Beneath the morning fog lay Braavos.
On the docks of the city, a fisherman had just set down his first basket of silvery herring when he heard the wind.
It was not the sea breeze, but something heavier—hotter—tearing through the air itself.
He looked up. The fish slipped from his hand back into the basket.
"Gods…"
"Two dragons!"
The larger one resembled a flying volcanic crag, its scales the color of clotted blood. When its wings spread wide, they blotted out half the sky.
The smaller was more beautiful—cream and gold—and as it passed overhead it stirred a fierce wind, making the fishing nets along the pier rattle and snap.
Panic stirred along the docks.
An old woman began to pray—Braavosi believed in the Seven, and in the Many-Faced God, and in that moment she called upon every god she knew.
Sailors paused in their work of mending sails, squinting skyward.
From the windows of a nearby brothel, curious and frightened faces peered out. Children wanted to cheer, but their mother clapped a hand over their mouths.
"A dragon!" someone cried.
"A demon dragon!"
Fear was instinctive.
Every child in Braavos had heard the bedtime tales. Long ago, their ancestors had been enslaved by silver-haired demons who rode dragons, forging chains beneath the Fourteen Fires, howling in blood and flame.
Those ancestors fled upon stolen ships, through storms and pursuit, until they reached this fog-shrouded archipelago—Braavos—where they swore there would never be slaves again.
Now, a dragon had returned.
Yet Braavos did not panic.
From the fortress at the feet of the Titan of Braavos, a bronze horn sounded three times, low and deep.
In the harbor, fifty Braavosi warships moved at once—swift galleys with iron rams and deck-mounted ballistae.
Along the city walls, guards in silver-grey armor hauled at winches, raising massive scorpion crossbows, their blunted bolts aimed skyward.
No one fired.
The dragons continued along the long, straight canal toward the Hall of Neptune at the heart of the city.
The guards waited, fingers tight on the triggers, yet no order came.
"The Sealord has given his command," an officer told the nervous young soldier beside him.
"Let them enter."
"But, sir—that's a dragon!"
The officer struck the soldier's helmet sharply. "They are honored guests of the Sealord of Braavos."
The Hall of Neptune — the Tidal Council Chamber
Four high-backed chairs stood around a long ebony table. Seated upon them were four expressionless figures.
They wore dark clothing and simple adornments, yet their hands were clean, their nails neatly trimmed—hands meant to count coin, not wield swords.
At the central seat sat the Sealord of Braavos, a man of fifty with greying hair and eyes the color of the sea—unfathomable and cold. He was peeling an apple with a small silver knife, the peel unbroken as it curled away. He listened, silent.
The Sealord commanded the fleet.
The Iron Bank commanded the coin.
"Two million," said a bald man named Tomo, overseer of trade bonds for the Iron Bank.
"They ask for two million gold dragons."
"And what do they offer in return?" asked a thin woman named Lylia, whose task was to measure risk and set a price on all things.
"The Iron Throne," said Grover, his heavy belly shaking as he smiled. The jeweled ring on his finger caught the candlelight. "If they can sit it."
"And if they cannot?"
"That would be even more interesting," said Bracco, an old man with a face like carved stone.
The Sealord drove the knife into the table. The blade quivered.
"Where is the dragon's egg?" Tomo asked carefully.
"If they ask for coin, there must be true collateral. A living dragon's egg would suffice."
"Then Prince Daemon would put Dark Sister through your eye," the Sealord said calmly.
"You know his temper."
"A pity."
"No," Lylia adjusted her spectacles. "What we require is not an egg—but war."
"Westeros has known peace for too long. The gold of the Seven Kingdoms rots in castle vaults."
"Let them fight. Gold will flow—for weapons, food, and lives."
"Where gold flows, we take our commission."
"And when it ends, whoever wins will owe us."
"And after that?"
Lylia smiled. "After that, we hold an entire continent in debt."
Heavy footsteps echoed outside.
The Sealord looked at the four representatives of the Iron Bank.
"Remember," he said quietly.
"Smile."
"But count every coin. Braavos does not make losing bargains."
The doors opened.
Daemon Targaryen entered, and for a moment the candles dimmed.
He wore dark red and black armor, a black-and-gold cloak flowing behind him. At his hip hung Dark Sister, its Valyrian steel hilt gleaming faintly.
Rhaenyra Targaryen walked beside him.
She wore a long gown of deep blue, a silver circlet woven into her flowing hair. Her face was pale from the long flight, yet her violet eyes were steady, meeting every gaze without flinching.
"Your Magnificence, Sealord of Braavos," Daemon said clearly. "Thank you for receiving us."
"Welcome, Your Highnesses," the Sealord rose, spreading his arms in practiced warmth.
"Friends are always welcome in Braavos. Please—sit."
Polite words followed, false smiles, questions of travel and dragons.
That day, Syrax and Caraxes rested upon the square before the Hall of Neptune, watched from afar by guards torn between awe and vigilance.
Daemon praised the defenses of Braavos, remarking that the Titan lived up to its name.
"And what of the dragons of Valyria?" Lylia asked suddenly.
Silence fell.
Daemon turned to her, something sharp flickering in his violet eyes.
"The Titan is magnificent."
"But giants are stone dragons," she said. "And those outside are living ones."
"Then they are more dangerous," Lylia concluded.
"To our enemies," Daemon replied.
The air smelled of sparks.
The Sealord coughed lightly, steering the matter back.
"I hear you have… difficulties."
"As friends, perhaps we may help."
Daemon leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the black table.
"We require gold."
"How much?"
"Two million gold dragons."
Someone inhaled sharply. Grover's thick fingers tapped the table.
"Two million? Your Highness, do you know what that sum could buy? A quarter of Braavos's fleet."
"I know," Daemon said calmly. "I also know the price of victory."
"To arm soldiers, hire sellswords, build warships, store grain and fodder—this is only the beginning."
"And if you lose?" Lylia asked.
"We will not."
"Why should we believe that?"
"Because she is the rightful heir," Daemon said, indicating Rhaenyra,
"backed by dragons, fleets, and lords of conscience and honor throughout the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused.
"A usurper will never sit the Iron Throne."