Casterly Rock
Kingdom of the Rock
"Argilac is dead, the Stormlands are on the edge of civil war, and the so-called heretic sorcerer-king of the Heartlands has swallowed the entirety of Blackwater Bay," Loren Lannister said as he stared at the sunset over the Sunset Sea from the high courtyards of Casterly Rock.
The golden light made the waves glow in amber and crimson. Behind him stood his family: his two younger brothers, Tyrek and Tyrion; his sister Joanna; several uncles and cousins; and the lords of his council. They had gathered at his summons to discuss the reports from the east of the events that had transpired over the year-long winter.
"It would seem so, Your Grace," Justicar Swift said carefully.
Loren began to laugh, a laugh of genuine amusement. "My, my. How the world changes in a single winter."
His brothers immediately spoke up.
"Brother, we have to act now!" Tyrek said, his young face flushed with fervor. "Abandon the war with the Reach! This changes everything!"
"Perhaps even form an alliance with Mern," Tyrion added, stepping forward. "An alliance with all the kings the Storm, the Reach, Dorne, even the heathen Starks if necessary! We must stand united against this threat!"
Tyrek continued, his voice rising. "This heretic king is dangerous beyond measure! May the Seven curse his name! He has been making a mockery of our Faith, corrupting it with tree-worshipping paganism! And now he begins his conquest of the faithful in the Blackwater!" His hands clenched into fists. "He might even have had a hand in King Argilac's death! Who's to say he didn't use his foul sorcery to strike down the Storm King from afar? What's to stop him from doing the same to you, brother? To all of us?"
They spewed many exaggerated claims about King Harald, their voices rising with each accusation.
"They say he drank the blood of his enemies after the battle at Maidenpool!" Tyrek said. "That he performed dark rituals with the corpses of the fallen Stormlanders!"
"The creatures he calls 'children of the forest' are demons in disguise," Tyrion added. "Summoned from the depths of the seven hells to serve him. The septons say they seduce good men away from the Seven, promising them all forms of debauchery!"
"He can kill a man with a word!" Tyrek continued, his hands gesturing wildly. "Just speak, and lightning strikes from a clear sky! They say that at the battle against the Stormlanders he spoke three words and five hundred knights fell dead in their saddles!"
"And raise the dead to serve him," an uncle added from the back. "His castle is being built by creatures of ash and stone, not living men but corpses bound to his will, abominations that work day and night without rest!"
"They say his horse glows with unholy light," cousin Gerold spoke up. "A beast from the seven hells itself, with eyes of blue fire and bones visible through translucent flesh!"
"You have been spending too much time listening to the septons," Loren said flatly, cutting through their increasingly hysterical proclamations.
His sister Joanna spoke up, her voice calmer but no less concerned. "Your Grace, it is not only the septons. Even the maesters warn us of the foul magic this sorcerer uses. He has bewitched an entire kingdom to do his bidding, lords, smallfolk, even septons of the Faith themselves have converted to his heresy. What if we are next? What if his magic can reach here and into our very minds?"
Loren rolled his eyes and turned away from the sunset to face his family and council. He could see clearly who was being influenced by whom. The septons hated his new neighboring king for his heretical religion, the Coevenet, and called it the Leonite Heresy as if that would diminish its power. The maesters hated him for his magic. Both groups whispered poison into willing ears, stoking fear and religious fervor to serve their own ends.
Honestly, Loren did not think of King Harald as an enemy. In fact, he had been in secret correspondence with the king for several months. The letters were carefully worded, passed through trusted intermediaries, never mentioning anything that could be used against either of them if intercepted.
Through those letters Loren had come to understand how Harald saw the world, and the realization had been striking: they were alike, he and the new king. Knowledge, faith, power these were all tools, means to an end. They must all bend to serve the king, and Harald had mastered this principle better than anyone Loren had ever encountered. A faith centered entirely around him, his smallfolk and lords thinking him a god walking among men, chosen by both the Old and New gods. It was brilliant. It made ruling so much easier when your subjects believed you were literally divine.
