Chapter 42: The Star-Caller's Gambit, The World Forge Ignited
The news, delivered by Princess Lyra herself from the Ministry of Information and Compliance, reverberated through Emperor Vorhax's most secret sanctum beneath the Imperial Palace in Vorantgrad like a seismic shock. Distant, non-terrestrial ship-forms, detected by the arcane deep-space observatories he had commissioned atop the highest peaks of the Vale, were on a trajectory that would bring them into this star system within five decades. The galaxy he had thought irrevocably lost, the vast Sith Empire he had once served and schemed within, or perhaps some other, unknown stellar power, was reaching out across the void.
For twenty years, Darth Vorhax had meticulously forged Westeros into his personal, unshakeable domain, a continent brought to heel under his iron will. He had crushed rebellions, restructured society, and built a military machine unparalleled in this primitive world's history. He had thought, perhaps, that this planet would be the sole extent of his new empire, a grand but ultimately limited stage for his Sith ambitions. Now, the universe itself had called.
A cold, predatory fire ignited in Vorhax's ancient eyes. Fifty years. It was a sliver of time for a being who thought in centuries, yet it was a concrete deadline. This world, this entire planet, needed to be not just conquered, but unified, fortified, and technologically uplifted into a bastion of Sith power, ready to meet whatever emissaries – or invaders – the stars sent. Westeros was merely the foundation. The true work was about to begin.
He convened an emergency session of the Imperial High Council. Crown Prince Edric Vorant, his face grim and weathered from years commanding legions on harsh frontiers, now nearly forty; Lord Marshal Brandon Snow, his Northern grit still unbent by age; Grand General Ser Gareth, his loyalty to Vorhax absolute; Princess Lyra, her intellect a keen, subtle weapon within the Imperial intelligence apparatus; and the aging but still sharp Lord William and Lady Anya, heads of Imperial Intelligence and Compliance, gathered in the black obsidian war room deep beneath Vorantgrad.
"My lords, my daughter," Vorhax began, his voice resonating with a power that made the very air tremble. Red Rain lay before him, its crimson ripples absorbing the stark light. "For two decades, we have forged an Empire from the ashes of a broken continent. We have brought order where there was chaos, strength where there was weakness." He paused, his gaze piercing each of them. "But Westeros is not the world. And our world, I have learned, is but a speck of dust in a vast, populated galaxy."
He did not reveal the full truth of alien fleets or his own otherworldly origins. Instead, he spoke of a "grave existential threat, a power from beyond the stars, glimpsed by our deepest divinations and confirmed by our most advanced observatories, that will arrive within two generations." He painted a picture of an outside force so vast, so potent, that only a completely unified planet, every resource marshaled, every soul dedicated to a single purpose, could hope to survive, let alone prevail. "The squabbling kingdoms of Essos, the savage hordes of the Dothraki, the unexplored jungles of Sothoryos – they are all vulnerabilities, weaknesses that this coming 'Great Filter' will exploit to extinguish mankind if we remain divided. Therefore, a new Imperial Edict is proclaimed: this Empire will expand. We will unify this entire world under the banner of the Hawk. Every continent, every island, every tribe will be brought into the Vorant Order. Only then can we hope to forge the shield that will protect us all."
His words were met with stunned silence, then a ripple of grim understanding. They had followed him through continental conquest; now, he demanded planetary dominion.
His primary target was clear: Essos. Vast, populous, rich in ancient resources and forgotten lore, yet hopelessly fractured. The Free Cities, locked in their endless mercantile rivalries and petty wars; the Dothraki Sea, a wave of savage horsemen that periodically crashed against civilization; the shattered remnants of Slaver's Bay, still reeling from Daenerys Targaryen's brief, chaotic liberation; the mysterious lands of the far east, Qarth, Yi Ti, Asshai-by-the-Shadow. All would be brought to heel.
The pretexts, for the consumption of the Westerosi populace and the more traditionally minded within his own command structure, were readily available: to end the Dothraki threat permanently, to "liberate" cities groaning under corrupt magisters or internal strife, to secure vital trade routes essential for the Empire's survival against the "coming darkness," and to retaliate for centuries of Essosi piracy, slave raids, and interference in Westerosi affairs. The true reason, however, was singular: absolute planetary control in preparation for a galactic future.
The Imperial war machine, already formidable, was now geared for overseas conquest on an unprecedented scale. The shipyards of Stonefang, Crow's Nest, Old Wyk, and Vorantgrad itself roared with activity, constructing hundreds of new warships – larger, faster dromonds with reinforced hulls, massive troop transports, and even experimental vessels driven by primitive steam engines (Vorhax's "alchemical boilers") or complex geared paddle-wheels, designs centuries ahead of their time. The Hawk's Armada would become a true Imperial Navy.
Significant portions of the Imperial Army, spearheaded by the Obsidian Guard legions, were re-tasked and re-trained for amphibious assaults and campaigning in diverse Essosi climates and terrains. Brandon Snow was given overall command of the Essosi Expeditionary Force, his Northman resilience and adaptability deemed ideal for the challenge. Ser Gareth would command the legions remaining to secure Westeros. Crown Prince Edric was named Imperial Regent of Westeros, tasked with overseeing the vast logistical undertaking of supplying a war across the Narrow Sea and maintaining absolute order on the home front. It was a monumental responsibility, a final, brutal test of his capabilities. Princess Lyra, her intelligence network already spanning half the known world, was given charge of all political and psychological warfare operations in Essos, tasked with identifying weaknesses, fomenting dissent within target cities, and securing collaborators.
