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The earth trembled beneath the weight of thousands. The banners of House Lannister, House Tyrell, and House Baratheon snapped violently in the wind as the sky hung heavy and gray an omen of blood to come.
At the head of the golden host, Kevan Lannister sat rigid in his saddle, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins. His warhorse shifted nervously beneath him, snorting since it, too, sensed the unnatural presence crawling toward them.
And there they were a hundred shadow knights.
They marched in eerie unison, black armor glinting faintly beneath the storm's pallor. Each step was silent, precise too precise. Their violet eyes glowed in the darkness as they advanced without a hint of fear.
One hundred.
A suicidal number to leave the safety of the walls. Any seasoned commander knew this you don't abandon the castle's advantage unless you had a death wish. Fifty men could hold a castle for weeks, yet these… these things? They came onto the open field willingly, against thousands.
It was madness.
"What in the name of all seven hells…" aTyrell muttered, the swagger in his voice replaced with genuine unease.
Kevan exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. "They're baiting us," he said, though even he wasn't sure. "Whatever these things are… they want us to come to them."
A Stormland knight rode up, panic lacing his voice. "Shall we hold, my lord? This...this is sorcery! They can't mean to fight us in the open, even if they are not men, we have the numbers!"
Kevan's gaze hardened. "Hold?" He shook his head. "No. Whatever magic this is, it should bleed like anything else."
He unsheathed his sword the Valyrian steel blade gifted by Tywin himself, and raised it high. The polished black-and-red steel gleamed wickedly in the dim light.
"Archers!" His command rang out like thunder. "draw!"
Thousands of bowstrings creaked in unison, the archers lining the ridges and the flanks readying their arrows.
"Loose!"
A storm of iron-tipped death blackened the sky. The hiss of thousands of arrows cut through the wind, raining down on the approaching shadow knights.
The first volley fell a lethal downpour. No living man could stand against such a barrage.
And yet they did.
The shadow knights moved with inhuman fluidity. Many of the arrows struck but where flesh should tear, the shadows only shuddered. Some knights took the brunt of the assault, black armor riddled with arrows, but They did not fall.
Kevan's eyes narrowed. "Impossible."
AKnight let out a breath of disbelief. "They're still standing… what are they?"
Another knight barked, panic rising, "They should be dead by now!"
Kevan bared his teeth. "Damn them to hell...fine. If arrows won't do it..." He lowered his sword. "Lannisters!" His voice rang with the authority of battle. "You wanted a fight? Here it is!"
He pointed the blade toward the advancing shadows.
"Send them back to the hell they crawled from!"
A thunderous battle cry erupted from the army a deafening roar of thousands eager to drown their fear in blood.
"FOR THE REACH!"
"FOR THE WEST!"
"FOR THE STAG! AND FOR STORMS END!"
The ground shook as the golden host surged forward. Knights in shining armor, footmen with swords and spears...an avalanche of steel and fury charged to meet the unnatural threat.
The first clash came hard and fast.
A Lannister knight swung his sword at the nearest shadow soldier, a crushing, overhead blow. The shadow knight raised a jagged black shield, absorbing the impact with terrifying ease. Before the knight could recover, a shadow blade pierced through his chest, clean, silent, and deadly.
Screams rang out as more shadow soldiers met the charge. They moved like wraiths, cutting through men with inhuman precision. Spears shattered. Blades broke. Armor failed.
Yet, the army pushed back.
"They can die," Kevan snarled. "Keep pushing!"
The air hung heavy with tension as the shadow knights advanced, their blackened forms cutting through like death incarnate. One hundred in total moving in a relentless tide of darkness that marched without sound or hesitation.
Kevan Lannister's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale beneath his gauntlet. Gods help us. It was one thing to hear whispers of shadow demons tearing men apart. It was another to see them.
"Steady!" Kevan barked, masking his unease. "Whatever these things are, we outnumber them a hundred to one. We'll walk away with victory"
A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the ranks forced, but it was enough to keep the fear from overtaking them.
A Baratheon knight cursed under his breath. "They don't die…"
"Enough!" Kevan's voice cut through the rising panic. "Spears forward! Hold the line! We stop them here!"
