Chapter 19: The Ageless Gaze and the Iron Edict
The years, for King Baelon I Targaryen, began to lose their conventional meaning. To the Seven Kingdoms, nearly a decade had passed since his brutal, decisive ascension. He was a man in his late twenties, yet his appearance remained stubbornly fixed in the prime of his early manhood – the silver-gold hair untouched by grey, the pale skin unlined, the unsettlingly youthful face a mask for an ancient, predatory soul. This unnerving agelessness, whispered about in hushed tones from the Wall to the shores of Dorne, became another facet of his terrifying legend. Lord Voldemort, the eternal king, found this perception… satisfactory. It amplified the fear, the awe, the sense of his almost supernatural authority.
The Obsidian Citadel, his monument to enduring power and arcane knowledge, now dominated the King's Landing skyline. Its black, fluted towers, seemingly carved from a single piece of volcanic rock, pierced the sky with an arrogant grace, their construction completed with a speed that defied mundane explanation. Within its walls, the Heart of Valyria pulsed in its sub-dimensional chamber, directly beneath the King's private solar, and Umbraxys, his shadow titan, coiled in its expanded abyss, a silent, eternal sentinel whose senses were Baelon's own, reaching into every corner of his burgeoning empire. The census was complete, a meticulous Domesday Book of Westeros that laid bare every resource, every soul, every hidden strength and vulnerability of his domain. The new Code of Baelon, a unified legal system personally reviewed and ruthlessly streamlined by the King, was now law, its edicts enforced with an iron impartiality that brooked no dissent.
His Royal Academy for Valyrian Studies, housed within the Citadel's most secure wing, buzzed with a fearful, scholarly energy. Baelon had handpicked its members – Maesters whose curiosity outweighed their piety, disgraced scholars from the Free Cities seeking patronage, even a few hedge wizards whose minor talents he found potentially useful for rudimentary tasks. Their primary directive, under the King's unwavering gaze, was the rediscovery and codification of lost Valyrian lore. They translated crumbling scrolls, deciphered scorched glyphs, and experimented – very carefully – with the lesser, safer forms of Valyrian artifice. Voldemort himself guided their more… sensitive research, particularly into the nature of the Doom, the long winters, and any mention of entities or powers that might, one day, challenge his own eternal dominion. He had found tantalizing, fragmented references to the 'Great Other' and its armies of the dead, but the texts were maddeningly incomplete, hinting at a foe whose power was elemental, an antithesis to Valyria's fire. This, he filed away, a future conflict to be dissected and mastered.
It was from the Academy, through a terrified but brilliant young scholar named Melara (formerly of Myr, 'rescued' by Larys Strong's agents), that a significant piece of lore was unearthed. A partial translation of a Valyrian scroll, predating the Doom by five centuries, spoke of 'Echoes of the First Wyrm,' enormous, primal dragons of immense power that were said to have slumbered beneath the earth since the dawn of days, their awakening tied to great shifts in the world's magic. Umbraxys, Baelon suspected with a thrill of cold understanding, was perhaps a distant, more refined descendant or an echo of such a creature, its birth in the Heart of Valyria no mere chance.
This period of intense internal consolidation was punctuated by the recall of Prince Aemond 'One-Eye' from his wardenship of the Stepstones. For five years, Aemond had ruled the islands with a brutal, Vhagar-enforced peace, crushing piracy, extracting tribute, and incidentally fostering a deep-seated hatred for the Iron Throne among the merchants of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. He returned to King's Landing a hardened warrior of twenty, his single sapphire eye holding a universe of bitterness, his bond with Vhagar an almost terrifying symbiosis of rider and ancient beast. The magical leash Baelon had forged with the blood oath still held, a cold, unyielding chain upon Aemond's will, but the prince's resentment was a palpable force, a coiled serpent awaiting any chance to strike, however suicidal.
His reunion with his family in their gilded cage within Maegor's Holdfast was a somber affair. Queen Dowager Alicent, now a gaunt woman whose piety had become a shield against her despair, wept to see him, her warrior son, yet recoiled from the chilling aura of violence that clung to him. Aegon, at twenty-two, was a bloated, bleary-eyed wreck, his brief spark of defiance long drowned in Arbor gold. He greeted Aemond with a mixture of fear and pathetic envy.
