ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 47: The Judgment of the Raven
POV: King Arawyn Stark (303 AC)
From inside my personal mystical laboratory, hidden beneath the deepest foundations of Winterfell—the place Ros used to call, with a mix of mockery and royal dread, my "evil lair"—I worked methodically on the final enchantments of the Fist of Winter.
The air in the subterranean chamber was pregnant with the static density of runic magic. Most of the enchantments I carved onto the surface of that colossal mace served practical combat purposes that I had adapted from my past life memories. I inserted runic lines of spatial attraction, allowing the weapon to instantly respond to my mental call, flying back to my right gauntlet no matter the distance or the obstacles in its way.
However, the true core of that hidden forge lay in an experimental enchantment of dynamic weight and proportional density. The rune's mechanics operated under a simple logic: the more kinetic force and physical vigor I put into an attack, the denser, heavier, and more destructive the mace would become in the microsecond before impact. Uniting this magical property with my own colossal physical strength, expanded by the runes in my flesh, the Fist of Winter became a weapon endowed with an unprecedented capacity for destruction.
Out of pure caprice and intellectual amusement, I also added some secondary mystical directives based on the classic enchantment Odin had placed upon Mjolnir, Thor's hammer in the Marvel stories of my past life. However, while the weapon of fiction required the wielder to be morally "worthy" to lift the metal, my version operated under a much more practical and biological rule: the Fist of Winter strictly required the legitimate blood of House Stark to be lifted from the ground. Any other creature attempting to lift it would find only the dead weight of an immovable mountain.
I made sure to seal that mace with this lineage lock because, unlike the War Hammer I had found in the secret tomb of Brandon the Builder—a weapon that would remain guarded strictly as my personal and non-transferable anti-magic armament—the Fist of Winter would be the official weapon of the Emperor. If one day I decided to pass the imperial crown to my heir, he would receive that mace as the symbol of supreme power. After all, I was no complete idiot; I would never hand over or leave within anyone else's reach the only weapon capable of easily shattering my own defenses and wounding me: the Builder's anti-magic hammer. That secret would die with me.
After concluding the final carving, I left the laboratory and walked with firm steps to the immense throne room of Winterfell. I settled into my carved throne, feeling the weight of imperial authority. At that exact moment, Inverno, my direwolf of perfectly black fur and brilliant green eyes, walked majestically through the hall and lay down heavily, resting his colossal silhouette against my feet. I sighed deeply. It was time to end this once and for all.
I crossed the immense geographical distance separating the North from the Southern capital using the same mystical method as before. I manifested my consciousness in the command center of the land siege on the plains of King's Landing by creating an elemental avatar of pure water and ice, and this time, I made sure to shape an identical avatar for Inverno as well, allowing the projection of my direwolf to walk beside me with the same physical majesty of the real world.
Upon materializing my fluid body inside the great advanced command tent, I came upon the presence of all the commanders of the military alliance. The air in the room instantly froze with my arrival.
"— Let us end this farce once and for all, my lords, —" I declared, my voice coming out in a gélid echo.
My cousin, King Robb Stark, stepped forward to the vanguard with an expression of extreme seriousness.
"— What are your direct orders, my Emperor? —" Robb questioned.
I turned my face toward the young woman who stood beside the Northern lines, displaying an elegant posture and a mystical aura that exuded the power of the waters.
"— Sansa, my dear... —" I called her, a sly smile appearing on my features of ice. "— Why don't you walk to the vanguard and gently ask the southern defenders to open the city gates for our entry?"
Upon hearing my ironic order, the beautiful princess of the North let slip an enigmatic and cruel smile. We moved in a block to the outer limits of the Gods' Gate, the immense structure of reinforced wood and iron bars that protected that flank of King's Landing. Sansa took long strides ahead of the runic shield wall formation, stopping at a safe distance from the enemy archers crowding atop the battlements. She raised her face and used her mystically expanded voice to order:
"— Open the gates!"
As expected, Sansa's demand was met with obstinate silence by the desperate soldiers on the walls. I turned my body slightly toward her.
"— Ask a little more nicely, Sansa, —" I commented casually.
"— More nicely, is it? —" she replied, the smile expanding across her features.
