Chapter 12: Echoes of Leywin and the Giants of Aether
A Familiar Threat (Circa 4,500 BC)
Our return to Westeros was marked by a chilling familiarity. The pervasive influence of the Andals had spread further, their iron tools and the Faith of the Seven dominating more of the southern and central lands. The unique aetheric hum of the Isle of Faces, my true home in this world, felt like a beacon, drawing us back from the bustling, brutal energies of the East. Ceara was fascinated by the raw, untamed magic of the weirwood trees, and Regis, for all his bravado, found the ancient, silent presence of the Old Gods a surprisingly calming force.
"So, Princess," Regis's voice echoed in my mind, his shadowy form materializing beside me as we approached the mist-shrouded Isle of Faces, "you've traded fire-breathing lizards for sentient trees. Progressive, I guess."
"They're more than just trees, Regis," I replied, a rare lightness in my tone now that I had their company. "They are the memory and consciousness of this world. And their presence is threatened."
The threat was more immediate than I had anticipated. Even from leagues away, my heightened aetheric senses detected a discordant clamor around the Isle of Faces. Not the natural hum of mana, nor the spiritual song of the Old Gods, but the harsh, grating energy of iron and the fervent, almost zealous, mana signature of hundreds of mortals.
"Looks like your new tree-friends have company, Princess," Regis observed, his form flickering. "And they don't look like they're here for a tea party."
Ceara, standing firm beside me, her amber eyes narrowed. "Andals. They're trying to land."
They were. Dozens of longships, their sails emblazoned with the seven-pointed star, approached the Isle. Hundreds of Andal warriors, clad in iron and wielding iron axes, were attempting to breach the aetheric wards I had woven into the very fabric of the island, attempting to fell the ancient weirwoods that served as its perimeter. Their chants to the Seven echoed across the water, jarring against the ancient silence of the Gods Eye.
This was a line. The Isle of Faces was more than just a sanctuary; it was the heart of the Old Gods, the place where the Pact was made, the very essence of Westeros's ancient magic. My purpose as Master of Fate was to ensure its survival.
The Fury of the Master of Fate
"They're too many for the Children to handle," Ceara noted, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her sword.
"They won't get the chance," I said, my voice low, laced with cold power. "This island is consecrated ground. Their faith may grant them zeal, but it will not grant them victory over the true magic of this world."
I stepped forward, no longer caring about subtlety. My Asuran form solidified, its vast scale visible against the setting sun. The air around me crackled, not with mana, but with raw, untamed Aether. The Andals on the nearest ships screamed, their confident shouts turning into cries of terror as they beheld a sight that defied all their legends – a towering, scaled being, radiating power that eclipsed their gods.
"Regis, Ceara, remain here," I commanded, though I knew they would follow. "This is not a battle for mortals. This is a lesson."
I didn't need to touch them. With a surge of aetheric intent, I unleashed a wave of aetheric decay against their lead ships. The iron on their hulls, the very iron they so prized, vibrated, shimmered, then crumbled into rust and dust in moments. Their wooden hulls, stripped of their metallic reinforcement, disintegrated into splintered ruins, their sails into tattered rags. The men on board shrieked, plunging into the deep, cold waters of the Gods Eye.
Their archers loosed volleys of arrows, their priests screamed desperate prayers. I ignored them. I raised my hand, and the very air above the remaining ships shimmered. My elemental deviant of ice, amplified by Aether, manifested as colossal, razor-sharp shards that plummeted from the sky, not randomly, but targeting the ships' keels, splitting them lengthwise. The cold was absolute, freezing the water around them instantly, trapping the drowning men in their icy graves.
The Andal host, once so confident, dissolved into panicked chaos. They turned their remaining ships, attempting a desperate retreat, their faith shattered by a power beyond their comprehension. But I was not done. This was a message.
I extended my senses further, reaching for the very mana currents of the Gods Eye. A mighty torrent of water, drawn from the deepest parts of the lake, rose into the air, swirling into a gigantic vortex, a towering column of liquid might. With a roar that echoed across the lake, I brought it down upon the retreating fleet, utterly obliterating the remaining ships, smashing them into unrecognizable debris. No survivors.
Silence fell across the Gods Eye, broken only by the distant cries of gulls. The Andal host was utterly annihilated, their iron and their faith useless against a being who wielded the very fabric of reality.
Regis's Appraisal: Of Dragons and Ants
Regis materialized beside me, shaking his shadowy head. "Well, that was certainly a statement, Princess. A bit overkill for a bunch of glorified barbarians, don't you think?"
"They threatened the heart of this world's magic," I stated, my eyes still scanning the now-empty waters. "The message had to be clear."
"Oh, it's clear alright," Regis chuckled. "They probably think the Seven just took a really violent crap on them. But speaking of powerful, fire-breathing creatures… those Valyrian lizards. Saw a few buzzing around when we were 'observing' their forging practices. They call those things dragons?"
I turned to him, a faint smirk playing on my lips. "They are formidable for this world, Regis. They are capable of immense destruction."
Regis scoffed, a truly magnificent sound of pure contempt. "Formidable? Princess, please. They're just overgrown wyverns, glorified lizards with slightly larger fire glands. They spit fire, sure, but their scales look thinner than your old pajama top, and their mana cores are barely a tenth of the size of even a lesser dragon in our world. I've seen Indrath clan hatchlings with more raw power than the biggest 'dragon' they have."
He let out another derisive snort. "They're mere ants that spit fire, Arthur. I could probably swat them out of the sky with a flick of my tail if I was fully manifested. They're certainly nothing compared to the true dragons, the colossal beasts of the Indrath Clan. Those little fire-lizards they have are just… pathetic."
Ceara, who had been watching the destroyed fleet with a grim expression, turned to Regis, her eyes wide. "So, you're saying… their dragons aren't as powerful as the ones you've seen?"
"Not even in the same league, love," Regis confirmed with a theatrical sigh. "It's like comparing a house cat to a mana-infused tiger. They're dangerous to these mortals, certainly, but to someone like our Princess here?" He gestured grandly at me. "He could probably turn their entire Freehold into a puddle of molten rock with a blink, without even breaking a sweat. It's truly sad, honestly. All that bragging, all that hubris, over glorified overgrown lizards."
I allowed Regis his moment of superiority. He wasn't wrong. The Valyrian dragons, while formidable to mortals, were indeed pale imitations of the true dragons of my world. Their greatest power came not from their inherent might, but from the humans who rode them. My aetheric power, infused into every cell of my Asuran form, far surpassed their brute elemental force.
The echoes of the Leywin name, the whispers of the Master of Fate, were about to spread further. The Andal invasion would continue