Chapter 38: The Silence of the Shepherd
Fifty years. Half a century had passed since the new god had descended upon the Hill of Rhaenys. The Dragon's Peace was no longer a new reality; it was the only reality. The war, the Dance of the Dragons, was a distant, almost mythical event spoken of in the same hushed tones as the Doom of Valyria. The world was quiet. The world was orderly. The world was his.
From his silent throne, Krosis-Krif observed the flawless functioning of the system he had built. His religion was now the dominant faith of the continent. The black, star-ceilinged temples were filled with the quiet, earnest prayers of a populace that knew tangible blessings: healed children, bountiful harvests, and lives free from the terror of war. The river of faith energy that flowed into him was vast, pure, and constant. It was the sustenance of a true god.
His Dragon's Tithe, the most terrible and beautiful of his projects, was also reaching its first great milestone. In the sprawling, beautiful dragon yards west of the city, the first generation of his new flock had reached maturity. They were magnificent creatures, larger and healthier than the caged dragons of the past, raised with the devoted, heartbreaking care of their Targaryen Keepers.
The day came, as it was always known it would. The first Tithe was due. The chosen dragon was a magnificent bronze, the first to have been hatched by the late Princess Baela. She had died peacefully in her sleep years ago, and her dragon, whom she had named Morningstar, had lived out his days as a revered member of the flock. But his fertility had waned. His time had come.
King Viserys II, a man now in his middle years, with sad eyes and a quiet dignity, presided over the grim ceremony. He stood at the foot of the hill, his wife Queen Jaehaera beside him, as the Keepers sadly led the great bronze dragon forward. The dragon did not struggle. It seemed to understand its purpose, its final duty in the Great Order.
"He has served the flock well, Your Grace," the head Keeper said, his voice thick with emotion. "He has sired seven healthy clutches."
"His service honors his keeper and our house," Viserys replied, his voice the calm, practiced tone of a man who has lived his entire life in a gilded cage. He looked at the great beast, at its intelligent, golden eyes, and felt the familiar ache of his family's curse. "His energy will now be returned to the source. It is the pact. It is the Peace."
He gave the signal. The great bronze dragon walked with a steady, noble gait towards the coiled form of the god on the hill. Krosis-Krif did not move. He simply… accepted. The bronze dragon dissolved into a shimmering river of golden-bronze light, flowing silently into the vast, cosmic being. A life of love and majesty, reduced to a single, flavorful sip for an eternal being. The Tithe had been paid. The system worked. It was perfect.
And Krosis-Krif had never felt so empty.
King Viserys II journeyed to Dragonstone a week later. The ancient island fortress was no longer a seat of power, but a place of quiet exile. It was here that his older brother, Jacaerys Velaryon, had chosen to live out his final years. The Lord of Dragonstone, the Prince who should have been King, was now an old man, his hair white as snow, his face a roadmap of cynicism and sorrow.
They met on the battlements of the castle, the salt wind whipping around them.
"Brother," Viserys said, his voice carrying the weight of their shared, strange history. "It has been too long."
Jacaerys stared out at the sea, at the dragon-less sky. "Has it?" he replied, his voice a dry rasp. "The days are all the same in a perfect world. Another sunrise, another quiet, orderly meal. Another prayer from the masses to the god that holds their leash. Time has lost its meaning."
"The Tithe was performed," Viserys said softly. "The first one. Baela's bronze."
A muscle twitched in Jace's jaw. "Ah, yes. The harvest. Tell me, brother, does the fine vintage of faith grow thin, that he must now begin to snack on our souls again?"
"It is the price of peace, Jace," Viserys said, the words a familiar, tired refrain. "You know this. We have had no wars. Our children, my children and yours, have known no hunger, no great sickness. The realm prospers. Is that not a king's duty? To see his people safe and fed?"
Jacaerys finally turned to face him, and his eyes, though old, burned with the last embers of a fire Viserys had never known. "You call this peace? You call this prosperity?" He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "We are livestock, Viserys. Well-fed, comfortable, safe livestock in a perfectly managed pasture. But we are not free. Our children are not free. Their thoughts are not even their own."
