon did not share the build or lines of the Targaryen dynasty's specimens. Her anatomy possessed an exotic and formidable configuration: a dragon with four muscular, robust legs equipped with sharp, powerful claws that allowed her to walk upright on land like a feline predator, independent of her impressive pair of deployable wings in reddish and orange tones.
Her scales displayed a dazzling golden-bronze hue, enriched with turquoise and greenish accents along the crests and spines crowning her neck and her massive, fan-shaped spiked tail. Though her mass did not match the colossal size of the Black Dread, every muscle and every plate on her body projected the precision of a perfectly engineered killing machine—the very beast that had reduced the triple walls and palaces of Qarth to a wasteland of molten stone and smoking ash.
(Image)
Endaxia touched down upon the great cobblestone plaza in front of the palace with a dreadful, feline grace, folding her two massive wings as gusts of hot steam burst from her nostrils with a noisy snort.
From the saddle on the back of the great golden creature, two figures dismounted. Valka wore a dark burgundy velvet outfit, moving with a firm, distinguished step that ignored the stifling heat radiating from the dragon behind her. At her side, Caspian dismounted seconds later.
The Sealord slowly descended the outer staircase to meet the ruler of Xandar. Stopping a few paces away, he extended his arms in the formal greeting of the Free Cities, though internally he had to summon an immense effort of willpower to conceal the bewilderment consuming him.
Caspian was scandalously young.
The reports and spy descriptions spoke of a bloodthirsty conqueror, a ruthless strategist who had subjected Volantis without a single casualty, united the Dothraki clans under a single command, and organized thousands of Unsullied under a new military doctrine. The ruler of Braavos had envisioned a hardened veteran, aged by battle and with a face lined by the exhaustion of power. Yet the king standing before him did not appear to have reached five-and-twenty. His face was smooth with defined features, a serene complexion, and sharp eyes, devoid of the traces of bitterness that usually accompanied men of the throne.
Most baffling of all was his demeanor. Caspian displayed neither the caution of an invader wary of a trap nor the histrionic arrogance of traditional dragonlords. His gait was casual, easy, with his hands resting loosely on his belt of golden links. He exuded an unshakeable tranquility—not to mention that he bore no Valyrian features, possessing instead reddish-orange hair and eyes the color of burning embers rather than lilac or purple.
"Welcome to the halls of Braavos, King Caspian," the Sealord began, bowing his head with the exact degree of respect his office demanded. "It is not often the clouds of our city are crossed by such traveling companions."
Caspian offered a plain, frank smile, a deeply human gesture that softened the heaviness wrapping the plaza.
"The honor of being here is mine, Sealord," Caspian replied, his voice clear, measured, and firm. "I ask you to forgive us if the presence of our mounts has caused a stir at the docks. The time we have is short, and the matters bringing us to your door require that we set aside the drawn-out formalities of the lords of old."
"This is Valka, Queen of Xandar, and my Khaleesi, Aerea Targaryen," Caspian introduced his two companions, a gesture that caused the Sealord's eye to twitch as he realized the polygamy—it seemed that despite lacking Valyrian features, he certainly maintained several customs of that accursed civilization.
"Let us step inside to the main hall," invited the Sealord, gesturing toward the wide entrance of bronze and wood. "There we may discuss the details with the composure these great events demand."
Valka advanced beside Caspian with measured steps, observing the entryway moldings with analytical detachment, while Aerea walked on the other side.
Once inside the grand reception hall, servants approached with pitchers of wine and comfortable chairs for everyone. "I appreciate the gesture," Caspian said, accepting a goblet and raising it to take a small sip before fixing his dark eyes on the Sealord. "Let us speak plainly. Braavos and Xandar have no reason to enter into conflict. The war about to explode in the Seven Kingdoms will shatter the stability of the Narrow Sea. The trade routes crossing the Stepstones will turn into an unsustainable labyrinth of violence, rampant piracy, and astronomical extortions imposed by the Triarchy."
The Sealord held his goblet with intertwined fingers, listening to the proposal without interrupting.
"The Stepstones have always been a nest of corsairs, Your Grace. Nevertheless, maritime transit has never come to a complete halt; despite the tolls that may be levied, Braavos has the power to avoid getting entangled in disputes. As for the other Free Cities, they have no choice but to pay, as there is no other path to the south and east."
"That was true until today," Valka chimed in from a broad velvet armchair near the fireplace, crossing her fingers over her burgundy dress. "Xandar is rewriting the commercial geography of Essos. We are currently executing massive engineering works along the course of the Rhoyne River. The riverbed is being dredged in its shallow stretches, narrow passes are being widened, and elevated bridges are being built to allow the passage of heavy-draft galleys from Braavos and Pentos without disrupting the overland routes connecting our territories."
The Sealord stopped his goblet an inch from his lips. His eyes observed Valka and then settled on Caspian with analytical intensity.
"A deep, conditioned river route from the heart of Essos to the south, open to our vessels?" the ruler asked.
