Chapter 40: The Slumbering God of Cinderfell
The revelation of a colossal, slumbering entity of primal fire, hidden amidst the icy desolation of the Shivering Sea, had seized King Baelon I Targaryen's formidable intellect with an intensity that momentarily eclipsed even his consuming war against Braavos and its Drowned God. The Titan of Braavos could wait; its bronze sinews and captured spirit were a known quantity, a problem to be dissected and solved with Valyrian ingenuity and overwhelming force. But this… this was something new, something ancient, something that whispered of power on a scale that even Old Valyria in its heyday might have coveted.
Preparations for his northern expedition were swift and decisive. Meereen, and indeed his entire Essosi protectorate, was left under a tightly woven net of command. Lord Randyll Tarly remained Marshal of the eastern legions, tasked with maintaining order and continuing the integration of former slaves into Baelon's war machine. Lord Roland Crakehall, from Yunkai, would oversee the ongoing economic strangulation of Braavosi interests, his unimaginative diligence a reliable, if uninspired, tool. Lord Larys Strong, ever the spider at the center of his web of whispers, was given broader authority to continue the purge of Drowned Brethren sympathizers, to manage the increasingly complex intelligence operations against Braavos, and to oversee the initial deployments of agents and forces into the Vale and the Fingers in Westeros, acting upon the grim maps recovered from the Kraken's Maw. Archmaester Vaellyn, though Baelon would have valued his direct counsel in the north, was deemed too crucial in Meereen, tasked with relentlessly researching the Titan's potential weaknesses and deciphering the mountain of cultic texts seized from Villa Antarion and the Drowned God's northern lair.
For his journey into the frozen unknown, Baelon selected a small, elite retinue. Ser Corlys Vaelaros and ten of the most formidable knights of his Dragon Guard would provide his personal protection. Centurion Kael, his face a mask of grim eagerness at the prospect of new, more elemental challenges, accompanied him with twenty of his hardiest Freedmen, men whose loyalty was absolute and whose resilience had been forged in the crucible of slavery and war. A single, highly skilled Volantene mage, Maester Arryk, a quiet, observant man with a particular aptitude for elemental magic and warding, was chosen to assist with arcane analysis and protection against the harsh northern climes. Silverwing, her silver scales gleaming even under Meereen's harsh sun, would be their transport, their shield, and their primary weapon. And Umbraxys, of course, was an inseparable part of Baelon himself, its ancient consciousness a silent, watchful co-pilot on this journey into the heart of primal power.
Their departure was as swift and unceremonious as Baelon's return from the Antarion raid. Three days after receiving Aemond's dispatch, the Night Serpent, refitted and reprovisioned, along with two smaller, faster escort galleys, slipped out of Meereen's harbor under the cover of darkness, their prows pointed towards the distant, icy glare of the Shivering Sea. Baelon left his empire in a state of simmering conflict and heightened alert, confident in the fear and efficiency he had instilled.
Voyage into the Teeth of Winter
The journey north was a descent into an increasingly hostile world. Once they passed the familiar waters of the Narrow Sea and ventured beyond the northernmost capes of Essos, the climate changed with brutal abruptness. The sapphire waters turned a leaden grey, then a black, chilling expanse reflecting a perpetually overcast sky. Ice became a constant companion – first as isolated floes, then as vast, groaning fields that threatened to crush their hulls. Maester Arryk worked tirelessly, his enchantments weaving a bubble of relative warmth around the ships and warding their timbers against the worst of the ice's bite, but even his considerable skill was strained by the sheer, unrelenting malevolence of the northern elements.
Silverwing, accustomed to the warm winds of the south, initially struggled against the freezing gales and blinding snow squalls, but her Valyrian blood and Baelon's empowering presence allowed her to adapt, her great leathern wings learning to navigate the treacherous air currents. She became their primary scout, soaring high above the ice fields, her keen eyes searching for navigable channels or signs of Aemond's fleet.
They encountered strange, unsettling phenomena. Unnatural fogs, thick as clotted cream and imbued with a disorienting, faintly metallic scent, would descend without warning, forcing them to navigate by Baelon's arcane senses alone. Vast, shadowy shapes moved beneath the ice, too large to be whales, their passage causing the very sea to tremble. On one occasion, they were attacked by a pack of colossal, white-furred sea wolves, their eyes burning with an eerie blue light, creatures that seemed more spirit than flesh, which Silverwing dispatched with blasts of cleansing fire. Kael and his Freedmen, hardened by the horrors of the fighting pits and the fanaticism of cultists, met these new, elemental challenges with a grim, almost joyful, ferocity.
