Three days later, as dawn broke over the horizon, Laenor stood at the bow of the Sea Snake, his breath catching in his throat. There, rising from the morning mist like some ancient god, stood the Titan of Braavos.
"Seven hells," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the colossal statue. The stories hadn't done it justice. Not even close.
The Titan towered over the entrance to the lagoon, a bronze giant straddling the gap between two mountainous islands. Its legs, anchored to separate landmasses, created a gateway through which all ships must pass. The statue's head nearly scraped the clouds, its fierce metal face glaring down at approaching vessels with empty eyes that somehow still managed to look judgmental. One massive hand gripped a broken sword raised toward the sky, while the other held a stone shield against its chest.
"Impressive, isn't he?" Corlys appeared beside him, grinning at his son's wonderstruck expression. "First time I saw him, I nearly pissed myself. Was only eight, mind you."
Laenor laughed, still staring upward. "How tall is he?"
"Over four hundred feet from heel to crown. They say the Braavosi built him after the Uncloaking, when they no longer needed to hide from Valyria." Corlys pointed to dark openings in the Titan's armor. "See those arrow slits? There are scorpions and trebuchets inside. Try to enter the harbor uninvited, and the Titan will rain hell down upon you."
As they sailed closer, Laenor noticed more details, the verdigris that painted the bronze green in places, the weathered stone of the base, the intricate metalwork of the armor. The statue seemed to grow impossibly larger with each passing moment.
"Wait for it," Corlys said, an anticipatory grin spreading across his face.
"Wait for wha—"
A deafening blast cut him off, so loud it vibrated through Laenor's chest. The Titan's mouth had opened, and from within came the thunderous call of warning horns, announcing their arrival to the city beyond.
"BAAAAROOOOOOOOMMM!"
Laenor clapped his hands over his ears, laughing despite the noise. "You could have warned me!"
"And miss that look on your face? Not a chance!" Corlys roared with laughter, slapping his son's back. "The Braavosi call it the Titan's roar. Every ship gets the same greeting, day or night."
As the echoes of the horn faded, the Sea Snake glided beneath the Titan's enormous straddled legs. Laenor craned his neck, marveling at the underbelly of the statue passing overhead. He could make out tiny figures moving within the structure – watchmen and horn-blowers, no doubt, keeping vigil over the entrance to their city.
"Father, look! You could fit an entire town inside his chest!"
"Aye, and they do have chambers in there. Barracks, armories, storehouses, all hidden within the Titan's body. Clever people, the Braavosi."
Once through the gateway, the lagoon opened before them – and with it, Laenor's first view of the Secret City itself. Unlike King's Landing's sprawl of buildings clinging to hills, Braavos was a maze of islands and canals, a city born of water rather than merely beside it.
Hundreds of islands dotted the vast lagoon, connected by stone bridges that arched gracefully over the waterways. Buildings of all sizes crowded each island, their facades painted in a riot of colors – deep purples, bright blues, rich crimsons, and sunny yellows. The morning sun reflected off countless windows, making the whole city shimmer like a mirage.
But it was the ships that truly captured Laenor's attention. Never in his life had he seen so many vessels gathered in one place. Slim, purple-hulled Braavosi galleys cut through the water with elegant precision. Massive trading galleons, their holds stuffed with goods from across the known world, anchored in deeper waters. Fishing boats with colorful sails darted between larger craft. And everywhere, hundreds of small gondolas weaved through the traffic, rowed by standing men who navigated the chaos with astonishing skill.
"More ships than there are stars in the sky," Laenor murmured, trying to count them before giving up.
"And each one pays tribute to the Iron Bank," Corlys noted. "It's No wonder the Braavosi grow fat on trade while the rest of us squabble over scraps."
As they sailed deeper into the lagoon, more wonders revealed themselves. To their right rose the massive dome of the Temple of the Moonsingers, its white marble gleaming in the sunlight. Ahead, the slender towers of palaces and manses stretched skyward, competing for attention. And dominating the center of the city stood the imposing gray stone edifice of the Iron Bank itself, flanked by the Sealord's Palace with its golden dome.
