Land of the King

Chapter 78: Doom

5000 E.L

There was a strange saying in Arnor. 'Doom is an old friend,' or so it went. Doom was a concept their people were very familiar with.

If one traced their oldest legends, the story of the Silmarillion was that of doom, the doom of the many ancient realms, the doom that befell Beleriand. It was the Downfall of Númenor that brought them to Westeros. For 5000 years of history, doom had confronted their kingdom so many times, the Kin-Strife, the Dragon Wars, and throughout it all, the greatest doom of all, the doom that they could not avert, the Doom of Men awaited every Arnorian, every Dúnedain, and Númenórean who had ever lived.

And so it was, that when doom confronted Arnor yet again, its people reacted with a tired and grim determination.

The Treaty of Kiros had been well over 500 years ago, and the Four Dragon Wars that it had ended had been even further before that. In Arnor, the Wars might have passed out of living memory, but they were still burned into the minds and hearts of every Arnorian, even if they had not lived it. For all that two lifetimes had passed, the scars on their psyche had yet to truly heal, and the giants that had served Arnor for millennia were now remembered only in bones and dusty history books.

Yet Valyria was different. For all that the Dragon Wars had destroyed their economy and empire, 500 years was an eternity to races of lesser lifespan. Where five generations had passed in Arnor, twenty had passed in Valyria and the Dragon Wars were no longer remembered in their culture, not in truth. They were ancient history to them, and now stronger than ever before, Valyria had forgotten the lessons their ancestors had learned and were once again making moves to break the treaty, like they had centuries ago before the Second and Third Wars.

Arathorn's grandfather had been a young man during the Third War and he had never forgotten the stories, never forgotten the lessons they imparted. It was those stories, those memories that had coloured how his grandfather Arahad II and father Arassuil alike had ruled. Both had been unwilling to fully commit to a bloody war in the Vale that would weaken Arnor, both had fortified the Rammas Rómen and the Braavosi hills. Both had sought after new lands for Arnor, colonizing and claiming the Summer Islands, Hyarmen, and Annúrómen.

Even now the true reason for that drive could be seen. For the last century, as tensions slowly but surely rose with Valyria, hundreds of thousands, if not millions of Arnorians had migrated to Hyarmen and Annúrómen. Far away from the reach of even Valyria. Should the worst come to pass, the legacy of Númenor would live on in the colonies.

The Valyria Arnor faced now was as different a beast to the Valyria of the Third War as the Valyria of the Third War was to the Valyria Arnor had so foolishly provoked in the First War. Valyria as it was now was monstrously strong. Its grip extended across the entirety of Essos, from the Bone Mountains to the Rammas Rómen. From Ibben to Gogossos.

Its dragons were twelve hundred strong, more than double what it had had in the Third War, its armies were as large as Arnor's, and its wealth while not quite rivaling Arnor, was great nonetheless. And their magic was more terrible than ever before. Rumours abound of dark rituals of blood and shadow and fire. Whispers came of terrible monsters from Gogossos unleash upon them.

Yet Arnor had not spent five hundred years idle. Their own weapons and magic were stronger than ever, the loss of the giants forcing them to innovate and advance. Yet against the power that rose in the east, many still wondered in their hearts if there was any victory.

Even the seers had prophesized that doom, (why was it always doom?) would befall a great nation and in his heart, Arathorn feared that Arnor would be that great nation, that it was their time to fall.

But they would not go gently into the night. Surrender was unthinkable, Arnor would not go down without a fight. Let the memory of Númenor's scions, of its sons and daughters be remembered forever. If their descendants would only live on in foreign lands far away from the land of the kings, they would remember that their ancestors had fought to the very end for their people.

"The Valyrian ambassador has arrived back in the Freehold. Our own emissary has reached Tyrosh," his Steward Thorondir reported, reading out the message from the courier that had interrupted their meeting.

The Council of the Sceptre had gathered for a meeting in Morlond, capital of Arnor since the First Dragon War and now it was in Morlond that the Council would deliberate over the imminent approach of the Fifth.

"It will begin soon then," Arathorn as he stared out the window and beheld the splendor of Arnor's imperial capital. Its dark outer walls contrasted greatly with its silvered and gilded roofs and with the redstone and white marble buildings that dotted it.

"The Queen and the other members of the Royal Family have evacuated to Annúminas. At any moment, ships await to bear them to Annúrómen or Hyarmen. Crown Prince Argonui will remain in Morlond as regent per Your Majesty's command. We are ready as can be," Steward Thorondir spoke.

"The lessons of history have not been forgotten. Not a single aspect has been left to chance Your Majesty," his chief general Galadan reassured him. "In East Arnor, we have a million men at arms that await your arrival to take command Sire. The Rammas Rómen has long been rebuilt in black stone for the entire length, not even dragonfire will break that wall. The network of roads, canals, and wells your royal predecessors built to support the Rammas are in working order.

"Our skinchangers are patrolling the entire length of the border, from the Summer Sea all the way up the Braavosi hills.

"Our fleets have been put to sea, nothing will get into the Narrow Sea from either the south or the north, we have water mages in Braavos, Lys, and the Stepstones to ensure that. And if they do, Lissenardhon, Imladen, Raumdor, Morfalas, the Isles, Nammatil, they have all been heavily garrisoned with skinchangers, water mages, and great garrisons. Norda has been alerted of the impending conflict and they are ready also.