Sansa extended both hands forward. Before her open palms, an immense and incandescent fireball condensed, rapidly shaping itself until it assumed the majestic silhouette of a firebird made of pure destructive energy. With a swift movement of her arms, she launched the mystical creature forward. The firebird traveled through the air at an astonishing speed before colliding directly against the center of the Gods' Gate, exploding it with brutal force.
To the surprise of everyone present on the front line, a secondary explosion occurred in the following microsecond inside the passage. An immense and uncontrolled blaze of a greenish hue exploded toward the heavens, spreading the characteristic dread of wildfire through the adjacent wall structures. The impact had detonated one of the hidden caches that the alchemists had buried beneath the city in the past.
The emerald hell caused the Southern troops to freeze in their places on the battlements in widespread panic. Without losing a single second, I channeled my elemental ice magic through my avatar, invoking a massive wave of cold that covered the breach in the gate, freezing the greenish flames and extinguishing the wildfire under a thick layer of ice before the fire could spread.
Beside me, Inverno's avatar raised its colossal head and let out a monumental howl toward the heavens, answered in the same instant by the coordinated howls of all the other direwolves in the pack. I invoked my new armor, causing the dark iron plates and the spiked, crowned helm to gradually appear over my body, manifesting the Fist of Winter directly into my hand. I pointed the spiked mace toward the destroyed opening and commanded:
"— Attack, you idiots!"
The command broke the men's trance. The standing lines of the North and the forces of the West broke into an aggressive charge, invading King's Landing through the open breach at the Gods' Gate like an avalanche.
I dematerialized my water avatar from the ground and instantly reappeared at the top of the main wall, taking advantage of the absolute mobility of operating through a body consisting of pure elemental energy.
Up there, I cast my eyes over the chaotic landscape of King's Landing, which was beginning to suffer from the first fires caused by the panicking garrisons. Looking at the decadence of that city, I caught myself internally pondering whether it wouldn't be better for the world to just destroy everything and everyone inside until not a single stone remained. But I brushed the thought away with a snap of my fingers; in the end, I didn't care enough. That was not my kingdom, and the South was nothing more than a peripheral board for my plans.
Utilizing my expanded perception, I precisely located each of the other wildfire sources buried under the city's streets and buildings. In a rapid sequence of mental commands, I sent subterranean currents of ice through the capital's soil, freezing and stabilizing every hidden barrel of the substance to prevent anyone from trying to detonate the traps against my troops—except for me, obviously, who would decide what to do with them in the future.
From my elevated vantage point, I saw the guards of the City Watch trying to organize a desperate defense on the main avenues, acting alongside the few mercenaries Littlefinger had managed to hire in haste. However, none of those efforts were able to offer any real resistance against our troops, who were entirely equipped with runic armor. Their efforts served only to delay the advance of Winter for a few minutes before being completely swept away on the stone pavement.
After securing control over all the city's quarters in a surprisingly short amount of time, I joined the main commanders before the immense iron gates of the Red Keep. The captains were gathered in a tense debate about what to do to breach the castle. Upon noticing the approach of my heavy steps, the men cleared a path in absolute silence.
I wasted no time on strategic discussions. I raised my right arm, took my colossal mace, and hurled it directly against the center of the iron gates. The impact was of a cataclysmic violence. The runic weapon struck the structure, destroying it with the ease of a dump truck hitting a snowman. The immense gates and bars flew into the interior of the courtyard in a shower of twisted shards. I turned my face toward Prince Tommen Stark.
"— Tommen... prevent any soul from trying to flee the premises of this castle —" I ordered.
The young prince merely nodded slightly. In the next second, I saw his eyes turn completely white for a moment, assuming mystical control over the insects of the hill to close off any escape route.
We advanced without meeting real resistance through the internal corridors of the Red Keep. Walking among those reddish stone walls brought me a wave of historical nostalgia from the time of Robert's Rebellion. However, the reality of our invasion was completely different from the barbarism of the past. The many soldiers of the garrison and the maids of the court running through the corridors merely dropped to their knees on the floor or huddled in dark corners, weeping and begging for clemência. There were no random massacres or violations; the army of the North maintained a strict focus on political targets.
