Chapter 38: The Dragon's Wake, The Hawk's Unsheathing
The raven arrived at Stonefang on a storm-lashed night, its feathers black as the obsidian fortress itself. The message it bore, heavily coded and relayed by Will's most trusted agent deep within the Red Keep, was the spark Darth Vorhax had patiently, meticulously, awaited for over a decade of this new, primitive life. Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and short-lived sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms, was dead. Assassinated within the very walls of the Red Keep, mere months after her fiery conquest had shattered the Lannister-Tyrell hegemony and placed her, at last, upon the Iron Throne. The details were still fragmented – whispers of betrayal, a shadow in the night, a trusted hand turned false – but the outcome was undeniable. The realm, already reeling from years of brutal warfare, the recent, terrifying Long Night where ice and fire had clashed in a desperate struggle for the dawn (a conflict Daenerys's dragons and armies had been pivotal in winning, though at grievous cost to her own strength and the unity of the living), and then her own swift, often brutal, consolidation of power, was now utterly rudderless, plunged into a power vacuum more profound and chaotic than any seen since the Doom of Valyria.
Vorhax read the decoded message, a slow, chilling smile stretching the youthful features of Lord Ellys Vorant into an expression of ancient, predatory triumph. His Force visions had been unerring. The Dragon Queen's ascent had been necessary, a cleansing fire to burn away the腐烂 old order, to shatter the great houses, to bleed the continent of its strongest warriors and its most entrenched traditions. Her death, equally foreseen, was the true signal for his own grand design to unfold.
"The Dragon's wake is a sea of chaos," Vorhax murmured, his voice resonating with a power that made the very stones of his sanctum seem to hum. "And in such waters, the Hawk hunts best."
He convened his war council immediately. In the vast, black iron heart of Stonefang, beneath banners bearing the unsleeping Hawk clutching its shard of obsidian, gathered his commanders: Edric Vorant, his son and heir, now a grim-faced young man of twenty-five, his features hardened by years of his father's brutal tutelage and the responsibilities of command, yet still lacking the true Sith spark; Ser Gareth, grizzled and unwavering, the first sword of the Obsidian Guard; Brandon Snow, the White Wolf, his Northman stoicism a bedrock of loyalty and martial competence; and the stoic, hawk-visored generals of his legions, men forged in Vorhax's own image of discipline and ruthlessness. Maester Vymar, ancient and trembling, was present to record, his quill scratching nervously on parchment.
"Generals, commanders," Vorhax began, his voice filling the chamber, Red Rain, the Valyrian steel sword, lying unsheathed before him on a massive obsidian table carved with intricate, faintly glowing glyphs of his own design. "Daenerys Targaryen is dead. The Iron Throne is vacant. The Seven Kingdoms are leaderless, fractured, and teetering on the brink of utter collapse. Her Dothraki hordes rampage without a Khaleesi to guide them. Her Unsullied, leaderless, are a formidable but isolated force. The great houses that survived her conquest are broken remnants, their strength spent, their lines thinned."
He rose, his shadow stretching long in the torchlight. "For nearly three decades, I have prepared for this moment. While lesser lords played their Game of Thrones, I forged an empire. While they bled each other white, I built an army. While they dreamed of petty crowns, I envisioned a new order for this entire continent – an order of strength, of discipline, of absolute authority, under a single, unwavering will."
His eyes, like chips of frozen fire, swept over them. "The time for patience is over. The time for whispers and subtle manipulations is past. The hour of the Hawk is at hand. We march now not to merely seize territory, nor to play at kingship. We march to conquer. To unify this shattered realm under one banner, one law, one master. My banner. My law. My mastery."
He gestured to the great map of Westeros. "Our initial objectives are clear. First, the Crownlands and King's Landing. The city is in turmoil. We will take it swiftly, decisively, and make it the seat of our new Empire. Our fleet, the Hawk's Armada, will blockade Blackwater Bay, while our legions advance from the south. Our 'dragon's breath' cannons," he allowed a rare, chilling smile, "will make short work of any who dare resist."
