Chapter 47: City of Masks, Serpent's Shadow
Meereen, under the shadow of its black pyramids and the even more profound shadow of its Ageless King, had become the silent, beating heart of a war waged on fronts both visible and unseen. King Baelon I Targaryen, his power visibly augmented by the volatile, primal energy of the Ignis Shard, moved with a chilling, meticulous purpose. The "Titan's Terms," its conditional neutrality regarding a targeted purge of the Drowned Brethren within Braavos, had unlocked a new, more insidious phase of his grand campaign. No longer would he merely batter at Braavos's gates; he would seep into its veins, a subtle poison, a creeping shadow designed to rot the Titan city from within.
The final preparations for this delicate, deadly operation were underway. Centurion Kael, his scarred face set in lines of grim determination, oversaw the rigorous training of his chosen Freedmen. These were not the shock troops who had stormed Meereen's walls, but a leaner, quieter breed – men and women chosen for their agility, their ability to move like ghosts, their skill with silent weapons. They trained in mockups of Braavosi canal-side alleys, learning to navigate by starlight and shadow, to scale treacherous walls, to deliver a killing blow with the whisper of a blade. Archmaester Vaellyn, working with Baelon, had equipped them with Ignis-tempered daggers that hummed faintly with contained fire, and small, intricately carved amulets of obsidian and silver designed to offer limited protection against abyssal magic and to subtly detect the presence of its more potent concentrations. They were to be Baelon's scalpels, excising the cancerous heart of the Drowned Brethren from Braavos itself.
Lord Larys Strong, meanwhile, presented his refined strategy for psychological warfare. His web of agents within Braavos, some cultivated for years, others newly acquired through coercion or the vast resources Baelon now commanded, was ready to act. Forged correspondence, subtly altered shipping manifests, and carefully planted rumors would implicate key Drowned Brethren sympathizers within the Iron Bank and among the feuding Keyholder families. Tales of their dark rituals, their siphoning of Braavosi wealth to fuel their abyssal god, their secret oaths that superseded loyalty to the Sealord, would begin to circulate, first as whispers in the dockside taverns and shadowy counting houses, then as open accusations in the more private, paranoid circles of Braavosi power.
"We will not need to burn Braavos to the ground, Your Grace," Larys had stated, his voice a dry rasp of confidence. "We will simply convince its elite that the fire is already within their own halls, lit by their own brethren. They will provide the kindling and the screams themselves."
Baelon, the Voldemort soul within him savoring the intricate cruelty of the plan, had approved. This was a subtler, more satisfying form of conquest than mere brute force.
The First Tremors in the Lagoon
The initial phase of Larys's operation began with the precision of a master poisoner administering a slow-acting toxin. Anonymous missives, penned in elegant Braavosi script on high-quality parchment that mimicked the official correspondence of certain Keyholder families, began to appear on the desks of their rivals. These letters hinted at secret allegiances, at funds being diverted to "entities anathema to the founding principles of Braavos," at whispered oaths to powers that dwelt beneath the waves.
Simultaneously, ledgers detailing (fabricated but plausible) transactions between prominent Iron Bank figures and known smugglers with ties to the Basilisk Isles (before Aemond's purge) surfaced in unexpected places, passed from hand to hand by Larys's cutouts. Rumors, like oily slicks, began to spread across the canals: that certain ancient families were not merely eccentric in their maritime pursuits, but actively involved in dark aquatic cults that threatened the city's prosperity and security.
The reaction within Braavos was initially one of confusion and angry denial. The families implicated vehemently protested their innocence, accusing their rivals of slander. But Larys's forgeries were meticulous, the rumors seeded with just enough verifiable detail to lend them credence. Paranoia, already a well-cultivated trait among the fiercely competitive Braavosi elite, began to fester. Old feuds reignited with new, venomous accusations. The Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, already grappling with Baelon's external aggressions, found himself increasingly consumed by internal dissent, his attempts to project an image of Braavosi unity fracturing under the weight of these insidious whispers.
