Chapter 33: The Kraken's Debt
The Unmasking Chamber, so recently a stage for a deadly ballet of shadow and steel, was now a scene of grim reckoning. The lingering scent of ozone, cold ash, and the assassin's alien poison still hung heavy in the air, a testament to the ferocity of the foiled gambit. Legionaries, their faces pale beneath layers of grime and sweat, carefully carried out their wounded comrades, while others meticulously searched every inch of the chamber for any further trace of the vanished Faceless Man. The golden containment wards, though one had shattered under the force of the assassin's escape, still pulsed with a defiant, if somewhat diminished, light.
King Baelon I Targaryen stood amidst the controlled chaos, a figure of icy composure, yet his eyes burned with a cold, unholy light. The superficial wound on his arm where the assassin's blade had scored him – a mere scratch that had drawn his own crimson blood, not the black ichor of his foe – had already been cleansed and bound by a nervous physician. It was a trivial injury, yet it served as a burning reminder of the assassin's audacity and skill. His grand trap had been sprung, the quarry engaged, even briefly unmasked, but it had ultimately eluded his grasp.
Lord Larys Strong, Archmaester Vaellyn, and a visibly shaken Ser Corlys Vaelaros stood before him. The silence was thick, laden with unspoken questions and the weight of Baelon's simmering fury.
"Report," Baelon commanded, his voice deceptively soft, yet each word was a shard of obsidian.
Ser Corlys spoke first, his voice hoarse. "Three legionaries slain, Your Grace. Seven wounded, three seriously, by those poisoned darts and the… the liquid. The physicians are doing what they can, but the substances are unknown, virulent." He paused, then added with grim determination, "The Dragon Guard sustained no fatalities, though Ser Steffon took a minor cut. We were… fortunate. Your power, and Lord Larys's intervention…"
Baelon waved a dismissive hand. "Casualties are the price of engagement. Their sacrifice will be noted. What of the entity itself?"
Larys stepped forward, holding out three small, sealed glass vials. "The bolt I fired, Your Grace. It drew this… substance." The vial contained a small amount of the blackish, viscous fluid. "The physicians confirm it is blood, or an analogue, but with cellular structures they do not recognize. It resists mundane coagulation and emits a faint, almost imperceptible chill. The second vial contains scrapings from the floor where its… limb reformed. Ash, primarily, but with traces of unknown organic compounds and particulate matter that seems to absorb light. The third is the shard from its projectile – it appears to be volcanic glass, but with an unnatural density and sharpness, possibly imbued with some enchantment or poison."
Archmaester Vaellyn, looking deeply unsettled, added, "The energy signature of its final… transference… was immense, Your Grace. It overloaded the Valyrian teleportation ward by a factor of ten. Such an expenditure of personal life-force, or an external power source of incredible magnitude, would have been required. It suggests a desperation, perhaps, but also access to reserves of power that are… deeply concerning."
Baelon's gaze drifted to his own hand, which was clenched tightly. He slowly uncurled his fingers, revealing the small, dark coin the assassin had dropped in its escape. The nine-armed kraken, wrapped around its submerged skull, seemed to writhe in the flickering torchlight.
"This," Baelon said, his voice resonating with a new, dangerous intensity, "is our most significant gain from tonight's… exchange." He held it out for the others to see. "The Many-Faced God on one side. And this… abomination… on the other. This was not mere currency dropped in haste. This was a marker, a symbol of its true allegiance, perhaps even a component of its escape." He looked at Larys and Vaellyn. "Your primary task is now to decipher this. Every scholar in Meereen, Volantis, and King's Landing, if necessary, will be put to this. I want to know what ancient, drowned god this nine-armed kraken represents. I want to know its cults, its worshippers, its history. And I want to know how it connects to the Faceless Men and Braavos."