Baelon, throughout this arduous voyage, remained a figure of unwavering resolve. He spent hours on the deck of the Night Serpent, wrapped in heavy furs, his gaze fixed on the northern horizon, his mind a whirlwind of calculation and anticipation. The Voldemort soul within him, which had once sought power in the darkest corners of European magic, felt a primal draw towards this new, untamed source of elemental fire. He could feel it, a distant, throbbing heartbeat of immense energy, calling to something deep within his own magically augmented being. He used the long hours to further plumb the depths of Sylas Antarion's ravaged mind (metaphorically speaking, as the physical man was long gone), re-examining the memories, seeking any further clues about the Drowned Brethren's understanding of such primal entities, or any Valyrian legends that might speak of taming such beasts.
After nearly two months of relentless travel, navigating by Silverwing's aerial reconnaissance and the faint, guiding resonance of Aemond's own Abyssal Lodestone (which Baelon had instructed him to use as a beacon once he reached the vicinity of the volcanic island), they finally made contact. Aemond, aboard his flagship Vhagar's Shadow, met them in a relatively ice-free channel amidst a labyrinth of towering blue glaciers. The Prince looked gaunt, his single eye burning with a manic light, his armor scarred and battered, but his spirit was undaunted. His fleet was much reduced, but the surviving ships and men bore the hardened look of veterans who had faced hell and emerged, if not unscathed, then unbroken.
"Brother," Aemond greeted, his voice hoarse from shouting over northern gales. "You made good time. The air here is thin, the cold bites deep, and the silence… the silence sometimes screams. Vhagar grows impatient with this frozen purgatory. She senses… a rival, or perhaps, a kindred spirit, nearby."
Cinderfell: The Isle of Fire and Ice
Aemond guided Baelon's small flotilla through a final maze of treacherous ice canyons and into a region where the sea itself seemed to hold its breath. The air grew heavy, thick with volcanic steam and the acrid tang of sulfur, a stark contrast to the biting cold they had endured for weeks. And then, they saw it.
Rising from the churning, ice-strewn sea like a black, jagged tooth, was the island Aemond had described. It was a colossal volcanic cone, its slopes a chaotic jumble of obsidian rock and glaciers stained black with ash, its peak perpetually wreathed in a roiling cloud of steam and volcanic gases that occasionally parted to reveal the angry red glow of a caldera. Snow and ice clung to its lower flanks, yet rivers of steaming water, impossibly hot, carved channels down towards the sea, creating a bizarre, unsettling landscape of fire and frost. Aemond had named it "Cinderfell."
"There," Aemond said, pointing towards the island's smoking summit. "In the heart of that cauldron. That is where it sleeps."
Baelon ordered his ships to anchor in a sheltered cove on the leeward side of Cinderfell, a place Aemond's men had scouted and secured, finding it surprisingly free of the island's more extreme geothermal activity. Leaving most of the Freedmen and a contingent of Dragon Guard to secure the landing site and the ships, Baelon prepared for the ascent. He would take Ser Corlys, five Dragon Guard knights, Kael, ten of his most trusted Freedmen, Maester Arryk, and of course, Silverwing. Aemond, despite his weariness, insisted on accompanying them, Vhagar a brooding, colossal shadow circling high above, her roars echoing off the volcanic peaks.
The ascent of Cinderfell was an ordeal in itself. The ground was treacherous, a mixture of razor-sharp volcanic scree, slippery obsidian flows, and unstable ash deposits. Sulfurous vents belched scalding steam and noxious gases, forcing Maester Arryk to constantly renew their protective wards. Strange, heat-resistant flora, like metallic, crimson mosses and skeletal, black-barked trees, clung to life in sheltered crevices. They encountered bizarre fauna too – giant, armored insects that scuttled amongst the rocks, and winged, reptilian creatures, smaller than dragons but no less vicious, that dove from the steaming cliffs, which Silverwing and Vhagar dispatched with contemptuous ease.
As they climbed higher, the air grew hotter, the ground vibrating with the deep, rhythmic pulse of the volcano's heart. The pervasive scent of sulfur was now mixed with something else – a dry, ancient, musky odor, like a colossal forge, or the breath of a slumbering titan.
Finally, after hours of grueling ascent, they reached the rim of the caldera.
The Slumbering God Revealed
The sight that greeted them defied words, inspiring a primal awe that silenced even the hardened warriors. The caldera was immense, a vast, bowl-shaped depression miles wide. And in its center, nestled within a lake of molten rock and superheated water that glowed with an infernal light, lay the source of Cinderfell's impossible heat.
It was a dragon. Or something so far beyond any known dragon that the term seemed inadequate.
