Chapter 53: The Price of Vigilance, The Kraken's Stir
The return to their primary Essosi stronghold – the re-conquered and heavily fortified port city of Elyria, nestled strategically on the coast with easy access to the Summer Sea and a watchful eye on the Disputed Lands – was met with a mixture of hushed awe and barely concealed fear. News, fragmented and fantastical, had preceded them, carried by swift ships and Larys Strong's discreet network of agents. Whispers of the Serpent King's audacity in Braavos, of a confrontation with the Drowned Brethren within the very heart of the Titan, and of an impossible outcome, had already begun to circulate.
As Silverwing, followed by the colossal shadow of Vhagar, descended upon Elyria's newly constructed dragonmont – a craggy, obsidian peak reshaped by sorcery and slave labor to accommodate the growing might of Baelon's dragons – the city's populace watched in silence. The usual bustle of the port stilled, the clamor of the markets muted. All eyes turned skyward. Baelon's Dragon Guard, their armor still bearing the grime of the Titan's innards and the ichor of Drowned Ones, maintained a grim, imposing presence.
Upon landing, Baelon felt the familiar thrum of the Ignis Shard, a constant, radiating warmth from his gauntleted arm. It was a tether, not just to the incandescent power within the gem, but to the distant, silent sentinel now guarding the northwestern passage of Essos. He reached out with his will, a fleeting touch across the leagues, and felt the Titan's unwavering awareness, its new tri-hued gaze sweeping the storm-tossed seas around Braavos. It was a profoundly strange sensation, this distributed consciousness, this immense power held in distant leash.
Lady Lyra Celtigar, the stern, capable woman Baelon had entrusted with governing Elyria in his absence, was the first to greet them, her usually composed face etched with a mixture of relief and profound curiosity. Behind her stood the city's chief engineers, maesters, and military commanders, their expressions mirroring hers.
"Your Grace," Lyra began, her voice carefully neutral, "Elyria is secure. Your… expedition… has been the subject of much speculation."
"The speculation ends now, Lady Lyra," Baelon stated, dismounting Silverwing, Umbraxys a shifting cloak of shadows around him that seemed to drink the nascent sunlight. "The Titan of Braavos serves a new master. The Drowned Brethren who sought to defile it have been… purged."
A collective gasp, quickly suppressed, rippled through the assembled dignitaries. Aemond, dismounting Vhagar with a predatory grace, let a smirk play on his lips. "My brother is modest. He didn't just purge them, he redecorated their overgrown idol."
Baelon ignored Aemond's jibe. "Maester Arryk, Lord Strong, you will establish a secure scriptorium immediately. The Valyrian schematics recovered from the Titan's core are our utmost priority. I want every glyph deciphered, every system understood. Kael, your Freedmen will ensure their security. Ser Corlys, see to the Dragon Guard and our forces. Rest, but remain vigilant. The repercussions of this night are only just beginning."
Within hours, the wing of Elyria's citadel designated for arcane studies was transformed. Heavy doors were sealed, wards laid down by Baelon's own sorcerers, and the precious, ancient scrolls detailing the Titan's inner workings were carefully unfurled under Maester Arryk's trembling, reverent hands. Larys Strong, ever the quiet observer, directed the cataloging of information, his mind already weaving webs of implication and strategic advantage.
Baelon joined them later, after attending to the immediate governance of Elyria. The air in the scriptorium was thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, metallic tang of residual Valyrian magic. Arryk, his face flushed with a feverish intellectual excitement that had wholly supplanted his earlier terror, gestured towards a vast, intricate diagram.
"Your Grace, it is… magnificent, terrifyingly so," Arryk stammered, pointing to a section depicting complex energy conduits. "As I suspected, the Titan was designed to draw upon multiple power sources. Geothermal vents deep beneath Braavos, yes, but also… look here… these arrays. They seem designed to capture and store atmospheric energies – lightning strikes, even the ambient magical field of the world itself. The Valyrians didn't just build a statue; they built a self-sustaining arcane engine of colossal scale."
"And its connection to the Shard?" Baelon asked, his gaze intense. The dull heat from his gauntlet seemed to pulse in resonance with the schematics on the table.
