Zenith Dominion - Chapter 12: Vertical Integration (Patreon)

Daedalus  

Three months after arriving in Planetos, Alex returned to Qarth as the ruler of substantially more territory than he had intended to acquire when he and Hikari first appeared on this world with their YGGDRASIL abilities, incomplete local knowledge, and no useful explanation for how any of it had happened. In the fourteen days before their return, Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen had fallen, the slaveholding order of the bay had been broken by force, and an improvised occupation had already begun hardening into government. 

By his standards, the expansion had been remarkably efficient. By every standard Essos still considered sane, it was absurd. 

Qarth greeted them as conquerors. Varion pulled the ceremonial chariot from the city gates toward the Hexarch Bastion while crowds packed the boulevard, shouting the names Daedalus and Ame-no-Uzume until the sound rolled between the merchant palaces and old spires. Hikari handled the adulation better. She had always possessed an instinctive command of attention, even before her avatar became physically real and people began treating six wings as evidence of divinity. Alex could perform monarchy when necessary. Hikari made it look disturbingly natural. 

Varion, meanwhile, endured ceremonial transportation with the dignity of an aristocrat sentenced to manual labor. 

The procession gave Alex time to measure how much had changed. Three months earlier, Qarth had been just another city of this blood-soak continent, the wealthiest perhaps, but still dominated by factions, traditions and greed. The House of the Undying had still occupied its fortress, and both he and Hikari had been testing the limits of bodies that had once existed only through a game interface. Now the warlocks were gone, both physically and spiritually; their stronghold had been replaced by a crater; and the Hexarch Bastion rose over the site as a permanent reminder of what kind of power now rule Qath. 

His thoughts wandered briefly toward monuments. Meereen would eventually need something visible to mark the end of slavery, and an adapted Statue of Liberty suggested itself with embarrassing ease: Hikari in full Seraph form, Hastalucis raised where the old statue had carried a torch. Earth’s original had been destroyed in World War Three, so reconstructing the concept in another world possessed a certain historical neatness. It also possessed exactly the kind of grandiose symbolism Alex normally distrusted. 

He kept the idea anyway. 

Inside the Bastion, symbolism became policy. 

The ceremony formally transformed the old guild name, Zenith Dominion, into the name of a state. What had once identified a collection of players, raid schedules, shared storage, arguments over builds, and years of accumulated game history now described territory stretching from Qarth toward the Bone Mountains and across the newly renamed Liberty Bay. The transition should have felt ridiculous. Instead, hearing the name proclaimed over cities, armies, roads, ports, and populations produced a sharp sense of continuity. Their old world was gone, but one piece of it had survived long enough to become institutional. 

That carried its own problems. Guild administration had never involved irrigation law. 

The Lhazar were incorporated first. Ireoh the Elder represented communities that had spent generations trapped between Dothraki raids and slave markets, and her people had already lived under Dominion protection for months. Their formal entry changed less operationally than politically. It replaced a temporary protectorate with a permanent relationship and turned Alex and Hikari’s earlier promises into obligations that could no longer be treated as emergency measures. 

Alex found that part more difficult than conquest. 

Armies, fortifications, logistics, spell ranges, and supply requirements could all be modeled. Being regarded as the reason an entire people expected their children to survive was harder to quantify. Ireoh’s oath affected him more than he preferred to display, so he did what he normally did with uncomfortable emotional data: recorded it, said very little, and moved on to the next problem. 

Astapor went to Azhor zo Vhezannar. 

The appointment was practical. Azhor had played a crucial role in obtaining ten thousand Unsullied and then assisted with the political transition around the Unsullied. He understood negotiation, and possessed a useful combination of ambition, administrative instinct, and measured self-interest. Alex had no interest in requiring moral purity from provincial governors. Competence was already rare enough. Astapor needed somebody capable of understanding its commercial machinery while accepting that the old ownership system was permanently finished. Azhor could do that, or at least understood the consequences of failing. 

Yunkai went to Vorgoryr Tagaros. 

That choice amused Alex because Vorgoryr looked less like a newly elevated governor than a quartermaster informed that the supply depot had somehow become a country. The reaction increased Alex’s confidence in him. Vorgoryr had spent years handling the Dragon’s Fang’s accounts, movement, provisioning, contracts, and routine military problems. Yunkai’s old ruling structure had been gutted, leaving behind vineyards, warehouses, tax records, frightened clerks, liberated workers, and a city whose elite had previously regarded accounting as something slaves did for them. It needed a man who understood that food stores mattered more than ancestry. 

Jaenera received a role far closer to her preferences. The Dragon’s Fang was reorganized into the Order of the Dragon, intended to become the Dominion’s developing air force, with Jaenera in command. Her religious devotion to Alex and Hikari remained excessive enough to be socially uncomfortable, though her battlefield record made it operationally useful. Zeal was dangerous when attached to incompetence. Attached to discipline, training, and a clear chain of command, it was simply another resource requiring supervision. 

Alex had authorized one hundred aerial mounts from one of his existing breeding projects for selected veterans. By YGGDRASIL standards the creatures involved were low-level assets; by local standards, an enemy formation with no defense against sustained aerial attack would have a serious problem. Jaenera and Vorgoryr’s dragons were also growing rapidly and would soon become rideable. The resulting force remained trivial by player standards, but player standards had become a poor basis for local planning. 

Relative capability mattered. A weapon only needed to outperform the system opposing it. 

The military reorganization of the Unsullied should have been simpler. Hikari renamed them the Seraphic Guard and elevated Hajime to general, placing a formal structure around a force already devoted to her with uncomfortable intensity. 

Then the ceremony stopped behaving like administration. 

When Hikari touched Hastalucis to Hajime during his oath, Alex activated Omniscope expecting an enchantment, perhaps an aura interaction or some local magical response that could be compared against known YGGDRASIL mechanics. Instead, he watched divine energy gather around Hajime in a pattern that belonged fully to neither game magic nor the weaker religious phenomena he had observed elsewhere. 

What held his attention was the route it took. The power moved through Hikari rather than attaching itself to her spell from an external source, and Omniscope struggled to separate the divine signature from her own active magic. Since she had absorbed the remnants of the Lady of the Spear, Alex had treated the new presence as an attached metaphysical structure: inherited authority, local belief, perhaps divine residue occupying the same system as her Seraph avatar. Hajime’s blessing made that model less convincing. 

He recorded the interaction, compared it against the earlier readings he had taken from Hikari, and found no immediate sign of foreign control. That was as far as he was willing to take the conclusion in the middle of a public ceremony. Several thousand people were watching closely enough to assign religious meaning to an inconvenient blink. 

Varion noticed his attention shifting, naturally. The Lamassu had a talent for identifying precisely the observation Alex would have preferred to examine in private. 

The final major appointment sent a different message. Meereen, the largest city of Liberty Bay, would not be handed to a surviving noble family, Qartheen merchant, or opportunistic local faction.  

Instead, Hikari's newest and most powerful summoning angel, Astrael was appointed Governor of Meereen and Overlord of the bay. Anchoring the Seraph Aerosphere had required 21,034 corpses. 

Alex disliked the figure aesthetically, ethically, and logistically. The supply had come from the dead accumulated through the recent campaigns: Great, Good, and Wise Masters, guards who had died defending them, portion of the Stormcrows, and others whose bodies could serve as material for a high-tier summoning system that had become disturbingly literal outside YGGDRASIL. Their available reserve was now nearly exhausted. 

The result remained strategically excellent. 

Astrael was powerful, unquestionably loyal to Hikari, administratively intelligent enough to govern, and visually impossible to mistake for a compromise candidate. Anyone in Meereen considering rebellion would have to begin planning from the fact that the provincial governor was a six-winged supernatural being directly tied to the throne and capable of razing the city to the ground by himself. Alex regarded that as efficient communication. 

By the end of the ceremony, the Zenith Dominion possessed a formal name, provincial governors, a developing aerial force, a reorganized standing army, and a hierarchy increasingly reinforced by entities local populations described as gods and angels. 

On paper, it had been an excellent day. Instead, Alex found himself mostly worried about his wife. 

Once the court emptied, there was finally time to think about Hajime’s blessing without several thousand witnesses assigning religious meaning to every facial movement. Hikari could feel the faith directed toward her now. The experience did not resemble possession, at least from her description, and Alex found no evidence of foreign control. She remained herself—warm, amused, dangerously compassionate, capable of turning an economic reform into a holy crusade by accident. 

He trusted her. 

Trust did not remove the requirement for observation. 

More than three months earlier, they had been two people trying to preserve familiar identities inside bodies that had once been avatars. Now Hikari was developing genuine divine authority, Alex himself was being called a god of craftsmen, and the old name of their guild had become an empire. 

The systems were scaling faster than the documentation. 

At least that was a problem Alex understood. 

The silver-leaf sapling had germinated, rooted, and then stopped.  

Alex crouched beside it with one gauntleted hand against the soil while a narrow strand of detection magic moved through the root bed. Moisture remained within the range he had specified, the mineral balance was good, and the old Qartheen curse no longer left any measurable contamination beneath the surface. Even the root structure looked healthy enough to continue.  

The plant had reached the limit of what the environment could support. At least the failure now had a cause Alex could measure, even if the result remained irritating.  

