Chapter 21: The Gathering Storm, The Hawk Takes Wing
The Vorant host moved like a dark, inexorable tide across the winter-brown fields of the Stormlands. At its heart marched the Obsidian Guard, nearly four hundred strong, their black iron armor and hawk-like helms absorbing the pale sunlight, their tread heavy and rhythmic, their silence more intimidating than any war cry. Flanking them, and often scouting ahead, were the hundred and fifty rugged Northmen of Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, their grim faces and heavy axes a promise of brutal close-quarters combat. Levies from Stonefang, Crow's Nest, and the assimilated Swann and Kellington lands, better equipped and far more disciplined than typical feudal foot soldiers, swelled their numbers to nearly a thousand fighting men. This was not just an army; it was a statement – of Lord Vorant's power, his wealth, and his chillingly effective methods.
Darth Vorhax, Lord Ellys Vorant, rode at their head, mounted on a magnificent black warhorse bred in his own stables, its trappings simple but of the finest black leather, adorned only with small, polished obsidian hawk heads. His own armor was a masterpiece of Stonefang's forges, a uniquely crafted suit of black plate, its lines subtly alien, its surface seeming to drink the light, its helm shaped into the predatory beak and fierce brow of a raptor. Nyx, his goshawk, often rode on his saddlebow or circled high overhead, her Force-enhanced senses providing Vorhax with an unparalleled view of the surrounding countryside, warning of any potential ambush or revealing the movements of other lordly retinues also converging on Robert Baratheon's call.
They encountered several such forces along the way – Lord Estermont's green turtles, Lord Grandison's sleeping lion, the fiery sun of House Tarth. Each encounter was a subtle dance of power. Vorhax offered formal courtesies, his demeanor one of cold, impeccable correctness. His troops, however, with their superior equipment and unnerving discipline, invariably overshadowed the more traditional, often motley, forces of his fellow Stormlords. Whispers followed in their wake: the Hawk Lord was a force to be reckoned with, his men more akin to an Ironborn raiding party in their ferocity, yet with the discipline of Unsullied.
The grand assembly of Stormlord armies was taking place in the rolling fields south of Storm's End, a sprawling, chaotic city of tents and banners. The air was thick with the smoke of a thousand cookfires, the neighing of horses, the clang of smiths' hammers, and the boisterous shouts of men eager for battle or drowning their fear in ale. Into this maelstrom of feudal disorder, the Vorant contingent arrived like a shaft of black ice. Their silent, orderly procession, their dark, uniform armor, and the sheer martial presence they projected carved a path through the lesser levies, drawing stares of awe, fear, and more than a little resentment. They made camp slightly apart, their perimeter quickly established and patrolled by the Obsidian Guard, a model of stark, military efficiency.
Robert Baratheon, his black hair wild, his blue eyes blazing with a warrior's joy, his laughter booming across the camp, greeted Vorhax with a mighty clap on the shoulder that would have felled a smaller man. "Vorant! By the Gods, you brought a proper bloody army! Not like some of these other dandies with their rusty squires! Those hawk-helmed bastards of yours look like they could march through the Seven Hells and ask the Stranger for directions!"
Vorhax accepted the greeting with a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his head, his own strength easily absorbing Robert's enthusiastic blow. "Lord Robert. House Vorant answers your call. Our swords, our iron, and our lives are sworn to your cause."
"And I'll hold you to it, Hawk!" Robert bellowed. "We've got a kingdom to win and a mad dragon to dethrone!"
In the subsequent councils of war, held in Robert's great campaign pavilion, Vorhax played his role with calculated precision. While other lords boasted, argued, or offered conventional advice, Vorhax listened, observed, his Force senses probing the undercurrents of ambition and fear. When he spoke, it was with a brevity and insight that often silenced the room. He made suggestions for more efficient supply chains, for disciplined foraging to avoid alienating the smallfolk, for dedicated reconnaissance units – all framed in the language of Westerosi warfare, yet drawn from centuries of Sith military doctrine. Robert, impatient with details but appreciative of competence, often nodded his approval. Ser Stannis, however, dissected Vorhax's every word, his suspicious gaze never wavering, clearly seeing the dangerous intellect behind the young lord's impassive facade.
The first test of Robert's rebellion came quickly. Loyalist Stormlords – Lord Fell of Felwood, Ser Harwood Fell his son, Lord Cafferen of Fawnton, and Lord Grandison of Grandview (who, despite his earlier presence, had initially declared for the King) – had refused Robert's call and gathered their forces at Summerhall, the Targaryens' ruined summer palace, intending to bar Robert's passage north. Robert, never one to shy from a fight, decided to crush them swiftly.
It was here, amidst the ghosts of Targaryen tragedy, that Vorhax saw his first major opportunity to demonstrate the terrifying effectiveness of his forces. As Robert planned his assault – a typically bold, direct charge – Vorhax offered a subtle amendment.
"My lord Robert," he said in the pre-battle council, "Lord Fell holds the ruins well. A frontal assault will be costly, even for men as brave as yours." He gestured to a rough map. "If your main force engages them here, distracting their attention, my own forces – the Obsidian Guard and Captain Snow's Northmen – are skilled in swift, flanking maneuvers through broken terrain. We could strike them from the west, where the old dragon stables offer concealed approach, and break their line before they realize they are enveloped."