Helaena, however, now a young woman of nineteen, her otherworldly pronouncements still a source of unease, looked at Aemond with a strange clarity. "The chained hound returns from the bloody sea," she murmured, stroking a spider that crawled upon her hand. "His fang is sharp, his collar tight. He dreams of breaking free, but the shadow king's eye sees all, even dreams."
Baelon received Aemond in the throne room, Vhagar's thunderous landing in the Dragonpit a stark reminder of the power still nominally leashed by his younger half-brother.
"You have served the Crown adequately in the Stepstones, Aemond," Baelon stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "The pirates are scattered, the trade routes… mostly secure, if somewhat resentful."
"I did as you commanded, Your Grace," Aemond replied, his voice a low growl, his one eye fixed on Baelon. The magical vow compelled his obedience, but it could not touch the hatred in his heart.
"Indeed." Baelon leaned forward. "But your methods, while effective, have been… blunt. The Free Cities grow restless. They see a Targaryen warlord, not a Warden of the King's Peace. It is time for a more… nuanced approach to Essosi affairs." He was already formulating new plans, new ways to extend his influence across the Narrow Sea, not just through brute force, but through economic coercion, political destabilization, and the strategic application of fear. Aemond, he decided, would remain in King's Landing for a time, a visible symbol of leashed power, a constant reminder to any would-be traitors of the King's reach.
Larys Strong soon brought unsettling reports that validated Baelon's concerns. Volantis, the eldest and proudest of the Free Cities, its Old Blood dreaming of a restored Valyrian hegemony (under their leadership, of course), was making overtures to Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, proposing a new Triarchy, a united front against the 'Dragon King's tyranny' in the Stepstones and his perceived ambitions towards Essos. They spoke of combined fleets, of hiring sellsword companies, of appealing to Braavos, the Titan of the North, for financial backing.
Voldemort listened with cold amusement. These petty merchant princes and their fading Valyrian pretensions were gnats, easily crushed. But their combined nuisance could be… tiresome. He saw not a threat, but an opportunity. An opportunity to demonstrate, on a grander scale, the futility of opposing his will. An opportunity to acquire new territories, new resources, new subjects for his eternal empire.
Rhaenyra, on Dragonstone, remained a figure of careful loyalty. Her brood of dark-haired 'Velaryon' sons – Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, and the younger Aegon and Viserys – were growing into strong, spirited youths, dragonriders all, their mounts adding to House Targaryen's formidable aerial power. She sent regular, dutiful reports to King Baelon, meticulously detailing the administration of Dragonstone, never hinting at any ambition beyond her current station. Lord Corlys Velaryon, her father-in-law, now an old man but his ambition undimmed, occasionally visited King's Landing, always paying his respects to the King, always subtly probing for weaknesses or opportunities for Velaryon advancement. Baelon received him with cool courtesy, aware that the Sea Snake, for all his current quiescence, would seize any chance to elevate his grandsons. Baelon allowed it; Rhaenyra's line, for now, provided a convenient buffer and a source of future loyal (or coercible) dragonriders.
His own agelessness was now an undeniable, if unspoken, fact of life at court. Maesters who had tutored him as a child were now old, grey men, their hands trembling as they presented their reports to a king who looked no older than the day he had first claimed Silverwing. It bred a unique kind of terror, a sense that he was something beyond mortal, a permanent, unassailable fixture of their world. This perception, Voldemort knew, was a powerful weapon in itself.
He spent many nights in the deepest levels of the Obsidian Citadel, in the Heart of Valyria chamber, with Umbraxys. Their symbiosis had deepened beyond mere mental linkage. He could now draw upon Umbraxys's shadow-essence almost as if it were his own, cloaking himself in impenetrable darkness, moving with unnatural speed and silence, even projecting waves of pure, unadulterated terror that could break minds without a single curse. Umbraxys, in turn, seemed to gain a sharper, more focused intelligence from its bond with Baelon's ancient soul, its understanding of complex commands and strategic nuances becoming almost human-like. Together, they were a force unparalleled, a king and his shadow-god, poised to reshape the world.
