Chapter 35: Weirwood Chains and the Shadow Emperor's Ascent
The Dragon's Iron Peace, now in its third year, was less a tranquil state and more a vast, continent-spanning stillness, like the held breath before an unknown cataclysm. Emperor Vaelyx Targaryen, his rule over the subjugated Seven Kingdoms and his sprawling Essosi Valyrian Dominion absolute, found the mundane affairs of state increasingly tedious. Taxes were collected with ruthless efficiency by Malakai's agents, rebellions were whispered rumors snuffed out by Lyra's omnipresent network before they could ignite, and his governors – Kaelen in Myr, Ser Damon Sand in Lannisport, Boros across the Dothraki plains, a cowed Randyll Tarly in the Stormlands, and Oberyn Martell, whose thirst for vengeance had cooled into a wary, watchful alliance, overseeing Dorne and the Crownlands – maintained order through fear and the understanding that their Emperor's displeasure manifested as dragon fire. Vaelyx's true focus, the core of his Voldemort soul wrapped in Targaryen ambition, was now almost entirely consumed by the pursuit of arcane power and the magical subjugation of his new world.
The Imperial Academy of Arcane Arts on Dragonstone had become a grim testament to this ambition. Its obsidian towers, magically raised and warded by Vaelyx himself, now loomed over the ancient Targaryen fortress, a place of dread and dark learning. The "students," many little more than children when they arrived, were forged in a crucible of fear, pain, and relentless magical exertion. Vaelyx's first "graduates" – a dozen chillingly proficient young sorcerers, their eyes holding the haunted look of those who had stared too long into the abyss – were now his personal magical enforcers, the Magisteri Umbrarum, or Masters of Shadows. They moved through his empire like wraiths, their loyalty absolute (ensured by unbreakable magical oaths Vaelyx had personally woven, drawing on Voldemort's darkest binding spells), their tasks ranging from subtle mental manipulations of troublesome lords to the swift, untraceable elimination of hidden enemies.
His expedition to the ancient weirwood grove in the Wolfswood, led by the ambitious Summer Islander acolyte Xaro Xhokan (no relation to the Qartheen merchant prince, but possessing a similar cunning) and guided by the silent, empathic Veridian, had yielded terrifying success. The dark Valyrian ritual, fueled by blood sacrifices (of captured Northern rebels) and Xaro's own burgeoning but twisted power under Vaelyx's remote guidance, had indeed perverted the ancient heart tree. Vaelyx, from his sanctum in the Red Keep, now felt a chilling connection to the vast, silent network of weirwoods that spanned the North. It was not true control, not yet, but a parasitic tap into their ancient consciousness. Fragmented visions flickered through his mind: a young wolfish boy practicing swordplay in a snowy courtyard, a red-haired girl staring defiantly from a hidden chamber, whispers of old grievances and nascent plots carried on the wind through rustling red leaves. The Old Gods were now unwilling spies, their sacred groves conduits for the Dragon Emperor's dark surveillance. This profound violation sent a wave of spiritual despair through the remaining Northmen loyal to the old ways, a deeper wound than any military defeat.
The Faith of the Seven, that once-dominant spiritual power in Westeros, was systematically dismantled and reforged into an instrument of imperial propaganda. After a desperate, suicidal attack by a band of self-proclaimed Warrior's Sons on an imperial tax caravan near the Stoney Sept (an attack effortlessly annihilated by a squadron of Dothraki outriders led by a single, bored Magister Umbrarum who turned their leader's own fervent prayers into agonizing, flesh-searing illusions), Vaelyx decided the time for subtle coercion was over.
He summoned the High Septon – a withered, terrified man named Peremore – to the Dragon Pit, which was slowly being rebuilt not as a prison for dragons, but as a grand coliseum for imperial spectacles and, Vaelyx mused, perhaps future magical convocations. With all seven of his colossal dragons arrayed around the vast arena, their roars shaking the very foundations of King's Landing, Vaelyx delivered his ultimatum to the trembling head of the Faith.
"Your Seven Gods are silent, Septon," Vaelyx's voice, amplified by magic, boomed across the arena. "They did not answer your prayers when my dragons burned the Usurper's armies. They did not intervene when I claimed my rightful throne. Clearly, they have yielded to a greater power." He gestured to Astra, who unfurled her snow-white wings, their span eclipsing the sun. "The Dragon is the new god of this world. You will proclaim it. You will rewrite your scriptures. You will preach that I am the chosen vessel, the divine will made manifest. Your Faith will serve me, or it will cease to exist. The Great Sept of Baelor will become the Cathedral of the Ascendant Dragon, or it will become a memorial pyre."
High Septon Peremore, his face the color of ash, prostrated himself, babbling his assent. Within weeks, new imperial edicts, penned by Marwyn the Mage (now Grand Magister of the "Reformed" Citadel) and sanctioned by a weeping High Septon, began to circulate. The Seven were reinterpreted as mere aspects or servants of the Great Dragon God, whose avatar was the Emperor Vaelyx. Statues of Baelor the Blessed were torn down, replaced by imposing obsidian sculptures of dragons. The Starry Sept itself was slowly, chillingly transformed, its seven-pointed stars now framing images of Vaelyx's seven beasts. The common folk whispered in terror of this blasphemy, but open dissent was met with the swift, silent justice of the Magisteri Umbrarum.