"The Shard's demand, its 'hunger,' appears to have acted as a… a violent catalyst, Your Grace," Arryk explained, his voice hushed. "It has forced open dormant pathways, energized systems that may have lain quiescent for millennia. The Titan isn't just 'feeding' the Shard; the interaction is causing the Heart-Core to operate at a peak efficiency it likely hasn't achieved since the Doom of Valyria. It's… reawakening. Becoming more than it was. The output readings I was able to glean before we departed… they were still climbing, stabilizing at a level far beyond what its previous, passive state would suggest."
A flicker of something cold and calculating moved within Baelon – the Voldemort fragment. Power begets power. The artifact and the golem strengthen each other, and you, Baelon, are the nexus. A delicate balance, but one that could reshape empires.
Larys Strong, who had been studying a different set of scrolls detailing command sequences, added, "The control mechanisms are equally sophisticated, Your Grace. Direct will is the primary interface, as you've demonstrated. But there are layers of subordinate commands, protocols for specific actions, defensive measures that can be pre-programmed. We could, theoretically, establish automated patrol patterns, threat-recognition parameters… even, and this is purely hypothetical based on these glyphs, a way for the Titan to project focused arcane energy."
"Project energy?" Aemond, who had silently entered the scriptorium, his interest piqued, stepped closer. "Like a dragon's fire, but from a hundred leagues away?"
Arryk swallowed. "The schematics suggest… possibilities, Prince Aemond. Lenses, focusing crystals within the eyes… it's highly advanced, potentially devastating. But also, undoubtedly, incredibly draining on its reserves, even with its enhanced state."
Baelon filed that information away. A long-range weapon of that magnitude would be a game-changer, but its cost needed to be understood. For now, he tested a more subtle aspect. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the Titan once more, sending a complex query: Report on the disposition of the Braavosi fleet. Identify any attempts by their military or the Iron Bank to approach your plinth or investigate your lower access points. Detail the atmospheric conditions within a fifty-league radius of your position.
The response was a flood of preternaturally clear images and data streams directly into his consciousness: the shattered remnants of the Sealord's immediate war galleys still being salvaged or sinking in the lagoon; the bulk of the Braavosi fleet maintaining a cautious, fearful distance, their movements erratic and defensive; a few daring skiffs from the Iron Bank's private guard making tentative approaches, only to be met by an intensified, almost palpable aura of menace from the Titan, causing them to hastily retreat. The weather patterns were relayed with meteorological precision.
The clarity and detail were astounding. It was like having an omniscient eye in the west. But the mental effort to receive and process such a dense flow of information, even filtered by the Titan's nascent attempts to translate it for him, left him feeling a subtle mental drain, distinct from the Shard's physical presence.
The mind, too, has its limits, the Voldemort fragment observed. Delegation, Baelon. You cannot be the sole conduit for such a torrent. Systems, protocols, trusted interpreters… else you become the bottleneck, not the master.
"The control is potent," Baelon said, opening his eyes. "But raw data requires interpretation and filtering. Lord Larys, Maester Arryk, you will also work on developing a… a more refined interface. Perhaps a dedicated chamber, with charts and tools that can translate the Titan's observations into actionable intelligence without requiring my constant, direct immersion."
"A 'Throne of Seeing,' as it were, Your Grace?" Larys suggested, a rare hint of imaginative flair in his tone. "It could be arranged."
While the arcane secrets of the Titan were being unraveled, the mundane world was already reacting to the tremors from Braavos. Larys Strong's network, now amplified by Baelon's own burgeoning reputation, had begun to carefully seed the truth, or versions of it, into the courts and counting houses of the Free Cities.
"The initial responses are as expected, Your Grace," Larys reported a few days later in Baelon's solar, presenting a sheaf of dispatches. "Disbelief, swiftly followed by fear. Pentos has recalled its trade fleet from the northern routes. The Archon of Tyrosh has reportedly barricaded himself in his palace, demanding his astrologers explain 'the weeping star of Braavos,' as some are calling the Titan's new glow. Myr is silent, which, from Myr, often means intense, covert activity."
