Chapter 16: The World Remade, The Empire Rises
Time: The Doom of Valyria to Early Century of Blood
POV: Kaelen Silvanor
The night the Doom struck, the world screamed. Even hundreds of leagues distant in Sothoryos, the earth convulsed. In Ael'tharion, the very ground beneath our fused-stone and living-wood cities heaved as if a giant hand had seized the continent and shaken it. Towering trees swayed violently, their deep roots anchoring the ground, but smaller structures groaned and cracked. The sky to the east, normally a canvas of endless stars, became a canvas of hellish fire. A malevolent, coppery glow pulsated from beyond the horizon, followed by a series of monstrous, echoing roars that shook the very air. These were not the sounds of thunder, but the death cries of a continent, the agony of a world tearing itself apart.
Ash began to fall hours later, fine and grey, coating our vibrant jungle in a macabre shroud, turning the lush leaves to dull, mournful ghosts. The seas surged, retreating violently from our coastlines only to crash back with unprecedented fury, testing the strength of our newly built harbors. It was a terrifying display of raw, elemental power, a spectacle of destruction witnessed from afar, yet felt to the core.
I stood atop the highest spire of Ael'tharion's palace, my senses stretched to their limit. I felt the earth's wounds, the searing agony of the land. Elias Vance, beside me, his face pale and grim, watched his instruments spin wildly, recording energies beyond anything known to man. The Valyrian Freehold was gone. Utterly, irrevocably annihilated. The greatest civilization the world had ever known had consumed itself in fire and blood.
My Dukes immediately rallied their forces. Valerius Ithilien's legions moved to secure any infrastructure damage and aid distressed communities. Sylvani Lumiel's fleets navigated the churning waters to assess coastal damage. Faelar Ambaron's pioneers braced for potential seismic aftershocks, while Aerion Caelenor's smiths checked the integrity of Firesong Citadel. Within days, the ash settled, the sea calmed, and the terrible silence that followed the tempest settled upon the land. The empire was shaken, but unbroken. Our foresight had saved us.
News trickled in over the following months, carried by desperate refugees clinging to makeshift rafts, by panicked merchant ships that had miraculously survived the storms, and by our own long-range scouting vessels. Chaos reigned in Essos. The mighty Free Cities, once held in check by the dragonlords, turned on each other in a brutal scramble for power, resources, and territory. The "Century of Blood" had begun.
This period of unparalleled strife in the wider world, while a tragedy for many, was an opportunity for the Silvanar. While the great powers of Essos bled themselves dry, we would not engage in their endless wars. Instead, we would focus on trade, establishing our unique presence on the global stage, not through conquest, but through reliable strength and the bounty of our lands.
"Our empire will rise, not from the ashes of others, but from the prosperity we create," I declared to my Dukes. "We have food, a surplus born of Sylvani's efficient agriculture. We have the finest crafts, products of Aerion's smiths. And we have the peace that others desperately crave."
My most crucial strategic move was to look West. Westeros, a continent largely untouched by Valyrian direct rule, was still an enigma to many. They had their own kings, their own conflicts, but they would need resources. Especially food, as the global climate shifts from the Doom might impact harvests.
I personally led the first diplomatic and trade mission to Westeros, sailing with a small, yet impressive, fleet of our sleek, jungle-hardwood vessels. Our destination: Oldtown, in the Reach. It was a hub of knowledge, trade, and power, far enough from the immediate chaos of the Stepstones and the coming storms of the Narrow Sea.
Our arrival caused a stir. Ships crafted unlike any seen in Westeros, crewed by the strangely youthful, disciplined Ael'athar. I sought out the Hightowers, the ruling lords of Oldtown, powerful and pragmatic. I presented them not with threats, but with an offer: a steady supply of exotic fruits, hardy grains, and preserved meats from Sothoryos, unmatched in quality and quantity.
"While the Free Cities squabble over scraps of a fallen empire," I told Lord Hightower, "we offer stability. We offer a continuous supply of the sustenance your people need. Our prices are fair, our word is iron, and our deliveries are unfailing. We seek not land, nor conquest, but mutually beneficial trade."
The Hightowers, ever shrewd, recognized the immense value of such a reliable partner. They saw our well-equipped fleet, the disciplined bearing of my escort, and the strange, vibrant life that pulsed within my very being. They accepted.
Thus began the Age of Ael'athar Trade. Our ships, flying the banner of the Verdant Sun, became a common sight in Westerosi ports, supplying the warring kingdoms with the very necessities they needed to sustain their conflicts, inadvertently binding them to us. Our name, once a whisper of myth from the dangerous southern jungles, now became synonymous with reliability, with quality, and with a quiet, undeniable power. We were not merely survivors of the Doom; we were rising, steadily and purposefully, on a global stage where chaos now reigned supreme.