Chapter 31: The Hand Falls, The Game Begins
The ravens bearing news of Lord Jon Arryn's sudden death descended upon the keeps of Westeros like black-winged omens, their tidings a somber drumbeat heralding the end of an era. At Stonefang, the dark citadel of Lord Ellys Vorant, the message was received not with grief, but with the cold, sharp intake of breath that precedes a long-anticipated strike. Darth Vorhax, standing in his map room—a vast chamber where intricately detailed charts of Westeros and its surrounding seas covered every wall—listened to Will's decrypted report from King's Landing with an almost serene focus. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, a pillar of Robert's reign, was gone. The official cause was a swift, virulent illness. The whispers, however, carried by Will's most trusted agents, spoke of a different, more insidious malady: poison, skillfully administered, the hand of the Queen and her Lannister kin suspected by many of the late Hand's closest confidantes.
"A predictable, yet pivotal, move," Vorhax mused, his gaze fixed on the sigil of House Lannister on his map. "Arryn was digging too close to their gilded secrets. His removal was inevitable." He turned to his assembled inner circle: Ser Gareth, his Obsidian Guard commander, now a man of hard, unquestioning loyalty; Brandon Snow, the White Wolf, his Northman pragmatism honed by years of service to a lord whose methods were as effective as they were terrifying; and Maester Vymar, perpetually anxious but an efficient administrator of Vorhax's ever-expanding domains.
"Lord Arryn's death," Vorhax announced, his voice echoing slightly in the stone chamber, "is the first true note in the symphony of chaos I have long foreseen. King Robert, deprived of his wisest counsel, will turn to the only other man he trusts implicitly: Eddard Stark. The wolf will be summoned south, into the lion's den. And the game of thrones will begin in deadly earnest."
His assessment proved prescient. Within a sennight, fresh intelligence confirmed that King Robert Baratheon, accompanied by Queen Cersei, her brothers Jaime and Tyrion Lannister, and a vast royal retinue, was riding north to Winterfell to offer the Handship to Lord Stark. Vorhax monitored this royal progress with meticulous care. His agents, disguised as merchants, pilgrims, or common travelers, shadowed the King's party, reporting on Robert's deteriorating physical condition, his boisterous but increasingly hollow revelry, the barely concealed tensions between the Baratheon and Lannister factions, and the stoic, honorable Ned Stark, who was clearly ill-suited for the nest of vipers that awaited him in the capital.
With the catalyst now undeniably in play, Vorhax accelerated his own preparations for the War of the Five Kings. This was no longer a distant contingency; it was an impending reality. His orders, issued with swift, cold precision, rippled through his domains.
Militarily, the Obsidian Guard, now a legion of nearly eight hundred elite heavy infantry, their black iron armor a symbol of dread, were brought to peak combat readiness. Their training drills, already brutal, intensified, focusing on large-unit maneuvers, siege warfare using Vorhax's advanced engine designs, and rapid deployment via his growing fleet of black-sailed warships. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, two hundred and fifty strong, sharpened their axes and greatswords, their Northman grit a perfect complement to the Obsidian Guard's disciplined terror. Stonefang's forges, already producing unparalleled quantities of superior steel, now operated on a twenty-four-hour cycle, churning out weapons, armor, and specialized war materiel. His experimental black powder, refined over years of secret research, was now produced in significant, albeit still carefully controlled, quantities, reserved for specialized breaching charges and "alchemical fire" projectiles for his siege engines and naval cannons (primitive cannons, but cannons nonetheless, an unheard-of weapon in Westeros).
Economically, his domains were an impregnable fortress of resources. Vast stockpiles of grain, timber, iron, and other essential commodities were secured in fortified granaries and hidden caches throughout his territories. His treasury, swelled by years of shrewd trade, efficient taxation, and the plunder of past conflicts, was moved to the deepest, most secure vaults beneath Stonefang. Secret supply lines and encrypted communication networks, utilizing both raven and human courier, were established, linking his holdings and his network of indebted or allied minor lords.
Will and Anya, his intelligence chiefs, received new directives. Their primary focus now was to identify the precise fault lines between the great houses, to pinpoint key individuals who could be subverted, manipulated, or eliminated, and to monitor every significant troop movement, every whispered alliance, every clandestine meeting across the Seven Kingdoms. Nyx, Vorhax's Force-bonded goshawk, became an almost constant presence in the skies, her preternatural senses extending his reach far beyond mortal limits.
Vorhax also moved to solidify his "shadow coalition." He dispatched trusted emissaries to the minor lords now within his sphere of influence – those bound to him by favorable trade in Stonefang steel, by his "humanitarian aid" during past crises, or by simple, unadulterated fear. He did not call for rebellion, not yet. Instead, he offered "counsel" for uncertain times, advising them to strengthen their defenses, conserve their resources, and look to House Vorant as a pillar of strength and order when the inevitable chaos erupted. Many were offered further shipments of advanced weaponry or even small detachments of Vorant-trained drill sergeants to improve their own levies, further enmeshing them in his web.
