Chapter 35: Secrets of the Abyssal Cult
The interrogation chamber lay deep within the bowels of the Great Pyramid, a place where the ancient Ghiscari masters had once practiced their own cruel arts of persuasion. Under Baelon Targaryen's reign, it had been… refined. Soundproofed with layers of lead and enchanted stone, lit by a single, unwavering magical globe that cast no shadows and offered no comfort, its sparse furnishings consisted of a single iron chair bolted to the floor and a plain stone table upon which rested an arrayed of Larys Strong's more discreet instruments. The air was cold, sterile, and pregnant with the silent promise of unending pain.
Lyra Maelon, of the ancient Braavosi banking family, sat chained to the iron chair. Her defiant spirit, so evident upon her capture, still burned in her obsidian eyes, but the physical ordeal of her capture and the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber had begun to fray the edges of her aristocratic composure. Her wounded arm throbbed, and a sheen of cold sweat slicked her pale forehead.
Lord Larys Strong, a deceptively frail figure in his simple, dark robes, conducted the initial phase of the interrogation. His voice was a soft, dry rustle, almost soothing, yet his questions were like precisely wielded scalpels, probing for weaknesses, for inconsistencies, for the first cracks in Lyra's fanaticism. He spoke of her family's history, their precarious position within the Iron Bank's complex hierarchy, the potential shame her actions could bring upon her lineage. He spoke of the futility of her resistance, the inevitability of her cooperation.
"Your devotion to this… 'Him Who Slumbers'… is admirable, in a perverse way, Lady Lyra," Larys murmured, circling her slowly. "But even gods can be forgotten when their servants are silenced. Your silence achieves nothing but your own prolonged discomfort. Your words, however, might yet purchase you a swifter end, perhaps even a degree of… leniency for those you sought to protect."
Lyra's lips curled into a sneer. "Leniency from a tyrant? From an ageless monster who defies the sacred dark? I seek no boons from your master, Clubfoot. My faith is my shield. The Deep will claim its own."
For hours, Larys persisted, his patience seemingly infinite. He employed psychological tactics, alternating between veiled threats and offers of false sympathy, using the information gleaned from her captured coffer – the list of names, the strange coins – to demonstrate the futility of her silence. He allowed her thirst to grow, the throbbing in her arm to intensify, the cold of the chamber to seep into her bones. Yet, Lyra Maelon clung to her defiance, her hatred for Baelon a burning coal within her.
King Baelon observed parts of this initial interrogation, not physically present, but through a discreet scrying enchantment woven into the chamber's very walls, his consciousness linked to Umbraxys, which could sense the faintest flicker of emotion, the subtlest physiological reaction from the prisoner. He was growing impatient. Larys's methods were subtle, effective in their own way, but time was a luxury Baelon did not intend to grant this Braavosi viper indefinitely. He needed actionable intelligence, and he needed it now.
The Serpent's Gaze
When Larys finally paused, allowing a heavy silence to descend, Baelon decided it was time for a more… direct approach. The magical globe in the chamber pulsed once, then brightened, its light taking on an almost blinding intensity. Lyra Maelon winced, trying to turn her head away.
Then, Baelon's voice filled the chamber, not as a disembodied sound, but as a physical pressure, a resonant wave of power that seemed to vibrate in her very bones. "Your faith is impressive, Lyra Maelon. Misguided, of course, but impressively fervent. However, I too am a god of sorts, in my own estimation. And my patience for the recalcitrant is… limited."
The air grew colder, the shadows in the corners of Lyra's vision seeming to deepen and writhe, though the room was overlit. Umbraxys's presence, previously a subtle undercurrent, now began to bleed into the chamber, an intangible manifestation of ancient dread. Lyra gasped, her eyes widening in genuine terror for the first time. This was a power beyond anything her human interrogators had displayed, a primal fear that clawed at the foundations of her sanity.
