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Essos, Braavos
House of Black and White
10th Moon of 58 AC
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Inside the House of Black and White, a dense, ancient, and icy presence could be felt that seemed to absorb the warmth of living flesh. The air smelled of damp stone, the heavy and sweet smoke of candles, and the bitter scent of the oils used to wash corpses before returning them to final rest.
Caspian walked through the great vaulted hall with a measured pace. His leather boots produced not the slightest echo on the dark stone flagstones, as if the temple itself dampened the footsteps of the living. Flanking the room, statues of ebony wood and white marble represented the countless manifestations of the Many-Faced God: the Pale Horse, the Lion of Night, the Stranger... different faces for the same inevitable truth.
In the center of the hall, beside the circular pool of dark, still water where the desperate came to drink their last draught of peace, waited a man. He wore a robe split vertically down the middle, half of snow-white wool and the other half of cloth as black as a moonless night. His face was extraordinarily ordinary, almost plain—the kind of face a passerby would forget two seconds after crossing paths in the market.
"The King of Xandar in the sanctuary of the dead," the man began, his voice soft, even, and devoid of any dramatic inflection. "A monarch who has sent thousands of souls into the shadows crosses the threshold of the One who receives them all."
Caspian stopped a few paces from the pool, observing the water polished like a mirror. His fiery hair and eyes like burning embers stood out against the monastic sobriety of the temple.
"I have not come to ask for a life, nor to hire the steel of your servants for a king or an annoying magister," Caspian replied, his voice calm yet firm, echoing softly beneath the vault. "I have come to speak of a theft. Of a direct affront to your god."
The priest tilted his head slightly, joining his hands within the wide sleeves of his robe.
"The Many-Faced God suffers no thefts, King Caspian. Everything that breathes belongs to Him, and every debt is paid in due time. Some pay in youth, others in old age; some with steel, others with poison. No one keeps what belongs to death."
"There is someone who does," Caspian said, fixing his gaze on the man's empty eyes. "In the far north of Westeros, beyond the wall of ice that men erected to forget, something has awakened. An ancient being, born of absolute cold and forgotten magic, who not only snatches life away, but denies the gift of rest."
The man remained motionless, but in the gloom of the hall, his eyes seemed to darken a degree further. "You speak of the night that does not end. Of withered flesh rising to its feet once more without a soul."
"I speak of millions of souls trapped in misery and ice," Caspian corrected. "Men, women, and children who died in despair and whose bodies are dragged around like mindless puppets. Your god is the master of all souls that pass on to a better life, but up there, an entire army is denied that passage. They are trapped in a frozen limbo, unable to cross over, unable to find peace."
The man in the black and white robe kept silent for a long stretch. The distant dripping of a leak in the stone was the only sound filling the temple. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer that of an old man, but a raspy tone that seemed to emerge from the very stone that made up the temple.
"The Many-Faced God knows of that aberration. And His anger is as deep as the abyss. He is mercy to the sufferer and justice to the one whose cycle has ended. But that being... that cold that walks... shuts the doors of rest. It traps souls in frozen rot and denies the god what is rightfully His. Those souls are submerged in misery, screaming in the dark, unable to move on."
"Then you understand why I am here," Caspian said, taking a step toward the man. "Destroying that being is not merely a war for the survival of the flesh; it is a task I have set for myself. When the time comes to march into that eternal cold, I will need the House of Black and White to be no indifferent spectator. I will need your help, your shadow, and your network when the Great War begins."
The man looked Caspian in the eyes. For an instant, his face seemed to shift form—a subtle mirage in the gloom that blurred his features before they settled once more.
"When the true night descends and flesh confronts ice," the priest whispered, raising a pale hand over the pool of the dead, "all men must die. It is the law of existence. But those who have already died and walk without a soul... must die twice. The House of Black and White will be there, King of Xandar. For the Many-Faced God always claims what is His, and no one, not even the eternal cold, will steal what belongs to Him."
Caspian inclined his head slightly in respect toward the silent promise. Without uttering another word, he turned and walked toward the exit, leaving behind the shadows of the temple that guarded the sole destiny no king could escape.
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Palace of the Sealord
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While Caspian ventured into the secrets of the House of Black and White, in the high chambers of the royal palace the atmosphere was substantially more grounded, yet no less tense.
