Chapter 42: The Shard of Cinderfell
The descent from the caldera of Cinderfell was undertaken in a silence far more profound than the mere absence of sound. It was a silence born of minds overwhelmed, of mortal sensibilities battered by an encounter with a power that defied comprehension. King Baelon I Targaryen's elite retinue, men who had faced death in a hundred forms, moved like somnambulists, their eyes still reflecting the molten gold and obsidian fury of Ignis, the Slumbering God of the volcano. Even Prince Aemond, his usual savage arrogance tempered by an uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, walked with a newfound gravity, Vhagar a distant, brooding speck in the steam-wreathed sky, her ancient mind clearly still processing the presence of a being that dwarfed even her own epochal existence.
Baelon alone seemed energized by the encounter, though a deep, almost unsettling calm had settled upon him. In his gauntleted hand, he cradled the obsidian shard gifted by Ignis – a jagged piece of the Fire-God's own substance, no larger than a man's heart, yet radiating an almost unbearable heat and a vibrant, thrumming energy that resonated with the very marrow of his bones. It was not the chaotic, consuming fire of a wildfire conflagration, nor the controlled, weaponized flame of a Targaryen dragon. This was something older, purer, the raw, untamed essence of planetary creation, a fragment of the First Flame. The Voldemort soul within him, that insatiable accumulator of unique and ultimate powers, felt an almost ecstatic pull towards it, recognizing a source of might that could potentially elevate him beyond even his current, unnaturally extended lifespan and formidable arcane abilities.
Their return voyage from the Shivering Sea aboard the Night Serpent and its escorts was swift, aided by unseasonably favorable winds that Maester Arryk, still pale and prone to fits of trembling, nervously suggested might be a subtle, parting gift from Cinderfell's awakened guardian, or perhaps, a sign of its continued, dispassionate observation. Baelon offered no opinion, his attention almost entirely consumed by the Ignis Shard.
He sequestered himself in his cabin for days at a time, the obsidian fragment resting on a specially prepared plinth of cooled volcanic rock, its internal luminescence casting dancing, fiery patterns on the bulkheads. Maester Arryk, when summoned, could only offer rudimentary observations: the shard's temperature remained impossibly high, yet it did not ignite its surroundings unless Baelon willed it; its magical aura was immense, almost too potent to analyze with conventional scrying instruments, which tended to overload or shatter in its presence. It seemed to possess a rudimentary, instinctual awareness, responding subtly to Baelon's own magical emanations, particularly those linked to his Valyrian fire-blood.
Umbraxys, Baelon's shadow familiar, reacted to the shard with a complex mixture of caution and fascination. The primal fire energy was antithetical to its own nature of cold shadow, yet it recognized the shard as a locus of immense power, a fundamental force. "It is a wound in the world, Speaker," Umbraxys had communicated, its thoughts like the hiss of cooling embers. "A point where the raw heart-fire bleeds through. To wield it is to hold a star in your hand. It may illuminate, or it may consume."
Baelon's first attempts to actively channel the shard's power were… enlightening. He did not seek to dominate it, not yet. He remembered Ignis's ponderous, ancient consciousness and knew that brute force would be met with overwhelming, indifferent annihilation. Instead, he approached it with the focused intent of a master sorcerer seeking to understand a new, volatile element. He extended his own fire magic, the legacy of Valyria, towards the shard, offering it as a kindred essence.
The shard responded with a surge of energy that far surpassed anything Baelon had anticipated. The temperature in his cabin spiked, the air crackling, the very timbers of the Night Serpent groaning as if under immense pressure. A column of pure, white-hot fire, tinged with the black-crimson of obsidian, erupted from the shard, not destructively, but contained within a shimmering shield Baelon hastily erected. It was a fire more intense, more primal, than even Silverwing's hottest breath. He felt his own magical reserves surge, amplified, augmented, by the shard's resonance. For a fleeting moment, he felt a connection, not just to the shard, but to the colossal, slumbering consciousness of Ignis itself, a sense of standing on the precipice of a volcano, gazing into its molten heart.
The experience left him exhilarated, and deeply sobered. The power was almost unimaginable, but it was also wild, untamed, almost sentient in its resistance to being controlled like a mere tool. It was not a horcrux, containing a fragment of a sentient soul he could dominate or absorb. It was a piece of a god, carrying that god's inherent nature. To truly wield it, he would need more than just will and magical skill; he would need a profound understanding of its elemental essence, perhaps even a degree of… synergy. The Voldemort persona, ever pragmatic in its pursuit of power, filed this away. This was a long-term project, a new avenue of mastery to be explored with patience and cunning.