"You will speak, Lady Lyra," Baelon's voice continued, now imbued with a chilling magical compulsion, a subtle echo of the Voice that could bend weaker wills. "You will tell me of your Drowned Brethren. You will describe your associate, the 'child of dust and whispers.' You will decipher the names on your list. You will reveal the purpose of these nine-armed tokens. You will lay bare every secret your little cult holds dear."
Lyra trembled, her body rigid in the chair, but she clenched her jaw, fighting against the insidious tendrils of Baelon's will that sought to pry open her mind. "Never… The Deep… protects…"
"The Deep cannot reach you here," Baelon stated, his mental voice now a lance of pure, cold intent. He decided against a full Legilimency-like assault immediately; sometimes, the fear of such violation was more effective than the act itself. Instead, he focused his power, amplified by Voldemort's mastery of such arts, to create a targeted illusion, a waking nightmare drawn from what he already knew of her faith.
The chamber around Lyra seemed to dissolve. She was no longer in a stone room, but adrift in a lightless, frigid ocean, the pressure immense, crushing. Monstrous, unseen shapes brushed against her in the abyssal darkness. The nine-armed kraken of her god loomed before her, not as a symbol of power, but as a terrifying, indifferent predator, its countless eyes glaring, its tentacles reaching. She felt the icy touch of its grasp, the despair of utter abandonment by the very entity she worshipped.
She screamed, a raw, choked sound, thrashing against her chains. The illusion was perfect, her mind unable to distinguish it from reality.
"Your god offers only oblivion, Lyra," Baelon's voice whispered in her ear, now sounding like the Kraken itself, cold and vast. "I offer… an alternative. Pain, certainly, if you continue to resist. But perhaps, just perhaps, a purpose beyond becoming food for the abyss. Speak. And the waters will recede."
The psychological torment was relentless. For what seemed like an eternity to Lyra, she endured the horrors of her god's indifferent abyss, interspersed with moments of lucidity where Baelon's demands echoed in her mind. Her fanaticism, strong as it was, began to crack under the unbearable weight of magical despair and the betrayal of her own faith, so cruelly twisted against her.
Finally, sobbing, shivering, her will shattered, Lyra Maelon broke.
"Enough… please… I will speak…" she whimpered, the fight gone from her eyes, replaced by a hollow, vacant terror.
Baelon withdrew the illusion, the chamber snapping back into its stark reality. He allowed Larys Strong to resume the questioning, though his own oppressive presence remained, a silent guarantee against any renewed defiance.
Secrets Plucked from the Abyss
Over the next several hours, Lyra Maelon's secrets spilled forth, a torrent of information that painted a chilling picture of the Drowned Brethren and their reach.
The cult, she revealed, was ancient, far older than Braavos itself, its origins lost in pre-Valyrian mists. They worshipped indeed "He of the Nine Arms and Endless Thirst," whom they called "The Silent Patriarch" or "The Dweller in the Deeps." Their ultimate goal was not mere murder, but the "Great Quietus" – a return of the world to a primordial, watery silence, an undoing of the noisy, fiery arrogance of surface dwellers and their fleeting empires. Beings like Baelon, ageless, powerful, wielding the fire of dragons and the magic of Old Valyria, were anathema to their creed, a direct challenge to their god's dominion over the cycle of life and death.
The Faceless Men, Lyra confirmed, were intrinsically linked, though not all Faceless Men were Drowned Brethren. The Brethren formed an inner, more fanatical core, their assassinations often serving as ritual sacrifices to the Silent Patriarch. The assassin sent after Baelon, the one Lyra knew by the codename "Echo of Stillness," was one of their most gifted – a young woman chosen in childhood from a lineage of Braavosi seafarers who had secretly kept the old faith. She possessed an uncanny ability to alter her appearance, not just through mundane disguise, but through a limited, painful form of flesh-shaping taught only to the most devout, a gift from their god. Lyra confessed she did not know Echo's current whereabouts after the escape from the Unmasking Chamber, only that such a transference was incredibly draining and would require a period of recovery in a place of "sacred silence," likely a hidden shrine.
