Chapter 44: The Serpent at the Titan's Feet
The news of the Titan of Braavos taking its first ponderous step from its plinth, its ancient bronze eyes blazing with an eerie green light, had sent tremors of fear throughout the Free Cities and even into the halls of power in Westeros. For centuries, it had been a silent sentinel, a colossal symbol of Braavosi invincibility. Its stirring was an omen, a declaration that the shadow war waged by King Baelon I Targaryen against the Titan city was about to escalate into a conflict of truly legendary proportions.
Yet, in Meereen, within the black basalt heart of the Great Pyramid, King Baelon received this intelligence not with apprehension, but with a chilling, almost predatory, focus. The Ignis Shard, cradled in a specially constructed alcove near his war table, pulsed with a faint, internal heat, its primal fire seeming to resonate with the King's own burgeoning, almost divine, ambition. He had faced down a primordial Fire-God and walked away with a fragment of its essence; what was a man-made colossus, however vast, however ancient, to him now?
He convened his war council, the atmosphere thick with unspoken anxieties. Lord Tarly, Lord Crakehall, Archmaester Vaellyn, and Lord Larys Strong listened in stunned silence as Baelon unveiled his intention.
"Braavos has played its hand," Baelon announced, his voice calm but edged with the resonant power he now wielded. "Their Titan, their great guardian, stirs. They believe it will cow us, force us to retreat from our just pursuit of their city's crimes and the eradication of the Drowned Brethren. They are mistaken." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "I will journey to Braavos. Not with an army to lay siege – that day will come, but the Titan must be addressed first. I will go with a select force. I intend to have a… conversation… with this automaton, or the spirit that animates it. I will understand its nature, its purpose, and if it does not learn to kneel, I will unmake it."
A collective intake of breath. Larys Strong was the first to speak, his voice a dry whisper of caution. "Your Grace, with respect, this is an undertaking of unimaginable risk. The Titan is a legend, its power unknown but undoubtedly immense. To approach it directly… even for you…"
"Even for me, Lord Larys?" Baelon interrupted, a hint of the Ignis Shard's fire flashing in his eyes. "Did I not stand before Ignis, the Heart-Flame of Cinderfell, and commune with a being that could unmake this world with a thought? This Titan, whether animated by Valyrian artifice or a bound spirit, is a construct. And all constructs can be deconstructed." He looked at Vaellyn. "Archmaester, your research into its Heart-Core is vital. But some knowledge can only be gleaned through… direct interaction."
The Voldemort soul within him exulted at the prospect. To confront and potentially dominate such a legendary symbol of power was a feat that would echo through eternity, a testament to his own burgeoning godhood. He was not merely a conqueror of cities; he was a challenger of myths, a defier of ancient powers.
Forging Tools for a Titanomachy
The preparations for this audacious expedition were meticulous, undertaken with a focused intensity that gripped Meereen. Baelon knew he could not rely on brute force alone. This required arcane knowledge, specialized tools, and an escort as formidable as it was discreet.
Archmaester Vaellyn and his mages worked day and night in the deepest levels of the Royal Academy's Meereenese branch. They pored over every recovered Valyrian text, every fragment of lore concerning golem-craft, elemental binding, and the creation of colossal war machines. The Antarion texts, though primarily focused on abyssal lore, contained some surprising cross-references to ancient Valyrian attempts to counter or control large magical constructs, knowledge the Drowned Brethren had perhaps hoarded for their own inscrutable purposes.
Vaellyn's primary focus was twofold: identifying a potential weakness in the Titan, specifically its rumored "Heart-Core," and developing countermeasures against its anticipated defenses. He confirmed that legends consistently spoke of the Titan being animated by a potent, magically shielded core, likely of Valyrian origin, located deep within its chest cavity. To reach it would be nigh impossible through conventional means. However, Vaellyn theorized that specific sonic frequencies, combined with precisely targeted magical disruptions, might temporarily weaken its outer defenses or interfere with the flow of animating energy to its limbs.
The Ignis Shard became central to these preparations. Baelon, with Vaellyn's assistance, experimented with focusing its primal fire energy. They discovered that the Shard could indeed be used to empower Valyrian steel to an unprecedented degree, making it not only supernaturally sharp and durable but also capable of disrupting magical enchantments upon contact. Several blades for Baelon's Dragon Guard were painstakingly tempered in the Shard's aura, a process that left the steel glowing with faint, internal heat and bearing a faint, obsidian sheen. Baelon also commissioned the creation of several "Ignis Bolts" – projectiles of condensed, magically stabilized fire energy, drawn directly from the Shard, designed to be launched by specialized arcane projectors. These were weapons of last resort, their power immense but their creation draining even for Baelon.
