King's Landing, Westeros
The capital of the Seven Kingdoms was bathed in light as the morning sun shone brightly over the capital of the realm. The common people, or smallfolk, as usual, went about their work. Merchants and City Guards, too, went about their respective duties, as the workings of the city appeared normal to any eye—until one heard the whispers and rumors spreading faster than Balerion's black flame ever had during the Field of Fire.
"The Targaryens are gone. Their dragons, too, are gone with them. Maybe the Andal lords had had enough of their lot in this land and offed them all in one night."
"But me has seen dragons flying toward Dragonstone—they're alive."
"Maybe they did not want to rule anymore. King Viserys, the Fat King, had always loved his feasts and tourneys; maybe his Hand denied him, and he left with his family."
All kinds of things were said in the streets and in the privacy of whorehouses, until either the City Guards intervened or the masses drifted away after spinning the most outlandish tales of why the royal family had left King's Landing. Slowly, even the smallfolk's interest died down as time passed—until one ship from Essos brought news that shocked them to their core. Valyria, the Old Freehold, had returned.
And as gullible and illiterate as they might be, the smallfolk of King's Landing were no fools—at least not all of them—not to connect the dots.
Their royal family had returned to their homeland; the lot with dragon blood ruling them had gone back to the fiery hell, as the septons called it, from which they had come. And while the smallfolk did not have the worry or care to ponder what Valyria's return meant for Westeros, the nobility certainly did. And if there is one thing that travels at the speed of light in a world where transportation is by horse, it is words such as these.
Something monumental had happened, and all the Maesters had received word of it within a few days by raven, and within a week, the whole of Westeros knew the reason behind the abrupt departure of their royal house, House Targaryen.
Now, hearing this news of Valyria's return, many panicked—even among the great houses—though they were better at hiding it than the newly lordly or recently raised noble houses like the Freys, who had sent a raven of their own to King's Landing to 'demand' answers from the most powerful man in the realm after King Viserys: his Hand, Lord Lyonel Strong.
Currently, Lord Lyonel was seated at the head of the table in the Small Council Chamber. Before leaving, His Grace had entrusted him with the reins of the realm, and Lyonel was doing his utmost to ensure that the chaos brought by the Freehold's return did not spread too far among the lords. Things could go wrong very quickly if left unchecked. Valyria's return was no simple matter, not when the realm's ruling house was one of the forty dragonlord families.
"Since the day before the Small Council meeting, we have received ten more ravens from every corner of the realm asking if the rumors are indeed true. Even I was quite baffled when I saw that one had come from the Iron Islands—it was from Lord Harlaw, and its contents were the same as the others," Grand Maester Mellos, the successor of Runciter, who had passed away in his sleep, said with a calm face that gave away nothing.
"Well, I think it is past time that we reveal that it is indeed true—Valyria has returned, and His Grace has gone there for an alliance or… some purpose he has yet to reveal to his council," said the Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, a staunch supporter of Viserys and a dear friend besides. But Lord Beesbury was not pleased when their king left abruptly without even informing them of news they had to hear from merchants from Essos.
"I agree with the first part, Lord Beesbury. Grand Maester Mellos, you are permitted to send ravens with the news that Valyria has indeed returned. And unless the letters explicitly ask about His Grace's whereabouts, you are not to mention that he has gone to the Freehold," Lyonel said. He had tried his best, but the word had already spread too widely; better they receive confirmation from the Grand Maester than from elsewhere.
Lord Beesbury's face shifted into a look that Lyonel recognized all too well, and he shot the older man a warning glance. He knew what the lord was about to ask; the Lord of Honeyholt always inquired whether King Viserys had made contact with him in some magical way, and Lyonel had grown to despise that question at the end of every council meeting. If King Viserys had attempted to communicate with Lyonel, Lord of Harrenhal, he would have begged His Grace to return and resume his duties as king. The weight of the crown was too heavy for Lyonel, and his elder son and heir, Harwin, was not making it any easier with how… lustful he had become of late.
His son might try to hide his rendezvous with the daughters of lords, but Lyonel had not spent years in the capital without acquiring extra pairs of eyes and ears, whom he paid handsomely to bring him important news. Not to mention his other incapable son, Larys, who was mingling with Queen Alicent far too much for Lyonel's liking. And by the gods, on top of all this, Otto had made his way to King's Landing and had been here for the last three days, holding private meetings in his chambers with various lords.