The list of names found on her was a mixed ledger. Some were indeed Drowned Brethren initiates or sympathizers within Meereen, Volantis, and even a few minor houses in Westeros who had ancient, forgotten ties to sea-faring cults. These individuals provided logistical support, safe houses, and information. Larys Strong's eyes gleamed as Lyra, under duress, identified them one by one, providing details of their operations. Other names on the list, Lyra admitted with a shudder, were designated "Offerings" – individuals whose deaths were deemed necessary to appease the Silent Patriarch or to remove obstacles to the cult's plans. Disturbingly, several high-ranking officials in Baelon's own Essosi protectorate were on this list, as was, more audaciously, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
The nine-armed kraken coins, Lyra explained, were more than mere tokens. They were "Abyssal Lodestones," crafted from a strange, meteoric iron that had fallen into the deepest oceans millennia ago. They served as foci for the cult's rituals, as keys to their hidden sanctuaries, and, in the hands of initiates like Echo of Stillness, could facilitate communication over vast distances through sympathetic resonance with larger, consecrated "Beacons" hidden in Braavos and other secret locations. The self-inflicted wound Echo had sustained, combined with the crushing of one such coin, had likely powered her desperate escape.
Lyra also spoke of the Drowned Brethren's influence within Braavos itself. It was not overt, but it was pervasive. Several Keyholder families, she claimed, secretly adhered to the old faith, seeing it as a source of power and a bulwark against Valyrian resurgence. The Iron Bank, while not officially endorsing the cult, often turned a blind eye to its activities, and some of its more ancient vaults were rumored to house relics sacred to the Silent Patriarch. The current Sealord, while publicly a pragmatic politician, was said to have consulted with Brethren seers in times of crisis.
A New Purge, A Sharpened Blade
As Lyra's confession unfolded, Baelon listened with a cold, almost surgical, detachment, the Voldemort persona within him cataloging every detail, every weakness, every potential avenue of exploitation. The sheer scale of this ancient, insidious cult, its tendrils wrapped around the very foundations of Braavosi society and reaching into his own burgeoning empire, was far greater than he had initially imagined. But with greater understanding came greater opportunities for destruction.
Before Lyra had even finished speaking, Baelon was issuing new directives.
"Lord Larys," he commanded, his voice like the crack of a glacier, "you have your list of traitors and sympathizers within my domain. You will begin the purge immediately. I want every Drowned Brethren cell in Meereen, Volantis, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh uprooted and annihilated. No arrests, no trials, unless an individual possesses information of overwhelming strategic value. For the rest… silence them. And ensure their deaths serve as a message to any others who might contemplate loyalty to forgotten gods over the will of their King."
To Archmaester Vaellyn, he ordered: "These Abyssal Lodestones, these Beacons… I want them understood. Can their sympathetic resonance be tracked? Can it be disrupted? Can it be… used? If the assassin requires such a token for her abilities, or for communication, then depriving her of them, or feeding false information through them, could be a potent weapon."
He then turned his attention to Braavos itself. The information Lyra had provided about compromised Keyholders and the Iron Bank's hidden dealings was invaluable. "Larys," he continued, "you will use your agents in Braavos to sow discord with this knowledge. Leak carefully selected details to rival Keyholder families. Expose the cult's influence to those elements within Braavos who still cling to the notion of secular republicanism. Let them tear at each other's throats. We will accelerate the Titan's internal decay."
The hunt for "Echo of Stillness" was also renewed with a vengeance. Lyra had mentioned "sacred silences," hidden shrines where the assassin might recover. While she did not know specific locations outside Braavos, she hinted at ancient, submerged ruins along the coast of the Disputed Lands, or desolate, fog-shrouded islands in the Shivering Sea, places where the veil between worlds was thin. Baelon tasked his growing fleet, including Aemond's forces now consolidating their hold in the Basilisk Isles, with scouting such locations. He also considered using Lyra herself, perhaps magically compelled or implanted with false memories, as bait to draw out her associate, though the risks of such a plan were considerable.
