TGW - Chapter Twenty-Five: The Siege of Braavos(Pt. 2)

Chapter Twenty-Five:  The Siege of Braavos (Pt. 2)

Ash drifted upon the lagoon like black snow, settling in the gutters and on the tiled roofs that had not yet caught. From the highest balcony of the Sarren manse, Jace watched Braavos smoulder, orange tongues still licking at the poorer hovels beyond the Iron Gate. At daw,n the Titan’s great horn had sounded twice for water‑carriers, yet the cisterns beneath the Palace of Truth lay nearly dry and now even the Doomwine Canal stank of salt.

Sweetwater, they had called the river that ran down from the hills: the city’s lifeblood. Aemond himself had severed that artery in the dark, and by noon the wound had begun to fester. Lines snaked for leagues from wells and cisterns; men fought with cudgels as sharp‑tongued women filled jars; children darted in, lapping spills from the stones. One corpse already bobbed face‑down where the Sweetwater used to pour into the Doge’s Pool—trampled in the press for a mouthful. Already, the city guards had begun erecting barricades in anticipation of a riot.

From below, the shouting reached him: voices raised in anger and despair, cursing dragons, cursing the Westerosi, cursing the Targaryens hiding behind Braavos’s high walls. Cursing his family. Jace turned away from the balcony, jaw tight, fists clenched until his nails dug painfully into his palms.

Behind him, the chamber buzzed like a hornet’s nest. They had gathered in Armeno Sarren’s counting hall, a cool, high‑ceilinged vault trimmed in purple marble, its windows thrown open in vain hopes of drawing breeze from the canal. But the air within was staler than the streets outside, thick with incense meant to hide the smell of burning tar and charred beams.

Rhaenyra sat beneath a painted sailcloth canopy—more shade than throne—her silver hair bound in a severe knot. Spiderweb shadows clung beneath her eyes; she had returned from the rooftop only when dawn made hiding impossible. Lucerys hovered at her shoulder, face pinched; Joffrey and little Aegon leaned together on a window seat, whispering. Near the ledger tables stood Armeno himself, grave and hawk‑nosed, while his youngest daughter—and Jace’s bride since the year before—sat meek and silent beside a case of dusty ledgers, worry gnawing her small mouth.

“—riots on Seal‑Street, six dead already,” a grizzled aide groused as he arrived with fresh parchment. “This matter grows graver by the hour, my lord. Word is Otharys men distribute brackish water from their warehouses and claim the Sarrens hoard the pure.”

Armeno flicked the parchment away. “Lies,” he growled. “We emptied our vaults at sunrise.”

“A lie that feeds,” the aide replied calmly. “And starving folk swallow what is given.”

That struck too near the mark; an embarrassed hush followed. Then the door swung wide and a courier burst in, clothing stained with dust. “My lords—”

“Enough,” Jace snapped. A dozen calamities clattered in his skull already; more tidings would only drown them. He turned to the queen. “Mother, we can’t sit here tallying embers. We know what must be done.”

Rhaenyra turned to him with an unreadable expression. “Say it, then.”

“Let us break the blockade.” He spoke plainly, voice carrying. “Lucerys and I can fly with the Braavosi fleet when it sorties. Aemond’s ships outnumber ours, but last I heard, their dragons are busy hunting our merchants abroad. Should we strike now, surely we can turn that balance.”

Joffrey straightened. “Ma’s not sending you alone, Jace. Let me ride Tyraxes. Three dragons—”

“And have the three of you get yourselves killed?” Rhaenyra cut in. “We have spoken about this before ,and my answer remains the same.”

“Mother.” Jace’s voice was gentle but firm. “If we continue to hide while Braavos suffers, Otharys will eventually convince the city to hand us over in chains. You know this. Already they call us cowards.”

“Let them bark,” she said. “I will not see my sons burned just to placate them.”

Armeno Sarren cleared his throat. “The people’s faith in your cause was always tenuous, Your Grace. This attack—this disaster—has shattered what remained of it. Whole fortunes hinge on whether Braavos remains besieged come winter. If the city believes the Blacks hoard strength while children parch—”

Rhaenyra rounded on him. “You would send my heirs to die?”

The merchant did not flinch. “I would preserve Braavos and your cause both. A show of dragonfire may save more lives than it risks.”

Her jaw set. Jace saw her knuckles whiten on the armrest and felt a pang of guilt—but also a fiercer spark beneath. “If Braavos demands dragonfire, they shall have it—but from Syrax. From me. I shall not send my sons to their deaths.”

Jace shook his head, frustration mounting. He knelt before her chair, ignoring the flare in his knee. “Mother, Vermax is the largest of our dragons. If anyone should face the Greens, it must be me.”

 For a moment, Rhaenyra didn’t speak. 

“Mother—”

“And if Aemond appears astride Vhagar?” she interjected.

Silence pooled around them. Outside, a bell began to toll—a deep, sonorous clang Jace had come to dislike: the fire watch calling another quarter lost. We are dragons, he reminded himself, and dragons do not cower behind stone. 

His stony expression was answer enough.

Armeno Sarren cleared his throat gently as he attempted to change the topic of the discussion. “Prince Jacaerys speaks truly. Syrax alone will seem a desperate measure. But two dragons—two princes taking to the skies to fight for Braavos—this is a tale even Marogro will struggle to twist.”

Rhaenyra’s expression didn’t change. Her gaze moved slowly from Jace to Lucerys, then back again, searching their faces for the boys she once cradled in her arms. At last, she released a shuddering breath. 

She half‑rose. “I will not be seen skulking while my children fight.”

“Nor will I,” Jace countered. “But if both queen and heir fall, what then? Our cause dies with us. You must endure, Mother, to give all this meaning.” He gestured toward the burning skyline. “Braavos must see hope aloft… and still find a queen upon her throne.”

Words the bards might polish, but truth enough. He felt Lucerys' grip tighten—shared resolve.

For a long moment, Rhaenyra held his gaze. Finally, shoulders sagging, she sank back into the chair. “Very well. Jace, you will ride Vermax with the fleet. Luke upon Arrax at your wing.” She turned, fixing Joffrey and Aegon with a steel look that silenced protest before it began. “You two are going nowhere.”

Joffrey’s mouth worked, but he bowed. Little Aegon flushed, half anger, half shame.

Rhaenyra faced Armeno. “How long before the armada sails?”

“Koja Terys convenes the captains at sundown,” the merchant said. “The new war galleys and the hulls that survived the Stepstones would be ready by then—some five hundred warships. Paltry in comparison to the enemy, but our general is a brilliant strategist and has assured the Sealord that he has a viable plan.”

Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, then shut her eyes as she massaged her temple. Jace knew she already hated the next words that would emerge from her lips, but had little choice but to utter them. “Please inform Koja,” she said, sighing. “The princes depart with the tide.”