Chapter 4: The Shadow of Asshai, The Cracks in Obsidian
The return of the Xantys expedition from the northern caldera was met with a mixture of awe, trepidation, and barely concealed envy within Valyria. Aemond Xantys, astride the colossal, emerald-streaked Vhagarion, was no longer merely a promising scion. He was a figure of mythic proportion, a conqueror of Valyria's most perilous frontiers, a warrior-scholar whose dragon seemed an extension of the very volcanic fury that both sustained and threatened the Freehold. House Xantys, under the increasingly ambitious Rhaegar, rode this wave of prestige, its influence swelling within the Conclave.
Aemond, now a young man of eighteen, bore his elevated status with the same unnerving calm. His dark eyes, which seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, missed nothing of the shifting political currents, the fear in his rivals' gazes, the avarice in his father's. He accepted the new responsibilities Rhaegar thrust upon him – overseeing the expanded Xantys mining operations (a convenient cover for his continued interest in the Fourteen Flames), advising on military fortifications (allowing him to subtly assess Valyria's structural weaknesses), and even representing House Xantys in certain diplomatic overtures (a platform to observe and manipulate other powerful families).
Each new role was a tool, a means to an end. His true focus remained anchored deep within the earth, in the secret chasm where the crystalline Heart pulsed with ancient, dormant power. The official Xantys geothermal survey teams, under his carefully controlled direction, established a permanent, heavily fortified research outpost ostensibly near the new "rich mineral veins" he had "discovered." In reality, this outpost served as a concealed access point to the Heart's cavern, staffed by men whose loyalty was bought with Xantys gold and cemented by an ingrained fear of their young, enigmatic commander.
The Heart project was Aizen's silent obsession. Progress was slow, painstaking. The glyphs covering its surface were unlike any known language, their patterns shifting subtly as if responding to unseen cosmic tides. He employed a combination of Valyrian scrying techniques, his own burgeoning Kido-like energy senses (a nascent form of Reikaku he was developing with the Hōgyoku's aid, allowing him to "read" the spiritual residue and intent behind the glyphs), and sheer intellectual force to decipher them. He discovered they were not a language in the conventional sense, but more akin to a complex, multi-dimensional circuit diagram, detailing energy flows and resonant frequencies of an almost unimaginable scale.
The Heart, he theorized, was a planetary regulator, a colossal magical engine designed by a civilization that had predated even the earliest Valyrian myths. It had been intended to stabilize the vast geothermal and magical energies of the peninsula, perhaps even to draw power from them. But it was ancient, damaged, and now, in its death throes, it was amplifying the instability, accelerating the very Doom it was meant to prevent. The challenge was immense: to understand its failing systems, to perhaps siphon some of its immense, decaying power before the cataclysm, or at the very least, to ensure its final, explosive demise would contribute optimally to the soul harvest he envisioned. The Hōgyoku thrummed in concert with these ambitions, feeding him insights, suggesting correlations between the Heart's energies and the fundamental particles of Reishi he remembered from his past life.
While Aemond delved into these profound secrets, Valyria itself was rotting from within. The decade, perhaps less, that remained before the Doom was a pressure cooker, intensifying the Freehold's inherent flaws. The Dragon Lords, insulated by generations of unparalleled power, grew ever more decadent and reckless. Rivalries festered into open skirmishes in the remote territories, dragon fire scorching the land over petty disputes. Blood magic rituals became more extravagant, more desperate, as some sought to divine the future or bolster their waning fortunes, oblivious to the irony that their greatest seers were blind to the abyss at their feet. Slave revolts, once sporadic, became more frequent and were met with ever more brutal suppression, each massacre a small, grim offering to the forces of entropy Aemond patiently observed.
He moved through this societal decay like a surgeon observing a terminal patient, noting every symptom, every failing organ. He did little to alleviate the suffering – it was, after all, a natural consequence of their arrogance and a precursor to the grand harvest. Occasionally, he would subtly exacerbate a conflict, a carefully placed rumor or a manipulated piece of intelligence, to test the limits of Valyrian paranoia or to remove a minor player who might inconveniently survive the Doom and complicate his later plans. His actions were always deniable, lost in the general chaos.
