The hidden chamber beneath the Red Keep was a crypt of cold stone, thick with the tang of blood and charred runes. A lone brazier flickered, casting shadows across damp walls, lighting the ash-and-crimson circle where Vaegon stood, chest heaving, the Valyrian steel dagger trembling in his sweat-slicked hand. The orb at his belt pulsed with searing warmth, dragon-etched runes glowing faintly as if alive.
Moments ago, he'd obeyed its valyrian whisper: "Protect thy realm, and the strength of steel shall be thine", slashing his wrist to spill blood onto the stone, chanting words of fire and shadow burned into his mind. The air shuddered, shadows twisted, and from the crimson rose Aelthys.
Still as stone, Aelthys shifted, his blackened steel longsword scraped the floor, a faint whisper in the crypt. His amber eyes, unblinking, bore into Vaegon with eerie focus. He knelt, his bronze-edged armor creaked, smearing with ritual blood. "My prince," he growled. "I am Aelthys, your kin by blood and flame. My blade is yours, my will your echo. Command me."
Vaegon rose unsteadily, silver-gold hair falling into his face, lilac eyes narrowing. The orb's warmth steadied him, but Aelthys was a darker gift, shadow and blood, not crops, and the hollowness gnawed at him.
"You speak as if alive," he said, voice hoarse, sharp with suspicion. "Yet you rose from my blood, shadow, sorcery. Are you truly mine to command, or the orb's?" His hand tightened on the dagger, slick with blood, poised for betrayal.
Aelthys stood, towering, amber eyes steady. "I am forged from your blood, my prince. The orb birthed me, but you bind me, I feel your fire. I'm no puppet to no master, my purpose is your will.
Vaegon raised the dagger to Aelthys' throat, testing. "Really, and If I falter or burn, what then?"
"I am your kin, not your judge," Aelthys rumbled. "I'll bear you up or burn with you. Your blood is my chain."
Vaegon lowered the dagger, unease coiling. "Then I'll send you to Guard Rosby's fields, two hundred acres. They are the smallfolk's hope. Bandits threaten them. Tomorrow, you will march with Ser Gyles and thirty men, prove your loyalty against the bandits that threatens the fields and you will have a place by my side."
He sheathed the dagger and pointed to the iron door, rusted hinges groaning as he pushed it open. "Come. We'll ready them tonight, the fields won't wait." Aelthys followed, bloody footprints trailing as they climbed from the crypt, Vaegon's mind churning, a shield or a storm unleashed?
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The outer yard of the Red Keep was quiet in the fading light of dusk. The sky was a deep mix of purple and gray, with the last rays of the sun stretching across it. Torches flickered along the stone walls, their light dancing over the wet cobblestones, still damp from the day's rain. The air smelled of wet earth, horses, and the faint, sharp scent of metal. Thirty warriors from the Stepstones stood in a loose formation. Their armor was dented, their shields bore the marks of battle, and their swords rested against their shoulders. Their faces were hardened by war, showing the weight of the brutal fights they had survived.
Ser Gyles Morrigen stood at their head, his scar-split brow furrowed, dark cloak billowing slightly in the evening breeze, his hand resting on his longsword's hilt. The clatter of hooves echoed as stableboys led horses away, their breath steaming in the chill.
Vaegon Targaryen walked into the yard, his eyes filled with both exhaustion and determination. His black cloak was heavy with mud from the Kingsroad. At his belt hung a dark orb, carved with the image of a dragon, it caught the torchlight, drawing curious looks, though only he knew its true purpose.
Beside him walked Aelthys, a tall and imposing figure clad in armor. His amber eyes glowed faintly, eerie in the dim light. A long, blackened steel sword rested at his side. Blood stained his boots, its source unknown, leaving faint red marks on the stone and stirring quiet whispers among the gathered men.
Vaegon stopped in front of the veterans, his stance firm despite his young age of twenty namedays. His voice was steady, careful to guard Aelthys' true origin. "Men of the Stepstones," he said, his words clear in the cold night air, "you have fought in wars far from home, shed blood for the realm. Now, i call on you again. The fields of Rosby, two hundred acres of wheat, rye, and turnips are our defense against famine. We must safeguard these crops against roaming bandits."