The front ranks braced as the shadow knights closed the final distance. The first clash came like a thunderbolt steel met shadow, and the living screamed. The shadow knights carved through the ranks with terrifying precision. Blades of black ice cut through plate and mail like parchment. Men fell in droves cut down before they could react, blood staining the field in gruesome arcs.
A Lannister bannerman thrust his spear at one of the shadows, only for his weapon to pass through as if striking air. In the next instant, the shadow knight's sword carved through his neck, sending his head rolling across the grass.
"They're...They're demons!" a soldier shrieked before a shadow's blade silenced him forever.
Kevan gritted his teeth as he swung his sword, steel meeting shadow. His blade felt like it hit solid iron, but the shadow knight didn't falter. Another came from the side—Kevan barely raised his shield in time to deflect a strike that could've torn him in half.
"What in the name of all the gods are we fighting?" a Tyrell commander roared, driving his sword uselessly against a shadow knight's breastplate. It did nothing. The shadow's blade answered, cutting him down where he stood.
Kevan's heart pounded in his chest as he pulled back, blood splattering his face from a dying man beside him. His forces, three thousand strong Lannisters, were being slaughtered. And not a single shadow knight had fallen. Not one.
The shadow knights moved with inhuman grace lethal, and utterly silent. They did not speak. Did not bleed. They only killed.
A knight of the Stormlands raised his warhammer, bellowing, "For Storm's End!" He swung with all his might, only for a shadow's blade to pierce his heart before the blow landed. His corpse hit the ground with a dull thud.
A panicked cry rang out from the rear. "They can't be killed! We have to fall back!"
Kevan felt a cold weight settle in his gut. His well-trained men, battle-hardened soldiers who had faced war and rebellion, were breaking. And for the first time in his long career, he could not blame them.
"Hold the line!" he roared, but his voice, so sure and commanding mere moments ago, felt hollow against the unyielding advance of death itself.
****
Aeron walked through the blackened expanse, his steps unhurried, eyes closed as a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Good… I don't have to go back." The thought hummed in his mind like a quiet triumph. Whatever was happening at Storm's End, he didn't need to lift a finger. His shadow soldiers were doing exactly what they were meant to do. Kill.
"Pitiful men of Westeros," he mused. "But I understand why the so-called gods want me dead now. Those poor fools… they really have no chance."
The sound of his boots striking the ground echoed faintly in the oppressive silence, the air thick with something ancient and malevolent. He opened his eyes, and immediately, the smile faded.
The Shadowlands.
Even with all the horrors he had seen, creatures born of death and darkness, this place was different.
A sickly, red-black sky stretched overhead, churning like a wound that refused to close. There was no sun, no moon, only an eerie crimson glow casting jagged, bleeding streaks across the horizon. The air was heavy and foul, thick with the stench of sulfur and something far worse.
Jagged black rocks jutted from the earth like broken teeth, the ground cracked and scorched, Pools of inky liquid dotted the landscape, too thick to be water, too still to be natural. Occasionally, something inside them shifted.
The very ground seemed to pulse beneath his feet, as if the land itself was alive… and watching.
"I thought Asshai was bad," Aeron muttered, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the nightmarish wasteland stretching endlessly before him. "But this place? It's ten times worse...I can barely see a damn thing."
His usual sharp vision, bolstered by his powers, struggled to pierce through the unnatural gloom. The darkness here wasn't just an absence of light, it was something deeper, more absolute. It clung to his skin, whispering in a language he couldn't quite hear, like a thousand unseen eyes watching his every step.
Far in the distance, a jagged silhouette pierced the sky, a towering black mountain.
"So, this is place of legends…" Aeron murmured to himself. "will i find the gods' little playthings here, or something else."
A chill ran down his spine, not from fear, but from the weight of understanding. If this was the source of certain creatures… then whatever waited inside that mountain, might make Veydris look like a child.
And that only made his smile return.
"Good enough," he whispered, his voice carrying into the dark. "Dear shadowlands, make my trip here worthwhile, and show me something interesting."
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