It only made Loren more envious of the man, if he was honest with himself.
As for the magic Harald supposedly used, Loren did not particularly care where it came from. In their correspondence, the king had told him his power came from himself, from the blessing of the gods. From Loren's spies, and he had many watching the Heartlands, they had found no blood sacrifice, no altars to dark gods, no child murders or demon summoning. None of the evil rites the old Valyrians or the foulest sorcerers of the east employed.
His spies reported the king healing people with glowing hands and using his power to grow food in winter. Power, yes, but used for the prosperity of his realm.
Perhaps he was missing something, and perhaps everyone around him was correct. Perhaps Harald was hiding darker practices beneath a veneer of benevolence. But so far Loren had seen no reason to distrust him.
What Loren wanted from the king was simple: as long as Harald did not interfere with the Kingdom of the Rock, they could reach an understanding, even form an alliance. Loren had already drafted a letter in his mind—the Kingdom of the Rock would recognize the Heartlands' conquest of Blackwater Bay as legitimate and would support their claim against any who challenged it. In return, Harald would give him some form of assistance in his upcoming war against Mern.
Not troops necessarily, but perhaps those miraculous potions that made crops flourish in any soil, perhaps healing for his wounded soldiers, perhaps knowledge of the tactics and training that had allowed a thousand men to defeat ten thousand.
It would be a secret alliance, of course. The Faith would riot if they knew. The maesters would scheme against him. Loren did not care. He was a pragmatist, and he could see which way the winds were blowing.
He continued staring at his family's worried faces, at the fear and religious fervor in their eyes. Fools, he thought coldly. Feeble-minded fools. They could never see the bigger picture.
"We will do nothing," Loren said finally, his voice cutting through the murmurs of his family and council.
"What?" Tyrek said, shocked. "Brother, we must—"
"We will do nothing," Loren repeated, harder this time. "We will not abandon our war with the Reach. We will not form some desperate coalition of kings. We will continue as we have been."
"But, brother—" Joanna started.
"The Heartlands pose no threat to us," Loren interrupted. "King Harald has shown no interest in western expansion." He looked at each of them in turn. "He is not our problem. And if we are wise, we will make him our friend rather than our enemy."
The shocked silence that followed was deafening.
"You cannot be serious," Tyrion said quietly, horror dawning on his face. "You would ally with the heretic? With the sorcerer?"
"I would ally with anyone who serves the interests of the Rock," Loren said coldly. "That is what a king does. He sets aside superstition and sentiment and does what is necessary."
He turned back to the sunset, dismissing them. "That is my final word on the matter. You are all dismissed."
They left slowly, reluctantly, whispering among themselves. Only Justicar Swift remained, the old lord watching his king with calculating eyes.
"They will not understand," Swift said quietly.
"They do not need to understand," Loren replied. "They need to obey."
"And if King Harald proves to be as dangerous as they fear?"
Loren smiled, cold and confident. "Then I will have built a relationship with him, earned his trust, learned his weaknesses. And when the time comes, I will know exactly how to destroy him." He glanced at Swift. "But I do not think that time will come. I think Harald Stormcrown and I are going to be very good friends."
Swift nodded slowly, understanding. "You play a dangerous game, Your Grace."
"The only game worth playing," Loren Lannister replied, watching the sun disappear beneath the waves.
The future belonged to those bold enough to seize it.
And Loren had never lacked boldness.
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Dragonstone
Orys did not know what was happening in the world anymore.
He had seen all sorts of magic in his journey to the Heartlands as an envoy for his brother. He had met and befriended the man responsible for it all, King Harald Stormcrown. In the months he had spent in that kingdom, speaking with its people and witnessing the miracles, he had come to the conclusion that King Harald was a good and honest man.
