Chapter 41: The Iron Empire, The Emperor's Long Shadow
Two decades. Twenty years since the bloody conclusion of the War of the Five Kings and the subsequent, swift, brutal consolidation that had seen Lord Ellys Vorant, the Hawk of Stormfang, declare himself Emperor of a shattered and forcibly unified Westeros. The "Vorant Peace," as it was known in hushed, fearful tones, had settled over the continent like a shroud of black iron – orderly, unyielding, and utterly devoid of the vibrant, chaotic freedoms of the past.
The Westerosi Empire, under the absolute dominion of Emperor Vorhax, was a realm transformed. The ancient, squabbling Seven Kingdoms were no more, their borders redrawn into Imperial Prefectures, their Great Houses largely reduced to hereditary governors with severely curtailed powers, their military forces disbanded and absorbed into the monolithic Imperial Army. Banditry was a forgotten tale; famine, a specter banished by ruthlessly efficient agricultural reforms and continent-spanning logistical networks. Imperial Highways, straight, paved, and patrolled by grim-faced Obsidian Guard, now connected every major city and fortress, monuments to Vorhax's engineering prowess and his unblinking will to control. Aqueducts brought clean water to burgeoning urban centers, and new canals facilitated the swift movement of grain, iron, and legions.
Stonefang remained the industrial heart of the Empire, its forges and manufactories, utilizing techniques far in advance of anything seen before, churning out unparalleled quantities of superior steel, advanced weaponry, and the components for Vorhax's ever-expanding infrastructure projects. His "dragon's breath" cannons were now standard armament on Imperial warships and fortress walls, their thunder a constant reminder of the Emperor's might. Old Wyk, once a den of Ironborn reavers, was now Ironscar Prefecture, a vital western naval base and mining colony, its populace ruthlessly "re-educated" into productive Imperial citizens. King's Landing, renamed 'Vorantgrad' – the Imperial City – had been rebuilt from its war-torn state into a stark, imposing metropolis of black stone and iron, its Great Sept (now the Imperial Forum of Order) dwarfed by the colossal, obsidian-spired Imperial Palace that had replaced the Red Keep.
The Imperial Army was a force of terrifying potency, perhaps half a million strong, drawn from every corner of the continent, their loyalty forged in the brutal crucible of Imperial Academies and sworn directly to the Emperor. The Obsidian Guard, now numbering five thousand, were his personal legion, demigods of war clad in black, articulated plate, their faces eternally hidden behind hawk-visored helms, their very presence radiating an aura of dread and absolute authority. The Imperial Fleet, hundreds of black-sailed warships equipped with firelance cannons, dominated the surrounding seas, its tendrils even beginning to probe the waters of the Summer Sea and the western coasts of Essos.
Emperor Ellys Vorant, now in his early fifties by mortal reckoning, appeared little changed from the formidable young lord who had seized power. The Dark Side of the Force, which he wielded with ever-increasing mastery, had arrested his aging, leaving him with the appearance of a man in his vigorous late thirties, his youthful features a disturbing contrast to the ancient, predatory wisdom in his obsidian eyes. Red Rain, the Valyrian steel sword, was his constant companion, a symbol of his bloody ascent. He ruled primarily from the newly constructed Imperial Palace in Vorantgrad, a fortress of black basalt and iron designed for ultimate security and projection of power, though he occasionally made grand, heavily armed tours of the Prefectures to remind his subjects of his omnipresence. His edicts were law, his justice swift and merciless. A state ideology, propagated through the Imperial Academies and the cowed remnants of the Faith (whose septons now preached the virtues of order, discipline, and loyalty to the Emperor), permeated every aspect of life. Productivity, obedience, and strength were the new trinity.
His family existed within this iron framework. Empress Anya, a pale, silent woman, rarely seen outside her heavily guarded apartments in the Imperial Palace, had borne him two more children in the early years of the Empire – another son, Gareth (named for Vorhax's loyal general), and a daughter, Vanya. His firstborn son, Crown Prince Edric Vorant, now a man of nearly forty, was High General of the Imperial Legions of the South, a grim, capable commander utterly subservient to his father's will. He had inherited Vorhax's strategic acumen but none of his Sith fire or Force sensitivity. He was a perfected instrument, efficient and ruthless in carrying out the Emperor's orders, but Vorhax knew Edric would never be a true successor to his hidden power. Edric had dutifully married a highborn lady from a pacified Reach house, producing two grandsons whom Vorhax observed with cold, appraising interest for any sign of the Force. Princess Lyra, now in her early thirties, had proven to be exceptionally intelligent and possessed a subtle, cunning grasp of politics. Vorhax had her placed within the newly formed Imperial Ministry of Information and Compliance (his intelligence and internal security apparatus, run by the aging but still formidable Lord William and Lady Anya – Will and his wife, elevated for their decades of service), where her sharp mind and loyalty were put to effective use. The younger children, Gareth and Vanya, were still being molded in the Imperial Academies.
