Chapter 13: The Weight of the Crown, The Hunger of the Void
Six months into the reign of King Baelon I Targaryen, a semblance of order – or perhaps, a stunned, fearful paralysis – had settled over the Seven Kingdoms. The initial, brutal purge of the Green conspirators had sent a chillingly effective message. Lords who had once openly curried favor with Otto Hightower now tripped over themselves to demonstrate their unwavering loyalty to the new, young monarch whose eyes held the wisdom of ages and the mercy of a winter wolf. The Red Keep ran with a clockwork precision born of terror and efficiency, a stark contrast to the often chaotic and indulgent court of Viserys the Peaceful. Voldemort, wearing the Targaryen crown, found the mundane aspects of kingship – the endless petitions, the tedious trade disputes, the squabbles of minor lords – to be an almost unbearable affront to his intellect, yet he navigated them with a sharp, decisive clarity that often left his Small Council breathless.
In one such council meeting, Lord Jasper Wylde, the notoriously avaricious Master of Coin inherited from Viserys's latter days, was presenting a convoluted proposal for raising taxes on wool exports from the Westerlands to fund… an elaborate new series of royal tapestries.
Baelon listened, his chin resting on his hand, his gaze unwavering. When Lord Wylde finally finished his obsequious presentation, the King spoke, his voice soft but carrying an edge that made the portly lord sweat. "Lord Wylde," Baelon began, "while the artistic edification of future generations is a… commendable notion, the Crown's coffers, as meticulously detailed by Lord Pate, are currently being refilled after years of your predecessor's… enthusiastic mismanagement, and my father's rather generous spirit. The Lannisters will not suffer another tax increase on their primary export simply to adorn my walls with images of long-dead dragons." He paused. "However, your concern for the Crown's finances is noted. Lord Pate will conduct a thorough audit of your office's expenditures over the past five years. Any discrepancies found will be… personally addressed by you."
Lord Wylde blanched, stammering assurances of his impeccable honesty, but the King had already moved on, turning to Lord Lyonel Strong. "My Lord Hand, the reports from the Riverlands concerning the flooding of the Trident are dire. What measures are being taken to provide aid and prevent famine?"
Voldemort found a grim satisfaction in wielding power so directly. He could sense the fear, the respect, the grudging admiration. He could also sense the deeper currents of resentment, the plots undoubtedly beginning to form in the shadows. Larys Strong, his Master of Whisperers, was his most valuable tool in navigating these treacherous waters, his clubfoot a near-silent herald of secrets unearthed.
The confined Greens in Maegor's Holdfast were a constant, low-level irritant. Queen Dowager Alicent, her youthful beauty curdling into a bitter, ascetic severity, spent her days in prayer and in futile attempts to sway her gaolers with appeals to the Seven. Aegon, now fifteen, had sunk into a sullen apathy, finding solace only in flagons of Arbor gold smuggled in by sympathetic servants (servants Larys quickly identified and… dealt with). He was a broken princeling, his brief taste of ambition having turned to ash in his mouth.
Aemond, however, was a different matter. At thirteen, the one-eyed prince was a coil of barely suppressed fury. He trained relentlessly in the small courtyard allotted to them, his movements growing swifter, more brutal. He flew Vhagar within the confines of the Dragonpit whenever Baelon granted grudging permission – a calculated risk, allowing Aemond an outlet while also reminding the realm of the dragons still leashed within the city. Aemond's hatred for Baelon was a palpable force, his one good eye often fixing on his royal half-brother with an intensity that promised future bloodshed. Voldemort watched him with the detached interest of a scientist observing a particularly venomous specimen. Aemond was a weapon waiting to be aimed – either by Baelon's enemies, or, perhaps, if handled correctly, by Baelon himself.
Helaena, now a young woman of fourteen, remained lost in her own ethereal world, her strange pronouncements becoming more frequent and, at times, more alarmingly specific. During a rare, supervised walk in the Red Keep's gardens, she had paused before a weirwood tree, its carved face weeping red sap, and murmured, "The crowned serpent drinks the old blood, deep and long. The shadow grows, the fire waits. A brother's eye for a brother's throne, the cost of wings and night."