The matter of Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, remained a persistent concern. Stannis, with his rigid sense of justice, his powerful fleet, and his own strong claim to the throne should Robert's children be proven illegitimate (a truth Vorhax knew Stannis was likely already investigating), was a dangerous and implacable foe. Vorhax, through his agents in the Crownlands and the Narrow Sea, kept a close watch on Dragonstone. He even sent a carefully worded, untraceable message of "condolence" on Jon Arryn's passing to Stannis, a subtle probe to gauge the man's current disposition. The reply, if any, was silence, which Vorhax interpreted as Stannis biding his time, gathering his strength, and undoubtedly viewing Vorhax himself as a primary threat to any ambitions he might harbor. Contingency plans for neutralizing Dragonstone's naval power, or even for a direct assault on the island fortress should Stannis declare against him or his chosen side in the coming war, were refined.
As "Lord Ellys Vorant," Vorhax made the appropriate public gestures. He ordered solemn services held for the late Hand in the septs within his domains (though he himself never attended), and dispatched a raven to King's Landing expressing his profound grief and his unwavering loyalty to King Robert. His son, Edric, now a youth of fifteen, was given a more prominent, if still nominal, role in these public displays. Vorhax had continued Edric's brutal education, pushing him to his limits. The boy was now a skilled swordsman, a competent horseman, and possessed a chillingly disciplined demeanor, though Vorhax still sensed a core of mundane humanity, a frustrating lack of the true Sith ruthlessness or Force potential he had hoped to cultivate. Edric was a well-crafted tool, perhaps even a capable future administrator of the Vorant facade, but not an inheritor of Vorhax's true, dark legacy. His daughter, Lyra, now thirteen, was proving more subtly intriguing, her quiet observance and sharp intellect occasionally surprising him, though she was, of course, irrelevant to direct succession in this patriarchal world.
News trickled south from Winterfell: Lord Eddard Stark, bound by his honor and his deep friendship with King Robert, had accepted the Handship. Then came more disturbing reports: young Bran Stark's tragic "fall" from a tower; Lady Catelyn Stark's clandestine journey to King's Landing, spurred by a message from Petyr Baelish concerning a Valyrian steel dagger and an alleged assassination attempt on her son, implicating Tyrion Lannister. Each piece of news was another log on the pyre, another turn of the screw.
Vorhax analyzed these events with cold, detached precision. The game was unfolding beautifully, the great houses stumbling into the traps he had foreseen, their passions and honor leading them inexorably towards self-destruction.
His initial stance in the coming war was clear. He would remain, for now, the loyal bannerman of King Robert. But Robert was a dead man walking, his reign teetering on the brink. When Robert fell, and the five (or more) kings rose to tear the realm apart, House Vorant would be an island of disciplined strength in a sea of chaos. He would let the Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons (Stannis and Renly), Tullys, and perhaps even the Tyrells and Martells exhaust themselves in their futile struggles. Then, when they were weakened and bleeding, the Hawk would descend, not to pick at the scraps, but to claim the entire carcass. His ultimate goal was not merely to survive, or even to become a king among kings. It was to forge a new order, a galactic empire in miniature, built on Sith principles of absolute power, unyielding discipline, and merciless efficiency, with himself as its eternal, god-like Emperor.
As King Robert and his new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, began their fateful journey south to King's Landing, Vorhax received a final, crucial piece of intelligence from Will. The capital was a powder keg. Queen Cersei and her Lannister kin were consolidating their power, their agents honeycombing the court. Lord Stark, with his rigid Northern honor, was already viewed with contempt and suspicion. Littlefinger and Varys were weaving their intricate webs of intrigue. The clash was inevitable and would be bloody.
Vorhax stood in his sanctum beneath Stonefang, the crimson ripples of Red Rain gleaming in the light of a single, guttering candle. He could feel the Dark Side stirring, responding to the growing chaos, the fear, the hatred that was about to engulf Westeros. He held the Valyrian blade aloft, its ancient energies resonating with his own immense power.
"The Hand has fallen," he murmured, his voice a sibilant whisper that seemed to blend with the sighing of the wind outside the fortress walls. "The pieces are set. The game begins."
A predatory smile, utterly alien to the youthful features of Ellys Vorant, spread across his face. The years of patient preparation, of building, of manipulating, were about to bear their dark fruit. The War of the Five Kings was dawning, and he, Darth Vorhax, was more prepared, more powerful, and more ruthless than any player on the board. This world would learn to fear the shadow of the Hawk.
(Word Count: Approx. 4250 words)