Chapter 17: The Unseen Hand, The Dragon's Call
The years that followed Stannis Baratheon's grudging inspection were a period of relentless, focused expansion for the domains ruled by the Hawk Lord. Time, which crawled for the mortals of this world, was a weapon in Darth Vorhax's arsenal, each passing season an opportunity to further entrench his power, refine his methods, and prepare for the inevitable, foreseen chaos. By the year 280 by the Aegon's reckoning, nearly eight years after Vorhax's arrival in this primitive flesh, the lands under his sway were transformed almost beyond recognition.
The marriage to Lady Anya Weatherwax had taken place a year after the Stannis inspection, a stark, orderly ceremony at Crow's Nest that reflected Vorhax's austere tastes. Lady Anya, a quiet, observant young woman with a gentle demeanor that masked a resilient spirit, found herself mistress of a household run with chilling efficiency and ruled by a husband whose youthful appearance was a constant, unnerving contradiction to the ancient power that radiated from him. She performed her duties with quiet diligence, learning quickly that her lord valued competence and discretion above all else. Within eighteen months of their marriage, she presented him with a son, a healthy boy with his mother's brown hair but, unsettlingly, with eyes that held a flicker of his father's unnerving intensity. Vorhax, for whom dynastic succession was merely another strategic imperative, acknowledged the birth of "Edric Vorant" with cool satisfaction. The Vorant line, the puppet lineage he controlled, was secured.
Economically, Lord Vorant's territories had become a powerhouse in the southern Stormlands. The agricultural reforms, once viewed with suspicion, now yielded consistent, astonishing surpluses. Villages grew, new lands were brought under cultivation, and the specter of famine, once a constant companion in these regions, had retreated. Stonefang, the black heart of his industrial might, was now a name synonymous with the finest iron in Westeros, perhaps even rivaling the famed products of Qohor in quality, if not in mystique. Its forges, driven by techniques Vorhax had adapted from forgotten Sith engineering principles, produced not only weapons and armor but also precision tools, gears for improved watermills and sawmills, and even components for rudimentary printing presses (used initially for disseminating standardized instructions and edicts within his own domain). His covert Essosi trade, conducted through the fortified hidden dock at Stonefang, had grown substantially, filling his secret coffers with gold and silver, and bringing him rare commodities, unique materials, and, most importantly, knowledge from distant lands.
Militarily, House Vorant was a force that commanded fear and grudging respect. The Obsidian Guard, Vorhax's personal legion, now numbered over three hundred. Clad in their distinctive black iron plate, their hawk-visored helms rendering them anonymous and terrifying, they were a disciplined, fanatically loyal force, their fighting style a brutal, efficient synthesis of Westerosi arms and Sith close-combat principles. Their reputation alone was often enough to quell dissent or deter aggression. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, a hundred and fifty strong now (their numbers subtly augmented by discreet recruitment of hardy Northmen drifters), remained the unbreakable shield of Crow's Nest, their loyalty to Vorhax cemented by good pay, the best equipment, and Snow's own grudging admiration for his lord's ruthless competence. Vorhax had even commissioned the construction of a small squadron of ten swift, black-sailed longships, based at Stonefang, capable of patrolling his coastline, transporting troops rapidly, or conducting discreet amphibious operations.
His political influence had grown commensurately. The "Iron Offer" had woven a web of obligation and dependency around numerous minor lords. Many now looked to the Hawk Lord for protection, for favorable trade, or for mediation in their petty disputes, effectively creating a Vorant sphere of influence that dwarfed that of many older, more established houses.
All this was achieved under the ever-watchful eye of Storm's End. Lord Robert Baratheon, increasingly preoccupied with his own pleasures and the growing unrest in the realm, largely left Vorhax to his own devices, content with the punctual delivery of taxes, the occasional "gifts" of superior Stonefang iron, and the formidable military strength Vorhax contributed to the Stormlands. The fifty Obsidian Guard permanently stationed at Storm's End served Robert well, their discipline a stark contrast to some of the rowdier Baratheon household knights, but they also served as Vorhax's unwavering eyes and ears in his liege lord's court. Ser Stannis, however, remained Vorhax's implacable shadow, his suspicion undiminished. Will's intelligence network reported that Stannis diligently collected every rumor, every whisper about the Hawk Lord, patiently building a case he hoped would one day convince Robert of Vorhax's true, dangerous nature. Vorhax, in turn, ensured his own counter-intelligence operations were flawless, occasionally feeding Stannis's agents carefully crafted misinformation designed to misdirect or subtly enhance his own mystique.
Within his hidden sanctum beneath Stonefang, Vorhax's personal power continued to deepen. He had achieved a level of mastery over the unique Dark Side energies of this world that far surpassed his initial expectations. His experiments with imbuing Stonefang steel with Dark Side energies had progressed; the swords carried by his Obsidian Guard officers now possessed a tangible aura of cold dread that could sap an enemy's morale. He had even begun to explore rudimentary applications of Sith alchemy, attempting to create toughened ceramics for armor components or potent, fast-acting coagulants for field medicine, adapting complex galactic knowledge to the primitive materials at hand. Nyx, his goshawk, was now less a trained animal and more a true familiar, her intelligence and perception amplified by their Force-bond, capable of undertaking complex reconnaissance missions and relaying her findings with uncanny clarity.