Alicent had quickly pulled her away, but Larys had reported the words to Baelon. Drinks the old blood… shadow grows… wings and night. Helaena's innocent madness was a disquieting mirror to his own secret pursuits.
Voldemort decided it was time to channel some of the realm's more… volatile energies. Prince Daemon Targaryen, his fealty sworn with a characteristic lack of grace, had been a restless, brooding presence at court for months. He chafed under Baelon's cold authority, his warrior spirit yearning for conflict.
"Uncle," Baelon said one evening, finding Daemon in the royal armory, listlessly sharpening Dark Sister. "Your talents are wasted polishing steel and glowering at tapestries."
Daemon's head snapped up, his violet eyes narrowed. "And you have a use for them, nephew-king?"
"The Stepstones are once again infested with pirates and self-proclaimed princelings," Baelon stated. "They disrupt trade, they prey on Westerosi ships. My father tolerated their insolence. I will not." He paused. "Take a fleet. Take Caraxes. Take any man who will follow you. Cleanse the Stepstones. Permanently. Plant my banner on Bloodstone and hold it in my name. You may keep whatever plunder you acquire, short of the islands themselves."
Daemon's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. War, plunder, and a degree of autonomy. It was an offer perfectly tailored to his nature. "And what if I decide to crown myself King of the Narrow Sea again, nephew?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Then Caraxes will have a new rider, and your head will adorn a spike beside Otto Hightower's," Baelon replied without inflection. "This time, Uncle, you fight for the Iron Throne, not your own vanity. Succeed, and you will have honor, wealth, and my… appreciation. Fail, or betray me, and you will learn the true meaning of a Targaryen King's wrath."
Daemon threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, genuine sound. "You are a cold bastard, Baelon. Colder than Maegor ever was. Very well. I accept. It will be a welcome change from the suffocating piety of your stepmother and the endless drone of your council." Their parting was not warm, but there was a grudging respect, a recognition of two apex predators acknowledging each other's hunting grounds.
With Daemon dispatched to sow terror in the south, Baelon turned his attention to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra, now residing primarily on Dragonstone, had given birth to a third son, Joffrey, another robust, dark-haired boy who bore no resemblance whatsoever to Laenor Velaryon. Lord Corlys, the Sea Snake, while publicly supportive of King Baelon, had made subtle overtures for increased Velaryon influence on the Small Council, perhaps a Master of Ships position for one of his nephews. Baelon, through Larys, politely but firmly rebuffed these advances. The Velaryons were allies, for now, but he would not allow any single house to accumulate too much power. He kept a close watch on Rhaenyra's growing brood, seeing them not as threats to his own line (he intended his own dynasty, when he chose to start it, to be absolute and magically potent), but as valuable assets for securing Dragonstone and Driftmark within the broader Targaryen sphere of influence, provided their loyalty could be maintained.
His true passion, his consuming obsession, remained the Valyrian magic slumbering within the Heart of Valyria and embodied by Umbraxys. The shadow dragon was now a truly colossal beast, its presence within its pocket dimension a thrumming symphony of ancient power that resonated deep within Voldemort's soul. He had made significant progress in deciphering the complex rituals related to extending one's lifespan, not through crude soul-fragmentation, but through a profound symbiotic binding with a potent magical source – in this case, Umbraxys itself and the geothermal energies of the Heart chamber.
The ritual he was preparing was perilous, requiring not just his blood and immense concentration, but also rare ingredients: the tear of a shadow-cat from the lands beyond Asshai, the heart of a firewyrm, and a specific constellation of volcanic crystals found only in the smoking ruins of Old Valyria itself. Acquiring these would be a challenge, even for a king. He set Larys's agents and Pate's network of merchants to the task, offering exorbitant sums for even rumors of such items.
His bond with Umbraxys had deepened to the point where he could not only share its senses but also draw upon its elemental shadow-fire, a chilling black flame that consumed light and warmth, leaving behind only ash and an unnatural, soul-deep cold. He practiced wielding it in the deepest recesses of Umbraxys's lair, the power intoxicating, a perfect complement to the destructive curses of his former life. He felt his own aging process slowing, his vitality unnaturally high, a subtle side effect, he suspected, of the constant exposure to the chamber's energies and his link to the timeless dragon.