His magic, Orys was certain, did not come from any of the foul ways he had read about, the dark practices used in Old Valyria or the blood magic his sister Visenya was fond of experimenting with. No, this was something else entirely, something purer, divine. Harald's magic healed the sick and grew food in barren soil. It came from him, from his voice, from his very being, not from sacrifice or suffering or bargains with dark powers.
It was something that had Orys close to believing in the Covenant and in what the new faith preached, that Harald truly was chosen by the gods, blessed by both Old and New, a bridge between the divine and the mortal.
He had seen Harald's power even more dramatically when he was caught in the war in the Blackwater. Months spent trapped in Maidenpool, watching the siege tighten, food running low and hope dwindling, ended when Harald came and lifted the siege using his divine magic and a thousand men to defeat ten thousand Stormlanders.
Orys remembered how Harald had called forth the storm itself to defeat the Stormlanders. The irony was not lost on him: the Storm King's army destroyed by a storm, lightning from the heavens striking down knights in their armor. It had been the most terrifying and beautiful thing Orys had ever witnessed.
He returned home to Dragonstone in good spirits, grateful to be alive, carrying letters from Harald to his brother proposing friendship and trade between their kingdoms. But he also returned with a growing sense of dread.
As he slowly realized what his trueborn siblings' ambitions of conquest truly entailed, he understood a terrible truth: for Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys to realize their dream of uniting Westeros, they would need to go through Harald. Orys found that thought terrifying.
He arrived back home expecting his siblings to be there, eager to tell them what had happened, to warn them about the power Harald commanded, to perhaps redirect their ambitions toward easier targets. But they hadn't returned.
He waited and waited until he was informed in a letter by Aegon himself that they were staying in Lys until the end of winter. Some business with the lords of Lys, the letter said vaguely.
When they eventually returned, months later as winter was ending, Orys could see immediately that something had changed in them. In Aegon most of all, but also in Visenya. Rhaenys remained much the same warm, charming, quick to smile but there was a worry in her eyes that matched his own, a concern about the changes in her siblings that she would not voice aloud but that was evident in every glance she cast toward Aegon.
They brought many red priests and priestesses with them, men and women in crimson robes who spoke the Common Tongue with thick Essosi accents, their eyes burning with fervor when they spoke of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, their one true god.
Orys did not start worrying about it until Aegon had the septons and septas thrown out of Dragonstone.
All of them. The sept was closed, its seven-pointed stars torn down and replaced with braziers that burned day and night. The holy men and women who had served the Targaryens for years were given a day to pack their belongings and leave the island. Some went to nearby lords. Others took ships to the mainland. A few older ones wept as they left, begging to be allowed to stay, to serve in any capacity.
Aegon was unmoved.
Orys did not question it. It was not his place to question his brother and lord. But he watched. He watched everything with growing unease.
He tried to speak with Rhaenys to understand what had happened in Lys, what had changed Aegon so dramatically.
"He had a vision," Rhaenys said quietly when they were alone in one of the castle gardens, "or he says he did. A red priestess showed him something in the flames, showed him his destiny." She looked troubled. "He's always been ambitious, Orys, you know that. But now there is a certainty in him, a conviction. He believes he's chosen by R'hllor himself to reshape the world."
"And you?" Orys asked. "Do you believe it?"
Rhaenys was quiet for a long moment. "I believe Aegon believes it. And where he goes, I will follow. He is my husband, my brother."
Of course she would support him. She loved him, had always loved him, and would follow him into the seven hells themselves if he asked.
Visenya was seldom to be found. She spent her days alone in the east wing of the castle. When Orys did see her, she looked haunted, as if she had not slept; she had lost her luster and rarely smiled as she used to. She frightened him now in a way she never had before.
Orys told Aegon what he had seen in the Heartlands: the death of Argilac, the conquest of the Blackwater, Harald's power and his growing kingdom.