Robert, eager for a quick victory, grinned. "A hawk's eye for a killing strike, eh, Vorant? Good! Do it! Show these loyalist curs what happens when they defy the Stag!" Stannis looked dubious, but offered no objection.
The battles at Summerhall, as they came to be known, were a brutal lesson in Vorhax's methods. As Robert's main force, a wave of cheering Stormlords and their levies, crashed against the loyalists' hastily fortified positions around the ruins, Vorhax's contingent executed their flanking maneuver with terrifying speed and precision. Nyx had scouted the route perfectly. The Obsidian Guard, moving like black wraiths through the skeletal remains of the palace gardens, fell upon Lord Cafferen's exposed flank with devastating force. Their dark iron weapons, some subtly imbued with fear-inducing properties from Vorhax's sanctum, shattered shields and morale alike. The disciplined volleys of their supporting archers, each shaft finding its mark with uncanny accuracy, added to the carnage. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade then hit the other flank, their Northman battle cries and swinging axes turning the loyalist defense into a chaotic rout.
Lord Fell and his son Harwood were slain in the fighting. Lord Cafferen was captured, his forces scattered. Lord Grandison, seeing the hopelessness of his position and the terrifying efficiency of Vorhax's troops, wisely chose to surrender and switch his allegiance to Robert. Robert himself, fighting with his customary berserker fury at the head of his own men, had won three sharp engagements in a single day, effectively securing the Stormlands.
But it was the performance of the Vorant contingent that became the legend of Summerhall. The Obsidian Guard, in particular, earned a fearsome reputation. They had taken minimal casualties while inflicting devastating losses, their disciplined charges and implacable advances seeming almost supernatural. Vorhax himself, though he directed the battle from a slight rise, had been seen briefly in the thick of the fighting when a loyalist counter-attack threatened his line, his black armor and swift, deadly swordplay leaving a trail of fallen enemies. (None knew, of course, that the Force guided his blade and turned aside blows that would have felled any other commander.)
In the aftermath, Robert was ecstatic, praising Vorhax loudly and generously. "Your Hawkmen fight like demons from the Seven Hells, Vorant! And that White Wolf of yours is worth a dozen southron knights!" Vorhax accepted the praise with his usual cold composure, deflecting much of it to the bravery of his men and Robert's inspiring leadership. He secured a significant share of the captured arms and supplies, further strengthening his already well-equipped force.
Stannis Baratheon, however, watched Vorhax with an even deeper unease. The efficiency was too perfect, the casualty ratio too skewed. This was not ordinary warfare. This was something colder, more alien, more terrifying. He made a point of personally inspecting the Obsidian Guard's equipment, noting the unique temper of their iron, the unsettling design of their helms. He found nothing overtly magical, yet the feeling of profound wrongness persisted.
With the Stormlands consolidated, Robert, after a brief period of rest and reorganization, announced his intention to march north to join forces with Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn. The main Targaryen armies, particularly the vast host of Mace Tyrell from the Reach, were beginning to move, and the rebels needed to unite their strength before they were caught piecemeal.
Vorhax concurred with this strategy. His visions had shown him the importance of the coming battles in the Riverlands, particularly the Battle of the Bells and the Trident. It was there that the fate of the rebellion, and his own opportunities for advancement, would truly be decided.
He used the brief lull to send dispatches back to Stonefang and Crow's Nest, detailing his victory and issuing new orders for production and recruitment. He also received intelligence from Will: King Aerys, upon hearing of Summerhall, had flown into a terrifying rage, ordering the execution of several innocent courtiers and demanding that his pyromancers prepare more wildfire than ever before. Prince Rhaegar, meanwhile, had finally emerged from his seclusion and was reportedly gathering loyalist forces, though his whereabouts were still unclear.
As Vorhax reviewed these reports, a grim satisfaction settled within him. The primitive warfare of this world was indeed brutal, but it was also rife with opportunities for a mind like his. Robert Baratheon was a powerful but blunt instrument, easily guided by those who understood his nature. Stannis was a threat, but one that could be managed with caution and superior intellect. The true enemies, the Targaryens, were self-destructing through madness and folly.
He thought of his growing domains, his infant son Edric, his pregnant wife Anya. These were mere tools, pieces in a game so vast that none in this world could comprehend its scope. The rebellion was simply the first major movement, the initial clearing of the board. His ultimate ambitions stretched far beyond the Iron Throne of this insignificant continent. But for now, this war was his forge.
Robert Baratheon gave the order. The combined Stormlord army, a river of steel and banners, began its long march north, towards the Trident, towards destiny. Vorhax rode near its head, his black-clad Obsidian Guard and the grim Northmen of the Wolf Brigade forming a distinct, formidable bloc within the larger host. The Hawk was now fully committed, its wings spread wide on the gathering storm of war, ready to carve out its bloody share of the spoils. The fields of Summerhall had been a taste; the feast of slaughter and opportunity was yet to come.
(Word Count: Approx. 4300 words)