Vaelyx's arcane research progressed at an accelerated pace. The Dragonbinder horn remained a potent enigma. While he still hesitated to use it on his own bonded dragons, his experiments with its resonant frequencies allowed him to create lesser war-horns, imbued with echoes of its power. When sounded by his commanders, these "Dragon's Roar" horns could instill primal fear in enemy formations, bolster the courage of his own troops, and even disrupt the concentration of lesser mages.
Melisandre, now a broken shell of her former fanatical self, her R'hllor seemingly deaf to her pleas or powerless before Vaelyx's dark will, became a more pliable instrument. He forced her to delve deeper into the arts of shadowbinding, not as a supplicant to a fire god, but as a practitioner of a raw, dangerous magic. Vaelyx, with his Voldemort soul's affinity for such morally vacant power, quickly surpassed her. He learned to draw shadow not just from fire, but from fear, from despair, from the very essence of darkness itself, fueling his creations with stolen life force or raw magical energy. His personal guard now included several hulking, silent warriors wreathed in permanent, shifting shadow, their forms barely humanoid, their loyalty absolute.
His quest for longevity, for an eternal reign that mirrored Voldemort's ultimate ambition, intensified. The Valyrian scrolls spoke of blood magic rituals that could extend life, of elixirs brewed from dragon blood and rare herbs that could rejuvenate the flesh. The Citadel's hidden texts hinted at darker practices, at soul transference and the binding of life essence to powerful artifacts – echoes of Horcrux magic, but perhaps with different, Valyrian nuances. He began cautious experiments, using long-term prisoners (rebellious lords, captured pirates, failed acolytes) as subjects. The results were often gruesome, but each failure brought him closer to understanding the intricate dance between soul, magic, and mortality. His dragons, with their centuries-long lifespans, were a constant reminder of the longevity he craved, yet he intended to surpass even their ancient existences.
It was through the corrupted weirwood network, his new, unsettling window into the North, that Vaelyx received his first truly disquieting – and utterly fascinating – intelligence. The fragmented visions were initially confusing: endless snow, skeletal figures moving through blizzards, eyes like burning blue ice, a palpable aura of ancient, deathless cold. Lyra's agents, dispatched on perilous missions beyond the Wall (often with the unseen protection of Veridian), returned with garbled, terrified tales from wildling captives of "White Walkers," of an army of the dead, of a "Great Other" that was not Melisandre's abstract deity, but a tangible, horrifying reality.
Vaelyx, in his sanctum on Dragonstone, reviewed these reports with a chilling detachment that bordered on academic curiosity. Voldemort had commanded armies of Inferi; undeath held no intrinsic terror for him. But these White Walkers, with their ability to raise the dead, their connection to an elemental cold that seemed the antithesis of his dragons' fire, their reported sentience and ancient, malevolent purpose… they were not mere necromantic puppets. They were a rival power.
His first instinct was not fear, but a predatory interest. What was the source of their magic? Could it be controlled, harnessed? Could their ability to raise the dead be replicated, perfected? Could they, perhaps, even be… reasoned with, or dominated? The fan-memory supplied him with the context of the "Long Night" and the existential threat they posed to humanity, but Vaelyx's perspective was that of a nascent god-emperor. Humanity was his resource, his dominion. These White Walkers were an intriguing, powerful variable in the grand equation of global magical dominance he was now formulating. He ordered Lyra to intensify her reconnaissance beyond the Wall, to capture a "wight" if possible, even a Walker if such a feat could be managed without catastrophic losses. The True North, he realized, held secrets and powers far more profound than the petty squabbles of Westerosi lords.
His grand vision was now coalescing. Westeros and Essos, united under his iron rule, were merely the foundation. He envisioned a new world order, a global empire where magic, his magic, was the ultimate law. His Imperial Academy would produce legions of sorcerers, his dragons would be the ultimate enforcers of his will, and he, the Eternal Emperor Vaelyx, would guide humanity towards a new destiny, a destiny shaped by his intellect and his power. The old gods, the petty lords, the very laws of nature – all would bend to his design.
He stood on the highest balcony of Dragonstone, the wind whipping his silver-gold hair, his pale lilac eyes, now often flecked with an inner crimson light when his power surged, gazing out over the turbulent sea. Below, his dragons soared, their roars shaking the volcanic peaks. The world was vast, filled with ancient secrets and untapped power. The conquest of mortal men was complete. Now, the true Great Game, the war for the soul of magic itself, was about to begin. And Vaelyx Targaryen, the Shadow Emperor, the last true Dragon Lord, the inheritor of Voldemort's dark soul, felt a chilling, exhilarating sense of anticipation. The future was his to create, or to unmake.