The palace of the Sealord was a place of splendor. Its walls were pale marble veined with silver-grey, and its high windows caught the moonlight off the lagoon.
The Sealord of Braavos sat in a high-backed chair of dark ebony. His eyes were sharp, dark as obsidian, his robe a deep violet. Rings gleamed faintly on his fingers as he tapped them against the armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Before him stood the cloaked man who had spoken with the priest of the House of Black and White. He recounted the conversation in careful detail: the words exchanged, the priest's assurances, and the warning that such favors should not be asked again.
When he finished, he hesitated. "My lord… should we not wait for confirmation from our own spies? It is not that I doubt the temple, but… a message arriving here in Braavos only hours after an attempt in Dragonstone? The distance is vast." The Sealord's expression did not change. His fingers drummed once against the armrest before falling still.
"Do not doubt the temple," he said. "Their god, and their powers, are not things for us to speculate about."
The man lowered his head quickly. "Yes, my lord."
The Sealord's gaze lingered on him. "But you have something else on your mind."
The man hesitated again, then bowed his head slightly. "I do, my lord. I do not understand… Why kill the prince?"
The Sealord rose with slow grace. He walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, Braavos sprawled beneath the moonlight: canals glimmering with lantern-light, bridges arching like dark ribbons, the Titan's silhouette looming faint against the night sky.
"Why not?" His voice was calm, but heavy. He turned slightly, and his eyes flashed with buried hatred. "Do not forget what blood runs in his veins. Valyrian blood. The same blood that once bound our ancestors in chains."
The man swallowed, but pressed on. "Even so… to strike at him risks war. They will know the Faceless came from here. From Braavos. Even with the ring pointing toward Volantis…"
The Sealord's lips curved in a faint, cold smile. "Which is why we will send them a gift in apology. The heads of Volantene men, Old Blood, accused of hiring the assassin. We will swear that Braavos had no hand in it, and more…we will offer them aid, should they choose to deal with Volantis themselves."
The man's eyes widened as the truth settled on him. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Then your true aim is Volantis. The Old Blood." He paused, realization dawning further. "No… it is both. Either the prince, or the Old Blood. Both are remnants of Old Valyria. You have sown discord between them, leaving no chance for unity. With the gift, the Targaryens will turn against Volantis themselves."
The Sealord's smile deepened, satisfied. "Just so."
"If the prince had died…" he said coldly, "the Targaryens would have lost their only pyromancer… and their vengeance would turn toward Volantis"
He exhaled, then continued.
"And if he lives…" His lips curved faintly. "their wrath will still turn toward Volantis. Toward the Old Blood."
"Whichever way the coin falls, the tiger bleeds."
The man bowed low, respect plain now where doubt had been, though sweat glistened at his brow. "I see it clearly now, my lord. Forgive my doubts."
"You may go," the Sealord said simply, turning back toward the night.
The man withdrew quickly, his footsteps fading against the marble floor until silence returned. Each time he stood in that chamber, he felt a pressure, a weight that left him sweating by the time he left.
Alone, the Sealord returned to his chair. He lifted a small ornament from the side table, an ivory carving of a ship, and turned it slowly in his hand. The smooth weight steadied his thoughts.
But that is not all, he mused. If war comes, it will fill the vaults of the Iron Bank. Ships, swords, debts…all flow through Braavos in times of strife. His eyes narrowed faintly. And what better way to secure my place as Sealord than to see the Old Blood of Volantis broken? The dragon prince cannot be touched now, but the tigers of Volantis are another matter entirely.
His gaze drifted to a half-open letter lying on the table. The seal was broken, the script neat and elegant. From Myr. Words of alliance…of something called a TRIARCHY.
The Sealord tapped the parchment once, then leaned back. His eyes glinted like a drawn blade in the moonlight.
"Let the dragon and the tiger claw at each other," he murmured, "while Braavos counts the coin."
He turned his gaze to the dark horizon beyond the lagoon. The city slept, but his mind did not.
"Now, we wait."
Dragonstone
Baelon sat at the long table, anger pressing against his ribs like a blade held in place. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but his face showed only controlled composure.