Yet, even in these initial stages, the shard granted boons. Baelon found his own innate fire magic subtly enhanced, his commands to Silverwing carrying a new depth of understanding, their bond seemingly amplified by this shared connection to a more primal draconic essence. He even suspected the shard might possess divinatory properties, for as he meditated upon it, fleeting, fiery visions sometimes danced before his eyes: images of swirling nebulae, of cooling worlds, of ancient, forgotten conflicts between elemental forces.
The War Drums Echo from Afar
As the Night Serpent carved its path southwards, leaving the icy desolation of the Shivering Sea behind, raven-borne dispatches from Lord Larys Strong and his other commanders began to reach Baelon, painting a grim picture of the ongoing war. The ripples from Cinderfell had not stilled the turbulent waters of his conflict with Braavos.
The stirring of the Titan of Braavos, Larys reported, had escalated from subtle movements to more overt displays. Its great bronze head now regularly turned to gaze out over the Lagoon, its movements accompanied by deep, groaning sounds that carried for miles, unsettling the populace and striking fear into the hearts of sailors. While it had not yet stepped from its plinth to engage in open hostilities, its very animation was a potent symbol of Braavosi defiance, a silent promise of ancient power held in reserve. Archmaester Vaellyn, working tirelessly in Meereen, sent word that his research into the Titan's nature was slow and perilous, the Valyrian texts on such constructs deliberately obscure and filled with dire warnings about the consequences of attempting to unbind or control such entities. He had, however, found tentative references to a "Heart-Core" within the Titan, a focal point of its animation that, if it could be reached and neutralized, might render the colossus inert. Finding it, let alone reaching it, within a moving, hostile automaton of that scale, was another matter entirely.
Braavos's more conventional forces were also making their presence felt. Sealord Ferrego Antaryon, using the Titan's stirring to rally support, had launched a series of aggressive naval probes along the coast of the Disputed Lands, testing the Velaryon patrols and attempting to resupply beleaguered allies. Several sharp skirmishes had occurred, with losses on both sides. The Iron Bank, Larys noted, had unleashed a coordinated financial assault, attempting to devalue currencies used in Baelon's protectorate and funding mercenary companies to sow chaos in the newly conquered territories of Slaver's Bay. The Drowned Brethren, though their Grand Beacon was silenced, were far from eradicated. Their remaining cells, driven deeper underground, continued their campaign of terror and assassination, striking at minor officials, disrupting supply lines, and spreading insidious propaganda that portrayed Baelon as a demonic tyrant whose fiery ambition would consume the world.
The hunt for "Echo of Stillness" remained a frustrating endeavor. Lyra Maelon's confessions had provided valuable insights into her nature and the cult's structure, but the assassin herself had vanished like smoke. Larys's agents in Westeros, operating with extreme caution in the Vale and the Fingers, had begun to identify potential Drowned Brethren sanctuaries – isolated coastal villages, forgotten sea caves, and even, disturbingly, a few minor, impoverished noble houses whose ancient traditions hinted at darker allegiances. But "Echo" herself remained a phantom. There were whispers, however, that a figure matching her description – a young woman with an uncanny ability to change her appearance, always seeking places of deep water and profound silence – had been seen near the desolate Iron Islands, a place where the cult of the Drowned God, though different in its overt expression, might offer a perverse form of sanctuary or common cause.
Prince Aemond, his fleet battered but his spirit undimmed after the destruction of the Kraken's Maw, had begun his slow, methodical patrol of the Westerosi coast, his orders to identify and contain, but not yet to directly assault, the suspected cultist nests. His presence, and Vhagar's, was already causing terror among the smallfolk of the Fingers and the isolated fishing villages of the Vale, but the mountainous terrain and the insular nature of the local lords made intelligence gathering difficult. He reported encountering unusually severe storms and unnatural fogs, suggesting the Drowned Brethren, or their abyssal master, were actively using their elemental influence to shield their Westerosi operations.
A New Order Forged in Fire and Shadow
Baelon processed these reports with his usual cold, analytical focus, the heat of the Ignis Shard a constant, vibrant presence beside him. The encounter with the primordial Fire-God had not diminished his resolve to prosecute his war against Braavos; if anything, it had broadened his perspective, shown him the true scale of the cosmic forces at play, and gifted him a potential new weapon, or at least, a profound source of power to be understood and eventually mastered.
His grand strategy began to subtly shift, incorporating this new, almost elemental, dimension. The Drowned God and its cult were not just political or military enemies; they were an affront to the very principle of fire and life that Ignis embodied, and, by extension, that Baelon himself now championed with a renewed, almost fanatical, zeal. The Voldemort persona, which had always sought to transcend the limitations of mortality and achieve a god-like state, saw in this an opportunity to align himself, however tenuously, with a power far older and greater than any human institution or fleeting deity.
He began to issue new directives via swift raven and arcane communication.
