Chapter 20: The Dragon's Ire, The Hawk's Hour
The news of Lyanna Stark's vanishing with Prince Rhaegar, and the subsequent departure of her enraged father and brother for King's Landing, struck Darth Vorhax with the cold, satisfying clang of a perfectly executed maneuver in a galactic campaign. This was it. The carefully observed sequence of events, foreseen in the chaotic currents of the Force upon his arrival in this primitive world, was now irrevocably in motion. The tinder was dry, the spark had been struck at Harrenhal, and now the flames of rebellion would inevitably erupt.
He received the intelligence in his private study at Stonefang, the black iron fortress that had become the nucleus of his rapidly expanding power. Nyx, his goshawk, perched on her stand, her golden eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight, seemed to sense the shift in her master's ancient, calculating mind.
"So, the wolf walks into the dragon's maw," Vorhax murmured, his gaze fixed on a detailed map of Westeros. "Aerys will not respond with reason. He will respond with fire and blood, as is his nature."
He immediately convened his inner circle: Ser Gareth, his steadfast and utterly loyal commander of the Obsidian Guard, his youthful features now hardened into a mask of grim resolve; Brandon Snow, the White Wolf, his Northman pragmatism a valuable counterpoint to Gareth's zeal; and Maester Vymar, his scholarly anxiety now a permanent fixture, yet his organizational skills indispensable.
"Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark have made a fatal error," Vorhax announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "They seek justice from a king who knows only paranoia and cruelty. King Aerys will make martyrs of them. And when he does, Jon Arryn will not surrender his foster sons, Robert Baratheon and the new Lord Stark, Eddard. The Vale will rise. The North will rise. And our own Lord Paramount, Robert, will call his banners. War is upon us."
His commanders listened in silence, the weight of his pronouncement settling upon them. Maester Vymar paled further, but Ser Gareth's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his Stonefang steel sword, his eyes alight with a fierce loyalty. Brandon Snow merely nodded, his expression unreadable, though Vorhax sensed the Northman's grim anticipation of Targaryen blood being spilled for Stark blood.
"All preparations are to be accelerated," Vorhax commanded. "The Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade are to be brought to full war footing. All leave is cancelled. Conduct final drills, ensure every piece of armor, every weapon, is flawless. Hemmet and the Stonefang forges will operate day and night, focusing exclusively on spearheads, arrowheads, armor plating, and replacement blades. Our granaries are to be secured, inventories confirmed. Our treasury," he paused, thinking of the vast sums acquired at Harrenhal and through his clandestine Essosi trade, "is to be made ready for the exigencies of a prolonged conflict."
His small fleet of black-sailed longships was to be fully crewed and prepared for coastal defense, rapid transport of troops along his own shores, or, if opportunities arose, discreet raids on enemy supply lines. The fortifications of Stonefang and Crow's Nest, already formidable, underwent final reviews and strengthening. Key villages and crossroads within his now extensive domain were to be garrisoned by local levies, stiffened by small detachments of his regular soldiers.
Will and Anya, his intelligence masters, were tasked with providing hourly updates, if possible, from King's Landing, Storm's End, Winterfell, and the Eyrie. Vorhax needed to know events as they transpired, to react with speed and precision. Nyx became an almost constant presence in the sky above Stonefang, undertaking long, swift reconnaissance flights, her Force-enhanced senses a vital tool.
Within a week, the grim news Vorhax had predicted arrived, carried by frantic merchants fleeing the capital and confirmed by Will's most reliable King's Landing agent. Lord Rickard Stark had been brutally executed, cooked alive in his own armor by Aerys's pyromancers, while his son Brandon was forced to watch, strangling himself in a torturous device as he tried to reach a sword to save his father. The sheer, inventive cruelty of the act horrified even the most hardened soldiers in Vorhax's retinue.
Vorhax allowed the news of the Starks' martyrdom to spread throughout his ranks. He made no grand pronouncements himself, but he noted with grim satisfaction how the tale fueled a quiet rage among Brandon Snow's Northmen and a steely resolve among his own Stormlands soldiers. This was not merely a feudal dispute; it was a clear struggle against a depraved tyranny. Such sentiment was a useful motivator.
Close on the heels of this horror came the inevitable next step: King Aerys, his bloodlust insatiable, demanded that Lord Jon Arryn surrender Eddard Stark, now Lord of Winterfell, and Robert Baratheon. Vorhax knew Arryn would refuse. The Lord of the Eyrie was a man of honor, foster father to both young lords. His refusal, and his subsequent calling of the banners of the Vale, was the formal declaration of war. Robert's Rebellion had begun.
The raven from Storm's End arrived three days later. The black wax seal bore the crowned stag, the message within penned in Robert Baratheon's bold, angry script. It was a call to arms, a summons for all loyal Stormlords to gather their forces and march to Storm's End. Robert declared Aerys a tyrant and a murderer, and proclaimed his intent to seek justice for the Starks and secure the safety of the realm.
Vorhax read the summons in his war room at Stonefang, the map of Westeros spread before him. He looked at Gareth, at Snow, at Vymar. "The Stag has sounded the horn," he said, his voice calm but resonant with an underlying, predatory excitement. "The Hawk will answer."
He convened a council of war immediately. Outwardly, he would be the loyal bannerman, answering his liege lord's call. Inwardly, his Sith mind was already calculating the optimal path to power through the coming conflagration.
