Chapter 16: The Bloodied Banner, A Feast for the Weaver
Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of (most of) Westeros, received Lord Aerion Vaelaros's defiant reply in his rapidly expanding encampment at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. The obsidian scroll, delivered by the same silent, imposing dragon rider who had first borne Aerion's overture, felt like a shard of volcanic glass in his hand – beautiful, sharp, and dangerous. The carefully crafted High Valyrian, with its blend of archaic elegance and thinly veiled contempt, was an insult wrapped in silk. "Fealty is for the conquered… The Vaelaros line has never bent its knee… Valar Istarys (All Men Must Know)." It was a declaration of independence, a challenge to his sovereignty, and a chilling assertion of superior Valyrian understanding.
The Conqueror's famed calm frayed. His violet eyes, usually thoughtful, now burned with a cold fire that mirrored Balerion's own. The "Lost Legion of Volantis," this upstart Lord Aerion who had materialized from the ghosts of Valyria to seize the Iron Islands, was no longer just a problematic variable; he was an open rebel, a rival dragonlord daring to carve out a kingdom within Aegon's newly forged realm.
"He mocks us," Visenya hissed, her hand clenching the hilt of Dark Sister. "He plays at being a Valyrian purist while stealing lands I bled to claim! We should have burned him from the sky at the Last Storm!"
"And risk our own dragons against his unknown numbers and sorceries before Argilac was dealt with?" Rhaenys countered, though her usual playful demeanor was gone, replaced by a frown of concern. "He is cunning, sister. His dragons fought with a discipline ours have yet to fully master. And Vhagarion… that beast is ancient, powerful. Aerion himself… he is more than just a warlord."
Orys Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, ever the pragmatist, grunted. "Cunning or not, he holds Pyke. He defies the King. He cannot be allowed to stand. Every day he rules in the Iron Islands, other lords will wonder if they too can defy the Iron Throne."
Aegon listened, his gaze fixed on the offending scroll. Aerion's words about "crucibles far deeper and darker" and a Valyrian soul Aegon had "yet to fully comprehend" echoed in his mind, stirring an unwelcome flicker of the same unsettling doubt he had felt during their parley. This Lord Vaelaros was not like the brutish Westerosi kings he had faced. He was a different kind of enemy, one who fought with words and shadows as much as with fire and steel.
But Aegon was the Conqueror. He would not be outmaneuvered or intimidated. "He wants a war, then a war he shall have," Aegon declared, his voice hard. "Send word to the fleet. Prepare the armies. We will root this 'Lost Legion' out of Pyke and remind them who is the true master of dragons in Westeros."
Yet, even as Aegon began to marshal his forces for a punitive expedition against the Iron Islands, Aizen, in his guise as Lord Aerion Vaelaros, was already several steps ahead, weaving a far grander, bloodier tapestry. He had no intention of waiting meekly in Pyke to be besieged. His goal was not to hold a few rocky islands, but to ignite a continental conflagration.
From his new seat in the grim fortress of Pyke, "Lord Aerion" unleashed a torrent of diplomatic overtures, propaganda, and promises across the southern kingdoms of Westeros. His black ships, now bearing the Vaelaros sigil, sailed to hidden coves and remote ports, carrying Sentinel envoys cloaked in the guise of learned Valyrian scholars or sympathetic exiles. His message was carefully tailored to each recipient, a symphony of seduction and veiled threat:
* To Dorne: To Princess Meria Martell, the "Yellow Toad" who had defied Aegon's dragons and ultimatums, Aerion sent his most eloquent Sentinel, one gifted with a silver tongue and a deep understanding of Dornish pride. He spoke not of conquest, but of an alliance of sovereigns. He acknowledged Dorne's ancient independence, praised their resilience, and offered what no Targaryen ever would: true partnership. "Aegon seeks to burn your sands and break your spirit," the message conveyed. "Lord Aerion Vaelaros, a true son of Valyria who understands the sanctity of ancient lineage and the poison of tyranny, offers you the means to resist. His dragons will shield your skies. His Legion will fight alongside your warriors. Together, you shall teach the Targaryen upstart the meaning of defiance. In return, Dorne shall remain sovereign, its traditions inviolate, bound only by friendship and mutual respect to the Valyrian Concord." He even hinted at sharing Valyrian knowledge that could counter dragonfire, or tactics to exploit the weaknesses of dragonriders.
