Harald looked at the blue, cold waters of Blackwater Bay; the sky was filled with grey and falling snow as winter had truly arrived. The wind off the water was biting, carrying salt spray and the promise of harsher weather to come.
Two weeks ago he had taken Maidenpool and secured the fealty of Lord Florian Mooton. The victory had been decisive and overwhelming. He had only lost nineteen legionnaires nineteen men out of a thousand, a remarkably low number that spoke both to their superior training and to his magical support. Meanwhile, the Stormlander army had lost two thousand men, with many more wounded and missing.
Much to Dondarrion's fury, Lord Edward Swann had not been there. The man had left before the final assault, leaving his son Edmund in charge of the siege. Harald suspected Swann had sensed which way the wind was blowing with the rumors that the Agrillacs were near death, so he had gone to pursue whatever schemes he had brewing there.
Edmund had survived, barely. He'd been found crushed beneath his fallen horse, with multiple broken ribs and internal bleeding. Harald had used Restoration spells on him to save his life the young man was a valuable hostage, after all, and potentially useful leverage against his father.
As of now, only Tarth and Dondarrion walked free, having sworn oaths to cause no further harm to the Heartlands and to return peacefully to their homes. Meanwhile, they held many minor lords and knights for ransom, most of whom he had promised to the lords themselves he basically had a money-making glitch with him in the transmute spell.
They had left Maidenpool and begun a methodical march through the Blackwater territories: first to Duskendale, where Harald had seen the remnants of the sack; then to Stokeworth, where a boy of fourteen had bent the knee and wept with relief at being saved from the Stormlanders; then to Rosby, where Lord Mooton had been relieved to see his daughter alive now the Lady of Rosby, pregnant with the future lord, her husband having died when Rosby was taken. Then they freed Hayford, and now he stood here, where the Blackwater Rush met Blackwater Bay.
Most of the Stormlander soldiers had been sent back to their homes, while those who could be ransomed were imprisoned in various castles to await payment.
It was fortunate that Harald had prepared carts of food to begin their journey from the Heartlands a week after the legion departed. They had arrived just as Harald liberated the Bay, and the bountiful supplies grain, salted meat, and dried vegetables preserved for winter had made the people loyal to Harald instantly. He was seen as protector, as liberator, as the answer to their prayers. Now they realized that all the stories of him being the Herald of the Gods were true. Leobald had even sent some priests of the Covenant, and they had begun preaching as well, finding fertile ground among people desperate for hope.
"Why is there no town or city here?" Harald muttered, looking at the strategic confluence of river and bay. It was perfect for trade, for a port.
"Because, Your Grace, Duskendale already existed," Orys said from behind him, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Orys, the bastard brother of Aegon Targaryen, had been with him since Maidenpool. Harald enjoyed his company; the man was intelligent, well-traveled, and shared Harald's appreciation for jests, especially dark humor. Orys remained tight-lipped about Harald's questions concerning the Targaryen dragons, which only heightened Harald's curiosity; the man deflected or changed the subject whenever Harald pressed too hard.
"Now that Duskendale is a ruin," Harald said thoughtfully, "perhaps I should build one here. A proper city."
"Aye could become as wealthy as Duskendale ever was if you manage it properly," Orys agreed. "Control both the river trade and the bay shipping. You'd have every merchant in Westeros passing through here eventually."
Dondarrion and Tarth soon joined them, approaching after speaking with some of their men who were preparing to depart.
"Ah, my lords," Harald greeted them.
They bowed. "You called for us, Your Grace?" Tarth asked.
"I did," Harald confirmed. "Before you leave, I wish to ask you about the future of the Stormlands. This war of succession will it truly happen, or is there hope for a peaceful resolution?"
All the lords had knelt willingly. The oldest of them was only sixteen namedays, their fathers or grandfathers having died during this ordeal. That also made it easier these young lords had no pride to salvage. They were grateful simply to be alive and to have a strong protector.
Dondarrion's face darkened. "It will happen, Your Grace. The moment King Argilac breathes his last if he hasn't already the claimants will act...well, after winter anyway. Ormund, Baldric, even Lyonel. Each thinks he has the better claim and stronger support. And I will have no part in it."
His voice was bitter. "Let them tear each other apart. I've seen enough war, enough death. I'm going home to Blackhaven, and I'm not leaving until this madness is over."
