Chapter 41: The Waking Fire-God
The single, colossal eye of the Cinderfell behemoth, an orb of molten gold veined with crimson fire, fixed upon Baelon Targaryen with an intensity that transcended mere sight. It was a gaze that had witnessed the birth of stars and the cooling of worlds, a gaze that held the accumulated weight of epochs beyond mortal comprehension. The air in the caldera, already thick with sulfur and volcanic heat, seemed to solidify, pressing down with an almost physical force.
A collective gasp, swallowed by the sudden, profound silence that followed Baelon's mental address, was the only sound from his companions. Ser Corlys Vaelaros and his Dragon Guard knights, men who had faced down Ghiscari legions and abyssal horrors, took involuntary steps backward, their hands flying to their Valyrian steel hilts, their faces paling beneath their helms. Centurion Kael and his Freedmen, warriors forged in brutality, found their savage courage momentarily frozen, replaced by a primal, instinctual terror. Maester Arryk, the Volantene mage, dropped his arcane instruments, his mouth agape, his scholarly composure shattered into a million pieces.
Even the dragons reacted with profound unease. Silverwing, her scales shimmering nervously in the lurid glow of the geothermal lake, let out a low, distressed keen, her wings fluttering as if contemplating immediate flight. High above, Vhagar, Aemond's ancient and fearsome mount, ceased her circling, hovering with an uncharacteristic stillness, her reptilian mind clearly grappling with a presence that dwarfed her own considerable might and antiquity.
Only Baelon remained outwardly unmoved, though inwardly, every fiber of his being, every arcane sense, was alight with a mixture of exhilaration, dread, and an all-consuming, predatory curiosity. The Voldemort soul that was his core, that had stared into the abyss of death and sought to command eternity, recognized power on a scale it had only dreamed of. This was no mere beast, however colossal. This was a fundamental expression of the planet's fiery heart, a demigod of cinder and magma.
The behemoth shifted, a slow, ponderous movement that sent tremors through the caldera floor and caused waves of molten rock and superheated water to slosh against the shores of its lake. The sound was like mountains grinding together, a groan that resonated deep within Baelon's bones. Its colossal head, larger than a keep, rose further from the incandescent depths, its obsidian scales shedding streams of lava-like effluvia. Two horns, like jagged volcanic peaks, scraped against the unseen roof of the steam-filled caldera, dislodging showers of rock and ash.
Then, it spoke.
Not with words, for its throat was a passage for magma and starfire, but with a wave of pure, overwhelming telepathic force that slammed into Baelon's mind, and by extension, into the minds of all those near him. It was not a voice, but a torrent of raw sensation, ancient imagery, and primal emotion: the unimaginable fury of planetary birth, the slow, patient heat of a world's core, the crushing indifference of geological time, and a profound, territorial possessiveness that resonated with the very stones of Cinderfell.
Baelon's companions cried out, clutching their heads, some falling to their knees as their minds were assaulted by visions of burning landscapes, oceans of fire, and skies filled with raining rock. Maester Arryk screamed, blood trickling from his nose and ears. Kael's Freedmen, their ferocity momentarily broken, whimpered like frightened children. Ser Corlys and his knights fought to maintain their footing, their faces contorted with pain, but their discipline, even in the face of such an onslaught, held.
Baelon, however, stood firm. His own mental defenses, honed by centuries of arcane practice and the indomitable will of Voldemort, flared to life, a shield of cold, dark magic against the creature's psychic barrage. He felt the crushing weight of its ancient consciousness, the sheer, raw power of its untamed mind, but he did not break. Umbraxys, his shadow familiar, coiled around his own essence, absorbing some of the impact, its own ancient, alien intellect engaging with the primal force in a silent, unseen struggle.
"WHO… DARES… DISTURB… THE… SLEEP… OF… AGES?" The thought, if it could be called such, crashed through Baelon's defenses, each syllable an epoch, each query a threat of annihilation. The raw power behind it was terrifying, but Baelon also sensed… a slowness, a ponderousness, as if the creature's mind was only just stirring from a slumber that had lasted millennia.