"Precisely," Caspian affirmed in a relaxed tone. "We wish to offer Braavos an alternative route—one that is absolute, secure, and protected by Xandar's military posts and garrisons. Your merchant fleets will be able to cross the continent from north to south under the protection of our steel, bypassing the Stepstones entirely. Not only will it be safer, but far faster. You will have water access to Norvos and Qohor while cutting travel time to the Summer Sea."
The Sealord remained silent for several minutes, calculating the scope of the operation in his mind. The financial advantages for the Iron Bank and the city's merchant consortiums were extraordinary.
"It is a brilliant strategy, King Caspian," the Sealord admitted, setting his goblet on the table. "However, a pact of this magnitude demands firm commitments. We require absolute guarantees that Xandar will not impose abusive river tolls once the southern sea routes are deserted."
"Draft the documents with whatever terms your scribes deem necessary," Caspian answered easily, extending an open hand across the table. "I have not flown to Braavos to choke your merchants with excessive tributes. I have come to bring stability to my realm and to consolidate agreements with rulers who understand the benefit of mutual prosperity."
The Sealord looked at the young monarch's outstretched hand. Accustomed to negotiating with distrustful magisters and old kings obsessed with power, Caspian's candor and unshakeable confidence magnetic. The ruler of Braavos sealed the agreement, shaking the king's hand firmly.
"In that case, Your Grace... let us define the clauses of this treaty before the morning cool vanishes."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Westeros
King's Landing, Red Keep
10th Moon of 58 AC
~~~~~~~~~~~
Three days after the pacts signed in Braavos redefined the economic structure of Essos, the warm air of Blackwater Bay blew over the ramparts of the Red Keep, bringing with it the rancid smell of salt, pitch, and chimney smoke from King's Landing.
In the large workroom of the Tower of the Hand, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen stood beside the long window overlooking the river mouth. At four-and-twenty, the monarch bore upon his shoulders the monumental task of pacifying and rebuilding a realm decimated by the tyranny and civil war brought on by his uncle Maegor's reign. His face, sculpted with the distinguished features of Old Valyrian blood, maintained a relentless seriousness.
Behind him, Septon Barth, his Hand of the King, spread several parchment sheets sealed with red wax from the Narrow Sea ports across the oak table. At one side of the table, Queen Alysanne Targaryen read the Hand's notes with a worried gaze.
"Are you certain of the truth of these dispatches, Barth?" Jaehaerys asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the sails of the ships crossing the bay.
"There can be no mistake, Your Grace," Septon Barth replied, running a hand over the written lines. "Our spies in Braavos and the merchants' informants agree on the same facts. King Caspian of Xandar arrived at the Sealord's palace riding his golden dragon, Endaxia. He was accompanied by Queen Valka and your own niece, Princess Aerea, who rode the Black Dread."
Jaehaerys clenched his fists against the stone window frame. The figure of Aerea remained a constant heartache for the royal dynasty. Her unexpected departure atop Balerion had left a trail of uncertainty at court—a fact that only dealt a deeper blow to his reign upon confirmation of her marriage to the Dothraki barbarian, an emerging monarch in Essos who drastically altered the world's diplomatic balance.
"Aerea..." Alysanne uttered softly, seeking her husband's gaze. "She has not been closer to us since her flight atop Balerion."
"And she does not act like a young girl, my Queen," Barth noted gravely. "The chronicles from the eastern cities place her at the center of his campaigns. She and Queen Rhaella used their beasts to shatter the walls of Meereen a few moons ago. Caspian commands the military force of Balerion, his own dragon, and a permanent professional army that defies any traditional calculation of war."
Jaehaerys walked to the table and reviewed the markings on the maps of the neighboring continent.
"A permanent professional army in Essos... and now a meeting to forge unknown agreements with the Sealord," the king mused. "Whatever they draft or whatever agreements they reach, it will impact King's Landing."
"The geopolitics of the east are changing at a speed we cannot ignore," Barth agreed.
Alysanne took her husband's hand firmly. "Jaehaerys, we cannot remain isolated receiving vague letters. Aerea belongs to our house. Rhaella is of our blood. If this man is building an empire at the doorstep of our realm and commands the support of our own family, we must know what kind of king he truly is."
Jaehaerys observed the map a moment longer before looking at his Hand of the King.
"Barth, how much longer will Caspian remain in Braavos?"
"Reports indicate the King of Xandar will remain there a few more days to finalize treaties with the magisters of Braavos and the keyholders of the Iron Bank," the Septon answered.
The king made an immediate decision. "I will go to Braavos atop Vermithor," Jaehaerys ordered. "Before Caspian and Aerea depart."
Barth raised his eyebrows, surprised by the sudden resolution. "Your Grace? Flying to Braavos without a proper escort could be dangerous, not to mention it would be perceived by the lords of Westeros as a sign of insecurity..."
"I am not going to Braavos to declare a war, Barth," Jaehaerys cut him off firmly. "I am going to see my niece. To meet this Dothraki king. And, above all things... the time has come to look this Caspian in the eye. I want to meet the man who has turned Essos into his playground before he decides to turn his eyes toward our lands."
Alysanne nodded in silence, stepping forward to accompany him. "I will go with you, Jaehaerys. If we are to deal with conquerors and with Balerion, Seven forbid, two dragons are better than one."