Chapter 23: The New Valyrian Protectorate and the Titan's Shadow
The ashes of Volantene defiance had barely cooled before King Baelon I Targaryen began to etch his new order onto the ancient stones of Essos. Months bled into a year, then two, since the First Daughter of Valyria had fallen. Baelon, choosing the Triarchs' now-renovated and heavily fortified palace in Volantis as his temporary Essosi seat, ruled his expanding protectorate with the same chilling efficiency and detached ruthlessness that had frozen Westeros into submission. His agelessness was now a whispered legend across two continents, a chilling testament to the unnatural power of the Serpent King who looked no older than he had a decade prior, yet whose eyes held the weight of millennia.
Lord Roland Crakehall, installed as Governor of Volantis, proved an apt, if unimaginative, instrument of Baelon's will. The city, scarred but not broken, was being remade. Volantene culture, with its intricate social stratifications and its devotion to faded glories, was systematically dismantled. Valyrian, in its pure, High form as spoken by the King, was decreed the official language of administration and law. The freed slaves who had flocked to Baelon's banner during the siege were now formed into disciplined auxiliary cohorts, their loyalty bought with emancipation and the promise of plunder in future campaigns. They were a useful tool, not only for garrisoning conquered territories but for sowing discord in the still-independent slave cities of Slaver's Bay. The traditional Volantene nobility, those who had survived the purges, were stripped of true power, their sons and daughters serving as 'honored guests' – hostages – in Baelon's Volantene court or sent back to King's Landing.
Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, having witnessed Volantis's fate, had become compliant, if resentful, tributaries. Their famed artisans now crafted luxuries for the Iron Throne, their fleets supplemented Baelon's royal navy, their coffers bled gold into his ever-expanding treasury. Baelon rarely visited these cities himself; his decrees, delivered by black-clad envoys backed by the omnipresent threat of Prince Aemond and Vhagar, were sufficient.
Aemond 'One-Eye,' Warden of the Narrow Sea and now Baelon's de facto Grand Marshal of Essos, was a terror that stalked the Disputed Lands and the coastal territories. Astride Vhagar, he crushed minor rebellions with pitiless alacrity, his single sapphire eye reflecting the fires of burning towns and shattered fleets. The magical vow Baelon had imposed held firm, a cold iron chain around Aemond's will, forcing obedience to the King's strategic commands. Yet, within that obedience, Aemond found a grim, savage satisfaction. He was loosed upon a continent, his dragon the most feared creature in the known world, his name a curse on the lips of Baelon's enemies. He sent terse, bloody reports back to his kingly half-brother, detailing victories, tributes collected, and traitors executed. Baelon read them with detached approval, noting Aemond's brutal efficiency while also subtly monitoring him through Umbraxys's far-seeing senses, ever wary of the profound hatred that still simmered beneath the magically enforced loyalty.
The Royal Academy, now with a significant branch established in Volantis within a heavily guarded section of the former Great Temple of R'hllor, delved into the looted libraries and hidden archives of the conquered city. Under Baelon's remote direction (often via Larys or by direct mental command to the terrified leading scholars), they unearthed troves of Valyrian lore – treatises on elemental magic far more potent than the parlor tricks of Westerosi maesters, schematics for forgotten war machines, and disturbing texts on the manipulation of life-force and the binding of wills. Baelon absorbed this knowledge, integrating it into his already formidable repertoire, Umbraxys acting as a silent, intelligent filter and amplifier for these ancient, often dangerous, arts. He learned to weave illusions so profound they could mask entire legions on the march, to draw upon geothermal energies to create localized earthquakes, and to imbue his own commands with a subtle, pervasive magical compulsion that bent weaker minds to his desires without the need for overt threats.
Braavos, the Titan of the North, remained the most significant thorn in his side, its Sealord having sent a polite but firm refusal to Baelon's demand for fealty, citing Braavos's ancient founding by escaped Valyrian slaves and its unwavering commitment to independence. A direct assault on the city of a hundred isles, protected by its fogs, its labyrinthine canals, and its legendary fleet, was a costly proposition Baelon was not yet prepared to undertake. Instead, he initiated a campaign of shadows. Larys Strong's agents, now operating with near impunity in the southern Free Cities, began to infiltrate Braavosi trade networks, sowing economic disruption, spreading rumors of instability, and attempting to identify and exploit divisions amongst the Keyholders. Baelon also tasked his Royal Academy with researching Valyrian methods for dispersing mists or nullifying navigational enchantments, preparing for an eventual, inevitable reckoning.
News from Westeros, relayed by Larys through their linked amulets, painted a picture of a realm held in a state of suspended animation. The Obsidian Citadel in King's Landing was nearing completion, its black spires casting an ever-longer shadow over the city, a visible testament to the King's enduring power and arcane interests. The Legions of the Iron Throne were a formidable, disciplined force, their presence in every major holdfast ensuring the King's peace – the peace of the graveyard, some whispered, but peace nonetheless.
Princess Rhaenyra, on Dragonstone, had given birth to another son, Viserys, her fifth. She continued her correspondence with King Baelon, her letters models of fealty and sisterly concern, though Larys reported that Lord Corlys Velaryon was growing increasingly restless, his pride chafing under the dragon egg decree and Baelon's absolute control. Jacaerys and Lucerys, Rhaenyra's eldest, were now young men, accomplished dragonriders, their loyalty to their mother unquestioned. Baelon considered summoning them to his Essosi court, to serve in his campaigns, to further bind them to his will and remove them from Corlys's direct influence. He would decide on that in due course.