He paused, then continued, "The Volantene Triarchs are divided. The Old Blood factions see your actions as a resurgence of Valyrian might, something to be cautiously applauded, perhaps even emulated. The merchant princes and the Tigers fear the disruption to trade, and your growing power. They are dispatching an envoy, ostensibly to congratulate you on… pacifying Braavosi pirates."
Aemond snorted. "Pacifying pirates? I burned half their official fleet. They'll learn to use the right words soon enough."
"And the Iron Bank?" Baelon asked, his fingers steepled.
Larys's expression became graver. "They are… concerned. Deeply. The death of Sealord Antaryon, the political vacuum, and now the knowledge that their city's ultimate defense is in the hands of a foreign power… it has shaken them to their core. They have not made direct contact with us, but their agents are everywhere, assessing, probing. They will seek to understand the new rules of this game. Their power is not in armies, but in gold and debt. They will try to find a lever."
"Let them try," Baelon said coolly. "Gold is a useful tool, but it does not command the wind, nor does it quell dragonfire, nor does it turn the gaze of a god-machine."
But the most immediate and violent reaction came, as expected, from the Drowned Brethren. The whispers of a "Tidal Reckoning" were not mere rhetoric.
Kael was the first to bring concrete news, his usually stoic face grim. "Your Grace, reports from our coastal patrols south of the Disputed Lands. Three of our merchant cogs, heavily laden with grain from the Reach, overdue. We found wreckage. Not storm damage. Signs of… ritualistic slaughter. Bodies marked with the kraken, dragged into the depths. This wasn't piracy for profit. It was a message."
Before Baelon could respond, Ser Corlys Valerius entered, his armor hastily donned. "Your Grace, Prince Aemond! A fishing fleet, loyal to Elyria, just limped into port. They were attacked not two hours past dawn, ten leagues out. Not by ships, but by… creatures. Huge, tentacled things, rising from the depths. They spoke of dark shapes moving beneath the waves, and a sound… a horrifying, sub-sonic thrum that drove men mad before the tentacles even reached them."
Aemond was on his feet, his eye blazing. "Creatures? The Drowned God's pets? Vhagar will feast well tonight!"
Maester Arryk, who had followed Ser Corlys, looked pale. "The 'Great Kraken' they spoke of… Your Grace, their high priests have long claimed the ability to commune with, and in some measure command, the horrors of the deep. If the loss of the Titan and their foothold in Braavos has driven them to such desperate measures…"
Baelon felt a cold anger, but also a surge of adrenaline. The Shard on his arm grew noticeably warmer, as if sensing his rising battle intent. "They strike at our supply lines, our people. A direct challenge."
They probe your defenses, Baelon, the Voldemort fragment analyzed with detached precision. They test your reach, your resolve. A show of force is required, but a calculated one. Do not let rage dictate your response. Let purpose guide it.
"Umbraxys," Baelon spoke to the shadows coalescing near him. "These deep-sea entities… what knowledge do you possess of them?"
The shadow-wraith's mental voice was a chilling whisper. "The abyssal plains are worlds unto themselves, Speaker. The Drowned God is but one name given to the ancient, sightless hunger that sleeps in the lightless trenches. Its spawn are many. To rouse them is to invite a tide of madness and death that few can withstand. The Brethren play with forces that even they do not fully comprehend."
Baelon convened an immediate council of war. The solar was filled with grim faces. Aemond, predictably, argued for taking Vhagar and Silverwing out to hunt, to burn every Drowned Brethren coastal shrine they could find. Larys counseled caution, emphasizing intelligence gathering to locate their primary summoning sites. Maester Arryk wrung his hands, speaking of arcane countermeasures, but admitted that abyssal magic was notoriously difficult to shield against.
"Their strategy is clear," Baelon stated, his voice cutting through the debate. "They intend to sow terror, disrupt our trade, and demonstrate that even with the Titan, my reach is not absolute. They believe the sea is their inviolable domain." He looked at his gauntleted hand. "They are mistaken."
He rose and walked to the large map of Essos and the Summer Sea that dominated one wall. "The attacks are concentrated here," he said, tracing a finger along the shipping lanes vital to Elyria and his broader ambitions in the south. "They feel secure in these waters."
