Chapter 52: Echoes of Bronze, Whispers of War
The bruised dawn fought against the dissipating, unnatural storm clouds as Silverwing and Vhagar ascended from the Titan's plinth. Below them, Braavos was a city unmoored, a tapestry of flickering lights, distant screams, and the frantic, disorganized movements of a populace that had witnessed the sacrilege of their protector's soul being stolen and remade. The colossal bronze statue, their ancient guardian, now stood as a terrifying monument to Baelon's audacity. Its eyes, no longer the familiar dull bronze, burned with that unholy trinity of emerald, gold, and obsidian – a gaze that swept out over the lagoon not with impassive vigilance, but with a focused, alien intelligence now leashed to another's will.
Vhagar, with Aemond astride her, let out a guttural roar that was pure, savage triumph, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Arsenal below, its sea-gates still smoldering from her earlier attentions. Several crippled Braavosi galleys listed helplessly, their crews either dead, departed, or staring in mute horror at the transformed Titan and the departing dragons.
"They'll be singing songs of this night from Ibben to Asshai, brother!" Aemond's voice, amplified by the wind and exhilaration, carried to Baelon on Silverwing. The one-eyed prince's face was split by a grin that was all predatory joy. "The day the Serpent King taught the Titan of Braavos a new master! Even old Maegor would have balked at this!"
Baelon, seated firmly on Silverwing, felt a bone-deep weariness that even the potent, if now terrifyingly altered, energies of the Ignis Shard could not entirely dispel. His arm, bearing the gauntlet, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic heat – a constant, metallic pulse that echoed the distant, colossal heartbeat of the Titan. It was a sensation both reassuring and deeply unsettling, a tether of shared existence. "This was not about songs, Aemond," Baelon replied, his voice still raspy but firm. "It was about necessity. And leverage."
As they climbed higher, spiraling eastwards, Baelon extended his senses, not just his mundane sight, but the arcane feelers of his will, towards the distant, silent colossus. He could feel it, a vast, slumbering well of power, its consciousness an intricate tapestry of ancient Valyrian programming, raw elemental force, and now, his own overriding imprint. It was… waiting. Alert. He pushed a silent command, a simple instruction: Observe. Record. Report any vessel of significant size attempting to leave or enter the main lagoon channels.
There was no verbal reply, but he felt a subtle shift in the Titan's vast awareness, a focusing of its arcane senses. It was an instrument of unparalleled scope, and he had only just begun to learn its melodies.
Lord Larys Strong, positioned discreetly behind Baelon on Silverwing, his slight frame belying the intricate web of his thoughts, murmured, "The Sealord will be composing more than songs. He'll be composing desperate missives to every power that might lend an ear, or an army. The Iron Bank's ledgers will be spasming. Braavos's neutrality, its invulnerability, was anchored to that Titan's impassivity. You haven't just struck the city, Your Grace; you've struck the heart of its economic and political identity."
"Let them spasm," Baelon said, his gaze fixed on the eastern horizon, where the promise of his burgeoning empire lay. "They grew fat and complacent under its old gaze. They will learn a new posture under its new one."
Maester Arryk, clutching a satchel overflowing with hastily gathered notes and a few smaller, less volatile artifacts recovered from the Heart-Core chamber, shivered despite the relative warmth of Silverwing's scales. "Your Grace, the symbiosis… it is stable, as I said. But the Titan is now perpetually shunting a stream of its core energy to the Ignis Shard to prevent it from drawing on you. This is… uncharted territory. The ancient Valyrians bound dragons, they imbued constructs with rudimentary sentience, but this direct, continuous siphoning from a prime artifact to appease another, integrated with a living being… the long-term consequences are unknown. The Titan's energy reserves are vast, almost beyond comprehension, but 'limitless' is a word that makes scholars uneasy."
"The Shard's hunger was immediate and absolute, Maester," Baelon countered, his voice hard. "It would have consumed me. The Titan now bears that burden. It is a tool, and like any tool, it requires maintenance. If its 'appetite,' as you call it, for providing this energy becomes too great, we will find other sources to supplement it." Or I will feed it myself, through conquest and the energies of those who stand against me, a colder, more ruthless thought whispered from the recesses of his mind, a chilling echo of the Voldemort soul fragment. The fragment, so recently recoiling from the Shard's raw hunger, now saw the potential in this new arrangement – a potentially inexhaustible power source for Baelon, and by extension, itself, if managed with cunning.
