ACT II: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 1: The Court and Its Loves (59 AC – 87 AC)
Chapter 11: A Sorcerer’s Revenge(80 AC)
In the darkest and coldest depths of my Black Stone Tower, the obsidian corridors echoed only with the rhythmic sound of my boots.
Before me rose the gates to the ancestral vault of my maternal lineage and the secrets my father had brought from Valyria.
I stopped a few paces from the threshold, observing the stone floor.
There lay four human bodies contorted in grotesque shapes, their flesh partially melted, bones turned inside out, and organs exposed.
The Citadel of Oldtown, in its pathetic greed for forbidden knowledge, could not resist the temptation and had sent its spies to try and breach my arcane defenses.
I let out a sigh of pure disappointment as I looked at the mortal remains.
“How lamentable…
these wretches triggered only the oldest blood traps, my father’s.
They couldn’t even reach deep enough to test my own protections.”
That would be the perfect *casus belli* for me to march on Oldtown and turn the Citadel into a pile of smoldering ashes.
However, I held back my urge.
I would let young Vaegon try to reform that snake pit from within first; if he failed miserably, then I would destroy them without hesitation.
After all, for an immortal being like me, time is the one thing that is never in short supply.
Leaving the bodies behind, I climbed the spiral staircases toward the upper floors.
This time, Daenerys had not accompanied me to the North.
The journey I would undertake shortly involved ancient rituals and blood covenants between my bloodline and the Lords of Winterfell—extremely private matters of my maternal family in which not even the Targaryen firstborn should meddle.
I do not know exactly what pacts and blood terms my parents signed in the past to seal the union between House Vaelarys and House Stark, but for as long as I can remember, this sacred tradition has been upheld with every new generation that takes command of the North.
I projected my consciousness into the mind of a golden eagle soaring over the limits of my valley.
Through the bird’s sharp eyes, I spotted young Edric Stark—the new Lord of Winterfell and successor to the late Alaric—riding toward my tower accompanied by his elite guard.
He would still take a few hours to reach my gates.
Descending to the main hall, I passed two young maidservants who were carefully cleaning ceramic vases in the corridors.
I halted my steps and observed the two for a moment.
“And you, fair maidens?
I don’t recall seeing you around here before.”
The girls startled, embarrassed and nervous in my presence.
The first raised her eyes, adjusting her apron:
“My name is Ella, my lord…
I am Darla’s daughter.”
I looked at the girl and flashed an involuntary smile.
Merely observing the young woman’s monumental bosom—which defied gravity with the same bounty as her mother’s—along with the blood signature emanating from her skin, made it crystal clear that she was indisputably blood of Darla’s blood.
I turned my gaze to the second girl and asked:
“And you?”
“I am Mary, my lord…
Freya’s daughter.”
“Ah, yes…
now I can see Freya’s face in you.”
In the very next second, without warning, my right hand shot out like a lethal strike and closed with colossal force around “Mary’s” neck.
I lifted the girl’s body off the ground effortlessly, keeping her suspended in midair while her legs kicked wildly at nothing.
Though it was a ridiculous question to which I already knew the exact answer, I stared into the creature’s eyes and asked:
“Tell me…
did you kill her?”
The girl began to tremble violently, stammering apologies and fake tears streaming down her face.
Ella took three steps back, pale with terror, unable to comprehend what was happening.
I let out a chilling laugh, tightening my fingers even further against the impostor’s windpipe:
“Do you think I’m an idiot?
Or are you the idiot here, Faceless Man, for believing you could sneak into my domain without me sensing the rot of the dead flesh you wear?”
Realizing his charade was entirely exposed, the assassin instantly stopped feigning despair.
With a swift movement, he drew a hidden dagger from beneath his robes and attempted to plunge it directly into my chest.
The blade didn’t even touch my tunic.
Before the strike could land, I channeled a microscopic spark of fire sorcery: the assassin’s entire arm, from wrist to shoulder, turned to fine ash instantly, dissipating into the air.
