Chapter 28: The Serpent's Coil
The incident with the taster had sent ripples of unease throughout the Great Pyramid, ripples that even King Baelon's icy composure could not entirely smooth. Though he projected an aura of unshakeable confidence, a subtle shift had occurred in the atmosphere surrounding him. Guards were more jumpy, their eyes darting into shadows; servants performed their duties with a new, exaggerated care, terrified of making the slightest mistake that might draw suspicion. The very air within the ancient structure seemed heavier, charged with unspoken anxieties. Meereen, the newest jewel in Baelon's Essosi crown, was proving to have a viper hidden within its setting.
Larys Strong, the King's Master of Whisperers, had become a phantom of intensified activity. His network of spies, already formidable, was augmented by newly recruited agents drawn from the ranks of those Meereenites eager to prove their loyalty or terrified enough to betray their own. He ordered nightly, random searches of quarters, instituted stricter protocols for food preparation that involved multiple, independent tasters observed by armed guards, and cross-referenced every piece of information, no matter how trivial, that flowed into his office. Magical scrying was increased, with Royal Academy scholars working in shifts, their faces pale with exhaustion, to detect any unauthorized magical signatures or hidden presences within the Pyramid's sprawling complex. Yet, the 'faceless child' remained stubbornly faceless, a ghost in Baelon's new machine.
Baelon himself found the situation… intriguing, in a detached, predatory way. The Voldemort soul within him, which had faced down prophecies, Ministries of Magic, and the so-called champions of light, viewed this elusive assassin not as a genuine threat to his existence – for what mortal blade or poison could truly fell one who commanded the power he did, shielded by a creature like Umbraxys? – but as an intellectual puzzle, a test of his new empire's vigilance. It was a different sort of challenge than open rebellion or the clash of armies. This required finesse, paranoia honed into a precise instrument, and an understanding of an enemy who embraced anonymity as their greatest weapon.
He recalled past adversaries, those who had relied on subterfuge and stealth. None, however, possessed the almost mythical reputation of the Faceless Men of Braavos. They were artists of death, their services commanding astronomical prices, their successes legendary. To them, assassination was not mere murder; it was a sacrament delivered to the Many-Faced God. This, Baelon mused, added a layer of fanaticism that made them more unpredictable than common cutthroats.
His daily routines continued with meticulous regularity, a deliberate display of normalcy. He oversaw the ongoing destruction of Harpy symbolism throughout Meereen, the systematic erasure of the old gods and masters. The great plazas were being cleared, their bloodstained bricks scrubbed clean, ready to be rededicated to the glory of the Valyrian Protectorate. From the newly established Office of Imperial Works, plans flowed for the grand reconstruction projects: stronger walls, wider avenues, new granaries, and the foundations for the Meereen branch of the Royal Academy, which Baelon envisioned as a center for harnessing Essosi lore for his own purposes. The populace, a mix of newly freed slaves and subjugated Ghiscari, watched these transformations with a cowed obedience, their lives now dictated by the rhythms of Baelon's legions and the pronouncements of his officials. The fear was palpable, but so too, for some, was a nascent sense of order emerging from the bloody chaos of conquest.
The Dance of Shadows
The game of cat and mouse with the unseen assassin escalated, though it was a game played in whispers, fleeting glances, and the unsettling feeling of being watched.
One morning, Baelon entered his private study, a chamber heavily warded and guarded, to find a single, perfect night-blooming moonpetal resting on his obsidian desk. It was a flower that had once grown in the gardens of the Red Keep in King's Landing, a favorite of his long-dead mother, Aemma Arryn. No record existed of such a flower being cultivated in Meereen. Its presence was a silent, chilling message: I can reach you. I know you. The guards stationed outside the door swore on their lives no one had entered. The wards showed no sign of breach.
Baelon picked up the delicate bloom, its pale luminescence almost ethereal in the dim light of the study. He felt no fear, only a cold, sharpening anger. The audacity was breathtaking. He crushed the petal between his fingers, its faint perfume a ghostly reminder of a past he had long since transcended. Umbraxys, ever-present, ever-watchful through their shared senses, communicated a surge of possessive fury, a desire to unleash its shadowy tendrils throughout the Pyramid and rip apart the source of this insolence.
"Patience, Umbraxys," Baelon conveyed, his mental voice a whipcrack. "It wishes to provoke. To make us reveal our methods of detection. It is clever. But cleverness can be a weakness when it breeds overconfidence."
He summoned Larys. The Master of Whisperers arrived, his face even more drawn than usual. Baelon simply gestured to the crushed petal on his desk. Larys's eyes, usually so adept at concealing any emotion, widened almost imperceptibly.