He withdrew his hand and entered the reading into the black tome at his hip. Around him, the northern Red Waste had already become green enough that the old name felt increasingly inaccurate. Months earlier the ground had still been cracked and red-brown, its upper layers dry enough to powder beneath a boot and its deeper soil carrying the magical residue of the warlocks who had poisoned it. Twelve dryads had changed that faster than any ordinary ecological project could have approached.  

Their work did not resemble agriculture. Roots spread where the ground could support them, then altered the soil so other roots could follow. Moisture collected in shallow depressions. Moss appeared beneath shade that had not existed the previous morning, and young trunks thickened while vines and flowering plants occupied the spaces between them. The dryads moved through the process without visible strain, passing from tree to tree as though they were restoring an old pattern rather than creating something new.  

By the fourth day, the canopy already broke the sunlight into moving bands across Alex’s armor. The air smelled of damp earth, new bark, and flowers whose YGGDRASIL names were more useful to him than any attempt at Earth taxonomy.  

He had intended the northern region to become both sanctuary and alchemical preserve, although his own notes called it a controlled cultivation zone. The distinction pleased him. Sanctuaries invited sentiment. Cultivation zones came with tolerances, expected yields, failure points, and eventually production schedules.  

South of the new forest, Hikari had taken the more conventional route. Restored land was being divided into farms and grazing plots, with seed grants, livestock incentives, irrigation surveys, and tax relief intended to make resettlement attractive before the first harvest existed to prove the land was worth the effort. She had understood quickly that freed people with nothing could not take agricultural risks simply because their new rulers assured them the soil was fertile.  

Alex preferred the northern project, where his variables were less inclined to lie on tax records.  

The plants did, unfortunately, fail in measurable ways.  

Low-grade YGGDRASIL seeds had responded well once the curse was purged. Culinary herbs, simple potion reagents, ornamental species, and several minor magical crops were already thriving. The higher-grade specimens were more stubborn. Some germinated, consumed the magical energy stored inside their seeds, and stalled. Others remained dormant regardless of water, temperature, soil composition, or exposure.  

The silver-leaf sapling beside Alex had managed six centimeters before the local environment failed it.  

Planetos remained badly starved of mana.  

He had suspected that within weeks of arriving. The forest had turned suspicion into data, and the current solution to the data problem was snoring somewhere ahead.  

The sound rolled between the new trunks with enough force to shake leaves.  

Alex closed the tome and followed it until the trees opened around a broad clearing. Varion occupied most of the available space.  

The Guardian Lamassu had settled into the grass with his forepaws beneath his chin, his white body large enough to flatten several young shrubs, his silver mane spread around him, and his gold-tipped wings folded along his flanks. A crystal marker planted beside one forepaw showed another rise in the local ambient mana level.  

Alex checked the reading.  

Four point three percent above the morning baseline.  

Varion opened one golden eye before Alex could say anything. 

'Master.' 

Alex entered the figure. 

"You're awake." 

'I was resting my eyes. Sleep becomes rather difficult when one discovers one's own master standing nearby and taking measurements.' 

Alex stepped into the clearing and checked the nearest soil marker. 

"I'm measuring the local mana saturation rate." 

'Generated by me.' Varion's tail shifted once through the grass. 'So, indirectly, you are measuring me. I am delighted to learn that my illustrious martial prowess has culminated in becoming a unit of agricultural output!' 

"It's what you're good for." 

One golden eye opened. 

Then Varion lifted his head, slowly, as though Alex had just delivered a personal insult requiring careful examination. 

'What, precisely, are you insinuating, Master?' Varion's voice deepened, fixed him with both eyes. 'I am a Guardian Lamassu of the High Heavens. I have been entrusted with sanctums. I have crossed battlefields beneath celestial command. I have torn fiends apart with my claws and carried the chosen of the Zenith Dominion into war.' His wings shifted with an offended rustle. 'At no point in my distinguished existence was I informed that these qualifications would render me suitable agricultural infrastructure.' 

Alex let the silence sit while [Omniscope] fed another set of readings across his vision. He turned toward one of the higher-grade cultivation beds. 

"You can return to the Bastion if you prefer." 

Varion’s ears moved, and Alex gave the offer enough time to become attractive before he added the relevant operational detail. 

"Hikari was asking whether you'd be back before sunset. The Ghiscari weavers sent several lengths of silk ribbon as tribute. She was wondering whether there was enough for mane ribbons." 

The Lamassu stared at him while birds moved through the canopy overhead. 

After several seconds, Varion lowered his head back onto his paws. 'On reflection, abandoning an active ecological restoration project at this stage would be grossly irresponsible.' 

"Of course." 

'The dryads are reckless. Someone with sound judgment must remain present.' 

"Naturally." 

'And the ambient mana stability is clearly precarious. One shudders to imagine the consequences if your... vegetation were deprived of competent supervision.' 

Alex wrote down another measurement. 

"Your sacrifice is appreciated." 

Varion made a low sound into the grass that shook pollen from three nearby flowers. Alex allowed himself a small smile and returned to work.  

For another five minutes, he worked through the remaining measurements, checking the higher-grade seedlings one by one while [Omniscope] fed mana density, root activity, and environmental saturation across his vision. The readings remained within expectation. Two specimens had improved marginally since morning, one had not changed at all, and nothing had deteriorated badly enough to justify further intervention.  

Good enough for today.  

He put the note into his inventory, dismissed the skill, and started back toward the outer grove.  

The forest quieted again once Alex left the clearing.    

The amusement followed Alex until the path narrowed between two silver-barked trees. Light moved through their leaves in pale bands, and for an instant the glow looked close enough to what Omniscope had shown beneath Hikari’s skin during Hajime’s blessing that his attention returned to the subject he had deferred in Qarth. 

At the ceremony, postponing the personal implications had been easy. There had been witnesses, appointments still to make, and too little evidence for a responsible conclusion. The forest removed those excuses. 

Alex could measure what Hikari had gained. He could compare mana signatures, record the growth of divine authority, and track changes in how local worship interacted with her Seraph form. None of those measurements answered the question that mattered to him now: what did those changes mean for the woman he loved? 

Coming to Planetos had already proved that avatar mechanics could reach deeper than appearance or combat ability. Hikari’s max positive karma had sharpened her intolerance for cruelty until injustice could provoke a reaction far stronger than the woman from Earth would once have shown, and the instincts of a Seraph Empyrean had settled into her with uncomfortable ease. The old Hikari remained visible through those changes: the corporate training, expensive tastes, impatience with bad accounting, private jokes, and the habit of quietly reorganizing her day whenever Alex forgot to leave room for anything except work. 

Divinity introduced another layer whose limits he did not understand, yet. 

Hikari still argued with merchants over margins and became bored during ceremonial speeches. She still tormented Varion with affection because his complaints amused her, still noticed when Alex had skipped a meal, and still carried the sharp practical instincts of the heiress he had known before YGGDRASIL became real. In private, she could still surprise him over something as small as a bottle of wine or as serious as policy. 

Worship was changing around her, though, and she had begun accepting it with a naturalness that had not been there when they first arrived. Thousands of people called her Mother of Hosts, Lady of the Spear, liberator, goddess. The titles no longer startled her. When divine power moved through her, there were moments when Alex saw a depth in her expression that he could neither identify nor reduce to a status effect. 

The risk that occupied him was gradual rather than dramatic. He had found no evidence of possession, and he did not expect Hikari to wake one morning as a stranger. What he could not model was accumulation: another divine instinct, another expectation reinforced by worship, another piece of inherited authority becoming natural enough that neither of them noticed the boundary move. 

How much could a person change while still remaining themselves? 

Alex knew the question was unfairly imprecise. People changed without magic. He and Hikari had changed before YGGDRASIL, inside YGGDRASIL, and again after arriving here. Marriage itself had changed both of them in ways no character sheet could record. 

The problem was that this time he could watch the mechanism operating and still had no idea where it led. 

A branch cracked behind him before he could circle the question again. 

He turned and found Marwyn walking through the young forest without an escort.  

The Archmaester looked profoundly out of place there. His build belonged more naturally on a dock or battlefield than inside a scholarly institution: squat, broad through the shoulders, thick-necked, weathered by travel, and wholly uninterested in presenting himself with dignity. White hair escaped from his beard, ears, and nose with equal enthusiasm.  

Hikari found the ear hair personally offensive.  

Marwyn ignored Alex for nearly half a minute while staring into the canopy.  

“Aye,” he said at last. “They’ll hate this.”  

Alex knew who he meant.  

“The Citadel?” 

“Half of them would burn every book describing it. The other half would insist the books had never existed. Three months, that’s the part I’d pay to watch them explain away. A forest the size of Oldtown raised in half that time after centuries of men writing that the Red Waste is dead. They’d measure the trunks, argue that the measuring method were cursed, then appoint six old men to decide whether trees count as evidence.” 

The complaint had enough familiarity that Alex suspected Marwyn had imagined the meeting in detail.  

He liked the man more than he had expected to. Most people around Alex eventually learned to speak through rank. Criticism acquired disclaimers, questions became requests for permission, and even competent people sometimes watched his face before finishing a sentence. Marwyn usually remembered authority after he had finished disagreeing with it.  