"Our primary objective," he stated, his gaze sweeping his commanders, "is to ensure Lord Robert emerges victorious. His victory is the swiftest path to the destabilization this realm so desperately needs for true order to be forged." A subtle Sith rephrasing of the situation. "However, our own forces, particularly the Obsidian Guard, are an invaluable asset. They are not to be squandered in pointless skirmishes or squandered on ill-conceived assaults. We will fight, and we will win, but we will do so with efficiency and a clear view to preserving our strength."
He outlined his initial strategy. He would lead a substantial force personally – the entire Obsidian Guard, now numbering nearly four hundred, and the full contingent of Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, one hundred and fifty Northmen. This combined army of over five hundred elite, disciplined, and superbly equipped soldiers would be one of the most formidable individual contributions to Robert's cause from any single Stormlord. He would, however, leave strong garrisons at Stonefang and Crow's Nest, and ensure his own supply lines were as independent as possible. He knew from his visions that certain early battles – Summerhall, Ashford, the Battle of the Bells – would be pivotal. He would maneuver to ensure his forces were present where they could achieve maximum impact, secure decisive victories, and earn him the greatest political capital with Robert.
Before departing, there was the matter of his betrothal to Lady Anya Weatherwax. With war now a certainty, Vorhax saw an advantage in concluding the marriage swiftly. It would secure the alliance with House Weatherwax, provide a formal mistress for his rapidly expanding household, and ensure the continuation of the Vorant line, especially with his first son still an infant and his wife already pregnant with their second child.
He dispatched a raven to Lord Harmon Weatherwax, proposing the wedding take place immediately at Crow's Nest, a brief, private ceremony before he marched to war. Lord Weatherwax, undoubtedly relieved to secure his daughter's future with such a powerful, if feared, lord in these uncertain times, readily agreed. The wedding was a stark, solemn affair, devoid of frivolity, reflecting Vorhax's preference for function over finery. Lady Anya, pale but composed, spoke her vows. Vorhax, having already ensured his wife understood her duties – to manage his household with quiet efficiency and provide heirs – spent little time on pleasantries. He left her as the nominal mistress of Crow's Nest, under the watchful eye of a trusted steward and a strong garrison, before returning to Stonefang to lead his army.
The mobilization of House Vorant's forces was a sight to behold. From the dark, forbidding walls of Stonefang, the Obsidian Guard marched, their black iron armor absorbing the pale sunlight, their hawk-helms giving them an almost demonic appearance. Their movements were precise, their silence unnerving. They were followed by the grim, bearded Northmen of the Wolf Brigade, their rugged appearance and heavy axes a stark contrast to the Guard's polished uniformity, yet their discipline equally evident. Levies from the Vorant lands, better equipped and more orderly than most, swelled their numbers. It was an army forged in iron, fear, and the cold, calculating will of their Sith master.
As they assembled in the outer courtyards of Stonefang, Vorhax, clad in his own unique, exquisitely crafted black plate armor, its design subtly alien and deeply intimidating, addressed his assembled host. Nyx perched on his shoulder pauldron, her golden eyes scanning the ranks.
"Soldiers of House Vorant!" his voice, amplified by a subtle application of the Force, rang across the courtyard, clear and cold as a winter wind. "The realm bleeds! A mad king sits the Iron Throne, his hands stained with the innocent blood of noble houses! Our liege lord, Robert Baratheon, has called us to his banner, to fight for justice, for order, for the very soul of the Stormlands!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "You are the best equipped, the best trained, the most disciplined force in these lands! Stonefang iron is in your hands! The strength of the Hawk is in your hearts! We march now to join Lord Robert. We will be his sharpest spear, his unbreakable shield! There will be hardship. There will be battle. There will be death. But there will also be glory for those who fight with courage and unwavering loyalty! There will be reward for those who serve with distinction! We will carve a new order from the chaos of this war! For House Vorant! For the Stormlands! For victory!"
A deafening roar answered him, a mixture of fear-induced fervor from the levies, grim determination from the Northmen, and the chilling, unified war cry of the Obsidian Guard, a sound like the striking of a thousand iron bars.
Just before the order to march was given, Vorhax had a final, private word with Will, who would remain behind to manage his vast intelligence network. "Your priority is information, Will. Every troop movement, every alliance formed or broken, every whisper from King's Landing, Storm's End, the Trident. I need to know everything, before anyone else. The fate of kingdoms can turn on a single, timely piece of intelligence."
Will, his youthful features now etched with a seriousness far beyond his years, nodded. "You will know it, my lord."
Vorhax then retreated for a brief moment to his sanctum. He drew deeply upon the Dark Side, the familiar cold fire coursing through him, sharpening his senses, solidifying his will. The air crackled with unseen energies. This war, this Rebellion, was the crucible he had patiently awaited for nearly a decade. It was the first grand movement in the symphony of destruction and conquest he intended to compose across this primitive, unsuspecting world.
He emerged, his eyes burning with a faint, dark light. He mounted his black warhorse, Nyx launching from his shoulder to circle high above.
"Forward!" he commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip.
At the head of his formidable, black-clad army, Lord Ellys Vorant, the Hawk of Stonefang and Crow's Nest, the unseen Sith Lord Darth Vorhax, marched out to war. The Dragon's ire had been unleashed. Now, it was the Hawk's hour.
(Word Count: Approx. Approx. 4350 words)