The Sea Lord looked at the black envoy in shock. The gaze of this esteemed "ruler" of Braavos now seemed sharp enough to swallow the man whole.
He had seen a dragon? Where had he seen one?
But the Sea Lord dared not ask. Braavos's defenses might be enough to fend off one or two dragons, but if the two dragonlord families across the sea decided to vent their fury on the Hidden City together…
The golden age of magic was long gone. The Children of the Forest, who once raised a hammer of sea to smash the land bridge, had vanished. The Empire of the Dawn, wielders of divine power, had faded into history. The Rhoynar had lost their sweeping water magics, and even the magical capital of Asshai had sunk into silence as arcane powers diminished.
The Faceless Men still wielded strange and unpredictable magics, but that was the limit of it. The Moon Singers excelled in prophecy and healing, yet were all but useless in combat. The greatest blood wizard were in Westeros, and compared to Draezell, the rest were like mortals before gods—like ants before dragons. The followers of the Red God had become far more subdued in recent years, and the red-robed priests who once roamed the continent showing off "miracles" had become scarce.
No one knew why.
Only the dragons remained powerful. Though their numbers were but a shadow of what they had been during the height of Valyria's Freehold, to the magic-starved eastern continent, two dragonlord houses and over thirty dragons were more than enough to leave the Nine Free Cities trembling.
The black envoy also realized that his words might've gone too far, and quickly shoved that secret back down his throat. As a prince and wealthy merchant from the Summer Isles, he had the privilege to accompany the Sea Lord in welcoming the honored guest.
Still, he repeated his memory silently in his mind.
He had once sailed from the cursed ruins of Isle of Tears to the northern coastal towns of the jungle continent—towns built on mud and blood—chasing the priceless treasures hidden in that green hell. Passing an uninhabited beach, he had witnessed a spiny-crowned, beautiful dragon fighting a pair of wyverns.
He could swear on the god of love, beauty, and bounty: that dragon was not one of the wyverns he had seen many times before—because he had seen fire.
That dragon had burned two massive striped wyverns alive with its flames and torn a swamp wyvern to pieces with fang and claw.
His swan-ship had been thrown into chaos and fled the area in a panic.
He remembered only faintly seeing a figure on the dragon's back—just vaguely—and it had been many years since then, his memory a little hazy.
But now was not the time for reminiscence. As the golden dragon descended from the heavens, gliding past the Titan of Braavos and the statues of the Sea Lords, soaring above the city's maze of canals and boats, and landing heavily in the courtyard of the Sea Lord's Palace, the black envoy felt his heart nearly stop. He shrank into himself, immensely grateful for the traditional garb of his homeland—the towering feathered headdress helped conceal him, so the golden beast wouldn't lock eyes on him.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
He could hear the pounding of his own heartbeat. He quietly watched the Sea Lord greet the handsome silver-haired youth with utmost respect as the prince dismounted from his dragon—he looked ready to kneel and offer his back for Prince Aegon to step down onto.
Of course, that was impossible. After all, the man was the Sea Lord, ruler of Braavos.
What a courteous prince, the black envoy thought—but his gaze was fixed more on that golden behemoth.
His heart seemed to tremble. Syrax was like the hand of a lover, piercing into his chest and gripping his heart upon the bed; or like some special technique from the famed bedchamber arts of the Summer Isles, stuffing countless feathers into his throat, leaving him unable to speak. His hands and feet felt colder than if he'd just come out of the sea. Only when the dragon turned its gaze away could he finally hear himself breathe again.
What a terrifying, majestic, and beautiful creature it was.
Its massive body left little room in the Sea Lord's broad courtyard. The topaz-like golden scales shimmered under the sunlight. Wherever the dragon's eyes swept, everyone lowered their heads—even the shadows bowed.
The black envoy swore that of all the exotic beasts and marvels he had seen in his lifetime, only that fleeting glimpse of the dragon from years ago could compare to this golden giant.
But he dared not make a sound. He could only watch as the dragon coldly scanned the crowd before folding its wings and nestling its head beneath them to rest.
Perhaps it hadn't noticed anything. But the others had been left dizzy and disoriented by just one beat of Syrax's wings. Even the black envoy, standing some distance away, had felt the rush of hot wind.
"Your Highness… your dragon…" the Sea Lord hesitated. Syrax staying in the courtyard wasn't impossible, but it meant many of the arrangements they had prepared were now unusable.
The courtyard of the Sealord's palace was a lavish display of opulence—flower beds, hedges, marble statues, and fountains, all perfectly arranged. Flowing water even ran through the colonnades on either side.
But all of it had been thrown into disarray by Syrax. The great dragon had even stretched its tail into one of the water channels to soak, making the Sealord wince in visible pain.
Though he wasn't lacking in coin, repairing the Sealord's palace meant wrestling for weeks with the old men of the council—testing patience and wits in equal measure.
The thought alone made his heart ache all the more.
"Syrax is quite fond of this place, Your Highness," Prince Aegon said with a smile as he walked beside the Sealord into the palace. "Please do forgive her whims. Even I cannot always predict her behavior. She's simply too large, and the smallest movement can cause unexpected damage. But this place is spacious—it suits her well enough to rest here."
"Yes, yes," the Sealord nodded repeatedly, slowly lowering himself onto his throne. "Whatever Prince Aegon wishes."
While the prince took his seat, the Sealord discreetly wiped the cold sweat from his temple.
The black envoy who had followed them in could even see the Sealord's legs trembling slightly. Clearly, the dragon—a full-grown, ancient beast—had left a deep impression on him.
"Your Highness, I come on behalf of King Daeron I Targaryen of House Targaryen. Here is his handwritten letter," Prince Aegon said, drawing out a wax-sealed document and handing it to one of the Sealord's attendants.
The young servant, hands trembling, delivered the letter to the equally unsettled Sealord.
This "supreme ruler" of Braavos gave the letter a quick read.
Its contents were simple: King Daeron informed Braavos that pirates, remnants the Stepstones had failed to eradicate, had gathered along the Mangrove Coast and the Weeping Shore in the Disputed Lands, posing a threat to the kingdom's maritime security. Furthermore, a Westerosi-led mercenary company called Glory of the Seven had come under siege by several other sellsword groups. On the verge of destruction, the commander—himself a noble of Westeros—had sent a desperate plea for aid to his motherland.
King Daeron had made a swift decision: they must help their suffering countrymen, and evil must be rooted out.
Thus, the king had resolved to dispatch forces to eliminate the pirates and rescue the nobleman of Westeros.
He hoped Braavos would provide loans and support Westeros in fulfilling this holy and righteous cause.
The Sealord tugged at the corner of his mouth in mute dismay.
But in the end, the smile returned to his face.
"Your Highness, I understand His Majesty's intentions clearly," the Sealord said with a beaming smile. "I shall present King Daeron's letter to the council for consideration. Rest assured, Braavos always stands on the side of justice."