“Your Majesty.”  

“There are only two of us,” Alex said. “You can call me Daedalus.”  

Marwyn accepted the correction with a grunt.  

The old man’s attention had already shifted to the stalled silver-leaf saplings. He crouched beside one, touched a leaf between thick fingers, smelled the residue, then pressed his thumb into the soil.  

“What’s wrong with this one?” Marwyn asked.  

“Insufficient ambient mana.”  

Marwyn's forehead tightened. Alex translated before he had to ask.  

“The plant has water, soil and nutrients. The environment cannot supply enough magical energy for continued growth. Imagine a healthy fruit tree planted where there isn't enough sunlight.” 

Understanding replaced the frown, and Marwyn looked toward the distant clearing where Varion had resumed pretending to sleep. 

“So, your mount—that colossal beast—is serving as artificial sunlight?” 

“More or less.” Alex glanced in Varion’s direction. “Since the housecat loves napping this much, he may as well contribute something useful while doing it.” 

Marwyn gave a rough chuckle. 

A moment later, a low growl rolled through the trees. The Archmaester’s chuckle deepened, and Alex made no effort to correct himself. 

They continued farther into the forest. 

Conversation with him rarely followed a straight path. A pale-barked tree reminded Marwyn of stories about the Children of the Forest, which led to weirwoods, greenseers, and a complaint that the Citadel had preserved several mutually contradictory accounts while treating all of them as embarrassing. A violet vine redirected him toward plants he had seen near Asshai, and he stopped long enough to compare the leaf shape against a sketch in one of his notebooks. 

Alex mostly listened. 

Marwyn thought aloud, and while his conclusions were sometimes premature, his observations usually were not. The distinction made him useful. 

It was the same distinction Alex had noticed the first morning Marwyn came before them, and the memory returned when the old man stepped over a shallow stream. 

Flashback 

The morning Marwyn first came before them had begun with petitions. Alex remembered that because nothing memorable had been scheduled.  

He and Hikari sat in the Hexarch Bastion’s throne room while Qartheen ministers worked through harbor disputes, grain tariffs, inheritance petitions and two merchant arguments that had apparently survived three changes of government through sheer stubbornness. Hikari handled most of the interpersonal friction. Alex listened for structural problems buried underneath the complaints.  

Xaro Xhoan Daxos eventually approached with the expression he wore whenever presenting something he considered beneath his dignity at the same time, potentially useful.  

An Archmaester from Westeros had been in Qarth for two weeks, he explained. Marwyn the Mage, he was called, had been working with the Academy, translating older texts, teaching Westerosi languages to Dominion doppelganger staff and generally behaving unlike the maesters Xaro had expected.  

Alex remembered the Order from the books he and Hikari had devoured about this world: the Order of Maesters, their vast repository of knowledge, their rigid hierarchy, and their peculiar aversion to magic. 

"I recall reading about them," Alex mused aloud. "Aren't they known for their… skepticism regarding the arcane?" 

Xaro nodded vigorously, though his eyes darted nervously towards Hikari. "Indeed, your majesty. While they are undeniably learned, many hold the belief that magic is a dangerous, perhaps even nonexistent, force. They are rather...dogmatic about their worldview." 

"And they don't allow women to study, do they?" Hikari’s voice, normally silken, took on a distinct edge of disdain. Her perfect sapphire eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. 

"That is correct, your majesty." Xaro affirmed, sensing the Empress’s displeasure. 

“Send for Marwyn,” Alex ordered, curiosity piqued.  

The name was already familiar. The shadow demons he kept watching Qarth had reported on the Archmaester since his arrival, including his work at the Academy, the people he questioned, the books he sought out, and the rather entertaining incident that had placed him in a Qartheen cell during his first week in the city. Alex had read enough reports to form a preliminary assessment. 

Reports, however, were filtered observations. He wanted to hear Marwyn explain himself. 

A man willing to cross half the known world in pursuit of magic—and somehow get arrested within days of reaching Qarth—was worth interviewing personally. 

The Archmaester entered carrying his own satchel and bowed with the minimum depth required to avoid giving offense. Alex immediately preferred him to half the court. 

“It is an honor to meet you, Empress Ame no Uzume” 

Then, he turned to Alex and bowed again. “...and you as well, Emperor Daedalus no Uzume.” 

The silence that followed was so thick you could have carved it with a knife. 

Alex’s mouth hung open. “what... did you just call me?” 

Marwyn blinked, looking confused. “Daedalus no Uzume? Is that not the name? The people of the city, the scribes in the markets… they say that in your culture, the husband takes the name of the higher-ranking house…” 

Alex turned his head slowly toward Hikari. She was currently hiding her face behind a gloved hand, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. 

'Hikari,' Alex sent via [Message], the telepathic link buzzing in her mind. 'What did you do?' 

'I didn’t do anything!' she projected back, though her mental voice was bubbling with glee. 'I might have… casually mentioned to Xaro and the ministers that in our ‘divine realm,’ it’s customary for the husband to take the wife’s clan name as a sign of devotion. I didn’t think it would become official protocol!' 

'You turned me into a ‘no Uzume’?' Alex groaned internally. 'My name is Alex Field! People are going to think I’m part of some Japanese mythological dynasty!' 

'Alex Field is the name of a guy who works in an IT cubicle, Imagine the heralds: 'Make way for Emperor Field!' It sounds like you’re a piece of agricultural real estate.' Hikari countered, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him from her throne. 'Daedalus no Uzume is the name of a God-Emperor. It has a certain… ring to it, don’t you think? It makes us a matched set. Like salt and pepper.' 

Alex grumbled, a low growl only Hikari could hear. He wasn’t amused, not one bit. But the damage was done. How widely had this ridiculous name spread? He didn’t veto it, knowing the futility of trying to roll back a royal decree, even a jocular one. 

“Archmaester, your purpose here?” Alex prompted, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. 

Marwyn, seemingly oblivious to the internal drama, produced several thick tomes from a satchel he carried. “Your Majesty, I offer these humble works from my collection. The knowledge base of the Maester Order, while perhaps limited in some regard, is quite comprehensive”  

Comprehensive indeed, These texts contain knowledge are roughly equal to those found at the end the Middle Ages and the start of the Renaissance era on Earth. 

But what truly caught Alex’s attention were the many tomes tucked beneath the historical texts – these were about magic. Ancient spells, forgotten rituals, observations on the flow of ethereal energies. Half of them feel nonsensical while the other half were various in level of horrific, crude and inefficient. Still, that did not make them worthless. The old man, Alex realized, had travelled far and wide, and his records were considered invaluable. 

“What is it you want, Archmaester?” Alex asked, getting to the core of the matter. “You came all this way, bearing such gifts. Surely, there is something you seek.” 

Marwyn straightened, a glint entering his ancient eyes. “I wish to study magic, Your Majesty. Under you.” 

Alex expressed genuine surprise. “Wasn’t the Maester Order known for its distaste, even its outright hostility towards magic?” 

Marwyn snorted, a surprisingly undignified sound. "The Citadel, Your Mightiness, is a nest of rats. Their higher echelons are dogmatic, anti-magical, and frankly, dangerous. They believe magic is a threat to their monopoly on knowledge, a force of chaos. They would see it stamped out." A deep-seated cynicism laced his words, a barely concealed hostility toward his own order. "I warn you both, trust no other maester if they speak of magic – they will seek to undermine you, or worse." 

Hikari, ever observant, interjected, "Yet, you yourself are an Archmaester, are you not?" Her tone was laced with a subtle challenge. 

"A heretic, Your Majesty," Marwyn retorted without missing a beat. "An odd bird, tolerated only because my 'heretical' pursuits have led to discoveries that occasionally benefit their precious order. But I assure you, my heart lies with the true wonders of the world, not its suppression." 

Mata, who stood silently beside Hikari’s throne, her gaze fixed on Marwyn with barely disguised displeasure, her stand shift, ready to strike down the rude old man for his effrontery. But a subtle gesture from Hikari stayed her hand.  

Alex considered Marwyn’s impassioned plea. The old man was clearly an anomaly, a rogue element base on the report of his time in Qath, and his knowledge of Westeros could be invaluable. 

“Very well,” Alex said. “I agree. On one condition: that you share your knowledge of Westeros. Its noble houses, political climate, traditions, histories, anything that might be useful for us. Do that and I will teach you. However, your ability to wield magic, or not, relies entirely on you.” 

Marwyn’s face broke into a wide, genuine smile, revealing several missing teeth.  

“Agreed, Your Majesty! Most happily agreed!” 

'Look at you. A zealot, and now a grumpy old weirdo as your apprentice. You’re building quite the collection, Alex.' Hikari’s telepathic voice echoed in Alex’s mind, amusement once again bubbling to the surface. 

Flashback End 

A small burst of yellow light struck the bark on their left.  

Marwyn stood eight paces away with one hand extended. Smoke curled from a black mark on the trunk. The casting of that [Magic Arrow] had taken nearly ten seconds. By YGGDRASIL standards, catastrophic. By this world's standards, progress.  

“Hah.”  

The satisfaction in the sound made him look twenty years younger. Alex checked the residue with [Omniscope]. Weak output. Poor efficiency. Stable construction. Better than last week.  