Hours earlier, a raven had reached him at the Red Keep. The words had been brief, too brief: an assassination attempt. He had seen his father pale at the news; King Jaehaerys, shaken in a way Baelon had not witnessed in years. Fear had shown in the old man's eyes, and that alone had filled Baelon with fury.
He had acted swiftly. The servants were ordered to bar the gates of the Red Keep, the City Watch doubled on patrol. Viserys and Daemon were confined to their chambers and ringed with guards. No risks, no chances. He had mounted Vhagar before the orders were implemented and flown through the night to Dragonstone, the cold wind biting his face until his jaw ached.
Only when he landed and saw the corpse of the assassin, blackened and burned, did he breathe freely again. His youngest son, Aegon, had been calmly issuing orders to guards and maids. The boy had met his eyes and said simply: No one was harmed. The Queen and the ladies are resting.
Now, in the Painted Hall, Baelon listened as his son spoke. Ser Clement stood at the side, helm tucked under his arm, while two maesters hovered uneasily at the edge.
"The assassin was a man," Aegon said, his voice even. "Wearing the skin of the maid named Anya. She had gone to her home in Duskendale…likely killed and replaced during that time. The other maids knew little of her. Her closest friend…another maid, Matilda, but after watching her burn… her mind is broken. I asked only a few questions and let her rest. We can speak to her again in a few days."
From his sleeve he drew a small bundle, wrapped carefully in linen. He set it on the table.
"We found this among the assassin's things. A gold signet ring."
Baelon reached without thinking, but Aegon's hand came up.
"Careful. Use the cloth. It may be poisoned."
Baelon's brows drew together. He nodded once and lifted the ring with the cloth, turning it toward the firelight. The golden surface gleamed, the engraving sharp.
"A tiger," he muttered.
"We do not know what it means," Aegon said.
Baelon turned the ring slowly. His face darkened.
"I do," he replied, voice low. "The style of the carving, the work of the gold. Volantis."
The name soured the air between them.
Aegon frowned. "Volantis? Why would they want me dead? Is it because I am a pyromancer?"
Baelon looked at him for a long moment. His son's face was calm, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Baelon's gut clenched. The attempt had been on his boy. His boy. For a fleeting instant, he felt the same dread that had gripped him years ago when he lost Alyssa. He crushed it down, hiding it under steel.
"Maybe," Baelon said, his voice grim. He turned the ring one last time before wrapping it again and setting it back on the table. "Or maybe not. We cannot be sure yet."
The fire popped sharply in the brazier, filling the silence that followed.
"Grandfather?" Aegon asked.
Baelon drew a steadying breath. "The King is…shaken."
He turned his gaze to the maesters, his tone sharpening. "You will write another letter to him at once. This time, you will include every detail. That no one was harmed, that the Queen and the ladies are safe. Every word precise."
The younger maester swallowed, bowing his head. "Yes, my prince."
Baelon's eyes narrowed. "Because of your incompetence, the King was left fearing the worst. Do not make me repeat myself."
The maesters bent lower, embarrassed.
Baelon turned back to Aegon, his tone softer now. "I closed the Red Keep as soon as I had the raven. The City Watch has been doubled across King's Landing. our brothers are closely guarded. It's best to remain very cautious now. Since the attempt has failed, we do not know if the hand behind it will try again."
Aegon nodded in agreement. "I understand."
Baelon studied him for a moment, then rose to his feet. He laid a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "You did very well tonight, Aegon. Better than men twice your age."
Aegon met his eyes and gave a small nod.
Baelon's grip tightened, firm, proud. "But you will rest now. The night is not done for me, but it is done for you. I will see to the rest."
Aegon bowed slightly. "Yes, Father."
He turned and left the hall, Ser Clement following with his usual quiet tread. Their steps faded into the dark.
Baelon stood watching for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he faced the maesters again.
"Send the body to King's Landing," he ordered, his voice like iron. "At first light, it will hang from the city walls. High, where every ship in Blackwater Bay can see it. Let the world know what becomes of those who raise a hand against a Targaryen."