The city of Meereen, already a place of fear, was plunged into an even deeper state of oppressive vigilance. The news of an attack within the Great Pyramid, an attempt on the King's life, spread in hushed, terrified whispers, amplified and distorted by rumor. Baelon allowed these whispers to fester, using them to justify an even more suffocating lockdown. No ship entered or left the harbor without being practically dismantled and reassembled. No caravan passed through the gates without every individual and item being subjected to excruciating scrutiny. The search for the assassin, or any accomplices, became a city-wide purge, Larys's agents empowered to act with impunity.
Unraveling the Threads of a Darker Weave
The Royal Academy branches in Meereen and Volantis became hives of frantic research. Baelon's decree had been unequivocal: decipher the coin, understand the blood, identify the shard. Failure was not an option.
Archmaester Vaellyn, in Meereen, focused his mages on the physical evidence. The black blood proved resistant to most forms of analysis, its cellular structure seemingly capable of minor, localized shapeshifting even in its separated state. It absorbed magical energy directed at it, making scrying attempts on its origin difficult. The projectile shard, under extreme magnification, revealed microscopic etchings, almost too fine for the eye to see, resembling no known language, but with a disturbing, unsettling geometry. Vaellyn began to suspect it was not naturally formed volcanic glass, but something… grown, or crafted through processes that bordered on the trans-dimensional.
Meanwhile, the greatest scholarly minds across Baelon's burgeoning empire pored over ancient texts, fragmented scrolls, and forbidden lore in search of the nine-armed kraken. Weeks bled into a month. Most Valyrian, Ghiscari, and Rhoynish mythologies depicted krakens with the traditional eight tentacles. The number nine was an anomaly, an unsettling deviation.
Larys Strong, using his own network, pursued a different angle. He cross-referenced the image of the coin with known symbols of Braavosi guilds, secret societies, and the esoteric iconography of the Iron Bank's oldest, most secretive vaults. He focused on the clues Anathos had provided – the ghostwood from the far north, the coin from a drowned city – and the assassin's revealed form as a young woman. He put immense pressure on Meereen's remaining merchant class, particularly those with any dealings, however remote, with the colder, northern climes or with antiquarians specializing in Pre-Doom Valyrian artifacts. He was looking for a specific profile: someone who could procure rare, almost untraceable materials, someone who could move like a ghost, someone with connections to the kind of wealth needed to hire the Faceless Men, or to be one of them.
The breakthrough, when it came, was from an unexpected source. A timid, elderly scholar in the Great Library of Volantis, a man named Lyras Seldon, who specialized in the study of dead languages and heretical pre-Valyrian cults, stumbled upon a reference in a badly damaged, thousand-year-old scroll purported to be the ravings of a mad Rhoynish water-witch. The scroll spoke of the "Drowned Brethren" and their silent god, "He of the Nine Arms and Endless Thirst," a primordial entity of the lightless abyssal depths, predating even the emergence of the Valyrian gods. This entity, the witch claimed, offered power over shadows, transformation, and silent passage in exchange for… unique sacrifices and eternal servitude. The symbol of this god was a nine-armed kraken clutching a skull, representing its dominion over the drowned dead. The scroll also mentioned that the cult's most devoted adherents sometimes carried tokens made of "star-fallen iron" or "sea-stone," marked with its sign.
Lyras Seldon, terrified by the implications of his discovery, initially hesitated to bring it forward. But the King's decree was absolute, and the rewards for useful information – and punishments for withholding it – were widely known. He presented his findings to the Volantene Magisters, who immediately relayed them to Baelon in Meereen.
When Baelon received the report, a chilling understanding began to dawn. This was not merely the Many-Faced God of Braavos, an abstract deity of death. This was something older, something more specific, something with its own horrifying agenda. The Faceless Men, or at least this particular assassin, were potentially tapping into a power structure, a belief system, that was far more ancient and esoteric than even the Braavosi themselves might fully comprehend. It suggested that the "contract" against him might be more than just a paid service; it could be a religious imperative, a sacrifice demanded by this "He of the Nine Arms."