"There!" Corlys pointed to a stone archway flanked by guards. "The Chequy Port. All foreign vessels must stop there for inspection before proceeding to the Purple Harbor."
The Sea Snake slowed as they approached the checkpoint. Uniformed Braavosi officials stood ready on the docks, their purple cloaks marking them as customs inspectors.
"Best get below and change," Corlys advised, eyeing Laenor's travel-worn clothes. "Put on your finest. The Braavosi appreciate proper appearance, and we need to make a good impression."
"Are we meeting the Sealord today?" Laenor asked, already turning toward his cabin.
"If we're lucky. Now hurry, and mind you wash properly. No seawater splashes or salt stains. These people can smell wealth and refinement, and they respect it above all else."
Laenor hurried below deck, his mind still swimming with images of the incredible city. In his cabin, he found a basin of fresh water already waiting, along with his finest clothes laid out on the bed, a deep sea-green doublet embroidered with silver seahorses, black breeches, and polished boots. The Velaryon colors, meant to impress.
As he washed away the salt and grime of the voyage, he couldn't help but grin. Braavos! The legendary Free City, built by former slaves who'd fled Valyrian masters. A city without kings or lords, where even the poorest man could rise to power if he had the wit and will. A place where water dancers dueled on moonlit bridges, where courtesans rivaled queens in influence, where the Iron Bank held the fate of nations in its vaults.
And he, Laenor Velaryon, was about to step into the heart of it all.
He dressed quickly, taking extra care with the silver seahorse pendant that marked him as his father's heir. His silver-gold hair, freshly washed, he tied back with a black ribbon. Standing before the small mirror in his cabin, he hardly recognized himself, not the boy who'd left King's Landing weeks ago, but someone older, sharper, more purposeful.
When he emerged onto the deck, the Sea Snake was already docking at the Chequy Port. Customs officials waited on the stone quay, their expressions professionally neutral as they assessed the famous vessel and her crew.
"Ah, there you are," Corlys said, looking resplendent in his own finery, a black and silver doublet with the seahorse of House Velaryon prominently displayed, his silver hair loose about his shoulders. "Remember, son, in Braavos, we are not nobility as Westeros understands it. Here, wealth speaks louder than titles, and respect must be earned, not demanded."
Laenor nodded, straightening his shoulders as he took his place beside his father. Together, they watched as the gangplank was lowered, creating a bridge between the Sea Snake and Braavos, between the world Laenor knew and the one he was about to discover.
"Ready?" Corlys asked, a gleam of excitement in his eyes that matched the feeling bubbling in Laenor's chest.
"Ready," Laenor replied, excitement surging through him as they descended the gangplank together.
Braavos unfolded before him with each step, a city that merged water and stone. The customs officials greeted them with formal bows, their purple cloaks fluttering in the breeze. After a brief inspection and Corlys presenting documentation bearing House Velaryon's seal, they were free to enter the Secret City proper.
"We'll take a gondola," Corlys decided, gesturing toward a slender black boat where a boatman stood waiting. "The best way to see Braavos is from her canals."
The gondolier bowed as they approached. "The famous Sea Snake honors my humble vessel," he said in heavily accented Common Tongue. "Where does the lord wish to go?"
"The Sealord's Palace," Corlys replied, dropping a silver coin into the man's palm. "And perhaps the scenic route? My son hasn't seen your city before."
"Ah!" The gondolier's face lit up as he helped them into the narrow boat. "A first-time visitor! Then we must show him everything!"
As they pushed off from the dock, Laenor gripped the sides of the gondola, momentarily thrown by its gentle rocking. The boatman stood at the stern, propelling them forward with graceful strokes of his long oar.
"Gods, there must be hundreds of canals," Laenor marveled, watching as they slipped beneath a low stone bridge where lovers had attached small locks to the railings.
"Thousands," corrected the gondolier proudly. "Some so narrow only children can navigate them. Others wide enough for sea dragons, if such creatures existed!" He laughed at his own jest.