Lyra Stark found little solace in her son's ascendant status. The "Obsidian Prince" was a stranger to her. The more powerful and respected he became in the eyes of Valyria, the further he receded from the Sōsuke she remembered, the child of two worlds she had hoped would bridge them. Her godswood, once a place of quiet contemplation, now felt charged with a terrifying awareness. The weirwood tree, now thicker and taller, its carved eyes seeming to weep more profusely, had become a focal point for her increasingly vivid and disturbing greensight.
She saw flashes of Aemond, not as a Valyrian lord, but as a being of immense, cold light and profound darkness, Vhagarion a monstrous silhouette behind him, cities turning to ash. She saw the Hōgyoku, though she did not know its name, pulsing like a malevolent star against his chest. She saw souls, countless souls, screaming as they were drawn into a vortex of his making.
Desperate, Lyra tried to reach him. "The land is crying out, Sōsuke," she told him one evening, her voice strained, her grey Stark eyes filled with a haunted light. "The Fourteen Flames are stirring in ways that are not natural. Even the dragons are fearful. Can you not feel it? Your father, the other Lords, they are blind, deafened by their own pride."
Aemond, who had been reviewing geological survey maps (which also detailed spiritual energy concentrations around the Heart), looked up. "I feel the power, Mother. And I understand it far better than they do."
"Understanding is not enough!" Lyra insisted, her hands clenched. "This power will consume us all. It will consume you. There is a shadow over your soul, my son. A shadow that was not there before."
Aizen considered her. Her fear was genuine, her maternal instinct warring with the terrifying truth her greensight revealed. He could easily dismiss her, or further cloud her visions. But a part of his analytical mind found her reactions… illuminating. She was a conduit to a different kind of magic, the primal earth magic of the First Men, so different from Valyria's fire and blood, or Soul Society's refined spiritual arts. Understanding her fear, her connection to these older forces, might yield unexpected benefits.
"Shadows are merely the absence of light, Mother," he said calmly. "Or perhaps, they are the light of a different spectrum, one most are not equipped to perceive." He paused. "What do your Old Gods tell you of this coming darkness?"
Lyra flinched at the almost clinical curiosity in his tone. "They whisper of imbalance, of a debt of fire and blood long overdue. They show me… an ending. But also, a silence after. A silence that terrifies me more than the flames." She looked at him, pleading. "There are ways, Sōsuke, even now. The North… it is far from here. Your Stark blood…"
Aemond knew she had entertained futile thoughts of sending him to Winterfell, of appealing to her distant kin. He had, of course, ensured any such messages would never leave Valyria. "My destiny lies here, Mother," he stated, not unkindly, but with an immutable finality. "With Valyria. And with Vhagarion."
Her desperation took a new turn. She began to seek out others on the fringes of Valyrian society – aging mystics, disgraced scholars who dabbled in forbidden lore, even certain high-ranking slaves who were rumored to possess ancestral knowledge from conquered lands. She sought anyone who might understand the growing dread, who might offer a different perspective than the arrogant pronouncements of the Dragon Lords. Aemond monitored her activities, intrigued. These explorations might unearth some forgotten piece of magical lore, some unique spiritual practice he could dissect and adapt. Her grief was making her an unwitting research assistant.
It was through one of Lyra's furtive contacts that news first reached Aemond of an unusual arrival in Valyria: a delegation from Asshai-by-the-Shadow.
Asshai'i were rare visitors to the heart of the Freehold. Their land was a place of darkness and potent, often terrifying magic, their shadowbinders and sorcerers commanding powers that even Valyrians treated with a degree of wary respect. This delegation, it was whispered, was led by a shadowbinder of considerable renown, Quaithe of the Shadow, a woman whose face was perpetually hidden behind a red lacquered mask.
Aemond's interest was immediately piqued. Asshai'i magic, with its focus on shadows, spirits, and divination, was a branch of sorcery he knew little about from direct experience. It could offer new insights into soul manipulation, or perhaps different methods of energy channeling. He tasked his network of informants – a web of spies and indebted individuals he had cultivated within the city – to gather all available information.