The Faceless Man uttered no scream of pain, only a muffled, dry groan.
“Now let’s see which wretch paid for your service.”
“The Man will not reveal his clients…” the assassin algorithmically muttered in a failing voice.
“Fascinating…
but I never said I was going to ask.”
Using the brute force of my skinchanging ability, I shattered the fellow’s mind and invaded his consciousness without asking permission.
I forced my way through his memories, ripping apart his secrets and absorbing every recollection.
The psychic violence of the invasion caused the assassin’s eyes to roll back and his brain to melt inside, killing him in a matter of seconds.
I dropped the lifeless corpse to the floor and, with a flick of my fingers, reduced the creature’s body and the skin mask he wore into pure ash.
I looked at young Ella, who was cowering against the wall, and said calmly:
“Clean this up, Ella dear.”
“W-Where is Mary?…
Where is the real Mary, my lord?” the girl asked with a trembling voice.
“Unfortunately, the real Mary is gone.
But worry not…
I will not leave this insult unpunished.”
Shortly after, I found the lifeless body of young Mary hidden in a valley storeroom.
The girl was only fifteen years old.
I then sat upon my oak throne to await the arrival of Edric Stark.
Analyzing the situation, I was surprised by the delay of this attack.
I had imagined the Order of Faceless Men would attempt something against me during my first years in the capital, not now, more than twenty years later.
The mental search I conducted in the assassin’s memories revealed the true contractors: it was neither the Faith nor the Citadel—damn them, when they are expected to act, they do nothing.
The contract had been financed by a coalition of Andal lords, headed directly by Lord Rodrik Arryn, the king’s Master of Laws.
After my mandatory, bloody visit to Braavos, I would need to decide what to do with House Arryn.
Merely killing Lord Rodrik would be far too mild a punishment for my taste.
Upon returning to the capital, I would begin my vengeance by seducing timid Princess Daella before handing her over as a bride to Arryn.
And in the distant future, when young Jeyne Arryn was born, perhaps planting a bastard in her womb and having him rule the Vale would be the poetic conclusion to this feud.
In addition, of course, to fucking Rodrik’s current wife now and any woman of his line later.
May Viserys forgive me in the future, but a promise of vengeance from House Vaelarys is sacred.
Lord Edric Stark finally crossed the gates of my tower.
Seeing the heavy atmosphere of the place, the young Lord of Winterfell asked about what had transpired.
I was direct and incisive:
“I was the target of an assassination attempt by a spy from Braavos.
Because of this, your stay here must be brief, Edric.
I promised a sea of blood through the streets of the free city and I intend to keep my word this very day.”
I led young Lord Stark to the ritual chamber beneath the tower.
There, he handed me the sacred ingredients required by tradition: a cup of his own blood, boiling water drawn from three hot springs in the valley, frozen water from the sacred grove’s lake, and pure sap harvested from Winterfell’s weirwood.
I mixed the elements using blood sorcery, creating a dark, dense paste that Edric swallowed without hesitation.
Next, the young man walked to the center of a ritual circle carved into the obsidian floor—an ancient combination fusing Valyrian blood glyphs and runes of the First Men.
Edric knelt in the center of the figure.
With the tip of my nail, imbued with magic, I made a clean horizontal cut across his forehead.
Blood trickled softly down his face.
I placed the palm of my hand over the young man’s wounded forehead and channeled my power, awakening the dormant arcane heritage within his Stark blood1.
Instantly, the vision of the chamber shifted.
The torchlight extinguished and absolute darkness swallowed the room.
From the shadows in the corners of the hall, dozens of pairs of sentient eyes began to open—eyes of direwolves, owls, bears, and creatures forgotten by history, glowing in shades of gold, green, and silver.
I felt the young lord tremble from head to toe beneath my hand.
“What are you afraid of, lad?
Do you fear your own gods now?”
