"Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice."
―Fire and Ice, 1923, Robert Frost
…
It was beautiful.
The salt wind was alive with a briny sharpness that mingled with the deeper, metallic scent of whale blood and the sweetness of burnt flesh cutting across the land. Heavy clouds brooded in the sky above, while the afternoon sun hung suspended, a molten coin balanced on the rim of the horizon. Its light softened the scene into a blend of pinks and lavenders, tinged with indigo and pewter hues, and touched here and there by the hints of an approaching evening.
The waters below stretched endlessly, their horizon meeting the sky in a gentle blur, muted, as if a great hand had softly smudged the colours together in the languid stroke of a brush. Ironman's Bay was desolate in its bleakness, unending, its vastness underscored by the jagged, moss-covered rocks jutting out into the cold surf like watchful sentinels.
The bay itself sat there—rippling, silver-laden, a sheet of glimmering ambiguity; metallic waves lapping at the dark, craggy shore with an indifferent repetition. It whispered softly to itself, as if the long centuries had dulled its rage to a mere murmuring; and there, along the strand where sea met sky, and the old bones of sailors whispered through the salty breeze, sat Aemond with his brother, Daeron, among the mossy stones and the low, wind-bitten grasses that clung to this godforsaken coastline.
Before them was Vhagar crouched over the massive, bloated cadaver of a beached whale. The great dragon's head plunged into the carcass, each movement tearing through flesh, her immense jaws clamping down to rip burnt meat from bone and snap apart roasted tendons. There was something grotesque and yet hypnotic in her feeding; the sea breeze ruffled the frills of her tattered old wings as she gorged without a thought for the creature that had been. For a moment, the old queen lifted her great head, gore-streaked and terrible, her eyes the colour of old bronze. The scales up to the crest of her head glistened with steaming fat, and long tendrils of sizzling blubber hung from her teeth like torn banners as she looked to the sea, to something only she could see, before lowering her head once more to feed.
Tessarion, by contrast, swept low over the bay in the distance, talons breaking the water's gyrating surface to pull another sailfish out of the darkness. The younger dragon brought her catch ashore, setting it aflame and deftly stripping away the fatty belly, protein-rich dark meat and loin, as well as the nutrient-dense head before discarding the remains onto a growing pile. Without pause, her cerulean form launched back into the air—nimble, joyous, a kite gliding over the expanse as she sought her sleek, glittering prey…
Around them, the wind rolled in slow, whispering arcs that carried the cries of circling gulls and the distant breathing of the sea. Aemond sat on a low, moss-covered stone, his boots planted firmly in the wet sand as he chewed on a strip of jerky, the tough meat tasting of salt and of ash, of long journeys and meagre comforts. He watched, yet his gaze was inward, beyond the sight of dragons and the wind-tossed waves. He thought about Westeros, about the lords and ladies in their keeps, the proud ones that often spoke of duty from halls built upon old bones, with voice earned by men long dead and forgotten. He thought about the fat knights at their feasts. He thought about the old, weak king. About the naive queen, his mother. About the princess Rhaenyra wrapped in her velvety indulgence and vexing entitlement.
To him, they were all of them like that whale, beached on the rocks, waiting for the inevitable jaws of some otherworldly predator to come and tear them apart. There was no true strength in them—at least, not as Aemond understood it. It was not enough to sit in a castle, with one's wealth and comfort assured.
Power. Oh, power! How they craved it, wrapped themselves in it. Alas, they had never seen true power—not really. For what was power in Westeros? Aemond had seen it firsthand. To them, power was the approval of a dying man on a crumbling throne, clutching at illusions and dead affections. It was the grand gestures and the notion of honour so vigorously espoused, yet so infrequently upheld. It was the endlessly squabbling in halls of gold, growing complacent on storied names and on the broken backs of serfs.
The throne was nothing more than forged iron, no different than the iron beneath this bay, beneath this land. Power, true power, lay not in the throne, nor in the words of fools who believed themselves immortal by right of birth. True power was not gentle, nor was it fair. True power was brutal, demanding, hungry. It lay in control—in the knowing, in the understanding, and in the will to use what one knew and understood without pity, to act decisively, and, if need be, to seize by force what was otherwise denied.
Leto the First, Shaddam Corrino IV, and even the beastly Vladimir of House Harkonnen all knew what power truly was and they wielded it without remorse. The successor of all three, Paul, did as well, as did his successor after him, Leto the Second. Aemond had been Paul once. In fact, he was Paul still, in many ways, deep in the marrow of his bones, beneath his scarred flesh, beneath the ponderous stirrings of the dragon he had bonded—he was the Kwisatz Haderach, the fulcrum of history. He had been the bearer of burdens greater than the sum of their collective existence. The one by whose will entire worlds had risen and burned.