The official reason for the Asshai'i visit was a complex trade negotiation concerning rare obsidian unique to Valyrian mines, prized by Asshai'i for its magical conductive properties. But Aemond, with his Hōgyoku-enhanced perception, sensed deeper currents. Quaithe, he felt, was not here merely for trade. There was an aura of ancient knowledge about her, a spiritual signature that was both powerful and unsettlingly veiled.
Rhaegar Xantys, eager to display the growing prominence of his House, secured a formal audience for the Asshai'i delegation at their manse. Aemond was, of course, expected to attend.
The meeting took place in the grand Xantys reception hall, its obsidian walls gleaming. Quaithe and her two attendants, also masked and robed in dark, layered silks, were a stark contrast to the brightly clad Valyrians. Quaithe's red lacquered mask was intricately carved, and her eyes, visible through the slits, seemed to absorb all light, much like Aemond's own.
As Rhaegar began the formal pleasantries, Aemond studied Quaithe intently. He felt the subtle probes of her magic, attempts to divine his nature, his power. They were sophisticated, far more so than typical Valyrian scrying, but they met a carefully constructed wall of deceptive ordinariness, behind which his true Reiatsu, or its equivalent in this world, was suppressed with techniques refined from his Shinigami past. The Hōgyoku further distorted any direct magical readings, projecting an aura of immense, but largely dormant, potential tied to Vhagarion and the volcanic energies of Valyria – a narrative he was happy for others to believe.
When it was Aemond's turn to be introduced, Quaithe's hidden gaze lingered on him. "Lord Aemond Xantys," her voice was a low, melodious whisper, like rustling silk, yet it carried an undeniable authority. "Your dragon, Vhagarion… legends of him are beginning to reach even distant Asshai. They say he is touched by the fire beneath the world, and that his rider shares his unique communion."
"Vhagarion is… singular," Aemond replied, his voice calm and measured. "As are the bonds between any dragonlord and their mount. Our strength is Valyria's strength."
"Indeed," Quaithe murmured. "Yet some strengths cast very long shadows. Shadows that can obscure even the brightest flames, or herald a darkness yet to come." Her words were oblique, laden with hidden meaning, a clear probe.
Aizen recognized the game. This was not mere diplomatic fencing. This was a subtle challenge, an invitation to a deeper, more dangerous conversation.
Later, during a private tour of the Xantys dragon pens – a display of power Rhaegar insisted upon – Aemond found himself alone with Quaithe near Vhagarion's vast, steaming cavern. The great dragon sensed the Asshai'i shadowbinder, a low growl rumbling in his chest, his emerald eyes fixed on her.
"Your beast is… magnificent," Quaithe said, her voice barely audible above Vhagarion's resonant breathing. "He feels the pulse of the world's decay. He is attuned to the coming… changes."
"All of Valyria is attuned to the Fourteen Flames," Aemond countered smoothly. "It is the source of our power."
"Power that is finite," Quaithe whispered. "The brightest stars burn fastest. To see the future, Lord Aemond, one must sometimes look into the deepest shadows, not into the blinding fire." She turned her masked face fully towards him. "There are those in Asshai who have seen visions of Valyria's fate. Visions of fire, and ruin, and a great silence. But also… of a new power rising from the ashes. A power that will reshape the world."
Aemond's expression remained impassive, but his mind raced. Was she a genuine seer? Or was this a sophisticated attempt to glean information, perhaps to offer an alliance, or a warning? The Hōgyoku pulsed faintly, confirming the sincerity of her belief in her visions, though the interpretation, Aizen knew, was always subjective.
"Prophecies are the refuge of those who fear the present," Aemond said, his gaze unwavering. "Valyria has faced challenges before. We have always endured. We are the blood of the dragon."