The news from the wider realm continued its grim trajectory. King Aerys's madness was now an open secret, his paranoia legendary, his cruelty a constant threat. His obsession with wildfire had led to the Royal Pyromancers gaining unprecedented power, their green flames a common sight at executions for even the most trivial offenses. Prince Rhaegar, in contrast, was increasingly seen by many as the realm's best hope, yet his every move was scrutinized by his jealous father. Rumors abounded of Rhaegar's melancholy, his deep immersion in ancient prophecies, and his quiet efforts to build alliances among the more responsible lords, perhaps to counter his father's excesses or even to seek a regency. The realm was a tinderbox, awaiting a spark.
In the late autumn of 280 AC, that spark was announced. Ravens flew across the Seven Kingdoms, carrying scrolls sealed with the leaping trout of House Tully, the twin towers of House Frey, and the grim direwolf of House Stark, but it was the might of House Whent of Harrenhal that stood behind the proclamation: Lord Walter Whent would host a Great Tourney at Harrenhal in the spring of the following year, the Year of the False Spring as it would later be known. The prizes offered were the richest in living memory – for jousting, for melee, for archery. It was an event designed to draw every great lord, every famous knight, every ambitious squire from across the continent. Many whispered that Prince Rhaegar himself had encouraged Lord Whent, perhaps even funded the lavish prizes, intending the tourney as an informal Great Council, a chance to gather the lords of the realm and address the growing crisis.
A formal, gilt-edged invitation arrived at Crow's Nest for Lord Ellys Vorant. His reputation as a formidable, if terrifying, new power in the Stormlands, his renowned Stonefang iron, and his fearsome Obsidian Guard had clearly reached the ears of even the great houses of the Riverlands. His presence, or pointed absence, would be noted.
Vorhax held the invitation, a cold smile playing on his lips. Harrenhal. The name resonated with the echoes of his Force visions. This was it. The pivotal gathering where alliances would shift, where passions would ignite, where Rhaegar Targaryen would make the fateful decision concerning Lyanna Stark that would plunge the realm into the war Vorhax had so patiently prepared for.
"To attend, or not to attend?" he mused, though his decision was already made. The intelligence-gathering opportunities were unparalleled. To observe all the key players – Rhaegar, Robert, Lyanna and Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister (if he deigned to emerge from Casterly Rock) – in one place was an advantage he could not afford to miss. It was also a chance to present House Vorant on the grand stage of Westeros, to let the realm see the power of the Hawk.
The risks were there, of course. Leaving his domain for weeks, even months. Exposing himself to the intrigues of the great houses, the scrutiny of his enemies. The "Ellys Vorant" persona, though now bolstered by years of ruthless success, was still a carefully constructed facade over his true Sith nature. Maintaining it amidst the intense social and political pressures of such a gathering would be a challenge.
But the potential rewards far outweighed the dangers.
"Maester Vymar," Vorhax summoned his ever-anxious scholar. "Draft a polite acceptance to Lord Whent. Lord Vorant will grace the Tourney at Harrenhal with his presence."
He then called for Ser Gareth and Captain Snow. "Prepare a retinue. One hundred Obsidian Guard, in their finest armor. Captain Snow, you will accompany me with fifty of your best Northmen. We will make an impression. Stonefang and Crow's Nest will show the realm the meaning of true strength and order."
He envisioned their arrival: a column of black iron and grim determination, a stark contrast to the flamboyant chivalry of the other houses. He would not compete in the jousts or the melee himself – Ellys Vorant was not known for such pursuits, and Vorhax had no need for trivial glory. His purpose was observation, analysis, and perhaps, if the opportunity arose, a subtle nudge to ensure the future unfolded as he had foreseen.
Just as the preparations were beginning, a hushed and slightly awed Maester Vymar approached him. "My lord… Lady Anya… she is with child again."
Vorhax received the news with a curt nod. Another heir, or a spare. Dynastic continuity was proceeding as planned. It changed nothing regarding Harrenhal, save perhaps to add another layer of personal consideration to his long-term plans for the "Vorant" lineage.
A few weeks later, as the formidable Vorant retinue was making its final preparations to depart for the Riverlands, Nyx returned from a long scouting flight towards King's Landing. She landed on Vorhax's gauntlet, her yellow eyes agitated. Through their Force-bond, Vorhax received a jumble of potent images and emotions she had sensed: overwhelming fear emanating from the Red Keep, the scent of wildfire stronger than ever, and a distinct, chilling impression of King Aerys raving about "traitors" and "dragon's blood" and his obsession with punishing his son, Rhaegar, for perceived slights and growing popularity. The King's madness was reaching a fever pitch.
Vorhax absorbed this, his expression hardening. The Tourney at Harrenhal was not just a gathering; it was a powder keg. And he, the Hawk Lord, was flying directly towards it, ready to observe the explosion and feast upon the ashes. The unseen hand that had guided Stonefang's rise was now reaching further, ready to play its part in the dragon's tragic call.
(Word Count: Approx. 4200 words)