Marwyn lowered his arm and pressed two fingers against his temple.  

“My skull feels as though somebody's pouring molten lead into it.”  

“You're drawing faster than you replenish.”  

The blank look Alex received told him that the explanation had failed.  

He corrected once.  

“Your mana pool is still forming. Think of it as a cistern. A small one. Every spell removes water from it, and you keep trying to pull up a full bucket when there’s barely enough at the bottom.”  

“That I understand.”  

Alex left the analogy there. Teaching Marwyn required occasional translation, not a full abandonment of precision, and once the old man attached a new term to something he already understood he rarely needed it explained again.  

Movement inside the damaged trunk drew both their attention before Marwyn could attempt another spell.  

A dryad stepped from the oak before he reached it.  

Tilly, Alex thought. Probably Tilly. The twelve were visually distinct if he concentrated, though their habit of moving through trees made tracking them unnecessarily difficult.  

She inspected the scorched bark, glanced at Marwyn, then moved before the old maester could react and plucked a long white hair from his ear; Alex followed the motion easily enough, though to anyone native to this world she might as well have teleported.  

“Vindictive little—”  

Marwyn swore as Tilly giggled and vanished back into the oak.  

Alex inspected the damaged bark, where the blackened patch was already drawing closed.  

“Bark-skinned menace,” The old man muttered. “One of them tried to walk me into a bog yesterday.”  

“You burned her tree.”  

“I scorched a piece of bark the size of my thumbnail.”  

“She has standards.”  

Marwyn rubbed his ear. “Your spirits are petty.”  

Before they had taken another ten steps, he had abandoned the complaint.  

“That spell,” he said. “It’s too clean.”  

Alex glanced at him.  

“Magic Arrow. No offering, no sympathetic material, no blood sacrifice. I gather power, I shape the damned thing, it goes where I point it. That ought to make it simpler, but it doesn’t. It raises more questions.”  

“Of course it does.”  

Marwyn accelerated, forcing Alex to slow slightly so the older man could talk without losing breath.  

“The Valyrians wrote about fire as lineage, blood as key and cost, sacrifice as exchange. Asshai speaks in symbols and shadows. The Rhoynar had water traditions. Old northern tales bind magic to trees, dreams, skinchanging, gods. Different practices, different assumptions, but all of them—”  

“Resource constrained. They all struggle to get enough power,” Alex said. “They borrow it from life, blood, places, creatures or inherited traits. Most of their effort goes into finding fuel.”  

Marwyn pointed at him.  

“Yes. That.”  

“Tier Magic assumes the fuel exists.”  

“Assumes?”  

“In my world, YGGDRASIL, mana was fundamental. Spells were classified by complexity, output and cost. Higher tiers required larger reserves and more capable casters.”  

Marwyn resumed walking more slowly. They passed beneath a canopy of silver leaves. Alex checked another marker before he spoke again.  

“Most humans I’ve examined here have effectively negligible mana reserves. A few possess enough capacity to produce effects comparable to Tier One or Tier Two, though they conceptualize the mechanism differently. Exceptional individuals may reach Tier Three. Tier Four is theoretically possible.”  

“Possible? You mean rare?”  

“Unverified,” Alex corrected. “I haven’t encountered anyone in this world who could genuinely sustain Tier Four magic yet. The upper limit may exist, but until I find an actual example, I’m not treating it as more than a projection.”  

The answer sent him quiet for several paces, an unusual state that lasted only until the next conclusion arrived. If Tier Magic came from an environment where magical energy was abundant, then Planetos might once have possessed far more ambient magic than it did now. Its current condition could represent decline rather than a natural baseline, and the complexity of surviving rituals might partly reflect generations of people learning to work around scarcity. 

Alex had already reached similar possibilities.  

“More magic existed here in the past,” he said. “How much more, I don’t know.”  

Marwyn had his notebook out before Alex finished.  

They continued through another stand of silver-leaf trees while their discussion moved into the tier system itself. Alex explained the broad structure rather than reciting every mechanic: spell tiers represented increasing complexity, capability, output, and mana cost. Low-tier effects required modest reserves; higher tiers demanded much more capacity and control.  

Marwyn’s [Magic Arrow] sat at Tier One.  

The old man found that encouraging.  

He laughed once and observed that standing on the first rung of a ladder was better than discovering there was no ladder at all. His enthusiasm survived the knowledge that most naturally magical humans Alex had examined on Planetos would probably remain around Tier One or Tier Two. Truly talented individuals might approach Tier Three. Tier Four seemed possible under rare combinations of bloodline, talent, and effort, although Alex considered any estimate premature without better population data.  

Marwyn immediately wanted to know what separated capacity from method, whether a person could strengthen one without the other, and whether age mattered once a mana pool had begun developing.  

Alex answered what he could.  

The more important observation remained the change in Marwyn himself.  

Before meeting Alex, the Archmaester had already used several local magical practices. Those workings left him weak in a way consistent with life-force expenditure. Blood magic and sacrificial magic appeared to solve the same energy problem externally by converting living vitality into magical work.  

Valyrian steel used a related mechanism, although Alex had no intention of explaining everything he had learned about it to Marwyn yet. 

The blades he had examined so far were impressive by local standards and deeply offensive to him as an artificer. 

The enchantments themselves were real. Some had persisted for centuries with remarkably little degradation, binding qualities into the metal that ordinary Westerosi smithing could neither reproduce nor properly explain. In that narrow sense, the old Valyrians had achieved something worthwhile. 

Their manufacturing process was another matter. 

From the few pieces of jewelry and daggers Alex had examined with his skill, the Valyrians had used sacrificial blood magic to bind life force into the weapon during its creation. Human lives had supplied part of the energy, often in considerable numbers, but the truly extravagant component appeared to have come from their dragons. In at least some rites, the life force of a Valyrian dragon had been incorporated directly into the blade. 

Even a newly hatched dragon represented an absurd amount of potential value to destroy for that purpose. 

Alex could understand consuming a scarce resource when the resulting asset justified the loss. That was basic engineering. A dragon, however, was a self-propelled aerial weapons platform capable of growth, reproduction, sustained combat operations, and destruction on a scale no sword could approach. Sacrificing one to manufacture a blade whose principal virtues were durability, enhanced cutting performance, and a collection of persistent legacy-class enchantments was the magical equivalent of dismantling a strategic bomber to make an unusually good kitchen knife. 

Then there were the slaves consumed by the ritual. The waste offended him almost as much as the method. 

Perhaps the Valyrians had possessed constraints he had not yet discovered. Their surviving records were fragmented even from his devoted Valyrian-blood apprentice, and Alex had learned enough about incomplete technical documentation to avoid assuming stupidity when missing information might explain a design choice. Still, the administrative archives recovered from the three former slave cities painted Old Valyria with remarkable consistency: prideful beyond believe and arrogant beyond measure; enormous capability coupled with an equally enormous conviction that cost stopped mattering once someone else was paying it. 

The Ghiscari accounts were hardly neutral sources, but perhaps there had been more truth in those bitter descriptions of Valyrian than Alex had initially credited. 

He kept that assessment to himself. 

Marwyn needed evidence, not an artificer’s offended commentary. 

The Archmaester tried to drag the subject farther almost as soon as Valyrian steel entered the discussion, linking blood sacrifice, dragonfire, the unusual behavior of the metal, and its legendary durability into a single proposed process. Alex listened without interrupting, separating the observations Marwyn could support from the conclusions he had already begun building on top of them.  

The man was perfectly willing to speculate wildly as long as everyone remembered where the evidence ended. 

Ahead, the forest thinned and the temperature began to fall.  

Marwyn noticed the change first because he had stopped to write and then looked up into air that had begun fogging faintly with his breath. By the time they crossed the next line of trees, green ground had given way to snow.  

The clearing sat inside the forest like a misplaced season. Frost coated low shrubs, a thin skin of ice covered one shallow basin, and cold air remained contained within the boundary instead of bleeding freely into the surrounding woodland.  

Marwyn stopped so abruptly that Alex took several steps before noticing he was no longer beside him.  

For once, the Archmaester had no question.  

Alex continued inward, giving him time to recover while moving toward the device at the center of the clearing.  

An adamantium lantern stood on a low plinth, built around a pure white crystal whose steady glow maintained the localized climate field. Runes along the frame regulated temperature and boundary stability, and the latest readings suggested the device was using slightly less power than it had the previous day.  

Rising ambient mana again.  

The plants around it benefited more visibly.  

Blue Frost Berries clustered across the nearest rows, their skins almost luminous against the snow. They were low-grade YGGDRASIL ingredients used mainly in cooking and brewing, and their wine happened to suit hot climates particularly well.  

Hikari had been complaining about the local selection.  

Frequently.  

Alex explained the crop while Marwyn finally joined him.  

The Archmaester listened, looked around at the artificial winter, then back at Alex.  

“You made winter because your wife dislikes the wine.”  

There were other reasons. Their stored YGGDRASIL food and drink would eventually run out, and domestic cultivation meant sustainable luxuries, export goods, local employment, and reduced dependence on irreplaceable inventory.  

Still, Marwyn’s summary was technically correct.  

“Yes.”  

The old man wrote something in his notebook.  

Alex chose not to ask what.  