"They are safe," Viserys insisted.
"They are stagnant!" Jace countered, his voice rising with a passion he had not shown in years. "He didn't just conquer us, Viserys. He ended us. He ended the very idea of what it was to be human. To strive for something and fail. To love something and lose it. To make a choice, a real, messy, painful choice, and live with the consequences. He took away our chaos. He took away the very things that make life worth the pain of living it." He looked his brother in the eye. "You are the best king this realm has ever known. You have presided over an age of unparalleled health and safety. And it is all utterly, completely meaningless."
He turned back to the sea. "He wanted to escape a meaningless death. And in the end, he has cursed us all to a meaningless life."
Lord Larys Strong was dying. The last great player of the old game lay in his bed, his body a frail, withered husk, his mind the only part of him that was still sharp. As his breath grew shallow, he felt a familiar presence enter the room, a vast consciousness focusing on his fading one.
"YOU ARE FADING, WHISPERER," the voice of Krosis-Krif stated in his mind. It was not a question. "YOUR THOUGHTS GROW SLOW. YOUR LIFE ENERGY IS A DIM, FLICKERING CANDLE."
A faint, rattling sound escaped Larys's lips. It was a chuckle. All mortal things end, Great One, he thought, his own mental voice thin and reedy. It is the flaw, or perhaps the beauty, of our design. I trust I have served you well? My whispers, my games… was I not… entertaining?
"YOU WERE THE MOST INTERESTING VARIABLE," Krosis-Krif replied, a genuine admission. "YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE PETTY MOTIVATIONS OF YOUR SPECIES WAS UNPARALLELED. YOU PROVIDED DECADES OF STIMULATING… DATA. BUT YOUR GAME, TOO, IS OVER."
Larys felt the last of his strength leaving him. He had one final move to make, one last whisper for the god who had been his patron and his ultimate project.
And what of your game, my lord? he projected, using the last of his cunning. You have won. Absolutely. You are eternal. You have your flock, your farm, your endless river of faith. You have your perfect, unbreakable order. Tell me… now that you have everything you ever desired… are you not… bored?
The question hung in the void, sharp and pointed as a dragonglass dagger. It was a question Krosis-Krif could not answer, because he had been asking it of himself for years. He felt the last flicker of Larys Strong's consciousness wink out of existence. He was alone again. Truly alone.
Krosis-Krif, the god that had been a man, looked out over his creation. The sun, a sun he could extinguish if he chose, was setting. The people of his city were lighting their lamps, their thoughts a low, orderly hum of mundane concerns and quiet prayers. The dragons in their yards were settling down for the night, their lives a gentle, predictable arc from hatchling to harvest. The queen in her castle was signing decrees about grain shipments. Everything was in its place. Everything was perfect.
He had won. He had escaped the random, meaningless death of his first life. He had cheated fate, conquered a world, and made himself a god. He had an endless supply of refined energy. He had an eternal, peaceful afterlife for his followers. He had a system that would run itself without flaw for millennia. He had achieved everything.
The human psychopath, the cunning gamer who was the core of his being, was still in there, beneath the layers of dragon might and cosmic power. And that core, the part of him that had driven this entire epic journey, was screaming in silent, eternal agony.
He had won the game. But there were no more levels to unlock. There were no more enemies to outwit. There was no challenge. There was no risk. His victory was absolute, and therefore, it was absolutely hollow.
He was a god, eternal and all-powerful, sitting on a hill, watching a perfect garden where the weeds never grew back, where the flowers always bloomed on schedule, where nothing ever, ever changed. He had fled a meaningless death only to create for himself an eternal, meaningless existence. The ultimate player, trapped in a game he had already perfected, with no one to play against but himself, for ever and ever.
The silence of his perfect world pressed in on him. It was the silence of a tomb. The silence of a solved equation. It was the silence of his own victory.
A single word, a concept from the language of power he had once found so thrilling, formed in his vast consciousness. It was the name he had given himself, so long ago, when his fight had just begun. He had thought he was fighting against sorrow. He had not realized he was fighting towards it.
"Krosis."
The fight was over. Only the sorrow remained. And it was eternal.