Aegon did not even look shocked, as if he already knew. "It changes nothing," was all Aegon said. "Destiny cannot be avoided."
Things grew stranger still.
Orys and many others in Dragonstone's household were banned from even approaching Dragonmont, the ancient volcanic heart of the island where the dragons nested and where the Targaryens had always gone to commune with their beasts. It was now forbidden to all but Aegon, Rhaenys, Visenya, and the red priests.
They would go there together, sometimes for hours, sometimes for entire days.
The dragons themselves seemed different, more restless. Balerion's roars echoed across the island more frequently. Vhagar and Meraxes circled Dragonmont endlessly, as if disturbed by something.
Then one day Aegon summoned him to his solar and informed him of his new plans.
"I have decided to delay the conquest of Westeros," Aegon said calmly.
Orys felt relief flood through him. "That is wise, brother. Harald Stormcrown is—"
"I plan to attack Pentos first," Aegon continued, cutting him off. "And then conquer the Three Daughters: Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. We will create a new Kingdom of Valyria in Essos and build our strength." His eyes met Orys's, and there was something burning in them. "Only then will we face the great enemy."
"The great enemy?" Orys asked, though dread was already building in his gut.
"Harald Stormcrown," Aegon said simply. "The false dragon. The one who wears the title of Dragonborn. The one who serves darkness disguised as light. He must be destroyed before I can begin my true destiny to unite Westeros. R'hllor has shown me this truth."
Orys tried. Gods, he tried his best to make Aegon understand.
"Brother, please listen to me," he said urgently. "I spent months in the Heartlands. I saw what Harald can do. He called lightning from the sky. He defeated ten thousand men in minutes. He has magic unlike anything in the world. He summons storms with his voice and creates giants of ash and stone." His voice rose despite himself. "If you face him in battle, even with dragons, you could lose. You could die."
"I cannot die," Aegon said with absolute certainty. "R'hllor has chosen me as his instrument. I will remake Valyria, and then I will burn away the false dragon and claim Westeros as was always meant to be."
"Focus on Essos then," Orys pressed. "Forget Westeros. Build your kingdom there. Seven hells, I will support you in this conquest of the east if it means we will not go to war with Harald."
But all his words fell on deaf ears.
Orys left the solar feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
=========
As winter came to an end, his mind turned to Dragonmont.
Orys had been planning to break Aegon's ban and see what lay within. Perhaps the red priestess and priests were using their magic to control his siblings, some Essosi sorcery, blood magic, mind manipulation. It was the only explanation that made sense. His brother would not have changed so drastically, so completely.
He thought of leaving, of taking a ship and sailing to the Heartlands and asking Harald for help. But no. He needed to know first. He needed to see with his own eyes what was happening in the depths of Dragonmont before he made any decisions. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe Aegon had truly just found new faith, and Orys was seeing conspiracies where there were none.
But he did not believe that. Not really.
So Orys planned to sneak into Dragonmont.
He spent days observing the patterns when the red priests went in and out, when Aegon and his sisters held their rituals. He noted everything, memorized the routines, and waited for the perfect opportunity.
One night, during the darkest hours when even the stars seemed to hide behind clouds, Orys made his move. He had made sure everything was in his favor: the red priests were all gathered in Aegon's solar for a lengthy ceremony.
He slipped out of his chambers wearing dark clothes.
It was easier than expected. Aegon had not stationed guards at the entrance to the sacred mountain. Why would he? Who would dare defy the ban? Who would risk the wrath of dragons and dragonlords?
A bastard brother, apparently one driven by love and fear in equal measure.
Orys made his way through the obsidian-walled caves, the passages lit by an eerie red glow from cracks in the stone where magma flowed far below. The heat was oppressive, the air thick and sulfurous. He could hear the distant sounds of dragons: Balerion's rumbling snores, Vhagar's restless movements, Meraxes's occasional hiss.
He went deeper, following the strongest source of light, drawn by something he could not name.