The first blow fell upon the Disputed Lands and the closest Free Cities of Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys, long locked in their squalid, unending wars. Vorhax's fleet, appearing like a swarm of black sea-krakens from the west, annihilated their combined mercenary fleets in a series of swift, brutal engagements. His firelance cannons, now more numerous and mounted on specially designed gun-dromonds, tore through wooden hulls with terrifying ease. Obsidian Guard marines, launched from swift assault craft, boarded and captured enemy flagships, their dark armor and silent, lethal efficiency sowing terror.
Once naval supremacy was established, the legions landed. Tyrosh, with its famed dyers and pear-shaped fortress, was offered a simple choice: immediate, unconditional surrender and integration into the Vorant Empire, retaining local administration under an Imperial Governor but ceding all military and foreign policy, or face utter annihilation. The Archon of Tyrosh, after witnessing a demonstration of Vorhax's cannons reducing a section of his supposedly impregnable outer wall to rubble in under an hour, wisely chose submission.
Myr, the city of artisans and lacemakers, attempted resistance, trusting in its strong walls and numerous sellsword companies. Vorhax, leading the assault himself, Red Rain a crimson streak amidst the black tide of his Obsidian Guard, made an example of them. The siege was short and horrific. His advanced siege engines battered the walls, his firelances opened gaping breaches, and his elite troops poured through. The sellswords broke, the city guard shattered. Myr was sacked with cold, systematic brutality, its treasures plundered, its surviving leaders executed, its populace subjected to harsh martial law. The lesson was not lost on Lys, the city of pleasure, which surrendered without a fight when Vorhax's fleet appeared in its harbor.
The Dothraki were a different challenge. Several large khalasars, drawn by the chaos of the collapsing Free Cities, thundered west. Vorhax met them on the vast plains north of Myr. He did not engage them in their preferred style of swirling cavalry charges. Instead, he formed his legions into massive, disciplined squares of spear and shield, anchored by mobile artillery parks of firelances and heavy crossbows. As the Dothraki screamed their challenges and charged, they were met by withering volleys of iron and fire. The Obsidian Guard, armed with long, heavy Stonefang pikes, broke their charges again and again. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, deployed in ambush, fell upon their flanks. It was a slaughter. Khalasars that had terrorized Essos for generations were shattered, their survivors fleeing east, carrying tales of the black-armored demons and their thunderous fire-weapons.
Westeros, under Regent Edric's iron hand, was transformed into the engine of this global war. Its farms fed the armies, its mines produced the ore, its forests the timber, its forges the steel. Every resource, every man and woman, was dedicated to the Emperor's grand design. Propaganda, disseminated through Vorhax's printing presses and Imperial heralds, spoke endlessly of the "Great Unification," the "War for Mankind's Survival," and the "Glorious Vorant Order." Fear, duty, and a carefully cultivated sense of imperial destiny kept the populace in line. Any dissent was crushed with swift, merciless efficiency by the ever-vigilant Ministry of Compliance.
Vorhax, campaigning deep in Essos, adapted his strategies to each new foe. He studied the histories of the Ghiscari Empire, the Valyrian Freehold, the Rhoynar. He sought out hidden libraries, ancient ruins, forgotten mages, and scholars, plundering them for knowledge of lost technologies, arcane lore, or any hint of past interactions with "star-callers." He learned of dragon-binding, of bloodmagic, of the shadowbinders of Asshai. Much was myth, but some held kernels of power he could adapt.
After three years of brutal, relentless campaigning, a significant portion of western Essos – from the Stepstones to the borders of the Dothraki Sea, encompassing Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, and a cowed Pentos (which had offered preemptive alliance) – was firmly under Imperial Vorant rule. Imperial governors, backed by legions of black-armored soldiers, imposed Vorhax's order. New roads were being driven through ancient lands, new fortresses rising.
He stood in the conquered palace of the Archon of Tyrosh, its garish silks and perfumes replaced by stark black banners and the scent of polished iron. A map of the known world lay before him, vast swathes of it now shaded in Vorant black. Lyra brought him a report: a new coalition of eastern Free Cities – Volantis, Qohor, Norvos – was forming, bolstered by Dothraki remnants and sellsword armies, preparing to resist his inexorable advance. Far to the east, the slave cities of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, still unstable after Daenerys's passing, were descending into renewed chaos, a power vacuum he would eventually fill.
But another, more urgent dispatch arrived from Edric in Westeros, relayed from the Imperial Observatory in the Vale. The distant, alien ship-forms, still decades away, had subtly altered their trajectory. It was a minor correction, but it was intelligent. It suggested they were not merely drifting, but actively navigating, perhaps even aware, on some unfathomable level, of the burgeoning, unnaturally unified power coalescing on this primitive world.
The fifty-year clock was still ticking, but a new sense of urgency pressed upon Vorhax. His planetary conquest needed to accelerate. The true game, the galactic game, was drawing nearer with every passing year. He had forged an empire spanning two continents. Now, he needed to forge a world into a weapon.
(Word Count: Approx. 4400 words)