Chapter 504: The Catastrophe of Braavos

As the Titan of Braavos had its head severed, all who witnessed the scene were utterly dumbfounded.

The hope that had briefly risen within their hearts melted away like snow under the sun. In its place, the deep-seated fear of dragons, buried in their collective memory, surged back with overwhelming force.

Countless people wept in despair, while others screamed hysterically in rage.

The place where the Titan fell was none other than the fortified outpost at the edge of Braavos' defensive ring—a jagged, fist-shaped rocky protrusion at the lake's edge, bristling with catapults and ballistae.

As descendants of slaves who fled the Valyrian Freehold, Braavosi had always feared the return of their former masters astride dragons. These ballistae were specifically constructed to counter such threats.

Thus, after witnessing the Titan's defeat, the terrified Braavosi soldiers, driven by their officers' desperate orders, adjusted their ballistae and launched an attack on the dragon.

Swish! Swish! Swish!

Thick, massive bolts shot through the air like torrential rain, streaking toward the white dragon.

But such a barrage, which might have decimated smaller foes, was feeble and ineffectual against Cleopatra, whose body now spanned over a hundred meters.

Even the bolts that struck her directly failed to penetrate her scales. At most, a few found their way into the gaps between her scales, inflicting minor wounds, but such injuries only served to enrage the dragon further.

When the volley ceased, Cleopatra let out a thunderous roar. Unfurling her immense wings, she skimmed low over the turbulent sea, accelerating toward the rocky fortress.

Before the defenders could reload their ballistae, a torrent of flame erupted from the dragon's jaws, like a fiery lance sweeping through the ballista emplacements.

Boom!

Countless ballistae and catapults exploded into flaming fragments, while soldiers caught in the blaze were engulfed in fire.

Screams of agony filled the air.

Plop! Plop! Plop!

Soldiers leapt into the sea like dumplings being dropped into boiling water, desperate to escape the inferno.

Many others sought refuge within the stone fortress itself.

But this, too, was a fatal mistake.

The fire Cleopatra breathed was so hot that even stone could not withstand it.

In the dark of night, the square-shaped fortress on the rocky island resembled a melting candle. Molten stone dripped like blackened liquid, flowing into the sea.

Trapped within, soldiers screamed as they were surrounded by flames and roasted alive, their bodies twisting and blackening into charred remains.

The fire spread across the fortress, sending pillars of flame into the sky. The night was illuminated with flickering hues of orange and black, creating a vision of pure apocalypse.

Only now did the people of Braavos truly comprehend the despair of facing a dragon.

This was no force that mortal men could resist. This was a power that did not belong to their world.

Over four centuries ago, their ancestors had fled to the northernmost reaches of Essos, seeking refuge on an island shrouded in mist to escape the tyranny of the dragonlords.

But now, the dragonlords had returned.

And the Braavosi realized, in devastating clarity, that all their efforts over the centuries were meaningless before the fiery terror soaring through the sky.

On the docks, sailors trembled. On Silk Street, prostitutes huddled. On the Isle of Gods, priests clutched their relics in fear. In the House of Black and White, even the Faceless Men remained silent.

The keepers of the Iron Bank, those who controlled the city's wealth, stood frozen with dread.

From the balcony of the Sea Lord's Palace, Naho Demetis watched the blazing fortress. The firelight cast half his face in a crimson hue.

"What kind of imbecile thought it was a good idea to provoke such a being?" he snarled through gritted teeth, his earlier nonchalance utterly gone.

The Iron Bank had remained aloof, coldly observing the Antaryon family's desperate attempts to resist. In truth, they had even been quietly pleased by the Antaryons' struggles.

But now, Naho understood the meaning of dragon's wrath.

If Braavos did not act swiftly, the entire city would be consumed in flames.

"Quickly!" he barked, spinning on his heel and marching away. "Summon representatives from all twenty-three keyholder families. We need to change course immediately!"

"Yes, sir!"

As the Iron Bank's emissary departed the Sea Lord's Palace in haste, he failed to notice that the Sea Lord, who had long been bedridden and seemingly near death, was slowly rising from his bed.

"Quillero," the Sea Lord said, his voice steady. "Summon all the courtiers. I have an announcement to make."