"This… is a profound failure of security, Your Grace," Larys stated, his voice a low rasp. "I will flay every guard, every servant…"
"You will do no such thing, Lord Larys," Baelon interrupted, his tone dangerously soft. "Hysteria is what it wants. You will instead analyze how this was achieved. Consider it a lesson from our elusive guest. A lesson in subtlety." He paused. "I believe it is time we offered a lesson of our own."
That day, a decree was issued for a grand public address by the King in the newly named Plaza of Imperial Justice in three days' time. All citizens of Meereen were 'encouraged' to attend. It would be an opportunity, the decree stated, for the King to outline his vision for the city's future and to announce new benefits for loyal subjects. Security for the event would be, naturally, unprecedented. It was a baited hook, cast into the murky waters of Meereen.
The intervening days were a hive of activity. Larys's agents, now numbering in the thousands, spread throughout the city, ostensibly to ensure order and encourage attendance, but in reality, to watch, to listen, to seek any anomaly, any individual who seemed out of place or overly interested in the King's security arrangements. Baelon himself, with a select few mages from his Academy, began weaving complex wards around the plaza, not just defensive ones, but also snares designed to trigger upon contact with specific magical signatures or hostile intent. He was turning Meereen itself into a weapon against his unseen foe.
During this period, other subtle disturbances continued. A vital strategic map detailing the planned redeployment of forces in the Disputed Lands was found in Baelon's war room, not stolen, but with a single, almost invisible pinprick marking a supposedly weak point in his lines – a point only someone with exceptional military acumen or access to highly classified intelligence would recognize. It was another taunt, another display of reach.
One of Baelon's most trusted Dragon Guard knights, Ser Arryk Cargyll, a man renowned for his stoicism and unwavering loyalty, reported experiencing a vivid, recurring nightmare: he was standing guard outside the King's chambers when a child, no older than ten, with eyes that were voids, approached him and whispered a Valyrian lullaby that his own grandmother used to sing, a lullaby that always ended with the line, "…and the little dragon slept forever." Ser Arryk awoke each time in a cold sweat, his hand on his sword, the tune hauntingly clear in his mind. He reported it to Larys with shame, fearing he was losing his nerve, but Larys and Baelon knew it was another form of attack – psychological, insidious, designed to wear down the King's protectors.
Baelon listened to these reports with a grim fascination. The Faceless Man was not just an assassin; they were a saboteur of morale, a weaver of fear. The Voldemort persona within him, a master manipulator and psychological tormentor in his own right, felt a strange, almost professional, respect for the artistry involved, even as his determination to eradicate this threat grew with each passing incident. This was a far more engaging foe than the brutish slavers or the predictable lords of Westeros.
The Unwavering Hand of Empire
Despite the shadow war being waged within the walls of his new capital, Baelon did not allow it to consume his attention or derail his grander designs. The machinery of his new Essosi protectorate continued to grind forward, crushing dissent and remolding societies in his image.
He held a formal inspection of the first Meereenite legion, now numbering five thousand strong, drilled relentlessly by Lord Tarly's sergeants. Clad in new black armor bearing the crimson Targaryen dragon, they moved with a nascent discipline, their faces a mixture of awe and fear as Baelon, astride Silverwing who landed gracefully in their training ground, addressed them.
"You were once chattel, living property, your lives forfeit to the whims of petty tyrants!" Baelon's voice, amplified by magic, boomed across the assembled ranks. "I have broken your chains! I have given you purpose! You are now soldiers of the Iron Throne, warriors of the Valyrian Protectorate! You will serve me with unwavering loyalty, and in return, you will know honor, you will earn glory, and you will be the instruments of liberation for others still groaning under the yoke of slavery!" He pointed towards a group of Ghiscari nobles, former minor masters who had been caught attempting to incite rebellion, now bound and kneeling. "These sought to return you to darkness! They sought to defy my will! Let their fate be a lesson!"
At his signal, Centurion Kael, his face a mask of cold fury, stepped forward with a detachment of his original Freedmen Cohort. The executions were swift, brutal, and public. The new Meereenite legion watched in stark silence, the message clear: loyalty to Baelon meant life and reward; defiance meant a horrific death. Baelon saw the understanding dawn in their eyes, the hardening of their resolve. These were the men who would help him conquer the rest of Essos.
Reports from Astapor and Yunkai were encouraging. Prince Aemond, with his characteristic ruthlessness, had swiftly 'pacified' the remaining pockets of resistance in Astapor. The process of integrating the more pliable Unsullied into specialized auxiliary units, under the direct command of Westerosi officers, was underway. He reported that Vhagar was growing restless, eager for a true fight rather than terrorizing disarmed captives. Baelon mentally filed that away; Aemond's destructive urges would soon find a new outlet. Lord Crakehall, meanwhile, was proving to be an able, if unimaginative, administrator in Yunkai. Gold, grain, and other valuable resources were steadily flowing towards Meereen, along with lists of skilled artisans and laborers deemed useful for Baelon's grand projects.