He pointed to the Reach. "Next, the Reach. Its granaries will feed our armies and our new order. Its lords are broken, their flower of chivalry trampled by dragonfire and Dothraki screamers. They will bend the knee, or they will be plowed under."
Then, the Westerlands. "Casterly Rock and its gold will fuel our continued expansion."
His gaze was relentless. "The Storm Army is now over eighty thousand strong – Obsidian Guard, Wolf Brigade, and our disciplined Stormlander legions. Our arsenals are full. Our granaries overflow. Our treasury is unmatched. Our fleet commands the southern seas. We possess weapons and tactics this continent has never seen. We will offer a simple choice: submission or annihilation. There will be no negotiation with lesser powers, no compromises with feudal traditions. There will only be the Vorant Order."
A wave of disciplined, fierce assent rippled through his commanders. They had been forged in his crucible for this very purpose.
The great mobilization began. From Stonefang, Crow's Nest, Old Wyk, and a dozen lesser fortresses, the Vorant war machine uncoiled like a monstrous, black iron serpent. Legions of Obsidian Guard, their armor now subtly enhanced with layers of toughened, alchemically treated ceramics beneath the black iron, their Valyrian-process Stonefang steel blades (some even faintly imbued with fear-inducing Dark Side energies) gleaming, marched with inhuman precision. The Wolf Brigade, their Northman grit now fused with absolute Vorant discipline, formed a core of unbreakable heavy infantry. Vast trains of siege engines, including scores of Vorhax's dreaded "firelance" cannons, rumbled across newly built Vorant roads. The Hawk's Armada, nearly a hundred warships strong, including heavily armed dromonds and swift, black-sailed cruisers, put to sea from Stonefang and Ironscar Hold, establishing an immediate blockade of King's Landing and key southern ports. Nyx, and a score of other specially bred and Force-attuned hawks, provided unparalleled real-time reconnaissance across hundreds of leagues.
The initial campaign was a blitzkrieg of terrifying efficiency. King's Landing, already in chaos following Daenerys's assassination, with leaderless Unsullied trying to maintain order against rioting mobs and remnants of her Dothraki horde looting the outer districts, was Vorhax's first major target. His fleet swept into Blackwater Bay, sinking the few remaining Targaryen loyalist ships with devastating broadsides from their firelances. Simultaneously, his land army, led by the Obsidian Guard, approached from the south. When the city's wavering defenders refused his call for immediate surrender, Vorhax unleashed a bombardment unlike anything Westeros had ever witnessed. His cannons breached the ancient walls within hours. The Obsidian Guard stormed the breaches, their disciplined formations and terrifying weaponry cutting through the disorganized defenders like wraiths of destruction. Vorhax himself, clad in his uniquely forged black battle armor, Red Rain a crimson river of death in his hand, led the final assault on the Red Keep. He moved through the fighting with the preternatural speed and grace of a Sith Master, the Force a whirlwind around him, deflecting arrows, guiding his blade, his very presence radiating an aura of terror that broke the will of his enemies. By nightfall, King's Landing was his. Order was restored with brutal, summary executions of looters and resisters. The black hawk banner flew from every tower.
The Reach fell almost as quickly. Its great houses – Tyrell, Florent, Tarly – had been decimated by Daenerys's conquest. The few remaining lords, faced with Vorhax's overwhelming force and his reputation for utter ruthlessness, quickly bent the knee. Those who hesitated found their castles besieged by his advanced artillery and stormed by the Obsidian Guard. Within months, the vast agricultural wealth of the Reach was under Vorhax's control, its granaries secured, its levies being forcibly integrated into his expanding Storm Army.
The Westerlands, though their gold mines were largely depleted, still held symbolic and strategic value. Lord Tyrion Lannister, who had surprisingly survived Daenerys's reign (perhaps as a captive, or by fading into obscurity after her victory), had no army left to defend Casterly Rock. The remaining Lannister bannermen, seeing the fate of the Reach, offered little resistance. Vorhax claimed the Rock, its remaining treasures plundered for his war chest, its formidable defenses now manned by his own garrisons.
