Chapter 36: The Hawk's Nest Secure, The Falcon's Faith Shaken
The delegation from the Free City of Volantis and its allied Essosi merchant powers had arrived at Stonefang with lavish proposals of alliance, trade, and military compacts. They spoke of Dothraki hordes, the simmering chaos of Slaver's Bay, and the immense profits to be made by a power like Lord Vorant, whose Hawk's Armada could secure the southern seas and whose Stonefang steel could equip their own beleaguered forces. For a lesser lord, the offer would have been intoxicating – a gateway to the fabled wealth and ancient mysteries of Essos.
Darth Vorhax received them in the black obsidian throne room of Stonefang, Red Rain displayed on a rack of polished weirwood behind him, its crimson ripples seeming to drink the flickering torchlight. He listened to their intricate proposals with an impassive expression, his Force senses sifting through their layers of flattery, greed, and genuine fear. Essos was vast, ancient, and undoubtedly held power and knowledge he would one day seek. But his visions, his carefully constructed plans, were centered, for now, on the fractured continent of Westeros. A Sith conquered methodically, ensuring each dominion was absolute before extending his grasp. To divide his attention now, to overstretch his still-consolidating empire, would be a strategic error.
"Your proposals are… intriguing, honored envoys," Vorhax stated, his voice resonating with a cold, ageless authority that belied the youthful features of Ellys Vorant. "House Vorant appreciates the recognition of its strength and the potential for mutual prosperity." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, each man feeling a subtle, unnerving pressure. "However, the storms within Westeros are far from settled. My duty, as Protector of the Stormlands and a loyal servant of order, lies here, in ensuring this realm does not fully succumb to the anarchy that perpetually threatens it." He declined their offer of a formal military alliance, citing his ongoing responsibilities. "But," he added, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, "trade is the lifeblood of prosperity. Stonefang is always open to equitable commerce. We shall establish formal trade delegations. Perhaps, in time, when the hawks of Westeros fly in clearer skies, we may revisit these… grander designs."
The Essosi envoys, though disappointed at the rejection of their military pleas, eagerly accepted the expanded trade agreements. Vorhax had secured access to more Essosi goods, knowledge, and, crucially, a steady influx of foreign gold, all without committing his own forces to distant, tangential conflicts. Essos could wait. Westeros was the current crucible.
In the years that followed the Greyjoy Rebellion's suppression – years that saw King Robert Baratheon sink further into debt and debauchery, while Jon Arryn desperately tried to steer the ship of state – Vorhax's domains became a dark jewel of terrifying efficiency. The "King's Peace," as it was called, was for other, less disciplined lands. Within the Hawk's expanding territory, it was the "Vorant Order." Stonefang's forges produced wonders: steel that shattered lesser blades, precisely engineered components for siege engines and his growing fleet, and even experimental batches of "dragon's breath" – Vorhax's refined black powder – whose devastating potential was tested only in the most remote, heavily guarded quarries of Old Wyk. His agricultural reforms yielded unprecedented bounties, his granaries overflowing while other regions sometimes faced scarcity. The Storm Army, now numbering nearly forty thousand disciplined soldiers, was a force unmatched by any single Great House, its core the Obsidian Guard, a legion of one thousand black-armored demigods whose loyalty to Vorhax was absolute, their hawk helms a symbol of swift, merciless justice.
His son and heir, Edric Vorant, was now a young man of nineteen, grim and capable, a skilled commander molded by his father's brutal tutelage. He oversaw the defenses of Crow's Nest, his actions reflecting a chilling echo of Vorhax's own efficiency, yet lacking the true Sith fire, the boundless ambition. Vorhax continued to observe him, a tool being perfected, but not a true successor to his hidden legacy. Lyra, his daughter, now seventeen, possessed a quiet, sharp intellect and an unnerving perceptiveness that Vorhax found… interesting. She was being tutored in languages, statecraft, and the subtle arts of intelligence by masters loyal to Vorhax, her potential perhaps lying in a different, more insidious sphere of influence. Lady Anya, their mother, remained a pale, frightened cipher, her existence confined to maintaining the facade of a noble household.
It was during this period of dark consolidation, as the Seven Kingdoms festered under Robert's neglect, that Vorhax decided to proactively sow discord in a region that had remained largely aloof from the recent wars: the Vale of Arryn. Lysa Arryn, Jon Arryn's widow, ruled as Lady Regent for her sickly young son, Robert Arryn. Her rule was erratic, increasingly influenced by the machinations of Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish, who had insinuated himself into her confidence. The Vale, with its proud, honor-bound lords and its formidable, nigh-unassailable Eyrie, was a sleeping giant. Vorhax intended to ensure it remained deeply troubled, if not outright fractured.
His motivations were multifaceted. A destabilized Vale could not project power, nor could it effectively ally with any of his potential future rivals. The chaos would create opportunities for him to extend his own influence, perhaps even to absorb border territories should the Vale descend into internal conflict. And it would serve as a bloody lesson to any other Great Houses who believed themselves secure in their mountain fastnesses or ancient traditions. Plus, observing Littlefinger's schemes from afar had become a mild amusement; disrupting them would be a satisfying exercise.