Quillero Valentine, Braavos' First Sword, stared in shock at the now-standing Sea Lord, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"Did you not hear me?" the Sea Lord repeated. "Go!"

Jolted to his senses, Quillero hurried to obey, his mind reeling from the night's unfathomable events.

Meanwhile, Braavos' political sphere began to churn with an unprecedented storm in response to the dragon's threat.

---

Samwell, however, cared little for Braavos' internal politics. Having obliterated the city's military resistance, he guided Cleopatra into the air once more, heading toward the Isle of Gods.

Situated at the confluence of the Heroes' Canal and the Long Canal, the isle was home to temples dedicated to deities from across the world.

There stood the Crying Lady of Lys, the wooden hall of the God of Harmony, the triangular tower of the Three-Headed God, the stone effigy of the Silent God, and the labyrinth of the Weaver...

Braavos, as the most prosperous trade city in Essos, had always been a gathering place for travelers from all corners of the world—and with them came a multitude of faiths.

But Samwell's target was clear: the red-domed, square-towered Temple of R'hllor.

Inside, a group of red-robed priests gazed at the approaching dragon, despair etched into their faces.

The leading priest, his eyes bloodshot as if from recent trauma, suddenly raised his hands and cried out:

"Born alone, we die alone!

Wandering blind, lost in shadow!

Yet by grace, the true god gathers us!

Together we march, ever bright!"

At the final line, all the red priests echoed his words in unison.

Suddenly, the temple's outer walls blazed with radiant red light, glowing like blood.

As Cleopatra's fiery breath descended from the heavens, this crimson barrier held firm, keeping the flames at bay.

But then a more dazzling golden flame erupted from Cleopatra's breath, punching through the crimson shield in an instant.

Boom!

The temple's square dome exploded, sending debris flying in all directions. Half the supporting columns collapsed, and the once-proud structure was reduced to ruin.

Hovering above the ruined temple, Samwell, his golden hair and eyes shimmering like molten fire, gazed coldly and pityingly at the red priests below.

"Caesar!" the leading priest cried, stepping forward. "You were once an apostle of the true god! Why betray your faith?"

Samwell sneered.

"Betrayal? I should be the one asking R'hllor that question."

The priest protested,

"The golden flame and the red flame are of the same origin! As a son of the Hold Flame, how can you—"

"I am no son of the holy flame," Samwell interrupted, his voice ringing with authority.

"I am The Lord Of The Holy Flame!."

Golden flames swirled around him, radiant and divine.

The priests trembled beneath the overwhelming aura he exuded, yet they refused to submit.

"Blasphemy!" the priest shouted. "No mortal may claim the power of the true god!"

"True god?" Samwell's expression grew even more disdainful. "Euron was right—your gods are all lies. If your so-called true god has such great power, let it come and stop me."

Without waiting for a response, Samwell swung his greatsword.

A blinding golden light burst forth, filling the temple hall.

The priests didn't even have time to pray before they were incinerated into piles of ash.

Boom!

Cleopatra descended, her massive body crushing what remained of the temple.

"Roar!"

With a triumphant roar, she lashed her tail, collapsing the rest of the structure.

Samwell looked skyward, his gaze fixed on a distant, invisible point where he sensed an enraged presence watching him.

Angry but powerless.

"You're just pitiful prisoners, aren't you?" he said mockingly.

The provocation on his face became more and more undisguised.

Cleopatra continued to breathe fire onto the ruins, reducing the once-mighty temple to a smoldering inferno.

All across Braavos, followers of R'hllor stared in disbelief.

"No! This can't be! The true god wouldn't allow this demon to rampage!"

"Could R'hllor be... a fraud?"

"The end of the world is coming! This is a test from the true God! We must be strong... Oh no! The devil is looking over here! Run!"

....

The believers scattered, fleeing in tears and panic.

The Isle of Gods, once a place of utmost sanctity and solemnity, was now overwhelmed by betrayal, doubt, and fear.

For the people of Braavos, this night would undoubtedly be etched in their memory forever.

But the night was far from over.

In the panicked crowd, a man with a hood pulled tightly over his head hurried toward the southern end of the Isle of Gods.