He found himself in the hatchery a massive cavern lit by lava flows that ran along channels carved into the floor, providing constant heat for the dragon eggs that had once been kept here.
Then he saw it. At the end of the large cavern stood a statue.
Orys stopped dead, his breath catching in his throat.
The statue was massive, perhaps ten feet tall, carved from a single piece of black obsidian. It depicted a figure with four arms, each hand holding a different implement: a blade, a scroll, a sphere, and what looked like a scepter. The figure's face was stern and regal, with eyes that seemed to follow Orys as he stared. Horns curved from its head in an elaborate crown. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.
"What..." Orys muttered, taking an involuntary step back.
"Orys."
He spun around at the sound of his brother's voice, his hand going instinctively to his knife.
Aegon stood at the cavern entrance with one of the red priestesses. His brother's expression was calm, unsurprised, as if he had been expecting this.
"Brother, what—" Orys started.
"I am not angry," Aegon interrupted, walking forward. "I knew you were getting restless. I could see it in your eyes, hear it in the questions you stopped asking. I knew you would come here eventually."
"What is this?" Orys demanded, gesturing at the obsidian statue. "What dark god is this? Is this why you have forsaken the Seven? Why you have brought these..."
"It is no dark god, brother," Aegon interrupted. "It is the one true god, R'hllor, the Lord of Light, who has existed since before the world was young. He has chosen me and my bloodline to be the saviors of this world."
Orys did not speak. He could not. His eyes kept darting between his brother and that terrible, magnificent statue.
Aegon walked closer, his expression softening slightly. "Orys, I know you are frightened by the sudden changes. I am sorry for keeping you in the dark." He placed a hand on Orys's shoulder. "But all will be explained. The Red God has shown me visions: the future, the past, the threads of fate that bind us all. I have seen what we are meant to do, what we are meant to become."
He looked directly into Orys's eyes. "I need your support, brother. Not as my subject, but as my family, as my truest friend. Will you stand with me in what is to come?"
Orys looked past Aegon to the statue, the "one true god" as his brother had called it. Then he looked back at Aegon, at the half-brother with whom he had been raised, who had given him a place in the world despite his bastard blood, who had even promised honors and lands when the conquest was done.
Yes, he thought with a sinking feeling in his gut. He had made a vow long ago to his brother that he would be with him no matter what. Through triumph and tragedy, through wisdom and folly, through light and darkness.
Could he break that vow now? Should he?
"I made a vow, brother," Orys said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. "Such a thing cannot be easily broken. I am with you."
Aegon grinned, genuine warmth flooding his features. "Thank you, Orys. You don't know what that means to me. Now let me show you the power we will wield soon."
He unsheathed Blackfyre.
Then, to Orys's shock, it caught fire. Red and gold flames wreathed the blade, running along its length from guard to tip. The steel glowed as if it were being heated in a furnace, but Aegon held it easily, the flames not touching his hand.
"What—" Orys breathed, unable to form a complete sentence.
"This is only the beginning," Aegon said, his eyes reflecting the burning blade. "R'hllor will make me, no, us, and our dragons stronger, more powerful than any dragonlords in history. And when it is time, after I revive Valyria itself, after I have built an empire from the Free Cities," His voice grew harder. "We will face the great enemy together. We will burn away the false dragon's lies, and Westeros will be shown the light of the true god."
Orys could only nod dumbly, his eyes fixed on the burning sword, while part of his mind debated whether he should really keep that vow.
Whether loyalty to his brother was worth following him into whatever madness this was. Whether there was any way to stop what was coming, or if they were all already doomed.
The flames danced along Blackfyre's edge, and in their light the obsidian statue seemed to smile. Orys Baratheon, bastard of Dragonstone, felt the weight of destiny settle on his shoulders like chains.
There was no going back now. Only forward, into fire and blood and the uncertain future.
Gods help them all.
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