They glided past buildings that seemed to rise directly from the water, their colorful facades reflected in the canal's surface. Laundry lines stretched between upper windows, bright clothing flapping like banners in the breeze. From open shutters came the sounds of haggling merchants, crying babies, and passionate arguments in musical Braavosi.
"Look there," Corlys pointed to their left, where a massive structure loomed. "The House of Black and White."
Laenor stared at the imposing temple with its black and white doors. Something about the building sent a chill down his spine despite the warm morning sun.
"Home of the Faceless Men," the gondolier said, lowering his voice respectfully. "They serve the Many-Faced Go."
"The God of Death," Corlys translated for Laenor's benefit. "They worship death in all its forms."
"Best not to speak too much of them," the gondolier advised, making a gesture with his free hand that Laenor assumed was meant to ward off evil. "They hear everything in this city."
They passed through a bustling market square where boats had replaced wagons, vendors calling their wares from floating shops. Laenor laughed in delight as a woman selling oranges tossed one directly into their gondola.
"For the boy with the pretty hair," she called in broken Common Tongue. "Sweet as honey, these ones!"
The gondolier steered them into a wider canal where elegant mansions lined both sides. "The Canal of Heroes," he announced. "Where the wealthy make their homes."
"And where the Sealord lives," Corlys added, pointing ahead to where the canal opened into a large basin dominated by a magnificent palace. "Moredo Volentin has ruled here for twenty years now."
"Ah, the Sealord!" The gondolier's face broke into a wide grin. "A sharp man, that one. Sharp as a Braavosi blade!"
"You know him?" Laenor asked, surprised by the gondolier's familiarity.
The man laughed. "In Braavos, everyone knows the Sealord! He was not born to wealth like your lords in Westeros. The Volentins started with nothing but the purple dye trade."
"Purple dye?" Laenor asked, intrigued.
"From shellfish," Corlys explained. "Extremely valuable, more precious than gold by weight. The color of royalty."
"Yes!" The gondolier nodded enthusiastically. "The Volentins learned to harvest the murex shells better than anyone. Their purple was the richest, most vibrant shade. Soon, every noble from Pentos to Qarth wanted Volentin purple for their garments."
As they approached the Sealord's Palace, its golden dome gleaming in the sunlight, the gondolier continued his impromptu history lesson.
"Three generations they built their fortune, from simple shell collectors to dye merchants to bankers. Moredo's father became a keyholder in the Iron Bank, and Moredo himself was elected Sealord twenty years ago, at the age of thirty four."
"And he's remained in power all this time?" Laenor asked, knowing such longevity for an elected ruler was unusual.
The gondolier grinned. "They say he has eyes in every wall and ears in every tavern. Nothing happens in Braavos without Moredo knowing of it before his morning tea."
"Is that admiration I hear, or fear?" Corlys asked with a knowing smile.
"Both, my lord," the gondolier replied honestly. "In equal measure. He is respected, feared, but also loved. When the Lyseni pirates raided our outer islands five years ago, it was Moredo himself who led the fleet against them, at sixty years old!"
They passed under a final bridge, elaborately carved with sea creatures, before entering the basin before the Sealord's Palace. The massive structure rose before them, more fortress than palace, its walls of pale stone adorned with intricate carvings of sea life and naval battles.
"The purple doors," Corlys pointed out to Laenor. "Dyed with the very shellfish that built the Volentin fortune. They say the color never fades, no matter how many centuries pass."
As their gondola docked at the palace's water steps, Laenor noticed guards in purple and blue livery watching them with professional interest. Unlike the gold cloaks of King's Landing, these men carried slender Braavosi fencer blades rather than heavy longswords.
"Remember," Corlys murmured as they stepped onto the marble landing, "Moredo Volentin may look like a kindly grandfather, but he's as dangerous as any man alive. Twenty years as Sealord means he's outsmarted or outlived every enemy he's ever had."