Farther into the clearing, Winter Cereus had begun to flower beneath a crust of artificial frost. Its pale, waxy blooms served as the principal ingredient in a minor flame-resistance potion, an effect so ordinary in YGGDRASIL that Alex had once treated the finished product as consumable clutter.  

Planetos had smithies, shipboard fires, siege weapons, and dragons.  

Minor was relative.  

That was the larger purpose of the cultivation project. Alex did not need the forest to produce legendary materials immediately. Reliable supplies of low-grade magical crops could change medicine, manufacturing, food preservation, and trade long before the first high-tier specimen matured. A potion worth almost nothing to a level-one-hundred player might save the life of a sailor or smith.  

Scaling mattered more than glamour.  

Marwyn had already moved to the nearest Frost Berry bush. He sketched the branching pattern, crossed toward the Winter Cereus, returned to the edge of the climate field, and filled several pages before approaching the lantern again.  

His questions resumed there, although this time they were directed less at Alex than at the pattern forming in his own mind.  

Qarth felt different from when he first arrived. His own spellcasting had become easier. The Academy’s minor magical experiments were producing results more consistently. Several old devices behaved more reliably than the records suggested they should, while rumors from elsewhere described phenomena people had considered dormant.  

The forest gave him a mechanism.  

Varion’s presence measurably raised ambient mana. The dryads carried enough magic to accelerate an ecosystem. Alex and Hikari possessed reserves beyond anything local scholars had a language for, while angels and other summoned beings would add their own contribution wherever they remained for long periods.  

Marwyn stopped beside the lantern.  

“You’re responsible for this reawakening! You and the empress, both of you!”  

Alex rested one hand against the adamantium frame and let him continue.  

The old man spoke faster as the theory sharpened. Their magic did not simply draw from the world; their bodies contained so much of it that some fraction escaped continuously. Qarth, the forest, and Marwyn himself were already showing the result.  

For the first time since entering the clearing, some of the delight left his voice.  

Alex decided he had earned the answer.  

“That is also my current model. I suspected it before you arrived. This world appears to have lost most of its ambient mana over a long period, although I still don’t know why. Hikari and I came from an environment where magic was abundant. Our current bodies contain reserves far beyond local norms and release a small amount continuously. Powerful summons do the same.”  

Marwyn turned toward the trees and began listing consequences aloud, each one generating another before the first had settled. Children born under higher ambient mana. Dragons. Old Valyrian bloodlines. Gods whose power might depend partly on a magical environment. Places that had gone dormant when the world weakened and might wake if it strengthened again.  

Alex let him reach the end.  

“Unknown.”  

Marwyn looked back at him.  

The word stood on its own because anything more would have encouraged speculation to masquerade as conclusion.  

After a moment, the Archmaester grunted and wrote it down.  

That was another reason Alex liked him. Marwyn hated unanswered questions, yet he did not automatically fill them with convenient answers when evidence failed.  

The political consequences bothered him more than the magical ones.  

As they moved along the edge of the snowfield, Marwyn shifted from scholarship to warning.   

“This… transformation. This reawakening of magic. It will not go unnoticed. The powers of Essos—the merchant princes of the Free Cities, the warlords of the Dothraki Sea, even the distant iron Throne in Westeros, thought the latter is a bit busy right now—they will not take kindly to a newly risen empire, imbued with such potent, undeniable magic. They see the world as a game of power and influence, and you have just introduced a new piece that changes the entire board.”  

Alex wave his hand, dismiss the old maester warning. “I am well aware, Marwyn. We’ve certainly made enough waves already. And frankly," he added, a glint in his eye, "I'm rather looking forward to how they do react."  

Marwyn regarded him for several seconds before saying that Alex made kingdoms sound like weather systems.  

Alex considered the comparison acceptable. At scale, institutions, incentives, fear, and material limits still produced patterns, even when the individual people inside them considered themselves unpredictable.  

Marwyn gave him a long look and returned to his notes instead of turning the disagreement into a performance.  

Alex appreciated that too.  

For a while they worked separately.  

Marwyn sketched the Frost Berries and marked the edge of the climate field, muttering occasional observations that did not require answers. Alex checked the lantern’s geometry, adjusted one rune sequence by a fraction, then compared the new reading against the previous day.  

The quiet should have cleared his thoughts, but the steady white glow of the crystal pulled him back toward the same problem. Hikari would probably be working through ledgers in Qarth by now: trade routes, grain distributions, reconstruction schedules, merchant petitions, the ordinary administrative machinery she had adapted to with alarming competence. 

Those ordinary details mattered to him more than the divine ones. 

A goddess could bless an army. Hikari could also spend twenty minutes arguing that a warehouse projection was wrong because somebody had rounded a percentage too early, then remember that Alex had not eaten and interrupt herself to have food sent to him. The second behavior told him more about the continuity he cared about. 

For now, she still chose things no worshipper had chosen for her. She changed her mind, wanted luxuries for no sacred reason, became irritated by inefficiency, and occasionally embarrassed Alex because she found his reaction funny. He could list the evidence easily. 

What he could not establish was whether that continuity would remain stable as divine authority accumulated. 

Across the clearing, Marwyn had stopped writing and was studying a Frost Berry from three angles, apparently trying to decide whether the frost patterns on its skin were biological or magical. He had spent most of the afternoon doing something Alex valued: separating observation from conclusion even while speculating far beyond the available evidence. 

That made him useful for one question Alex had no clean way to test. 

What Alex wanted to ask was whether Hikari could keep becoming more divine and still remain wholly the woman he loved. He had no intention of phrasing it that way aloud. 

“Marwyn.” 

“Aye?” 

“In the traditions you’ve studied, does worship change the being receiving it?” 

Marwyn’s charcoal stopped over the page. “Change the god?” 

“The person, god, spirit, whatever category is accurate. Assume sustained worship, expectation, and some form of reciprocal divine power. Can that pressure alter identity?” 

Marwyn looked at him for several seconds, then closed the notebook. 

“Aye. Now that is an ugly question.” 

Alex waited while the Archmaester turned toward the lantern and considered the question. “Old texts disagree because old priests disagree about everything. Asshai has accounts claiming belief leaves marks on the thing being worshipped. Other traditions say the god comes first and shapes the worshippers. The north has stories where names, trees, dreams, blood and memory get tangled together so badly no one can tell where one ends and another begins. I’ve seen men do a lesser version without any sorcery at all. Knights start living like the songs written about them. Maesters become their chains and offices. Priests repeat doctrine until there’s precious little left in their mouths that belongs to them.” 

That was closer to the question Alex had meant. 

“Power makes that worse?” 

“It can. Fewer people correct a king than a dockhand, and I imagine fewer still correct a god.” Marwyn scratched charcoal from one thumb against the edge of the page. “Worship adds another problem. Everyone wants something. Justice, mercy, rain, victory, children, vengeance. Enough voices telling a god what a god ought to be... perhaps it matters. Perhaps it doesn’t. Anyone who claims certainty is selling you a scripture.” 

“And the person underneath?” 

Marwyn looked back at him before answering. “I don’t know.” 

Alex found the answer irritating and useful in equal measure. 

Marwyn reopened the notebook, though he did not resume drawing immediately. “You’re worried about the Empress, aren't you?” 

Alex left the observation unanswered, and after a while Marwyn continued. “Then stop asking whether she’s becoming too powerful or too perfect. Watch whether she still chooses. Whether she changes her mind. Whether she wants things no worshipper ever asked her to want. Whether she can still surprise you.” 

His charcoal touched the page again. 

“If that stops, I’d worry.” 

The answer gave Alex no threshold, no mechanism, and no guarantee. It did give him something observable. 

Jaenera Tagaros 

Vezdriāxys had grown again. 

Jaenera noticed it while checking his left foreclaw, because the dragon no longer fit comfortably into the shallow stone channel cut into the training yard for exactly that purpose. Two weeks earlier she could brace one boot against the edge, take the claw between both hands, and inspect the dark scales around its base without leaning half her weight into him. Now the forefoot was broader than her chest, each talon curved like a butcher's hook, and the muscles above it shifted under blue-black scales whenever he became bored with standing still. 

"Lykirī." 

Vezdriāxys turned his head toward the far side of the yard, where a pair of Seraphic Guard were moving practice shields from one rack to another. 

"Lykirī!" 

One violet eye rolled back toward her. 

Jaenera narrowed hers until the dragon gave a low rumble and settled his weight again. The sound traveled through the paving stones into her boots. 

"Good." 

Morning drill continued around them at a respectful distance. The old compound of the Sorrowful Men had changed almost beyond recognition since its former occupants had been wiped out. Jaenera remembered enclosed courtyards, shuttered rooms and narrow side gates designed for men who preferred to enter unseen. Her Empress had found a better use for the place. Walls between several courts had been opened, storerooms filled the old meeting chambers, and the largest yard now served half the military needs of Qarth at once. Companies of Seraphic Guard drilled along painted lines while armorers shouted for apprentices, quartermasters argued over wagon assignments, and messengers passed between buildings carrying orders sealed with the blue-and-gold mark of the Dominion. 

After the conquest of Slaver's Bay— 

Liberty Bay. 

Jaenera corrected herself while running her thumb across the scales beside Vezdriāxys's claw. 

