The approach to Braavos was a sight to behold, even for a soul as grimly focused as Maegor. The Titan of Braavos, a colossal stone sentinel, loomed from the mists, guarding the city's lagoon like a mythical god. Beyond it, Braavos itself rose from the sea, a sprawling metropolis of islands and bridges, canals and arched stone. It was a city of paradoxes – silent, swift galleys cutting through the water, yet perpetually alive with the murmur of a thousand tongues; a city of strict laws, yet home to cutthroats and assassins.
Maegor had spent the final days of the sea voyage drilling his company. He drilled them on their cover story: merchants from Westeros seeking to establish new trade routes, with Maegor as their quiet, unassuming leader. He emphasized discretion, avoiding unnecessary attention, and the absolute necessity of keeping Balerion's existence a secret.
As the Sea Serpent glided into the outer reaches of the lagoon, Maegor gave his final command concerning Balerion. "Balerion," he murmured, stroking the dragon's now crow-sized head, "you will stay hidden. Deep within the cog, in the darkest holds. No sound, no movement, no flame. Your time will come, but not here, not now." Balerion, with an intelligence that belied his youth, seemed to understand, nuzzling into Maegor's hand before retreating into his specially prepared, darkened crate.
"Captain Jorah," Maegor commanded, turning to the grizzled sailor, "you and Kael and Torr will remain with the Sea Serpent. Ensure no one boards without my express permission. Any undue curiosity, any suspicion, you handle it. Discreetly." Jorah, his face a mask of grim determination, nodded. He was still wary, but the loyalty granted by the System held him firm. Kael and Torr, the stoic spearmen, simply gripped their weapons, their eyes promising unwavering vigilance.
With his cover firmly re-established, Maegor re-applied the black dye to his hair, obscuring the tell-tale silver. His purple eyes, however, remained, a constant threat to his disguise, which he hoped the general hustle and bustle of a bustling port city would help to obscure. He donned simple, undyed woolens, a common merchant's cloak, and pulled the hood low.
He took Kaeto, Lyra, Ryker, and Gor with him. Kaeto, with his knowledge of Essosi customs and languages, would be invaluable. Lyra, with her keen eyes and quiet nature, was an excellent scout and observer. Ryker and Gor, with their brawn and presence, provided ample protection without drawing excessive attention.
They disembarked at a lesser-used quay, blending seamlessly with the arriving and departing merchants. The air vibrated with foreign tongues: High Valyrian, Braavosi, Tyroshi, Volantene. The smells were a rich tapestry of spices, fish, and unfamiliar perfumes.
As they navigated the winding, cobbled streets, Maegor turned to Kaeto and Lyra. "Your mission begins now," he instructed, keeping his voice low, almost a whisper against the city's hum. "Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen. They are likely somewhere in the Free Cities, probably living in squalor or under the precarious patronage of a Magister. Kaeto, use your contacts, your knowledge of the Free Cities' underbelly. Lyra, use your ears and your discretion. Avoid direct contact if possible. Just find them. Learn their status, their location, their immediate needs. I want details, not assumptions."
"It may take time, my lord," Kaeto cautioned. "They move often, and their protectors are paranoid."
"Time is a luxury we do not possess indefinitely," Maegor countered, a subtle hardening in his eyes. "But patience is also a weapon. Be thorough. Be unseen."
With their separate missions established, Kaeto and Lyra melted into the Braavosi crowds, two more faces in a city of thousands, their eyes now sharp with purpose.
Maegor, accompanied by Ryker and Gor, set about his own task: exploring the city, looking for any trace of other dragonseeds, or lingering connections to the ancient Valyrian past. His Valyrian Insight (Tier 2) now hummed with increased potency, a subtle guidance that pulled him towards certain areas, certain feelings. He found himself drawn to the older districts, where the architecture hinted at deeper roots, where the very stones seemed to whisper forgotten histories.
He found himself wandering through the Quarter of the Keyholders, observing the intricate locks and silent courtesies. He passed the grand facades of the Iron Bank, feeling the immense, silent power that resided there. He sought out libraries, scribes, and ancient marketplaces, sifting through common chatter for any unusual phrases, any subtle Valyrian dialects, any mention of peculiar practices or strange bloodlines.
His senses, sharpened by the System, became acutely aware of a subtle resonance, like a faint echo in the back of his mind, whenever he passed certain individuals. They looked common enough – a fishmonger with unusually keen eyes, a weaver with a proud, almost regal bearing despite her simple clothes, a street urchin with a flash of dark, intelligent eyes that were too knowing for his age. They weren't like Kaeto, their features not overtly Valyrian, but Maegor felt the subtle thrum of distant, diluted dragon blood. He didn't approach them; it was too soon. He was merely observing, gathering intel, confirming that the bloodlines indeed persisted.
One afternoon, while perusing a dusty stall selling ancient maps and nautical charts, Maegor's eyes fell upon a peculiar, tarnished bronze medallion. It was small, unremarkable to the untrained eye, but his Valyrian Insight flared. He picked it up. On its surface, barely discernible, was a faded carving of a dragon, subtly different from the Targaryen sigil, more akin to the ancient, coiled beasts of Old Valyria.
"Ah, that piece?" the old merchant rasped, eyeing him suspiciously. "Just old refuse, lad. Found it years ago, deep in the canals. Some fancy merchant once told me it was from a drowned house, a long, long time ago. Take it for a few coppers."
Maegor bought it. This was no common trinket. This was a direct link to the deeper Valyrian past of Braavos, perhaps a signet from a forgotten dragonlord line that had fled the Doom and settled here, obscuring their bloodline. He slipped the medallion into his pouch, a silent promise. These hidden fragments of his heritage, the subtle veins of dragon blood in the common folk, were assets he could call upon.
He spent his evenings in the shadows of taverns, listening to the gossip, the news from Westeros. He learned of the Lannisters' rise, the Baratheon brothers' squabbles, the whispers of Robb Stark's victories in the North, and the growing dread of winter. The realm was indeed tearing itself apart. The timing was perfect.
Days bled into a week, then two. Maegor's patience, a quality Maegor the Cruel found tedious but understood as necessary, was tested. But he knew the prize was worth it. His focus was not just on the throne, but on the enduring legacy he would build. He needed not just power, but a foundation that would not crumble like the foolish kings before him. He needed his family, scattered as they were, and he needed every drop of dragon blood he could find