274 AC, Braavos
The sea was calm, and the sky was clear. Spring. Waves gently beat against the hull, slowly carrying us towards the semicircular chain of islands that surrounded Braavos like a natural barrier.
And then we heard it.
A deep, drawn-out sound, as if a mountain was trying to warn the world. It was not for us. The Titan roared always when a ship approached the city. But still it made an impression.
It stood motionless on both sides of the strait, resting one leg on each island. Above the waist, a brown colossus was filled with halls and chambers, and its breastplate was crossed by numerous shooting slits. One hand rested on the top of a rocky ridge, fingers wrapped around the stone. The other rose in the air, closing on the hilt of a broken sword. Sea birds nested on the statue's shoulders and arms.
"He's not welcoming us. He's just warning everyone," I muttered.
Howland nodded. Willam adjusted his sword belt.
We passed under the Titan and entered the Great Lagoon. We passed the Arsenal on the right — a powerful shipyard where Braavos can build a ship in one day if it wants. No one stopped us. No signals from the Chequy Port. Perhaps because we did not intend to enter there.
We headed to Ragman's Harbor. The dirtiest of their ports. But also the only one where you don't have to explain yourself.
"We're staying three days," I said, looking at the approaching gangplank. "Load water, organize food. And rest."
"Rest?" Willam asked with a hint of a smile.
"Let's see if the local courtesans are at least a bit better than those in the North."
I was the first to go ashore.
My boots softly sank into the wet dock planks. Fenrir jumped down after me.
Others began to descend behind me. Willam, Wendel, Howland. The rest were already on land — in groups, with weapons slung over their backs, but without tension. The soldiers got three days off. Well-deserved. After six months of ice, blood, and silence — the port brothels looked like paradise.
We did not intend to do anything more here than load supplies, repair minor damages, and regenerate people.
The city did not impress me.
Not as it should.
Braavos had a reputation as the capital of freedom, wealth, and tolerance. They said about it: the pearl of the lagoon, a fortress of fugitives, a home for everyone. But up close... it looked like any other. Stone, wood, dampness, and crowds. Just bigger. More dirty. Noisier.
The streets were damp. Often tilted at a strange angle, as if they were built not with people in mind, but with water. Bridges every few steps. Sometimes single planks, sometimes stone structures with carved heads. Everything flowed in the canals beneath them.
I stopped for a moment by one of the low walls, over the water. Fenrir yawned. One of the passersby stepped back when he saw him. I smiled briefly.
I crouched down to Fenrir, looked him in the eyes.
"So, shall we go see the Isle of Gods?"
He did not answer. Of course not. But he raised his ears, as if he understood. Or as if he already knew that we would go there anyway.
Additionally, I had the impression that saliva was starting to drip from his muzzle.
I stood up, and we headed towards the pier.
We found a ferryman — an older man in a faded kaftan, sitting on the edge of the boat and looking into the water.
"To the Isle of Gods," I said.
He did not ask why. Just held out his hand.
I paid. He did not comment. He pocketed the coin and pushed off from the shore with a pole.
I jumped aboard. Fenrir right after me. The boat trembled, but he did not move an inch.
The sky was clear. The water — dark, calm. Only the pole dipped into the canal broke the surface.
We sailed through calm canals, cutting across the intersection of the Long Canal and the Canal of Heroes. The water was dark but clean. The air smelled of juniper and smoke. From all sides, temple roofs emerged — curved, eastern, smooth as glass, or carved, with buttresses and cornices. Some shone with gold, others were raw, made of wood, without decorations. None were the same.
The Isle of Gods. A place where all faiths have their piece of land. And where none have it entirely.
And then we passed it.
Simply — we sailed on, without slowing down.
I looked at the ferryman. I said nothing. I waited.
But he spoke first. His voice was quiet, with a slightly ragged edge.
"We passed the destination."
Before I could respond, Fenrir raised his head and growled.
The old ferryman did not look at the wolf.
He just kept sailing, not caring about us. As if the canal itself was more important than the people he was transporting.
And then we saw it.
The Temple of the Lord of Light.
Built of red stone, heavy, as if melted from brick and blood. A wide base, straight lines, no ornaments. The tower rose above the tree crown — massive, square, without windows. On its top stood a huge iron cauldron.
The ferryman moored to the shore. He did not look. He did not speak.
I jumped off first. Fenrir jumped after me.
I looked around.
We were on a side islet, connected to the land by a long, stone bridge. On the horizon, on one side — the Isle of Gods, on the other — the city panorama. The temple towered over everything, as if casting a shadow even on the sky itself.
I sighed quietly and glanced at Fenrir.
"Well. I guess we'll walk back."
Then, just as we were about to leave, the doors to the temple opened.