The speed and brutality of Vorhax's conquest stunned the remaining powers of Westeros.
The North, under Queen Sansa Stark (who had, in this timeline, cannily navigated Daenerys's reign and secured a fragile independence after the Long Night), was horrified but also distant and still recovering from multiple wars. They watched with grim trepidation.
Dorne, under a new Prince Martell, seethed with resentment but lacked the strength to openly challenge Vorhax's southern dominance, especially with his fleet now controlling the seas.
The Vale, still fractured by Vorhax's earlier machinations, was in no position to intervene. Littlefinger, if he was still alive and in power there, would be desperately trying to secure his own position.
Remnants of Daenerys's forces – the Unsullied, perhaps holding Dragonstone or some other isolated stronghold, and scattered Dothraki bands – were formidable warriors but lacked unified leadership or a strategic vision. Vorhax began a systematic campaign to hunt down and either destroy the Dothraki or, in the case of the Unsullied, offer them a place in his new order, valuing their discipline if their loyalty could be broken and reforged to him.
During the siege of a particularly stubborn Reach stronghold, which had foolishly refused his terms of surrender, Vorhax demonstrated the full extent of his personal power and the terror he could command. As his cannons battered the walls, he strode alone towards the main gate, Red Rain in his hand. Arrows and crossbow bolts rained down upon him, only to be deflected by an unseen shield of Force energy, or to veer wildly off course as if snatched by a phantom wind. He reached the gate, and with a focused surge of the Dark Side, channeled through Red Rain, he unleashed a torrent of telekinetic force that shattered the ancient timbers and sent defenders flying. He walked calmly through the breach, the surviving defenders dropping their weapons and falling to their knees, their minds overwhelmed by an unnatural dread. The castle surrendered without another blow struck. Word of this "sorcery" spread, adding another layer to his already terrifying legend.
As months turned into a year, the southern half of Westeros lay firmly in Vorhax's iron grip. He established his capital not in the ruins of King's Landing (which he was rebuilding as a fortified administrative hub), but in the imposing, black iron citadel of Stonefang, the heart of his industrial and military might. From there, he dispatched his Obsidian Guard proconsuls to govern the conquered territories, sweeping away centuries of feudal tradition, imposing his own harsh but efficient system of laws, centralized resource management, and mandatory conscription. All ancient loyalties were to be subsumed by a single, absolute loyalty to Lord Vorant, Protector of Westeros – a title he adopted as an interim measure before claiming the emperorship he truly coveted.
His son, Edric, had commanded a wing of the army during the conquest of the Reach, performing his duties with brutal competence, if little initiative. He had overseen the systematic dismantling of several rebellious keeps and the execution of their lords, his actions mirroring his father's cold efficiency. Vorhax noted this with a flicker of something akin to approval. The boy was, at least, learning to be an effective instrument.
Vorhax stood in the newly rebuilt throne room of the Red Keep, not upon the melted slag of the Iron Throne (which he had ordered removed, a symbol of a failed age), but before a vast, stark map of Westeros. The southern kingdoms were shaded black, under his dominion. The North, the Vale, and scattered pockets of resistance remained. Nyx landed on his gauntlet, her golden eyes reflecting his own cold ambition.
"The first phase is complete," Vorhax murmured. "The foundation of the Empire is laid." He received a report from a trembling Maester Vymar: a delegation from the remaining Northern lords, led by Sansa Stark herself, and another from the united Lords Declarant of the Vale, had arrived in King's Landing, seeking an audience, desperate to negotiate terms in the face of his overwhelming power.
Vorhax allowed a rare, chilling smile. "Let them come," he said. "Let them witness the dawn of the Vorant Order. Let them choose between submission and oblivion." The Hawk's shadow now covered half a continent, and its talons were poised to close upon the rest. The final sweep was far from over; it was merely entering its most decisive stage.
(Word Count: Approx. 4450 words)