Chapter 17: The Reddened Fields, The Weaver's Repast
The dawn broke heavy and grey over the chosen plain, a vast, undulating expanse in the southern Stormlands that would soon earn a new, bloodier name in the annals of Westeros. Two armies, behemoths of mortal ambition and draconic fury, stirred in the misty light, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, nervous sweat, and the metallic tang of fear. On one side, under the defiant banners of rebellious southern lords and the enigmatic black dragon sigil of Vaelaros, stood "Lord Aerion's" Grand Army of Southern Defiance – a desperate, disparate coalition fueled by promises and a shared dread of their opponent. On the other, the disciplined, battle-hardened forces of Aegon Targaryen, Conqueror of Westeros, his three-headed dragon banner a symbol of fiery retribution.
"Lord Aerion Vaelaros," a figure of imposing Valyrian majesty atop the colossal, emerald-streaked Vhagarion, addressed his assembled commanders – Dornish princes with sun-hardened faces, Reach knights in polished steel, grim Stormlords nursing old grudges. His voice, amplified by arcane means, rolled across his ranks, a silken, compelling tide.
"Warriors of the True South!" Aerion declared, his silver hair catching the dull morning light. "Today, we face not just a tyrant, but a pale imitation of Valyrian greatness! Aegon Targaryen offers you chains, calls it peace! He offers submission, calls it unity! We, the inheritors of Valyria's uncorrupted flame, offer you freedom, a chance to reclaim your ancient dignities, to forge a future where true strength and wisdom prevail! Look to your banners! Look to our dragons! Today, we teach the Conqueror the price of arrogance! Today, the blood of proud men will water these fields, and from that sacrifice, a new, truer order shall arise! Fight for your homes! Fight for your honor! Fight for the dawn that Lord Aerion Vaelaros brings!"
It was a masterpiece of manipulation, each word crafted to ignite the specific passions of his fractious allies – Dornish independence, Reach pride, Stormlander vengeance. He spoke of sacrifice, and Aizen Sōsuke, the god within the Valyrian guise, smiled internally. Sacrifice there would be, in abundance.
Across the field, Aegon Targaryen, flanked by his sister-queens Visenya and Rhaenys, mounted upon their own formidable dragons, addressed his army with a simpler, sterner message. He spoke of rebellion, of the need for unity, of the justice of his cause. He was the King, and these were traitors led by a charlatan. There would be no mercy.
Then, the war horns blared, a cacophony of defiance and royal command, and the sky itself seemed to tear open as nine dragons took to the air.
The initial clash was a vision of apocalyptic grandeur. Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon's monstrous anchor, a living mountain of shadow and fire, met Aizen's Vhagarion in the center of the heavens. Their collision was a thunderclap that dwarfed the storm that had preceded it, their roars shaking the very souls of the men below. Vhagarion, though perhaps not as physically massive as Balerion, was possessed of an ancient fury and empowered by Aizen's own divine Reiatsu, his emerald-black soul-fire clashing in spectacular, reality-warping explosions against Balerion's incandescent black flames. Aizen, as Aerion, rode Vhagarion with preternatural calm and skill, his movements fluid, anticipating Balerion's lunges, directing Vhagarion's attacks with telepathic precision. He was not merely a dragonrider; he was a conductor of draconic devastation.
Meanwhile, Visenya on Vhagar (Targaryen) and Rhaenys on Meraxes found themselves beset by Aerion's five juvenile dragons. These were not the wild, somewhat unpredictable beasts the Targaryens were used to. Aerion's dragons fought with a chilling, pack-like coordination, their movements precise, their flame attacks varied and designed to exploit weaknesses. One, a bronze brute, unleashed concussive blasts of fire that buffeted Meraxes, while two sleek jet-black drakes harried Vhagar (Targaryen) with streams of incredibly hot, focused blue flame, forcing Visenya onto the defensive. The remaining two, one copper-scaled breathing a disorienting, swirling frost-fire, the other a dark crimson beast whose flames seemed to cling and spread like napalm, focused on disrupting the Targaryen ground formations below, their attacks carefully orchestrated by Aerion's distant will to sow maximum chaos without immediately breaking the enemy lines.