The Serpent King's Expanding War
Baelon was not a man to be deterred by gods, ancient or otherwise. If anything, this revelation solidified his resolve. He saw not a greater threat, but a more defined one, an enemy with a mythology that could be dissected, understood, and ultimately, exploited or annihilated. The Voldemort soul within him, which had always scorned the worship of any power but his own, felt a perverse sense of challenge. He would unmask this drowned god as surely as he had sought to unmask its servant.
He convened his war council again, the atmosphere even more charged than before.
"The assassin who faced us was not merely a Faceless Man of Braavos," Baelon declared, his voice resonating with cold authority as he shared Lyras Seldon's findings. "She is, or was, an acolyte of an ancient, abyssal entity, a drowned god of shadow and silence. This 'He of the Nine Arms' is likely the true power behind her contract, perhaps using the Faceless Men as a convenient earthly instrument, or perhaps this is an inner circle, a darker sect within their own ranks."
He paused, letting the implications sink in. "This changes our approach. We are not just fighting Braavosi interests. We are fighting a cult, a hidden power that has tentacles reaching, no doubt, into the deepest, most influential corners of that city, perhaps even into the Iron Bank itself, given the resources at their disposal."
His new strategy was multi-pronged, designed to exert unbearable pressure on Braavos and draw out the remaining cells of this cult.
"Lord Larys," Baelon commanded, "you will use this new knowledge. Focus your agents in Braavos. Seek out any whispers of the Drowned Brethren, any iconography of the nine-armed kraken. Identify those Keyholders, those bank magnates, those Sealords past or present, who might have dabbled in such forgotten worship. Find their heresies, their weaknesses. We will turn Braavos in on itself."
"Archmaester Vaellyn," he continued, "the analysis of the assassin's blood and the projectile shard now takes on new urgency. Compare them to what we know of this Drowned God's lore. Does it speak of servitors with altered physiology? Of weapons forged from abyssal materials? Find the link."
To his military commanders, his orders were equally direct. "Prince Aemond," he said, his gaze flicking to a map where Aemond's forces were garrisoned in Astapor, "your wait is over. You will take your legion, the reformed Unsullied, and Vhagar. You will not strike Braavos directly – not yet. You will instead launch a swift, brutal campaign against the pirate lords of the Basilisk Isles. They are a plague on trade, yes, but more importantly, many of them pay tribute to Braavosi interests or offer sanctuary to their agents. Your objective is to eradicate them, seize their islands, and establish a Targaryen naval base that directly threatens Braavos's southern trade routes and its access to the Summer Sea. Let the Titan feel our shadow looming."
"Lord Crakehall," Baelon ordered, dictating a message to a waiting scribe, "from Yunkai, you will begin to funnel resources – gold, ships, and manpower – towards this new southern fleet. Furthermore, you will initiate aggressive trade sanctions against any merchant houses known to be heavily invested with the Iron Bank, regardless of their city of origin within our Protectorate. We will begin to bleed the Bank, force it to recall loans, to show its own vulnerability."
He also addressed the matter of Westeros. "Lord Marshal Tarly, you will draft a raven to Princess Rhaenyra. She is to instruct Lord Corlys Velaryon to cease any and all unsanctioned trade expeditions that challenge my authority in the Narrow Sea. Instead, his fleet will begin… escort duties… for Targaryen shipping, and actively interdict any vessels found smuggling goods to or from Braavos. His cooperation will be… generously rewarded. His defiance will be noted for future censure." Baelon knew this would rankle the Sea Snake, but it was time to bring all his assets, even reluctant ones, into line against this new, more insidious foe.
The Voldemort persona reveled in this expansion of conflict, this intricate weaving of military might, economic warfare, and covert espionage. He was not just fighting an assassin; he was launching a crusade against a hidden power, an affront to his own burgeoning godhood. He would drag this drowned entity and its worshippers into the light, and then he would extinguish them.