* To the Reach: The Field of Fire had decimated the Gardener kings and many of their proudest bannermen. Yet, resentment simmered beneath the surface of Targaryen occupation. Aerion's envoys sought out the dispossessed, the younger sons of fallen houses, the lords who had bent the knee out of fear but whose hearts still yearned for lost glory. "Aegon Targaryen rewards his own with your ancestral lands," the whispers went. "He replaces your ancient customs with the dictates of a foreign conqueror. Lord Aerion Vaelaros, who embodies the true, enlightened spirit of Valyria, offers you a chance to reclaim your honor, to restore your houses. Join his Grand Alliance, and the green fields of the Reach will once more be ruled by its trueborn sons, under the benevolent protection of a Valyrian lord who respects heritage and rewards loyalty." He promised them Valyrian steel from his Legion's armories, tactical expertise, and dragons to counter Aegon's.
* To the Stormlands: Though Orys Baratheon now ruled Storm's End, loyalty to the fallen Durrandons was not entirely extinguished. Aerion's agents subtly fanned these embers, reminding stormlords of Argilac's valor and the brutality of the Targaryen conquest. "Was the Storm King's sacrifice in vain?" they asked. "Will you let a Targaryen lackey rule from the seat of your ancient kings? Lord Aerion Vaelaros, who witnessed Argilac's courage firsthand, believes the storm still has fury. He calls upon those who remember true valor to rise against the usurpers. Stand with him, and the crowned stag may yet fly again over Storm's End, allied with, not subjugated by, the true power of Valyria."
These messages were not mere rhetoric. They were backed by tangible displays. Argent, from a hidden mobile base aboard the Nyx (which now patrolled the southern coasts like a phantom), would arrange for "gifts" to be delivered to potential allies: caches of finely crafted weapons (some even of Valyrian steel from Aizen's hoard), shipments of grain to alleviate famine in war-torn regions (creating dependency), even demonstrations of power where a squadron of Aerion's dragons would "coincidentally" appear to drive off Targaryen patrols or particularly egregious tax collectors, earning the Legion a reputation as saviors in some quarters.
The process of gathering these disparate, often mutually distrustful, lords into a cohesive alliance was a monumental feat of manipulation. Proud Dornish princes, bitter Reach lords, and sullen Stormlander nobles – each had their own agendas, their own ancient feuds. Aizen, through the tireless efforts of Argent and his Sentinel envoys, played them like instruments in an orchestra, appealing to their greed, their fear, their honor, their hatred of Aegon. He promised lands, titles, revenge, autonomy. He stoked their paranoia about Targaryen tyranny, and painted Lord Aerion as the sole figure capable of uniting them and providing the draconic power necessary to challenge the Conqueror.
Slowly, painstakingly, the "Grand Army of Southern Defiance" (a name Aizen allowed them to coin, fostering a sense of shared agency) began to take shape. It was a motley assembly: Dornish spearmen renowned for their resilience, heavily armored knights from the Reach, fierce stormlander infantry, and at its core, the terrifyingly disciplined Valyrian Legionaries (Sentinels) and the dragon squadron of Lord Aerion Vaelaros. Vhagarion, a black titan of the skies, was the ultimate symbol of their newfound hope, or their desperate gamble.
Aizen, observing this from his dual perspectives – as the charismatic Lord Aerion, rallying his unlikely allies with pronouncements of Valyrian glory and Westerosi freedom, and as the detached godling in his true sanctum, meticulously calculating the spiritual calculus – felt a profound sense of satisfaction. This was not an army built for sustainable victory. It was an army built for a glorious, catastrophic slaughter. He was concentrating the maximum amount of defiant Westerosi martial strength, along with a significant portion of his own expendable forces, into a single, massive confrontation with Aegon's full might. The sheer number of souls, the intensity of the emotions – valor, terror, hatred, despair – would create a spiritual banquet far richer than any skirmish.