The Titan's Tremors
While Lyra Maelon's will was being systematically dismantled in Meereen, the repercussions of Baelon's ongoing offensive were already being felt in Braavos. Larys's spies reported a city on edge. Aemond's conquest of the Basilisk Isles had sent a shockwave through Braavosi shipping interests. The economic sanctions were causing genuine hardship, with shortages of Essosi luxury goods and raw materials becoming common. The Iron Bank was forced to extend increasingly risky loans to prop up failing merchant ventures, and whispers of its supposed infallibility were, for the first time in centuries, being openly questioned.
The Sealord of Braavos, Ferrego Antaryon, a man known for his cunning and implacability, had publicly denounced Baelon as a "bloodthirsty tyrant" and a "threat to the freedom of all Essos." He had dispatched envoys to Pentos, Lorath, and even the Valyrian Freehold of Volantis (before its fall, and now likely to its new masters), attempting to forge an alliance against the Targaryen aggressor. So far, his efforts had met with little success; the other Free Cities were too terrified of Baelon's dragons and legions, or too eager to profit from Braavos's misfortunes.
But Braavos was not without its own arsenal. In response to the escalating crisis, the Sealord, with the backing of the Keyholders, made a chilling move. They announced the "Grand Mobilization of the Titan's Fleet," a measure not invoked in over a century. Warships, long kept in reserve, were being refitted and crewed. Veteran naval commanders were recalled to service. More ominously, the Faceless Men, it was rumored, had offered their services to the city "pro-bono" in this time of existential threat, not for coin, but for "the restoration of balance." This was a clear signal that Braavos was preparing for total war, a war that would be fought not just on the seas and in the counting houses, but in the shadows, with assassins and saboteurs.
This news reached Baelon just as Lyra Maelon's interrogation was concluding. He received it with a cold, predatory smile. "So, the Titan finally stirs from its slumber and prepares to bare its teeth," he murmured. "Predictable. And futile."
The Abyssal Gaze Returns
With Lyra Maelon's secrets laid bare, her spirit broken, she was little more than a husk. Baelon had no further use for her alive, unless as a potential, highly risky, piece of bait. He left her fate to Larys Strong, knowing the Master of Whisperers would extract any final, lingering drops of information before consigning her to the oblivion she so fervently believed in.
His mind, however, was already racing, processing the vast implications of what he had learned. The Drowned Brethren, the Silent Patriarch, the Abyssal Lodestones, the true nature of "Echo of Stillness" – it all painted a picture of an enemy far more ancient, insidious, and ideologically driven than he had previously conceived. This was not merely a guild of assassins for hire; this was a death cult with cosmic ambitions, and he was their ultimate antichrist.
The Voldemort persona within him felt an almost exhilarating sense of clarity. This was a war worthy of his intellect, his power, his ambition. To dismantle such a deeply entrenched, ancient evil, to usurp its power or grind its forgotten god to dust beneath his heel – that was a conquest of true, lasting significance.
He stood before a map of Essos, the flickering lamplight casting his shadow long and distorted across the parchment. His finger traced a path from Meereen, across the newly conquered southern waters, towards the fog-shrouded enigma that was Braavos. The Grand Mobilization of their fleet? A desperate gesture. The pro-bono services of the Faceless Men? An amusingly futile act of defiance.
Baelon Targaryen was not just fighting a city now. He was fighting its secret soul, its drowned god, its ancient despair. And he intended to drag it all into the cleansing fire of his new Valyrian dawn. The secrets of the Abyssal Cult were now his, and with them, he would forge the keys to their utter annihilation. The Kraken's Debt would be paid, not in coin or whispers, but in a tide of blood and dragonflame that would reshape the world. His war had just found its true, terrible focus.