On the ground, the battle commenced with a deafening roar as tens of thousands of men crashed together. Aegon's veteran infantry, disciplined and well-armored, met the charge of enraged Stormlords and proud Reach knights. The Dornish spearmen, fighting with their customary tenacity, formed resilient phalanxes, their poisoned tips seeking any gap in Targaryen armor. It was a brutal, churning melee, sword against shield, spear against mail, the screams of the dying a constant, horrifying chorus.
And into this maelstrom strode the Valyrian Legionaries of Lord Aerion – Aizen's Sentinel constructs. They moved with an eerie, silent grace, their black armor deflecting blows that would fell mortal men, their Valyrian steel swords, often wielded with two hands despite their size, rising and falling with a relentless, mechanical precision. They did not shout war cries; they did not show pain or fear. They were avatars of death, cutting through the Targaryen ranks like obsidian scythes, their presence inspiring terror in their enemies and a strange, unsettling awe in their supposed allies. Argent, a towering black figure, fought at their head, his own blade a blur of deadly light, his movements a symphony of lethal grace.
Aizen, from his vantage point atop Vhagarion, directed the entirety of this inferno with the detached focus of a chess master. His primary goal was not tactical victory in the mortal sense, but the maximization of spiritual energy release. He subtly maneuvered his coalition forces, sacrificing a unit of overzealous Reach knights here to draw a Targaryen counter-charge into a kill zone, ordering a Dornish flank to feign retreat there, only to lead Aegon's pursuing cavalry into an ambush by his Sentinel Legionaries and a strafing run from his frost-fire dragon. Every maneuver was designed to prolong the engagement, to heighten the emotional intensity, to ensure that death came not swiftly, but amidst a crescendo of terror, valor, and despair.
His Kido-based soul-siphons, invisible orbs of condensed spiritual energy that Argent and his most trusted Sentinels had discreetly placed at key locations around the periphery of the battlefield before dawn, hummed silently, drawing in the torrent of released souls. The Hōgyoku, nestled beneath Aerion's Valyrian plate, was a vortex of ecstatic absorption, each dying scream, each final, defiant breath, a tributary flowing into its insatiable core. Aizen felt the familiar, intoxicating surge of power, the subtle refinement of his divine essence as the Hōgyoku processed and integrated the raw spiritual fuel. He could differentiate the "flavors" – the stubborn, earthy resilience of the stormlanders, the fiery pride of the Dornish, the disciplined fear of the Targaryen regulars. All of it was valuable data, exquisite sustenance.
The battle reached a fever pitch of brutality. The dragon combat above was a terrifying spectacle. Rhaenys, on Meraxes, found herself consistently outmaneuvered by the coordinated attacks of two of Aerion's drakes. While she fought bravely, a pincer movement, one dragon unleashing a blast of concussive fire that staggered Meraxes, the other diving from above with its napalm-like flame, resulted in Meraxes taking a horrific gout of clinging fire across her left wing. The silver dragon shrieked in agony, her flight becoming erratic. Rhaenys, her face a mask of fury and desperation, tried to regain control, but the damage was severe. Meraxes was forced to limp from the sky, making a crash-landing far behind the Targaryen lines, out of the main fight. A significant blow to Aegon, a tragic loss for Rhaenys, and a carefully engineered outcome by Aizen, who had wanted to test the resilience of a mature Targaryen dragon and its rider.
On the ground, Orys Baratheon, leading a counter-charge against a breach in the Targaryen center caused by Argent's Legionaries, found himself face-to-face with a hulking Dornish prince renowned for his savagery. Their duel was brutal, but Orys, fueled by loyalty to Aegon, eventually struck the Dornishman down, only to be grievously wounded by a poisoned spear thrust from another Dornish warrior moments later. He was dragged back from the brink by his household guard, his life hanging by a thread.
Aegon, witnessing his sister's dragon fall and his closest friend struck down, felt a surge of cold fury. He urged Balerion towards Vhagarion with renewed ferocity. The two colossal dragons grappled in mid-air, their claws tearing at scales, their fiery breath scorching the sky. Balerion's sheer size and power were immense, but Vhagarion, guided by Aizen's centuries of combat experience and augmented by his divine Reiatsu, fought with a cunning and resilience that stunned Aegon. Aizen allowed Vhagarion to sustain several superficial but spectacular-looking wounds – a deep gash across a flank from Balerion's claws, a section of wing membrane scorched – all part of the performance.