A court official in flowing purple robes approached them with a deep bow. "Lord Velaryon, we received your raven. The Sealord will see you shortly." His eyes flicked to Laenor with interest. "And this must be your son, the young dragon rider we've heard so much about."
Laenor tensed slightly at the mention of Seasmoke, but Corlys merely smiled. "News travels fast across the Narrow Sea, it seems."
"In Braavos, my lord," the official replied with a thin smile, "information is our most valuable currency, even more than gold." He gestured toward the massive purple doors. "If you'll follow me, the First Sword will escort you to the Sealord's audience chamber."
As they walked through the entrance hall, with its soaring ceilings and mosaic floors depicting naval victories, Laenor's eyes were drawn to a particular scene, a man standing triumphantly on a ship's prow, in front of a hundreds of broken ships."
"Sealord of Braavos sending the last great war fleet of the Kingdom of Sarnor to the bottom," the official noted, following Laenor's gaze. "Commissioned just after the battle. They say he personally cut down their general's head with a single stroke."
They continued deeper into the palace, passing through corridors lined with artwork and artifacts from across the known world. Unlike the Red Keep's martial displays of swords and armor, here Laenor saw delicate glass sculptures from Myr, ancient scrolls preserved in crystal cases, and musical instruments of bizarre design.
"The Sealord collects curiosities," Corlys explained quietly. "Knowledge, art, an other unique items that catch his fancy."
The official led them through a final corridor, this one lined with tapestries depicting Braavosi ships triumphant in various naval battles. Laenor noticed the recurring theme, Braavos victorious, her enemies humbled. The message couldn't be clearer: this was a city that had never been conquered.
They stopped before a massive door of dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl in patterns resembling waves. The official knocked three times, each rap echoing in the marble corridor.
"Enter," called a voice from within, surprisingly strong despite its softness.
The doors swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing a circular chamber bathed in natural light from high windows. Unlike the ostentatious throne rooms of Westeros, this space conveyed power through elegant simplicity. A large round table of polished dark wood dominated the center, maps and documents spread across its surface. Behind it stood a man who could only be the Sealord himself.
Moredo Volentin was tall and lean, with a straight-backed posture that made him seem even taller. Though his close-cropped beard was snow-white, his eyes belied any impression of frailty, they were dark, sharp, and intensely focused, like a hawk. He wore a simple but exquisitely tailored doublet of deep purple, its only adornment a small silver pin shaped like a key on his collar.
"Lord Corlys Velaryon," the Sealord said, his voice soft yet carrying easily across the room. "The legendary Sea Snake graces Braavos once more." His gaze shifted to Laenor, and those piercing eyes seemed to strip away pretense. "And this must be your son, the dragon rider."
"Sealord Volentin," Corlys bowed, and Laenor quickly followed suit. "Thank you for receiving us on such short notice."
"When the Sea Snake swims into my waters, I always make time." A slight smile touched Moredo's lips. "Especially when he brings such interesting company."
The Sealord gestured to his right, where a man had been standing so still that Laenor hadn't immediately noticed him. "May I present Lotho Myrakis, First Sword of Braavos."
Laenor's eyes widened. The First Sword was a legendary title even in Westeros. Supposed to be granted to the finest water dancer in a city renowned for its duelists. Lotho was tall and imposing, with a lean, muscular build evident even beneath his purple and blue uniform. His face bore a thin scar from temple to jaw, and his expression remained perfectly neutral as he inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"An honor," Corlys said. "Your reputation reaches across the Narrow Sea."
"As does yours, Lord Velaryon," Lotho replied, his voice surprisingly melodious for such a dangerous man. "Few Westerosi earn respect in Braavos. You are among those few."
"Please, sit," the Sealord invited, gesturing to chairs around the table. As they took their seats, servants appeared silently with wine and delicate Braavosi pastries filled with honey and nuts. "I understand you've had an interesting journey. Three Pentoshi patrol ships were quite disappointed when they lost sight of the Sea Snake."
Laenor nearly choked on his wine. How did he know about that? They'd only encountered those ships three days ago!
