Chapter 33: The Emperor's Shadow and Arcane Stirrings
The Dragon's Iron Peace, as some dared to whisper it, settled upon the Seven Kingdoms like a suffocating shroud. It was a peace born not of concord, but of absolute, terrifying power. From his seat on the blood-chilling Iron Throne, Emperor Vaelyx I Targaryen ruled over a Westeros stunned into submission, its ancient houses humbled, its spirit cowed by the memory of dragon fire and the ever-present threat of its return. The Red Keep, once a symbol of Targaryen glory and then Baratheon excess, was now a grim fortress-palace, its towers adorned with the obsidian-like scales of roosting dragons, its halls patrolled by the silent, implacable Aegis Guard and the battle-hardened Serpent's Scale veterans.
Vaelyx's days were a relentless exercise in imperial administration, a task for which his Voldemort memories, with their penchant for meticulous organization and ruthless efficiency, were surprisingly well-suited. He received daily reports from his governors: Kaelen, Lord Regent of the Valyrian Dominion in Essos, detailing the steady flow of tribute and resources from across the Narrow Sea; Ser Damon Sand, now Lord of the Westerlands, reporting on the surprisingly productive (if fear-driven) output of the Lannister gold mines; Lord Randyll Tarly, Warden of the South and a man visibly aged by his coerced allegiance, overseeing the vast granaries of the Reach and the pacification of the Stormlands with grim competence; and Prince Oberyn Martell, his Master of Laws, dispensing Vaelyx's harsh new edicts and ensuring Dornish loyalty through a mixture of shared vengeance and wary respect. Malakai's Valyrian Ascendant Holdings had become a monolithic economic entity, its tentacles reaching into every profitable enterprise from Lannisport to Qarth, its profits funding Vaelyx's colossal military and his burgeoning… other projects.
Yet, beneath the veneer of this dragon-enforced stability, Westeros seethed. Lyra's network of spies, the Mistress of Whispers now commanding an organization that would have made Varys blanch, reported constant, though largely impotent, undercurrents of dissent. In the North, young Robb Stark, with his father Eddard still a "guest" in the Red Keep (a hostage whose quiet dignity was a constant, irritating reproach to Vaelyx), was a focal point for Northern pride and simmering resentment. He had not openly rebelled – the thought of seven dragons descending upon Winterfell was a potent deterrent – but Lyra's agents reported secret councils, hushed oaths, and the hoarding of arms. Vaelyx allowed it, for now. A distant, resentful North was easier to manage than an actively rebelling one, and their current impotence served as a useful example to other, more cowed regions.
The Faith of the Seven, its High Septon a terrified puppet who now included paeans to the Dragon Emperor in his daily prayers, was another source of potential trouble. Whispers of a resurgent Faith Militant, of holy warriors arming in secret to combat the "demonic dragons" and their "sorcerous king," occasionally reached Lyra's ears. Vaelyx, who held all organized religion in Voldemort-esque contempt, responded to such rumors with swift, surgical brutality. Several outspoken Septons who had preached veiled defiance found their septs visited by "imperial inquisitors" (often Lyra's most ruthless assassins, sometimes accompanied by a discreetly deployed Veridian), their disappearances a chilling lesson to their brethren.
Assassination attempts against Vaelyx himself, though rare, were not unheard of. A desperate cabal of exiled Stormlords, a fanatical Myrish patriot whose family had been ruined by Vaelyx's conquest, even a disgraced former Maester seeking to prove the dragons were not invincible – all met swift, ignominious ends. Vaelyx's personal wards, woven from Voldemort's darkest knowledge, combined with the constant vigilance of his Aegis Guard and the empathic senses of Astra and Aurumel (who often roosted within the Red Keep's inner courtyards), made him virtually unassailable. The public executions of these failed assassins, often involving dragon fire or a demonstration of Vaelyx's own burgeoning personal magic, served as potent deterrents.
Beric Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord, despite his coerced oath at Blackhaven, had indeed vanished into the Riverlands, reportedly leading a band of outlaws, a "brotherhood without banners." Lyra's reports spoke of him dying multiple times, only to be brought back by a red priest, Thoros of Myr. This intrigued Vaelyx immensely. Resurrection was a feat even Voldemort had only achieved through the complex, soul-splintering abomination of Horcruxes. He tasked Lyra with capturing either Dondarrion or this Thoros, eager to dissect the mechanics of such a phenomenon.
But the governance of his vast, resentful empire, while a necessary burden, was not Vaelyx's true passion. It was the whispers of forgotten magic, the scent of arcane power, however faint in this diminished land, that truly stirred the ancient, predatory soul of Voldemort within him.
His first target was the Citadel of Oldtown. He did not deign to visit it himself. Instead, he summoned a delegation of its most senior Archmaesters to King's Landing, under the pretext of seeking their counsel in compiling a new, definitive history of the Seven Kingdoms under his imperial patronage. Archmaester Walgrave, ancient and senile; Archmaester Ebrose, the renowned healer; and even the controversial Archmaester Marwyn, "the Mage," whose interests lay in the more esoteric and forbidden arts, all made the journey, their barges escorted by Vaelyx's warships.