It was colossally, unbelievably vast. Vhagar, the largest living dragon in the known world, would have seemed a mere hatchling beside this primordial behemoth. Its scales were not the familiar colors of Targaryen dragons, but the hue of polished obsidian, or cooled volcanic rock, with veins of what looked like still-glowing magma pulsing beneath them like a captured starscape. Its form was draconic, yet more ancient, more elemental – its horns like jagged mountain peaks, its claws like obsidian scythes, its ridged back a series of volcanic spines. It lay coiled in a deep slumber, its breathing a slow, earth-shaking rumble that sent tremors through the caldera rim, each exhalation releasing a vast plume of superheated steam that mingled with the volcanic gases above. Even asleep, the sheer, raw power emanating from it was overwhelming, a palpable wave of heat and ancient, untamed magic that made the air shimmer.
Silverwing, usually so bold, landed a respectful distance from the caldera rim, her silver scales reflecting the infernal glow, her head held low, emitting soft, uneasy croons. Vhagar, circling high above, let out a single, drawn-out roar that was less a challenge and more… an acknowledgment, a recognition of a power that dwarfed even her own ancient majesty.
Baelon Targaryen stood at the precipice, his dark robes whipping in the hot, sulfurous wind, his face illuminated by the lurid glow from below. He felt no fear. The Voldemort soul within him, that insatiable seeker of ultimate power, was transfixed. This was not merely a beast; this was a force of nature, a living embodiment of the planet's fiery heart, a god of cinder and magma.
"By the Seven Hells and all the fires of Old Valyria…" Ser Corlys Vaelaros breathed, his usual stoicism shattered. Kael and his Freedmen simply stared, their weapons momentarily forgotten, their faces a mixture of terror and awe. Maester Arryk was frantically making notes, his hands trembling.
Aemond landed Vhagar some distance away, then strode to Baelon's side, his single eye wide. "You see now, Brother? It is… beyond comprehension."
Baelon did not respond immediately. He was extending his senses, his consciousness merging with Umbraxys, trying to probe the aura of the slumbering behemoth. The power he felt was staggering – raw, primal, almost entirely untainted by the conscious will or intricate spellcraft of Valyrian dragonlords. This was something older, wilder.
"Its mind… it is like a sleeping volcano, Speaker," Umbraxys conveyed, its own ancient consciousness tinged with something Baelon had rarely sensed from it: caution. "A dream of fire and stone, stretching back epochs. It is not… aware… in the way mortals, or even dragons of your line, are aware. It simply… is. A fundamental force."
"Maester Arryk," Baelon said, his voice surprisingly steady, "your readings?"
The mage, struggling to focus his instruments, which were crackling with interference, stammered, "The magical energies… they are off any known scale, Your Grace. Pure, primal fire magic, intertwined with telluric currents. It seems to be drawing power directly from the planet's core. Its body temperature alone would melt Valyrian steel. It is… a living volcano."
Baelon considered this. A being of such power, if it could be controlled, if its allegiance could be won, or its essence somehow harnessed… the possibilities were limitless. His war against Braavos, his ambition for an eternal empire, all would be transformed.
He took a step closer to the caldera's edge, the heat intense on his face. He raised a hand, not in aggression, but in a gesture of arcane inquiry, his mind reaching out, not with a demand, but with a subtle, probing tendril of Valyrian dragon-lore, a whisper of the language of fire and command that resided in his blood. He did not seek to dominate, not yet. He sought to understand, to announce his presence to whatever primal consciousness slumbered within that obsidian mountain of flesh.
"Great One of Cinderfell," Baelon projected, his mental voice imbued with the resonance of his own potent magic and the ancient authority of the Dragonlords. "I am Baelon of House Targaryen, Blood of Old Valyria, Speaker to Dragons. I have come not to disturb your rest, but to… behold your glory, and to understand the fire that sleeps within the heart of this world."
For a long moment, there was no response, only the rhythmic rumble of the creature's breathing, the hiss of steam, the groan of the earth. Baelon waited, his will a focused point of inquiry in the overwhelming ocean of primal energy.
Then, slowly, ponderously, one of the creature's colossal eyelids, a plate of obsidian larger than a dozen shields, began to lift. Beneath it, an eye was revealed, an orb of molten gold shot through with veins of burning crimson, its pupil a vertical slit of utter blackness that seemed to swallow the light. It was an eye that had witnessed the birth of mountains, the shifting of continents, the dawn and dusk of forgotten ages.
And it fixed directly upon Baelon Targaryen.
The Slumbering God of Cinderfell was waking. And its gaze held no welcome, only an ancient, terrible, and utterly immeasurable power. The true test of Baelon's audacity, of his ambition, was about to begin.