A Glimmer from the Depths of Meereen
Even as Baelon set these grand strategic wheels in motion, the intensified hunt within Meereen itself yielded another, more immediate, result. Under the relentless pressure, a terrified informant, a lowly dockworker who had once served a merchant known for his eclectic collection of antiquities, came forward. He confessed to Larys's agents that he had seen his former master, now deceased under mysterious circumstances shortly after Baelon's conquest, in possession of a small, lead-lined coffer containing several coins identical to the one Baelon had found. The merchant, the informant claimed, had whispered that these were "keys to the quiet places," offerings to "She Who Slumbers Beneath the Tides," a slightly different appellation but clearly related. Crucially, the informant remembered that the merchant had obtained this coffer, and other strange artifacts, from a heavily veiled woman who always paid in pure, untraceable pearls and who spoke with a faint, almost imperceptible Braavosi accent. She had not been seen since before Lord Grafton's death.
Larys presented this information to Baelon. "A woman, Your Grace. Perhaps our assassin in another guise. Or a direct accomplice, a quartermaster for this cult within Meereen. The pearls are a Braavosi hallmark of untraceable wealth. The description is vague, but it is another thread."
Baelon nodded slowly. "This operative, this… 'She Who Slumbers Beneath the Tides'… likely facilitated the assassin's escape or provided sanctuary. She may still be in Meereen, burrowed deep like a sand flea. Or she may have been the one who silenced Anathos and attempted to retrieve the coin before I found it." His eyes narrowed. "Larys, redouble your efforts on any Braavosi nationals, particularly women, who have entered Meereen in the last year. Scrutinize every pearl transaction. This quartermaster, if she exists, is a vital link."
The Weight of the Crown, The Hunger of the Serpent
The days that followed were filled with a grim, focused intensity. Baelon drove his administrators, his scholars, his spies, and his soldiers with an unrelenting will. He slept little, his mind consumed with the intricate dance of his expanding war. He reviewed reports from Aemond's brutal but effective campaign in the Basilisk Isles, from Crakehall's economic strangulation of Iron Bank assets, from Larys's ever-deepening probe into Braavosi secrets and Meereenite collaborators.
He often found himself staring at the nine-armed kraken coin, feeling its unnatural coldness, sensing the ancient, alien intelligence it seemed to represent. It was a symbol of a power that thrived in darkness, in silence, in the forgotten depths. A power not unlike the one Umbraxys embodied, yet different, twisted, dedicated to an oblivion that was anathema to Baelon's vision of an eternal, ordered empire under his own divine will.
"This Drowned God, its Brethren, its Faceless servants… they are an infection in the world, Umbraxys," Baelon communicated to his shadow familiar during one of their long, silent communions. "They offer oblivion as a gift. I offer eternity under my unwavering hand. Our purposes are… diametrically opposed."
The Voldemort within him felt a surge of almost religious fervor, a crusader's zeal. He was not merely a conqueror; he was a purifier, a bringer of true order against the chaotic whispers of these death cults. His war against Braavos was becoming more than a strategic necessity; it was becoming a holy war, with himself as its sole, ultimate deity.
He looked out from the Great Pyramid, over the sprawling city of Meereen, now firmly yoked to his will. Beyond lay Astapor, Yunkai, the new fortifications rising in the Basilisk Isles, the tendrils of his power reaching back towards Westeros. His empire was growing, solidifying. But the nine-armed kraken was a reminder that other, older powers still lurked in the shadows, resentful of his ascent, capable of striking from unexpected quarters.
The assassin was still out there. The cult that served her was still active. Braavos, the Titan of the North, still stood defiant, its fogs mocking his dragons.
Baelon clenched his fist around the cold, ancient coin. The Kraken's Debt, he had called it in his mind. And it was a debt he intended to collect, in full, with interest compounded in blood and terror. The next move would be his, and it would be designed to drag these shadow-worshippers, and their drowned god, screaming into the unforgiving light of his wrath. The game had just begun to reveal its true, terrifying depths.