Beneath the morning mist, Braavos.
On the docks of Braavos, a fishmonger had just set down his first basket of silver-shining herring when he heard the wind.
It was not the sea breeze, but the sound of something heavier, more searing, rending the air.
He looked up, and the fish slipped from his hand back into the basket.
"Gods!"
"Two dragons!"
The larger one was like a slab of flying volcanic rock, its scales the color of congealed blood. When its wings spread, they blotted out half the sky.
The smaller one was more splendid, a pale golden hue. They flew over the head of the Titan at five hundred meters high, and the gale they stirred set the drying fishing nets on the docks clattering.
On the docks, the crowd began to stir.
An old woman took the lead in prayer—Braavosi believed in the Seven, and in the Many-Faced God, and in all manner of gods… at this moment, she invoked every deity she knew.
The sailors ceased their mending of sails and narrowed their eyes.
From the windows of the brothels, a few faces peered out, curious yet afraid. The children wished to cheer, but their mothers clamped hands tightly over their mouths.
"It's dragons!" someone shouted.
"Demon dragons!"
Fear was instinct.
Every child of Braavos had heard the tale before sleep: long, long ago, their forebears were enslaved by silver-haired demons who rode dragons, forced to dig beneath the Fourteen Flames, wailing in blood and fire.
Later, their ancestors fled, aboard stolen ships, through storm and pursuit, until they came to these islands hidden in mist—Braavos—and they swore to one another that here there would be no slaves.
Now, the dragons had returned.
Yet Braavos did not descend into chaos.
Within the fortress beneath the feet of the Bronze Titan, the bronze horn sounded three low blasts.
In the harbor, fifty Braavosi warships raised their sails at once—swift-deploying war galleys, their prows sheathed in iron, scorpions mounted upon their decks.
Along the city walls, guards clad in silver-gray scale armor turned their windlasses, and great scorpions slowly lifted, their fire-hardened bolts aimed at the sky.
They did not loose.
The dragons flew on, along the straight and broad Long Canal, toward the Sea Lord's Palace at the heart of the city.
The guards waited, fingers tight upon the triggers, yet no one gave the order.
"The Sea Lord has commanded," an officer said to the nervous young soldier beside him.
"Let them enter."
"But, sir, those are dragons!"
The officer struck his helmet hard. "They are honored guests of the Sea Lord's Palace!"
...
Within the Sea Lord's Palace, in the Chamber of Tides.
Four high-backed chairs stood about a long table of black ebony, and in them sat four expressionless figures.
They wore dark garments and simple adornments, yet their hands were clean, their nails neatly trimmed—hands that counted coin, not hands that gripped swords.
In the seat of honor sat the Sea Lord, Fere Taryon.
He was fifty years of age, his hair gray-white, his eyes green and unfathomable.
At that moment, he pared an apple with a small silver knife, the peel unbroken in a long curling strip. The Sea Lord listened as the envoys of the Iron Bank spoke, and did not interrupt.
In Braavos, the Sea Lord governed the soldiery; the Iron Bank governed the coin.
"Two million," said the speaker, a bald man named Tomo, who oversaw trade notes for the Iron Bank.
"They ask for two million gold dragons."
"With what will they repay?" asked a thin woman. Her name was Liraya; her charge was to assess risk for the Iron Bank and set a price upon all things.
"The Iron Throne." The corpulent Grover gave a low chuckle, the gem upon his finger flashing in the light. "If they can sit it."
"And if they cannot?"
"Then it becomes more interesting," said an old man with a hard face. His name was Brako.
The Sea Lord finished paring the apple and set the knife upright in the table. The tip quivered faintly.
"And the dragon eggs?" the bald Tomo ventured.
"If they seek coin, there must be something tangible for pledge. Living dragon eggs are the surest pledge."
"That Prince Daemon will drive his Dark Sister into your eye," the Sea Lord said calmly.
"Daemon Targaryen is a man whose temper you ought to know."
"A pity."
"Not a pity." Liraya adjusted her spectacles. "What we desire is not dragon eggs, but war."
"Westeros has known peace too long. The gold of the Seven Kingdoms lies piled in castle vaults, rusting."
"Let them fight, and the gold will move—buying arms, buying grain, buying lives."
"When the gold moves, we take our share."
"And when they have nearly finished tearing one another apart, whoever prevails will owe us their debt."
"And then?"
"And then?" Liraya smiled. "Then we shall hold an entire continent as collateral."
Footsteps sounded beyond the hall doors—heavy, echoing.
The Sea Lord swept his gaze across the representatives of the Iron Bank.
"Remember."
"Smile. Be courteous."
"But every coin of interest must be reckoned. Braavos does not trade at a loss."
The doors opened.
...
When Daemon entered, the candlelight in the hall seemed to dim for an instant.
He wore light armor of dark red and black, a black-and-gold cloak about his shoulders, Dark Sister at his hip.
Rhaenyra walked beside him.
She wore a deep blue gown, her long hair bound by a silver crown. Her face was somewhat pale, the toll of long flight. Yet her violet eyes met the gaze of all present, yielding to none.
"Your Majesty, Sea Lord," Daemon began, his voice clear, "our thanks for your welcome."
"Welcome, Your Highnesses." The Sea Lord rose and spread his arms, his smile measured and exact. "Braavos always welcomes friends. Pray, be seated."
A round of courteous false pleasantries was necessary. The Sea Lord inquired after their journey, after the dragons.
Even now, Syrax and Caraxes stood in the square before the Sea Lord's Palace, the guards observing from afar, at once awed and wary.
Daemon smiled and praised the defenses of Braavos, saying the Titan's renown was well deserved.
"How does it compare to the dragons of Valyria?" Liraya asked suddenly.
The hall fell silent for a heartbeat.
Daemon turned to look at her. Something flickered within his violet eyes. "The Titan is most imposing."
"But the Titan is stone. Dragons are living things."
"And thus more dangerous," Liraya said.
"To their enemies, yes."
A scent of powder entered the exchange. The Sea Lord gave a light cough and drew the matter back. "We have heard you have encountered some… difficulty?"
"As friends, what service may we render you?"
Daemon leaned forward, his finger striking hard against the ebony tabletop.
"We require gold."
"How much?"
"Two million gold dragons."
Someone drew a sharp breath. Grover's plump fingers tapped the table. "Two million? Your Highness, do you know what sum that is? It could purchase a quarter of Braavos's fleet!"
"I know," Daemon said calmly. "I also know how much coin is needed to prevail."
"To equip soldiers, to hire sellswords, to build warships, to store grain… and this is but the beginning."
"And if you do not prevail?" Liraya asked.
"We shall prevail."
"On what grounds?"
"Because she is the rightful heir," Daemon said, gesturing toward Rhaenyra. "Because we have dragons, and a fleet, and the support of those lords within the Seven Kingdoms who still possess conscience and honor."
"And also…" He paused. "Because traitors never sit secure upon the Iron Throne."
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