Chapter 30: The Garden of Forking Paths
The god's decree fell upon the Small Council chamber like a shroud, smothering the last embers of Targaryen exceptionalism. Rhaenyra Targaryen sat frozen on her simple wooden throne, the faces of her council a gallery of shock and dawning horror. Larys Strong had not merely offered a suggestion; he had unveiled his true position in the new world order. He was not a subject. He was a court favorite.
Jacaerys was the first to find his voice, his rage a shield against the terror. He rounded on the Clubfoot, his hand dropping to his sword hilt out of pure, useless instinct. "You! You went to it! You whispered in its ear and conspired against your own Queen, against the blood of the dragon!"
Larys Strong met the prince's furious gaze with an infuriatingly calm expression. He bowed his head slightly. "My Prince, you misunderstand my role. One does not conspire with a hurricane. One merely observes the direction of the wind and advises others to mind their sails." He then turned his gaze to Rhaenyra. "The Great Power on the hill has an interest in the… long-term viability of the Tithe. My humble observations were offered only to ensure the project's success, which in turn ensures the continued peace and prosperity of your reign, Your Grace."
"Do not insult my intelligence, Lord Larys," Rhaenyra's voice was cold as a winter tomb. "You bypassed the Crown. You bypassed my authority. You have made yourself a second, shadow Hand, one whose counsel clearly carries more weight than my own."
"The god speaks to whom it chooses, Your Grace," Larys replied, the very model of obsequiousness. "I am but a humble servant, trying to interpret its grand, orderly will for the good of the realm. A realm which you, of course, so ably govern on its behalf."
The veiled insolence was breathtaking. He was reminding her, in front of her entire council, that her governance was a deputized duty, a task assigned to her by the true power, a power with which he now had a very personal relationship.
Lord Corlys stepped forward, his expression grim. The decree had implicated his own house, his own blood. "This 'policy adjustment' affects my family directly, Lord Larys," the Sea Snake rumbled. "My grandchildren will now be candidates for this… sacred duty. Was this also part of your 'humble observation'?"
Larys inclined his head. "A strong House Velaryon, with its own dragons, has always been a pillar of strength for the throne, my Lord Hand. The god merely seeks to restore that tradition."
"A tradition that ends with my grandchildren's beloved companions being devoured as a snack," Corlys said, his voice dripping with ice. "You have a dark talent, Lord Larys, for wrapping a death sentence in the ribbons of a gift."
The confrontation was cut short. There was no point. They all knew Larys had won. He had the only ally that mattered. The council meeting dissolved, the lords and ladies retreating to process this new, terrifying power dynamic. The Targaryens were the wardens of the farm, but Larys Strong was now the one advising the farmer on crop rotation.
That evening, Lord Corlys Velaryon gathered his kin in the apartments granted to him in the Red Keep. His grandsons, the dragonless twins Baela and Rhaena, were there, along with other young, ambitious cousins and nephews of his house. The news had spread, and the mood was a strange, volatile cocktail of pride, ambition, and mortal terror.
"We are to be given eggs?" a young cousin, Daeron Velaryon, asked, his eyes wide with the dream of a thousand years. "We will fly? Like the Targaryens of old?"
"You will be given the chance to bond, yes," Corlys said, his voice heavy as he dashed the boy's romantic notions on the rocks of reality. "You will be given the great honor and the terrible burden that now defines the Valyrian bloodline in this new age." He looked at each of their eager faces. "You will know the love of a dragon. You will feel its heart beat in time with your own. You will soar through the clouds on its back. And you will carry the knowledge of its final destination, its final purpose, every single day of your life."
His words sobered the room. "This is not a gift of glory," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It is a duty. A sacred, horrifying duty to the god on the hill. It has chosen to expand its flock, and we are now among its chosen shepherds. Do not ever forget who owns the pasture."
The young Velaryons fell silent, the true, poisoned nature of the honor settling upon them. They would fly, yes. But they would fly in a cage whose bars were the sky itself.
Krosis-Krif was pleased. The whisperer's counsel had been sound. The dragon farm project was now more robust, its future more secure. The introduction of new bloodlines, new variables, had made the game more interesting. But the game was slow. The eggs had yet to hatch. The new yards would take years to build. His boredom, that great and terrible engine of his will, began to stir once more.
The grand, cosmic problems were being addressed. It was the small, petty, persistent untidiness of the human heart that now drew his attention. He sifted through the psychic chatter of the realm, the endless stream of human ambition and resentment. And he found a flaw. A crack in the glaze of his perfect, orderly peace. A feud, ancient and pointless, that had festered for a thousand years.
Blackwood versus Bracken.
He had absorbed the memories of a thousand lords and soldiers. He knew the history of this feud intimately. The stolen lands, the poisoned wells, the petty wars, the endless cycle of vengeance over grievances no one could even clearly remember. It was… disorderly. It was an old, ugly stain on the clean tapestry of his new world.
It was time for some housekeeping.
He did not issue a general decree. He reached out with two precise tendrils of thought, into the minds of the respective lords, who were both still in attendance at Rhaenyra's court.