He gestured to Aelthys, his hand steady but his mind vigilant. "This is Aelthys, a warrior of unmatched skill, a survivor of the Stepstones' bloodiest battles. I've brought him to fight alongside you, under Ser Gyles' command. Thirty of you, hardened veterans, will defend the fields tomorrow at dawn. With Ser Gyles leading and Aelthys' blade at your side, the yield must stand." His lilac eyes met Ser Gyles', a silent affirmation of his leadership, then shifted to Aelthys, ensuring no hint of the blood ritual slipped through.
The veterans shifted uneasily in the flickering torchlight. One, an older man with a notched ear, muttered, "Stepstones survivor, eh? Those eyes glow like a wolf's, i don't like it." Another, younger, clutched his sword, whispering a prayer to the Seven, his gaze darting to the orb at Vaegon's belt.
Ser Gyles stepped forward, his scarred face unreadable, nodding to Vaegon. "I'll lead 'em true, my prince. Aelthys fights with us, he's one of us, for now." His tone carried a gruff respect, though his dark eyes lingered on Aelthys' glowing gaze with a flicker of suspicion.
Vaegon turned to Aelthys, his voice lowering. "Stay with them tonight, Aelthys. Familiarize yourself with the men, learn their strengths, their fears. You'll fight under Ser Gyles' command." Aelthys nodded, his amber eyes unblinking, a low hum vibrating from his form, a subtle echo of his creation, but in the still night, the men did not notice.
Vaegon stepped back, his gaze lingering on the warrior, then turned toward the Keep's arched entrance. "I'll leave you to it," he said, his voice steady but his mind a storm of doubt, the orb's visible presence a secret he must guard.
As Vaegon disappeared into the torchlit corridors, Ser Gyles took charge. "Right, lads, form up, time to get to know this Aelthys. Dawn comes quick, and Rosby is waiting its protectors." His voice held the weight of a seasoned commander, and the veterans obeyed, though their glances at Aelthys were wary.
Aelthys stood among them, tall and still, the blood on his boots dark against the stone. He studied the men with an intense, unreadable gaze before finally speaking. His voice was deep, rough like smoke from a forge.
"I stand beside you in this fight. The fields will endure, or we will fall defending them. Speak if you have any questions."
The veterans hesitated. Then, slowly, they began to speak, short words, cautious questions, rough jests. They tested him, feeling out the stranger in their ranks. Their voices mixed with the crackling torches as the night deepened, the shadows around them growing longer and colder.
The yard fell into silence as Vaegon's footsteps faded into the depths of the Keep, the night settling over the Red Keep like a heavy cloak. Aelthys remained with the men, his glowing amber eyes cutting through the darkness, his presence both unsettling and reassuring under Ser Gyles' sharp gaze.
But Vaegon did not return to his chambers. His restless steps carried him deeper into the Keep, his mind consumed by the mysteries of the orb and the ritual that had summoned Aelthys. Where had it come from? What forces had he unleashed? The orb's faint glint at his belt seemed almost mocking, as if it alone knew the answers he sought.
At last, he reached the library, a vast, shadowed hall where a single brazier cast flickering light over towering shelves. The air was thick with the scent of dust and parchment. Vaegon moved to a long wooden table, its surface cluttered with maps and books. His fingers found a worn leather-bound tome : Chronicles of Valyria. The pages, yellowed and fragile, rustled as he opened it.
His lilac eyes scanned the text, searching for answers, and found a passage scrawled in High Valyrian: "The rites of blood call forth guardians from shadow, their strength bound to the summoner's will, yet each act carves a piece from the soul. Beware the cost, for the old magic hungers."
Vaegon's breath caught, his hand trembling as he traced the words. The ritual, vague but ominous, mirrored the unease he felt after Aelthys' creation, yet the orb's purpose remained elusive. No mention of its power, its origin, or how to control it surfaced in the text.
He flipped through more pages, finding fragments of similar rites, blood offerings and shadow warriors, but nothing specific to the orb or Aelthys' form. The silence pressed against him, broken only by the brazier's crackle, and a chill run down his spine. The orb's glint seemed brighter, its silence a taunt, leaving him with more questions than answers.
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The Small Council Meeting.
Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Whisperers.