In the Red Keep's library, surrounded by towering shelves now being filled with scrolls and codices plundered from Essos and Westerosi castles, Vaelyx met with them. His Legilimency, subtle as a serpent's tongue, sifted through their thoughts as they spoke of histories and healing. He found fear, arrogance, and a deep-seated conspiracy of silence regarding true magic. They hoarded knowledge, yes, but also actively suppressed it, their "higher mysteries" a pathetic collection of half-truths and deliberate obfuscations designed to maintain their own intellectual authority. Marwyn was the only one who possessed a spark of genuine, if undisciplined, magical curiosity, and a dangerous understanding of Valyrian lore. Vaelyx marked him for future… cultivation. He issued a decree: the Citadel was to surrender its rarest and most restricted texts to the Imperial Library in King's Landing for "safekeeping and study." The Archmaesters, faced with an imperial edict backed by seven dragons, could only comply, their academic pride turning to ashes in their mouths.
Melisandre of Asshai, the Red Priestess captured at Dragonstone, proved a more fascinating, if frustrating, subject. She was no mere charlatan; her command of fire, her shadowbinding, her visions in the flames – these were genuine, if raw and channeled through the lens of her fanatical devotion to R'hllor. Vaelyx kept her imprisoned in a magically warded chamber deep beneath the Red Keep, not torturing her in the conventional sense, but subjecting her to intense magical and psychological pressure. He dissected her abilities with Legilimency, marveling at the strange, symbiotic relationship she had with her god, a power source both potent and, to his mind, dangerously unreliable. He saw no "Lord of Light," only a conduit for a primal, chaotic energy. He began to experiment, subtly trying to redirect her channeled power, to understand if it could be harnessed without the inconvenient intermediary of a meddlesome deity. Melisandre, terrified and disoriented, her faith shaken by the sheer, dark majesty of Vaelyx's own power and the undeniable reality of his dragons, began to crack.
Dragonstone itself became Vaelyx's primary arcane laboratory. The ancient Targaryen fortress, built with Valyrian magic, resonated with faint but palpable power. He had its deepest vaults and forgotten chambers excavated, searching for any lingering secrets of his ancestors. Scrolls were found, crumbling and obscure, detailing dragon-handling techniques, blood magic rituals, even fragmented accounts of Valyrian sorcery that predated the Doom. He devoured this knowledge, his Voldemort memories providing the framework to understand and often improve upon the ancient arts.
The Dragonbinder horn, recovered from the ruins in Valyria, remained an object of intense focus. He would not risk using it directly on his own dragons, not yet. Instead, he began experiments on lesser creatures – wyverns imported from Sothoryos, even a captured manticore – studying the horn's terrifying power to compel and command, seeking to understand the Valyrian glyphs that pulsed with dark energy along its surface, to perhaps replicate its effects without the risk of its legendary curse.
His grandest magical ambition, however, was the establishment of a new order of sorcerers, an Imperial Academy of Arcane Arts that would serve as the magical backbone of his eternal reign. Lyra's agents were now tasked not just with finding traitors, but with identifying individuals across both continents who possessed even the faintest spark of magical talent – wildlings with greensight, village hedge witches, children who could speak to animals, acolytes from minor Essosi cults who displayed unusual abilities. They were brought to King's Landing, or to a newly fortified and warded section of Dragonstone, often against their will.
The curriculum was Vaelyx's own creation: a brutal, accelerated course drawing upon the disciplined spellcraft of Hogwarts (stripped of its moral constraints), the Dark Arts of Lord Voldemort, the blood magic and elemental sorcery of Old Valyria, and any useful fragments he could glean from Melisandre or the Citadel's stolen texts. His students were not coddled; they were forged in fear and pain, their loyalty ensured by magical oaths and the constant threat of their Emperor's displeasure. He sought not wisdom, but power; not understanding, but obedience. He was not creating scholars; he was breeding magical weapons, a cadre of sorcerers who would be extensions of his will, capable of enforcing his decrees, rooting out his enemies, and perhaps, one day, helping him unlock the deeper secrets of life, death, and eternal power.
His dragons, now truly colossal, remained the ultimate symbols and instruments of his imperial authority. He often undertook "Imperial Progresses" through the newly subjugated regions of Westeros, typically with Astra, his white queen, and Vorlag, his black terror, as his escorts. The sight of their vast forms soaring over the castles of former rebels, their roars echoing through valleys that had never known such a sound, did more to ensure compliance than any number of legions. Dragonstone was indeed being transformed into their primary aerie, its volcanic peaks and sea caves an ideal environment, its ancient magic seeming to amplify their own.
As the second year of his reign began, Westeros was a land transformed. The old order was shattered, its nobility cowed or broken. A new, terrifying peace, the Dragon's Iron Peace, held sway, enforced by Essosi legions, Dothraki outriders, and the ever-present threat of seven colossal dragons. Trade flowed, albeit primarily into imperial coffers. The smallfolk toiled, their lives little changed except for the new sigils on the tax collectors' tunics and the monstrous shadows that sometimes passed overhead.
Vaelyx Targaryen, Emperor of this vast, fear-bound domain, sat in a hidden chamber deep within the Red Keep, its walls now lined with obsidian and glowing runes. Before him, Melisandre, pale and trembling, attempted to conjure a shadow under his cold, analytical gaze. He was not just a king, not just an emperor. He was becoming something more, something akin to the Dark Lord he had once been, but now with the blood of Old Valyria and the power of seven living doomsdays at his command. His ambitions were no longer confined to mere continental conquest; they were stretching towards the fundamental laws of magic, life, and death, towards an eternal reign built upon a foundation of absolute power and arcane mastery. The true Long Night for the world was just beginning to gather.