The news spread from port to port, carried by fast galleys and whispering merchants, moving quicker than any raven. The burning of the Volantene fleet in the Summer Sea was the kind of story that demanded to be told.
In the taverns of Lys, the counting houses of Myr, and the armories of Tyrosh, the details were dissected.
A Braavos-Targaryen alliance.
The very idea made the magisters of the Free Cities uneasy. An external power, a Valyrian-descended dynasty from the west, had joined with one of their own to strike a devastating blow.
When the official word came from King's Landing, it provided a reason, but not reassurance. King Jaehaerys I Targaryen declared that Volantis had covertly hired Faceless Men of Braavos to assassinate his grandson, Prince Aegon.
The attack on the slave fleet, he stated, was his royal justice. The subsequent dispatch of a Targaryen envoy to Braavos seemed to confirm the alliance in the eyes of the world.
Across the Narrow Sea, tensions simmered. Lords in Westeros sharpened their swords, wondering if a war was coming. In Essos, the Free Cities watched and waited, their own rivalries suddenly cast in a new, dangerous light.
Yet, in the private chambers of the powerful in Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, the story was met with cold skepticism. To them, a formal alliance between the Secret City and the Dragon Lords felt wrong.
Braavos was founded by escaped slaves; its very identity was built in opposition to Old Valyria and its descendants. For them to now join with the last great Valyrian power to make war on another Free City? It was seen not as a shrewd move, but as a betrayal of Essos itself. Disappointment and suspicion towards Braavos began to curdle into a quiet, simmering resentment, a sentiment that was carefully stoked by whispers in the right ears.
Deep within the Black Walls of Volantis, in a windowless chamber lit by flickering torches, the air was thick with smoke and fury. Seven men, their seats marked with the tiger tattoos of the dominant party, sat around a heavy stone table.
The news had arrived, and with it, chaos.
"This is your doing!" a broad-chested man snarled, slamming his fist on the table and pointing a jeweled finger at a rival across from him. "Your reckless talk of restoring the empire! You must have sent the assassins without a full vote! You provoked the dragons!"
"You are a fool," the accused man shot back, his voice a cold hiss. "Why would I do that? To what end? To give the Targaryens a reason to burn our fleet? My own nephew was on it!"
A third man, older, with a deeply lined face, shook his head. "It was no one in this room. This has the stink of Braavos all over it. They hired their own assassins to attack the boy, then framed us for it. This was their scheme to draw the Targaryens into a war against us. They have always been our enemies."
"The Braavosi lack the stomach for such a direct move," argued another. "They fight with coins and whispers, not dragonfire."
"Then explain the flags!" the broad-chested man roared. "The Titan and the Three-Headed Dragon, falling together on the ashes of our ships! That is not a whisper, it is a declaration of war!"
The room erupted again, a cacophony of accusations and counter-accusations. Some were enraged at the sheer audacity of the Targaryens. "They dare attack us! We are Volantis! We bled to rebuild the Empire after the Doom while they hid on their wretched rock!"
Others were gripped by a colder, more calculating fear, trying to untangle the web of who had truly ordered the hit on the Targaryen prince. The loss of the fleet was a massive financial blow, but the implication of a powerful new enemy alliance was far worse.
For nearly an hour, the arguments raged. Finally, the man at the head of the table, who had remained silent throughout, raised a hand. His authority was immediate; the room fell quiet.
"Enough," he said, his voice low but cutting through the silence. "We can argue the 'why' until the Long Night returns. It changes nothing. The fleet is gone. Our people are dead. The flags of our enemies drift on our waves." He let his gaze sweep across every face. "A message has been sent. It does not matter if the assassination was real, or a Braavosi trick, or a Targaryen lie. What matters is the result. The world now sees Volantis humiliated. They see us burned and unanswered."
He leaned forward, his knuckles resting on the stone table. "If we do nothing, we are finished. The Myrish and the Lysene will smell our weakness. The Pentoshi will laugh behind our backs. Our power, our dream of restoration, will turn to dust."
He paused, letting the grim truth settle in the room. "We must retaliate. Not against the Targaryens. Not yet. Their dragons are far away, across the sea. To strike at them now is to leave our back exposed."
His eyes hardened. "We strike at Braavos. They are the closer enemy. They are the ones who have supposedly joined this alliance. Whether they orchestrated this or merely seized the opportunity, they have made themselves the shield for the Targaryens. We will break that shield. We will show Essos that the price for aligning with Westeros against Volantis is annihilation. We rebuild our fleet, we rally our armies, and we take the war to the Secret City."
Far away in the Stepstones
The three galleys moved slowly through a narrow channel in the Stepstones, the dark water reflecting the jagged outlines of barren islands. A cloaked man stood at the prow of the lead ship, his eyes scanning the shore.
A sprawling encampment came into view, covering a wide stretch of the stony beach. It was a small town of tents and lean-tos, bustling with activity. Hundreds of men in mismatched armor moved among them. The sounds were a constant din: the rasp of whetstones on steel, the clang of hammers on armor, and the rough shouts of captains drilling their units.
'The Bloodyteeth,' the cloaked man murmured to himself.
The galleys docked at a rickety wooden pier. As the cloaked man stepped onto the worn planks, a man emerged from the crowd to greet him. He was broad-shouldered, with a wild beard and a playful glint in his eyes that contrasted with the scars on his face. This was Razdal, the leader of the Bloodyteeth.
"My friend!" Razdal boomed, spreading his arms in a wide, theatrical gesture. "Welcome, welcome! As always, your arrival makes my heart happy and my men's purses heavier!"
