Chapter 14: The Shadow Cat's Tear and the Citadel's Design
The fear King Baelon I Targaryen had sown in his first year of rule blossomed into a pervasive, chilling frost across the Seven Kingdoms. Open rebellion was unthinkable; the charred gates of minor Reach lordlings and the vacant stares of those who had witnessed Umbraxys's silent terror served as potent reminders of the King's capacity for swift, unmerciful retribution. King's Landing itself moved with a hushed, almost reverent order. The Small Council, under the stoic Lord Lyonel Strong, executed the King's decrees with an efficiency born more of trepidation than loyalty. Voldemort, from the cold iron embrace of his throne, observed this new era of grim obedience with a detached satisfaction. It was a solid foundation, but far from the absolute, worshipful dominion he envisioned.
His true focus, the engine driving his every calculated move, remained the pursuit of unending life and power. Umbraxys, now a creature of terrifying majesty within its expanded sub-dimensional lair, was his confidante, his weapon, and the key to his most audacious ambition. Voldemort had mastered the art of projecting his consciousness through the shadow dragon, allowing him to 'walk' the corridors of the Red Keep, even the distant halls of far-flung castles, as an unseen observer. This silent omniscience was a powerful tool of governance; plots withered before they could bloom, incompetence was exposed with unnerving speed, and loyalty – or the convincing performance thereof – was meticulously cataloged.
The quest for the ingredients necessary for the Valyrian longevity ritual, the one that promised true agelessness through a symbiotic bond with Umbraxys and the Heart of Valyria, had yielded its first significant fruit. Larys Strong, his Master of Whisperers, his clubfoot making barely a whisper on the polished stone floors of the royal solar, presented a small, lead-lined casket with a flourish that was almost theatrical.
"Your Grace," Larys murmured, his eyes gleaming with a sycophantic light, "after considerable expenditure and the discreet… persuasion… of certain parties in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, my agents have procured it." He opened the casket. Nestled on a bed of black velvet was a single, solidified teardrop, the size of a pigeon's egg, shimmering with an internal, violet luminescence that seemed to drink the surrounding light. "The Tear of a Shadow-Cat, as requested."
Voldemort picked up the Tear, its surface unnaturally cold, a faint, almost inaudible sigh seeming to emanate from its depths. He felt the potent, sorrowful magic within it, a concentration of shadow and ancient grief. "Excellent, Lord Larys," he said, a rare note of genuine satisfaction in his voice. "Your service is… invaluable." One more piece of the puzzle. The heart of a firewyrm and the volcanic crystals from the ruins of Valyria itself remained, each presenting its own formidable challenge.
While Baelon pursued godhood, the mortal drama of his confined half-siblings continued its dreary course. Aegon, now sixteen, remained a sullen, often drunken lout, his spirit seemingly broken, though Larys occasionally reported whispers of defiant boasts made in the depths of his cups to the few servants still willing to risk attending him. Queen Dowager Alicent, her face etched with lines of bitterness, clung to her piety and her remaining son, Aemond, with a desperate fervor.
Aemond 'One-Eye' Targaryen, at fifteen, was a different creature altogether. His missing eye was a constant, burning reminder of the price he had paid for Vhagar, and that price had forged him into something hard and dangerous. His mastery over the ancient bronze she-dragon was now absolute, their bond one of shared ferocity and bitter pride. He chafed under Baelon's restrictions, his single sapphire eye often blazing with contempt for his elder half-brother.
An incident, inevitable as a summer storm, finally erupted. Aemond, during a rare, heavily supervised flight with Vhagar over the Blackwater Bay, had encountered his nephew, Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra's eldest, practicing his own aerial maneuvers on his young green dragon, Vermax. Jacaerys, bold and perhaps foolishly overconfident, had allegedly taunted Aemond about his missing eye. What followed was a terrifying chase, Vhagar's immense bulk easily outmaneuvering the smaller Vermax. Aemond had not unleashed Vhagar's flames, but he had flown dangerously close, his dragon's roar buffeting the younger prince and his mount, forcing Vermax into a panicked, uncontrolled dive that had nearly ended in tragedy.
Rhaenyra was incandescent with rage, demanding justice for the assault on her son. Alicent defended Aemond fiercely, accusing Jacaerys of provoking him. The court buzzed with the scandal.
Baelon summoned Aemond to the throne room. The one-eyed prince stood defiant, unrepentant. "The bastard whelp insulted me, Your Grace. He needed to be taught a lesson."
"A lesson in fear, perhaps, Aemond?" Baelon's voice was deceptively soft. "Or a lesson in how quickly a Prince of the Blood can find himself facing charges of attempted kinslaying?" He leaned forward on the throne. "Vhagar is a weapon of immense power. You will learn to control her, and your temper, or I will take her from you. And I assure you, unlike my father, I am not swayed by maternal tears or boyish tantrums."
Aemond's jaw clenched. "You would not dare."
"Dare?" A cold smile touched Baelon's lips. "I had your grandfather's head removed for less. You are confined to the Red Keep for a year. Vhagar will be chained in the Dragonpit. You will not approach her. You will spend your days in the library, under the tutelage of Maester Alfador, studying the laws of inheritance and the penalties for treason. Perhaps then, you will learn the value of discretion."
Aemond's face contorted with rage, but before he could speak, Baelon made a subtle gesture. Two Kingsguard knights, their faces like stone, stepped forward, flanking the furious prince. Aemond, knowing resistance was futile against Baelon's will and the power he could unleash, allowed himself to be escorted away, his single eye burning with a hatred that was almost pure enough to admire. Voldemort knew this punishment would only deepen Aemond's resentment, but it was a necessary display of authority. Moreover, it further isolated Aemond, making him a more predictable, if still dangerous, quantity.