The throne room of the Red Keep stood quiet in the pale light of an autumn morning. Cold grey beams spilled through the high windows. Behind Prince Vaegon, the Iron Throne loomed, its edges dull in the dim light, a sharp reminder of the realm's fragile recovery. A recovery I had helped shape, whispering in the right ears, steering fate in unseen ways.
Three moons had passed since the boy first faced this council, three moons of toil, doubt, and that cursed orb at his belt, always gleaming like a silent jest. But the fields of Rosby had endured. Golden wheat swayed in the wind, rye stood tall, and turnips swelled beneath soil made rich with ash and dung.
The smallfolk, once hollow-eyed with hunger, now spoke not in desperate pleas but in murmurs of thanks. I had turned those murmurs into songs, Vaegon Cropbringer, fuel for hope, a thorn in the pride of high lords.
And yet, as I leaned against the edge of the council table, I saw no pride in the boy's lilac eyes. No relief. Only exhaustion and the weight of what lay ahead.
The Small Council sat around a big oak table, its scratched surface lit by the morning sun, showing a map of the realm's troubles.
Stewards hovered at the table's end, quills trembling over ledgers, their drab tunics stained with ink and sweat, faces taut with anticipation. I'd fed them tidbits—smallfolk tales of grain sacks and guarded fields, to keep their pens busy, their loyalty mine to twist.
"My lords," Vaegon began, his voice ringing clear through the hall, steady despite the fatigue. He straightened, shadows stretching behind him like wings, a dragon's promise or a prisoner's chains, I wondered.
"The fields have yielded. Rosby reports a harvest beyond hope, two hundred acres of wheat, rye, and turnips, sown late yet thriving. The smallfolk eat, the granaries are filling, and the Crownlands breathe again." He paused, and I caught the faint pulse of that orb at his belt, its black surface glinting like a raven's eye, a mystery that tugged at my instincts.
The council stirred, a ripple of murmurs breaking the silence, their faces a gallery of shock, relief, and calculation, music to my ears. I leaned forward, scratching my greying beard, my grin widening as I tilted the whispers in my head. The smallfolk sang his name, and the high lords choked on it, perfect.
Edgar Celtigar, Hand of the King, leaned forward. Eyes sharp with both wariness and reluctant respect, flicked across the table. his cane tapping the floor once, voice a low rasp. "A harvest in autumn's jaws, Prince Vaegon, proven as you swore," he said, his eyes searching Vaegon's face. "The realm steadies, and I'll not deny the gain. But this method, unseasonal, strange, how did you know it would hold?" His tone carried a Hand's duty, tempered by suspicion, the weight of stability his to bear.
Vaegon met Celtigar's gaze, his lilac eyes steady, though I caught a flicker of caution. "I studied the soil, my lord Hand," he said, voice calm but firm. "Ash and dung enriched it, trapping what warmth the sun could give. The crops were chosen for their hardiness, wheat and rye that cling to life, turnips that burrow deep. I knew because I tested it, in Rosby's smallest plots, before I dared the fields." He paused, the orb glinting at his belt, but he made no mention of it, a deflection I marked.
Tywin's eyes narrowed, a predator's gleam piercing the calm. "The fields thrive, yet the cost lingers, seed, labor, and now guards. What price did this victory exact, my prince?". He said, voice low, probing.
Vaegon turned to Tywin, his jaw tightening briefly before he answered. "The cost was high, Lord Lannister, seed bought from what stores we had, labor from smallfolk who worked for bread, not coin," he said, his tone measured.
"But the price of failure was higher. Famine would have broken the Crownlands, turned the smallfolk to bandits or worse. This harvest buys us time, time we'd not have had otherwise." His voice held a steel that impressed even me, though Tywin's gaze lingered on the orb, unconvinced.
Pycelle's trembling hands fumbled a parchment. Not long ago, he had dismissed this harvest as a fool's errand, now, his quivering hands betrayed his unease. His chain rattling as he sputtered, "Impossible, my prince! Against all learning, late planting and filth in the soil! The Seven must have turned their gaze, for no maester's lore, how could you defy nature so?"
Vaegon's gaze shifted to Pycelle, a flicker of impatience crossing his features before he softened his tone. "Nature bends when pushed, Grand Maester," he said, voice steady. "The filth, as you call it, fed the soil, ash from war's leavings, dung from the stables. I read of such methods in old texts, Dornish and YiTish, where crops grow in harsher climes. The Seven may have watched, but I worked." He offered a faint, wry smile, and I chuckled softly, Pycelle's faith was as brittle as his bones, and Vaegon knew it.