Her Empress had renamed a stretch of coastline in less time than some sellswords needed to learn who was paying them. The new name had already spread through official orders, supply records and military dispatches, but old habits took longer to kill than masters. 

The compound itself had become the center of military activity in Qarth. Two wings belonged to the Seraphic Guard, another to the Order of the Dragon, and the sight of that name above the armory doors still tightened something bright and fierce in Jaenera's chest. The Dragon's Fang had spent years taking contracts from merchants, princes and men too rich to kill their own enemies. Now they served the God of Magic and the Winged Goddess of Justice beneath a banner that would outlive any contract they had ever signed. 

Vezdriāxys shifted again, and Jaenera slapped the thick scales above his forefoot. 

"Hold still, zaldrīzes." 

Warm breath washed over her hair when he snorted. 

He was nearly the size of an elephant now. Her Emperor had explained the cause three separate times, once with enough technical detail that Jaenera had understood perhaps one word in five. Magic in the world was rising. Dragons absorbed it. Vezdriāxys and his brother's dragon were growing faster because the lands around Qarth contained more of whatever invisible power sustained creatures such as them. 

He had called it ambient mana. 

The explanation was simpler in Jaenera's mind: The world had been starved. Her gods had arrived, and now it was filling again. 

She finished inspecting the claw and moved her hand up along the scales of the leg, checking for cracks or discoloration. Vezdriāxys was large enough that the armorers had already begun taking measurements for future riding equipment, but nobody with sense intended to put a saddle on him yet. His shoulders changed from week to week, and a leather fitting cut ten days ago had already become too tight to use. 

Vorgoryr's dragon had grown almost as quickly, though he remained a little smaller. 

Jaenera wondered whether her brother had found time to notice. 

Governor of Yunkai. 

Even now the thought could pull a grin out of her. 

Vorgoryr had spent years complaining that officers never understood supply, employers refused to count grain properly, and every campaign eventually foundered because some jeweled idiot believed gold could be boiled into soup. Now an entire city belonged to his ledgers. 

Providence had a sense of humor. 

Boots crossed the paving stones behind her, drawing Vezdriāxys's attention before Jaenera turned. Ten officers entered the yard in a loose group, most dressed for travel rather than parade. They stopped several paces short of the dragon. 

Most had known Vezdriāxys since he was small enough to lie across a table, so the sight of him no longer produced the panic he inspired in strangers. Familiarity had limits. Whenever his wings shifted, the empty circle around him widened by a few feet without anyone appearing to notice that they had moved. 

Garen remained farthest away. 

Jaenera had noticed that habit before. Garen had fought under her for years, crossed half of Essos beneath the Dragon’s Fang banner, and once spent the better part of an afternoon ankle-deep in blood inside a Myrish warehouse while arguing that their employer had technically broken the contract first.  

Garen's Rhoynar blood showed itself more readily in his prayers and river sayings than in old grievances. He also owed her his life, if Jaenera ordered him into a spear wall, he would go. 

He simply preferred dragons on the far side of a courtyard. 

Jaenera chose not to mock him for it very often. 

Jaelor came forward with an ornate scroll tucked beneath one arm. Since Vorgoryr had departed for Yunkai, the Lysene had inherited most of her brother's old duties and had been complaining with impressive consistency ever since. 

"Commander," he said, "I would like it formally recorded that your brother's elevation has caused a catastrophic redistribution of labor." 

Jaenera kept one hand against Vezdriāxys's leg while inspecting a patch of scales near the joint. "You mean you have to work now." 

Jaelor pressed his free hand to his chest. Rings flashed across his fingers. Even dressed for mountain travel, he had somehow acquired a pale-blue scarf fine enough for a Lysene pleasure house and tied it without getting dust on the silk. 

"I have always worked. I supervised, negotiated, interpreted the finer points of contracts for men who could barely read them, and ensured that lesser minds understood where the money had gone. Vice-commander....well former vice-commander performed the darker mysteries involving ledgers, fodder, broken axles and requests for replacement boots. Those horrors now haunt my dream." 

Lyrsa adjusted the bow crossing her back. "Funny. I remember Tyrosh. Vorgoryr spent half a day squeezin' coin out of that fat magister while you were upstairs with whores." 

Jaelor turned toward her with injured dignity. "I was gathering intelligence." 

"Between a wench's tits, apparently." Modar, who had been turning a dagger lazily between his fingers, added, "Two wenches." 

That brought laughter from half the group, including two men trying badly to hide it behind their hands. 

Jaelor looked at Modar. "Accuracy is a virtue, I am pleased to see you have finally acquired one." 

Jaenera finished with Vezdriāxys's foreleg and rose before the argument could grow legs. 

The dragon had already decided the new arrivals were more interesting than standing still. He lowered his head toward them, nostrils widening as he sampled familiar scents, then pushed his muzzle toward one of the older veterans and accepted a cautious pat beside the jaw. 

When he swung toward Garen, the Rhoynar took one deliberate step backward. 

Vezdriāxys followed. 

"Garen, he does not bite." 

"I'm standin' perfectly well here, Commander." 

"He already has your bloody scent." 

"So does the sea. I still don't turn my back when the tide's coming in." 

Lyrsa barked out a laughed, and Vezdriāxys stared at Garen for a few seconds longer before losing interest. Jaenera rubbed the side of the dragon's neck and felt the deep vibration of his breathing beneath her palm. 

"Go." 

His wings opened wide enough to throw shade over the nearest practice line. Drill stopped along that side of the yard as Vezdriāxys crouched, drove himself upward and climbed clear of the compound in three heavy beats that sent loose straw and dust racing across the stones. Jaenera watched him circle once above the walls before turning east toward his nest. 

Only after he had vanished behind the roofs did Garen come closer. 

Jaenera pretended she had not noticed. 

Without the dragon occupying half the yard, the officers spread more naturally around her. That brought the new uniforms and insignia into clearer view: remnants of Dragon's Fang gear mixed with fresh Dominion markings, old mercenary belts beneath newly issued cloaks, badges pinned wherever their owners had found convenient. 

Modar sheathed his dagger. "Still feels strange." 

Jaenera looked at him. "What does?" 

"This." He tapped the Dominion badge fixed to his shoulder. "Used to be we finished the contract, counted whoever was still breathing, took our share and found the next bastard with money. Now we're... army." 

"Order," Lyrsa corrected. "Sounds prettier." 

"It still means somebody can tell us where to go without renegotiatin' the price." 

Another veteran muttered agreement. "And if the employer turns stupid, we don't get to walk." 

Jaenera felt her jaw tighten before she reminded herself that these were not recruits questioning an oath made yesterday. They had followed her through years of bad contracts, thin pay, betrayals and victories nobody outside the company remembered. The Dragon's Fang had been their livelihood, but also the closest thing many of them possessed to a permanent home. 

That did not make their concern sensible. 

Serving gods was obviously preferable to bargaining with magistrates. 

Still, she understood the weight of a banner. 

"The Dragon's Fang isn't dead," she said. "Its people are here. Its dead are still ours, and its victories remain ours. The Order carries all of that forward." 

The scarred veteran near Modar rubbed his jaw. "And if the Dominion sends us somewhere none of us wants to go?" 

Jaenera met his eyes. "Then we go." 

He looked as though he expected more. 

She gave him none. 

After a moment, Garen said, "That's the difference, then." 

"Yes." 

Jaenera saw no reason to pretend otherwise. 

Jaelor broke the silence by presenting the scroll. "Speaking of our new and gloriously permanent obligations, His Imperial Majesty's order. I have read it six times. There remains an irritating absence of useful detail." 

Jaenera took the scroll and opened it even though she already knew the contents. 

Commander Jaenera Tagaros was to report to the southern approach of the Bone Mountains with ten officers selected for the Order of the Dragon. They were to bring equipment suitable for extended mountain travel. 

Mounts would be issued upon arrival. 

That final line had occupied the Dragon's Fang since dawn. 

One of the veterans with a scar crossing his chin read it over her shoulder. "Mounts." 

Lyrsa glanced at him. "That's what it fucking says." 

"Dragons, then." 

Another man snorted. "You don't have a lick of Valyrian blood." 

The first veteran answered with an obscene gesture. "And you've got so little of it you might as well be a fucking horse-fucker." 

Several voices answered at once in bastard Valyrian, Ghiscari camp slang and a Qartheen curse Jaenera suspected had once been much less inventive before mercenaries improved it. 

Jaelor lifted both hands until the noise thinned. "My friends, if His Imperial Majesty intended to distribute dragons like horses at a Lysene auction, I suspect somebody would have mentioned the eggs." 

"Maybe he has more," Lyrsa said. 

Jaelor's mouth remained open for a moment. 

"That possibility had not occurred to me." 

"Should've kept your mouth shut, then." 

From the back, somebody offered, "What about Wyverns?" 

The word cut through the argument. 

Garen looked over sharply. "Don't mention those pests." 

"What? Sothoryos is straight across the Summer Sea." 

Lyrsa spat to one side. "Everything that crawls out of that cursed place is bad for business. Fever, flies, cannibals, worms long as your arm. Wyverns can stay there with the rest of it." 