Aemond bit the jerky, felt the toughness grind between his molars—he knew what power was. The weak nobles of Westeros didn't. They were weak! Oh, so painfully weak! Their minds fragmented, divided between lust and fear and ancient grudges, petty quarrels that kept them from seeing the vastness of what lay beyond their narrow shores. They were blind, and in their blindness, they would bring themselves, and the world, to eternal ruin.
Aemond looked to his brother—his bright-eyed, golden-hearted brother—still untouched by the darker edges of what it truly meant to be of the line of a Dragonlord, of what it meant to hold fire in one's hands. The boy sat beside him, eyes soft with affection and fixed upon Tessarion as she dove in pursuit of her prey. Daeron, still so young, unburdened by the truth of this world. There was innocence in his gaze, a certain happiness that Aemond knew he could no longer afford to indulge. Yet, it saddened what must be done for even he could hardly remember the last time he had looked at anything with such simple joy.
The light in his eyes dimmed and he looked away as the child noticed his stare.
"Brother?" Daeron's voice carried softly, barely louder than the breeze that toyed with the strands of his silver hair. Aemond turned again, to look at Daeron, studying his young face, the smooth skin untouched by care, his eyes so bright, so trusting. There was a question there, in his gaze, one that had clearly been turning in the boy's mind for some time, hesitant but insistent.
"Why did you bring me here?" Daeron asked, his tone earnest, his eyes searching Aemond's face for an answer he had not yet dared to imagine.
Aemond did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the question drift, feeling its shape, the way the wind seemed to seize upon it, pulling it toward the sea. Why indeed? There could be a thousand reasons, none of them simple. Aemond allowed himself another moment to look at his brother, to see the way youth and naivete still clung to him like the last rays of a setting sun. Daeron had yet to understand, and perhaps that was why Aemond had brought him—to teach him the language of power, the harsh truth of what it meant to decide the fate of those beneath them.
"Do you know what becomes of men too afraid to learn?" Aemond asked, ignoring Daeron's question in the meantime. The boy blinked, the light dimming momentarily in his eyes, replaced by something like confusion. "I don't understand, brother?"
Aemond nodded but continued nonetheless. "They remain as they are," he said, answering his own question. "Unchanged, unseen, and eventually, undone by a world that moves on without them. I tell you this, Daeron, so you do not become like our brother, Aegon. Or our sister, Rhaenyra."
"Brother—"
"Do you want to learn, Daeron? Or are you still too scared to ask?"
A pause. Silence.
"To think I took you North," Aemond continued, the words slow, measured, tasting them as he spoke, "to understand what the world looks like without walls to protect you. I showed you the giants, the mammoths, and the Direwolves. The great weirwood trees that have stood since the days of the first men. Beasts and beings you were taught no longer existed." His gaze shifted to Daeron, his expression turning inscrutable. "In your presence, I sang to the wolves in the tongue of the children and convinced them to follow me south. To await my return. Yet, despite your burning curiosity, you seemed too afraid to ask even for an explanation. Is the blood of the dragon so thin in you?"
"Brother—"
"Are you afraid?"
"NO!"
Another pause. Silence.
"Then ask," Aemond sighed reaching out to squeeze Daeron's shoulder. "Do not fear. You must not fear, for Fear is the mind-killer and I would not have the wits of another brother of mine addled by it."
***
The meeting room of the Iron Bank of Braavos was a study in understated elegance. The high windows, adorned with plain curtains of grey linen, admitted a pale daylight into the solemn chamber. A long table, polished to a soft sheen, dominated the centre, surrounded by chairs of carved wood, darkened by age and use. The atmosphere was one of a respectable and measured severity, the sort that lent itself well to matters of gravity and consequence. Indeed, the air itself seemed to carry the weight of decisions made and fortunes undone.
Seated at the table were the formidable figures of the Iron Council, their countenances reflecting a shared seriousness. Among them was Matthos Nestoris, whose calm demeanour had often steered the Bank's decisions through tempestuous waters, and Elaria Thorne, whose clever eyes rarely missed an opportunity to turn adversity to profit. Each of them held, not only an air of individual distinction, but a common understanding that their power lay in the unanimity of their purpose. They began, without preamble, to consider the troubling matter before them.