“Are…
are they not yours as well, Lord Vaelarys?” Edric asked, gasping.
“Yes, they are.
But I also pray to the fire gods of Old Valyria.
Now, let us finish this.”
With one last pulse of arcane energy, I sent a shockwave through Edric’s body, completing the ritual.
The darkness retreated instantly and the chamber lights returned.
I healed the cut on the young man’s forehead with a touch of blood sorcery.
Edric stood up slowly, taking a deep breath and adjusting his tunic:
“Thank you, Lord Vaelarys.”
“Do not thank me.
This is part of our traditions and the solemn covenant between our houses.”
The lad looked around, still awed by what he had witnessed:
“Was that…
were those in the dark truly the Old Gods?”
I did not answer with words; I merely held an enigmatic smile on my lips.
Those entities were indeed the manifestations of the Old Gods, who took advantage of the spiritual breach in that ancestral ritual to observe the mortal plane clearly, since the very will and magical fabric of the world do not allow them to interfere or view the world of the living easily.
Without losing a second, I mounted The Cannibal’s back and flew at high speed toward King’s Landing.
Upon landing in the castle courtyard, I went straight to meet King Jaehaerys and detailed the assassination attempt orchestrated against me within my own domain.1
The king’s reaction was an explosive mix of fury and political panic.
Jaehaerys paced back and forth in his quarters, his face flushed with indignation:
“This is an unacceptable outrage, Arthos!
A direct insult to the Crown!
But what do you intend to do now?”
“Why, Jae…
it’s quite simple.
I am going to Braavos to speak politely with the leaders of the House of Black and White and the Sealord.”
Jaehaerys stopped instantly, his eyes widening in pure horror:
“Have you lost your mind?!
That would cause a massive diplomatic and military incident between the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities!
Braavos is our largest trading partner and the Iron Bank holds half the world’s debt!
You cannot simply march in with a dragon and destroy the city, Arthos!
I forbid this madness!”
I met the king with the coldness of my gray eyes, maintaining an erect posture:
“I think you misunderstand the situation, Jae…
I am not coming here to ask for your permission or your royal approval.
I am merely according you the courtesy of informing you of what is about to happen.”
“Arthos, listen to reason!
As king, I must think of the continent’s stability, peace treaties, and the safety of the people!
If you attack Braavos, you will put the entire realm at risk of war!” Jaehaerys shot back, desperately trying to appeal to my common sense. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
“And that is your duty as king, Jae.
My duty is to protect my blood and collect the lives of my vassals with interest.”
Turning my back on the monarch, I ignored my friend’s shouts and protests, walking with firm steps toward the courtyard.
I mounted The Cannibal’s back and took flight toward the Narrow Sea.
After a few days crossing open waters, the imposing figure of the Titan of Braavos appeared on the horizon, rising like a mountain of stone and bronze over the lagoon’s entrance.
I showed no mercy whatsoever.
I commanded The Cannibal to swoop past the colossal structure and, with a violent strike of his massive obsidian tail, my dragon shattered half of the bronze head and shoulder of the Titan, sending tons of rock and metal plunging into the sea with a deafening crash.
We landed violently directly on the city’s main quay, cracking stone pavers and destroying dozens of anchored vessels.
The sound of hurried steps and the clinking of heavy armor echoed through the streets.
A few minutes later, the Sealord of Braavos appeared on the pier accompanied by his elite personal guard.
The man was visibly enraged by the destruction of the Titan and the harbor, but his face turned deathly pale upon coming face-to-face with The Cannibal’s mountain of black scales.
A crowd of onlookers and merchants began gathering around the corners.
I raised my right hand into the air.
From a glass vial engraved with sorcery, I crafted a large quantity of blood—the blood I had drawn from the lifeless body of the real Mary—and transformed the red liquid into hundreds of fine, lethal needles of pure magic.
With a wave of my fingers, I launched the rain of needles into the crowd.