For his escort, Baelon selected only the most elite. Ser Corlys Vaelaros would lead twenty of his finest Dragon Guard knights, their new Ignis-tempered blades sheathed at their sides. Centurion Kael, his ferocity now tinged with an almost religious devotion to the King who had communed with fire gods, would command fifty of his most agile and disciplined Freedmen, experts in infiltration and close-quarters combat. Maester Arryk, having proven his mettle (and survived Cinderfell), was tasked with overseeing the arcane projectors and any immediate magical support Baelon might require. Silverwing, her bond with Baelon deepened by the Shard's influence, would be their primary means of aerial reconnaissance, rapid deployment, and, if necessary, fiery retribution. Aemond and Vhagar, still engaged in their grim work in the Iron Islands and preparing for the Vale/Fingers purge, were too distant and their might too overt for this initial, more surgical, approach to the Titan.
Before departing, Baelon solidified his chain of command. Lord Tarly would hold Meereen and the eastern protectorate. Lord Crakehall would continue to manage the economic strangulation of Braavos. Lord Larys Strong was given overarching authority over intelligence operations, the ongoing purges in Essos and Westeros, and was Baelon's designated regent in absentia for any immediate, realm-wide crises – a testament to the King's trust in the Clubfoot's cold, calculating loyalty. The Essosi empire, a machine built on fear and efficiency, would continue to grind forward even as its master embarked on his most perilous venture yet.
A Serpent's Passage to the City of Mist
Three weeks later, under a moonless sky and cloaked in magically summoned sea mists that even the Braavosi would have envied, Baelon's small, dark-sailed squadron – the refitted Night Serpent and two swift, shadow-blackened scout cutters – slipped out of a hidden cove on the coast of Myr. Their destination: the very gates of Braavos.
The journey was fraught with peril. The mobilized Braavosi fleet was a constant threat, their patrols more aggressive, their numbers greater than anticipated. Several times, Baelon's squadron had to rely on Silverwing's aerial scouting, Umbraxys's preternatural senses, and Maester Arryk's illusionary spells to evade detection. On one occasion, near the northern Stepstones, they encountered a wolfpack of the new Braavosi "ice-cutter" ships, their crystalline prows gleaming malevolently.
Instead of fleeing, Baelon ordered an engagement. He wanted to witness these new weapons firsthand, to test their capabilities and his own augmented powers. Silverwing, wreathed in an aura of fire that seemed intensified by the Ignis Shard's proximity to Baelon, dove upon the ice-cutters. Their beams of intense cold lanced out, flash-freezing sections of the sea, attempting to trap the dragon or encase her wings. But Silverwing, guided by Baelon's will and empowered by a surge of primal heat he channeled from the Shard, met their cold with her own incandescent fury. Her flames, now tinged with an obsidian blackness at their core, were hotter, more focused, more annihilating than ever before. One ice-cutter, struck squarely, did not just burn; its crystalline projector shattered, its hull seemed to melt and run like wax, its crew screaming as they were consumed by a fire that even water could not quench.
Baelon, aboard the Night Serpent, observed the engagement with cold, analytical detachment. He noted the range of the ice weapons, the speed of the enemy vessels, their lack of heavy armor. He also felt the Ignis Shard respond to the intense cold, its internal fire seeming to pulse with a contrary, defiant energy. He unleashed one of the newly crafted Ignis Bolts from an arcane projector manned by Maester Arryk. The bolt, a streak of blinding, black-crimson light, struck another ice-cutter. The result was even more devastating than Silverwing's fire. The ship simply… ceased to exist, vaporized in an instant, leaving only a rapidly dissipating cloud of superheated steam and the faint smell of ozone and brimstone.
The remaining ice-cutters, their crews clearly terrified by this display of unimaginable power, broke off and fled into the mists. Baelon had his measure of their new toys. They were dangerous, certainly, but not insurmountable. Not for him.
Days later, after navigating treacherous currents and outmaneuvering several more Braavosi patrols, they arrived in the waters outside the vast Lagoon of Braavos. And there it stood.
The Titan of Braavos.