Corlys laughed. "Your network of informants remains impressive, Moredo."
"One tries to stay informed." The Sealord's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Though I confess, even my sources were puzzled by how quickly you made the crossing. Three days faster than your usual exceptional time."
"Favorable winds," Corlys replied smoothly, raising his goblet in salute. "And perhaps the Sea Snake grows more eager in her old age, like her captain."
The Sealord chuckled, a warm sound that transformed his hawk-like features into something almost grandfatherly. "And how fares Westeros? I hear the Old King mourns deeply."
"Indeed. Queen Alysanne's passing has affected him greatly."
As his father and the Sealord exchanged pleasantries, Laenor took the opportunity to truly absorb his surroundings. Braavos was nothing like the Seven Kingdoms. Where King's Landing was all heavy stone and imposing fortifications, Braavos felt alive, fluid, a city that breathed with the tides. Even here, in the Sealord's chamber, the connection to water was evident, the windows positioned to capture the lagoon's reflection, casting rippling patterns of light across the ceiling.
The conversation flowed around him. The Sealord and his father spoke like old friends, diplomatic currents carrying subtle undertones he couldn't quite grasp. When Corlys mentioned trade routes, the Sealord's eyes narrowed slightly. When the Triarchy came up, both men's voices dropped, though their smiles remained fixed.
"Do you know," the Sealord said, refilling Corlys's goblet himself rather than signaling a servant, "I still remember when you first sailed into our harbor, barely older than your boy here. Already commanding your own ship, already making the older captains nervous."
"I was insufferable," Corlys admitted with a laugh.
"You were brilliant," Moredo corrected. "And utterly fearless. That voyage to Yi Ti when everyone said it couldn't be done..." He shook his head in admiration. "I've still got that jade dragon you brought me."
And I still have the Braavosi blade you gave me in return," Corlys replied. "My son has actually taken quite an interest in your fighting style."
The Sealord's gaze shifted to Laenor, those hawk-eyes seeming to peer straight through him. "Has he now? Unusual for a Westerosi youth. Most of you prefer those great clumsy broadswords, hacking at each other like butchers rather than duelists."
"My son appreciates finesse," Corlys said, a hint of pride in his voice.
The conversation continued, yet Laenor sensed layers beneath, messages within messages that he couldn't entirely follow.
Finally, the Sealord softly laughed, setting down his goblet. "I'll set aside some time with you, Corlys. We do have interesting things to talk about, but perhaps in the absence of younger ears." His eyes twinkled as he glanced at Laenor. "I can perhaps introduce you to my son Castos."
"Of course," Corlys smiled, nodding. "It would be good for the two boys to get to know one another."
Moredo turned to Laenor, his expression kind but evaluating. "And you, young Velaryon, tell me, is there anything you desire?"
Laenor's heart hammered against his ribs. This was his moment. He'd been rehearsing this request since they first spotted the Titan. He took a breath, steadying himself.
"I do have one desire, my lord, but I am afraid I must ask another for their permission."
The room seemed to hold its breath as Laenor paused and turned toward Lotho Myrakis, who stood motionless as a statue beside the Sealord's chair.
Laenor bowed deeply. "I would hope that the First Sword would grant me the honor of learning the water dance from him."
The room froze in surprise. The Sealord's eyebrows shot upward, his composed mask slipping for the first time. Corlys's wine goblet halted midway to his lips. Even the silent servants along the walls seemed to stiffen.
Lotho himself remained perfectly still, dark eyes boring into Laenor's. Laenor met his gaze unflinchingly, though his palms had gone slick with sweat.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then, with fluid grace that made his every movement seem like flowing water, Lotho stepped forward.
"The boy has courage," he said, his melodious voice carrying through the chamber. "Or perhaps merely the beautiful arrogance of youth, which so often masquerades as bravery." His lips curved into what might have been a smile. "The water dance is not learned in days or weeks, child of the sunset lands. It is a poem written in blood and sweat, each verse taking years to master."