Tarth spoke more carefully. "I will try to support Princess Argella if she asks for it. She is the rightful heir by law and by her father's wishes. But..." He hesitated. "I am hesitant, Your Grace. House Tarth is not powerful enough to tip the scales for now, we have lost much."
Dondarrion suddenly smiled. "Your Grace, my father once suggested before all this madness that Princess Argella should marry you to secure her throne."
"Oh?" Harald raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
"I was told that King Argilac got so angry that the very stones of Storm's End shook," Dondarrion continued, his smile widening slightly. "He nearly had my father thrown from the castle for the suggestion."
Harald laughed. "I imagine he did. A 'heretic sorcerer king' marrying his precious daughter?"
Orys spoke up, changing the subject smoothly. "Are you going to march into Cracklaw Point next, Your Grace? I ask because the Celtigars won't be very happy about it. They consider it within their influence, sworn to Dragonstone as they are."
Harald shook his head. "The Crab Lords can rest easy. I plan to go back once the Bay is secured. Winter is here, my lords. Campaigning in this weather would be folly, especially in the terrain of the Point."
He looked back at the grey-blue waters. "Besides, I have much to do. Consolidating the Bay. Integrating the new lords into the Heartlands properly. Preparing for whatever comes next whether that's Stormlander civil war spilling over our borders, or the lions attacking, or the Falcons."
"You've more than doubled your kingdom in a single campaign," Tarth observed. "It is indeed wise to consolidate."
"Aye," Harald said with a slight smile.
As the Stormlander lords were about to take their leave, Harald saw his Lord Chancellor walking over with a strained look on his face.
Oh this is not a good-news face, Harald thought with an internal sigh.
Edmyn approached and bowed. "Your Grace, I bring word from Storm's End."
Dondarrion and Tarth were immediately on high alert, their bodies tensing.
Edmyn's expression was somber. "King Argilac has passed into the hands of the gods."
Tarth closed his eyes, genuine sadness crossing his features. Whatever his complicated feelings about the campaign, Argilac had been his king for decades.
Dondarrion shook his head, as if he had been preparing himself for this news but was still hit hard "When?" he asked quietly.
"Two weeks ago," Edmyn replied. "Argella has been crowned queen."
"My condolences to you both, my lords," Harald said sincerely to Dondarrion and Tarth. "King Argilac was a great king, may he find peace with the gods."
They both accepted the condolences with nods.
Orys then spoke. "You said Swann planned to have his son marry the Princess." He looked at Harald. "Make sure that ransom is very high for young Edmund."
Dondarrion laughed bitterly. "Swann would let his son die rather than pay a high ransom. He'd probably even marry the princess himself if he thought he could manage it. The man has no shame, no decency."
Tarth looked disgusted at the notion. "He wouldn't."
"When has that ever stopped ambitious men?" Orys said cynically.
Harald regarded both Stormlander lords carefully. "I will be watching the situation closely. The Heartlands have no desire to involve ourselves in Stormlander succession disputes, but I also won't tolerate any spillover that threatens my people."
Tarth asked carefully, "Do you have ambitions for the Stormlands, Your Grace? I ask not to accuse, but to..."
"I have everything I want right now, Lord Tarth. What I want now is peace. Just make sure that you don't interrupt that peace."
"I don't think any Stormlander would dare, Your Grace," Dondarrion said seriously. "We have seen what you can do. You command the very storm itself; no one will challenge you."
"See that you do," Harald said, not unkindly. "Now go. Return to your families. Rest. You've earned it."
Both lords bowed deeply and departed, gathering their small retinues for the journey home.
=====
Harald left the legion to winter in the newly conquered Blackwater territories. They had been trained for this, after all. He also left a constant supply of food, which they had in surplus thanks to the Heartlands' productive harvests from the potion.
It took a week for Harald and the lords to get back to Whitemore. Soon they arrived to see his seat of power now half complete; one of the towers, white and resplendent, looked beautiful against the backdrop of snow.
Harald rode with the lords and their men, who were more than happy with the campaign. Many dreamed of the ransoms they would receive for the prisoners they'd taken, calculating how they would spend their newfound wealth.
"Cyrodiil," Harald said out loud suddenly, the word coming to him as he looked at his rising castle.
That got all the lords' attention. Heads turned toward him and conversations stopped.
"Your Grace?" Lord Hother Blackwood asked, curious.