"I am Baelon of House Targaryen, Blood of Old Valyria," Baelon projected back, his mental voice a blade of focused intent, cutting through the psychic maelstrom. He reinforced his own mental shields, pushing back against the overwhelming pressure. "I come not as a supplicant, nor as a thief, but as a seeker of knowledge, a wielder of fire in my own right. This world changes, Great One. New powers stir. And I would know the nature of the ancient flames that burn at its heart."
The behemoth's molten eye narrowed slightly, a gesture that on a creature of such scale was an event in itself. The psychic pressure lessened almost imperceptibly, replaced by a wave of… curiosity? Or perhaps, the detached interest of a mountain observing an ant that had somehow learned to speak.
"VALYRIA…" The thought rumbled, carrying with it faint, dream-like images of fire-mages, of dragons soaring over landscapes long since drowned or broken, of a power that had once dared to claim kinship with the inner fire of the world. "A FLEETING SPARK… CONSUMED. YOUR KIND… ARE BUT EPHEMERA… DANCING ON THE CRUST… OF MY DOMAIN."
"Yet this 'ephemera' built empires, tamed dragons, and now stands before you," Baelon countered, his voice laced with an arrogance that was pure Voldemort. He knew he was treading a razor's edge. This creature could unmake him, and Cinderfell itself, with a mere thought, a shrug of its colossal shoulders. But to show fear now would be fatal. Power, he knew, respected only power.
He decided on a bold, almost reckless, gambit. He focused his will, drawing upon the deepest reserves of his Valyrian blood magic, the lore he had stolen from countless texts, the power he had cultivated over his unnaturally long life. He reached out, not to attack, but to resonate, to harmonize with the creature's fiery essence, to speak to it in the language of its own element.
He projected an image, a feeling: of dragonfire, not as a weapon, but as a creative, life-giving force, the fire that had forged Valyria's Fourteen Flames, the fire that still burned in his own veins and in those of Silverwing and Vhagar. He offered it as a greeting, a sign of kinship, however distant.
The reaction was… unexpected. The behemoth did not attack. Instead, the molten gold of its eye seemed to swirl, to deepen. A new wave of thought, less aggressive, more… contemplative, washed over Baelon.
"FIRE… WITHIN… FLESH… A FRAGMENT… OF THE FIRST SONG… YOU CARRY… ITS ECHO…" It paused, the silence stretching, filled only by the roar of the caldera. "WHY… DO YOU… SEEK… IGNIS… THE HEART-FLAME?"
Ignis. So, it had a name, or at least a designation Baelon could comprehend. The Heart-Flame.
"Knowledge is power, Ignis," Baelon replied, sensing a minuscule opening. "And power is the means to shape destiny. Your slumber is deep, your wisdom ancient. The world above changes, new shadows rise, old conflicts reignite. I seek to understand the fundamental forces that underpin existence, to ensure my own… permanence… and the order I bring."
Ignis let out a sound that might have been a colossal sigh, a plume of steam and incandescent gas billowing from its vast nostrils, momentarily obscuring its form. When the vapor cleared, its gaze was still fixed on Baelon, but there was a new quality to it, a hint of something that might have been ancient weariness, or perhaps, a dawning interest in this audacious speck of flesh and fire that dared to converse with it.
"PERMANENCE… ORDER…" Ignis rumbled. "FLEETING CONCEPTS… FOR THOSE WHOSE LIVES… ARE BUT SPARKS. THE DEEP… STIRS AGAIN… DOES IT NOT? THE SILENT THIRST… THE ENDLESS COLD… IT ALWAYS RETURNS… TO CLAIM THE WARMTH…"
Baelon't mind raced. The Deep? The Silent Thirst? Was Ignis referring to the Drowned God, He of the Nine Arms? Could this creature of primal fire be aware of its abyssal antithesis?
"The shadows of the deep do indeed lengthen, Ignis," Baelon confirmed carefully. "A cult that worships the endless cold seeks to extinguish the fires of life, to bring about a 'Great Quietus.' They have sent their assassins even against me, who carries the legacy of Valyria's flame." He saw an opportunity, a chance to frame his own conflict in terms this ancient being might comprehend, or even care about. "They are an affront to the very fire you embody."
Ignis was silent for a long moment, its great eye unblinking. The pressure in the caldera seemed to increase, the heat becoming almost unbearable. Silverwing and Vhagar let out distressed roars, their riders struggling to keep them under control. Kael's Freedmen were on the verge of collapse, their dark skin glistening with sweat, their eyes wide with terror. Only Baelon, shielded by Umbraxys and his own formidable magic, remained outwardly composed, though the strain was immense.