Laenor swallowed but didn't look away. "Every poem must begin with a single word, First Sword."
A flicker of something, surprise? respect?, crossed Lotho's face. He glanced at the Sealord, who gave an almost imperceptible nod
"Very well," Lotho said, his voice like silk wrapped around steel. "Tomorrow at dawn, come to the Moon Pool. We shall see if the dragon's child can learn to dance upon the water." He tilted his head slightly. "But know this, boy, I will not teach as your Westerosi masters do, with wooden swords and gentle corrections. The water dance is learned through pain, and failure, and rising again when your body screams to surrender."
Excitement surged through Laenor's veins like wildfire. "I understand, First Sword. Thank you for this honor."
The Sealord clapped his hands once, breaking the tension. "Excellent! Corlys, you and I shall meet later and discuss our other concerns." He rose from his seat, signaling the end of the formal audience. "My steward will show you to your quarters. I've taken the liberty of arranging rooms in the eastern wing, overlooking the lagoon. The view at sunset is quite spectacular."
As they followed the steward from the chamber, Corlys leaned close to Laenor's ear. "Bold move," he murmured, his tone a mixture of surprise and approval. "Though you might regret it when Lotho has you dancing on blisters tomorrow."
Laenor couldn't suppress his grin. "Worth it."
"We'll see if you still say that after your first lesson," Corlys replied with a knowing smile. "Braavosi water dancers are renowned for many things, my son, but mercy isn't one of them."
_____________
Moonlight spilled through the open balcony doors, casting silver patterns across the stone floor of their guest chambers. Corlys leaned against the doorframe, wine cup in hand, watching his son's chest rise and fall in the peaceful rhythm of deep sleep. The Braavosi night air carried salt and spice, so different from the winds of Driftmark, yet familiar to a man who had spent most of his life at sea.
Laenor lay sprawled across the bed, one arm flung wide, silver-gold hair tangled across the pillow. His small face, usually so alert and calculating, had softened in sleep, reminding Corlys just how young the boy truly was.
The First Sword had not been gentle. Corlys had watched from the shadows as Lotho put his son through his paces at the Moon Pool that morning. For three brutal hours, the water dancer had corrected Laenor's stance, his grip, his footwork, with taps of his training blade that would leave bruises by nightfall. Yet not once had the boy complained. Not once had he asked to stop.
The audacity of him, Corlys thought, a smile playing at his lips. Asking the First Sword himself for training. Not some lesser instructor, but Lotho bloody Myrakis.
He chuckled at the sheer audacity of his son. Takes after both his parents, he thought with fierce pride. Laenor was everything he could have hoped for in an heir.
The boy had stood before the most dangerous swordsman in Braavos without flinching. Had endured a training session that would have broken grown men. And tomorrow, despite the bruises Corlys could already see forming on his arms, Laenor would return to the Moon Pool for more.
Corlys sipped his wine, savoring its rich flavor. His meeting with the Sealord had gone well, better than expected. Moredo understood the threat the Triarchy posed to both their interests. Plans were taking shape, alliances forming.
"I have a proposition that might interest you," the Sealord said, leaning forward across the ornate table. His fingers traced the rim of his goblet, eyes now fixed on Corlys rather than the dancing flames of the hearth. "A union between our houses would strengthen both our positions against the Triarchy."
Corlys raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued despite his wariness. "What kind of union?"
"My son Castos has reached his twelfth nameday. A fine young man, educated in the finest traditions of Braavos and already showing promise in matters of state and commerce." The Sealord's eyes gleamed. "Your daughter Laena would make him an excellent bride."
The suggestion hung in the air between them. Corlys kept his face carefully neutral, though his mind raced with calculations. A marriage alliance with Braavos was no small matter. House Velaryon's ships combined with Braavosi coin could indeed break the Triarchy's stranglehold on the Narrow Sea.
"Laena is young," Corlys said carefully, "and she is not yet flowered ot of marriageable age."
