Chapter 15: The Silent Exodus and The Final Watch
Time: 10 Years Before the Doom to The Eve of The Doom
Lord Aerion Balearys's Perspective:
The Pale Wanderer's words, a chilling whisper of a coming end, had burrowed deep into Lord Aerion Balearys's mind, poisoning the very air of Valyria with doubt. To flee? To abandon a thousand years of glory, of dominion, of dragons? The very thought was anathema, a craven act worthy of the mocking dismissal afforded to the Targaryens. Yet, Kaelen Silvanor's eyes, ancient and unwavering, spoke of a truth too profound to ignore. And the Targaryens had gone. Two years ago.
The following months were a torment of internal debate, hushed counsel with his most trusted kin. No dragons remained in their possession – they had never truly recovered from the loss of their last great beast centuries ago. That was a weakness, but now, perhaps, a blessing. Without a dragon, their departure would be far less conspicuous.
"Trade outposts in Sothoryos," Kaelen had said. It was a plausible cover. Others saw the wild continent as a source of slaves, exotic beasts, and a few rare ores. A Balearys house seeking new markets wouldn't raise too many eyebrows.
The exodus began subtly. First, it was the old and infirm, sent with a few trusted retainers and carefully disguised crates of gold and precious knowledge, ostensibly for "long-term investment in distant lands." Then, younger, less prominent family members, ostensibly to oversee "new mining ventures." Ships, once laden with silks and spices bound for the Free Cities, now carried hidden compartments, their crews sworn to secrecy under pain of unimaginable torment. The journeys were long, fraught with the perils of the Smoking Sea, but Kaelen had given them precise charts, leading them to a hidden, lush island off the western Sothoryan coast. It was small, defensible, and untouched, yet teeming with natural resources.
The early arrivals found an unexpected haven. A basic, but sturdy, harbor had been discreetly constructed, almost as if waiting for them. Supplies, fresh water, and even initial shelters had been prepared by unseen hands – Kaelen's silent promise fulfilled. It was primitive compared to Valyria, but it was safe. Fear gnawed at them with every departure from the homeland, but hope, fragile yet persistent, began to take root with every arrival at the designated island.
Kaelen Silvanor's Perspective:
The journey back to Ael'tharion felt swifter than my departure. The humid air of Sothoryos, thick with the scent of fertile earth and blossoming flora, was a stark contrast to the volatile, sulfurous breath of Valyria. I had delivered my warning, sowed the seeds of survival. Now, all that remained was the final, meticulous tightening of every bolt, the sharpening of every blade, the cementing of every loyalty. Ten years. Ten short years stood between us and the fiery wrath that would reshape the world.
My return spurred a new wave of intensity across the empire. Valerius Ithilien's legions conducted drills with relentless precision, their movements like a single, unbreakable serpent through the deepwoods. Aerion Caelenor's forges worked day and night, the rhythmic clang echoing through Firesong Citadel as the last of our superior arms were crafted. Sylvani Lumiel oversaw the provisioning of our vast granaries in Riverlight Hearth, ensuring we had reserves for a generation, while Faelar Ambaron expanded our outer defenses in Ambrosia, establishing more distant outposts and securing every vulnerable frontier. Each Duke understood the unspoken urgency; my presence, a silent, ageless reminder of the threat, was enough. I walked among them, a spectral overseer, correcting, guiding, always watching the sun rise and set, counting down the days.
Years became months. I felt the earth's restless tremor beneath my feet grow more pronounced. The subtle shifts, the deeper rumblings, the occasional, inexplicable heat that seeped from fissures in the jungle rock – these were the death throes of a continent. I spent less time commanding, more time observing, my presence a steady anchor for my people. My Dukes had perfected their roles, their Count-Viscount-Baron hierarchies functioning with seamless efficiency. The legions were at their peak, the fleets patrolled our vast riverine and coastal domains.
Periodically, a sleek vessel, clearly of Valyrian design, would approach the designated island refuge, offloading its clandestine cargo before disappearing back into the waves. The Balearys family was moving. Not all of them, perhaps, but enough. They had chosen to believe, or at least, to hedge their bets. My engineers and scout-teams, disguised and subtle, ensured their safe passage to the island and provided the necessary initial infrastructure, leaving no trace of our involvement behind.
The final year was a blur of heightened vigilance. Valerius's warriors stood ready, not for an invasion, but for the aftermath. Sylvani ensured that our vast stores were secured, our libraries safeguarded. Aerion's smiths put away their tools, their work done. Faelar's expansion paused, shifting to a defensive posture.
On the eve of the Doom, the air crackled with an unnatural energy. The sky over the Smoking Sea, hundreds of leagues distant, glowed with a faint, malevolent light, invisible to most, but painfully clear to my ancient senses. Elias Vance, the physicist, saw the impossible energies coiling beneath the earth. Kaelen Silvanor, the Ael'athar, felt the world itself hold its breath.
Every Silvanar in my empire, from the humblest Baron to my mighty Dukes, slept in their beds, safe within walls of stone and living wood, protected by legions and fleets, and ultimately, by the foresight of one man.
My gaze was fixed eastward, towards the distant, doomed horizon. I had done all I could. The promise was paid. The shield was ready. The sail was set.