"It would seem that our warnings have been, most unhappily, disregarded," said Matthos, breaking the stillness. He spoke with a tone of studied neutrality, though his expression betrayed a hint of displeasure. "The Dragon's Bank, despite all advisements to the contrary, has embarked upon dealings with Volantis." He paused, allowing the gravity of this defiance to settle amongst them.
A murmur, delicately scornful, rippled through the room. Elaria leaned forward, her fingers touching lightly upon the parchment before her. "It is, perhaps, not entirely unexpected," she observed, her voice a mixture of regret and disapproval. "Aemond Targaryen is ambitious, that much cannot be denied. Yet to align himself so openly with Volantis—to invest in a nation that upholds the trade of human souls—is a calculated affront. It is a challenge, aimed as much at us as at the crown."
"Indeed," added Savio Nocarelli, who, though generally possessed of a placid temperament, could scarcely conceal his irritation now. "The Dragon's Bank has made itself complicit in the commerce of chains and collars. It is a matter of principle for Braavos, and principle is something we cannot afford to lose, not for coin nor for influence. The very founding of our city rests upon the repudiation of such trade. To ignore this would be to invite the ruin of our very reputation."
"Yet what is to be done?" inquired Horas Di Braavo, whose measured tone revealed no hint of agitation, though his eyes were sharp. "We cannot simply withdraw our influence from Westeros. It would be most imprudent, with repercussions far too numerous and troublesome to be easily contained. The Iron Bank must maintain its presence, lest we lose our hold upon the markets and thus upon the stability of the entire region."
Elaria nodded in agreement, her lips pressed thinly. "To sever our dealings entirely would be disastrous. However, we are not without recourse. It is not necessary to abandon our presence in Westeros; we need only remind those who might be inclined towards the Dragon's Bank where true power resides." She allowed herself a small, deliberate smile. "There are debts that can be called in, perhaps at an inconvenient time for some. The Lords of Westeros are a proud lot, but they are not immune to the pressures of a well-timed repayment demand."
Matthos listened, his expression contemplative. "House Beesbury, House Mallery, and the rest. They are vulnerable, reliant upon us for their solvency. If they are compelled to pay their dues, they will see the folly of placing trust in this Dragon's Bank." He paused, then added, almost to himself, "The Hightowers, however, must be approached with caution. They are deeply rooted, and a misstep there might strengthen Aemond's resolve instead of weakening it."
"And beyond Westeros?" Dorian Maro interjected, his soft voice contrasting with the forcefulness of his words. "The Dragon's Bank has sought opportunities in the Free Cities, in Lys and Myr, where our influence is less dominant. We could direct our energies there, subsidise their competitors, reduce their gains to mere trickles of copper where they once saw streams of gold. Aemond Targaryen has expanded quickly, but such rapid expansion brings with it certain vulnerabilities."
"A matter of tariffs, perhaps," Elaria mused. "Or favourable rates offered to those whose allegiance remains with us. The Free Cities have long understood that loyalty is best purchased in coin, not in promises."
"And the sea," Savio said, his gaze drifting to the window, where the harbour of Braavos lay just out of view, bustling with life. "The Narrow Sea is traversed by many ships, but few sail without our leave. There are ways to ensure that those whose allegiance lies with the Dragon's Bank find their voyages… unexpectedly fraught. A delay here, a complication there. Such things accumulate, to the detriment of their trade." He looked back at the table, his lips curling faintly. "Even the occasional vessel lost to pirates shouldn't be too unusual."
Matthos allowed himself a nod of agreement. He rose, his hands resting upon the table as he regarded those assembled before him. "We shall act as is our wont, with patience and precision. Debts will be called, markets undercut, maritime commerce disrupted—all in the service of reminding Aemond Targaryen that the Iron Bank of Braavos is not so easily disregarded."
There was a murmur of assent, each member of the council giving their acknowledgement. There was no need for elaborate proclamations, nor for impassioned declarations of intent. Their resolve was quiet, steadfast, and as unyielding as the tides that lapped at the shores of their great city.
As the council members rose, robes whispering against the cold stone floor, Matthos lingered a moment longer, his eyes fixed upon the flames of the hearth. There was a beauty in fire, yes, a fleeting grandeur. But water—water endured, reshaping itself as needed, wearing away at the unmovable until it became dust.
And Braavos, like water, would endure. The Dragon's Bank may roar with the fire of dragons, but they would learn soon enough that the Iron Bank was not swayed by spectacle. It was time to remind the upstart that there were forces in this world that fire could neither burn nor command.