The needles tore through the air and pierced with surgical precision the faces of five specific individuals scattered among the mass of people.
Shrieks of horror echoed across the pier.
The struck individuals fell to the ground, writhing in violent spasms as the blood magic shattered the illusion spells and skin masks they wore, forcing their bodies to revert to their true, disfigured appearances as Faceless Men.
The crowd scattered in absolute panic, leaving on the pier only the Sealord, his trembling guards, and the five unmasked assassins on the ground.
I approached the Sealord, looking down at him with disdain:
“Do you know who I am, Sealord?”
The man swallowed hard, cold sweat running down his forehead as he tried to maintain his dignity:
“Y-yes…
Lord Vaelarys.
I know perfectly well who you are.”
“And do you happen to know whose blood this is floating around me?”
“No, my lord…
I have no idea.”
“This blood belonged to Mary,” I declared, my calm tone laced with a promise of death.
“A young peasant girl from my lands in the North.
A pretty girl, fifteen years old, who had a happy family and a whole life ahead of her…
until she was brutally murdered by one of your dogs to have her face stolen, preventing even her parents from having the right to give her a dignified burial.”
The Sealord blinked, confused and terrified.
“Now, please…
step out of my way.
I have a conversation to settle.”
The ruler of Braavos and his guards cleared the way immediately, not daring to utter a single sound.
I walked through the stone streets of the city.
From time to time, I launched new blood needles at alleys, rooftops, and windows, instantly killing other hidden spies and assassins.
Finally, I stopped before the oak and ebony wooden gates of the House of Black and White.
Before I could tear down the structure, the door opened slowly.
An elderly acolyte, wearing the order’s split robes, stepped forward and faced me:
“We understand your message, son of House Vaelarys…”
“How many of you remain in this world?” I asked in a cold voice.
“Twenty in total…
ten are on distant missions across the continent, and only five remain inside this house.”
With a snap of my fingers, I fired my last five blood needles into the temple.
Shadows fell dead inside the hall.
“Now only fifteen of you remain in this world.
Do you know why I decided to leave that exact number alive?”
The acolyte kept an impassive face, though his hands were trembling:
“The Man does not know…”
“Because fifteen was Mary’s exact age when your dogs killed her1.”
At that very instant, The Cannibal plunged from the skies like a shadow meteor, landing with devastating force in the courtyard of the House of Black and White, destroying stone columns and the sacred altar.
I climbed up my dragon’s wing and settled into the saddle.
I faced the destroyed temple gates and addressed my words not just to the acolyte, but to the ancestral entity inhabiting that place itself:
“Do not make me have to return to this place, follower of the Many-Faced God…
or I will burn this entire city until not a single stone stands upon another, along with all of you.
Control your dogs.”
The Cannibal let out a deafening roar that sent the waters of the Braavos lagoon churning and took flight toward the heavens, leaving the Free City plunged in terror and ruins.
During the return flight to King’s Landing, my mind navigated through the revenge plans I would execute against Lord Rodrik Arryn and the other Andal Houses that dared finance that attack.
And, inevitably, my thoughts turned to Princess Daella Targaryen.
The girl was known at court for her extreme shyness, her skittish stutter, and her chronic fear of men.
However, having invaded her mind through sorcery on previous occasions, I knew perfectly well that beneath that facade of a helpless maiden, Daella’s mind harbored terribly fertile desires and fantasies.
I would personally take it upon myself to teach her every position and pleasure of the flesh before handing her over to old Arryn.
That would be merely the first stage of the price the Vale would pay for defying the Sorcerer of King’s Landing.
Obviously without revealing who the instigators are, since Jaehaerys would put them on trial, thereby preventing the revenge….so that they always remember the reason why they were nearly exterminated when they see the records in the future.It only awakens their talent; it doesn't turn them into super-mages.
Most will simply be normal Wargs, which is obviously already a huge advantage for a lord.