At the summit of a small hill stood a temple with a black spire—a place both revered and feared.

The House of Black and White, the temple of the Faceless Men.

The temple's entrance was marked by tall, double-paneled wooden doors, one made of pale weirwood, white as bone, and the other of black ebony, polished to a faint gleam.

The hooded man approached the door, his steps hurried and frantic. He banged on the wood with desperation.

Moments later, the doors creaked open, and a figure clad in black-and-white robes emerged.

"For what does a man seek entrance?" the figure asked in a monotone voice.

"I am Bruce Antaryon, the Sea Lord's son," the hooded man declared, his voice tinged with urgency. "A dragon has descended upon us, threatening the very survival of Braavos! I come on my father's behalf, pleading for your aid. Kill the invader!"

The Faceless Man tilted his head slightly and replied,

"The Faceless Men are but servants of the Many-Faced God. We act only upon His will. Your father has no authority over us."

Bruce's frustration boiled over.

"You, too, are Braavosi! Your ancestors were among the slaves who fled Valyria! Together, we built this free city, a haven without slaves! Will you now stand by and watch as it is destroyed? Will you let yourselves become slaves to dragons once more?"

The Faceless Man remained impassive, shaking his head slowly.

"This dragonlord is not like those of old Valyria. You have seen Westeros; you know that it harbors no slaves."

"But will you kneel before Caesar?" Bruce demanded.

"We kneel to no mortal."

"Then kill Caesar!" Bruce shouted.

"Death is a gift," the Faceless Man said, his voice calm and deliberate. "It is not given lightly."

Bruce clenched his fists in frustration, his gaze darting toward the inferno where the Red Temple had once stood. His face twisted with determination. Finally, he reached beneath his cloak and produced an object, holding it out with trembling hands.

"This is a dragon egg," he declared, his voice heavy with reluctance. "I stole it from King's Landing! Use it to kill Caesar. Surely, this is payment enough?"

The Faceless Man extended a hand, placing it gently on the egg.

"It is alive," he remarked.

"Of course, it's alive!" Bruce replied. "Unlike the fossilized stones the Iron Bank procured, this is a freshly laid egg. With the right dragonseed, it can be hatched, and you could have a dragon of your own!"

The term "dragonseed" referred to individuals with Valyrian blood, descendants of the dragonlord families. Such people were scattered across the world, remnants of Valyria's once-dominant legacy.

Back then, the Valyrian Empire was extremely powerful, and the entire continent of Essos trembled under the tyranny of the forty dragonlord families.

But at the same time, there are countless people who long for the bloodline of the Noble Dragon Lord's, so aristocrat from all over the world were vying to send their daughters to the beds of members of the Dragon Lord's.

As a result, countless illegitimate children of the Dragon Lord's were born, and these people were called "dragon seeds".

During the Dance of the Dragons, when House Targaryen suffer heavy casualties they lacked enough riders to mount their dragons.

So they looked for dragon seeds and let these lowly illegitimate bloodlines control the dragons and participate in the battle.

Bruce knew the Faceless Men would covet such power. After all, who wouldn't want a dragon under their command?

Were it not for his desperation, Bruce would never have considered giving up the egg.

"Decide quickly!" he urged, casting a panicked glance at the sky, where the white dragon circled ever closer to the temple. "Do you want the egg or not?"

The Faceless Man stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.

"A man may enter," he said.

Relieved, Bruce exhaled deeply and rushed into the House of Black and White.

The moment he stepped inside, Cleopatra landed with a resounding thud on the hilltop outside.

Samwell dismounted leisurely and strode toward the black-and-white doors.

"For what does a man seek entrance?" the Faceless Man repeated.

Samwell's golden eyes studied the figure up and down before him intently. A faint smile played across his lips, as though he had uncovered something amusing.

"I have come for my dragon egg," he said simply.

The Faceless Man nodded and stepped aside once more.

"A man may enter," he said.

Samwell's gaze lingered briefly on the dark void beyond the threshold. His smile widened, tinged with mockery.

"Very well," he said, stepping forward into the House of Black and White.

Behind him, the black-and-white doors swung shut with an ominous creak, sealing him within a world of shadows.

(End of Chapter)