Braavos, beneath the morning mist.
On the damp docks of the Ragman's Harbor, a fishmonger had just laid out his first basket of shimmering herring when he heard the sound.
It wasn't the sea breeze; it was the sound of something heavier, hotter, tearing through the air fabric like a dull blade.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
He looked up, the slippery fish sliding from his hand back into the basket.
"Gods!"
"Dragons!"
The larger one resembled a flying chunk of volcanic rock, its lean body covered in scales the color of blood, its wingspan obscuring half the pale morning sky.
The Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.
The smaller one was more magnificent, a creature of milky gold.
Syrax.
They flew over the heads of the five-hundred-meter-tall Titan of Braavos, the resulting gale causing the fishing nets drying on the dock to rustle violently.
On the docks, the crowd began to stir.
An old woman led the prayer; the people of Braavos believed in many gods, from the Moonsingers to the Father of Waters.
At this moment, she prayed to every deity she knew. The sailors stopped mending their sails, squinting against the wind.
Several curious yet terrified faces peered out of the brothel windows of the Silky Way. The children wanted to cheer, but their mothers covered their mouths tightly.
"A dragon!" someone shouted.
"Valyrian demons!"
Fear was instinctive here.
Every child in Braavos had heard the bedtime story: long, long ago, their ancestors were enslaved by silver-haired demons riding dragons, mining beneath the Fourteen Flames, howling in blood and fire.
Later, their ancestors escaped, sailing in stolen ships, braving storms and the doom, to this lagoon hidden in the mist.
They swore to each other that there would never be slaves here again.
Now, the dragons had returned.
But Braavos did not panic.
In the fortress at the feet of the bronze Titan, the bronze horn sounded three deep notes.
Oooooo
In the Arsenal, fifty Braavosi warships simultaneously raised their purple sails; these were rapidly deploying galleys, their prows clad in iron, their decks equipped with heavy scorpions.
On the city walls, guards clad in silver-gray scale armor pulled the winches, slowly raising the massive scorpion crossbows, their quenched arrowheads pointed towards the sky.
No firing.
The dragons continued their flight, gliding along the straight, wide Long Canal, heading toward the Sealord's Palace in the heart of the city.
The guards waited, fingers on the triggers.
But no one gave the order.
"The Sealord has given the order," an officer said to the nervous young soldier beside him.
"Let them in."
"But sir, those are dragons!"
The officer slammed his visor down.
"They are distinguished guests of the Sealord's Hall!"
-------
The Sealord's Palace, The Tide Chamber.
Four high-backed chairs surrounded a long ebony table, occupied by four expressionless men and women.
They wore dark clothes and simple jewelry, but their fingers were clean, their nails neatly trimmed, hands for counting money, not for wielding swords.
Seated at the head of the table was the Sealord of Braavos, Ferrego Antaryon.
He was fifty years old, with gray hair and unfathomable green eyes.
At this moment, he was peeling an apple with a small silver knife, the peel forming a long, unbroken strip.
Ferrego listened to the representatives of the Iron Bank without interrupting.
In Braavos, the Sealord commanded the swords.
The Iron Bank commanded the people.
"Two million," spoke a bald man named Tormo, who managed trade documents for the Iron Bank.
"They want two million Gold Dragons."
"What will they pay with?" asked a thin woman.
Her name was Lyra, and her job was for the Iron Bank to assess risk and put a price on everything: futures, harvests, and crowns.
"The Iron Throne," the portly Grover chuckled, the jeweled ring on his finger gleaming in the sunlight.
"If they can sit on it."
"And if they can't?"
"That's even more interesting," said an old man with a stern face, named Bracco.
The Sealord finished peeling the apple and stuck the knife into the table.
Thunk.
The tip of the knife trembled slightly.
"What about the dragon eggs?" the bald Tormo asked tentatively.
"If they want money, they need some real collateral; live dragon eggs are the most tangible assets."
