Chapter 16: The Iron Tide and the Soul of a Guardian
The Shadow of Kraken (Circa 2,500 BC - 100 BC)
The Thousand-Year War against the Andals had solidified House Leywin's domain as an unyielding bastion in the heart of Westeros. Our Grand Castle stood as a monument to defiance, its aether-infused walls shimmering with an invisible power that repelled all invaders. The Riverlands under our protection enjoyed a relative peace, a quiet prosperity that was an anomaly in a continent still reeling from centuries of conflict and religious fervor.
"They finally figured out that poking the unkillable giant isn't a winning strategy," Regis mused one crisp morning, lounging on a gargoyle carved from pure aether-hardened stone that jutted from the castle wall. "Took them long enough. A thousand years of getting their asses handed to them by the Soul Reaper ought to teach even the most devout zealot some humility."
Ceara, ever vigilant, scanned the distant horizons. "Humility might be fleeting, Regis. There are always new ambitions, new challenges."
She was right. For a time, the peace held. The Andal kingdoms solidified their borders, wary of the Leywin deterrent. But the peace was relative, confined mostly to land. From the salty, storm-wracked shores of the Iron Islands, a new threat was rising: House Hoare.
The Ironborn, fierce reavers and brutal conquerors, forged their strength on the waves. They didn't seek to settle the land in the same manner as the Andals, or convert the masses. They sought plunder, tribute, and slaves. Their longships, laden with grim warriors and their terrifying axes, began to sweep the coasts, raiding, burning, taking. Their eyes, inevitably, turned towards the fertile Riverlands, a land rich in resources and ripe for the taking, or so they believed.
Ironborn vs. The Immortal Lord
The "peace" I had forged endured for centuries after the Andal war, but it was shattered by the arrival of the Ironborn. Their longships, their sails black like storm clouds, began to appear on the Gods Eye itself, pushing inland via the Trident's network of rivers. They saw the prosperous villages, the bountiful fields, the unwalled settlements of Leywin's protected smallfolk, and their eyes gleamed with rapacious hunger.
"So, these are the 'Ironborn'," Regis sneered, observing a fleet of longships attempting to force their way through the narrow channels leading to the Gods Eye. "They look like glorified pirates. And their boats are made of… wood? Seriously? Do they not understand the concept of 'boat'?"
Their arrogance was palpable. They believed their ferocity, their grim gods, and their unparalleled naval prowess would grant them victory. They were about to learn a very painful lesson.
I did not wait for them to reach the Grand Castle. My power was no longer confined to static defenses. I was the Gods Eye Guardian, and this entire region was my domain. As their ships sailed deeper into the rivers, they found themselves facing an invisible, insurmountable force.
With a thought, the water itself turned against them. Using aetheric hydrokinesis on a massive scale, I twisted the rivers into roaring rapids, smashing ships against unseen rocks or tearing them apart with whirlpools that erupted from calm waters. When they attempted to land, my gravitational manipulation turned the riverbanks into treacherous, shifting bogs that swallowed men and beasts whole. Their iron axes, feared by other mortals, shattered against the aether-hardened shields of the Leywin levies, men and women I had subtly influenced with enhanced strength and resilience.
My direct confrontations with their raiding parties were swift and absolute. I didn't engage in protracted battles. A wave of aetheric decay would rust their iron into dust, leaving them weaponless. A single, focused aetheric blast would incinerate their longships from within, leaving no survivors. They found no plunder, only death.
"They're even dumber than the Andals," Regis declared, watching a particularly stubborn longship dissolve into nothing but ash and boiling water. "At least the zealots had a god to believe in. These ones just believe in hitting things with axes. Not very effective against someone who can turn you into a fine mist."
The Ironborn eventually learned. Their legends of the Immortal Lord of Leywin became as chilling as those of the Andals. The Riverlands protected by House Leywin became untouchable, a sanctuary not just for the First Men, but for any who sought peace under my silent, unyielding protection. My name, Leywin, became a whispered reverence, a promise of safety amidst a chaotic world.
The Looming Shadow and the Fiery End (Circa 100 BC)
As the centuries passed, the world outside our peaceful bastion continued its relentless march. In the East, the Valyrian Freehold reached the zenith of its power, its empire vast, its dragons numerous, its cities grand beyond mortal imagining. Their arrogance was intoxicating, their pursuit of magical knowledge reckless. I watched them, aetheric currents from afar revealing their deepening delve into forbidden magical practices, their reliance on blood and fire becoming a horrifying addiction.