Lord Humfrey Bracken. Lord Samwell Blackwood. Your presence is required in the Great Hall. Come before your Queen. You have a matter to resolve.
The two lords, bitter enemies who had spent the past weeks actively avoiding each other, found themselves compelled by a will that was not their own. They arrived in the hall to find Queen Rhaenyra on her wooden throne, looking as confused as they were. The other great lords were present, a silent, nervous audience to a play they did not understand.
The voice of Krosis-Krif entered all their minds, calm, patient, and absolute.
"THERE IS A FEUD," the god stated, without preamble. "AN OLD, TIRESOME WOUND THAT FESTERS IN THE HEART OF THIS LAND. BLACKWOOD VERSUS BRACKEN. IT IS AN INEFFICIENCY. A RECURRING ERROR IN THE CODE OF YOUR SOCIETY. IT IS DISORDERLY. IT HAS NO PLACE IN THE NEW WORLD."
Lord Bracken, a stout man with a florid face, puffed up with indignation. Lord Blackwood, lean and dark, rested a hand on his sword hilt.
"YOU WILL END IT," the voice commanded. "TODAY. NOW."
"YOU WILL SWEAR OATHS OF ETERNAL FRIENDSHIP AND ALLIANCE BEFORE YOUR QUEEN. TO SEAL THIS OATH, YOU WILL MERGE YOUR HOUSES. LORD BRACKEN, YOUR ELDEST DAUGHTER, CECILY. LORD BLACKWOOD, YOUR HEIR, BENEDICT. THEY WILL BE WED WITHIN THE MOON. YOUR BLOODLINES WILL BE MINGLED. YOUR LANDS WILL BE JOINED IN PEACE."
The two lords stared in open-mouthed horror. The sheer, intimate audacity of the command was breathtaking.
"This is an outrage!" Lord Bracken finally sputtered, finding his voice. "Marry my sweet Cecily to a Blackwood? To the son of this black-hearted usurper of my family's lands? I would sooner see her in the Silent Sisters!"
"My son will not be sullied by the blood of horse-breeders and oathbreakers!" Samwell Blackwood shot back, his hand now gripping his sword tightly. "Our blood is the blood of the First Men! Theirs is mud!"
The god on the hill did not appreciate the debate. The air in the hall grew heavy, charged with a terrifying power.
"YOUR TRADITIONS ARE MEANINGLESS," the voice stated, a note of cold impatience entering its tone. "YOUR HATREDS ARE BORING. YOUR BLOOD IS RED, LIKE ALL THE OTHERS."
Suddenly, the great red stallion embroidered on Lord Bracken's surcoat writhed as if alive, its threadbare eyes widening in terror. It let out a silent, cloth scream. At the same time, the ancient, dead weirwood tree on Lord Blackwood's banner began to weep a thick, black sap that sizzled and smoked where it touched the fabric.
The two lords stumbled back, crying out in terror at the casual, horrifying display of power. It was not destructive. It was a violation of reality itself.
"YOU WILL BE RECONCILED," Krosis-Krif stated, its point made. "YOU WILL BECOME A SINGLE, ORDERLY WHOLE. OR I WILL ERASE BOTH OF YOUR INSIGNIFICANT HOUSES FROM ALL MEMORY. I WILL UNMAKE YOUR CASTLES, SALT YOUR LANDS, AND REMOVE YOUR NAMES FROM EVERY BOOK AND EVERY MIND IN THIS REALM. YOU WILL HAVE NEVER EXISTED. CHOOSE."
The choice was not a choice. It was submission or oblivion.
Beads of sweat rolled down Humfrey Bracken's face. His ancestral hatred warred with his instinct for survival. He looked at his rival, Samwell Blackwood, and saw the same terror mirrored in his eyes. Their ancient feud, the central pillar of their identities for thirty generations, seemed small and foolish in the face of this cosmic ultimatum.
With a great, shuddering sigh that seemed to drain all the fight out of him, Lord Bracken fell to one knee. "I… I agree," he forced the words out, each one tasting like poison.
Lord Blackwood, his face a mask of bitter defeat, knelt beside him. "House Blackwood… agrees."
Queen Rhaenyra watched, her face pale. She was the Queen, and a marriage alliance, one of the most powerful tools of a monarch, had just been forged in her hall without her consent, by a being that treated her and her lords as unruly children.
She had to officiate the oaths. She had to listen as the two bitterest enemies in the Riverlands swore eternal friendship, their voices shaking with loathing. She was a puppet, performing the duties of a queen while the true king watched from a distance, amused by the show.
Larys Strong observed the entire scene from the shadows, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face. He had set this in motion. His whispers had led to this. The god was no longer just a passive observer. It was now actively, personally, and bizarrely re-engineering the very fabric of their society for its own entertainment. The game had entered a new, far more interactive phase. And he, the humble Whisperer, was the only one who truly understood how to play. The garden of Westeros had many forking paths, and he now held the map that showed where his god would send its gardeners next.