The Royal Academy branch in Meereen was slowly taking shape within a fortified section of the Great Pyramid. Its initial task, assigned by Baelon, was twofold: firstly, to translate and catalog the vast archives of Ghiscari history and lore seized from the Great Masters' libraries, searching for any forgotten knowledge that might be of use; and secondly, to begin a comprehensive study of the local flora, fauna, and mineral resources, with a particular emphasis on anything that might have magical properties or military applications. He envisioned this academy not just as a center of learning, but as an engine of imperial exploitation.
The Tightening Coil
The day of Baelon's public address arrived. The Plaza of Imperial Justice was packed with tens of thousands of Meereenites, herded there by legionaries and the eager Freedmen Cohorts. An immense platform had been erected before the steps of the Great Pyramid, draped in Targaryen crimson and black. Baelon's Dragon Guard formed an impenetrable ring around it. Silverwing was perched atop the Pyramid itself, a gleaming silver sentinel overlooking the proceedings. Umbraxys was an unseen pressure, a dome of chilling vigilance blanketing the entire plaza.
Baelon, clad in magnificent black armor inlaid with rubies that seemed to smolder like dragon eyes, strode onto the platform. A hush fell over the massive crowd. His speech was a masterpiece of propaganda and intimidation. He spoke of a new era of justice and prosperity under his rule, of the end of arbitrary cruelty, of the opportunities that awaited those who embraced his new order. He announced the distribution of more captured grain, the establishment of new workshops where freedmen could learn valuable trades, and even a plan for a grand aqueduct to bring fresh water to the poorer districts.
But woven throughout these promises were stark warnings about the price of dissent, the absolute necessity of obedience, and the boundless power of the Iron Throne. He was reshaping their world, and they would either adapt or be broken.
As he spoke, his senses, and those of Umbraxys, were stretched to their absolute limit, scanning the crowd, the rooftops, every shadow, every flicker of unusual energy. Larys Strong and his agents were similarly engaged, a thousand pairs of eyes trying to pierce the veil of anonymity worn by their quarry.
Nothing. The crowd was a sea of faces – fearful, hopeful, sullen, adoring – but none betrayed the mark of the Faceless Man. The address concluded without incident. Baelon returned to the Pyramid, a faint sense of anticlimax warring with relief among his security detail. Had the assassin been deterred by the overwhelming display of force? Or was this simply not the chosen moment?
Later that evening, as Baelon was in his private chambers, reviewing architectural plans for the new Valyrian-style fortifications he intended to build around Meereen's core, Ser Corlys Vaelaros requested an urgent audience. He entered, his face pale, holding a small, intricately carved wooden box.
"Your Grace," Ser Corlys said, his voice strained. "This was found… in your solar. On the table where you take your evening tea. The guards were present. No one saw it placed there."
Baelon looked at the box. It was made of pale, unfamiliar wood, and the carvings were non-Ghiscari, almost… Braavosi in their intricate, flowing style. He felt a cold stillness descend upon him.
"Open it, Ser Corlys," he commanded, his voice devoid of inflection.
With trembling hands, the knight lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a perfectly sculpted marzipan confection. It was shaped like a miniature, three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen. And piercing each of its three heads was a tiny, exquisitely crafted silver pin.
For a long moment, Baelon stared at the macabre little gift. It was not a direct attack. It was a promise. A statement of intent, delivered with chilling artistry and audacious impunity, right into the heart of his most secure sanctum. The guards were trustworthy, the wards sophisticated. Yet, the Faceless Man had bypassed them all, leaving this symbolic threat.
The Voldemort within Baelon felt a surge, not of fear, but of profound, icy rage. This was no longer just an intellectual puzzle or a test of vigilance. This was a direct affront to his majesty, to his very being. This 'child of dust and whispers' was daring to mock him, the Ageless Serpent King.
"Lord Larys," Baelon said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, though the Master of Whisperers was not physically present, he knew the message would reach him. He then spoke to Ser Corlys, his eyes burning with a terrifying light that had nothing to do with the lamps in the room. "Find me the artisan who crafted this. Find me anyone who has seen such a box. Tear this city apart, stone by stone, shadow by shadow. The serpent's coil is tightening. And when it strikes, it will not be with pins and confections."
He looked down at the marzipan dragon, then slowly reached out and picked it up. He did not eat it. Instead, he held it for a moment, then, with a sudden, violent clench of his fist, crushed it into a sticky, unrecognizable mass. The game had just become far more personal. And Baelon Targaryen, the Serpent King of two continents, was not accustomed to being the prey. He would become the hunter, and the Many-Faced God would soon learn the true price of accepting a contract against a being such as him.