Then, Ignis moved again. Its colossal head dipped slightly, bringing its molten gaze even closer to the caldera rim where Baelon stood. It was a gesture that could have been a prelude to an attack, or… something else.
"THE COLD… HATES… THE FIRE…" Ignis projected, a simple statement, yet laden with an aeons-old truth. "IT SEEKS… TO SMOTHER… TO DROWN… TO UNMAKE… IT IS… THE VOID… THAT YEARNS…" Another pause, then a new thought, sharp and clear, like a shard of obsidian. "YOU… WISH TO FIGHT… THE VOID? YOU… TINY SPARK… BELIEVE YOU CAN… DEFLECT… THE ENDLESS NIGHT?"
There was no mockery in the thought, only a profound, almost detached, curiosity.
"I do not merely deflect, Great Ignis," Baelon declared, his voice now ringing with the absolute conviction of the Voldemort persona, a being who had made a career of defying the inevitable. "I conquer. I master. I endure. The fire within me may be but a spark compared to your inferno, but it is a spark that has defied death itself, a spark that intends to burn for eternity. And I will not allow any shadow, however deep, however cold, to extinguish it, or the order I will forge."
He took another, even bolder step. He focused his will, his magic, and channeled a minuscule fraction of the raw, destructive power that Voldemort had once wielded, a sliver of the Killing Curse's dark energy – not as an attack, but as a demonstration, a signature of his unique nature, his mastery over the boundary between life and death. It was an act of supreme arrogance, potentially suicidal, but he needed to show Ignis that he was more than just another Valyrian with a dragon.
The air around Baelon crackled with a faint, sickly green light. Ignis recoiled, a shudder passing through its immense frame, its molten eye widening almost imperceptibly. The psychic pressure in the caldera spiked, and a wave of raw, primal aversion washed over Baelon.
"THAT… POWER…" Ignis projected, a new note in its mental voice – not fear, perhaps, but a profound, instinctual revulsion. "THE UNMAKING… THE FALSE DEATH… THE ECHO… OF THE VOID'S OWN SONG… YOU ARE… TAINTED… BY IT…"
Baelon held his ground, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He had miscalculated. This creature of pure, primal life-fire was repulsed by the touch of death magic, even a controlled display.
But then, surprisingly, the aversion was followed by a different kind of emanation from Ignis: a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through Baelon's very soul. It was not hostile, but immensely powerful, and it carried a sense of… recognition.
"YET… YOU BURN… BRIGHTLY… AGAINST IT…" Ignis continued, its thoughts slower now, more complex. "A PARADOX. A FLAME… THAT FEEDS… ON SHADOW'S EDGE… YOU ARE… AN ANOMALY… EVEN TO THE SILENCE OF AGES…"
Ignis's colossal head lowered further, its snout, wreathed in steam and molten rock, now only a few hundred feet from Baelon. The heat was a physical blow. Baelon could see the intricate patterns within its obsidian scales, the pulsing veins of magma beneath, the ancient intelligence in its fathomless golden eye.
"THE DROWNED ONES… AND THEIR NINE-ARMED MASTER… THEY ARE… PARASITES… ON THE TRUE DEEP…" Ignis projected, a surprising venom in its ancient thoughts. "THEY SEEK… TO USURP… THE BALANCE… TO IMPOSE… A FALSE STILLNESS… UPON THE TURNING… WHEEL OF FIRE AND WATER…"
A revelation. Ignis was not allied with the Drowned God; it was its enemy, or at least, despised its methods and goals. This changed everything.
"I… DO NOT… MEDDLE… IN THE FLEETING… SQUABBLES… OF SPARKS…" Ignis continued. "BUT… THE SPREAD… OF THE FALSE DEEP… THE COLD THAT CREEPS… IT… DISTURBS… MY SLUMBER… IT… DIMS… THE HEART-FLAME… OF THE WORLD…"
Baelon saw his opening, a narrow, perilous path. "Then perhaps our purposes align, Great Ignis, if only for a time. I seek to eradicate this cult of the Drowned God, to silence their abyssal master. Their success would indeed dim many flames, including yours, eventually."