The time had come, Baelon decided, to make a statement that would reverberate not just through Westeros, but across the Narrow Sea, a declaration of his absolute authority and his boundless ambition. He had consolidated his power, secured his personal immortality, and laid the foundations of his eternal reign. Now, he would begin to build the empire itself.
He summoned his Small Council, not to the usual chamber, but to the newly completed Obsidian Amphitheater within his Citadel, a vast, black-stone space designed to inspire awe and dread. The Iron Throne itself had been temporarily moved here, placed upon a high dais, Umbraxys's immense, shadowy form coiled unseen in the darkness behind it, its presence a silent, suffocating weight.
When the lords of the Council were assembled, pale and uneasy in the oppressive grandeur of the black hall, King Baelon I Targaryen rose. His voice, amplified by the strange acoustics of the chamber and a touch of his own magic, boomed through the space, each word an iron edict.
"My Lords," he began, his ageless eyes sweeping over them, "for too long has this realm been governed by disparate laws, by the whims of feudal obligation, by the ambition of grasping houses. No more. The Code of Baelon has brought unity to our laws. The Royal Census has laid bare the strength of our kingdom. The Royal Academy recovers the lost wisdom of our ancestors. But these are mere foundations."
He paused, the silence stretching, heavy and absolute.
"Today, I decree the formation of the Legions of the Iron Throne. A new, permanent, standing army, loyal only to the Crown, funded by a direct, non-negotiable tithe from every lordship, great and small, across the Seven Kingdoms. Your feudal levies will supplement these Legions, but they will no longer be your primary contribution to the realm's defense. The Legions will be trained in Valyrian tactics, armed with steel forged under my direction, and led by commanders of my choosing, men whose loyalty is proven beyond doubt."
A collective intake of breath, a rustle of shocked discomfort. This was a fundamental reshaping of the feudal order, a stripping away of the lords' traditional military power.
"Furthermore," Baelon continued, his voice growing colder, harder, "all dragon eggs laid henceforth, by any dragon, wild or tamed, within the confines of the Seven Kingdoms or its territories, are forfeit to the Crown. They will be brought to the Dragonpit here in King's Landing, or to the hatcheries on Dragonstone, for royal safekeeping and distribution. No house, not even Targaryen cadet branches, shall claim a dragon without the express, personal consent of the King. Dragons are the ultimate weapon, the fire of our dynasty. Their power will be controlled, absolutely, by the Iron Throne, and by me alone."
This decree struck at the very heart of Targaryen and Velaryon pride, at the ambitions of any lord who dreamed of dragonfire. Rhaenyra, were she present, would have felt a chill. Lord Corlys would have raged internally.
"Finally," Baelon declared, his eyes now glowing with a faint, internal fire, "the Free Cities of Essos have long benefited from the peace and trade lanes secured by Valyrian might, and later, by the sufferance of House Targaryen. Yet, some among them, notably Volantis and her new, aspiring allies, now seek to challenge the authority of the Iron Throne in the Stepstones and beyond. They mistake our patience for weakness. They will be… disabused of this notion."
He smiled, a ghastly, predatory expression. "I am therefore issuing a claim, by right of ancient Valyrian mandate and by the might of dragons, to suzerainty over the Disputed Lands, and I am demanding oaths of fealty and substantial tribute from Volantis, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. Failure to comply will be considered an act of war against the Iron Throne. Prince Aemond, Warden of the Narrow Sea, will be the first to deliver this message, with Vhagar as his envoy. He will be… persuasive."
The assembled lords were stunned into utter silence. This was not kingship; this was god-empery. It was a declaration of intent so audacious, so absolute, it bordered on madness, yet delivered with such chilling conviction, such palpable power emanating from the ageless King on his black throne, that no one dared voice a protest.
Larys Strong was the first to break the silence, his voice a low, sibilant whisper of approval. "A bold vision, Your Grace. A truly… unifying… set of decrees. The realm will surely prosper under such decisive leadership."
King Baelon I Targaryen looked out over his terrified council, his gaze sweeping past them, towards the world beyond. The foundations were laid. The eternal reign had begun. And the blood-red dawn of his new Valyrian Empire was about to break upon a trembling world. The petty squabbles of Westeros were over. The true game, the game of global dominion, played for stakes of eternity, had just begun, and he, the Ageless Serpent King, held all the winning pieces.