News from the Stepstones, meanwhile, was both triumphant and problematic. Prince Daemon, with his characteristic blend of brilliance and brutality, had indeed cleansed the islands of pirates. He had hunted down and slaughtered the self-styled Pirate King, Drako Astoris, and scattered his fleets. He had planted King Baelon's banner on Bloodstone and every other significant island, his campaign a masterpiece of swift, merciless warfare. However, his methods – wholesale slaughter of defeated foes, the burning of entire settlements that had sheltered pirates, and the imposition of crippling 'tributes' on merchant ships from Myr and Tyrosh that sought passage – had deeply antagonized the Free Cities. Envoys from Pentos and Volantis had arrived in King's Landing, protesting Daemon's 'barbarity' and his disruption of established trade routes.
Baelon listened to their complaints in open court, his expression unreadable. "Prince Daemon acts under my authority to secure the Stepstones for the welfare and safety of all peaceful trade, including that of the Free Cities," he declared. "However, the Crown does not condone unwarranted cruelty or the disruption of legitimate commerce." He then sent a raven to Daemon, a carefully worded missive. It praised his victories, acknowledged his success in securing the islands, but also 'advised' him to moderate his methods with the Free Cities, reminding him that stable trade was more profitable in the long run than terror and plunder. He also subtly requested a detailed accounting of the 'tributes' collected.
Daemon's reply was typically terse: "The Stepstones are secure. The Free Cities whine like spanked children. Trade will resume when they learn to respect the King's peace. Tributes are being used to fortify our new holdings. Send more wine."
Voldemort almost smiled. Daemon was incorrigible, but his success was undeniable. The Stepstones were now Targaryen territory, a vital strategic chokehold. He would deal with Daemon's excesses later. For now, the Rogue Prince was serving his purpose.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra continued to build her family. Word arrived of the birth of her fourth son, named Aegon, a name that caused a ripple of consternation at court, seen by some as a deliberate echo of Alicent's own firstborn. Baelon, however, was indifferent to the name. He sent lavish gifts, maintaining the facade of familial accord. His agents on Dragonstone, including a Maester whose loyalty Larys had carefully cultivated, kept him informed of Rhaenyra's activities. She was a popular princess, her small court vibrant, her sons doted upon. Lord Corlys Velaryon visited frequently, his influence over his daughter-in-law and grandsons considerable. The Velaryon alliance held, but Baelon knew Corlys's ambition was a tide that never truly receded.
With the realm relatively pacified and his enemies contained, Baelon turned his intellect towards a grander, more lasting legacy than mere conquest: the physical reshaping of his capital, the creation of a citadel that would be a monument to his power and a center for his arcane pursuits. He spent long hours with royal architects and master stonemasons, not merely approving plans, but actively designing, incorporating principles of Valyrian architecture and defensive magic gleaned from his studies in the Heart of Valyria.
His vision was for a new wing of the Red Keep, an Obsidian Citadel, to be built adjoining Maegor's Holdfast, its foundations reaching down to connect with the geothermal energies of the Heart chamber itself. Its walls would be of fused black stone, impervious to dragonflame and siege engines, its towers reaching to impossible heights, inscribed with permanent Valyrian wards of protection and concealment. Within its hidden sanctums would be libraries to house the arcane knowledge he was accumulating, laboratories for his magical experiments, and a private observatory to chart the celestial alignments crucial for the most potent Valyrian rituals. It would be a fortress within a fortress, a testament to his power, and a place where he could pursue his research into immortality undisturbed for centuries to come. The project would take decades, perhaps generations, but Baelon, planning for eternity, was a patient architect.
During his research for the Citadel's design, sifting through ancient texts 'unearthed' by the diligent Pate, Baelon once again encountered more detailed references to Aegon the Conqueror's prophetic dream – the Song of Ice and Fire. This time, the text, purportedly a fragment from the lost memoirs of Aegon's sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, spoke not just of a coming darkness from the North, but of a 'Prince That Was Promised,' a champion who would lead the living against the dead.
Voldemort considered this with a flicker of cold amusement. The Muggles, even the supposedly enlightened Valyrians, were always looking for saviors, for prophecies to cling to. He had been the subject of such a prophecy once, and it had led to his downfall. He had no interest in fulfilling anyone else's destiny, nor in battling some nebulous 'Great Other' for the sake of humanity. However, the prophecy itself… that could be a tool. A powerful narrative to unite the realm under his banner, should the need arise. Or perhaps, this 'Great Other,' if it truly existed, was merely another rival for ultimate dominion, a force to be studied, understood, and eventually subjugated or destroyed. He filed the information away, another piece in the grand, cosmic game he intended to win.
His immediate concern remained the final ingredients for his longevity ritual. The heart of a firewyrm, while rare, was obtainable; Larys's agents were already tracking rumors of a nest in the mountains near Dragonstone. But the volcanic crystals from the heart of Valyria… that was the true challenge. The Smoking Sea was a place of dread, of madness, of horrors that had consumed countless expeditions. To retrieve them would require a perilous journey, one perhaps only he, with Umbraxys, could undertake.
King Baelon I Targaryen stood on the balcony of his solar, the Tear of the Shadow-Cat cold in his palm, its sorrowful magic a faint thrum against his skin. He looked out over King's Landing, a city cowed into obedience, a kingdom bent to his will. The Iron Throne was secure. His enemies were neutralized. His power, both mundane and magical, grew daily. The Obsidian Citadel was taking shape in his mind, a future beacon of his eternal reign. The path to true immortality was becoming clearer, its challenges formidable but not insurmountable. He was Lord Voldemort, the Serpent King, and the world was his to reshape, one terrified soul, one conquered obstacle, one stolen secret at a time. The shadows were his domain, and his reign had only just begun to cast its long, dark silhouette across the future of Westeros.