Chapter 12: The Black Fleet Arrives, A Storm of New Making
The journey from the desolate heart of the Smoking Sea to the westernmost shores of Essos, and then across the Narrow Sea towards Westeros, was undertaken with a speed and stealth that would have been impossible for any mortal fleet. Aizen's black ships, their elemental cores thrumming with contained power, cut through the waves like predatory shadows, often submerged entirely for extended periods or cloaked in dense, unnatural fog banks summoned by Aizen's burgeoning mastery over localized weather Kido. His dragon squadron, a terrifying phalanx of juvenile but formidable beasts whose scales mirrored the obsidian of their master's Spire, flew high above the storm clouds, their presence known only to the gulls and the silent, watchful stars.
Vhagarion, with "Lord Aerion Vaelaros" upon his broad, armored back, led the vanguard. Argent, his second-in-command, helmed the flagship Nyx, a vessel that was as much a mobile command center and arcane laboratory as it was a warship. After several weeks of travel, guided by Aizen's flawless celestial navigation (a skill retained from his Shinigami days) and magically enhanced charts, they reached their first objective: a cluster of remote, uninhabited islands in the southern Stepstones, jagged teeth of rock and hidden coves, perfectly situated to serve as a temporary, clandestine forward operating base.
Here, under Aizen's direction, the "Lost Legion" established its foothold. Using the combined might of his dragons' flame, Kido constructs, and the tireless labor of his Sentinel "knights," caverns were expanded, landing strips cleared on rugged plateaus, and rudimentary but heavily warded supply depots and repair facilities were created. It was a hive of disciplined activity, all undertaken with an eerie silence, the Sentinels communicating through gestures or the faint, internal hum of their arcane cores. From this hidden anchorage, Aizen could project his power towards Westeros while maintaining a secure line of retreat and a private space to shed his "Lord Aerion" persona and strategize as his true self.
The immediate priority was fresh intelligence. While Aizen's scrying from the Obsidian Spire had provided a broad overview of Aegon's Conquest, he required granular, up-to-the-moment details. Argent, ever the efficient operative, dispatched cloaked Sentinels on the swiftest of the juvenile dragons – bred for speed and near-silent flight – on reconnaissance missions across the Stormlands, the Reach, and the southern coasts of the Crownlands. They returned within days, their minds carrying precise memories of troop movements, fortifications, the morale of various armies, and the current locations of Aegon and his sister-queens with their legendary dragons.
The reports confirmed that Aegon's fiery sweep was relentless. The Field of Fire had indeed broken the might of the Gardener and Lannister kings. Harrenhal stood as a molten testament to Balerion's wrath. However, resistance, though battered, was not entirely extinguished. Argilac Durrandon, the Storm King, proud and unbowed, was marshaling his forces for a final, desperate stand, spurning Aegon's offer of terms. His kingdom, the Stormlands, lay directly in Aegon's path towards the south.
"The Storm King, Argilac the Arrogant," Aizen mused, studying a magically projected map within the Nyx's strategy chamber. He was currently in his true form, the faint luminescence of his divine power subtly illuminating the dark chamber. "A renowned warrior, old, proud, and facing overwhelming odds. His defeat is inevitable, but his defiance will ensure a bloody, protracted engagement. The spiritual energy released will be… considerable." He looked at Argent, who stood impassively. "This will be our stage. The 'Last Storm,' as the bards will no doubt call it, shall have unexpected thunder."
The plan was audacious, perfectly Aizen. The Lost Legion would not immediately align with either side. They would appear during the height of the climactic battle between Aegon's forces (led by Orys Baratheon and Rhaenys Targaryen on Meraxes, according to Argent's intelligence) and Argilac Durrandon's stormlanders. Their intervention would be sudden, shocking, and seemingly aimed at assisting the beleaguered Storm King, prolonging his doomed fight, thereby maximizing casualties and the resultant soul-harvest. This would also allow Aizen to directly assess one of Aegon's dragons and its rider in combat.
Days later, as a ferocious tempest – one that seemed to carry an unnatural, almost sentient fury, perhaps a reflection of the Storm King's own rage or, as Aizen suspected, the lingering elemental magic of his ancient lineage – swept across the southern Stormlands, the two armies clashed. Argilac, a giant of a man clad in an ancient suit of storm-grey armor, fought like a god of battle, his banner of the crowned stag defiant against the Targaryen dragon. Orys Baratheon, Aegon's rumored bastard half-brother, led the Targaryen ground forces with grim determination, while Rhaenys Targaryen and her silver dragon, Meraxes, rained fire from above.