"That Prince Daemon will stick Dark Sister in your eye," the Sealord said calmly.
"Daemon Targaryen... you should know his temper."
"Too bad."
"No, not at all," Lyra pushed up her Myrish lenses.
"What we want isn't dragon eggs. It's war."
"Westeros has been peaceful for too long; the gold of the Seven Kingdoms is rusting in the castle cellars."
"Let them fight, and the gold will flow. It will buy weapons, food, and lives."
"The gold flows, and we take a cut."
"Once they've fought enough, whoever wins... they'll owe us a debt."
"And then?"
"And then?" Lyra smiled, a cold expression devoid of warmth.
"Then we'll have collateral for an entire continent."
Heavy, echoing footsteps sounded outside the hall. The Sealord glanced at the Iron Bank representatives.
"Remember."
"Smile. Be polite."
"But every penny of interest must be calculated. Braavos does not do business at a loss."
The door opened.
As Daemon Targaryen entered, the candlelight in the hall seemed to dim for a moment.
He wore dark red and black light armor, a black and gold cloak, and the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister, which was adorned at his waist.
Rhaenyra Targaryen walked beside him.
She wore a deep blue dress, her long hair tied back with a silver crown.
Her face was somewhat pale, a result of the long flight across the Narrow Sea.
But her purple eyes met everyone's gaze directly, without averting any eye contact.
"My Lords," Daemon began, his voice clear.
"Thank you for the hospitality."
"Welcome, Your Highnesses," The Sealord rose, spreading his arms, his smile perfectly measured.
"Braavos always welcomes friends. Please be seated."
A perfunctory exchange of pleasantries was necessary.
The Sealord smiled and inquired about the journey and the dragons.
Currently, the two colossal dragons, Syrax and Caraxes, stood in the plaza of the Sealord's Palace, observed from afar by guards with a mixture of awe and vigilance.
Prince Daemon smiled and praised Braavos's defenses, saying the Titan lived up to its reputation.
"How does it compare to the dragons of Valyria?" Lyra suddenly asked.
A moment of silence filled the hall.
Daemon turned to look at her, something dangerous flashing in his purple eyes.
"The Titan is magnificent," he said softly.
"But giants are stone. Dragons are alive."
"So, more dangerous," Lyra said, unmoved.
"For enemies, yes."
The conversation took on a tense tone. The Sealord coughed lightly, steering the conversation back on track.
"I heard you've run into some trouble?"
"As friends, what can we do for you?"
Daemon leaned forward, his fingers tapping heavily on the ebony table.
"We need gold."
"How much?"
"Two million Gold Dragons."
Gasp
A sound escaped someone's lips. Grover's fat fingers tapped the table nervously.
"Two million? Your Highness, do you know how much that is? Enough to buy a quarter of Braavos' fleet!"
"I know," Daemon said calmly.
"And I know how much it will take to win."
"Equipping soldiers, hiring mercenaries, building warships, stockpiling provisions. This is just the beginning."
Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly. He thought of King's Landing. He thought of Aemond.
The boy had changed the game.
The reports Daemon had received from his spies in the capital about the "Royal Army," salary increases, and the restructuring of the economy smelled different.
It didn't feel like the clumsy maneuvering of Otto Hightower.
It felt... engineered. Efficient. Almost alien in its precision.
Aemond was treating war not as a tourney but as an industry.
If the Greens were playing with a new set of rules, creating a machine of war funded by state-controlled capital, then the Blacks needed an infusion of raw power to break that machine.
He needed the one thing Aemond seemed to understand better than anyone: Capital.
"What if we can't win?" Lyra asked, breaking Daemon's train of thought.
"We will win."
"Why?"
"Because she is the rightful Queen," Daemon pointed to Rhaenyra.
"Because we have dragons, a fleet, and the support of lords among the Seven Kingdoms who still have a conscience and a sense of honor."
"And also because," he paused, his gaze cold and absolute.
"Because kinslayers can never sit on the Iron Throne."
-----
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