Harald gestured toward the castle and the growing settlement around it. "I will name the castle the Heart of the Heartlands Castle Cyrodiil. And the city that will grow around it: the City of Cyrodiil."
Merrick Frey spoke up. "What does it mean, Your Grace? I've never heard such a word."
It means Heartlands in Ayelid, Harald thought, but he quickly made up an explanation that would satisfy them. "It means 'the Heartlands' in an old and dead language," Harald said smoothly.
There were murmurs and nods of approval. The lords seemed to like the mystique of it.
"Cyrodiil," Edmyn said, testing the word. "It has a good sound to it. Strong and enduring."
"Aye," agreed several other lords.
"Then it's settled," Harald said, looking at his castle… at Castle Cyrodiil with satisfaction.
Yes, Cyrodiil would do just fine.
.
.
.
"When the sun sets upon the age of kings,
Two dragons shall rise over western skies
One false in truth, One true in name.
The False speaks with tongue of thunder,
The Old and New bow before him in covenant sworn.
The True must rise to meet the False,
Three heads against one crown, Fire against the voice.
When dragons dance in western skies,
The fate of the world shall be decided,
And only one shall see the dawn."
Aegon repeated the prophecy slowly, the one he had received from the red priestess of the temple in the city of Lys.
He immediately understood its meaning. The true dragon was him Aegon Targaryen, who was prophesied to unite the western lands under his family's rule. And the false dragon... it had to be the new king of the Heartlands, the one who called himself Dragonborn.
It seemed they were destined to fight. Fate had decreed it.
"The Old and New have bowed before him," Aegon said aloud, looking at his sisters who sat with him in their private chambers in the palace of Lys. "That part is clear enough."
Rhaenys shook her head, her expression troubled. "I do not believe it. It does not mean anything that the gods have supposedly bowed to him. Gods do not bow to mortals, Aegon."
"The man did start a new faith, combining both Old Gods and New Gods worship. The Leonite Heresy, as the High Septon calls it. Perhaps that is what the prophecy means that he has united two faiths under his rule," Visenya offered.
"It's a trick, my love," Rhaenys insisted, moving closer to Aegon and taking his hand. "Don't you see? She is asking us to turn to her god to win this grand battle against this 'false dragon.' The Red Priests always want converts, always want to spread their faith. This could all be manipulation."
Aegon did not speak for a long moment. He remembered how the priestess had told him of another vision she had received from R'hllor a vision of Aegon and his sisters conquering the Three Daughters, then Pentos, and finally Volantis itself, remaking the Valyrian Empire and restoring the glory lost in the Doom.
She had said that R'hllor was telling him to secure Essos first, and then face the false dragon in Westeros with the full might of a restored empire behind him.
Could it be? Aegon thought. Am I destined to conquer both Essos and Westeros? Is that what I am being asked to do? Is that what is needed to stop the second coming of the Long Night?
The weight of it pressed down on him not just one continent, but two. Not just one kingdom, but an empire spanning half the known world.
"I am going to sleep," Aegon said abruptly, standing.
Rhaenys rose as well.
"I want to be alone," Aegon interrupted, more harshly than he'd intended.
Rhaenys looked hurt, her beautiful face falling. "Egg..."
Visenya placed a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Come, sister. Our brother needs to be alone with his thoughts."
Rhaenys hesitated, but she allowed Visenya to guide her away, looking back at Aegon with worried eyes.
Aegon walked to another chamber, his mind full of thoughts that tumbled over each other: prophecy, destiny, dragons true and false, the Lord of Light, conquest, empire, the covenant.
He lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
What does it all mean?
Sleep took him quickly, exhaustion pulling him down into darkness.
He then awoke or dreamed he awoke standing before a large brazier of fire. The flames burned impossibly high, impossibly bright.
Then he saw a figure within the flames.
It was large, towering, with four arms. Its form was humanoid but clearly not human. It looked godly, divine, a being of pure power.
It then spoke, and the voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once from the flames, from around him, from within Aegon's own mind.
BE THE INSTRUMENT OF CHANGE.
THE HERALD OF REVOLUTION.
GO FORTH.
CONQUER.
UNITE.
CHANGE.
The flames exploded outward—
Aegon woke, heaving for breath; his heart pounded in his chest. The sheets were soaked through, and for a moment he didn't know where he was.
Then clarity returned, and with it, understanding.
He smiled.
It all made sense now.
He knew what he needed to do.
.
.
.
Blackwater arc over.