Upon reaching the antechamber that gave direct access to the Throne Room, I came upon an immense oak door that had been barricaded from the inside using heavy wardrobes and the bodies of the last loyal soldiers of the personal guard. Once more, I hurled my weapon, which exploded the door and the barricades into pieces with a crash of dust. I extended my right gauntlet and mentally commanded the weapon, causing the Fist of Winter to fly back through the air, snapping perfectly into the palm of my hand. *Now I am starting to understand why Thor liked this so much... it's just too much fun.*
I entered the vastness of the Throne Room with heavy steps that made the plates of my Sauron-esque black armor resonate through the terrified silence. Around the walls of the room, dozens of great lords and ladies of the Southern court huddled in pure panic.
"— Good day, my lords... how are you all on this fine afternoon? —" I commented in a casual tone.
The monstrous and terrifying appearance of my black armor, featuring a helm crowned with iron spikes and empty slits from which only the gélid glow of my elemental magic emanated, worked all too well. As they watched my colossal silhouette advance through the hall wielding the mace pulsing with emerald energy, many of the ladies let out shrieks of dread, collapsing in faints because they genuinely believed they were standing before the Stranger itself. Other nobles simply fled the room through the side exits.
At the top of the Iron Throne, Catelyn Tully sat with rigidity, her claw-like hands gripping the metal armrests. Positioned on the steps just below her were Lysa Arryn and Petyr Baelish. The Master of Coin displayed pale features and wide eyes, moving his head from side to side as if trying to find an exit. The advanced patrols of the North were already scouring the lower dungeons of the castle with the objective of rescuing the debilitated General Eddard Stark and capturing the young crown prince of the South.
I walked calmly until I stopped exactly before the base of the Iron Throne, driving the spike of the Fist of Winter into the stone floor. I looked up at the hill of twisted metal above me and let out a short laugh from behind my helm.
"— You know... I never understood the real appeal of this ugly throne, this Iron Throne, and the whole game of thrones for it, —" I declared, shaking my head. "— It is total idiocy."
Catelyn Tully leaned her body forward, her voice coming out in a sharp tone laden with wounded pride.
"— You did it, Arawyn! You got what you wanted, the throne is yours! —" she hissed, tears of rage shining in her eyes. "— But know that the gods will not leave it at this!"
"— To you, it is Emperor Arawyn, woman, —" I corrected immediately, my voice coming out cold from inside the helm. "— And apparently, you didn't listen to what I said. I care very little for this ugly throne."
I turned my pointed helm toward the huddled silhouette of the Master of Coin, fixing the gélid glow of my eye slits directly onto the features of Petyr Baelish.
"— You took a completely wrong step, Lord Baelish, —" I commented, taking a short stride toward him. "— Chaos is a staircase, right? But that only works if you are able to capitalize on it. You piously believed that your southern intrigues and manipulations would survive the ice justice of the North."
Petyr Baelish opened his mouth quickly, his trembling lips trying to articulate some phrase of bargaining or some promise that could buy his survival for a few more minutes. However, before the first syllable could even cross his throat, with a supernatural speed that no one there was able to perceive, I delivered a short horizontal strike. The Fist of Winter struck the side of his head dead-on, **exploding it instantly as if it were a watermelon**. Blood and fragments scattered in a violent shower against the stone steps of the Iron Throne.
A hysterical and copious shriek of pure dread broke from Lysa Arryn's throat as she collapsed to her knees upon the dust and the mortal remains of her lover, covering her face with bloodied hands. Catelyn Tully widened her eyes in absolute shock, her haughtiness vanishing for an instant before the immediate brutality of that execution. I rested the runic mace back on the ground.
"— Now... what will be the fate of the two of you? —" I questioned calmly.
Catelyn Tully pointed a trembling finger in my direction, indignation mingling in her choked voice:
"— You barbarian! —" she screamed, her voice echoing off the hall's ceiling. "— You didn't even let him have the divine right of a trial by combat before the court!"
"— Just as happened in the past during the Rebellion, I did not come south looking for justice, Queen Regent, —" I replied, keeping my voice measured and implacable. "— I came to King's Landing in search of vengeance and to massacre anyone who stood in my way. If you think that is bad, perhaps you shouldn't have started a meaningless war against the Crown of Winter. The blood debts of the North are always collected."