The cloaked man did not return the smile. "Speak less nonsense, Razdal," he said, his voice low and serious. He gestured back towards the galleys, where his crew was already starting to unload heavy, iron-bound chests. "This is the final payment, as we discussed. You have half now. The rest will follow once your tasks are complete."
The playful light vanished from Razdal's eyes, replaced by a flat, businesslike focus. He nodded, his demeanor shifting in an instant. "Understood. The men are ready."
He turned and led the cloaked man along the shoreline. All around them, the sellswords of the Bloodyteeth were making their final preparations. The playful atmosphere was gone, replaced by a grim focus. The sound of steel being honed was a constant, rasping chorus. Men checked the straps on their shields and the fletching on their arrows. They were no longer just idle mercenaries; they were an army sharpening its claws, waiting for the order to strike. The cloaked man observed it all in silence, his own task of delivery complete.
Braavos
The Sealord of Braavos received the Westerosi emissary in the great hall of the Palace. Torches flickered in their iron sconces, casting shifting light across his fine black-and-red robes.
Before the Sealord's heavy chair, the visitor opened a lacquered chest and revealed the gifts within: fine velvets, a jeweled dagger, and casks of Arbor gold.
"The Iron Throne is most satisfied with your swift and decisive action, Your Excellency," the envoy said with a bow. "King Jaehaerys was deeply gratified that you delivered the heads of the Volantene criminals who hired the Faceless Men to murder his grandson. It proved your commitment to our shared cause."
The Sealord's face was a calm mask, but his mind churned. He had orchestrated the entire thing; hiring the assassins, leaving a false trail to Volantis, and then "heroically" uncovering the plot and delivering "justice" to solidify an alliance on his terms. He had meant to control the game, to use the Targaryens as a weapon against the Volantenes, his ancestral enemies, and emerge stronger in the eyes of all Essos.
The envoy continued. "In return for your loyalty, His Grace moved to deliver a lesson to Volantis. A fleet of theirs, carrying nobles of the Tiger Party, was burned to ash in the Summer Sea. The dragonfire was His Grace's justice. And to ensure the world understands the consequence of such treachery, we have taken the liberty of announcing our newfound alliance. The Titan and the Dragon, standing together."
Inside, the Sealord felt a cold knot of anger tighten. This was a disaster. The Targaryens had not consulted him. They had acted unilaterally, with the brutal finality of dragonfire. They hadn't just struck a blow against Volantis; they had announced to all the Free Cities that Braavos was now in bed with a foreign power from across the sea. He could already imagine the reaction in Pentos, Lys, and Myr: not respect, but betrayal. They would see Braavos as a traitor to Essos, inviting the Westerosi into their affairs. His plan to gain stature had backfired spectacularly. He was now seen as a puppet, his city as the Targaryens' foothold in Essos. The situation was slipping from his grasp.
The envoy finished, a faint, proud smile on his lips. "King Jaehaerys looks forward to teaching Volantis a firm, final lesson, one they will not forget for a generation. Together, we will see it done."
The Sealord forced a smile onto his own face, a brittle, careful expression. "Please convey my deepest thanks to King Jaehaerys," he said, his voice even. "The attack on the slave fleet was a… potent demonstration of our shared resolve. I am pleased."
He let the word hang in the air for a moment, the silence heavy. "However," he continued, the smile not reaching his eyes, "in the future, for an act of such… significant consequence, it would be prudent for our two powers to discuss the matter first. An alliance, after all, suggests a partnership. Partners speak before they act. We must present a unified strategy, not separate strokes. Surprises, even pleasant ones, can have unintended complications in the delicate politics of Essos."
The envoy's smile faded slightly, replaced by a more guarded politeness. He bowed again, deeper this time. "Of course, Your Excellency. I will carry your wise counsel back to His Grace in King's Landing. The King values the opinion of his allies."
As the envoy was led from the hall, the Sealord's smile vanished. He stared at the chest of gifts, symbols of a chain he had helped forge but now threatened to bind him. He had wanted to wield the dragon, not be ridden by it. Now, the fires he had lit were burning out of his control, and the wind was blowing the smoke back into his own city.
Driftmark
The man moved swiftly through the stone corridors of High Tide, his footsteps echoing. He found Lord Corlys Velaryon in a hall overlooking the harbor, deep in discussion with his chief shipwright and captain of the guard. The Sea Snake dismissed them with a nod as the messenger approached.
Without a word, the man produced three sealed letters and handed them over. Corlys took them, his face impassive. He broke the first seal.
The letter contained a report from a Velaryon factor in Pentos. Rumors of a Braavos-Targaryen alliance were now common knowledge across the Free Cities. It had become the only topic of conversation among merchants and magisters alike.
The second letter, from a spy in Volantis, was more direct. The Tiger Party was rallying its banners. Shipyards along the Rhoyne were working through the night, and sellsword companies were being hired. Volantis was preparing for war.
The third and final letter bore no seal, only a single, small red smear. Corlys read the brief message inside.
The final payment had been delivered. The Bloodyteeth are ready.
Lord Corlys walked to the large fireplace that dominated one wall of the hall. One by one, he held each parchment over the flames, watching as the edges blackened and curled before dropping them into the hearth. The rumors, the war preparations, and the final instruction were consumed by the fire.
He watched the last ember die, then turned his gaze back to the messenger, his expression as calm and deep as the sea itself.
"Tell them to begin," Corlys said.
***
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