The stormlanders, despite their king's valor, were being pushed back. Meraxes's flames were turning the tide, her roars a counterpoint to the raging thunder. It was into this maelstrom of mud, blood, fire, and lightning that the Lost Legion of Volantis made its grand entrance.
First came the sound – a chorus of deep, resonant war-horns, utterly unfamiliar to Westerosi ears, cutting through the howl of the wind. Then, emerging from the storm clouds like phantoms, came the black ships, their sleek hulls impervious to the raging sea, their obsidian prows carving through the waves towards the coast where the battle raged near the bay. Simultaneously, from a different quarter of the sky, a new flight of dragons appeared – five of them, smaller than Meraxes but flying in a tight, disciplined formation, their scales ranging from deepest jet to a metallic, coppery hue, their roars sharp and challenging.
At their head, a colossal beast of pure, terrifying blackness, streaked with veins of emerald fire that seemed to crackle with the storm's own lightning, dwarfed even Meraxes. Upon this magnificent terror rode a figure in night-dark Valyrian plate, a silver-haired lord whose stern, aristocratic features were set in a grim mask of command. This was "Lord Aerion Vaelaros" and Vhagarion, and their arrival sent a shockwave of disbelief and terror through both armies.
"Valyrians? More Valyrians?" The cry went up from the Targaryen lines. Rhaenys, atop Meraxes, wheeled her dragon in the sky, her expression one of stunned confusion. Argilac Durrandon, seeing new dragons seemingly appear from nowhere, felt a desperate, fleeting surge of hope. Could these be allies, some forgotten Valyrian remnant come to his aid?
"Lord Aerion" raised a gauntleted hand. His voice, amplified by a subtle Kido that carried it over the storm and the din of battle, boomed across the field. "Men of Westeros! Behold the true might of Old Valyria, returned from the shadows! We are the Lost Legion! And this day, we shall remind the world of the fire that forged empires!"
His five juvenile dragons, acting with a coordination that bespoke intense training, dove towards Meraxes, not all attacking at once, but harrying her, forcing Rhaenys to defend rather than continue her assault on the stormlanders. Their flames were varied and unsettling – one breathed a fire that seemed to explode with concussive force, another a searing blue jet that melted armor on contact.
Vhagarion, with Aerion/Aizen upon his back, descended like a thunderbolt towards the embattled center of the stormlander line, where Argilac himself was fighting. But he did not attack the Targaryen forces directly. Instead, Vhagarion unleashed a torrent of his emerald-black soul-fire in a devastating arc between the two armies, creating a momentary wall of roaring, unnatural flame that forced both sides back, a clear demarcation.
"Storm King!" Aerion's voice called out. "Your courage is admirable, but your hour is at hand without aid! The Lost Legion offers its strength… for a price! Swear fealty to the true blood of the Freehold, and we shall sweep these Targaryen pretenders from your lands!"
It was a masterful piece of psychological warfare. Argilac, caught between hope and suspicion, hesitated. Rhaenys, witnessing this new, powerful Valyrian contingent and their formidable dragons, was clearly alarmed, Meraxes hissing and snapping at the disciplined attackers. Orys Baratheon'Targaryen forces, confused by this third party, faltered in their advance.
The battle devolved into a chaotic three-way melee. The Lost Legion's Sentinel knights, disembarked from the black ships under Argent's silent command, engaged elements of both the stormlander and Targaryen flanks. Clad in their dark, unfamiliar armor, wielding Valyrian steel with a silent, almost inhuman efficiency, they cut through bewildered Westerosi soldiers like wraiths. Their movements were too coordinated, too precise, lacking the usual shouts and battle cries of mortal men.
Aerion/Aizen, meanwhile, used Vhagarion to dominate the center of the battlefield, not committing fully to either side, but using his dragon's immense power to break up formations, to counter Meraxes's attacks with blasts of soul-fire that even Rhaenys seemed wary of, and to generally sow maximum confusion and prolong the fighting. He personally engaged in displays of "Valyrian sorcery" – a powerful shield Kido that deflected a volley of arrows, a concussive blast of spiritual energy (disguised as a burst of air and lightning) that scattered a charging unit of knights.