Ignis let out another earth-shaking rumble, which Baelon now interpreted as a form of contemplative agreement. "YOUR VALYRIAN ANCESTORS… THEY TOO… SOUGHT TO BIND… THE FIRES… THEY WERE… ARROGANT… AND THEY… BURNED… THEMSELVES TO ASH… YOU… ARE DIFFERENT… YOU… SMELL OF THE GRAVE… YET… YOU CARRY… A DRAGON'S FIRE… AND A… KING'S WILL…"
The creature paused, its great eye seeming to pierce through Baelon, through Umbraxys, through the layers of his power and ambition, to the very core of his being.
"I… OFFER… NO ALLIANCE… NO SERVITUDE…" Ignis projected, its mental voice firm, absolute. "SUCH THINGS… ARE FOR MORTALS… AND LESSER DRAGONS… BUT… I WILL… OBSERVE… YOUR… WAR… AGAINST THE FALSE DEEP… AND IF YOUR FLAME… PROVES STRONG ENOUGH… TO SCORCH… THEIR SHADOWS… THEN PERHAPS… THE HEART-FLAME… WILL REMEMBER… YOUR NAME… WHEN THE NEXT AGE… DAWNS…"
It was not an offer of aid, not directly. But it was not rejection either. It was… an acknowledgment. A test. A challenge.
Then, Ignis did something that stunned Baelon. From one of its vast, obsidian scales, near its colossal nostril, a single, smaller shard, no larger than Baelon's hand but still radiating immense heat and a faint, internal luminescence, detached itself. It floated through the superheated air, drifting slowly towards Baelon.
"A… FRAGMENT… OF MY FIRE…" Ignis projected. "A TOKEN… OF YOUR AUDACITY… AND MY… ATTENTION… LET IT BE… A TESTAMENT… THAT YOU STOOD… BEFORE IGNIS… AND WERE NOT… UNMADE… USE IT… AS YOU WILL… SPARK… BUT KNOW… THAT ALL FLAMES… EVENTUALLY… RETURN… TO THE SOURCE…"
The obsidian shard hovered before Baelon. He reached out, his hand protected by a shimmering shield of Umbraxys's shadow-magic, and carefully took it. It was incredibly hot, yet the heat did not burn his shielded flesh; instead, it pulsed with a vibrant, primal energy, a condensed essence of the Cinderfell behemoth's very being.
With a final, earth-shaking rumble, Ignis began to withdraw. Its colossal eye closed, its great head sank slowly back into the molten lake, the waves of fire and rock parting around it. The oppressive psychic pressure receded, leaving behind an echoing silence and the lingering scent of sulfur and ancient power.
The Slumbering God of Cinderfell had returned to its aeons-long rest.
Baelon stood on the caldera's rim, the obsidian shard radiating heat in his hand, his mind reeling from the encounter. He had faced a power beyond anything he had ever imagined, a true primordial entity. He had not conquered it, not by any means. But he had conversed with it, earned its… attention, and received a token, a fragment of its impossible power.
Aemond, Ser Corlys, and the others slowly picked themselves up, their faces pale and shaken, looking at Baelon with a new, profound awe that bordered on terror. They had witnessed something that would haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives.
Baelon looked at the shard in his hand, then towards the now-still surface of the geothermal lake. His journey to the far north had yielded a prize far stranger, and potentially far more valuable, than he could have ever anticipated. The war against Braavos, against the Drowned God, seemed almost… mundane… in comparison to the cosmic forces he had just brushed against.
Yet, Ignis's words echoed in his mind: "The Drowned Ones… and their Nine-Armed Master… they are… parasites… they seek… to usurp… the balance…" And its final challenge: "If your flame… proves strong enough… to scorch… their shadows…"
His path was clear. The Drowned God and its cult remained his primary target. But now, he fought not just for his own empire, his own eternity, but perhaps, in some strange, indirect way, with the attention of a power that was the very heart-flame of the world.
He turned to his stunned companions. "We have what we came for," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "And more. It is time to return south. The war awaits. And I have a new… perspective… on the nature of fire, and the shadows it must contend with."
The encounter with Ignis, the Waking Fire-God of Cinderfell, had changed him. The Serpent King had gazed into the heart of a star, and now carried a fragment of its fire. The world would soon feel its augmented burn.