To Archmaester Vaellyn: "Continue your research into the Titan, but also dedicate a team to studying the Ignis Shard. I want to understand its resonances, its potential applications. Can its energy be focused? Can it be used to empower our own dragons further, or to forge weapons of unparalleled power? And investigate any connections, any ancient enmities, between primal fire entities like Ignis and abyssal water deities like this 'Silent Patriarch.' There may be inherent weaknesses we can exploit."
To Lord Larys Strong: "Intensify your efforts to locate 'Echo of Stillness.' The Iron Islands are now a primary area of interest. Use any means necessary to infiltrate that bleak domain and ascertain if she, or other high-ranking Drowned Brethren, have taken refuge there. Furthermore, the information gleaned from Lyra Maelon and the Antarion texts regarding compromised Keyholders in Braavos – prepare a plan to leak this information strategically, not just to their rivals, but to the Sealord himself. Let Ferrego Antaryon realize the rot within his own city. It may force him into rash action, or perhaps, into a desperate purge that serves our own ends."
To Prince Aemond: "Continue your patrols of the Vale and the Fingers, but prepare a contingent of your fleet and your Unsullied for a potential deployment to the Iron Islands. If 'Echo' is indeed there, I want her cornered. And Aemond… the Drowned God of the Ironmen, while a cruder, more boisterous entity than the Silent Patriarch, shares a common root. Your presence there will be… instructive to its priests."
To his economic administrators: "The Iron Bank seeks to bleed us? We shall return the favor twofold. Use the confiscated wealth of the Drowned Brethren cells, and the increasing tribute from our Essosi protectorate, to subtly buy out debts owed to the Iron Bank by smaller states or merchant princes. We will become their creditors, and then we will squeeze. Furthermore, begin stockpiling essential resources – grain, timber, iron. If Braavos intends a long war, we shall be better prepared for a siege, whether of their city or ours."
His mind, already a formidable instrument of strategy and arcane power, now felt… augmented. The presence of the Ignis Shard, even if its full power was yet beyond his grasp, seemed to sharpen his perceptions, to deepen his understanding of the fundamental energies that shaped the world. He found himself contemplating strategies that were not just military or political, but elemental, almost cosmic in their scope. The Voldemort within, who had once sought to conquer death, now entertained thoughts of unmaking gods and reshaping reality itself.
The Shard's First Whisper of War
As the Night Serpent finally neared the familiar waters of the Narrow Sea, an opportunity to test the Ignis Shard's more martial applications presented itself, albeit on a small scale. A flotilla of three heavily armed Braavosi privateers, clearly emboldened by the Sealord's war footing and perhaps tasked with interdicting Baelon's return, attempted to ambush his small convoy in a misty dawn.
Ordinarily, Silverwing and the escort galleys would have dealt with such a threat with relative ease. But Baelon, feeling the vibrant, impatient energy pulsing from the Ignis Shard, decided on a more… direct demonstration.
Standing on the prow of his flagship, the shard held aloft in his gauntleted hand, he focused his will, drawing upon its primal heat, merging it with his own Valyrian fire-magic. The shard blazed with an almost unbearable light, and from it, a torrent of incandescent fire, far hotter and more concentrated than anything Silverwing could produce, erupted outwards. It was not the wild, chaotic flame of a wildfire conflagration, but a focused lance of pure, destructive energy, tinged with the black-crimson of obsidian.
It struck the lead Braavosi privateer amidships. There was no explosion, no gradual spread of fire. The ship simply… vanished. One moment it was there, its decks crowded with men, its war catapults primed. The next, there was only a cloud of superheated steam, a shower of molten slag, and the faint, acrid smell of instantly vaporized wood and flesh. The remaining two privateers, their crews witnessing this instantaneous, terrifying annihilation, turned and fled in abject terror, their purple sails straining as they sought to escape this new, demonic form of dragonfire.
Baelon lowered his hand, the Ignis Shard dimming slightly, though it still pulsed with a fierce inner heat. He felt a surge of raw power coursing through him, a heady, intoxicating sensation, but also a profound drain on his own magical reserves. The shard was not a weapon to be wielded lightly; its power was immense, but it demanded a commensurate toll from its wielder.
Kael and the Freedmen on deck stared at him with expressions of pure, unadulterated worship. Ser Corlys and the Dragon Guard looked on with a mixture of awe and barely concealed fear. Even Aemond, observing from the deck of his own flagship which had drawn near, nodded slowly, a new, calculating respect in his single eye.
Baelon looked at the spot where the Braavosi ship had been, then at the shard in his hand. The encounter with Ignis had indeed changed him. He now carried not just the legacy of Valyria, not just the dark knowledge of Voldemort, but a fragment of a god's own fire.
His return to Meereen would not be merely a return to a war. It would be the arrival of a new, even more formidable, force upon the world stage. The Serpent King now bore the Shard of Cinderfell. And the shadows of the Drowned God, and the bronze defenders of Braavos, would soon learn to fear its terrible, primal light.