The Hōgyoku thrummed against Aizen's chest, a silent, voracious entity joyfully absorbing the rich harvest of spiritual energy. The raw terror of soldiers facing dragons for the first time, the defiant rage of dying stormlanders, the grim determination of the Targaryen loyalists, the confusion and fear sown by his own Legion – all of it was potent fuel. He had Argent deploy several discreet Kido-constructs, small, nearly invisible orbs that floated near the areas of heaviest fighting, acting as spiritual siphons, drawing in the released soul-energy and channeling it towards Aizen, ensuring not a drop was wasted.
Rhaenys Targaryen, a skilled dragonrider and a proud warrior in her own right, attempted to challenge Aerion directly. "Who are you, Valyrian?" she cried out, Meraxes unleashing a torrent of silver flame towards Vhagarion. "Aegon is the rightful heir of Valyria! Lay down your arms, or face the true dragon's wrath!"
Aerion/Aizen met the blast with a contemptuous sneer, Vhagarion countering with a wave of emerald-black fire that seemed to consume Meraxes's flames. "Heir? Valyria has no single heir, girl! Only those strong enough to claim its legacy! And your Aegon's claim is… unconvincing."
Their dragons clashed, a terrifying aerial duel amidst the raging storm. Vhagarion, older, larger, and empowered by Aizen's own divine Reiatsu, clearly had the advantage over Meraxes, though Rhaenys fought with skill and courage. Aizen deliberately prolonged the engagement, testing Meraxes's limits, Rhaenys's tactics, and enjoying the sheer spectacle of draconic power. He could have ended it quickly, but that was not his purpose.
The battle raged for hours, far longer and bloodier than it would have been without the Lost Legion's intervention. Argilac Durrandon, despite the confusion, fought on with renewed ferocity, believing these strange Valyrians might yet be his salvation. Thousands perished on all sides.
Finally, as Argilac, leading a desperate charge, was cut down by Orys Baratheon in a brutal single combat, and the stormlander resistance began to crumble definitively, Aerion/Aizen judged the time was right. His Legion had made its statement, sown chaos, and gathered a significant tribute of souls.
With a piercing horn blast from the Nyx, the Lost Legion began a disciplined withdrawal. The juvenile dragons broke off their harassment of Meraxes, rejoining Vhagarion. The Sentinel knights disengaged with chilling efficiency, retreating to their black ships, leaving behind a field of carnage and bewildered survivors.
"The Storm King has fallen!" Aerion's voice boomed one last time. "His pride has met its end. Let this day be a warning to all who claim dominion in this land! The true fire of Valyria endures!"
And as swiftly as they had arrived, the black ships and their dragons vanished back into the raging storm, leaving behind a battlefield heavy with the dead, and two victorious but deeply unsettled Targaryen commanders.
The news of the "Lost Legion of Volantis" and their black dragons spread like wildfire across Westeros. Who were they? Where did they come from? Were they allies or new enemies? Maesters puzzled over their origins, lords whispered in fear and speculation. Aegon Targaryen, upon hearing of this new Valyrian faction possessing multiple dragons and unknown sorceries, was reportedly both intrigued and deeply concerned. This was an unexpected, powerful variable in his carefully laid plans of conquest.
Aboard the Nyx, sailing back towards their hidden base under the cover of a magically augmented fog, Aizen shed his "Lord Aerion" persona. The harvest had been substantial, the Hōgyoku radiating a warm contentment. His forces had performed flawlessly. He had gained invaluable firsthand intelligence on Targaryen dragon capabilities and Westerosi warfare.
"The Westerosi are… primitive in their tactics," Aizen commented to Argent, his true voice resonating with cold amusement. "Their courage is often wasted by their lack of discipline and their reliance on brute force. Aegon's dragons are potent, but their riders, while skilled, lack true arcane depth. Rhaenys Targaryen relies on her dragon's natural abilities, with little evidence of deeper magical understanding."
He considered the next move. The Lost Legion was now a known, feared entity. He could offer his "services" to other resisting kingdoms, further prolonging the wars. Or he could approach Aegon himself, perhaps as a potential, if dangerous, ally, to gain closer access to his inner circle and the heart of his burgeoning empire. The latter option was more appealing for long-term manipulation.
"Argent," Aizen said, his eyes already fixed on the shimmering map of Westeros, "prepare a communiqué. We shall send greetings to King Aegon Targaryen. An offer of… mutual understanding between the last true scions of Valyria. Let us see how the self-proclaimed Conqueror responds to an equal, rather than a subject."
The game in Westeros was escalating. The first threads had been not just woven, but violently pulled, and the entire tapestry of the Conquest was beginning to shift in response to the Weaver's subtle, devastating touch. The souls of the Last Storm were but the first course in a grand Westerosi feast.