Umbraxys, a deeper shadow coalesced around Baelon's shoulders, its form less distinct in the growing daylight but its presence palpable, whispered directly into his mind, a current of cold air against his thoughts. "The Cinderfell's echo is sated for the moment, Speaker, but its nature is to burn. The Titan is a vast forest, but even forests can be consumed. This pact you have forged… it binds you not only to the Shard, but to the sustenance of the colossus. Its well-being is now intrinsically yours."
"I am aware, Umbraxys," Baelon mentally replied, his eyes narrowing. "Every power has its price. This one is merely… louder." He shifted his focus. "What of the Valyrian schematics you recovered, Maester? Beyond the obvious, do they hint at other capabilities? Or vulnerabilities?"
Arryk fumbled for a scroll, his hands still shaking slightly. "They are incredibly complex, Your Grace. Centuries ahead of anything currently understood. They detail energy conduits, focusing lenses within the Titan's eyes that could, theoretically, project… more than just light. Defensive systems, arcane wards, even references to alloys and power sources that seem to draw upon geothermal vents deep beneath the city, or perhaps even… other planes. Much of it seems dormant, requiring specific sequences or power signatures to reactivate. The Valyrians built it to last an eternity, and to adapt."
"Adaptation will be key," Baelon mused. "Aemond!" he called out, and Vhagar, with a few powerful beats of her immense wings, drew closer to Silverwing, the hot scent of brimstone washing over them.
"Brother?" Aemond's single eye gleamed with anticipation. "Are we turning back to level the rest of their 'invincible' city? Vhagar has barely stretched her legs."
"Patience, Aemond. Braavos is crippled, for now. Confused. Let them stew in their fear and uncertainty. Let the rumors of the Titan's new allegiance spread like wildfire. Our purpose there is achieved for the moment." Baelon paused, then continued, "The Titan itself. Maester Arryk's findings suggest it has… latent capabilities. Defensive, perhaps even offensive, beyond its sheer presence."
Aemond's grin widened. "A walking fortress that can smite my enemies from afar? You do know how to give the best gifts, Baelon."
"It is not a gift, brother. It is a responsibility, and a weapon that requires a keen mind to wield, not just a strong hand." Baelon looked at Larys Strong. "Lord Strong, you will coordinate with Maester Arryk. I want every piece of data from those schematics analyzed. We need to understand the full spectrum of the Titan's abilities, its operational range, its energy consumption under various… active states. And most importantly, how to command these systems remotely and securely."
Larys nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "Indeed, Your Grace. To possess such a sentinel is one thing. To integrate it fully into your strategic calculus, to make it an extension of your will across distances… that will require careful study. And we must assume the Braavosi, or what remains of their leadership, will be desperately trying to understand what has happened, and if it can be undone."
"Undone?" Aemond scoffed. "They couldn't even stop us from walking into its heart. Their time is over. The age of merchants and moneylenders cowering behind silent bronze is past. The age of dragons and true power returns."
"The Drowned Brethren will not see it as 'over'," Baelon reminded him, his voice dropping slightly. "They have infested the Free Cities for centuries. This blow to their operations in Braavos, the desecration of what they likely saw as a potential prize, will not go unanswered. They are an amorphous entity, Larys. What can we expect?"
Lord Strong's expression was grim. "They are like a plague, Your Grace. Cut out one festering sore, and they will attempt to erupt elsewhere. They have agents and hidden shrines from Lys to Qarth. Their more fanatical elements will demand immediate, bloody retribution. Their leadership, if they have one that is coherent, will be more calculating. They might try to understand the nature of the power that overwhelmed their ritual and claimed the Titan. They might seek new, more powerful patrons, or attempt to awaken darker things themselves. They will test your new acquisition, probe for weaknesses."
Kael, who had remained silent with his Freedmen aboard Silverwing, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, spoke up, his voice rough. "They know how to fight dirty, Your Grace. Ambushes, poisons, using the innocent as shields. We've seen it in the Basilisk Isles. They won't face Vhagar head-on, not unless they're desperate or have something truly terrible up their sleeves."