It was Larys Strong who brought news of the first serious challenge to Baelon's reign. "Your Grace," he whispered, materializing from the shadows of the royal solar one evening, "a conspiracy brews in the Reach. Several lesser lords, bannermen to House Tyrell but with strong familial ties to the now-disgraced House Hightower, are plotting. They speak of freeing Queen Alicent and Prince Aegon, of appealing to the Starry Sept in Oldtown to declare your rule unholy, of rallying an army to 'restore the rightful king.'"
Voldemort listened, a cold smile touching his lips. Predictable. "And House Tyrell? Does young Lord Lyonel Tyrell, in his wisdom, sanction such folly?"
"Lord Tyrell officially professes unwavering loyalty, Your Grace," Larys replied. "He is a cautious boy, more interested in roses than rebellion. However, his grandmother, the Dowager Lady Olenna Tyrell of the Redwyne line, is a woman of… sharper thorns. She was a close confidante of the late Otto Hightower. The plotters likely believe they have her tacit support, or at least her indifference to your fate."
"Indifference is not a sentiment I tolerate, Lord Larys," Baelon said softly. "Make a list of these ambitious lords. And gather irrefutable proof of their treason. I believe it is time I reminded the Seven Kingdoms that the dragon's wrath is not confined to King's Landing."
The King's response was swift and terrifying. He did not send ravens with demands for surrender. He did not dispatch an army. He flew. On Silverwing, he descended upon the castles of the primary conspirators in the Reach like a silver storm, his arrival unannounced, his justice absolute. But he was not alone. Umbraxys, cloaked in shadow and illusion, flew with him, a hidden phantom of dread.
At the castle of Lord Humfrey Bulwer, a known ringleader, Baelon demanded the lord's immediate presence. When Bulwer, arrogant and believing himself secure behind his stone walls, refused, Baelon gave a silent command to Umbraxys. The great shadow dragon, unseen by mortal eyes save for a deepening of the twilight shadows around the castle, unleashed a focused wave of pure, mind-numbing terror. Men shrieked, their courage evaporating like morning mist. Horses screamed and bolted. Lord Bulwer, his face ashen, stumbled onto the ramparts, babbling for mercy.
"Mercy is a gift, Lord Bulwer," King Baelon's voice boomed from Silverwing's back, amplified by a subtle touch of magic. "Treason earns only retribution." Silverwing's fire, white-hot and precise, consumed the main gate. The castle garrison, already half-mad with the unnatural fear projected by Umbraxys, threw down their arms.
Lord Bulwer and his chief co-conspirators were dragged before the King. Their trials were held in the castle courtyard, their guilt undeniable, their sentences swift. Their heads were displayed on the castle walls before Baelon flew to the next offending holdfast. He repeated this pattern across the Reach, a whirlwind of fire, shadow, and implacable justice. He did not raze castles indiscriminately or slaughter indiscriminately; his targets were precise, his message clear. Disloyalty would be met with swift and utter annihilation. The use of Umbraxys's terror-projection, combined with Silverwing's visible power, created an aura of almost supernatural invincibility around the King.
Lady Olenna Tyrell, the 'Queen of Thorns,' wisely sent a lavish delegation to Highgarden to meet King Baelon upon his 'pacification tour,' expressing her horror at the treason of her bannermen and offering her profound, unswerving loyalty, along with a significant contribution to the royal coffers. Baelon accepted her submission with a cool nod, knowing her fear was now as potent as her ambition had once been.
He returned to King's Landing weeks later, leaving behind a Reach that was not just pacified, but utterly cowed. The other Great Houses, witnessing his brutal efficiency, renewed their oaths of fealty with an almost frantic haste.
King Baelon I Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, the weight of the crown now a familiar pressure. He had pruned the vipers from his garden, for now. His focus returned to his true work: the consolidation of absolute power, the pursuit of forbidden knowledge, and the slow, meticulous preparation for a reign that would not be measured in years, but in epochs. Westeros was learning the meaning of a true Dragon King, one whose fire burned both seen and unseen, whose reach extended into the very shadows of men's souls. The game continued, but the board was increasingly tilted in his favor, the pieces moving to the inexorable rhythm of his dark will. The path to godhood, he mused, often began with kingship. And he was a most patient, and most hungry, god-in-waiting.