The Sealord sat behind a heavy mahogany table, flanked by three of the Iron Bank's chief scribes. His face reflected a mixture of caution and a dull exhaustion. Accustomed to dealing with men of power, bearded magisters, and bankers, the presence of the woman occupying the armchair opposite him made him uncomfortable.
Valka remained upright, her back straight and her hands clasped over the burgundy velvet of her dress. Beside her, a spread packet of paper displayed the preliminary numbers for the new Rhoyne trade route.
"I understand Xandar's position, Your Majesty," the Sealord began, clearing his throat before taking a sip from his glass of water. "However, I must admit that when this working session was requested to refine the river tariffs, I expected to negotiate these figures directly with King Caspian. Matters of this strategic magnitude usually require the signature and judgment of the monarch himself."
Valka offered a subtle smile, cold as the fog drifting through the window, and tilted her head with relentless elegance.
"The king is occupied with matters that ensure your ships have a world left to sail in a thousand years from now, Sealord," Valka replied, her voice slow, melodic, and devastatingly firm. "And I suggest you do not make the mistake of considering this meeting a second-rate conversation. I am no spokesperson taking errands back to her lord's tent. I am the Queen of Xandar. I represent the crown, I represent the steel of our troops, and I represent Caspian's will. Whatever I sign here today carries the exact same weight as if he were sitting in this chair."
The Sealord blinked, surprised by the incisiveness of her response. One of the Iron Bank scribes attempted to intervene, adjusting his hand over his robes.
"My Lady, the proposed rates for escort vessels and war galleys seem disproportionate compared to standard merchant ships. A four percent tariff on the estimated value of the cargo for Braavosi merchant ships might discourage our consortiums from using the river."
Valka fixed her dark eyes on the scribe, who instinctively lowered his gaze to his papers.
"A merchant sending ten ships laden with silk, spices, or fine timber down the Rhoyne is not paying a tax for using the water, Sealord," Valka explained, leaning slightly forward. "He is paying for the guarantee that no band of pirate corsairs, no renegade prince, and no rogue Dothraki clan will touch a single one of his sails. Xandar maintains forts, river patrols, and Unsullied along hundreds of leagues of the river. And should a Braavosi warship enter the Rhoyne, it is no merchant ship; it is a foreign military force in our river veins. The seven percent for warships is not a punishment—it is the cost of maintaining the peace and ensuring your steel does not interfere with ours."
The Sealord observed Valka with renewed attention. Beneath the facade of a refined, luxurious palace woman lay the icy mind of a strategist. Every figure she defended had an impeccable justification; every concession she offered was calculated to bind Braavos's finances to Xandar's prosperity.
The ruler of Braavos leaned back in his armchair, letting out a long sigh of bitter admiration. In barely twenty minutes of negotiation, this woman had dismantled every tariff objection raised by his accountants, protected her empire's revenue, and ensured that the Iron Bank became one of the key financiers of the project.
Now he understood perfectly why Caspian had taken her as his wife and queen. Valka was no ornament nor a trophy won in a campaign; she was perhaps half the mind governing that rising empire.
"You are a formidable negotiator, Queen Valka," the Sealord admitted, a genuine smile of respect forming on his lips. "Have the scribes prepare the final text with the rates you have outlined. If Xandar guarantees the river's security with such ferocity, Braavos will pay the price gladly."
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Moon District, city streets
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Far from the cold negotiation rooms and the sepulchral atmosphere of the House of Black and White, morning in Braavos unfolded with bright, bustling vitality.
Aerea walked along the damp cobblestones of the Moon District, fascinated by the colors and sounds of the Free City. She wore a simple cream-colored fine linen tunic, gathered at the waist by a supple leather belt, and her silver-gold hair fell loose over her shoulders, stirred by the sea breeze. Unlike the suffocating courts of Westeros, where every one of her steps was watched by septons and ladies-in-waiting whispering about her lineage, in Braavos she felt strangely free—in fact, she felt free anywhere that wasn't Westeros.
She made stops at the merchants' stalls lining the canals. She paused to admire oak wood carvings, tasted small almond and honey sweets sold by an old woman on a stone bridge, and laughed at a troupe of puppeteers performing a satirical comedy about the magisters of Pentos.