Crucially, the Titan of Braavos remained still, its great bronze head immobile, its emerald eyes gazing out over the Lagoon with their customary, unnerving vigilance. It seemed, for now, to be honoring its unspoken agreement, "averting its gaze" from these internal machinations that did not (yet) involve overt external attack or widespread destruction within its city. This was Baelon's gamble, and for the moment, it was holding.
The Sea Witch of Old Wyk
As Braavos began to simmer with suspicion, a bloodier drama was unfolding far to the west, in the desolate, storm-lashed Iron Islands. Prince Aemond, his fleet having navigated the treacherous waters around that bleak archipelago, had converged on the isle of Old Wyk. Captured Drowned God priests, their defiance broken by Vhagar's terrifying presence, had confirmed that a powerful "Sea Witch," matching the description of "Echo of Stillness," had indeed established a hidden sanctuary within the labyrinthine sea caves beneath Nagga's Bones, the skeletal remains of the legendary sea dragon.
Vhagar, her roars like thunder a constant presence over Old Wyk, began by systematically sealing the lesser sea caves with molten rock and superheated steam, driving any inhabitants towards the central, largest cave system that local legend claimed was a gateway to their Drowned God's watery halls. Aemond, his single sapphire eye blazing with anticipation, led his veteran legionaries and Unsullied auxiliaries in a grim amphibious assault, their landing craft navigating treacherous, wave-lashed rocks under a sky darkened by Vhagar's shadow.
The resistance they encountered was fanatical. Ironborn reavers, their faces painted with crude kraken symbols, fought with berserk fury, but they were no match for disciplined Targaryen steel. More unsettling were the Drowned One guardians, larger and more grotesque than those encountered at Villa Antarion, their scaled hides seeming to shimmer with an unnatural resilience, their tridents tipped with what looked like sharpened whalebone imbued with a chilling, necrotic energy.
Aemond, wading into the fray with his Valyrian steel blade, Black Sister (a blade he had claimed after the fall of King's Landing, distinct from Baelon's Truth), was a whirlwind of destruction, his every blow precise and lethal. Vhagar, unable to enter the lower caves, contented herself with incinerating any Ironborn longships that attempted to flee and periodically blasting the cliff face above the main cave entrance, sending showers of rock and debris down upon the defenders.
Deep within the echoing, phosphorescent-lit central cavern, where the bones of Nagga formed colossal, cathedral-like arches, Aemond finally confronted his quarry. She stood before a crude altar of black, basaltic rock, upon which rested a single, pulsating Abyssal Lodestone coin – far larger than the ones Baelon possessed, almost the size of a dinner plate, and radiating an intense, almost unbearable cold.
It was undeniably her – "Echo of Stillness." Though her features seemed subtly different, her hair now the color of kelp, her skin possessing a faint, translucent sheen, the eyes were the same: chips of icy fury, burning with a fanatic's unwavering light. She wore no armor, only simple, dark robes that clung to her slender form, and in her hand, she held a staff of gnarled, black driftwood, topped with a nine-armed kraken carved from what looked like solidified sea foam.
"So, the little dragon prince comes seeking his echo in the dark," she hissed, her voice no longer a genderless whisper, but clearly female, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. "Did your master grow tired of his games in the sunlit world?"
"My brother, the King, sends his regards, witch," Aemond snarled, his eye never leaving her. "And his regrets that your previous escape was so… untidy. He prefers his enemies accounted for."
"The King of Ashes will soon account for his own sacrilege," Echo retorted. "He has offended He of the Nine Arms. He has disturbed the sacred silence. His fleeting empire will be washed away by the rising tides of the Great Quietus!"