In the end, Lyonel knew that Otto would taste the bitterness of defeat. With the betrothal of Crown Princess Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon, there was little that could be done to usurp the Princess's claim. The mystical powers of Laenor aside, his dragon, along with his sister's, was enough of a show of force to dissuade anyone with a lick of sense from opposing them. That beast of Velaryon was surpassing the Black Dread, and the Field of Fire, as well as the death of Quicksilver in the jaws of that black behemoth, was not so far in the past that people had forgotten what it meant to stand against dragons of such size.
All Lyonel had to do was keep the great lords out of Otto's grasp, reminding them of the Velaryon dragons, as well as offering promises of rewards they might receive from House Velaryon for not siding with Otto. Still, the duty given to him by King Viserys was growing harder by the day in His Grace's absence. Lyonel could only hope that he would keep the realm intact, with no rebellions rising, by the time His Grace returned to his throne.
Beyond the Veil
The meeting place of the council was empty except for the Old Ones, as neither the gods were called nor did they wish to be here in the Council, for they were busy selecting their champions on the mortal plane. These Old Ones included the Dragon Gods of Valyria, the Old Gods of the Sunset Lands, the Old Mother—Mother Rhoyne, and the Maiden Made of Light with the Lion of the Night.
"So Storm isn't mad with you, Arrax?" Light asked. Unlike the orb form she had taken before, when all the gods were present, this time she stood in her true form. Words could not describe her beauty; the gown she wore, woven from pure light, shimmered like the first dawn of creation, brighter than the sun itself, and yet the radiance of her face alone made even that brilliance seem pale. Her form seemed almost unreal, as though she were not merely made of light but was light given thought and will. She could be considered the very epitome of beauty, if one had to describe her at all.
"Oh yes, he is. But he also agreed, begrudgingly, that Laenor is more inclined toward water than toward the storms, thunder, and violence that he represents, for Laenor to be his champion. Even then, he 'extorted' one favor from us—said that he would ask whatever he needed of us in due time," the black and purple dragon, whose form seemed to stretch endlessly into the void, replied, his eyes resting upon the woman he considered his elder sister.
"And you gave him your word?" Light asked, surprised that Arrax would yield to Storm's extortion. The chasm in power between the two was not even worth comparing; the weakest among Arrax's brethren could burn the very essence of Storm without much difficulty.
"Storm truly considers Laenor his son, his blood, and with how protectively he defended him in the prior meeting, we decided to reward that. His asking for one favor from us was the least we could grant, so we allowed it and gave our word," Arrax replied. "We are certain he will only ask us to spare his champion if Laenor and his own ever come to battle. Storm is too prideful to ask for anything else."
"That, you are indeed right about, Arrax." This time it was the Lion of the Night who spoke, his vast form made of living darkness, as though he were a tear in reality itself, swallowing even the light that radiated from the Maiden. His shape was that of a colossal lion, regal beyond measure, his mane flowing like shadows in a starless void, and his eyes glowed faintly, like distant dying stars in the dark that devour anything and everything. His voice rumbled like stones grinding against one another.
"Soooo…" Arrax and Mother Rhoyne both turned toward the Light as she smiled mischievously. They knew that whatever came out of their sister's mouth was the true reason they had been called here, and so their attention remained fixed upon her as she let out a delighted laugh at their impatient expressions. Even the Old Gods—Nature itself, present in the form of an ancient, sprawling tree—seemed to twitch in irritation at Light's childish amusement.
"We have decided, Night and I, that we too would like to enter this game of these new gods. So choose your champions wisely, siblings." Her form vanished, but the echoes of her tinkling laughter lingered. The Lion let out a low growl of annoyance before vanishing as well, not without confirming the declaration with a solemn nod toward Nature.
"WHAT?" All three present cried out. Powerful Old Gods they may be, but their sister's decision shocked them to their core. Did their elder sister not realize that it would bring disaster and chaos of unimaginable scale if both of them chose to bless mortals with their power? The last time had been proof enough that it ended poorly—not only for them, but for the unfortunate mortals as well.
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