"We will hold Valyria at the Rammas and should the worst come to pass, we will simply abandon the East and drown any fleet that attempts to cross the Narrow Sea." He didn't mention that he feared that outcome was more likely than not to pass. But while Valyria had grown, he still felt confident that Arnor would win the war at sea. Unlike the Third War, this time they would not be taken by surprise.

There was a resounding cheer of agreement and boosted morale at General Galadan's speech. Yet beneath it, the tension remained, as did the fear.

Their forefathers had thought themselves ready for the Third War, were they repeating the same mistakes? Arathorn could see no way for Valyria to take Arnor by surprise and bring them to their knees like they had had with their northern incursion in the Third War. Even the infamous Glaurungs they had once fielded were absent today, having been deemed too monstrously expensive by Valyria.

Yet perhaps they needed no tricks or deceit. The Freehold had more firepower and dark magic then it had in all the previous wars.

The same current of uncertainty that filled the Council filled all of Arnor. The celebrations for the anniversary of Elendil's Landing that year should have been the greatest in centuries, celebrating five millennia of their history, yet they had been muted. No one was in any mood to celebrate when they all expected a Fifth Dragon War before the year was out.

"Do we have any idea when the war will begin?" one of the lords of the council questioned.

"Before he was expelled from Valyria, our emissary was able to acquire information telling of a great gathering of the Freehold's elites and dragonlords commemorating the Victory on the Rhoyne. An august occasion I have been told, remembering Valyria's sole victory against us," his Steward told the Council, making many a councilor smile at the reminder that Valyria had won only one war.

"It is logical," Arathorn interjected again at last. "The Senate is deliberating the final vote on the declaration of war against us. It makes sense that they would do so in the festive mood celebrating their victory in the Second War."

He looked down at the map, at the forces that lined both sides of the Rammas. "They know that we know their intentions. A hundred or so dragonlords guard the border or are otherwise scattered across their empire. The rest have all returned for the festival where they anticipate a glorious declaration of war. Unlike the Third War, Valyria has no element of surprise. How arrogant of them," Arathorn spoke with confidence he did not truly possess.

Looking back up from the map to stare at his council, he continued, "My lords and councilors, I leave on the morrow for Pentos with the last of our reinforcements for Rómennor. The time of deliberation and discussion is at an end. The reckoning has come, five hundred years in the making."

It was at that moment however that everything was interrupted by a great boom. It was a strong booming sound that seemed to erupt from everywhere at once. For a long while, Arathorn heard only a ringing in his ears, before slowly his hearing returned to him.

The bang was heard across the entire city and all the lands beyond. A strange sound, one they did not understand at the moment, and yet one that would change everything forever.


The same sound would repeat throughout the day and into the night. Each time it was a little fainter than before, yet no less ominous. Soon whispers were about, that the glass candles and palantiri alike could not see into Valyria, could not scry even a glimpse of the peninsula.

Even Valyria's own vassals and colonies had taken to contacting Arnor, asking if they had any idea what was going on, if this was their doing. Trade in the Summer Sea came to a standstill as every ship that entered Valyria never emerged. Soon what explorers that dared skirt the peninsula brought back tales of a smoking sea and a desolate land. It took weeks, maybe even months, before it was finally understood what had happened. But when it did, chaos consumed the world entire.

For Valyria was gone. The prophecies of the seers had proven true in the end. Doom had come for Valyria. In a single day, a thousand dragons had perished along with millions of Valyrians, the entire beating heart of their economy, their empire and government, and their civilization. Utter collapse could not be avoided.

The stories told that on the day of the Doom, a great crack tore the world asunder, splitting every hill in the peninsula in half, along with a great roar that spread around the world and rounded it no less than nine times, being heard as far away as Hyarmen and Annúrómen. Fire burned for what seemed like eternity as the earth quaked and the waters drowned the Isle of Cedars and crashed into Slaver's Bay and Volantis. And worst of all was the ash, the endless infinite amounts of ash that clouded the sky and fell upon the earth, shrouding Essos in the grip of a fake winter and the famine that was soon to come.

Such an apocalyptic event had immense consequences. The slaves were rebelling in every corner of the Freehold's domains. Its vassals and tributaries in Sarnor, Qarth, Ibben, Ghiscar, and Lhazar were shrugging off the yokes of the last remaining dragonlords even as they slaughtered each other, sacrificing the greater good of their culture and people for selfish ambition and greed.

Essos had entered into a new era of war, disease, famine, blood, ash, fire, and smoke. A power vacuum had been created, and Arathorn meant to see that Arnor filled it. Where in Essos, only despair and dismay could be felt, Arnor and Westeros could feel nothing but joy and elation and also a grim and vindictive feeling. Never again would they allow themselves to be at the mercy of dragons.

The Arnorian people had let the doomsayers and defeatists get to them, making them think their end might soon be near. But in a rare act of divine intervention, their god had made his will clear. Like he had to Númenor before, Eru had struck down Valyria and destroyed most of the dragons. What remained were now tearing each other and Essos with them to pieces.

When the time came, they would strike and wipe away the last remnants of that foul civilization. Valyria's fall will be complete, but Arnor's rise has only just begun. The world will be theirs.