Tyland Velaryon leaned back, smirk widening, a ringed finger tapping the table. "A filthy trick turned fair, eh, lad?" he said, voice light with a sailor's drawl. "The ports will hum again, grain ships will sail where none did before. My fleet's idle days shorten, but I'd love to hear how you conjured this storm's end."
Vaegon turned to Velaryon, his expression easing slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "No conjuring, Lord Velaryon, just planning," he said, voice carrying a hint of warmth. "The storm ends because we moved before it broke us." He paused, and I saw Velaryon's smirk soften into rare approval, a thread I could use.
Merton Mertyns let out a breath, his ledger slipping a bit in his hands, his voice a high, relieved squeak. "The treasury's okay now, my prince. The harvest finally filled the granaries, so we don't need to ask the lords for more yet! But the seeds and workers cost a lot… we're not rich yet. How much do we really have?"
Vaegon turned to Mertyns, his voice calm and steady. "We're even, Lord Mertyns," he said clearly. "The seeds cost two thousand dragons, the workers one hundred. We made three thousand from Rosby's grain sales, and more will come in slowly. We're not rich, but we can rebuild without begging the Lannisters for gold." He glanced at Tywin, his look a quiet challenge. Staunton smiled, noting Mertyns' relief as something to use later.
Harlan Tyrell fixed his doublet, his hazel eyes shining with interest. "You've made a law with this harvest, Prince Vaegon, and it ties the realm together," he said, his voice warm with a Reach accent. "Things get fairer when hunger goes away, if this lasts, the lords will have to listen. But how will you keep them loyal now?"
Vaegon met Tyrell's gaze, his expression thoughtful. "Loyalty grows with results, Lord Tyrell," he said, voice firm. "The lords will bend when they see their own granaries fill, Rosby's yield already eases their hunger, and Duskendale's will follow. I'll send envoys to each holdfast, ensuring they share in the harvest's gains. Justice binds them when they eat as well as we do." He nodded, and I noted Tyrell's ambition, a thread to weave.
I let out a low, raspy chuckle, scratching at my beard as I leaned back in my chair. "The smallfolk sing your name, my prince," I said, my dark eyes gleaming with the glee of a scavenger. "'Vaegon Cropbringer,' they call you now. My rooks hear it loud and clear, hope rising in the hovels, while the high lords choke on it. I've tilted the whispers as promised, but mark my words, they'll curse you louder still. How will you silence their grumbling?"
Vaegon's lilac eyes met mine, a flicker of appreciation before he spoke. "Let them curse, Lord Staunton, as long as the smallfolk sing," he replied, his voice carrying a wry edge. "I'll quiet the lords with grain and promises. My envoys will carry both, and your whispers will smooth the way. For now, hope in the hovels outweighs the grumbling in the halls."
A faint smile crossed his lips, and I grinned wider. He knew the game well, and I could see the threads he was weaving. It was a dance we both understood.
The stewards' quills scratched faster, ink splattering as they recorded the council's shift, their nervous energy feeding my network.
Vaegon continued, his voice cutting through.
"We hold the fields," he said at last, his voice measured, calm. "But holding is not enough. The roads must be made safe, food means little if it cannot reach the mouths that need it. I propose a sweep of the Crownlands, striking down these bandits before they fester into something worse." His eyes flicked to Ser Gerold Hightower. "Your knights will ride with my men, led by Ser Gyles Morrigen, The veterans of Rosby have proven their worth, and they will fight again, for their homes, for their harvest."
Tywin Lannister studied him, fingers tapping once against the table. "A bold move," he murmured. "War takes coin. Will the Crown empty its coffers to pay these men, or does the prince ask for their loyalty on faith alone?"
Vaegon met Tywin's gaze without flinching. "The harvest fills our stores. Food is a currency enough for those who starve. The Crownlands' folk will fight for bread, for safety, for their families. And when the roads are clear, when trade flows again, the coffers will not be empty."
The council exchanged glances. Tywin's expression was unreadable, but the faintest nod of approval ghosted across his features.
