Chapter 39: The Titan Stirs, The Serpent Watches
The news of the Titan of Braavos stirring, its colossal bronze form exhibiting subtle but undeniable signs of animation, did not elicit fear in King Baelon I Targaryen. Instead, as Lord Larys Strong delivered the urgent report from his spies in the Titan city, a strange, almost predatory gleam ignited in Baelon's ageless eyes. He leaned forward in his obsidian throne within the Great Pyramid of Meereen, the recently acquired sharkskin journal from Aemond's perilous northern expedition lying open before him, its crude maps of Westerosi cultist sanctuaries a stark counterpoint to this new, monumental threat from Essos.
"So, the legends are true," Baelon murmured, a hint of something akin to academic fascination—or perhaps a conqueror's avarice for a truly unique prize—lacing his voice. "Valyrian magic, or a bound god-spirit, animating their great scarecrow. Interesting. Most interesting."
The Voldemort soul that resided at the core of his being, a consciousness that had plumbed the depths of arcane power and defied death itself, felt a perverse thrill at this development. The Drowned Brethren and their abyssal god were one kind of enemy – ancient, insidious, steeped in eldritch horror. But the Titan of Braavos? That was a relic of a bygone age, a testament to the power of Old Valyria itself, or something even older that Valyria had dared to bind. To dissect its secrets, to unmake its magic, or even to harness its power for his own ends – such a prospect was… compelling.
He convened his inner circle immediately. Larys Strong, his face impassive but his eyes betraying the gravity of the situation; Archmaester Vaellyn, whose scholarly pallor had deepened with each new revelation about abyssal cults and unnatural entities; and via a shimmering, long-distance scrying mirror, the scarred, triumphant visage of Prince Aemond, still in the Shivering Sea overseeing the grim consolidation of their victory at the Kraken's Maw. Even Ser Corlys Vaelaros and Centurion Kael were present, representing the martial arm that would eventually be tasked with confronting this new, or rather, ancient, threat.
"The Titan of Braavos stirs," Baelon announced without preamble, his gaze sweeping over them. "Its head turns, its fists clench, it hums with a power not felt for centuries. This, it seems, is Braavos's answer to the silencing of their Drowned God's primary Beacon. A desperate, symbolic gesture, perhaps. Or the awakening of their ultimate guardian."
Umbraxys, ever-present, its consciousness a cold, vast shadow intertwined with Baelon's, offered its own unique perspective. "It is old, Speaker. Older than the stones of this Pyramid. Its animation is… layered. Valyrian artifice forms its shell, its sinews. But the heart… the heart pulses with a captured, resentful echo. A thing of salt and fury, bound unwillingly. It slumbers fitfully, dreaming of a freedom it will never taste."
"A captured echo?" Baelon mused. "Like a djinn in a bottle? Vaellyn, what do our records, our Valyrian texts, say of such constructs? Of binding elemental spirits, or even lesser godlings, into mechanisms of war?"
Waking Giants, Hunting Shadows
Archmaester Vaellyn, clearly unnerved by the scale of the entities they were now discussing, consulted his notes. "There are… fragments, Your Grace. Legends, mostly, dismissed by later Valyrian scholars as fanciful. Tales of the First Men speaking of 'earth-giants' animated by powerful greenseers. Valyrian sorcerer-smiths were said to have experimented with binding fire elementals into their great war machines, and some texts hint at attempts to enslave sea krakens or even aerial spirits to power their larger citadels or fleets. The construction of the Titan of Braavos is attributed to Valyrian exiles, but the precise methods of its animation were always a closely guarded secret, believed lost even before the Doom."
He paused, then added gravely, "If it is indeed animated by a bound entity of significant power, Your Grace, then direct confrontation would be… cataclysmic. Its physical strength would be unimaginable, its potential magical resistances immense. We would need to understand the nature of its binding, the source of its animation, to even conceive of neutralizing it."
"Then you shall endeavor to understand it, Archmaester," Baelon commanded. "Scour every text, every legend. I want to know what makes the Titan move, what sustains it, and, most importantly, what can unmake it, or bind it to a new will." The last words were spoken with a chilling hint of possessiveness.
While Vaellyn was tasked with this monumental research, Baelon turned his attention to the more immediate, insidious threat revealed by Aemond's captured journal: the Drowned Brethren sanctuaries in Westeros.