Within Maegor's Holdfast, Queen Dowager Alicent's piety had deepened into a near-reclusive asceticism. Aegon, her firstborn, was largely forgotten by the world, a drunken, pathetic creature lost in his cups. It was Helaena who continued to trouble the periphery of Baelon's awareness. Larys reported one of her more recent pronouncements, made during a rare appearance in the castle gardens: "The city of many faces hides the dagger for the ageless king. Beware the faceless child, born of shadow and coin, who serves the god of many masks. He walks unseen, and thirsts for the blood of dragons."
Baelon, upon receiving this, felt a flicker of something beyond his usual cold dismissal of her ramblings. Faceless child… god of many masks. It resonated faintly with Braavosi iconography, with the whispers Larys had begun to uncover about a secretive guild of assassins within that city. He made a mental note to have Larys investigate further, though he still considered any such threat… remote. What mortal assassin could truly threaten him, with Umbraxys as his shield and his own magic a nigh-impenetrable defense?
His current focus was the consolidation of his Essosi protectorate and the next stage of its expansion. Volantis, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh formed the core of his new domain. The Disputed Lands were largely pacified under Aemond's brutal stewardship. The time had come, Baelon decided, to turn his gaze towards the ancient, wealthy, and decadent cities of Slaver's Bay: Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. Their slave armies were legendary, their wealth derived from human misery immense. Conquering them would not only add vast resources to his empire but would also provide him with a massive, indoctrinated fighting force, should he choose to 'liberate' their slaves into his own legions, further destabilizing the old Essosi order.
He summoned his commanders to Volantis, including a reluctant but magically compelled Prince Aemond, who arrived on Vhagar with ill-disguised resentment. In the grand audience chamber of the Triarchs' Palace, now Baelon's Essosi throne room, he unveiled his plans.
"The southern Free Cities now acknowledge the supremacy of the Iron Throne," King Baelon declared, his voice echoing in the vast hall, his ageless eyes sweeping over his assembled warlords and governors. "But our work in Essos is far from complete. To the east lie Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen – cities built on the bedrock of slavery, their wealth an affront, their armies a potential threat. They too shall learn to bend the knee."
He outlined his strategy: a three-pronged assault. Aemond and Vhagar, with a seasoned legion, would strike at Astapor, home of the Unsullied. Lord Crakehall, with another legion and the conscripted Volantene fleet, would blockade and assault Yunkai. Baelon himself, on Silverwing, accompanied by Umbraxys and the elite core of his Westerosi Legions and his freed slave cohorts, would march on Meereen, the largest and most formidable of the Slaver Cities.
"We do not merely conquer, My Lords," Baelon continued, his voice taking on a chilling intensity. "We reshape. We bring order. The slave trade, as it currently exists, is inefficient, breeding only resentment and rebellion. These… assets… will be repurposed. They will serve the Iron Throne, as soldiers, as laborers for our grand projects, their loyalty bought with a freedom only I can grant, a freedom bound by unbreakable oaths to my eternal reign."
He then issued a proclamation, to be carried by raven and rider to every corner of his growing empire, and by swift ship to the still-independent powers of Essos, including Braavos:
"By the Grace of the Old Gods and the New, and by the Blood of Old Valyria, I, Baelon of House Targaryen, First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Suzerain of the Valyrian Protectorate of Essos, do hereby declare the Great Slaver Cities of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen to be in violation of the ancient mandates of civilization and a blight upon the world. Their wicked trade in human flesh shall end. Their masters shall be broken. Their armies shall be disbanded or integrated into my Legions. Their people, bond and free, shall henceforth live under the just and eternal order of the Iron Throne. Let any who would gainsay this decree understand: the dragon's wrath is boundless, its judgment final. There will be no mercy for those who resist the dawn of my new age."
The audacity of it was breathtaking. He was not just conquering; he was launching a social and economic revolution across Essos, all under the banner of his absolute, divinely ordained (by himself, of course) authority.
As his forces prepared to march on Slaver's Bay, Baelon retreated for a time to his private chambers, connecting deeply with Umbraxys. The shadow dragon, now so vast it could have easily crushed the Red Keep beneath its coils, communicated not in words, but in waves of ancient understanding and shared purpose. Voldemort felt their powers merging, his own magical control refined by Umbraxys's primal connection to the fundamental forces of shadow and earth, Umbraxys's vast intellect sharpened by Voldemort's cunning and ambition.
"The cities of chains await, Speaker," Umbraxys conveyed. "Their wealth is built on tears, their power on suffering. They are ripe for the harvest."
"Indeed, Umbraxys," Baelon replied, a cold fire in his ageless eyes. "We shall reap a grand harvest. And from their suffering, we shall build an empire that will dwarf even the dreams of Old Valyria. An empire eternal, with an eternal king."
He looked out from his window in Volantis, across the Rhoyne, towards the east. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of blood and gold. The game of gods continued, and King Baelon I Targaryen, the Serpent King, the Ageless Emperor, was making his next, devastating move. The world would learn to kneel, or it would burn.