Pycelle, still flustered, muttered under his breath, "Unorthodox. Dangerous. And yet…"
Gerold Hightower inclined his head. "If Ser Gyles leads them, they will hold."
Lord Edgar Celtigar rapped his cane against the stone. "Then it is settled. The prince's plan moves forward."
Vaegon inclined his head, though the weight of their scrutiny did not lift. He knew they watched him, measured him, some waiting for him to stumble, others waiting to see just how far he would go.
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Ser Gyles Morrigen.
The night gripped Rosby's holdfast, frost clinging to the stone walls under the dim moonlight. I stood in the courtyard, boots crunching on the frozen ground, my dark cloak stiff with ice, the wind biting through it. The air smelled of straw, sweat, and torch pitch, and I flexed my scarred hands around the hilt of my sword, expecting trouble. Behind me, sacks of wheat, rye, and turnips loomed, Prince Vaegon's gamble turned into gold, now guarded by thirty veterans. They were all that stood between the grain and any raiders bold enough to strike.
I scanned the road below, my voice rough. "They'll be back for more," I muttered. My men stood ready, spears in hand, breath steaming in the chill. Good lads, fought with me through the Ninepenny Kings, took steel to Blackfyre scum, but their eyes kept darting to him, the prince's new blade, and I couldn't blame 'em.
Aelthys stood by the gate, a damned giant in his odd bronze-edged armor, silent as death. His long sword hung at his side, and his amber eyes pierced through the darkness. His hair was ash-gray, streaked black, and his face was scarred worse than mine. "Lost three carts, and he gives us that to hold the rest," Jory muttered, his ear twitching. "Ain't right, Ser, eyes like that don't belong on a man."
"Stow it," I snapped, though I shared his unease. Vaegon called Aelthys a champion but wouldn't explain where he found him. Only that cold stare and a nod in the yard at dawn. I'd seen killers, but none moved like Aelthys, too still, too sure, like death itself.
Suddenly, a creak and the sound of wheels breaking branches reached my ears, followed by a howl. Thirty raiders emerged from the trees, axes and swords flashing, torches lighting up the night. Their leader, a scarred bastard, shouted, "Burn it down, take what's left! Cropbringer's luck runs dry!"
"Shields up—hold the gate!" I roared, drawing my sword as the raiders charged. The men braced, shields raised, and the clash of steel rang out as we fought. I dropped one bandit, but they set a sack of grain on fire before another bastard lost his head to Tomm's sword.
Then Aelthys moved, faster than any man I'd seen. His sword cut through the raiders like lightning, splitting a man's arm off and cleaving another's skull. His speed was unreal, he tore through them without a sound, his armor creaking with each movement. My men watched in awe as he killed with terrifying efficiency.
I locked swords with their leader, and as I glanced at Aelthys, I knew, this man was no ordinary warrior. He slaughtered the raiders, their bodies dropping one after another, while I barely cut two. "Seven hells," I gasped, barely dodging a swing.
The leader charged Aelthys, screaming, "damn you ,you're no man, die!" but Aelthys dispatched him with a single strike, piercing his heart. The rest of the raiders fled, leaving fifteen dead behind. Silence fell, broken only by the crackling fire and the smell of blood.
I sheathed my sword and watched Aelthys, wiping his blade calmly. "What are you?" I asked, voice rough than I meant, stepping over a body. "You saved the grain, but you're no man I'd march beside easily."
Aelthys turned, voice deep and steady. "I am the prince's will, Ser Gyles," he said. "The harvest stands. That is my proof."
The men murmured in fear. "Too quick, ain't human," Jory said. "Sorcery, Ser, those eyes, that speed." One of the younger men stammered, "Demon's work, saved us yes, but I'd rather face bandits alone." I barked, "Quiet, stack the dead, douse the fire!" but their whispers lingered. "Worth a dozen, no question," I muttered. "But Vaegon's hiding more than he's told."
By dawn, the tale spread through the inn, and soon it was in King's Landing: "Cropbringer's blade at Rosby, shadow-swift, eyes afire, cut fifteen down cold." I didn't hear it until later, riding toward the Red Keep. Aelthys stayed at the gate, blood dry on his boots. The grain was safe, but the questions burned.
{Feel free to leave a comment if you enjoy the character interactions, and share any ideas on the type of warrior Vaegon could summon.}