TBOV: Chapter Twenty-Five:  The Siege of Braavos (PT. 1)

Chapter Twenty-Five:  The Siege of Braavos (PT. 1)

“The tones, the timbre, the subtleties—they are a secret language all their own.”

―Frank Herbert, Dune

…

The city of Braavos glittered like a broken constellation against the ink-black lagoon. From dragonback, Addam Velaryon thought, it looked fragile—nothing more than lanterns strung upon water, a paper city built for mummer’s plays, too slight to withstand even the gentlest flame.

They approached unseen, sailing low beneath a cloud-wrapped moon, their dragons silent save for the slow, leathery whisper of wings against the cool night air. Vhagar led, vast and ancient, her shadow blotting the stars as she glided like death itself over the restless sea. Seasmoke followed behind, quick and nimble, his scales gleaming softly silver-gray beneath Addam’s knees, while Sheepstealer trailed to the left, a darker shadow carrying Nettles. Together they slid toward Braavos with the surety of arrows loosed in darkness.

Prince Aemond’s orders still echoed in Addam’s ears: Strike swiftly, strike quietly, and leave before the enemy has found its feet. Burn no temples, no banks, no docks or warehouses. Tonight we rouse Braavos, not ruin her.

The city had slept in complacency, certain the war would remain distant, fought by lesser cities and sellswords. But tonight, Addam thought grimly, the Titan would learn that even the Narrow Sea offered little shelter from dragons.

The first watchtower loomed ahead—a slender spire of white marble, high atop the rocky spit guarding the westernmost lagoon. Scorpions jutted from its battlements like thorns, yet their crews drowsed, bored and oblivious. The prince’s eyes had promised so, and it was true. 

A sudden roar tore the night. Vhagar’s flames burst sideways, a torrent hotter than mortal furnaces; tower stones popped like corn, molten slag dripped crimson. The scorpion vanished in smoke. Even at distance the heat baked Addam’s face. At once Sheepstealer shrieked and wheeled right, searing a second tower in the distance, while Seasmoke barreled down the city’s left flank. The pale dragon loosed a short gout—enough to shatter crenellations, nothing more. Debris splashed the water below; Braavosi sentries ran screaming across the parapet towards their bells.

The alarm was sounded, the clangor thin and frantic, rippling inward toward the city’s heart. But too slowly—far too slowly. The dragons plunged onward, riding swift currents above the lagoon, passing unmolested through empty sky. Ahead sprawled the poorest quarters of the city, tangled streets and shanties clustered around stagnant canals.

Addam did not hesitate, letting Seasmoke dip low, unleashing thin ribbons of flame upon abandoned barges and the roofs of empty sheds. Nettles mirrored his attack, Sheepstealer’s fire touching down like a hot kiss upon deserted docks. Nothing of true worth burned, yet soon half the city seemed alight, smoke coiling toward the heavens in dark and choking plumes.

They heard the faint cries from below: fear, panic, confusion—but little resistance. A scorpion bolt hissed past far behind Addam’s shoulder, then another splashed harmlessly into the black water beneath Seasmoke’s belly. But the crews were slow, their aim uncertain, their courage untested. Complacent indeed. The prince’s gamble had paid off—Braavos had never known dragonfire, and now their defenses flailed blindly.

A deep horn sounded from the Titan—slow, ponderous, as if the marble colossus itself had woken. That was their cue. Immediately the three dragons banked southward, turning away from the city, their mission accomplished. Addam urged Seasmoke higher, glancing over his shoulder as the lights began to shrink behind him, smoke rising in scattered columns toward the moonlit clouds.

Then something drew his eye—Vhagar, breaking formation, veering sharply toward the mainland, toward the great aqueduct that curved from the distant hills into the heart of Braavos. The Sweetwater. Addam frowned in confusion, following at a distance, Nettles close behind him.

Vhagar circled once, twice, her great shadow stretching over the ancient stone arches. Addam watched, spellbound, as the old she‑dragon reared, maw glowing ember‑red. One lingering heartbeat, then fire descended—thick and viscous, white at its core. Stone blackened, then sagged, then burst in shards. A second blast—and a third—chewed a void through two arches. The span groaned. With a crack like rending ice, a hundred paces of aqueduct gave way, tumbling into the frothing dark. A roar of released water followed, roaring seaward.

Addam felt the rumble through Seasmoke’s bones. Below, the great canal that fed the city ran suddenly dry, sluicing its last thin stream into the lagoon; beyond, the ruptured Sweetwater poured uselessly into the hungry sea. His heart clenched as realization struck him.

They landed well beyond the city on a quiet shore to examine the full extent of the damage. Nettles stared at the distant column of silver mist rising where Vhagar had wrought her destruction, disbelief plain in her dark eyes.

“Gods…” she whispered, the implication dawning on her as well.

Prince Aemond stood near Vhagar’s towering form, staring quietly back toward Braavos with a Myrish Eye, his silver hair blowing wild in the sea breeze. When he turned, his sapphire eye gleamed with the reflected light of distant fires. “They will have no choice now,” he said softly, voice calm as ice. “I doubt the Braavosi would be content to continue hiding behind their shield islands after this.”

Addam swallowed, feeling sickened, though he hid it well. “Will this be enough?”

Aemond nodded, turning back to the city. “Just a bit more. The Iron Bank’s patience is worn thin, and Rhaenyra’s sons grow impatient with her attempts to protect them. I only give them more reasons to be reckless. Tonight the city learned terror. Soon it will learn despair. After that, surrender. High time, really. I have long grown tired of this farce.”