"Which is why," Baelon stated, "our first priority upon returning to Volantis is to bolster our own defenses, both mundane and arcane. Maester Arryk, your knowledge of their rituals, their abyssal energies – you will work with my sorcerers. We must develop countermeasures, wards. The Titan itself… can its gaze be turned inward, to detect such cultic activity within my own territories?"
Arryk looked startled. "Theoretically, Your Grace… if its sensors can be attuned to specific energy signatures… the Valyrians designed it to watch for fleets and armies, for threats on a grand scale. Detecting covert cells… that would be a novel application. It would require immense precision, a re-calibration of its primary function."
"Then we shall achieve it," Baelon said with finality. "The Serpent's Aegis must not only be a sword to strike my enemies, but a shield to protect my people." He felt the Ignis Shard pulse in response to his conviction, a warm thrum that resonated up his arm. The Titan, distant as it was, seemed to echo that pulse, a faint shimmer in his mind's eye.
The flight continued east, the sun climbing higher, casting long shadows from the dragons across the choppy, grey waters of the Shivering Sea. Hours passed in strategic discussion, punctuated by Aemond's impatient suggestions for their next conquest and Arryk's increasingly detailed, and often alarming, hypotheses about Valyrian magitech.
Baelon took the opportunity to delve deeper into his mental connection with the Titan. He didn't try to access its full sensory array yet – that, he sensed, would be like trying to drink from a fire hose. Instead, he focused on the feeling of its presence, its allegiance. It was undeniably his. The core programming, twisted and augmented by the Drowned Brethren's aborted ritual, had been violently overwritten by the Ignis Shard's fiery assertion and his own dominant will. The entity within, the "Watcher," was quiescent, integrated. It reminded him of how Silverwing felt beneath him – a powerful beast, loyal, but still requiring a firm hand and clear direction.
He tested its obedience with another subtle command, one that would be imperceptible to any outside observer in Braavos. Rotate your gaze slowly, a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sweep of the horizon, focusing on any naval movements within ten leagues. Report anomalies.
The feedback was not in words, but in a cascade of sensory impressions, almost too rapid to fully decipher at first – the glint of sunlight on distant waves, the shape of coastlines, the smudge of smoke from a trading cog, the flight of gulls. It was overwhelming, yet filtered, as if the Titan's consciousness was trying to translate its vast perceptions into a form he could comprehend. Then, a specific anomaly was highlighted in his mind: a cluster of small, fast-moving vessels, painted in dark, non-reflective colors, attempting to slip out of a minor, unguarded channel north of the main port, heading west – away from the immediate chaos, perhaps towards a rendezvous point. Smugglers? Or Drowned Brethren attempting to escape the net?
Observe and track, Baelon commanded. Do not engage. Simply… watch. He would have Larys's agents in Braavos – those who had survived and not been part of the Titan infiltration – investigate later, if possible. The Titan was a strategic asset, not a patrol boat for every minor infraction. But its ability to gather such information passively was invaluable.
The Ignis Shard on his gauntlet remained a constant, dull furnace. It no longer felt like it was actively drawing from him, the searing pain replaced by this persistent, radiating heat and the knowledge that the Titan was now the fuel source. The Voldemort fragment watched this internal exchange with cold interest. Such power, yet such dependence, it seemed to murmur. The boy relies on the golem to sustain the artifact that makes him a god amongst insects. A chain, no matter how gilded, is still a chain. Ensure you remain the master of all links, Baelon. Or one will eventually break and bring all crashing down.
Baelon silently acknowledged the cunning advice. The ancient Dark Lord was right. Complacency was the herald of downfall.
As they neared the coast of the Axe, still leagues from Volantis, Larys Strong received a message via a carrier raven that had been patiently circling, waiting for them to come within its designated flight path. His network was ever-active. He read the small, coded scroll, his face impassive, then reported, "Your Grace, news from within Braavos, from those of my agents still able to communicate. The Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, has collapsed. Some say his heart gave out from the shock. Others whisper of a swift poison, administered by those who felt his inaction against the Drowned Brethren, or perhaps his failure to prevent your… intervention… was a capital offense. The city is in utter political disarray. The Iron Bank has sealed its vaults and is communicating only through intermediaries. The Keyholders and Magisters are accusing each other. Panic is rampant."