Jaelor tilted his head. "The accounts are inconsistent. Some distinguish between their preferred prey—livestock, men, smaller beasts, carrion—" 

"That's everything, you perfumed cunt." 

A mercenary beside Modar shaped one hand into a claw. "Heard they hit the horses first. Come down out of the sun, take the mount right under you." 

"Better than taking the rider." 

"No, it bloody isn't. They hunt in packs. One takes the horse, second one grabs you while you're falling, third circles around waitin' for whatever drops loose. Saw a man in Volantis swear his cousin watched six of them strip a caravan in less time than it takes to piss." 

"Your man in Volantis was drunk." 

"He was always drunk. Didn't make him wrong." 

The argument widened from there. One man claimed wyverns could smell blood across a league, another insisted his uncle had seen one in the Basilisk Isles, and Lyrsa reminded him that the same uncle had also sworn he had bedded a mermaid before admitting she was a Volantene prostitute painted green from the waist down. 

Jaenera allowed it to continue until two veterans began seriously debating whether condemned criminals could be used to train a wyvern. 

"Enough." 

Her voice carried across the yard without effort, and years of old habit closed the conversation almost at once. 

Ten officers faced her. 

Jaenera looked over them slowly. Scarred armor sat beside newly issued equipment, expensive blades hung from patched belts, and old wounds showed wherever sleeves or collars failed to cover them. She had trusted these people when trust depended on whether a fighter held formation after the coin stopped making sense. 

Now they were officers of an empire. To Jaenera, that sounded right. Some of them were still learning how it felt. 

"The Emperor ordered ten officers. I chose you because each of you can fight, think while men are trying to kill you, and keep soldiers alive after a plan goes to shit. Whatever waits in those mountains, we inspect it before anyone puts his arse on it." 

"Comforting," Lyrsa muttered. 

Jaenera continued over her. "You will listen to His Majesty's instructions. You will follow mine. Nobody proves courage by irritating an unknown beast." 

Her gaze settled on Jaelor. 

He spread his hands. "Commander, why am I receiving this attention?" 

"Experience." 

"I am wounded." 

"You'll live." 

Jaenera touched the golden medallion beneath her gorget. Daedalus had sent it with the order and one additional instruction. 

Carry this and nothing more. The disk was warmer than the armor around it. 

"Questions?" 

The scarred veteran opened his mouth, glanced at the scroll, and apparently thought better of asking again what the mounts were. 

Jaenera handed the order back to Jaelor. "Good. Saddle up." 

=X= 

By midday, Qarth had fallen behind them and the Bone Mountains filled most of the eastern horizon. 

Their route left the Sand Road before the first major pass and climbed through broken grey slopes where loose stone rolled beneath the horses' hooves. The main caravan route remained visible farther south, a pale ribbon winding between ridges, but the path marked in Daedalus's instructions drew them into narrower country where two riders could travel abreast only in short stretches. 

The gossip about mounts died naturally as the climb worsened. Years of sellsword work had trained the company to read ground without needing orders every few minutes, so Lyrsa drifted toward the front and began watching the ridgelines while Modar kept checking the blind turns with one hand near his dagger. Jaelor rode behind Jaenera and complained far less after his horse twice skidded on shale. Garen stayed near the middle, where he could see both ends of the column without coming any closer to the drop than necessary. 

Five stablehands followed behind the officers with spare tack and packs. 

The Golden Pass rested against Jaenera's chest throughout the climb. 

She could feel it more strongly here. 

At first glance it resembled gold, though she had handled enough precious metal in Volantis to know something about it was wrong. Light sank too deeply into the surface, and hours of rubbing against her armor had left no scratch or dull patch along the edge. 

The magic inside it bothered her more. 

Magic had sharpened her senses enough that enchanted objects no longer felt entirely silent. Her own equipment carried faint traces she had learned to recognize, especially after months under his majesty's instruction. 

The medallion was different. 

Sometimes she suspected the little disk contained more magic than a grown dragon. 

That sounded absurd, but the thing had come from the God of Magic himself, so absurdity had become a poor argument against anything. 

The trail bent around a shoulder of stone. 

Jaenera's horse stopped so violently that the reins snapped tight across her fingers. 

Behind her, another animal sidestepped into the cliff while the stablehands shouted and grabbed for lead ropes. Leather creaked, hooves scattered stone, and Lyrsa had her bow halfway into her hand before Jaenera saw the shape standing on the ridge above them. 

At first she thought it was a man. 

The proportions destroyed that impression. It was too broad through the shoulders, its arms hung too low beneath a forward hunch, and something long rested against the rocks behind it. 

An image from the Tagaros family library surfaced without invitation: old eastern accounts copied onto yellowed parchment, accompanied by crude drawings of Shrykes said to inhabit lands beyond Yi Ti. Jaenera's tutors had argued over whether the lizard-men had ever existed or whether travelers had invented them after drinking too much fermented mare's milk. 

The shape moved. 

Jaenera never saw it descend. 

One heartbeat it stood on the ridge then a scatter of gravel from the ridge, a dark streak across her vision, claws striking stone; the next it occupied the path less than ten paces ahead, dark metal claws planted against the stone as if the distance between those two places had simply ceased to matter. 

Every horse reacted at once. 

One stablehand was thrown sideways and hit the ground hard enough to lose his breath. Another dropped the lead rope and scrambled backward on hands and knees before remembering where the cliff edge lay. Someone behind Jaenera cursed, and the sharp smell of urine joined dust and horse sweat. 

"No one draw their swords!" 

Lyrsa already had her bow in hand, though the arrow remained in the quiver. 

"I haven't." 

"Keep it that way." 

At this range, the thing looked less like any living creature Jaenera knew. Dark blue-black plates overlapped from head to foot, fitting together like scales while the joints moved without exposing flesh beneath because there was no flesh. Its forearms were enormous, ending in claws long enough to open plate armor, and cold blue light burned from deep-set eyes. 

The tail unfolded behind it. 

That was the part Jaenera disliked most. 

Nearly twice the creature's height in length, the segmented tail narrowed into a serrated blade that drifted a handspan above the ground. It moved with quiet precision, never scraping stone. 

Garen's horse began backing away. 

"Easy," he murmured, hauling the reins short. "Easy, damn you." 

The creature remained in the center of the path, blue eyes moving across riders, horses and the shaken stablehands. Men who had stood against Dothraki charges, Ghiscari guards, pirates and things in the Disputed Lands no one had ever bothered naming were suddenly very careful about where they placed their hands. 

Jaenera reached beneath her gorget and pulled out the Golden Pass. 

Magic pressed against her senses as soon as the medallion cleared the armor, strong enough to leave her fingertips tingling. 

The guardian's head turned toward it. 

Its eyes fixed upon the disk. 

Nothing happened for several breaths. 

Jaenera kept her arm extended and waited. 

At last the construct lowered its head once, stepped away from the center of the path and became motionless beside the rock wall. 

No words passed between them. 

Jaenera urged her horse forward but the animal refused. 

She tightened her legs against its flanks. "Move." 

It finally moved after a firmer kick.  

Passing within six feet of the guardian gave her a closer look at scratches across several plates and a dark residue filling one groove along the right claw. Jaenera decided she had no need to identify what had left it. 

Her officers followed with less grace than usual. 

Lyrsa slung the bow back across her shoulder before passing and kept both hands well away from it. Modar, who habitually played with a dagger whenever forced to wait for anything, had apparently forgotten the weapon existed. Jaelor sat stiff-backed enough to look nailed to his saddle, while the veteran who had been boasting about wyverns earlier whispered a curse and went pale when the blue eyes shifted toward him. 

The stablehands had it worse. Two remained on foot after their horses refused to pass until led, and the youngest walked with one hand pressed against the front of his breeches as though he could somehow conceal what fear had already made obvious. 

Garen came last. His horse tried to turn around twice before he forced it along the path. 

They put more than a hundred paces between themselves and the guardian before the column loosened again. 

Garen reached beneath his coat and closed one hand around a small river-stone idol. 

"Mother's Mercy..." 

Jaenera recognized Mother Rhoyne immediately. 

Her first impulse was irritation, followed by the memory of her Empress's command. 

Religious freedom. 

Jaenera understood both words separately. Together, they remained an unnecessarily elaborate concept. 

Her Empress had been explicit: nobody within the Dominion was to be driven from an old god, compelled into worship, or punished for refusing conversion. 

Jaenera had struggled with that command far more than she cared to admit. 

The red priests had spent generations shouting that R’hllor was the one true god to anyone who would listen, and often to those who would rather not. The Ghiscari were no better with their old gods and temple cults. Every priesthood Jaenera had ever encountered seemed convinced that truth required constant proclamation and that rival gods were lies, demons, or foolishness. 

So why did Her Empress forbid conversion by force? 

For eight days and eight nights, Jaenera worried at the question whenever duty left her enough silence to think. If Ame no Uzume and Daedalus no Uzume were truly divine—and how could they be anything else?—why permit men to kneel before lesser powers? 

She had seen her gods walk beneath the same sun as mortals. 

She had seen them destroy powers that men had feared for centuries. She had watched fortresses rise where empty ground had stood, armies broken by a handful of commands, wounds closed through miracles, and creatures out of old legends summoned as casually as another lord might call for a horse. 

Their power required no argument. 