The "truth" he chose to unleash was the most potent: that Lord Jon Arryn had not died of a sudden illness, but had been murdered – poisoned by his own wife, Lysa, at the instigation of Petyr Baelish. The motive? To prevent Arryn from revealing a devastating secret he had uncovered, perhaps concerning the legitimacy of King Robert's children, or even Littlefinger's own treasonous ambitions.
Gathering "proof" was a matter of Sith artistry. Will and Anya's network, already extensive, had long cultivated assets within the Eyrie's household and among the lesser Vale nobility. They had collected whispers of Lysa's paranoia, her unhealthy devotion to her son, her increasing reliance on Littlefinger, and the suspicious haste with which she had fled King's Landing after Jon Arryn's death. Vorhax then had his most skilled forgers and scribes create "correspondence" – carefully aged letters purportedly between Lysa and Littlefinger, hinting at their conspiracy, written in a flawlessly replicated hand. A disgraced former maester of a minor Vale house, indebted to Vorhax for past "favors," was "persuaded" to provide a sworn, notarized statement detailing his (entirely fabricated) suspicions about Jon Arryn's final illness and the strange herbs Lysa had insisted on administering.
This potent cocktail of half-truths, outright fabrications, and expertly forged evidence was not to be delivered openly. Vorhax orchestrated a subtle, insidious campaign of information warfare. Anonymous letters, penned by different hands, containing different fragments of the "proof," began to arrive at the keeps of prominent Vale lords known for their honor, their ambition, or their quiet disdain for Lysa Arryn's erratic rule and Littlefinger's upjumped status – men like Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, Lord Nestor Royce, High Steward of the Vale, Lady Anya Waynwood, and Lord Benedar Belmore.
Simultaneously, Vorhax's agents, disguised as traveling merchants, septons, or minstrels, spread carefully crafted rumors throughout the towns and villages of the Vale. Songs were composed, allegorical tales hinting at a "falcon poisoned in her own nest by a mockingbird and a weeping woman." The whispers were designed to prey on existing anxieties, to foster suspicion, to turn lord against lord, vassal against regent.
The initial reaction in the Vale, as reported by Vorhax's delighted agents, was one of shocked disbelief, quickly followed by a growing unease. The Vale lords, proud and fiercely protective of their honor and their ancient traditions, were deeply disturbed. Lord Yohn Royce, a man of unimpeachable integrity, was said to have confined himself to Runestone for days, studying the "evidence" that had mysteriously appeared in his rookery. Lady Anya Waynwood, known for her shrewdness, began to subtly question the accounts of Jon Arryn's final days. The notoriously quarrelsome Lords Declarant, a loose affiliation of powerful Vale nobles already chafing under Lysa's misrule, found new, more potent grievances to fuel their dissent.
Littlefinger, from his perch at the Eyrie beside Lysa, undoubtedly sensed the shift in the political winds. Vorhax's agents reported an increase in Littlefinger's own covert activities, his attempts to trace the source of the rumors, his efforts to shore up Lysa's dwindling authority. But the seeds of discord had been sown in fertile ground. The "proof," however insidiously delivered, was compelling enough to ignite a firestorm of suspicion and paranoia. Factions began to coalesce: those who remained loyal to Lady Lysa (either out of genuine fealty, fear, or manipulation by Littlefinger), and a growing number of powerful lords who demanded a formal inquiry into Jon Arryn's death and a curtailing of Littlefinger's influence.
Vorhax observed these developments from Stonefang with cold, grim satisfaction. He made no overt move, offered no public comment. His hands were clean. But the Vale, once a bastion of Arryn strength and unity, was beginning to tremble, its faith in its regent shaken, its internal cohesion fracturing. He had not committed a single soldier, nor spent a single dragon from his own treasury in any overt act, yet he was achieving a significant strategic objective: the neutralization of a Great House as a unified force. This was the Sith way – to conquer not just with armies, but with whispers, with shadows, with the manipulation of fear and doubt.
As the year 300 AC dawned, bringing with it ever more alarming news from beyond the Wall (where Stannis Baratheon now fought against wildlings and stranger things) and across the Narrow Sea (where Daenerys Targaryen, now widowed and with three young dragons, was beginning her own bloody rise in Slaver's Bay), a raven arrived at Stonefang bearing the Royce falcon. Lord Yohn Royce, along with several other prominent Vale lords – the newly self-styled "Lords Declarant" – had formally issued a proclamation demanding that Lady Lysa Arryn descend from the Eyrie, submit to a council of Vale lords, and allow a full and open investigation into the death of her husband, Jon Arryn, and the undue influence of Lord Petyr Baelish. They further demanded that young Lord Robert Arryn be fostered with Royce to ensure his proper upbringing. The Vale was on the brink of civil war.
Vorhax read the proclamation, and a slow, predatory smile spread across the youthful features of Ellys Vorant. The falcons were turning on each other, their screeches of outrage music to his ears. His unseen hand had pushed the first domino. Now, he would watch, patiently, as the Vale consumed itself, another piece on the great board of Westeros removed, or at least, significantly weakened, before he made his own final, decisive moves. The Hawk's nest was secure. His armies were forged. His gaze was now fixed on the wider chaos, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash his own dark storm upon a fractured and unsuspecting realm.
(Word Count: Approx. 4300 words)