The Hōgyoku pulsed in eager resonance. It understood its master's intent. It yearned for the feast.
Aegon Targaryen, initially focused on rooting Aerion out of the Iron Islands, soon received alarming intelligence of this burgeoning southern coalition. Lord Aerion was not merely a reaver king; he was a continental schemer, a rival Valyrian actively working to dismantle Aegon's hard-won conquests. The threat was no longer localized; it was existential.
The Conqueror was forced to change his plans. An attack on Pyke was postponed. Instead, he began to marshal all his available forces – his veteran soldiers, the levies from the Crownlands and newly subdued Riverlands, and most importantly, his sisters and their dragons, Balerion, Vhagar (Targaryen), and Meraxes. He knew this would be a battle for the very survival of his nascent kingdom. He sent ravens to the Lords of the Vale and the North, urging them to honor their oaths of fealty and send men, though he knew such aid would be slow in coming, if it came at all. His primary strength lay in his three great dragons and the core of his experienced army.
Lord Aerion, with uncanny strategic insight (Aizen's, of course), began to maneuver his coalition army. He did not wait for Aegon to attack Dorne or the Reach. Instead, he marched his forces northwards, out of the Dornish Marches and into the southern Stormlands, choosing his ground carefully. He selected a vast, open plain, bordered by hills on one side and a wide, slow-moving river on the other – a terrain that offered some defensive advantages but, more importantly, would allow for the full deployment of both massive armies and the unrestricted use of multiple dragons on both sides. It was a battlefield designed for maximum carnage. He even allowed Aegon's scouts to "discover" his army's position, issuing a bold, public challenge to the Targaryen King: "Meet me here, Aegon, if you dare call yourself a true dragonlord, and let us settle the fate of Westeros in a crucible of fire and steel, as Valyrians of old once did!"
This audacious provocation, coupled with the strategic imperative to crush this rebellion before it gained further momentum, left Aegon little choice but to accept the challenge. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms would indeed be decided on this new field of fire.
On the eve of the great clash, as two colossal armies encamped within sight of each other, their banners – the three-headed dragon of Targaryen and the newly displayed black dragon of Vaelaros surrounded by the varied sigils of Dornish suns, Reach roses, and Stormlander stags – fluttering in the tense night air, Aizen Sōsuke stood alone on a moonlit hill overlooking the scene. He was in his true form, the Lord Aerion guise temporarily shed. The Hōgyoku pulsed against his chest, a warm, eager star.
He could feel the thrumming anticipation of tens of thousands of mortal souls, each a tiny spark brimming with fear, hope, hatred, and the potent life force that would soon be violently liberated. He could sense the primal power of the seven dragons (his six, Aegon's three – though Vhagarion and Balerion were in leagues of their own, with Ignis Primus an even greater, unseen power in reserve) that would turn the sky into an inferno.
"Magnificent," he thought, a genuine, chilling smile gracing his lips. "They dance so passionately to the song of their own destruction. All for my benefit. All for my evolution."
From the Obsidian Spire, miles and dimensions away in spirit, he felt a responsive surge from Ignis Primus. The magma dragon was fully mature now, a creature of mythic power, its incandescent eyes burning with an intelligence that mirrored Aizen's own cold fire. It strained against the metaphysical leash Aizen kept upon it, eager to join the fray, to unleash its primordial fury upon the world.
"Patience, my First Fire," Aizen projected. "Your hour will come. This is but the prelude. When you are unleashed, it will be to herald not just a battle, but the dawn of a new god, and the true end of their age."
He looked back at the twin armies, a vast abattoir laid out before him. The seeds of this confrontation, sown with such meticulous care, were about to bear their bloody fruit. The Hōgyoku eagerly awaited the coming feast of souls, and its god, Aizen Sōsuke, was ready to dine. Tomorrow, Westeros would burn, and he would rise higher on its ashes.