Aemond chuckled. "Excellent. Let the rats devour each other."
"This chaos serves us in the short term," Baelon said, "but a power vacuum in a city like Braavos can be dangerous. Others may seek to fill it, powers less predictable than a weakened Sealord. For now, however, their internal strife will keep them from mounting any coherent response. What of the Drowned Brethren specifically?"
Larys's expression darkened slightly. "Their known shrines and meeting places in the city have gone silent. Some were found abandoned, others… signs of hasty, violent departures. It seems your strike at the Titan, and the subsequent… re-education… of its loyalties, was a blow that decapitated their immediate leadership within the city. However, whispers are emerging from the lower canals, from the desperate and the disenfranchised who often lend their ears to the cult's promises. They speak of a 'Night of Bronze Tears,' and of a 'Tidal Reckoning' to come. Their priests are calling for sacrifice, for the 'Great Kraken to awaken and drag the false god of fire and shadow beneath the waves.'"
"Empty threats from cornered fanatics," Aemond scoffed, though his eye held a glint of interest at the mention of a 'Great Kraken.'
"Perhaps," Baelon conceded. "But their faith is a weapon, and their reach is extensive. We have wounded them grievously in Braavos, but they are not extinguished. They will seek new avenues of attack, new sources of power." His gaze drifted down to the Ignis Shard. The Cinderfell's echo. Abyssal energies. Primal entities. The world was far older and stranger than most maesters taught.
"Let them come," Baelon said, his voice soft but laden with cold resolve. "They sought to corrupt an ancient power. I have merely… repurposed it." He thought of the Heart-Core, now a beacon of emerald, gold, and obsidian, pulsing in time with the Shard on his arm, a continent away. A component in the maintenance of his arsenal, yes, but also a symbol. The Titan of Braavos, the unyielding sentinel of the Free Cities, now watched with his eyes.
Maester Arryk, looking profoundly uneasy, interjected, "Your Grace, the energy signature from the Heart-Core, even with the siphoning to the Shard, is… it's not just stable, it's… more vibrant. The Valyrian pathways, as I mentioned, seem more active. It's as if the Shard's presence, its demand, has shocked the Titan's core into a higher state of operational readiness than it has maintained for centuries. The 'symbiosis' might be more complex than simple sustenance. It might be… synergistic, in a terrifyingly potent way."
Baelon nodded slowly. Synergistic. The Shard demanded, the Titan provided, and in providing, perhaps became stronger, more itself. A dangerous, escalating loop of power. A dragon feeding its own flame, the Voldemort fragment observed with a sliver of appreciation. Ensure it does not consume the forest, as Umbraxys warned, but instead, turns your chosen enemies to ash.
As the familiar coastline of northern Essos finally came into view, the vast delta of the Rhoyne visible in the distance, Baelon felt a grim satisfaction. The storm he had unleashed upon Braavos was not merely one of wind and dragonfire. It was a storm of change, a fundamental shift in the currents of power that governed the world.
"Lord Larys," Baelon commanded, "upon our return, draft proclamations. Let it be known, subtly at first, then with increasing clarity, that the Titan of Braavos now answers to the Serpent of Volantis. Let the merchant princes and the magisters of the Free Cities understand that their old protector has a new master, and that its gaze is far-reaching. Let them wonder what other ancient powers might awaken under my banner."
Aemond grinned, a flash of white teeth. "A new Valyria, built not just on dragon flame, but on the wonders of the old."
"A new Valyria that will not repeat the mistakes of the old," Baelon corrected, his eyes hard. "They grew complacent. We will remain vigilant." He looked at the Shard on his gauntlet, then towards the unseen, distant Titan. He had his aegis. He had his eternal war. And the first, resounding note of its newest symphony had been struck in the heart of Braavos. The echoes would shake the world, and he, Baelon Targaryen, would be ready to conduct the orchestra of its unfolding chaos and conquest. The cost was already being counted, in the thrumming heat on his arm and the weight of a god-machine's fealty upon his soul. The game was indeed afoot, on a scale few had ever dared to imagine.