Hours passed. The sun climbed to its zenith, casting harsh light on a field that had become a charnel house. Both armies were horrifically depleted. The Southern Coalition, despite their numbers and the effectiveness of Aerion's core troops, had suffered immensely, their less disciplined formations crumbling under sustained Targaryen pressure and dragonfire. Aegon's army, though holding its ground, was a shadow of its former self, its veteran ranks thinned, its morale battered by the relentless assault of Aerion's dragons and the terrifying efficiency of his Valyrian knights.
The soul harvest had reached its peak. The Hōgyoku pulsed with a triumphant, almost orgasmic intensity. Aizen Sōsuke, the god within the armor, judged that the banquet was complete. The strategic objectives – decimating both armies, testing his forces, further unsettling Aegon, and acquiring a monumental tribute of souls – had been achieved. Continued fighting would yield diminishing returns and risk revealing too much of his true power or intent.
It was time for Lord Aerion Vaelaros to make his "tragic retreat."
With a series of pre-arranged signals – a specific sequence of dragon roars from Vhagarion, a volley of black obsidian arrows from his Sentinel archers – Aerion initiated the withdrawal. It was not a rout, but a disciplined, fighting retreat. The remaining juvenile dragons provided cover, their flames holding back Targaryen pursuit. The Sentinel Legionaries formed a rearguard of unbreakable black steel, moving with their customary eerie calm, taking a heavy toll on any Targaryen units brave or foolish enough to press them.
Lord Aerion, atop the "wounded" Vhagarion, was seen directing the retreat with grim determination, his voice still commanding, though tinged with a feigned weariness and regret. He cast one last, sorrowful look at the field of slaughter, as if mourning the valiant dead of his coalition, then turned Vhagarion westward, disappearing into the smoke and haze.
Aegon Targaryen was left in possession of the field. But it was a victory that tasted of ash and despair. His army was shattered. Orys Baratheon lay near death. Rhaenys was grieving her wounded Meraxes, whose injuries would keep her grounded for a long, long time, if she ever flew true again. Thousands of his best men lay dead or dying. And Lord Aerion Vaelaros, the architect of this carnage, remained at large, his core Legion seemingly intact, his dragons still a threat. Aegon had won the battle, but the price was ruinous, and the war against this shadowy Valyrian was far from over. He had faced an enemy who fought not for land or simple conquest, but for some other, darker purpose he could not fathom, an enemy who seemed to revel in destruction itself.
As the Lost Legion's black ships slipped away from the Westerosi coast under the cover of a conveniently summoned squall, Aizen Sōsuke stood on the deck of the Nyx, the Lord Aerion persona dissolving like mist. He was Aizen once more, his true form radiating a power that made the very air around him shimmer. The Hōgyoku was a miniature sun against his chest, engorged and content.
"A most satisfactory repast," he murmured, a genuine, almost beatific smile on his lips. "The mortals of this world, for all their proclaimed chivalry and honor, are so delightfully predictable in their capacity for self-destruction when properly motivated. Their passions burn so brightly, and their souls offer such… exquisite flavor."
He had not "lost" the battle. He had achieved every single one of his objectives. Aegon was weakened, his resources depleted, his confidence shaken. The southern kingdoms were further destabilized, their leadership decimated, fertile ground for future manipulations. And he, Aizen Sōsuke, was immeasurably strengthened, the Hōgyoku integrating the vast energies, pushing him further along the path of his divine evolution. He could feel new depths of understanding opening within him, new vistas of power beckoning.
The Lost Legion, or what remained of its publicly displayed Valyrian facade, would retreat into the shadows of the Stepstones, or perhaps even further, becoming a lingering phantom menace in Aegon's mind, a tool to be deployed again when the time was right. Aizen himself would return to the Obsidian Spire, to his research, to Ignis Primus, and to the quiet contemplation of his next grand symphony of conflict.
He had given Aegon Targaryen his brutal, tragic victory. But it was Aizen Sōsuke, the Weaver of Fate, the God of the Smoking Sea, who was the only true winner. The fields of Westeros had been reddened, and the god, satisfied with his feast, retreated into the shadows, eagerly awaiting the next course that the ever-foolish, ever-striving mortals would inevitably serve him. The game was long, and he had all eternity to play.