Then, a sudden, overwhelming surge of destructive aether ripped through the world. It was a chaotic, self-inflicted wound. The Doom of Valyria. My aetheric senses screamed with the agony of a continent torn asunder. The Fourteen Flames, the very source of their power, erupted simultaneously, not in a natural cascade, but in a cataclysm of unprecedented scale, orchestrated by a catastrophic feedback loop of their own arcane sorcery.
From the highest point of the Grand Castle, I could almost feel the tremors, thousands of leagues away. A pillar of fire and ash, visible even across oceans, soared into the sky. The screams of millions, of dragons and dragonlords alike, echoed briefly in the aether, then were utterly silenced. The greatest civilization this world had ever known, a testament to mortal ambition and draconic power, had utterly consumed itself.
"Well, that was… dramatic," Regis said, his voice unusually subdued for a moment, as if even he was momentarily awestruck by the sheer scale of the self-destruction. "Looks like those 'ants that spit fire' managed to set themselves on fire after all. Who knew all that hubris could be so combustible?"
Ceara, her face pale, stared eastward. "All that power… gone. Just like that."
I nodded, my voice grim. "Their magic was flawed, their reverence for balance nonexistent. They drew too much, too carelessly, from the heart of the world. It was inevitable."
The Doom was a stark reminder of the fragile balance I sought to protect. The true dragons of my world, the Indrath Clan, wielded power that dwarfed Valyria, yet even they maintained a delicate, respectful balance with aether. The Valyrians had plunged headlong into destructive mana manipulation, driven by greed and ambition.
The Stormlands' Ambition and a Shared Eternity
With Valyria's destruction, a new era of uncertainty dawned. The great power vacuum in the East would lead to centuries of chaos and the rise of new, smaller kingdoms. In Westeros, the existing powers sensed the shift. The Stormlands, ruled by ambitious Storm Kings, began to look north and west, eyeing the prosperous Riverlands with renewed hunger. They were brave, fierce warriors, and their ambitions, once checked by Andal preoccupation, now surged. I knew their challenge would come, eventually.
Yet, amidst the grand, sweeping changes of continents and the rise and fall of empires, my personal world had found its anchor. Through the brutal centuries of the Ironborn reavings, the silent vigil against the Valyrian rise, and the shock of their fiery demise, Ceara and I had woven a tapestry of shared existence.
Our intimate moments weren't grand declarations, but quiet understandings. The brush of her hand against my scales, the comfort of her head resting against my shoulder during long nights on the ramparts, the shared looks of knowing during Regis's most outrageous comments. Our past, the horrors of Alacrya, had brought us together, and this new world, with its challenges, had solidified our bond.
One evening, under the vast, ancient sky of Westeros, as the twin moons cast long shadows across the Gods Eye, I looked at Ceara. Her beauty was still striking, but it was her resilience, her unwavering spirit, that had truly captured my immortal heart. The disparity of our lifespans, once a quiet fear, had faded. The magic of this world, the lingering aether from my own displacement, and my continuous presence, had subtly granted her a vastly extended longevity. She was not immortal like me, but she was living for centuries, her vitality defying mortal limits.
"Ceara," I began, my voice a soft rumble. "You have been my companion, my strength, my light in this endless night. You understand the weight of this world, and you choose to stand by my side, century after century."
She met my gaze, her amber eyes shimmering. "Always, Arthur. Always. You brought me back from a place darker than any abyss. And I found a new purpose here, with you."
"Then let us bind that purpose. Let us bind our lives, not just in shared duty, but in everlasting truth." I extended my hand, my scaled palm open. "Will you be my wife, Ceara? Not just as the Master of Fate, but as Arthur Leywin?"
A slow, radiant smile spread across her face, lighting up the twilight. "Yes, Arthur. A thousand times, yes."
There was no formal ceremony, no priests of the Seven or silent Children. Our marriage was a union witnessed only by the ancient, ever-watchful Old Gods of the Isle of Faces, by the whispering aether, and by Regis, who hovered nearby, unusually silent. It was a bond forged in shared eternity, a quiet promise beneath the vast, star-swept sky of Westeros. The Immortal Lord of House Leywin had found his Queen, a partner to share the burdens and joys of a life destined to span millennia. The future, with her by my side, felt less like a heavy burden and more like an unfolding adventure.
What new challenges or events will this married Arthur and Ceara face? Will the Storm Kings finally challenge House Leywin, or will new forces emerge after the Doom?