"The Vale of Arryn. The Fingers," Baelon stated, his finger tapping the crude maps. "While Braavos rattles its bronze sabre, this cancer festers within the heart of my own Kingdom. An intolerable situation." He looked at the scrying mirror where Aemond's image shimmered. "Prince Aemond, your task in the Kraken's Maw is complete. You have dealt a grievous blow to the Drowned Brethren's northern nexus. Now, you will refit your fleet with all speed. Once recovered, you will sail south, but not directly to Meereen. You will make for the Narrow Sea. Your initial objective will be to patrol the waters around the Fingers and the eastern coast of the Vale. Gather intelligence. Identify these coastal sanctuaries. But do not engage directly unless you have overwhelming advantage or a clear opportunity to capture high-ranking cultists. Your presence alone will be a message."
Aemond's single eye gleamed. "From frozen hells to craggy shores, Brother. Vhagar will enjoy the change of scenery. Consider the rats of Westeros marked."
"Lord Larys," Baelon continued, "you will dispatch your most subtle and skilled agents into the Vale and the Fingers immediately. I want names, locations, numbers. I want to know how deep their roots go, which noble houses are compromised – willingly or otherwise. The Arryns are proud; if they are unwitting hosts to this blight, they might be… persuaded to assist in its removal. If they are complicit…" His voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air. "This 'Echo of Stillness,' our elusive assassin, may seek refuge in these Westerosi nests. Finding her, or tangible proof of her presence there, is paramount."
Baelon envisioned a swift, brutal purge in Westeros, similar to the one ongoing in Essos, but tailored to the specific political landscape of the Seven Kingdoms. He needed to ensure his primary realm remained secure, free of this abyssal taint, especially if he was to engage in a protracted, potentially cataclysmic, confrontation with Braavos and its Titan.
The Titan's City Responds
News from Braavos, relayed by Larys's increasingly harried agents, painted a picture of a city arming itself with grim determination, yet also teetering on the edge of internal strife. The destruction of Villa Antarion had indeed sown terror and mistrust among the Keyholder families. Several, Larys confirmed, had made clandestine attempts to send peace feelers towards Baelon's representatives in Myr and Tyrosh, offering intelligence or financial concessions in exchange for immunity from further "attentions." Baelon instructed his officials to receive these offers, to gather the intelligence, but to promise nothing. Division was a weapon he wielded with expertise.
Sealord Ferrego Antaryon, however, remained defiant. He used the stirring of the Titan as a potent symbol of Braavosi resolve, rallying the populace with fiery speeches about defending their ancient liberties against the "Valyrian Tyrant." The Iron Bank, under immense pressure, began to liquidate some of its overseas assets, recalling loans with brutal efficiency, causing economic chaos in several smaller cities of the Disputed Lands and even sparking minor conflicts – a deliberate attempt to divert Baelon's resources and attention.
And the Faceless Men, true to their pro-bono pledge, continued their shadowy war. A vital shipment of Myrish lenses, crucial for Archmaester Vaellyn's research into arcane optics and scrying devices, was sabotaged, the ship sinking in mysterious circumstances just leagues from Meereen's harbor. A high-ranking Volantene administrator, recently appointed by Baelon to oversee the collection of taxes from the new protectorate cities, was found dead in his locked villa, a single, nine-armed kraken coin placed upon each of his eyes. The message was clear: no one in Baelon's service was truly safe. The sheer audacity, the reach, the seeming omnipresence of his enemies, would have unnerved a lesser ruler. For Baelon, it was merely confirmation of the scale of the game, a game he was supremely confident he would win.
He considered the possibility of a direct attack on him by "Echo of Stillness." Lyra Maelon had spoken of her needing to recover in a place of "sacred silence." The Kraken's Maw being destroyed, she might now be desperate, or her cultist masters might urge her to make another attempt, however risky. Baelon almost hoped she would. He had learned much from their first encounter. He, and Umbraxys, were even better prepared now.
Evolving Strategies: The Unmaking of a City
Baelon spent long hours in his war room, the spoils from Villa Antarion and the ongoing intelligence reports spread before him. His grand strategy for the subjugation of Braavos was evolving, becoming more ambitious, more terrifying in its scope. The stirring of the Titan had not deterred him; it had presented him with a new, ultimate objective.
He envisioned a multi-phased approach.
Phase One, already underway, was attrition: Aemond's naval dominance disrupting their southern trade, the economic strangulation orchestrated by Crakehall and now Velaryon, the internal purges of Drowned Brethren cells, and the psychological warfare waged by Larys's agents and Baelon's own terrifying reputation.