Lord Marshal Brandon Snow, his once-black hair now streaked with grey but his Northman spirit undimmed, remained High Marshal of the entire Imperial Army, his loyalty to Vorhax forged in decades of shared conflict and absolute trust. Grand General Ser Gareth, similarly aged but still a formidable warrior, commanded the Obsidian Guard. Maester Vymar, ancient and perpetually terrified, was the Imperial Chief Archivist, his life dedicated to chronicling the glorious (and often bloody) rise of the Vorant Empire. A new generation of commanders, governors, and administrators, products of Vorhax's academies, fanatically devoted to the Emperor and his vision of order, now filled the ranks of the Imperial bureaucracy.
Yet, even within this monolith of control, Vorhax knew that embers of dissent and ancient loyalties still glowed in the darkness. The North, under the watchful eye of its figurehead Queen-Governor Sansa Stark (now Lady Sansa, her royal title abolished but her regional authority maintained as a concession), remained insular and proud. While Imperial Legates ensured compliance and Northern levies served in the Imperial Army, Vorhax knew their hearts were not truly his. He had dealt with one minor uprising in the western hills a decade past, led by a few stubborn mountain clan chieftains, with such overwhelming, surgical brutality that the lesson had, for now, been learned. The Vale, similarly, was outwardly compliant, its knights serving with distinction in the Imperial legions, young Lord Robert Arryn a well-behaved (if sickly and terrified) "guest" at the Imperial Court, but Yohn Royce and the other old Vale lords still harbored a proud, resentful silence.
The Faith of the Seven, while its High Septon preached sermons on the divine right of the Emperor to impose order, had seen its wealth curtailed, its military orders disbanded, and its influence on daily life systematically eroded by Imperial decrees promoting secular education and scientific (by Westerosi standards, often meaning Vorhax's carefully introduced) principles. Vorhax knew a militant, fanatical core within the Faith was a potential future threat.
His gaze, however, was increasingly drawn beyond Westeros. The strange ships from the Sunset Sea, reported twenty years prior, had led to several Imperial expeditions. They had discovered a vast new continent to the far west, unmapped and unknown, inhabited by primitive but often hostile cultures. Vorhax, ever the Sith expansionist, saw this "Novos Westeros" (as his cartographers had tentatively named it) as a future frontier for Imperial colonization, a source of new resources, and perhaps, new challenges to keep his legions sharp.
Essos, too, remained a complex tapestry of opportunity and threat. He had established lucrative, if carefully controlled, trade relations with several Free Cities, his Stonefang iron and Westerosi grain exchanged for Essosi silks, spices, and, most importantly, arcane knowledge and skilled artisans. The Dothraki Sea was still a source of chaos, occasionally spilling over into the western Free Cities. And in the far east, the legend of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons, though she herself was long dead, lingered. Vorhax's spies reported that Drogon, the largest of her beasts, was still rumored to be alive, a rogue power in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. This, Vorhax knew, was a loose end that might one day require his personal attention.
His deepest focus, however, remained on the ancient, cyclical threat of the Long Night. His study of Valyrian texts, of First Men legends, and his own deepening communion with the Dark Side of the Force had convinced him that the Others were not a one-time anomaly. They were a recurring cosmic blight, a force of entropy that would inevitably return. Daenerys and the heroes of the last Long Night had merely bought the world a reprieve. He, Emperor Vorhax, with the unified might of a technologically advancing, militarily supreme, and ruthlessly disciplined Westerosi Empire, would be the one to forge the true, lasting shield against that ultimate darkness. This became the grand, justifying purpose of his iron rule, the public and perhaps even private rationale for his otherwise insatiable ambition. All of Westeros, all its resources, all its people, would be molded into a weapon to fight that future war.
One evening, as he stood on the highest balcony of the Imperial Palace in Vorantgrad, looking out over the sprawling, orderly, lamplit city, a city that owed its very existence to his will, a report arrived from Princess Lyra, now a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Information and Compliance.
"Majestic Father," her voice was cool and precise through the Imperial communication device (a Vorhax invention, a secure, short-range encrypted vocal transmitter), "our deep space observatories on the highest peaks of the Vale have detected… anomalies. Energy signatures beyond the known stars, consistent with ancient texts describing… ship-forms of a non-terrestrial origin. They are incredibly distant, but their trajectory, if maintained, would bring them into this star system in approximately… five standard decades."
Vorhax listened, his youthful face unreadable in the twilight. Non-terrestrial ship-forms. The galaxy he had thought lost forever. His Sith past, reaching out across the void. For two decades, he had consolidated his rule over this single, primitive planet, forging it into a nascent empire, always with the distant, almost forgotten dream of one day returning to the stars, to the true Sith Empire, or what remained of it. Now, it seemed, the galaxy might be coming to him.
A slow, terrible smile spread across his lips. Fifty years. It was a long time, even for him. But it was a definite timeframe. Time to complete the subjugation and transformation of this world. Time to advance its technology, to unlock its latent Force potential, to forge it into a fortress-world, a bastion of Sith power ready to meet whatever emissaries, or invaders, the wider galaxy might send.
The game had just expanded beyond his wildest dreams. Westeros was no longer the ultimate prize; it was merely the first step, the proving ground. The Hawk's shadow, already covering a continent, now yearned for the stars.
(Word Count: Approx. 4300 words)