He turned to Maester Arryk. "The Titan's projected energy capabilities. You said they would be incredibly draining. But what if the target was not a fleet, or a city, but a specific… energy signature? Could it be focused, refined?"
Arryk looked taken aback. "To target… living creatures based on their abyssal taint from that distance, Your Grace? The precision required would be… astounding. The power cost… immense. It would be like trying to strike a single gnat with a thunderbolt from across a continent."
"Yet, the Valyrians built it," Baelon pressed. "They foresaw conflict with powers beyond the mundane. Is there nothing in those schematics about targeting… unique life forms or specific magical emanations?"
Larys, who had been cross-referencing scrolls, suddenly looked up. "Your Grace, there is a section here… Maester Arryk, these glyphs… they speak of 'resonance nullification' and 'sympathetic energy projection.' It seems less about a brute force beam, and more about… creating a counter-frequency, a disruptive wave tuned to a specific arcane signature. It's incredibly complex, highly theoretical even in these texts."
"Theoretical or not," Baelon said, a new, chilling resolve in his eyes, "we will make it practical. Maester Arryk, Lord Larys, you will focus all your efforts on this. If the Drowned Brethren wish to call upon the horrors of the deep, they will find that even the abyss has a master."
He then turned to Aemond. "Brother, you will have your hunt. But not a blind one. We will coordinate. While these scholars work, you and I, with Vhagar and Silverwing, and a select group of our fleet, will conduct armed reconnaissance. We will draw their creatures out, identify their patterns, perhaps even locate their summoners. We will give Arryk and Larys the data they need to refine this… 'resonance nullification.'"
Aemond's eye lit up with savage delight. "A hunt with purpose. Excellent. Let the krakens learn to fear the sky as much as the depths."
Baelon then addressed the entire council. "The Drowned Brethren have declared war upon our lifeline. They believe their ancient god and its monstrous servants will grant them victory. They fail to understand that the age of petty gods and whispered horrors is ending. A new power is ascendant, one that wields the fire of creation and the unblinking gaze of Valyria's mightiest sentinel."
His gaze drifted towards the west, though he saw nothing but the walls of his solar. Yet, he could feel the Titan, a silent, potent extension of his will, its Heart-Core thrumming with revitalized Valyrian energies, its hunger now a shared burden, its strength his own. The price of vigilance was eternal, the cost of power ever accumulating. But Baelon Targaryen was prepared to pay it. The Drowned Brethren sought a Tidal Reckoning. He would give them one forged in dragonflame and the forgotten science of the Valyrian Freehold, delivered by a god of bronze and fire. The Kraken would stir, but the Serpent King, with his newfound Aegis, would strike.
Later that night, alone in his chambers, the Ignis Shard a sullen coal on his gauntlet, Baelon practiced. Not with swords or overt sorcery, but with his will. He reached out to the Titan, not for observation, but for a subtle manipulation. He focused on a desolate, uninhabited shoal several leagues off the Braavosi coast, identified earlier through the Titan's passive watch. He imagined one of the Titan's massive bronze hands, unseen by any, slowly, almost imperceptibly, clenching. He poured his concentration into it, feeling the immense, distant inertia, the sheer scale of the mechanism he was attempting to influence with such fine control.
There was no immediate, obvious feedback, but he felt a subtle strain, a colossal expenditure of focused energy, not from himself, but from the Titan, instantly replenished by its roaring Heart-Core, which in turn drew sustenance to appease the Shard. It was a delicate, dangerous dance of immense forces. After a long moment, he thought he detected a faint tremor in the Titan's mental presence, an acknowledgement of the completed action.
He was learning. The Titan was more than just an eye or a potential cannon. It was an extension of his own body, his own power, albeit one terrifyingly vast and still imperfectly understood. The Drowned Brethren thought they knew the meaning of power, of gods and monsters. They were about to receive a very pointed education. The true cost of wielding such an Aegis was only just beginning to be tallied, but Baelon knew, with a certainty that chilled him even as it thrilled him, that he would not falter in paying it. The game was escalating, and he was ready.