Eventually, the answer came to her with such clarity that Jaenera felt ashamed she had taken so long to understand. 

True gods did not need false prayers. 

If the Winged Goddess of Justice and the God of Magic required soldiers to put knives against throats before men would worship them, that would imply weakness. The thought itself bordered on blasphemy. Her gods did not need frightened mouths repeating sacred names because a spear was pressed against their ribs. They could earn faith simply by existing openly in the world and allowing mortals to witness what they were. 

That had to be what Her Empress meant. 

Faith offered freely had value. Worship extracted through terror merely proved that the worshipper feared the soldier standing beside him. 

The distinction pleased Jaenera immensely once she understood it. 

Garen could keep Mother Rhoyne for as long as he wished. 

Jaenera would not threaten him, mock him for it, or demand that he abandon the river-mother his ancestors had carried in memory across generations of exile. Her Empress had forbidden such things, and Jaenera would obey. 

Besides, there was no need to hurry him. 

Garen had eyes. 

Sooner or later, he would understand that the true gods were already walking the mortal world beside him. 

Lyrsa glanced toward Garen's hand. "It let us pass." 

He tucked the little idol away. "So does deep water when the current favors you. Doesn't mean I sleep in the river." 

Nobody argued. 

They rode another few minutes before Jaelor cleared his throat. 

"There is... ah. There is something I perhaps should have mentioned." 

Lyrsa twisted in the saddle. "What?" 

Jaenera slowed enough to hear him without forcing the rest of the column to bunch up. 

Jaelor hesitated. 

That was enough to concern her. The Lysene could turn a request for fresh socks into a speech about commercial dignity. 

"I heard stories in Qarth." 

One of the men behind him made a dismissive sound. "Everyone hears stories in Qarth." 

"Yes, and most involve merchants lying about gemstones or somebody claiming his grandfather bedded a shadowbinder. These were different." 

His gaze went back down the trail. 

"Caravan men have been speaking about creatures in these mountains. That beast..." His voice caught, and for a moment the smooth Lysene cadence deserted him. He drew a breath and tried again. "Guardians, apparently. Dark things watching from the ridges. Blue orbs after sunset, tracks circling camps in the morning, shapes moving above the road and disappearing whenever anyone tried to follow." 

Lyrsa stared at him. "You've heard about those fucking things?" 

"Rumors. I considered them embellished." 

"Before or after one stood close enough to take your head off?" 

"Before, obviously. I flatter myself that even I can revise an opinion when confronted with seven feet of moving metal and a tail that looks like it could bisect an elephant." 

Garen looked back once toward the bend behind them. "People get attacked by those... things?" 

Jaelor rubbed his thumb across one of his rings before answering. "That was the peculiar part. Traders spoke of ordinary caravans passing without trouble. Drovers, shepherds, pilgrims, poor families with one mule between them. A spice seller out of Qarth swore he slept within sight of blue lights on a ridge for half the night and woke with every pack untouched." 

"And the bandits?" Lyrsa asked. 

"Stories there are less clean. One merchant claimed his guards found a bandit camp empty near the southern pass. Food still in bowls, blankets thrown down, weapons lying where men had left them. No bodies. Another swore two raider camps farther east simply stopped sending men to the road." 

The riders behind him quieted. 

Jaelor continued, his usual theatrical tone beginning to return around the edges. "Then came the stories about slavers. A caravan from the west failed to arrive. Searchers found wagons, chains and captives still alive. The masters were gone, along with every armed guard." 

Garen's hand returned to his coat. "By the Mother." 

"Another group turned up the same way," Jaelor said. "That account came through three different traders, though the freed captives apparently refused to say much beyond insisting that no one follow the tracks uphill." 

A mercenary behind Modar barked a humorless laugh. "So you did hear somethin' useful for once. Shame you didn't tell us a fuckin' thing before we rode into it." 

Jaelor found enough of himself to look offended. "My dear Rolan, if I reported every mountain ghost, dead prince, cursed road and merchant's nightmare carried through the taverns of Qarth, you would have no time left to complain that I talk too much." 

"You do talk too much." 

"And yet here we are, benefiting from my restraint." 

That drew no laughter. 

Another veteran spat over the edge of the trail. "People call the mountains cursed?" 

"People generally prefer curses to explanations involving metal demons." 

Jaenera touched the Golden Pass beneath her gorget. 

Guardians. 

Her Emperor had given them a purpose, and they were fulfilling it. Bandits vanished. Slavers disappeared while their captives survived. There was no mystery in that, merely a divine command carried out with admirable efficiency. 

Her officers seemed less comforted by the same conclusion. 

Jaenera considered explaining before Lyrsa scratched at the side of her nose and said, "If those things are keeping the road safe, I don't give a shit what people call them." 

That was close enough. 

The path steepened within the next hour until the horses began losing purchase on bare stone. Jaenera dismounted first and walked ahead long enough to find a shallow shelf protected from the wind by an outcrop. Iron rings had already been driven into the rock there, another sign that someone expected visitors. 

They tied the horses in two lines, shifted water and essential packs onto shoulders, and left five stablehands behind with strict orders not to wander. 

One of the younger hands glanced down the trail toward where the guardian had appeared. 

"Commander, if that thing comes back?" 

Jaenera tightened the strap on her sword belt. "Show it the horses." 

The stablehand stared. 

Lyrsa slapped him on the shoulder as she passed. "She's joking." 

Jaenera kept walking. 

Behind her, Lyrsa added, "Probably." 

The climb above the shelf forced conversation out of them. Scrub vanished between ridges of exposed stone, and the wind carried enough cold that Jaenera fastened the upper clasp of her cloak. Far below, the Sand Road had narrowed to a pale thread through the mountains, while Qarth itself had disappeared beyond the haze. 

No one mentioned wyverns again. 

Near the final ridge, a shadow crossed the rocks ahead. 

One of the veterans looked up. "Eagle." 

Lyrsa tracked it against the sky. "Too big." 

Another shadow passed over them before the first disappeared beyond the ridge. 

"Very big eagle then," Modar said. 

The creature banked. 

Jaenera saw four legs beneath the wings. 

Nobody had anything useful to add after that. 

They reached the ridge together and found the mountain opening beyond it into a broad bowl of cliffs and broken peaks. Nests occupied ledges at different heights, some little more than heaps of branches and hide, others large enough to shelter a wagon. Great winged creatures moved between them in white, tawny and dappled shapes, and one launched from a distant crag before sailing across the valley on wings wide enough to cast a moving shadow over the stone below. 

A deeper cry rose from somewhere beneath the ridge. 

The black shape that answered it climbed from the valley, circled once above them and folded its wings. 

It dropped toward the ridge with terrifying speed. 

"By the gods..." Lyrsa breathed. 

The creature struck the stone several paces away, talons scraping hard enough to throw grit across Jaenera's boots. 

Up close, its forequarters resembled an eagle enlarged beyond any reasonable scale, with black-feathered shoulders and hooked talons large enough to close around a man's chest. Behind them the body became leonine, powerful hind legs braced against the rock while a long dark tail swept once through the dust. Black fur merged with black feathers so cleanly that Jaenera could not tell where one ended and the other began. 

It was magnificent. Still, Vezdriāxys was better. 

The creature spread its wings and screamed into their faces. 

One of the veterans swore loudly enough to be heard across the ridge. 

Garen's voice came faintly from behind Jaenera. "What in the Mother's name are these... beasts?" 

"They are griffins." 

The answer came from their right. 

Every mercenary turned. 

Blue light folded inward beside an empty stretch of stone, and Daedalus stepped out of it in full obsidian armor. Azure runes burned along the dark plates while his ruby eyes moved across the group. He walked the remaining distance to the black griffin without hurry and placed one gauntleted hand against its feathered neck. 

Jaenera was on one knee before anyone else recovered. 

"My Emperor." 

Around her came boots scraping rock, hurried bows and one officer dropping hard enough that a knee plate cracked against stone. 

"Fuck—Your Majesty," Lyrsa corrected as she bowed. 

Another man started, "Seven fucking—" 

Daedalus looked toward him, one brow lifting. 

"...uhm...Your Imperial Majesty." 

Lyrsa turned her head just enough to look at him. 

The man focused very carefully on the ground. 

Jaelor had lost every trace of Lysene theatricality. "Your Majesty." 

Beside him, Garen bowed deeply enough that his hand almost touched the rock. 

Jaenera kept her gaze lowered until Daedalus addressed her. 

"Commander Tagaros." 

"My Emperor." 

"These are the officers you selected?" 

Pride rose through her with enough force that she had to keep her voice steady. 

"The finest veterans of the Dragon's Fang, Your Majesty. They will command the first formations of the Order." 

Very softly behind her, Lyrsa muttered, "No pressure." 

Daedalus's hand moved once along the black griffin's feathered neck. The beast lowered its head beside him, calm as a trained warhorse despite being large enough to carry one away in its talons. 

"Good. You may stand." 

Jaenera rose first, and her officers followed a heartbeat later. 

Daedalus looked past them toward the nesting cliffs as another pair of great wings crossed the sky above the valley. When his ruby gaze returned to the ten veterans, even Lyrsa had managed to keep her mouth shut. 

"Welcome to the air force of the Zenith Dominion."