Her stroll, however, was not entirely solitary.
A few paces behind her, four imposing shadows guarded her every move. Cakoqqo, Qrano, Gezro, and Zirqo—Caspian's bloodriders—advanced through the Braavosi crowd like giant boulders cutting through a stream. They wore their dark armor of carved steel, hands resting loosely on the hilts of their arakhs. Though they uttered no words and kept a respectful distance to let the princess enjoy her walk, their fierce gazes scanned every rooftop, every alley, and every passerby who ventured too close to the Khaleesi. The inhabitants of Braavos, accustomed to dealing with mercenaries from across the world, moved aside hastily at the sight of the Khaleesi's guard.
"Look at that, Qrano," Aerea said, pointing to a stall where a jeweler displayed lagoon glass brooches that shifted colors in the light. "In King's Landing, women pay fortunes for stones half as bright as these."
Qrano, a tall man with a braided beard, looked at the glass with indifference before returning his gaze to the nearby rooftops.
"They are fragile, Khaleesi," the warrior replied in his harsh voice in the Common Tongue. "Glass shatters under the impact of a stone."
Aerea let out a bright, cheerful laugh that made several passersby turn to look.
"Always so poetic, you and Caspian's men," she teased, picking up a small wooden figurine representing the Titan and paying the merchant with a gold coin from her purse.
The princess continued her walk toward the great bridge crossing the Sailors' Canal, enjoying the morning sun that was beginning to dispel the last fogs of the lagoon. She felt alive, safe, and at peace. Caspian's presence, Valka's strength, and the absolute power granted by being the rider of the Black Dread had restored a confidence she thought lost forever.
Suddenly, a distant sound cut through the city air. It was a long, sharp, powerful roar echoing over the waters of the lagoon, causing flocks of seagulls to scatter from the masts in frenOption flight.
Aerea stopped dead on the stone bridge. A warm, spontaneous smile immediately formed on her pink lips. She looked up toward the high clouds with her heart pounding in excitement, thinking that Caspian and Valka had finished their business and that Endaxia was taking flight to join her.
"It seems the dragons grow impatient..." Aerea whispered to herself, expecting to see the massive black shadow of the Black Dread or the golden glints of the great four-legged dragon crossing the Braavosi sky.
However, a second roar echoed through the firmament.
It was not the deep, volcanic bellow of Balerion, nor the bright, metallic snort of Endaxia. This was a different roar: deep, resonant, and familiar—one Aerea had heard hundreds of times during her childhood on Dragonstone and in the courtyards of the Red Keep.
Aerea narrowed her eyes, searching among the clearing clouds. Two silhouettes emerged from the white veil, outlined against the blue morning sky.
The first was a large beast with bronze scales and broad wings that gleamed like polished metal in the sunlight. He moved with an imposing flight, mastering the air currents with regal grace. Vermithor, King Jaehaerys's dragon.
And flying alongside him was a second silhouette—sleeker, of a brilliant silver hue reflecting the light like a mirror in the sky. Silverwing, Queen Alysanne's dragon.
Aerea's smile froze instantly. The warmth drained from her face in a second, replaced by a rigid paleness. Her warm, carefree expression transformed into a cold, serious, impenetrable mask as her deep violet eyes locked onto the two dragons spiraling down toward the Sealord's palace.
Around her, Cakoqqo and the other three Dothraki warriors tensed immediately, stepping forward to encircle the princess. Their hands tightened on the hilts of their arakhs, sensing the drastic shift in their Khaleesi's posture.
"Khaleesi..." Zirqo said quietly, hand on his sword. "Friends?"
Aerea did not avert her eyes from the sky. The two dragons of Westeros's crown had just made their entry into Essos, and the princess knew exactly who rode upon their backs. Jaehaerys and Alysanne had crossed the Narrow Sea.
"They are not friends, Zirqo," Aerea answered, her voice icy, stripped of any trace of the cheerful young woman from moments ago. "It is my family. And I am not happy about it."
Aerea turned around slowly, adjusting her linen tunic as Vermithor's shadow swept over the rooftops of the Moon District, ready to return to the palace and face the ghost from her past she thought she had left behind forever.