She raised her staff, and the great Abyssal Lodestone on the altar pulsed violently. The water in the pools around the cavern began to churn, and from their depths, monstrous, crab-like creatures with multiple eyes and razor-sharp pincers scuttled forth, their carapaces shimmering with an oily, black light. Simultaneously, the very air grew bitingly cold, and illusions of drowning men and grasping tentacles flickered at the edges of the legionaries' vision.
The battle was joined. Aemond, roaring a challenge, charged towards Echo, while his Unsullied met the crab-fiends with disciplined spear thrusts. Echo of Stillness proved a formidable opponent. Her staff was not merely a focus for her abyssal magic; it was a deadly weapon in its own right, capable of delivering bone-jarring blows and projecting bolts of icy energy that could freeze a man solid in an instant. She moved with the same unnatural, fluid grace Baelon had witnessed, her form occasionally blurring, making her an elusive target.
But Aemond was a warrior of singular, savage prowess, his Valyrian steel blade a match for her dark arts. He pressed her relentlessly, Vhagar's distant roars seeming to fuel his fury. He shattered her ice bolts with Black Sister, parried the blows from her staff, and slowly, inexorably, forced her back towards the pulsating Lodestone.
Finally, seeing her monstrous guardians faltering against the implacable advance of the Unsullied, Echo made a desperate move. She shrieked an incantation in the guttural tongue of the Drowned Brethren, then slammed the butt of her staff onto the great Abyssal Lodestone.
The Lodestone cracked, then exploded with a concussive blast of freezing, dark energy that threw Aemond and everyone else in the cavern off their feet. The very foundations of Old Wyk seemed to tremble. When the disorienting energies subsided, Echo of Stillness was gone. Vanished. The great Lodestone lay in shattered, smoking fragments on the altar. But clutched in the hand of one of Aemond's dead Unsullied, who had been closest to her before the blast, was a torn piece of dark, kelp-colored fabric from her robe, and, more significantly, a small, intricately carved ivory map marker, shaped like a nine-armed kraken, its tip pointing not towards Essos, but further west, towards the uncharted waters beyond the Sunset Sea.
Aemond, rising from the rubble, his armor cracked, a fresh scar adorning his cheek, let out a roar of pure frustration. She had escaped him again. But not without leaving a new, tantalizing, and deeply disturbing clue.
The Scalpels of Meereen Enter Braavos
While Aemond battled Sea Witches and crab-fiends in the Iron Islands, Baelon, back in Meereen, judged the time ripe for the deployment of his urban commandos. Larys's psychological warfare had successfully stirred the hornet's nest in Braavos. Keyholder families were at each other's throats, the Iron Bank was beset by internal audits and accusations of heresy, and the Sealord's authority was being openly questioned in clandestine meetings. The city was a powder keg of suspicion and fear, awaiting a spark.
Centurion Kael and his fifty handpicked Freedmen, clad in shadow-blackened leather armor, their faces obscured by dark scarves, their Ignis-tempered daggers and abyssal-warding amulets their only companions, were ferried into the Lagoon of Braavos by night on silent, unmarked barges, appearing as common smugglers. They slipped into the city's labyrinthine canals, guided by Larys's deep-cover agents who knew every hidden waterway and secret passage.
Their first target was a notorious Drowned Brethren priest known as the "Weeper of the Black Canals," a charismatic figure who held secret rituals in the city's deepest, most forgotten cisterns, preying on the desperate and disillusioned. Kael's team, moving with the lethal grace they had honed in their brutal training, infiltrated the cistern network during one such ritual.
The scene they found was one of Lovecraftian horror: dozens of robed cultists chanting in the guttural tongue around a murky pool, the Weeper, his face a mask of ecstatic madness, preparing to sacrifice a terrified young merchant's son to "He of the Nine Arms." The Freedmen struck with a speed and ferocity that left no room for alarm. Ignis-tempered daggers, glowing faintly in the oppressive darkness, slit throats and pierced hearts before the cultists even realized they were under attack. Kael himself confronted the Weeper, shattering his sacrificial knife with a blow from his own consecrated blade before dragging the screaming priest out into the night, leaving behind a scene of silent, bloody carnage.