Phase Two would be the systematic dismantling of Braavos's outer defenses and alliances. This would involve targeted strikes against any remaining Free Cities or pirate states that offered aid to Braavos, the establishment of more Targaryen naval bases to complete the encirclement, and the aggressive acquisition or neutralization of key Braavosi financial assets across Essos. He also considered using the intelligence gained from Lyra and the Antarion texts to subtly aid rival powers to Braavos, like Pentos or Norvos, encouraging them to challenge Braavosi hegemony in their own regions.
Phase Three, the most audacious, would be the direct confrontation with Braavos itself. This would not necessarily mean an immediate, full-scale invasion. Instead, Baelon considered a magical and psychological siege. Archmaester Vaellyn's research into the Titan was paramount here. If a weakness could be found, if its animation could be disrupted or, more enticingly, usurped, then the very symbol of Braavosi defiance could become a tool of its own destruction.
He also pondered the Drowned God itself. The destruction of its Grand Beacon was a significant blow. Could its other hidden sanctuaries, its "Beacons" mentioned by Lyra, be located and similarly neutralized? Could the magic of the Abyssal Lodestones be inverted, used to sow discord among the cultists, or even to poison their connection to their abyssal master? The Voldemort soul within him, with its profound understanding of soul magic, horcruxes, and the manipulation of spiritual energies, began to formulate truly blasphemous, terrifying ideas – not just to defeat the Drowned God's servants, but to attack the entity itself in its otherworldly domain, to starve it of worship, to unravel its very essence.
Umbraxys, ever present, resonated with these dark, ambitious thoughts. The shadow dragon, a creature of immense, ancient power, seemed to regard the Drowned God not as a divine rival, but as an aberrant concentration of energy, a knot in the fabric of reality that could, with sufficient will and understanding, be untied or consumed. It offered Baelon glimpses of forgotten Valyrian techniques for warding against, or even preying upon, entities from the lightless depths, magics lost even before the Doom.
A New Spark in the Northern Ice
As Baelon was deep in these grand, terrible strategizing, a priority dispatch arrived from Prince Aemond, carried by a different storm-raven, this one looking even more battered than the last. Aemond's forces, while refitting and recovering from their battle at the Kraken's Maw, had sent out scouting parties on Vhagar and the swiftest remaining ships to chart the surrounding desolate seas and islands, seeking any further signs of cultist activity.
The dispatch was brief, almost cryptic, but its implications were profound. "Brother," it read, penned in Aemond's spiky, impatient hand. "The Maw remains silent, a frozen scar. However, further north, amidst a labyrinth of ice canyons, Vhagar sensed a heat, an unnatural warmth. We investigated. Found a volcanic island, previously uncharted, wreathed in steam, its peaks hidden by perpetual blizzards. At its heart, a vast, geothermal lake, hot enough to boil seawater. And within that lake… something sleeps. Not stone, not ice. Something… alive. Immense. Scales like obsidian. It dreams, and its dreams trouble even Vhagar. No sign of the Drowned Brethren here, only primal fire and ancient slumber. Awaiting your wisdom. Does the Dragon seek a new sibling, or shall we let sleeping gods lie?"
Baelon read the message twice, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. A volcanic island in the Shivering Sea, a geothermal lake, and something immense, scaled, and alive, sleeping within. Not a creature of the abyss, Aemond had specified, but of primal fire. A dragon? Or something akin to it, something that had survived from the dawn of the world, hidden from Valyria, hidden from all?
The strategic implications were staggering. The Drowned God was an enemy to be destroyed. But this… this could be an asset beyond imagining. A power to be awakened, to be understood, perhaps even to be… bound.
The Titan of Braavos stirred in its bronze shell. A possible primordial fire beast slumbered in the frozen north. The Drowned Brethren plotted in the shadows of Westeros and Essos. And King Baelon I Targaryen, the Serpent King, the Ageless Emperor, stood at the nexus of these world-shaking events, his mind already calculating, his ambition inflamed to a new, terrifying degree.
He looked at the map, no longer just at Braavos or Westeros, but at the vast, uncharted territories of the Shivering Sea. "It seems, Lord Larys, Archmaester Vaellyn," Baelon said, his voice soft but ringing with a sudden, almost joyous, ferocity, "that our war is about to acquire new, and considerably more… fiery… dimensions. Prepare my flagship. I believe a journey to the far north is in order. Some gods are best met personally."
The Titan of Braavos could wait, for a moment. A new, far more enticing power had just flickered into existence on the grand stage of Baelon's ambition. And the Serpent was, as always, eager to investigate.