The landing was direct, without detours. Vlad guided Drakul to the Sea Lord's Palace, a solid, fortified structure with dark roofs and statues that faced the sea. Drakul landed with force, shaking the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust. A few tiles fell, a nearby horse bolted, and the guards didn't know whether to run, scream, or freeze in place.
Vlad dismounted from the dragon, letting himself fall from the height slowly and gently, like a leaf carried by the wind. It was a striking contrast to his figure: 6'1" of broad shoulders and muscular arms, clad in dark Valyrian scale armor and a cloak red as blood. The Scarlet Witch sword hung from his waist, as eye-catching as he was.
He took a few steps toward the entrance, unhurried, while Drakul settled behind him, lying down like a giant, peaceful hound.
—Lykirī, Drakul. Umbagon daor —he commanded in High Valyrian, stroking the scaly neck of the beast.
The dragon responded with a purring sound, though due to its size, it came out more like a menacing growl.
A platoon of soldiers crowded the entrance, trembling swords in hand. Vlad simply stood in front of the dragon, hands clasped behind his back, which only emphasized his commanding presence. He waited patiently for someone to invite him in. After all, he had come to negotiate, and he could be as polite as the situation demanded.
Several tense minutes passed before, finally, from behind the soldiers, a man in dark clothing and a short cape emerged. He walked with a hurried, nervous pace, as if carrying a grenade in his hands. He stopped at a cautious distance, swallowing hard before offering a slight bow.
—M-my lord… —he began, his voice barely a choked whisper—. The… the Sea Lord wishes to know what you seek in Braavos… Vlad Drakul.
The name, spoken aloud, seemed to tense every person present. The surrounding soldiers instinctively flinched, and one even dropped his spear.
Vlad looked at him calmly, wearing a neutral and elegant expression.
—I seek only an audience —he replied in a deep voice—. A proposal I am sure the Sea Lord will wish to hear.
The envoy shuddered at his courteous tone, as if the contrast only made him more terrifying. He nodded immediately, unsure how to proceed.
—Y-you may enter… my lord —he stammered, bowing clumsily—. P-please… this way…
The gates creaked open slowly. Vlad walked without hurry, his cloak billowing behind him, as striking as it was elegant. Drakul did not move from his spot, but his eyes remained fixed on the entrance, watching every tiny soldier left behind to "keep an eye" on him.
As Vlad moved through the palace halls, the soldiers standing along the sides stepped back. Courtiers fled to other rooms, and even the boldest servants found excuses to disappear through side doors. The silence was nearly absolute; only Vlad's footsteps and those of the escort echoed through the palace.
Vlad smiled inwardly. This was precisely the reaction he had sought ever since he began impaling people. Not out of vanity, but pragmatism. What soldier would march to war against the dreaded Lord Impaler?
At last, the great doors of the Sea Lord's chamber swung open. The interior revealed a long, dark hall lit by candles and adorned with Braavosi banners. At the far end, the Sea Lord sat on a throne of black stone, flanked by several high-ranking nobles. At his side stood the First Sword of Braavos, a man clad in full armor, bearing the expression of one marching to war, with one hand firmly resting on the hilt of his curved blade.
Several guards stood in formation around the chamber, discreetly surrounding Vlad.
The atmosphere was heavy, thick with tension. The Sea Lord, an older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard, tried to maintain his dignity, but couldn't help his fingers drumming anxiously on the armrest of the throne. The surrounding nobles avoided meeting Vlad's gaze.
Vlad stopped a few paces from the center of the hall and lifted his gaze calmly, taking in every corner, every trembling face.
—Greetings, Sea Lord —he said with a slight bow, without losing a shred of his imposing presence—. I am Vlad Drakul. I come to propose an agreement to Braavos.
Despite Vlad's respectful and elegant tone, a chill swept over everyone present. As if, despite his words, the deal would cost them the lives of their firstborn.
The Sea Lord took a deep breath, trying to control the tremor in his hands before slowly rising to his feet. When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp and tense—everything contrary to the image of courage he wished to project.
—Braavos... is not a city accustomed to dragons on its rooftops, Lord Drakul —he said, lifting his chin slightly with a forced air of dignity—. The sight of such a creature has caused panic. Some would see this as a threat.
His words were followed by a dense silence. One of the nobles swallowed hard; the First Sword, however, never took his eyes off Vlad, fully alert for any movement.
Vlad maintained his serene posture, hands clasped behind his back, without the slightest sign of hostility. His gaze rested briefly on the Sea Lord, then swept the hall before speaking in a calm voice, modulated like a well-bred noble educating one of his duller servants.
—Dragonlords travel with their dragons, Sea Lord —he said gently—. It would have been unthinkable for Aegon the Conqueror to ask for permission before landing in any of the… —he paused, as if choosing his words carefully— …Noble Free Cities. It is assumed to be an honor to receive a dragonlord.
The comparison sent a shiver through several in the room. The name Aegon still carried weight, and the suggestion that Vlad considered himself his equal did not go unnoticed. However, his tone wasn't arrogant. It was a simple statement. As if explaining why the sun rises in the east.