I looked to the side and noticed that Lysa Arryn continued to weep copiously on the steps, huddled and desperately hugging her son, the young Robert Arryn. I observed the boy's features and realized that, unlike what old Jon Arryn thought before dying in the darkness, the boy did indeed carry the legitimate blood of his father; however, the totality of the medicines and potions that his mad mother injected daily had left the heir sluggish and stunted. Without Lysa's suffocating presence, the boy would finally have a real opportunity to rid himself of the toxins and improve his health.
I decided to end the existence of that pathetic woman once and for all, sparing the realm from her madness. With a subtle movement of my foot against the floor of the hall, I channeled a fraction of elemental earth magic through the castle's foundations. In the following microsecond, an immense stone spike projected from the stone floor right behind Lysa Arryn, piercing through the back of her head with surgical speed. Death was immediate, freeing her from her sufferings. The lifeless body collapsed onto the steps, and the impact of the scene caused young Robert Arryn to let out a short gasp of dread before fainting heavily onto the carpet, entering a collapse brought on by the shock.
Catelyn Tully stared at her sister's corpse with an expression of pure horror, but her stubbornness and remaining pride prevented her from breaking into tears. She refused to weep before me, holding her gaze against the slits of my helm.
"— If your goal is to see me beg for clemência before your feet, know that you will never get that from me! —" she declared, her voice firm despite the tears in her eyes.
"— From you, woman... I want absolutely nothing, —" I replied with total indifference.
Catelyn rose slowly and descended the steps with firm strides, stopping a scant few inches from my black armor at the base. I stood staring at her features, and my mind plunged into deep reflection.
I used my Supreme Greensight for a fraction of a second, letting my astral consciousness navigate the ramifications of the possible futures that would stem from that scene. Staring into Catelyn's blue eyes, the memories of the love affair we had shared in the past, during the previous war, flooded my mind. In that moment of mystical silence, I contemplated her body and thought that, in another life, things could have been completely different. But not in this reality.
I stared fixedly into Catelyn's eyes, closing the faceplate of my spiked helm, which returned to my head with a heavy metallic click.
"— I am sorry, dear Cat... but it must be done, —" I declared in a low whisper.
Before she could sketch any reaction, I delivered a swift strike with my right arm, entirely clad in the dark-clawed gauntlet. The force concentrated in the runes of my flesh was enough for my hand to easily pierce the Queen Regent's chest. I wrapped my fingers around her vital muscle and, with a violent motion, ripped her heart straight out.
I turned my body around immediately, keeping the bloody heart firm in my gauntlet, while her lifeless body collapsed heavily backward, colliding against the steps with a dull thud. I threw the organ to the ground and extended my left gauntlet toward the Iron Throne. I channeled an overwhelming amount of elemental ice magic, releasing a blast of absolute cold that blanketed the entirety of the chair of swords. In a few seconds, the whole Iron Throne was completely frozen and transformed into a monument of twisted ice. I accommodated my armored body atop that frozen seat, resting my arms on the ice and remaining in absolute silence, awaiting the arrival of my generals. I looked at Catelyn's lifeless body resting on the floor. The South needed to learn to fear even the thought of standing against the North; I did not want to have to come massacre the kings of the south with every new generation.
The silence of the Throne Room was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps marching through the outer corridors. I turned my helm toward the breached entrance and saw the main figures of the military entourage enter the room. King Robb Stark advanced in the vanguard, bringing with him the deeply debilitated figure of my uncle, Eddard Stark.
The veteran warrior was in a deplorable physical state due to the months of confinement in the dark dungeons where Catelyn had kept him chained, managing to stay on his feet and walk obstinately solely due to the runes of endurance carved into his body.
Beside them, the soldiers brought under custody the young crown prince of the South, who observed the scene of slaughter with wide eyes of pure childish dread, closing his eyelids tightly in an attempt to keep that image of terror in his memory for the rest of his life. Closing the rear of the entourage, the spearmen of Dorne brought the captured Lord of Dragonstone, Lord Stannis Baratheon, whose features remained contorted in an expression of pure impotent hatred.
Resting my iron gauntlets against the ice armrest of the frozen Throne, I looked at each of those men gathered before my imperial presence and declared with a firm voice:
"— Well, it is time to end all of this, gentlemen."