Quaithe was silent for a moment, her hidden eyes seeming to pierce through him. "Some futures cannot be unwritten, young lord. They can only be prepared for. Or embraced." She then made a subtle gesture, a complex weaving of her fingers, and Aemond felt a distinct, cold spike of unfamiliar magical energy, like a shard of frozen shadow, attempting to bypass his defenses and touch his core.
It was a direct magical assault, expertly concealed within a seemingly innocuous gesture.
Before Aemond even consciously reacted, the Hōgyoku flared, not outwardly, but as a silent, internal counter-surge. The shadow-shard dissolved harmlessly. Simultaneously, Aemond allowed a fraction of his true, suppressed spiritual pressure to leak out, not in a Valyrian display of fiery power, but as an aura of immense, ancient coldness, a pressure that spoke of death, of hollows, of Soul Society's deepest abyss. It was gone in an instant, so swift that even a master like Quaithe might doubt what she had sensed.
But he saw her flinch, a minute, almost imperceptible tightening of her shoulders. Her masked face betrayed nothing, but he knew she had felt something, something utterly alien to this world's magic.
"The shadows of Asshai are indeed deep, Shadowbinder," Aemond said, his voice still calm, but with an underlying resonance that had not been there before. "But even the deepest shadows are born of light. And all light, eventually, serves a singular purpose."
Quaithe did not respond immediately. The growl from Vhagarion's cavern deepened, taking on a more menacing tone.
"You are… more than you seem, Aemond Xantys," she finally whispered, her voice perhaps a shade less certain. "The path you walk is perilous, fraught with powers that devour souls as easily as dragons devour sheep."
"The path of true power is always perilous," Aemond replied. "And only those willing to pay the price may walk it to its end." He met her hidden gaze. "Asshai seeks obsidian. Valyria is willing to trade. Let us confine our discussions to such… tangible matters. The future, and the nature of souls, are best contemplated in solitude."
Quaithe gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The unspoken challenge had been met, a boundary drawn. She had come seeking answers, perhaps a potential ally or a pawn in Asshai's long games. She had found something else entirely, something she could not easily categorize or control.
The rest of the Asshai'i delegation's visit was conducted with a newfound, subtle tension. The trade negotiations proceeded, but the deeper, unspoken dialogue between Aemond and Quaithe lingered in the air. When they departed Valyria a week later, Quaithe left Aemond with a parting gift: a small, intricately carved obsidian amulet, shaped like a coiled serpent biting its own tail.
"A symbol of cycles, and of secrets kept," she had whispered. "May it serve you well when the great wheel turns."
Aemond accepted it, his senses, amplified by the Hōgyoku, detecting no overt magic, yet understanding it as a marker, a recognition of his unique status, perhaps even a cautious gesture of future contact, should their paths converge in the "reshaped world" she envisioned. He would analyze it later, in the privacy of his laboratory. Any knowledge, any connection, could be a tool.
As the Asshai'i skyship dwindled into the smoke-hazed horizon, Aemond turned his gaze back towards the Fourteen Flames. Quaithe's visit had been an interesting diversion, a reminder that Valyria, for all its power, was not the only crucible of potent magic in this world. But her prophecies, her talk of rising powers, only confirmed what he already knew, what he was actively orchestrating.
The cracks in Valyria's obsidian façade were widening. The tremors were stronger now, the volcanic smoke thicker, carrying strange new scents. Dragonlords were reporting unsettling mutations in newly hatched dragons, and some of the oldest, most powerful beasts were becoming increasingly erratic. The Doom was no longer a whisper; it was a rising growl, audible even to those who desperately tried to ignore it.
Aemond felt the Hōgyoku stirring with anticipation. His work on the Heart was yielding slow but steady results; he was beginning to understand how to subtly influence its energy flows, perhaps even to direct a portion of its cataclysmic release. His personal abilities were evolving, the echoes of his Shinigami past merging with the raw magic of this world into something new, something uniquely his.
The time for subtle observation and preparation was drawing to a close. Soon, the curtain would rise on the main event. And he, Aizen Sōsuke, reborn as Aemond Xantys, would be ready to take center stage, not as a victim of the cataclysm, but as its master, its beneficiary, the silent god waiting to gather the fallen stars.