"Youth is no impediment," the Sealord replied with a dismissive wave. "The union need not be consummated immediately. What matters is the alliance it would forge. Think of it, Lord Velaryo, your daughter as the future Lady of Braavos, your grandchildren with one foot in Westeros and another in the greatest of the Free Cities."
Corlys swirled the wine in his goblet, considering. Such an alliance would certainly elevate House Velaryon's standing, perhaps even beyond what their Targaryen connections had already provided. Yet Rhaenys would need convincing. Their daughter was dragon-blooded, and Targaryens were notoriously particular about their marriages.
"My wife will need to be consulted," Corlys said finally.
The Sealord's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course. Family considerations are important. But consider what we might accomplish together against our mutual enemies. The Triarchy's toll collectors would find themselves facing a fleet unlike any seen since the Century of Blood."
Corlys nodded slowly. "I will discuss it with my lady wife when I return to Driftmark. And I would want my daughter to meet your son before any formal arrangements are made."
"Naturally," the Sealord agreed, refilling their goblets with the rich Arbor gold. "Perhaps you might bring your family to Braavos. I would host you all in a manner befitting your station."
New ports for trade, new routes to explore beyond even Corlys's own legendary voyages.
The Sea Snake's legacy would be secured not just through his own accomplishments, but through his children. A daughter married to the heir of Braavos, a son bonded to a dragon, House Velaryon would stand astride the Narrow Sea like a colossus.
Laenor stirred in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. Corlys moved closer, drawn by a father's instinct to check on his child. Up close, the bruises from the day's training were more visible, purple shadows forming on his forearms where Lotho's practice blade had struck again and again.
Strong enough to endure pain. Sharp enough to learn from it. Corlys felt his chest swell with pride. And gifted beyond measure.
The water magic still amazed him. He'd known of Laenor's bond with his dragon, that was remarkable enough. But to command the very sea itself? That was power beyond anything Corlys had imagined for his bloodline.
House Velaryon had always been of the sea. Their words—"The Old, the True, the Brave", spoke to their ancient Valyrian heritage, their unwavering loyalty, their courage in the face of storm and battle. But Laenor represented something more. Something that transcended even their proud history.
Dragon and sea both bow to my son, Corlys thought, the wine making his mind wander to possibilities that seemed limitless. What couldn't we accomplish with such gifts?
The Triarchy's stranglehold on the Stepstones would be the first to fall. Corlys had no doubt of that now. With Braavosi ships, Velaryon cunning, and Laenor's unique abilities, those thieving bastards wouldn't know what hit them.
And after that? Perhaps new trade routes to Yi Ti that bypassed Qarth entirely, avoiding their exorbitant tariffs. Or exploration beyond the Sunset Sea, to lands no Westerosi had ever seen. The possibilities stretched before him like an uncharted ocean.
Laenor mumbled something in his sleep, his brow furrowing briefly before smoothing again.
A knock at the outer door pulled Corlys from his reverie. He crossed the chamber quietly, not wanting to wake Laenor, and opened the door to find one of the Sealord's messengers waiting.
"Lord Velaryon," the man said with a respectful bow. "The Sealord requests your presence at breakfast tomorrow. He wishes to continue your discussion regarding the matter we spoke of earlier."
"Tell him I'll be there," Corlys replied, keeping his voice low.
The messenger hesitated. "He also asked that your son attend. Lotho Myrakis will be present to continue the boy's training afterward."
Corlys raised an eyebrow. It was a rarity, for a man as busy as the First Sword to take such interest.
"We'll both be there," he confirmed, already anticipating Laenor's reaction to this news.
After the messenger departed, Corlys returned to his vigil by the balcony. The sounds of Braavos at night drifted up from below, gondoliers calling to one another as they navigated moonlit canals, the distant music of a tavern, the occasional burst of laughter from revelers making their way home.
He closed the balcony doors quietly and moved to his own bed, mind already racing with plans within plans. As sleep claimed him, his last thought was of Laenor, his extraordinary son, the future of House Velaryon, and perhaps the key to power unlike any the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.
_________________
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