It was even more colossal, more terrifyingly majestic, than any legend had described. Its bronze skin, weathered green by centuries of salt and storm, seemed to absorb the pale, watery sunlight. Its great, horned head, previously facing out to sea, was now angled slightly, its jeweled eyes – now undeniably glowing with an inner, emerald luminescence – fixed upon the approaches to the city, as if scanning for threats. Its massive fists were indeed clenched. And from its depths, Baelon, even at this distance, could feel a faint, almost subliminal, vibration, a deep, resonant hum that spoke of immense, restrained power. It was no longer a mere statue. It was awake. It was watching.
Confronting the Bronze God
Baelon ordered his ships to anchor in a hidden inlet on a deserted, rocky islet several leagues from the Titan's gaze, shielded by illusionary mists. From here, he would make his approach on Silverwing, accompanied only by Ser Corlys Vaelaros and ten of his Dragon Guard knights, also mounted on swift, dark-hued coursers that had been brought aboard the ships, a desperate contingency should Silverwing be grounded. Kael and his Freedmen, along with Maester Arryk and the remaining Dragon Guard, would remain with the ships, ready to provide support or cover a retreat.
Under the cover of a grey, overcast afternoon, Silverwing ascended, circling high above the choppy waters, then veering towards the awe-inspiring figure of the Titan. Baelon, seated securely on her back, the Ignis Shard now affixed to a specially designed gauntlet on his left hand, felt a surge of adrenaline, a warrior's anticipation mixed with the cold, calculating focus of a sorcerer about to engage in a ritual of immense power and unknown consequence. Umbraxys was a shield of shadow around his mind, filtering the psychic noise of the bustling city beyond the Titan, focusing his senses.
As they drew closer, the sheer scale of the Titan became overwhelming. Its legs, straddling the entrance to the Grand Canal, were like the trunks of petrified ironwood forests. Its torso was a mountain of verdigrised bronze, its shoulders broad enough to host a tourney field. And its eyes, those glowing emeralds, seemed to follow Silverwing's approach with an unnerving, intelligent focus.
Baelon decided against a subtle, probing approach. This was a being of immense, overt power. It would respect only a similar display. He guided Silverwing into a slow, deliberate circle directly before the Titan's vast, impassive face, well within range of any conceivable weapon it might possess.
Then, he reached out with his mind, his will amplified by the Ignis Shard and the ancient authority of his Valyrian blood. He did not address a mere automaton. He addressed the entity he now firmly believed resided within – the bound spirit, the captured echo, the "Heart-Core" that gave it life.
"Guardian of Braavos!" Baelon's mental voice boomed, not with the raw, elemental force of Ignis, but with the precise, commanding resonance of a Dragonlord and a master sorcerer. "I am Baelon of House Targaryen, Suzerain of the Valyrian Protectorate, wielder of the Primal Flame. I have come not to parley with your fleeting masters, the merchants and moneylenders who hide behind your skirts. I have come to speak with you."
For a long moment, there was no response, only the sigh of the wind, the cry of gulls, and the distant hum emanating from the Titan's bronze chest. Its emerald eyes remained fixed, unblinking. Baelon held Silverwing steady, his own gaze unwavering, his will a focused point of challenge.
Then, the hum intensified. The very air around the Titan seemed to crackle with static energy. The emerald light in its eyes pulsed, brighter, then brighter still. A deep, groaning sound, like the grinding of tectonic plates, issued from its depths. And a voice, ancient, metallic, and utterly devoid of inflection, yet carrying an undeniable weight of power and weariness, resonated not in Baelon's ears, but directly within his mind, a voice far clearer and more… articulate… than Ignis's primal emanations.
"Who… calls… upon… the… Watcher… at… the… World's… End?"
The Titan had answered.
Baelon felt a thrill of cold triumph. The first step had been taken. The conversation had begun. He looked at the colossal bronze face, at the ancient, knowing light in its eyes, and knew that this would be a contest unlike any he had ever faced.
"I am the new storm at the world's end, Watcher," Baelon projected back, his voice now carrying the subtle, fiery resonance of the Ignis Shard. "And I have come to ascertain whether you are a relic to be shattered, a spirit to be unbound, or perhaps… a tool to be reforged by a stronger hand."
The Titan's great head, impossibly, began to tilt, a slow, ponderous movement that sent shudders through its massive frame. Its glowing eyes narrowed, focusing on the Targaryen King and his silver dragon with an intensity that promised either dialogue, or utter annihilation. The Serpent was indeed at the Titan's feet. And the world held its breath to see which would blink first.