The Weeper, under… persuasive questioning… by Larys's specialists (who had also infiltrated Braavos in Kael's wake), revealed the locations of three more Drowned Brethren safe houses and the name of a highly placed functionary within the Sealord's own administration who served as a conduit for the cult's funds and influence.
Over the next few nights, Kael's teams struck again and again, silent, precise, and utterly ruthless. A Drowned Brethren scribe collating intelligence on Braavosi fleet movements was found with his throat cut, his ledgers missing. An Iron Bank underling responsible for laundering cult funds vanished from his locked room. A hidden shrine beneath a Keyholder's palazzo, where unspeakable rites were performed, was desecrated, its attendants dispatched with brutal efficiency, a single, obsidian-black feather – a calling card Baelon had devised, hinting at a vengeful Valyrian entity rather than common assassins – left at the scene.
Braavos began to bleed from a thousand internal cuts. The whispers Larys had seeded now had tangible, terrifying proof. Prominent citizens were dying or disappearing. Sacred cultic sites were being violated. And no one knew who was responsible. Some blamed rival families. Some blamed the Faceless Men, perhaps acting on their own initiative to cleanse the city of a rival death cult. Some even whispered that the Titan itself, in its silent, awakened vigilance, was purging the city of its impurities. Few, if any, suspected the true source: the surgical scalpels of Meereen, guided by the Serpent King from afar.
A New Calculus of War
Baelon received the reports from Larys, Kael, and Aemond with cold, calculating satisfaction. His multifaceted strategy was bearing fruit. The Drowned Brethren were being systematically dismantled in Westeros and bled within their Braavosi sanctuary. The Titan city itself was descending into a spiral of paranoia and internal strife.
Aemond's discovery of the ivory map marker, pointing westwards beyond the Sunset Sea, was intriguing. Did the cult have outposts, or perhaps even its ultimate origin, in those uncharted, legendary waters? A problem for another time, perhaps, but a thread to be filed away. For now, the priority was Braavos.
Archmaester Vaellyn also reported a significant breakthrough. By carefully studying the resonance patterns of the Ignis Shard in conjunction with the captured Abyssal Lodestones and the Antarion texts, he believed he had found a way to create a highly localized "abyssal deadening field." It would require immense power, likely focused through the Ignis Shard itself by Baelon, but it could theoretically neutralize all Drowned Brethren magic – including the flesh-shaping abilities of assassins like "Echo of Stillness" and the protective wards around their deepest sanctums – within a limited radius for a short period. This was a weapon that could turn the tide in a direct confrontation with the cult's most powerful adherents.
Baelon looked at the map of Braavos, at the sigils marking Larys's successes and Kael's strikes. The city was wounded, confused, looking inwards. The Titan remained still, its gaze averted, as promised.
"Lord Larys," Baelon said, a predatory gleam in his eyes, "it seems our… internal remedies… are taking effect. The patient is weakened. Perhaps it is time for a more… significant surgical intervention." He tapped a location on the map, a district known to house the primary, though heavily concealed, temple of the Drowned Brethren in Braavos, a place Lyra Maelon had only revealed under the most extreme duress, a place even Kael's teams had not yet dared to approach due to its rumored guardians and potent abyssal wards.
"Kael's men have proven their worth," Baelon continued. "But this next task will require more than just stealth and daggers. It will require overwhelming force, precisely applied, under the cover of Vaellyn's abyssal deadening field. And it will require… a dragon."
He was not yet ready for a full-scale invasion. But a devastating, decapitating strike against the very heart of the Drowned Brethren cult within Braavos, delivered under the Titan's averted gaze, now seemed tantalizingly possible. The city of masks and shadows was about to learn the true meaning of the Serpent King's focused wrath.