The maesters exchanged a nervous glance, but bowed quickly.
Baelon exhaled slowly and let his gaze fall to the linen-wrapped ring on the table. His hand hovered over it, fingers brushing the cloth.
Volantis, and the Faceless…Braavos
The thought burned in him. His eyes hardened, sharp as steel. He said nothing aloud, but inside, the oath was made: whoever was behind this, there would be blood for blood.
Back in his chambers, Aegon let out a long sigh as he sank into his bed. His shoulders eased, the weight of vigilance finally loosening. He stared up at the ceiling, the dark beams stretching above him. In the quiet, his mind slipped back to the moment he detected the assassin.
His first thought had been his own safety. He knew he had the first-strike advantage, as the assassin did not know it had been discovered. But first he had to make sure his family was safe. So he kept a smiling face, took the attention of the room by smashing a wine glass, shocking the maids and servants in their tracks. The timing of smashing the glass was deliberate, so that the moving maids and servants would stop in such a way there was a clean, open path to strike the assassin. He then immediately called for the Kingsguard. The assassin, on realising that the Kingsguard would be entering, immediately proceeded to kill him.
Then Aegon stopped. He pushed himself upright from the bed, staring at the floor as his thoughts cleared. Why did the assassin choose to strike as soon as the Kingsguard entered? It could have chosen to maintain its disguise, then move closer to him and strike or poison him. None of his previous moves, though shocking, showed any hints that he had discovered the assassin. Although he called for the Kingsguard, he did not announce there was an assassin.
Being a Faceless assassin, he could perfectly replace anyone, and as he had already entered a well-guarded castle, it did not make sense to suddenly strike, seeing just Kingsguard enter the hall.
Aegon's eyes widened…unless the assassin discovered that its cover had been blown, or maybe it was told.
A shiver went down his spine. The chamber felt colder all at once, the night air creeping in through the shutters. He realised that he had underestimated the mystical abilities of this world.
Aegon gritted his teeth. It seemed he was still not powerful enough. His thoughts shifted toward the class tree.
The Tier 2 class [Ironblood Knight] was still not created. Aegon sighed. Although he had sensed danger using his danger awareness ability, the danger was not strong enough to count as a life-and-death scenario. The prerequisite of the class itself includes a danger sensing ability. When Aegon first struck the assassin with a fireball, the tingling from his danger awareness had lessened, denoting that the assassin's combat power had decreased a lot. It only increased a bit later when the assassin had sprung back up again and tried to attack with a dagger.
So maybe the class did not count it as a life-and-death fight, as he was already warned by the danger sensing ability, and later the assassin's combat power was decreased a lot, effectively posing very little danger to him.
But it's not that the fight was in vain. He now had a clue that probably if the danger was constant or for more duration, the class tree might have gradually accepted it as a life-and-death scenario.
Though it would have been surely accepted if Aegon had fought melee with the assassin, risking his life. Maybe group fights, without using his magic, would successfully fulfill the prerequisite and create the class.
Aegon regretted feeling overconfident while defining this class. If he had at least removed the danger sensing ability prerequisite, the class might have downgraded to something like [Battle Knight], with its creation being much easier. But his stupid ass had to try and create an overpowered Tier 2 class.
"Fuck," muttered Aegon. His voice echoed faintly off the stone walls.
Then he slowly and carefully took out another cloth wrapped in his belt. He walked over to the table, and laid it out. As the cloth unfurled, inside there was a dark purple crystal, much like a black amethyst.
This had fallen from the assassin when he first struck him with the fireball, skittering away and lying unnoticed in a shadowed corner of the dinner hall. Aegon had marked its place of fall, and later, when the hall was empty, he had picked it up in secret.
He could have shown it to his father, but he didn't. He had decided to keep it for himself.
At a glance, it looked like black amethyst, nothing out of the ordinary. But every time his spiritual perception swept over it, his danger awareness flared sharply. The sensation crawled cold over his skin, like a knife grazing across the back of his neck.
By scanning with spiritual perception, he realized what it was: Poison.
A solidified poison crystal.